Sleeper’s Castle

by Barbara Erskine

  Looking down at it, Andy was overcome with anger. She reached out to the mug, intending to throw it on the floor and smash it; it was then she realised that she couldn’t see her hands. She tried to pick up the mug but nothing happened. Her hand, if it was there at all, made no contact with the cold china. Her anger was replaced by irritation and then by a strangely analytical sensation of interest.

  Rhona was sitting on the sofa in the living room going through yet another box of papers. Andy’s papers. She looked up with a start as she found herself staring at Andy. For a split second the two women remained unmoving, holding one another’s gaze, then the vision was gone. In the silence of the room someone screamed.

  Andy jerked back to reality. Pepper had vanished through the cat flap. Moments later there was a knock at the door. ‘Are you OK?’ Bryn opened it without waiting to be invited. He glanced round. ‘I heard you scream.’

  Andy stared at him, confused. ‘I didn’t. At least, I don’t think I did.’

  ‘Then who was it?’ He closed the door behind him. ‘I saw Pepper running through the garden as though the hounds of hell were after him.’

  ‘Well, one hound, perhaps,’ Andy muttered sourly. ‘Or if we want to be technical, a bitch.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. It must have been me, mustn’t it? I must have been the one who screamed. There’s no one else here. I must have been dreaming. I’ve not been sleeping well and I fell asleep.’ She was embarrassed at her stammered explanation and found herself avoiding his gaze. She could feel him studying her.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re OK,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes, I’m OK.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘But thank you for looking out for me.’

  He hesitated for a few seconds more, then without a word he turned and let himself out into the garden.

  Andy’s mobile rang. She picked it up. The phone had recognised the number. It was her old number. Graham’s number. Kew’s number.

  Rhona’s number.

  She sat staring at the screen, her heart thudding, then she laid the phone down on the table before reaching out and switching it off. She sat without moving, waiting dry-mouthed for it to ring again. It didn’t.

  Andy was furious with herself. She hadn’t intended to go back to Kew. Rhona had caused her enough embarrassment and misery to last a lifetime without aggravating the situation. She had wanted to see what happened to Catrin, not stir up a hornet’s nest.

  It wasn’t until later, after she noticed that Bryn had gone home, that Andy realised she hadn’t seen Pepper since his swift exit out of the cat flap. Anxious, she went out into the garden and began to call. There was no sign of him anywhere. The evening was soft with low slanting sunlight and, sure for once that she had the place to herself, she wandered out towards the far end of the garden. It was an irregular shape, roughly trapezoid, one side defined by the brook, the other by the ruins of the old wall and beyond them a high bank topped with wild hedgerows strung with hips and haws and sloes. At the far end of the garden there was an orchard of old gnarled trees, still laden with apples, some already standing over a carpet of windfalls. Behind that was an acre or so of wild meadow, which she was sure would be rich in herbs. The far corner above the brook was a rocky area that climbed steeply into something which would qualify, she reckoned, as a small cliff. She wandered towards it, still calling. She had realised almost at once that she would not be able to find Pepper unless he wanted to be found. This was his home. Hopefully, in spite of whatever eldritch screams had startled him, he would find his way back before too long.

  She followed a narrow path towards the cliff, noticing an abundance of unusual plants on either side, thinking how much Graham had loved this place; would have loved to explore it now, at leisure, with her. No wonder he and Sue had been friends. The low sun was throwing deep shadows across the rock face, giving it a texture and shape that she found herself longing to paint. As she drew near she spotted a large fissure in the rock. Intrigued, she crept closer. It was broad and deep enough to allow her to edge sideways into the dark crack in the rock. At once she found herself in a small cave, faintly lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Pepper was sitting on the stony floor, washing his face. He paused in his ablutions for a full second, scanning her carefully, then he went on washing.

  ‘I don’t suppose you heard me calling,’ Andy commented. She crept further into the cave. It was small, barely a foot above her head in height and perhaps ten feet across, but the far end was out of sight in the darkness and she found herself curiously reluctant to make her way further in to find out how far it went. She glanced up, expecting to see bats hanging from the ceiling. If there were any, would they still be there with Pepper sitting below them? She didn’t know. She couldn’t see well enough to tell. The cave had a strange silence, an atmosphere all of its own which was both intriguing and slightly unnerving. As she stood there it was growing darker as outside the sun sank lower into the haze. Turning, she retraced her steps. The sun was almost gone now behind the hills and as the sky flushed crimson, a line of dark shadow crept across the garden. With a shiver she made her way back towards the house. At least now she knew the dimensions of the estate and she had discovered Pepper’s secret retreat. She let herself back into the kitchen and turned on all the lights. She glanced at the phone. No more missed calls.

  Making her way to the desk in the living room she stood studying the watercolour sketch she had been working on: delicate fronds of fern, threaded with small pink heads of cranesbill. Sitting down, she picked up her brush.

  Suddenly she didn’t want to risk falling asleep again. It was too uncontrollable, too full on, too frightening.

  8

  There had been a long discussion about whether to change their plans and go north to Ruthin. Sir Reginald Grey, the Lord of Dyffryn Clwyd was not a popular man in the area and especially not with his southern neighbour the Lord of Glyndŵr with whom he had a long and festering legal dispute.

  ‘But Lady Grey specifically invited us!’ Catrin argued. The Lady of Ruthin had been a guest at the last manor house they had visited and she had taken to Catrin. The two women had talked and laughed and Catrin had played her harp long into the night when the ladies had withdrawn to their hostess’s chamber. As was usual, Catrin was regarded as a fount of information. News and gossip was the mainstay of the travelling community’s stock in trade, each household’s occupants, as they moved on, eager to hear the latest information from the last. Catrin had long ago realised that this conversation was enjoyed as much by the ladies in their solars and bowers as was her harp playing. She was not entirely comfortable with this process but she recognised it was a way of paying for their food and board as much as her father’s news and songs and poems were valued down in the main hall.

  On this occasion she had felt her father’s eyes watch her as the womenfolk left the hall. Of late he had seemed less than happy to see her so much accepted in her own right for her talent and now he was actually frowning.

  When they left the manor a few days later, she asked him why.

  ‘I do not want you to associate with the Greys,’ was all he said.

  ‘But why? I liked her enormously.’ Catrin flashed to her new friend’s defence.

  ‘I am sure she is a commendable woman,’ was his response, through tight lips. ‘Her husband is not.’

  ‘Her husband is rich and powerful. We would be well rewarded if we went to Ruthin Castle,’ she retorted.

  ‘Her husband is the mortal enemy of the Lord of Glyndŵr, who we go to see next.’ The legal wrangle between the men had not been addressed in the courts in London, where it had been deemed of no importance, and Lord Glyndŵr had ridden back to Wales in a fury. Dafydd had picked up the news along the way; his daughter had obviously missed it.

  Catrin paused. Lord Glyndŵr was one of her father’s most generous and kind patrons. They had planned to spend a week or more with him and his family before
turning south on the long weary trek home.

  ‘We needn’t tell them where we had been,’ she said at last, on the defensive. ‘He would never know.’

  ‘No, Catrin.’

  ‘I promised,’ she muttered. ‘I gave her my word. I liked her.’ She glanced at Edmund, but if she thought she would find support there she was mistaken. He and she were barely talking and now as he tested the cob’s girth and held the stirrup, waiting for Dafydd to mount, he was staring out of the gate towards the distant hills, seemingly uninterested in their conversation.

  ‘One day at most,’ Catrin pleaded. ‘It is almost on the way.’

  ‘It is a day’s ride in the wrong direction.’ Her father set his jaw.

  ‘She promised me a bag of silver coins.’ Catrin hated herself for her wheedling tone. ‘And it would be wrong to break my word.’

  Dafydd swung up into his saddle. ‘It would be disloyal to the Glyndŵrs to keep it.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can go there on my own. What is he supposed to have done to them, anyway?’ She nudged her pony alongside his and with a last wave to the servants who were seeing them off they rode out under the courtyard archway with Edmund following behind.

  ‘It is a long story,’ Dafydd said.

  ‘We have plenty of time.’

  Her father sighed.

  She won the argument and the welcome they received from Lady Grey made their furious quarrel and the arduous journey worth it.

  As their weary horses skirted the town walls of Ruthin and they made their way towards the castle, set on a high ridge above the river valley in its own rich parkland, the thought of food and rest and of a dry, comfortable bed was foremost in all their minds.

  The castle was huge. They drew to a halt to gaze up at the vast red stone walls and towers, above the largest of which hung Sir Reginald’s blue, silver and red banner, rippling in the wind.

  Edmund led them over the bridge which crossed the deep grassy moat, to the main gate in the outer wall. Accosted at once by a guard he glanced back uncertainly at Catrin. She rode up beside him. ‘I have come at the personal invitation of Lady Grey,’ she announced. As he led them under the raised portcullis and into the shadowy outer bailey she saw her father shiver.

  That night she slept well. She had played and sung late, digging deep into her repertoire of ballads in Welsh and in English, playing her harp until she was exhausted and her fingers were raw. Her lodging was in the family’s private quarters where she shared a bed with two of Lady Grey’s maidens.

  It was a comfortable bed and warm even though it lacked a tester and hangings. The Greys were moving south within the next few days, they were told, and already the private chambers of the lord and his wife were being stripped ready to be packed on the sumpter horses and heavy carts and transported to their next destination.

  Waking at first light she lay still, staring up at the vaulted ceiling above her head, looking forward to the day ahead. There would be more stories and singing later and when they all gathered in the great hall for the main meal of the day maybe she would get the chance to sing to the whole household. She wasn’t sure how long they would stay, maybe a day or so more, and then they would turn south again to ride back towards the Glyndŵrs’ home at Sycharth. She snuggled down into the bed. It had all gone as she had hoped.

  She couldn’t get back to sleep and as she lay there, trying not to move for fear of disturbing her bedfellows, she found herself going over in her head her father’s explanation of his reluctance to come here.

  The Lord of Ruthin, was, according to her father, aggressive and acquisitive and had appropriated lands from his neighbours. Above all he had targeted the Lord of Glyndŵr, whose lands bordered his. ‘The man has lied and cheated and woven tales about Lord Owain at the king’s court,’ Dafydd had said angrily. ‘If you had been listening to the talk in the halls where we have stopped you would know the whole March is speculating about the situation. And on top of all that, Sir Reginald has now lied to the king, accusing the Lord Owain of being a traitor because, when the king summoned the men of the area to muster for his fight against Scotland, something Lord Glyndŵr had faithfully taken part in in the time of the old king, Grey deliberately failed to pass on the message so that Lord Owain is now held in contempt for not appearing on time! And Grey laughs up his sleeve at a trap cunningly laid and Lord Owain, who is a good and honourable man, is condemned.’

  Catrin sighed. She had first met Lord Owain when her father had taken her to the Glyndŵrs’ home at Sycharth near Llansilin in the valley of the River Cynllaith three years before when King Richard had still been on the throne. It was one of the first times Dafydd had taken Catrin on his travels, and at only fifteen years old she had been full of nervous excitement. On that occasion too, it had been early September when they had found themselves riding wearily down the track that led to the home of the Glyndŵrs.

  It was a beautiful timber-framed manor house, on a motte within a protective moat, elegant and well furnished, with a separate great hall built within the outer bailey. It boasted gardens and orchards and fish ponds, lying in a broad basin in the hills, sheltered by a steep wooded ridge to the east, and she and her father had spent several wonderful weeks as the family’s guests. She had sat with Margaret, the Lady of Glyndŵr, and two of her daughters, Catherine and Alys, talking and sewing and laughing, and she had sung to them accompanied by her own little harp and, to ensure the sun stayed shining, she had taught them one or two of her weather spells. She told them how to keep the sun steadfast in the sky, and how to make it rain and how to summon the mist down from the mountains. They had spent hours reciting her spells, flicking water drops at each other and fanning the roiling steam from water heated over the fire with special incantations and carefully chosen herbs to draw in the fog, giggling as they reached for their spindles or sewed by the fire, putting the formulae to the test. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Either way it had been one of the happiest times of her life, her first experience of a loving close family. Their own house, Sleeper’s Castle, much as she loved it, had seemed poor and rough by comparison.

  That summer had been full of happiness, a happiness that for the Glyndŵrs had now been broken by the massive injustice done to Lord Owain by the Lord of Ruthin, the same Lord of Ruthin in whose castle she now slept. And she had brought them here. Her impetuous liking for the man’s wife and her insistence on the chance to display her talents to a new audience had overridden her father’s loyalty to his greatest and most devoted patron. The realisation made her feel like a traitor. She turned over in bed and closed her eyes.

  She remembered Lord Owain as tall and handsome, a strong man of middle years with enormous charm who had taken her hand and smiled at her and listened to her when, overcome with shyness, she had stammered one of her own poems to him before the entire household in his hall one evening. They had cheered and whistled when she had finished and he had given her a plaited silver ring as a present. She had worn it ever since. She raised her hand up from beneath the covers to look at it now and felt another twinge of guilt. It was easy to understand why her father had not wanted to come here.

  But on the other hand this was their livelihood. They could not afford to turn down invitations to perform for their rich patrons and she had liked Lady Grey so much. Like Margaret Glyndŵr she was kind and motherly and warm towards the lonely girl. With a groan she turned over again and punched her pillow.

  Beside her Mary, one of Lady Grey’s personal maids, stirred and opened her eyes. She looked towards the window and seeing the wash of blue sky outside sat up, dragging the covers off the other two girls. ‘Catrin, Anne, wake up. It is morning. We must get dressed.’

  Washing in ice-cold water carried up the winding staircase by a scullery maid, the three young women dressed amid much giggling, then the girls led the way to the solar on the first floor of the tower where their breakfast was laid out on a table. Lady Grey was there already. Her face was white and strained, her ey
es puffy with lack of sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry, Catrin, but you have to leave as soon as you’ve eaten.’ She groped on the table for a small pouch and pressed it into Catrin’s hands. ‘A small recompense for your kindness in coming so far. I realise it was out of your way.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘God bless you, child.’ Without another word she turned and left the room.

  Her maids looked at each other in dismay. ‘What’s happened?’ Mary, the younger, asked out loud. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Catrin stared from Mary to her companion, hurt and frightened. ‘Perhaps I had better leave now,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘She said to break your fast,’ Anne, the eldest, said firmly. ‘At least take a morsel of bread and a mug of small ale, then we’ll go down to the hall and find your father.’

  There was no sign of Dafydd in the great echoing hall, nor in the private chambers of the tower. As Catrin grew increasingly worried, Anne and Mary searched for news of him. The place was empty. A few servants scurried to and fro, replenishing the fires in the two enormous fireplaces, scrubbing the trestles before stacking them at the side against the walls, until at last Catrin heard her name called.

  ‘Over here. We are leaving now.’ Edmund was standing in the doorway, clearly agitated.

  ‘What is it? What has happened?’ She ran over to him.

  ‘Your father has been taken ill.’ He saw Mary approach with two serving boys who were carrying Catrin’s saddlebags and her harp, hurriedly stowed in its protective bag. ‘Leave those. I’ll take them.’ He relieved the boys of their burden.

  ‘What’s wrong? Where is he?’ Catrin cried.

  ‘He’s with the horses, ready to go.’ Edmund bowed to Mary. ‘We take our leave, mistress.’

  Mary smiled at him coyly. She stepped forward and gave Catrin a hug. ‘I hope your father is better soon.’

  Catrin scurried out after Edmund. The outer bailey was busy, full of men and boys, horses and dogs, and she looked round for Lord Grey but there was no sign of him. Then she saw her father, already mounted, sitting slumped on his cob near the main gate.