Sleeper’s Castle

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Indeed.’ Dafydd’s voice was dry. ‘I suggest you put that bridle on the horse, Edmund. We have a few miles to go today yet.’ He turned away, pulling his cloak around him and waited, arms folded, his eyes on the distant hills.

  Andy jerked herself out of the dream. She had been reading the last page of her notes, trying to decipher her writing and then all at once she had been back in the past. She could hear the melancholy cry of a curlew in her head, smell the sweet grass and the heather on the high pass as the three travellers made their way south. It was late. They would have to camp again on the open hill unless they could beg or bribe an outlying farm to give them hospitality for the night, something which was getting ever harder as news of the fighting in the north spread and people grew more and more wary of strangers.

  This time they were travelling fast. They were anxious to get home. As Andy watched, no longer conscious of herself as an eavesdropper but as an unseen member of the party, she saw everything as they gave up hope of reaching Painscastle before nightfall. Edmund guided them into a sheltered cwm, safe from prying eyes and from the cold wind that swept down from the bleak crest of the Hergest Ridge. He unsaddled the horses, lifted off the packs and tethered the beasts in a small glade where they could graze on grass, still relatively rich in a damp corner beneath the rocks. Then he returned to Dafydd and Catrin and lit a fire.

  Dafydd had wrapped himself in his cloak. He sat down on a slab of stone and stared into the flames. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow or the next day,’ Edmund murmured. He had found oatcakes and cheese and dried meat in one of the saddlebags and was distributing the food between them. ‘Shall I heat water?’

  He was looking at Catrin. ‘Why ask me? You decided to stop here,’ she retorted.

  ‘We agreed it was too dark to continue,’ he said patiently. ‘It is sheltered here and relatively safe. I can make us a hot drink, or I can mull some ale.’

  ‘We’ll have ale,’ Dafydd snapped over his shoulder. ‘Don’t ask her. She is as cross as a bag of weasels.’

  Edmund rummaged for one of the stoppered jugs in the pack and found their three horn mugs. ‘Do we know why she is cross?’ Edmund asked softly. He was not addressing the remark at Dafydd.

  ‘Because I am exhausted and cold and saddlesore!’ Catrin snapped. ‘And I am tired of being ordered about by the likes of you.’

  ‘The likes of me,’ Edmund repeated, his voice even. ‘And what exactly am I like?’

  She pulled her cloak more tightly around her. ‘You give me orders. You ignore my opinion. You decide where we stop. You don’t listen to anything I say. You treat me as though I am but a servant.’

  ‘A servant – like me – and not a great lady?’ Edmund sounded puzzled. He stood before her, mugs in one hand, jug in the other. ‘How can that be?’ He set the jug down on the hastily improvised hearthstone. ‘Forgive me my lady.’ He swept a low bow. ‘I am truly sorry if I have offended.’

  Catrin blushed. Angrily she scrambled to her feet and walked off into the darkness. ‘Ignore her, boy,’ Dafydd called over his shoulder. ‘She has an attack of the megrims! Give me some ale.’

  Edmund poured it for him and handed him the mug, then leaving him still sitting on his stone he turned to survey the darkness, looking for Catrin. There was no sign of her. He frowned. It was all very well him saying it was safe but up here in the wilds of Elfael it was anything but. The countryside on the high moors was rough and desolate, and the rocky outcrops and steep river valleys were treacherous; the place was known to be a hideout for outlaws and thieves. He walked a little way away from the fire, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark.

  She hadn’t gone far. He could see her outline against the stars, sitting on an outcrop of rocks. She was facing away from him, staring out into the night. Silently he approached her. He stopped several paces away. ‘Will you come and have some food,’ he said quietly.

  He saw her shoulders stiffen but she didn’t reply.

  ‘Please,’ he added. ‘Let me mull a little ale for you. It will help keep you warm.’ Again she ignored him. He stepped closer. ‘Catrin—’

  ‘Do you not understand!’ She spun round. ‘I will not have you address me like that!’ She stood up and took a pace towards him.

  He grabbed her arms, forcing her to look at him. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What else am I to call you? I have been calling you Catrin for the last three months!’ As they stood staring at each other in the darkness he moved forward infinitesimally and kissed her lightly on the lips. He was still holding her and his grip did not relax. She said nothing so he leaned forward and kissed her again, more firmly this time, and this time she broke free, wrenching her arms out of his grip and ran a few steps away from him. He waited several seconds then at last he spoke. ‘Well, aren’t you going to call your father?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me I am dismissed? Aren’t you going to tell me you never want to speak to me again?’

  She didn’t reply. He stepped after her. ‘Answer me, Catrin!’ he ordered.

  She made a little whimpering noise in her throat. She was crying.

  He frowned, then he reached out for her and gathered her into his arms. This time neither of them spoke. When he had finished kissing her he smiled down into her eyes. ‘So, all that anger was because you knew you could not resist me.’

  She shook her head violently.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’ve seen you watching me when I touched the horses,’ he whispered. ‘You were wishing it was you standing there, under my hands.’

  ‘No!’ She pulled away from him.’

  They both looked up suddenly as they heard a voice calling. ‘Catrin?’ Dafydd had moved from his seat. Now they could see his silhouette against the fire as he stood there looking round. ‘Where are you? We should eat our supper and get some sleep. We need to leave at sun-up.’

  Catrin dodged past Edmund and hurried towards her father. When she looked back from the safety of the circle of firelight there was no sign of Edmund. He was still standing in the shadows staring out into the dark.

  11

  Andy had thrown the kitchen door wide open to the sunshine. It was one of those glorious October days scented with damp earth and mushrooms and bonfires. She wondered where the smell of smoke was coming from. Not from her own chimney. She might light a fire later, but for now she was content to sniff the air. She stepped outside and wandered up the path between the herb beds. Had Bryn lit a bonfire? There was no sign of him. She hadn’t seen him for several days now and there was no sign of Pepper either. Having scoffed his breakfast he was off about his own adventures. She gave a tolerant smile. She didn’t blame him. It was a day for being outside. The early morning chill was already wearing off and the heavy dew was evaporating fast.

  She turned her back on the brook and made her way through the garden towards the cliff face at the back, wandering through the herb beds, breaking off a leaf here and a flower head there, rubbing them between her fingers and sniffing the aromatic oils they released. She paused as she came to the shrubbery which concealed the cave. Someone, presumably Bryn, had piled a huge stack of pea sticks across the entrance, concealing it completely. She stood regarding it for several minutes. Why had he put them there? She looked round, carefully noting the surrounding flowerbeds, the orchard, the winding paths. There were dozens of other places he could have put them. Had he blocked off the entrance deliberately? Or hidden it? Didn’t he know she had seen it already? She stared at the place where the entrance had been for a moment longer then she turned and wandered away.

  Retracing her steps slowly through the garden she spotted Bryn at last. He was walking towards the far end of the stock beds, his back towards her, a canvas bag slung across his shoulder. She stopped and watched him, aware that she was partially concealed by a couple of large hypericum bushes. He stopped at the edge of the bed and stood surveying it for a full minute before throwing down his bag, and taking off his jacket, hanging
it from the branch of a crab-apple tree, heavy with fruit. Quietly she retraced her steps following one of the other paths down towards the brook. The water cascaded over the rocks, catching the sunlight, and slowly she became aware of a small bird standing on one of the wet slabs. It surveyed the stream, head to one side, then dived straight in. A dipper. She smiled. Another of her father’s passions – birdwatching.

  When she glanced back she saw Bryn. He was standing watching her. She raised a hand to wave but he had already turned away.

  She was tempted to do the same – go back inside and have breakfast – but then she paused. She was not going to be intimidated by this wretched man.

  ‘Good morning, Bryn.’ She greeted him cheerfully. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day.’

  He looked up from his bag. ‘Good morning.’ He was fishing out several packets of seeds, a dibber, and a trowel.

  ‘The cave at the back there, where you’ve stacked the sticks. It’s an interesting feature,’ she went on. ‘Did you block the entrance deliberately?’ Her eyes were fixed on his face.

  He remained impassive. ‘I always store the bamboos there over winter. It allows them to dry out.’

  ‘But doesn’t it stop the bats flying in and out?’ She wasn’t sure she had seen any bats, but it was a good bet they were there.

  He looked taken aback. ‘I’m sure they find a way round.’

  ‘I would suggest you move them,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t make it so hard for the poor creatures. They’re a protected species, aren’t they? I’m sure there is somewhere else you can dry pea sticks.’ She turned away and headed back towards the kitchen. She did not turn round. She could guess his expression without the pleasure of seeing it.

  As though to emphasise her bid for control she paused as she crossed the herb beds to pick a handful of blooms. By the time she had regained the house she was smiling quietly to herself. She put them in a glass of water and set them on the work table in the living room beside her paints. They would form her next project.

  There was something else to do while she was in the mood. She picked up the phone. ‘Krista?’

  ‘Well, hello stranger.’ Her agent sounded pleased to hear her voice, which was a start.

  ‘Sorry for the long silence. I need advice.’

  They talked for half an hour, after which she hung up and sat staring into space. So, she was not as broke as she had feared. She still had an income, independent of Graham, she had royalties due any moment which Rhona would be unable to touch and she had one, possibly two offers on the table for commissions for illustrating further books. Besides that, Krista suggested blithely, it was time to consider an exhibition. Why not? Her name needed to be put out there again. ‘I was only waiting for a sign from you, honey,’ Krista had said. ‘What do you say we meet up for lunch and discuss it all?’

  ‘I’m not ready for London yet,’ Andy replied firmly. ‘Can you email me the details so I can think about them? I’ll be ready for work soon, just not quite yet. I have things still to do.’

  ‘OK, kiddo!’ Krista laughed. ‘Don’t take too long. We’re missing you. And, Andy? Welcome back to the world.’

  What did she have to do? Really. Andy sipped at her mug of coffee. Well, Catrin for a start. She wanted to know so much more about Catrin. It was like having a film running constantly inside her head, a film she could turn on and off almost at will. She pulled her notebook towards her and glanced down at it. The storyline between Catrin and Edmund was developing nicely. She smiled. Perhaps she should be a novelist. Chapter 21: The kiss! She chuckled to herself. The kiss had not gone well. Catrin had not spoken to Edmund again that night and indeed not for the rest of the journey. If her father had noticed anything, he had not said; he was probably too self-obsessed.

  She flipped back through the pages. There was definitely a strong attraction there. Edmund fancied Catrin – and who wouldn’t, she was an attractive young woman – but was the feeling reciprocated? At first she had thought so. Andy picked up her pencil and rattled it against her teeth. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She stared across at the dresser, not really seeing it. How old was Catrin? Eighteen? Perhaps nineteen by now? Perhaps more. So why wasn’t she married? Surely all women in medieval times married early unless they were nuns or something. Nowhere in her dreams did she remember seeing or hearing if there was a suitor or an ex. Perhaps she had been married, like Edmund, and her husband had died. Was that likely? Or was it possible that Dafydd had forbidden her to marry; that he had kept his daughter at home to look after him? That seemed a distinct possibility, given his selfishness. But Catrin was a feisty woman. Surely she wouldn’t have stood for that. She could have packed up her stuff and gone.

  Gone where?

  She seemed to have a lot of friends and fans. Her visit across Wales had proved that much. But neighbours? Andy had never seen or heard of any neighbours, save for the woman Efa who had taught Catrin weather witching. Andy reached for her mug again. Efa was an interesting person. She wasn’t that old. She was far from being the archetypal witch in the wood. She seemed intelligent, educated even. Her spells and incantations sounded complex and powerful rather than just being simple rhymes. She invoked the elementals, the nature spirits who commanded the wind and the rain.

  The knock at the back door made her jump. Bryn stood there, his hand cupped against his pullover. ‘I thought you would like to see something,’ he said. ‘As you’re interested in bats.’

  Andy stepped back so he could come in, wondering fleetingly if this was payback time. Assuming he had picked up the body of a bat in the cave, did he expect her to scream and wave her arms about and tell him to take it away? As he opened his hand she saw the tiny creature, clutching his fingers with the minute claws at the edge of its wings. It wasn’t dead as she had expected, but it was clearly stunned. ‘I think it’s OK,’ he said softly. ‘A victim of our Pepper, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she whispered. ‘He is a bad cat. Are you sure it will be OK?’

  ‘I can’t see any injuries. He leapt at it as it flew out of the cave.’ He glanced up at her. ‘I was moving the pea sticks as instructed and it disturbed them.’

  ‘So, it’s my fault?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ He gently touched the tiny creature with his little finger, stroking its back. ‘It’s a pipistrelle.’ He didn’t return her glance. ‘I’ll take it back to the cave. If you could call Pepper in and distract him for a bit.’

  She gave a rueful smile. ‘Since when has he come when called?’

  ‘Try shaking his biscuit box. He’s just outside the door. He wanted to know what I was going to do with his bat. He seemed a bit scared of it once he’d caught it. He put it down and looked faintly disgusted.’

  Andy laughed. ‘I know the expression. He doesn’t expect his mice to have wings, I guess.’ She turned to the dresser and found the biscuits. Almost at once Pepper appeared in the doorway looking supremely innocent. He ignored Bryn. As she reached for the bowl, Bryn slipped out of the door with his small scrap of rescued fur.

  He did not return.

  She went back to her notebook, closed it, and after a few moments began slowly to climb the stairs.

  She allowed Bryn and his bat to slip from her mind. Her bedroom had been Catrin’s bedroom. Where better to call Catrin back and find out what happened next.

  Rhona was sitting at her desk staring at the road atlas. She had found Hay-on-Wye. Sleeper’s Castle wasn’t marked. Presumably it wasn’t a proper castle anyway. She sat back thinking hard. She had the postcode from the address book and she had a satnav in the car. That was all she needed. But did she really want to go there and see the place for herself? She looked down at her hands, clenched into fists on the table in front of her. In the course of the last few days her jealousy and anger had tipped over into something far more unmanageable. She’d had no rest; no sleep. Every time she went to the window she expected to see Andy’s face out there, pressed against the glass. She hadn’t been able
to go out into the garden for fear of meeting her again. Why? Why did the woman keep coming back to haunt her?

  She leaned back in her chair. Haunt was the right word. She was a ghost, flitting back and forth between the flowerbeds and under the trees, drifting up the stairs and into the bedrooms. Once she had seen her standing in front of Graham’s portrait, painted by a friend of his, staring at it. When Rhona came into the room she had turned and looked at her and then she had disappeared as if she had never been there. Rhona pushed back the chair and stood up, her hands still clenched into fists. Andy had destroyed her life with Graham, stolen her husband, hijacked her home and her marriage. Perhaps the figure was no more than a figment of her imagination, but whatever it was, she had to make it stop.

  She walked slowly out into the hall and stared down at the doormat. A pile of post lay there from the morning. It would all be for Andy. Letters seemed to have stopped coming for Graham, but they still arrived addressed to ‘Miranda Dysart’. She stooped and picked them up. Two pieces of junk mail and three envelopes, two official-looking, one a personal handwritten envelope. All for Miranda. She almost spat with rage as she carried them into the kitchen, tore all of them across the middle and tossed them into the bin. That was it. The last straw.

  She stood and stared at herself in the mirror in the hall. Whatever she decided to do about Miranda, it would be justifiable; a crime passionnel. She smiled grimly. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. She had no intention of being caught.

  To her extreme frustration and annoyance, Andy had no dreams about Catrin for two nights. As far as she could remember she had no dreams at all and her notebook, which she had left beside her bed with a pencil tucked between the pages in case she awoke in the middle of the night and wanted to write something down, remained untouched.

  To temper her frustration she went down into Hay twice to poke around the bookshops and came back with several books on Owain Glyndŵr. At first she hadn’t been entirely sure she wanted to know what happened to him, but now she couldn’t wait to read them. Even Sian seemed to know more than her about his history, and surely it would help to understand Catrin’s life if she knew what was happening.