Outside, the brief spell of sunshine was over and the room darkened as another rain cloud drifted up the valley. Even in here near the Aga she found herself shivering. She’d left her sweater lying over the arm of the sofa next door, so she got up to retrieve it, pulled it on, then returned to her chair near the Aga and began to read the introduction.
The great Welsh hero, Owain Glyndŵr, had fought to make Wales a sovereign state. He had been born in or about 1354 and had died some time around 1415; both dates, it appeared, were approximate. This was a man of mystery as well as fame. His rebellion had begun on that fateful September day in the year 1400 when, goaded beyond endurance by the behaviour of his deceitful neighbour, Owain had given up on being Mr Nice Guy and had raised his flag in rebellion. She looked up from the page. She had been there. She had seen him do it.
The background history was complex. Wales had been a target since the Normans began to peer over the mountains at it and Edward I had built his string of great castles; before that the Romans had done the same. After all, Wales had gold. Glyndŵr’s own history too was complicated. The heir on both sides of his family to ancient Welsh principalities, he had the royal blood but for much of his career he had been a loyal servant of both the Earls of Arundel and King Richard II, learning his skills at guerrilla warfare while fighting on the king’s side in the wars against the Scots. By 1400 Henry IV was in charge in England and Welsh border politics had become inextricably tied up with the Wars of the Roses.
The speed with which Glyndŵr’s popularity had escalated was easy to explain once one had read the history. Two hundred years of resentment by the population of Wales, plus the man’s undoubted charisma and talent as a soldier. And the incredible influence of the poets and bards. Again Andy paused in her reading. Crach and Iolo were real, famous men. They were the media personalities, the celebs of their day. The stories they relayed and the myths they recited had real power. She found herself thinking back to the two men she had seen through Catrin’s eyes at Glyndŵr’s momentous gathering that night at Glyndyfrdwy. Crach was a short, thin, wiry man with wild white hair and piercing dark eyes that missed nothing. His age was hard to guess. His face was weathered and he leaned on a staff but he was probably of no more than middle years. Iolo on the other hand had been elderly. Her book said he was born about 1328, which would put him in his early seventies. He had faded red hair and blue eyes. Unlike Crach, who wore a simple floor length black tunic with a leather belt, he was richly attired in doublet and hose with over them a gown and a fur-trimmed cloak. Mud-splashed from his hasty ride he nevertheless looked every inch the gentleman. Iolo, the poet, had a powerful melodious voice. Crach, the prophet, had sat next to Glyndŵr and whispered in his ear and his hostility to Catrin’s father had been impossible to hide.
The book she was reading quoted endless sources – letters, statutes, annals. It quoted a lot from a chap called Adam of Usk. After a while she began to skip the detail, looking for specific references to Glyndŵr the man rather than the toing and froing of the armies. It appeared to have been a vicious war of attrition. Both armies burnt and laid waste to towns and villages and land, trying to starve each other out as they rampaged up and down and across the land. Castles were a particular target – in-your-face centres of English power, which the Welsh slowly captured one by one. Glyndŵr had dreams – dreams of creating Wales’s own university, of having its own archbishop, of negotiating with other nations like France and Scotland as an equal. And at first those countries encouraged his ambitions, lending their support.
For ten years the battle raged on, then almost as swiftly as it had arisen, the rebellion began to die. The English under Prince Hal, the other ‘Prince of Wales’, finally began to win the upper hand; the French and the Scots were distracted elsewhere, and, above all, the people of Wales, sick of all the brutality, starvation and suffering, began to lose faith in the man in whom they had invested such hope.
One final defeat, one more retreat by Glyndŵr into the mountains, which had always been his friend, and it was over. He disappeared from history if not from myth.
Andy spent three days reading the first book, then at last she pushed it aside with a sigh. So, Dafydd’s predictions had been right on both counts. There had been success, but there had also been blood, fire and death.
And what of Catrin and Dafydd in all this? What had happened to them? This house and garden were tied into the story of Glyndŵr through them, but what had happened in the end? Only her dreams would tell her the answer to that.
Had knowing the basic bones of what happened helped her understanding of what Catrin and Dafydd were going through? She wasn’t sure.
She wanted to go back and see.
And found herself yet again back in Kew. In the dream she walked slowly across the garden towards the incinerator and peered sadly down into the ashes. There was no trace of what had been burned there. Lying on the ground near the bin was a long sturdy stick. Judging by its ash-covered charred tip it had been used to stir the ashes to make sure nothing remained. Andy turned away miserably. A few of Graham’s favourite plants were flowering now, delicate autumn roses, chrysanthemums, Michaelmas daisies, but the garden was beginning to look overgrown and untidy. It would have broken his heart to see his treasured azaleas and sedum nearly hidden by weeds. Cautiously Andy climbed onto the veranda. The windows in the kitchen were shuttered and the curtains in the living room closed. The house felt empty. She wasn’t tempted to go inside. Instead she drifted round to the garage and looked through the gate towards the front entrance. There was no sign of Rhona’s car.
Rhona drove up the farm track to the B & B and parked beside two other cars in front of the old farmhouse. Reaching for her bags, she stood looking up at the front of the house. It looked old and beautifully mellow in the late afternoon sun, the stone facade hung with crimson Virginia creeper. As she stood gazing at it, the front door opened. ‘Mrs Jenkins?’
Rhona smiled. It had been second nature to use an alias.
She joined the other guests in the sitting room once she had been shown her bedroom and had a chance to unpack. They were sitting in front of a table laden with Welshcakes and biscuits as their hostess poured the tea. ‘I like to welcome my weekend guests with a proper tea,’ the woman said with a warm smile. ‘After that you’re on your own food wise, I’m afraid. Apart from breakfast, of course.’
The other guests were more than ready to discuss their plans for the weekend. The older couple, white-haired, smart and American, full of enthusiasm and excitement, were here looking for their Welsh roots; the other pair, English, younger and intense, were going to spend the whole weekend in the bookshops of Hay.
Rhona had her story ready. ‘I’m photographing old trees, poking round graveyards mostly, looking at yews.’ It gave her an excuse to be out all day and to drive up into the hills to remote hamlets and isolated churches. Her prolonged scrutiny of the Ordnance Survey map she had bought at a roadside service station had finally pinpointed Sleeper’s Castle. It looked impossibly remote, but not so far away she couldn’t go there, straight away after tea.
It was not a sensible plan. The light was fading by the time she climbed back into her car with her bag and her camera. The sun was setting into a bowl of crimson mist as she headed down what passed for a main road along the bottom of the valley until she came to the turning. The lane was narrow and steep, the hedgerows hanging low over the car as she changed down to a lower gear, going more and more slowly as the road continued to narrow and wind as it climbed.
She had almost given up, assuming she had taken the wrong road, when she rounded a corner and saw Sleeper’s Castle. The house stood up on a ledge above the road, with an almost vertical garden and steep steps leading up towards it from the parking space, which was occupied by the mud-spattered Passat which she recognised as Andy’s, and, beside it, a small scruffy van. Stopping her car in the middle of the lane, with the engine still running, she stared up at the house. It was beguiling
in its way, built of ancient stone, with attractive creepers and an exquisite old lichen-covered roof. There were no other houses in sight, as she had seen on the map. In front of it, on the right, behind the hedge, the valley plunged away towards unimaginable distances, swallowed now by the fading sunset and the coming night.
She wasn’t interested in the view. As she gazed up at the house she could feel its attraction. She clenched her hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath to control the surge of excitement which filled her. She had arrived.
Eventually she managed to pull herself together. With a shiver she engaged first gear and drove on up the lane.
It was only minutes later that Bryn appeared. He ran down the steps, his holdall over his shoulder, and climbed into his van. Reversing out he headed back down the hill unaware that somewhere above him Rhona Wilson had driven over the cattle grid onto the mountain and into the mist.
12
The dream of Catrin returned. Lying restlessly on her bed Andy had drifted into sleep, listening to the radio, slowly becoming aware that Dafydd and his daughter were home. Edmund had bedded down their horses, carried their luggage into the house and dumped it onto the flagstones in the hall, greeted his sister and vanished without a further word.
Catrin watched him go with relief, greeted Joan with a hug and ran upstairs to her bedroom. The room was ready for her, with a freshly shaken feather bed, and blankets. Her table was dusted, her books neatly stacked on the shelf near the window. Joan followed her upstairs, dragging Catrin’s saddlebags after her, and proceeded to unpack, hanging up her gowns and her cloak from the pegs on the wall, folding clean linen into the coffers and throwing clothes that needed laundering onto a pile. ‘So?’ She glanced up at Catrin. ‘Did the tour go well?’
Catrin shivered. ‘We went to a great many places.’ They had left home in the early summer. Now it was autumn and a gale was roaring up the valley, lifting the wall hangings and rattling the shutters. She reached for a shawl off the bed. ‘I have missed being home, though.’
‘Did you see any of the unrest?’ Joan shook out her shifts before folding them. ‘I hear there is war in the north.’ She looked up and Catrin saw the gleam of fear in her eyes.
‘We heard a lot about it,’ she said, trying to keep her voice reassuring. ‘We were up in the north as it started. We went to Ruthin, the first town to fall.’
‘And the Lord Glyndŵr, the man they call the rightful Prince of Wales. Did you see him?’ Joan’s eyes were hard.
Catrin remembered the long nights when they had discussed their journey and the places they were likely to go. Joan knew they were planning to visit Sycharth. ‘We were there just before the start of the rebellion. Prince Owain and the Lady Margaret sent us away to safety. We made the best speed we could all the way back.’
‘I trust you did not swear allegiance to him,’ Joan put in tartly. ‘The man is a traitor. My father says he will be hung, drawn and quartered when King Henry lays hands on him, and the same goes for all his followers.’
Catrin was shocked to silence. ‘And does everyone round here feel the same?’ she asked eventually.
Joan shrugged her shoulders carelessly. ‘Not everyone. There are always differences. Brother against brother, father against son. You know the way it is.’
‘And you and your father are of a mind to support the king?’
‘Of course. As will Edmund.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘He was in a hurry to ride back to the farm.’
‘My fault. We did not always see eye to eye.’ Wearily Catrin rubbed her face. ‘He is a strong character, your brother. He did not appreciate having to obey orders.’
‘From you?’ Joan stared at her fiercely. ‘He wouldn’t.’
Catrin gave a wry smile. ‘Nor from my tad either. But he was a good guide. He got us there and he got us home without mishap. My father will pay him well, have no fear.’
Joan sighed. ‘I don’t understand why he didn’t wait to be paid now.’
‘He’s been worrying about your father and the farm. I know he felt bad about leaving your father on his own.’
‘He wasn’t on his own,’ Joan retorted sharply. ‘Our brother Richard was in charge.’
‘Then I don’t know what it was, but something worried him. I am sure he will be back soon. As you say, he will want to pick up his money,’ Catrin replied. ‘And now, is there a meal ready, Joan? My father is ravenous. Between them, he and Edmund insisted we ride as fast as we could this morning. We left our camp at sun-up and the horses have been fed and stabled, but we are still famished.’
Joan gathered up an armful of clothes for the wash. ‘It will be ready soon. I guessed you would be back today. You were seen approaching Painscastle by a king’s messenger who passed on the news as he rode through Hay. One of the boys brought word up the hill.’
Catrin followed her downstairs. There was no sign of Dafydd and she guessed he was already in his study. His saddlebags lay open on the floor, his books and pens missing. Catrin bent to retrieve her harp and checked it carefully for damage after the long journey.
‘Did they enjoy your music?’ Joan enquired. She pushed aside the basket which held her spindle and carding combs and several hanks of raw wool and began to lay plates and spoons and knives on the trestle table.
Catrin nodded. ‘I was well rewarded. Once or twice I played before the whole company, although mostly it was to the women in their quarters.’
‘So, will you go again next year?’
‘I hope so.’ Catrin bent to throw a log on the fire as Joan disappeared into the kitchen. The rich smell of mutton stew was beginning to filter through the house.
Catrin and her father sat up late after their meal, close to the fire, alone in the house. Joan had asked permission to go to her father’s for the night and Dafydd, with unaccustomed grace, had told her to take the mule now it had had a few hours’ rest and stay two days if she wished. It meant Catrin would have to make do with the little servant Betsi to do all the housework, but she didn’t resent the fact that he didn’t give that side of his largesse a thought. He gave Joan a bag of coins, half of what was owed to Edmund, and bade her ride straight there.
‘That was kind,’ Catrin said. She pulled her cloak around her as the wind howled under the door. ‘She was upset that Edmund rode off so fast.’
‘Hmm.’ Dafydd’s comment was noncommittal.
‘Have you spoken to the other servants?’ She reached for her mug of warm ale and sipped it gratefully. Made by Joan and herself, it had a clear, full flavour, unlike many of the brews they had sampled on the hurried ride back. ‘Betsi and Peter will have to look after things until she gets back.’
He nodded. ‘There is much unrest round here, the same as everywhere else we’ve been,’ Dafydd went on thoughtfully. ‘People are divided. There are those who support the king, especially those who live across the Wye. Then there are those who say we have suffered too much under English laws which are so punitive towards those of Welsh birth. They say Owain is right. Enough is enough. We have to fight for our freedom.’
‘It would be wise to keep our counsel though,’ Catrin put in. ‘This is where we live. In the past weeks we have been on the move and heard every degree of opinion. It is going to be very bitter if any fighting comes this way. It won’t, will it?’ she added. It was a plea.
Dafydd looked across at her. ‘My dreams say it will. I fear it could engulf the whole of Wales,’ he said softly. ‘I am sorry, cariad, but my dreams say it will consume us all before it is done.’ He paused. ‘On the other hand, the news that flies around the country now is that Owain has retreated into the mountains and the rebellion is over.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Time will tell all.’
Catrin went to bed later even than her father. She damped down the fire, checked the doors were barred and blew out all the candles but one. She picked it up and climbed wearily to her bedroom.
In her dream Catrin recognised Prince Owain at once though time had passed.
He was there on the battlefield, at the head of his men, older than she remembered him and exhausted, but bravely leading the charge, his standard bearer at his side, his standard – red and gold now, no longer the black lion of Powys – rippling above them in the wind and rain. Then before her horrified eyes the standard had fallen, trampled in the mud, the man who carried it screaming in agony as an arrow pierced a vulnerable spot in his armour and tore through to his neck. Around the prince the men faltered, the charge losing its impetus, the enemy gaining ground.
The men-at-arms had closed round their prince and in minutes he had been spirited away to disappear into the wet fog that was closing round the battlefield. He lived. He always lived, but the battle was lost. The field was red with blood and scattered with dead men and the English Prince Hal was victorious. He was looking round, shading his eyes against the rain, gentling the great warhorse which was trembling beneath him, its nostrils dilated, its eyes huge with terror. She knew he was looking for Owain. He was always looking for Owain and she knew he would never find him.
Andy awoke suddenly, her hands clammy with fear. She could feel her heart pounding; the sound seemed to fill the room like the beat of a distant drum. She lay for a few minutes staring up towards the ceiling as the dream faded. It was of war, the smell of smoke, the shouts of men, the scream of horses, the enormous crash of cannon fire. That was what had woken her. The bang. She sat up abruptly. That bang had been real. Outside the house. Grabbing her dressing gown, she fled barefoot down the stairs, wishing she had a dog to let her know if there was someone in the garden. She paused behind the kitchen door, listening. Don’t open it. The words rang in her head. Don’t let them in. There are soldiers out there.
Sleeper’s Castle Page 18