‘I’m better. Much better.’ Andy reached for a glass and raised it in a toast. ‘You are an angel. I can get around now; but I’ve been relying on my dad to drive me everywhere for the last two days and it gave me the chance to heal. I’m missing him already.’
‘I thought you might be.’ Sian broke her poppadum in half with a loud snap. ‘So I have a bit of news for you. Meryn is back. He rang me yesterday to see how you were and find out when your dad was leaving. I don’t think he wanted to tread on his toes. So, I wondered if you would like me to drive you up to Meryn’s tomorrow. I can drop you off and he will bring you home.’
‘That would be marvellous. There’s so much I want to discuss with him.’ Andy heard herself give a contented sigh.
Behind them the cat flap clicked. Pepper jumped through and stopped dead, glaring at Sian.
Andy watched Pepper stalk across to his empty bowl, inspect it, then turn and head towards his chair. ‘He didn’t like my dad being here. We saw almost nothing of him.’
‘Another male on his territory, I expect.’ Sian put down her fork. ‘This is gorgeous, but maybe I chose something a bit too hot! How are you doing?’
‘I love it.’ Andy leaned forward. ‘Graham and I had a lot of curries in Kew. It was a bit of a fetish of ours.’ She paused, lost in her memories. Pushing them away firmly she stood up. ‘If you clear the plates and dig in the freezer for some ice cream I will get my laptop. I have lots of books on Glyndŵr now, but I have to confess I hadn’t thought of looking up Sleeper’s Castle on the Internet.’
She found it in a catalogue of listed buildings.
There was a short paragraph:
Medieval fortified farmhouse with possible 14th–15th-century origins. Added 18th-century service wing, possibly on earlier foundations. Stone-tiled roof; two storey. Some window apertures original with heavy oak or stone mullions. Front door original with heavy chamfered oak frame, stone label, cambered inner arch, old oak door. Stone floors and part of roof original with stout purlins. Chamfered ceiling beams to inner rooms. Remnants of larger building footprint, possibly destroyed as early as 15th century.
‘That’s all.’ Andy pushed the laptop across the table towards Sian.
‘It doesn’t say who lived here or if it belonged to a particular family. I don’t suppose anyone knew what happened up here. It’s pretty remote,’ Sian said after scanning the screen.
‘But so are lots of houses round here. I get the impression …’ Andy hesitated. ‘From my dreams, I get the impression that news travelled pretty fast. It’s hard to imagine life without radio, phones and the Internet. Already we’re forgetting what it was like even ten years ago! But the people were still interested, still curious, still afraid of what might happen next, they still loved gossip and people travelled a lot from house to house and even if it was only at the market once a week, they still kept pretty much up with the news. People would have known.’
‘Much like today,’ Sian put in. ‘Have you heard the chat that goes on down at the market on Thursdays? That market has been there for hundreds of years. Well, presumably it is in essence the same market that Catrin would have known. It makes me smile sometimes when I’m wandering round it. I can picture the women in long dresses and poke bonnets with baskets on their arms with the farmers leaning on the stalls, smoking clay pipes, with their dogs at their feet – and everyone talking nineteen to the dozen, all in the shadow of that great castle.’ She glanced up. ‘You’re tired, Andy. I should go.’
‘No … sorry. I was thinking about Catrin in the market.’ Andy stood up. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s my turn to do something. I can hobble round perfectly serviceably. In fact, it’s scarcely a hobble any more, thanks to Meryn’s magic mixture.’
Sian shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I must go. The dogs have been on their own a lot today and they deserve a quick walk before bed. And for the record, I think you will find it’s Sue’s magic mixture, not Meryn’s. He’s not into herbal medicine, apart from using it, of course. What time would you like me to collect you tomorrow …?’
It was a cold clear night. As Andy stood at the top of the steps, waving after Sian’s car as it disappeared down the lane, she shivered. One of these days she was going to wake up to find the countryside covered in frost. She glanced up at the sky. Cassiopeia was still shining as brightly, a huge W in the sky overhead. The silence round her was intense. She had already learned to fade out the sound of the brook tumbling down its rocks as she listened for the call of an owl. Almost on cue she heard it, far away in the valley, a long quavering hoot, the reply coming from far closer, the sharp, echoing ‘quick, quick’ of its mate somewhere in the field across the lane.
And then in the distance she heard the sound of a woman’s voice, crying.
‘Tad, Tad, where are you?’
The only answer was the rustle of leaves as an icy breeze swept up the valley from the north.
24
The horses and the mule had gone. The stable door was open and there was no sign of them. ‘How could they!’ Joan was white with rage. ‘What use would little horses like that be to those great soldiers?’
She had chivvied Catrin into giving up her futile search in the dark for her father, to help her find enough dry hay in the barn to make new mattresses. ‘He’ll turn up, you know he will. He’s a wily old bird. He won’t have got caught.’
But that was what they both feared. Had the men run into Dafydd as they left the house?
Joan had piled the soiled bedding in a heap on the ruined vegetable beds and set fire to it, even to Catrin’s embroidered bedcovers. They stood and watched as the flames soared into the night sky. ‘Perhaps the sight of that will bring him home,’ Joan commented tartly. She glanced at Catrin, who was standing there numbly, watching the pall of bitter smoke rising from the stinking bed linen. ‘And Betsi and Megan and Peter. I hope they’re all right.’
‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ Catrin murmured at last.
‘Of course they will.’
‘Betsi and Peter have always been loyal to us,’ she said doubtfully.
‘And I’m sure they’re still loyal,’ Joan replied stoutly. ‘They’ll be back soon, you’ll see.’
They surveyed the fire in silence.
‘At least the mattresses burn well,’ Catrin said with a sigh.
‘And it will take us no time at all to run up something makeshift out of rugs to replace them,’ Joan said. ‘Thank our Blessed Lady they didn’t fire the barn, because that has enough dry hay to stuff them with ten times over. We will get through this, Catrin. And they didn’t fire the hayricks either so be thankful for what they did not do.’
As they watched the flames die down, Catrin shuddered. ‘Why? Why did they do that? We have never harmed anyone. We are a peaceful family.’
Joan turned to her, her eyes wide. ‘Catrin! Your father is a poet, a bard, a seer. They are banned! He supports the rebels. Everyone knows that. He may not pick up a sword himself, but he exhorts others to follow his precious prince!’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Come on, can you really be so simple?’
‘Then if we are so dangerous, why do you work for us?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joan replied tartly. ‘Maybe because I need the money.’
Catrin didn’t reply. She stood watching the bonfire until it was no more than smoking ash, then she turned away without a word. It was then that she saw the figure standing by the paddock gate watching them. Her father was holding one of the horses by its reins.
‘Tad!’ she gasped.
Dafydd began to walk forward, dragging the unwilling pony with him.
‘How much damage did they do?’ he asked, barely looking at her.
‘They smashed everything!’ Catrin found the tears running down her face again as she ran towards him. ‘It was awful. We hid in the cave, but they destroyed everything. They wrecked your study.’ She was expecting him to hold out his arms for her to rush into, but he stood rigid,
looking straight past her. ‘My study?’ he repeated the words, his voice cracked with emotion. He dropped the reins and walked stiffly towards the house, ignoring Catrin completely.
Joan was watching. She ran to catch the pony. ‘I will put her in the paddock. You go with your father,’ she said.
Catrin followed Dafydd inside, watching as he picked his way across the devastation of the kitchen without seeming to notice and walked slowly across the hall. There was less damage there as there was less to be damaged. The ashes of the fire were scattered around, a stool smashed against the wall, the cushions and smaller wall hangings torn and trampled by muddy boots, the doors of the aumbry hanging open with the scatter of the broken glass, but the benches and the high-backed settle against the wall and the table were undamaged. In the doorway to his study he stopped and looked round slowly at the broken desk, the scattered, damaged books, the charred pages littering the floor, the feathers from his cushions scattered all over the room, ink spilled and spattered everywhere. His face was white. Catrin could feel the hard knot of grief like a lump in her chest. ‘I am so sorry. There was nothing we could do. We hid,’ she whispered.
He turned away and walked back towards the hearth in the hall. ‘Were you hurt?’ he asked at last. His voice was flat and unemotional.
‘No. I told you. We hid. Where were you, Tad?’
‘When I heard them coming I took the pony and rode up into the hills.’ He was rubbing his hands together slowly as if to try and warm them.
‘Why did you not warn us?’ she asked softly.
‘I knew you would be all right.’ Still he did not look at her. He seemed to be studying the cold ash which was all that remained of the fire. ‘Why don’t you get Joan to light this? The house is cold!’
‘Of course, Tad. I will ask her.’ Catrin moved away towards the kitchen. Had he even given them a thought, she wondered as she went through into the kitchen. There was no fire left alight save out in the garden. She scrabbled through the cooking implements, looking for flint and tinder, but when she found them her hands were shaking too much to strike them. Joan took them from her and lit the fire in the kitchen hearth. She had swilled out the pot and filled it with water from the brook. Hanging it on the trivet she pushed Catrin towards one of the stools, which she had set upright by the table. ‘I’ll brew some camomile to soothe you.’
‘My tad wants the fire lit next door,’ Catrin said slowly. Her teeth had begun to chatter.
‘Let him wait.’ Joan went to the pantry and pulled open the door and murmured a prayer of gratitude. In their rush to destroy the kitchen, they seemed to have missed it. The crocks of flour and oatmeal were still there, undamaged. The slabs of cheese and butter, the jugs of oil, the boxes of dried fruits and the barrel of salt fish. Even her loaves of bread from her last baking were still there.
She moved to the buttery. That had fared worse. All the ale and cider had gone, and the wine, but the herbs were still there, hanging in their linen bags from the high beam. She brought out one of them and crumbled a handful of brittle orange heads into a pewter jug. She bent to pick up some smashed shards of pottery from the floor, studying them sadly. They had once formed part of a pretty fruit bowl.
‘You should go home, Joan. To your father. You cannot want to stay here with us,’ Catrin murmured.
‘And why not? I doubt you two are capable of sorting all this mess out by yourselves,’ Joan retorted.
‘Catrin?’ Dafydd’s voice echoed through the doorway.
‘You stay here.’ Joan put her hand on Catrin’s shoulder as she made to stand up. ‘I will see to it.’ The jar of tapers on a high shelf near the window had escaped their attentions as well, Taking one she lit it and walked out through the door.
Catrin slumped across the table and put her head in her arms. She was too weary and miserable to move. Only when Joan returned did she raise her head.
Joan was smiling. ‘One piece of good news. They did not find your harp,’ she said. ‘You had left it in the corner of the great hall and they failed to see it in the shadows.’ She pushed back her sleeves. ‘Your father is by the fire through there. There were enough logs to build it up. I will go out to the store by and by and fetch more. He had his cloak with him so he’s warm enough.’ She grimaced. ‘He even had time to grab that before he fled.’
‘Is the pony all right?’ Catrin asked wearily. Even the news about her harp didn’t cheer her.
Joan nodded. ‘The other two are there too. He left the gate open when he rode out and they strayed. That saved them. They’re all back together now.’ She poured boiling water into the jug, then set it to steep. ‘I will fetch some hay in a while and we can stitch up a couple of mattresses. Luckily there is plenty of sacking in the barn. They did not touch your drying herbs either.’ She glanced up. The bunches of lavender and lovage, meadowsweet and pennyroyal were still hanging from the kitchen ceiling. She smiled. ‘You’ll not mind sharing a rug or two from the barn? Whatever they smell of, it would be better than what your own smelt of before we burned them. You rest now and I will make a start on cleaning up all this mess.’ She looked round and wrinkled her nose.
‘Catrin!’ Again the voice from next door, irritated and impatient; Joan put out her hand. ‘Stay where you are. I will go.’ She stood up with a sigh.
The fire was burning quietly with only the occasional crack and snap of logs when the back door slowly creaked open. Catrin sat up abruptly, frightened. ‘Who is it?’ she cried.
One of the farm cats put its head round the door and surveyed the room. It crept in, keeping an eye on her as it headed towards a splash of spilled stew on the floor. It seized a piece of cold mutton and turning ran outside again with its prize.
Catrin gave an exhausted smile. At least someone had benefitted from the afternoon’s work.
Sian picked Andy up the next morning shortly after ten. It was a glorious sunny day, the air cold and fresh, the visibility as she climbed out of Sian’s car and stood outside Meryn’s cottage seeming to go on forever as she surveyed the view across the foothills, the Wye Valley and on towards the Radnor Forest. Elfael.
Sian didn’t come in with her. As she turned the car and drove off, Meryn opened the door. ‘You look much recovered,’ he said as he pointed her towards an armchair near the fire. It was obviously newly lit and the room was full of the sweet spicy smell of burning apple. Andy leaned back in the chair and relaxed. She had woken after her dream, unable to shrug it off, convinced she would find the house trashed, expecting to smell burnt parchment and soldiers’ piss as she walked slowly from room to room. The bright clean bedrooms and the tidy ground floor, the cold early sunlight finding its way through the windows seemed unreal; it was the dream that had been authentic. She had been disorientated and upset and Pepper had refused to come near her, viewing her through huge, suspicious eyes and fleeing out of the cat flap when she bent to pick him up.
She told Meryn everything. He listened without comment, sitting opposite her, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on her face.
‘Glyndŵr was a fascinating man. And you have had the enormous privilege of meeting him and witnessing his world,’ he said when she had finished. ‘To travel into the past like this is an experience dreamed of by historians. But we have to consider the risks.’
Reaching out towards her he took her hands. He turned them palm up and studied them.
‘Did you touch anything in your dream?’
‘Touch anything?’ she echoed, confused.
‘Did you follow Catrin round the room? Did you try to help her? Did you run your fingers over any surfaces, reach out to touch her, to comfort her? Did you sit down with them to eat the food?’
Andy shook her head slowly. ‘No. I was only watching them.’
‘You can smell what they smell.’
‘Yes.’ She made a wry face.
‘Can you feel the heat of the fire?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you taste anything while you a
re watching? The bitterness of ash or the acidity of urine in the air, for instance?’
She hesitated. ‘Taste and smell are so close.’ She shuddered.
‘Indeed.’
‘This is important, isn’t it?’
‘It helps me work out what is happening to you.’
‘So they aren’t just dreams? What I am seeing is real?’
‘I believe so, yes.’ He thought briefly. ‘I remember being told something of that house’s fascinating history. As you know, its reputation goes back centuries. From what you seem to be saying, it was Catrin’s house, or the house of her ancestors and yet it is her father who is the bard.
‘Bards in Wales had a special place,’ he continued. ‘They were genealogists and historians to the people. People’s ancestors mattered. They linked them together from the highest to the lowest. They were kin. I think you said Dafydd toured the houses of his patrons each summer?’
She gave a quick nod.
‘That was the way it worked, the way they earned their living. They told the past, they foretold the future. Glyndŵr had a favourite bard, a man called Iolo Goch, I looked it up. Owain was a famously superstitious man and consulted bards and seers wherever he went. He had magic crystals and at one point a stone which could, so the story goes, make him disappear.’
‘Superstitious?’
‘Ah, you are right to query my use of the word. An anachronism. Most people were what our age would call superstitious in medieval times. I believe one of the kings – it may even have been Henry IV – had a man put to death because his claim to be a seer was reckoned to be false; his predictions did not come true. One had to have a certain success rate to be credible!’
‘I wonder why Catrin’s mother fell for Dafydd.’
‘Who knows? Her father can’t have been enchanted with the idea of a penniless bard as a son-in-law. Perhaps he wasn’t penniless though. Perhaps he was a successful poet, like Iolo. After all, they lived off the rewards of their trade: gifts from their patrons. So, perhaps Catrin’s father really was enchanted. These guys weren’t above a bit of magic here and there.’
Sleeper’s Castle Page 37