Sleeper’s Castle

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘There is dust and ash behind it, Tad,’ she retorted wearily.

  ‘I told you not to touch it!’ he repeated, his voice harsh. She ignored him, edging it away from the wall. A loose flagstone was catching beneath one of the feet. It rattled out of place and revealed a hollow beneath it. ‘Don’t you dare touch that!’ Dafydd cried. ‘Leave it, Catrin, it is none of your business.’

  She gave him a piercing look and dropping to her knees she dragged aside the flagstone. A small box had been hidden there. She was past listening to him. She lifted it out, astonished at its weight and opened the lid. It was full of coins.

  Dafydd was apoplectic with rage. His face went crimson as he lunged towards her. She scrambled to her feet and staggered with the box over to the table; it was so heavy she could barely carry it. ‘How much is in here?’ she asked, her voice dangerously low. ‘You make us live like paupers; you tell me I have to sell my necklace to pay for repairs, you forbid me to have new glass in my window and all the while you have money hidden here!’

  He scrabbled the coins she had spilled back into the box and slammed the lid shut. ‘That is for when I can no longer work. You know Henry of Lancaster has passed a law in his parliament forbidding payment to minstrels and poets in Wales. He means to punish us for the rebellion, which he blames on us. Soon I will have nothing,’ he whined, picking up the box and clutching it to his chest.

  Catrin looked at him in despair. ‘How much is in there? I saw old florins, nobles. Tad, it is a fortune!’

  He knelt and replaced the box in the hole. Then he dragged the coffer back across it and pushed it hard against the wall. Catrin noticed he had no difficulty with its weight, though she had struggled to move it.

  ‘Where is that stupid woman who works in the kitchen?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘You mean Joan?’ Catrin asked coldly. ‘She is upstairs.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want her knowing about this. If she finds out, she will blab to the world and we will be murdered in our beds by thieves.’

  ‘We were nearly murdered in our beds yesterday,’ Catrin retorted. Her fury was making her tremble as she stood before him.

  ‘Rubbish. All they did was mess the place up a bit.’ He sat down on his high stool in front of the desk, nailed back together by Peter, as if to prove that everything was back to normal. ‘Go and find me some parchment, Catrin.’

  She stared at him. ‘And where am I supposed to find parchment? You think I have reams of it stashed away in my bedroom?’ She broke off, appalled. Did he know about her own new writings? She had one or two precious pieces of blank parchment saved, but she was not inclined now to give them to him. Her need was as great as his. She had begun, she realised, to despise him.

  She dusted down her apron and stood looking at him for a few moments. He ignored her. ‘I will go and help Joan upstairs,’ she said quietly. ‘On the next market day I will go down to Hay and see if there is parchment to be had. You will have to give me the money for it. I have none.’ She turned and walked out of the room.

  She found Joan in the garden, surveying the wreckage of their vegetable beds. ‘At least the ponies are safe,’ she called to Catrin over her shoulder. ‘And the sheep in the top field and the pig. They didn’t find them. And most of the hens are here. No eggs though. All this has upset them. I still thank the Blessed Virgin they did not fire the ricks.’

  ‘What are we going to do for food?’ said Catrin, coming to stand beside her.

  ‘You will have to buy something in.’

  Catrin glanced at her. Joan seemed to assume they would have the money. ‘Did you know my father can no longer be paid for his songs and his poetry? King Henry has forbidden it. He thinks poets and minstrels spread sedition.’

  Joan gave a hollow laugh. ‘And don’t they?’ When no answer was forthcoming she went on: ‘You know men will still pay him. People will ignore what parliament says as they always have. There is no rule of law in Wales any more.’ She sniffed. ‘He must have money hidden away,’ she went on. ‘It’s not as though he spends anything on the house.’

  Catrin tensed. What had she seen? Then she relaxed. Joan was an intelligent woman. She used her eyes. She must have realised her employer was a miserly skinflint. He would hardly travel the length and breadth of Wales every year unless he was well paid by his patrons. She sighed. ‘I will see if I can get him to find a few coins,’ she said meekly. ‘But everyone is in the same boat. The armies have laid waste to crops and driven off livestock all over the country. The pedlar who came selling ribbons last week said as much.’ She paused sadly, thinking of the futility of buying a few ribbons and how happy she had been with her lovely pieces of red silk.

  ‘He said there would be famine this winter,’ Joan pointed out gloomily. ‘The Welsh forces burn the fields to punish the English farmers, and the English soldiers burn the fields to starve out the rebels. It doesn’t matter which side does it, the result is the same. The people starve. It is always the people who suffer. King Henry’s lords and knights can ride back to London. Everyone is rich in London. Everyone eats well there.’ Her voice was bitter.

  Catrin had never been to London, but somehow she doubted that what Joan said was entirely true. Speculation would do nothing to solve their present problem though. She walked over to the paddock. Her pony was leaning over the gate, watching them. She rubbed the little mare’s face gently. ‘I hope we don’t have to sell you, cariad,’ she murmured. ‘That would break my heart.’

  Slowly they were replenishing the pantry. Between them they had managed to harvest a few vegetables from the ruins of the garden beds; they gathered hazelnuts, blackberries and sloes from the hedgerows as they did every year, there were apples and pears and Peter as usual brought fish from the brook for Joan to salt down. In the end Dafydd reluctantly produced a handful of silver coin and the next market day Catrin and Joan took the pony and the mule down to Hay with empty panniers, hoping to buy at least a few basic supplies. It was pouring with rain and the tracks were slick with mud. They were soaked before they were halfway there. The market was less full than usual. People were scanning the half-empty stalls anxiously, without their usual banter and laughter. The army marching through the town towards Brecon had frightened everyone. Catrin was uncomfortable. She felt eyes watching her. Stallholders served her but there were no cheery greetings as she shook off the rain and stepped round the puddles, trying vainly to shelter under the canopies that kept goods dry. She and Joan bought leeks and parsnips; they bought several ells of sturdy cloth and a couple of small barrels of cider to replace the precious stocks which had been spilled or drunk by their unwelcome visitors. To her relief, Catrin found the stallholder who brought a small selection of rolls of blank parchment from the bookshops and parchmenters who plied their trade round the cathedral in Hereford. There were always clerks and reeves who needed more, so he often came to country markets, even in the rain. When all her silver was spent, Catrin called Joan and suggested they set off home. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she whispered as yet another farming neighbour cut her dead. ‘They blame us in some way.’

  ‘Well of course they do! I told you: your father is known to support Glyndŵr, who is to blame for the ruin of this town, the burnt houses, and bare fields. He is to blame for everything that has happened. It doesn’t matter where these men come from. We had peace before, and good weather. And then Glyndŵr has even called down the rain – everybody says so!’ She pulled her cloak more closely round her shoulders and glared at Catrin.

  Catrin did not reply.

  Dafydd was waiting when they got home and held out his hand for the parchment almost as soon as they dragged the panniers inside. Catrin pulled the parcel out and gave it to him. Without more money, she told him bluntly, there would be no more to write on. When she asked to keep some of the parchment for herself, he refused, demanding to know what she would want it for and she cursed herself for betraying her need and again for letting him see how upset she was.

 
; It was on the first day of true autumnal gales that she caught him in her bedroom, rattling the lid of her coffer.

  ‘What do you keep in here that it needs to be locked?’ he demanded when she walked in.

  She glanced round the room angrily. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I am waiting for you to unlock this chest.’

  ‘No. I won’t!’ She folded her arms, her cheeks flushed with anger. ‘It is none of your business what I put in my own coffers. How dare you come poking around in my room?’

  ‘Open it!’ he shouted at her.

  ‘I told you, no!’

  ‘If you don’t do as I say, you will no longer live under my roof!’ he bellowed. ‘Do it now!’

  Catrin heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Joan appeared, panting. ‘What is going on here?’ she demanded.

  ‘It is none of your business, woman. Get out of here!’ Dafydd shouted. ‘Open it.’ He turned back to Catrin.

  ‘I have lost the key,’ she said defiantly. ‘Please, get out of my bedchamber. I have nothing of interest to you in here.’

  ‘Then you can leave my house.’

  She stared him in the eye. ‘I think you will find it is my house!’ she said softly.

  She wasn’t sure if that was true, legally, but the house had come from her mother’s family, that much she knew.

  His face turned deep crimson. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘I dare.’ Never in her life had she stood up to him like this. Ever since she was a child she had obeyed him and given in to his bullying, but this was the last time she was going to let him browbeat her. As the wind battered the house, roaring down the chimneys and rattling the shutters, she stood her ground.

  Abruptly he turned round and walked out of the room, elbowing his way past Joan as she stood in the doorway.

  The women stood in silence as they listened to the sound of his footsteps walking slowly down the stairs. Seconds later they heard the slam of his study door.

  Joan heaved a huge sigh. ‘Oh my!’

  ‘He’ll calm down.’ Catrin bit her lip.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘He will have to. He needs me too much to throw me out.’ Catrin didn’t feel as certain as she sounded.

  Joan looked at the coffer. ‘Are those your poems?’

  She nodded. ‘I am not going to show them to him.’

  ‘He’s so jealous of you, but you know that, don’t you.’

  Below they heard the door of the study reopen, Dafydd’s footsteps across the flagstones and then his tread on the stairs again. Slowly he climbed towards them.

  ‘Go, Joan,’ Catrin whispered. ‘You don’t need to be here. This is between him and me.’

  Joan slipped away. Catrin waited for him, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her chest. Dafydd appeared in the doorway. Ignoring her, he strode across to the coffer. She realised he had a hammer and chisel in his hands. He bent to the lock.

  ‘No!’ Catrin flew at him. ‘How dare you. Leave it alone.’ She tried to push her father away. He elbowed her aside as though she wasn’t there and inserted the blade of the chisel under the lock.

  Rhona caught her breath. She had watched Miranda, sitting at the kitchen table, closing her laptop and leaning back in her chair then she had got to her feet and wandered over to the window. Rhona ducked down out of sight, waiting. She felt ridiculously excited, her mouth dry with nerves like a child, playing hide and seek. Would Miranda find her?

  Nothing happened and after a while she stood up cautiously, peering back inside. Miranda was sitting at the table again. She had closed her eyes. She was falling asleep. Rhona grimaced. Boring. Then she snapped to attention. Miranda was standing up again and there was someone else there. Rhona felt a shockwave course through her body. There were two women in the room with her. Why hadn’t she realised that Miranda wasn’t alone in the house? They were dressed in strange clothes, with long skirts. One carried a broom in her hand. Good grief! What was going on? Talking, the women walked out of the door and Miranda followed them.

  Rhona ducked away from the window and ran back to look into the living room and, sure enough, the three women were in there now. Miranda was standing by the door, watching the other two. They seemed to be talking animatedly as they ran across the room and through a large doorway in the far corner. Miranda followed and stood on the threshold watching them. She was somehow detached, watching but not taking part. There was a man in there and there seemed to be an argument going on between the three of them. Miranda wasn’t involved; she was spying on them, lurking in the shadows. One of the women turned away, her face red with anger, and walked swiftly into the kitchen. Rhona dodged back to see where she was going and found she was heading for the door. She was coming outside. Rhona shrank against the wall. It was too late to move. She heard the rattle of the latch, she heard the door open. She heard footsteps run past her, but she saw nothing. There was no one there. She could feel an electric tingling in her hands, just as she had at the side of the house and she realised she was clutching at the stones of the wall beside her. She let go as if it had burned her.

  What was happening? The door was still closed. It had never opened. She looked into the kitchen. It was empty.

  She took a deep breath. Who were they? What was happening? Was the house haunted? What other explanation was there for what she had seen? She had heard the door open, heard the woman run past her.

  She felt a shiver run down her spine.

  Tiptoeing to the living room window she peered in again. There was no one there either. She glanced round. She must have been watching for longer than she had realised. What meagre light there was was leaching from the sky. Under the rain-filled sky it was growing dark.

  Where was Miranda?

  Cautiously she approached the back door and tried the handle. The door was locked. No one had come out. Behind her, upstairs, a light came on in one of the bedrooms and a narrow strip of light flooded across the lawn. She tiptoed away from the wall, looking up in time to see Miranda appear in the window. She pushed it open and stood looking out. Rhona froze but Miranda didn’t see her and as Rhona watched she turned away, facing into the room. Rhona craned her neck up to see in but it was impossible. She looked round. The garden behind the house rose quite steeply. It might be possible to gain enough height to look in. She moved off a few paces, then a few more until she could just catch a glimpse into the lighted room and see what was happening.

  ‘Leave her things alone!’

  Andy could contain herself no longer. They were in her bedroom, the echo of their angry voices ricocheting off the walls. ‘Stop it, you horrible man. Leave her alone!’

  She saw Catrin and Dafydd freeze in mid-action, and turn towards her, their faces white. Neither one of them moved, as if uncertain what they had seen or heard, then they faced each other again. She saw Dafydd swing back towards his daughter, the chisel in his hand. He raised his arm and lunged at her. Catrin screamed, her shoulder pouring with blood. Andy threw herself between them, trying to knock the chisel out of his hand. She heard Dafydd howl with anger and fear, she felt a searing pain in her arm, then everything went black.

  Rhona stood rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the window. They had vanished. Suddenly. Just like that. Between one moment and the next the man and the young woman had gone. She had watched the whole thing through the narrow mullioned window. There had been a fight. She had seen the flash of a blade and then she heard the scream. There was blood everywhere. She had been able to see it all, floodlit as if on a small stage and she could smell it too, the hot, angry exhilarating smell of violence. She waited, her eyes straining towards the window. Nothing. There was no sign of anyone, no sound from inside. She was alone in the garden with the howl of the wind and the roar of water from the brook. All she could smell now was wet earth and leaves and the clean cold mountain air.

  Andy woke to find herself lying on her bedroom floor. Confused and very stiff and cold, she made no attempt to move. She
could see a last few pink streaks in the sky through the window as the clouds blew away. All she could hear was the moan of the wind in the chimneys. The wind. She had been listening to the wind in Catrin’s bedroom. Slowly she remembered. Catrin and her father. The quarrel.

  With a groan she tried to sit up. An agonising pain shot through her forearm and she clutched at it. Her hand came away sticky with blood.

  ‘Oh no!’ She heard her own tremulous voice as she staggered to her feet. She made her way towards the door and groped for the light switch. Her arm was a mess; her sleeve was stained, her hand now wet with blood. She had left bloody fingermarks on the wall around the switch. She was trying to work out what had happened. She must have hit her arm against something or caught it on the corner of the chest of drawers. Still dazed, she went into the bathroom and held her arm under the cold tap. The wound was about an inch across, straight, narrow and deep. It could only have been made by something very sharp.

  ‘Like a chisel.’ She heard herself say the words out loud. Trembling slightly, she pulled off her sweater and shirt and threw them into the bath then she scrabbled in the cupboard for the small first aid box she had seen there. The bleeding wouldn’t stop. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t have been stabbed in her dream and woken up with blood pouring down her arm. It had to be some kind of psychosomatic response. She stood there shivering for several more minutes, pressing tissues against the wound, trying to staunch the flow. Glancing in the mirror she saw herself, naked above the waist apart from her bra, her face white as a sheet and tear-streaked, blood oozing through the wet tissue as she pressed wad after wad against the gash. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. He must have nicked an artery. ‘Oh God!’ she heard herself whimper pathetically.

  If he had done that to her, what had he done to Catrin? He had stabbed her in the shoulder, she remembered now. She remembered the blood, Catrin’s agonised scream, her own intervention. She threw another handful of paper into the lavatory and reached for a towel. She had hurled herself into the fray in Catrin’s defence without a thought. She remembered how Catrin and Dafydd had turned to look at her when she had spoken. She had shouted something and they had heard her. Both of them had heard her.