‘It wouldn’t be him.’
‘Why not? He and she do not get on any more. Sometimes I think he actually hates her. Where is he? He has been away since they had that terrible quarrel. I assumed he had gone back to Glyndŵr’s service, but you say that is all over and everyone has fled. She doesn’t know where he is. She thought he was at Harlech with you.’ She fell silent, then she went on, ‘Will Father give you the money to pay the fine and come into the king’s peace, Edmund?’
‘I think he will. But Richard mustn’t know.’
She gave a small nod. ‘Nor Elizabeth. She is still as unpleasant as ever, I see. Why on earth did he marry her?’
‘She brought land with her. Father had ambitions.’ Edmund gave a wry smile. ‘You and I are a complete failure in that respect.’
Joan gave a little snort.
Edmund sighed. ‘Poor Cat. She must be so frightened.’
‘You can do something, can’t you?’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Of course I will. I am not going to let her rot there and I am not going to let them drag her off to the assize.’
He rode back to Sleeper’s Castle at first light while the rest of the household was still asleep. He needed to see for himself what had happened there. The house was empty, the doors unlocked. He went in and looked round. All the fires were out. There was no sign of Betsi or Peter. He walked through the cold house slowly, room by room. It was undamaged apart from the back door. No one appeared to have been in since Joan had left. The place already felt damp and uncared for. He walked through every room downstairs, aware that he was moving as silently as possible. Dafydd’s study was as Joan described it. His desk was empty, his candlesticks assembled on a small table, the candles burned down into pools of cold beeswax, his coffer pushed back against the wall. There were no papers or books. It was as if when Dafydd left he had taken everything he still possessed.
Edmund pulled out the coffer and searched for the loose flag. It was there, easy to spot as it stood proud of its neighbours. The space under it was empty, as he had known it would be. He left the coffer where it was and walked back into Catrin’s parlour. That too looked bleak and uncared for. When he reached the bottom of the stone staircase, he stood looking up, listening. He could not see round the bend in the stairs where it curved behind the chimneystack. He put his foot on the bottom step and began to climb. Halfway up he stopped. Some sixth sense told him there was someone up there. He put his hand to his belt and pulled out his dagger, then he went on up. He went into the room on his left first. It was Dafydd’s bedchamber. Small, it was furnished with an oak bed and two large coffers. One or two garments still hung from the pegs on the wall, but otherwise the room was empty. He walked across the floor, hearing the creak of boards beneath his feet as he did so. He lifted the lid on one of the coffers. It contained bedcovers and blankets. When he pulled them out they gave off a smell of dust. The other coffer was all but empty. A few old clothes, two spare sets of braies, a torn shirt, otherwise nothing.
He turned and went into Catrin’s bedroom. There were signs of her everywhere. The bedclothes pulled from the bed and still trailing across the floor, her shoes tossed to one side, her gowns hanging from their pegs, her coffer, the lid open, full of shifts and girdles. He took out one of her shifts and buried his face in it longingly. Her harp stood on a low bench by the wall. Her combs lay on the table near the window with her mirror and a dish of trinkets. He stared round. The soldiers had touched nothing. In spite of himself, he was impressed.
As he stood looking out of the window he sensed that someone was standing behind him. He tensed, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his dagger, then he spun round. It was Peter. His eyes widened and he turned to flee, but Edmund lunged forward and caught him by the collar. ‘Stand still! I won’t hurt you,’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Everyone else has gone,’ Peter cried. ‘Even Betsi. I didn’t know where to go. I stayed to feed the hens.’ A tear rolled down his face. ‘I heard you and I ran up here to hide. I didn’t do no harm, I swear.’
Edmund released him. ‘Of course you didn’t. That was the right thing to do, to feed the hens and keep an eye on the place.’ He scrutinised the young man’s face. ‘You know who I am, don’t you? I am Dame Joan’s brother. I was here for a while when I was ill and you’ve often seen me visit.’
Peter nodded.
‘Do you know where Master Dafydd is?’
The boy shook his head.
‘Did you not go with him last time he left?’
Peter shook his head again.
‘And Mistress Catrin?’
His eyes grew even larger. ‘They carried her away on the back of a horse. Her hands were tied.’ Another tear followed the first.
‘And we have to rescue her.’ Edmund swallowed the wave of impotent rage that swept over him. He stared round helplessly. The least he could do here was save Catrin’s possessions so they would be there for her once he had thought of a way of getting her out of Hay Castle. ‘There are things I need.’ He looked at the young man thoughtfully. ‘Is there a cart or a trap here?’
‘The ox-cart is in the barn.’
‘And the ox?’
‘In the back field.’
‘Can you drive it?’
The young man nodded.
Edmund gave a grim smile. ‘Then let us collect Mistress Catrin’s belongings and put them in a coffer and load them onto the cart, plus anything else you can think of that might be useful. And we will put the hens in a coop and take them with us and you shall drive the cart to my father’s farm where you will find a place at our hearth until Master Dafydd and Mistress Catrin come home. Does that sound good to you?’
The young man wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘It’s good.’
Edmund sent him to find something to lever the padlock off Catrin’s locked chest, then while he went out to organise the ox-cart he carefully packed up her harp and a selection of her clothes. He forced open the second coffer and took out all her writing materials, her pens and the rolled poems, and her three precious books. He held the book he himself had given her for a moment, dropped a quick kiss on its cover then, wrapping them in a shawl he placed them in the larger chest with her clothes and shoes. Closing it, he tied it shut with a cord.
‘And is there anything special of Master Dafydd’s we should take to keep it safe for him for when he returns?’ Edmund asked when they had piled everything they could save onto the cart.
He watched Peter’s face. It was completely without guile as he replied. ‘Master Dafydd hid things in the Dreamer’s Cave,’ he said. He met Edmund’s eyes trustingly. ‘He didn’t know I saw him going in there.’
‘Show me.’ Edmund tried not to betray the wave of optimistic excitement which swept over him. He followed Peter out of the house and through the garden. In the cave nothing had been touched as far as he could see. He could smell the bat droppings and see the dusty bracken piled against the back wall. He stopped, unable to see in the darkness after the sunlight outside. Peter made his way surefootedly to the back and felt his way along the cave wall. There, high up in the fissured rock, was a hole, invisible in the darkness and probably invisible even in candlelight. Peter pulled himself up onto the log which had been left there and reached up on his toes. After a moment’s scrabbling Edmund heard the drag of something heavy and the chink of metal. He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks to the Blessed Virgin as the boy pulled down one and then another heavy bag. He jumped down from the log and looked at Edmund expectantly, his face barely visible in the twilight which seeped in from the fern-covered entrance. Edmund smiled at him. ‘You have done well. Master Dafydd will be so pleased we have rescued these. Now run and harness the ox and we will go together. My horse is in the paddock at the back.’
One bag was full of coin; the other contained four of Dafydd’s most precious small books, their pages gilded and illuminated, wrapped in soft leather oiled
to ward off the damp.
When they left the house their menagerie had been increased by three: the two short-legged cattle dogs which followed Peter unquestioningly, and the house pig which squealed frantically as it was lifted into the cart. The sheep they left behind. They would wander on the hill and join another flock. The barn cats would look after themselves.
Edmund was pretty sure, as he rode behind the cart, that Peter knew as well as he did that it was unlikely they would ever return.
Neither of them saw the woman watching from the house doorway as the ox slowly plodded down the track.
Andy stared after them. She hadn’t wanted to see Edmund and the farm hand. She had wanted to be with Catrin. To find herself drifting alone round the deserted house was bleak and frustrating. She turned into the kitchen and stared round. One of the little brindled cats peered in at the doorway. She made an involuntary movement towards it and it fled.
Slowly she climbed the stairs and looked round. Inexplicably, night seemed to have come between one moment and the next. How much time had passed? She had no way of knowing, save that the wind which whistled through the rooms seemed to be colder than before. It smelt of snow. There was someone else there now, in Catrin’s room. Her room. She tiptoed along the short passage and peered in through the doorway. Catrin’s father was standing there, looking round. Andy stepped back slightly into the shadows, watching as he walked across to Catrin’s chest and threw back the lid. It was empty, the black iron hasp hanging off. He stood staring down into it for several seconds then he turned away. Andy stepped hastily backwards out of sight. She followed him towards his own bedchamber, into which he glanced perfunctorily from the doorway before turning back to the staircase.
His next port of call was the cave. He walked across the garden without looking left or right. She was correct about the change of season. The leaves had fallen from the trees and the garden was bleak and cold. So, what had happened to Cat? She stopped in her tracks. She wanted to be with her, to know how she was, but still she felt compelled to follow Dafydd as he ducked into the cave.
His howl of fury several minutes later told it all. His hiding place was empty. She heard him crashing around inside the cave and imagined him searching for other fissures in the wall in case he had made a mistake about where he had left his precious bags, searching the floor beneath the dried leaves and bracken in case they had fallen to the ground. It was a long time before he emerged. His face was white with shock and anger. He stood still outside the cave entrance and looked round. It seemed to dawn on him at last that the place was deserted. The only animal was the horse he had ridden into the paddock and left hitched to the fence. The hens had gone and the dogs; there was no sound from the pigsty or ox pen.
Watching, Andy wondered where he had been all this time. His clothes were mud-spattered, the roll on the back of his saddle appeared to be the only luggage he had with him. Not once had he called out for Catrin or Joan. He must have known they weren’t there.
He was walking back towards the horse now, still looking round. With a sigh he unsaddled the old cob, took the roll off, unhitched a saddlebag, then he slipped off the bridle and turned the animal loose in the paddock where it trotted round, calling in vain for its former companions.
He found the flint and tinder in the kitchen without any trouble and lit the fire in the hearth before opening the door to the pantry. He found himself enough food to throw in the pot and discovered a jar of mead on a top shelf in the stillroom. He stood contemplating Catrin’s store of herbs and medicaments then pushed them aside violently, sweeping his arm along the shelf, knocking them to the floor before turning away and slamming the door shut behind him. He took a long swig of mead and smacked his lips, then he pulled up a stool to sit in front of the fire while his food heated.
The wind outside was rising. The sound of the trees thrashing and the roar of water in the brook hid the sound of the approaching men. Andy watched as the kitchen door was pushed open and the first soldier stepped in. He had a drawn sword in his hand.
29
Andy awoke all at once. She was in her bedroom, Cat’s bedroom, and it was dark outside. She lay still, not daring to move, listening. The small bedside lamp was on and the room was full of shadows. She was alone. She sat up slowly and swung her legs to the floor, sitting still for several moments as she tried to gather her wits. She glanced at her wristwatch. It was ten past two. She screwed up her eyes and rubbed them. She was so tired she couldn’t get a grip on her whirling thoughts. Meryn had been with her. Surely he wouldn’t have left her alone in the middle of the night. Then she remembered. Meryn and Sian were downstairs. She was safe. She sniffed. She could smell the pungent scent of rosemary. She brought her fingers to her nose. It was still there on her skin.
So what had she been dreaming about? She tried to remember. Catrin, in the castle? No. No, she had been dreaming about Edmund. He had come back here to try and find the money. He wanted Dafydd’s money. Why? Of course, to pay his fine and come into the king’s peace. That would mean he was forgiven for his part in the rebellion. Life could go back to normal. Except that his Catrin was gone.
She stood up and went over to the window, pushing it open and leaning on the sill to look out through the old stone mullions. The brook was in spate, so it had been raining up on the mountain. Water was pouring over the rocks and crashing down into the pool below. She heard the owl hoot. The sound sent goose pimples up her arms. There was a movement below in the garden. She caught her breath nervously, then she saw who it was and smiled, reassured. Meryn was walking slowly up and down the terrace in the dark, the light from the kitchen throwing his long shadow out across the grass. She saw the ridiculous shape of a cat, elongated, erect tail monstrously long, approaching him. He bent and picked it up and momentarily their shapes merged into one as he crooned lovingly into Pepper’s ear. She smiled affectionately. How could she be afraid of anything when she had good friends like Meryn and Pepper, like Sian and Bryn. But she was afraid. The past like a huge black veil hung over her, threatening her, overshadowing her with its secrets.
Sitting on the bed she reached for the history of Glyndŵr which she had left on the table. She opened it and slowly turned the pages. The last chapter was headed ‘The End of the Dream and the Birth of a Myth’. After the capture of Harlech, Owain’s wife and family had been dragged away to the Tower, nearly a full decade after the first wonderful excitement of the declaration at Glyndyfrdwy. Owain himself and Maredudd, their only surviving son still free, had escaped to fight on. The rebellion trickled on for another year, then after what turned out to be his final defeat on the Shropshire borders, where three of his last and most staunch supporters were captured and executed, Owain Glyndŵr slipped away into the mountains for the last time and disappeared from history.
Andy put down the book, her eyes full of tears. She had wanted to know what happened in the end, but to read it now that she was involved was just too much. All the dreams, all the plans for a glorious independent Wales had collapsed like a house of cards. How could it have all come to an end so quickly, so completely? She lay back against the pillows for several minutes, her eyes closed.
She ought to get up and go downstairs to find her notebook. She must not stop making her notes. Somehow she had to stand back and maintain some kind of perspective on this incredible story. But it was so hard.
Taking a deep breath she opened her eyes and sat up.
And let out a scream. Dafydd, dripping with blood, his hair matted on his head, his clothes torn and mangled, was standing in the middle of the room watching her.
Meryn was outside on the back lawn, looking up at the stars, lulled by the sound of the water. He had heard the owl and smiled as Pepper nestled closer to his neck as though aware that the night was his domain, but content to stay and cuddle like a housecat for a few minutes more. At the sound of the scream from upstairs Pepper leapt from Meryn’s shoulder, leaving a deep scratch across his neck. He fled into the dark
ness as Meryn ran back towards the house.
He took the stairs two at a time.
Dafydd was standing on the landing.
Meryn stopped in his tracks, panting. He eyed the apparition cautiously. ‘So, my friend. You look as though you’ve been in the wars,’ he said after a moment. The figure was standing between him and Andy’s bedroom. He took a step forward. ‘Andy? Are you all right?’ he called.
There was no answer.
‘Andy?’ He took another step.
Dafydd was looking straight through him, his expression vacant, his eyes black holes in his face.
‘Andy? I need you to answer me,’ Meryn called again.
There was no response. He moved forward again, closer to the figure. He could sense nothing from it but an intense cold. ‘Are you a God-fearing man, Dafydd ap Hywell?’ he demanded quietly.
He thought the remnant of the man who had once been Dafydd heard him, but the figure made no reaction.
‘Did you meet your end here, in this house?’ Meryn pressed. He kept his voice even. ‘Did you die here unshriven?’
He sensed it now, anger and pain and terror, and somewhere there behind the final act of violence which clung to him like a bloody garment, a deep regret, but the figure was fading. ‘I am sure God will forgive your sins, my friend,’ Meryn said quietly. ‘And whatever happened in this house, whatever violence you suffered here, whatever pain you caused your daughter, it is time to forgive yourself and move on.’ He stepped forward into the intensity of cold which clung round the shadow. No more than a shadow now. Then it was gone.
He drew in a deep slow breath. He might have gone for the time being, but he was under no illusion that the problem that was Dafydd ap Hywell ap Gruffydd was solved.
Meryn brushed his shoulders as if to remove a clinging spider’s web and hurried into Andy’s room. She was lying crouched on the bed, her eyes closed, her fists clenched on the blanket she had pulled over herself.
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