Children of Clun Page 5

  Though only sixteen, Lady Joan’s confident and regal manner marked her as a person clearly used to being paid heed. The sparkle of her jewels – just enough, worn with just enough nonchalance – only added to the impression, showing how casually she regarded her magnificence.

  “Thank you, Sir Roland,” she said softly, rising in her place. “And thank you, Lady Margaret, for your kind reception. Though we’ve not met before, Lady Margaret, I think I may call you ‘cousin’! My grandmother was, you know, a FitzAlan, like yourself.” Margaret nodded, straightened her back and sniffed proudly. “I also know,” Joan continued, “that you have travelled . . . to be at our service . . . at the request of my mother, the Duchess of Clarence, and my brother the Earl of Somerset. It must seem a great distance for you . . . from your home in Herefordshire. I can assure you, I did try to tell my mother that you needn’t be inconvenienced so. What better shield, after all, can one have, than the great name of Beaufort?”

  She waved a hand blithely, as though brushing a strand of hair from someone’s cheek. “But you know how mothers are!”

  She paused, and into the centre of the pause, Sir Roland inserted a loud croak of a fart. Condescending brat, he was thinking. Bad enough I have to attend her in this God-forsaken hole! Now I have to listen to this prattling, self-indulgent muck? It’s too much! If she carries on in this tone, I won’t be responsible! He snatched up his mug and gulped the last of his ale. Obliviously, Joan carried on.

  “Nonetheless . . . my friends . . .” she gestured toward Sir Perceval and Marie, seated on her right, “. . .and I, thank you for your trouble and your journey. As, I’m sure, does my appointed personal guard, Sir Cyril Halftree.” She looked about expectantly, as did others in the hall. “Sir Cyril?” The silence stretched. “Sir Cyril?” There was, of course, no answer. Lady Joan pursed her lips. For an attendant knight to fail to be in attendance was highly irregular! The duty of guarding the aristocracy, after all, was more than a responsibility! It was a privilege! And one not to be taken lightly!

  “Perhaps he’s guarding the gate,” she finished lamely and, in mild befuddlement, she sat down, resolved that Sir Cyril would know the sharp edge of her tongue before the night was through.

  A brief, awkward silence followed, filled only with the eloquence of Sir Roland’s broad grin. How pleasing it was, to see the arrogant snippet in discomfort! Pleasing also to have the formal presentation finished so quickly. Who knows how long the girl might have rambled if things had gone her way? He must find this Sir Cyril himself, he decided, and thank him. He sat back in comfort and began to pick his teeth with his dagger. Suddenly, however, Mary Gordon was on her feet.

  “Forgive me, My Lord,” she said in Sir Roland’s direction. “I wonder if you would permit me the privilege of also expressing my gratitude.”

  Roland looked at her with open surprise. Though women might sometimes be invited to speak, they did not, he believed, ordinarily request to be heard at great tables. Obviously Scots women were subject to a different mode of training! He waved his permission then instantly began pounding his empty mug on the table, calling for a re-fill. This one, he thought, was no royal and he’d therefore have no trouble setting his knights the example of completely ignoring her. Unlike Lady Joan’s, however, Mary Gordon’s voice was bold and aggressive – not one that could be easily ignored.

  “My Lords!” she announced loudly. “I, too, would like to pay tribute to our host. My companions and I are, as you know, accidental visitors to Clun and are delighted beyond measure to find that, though this castle is rarely occupied, its hospitality is readily available to wanderers such as ourselves, who have travelled far from our home in Scotland to visit the West Country’s holy sites. It is, of course, well known that there are . . . elements . . . in our two countries who do not see eye to eye. . . ”

  “Hah!” Roland jeered, thumping the table with a fist and rolling his head as though having heard the greatest joke. He had a sudden urge to shout her down – to tear into her on the topic of female prattling! Or, better yet, on the topic of Scottish arrogance! Did she realise that hundreds of Scottish knights migrated to France each year, hoping for a chance to kill English soldiers? (A Scot rather than a Frenchman could well have inflicted the wound Brenton LeGros received at Bauge.) Lady Margaret, well aware of how devastatingly destructive her husband's temper could be, placed a restraining hand on Roland’s arm.

  “And yet,” Mary Gordon continued, fully aware of the tumult she had begun to unleash, “look what is happening here! Folk from Scotland and England – and even from France – sitting down at table together! Such civilised hospitality, Sir Roland and Lady Margaret!” She nodded a short commendation in their direction. “My compliments to you both.” She then gestured down the table to Lady Joan.

  “Lady Joan, if I may say – I hope that our . . . coincidental meeting here in Clun will extend to further talks. If it would please you to share some of your time, my companions and I would love to hear of the great court in London. Many of our countrymen have, after all, spent considerable time there – as ‘guests’ . . . guests of your uncle, the king.”

  The hall went very quiet. The sarcasm that flavoured Mary Gordon’s voice made this doubly dangerous ground since everyone knew that ‘guest of the king’ was a metaphor for prisoner. Men being held for ransom, most often. It would have been dangerous for anyone, let alone a woman – a Scots woman – a Scots woman virtually on her own in the wilds of the Welsh Marches! Nevertheless, she continued boldly.

  “James Stewart comes to mind!” The edge in her voice grew keener with each passing moment. “A man who would be king in Scotland . . . if he actually lived there! How long has he been a ‘guest’ of your uncle, I wonder, Lady Joan? It must be nigh on . . . sixteen years! Yes, I think it has been! From a boy of eleven! Quite long enough for most hosts to begin tiring of a guest, one would think! And yet . . . I come back to my original point . . . there is clearly no end to English hospitality!”

  Joan, taken aback by the challenge in Mary Gordon’s voice, had begun to flush with embarrassment and anger. Sir Perceval and Marie were casting meaning glances at one another and Sir Roland had sat to attention, wondering if the two young women might supply some amusement with a public argument. He, like everyone, knew the story of James Stewart. Really, it was no story at all any more. Stewart’s life in London was a protection from his own murderous relatives! He’d become a friend of King Henry’s – fought in France on the English side – against his own people. No one seriously expected him to return to Scotland.

  When Mary Gordon spoke again, however, all the challenge had gone out of her voice. She smiled, as though talking to a loving cousin. “Who can say, Lady Joan? Perhaps this . . . unexpected meeting . . . will give us an opportunity to do what little bit mere females may do. To improve relations between our countries?” She nodded again, somewhat speculatively, in the direction of Sir Roland, yielding the floor to him once again.

  Somewhat baffled on how to respond, he did the one thing that could never be seen as wrong. He called for a toast. “Stand, knights, and raise your cups with me. We drink to King Henry! Present king of England, soon to be king of France! Long may he reign.”

  Every man and woman in the hall leapt to their feet, and roared out the salute, “Long may he reign!” Even Maude and Branwen, in their darkened corner, leapt to their feet and called out the words. The only exceptions were the quietly observant Sir Perceval and his young wife, Marie. And Mary Gordon. Those three stood, and they sipped their wine, their eyes as clear as promises over the edges of their cups. But they didn’t speak the words.

  In the exuberance of the moment, that fact was lost on nearly everyone in the hall. But one set of alert eyes did take in the slight: one mind stored it away for further reference. That mind was in the head of the castle steward, Samuel Rowe.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, the massive clamour fled away, like water pouring from a well spout, slowly
diminishing as it echoed through the castle. It bounced off metre thick stone walls and funnelled down cavernous hallways, before finally making its way into the courtyard. Lazy Davey, freshening the straw in the stable, heard it and sooled to the startled horses. Out on the common, Myfanwy raised her head and nodded as it staggered weakly past her cart on its journey down to the little beehive huts of the village.

  Gwenith and Gwilym, seated on the bench outside their own bleakly quiet house, heard it thinly in the distance and “Ahh,” murmured Gwenith through her tears. “The great ones are in their cups! All very well for them. While my babies are lost in the forest!”

  Eustace and Rhodri were seated beside them on the ground, their backs to the wall of Gwilym’s house. The stories of Madeleine’s and Anwen’s disappearance and of the bold riding forth of the knights, Sirs Cyril and Angus, were the talk of the village, and Eustace and Rhodri had decided to linger near Gwenith and Gwilym, hoping, through gruff good cheer, to convince them that the tale would end well and soon.

  “Don’t you be worryin’ yerself so, Missus!” Eustace said. “Soon as new day comes, meself and Rhodri will lend our bows to the quest for them sweet girls.”

  “For certain!” added Rhodri. “And as sure as I can shoot the breath out o’ the nostril of a treetop squirrel at fifty yards, we’ll be bringin’ ‘em home, safe and sound!”

  Gwenith, however, was far beyond consolation. “The Cunnin’ Woman,” she whimpered. “She said there was fire comin’! What does that mean? An’ a prince dyin’! An’ a queen returns, she said! An’ a wounded one’, she said! Is either of you wounded? No! O’ course not! Oh, my poor babies!”

  “Oh pish, missus!” declared Eustace, with more bluster than assurance. “What’s ‘at ol’ hag gonna know ‘bout business in Clun? Them girls is just lost! They’s up a tree somewhere right now! To keep from the creatures, like! You’ll see. We’ll ‘ave ‘em back sooner ‘n’ whistle up a fart!” Youthful masculinity has a way of blinding boys to the real perils of the world.

  And so the day began to end. The sun, as it must in October, went down quickly and the moon peeped a golden edge over the castle ramparts, casting a pale light on the drab scattering of forest-bound huts. Family by family, the villagers went to their beds, leaving the night to the shadows.

  * * * *

  At a crossroad, a crooked and complicated mile and a half away, Sir Cyril Halftree and Sir Angus of Atholl, sat astride their mounts in the deepening darkness. The forest rose on both sides, as black and forbidding as old blood on a sheepskin.

  “Too bad we didn’t get an earlier start,” Sir Angus said softly, his eyes flicking nervously about.

  “Yes,” Sir Cyril answered. Their voices were so quiet that even the lice in their hair would have had to strain their ears to hear. “Likely have rescued them by now. Those lost girls. I daresay!”

  “Very like! Very like!” Sir Angus affirmed. The men had been riding along the forest track, chatting heedlessly about past exploits and about the ignominy of their current guard duties. Cyril in particular had been scathing about Lady Joan’s indulgent brother.

  “Duke or no Duke,” he’d declared. “The man’s taken leave of his wits, allowing that girl to gad about the countryside, acting the tourist. And that useless, poncified Frenchie, Sir Perceval! He’s an embarrassment to the entire knightly class! Not to mention the de Coucy name! Not that I have any use for Frenchies at the best of times. They say their king’s mad, you know. But he’s dumped his own son in favour of our King Henry. So, mad or not, you have to give him credit for that!” He spat on the ground, before continuing. “You know, that Perceval – he’s spent the whole of the journey telling lies and singing songs. ‘Entertaining the ladies’ he calls it. And them giggling like a pair of sparrows! I tell you what. The sooner that mad French king croaks and Henry inherits it all . . . the sooner we can let them French women know what real men are about! Better off, we’ll all be.”

  As a loyal Scot, Angus had blanched at the mention of King Henry’s seemingly imminent final victory in France. He’d not been one to take up arms against the English but, like most of his countrymen, he hoped that the French bastion would endure. This was not, however, the time or the place to take up that argument.

  “I wonder if there’s any point in going into the forest now,” he said, hoping Cyril’s bluster would not demand anything so blatantly foolish.

  “Ahh,” Sir Cyril said, pushing a gnarled finger under the leather jerkin at his neck and wishing he could get at the nervous sweat that ran down his body beneath it. “Like to, of course. Very much like to. Rescue those girls. The horses, though.”

  “Ah! The horses!” murmured Sir Angus. “To be sure.” The men had left their own chargers at the castle, allowing them much needed rest. The huge animals were not bred for the long road, but rather for the short burst and the sudden impact that battle afforded. The horses they now rode were borrowed from the castle stable. “Be irresponsible to risk them, I suppose.”

  Both men had become painfully aware that the moment their words left their lips, the night gobbled them up. Silence slithered through their ears and into their brains. Only the sound of breathing – their own and that of their horses - remained.

  “Never met a damsel that was worth the safety of a good horse,” said Sir Cyril. “Nor even a nag like this one.”

  * * * *

  Deep, deep in the forest, far from the cross-roads where the knights’ debate continued, a small fire crackled and spat. It managed to consume only a tiny circle of darkness and barely impacted at all on the fears of Madeleine and Anwen. Captives to the two desperate young outlaws, they sat, huddled and hungry, on the ground. Wild Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm sat opposite them, whispering to one another like a pair of demented barn owls whose barn has been invaded by hummingbirds.

  Suddenly, Wild Jack rose and began to circumnavigate the little fire. He moved slowly, like a person creeping up on a sleeping fish. But the girls were not fish. And they were not asleep. As he approached, Madeleine’s little fist closed about a stone – a little pigeon egg of a stone, that seemed to nestle nicely under her knuckles. She saw his pale face tumble into darkness as he passed the fire. The hair on her neck prickled up and stood nearly on end. He bent over her. She heard him speak. He said, “Youse wanna know what I want?”

  Suspecting that she already knew, but certain that she didn’t want to hear it said, she launched her little rock-laden fist with all her tiny might. It rose like a Roman candle that whooshes into the sky before exploding into a shower of light. In this case, the shower of light occurred inside the head of Wild Jack Sorespot when the fist exploded against his chin.

  If the sight could have been seen in slow motion, it would have been seen that Jack’s heels rose fractionally off the ground – that his arms flew up as though he was shaking the dust out of an old blanket – that his head tilted back, as though he was looking for a bird that had just pooped on him. He toppled onto his back, his arms flung wide, his knees pointing up into the tree’s branches.

  Roger Ringworm immediately lurched to his friend’s aid, bending over him to peer into his face. He looked, shook his head, and looked again. “Lordy, Jack!” he exclaimed.

  “Huh?” groaned Jack.

  “That little girl spun you right over!” He gazed across at the girls in genuine astonishment.

  * * * *

  Some distance away -- not so far as the crow flies, but quite a distance as a man or a wolf might walk – Brenton LeGros sat in the fork of large oak, looking down into the darkness below. Looking back at him from the raven-black floor of the forest were three pairs of yellow pitiless eyes.

  “Humph,” he said with a weary sigh before reaching into his tunic for the packet of berries he’d picked. He leaned back and began to pop them, one by one, into his mouth.

  Chapter 6 – Night Sounds

  The moon rose slowly, like an aged teacher with only a dim, resentful class to attend. It pe
ered thinly down through the tree’s canopy, to Brenton’s perch, and made a half-hearted effort to show him the forms of the three wolves on the forest floor below. Brenton wished he’d had the foresight to bring his long-bow. But he’d only intended to skirt the forest’s edge, looking for late blackberries – not to go where danger lay. If it hadn’t been for the distant, frightened cries that had drawn him too far into the woods – he would be home now, enjoying a warm bowl of broth.

  Those cries, though! A girl, it had sounded like! Perhaps two girls! Brenton stroked the fresh scar on his side. The cries had instantly revived images of that terrible day at Bauge. A bloody slaughter of a day, which Brenton remembered only in part – but even those truncated memories were far too vivid. It too had ended with the cries of women.

  As a foot soldier, he’d been mustered into a group led by the Duke of Clarence, the king’s brother. A hastily organized half army against a force three times their size. Hundreds of English had fallen, including the Duke – including himself. The Duke was killed but Brenton, by the grace of God, had lived. Unaccountably, when the French women who scoured the battlefield found him, they had not finished the job by cutting his throat. On the contrary, they’d given him water and stanched his wound so that, when the remainder of the army arrived, Brenton was able to join them in their retreat to Normandy and then to England.

  The women, he suspected, had acted, not because he was English or French or noble or common, but simply because they’d had a surfeit of killing. Since his return he’d shunned the brash and aggressive company of men, lingering instead within sound of the softer voices of women. He would not, he promised himself, ever be made to fight again. Yet the wailing of women would still sometimes disrupt Brenton’s dreams.

  He settled in for a long night’s wait while, below, the wolves snuffled and grizzled and howled at the moon’s pale light.

  * * * *

  Deep into the forest, the howls travelled, rolling and leaping in all directions, passing at one stage through a glade where four figures huddled around a dying fire. The sound was gone in an instant but left the young ones tense and aching, like tongues that have been burnt by sizzling sausages.