 
Children of Clun

Robert Nicholls

Copyright 2018 by Robert Nicholls

Smashwords Edition

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### Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Wishes

Chapter 2 – Left Behind

Chapter 3 – Taking Action

Chapter 4 – Forest and Hall

Chapter 5 – Into the Darkness

Chapter 6 - Night Sounds

Chapter 7 – What the Wind Discovered

Chapter 8 – Into the Forest

Chapter 9 – Locked In

Chapter 10 – The Scottish Connection

Chapter 11 – Under Attack

Chapter 12 – Rescue

Chapter 13 – Mary Gordon

Chapter 14 – Sir Roland's Decisions

Chapter 15 – Tom the Sharpener

Chapter 16 – Sir Cyril's Gaff

Chapter 17 - Owain Glyndwr

Chapter 18 – Brother Bones

Chapter 19 – Susan the Spy

Chapter 20 – Roland's Challenge

Chapter 21 – Maude Meets the Nobility

Chapter 22 – Madeleine and Anwen at Large

Chapter 23 – Homecoming

Chapter 24 – Maude's New Position

Chapter 25 – Unexpected Shelter

Chapter 26 – Roland Prepared

Chapter 27 – Revelations

Chapter 28 – The Children of Owain

Chapter 29 – The Importance of Sisters

Chapter 30 – October 31

Chapter 31 – The Night is Young

Chapter 32 – Struggles Within

Chapter 33 – Struggles Without

Chapter 34 – Escapes: Successful and Unsuccessful

Chapter 35 – Negotiations

Chapter 36 – Crossed by Fate

Chapter 37 – Myfanwy

Chapter 38 – Madeleine, Marie and Lady Joan

Chapter 39 – Roger, Joan and Samuel Rowe

Chapter 40 – All Saints' Day

Chapter 41 – Answers

About the History

Children of Clun - a story of the fall of Clun Castle.

Chapter 1 – Wishes

Under a tree, beside a stream, not too far inside the forest, Roger Ringworm and Wild Jack Sorespot sat, shivering, at day's end. Though it was late summer, the dew was heavy and their ancient woollen rags were little more than threads, holding together an array of holes. Roger prodded their pile of cold sticks.

"What's to eat?"

"Nuthin' yet," said Jack.

Both knew they'd have to wait for dark. In daylight, the smoke might be seen and Gwilym, the reeve of nearby Clun, would be onto them in a twinkling. Having chosen to live outside the towns and villages, they were free of all constraints, but freedom comes at a cost.

"I'd give me las' tooth for a bit o' meat right now," said Roger.

"Ba-a-ah," said Jack.

Three of Jack's and Roger's eyes met. The fourth one – Roger's left – always squinted off in a different direction – nearly as bad an omen as meeting someone with red hair. Which made them a particularly ominous pair, because Jack's hair was as red as a newly washed carrot! Together they managed a conspiratorial laugh, patting their stomachs in anticipation. A haunch of the goat they were waiting to steal would be lovely, roasting over a midnight fire.

* * *

At the self-same moment, the reeve himself was sharpening his temper, looming like a hillside over his eldest daughter, Madeleine. Sixteen and still unwed.

"More'n what?" He put his fists on his hips and planted his feet. This had better be good. "More'n an 'usband? More'n a family o' your own? More'n a decent meal at day's end? What do ye mean, 'more'?"

"No, not 'more'!" Madeleine's voice cracked, almost broke, but she refused to look away. It had taken her all day to work up to this. "I didn' mean 'more'! I meant . . . 'else'! Something 'else'!"

He cocked his head in mock sympathy.

"Oooh, 'else' is it! And what 'else' is it yer ladyship'd like provided then?"

She knuckled away at one eye, pushing back a tear.

"Ye don't even care, do ye? So long as everythin' 'appens like it always has! So long as nothin' has to change! 'Cause that'd never do, would it!"

"Change to what, Madeleine?" His tone was sickle sharp now. "That's what I'm askin' ye! De ye know yerself what it is ye want? If ye do, tell me! Go on! Tell me!"

And she couldn't: Some kind of sense of what she was for in the world; what the world itself was for! A hint that there'd be a life - a real Madeleine life - for her, somewhere, sometime! It hardly made sense, even to her!

"No?" he snapped. "So I'm standin' 'ere, like a flea on a sow's ear, wastin' me valu'ble time again am I? Listenin' to the endless moanin' of a sour little girl wi' ambitions above 'er station? Well it's e-bloody-nuff, Madeleine! Ye hear? I'm yer father! An' what I'm wishin' is, ye'd come to appreciate the small mercies available to ye! One of which is an honest an' decent 'usband, to get you into motherhood 'n' on the proper road! Get it?"

"No!" she cried. "I don't get it! I'll never get it! An' I'll never be tied to some snot-nosed country shite who knows nothin' but the shovel! I'd rather die!"

She was aware that she was screeching but what could she do? The force required to get so outrageous a statement out was way beyond the volume of reason.

Gwilym clamped his head between his big hands. For a moment she thought he might take her at her word and kill her, the shortness of his temper and the quickness of his hands being legendary in Clun. When Gwilym falls quiet, she'd more than once heard people say, shut your mouth and move away. But Madeleine had no choice. He had to be told. She had to be heard.

"What if me whole life passes 'ere?"

She had no real arguments of course. Arguments were for educated people. But she had plenty of questions; huge and crippling questions that burned her like boils on an already shattered limb.

"What if it all passes 'ere, in this village? Nothin' we do matters to anyone, anywhere! We live, we 'ave babies, we die an' that's all there is! I hate this place! I hate this family! I hate you! I wish I truly was dead!"

Ahh! She had never before pushed so far. But then, she'd never been so desperate, either. So let things fall as they may.

* * * *

The 'here' that she was talking about was the town of Clun. Madeleine herself couldn't have described very well where Clun was – in the Welsh Marches, she'd have said – beside the river – next to the castle. In the middle of the forest. The town of Ludlow was somewhere nearby – and Bishop's Castle – and Much Wenlock. But she'd never been to any of them. London – the great and fabulous city of London where his royal majesty King Henry the Fifth of England lived – was so far away, even the moon was closer. At least the moon could be seen from Clun.

And what was it like? In the year of our Lord 1421, Clun was a place occupied almost solely by farming folk – peasants – villeins – like Madeleine's family. People whose lives were devoted to, and used up in, the service of nobler classes. People whose lives had always been (so long as anyone could remember) as indistinguishable and undistinguished as spit in a thunderstorm. A sixteen-year old girl from Clun was like an ant on an acorn on a twig at the end of a long, long, branch. She was like a drop of water on the dry side of a hill, with all the streams flowing away in some other direction.

* * * *

Madeleine didn't get killed. But her father did turn his back, spluttering with rage, banging through the door into the house.

"Why did ye curse me wi' daughters?" he demanded of his wife. "Were it your plan to make me miserable?"

Gwenith had heard the complaint too often to offer an answer and Gwilym had made it too often to expect one. Sixteen years on the same argument – begun the day Madeleine was born. It had become so familiar it was almost like a fourth child – the brother their three girls never had. It sat at table with them, woke them in the night and demanded to be picked up at the slightest provocation.

"I'll 'ave an end to this today!" he ranted as he stormed past. "Right here, right now!"

Gwenith wagged her head, sadly doubtful, and toed an unburnt faggot into the fire. She'd heard those words before as well. Many times.

When he crashed back through the room, he was herding the twins before him. Maude and Anwen, at fifteen years – one year younger than Madeleine – were also eligible for marriage, but they couldn't be considered until Madeleine was sorted. So they'd escaped that pressure. But they wouldn't escape the wrath that roiled in his head this day.

Outside, he shook the two girls as though shaking the fleas off a pair of mutts and stood them shoulder to shoulder. For twins, they were oddly unalike. In fact, all three girls were strangely mismatched. Madeleine, though a year older, was half a head shorter than her sisters. Her hair was black, heavy and kinked, like the fleece off a dark lamb, while Anwen's was blond and fly-away and Maude's was red, the unlucky colour, worn in concealing ropy strands across her face.

Their natures were also deeply contrasting though, for differing reasons, all three seemed poor fits in the larger family of the town. Madeleine, people said, was too much like her father; too angry, too disdainful, too discontented – tolerable enough traits in a man but useless in a girl. Pressuring her on any subject at all was like scratching at a scab - the time was never right.

Maude, in total contrast to Madeleine, was shy and reticent - so timid that she asked the goat's permission before milking it. And worse, her alarmingly red hair marked her as a harbinger of bad luck – sufficient on some days, if met early in the morning, to send grown men straight back home to bed. No one was surprised when she woke the neighbours with haunted cries or spoke aloud to herself in the fields. One of the marked ones, people whispered, that God sometimes sends for reasons of his own. Best avoided.

And different yet again, was Anwen. Joyous and fearless enough to happily skinny-dip in the river, leaving her sisters on the bank to guard her clothes and shoo away the peepers – Gwilym could have married her off in a minute to any of a dozen goggle-eyed, smitten boys, if only their parents would permit it. But, "She'll never be one to settle!" parents warned their sons. "Get tangled wi' that one an' ye'll live to regret it!"

In the past year, no wishing stone in the village had escaped being thrown over Gwilym's shoulder. Please let my daughters find their places in the world! Help Maddie see her way to . . . just understanding . . . accepting . . . the way the world is! Let Maude be. . . he didn't know what. Less queer? More useful? And Anwen! Please, God! Let her learn to take something, anything, seriously!

With all three ranged before him, he waved a rod-like finger in their faces.

* * * *

"Not a peep out o' yez!" His voice had fallen to a dangerous level. "Not a peep! 'Cause I'm this close to washin' me 'ands o' the lot o' youse! Understand? An' I'm about to tell yez the God's own truth . . . which is that life is work! Understand? For the likes o' you an' me an' your mother an' everyone else 'ere in Clun, life is work! An' duty! That's it! That's the lot! An' one o' your duties - just one of 'em, mind - is to marry exactly who I say, exactly when I say! To 'ave ungrateful little sprogs, just like yourselves, an' to work for your 'usbands an' your families and the Lords o' Clun, whoever they happen to be! That's the world as it is! That's the world as it's always been, all the way back to when Eve was nowt but a rib in Adam's chest!" He paused for sarcastic emphasis, leaning close to Madeleine's face. "Is there any part o' that that's not clear as rubies in yer 'eads?"

Anwen shook her head vigorously, eyes wide with 'I-would-never-think-to-question-you!' innocence. Maude's head tilted thoughtfully, her forehead wrinkled and she said, in her enigmatic way, "Some'at's comin', though!" Madeleine, his principle target, stood rigid as a fencepost, refusing even to acknowledge the question. If she couldn't have answers, neither could he. None of the responses satisfied Gwilym.

"Get yourselves outta me sight!" he stormed. "Or I'll not be responsible! To bed wi' the lot o' youse!"

And so, like Jack and Roger not so far away, the three went to their beds without a meal in their bellies.

Working a mash for a new brew, their mother Gwenith watched them go. Wide and round, she was, in her own right, a woman of significance, renowned for the richness of her ale and the generosity of her house. Pitied too, though, by many, for the curse of children that would have driven Saint Milburga herself into despair.

You are so unaware, she was thinking, of your luck. To have a home, with a fire and two almost distinct rooms!

The front part – the part with the fire pit – even had a little plank table around which folks from the town regularly gathered to drink and argue life's great matters. Occasionally travelers from the high road, drawn by the ale stake at the door, came in to slap copper pennies onto the table and toss stories of the grand world into the air. To grow in such a home should be a blessing!

It was exactly those tales though, heard from behind the blanket partition, which had stirred Madeleine. Beyond the forest, there were princes and magicians and exotic foods and songs. In Clun there was nothing. Just a mighty reeve who, despite his reputation for work and honesty, remained a fearfully ignorant man. One day, she was thinking as she went; one day!

Gwenith watched their passage and said nothing. In her eyes, Gwilym was master of the house. In fact, as reeve, he was pretty much master of the town. Who organised the workers for the lord's land? Who kept tally of the produce – what could be kept and what must be handed over? That was Gwilym. He was a man for whom assessments and decisions were second nature and she trusted his judgment. A good man. Intractable, of course. One who knew no other way but his own. But still, a good man.

Her one wish was that he might one day see more deeply into the health and strength of their girls. Appreciate their . . . uniqueness. Believe that, when the need arose, their characters would suffice. After all, there'd been a time when he'd seen and loved all that in herself.

* * * *

In the sleeping room the girls lay down on their straw pallets. The gloom of it matched Madeleine's mood perfectly. If her soul were a building, she felt, it would be just like this – cramped and dark, with a beaten earth floor, wattle and daub walls and the rank odour of animals. She so wanted it to be a soaring place, like the Great Hall of the castle or the sunlit glory of the old stone church.

It was only moments before Anwen reached out to her. "Do you really hate us, Maddie?" Following up with a series of sniffles and hiccups. "Are we really so bad?"

Madeleine gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. If she refused to see or hear, perhaps she'd wake in a different, better place. Maude, for her part, having reason of her own to know how confused and frightened people could be, was following an altogether different line of thought.

"Dunno what," she murmured. "But somethin's comin'. Somethin's changin'."

* * * *

Maude and Anwen drifted gradually off to sleep. Madeleine waited, refusing to give in.

All the family slept in this room – in the winter, with the goat and the pig and a couple of sheep for extra warmth. But even though it was far into October, this was still, for one glorious day at a time, summer. The goat and the pig were tied up outside and the sheep had been left to graze on the common.

Her father, she knew, would drown his anger in ale for awhile longer, then he and Gwenith would come in and exhaustion would take them. And that was when she'd slip away into the warm solitude of the night – down to the river. The Clun River wasn't terribly deep or wide, but there were trout in it. And grayling. Fish that could swim, if they chose, to bigger and bigger waters until they reached the sea. And what a feeling that must be!

But it wasn't the river that called. It was the little stone bridge. There was an old saying that anyone who crossed the bridge at Clun would come back a wiser person. Madeleine had taken to crossing it at every opportunity, hoping to be rewarded with some understanding of the hopelessness that had taken root in her chest. This night, however, Gwilym's anger outlasted her determination. She fell into a dream in which both bridge and river had fallen mute.

But the dream was only that and the bridge wasn't silent. It was simply preoccupied with a different sister. Because this October night it was busy whispering to Maude, a vision of a little cart, drawn by a pony, click clacking across from the direction of Wales. Coming for her who – most unusually, without her sisters – was standing, alone, on the Clun side.

'Changes,' the bridge repeated over and over. 'Changes.'

At first it frightened her and she cried out, a sharp edge of panic nudging her half awake. Gwenith reached out: Hush Maudie, it's only a dream. A pair of dogs on the common began to bark and a pair of wild boys, sniffing after a lamb, lost their nerve and slunk away. And then, a warm, soothing hand touched Maude's mind. The panic subsided and she settled back into a soupy, dreamless, nourishing sleep.

Chapter 2 – Left Behind

By habit, particularly in harvest season, Gwilym, Gwenith and the sun all rose together. The girls would linger, whispering secrets until Gwenith hauled away the woollen covers and ordered them upright. Then, ordinarily, like people all over the town, they'd relieve themselves on a midden at the back of the house, take up a few cold oatcakes, gargle down a mug of water and tramp out to their work in the fields. How else to ensure there'd be food to last through the winter?

This October morning, however, had Gwenith staying in, singing softly over her new mash. And it had Gwilym tramping out, grumbling, to see Samuel Rowe, the castle steward, about provisioning for visitors. There would be an argument there. And he wasn't yet finished the one with his difficult daughters.

"Maude, ye'll be comin' wi' me, for messagin' purposes. And ye'll not be talkin', understand? I've trouble enough keepin' Mister Rowe's feet on the ground wi'out worryin' over your mental ramblin's."

Maude, in fact, rarely had much to say and it was, just quietly, the reason Gwilym picked her. Her placid temperament was just what he needed. He even had it in mind that perhaps, when the business with Rowe was done, her presence would help him collect his thoughts; help him decide what more could be done with his willful daughters.

For their part, he'd decided, Madeleine and Anwen could take the pig and the goat into the forest to forage for acorns. It would get Anwen out of the village and away from the boys she so loved to torment. And Madeleine, he told himself, could go because there wasn't a boy alive with the gumption to risk her temper – not even to follow Anwen. In reality though, he sent her because he knew she'd resent it, and his anger with her made the thought pleasant.

"You're to stay together, understand? And don't go too far. What's the rule?"

"If trees block yer view o' the Keep, ye're in the forest much too deep," Anwen repeated mechanically. "We know!"

'Right. That's right. Now, an apple in each o' your pockets and off ye go."

In reality, the forest was not a picnic. Vast, thick and forbidding, it concealed wild animals; sometimes even wild people. Two scrawny, scabby, slippery looking boys, for example, had been seen helping themselves to turnips on various occasions through the summer.

"Different thing if they come an' asked, but do they? No! Never refuse someone wi' the decency to ask!"

Roger Ringworm and Wild Jack Sorespot; their names had evolved from their most obvious afflictions. With them in mind, Gwilym called out a last instruction.

"An' you keep these animals close, you 'ear? There's thievin' runty little scoundrels comin' an' goin' out there, who'd pounce on a loose pig as soon as spit on t' ground. I won't have 'em gettin' fat off our labour!"

Anwen nodded obligingly, fully aware of what was needed to please her father. And, "Well!" Madeleine muttered darkly, "We all care too much about the pig to have it hookin' up with hopeless people, don't we?"

* * * *

The provisions needed at the castle were for the castle's owner, Sir Roland Lenthall and his wife, Lady Margaret. They'd arrived on short notice the day before, at the head of a small train of soldiers, servants and wagons, one of which carried their bed – a sign of a possibly lengthy stay. The castle steward, Rowe, was desperately conscious of the fact that Lady Margaret was sister to the late Thomas FitzAlan. And FitzAlan was a name that made people everywhere – not just Rowe – wish they were wearing a hat, so they could doff it in respect.

In centuries gone by, the forest-encircled, remote little castle at Clun had been the FitzAlan home and it was their farms, their bridge and their watch over the King's road, the Clun-Clee Ridgeway, that had brought the town into existence, in the dell, in the crook of the river. For years, mobs of cattle had passed through, driven eastward out of Wales, and vast quantities of wool had been carted in, for the weighing and sorting. All manner of traffic, some if it from as far away as London, had crossed the little stone bridge at Clun. Fine times indeed.

In time, though, the FitzAlans had accepted payment for their service to English kings and moved on to greater lands and rewards, far away from the Welsh Marches. Now they were the Lords of Arundel. Now they dined with royalty in London and spent their energies in petty court intrigues. Their going, followed as it was by decades of plagues, wars and up-risings had seen the whole region's good times slimmed down to an alarming leanness.

Market squares over the border in the Welsh towns, it was said, had become so quiet that grass grew up between the cobbles, and on the Clun-Clee Ridgeway, foxes could trot for miles without encountering a human. Clun had become like a tiny boat that's slipped its moorings and bobbed away on the evening tide. Fine times, no more.

And yet nothing, either good or bad, lasts forever. The plague had been gone for years. And Owain Glyndwr – that self-proclaimed Prince of Wales – that Welsh spoon that had so vigorously stirred the English pot – had been fought to a standstill. Or rather, being too proud for surrender, he'd disappeared into no one knew where, never to be seen again.

And when the occasional travelers did find their way to Gwenith's little ale house, they brought tales that tempted spirits to think of rising. King Henry's war in France, for example.

"A great king! A great knight! Fights like a tiger, eats like a wolf, tosses Frenchies over his shoulders like chicken bones! An' would ye believe this? The wars an' the plague 'ave killed so many, the king 'imself has spoken of 'ow valuable villeins (like you, my Clun-ish friends!) 'ave become! How's that for a silver lining?"

Silver, yes, but never silver enough to bring the FitzAlans back. Which meant that, tiny abandoned boat though Clun might be, the townsfolk who were left on board had necessarily taken on some of the responsibility for steering.

The one resident who would have none of that, who longed constantly for the hard old FitzAlan hand, was the castle steward, Samuel Rowe, in whose private dreams Thomas, the twelfth Earl of Arundel and the last of that great family to actually reside in the castle, though long dead, had never really left. From him Rowe had learned his stewarding craft and earned his position of trust. It was a debt that Death had no power to cancel.

For Sir Roland and Lady Margaret Lenthall, on the other hand, Rowe nursed a bitter disdain. For their high and mighty tastes, the castle was too remote, too small and too ramshackle. They cared nothing for it and hadn't, in all the years they'd owned it, even bothered to visit. Until now.

Even now, the visit was only in response to unaccountable interest from further a-field. The powerful Earl of Somerset had requested the castle's use for a special guest and though the guest hadn't been named, minor aristocrats like the Lenthall's didn't lightly question an Earl. Nor did stewards like Samuel Rowe lightly question a lord. So now he needed wood. He needed vegetables and meat. He needed lots and lots of ale. And for all that, he needed the organisational skills of Gwilym.

* * * *

As Gwilym and Maude walked the track to the castle, he studied the notched sticks on which he kept account of the village's produce, muttering and grumbling to himself, anticipating the old familiar arguments he always had to have with Samuel Rowe. Maude walked beside him, quiet as a moth.

Back down the hill, Madeleine and Anwen were crossing the fields toward the forest, the goat pulling ahead on her lead, the pig snuffling along behind on his. Anwen had embarked on a lengthy tale, but Madeleine was back in last night's quarrel, composing sharp new after-the-fact retorts.

"Just 'cause I'm a girl! If I was a boy, ye'd say Oh aye, whatever you want! But a girl? No way! Girls got to be told! Girls don't know nothin'! Well I think you don' know nuthin'! 'Cause ye never done nothin' 'cept live 'ere an' count stooks!"

"Well what do you think you know, Miss Too-Big-For-Your-Britches?" he'd say and she'd say, "I know there's men, even from Clun, goin' far away to fight in great exciting battles . . . against knights and bishops!"

The ones who'd gone off to France with King Henry – the ones who'd made it back – positively wreaked of adventure! Not that she didn't resent them as well. She even resented her mother, whose endless captivity in the Marches seemed perfectly to suit her.

"'M I th'only one," she sniffed aloud, "wants to be free, an' seein' great doin's?"

The thought brought her suddenly to quiet little Maude, getting to visit the castle where a genuine lord – from far-off Herefordshire – was in residence. She stopped and looked back. Her sister and father were still visible, on the high road.

"Aahhh," she sighed again. "Wouldn' it be grand!"

Funny, how one set of eyes sees this and another that. Madeleine's look at the castle brought up visions of great halls, great ladies, feasts and dancing. A marvelous dream world that she would give anything to experience.

Anwen, when she looked back, saw only the chillingly grim face of Samuel Rowe, surrounded by the comically self-important ones of the boys who served him. She saw the stones that had broken free from the walls and she thought, That castle's just an old hat that nobody wants to wear any more.

And Maude, for her part, saw only cold uninteresting stone. Madeleine might gaze in envy and Anwen might glance in scorn, but for Maude the view back down the hill was the one that really counted. The huddle of grey huts and lean-to's, the people stretching, bending, chatting, studying their tools, examining the sky; even her sisters with the goat and the pig, stopped half way across a field of pumpkins. Down there was all of life. Down there was warmth and comfort and calm. Anwen, skipping, flapping her arms, obviously, even from this distance, enthralled with some story she was telling; Madeleine, stopped dead, looking up, yearning.

This day, however, Maude's attention didn't linger on any of that. Something else had called to her; had her walking backwards. Some sensation, gently syruping into her mind. Lovely. Soothing. Like warm water, being trickled across her mind. Gwilym, intent on his planning, continued walking. She drifted to a halt. She scanned. Until her mouth cracked open in wordless surprise. It didn't happen often, but very very occasionally, quite boldly and blatantly, Maude's dreams had a way of crossing into the real world.

A cart was pottering across the bridge! Not just any cart, but exactly the same cart that had appeared in her dream! Same cart, same pony! And that warm, assuring sense of calm that had ended the dream – that's what she was feeling again! The same whisper, settling every thought and worry and concern into stillness, like birds subsiding at dusk

She couldn't have been more surprised if she'd spilt milk and looked down to find it turned to butter. And the memory of the bridge's promise – 'Changes, changes' – was rich even in the wake of Gwilym's snappish, "Maude! Catch up! Stop dawdlin'!"

* * * *

Madeleine, watching from the centre of the field, saw Maude stopped, walking backwards, then turning to run. She'd been peering back at the bridge. Madeleine looked and she too took note of the cart and pony. Two people, she thought. A pair of tinkers out of Wales. Why's Maude so interested? Then her attention too was dragged away.

"Maddie! You aren't listenin'! You never listen! Come on, catch up!"

She didn't answer but she did begin to walk on, backwards at first like Maude, before she too turned and, glancing back only once, stirred herself to run.

Chapter 3 – Taking Action

They found Samuel Rowe in the castle's bailey, checking on the stabling of Sir Roland's horses. Most of the bailey's barns and sheds, kennels and dovecotes were gone, burned up seventeen years before in Owain Glyndwr's siege. But sometimes, when the girls were falling asleep, Gwilym'd tell stories of times when the place had been full of business. And of the battles.

'The crackle o' the flames an' the roars o' chopped an' burnin' men – like hellfire comin' out o' the ground!'

The last battle took place the year before Madeleine was born – 'more years than's decent', he always finished, 'considerin' what little's been done by way o' repairs'. Only the old stable, with its massive oak beams and century-seasoned timbers, remained of the originals. Only it had escaped the siege fires.

It was there they found Samuel Rowe, and the two men settled into their familiarly loud and animated haggle. Maude listened long enough to know the negotiation would not be short. Then her feet and her mind began to wander in ever-widening circles. Her one concession to Gwilym's ill temper was a promise to herself that she would keep him in view; that she would scoot back to his side the minute the haggling ended.

It didn't work quite that way. For one thing, it seemed that every boy in town was working in the bailey that morning, putting everything right for the Lenthalls. The same constantly grinning faces that followed Anwen everywhere; the same names that Gwilym had thrown down in front of Madeleine.

Hubert was first, exiting the kitchens with a bucket in each hand, obviously heading for the barns. Sixteen years old (same age as Madeleine) and a fulltime stable boy – the very shite shoveler Madeleine had railed against. Though his job in the castle made him feel a notch above town life, he seemed never to be free of the smells of hot manure and souring milk. And he had the disconcerting habit of catching snot from his ever-dripping nose on his tongue.

("He's a solid, honest worker, Madeleine!" Gwilym had argued. "There's nothin' much wrong wi' that Hubert!"

Even Gwenith had been more realistic: "Really, husband! Nothing that a weekly dunk in the river and a slap on the back of the head wouldn't cure!")

Maude looked away, following him only in her peripheral vision. He saw her, put down the buckets to wave and shake the cramp out of his fingers; and looked up to find her walking briskly and busily in another direction.

She barely had time to congratulate herself on that escape when she saw Lazy Davey ambling in her direction from the Keep. Davey was nearly twenty and liked to style himself a tailor, seeming to think that gave him the right to touch and fondle the clothing girls were wearing. He'd included Madeleine's bottom in his fondling once and she'd been pleased to tell him that, if he wanted to keep looking like the back end of a cat, rather than the back end of a cat with a foot stuck in it, he'd best never touch her again.

(Gwilym's defense of Davey as a marriage prospect was to say, "He's got confidence, Mad'! An' a craft! Which give's 'im access to Rowe's ear! He'd be a good provider!"

"He's a lickspittle, da', wi' wanderin' fingers! If he kept his hands on his work a little better, he'd still not be worth trustin'!")

Maude stepped quickly off in a new direction and Davey, seeing it was only Maude, couldn't be bothered to follow.

Rolling her eyes in gratitude only resulted in bringing the familiar figure of Eustace to her attention, skipping along the gate wall in the wake of a group of Sir Roland's guards. Only fifteen, still round-faced and boyish, Eustace had exactly two interests in life: lurking around her parents' house, though it was never clear who or what he was hoping to see, and shooting arrows at targets on the common with his friend Rhodri.

("Boy's got a disciplined head on his shoulders!" Gwilym had said. "Doesn't smell too bad. Sociable enough! Keeps 'is 'ands to himself. What's wrong wi' him?"

"Nothing," Madeleine would sneer, "except the only things in his 'ead're 'angin' about where he's not wanted and killin' people wi' arrows! As though killing people would be some grand adventure!")

Maude had never seen a person killed. But she'd many times seen her father crush a pig's skull with a hammer before slashing its throat and hanging it up to bleed. Dying, she'd once thought, might actually be an adventure – but never killing!

Watching Eustace, who hadn't seen her, brought her suddenly to a strange observation and, "Well," she said aloud. "That's odd!" And the odd thing – the rarely seen thing – was that the guards were actually taking up positions all along the wall.

By all accounts, the need for guards at the castle ended years ago, with Glyndwr's disappearance! Mus' be some fancy bit of show, she decided! Arranged by Sir Roland to impress the villagers? She smiled secretly to herself, thinking how puffed with pride Eustace would be, to be mingling with other bowmen; with real soldiers! Even if there was nothing to defend against and the only people he could shoot at would be his own people – the people of Clun!

Chuckling to herself, she turned and stepped straight into the arms of a

running figure. Branwen. Dull and unimaginative, Branwen was generally as earnest as a bone-setter!

"Ow, Brannie! For pity's sake! Ye nearly broke me neck!"

"C'mon, Maudie!" she shouted, grabbing her hands and spinning her. "Quick!

Somethin's 'appenin'!"

"Why? What is it?"

"It's the whole town, Maudie! Come on! We'll miss it!"

* * * *

Now going off without Gwilym's permission would never have been part of Maude's plan. But for Brannie to be so excited! And Gwilym's and Samuel Rowe's negotiations to be so lengthy! And there was this premonition! At the back of her mind; the dream, the pony, the cart – a sense that something really was coming! That some very un-ordinary days were on the horizon. So, reluctantly, just this once, she let Branwen's dragging, pushing, dancing insistence overwhelm her good sense. Just for a few fateful steps.

She allowed herself to go to the gate; just to there, beneath the fly-over where Eustace and the guards were standing, backs to the castle. Absolutely no farther! Just to lean out for a look! She got there, she leaned, she looked and a hard-toed boot caught her on the bum.

"Out o' the way, red!"

She skittered several yards before managing to turn and cry out.

"I can't! My da'. . . he's . . ."

But it was already too late. One of Sir Roland's smirking guards, blowing her a mean-looking little kiss, put his shoulder to the wood and closed the gate. The squeal of the rust-dusted iron hinges caused an image to flash in her mind, of a hammer-stunned pig, suspended, thrashing its life-blood away.

"Oooh Lordy!" she whispered aloud. "Here it comes!"

* * *

Ordinarily the gates were a subject of great mirth for the villagers – had been ever since their hasty half-repair those many years ago.

"Them gates is long past usin'," one'd say. "Might as well knock 'em down for firewood!"

"Wouldn' keep a flock o' geese out of that castle," another would add. "I'd wager my nanny goat could knock 'em flat!"

"A fart from my donkey! That's all it'd take!"

But for Maude, of course, they were insurmountable. She stood frozen in the roadway. Gwilym would be wild when he found her gone. She rubbed her bum. Surely there'd be a bruise there she could show him, to prove it wasn't her fault! As it was to happen, of course, far bigger bruises would be inflicted on far more important people than her before she spoke to her father again. The season would change and the little boat that was Clun would find itself bumping along a very unfamiliar shore.

* * * *

Given the choice between standing outside a locked gate with leering soldiers looking down, and joining Branwen in a rush to the track below, she turned and ran. And truly, the whole town was there! People craning, jumping, putting hands on neighbour's shoulders to steady themselves against wonder. Murmuring in disbelief: "Well I never!" "What is it?" and "Not in a month of Sundays!" Some, astonished into stillness, were being physically dragged out of the road. Because sauntering along directly toward them, as though such things happened every day of the week, was a most amazing sight!

Two bands of travelers! One close at hand from the north and a second near behind, out of the south! Both trundling purposefully into Clun! On exactly the same day as a mysterious little Welsh cart, now pitched up on the Common, the pony grazing as though it was home! And only a single day after the chaotic arrival of Sir Roland's retinue! Unheard of! And no lone God-spouting wandering monk or down-at-heel merchant with a donkey load of wares, either! These were groups! Gorgeous groups! Containing actual horses! Caparisoned horses! With flashings of blue and green and yellow! And the glint of steel!

Maude jostled through to the road's edge where a chestnut mare was passing. On its back, a woman – elegant, composed and richly dressed for travel – her hair, as chestnut as the mare's, bouncing freely. A woman riding astride, perched on a man's saddle! A woman who, when the mare swung its rump, perhaps unnerved by the sudden appearance of Maude's red hair, held it easily, barely pausing in her instructions to her companion.

He, in fact, was the one most eyes were on – a knight, a giant of a man, made even more imposing by the gigantic stallion under him and the long-sword that rolled languidly against his hip. He had to lean down to receive the instructions but his stare never left the gate with its row of soldiers above. The storm of disdain on his face seemed to suggest that even such militant beings as they were an imposition on his air.

Behind this pair rode two other members of their party, a pair of haughty dark-haired girls, perhaps eighteen or twenty years, also finely dressed, but mounted side-saddle as was proper, and towing pack horses. These had no trouble returning the townsfolk's gawks, pointing and laughing rudely: "Ah, here's an odd-looking crowd! Look here at this one-legged one! What a place to be stuck in, living a life!" And one of them to Maude, "Good morning to you, little one. Mouth's open but nothing's coming out!"

They did all they could to draw attention to themselves, but with little success, because all eyes and ears were tuned to the knight as the castle's sentry sang out.

"Who seeks entry to the Castle of Clun?"

Three of the four stopped, the knight a horse's length to the fore. His answer started with a slow scathing survey of the decrepit gate. Then, "Sir Angus, a knight of Atholl!" he called. "Guide and protector of the Lady Mary Gordon, who craves admittance to the . . . the safety of Clun Castle."

Gordon? A whisper went through the crowd. "Did 'e say Gordon? Clan Gordon, was it?"

"Aye, it was! Now what would Scots be doin' in the West Country, I ask ye?"

"Brewin' trouble! Scots is always brewin' trouble, if my opinion's asked."

"Well, we all knows that, man! What's the nature of the trouble, that's what I'm askin'!"

The crowd was enraptured, but Maude's rapture had already found a new mark; nothing to do with this group, the challenge, the answer, the muttered commentary or the grinding open of the gates. Her whole attention was focused on the second group, some instinct telling her that in that group would be found the embodiment of the changes promised in her dreams.

And she was there! Un-missable! Not because of her wide-eyes or her seriousness or her youth – perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Not because of the way she stretched elegantly to glimpse the group ahead. Not even because of the richness of her cloak and saddle or the jeweled belt at her waist.

It was the web of colour in her hair! A swarm of flickering, darting colours, as though butterflies surrounded her!

Maude's head spun. What was it? A crown, it seemed. A queen's crown! The Scots withdrew into the castle's bailey and the girl in the new group drew closer. The colours began to resolve themselves. They were ribbons. A crown of ribbons!

She was one of four in this group – two knights, this time, and two women. When they stopped to answer the gatekeeper's challenge, they were so close that, if Maude and the be-ribboned one had both leaned and reached, their fingertips might have touched! Like leaves on the furthermost branches of two trees. One ablaze with ornament, the other burning with potential. But of course, like trees, each was firmly anchored in her own place. Bend how they might, the distance could not be breached. Not even with their eyes. Not yet.

"Who seeks entry to the fortress of Clun?"

This time Maude heard the murmur of laughter that rippled through the crowd.

"Fortress, d'ye hear? D'ye reckon Sir Roland's left 'is eyes at his fancy castle in Herefordshire?"

"Either that or Samuel Rowe's ambitions ha' finally spoiled his thinkin' apparatus."

"Aye, Or . . . these're folks in mighty need o' bein' impressed – even if it's wi' lies!"

And that was a sobering thought.

They were about to learn. In answer to the challenge, one of the knights stood in his stirrups. What he lacked in height, this one, he made up for in breadth; all shoulders and chest, like an upright bulldog; a man who could crush an oaken barrel in his arms or snap a winter apple in half with his hands. The sound of his voice, coarse and booming, finally drew Maude's gaze from the crown of ribbons.

"Sir Cyril Halftree, knight of the English realm! Escort to Lady Joan de Beaufort, daughter of Sir John de Beaufort, First Earl of Somerset; grand-daughter of John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster. Her Ladyship seeks entry."

The lady of ribbons nodded and the knight sat back in his saddle, hocking up a wad of phlegm to gob down into the dust.

Utter silence descended, like a mist of flour. Even the guards on the wall were left pale with astonishment. Not because of the spit but because, apparently, there before them, smiling anxiously, was the grand-daughter of the Duke of Lancaster! Her step-father, only recently killed in France, had been brother to King Henry himself; all of which meant, in an England where dukes stood next to princes, princes next to kings and kings next to God, this girl – Lady Joan de Beaufort – was only three steps short of the throne of the Almighty himself!

She might be barely an adult, but her presence made the knees of grown men cry out to touch the dirt. Many in the crowd and on the wall crossed themselves and whispered a word of thanks for a world in which simple folk were permitted to witness so grand a living person.

If the day had ended at that moment, this wonder alone would have kept all of their heads, including Maude's, spinning for years. But there were two more to come. The next to last happened when the second knight in the company rose in his saddle.

"Perceval de Coucy-Guines, Sieur d'Aubermont," he called in an unmistakably French accent. "Companion of Lady Joan de Beaufort, traveling with his esteemed wife, the Lady Marie, also craves entry to the fortress of Clun."

Mutterings raced through the crowd like swallows through an evening sky.

"De Coucy? Did he say 'De Coucy'?"

"'Course not! 'Course not, you cloth-eared idiot! How would that be possible?"

"But the coat of arms, man! Look! Look there!"

Maude tugged at a sleeve. "What is it? What does it mean?"

A snaggle toothed face, with eyes as wide as an owl's, came down near her own.

"It means the greatest knight in the world, girl! Richer than kings! Holier than the Pope! That was the old man, de Coucy! Died in a Crusade against the Turks, they say! See the coat of arms?" His own arms both swung up to point, as though one arm could not be sufficient to the task. "The upside-down crown? That's the old man's insignia! But the bars are tilted the wrong way, see? That's the bar sinister! They says this one's a bastard of the old knight! Bless us all, the world's gone mad! The king's niece and a de Coucy! In Shropshire!"

Maude's eyes swiveled back to the knight. He was an entirely beautiful man, she thought and, on the instant, she determined to lock everything about him into her memory; to collect portions of him like ingredients for a pie that she could later, at her leisure, reassemble. The damp earthy glow of his hair; the straightness of his back as he sat in the saddle; the casual way the reins lay across his palm; the quilty bulge of jacket over his shoulders. She was still gathering in the bold swell of calf muscles beneath his hose when the cortege, responding to the sentry's welcome, began its slow creep into the courtyard.

And then the last wonder happened.

Jenny Talbot, a free woman who served as head of the castle's kitchens, appeared in front of her, enveloped in a smell of steam and roasted meat and strange spices. Maude shrank away, acutely conscious of her own lingering odour – pig and shite-strewn straw – but Jenny reached for her, and for Branwen beside her.

"Well," she crowed, grasping their chins and twitching their heads from side to side; "these might do!"

She latched onto an ear of each and peered inside.

"Yes indeed!" Speaking more to herself than to them. "Take 'em to the kitchen, scrub 'em up! See if they can carry soup without sloppin'. If not, Sir Roland can cut off their little girl fingers for his 'ounds. Yes ma'am."

She placed her hands on top of the girls' heads and pushed them past her, as though she was a small boat and they scoops of water. "To the kitchens!" she sang. "Lots an' loads to do!"

For a moment, she seemed to fall into a reverie, gazing down the hill to the tiny village and the checkered fields beyond. "Jus' like the old days," she hummed happily. "The old feastin' days."

Then an earthquake of a sigh shuddered through her bosom and she turned, shooing the girls along before her.

Chapter 4 - Forest and Hall

Madeleine and Anwen had led the goat and the pig into the forest, just a little out of sight of the castle. What could it hurt, they'd decided. Ten steps! Maybe twenty! Find an oak where acorns were plentiful – as good as turnips to the animals. Once settled, they ate their apples and Anwen had stuck a pair of seeds onto her forehead.

"This un's Rhodri," she said, pointing at one, "an' this un's . . . Hubert! Firs' one drops off don' love me enough to be considered!"

"Don' know why ye'd consider either one o' them useless gob-shites," Madeleine said testily.

Anwen smiled knowingly. Then she became suddenly serious.

"The town boys ain' nuthin' to crow about, I know, Maddie. But maybe there's more to 'em than we see! An' it ain't like there's a parade o' others comin' by! Couldn't ye maybe give one of 'em a chance? For da's sake? He jus' truly wants what's best for us, I think. He maybe don' know what that is yet, but he's tryin', ye know? Everyone's got to try, doncha think?"

"Oh, open yer eyes, Annie! It don't matter a sheep's arse whether yer tryin' hard or standin' on yer head! He's gonna marry us off – all three of us – to nose-drippin', smell-bad, no-hope boys we don' even like! He has 'is way, our whole lives are gonna be nuthin' at all! Jus' 'avin' kids an' cryin' out for stories o' what's happenin' somewhere else! If you can be happy wi' that . . . fine! I jus' wish some'un 'ud come along to lift me out of it, that's all!"

* * * *

That was the moment when Jack and Roger burst from the undergrowth. They lunged recklessly, one at the pig, one at the goat, and succeeded only in sending them full-tilt back to the town. There should have been the sound of girl feet pounding along beside those of goat hoof and pig trotter, but neither of these sisters was given to running away. Not even from wild boys. Though as the failed thieves turned toward them, groaning with disappointment and hunger, two little hands did snake out and ten little fingers did intertwine – just for the courage that contact can give. And Annie carefully spat over two fingers of her free hand, to ward off the evil in Roger's crossed eyes.

Roger grinned, showing his last remaining tooth, and goggled his eyes in the looniest fashion he could manage. It was nice to be noticed – nicer still to be feared.

"Well!" said Jack. "It's a little late to be spittin' for luck, girlie! Youse an' yer animals've jus' come to the attention of a pair o' very desperate men!"

"Men?" chided Madeleine in her most defiant voice. "Ye've been sleepin' on the groun' too long, boyo! Earwigs get in yer brains when ye do that, ye know! Youse're jus' that pair o' thievin', scoundrel boys – Roger Ringworm and Wild Jack Sorespot! Aren't yez!"

The origin of the "ringworm" part of Roger's name was obvious from the bare circles of skin showing through his hair. He didn't mind. And the 'Wild' part of Jack's name was of his own devising. He was very pleased to hear it used.

"Mm. Clever one are ye?"

Madeleine couldn't stop herself. "Clever enough to holler up a gang o' real men! Who'll nail your skins if they catch yez! So ye'd best be scamperin', right now!"

"You holler all ye want, girlie!" Jack smiled, fully aware of how far they were from the town. "Me 'n' Rog' - we ain' afeared! Look 'ere!" He pointed to his red hair and to Roger's crossed eyes. "Anyone gets in our way, we got bad luck aplenty to give 'em!"

Madeleine pointed to a collection of bits on strings around Roger's neck: an iron nail thrown from a horse's shoe, a mole's foot, a bent coin, a bit of rowan wood, wrapped around with red thread and a lucky bone from a sheep's head – all powerful charms for warding off illness, bad luck and witches.

"All them good luck charms? Too bad there ent one to ward off stupid. Too stupid even to get a fix up fer ringworm!"

"Yeah? What kinda fix up'd that be, smart arse?"

"See?" Madeleine blustered. "Bit o' bletch from a church bell or a cart wheel! Everyone who ent stupid knows that!"

"AND . . . ," Anwen finally chipped in, having decided that Madeleine had the true measure of these boys, "youse'll never catch neither o' them animals, neither! We specially trained 'em up on gettin' away from scrawny no-hopers like youse!"

The boy's grins faded. Bad enough to be hungry. Now, to be confronted by two well-fed girls with stomachs full of oatcakes and voices full of defiance! Jack's face grew hard. He followed a fateful impulse and, "Maybe," he said, "maybe we don't WANT to catch them animals! Maybe," he said, "we'll jus' catch YOUSE instead!"

Maude and Anwen looked at one another. Both apple seeds dropped off Anwen's forehead and, at last, they gave their feet free rein. But it was already too late.

* * * *

The sun was falling down the western side of the sky when Gwenith began waddling her breathless way up the hill to the castle. Gwilym had told her of Maude being scooped up for kitchen work by Jenny Talbot, so there was no doubting where that daughter was. But the pig and the goat had come home late in the morning, both (the pig in particular) in a state of agitation. The pig, in fact, had come straight into the house and lay down in a corner, refusing to be moved. So where were those girls? Had they fallen into the hands of wandering brigands? Had they run off? Had they been caught by the great wolves that still sometimes ventured near to settlements?

"They got theirselves lost, is all!" Gwilym had insisted. "We'll go out 'n' holler for 'em 'til they come in."

But he'd done that and they'd not appeared. So now she puffled along, her great rump stuck out behind and her determined little chins stuck out before, her breath rasping and her lips moving spasmodically.

"Oh, Jesus Lord! My poor babies! Where are my babies?"

* * * *

Her trip up the hill was both futile and an act of desperation. But the crew Gwilym had roused from the fields had only tentatively entered the woods, their pitchforks, hoes and sickles brandished before them. They were superstitious men – farmers rather than adventurers – and darkness was soon to fall.

"It's a haunted place, they'd moaned; ye can't be there after dark!" And besides, didn't the reeve's jurisdiction technically end at the forest's edge (coincidentally, the exact same place their courage ended)? So tomorrow, they'd said. We'll try tomorrow, if need be. And that had been that.

But Gwenith, on seeing their shamefaced return, had found herself in possession of a sudden, unthinkable impulse. Great men – much greater than these – knights and lords, no less – were resting, idle and unoccupied, in the castle, over pints of ale that she had brewed!

"Aye," Gwilym had sworn. "An' it's only the ale they care about, woman! Not lost children! Even if they let ye through the gate it'll only be for their fun – to gi' them a laugh!"

He was right, of course. Every woman knew: strong men with weapons love the fear of others – especially women. And yet the impulse stayed alive in her long enough to carry her to the middle of the common, halfway to the castle. All the way to the little cart that Maude had dreamed into existence. And there, having changed her mind a dozen times and finding herself completely out of breath anyhow, she stumbled to a stop.

A small crowd of women was there, milling about the cart. Too mesmerized by the cart's owner even to notice Gwenith's arrival, let alone to consider her despair.

Maude might've thought that owner a creature she'd dreamed into existence, but she was not. She was a Cunning Woman – one of the mysterious tribe of wanderers whose trade was in healing, her cart a mobile shop of dried herbs and roots, powdered barks, unguents and pressed flowers. Her mind a storehouse of magic. It was a little of each she was at this day. What does your future hold? Give me a duck's egg or a pig's trotter and I'll show you!

When Gwenith stopped, a thin woman – newly convinced that her husband, despite his appetites, was no demon – had only just risen. Another whose milk cow had dried up, was pushing forward. The rest were jostling, fluting like birds: Me next, Myfanwy! Me next!

It had gone on this way much of the afternoon and 'til then Myfanwy'd been content to let them sort themselves. But with Gwenith's wheezy, coughing arrival at the back of the crowd, a deep frown suddenly creased her face. She lurched to her feet, barked a word and waved the crowd to silence. The women clucked in dismay and she ignored them, instead charging at and through them. They drew aside, frightened of her touch, but opening a path that led directly to Gwenith.

"You cannot stop here!" she hissed, grasping Gwenith's shoulders, shaking her, gesturing toward the castle, "Go! Finish!"

"Who . . .? What . . .?"

Gwenith, already dizzy with fright and exhaustion, clutched her heart in dread.

The weirdly hypnotic woman seemed to have formed out of the air. A woman still young in shape and posture and energy, but whose eyes, which might have been the steady blue of cornflowers if they hadn't been backed by a yellow flicker of candle flame, spoke of immense age. They were, Gwenith instantly knew, eyes that had seen dark and terrible things. A sorceress, perhaps. A Devil! She uttered a scrambled phrase of prayer and began to cross herself, but the Cunning Woman caught her hand.

"Stop that foolishness! There's no help in that! Do as I say and go, while the man is still sober!"

To go and be gone from such a witcherly woman, of course, suited Gwenith very well. But her heart, pounding even harder, seemed to shrivel in her chest. A man, the woman had said! A man and possible drunkenness! In possession of her babies? All must certainly be fruitless then, the worst having already happened! She threw her hands in the air, wailing and felt her knees begin to go. She reached for the ground.

"Stand up!" the woman commanded, lifting her as though she were the lost child, slapping her mightily. "Listen to me! A great undertaking is in the world, Gwenith! And you have a part to play! Which is to go! To finish what's begun, before the time is lost!"

For a moment, Gwenith's eyes cleared. How was her name known? She managed a beseeching look, but fear yet held her in place, as it did the entire crowd of aghast women. Myfanwy, appalled in her own way at the immovability of these people, turned a slow circle, raising a finger to point: "A fire comes," she intoned, "flesh will burn; a prince be lost, a queen return! This is the great doing of our time."

The blue of her eyes was gone. Only the glint of flame remained. She fished amongst the rags of her clothing and brought forth a small, shining, kidney-shaped nut, which she forced into Gwenith's palm.

"A sea-bean," she whispered. "The greatest of charms! To protect you! And your babies! But you must go now or the luck will go without you!" Then she added, for no reason that even she understood, "Tell your husband! The wounded one must stay free."

What fortune the Cunning Woman was seeing at that point, no one waited to see. The crowd of horrified women began to melt away; some clutching at their neighbour, some weeping with the strain.

And Gwenith, terrified and confused but newly determined, turned once more toward the castle! Help would be found there! She knew it, as surely as she knew the warmth in the mysterious sea-bean that she later would re-discover, clutched in her palm.

Even a seer can't see all, of course. A spider's web was being woven – that much Myfanwy knew. And she herself and Gwenith and the lost children and even Maude – especially Maude – and the whole of Clun were part of the weaving. She knew that that was how great things were brought into being; by the orchestration of many little things. But what the end would be, even as she sighed onto her stool, she did not know.

.

* * * *

Gwenith found the sagging, unlockable gates untended and partially open. She edged through, into the bailey. At the door to the ancient stable, two knights were haggling with Lazy Davey. Oats, the knights were ranting, were not half so costly in other parts of the realm. Oats, Davey was explaining (a little too pompously for his own good, some would have said; but it was Samuel Rowe – not he – who set the prices), oats would soon be in very short supply, what with all the visitors' hungry animals.

She paused, heard the word "oats", (sounding as it did like "goats") and mention of "hungry animals" (conjuring up, as it did, images of fierce forest creatures) and threw herself recklessly toward them. Her waddling trot was un-missable in the corners of their eyes, but they nevertheless pretended to miss it until she actually shunted Davey out from in front of them. Then they jumped back and held up warning hands.

"Stop there, crone!" Such ragged creatures could be carriers of the pox, after all.

She did stop her feet but her tongue began to rattle, stammering out her story: lost teenaged girls, cowardly townsmen, the forest, the wolves, the brigands! Oh, the woe and the heartbreak! And despite themselves, something in it, or perhaps something in their boredom with mere escort duties, pulled a glint of interest from their eyes. They swore, spat, asked a question, received some pointed directions and raised speculative eyebrows at one another.

Then, "Are they comely, your daughters?" yawned Sir Cyril Halftree – he so recently arrived as escort to Lady Joan de Beaufort. "Or have they the backsides of mules, like their mother? Nay, never mind. Go back to your hovel, woman. Comely or no, your daughters shall be saved."

And, "Darkness soon," drawled Sir Angus of Atholl, winking broadly at his brother knight. "I suppose we'll be back in time for a flagon . . . and a decent haunch of . . . something tasty."

They were, it should be said, young men, perhaps twenty-four or five, with long years of harrowing training behind them. Both could wield a sword or battle-axe with one arm, shield themselves from blows with the other while holding a galloping eighteen hand horse between their legs. Physically, they could perform near miracles of endurance, theoretically in the service of the weak, the unfortunate, the poor and the holy. But their imaginations were as dull as pea pods. Frightened teenaged girls? Country bumpkin brigands? A mere lark! So they thought.

And so, a short time later, they rode through the town, following the vague direction given by Gwenith. The awed peasants doffed their caps, bowed their heads and marveled at the size and majesty of the horses as they cantered off toward the sinking sun. Gwenith too watched them go. They are royal men, she considered. Royal men go to save my daughters! And the strange prophecy made by the soothsayer flickered through her mind. Stuff about fire and princes and queens and wounds!

"Lordy!" she muttered. "What a day!"

At which very moment, Father Reginald began lowering his great girth onto the bench opposite her. "Did I hear you mention the Lord?" he said with a greedy glint in his eye. "Because there's a fellow I can help with. Especially if you've a quenching ale at hand to oil the way!"

* * * *

Like a mouse carrying food to a pen full of enormous hogs – that's how Maude felt as she and Branwen scuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the Great Hall. Jenny Talbot had chosen well, absorbing them into her hastily assembled kitchen staff to carve and cut and chop and stoke without let up until, when all was done, she could set them to serving at the long trestle tables.

The only relief they'd had had come when Hubert, Samuel Rowe's boy-of-many-duties – the one-time stroker of Madeleine's bottom – had tried his luck with Branwen's rear and been knocked clean off his feet for his troubles.

Otherwise Maude alone, though starving herself, was sure she'd carried enough food to feed every person in Clun for a month: boiled eel, roast lamb, stuffed goose, venison, cheese, bread – and enough wine and ale to float a boat. None of the nobles paid any of the servers the least attention of course. The privilege of service, they believed, was thanks enough.

The advantage for Maude was that, as she ran to and fro, she was able to listen – to work out who was who.

Several tables held the raucous soldiers of the Lenthall household. The main table held the hosts and their guests; in the centre, Sir Roland himself, chatting less and less amiably with Lady Joan de Beaufort, half-cousin / half-niece (in the convoluted way of royal intermingling) to King Henry – and extending only the coolest of courtesies to those further along – the ever-smiling bastard Frenchman, de Coucy, and his watchful young wife, Marie.

To Sir Roland's left, dainty Lady Margaret did her best with the restrained and confident Mary Gordon, who'd ridden like a man, all the way from Scotland. And on the outskirts, Mary's attendant ladies, Annabel and Effemy. It seemed to Maude that every time she passed this table, she had to squeeze past some different young hopeful who'd worked up the courage to stroll by and bow suavely to Annabel and Effemy. They all, so far as Maude could see, were equally rewarded with flashing smiles, laughter and then, simultaneously, a pair of cold shoulders.

The real master of the banquet, of course, was none of these. It was Samuel Rowe, steward of the castle, who hovered in ghostly disapproval behind the great table. Small, nervous and unsmiling, with a calculating eye and a mind like an abacus, he'd become used to having the castle and its staff to himself, without the presence of self-important, toffee-nosed nobility. A responsibility which had compressed him into a stony, gnomish creature with a voice like the call of a crow and an obsession to be proven worthy. Throughout the entire affair, it was he who orchestrated, signaled, pushed and kicked out at servants who were too slow for his liking.

"Move yourself, girl!" Maude had heard him caw more than once. "Don't linger near your betters!"

He controlled the feasting much the way a stomach ulcer controls a diet.

Late, late in the afternoon, when at last the noble company could eat and drink no more, Maude and Branwen collapsed into a darkening corner to rest and listen to the great din of threats, jokes, reminiscences and challenges that rang through the hall.

A wolfhound bitch joined them in their corner, one of the many dogs that had livened the day, fighting over discarded bones and morsels. This one had had claimed a decent shank bone and thought now to claim a part of their corner for a quiet gnaw. Branwen, faint with hunger herself, took her by surprise, pouncing, wrenching the bone free, clouting her on the snout and sending her yelping away.

"Look, Maude! There's still meat! For you 'n' me!"

"Oh Brannie! Imagine if we had this at home! We could make soup! Boil up a nice turnip in the broth! Yum!"

The riotousness of it all made her think of Madeleine and to wonder if even this abundance of food and excitement would bring her pleasure. She tried to picture Madeleine, moping about their home but, strangely, all her mind would show her was trees.

* * * *

At that same moment, far off in the wood with the last of the light beginning to fade, Brenton LeGros raised his head. For seven months, he'd been limping about the fields of Clun, nursing the raw scar on his side. A soldier in King Henry's army, he'd been at the battle of Bauge where a mixed force of French and Scots had inflicted on Henry one of his worst losses in the long series of battles that would one day be known as the Hundred Years' War. Brenton had been cut deeply by a French lance. But he was still one of the lucky ones. Luckier than the thousand other English yeomen who still inhabited the dirt of that terrible field.

Today Brenton was half-heartedly looking for wild berries – more interested in the stillness than the berries – to take his mind from the thrumming of the scar and the twitching memory of steel. He raised his head because he heard – or thought he heard – a distant and muted cry.

Chapter 5 – Into the Darkness

Roland Lenthall, though tall and lean, was a powerful man, better suited to action than to feigning graciousness. Inwardly, his wish was that Lady Joan's twice-widowed mother (ten years ago by the Earl of Somerset and seven months ago by the king's brother, the Duke of Clarence) had been more inclined to keep her condescending daughter, along with her foreign friends, at home. And he wished the Scots too had stayed in their God-forsaken north where they belonged.

Nevertheless, he had sworn fealty to the king and duty was duty. So he rose at mealtime, with the best grace he could manage, to perform the obligatory welcome. The Great Hall's corners were filled with long October shadows; dogs, servants, who-knew-what. He motioned to Lady Joan on his right and Mary Gordon on his left.

"We are honoured to welcome these . . ." he waved his hand airily, "esteemed guests . . . to Castle Clun . . . which we feel obliged to point out . . . is a mere outpost! Hardly meeting the requirements even of my wife and myself, let alone of such . . . refined . . . guests."

Samuel Rowe's shoulders rose up to his ears and he smiled the smile of a kicked dog.

"Nevertheless," Sir Roland continued blandly, with another airily dismissive wave. "Perhaps the Lady Joan de Beaufort . . . niece to his majesty the king . . . would care to . . . cajole us . . . with a tale of his royal court."

He began to sit, remembered his manners and managed to execute a half-bow in her direction before flopping awkwardly into his chair.

Though only sixteen, Lady Joan's confidence marked her as a person clearly used to being paid heed. The sparkle of her jewels – not so many as to astonish, but enough to deeply impress – merely added to the impression.

"Thank you, Sir Roland," she said softly, rising in her place. "And Lady Margaret, for your kind reception. Though we've not met before, Lady Margaret, I think I may call you 'cousin'! My grandmother, you know, was a FitzAlan, like yourself." Margaret nodded, straightened her back and sniffed proudly. "I also know," Joan continued, "that you have traveled with your household . . . to be at our service . . . at the request of my mother, the Duchess of Clarence, and my brother, the Earl of Somerset. I cannot say how I regret drawing you from the comforts of your beautiful estates in Herefordshire. I can assure you, I did try to tell them 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, and paused. And into the centre of the pause, Sir Roland inserted a loud croak of a fart. Patronizing brat, he was thinking. Bad enough I have to come to this God-forsaken hole. Now I have to listen to ths prattling, self-indulgent muck. It's too much! He snatched up his mug, gulped the last of his ale and snapped his fingers for more. Obliviously, Joan carried on.

"Nonetheless . . . I and my friends, Sir Perceval and Lady Marie de Coucy-Guines, are grateful for your trouble and your journey. As is, I'm sure, my brave 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! So where was the enormous lackadaisical lout?

"I expect he's attending to . . . peripheral duties . . . at the moment," she finished and, in a state of slightly elevated bother, sat down.

A brief, awkward silence followed, filled only with the eloquence of Sir Roland's sneer. Even her guardian knight couldn't be bothered with her, he was thinking; and he also thought of quietly rewarding the man, his absence apparently being enough to shut the girl up. Contentedly, he drew his dagger and sat back to pick his teeth; was idly, in fact, raising his feet to the table when, without so much as a by-your-leave, Mary Gordon rose to her feet.

"My Lord," she boldly called in Sir Roland's direction and no one could doubt her intention to be heard. "I also would like to express my gratitude."

Roland gaped openly. Was the woman going to make a speech, by God? No wonder the Scots didn't know their ups from their arses, with women as unruly as this to contend with! His feet fell with stunned twin thuds back to the floor. But she was no royal, he was thinking. If he ignored her, surely she'd sit back down. He waved a hand for service. He pounded his empty mug on the table and shouted.

"Ale! Ale!"

And hard on his own shout, Mary also shouted: "Ale! Ale!", her voice chasing the echo of his own and, like him, she pounded her own mug. Every head in the hall turned her way; every voice fell into astonished silence. And when no one moved, she turned her gaze and powerful voice on Rowe.

"His lordship awaits, man!"

In their corner, Maude and Branwen blinked at the speed with which Rowe launched himself across the room toward Hubert who, though only half-way finished lighting torches (he hadn't yet come to Maude and Branwen's gloomy corner) yelped and ran, with Rowe's curses hot in pursuit. And Mary Gordon, having gained her audience, began to speak.

"Now then, my Lords! While we wait . . . my companions and I, on a mission to visit your West Country's holy sites, have misread the roads! And found ourselves accidental visitors to Clun. Where we are, I assure you, delighted beyond measure to find hospitality so readily available to poor lost souls. It is, of course, well known that there are folk in our two countries who do not see eye to eye. . . "

"Hah!" Roland jeered, drawing a murmur of his own from the crowd. It was all he could do to refrain from howling her down, the ignorant Scottish heifer of a man-woman! Did she seriously consider hundreds of Scottish knights migrating to France each year, hoping for a chance to kill English soldiers, as 'not seeing eye to eye'? (A Scot rather than a Frenchman could well have inflicted the wound on Brenton LeGros at Bauge.) Lady Margaret, well aware of her husband's temper, placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"And yet," Mary Gordon continued, either unaware of or unconcerned by the tumult she'd unleashed in her host, "look what is happening here! Folk from Scotland and England – and even from France – sitting down at table together! Such civilised hospitality!" She nodded a short commendation in Roland's 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 friendship. If it would please you, my companions and I would love to hear news of a countryman of ours who lives . . . as a 'guest' of your uncle, the king."

And even Sir Roland was stilled by the boldness of that reference. The phrase 'guest of the king' was common wording for 'prisoner' – someone powerful being held for ransom – and no one needed to wonder which 'guest' she was referencing. Though surely, Roland thought, holding his breath . . . surely she would never . . . !

"James Stewart," she boomed, "comes to mind!" and the air seeped out of him. She was mad! A braying empty-headed donkey! But, "James Stewart," she continued plainly, "who would be our king in Scotland . . . if he actually lived there!"

And there it was! The same Stewart who'd been a 'guest' of the king for sixteen years; since the age of eleven!

"I'm sure, Lady Joan, that neither you nor I would think to impose ourselves as guests for so long as our Stewart has. But, as I say . . . there is clearly no end to English hospitality."

Sir Perceval and Marie, in their open French way, tut-tutted aloud while Joan, already flustered by Sir Cyril's absence, nodded uneasily.

Sir Roland twisted his dagger's point into the table's surface. James Stewart's life in London, he wanted to shout, was a protection from his own murderous relatives! By God if he hadn't become almost an honorary Englishman! Friend of King Henry's! Fought in France, by God! On the English side! Against his own people! Surely not even the Scots seriously expected him ever to return to their barren wasted moors!

Before he could organize any of that, however, Mary Gordon spoke again, smiling sweetly, all the challenge gone out of her voice.

"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 gazed around the room, nodded once and sat.

Silence. All eyes back on Sir Roland, whose duty it was 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! To King Henry! King of England, soon to be king in France! Long may he reign!"

Every man and woman in the hall – even Maude and Branwen – leapt to their feet. "Long may he reign!" Every man and woman except for the quietly observant Sir Perceval and his young wife, Marie. And Mary Gordon. Those three stood, raised their cups and drank, their eyes as clear as promises. But they didn't speak the words.

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

* * * *

Even as he stored it, the massive clamor of the toast fled away through the castle, bouncing off metre thick stone walls and funneling down cavernous hallways. In the courtyard Lazy Davey, with an armload of unlit torches, heard it and sang it again to himself: Long may he reign! Out on the common, Myfanwy heard it, staggering thinly past and nodded. And down amongst the little beehive huts of the town, Gwenith and Gwilym, seated on the bench in the gloaming, heard it like a brief, distant shower of rain and, "Ahh," Gwenith murmured through her tears. "Long may he reign. All very well for them.!"

"Don't you be worryin' yerself, Missus!" said Eustace.

He and Rhodri, the apprentice bowmen, were seated beside them, their backs to the wall, hoping through gruff good cheer to convince them that all would end well and soon. If not through the knights' endeavours, then through their own.

"Soon as new day comes, meself and Rhodri will lend our legs to the quest for them sweet girls."

"For certain!" added Rhodri. "And as sure as I can shoot the breath out of a treetop squirrel, we'll be bringin' 'em 'ome, safe and sound!"

Gwenith, however, was far beyond consolation. "The Cunnin' Woman," she whimpered. "She said there was fire comin'! An' a wounded one', she said! Is either o' you wounded? No! O' course not! It's my poor babies, gonna burn an' be wounded!"

"Oh pish, missus!" declared Eustace, with more bluster than assurance. "What's an ol' hag know anyways? Them girls is just lost! They's up a tree somewhere to keep from the creatures, 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 sun, as it does in October, went down quickly and the moon peeped a golden eye over the castle ramparts, casting a pale light on the 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.

"Woman should've come to us earlier," Sir Angus said softly, his eyes flicking nervously about.

"Aye," 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 be back in front of a fire by now."

"That we would!" Sir Angus affirmed. "Feet up."

The men had been riding along the forest track, boasting pleasantly about past exploits and lamenting the ignominy of riding guard for women and children and foreigners.

"Lady Joan's brother," Sir Cyril had declared, "Duke or no Duke, he's taken leave of his wits, letting that girl out in the countryside, acting the tourist. And that useless, poncified Frenchie! Sir Perceval! 'Sir!' If he's a knight, I'm an owl's arse! Not that I 'ave any use for Frenchies at the best o' times. Their king's mad as a tinker. Dumped his own son in favour of our Henry though, so mad or not, ye have to give him credit for that!" He spat on the ground, before continuing. "That Perceval – he's spent the whole journey singin' songs and 'entertaining the ladies'. Giggling with 'em like a witless sparrow! I tell you, the sooner Henry owns France, the sooner we can start teachin' the lot of 'em what real men are about!"

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

"Any point in going off the path now, d'ye think?" he said, hoping Cyril's bluster would not demand anything so foolish.

"Mm."

Sir Cyril pushed a nervous finger under the leather jerkin at his neck, wishing he could get at the sweat that ran down his chest. "Like to, of course. Very much like to. The horses, though."

"Ah, aye! The horses!"

They'd left their own chargers at the castle, the huge animals having been bred for the short burst and the sudden impact of battle, not for the long road. The horses they now rode were smaller – riding horses – 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, leaving only the sound of breathing – their own and that of their horses.

"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' debated, a small fire crackled and spat, consuming only a tiny circle of darkness and barely impacting at all on the fears of Madeleine and Anwen. They'd struggled with their captors, been hounded and jabbed with sticks through brush and bracken until they were completely turned around. Captives now, in a place the boys seemed to know. Huddled and hungry. Watching Wild Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm who sat opposite them, whispering like a pair of demented barn owls whose barn has been invaded by hummingbirds.

Suddenly, Wild Jack rose. He began to circumnavigate the little fire, slowly, like a boy creeping up on a pair of sleeping fish. The fire caused shadows to creep across his face and the hair on the girls' necks to prickle up. He bent over them. Madeleine's fist closed about a stone – a little pigeon egg of a stone that seemed to nestle nicely under her knuckles. They were not fish, these girls. And they were not asleep.

"Youse wanna see what we got?"

Suspecting that she already knew, Madeleine launched her little rock-laden fist with all her tiny might. Launched it 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 met his chin.

Jack's heels rose fractionally off the ground; his arms flew up; his head tilted back, as though looking for a bird that had just shat on him. And he toppled onto his back, arms flung wide, knees pointing up into the tree's dark branches.

Roger Ringworm crabbed his way around to his friend's aid, bent over him, shaking his head in amazement: "Lordy, 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 coldly pitiless yellow 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, blinked down through the tree's canopy, past Brenton's perch, all the way to the forest floor. Three wolves, Brenton sighed. If only he'd had the foresight to bring his long-bow; or he'd ignored those distant, frightened cries instead of searching so far into the woods – he'd 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 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 its size. Hundreds of English had fallen, including the Duke – including himself. The Duke had died, but Brenton, by the grace of God, had not. The French women who scoured the battlefield when the fighting was done might have finished the job by cutting his throat. Instead they gave him water and stanched his wound and left him to be collected by the remainder of the army in their retreat to Normandy.

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

* * * *

Like the wassails of the soldiers in the castle, the howls of the wolves traveled far, rolling and leaping in all directions. At one stage they passed through a glade where four figures, two by two, huddled around a dying fire.

Wild Jack gaped, still slightly vague from the blow he'd suffered, while Roger Ringworm clutched his neck load of charms and allowed his single tooth to grasp his trembling lower lip. On the opposite side of the fire, Anwen's halo of blond hair stood entirely on end, like a vast dandelion, and in Madeleine's fist, the stone knuckle-duster grew ever warmer and damper from sweat.

It was impossible to know from which direction the howls had come. For all anyone could tell, a wolf pack had surrounded them and was closing slowly in, slavering with hunger. Madeleine looked at the boys across the fire and at Anwen next to her. The boys had obviously frozen, as though they might be camouflaged by stillness and Anwen had folded herself into the smallest package possible.

"So who's gonna get us out o' this?" Madeleine found herself thinking,

She rose determinedly to her feet.

"We gotta make ourselves hard to get, Annie! Now! Come on!"

It was a great oak under which their fire burned, but the branches were too high to reach. She turned back to the trembling desperadoes, thrust out her chin and placed her little fists on her hips. The shadow the fire cast behind her was that of an ancient troll rather than a small girl.

"Get up!" she demanded. "Get off your useless arses an' help us up this tree! Then we'll reach back down an' help youse up. 'Cause if we don't get off the ground soon, seems like some of us is gonna end up a supper for them beasts!"

And so it was that, for that night, the forest's trees held in their arms five lonely people, none of whom had the least suspicion what tomorrow would bring.

* * * *

Out at the cross roads, where Sirs Cyril Halftree and Angus of Atholl had stopped to debate their next move, the sound of the wolves' howling had also been heard. But now, the only sound was the drumming of horses' hooves, galloping off into the distance. The horses had made the decision to leave that place. Unfortunately the knights were still in charge of steering. And having lost their bearings altogether, they were steering in entirely the wrong direction. Not that either of them cared a fig where they were going at that moment. So long as it was away from those ghostly, spine-crunching howls of hunger.

* * * *

The howls, at the end of their reach, also threaded their way out of the wood and across the fields of Clun, like thin, hot wires. Gwenith, sedated with ale and anguish, had gone to her bed and Eustace and Rhodri had wandered off to their own homes. But Gwilym, watching from the doorway of his daub and wattle hut, heard them, faint and distant.

All his girls were out of his house this night, out of his protection – two in the forest and one in the castle. And it was not good enough. They were his own – his family. And troublesome as they might be, he would not be placing his hopes on the good will of strangers – not even if they were knights.

His eyes flared into dreadful focus. There would be no sleep for him, he vowed. Not tonight. Not any night. Not until his family was safe and things in Clun were back to normal. Inside the hut the goat bleated and Gwenith cried out in her sleep while the moon, glowing like a jack o' lantern on the edge of the castle's ramparts, stepped unhurriedly into the sky.

* * * *

Few other people in the village heard the dreadful cries of the wolves because the buzz and splutter of their own before-sleep conversations drowned them out. Their talk was of the rumours smuggled like luscious berries from the castle; snippets of speeches and conversations overheard or almost overheard or imagined to be overheard.

"Great King Henry", they'd heard, "French queen", and "royal baby" and much, much talk about the war in France. And some would swear they'd heard Samuel Rowe speaking to Jenny Talbot of treacherous disloyalties! Right here in Clun!

So exciting was it all that Eustace and Rhodri, who'd left Gwilym, promising again their aid in finding Madeleine and Anwen, didn't so much walk as skip to their homes, clapping their hands, puffing their chests and crowing at the moon; thrilling one another with the KaChunk! sound they imagined English cloth-yard shafts would make when punching through French armour. And by the time they came to part, a new promise had occurred to them.

"New long-bows! There's a grove of yews I know of, mate! We'll off to it in mornin', will we?"

"The instant the sun rises! Two of England's most dangerous yeomen! Scourges of them weak-kneed French knights! The deadliest bowmen in all Christendom!"

Like a tide over pebbles, fantasies of battle had overwhelmed them, because imaginings of blood, gore, hunger and hardship are as enjoyable to young men as hot scones and honey.

"God bless us, one and all," murmured Father Reginald, shivering at the thought of what might be, as he listened to their noisy passing.

* * * *

Inside the castle, long after exhaustion should have claimed them, Maude, Branwen, Lazy Davey and Hubert were given free rein with the leftovers. In a delirium of weariness they ate and whispered. For the girls, it was all about the fantastical noble women – their clothing, their manners, their carriage – the slavish attention they'd gotten from actual knights! And their freedom! Imagine taking it on yourself to travel to the holy sites – at whatever time of the year! Even in the wilderness of the Marches! With a French knight as a traveling companion! How amazing to be as free as that!

For the boys, the talk was all of the opportunities of war. Davey spruiked that he would apprentice to a smithy. Instead of pounding goose livers into pate, he'd pound iron into swords and horseshoes. And Hubert imagined himself no longer a tailor, but a fletcher, putting his measuring and cutting skills to work slicing goose quills for arrows. On and on they went until Maude's mind gathered up its skirts and wandered away, down a road strewn with strange and sometimes alarming images.

When she finally tuned back into their conversation, Davey was holding the floor.

"Just think, Bertie! By this time next year, you 'n' me could be with King Henry! At the war in France!"

Tonelessly and without so much as asking her permission, Maude's voice interjected, "The king'll be dead this time next year."

"What? He what?" All three of her companions turned on her, as though the words 'king' and 'dead' had no business meeting in a single thought.

She looked at them blearily, trying to think what words had escaped her.

"You put a curse on 'im!" Davey gasped. "Witcherly person like you! Might be he's dropped down dead on the spot right now 'cause o' some bad thing from you!" And with sudden fierceness, he added, "Yer prob'ly want that though, doncha! So's me 'n' Hubert won' have a war to go to! 'Cause we can go an' be in it an' you can't! 'Cause yer just a girl! An' girls don' even know 'bout lookin' after their-selves, let alone lookin' after the king! 'Speshally a bad luck looney like you!"

Maude felt a sudden urge to vomit. She looked at her hands, the skin scalded and raw from cleaning the pots. She looked to the pallets Jenny Talbot had left for them to sleep on near the fire. She didn't know why she'd said what she'd said. It was just a sudden thing that her tongue thought it knew, even while her mind was out walking. She began to shiver, despite the oppressive heat of the kitchen.

What if Davey was right? What if her bad-luck did like he said and got out and hurt folks? What if she dreamed the king's death into reality, like the little cart from Wales and like so many other things in her half-dream of a life?

She tried to dredge up a reply for Lazy Davey, who everyone said would never go anywhere unless someone carried him piggy-back. "I don't care where ye go! Go to the war or go fall in the river for all I care!"

Her throat clenched and she regretted even those words. She didn't want anyone to fall in the river! She just wanted whatever was wrong with her – whatever bad luck curse was on her – to go away. Life is work, her father had said. Work and duty and nothing more. And yet there was also that strange inner conviction, a sense of knowing, that plagued her. Kept telling her that something different – something she should understand – something powerful, was approaching her and her family and Clun. Approaching very quickly indeed!

As though in answer, her mind showed her an image of the Lady Joan de Beaufort, riding a silver pony into a sun-burnished cloud. Maude clenched her eyes, trying to stamp the image flat, to brush it away, to turn her back on it. But she couldn't. The pony drew her along, through the cloud. And she saw, with a mix of fear and wonder, what lay beyond it.

* * * *

At that same moment, Myfanwy, the fortune-teller, sat with her back to a small, crackling fire out on the common. She'd been watching the villagers all day, seeing as plain as apples their auras, flaring and fading. The contented, the angry, the disappointed, the righteous, the greedy – they each glowed and pulsed in their own distinctive halo of colours. She'd listened to the voices too, both near and far, listening the way a mother might listen for her own child's voice.

The second person that Madeleine had seen in the fortune-teller's cart sat quietly next to her; a man of middle years, perhaps thirty. The villagers already knew him as Tom the Sharpener, whose special skill lay in putting fine edges on knives, axes, scythes and sickles.

He was honing a dagger now, lifting it occasionally to his eye to sight its edge against the fire. He glanced up when Myfanwy jerked as though she'd been tapped on the shoulder. He stopped to watch her sudden interest in the dark mass of the castle and he strained to hear her whispered words.

"Be still now, child. Be still. I'm here."

They weren't meant for him and he soon went off to the bed he'd made for himself in the castle's stable. But the moon had stretched Myfanwy's shadow far into the east before she finally felt it safe to lie down and sleep.

* * * *

Even then though, high in the castle's bulwarks, tallow candles burned feebly and a conversation which had turned to whispers, continued. In the chamber set aside for them, Mary Gordon and her ladies-in-waiting, Effemy and Annabel, examined for the hundredth time their secret objective.

"I'd really doubted," Mary was saying, " . . . that her brother would let her travel! Yet now that she's here . . . now that we're so close . . . I'm frightened to trust her! I hadn't pictured her being . . . so young!"

They and Sir Angus had presented themselves as lost pilgrims. Taken a wrong turn, they'd said, on the way to St Milburga's Well. So grateful to find you in residence, Sir Roland! Only impose for a couple of days, while the horses rest, if it's not too much trouble.

That was what they'd said. The truth was that their mission was far more purposeful than accidental – far more political than spiritual – far more dangerous than even they had considered. Because their arrival, coinciding as it did with Lady Joan's, was no coincidence. It was, in fact, the result of a carefully designed lure that they themselves had cast.

"She is young," Annabel answered. "But somehow, she's here. And we're here. We have no choice but to trust."

"Don't be silly!" Effemy hissed. "Of course we have a choice! I say, if we aren't sure, we forget the whole thing!"

"I'm not suggesting we throw ourselves to the wolves, 'Feem! Of course, let's be careful! At least until we find out who this Sir Perceval is. And why he's traveling with her. And also what she's told Sir Roland. For all we know she's blabbed her little heart out and we're already in a trap! So of course we have to be careful! But surely we can't lose our courage so soon!"

"She won't have told anyone anything," Mary Gordon said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure she's clever enough to have figured out herself, who called her here. Or why. But the Frenchman worries me. Lots of French have given up the fight against King Henry . . . even come 'round to his side. If Perceval's one of those . . . well. . . he could be a spy! Without Joan even knowing it!"

"My point exactly!" Effemy replied. "Which is why we need to think seriously about saying nothing; just being the righteous pilgrims we claim to be! Try again some other day, some other way! You of all people, Mary, have much to lose if they find out who you really are!"

"Hmmm," Mary said thoughtfully. "Sixteen years already, of waiting for another day. At this rate, he'll be too old to travel!"

"That's right!" said Annabel. "And it's not an old man we're looking to free! But as for the Frenchman . . . they do say the fighting in France has gone sour for England." She was thinking of the defeat at Bauge in March. "Maybe the king's losing the heart for battle and Sir Perceval's just what he claims to be . . . a tourist. Or . . . maybe he's a spy from the French court! In which case he'd be more eager to help our enterprise than hinder it!"

"Twice too many 'Maybes'!" said Effemy.

"Yes, Feem, we know. But we wouldn't have started this if our own safety was our biggest concern, would we! After all, whether he's winning or losing in France, King Henry would never be fool enough to expect Scotland to help him by staying quiet! Or by forgetting James! His spies are certainly out! Whether Perceval's one or not, we can only guess!"

Effemy nodded. "Well, we've a day – two at the most – to decide whether we trust Joan and risk a trap! Or travel on!"

"What I'm trying to say," Annabel hissed into the gloom, "is that if there is a trap, a day or two is exactly what we don't have!"

The silence, deep and hollow though it was, seemed in that instant to grow even deeper. The tallow candle guttered and went out, allowing the moonlight to creep slowly in. And where was Sir Angus? Having him near, on guard at the door, knowing he at least was still free, would have been a great comfort.

* * * *

In another part of the castle, Sir Roland and Lady Margaret also had their heads together, also discussing Lady Joan de Beaufort, also with a degree of puzzlement.

"Why?" Margaret was asking. "I mean, I know they're visiting holy places and all but . . . I mean the threat of weather might mean nothing to Scots, but surely . . . no English person in their right mind would choose to travel in the Welsh Marches! In October! At all, let alone with only three companions!"

"I couldn't begin to explain it!" Roland huffed. "Maybe her brother has come 'round to this mad idea, that her name will protect her. Or maybe she's so spoiled she's allowed whatever whim takes her fancy. Or maybe she's some kind of secret emissary from the king! What about that? Checking on our peasants, hoping to make us send more of them for his endless wars! Or . . . what if it's to do with your FitzAlan background? Your late brother's estates in Sussex? Maybe they want Clun back! For God's sake . . . could that be it? Is she secretly sizing it up? Looking to see if it's prosperous enough to reclaim? That sort of thing?"

Lady Margaret shook her head.

"No no no. They wouldn't risk a noble woman for that. Especially not one of her stature! Not for something one of the king's tax men or even Samuel Rowe could figure out! No, my guess is it's the war."

"Lord!" Sir Roland was becoming quite morose. "How are we supposed to live if the king goes using up all the peasants in battles?"

"Perhaps we should hide some, dear. Chase them off into the forest for a bit. Surely Rowe could see to that?"

"Oh, it's too much, really it is! Can't he see we're just getting control of things as it is? After all those years of plagues and rebellions and the damned Welsh!"

"Roland, please! No need for language!"

"Language be damned, Margaret! The place is over-flowing with bandits and thieves and beasts! Farmland giving us practically no return whatsoever! Scads of it left empty by damned peasants, dropping over because of a little plague! Well if he wants 'em, let him come an' get 'em himself! I'm not sending any more and there's an end to it! Not like I haven't work enough for 'em right here!"

Margaret nodded, as always, impressed by the vigor of her husband. Then, more thoughtfully, "It is interesting, though. The ones that do manage to come back from the war! Spoils of battle and all! Why I've heard tales of men coming back with feather beds balanced on their heads!"

"Much good that'd do 'em," muttered Roland (making a mental note to have Rowe investigate that theory). "On beaten dirt floors – puking and pissing in their sleep as they no doubt do."

There seemed no answer to their questions or to their ire. All they knew was, they'd been summoned to Clun to act as hosts to a conceited royal sprog and a poncified French bastard (with wife)! And half a tribe of Scots had coincidentally shown up on their doorstep at the same time? If that was all there was to the story, they would each eat a leather hat!

* * * *

The last threesome that the moon peaked in on was the royal sprog herself, with French bastard and wife. In the single room that they shared, they were drinking cold water from a pitcher and picking at a plate of cheese.

"Do you think I impressed them?" asked Joan. "I think I did! Or would have, if Sir Cyril hadn't let me down. Where is the blasted man? What good's a knight who's not available for a splendid show of force when needed? And what on earth was that Scottish person saying – implying James is a prisoner! How dare she speak to the king's niece like that?"

Perceval smiled. "They are a plain-speaking people, so it seems. But if I may say, Milady, much more than you may think is known of the royal court . . . in the outside world. And what people don't know . . . sometimes they imagine. Permit me also to remind you, all you have to protect you are a missing knight, my poor self and your father's name! So, I beg of you . . . walk softly."

"Softly," said Marie wearily as she slipped under the covers of the bed. "A thing for us all to do! Softly in what we say, softly in what we do. Not let our curiosity, as they say, lead us into the bramble patch." She gave Perceval a meaning look, smiled and closed her eyes.
In a little while, the moon, at the end of its night's journey, did the same.

Chapter 7 – What the Wind Discovered

Before morning came, a wind came. It wasn't a big wind yet – just strong enough to heft a line of wayward clouds down out of the north and send them skittering toward France. Clouds and kings – neither seemed able to resist the pull of France.

With rising strength, and before the sun peeped up, the wind had well and truly started a stampede in the sky. Then it dropped a cold foot down onto the Marches and the summer, weary in its age, surrendered immediately.

Among the first to notice the change were the thoroughly lost and disoriented knights, Sirs Cyril and Angus. The wind found them, still sitting astride their horses, halted at a crossroad, both shivering just inside the realm of sleep. It was said that French knights at Agincourt mounted their horses at dusk, the day before the battle, and stayed in the saddle all night, so their armour would be gleaming and clean for their slashing charge through the ranks of the English. Unhappily, spending the night with iron clad men on their backs had done nothing for the enthusiasm of the horses when that fateful day broke.

And the same was true of Angus and Cyril's horses. They were saddle horses, not great coursers born and bred to carry the weight of armed knights. They belonged to a different guild, and on this morning their shoulders ached, their backs were sore and their fetlocks were killing them. Further, it was clear that the drivers were asleep at the reins and the whole expedition had gotten beyond a joke. And now the blessed wind was starting to blow! So, sighing like an old man with a chilblain, the bay carefully lowered his knees to the roadside turf and, against all his training, allowed Sir Cyril to topple with a clank onto his face.

The sudden dislodgment gave Cyril a moment of wakefulness, but the sudden stop sent him straight back – all the way back – to the black and empty side of dreams. His backside slid slowly and gracelessly down the horse's neck and his knees wedged on either side of its head, pinning it to the ground. And there he remained, unconscious but, from all appearances, seated on the head of a bowing unhappy bay. The effect was of a two-headed creature, grazing with both its mouths.

The bay, being now too tired and disgusted to do more, snorted a puff of steamy breath out from between the unhappy knight's legs and the wind, in slightly playful spirits, wafted the loamy dampness of it gently up Sir Cyril's nostrils. He woke, though a groggy look about him and a horrible twinge of pain in his neck made him instantly regret that hasty move.

Sir Angus also had been brought flailing into consciousness by the clamor, like a frog that's fallen asleep inside a bell and been woken by the first boom of the clapper. His arms had flown out, his heels had jerked into his horse's already aching ribs and a sound, like a priest at a devils' convention, had escaped him.

"Hahh!"

Suffice it to say that, in time, the ill-guided foursome of men and horses would ride away from that lonely, shadowless crossroad, thinking of home and ease, but heading still in entirely the wrong direction.

* * * *

In the forest, Madeleine and Anwen shuddered in fitful sleep, still in the strong, but now much airier, arms of old Mr Oak. Anwen had dreamed of ravening beasts and of falling from great heights but Madeleine, her cheek pressed to the moss, had dreamed of her home and her own sleeping pallet, with her family breathing around her. They woke to the sound of snuffling and muttering on the opposite side of the trunk, a sound that gradually subsided into wet sniffles and a hardy oath. Roger Ringworm and Wild Jack Sorespot were scrabbling to the ground.

"Did they come, do ye think?" Roger was stammering. "Did ye see 'em?"

"Didn' see nothin'," Wild Jack was answering through a rasping cough. "But that don't mean nothin'! Wolves is half ghost, ye know!"

"Hope they didn' come," Roger began repeating. "Hope they didn' come. Hope they didn' find it. Hope they stayed away and didn' come."

The boys crept past the remnant of the fire, through the swirl of ash that the wind was scattering like cold, grey confetti. From under a rock, they hauled a cloth-bound object – all brown fur and limpness. A rabbit.

Madeleine was on the ground quicker than a living rabbit could have jumped away. "Youse got food!" she protested. "Youse got food and ain't sharin'?" She propped her hands on her hips and made her eyes as dangerous as she could make them. But the boys could see that the shadowy troll of last night had been reduced to just a hungry little girl this morning.

"Keep ya knickers on!" Wild Jack demanded. "Course we sharin'! We'll wanna cook it first won' we? So help fetch some sticks, an' cut yer moanin'."

"Whyn't you cook it las' night?" Anwen demanded. "If you was gonna share, whyn't ye jus' cook it then, huh? Youse want us to do the work for yez so ye can eat it all yerselves!"

"Sticks, Missy." Jack was tempted to give the girls a push, to get them moving but his aching jaw warned him off. "'Less ye wanna eat it raw!"

A new and stronger coughing spell took his breath away and he doubled over, making short, sharp barking noises, like a puppy at feeding time. Then he stood and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Rog'll help ye," he then said quietly, "won't ye, mate."

Roger nodded mildly and said, "Huh?"

"An' make it sharp! We ent gonna be 'ere long."

And, he thought to himself, we'll soon find out how brave you really are!

* * * *

The villagers, of course, rose with the birds every day of their lives, with the sole possible exceptions of the day they were born and the day they died. Young or old, if they weren't working their little family patches, they were working Sir Roland's fields. And with the sudden arrival of the northerly wind, there would be a new urgency. Winter corn had to be sown, extra sheep and pigs killed, meat salted, wood collected and chinks in the walls, where the wind cheated through, patched with new mud and dung.

When Gwenith opened her eyes, the rest of the villagers were already outside, beating their arms for warmth, peeing on middens and commenting on the racing clouds. But the pig was there, nose to nose with her, studying her features, as though trying to remember where they had met. She propped up onto her bum and wrapped her arms around its fat neck. Their girls were not at home. Maude in the castle, Maddie and Annie in the forest. And it was cold. So cold. She hugged the pig and cried, which made the pig (unaware as it was of her fondness for bacon) feel very special indeed.

A hand gently touched her on the shoulder. Gwilym had crept into the hut sometime after moonset, hoping that his presence might help her to sleep – might help allay the sense of foreboding that filled them both.

"What's happened to 'em, Gwilym?" whimpered Gwenith. "Where are they?"

In the bellies of bears, Gwilym was thinking. But he said nothing and Gwenith hugged the pig even tighter.

* * * *

Rhodri and Eustace, whose families were also tied to the cycles of the land, rose to their own beaten earth floors and draughty rooms. But boys like them, all throughout England, had something of a special status because, while knights like Sirs Cyril and Angus were still a glorious thunder in the constant storm of wars, yeomen like them, who were skilled with bows, had become the unexpected lightning. In the battles at Poitiers, Crecy and Agincourt, the arrows of boys like Eustace and Rhodri had skimmed away the cream of French knighthood. The Welsh had invented the longbow, but English hands had made it lethal. Which meant that, so long as England was at war, able boys in the villages must be granted freedom to hone their skills.

And so dawn found Eustace and Rhodri on the common, with a slurry of cold porridge in their stomachs and archery on their minds. They were shaking the summer out of their woollen cloaks, their teeth clenched against the chill wind, their thoughts having wandered from Madeleine and Anwen to a grove of distant yews. Until, that is, they spied Gwilym striding across the common toward them, pointing furiously to a space where the distant forest met the rolling sky.

"Look!" he was demanding. "Look there! D'ye see it?"

"Ahhr right!" Rhodri moaned. "Them girls is still lost, ent they!"

They looked where Gwilym pointed. They saw that the wind had hold of the tree tops and the sky was churning like froth in a milk bucket. They looked back at Gwilym.

"Aye, aye! Turned cold, alright! But them girls'd huddle up, Gwilym . . . and fetchin' 'em back home . . . that's what we're off to do, see? It's just we thought, while we's out there, we'd fetch some yew for new bows on the way, see, an' . . . ."

"Gone!" Gwilym's arm dropped slowly to his side. "It's gone." Eustace and Rhodri rolled their eyes at one another.

"What's gone, Gwilym? Summertime? It was overdue, mate, you know that! We just get about our business ye reckon?"

They began to move away, but the arm of the powerful reeve lashed suddenly out and Eustace found himself being reeled in. Gwilym's other arm was pointing again, at a distant point of the sky.

"There!" he exclaimed. "What's that, then?"

* * * *

At that moment, in the forest, the wind was playing with the smoke from Wild Jack's and Roger's coney-cooking fire. Mostly, it was spreading the smoke out, flat and thin on the forest floor, in line with Jack's wishes. But sometimes, it was whimsically twirling it up into the sky above the trees. It was these occasional faint puffs and columns that Gwilym had seen.

"Ye can't cook nothin' on that puny fire," Madeleine was saying. "It ent hot enough yet!"

"We'll be eatin' it raw then! I toldja, we ent hangin' about!"

* * * *

Dawn and the rising wind had found Lazy Davey in the stable area, forking hay to Beatrice, the milk cow. In the process though, his attention had been caught by curious embossing on a saddle. He'd only just put his fingers to it when a voice sounded behind him.

"C'est beau, n'est ce pas? Very beautiful!"

He jumped in guilty startlement. "Holy gaffers! I mean . . . sorry Milord! I . . . I wunt touchin' nothin'! Honest!"

Sir Perceval smiled broadly. "No? Then you must! Go! Go! I insist! In a country at war, strange things must become familiar, eh?" He put a hand on Davey's rough woolen-clad shoulder. "Tell me, what news does the wind bring to your stable . . . making the world grow smaller?"

"Um . . . news?"

"News. What things have begun, what do they mean, where will they end?"

Davey's mouth gaped open. Great ones seldom if ever deigned to notice stable boys, let alone lean a hand on them and chat to them about the world!

"What is your name, mon ami?"

"D-Davey, M'Lord!"

"Davey." Perceval turned him by the shoulders and peered into his eyes. "Davey, I must ask you, mon ami, to help me. The Lady Joan, she has lost her knight. Between you and me, she is very careless, non?"

Davey gulped, shook his head, nodded and decided he needed very badly to pee.

"It is Sir Cyril," Perceval explained patiently. "Large man. Face like . . . vinegar."

Davey's eyes, along with his mind, went blank.

"Very big black stallion, Davey. Maybe eating much oats?"

"Umm?"

"Yes!" Perceval's eyes twinkled with humour. "This man, my friend David . . . he has disappeared! Poof! I have come to see if his animal too has poofed."

Davey, of course, had both Cyril's and Angus's coursers still in his care. Two others were gone though. And the whole town was agog at how the knights had jaunted off into the forest without so much as a 'which path goes where?' How could they not know that forest roads could shrink subtly to narrow, winding paths and that paths could disappear between this step and that?

Their going was a story he'd clumsily told Maude only minutes before, as a sort of apology for his cruelty the night before. "They off-ed into the forest, on small horses, lookin' for Maddy an' Annie. But they never gonna find nothing, so everyone reckons. They gonna be lost theirselves. An' knights or no, the wolves gonna get 'em."

The tale had left Maude pale and trembling in the kitchen. Perceval though, received it with only a glum shake of his head before striding purposely off into the chill morning. It was a head shake that Tom the sharpener, still wrapped in his blanket, copied almost exactly as he sat up in a remote empty stall.

* * * *

Later in the morning, Joan de Beaufort excused herself from the private chambers of Sir Roland and Lady Margaret. Roland had spent hours in the night, pacing the room, pondering ways to get to the bottom of her visit.

"If I'm being used, I damn well need to know how! And for what!"

"Invite her to our chambers, dear! For a private discussion! She's a child, after all! No match for your worldly experience. If she's been sent for some secretive purpose – you'll get it out of her!"

And so they'd chatted, listened, questioned and gotten nowhere. Roland led but Joan refused to follow, chattering instead in endlessly pompous tones about her powerful relatives. Roland had become even more frustrated, assuring himself that, given the choice of besieging an honest castle or a flippant royal child, he'd choose the castle every time.

'Could be making a name for myself,' he let himself imagine. 'Blood, gore, the romance of battle! Plunder! Lots of other people – even apparently peasants – taking fortunes from the king's enemies! Why not me? Do it for England first, of course – not for pickings. For England! And glory, of course. And there would be silver! Gold! Jewels!'

When he again tuned in to the conversation, Lady Joan had moved on to talk of Henry's marriage to Catherine of Valois, daughter of France's mad king.

"Not everyone appreciates how clever Uncle Henry is, you know! At court they do, of course, people are so much more discerning there! The most forward-looking of kings, they call him! Because, you see, the French King will die soon, he's so dreadfully frail – not robust like Uncle is – and when he dies, Uncle will simply inherit France! And the war will end! Which of course will be very sad for some but a very proper outcome nonetheless! Don't you agree, Sir Roland?"

Roland nodded wearily, thinking, 'Blah! Blah! Blah! Young king, new wife, old news, blah blah blah!' And the pertinent question remained unanswered: Why was she in Clun? Was this so-called 'pilgrimage' just a cunning ruse? Or was she simply a spoiled, over-indulged, empty-headed brat who'd chattered the brains out of her feather-headed brother until, in self-defense, he'd sent her off, blind as a beggar to every danger? Either way, he'd decided by the time she left, it was safest to distance himself. Time to shift her on her way!

Lady Margaret, it turned out, was against him.

"Roland, I don't believe for a minute that she's here for pleasure! What pleasure could there be, after all, at this time of year for a fine girl like her? No, there's something else – something we're missing. I think, if anything, we should try to keep her here until we find it out!"

Roland crossed his hands behind his back and strode resentfully to the window. Accepting Joan's pilgrimage story made it easy to hurry her along. But the wind's ghostly, tuneless fluting in the long passageways of the castle and his wife's unease were drawing him back to wariness.

He looked down. In the courtyard far below, peasants, traders and craftsmen were about their business – siphoning wealth from the countryside, shifting it cartload by cartload into the bellies and pockets of great and noble people like himself! It occurred to him, not for the first time, how beautifully unchanging it all was! The centre of its own world – that's what a castle was. And at the centre of this particular centre was himself. The ruler.

Far below, Father Reginald waddled through the gate. Priests, Roland thought; at least there's one lot who can be counted on (more or less) for simple, straightforward honesty. And that was when the idea occurred to him.

"A messenger, Margaret! We'll send a messenger! To London! To the king himself! To thank him for the faith he's put in us – entrusting his niece to our care! Then at least we'll know that he knows she's here! And just in passing, we'll ask if we can expect any compensation . . . you know . . . for those peasants he went and got slaughtered! And oh ho ho! P'raps we could even convince him to let us thrash the Welsh some more! I mean, just because Glyndwr's gone doesn't mean there aren't others out there in their God-forsaken wilderness, plotting mayhem! Ha ha! What say, Margaret?"

"Ohh, my dear!" Lady Margaret smiled. "It's brilliant! A quiet reminder to him of our great sacrifices! And our great love and admiration – wishes for the Queen's health, with the new baby and all! It's delicious, Roland! But who . . . ?"

"The priest!" he declared, mightily impressed with his own luminosity. "We'll send the priest! That way, he can live off his church brethren on the journey and it won't cost us a penny!"

Margaret clasped her cold hands over her equally cold breasts and smiled broadly. The best part, in her eyes, was that a message to the king would divert any future blame from them if Joan's journey went awry. But was the priest up to such a journey? On his own? With winter in the air? Mightn't he need an escort? Who could they spare?

At that moment, there came a banging on the door and Lazy Davey, doubling now as the kitchen boy, entered with their breakfasts. Both turned appraising eyes on him. A kitchen boy, they thought at one and the same time! What more perfectly expendable item is there in a household's budget?

"You!" said Roland, fixing Davey in place with a pointing finger. "You'll pick yourself a brave and stalwart friend," (Davey blinked his eyes and thought of Hubert) "someone worthy of great honour," (Davey gulped and felt his knees begin to tremble), "someone you'd like to introduce to the court of King Henry the Fifth of England!"

A pewter pitcher of cider slipped from the corner of Davey's tray and clattered on the stone floor.

* * * *

A finger of the wind immediately scooped up that clatter and raced it away to an adjoining room to replay for Mary Gordon, Effemy and Annabel. To them, it sounded like mayhem. All turned their heads to listen. They had laid awake much of the night, preparing themselves for the danger heralded by the strange and inexplicable disappearance of Sir Angus. If, as Annabel suspected, they had walked into a trap, disposing of their knight protector would have been the first, logical act of their enemy. Disposing of the three of them, would be the second.

"We should have gone in the night!" Effemy whimpered on hearing the ruckus caused by Davey's clumsiness. "We could have taken the horses. . . . slipped away! We'd be miles off by now!"

But Mary placed her arms protectively about her.

"Hush now, Feem. We've come this far, we've risked this much. We're only women but if we have to fight . . . let's promise to make it bloody. Alright?"

"I can't tell!" Annabel said, her ear pressed to the door. "Something knocked by the wind maybe? If they were coming, surely they'd've come in the night!"

"We've nothing but 'maybes'!" Effemy cried. And she was right!

* * * *

The wind had also seen Myfanwy's friend, Tom the sharpener, ambling away into the forest on a middle-aged mare that he'd borrowed from the stable. The wind and various villagers watched with bemusement as he went, down the self-same path taken by the lost knights.

Myfanwy, the Cunning Woman, saw him go from her vantage in a storm-tousled meadow near the castle. She'd been studying the clouds. Storms and sudden changes in the weather carried omens which sometimes were revealed to her. Today, though, the wind merely flicked her skirts, preferring to keep its secrets to itself.

One of those secrets, it was keeping from Brenton LeGros. He had jumped stiffly down from his perch in the oak and broken a stout staff from a fallen limb.

"Now where have you wolves gone?" he'd wondered aloud.

The wind had swirled about his muscular arms and, though that was a thing it knew, it refused to tell.

Chapter 8 – Into the Forest

Wild Jack Sorespot's and Roger Ringworm's rabbit, skinned, spitted and barely roasted, had provided little more than two bites and a bone to suck for each. The intention had been to cook it after nightfall, when smoke from the fire would be invisible. Madeleine's fist, followed by the cry of the wolves, had spoiled that plan. The morning cold, however, and empty bellies had made them desperate.

"Gotta get goin'!" Jack was insisting as he spread the ashes. "Reeve'll be onto that smoke!"

"You better know he will!" Madeleine croaked. "So you boys let us go now, 'cause if 'e catches ye, ye'll be sorrier'n rats in a barn full o' terriers!"

"Huh?" said Roger and shook his head rapidly.

"'At's right!" Anwen boldly lied. "He's already killed 'bout a hundred wild boys for interferin' wi' me 'n' Maddie!"

And Jack, to their sudden astonishment, unexpectedly agreed. The blow Madeleine had given him, combined with the threats of wolves and the reeve, had convinced him that the effort of dragging girls along through the forest was too great. They would have to come of their own free will or not come at all.

"Righteo," he said. "You ain' gonna be any help anyways. Thought youse might be able to help with a bad problem is all. My mistake."

The girls were gob-smacked. They could go? But which way? In this part of the forest, all directions looked the same. Then Jack added pointedly, "'At's right! Ye gotta find yer own road! 'Cause we ain' ever goin' yer way. Youse mind out for them wolves, mind. Reckon they'll be even hungrier'n we are this mornin'!"

Roger nodded happily and, turning his face to the sky, launched a not quite credible imitation of a wolf's howl. "Owooooooooo!"

It was quickly cut short when Jack reached out and slapped the back of his head. "What're ye doin', Rog'? Have ye got any idea what you might be sayin' in wolf talk? Could be tellin' 'em to come over here an' eat yer stupid self, for all you know! Jus' keep quiet, why doncha!"

Roger's mouth sagged open, his single peg glistening in the early light. Madeleine and Anwen stepped a step closer to one another and clasped hands. All four strained their ears for an answering call. None came.

It was Anwen's turn for outrage.

"What's goin' on wi' you boys? Why'd ye bring us here? Now we're lost in the forest wi' two no-good boyos an' don' know which way's to go!"

If she'd been a crying sort of person (and she was), this would have been a time for tears. She held them back as best she could, allowing instead, in the strange way of things, for her anger to focus on her father. He'd had hours to find them! Why wasn't he walking into this clearing right now and sending these boys running for their scrawny lives? Had he really come good on his threat and washed his hands of them?

Jack was in no way moved.

"Don't think for a minute that we's lost, missy!" he snarled. "We knows 'zackly where we are. An' don' start bawlin', neither! We wuz never gonna hurt yez. We wuz jus' thinkin' ye might be able to give some help with somethin' important! But now we see youse are too little an' too up yer towny ways to make yerselves useful. So go on, then! Get off!"

He began to cough again, doubled over, barking uncontrollably at the ground. Madeleine and Anwen looked at one another. Madeleine's back straightened noticeably and Anwen quickly wiped away all trace of tears. 'Too little?' their gazes said. 'Us?' Both Madeleine and Anwen would have been hard pressed to imagine challenges that they were 'too little' for. Girls their age were often married, with at least one child and running a family! No fault of theirs that they were still in their father's house! Jack's comment only showed how ignorant and wild he really was!

"Help ye do what?" Madeleine demanded.

* * * *

Some distance away, Brenton LeGros, in his quiet uncomplaining way, had begun his trek back to the peace of his life in Clun; none the worse for a night in a tree and with a sturdy new staff for his troubles. But a strange, unwolfly wolf howl, just moments before it would be lost to all hearing, managed a faint tap on his eardrum.

He stopped and listened. It wasn't repeated. Sssshhh, the wind in the trees seemed to be saying. Can't tell – can't tell!

It wasn't an answer Brenton appreciated. Along with the far-off cries of girls that he'd heard yesterday, that cry was altogether too odd indeed! And so, with a good-natured nod to himself, he decided to investigate just a little further. In much the same way as, off in a different direction, a large grey timber wolf and his two smaller black mates made the same decision.

* * * *

As for Sirs Cyril and Angus, they were farther than ever from Clun. The road had narrowed to a woodland path and the path had wound over hill and dale, through streams and marshes, crossing so many other paths that they finally were completely flummoxed. At one intersection, they saw a stake driven into the ground with a number of human-like bones around it; a reminder of at least one of the options for justice in this wild corner of England. Sir Angus wagged his head and his hand went unconsciously to the hilt of his sword.

"Can't be many travelers get to see that message, you wouldn't think."

"Mmm," said 'Sir Cyril. "Some beggarly serfs, no doubt. Thinking themselves up for a bit o' bedlam on the King's highway." He put a finger to a nostril and blew snot. "Be a pleasure to meet 'em, I'd say!"

"Well," said Sir Angus, "Pleasure or no, if we don't meet a proper signpost soon, our own bones'll be as bare as these! I'm so hungry I could eat this miserable horse."

The horse snuffled and shook its head. A watcher in the forest (and there was a watcher in the forest) could have seen it roll its eyes, wondering (as, indeed, the watcher in the forest was wondering) at the carelessness of knights who wandered so far from stable and feed.

* * * *

Several miles behind, Tom the sharpener rode pensively along. His ancient mare was a horse no self-respecting knight would have ridden, but she knew the trails and that made her ideally suited to Tom's purpose. He liked her well enough to have started a lively one-sided conversation with her.

"Two questions for you, Dobbin. First – and your honest opinion, mind – is it a fool's errand I'm on? Or am I, at long last, really going to find him?"

Dobbin lifted her head, glanced to left and right, and nickered softly.

"Ahh," said Tom, also glancing to the left and right. "Well . . . I hope you're wrong about that! Second question, then. And again, be truthful, Dobbin. I won't hold it against you." He patted her neck gently and added, "I only ask because . . . well, I've been a long time away from these forest trails, you understand. And the trees are all beginning to look the same! So! The question is, Dobbin, will you know your way home again?"

This time, Dobbin offered no comment, which Tom chose to take as the indignant silence of one who's been insulted. In truth, Dobbin's mind had simply wandered away into daydreams of a leggy stallion who'd winked at her yesterday while grazing on the common. Not that any of that was going to matter in the immediate future.

* * * *

On an altogether different forest path, Gwilym, Rhodri and Eustace each took a last opportunity to glance behind them. The next time they looked, they knew, the cleared fields around Clun would be hidden by trees.

None of these three was a woodsman. Despite Gwilym's high position as reeve and the small status the other two had gained as archers, they were farmers at heart. They sometimes skirted the edges of the forest to gather acorns or poach a deer or gather firewood. They sometimes even ventured a little way in to gather special woods, like the yew for bows, or beech, which was protected by law except as a source for arrows.

They knew its uses, alright. But they also knew many reasons to avoid it. Terrible beasts lurked there. And impish woodland fairies whose spells could lead folk to terrible dooms. The trees themselves, it was told, could whisper madness into men's minds and the great magician, Merlin, it was said, was alive in the soul of some nameless tree out there. People who entered his forest risked never seeing their homes again.

In short, Gwilym himself would never ordinarily have walked beyond the known paths. And were it not for his threat of violence, neither would Eustace nor Rhodri, both of whom already had arrows notched to their weapons.

"How we gonna know if we're going the right way?" Rhodri whispered.

"Sshh!" hissed Gwilym. They turned away from the comforting sight of Clun.

Ssssshhhhhh, the trees echoed and blanked out the sky above them.

Chapter 9 – Locked In

Back in the town, work was continuing, as it must if folks were to survive the coming winter. None in the village had trouble remembering visits from the season's oldest friend – Famine. And none had doubts that Gwilym's organizational skills, his record keeping and his supervision were essential in staving off that visit. Not even lost girls would be allowed, for long, to keep him away.

Up in the castle, Jenny Talbot had sent Maude and Branwen off early to work in the buttery. Roland and Margaret loved their butter, expected their butter. Someone had to skim cream from the milk and work over the churn 'til their back ached. The sole advantages for Maude and Branwen were that they got to dip their fingers in the cream and whisper to their hearts' content, their imaginings about the fates of Madeleine and Anwen.

"The fairies will've took 'em!" Branwen declared, wide-eyed with conviction. "Stole their mem'ries an' locked 'em up inside trees! That's what they do, Maudie! That's what the creakin' is in the forest when the wind blows! Children, locked up in trees, cryin' out to 'ave their mem'ries back!"

Eventually, having well and truly salted the new butter with their tears and reached a quiet point of near exhaustion, they crept into an empty stall and lay down to rest. Branwen settled almost immediately into a deep sleep. But Maude hadn't slept properly in days. First there'd been her father's ham-fisted approach to marrying off his daughters. Then her dreams had started showing up in broad daylight, as bold as thieves! And now, not only had she been stolen away into the service of nobility . . . her sisters had been stolen away by wicked fairies! How could she sleep with such calamities lurking just behind the blink of an eye?

And so, as Branwen slept, Maude sat in the prickly straw, her back to the ancient wood of the stall, and cried. She didn't know if she fully believed in the fairy trick of locking children into trees. But she did truly believe that the souls of lonely or lost or weak people could be sucked slowly away into oblivion. Which, oddly, gave her hope for Annie and Maddie because, though they were lost, neither was the least bit weak or lonely! But what of her helpless, hopeless self? There were times when she wondered if her own spirit hadn't already been latched onto by something leech-like and cruel.

She was in that nightmarish reverie when, of a sudden, a voice cried out. "Three horses! Three fine horses!" It was Lazy Davey's voice. "Important messages! Important people! Straight away for London! Straight away for King Henry!"

Branwen snapped immediately into wakefulness and Maude clapped a hand over her mouth. Sshhh! The last thing she needed was to have Lazy Davey's mean, bug-eyed, wet-nosed beliefs dumped on her.

"Blather, blather, blather," she mouthed silently, following his harness rattling and gate slamming all the way to the neighbouring stall,.

"Three of you! Out now! Quick quick! Look lively, fat lizzies! Who's for a journey, then? No no! No back-chat if you please! Sir Roland's orders is all I can tell you! Me 'n' Hubert 'n' Father Reginald! 'At's all I can tell you! Secret secret! Off to London, 'at's all I can tell you! Take a message to the king! Very dangerous work, so no cowardies, please!"

Through a space in the timber they could see his head, nodding like a reed in a fast flowing stream. "Oh aye, wind's up! Storm's a-brewing! D'ye hear it?" He cocked his ear to listen and, for a moment, there was quiet, as though the wind had paused with its own ear to the door, to listen back.

And with that, Branwen could stand it no longer. She burst to her feet.

"Davey Dodd, ye daft doodle! What're ye jabberin' about?"

The shout startled him first into stillness and then into defiance.

"Why're youse hidin' there? Jenny Talbot know youse're shirkin' 'stead o' workin'?"

"What would you know o' workin'? Yer too lazy to pull yer dinky out for a pee!"

"Am not! An' you oughtn't talk to me like that! I got important business for Sir Roland! I been up the keep for a chat, I have! Got me set to carry messages! Secret messages! All the way to London, if you mus' know! Me 'n' Hubert 'n' Father Reginald!"

"No one with half a thought would trust you to carry a message, Davey – no, nor Father Reginald nor Hubert neither! Not from one room to the next, let alone to London! You bin dipping into Mister Rowe's cider barrel, you have!"

"Have not! You just . . . it's nothin' girls'd understand, is what! So don' go botherin' yer stupid heads! Or better yet, get outta my stable – back to the kitchen an, scour some pots!"

His nose-wrinkling sarcasm was almost enough to draw Maude out of her funk.

"Why you wanna be sayin' things like that, Davey? Mrs Talbot put us to workin' here an' she got every right! An' it in't your stable, neither!"

"Thinks he's better'n us," Branwen sneered, turning her back on Davey. "An' him the biggest liar in Shropshire. As if Sir Roland'd let out three horses! To Father Reginald, for one, who never rode nothin' bigger'n a donkey an' is flat out stayin' on that wi'out draggin' 'is feet! An' 'orses for two boys who've barely learned to wipe their bums, let alone look after proper animals? For a long journey, is it? Wi' storms coming down from the mountains? Is that what you're saying then, Davey Duck-brain? Have I got that right?"

Maude and Branwen saw Davey's head fall finally still and could almost hear the "gulp" as the strangeness of situation finally became clear to him.

"Ye don' think someone could be 'avin' a lend of ye, do ye?" Branwen's voice was so laden with disdain it virtually had to crawl the distance between them. "Maybe ye should stick to kissin' Mister Rowe's bum, Davey! 'Stead o' listenin' to what it says to ye! Ye big fart-sniffer!"

Davey had no defenses against the verbal barbs of girls. Happily for him, though, before a whimper could escape him, Father Reginald arrived, almost as breathless as Davey had been, and spluttered out his need for access to the buttery.

"Cheeses! Lots of cheeses! Hubert's getting bread and wine an' I'm getting cheeses! What animals have we got, young David? Oh! Hello girls!"

He tapped the side of his nose.

"Not a word now, there's good children. Not at liberty to speak of it! Message to the king, that's all I can say – just between us four! Very important doin's in Clun! King's got to be told straight away!"

Davey made a self-satisfied, told-you-so face and rattled a fistful of harness at the girls.

"No no no!" Father Reginald brayed. "Never do! Never do!" He was looking up at the row of high horsey rumps. "My donkey for me. Humble as the Lord, that's me!"

As he was speaking, Branwen glared jealously at Davey but Maude's focus fell away into some invisibly distant spot. She only faintly heard Branwen saying, "Maybe we could find a sheep for you to ride, Davey, ye spotty big knob!" And she followed wholly by instinct when Branwen snatched at her sleeve. What she was seeing was her own formless certainty that those three would never get to meet the king. Or even to see London.

Chapter 10 – The Scottish Connection

High in the castle's keep, Lady Joan had been invited to Mary Gordon's room for a private chat. Dangerous information was about to be exchanged. They'd started with tense politeness – the change in the weather, their recent journeys, the inexplicable absence of a pair of knights.

"Knowing Sir Angus, I expect it'll be a mission of chivalry, Lady Joan."

"Inexcusable, by any account! To go off without my permission! Uncle Henry shall hear!"

"Aah! And speaking of hearing, Lady Joan, we hoped we could speak about a . . . situation, shall we call it . . . that is much discussed in the north."

Joan cocked her head. Her frown faded into puzzled bemusement and she turned away, finding invisible dust to brush from her dress.

"There's no need to be frightened," Mary continued. "Because what I have to tell you is that . . . like you, we, also, are not . . . accidental visitors to Clun."

"Frightened? I'm sure I don't know what you mean, madam. What have I to fear?" It was a suggestion Sir Perceval had also made and not explained. "Perhaps if you were to speak more plainly!"

Eluding prying eyes and listening ears at court had become so second nature to her that the mere request for clarity sent chills of terror through her. In fact, she was fairly certain she knew exactly what Mary was leading up to. She remembered clearly the mysterious appearance of the message in her bedchamber in London.

"Find reason to travel to Shrewsbury for Saint Crispin's Day," it had said. "At Castle Clun, you will hear news to your advantage. Tell no one of this message. Scotland's rightful king will thank you." And it was signed, "A Friend in Trust."

"Very well," Mary Gordon replied, drawing a deep breath. "I will speak plainly . . . dangerous though it is for all of us. The fact is, my friends and I have come to Shropshire – to Clun – with the express purpose of meeting you, Lady Joan. To speak to you," (she glanced at her friends, deciding at last to risk all) "about love. And destiny. And kings!"

Joan's mouth opened but her breath was stopped in her throat. Kings! Plural! So this was truly it, then! Only the most stealthy and political of observers would know that she was in the very privileged position of knowing and loving two kings. One, obviously, was her uncle, King Henry V of England, who she loved in the way that a fatherless girl loves a kind protector – earnestly, gratefully and thoughtfully. The other, hidden love was for the long-suffering 'guest' of the English court, James Stewart – acknowledged, but uncrowned, as the rightful king of Scotland. Him, she loved passionately, secretly, and too recklessly by half.

"I think, from your expression, Lady Joan," said Mary, "that you know what . . . and who . . . I'm speaking about. And if that's true, then I expect you could go on to guess why we have . . . 'happened' upon you . . . here in Clun. And why our lives are now in your hands."

* * * *

James Stewart. Captured by pirates as a boy, delivered into the English court, held in limbo – the murderous uncle who'd been responsible for his flight, content to leave him in enemy hands. Years had passed. Sixteen of them. James had grown into splendid manhood and become, for all intents and purposes, simply a charming, intelligent and witty guest who never went home. The question of returning to Scotland had fallen, it seemed, even out of his own mind. And then he'd met Joan de Beaufort!

Loyal Scottish spies in the English court had found sudden hope. They had searched long and hard for some incentive – something that would spur him to reclaim his throne, deal with the usurper and take up his royal responsibilities. And finally . . . what better tool to break the silken bond of the English court than the prickly and provocative bond of love?

And so, a plan had been hatched, targeting Lady Joan, to test her ambitions as much as her love. A whisper from her in James' ear, after all, might remind him that his uncle, the Duke of Albany, held the throne by treachery! Might persuade him that Scotland needed him! Might dare him to step up to his birthright! Might make her queen to his king.

If she could do those things, maybe he would cease to be a guest in a foreign house and become master in his own.

* * * *

"The message was from you?" Joan finally managed to gasp. She drew forth a much creased paper, the very note, and read it aloud, though she'd memorized it forty readings ago.

" 'Find reason to travel to Shrewsbury. At Clun Castle,' she glanced up at them in wonder, 'you will hear news to your advantage! Scotland's rightful king will thank you. A Friend in Trust'. 'A Friend in Trust' is you?"

Mary's confirmation was delayed as Effemy burst in.

"Milady! I expect a friend in trust, if such was in the room, would be pleased to hear your thoughts on `Scotland's rightful king'! Who do you suppose that to be?"

And finally the man's name was spoken. "Why James Stewart of course! It can be no other."

The three Scottish girls looked at one another, then back to Joan.

"Milady," said Mary. "The Duke in Edinburgh is dying. Even so, his spies are everywhere – as, no doubt, are King Henry's. So you must absolutely understand how much danger we put ourselves in – yourself included – if we speak more of this! For all we know, treachery is already afoot! Sirs Angus and Cyril are missing. Why, we can only guess. So let's not mislead each other! Scotland, after all, is a country to which you have no natural allegiance!"

Joan's lips compressed into a thin line.

"Of course the king has spies – throughout England and probably Scotland, as well! But I'm here. And I'm not afraid. And I assure you, I'd risk everything to help James Stewart.

"But, while we're being honest, you should know that this cause is lost already. He won't go! I've asked him – asked him why, with all the freedom he's given – why he hasn't simply turned his horse's head toward Edinburgh and ridden away!

"'I'm trusted to stay!' he says. 'If I repaid trust with treachery – how worthy a king would I be!' His honour, you see, is worth more to him than kingdoms! He will not go."

"Hmph!" Mary harrumphed wryly. "Men and their honour! You know, sixty years ago, King Jean of France became a 'guest', as James has, in the English court. The Black Prince captured him at Poitiers, surrounded by slaughtered knights who'd died to protect him. Four years later, ransom details in place, he went home. But his countrymen dilly-dallied over paying the fee. So he mounted his horse and returned to England – in the name of his 'honour'! Where he died! I wonder if that was really what his people needed from him!"

She wagged her head in genuine bemusement. "We're women. We speak of practicalities. Let men quibble about honour."

Joan looked doubtful and Annabel took up the argument.

"Pride! It's the one thing they think needs no explaining. But men can be made prisoners to many other things, as well. So let us think as women. Our problem is that James is a great ship, becalmed in a foreign port. What would persuade him to unfurl his sails?"

"A little wind," Effemy said softly. "Only a little wind . . . in his ear. And that wind must not ask him! It must tell him! It must say, 'If you insist on being a prisoner, James Stewart, be a prisoner to your destiny. Be what you were born to be! Nothing less! Begone from this place.' Milady, we can help you make a plan."

Joan drew a deep breath and composed herself. If she did this, would her uncle the king, or even James himself, ever forgive her? The Scottish girls, in defiance of all good sense, went on to reveal secrets that were better left unsaid. Completely unaware that, moments earlier, a small, keen ear had drifted to a halt against the thick wood of their door.

* * * *

The listening ear was on the half-empty head of an overly inquisitive chambermaid Lady Margaret had brought from Herefordshire – Susan by name. Within the hour she was in the private chambers, gasping out a garbled version of what she thought she'd overheard.

"It's women's plotting, Milord! To take men prisoners on a great ship which is set to sail as soon as the wind rises, Milord!"

"Ship? What ship? We're in the middle of the mountains, you ninny!"

"Milord, I can't tell! Maybe a ship called James Stewart, I think! Maybe a ghost ship! 'Begone from this place' I heard one of the Scots say and it sounded so like a witch's spell! And I was so affrighted I had to run away, Milord!"

And within the same hour Sir Roland, unsure how to make any sense of the story, had decided on the manly approach, which was to summon their male companion, Sir Perceval de Coucy.

"Must speak with you, Sir Perceval. Man to man, you understand. Yes. Most regrettable. Checking on rumours. Whispered about in the castle. No truth in them, of course, but . . . you know. Must check. Word is, our Scottish guests may've been . . . currying favour, if you will . . . with Lady Joan. Young woman like that – no more than a girl, really! Not experienced. Not worldly, like us men. Not aware of the dangers. What do you think? On the honour of a knight. She spoken to you about her purpose in the Marches?"

Margaret arrived, thin-lipped and frowning, in the middle of Roland's stunted inquiry. He'd sent for her at the last minute, pulling her away from her supervisory routines and she resented it. Man-talk was so tedious. Nevertheless, she was there.

"Sit," Sir Roland commanded her, and she did. Then, to Sir Perceval, he barked, "Your answer, Sir?"

"My Lord," Perceval began, bowing ever so slightly from the waist. "Madame," he repeated the bow in Margaret's direction; "allow me first to compliment you on your most generous hospitality. When we accepted Lady Joan's invitation to travel to this place, we expected only primitive fare. But here we find . . . a sophisticated lady!" He bowed again and gave his most winning smile. "And," he added, bowing again to Sir Roland, "her most chivalrous lord – living in a great fortress."

Margaret's frosty outlook began instantly to melt, but Roland was immune to flattery. "Save that!" he snapped. "What of my question?"

Perceval bowed again and said, "Lady Margaret, I apologize for taking you from your duties. My wife and I are far from our home in Burgundy . . . a part of France which, you know, views with favour the ambitions of King Henry. France, I fear, grows weary and poor under King Charles. He is mad, you know. He cannot rule."

Margaret reached out a sympathetic hand, as though to stop his speech, but Perceval persisted.

"No, madame," he said. "I must be truthful. Forgive me. It is not my place to speak of kings. But the times, they change. Your king marries our princess – Katherine of Valois – a daughter of his enemy. Together, with God's help, they will make a son! I tell you, this is a plan worthy of a Frenchman, Madame! A plan to bring an end to the wars! My wife and I, we travel in England, you know . . . with this hope. That like your king . . . we, also, can make a friend of our enemy. Eh voila! Only love remains!"

"Of course! Of course!" Margaret simpered. "And you are welcome to this humble frontier, Sir Perceval."

"Rrrrr!" snarled Roland. "My question, Sir!"

Perceval nodded, content to have earned himself time to compose a careful response.

"I only speak so, Sir Roland, to assure you of my . . . friendship. You speak to me of rumours. Better than I, you know how rumours and castles go together, eh? Like oil and vinegar. But these rumours, when they speak of dangers for great ladies, we must listen. Because this, we cannot permit. No, no, no! Lady Joan must be safeguarded! At all costs!

"And so . . . to speak plainly!" He shrugged dramatically and drew a deep breath, as though forcing himself to proceed. "My wife and I . . . we are not confidantes of the lady. No no! Traveling companions only! With a devout young woman who visits the holy places. If there was fear, I think it would be fear of the mystery of the holy saints. But still . . . I see no fear. And yet, Sir Roland, you speak truly and plainly. She is a child. If rumour tells that these others present a danger to Lady Joan . . . and to yourselves . . . !"

The mouth of Lady Margaret dropped open and her hands flew to her throat.

"To us? What possible danger could they be to us?"

"Madame," said Perceval, going down on one knee, the better to look directly into her eyes, "the dangers in rumours are unknown. But I give you my promise! On my knight's honour, I will watch over Lady Joan and your most noble selves. My all, I give. You may rely on me, Lady Margaret. As you English say, if there is smoke, we must prepare for fire."

Roland's brow furrowed. Had his question been answered? He couldn't tell.

Chapter 11 – Under Attack

In the end, Madeleine and Anwen had little choice but to follow Wild Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm. Their fear of being lost in the forest might've been overcome, but their combined refusal to be labeled as 'useless' was absolute. Though they were not usually allies in family quarrels, here in the forest, alliance was strength. Together, they could easily prove their worth to anyone – let alone two no-good, forest-dwelling pig stealers. So, when the boys set off walking, the girls fell in behind.

Roger went first, jabbering away constantly and unintelligibly to himself. With a whippy stick, he batted aside ferns and nettles, tapped the trunks of trees and slashed at the tricking wind. Jack walked mostly in silence though his cough seemed to get deeper, hollower and more frequent, even as he clutched his arms across his chest for warmth.

To Madeleine's earlier question, about what help the boys needed, Jack had been offhand and indirect. "Youse ever been away to somewhere interestin'?" he'd asked. "I mean maybe even just down the road a speck, to some place where there's other people?"

"Course not!" Madeleine had said bitterly. "Didn' you notice? We're only girls! Girls don' get to go nowhere! Anyways, where would we go? Not like there's market towns 'round every corner, is it!"

"An' also," Anwen chipped in, "we got no time for waddlin' 'round the country like a pair o' lost ducks! There's work to be doin' – work we should be doin' right now! So your 'interestin' place better not be far!"

Madeleine took up the argument as they walked. "'At's right! We could be visitin' up to the castle right now, ye know! 'At's where our sister is! Maybe havin' some nice oatmeal cakes or tendin' warm, cozy fires in the kitchen. 'Stead o' walkin' Lord knows where in the forest in freezin' cold."

Jack coughed and spat a thin stream of bitter fluid.

"You mean ye could be waddlin' 'round the village, like a pair o' tame ducks, workin' yer lives away for a fat lord who don' give a chicken's squirt about yez. I'm sure we could all be doin' that! Well, me 'n' Roger, we got real responsibilities!"

They began to press him, and he seemed about to tell more. "There's other places, that's all. An' other people! Important people! People who mean somethin'! People who make a difference!"

Madeleine had already raised a derisive finger – who of importance could a homeless pig-stealer know? – when he stopped – so suddenly that she bumped into him. And found a stinking hand clapped over her mouth. Earth, perspiration, ash. And also, suddenly, the smell of fear.

* * * *

The trail, though still under the canopy of trees, had become a blind one, winding around huge, moss-covered boulders, and the world had gone quiet. No birds. No insects. No Roger. Not in sight, not in hearing. Perhaps a hush of leftover wind, combing the uppermost leaves. Nothing more. A cold, eerie stillness of waiting. The girls instinctively reached out for one another. Jack, so softly that even they could barely hear, said, "Rog'?"

Nothing. He raised a foot, moved it forward, put it down. Back foot forward, put it down. "Rog'?" Nothing. A dozen more, step by excruciating, leaf-crunching step – around a boulder, away from the girls. And there he was. Stone-still, his mouth sagging open. His whippy stick held up before him, like a thin flag. His eyes fixed on the top of a house-sized boulder, some yards ahead where sat, in majestic stillness, a grey wolf.

Jack's heart rate spurred from a canter to a gallop. The wolf was large. Its ears erect. Head, massive; snout, pointy and black. Eyes, yellow. And fearless. Jack had seen dogs that'd cringe if you raised a stick in their direction. And he'd seen others that, if you raised a stick, would take a step toward you and look you in the eye, as if to say, "Think twice, my friend." Gathering all his courage and a great breath into his aching lungs, he burst into his mightiest roar, leaping in the air, flinging his arms wide and shouting, "Raaaaaaaaaahrrrrr!"

The wolf's gaze flicked over to him. No other movement; just the eyes. It didn't stand, didn't bare its teeth, didn't make a sound. It was part of the boulder, part of the forest, part of the earth. A tuft of hair on its immense shoulders ruffled slightly and Jack had a sudden sense of what a rabbit might feel if it woke to find itself locked in a box with a fox.

Somewhere behind, he heard one of the girls call timidly. "Jack? You foolin'? That's not funny, Jack!"

Then came the unmistakable sense of a trap being sprung. Around the base of the boulder on which the wolf sat, one from either side, stepped two more wolves. Black wolves. Snarling wolves. Their hackles high, their heads low. Roger Ringworm exploded into a blur of motion, spinning and running, out of sight almost before the whippy stick hit the ground. He passed the girls, a churning arc of terror, and they, without any further incentive, shot after him in pursuit.

Lagging far behind, already gasping and grimacing, his inflamed chest howling with failure, his throat spasming, limped Jack. Knowing, deep in his guts, that the best speed he – perhaps any of them – could muster would not be nearly enough.

Weapons would be enough. If only . . . we had . . . weapons. And he felt, long before the wolves were even close, the piercing impact of fangs slicing through the back of his neck.

Roger, however, had no such thought. For all his gormless gabbling and slashing at the wind, he did have a canny eye for secret places. The moment he'd seen the first wolf, an image had flicked into his mind; a helter-skelter tumble of boulders not half a hundred yards back down the path where a recent rock fall had mangled a stand of poplars. The tangle of stone and wood was rich with deep, dark clefts and it was into one of these that he dove, followed instantly by the two tumbling, headlong girls. They were lucky. Jack was less so.

The fangs of a wolf are long and strong, and the calf, even of a thin boy, is a thick slab of meat. The one locked onto the other at the precise moment Jack's head made it into the narrow cleft. His momentum stopped. His chest slammed onto the rocks, knocking him breathless. And the wolf, secure in its grip, began to drag. It was a sort of precise inevitability.

For Madeleine, looking back, everything became an absolute, unstoppable spin of sensation: the bang of bones on rock, the sight of blood, the scent of animal, the flash of fangs – a second beast, bounding up behind. She should have been terrified. But for just that moment, fear wasn't in her. Absolute denial was. It flooded and over-filled her mind, spilled into her and out of her, toppled her, rolled her and blinded her with rage. She became, as so often happens to people in peril, the embodiment of all contradiction, flailing at the world's unfairness, her wordless screams of defiance clattering like a shower of glass out over the wolf.

"Jack!" she screamed, flinging herself heedlessly onto on his back, locking her arms under his, filling her fists with the thin rags of his clothing. Less than an arm's length away, the pitiless eyes of a black wolf locked on hers. With clearly no intention of letting her win.

A dagger-sized stick found its way into her hand and she lashed out. An arm-juddering jolt of wood on bone. A yelp of surprise. A deep cut sagged opened on the wolf's cheek and two bloody furrows opened up in Jack's calf. She dropped the stick and held, even as a madness ignited in the animal's eyes. It shook free of Jack and leaned in, preparing to lunge – to take that little screaming face in its jaws. But before its decision became action she, with her fists full of the fabric of Jack's trousers, threw herself backward.

She hauled and slung and wrenched, screaming all the while, until the semi-conscious, homeless pig-stealing boy was fully atop her in the crevice and the pair was hard up against Anwen. Roger, the furthest in, was flinging frenzied handfuls of pebbles and sticks across them and she reached to calm him. Only Anwen was still. With stone at her back, with Madeleine ramming in from the left and Roger pounding out from the right, she'd folded her hands over her face and tried to concentrate on Madeleine's repeated gasping mantra: "We're alright! We're alright."

No we're not, she was thinking. We're very, very far from alright. An entire hillside had been cracked away, a stone had been split and a gap made, at the front of which was death and at the back of which was darkness. And they had been put in it. It made no sense!

* * * *

Sirs Cyril and Angus were not men accustomed to wandering with no hope of arriving. Around noon, at one of a myriad of shallow streams, they dismounted to drink and consider their plight. It was a grassy-bottomed stream, clear and cold, with trees hard up to it on either side, narrow enough for a good hound to leap over. They dropped to hands and knees to drink and immerse their heads, hoping to wash away the befuddlement of endless trees and hills. When they lifted their heads two men were standing on the opposite side, not a dozen paces away.

Old men, grey-bearded and grizzled, leaning on heavy staves; in leather boots and woollen capes the colour of shadows. Foresters, perhaps. Or perhaps ones who had something to do with the bones at the crossroad. Both had unstrung longbows and bundles of arrows strapped to their backs.

Sirs Angus and Cyril rose slowly and each, through long habit, dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. One of the men immediately doffed his cap, revealing an all but bald dome, and smiled, revealing a bare, pink set of gums. The other remained expressionless and still.

"Gentlemen," the smiling one said, bowing and swinging his hat in a grand gesture: "for I see by your expensive clothing and smartly polished weapons that you are, indeed, gentlemen. You see, standing before you, the one and only Jeremy Talbot, and the other one and only, Richard of Wrexham. Silent Richard, we calls 'im – a grumpier man you'll not meet this side o' the Irish Sea. Am I right, Richard?"

The one called Richard neither answered nor moved. The one called Jeremy continued on. "Richard was just pointin' out to me that you was drinkin' from this 'ere stream. Isn't that right, Richard?"

Richard's head performed a slow nod that didn't interrupt the intensity of his gaze. Sirs Angus and Cyril returned the gaze and echoed Richard's silence. A pair of madmen, they were thinking. On an ordinary day in the city, they'd see them off at the end of a boot. But they weren't in the city. And this wasn't an ordinary day.

"We was wonderin', me 'n' Richard, if the water was to your likin', gentlemen. Tell us truly, now. What did you think?"

Angus and Cyril exchanged glances. Cyril actually thought about ordering the fellows to mind their cheeky tongues and move along. But Angus had had enough of this adventure and, if a token courtesy was required in exchange for some directions, he would give it.

"The water was refreshing," he answered evenly.

"Was it now?" Jeremy enthused. "Did you hear that, Richard? Refreshin'! The gentleman says the water was refreshin'! That's grand, isn't it?" Richard remained silent, leaning heavily on his staff, his gaze unwavering, his expression unreadable.

"And we find that very interestin', we do. Because you see . . ." – the smile slid off Jeremy's face, like pants falling off a bum – ". . . this 'ere ben't a gentlemen's stream! Do ye see what I mean? This 'ere be a plain folk stream! Seems you passed by the gentlemen's stream some way back. Didn' they, Richard? And we noticed, you never drunk there."

"Heads," Silent Richard croaked out of the side of his mouth.

"Heads," Jeremy repeated and nodded his own. "It's with sadness that me friend, Richard, points out – you didn't dunk your 'eads in the gentlemen's stream, neither. But you did put yer dirty old sconces in this poor man's stream."

Sirs Angus and Cyril had heard quite enough to realise that no help would be coming from these two and that, while it would bring no honour to thrash such ancient fellows, indeed, a threat of just that might be in order. Their two gleaming swords sang out of their scabbards. Neither doubted that the saucy greybeards would scamper off into the forest rather than face two young, well-armed, out-of-patience soldiers of the king. Jeremy's smile returned.

"Now look you there, Richard!" he sighed with apparent pleasure, using his sleeve to wipe spittle from his chin. "The gentlemens're offerin' to pay for their drink! And for puttin' their dirty old Sassenach heads in our stream! Seems they want to give us them nice swords! Either that or we'd have to think they was addin' an insult to the injury they already done us plain folk. An' that'd be enough to make this a very disappointin' day for me. What about you, Richard?"

"We'll happily give you our swords," growled Sir Cyril, now well past being amused. "And we'll give this poor man's stream a bit of poor man's blood to carry down to the sea. Come you across, old men, and receive our blades."

Jeremy's smile didn't waver. "Well, and so we will, kind sirs. Come across we will, to receive them nice swords – an' also them nice little horses you was about to offer us, as well. An' to shake hands wi' our friends – there behind you."

And somehow, the trees behind seemed to transform themselves into half a dozen more gnomish and gnarled foresters, these ones with bows strung and arrows notched.

"Now them arrows," Jeremy wagged his head in mock concern; "Well . . . I'm sure two fine soldiers o' the king 'ud know . . . at that range, they might sail clean through a man . . . and travel another fifty yards, on top. Leavin' a terrible savage 'ole behind as well 'n' all." He drew an arrow from his own quiver and held it up, showing the iron head, broad, flat and swallow-tailed.

Sir Cyril had edged himself around so his back was against that of Sir Angus. Only seven, he was thinking. Two over there and five over here. If it weren't for the bows, we could do it easily.

"Robbery on the king's highway is a hanging offence, old fellows!" Sir Cyril stormed. "Robbing the king's soldiers . . . will see you torn limb from living limb!!"

"Robbers?" Jeremy exclaimed as he and his silent partner began moving slowly in opposite directions along the stream bank. "No robbers here, mates! Only tax collectors! Collectin' a fee, as I already explained to ye." His voice became low and menacing. "On t'other 'and – speakin' of soldiers – I've seen your kind ride down women and children in the street just for sport! I've seen your kind 'elp yourself to the food on a poor man's table. Now some men – not us, mind – we're reasonable folk 'ere in the Marches, we are – but some men could be bitter 'bout that kind o' behaviour."

Both Richard and Jeremy stopped moving, perhaps ten wide paces apart. "Now, by the time me 'n' Richard gets across this stream, gentlemen, you'll want to have them swords on the ground. Nobody'll be askin' yez again." There was a faint creak of long-bows being strained.

* * * *

The two black wolves and the grey wolf backed off from the cleft in which Madeleine, Anwen, Roger and Jack Sorespot were huddled. They backed off far enough to avoid being hit by flying debris but not so far as to lose their line of sight of the children. They were hungry, half starved and harried by hunters. And the scent of Jack's blood was in their nostrils. The only question was how to get these tender new-born rabbits out of their burrow.

The two blacks, with the quarry in sight, paced, grizzling and sniffing at the air, but the grey prowled away, circling the rock-fall, leaping from level to level, treading neatly along fallen logs. His experience told him that a hunt was never over until every angle had been studied, every opportunity assessed. At one point he sensed he was directly above the quarry, their scent rising from a crevice so narrow even a squirrel couldn't pass through. At others the scent disappeared altogether. And at one blissful place, finally – a place he could get his head and shoulders into – the warm, rich smell of blood was strong.

The cleft that Roger had led them into did indeed narrow to darkness at the rear. But that darkness was the result of a switchback in the channel. The children would eventually have passed through it, narrowly and single file, if they'd had time to look. But now, a rumble and snarl that seemed to rise out of the very stone, told them that their brief period of safety was coming to an end.

* * * *

In a surprisingly near part of the forest, Sirs Angus and Cyril cast final bitter glances over their shoulders. The ancients were passing their great broad swords from hand to villainous hand. One man, they saw drop to his hands and knees, offering his back as a step for another to climb arthritically aboard one of the palfreys, all of them roaring with laughter. It was the very lowest of low points in Cyril's and Angus's soldiering careers. Cyril, in particular, would find the memory of it consuming; an injustice that would not be forgotten or forgiven, so long as life was in him.

When they'd dropped their swords (in preference to a certain skewering by arrows), Jeremy had good-naturedly applauded their wisdom. He'd then had the temerity to lecture them on the benefits of mutual respect between the classes, of all ridiculous notions. And then, "You pups get on back to the great castles you're used to," he'd admonished. "These lands is too dangerous for you, wi'out yer fine king and his army. Off you go, now."

Sir Cyril had been unable to resist a last gesture of defiance. "Just say," he'd asked, "a pair of wandering knights thought to come this way again, Jeremy Talbot, and wished to buy another drink of water. What band of men would they be seeking?"

This time Silent Richard of Wrexham had moved forward, purposefully, to within half an arm's reach of the knight

"Ye'd be seeking," he rumbled with careful clarity, "the last remnant of the Plant Owain. The Children of Owain. And ye'd be looking to thank 'em not for water, but for your miserable life." And raising a hand, he'd given Sir Cyril's ear a light flick.

Jeremy had stepped up behind Richard, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "Now, now," he'd said softly. "We don' want to be going down that road, do we." And to Cyril, he'd added, "I did warn ye. It's an awful grumpy man, is Richard. I'd recommend ye be off before his temper begins to unravel." He'd pointed at the faint trail left by the horses. "Follow that. Ye'll find a friend, I'll wager."

And so the disarmed knights, with all the dignified assurance of their class, turned and began to walk, their heads high, their backs straight. Both half expecting an arrow yet to part their shoulder blades.

Gradually, though, the commotion behind them faded. They walked, in silence, for fully half an hour. Until Cyril, with a sudden roar of frustration, seized a loaf-sized stone in his two hands, raised it above his head and sent it crashing into the undergrowth.

"How dare they?" He seized and hurled a second stone. "Are they feeble minded? Are they simpletons? To take my sword! I'll hunt them . . . like the dogs they are! Through every sty and shit-heap in these god-forsaken Marches! I'll hang their heads from their own bloody trees!" He seized the branches of a roadside juniper bush and set to work wrenching it from side to side, intent on ripping it from the ground.

"Poor man's stream, he says! Must pay for a drink, he says. I'll give him a drink, by God, of this poor man's bush up his poor man's arse, by God!"

Somewhat like the peasantry itself, the bush seemed only to tighten its hold on the land. Cyril began kicking and stomping it while Angus stood impassively by. Cyril, he was deciding, was not his kind of man. And so, when the rant looked like ending, he added the quiet observation, "He flicked your ear."

Cyril, his chest still heaving with exertion, stared for a moment into the distance, remembering that monumental humiliation, then, "Raaaaah!" He leapt once more onto the ravaged juniper bush, jumping up and down on its already splintered stems. "Foul! Cursed! Filthy! Damnable!" He was so incensed that his words simply flew off, like independent siege stones with no wall to strike.

When at last his breath was gone, he began to stagger in small, erratic circles across the tiny wasteland he'd created. He was a man in a class of men whose primary skill was destruction. Wastelands were their business and, though the involvement of blood was preferable, the apparent completeness of the ruin at his feet gave him some satisfaction. The remainder of his rage could now crawl back into his soul to wait, like a mad badger lurking in a rabbit's hole.

* * * *

The grey wolf filled the channel, its shoulders scraping against the walls. At one point it had to drop, to edge along on its belly. But the size and taste of the wind coming through told it that it would emerge into fresh air and light . . . and the joy of a kill.

At the crevice's entrance the lunge and feint of the black wolves was bringing them closer and closer, making them increasingly oblivious to anything Madeleine could find to hurl. Saliva fell onto the rock at her feet. At the rear, Roger, newly aware of the danger behind, redoubled his wailing and, as he frantically shoved up loose rocks with his feet, began to counter Madeleine's inward press. In the middle Anwen made herself smaller and smaller, crushed impossibly in from all sides.

Irrevocably, the wolves' senses of caution crumbled and the frenzy of their attack increased. The bloodied one drove itself headlong into the space, swinging its massive head, snapping blindly amongst the flailing limbs. By some semi-conscious impulse, even Jack Sorespot, clutched in Madeleine's arms, kicked out at it feebly, though his wounded leg was blood from knee to ankle. To the wolf it was like an offering. The terrible jaws found an ankle. And once again Jack was in the grip of a creature intent on his death.

He cried out weakly. He grasped at Madeleine. And when he lost her, he clawed at the smooth wall of stone. But the wolf, bracing its powerful shoulders, swung its great shaggy head, left, right and left again until his grip failed. And that was it. Jack felt the stone sliding away beneath him.

A small, unarmed boy, weakened by hunger and loss of blood, with both the will to fight and his consciousness draining away, like water from a holed bucket. He dreamed then that it was his mother who had just lost her hold on him, and the plague that was dragging him away – him this time, instead of her – into whatever memory-less place it carried its thousands.

Light fell on his face and he wrapped his arms over, just for the comfort. And there was a peace like he had seldom known in his short life. The loneliness, the fear, the hunger all settling into stillness, like ducks coming to rest on a pond; the wail and snarl fading satisfactorily into the distance. Just the one thing – that far-off, faint kind of sighing. Not of a human variety, but something else.

Cyhyraeth, he thought – the Hag of the Mist! Sighing for my death. Who was it had told him the story? Three cries, they'd said, each fainter than the last. You would never see her. Only hear her lament for your poor Welsh soul.

On the second cry, he peeped through the fog anyhow. And he did see her! Just for a moment. Standing over him, in full view and range of the terrible thing that had come for his life. And then there was nothing.

Chapter 12 - Rescue

It mayn't have been Cyhyraeth that he heard, because Jack didn't die. But it was definitely Anwen that he saw. So shriveled had she begun to feel, so full of refusal, that she found herself slicing like an arrow through the cramped space between Maddie and the wall. Her fingers locked numbly on knobs already painted with Jack's blood until, like a half-drowned swimmer, she erupted into the newly wintered air – an explosion of motion and sound, her eyes bulging with outrage. This nightmare was not to happen! Nightmares were Maude's business; not hers, not Maddie's. Maude was made to handle them; they were not.

In her dirty little fist, she held a short shard of wood from a shattered oak; hardly a weapon, more a talisman of the earth. "Stop!" she screamed. "Stop! Go away! Leave us alone!" If denial was a pole, the sky itself could not have fallen on her at that moment.

The likelihood of actually being heard or understood by anyone or thing, of course, was entirely non-existent. But her sudden emergence – her nerveless defiance – was just enough to momentarily confound a pair of wolves. The one with its teeth in Jack's ankle flicked its eyes to her. The second also froze, in a half crouch, stiff-legged, fangs barred, waiting to see. Audacity in the puny is unendingly mystifying to the mighty.

"Aaaahhh!" she howled and her arm came up, with its little spear. And amazingly, for brief seconds, it held them back.

And then the seconds were passed. Back in the hole there was renewed panic as her sister cried out for her; as the voice of their mate in the crevice of rock grew louder. The one flicked its eyes back to business – to the limp form it held in its teeth. The second stepped forward – one step, then two – and saw no reason to stop. In a land where hunters worked endlessly to exterminate their kind, caution rose and died quickly in these wolves.

"You cannot do this!" Anwen cried.

But the wolves were sure they could.

* * * *

Tom the Sharpener had been humming along softly, relishing the autumnal chill in the air and the sharp smell of the forest. A sudden outburst of shouted swearing somewhere in the near distance had shattered his reverie and pulled him up short, then drawn him tentatively forward. Through leaves he could see, perhaps fifty yards on, a man, apparently wreaking havoc on a bush while a second stood, quietly watching.

Tom was in no need of company, let alone mad company. He considered turning about. He had, after all, no absolutely right direction to be going. What stopped him was a notion that, by some horrible turn of luck, he'd stumbled across the lost knights! How bad could his luck be, to go searching and find the wrong ones! So he waited. And when the bush-beater eventually staggered to a halt, with his hands propped on his knees, blowing like a hound, Tom tapped old Dobbin into motion.

An awkward exchange followed in which Sir Cyril concocted a suitable explanation for their plight. ("Set upon, we were! Band of brigands! Heavily armed! Killed twenty or more, I'd think . . . each! Overwhelmed finally though. Endless numbers. Enough civility left in them to respect our courage! Stole our horses and swords, though! Welsh foresting scum!")

Tom listened humbly, as was expected, then praised lavishly, as was also expected. ("And to come through without so much as a scratch, Milords! How I wish I could've witnessed it!")

He also began to formulate questions in his mind: the "Welsh foresting scum". How were they armed, how dressed? Where exactly had it happened? Had their leader stood out? Perhaps some useful truth might peep through the obvious lies. When the story turned, however, to their present desire, ("Back to Clun with you, man! We'll follow on – protect you as best we can without our weapons.") Tom knew that they were lost and his own quest was ended for that day.

Thinking to avoid offence, he immediately offered Dobbin's back ("Perhaps there are wounds unseen?") Both had looked at him in amazement. Cyril spat on the ground.

"If the animal was a stallion, of course, one of us would ride. But this is a mare! Do you mean to insult us?"

So Tom rode. Cyril and Angus walked. And Dobbin smiled inwardly in anticipation of her stall. And far behind, a branch of the terrorised juniper bush began, tremblingly, to lift itself off the ground.

* * * *

At first none of the wolves noticed the man charging out of the trees at the bottom of the rock fall. Brenton LeGros, at the point of turning back, had been lashed into motion by what was this time a landfall of unmistakable screams. In his short life he had contemplated all, and witnessed many, of the horrors that death (and life) can inflict on people. He had resolved never again to be involved in violence against another human being. It was not fear that held him back, big and powerful as he was. It was revulsion, pure and simple. He had already drowned and died once in the sheer plenitude of blood. Its taste, its smell. No one else should have to go there.

Not surprising then that screams of defiance should goad Brenton into an immediate, full-pelt charge to the rescue. From the edge of the trees he spied little Anwen, who he knew. What was she doing here? Backed against a rock face deep in the forest, cornered by wolves? A deep, menacing roar of negation chugged from his throat and he lunged ahead at full pace, bounding across the ragged boulders, the heavy oaken staff whirling about his head. The wolf that held Jack continued to hold, though it swung its body to see what new threat approached. The second spun around and, having already, fatefully swallowed its sense of caution, leapt immediately to the attack.

It was air borne, its massive front paws braced for impact with Brenton's chest, when the oak split its skull, driving splinters of bone and wood into its brain. And in the moment – in the prime of its strength – at the peak of its splendid, graceful, miraculous power – it died. Its body, with nothing more than momentum left to it, carried on for a little way; far enough to hammer into Brenton's chest. Every leap undertaken by one of Earth's creatures is a leap of faith – faith that, if contact with the ground is yielded, it will be regained a moment later.

Brenton's feet flew from under him. He slammed onto his back, knocked breathless, his arms suddenly full of the warm, musky scent and coarse hair of wolf. It twitched in his arms, the magnificent muscles of its shoulders trying on their own, to remember that oh-so-easy motion of running. Then both it and Brenton fell still.

The chaos higher up the rock fall went on, unaffected. Annie threw her stick, Madeleine howled and Jack welcomed the darkness. The grey wolf edged its snout around the last curve of stone into the bleating face of Roger and the black released Jack, smiling instead a great, carnivorous smile at Anwen.

An arrow arced through the late afternoon air. Beneath the wind-torn sky, in the first slanting raindrops of a coming storm, it slid silently between the shoulder blades of the black wolf, sending it leaping into the air, drawing a yelp of astonishment and toppling it to its side, its great heart pierced, the smile fading from its eyes. The grey, emerging at last fully into reach of Roger, heard and knew that final, desperate cry. At the very point of success, the hunt was over. It by-passed the children, bounded past the astonished Annie and faded ghost-like away into the safety of the trees. Two or three arrows flew in search of it, but it was gone.

Anwen, in the sudden silence of the forest, hardly understood. Her entire body was atremble. She folded her arms across her chest and gulped at the air, like a fish on a riverbank. She tried to focus on the dead wolf in front of her, but could seem only to take in details: the feathers of the arrow protruding from its back; the long shaft emerging from its chest; the iron point, crumpled from its impact with the rock. Blood pooling and the freckling of the rock by raindrops. It was all hot and cold, relief and agony, blood and water, Death and Life. By the time voices began intruding, she was on her knees beside the inert Jack Sorespot, vomiting.

The voices of Madeleine and Roger were still there but, strangely, there were also cranky, irascible, old men's voices. Muttering curses and grunting with effort.

"Take the end o' me bow, would ye for a favour? Hold me back or I'll be breakin' me neck on these blasted rocks!"

"Serve ye right if ye do, ye old fool! Should be goin' 'round wi' t'others. Not clamberin' like goats down a broken 'illside!"

"Now you say! When it's too late!"

"What's your damnable hurry, in God's name? Do ye think ye missed the wee beastie?"

"Ye great, ignorant knob of a man! I've not missed a beastie since I were twelve year old, as you well know!"

"Arh, now me foot's wedged! Give us an' 'and, would ye?"

"Lord! I remember a day I could o' thrown a rock from this 'ill an' beat it to the bottom."

And so on until, around the last out-cropping stepped Jeremy Talbot and Silent Richard (Richard having become quite voluble since facing down a certain lost knight in a not so distant part of the forest). They glanced cursorily at Anwen, bent over her puddle of bile, gave Jack a lengthier inspection, then bent to study the fallen wolf. Richard wagged his head and clicked his tongue.

"Off centre. Lucky to 'ave hit 'er at all."

"Rubbish!" Jeremy snorted, grasping the animal's ear and twisting its head for a better view. "Look! Them shoulders is off-centre! Damn me if it's not a left-footed wolf! An' me takin' it for right-footed! Tsk!"

At that point, Annie allowed herself to flatten out, like a dying thing, against the rock. The heat of the earth below, the cool blessing of rain above. Madeleine crept to her, touched her, whispered her name and got no response. Further down the rock-fall Brenton LeGros, groaned a thought into his head, a breath into his lungs and heaved himself out from under the dead wolf. And timorously, out of the cleft in the rock, crawled Roger Ringworm, whispering in quiet astonishment, "Jeremy? Is it you?"

"Now who else'ud it be, Roger me lad? Who else, out 'ere in the great wintry wilderness, but me 'n' Richard, eh?"

A whinny of horses sounded in the trees below and the cold rain began gathering intensity. Jeremy pulled his jacket off and draped it over Madeleine.

"Rog'," he said, "youse 're a pair o' lucky little sods, 'avin' a friend wi' such a powerful call."

Roger looked curiously at Madeleine. "Tweren't that one," he said. "T'were the pukin' one did the wailin'!"

"Hmm," Jeremy smiled. He looked toward Anwen, crumpled in silence on the stone, and Brenton LeGros, creeping forward, reaching a massive hand to hover over her back. "In any event, it's clear yez've bin 'avin' an adventure. An' while nothin'ud please me more 'n' to 'ear the tale, I'd say, from the look o' Jack, an' that sky, we'd best save it 'til hearth time."

They wrapped Jack's leg in linens and placed his semi-conscious form in the arms of one of the mounted men. Madeleine, silent and pale, sat sidesaddle between the arms of the second rider, most uncharacteristically for her, quietly sliding her arms around and pressing her face to his chest.

Anwen also rode, but for her it was on Brenton's broad back, with a cloak draped about the two of them, to stave off the rain. No question was asked about where they were going. When Brenton asked how far, Silent Richard patted his arm.

"Over the hill an' through the woods, lad. Not far."

The bodies of the wolves they left to the forest, where the glazing over of eyes was a familiar and easily understood sight.

* * * *

Darkness was filling the spaces beneath the trees before they made it 'over the hill and through the woods'.

"Nearly owl time," Jeremy would be heard to remark as the little group finally broke free of the forest, into a secluded dell. "And the presidin' abbot has the fire lit, I see. That's a mercy, for all us poor be-drabbled souls."

Ahead in a broad clearing stood three or four stone buildings. One looked formal enough to be a church; another sent a curl of smoke from its chimney. In times past, land had been cleared for a hundred yards in each direction of the buildings. But even in the fading light, it was clear that the forest was taking back its own. A stream meandered across the valley floor.

The rain, which had seemed heavy under the trees, was drenching and pitiless in the open. Madeleine stirred fitfully and woke, still secure in the arms of a rider. Jack, on the other horse, having wandered in and out of consciousness throughout the journey, held out a bony hand, as though the open ground could warm him. And Roger pirouetted happily before racing away through the tall soaking grass. Anwen, her cheek on Brenton's great shoulder, her hair streaming with water, slept on, gathering warmth from the deep, broad back beneath her.

* * * *

At about the same time, Tom the sharpener, with his two knights in tow, was making his way through the street in Clun. The rain-riven outline of cultivated fields had been a welcome sight to him, but much more so to Sirs Angus and Cyril, both of whom had seen enough of trees to last a lifetime. Even the eighty foot high keep, though a dark and foreboding presence to most, seemed welcoming, its upper windows winking with merry torchlight. After two days and a night in the wildwood it all – even with ridiculous sagging gates – was the nearest thing to heaven that a soldier could know.

They strode into the courtyard, laughing muscularly at the rain, slapping one another's backs and calling out to the guards for meat and ale. The thought of food, dry clothes and a hearty fire was almost as good as the thought of appreciative ears for their tale, which had grown ever larger as they walked. They entered, of course, with never a backward look at Tom.

And that suited Tom perfectly! He'd wisely left the directional choices to old Dobbin at each cross-road and she'd brought them unerringly back. He'd also wisely decided to keep his peace, listening with what appeared to be respectful awe to the tedious tirade of oaths and threats that flowed from Sir Cyril in particular, like blood from an injured nose. He was their saviour, but even saviours need to know when to hold their peace.

The one time he'd genuinely perked up his ears was when Sir Angus had interjected, "Plant Owain! Plant Owain! Children of Owain! What is that? What does it mean to you, Cyril?"

"Mad, suicidal, demented old fools who've outlived their brains, that's what it means! They'll be plant food before the week is out! Mark my words!"

Neither of them would have considered asking Tom for his opinion. Which was well, because he'd have found it difficult to suppress a whoop of joy.

Chapter 13 – Mary Gordon

The light the knights had seen flickering in the window of the keep's third level illuminated another whispered conversation between Mary Gordon and Lady Joan de Beaufort. They d avoided one another's company through the long, cold day, wary of seeming conspiratorial. But now, as evening came down, Joan had crept back to Mary's chamber.

At twenty years, Mary was tall, big boned; determined enough to command the respect of both horses and men. She also had a keen, wary intelligence which, under Perceval's coaching, Joan was learning to emulate.

"The families of kings," he'd assured her, "are not immune to spies, Joan! Consider the unexplained absence of Sir Cyril! Or Sir Roland's clumsy prodding for information! Even a royal head – if it's careless – can finish on the headsman's block!"

To some degree, Joan had been dismissive of Perceval's concerns. Arranging the journey to Clun, after all, had been easy enough. Her own father was long dead. Her stepfather too, he having been the feckless Duke of Clarence – the king's brother who so fruitlessly squandered his own and many other lives (including, almost, that of Brenton LeGros) – at Bauge the preceding spring. She was answerable, then, only to her indulgent mother and her dour brother, the first Duke of Somerset.

"I wish to go on a pilgrimage," she'd haughtily informed her mother, "– to holy places. I wish to see the shrine of Saint Milburga." And her mother, weary of sorrows, had said, "Go. Find a reliable companion. Take Sir Cyril for protection. And go."

A scribe had been found to forge a letter in her brother's name, and a discrete courier to carry it to the Lenthall's, in Herefordshire.

"And voila!" she'd pirouetted in front of Perceval. "I am safely here! And really! Who, here, would dare to question my motives?"

To Perceval's credit, however, he'd persisted in his push for caution. The childish tricking of a parent or a brother was one thing! Allowing herself to be drawn into a secret plot – especially one that involved the making and unmaking of kings – was something that could turn friends into assassins.

"And with Sir Cyril missing," he'd pointed out yet again, "aside from my poor self and Marie, you have no friends to count on here! You must take care!"

On that note, she'd determined to approach Mary Gordon herself, and do some probing of her own.

* * * *

"I'm just a girl!" she was saying innocently to Mary as the storm-driven knights swaggered in below. "You must know how little influence someone like me can have! I'm noticed only when men want something pretty to look at. Yet you suppose I could persuade James to act against his honour? You give me credit I don't deserve!"

Mary smiled. "James and I were both children when he was taken, Lady Joan. Fifteen years ago. He had the soul of a poet, but he was a boy. Now he's grown. Our hope is that the years – and perhaps his love for you – have made him enough of a man to find honour in serving his people.

"As for you being 'just a girl' – I don't accept the implication. We women can look the Fates in the eye as surely as can any man! And when we love well . . .well! Love is not just a bed to lie down in. It is also a task to wake up to. And I don't choose to believe that a woman such as yourself would want to wake up to a man who wastes his birthright."

"You knew James? Fifteen years ago? How? He would only have been . . . !"

"Eleven," Mary said. "Yes, he was eleven the year he was taken. And yes, I knew him! He was . . . is . . . my uncle."

"Your uncle? But . . . !"

A smile teased the corners of Mary's mouth. "I trust you more for your distrust, Lady Joan. So I'll tell you a secret; a secret to help you understand how completely I put myself in your hands! The Mary Gordon you see before you . . . is actually an Elizabeth! Elizabeth Douglas."

Joan stopped her pacing and gazed at the woman before her. Only four years older than herself, she seemed suddenly so much more – more dangerous and more fearless!

"Elizabeth Douglas!" she breathed softly. "The Elizabeth Douglas?"

"So it seems. My father is Archibald Douglas."

* * * *

Archibald Douglas! The name – like Glyndwr's, known and cursed by every English patriot – was the name of one of England's – and therefore one of Joan's family's – most implacable and legendary enemies. It was he, in 1400, at the gates of Edinburgh, who led the resistance against the invading army of the third King Henry. It was he, in 1402, who led a Scottish army against the English at Homildon Hill and again in 1403, at Shrewsbury. It was he who endured five years of imprisonment in England and, when finally ransomed and allowed to return home, it was he who took up a personal crusade, producing a years long legacy of terrifying border raids into England. His greatest satisfaction, it seemed, lay in being the longest, sharpest thorn it was possible to be in the paw of the English lion.

And here before her, to Joan's astonishment, stood his daughter, Elizabeth! What the king wouldn't give to have her in his grasp! What a bargaining chip she would be in securing peace on England's northern border! And Sir Roland . . . ! If he knew he had such a person under his roof . . . !

"Elizabeth Douglas!" Joan repeated in wonder. "But . . . !" She had heard and remembered much talk about the Douglas clan and something nagged at her mind. "But Elizabeth Douglas is a married woman! Married to . . . !"

"Yes." Elizabeth turned and walked to the window, beyond which the darkness was almost fully gathered. "Yes, Elizabeth Douglas is a married woman. And you're about to say, 'Married to a son of the Duke of Albany – the man who now rules Scotland by default! The man who has refused any attempt to ransom James and bring him home! Yes and yes! And you're wondering . . . ?"

"I'm not wondering at all! I'm marveling! Now I know what you meant when you said, 'look the Fates in the eye'! Aside from the danger you put yourself in, in coming here . . . ! You've had to choose between your birth family and your husband's family! And you've managed to do it!"

"Ohh," Elizabeth replied. "Not so hard, really! Both my father and my father-in-law are fierce men – great men in their ways. But my father pursues his own dreams. And my father-in-law – I'll only say that he's not been the best of kings. So I've not chosen between them. I've chosen . . . apart from them. I've chosen Scotland."

Her loyalty to James Stewart, she went on to explain, had remained her secret for years. And might have remained so had not events pressed her to action. When the old Duke's health began to fail (his remaining life, it was said, would be measured in months) it became clear that he intended not only the Dukedom but also the regency to pass to his son, Murdoch – Elizabeth's brother-in-law. And Murdoch was even less suited to rule than was his father.

"Forgive me, Milady!" Joan said hesitantly. "Surely one is 'suited to rule' by virtue of one's birth! Surely it borders on treason to . . . !"

"Let's just say, Lady Joan, that the times change! People change. Where once being born on fine sheets was enough, today we need an ideal citizen – someone who's steadfast in times of adversity, compassionate in times of despair – wise and decisive. Resolute. If Murdoch fitted that description, I would not be here, I assure you!"

Joan felt her insides begin to quiver and quake.

"You . . . you take it on yourself to seek these changes? How do you dare?"

"The daring is nothing, Lady Joan. Change will come, regardless of what any of us do or fail to do. I only say that, like good farmers, we should help select the right seed and we should protect it as best we can. Beyond that, what the seasons do with that seed, what manner of yield it produces, we cannot predict."

"Nevertheless, I wonder that you . . . your own husband being also in line for the regency . . . forgive me once again for my bluntness but . . . !"

And having promised bluntness, she stopped, unable to articulate the complexity, the self-sacrifice implicit in Mary Gordon's choice.

"Ahh! You have the mind of an aristocrat, Lady Joan! You see that, under certain circumstances, my husband might be regent-king of Scotland! And I his queen! Yes?"

Joan's answer was barely audible. "Yes!"

Mary walked thoughtfully to the room's window, beyond which the rain pelted like stones.

"And you wonder if perhaps Elizabeth Douglas plots to draw James Stewart away from the English court's protection – to destroy him! To help clear a path for herself and her husband! Yes again?"

Joan hadn't put the possibilities to herself so clearly, but hearing them spoken was enough to make her reach for a chair.

"Lady Joan, I have no proof of my intentions – other than the fact that I and my fate are now here, in your hands. But understand this!"

And she went on to explain how the political seasons had changed. The heir apparent, Murdoch (as Joan knew) had also, like many other brave Scottish knights, spent long years as a captive in England. He was there when the eleven-year-old James was captured in 1406 and he was still there when James turned twenty. Then his ransom had been paid and he'd raced home with a single understanding in his head, which was that, with his father aging, the regency – the defacto kingship of Scotland – could be his! If only he had the wit to secure it! Against whom? Why James, of course! James, whose true heritage it was! James who was no longer a frightened, callow youth, but a well-educated, intelligent and courageous knight!

Murdoch had set a circle of spies and informants to watch over him and their reports had consistently promised that James' exaggerated sense of honour would keep him in England indefinitely, waiting for a ransom to be negotiated. Murdoch need only ensure that no such negotiation ever took place.

Subsequent news of James' infatuation with the beautiful, sixteen year old Joan de Beaufort, however, had changed the game. Romance might lead to marriage and marriage to off-spring! A whole new and endless line of claimants to Scotland's throne! In short, her love made James dangerous once again, at least in the eyes of his enemies.

"So you see?" Elizabeth said gently. "Like it or not, you have a say in what seed will be planted. If you love James well enough, you must drive him from your uncle's court. If he won't go, then to save his life – and perhaps your own – you must turn your back on him – and soon!"

Joan slouched in her chair, wondering how her adventure had turned so quickly to a horror. All her life she'd been taught that her loyalties must lie with her family and her king! And yet now, she found them adrift, in a new, unexplored place!

"Perhaps you're wondering now," Elizabeth said gently, "if a decision might be right for one person and wrong for another. If something's right for James, will it also be right for you?"

The question drew Joan's scattered thoughts together like a thunderclap. Her head came up. That was exactly what she was wondering! If she convinced James to flee from England, what would become of her? Would her family disown her for her treasonous meddling? Would Henry denounce her? And worst of all, would James, as king, knowing that he could have his choice of women, still care about her? She had so much to lose!

"I don't . . . don't know what to say – what to do!" she murmured as she rose and walked to the great arching window against which the rain was smashing, trying to reach her. If only one could see, she was thinking, something of the future. Just a hint! Then a path could be chosen with confidence.

"Surely he can be safe in England!" she finally said. "We can be safe! If I told the king of the spies, he could protect us!"

And yet! She tried to draw together the points Sir Perceval had made earlier. Perhaps he'd been right! Perhaps her own life of privilege – living always in the protective shadow of royal courts – had left her severely unprepared for the burden of responsibility!

"Lady Joan," Elizabeth said patiently, "forgive me for saying this. You must know that difficult things are asked of us – particularly of us women – every day, without our consent. If we turn away from them because they're difficult, or because we're frightened . . . or because we seek an easier way . . . we make ourselves a little smaller – a little bit less in the world. Sometimes we might make ourselves so small, we disappear altogether!"

A flush rose to Joan's cheeks. This was the second person in a day to take aim at her character. Elizabeth, however, diplomatically turned the barb away at the last moment.

"In this case," she said, "it's James who's in danger of disappearing. Would you want to see that happen?"

Joan pressed her hands against her eyes, trying to block out a future of frightening possibilities.

"Do you love him?" she heard Elizabeth ask and she nodded; of course! "The poets say," Elizabeth continued, "that love creates a duty . . . and also a right. A duty to persevere – to be deserving – and a right to expect the same in return."

"I . . . I don't . . . !"

"I'm sorry. I only mean to say that if, in pushing James toward his destiny – even if he turned away from you – perhaps your love would have been well spent."

"Yes, yes! I mean no! I mean . . .! I just have to . . . !"

She didn't know what she meant or what she was to do. So it was just as well that their talk was interrupted at that point by a furious knocking at their door.

"They're back!" a voice shouted. "They're back! Sir Cyril and Sir Angus! They've been embattled by brigands in the forest! Everyone's gathering in the Great Hall to hear the story!"

Chapter 14 – Sir Roland's Decisions

The whole of the day, Roland had been agonising over his morning discussion with Perceval de Coucy. Vague connections, fears and half resolutions scraped through his mind, like thistles through a salad. He'd asked the man a straight enough question, he thought, about Lady Joan's agenda – and he'd gotten nothing but impertinent French froth in reply. Clearly, what he should have asked was what the damned Frenchie had to gain from traveling with English royalty!

The French, after all, were known opportunists! Hadn't they convinced the Scots to turn a blind eye to their piracy off the coast? Hadn't they welcomed Scots to France, to take up arms against England? Hadn't they supported Glyndwr's Welsh rabble? As far as Roland was concerned, he'd trust his hounds to guard a slab of mutton before he'd trust a Frenchman!

How, then, had it come about that one of them – two if the pointless little wife was counted – had landed on his doorstep? How deplorable that he – a man of stature and importance – had been forced to ask the man's opinion! And then to have a colony of Scots washed up under his roof at the same time!

He coached himself to be methodical, to sift out what he could be sure of! De Coucy, for instance! A young knight – a bastard son – twenty-three, maybe twenty-four years of age; newly married; traveling with his teen-aged wife. His famous father – killed in a God-forsaken Crusade to who-knew-where – had been dead so long that Perceval could scarcely have known him.

But names, of course (and rightly so!) long outlive the man, and the de Coucy name had obviously gotten Perceval into the court in London! And there (one could only guess) he'd seen the opportunity to use his slippery continental ways to gain the confidence of Joan de Beaufort! Why, was anyone's guess. How, Roland could easily imagine.

"Oh, Sir Perceval!" (Joan, he imagined, would coo like a pigeon to get her way around men.) "Oh Sir Perceval! I have it in mind to travel to the wild and empty Welsh Marches to view the most backward and ignorant people in all of England! Would you enjoy such an amusement yourself?"

"Why, Mam'selle Joan!" (Roland could picture the Frenchman slobbering on Joan's pretty little hand and winking like a tinker with a tic.) "It has been my fondest dream! May I polish your horse's arse for you as a token of my thanks?"

Roland shook his head to clear away the vision. This was getting him nowhere. It simply meant that Perceval could be just exactly what he said he was – a courtesy escort. And maybe Joan was doing exactly what she said she was doing – making a pilgrimage to holy shrines in the West Country. Roland began to pace the room, grinding his teeth all the while. It wasn't possible! The highest born were always plotting; it was in the blood! And Frenchies were always scheming.

He turned his mind to the de Coucy lands which were, of course, in France! And France was an enemy! Except that a growing number of Frenchies now supported Henry's claim to the French throne! In which case they were not enemies! Sir Roland thumped his forehead, kicked a stool across the room. Give him a sword over politics, any day. Slice off an arm and you have an outcome; enter negotiations and you may as well lie down in a bog.

Suddenly, however, and briefly – like a spark from a flint – a connection revealed itself to him. What if Perceval was traveling with Lady Joan as a cover? But his true connection was with the Scots? Of course! Because, while some Frenchies supported England's ambitions, who could the enemy Frenchies look to for help? With Glyndwr gone, the Welsh were a spent force! That left the Scots, who were already in the rebellion soup, right up to their bagpipe necks! Because, obviously, once England swallowed France (as it inevitably would) – Scotland would be the next morsel on the table! Sunk! Spitted! Gutted and quartered! It would be their end! To survive, the Scots must keep the French pot boiling!

"Hah!" Roland shouted, and swung a fist through the empty air. "So that's their game!"

He strode happily to the window and stood, his feet spread and his hands on his hips, brimming with self-satisfaction; a fox, surveying a yard of smug hens. It only slowly occurred to him that this broad vision didn't entirely solve his dilemma. He still couldn't imagine what one minor Frenchie and wife, along with three Scottish women – politically insignificant women – girls, really – with a pair of downright stupid knights, might think to attempt in Clun! Under his very nose!

Could they have taken him for some sort of bumpkin lord? A ripe and easy target for the sort of harrying stirred up in the north by that lunatic, Archibald Douglas? But surely that wily old rogue survived only because he had a border he could run to for cover! In Shropshire, there'd be no such option!

Roland decided this: First, he would cunningly seem to accept Perceval's fancy obfuscations. Same with the Scots and their feigned innocence. But he would set his spies to work. Margaret's serving girls, the kitchen staff – whoever! Servants were the first to learn anything new in a castle anyhow. Let their gossip be useful, for a change! And second, he would quietly start to rally an army of his own!

And that was a task that suited his temperament! If there was to be trouble (and what a glorious prospect that was!) how many men would he need? And where would he find them? At one time in the not so distant past, Clun Castle had been one of the best-manned garrisons in the Welsh marches. In the days of Glyndwr, knights by the score and yeomen by the hundred had been billeted here, ready to march out on virtually no notice at all! Throw them at the enemy 'til ye couldn't see over the dead. And there you go. The old rebel lost his stomach. No stomach, no war. So what was left of that useful English force?

Always the peasants, of course! Never enough these days, mind – not since the plague got amongst 'em. Villages in some areas emptied right out! All dead. On his own orders, Samuel Rowe, had closed up this very castle and waited for the wailing in Clun to cease. ("When silence falls, Rowe, when it's clear the dying has finished, you can open the gates. Not a minute before!") Nearly all the fighting men were gone by then, unhappily. Only children left – only the green and untested.

And then even they'd been drained away by the king, to fight in his ever-lasting wars! But (Sir Roland smashed a fist into his palm) there was only so much a loyal vassal could contribute! Especially with proof virtually to hand that enemies were gathering in his fiefdom!

He made a second decision. He would speak with Samuel Rowe – that watchful little counter of hay stooks! The man was a giant ear, soaking up information the way a trencher of bread soaks up gravy. He'd know of skilled fighters in the area – men who'd be tickled to throw themselves on an enemy pike. And he knew the castle. If it was true that vipers had come slithering around the rock pile, well then . . . Rowe would know how to plug the holes.

By this time, the sun had set and the rain was pounding down outside. Two decisions had been made inside an hour – more than he would ordinarily be called upon to make in a month! He lay down, exhausted, and drifted nearly into sleep. Then, as often happens in that half-dream state, the connections he had already made were joined by another! In his mind's eye, he saw a rider approaching out of the mist. No. It was two riders. It was like . . . No, it was! The two missing knights! Sirs Cyril and Angus! Roland sat bolt upright. Where were those men? Neither was a local man. One was English, riding with the Frenchie! The other was a Scot! It was hardly likely that they knew each other! Yet they'd ridden off together, like accomplices, into an unknown forest! What in God's name was their role in all this? Was there a force already gathered in the forest, waiting for word from them, to attack?

And on the instant, he made a third decision. The priest, Father Reginald, was meant to leave for London in the morning. But Shrewsbury was nearer. And the sheriff was there, with soldiers! A couple of days, God willing, would bring them to Clun. And even a dilapidated pile of stones like Clun, for God's sake, could surely be defended for a couple of days! Perhaps give him time to wring the truth out of one of his unwelcome 'guests'! How wonderful if the sheriff arrived and there were prisoners to hand over! And songs to be made up in his praise!

The story is told of Roland the bold,

Who battled the Scots and the Frenchies.

In winter so cold, came down from the fold

And . . . something and something and . . wenchies?

The significance of Cyril's and Angus's disappearance was the last candle lighted on Roland's journey toward understanding. It was not a bright light, one almost doused by his shallow dip into minstrelsy. He needed patience and information but was not overly concerned about either. The main thing was, he had not been caught sitting on his arse in a time of danger. It already felt like some kind of small victory.

It was at that very moment that the serving boy tapped on his door to inform him of the fantastic tale unfolding below in the Great Hall.

Chapter 15 – Tom the Sharpener

Tom the sharpener knew knights. He knew them better than anyone in Clun would have guessed. He knew, for instance, that they must be seen to be immune to discomfort. He knew that the two in his company had walked miles in the cold rain, with hunger gnawing at their guts, exhaustion numbing their limbs and humiliation riding on their backs. He knew that they'd as soon kill him with their teeth as have him appear to be their saviour, or even their equal. Thus, he had wisely chosen to fall behind Sirs Angus and Cyril when they arrived at the castle, in the dusk, in the rain.

He would enter soon enough, himself, to return Dobbin to her stable and to bed himself down in an adjacent stall. But first he would give the knights time to adequately distance themselves from their lowly companion. There was a house in the village with an ale stake out front, signifying the premise of a brewer. Perhaps he could eat. Food and ale and a fire would at least chase the cold from his bones and might even revive his capacity for thought.

Gwenith was alone in the house. Maude had not returned from the castle and Gwilym had not returned from his foray into the forest. Indeed, Gwenith had begun to wonder if an evil eye had somehow singled out her family! Perhaps she should walk out through the rain to find Father Reginald; ask him for a prayer! The one sure thing was that there could never be too many prayers.

It was from this deep and gloomy reverie that she was roused, by the sudden loud knock on her door. In the gloaming, a dark, cloaked outline of a man, unrecognisable in the dim light, hunched its back against the rain. What now, she asked herself! What next?

"Good evening, mistress," the figure said, bowing ever so slightly, so that Gwenith wondered briefly if one of the castle gentlemen had lost his way. Whoever he was, he clearly expected admittance. But the hour was late and Gwenith was alone and she had lost children on her mind. "Is there ale to be had, mistress?" he asked softly. "Or must a poor peddler stand in the dark and drink the rain?"

Only then did Gwenith recognise him – a Welsh accent, the sharpener who traveled with the Cunning Woman! Even then, she hesitated, considered turning him away.

"My 'usband is not at 'ome."

Ordinarily she would not admit a stranger at night when she was alone in the house. But his voice at the door was so warm; it almost took the chill off the evening. And his smile seemed to diminish the foreboding bleakness of the night.

"Ah, but I s'pose there're souls enough lost in the night! Come in. I'll find 'ee somethin'."

It was not an inn in any large sense of the word. It was a room, small and choked with smoke which piled up like a noxious sea fog against the thatch of the roof. The smoke hole permitted wisps of it to escape, but most would eventually add itself to the already thick and greasy film that covered the walls and thatch and furnishings. The earthen floor was beaten hard, covered by a scattering of reeds from the riverbank and holding little other than a rough table under which lay the pig, which lifted its head to look at the new arrival, sighed deeply and flopped back onto its side.

"A thousand thanks!" Tom said warmly. "I wasn't sure of the hour. A brisk night, is it not?"

He took his cloak off carefully, so as not to shake too much water within the house, then turned his gaze full on Gwenith.

"Hallo!" he said through a broad smile. "I think we've met! I'm Tom. Have I sharpened one of your knives? Or no, maybe you were one of those yesterday, with the fortune-teller?"

. "I was wi' 'er, true enough! Though it weren't by me own choosin', I can tell ee! 'Ere, sit yerself down. Ye can warm yer feet on the pig if you've a mind."

She set about the business of filling a mug for him while Tom, settling on a bench, allowed the warm fuggy air to slump into him. He ran his hands through his hair and became aware of the moisture in his boots. By the time he realised the mug was before him, Gwenith had already retreated to the fire, to tend to her pot of mash.

"I don't suppose that's a fine lamb stew, you're stirrin' there, is it Mistress? Or maybe a bit o' tripe wi' onions and beans? Somethin' that could quell the argument in a man's stomach? I can pay."

She shook her head and smiled. "It's a mash for the ale. But I can give ye a cold oat-cake an' a slice o' mutton!" She rolled her eyes toward a haunch of meat, hanging in the smoke near the rafters.
"You are a saintly woman, Mistress! I promise to eat quickly and go. Not to be blamed for keepin' you from your work. Or your rest." As she climbed on a stool to reach the meat, he said, "Your husband's the reeve, am I right in thinking that?"

"He is! A very important man is Gwilym! No one shirks their duties when 'e's about!"

"Ah! Excellent! And he'd be the man to ask, then! As a poor traveler, I'm thinking that there might be rogues and thieves aplenty here in the Marches. Does the village suffer much from brigands?"

Gwenith, as keeper of the ale-house, had been privy to debates on every topic, from law and order to the birthing of lambs. She pursed her lips and tried to remember brigands.

"Used to be, I guess, when me girls were little! Some fearful times, we 'ad! Slaughterin' an' terrorisin'! But ye know, we don' get much these days! Runaway boys, pig stealin' an' the like. Not much else left in Clun, I s'pose! Whereas some years back, there was lots o' traffic on the Ridgeway. And so much money! Sometimes ye could find a coin jus' lyin' in the roadway! Jus' lyin' there! But since the uprisin' was put down, seems we're all ruined! The Welsh are ruined, the Marches are ruined. Clun is ruined."

"Ah," Tom nodded sardonically. "The spoils of victory."

Gwenith heard the disparaging tone in his voice and looked at him quizzically.

He said, "It's just, I'm thinkin' . . . good times, bad times . . . they come and they go, don't they? And sometimes, what we're told is winning, actually turns out to be very like losing! It's a strange old world, wouldn't ye say, Mistress?"

She sawed at the ham while Tom gazed wearily into his ale, clearly expecting no answer. But after a moment, she said, "Ye know what I wish? I wish . . . it could sometimes be t'other way 'round. Ye know? So when it feels like yer always losin' . . . ye could be . . . ye could turn out to be actually winnin'!"

"Ah now!" Tom grinnned. "Wouldn't that be a startling good and surprising outcome? Yes indeed! In fact, if you've no objection, I'm goin' to add that wish to me own little list. Though if it comes true for you, I'll be as happy as if it came true for meself!"

She nodded, her thoughts whirling with fears for her lost family. Again a silence fell between them until Gwenith suddenly found herself speaking through tears.

"While we're makin' wild wishes, then, maybe ye'd join me in this 'un. Wishin' that sometimes, someone who seems lost, might actually, really, be found!"

She was thinking of Madeleine and Anwen, gone now for two days and a night, with a second night coming on. She had tried to imagine them, happy, warm, safe and protected in some other place – but she couldn't. What other place was there? She wiped tears onto her apron and Tom looked at her with wide eyes.

"Remarkable to say, mistress, that's a wish I've been carryin' meself, inside me doublet," he tapped his chest, "for many a month! Exactly the same!"

It was at that moment that voices flared up outside and the door burst open, admitting the dripping forms of Gwilym, Eustace and Rhodri – all tumultuous with relief at regaining the comforts of home and hearth.

"There's an 'orse under my eaves!" Gwilym was bellowing as he entered. "Has someone brought news o' my girls, then?"

Tom turned his smile in their direction. "No, mister. More's the pity. Just a poor peddler, grateful for the kindest hospitality south of Shrewsbury."

"You took so long!" cried Gwenith, tugging fretfully at her husband's cloak. "Why'd you take so long? I feared you were lost, as well!"

"Lost?" Rhodri began immediately to bluster as he and Eustace shouldered forward to sit by Tom at the table. "Lost? In that tiny forest? Why, I could have tied Eustace to an arrow and shot 'im out of there at any moment. Never a fear!"

Gwenith looked up into Gwilym's eyes. He closed them and shook his head lightly. "We found the ash of a fire. An' the bones of a fresh cooked coney. But the rain had finished any chance o' tracks."

Gwenith turned and busied herself, stern-jawed, swallowing back her anguish. "So they've 'ad a meal then!" she said with forced certainty. "Smart girls! They'll be alright, I know they will!"

"Oh, aye, yes! An' we'll be out again tomorrow, Annie's mum!" declared Rhodri, inadvertently giving away his secret infatuation. "An' this time, we'll find 'em! I know it in me 'eart, we will!"

For a while, then, the men's conversation drifted over the day's events. Gwilym, Rhodri and Eustace spoke of the walking, the cold, the damp, the strange sounds and eerie silences of the forest. By way of encouragement, Tom volunteered his story of finding the bewildered, wandering knights.

Gwilym, Rhodri and Eustace, fresh from the terror of the woods, turned their astonishment on him immediately. What ungodly purpose, they wanted to know, had taken Tom into the forest himself? Didn't he know that an outsider, with no local knowledge, could stray from Clun all the way into the mountains of Wales and never see another human creature in a year's walking?

"Sightseeing", Tom murmured. "A foolish sightseer!"

He'd heard tales of Offa's Dyke, he told them; the ancient earthworks built in centuries past, to separate the Welsh from the English, and had wanted to walk where the ancient Celts had walked.

"Ahh," Gwilym grunted. "Life must've been simpler six 'undred year ago. When all it took was a ditch to keep the enemy away!"

"Have you no faith in such barriers, reeve?"

Gwilym leaned forward on his elbows.

"Barriers is only good for the willin', Tom. Say I build a fine fence between me an' me neighbour. If 'e doesn' respect its purpose an' knocks it down or climbs over it, well . . . I've wasted me time, 'aven't I? Jus' one more challenge, see? No! Way I see it, ye can't ever fence off the real enemies. Where's the barrier 'gainst the Black Death, I ask. Or the pangs of 'unger! Or the thievin' tax collectors! Or child stealin' scoundrels in the forest? Eh? Ye won't ever find such a barrier, Tom! 'Cause there's no such thing on God's earth. An' ye can take the reeve's word for that!"

Gwilym's weariness was finally giving way to despair, for children lost, and he allowed his head to fall.

"It's a wise man you are, reeve," said Tom softly. He raised his glass in salute and drank. Then, into the silence that followed, he said, "And yet . . . if a man was in need of another point o' view . . . I guess he could ask, where's the fence that could keep true friends apart? . . . Or the one that could separate folks who love and want to protect each other. Where's the fence that can keep us, great or small, from followin' the path the old gods've marked out for us?"

Gwilym lifted his head to stare at Tom. In his heart, he felt that death was just such a fence and that it had probably come shouldering in, between himself and his daughters. But he could not voice that thought. There was silence, with only Gwenith sniffling softly over the fire. In discomfort, Rhodri attempted to change the subject.

"The rogues who waylaid them knights in the forest, Tom?" he asked. "Who was they?"

Tom waved dismissively. "A traveling band, no doubt. They had no captives – no children with them – or the knights would surely have said. So no more mischief than a little teasin' of the high and mighty" Then he thought he'd test the reactions of the group. "Something odd, though! It seems they told the knights they were remnants of the 'Plant Owain' – the Children of Owain! It didn't mean anything to them. Does it to any of you?"

Both Gwenith and Gwilym, far the oldest in the house, sucked in their breaths, and cast alarmed glances at one another.

"Never!" Gwilym murmured. "After all this time? Never a chance!"

To the questioning looks of Eustace and Rhodri, he explained, "Glyndwr, boys! Dependin' on your point o' view – either a terrible mischievous man or the rightful Prince o' Wales and heir to the Kingdom o' Powys! 'Plant Owain' was the name taken by loyal mates who stuck by 'im – even, they say, to the point o' disappearin' into the magic wi' 'im when the end come into view." He looked wistfully at Tom. "Someone's been 'avin' a lend o' you, my friend! Them boys'd be all old men by this! More like, dead 'n' gone! No! Whoever it was, it wunt them!"

Tom shook his head in mock astonishment, all the while smiling inwardly.

"Aye, surely so. Some old fellows havin' a joke, then. Or the knights were deceived . . . by forest sprites, perhaps."

Soon after, he paid for his refreshments and swung his cloak about him. Outside, he walked Dobbin through the darkness, up the hill to the castle. The rain fell coldly down but, in both his and Dobbin's hearts, private suns were rising.

Chapter 16 – Sir Cyril's Gaff

At that same moment, in the Great Hall, Sirs Angus and Cyril wallowed, pig-like, in a much more public form of happiness. Their return had produced an outpouring of ale and hilarity in which their exhaustion, at least temporarily, had evaporated. And, like young men everywhere, when made the centre of attention, their senses of self-importance sat on their backs like apes with spurs, transforming their already exaggerated adventures into magnificent encounters. In the re-telling, they became twin St Georges, returned with dragon scales still snagged in their teeth.

All the castle's company, from Sir Roland and Lady Margaret to the lowest kitchen hands (these last lurking quietly in the shadows, pretending service) had gathered to hear the tale. The clash of swords, the whinnying of horses, the whistle of arrows, the cries of the wounded, the blood spattered shrubbery. And finally, having been overwhelmed, the unchivalrous theft of swords and horses – the only way the few surviving brigands could be sure of saving their miserable skins. It was all enormously thrilling.

It was Sir Roland himself, too familiar by far with fantastic stories, (his own imagination having recently fermented a tale of two knights spying for a secretly gathering army) who finally asked, "And what of this . . . quest . . . you say drew you away? The two children from the village! Have you rescued them?"

"Alas!" cried Sir Cyril expansively, waving a substantial bone in the air. "We did not! Though I'm certain they were there, amongst those low-born, cowardly sons of sheep! I tried – we both tried – to fight through to them – to rescue them. But alas!" A rumble of despair went through the crowd, sprinkled with the barely stifled cries of women. "Who knows," Cyril added, with imagination-fueled outrage, "what cruelties such scoundrels might visit on young girls?" (In fact, virtually every knight in the land knew, first hand, what cruelties men might inflict on young girls. And that was despite their claims to chivalry.)

It was at this stage that the fury in Cyril's fearsome warrior's heart swept him to his feet. He slashed the half-gnawed bone through the air and thrust it, along with his voice and his eyes, toward the distant ceiling.

"By this sword and this hearth," he bellowed, undeterred by the fact that his 'sword' was, in fact, the drumstick of a goose, "I will not rest until that filth is swept from the earth! It shall be death to them, one and all! Death to the Plant Owain!"

His cry circled once through the hall and fell into a resounding sea of silence. The failure of the gathering to take up the cry, as he'd fully expected them to do, made the very walls shiver with apprehension. Sir Roland's wine cup stopped, half way on its journey to his lips and hovered there, like a hawk that's suddenly lost sight of its quarry. Sir Cyril froze, the bone still held aloft; only the drift of his eyes from side to side, falling the way a feather might fall, betrayed his surprise and uncertainty.

"What did you say, Sir Knight?" queried Sir Roland.

He asked it softly, the way a schoolmaster might hope to trap a truant boy into confessing himself. Sir Cyril swallowed hard and noticed Sir Angus looking up at him, as though the two had never met. In fact, there was a sudden sense that, though every eye in the hall was focused on him, no person amongst them would have admitted to knowing him at that moment. Sometimes, being brave can be a very lonely experience.

"Ummm," he said.

"`Death', you were saying," Sir Roland offered helpfully. "Death to the . . . ?"

"Ummm. The filth?"

"`The Plant Owain', I thought you said. Is that what you said?"

Sir Cyril nodded unhappily and began to bring the bone down from its aggressive thrust at the air. He felt like a boy about to be taught by his mother that some words, no matter how innocently sung, warrant a washing out of the mouth.

"I see!" Sir Roland continued, slyly solicitous. "And what do you know, Sir Cyril, of the Plant Owain?"

Sir Cyril shook his head. "One of the old men just said it. 'We are the Plant Owain', he said!"

All eyes turned to stare at Sir Roland, whose own eyes wandered off into a distant focus. The wine cup, still hovering below his lip, began to move in a small circle, teasing its contents into a lazy, blood-like whirlpool. An aberrant breeze raced amongst the torches, dimming the light. Eyes became reluctant to blink, mouths forgot to close. Then Sir Roland's gaze burned back into focus and the cup banged onto the table. He gestured to the air and Samuel Rowe, the castle steward, never far from his shoulder, leaned an ear in close.

"See that the gates are secured this night, Master Rowe," Roland said softly. "And place what guards you can muster 'round the walls. I'm sure you'll know the appropriate places."

Samuel bobbed once and disappeared into the silent crowd, barely causing a ripple as he slid through. Then Sir Roland raised his cup high, somewhat in the fashion that Sir Cyril's bitter bone had been raised only moments earlier.

"Drink up, gentlemen!" he said. Then he added, so softly that a moth would have had to flutter close to hear, "It may be that we're in for an interesting autumn!"

Chapter 17 – Owain Glyndwr

"What is this place?" Madeleine asked.

If buildings had been able to wander away into the forest, get lost and, after long years, give up on finding their way home, then those buildings would have looked like these. Except that light twinkled from one. And a faint smell of wood smoke, with a hint of roasting meat, wafted on their air. And Roger, judging by the speed at which he raced off down the path, was entirely delighted to be amongst them.

"Used to be a priory," ancient Jeremy explained as he led the little train of souls out from under the trees, into the full pelt of rain. "One o' God's little pockets, this valley! A pocket full o' monks cleared it an' planted it, nobody knows how long ago. Now a pocket full o' greybeard boyos live in it."

"But there's not even a village!" Madeleine exclaimed. "Why live way off here in the forest, by ye'selves?" She was aware of throaty chuckles, leaping like frogs in the throats of the men around her.

"Now, who better than ourselves to live with, Maddie? I ask ye!"

She looked at him with incomprehension. For Madeleine, village life was already a life too small to be tolerated. To have even less would be a total emptiness of heart, a bleakness, a nothing. What sort of dark and dangerous people would seek out such isolation?

"Truth is, we're all of us jus' too awkwardly shaped to fit anywhere else," Jeremy explained, as though he'd been listening to her thoughts. "Ask young Jack, there! Jack, tell the girl why ye're off here in the wild wood 'stead o' bein' an upstandin' town lad."

Jack was being lowered from the horse, wincing and groaning but alert. He made a rasping sound in his throat, like a chain being hauled through a pulley, and spat over his shoulder onto the ground.

"Me 'n' Rog', we're free men. Go wherever we want. Law says, a year 'n' a day on our own is all it takes."

"Tell 'er what job ye done before ye run off, Jack. Tell 'er 'bout yer 'markable career in the precincts o' the town."

Jack's face twisted with revulsion. "Gong fermer." He spat again and several of the men spat as well, as though to ward off evil spirits. They were dispersing, taking the newly acquired horses to stabling areas and seeking out their own dry clothes. Jack was left leaning against – crumpling against – Jeremy.

"Gong fermer!" Jeremy repeated. "Carryin' off the shite of a castle's high 'n' mighty! Might suit the shape o' some people, but not our Jack! Nor Roger neither! No sir!"

Jeremy then lifted the slight figure of Jack onto his back and held him with surprising tenderness. "An' that's why I'm 'ere too, Maddie. I'll carry a man I respect. Carry him from 'ere to Doomsday, if need be. But I'll carry no man's shite."

In her mind's eye, Madeleine pictured a frail, pale little boy, dredging out the castle's sewerage – covered, perhaps, in sores from the filth. Hence his name, she supposed – Jack Sorespot. And she pictured the same boy, still scrawny and weedy but now grown wild and defiant, throwing himself, for no reason that she could easily understand, between herself and a ravening wolf. She glanced behind and saw, in the shadow of the rain, Brenton Le Gros, who had come back 'strange' from the war in France. His knees were trembling with exhaustion; the little blond head of Anwen visible on his shoulder. Though the two had spoken softly to one another for what seemed like miles, Anwen was now asleep. People, Madeleine thought, are very complicated creatures!

"Well come on! Open the door, girl!"

It was Jeremy, barking at her, jarring her from her reverie.

"There's weary men 'n' children needs admittin'!"

Madeleine thrust open the door and stepped into the presence of legend.

* * * *

One of the most extraordinary things about extraordinary people is their apparent ordinariness. One day, the person you've been telling your troubles to reaches into the air and pulls a rose from behind the wing of a passing butterfly. And you think, surely, there should have been a clash of cymbals before that! This was the moment – the stepping through the door moment – that Madeleine would later remember with incredulity – the moment when the cymbals failed to sound.

The building was the remnant of a dormitory in which the monks of the original priory had gathered at the end of a day's toil. The large single room was low ceilinged, but had a plank floor, tables, benches and chairs. It had a stone hearth with a crackling fire and iron pots and there was meat, venison perhaps, dripping fat from a spit. To Madeleine, it seemed a grand, inviting place; unlike the forbiddingly cold stone and vast windy spaces of Clun castle, this was as warm, dry and comforting as a hymn in a church.

A scattering of old men moved about but there was no doubt which was their host. Grey haired, with a twin pointed beard like the one worn by Silent Richard, he was knelt at the fire, arranging coals, tending to the cooking and nodding at Roger, who was already a picture of animated story telling. When Madeleine stepped through the door, the man rose immediately and put a quieting hand on Roger's shoulder. Her impression was of one who, while not terribly large – not like her father or Brenton, for example – had been, in his time, a solid, well made man. But there was a sense of shrinkage about him, as though his muscles had begun to turn to water.

Their eye contact was brief, lasting only until Jeremy and Brenton, with their twin burdens, nudged her out of the doorway.

"For a man who can control the wind an' the weather, Glyndwr, ye've done a piss poor job this evenin'!" grunted Jeremy. "That's the first an' the last I'll say about that!"

And that was Madeleine's introduction to the legendary Owain Glyndwr – Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, descendant of the princes of Powys; in his own right, the rightful Prince of Wales. Soldier and saviour, terrorist and sorcerer, iron and water. The Welsh answer to both Merlin and Richard Lionheart. A man whose story had been commandeered by the makers of myths and dreams.

At the turn of the century, a vast uprising of Welshmen had drawn their swords in his name, for the cause of Welsh independence. He'd led them to a string of brilliant victories against English armies – besieging fortress castles across the Marches, including the one at Clun. For years he'd shaken the Isles, issuing proclamations, entering negotiations – a prince in his own right. Then, because luck is fickle and comes in both good and bad forms, it had turned on him.

Sensing the change, his followers – all but the very few – had laid down their arms, apologised for their actions, paid their fines and turned their backs on him. He'd disappeared – unable to fight on, unwilling to surrender – and the story had petered out with no proper ending. So far as the world knew, the mountains of Snowdonia had swallowed him whole. Years had passed.

And now, here he was, listening attentively to the tales of an idiot boy; straining to lift an exhausted fifteen year old girl from the back of a trembling giant. Madeleine saw Anwen wrap her arms about Owain Glyndwr's neck and drop her head onto his shoulder, without waking. She saw him lower her gently onto a pallet near the fire before wrapping an arm about the waist of Brenton LeGross, to brace him against collapse.

"To the fire, man. Sit you down."

He got Brenton seated, returned to Anwen to cover her with a blanket and bent over Jeremy to see for himself Jack's wolf-torn leg. Only then did he turn back to Madeleine. His look was direct and focused but terribly strained, as though some bone within him was broken.

"You needn't be frightened, girl. Are you alright?" She nodded, remembering too late to close her mouth so she wouldn't look gormless. "Good. Come near the fire, then, and warm yourself."

And he turned away, back to Brenton who, in a chair near the fire, sat with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. From the movement of his shoulders it seemed he might be crying.

Gently, Glyndwr moved the big man's shoulders back to take the weight off his feet and began to pull at the sopping boots. "No, no!" Brenton insisted. "No need for that. I'm alright. I'll be alright."

"As you wish, man. But the shoes should come off. Dry feet and a dry head. Those are the keys."

Brenton smiled a thin smile and leaned slowly forward once again. He was trembling visibly and the hiss that escaped his lips told a tale of agony.

"In a minute," he said.

"How are you hurt, man?" asked Owain gently.

Brenton shook his head. "It's nothing. An old wound. All but healed. Might have strained it a bit is all. Just need a minute."

That set off an investigation by Owain that soon revealed the story of the battle at Bauge as well as the raw ridge of tissue that now sealed the lance's cut. Owain ventured an opinion about the damage inside and showed a scar of his own, by comparison. The remaining dozen of the old men, as they drifted into the building, clapping hands against the cold, crowding the fire and savouring the food smells, also became eager to expose ancient scars. There were slashed chests and arms, cavities where flesh had once been, spaces where fingers had once flexed and there was an uneven number of ears in the room. Madeleine reckoned that a deep well could be filled with the combined injuries these men had experienced.

At a point, Owain broke free from the group, joining Jeremy at Jack's side. Together, the two old men re-inspected the torn leg and murmured a few soft words. Then, for a second time, Owain Glyndwr turned the grey uncertainty of his gaze on Madeleine.

"I'm sorry you and your friend've been dragged off to this place, girl. I'm not certain what Jack had in mind. But I know he never would have hurt you. Anyhow, you'll be safe enough here until we can get you back to your homes. Roger'll be getting you some dry clothes now and we'll all be getting some broth into us on this cold autumn night." He turned away.

And so it was that Madeleine, a girl at the merest beginning of her own struggle for independence, sat down at table with a man whose very name was a symbol for endurance and implacability. Anwen woke for long enough to share the meal, to speak some soft words to Brenton and to corner Silent Richard for an excited re-telling of her day's fantastic events. His mute nodding showed a mix of terror, at the river of her words, and tenderness, for the vulnerability of her life.

The night had aged only a little when Madeleine, suffering the onset of shock, rushed out into the darkness to throw up the little she'd eaten. Then she lay down, shivering with fear and loneliness, on a pallet next to Anwen. Fourteen old men, two fugitive boys, two lonely girls and Brenton LeGros gradually fell into silence and sleep.

Chapter 18 – Brother Bones

Through the night, the rain drummed steadily on the roof slates and tapped at the walls. In the red-orange glow of the banked fire, men who had defied kings surrendered to the gentle tyranny of dreams. This night, as on every night, their hearts, their wishes, their despairs and their fears were rediscovered – laid bare – as though sleep was a great owl that nightly clamped them in its talons and pierced their brains. Behind their flickering eyes, battles raged, lovers were taken, children were born and died.

A little past midnight, the rain stopped and the sky cleared. The silence woke Madeleine from the race she'd been running in her mind all that short night. The moon, only two days past the full, cast a clear light through chinks in the window slats. She rose and pressed her eye to a narrow slit. Only a dozen yards away stood the small church where once, a secluded band of monks had kneeled to thank God for their hardships and for the opportunity to toil. Where had they gone, she wondered? Or perhaps a better question was, what had these strange old men, led by one of the king's most renowned enemies, done with the holy men? She crept silently from the dormitory, feeling the need to reach out to them, to pray in the church they'd laboured to build. How she wished Father Reginald was here, to comfort her with his quiet assurance of God's protection!

Even in the moonlight, she could see that the church was ancient. It slumped noticeably on its foundation, and the window spaces, once possibly filled with expensive glass, gaped emptily. The door stood slightly askew, wide enough for her, first to peer through and then to slip through. She stood for a long moment, looking through the broad shafts of moonlight, smelling the must and decay that nature always insists on bringing to man's works. In the distance, a fox yipped, and was still. Madeleine knew that, when the lord of a manor died, all the foxes on his land would sing out together in the night – whether in joy or sadness, she'd never been told. In any case, the masters of this house were clearly long gone. Only one fox left to cry for them.

Except! As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, one of the shadows began to take on a familiar, oddly man-like shape. It was a slumped figure, in a pew, smoothly outlined, as though covered in a cowl. It somehow reminded her of Father Reginald. Her heart jumped. It was a man! A man with his head bowed in prayer! Surely not one of the terrible, battered old men from the dormitory! Surely none of them would spend a night's penance (though a collapsing house of God would certainly be a suitable place for their penance). How very fine if there were still priests about from the old priory days!

She took a step and spoke softly. "Hello? Excuse me, Father!" No answer. "Hello? Can you 'elp me, Father?"

The figure didn't move. Perhaps he was so deep in prayer – so lost in the solitude of the storm-washed night – that he couldn't hear her. She decided to go closer and did so, placing her feet with all the exaggerated care of a cat stalking a mouse. It seemed an age until she was close enough to reach out. It definitely was a man! Slowly, gently, she placed her fingertips on his shoulder, wary only of startling him out of his trance. She tapped gently. The man's head fell off.

In the clatter of bones that followed, a skull bounced into the moonlight at her feet and Madeleine, aghast, found herself frozen to the spot, her heart stopped entirely by that vacant, empty-eyed stare. And then it beat again and she burst into flight, stumbling, tripping, falling, scrambling on all fours until she banged into the door, fell backwards through the opening and began to scuttle, crablike, across the soaked ground, all the while emitting a wordless kind of howl.

How long did she howl? She didn't know. She only knew that eventually, in the darkness, hands gripped and lifted her and, for the second time in a dozen hours, she wrapped her arms about a living person who was a total stranger to her. Her eyes clenched tightly shut, she drew a shuddering breath and sent a somewhat reduced keening wail out again. It was as though a banshee had taken possession of her, the hollow sockets of its eyes being precisely those of the skull in the church. She shook her head violently and pressed her face harder against the warm chest of the man who held her.

"Quiet now," he was saying, over and over. "Hush now. You're safe, girl. There's no danger 'ere."

And little by little, she drew herself back together, becoming at last aware again of life; aware of sinewy, comforting arms; aware of the boom of a heart, overlain by the swirl of air in lungs and the rumble of concern in a throat; aware of the smell of wood smoke and roasted meat and the musky odours of life. She focused on these things and on stilling her crying, until the horrifying stare of the skull began to recede. Still, Death had crept up on her, breathing a loathsome breath into her nostrils and hissing a terrible promise into her ear.

"It seems she's met Brother Bones," she heard a voice say – Owain Glyndwr's voice. She pried open a reluctant eye and twisted her head. Hard against the moon's glow, she saw the dark shapes of the old men: Silent Richard, with a long sword gripped in his two hands and, peeping tremulously from behind him, the blond crown of Anwen. Glyndwr came close and put a gentle hand on her head. "Someone had to release him, youngster. I'm sorry the task fell to you."

He turned and walked back into the dormitory, followed by the rest of the mumbling shadows. Only then did Madeleine step back and cautiously raise her eyes, to see who held her. It was Jeremy Talbot.

Planting his fists on his hips, smiling his old toothless smile, he said, "That's as close as I've seen anyone come, Maddie . . . to wakin' the dead!"

Chapter 19 – Susan the Spy

Castles and rain do not make good companions. Water pools on every surface, soaks through the mortar, permeates the air and sucks the warmth from every bone. Cathedrals full of wood are needed for burning to keep even summer chills at bay. The peasants might generate warmth by keeping active but in the castle, the lord and lady could only confine themselves to ever smaller rooms – preferably in protected corners where the wind was stifled and the winter sun undiluted.

The morning after the knights' return, Sir Roland woke at sunrise when the trumpet signaled the start of the day. He lay quietly, cocooned in heavy furs, listening to Margaret's dreams. The servant, Susan, was tip-toeing about the room, having slept on the floor as she always did, in a corner near the hearth. They were used to her being in the room; allowing her to enjoy the left-over warmth the stones had borrowed from the previous night's fire and, at the same time, having her close at hand to tend to their nighttime needs. Always, her first duty of the day was to re-stoke the fire before the lord and lady rose.

Roland peeped out at her from beneath the covers. Susan had been chambermaid to himself and his wife for . . . what, three years now? She was always their pick to accompany them when they traveled, being herself almost completely devoid of personal needs and moral qualms. Only recently, she'd repeated to Margaret a garbled version of a conversation that she openly confessed to hearing while 'passing' Mary Gordon's closed door.

He must remember to commend her for that, he thought. Later. For now, there was no need to speak or to actually rise or even, really, to be awake. The trumpet, which summoned the dozens of castle workers to their tasks, was his assurance of that. Far below, in the kitchens, soups and stews would soon be bubbling in the big iron pots. In the Great Hall, the debris of last night's revelry would be swept away. In the stables, animals would be fed and stalls mucked out. In the town, wood cutters would cut and shepherds would shepherd and tanners would tan and laundresses would launder. All while he lolled under the comfort of his furs.

He growled contentedly, scratched his bum and stretched his long legs, thinking to fall back asleep. His bladder was full, though, so he swung his legs out, grabbed the chamber pot from beneath the bed and began to fill it. The splash reminded him of last night's rain.

"What's the weather to be today, girl?" he asked of Susan, without turning.

"Rain's gone, Sir Roland. Sky's as clear as a billy goat's eye. Cold though! You'll want to keep a fur about you for a bit, I expect, if yer risin'."

She came around to his side of the bed to take the chamber pot from him. "Ah," she said, "a nice 'ealthy amount o' water, yer lordship. I'll be tossin' that for ye straight away."

He slid back under the covers, noting that Margaret had begun to snuffle and stretch; clearly no longer asleep, but not yet ready to acknowledge the day.

"Are any of the castle's guests about yet, Susan?" he asked.

"Sir Perceval and his lady are gone walkin' in the town, yer lordship. I seen 'em goin' out the gate meself, when I was fetchin' water fer your basin."

"Walking in the town? What the Devil for, I wonder?"

Susan crossed herself at the mention of the devil, an act she performed frequently in Sir Roland's presence.

"Some foreign custom, maybe, yer lordship. I 'eard 'e was down questionin' the kitchen staff yesterday . . .'bout the onions, Sir! And the turnips! Wantin' to know 'ow easy they was to grow an' 'ow big an' 'ow did Cook store 'em! Jenny Talbot – beggin' yer pardon, Sir – Mistress Talbot reckoned to the girls that 'e was a loony, Sir, beggin' yer pardon, Sir. She reckoned to the girls that some good English cookin' would see 'im right, though, an' she was goin' to whip 'im up a pie full o' starlin's, Sir. Must be a very charmin' gentleman, to tweak a pie out o' Mistress Talbot, Sir! But fancy a gentleman wantin' to talk to kitchen folk, Sir Roland! About veg'tables, 'n' all!"

She'd lost Roland's attention at the first mention of onions. "All right, all right. That's enough."

His mind had begun trolling back through the challenges presented to him the previous day and he knew that returning to sleep now was out of the question.

"Yes yer lordship. Thank you, Sir," said Susan, tucking the chamber pot under her arm. "They do say, Sir," she couldn't help but add, " – not me, mind, but the kitchen girls, Sir – they say Sir Perceval's a very beautiful man, Sir! An' Lady de Coucy, bein' so young an' all, mus' be a spectacularly 'appy bride! You know, to be able to be lookin' at 'im, like, day an' night, you know!" Susan blushed scarlet and decided it was definitely time to scamper, before her tongue got her in trouble.

"Susan!" Lady Margaret's voice came strongly from beneath the mound of furs. Susan stopped and turned sheepishly.

"Yes, m'lady? Sorry to 'ave disturbed you, Lady Margaret. I do be a chatter box in the mornin', me! Is there anythin' . . ."

"Be quiet, girl, for heaven's sake!"

"Yes m'am. Sorry m'am."

"Susan," (Lady Margaret's disheveled head emerged into the light and she cocked a bleary eye), "spreading gossip about your betters is a very naughty habit, do you know that?"

"Yes m'am. Sorry m'am. It wasn't like it was real gossip, though, Lady Margaret. It was just. . .'

"I know what it was, Susan. And I know you wouldn't actually be involved in spreading rumours – false rumours – angry-making rumours. Of course you wouldn't. Sir Roland and I have much greater faith in you than that." She smiled a thin, hangman's sort of smile and Susan, relieved at being spared the expected tongue-lashing, curtsied lightly.

"Unhappily though, Susan, many of the castle's staff will not be . . . as wise as you are. Some of them would say anything, you know . . . without regard for truth . . . or for consequences. And others would say nothing at all when they really ought to speak! Do you know what I mean?" Susan nodded, suspecting already where this argument might be headed. "I lie awake at night, Susan. Worrying. You know?" Susan nodded again. "In short, Susan, Sir Roland and I hope that we can count on you to . . . to continue to let us know? . . . of any unpleasant rumours that you might hear? So we can put a stop to them at the proper time. Before they cause any harm. Do you take my meaning?"

Susan curtsied sweetly, understanding blinking to life like a small torch in a wide and empty courtyard. Her propensity for eavesdropping had just been given a stamp of approval!

"There's a good girl. Now, how full is that chamber pot? Bring it here and I'll save you a second trip." She groaned into a sitting position and swung her legs out from under the furs.

While Lady Margaret squatted over the pot, Susan had one more poke at the fire and thought with satisfaction of how important a person she'd become. Not the cold walk to the outer rampart, not the slosh of warm urine in the pot, not the sulphurous smell in her nostrils – not even the drops that flew back onto her hands as she dumped the contents over the edge – nothing could dampen her sudden enthusiasm for news. Her eyes and ears, she determined, would henceforth never be idle.

* * * *

As for Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, they crawled back under the bedclothes and spent some time talking desultorily about the cruel pressure that had brought them to Clun. As inheritances went, this one was undeniably a dud! The town, the castle, the surrounding farmlands – they were all too ruinous and decrepit to be of value.

Had it not been for the special request, in fact, (Damn the Duchess and damn her spoiled brat of a daughter!) they would never have come to this place! And if they'd not come, they'd not be, as it was increasingly obvious they were, embroiled in the midst of some mystifying deviousness! Their home castle at Hampton Court in Herefordshire, not so terribly far away in miles, seemed a world away in their minds.

They talked the problem over and through until each arrived at a conclusion that suited their temperament. Margaret's was to continue her meditations in a tub of hot water. Not only would it take the chill off, but sending Susan to fetch the wooden tub and to instruct the ewerer to start heating the water would get the girl out amongst the lesser servants where stories may be circulating.

Roland's conclusion was that only by confronting head-on those deceptive and all-too-tricky young Scots would he learn the truth. He decided to do just that.

Chapter 20 – Roland's Challenge

The woman who called herself Mary Gordon had, of course, slept in the same large bed as the ladies Annabel and Effemy. It was the custom for people to share warmth and company when practical. In their late night whispering, they'd determined to start early on their return journey to Scotland. The meeting with Lady Joan had been achieved, they believed they'd made Scotland's predicament clear and that Joan was sympathetic. Now, they assured one another, it came down to trust – trust that Joan was mature enough and ambitious enough to encourage James to end his long sojourn in London!

The threesome had stoked their own fire, not having a Susan to do it for them. Their chamber pots they'd left by the door where servants would find them and, while Mary saw to their luggage, Effemy and Annabel had gone haughtily in search of Sir Angus. They could leave without him but their safety on the roads would certainly be enhanced by his presence.

They found him in the Great Hall, lying on a table not far from Sir Cyril and several others who'd caroused too far into the night and failed to make it to their appropriate stations. Effemy, with a far-extended fingertip, poked him into consciousness.

"Sir Angus! For shame, Sir! Bad enough to leave your charges undefended while you traipse about in the forest! Now, to abandon us in favour of an ale pot?"

He groaned and struggled to a more or less upright position.

"Ah! Ladies! I . . . I . . . !"

"You, you what, Sir?"

"I . . . I . . . !

He was clearly in very poor condition; hung-over, bleary with chills and fever. He put his feet on the floor, braced himself against the table and vomited. By the time he was able to raise his head, Sir Cyril was also wobbling onto his feet, peering at them with such magnificent contempt that Annabel and Effemy stepped closer to one another, the better to weather it. His stale, unhealthy breath misted between them. Then he reached into his trousers and, with no concession to modesty, began urinating on the floor. Condensation dribbled down the mortared seams in the stone walls.

Effemy called in disgust for servants to stoke the fires and bring the men food while Angus kicked bits of straw together to cover his vomit.

"Inexcusable!" he was muttering. "A slur on my honour! Make it up! Make it up! What may I do for you, ladies?"

"You may order yourself, Sir!" declared Effemy. "Find something solid to put in your stomach! Then see to the horses! We leave Clun as soon as you can be readied!"

He nodded – an act which started him gagging once again – and the two ladies, swept quickly away, seeking a much needed draught of fresh air.

* * * *

On the floor above, Sir Roland had come knock-knock-knocking on Mary Gordon's door. Having decided finally to confront her, his inclination was simply to barge in and demand a straight telling. But caution had asserted itself and he'd paused for fully a count of three before Mary's voice had rung out, "Come!"

She had her back to the door, all her attention on her small trunk and elaborate saddlebags.

"The chamber pots can go," she said without looking up, thinking a servant had arrived. "Then you can get us some bread and fresh water to break our fast with. Oh, and I'll need a man to carry this trunk down." She stood thoughtfully for a moment before adding, "I suppose I should send a message to Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, as well. Tell them . . ." She turned and saw Sir Roland, his lips pinched closed as tightly as a miser's purse, his arms folded across his chest. "Oh!" she said.

"Leaving us so soon, Mistress Gordon?"

His tone was that of a shopkeeper addressing a customer who'd been caught leaving without paying.

"Ahh, Sir Roland! Yes! Regretfully, yes! You've been most hospitable but, you see, we are uninvited, unexpected guests, and we mustn't presume on you any longer."

"Yes, well, so on and so on! Since you bring it up, though; well off the beaten track, Clun! Not easily stumbled across by accident! See what I mean? Particularly not by Scots!" The suggestion was unspoken, but clear, and Mary was uneasily aware that something had changed in the outlook of her host.

"Sir Roland," she lowered her head and gave him her most coquettish glance: "I'm sure a man of your experience knows, no mistake is too difficult for a foolish woman. We were meant to return directly to Scotland, from our visit to Shrewsbury you see, but I – against the advice of my friends – I was desperate to visit St Milburga's holy well. Stoke St Milborough seemed like it must surely be just a little way further on. And the weather was so fine."

"So! A pilgrimage gone wrong? Bad luck to pull up in Clun?"

"Not all bad, Sir, since we've had the privilege of meeting you and your gracious wife! I admit Sir Angus did warn me that the way was difficult and he was unsure of it and that we – as you say, being Scots – may not be looked on with the greatest favour. But I, as I say, a foolish woman . . . I insisted." Mary's smile was a triumph of feigned innocence and foolishness. "Thank you so much again for saving us from the storm."

"Hmph!" Sir Roland snorted, but he did uncross his arms, opting to place his fists on his hips in a no less antagonistic stance. "Your man's a fool," he growled. "Letting inexperienced women have their way. Should have refused to come! Only proper for him to take control."

"Indeed, Sir Roland. Sir Angus is a most chivalrous knight, but he is young, like myself. Whereas a man of your obvious . . . worldliness . . . would, I'm sure, never allow chivalrous impulses to over-rule good sense."

"Yes, yes, well!" Roland's resolve wavered for the briefest moment. The damned woman was packing her bags. It would be so easy just to let her go – get her out of his hair. But if even some skerrick of Susan's garbled story was right, then this woman's story was false! If, somewhere along the way, he was shown to have been fooled . . . ! He could not tolerate that.

"An example of my 'good sense', then, mistress!" he trumpeted. "I put it to you straight. There is a woman . . . a woman about your age . . . a Scots woman, like yourself. . . named Elizabeth Douglas. Her father would be Archibald Douglas . . . a great enemy of England."

Mary's smile flickered into an expression of concern, tinged with the tiniest dollop of fear. "Why so there is, Sir Roland! All in Scotland know of that famous knight! Though few, I fear, would know of his daughter! Why do you mention this?"

"`Tyneman', the man is called, I believe – Loser. Been on more losing sides in battle than a goose has laid eggs." Sir Roland had developed a sudden delicious plan to wring from this woman whatever truth she contained. Like squeezing an apple for its juice, he thought. And if she's crushed in the process . . . so what?

Mary's eyes hardened ever so slightly and her lips became narrower and firmer. She wetted them with the tip of her tongue. "I have heard that name, yes. Though I have always thought it unworthy to be spoken by a true knight."

"Have you now? Well, worthy or not, truth has a way of being heard, mistress. Like for instance, this famed Sir Archibald. You might know he was amongst the scoundrels who fought against our army at Shrewsbury in '03. I was there! You wouldn't have known that, would you? Twenty-one, I was, and newly blooded on the battlefield. Slaughtered as many Scots as we could lay our hands on, that day. And the ones who threw down their swords. . . they pissed in their armour! Held them for ransom, we did! Archibald was one of those."

Mary's back had stiffened perceptibly through Sir Roland's rant and her eyes locked defiantly on his. "I am a mere woman, Sir Roland, and know nothing of pissing in armour. It is a matter of legend in my country, though, that Archibald Douglas took five wounds at Homildon Hill – and lost an eye in the process." Her voice was steady and very soft. "Is there some moral to your tale?"

"Purpose of my tale, Mistress Gordon, simply put, to say that certain of my people think they've heard the name Elizabeth Douglas spoken within the bounds of this castle! I would find that wonderfully strange. And I'd wonder why that would be!"

Mary Gordon's gaze was level and unwavering.

He continued on. "And I wonder, too, at the mention of the Plant Owain and this Glyndwr rogue in virtually the same breath!" Again, she didn't answer. He could think of no other way to go but to imply that he knew more than he really did. "I say again, the truth about people always comes out. Don't you think? Even steel plate cannot hide it."

"So you've said, Sir Roland. The piss leaks out. We must never forget, of course. But there are many truths in the world – not all of them friendly with one another. Not all of them pleasant. I learned at my mother's knee, that some are better left unspoken. For my part, I cannot account for what people think they've heard. Is it possible that they listened badly?"

This was, of course, his fear – that dim-witted Susan had misheard. He snarled, "Pleasant or not, this is what was heard. My course of action, though . . . if, for instance, this girl . . . this Elizabeth Douglas . . . if, by some chance, I discovered that . . ."

At that moment, Effemy and Annabel arrived at the open door, in mid-chatter. "Angus is sick! We've told him to . . . Oh! Sir Roland!"

They fell silent. The tension between the knight and their mistress was clear, the air as taut and tense as the skin on a pudding. Nostrils were flared, chins thrust out, complexions pale; he with his fists propped on his hips, she with hers clenched at her sides. Accusations hung between them like sparrows that butcher birds have impaled on thorns. It was he who broke contact first, lowering his hands and allowing a slim smirk to slide across his lips.

"There you have it!" he said. "The man's unwell! Ye cannot travel wi'out 'im. And so, my wife and I will have the pleasure of . . . getting to know you . . . a little better."

Mary gave a little sideways nod of her head, a nod which might have said, "I'm at your service," or it might have said, "I'm thinking you'll regret that". In either case, Sir Roland turned on his heel, brushed past Annabel and Effemy and was gone.

Mary exhaled a long, slow breath and the girls rushed to her. "He knows," she said.

Effemy slammed the door and leaned against it. "Knows what?" she demanded. "Knows our purpose? My God! What did he say?"

"He did everything but ask me directly if I was Elizabeth Douglas. He insulted my father – insinuated that he was a coward. He was trying to provoke me. I'm sure someone's spoken to him . . . about who I am."

"But not why you're here? Nothing about a meeting with Lady Joan?"

"I think not. He didn't mention her. But he'll be trying to figure it out, now. My God, but the man has a temper! I think he might have struck me, if you hadn't come!"

"We must not be apart from this point on!" said Annabel. "It's too dangerous! And we must work out a way to leave, as soon as possible; with or without Sir Angus!"

"And one more thing," said Elizabeth Douglas. "We must trust no one! There are spies in this castle!"

Chapter 21 – Maude Meets the Nobility

Sir Roland was moderately satisfied with himself. Another minute alone with the Scot and he'd certainly have squeezed some kind of confession from her, but no matter. Her instant defensiveness of the Douglas scoundrel was enough to condemn her in his eyes. He quickly formed three resolutions. The first was that, for now, the girl and her ladies would be treated in such a way that no complaint could be made against him. The second was that they would not be leaving. Not until he knew what their game was. And the third was to make it clear to everyone that he, and only he, would be master at Clun Castle.

He went directly to the Great Hall where, amongst a dozen or more other knights and ladies and servants (including Maude and Branwen), Sirs Angus and Cyril languished at table, their heads lolled on their arms. Roland made his way directly to the table and slammed his fist against it, inches from their drowsing ears. Angus hurled himself upright, barely stopping himself from falling backwards off the bench. Cyril's eyes blinked open but an increasing agony in his neck and shoulders prevented him from rapid movement. He pushed himself slowly upright, finding himself unable to turn his head or unlock his shoulders. The booming fist had caused Branwen, who'd been sweeping straw from behind Angus, to lose control of the wicker broom. She and it had both fallen into the pile of fouled straw, not four arm-lengths from the raging Sir Roland. And there she cowered, too frightened to lift her eyes.

"Sirs!" bellowed Roland. "How do you sleep when danger is afoot?"

Cyril's bloodshot and anguished eyes clicked, almost audibly, from side to side. Angus pinched his eyes closed and rubbed at them with the heels of his hands. A lash of drool angled off from his open mouth, across his chin and onto his jerkin.

"Yesterday, in the forest," Sir Roland cried, addressing everyone in the hall, "these knights fought a great battle! Against an enemy that we in the Marches remember all too well! In consequence, I have decided that, until I can be certain of our safety, no one – I don't care how noble they are – NO one, is to leave Clun Castle without my direct permission." He turned his attention back to Angus and Cyril, placing his hands on the table and bending near. He spoke softly now, only for them. "Do you understand me, Sirs? No matter who asks or demands – I and I alone, am responsible. I and I alone, will decide who may or may not leave Clun. Clear?"

Angus nodded, wiped the spittle from his chin and nodded again. Cyril did his best to nod, though he needed to bob his whole upper body to make it visible.

Sir Roland stood, then, and looked about the room. There were no signs of dissension. The sight of Branwen, quivering on the floor, virtually at his feet, gave him one more idea. He nudged her with his toe.

"You. Up."

Branwen peeped up at him and, realising that he expected her to stand, struggled to her feet. The front of her dress reeked of piss and vomit.

"Phaw!" he snorted, wrinkling his nose. "You'll not do!" He looked around again and spotted Maude, clutching her broom as though she could hide her trembling body behind it. "You," he said. He strode to her, smacked the broom from her hands, grasped her ear and started to lead her away. "I have a job for you."

Chapter 22 – Madeleine and Anwen at Large

For Anwen, Maddie's experience with the bouncing skull was of little consequence. She'd gone back to her pallet and slept the sleep of the exhausted. Then she'd woken, full of optimism as was her nature, and determined to get to know her captors. To that end, she attached herself to Silent Richard and, with Roger, followed him on a fishing expedition to the stream that wound through the valley.

Madeleine, however, could find no such comfort. Well after sunrise, she continued to cower by the fire, soaked in a sort of terrified apprehension. In her mind, she was certain that the dead monk must be dead through the agency of the old fellows who now occupied this isolated former priory. Had they killed the holy men and simply left their corpses to decay where they died? Would there be other horrors waiting to meet them? Other, even more personal horrors?

The day, cold and bright, was well under way before her natural spirit of challenge began to rebound. She'd been sitting to one side of the hearth, brooding and prodding at both fires – the one that flamed before her and the one that flared in her mind. She feared, but needed to know, what had happened here in the past. And she needed to know what was to happen to herself and Annie. How else to find out than by asking questions?

Most of the men had drifted out of the dormitory to, she knew not where, but Jack was there, lying down – very sore, slightly feverish, his leg wound raw and bloody. He was being kept company by Jeremy Talbot, who'd spent his morning splitting feathers for arrows and sharing the occasional mumbled comment with the reclining boy. When Madeleine approached them, she stood staring at the floor between them, uncertain how and where to begin.

"How're ye then, girlie?" asked Jeremy without looking up from his work. "Over yer fright?"

"Youse've done a wicked thing," she said.

"Oh aye!" Jeremy declared happily. "An' not jus' the one, neither! More wicked things 'n' there are worms in an acre o' ground! Far too many fer an ol' man to remember." He stopped shaving the feather and stared away at the fire for a moment. "Though," he added, "there's one or two outstandin' wicked things I can still bring to mind! Very enjoyable!"

"God will toast the lot o' youse, fer what you done to them holy fathers an' fer stealin' away perfeckly happy people like me an' Annie."

"Now Maddie. Toastin's drastic fer the poor likes of us. Best we don't go givin' the good Lord ideas when he's got so many of his own to be workin' through."

"T'ain't funny, Mister Talbot."

Jeremy put down his work and looked closely at Madeleine. Her chin dimpled and wriggled. She gnawed her lip in consternation.

"Sorry, missy. Sometimes, when ye get old, ye forget to remember 'ow serious life can be. Let me tell ye this, an' this is for true. What got done to them 'oly fathers didn't get done by us. They was all gone when we came. All but Brother Bones, who we all was reminded of this mornin'. An' 'e was in that exact same place an' state when we found 'im.

"Best we could figure was maybe the plague. They's a row o' graves in back. Best we can guess is that Bones was the last. He buried 'is mates, one by one as the pestilence carried 'em off. Then sat 'imself down under God's bright eye an' let it take him, as well. 'Twas fear alone that made us leave 'im there. You know – if it was plague 'n' all – nobody much wants to touch them remains. But Owain says – an' he's right, him – 'e says we can't have the good friar sittin' before God's blessed alter without an 'ead on 'is shoulders. So we been provoked to action by yer holy curiosity. This very mornin', ol' Bones is bein' gathered up – all 'is bits an pieces – an' bein' placed in an 'ole next to his brothers. I 'spect he'll drop by in yer dreams to thank ye, real soon."

Madeleine had actually rocked back on her heels at the mention of plague. She'd heard tales of it, and of villages wiped out – left in the possession of ghosts and forest creatures. But she'd never imagined such places could be nearby. She looked to Jack for confirmation and he nodded his head feebly.

"But that don' make sense!" she stammered. "If there was plague . . . an' the others died . . . why'd he stay?"

"They was his fam'ly, Maddie! Folks don' run away from fam'ly! Even if it sometimes looks like they's runnin', they generally jus' takin' the long way back home. 'At's a thing ye've yet to learn, I 'spect. Meself, I reckon 'e jus' saw it as a chance to have 'imself a wee chat wi' God. Maybe ask some pointy questions, ye know? Maybe get t'understand the good Lord's thinkin' a bit better. It's important to talk, doncha think? An' to listen. Prob'ly not many of us listen as good as we should. I know it's one o' me own few faults.

"And as for t'other – stealin' away you an' young Annie," Jeremy continued, "I reckon our Jack's got some explainin' to do there, alright! Might be a chance right now for 'im to practice 'is speech – an' for you an' me to practice our listenin', eh Maddie? Any road, when Owain comes back, he'll be needin' to have it right."

They both turned to look at Jack, whose blush was lost in the crimson flush of his fever. "Aww. Me 'n' Rog', we was only out to steal somethin', us! Hopin' for a pig, before they all got the winter slaughter! When you an' t'other one showed up, I jus' got this idea that, maybe, if we brought you back 'ere. . . you could . . . you know. . ."

He fell silent and rolled on his side, his face away from them. Madeleine shook her head, the old familiar anger rising in her throat. "No. I don't know! Could what?"

And Jeremy repeated after her, softly, "Tell us, lad. Could what?"

For a moment, it seemed that Jack would not answer them. Then he turned on them suddenly, thrusting himself up on an elbow. Tears were coursing across his cheeks, his mouth was twisted and his eyes desperate.

"It's 'im!" he cried. "Somethin' ain't right in 'im! He's 'urtin'. . . inside! We can all see it! Nobody talks about it but we can all see it! But nobody does nothin'! So I thought . . . ! I did somethin'!"

Madeleine and Jeremy looked at each other in puzzlement. "Who, lad?" asked Jeremy. "Who're ye talkin' about?"

"You always said his life was charmed, you did!" Jack wept. "But 'e needs somethin' now. . . somethin' . . . a special charm, maybe. Somethin'! Why don' 'e eat nuthin'? Why don' 'e wanna do nuthin'? Why's 'e always tired out? Huh? He ain't right!"

"Ahh! It's Owain yer on about, then?" asked Jeremy.

Jack's face seemed about to dissolve before them. "I couldn't stand it if 'e died," he whispered.

Madeleine stared at the weeping boy, amazed to see him crying over someone else's pain when he'd endured his own so patiently; and also perplexed about his thought to involve her and Anwen in Owain's health.

"Well?" Jack asserted, wiping tears and snot onto his sleeve. "Women know about that stuff, don't they! 'Bout charms 'n' plants 'n' healin' 'n' stuff? If you'd a mind to, youse could . . . prob'ly. . . figure out a way to help 'im!"

His eyes were pleading for her to say yes. Yes, I know a plant to make a charm to put against a pain. But she didn't say it. She didn't say it because she didn't know it. She heard Jeremy start to speak: "Jack, boy. I'm sorry! I shoulda seen . . . shoulda realised . . . how worried ye'd be. There ain' nothin' . . . "

Madeleine was backing away, shaking her head. There were women in the village who did know these things, of course – old women, who knew every plant in meadow and forest; who knew healing properties and preparations. Even her own mother knew some . . . enough to make a poultice that could draw out pus. Blackberry leaves for burns, dandelion for boils. There were simple things that girls like Anwen, Maude and Madeleine, of necessity, learned by watching and listening and fetching. But there were also dangerous secrets involved. Even those old women could sometimes leave a person mad or in agony or dead.

"I. . . can't!" she cried. "You . . . you. . ." Even Jeremy turned to look at her with a new-found curiosity. Of all the things she might have expected, she had not expected to be needed – to be counted on. Not by these people – not by anyone! She turned and ran from the building.

She ran out into the brisk morning – into the remnant yard once turned and planted and harvested by the lost holy men. As she ran, she thrust her little fists about in the air – boxing the wind. How she cursed Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm and their ruinous old protectors. In only two days, they'd turned her life on its head – stolen her from her life, nearly had her eaten by wolves. And her courage! The one thing she'd always had in abundance – more than either of her sisters – more than anyone! They'd tried to diminish that! She could not have hated them more if the devil himself had smiled at her from a perch on their shoulders.

Stumbling, half blinded with rage, she turned away from the door, anxious not to be in sight if they came after her. She flung herself around the corner and pulled up short in front of the dreaming Brenton LeGros. He'd parked himself against an east-facing wall and spent the morning soaking up the thin sun and the valley's boundless sense of peace. His enormous feet were stretched out and crossed before him, his head leaning back on the boards of the dormitory, his hands folded in his lap. Even sitting, his eyes were nearly on a level with Madeleine's. One of them opened a narrow slit, to take in the panting girl, and stayed open in a curious, dispassionate sort of peek. He and Madeleine knew each other, of course. In a town as small as Clun, where so much of the work was communal in nature, it was inevitable that everyone would know everyone.

Still, from Madeleine's point of view, Brenton had always been as near to invisible as someone can get – even more so since his return from the wars in France. Where other young men had returned full of boasts and cockiness and worldly stories, Brenton had returned with a fathomless silence in him. People said it was his wound. Probably it's still trying to kill him, they said. But he does a share of the work, was the consensus, so let him be.

Madeleine stood to one side of him, not looking at him. Her tolerance, never a robust thing, was worn as lean as the newly winterized sunlight; her patience as thin as the watery mucus that dripped from her nose. She shuffled her feet, sniffled and felt the cold air flow into her lungs. She thought to turn away. Then her anger rolled over in her, like a hangman in his bed, and she rounded on Brenton.

"What you gonna do, then? You gonna sit here like a statue? 'Til spring comes 'round? Eh?"

His second eye popped open and his head shifted fractionally, to see her more squarely, but he didn't reply.

"What you doin' 'ere anyhow, Brenton? Two days ago, you were workin' in the fields in the town. Now yer 'ere . . . captured . . . in the forest! Nobody made you come!" An idea began to take form in her mind. "You can leave, ye know? These ol' men – they couldn't stop ye, ye know! Big as ye are!"

Still he didn't answer, but his brow did wrinkle slightly and his lips pursed into a querulous little pucker. That seemed promising to Madeleine.

"Big as ye are, ye could jus' up an' go! But I guess ye couldn' find yer way back to the town, though" she sneered. "Could ye? Like me 'n' Annie. . . we'd get lost in them woods. Maybe freeze or get eaten by wolves or stolen by fairies. If you was goin', though, an' ye knew the way. . . me 'n' Annie, we could go with ye!"

Brenton's mouth opened, like a finger-sized hole in someone's pocket, and Madeleine fell silent, watching, waiting for something of value to come tumbling out. But his eyes turned away and the little hole closed up again.

"I wanna go home, Brenton." She felt a new trembling in her stomach, as though she would vomit again. "I'm afraid! I want . . . my da'!"

Brenton unclasped his hands, placed them on his knees and leaned forward, freeing his back from the warm planks of the building. His eyes swung back to her, wide, clear and dark.

"Madeleine," he said, his voice a deep, comforting hum. "Maddie! Ye never cry, do ye? No matter how mad ye get! No matter how frightened! You're not like a reg'lar girl, at all!" She drew breath to protest, but he didn't give her the opportunity. "Don't ye know ye got nothin' to be frightened of 'ere?" he continued. "Don't ye see that? These men . . . they finished hurtin' people a long time ago."

She looked at him in confusion. Finished? What could he be talking about?

"That's why they're 'ere, in this valley!" he continued. "They're jus' tryin' to stay out of 'arm's way. Bit like meself."

"They stole this valley!" she began, in outrage. "From them holy fa. . ."

Brenton pulled her up with a wave of his hand. "No they didn't. You know better'n 'at, Maddie. These days, the world's full o' empty places where nothin' but ghosts live. This was jus' one of 'em. 'Til them ol' men come."

"Well, they stole horses an' swords from them knights!" she cried, feeling about for a stronger argument. "You can't say they didn't! They're thieves. 'N' Owain Glyndwr! You know! He's . . . He's. . . !"

"He's what, Maddie? An ol' man? A tired ol' man? Who's not been seen nor heard of in more years'n a chicken's got feathers? I know they stole from them knights! But think what's been done to them, girl! You saw 'em las' night, bringin' out their scars. There ain' a one of 'em's not been killed five times over. By men jus' like them knights! But even so, they jus' took the 'orses an' let the men go!"

"So they says!"

He nodded and looked to the ground. "So they says." When he looked back to her, she saw the first sign of uncertainty in his eyes. "It'd be good to know that for sure, wouldn' it." He nodded again and gazed thoughtfully out at the woods. "Which is one reason why I am goin' back to the town." He glanced at her and smiled. "An' yes, I b'lieve I can find the way. An' yes, you an' Annie can come with me. An' no, I don't reckon anyone here'll be concerned to stop us. You'll be as safe as I can make you. An' before ye ask, no! It won't be today. 'Cause I gotta get some strength back in me legs first. Your sister's only a speck of a thing, but she's a dead weight after a few miles. An' no, we can't go tomorrow. But mos' prob'ly for sure, in a couple o' days. In time for the celebrations. That cover all your questions?"

As quickly as that, the lump that had been lodged in Madeleine's throat, like a stopper in a bottle, shook loose and she coughed it out in a little laugh. She watched the huge young man close his eyes and lean back against the timber wall, a little smile playing on his lips. In two minutes, she had heard more words from him than many had heard in a year. For the first time in an age, she felt like hugging someone and he was in danger of being it.

"Brenton?"

"Yes Madeleine?"

"One more question?"

He opened his eyes again and gave her a look of exaggerated patience.

"What celebrations?"

Brenton turned his head and gazed at her, wide-eyed. "It's Samhain, girl! In two days time! All Hallows Eve!"

All Hallows! Hallowe'en! The day the veil between the living and the dead peels down to its thinnest. An image flashed behind her eyes of 'Brother Bones', his skull lying with its puzzled expression at her feet. She did not want to be here, where he had died, on Hallowe'en. In case he hadn't gotten any satisfactory answers from God.

* * * *

For Madeleine, then, the time to be passed was fixed. In a 'couple of days', she would be setting for home. The question only remained, how to pass that time.

For starters, she set off to look for Anwen, to tell her the news – simply a matter of following the stream along the valley floor. The sound of her sister's laughter soon assured her she was going right and, on a green bank that overhung the stream, she found them, Richard jigging a line slowly up and down in a deep pool, Roger watching in slack-jawed concentration and Anwen dancing about them. She'd arranged a line of sticks and was hop-scotching from one side to the other.

"Three little sisters, as happy as can be," she was chanting.

"Their father wants some misters who'll take them home to see

Which will let him kiss her and make a faithful wife,

Which can tell his future and which will take his life!"

Even without knowing what Madeleine knew – that Brenton would take them home – Anwen was as chirpy as a robin in spring.

"Look, Maddie!" she called on spying Madeleine. "Look what I found!" She held up a small cross, woven from plants. "St John's Wort! I made us charms! Richard says All Hallows is comin' an' I reckon we could use somethin'," (she frowned exaggeratedly at Roger) "to keep the Devil away." Roger snorted with derision and Anwen thrust out her tongue.

"Well there you go!" said Madeleine, coming very close to joining in the merriment. "Jack Sorespot musta been thinkin' better'n I gave 'im credit for! He jus' tol' me they stole us away hopin' we could bring some healin' to these men. 'Cause we're 'women, he says, an' women know stuff!"

"Haw!" Anwen crowed and gestured at Roger. "Hear that, Roger? We're women! We know stuff! So you should jus' take the charm an' be thankful!"

Madeleine's laughter faded rapidly. She nodded and, "Saint John's Wort!" she said quietly. "That's what keeps the Devil away, for sure! Or vervain!"

"What I said," Roger objected, his hand going to the talismans around his neck, "was, me 'n' Richard ain't scared o' no ol' Devil, so we don' need your little girlie charms!" He stuck out his own tongue but Richard stuck out his hand, claiming the charm and slipping it inside his jerkin.

"You'll wish ye had yours when the Devil taps ye on your shoulder and whispers a greetin' in your buggy ol' ear, Roger Ringworm!" said Anwen, her eyes flashing. "It's the stupid folk the Devil starts with ye know!" She danced up close to him and pushed his chest. "Look at you! You got a cold today, ain't ye? What you doin' 'bout that?"

"I'm wipin' me nose, any fool can see! Why? You wanna wipe it for me?"

"Ha!" Anwen sneered. "Proof positive! Any smart person'd fetch hisself some horehound from that garden by the church. Maybe do a little somethin' to help hisself. But not you! Oh no! Hey! Here's a better idea! Why'n't ye jus' go off an' steal someone away from a perfeckly 'appy life an' 'ope they'll . . . "

"That's right!" interrupted Madeleine. "There's horehound! I saw that! An' other stuff! Heaps o' other 'erbs 'n' stuff. Musta been planted by them monks! I don' even know 'alf of what it . . ."Madeleine grabbed Anwen's wrist and wrenched her in the direction of the church. "Come wi' me," she demanded. "Maybe we can be useful after all!"

* * * *

And that solved the problem of what to do with the day. Horehound was a plant they'd both gathered from rocky outcroppings many times in their lives. And they'd seen it made into drinks and syrups and ointments, to treat colds, chest complaints and wounds, not to mention a dozen other ailments. They spent the afternoon picking and crushing and bruising and mixing and boiling. For Annie, it was a way to pass some time but, for Madeleine, it quickly became a fascination. When it came to the point of spreading their concocted ointment on Jack's leg wound and forcing medicinal drinks into both he and Roger, she found herself feeling strangely assured and focused. She later caught herself listening for changes in their coughs, looking for changes in complexion, touching foreheads to gauge temperature. She felt like an axle with a newly fitted and greased wheel.

She even found herself, at Jack's urging, watching Owain for signs. He put on as hale a show as he could, but he couldn't hide the wincing, slow-footed greyness that surrounded him. He smiled often and sometimes the smile made her think of the one her da' gave when in a merry mood. But other times, it made her think of the smile Brother Bones had given from the church floor. She could see that Jack's concern for him was well founded, but the tiny store of knowledge she'd unearthed in the back of her mind was too elementary by far to offer any insights.

However, sometimes having knowledge is less important than knowing where to find it. And a little rabbit of perception, on where to find such knowledge, was startled into view in Madeleine's mind by a strange, late-in-the-afternoon occurrence.

Anwen had been chattering on. "Wouldn' you love to be able to tell fortunes, Maudie? I bet we'd know everything! If I knew everything, I'd . . ."

At the mention of 'telling fortunes', a vision popped, unbidden, into Madeleine's mind. It was a vision of the cart and horse she'd seen, two mornings ago, clip-clopping across the bridge from Wales – the one Maude had been so fascinated by. Her mixing hand fell still, her head dropped and her eyes glazed. Steam swirled about her, shoving a hot, wet breath up her nostrils. And in the steam, a face seemed half-way to resolve itself. At least there were eyes, so wide and imploring that Madeleine found herself leaning into the steam, as though to hear a whispered secret. The eyes were those of her shy and secretive sister, Maude! But the voice, a woman's voice, was one she didn't know.

"He listens to his God," the voice said. "He is at peace."

For the briefest of instants, she saw Owain Glyndwr – still not young, but ruddy, glad and powerful. The voice said, "He will always be thus."

At that point, Madeleine was roused by a concerned touch from Anwen. She sat back.

"Maude," she said.

Chapter 23 - Homecoming

Madeleine, Anwen and Brenton LeGros spent a full day, from dawn to dusk, walking beneath the cover of trees. They started off energetically, talking and laughing as they went. The girls expected to see the rock fall and the bodies of the slain wolves, but Brenton, not wanting to break the spell of their joy, led them well wide of the area.

Most of the talk was about the astonishing closeness of the fabled Owain Glyndwr and the legendary 'Children of Owain'. Brenton spoke wistfully of the ancient priory and of the valley's perfectly peaceful seclusion.

"Druids!" he declared. "That's who would've found that place! Them folks could smell out all the magic places. An' there's magic there for certain! Healin' magic – earth magic – ol' magic. I felt it. An' young Jack! I mean, I know youse worked some potions for 'im, but he was mendin' awful fast, don't ye reckon?"

Anwen had been laughing and skipping around Brenton, teasing and provoking him at every opportunity. The long pick-a-back journey to the priory, with its muted conversations, seemed to have roused a closeness between them. "Well," she said, "if that's so, Master Smarty – if there's healin' magic – why don' it fix up whatever's ailin' wi' Owain Glyndwr?"

"Hmm," Brenton answered thoughtfully and, fully five minutes later, he concluded, "maybe some wounds can't be got at by magic. Maybe there's wounds an' there's wounds." He thought of his own wound and his near miraculous survival. "Also . . . occurs to me, we each of us maybe only get so much magic. Ye get it once, ye got no call to be 'spectin' another helpin'. Maybe Owain's jus' used up his share!" He looked at her momentarily earnest face and blushed deeply, ashamed to be caught turning over such deep thoughts. "I dunno though," he stammered. "Jus' thinkin'."

Anwen smiled. She reached to touch him and, once the first touch was made, seemed to need his helping hand more and more frequently to the point where Madeleine fell out of patience entirely. "Would you let the man alone, Annie! He don' need to be carryin' you out've the forest a second time, you know!"

By mid-afternoon, Anwen and Brenton had settled into quiet talk that seemed to exclude Madeleine altogether, so she settled into her own concerns. For all the shocks and frights she'd received, her major pre-occupation now was with how she'd be received when she got back to Clun. Her father's declaration that he'd wash his hands of her had barely touched her on the day. But the more she thought about it, the more it scalded. Could a father do that? Was that what God had done to Brother Bones and the monks – washed his hands of them? Or what Owain Glyndwr was doing to his own so-called 'children' – letting them mildew like stones in a forgotten corner of the Marches? Why did those men let that happen? Why didn't they stop waiting and go off to their lives? It was different for her, being only a girl. But they were grown men!

With only minutes to spare before the shadows became absolute, the fields of Clun opened before them. Anwen raced ahead, anxious to receive her full share of hugs, kisses, scoldings and lectures. She seemed able to cast aside her weariness as easily as a cap. Madeleine and Brenton hauled along more slowly. Though the time at the priory had served to refresh Brenton, his newly stressed wound was still pulsatingly raw. And Madeleine's wounds – those resulting from the rift with her father – hadn't been touched by the valley's healing magic.

Before any of them reached the reeve's house, villagers hailed them, crowded around them and stopped them in the street. When finally they entered the alehouse, it was in the midst of a crowd and Madeleine was mercifully spared, at least for the moment, the ordeal of speaking with her father. Gwenith, though, beat her way through to embrace both her and Anwen, clasping their faces to her breast.

The story they told was fabulous beyond belief – unsurprising, since it was almost entirely concocted. They told of the girls becoming lost, following wayward animals; of Brenton getting lost, following wayward girls; of all of them being found, by wandering monks, who had also lost their way – their way being to Bishop's Castle, which lay some miles to the north.

The threesome had resolved, early in the day, that they would not speak of Glyndwr or of his ancient protectors. Not to anyone. Nothing good could come of it. The thought of those quiescent old soldiers being hounded from their refuge was repugnant to one and all.

Nonetheless, the story of their return and their strange adventures spread from the alehouse like flame through summer grass. By the time it flowed across the drawbridge into Clun Castle, it was fairly whistling with energy, hurling itself boldly into every work and living area in the castle.

Only one hearer recoiled with suspicion and that hearer was the castle steward, Samuel Rowe. He alone, in stepping back from the tale, found himself treading on an assumption which, though not entirely accurate, was dangerously close to being so, and it startled him just enough to send him scuttling directly to Sir Roland. The assumption was that the girls could shed some light on the purported clash between Sirs Cyril and Angus and the Plant Owain! The knights had claimed, after all, that these 'lost' girls witnessed it! Was it fantasy? Or was it fact?

Within moments of asking the questions, he found himself on a mission, hustling down the hill into the village, flanked by two of Sir Roland's knights. The atmosphere in the village vibrated like a grasshopper's wings in late summer and Rowe's eagerness fed on it. These people, after all, were peasants and Rowe never doubted that their entire reason for being – like his own – was to serve. Also, he'd had dealings aplenty with the reeve – enough to know that the man's position could be held over him – that he, most dependably, though he might argue, would ultimately acquiesce. Straight to the alehouse, Rowe dashed, pausing not at all at the door.

His entry was cold water on the flame – a heavy foot on the back of the grasshopper. Talk and laughter were pinched back behind ale-flecked lips.

Wordlessly, Rowe squinted into the gloom until at last his eyes locked on Madeleine and Anwen. Gwenith draped protective arms around the girls.

"Your daughters have freed themselves from the rebels, we hear!" The use of the royal "we" was an affectation of Rowe's when nobility of any level was in residence at the castle. Everyone in the village was aware of the man's taste for posturing.

"They are 'ome, Mister Rowe. Praise the Lord," Gwenith answered softly. "But from no rebels, it seems! Unless you count straying animals an' lost monks as rebels."

Rowe's expression didn't alter though he laughed a light imitation of a laugh. Both knew that mention of rebels, here in the Marches, was not a matter for jest.

"That is not what we've heard," he answered somberly, his eyes now locked on Madeleine, who refused to cower behind her mother.

"Our information is that a certain, very dangerous . . . treasonous individual . . . has been involved in their so-called . . . straying!" Even Rowe was unwilling to repeat the infamous name aloud.

Gwilym, mixed in with the crowd, found his mind turning to the remarks of Tom the sharpener, made in that very ale house, two nights earlier. The Plant Owain had been mentioned. More urgently, though, he remembered Gwenith's warning from the fortune teller. 'The wounded one must stay free,' she'd said. Neither of them had known what that meant at the time. But the limping, grey form of Brenton LeGros had summoned those words back to him as clearly as if his name had been spoken. The moment Rowe appeared at the door he'd pressed Brenton to a seat and urged stillness upon him. Now he stepped forward through the crowd.

"My daughters tell no such story, Mister Rowe," he said. His smile was tense and didn't touch his eyes. He gestured around the crowd. "We've all just 'eard it. Any o' these people will vouch for that. An' since my daughters uz brought up to tell no lies, I'm thinkin' your information might be . . . a little . . ."

"Have a care, Gwilym!" Samuel Rowe interrupted levelly. The hands of his accompanying knights drifted toward their sword hilts. "This information was given by a knight of the realm – one of the king's knights! And corroborated by a second! The word of a knight, given to his lord, is a great thing in the world."

"So it is," nodded Gwilym, looking down at his feet. Ordinary men could easily find themselves split by a long sword for questioning a knight's honesty. "So it is. I give ye that." He drew a deep breath and Gwenith, knowing the recent strain he'd been under, began to pray in her heart that he would stop speaking – would not show his infamous obstinacy. Her prayer went unheard.

"Still," he mumbled and then, gaining strength, continued; "I tell meself . . . a daughter's word, spoken to 'er father, should also be a great thing in the world, Mister Rowe." He turned his gaze on Madeleine. He hadn't yet spoken directly to her but now, through the midst of the crowd, he did, turning directly to face her. "Everyone knows my girls. Quarrelsome . . . difficult – been like that since the cradle. I spent years tryin' to . . . to trim the tricky edges off 'em. Tryin' to protect 'em, I guess. Keep 'em safe. These past few days, I fin'ly figured out that . . . well, that I'd rather 'ave 'em 'ere, as they are, than gone somewhere else, an' different. More'n anything, I jus' want 'em safe . . . an' 'appy. An' as honest as they are. I'll not doubt their words."

It was the closest thing to an apology that Madeleine had ever received in her life.

"Ye can ask either one," he went on, turning to face Rowe. "They'll tell ye truthfully what's 'appened. An' then I'll ask ye to . . .! "

He was about to ask Rowe to leave, but the opportunity wasn't quite sufficiently large as Rowe interrupted again, insisting on his own slippery little show of authority.

"It is not for you to ask, Reeve! Or to be asked!" His voice rose and his eyes blinked in the gloom. "The girls are the ones to be asked! Along with Brenton LeGros who, it seems, has brought them home! And Sir Roland is the one to do the asking. To that end, I am here to escort these girls into his presence. Even now, LeGros is being collected from his home."

Clearly, the eagerness with which he'd first sought out Madeleine and Anwen had blinded Rowe to the thought that the big man might not have gotten so far. He gestured toward Madeleine and Anwen. "These'll come with me now."

Madeleine drew back, looked toward her father who braced his feet.

"Don't let's be foolish about it!" Rowe warned. "Think of it as a great honor. Being hosted by Sir Roland himself!"

He looked to Gwenith and drew back his lips in a thin semblance of a smile.

"And," he drawled, his eyes showing all the compassion of a hawk looking down on a wounded vole, "they'll be safe in the castle! Surely that's what we all want for 'em? Until we're sure there's no troubles afoot?"

Chapter 24 – Maude's New Position

When Sir Roland had dragged Maude from the Great Hall, he'd told her nothing of the job he had in mind. Instead, he'd hauled her to the kitchen and told Jenny Talbot what was to happen.

"This," he instructed, "is to be washed and put in clothes suitable for a server for Lady Joan de Beaufort." And as an afterthought, "To Lady Margaret, soon as she's fit for inspection."

Consequently, Maude's head had been unceremoniously dunked in a bucket of icy water and given a brisk scrub with a bar of lye soap. Then her dress was yanked over her head and she was made to stand, naked and trembling, in a tub while more icy water was sluiced over her and Jenny Talbot bruised her from head to foot with a horse hair brush. In the midst of the process, Sir Roland and Lady Margaret's chambermaid, Susan, had strutted into the kitchen with an extra dress of her own.

"Lady Margaret's sent me wi' a dress for the girl, Mrs Talbot," she announced regally, casting an appraising eye up and down Maude's dripping torso. "What's she cryin' for?"

"Lordy," Jenny Talbot muttered aloud. "Haven't I got enough to do wi'out 'avin' to scour servin' girls an' answer fool questions?" She dashed the brush in the water and struck out at the ingrained dirt on Maude's knees.

"My my!" Susan continued, trying her best to mimic Lady Margaret's haughty tone. "She do be a scrawny bit o' business, don't she? Got barely enough skin to cover all her bones with!"

Jenny Talbot seemed then to notice Maude for the first time, standing in a half crouch, trembling like a new borne rabbit. Her little hands struggled and strained, trying at once to cover her nakedness and the terror in her face. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she gulped and hiccupped, on the verge of wailing out loud.

Mrs Talbot said to Susan, "Leave the dress and fetch me the bucket o' warm from near the fire."

Susan, who'd been enjoying her newfound sense of importance, was momentarily taken aback. "Missus Talbot!" she cried. "I don't be one of the kitchen girls, to be fetchin' water for you! As ye know, I am personal maid to Lady Margaret! And as such, am only needin' to do her biddin'!" She flounced onto a stool.

Jenny Talbot dropped her brush into the water, groaned to her feet and placed her fists on her hips. "So you are," she said. "An important young lady, to be sure. And what a pity it would be if ye were to fall into an awful bout o' sickness because maybe, p'rhaps, a dog might've pissed in your porridge one mornin'! Then someone else'ud have to be found to be Miss High 'n' Mighty who does Lady Margaret's biddin', wouldn' they!"

Susan swallowed visibly. "Leave the dress," said Jenny Talbot. "Fetch the water."

Susan rose, flushed with embarrassment, clinging to what dignity she could muster. "Lady Margaret'll hear o' this!" she spat. She threw down the dress and marched out.

"Lady Margaret hears of everythin' from that one," Jenny Talbot told Maude in exasperation. "Somethin' for you to remember, hear? Now get yourself dried and into this dress. And stop your snivellin'! What's your name again?"

"Maude, Missus."

"Well, Maude. You've nothin' to fear here. Jus' keep your 'ead down an' speak when you're spoken to is all. Sir Perceval's a lovely gentleman, 'e is, an' 'is lady wife is a refined an' quiet bit of a snippet of a French girl – prob'ly not much older than yourself. They ain't all full o' themselves, like some of our English nobility. When you meet 'im, you say, 'Beggin' yer pardon, Sir Perceval, but Mrs Talbot in the kitchen says to tell ye she's baked you a nice pie an, when ye like, ye can send me to fetch it'. Can you remember that?"

Maude nodded, still choking back the last of her tears. "Good," continued Jenny Talbot. "An' remember what I told you about this Susan. Don't be trustin' 'er at all! She's a usin' little cow, her, an' ye don' want to give 'er anythin' to use against ye. Understand?"

A second nod was all she could muster. What she understood was that, in the space of four torturous days, her world had been turned inside out. Not only was she isolated from her family but, waking and sleeping, she'd been assailed by nightmarish visions of wolves and walking skeletons; images of her lost sisters, confounded by lurking senses of fear, malevolence and, oddly, a muted peacefulness. At times, she felt she was being drawn out of her body. At others, there was a familiar, yet unfamiliar, presence in her mind, seeming to hold her still. She longed to return to the company of dreary, sweat-stained farm folk.

"Good then," said Jenny Talbot. "Wait over there by the fire. When the warm comes, we'll give your hair another rinse. Meantime, stay outta me way while I get on wi' me work!"

* * * *

Within the hour, Susan, with a superior, self-satisfied arrogance, would present Maude to Lady Margaret who would inspect her as though she were an odd vegetable, then dismiss her into Susan's care. And Susan would lead her away, ticking instructions on her fingers as she went: "Keep the fire stoked. Fetch from the kitchen when they tell ye. Empty the chamber pots when they tell ye. Fetch from the laundry when they tell ye. An' keep yer mouth shut, no matter what they tell ye. Got it?"

Maude glanced about in panic, barely even hearing the instructions.

"I don' know what else them fancy French froggies might expect of ye," Susan continued, "but 'im lookin' like he does," (she gave Maude a lewd and knowing glance), "I'd be likely to give 'im whatever he wanted if I was you."

They finished the walk, Maude three paces behind, in a silence that was broken only by the echo of their footsteps and, for Maude, by the terrified banging of her heart. But at the door to de Coucy's chamber, Susan suddenly turned, grasped Maude's wrist and, twisting and pinching, pushed her against the wall.

"One last thing," she snarled. "Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, they got their 'spishons 'bout these French froggies. So you keep yer ears open. You 'ear anythin' – anythin' at all – 'bout anythin', you tell me, see? An' I pass it on to Sir Roland. Got it?"

Maude, of course, got none of it, since watching and tattling were simply not parts of her nature. The tears began again to roll from her eyes. It was only the strange visitor in her mind that stopped her from turning tail and running. That, and the fact that, at that moment, the door opened to reveal a frowning Sir Perceval.

"Bonjour - hallo!" he said in surprise. "Qu'est ce que c'est? Some extra ears, listening at my door?"

Susan's grip turned instantly to a gentle, tidying pat before she curtsied to him and fell into the posture of a humble serving girl.

"Beggin' yer pardon, yer Lordship." She glanced up at him from beneath lowered eyes. He was a very beautiful man. "This 'ere girl is sent by Lady Margaret, to be chambermaid to you an' yer ladies. She's a village girl an' don' know nothin' about proper service, but she's all we got. My name's Susan. If there's anythin' I can do for you . . . ?" She smiled what she hoped would be her most appealing smile.

Perceval glanced back and forth between the two girls – one wiping away tears, the other simpering and flirtatious.

"Merci, Susan," he said, choosing to ignore the flirting, "Lady Margaret is most thoughtful." Even his voice was beautiful – warm, smooth and lightly accented. "And," he continued, raising a querulous brow, "this village girl . . . she also has a name?"

"Maude," squeaked Maude.

Susan's arm flicked out, her knuckles snapping against Maude's arm. "Say, 'Maude, your Lordship!" she hissed and, to Perceval, "She don' know nothin', Sir Perceval. Might be you'll have to flog some manners into 'er, I expect."

She gave Maude a meaning look, curtsied again to Sir Perceval and said, "If you'll 'scuse me now, I have ever so many jobs to do for Lady Margaret She needs me to be in callin' distance." She spun on her heel and strode away with a self-important air.

Maude stood rigidly, wondering if she should try a curtsy as well, but fearing that her legs would give out if she did. Her experiences so far in the castle told her that great knights could well think of a brisk flogging as an appropriate response, either way.

* * * *

"Well, Maude," he said softly. "There is much dust in the air today, non? I think you have some in your eyes, perhaps. And so, the first task – before I can present you to their ladyships – you must rid yourself of these tears!" She quickly raised the sleeve of her borrowed dress, wiping her eyes and her nose in the one gesture. Perceval's own eyes narrowed and his head tilted thoughtfully. "Ah! Yes. So much better, I think. Now! Tell me. You are missing your home in the village, yes?"

"Yes, your Lordship," is what she tried to say, though the fourth syllable emerged as a hiccup that nearly started her crying again.

He glanced back into the room then leaned toward her to whisper confidentially.

"You must not be frightened, Maude. Grand ladies can be very demanding. But remember! What you do for them, they cannot do for themselves. Helpless and lost, they are, without you – like children! You see? That makes you a very important person, Maude!"

He swung the door wide, allowing her to creep timidly, sniffling like a condemned girl, into the privileged realm of nobility.

Chapter 25 – Unexpected Shelter

Sir Perceval was not good at lounging. He needed barely any excuse at all to be up and going – down into the courtyard, around the curtain wall, into the town. He inquired into everything, listened carefully to answers and forgot nothing. It was he who returned in the early evening with the news that the two girls, those so nearly rescued by Sirs Angus and Cyril three days before, had re-appeared in the town. They'd arrived, it seemed, in the company of a man – also a peasant from the village – and had been brought to the castle and placed under guard, high in the keep. The story was that Sir Roland would question them himself about the rogues who'd held them and dared to attack two of the king's knights. The young man who'd accompanied them would also be questioned once found. Though, suspiciously, he'd no sooner appeared than disappeared.

"Ridiculous!" Marie had declared. "Mon dieu! Peasant girls? Locked away under guard? What can the man possibly be thinking?"

Maude, however, despite the panic induced in her by those she now served, was wild with relief. She could not resist blurting out that the girls were her sisters and begging Perceval to learn if they were unharmed. Glad of the activity, he went off again but returned shortly, long of face. He'd encountered Susan in the hall and she, entranced by his charm, had become foolishly loose of tongue.

"Them girls is spies!" she'd declared. "Sir Roland reckons they bin carryin' messages. Between them miserable, rebel'ous villagers an' a great Welsh army 'idin' in the forest! I 'eard 'im say so to Lady Margaret! Might be gonna be some battlin' and warrin'! Ye'll wanna keep a close eye on that village girl – thinkin' o' yer wife, 'n' all, yer Lordship! Might be you'll need to take 'er out an' chuck 'er off the wall! Reckon that's what Sir Roland might be thinkin' wi' them other two if they don' give up what they knows!"

* * * *

Brenton LeGros had no intention of falling into the hands of Samuel Rowe or Sir Roland or anyone else the night of his return. When he'd fled from the alehouse, the darkness had been deep enough to cloak an entire army and yet, there was no reliable place to hide. In desperation he'd begun to think he must return to the forest. Either that or surrender. And why not? He'd done nothing wrong! But, on the other hand, if the 'Children of Owain' had killed, as well as robbed, the knights in the forest (for fear of knowing, he'd avoided asking) the nobility would be as happy to break his neck as anyone else's.

When indecision finally brought him to a stop, he sat on a woodpile and held his head. The night was cold, his wound ached, his home was guarded against him and Annie was being hauled away by the castle's miserable steward. And unbeknownst to him, as he'd threaded his way amongst the invisible buildings, the barking of dogs and the honking of ever-vigilant geese had marked his trail clearly for his single pursuer. Which was why, quite suddenly, he was not alone.

"Follow me," a man's voice whispered, almost in his ear.

"Wha . . .? Who's that?"

"Quiet! The searchers are near. Stay low."

Footsteps, and the hint of a shadow moving off. For want of a better plan, he followed. And found himself edging toward the castle, toward a banked bed of coals on the common – outside the wagon of the Cunning Woman! His nerve almost failed him. Especially when, just as the fire glow began to give solid outline, his guide, without pause or signal, ducked into the wagon and disappeared.

Even in the dark, Brenton shuddered at how small the cart was. The roof would be much too low for him. He'd have to go in on his knees. He'd be helplessly constrained. But then, what option did he have? He flicked the covering aside and rolled in.

His first impression was of a flickering crowd of shadows – an impossible throng of watchers, gathered around a faint, wildly struggling tallow candle. Nevertheless, he let the curtain fall behind him and waited; until little by little the flame settled and the mass sorted itself down to three: himself, the fortune-teller and his caped and hooded guide. He sat back on his heels.

The fortune-teller was first to move. Her square, heavy face and flyaway hair flared in the candle's light as she shrouded and lifted it to gaze at Brenton with unblinking interest, studying his face, his neck, his chest. Not quite touching him, she ran her hands along his contours, her lips juddering with unvoiced words.

He cringed away.

"There's no harm in her," the second figure whispered. "Just be still."

Brenton braced his hands against the walls. "I know you. You're the sharpener. I seen ye at work the other day."

"Aye, ye did. Quiet now. 'Til she's done."

He held himself still, despite the threatening closeness of her hands. Then, "It's him," Myfanwy sighed, sitting back and pointing at the location of the scar. "The wounded one."

"And?" hissed the sharpener. "The others?"

Her eyes glittered in the dim light.

"The children are in danger," she said – a statement rather than a question.

"No, they're home," Brenton whispered, wanting to believe it made a difference. "In the castle, is all!"

Myfanwy held up a hand. "The young are in the castle. The old are in the forest. All are in great danger."

The sharpener drew a jagged breath. "How bad? How soon?"

Her gaze fell to the candle, her head nodding up and down, as though in response to a complicated instruction. Over the weeks they'd traveled together, Tom had become familiar with her trances but, for Brenton, it was a terrifying sight. Trances were a sign of madness – or of the Devil's presence. If she was calling up weird perils, what defence would he have? But then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the trance vanished and her focus turned to Tom.

"He will die," she said flatly.

Appalled, Brenton appealed wordlessly to Tom who, in turn, reached out for a handful of his sleeve.

"You must tell me everything! Do you understand? Two knights claim to have met a band calling themselves the Plant Owain – the Children of Owain. They say the girls were with them. But you brought the girls back! Did you also meet these men?"

"The knights! They're alive?"

"Alive? Of course they're alive! I guided them back myself, though I'd as soon seen them rot in the forest! What matters is, do they lie?"

Brenton's grasp on the story he and the girls had prepared faltered, writhed briefly in his mind and fell away, like a poorly hooked eel. He shook his head. "They told some truth. Not about Annie and Madeleine. But the old men . . . the Plant Owain. That part was true!"

And the story tumbled out of him – the deep forest, the wolves, the endless walk with Anwen on his back, the abandoned monastery, the band of ancients.

Were names spoken, Tom wanted to know. Yes, they were. Was Owain Glyndwr amongst them? Brenton nodded, placing his great hands over his face and digging fingertips into his eyes. He looked back to Myfanwy, her face still as impassive as stone.

His thought was of the peaceful valley with its ancient gardens and meandering stream – and a coterie of Roland's knights riding through it with drawn swords.

"It's him who'll die?"

She nodded.

"Will he die where he is?" Tom demanded and she shrugged.

"He has choices."

"But it'll be soon?"

Her gaze was cold, unwavering. "Soon enough."

Tom's patience ended there. He wrenched Brenton's sleeve. "You must take me to him. Now! Tonight!"

Before Brenton could answer, Myfanwy blurted, "No!" Too loudly for their secret meeting. Both men turned to look at her. She held a hand over Brenton's wound – touched him with a fingertip. "He's newly hurt inside," she said. Roughly, she grasped and opened his massive right hand, laying her own her own in his palm, knuckles down, like a small mummified bird.

"He will need strength," she crooned softly. "Not all his battles are behind him."

Brenton wanted to stop her there, to say no; that he was finished with fighting. But she stayed him with a gesture. "The battle will be there. You will decide."

She looked back to Tom. "Tonight, I will make two potions. Sleep and strength for this one. Something of ease for the one you seek. Come in the morning, before the trumpet sounds."

Tom blew impatience through his teeth, but didn't argue. It was resolved that Brenton would fold his large frame onto the floor of the cart and sleep there, out of sight of searchers. Myfanwy would sleep on fleeces on the ground beneath the cart and Tom would return to the castle's stables. Events, she assured them, would unfold.

Chapter 26 – Roland Prepared

Sir Roland, high in the castle's keep, with Samuel Rowe at this side and barely contained patience in his voice, poured his suspicions onto Madeleine and Anwen. They told a tale of Jack and Roger, hoping to distract his fears, but it only provoked him to greater rage. Did they think, he thundered . . . children . . . could get away with lying to a peer of the realm? Did they imagine there was no staircase between this fine, airy room and the dungeons? Did they suppose he was without tools for prying truth from little girls?

Eventually, as he knew it would, as exhaustion and fear began to take their toll, the story grew fuller. Madeleine went so far as to mention the old men.

"Old men? An army, is it? Of old men?"

"Not an army, your worship! Just an' 'andful of 'em! Livin' . . . in a cave!"

"In a cave? What cave? Are there caves about here, Rowe?"

"Not to my knowledge, Milord."

"Cave me arse, then! Where are they? Which direction?"

"We don' know, we don' know! We was lost!"

"Tell me that again, girl, and I promise you . . . I'll lose the pair o' ye down a well! See how ye find your way back from that! Was Glyndwr amongst 'em?"

They nodded, collapsing in each other's arms, and Roland smiled at last. The key bit of information – the whereabouts of the gathering army – had not been revealed, but he felt certain now that these children didn't know. The man who'd guided them, however – this man LeGros . . . he'd know. And he'd be torn limb from bloody limb, until nothing was left but a clear path to the enemy.

The single little impediment to that, of course, was that LeGros had escaped; had undoubtedly already fled back to the rebels. Nonetheless, both Roland and Samuel Rowe came away much encouraged. They knew their enemy now – Glyndwr! And how effectively could such an old man lead an army? Astonishing that he still even lived, in fact! Though that was merely an oversight which, with only a skerrick more information, would be rectified.

"You know the area, Rowe!" Roland probed. "How do I find him? Before this blessed army is mobilized!"

And Rowe, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, said, "Perhaps, it won't be necessary to find him, Your Lordship. Perhaps we can tempt him to rush to us! Your chambermaid might be of use."

He had a plan. Rowe always had a plan. It was the only reason Roland kept him around.

"Food and water for the prisoners, girl," Roland instructed Susan moments later. "Not too much. The torturer don' like to be puked on. After that . . . !"

They launched her on a course of errands through the castle, knowing she'd whisper the news of torture to any and all. And from there, Rowe promised, the tale would be raced into the countryside – doubtless all the way to Glyndwr himself – with all the haste of a cat with a flaming tail.

And in a cunning double-down, Rowe suggested that Roland make an announcement in the Great Hall.

"Worrisome news, people! Come to my attention just this evening! Welshmen – the bloody murderous race – speaking rebellion once again. On the move as I speak. Concerned for the safety of exalted guests. Lady Joan! Etcetera and so on!"

As a result, (he would tell them) he'd diverted a delegation – Father Reginald and his two companions – to Shrewsbury, there to alert the sheriff and, all being well, to bring that worthy official and a cohort of soldiers, back to collect the spies already captured. Girls though they were, they were withholding valuable information. And that information would have to be wrung from them. Perhaps before, perhaps after they were hauled in chains back to Shrewsbury.

"And that done," Samuel Rowe whispered in Roland's ear, with a not-altogether patriotic gleam in his eye, "might I suggest, M'Lord . . . we require the villagers to bring their valuables into the castle? For safe-keeping?"

* * * *

The plan was a good one, and the word did indeed spread outward from the castle, whipped along by Susan and all the serving classes, out into the short, narrow street of Clun. Sir Roland, standing on the curtain wall above the gates in the early darkness, saw women waddling rapidly through the shadows below. He heard the echo of voices and the barking of dogs from the town below. He saw pinpoints of light moving amongst the houses – soldiers with torches, looking for Brenton LeGros. He looked to the blacker than black barricade of forest that surrounded them, and imagined the old enemy there, waiting and planning. As he himself was now waiting and planning.

The trap required torches to be lit in the uppermost windows and on the top of the keep while most of those in the castle's lower reaches were doused. To the casual observer, it should appear that the castle's defenses were, as usual, non-existent.

In his mind, Roland worked happily through the achievements of his day. Firstly he was now allowing himself the near certainty that Mary Gordon was, in fact, a pathetically disguised Elizabeth Douglas – a fraud who was almost certainly involved in the skullduggery that the cursed Welsh were planning but who was, for all intents and purposes, already his prisoner!

Secondly, he felt, he had taken adequate measure of his other unwelcome 'guests', Sir Perceval and Lady Marie de Coucy. Clearly foreign spies; almost certainly involved in the Scottish/Welsh machinations. But they too were contained, unable to move without his knowledge.

Thirdly, he had discovered that somewhere in the nearby wilderness, a specific, ancient and implacable enemy lurked – preparing to strike. And finally, he'd realised that the presence of Lady Joan de Beaufort – that stupidly spoiled child – could be turned in his favour. Because whatever steps he chose to take to 'protect' her, no matter how extreme, would leave the king in his debt! The king himself! Owing a debt of gratitude to Sir Roland Lenthall!

A smile spread across his face. From this point on, no one in Clun would move a hair without his knowledge. And no one would doubt that Roland Lenthall was a man born to rule in the Marches.

Down on the common, with Brenton Le Gross hidden in her wagon, Myfanwy looked up at the squares of light high in the keep. She shook her head, wondering what fearful deeds must soon take place in the Marches.

Chapter 27 – Revelations

The sun had not quite got a grip on the horizon when Tom lurched out of sleep. The ducks on the pond had not yet pulled their heads from under their wings when he popped his head out from under his blanket. The call of the morning trumpet was still just a shallow breath in the trumpeter's lungs when Tom sighed out through the castle gate. The dogs had not yet scratched their first flea when he shook Myfanwy out of her under-the-cart slumber.

She began to speak instantly, with exasperation, as though answering a question for the third time. "The girls are to be taken to Shrewsbury!"

"Yes, yes, it was all the talk in the castle!" He'd slept little in his impatience to rouse LeGros and be gone. "Surely a game of some sort. They're only children! Not even Roland could conjure up a fear of children."

"Ignorance of Roland Lenthall will do your quest no good, my friend," she answered pointedly. "It's a man who'd strike at a shadow, let alone a child!"

"Aye, I suppose you're right. But those girls are Clun's problem! They look out for theirs, I look out for mine! And I've not much time. You said yourself!"

"Your problem – their problem. All problems are connected, Tom."

At that point, Brenton peeped warily out through the cart's fabric end. His sleep, induced by one of Myfanwy's potions, had been unusually deep and nourishing.

"Good!" Tom said. "We have to leave! Now! If we wait longer, the guards'll see us. And I don't fancy having to run before we find our way." He stepped back, allowing Brenton room to jump down. "I have oatcakes and cheese. Breakfast amongst the trees. Let's go!"

Before they could move off, however, Myfanwy grabbed and held Tom's arm. "Do you know how to tell a fish from a fisherman?"

"What? A fish?"

Either the strangeness of her question or the volume of his answer seemed to catch the sun's attention and the sky's colour changed, on the instant, from deep purple to lavender. Dozens of stars winced out of view.

"The fisherman is the one with the bait!" she hissed, her nails sawing at the fabric of his cloak. He stared at her in incomprehension. "The wise fish knows it can't catch a fisherman," she continued, her eyes boring into his. "No matter how great a fish it is – or how poor the fisherman!" She pushed him away. "Now go! Dip your head in the stream. And listen."

Brenton stood with his mouth agape, wondering what strange talk this was. He wanted to ask questions, but Tom yanked his arm and started him off across the common. Minutes later, when the trumpet call tumbled down the hill and across the fields to the river, the forest had already swallowed them up.

* * * *

They ate as they walked and they drank as they walked and they listened to the forest sounds as they walked. At one point Brenton thought to ask Tom about Myfanwy's strange references. What fisherman? What bait? What stream? But in the end, he didn't ask and both remained isolated in their own thoughts. When Brenton paused to orient himself, Tom also studied the surroundings, the landmarks, the angle of the shadows. When Brenton stopped to rest, Tom stopped also, but remained standing, staring about him into the forest, as if expecting a tree to say 'How do ye do?'

When finally, late in the afternoon, they came to the rock fall, where the wolves lay, the sweet must of autumn was suddenly and fiercely suppressed by the stench of rotting flesh. Insects, mice, voles, badgers and hawks had all been at work, reducing them, erasing them, but the carcasses were there, the dull hair folding in around the little fortresses of ribs. In the nights, Brenton knew, owls would be swooping from the surrounding trees, feasting on the living that came to feast on the dead. Death in Nature – on the face of it, so repugnant and horrifying – also brought nourishment. Unlike death on the battlefields, where men might consume lives as goats consume leaves before vomiting with horror at what they'd wrought.

They were about to move away from the moldering remains when a ghostly wail frosted the air around them. A screeching voice that seemed to come from all sides at once, echoing amongst the rocks, splitting, reforming and repeating amongst the trees.

"Brento-o-o-o-n!"

And then, scampering along invisible paths, his head bobbing and waggling like a toy boat in rapids, his one-toothed grin splitting his face, there appeared before them the figure of Roger Ringworm.

"You came ba-a-a-ack!"

"Roger?" laughed Brenton. "What ye doin' out 'ere in the forest, lad? Are ye alone?"

"Uh-uh!"

He pointed back the way he'd come, just in time to mark the emergence from the undergrowth of Jeremy Talbot and Silent Richard. Both had long bows slung on their backs, both had arms loaded with beech and yew branches. Sir Angus's long sword swung from Richard's belt.

"Boy's a wild thing, him!" Jeremy began, dropping his load and stretching, dispensing altogether with greetings. "Told 'im there's least one wolf still up for eatin' scrawny bits like 'im!" He indicated the stinking carcasses. "But he don' 'ave a sensible bone in 'is body!" He wagged his head apologetically, as though Roger's fearlessness was a fault he'd been told to rectify.

"Makin' 'im a bow," muttered Silent Richard, his time with Anwen having impacted quite drastically on his aversion to speech.
"That we are," affirmed Jeremy, with a sideways glance. He leaned toward Brenton and shielded his mouth. "Can't shut the man up, these days," he said. Then, "So . . . all this trampin' back 'n' forth, LeGros . . . an' Richard levelin' acreage wi' that great sword," (he motioned to the bow-makings on the ground) "we'll be 'avin' a major 'ighway soon! Be chargin' a toll nex' time yer through, I expect!"

The speech seemed friendly enough. But Richard's focus and attention had settled heavily on Tom. And by the end of it (which came uncharacteristically soon) Jeremy too was staring in not altogether friendly fashion.

"Uh . . .that's Tom," said Brenton. "He's come to . . . to . . . ." He shook his head, suddenly aware of his own foolishness. He'd been entrusted with a secret and, with no very good excuse, had betrayed it. Flushed with shame, he began apologizing.

"Oh aye, I've made a mistake. A bad mistake, Jeremy. Tom, we'll turn about! I'm sorry. I've . . . it's back to Clun we mus' go."

Jeremy clucked his tongue reprovingly. "Prob'ly a good idea, LeGros. A face like this one's got might not be welcome 'ere."

"Not be welcome," muttered Richard, placing a hand on the hilt of the sword.

Jeremy stepped closer, staring up into Tom's face and tapping his chest with bent fingers. "Men walk into these woods, sometimes wi' a purse full o' mischief, mister. Thinkin' there's no one to tell 'em nay. Such men learn sorrowful lessons."

Brenton, thoroughly flustered, pressed himself between the two, prepared to absorb whatever inexplicable blows might be exchanged. But, to his confusion, when he looked into Tom's face, he saw the merest whisker of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth.

"Before mischief could bite me," he smirked, "it'd need more teeth in its head than you have in yours these days, Jeremy Talbot."

Roger Ringworm erupted.

"Woooh!" Throwing himself to the ground, howling and thrashing with laughter. "No teeth!" He roared with mirth, his own single peg gawping joyously out of its little cave. The ruckus was massive, but only Brenton looked around at the loony boy. The others held their battle of eyes for long moments until finally Jeremy's cheeks crinkled and his pink gums flashed, with an equally pink tongue between them.

"So ye remember me, young 'un?"

Tom nodded, his own smile jumping with a sudden, impossible to contain emotion. "I do. You and the talkative Richard of Wrexham. And I confess, it gladdens me to see you. To know you've survived . . . that you're still with him!" The smile clung bravely to his lips, like a man clinging to a cliff, but around the eyes, it was washed away by a dribble of tears. He moved forward and wrapped his arms around Jeremy.

Jeremy's reaction was instant.

"What . . .? Get orf! Get orf, ye great cheeky mug! For God's sake, Richard! Lop away his arms wi' your sword, man!"

But Tom was already stepping back, wiping at his eyes. "Sorry! Sorry! But Richard . . . I'll not risk hugging you. But will you shake my hand?" He held it out and Richard, whose smile crinkled the area around his eyes but hardly altered his mouth, glanced at Jeremy for reassurance, let go the sword and shyly took Tom's hand.

Brenton was completely flummoxed. He tried a grin but it was like a guttering candle – there and not there – not quite certain that it could, or should, survive in the presently confusing currents. Roger's, on the other hand, was wide and certain, as he hurled himself at, and wrapped his arms around Jeremy, in imitation of Tom's impulsive hug.

"Awww, now look what ye done!" Jeremy lamented, carefully unwrapping himself from the boy's embrace. "You save that now, Rog'! Save it for the girls, out behind the wood pile."

"Will you take me to him?" Tom inquired eagerly. "Is he well?" In his mind he was hearing the warning of Myfanwy. He will die. Soon enough.

"Wait on now," said Jeremy, all seriousness again. "It's long years since we seen you, boy. You been to London, we 'eard tell. Hob-nobbin' with the 'igh 'n' exalted!"

"I have been to London, 'tis true. And I even did a little hob-nobbing. But never to anyone's detriment, Jeremy. And more importantly, not with anyone who thinks of himself as an enemy any more. That's why I'm here."

"Is that a fact? Well, see, one thing is, it's never been for you to decide who's an enemy an' who's not, has it! An' another thing is, ye can walk along wi' us for a bit . . . but ye won't take it amiss, will ye, if Richard 'angs back a little and sees to it no . . . extra company . . . is walkin' along behind. An' we'll decide along the way if yer a visitor to be welcomed. Or not."

"Good enough," said Tom happily. "I'm glad to see you still have enough sense to be wary."

* * * *

Roland decided on one more chat with his valuable prisoners; one more try at directions to Glyndwr. At their door he found, as expected, Sir Cyril, seated on the floor, legs out in a V, eating an oatcake and drinking a pot of small ale. On his approach, the great knight scrambled to his feet and, though his neck was still stiff, sore and barely operative, made a show of puffing himself up to optimum size.

"Save the posturing, Sir," Roland snapped.

Inside the room, the small commotion drew Madeleine close to the door.

"I remind you that these prisoners escaped you once before." (Madeleine wondered when that could have been. Or were there, perhaps, other prisoners in the keep, as well as herself and Annie?)

"Have they been fed?"

"Yes, M'Lord," came the choked reply, obviously sprayed through the remnants of a mouthful of food.

"Who brought it?"

"A girl, M'Lord. Susan, she said. She said she was chambermaid to Lady Margaret and charged with keeping the prisoners . . . fed, M'Lord."

"And what are you charged with?"

"Remaining on guard, M'Lord."

"And. . .?"

"And . . . making sure they don't escape, M'Lord."

There was a long pause. Madeleine pictured Sir Roland's glacial stare, freezing the knight's blood.

"No harm is to come to them. Do you understand? These are important political prisoners. Unless I tell you otherwise, the girl who brought them food is the only one allowed in. Clear?"

An uneasy creak of leather indicated to Madeleine that the knight was digesting his instructions along with his meagre breakfast.

"Now open the door."

A key rattled and Madeleine jumped back into the trembling arms of Anwen. They cowered against the wall, clinging to one another as avidly as they clung to the hope that this was all some terrible mistake; that in the clearer light of morning they'd be recognised for the poor peasant girls they really were. Roland looked down from a great height and flattered himself that he understood them.

"You passed the night in comfort?"

"Yes, thank you, M'Lord," said Anwen, ever mindful of her manners. "We'd like to go 'ome now, please."

He looked at her as though she'd asked to be taken to Jerusalem. "Home? Down to the town, you mean? Nonsense! Whatever for? You're guests in a great castle. Have you no gratitude?"

"Yes, M'Lord" answered Madeleine. "We be thankful for your kindness, M'Lord." Both attempted curtseys to show their awe for his great position. "But our folks'll be worryin'. An' there's ever so much work to be done in the fields! An' ma'll need help wi' brewin' the ale an' there's pork to be saltin' down an' fire wood to be gatherin' and wool to spin an . . ." She'd hoped to remind him of an argument she'd heard many times from Gwilym – that the labour of folk like her was the mainstay of folk like him.

"You are excused from your work!" he proclaimed airily. "For the moment. Time to do it later." He smiled a smile that looked like a dog panting. "That is to say, you may have time to do it later. Depending! Now tell me . . . having slept in my castle and filled your bellies with my food . . . if my knights were to take you to the edge of the forest, would your little animal gratitude remind you of the way to the lair of this little . . . Glyndwr gathering?"

Madeleine and Anwen looked at one another, grasped one another's hands and pressed their shoulders together.

"M'Lord," whimpered Madeleine. "Like we said afore . . . the forest is so great an' there was sounds an' storms and wolves an' . . ."

"What if," he cut in, his voice falling to a new level of sinister, "what if I were to tell you that Brenton LeGros has been captured . . . that he's been tortured . . . and that as soon as he is able . . . he will take me where I wish to go? With or without your help. What if I was to tell you that, as a sign of my gratitude, for saving me the time of waiting, I will return you, safe and whole, to your families? Think of that! You could be back wallowing in pig guts tomorrow! All for a little help with this trifling matter. These men, after all . . . these Welsh rebels . . . can be of no importance to you. Unless you and your family are in secret league against the king?"

Madeleine shook her head wildly. Anwen stared into the floor.

"No? Well, that's a good thing, isn't it! Because if I found otherwise, it'd go very badly for all of you. Your mam, your da'. You understand."

The effectiveness of lies and threats, Roland had found, could never be underestimated. He looked away, giving a moment for rumination. And, as hoped, one of the tough little hearts before him did actually lurch rather painfully. It was the image of Brenton under torture – the gentle giant who'd carried her safely through the storm – that caused Anwen to let go of Madeleine's hands. And then, as Roland smiled blandly into the distance, to stand up straight on her two legs.

"You tortured Brenton?"

Sir Roland tilted his head to one side, mildly amused by the predictability of the peasantry.

"No, no, not me!" Laughter jiggled in his throat. "It takes special training, you see. I have a man for that." It was a joke he enjoyed every time he got to tell it.

Madeleine, even through her own terror, heard the mockery in his voice, just as she'd heard the dangerous echo of her father in Annie's; the presentiment of an untamable tongue getting away. She reached out, hoping to re-take her sister's hand, to hold her in check. But Anwen, at that moment, chose to do a most hot-headedly dangerous and provocative thing. She turned her back.

Roland's brows shot straight up. A great gulp of air whooshed into his lungs and his face flamed. It was shocking! Intolerable! An intentional affront! He'd had men – men of standing – whipped in the stocks for less. He lunged forward, snatching a fistful of Anwen's blond curls, twisting and half lifting her, dashing the wailing Madeleine to one side.

In that moment, both sisters' fates hung suddenly in the balance. If Roland decided to cut their throats and fling their bodies from the top of the keep, no law in the land could say him nay.

"Sir Cyril!"

Glaring viciously, his teeth bared as though he was about to take a bite, he half dragged, half carried Annie to the door as Cyril flung it open.

"Your blade, Sir!"

The great (borrowed) sword sang out of its scabbard.

"Here!"

He thrust Annie's face forward and the sword's point crept like the head of a snake to within inches of her eye.

"Flesh," he hissed in her ear, "is easy work for steel, little girl!" He nudged her head toward the gleaming tip. "And this knight will do precisely the work I tell him to do! Understand? He will slice you like a side of bacon. He will pierce you like a rotted bladder. Until you cry out to tell me everything you've ever learned in your pathetic little life." He looked up at Cyril. "How many strokes to take off a leg?"

"As many as you wish, M'Lord," answered Cyril chillingly.

"As many as I wish, M'Lord. You hear? Shall we do it in one, do you think? Or shall we make it a dozen? Which would you like?"

Anwen couldn't move her head at all, but a small, terrified moan escaped her and it seemed to satisfy Sir Roland. He flung her backwards into the room. She crashed heavily to the floor and came up with beads of blood welling into a hot stream across her cheek. Madeleine, already on her knees and howling, flung her arms around her sister – determined, but helpless to protect her.

Roland spat into the room, then spoke from the door, his thin lips barely moving.

"Your lucky day. I'm feeling merciful. Before the week is out, though, I'll be handing you over to the sheriff who will take you to Shrewsbury, there to be questioned by much less patient men. Men more like Sir Cyril here. Be certain, you'll be punished for your treasonous silence, and you're homes and families will be wiped from memory."

He turned and stomped away, leaving Cyril to re-secure the door.

"Think on that!" the knight smiled thinly, drawing a finger slowly across his throat.

Chapter 28 – The Children of Owain

The remainder of the journey back to the abandoned monastery passed more easily than Tom might've hoped. Richard had dropped out of sight behind and Roger had scooted on ahead, only occasionally stopping for them to catch up. So they were just three together for much of the trip and, prompted by Tom, Jeremy spun out the story of the "liberating" of horses and swords from Sirs Cyril and Angus. Tom's addition of his end of the story – witnessing Cyril's attack on the juniper bush, listening to the blustering lies, offering and being refused the services of the mare – had them all cackling merrily.

When that tale ended an eager round of question and answer began between Tom and Jeremy – questions and answers filled with names that sometimes echoed with faint familiarity in Brenton's mind. One of those was Henry Gwyn, a name Brenton connected somehow with treason.

"Never such a thing!" asserted Jeremy. "No truer Welshman ever put foot to ground!"

"He was heir to the Lordship of Llansteffan," explained Tom. "When my father's luck ran out."

"Your father?" Brenton asked. "Who . . .?"

Jeremy chortled and shook his head. "Ye've no idea who you're travellin' with, 'ave ye LeGros? You're still thinkin' this'd be a 'Tom' ye've guided into the forests! Ha! No Sir! This particular Tom'd actually be a Maredydd . . . Meredith, to them ungodly Saxons. This be a son, in the flesh . . . to the great Owain Glyndwr 'imself!" He leaned conspiratorially close to Brenton and half whispered, "Bein' in the company o' men such as us, me lad, would once've earned ye a trip to the choppin' block!"

"Still would, technically," smiled Tom.

"Technically?"

"Technically. The offer of a pardon's been renewed, Jeremy. The amnesty – for all of us. All who were connected to the uprising. King Henry's determined to be lookin' forward, to his new role as king of France – rather than back to his old role, as oppressor of the Welsh. He wants peace in his homeland and all of us consigned to history."

"I'll be consigned to 'istory when I'm consigned to me grave," sniffed Jeremy. "Ye've accepted for yerself, then? The pardon?"

"No sir! Not on my own! Never on my own! 'I am my father's son,' I told them. 'Where he leads, I follow.' 'That might take you to the gallows,' says they. 'Tis but a short trip,' says I. So they sent me away. 'Find him,' they says 'If he still lives, which is doubtful, ask his advice. Extend the offer to him again. Then bring yourself back and accept the king's gracious forgiveness.' So here I am. Technically, especially out here in the Marches, still in need of a dose of English justice – all for want of a bent knee." The humour drained out of his voice. "I tell you truly, Jeremy. I never really hoped to find him still walking God's good earth."

"And I tell ye truly, lad – it's a state of grace ye're unlikely to find him in come Christmas. Ye should prepare yourself for when ye see 'im."

"That reminds me," cut in Brenton, reaching inside his tunic. "I have this for him. It's a powder the fortune teller gave me."

They stopped walking and all three stared at the little linen bag. For them, medicine and magic were closely allied and such mixtures reminded them of the arcane mysteries that moved at all times around and through them. Jeremy looked questioningly at Tom who shook his head and said, "She's a Weird; but an honest woman. I've traveled with her across half the country. What she sees – what she knows – what she offers – isn't given to her by any man."

"Does she know who you are?" asked Jeremy.

"I believe she does. Though I've not told her so in any words that you or I could hear. And I'm always 'Tom' to her."

"Well," Jeremy said pointedly, "maybe you didn't have to tell her. Maybe she's come to offer an amnesty of her own, on behalf of the English king. A 'graver' amnesty, if ye take my meanin'."

He looked knowingly at Brenton and at Tom, shook his head and set off once again. Over the next hill, the monastery came into view and they saw in the distance, Roger, dragging a reluctant old man out of the dormitory into the feeble afternoon sun, pointing up the hill to where they stood.

The reunion was a quietly magnificent event – father and son in each other's arms, weeping. Both men had lost so much. Most immediately, Owain's wife, two of his daughters and three of his grandchildren –Tom's mother, sisters and nieces – all dead in the Tower of London, their bodies buried in the churchyard of St Swithin's. Added to that was a great tally of brothers, uncles and friends – friends by the hundred. These were losses that all the men of the Plant Owain had shared and suffered over nearly two decades of resistance. Men fled from the land, men killed on battlefields, men murdered by 'due process', their heads left on pikes for all to view in London, in Shrewsbury and in Chester.

One by one, the band of greybeards approached the spot where father and son stood, clinging to one another. One by one, they added themselves to the embrace until finally, on that winter's afternoon, in the yard of a house built to celebrate God's mercy, there stood a knot of ancient warriors, their arms intertwined, their heads bowed, their tears flowing freely. They wept, as all men do, for the years lost, for the seeming failure of great enterprises, for the bitter honey that is life.

Clinging to the outer edge of the circle were two small, thin boys, also weeping – not for any pain or regret of their own but for the unknowable agony of others. Alone outside the circle, Brenton LeGros stood swaying, clutching his old wound, feeling again the heat of the lance, knowing that he was the luckiest of men. And around them all, invisible to all, swirled a myriad of placid ghosts, purged at last of their life-long ferocity. God in his Heaven, looking down on such a scene in a valley of the war-torn Welsh Marches might well have heaved a small sigh of satisfaction.

When the gathering broke, it did so amongst sniffles, embarrassed smiles, slapped backs and hugged shoulders. The senses of renewal and healing that each had experienced would sustain them for the last tests of their great lives and would also influence their immediate decisions. There was the matter of the pardons, for example. Tom spoke of them in the dormitory, over hot stew and cold water. As had long been the case, Owain spoke first and for himself.

"Meredydd, there is no fight left in Wales, for now, at least. It's ended. And no young man should waste his life on a cause that's already lost. Why don't you accept the pardon? Go into Wales and work on the peace."

The room was silent as he spoke, every eye focused on him; the great patriot, the crafty planner – the fearless leader, the vengeful soldier. In some minds he might even be, as his enemies had once believed, the magical spirit of Merlin. Not a one had ever before heard him utter the words 'lost cause'.

"The peace can work on itself," Tom answered. "The point is you. What does it offer you! You are, after all, Uchelwyr – descended from the ancient royalty of Wales. Too great to be finishing your days in this isolated valley. Think of Sycharth – what a fine house it was – the fish in the ponds, the fruit in the orchards. The music! Singing and dancing, minstrels from all over the land! No one in Wales would begrudge you that again. Don't you deserve to have at least that?"

Sycharth, the most favoured of the Glyndwr ancestral homes, had been sacked by the treacherous schemer, Grey of Ruthin, nineteen years earlier; one of the indignities that had finally provoked Owain to take up arms. Grey had paid dearly in both the short and long runs. But so had Owain. And there was no need for it to continue.

Tom looked around the table, expecting to see heads nodding in agreement. Only Roger's met his expectations. The others gazed off at the fire or found gobbets to study in their stew.

Owain also drifted off in thought, his fingers stroking the edge of the table, feeling the scars and cuts the years had inflicted on its finish. It was older, he calculated, than any of the men in the room. And still a very fine table to be holding up so many bowls of humble stew. He smiled sadly up at his son.

"I'll think on it," he said.

"Good!" barked Jeremy Talbot, slapping his palm on the table. "That's out o' the way! Now we're in need of a story! Meredydd! Bein' a man o' the great world, your sleeves must be stuffed to the cuffs with tales. Regale us! Tell us what foolishness the king is up to in London, that keeps 'im cow'rin' away from our fight."

And so they heard, not for the first time, what a great king Henry had become; his wealth, his genius for battle. Agincourt – Rouen – Pontoise. They were already legendary battles.

"Agincourt!" Jeremy exclaimed. "D'yez 'arken back to our 'enry Gwyn? Who survived the fightin' 'ere only to go down from an English arrow at Agincourt?"

Brenton wagged his head sadly. Everyone knew the story of Agincourt – the English outnumbered, the French overly confident, the hail of arrows, the slaughter.

"'e fought for the French, lad," Jeremy told him. "If ye'd bin there an' he'd 'ad the chance, he'd've cut your 'eart out."

Jack Sorespot who, along with Roger Ringworm, had been devouring the tales asked, "Was he a great fighter, Jeremy?"

"Was he a great fighter? Does a cock crow the morning? Does a cat lick its arse? Course he was a great fighter! No braver man ever walked the earth since the first apple was et! I'll warrant, if 'enry Gwyn'd been told before the battle that 'e was about to die wi' an arrow in his throat, he'd only 'ave asked 'ow many Saxons 'e'd be doin' before it struck."

Laughter came and went, and then, "Victory in battle," Owain said ruefully, "is a fine thing, to be sure. Beats the Devil out've the alternative. But it makes little difference in the long run. The spilling of blood is a terrible pointless thing."

Brenton looked across at the man whose gift for winning had once been a thing of legend – a man now wearing a grey pallor of agony. He was reminded of the powder given him by Myfanwy and brought it out.

"She mentioned the name of Owain Glyndwr, did she?" demanded Jeremy, ever the suspicious and protective lieutenant.

"No!" said Brenton. "'The old man' was all she said! Give it to the old man."

A smile tickled the corners of Owain's mouth but Jeremy wanted more.

"An' what else then, young Brenton? What did she say this potion was to do, eh?"

Brenton glanced at Tom, feeling now a guilty complicity just for having spoken to Myfanwy. He pictured her trance-like state, the flat words: He will die. Tom made no movement, no gesture, but his eyes seemed to plead: Don't tell them that!

The nearly invisible exchange didn't go unremarked.

"What is it now?" Jeremy demanded, but Owain cut in strongly.

"Let it go, Jeremy." He turned to Brenton, held out his hand. "What words then, lad? There were instructions, were there not"?

There were, in fact, two packages in the wrapping. One was dried parsley, to be boiled in wine, for the relief of heart pain. The other contained a tiny amount of the rare and powerful herb called saffron, given for the treatment of cancers. Owain accepted them and, to change the subject, asked of Madeleine and Anwen.

"You got them to their homes then? No more encounters with wild beasts along the way?"

It was for the telling of this, in fact, that Brenton had agreed to risk the forests a second time. He unfolded the story carefully, beginning with Samuel Rowe's appearance at the alehouse, to take the sisters away. He re-lived his own night-time flight through the village, his encounter with Tom and his refuge in Myfanwy's wagon. The mutterings around the table intensified as Tom confirmed that both girls were now prisoners in the castle's keep and that Sir Roland was talking of torture.

"It seems the two knights who . . . 'yielded' their swords to your care, came back with a tale of being ambushed by the Plant Owain! So there's Roland . . . him being all about ambition . . . suddenly with a dream of solving the riddle of Owain Glyndwr. And maybe winning favour with King Henry."

"Would he truly hurt them?"

"Such a man'd wreak havoc on his own children for want of a bit o' glory!"

The clamber at the table was instant.

"Richard of Wrexham with 'is big mouth! Slippin' out such words at them knights! Silent Richard, me arse!"

"Shut you up, Jeremy!"

"Shut yerself up! You drug up that ol' chestnut! Now look at the mess!"

"It's no chestnut, ye squinty ol' beggar!"

"We'll have to be movin' from 'ere, ye know that! They'll be on us!"

"Oh an' where would we go? Back to the caves, is it?"

"Arrgh! An' not to mention them poor little girls!"

"Poxy mongrel Saxons!"

In the midst of it all, Wild Jack Sorespot sat motionless, his mouth hanging as though the hinge had been broken. He was picturing the tiny refusal of Anwen as she stood over him, denying the wolf that would have taken out his throat. He touched his chest, felt the charm she'd had made for him. St John's Wort, to keep away evil spirits. All around the table similar talismans were being drawn from shirts and pockets. Had she made them for everyone else and forgotten herself and Madeleine? Gradually the table fell silent.

"So he'll torture 'em?" Jack asked, his voice unexpectedly firm.

Men shook their heads on all sides. Surely not! Not even an Englishman could do such a thing! To children? Not if he's in his right mind! It was Owain who took charge.

"First things first, now. What we need to know is, would the girls ever be able to point the way to us? Even if he did such a cowardly thing? Brenton? You guided them. The way is wild and unmarked. What do you think? Could Madeleine or Annie find us again?"

"They wouldn't," said Richard. "Not them girls!"

"No," said Owain. "Of course not, Richard. But if they were frightened? Or hurt? In fear of their lives? Or their family's lives? It wouldn't be fair of us . . . to count on them . . . to be soldiers."

"I don' know!" said Brenton. "They didn' pay much attention, I think. An' I took 'em 'ome on a round about path, so we'd come to the village from the north. In case anyone saw us."

"Good man. So let's guess that we might be safe for awhile. 'Til Roland gathers his wits and his forces and starts scouring the countryside. Which he'll do in time. But we'll have a little space for planning. Before we go."

The greatness of the challenge – fading away into the wilderness, as he'd done a hundred times in the past – was apparent in his face, in the slump of his posture. He picked up Myfanwy's packet of herbs, turned it in his hands, looked around the table, catching the eye of each man in turn.

"The Children of Owain," he murmured. A laugh bubbled up in his throat. "What father was ever given such a family?" Shy smiles; the wag of heads. He was as much father to them as any could remember – the man they had turned to for advice and leadership for more years than any cared to count. "Perhaps it's time, at last, for the children to leave home – to go your separate ways."

And though they all waved the suggestion away, with their 'No, no's' and their 'Surely not's', they all knew it was a thought that had to be considered.

Tom began again to speak of the amnesty. No need to run and hide, he pointed out – at least, for no longer than it would take court officials to travel from London to the Marches. He painted them a picture of traveling to Shrewsbury, sending word to London, waiting in comfort for the bureaucracy to rumble out its official forgiveness.

As he spoke, Wild Jack Sorespot rose, scowling, from his seat, limped heavily to the corner where his mattress lay – where he'd been recuperating for the days since his leg was torn. He began throwing things together; stumped back to the table for his spoon and a chunk of bread; back to the corner, where he stuffed his few possessions into a shoulder bag. The others watched, their interest gradually shifting from Tom's argument to Jack's actions.

When all fell silent, Jeremy asked softly, "What are ye about, lad?"

Jack turned a bleak gaze on them. "I'm going to Clun."

Roger Ringworm was on his feet immediately, throwing together his own few things, making it clear that Jack would not be leaving without him.

"You all go to Shrewsbury. You done yer fightin'. This ain't yer fight 'ere. But I'm goin' to Clun. Me 'n' Rog'. We gonna get them girls outta there."

"Jack," said Tom sympathetically. He was eager to regain everyone's attention, to secure some agreement that would see his father, at least, given a chance to finish his days in better care than these men could give. "Think carefully about this! Neither one of you's a soldier! And Clun's a fortified castle! Ask Owain! Ask 'im about his own siege of that castle, fourteen, fifteen years ago!" He looked around the table for confirmation, but no one seemed to be listening. "He'll let the girls go, Jack! Of his own accord! Soon as he understands they've nothing to tell!"

"He's goin' to send 'em to Shrewsbury," said Brenton softly. "That's what the fortune-teller said. The sheriff's comin' for 'em. They could be charged wi' treason."

"No they couldn't!" said Tom. "What would anyone gain by that?"

"Them girls . . ." croaked Silent Richard fondly.

"Anyhow, accepting the amnesty would take all the argument out of it!" said Tom. "Word'd be sent from Shrewsbury! Roland'd have no choice but to let them go!"

"Maybe, maybe not!" cried Wild Jack Sorespot. "But it's my fault they're there! If I'd jus' let 'em be 'stead o' bringin' 'em into the forest . . . they'd be alright! I gotta put it right!"

"Jack, lad, nobody blames you," said Owain. "We're none of us just our own story. What we do, all of us – is just a little part o' something bigger. But listen. A real thing to consider, Jack, is . . . Sir Roland will kill you!" He paused to let it sink in. "Both you and Roger. Without so much as a thought! Marcher Lords are laws unto themselves, ye know that!"

"Talk talk talk," said Jeremy, stretching his arms above his head in an exaggerated gesture. "Meself, I think the boys 'ave a fine idea there." He winked slyly at Owain. "In fact, I think I can see meself wanderin' along wi' 'em! Tomorra, I think, eh boys? 'S Hallowe'en tomorra, ye know? I'll get in a visit wi' me sister! Sure enough, she'll think the dead've come back to life, when she claps an eye on me!" He laughed and, again, banged his palm on the table. "Now! A story has just occurred to me. Let me tell it and see what yez think!"

Chapter 29 – The Importance of Sisters

Maude's career as a chambermaid never really got off the ground. Within an hour of her arrival in the elegant chamber, she'd overheard Sir Perceval's report to the Ladies Joan and Marie, revealing the extraordinary happenings in the castle. The two peasant girls – lost then found – now imprisoned, guarded by their own Sir Cyril and being sent to Shrewsbury to be tortured for whatever knowledge they had of a supposed Welsh uprising in the making!

The story, coupled with all else that had happened to her, resulted in Maude collapsing in tears and, with no more preliminaries than that, the great curtain that existed to isolate the common folk from the aristocratic, was pushed aside. To Perceval's astonishment, he found himself no longer in the company of two elegant young women and their servant, but rather of three teen-aged girls whose huddled sharing of sympathy and comfort forcibly excluded him. Though it would, in a short time, give him some further excuse to muddle the air of English politics.

It resulted in part from Lady Joan's resolution to put to the test, the very next morning, the power of her social status. If, after all, the king's niece could not have her way, then who indeed could? At the very least, she felt, she could gain some reassurance for Maude by sending Sir Perceval the moment the sun was up, to find and view the prisoners – to report back on their condition and to see if a way could be found for Maude to speak to them.

"And if I am refused permission to see them?" he asked quite reasonably.

"Do not be refused, Sir Perceval! Simply demand! If it's Sir Cyril guarding, he will not dare say no!"

Cyril's morning hadn't gone too badly, despite his aching neck. He'd enjoyed the girls' challenge to Roland and he'd enjoyed Roland's response. The sword, the eye; how many strokes to take off a leg. Very neat. When he heard Perceval's whistling approach on the stairs, not half an hour later, he hoped it was Roland, coming back for a little blood. As a result, his spirits fell sharply when Perceval rounded the corner.

"Sir Cyril!" said Perceval, making a show of pleasure in the meeting.

"Sir Perceval," scowled Cyril, making absolutely no pretence of pleasure at all.

"You are guarding the prisoners, no?"

"I am guarding the prisoners, yes."

There was an insult in the question, he was certain; a reminder that the prisoners were mere children. Cyril had no time at all for Frenchmen.

"They have made no attempt . . ." Perceval smiled broadly, ". . . to overpower you?"

"What do you want, Perceval?" Cyril swung his bulk to face the slighter man.

"I want to speak with the prisoners."

"Too bad."

"Too bad? Are they so dangerous? Or is it I who is not to be trusted?"

"Sir Roland's orders. No one in, no one out."

"No one? Not a soul? Am I to believe the prisoners' needs are not being met, Sir Cyril? This would be too barbaric, surely!"

"What you believe is no concern of mine, Perceval. But to set your mind at ease, Lady Margaret's chambermaid brings what's needed. Her and her alone. So you see? No need for supervision by Froggies."

Cyril would have liked nothing better than for Sir Perceval to take offence, perhaps issue a challenge. He was bored, it suddenly occurred to him – bored with guard duty, bored with nurse-maiding, bored with arrogant foreigners, bored with the Welsh Marches. A quarrel would liven things up very agreeably indeed. Perceval smiled pleasantly.

"I shall report the good news to my fellow . . . Froggies . . . when I return to France. I know they will be as joyful as I to learn it."

He gave a sardonic salute, and turned on his heel. As he walked away, he heard Cyril dredge up a wad of phlegm to send, flopping and splattering onto the floor, like a bite of an over ripe tomato.

* * *

'So the chambermaid is the key!' he told the girls back in Lady Joan's bedchamber.

'The flirty one?' asked Marie. 'Her and Sir Cyril?'

'Even so! The imprisonment of children is a serious affair in this country!'

'Hmm. And so . . . you have an idea?'

'Sir Cyril, not yet,' he suggested happily. 'But the maid . . . I could seduce her. She would get me the key, I think!'

Marie and Joan both gazed at him levelly and he shrugged good-naturedly. "Although," he smiled, "I am too spoiled by my beautiful wife to find joy in such exercise."

Marie turned to Maude, putting an arm around her shoulders. 'Would Sir Roland know that you are a sister to his prisoners?'

"Don't see how, no."

"Then we need something to remove this chambermaid – to put you forward as replacement. Something very quick. You could speak with them then. Tell them, for freedom, they must cooperate!"

"Buckthorn," Maude murmured. They looked at her questioningly. "Bark from a buckthorn. Gives you terrible squits (beggin' yer pardon)."

"Squits?"

"Squits," she nodded, flushed with embarrassment. They coaxed her into explaining and, once it was clear to them, the idea delighted them.

"But," Perceval laughed, savouring both the word and the prospect, "if we are to make a gift of squits, surely it should be to Sir Cyril!"

And that was even more delightful. The man could hardly remain at his post if his insides were turning to liquid! Maude and her sisters could then at least speak through the door and they needn't worry about Susan at all! The sense of that was instantly clear and so, with that germ of an idea setting up camp in their minds, the elements of a plan, like a slow caravan of camels, followed inevitably on.

The first problem was where to get the buckthorn. Maude's mother would know where to collect it, but the need was urgent.

"The fortune teller," Maude again suggested. "She be havin' some."

And so Perceval set off. If he were stopped and questioned, he would be armed with a story – fetching a remedy for a cold that was threatening Lady Joan. The change in the weather, and so on and so forth.

The second problem was how to get the buckthorn into Cyril. Anything taken to him by one of them would be instantly suspected.

"Missus Talbot," Maude suggested quietly, ". . . is wantin' to make a starlin' pie for Sir Perceval."

"Maude!" laughed Marie. "You are a wonder for ideas!"

Missus Talbot, it was decided, was a fine woman who, given the straightforward truth of their need, might well be willing to re-direct her skills into the production of a little short-term mayhem for the bowels of a ferocious knight!

* * * *

And so, within the hour, Perceval had been to see Myfanwy, had taken the resulting small packet and his most disarming smile to Jenny Talbot and Jenny Talbot had placed a small pot, with buckthorn and water, on the edge of the enormous stove to simmer. Within two hours, the large mid-morning meal had been served in the Great Hall and a delicious stew was on its way to the top of the keep.

It might've been a sort of divine retribution when, along the way, Susan dared a large slurp of the juices and found herself, well before the third hour was passed, like Cyril, squatting and groaning over the wateriest of squits.

Maude had her moments, through the unguarded door and learned that her sisters were well. Except for the bloody abrasion on Anwen's face. What had she heard of Brenton, they asked. Nothing? Nothing of torture? How could that be? How could any of this could be?

An unanticipated outcome was that, on hearing of Anwen's injury, having been flung to the stones by an arrogant bully of a knight, Perceval went into a rage.

"This must end! We cannot permit it! No more beating of small girls!"

How to stop it was not the only quandary in the castle. By the time Elizabeth Douglas, Effemy and Annabel joined the rest of the household in the Great Hall for the noon meal they, along with the newly re-focused Sir Angus, had begun searching about for a plan – to escape from Clun Castle.

"Our time here must end!" Elizabeth had declared. "There's danger in the air! I can feel it!"

Chapter 30 – October 31

October 31. The last day before All Hallows Eve – the night of the year when the dead can most easily make their way back to the land of the living. Turnips and pumpkins had been hollowed out for Jack o' Lanterns and candled, ready to show by their flickering when ghosts were near. A help for the living to make their stand – we will cling to life; you dead must stay with the dead.

In Clun, as in towns throughout the land, wood and bones had been heaped in preparation for the after-dusk bonefire. In the houses, hearth fires were being left unattended, in hope that being re-lit from the bonefire's mystic flame would bring luck in the New Year.

Seeking a more immediate form of luck, Gwilym had gone walking alone in the last hour of daylight at the forest's edge. His excuse was the gathering of yet more fuel for the fire but truly, he was cursing bitterly to himself, wondering how it had come to this, that all his fatherly power to aid, defend or even speak with his daughters had been taken from him. He swiped at a bush which, though it yielded no answers, did manage to spit out the hulking form of Brenton LeGros. Gwilym's surprise blossomed into fully-fledged astonishment, even as, finger to lips, the younger man gestured and faded away.

A dozen steps through cold, dew-laden leaves. Two horses were there, in a clearing, along with two scrawny boys, Brenton LeGros, Tom the sharpener and half a dozen gnomish looking old men. They all had doubtful gazes locked on him, as though they were chickens and he an approaching axe man. And they remained utterly still, giving the impression that he'd stumbled onto a meeting of ghosts, caught skulking in wait for All Hallows nightfall.

"Well!" he scoffed. "Is it the rebel army arrived?"

Jeremy Talbot bowed deeply. "It is, reeve! Armed an' mounted! 'Ere to scour free the fine imprisoned children o' Clun."

A short, sharp discussion followed. And despite his initial scorn, when he left the clearing minutes later, with the darkness creeping out from the woods, any thought of hopelessness had been driven from his mind. He had, under his arm, a small stack of sticks, given him by Wild Jack Sorespot ('For the bonefire, Mister. Best not go back empty-handed.'). He also had a renewed sense of purpose in his walk and, best of all, he had a revived belief in his capacity to make a difference for his family.

* * * *

On the walls of the castle the all-seeing steward, Samuel Rowe looked to the setting sun. His discussion with Sir Roland had concluded that, against all odds, there might still be some formidable vigour in the Plant Owain. Not enough to besiege a castle, maybe, as they'd done in years past. But perhaps enough to wreak some sly level of mayhem on an unready force. And, it being All Hallows Eve, with the town descending into darkness in preparation for the bonefire, no night would be better suited to such a wily attack.

Rowe's instructions to his soldiers had been to stay low on the parapets. To make themselves invisible. To keep their eyes open and their mouths shut. To create the impression of a sleepy, inviting target. The rebels, should they appear, were to be allowed in. So that later, they could be carried out – on death carts.

His small contingent of soldiers included Eustace and Rhodri who, like the regulars, had settled to watch the night and the spine-tingling, childhood thrill of All Hallows overtake the town below. They were thinking back to the great roar and crackle of the fire, the heaving of bones into its midst, the leap of shadows; the terrible chilling awareness that ghosts might be hovering at an elbow. The old and the new, side by side; the living and the dead – all bumping away at one another. Endings and beginnings.

From their peepholes, even in the deepening darkness, they could make out the day's last comings and goings from the castle and also the commanding figure of Gwilym, moving between groups. They saw him pointing to the woods and to the castle, placing hands on shoulders and sending people scurrying off at skedaddle pace. Eustace and Rhodri smiled and nodded to one another. Their reeve was a man of authority and decisiveness. A strong leader making for a strong village. If the thought of demons, or even of Madeleine and Annie locked in the high tower, gave Gwilym any sense of unease, they thought, no one would ever suspect it.

One of the last of the goings and comings below them – one they paid no attention to – was an ancient, toothless fossil of a man with a sack of turnips for the kitchen. On entry, he made his unescorted way into the warmth and there, startled the wits out of Jenny Talbot.

"Now isn't it a fine evening!" Jeremy Talbot laughed, smiling his gummy smile. "Happy Hallowe'en, sister!"

* * * *

The last rays of sun had finished peeping under carts and squinting through narrow cracks in walls, failing to winkle out any witches or reveal any hellish wraiths, wrenching themselves between worlds. Only silent secreted soldiers examining their swords and oiling the workings of crossbows. And glimpses of Samuel Rowe, criss-crossing the bailey, circling the wall, peering out of windows and inspecting the latches, like a grim mouse checking for the hundredth time the many chambers of its burrow. There was no corner of the structure that Rowe didn't know intimately and feel responsible for. In his most secret of hearts, indeed, he felt the castle was his own. When no nobility was in residence – and that was generally the case – he was master!

Even so, he'd never forgot his own master, the long dead Thomas FitzAlan, the 12th Earl of Arundel. If allegiance could be equated to love, then Samuel Rowe loved the departed Earl; loved him as a son who would stand true forever at his father's side. It happened sometimes, in a reverie of loneliness and ale that Rowe would conjure up conversations with the great man and during those phantom visits, he took the liberty – a liberty he would never have taken in real life – of addressing him by his Christian name.

"Thomas," he would say to his ghostly visitor, "how are things progressing in Sussex? How is it with your great castle at Arundel?" And Thomas would say, "Well enough, Samuel. Though I've been meaning to ask your advice on . . . !" And they would discuss the proper methods of storing wine or new ideas for transporting water through the kitchens or the difficulty of finding honest labour amongst the artisans or any of a thousand other details of castle life.

Rowe never felt the need, as he sat by his fire, toasting the shimmering figure opposite him, to speak of his own loyalty or of his unceasing attention to the care of Clun Castle. The work would be obvious to a man of Thomas' intelligence. He would sympathize with Rowe's struggle to halt the castle's decay. He would applaud Rowe's firm stand against the indolence of stiff-necked peasants. He would appreciate that, despite the ravages of plague and famine and war and time, Clun Castle was surviving in the capable hands of its steward.

But in clearer, lonelier times, Rowe knew better. Once, Clun may have been the sun around which men of planetary importance revolved; now, it was a dim little comet, receding in a pale sky. He wondered how his own life, his dedication and loyalty, had become so . . . insignificant . . . so by-passed. Eleven years had slipped by since the earl, in the flesh, had visited the castle. And of course he would never come again, having fallen victim to King Henry's French war. Instead there were just his fatuous sister, Lady Margaret, and her ranting little knight of a husband! What a mercy that they found visits to Clun so excruciating!

Today, though, was a good day. Glyndwr was back! Like old times! The last time he'd raided into Shropshire in 1410, Thomas and Rowe had fought side by side and beaten the Welsh ghost at his own game. Devil that he was, he'd escaped them that one last time. But now he was back. The game was on again, and all Rowe's pent-up fantasies and delusions had flowered forth in a new springtime of significance. A lowly clerk he may be on the outside; inside, he was the last falcon, defending its eyrie; the sole undamaged fox, facing the hounds at the entrance to its den; the one wolf left unslaughtered, crying out in a forest that had turned against it; a boy with a last chance to please a diffident father.

* * * *

The dark had come down, cold and still, thick as pudding. In both town and castle, small meals had been eaten, drinks taken and hearth fires knocked apart. Heat from stone and flesh had begun to bleed away. Owls glided down without a breath of sound, snatching up mice from the fields and the sedges. Bats soared overhead, rolling their black eyes, savouring the limitless choice of the sky. The moon would rise but, unless the cloud cover passed, its light would be wasted.

The soldiers on the wall stretched stiffly to peep out toward the forest where, unseen, other watchers yawned, stretched, popped their joints and sniffed the falling damp. In the town, the peasants shivered and wondered what the night would bring. Even the smallest sounds cracked through the darkness, sharp and quick as knives. The bonefire remained unlit.

And yet, things were progressing! Inside the castle, at the lowest level, Jeremy and Jenny Talbot had whispered their old reminiscences and he, trusting, had unfolded, like a chestnut from its husk, the shiny kernel of his plan.

High above in the keep, Madeleine and Anwen had lain down on thin straw to stare at the torchlight shining steadily under their door. They knew that, when Maude had come earlier in the day, their door had been unguarded. Now, the occasional creak of leather and croaking cough told them that the knight had returned. But Susan had not brought their supper. And the chamber pots were hazardously full. And the night was cold.

In the chamber of Sir Roland and Lady Margaret, Susan lay on her mattress groaning piteously for the looseness of her guts. She would have liked someone to sympathize – to give her a chance to milk her discomfort. But Roland knew nothing of sympathy. And Lady Margaret was distracted with the cinching of armour, moving about her husband, clucking over the straps and buckles, chattering about the coming confrontation

"I do hope this can be resolved tonight! Really, we've had quite enough of this Glyndwr chap in past years, without him – (raise your arm a little for me, dear) – without him showing up on our doorstep again – (take the weight of this for me, dear, I can't seem to – oh, yes! There it is.)"

Roland stood stiff and resolute, his eyes focused beyond the walls.

"And what are we to do," she continued, "with these dreadful Scottish people now that we've discovered who they – (Oh dear! There's a spot of rust here! Must take this straight back to the armourer when we get home!) What was I saying? Oh yes, the Scottish people. Send them off with a jolly unfriendly escort, I should think! Straight back over the border with them. And a note to the king in London! Or better yet, have them escorted to London. Make jolly fine prisoners. Might make her father (if indeed he is her father!). . . whatshisname, that Douglas fellow . . . think twice about his cheeky raiding parties in the north if his daughter was locked away in the tower! Yes indeedy! Do you really think they've managed to make contact with this Glyndwr chap, dear? I suppose that would explain his sudden re-appearance. After all these years. If indeed he has reappeared! We haven't seen hide nor hair yet have we? But hoping to stir up trouble in the Marches! Tsk! That's certainly what they're up to! Distract the king from his conquest of France. And very pleased with themselves, they'd be, I don't doubt! I expect those awful peasant girls have been the go-betweens, just as you thought. Quite probably the whole of Clun would like nothing better than to rid itself of proper authorities. What an awful place! Really! I can't wait to get home. I assure you I shall never think about this wretched little village again! And imagine! All this trouble being stirred up just at the same time as the Lady Joan de Beaufort, of all people, decides to travel! Goodness! What an awful coincidence! Imagine if a young lady such as her was to fall into their hands! (Can you lift your foot a little for me, dear?) I mean, how would it look? The king's niece, for Heaven's sake! I mean, she's only a niece by marriage, but still . . . ! I suppose that de Coucy fellow will claim the credit for keeping her safe! Once this is over with, I mean. I do imagine he'd fancy a place in the court in London as a reward. Be better than being master of some nasty little village in France, I expect. Jolly handsome fellow though! Not that I fancy French people! Altogether too . . . French, somehow."

She stepped back a little to assess the results of her labour. "Oh yes!" she smiled, knocking with her knuckles on Sir Roland's iron chest. "Very nice! Very . . . imposing!"

To Sir Roland, his wife's chattering had sounded like this: "Resolve tonight . . . Scottish people . . . escort to London . . . prisoners . . . Tower . . . trouble in the Marches . . . proper authorities . . . Joan de Beaufort . . . king's niece . . . keep her safe . . . place in London . . . reward . . . better than a nasty little remote village."

To that moment, he had not decided what to do about Mary Gordon (or Elizabeth Douglas or whoever she was) other than to mew her up. But somehow, an idea – an idea that might very possibly bring him some benefit – seemed to be lurking at the edge of his consciousness. He had clanked halfway out the door when he heard Margaret say, "Oops! Forgot your sword, dear."

Chapter 31 – The Night is Young

Partly to distract her from her continuous sniffling and sobbing, and partly out of curiosity, Perceval de Coucy, Marie and Lady Joan, encouraged Maude to talk.

"Tell us how the village will celebrate All Hallows Eve!" Marie suggested, All Hallows being a celebration peculiar to England, Scotland and Wales. "Is it true that we may see the dead walking amongst us?"

Even Lady Joan, whose experience of the celebration was limited to castles in Somerset and London, was eager to hear how things happened in the remote rural west. "Tell us about the bonefire, Maude!"

"Oh aye!" She'd been in the castle for a week now and had become thoroughly disoriented about time. "All Hallows Eve!" She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "The bonefire's wonderful! It's lit the minute the sun goes down!"

She darted to the darkened window. Maybe, in the light of the blaze, she'd be able to pick out people she knew – the very next best thing to actually being there! But the darkness in the village was as absolute as that beneath a raven's wing.

"That's funny!" she said. "Usually it gets goin' straight away! An' the dancin' an' singin' an' games an' bobbin' for apples starts! I wonder why it's not goin'!"

The three aristocrats crowded around her to look out. Perceval knew that a few torches continued to burn within the castle – in the bailey, in enclosed halls and in rooms such as their own. But no light – not even the light of stars – gave a hint of the town's presence. It might as well have been at the bottom of a fathomless sea.

Perceval rubbed his jaw thoughtfully while the three girls gazed in wonder. Then, "Gather your cloaks, my ladies!" he said. "We will go out on the curtain wall. Perhaps some explanation can be heard."

* * * *

Down in the town, the stillness, the darkness and the silence were so deep, a deathwatch beetle, nesting in the heart of a tree could not have seemed more cut off from the world.

The folk had left their tallow and rush candles unlit and damped down their hearth fires until only embers remained, smoldering like resentment beneath a coating of ash. At a point, Silent Richard of Wrexham and the other wizened members of the Plant Owain ghosted out of the forest, nodding grimly as they joined the townsfolk.

Amongst the people of Clun, there was no love for the followers of Glyndwr. But, curiously, neither was there any antagonism. For them, the years of struggle, though costly at the time, were already a matter of history. And if the outcome had been different – if Glyndwr rather than King Henry had prevailed – they knew that little would be different in their lives. English – Welsh; the people of the Marches were as much one as the other. The victor got the spoils and, either way, Clun and its people would be part of the spoils.

In Gwenith's alehouse one tallow candle burned, hung high and masked with a linen shroud. Beneath its faint light, Silent Richard and a dozen villagers had gathered, joined as the door swung closed, by Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm who were determined to play their parts in whatever was to come.

Jack slid to the front, to stand at Richard's elbow, his weight centred on his undamaged leg. But still, and despite that, Richard drew him around in front, making him a prop to lean on. Perhaps it was that gesture, coupled with the imposing presence of the reeve, that made Jack realise for the first time how old and enfeebled his forest friends truly were.

Owain himself had stayed behind at the monastery, unable to rise for one more confrontation in his beloved Marches. The potion sent by Myfanwy had somewhat relieved the agony that haunted his insides and he had slept long. But they'd all known that a day's journey through the forest to Clun, even if made on horseback, would be the end of him. Tom/Maredydd had stayed with him in the valley, as had most of the others whose agues, swollen joints or croups made the journey too onerous.

Richard's quiet attachment to the line of walkers had been, in part, his way of atoning for his impulsive declaration to Sirs Cyril and Angus, without which Annie and Madeleine would likely be free and the priory still a safe refuge. Also he knew that Jeremy's plan – to single-handedly invade Clun Castle – could not have been any loonier or more dangerous. It had occurred to him that his old friend might be seeking an escape for himself rather than for the girls – escape from a slow decline like the one that had held Brother Bones after all his brothers had died – and Richard was resolute. If Jeremy Talbot was to fall, Richard of Wrexham would be close behind.

In the year that Jack had known Richard, he'd seen only the quiet, unobtrusive man whose deepest thoughts were mumbled to fish jigged out of forest streams. The assurance and authority of the soldier who spoke now was completely unfamiliar.

"All of us here," Richard rumbled, "townsmen and forest dwellers alike – the women folk, too – we've lived through hard times. We seen war an' plague an' famine aplenty. Some 'ud say each of our lives was too little to've mattered in such times. Some 'ud not even've noticed we was 'ere, botherin' 'round the feet o'the great ones with their great causes. But we are here, us! The wind don' blow us away! The great ones don' sweep us away. There's great trees in the forest, but it ain' a forest at all wi'out the rest o' the bushes 'n' saplin's 'n' all! That's all of us! The little folk in between. We're the true forest!"

A low growl seemed to emanate from the crowd; a growl whose tone Jack couldn't properly assess.

"But," Richard continued, "we do get tired o' them tryin' to clear us away! I tell you truly, Owain Glyndwr is near worn out from gettin' back up again. But Roland Lenthall wants 'is 'ead. An' e's willin' to use your daughters to get it."

The crowd's growl came again and the small still light of the high candle cast ghoulish shadows over the villagers' faces. Jack spread his feet, gritting his teeth at the soreness and stiffness in his wounded leg. If anyone thought to go for Richard, they would go through Jack Sorespot first.

"Glyndwr has always said he'd die a beggar on the Clun-Clee Ridgeway," Richard continued, his words now sharp and quick, like a handful of thrown gravel, "before 'e'd turn 'is self over to any o' Roland Lenthall's kind."

Feet shuffled uncomfortably and Jack's stomach contracted, as though a millstone had just rolled across it. What was wrong with them? Couldn't they see that everyone was there for the same reason – to rescue Madeleine and Anwen? He drew a deep breath and, for long moments, while his eyes flicked from side to side, forgot to let it out.

A grumbling movement sounded somewhere behind. Jack recognised the voice instantly. In his fearless way, Roger Ringworm was pushing through, to place himself at Jack's shoulder, filling one more part of the space between Richard and the villagers. Roger's chin and lower lip were both thrust out defiantly and he raised his small, bony fists in the most threatening gesture he could manage.

"Huh?" he said, as though defying the men to repeat their rumblings.

Though the stance was intended as support and encouragement, it had the opposite effect on Jack. In it, he recognised only hopelessness. What use could there be in such scrawny defiance? Perhaps this entering into the village had been a mistake. Tom/Maredydd had advised against it – and Brenton LeGros had worried aloud about how the villagers would react. But, "It's necessary to the plan," Jeremy had insisted.

Nonetheless, the raised fists of Roger Ringworm brought the crowd's murmurings and mutterings to an end. Possibly they were simply astonished at his effrontery, but they lapsed into sullen silence. Leaving only a throaty chuckle emanating from Silent Richard who reached out, placing a hand on each of the boys' heads, as though blessing them.

"There was a time," he said softly, and it wasn't clear if he was speaking to himself or the boys or the townsfolk; "there was a time when it seemed we'd used up all the courage in this land. But you see?" he stroked their shaggy heads. "It always shows up again . . . somewhere. Somewhere you never thought to look."

He turned the boys to him and pushed Roger's little fists down to his sides. After a moment's silence, he said, almost inaudibly, "You know, it was All Saints' Day last year when we found these boys in the forest. Newly run away from their village up north, they was. As of tomorrow, their year is up; they're free men." He looked from face to face. "Maybe free-er than any o' the rest of us here." He sighed deeply and shook his head. "I am Owain Glyndwr," said Silent Richard. "I won't surrender meself to Lenthall. But I surrender to you, townsfolk of Clun."

Jack's head snapped up in astonishment and "Huh?" croaked Roger Ringworm.

Overhead, the candle guttered. Maybe a ghost had come amongst them. Or perhaps it was the combined exhalations of all the men in the room, none of whom had ever thought to see such a sight. In the dim light, Richard's eyes sought out those of Jack. They glistened hotly and one of them, Jack thought, winked.

"No!" Jack hissed, imagining the villagers pouncing on Richard to present to Roland Lenthall, in return for their girls. "What about Jeremy? If we don't do as he said . . . he'll be caught inside!"

"Yes, well . . . you know Jeremy's a bit o' not all there, don't ye, son," said Richard, tapping his forehead lightly and smiling. "Maybe a better plan is for Sir Roland to jus' give back Maddie and Annie an' Jeremy . . . in exchange for Owain Glyndwr! Nobody'd get hurt then. Wouldn't that be worth a try?"

"But what would he do to ye?" Jack cried, tears already creeping around the backs of his eyes.

"Oh, nothin'! Nothin' at all! I'll explain I been offered an amnesty. 'e'll 'and me over like the grand knight 'e is an' I'll get to go to London . . . live out me days like a royal prince!"

"A fine dream!" said a voice, rich and deep, from the midst of the crowd. It was Gwilym. "An' we thank ye for the offer, Owain. It's a great honour for the people o' Clun; from the great Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, heir to the kingdom of Powys."

Even the squalor of a mud-walled, candle-lit peasant's hut could not diminish the grandeur of those titles or the awe with which Gwilym recited them.

"I'll not deny," he continued, "it crossed our minds that ye might be 'imself! An' that we might maybe make an attempt on ye – hand ye over in trade! Speakin' as the father o' them girls, I'd risk almost anythin' to get 'em back. An' if I was sure Sir Roland'd make the exchange, I'd be speakin' out for acceptin' your offer. But speakin' as reeve of Clun, I've long learned not to put me faith in the promises o' high born folk." Nods of assent started up all around him.

"An' even beyond that, there's this! In recent times – the years since Thomas FitzAlan left – we folk in Clun've tasted a little o' what it might be like to be free men." He nodded meaningfully at Jack and Roger. "Things've been changin', ye see. 'Ere an' all through the land, if stories we 'ear be true. Meself, I been tryin' 'ard to ignore it; but I see now, that en't the right way. So 'ere's what us've decided. We want no more masters 'ere in Clun – not permanent, not visitin'! An'so we think not to give Sir Roland any joy of this place. Therefore, if your man – your Jeremy – can retrieve my girls safely, we'll 'ave that. An' if we 'ave Sir Roland in embarrassment, so much the better. We can 'ide the girls 'til 'e decides to go, as go 'e will! That'll leave only Mister Rowe, who I b'lieve we can educate toward some mutual respect! So we thank ye for your grand offer, Owain Glyndwr; but your first plan is not changed. We'll wait. We'll see. If the outcome looks uncertain, we'll speak again."

* * * *

The plan as Jeremy'd outlined it was simplicity itself, requiring only a distraction that was no distraction at all! Nothing was to happen! Not the normal nighttime activities and certainly not the expected All Hallows Eve festivities. In fact, on this Night of the Dead, it would be helpful if the village itself were to seem to die. That being the case, there would be no one in the castle whose attention was not turned outward – hopefully leaving Jeremy to prowl unnoticed within.

With that in mind, the candle in Gwilym's house was extinguished before the door was opened and when the occupants stepped out there was, Jack thought, what Jonah might have wakened to in the belly of the whale – soft and limitless darkness. At the corners of his eyes, he could see still shadows like wraiths but, when he turned to look directly, they seemed to disappear.

Those silent specters were not only the remaining half dozen of the Plant Owain. They were the men, women and children of Clun. At Gwilym's soft word, hundreds of hands reached out to catch other hands, other shoulders, the fringes of cloaks; anything to ensure that none became separated, left alone and vulnerable on such a black and demon-ridden night. And together, as one, in a ghostly shuffle, they edged their way out of the village.

Their objective lay less than a quarter mile distant. Just within the forest there was an embankment that Glyndwr himself had thrown up, during his siege of Clun more than a decade before – an earthen wall that would persist for centuries. And behind it, out of sight of the castle, the people sat down in small close clusters, to wait – to see if Jeremy Talbot's plan could free the reeve's daughters.

In hopes of that outcome a dozen men, including Gwilym, remained hidden amongst the houses. Unseen, they watched the castle and prepared, God willing, to receive the escaping children. As for Myfanwy, she remained by her cart like an ancient stone, like a fallen piece of Clun castle itself. She was wrapped in sheepskins, her eyes closed, her breathing so faint that, at one point, a vole took temporary shelter against her.

Chapter 32 – Struggles Within

Clun, though small and remote, was generally aglow with candles and torches at festival times. Maude's bewilderment, then, was great. In the time it had taken for the sun to set and dusk to seep away, the entire town – every house, candle, voice and dog-bark – had been whisked out of the world, leaving a black and silent hole below the castle. What had become of her family, her home? And why, when she most needed it, had the soothing alien voice in her mind suddenly fallen quiet?

The mood of Sir Roland's soldiers was equally grim. Was an enemy creeping near? Could it even be, it being All Hallows Eve, that an army of the dead was gathering in the darkness? All along the wall they peeped out, straining their eyes and turning their best ears outward, cursing the occasional scuffing of feet and ping of steel on stone. Some, the most conscience stricken, were driven to their knees, to remind God of their devotion and their need for protection.

One isolated watcher in particular sweated inside his light travelling armour and cursed the thinness of his luck. Sir Angus of Atholl. Already choked with humiliation for recent lapses in judgment – the foray into the forest and the night of carousing – he'd found an opportunity for redemption.

"An insult!" he'd declared hotly to the three women. "To your persons! To your families! To Scotland itself! To attempt to hold you here!"

In his mind, of course, the greatest insult was to his own honour, but he'd wisely decided to be judged only by his future actions; not his past.

"It's intolerable! I see it as my duty, Miladies, to deliver you safely from this place this very night!"

The four of them, he'd vowed, would have horses on which to flit away after dark, through the broken gates and down the forest road, under cover of the town's celebration. He would guide them to Stoke St. Milborough where they could be anonymous amongst the pilgrims at the holy well. Safe, until they could flee north, through Much Wenlock and back to Scotland!

"It's a great risk, Sir Angus!" Elizabeth had pointed out. "If Roland discovers us . . . I fear what he might do under cover of darkness!"

"He'll not discover us, Lady! Trust me! The plan is foolproof!"

It was a plan, however, that called for the fool of a moon to come out from behind the clouds and show them their way. It also required the fools in the town to light their bonefire and raise a festively unholy distraction. And lastly, the plan called for the foolish superstition of Sir Angus himself to be suppressed – a difficult task, considering his sizeable fear of the ghosts that walked abroad at Samhain – the Night of the Dead!

Still, he scolded himself as he peered out into the silent, utter darkness. He was a Christian knight! One who had sworn to dedicate his life and, if need be, his death, to the well-being of nobility! One who knew that death would be preferable to failing the women in his charge, who'd risked everything for this journey – for the regaining of an imprisoned king!

"No ghosts!" was the mantra he muttered to himself over and over as he slid through the torchlight shadows. "There are no ghosts!"

It happened then that, in his desperate reconnoitre along the wall, Sir Angus stumbled into the shadowy vantage point occupied by Sir Perceval, Marie, Lady Joan and Maude and the meeting, unexpectedly, gave him hope.

"Sir Angus!" Joan hailed him as he slipped close to them on the wall. "A happy meeting! Since Sir Roland has mewed us up in this castle, I've been so worried for your charges! If only we knew how long . . . !"

"Thank you Milady. I must say, I share your worry!"

Polite banter, then, was by-passed as Angus, his foolproof plan in tatters, whispered his fears and cursed the difficulty of escape – given the state of the neighbourhood. Maude, already confused and fearful, was stunned to learn that helplessness could be felt by the great as well as by the small.

* * *

It was at that point, two hours past dusk that Roland began to crack. His men needed action. And he needed to find out what was afoot in that accursed village! Slamming a mailed fist against the stonework, he began barking orders.

"A scouting party! You, you and you! And you three there! Get down there! Find out what in Hell's black circle's happening!"

"Yes your Lordship. And to be clear, your Lordship – the use of force? I mean, if the villagers should . . . !"

"Yes, yes! Whatever! No need for niceties! Burn the place if ye must. And light that damn bonefire! All see what's what! And straight back here when ye've done! Right?"

The words echoed around the wall, even to the nook where Angus, Perceval, Marie and Joan were huddled. Maude also heard – 'Burn the place' – and her feeling of helplessness began to spiral into desperation. She began frantically searching her mind for the nearest way down – a way to flee to her family – to warn them! She hardly saw, then, the whispered intensity of those she'd waited on; fingers being pointed and heads shaken; shoulders tapped and foreheads bumped. She missed all mention of the girls' clothing, the night's darkness and the village's mysterious silence. And she barely noticed when, with all their heads nodding enthusiastically, Angus turned and hurried off the wall.

Through all that she felt as exposed and vulnerable as a skeleton in a kennel of dogs. She would run! Run until she found a way down to the ground and back to the village! But which way? Her feet were still awaiting final instructions when Marie and Joan captured her hands and, without ado, began dragging her away. She struggled, they insisted and she relented. Blame her father, who had always taught that obedience was owed.

At the last, as they entered the castle, Maude had a fleeting look over her shoulder and saw Sir Perceval, the Bastard of de Coucy, stepping boldly out of the shadows. He was heading for the inner bailey where the scouting party was preparing horses.

* * * *

"Have you room for one more?"

"Six horses, six men!" Roland barked. "No spares." He wanted to add, 'No useless Froggies needed!' but he managed to hold his tongue.

"C'est bien, my lord! Do not trouble yourself! I will fetch my own."

"They'll not wait, Sir! Fetch the damned nag if you will, but my men are going now!"

"Of course! Of course!" Perceval waved happily. "Go, my friends! I will catch you up, eh?"

And he strode off to the stables, leaving Roland muttering and the other knights shaking their heads. Foreigners, they were all thinking; they just don't get it!

Perceval, of course, had entirely gotten it. In fact it suited him perfectly to let some space open between himself and the English knights.

* * * *

The journey into the town was barely two hundred yards of clear roadway, but the knights rode warily, two abreast, each carrying a torch and each with his broadsword unsheathed, lying across the pommel of his saddle. To each, it seemed that he rode in so small a cone of light that, if he reached out his arms, his hands would disappear – perhaps to be stroked by those of a ghost! So impervious was the night that, though they stared about wide-eyed, never a man of them was able to see the Cunning Woman seated on the ground by her cart, wrapped in a trance of dreaming.

Sir Perceval, riding out minutes later without a torch, was also blind, seeing only the pinprick torches far down the road. Even the single shivering guard who'd been instructed to close the gate behind him had been little more than a voice in a shadow. Hardly surprising then, that that same guard failed to see the flicker of movement as a piece of the darkness tore itself free and slipped in. He was the only one who might have stopped Brenton LeGros and his club-like lump of firewood. And he was the only one who would see nothing more of All Hallows Eve.

* * * *

Once back inside the castle, Joan and Marie bore Maude directly to their room.

"We're leaving!" Joan declared in vast excitement. "Now! Tonight!

And you're to come with us, Maude! To London!"

"L-London?"

"Yes. I'll look after you! You'll be one of my maids! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Or France, Maude!" Marie offered. "Perceval and I – we would also be honoured for your company!"

"You mean . . . leave the Marches? Leave Clun?"

"Well yes, of course, silly girl!" Joan laughed. "You can't go anywhere without leaving Clun!"

Maude would never – even when her perceptions had matured – understand their motivations on that night. Had they hoped (a hopeless hope, since she'd never travelled away herself) that she could help guide them to Stoke St. Milborough? Or that she would be a willing hostage in case things went awry? Or had they perhaps confused her somehow with Maddy, who was absolutely desperate to shake off the drudgery of town life? How could they have read her so poorly?

Whatever their reasoning, their unquestioning assumption was that she would join them. They were, they explained, during a distraction by Sir Angus, going to steal their own horses! They'd leave everything that couldn't easily be carried, link up with the Scots if possible, and disappear into the forest! Be gone before Sir Roland thought to look for them!

"Not that he'd dare, of course, to interfere with my personal safety!" declared Joan, though even she appeared to be losing faith in her unassailability. "Not truly! I would inform the king and have him clapped instantly into the most horrible of dungeons!"

Marie smiled. "Still, we must consider. If his spies have caught wind of a connection between you and your James Stewart and Elizabeth Douglas . . . perhaps that information might tempt him to a certain . . . recklessness."

Joan tossed her head dismissively but, like Maude, she had no words. Her face flamed, either in anger or embarrassment, and Marie placed a protective arm around her.

"It is a great danger," she said softly, "to think a king will fit in a pocket."

And a moment later, responding to an outburst of pique, she hissed, "Softly, Milady! We are not free yet!"

They went about their hasty business, neither considering for a moment that Maude would not want to accompany them. The great cities and palaces that they knew – how could they not mean everything to a little peasant girl? They didn't notice her backing away in horror of the prospect. They didn't notice her, in the most daring act she'd ever committed, slipping a dagger under her blouse.

"I'm not going!"

The frenzy of activity halted.

"I 'ave to 'elp my sisters! I can't leave!"

But . . .!" Joan spluttered. "Your sisters are prisoners . . . of a powerful knight! And you're a girl! Alone! How can you think that putting yourself in danger will be any help at all?"

"I'm not alone. My father . . . the townsmen . . . !"

"There's nothing they can do, Maude! Nothing any of them can do! They're farmers!"

Of all the impulses people have, one of the least utilized is the impulse to look inside themselves for strength. But that's where Maude, the most timid of children, finally looked. She looked first for any residue of the calm reassurance that, especially of late, at odd times had come bubbling up out of nowhere in her mind. It had been there in the voice – the 'other' who seemed, at times, to speak to her from within. That voice wasn't there. But to her surprise, some strength of her own was!

"I don't care! My sisters . . . I can't leave 'em! There's something – I don' know what, but somethin' – can be done! Things're changin' all around! I can feel it!"

Joan was about to argue further but was over-ruled by Marie.

"Maude," she said softly. "There is a legend in France that we treasure; that in the time of need, a peasant girl will appear, to deliver us." She smiled at the irony. "To believe is the key, n'est ce pas? To believe and to try! Can you find your way?"

Joan's forehead wrinkled deeply.

"Marie!" she insisted, stamping her foot. "What are you saying? She must come with us! Maude, listen to me! Your life can be so different! Don't throw it away on a something that . . . you can do nothing about!"

Maude's hand brushed the dagger under her blouse and Marie, sensing the movement, finished softly, "No one will stop you, Maude. This choice is your own to make."

Joan's voice rose in disbelief. "But there's nothing to choose here, is there! Not when the great world is on offer!"

"Ahh! The great world!" Marie smiled. "But who can say? Maybe there's a great world here, Joan. Inside this place. Where poor peasants challenge the will of a Lord! That is a great thing, non! Even your uncle the king would esteem such courage, I think! And I too esteem, Maude. If you must stay, you must stay! In fact, if you wish it, I will stay too; long enough to help."

Joan was aghast. "No no no! What're you saying? Sir Perceval . . . and the others! We said we'd meet! We have to be ready!"

Marie waved agreement.

"We are ready. And Perceval will find us. In the meantime, I might be useful." With the tip of a finger, she reached and touched Maude's hidden dagger. And to Joan she said, "In my country's legend, our peasant girl defeats mighty armies! Maude and me together, we would be two girls! What hope for Roland's little band of frightened knights, eh? Poof! Nothing! He will learn a new thing! And us! We will leave our mark on these men."

During this speech, she'd moved to Maude's side, leaving Joan isolated and speechless. And Maude, looking to see Joan's reaction, found an image reviving in her mind. It was the image she'd seen that first day, of Joan with the crown-like ribbons in her hair! Had they been only ribbons? Perhaps. But perhaps not! And that was the something that she hadn't known – hadn't been able to grasp. That Joan de Beaufort and the choices she was about to make were far more important than any happenings at Clun.

"No!" she said with a brand new firmness, stepping away from Marie. "No, you have to stay! She can't be left! She has to . . .! She will become . . . !"

She didn't know what. There was no 'other' voice guiding her now. This was her own vision – her own voice – and she was unsure how to use it. There was a moment's pause before Marie nodded.

"Bien! As you wish. I only remind you, then. Sir Cyril, if he is back from his squits . . . is very dangerous! If you find him, he will show no mercy."

Maude's memory of the burly, stinking man – the last time she'd seen him, he was pissing on the floor in the Great Hall – made her stomach flip-flop and she clutched through her blouse at the blade that tingled cold against her skin.

* * * *

Roars of rage and the slap of bone against stone; sounds hammering down the stairs, ricocheting off walls, racing past Maude like fleeing goblins. She was half-way up the last flight, having eluded all eyes, her one offer of help now well out of reach. There was no telling what was happening. But Maddie and Annie were up there! Embedded in the bedlam. She could hear them. Howling. She had no choice. Holding her pretty little stolen dagger out at arm's length, she forced herself on. A mouse with a thorn, approaching a lion's den.

At the top, a corner. She paused, dragged in a breath. The blaze of sound – the wailing, scraping, slapping, screaming clatter of it – was overwhelming. Her eyes closed and almost refused to open. But she had to see. She leaned forward. The torch lit corridor was a cavern of gloom. A huge convulsing creature was there! All arms and legs and backs, thumping, kicking and twisting across the oaken floor, hammering and yammering, pulverizing itself in a bloody frenzy of violence.

She straightened, froze; like an icicle clamped to an eave in an arctic wind; a sparrow with its claws frosted solid on a branch, awaiting the one last heartbeat allotted to it. Too petrified to advance. But her sisters were there, screaming, wordlessly. She couldn't flee. If the monster stood up on its many legs and arms and began limping toward her, she wouldn't be able to flee.

But what use to stay and do nothing? She drew a breath, rubbed her eyes and peeped again. The creature, with a huge convulsion, was tearing itself in two. Part of it, massive and troll-like, rearing up, swaying and panting, its leather coated, humped back still turned to her. On the floor the second half, far the more wounded half, dragging itself, moaning piteously, clutching at its wracked body. The troll part swung its head and Maude saw, in the torch's flicker, that it was Sir Cyril Halftree. The wounded half, the broken half, was Brenton LeGros.

In her moment of vision, Sir Cyril staggered, half turned and she ducked back. Run, run, run! But she couldn't. She raised the dagger, clutching it in her two hands like a prayer candle, the point hovering an inch from her eyes. And then, over the panting and cursing, a new sound. The skirl of steel against stone. Cyril's sword! She'd seen it on the floor. If she'd been quick, she could've grabbed it up – thrown it down the stairs. But he had it now. Was dragging it, growling deep in his throat, spitting copiously. A tooth bounced on the step in front of her.

"Brave try, boy!" she heard him say. "Not your lucky day, though!"

If Brenton answered, it was too breathless; too lost in the wailing of Anwen and Madeleine.

"Me, on the other hand . . . I've 'ad this place . . . up to 'ere!" He slammed the hilt of his sword against the prisoners' door. "SHUT YOUR NOISE!" he bellowed. And their howlings immediately subsided to whimpers.

It was all Maude could do to swallow her own sobs as her feet took her, unbidden, into the corridor. Cyril, his huge, dark back toward her, stood braced against the wall, balancing the sword's blade on his shoulder. It struck a memory with Maude: her father, preparing to stun a pig with a hammer.

"Wrong day. Wrong man!" Cyril was snarling through the mash of blood in his mouth. He swung the sword, almost playfully, allowing it to hum above Brenton's head.

And that was the moment Maude's voice freed itself. "STOP!"

The giant froze. He looked over his shoulder. The sword's point fell slowly to the floor. Blood dripped from his jowls. There was not an ounce of fear in him. Surprise. A flash of interest. Then a dreadful smile crossed his face. In the bloody gap of it, Maude could see the space recently vacated by the tooth on the stairs. And she thought to herself, Marie was right! He will kill me now!

Still. She had an idea.

"Sir Roland sent me!" she croaked, her voice quaking uncontrollably. "The castle's under attack, 'e says! He says . . . ye're to report to the gate! Now!"

"Sorry?" he asked softly, his ghoulish smile widening. "I'm to what? You'll have to speak up, little mistress! Or come closer." He smirked, with all the unction of a devil inviting a priest to lay down his cross. "Am I not to guard the prisoners any longer?"

If Cyril hadn't had such an evil week, he'd have known better. Better than to be so careless. Better than to see nothing but a pretty little red-haired girl, teasing him with a prickle! Telling him made-up stories! Better than to think his luck had turned, bringing him a man to kill and a girl to play with! Better than to take his eyes off an enemy who wasn't yet dead.

That enemy, Brenton, sensing the distraction, mustered what little strength he had left, lunged, and latched onto Cyril's testicles. The almost-victorious warrior's legs vanished from under him. He crumpled and, by the time the sword came clattering down, the beast of many legs and arms – the one that Maude had first seen – had reassembled itself, once again rolling, bleating and battering itself against wall and floor.

This time Maude really did run. 'Fetch Sir Perceval!' her mind was screaming. She took the stairs two steps at a time.

* * * *

She would not have found him, of course, since he was, at that very moment, riding calmly out the gate, his focus on the darkness ahead rather than that behind. Fortunately for Maude, though, other, entirely unexpected help was at hand. Two flights down she bowled into them, creeping along the corridor in the light of a tallow candle. One was Jenny Talbot, the other a small ancient man she'd never seen before. She drew just enough breath to begin squalling.

"Missus Talb . . .! He's killing Brenton!"

Jeremy Talbot placed a dry, callused and unexpectedly calming hand on her arm. "Brenton?" he said. "Big bloke Brenton? From the town?"

"Quick, come quick!" she howled, dragging at Jenny's arms. "Oh please!"

Jenny wrenched her to stillness, covering her mouth. "Quiet a minute now, girl, ye'll be wakin' the ghosts!" And to Jeremy, "It'll be Sir Cyril yer man's run into!"

"Cyril? Him we met in the forest?"

"The worst o' the two, brother."

All this while Maude sobbed, "Oh God, 'e's killin' 'im! 'E's killin' 'im!"

Jeremy shook his head ruefully and Jenny clutched his arm, knowing what story his ancient warrior's instinct would be telling.

"Is that where Annie and Maddie are?" he asked. "Up there?" Both nodded and Jeremy shook his head again. "Fool of a boy! That's where love gets ye, ye see? Tsk!" And he began moving to the stairwell.

"Jeremy!"

"Now don't start at me, sister! The boy's bein' kilt, she says."

"Jeremy, it's a young man there! And a mad one! He'll show ye no quarter!"

Jeremy looked at her, looked at the stairs, looked at Maude.

"Right! Right! Well, I'll not be bothered askin' for it then, I suppose. Whyn't you two wait 'ere whilst I 'ave a wee look."

He turned to go, but Jenny stopped him again, with an arm on his shoulder.

"I warn ye, I won't forgive ye if ye get yer fool head lopped off."

Jeremy's toothless smile was tender. "Thank ye, sister. For that gentle reminder. Tell ye what, though, I'll jus' have a wee chat wi' the man. And come straight back. How 'bout that?"

Maude and Jenny followed his trot up one flight of stairs before stopping at the bottom of the next. Imagine the sounds a man might make while trying to lift a horse out of sucking mud. That was the only sound left to roll like agony down toward them. The girls and the woman glanced at one another over the light of the candle and, together, followed on up the stairs.

Jeremy was not used to stairs, let alone to running. At the top, he drew a deep breath, shook what stiffness he could out of his knees and, forcing as much spring into his step as he could, entered the hall. Just in time to witness an execution. Credit the burning resilience of a human killing machine. For all the damage inflicted on him, Cyril was back on his feet, back in charge of his sword and once again on the verge of skewering a hapless victim.

"What's this now?" Jeremy barked, like a schoolmaster catching a delinquent boy. "Is it the drinker from the poor man's stream again then?"

Cyril's back was to Jeremy. He didn't turn, perhaps having learned his lesson from the blow he'd received when Maude distracted him. But he did raise his head in a manner that even Jeremy could see was thoughtful. He was trying to place that voice. Then he nodded and looked back down at Brenton. He stepped forward and kicked Brenton mightily. Ribs could be heard snapping.

Still not looking back at Jeremy, Cyril snarled, "What? No arrows in my back, old man?"

"Not a bit of it," Jeremy answered, as jauntily as a juggler in a tavern. "Jus' come for me young friend there, so I have. If ye're finished, now, puttin' the boots into the man, who looks to be pretty near senseless as it is, well . . . I'll jus' take him off away wi' me." He took a step forward.

It was then that Cyril half turned, twisting his head as far as he was able – just enough to get Jeremy into the corner of his eye. "Oh well!" he said with expansive sarcasm. "Being as you've come all this way, I wouldn't dream of . . ." (his sword looped up, cutting a great arc through the air) ". . . objecting!"

The many swords that had been swung at Jeremy over the years had left him cannily prepared. He ducked, the blade passed a hair's breadth over; though, like a falcon turning for a second pass, it continued on with incredible speed and control. Cyril's training told him that a man retreating from one stroke could be caught nicely by a step forward with an instant second stroke. Full circle over the head, lunge and slice.

Jeremy's training, though, said that, when facing a man with a broadsword, there were only two safe options – completely out of reach or in so close the sword couldn't fit between. He was too arthritic for the one, so he met Cyril's advance by scurrying straight in, brushing under the knight's arms and popping up behind. Perfect. But only for the briefest of moments, until Cyril's training had him pivoting instantly, powering the sword into the turn.

"Whoa!" Jeremy crowed, whistling lightly as the broad sword's point danced into place before his eyes. "Where's the need for this now? Someone'll be 'urt for sure, you wavin' that sticker about like that!"

"You . . .!" Sir Cyril stuttered, further enraged by the old man's gaunt smile. He took a step forward.

"Aye, aye, me it is." Jeremy took an equal step back and smiled wider, showing his gums and lifting his cap. "Me it is who don't feel up to strugglin' wi' ye, young cockerel! An' I promised me sister. So whyn't we put the steel away, eh? I'll take me friend an' them two little girls an' no 'arm done, whadda ye say! This is surely no work for a sturdy boy like yerself!"

"You took my sword, my horse!"

"Oh, aye, I did. But then, you drank from my stream! Now a calm man might ask himself what's more important?" Jeremy showed his open empty hands and his most engaging smile. "Is it a cooling drink? Or a dented piece o' steel an' an ol' nag of a borrowed 'orse?" He shrugged and dropped his hands. "Ye'd take the water every time, now, wouldn' ye? So ye got the better o' the bargain, Sir Knight!"

"That was no 'dented piece of steel', old man. That sword was the finest I ever owned. It's cut many a man clean in half, armour and all, and never suffered the least mark," growled Cyril.

"Ah well, there ye go. I been usin' it down the back garden for choppin' me firewood. Dented all to buggery now, it is!"

Cyril hissed manically and took another step. "I'm going to hang your guts, on the door post, old man!" He wagged an elbow in the direction of the prostrate Brenton. "Right beside his."

Jeremy's dodging of the first swing had been a neat trick, but it had left him with his back to a blind alley. The only escape now would be back past the knight, into the stairwell from which Jenny and Maude were now emerging. The likelihood of getting past was virtually non-existant and, even if accomplished, would only bring them into his view. He began a slow retreat.

For Cyril's part, the day had induced in him a peak level of wariness. Someone had slipped him a poison – carried by that little slip of a messenger girl (who would provide a name when he caught up with her). Then the huge peasant, LeGros, had appeared of a sudden, engaging him in a surprisingly damaging fight (which only showed how mad these Marchmen were! A peasant shouldn't so much as raise his eyes to a knight of the realm)! Now this thieving insult of an old forester had appeared from nowhere. He advanced cautiously.

"If you have a weapon under your cloak, old man, I tell you freely – you need it now!"

Jeremy kept his hands and his smile in sight.

"Now why would I carry a weapon? It's a rash fault o' character don't ye see! An' what would yer ma'm be thinkin' if she could see ye now? Would she be grabbin' yer by the ear . . . givin' yer head a rattle by any chance?"

It was that moment, as the two men edged away from Brenton and from the door behind which Madeleine and Anwen remained captive, that Jenny Talbot decided to take her chance. Rattling through her keys and with Maude close behind, she dashed into the hall, straight to the locked door. Cyril heard, of course. The pain in his bruised neck wouldn't allow him simply to glance back but, keeping his sword trained on Jeremy, he managed to swing his back against the wall and swivel his eyes.

They flicked back to Jeremy – back to the females – back to Jeremy. Calculating. Calculating that Jeremy could not get by him; that he could dispatch the two women in the briefest of moments and still come back for the old man. He stepped sideways, once, twice, brought his sword into two hands and tensed to spring.

"Alright then," Jeremy tutted. "But yer an evil little toad, ent ye!"

He moved aside his cloak and drew out the very sword he'd taken from Sir Cyril in the forest. It was not a weapon Jeremy was versed in or comfortable with, but smuggling a long bow into the castle had been out of the question. And besides, the person he'd actually come for would have a much healthier respect for this weapon than for any other he could muster.

"My sword!" Cyril stammered. "That's my sword!"

"Was your sword," Jeremy said softly. "Mine now!"

Cyril's attack was immediate and ferocious, caution abandoned completely. Overhand blows, stroke after stroke, as though the sword had become an axe and Jeremy a resistant log of ironwood. Jeremy's years of experience in battle and his hard service on the land had made him a tough little nugget – the resilient knot that could unexpectedly stun the axe man's shoulder. But the fury of Cyril's attack was immense. He stumbled and back-pedaled, the great sword absorbing blows that would have broken a lesser blade. Maude and Jenny both wailed with horror, expecting to see the old man hacked to death at any moment. A prospect which was also crossing Jeremy's mind.

In the meantime, however, Madeleine and Anwen were freed. Madeleine leapt directly into Maude's arms, Anwen flung herself onto the prostrate Brenton and Jenny Talbot wrenched and kicked at all of them.

"RUN!" Pummeling first Maude, then Maddie toward the stairs. "RUN!"

They didn't. They couldn't. They couldn't wrench their eyes from the chaos of the hall; Brenton, insensible on the floor; Anwen, crouched over him; the old man sinking steadily under the ringing onslaught of steel.

They couldn't run and they couldn't help. Jenny Talbot's screams altered to, "A weapon! A weapon!" There were none. Her pleas bounced away into the rafters, even as Jeremy's back met the wall. She ran, searching, into the empty room.

"God! Please! A weapon!"

It was then that Brenton's eyes opened, glassy with pain. Perhaps in some vague impression of being back on the battle field, he gasped, surged and tried to rise. And that agonised effort, hopeless in the extreme, lit the spark that spelled the end of Sir Cyril's onslaught.

It was the start of a new rage which, though short lived, would burn as brightly and coldly as any in the whole of Shropshire, and it burned in the heart of Anwen. Still wearing the streak of blood from Roland's casual strike, she rose up, her eyes blazing hatred, her mouth twisted like a washerwoman's dishrag.

With a banshee scream that would have made the average All Hallows demon cringe in horror, she lunged into the room where Jenny searched and charged back a moment later with the brimming chamber pot. Really, it was no more than a wooden bucket snatched from the scullery for the girls' use. But it was solid and well made. And it was full.

Cyril, with his back to the girls, had entirely missed the significance of that throat-rattling scream. Hack after frenzied hack he continued to deliver, so immersed in the nearness of the kill that victory had become an actual taste in his mouth!

A taste that was suddenly, horrifyingly replaced by that of cold, ammoniac urine! A deluge of it! A flood of it! It fell on him, it seemed, by the quart, by the gallon! Soaking his hair, burning his eyes, filling his nostrils, running into his open mouth and sizzling against his split and broken gums. It slid with cold sliminess under his leather tunic and down into his lungs. It stunned him with horror and made his insides, so recently tortured by buckthorn, flip-flop like a flat fish on a board. It stopped his attack in mid-stroke. He might have heard Anwen's howled curse: "You goat's turd! You shite!"

Then again, spitting and spluttering, straining to clear his vision, aghast at so vast an indignity, he probably didn't. Anwen's arm, with the wooden bucket at the end of it, began to rotate like a water wheel in spring run-off. Once, twice around, in a great loop! Until, with a crack like a dropped rock, the bucket boomed against his noggin.

Amazingly, neither the bucket nor the noggin shattered. The whole of him staggered though, and into his mind there popped a picture of his metal helmet, sitting where he'd left it, on the floor in the garderobe. His sword clattered to the floor. He reached out for the wall with one hand and started the other on the long journey to the top of his head, where a lump the size of a hermit's goiter would soon be perched. Before the journey's completion, however, his consciousness crept quietly away. He crumpled to the floor, felled by the least likely opponent with the least likely weapon he could ever have imagined. So it should be with bullies everywhere.

* * * *

It was the start of only a brief respite in Cyril's trials that All Hallows night in Clun. But for the others, Clun Castle was still a fortress and they were still on the wrong side of its walls. Madeleine, Maude and Anwen, supporting the thoroughly broken and helpless Brenton between them, followed Jenny's hasty instructions, down toward the postern gate – narrow, easily guarded, but potentially forgotten.

Jeremy and Jenny, cackling with delirious relief, could not resist propping Sir Cyril against the wall with the upturned piss bucket on his head. Then they too headed down, returning to their original plan. Moments later, at the door of Sir Roland's chambers, Jeremy stood with his cloak gripped the edges as though it was a curtain he could hide behind. And Jenny knocked on the door.

"Lady Margaret? It's Jenny Talbot, the cook! Mister Rowe has sent me with a nice, warm surprise for you!"

Chapter 33 – Struggles Without

Behind the ancient embankment, invisible even to one another in the darkness, the townsfolk and the foresters shared anxious concealment. Jack and Roger in particular, with their fugitive history, were sick with nerves. They lay on an isolated piece of ground, shoulder pressed to shoulder, peeping over the ridge at the flickering pinpoints of torchlight on the castle wall.

"What's gonna happen?" Roger whispered.

"Whaddya think? Jeremy's gonna come dancin' out the gate wi' them girls an' we're gonna go roast a pig to celebrate! How should I know?"

"Good, good!" nodded Roger, as though he'd just been told that the last devil had been clapped in a jar for safekeeping.

Jack shook his head in exasperation. "We should be closer, that's what! What if they get to the gate an' the guards are chasin' 'em? What'll they do then? If we 'ad the 'orses in closer, we could rescue 'em!"

"Us?"

"Why not us? An' what good's sittin' way out 'ere anyways? If we could . . . ! Ah never mind. I gotta pee. Wait 'ere, all right?"

He edged away into the darkness, toward where the horses were tethered. If the boys were nervous, it might be noted, the horses – the same ones that Sir Cyril and Sir Angus had borrowed for their ill-fated expedition – were well and truly miffed! Here they'd come almost all the way home but, for reasons unappreciated, they'd been made to stop, almost within sight of their stables! Just over there, there was a warm barn, a feed of oats and a rub-down! They'd hardly paused in their disgusted sighing and paddling at the ground.

The origin of sound, of course, is tricky in the dark. Their huffs of impatience seemed further off than they actually were so that, when Jack stopped for his pee, their sound blended neatly into the hive-like murmur of the villagers off to the left and the splash of urine at his feet. He became, in fact, more engrossed in the greater silence of the forest. He let the breath drain out of him and imagined himself a night creature – an owl or a fox – motionless, waiting. He raised his arms and stood there, peeing no-hands, not breathing, suspended in the belly of a vast night.

Until, without warning, a body fell against him.

"Aii-yeee!" he squealed, leaping in fright.

"Wa-eeee!" the other yelped.

Nuh nuh nuh!" whinnied the horses, starting out of their mumbling, rearing, tearing loose their reins, and setting off at a canter for home.

"Jesus Lord, Rog'! Was that you? That better o' been you!"

Jack crawled forward, reaching out; through the stinking little puddle of his urine until he bumped into his friend, on the ground, wrapped hedgehog tight around his talismans. It would be no more than the count of twenty before Silent Richard arrived to investigate the unwanted ruckus. But by then, the boys were gone, following the horses, vainly hoping to recapture them before they reached the gates of Clun Castle.

* * * *

The chase was a matter of stumbling blindly across open fields, crouched low to the ground, clutching at one another for support; falling into ditches, crashing into hayricks and thumping head-long into buildings. Two frantic mice on the nighttime floor of God's great barn. They had barely encroached on the town when the line of torch-bearing soldiers emerged from the castle and sensible questions began to present themselves in Jack's head.

Why were they coming out? Were they leaving? Or bringing Maddie and Annie home? Or coming for more hostages? A creeping paralysis of indecision rose within him. He knew they couldn't be seen, but he nonetheless dragged Roger to earth behind a wood pile.

"Righto, Jacko! Let's go, let's go! We'll save 'em, eh?"

"No, not now, Rog'! We gotta go careful!"

He glanced back, roughly in the direction they'd come. It was like looking into a bag of black fleece. He swore softly. A disembodied hand snaked out of the darkness, clamping over his mouth. A large hand, as dry, solid and commanding as a family bible, smelling like Armageddon. He jerked upright, tried to run and found his head being clapped thunderously against Roger's. A tide of bile bounced at the back of his throat. For a moment there were stars . . . or floating pixies.

One of which hissed in his ear: "Knuckle-heads! Are ye lookin' to have your throats cut?"

Oddly, it was a relief. It was the voice of the big reeve, Gwilym. Not three hours earlier Gwilym had spoken for the townsfolk, declaring that all would join the Plant Owain at the forest's edge. But not him.

"It's my girls needs rescuin' an' I'll not sit by while others do that work. If yer man's plan works – an' it might jus' be loony enough – an' my girls is brought safely to the gate, I'll be there, me, to guard 'em 'ome."

"The 'orses are loose, reeve!" Jack whispered desperately. "We're tryin' to catch 'em!"

He could feel Gwilym's constant twisting, searching the darkness for signs of movement.

"We can 'ide in an 'ouse 'til the soldiers go by! We wannu 'elp!"

"They'll search the 'ouses, boyo! An' I've already tied the 'orses! Stay low. Come away wi' me."

And taking a handful of each boy's tunic, he towed them off into the darkness – not back the way they'd come, but in a looping movement, far out through the crop lands, tripping amongst the pumpkins. They passed within fifty yards of the castle gates, not so far from Myfanwy's cart which flickered in and out of visibility. If he survived, Jack swore, he would return to that cart and ask the cunning woman's help for Owain.

When finally Gwilym stopped, he twisted their heads toward the riverside of the wall

"Yon is a little gate – jus' big enough for a man to pass. Here's what ye do. Ye stay 'ere. Ye watch that spot. Anyone comes through, ye check to see if my girls is there. If they are, ye bring 'em to the forest. Understand? Jus' to the edge. No further. Jus' so they're safe. Understand? If soldiers come this way, move down closer to the river. Into it, if you 'ave to. An' stay quiet!"

With that, he released his grip on their tunics and faded into the darkness, only to return a moment later.

"An' don' get any ideas 'bout goin' in. That gate'll be guarded. By a knight wi' a blade big enough to turn the two o' youse into four one-legged boys! D'ye understand me?" He shook them lightly and they both flapped their heads up and down. He released them once again and shied off out of sight.

No sooner had he disappeared, however, than Jack saw a last, lone rider emerge from the castle's main gate, long minutes after the others had come through. Carrying no torch, he walked his animal a short distance toward the village then allowed it to drift off the road, vaguely in their own direction. And then he stopped! And waited. Drawing Roger with him, Jack slithered backwards on his belly to the edge of the river, as he'd been told. And there, they too stopped. And waited.

Half an hour passed. Down in the town, the torches moved around the houses, the bridge, the church. Some thatches began to burn. On the common the lone horseman remained so still that, for a while Jack lost the ability to pick him out. Until a seamless glow began to build in the sky, like a small lamp through dense linen. The cloud cover unraveling, little by little. Allowing fleet shadows to emerge. The rider had dismounted and begun a stealthy, steady movement toward the cart of the fortune-teller.

What occurred to Jack was that Sir Roland, for his own evil purposes, might have released an assassin into the night. Maybe having discovered that the woman had sent medicine to Owain Glyndwr! And it also occurred (or re-occurred) to him that the entire escapade this night was his fault. His fault that Maddie and Annie had been dragged away into the forest; his fault that Jeremy was now alone inside an enemy's castle; his fault that Silent Richard might forfeit his freedom to distract hunters from the last lair of Owain Glyndwr. It also occurred to him that the nearest he could come to setting things right would be to safeguard the cunning woman.

"Stay here," he whispered in Roger's ear. "Wait for me."

He rose to his haunches and began to move; one lurking shadow creeping toward another.

Chapter 34 – Prisoners

Lady Margaret Lenthall was not a woman accustomed to surprises – particularly when the surprise involved being pounced on at her own door, wrapped in a coarse woollen cloak and squeezed up tight in a pair of masculine arms. Her startled squawk when Jeremy threw his cloak over her was ample evidence of that. Jenny Talbot's large, rough hand being clamped over the general area of Lady Margaret's mouth had managed to stifle that first cry. But still, Jeremy, battered as he was, was hard pressed to keep her still long enough for Jenny's voice to get through to her.

"You mustn't struggle, Lady Margaret! The castle's been entered by a terrible lot o' ruffian Welshmen! There's slaughter everywhere! We only 'ide your eyes from bein' shocked into blindness . . . by the sight o' dismemberment! You mus' be quiet now, and we'll smuggle you safely through!"

"Di-m-mb-m?" Lady Margaret cried

"Aye m'lady! Sir Roland fights like a lion! He'll likely win the day! But ye mus' be quiet now! Quiet an' calm! If any o' these wild Welsh rascals breaks through an' spies ye before ye're gone to safety . . . I dread to think what they might visit on your poor body, m'lady! Think on it! An' be still!"

Lady Margaret did think on it, on those leering masculine horrors, and, "Oh my!" she murmured behind Jeremy's hand.

To his relief, Jeremy found his captive suddenly quiescent – so much so that he couldn't help yielding just a little of the pressure from his already exhausted arms. Just to test her level of cooperation.

"Jenny?" squeaked Lady Margaret. "Are you there?"

"I'm 'ere, Lady Margaret. Are you goin' to be still?"

"Jenny. Who is that with their arms around me? Is it . . . one of them?"

Jenny's eyes met those of Jeremy, whose nod drew her attention toward the rear of the chamber. Propped on her pallet by the fire lay Susan, the chambermaid – her chin juddering, her head bobbing and her chest heaving in a way that suggested an imminent scream of terror.

"Yes!" Jenny barked, the combined strengths of her voice and gaze managing to secure the lock on Susan's throat. "I fear any outburst from we poor women, m'lady, may result in terrible doin's!" And, unable to resist the greater impact, she added, "The arms you feel are the arms of . . . Owain Glyndwr, himself!"

Jeremy, pleased by his sudden elevation in status, added his own colour to Jenny's story, glaring at Susan and twisting his lips in what he thought would be a suitably arrogant sneer; even allowing the blade of the great sword to swing free. Susan's mouth snapped closed and Jeremy, with a wink and a nod, turned back to his captive.

Surprisingly, she seemed to have resigned herself immediately; perhaps because the pressure of the broadsword's hilt against her lower back had make her knees go weak.

"Goodness! Is that a . . . ? Oh, my! I'm feeling a . . . ! Oh, goodness me!"

She began leaning into him, like a tree that might take half an hour to topple, and Jeremy, flexing his own knees in response, caused the sword hilt to push even harder into her back. If he'd known Owain's name could instill such swoons in a woman, he'd've used it years ago!

"Goodness 'as nowt to do wi' it, m'lady," he murmured warmly through toothless old gums placed close to Margaret's ear. "Glyndwr only wants what's 'is to take. You an' your ol' cook 'ere, for a wee walk in the air."

"Ohhhh! Oh my!" she panted lightly. "Surely . . . surely, you're not planning harm to . . . to us poor defenseless women?"

"Lady Margaret, your ugly ol' cook here has nowt to be afeared of. An' unless a buxom and sweet smellin' morsel such as yerself is worried by a little chat wi' the mighty Glyndwr, ye've nothin' to be afeared of neither. So long as ye come quietly. So long as I don' 'ave to use me special powers on ye."

"Ohhhh!" Lady Margaret squirmed as though checking her corsets and simpered, "I see I have no choice, Sir!" She drew herself up, taking only a little more responsibility for her own weight. "Must I remain under this cloak?"

"Aye, for a few steps. But if you'll gi' me your word, I'll guide ye by your 'and alone, an' see ye safely removed from 'ere."

* * * *

Elsewhere in the castle, Anwen, Maude and Madeleine, like Lady Margaret, were also tip-toeing into the unknown. Down the cold stone stair toward the kitchens, supporting the great frame of Brenton between them, hoping to cross the shadowy expanse of the bailey and find the postern gate – the same one Gwilym had described to Jack and Roger.

"Ye'll never get out the main!" Jenny Talbot had promised them. "But if the angels take pity, the postern may be a chance!"

Fortunately for the group, Madeleine had taken on the task of scouting ahead, hoping to avert any unexpected encounters. Fortunately because, near the kitchens, a shadowy figure did appear, suddenly, moving quickly between cones of torch light. So suddenly that a small startled cry escaped her. The figure halted, peered about and strode toward her. It was Samuel Rowe.

"What the Devil!" he barked angrily and, "Good even', Sir!" she squawked in answer, shrill and over-loud.

Rowe had been far away in his mind, walking a circuit of perils that he'd already walked a dozen times that day; cursing the doltish Lenthall who, standing like a tourist on the curtain wall, had no concept of defending a castle. No concept of how the devil could be counted on to lurk in the details. Owain Glyndwr being the nearest thing to the devil that a loyal Englishman could imagine. His last stop had been the postern gate where he'd ensured that a trustworthy knight – one who was personally known to him – was on guard.

In the gloom and confusion he didn't recognize Madeleine.

"What are ye doing wandering about, ye stupid girl?" he snapped. "Danger's afoot! Back to the servants' quarters! Now!"

"Yes Mister Rowe! Sorry, but . . . but . . .!"

Rowe had tried to educate the peasants (his peasants, he liked to think) to address him as 'Milord', but they were, it was obvious, a perversely ignorant lot.

"'Milord', girl! You call me 'Milord'! And lower your voice! I'm not deaf!" He bent closer to her, as though to smell her, then grabbed her arm and turned her to the light. "You!" he croaked in surprise. "What the devil?"

"Please, Mister Rowe – I mean m'lord, yer lordship! I . . . it's the knight, m'lord! He sent me! He's loose in the guts, he says, an' needs bread an' ale, 'e says, an' I'm to fetch it for him 'e says! An' 'e says if I'm long away he'll kill my sister an' he'll kill me as well! Please, m'lord! Let me get it! I'm frightened what he'll do!"

The lie had leapt fully formed to her lips. She crossed herself, wondering how Father Reginald would deal with her at next confession.

"Loose in the guts? The castle under siege and he's loose in the guts? Letting prisoners out?" He sneered at the thought, a serious level of disgust. "Well I'll not be having that! No no no, not with Glyndwr's little spies! Sheriff's going to find you all here and ready for breaking!" He gripped her arm. "Come with me!"

"Please, your Lordship!" Madeleine cried, her mind awhirl. If Rowe were to discover Sir Cyril now, beaten and covered in piss, no one would ever escape the castle. "He were coughin' an' coughin', m'lord! Fit to die, 'e was! Didn' seem like 'e really wanted to 'urt anyone – only that 'e's sick! I guess 'e won't 'urt us too bad if I fetch 'im what 'e wants! If you wanted to save yourself the climb, I mean!"

"Save myself the climb?" Rowe twisted her arm savagely, leaned his face in close to hers and twitched his nose suspiciously." What're you up to?"

"Nuthin' . . . !" Madeleine began to protest before he cut her off, shaking her the way a housewife might shake a grub off a cabbage leaf.

"God save us, do I have to do everything?" He pushed her with both hands and she staggered back, toward the recess where Maude, Anwen and Brenton were hidden.

"Get yourself back upstairs! Tell that fool he'll have bread and ale when the battle's done, not before! And don' get any ideas about slippin' away! 'Cause I'll find you an' whip the arse off you! Just for starters! Understand?"

He raised his hand, thinking a smack might speed on her on her way. But he stopped mid-way, lifted his head and wrinkled his nose. His eyes became distant and his mouth hung agape.

"What's that?"

Madeleine gaped at him with incomprehension.

"Something's . . . !" he said softly. "Is that . . . ?" Then, "Ohhh, no! Thomas-Thomas-Thomas!" he cried. "What have they done?" He gripped Madeleine's arm and, for the first time in her life, she looked into the eyes of someone who, she was ready to believe, was completely mad. "What've you done?" he screamed into her face. And turning, half dragging her behind him, he began to run.

He ran through the wide abandoned kitchen with its chopping blocks and iron pots and always-warm ovens. He stumbled, tripped, fell against tables and knocked stools flying, causing Madeleine to do the same. He dislodged carving knives from benches, leaving them spinning on the floor, almost (but not quite) close enough for Madeleine to grab. He ignored the flesh being ripped from both their knees, heels and palms until, finally, they reached the door to the outside and Rowe, with a powerful roar, crashed against it.

* * *

Outside, in the confined space of the courtyard, a black frenzy of house-sized shadow horses was whipping around the walls. Horses rearing, horses galloping, horses falling and screaming against the cobbles. Horses crashing through the vast shadow figures of running men. All of them panicked by an incredible density of smoke – the eye-stinging, nose-burning foulness of fire struggling for life in damp hay.

The stack was newly made, but gouts of flame flared and flickered from it, rose, died and rose again, slamming great grey fists of smoke into its makeshift roof. The village's All Hallows bonefire had not been lit but here, in the confines of the castle's courtyard, amongst the stables, the kennels, the granaries, the hutches and cotes, amongst the storage sheds and the artisan quarters, fire was taking hold.

Rowe, with one crushing grip on the nape of Madeleine's neck, the other on her twisted arm, rammed her face into the door's jamb.

"You've done this!" he snarled into her ear. "You and your treacherous family! I'll see you all in Hell for this!"

He hurled her then, tumbling and spinning, out into the yard; sent her rolling, twisting, crying out, feeling joints crack and sprain as she spun frantically, trying to see where he was. She found him a pair of steps behind, his eyes like black holes, the shadow horses rearing above him on the stone wall. He aimed a kick at her and she skittered backward, catching the worst of it on her shoulder. And still he came on.

She was on her back, looking up at a man whose sole objective was her death! It was an instant she would remember for all of her long life – an instant in which she would have lit fires, killed strangers, climbed over the bodies of her loved ones. Anything, for life.

And suddenly, the shadow horse that was rearing over them was not a shadow at all. It was a real horse, mountainously tall on its hind legs, its front hooves raking the air high above her, high above even Rowe's head. She saw its chest, carved with muscle, criss-crossed with leather harness. She saw its long neck, its chiseled jaw, its head arced toward the sky. Beyond it, in the incredible clarity of the moment, she even saw the briefest glimpse of the moon breaking through the clouds. And in her mind, a thought popped up, like a rabbit stretching tall in long grass. The thought said, 'This is where you end!'

And then, in the last hours of All Hallows Eve, 1421, the sky toppled from its mooring and landed exactly where she lay, in the courtyard of Clun Castle.

Chapter 34 – Escapes: Successful and Unsuccessful

Elizabeth Douglas and her two companions knew they must flee Clun Castle. Sir Roland's actions had made that abundantly clear. The plan, hatched quickly by

Sir Angus and later shared with the de Coucy's and Lady Joan on the wall, was sketchy, but it was all they had. The essentials were speed, horses and fearless resolve!

"And luck!" Effemy had added helpfully. Because there were so many 'ifs'.

If, somehow, the watching soldiers could be distracted! If the easily recognised women could slip, unnoticed, to the gate! If Angus (or maybe Perceval?) could overpower the guard and open the gate! If enough horses could be found to carry them all! If all those things could happen, then maybe there'd be a possibility of success. As it happened, they'd lost Angus at the very first stage.

He, along with mannishly-dressed Elizabeth, Annabel and Effemy, had been lurking for too long at the top of an outer staircase, watching the soldiers who held the dozen saddled horses, readied lest the foresters swarm the gate. So many watchers, they were stalled and stymied. Until Angus, mad with impatience and ignoring every plea, raced down, grabbed a torch and dragged it through the hay.

The flames took a precarious hold, but the smoke was great, so that even before the first cry of 'Fire!' the horses were nickering and twitching, lurching against their reins.

"That might just do it!" Elizabeth had cheered softly. "Stay close! Don't get separated! Let's give it a try!" And they'd darted down the stairs into the yard. If they were noticed in the general confusion, no one thought to question them.

They moved in fits and starts, the way fish in a rock pool might flit from stone to stone, at one point passing straight through a small group of abandoned stamping warhorses. Others, closer to the fire had begun screaming their alarm but these, Elizabeth thought, were not yet too far gone. A touch, a whisper – they might be calmed enough to ride. Around them, though, the shouts of men began moving back toward them and, "No time!" she hissed. "To the gate, quickly!"

They began to race, taking scant cover where they could, detouring where they had to, praying all the while that Angus would, by some miracle, beat them to the gate – with horses if luck was with them. It wasn't. When at last they slipped into the wall's vast shadow, he wasn't there. But the inert figure of a guard was, curled against the stonework where Brenton LeGros had left him.

"Look!" Annabel hissed. "The gate's open!"

Not widely, but ajar. Just enough for their small frames to squeeze through! Ten steps and they'd be out in the open, outside the walls!

"Maybe Angus is beyond!" Elizabeth whispered. "Pray he's got horses!" And one after the other, they edged through the narrow gap.

In the distance, a pair of houses ablaze and the pinprick torch lights of Sir Roland's scouting party. The grey billow of smoke or the panic of men and horses had caught their attention; had them assembling for a gallop back to the castle. In only a few moments all chance of escape would be lost.

"Angus?" Elizabeth ventured into the darkness. "Are you there? Come out, quickly!"

There was no answer. Had he fled without them? Or was he still within – perhaps fighting for their lives? A knight's lot. A soldier's death. There was nothing they could do.

"What now?" Annabel cried. "Can we go alone?"

Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of a great soldier, looked out, looked back in. They should go. But was it wise? On foot, without even a single knight to come to their defense? And nothing but the forbidding wilderness of the Marches for uncounted miles around?

A pair of great coursers had crowded near the gate, shouldering one another further and further from the pandemonium.

"Back inside!" she ordered, pushing the girls ahead. And once there, "Put your shoulders to this gate!"

"What's the use?" Effemy whimpered. "We'd just be locking ourselves in!"

"I don't want it closed! I want it opened! Do it! Lean into it!"

They leaned into it. With all their might. But even driven by desperation, they couldn't shift it. The gap wasn't wide enough even for a horse. But it was wide enough for the head of the great war horse on which Elizabeth reappeared. She hauled her friends aboard, put its nostrils in the open air and slammed in her heels. The huge animal surged mightily and the ancient hinges yielded. Within minutes of that – even as Samuel Rowe was flinging Madeleine into the madness within – the three Scottish women, clinging like limpets to a single giant courser, pounded across the common and into the forest.

* * * *

Perceval's wait in the night had been long. He'd been happy to let the scouting party go on ahead. It had left him both with them and not with them, able to drift off the roadway into an ideal position from which to watch, unwatched. Or so he'd thought.

His plan was an unformed appendage of Angus's plan. A guarantee of distraction! If Angus failed, he would gallop back to the gate himself and cry out for more soldiers. Glyndwr's cornered in the town, he'd say. Fighting! Help is needed!

Sir Roland would empty the castle if he thought his great enemy was at hand! Then, with fewer men to contend with, he and Angus would surely be able to knock sufficient heads in the darkness and steal some appropriate horses. That done, Perceval calculated, all together, they'd make a run for it.

It was a plan, none of which sat particularly well. 'Making a run for it' meant entering the forest at night; too risky – in particular for Lady Joan. She, however, with her usual headstrong arrogance, had insisted that, in extremity, her noble status would protect her, if not all of them. Even Marie, who had a more clear-headed understanding of the dangers, had voted begrudgingly.

"Making a run is irrational," she'd said to Perceval, out of Joan's hearing, "but the sooner we're all away from these Marches, the better! Whatever the Scots could do to win her, they've done. As for the rest, I think Sir Roland has no feeling for her royal status. Given a reason . . . I fear he would attempt anything. So! It is a great risk to go! But it's a greater one to stay!"

* * * *

Perceval's presence in the Marches was, in part, a tribute to his fabled father, Enguerrand de Coucy. Enguerrand, the seventh of his name, was still acclaimed, more than twenty years after his death, as the boldest, most honourable knight ever to draw sword in France. With him, people were inclined to say, the dynasty had saved the best for the last. Meaning that his only son, the bastard Perceval, had no chance of living up to the titles and triumphs of such a father.

Despite such opinion, Perceval's inheritance had been great: to go with his influential name, courage, charm, intelligence and a vast love for France.

And he also had Marie. Insightful and in love, she had discovered early that Perceval's need was not for lands or titles. It was for a way to honour the richness of his blood. And so she had urged him to go where France's need dictated.

"The war is the great moment of our time!" she'd promised him. "The future of France hangs in the balance! We will go to England!"

"To England? No no! To the battlefield!"

"No Percy. France doesn't need one more knight; one more target for English arrows; one more widowed wife! It needs intelligence. Think what your name would win you in England, as a friend! What insights you could gain – battle plans, armies, struggles within – for France's benefit! That's the way! And how proud your father would be to see the de Coucy name used so wisely in France's defense!"

"As a spy?"

She'd shrugged. "As a loyal Frenchman."

And so they'd traveled to England where, sure enough, their charm, their elegance and the de Coucy name had won them access to both the high and the low of King Henry's royal court – from the nobility to the myriad hangers-on. And insights into the weaknesses, jealousies, appetites and cravings that motivated those who followed the brilliant king.

In time, however, Marie and the youthful Joan de Beaufort had become fast friends. Hints of the secret romance between Joan and James Stewart had been whispered and, when the mysterious 'invitation' to visit the Welsh Marches appeared, the spy in Marie had understood what the naïve in Joan hadn't; that the longings of Scottish loyalists might well be behind it.

"Aahh!" Perceval had said. "So, if Stewart is wanted back in Scotland, they'll want him to come prepared to be king! Perhaps with a young, fertile queen in tow!"

"Why not? At best . . . a strong king in Scotland! At worst, perhaps civil war in that country. Either way, King Henry's army would be needed at home. And some pressure would be off France, at least for awhile!"

"Convince her to go, Marie! For the adventure! And you and I, my love . . . we will offer your companionship . . . and my sword!"

And so, with the addition of the taciturn Sir Cyril and against all good sense, their offer had been welcomed by Joan's indulgent mother and brother. If old Enguerrand had he been alive to see, he'd have chuckled with enthusiasm for the ingenuity of his son and daughter-in-law.

* * * *

Perceval, waiting in the dark, had been, for the hundredth time, mentally rechecking the strands of the escape plan when the cloud cover first signaled its intention to show the moon. He'd dismounted then and crept closer to the lone little wagon of the fortune-teller, assuming the old woman, like townsfolk, had sought a way to blend into the almost impenetrable landscape.

Up the hill from him squatted the castle, with its torch-spotted walls and windows. Down the hill lay the town, with the pinprick lights of the scouting party moving into and out of the houses. At one stage, he thought he saw, at the corner of his eye, a shadow – the shadow of a child, perhaps, moving between himself and the fire. But when he swung his head it was gone and he went back to watching the scouting party. When those men returned, the gates would be locked, his alternative plan would've failed and the last chance of escape for anyone – the Scots or his own party – would be lost. Very well then. Angus's effort at distraction had failed. It was up to him! He stood up and prepared to re-mount his horse.

"Wait." A small croaking voice from very near by.

The hairs on his neck danced to attention and his sword leapt to his hand.

"It's an old woman, Sir Knight! I think ye'll be safe enough wi'out that." The voice was strangely merry.

He followed the sound to a small, dull, folded shape, seated on the ground, a vagrant skerrick of light reflecting back at him from its eyes. Another few steps and he might've tripped over her.

"Madame! You startle me! You are alone?"

"Seldom," she answered and he caught again a hint of laughter. "But, if ye're askin' if there's anyone with me, there is not."

Perceval was at a loss. She should not be there. The night's events were not intended to include her.

"It is dangerous, no? There are no townspeople with you?"

"The folk," she said contentedly, "are where they should be – below, wi' the false Glyndwr! An' if ye're wonderin' why I ent, it's because, like you, I'm guardin' a treasure!"

"Madame, I am a poor traveler. I own no treasure."

"No, nor me neither. Only guards, you 'n' me! Locks 'n' keys, are us!"

"Locks and keys? You speak in riddles, Madame, and I have no time for it. I tell you again, though . . . there is danger here! I advise you to find company."

"Oh? Danger for me, is it? A notable Cunnin' Woman such as meself? Yer thinkin' is not very clear is it, my foreign friend!"

"My thinking?"

"Arr. For a start, a sensible gentleman don't make presumptions 'bout a lady! So! What about thinkin' if I've a weapon or not then!"

"Madame, this game, I don't haven't time . . ."

"I'll save ye the moment then, Sir Knight. I do 'ave a weapon – one'll beat yours every time!"

"Ah. And it is . . .?"

"Knowledge, my friend! Knowledge!"

"Madame, what happens tonight in Clun is work for swords! Believe me. You must take my advice and be still. Do not be noticed. Now. I've waited too long already."

"That, ye have not, Sir Perceval de Coucy. Aye, ye see? I know who ye are. An' I know your friend will act very soon."

"My friend? How can you . . .?"

"I know! An' there's another thing I know's well! But this one'll cost ye."

"Cost me? Cost me what?"

"A promise!"

"A promise? Which is?"

"That ye'll do what ye can for the girl. When the time comes."

"Girl? Which? The village girl? Maude?"

"No, I'm 'ere for Maude. But the sister – the dark-haired one who's a prisoner. She'll be needin' a little 'elp before we're done. Make me a promise to do that – as ye can, when ye can. An' I'll tell ye the question ye should be askin'!"

Perceval was bemused, impatient, unsure. Could he protect even his wife and Lady Joan on this perilous night, let alone one of Sir Roland's prisoners?

"Of course. As I can, when I can! No true knight need be asked so little! And so! What is this question?"

It was at that point that the smoke of Angus's fire began to rise from the castle's bailey and the soldiers on the curtain wall began to shout.

"Ahh!" said Myfanwy. "A foolish old woman who don't know enough to find company on Hallowe'en – teaches ye the value o' patience, eh Sir Knight? D'ye see 'ow ye might've complicated things by ridin' back too soon?"

He couldn't suppress the feeling of relief that welled up in him.

"Ah ha! I accept the lesson, madame! So! Now I have time to learn this question?"

"Oh aye." She turned her head fully toward him, so that her eyes glowed, like the eyes of a cat. "It's about the boy . . . behind you."

That warning entered Perceval's ears at the same moment as the length of firewood in Jack Sorespot's hand collided with the back of his head. He went down without a sound, his senses, though not entirely deserting him, becoming for a short while, scattered, like a tin of spilled oats that have to be painstakingly re-collected.

Jack stood over him, prepared to strike again, but Myfanwy, rising with surprising agility, held him back.

"Hold off now!" She grasped his shoulders and turned him so the peeping moon could show him more clearly. "Aye! I wasn't sure what to expect, but 'ere ye are, red-haired an' all! An' I s'pose I've seen unlikelier sorts!" She took his wrist and shook the stick loose, replacing it with a small leather pouch. "Look 'ee 'ere now. Bee balm," she said, "to stop bleedin'. An' sage for later. Wrapped against a wound, it speeds healin'."

"A wound? But there's no wound! I need what ye gave before . . . to big Brenton! Somethin' for inside!"

"Hush yerself! This is not for the old man."

"But. . .!"

"Nay, young 'un! Watch 'n' listen, now."

She looked to the roiling column of smoke, growing ever more huge and chaotic. She looked to the village where riders were shouting orders, beginning the gallop back to the castle.

And, "There!" she suddenly prompted. The shadow of a great horse with a clump of riders was slipping from the castle's gate. It left the main track immediately, slid through the gloom below the wall and melted away toward the black wall of the forest.

"Good, good!" she sighed. And in explanation, "Important they be gone. This knight would've followed 'em, ye see. An' that would've put 'im where he's not needed! So ye've done a part in a great doin' today, young 'un. Now put them medicines away inside your blouse. Ye'll 'ave work for them 'ands before long!"

The scouting party was almost on them, the thud of hooves coming up through the ground, shaking their insides. She dropped back onto her haunches and pulled Jack down. The group passed not twenty yards away, each man holding a torch high to light the way for the horses. And in the light of one, laid across the saddle in front of the rider, Jack saw the strange flopping movement of a body. It was the body of Roger Ringworm

* * * *

The horse that had reared over Madeleine's prone body was not one of the panicked half-ton war horses. It was, in fact, a smallish pony, graceful and light of step and it was under the careful control of Marie de Coucy.

In Marie and Joan's minds, the escape plan had looked like this: Sir Angus would somehow (no one knew how!) distract the soldiers; the soldiers would lose their focus, Perceval would get the gate opened and, in the midst of the confusion, they (along with the Scots) would ride away into the night. To that end, the two girls had made their way to the stables, saddled their own ponies and waited excitedly for events to unfold.

When the smell of smoke and the audible mayhem of horses had entered the stable, they'd felt certain the plan was unfolding. They'd walked their horses to the stable door, peeped out and seen two striking things. One was that the gate, true to the plan, was open – only narrowly, but open! The other was that a girl – a village or servant girl who neither knew – had somehow fallen into the mad ambit of Samuel Rowe.

Even across the large yard, without being able to hear his words, it had been obvious that Rowe was on an unmerciful mission. Not a problem technically, of course, the ease with which peasants could be disposed of being a major part of their value! But Marie, despite her present company, was herself not far removed from that class. And the sight of a raggedy girl, scuttling hopelessly over stones on her backside, was not one she could ignore. Consequently, without the least thought, she'd mounted and spurred her pony across the ground.

The pony was not trained for battle but it had reared up on her command, flailing its hooves about Rowe's head, causing him to step back from Maddie. Horses reckoned heavily in Rowe's everyday business and he didn't fear them. This one's proximity though, did remind him of what he did fear. Lying, spying village children could be dealt with any time! (The peasants, after all, were always there when you wanted them.) But fire! Fire would not wait! And fire was afoot in his castle.

So he'd stepped away and, with barely a moment's pause, begun shouting orders into the already deafening night: Buckets! Man the cistern! Pull the stack apart! Use your hands if you have to!

The pony's hooves had come down on either side of Madeleine's head, leaving her unscathed. But the sight of the creature's chest falling toward her had sent a shock peeling through her mind. A tiny boat of an image – her family, father, mother and two sisters, – the four of them, staring in anguish into a grave. Her grave. That image and then a flood of darkness.

The next thing she was aware of was a confused vision of Hell! The cloying fug of smoke, screaming men and horses – a black and billowing sky. But closer, coming into focus, a beautiful girl kneeling over her! A girl who seemed too clean; who she somehow knew would smell of flowers. A girl who kept dragging at her, lifting her and shouting something!

"Get up!" That was it. "Get up!" And then, "Quickly! We've got to get moving! Get up!"

At that moment, Madeleine could hardly believe that she lived, let alone that there was such a thing as a place to move to. Not in Clun. A new cry of anguish and she looked where her rescuer was looking. The gate! A pair of soldiers was hauling it closed. Something – some opportunity had been lost. A chance for Maude and Annie and Brenton and herself. And now, there was this girl; this new insistence.

Struggling to coordinate her legs, Madeleine allowed herself to be hauled across the cobbles and into the stable, there to be dropped on a bed of straw.

"It's closed!" her breathless helper was stammering, not to her but to another. "We've missed our chance."

"Closed?" came an answer. "Good Jesus, Marie, we were so close! If you hadn't stopped for this girl . . . we could have made it!"

"He would have killed her, Joan!"

And at that, Madeleine knew who they were – Lady Joan de Beaufort and Marie de Coucy! For some inexplicable reason, hiding in a stable! Dreaming like everyone else, it seemed, of escape from Clun Castle!

As through a haze, Madeleine listened to Marie's unraveling of the hour's events.

"The gate was open! The war horses are free! It is possible, then, that the others have escaped! But even if not, Perceval will not fail us. We must stay with the ponies, Joan! And be ready!"

Joan's mind, it quickly became clear, was set on a different course.

"Marie, it's over, can't you see? It was exciting and I'm sorry . . . for everyone! But we must go now to Sir Roland and simply declare our intention to leave! He will yield to my wishes. No sane person would dare deny the king's niece."

In the end, Marie pled for just a temporary hold on testing that theory; ("In the Welsh Marches, things might not be entirely as they ought!") and Joan reluctantly accepted.

Madeleine heard the arguments but understood little. She only knew her sisters and Brenton were still trapped in those dreadful dark halls – possibly even re-captured and back in the reach of the murderous, piss soaked Sir Cyril. If so, all their fates, and probably the fates of their families, were sealed. If any of them saw Christmas, it would be a miracle indeed.

Chapter 35 – Negotiations

By the time the haystack fire was doused, the waning moon had become more or less a full-time feature in the sky, riding amongst woolly tufts of clouds. Watchers on the wall had become aware of shifting cloud shadows. And solid amongst them, an unmoving earth-bound shadow that turned out to be the entire gathered population of Clun.

They'd endured the cold ghost-ridden darkness to the end of their patience, waiting for an 'all's well' sign from Jeremy. Gwilym had come back, saying, "It's them at the castle supposed to be nerve-raddled! Not us!"

And they'd turned their frustration on Silent Richard, who they believed to be Glyndwr himself.

"Yer man's 'ad his chance in there, an' them girls still ent free! An' now there's who-knows-what adrift in there! We're waited long enough, Glyndwr."

Silent Richard had held his silence. Jeremy would succeed or he would fail. But these people must lead themselves.

"I'm goin' to talk wi' 'em," Gwilym had declared. "They're my girls. An' anyways, I've left them boys out there too long. Time to see if there's any reason at all left in the world."

He'd walked off, straight through the village, past the burnt out houses and up to the castle wall, well aware of the light shuffle of Gwenith's feet and those of Silent Richard at his back. And soon of the hundred other pairs not far behind. At the gate he'd called out, with all the respect he could muster.

"The prisoners ye're holdin', Sir Roland – we would ask that ye release 'em."

"I have many prisoners in the castle, Reeve. Which would you be meaning, now?"

"Ye know who I mean, Milord. I mean my children."

"And why would I release your children, I wonder? Those who've been carrying messages to one of the king's avowed enemies! D'ye not think the king will find their crime worthy of punishment?"

"They carried no messages! They were lost in the forest an' they found their way 'ome again. That's all."

"Ha! And I have a sword that cuts through stone! Don't trifle with me, Reeve! Two knights in this castle swear they had to fight their way out of Clun Forest – to escape the followers of Owain Glyndwr! I spit when I say his name." (He spat.) "That great thorn in the side of England; that scourge of the Marches. My knights risked all to rescue these children of yours. And now these children can't remember anything of that? Don't mistake me for a fool, Reeve!"

"Perhaps it's your knights who were mistaken, Sire. Truly."

"Mistaken? I warn you, Reeve. Think twice before you question the honesty of an English knight!"

"Their honesty's not in question, Sire. I only wonder if their . . . thoughts o' the enemy they fought . . . might be misguided. Those of us who abide in this part of the king's realm and keep his peace . . . we know the threat from Glyndwr is long in the past."

"Listen to me, Reeve! I have other prisoners in this castle. I have the daughters of Scots rebels who thought to stir trouble here in the Marches! How is that, eh? And how is it that Glyndwr lurks in my forest, playing host to your daughters at the very moment when such as them arrive, eh? I'll tell you how! This band of broken men is plotting! Plotting mayhem! And I'll not have it! They'll all be sent to London – the Scots, your daughters, these blasted Welsh rebels – as soon as the sheriff arrives to collect 'em! I tell you – I tell all of you, people of Clun – it is only Sir Roland Lenthall's presence in the Marches that guarantees the king's peace!"

* * * *

At this stage, with little apparent hope of a peaceful resolution, Silent Richard decided to risk a word. Somewhere in that castle, he knew, Jeremy Talbot lurked. But Lenthall had not mentioned him. So perhaps the old fox was still undiscovered and at his work.

"Sir Roland, I think ye're a man who knows the meanin' of a family – of loved ones. As I do meself. As would even the great and terrible Owain Glyndwr, whose wife an' daughters died in an English prison. If he was 'ere, I think he'd want to speak up for families. In fact, if such a cunnin' schemer was truly amongst us as you say, I'd wager he'd suggest you send someone, Sire. To see to your own family."

"See to my own? Lady Margaret? How dare you? How dare you have a thought of her in your filthy mind? Who are you? I'll have you skinned alive, you damned . . . !"

* * * *

But after a brief spell of outraged spluttering, during which it occurred to him that his temper was being tried as a ruse to get the gate open, Sir Roland did send someone – Samuel Rowe, to be exact – to see to Lady Margaret. And on his return, to bring Elizabeth Douglas to the gate house, to be shown as proof that the conspiracy was broken. It had been many years since he'd paid much heed to All Hallows Eve but, on this one, he suddenly felt ever so slightly spooked.

In the interval of waiting, he took the opportunity to cast more blustering threats in the direction of the townsfolk. What foolish game were they playing this night, preparing the bonefire and then not lighting it? If they were playing a part in some devilish scheme of Glyndwr's, they would pay dearly. There would be a gallows built; there would be stocks; there would be noses slit and ears cut off and beheadings and dismemberments. So terrifying were his threats that more than a few of the folk – not Gwilym or Gwenith, but many – began to edge nervously away from Silent Richard, opening a space around him.

If they'd agreed earlier to hold his surrender in abeyance, Lenthall's threats – and they had no doubt he'd carry them out – were a totally new factor. Pretending a man wasn't there was one thing; doing it while standing beside him in the open was entirely another. Silent Richard felt them go. But he stood nonetheless, tall and proud, as he knew the last Prince of Wales would do if he were there in person, unbowed in the face of petty-fogging bluster.

* * * *

In the castle's stable, Joan, Marie and Madeleine, still waiting for some sign from Perceval, shivered at how strangely foreboding the atmosphere had become. The fire had been doused and the horses calmed. But in the distance, they could hear the voice of Sir Roland, ranting from the gatehouse. Just far enough away so they could make out his fury if not his words. They could hear nothing at all of the answers.

* * * *

By Myfanwy's cart, Sir Perceval's spilt senses had sufficiently re-ordered themselves for him also to become aware of Sir Roland's voice, spewing threats into the night. The treacherous boy who'd struck him was still there, being physically restrained by Myfanwy, stopped from rushing into a suddenly appeared crowd of villagers to find someone called Richard and report the murder of some other poor wretch named Roger. He struggled to rise but Myfanwy held him as well, seeming certain that both he and the boy had yet to play their part.

"Not yet!" she murmured over and over. "Soon. But not yet. Be still."

* * * *

Maude, Anwen and Brenton had cowered in the shadowed passage for long, long minutes after the disappearance of Madeleine and Samuel Rowe, their concern for Maddie matched only by a growing realisation that Brenton wouldn't make it. His labored breathing told a tale of such crippling agony that, between them, they were obliged to half carry him across the darkened kitchen, tripping and nudging amongst the stools, pans and cutlery strewn during Rowe's panicked run. Once across, their own legs trembling with exhaustion, they could only wedge him against the wall while Anwen, ignoring his cry of pain, braced herself against him, doing her intimidating best to whisper strength into him.

"If you fall, Brenton, we'll drag you by your big feet, like a dead ox! An' ye'll never live that down! Now stand up!"

Maude, one hand on the cold stone of the wall, slowly pried open the door.

A pall of smoke hung there and the stench of wet ash. The few men visible had doused the flames and were now preoccupied with calming uneasy horses. She turned back, reached out to touch her sister – whether in encouragement or in farewell, even she would not have been certain – and, there being no safety behind them, led the little group out into the cold night air. The postern gate, as described to them by Jenny Talbot, was their one hope and it lay many yards off, at the end of a long, slow creep around the shadow of the wall.

They started, and every step was an achievement, but one followed by too long a pause. Each movement felt to Brenton like a new kick from a dray horse into his already shattered ribs. And though the girls bore as much of his weight as they could, his knees finally wobbled and buckled, and they lowered him as gently as they could to the ground. Helpless and exposed, with the postern gate thirty impossible yards away, their flight had come to an end.

Brenton, his breath visible between them, begged them to go on. Anwen, adamant that she would not, settled down at his side and ordered Maude to go. But Maude, in her special way, imagined them all hiding, in the one place no one would find them even if they came looking – the sodden, charred and stinking haystack!

The wet ash fringes had been thrown up to smother any new outbreaks. It was clammy, cold and unpleasant – and it was ideal for excavating a dank cavity into which the three of them could disappear. Over the next hour, as they lay shivering, the only visitors they had were other residents of the stack – insects and nesting mice. And so, despite Brenton's occasional moans, which Anwen stifled against her breast, they all – mice, insects and fugitives, were safe – for the moment.

But they could not be there at daylight. Someone would come to inspect the damage – to spread the sodden hay for drying and re-stacking. Before that happened, they must be gone.

"I en't leavin' 'im, Maudie!" Anwen swore. "He saved us twice now – from them wolves an' that knight! I en't leavin' 'im!"

A long while passed. Silence, except for the vague rumble of a distant, angry voice, seemed to settle in the courtyard and Maude, whose courage had always been in following Annie's lead, found herself wishing she could simply fall asleep – could somehow flee to that dream-like soothing voice in her mind.

"You got to go!" Anwen finally demanded. "Jus' go through the little gate! Get da'! He'll know what to do! You can do it!"

And so Maude's resolution began to build. She would, she said. She would go, and try to return with help. No! She would not 'try'! She would come back! If she had to come on her own – if she had to crawl on broken legs, she wept – she would not leave them there to be recaptured. She then wriggled cautiously through the foot or so of covering hay and poked her head out, like a worm poking its head out of an apple. The sound of the distant voice was clearer – and more clearly livid. But the part of the yard that she could see was empty.

She crawled the rest of the way out, crouched down and wrapped her arms about herself. Her dress was damp, the air was cold and the moonlight made the shadow of the wall seem even deeper. But it's only shadow, she told herself! You can pass through a shadow! Through the shadow, through the gate and along the path where the castle and the river meet. She knew the way. It would bring her onto clear ground at the edge of the common. Then down the hill to home where Gwilym would be and she would tell him and he would know what to do.

That was the plan. But crouching beside the haystack, smearing tears and charcoal across her face, feeling cold and dread crawling through the pores of her skin, she could not make herself move. Something insistent, powerful, deep in her mind, was telling her with absolute certainty that, if she moved into that shadow, she would not emerge from it alive.

"Watch," it was saying. "Wait. Watch." Alternating with Anwen's urgent command from the stack: "You got to go, Maudie!"

She berated herself, pinched herself, bit her tongue. Nothing she did could break the stasis into which she'd fallen. How long she squatted there, immobilized, she couldn't have said but she did, in that time, come to recognise the internal voice. It was that same soft alien one whose return she'd been so longing for.

"Trust me. Trust me, Maude. Wait."

While all the while, at her back there was Anwen's, "Please, Maudie! Please make yerself go!"

Until finally, understanding.

Only her eyes moved to the vagrant shaft of moonlight from which the figure materialized, suddenly, silently. With a glint of steel about it.

He didn't see her. Saw nothing but the wall's shadow which swallowed him in a single bite. And then a voice. Two voices, in a low but urgent conversation. And she knew there was no hope. The gate was guarded! They were trapped.

* * * *

The one person in the castle who knew for certain that Elizabeth Douglas, Annabel and Effemy had escaped was Sir Angus of Athol. Because he'd known where in the shadows to look. After lighting his diversionary fire he'd seen their stealthy passage down the stairs and their zig-zag run to the wall. He'd seen Elizabeth's return to claim a warhorse and her use of it to open the gate. He'd have followed – he'd intended to follow – but the steward, Samuel Rowe, had scooped him up to help fight the fire.

"You! Damn your part in this, Sir!"

The pretence of enthusiastic help, he'd quickly realised, was sure to give precious minutes to the women.

From then, it had been a matter of blending with the other knights – being careful to raise no suspicions. Even if it meant that he would be trapped – even if his subterfuge was discovered – his sense of duty would allow him to do nothing else. If it cost him his life, so be it! His charges would have had maximum opportunity to put miles between themselves and Clun. Blending, however, was hardly the same as resignation.

When the townsfolk had re-appeared on the common and all the soldiers had raced to the walls, he'd lingered, preoccupied with a boot, until he was alone. It was his own attempt to escape, his ghost-like passage toward the postern gate that Maude witnessed.

The young knight on guard at the postern had been feeling forgotten, left out of the action. But Samuel Rowe, the powerful castle steward, had ordered him to stay and, anxiously keen to impress, there he'd remained. And he wasn't about to be pushed aside by some swaggering Scot!

"Don't be an ass, man!" Angus had growled. "Are ye not aware there's revolt festerin'? Can ye not hear? Did ye not see the fire? Now there's assurance of a spy beyond yon gate, wi' valuable information, an' I'm sent by Sir Roland himself to fetch him! Wi'out delay! Now stand aside!"

The man raised his sword, spat, considered and, though he didn't stand aside, he slid the bolts. He pushed the door. A sliver of light opened up in the wall – moonlight reflecting off the river.

"Where? I see no . . . ! Hold! Stand back!"

Cries of challenge, the clubbing sounds of mailed fists as two knights closed in a hand-fought duel. The sliver of light blurred. A great splash. Silence.

Maude, having heard and seen, waited for one or both or anyone at all to reappear. No one did. And the gate lay open like a sleepy, malevolent eye. The warning voice in her mind had gone silent.

Chapter 36 – Crossed by Fate

When Samuel Rowe knocked on Lady Margaret's door, the only answer was a brief chirp of distress. A chirp too strange for Rowe's liking. The threats to his castle were multiplying absurdly and he would have no more of it. He slammed open the door and strode in. Susan, the source of the chirp, lay on her pallet, alone in the room, her face a mask of terror.

"They've took her!" she wailed on seeing him.

"What? What're ye saying? Who? When? How?"

"They'll cut my throat, they said! Ohhh, ohhh! I been nearly kilt, Mr Rowe!"

She barely managed to squeak the last words out before crumpling into a sodden mass.

Astonished disbelief stuttered out of him, even as his mind leapt across a canyon of improbability and found itself face to face with a very nasty looking conclusion.

He turned and ran, to the chamber in which Elizabeth Douglas and her friends had been accommodated – where they'd been ordered to remain. Their possessions were there but the women were not. Could it be? Were they making a dash for it? With Lady Margaret as hostage! Outrageous! And yet . . . ! An ember of glee floated up in his mind. He had little use for either of the Lenthall's. If he could be rid of them, at no cost to himself . . . perhaps a small uprising could be tolerated!

On the other hand (the ember winked out) there was a royal guest in the castle! If her safety was compromised – if Lady Joan de Beaufort was harmed in Clun castle – King Henry would wreak a vengeance on them all! In a breathless minute, he was at her chamber, forcing himself to knock before thrusting open the door. Gone! They were all meant to be secure in their rooms, and they were all gone!

But surely not by choice? No, most probably Lady Margaret and Lady Joan were both hostages, even now being hauled away to Scotland! But what of Sir Perceval? A Frenchman of all things! In league with the Scots? Hardly a novel occurrence these days. But cunning, nonetheless. So the fire in the bailey had been a diversion? Of course! He could almost admire the effectiveness of their treachery! And yet . . . there really was no way out of the castle, he could vouch for that! The only conclusion being . . . all was not quite lost! Not yet.

He started back to the gatehouse, slowly, every sense on the alert. Trying to imagine where in the complex fugitives would think themselves safe. When a distant ruckus reached his ears from the floor above, he thought, 'Ahv course! The fools have thought to rescue the peasant girls! Sir Cyril is dealing with 'em!'

He stopped, torn between fetching help and being the help. He was not a soldier. Fighting was not his business. But he remembered the girl Cyril had sent for bread and ale. One of those the reeve was bargaining for even now at the gate. They could not be free now, those girls! Not when their value as bargaining chips had suddenly become so great!

He decided on a look. And it was Cyril alright. But he was alone. And reeking, even from yards away, like a toilet midden. His face in the dim light a bloodied mess. And clearly in a state verging on hysteria, bashing a wooden bucket against the stone wall! Each crash of the bucket accompanied by an inhuman roar of rage.

"Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!"

Until so little of the bucket was left, there was nothing to swing. Only then did he throw the remnants to the floor and, panting with exhaustion, place his hands gingerly over the huge split on the top of his head.

"Have you killed them?" Rowe asked, moving forward to look into the room, expecting to see the battered form of at least the blond one.

Cyril squinted at him groggily. He brought one hand down and poked a finger into the space his tooth had so recently occupied. An eerie calm came over him. "Not yet," he said. "But I will."

There was nothing in this situation to diminish Rowe's sense of panic and yet, somehow, Cyril's calm spilled across to him. He peered into the empty room. He studied Cyril's scattered weapons and wrinkled his nose at the spillage of urine. Unknown persons had stolen away Lady Margaret! (God alone . . . well, perhaps God and those scheming Scots – and the Frenchie . . . knew why!) The Scots were not to be found. The king's niece was not to be found. The Frenchie and his wife were not to be found. And these children – part of the litter sired by Gwilym, the reeve – were not to be found! Who had done it? How had they done it? And what remedy was there?

He leaned on the wall, folded his arms. There was no point going anywhere until he had an inkling of at least part of the puzzle.

Clearly, when he'd encountered the child near the kitchen (Why hadn't he finished her then?) she was newly escaped from the keep! Doors had been opened for her! And yet, only minutes ago he'd heard Gwilym himself demanding their release: "Give us our girls!"

Why would he make that demand if the girls were already freed? Answer: Gwilym didn't know they'd been freed! Conclusion: (The one he'd already come to earlier!) The children – and therefore whoever was helping them – like all the missing persons, were still in the castle!

A smile oozed its way across Rowe's lips. He reached out to put a hand on Sir Cyril's shoulder, though the smell of the man turned the touch into a mere gesture. He explained the newly clarified situation and shivered with delight at the malevolence that lit the knight's battered face.

"So, Sir Knight! If I'm right – and I'm sure I am – there's bloody business ahead! Don't you think?"

Shortly thereafter, they descended together from the keep, Rowe delivering quick fire, if unnecessary instructions.

"The great gate is closed. That leaves only the postern. I've a guard there, but check with him. Then start working through the buildings in the bailey. The stables in particular, be especially thorough there. Then work your way back into the castle. Poke a blade into every crack and crevice! And I'll do the same. There are soldiers in this castle who are loyal to me. I'm going to fetch them and we're going to start inside. By the time we meet again . . . the problem will no longer be ours!"

He waved Cyril off, before calling him suddenly back. "Wait! Listen! To be clear! Lady Margaret, your mistress, Lady Joan, the Scots . . . they're all here somewhere! Lady Joan is not to be harmed. Understand? The others, I don't mind, but Joan above all is not to be harmed! If you find her, you must tell her that Samuel Rowe – Steward of Clun Castle, in the absence of Thomas FitzAlan, twelfth Earl of Arundel – assures her of her safety. Got that?"

"And if I do that . . .?" Cyril queried defiantly.

"If you do that, Sir Knight, you shall share in the generous good fortune the king will send in this direction – as thanks for his niece's rescue."

"And . . . ?"

"And? And those village girls will be yours – to do with as you please."

Cyril grunted a satisfied grunt and went to leave. A movement behind Rowe caught his attention, however, and he gestured with his chin. "The walls have ears, Milord."

Rowe spun around to see Eustace, the archer, standing in the shadows.

"What are you doing there, boy? Step into the light! Are you spying? Are you a spy, by God? Because if you are, I'll have . . ."

"I'm sent by Sir Roland, Mister Rowe."

" 'Milord', damn you. Address me as 'Milord'!"

"Sorry . . . Milord! Sir Roland sent me to look for ye. He bids me tell ye he's waitin'. To hear of Lady Margaret's safety. And to receive the lady Elizabeth Douglas in the gate 'ouse. Is all as it should be, he wants to know . . . Milord."

Eustace was carrying his longbow, already strung and ready for action, though he and Rhodri had earlier agreed that none of their arrows would be harming people of Clun. If Sir Roland's forces came under attack from an army led by Owain Glyndwr, they were ready to spill blood. But it wouldn't be that of their neighbours.

"As it should be?" Rowe was disgusted that his attention must be diverted to that frivolous and pompous man. "As if anything's been 'as it should be' since his arrival! Tell him . . . Tell him . . . Ah never mind! I'll tell him myself!" He gave Cyril a straight and knowing look. "Go to your work, Sir Knight. I'll be with you very soon."

* * * *

Give him his due; Cyril was a man of prodigious strength and endurance. Despite an afternoon of the squits, an unexpectedly damaging battle and a severe braining with a weighty wooden bucket, he gave no thought to rest. He made his way directly to the postern gate, which he found closed. Fortunately, he did not lean on it. Had he done so, he'd have found that it was not latched. Maude, being mindful of how dark the recess was when the gate was closed and how bright with reflected moonlight when opened, had decided the darkness would be more easily overlooked. She'd pushed it to – just far enough so that, when she returned with help, a finger tip grip would allow re-entry.

Cyril called sharply for the guard. No answer. He drew his sword.

"Where are you pissing?" he grumbled.

The smell of charred hay was still sour and heavy in the air and a number of tethered warhorses nickered nervously in the distance. He wondered at it. Fire? What had happened here? He strode to the haystack, deep within which Anwen was desperately clasping her hand over Brenton's mouth. He swiped his sword through the fringes. Was his own horse one of those in the bailey? Didn't seem so.

"Better be in the stable," he muttered, "or I'll bloody well know why!"

He headed for the stable. In the distance he could hear the rising tone of Sir Roland, expressing a healthy state of alarm.

* * * *

"Gone? What d'ye mean she's gone? Gone where?"

Rowe nodded smugly. "According to her chambermaid, Milord, into the hands of the rebel, Owain Glyndwr."

"Into . . . ! But that's impossible! The castle's secure! You swore to me it was secure! How could . . . ?"

"As secure as I could make it, Milord. I think you'll find I said, As secure as I could make it . . . considering the small expenditure that's been put into its upkeep."

"Small expenditure? My God, man, my wife is . . . ! And you're talking expenditure?"

Rowe's bow was deep, obsequious, sardonic. "My apologies, Milord. I was overcome. With embarrassment."

Roland was enraged. Humiliated. Confused.

"In the hands of Glyndwr! My God! Was she . . .? Has she been . . .?"

"The chambermaid didn't say so, Milord. Apparently she walked out of her own volition. With her eyes covered by a cloak."

"Eyes covered by a cloak!" Roland repeated. "In the hands of Glyndwr! Susan said that? In the hands of Owain Glyndwr?"

Rowe nodded again and, just for the misery of it, added, "He threatened to cut the girl's throat."

"Cut her throat!" Sir Roland repeated again. "Lord Jesus!" Behind his ribs, inside his steel jacket, far below the proud and boastful crest of his family, Sir Roland's heart was lurching. He suspected that something in there was quite near to breaking. He looked down at the villagers, some of whom, wearied with waiting, had sat on the ground while others flapped their arms against the deepening cold. He looked back at Rowe.

"And the Scots? Elizabeth Douglas? Also gone? You're sure?"

"As gone as the summer, Milord. As gone as the leaves from a rotted tree." He was quite enjoying himself. "Seems you were right, Milord! They must have been in league with Glyndwr!"

"But . . . but . . . how? How would they get in? Or out?"

And suddenly, the chirpy little cricket of Rowe's smugness was stomped out of existence. It hadn't actually registered on him before. Never mind the fugitives getting out! Glyndwr had gotten in! Into his castle! He might jibe at Lenthall about his shallow pockets, but Rowe knew and had covered the castle's every weakness! Even with the Scots helping from the inside . . . it was not possible!

His mind spun off on yet another frantic tour through the bailey and around the walls. What had he forgotten to do? He thought of Thomas FitzAlan – how angry, how frustrated . . . how disappointed he would be! And Rowe, like Sir Roland, felt something twist inside him. He imagined Thomas in front of him, slashing a mailed fist through the air and demanding . . .

"Show me my wife!"

The words brought Rowe slamming back into the present, largely because the voice was not that regal one of Thomas FitzAlan. It was that whining one of Sir Roland Lenthall, bleating down at the townsfolk.

"D'ye make war on women, ye scoundrels?"

Down in the gloom, Gwilym could be seen, stepping forward.

"Milord, we do not wish . . ."

"Not you, Reeve!" Sir Roland thundered. "That other one, who had the effrontery to mention my wife, bless her name and keep her from the animal Welsh! I'll speak with him! Now! And if anything's happened to her, by God, I'll . . .!" He stammered to a stop and Gwilym, silenced, waved Silent Richard forward.

"I don' know what your man has achieved in there, Owain," he said out of the side of his mouth. "But I want me girls released. Get it done. This game goes on too long."

Richard also, of course, had no real understanding of what had happened. But he had to assume that Jeremy had somehow succeeded in reaching Lady Margaret. Otherwise, Sir Roland would be in the Great Hall, drinking ale and planning a morning massacre. He stepped forward.

"Ahh. Ah-hem." He raised a hand in a little wave.

"Your name!" Roland shouted, peering at the figure now alone in the moonlight.

"Ahhh, Milord!" he bowed. "I've introduced meself to these long-suff'rin' folk this very day – the one an' only Owain Glyndwr." He pulled in a deep breath and began proudly to recite: "Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, descendant of the Princes of Powys . . . !"

"Lord of a pig's arse!" Roland roared. "If you're him, how can you be out there now and in my wife's bed chamber moments ago, eh?"

"Well now . . . that'd be the old Welsh magic, as they tell. Glyndwr goes where Glyndwr pleases. Now if you'll just fetch the little girls belongin' to the town . . ."

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare make a demand on me, by God, or I'll send my knights out immediately to trample the life out of you! Now where's my wife? What've you done with her? How did you get into my castle? Was it those treacherous Scots? By God, if I could lay my hands on them this minute! Are they there with you? Let them show themselves! I should have shipped them off to London the moment I saw through their pathetic disguises! They'd be locked in the Tower by now with the axe man at the door! And my men would be hunting you down like the dog you are!"

Richard was mystified by certain of those references and entirely provoked by the overall tone but he determined to carry on as he suspected Owain himself would do.

"I've no idea what yer on about wi' Scots an' all, Lenthall. But if you'll not keep a civil tongue in yer 'ead, yer good lady'll be gone from you like the light from a blown candle. Now give these people back their children! Do it now! An' ye'll see your own fine lady walkin' back into your arms in a trice. You have Owain Glyndwr's word for that."

In all the great heap of things that had been said and done to Sir Roland through his life, he had no recollection of ever being told to keep a civil tongue in his head. He didn't like it. Powerlessness. He didn't like that, either. He stepped a step to the rear and pounded a fist against the stonework. He looked around at his little army of burly vacant-eyed soldiers. He glanced down into the ramshackle bailey and up at the stone keep. He thought of the fine castle at Hampton Court, over in Herefordshire, where he and Margaret would now be had they not been summoned to this God-forsaken frontier.

"An' one other thing," Silent Richard called from down below. "Are ye still there, Lenthall?"

Roland stepped forward, and looked down. His bloodless gaze, had it not been hidden by darkness, might well have made ordinary men think twice about venturing on.

"There is one other thing," Richard repeated, following it with a supercilious, "If it so please you!" And, selecting his words very carefully, "You an' your good wife . . . ye've a fine castle to live in . . . in Herefordshire. Much finer, I'm sure, than Clun Castle."

Roland's lip curled and he spat into the cold, midnight air. "Clun Castle is a ruin – a useless ruin! Much thanks to you and your like!"

Richard, who'd been with Owain when Clun Castle fell all those years ago, couldn't stifle a little "Hah!" It slipped through his lips like the burp of an old ram remembering its glorious lamb days. Everyone else, soldiers on the wall and townsfolk below, remained as silent as the ancient stones under discussion. Only Samuel Rowe shifted uneasily, the hairs on his neck prickling up. Words like 'ruin' and 'useless' invariably caused them, one and all, to lift in alarm.

Richard glanced back at Gwilym before continuing.

"Would ye tell that to the Earl o' March, Milord? Would ye tell 'im the people o' Clun are grateful . . . for the protection they been granted by the Marcher Lords, for long and long. Would ye tell 'im the country is now so well protected that the land is all but ruined and not worth even the dullin' of a knife."

Gwilym, seeing the direction of the argument, stepped forward.

"He's right, Milord. The Clun-Clee Ridgeway 'as become an empty track. Wi' our old people carried off by the plague an' our young uns called away to battle in France . . . we 'ave trouble enough takin' a livin' from this land. So poor is the country . . . there are abbeys in the deep forest . . . abbeys built by the ancient ones . . . where no priest 'as set foot for the span of a man's life, Milord."

Richard hissed a soft warning but Gwilym's glance was brief. Having dared this much, he could do nothing else but speak his heart.

"It is a poor town, Milord. We can find no more to give." There. He had said and done the unthinkable – a simple man, daring to speak for the commonality – telling the powers that be that things must change.

"An' for my part," Silent Richard finished, "I can promise the Earl o' March . . . the long wars between the princes o' Wales and the princes of England are ended."

Sir Roland Lenthall, knight of the realm and feudal lord of them all, received these words with a sort of dull shock of disbelief.

"Reeve, I speak to you. To tell you I am going to overlook your impudence. I am going to forgive it. Do you know why? Because I know that a fool can be no more than a fool. Maybe you're the last to learn what knavery's been afoot in Clun these past days. The fact, for instance, that I have discovered, in this very castle, the daughter of Archibald Douglas! Do you hear me? Archibald Douglas, I say! Who even now rides his thunder through English towns and villages in the north. Towns just like Clun, full of daughters just like yours! His daughter traveled here under a false name. Did you know that? Here! To Clun! Under a false name! Now why would she do that, eh? Reeve? Any of you? Eh?" Ahh, this was better. A good rant was excellent for raising one's spirits.

"No answers? Well let me tell you! She came here . . . to make contact with . . . and she's been released by . . . that man!" He raised and pointed an accusatory finger. "Owain Glyndwr!"

Richard felt all eyes turn toward him. The story was so astonishing – so baffling – that it returned him instantly to that silent state he was renowned for. He shook his head, crossed his arms and looked to the moon for understanding.

"So," Sir Roland finished with grand sarcasm, "if this man tells you, Reeve, that there is peace in the Marches, that might well be because he takes you for a fool! Eh? Did you think of that? No? Of course not! So take my advice and stick to your crutching of sheep and shoveling of shite. But before you do that, I want those Scots handed over to me! Now! And GET ME BACK MY WIFE!"

A booming silence extended itself through the night. In the now bright light of the moon, Richard sensed the movement of people. The open space around himself and Gwilym was growing.

Chapter 37 – Myfanwy

The exchange between Gwilym and Richard and Sir Roland had been followed carefully by Myfanwy, Sir Perceval and Jack Sorespot. Perceval, straining for mention of his wife or Lady Joan, and being unaware of Elizabeth Gordon's escape, struggled again, woozily, to rise. He'd let his wards down! They were in danger! He must get back, somehow, into the castle!

And Jack also struggled, though mostly against his fear of inaction. He'd seen the body of Roger Ringworm, slung over a horse and taken within the castle. Jeremy, Madeleine and Anwen were also inside. And Richard was raving again about being Glyndwr. His world was coming apart.

Through some undeniable insistence, Myfanwy held them both back.

"You will wait for my word! Be still!"

It was precisely after Sir Roland's shouted demand that she finally tapped Jack happily and pointed down the shadowed wall toward the dark river.

"Look!"

Two figures, barely visible, one hulking, one frail, yet braced in support of one another, staggered amongst the fallen stones. "Bring them to me!" she whispered. "Quickly! While attention is on the gatehouse!"

The smaller of the two was, of course, Maude. Her dash through the postern gate had put her on the narrow path above the river. The path had taken her past a rocky outcrop and the rocky outcrop had yielded a half drowned Sir Angus. His encounter with the gatekeeper had taken them both into the river and the river had claimed his opponent. But he, using every skerrick of his considerable strength, had managed, barely, to hang on. Maude's little muscles had been just strong enough to save him from the drag of the current.

Now they sat behind Myfanwy's cart, draped in her sheep skin rugs.

"Tell us, girl!" Myfanwy demanded and Maude stammered out her tale – Brenton's battle, Mrs Talbot and the second man ("Jeremy! That'd be Jeremy!"), the escape from Sir Cyril, the flight down the darkened corridors, Samuel Rowe, Madeleine, the fire and, finally, the burrow in the haystack where Anwen and Brenton awaited rescue.

Perceval put a hand on the exhausted Sir Angus.

"The fire was your distraction?"

"Aye, it was."

"And so they escaped? Or no?"

"I saw mine go. Yours, I don't know."

"Not Marie? Not Lady Joan? But you saw mad'moiselle Elisabeth?

"I got caught up by the steward, man! But who knows? With this lot out here . . . and the fire . . . things are mad in there."

"No, no I understand. If you saw one and not the other . . . something . . . someone . . . has held them back."

Both Perceval and Jack looked to Myfanwy, as though requesting release – affirming their joint need for action. In turn, she held a hand to her ear.

"Listen," she whispered, indicating a new quieter argument now rolling across the common. "They weigh their consciences. In a moment, we'll know."

And to Maude, "Ye've done well, little one."

Maude, having recognised at last the voice in her mind, gazed at Myfanwy in wonder. "It's you! I thought I dreamed you!"

"That ye did not, my girl! We've lots to talk about, you 'n' me. When the time is better. You left the gate unlatched?"

And though Maude stared wordlessly up at the older woman, Myfanwy nodded and said to Perceval and Jack, "There's a way then . . . if this goes not well."

* * *

"Now 'ere's the thing," Richard was saying. "I've 'eard no mention of a daughter o' Douglas. So I'm thinkin' you've yoked your pony to the wrong end of a cart wi' that one. But I'll tell ye what I know! I know that in London in '81 Wat Tyler an' Jack Straw raised up an army o' folk jus' like these ones standin' here. After that priest – that John Ball – swore to 'em that Lords be no greater men than themselves. Not even in the eyes o' God. That's what he told 'em. An' many's a fine gentleman fell low for not understandin' what he meant."

Roland sneered. "He meant that Tyler would die in the mud with a dagger in his throat! An' that Ball's fancy words'd end when his head went on a spike on London Bridge! Eh? Don't presume to teach me my history, Glyndwr!"

Richard coughed softly. "I never thought to teach ye, Lenthall. Only to remind. These're farm folk, makin' an 'umble request for their children . . . to bring 'em 'ome for a chance at seein' out a few more winters. Treated decent, they're no danger to ye, these folk. Nor're their children. Don't change 'em into somethin' both you an them'll come to regret."

Roland suddenly realised the absurdity of what was happening. He was being lectured! By an avowed enemy! An avowed and mostly defeated enemy! He looked up at the night sky from which the clouds had vanished. The moon looked back at him with its one expectant eye.

The Peasants' Revolt of 1381 had happened the year before his birth. Armies of ragged peasants converging on London; invading great houses, seizing lands, beheading the Archbishop of Canterbury, the lord treasurer and who knew how many other government ministers, judges and officials. War, they'd ranted, and plague and suffering – there'd been enough. They could take no more. Uncontrollable. That's what they'd been. For a while.

"I know one other thing, Milord," Richard called softly. Roland looked down on the up-turned face, the moonlight clearly showing the grey double-pointed beard Glyndwr had worn for years. "I know your wife is dear to ye – as these folks' children are to them. Have her back. Take 'er 'ome to 'ampton Court. 'Ave peace. An' give the same to these people."

Roland heard himself sigh deeply. He rubbed at the stubble on his face. "Tell me this, Glyndwr. If these filthy children are so . . . valuable . . . why would I not . . . if I were to consider doing as you say . . . which, I gather, is turning my back on the personal treachery done to me . . . if I were to tell the earl that peace is now promised in the Marches . . . why would I not take these sprogs away with me? As hostages."

"Why, because ye can do better! If it's an 'ostage ye want, I 'ave this very day surrendered meself to the reeve, 'ere. To dispose of as 'e sees fit. An' if he's half the clever man I think 'e is, to 'ave 'is children safe, I'll wager 'e'll give meself over to yourself. To be yer prisoner! An' if 'e chooses that road, why then, you'd 'ave me soldier's word to go peacefully . . . wherever you decide."

There were gasps all around. Sir Roland had, in fact, been casting his eye among the bowmen – considering the wisdom of having the old thunderbolt pinned to the ground and having done with it; before he could affect one of his famous vanishing acts. It was only concern for Lady Margaret's predicament – whatever predicament it was – that had held him back. But now! To have the living legend himself sealed away in his dungeon! All England would sing the praise of canny Roland Lenthall – Roland of the Marches! The man who, from the shattered ruin of Clun Castle, faced down and finally captured the elusive Owain Glyndwr!

"Interesting," he said. And then, "I will offer you this then: If Lady Margaret is returned to me – unharmed and unscathed; if Owain Glyndwr surrenders himself to my soldiers, this very night, before the moon is set; if the town submits peacefully to a search by my soldiers – who, I warn you, will hang anyone caught harbouring or aiding the Scottish spies; if the whereabouts of Lady Joan de Beaufort is revealed to me, so that I may lead my soldiers to her rescue. . . . if all these conditions are met . . ." , he paused lengthily. ". . . I will give you your children."

"Thank you, Milord! Thank you!" Gwenith murmured softly before Gwilym, equally softly, ventured, "And the castle, Milord? What will . . . ?"

Roland spat into the night.

"Turn it into a haymow for all I care."

* * * *

In the space beneath Myfanwy's cart, Jack, dismayed beyond belief by Richard's submission (one more in the grand list of losses in his life) subsided in tears. Maude gaped at Myfanwy who reached again for the suddenly risen Sir Perceval.

"Enough!" he growled, striking at her hand. "The man cannot be trusted! My wife and Lady Joan . . . will not face him on their own!"

Myfanwy hung on.

"Good! Good! But listen! We do not speak only of a wife, here, or a wild girl! A queen is in the making, Sir Knight! Play your part truly. And carefully!"

Her hand dropped, then, and she placed the heels of them against her eyes, her fingers encasing her temples.

* * * *

On the curtain wall, in the gatehouse and amongst the villagers on the common, a sense of wonder had taken hold. Not only had the daylong stand-off come to a bloodless end. So too had the career of England's most famous and mysterious fugitive! And so too, it seemed, had the usefulness of their own little built-for-the-ages castle!

Samuel Rowe alone, if anyone had cared to notice, was struggling to breathe. Panicked thoughts flashed through his mind, like swallows glimpsed through a narrow window. A haymow? Turn it into a haymow? What was the man thinking? Of course there was not peace in the Marches! Glyndwr was . . . ! Glyndwr might be done, but the danger . . . in these selfish, rebellious, stiff-necked people! Surely the Earl of March and the king would see that they . . . and cowards like Lenthall were the dangers! That the castle . . . and he . . . were indispensable! But how? How to show it? His mind raced. It raced like a stag with the sound of a bowstring thrumming in its ears. It raced like the last wolf in the great Forest of Clun, looking for a way to safety. It raced to an image of the king's vulnerable young niece, hidden somewhere within this Lenthall castle; and it coupled that image with a new, much-changed single thought. It was the same thought that overfilled the mind of Sir Cyril Halftree as he put his hand to the stable door. Murder.

* * * *

The moment that thought formed in Samuel Rowe's mind, Myfanwy's hands jumped away from her eyes. She reached first for Maude who, on looking up, to her amazement, found the moon turning to blood; heard the night sounds, so gently musical a moment ago, disappearing beneath a crescendo of wail and shriek and moan. The ghosts she'd always feared but never seen, swimming beyond the veil of All Hallows Eve, began to materialize before her until the air was dense with shrouds.

"Back to your graves," Myfanwy murmured. "We are not yet done."

And suddenly impatient, she struck Perceval's shoulder. "Now, then! Go quickly! Take the boy!" When he looked askance at Jack, she struck out again. "Think of his need! Do not underestimate!"

She turned, tenderly, to reach for the horrified Maude, while Perceval, towing Jack by his thin sleeve, set off in a low, crouching run toward the river path and the postern gate. Neither he nor Jack looked back. The last hours of the Day of the Dead were ticking away.

Chapter 38 – Madeleine, Marie and Lady Joan

The moment returned to Samuel Rowe like a slap out of the darkness.

"What?" he stammered. "What?"

Sir Roland had him by the shoulders.

"I want 'em here, now, in front o' me, unharmed!"

For a moment Rowe thought he'd spoken his murderous thought aloud.

"Unharmed . . . ?"

So vacant was he that Sir Roland grasped him by the jaw, pinching him painfully. "They're my guarantee, Rowe! Without those damned girls I may not get Glyndwr! Nor my wife neither! But with 'em . . . there'll be no backing out, see? And since they're not out there, they have to be in here! So wake yourself up, man, an' do as I bid ye!" He pushed the steward away violently. "Find 'em!"

Rowe turned and stumbled toward the stairs to the bailey. You idiot, he wanted to shout. Of course they're still here! The girls, your brainless wife, Lady Joan! Her damned, back-stabbing Frenchie friends! The Scots! All here! And want what you will, here is where they'll stay!

Once out of sight he slowed, imposing calm on himself. There were men in the place who he considered 'his' men, but none he'd trust with the bloody work he now had in mind. But he had Sir Cyril. And Cyril's obedience, at least in this matter, was assured by his obvious and bitter derangement. By now he would be working his way through the outbuildings. If Rowe went straight to the stables, they would soon enough meet. And matters would soon enough be settled.

* * * *

Lady Joan, Marie and Madeleine had endured a long wait. Crouched in a shadowed end stall beside Beatrice, Hubert's placid and dozing old milk cow, they'd waited until the panic in the bailey subsided. They'd waited until the smell of smoke cleared. They'd waited until quiet had fallen, until the only sound was of a single, distant voice, insistent and demanding, like the far-off call of a crow. And then Marie had crept to the door to peep out.

"It's Roland!" she reported on returning. "Above the gates, I think! Something about Lady Margaret! I couldn't be sure."

"Sweet Mother of God! You don't think Sir Angus has done something desperate to cousin Margaret?"

They stared at one another in hopeless confusion. Where was Angus? Where was Perceval? Was waiting all the girls should be doing? Or was some initiative needed from them? The tumultuous night was becoming increasingly bewildering.

Madeleine too, in her own regard, was torn between the need to stay hidden and the need to know. Were Anwen, Brenton and Maude safe? Or, when the sun came up in the morning, would it find them slaughtered in some dark corner?

"I have to look!" she whispered to the others. "My sisters . . . !"

They let her go and she crept away, placing her feet with exaggerated care, thankful for the oil lanterns left burning when the horses were saddled.

Framed in that faint light, the crack of the opening was a black slit beyond which, when she put her eye to it, the outside darkness slowly resolved itself into a patchy moonlit grey. All was quiet. At first. All was still. Except! Her heart lurched. Except . . . hulking from the shadows of the rear wall, only two dozen steps away, like a demon of stone, stood the all too terrifying figure of Sir Cyril Halftree.

A ghost, she thought. Because surely Annie's bucket had killed him! She blinked, rubbed her eyes and looked again. He was still there, sniffing like a hound. Glistening with steel. She should duck away. Batter down a back wall, if need be, and flee into the night. But she couldn't. A doom had suddenly settled on her; a frost-bitten mouse, frozen in the inescapable path of a hunting hawk.

She watched Cyril heft his sword and turn a circle; saw him feel the lump on his head and felt him settle his gaze, she realised with sudden horror, straight on her. The door was open the merest crack. But the light of the oil lantern was behind her. She fell back, released from her trance. Had he seen her? Seen her shadow? Memory sent chills sloshing through her innards. His fat finger drawing a line across his throat. 'How many strokes to take off a leg? As many as you like!' It was all she could do to scuttle back to Joan and Marie; barely croaking his name before the door's hinges began to creak.

The terrified threesome squeezed into the back of their stall, crowding under the neck of the quietly ruminating cow. A dozen stalls away, they heard his footsteps, hollow on the ancient boards. They cringed at his low, wolfish growl and the answering nicker from Marie's saddled pony. They winced when his hand slapped lightly at the animal's withers.

They held their breaths as he paused at each stall, peering into the depths like the careful hunter he was. Step by step, closer and closer, his menacing shadow looming ever larger on the wall above until, at last, his boots clumped into view beneath Beatrice's udders. It was the last stall. He stopped, grunted irritably, let his sword fall against the post and began to piss into the straw, at which point Beatrice, coughing in surprise, released a stupendously stinking cascade of watery shit. And as though on cue, the stable door squealed into movement. Cyril, as startled by the shit as the sound, snatched up his sword and spun away from the stall.

"Ah!" The voice was alarmingly conspiratorial. "There you are!"

"Rowe!" Cyril sneered, disappointed.

"Listen! There's been a . . . development. A change of plan!"

Cyril gobbed copiously, as though to say, You're a halfwit, Rowe, if you think I care about your plan. But his voice said, "As?"

"As . . . none o' them can leave the castle alive. Not the peasants, not the Scots, not the Frenchies . . . nobody!"

"Nobody?"

"Nobody! Listen! Lenthall's yielded the castle!" (It suddenly occurred to him that Lenthall himself might also need eliminating.) "Surrendered this whole corner of the Marches! But we can stop it, you and me!"

"Yielded?"

"Yielded! To Glyndwr! Glyndwr or someone pretending to be Glyndwr has snatched Lady Margaret from her chamber! D'ye see?" He didn't have time for long explanations. "She's taken hostage by the Scots and the Frenchies! So Lenthall's yielded the castle, to get her back! So it's up to us! You and me!"

"Lady Joan?"

Rowe couldn't bring himself to say her name. "The niece . . . we don't know where she fits! But if it looks like they've killed her . . . and Lady Margaret, for that . . . all the better for us! The king's gratitude, d'ye see? For taking the scoundrels on, just the two of us!"

Cyril fell quiet. A niece of the king was a problem for one such as he, who counted on high patronage for his livelihood. He loosened his collar. The air was thick with the smells of deliberation and fresh cow shit.

"Just you and me?"

"Easy dagger work! Then it's our word! The Scots and Frenchies, with help from the town, killed the women. We killed the killers! Too late, so sad, their plot! But there can't be witnesses! Understand?"

Cyril didn't, really. Politics were not his strong point. "The king's niece! 'S a risk."

"Yielding a fiefdom to an enemy like Glyndwr, Sir, is a risk . . . to the kingdom! What's a niece or two compared to a kingdom, eh?"

The three girls waited, barely breathing. The cow burped up a wad of cud. Cyril rubbed the lump on his head and tongued the empty space between his teeth. Yielding never sat well with him. Unlike murder. Unlike fighting on.

"How long have we got?"

"Little! Roland's waiting right now for the town girls! To give them back. He'll be organizing searchers soon! So them at least . . . and the niece . . . when they're found, they have to be found dead!"

"Not the others?"

"If we come across 'em . . . no question. Dead is best. Otherwise . . . our word against theirs. They'll still die. Lady Margaret . . .!"

Rowe shook his head. What had happened to Lady Margaret was a mystery to him. "The chambermaid says Glyndwr took her. I don't know how or why but . . . it can only be helpful if he's killed her."

Cyril hawked up yet another wad of bloody phlegm and sent it winging onto the floor. It was work he'd enjoy.

"Alright."

"Excellent! Finish here then and meet me at the keep! And remember . . . dagger work!"

He scurried off. Two scissoring sounds followed, a long one as Cyril's great broadsword slid back into its sheath and a briefer one as the dagger emerged. And then shadows began once again to flicker across the walls, doing what the girls wished they could do – shrinking into corners and crawling into the deepest cracks where no eye could find them.

Madeleine's sense of doom had not left her. Cyril had seen the saddled ponies. And his discussion with Rowe had made it clear, no chance would be overlooked. Ultimately, he'd raise his lantern over their stall and they'd have to try him, unarmed, with Beatrice between, and he'd cut them down, one by inevitable one. Unless, somehow, he could be drawn away!

And with no time at all to consider – no pause, no hesitation; just the sudden thrust of arms, the pump of knees and the slap of feet – she skittered under Beatrice, shouldering the udders aside, and launched herself. Both Joan and Marie reached for her. Beatrice popped out of her meadowy dream and stamped her feet. But Maddie was already gone.

Cyril, the consummate killer, all soldierly instinct and blind reaction, required no thought. He slashed and kicked out at the small blur of her, would have caught her with the blade had not the pool of shit tripped her up. She fell, slipped under the steel, twisted into a roll and felt the solid stump of Cyril's leg snagging one of her feet. Combined with her own momentum, it flipped her high and dropped her flat though, her responses greased by terror, she continued to roll and scramble through the muck, kicking out and screaming, desperate to right herself.

She was barely five yards into her flight when the knight's boot came down on her ankle. There was a mushy popping sound, like the snap of a rhubarb stalk, and she was pinned, arching in agony, scraping out a cry of astonished hurt. She convulsed once, in hope of freeing herself, but the boot pressed harder and the oil lantern swung, casting its garish light back on the grinning face of Sir Cyril. And as quickly as that he was over her, cocking his arm for a thrust at her throat. Easy, he was thinking! Easy, little piglet!

She fell then into resigned stillness. And Cyril, seeing that, edged his lantern forward, allowing it to drift like a moon over her face. He hummed happily through his bloodied gums. It was supposed to be quick, he knew, but the moment was too delicious to rush.

"Shshsh," he said very softly, touching the tip of the dagger to his lips before dipping the point toward her belly. "No noise, now! No time for play neither. More's the pity, eh?"

She tried to speak, to plead, but no words came. She tried to scream, but no breath came. She braced her arms across her chest, sheltered her face, covered her eyes. So quickly had it happened that Marie and Joan were only then forcing their way out of the stall, past the startled cow. Marie spun on her heels, looking for a weapon. A pitchfork! Surely there was a pitchfork! While Joan, with all the frantic imperiousness she could muster, screamed, "Sir Cyril! I demand that you stop!"

Cyril chuckled appreciatively and half turning, gave a shallow mock bow.

"Very pleased to see you, Milady," he said. "Be with you in a moment." And to Madeleine, "Don't you worry. It won't hurt for long."

"And neither will this!"

It was a new voice, from the stable's doorway, only a dozen yards away.

Cyril had time to snap around, raise the lantern and scowl a question. That was all. A hammer blow struck his chest, hard enough to drive him a step backwards. Madeleine slid away from him, free. He felt her go. He squinted into the shadows, saw the boy there, the bow still raised for use. He looked down. Six inches of fine English beech wood, tipped with split goose feathers, protruded from the light armour over his heart.

'Now,' he thought, 'I've seen that before! Six inches in front means eighteen more, sticking out behind.' He'd always wondered how it would feel. And strangely, the boy was right! It didn't hurt at all! Not really!

For a moment, he even imagined himself fighting on! Imagined himself breaking the shaft off, pushing it through and walking over to that smirking milk sop. Slicing the cocky look off his peasant mug! The thought was pleasant enough to make him want to laugh, but something bubbling in his throat stopped him. He would clear that, he thought. Have a good spit. And that's where his thoughts ended. His eyes glazed, his mouth stopped chewing at the blood, his head tipped forward and his oil lantern fell to the floor. He, though, remained standing, dagger in hand, because his knees, through a lifetime of hard and resolute training, refused to unlock. But he was dead, all the same. And though those few who witnessed it could not have said so, many a gleeful ghost offered up an All Souls Evening cheer at the dying of Sir Cyril Halftree.

* * * *

Eustace approached the upright corpse very slowly, with a second arrow ready notched. This one, if the man moved at all, would go right through him. A gentle kick, though, was all it finally took to topple the great knight, freeing Eustace to leap to Madeleine's side.

"Maddie? Maddie, can you 'ear me? Are you alright?" Pulling her hands from her face. But, for the second time that night, she had fainted dead away.

"Is . . . is she dead?" asked a small quivering voice and Eustace looked up to see Lady Joan de Beaufort standing over them. He recognised her, despite her rough riding gear; and also the other one, the French Lady de Coucy, who was busying herself with the fire started by Cyril's lantern.

He knew he should make some obeisance, to Lady Joan especially, but he never would've known how. And he was rigid with anxiety.

"I hopes not, Milady! I do!"

And it occurred to him: I just killed a knight of this lady's household! The very knight, in fact, who brought her to Clun!

"That knight . . .!" he stuttered. "I 'eard 'im an' Mr Rowe! They was talkin' terrible mischief! I didn' wanna . . .! But I . . . I . . . !"

"I know, I know! You needn't explain." She bent to view Madeleine's twisted, already swelling ankle. "Maddie!" she said. "That's her name? Maddie?"

"Madeleine . . . yer ladyship. We jus' calls 'er Maddie."

"Maddie," Joan said, crouching now, and reaching to touch the unconscious girl. "I hadn't asked, you know? A village girl! It hadn't seemed important! But . . . she was so brave! And you! Your name, Sir?'"

"I'm Eustace, M'am. Just Eustace!"

"Eustace. My uncle, the king, will hear of your . . .! If I . . . ! If we . . . ! He'll hear . . . !"

Her composure cracked. She dropped her head onto Madeleine's breast, sobbing, whether for her own distress or for Madeleine's, Eustace couldn't tell. All he wanted was to push her aside so he could put his own head on that breast. He put a finger out, almost to the point of touching the royal shoulder. At which moment Marie intervened, laying a desperate hand on Joan's shoulder.

"I can't stop it! We must go!"

The ancient wood of the stable – one of the few original buildings left in the bailey – had been a century drying. The straw was spread thickly and the flames were hungry.

Of Eustace, she demanded, "Can you carry her?"

"Aye, I can!"

He shouldered his bow and slid his arms under Madeleine; thinking, I'm closer to her right now than any other boy has ever been. He struggled to his feet, already imagining himself carrying her all the way down to her home, and Gwilym clapping his shoulder, saying: You keep her, boy; you've earned her!

Three steps later, Marie pulled him to a stop.

"Listen! Can you recognize Sir Perceval, my husband?'

"Aye m'am, to see 'im!"

"He is the only one to trust! If you find him, he will help! Otherwise – there is treachery! She is yours to guard! Understand?"

Again Eustace nodded and she pushed him off, turning to Joan, jerking her to her feet. "Joan! Help me free the ponies! Quickly!" They slipped into stalls, sooling, soothing, pressing their animals back toward the fire, toward the exit. They'd have made it if it hadn't been for Beatrice.

Beatrice had reason enough to be tetchy. First of all, Hubert the kitchen boy, whose job it was to milk her each evening, had been sent to Shrewsbury by Sir Roland so she hadn't heard the certain pleasant little songs he sang as he milked her or felt his head pressed to her flank in that certain place or his hands on her udders in his gentle way. The interim milkers, on the other hand, had been pinchy and full of haste and had tethered her too tightly. On top of which, she'd had people crowding about in her stall. And now there was smoke! And screaming horses. She began to bawl.

"My God!" Marie shouted. "The cow! I forgot her! You go out! Follow the boy!" And she'd run off to the last distant stall.

Something, though, in the efficiency of those around her while she crouched pathetically in tears, had touched Joan – embarrassed her. She needed, as a scion of royalty, to regain her authority, her sense of dominion. So she resolved to wait.

* * * *

Ordinarily, the castle being little occupied, Beatrice had the stable pretty much to herself. Consequently, in her own dim mind, she had become too important to be moved about willy-nilly. Not surprising, then, that when Marie untied her, slapped her on the shoulder, yelled in her ear, got in front and pushed then got behind and pulled, despite her dislike of the smoke, Beatrice refused to move.

So obstinate was she that Joan, increasingly aware of the need for haste, dashed along to help. And it was while she was there, adding her grip to Beatrice's tail, that Samuel Rowe darted through the big open door, a long, slim dagger clutched in his hand. He'd been near enough to hear Madeleine's cry and he'd guessed that Cyril was too sloppily about his grisly work. He'd carried on with his own search initially. But when the rest of his senses were assaulted, once again by smoke, he'd set off at a trot; just in time to see a figure being carried from the stable. And the carrier had not been Sir Cyril!

The reasons for that could hardly escape him, once inside. The knight's body, half in the gutter with a length of arrow protruding from his chest; the fire, still small but busy as a leprechaun; and the two girls – two of the many who he wanted killed!

His mind raced. He could kill them himself, now. Blame Cyril. But who was the one he'd seen leaving? What had they witnessed? If they'd killed Cyril, as seemed likely, was his plan already in ruins? His eyes flicked back to the fire. His choice had always been thus; the finality of ruin or the hope of salvage. And with no more thought than that, his murderous impulse changed to one of solicitude.

"Miladies!" he cried. "Thank God!" He indicated Cyril. "This knight . . . I was afraid he . . .!"

Joan and Marie, all four of their hands wrapped around Beatrice's tail, could only gape, at him, at his drawn dagger and his faltering smile, already as shallow as spit on a lip. He read their glance and, with a show of peace, slipped the blade back into its sheath.

"I saw him . . . prowling! I thought . . .!"

What had he thought? Only to save the castle, of course! But now there was this hiss and spit and pop and crackle of fire! And no time! No time to think! He lunged for the pitchfork Marie had been unable to find, and began stamping amongst the flames, flinging aside un-burnt straw.

"Help me! Water! From the troughs, just there! Quickly!"

The girls looked at him. They released Beatrice's tail. But they didn't move. Why, he wanted to wail! When the urgency was so obvious? When dousing it was still within their grasp? Couldn't they see?

"Quickly! Quickly!"

Then he caught the looks in their eyes. That old familiar coldness; that selfish disregard.

He reached the door in a bound, blocking the way with the fork. And there he crouched, moaning like a mad thing, his eyes flicking from face to face to the fire and back again. They would help! He would make them help; make them see that the fire was the enemy; not him! That the castle – his beautiful and ancient fortress; his obligation to the great Thomas FitzAlan – was everything! He had given all the ground that was there to be given. He could give no more.

The pleading in his eyes faded and winked out, only to be replaced by a ferociously manic glare. In that moment, he had given up trying to guess the river's current. Henceforth, he would make his own currents. He pulled the stable door shut, locking them all in and turned the pitchfork's tines toward their breasts.

"Water!" he shouted. "From the troughs! NOW! Or God help me, I'll . . . !"

Only minutes ago, the girls had heard Rowe plotting their deaths. Marie, at least, had no doubt that he still intended that. Perhaps to leave Cyril's dagger embedded in one of their throats, so blame would be cast on that evil man. But Joan still clung to her favorite delusion.

"Mister Rowe!" she blustered.

She was young – barely sixteen. And her life of privilege had conditioned her to expect compliance – not to give it. And most tellingly, like most people, she'd never before encountered real madness. She drew herself up to her fullest height and, with all the authority that she imagined was hers, cried, "The king will hang your guts on Tower Bridge for this! You are to open the door! This minute!"

In other circumstances and times, Rowe would certainly have yielded to such as her. It was, after all, his place in life and her place in life. But this moment, his senses of duty, caution and panic were pell-mell in an all-in clamor for his attention. If the castle fell, he would be a broken man; his vow to Thomas FitzAlan forsaken! But if he saved it by forcing the king's niece and was caught out, his guts certainly would hang from London Bridge! Although if he killed her before being caught out, no one would know and he'd be safe! But there'd been that man . . . carrying a body!

It was Lady Joan herself who, foolishly and unknowingly, tipped the scales.

"We heard you plotting with Sir Cyril! To kill us! When the king hears of your treachery . . . !"

"Treachery?" The accusation staggered him. "Treachery?"

On the instant, he dragged out his sense of caution and strangled it dead.

"How dare you? How dare you, you vile, spoiled little witch!"

He pressed closer, making little jabbing motions with the pitchfork. The fire hissed and crackled and surged higher, sticking out its chest and snapping its fingers while the smoke moiled about against the ceiling, trying vainly to sniff out an exit.

"I've given my life to service! The service you travel about the country expecting as your right! So high and mighty! What are you doing here? Why did you have to come to my castle? You and those Scottish plotters! What are you all . . . ?"

The look on Joan's face pulled him up short. It was the sort of expression one might wear if a secret, whispered in the night to a lover, was heard the next morning, being broadcast in a public proclamation.

"My God!" Rowe exclaimed. His astonishment carried him a step back toward rationality: his familiarity with subterfuge carried him a step forward, toward the truth.

"It's true! You came here to meet Elizabeth Douglas! She came here to meet you! Lord help us all, there truly is a plot! But what could it be then? Is it James Stewart? The king's prisoner? Is it? Of course! Of course it is! I can see it in your eyes! You want him to have his kingdom! And you as his queen?"

Rowe's inner dialogue, so tangled and turbulent, flared with a decidedly rosy hue, despite the thickening of the air around him.

"You? A queen? Ridiculous! Do you hear me? I'd pity anyone who . . .! What concepts have you of . . . commitment . . . loyalty . . . sacrifice? You shame your own family! The king himself must despise you!"

He indicated the fire which, like his own emotions, was still, but only barely, at a controllable state. "Help me with this fire, Lady Joan!" His eyes watered and swam in the smoke. "Pick up the bucket! Fetch water! Be my Queen of the Stables. Perhaps we can yet allow one another life! When the fire's out!"

She was dumbfounded. As was Beatrice whose choice of that moment to finally understand what the yanking and slapping had been for, was about to end the impasse.

"Maaaaaahhhhhh!" she wailed, in her loudest, most 'Holy-smoke-the-barn's-on-fire!' sort of moo. She churned backwards out of her stall, lifted her tail, lowered her horns and bolted for the door. Rowe was in the way. She didn't care. Her udders banged painfully between her legs and milk flurped in all directions, but she didn't care! It was only at the last moment that Rowe flung himself to one side, losing both the pitchfork and his footing, as Beatrice cracked the door open and wobbled out into the night.

Rowe, struggling to right himself, heard and saw Marie bolting for the door, screaming, "Run!" at Joan as she passed. He stood, almost as bewildered to find the pitchfork back in his hands as he was to find Joan, standing still, her hands cupped over mouth and nose but her eyes steadily on him.

A very irregular and slightly astonishing thing was in the process of happening to Joan. Rowe's words – mad, reckless and self-serving though they'd been – had felt a little like someone grabbing her ears and forcing her to look into a deep, deep mirror. At first she'd thought: How dare this little man – this . . . this steward? But then, somehow, it came about that she saw something else – just an inkling of how others must see her – a shallow, vain, ridiculous child.

Was she spoiled? Certainly not! Anyway, it was the way of things! The many served the few. It had always been so! Even Marie and Sir Perceval, for instance – she'd told them they must accompany her to Clun and they'd complied. As was right! She'd revealed her dangerous secret to them, and they'd agreed to protect it! As was right.

Was she selfish? Well! Perhaps she'd put her friends in danger! Was that selfish? It did smack a little of disloyalty! Yes, perhaps in some eyes, even treachery! Her uncle, in fact, had had people killed for much less! How awful if he, not to mention her own father, the Earl of Somerset – or her grandfather, the redoubtable John of Gaunt – how awful if they would be disappointed – or worse, ashamed of her, as Rowe had said!

And yet, it couldn't be wrong to want James free, to take up his rightful place as king in Scotland. He was a good man – would be a very fine king – a wise ruler! And she loved him. And yes! Yes, she did want to be his queen! But only if she was equally worthy!

But how could one measure worthiness? Sir Cyril, for example, for all his strength and courage and prowess – was he worthy of his knighthood? How did he compare to Marie who'd risked her life more than once – even for a cow! Or to the village girl – Madeleine – Maddie – who'd dared all to lure Sir Cyril away from their hiding place! How did the king's niece compare . . . who'd done nothing that was not for herself alone?

In other words, the peculiar focus of which the mind is capable, even when cows are bawling, friends are running and smoke is gathering, had temporarily diverted Joan's attention from the urgency of the moment. When her focus began to return, resolving itself like an image in a frosted glass, she realised at last that Marie was gone. And she was alone. Alone with Samuel Rowe and his hatred.

Chapter 39 – Roger, Joan and Samuel Rowe

In every community, levels of turmoil are as numerous and varied as water bugs on a pond. Some share a meal with neighbours while others become meals for neighbours. Some doze in the shadows while others skate recklessly in the sun. Some argue the purpose of dragonflies while others deny their very existence. So it was in Clun as time froze in the dying hour of All Hallows Eve.

At the castle gate, the three-way conversation between Sir Roland, the false Owain Glyndwr and the reeve had faltered. Three safe and healthy peasant girls needed to be produced before matters could proceed.

Unknown to all, of course, one of those girls was very near behind, at Myfanwy's cart, quaking in the arms of the older woman and Sir Angus, somehow made newly aware of the shriek and celebratory howl of the spirits that danced one more night on the green earth of the living.

In the castle, in the middle of the bailey, a second of the girls slept peacefully in a haystack in the arms of a battered man she had decided to love. And in the castle's little stone chapel, where he was certain no ghosts would dare trod, even on All Soul's Day, Eustace sat in a corner with the head of the third girl cradled in his lap. Now and again, he bent to listen for breathing. He was very happy.

Also fairly at peace, just inside the castle gate, Roger Ringworm was reclined, though he lay on his back, alone on cold stones. All his good luck charms – the mole's foot, the bent coin, the iron nail, the lucky bone – all were lost, scattered across the common on the ride from the village. Still, he smiled peacefully up at starlight, while his blood oozed. And back in the centre of the bailey, Beatrice the cow, oblivious to all of them, raised her tail, squirted a stream of urine and gazed about in a wistful search for Hubert.

* * * *

And then time, as it must do, moved on. At the interface between out and in, the postern gate gave the merest squeak. Sir Perceval de Coucy prized it open, peered tentatively in and, with Jack Sorespot at his shoulder, entered the bailey of what had become for him an enemy castle. The picture it presented was a bizarrely contrasting one; in the distance, the faint whoosh and crackle of a new, hidden fire and the low billow of new smoke. Signs that, as yet, had gone un-remarked by the soldiers on the wall. Though there were quietly silhouetted watchers.

The Cunning Woman had failed to reveal what dangers awaited. 'Be true to your name,' she'd said. 'Remember your promise!' That was all well. But for him, Marie was all. Marie and Lady Joan who had failed to escape during Angus's diversion. He looked to Jack who clutched at his arm, pointing to the sodden haystack. The hiding place that Maude had described!

Together, they crept up to it and Jack called softly, "Annie?" There was no answer. For Anwen and Brenton, it was a voice outside a dream, a voice from a different sleep. Not insistent enough to be listened to. Jack was about to call a second time when Perceval lurched upright. He had suddenly recognised one of the far off silhouetted figures. Marie! Abandoning all caution, he sped off, and Jack, making a mental note of the peacefulness of the haystack, followed.

Marie and Perceval swirled into one another's arms.

"Percy! I knew you'd come! Cyril is dead! The steward has gone mad! Joan is trapped with him!"

She pointed at the stable where the smoke now filled the narrow slot of door as completely as the ocean fills a crack in a ship.

"They want us dead! Sir Roland . . .!"

". . . is on the wall!" he finished for her. "Bargaining with the villagers! The rebel, Glyndwr, (he found himself shouting over the sudden sucking rumble of the fire) is there! Roland won't leave."

Marie, despite being only young, only a female, the wife of a man who was only a bastard son, was a person who'd heard enough and seen enough of knights – and of knights gone bad (Sir Cyril being the most recent) – to know that such bargaining could go on until there was nothing left to bargain for.

"The gates must be opened!" she declared. "Let everyone in, Percy! Give them the castle, in return for help with the fire! Quickly, before it's too late!"

Perceval, actually being a bastard son, and a Frenchman, had only a passing loyalty to English aristocracy. Even so, turning a castle over to angry peasants made him hesitate. Not that he didn't have a fondness for peasants! He did! In fact, in the little village of Aubermont, the fiefdom he'd inherited from his father, he was very fond of mixing in and . . .!

"I'll do it!"

It was Jack, and he was already off, sprint-hopping on his injured leg, heading for the front gate.

"Wait!" Perceval shouted, shaking his head in frustration. It was obvious there were no soldiers left in the bailey – not with a potential enemy looming outside the gate. And not even a fire would bring them down off the wall. But nerves would be taut, and when armed men are nervous, not even small boys are safe. Still! Don't underestimate, the old woman had said. He turned, grasped Marie in a brief hug and set off himself . . . toward the smoke filled stable door.

* * * *

Jack never needed reminding of the imminence of danger. A year of living wild had made him as wary as a stoat. He made first of all for a knot of horses tethered close inside the gate where, far from the fire, the night seemed almost quiet again. He could hear the coughing, snuffling conversations of men on the wall, none willing to move lest they miss the spectacle of Glyndwr walking into captivity. He slipped from the cover of the horses to the cover of the wall, through shadows and shafts of moonlight, into the alcove by the gate. He watched. He cleared his throat. He slapped the stonework lightly. There appeared to be no one on guard. He stepped into the open. A wee little voice spoke to him.

"Hi, you," it said. "We winnin'?"

He jumped, staggered back a step.

"Rog'? 'S that you?"

He found him on the cobbles, in a little patch of moonlight, but bending to him, could feel only stillness. "Rog'? Don't be playing the goat wi' me, boyo! You alive? Or are ye kilt?" His hand slid into the warm ooze of blood.

For a boy born to a family that could not afford to feed him; a boy farmed out at an early age to ream out sewerage flues and carry shite; a boy despondent enough to risk living wild in the unwelcoming Welsh Marshes; for a boy like Jack Sorespot, a friend is a rare gift – a miracle, really; not to be taken or lost lightly. This was the moment when Jack learned that fact.

The discovery of Roger's blood released, from somewhere deep below Jack's heart, a long, wailing banshee howl of denial – not the last that would be drawn from him. Ragged and thin, it peeled out of his throat only to be snatched away by the greedy night and by the cold stones of Clun Castle. But it was not lost. Close behind it, like a fiery tail behind a great black kite, it drew Jack's steadfast and absolute rejection of all the mistrust, deception and evil that he had experienced in his life – all the unmitigated harm that people everywhere so casually inflict on one another. Happen what may to himself, Jack would not permit calamity to overtake this most harmless and trusting of friends.

He leapt to his feet and slammed his shoulder into the gate, pushing with all his might. "RICHARRRD!" he screamed. Horses whinnied and reared, men jumped up, the stars sparkled serenely and, remarkably, the gate moved.

"RICHARRRRD!"

Out on the common, Silent Richard spun in a frantic half circle. He spied the gate's begrudging movement, heard the second call and set off at the fastest pace his gout-ridden, arthritic old frame could manage. Gwilym, nervous with inaction, galloped after and, like snow chasing itself down a hill, the rest of the people followed. The anger that had brought them to the evening's risky confrontation – anger that had begun to cool with Roland's reluctant compromise – needed only that one desperate cry to be renewed. Soldiers or no soldiers. In the confusion of the moment, no one tried to stop them.

* * * *

On the common, Myfanwy hearing the cry and, seeing the rush of the people, pushed the ropey red strands of hair from Maude's forehead.

"We're needed now," she said, her eyes feverish and tense. "Go follow them, find the boy! Remind him of the sage I gave, for the wound!"

Maude rose instantly and gaped around her. The moonlight showed the common suddenly empty and a column of smoke rising from the bailey.

"The . . . spirits?" she stammered.

Myfanwy shook her head in uncertainty.

"Pr'aps they've made their claim. Pr'aps it's enough. We'll see. Meantime . . . the living are in need! Go! Through the gate!"

* * * *

In the stable Samuel Rowe, having barely escaped the horns of the old milk cow; having found himself face down in the muck beside the body of Sir Cyril Halftree; having risen to the blank stare of the hated Lady Joan de Beaufort, twisted his head toward the fire. Flames were devouring a portion of the nearest wall, the captured smoke churning deliriously down from the ceiling.

The French girl was gone but Joan de Beaufort remained. What should he do? Perhaps it was the smoke or his age or a recollection of suicidally ranting at Lady Joan . . . whatever the reason he couldn't think what it was he was supposed to do. Every plan, every dream he'd ever had – all save one – had abandoned him. The remaining one was the castle and the pact it represented between himself and the long absent Thomas FitzAlan. All he had – all he was – was his promise.

He picked up a woollen horse blanket and began, mechanically, to beat at the flames. His eyes burned, smoke tore at his throat and he sobbed with futility. He needed help. Why was there never any help?

Behind him, Lady Joan, choking out of her reverie, her nose and mouth covered with her sleeve, squinted through the smoke with an unfamiliar intensity. Rowe, she reminded herself, was steward of this castle – not its owner. He was also, in her brief experience, a man with a murderously disloyal heart. Yet here he was, battling on his own, to save a barn! An empty barn! In an all-but-forgotten outpost on the remote Welsh border of Shropshire! Why? What could the place possibly mean to him, to make him risk his life? There were so many things she'd missed – so much she failed to understand – about the qualities of people.

She crouched down, looking for clearer air, and spied the bucket she'd refused to take up earlier. She picked it up deliberately, choking now, tears pouring from her eyes and staggered to nearest trough. She dipped the bucket in and dragged it back to Rowe. Even through her tears she could see his wildly piteous look of gratitude.

"There!" he shouted, pointing. And she emptied it there.

She was Lady Joan de Beaufort, sister of the Earl of Somerset, niece to King Henry the fifth of England, grand daughter of John of Gaunt; a sixteen year old woman of privilege. And though she couldn't know it yet, she was a woman who would one day be a queen in her own right. On this demon-haunted night (the first, but not the last she would see in her life) she began to become that queen.

She did it by bucketing water from a trough onto a fire in a stable in Clun Castle, working shoulder to shoulder with a man condemned by a worthless and futile obsession. She did it, not because she cared about him or his obsession but because, suddenly, she recognized a gap in her self. She knew ruthlessness and calculation and manipulation; she knew indifference and vanity and self-absorption. She even knew a little about love. But she knew nothing of sacrifice. Nothing of the giving or the labour that made ordinary people extraordinary.

It was moments, but it seemed an age that the two struggled, Rowe pounding the flames and Joan running, choking, flinging water. And it wasn't enough. The fire ignored them, towered over them, leapt like a hound from beam to beam. At last he grabbed her arm and shouted over the roar, "It's no use!" They were both desperate for air, their eyes streaming. "Go!"

He pushed her toward the door where the smoke was a solid wall and she staggered into the poisonous fug, the smoke so thick she could only feel the hands on the ends of the arms that found her. Was it a savior? Or was it Rowe, dragging her back in? She couldn't tell. All she could do was yield to the sudden purchase on her tunic, and trust. When she fell, the hands hung on grimly. When she felt herself being dragged, she pumped her legs, adding what little push she could. It went on and on, 'til she thought she must be being dragged all the way back to London. Then it stopped. She heaved. She vomited. The hands let go.

For long minutes, Perceval crouched on elbows and knees beside her, his forehead to the ground, blowing grey smoke and spit. He heard Marie's voice, calling to Joan. He rolled onto his back, barking greater volumes of smoke from his lungs, knuckling tears from his blinded eyes. He'd made two fruitless trips into the smoke. And on the third . . . he'd found her. How, he had no idea!

He felt a cool, damp kiss landing on his forehead and he levered open his eyes. Hovering over him was the wide brown face of Beatrice, the cow, her gaze seeming to express a kind of gratitude. He pushed her heavy head aside and sat up. A large crowd of watchers had materialized some way off. Peasants from the town. The reeve was there. Which meant the boy had succeeded, against all odds, in getting the gate open.

Marie was there now, moving amongst them, berating them for not fetching water. It was only a barn but fires had a way of traveling – to other buildings – to roofs. Some people were moving but, it was obvious, with no real intent; their faces stony and impassive. It was as though this was their true All Hallows bonefire – the true symbol of a new beginning, and they were happy with it. In fact, it dawned on Perceval, the few who did move at Marie's request weren't looking for water. They were looking for fuel.

* * * *

Inside the stable, Samuel Rowe stumbled at last, gasping and choking, into the recesses of Beatrice's stall. Above him, flames whipped back and forth across the ceiling. Faces, visions, entirely astonishing and inexplicable scenes, swirled, erupted and faded. Just as happens throughout the whole of life. Some say the last face to appear in one's mind should be the face of one's maker. Others say the face of that person's greatest love. For Samuel Rowe, the visions resolved themselves finally into the face of Thomas FitzAlan. It steadied and became almost solid, caught in an aureole of flame.

"I'm sorry, Thomas," Samuel Rowe wept, his tears sizzling away in the heat of the air. "I tried! I tried my best!"

The face formed a wan smile and the lips parted. The howls of the flames quieted, like spectators at a hanging, pausing to hear the last judgment of the hangman.

"Thank you, Samuel," the fiery spectre whispered. "I know you did." A long, red arm reached down into the stall to touch his face.

Chapter 40 – All Saints Day

All Saints Day, 1421 – a day that dawned crisp as lettuce and cold. Madeleine slept almost to noon and woke on her own sleeping pallet in the second room of her own family's house. It was the goat that woke her, having wandered in to bleat a foggy-breathed hello. Village sounds followed close on, coming through the daub walls – call of names, clank of tools, quack of ducks. People were about their chores. Her first thought was gentle – surprise that she'd overslept and missed the milking. Her second thought crashed into her like a runaway cart.

A man, the size of an ox! The point of a dagger, spiraling down toward her! A cold, cold voice: 'It won't hurt for long!' Utter terror! And then . . . what? She was here! In her own home, under her own woollen rug! In an instant of time!

And her third thought: Annie? Maude? Lady Joan and Marie?

She threw back the rug. An ugly blue-black bruise and the smell of hemlock rose from a linen wrapping about her ankle. It didn't hurt so much as add a queasy uncertainty to her dread when she tried to move it! Dizzy with confusion, she threw her arms around the goat's neck, burying her face in its pungent aroma.

"Oh goat!" she cried, inhaling its warmth, and, "Baaaahhh!" it answered, full of sympathy. On the instant, Gwenith's voice rose in the outer room.

"'Tin't her, Sir! The goat wants milking, is all! Please . . . !"

But a man's voice, a foreign voice, was already rumbling low in the background, stifling the rest of her comment.

"Madame! A goat with two voices? Come now!"

Gwenith sniffled loudly.

"'Twere only a walk in t' woods, Sir! For the pig's feed! She can't 'elp who's lurkin' there for mischief!"

"No, Madame, she cannot. But still . . . there are questions."

The curtain slid aside and the voice's owner stepped into the room.

"Madeleine. You are Madeleine, yes?"

Both Madeleine and the goat stared up at him wordlessly.

"Permit me. I am Perceval de Coucy-Gines, Sieur d'Aubermont; husband to the Lady Marie and, to my great honour, temporary guardian of Lady Joan de Beaufort. I come to pay my respect . . . and offer my thanks."

Gwenith blinked pleading eyes; Madeleine's and the goat's mouths fell open.

"My wife and Lady Joan, I believe, are alive today because of you, Madeleine! And so . . . one poor Frenchman is in your debt!"

This was not a debt that made sense to Madeleine..

"No, your lordship! Twere t'other way 'round! Mister Rowe, he 'ad me marked out an' . . . the lady, wi' her pony, she . . .!"

"Ah! Forgive me mademoiselle! But this subject – Monsieur Rowe – it touches on an urgent point! There is a knight outside. He is English, this knight, and so, is without patience. I impose myself on him. He waits to bring you to the Great Hall."

"Me? Why? What for?" Madeleine tried to ask, her attempt over-run by Gwenith: "She don' know nothin', yer Lordship! Nothin' 'bout the forest nor Mister Rowe nor fires nor nothin' at all! Just a ignorant girl, she is!"

"She may be, Madame, but Sir Roland is Lord of Clun. Men who were valuable to him are dead. His stable is burned. And most important . . . this man Glyndwr . . . a great enemy . . . who strikes bargains for your daughters . . . has made him a fool! Someone must explain."

Madeleine's tears began at last to flow. "But none o' that's to do wi' me!"

"No, no." He leaned confidentially toward her. "But perhaps yes!" He took her calloused little hand in his own refined one and murmured, "Either way, my young friend, today you must answer!" He glanced out the door then hurried on.

"I have promised the witch – this Cunning Woman – to help as I can. But even Lady Joan dares not to intervene in this matter! I can only tell you, this English knight will take you to the Great Hall. Sir Roland will ask. And you must answer. Where truth will serve, you must be true. Where it will not . . . you must find your way. No one may help. Understand?"

She nodded mutely and, "Bon!" he replied. "Now! You are injured. I will carry you to the pony."

In the space of a week Madeleine had been kidnapped, lost in the forest, chased by wolves, confronted by skeletons and locked in the castle! Yesterday alone, two different men – men she didn't even know – had tried to murder her! And today, she'd woken to this – being expected to find answers, even though her own life was nothing but questions. Bewilderment and terror made her tighten her grip on the goat's neck, even as Sir Perceval slid an arm under her legs.

"Ma! Where's da'? Where's Maude an' Annie?"

Perceval paused, letting his knees sink to the dirt floor, and nodded to Gwenith.

"Oh Maddie! Sir Roland won't let 'em come 'ome!" She hoisted skirts to mop away her tears. "When Eustace brought ye I thought . . . at least one o' me babies is out've 'arm's way! But now . . .! Ye 'ave to tell 'im, Maddie! Tell 'im whatever it is'll get everythin' back like it was!"

Beyond, in the outer room, a second knight called out impatiently and Perceval grimaced.

He rose again and spoke across to Gwenith, "You must not deceive yourself, Madame; for things to go back as they were! For a man such as Sir Roland to be made foolish . . . to avenge it is a matter of honour."

The implication was bleak. Gwenith clapped her hands over her mouth and Madeleine squirmed for release.

"No! No! Please!" And in desperation, "I . . . I an't bin to the midden yet!"

She wriggled vigorously and, though the second knight growled, "Too bad!" Perceval put her down.

"If you would take to Sir Roland a prisoner wet with piss," he said to the man, "your courage is greater than mine!"

He leaned Madeleine into Gwenith's arms and watched them step-hop away toward the back of the house.

"Bloody pig-shite peasants!" the second man cursed and Perceval clucked reprovingly. "Decency forbids, monsieur! Even in England, nest ce pas?"

Behind the hut, mother and daughter squatted side by side.

"Ma! I don't remember nothin'! Last I knew, that knight was comin' for me! Then I was 'ere! What's 'appened?"

That plea and their momentary seclusion were all the encouragement Gwenith needed to unleash her own frothy torrent of whispered words.

"Oh, Maddie! Owain Glyndwr's come walkin' into Clun like some sort o' ghost out o' the forest an' stole away Lady Margaret! An' then 'e says to yer da', 'e says, 'I'm yer pris'ner! Ye can trade me 'n' that lady for yer girls!' For you an' Annie! So yer da', 'e says. 'Thank you, Owain!' Jus' like that, an' then Eustace put an arrow through a knight an' Mister Rowe got 'imself burned up in a fire! An' now there's talk as there's two Owain Glyndwrs an' nobody's sayin' which one is true, but you 'n' Annie, they say . . . they say you two been in the forest wi' 'em, so you got to know who's who!"

Mother and daughter, squatting side by side. Steam was rising from the ground beneath them but, on this cold bright morning, already momentous with death and double-dealing, it was also rising from Madeleine's mind. Two Owain Glyndwrs? In Clun? When she knew for a fact that the real man, sick and frail as he was, could never have made the journey? Simple then, to tell the truth!

Except . . . to admit contact with the king's enemy . . . even though she'd had had no choice . . . what would Sir Roland make of that? Would he want to wreak some mad revenge on them all? Just to salve his wounded pride? She couldn't see any way out of the dilemma. So get it over with, she told herself. Do like ma' says! Just give whatever answers'll get us all back home.

* * * *

Perceval was alone at the front of the house. The nameless second knight, his patience exhausted, had mounted and moved off to threaten the gawping neighbours. Swinging the lazy sway of his horse's rump into those too slow to move, he had them scurrying to left and right, abandoning the road Madeleine must now travel.

"He clears the way," Perceval said, gesturing with a toss of his head. "You understand his desire, yes? No one may speak to you!"

He lifted Madeleine lightly onto the pony and, looking back at Gwenith he said, "Madame, you may walk along. But, for the sake of my honour, I must hear no speech between you. Understand?" Again Gwenith nodded.

He somberly winked one large brown eye at the trembling women and, turning toward the castle, wondered if Myfanwy had seen, when she extracted the promise from him, how desperate the girl's journey would be, or how little help he'd really be able to offer. Behind them, the townsfolk re-gathered on the road and wondered what they would do now for a reeve and a brewer.

* * * *

For all her despair, Gwenith had not missed the invitation hidden in Sir Perceval's warning. They hadn't gone ten yards before she sidled near and began to whimper out her fears.

"Ye won't be givin' Sir Rolan' reason to be rash, will ye Maddie? The Cunnin' Woman, las' night, when she come to tend ye . . . she weren't able to see today at all, she said! She said it were all dark to 'er!"

"The Cunnin' Woman fixed me ankle?"

"Bless me yes! Mixin' an' stirrin' an' strange words! I were frightened at first, ye were so pitiful! But . . . Maudie, ye know . . . she said to let 'er be an' you'd be right! Her 'n' the Cunnin' Woman . . . they seemed like they was grown old together! I never seen Maudie so . . . sure! An' trustful. Don' know 'ow that come about so sudden!" She glanced at Madeleine from lowered eyes. "Do you?"

Madeleine frowned thoughtfully. Ever more questions! Did she know why a travelling Cunning Woman would take an interest in her ankle, or why she would seem to know Maude? Did she know why Sir Roland had two Owain Glyndwrs in Clun Castle, when just the one was hardly fit to walk across a room? Of course she didn't!

". . . starin' about like we was all ghosts!" Gwenith was continuing. "Needs a pinch' or a slap, I says, but the Cunnin' Woman says let 'er be, she says! 'Ad a shock, she says! Give 'er some time, she says. Always bin a strange one, Maudie has! Always! Annie's me lovin' girl! Maddie's me questionin' girl. An' Maudie . . . always bin me strange one!"

Her breath was coming in short gasp s and she'd fallen so far behind that she'd given up the pretence of talking to anyone but herself.

". . . Brenton!" Madeleine heard faintly. "Seen men less hurt fall down dead, I 'ave! Jus' fall down dead! Would o' bin sendin' for Father Reginald if it was me! 'Cept 'e in't back from Shrewsbury yet! The way Annie clung to that boy when they 'auled 'im out o' the 'ay! Too free wi' 'erself by 'alf, 'er da' always says but . . . always me lovin' one, is Annie!"

Madeleine looked back, watching her mother's increasingly breathless attempt to keep up. The torrent of words was subsiding, but her mouth continued to work, her arms to pump with exaggerated effort and her eyes to glare at the ground ahead of her. An image came to Madeleine of Gwilym, touching Gwenith's hair, picking her up and squeezing gales of laughter from her. It hadn't been so long ago.

"We'll get it back, ma," she promised. "After this business is done."

But Gwenith didn't hear. She had stopped, frozen in place, as though the castle itself had warned her off.

* * * *

For the rest of the journey, Madeleine occupied her mind with tallying the changes recently inflicted on Clun: her powerful father held in the castle; labourers' tools abandoned in the fields, the workers gathered in small festering knots; strong men and women reduced, like her mother, to fearful apprehensions. It was the first and only time in her memory that information rather than perspiration had become the currency of the town. Or that such a sense of urgent readiness had shimmered on the air.

At the gate the crowd from last night had slowly begun to re-gather and the nameless knight rode carelessly into them, staring down, daring them with his eyes to protest. None did. None ever would openly defy or question a knight of the realm. But this day, some – more than a few – raised eyes filled with open hatred.

He sat up straighter in the saddle, turned and cast a look back at Sir Perceval – a look containing more than a hint of surprise. Involuntarily, his hand went to his sword and the sword began to emerge from its scabbard. Just as a lone voice at the back of the crowd sang out, "Lord o' mercy, 'at's Father Reginald!"

The crowd's interest swung instantly. Three figures were emerging from the forest road! Two on horses and one on a donkey!! The donkey-rider, his long legs trailing ridiculously almost to the ground, was unmistakable! And so too, then, were Davey and Hubert, standing in their saddles and waving like loonies! Home from their trip to Shrewsbury to fetch the sheriff to take away Maddie and Annie! Like water from a bucket, the crowd flowed away downhill, taking with it a great hullabaloo of complaint that Madeleine could just make out in the distance.

"Father, Sir Roland's taken the reeve!"

"Mister Rowe's been burned up, Father!"

"Owain Glyndwr's been caught, Father! Turns out 'e's twins!"

"Where's the sheriff, Father? What's 'e say 'bout our girls?"

Even Gwenith had veered off to hear the news. Even the soldiers who lined the parapet like scarecrows were shading their eyes and straining their ears. Only Sir Perceval, Maddie and the nameless knight carried on into the cold shadow of the wall. She twisted in the saddle for a last look but the crowd was already out of sight and sound. For Madeleine, it was like passing beyond her father's line of visibility in the forest; putting her beyond all help.

She turned her eyes to the courtyard. A smoking tangle of blackened beams lay where the grand old stable had stood, and its former occupants, twenty or more great warhorses, stood in heavy, three-legged stillness, tethered where chance allowed. Beatrice wandered amongst them, painfully heavy again with milk, braying her distress. Listless swirls of black ash rose and fell around her legs.

At the entrance to the keep Sir Perceval dismounted, lifted her down and guided her to a rail.

"It was only a barn, cherie," he said, noting her shock. "It goes . . . another is built. In life, all is change."

And it struck her how strange and new that thought was – all is change. A week ago, she'd have said – probably did say – that nothing ever changed – at least not in tame, predictable, traditional Clun!

"I must tie the pony," he continued. "Then I will help you in, n'est ce pas?"

He was only yards away when his sullen friend appeared at her side.

"Inside."

His eyes seemed to slip off her somehow, like feet slip on pond scum.

"Sir Perceval said to wait for him!" she squeaked.

"And I said . . . inside!" He pushed her roughly and she fell.

"I . . . I can't walk! I need 'elp!"

Angrily, he put a huge arm around her waist and hoisted, hanging her across his hip like a bundle of rags. Out in the courtyard, Sir Perceval shook his head sadly.

"Now for the hunter," he murmured.

* * * *

The Great Hall was ringed with armed knights surrounding several small groups, the largest of which contained the unmistakable giant frame of her father, in mid-argument with Silent Richard. Lodged as a buffer between them was Jack Sorespot, his leg newly bandaged, and listening in were Maude, Anwen and an older, darker figure who Madeleine took for the Cunning Woman.

To one side the fine ladies, Marie and Joan de Beaufort, whispered tiredly to one another until Sir Perceval joined them and they all looked nervously around for her, sending faint encouraging smiles.

It was the last group, though, that dominated the vast room: Sir Roland, towering with rage over Jeremy Talbot, his complexion florid, his finger thrusting like a klnife.

"I will not be made a fool of, Sirrah!" he was roaring. "Not by some ancient Welsh rascal of an imposter! Do you hear?"

Next to Sir Roland, Lady Margaret stood demurely, head bowed and hands folded, while behind, his eyes glazed with determination, Eustace swayed at attention. Jeremy's eyes were firmly locked on Lady Margaret.

All this Madeleine saw from barely two large steps into the hall, which was where her nameless carrier had stopped, as though some key in him had wound down and he could go no further. He'd flipped her onto her feet and stepped back. She'd teetered, put hands to the floor and found a sort of precarious balance. When she looked up again, every eye in the hall was on her. Sir Roland took a step toward her, stopped and cast a warning glance around the room.

"Not a word!" he growled. "Not a single, solitary word!"

Then he crooked his finger at her.

Even on two good legs and her bravest day, Madeleine would have struggled to make that journey. On this day, she had no hope. She looked to the knight who'd carried her in. She looked to Sir Perceval. She looked back to Sir Roland whose Jeremy-inspired rage had clearly not abated. No one moved.

She looked back to the knight, put a finger on his arm and whimpered softly, "Please, Sir Knight!" He gave her nothing – no word, no gesture, no look – nothing. He was like a mechanical thing – a cart or a plough – whose oxen have wandered away.

Sir Roland's hands became fists. His eyes became daggers. There was nothing for it. Madeleine shifted the smallest possible amount of weight onto her blackened toes and took a quick, wincing step forward. And in that moment, she saw her father break free from his group.

"Stay!" roared Sir Roland, virtually frothing with command, and Gwilym stopped. His eyes, though, held an expression Madeleine knew well. She'd seen it only moments ago in the eyes of the villagers outside the gate; like those of a dog that's re-discovered a wish to be its own master. He paused for so long that the hush in the hall not only took on a life of its own – it broke out in a cold sweat.

Madeleine's lips moved. "Please, da'! Don't!" She could do it. She would do it! She looked down, put her wounded foot out for another step.

And he was there, even before her weight shifted, sweeping her up in his arms. He made no fuss, uttered no word, paused not at all but, grim-faced, strode with her across the hall. In front of Sir Roland, he returned her gently to her feet and, like the fiercer knight who'd carried her, he too stopped, fixing his gaze on the middle of Sir Roland's breastplate. Even with his head bowed, he was half a head taller than Sir Roland. Even without a weapon – only his big hands open and empty at his sides – his sense of menace was palpable. All around the room, knights shifted uneasily.

"I warned you, Reeve!" hissed Sir Roland. "I will not be challenged!" He cast his eyes about the room until they landed on the nameless knight.

"You!" he barked and, indicating Gwilym with a movement of his chin, said coldly, "Kill him!"

On the instant, the knight's broadsword sang out of its scabbard, the hilt lost in a great two-fisted grip. The blade slammed out into a line that ended at Gwilym's eyes and Gwilym turned, his face expressionless, his massive chest swelling with a slow intake of air. No one else in the hall, aside from Sir Roland's men, had a weapon. Even so, Jeremy rose halfway from his seat, Silent Richard raised an arm, Sir Perceval stepped in front of Marie and Joan and Jack Sorespot drew breath to cry out. Even Eustace pawed at his jerkin, wondering where his bow had gone.

Around the perimeter of the hall the leather garments of Roland's knights creaked.

No more than a dozen large steps lay between Gwilym and the knight. For the first four steps the sword held its level aim. At step five, it began a swinging dance. By step ten the cords in the man's neck were standing out, his eyes were flaring with anticipation and the blade was mid-way through a wide, slashing arc.

"Wait!"

The blade sighed to a standstill, barely a foot above the spot where Gwilym's neck met his shoulder, and Roland stepped casually forward, nodding, making a careful pretence of studying its position.

"You, Reeve," he said very softly, tapping Gwilym's chest, "are a man who risks death – to shield what is his. I can respect that. I, on the other hand . . . am a man who will gladly inflict death – to shield what is mine. Hmm? Can you see which of us is the more dangerous, I wonder? Or is that concept too difficult?" And he pushed the blade away dismissively.

"I grant you time to think on it. And while you're thinking on it, think also on this. You will gain nothing by dying here today. And I will lose nothing . . . not even a night's sleep, by killing you." With his forefinger, he tapped Gwilym's chest again, once, twice, three times.

He allowed his gaze to travel about the hall where all, including the knights, remained frozen in states of alert readiness. He shrugged, showed his open hands and smiled sparingly.

"You see? The loyal and honest people of Clun need not be fearful of their lord! I am nothing if not a merciful man!" The smile, however, could not survive the wind of his frustration. It frayed, fell apart, and one hand folded itself again into a fist with only the forefinger left free to point at the ceiling. "But I will not be ignored!" he thundered. "Not made a fool! Not lied to!" The finger came down, scribed a slow arc about the room and came to rest pointing at Madeleine.

"Which brings us," he finished with a small semblance of control, "back to you."

He kicked a stool in Madeleine's direction, dismissed the knight with a flick of his head and chested up to Gwilym. "Move back!" And Gwilym did. His steps reluctant, his jaw working massively, he back-pedaled to stand by Silent Richard. Madeleine, trembling like a new-born calf, lowered herself onto the stool and Sir Roland, walking a circle around her, began a booming discourse.

"Yesterday a knight of the realm was killed in Clun!" He looked grimly up at Eustace. "My steward is also dead." He looked around the ring of listeners. "The circumstances – as she knows them – have been explained by the Lady Joan de Beaufort, whose word, of course, is . . . beyond question. Still . . .!" He sighed deeply, unable to go further in that direction. "Scots!" He slammed a fist into his palm. "Fled in the night! All of 'em! Who were they? What were they up to in Clun? Someone knows! And that someone, I promise you . . ." he whirled on Madeleine, bent over and thrust his face near hers, "will hang for treason!"

Madeleine's jaw fell open and a tide of vomit lurched at the back of her throat. She covered her mouth with her hands, more in fear of it than of her own questions: How could I know? How could any of us know!

"However," Roland continued, more gently, squeezing out a tight little smirk, "maybe there's an easier way. Because maybe . . . maybe I already know why they were here! Maybe they were here cooking up mischief, with an old but still managing to be troublesome enemy of the realm." He flung his arm out to point at Silent Richard: ". . . Owain Glyndwr! Or . . ." dramatically flinging his other arm out to point at Jeremy, ". . . is that Owain Glyndwr?"

Madeleine sat, her hands still jammed over her mouth. She looked from Richard to Jeremy and back to Sir Roland. He stood away and walked another circle around her.

"Glyndwr the ghost! Glyndwr the magician! Last night, you see, even while murder was going on in my castle, I accepted the surrender of the mighty Owain Glyndwr! And this morning . . . I find that I have two of them! I don't want two of them! It is not my intention to show up in London with a tribe of Glyndwrs. I will take one – the right one! And none other! Now!" His voice came down to a semblance of calm. "Out of deference to Lady Joan, I have . . . so far . . . refrained from . . . squeezing the truth into the open." He drew a ragged breath and once again showed the crowd his open hands. "You see? I understand! We're dealing with peasants, who are . . .!" He rotated his hands in the air, hoping, but unable, to paw up a suitable word. ". . . easily misled? But these are still the Marches! Which I have sworn an oath to the king to defend!" He looked balefully about the room, as though challenging anyone to doubt his oath. "To that end, I must have the true Glyndwr! So that he and I can . . . talk . . . about recent events . . . and the future!"

* * * *

It was slowly dawning on Madeleine the predicament she was in. Both Richard and Jeremy were claiming to be Owain Glyndwr! Both were prepared to assume a burden the great man himself could no longer bear. Two Children of Owain – performing their last service. Madeleine began to shake her head. How could she choose between them?

"Silence that ruckus!" Sir Roland suddenly bellowed, as though the noise in her mind had become audible to him. But no! His attention had shifted to the great doors, beyond which an unseen uproar was in progress. In fact, the entire room's focus had shifted in that direction, just in time to see, shouldering past the guard and trailing an insistent group of townsfolk – a clutch of goslings to his gander – the loudly insistent Father Reginald.

"Make way! Make way!" he was shouting. "Make way for the sheriff's messenger!" Oblivious to all else, he bustled straight across to Sir Roland.

"My Lord, I am returned! Returned to calamity! The stables! With winter upon us! And Mister Rowe dead, they say! And the reeve . . .!" He glanced around the room, sensing at last the tension of the atmosphere. "The sheriff, Milord! He will not come! The business with Glyndwr, he says, is . . . !"

"Stop your gabble, priest!" Sir Roland roared. "We're far past that! If the man can't stir himself, I'll do my own hanging!"

"Oohh woe, Milord! For it to come to that! And on All Souls Day, as well!"

Having husbanded his little nugget of information so carefully and for so long, Father Reginald was as disappointed as a crutch whose one-legged owner has suddenly sprouted a new limb. Nonetheless, on looking around the company, he was gratified to remember a lesser but still significant task that remained to him.

"Ah, Lady Joan!" He bowed, sweeping his cap grandly to the ground. "I bear a message for you, Milady! Her ladyship Mary Gordon sends . . ."

His voice choked out as Sir Roland hoisted two fistfuls of coarse woolen habit up around his priestly ears.

"Mary Gordon? You have a message from Mary Gordon?"

"Aye, Milord!" Father Reginald's solid weight kept his feet flat on the floor, but his mouth, he found to his distress, was deeply muffled in the folds of his robe.

"Mary Gordon, Milord! Met 'er on the high-road, Milord!"

"You met her on the high-road? When?"

"Early, Milord! Miles along, they were, Milord! Most oddly mounted . . . !"

"And you spoke to 'em?"

"Oh aye, Milord! Three on a single great 'orse! Most odd, I remarked to the boys, considering they arrived separately mounted, on their . . . ! "

"The brazen cheek! Traveling openly on the king's high-road! And three of them, you say! Only three? What of the knight? Sir Angus?"

"P'raps 'alf a mile behind, 'e was, Milord! Ridin' 'ard to catch them up! Very pleased, 'e was, to learn 'e was so nearly upon 'em, as well! Likely stopped to piss, the boys 'n' me s'posed, an' the ladies bein' ladies 'n' all, 'ad carried on . . . wi' not nearly enough thought for the dangers! I says to the boys . . . !"

"And they sent a message? They had the audacity to send a message?"

"Milord, they did! To Lady Joan de Beaufort, Milord! 'If she lives', they said. Most odd sort o' thing to say, I remarked to the boys, because why would she not live, I says? 'Less the plague 'ad struck whilst we were away! An' the boys says maybe I best go on alone to see if it had, an' send for them if all's well, but I . . . !"

"What's the message?"

"Uhhh. It's for Lady Joan de . . . !"

"There then!" He released the shaken priest and turned him rudely to face his audience. "Speak your message."

If Father Reginald had any thoughts of staying mum, Roland's thunder shook them right out of him.

"It's just a bit of an old verse we all knows, Milady!" he squeaked. "Most odd! I says to them, 'Tis an old song, Miladies. Doubtless she'll know it! 'Ave ye not got a fresher one I could learn, to carry along an' maybe teach these ignorant boys . . .?"

"Now, priest! Or you'll be wearing your tongue on a string."

"(Gulp!) Milady, I was bid say:

* * * *

'The maiden's heart it quailed not;

She meekly raised her eye:

'Wolfgang, your arm can never harm

One that has friend on high:

He who can make that grain to spring

And ripen into fruit

Powers rain and sunshine on your heart,

And bids your faith take root.'!"

"That's it?"

Sir Roland looked across at Lady Joan, whose eyes were locked resolutely on those of Marie. He looked at Perceval who was rubbing his chin in apparent perplexity. He looked all around the room for signs of understanding. There were none. Finally, he looked back at Father Reginald.

"Where do I know these rhymes from?"

"Saint Milburga, Milord!"

"Ah! Of course! Saint Milburga."

He scratched at his beard and the silence stretched like a length of new catgut until, finally, he walked in measured steps across to Lady Joan.

"I would not ordinarily be so bold, Lady Joan," he said, making the slightest bow of apology. "But you must realise! My oath . . . !" The niceties were beyond him. He gave up and simply demanded, "What does the message mean?"

From where Madeleine sat, she could see Joan's hands, gristle-white, grasping Marie's and trembling like thistledown. It was astonishing to see evidence of fear in such a highborn person. But not as astonishing, it seemed, as the Lady's power to overcome that fear. Like an actor who suddenly realises that the play has started and all eyes are on her, Joan suddenly straightened her back, raised her chin, turned her eyes to meet Sir Roland's and gave him a most ingratiating smile.

"This girl," she said. Her voice was fragile, paper thin. She paused, cleared her throat and started again, forcing the words away from her. "This girl . . .!"

Stepping around Sir Roland, she walked directly to Madeleine and put out her hands. Instinctively, Madeleine took them. All four hands were icy and clammy with sweat, even though the hall had been amply warmed by fire.

". . . is a daughter," Joan was saying, her voice gaining strength with each syllable, "of the town's reeve – so I'm told." (Gwilym swallowed mightily. All he wanted was to get his family away – not have them singled out any more.) "Her mother," Joan continued, "is a . . . brewer?" She glanced back to Sir Roland who nodded curtly. "I daresay you'd not find that as marvelous as I do, Sir Roland, because you see, yesterday, a knight of this realm – a knight sworn to protect me – would have killed me – would have cut my throat, and that of my very dear friend. . . but for the courage of this brewer's daughter! Some concepts may elude the peasants," she smiled, referring slyly to Roland's own assessments, "but England must always be grateful for their courage. Is that not so, Sir Roland?"

He set his lips and refused to answer.

"Yes," she continued, "and I . . . possibly for the first time in my life . . . I find myself aware of what it means to owe a debt! And for my debt to be owed to a peasant girl – a brewer's daughter! Well! It's a lesson, is it not? Truly a marvelous lesson . . . for people such as you and me, Sir Roland! I search my mind for a way to repay her."

Roland's cheeks flushed with scorn and frustration. He could see Joan's tactic – proclaiming a kind of protectorate over the girl. He found a kernel of something in his mouth, chewed it and spat it on the floor.

"There is only one repayment," he murmured, "for treason."

A stir in the background temporarily dampened the impact of that terrible word as Maude, for the first time that whole morning, made a sound; a gagging sound, followed by a sudden rise to her feet. Whatever her intent was, Myfanwy stilled it with a touch and Joan, with aristocratic assurance, turned back to face Sir Roland.

"I've been wondering also, Sir," she said, "how to repay my debt to you!"

Roland suspected he knew what was coming – sarcasm, childish accusations, peevish self-pity. He would stand and take whatever complaint she uttered, of course – because he must. But she would soon learn that he was not a man to back off. Daringly, defiantly, he shifted his weight onto one leg and propped his hand on the hilt of his sword. He needn't have worried.

". . . for your kind hospitality," Joan was saying. "For the concern you've shown, for myself and my friends. And also for the care you've shown . . . for the king's devoted subjects, here in Clun. In his name, I thank you. And in my own name, I gladly grant your request."

Whether Joan intended it or not, the simple sincerity of her tone utterly disarmed Sir Roland. He'd prepared himself for scorn or veiled references to 'her uncle the king'. Indeed, he'd already begun marshalling his response. In the Marches, he would be telling her, life was not as she knew it elsewhere. In the Marches, danger was as real as crabs on the seashore. And furthermore, in Clun, he and he alone was responsible for the king's order. And no man – no woman, no child – especially not a girl child – no matter what class she'd been born into – would keep him from his sworn duty; which in this case meant ferreting out what intention lay behind the unscheduled visit of the Scots and the unanticipated return of Glyndwr.

That's what he would have said, had Joan's directness and reasonableness not so startled him. His hand fell away from his sword and he found himself distributing his weight back onto his two feet.

"'Tis a riddle she's posed us, Milord. I can't be certain, but I believe the maiden in the rhyme would be me." She gave a little mock curtsy and bobbed her head. "And the 'friend on high' I would guess to be the lord and knight on whose honour and true nature I presently rely."

She reached out a long, delicate finger which stopped just short of touching the knight's chest. "That would be you, Sir Knight. As for Wolfgang, whose arm can never harm me . . . well, I suspect that our northern friends may have become aware, as I had not, of Sir Cyril's evil intention toward me. A wickedness from which I was saved by this girl . . . and a brave young bowman . . .," (She indicated a flustered Eustace.) ". . . who was undoubtedly under your wise direction, Mi'lord!"

Roland's head was beginning to spin once again. How the devil was anyone to make sense of such nonsense? How was a man to know if this pussy-footing, tale-telling rubbish was giving him the information he needed? In the old days, in the old ways, he'd've had the truth out quicker than a tinker hides a penny; as simple as crunching walnuts under a boot. He wasn't sure how much longer he could contain his anger.

And he wasn't being helped by that repeated movement in the background. The reeve's other daughter – the mopey one! For a second time, she'd moaned; now stood with her arms raised above her head. He frowned mightily and the Cunning Woman pressed the girl back into stillness. But the effort Roland needed to keep his temper in check had suddenly become immense.

"As for the rest," Lady Joan was saying, "well . . . I fear I have a confession to make. For which, I must now ask your pardon, Sir Roland. The Marches, I have only come to realise – though I'm sure you knew all along – might as well be a foreign land, for all I understand of them! Ignorance . . . tends to be an easy and comfortable fellow, does he not, Sir Roland?" She smiled. He frowned.

"To the point, your Ladyship."

"Of course! Well! The point is, Sir, that I have been guilty of letting my ignorance wander about . . . unsupervised! To gather any number of silly conclusions! One of which was a perception that . . . perhaps all was not well in this corner of the king's realm! In short, Sir Roland . . . I doubted you! And even worse, in conversation with Mary Gordon, I let that doubt slip. But she, Milord, she told me straight away – and she tells me again in the rhyme – that I was wrong! That we could not hope to have a better, wiser more courageous Lord in Clun!" She gestured broadly. "The grain? The fruit? The rain and the sun? The West Country prospers, Milord! Even as the evil years pass away! Mary Gordon, you see, saw in you what I did not – firm, wise and guiding hands."

Her smile had become pensive; almost pleading. "Will you forgive me, Milord?"

Roland held Joan's gaze for long moments – much longer than would have been deemed proper by her father. He was not really seeing her, however. In his mind, he was seeing himself, being led by the nose. Did she take him for a man who would be deflected by mere flattery?

"Why," he finally asked, putting the question as simply as he could, "was . . . she . . . here?"

He tried, but could not bring himself to use the name Mary Gordon. In his heart, he knew full well that she was Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of England's great enemy. And that he had been duped into playing host to her! That thought would never cease to gall.

Joan flicked him an immediate answer, as though she hadn't realised that was the information he wanted. And she managed to phrase it in such a way as to keep her, technically, on the solid ground of truth.

"Why, for the same reason as I, Milord!" Briefly, there flashed in her mind a horrible image of the glee on Samuel Rowe's face when the truth had struck him – 'My Word! It's James Stewart isn't it!'

Joan prayed that Roland's mind wouldn't make the same connection, and she hurried on, venturing as close as she dared to the swampy ground of fiction.

"The holy places, Milord! St Milburga's Well? That's why the rhyme, you see! We'd spoken together of the saint's legendary healing powers! Of Lady Godiva's courageous ride, in defense of her people! Truly, Milord! I give you my word!"

Roland heaved a deep sigh of resignation. She was not going to be cornered. Neither, then, would he. He looked around and thought of witnesses.

"You!" he barked at Father Reginald. "You say the Scots were well on their way when you met 'em? Out of the Marches?"

"Riding like the very devil!" the priest affirmed and crossed himself.

"And you, Milady," he boomed out to Lady Joan. "You give your personal word – as niece to great King Harry?"

"I do, Milord!" she said, loudly enough for all to hear.

Sir Roland huffed a snort of air through his nostrils and made up his mind. "So be it, then!" He executed a stiff, shallow bow and stepped back from Lady Joan. "Thank you, Milady."

A trickling sense of relief oozed into life throughout the hall. Everyone sensed it. But no one savoured it quite as deeply as did Sir Roland. The sighs, the whispers. He smiled inwardly. They thought he was finished – thought he was beaten. Not even close. He looked at Madeleine and the corners of his mouth twitched. He walked around her for a third time, stroking his throat with the backs of his fingers, looking into the faces of his knights.

"But," he said, "we still have the question of these Glyndwrs! And this brewer's daughter!"

He stopped in front of Madeleine and crossed his arms, smiling what, to the quaking Madeleine, seemed a surprisingly genuine smile. Every sigh, whisper and foot scuffle was instantly cut short.

"You've been quite a hero, haven't you young . . . girl!" He didn't know Madeleine's name and didn't care to find it out. "You've saved the life of a great lady! With a little help, of course, from that boy over there." His eyes didn't leave Madeleine's but his head inclined briefly toward Eustace. "I've decided to reward that boy, did you know that? No, of course you didn't. Because I've just decided! I'm going to take him into my household at Hampton Court! Maybe give him the privilege of going to the war in France next year. He might even get to fight alongside the king! Are you happy for him?"

She nodded, more in confusion than agreement.

"Good, good! You know, I could find a place at Hampton Court for you, as well! Maybe serving Lady Margaret! Would you like that?"

Madeleine's mouth hung open. She had no concept of what serving might entail but if it meant being around men like him, she wanted none of it. He answered for her.

"Of course you'd like that! Who wouldn't like that? Get away from this God-forsaken hole! No more pig shite! Such chances don't come along every day, do they? Not for the likes o' you, they don't! But I can make it happen, right now!" He snapped his fingers in front of her face. "All I need is a little favour from you! You'd not begrudge me a little favour, would you?"

Madeleine tried to look past him, hoping for some indication in someone's eyes, of what was happening. Roland stepped back from her and held his arms out wide.

"Yes!" he cried. "Yes! Have a look around! In particular, why don't you have another look . . . at these two men?" He pointed out Silent Richard and Jeremy. He waited while she looked, swallowed what little spit she could muster and looked back at him.

"No!" he commanded, holding up a finger. "Don't say anything! Not 'til I've finished my little story. Not 'til you fully understand . . . how important your words are going to be!" He crossed his arms, spun on his heel and began to pace. "As I was saying . . . last night, I made a bargain. Your father, I might point out . . .," (he stopped in front of Gwilym, looked up into the big man's eyes), "your father . . . was one o' those on the other side o' that bargain." He gazed thoughtfully at Gwilym for some moments, then paced on.

"We agreed to make an exchange, you see! Certain lives – yours, I think, might've been one o' them – in exchange for the surrender of the rebel, Owain Glyndwr. That . . . ," he bent and looked closely into Madeleine's face, ". . . was a good bargain! Because I tell you freely, your life is a small thing. In comparison to Owain Glyndwr's freedom, I mean. You see? In comparison to my showing up in London with that greatly rebellious man in tow! Now . . . in a nutshell, my problem, as I was saying before, is this!" He gestured toward Silent Richard and Jeremy. "Two Glyndwrs! One of which, is surplus to needs." He stopped again in front of Madeleine.

"I could, of course . . . bend them a little. See what truths escape them. And that isn't yet out of the question. But . . . you see . . . as I say, out of deference to Lady Joan . . . and to my wife . . . not to mention the age of these old fellows . . . I have asked. I am asking. Only for some . . . clarification, you understand! And I'm asking you because I've been led to believe that you, your sister and the man LeGros spent time in the forest with Glyndwr and his merry little band. Whether as guests or prisoners, I neither know nor care! But this is the point where your help comes in, see? Because, at present, LeGros is unable to speak. And your sister insists she never met the great man. And your father doesn't know his elbow from his arse! And these boys . . ." (he indicated Jack and Roger) "well . . . I don't even know what their role is in all this. But one is sorely wounded. And the other is an idiot." He rounded on Madeleine, grim faced, fists on hips. "A smart, brave girl such as yourself – with very much to gain from having a good memory – would see where I'm going with this, wouldn't she?"

She opened her mouth again, to speak. But again, he held up his finger for silence.

"Not yet! Not yet. Take another moment. Be sure you understand, reeve's daughter, that you are the last – the very last – person I intend to ask. Not that I would harm you, of course! I don't want that – you being the person who saved Lady Joan's life and all."

He turned his back and strolled to the spot where Anwen stood. Absently, he brushed a frizzy blond lock of hair from her face, revealing the still oozing gash. He faced Madeleine again, drawing up his shoulders and showing his open palms.

"Now," he said amiably. "Now you can talk. Release these people to their homes. Earn your reward. Tell me what I want to know."

* * * *

Sir Perceval had warned Madeleine. The hunter, he'd said, will set traps. But how could anyone avoid this kind of trap? Over Sir Roland's shoulder, Madeleine could see Jeremy Talbot, tucking his thumbs into his armpits, waggling his fingers and winking saucily at her.

Madeleine would learn that he and Lady Margaret had been discovered, late morning, asleep beneath a cloak in the pantry, surrounded by emptied bottles of sack. When taken before his lordship, Lady Margaret had somewhat tipsily identified Jeremy as he had identified himself to her – the mighty Owain Glyndwr. Clearly NOT the Owain Glyndwr Sir Roland himself had been dealing with – but one who had, undeniably, somehow gotten into the castle and taken a valuable prisoner.

Looking away from Jeremy's nod of encouragement, she sought out Silent Richard, and the gentle old warrior's eyes blazed back at her. He reached into his vest and pulled out the little good luck charm that Anwen had made for him – the cross woven of St John's Wort. He held it where she could see it and gave her a single nod. Pick me, both men seemed to be saying. We are the Children of Owain. Nothing that can be done to us can diminish us.

Madeleine understood at last that, if she did not choose, ultimately, Sir Roland would squeeze souls – Jeremy's and Richard's, certainly – her own, her sister's, her father's, and Brenton's, probably. Even poor Jack Sorespot and Roger Ringworm would likely be targeted. Over Lady Joan's shoulder, Madeleine saw her father shake his head with anger and frustration. She recognised the signs. His famous temper was shaking itself loose from whatever controls he'd managed to place on it. But that, she knew, considering Sir Roland's state of mind, would only hasten and ensure a terrible ending. She drew breath, intent on . . . something! Some sound, some name – she didn't know what or whose – would come out! She just knew she had to keep Gwilym quiet and her family safe. But it was not her voice that broke the silence. It was the voice of Maude, for a third time, moaning aloud. And then the voice of Myfanwy, saying, "It ends."

Her voice, soft yet strangely insistent, cracked through the silence. The group around her parted as everyone in the room turned their eyes in her direction. On the floor, on makeshift pallets, Madeleine could see the two semi-conscious forms to which Myfanwy had been attending. One was a barrel – the great figure of Brenton LeGros. The other was a post – the thin, starved looking form of Roger Ringworm. Madeleine wondered which of them Myfanwy was giving up on.

For a long, slow count, it seemed that the mystic woman had revealed all she was going to reveal. Her focus had immediately fallen away, to some invisible middle distance. Suddenly, though, she revived and turned her attention to Maude whose hand had crept blindly out in search of Myfanwy's. Maude's head was tilted querulously and her eyes closed, as though she was falling asleep. Except for the tears. Only then did Myfanwy speak once again.

"It is ended."

She drew a long, shuddering breath and looked about the hall. A strand of spider silk, fallen from the rafters, slithered through a shaft of sunlight before her. She caught it by the trailing filament and held it up. A small dark spider swung at its end. She looked to see where it would have landed – somewhere on Brenton's legs. With great deliberation, Myfanwy moved her hand, so that the spider circled Maude's head – once, twice, three times. Then she returned it to its original path and let it fall onto Brenton.

"Luck for both," she murmured. And finally, to Sir Roland, she said, "Both these men," indicating Silent Richard and Jeremy, "are imposters."

She looked at Jack Sorespot whose head was already beginning to shake a rejection of what was to come. She reached out, put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Owain Glyndwr," she said softly, as though speaking only to him, "Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, heir to the Kingdom of Powys, bids his children farewell." To Sir Roland, she said, "He lies newly dead this morning, a long day's march through the forest from here. This boy can show you where."

Stillness. Quiet. Two dozen hearts continued to pound out their little rhythms. Bumpety bump. Then came the cry, small and shrill. It was as though a lark had suddenly forgotten how to fly and was falling out of the heavens. It came from Jack Sorespot. As Madeleine watched, he sank like a broken thing, to his knees, his head thrown back, the heels of his hands clamped over his ears. Too late to block the sound. His eyes were clenched shut. Too late to block the vision. A loved life ends. One's own persists. Madeleine's heart flew out to him. Go ahead, she thought. Go ahead and cry.

Owain Glyndwr had been the one reliable source of love, the one source of protection, the one real anchor Jack had known in the eternal single breath of his life. And he was gone. Simply and irretrievably gone. Life is like a shrill whistle heard in a glen – immediate, sharp and commanding, and finished in the space of a breath. How could Jack know that?

Not so surprising then that, in the Great Hall of Clun Castle, before a crowd of strangers, his little red-headed heart, already brittle with fear and loneliness, commenced to breaking, as all hearts do, in the most irresistible and unstoppable of fashions. The little cry extended into a keening, animal wail that peeled out of his throat – long, dry and wordless. It crashed about the hall, sucked a skerrick of warmth from everyone's blood and blew a whiff of mortality up every nostril.

The cry ended. Echoes lingered. Then the unutterable silence flooded in. In later minutes other voices would fill the empty places. For now, it was Silent Richard who reached out to Jack. Though death was one of Richard's oldest acquaintances, he surrounded Jack with his arms and shed his own bitter, old man's tears. Across the room, Jeremy lowered himself to a bench, dropped his cartoon of a face into his hands and sobbed. Lady Margaret, reaching a solicitous hand toward him, thought better of it and drew it back. No one thought to doubt the word of the Cunning Woman. Not even Sir Roland. Her aura was simply one that spoke of knowledge and truth. Sir Roland turned his dry gaze back on her, waiting for more information. She shook her head.

"There is no more."

* * * *

Within minutes, the anger fell out of Sir Roland like an egg falling out of a chicken. He spent a little time examining it – tapping its shell and turning it over, as though wondering what it was made of. His thoughts went something like this: The Elizabeth Douglas incident (whatever the damned woman had been up to), well . . She was gone – back to Scotland, presumably. And Lady Joan's 'word' that that was so would protect him from repercussions. So let that go. And Glyndwr? The mournful carry-on in the hall seemed assurance enough that he really was dead – not, if it came down to it, that he hadn't been as good as dead anyhow, for a decade or more! So let that go, too. The imposters? Clearly a pair of soft-headed idiots, obviously too decrepit and senile to know what they were doing. He'd look a fool, taking them to London! So let that go, as well. And Clun Castle? He noticed for the first time the number of peasant observers who'd invited themselves into its shabby, run-down 'Great Hall'. Preposterous. A potential smear on one's dignity. He'd never wanted anything to do with the place anyhow.

He was mildly disappointed that there would be no blood, of course. Blood was always a useful demarcation . . . between this and that . . . whatever. Still. The man Rowe was gone. And so too was a perfectly disgraceful knight. Perhaps that would do.

The decision he'd made the previous night slid back into his mind as quietly as a caterpillar slipping into a cabbage. He drew his sword half-way from its scabbard and thrust it back with an ear-catching clunk.

"I've decided!" he announced. "This castle . . ! What with the stables gone and winter at hand . . . the animals can't be properly housed. And the steward dead . . . re-building's out o' the question. So . . . I'm going back to Hampton Court."

And with barely a pause, as though his impasse with Gwilym had never happened, he snapped his fingers and barked, "Reeve! Lady Margaret and I will be leaving . . . within the hour. The Lady Joan de Beaufort – and her traveling companions – will be leaving with us." He turned back to Joan. "I'm sure your uncle, the king . . ." (he smiled in a perfunctory, argue-this-if-you-can sort of manner) ". . . would insist on me seeing your party safely out o' the Marches, Milady. For your own safety . . . and what-not." He turned back to Gwilym. "Our baggage will follow. No later than tomorrow."

With that, he turned on his heel and left the hall. The people of Clun would not hear his voice again. Lady Margaret, finding herself on her own, curtsied quickly to Lady Joan, stepped back and turned to follow her husband. On her way past Jeremy Talbot, though, she paused, touched his shoulder and bent to whisper. "To me," she said, "you will always be . . . the one and only Glyndwr." And then, she too was gone.

That was the moment, without any real fanfare, that the history of Clun Castle began to end, the last duty of its steward passed into the hands of a peasant farmer.

* * * *

The witnesses to the change, for a period, subsided into a strange sort of limbo. Fear, relief, loss, shock and confusion moiled through them. What had happened? What did it mean? Gwilym was one of the first to find momentum and it carried him directly to Madeleine. He knelt before her, putting his great hand on her pale cheek. Then, flustered and embarrassed, he reached to touch her wounded foot.

"How're ye, girl? Are ye . . . ?"

Her insides were quivering like the wings of a cricket and she wasn't yet certain that she wouldn't vomit. But she said, "I'm alright, da'! I jus . . . !"

She held herself stiffly upright, her mouth open, trying to still her heart, control her trembling, find words of apology. For being, somehow, the focal point of all the troubles that had beset Clun. But she had no words. It was the first time she and her father had spoken directly since the morning she'd entered the forest with Anwen and all she wanted to do was look away.

"Maudie," she sniffed. "Best see to Maudie, da'!"

Maude was wending her way through the crowd, heading not for her own family but for Lady Joan de Beaufort who remained in a close huddle with Sir Perceval and Marie. In the quietest of tones, the French couple was stroking Joan back into a semblance of calm. She'd been perfect, they were telling her. She'd not buckled under Roland's bullying tactics; she'd let nothing slip of her knowledge of Elizabeth Douglas. Perfect!

Maude appeared at their sides and Sir Perceval gave her his warmest smile.

"I know what the message means," she said to Joan. "The 'friend on high'll be a king one day. You were in my dream, on a white horse! White horse means a weddin'!"

Joan, still quaking from her ordeal with Sir Roland, raised her eyes.

"An' there's a crown! I saw it the day you came to Clun! Ribbons I thought first, then . . . !"

"No, Maude!" hissed Perceval, pulling her into his arms to stifle the flow of words. "You mustn't say! Go back to your family and your life, Maude. Be thankful for it and forget this dream! For your safety, as well as Lady Joan's! Please!"

Maude wasn't sure why such an important message would be rejected but, with Gwilym's hand settling on her shoulder, and him in no mood to have any of his family anywhere near a member of the gentry, she had no choice but to obey. Gwilym drew her away and Sir Perceval, in obvious relief, did the same with Joan and Marie.

Chapter 41 – Answers

With the aid of Eustace, Madeleine made it to the courtyard. She hunkered down, huddling out of the wind, and thought of the puzzling Elizabeth Douglas, who was perhaps also huddling out of the wind, at the saint's well. Or, more likely, moved on by now – to Much Wenlock – toward the mysterious north, where Scotland was. She wondered if things became clearer when a person went somewhere else. Or were people always like peas in a conjuror's cup, being repeatedly shaken about and plunged into darkness. What cup was she under now? On what table? And what would she see next time the cup was lifted?

Inside the hall she'd been marooned on her stool, briefly forgotten in the sudden excitement until she'd caught the eye of Eustace, who was sidling by toward the door.

"Eustace! Help me outside?"

She'd reached for him and he'd come to her, putting an arm about her, lifting with a strength she'd never known he had. She'd let him draw her arm over his shoulder and press his hip to hers. She'd let his hand spread itself against her ribs and she'd let him bump a path for them through the crowd. Out in the cold light of day, she'd let him choose a seat for her on the edge of a trough. And when he'd stood irresolutely beside her, gazing silently across at the burnt remains of the stable, she'd decided not to let him go.

"So ye finally got to kill someone!"

He shook his head. "'E was a bad 'un, Maddie! Knights en't s'posed to be like that."

"Did you . . . ," she began, not sure she wanted to know the answer to this particular question. "Did you like it? Did you like killin' 'im, Eustace?"

He looked at his feet and scuffed the ground.

"I gotta go, Maddie. Sir Roland be leavin' soon, an' I 'ave to be ready." He began walking, but only a few steps out, he turned and came back to her.

"I reckon there's lots o' things in the world that jus' can't be liked, Maddie. But someone's got to do 'em, see? I 'ave to go, an' if I 'ave to fight, I will. But I'm glad for knowin' you. An' I 'ope ye get to be 'appy one day." He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I 'ope ye wring a bit of it out've every day." He turned and began walking away.

"Eustace?"

He stopped, turned, regarded her from several yards away. She waited a moment, but it was clear he was not coming back – had already almost gone.

"Good luck then, eh? If anyone deserves to meet the king, you do."

He looked at her a long moment, longer than ever before, then saluted, turned and marched away.

"An' same to you," she said under her breath. "A bit of 'appiness in every day."

Less than an hour later, Sir Roland's train would ride off into the teeth of a rising wind. With Lady Margaret, Sir Perceval, Marie and Lady Joan, with the whole rank of knights and also with Eustace.

Before that happened, Davey came by, closely followed by his adoring and grateful Beatrice. He offered warm, cream-laden milk which Maddie accepted. She would also, for a change, have accepted his company but he had a shelter to find for Beatrice and quickly moved on. Not long after, Silent Richard, Jeremy and Jenny Talbot passed by without seeing her. They hugged three-ways at the gate and the men, leaning just a little on one another, lumbered away toward the forest. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to be going.

On her way back into the castle, Jenny spied her and wandered over.

"Ai!" she sighed, parking herself beside Madeleine on the edge of the trough. "En't had a week like that in many a day, 'ave we!"

"No. It's been somethin', alright!"

"Sad to think how 'e'll be remembered, doncha think? Mister Rowe? If anyone remembers 'im at all, that is!"

"I'm plannin' to forget 'im quick smart, Missus Talbot! Sooner the better!"

"Aye. Funny ol' life though, wun't it? This castle were all 'e 'ad, ye know! An' it weren't even his! He were like a lonely ol' dog, lyin' on a grave. Wi' never an idea!"

To Madeleine's astonishment, a wobbly tear squeezed itself out of Jenny Talbot's eye and began feeling its way through the downy hairs on her cheek. She took a long pensive look around the bailey. When she spoke again, it was as though she'd forgotten Madeleine was there.

"Might as well tie yourself to a tree and try to protect it from winter." A moment later, though, she turned a stern motherly look on Madeleine.

"There's a lesson 'ere, ye know! For all of us! To lift our 'eads up now an' again! See if where we are an' what we're doin' makes good sense! See if there might be somethin' better we're overlookin'! Not like a change o' direction means the end o' the world, is it!"

She wiped away the tear and sighed deeply. "But there ye go! Half the people are blind an' t'other half are invisible. So who are we to judge, eh? Sittin' 'ere on our arses, goin' nowhere! Who are we?"

And she too wandered off.

Small groups of villagers began drifting out of the castle – three, five, ten at a time – heading out and home. None seemed to notice her until her parents and Annie appeared. Gwilym came straight to her and, with uncharacteristic gentleness, lifted her in his arms. But instead of heading for the gate, he turned back into the castle. Over his shoulder she glimpsed Gwenith and Anwen, walking away arm in arm.

"She's asked for ye," Gwilym said, anticipating her question. "An' Maudie says it's alright. That's all I know."

The Great Hall had emptied out, leaving only Jack Sorespot, Maude, the Cunning Woman and her two semi-conscious patients. And the deep silence that stone makes on its journey into dust. Without a word, Gwilym lowered Madeleine onto a bench beside the Cunning Woman, turned and wandered away to a distant table – out of hearing, but not out of sight. The moment he was settled, Myfanwy began speaking, as though the conversation was already half over.

"This one," she said, indicating the still form of Roger Ringworm, "was deeply cut. Ye know what to use if the wound opens again?"

Madeleine frowned, looked closely at the boy. "Soldier's woundwort?"

Myfanwy nodded. "Good. You watch. See that he lives. And that one!" She indicated the twitching form of Brenton. "That one is made of oak and iron. He'll live no matter what. But the lungs might give 'im some worry. Use fenugreek. Boil it with the roots of hollyhock and lily. Crush in some snails. You'll remember?"

And to Madeleine's nod she said, "Of course you will. And this one," she indicated Jack who sat beside Roger with his back to them, "you don't have to worry about. This one is a free man. And free men make their own choices. What will you do, Free Man?" she asked of Jack. He looked over his shoulder at her, thought to speak, then shook his head. "He knows," Myfanwy said. "He knows but won't tell. Free men can keep their own counsel."

She fell silent. They were all silent. Some silences are comfortable. This one seemed to Madeleine to be reaching into her throat, tugging at her vocal cords. When she could stand it no longer, she said, "My da' said you wanted to see me."

Myfanwy shook her head lightly. "I've always been able to see you, Madeleine! Through her eyes." She gestured to Maude who had leaned to whisper to Jack. "I don't need ye here for that. Ye're here so that you can see." Again she fell silent and again the silence stretched, taut as the skin around a goose bump.

"What?" Madeleine asked, with growing exasperation. "What am I s'posed to see?"

Myfanwy turned slightly on the bench and looked closely into Madeleine's eyes, as though looking for a hidden joke. "Your task, girl! Your purpose! What else?"

Madeleine shook her head and felt anger rising up in her gorge. She gestured toward Brenton and Roger.

"That's my task?"

Myfanwy's bemused gaze became that of a person who expects to see a light of understanding flicker on – the solution to a riddle suddenly dawning. There was no dawn in Madeleine's mind.

"An' when they're up an' goin', then what? I settle into a lifetime o' boilin' 'erbs an' settin' bones here in Clun?"

Myfanwy's gaze was impassive. "Would it be the end of the world?"

Madeleine immediately heard the echo of Jenny Talbot's words. 'See if what you're doing makes good sense. Not like a change of direction would be the end of the world.' A nice enough sentiment, she supposed. But Jenny had also said something else – something that struck closer to Madeleine's being.

"En't gonna know if it's the end o' the world am I? Not 'til it's too late! Mrs Talbot says half the world is blind, an' t'other half's invisible! An' I don' even know which half I'm in!"

Although, she supposed, in the end it hardly mattered. The fear and the anger might wash out of her but the hollow, confused sense of incompleteness would probably always be there. She looked up to find Myfanwy smiling warmly.

"The blind half," the old woman said, her eyes sparkling with secrets. "Yer in the blind 'alf, Maddie. Everyone starts there."

She took Madeleine's hand and opened it into a shallow cup which she laid like an offering in her own larger hand, leaving the lines on Madeleine's palm open to view.

"Ye have a healer's touch, girl. And a good head. Ye can learn. But first ye 'ave to choose."

She ran a finger along the lifeline, long, deep and, as she'd known it would be, involved with many smaller lines. She moved to the heart line which corkscrewed uncertainly, but remained unbroken.

"Stories for another time," she said. "After a time o' peace."

She put a hand over Madeleine's eyes and almost instantly, behind that warm, fragrant touch, a tiny vibration began to stir – as though a hive of tranquil, humming bees had materialized in her mind. She felt herself lift like a feather of down; lift from the seat, from her clothes, from the hall, until she lost all contact with the earth. She imagined herself a fish, drifting in a river's current, caught in the lull between heartbeats, with every freckle, every pore, every pale scar, every follicle of hair, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head held in undisturbed quiet. So total a sensation that there was no sensation. Only a single, vast, slow, ancient pulse.

"No need for hurry," she heard Myfanwy say, and she knew it was true.

Outside, the blue cold of winter was beginning to settle and the wind to peel snow from the mountaintops. Harvest Home was past. The animals and plants were slowing and beginning to curl in on themselves. The first day of November – All Souls Day – in the old order was the start of the winter season of Samhain. A time to reflect on the cycling of life and death. A time to put aside fears and to remember that the summer would come again.

* * * *

For the second morning in a row, Madeleine awoke, startled, in her own bed. The weight of her body against the ground was instantly oppressive. She clawed her way upright, twisted about in panic. In the distance were the unmistakable sounds of the town; nearer, the buzz of milk into a bowl. Someone was milking the goat.

Hobbling out, she found Gwilym, sitting on a stool, head propped on the goat's rump, working the udders. He glanced up at her, but didn't interrupt his work. Even in the grey light, Madeleine could see that his eyes were softer than she'd seen them in a long while.

"Where's everybody?" she asked.

"Up in the Great Hall, nursin' them boys. The Cunnin' Woman said it was too soon to move 'em. Says you'll know when."

"Me? Isn't she . . . ?"

"Gone. Wanted to be out o' the Marches before the snow came, she said. Snow's comin' tonight, she said."

Madeleine looked around in confusion. "Why am I . . . ? How did . . . ?"

"I brought ye, Maddie. Jus' wanted ye to wake up in yer own 'ome. Besides which, I had some thinkin' to do. An' I do that best 'ere." He gave each of the udders a last tug and sat back. She saw no option but to follow his lead.

"What ye thinkin' about, da'?"

Gwilym put the milk bowl on the table and unfolded himself slowly, gingerly reaching his arms toward the roof, bending from side to side, stretching the muscles in his back.

"Thinkin' about . .!" The stretch ended with a great sigh. His arms dropped and his head fell forward but his gaze wandered distractedly about the room. "Thinkin' about Clun, I guess, for one thing!" He began, affectionately, to stroke the goat's ears. "Not worth much thinkin', some folk'd say – little place like this!" He bent and spoke directly into the animal's ear. " 'At's not what you'd say though, is it, goat? Clun's the whole world to you, innit?" He still didn't look at Madeleine, but she was aware that he was building to something. "You said . . . t'other day, you said I was scared. Scared to listen . . . case I might have to do somethin' different. Case things might have to change."

"I'm sorry, da'! It was just stubbornness talkin', you know that! There's nothin' in the world scares you! Not knights wi' swords! Not even Owain Glydndwr!"

"Aye, well . . . sometimes it's hard to separate bein' brave from bein' stupid, Mad'. But you were right. I was scared! I am scared! Scared-er today 'n' I was yesterday! I don' know what's gonna happen to Clun, Maddie; what wi' Sir Roland turnin' 'is back on us! At least when Mister Rowe was in the castle, we could put responsibility on 'im, ye know? Even if no lords ever came! But wi'out 'im. . . I jus' ent sure 'ow we're gonna go."

"Da'!" There was, she saw, a tinge of panic in his eyes. "It's just a new thing, da'! Somethin' to make the best of! Not the end o' the world! You ask the Cunnin' Woman. Well, I guess ye can't ask 'er. . . but ask Maudie! She's next best thing, I reckon. She can tell ye!"

"Oh, aye, well maybe I'll do that. Meantime, o' course, t'other thing I'm thinkin' about . . . is you."

"Yeah, well. I'm alright, ye know. I mean, Clun's still far away from everythin' but . . . it's still part of everythin' too, innit! I reckon if nothin' else come outta this past week, at least I figured that out!"

"Girl!" he laughed. "I reckon we all figured that out! It's just . . . one o' the things I always loved 'bout Clun was, it was out o' the way! Safe! As near to bein' predictable as anythin' can be! An' I wanted to keep it that way, for you 'n' yer sisters 'n' yer ma 'n' everyone else livin' 'ere! Problem is, though, what I want 'n' what 'appens . . . ent always the same thing." He drew a deep breath.

"Sorry, da'. I ain't bin easy, I know! Ma says I'm 'er questionin' girl. Born on Childermas – December twenty-eight. Days don't come no unluckier, do they?"

Gwilym snorted softly. "No they do not! But yer a Thursday child as well, ye know! 'Wednesday's child is full o' woe, an' Thursday's child has far to go.' So what I'm thinkin' now is . . . if ye got far to go . . . maybe yer questionin' makes sense! How else ye gonna figure out . . . proper directions? So no! It ent a time for bein' sorry. It's a time for gettin' ready!" He paused again and finally got around to looking directly at her.

"So, I jus' want you 'n' me to 'ave a new start, see? Ye aren't a child no more an', in some ways, ye aren't even mine no more. No, nor Clun's, neither! So I jus' wanna say, whatever it is . . . whatever ye're waiting for . . . wherever ye're goin', for better'r worse, I know it's jus' gonna be that way. But I'd like it if . . . ye'd be here, wi' us . . . part of our family . . . 'til yer ready."

She listened for a long, strenuous time to the quiet that followed. Gwilym and the goat both waited and watched. Then, indistinctly but definitely, far away behind her eyes, she heard the tranquil humming of summer bees. And she smiled.

* * * *

There is little more to tell in this part of Madeleine's story. Sir Roland, Sir Perceval, Marie, Lady Joan, Silent Richard, Jeremy, Eustace – none of them ever came back to Clun. But before Christmas, Jack Sorespot would limp out of the forest, shivering, exhausted and hungry. He had helped to bury the greatest man he would ever know. He had shed the greatest weight of his grieving. And he had come back for his friend, Roger Ringworm. Maude had told Madeleine he was coming, two full days before he actually arrived in Clun. "An' he'll be 'ere for a long, long while," she'd added with a shy smile.

By Saint Valentines Day, Brenton was healed in both body and mind. No longer the shy distant hermit, he brought laughter back into the reeve's house with his silly impromptu songs and his obvious love for Anwen.

By May, a new prince had been born in London, to Queen Katherine. On the last day of August, England's greatest king, Henry the fifth, died of a fever, leaving his un-winnable war to rage on without him. On a day in September, Maude found Madeleine and insisted that they walk together. She guided her over the little bridge, across and back. "Today," she said, "is the day it works. We come back wiser."

To Madeleine's consternation, she was then made to sit on the bridge's rail to wait. "Waitin' – keepin' yer eyes open – they're the hardest parts," Maude insisted. An hour passed. Two hours. Then a man came walking out of Wales. It was Meredydd Glyndwr – Tom the Sharpener – and before All Souls Day came again, he would take Madeleine away from Clun into the great world.

In the days before they left, Maude, whose sight had become ever more vigorous and far-ranging, showed Madeleine one last surprise. In the mist of centuries, it was a view of the remnants of Clun Castle, a ruin of fallen stones. But the town, they saw, remained – still home to the people of the West Country. And the little river still wound its way down to the sea.

###

The History

The town of Clun was, and is, a remote town in Shropshire, in the west of England. The castle at Clun was one of a cordon of English fortresses built to aid in the maintenance of 'order' in the dangerous and unstable Welsh Marches. Clun Castle was built by the FitzAlan family, the heads of which had become, by the period of this novel, synonymous with the powerful lordship of Arundel. Records suggest that the lands in Shropshire had passed into the hands of a sister of Thomas FitzAlan, the 12th Earl of Arundel, who had died in 1415. Margaret Lenthall was one of three possibilities.

To some extent, the castle's fate was connected with that of the real-life Welsh aristocrat and scholar, Owain Glyndwr, whose lands and titles had been confiscated by the English. One of the many targets in his subsequent highly successful guerilla military campaign was Clun Castle, sacked around 1404. Shortly thereafter, both he and the castle disappeared from history. My version of his fate is entirely fictional, his real fate being a mystery.

Other contemporary historical figures include the following.

1. Glyndwr's son, Maredydd. He was invited by King Henry V to find Owain and make known an offer of amnesty. Maredydd himself accepted the amnesty in 1421, suggesting that Owain had died by then. Some sources suggest Owain might have died several years before this. The 'Plant Owain', or Children of Owain, were close followers of Glyndwr during the successful years of his campaign.

2. Lady Joan de Beaufort. Her romance with the long-imprisoned Scottish prince, James Stewart, would lead to his release and her coronation as his Queen in Scotland. I have added two years to her age and brought the date of their meeting ahead by two years.

3. Perceval de Coucy-Gines. He was the bastard son of Enguerrand de Coucy, one of the 14th century's most renowned knights. For information on this man, I am completely reliant on Barbara Tuchman's "A Distant Mirror".

4. Elizabeth Douglas. She was a daughter of the legendary Scottish campaigner, Archibald Douglas. The gathering in Clun is entirely a product of my imagination.

This story is 115,000 words in length and took some hundreds of hours to write. It cost you nothing. If you enjoyed any part of it – plot, a character, the writing – please take five minutes to return to the download site at Smashwords and leave 10 or 15 words of review. Much appreciated.

Other works by this author, available for free at Smashwords:

Sugar Town – a story of intrigue in a small Australian town.

Neville The Less – a boy learning to cope with his war-damaged father

Connections – short tales of contemporary life in Australia

