Children of Clun

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