Crown in Candlelight (63 page)

Nick has offered me a doctor. I told him I had scant faith in doctors, that from all accounts a doctor hastened King Henry’s death at Vincennes. Then Nick wanted to hear about Vincennes, and the river-journey (which was mostly hearsay to me anyway), so I started, lovely and poetic, and had another seizure at the best part, and fell gasping to the floor. Nick is demented. He must love me very much. Soon he will see what love can do.

Now it’s night. I can rest. I am going to indulge my mind, and think of her, and of our next embrace. It’s like going to Hertford with the harps; the very first time I set foot in that beloved place. The dream is near.

Where shall I begin,
fy merch fach
, my love, my own, my dear delight? At your toes? No—too soon after poor Alison’s raw feet … I’ll start at your hair. In the centre of your brow where the parting begins the skin is whitest and shines like a star. I’ve spread your hair out, in its great darkness, rippling with a few prisms of copper and blue in fire or sun or candlelight. One or two tendrils lie across your neck and breast. I’m going too fast. You pluck your brows very fine. Perfect high crescents, they give you an imperious look at times. The little scar above your left ear, that’s where you fell down the stairs at Poissy and cut your temple on a holywater stoup. Dame Alphonse cried for an hour because you’d hurt yourself, and because Belle would be furious. Your beautiful elegant nose. There! I’ve kissed it, once more. Your long glossy eyes, I’ve seen them filled with tears, loving you, I’ve opened my eyes and seen the snow melting when we reach the peak of the mountain. Oh, Cathryn, you’re fire and silk … I didn’t mean my thoughts to go this far. I only meant to look.

I can taste the smile on your long shining lips. When you walk away and look back once with your long neck arched and that smile and the sad, gleaming, wanton eye, it turns my heart over. And nothing can keep me from you, not locked doors, nor bars, nor chains. Your eyes, more beautiful than the thrice-mewed hawk, your breasts whiter than the bog-cotton where it grows by the river … my Olwen. My Cathryn. I love you. Be patient. Just a little longer. The dream is near.

Put your arms round me. Your left arm round my waist, your right arm round my neck. My right hand in your hair, my left hand pressing you to me low where your back arches—they say that’s the true sign of a loving woman, that deep arch in the back. I should know. Now let me kiss you. Very slowly, I’ll melt open your lips, then take your whole mouth within my own. All kiss now, we are. You love to be kissed. I love kissing. My face must be very pale. Good. If Nickson looks in he’ll think me worse. We hang on this kiss, it makes us shake like wind-shocked trees. Time is slowing down. Where’s that place on your neck … I think I’ve made a permanent imprint there, like a strawberry. And the place just below your right breast, where your keen ribs begin. Down, and down, you’re so sweet all over, like the taste of the sea in the cove. Don’t tremble so, my darling. It’s only foolish old Meredyth, your renegade jailbird lover, a common felon. No! It’s Owen ap Meredyth ap Tydier, Esquire, your tried and chosen mate. Your husband.
Am byth
, Cathryn.
Toujours
, Owen.

I can see you clearly. Cathryn, you’re here! I’ve brought you into this cell, my dear dear child, my beloved wife. Soul of my bliss.
Cariad
. I love you. Soon, now. Soon.

My death will be well-timed, for I’m running out of tales. When you and I are safe in Glyn Dwr country I will send a letter to Glewlwyd Mighty-Grasp, telling him he has missed the best story of all.

God keep you, dearest dream, until we are in each other’s arms, when we shall have need neither of gods nor men.

Oh, my Cathryn.

The seabird was flying east, seeking a harbour inland from the storms blowing up off Bristol; the pattern of its great white wings was leisured and confident. It dipped to rest and feed at the Wye and the Severn, then flew steadily on towards London’s great river. The keen wind spurred and deflected its flight; at one time it converged with and followed the small company riding south-east through the late January day. There were about a score of men, with spare horses galloping alongside on leading reins. It was a hard, quiet, dedicated ride. The hoofbeats were softened by the thin powdery snow. The only other sounds were the chinking bridles, the creak of leather and the occasional terse words that passed between the men. They had left behind the worst of the weather, where snow was piled like cumulus on the mountains of Powys, on the Berwyn range and the giant shape of Mynydd y Cemais. Faces were muffled to the eyes in wool; the men wore light half-armour and each carried his chosen weapon. Some of them were too young to remember the old days of Glyn Dwr’s rebellion but a race memory roared within them and they rode proudly, glad of the chance to strike one tiny token blow against the Saeson. Although they expected no fighting, even those who had never seen the man towards whom they rode were willing to die for him, because they shared his blood. These were the tough mountain men of Powysland, men who could weep for a song yet kill with one expert thrust, coax silver from the harp yet chop and hack and ambush if necessary before the last note had faded. These were the ones of rebel strain, the poets, the lovers, the killers. Softly and swiftly they rode, coming like a wolf-pack over the border and southwards on to London. Huw rode in the forefront, his eyes grim and aching above his muffler.

The sky was clear, pale blue in places; the sun declining as they entered the snow-laced forests skirting the city. The leader bared his face and smiled, his teeth white among his black beard and moustaches. We’re in good time, he said to Huw. You’re a fine guide, boy. And Huw said, shivering: ‘We are too early!’

‘Better early than late.’ The company reined in within the heart of the forest. Steam rose from the horses. Will it snow? someone asked, and the swarthy man, Theodor, squinted up to where the sun was firing the whitened treetops and a cold little star had appeared. No, it will be fine, he said. There’s the thaw coming. Clumps of melted snow slid from the branches and dropped softly around them in the clearing where they waited.

‘That was a great performance he gave, that night at Windsor,’ said Howell ap Llewellyn, shaking damp from his beard. ‘
Duw!
It’s a crime …’ None answered. There was no answer.

At that moment the seabird joined them, its wings waving languidly overhead, tired near the end of its long flight. One of the younger men, unable to resist so sure a target, fitted a bolt into the springald he carried. He fired straight and true into the pale sky silver with reflections of sun and snow. The bird’s body was pierced clean. Its wings folded gracefully and it plummeted through the branches, bringing down a small avalanche and falling into a snowdrift. Its own weight entombed it. White within white, invisible in death. From a distance a bell began to sound for Vespers.

‘It’s time,’ said the leader. He leaned and clapped Huw on the shoulder. ‘Take us to him.’

They rode on, cloaked, weapons hidden, rode bunched together like all the other companies of merchants and travellers making their way home into the city. They came to Newgate and waited, dispersing a little to ride unobtrusively up and down, in and out of the gathering shadows, while the snowlight gleamed in their eyes and the cold little star was joined by another and another, and the white roofs blushed under the dying sun.

Within the jail, Nickson had thrown caution away, and had locked himself in with his charge. He sat on the side of Owen’s plank bed. The Welshman’s lips were blue, his face like ash. A terrible groan made Nickson leap up. He found himself muttering: ‘Don’t die, for Jesus’ sake, don’t die. You cannot die. You must stay here for ever and let me drink your life, your experiences. You are all I am not, all I ever wanted to be …’ The Welshman was clawing at his heart, his eyes tightly shut. Nickson looked round wildly. In his frenzy he had neglected to fasten the door connecting the passage and the main jail. Alison was hanging about. Nickson shouted at her. She pouted and wandered off to stand beneath the torchlight at the entrance to the main jail.

Owen’s eyes opened, dull where they had been so bright. He began to gasp, long intakes of tortured breath. He was holding his left arm. He said weakly: ‘Nick. Ah, Nick.’

‘Master Meredyth! For Christ’s sake! What is it?’

‘Help me, Nick. I’m dying.’

‘No, no!’ Nickson cried. ‘You’ll be well. Just lie quiet.’

‘Nick,’ he said through his teeth. ‘We’ve been friends …’

‘I’ll get a doctor.’ The keeper started for the door. A terrible groan halted him midway.

‘For the love of God! I must have a priest! I’ve led an evil life … killed men, lied, I’ve lain with women. A priest …’

‘I’ll get one.’ Nickson fumbled with keys, their great weight dragged at his belt. He locked the cell behind him and ran through into the main jail where the prisoners were sitting or lying in apathy and the jailers were stoning the rats. Alison was making her bed, spreading straw about, he nearly tripped over her as he ran, rushing through the gatehouse and unlocking the outer door. There, as usual, stood the priest, hands folded, head as usual bowed in prayer. Near him stood the Welshman’s servant.

‘Father!’ Nickson seized the priest’s bony arm, drawing him inside. Huw slipped in beside them, and the keeper said: ‘Oh,
you’re
here … your master’s sick. For God’s sake, come … do what you can.’

They went through to where Owen lay. Nickson locked all four of them inside the cell. Huw fell on his knees beside the bed. The priest took out his crucifix. Owen looked deep into Huw’s eyes. They were full of tears.
Annwyl Crist!
he thought. Something’s gone amiss. The priest bent over him, masking his face from the jailer. Owen frowned savagely at Huw. He whispered, barely framing the words: ‘What’s wrong?’

Tears ran down Huw’s face. Owen thought: how tired he looks, but shaped his lips again almost in silence, saying: ‘Are they here?’ and Huw whispered incoherently: ‘
All
. I saw the witchwoman … her fox bit me!’

Praise God. He got to Glyndyfrdwy. Nickson was shuffling nearer. Owen began to groan and mutter at the priest, watching the cadaverous face, the knowing eyes. The priest said sharply to Huw and the jailer: ‘Stand back! I must hear his confession!’ and began praying. He raised the crucifix, a blessing, a signal, and began another rapid salvo of prayer. Owen expelled every ounce of breath from his lungs and lay still.

The priest touched him on the forehead and turned to face the others. ‘This man is dead,’ he said soberly. ‘For the love of God, open the door of this vile place to give his spirit passage!’

Nickson turned the key and flung the cell door wide. Then he took the few steps to where Owen lay. The eyes were half open. He could see a thread of white, a glimpse of pupil. You died, he thought disgustedly. How dare you die! He bent closer with a vague idea of trying to fathom what had been so entrancing about that face, and so greedy for more stories that he would have torn the dead lips open to get at them … and later, much later, explaining himself away to the Constable, the justiciars, and to Gloucester’s henchmen, he found himself saying: ‘Sirs, he was dead! I saw him dead! I swear it!’ He had never seen anything, bird or beast or man, move so fast. Faster than a whip uncoiling, Owen came up off the bed and had him by the throat, crying: ‘Huw! the keys!’

Huw dived for the belt, but the keys were latched tight on to the ring. Nickson kicked and lashed out, catching Huw a hard blow on the side of the head. Owen felt his hands losing their grip, thought:
Duw!
he’s stronger than I dreamed, prison has weakened me, and hung desperately on the jailer’s throat, with his two broken fingers hooked behind the man’s ear, hearing the priest cry: ‘Hurry!’ as he stood in the open doorway of the cell. Nickson’s face was turning claret, but still he struggled and kicked and struck, twisting, dragging Owen down on to the bed, rolling on him, then being rolled on. The bed collapsed; they fell to the floor with the keys crushed beneath the two flailing bodies and Huw tearing at the jailer’s belt, cursing, and the priest hissing: ‘Be swift!’ and Alison waiting at the entrance to the passage, listening and trembling and afraid. Owen felt the strength leaving his hands. The jailer spat in his face, temporarily blinding him. Then suddenly he felt all resistance cease and saw Huw’s knife-hilt protruding from Nickson’s side and the keys in the boy’s hand. You’ve killed him,
bach
. A sacrifice. Aerfen has had her blood-gift.

The priest rushed over and hauled Owen upright, thrusting Huw before him to the door. They ran from the cell together, not looking back to see Nickson crawl upright and hold his wound in utter disbelief. As they raced along the passage, Alison set the jail on fire.

Over the days she had hoarded new straw. Her face was scratched bloody over battles for its possession. She had stolen chips of pitch from the torches and fat from the rushlights. She had torn up her ragged underclothes and mixed them with the straw. And all day she had meandered up and down the jail wall on the dry side, away from the drain, strewing the mixture, adding little billets of wood. The other inmates had laughed at her. Another victim of jail-madness. She had ignored them, carrying on with her privileged task.
R’wy’n dy garu di
, Master Meredyth. And now, leaping high, she seized a torch from its sconce and threw it at her carefully prepared trail of combustion. The straw exploded and a wall of flame blossomed the length of the jail. Panic erupted. Women screamed like slaughtered pigs, people ran from the blazing area knocking one another down, while the rats came out from the burning straw with their fur on fire, spreading trails of flame as they dived for the safety of the drain. The jailers, half-blinded and choking, rushed to douse the fire. Owen and Huw and the priest came through along the burning side; sparks and red-hot wisps scorched their clothing. They saw Alison, standing quite still, smiling against the already dying flames. They ran through the gatehouse and unlocked the doors and they were out. Not only free of Newgate but of the City itself. The sun was nearly down and quite soon the gates of London would be closing.