Sleeper’s Castle: An epic historical romance from the Sunday Times bestseller. Barbara Erskine
as his word. She had found the ashes of the parchment in the hearth.
Now he was full of plans and he distracted her from her worries with reminders that time was growing short. In May they would be departing on their annual progress through the border counties betwixt and between England and Wales to visit his various patrons, and they needed to plan their route.
Usually they left on or around the Feast of St Glywys, relishing the lovely May weather, riding sometimes a few miles a day, other times staying a week or more in one place, but this year there was a problem from the start. Roger Miller would not go with them. The son of Dafydd’s former steward had for the last few years accompanied them, leading their pack mule and acting as escort as they traversed the wild, often dangerous and inhospitable roads and trackways between the towns and villages and lonely manors and castles on their route. Since his father’s dismissal it seemed he was no longer available and for several weeks Dafydd pondered the situation. He could not abandon their trip, that was out of the question, and he was growing increasingly worried and irritated until Joan made a tentative suggestion. Her younger brother Edmund could accompany them.
A few months before, it seemed, Edmund’s wife of only a year had died in childbirth, as had their little son. His father-in-law had made it clear that with three sons of his own there was no longer a place for Edmund under his roof; another pair of hands to help was the last thing he needed, and an extra mouth to feed was an unnecessary burden. With daughter and grandson gone and no ties to hold them together, sadly but firmly he had sent Edmund home to Hardwicke.
It would do him good, Joan said with a combination of sisterly bossiness and devotion, to spend the summer far away; the money he earned would be invaluable as their father had told him there would not be a long-term future for him at Hardwicke either. The farm could not support two sons indefinitely. The elder son, Richard, and his wife were anxious for Edmund to go away and decide on a future career. The tour up the border March as Dafydd and Catrin’s escort would give him the perfect opportunity to escape family pressures for a few months.
Dafydd and Catrin had known Edmund since he was a boy – he was the same age as Catrin, both of them two years younger than Joan. They hadn’t seen him since his short-lived marriage, and the idea seemed sound. He was fit and strong, always an advantage in a bodyguard, and he was well mannered. He would do. Catrin had never particularly liked him, but she shared her father’s opinion that he was trustworthy. And it was not as though they had any choice. There was no one else who would be able to abandon their work to travel around for the next five months.
The day of their departure was not as pleasant as they had hoped. Thick cloud had descended over the mountains and a soft rain was falling as Catrin and her father mounted, she on her hill pony, he on his old Welsh cob, and rode away from the house to begin the long journey northwards. Edmund strode behind them, a staff in his hand, his hunting bow on his back, a sword and dagger at his waist, leading the pack mule. Joan and Betsi had promised yet again to tend Catrin’s herbs and Joan had unbent enough to hug her brother as she bade him farewell.
Their first planned stop was Painscastle. They passed outside the town walls of Hay, carefully forded the broad River Wye, rode past Clyro Castle and on up the steep wooded track towards the high wild hills and moorland of The Begwyns.
The wind was cold, whispering through the bracken and heather. Once or twice the mist lifted, showing distant hazy views towards the Black Mountains and the distant Beacons, then it drifted back, enclosing them once more.
It was midday when Dafydd’s cob stumbled and nearly fell. The horse’s hoof had slipped on the stones of the downward track towards Painscastle and almost at once it was obvious that the animal couldn’t go on. Climbing stiffly from the saddle, Dafydd stared at it in helpless frustration. They were miles from anywhere. The wet mist clung to their hair and faces; they could see no more than a few yards ahead.
As Edmund bent to run his hands down the cob’s leg Dafydd eyed the young man critically. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ he asked brusquely.
Edmund glanced up at him from under his cap. It was still raining. ‘Aye, Master Dafydd. It’s only a sprain but she can’t carry you further for a day or so.’
On her own pony Catrin shivered violently. She glanced around, trying to see through the mist. It was only the cloud, lying low over the higher ground, but it was cold and it was wet, penetrating her cloak, settling on her hood, dripping from the loose strands of hair which had escaped her coif. She transferred her gaze to Edmund, watching his hands run up and down the mare’s leg. The animal nuzzled him. She could hear him crooning gently in his throat to soothe it, his long strong fingers almost coaxing the heat from the swollen pastern joint. She shivered and looked away. For a moment, just a moment, she had imagined how those hands would feel on her own body. The thought infuriated her. ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ Her voice was sharper than she intended.
He glanced up. He was a handsome enough young man, tall, broad-shouldered, his weathered face still marked with the ravages of grief. It was, after all, barely four months since his wife and child had died, leaving him bereft. He gave Catrin a rueful smile. His eyes were hazel, their expression gentle as he turned his attention back to the horse. ‘We can’t do anything. She needs a day’s rest. How far are we from our destination?’ He had been employed as an escort, not a guide.
It was Dafydd who replied. ‘A mile or so, no more.’
‘Then I suggest we transfer your saddle to the mule, Master Dafydd, and you can ride him,’ Edmund said calmly. ‘I will put the panniers on the cob here. She can manage that easily and I will lead her.’
Catrin was watching the horse rub her head up and down his shoulder. She seemed to have complete faith in him even if, judging by his face, her father didn’t. They had no option though. Dafydd stood beside his daughter’s pony and watched as Edmund deftly lifted the saddle from the injured animal and replaced it with the panniers containing their worldly goods. He put the saddle on the mule, who tossed his head in irritation but did not object further when Edmund offered his knee for Dafydd’s foot and boosted him onto the saddle.
Catrin glanced round as the men fussed with stirrups and harness. There could be an army of footpads out there in the mist; Elfael was famous for its highwaymen, its outlaws. She shuddered.
Edmund sensed her unease. As he settled the other two horses he glanced across at her. ‘We are safe here,’ he said. ‘I don’t sense danger and nor do the animals.’
She felt herself frowning at him. ‘And can you talk to the animals then, to know that?’
He gave a cheery grin. ‘In a way. I understand them and they understand me. Don’t be afraid. We are safe here and your father says we are not too far from our goal.’
She scowled.
She had no faith in her father’s estimate of where they were any more than in anything else he had said about this trip. How could he know which part of the path they were on when the mist enfolded them like a shroud? She was tempted to try to command the mist to lift. Efa had taught her well. The magic worked. Usually. But the woman had warned her never to do it in front of others and Catrin was nervous of ever letting her father see. She knew instinctively he would be angry. She picked up her reins reluctantly.
Edmund moved back to the injured mare and quietly coaxed her into a walk. Dafydd urged the mule on behind him and Catrin had no choice but to move into line.
She gave another glance round, still shivering. The mist was white and cold and opaque; there was no sign of life out there, at least for the moment. Even as the thought crossed her mind a wild scream echoed towards them out of the fog. Catrin gasped with fear. The horses stopped, their ears back, staring round. Edmund soothed the injured cob and glanced back. He caught Catrin’s eye and smiled. ‘Only the cry of an eagle,’ he said.
Andy woke with a start, her heart thundering under her ribs. She lay staring at the window. She had left the curtains open and she could see the moonlight shining on the leaves of the climbing rose on the wall outside. The room was silent. She couldn’t even hear the brook now, but that unearthly shriek had shaken