Читать книгу Sleeper’s Castle: An epic historical romance from the Sunday Times bestseller - Barbara Erskine - Страница 18

There had been a long discussion about whether to change their plans and go north to Ruthin. Sir Reginald Grey, the Lord of Dyffryn Clwyd was not a popular man in the area and especially not with his southern neighbour the Lord of Glyndŵr with whom he had a long and festering legal dispute.

‘But Lady Grey specifically invited us!’ Catrin argued. The Lady of Ruthin had been a guest at the last manor house they had visited and she had taken to Catrin. The two women had talked and laughed and Catrin had played her harp long into the night when the ladies had withdrawn to their hostess’s chamber. As was usual, Catrin was regarded as a fount of information. News and gossip was the mainstay of the travelling community’s stock in trade, each household’s occupants, as they moved on, eager to hear the latest information from the last. Catrin had long ago realised that this conversation was enjoyed as much by the ladies in their solars and bowers as was her harp playing. She was not entirely comfortable with this process but she recognised it was a way of paying for their food and board as much as her father’s news and songs and poems were valued down in the main hall.

On this occasion she had felt her father’s eyes watch her as the womenfolk left the hall. Of late he had seemed less than happy to see her so much accepted in her own right for her talent and now he was actually frowning.

When they left the manor a few days later, she asked him why.

‘I do not want you to associate with the Greys,’ was all he said.

‘But why? I liked her enormously.’ Catrin flashed to her new friend’s defence.

‘I am sure she is a commendable woman,’ was his response, through tight lips. ‘Her husband is not.’

‘Her husband is rich and powerful. We would be well rewarded if we went to Ruthin Castle,’ she retorted.

‘Her husband is the mortal enemy of the Lord of Glyndŵr, who we go to see next.’ The legal wrangle between the men had not been addressed in the courts in London, where it had been deemed of no importance, and Lord Glyndŵr had ridden back to Wales in a fury. Dafydd had picked up the news along the way; his daughter had obviously missed it.

Catrin paused. Lord Glyndŵr was one of her father’s most generous and kind patrons. They had planned to spend a week or more with him and his family before turning south on the long weary trek home.

‘We needn’t tell them where we had been,’ she said at last, on the defensive. ‘He would never know.’

‘No, Catrin.’

‘I promised,’ she muttered. ‘I gave her my word. I liked her.’ She glanced at Edmund, but if she thought she would find support there she was mistaken. He and she were barely talking and now as he tested the cob’s girth and held the stirrup, waiting for Dafydd to mount, he was staring out of the gate towards the distant hills, seemingly uninterested in their conversation.

‘One day at most,’ Catrin pleaded. ‘It is almost on the way.’

‘It is a day’s ride in the wrong direction.’ Her father set his jaw.

‘She promised me a bag of silver coins.’ Catrin hated herself for her wheedling tone. ‘And it would be wrong to break my word.’

Dafydd swung up into his saddle. ‘It would be disloyal to the Glyndŵrs to keep it.’

‘Then perhaps I can go there on my own. What is he supposed to have done to them, anyway?’ She nudged her pony alongside his and with a last wave to the servants who were seeing them off they rode out under the courtyard archway with Edmund following behind.

‘It is a long story,’ Dafydd said.

‘We have plenty of time.’

Her father sighed.

She won the argument and the welcome they received from Lady Grey made their furious quarrel and the arduous journey worth it.

As their weary horses skirted the town walls of Ruthin and they made their way towards the castle, set on a high ridge above the river valley in its own rich parkland, the thought of food and rest and of a dry, comfortable bed was foremost in all their minds.

The castle was huge. They drew to a halt to gaze up at the vast red stone walls and towers, above the largest of which hung Sir Reginald’s blue, silver and red banner, rippling in the wind.

Edmund led them over the bridge which crossed the deep grassy moat, to the main gate in the outer wall. Accosted at once by a guard he glanced back uncertainly at Catrin. She rode up beside him. ‘I have come at the personal invitation of Lady Grey,’ she announced. As he led them under the raised portcullis and into the shadowy outer bailey she saw her father shiver.

That night she slept well. She had played and sung late, digging deep into her repertoire of ballads in Welsh and in English, playing her harp until she was exhausted and her fingers were raw. Her lodging was in the family’s private quarters where she shared a bed with two of Lady Grey’s maidens.

It was a comfortable bed and warm even though it lacked a tester and hangings. The Greys were moving south within the next few days, they were told, and already the private chambers of the lord and his wife were being stripped ready to be packed on the sumpter horses and heavy carts and transported to their next destination.

Waking at first light she lay still, staring up at the vaulted ceiling above her head, looking forward to the day ahead. There would be more stories and singing later and when they all gathered in the great hall for the main meal of the day maybe she would get the chance to sing to the whole household. She wasn’t sure how long they would stay, maybe a day or so more, and then they would turn south again to ride back towards the Glyndŵrs’ home at Sycharth. She snuggled down into the bed. It had all gone as she had hoped.

She couldn’t get back to sleep and as she lay there, trying not to move for fear of disturbing her bedfellows, she found herself going over in her head her father’s explanation of his reluctance to come here.

The Lord of Ruthin, was, according to her father, aggressive and acquisitive and had appropriated lands from his neighbours. Above all he had targeted the Lord of Glyndŵr, whose lands bordered his. ‘The man has lied and cheated and woven tales about Lord Owain at the king’s court,’ Dafydd had said angrily. ‘If you had been listening to the talk in the halls where we have stopped you would know the whole March is speculating about the situation. And on top of all that, Sir Reginald has now lied to the king, accusing the Lord Owain of being a traitor because, when the king summoned the men of the area to muster for his fight against Scotland, something Lord Glyndŵr had faithfully taken part in in the time of the old king, Grey deliberately failed to pass on the message so that Lord Owain is now held in contempt for not appearing on time! And Grey laughs up his sleeve at a trap cunningly laid and Lord Owain, who is a good and honourable man, is condemned.’

Catrin sighed. She had first met Lord Owain when her father had taken her to the Glyndŵrs’ home at Sycharth near Llansilin in the valley of the River Cynllaith three years before when King Richard had still been on the throne. It was one of the first times Dafydd had taken Catrin on his travels, and at only fifteen years old she had been full of nervous excitement. On that occasion too, it had been early September when they had found themselves riding wearily down the track that led to the home of the Glyndŵrs.

It was a beautiful timber-framed manor house, on a motte within a protective moat, elegant and well furnished, with a separate great hall built within the outer bailey. It boasted gardens and orchards and fish ponds, lying in a broad basin in the hills, sheltered by a steep wooded ridge to the east, and she and her father had spent several wonderful weeks as the family’s guests. She had sat with Margaret, the Lady of Glyndŵr, and two of her daughters, Catherine and Alys, talking and sewing and laughing, and she had sung to them accompanied by her own little harp and, to ensure the sun stayed shining, she had taught them one or two of her weather spells. She told them how to keep the sun steadfast in the sky, and how to make it rain and how to summon the mist down from the mountains. They had spent hours reciting her spells, flicking water drops at each other and fanning the roiling steam from water heated over the fire with special incantations and carefully chosen herbs to draw in the fog, giggling as they reached for their spindles or sewed by the fire, putting the formulae to the test. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Either way it had been one of the happiest times of her life, her first experience of a loving close family. Their own house, Sleeper’s Castle, much as she loved it, had seemed poor and rough by comparison.

That summer had been full of happiness, a happiness that for the Glyndŵrs had now been broken by the massive injustice done to Lord Owain by the Lord of Ruthin, the same Lord of Ruthin in whose castle she now slept. And she had brought them here. Her impetuous liking for the man’s wife and her insistence on the chance to display her talents to a new audience had overridden her father’s loyalty to his greatest and most devoted patron. The realisation made her feel like a traitor. She turned over in bed and closed her eyes.

She remembered Lord Owain as tall and handsome, a strong man of middle years with enormous charm who had taken her hand and smiled at her and listened to her when, overcome with shyness, she had stammered one of her own poems to him before the entire household in his hall one evening. They had cheered and whistled when she had finished and he had given her a plaited silver ring as a present. She had worn it ever since. She raised her hand up from beneath the covers to look at it now and felt another twinge of guilt. It was easy to understand why her father had not wanted to come here.

But on the other hand this was their livelihood. They could not afford to turn down invitations to perform for their rich patrons and she had liked Lady Grey so much. Like Margaret Glyndŵr she was kind and motherly and warm towards the lonely girl. With a groan she turned over again and punched her pillow.

Beside her Mary, one of Lady Grey’s personal maids, stirred and opened her eyes. She looked towards the window and seeing the wash of blue sky outside sat up, dragging the covers off the other two girls. ‘Catrin, Anne, wake up. It is morning. We must get dressed.’

Washing in ice-cold water carried up the winding staircase by a scullery maid, the three young women dressed amid much giggling, then the girls led the way to the solar on the first floor of the tower where their breakfast was laid out on a table. Lady Grey was there already. Her face was white and strained, her eyes puffy with lack of sleep.

‘I’m sorry, Catrin, but you have to leave as soon as you’ve eaten.’ She groped on the table for a small pouch and pressed it into Catrin’s hands. ‘A small recompense for your kindness in coming so far. I realise it was out of your way.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘God bless you, child.’ Without another word she turned and left the room.

Her maids looked at each other in dismay. ‘What’s happened?’ Mary, the younger, asked out loud. ‘Is something wrong?’

Catrin stared from Mary to her companion, hurt and frightened. ‘Perhaps I had better leave now,’ she said uncertainly.

‘She said to break your fast,’ Anne, the eldest, said firmly. ‘At least take a morsel of bread and a mug of small ale, then we’ll go down to the hall and find your father.’

There was no sign of Dafydd in the great echoing hall, nor in the private chambers of the tower. As Catrin grew increasingly worried, Anne and Mary searched for news of him. The place was empty. A few servants scurried to and fro, replenishing the fires in the two enormous fireplaces, scrubbing the trestles before stacking them at the side against the walls, until at last Catrin heard her name called.

‘Over here. We are leaving now.’ Edmund was standing in the doorway, clearly agitated.

‘What is it? What has happened?’ She ran over to him.

‘Your father has been taken ill.’ He saw Mary approach with two serving boys who were carrying Catrin’s saddlebags and her harp, hurriedly stowed in its protective bag. ‘Leave those. I’ll take them.’ He relieved the boys of their burden.

‘What’s wrong? Where is he?’ Catrin cried.

‘He’s with the horses, ready to go.’ Edmund bowed to Mary. ‘We take our leave, mistress.’

Mary smiled at him coyly. She stepped forward and gave Catrin a hug. ‘I hope your father is better soon.’

Catrin scurried out after Edmund. The outer bailey was busy, full of men and boys, horses and dogs, and she looked round for Lord Grey but there was no sign of him. Then she saw her father, already mounted, sitting slumped on his cob near the main gate.

‘Tad, what is it? What’s wrong?’ She ran towards him, with Edmund carrying her bags behind her.

‘Be quiet!’ It was Edmund. He turned on her furiously. ‘Say nothing. We are leaving now.’ He threw her packs over the mule’s rump and tucked the harp gently into one of the panniers, then he boosted her unceremoniously onto her pony’s saddle. Beckoning her to follow, he went to the head of her father’s horse and, taking the lead rein of the mule in his other hand, he led the way out beneath the great portcullis.

Catrin felt her cheeks stinging with embarrassment at his unceremonious treatment of her, aware of men watching and grinning as she rode across the cobbles. She looked back at the steps up to the tower doorway but there was no sign of Mary there.

‘South. We have to go south,’ Dafydd commanded hoarsely. ‘To Sycharth. I need to speak to Lord Glyndŵr.’

‘That’s where we planned to go next, anyway,’ Edmund retorted, his voice terse. ‘I have already ascertained the best route. We need to go back towards Llangollen first, then south through Glyn Ceiriog, to the east of the mountains. We should be there before dark.’

Dafydd turned on him, his eyes wild. ‘You told them where we were going?’

‘I wasn’t aware it was a secret, Master Dafydd,’ Edmund was on the defensive.

‘Not even when you heard the way the English were talking about Lord Owain last night?’

‘Edmund wasn’t with us last night,’ Catrin put in sharply. ‘If you remember he slept in the stables with the horses.’

Edmund grinned. ‘Not quite as basic as that. I was given a straw mattress and a brychan above the stables with the horse boys. It was warm and we fed well. I was comfortable, at least until I was called in to see to you—’ he broke off as he saw Dafydd’s face.

‘What is it, Tad, what is wrong?’ Catrin repeated.

‘What is wrong is that this part of the world seems to be on the brink of war,’ Dafydd snapped. ‘And that was my dream!’ He gathered his reins. ‘Or at least part of it.’ He kicked the cob into a trot.

The other two followed him in silence as they headed south across the treed parkland. It was a while before they spoke again. Catrin kicked her pony alongside the men. ‘So, are you going to tell me what happened? Why did we have to leave? Lady Grey had guests coming today. I was to play for them.’ Trying to swallow her disappointment she reined in her pony. ‘Stop!’ she shouted in frustration. ‘Tell me what has happened!’

Edmund halted the horses. He looked at Dafydd, who was slumped in the saddle, his face grey with exhaustion. ‘Will you tell her or shall I?’ His tone was bordering on the hostile.

Dafydd scowled at him. ‘I remember nothing,’ he said hoarsely.

Catrin slid from her pony’s saddle and pulled the reins over its head, hitching it to a tree. She looked grimly at Edmund. ‘You tell me.’

‘He had a dream.’ Edmund glanced at Dafydd.

Catrin’s heart sank. ‘What happened?’

‘I was sleeping in the great hall with a couple of dozen other men. At least, I thought I was sleeping,’ Dafydd said at last. ‘I was wrapped in my cloak. It had been a good evening. Sir Reginald never appeared. Nor did most of his household. They said he was away, as was his steward. It didn’t matter. There were others there. At first there was some hostility when they realised I was Welsh, but I sang in English and it went well. They enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. We settled down. I slept. I remember no more.’ He glanced at Edmund again.

Catrin’s eyes were fixed on his face. ‘That is not true, Father. You always remember your dreams,’ she snapped.

‘They told me he was snoring peacefully, but then he grew restless,’ Edmund put in. ‘Then he began to shout in his sleep. He was in great distress. They couldn’t wake him so someone came to fetch me.’ He hesitated. ‘I have never seen anything like it.’ He stopped again as if he were unable to go on. ‘He was screaming. He sat up and threw off his cloak. His eyes were open, staring, but I knew he was seeing nothing. At least …’ he waited as if hoping Dafydd would speak, ‘he was seeing nothing outwardly. And he was yelling and shouting. Luckily he was speaking Welsh so they understood nothing. Lord Grey’s household is English. I doubt there are any Welsh speakers there. I hope not,’ he added fervently. ‘He was seeing something in his dream, something so bad—’ he broke off as Dafydd straightened his shoulders.

Dafydd looked at Catrin. ‘I was seeing blood,’ he said slowly, dragging the words out of the inner depths of his soul. ‘I was seeing fire. I was seeing death. I was seeing this nation torn apart.’

Catrin felt a trickle of ice crawling through her body. Blood. Fire. Death. Those were the words he had written and then scratched out again and again on that scrap of parchment back in the spring.

‘He woke everyone,’ Edmund went on as Dafydd lapsed back into silence. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘As I said, I doubt if many, or any of them spoke Welsh, but I’m pretty sure they got the gist of it.’ With a sigh he looked round at the thick undergrowth in the distance. Alongside the road the cover had been scythed back, and there were sheep grazing on the shorter grass. Ancient oak trees sheltered the coverts where no doubt the Lord of Ruthin enjoyed good hunting. There was no sign of anyone else on the road.

Catrin was staring at her father’s face in bewildered concern when abruptly Edmund put his hand on her arm. She jumped. His fingers tightened. ‘Get back on your pony and ride slowly on,’ he whispered. ‘Now. Don’t look round. There are horsemen in the shadow of the trees over there, in the distance. A lot of them. I don’t know who they are, but I don’t intend to find out. Just act casually. You too, Master Dafydd.’ He looked anxiously at him. ‘Follow her. I’ll walk to the tree and relieve myself. It will serve as a reason we have stopped, and it will give me a chance to look round again, then I will follow on. I don’t know if they have seen us, but with luck they won’t do anything about it if they have. Hopefully they will know we were guests in the castle and leave us alone.’

Catrin obeyed him without argument. Her mouth dry with fear, she untied her pony, scrambled onto the saddle and turned back onto the road. Her father followed. Neither of them looked round. Catrin’s fingers tightened on the pouch in her pocket that Lady Grey had given her. She hadn’t even opened it. If it were stolen now she would never know what was in it.

She heard the click of hooves behind her. Edmund was following with the mule. Somehow she managed to keep herself calm. If the horses sensed her fear they would start to play up. She kept her eyes on the track ahead to where it curved out of sight between thick stands of trees.

She almost cried out in fear when she felt a hand on her stirrup. Edmund had caught her up. He pressed the lead rein of the mule into her hand. ‘Ride on slowly. They can’t see us now but they can probably hear the hooves on the stones. I’m going to double back and see what they’re up to.’

‘No!’ Catrin reached out to him but he had gone, flitting like a shadow across the broad grassy verge and into the undergrowth.

‘Stupid boy,’ Dafydd muttered. ‘He’ll get us all killed.’ He seemed finally to have gathered his wits. His eyes had cleared and he was sitting straight on his horse. He looked at Catrin. ‘We have to go on. I have to speak to Lord Owain. This concerns him.’ He shivered. ‘This concerns him absolutely.’

There was nothing for it anyway but to ride on as though nothing had happened, first through soft loam under the scattered trees then onto a stony track, then on again, intensely aware that any moment a band of men might erupt out of the undergrowth behind them. There was no sign of Edmund.

‘Perhaps he imagined it,’ Catrin broke the silence.

‘I don’t think so. That boy is quite acute,’ Dafydd said.

Catrin could feel her shoulders tense beneath her cloak as though expecting any minute to feel an arrow between her shoulder blades. Her stomach was tight with fear.

‘It would be more normal to talk,’ Dafydd said testily.

Catrin gave a wan smile. ‘It would indeed. Are we on the right road?’

Her father nodded. ‘We should be near Llangollen by noon. Edmund says Sycharth is another half-day’s ride south from there.’ He glared round. ‘If we are spared.’

Catrin leaned forward to pat her pony’s neck. ‘They would have accosted us by now if they were going to.’ She breathed a quiet prayer to the Blessed Virgin that her confident words were right.

‘So, where is Edmund then?’ Dafydd grumbled. ‘He is supposed to protect us.’

‘He hasn’t done a bad job of it so far.’ Catrin screwed up her nose. ‘Perhaps he went to distract them before they saw us.’ She was not going to admit how exposed she felt without his solid presence beside them. He might irritate her unbearably and drive her to distraction with his plodding gentleness with the horses and with her father, but now he was gone she felt bereft and very vulnerable.

‘Keep going. You know what he said,’ her father muttered beside her.

She did not realise she had allowed the horses to drift to a standstill. Her pony put its head down and tore at a clump of grass. She jerked at the reins. ‘If he doesn’t come soon we’ll stop at the next brook to water the horses and wait for him for a while.’

Her father was squinting into the distance. ‘We are coming out of the deer park here. The road will be more open soon. If they were going to attack us they would have done it by now,’ he said.

She looked around nervously. In her heart she knew he was right, but even so she felt uncomfortable. She could feel a strange prickling at the back of her neck. They were being watched, she was sure of it. ‘I wish Edmund would come back.’ She regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Her father gave a humourless laugh. ‘So he’s not so bad after all, eh? All your head-tossing and indignation and resentment, but you can’t do without him when you get scared!’

‘I’m not scared!’

‘Well you should be. There are outlaws in these woods. They were telling me last night.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘In the pay of the Lord Glyndŵr, so they said.’

‘And you guided us onto this road.’ Catrin stared at him in horror.

‘It is the way to Sycharth,’ he protested. ‘How else are we going to get there?’

She was speechless. The fact that her father could be so careless of their safety was beyond horrific.

‘So, where is Edmund?’ she said again. ‘Surely he should have caught us up by now.’ They both reined in their horses and turned to look back the way they had come. The road was empty but now suddenly Catrin knew with absolute certainty that someone was out there, watching them.

Andy stretched out and slowly she opened her eyes. She had been afraid of going to bed, of falling asleep and dreaming, but now she was reluctant to let go of the dream. It had been exciting, fascinating. She had been on horseback with Catrin and Catrin’s father, hacking through the wooded hills. She could picture the trees, the sunlight shining down through the branches, smell the fresh scent of leaves and loam and grasses and even more immediate the rich savoury aroma of horse, a smell that took her back to her childhood. She raised her fingers to her nose, almost expecting to smell the horse sweat on them, the warm damp feel of the animal’s neck under the coarse hair of its mane. There was nothing. She could still smell faintly the shower gel on her hands from the night before.

She pushed back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed and was about to stand up when she heard the voice again in her head.

Blood. Fire. Death.

She sank back with a shiver. Not all of the dream had been pleasant. She remembered now. Dafydd had had a nightmare, Dafydd the prophet. And that was what the old bards did, didn’t they? They prophesied, be it glory or doom and destruction. Somehow they knew the future. She stood up, raising her hands to push her hair off her face, then groaned unexpectedly. She was aching all over. Her legs were in agony, her shoulders stiff. It was as if – she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the fact – it was as if she had been on a long ride.

She stood for a long time under the shower, trying to ease the ache from her shoulders, then she went downstairs. Opening the back door she looked out into a garden wet with rain and smelling of autumn. Behind her Pepper was sitting by his empty bowl looking faintly reproving. Having fed him, she found a few scraps of paper in Sue’s desk. While she made toast for breakfast she started to make notes about her experiences of the night before.

Dreams could be vivid. Dreams could seem very real. Dreams could leave you exhausted. All those things were well-known facts. Nothing to get excited about; nothing out of the ordinary. But definitely something to think about.

Another well-known fact: the more one recalled one’s dreams, the more one could recall. It was a matter of practice. And it was important to write it all down at once. If possible, without thinking. Too much thinking and one’s recall began to shift. A dedicated notebook began to look more and more imperative.

Another well-known fact: bits of paper got lost and out of order.

Andy ran into Ella Pascoe in the paper shop as she stacked two notebooks and a pack of pens onto the counter and fished for her purse. ‘So, how are things?’ Ella asked as they walked out of the shop together.

‘OK.’ Andy grinned at her. ‘I’m being drawn into the history of the house. I would love to know a bit more about it some time when you’ve both got time.’

‘I’m not the expert, that’s Roy,’ Ella replied. ‘But if you’ve got a bit of time now, d’you fancy a coffee?’ She had a newspaper under her arm. ‘Roy and I take turns to take an hour off in the morning to read the paper. Coffee and cake is the order of the day, at least for me. A shocking and unhealthy habit, but I enjoy it. I would much rather talk to you and leave the paper until later.’

Andy led the way round the corner and into Shepherds overlooking the Cheese Market and the castle square. By the time they had collected their drinks and in her case a flapjack and in Ella’s a piece of carrot cake, she had made up her mind to confide in her about her dreams.

They found themselves a table in the window. Ella rested her elbows on the table and scrutinised her face with interest as she listened.

‘Is this delighting you or frightening you?’ she said.

Andy smiled. ‘Mostly delight. But a few of the dreams are quite violent.’

Ella looked shocked. ‘Violent as in …?’

‘They’re about war and the fear of war.’ Andy leaned forward. Ella said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

‘The latest dream was about a journey they’re making on horseback up through the border March. It’s all so real, so detailed; I woke thinking I must check out the facts to see if they are facts.’ She paused, watching Ella cut her slice of cake into quarters. Absent-mindedly she gathered up the crumbs into a little pile, pressed her finger onto the pile, then licked it.

‘Do you know what date you’re dreaming about?’

Andy hesitated. ‘I don’t think they’ve mentioned any specific dates.’ She kept her answer deliberately vague. ‘They set off in the early summer.’

‘Which any traveller would if they were planning a long journey on horseback.’ Ella put one of her squares of cake delicately into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘This sounds very intriguing. Do I gather you honestly think you’re dreaming about something which might have actually happened?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t see how I could be,’ Andy conceded.

‘Maybe you’re reliving a novel you’ve read or a TV programme or a film?’

Andy gave a rueful nod. ‘I suppose that’s one explanation.’

‘So, are you dreaming in episodes, like a serial? Does the story pick up where you left off each time you dream?’ Ella went on, obviously intrigued.

‘Pretty much. I came into town to buy a couple of notebooks so I could write down everything I could remember.’ Andy pointed at her bag, sitting on the floor beside her chair, her purchases sticking out of the top.

‘Sensible.’ Ella smiled. She paused, looking out of the window up towards the castle, where its jagged silhouette rose black against the sky. A flock of jackdaws was swirling above it, noisily squabbling over the best perches on the bare branches of the surrounding trees. ‘Have you seen Hay Castle in the dream?’

She shook her head. ‘They’ve been to a lot of castles on their journey, but not Hay. The last one was called Ruthin.’

Ella put down her fork and stared at Andy. ‘Ruthin? In the Vale of Clwyd? Are you sure? That’s way up north of here. There’s a hotel there. Perhaps you’ve stayed there? I’m sure one can find photos of it online.’ She nibbled another square of cake. ‘Are these the only dreams you have? About Catrin and her family? You don’t dream about anything else?’

Andy paused for a fraction of a second. ‘No.’

Andy saw Ella glance up at her hesitation, but she said nothing and Andy wasn’t going to enlighten her. Her other dreams were her business alone. She wasn’t ready to share information about her visits to Kew. She wasn’t even sure they counted as dreams.

‘Another coffee?’ Ella’s voice broke into her thoughts.

‘That would be nice.’ Andy was enjoying the other woman’s company. She was lonely, she realised. It was a relief to sit in a warm, crowded little coffee shop with someone to talk to.

It took Ella several minutes to queue at the counter. When she returned Andy had taken out one of her new notebooks and begun to scribble in it. ‘I’m going to make a note of anything I can remember. I don’t think the dreams come from something I’ve read or watched. I’ve got a good memory, I would know,’ she said firmly. ‘I wonder if I’ve in some way plugged into these people’s lives through the house. It all seems to fit, at least at the beginning it did.’ She ignored the thoughtful expression on Ella’s face. ‘But now I wonder if Catrin or her father are driving the dreams?’ She meant it as a serious question.

‘You think Catrin is trying to tell you something?’

‘Perhaps she is,’ Andy said. She stared down into her cup. ‘I think I may have seen her – or perhaps sensed her is a better word – in the house, when I was awake.’

‘Not a ghost!’ Ella sounded excited.

Andy smiled. ‘I have always been interested in ghosts. I may not have seen one, but I do believe in their possibility.’

‘I do too,’ Ella said eagerly. ‘Most people do, of course, whatever they say. In my case, it’s probably as much a part of my interest in local history as anything else; I like to collect ghost stories. Sometimes they contain snippets of actual memories of past events. I’m sure they do.’

‘I would love to think that is what this is,’ Andy said. ‘Two poets on tour and—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘I hope I’m not going to find out that their journey ended in tragedy.’ She sighed. ‘Sian took me up to see if there was any sign of your friend Meryn at his house,’ she changed the subject.

Ella sat forward, her elbows on the table. ‘And was there?’

‘No.’ Andy took a sip of coffee. ‘What makes him such an expert on the paranormal?’

‘What makes anyone an expert on anything?’ Ella thought for a moment. ‘Interest. Study. In the case of the paranormal, I suppose people feel they have a certain facility which is not given to everybody and when your name gets around then you become the local consultant of choice. Meryn claims to be something of an academic. He travels round giving lectures, although as far as I know he isn’t attached to any university. His speciality is Celtic Studies but he also claims to be a spiritual man. Not too long ago a story went round that he was working with some people in the West Country and was involved in some sort of a haunting which involved Jesus’s visit to Glastonbury.’