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The Marches' Moon
by Nicola Evans
04/04/12
04/04/12
Why did she look?
Why did she always have to look?
This night had been so wonderful. The great hall had been full of merrymakers feasting and dancing. The kitchens had surpassed themselves; meats of every kind had been roasted to juicy perfection, plates of hot bread that was still doughy lay scattered about the room and the sculptures of almond paste and sugar adorned the tables. The best wine had been brought up from the cellars which meant limbs loosened with alcohol caroused and spun to the music.
Not even Sybille, the lady of the house, was immune to the joyous mood. She had eaten until her stomach was swollen. She had danced until her feet were sore and she was almost certain the leather on her shoes had worn away. It was late and somewhere the party had changed from formal celebration to rowdy drunken party. Such behaviour would have no doubt disgusted a more distinguished court but Sybille did not begrudge them their merriment. Living in such a dangerous place as the Welsh Marches, laughter, happiness and peace were rarities and therefore seized tightly at every opportunity. Tonight, they had much reason to celebrate.
Never before had a skirmish between the Welsh and the Normans ended so quickly, or so peacefully. The Marcher Lords and some lesser barons, including her husband Robert FitzJohn, had been sequestered away with the leaders of the Welsh armies, representatives of Prince Llewellyn, for a mere two days before the treaty had been signed. It had all worked so well there were no doubt similar festivities happening on along both sides of the border.
Feeling overwhelmed with that relief and the jovial heat of the hall, Sybille wandered over to her husband and begged to be excused. Noticing her flushed cheeks and dishevelled appearance, he laughingly told her she would pay for her indulgence in the morning. She rolled her eyes at his teasing and wandered out into the bailey. Lifting her face to the heavens she breathed the cool evening air and looked around the walls of her home. True it was no match for the mighty castles of Striguil or Monmouth, but under the light of the moon it looked the most beautiful place she had ever laid eyes upon.
The night being clear and the ground well lit, Sybille let her feet take her where they would and she found herself up on the ramparts. Casting her gaze along the curtain wall, Sybille noticed areas of disrepair and crumbling stone. Her brows knitted in confusion. She was sure the wall had looked whole this morning. Shaking her head, believing it had merely escaped her notice, she resolved to talk with Robert in the morning about employing masons. Slightly disturbed, she turned to go back into the hall.
She had not gone a few paces, however, when Sybille chanced to look ahead of her and spotted a warm, orange light. A candle was flickering in the doorway of the
South Bastion. She stopped, confused. She was certain no one had followed her out and that light had not been there before. Hitching up her skirts slightly and slowing her breathing, Sybille crept closer the candlelit opening, praying whoever was inside didn’t hear her. All other noise seemed to fade away, making her painfully aware of the sound of her feet and the rustling of her dress. She drew closer and closer until she began to hear whispered voices.
She knew those voices. She recognised William De Jeune and Edward Brumer, fellow Marcher barons who were staying with them after the signing of the treaty. Sybille had no love for these men. She knew what they thought of her husband and she didn’t trust them. Reaching the door she peered down the stairs, searching for them but they were out of her sight. The steps in the bastion were slippery and narrow and Sybille was not about to attempt them in her finest gown. Pressing herself against the wall, she strained her ears to their whispered voices.
“…lording over us all who are his superiors in station and breeding.” Edward’s mocking tone filtered up to her. Edward was only ever barely civil to them because his father had wanted this land for his own. Instead it had been given to Robert’s father, John. Sybille silently ground her teeth.
“Calm your wounded pride and listen,” hissed William, a direct descendant of the Normans who had landed with the first King William. “I have heard a rumour that could put this treaty at nought.”
Sybille didn’t know why she was surprised. The ink was barely dry on the parchment and already people were conspiring.
“Details of the Welsh plans were made known to me,” William continued. “It turns out that they planned to attack the settlements North of here-”
“The North is their strongpoint, everyone is aware of that,” Edward interrupted.
“Let me finish,” came the harsh reply. Edward went silent. “Apparently, there was also another army heading South.” Ever the orator, William paused for reaction. Receiving none he carried on. “This land lies directly midway between the two targets. If the attack had gone ahead, this land would have remained untouched.”
Sybille had to clamp her hand over her mouth. Surely he wasn’t implying…?
Edward answered for her. “The Welsh bastard! I knew it! Robert’s loyalties were always with them.”
William continued his tale. “Robert only supported this treaty to disguise himself. He secretly convinced the barbarians to end peacefully so as not to arouse suspicion.”
Gripping the stone doorframe to steady herself, Sybille listened to them spout their lies about her husband. She couldn’t believe it, but she knew others would. If Robert had been a turncoat she would have known about it. Robert was loyal to the crown but he was also part Welsh. His grandfather had married a Welsh woman and had a son Ieuan. Ieuan had changed his name to John in order to fit in with the Anglo-Norman population. Robert had done the same, changing his Welsh name to a similar English one. His real name was Rhodri. To everyone else he was Welsh and guilty.
Edward spoke next. “If we reveal him to the Lords, the Welsh will loose their spy in our camp.”
So now he’s a turncoat and a spy?
“And when their spy is gone, they will have no choice but to act.”
Tears of fury blurred Sybille’s eyes. Liars! Liars and war-mongers! Her anger blazed so hot that she squeezed the stone frame under her hand. All of a sudden it crumbled away, falling on the floor with a crash. Sybille stared at the rubble in shock. Booted feet on the stairs roused her and she took off as fast as she could across the wall walk. Over her pounding heart she heard a muttered oath and the sound of pursuit. Why did she look? Why did she always have to look? Now all she could do was run. She flew down the rampart steps but her skirt tangled in her legs. For once stomach clenching moment, she was running on thin air. She tumbled down on to the dusty ground with a bone jarring thud.
From above came a hushed exclamation of triumph that broke through the haze of pain. Shaking herself off, Sybille was immediately back on her feet and haring across the bailey to the hall. She could still hear them behind her. They gaining ground, not being hampered by folds of fabric. She had to warn Robert. The hall was just in front of her. It was dark and silent and in the same state of disrepair as the curtain wall. Her pace slowed. Surely she would have noticed that? When had the party ended? She hadn’t seen or heard anyone leave.
Hands grabbed her roughly from behind.
Sybille screamed into the cool, clear night.
The moon shone ignorantly down. A lone walker stood frozen at the entrance of the hall. That scream had sent chills of fear racing down his spine. Casting around desperately he searched for anything that could have made that noise. There was nothing. He was alone. He turned and fled through a breach in the ruined castle wall. One of many that marked the place once called the Welsh Marches.
The End
Why did she always have to look?
This night had been so wonderful. The great hall had been full of merrymakers feasting and dancing. The kitchens had surpassed themselves; meats of every kind had been roasted to juicy perfection, plates of hot bread that was still doughy lay scattered about the room and the sculptures of almond paste and sugar adorned the tables. The best wine had been brought up from the cellars which meant limbs loosened with alcohol caroused and spun to the music.
Not even Sybille, the lady of the house, was immune to the joyous mood. She had eaten until her stomach was swollen. She had danced until her feet were sore and she was almost certain the leather on her shoes had worn away. It was late and somewhere the party had changed from formal celebration to rowdy drunken party. Such behaviour would have no doubt disgusted a more distinguished court but Sybille did not begrudge them their merriment. Living in such a dangerous place as the Welsh Marches, laughter, happiness and peace were rarities and therefore seized tightly at every opportunity. Tonight, they had much reason to celebrate.
Never before had a skirmish between the Welsh and the Normans ended so quickly, or so peacefully. The Marcher Lords and some lesser barons, including her husband Robert FitzJohn, had been sequestered away with the leaders of the Welsh armies, representatives of Prince Llewellyn, for a mere two days before the treaty had been signed. It had all worked so well there were no doubt similar festivities happening on along both sides of the border.
Feeling overwhelmed with that relief and the jovial heat of the hall, Sybille wandered over to her husband and begged to be excused. Noticing her flushed cheeks and dishevelled appearance, he laughingly told her she would pay for her indulgence in the morning. She rolled her eyes at his teasing and wandered out into the bailey. Lifting her face to the heavens she breathed the cool evening air and looked around the walls of her home. True it was no match for the mighty castles of Striguil or Monmouth, but under the light of the moon it looked the most beautiful place she had ever laid eyes upon.
The night being clear and the ground well lit, Sybille let her feet take her where they would and she found herself up on the ramparts. Casting her gaze along the curtain wall, Sybille noticed areas of disrepair and crumbling stone. Her brows knitted in confusion. She was sure the wall had looked whole this morning. Shaking her head, believing it had merely escaped her notice, she resolved to talk with Robert in the morning about employing masons. Slightly disturbed, she turned to go back into the hall.
She had not gone a few paces, however, when Sybille chanced to look ahead of her and spotted a warm, orange light. A candle was flickering in the doorway of the
South Bastion. She stopped, confused. She was certain no one had followed her out and that light had not been there before. Hitching up her skirts slightly and slowing her breathing, Sybille crept closer the candlelit opening, praying whoever was inside didn’t hear her. All other noise seemed to fade away, making her painfully aware of the sound of her feet and the rustling of her dress. She drew closer and closer until she began to hear whispered voices.
She knew those voices. She recognised William De Jeune and Edward Brumer, fellow Marcher barons who were staying with them after the signing of the treaty. Sybille had no love for these men. She knew what they thought of her husband and she didn’t trust them. Reaching the door she peered down the stairs, searching for them but they were out of her sight. The steps in the bastion were slippery and narrow and Sybille was not about to attempt them in her finest gown. Pressing herself against the wall, she strained her ears to their whispered voices.
“…lording over us all who are his superiors in station and breeding.” Edward’s mocking tone filtered up to her. Edward was only ever barely civil to them because his father had wanted this land for his own. Instead it had been given to Robert’s father, John. Sybille silently ground her teeth.
“Calm your wounded pride and listen,” hissed William, a direct descendant of the Normans who had landed with the first King William. “I have heard a rumour that could put this treaty at nought.”
Sybille didn’t know why she was surprised. The ink was barely dry on the parchment and already people were conspiring.
“Details of the Welsh plans were made known to me,” William continued. “It turns out that they planned to attack the settlements North of here-”
“The North is their strongpoint, everyone is aware of that,” Edward interrupted.
“Let me finish,” came the harsh reply. Edward went silent. “Apparently, there was also another army heading South.” Ever the orator, William paused for reaction. Receiving none he carried on. “This land lies directly midway between the two targets. If the attack had gone ahead, this land would have remained untouched.”
Sybille had to clamp her hand over her mouth. Surely he wasn’t implying…?
Edward answered for her. “The Welsh bastard! I knew it! Robert’s loyalties were always with them.”
William continued his tale. “Robert only supported this treaty to disguise himself. He secretly convinced the barbarians to end peacefully so as not to arouse suspicion.”
Gripping the stone doorframe to steady herself, Sybille listened to them spout their lies about her husband. She couldn’t believe it, but she knew others would. If Robert had been a turncoat she would have known about it. Robert was loyal to the crown but he was also part Welsh. His grandfather had married a Welsh woman and had a son Ieuan. Ieuan had changed his name to John in order to fit in with the Anglo-Norman population. Robert had done the same, changing his Welsh name to a similar English one. His real name was Rhodri. To everyone else he was Welsh and guilty.
Edward spoke next. “If we reveal him to the Lords, the Welsh will loose their spy in our camp.”
So now he’s a turncoat and a spy?
“And when their spy is gone, they will have no choice but to act.”
Tears of fury blurred Sybille’s eyes. Liars! Liars and war-mongers! Her anger blazed so hot that she squeezed the stone frame under her hand. All of a sudden it crumbled away, falling on the floor with a crash. Sybille stared at the rubble in shock. Booted feet on the stairs roused her and she took off as fast as she could across the wall walk. Over her pounding heart she heard a muttered oath and the sound of pursuit. Why did she look? Why did she always have to look? Now all she could do was run. She flew down the rampart steps but her skirt tangled in her legs. For once stomach clenching moment, she was running on thin air. She tumbled down on to the dusty ground with a bone jarring thud.
From above came a hushed exclamation of triumph that broke through the haze of pain. Shaking herself off, Sybille was immediately back on her feet and haring across the bailey to the hall. She could still hear them behind her. They gaining ground, not being hampered by folds of fabric. She had to warn Robert. The hall was just in front of her. It was dark and silent and in the same state of disrepair as the curtain wall. Her pace slowed. Surely she would have noticed that? When had the party ended? She hadn’t seen or heard anyone leave.
Hands grabbed her roughly from behind.
Sybille screamed into the cool, clear night.
The moon shone ignorantly down. A lone walker stood frozen at the entrance of the hall. That scream had sent chills of fear racing down his spine. Casting around desperately he searched for anything that could have made that noise. There was nothing. He was alone. He turned and fled through a breach in the ruined castle wall. One of many that marked the place once called the Welsh Marches.
The End
