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 The two women had talked and laughed and Catrin had played her harp long into the night when the ladies had withdrawn to their hostess’s chamber.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
