Flannigan doused the lamp and we filed out into the snow.
Back home I went for Randy, for it was some way to the gates beyond Kidwelly and I did not fancy the walk. Besides, he was always looking for trouble and here was his chance for some; so far spent the winter eating his head off and dreaming of straw and women. Cae White was iced as I crept into the shippon and slipped up the peg on the stable door, and the smoke from the kitchen chimney was standing as a bar in the still, frosty air. Randy wagged at me as I went round his hind legs, snorting and looking ugly as I hooked up the saddle, so I gave him one in the chops to quieten him and he lifted up his hooves as a lamb while I tied them with corn sacks. Strap down the reins now to stop them jingling and Tara was whining at the kitchen door, knowing I was there. Crept to the door and opened it and she came out sideways with wriggling, then leaped into my arms. Had to laugh at the thought of it – it would have shortened Grandfer’s span had he seen me just then – a shrouded ghost with a blackened face, creeping over the shippon with Tara in its arms. I thought I’d got away with it but a window grated as I led Randy out.
Morfydd was standing by the landing window, face white, diamonds for eyes, and her hair black against the crusted sill.
“Jethro, for God’s sake take care!”
I nodded and climbed into the saddle, leaned down and hooked up Tara. And together we went up to Rhayader’s barn.
I didn’t look back, but I knew she was there.
CHAPTER 16
OVER FIFTY strong, we started, about thirteen horses between us, some two up, but most on foot. But we gathered them in scores on the road to Kidwelly where groups of the daughters were standing in the woods. Powder-guns shouldered, pikes swaying as a forest, we moved through the woods single file just short of the town; Tom Rhayader leading, sitting proud on his mare. Excitement mingled with awe within me as we drifted on in the misted silence; could not drag my eyes from Rhayader, my first Rebecca. His head was turbanned with silk, the back-knot flowing over his long, white shroud. Erect he sat as born to a horse, peacock feathers waving high, glass earrings flashing in moonlight. In his right hand he held a sword, wielding it for direction. Behind the magnificent leader came the gigantic Abel Flannigan. Drooping in the saddle was Flannigan, long legs trailing the snowladen undergrowth, confident, dark with anger. Good to have Flannigan about for he was spawned in these parts and knew every track as the hairs of his hands, every escape road home. Behind him came Justin Slaughterer, a barrel with legs, bowing his horse to the weight of him, bareheaded, his new-grown spade beard flecked with snow. Tramping Boy Joey was walking alongside Justin, gripping his stirrup. This disturbed me. Just plain mischief had brought Joey Scarlet, for he had no gates, and there was a roll in his eye I distrusted. Joey hated people; magistrates, bailiffs and Rebecca alike; come to destroy, nothing else. Only an inch of tongue was needed to send us all to the hulks, and Joey had yards of it, and I could not make out why Flannigan had sworn him. On, on, silent, dozing to the muffled clops and the stuttering crunch of boots in snow. A curse here and there as a man slipped flat and the crack of a twig was enough to send Rhayader swinging in the saddle. Keep clear of the roads now; whispered consultation as we lost direction in the depths of the woods with Joey whipping up from Flannigan to point out the way. A hand gripped my stirrup and I gave him a glance. Stranger to me, this one, with a sallow, pinched face and the big dull eyes of hunger. Just a boy by his looks, and he brushed snow from his wheat-coloured hair and smiled, his face coming alive.
“You weary, boy?”
“After my bedtime,” said he.
“Kidwelly you belong, is it?”
“Pembrey.”
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Matthew Luke John, last being the surname – the whole New Testament.”
“Heavens,” I said. “You got gates down in Pembrey?”
“Not me personal but my dada has plenty, back home in bed.”
“Then rake him out of it. Anyone can lie in bed.”
“Different, man. The old bull got him,” he answered. “Last spring, it was – ripped him something cruel. And there’s only me working – me and my mam. Five kids to keep, see, the youngest six weeks. O, it’s a bastard. You got kids?” He wiped snow from his eyes, peering up.
“Sort of,” I answered.
“And these damned old gates, see – cannot get moving. Couldn’t bring in the lime last carting season, hadn’t got the toll money. Poor harvest this year because of it.”
“Aye,” I said.
It was snowing harder now, riming his lashes, painting up his hair, changing his sex. Lovely he looked just then but he grinned of a sudden and spat like a man.
“Eh,” he said, “my mam’s an old witch. Comes pretty hard on her – working her fingers to the bone with the old man lying stitched – and one on the breast, did I tell you? Our Glyn – rare little savage, he is, always at her, but you don’t make milk on potato soup. You get those gates down, Matthew Luke John, says
