Think I’ll turn over, and she pouts and dreams.
And that Church of England matron who eyes you every Sunday, smiling at your sermon with her ear inclined – you’d be shocked about that matron if I cared to open my mouth. Too mean for words, she is, lived next door for life, she has, and nothing on her washing-line in nineteen years. Mam says it isn’t decent – not even a pair of drawers, mind – perhaps she doesn’t wear them, shouldn’t be surprised. … O, why was my dad born an old Nonconformist when you know the path that will carry me to Heaven? And talking of trews, boy, yours are quite indecent – spit on that iron, girl, send up steam. O, little Parson Lazarus Frolic, don’t you ever dream …?
And the first slashing finger of dawn rose up behind Kidwelly and the cocks yelled like demons as we hit the tollgate.
I awoke from the swaying slush of my visions as Tom Rhayader hit the tollhouse, and the top window came open and out came a face; terrified that face above its nightshirt, sleeping-cap slipping sideways, bobble swinging.
“What the hell is happening, have you all gone raving?”
“Out, out!” and Rhayader’s sword was slashing, ripping at the tollhouse door. “Out this minute or we burn you alive. Out!”
“And me with wife and children, man? Six children, last one hardly weaned?”
“Out!” cried Rebecca, his horse wheeling. Sword lowered, he clattered about while men and horses pressed about him.
“For God’s sake, pity!” yelled the face.
Flannigan said, “A tinder to that thatch would damned soon shift him, Tom.”
“He has two minutes,” said Rhayader.
“Two minutes could cost us our lives,” grumbled Justin.
“The chance we take. I am not burning people.”
The door burst open and the wife came out, hair in curlers, eyes stuck with sleep. One look at the wraiths and back she went, hand to her heart, moaning. A tot at the door now, barefooted, terrified. A girl was screaming inside; grunts and cries now as the keeper booted them awake.
“You, you,” said Rhayader, pointing. “Inside quick and give him a hand. Bring out his blankets, clothes, furniture – everything you can save and work like devils, every second counts,” and two men leaped to his command.
“But where will we go?” The woman now, recovering; down on her knees pleading, pulling at Rhayader’s gown. “For God’s sake, man, have mercy! Six children in here and the depth of winter – where will we lie?”
“You should have thought of that before,” said Flannigan, pushing her off. “You damned keepers are the scum of the Welsh!”
“But my daughter – sixteen years old? O, God!” Her wild eyes looked round our blackened faces.
“She is safe with us, woman – go fetch her out. Mortymer, where the hell’s Mortymer?” he turned in the saddle.
“Here,” I said.
“Bring out the girl, Mortymer, you’ve got a good handsome eye, and treat her as a sister or I bring you to account.” Damned fool, I thought, for mentioning my name, but I flung a man aside and entered the tollhouse.
“There’s a farm down the road!” roared Flannigan then. “Two of you fetch a cart.”
Bedlam inside the tollhouse; children wailing, the baby screaming and the girl in a corner screeching with fear. Ducking the furniture I slipped along the wall beside her. Tables were going up, bedding being dragged out, china from the dresser smashing on the floor as I reached her.
“Hush,” I said, “nobody will harm you, hush!”
You can see a man’s fist coming but women strike like cats. Caught me square, the bitch; uncovering her eyes and striking with talons, ripping me from forehead to chin. I gripped her wrists.
“For God’s sake, girl, you only have to walk. Would you rather stay to fry?”
The blood of my face seemed to quieten her. Hands lowered, she stared, then rolled her eyes and slipped down at my feet. Sickened, I stooped and gathered her up. I had not bargained on war against children. Her head lolling, hair streaming down, I kicked my way through the room, giving a special boot to Joey Scarlet who was already into it, swinging an axe like a man seeking freedom, roaring with triumph.
“First blood to the tollgates,” said Rhayader as I got to the door. “Next time you search them for bread knives, Jethro.”
“Fainted,” I said.
“Right, find a blanket and cover her. Get her on the cart when the boys come back.” He wheeled. “Where the devil’s that cart, are they building it?”
“Are you going to burn us, sir?” A blue-eyed youngster of six eyed Flannigan.
“Not you, son, but your house. To the ground, and the gate with it – you can warm yourself to the blaze.” Flannigan cupped his hands. “Out everybody, out!”
“I’m the last one,” cried Tramping Boy Joey at the door, and he swung his axe at the window, shattering it. “Where’s the tinder?”
“The gate first,” said Rebecca. He raised his hand. “Silence, silence!”
And the roars and cheering died. This, our first gate, was due for the opening ceremony. Tom Rhayader dismounted and walked towards it, hands groping blindly, eyes closed, touching it, feeling it; wandering along it seeking to pass.
Dead silence now save for the weeping of the keeper’s wife and the chattering of the children. Strange how a mob is silenced by ceremony.
“My daughters,” said Rhayader, turning. “I can go no further. There is something here that impedes me and I cannot pass. What is it, my daughters?”
“Why, there’s a strange thing, Mother,” boomed Flannigan, touching it. “’Tis an old wooden gate across the road. Well!”
“But what is it doing here, my daughters?” asked Rhayader, groping. “My old eyes are not too good, see – the thing wasn’t here last time I went to
