A damned good spring, so far. Enjoying every minute.
CHAPTER 19
QUEER PEOPLE were getting into the country just now – that is the trouble with a decent revolution, said Tom Rhayader. We take to arms with Genesis behind us, play fair, fight fair against oppression and for the word of God, and in comes scum. In comes the scum for easy pickings, the adventurers who fight for a shilling a time. Men like Dai’r Cantwr and Shoni Sgubor Fawr, there’s a mouthful, said Rhayader.
Take the last one first, the polluted.
I first met Shoni the night after dusting Justin, and was resting with my feet up and watching people from slits, getting tender glances from Mari, digs from Morfydd and mouth from Mam, she being dead against pugilists.
“Shameful,” she breathed, laying the table. “God knows I have done my best to bring you up decent, and the poor man is over at Bayleaves with the Hughes putting on beef to bring down his swellings.”
“Two to make a fight, remember,” said Morfydd, and whispered, “lucky I was there in time to stop another slaughter, too.”
“Hush,” I whispered back, my eyes on Mari who was stitching as usual.
“And you keep from this!” Mam swung to Morfydd. “Fight decent, then. Osian says someone has been into him with an axe. Damned mutilated, he is.”
“Some of his own medicine,” I said, rising. “And I am off from here.”
“Somebody will be killed,” said Mam. “That will be the end of it.”
“A joyful death, mind,” said Morfydd on one side.
I gave her a look to settle her. I had to go out with Morfydd talking in riddles. Mam might have been bad at hearing but Mari had ears like a bat.
“And where are you off to this time of night, pray?” asked Mam, hands full of cups. “Supper in ten minutes, trust you to be off.”
“Back by supper time,” I answered.
“Kiss her for me,” said Morfydd, and I got her with my finger and thumb as I passed, pinching open her eyes.
“And keep from Black Boar tavern, mind,” said Mam.
“And Jane’s stable straw,” murmured Morfydd, and I saw Mari glance up.
But the walk was an excuse for I’d heard something more above the chatter of the women. Never heard screech owls as near to our shippon before.
Toby Maudlin.
Toby Maudlin sure enough, standing clear of the light as I opened the door, with his hair on end and his eyes as saucers.
“What is wrong?” I asked him.
Gasping, he patted his chest. “Rhayader’s been taken.”
As the sickening bite of the bread knife.
“Taken,” gasped Toby. “I am rounding them up – midnight up on the mountain. Flannigan’s called a meeting. …”
“But Tom Rhayader!” I gripped him, and he was shivering.
“The St Clears dragoons,” gasped Toby. “Six of them, and special constables. They came down to Tom’s place at dusk, and took him. God, there’s some wailing and gnashing of teeth down his place I can tell you, his woman’s gone demented.”
“But on what charge?”
“Burning Pwll-trap gate – papers they had, and signatures, all very official.”
“And Tom just went?”
“Just as you please, they told him – come dead or alive. Got him coming from chapel.”
“God,” I breathed. “And we haven’t been near Pwll-trap.”
“But somebody has, that’s what Flannigan says. And he says something more – an informer,” and he shrank at the name.
“Who?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Toby. “That’s for Flannigan to find out – midnight, at Pengam, to elect a new leader.”
“Go,” I said.
I stood against the wall as Toby scampered away. Cool to my face, that wall, for my head was thumping. It seemed impossible that Rhayader could be taken, and I bled for his wife. A pretty little thing was Mrs Rhayader, prim for chapel and with lovely children, and they worshipped Tom. I clenched my fist and hit the wall. Gates were one thing; dumb wooden things ready for tinder, but Tom was flesh and blood, and the tongue put a limit on the thumbscrew, the bawlings and kicks of drunken tormentors. Not the dragoons, for they were disciplined – not the serving constables under men like George Martin the Welsh-speaking Englishman. It was the special constables we feared, the hired thumpers; scum like Shoni Sgubor Fawr who would break a man’s arm for the price of his silence. Yet deep in me I knew Tom would not talk. If they set him on fire he would spit in their faces. Tramping Boy Joey rose up like a vision. Joey would sell a man’s soul for the price of a dinner, because Tom was leader, that was enough. I fisted the wall, wanting Morfydd. Lost, I wanted her. And she came as if called by the heat and sweat of me, slowly into the yard, peering into shadows.
“That you, Jethro?”
“Quick,” I said, and she ran the last yards. “Tom Rhayader’s been taken.”
“O, God,” she said, her hands to her face.
“Morfydd, go down to Mrs Rhayader.”
“Now, directly. No. Supper first, or Mam will be suspicious. You too, boy – supper first.” She paused, her eyes steady. “Who?” she said.
“Who informed? God knows. We are meeting tonight.”
“Is Osian Hughes in this?”
I shook my head.
“Who do you think, then?”
“We’ve got Joey,” I answered.
“Tramping Boy Joey?” she peered, horrified. “Give me strength! Do not tell me you gave house room to Joey Scarlet!”
“Workhouse boy. Entitled. You try keeping him out.”
She drew herself up. “Revolution, you call it, and you bring in Joey! Perhaps my revolt failed but at least we were organized – at least we had oaths and people tried and trusted. But you are throwing away your lives!” She snatched at my hand. “Jethro, do you know what this means? Joey’s tongue is loose – a pint of ale it needs, no more. He will gabble Rebecca all over the county, to dragoons, constables, anyone handy. He is gabbling now, can you hear him? Spouting it in bars – Rhayader, Flannigan, Maudlin, Mortymer – shouting it in markets – little Joey Scarlet grown to
