Chapter One

The Homecoming

Autumntide 1245 A.D.

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Jo Potterson slammed her beaker of ale down on the rickety table and stared in wide-eyed horror at her flea-bitten drinking companion.

  “A war, you say? Along the March, you say?” Jo was so surprised she’d almost choked on her beer.    She was a strong-armed young woman, brave and good with a sword, with a flat nose, jug-ears, and thick eyebrows that went up when she was surprised. Her hair was shortish and brown, cut in a man’s style, which was just how she liked it.

  “Aye. A terrible war, a bloody war, a frightful war! All along the March, you know it?” said her companion, casually picking a flea from his ear.

  “Yes, I know it. I grew up there. A wild and lawless place, so it is. The borderland between England and Wales. Poor, desolate, bleak, but the people are good.”

  “Invaded, ransacked, pillaged, so they say, by ruthless hordes of Welsh wild-man warriors, led by some crazed prince called Dafydd. You must have heard?”

  “No.”

  “The king gathered ten thousand knights at Windsor, not one month past, a spectacle to behold, so they say, and marched north to route Dafydd. It must be a right old bloodbath up there by now.”

  Jo took a swig of beer to calm her nerves. She thought of her hometown, Mold, the sleepy little backwater she’d left not one year past for the giddy excitements of London. It was a town that, due to its location, would be right at the heart of any war in the Marches.

  How were her family and friends? Was the town ruined, ransacked, and raised? She thought of the Shambles, the district she’d grown up in, and the little house in Jackdaw Alley where her parents still lived. She thought of her best childhood friend, Edmund. Oh, how she missed her dear best friend! They’d played jokes on people, fooled them, and laughed at silly things. They’d japed so much that she’d acquired the nickname Jo of Japes. She realised with some dismay that her japing days had ended since she’d been living in London. Nowadays, she was more Jo of Youthful Disillusionment—which didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

  Home! She decided there and then that she would leave London and go home. Jackdaw Alley had once seemed constricting, conservative, and dull, but she felt a fondness for the place now she’d left it. But was it the same, or had everyone been murdered in their beds by crazed Welsh wild-man warriors wielding lethal blood-axes? There was only one way to find out!

  She jumped up and marched out of the dark, dingy Scrofulous Pig Tavern without even saying goodbye to her flea-bitten friend. She went down Old Fish Street, dodging drunken revellers, ageing prostitutes, and various other vagabonds, and entered her dank and grubby rooms. It was late, so she fell into bed and tried to get some sleep, but tossed and turned all night, worrying about Edmund, her family, and Jackdaw Alley.

*

Early the following day, she crawled out of bed, slipped on her men’s breeches, put on her fine green tunic, fashionable long-tipped shoes, and a white ruffled shirt. Packing the rest of her meagre possessions into a small knapsack, she buckled her sword and settled the rent. Then she bought a cheap horse and set off, travelling for five long days on England’s highroads and byroads, staying in cheap country taverns and even cheaper alms-houses—and to her relief, met no footpads, bandits, or wolves. She didn’t know what she’d find when she got to Mold, but whatever it was, she knew she was dreading it.

  And then, at last, weary and saddle-sore, she could see that she was nearing journey’s end. As she guided her plodding horse along the drover’s road, she spied, across stubble-cropped wheat fields not long harvested, the town of Mold, nestling in the mild autumntide sun, with the castle turrets peeping over the southern town walls. She gazed at the colours flying above High Tower and was not surprised to see that they weren’t Lord Roger’s—their cowardly Marcher lord must have fled in the face of Welsh invasion.

  As she rode past the gatekeeper and into High Street, she wondered again if the old place had changed much—had war ravaged the population? But she could see to her relief that it hadn’t changed at all. Toilet bowls were still emptied into the gutters every morning, but it was positively floral compared to Old Fish Street’s evil pongs. The shops, taverns and stables were still as they’d always been, unchanged since childhood and somehow comforting. Market Square contained the usual cows, sheep, pigs, and yokel, smock-clad farmers.

  But then she noticed that something was very wrong. The people were afraid, cowed, and subdued, and there were sinister strangers about—big men with bushy beards dressed in black leather jerkins with wolf-fur collars. Each had a blood-axe slung around their waist and a beady look in their eye. Welsh wild-man warriors!

  She ducked and dived to avoid them, then took a narrow side street off the square. But before going down into the Shambles—the poorest part of town—she left her horse in a public stable, tipping the stable lad a penny. She knew from memory that if she took a horse into the Shambles, it’d be stolen within minutes.

  As she strolled down the grimy cobbled street, she could see that the houses on either side were still crumbled, with baked-in filth and eaves that had decayed so much that sunbeams shone through holes. Every window frame and door was fragile and rotten. Skinny, rag-clad guttersnipes played in the dung-filled gutters. Shabby men and women with various skin diseases sat on the doorsteps, nodding greetings as she passed, looking her up and down, surprised at her presence, obviously impressed by her fine green tunic and fashionable long-tipped shoes.

  These were the Shambles’ grandest houses, lived in by residents who’d made something of themselves. Her mum had always dreamed of living in one of these houses. ‘Like the fancy abode of the king himself’ was how she’d once described them to her as a girl.

  Every hundred feet or so, through a crooked narrow archway, she spied courts where other, poorer Shambles residents lived: alleys that led off into darkened shadow, running for twenty yards or so, with each passage containing a terrace of many tiny houses on either side, built of black wood, and leaning so far with age that sometimes roofs either side touched. She reached the sixth archway and turned into Jackdaw Alley, her childhood home.

  She knocked at the door of a tiny place near the bottom, and her mum, Nally, answered. She was a short woman with a round, red face and rough, calloused hands from all the cleaning and scrubbing. She gasped with shock and then laughed with sheer delight when she saw her daughter.

  “Am I dreaming? You’re home. Come in and take the weight off. I’ll bet you’re richer than the king himself!”

  Jo felt happier than she’d felt for a long time. It had been such an age since she’d seen her mum, but Jo couldn’t help but notice that she’d changed, was maybe just a little bit shorter, a little bit older, with a face that looked more haggard than she remembered.

  “Mum! Are you fine? You look a bit ill.”

  Her mum grinned and said she was as healthy as a horse, albeit one ready for the knackers’ yard.

Inside, the house was just as dark, dingy, and cramped as she remembered. Sitting on a rickety chair by the fireplace was her dad, who went by the unusual name of Osbert. He was only slightly taller than her mother, but he was a man who had worked hard his whole life, working right up to dung shoveller, first-class, an achievement he was proud of.

  “Dad! How’s it going in the dung shovelling game? You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Osbert grinned, jumped up off his chair and hugged his daughter. “Great to see you, Jo, although I do wish you’d written us a few letters just to let us know how you were getting on in that fancy capital place with that fancy teaching job.” While in London, Jo taught fencing at a children’s sword school—a job she hated.

  “But Dad! you can’t read.”

  Osbert snorted. “That’s hardly the point.”

  “And neither can Mum. And I can hardly write.”

  “Such lovely shoes,” Nally said, noticing Jo’s feet for the first time, “shoes like the king himself would wear.”

  “Tell me, is there war in these parts? Have you seen trouble? I saw strangers, wild-looking men.”

  Osbert nodded his head. “You don’t know the half of it! There’s been all sorts of fighting hereabouts. I'd say many knights were killed, slaughtered, and soldiers, young lads all.”

  “And those that survived,” Nally added, “went off with the king. He came past these parts with a huge procession of knights, marching off to war with that horrible Prince Dafydd!”

  “It wasn’t pleasant. There’s been a lot of fighting. The people of Mold hid indoors and didn’t leave their houses, so the dung shovelling business dropped right off. A terrible time it was, hardly any shovelling at all.”

  Jo was shocked. Not because of the lack of shovelling, but with the news of the knightly slaughter. A year ago, when she’d been living in Jackdaw Alley, she’d gone out on the road, finding adventure, with a gang of local knights, a ramshackle band, but friendly enough—the Knights of Saint Septimus they called themselves. She longed to see her knight friends again, but she wondered if they’d been killed in the fighting.

  “When was this, Dad?” she said.

  “Oh, let me see, must have been early spring, about that time, Nally?”

  “Late spring.”

  “Early to late spring. Many Welshmen came. All dressed in black, they were, with wolf’s fur on their collar, waving blood-axes. They drove out the lord from the castle and took over.”

  “And ever since, with Lord Roger and the knights gone, we’ve had Welshmen, with axes and big beards, marching up and down High Street like they own the place, saying we’re all Welsh now and part of the Kingdom of Gwynedd, recruited into the Fawr clan, whatever that is.”

  “But everyone’s all right in the Alley?”

  “Not exactly. The boys, all our boys, they’re gone. Taken. Kidnapped.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  Jo was angry. Her dear friends had been kidnapped! She asked many more questions about the Alley Boys, her knight friends, and the war, but got no answers. Then they chatted—mainly about the Alley gossip she’d missed whilst in London. But Jo asked even more questions about the war and the missing boys. Her parents shrugged and said she knew everything they knew. Then she thought of her friend Edmund and wanted to see him, maybe ask him questions, so she left her mum and dad, who told her to be back by teatime. They said they’d spare no expense and prepare turnip broth and crusty bread, a lavish treat, especially now that their only child was home.

Jo waved them goodbye and then went across the alley to one of the tiny houses opposite. She knocked on the door and waited for what seemed like an age until she heard shuffling, grumbling and absent-minded mumbling. The door slowly opened, and standing in front of her was an old man with a bald head, bent back and eyebrows like large hairy caterpillars.

  “Old Percy! It’s me, Jo Potterson.” It was Edmund’s great-granddad.

  The old man gazed at her myopically and said, “No, you’re not. She’s a girl.” Then he slammed the door in her face.

  Jo was a little taken aback. She was indeed dressed as a boy, had shortish brown hair and a broad chin, was strong and well-built, and had almost forgotten that she was usually taken for a boy. But still, Old Percy had known her since she was a baby. He should have known it was her. She decided to knock again.

  This time, an ageing lady answered it with flat grey hair, grey skin, grey eyes, and a few moles on her chin sprouting wispy grey tufts.

  “Grandma Sarah! It’s me. Jo Potterson.” Sarah was Edmund’s grandmother and had always been kind when they were kids, giving them treats she’d baked, like tostee, gaylede, fritters and custards.

  She stared, confused, then said, “No, you’re not. She’s nowt by a little ‘un.” Then she slammed the door.

  Jo wondered how long this door-slamming business would go on. She knocked again. The door opened, and a man with a long white beard stood there, looking at Jo’s shoes in astonishment.

  “Grandad Elias! It’s me, Jo Potterson. Don’t slam the door! It’s me! I’ve grown up.”

  “I can see it’s you, Jo—very fancy shoes. Don’t mind the other two. They’re getting a bit muddled in their dotage. I’ll go and get Edmund.”

  Elias disappeared, and as Jo waited at the door, she pondered Edmund’s complex family arrangement. His parents were street hawkers from Chester, but both had died from the Great Sweating Sickness of ‘32. Edmund, aged five, had gone to live with his grandparents.

Edmund appeared, looking very surprised, and gave Jo a big hug. He was a gangly, spotty young man with an eager face.

  “You’re here! The alley boys, back together! I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “You are. But tell me, why did you come back here? It’s not safe.”

  “Let’s just say London’s not all drinking, merriment and song.”

  As Jo said this, she pondered the life she’d been living in London this past year. Old Fish Street was a desperate place full of boil-infested beggars, drunk-filled taverns, and ragged prostitutes. At first, Jo enjoyed the taverns, the revels, and the cards, but as her year in the city progressed, she began to see that London’s dark and dingy streets and alehouses were all starting to look the same, smell the same, and to be the same. In five years, thought Jo in a rare moment of introspection, it would still be the same, only a little older, a little shabbier, and a little greyer. And she’d be right there in amongst these people, one of their number, shabbier and greyer herself, wondering what had happened to her life.

  Edmund looked confused. “We need a drink and a catch-up.”

  “Let’s go to the Three Barrels, and I can tell you all about London life. And you can tell me all about what’s happening around here.”

  “I’m not sure we should go to the Three Barrels.”

  “Why? I like the Three Barrels. We’ve had some fun nights in the Three Barrels.”

  “We’ll go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Keep out a watchful eye, a watchful eye for a cart pulled by two black horses. And if I say run, run as fast as you can.”

  “Run?”

  “The ‘pressage cart’, they call it. It comes from time to time, and the Welsh grab any young men they can find and shove them in. Then they are carted off, and we never see them again.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And where are they taken?”

  “I don’t know. But the Welsh have got most of us. Remember Will, John, Robbie, Ralph, Walter, and Little Hugh? All taken.”

  Jo remembered these boys. She’d grown up with them.

  “We’ve got to get them back.”

  “How?”

  Neither one of them had an answer, so they walked some more.

  “Tell me, Edmund,” Jo said after a few moments. “Why didn’t you come to London with me?”

  “Grandma Sarah, Grandad Elias, and Old Percy are too old to work and rely on me to earn money. We were starving, so your dad got me a job as a dung shoveller.”

  “Dung shoveller?”

  “Yeah, I’m a dung shoveller now, third class. It doesn’t pay much, but your dad says if I work hard, I’ll get up to dung shoveller first class in twenty years. And, of course, I’d met my beloved.”

  “Ah, a girl. I was sure you’d mention a girl, you old dog!”

  “Her name is Enid, and she’s something special. She’s, how can I put it? unusual.”

  “Unusual?”

  “I don’t mean strange. A bit peculiar or eccentric may be a better way of putting it. She’s clever, much cleverer than me or anyone else in the Alley, which makes her a little different. But she’s nice and kind and looks at me with love in her eyes.”

  “You didn’t want to leave Enid?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s not the only reason. Alma, her mother, didn’t want me to leave Enid. She said I’d be seduced by the hustle and bustle of London life, drinking with you in taverns, and poor old Enid won’t have her man. She wanted me to stay here, keep working at the dung shovelling, and look after Grandma, Grandpa, and Old Percy. And Enid, of course.”

  “I see. Commitments. Being responsible. Looking after others. Not something I’ve ever had to worry about, if truth be told.”

  “It’s fine, I suppose. Dung shovelling is not the most exciting of jobs, but a penny earned and all that.”

  They got to the top of High Street, and Edmund looked this way and that, searching the street for the cart. “Remember, when I say run, run.”

  “Aye, I will. Or maybe take the driver by the sword and ask where our boys are.”

  “I don’t think you’ll survive their blood-axes if you do.”

  They went into the Three Barrels. This low-ceiling, oak-beamed pub had always been one of Jo’s favourites, and she was glad to see that the decor had not changed much. But taking her pint of ale, sitting at a corner table, and looking around more closely, she could see that the pub patrons certainly had changed. Once, it was filled with local dung-encrusted farmers, grimy young men from the Shambles, and the well-to-do shopkeepers of High Street, out with their wives. But now, the place was full of big, muscular men with wolf’s fur collars, thick dark beards, and long hair, dressed in black leather jerkins and breeches.

  Her father had spoken of these barbarian Welshmen, sworn enemies of the English—the so-called Fawr clan. They were armed to the teeth with blood-axes, right here in the Three Barrels, just around the corner from her home!

  Jo leaned in closer to Edmund. “What the hell are they doing here? This is our place.”

  “Shush. If they hear any dissenting voices, they chop out their tongues. It’s happened to a few. Or so I heard.”

  “What?” Jo put her hand to her sword, tempted to spring up and ask the men to leave. But she also knew this would be an act of the greatest stupidity imaginable. Those blood-axes looked deadly. “What?” she said again in a quieter voice.

  “Tongues. Chopped out. Get it?”

  Jo thought of her knight friends and wondered if they’d help her sort out these Welsh interlopers and get the alley boys back. “Listen, Edmund. I’ve been thinking. When I was down in London, I mean.”

  “Thinking?”

  “Yeah. Thinking. I want to find the knights I knew. Remember those knights? I want to go on adventures, back on the road. Find our boys! Teaching sword to children wasn’t for me. If I must show another snotty-nosed kid how to parry, then I think I’ll go mad.”

  “I never thought you were the teacher type. Remember when we rode around the old forests on those ‘borrowed’ ponies? Remember when we used to climb up Moel Famau, just to see the view?We slept out in the woods, hunted rabbits and songbirds, hid from wild boars, made bonfires for warmth and light, and to keep the wolves away?”

  “Yeah, I remember. And we learnt swordplay from whoever would teach us. You weren’t half bad in the end.”

  “I always thought we would join the Huntsman’s Guild and become huntsman’s apprentices.”

  “Why don’t we try to find the Septimus Knights, if they’re still alive, that is. I want to see Brom, Percy, Richard, and Godfrey.”

  “I’ve not seen any knights around here for quite some time. Not sure if your friends were killed.”

  “My knights can’t be dead, surely not. They’re Masters of the Sword.”

Edmund shushed Jo and looked around the pub, not wanting to get his tongue chopped out for mentioning English knights. “Let’s drink up, and we can go somewhere without wagging ears.”

  “Hey, you two!” said one of the men in black, who was looking over at their table and glaring.   “Yes, you two. Over there! Why are you not in the pressage cart? The cart has come, and we’re here to pressage the likes of you! There’s no escape.”

  Six wild-man warriors descended on them, arms outstretched, big meaty hands ready to grab them and shove them into the pressage cart.

  Edmund jumped up and shouted, “Run for it!”

  Jo jumped up as quickly as she could, avoided a big hand that tried to grab her around the scruff of the neck and ran as she’d never run before.