50
Sycharth
SHE SAT IN the grey swivel chair, trying not to think of cigarettes.
‘Do you remember the last time you were in the Master House, Mr Gwilym?’
He didn’t hesitate, nodding in a resigned way.
‘Yes, I am rather afraid that I do.’
‘When would that have been?’
‘Oh … more than thirty years ago, certainly. I was a young man. I’d been invited, along with other local youngsters, to a party – the kind of party I would not attend today, but I expect that in your own, clearly more recent, youth, you also …?’
Gwilym said that the Master House had been leased by the Newtons to a group of people who had money to spare, took drugs and behaved with … a certain lack of inhibition. He supposed that, as country kids, they’d been fascinated and flattered to be invited to join in, half-expecting celebrities to be there.
Merrily said, ‘So that would’ve been you and …?’
‘Mainly young women – perhaps another reason I was keen to go.’
‘Do you remember their names, by any chance?’
Do you remember the black girl?
A minimal shake of the head. Pointless asking that at this stage.
‘And what happened at the party?’
‘I was offered cannabis, which I felt obliged to take. And which must have had an effect because I recall very little of what happened afterwards.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Although I do remember, towards midnight, someone suggesting that – given the age of the house and its atmosphere by candlelight – we should hold a sort of seance. With the intention of making contact with the dead.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘I doubt whether there’s a logical answer to that.’
‘A sort of seance?’
‘I do remember some of the people there being excited to discover that many generations of my family had lived in the house. Someone suggested that it would be interesting for me to be put in touch with my ancestors.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
‘Hardly in a position – or, I would guess, in any state – to say no.’
‘And how did they go about it?’
‘All a blur, I’m afraid, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Ouija board?’
‘You mean letters and an upturned glass? Not that I recall.’
‘Do you remember which of your ancestors they were trying to reach?’
‘I imagine any one of them would have been more than welcome. Why? Do you think we might somehow have conjured up something that is still, ah, walking the place?’
‘It’s just that … your first name, the names of several of your forebears and your son seem to correspond to a particular pattern. One called Owain. Then there was Gruffydd. And Fychan?’
‘My father. And my great-grandfather.’
Merrily looked up at the engraving of the fork-bearded man with the sceptre.
‘The last man to try to bring about an independent Wales by force, in the fifteenth century – having himself declared Prince of Wales – was Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan.’
Was that an actual movement in Sycharth’s sleepy eyes?
‘Widely known as Owain Glyndwyr. And his father’s name …’ Merrily consulted the pad ‘… was, I believe, Gruffydd Fychan ap Madog.’
‘You have a better knowledge of Welsh history than most of your countrymen, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Welsh friends. Now. Owain’s father, I think, was baron of somewhere called … Cynllaith Owain?’
No reaction.
‘And Glyndwr’s own mansion in north-east Wales was, of course, called … Sycharth.’
‘Well done indeed, Mrs Watkins.’
‘So the Gwilyms have a family tradition of male children being given names connected with Owain Glyndwr. Who is said to have stayed at the Master House while on the run from the English, after his campaign collapsed.’
‘I believe that is the story, yes.’
‘One your family is evidently very proud of.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose we are. Especially now, in a time when Owain’s vision is becoming reality. How gratified he would be to see the formation of the Welsh Assembly … as a start. Not yet enough, but a start.’
‘And all done without anyone being killed,’ Merrily said. ‘Or a single castle being burned to the ground.’
‘Yes, quite a number of castles in this area were destroyed. And people killed. Still, many landowning families in the vicinity of Garway supported his campaign. The whole area – even as far as Hereford itself – had been part of the old Wales, and allegiances remain to this day.’
‘And here he is on your wall, here in England. The Mab Darogan – Son of Prophecy? Who, according to legend, never died, just faded into the landscape of his beloved Wales, until such time as Wales has need of him again.’
‘I am a fan,’ Mr Gwilym said.
‘But if his daughter was at Kentchurch Court, just down the valley, why would he need to spend time at the Master House?’
‘To his enemies, Kentchurch would have been a rather obvious place to go. Not that he didn’t, but …’
‘Maybe there were other attractions at the Master House?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I was wondering …’ Merrily was gazing up at Owain, the sceptre rising meaningfully from between his legs ‘… if perhaps there was … I don’t know, a Gwilym daughter? Who, when Owain was in hiding and understandably a bit depressed about the way things had turned out, devoted herself to … kind of cheering him up a bit.’
‘You are suggesting that we might be descended directly from Owain Glyndwr.’
Merrily shrugged.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Some of my family have believed that. There was a woman called Elinor Gwilym, born around the turn of the fifteenth century, who became quite a matriarch in my family. Some of my ancestors bore quite a resemblance to …’ He glanced up. ‘It has even been said that I … Anyway, which of my countrymen would not wish to be related to the greatest Welshman in history, the last real Prince of Wales?’
‘Quite.’
Merrily was remembering the way Adam Eastgate had looked at her when she’d reminded him, rather tactlessly, that Edward II was only the first English Prince of Wales.
‘However,’ Gwilym said, ‘I doubt that the great man would have deigned to appear to a bunch of stoned kids.’
‘Of course, Owain wasn’t the only great historical figure to have stayed at the Master House. Would your ancestors have been there while the Templars were in Garway?’
‘It was a Templar farm.’
‘Perhaps hosting Jacques de Molay in 1294?’
‘So it is said.’
‘And whatever he brought with him?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not sure I do either, but people keep mentioning the possibility of Templar treasure winding up in Garway.’
Sycharth Gwilym laughed.
‘Your family never looked for it? Although, when you think about it, I expect the Gwilyms had already lost the house when all this speculation started about the Templars and their wealth and the secrets they guarded.’
No response.
‘Be a good reason to want the house back,’ Merrily said. ‘Especially if you had all the family records.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Just passing on gossip.’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘Yes. I expect it is. It’s just that a friend of mine – a Welsh friend – was pointing out that Glyndwr’s campaign was fired by the unjust treatment of the Welsh by the English marcher lords. And, more specifically, a personal injustice, when some of his own land in North Wales, near the English border, was seized by his neighbour, the Lord of Rhuthun.’