Trick or treat?
Trick or treat? Trick or treat?
C’mon mister, trick or treat?
Here’s ten pence now go away
And don’t come back another day!
Trick or treat? Trick or treat?
C’mon missus, trick or treat?
Here you are dears, fifty pence,
Please don’t paint things on my fence.
Trick or treat? Trick or treat?
There’s no-one in. Ring it again.
Someone’s there, bang on the door.
Through the letter-box, he’s on the floor.
And there’s a dog, licking its chops
What shall we do, call the cops?
No, let’s get on, we want some sweets
And we need more cash to buy some treats.
Trick or treat? Trick or treat?
We have to go back, see if he’s moved.
Ring the bell, the floor’s all red,
Try the door, I’m sure he’s dead.
Where’s your ‘phone? We’ve got to help
Hello, Police? We’re at the house
Someone’s still upon the floor
We need your help, open the door.
The dog, tell ’em about the dog.
It’s too late, they’re on their way
Gosh! two police cars, what a sight!
And an ambulance with flashing light.
The door succumbs to a mighty kick
The dog is caught and tied up
The old man rushed to hospital
“Well done, boys”, the copper says
“Here’s a fiver, that’s your treat.”
October 2010
Monday, 21 November 2011
Monday, 7 February 2011
Emotional Storm
He had put the phone down slowly and deliberately. He wasn’t used to receiving declarations of love out of the blue like that. His best friend’s wife, what on earth was going on? Not just his best friend’s wife but also his sister-in-law. He needed to think. This was crazy, there’d been no inkling that this might happen, no hints, no signs, no secretive smiles, nothing. He reviewed those occasions when their families had been together recently, searching for any action, smile, touch, silence even, that he could have missed. Anything at all, but no, he couldn’t think of anything that might have forewarned him of this. It just didn’t make sense. What had she said? Something about him not knowing what this was all about. Well, she was right about that, and about wanting to talk, but refusing to say what she wanted to talk about? He should have twigged then that something was up, but it was all such a shock. He’d been foolish to agree to meet her, he could see that now. Not just foolish, downright stupid.
Now here he was, waiting outside the locked pavilion in the gathering gloom. Odd flashes of lightning pierced the black sky and the wind gusted through the trees making the distant street lights appear to flicker. He put up the hood of his anorak and sought the lee side of the building but the swirling wind made it difficult to be sure about which side was, indeed, the lee side. If she didn’t come soon, he would be soaked for the rumble of thunder could be heard above the noise of the traffic on the distant road and he felt the first spots of rain on his hood. He stared through the gloom towards the park gate from which she would approach but there was no sign of her, and as he turned away the ornamental ironwork was briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning. He counted the ‘chimpanzees’… and at ‘three’ the bang of thunder, it was close. Now he could hear the rain drumming on the pavilion roof and the wind came in sudden gusts, leaves bounced along the footpath and another flash revealed a figure approaching, struggling against the wind with a hand hanging grimly onto the coat collar. Should he simply walk away now? She hadn’t seen him; he could just slip to the other side of the pavilion and head for the other gate. No, that’s a coward’s way out and what would he do when they next met, when he collected the children or she collected theirs. This was impossible, he must settle it now.
More lightning and more thunder, and the rain was trickling down his neck. She had reached him now.
“Judy, there you are.” Well, that was a tame beginning.
“It’s John, she said. “He’s got to go into hospital tomorrow, they have to do some tests. The thing is…” she paused searching for the right words, “… the thing is you know how close they are, John and Beth, more like a secret society than brother and sister. Well, I wondered if you would tell Beth, you know, break it to her gently, be there with her because she’s bound to take it badly.”
The rain was easing now and the wind slackened. He mumbled, ”Yes, of course, if you think that’s best.”
“I couldn’t ask you on the phone, I felt I had to see you, to make sure you understood.”
“What’s wrong with him? Is he very ill?” This is all very confusing he thought. John? Tests?
“Oh no,” She exclaimed “He absolutely fine, it’s my aunt who’s ill, it’s likely that she will need a transplant soon and he wants to see if he could be a suitable donor. By coincidence they have the same blood group. You know what he’s like, always eager to help. It’s just that Beth will freak out at the thought of her little brother doing something like this.”
“Right,” he said cautiously, ”I understand, it’s just that your phone call left me a little confused.”
“Oh forget about that, I was just a little emotional, what with Aunt Charlotte and John and the thought of telling Beth and you… well you have always been so kind and I knew you would understand.”
The storm had passed and the traffic had lessened, and so had the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. So she hadn’t been declaring her love for him in that way, that was a figment of his over-ambitious imagination. Well, that’s a relief. Or was it? Perhaps he had been harbouring feelings for Judy that he hadn’t previously acknowledged? Perish the thought! Oh why is life so complicated? They walked to the park gate together and he mused that the storm was over, in more ways than one. Then again, there were likely to be more storms to come at sometime or other
Now here he was, waiting outside the locked pavilion in the gathering gloom. Odd flashes of lightning pierced the black sky and the wind gusted through the trees making the distant street lights appear to flicker. He put up the hood of his anorak and sought the lee side of the building but the swirling wind made it difficult to be sure about which side was, indeed, the lee side. If she didn’t come soon, he would be soaked for the rumble of thunder could be heard above the noise of the traffic on the distant road and he felt the first spots of rain on his hood. He stared through the gloom towards the park gate from which she would approach but there was no sign of her, and as he turned away the ornamental ironwork was briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning. He counted the ‘chimpanzees’… and at ‘three’ the bang of thunder, it was close. Now he could hear the rain drumming on the pavilion roof and the wind came in sudden gusts, leaves bounced along the footpath and another flash revealed a figure approaching, struggling against the wind with a hand hanging grimly onto the coat collar. Should he simply walk away now? She hadn’t seen him; he could just slip to the other side of the pavilion and head for the other gate. No, that’s a coward’s way out and what would he do when they next met, when he collected the children or she collected theirs. This was impossible, he must settle it now.
More lightning and more thunder, and the rain was trickling down his neck. She had reached him now.
“Judy, there you are.” Well, that was a tame beginning.
“It’s John, she said. “He’s got to go into hospital tomorrow, they have to do some tests. The thing is…” she paused searching for the right words, “… the thing is you know how close they are, John and Beth, more like a secret society than brother and sister. Well, I wondered if you would tell Beth, you know, break it to her gently, be there with her because she’s bound to take it badly.”
The rain was easing now and the wind slackened. He mumbled, ”Yes, of course, if you think that’s best.”
“I couldn’t ask you on the phone, I felt I had to see you, to make sure you understood.”
“What’s wrong with him? Is he very ill?” This is all very confusing he thought. John? Tests?
“Oh no,” She exclaimed “He absolutely fine, it’s my aunt who’s ill, it’s likely that she will need a transplant soon and he wants to see if he could be a suitable donor. By coincidence they have the same blood group. You know what he’s like, always eager to help. It’s just that Beth will freak out at the thought of her little brother doing something like this.”
“Right,” he said cautiously, ”I understand, it’s just that your phone call left me a little confused.”
“Oh forget about that, I was just a little emotional, what with Aunt Charlotte and John and the thought of telling Beth and you… well you have always been so kind and I knew you would understand.”
The storm had passed and the traffic had lessened, and so had the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. So she hadn’t been declaring her love for him in that way, that was a figment of his over-ambitious imagination. Well, that’s a relief. Or was it? Perhaps he had been harbouring feelings for Judy that he hadn’t previously acknowledged? Perish the thought! Oh why is life so complicated? They walked to the park gate together and he mused that the storm was over, in more ways than one. Then again, there were likely to be more storms to come at sometime or other
Sunday, 6 February 2011
A 21st Century Obsession
Mark is sitting at his desk, struggling with the report he has to write for the community panel meeting tomorrow and reflecting on Jefferson and the shooting of the teacher. Of all the clients that Mark has dealt with since he has been seconded to the youth offending service, Jefferson is by far the most enigmatic.
They had first met at the police station about two hours after the shooting. Mark had had a phone call from Sergeant Hughes telling to come to the station as a matter of urgency. In the custody suite, about half an hour later, Sergeant Hughes had been brief and to the point.
‘We’ve got a young lad in a cell and he’s refusing a solicitor. As his appropriate adult can you advise him to let us call a solicitor? I don’t like charging a minor unless there’s a solicitor present.’
PC Evans, the arresting officer, let Mark into the cell. Jefferson was sitting on the bench, leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees. He didn’t look up.
‘Hello, I’m Mark, I’m here as your appropriate adult.’ Jefferson sat perfectly still, as if he hadn’t heard what Mark had said. ‘I’m here because you’re under eighteen and in the absence of your parents, I will do my best to support you. However, I’m not allowed to give you legal advice, only a qualified solicitor can do that. Do you have your own solicitor or do you want us to call the duty solicitor?’
Jefferson looked up, flicked his hair out of his eyes and then looked directly at Mark.
‘I’ve told them I don’t want a solicitor. I did it. I shot Mr Griffiths and I told them that when they cautioned me. What’s the point of a solicitor?’ Mark could see that Jefferson was adamant – no solicitor. For a thirteen year-old accused of such a serious offence, he was remarkably composed and quite unlike any of Mark’s other clients.
“OK, I’ll tell the sergeant.” Mark hammered on the cell door and was let out. He went to the desk and passed on the message.
‘Right! PC Evans, take him to the interview room and get his statement.’ Sergeant Hughes’ patience had finally run out. Mark followed them to the interview room and while PC Evans was setting up the tape recorder, Mark noted down Jefferson’s personal details.
‘Everyone ready?’ PC Evans asked.
Jefferson and Mark nodded. They all stated their names for the record and PC Evans formally cautioned Jefferson for a second time.
‘You needn’t say anything when questioned, but anything you do say will be taken down and…’ It’s just like an episode of ‘The Bill’, Mark thought.
Mark observed Jefferson closely, he was a strange character, so calm, so accepting, so matter-of-fact. Blond hair cut in a style reminiscent of the 1960s, about average height and build but with the awkward bulk of someone who didn’t do much exercise. Not obese, not yet, but you could see the way he was going. He was dressed in a rather scruffy school uniform, open-necked white shirt, dirty grey trousers and a equally dirty blazer with what looked like a striped school tie dangling from one of the pockets. Jefferson answered all the questions put to him with a kind of doleful concentration, always to the point, never evasive, never elaborating. Jefferson had got up that morning, washed and dressed, had some breakfast, returned to his room. He had taken the pellet gun out of his drawer, loaded it, put it into his school bag and walked to school. He’d skipped class assembly and gone straight to the games teacher’s office and waited in the corridor until the teacher had finished speaking to a colleague. Then he had taken the gun out of his bag, gone to the door of the office, waited until the teacher looked up - apparently he’d bent down to tie a shoelace - and then pointed the gun and fired. The pellet had glanced off Mr Griffiths’ chin. When the teacher had recovered from the shock and realised that his wound was no more than a scratch, he’d chased after Jefferson who was by that time walking away and down the corridor. Jefferson heard the teacher approaching, turned around, raised the gun but did not fire as the teacher had dived for cover but started screaming for help. Jefferson put the gun back into his bag and put the bag on the floor in front of him. Eventually, PC Evans had arrived, Jefferson was pointed out to him as the culprit and Jefferson had allowed PC Evans to take the bag, apparently saying: ‘You have it, I’m not going to shoot anyone else.’ Jefferson refused to give any indication as to why he had shot the teacher, it was the only question he had refused to answer. Jefferson had signed his statement without reading it, and they had all traipsed back to the desk where Jefferson was formally charged and bailed on condition he did not go within half a mile if the school grounds. Mark stayed with him until the social worker came to take him to temporary accommodation.
When Mark saw Jefferson next, it was in his capacity as his case worker, and to assess Jefferson’s risk to the public and his risk to himself. Mark rated both as ‘low’. Initially there had been some question as to whether Jefferson was fit to plead, but although the child psychologist had found him a bit of a social isolate, he was considered fully capable of understanding what he’d done.
The press had reported on the incident with the usual lurid headlines, they ranged from the simple: “Boy Shoots Teacher”, to the more descriptive:” Boy, 13, shoots Teacher In Face For Making Him Play Rugby”. Jefferson had been described as a loner, obsessed with guns and very quiet, and much was made of what were little more than childish doodles on his school exercise books, drawings of guns, of knives and odd phrases such as ‘I am going to kill you’ and ‘You’re going to get it”. Mark was sure that these were of far less significance than the reporters had tried to make out. Moreover, Mark felt that the teacher had been branded a bully without a shred of evidence. The press had got even more excited when rumours began to circulate about the ‘arsenal’ of weapons which the police had confiscated from Jefferson’s family home together with ‘stockpiles of horror movies and violent computer games’.
What continued to puzzle Mark was, why Jefferson had shot the teacher. As far as Mark could tell Jefferson didn’t object to rugby, in fact he didn’t seem to object to anything and he certainly didn’t seem to be obsessed by guns. Surprisingly, what the papers hadn’t reported was that the couple who Jefferson called his ‘Mum and Dad’ were actually his grandparents. They had brought Jefferson up since he was about three months old. His mother had either not wanted him or hadn’t been able to cope with him, the story was never consistent. More bizarre was that Jefferson’s natural mother lived next door with her new partner and their two daughters. It was all very strange but, even taking all that into account, Mark was still at a loss to explain why Jefferson had shot Mr Griffiths.
He was no wiser after the trial. Jefferson had pleaded guilty, Mark had given his risk assessment report, the psychologist’s report had been read out, and that was it. First offence, early guilty plea, minimal risk to society and to himself – the magistrates had done the only thing they could do according to the sentencing guidelines – a twelve month referral order, reduced by a third because of his prompt guilty plea.
Mark was beginning to dread the panel meeting, the panel members will want to know why Jefferson had shot the teacher and Mark is sure they will get no more out of Jefferson than he had done. Moreover, he is equally sure that they are unlikely to accept the idea that he’d done it simply to get out of playing rugby as the newspapers had suggested. One of the positive things he could report is that Jefferson seemed to be responding well to the programme of complementary education that Mark had arranged for him. The telephone rings, Jefferson’s tutor, Jane, has left a package for him at the front desk. Mark goes down to collect it. It is the education report on Jefferson that he had been expecting, together with a note with a scrap of paper attached. The note read:
‘Mark, I found this piece of paper after Jefferson left yesterday, I don’t know if it’s relevant but I thought you’d better see it. Regards, Jane.’ Mark examines the scrap of paper, on it is scrawled in a rather childish hand: ‘You stupid, fat bastard, you didn’t have to shoot Griffo to stop us seeing your man-boobs.’
‘That’s it!’ Mark thinks, ‘the shooting wasn’t about Jefferson being forced to play rugby at all, it was simply a fear of undressing in front of his mates, but to shoot a teacher? That is a desperate cry for help.’
They had first met at the police station about two hours after the shooting. Mark had had a phone call from Sergeant Hughes telling to come to the station as a matter of urgency. In the custody suite, about half an hour later, Sergeant Hughes had been brief and to the point.
‘We’ve got a young lad in a cell and he’s refusing a solicitor. As his appropriate adult can you advise him to let us call a solicitor? I don’t like charging a minor unless there’s a solicitor present.’
PC Evans, the arresting officer, let Mark into the cell. Jefferson was sitting on the bench, leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees. He didn’t look up.
‘Hello, I’m Mark, I’m here as your appropriate adult.’ Jefferson sat perfectly still, as if he hadn’t heard what Mark had said. ‘I’m here because you’re under eighteen and in the absence of your parents, I will do my best to support you. However, I’m not allowed to give you legal advice, only a qualified solicitor can do that. Do you have your own solicitor or do you want us to call the duty solicitor?’
Jefferson looked up, flicked his hair out of his eyes and then looked directly at Mark.
‘I’ve told them I don’t want a solicitor. I did it. I shot Mr Griffiths and I told them that when they cautioned me. What’s the point of a solicitor?’ Mark could see that Jefferson was adamant – no solicitor. For a thirteen year-old accused of such a serious offence, he was remarkably composed and quite unlike any of Mark’s other clients.
“OK, I’ll tell the sergeant.” Mark hammered on the cell door and was let out. He went to the desk and passed on the message.
‘Right! PC Evans, take him to the interview room and get his statement.’ Sergeant Hughes’ patience had finally run out. Mark followed them to the interview room and while PC Evans was setting up the tape recorder, Mark noted down Jefferson’s personal details.
‘Everyone ready?’ PC Evans asked.
Jefferson and Mark nodded. They all stated their names for the record and PC Evans formally cautioned Jefferson for a second time.
‘You needn’t say anything when questioned, but anything you do say will be taken down and…’ It’s just like an episode of ‘The Bill’, Mark thought.
Mark observed Jefferson closely, he was a strange character, so calm, so accepting, so matter-of-fact. Blond hair cut in a style reminiscent of the 1960s, about average height and build but with the awkward bulk of someone who didn’t do much exercise. Not obese, not yet, but you could see the way he was going. He was dressed in a rather scruffy school uniform, open-necked white shirt, dirty grey trousers and a equally dirty blazer with what looked like a striped school tie dangling from one of the pockets. Jefferson answered all the questions put to him with a kind of doleful concentration, always to the point, never evasive, never elaborating. Jefferson had got up that morning, washed and dressed, had some breakfast, returned to his room. He had taken the pellet gun out of his drawer, loaded it, put it into his school bag and walked to school. He’d skipped class assembly and gone straight to the games teacher’s office and waited in the corridor until the teacher had finished speaking to a colleague. Then he had taken the gun out of his bag, gone to the door of the office, waited until the teacher looked up - apparently he’d bent down to tie a shoelace - and then pointed the gun and fired. The pellet had glanced off Mr Griffiths’ chin. When the teacher had recovered from the shock and realised that his wound was no more than a scratch, he’d chased after Jefferson who was by that time walking away and down the corridor. Jefferson heard the teacher approaching, turned around, raised the gun but did not fire as the teacher had dived for cover but started screaming for help. Jefferson put the gun back into his bag and put the bag on the floor in front of him. Eventually, PC Evans had arrived, Jefferson was pointed out to him as the culprit and Jefferson had allowed PC Evans to take the bag, apparently saying: ‘You have it, I’m not going to shoot anyone else.’ Jefferson refused to give any indication as to why he had shot the teacher, it was the only question he had refused to answer. Jefferson had signed his statement without reading it, and they had all traipsed back to the desk where Jefferson was formally charged and bailed on condition he did not go within half a mile if the school grounds. Mark stayed with him until the social worker came to take him to temporary accommodation.
When Mark saw Jefferson next, it was in his capacity as his case worker, and to assess Jefferson’s risk to the public and his risk to himself. Mark rated both as ‘low’. Initially there had been some question as to whether Jefferson was fit to plead, but although the child psychologist had found him a bit of a social isolate, he was considered fully capable of understanding what he’d done.
The press had reported on the incident with the usual lurid headlines, they ranged from the simple: “Boy Shoots Teacher”, to the more descriptive:” Boy, 13, shoots Teacher In Face For Making Him Play Rugby”. Jefferson had been described as a loner, obsessed with guns and very quiet, and much was made of what were little more than childish doodles on his school exercise books, drawings of guns, of knives and odd phrases such as ‘I am going to kill you’ and ‘You’re going to get it”. Mark was sure that these were of far less significance than the reporters had tried to make out. Moreover, Mark felt that the teacher had been branded a bully without a shred of evidence. The press had got even more excited when rumours began to circulate about the ‘arsenal’ of weapons which the police had confiscated from Jefferson’s family home together with ‘stockpiles of horror movies and violent computer games’.
What continued to puzzle Mark was, why Jefferson had shot the teacher. As far as Mark could tell Jefferson didn’t object to rugby, in fact he didn’t seem to object to anything and he certainly didn’t seem to be obsessed by guns. Surprisingly, what the papers hadn’t reported was that the couple who Jefferson called his ‘Mum and Dad’ were actually his grandparents. They had brought Jefferson up since he was about three months old. His mother had either not wanted him or hadn’t been able to cope with him, the story was never consistent. More bizarre was that Jefferson’s natural mother lived next door with her new partner and their two daughters. It was all very strange but, even taking all that into account, Mark was still at a loss to explain why Jefferson had shot Mr Griffiths.
He was no wiser after the trial. Jefferson had pleaded guilty, Mark had given his risk assessment report, the psychologist’s report had been read out, and that was it. First offence, early guilty plea, minimal risk to society and to himself – the magistrates had done the only thing they could do according to the sentencing guidelines – a twelve month referral order, reduced by a third because of his prompt guilty plea.
Mark was beginning to dread the panel meeting, the panel members will want to know why Jefferson had shot the teacher and Mark is sure they will get no more out of Jefferson than he had done. Moreover, he is equally sure that they are unlikely to accept the idea that he’d done it simply to get out of playing rugby as the newspapers had suggested. One of the positive things he could report is that Jefferson seemed to be responding well to the programme of complementary education that Mark had arranged for him. The telephone rings, Jefferson’s tutor, Jane, has left a package for him at the front desk. Mark goes down to collect it. It is the education report on Jefferson that he had been expecting, together with a note with a scrap of paper attached. The note read:
‘Mark, I found this piece of paper after Jefferson left yesterday, I don’t know if it’s relevant but I thought you’d better see it. Regards, Jane.’ Mark examines the scrap of paper, on it is scrawled in a rather childish hand: ‘You stupid, fat bastard, you didn’t have to shoot Griffo to stop us seeing your man-boobs.’
‘That’s it!’ Mark thinks, ‘the shooting wasn’t about Jefferson being forced to play rugby at all, it was simply a fear of undressing in front of his mates, but to shoot a teacher? That is a desperate cry for help.’
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Theatre of Dreams
Old Trafford, the home of Manchester United
A place of pilgrimage for soccer fans
From around the world and called by them
The Theatre of Dreams.
Seventy six thousand gather for big games
In anticipation of triumph yet fearing disaster
Red, the predominant colour in this,
The Theatre of Dreams.
Visiting teams with exotic names and fearsome
Reputations have foundered here
Vanquished mercilessly by the Reds in
The Theatre of Dreams
Bayern, Real, and Benfica, all came
With baying supporters eager for blood,
All left chastened and defeated in this,
The Theatre of Dreams
They also have dreams, the visitors
They dream of beating the best,
The mighty Manchester United in
Their Theatre of Dreams
And on New Year’s Day, 1992
Came the unfashionable west Londoners,
Queens Park Rangers and won 4 – 1 in
The Theatre of Dreams.
A place of pilgrimage for soccer fans
From around the world and called by them
The Theatre of Dreams.
Seventy six thousand gather for big games
In anticipation of triumph yet fearing disaster
Red, the predominant colour in this,
The Theatre of Dreams.
Visiting teams with exotic names and fearsome
Reputations have foundered here
Vanquished mercilessly by the Reds in
The Theatre of Dreams
Bayern, Real, and Benfica, all came
With baying supporters eager for blood,
All left chastened and defeated in this,
The Theatre of Dreams
They also have dreams, the visitors
They dream of beating the best,
The mighty Manchester United in
Their Theatre of Dreams
And on New Year’s Day, 1992
Came the unfashionable west Londoners,
Queens Park Rangers and won 4 – 1 in
The Theatre of Dreams.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
The Dying Rules of Poetry
Iambic pentameter, is that what he said?
Or epic hexameter? it’s over my head.
Free verse with rhythm or cadenced speech?
What happened to scansion? Gone to the beach?
Now anything goes, our verse is not dead,
Rules must be broken, lines must be read.
How do we know what is right or is wrong?
Does prosody matter when all is now song?
Now anything goes when composing our verse,
And bardic silence is definitely worse.
Or epic hexameter? it’s over my head.
Free verse with rhythm or cadenced speech?
What happened to scansion? Gone to the beach?
Now anything goes, our verse is not dead,
Rules must be broken, lines must be read.
How do we know what is right or is wrong?
Does prosody matter when all is now song?
Now anything goes when composing our verse,
And bardic silence is definitely worse.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Flight from Cilmeri
“Llywelyn is dead! – the Prince is dead!”
Mortimer’s men gathered around the body, staring incredulously. Their early morning patrol had happened on a group of Welsh riders heading west near Cilmeri. Their challenge was not answered and so the short skirmish had begun. It was over in minutes, one Welshman run through by a lance, a clash of swords and another fell from his horse, a page captured and two had escaped west, towards Llanafan.
“What is your name, page?”
“I am Huw ap Rhys, servant of the Prince, my lord.”
“And is this the Prince lying here?
“Yes, my lord.”
“And where were you riding to so early?”
“To the house of the Lady Maud at Llan-ym-ddyfri, my lord.”
The leader of the Marcher troops was caught in two minds, if this really was the acknowledged Prince of Wales lying dead, then Sir Roger must come to claim his victory, but if the boy was lying then could it be a King’s man he had just killed? Plenty of Marcher Lords employed Welsh servants, either way, Sir Roger had to be told.
“John of Clun, stay here with the men, I will fetch Sir Roger from Llanfair. Guard the boy well and keep a sharp watch, the Welsh may try to retrieve him. Here’s some mead to keep you warm.”
Huw unsaddled his pony and spread the dead captain’s cloak over his back against the morning chill. The winter sun rose slowly from the direction of Aberedw and the cave where they had spent the night. The boy lay down on his own cloak and wrapped it around him, careful to keep hold of the pony’s reins. The English soldiers watched disinterestedly as they sipped the mead and basked in the thin rays of the sun. The tracks in the frost made by Pedr and Llwyd were beginning to disappear. Had they gone to fetch help? More likely they had seen the Prince struck down and run away to save their own skins. In any case, where were their Welsh troops in sufficient number to take on Mortimer’s Englishmen?
The mead was having an effect among his guards, they had stopped talking and one was even beginning to snore. Huw sat up and looked about him, he was about twenty yards from the ford which was screened from his guards by their tethered horses, now peacefully grazing on the thawing grass. If he could gain the other side of the river there was a chance of escape. He stood up and pretended to inspect the pony’s hooves. The guards didn’t stir. Huw edged towards Llywelyn’s body and on an impulse took the ring from the Prince’s finger, it would make it more difficult to confirm Llywelyn’s identity and buy him time. Huw knelt by the body of his Prince and said a silent prayer for the Prince and for himself for forgiveness for stealing the ring.
Still the guards did not stir, Huw pulled on the reins and led the pony stealthily towards the ford. One of the English horses neighed softly as if in encouragement. There was no going back now, gently through the ford and turn upstream. Now behind the willows and still leading the pony he skirted Hendre, they were for Mortimer there, and headed to the ford near the bend at Llanafan Fychan. Again he was careful to avoid the house, more Mortimer people there, but he was soon north of the Irfon again. Huw was sure they would think he’d made for Mynydd Eppynt and the safety of the mountain, but he was intent on getting to the abbey at Cwm Hir to get help to bury the Prince.
By midday, Huw had crossed the Chwefru and could see the Gwy from the high ground near Llanfihangel. From here he could either cross the river, pick up the Eithon at Disserth and follow it to Y Groes, or he could stay this side and work his way up the Gwy to Rhaedr. Both routes were fraught with danger, Mortimer held sway throughout this land and his castle at Cefnllys watched over the Eithon securely. Better to stay this side and high, and try to cross below the falls at Rhaedr under the cover of darkness. He kept off the tracks and stayed in the woods, the going was more difficult and exhausting but the pony was sure-footed and willing. The early moon helped them find the ford and by midnight he was at the door of the abbey. One of the lay brothers agreed to wake the Abbot when he was shown the ring. The old man immediately recognised him as the Prince’s page and greeted him warmly and Huw knew he was safe at last.
It turned out that a Christian burial was out of the question for the Prince, he had been excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury on the insistence of the King. Under these circumstances the Pope would allow a Christian burial only if Llywelyn had received the last rites from a priest. The Abbot did however agree to send a party of lay brothers to fetch the body to the Abbey, at least he could be buried close to consecrated ground.
Two days later the brothers returned accompanied by Lady Maud, the Prince’s cousin. The Abbot gave instructions for a grave to be dug outside the abbey walls, near to the eastern gate. Huw had told Lady Maud of the Prince’s last moments and gave her the ring, he had also told her of his hurried prayer before he took flight from Cilmeri. Lady Maud called for the Abbot and said: “If Huw ap Rhys takes holy orders, would the prayer that he said over Llywelyn’s body count as the last rite?” The Abbot thought for a long time, went to the Lady Chapel to pray, and finally gave the order for the grave to be dug in front of the high altar.
Huw ap Rhys never left the beautiful, remote, high-sided valley of Cwm Hir until he became the Abbot of wealthy abbey of Strata Florida, thirty years later.
Mortimer’s men gathered around the body, staring incredulously. Their early morning patrol had happened on a group of Welsh riders heading west near Cilmeri. Their challenge was not answered and so the short skirmish had begun. It was over in minutes, one Welshman run through by a lance, a clash of swords and another fell from his horse, a page captured and two had escaped west, towards Llanafan.
“What is your name, page?”
“I am Huw ap Rhys, servant of the Prince, my lord.”
“And is this the Prince lying here?
“Yes, my lord.”
“And where were you riding to so early?”
“To the house of the Lady Maud at Llan-ym-ddyfri, my lord.”
The leader of the Marcher troops was caught in two minds, if this really was the acknowledged Prince of Wales lying dead, then Sir Roger must come to claim his victory, but if the boy was lying then could it be a King’s man he had just killed? Plenty of Marcher Lords employed Welsh servants, either way, Sir Roger had to be told.
“John of Clun, stay here with the men, I will fetch Sir Roger from Llanfair. Guard the boy well and keep a sharp watch, the Welsh may try to retrieve him. Here’s some mead to keep you warm.”
Huw unsaddled his pony and spread the dead captain’s cloak over his back against the morning chill. The winter sun rose slowly from the direction of Aberedw and the cave where they had spent the night. The boy lay down on his own cloak and wrapped it around him, careful to keep hold of the pony’s reins. The English soldiers watched disinterestedly as they sipped the mead and basked in the thin rays of the sun. The tracks in the frost made by Pedr and Llwyd were beginning to disappear. Had they gone to fetch help? More likely they had seen the Prince struck down and run away to save their own skins. In any case, where were their Welsh troops in sufficient number to take on Mortimer’s Englishmen?
The mead was having an effect among his guards, they had stopped talking and one was even beginning to snore. Huw sat up and looked about him, he was about twenty yards from the ford which was screened from his guards by their tethered horses, now peacefully grazing on the thawing grass. If he could gain the other side of the river there was a chance of escape. He stood up and pretended to inspect the pony’s hooves. The guards didn’t stir. Huw edged towards Llywelyn’s body and on an impulse took the ring from the Prince’s finger, it would make it more difficult to confirm Llywelyn’s identity and buy him time. Huw knelt by the body of his Prince and said a silent prayer for the Prince and for himself for forgiveness for stealing the ring.
Still the guards did not stir, Huw pulled on the reins and led the pony stealthily towards the ford. One of the English horses neighed softly as if in encouragement. There was no going back now, gently through the ford and turn upstream. Now behind the willows and still leading the pony he skirted Hendre, they were for Mortimer there, and headed to the ford near the bend at Llanafan Fychan. Again he was careful to avoid the house, more Mortimer people there, but he was soon north of the Irfon again. Huw was sure they would think he’d made for Mynydd Eppynt and the safety of the mountain, but he was intent on getting to the abbey at Cwm Hir to get help to bury the Prince.
By midday, Huw had crossed the Chwefru and could see the Gwy from the high ground near Llanfihangel. From here he could either cross the river, pick up the Eithon at Disserth and follow it to Y Groes, or he could stay this side and work his way up the Gwy to Rhaedr. Both routes were fraught with danger, Mortimer held sway throughout this land and his castle at Cefnllys watched over the Eithon securely. Better to stay this side and high, and try to cross below the falls at Rhaedr under the cover of darkness. He kept off the tracks and stayed in the woods, the going was more difficult and exhausting but the pony was sure-footed and willing. The early moon helped them find the ford and by midnight he was at the door of the abbey. One of the lay brothers agreed to wake the Abbot when he was shown the ring. The old man immediately recognised him as the Prince’s page and greeted him warmly and Huw knew he was safe at last.
It turned out that a Christian burial was out of the question for the Prince, he had been excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury on the insistence of the King. Under these circumstances the Pope would allow a Christian burial only if Llywelyn had received the last rites from a priest. The Abbot did however agree to send a party of lay brothers to fetch the body to the Abbey, at least he could be buried close to consecrated ground.
Two days later the brothers returned accompanied by Lady Maud, the Prince’s cousin. The Abbot gave instructions for a grave to be dug outside the abbey walls, near to the eastern gate. Huw had told Lady Maud of the Prince’s last moments and gave her the ring, he had also told her of his hurried prayer before he took flight from Cilmeri. Lady Maud called for the Abbot and said: “If Huw ap Rhys takes holy orders, would the prayer that he said over Llywelyn’s body count as the last rite?” The Abbot thought for a long time, went to the Lady Chapel to pray, and finally gave the order for the grave to be dug in front of the high altar.
Huw ap Rhys never left the beautiful, remote, high-sided valley of Cwm Hir until he became the Abbot of wealthy abbey of Strata Florida, thirty years later.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Thunderstorm
A distant rumble, darkening sky
Presage a storm that is hovering nigh
The air feels heavy and the tension fills
The storm is gathering in those brooding hills.
Small puffs of wind swirl round and round
Lift dirt and grit from the dusty ground
Flashes of light pierce the pregnant gloom
We count the seconds ‘til following boom.
We are certain now, rain comes our way
Edging ever closer like a bird of prey
Odd spots at first, like blots of ink
Stain the paving and make us shrink
In doorways, or under awnings pinned,
Shelter we seek from the gusting wind,
More cracks of lightning echo around
As rain ever heavier drums on the ground
The jagged lightning and torrential rain
Send rivers of water down the drain.
After a few short minutes, it begins to ease
And the wind subsides to a gentle breeze.
Pavements glisten in the eerie light.
A fine-spray drizzle, a rainbow bright.
Weak sun reflected in window panes
Only leaf-drops spatter the lanes.
Thunder now distant and brighter sky
The storm now passed, we say good bye
To our brief shelters and resume our way
To home or work for another day.
Presage a storm that is hovering nigh
The air feels heavy and the tension fills
The storm is gathering in those brooding hills.
Small puffs of wind swirl round and round
Lift dirt and grit from the dusty ground
Flashes of light pierce the pregnant gloom
We count the seconds ‘til following boom.
We are certain now, rain comes our way
Edging ever closer like a bird of prey
Odd spots at first, like blots of ink
Stain the paving and make us shrink
In doorways, or under awnings pinned,
Shelter we seek from the gusting wind,
More cracks of lightning echo around
As rain ever heavier drums on the ground
The jagged lightning and torrential rain
Send rivers of water down the drain.
After a few short minutes, it begins to ease
And the wind subsides to a gentle breeze.
Pavements glisten in the eerie light.
A fine-spray drizzle, a rainbow bright.
Weak sun reflected in window panes
Only leaf-drops spatter the lanes.
Thunder now distant and brighter sky
The storm now passed, we say good bye
To our brief shelters and resume our way
To home or work for another day.
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