Uneasy Lies the Crown (12 page)

“If I may speak, m’lord,” the bearded man requested softly, looking up.

“You may not.” Owain stared him down. “Dafydd?”

Sir Dafydd leaned on his poleax. “If I knew I would say. He says he will only speak to you.”

 “I haven’t the tolerance for this today. It can wait until morning.” Owain spun about and proceeded back toward the manor. Feet scuffled behind him. He drew his sword and whirled about in one smooth movement.

The bearded man had plunged to his knees, but the guards were swift behind him and had already hooked him under the armpits to drag him away.

“I am Rhys Gethin of Cwm Llanerch and I come to speak of the crimes of one Lord Grey of Ruthin!”

Owain raised his hand, halting the guards. It was the last name he wanted to hear. “I know well of his crimes. I have been the subject of them.”

Tearing himself from his captors, Gethin rushed forward. “Then you know the lawlessness that festers in this land. This man, Griffith ap David”—he pointed to him and Griffith shyly stepped forward—“was promised a pardon and an appointment as bailiff of Chirk. But when he came to meet with Lord Grey at Oswestry to discuss the terms, they seized and murdered one of his men-at-arms. He and this other man, Tom, escaped and came to me in the hills of Powys, seeking sanctuary.”

“Is this true?” Owain surveyed Gethin’s companions, unsure what to make of them.

Griffith ap David raised his chin. “As I stand before you, m’lord, it is the full truth.”

“I have heard of your troubles, Griffith ap David,” Owain said. He glanced at Gethin whose features were as unreadable as the stones littering the mountain slopes, then returned his gaze to Griffith. “There are Marcher Lords who claim their herds are much depleted due to you. I am not in the habit of granting favors to outlaws.”

Clearing his throat, Rhys spoke from behind him. “Yet you are one yourself now. As am I.”

“Wales has no voice in the kingdom,” Gethin said, “unless you would become that voice.”

Half-turning, Owain took a step back. He did not want to be anyone’s messiah. He simply wanted to be left to live in peace with his family. “You ask too much of me.”

“I ask nothing that is not possible,” Gethin said. “I tell you, these insults against your people —”

“My people?How do you surmise that I hold claim to lead anyone?”

Gethin lowered his eyes, letting the question hang in the air awhile before replying. “I am not a man who disguises my words. I speak plainly, to the point, and I say this—the Cymry will be ground into dust beneath the heel of the one who calls himself ‘King of England’. He will take from us whatever suits his purpose, as will his minions. For fear of their lives and families, not a single Welshman will resist him unless he has someone to rally to. That someone is you, Sir Owain Glyndwr. By blood and by brotherhood—there is no one but you. And although I may be the first here to say it, everyone knows it is so.”

From inside the house, the clatter of plates rose as the first course was brought to the tables. Merry voices rolled from the great hall of Sycharth, among them those of his own children. Tiny Mary peeled with laughter.

He looked at the faces of these coarse hill men and he was well aware of the insults they had been dealt. Every strand of common sense he possessed told him to turn them away, to disassociate himself. He had a family to provide for, to keep safe. But Grey would be back to make him answer for his insolence. There was no doubt of that. And no law would bring him to reason. If someone did not defy him, Grey would be back to take more.

Owain gazed up at the darkening sky. Above the drifting mist, a crescent moon swung from a cloud of palest purple. Then the wind swept a bank of thicker clouds over the moon. “I have never turned out a soul in need. Sycharth is home to all.”

Holding an arm out, he waited until Gethin and the others accepted the invitation and crossed the bridge.

As they ascended the wide steps to Sycharth’s hall, Owain stopped Rhys with a hand on his arm. He whispered, “God grant me guidance, for I have no idea what is right and what is wrong anymore.”

“Oh, I think you know.” Grinning, Rhys winked at him. “But ‘right’ is not always easy, is it? Grey knows he’s wrong. Flatten the bastard. It’s the only way you’ll keep what’s yours.”

16

Near the River Annan, Scotland — September, 1400

In the moorland of Scotland, the English army was encamped in a broad valley overlooking the River Annan, a hard day’s march north of Carlisle. A cutting wind raced over the dead sweep of heather and slid its icy fingers beneath blankets and hoods.

“Have you uncovered the Scots, William?” King Henry addressed the scout who stooped before him. He scanned the naked countryside around them. His growing army filled up the vast valley that ran between two rock-cluttered ridgelines. On either side, a swarm of Scots could be clenching their spears even now. The wind carried in its howling a whisper of primal war cries from long ago and Henry tried hard to listen for snatches of nearby soldierly conversation, anything, to drown out the madness of it.

“If there are any Scots, sire,” William answered with a grumble, “they have disguised themselves as stones. But I do report, with pleasure, that our numbers will be augmented before sunset by the arrival of men from the Welsh Marches.”

“At last. Good, good. Have them report to me as soon as they arrive.” A servant offered a steaming bowl to the king. He sipped, and then spat it out, his lips twisting in disgust. The bowl fell to the ground, its hot contents splashing on the thinly leathered shoes of the servant. “Toad piss! Find me something palatable.” Then he moved off in search of his tent. Once inside, he buried himself in a pile of blankets.

As night crept over the world, an attendant came to the king’s tent and announced the arrival of Lord Grey. Wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, Henry waited on his portable throne.

Grey bowed as he entered, then eased closer.

“Your numbers?” Henry uttered, his gloved thumb caressing the carved arm of his chair. He gazed into the glow of the peat brazier at his feet.

Satisfaction danced on Grey’s smiling lips. “As many as you asked for, sire, and more. And enough archers to plant a dozen arrows in every Scotsman.”

Stretching an arm, Henry took a drumstick of goose meat from his plate on the nearby table and sank his teeth into it. It was cold and dry, but he was beyond complaining at that point. Suffering was part of the Scottish experience. “How did you convince that impudent Welshman to follow you here?”

Grey tugged off his riding gloves and held his fingers toward the brazier. “Glyndwr does not count himself among your loyal subjects, I am sorry to relay, sire. He refused to come or send any men on his behalf.”

“Refused? The insolent bastard!” Henry hurled the meat at Grey. “He cannot
refuse
me. This is unpardonable.”

“Deplorable, sire. Perhaps even verging on... rebellious. And in times such as these, my lord can ill afford such disobedience. Then again, I suppose it comes as no surprise that a Welshman would defy you, does it?”

“No, no it doesn’t.” The king leaned forward and pointed at Grey. “You will correct the matter?”

“With delight, sire.”

“See to it, then.” He sniffed back the stream pouring from his nose and slumped in his chair, his appetite suddenly vanished. “Take whatever measures are needed.”

“As you wish, sire.” Bowing, Grey backed away. “I’ll make certain he does not defy you again.”

Iolo Goch:

The English were not long in Scotland. The skies opened up and spewed out not rain but snow, turning the moors into quagmires that sucked at wagon wheels and horses’ hooves. The impressive numbers that Henry had gathered amounted to nothing more than a show of strength, as the Scottish army melted into the countryside, never rising to clash with their frozen foes... and more than happy to see them go on their way.

17

Sycharth, Wales — Late September, 1400

Along the road that paralleled the Dee, a wagon laden with newly bought goods rumbled. A driver and three anxious passengers rode in it. At the reins was an old man, silent except for his sniffing. With him were three women—one of middle years and two younger. The women exchanged comments about the weather and hopes that the rain would hold off until they were back at Sycharth. Ahead of the wagon, two mounted guards rode, their hands light upon their reins, for the horses knew the way.

From time to time, Margaret, who was seated in the wagon with her daughters, Alice and Catrin, glanced at the hills, trying to mark how many miles they had yet to go. The sun had not revealed itself that day, so how many hours had passed since they had left was impossible to tell. Margaret returned her eyes to the road ahead. The broad loin of the horse that pulled the wagon swayed with each stride.

She had been at Wrexham for three days, exploring the shops there and visiting her brother John. As much as she had enjoyed her stay, she was anxious to return home to see the rest of her children. Yet when Sycharth finally came into view, she was met by a very disturbing sight. Every stick of furniture, every tapestry, every plate and spoon in the place was being piled haphazardly onto carts and the backs of horses. She told the driver to go faster and he snapped the reins.

Before crossing the bridge over the moat, she ordered the driver to halt. As the wagon slowed, she took everything in. Then cautiously, she climbed down from the wagon. Alice and Catrin pulled their cloaks tighter around them to ward off the brittle cold and followed close behind their mother, gawking at the chaotic scene around them.

Dobbin the shepherd ran out into the mess, a cage of squawking hens under each arm. He tossed one of the cages on top of a fully loaded cart and then, discovering no room left for the other, darted toward Margaret’s wagon and wedged it in between the sideboard and a bolt of new green velvet. Margaret immediately snatched it out and put it on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Margaret demanded. “That cloth came all the way from Flanders. And what is going on here? Why are all my things being loaded up? Where is Sir Owain?”

Dobbin waived his arms frantically. “They’re coming. Any moment now. Grab what you can, m’lady. We must be gone.”

“They?” She exchanged a look of perplexity with her two oldest daughters. Dobbin scrambled toward one of the barns, weaving around the horses and carts. Margaret bunched up her skirts in clenched fists and flew over the bridge, up the stairs and into the hall. Servants sprinted past, their arms overloaded with sacks of grain, stacks of bowls, and piles of clothing. None stopped to acknowledge her. They were all in too much of a hurry.

She flung open the door to Owain’s study and found it empty of all its maps and books. Then she flew through the house, peering inside every door. Finally, she found Isabel in her room, clutching a doll to her chest.

Startled, Isabel burst into tears at the sight of her mother.

“Oh,
cariad
,” Margaret said, crouching before her, “why the tears? Where is your father?”

Isabel, at eleven still more little girl than woman, shrugged her slight shoulders and sobbed harder, wringing her doll’s arms until they threatened to fall off.

“Why is everything being taken away?” Margaret said, dabbing at her daughter’s wet cheeks with her fingers.

Isabel’s lip hung low and she sucked in a breath. “He shouted at me, Mother.” Then she erupted into an even greater cascade of tears and flung herself onto her bed.

Usually, it was Margaret who raised her voice at the children and levied the punishments.

In the doorway, Isabel’s twin brother Madoc loitered. He braved a few steps closer, shuffled his feet to get his sister’s attention and frowned in sympathy. Margaret stroked Isabel’s back a moment, but at the sound of Owain’s voice in the corridor, she abandoned her distraught daughter and rushed out of the room.

“What is the meaning of this?” Margaret planted her hands on her hips, blocking Owain and Tudur’s way.

Ignoring her, Tudur pushed past Margaret, plunged into one of the rooms, and began rummaging for valuables.

Reaching out, Owain drew his wife closer. “Lord Grey sent an offer to meet here—to amend our differences.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes, not understanding. “But that is good, is it not? Perhaps he wishes to apologize for —”

“Grey has no designs on patching the rift between us, Marged. It is a ruse.”

“Why do you say that? You yourself told me if there was any way you could repair the misdeeds that have been dealt to you, any way at all, regardless of pride, that you would.”

Tudur emerged from the room, a cushioned stool and a pile of clothing heaped over his arms. Owain nodded toward the stairs and Tudur, with a look of apology at Margaret, disappeared down them.

“Listen to me... and do not question what I am going to tell you to do.” He gripped her arms firmly. “Nothing is more important to me than you and the children. I will not gamble any of that for a remote chance that Lord Grey has suddenly replaced his seething ambitions with forgiveness. Our things will be hidden away until it is safe to come back here. Meanwhile, you will join my cousin’s family. You can perhaps take Sion and Mary with you. The rest, it would be wiser if they were divided... placed elsewhere. Too many of them together will raise suspicions.”

“Are you mad? I will not leave my home and scatter my children among the hills.” Margaret stomped her foot, but already she could tell that her protests were apt to be as effective as trying to topple a stone wall with a handful of pebbles. “This is our home. If we leave it, what is to keep him from tearing down every last timber?”

“I will take that chance to save you. Now please, please,”—his words held an urgency, as if mindful of the danger that every lingering second added—“gather what —”

“No. This is my home.”