Uneasy Lies the Crown (16 page)

A set of gleaming teeth amidst a flushed face was all that Owain could see as the knight flipped his visor up. The plume atop his helmet fluttered in the rising breeze. “Aaaahhhh... what have we found? Come out, come out. Have a drink, good fellows. You look parched.”

The knight motioned to one his soldiers who quickly unslung his flask and thrust it toward them. Hesitantly, Owain and Maredydd crawled out and stood. Maredydd stared at the flask, his fingers uncurling, lifting.

Owain read his thoughts. “No.”

The knight raised his pale eyebrows in amusement. “Yes, you looked Welsh and that proves it.” The knight took the flask himself and guzzled. When he had sated his own thirst, he dragged a sleeve across his mouth. “There. Harmless. Now please, won’t you introduce yourselves?”

His request was met with resolute silence. The knight, a rich and important one, judging by his fine new German armor, was taking the encounter with a sense of wry humor. “Very well, I’ll go first. Sir Henry Percy, also known as Harry Hotspur—long story to that, we shall save it for later. Now you. Your names?”

Owain stared at him, taking him in. He had heard much of this man, even seen a bit of him in action in Scotland when he was not much more than Maredydd’s age. The man may have danced around with his wit, but he meant business.

Hotspur raised his palm up and the archers pulled their bowstrings tight. It was answer the question or die on the spot.

“Owain Glyndwr.”

Hotspur tilted his head. A spark of delight shone in his eyes. “Give up your weapons. At once.” As soon as Owain and Maredydd had done so, he gave another order. “Now you,” he said, indicating Maredydd, “turn to your right. Go with them.”

Two soldiers placed their arrows back in their bags and slung their bows over their backs. They hooked Owain’s son by both arms and led him some hundred feet away. There, they settled him to the ground without force and drew their short swords. Maredydd did not flinch or turn his head or move in any way. It was as if he already accepted that his fate had come to him—too soon, too sudden perhaps, but altogether undeniable.

“Your son will make a good soldier,” Hotspur said. “I saw him take up the banner.”

“How did you know?” Owain asked with astonishment.

“I have a son, although he’s only an infant. Still, I know. That’s not the look a man gives a common soldier. Not even a friend. You’d rather die yourself than see his life end now.”

“Then take me. Let him go,” Owain pled. The tenor in his voice was steady, although it took every bit of his courage to keep it so.

Hotspur chuckled. “A noble offer, Sir Owain, but methinks it would serve me better to take him and leave you behind. I’m certain you could fetch a healthy sum to pay his ransom. Perhaps you could even call off your little rebellion to save his skin?”

He was shrewd. Grey would have killed them both on sight, if only to please the king. But this Hotspur—perhaps he was not as rash as his name implied.

“Agh, I will bake beneath this armor.” Hotspur removed his helmet. “It is damnable hot in these mountains in the day and freezing at night.” His helmet tucked beneath his arm, he walked a small circle around Owain. “I mean you and your son no harm. I want no prisoners, no ransom, no heads for trophies.”

Puzzled, Owain glanced at Maredydd, then back at Hotspur. “Then what do you want?”

He shrugged. “The truth. Only the truth.”

“Truth?”

“Sir Owain, this is no quarrel about land. You seek to see the rightful ruler of England on the throne.”

“Richard is dead.”

“So they say.” Hotspur plucked at the feathers of his plume. He appeared amused at something. “They also say he’s gone mad and lives at the court of King Robert of Scotland. Rumors, no more. But... the Earl of March lives.”

“He is a boy.”

“So was Richard when he came to the throne. The Earl of March is my nephew by marriage. Some would say that he should be the king. Do you agree?”

So that was the crux? Hotspur was not entirely fond of Henry, that much was obvious. But more than that, he was seeking an alliance. It was a dangerous ploy. If Owain answered to the affirmative, Hotspur could use that against him as grounds for treason. Owain would be drawn and quartered mercilessly. If Owain cried out against Hotspur none would believe him. On the other hand, if Henry were deposed and little Edmund Mortimer set on the throne, Hotspur would be a natural choice for a regent or at the least a councilor.

“I would say,” Owain replied carefully, “that some are right.”

Hotspur smiled. “A safe answer. But understood, Sir Owain. So you see, you and I have a common interest. Should you ever like to make more of it, let me know.” He pulled on his helmet, then reclaimed Owain’s sword and dagger from the soldier who had been holding them. He tossed them at Owain’s feet. “So that we both have the same story—you and I had blows, you knocked my sword away, but upon hearing someone approach you fled on foot. I did not ask your name, nor did I see anyone with you. And don’t fear, my soldiers are loyal men. They will have nothing to report. By the time they got here, you were gone.”

He signaled to the two guarding Maredydd to leave him and return back up the hill to where they had left the horses. Before going, he nodded to himself, as if to agree with a thought that he had held back. “One last thing—I must finish my business in Conwy. Then, I have matters on the Scottish border that demand my attention. They’re clamoring for a truce, whatever that’s worth. A piece of advice before I go: select your targets with prudence, m’lord. I hear the garrisons in the south of Wales are less vigilant than those to the north.”

Neither Owain nor Maredydd moved from their places until Hotspur was well out of sight. When they stumbled into the Welsh camp at Llyn Peris several days later, Maredydd collapsed as if his feet could not carry him one more step. Owain was helped to his tent by Rhys. They brought him water and food. He emptied his cup and lay down. A young woman with long brown hair, an occasional lover of Rhys’s, came to him with a vial of warm oil and massaged it into his shoulders and feet. While Iolo’s fingers plucked at his harp, Owain closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him. There was much to think about and he would need a clear head to sort it all out.

He did not know how long it would take him to travel the road he had set his feet on. He did not know what the end would be or what would be the price demanded of him. He did not know when again he would hold his sweet Marged in his arms. But perhaps in order for him to continue on this path, it was better for them to be apart for now. Still, convincing himself of that did not make it any easier.

Llys Bradwen, south of Dolgellau, Wales — May, 1401

Two days ride due south of Llyn Peris, Margaret stood on the banks of Afon Arthog, water up to her ankles, the hem of her skirt well soaked.

“Ready. Go!” shouted Sion. His feet slapped water onto Margaret’s face as he and his twin sister Mary sprinted past. Sand flew out behind their spinning legs.

Margaret felt the first smile in many months on her lips. Overhead, the sun shone brilliant. A warm breeze swept over the green hills and twisted loose strands of her hair.

“Sion, Mary, time to go back,” she said.

They swept the sand from their clothes, clasped hands and scrambled up the sheep path. Rejuvenated by their outing, Margaret joined the children at the top of the path where they had stopped to each gather a bouquet of wildflowers. Mary gave hers to her mother and took off after her brother again. As the slate-roofed manor came into view, Margaret paused. A cart heaped with market goods stood outside the house. Her bouquet fell to the ground. Grabbing up her hem, she ran barefooted toward it.

Sir Dafydd, whom Owain had sent with her when they were ushered from Sycharth, had just returned with Lowarch from the market at Dolgellau. He grinned when he saw Lady Margaret breathless before him and whisked the dust out of his bristly, graying hair. Lowarch dipped his head in greeting, grabbed a sack of grain and went inside.

“A splendid day, m’lady,” Dafydd remarked. Grunting under the strain, he hoisted a cask of ale out of the cart and up onto his shoulder.

“Dafydd,” Margaret said, “is there anything for me in particular?” That sounded like something the children would say, but there was always hope.

Sion climbed the spokes of the cart wheel like a ladder to peer inside the cart. Lowarch lifted a string of fish from the top and handed it to him. “Away with you.”

A thumb and finger pinching his nose, Sion took it, leapt off and raced inside, the string held at arm’s length.

“There’s a jar of nutmeg for you,” Dafydd said to Margaret. “Up near the front.”

A familiar emptiness settled in Margaret’s stomach, just as it did every week when Dafydd returned from market. A thousand such frivolous favors would not have lifted her spirits. Out of kind acceptance, she rummaged through the sacks of grain near the front of the cart. The only jars she found were one of honey and another of oil. She dug her fingers deeper. Something stiff crinkled at her fingertips. Was it possible? A letter from Owain! She tugged it loose and clutched it to her breast, cherishing the moment and at the same time whispering prayers that the news it contained was good.

Dafydd lingered at the open door to the house.

Although there was no signature, she knew the handwriting by its sharp slant to the right and broad loops. The letter was deeply creased, the ink smeared, and there was a small tear in one corner.

“May God, who knows full well the hell we have endured while we have been apart one from another, reward us with heaven when we meet again.”

She read it three more times, turned it over to inspect the back and rushed toward Dafydd. “But where did it come from? Is there nothing else?”

Dafydd shifted the cask. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Gwladys, Lowarch’s wife, who emerged through the doorway to take inventory of the goods stuffed in the cart. Gwladys claimed the jars of honey and oil, heaping words of thanks upon Dafydd. As she shuffled back inside, Dafydd placed the cask on the ground.

“I heard... some news, but only a little,” he confessed softly. “Gwilym has taken Conwy. But they’ve sent Hotspur to take it back and —”

“And Owain?” Margaret asked, her fingers pinching the creases of the letter.

A broad smile parted Dafydd’s thin lips. “Stole their cattle. Was chased by Hotspur. Lived to tell about it. Four, maybe five days ago, near Cadair Idris.”

Margaret gazed off into the distance. To the east on the horizon, the foothills of Cadair Idris pushed upward. A few days ago, Owain had been only miles away. So close. By now, though, he could be anywhere.

“Then we shall have to find him,” she said, “however long it takes, however far away.”

Iolo Goch:

For well over a century, since the murder of Prince Llywelyn the Last on the banks of the Irfon near Builth, the Welsh had bowed down before their English lords. There was peace to be had, as long as we obeyed. But now there was a new king—the Pretender, some called him—a king who sought to destroy that peace.

Laws were set down by Parliament that forbade things we had until then taken for granted. We could not hold office or bear arms within any city. We could no longer serve among the garrisons of the numerous castles in Wales. Welshmen could not bring suit against any Englishman, no matter the offense. We were forbidden from sending our sons to the universities or apprenticing them to a trade in any town. Any Englishman who married into a Welsh family was subject to the same restrictions as the Welsh. Aimed specifically at my lord Owain, the marriage of a Welshman to an Englishwoman was an act subject to severe penalty. Bards were not allowed to travel or perform in groups, in essence cutting them off from their livelihood. Even the practice of assembling to help neighbors during harvest was outlawed.

Still, there was talk. Talk passed from lips of the old farmer who came to town to sell his sheep. The butcher and the cloth merchant talked to any who did business with them and those people in turn went back out into the countryside of Wales and told what they had heard. They talked of Owain Glyndwr’s bravery, his long, noble lineage, and his gigantic height. They talked of the Tudurs’ trickery and how they had stolen Conwy out from beneath the very noses of the English garrison. They talked of freedom and how Wales was once a place that knew of such a thing—before the first Edward of England put an end to it.

In the day of our great-great grandfathers there had been song and ale and food enough to tip the tables. The flowers had bloomed more brightly then. The sun had shone more boldly.

The hills of Wales filled with men, young and old, starving to taste a dream. They flocked to Owain. They called him their ‘prince’.

Some even called him Owain, Prince of Wales. Others gave breath to the name ‘Arthur’.

22

Conwy Castle, Wales — June, 1401

For three months the Tudurs and their outlaws had been holed up in Conwy. Three months without an agreeable settlement. Three months during which Hotspur paced and fumed and shook his fist at the walls while his pupil Prince Harry stood by, asking incessant questions.

In that time, King Henry’s tone had changed from one of patient determination to insult and blame. The letters that Prince Harry received were very clear on that point, labeling Hotspur’s tepid negotiations as ‘an evil precedent’. The letters that Hotspur himself received went so far as to insinuate that he had grown sloppy and ineffectual in his jurisdiction. It was an affront that infuriated Hotspur far more than the lack of funds he was meant to operate on. It was an attack on his character and that is something he did not take lightly. He vowed to finish what he had started and be on his way.

Three months was also a very long time to have your enemy staring up at you with murderous intent. The isolation had worn the Welsh captors to a fray. The giddy victory they had enjoyed at their accomplishment clashed with the reality that the English were prepared to starve them out. Despair had a way of bending even the most iron of wills.