Uneasy Lies the Crown (24 page)

“Who wishes himself elsewhere?”

Edmund meant only to glance at her, but when he met her eyes he could not look away, so entranced he was. What was it about her that so intrigued him? Indeed, she was beautiful, but —

“Look,” she said, rushing to the window. “The apples are ripe. And the sun may not be so bright again until spring. This room must be a dreary place when it is your whole world.”

Suddenly, he realized that his stay at Sycharth was not as gloomy as he had painted it. She was refreshing, this young, excitable creature—almost childlike in her joyfulness and innocence. A thought entered his mind. Some good could come of this predicament of his after all.

Catrin tilted her head. “Is that smile a ‘yes’?”

“It is,” he replied. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked to the garden together. There were watchful eyes everywhere, but as Catrin bent over to pinch off a rose hip, Edmund forgot all about them. He saw nothing but her—so youthful, so vital, so in awe of the world’s beauty. He could not help but feel a little imbued by her spirit.

It did not take Edmund Mortimer long to give Owain Glyndwr an answer about what to do with him. He was more than pleasantly surprised when Owain agreed to his proposal.

Not long afterward, Edmund wrote a letter to Sir John Greyndour asserting his nephew’s right to wear the crown and elaborating on his consent to join in cause with the Welsh. Also, along with the letter was the news to be delivered to King Henry that he, Sir Edmund Mortimer, had married Catrin, daughter of Owain Glyndwr.

33

Sycharth, Wales — March, 1403

The Welshman had boasted once too often and too loudly.

The first buds of spring were on the trees when Prince Harry came upon deserted Sycharth with his army. He grabbed a torch from his friend and mentor, Sir John Oldcastle, and raced his horse madly through the maze of outbuildings, touching the hungry flame to dry thatch. When no signs of inhabitants were found, he tossed the torch to one of his soldiers.

“Burn the house,” Harry ordered. “Burn it all.”

“Your uncle Beaufort will not take kindly to this,” Oldcastle warned him. After outlawing Glyndwr, the king had granted his lands to his half-brother John Beaufort, the Earl of Somerset. Mindful not to destroy Beaufort’s property, Henry had thus far left it intact—a mistake Harry would not repeat.

“Beaufort has reaped nothing from these holdings and will not unless we destroy this manor and give Glyndwr nothing to come back to. If Beaufort thinks otherwise, he’s merely pissing himself.”

Oldcastle nodded to the soldier holding the torch.

With mounting satisfaction, Harry watched the beacon of flame rise into the brightening dawn sky, the tail of its smoke twisting eastward. “The only thing more satisfying than burning the Welsh bastard’s home, John, would be knowing he’s inside. He’s a clever rascal. Always a step ahead. The braggart will reckon with me now and he’ll not find it so easy a task. He’ll come to his knees, by God’s eyes, he will. I will see to it, even if it takes me the next ten years. And centuries from now all that will be remembered of Sir Owain Glyndwr is the ruin he brought upon his own land.”

Harry had known since his tortured days at Oxford that the scholar’s life was not for him. He was a soldier and by a soldier’s ways he would win what was his. For now it was under the premise that he was guarding his father’s realm, or so others would see it, but he was thinking ahead of the years to come. His father was plagued by some mysterious illness. He would not, could not last much longer.

Carmarthenshire, Wales — Spring, 1403

In the broad Tywi Valley, which meandered lazily through a jumble of low emerald hills in Carmarthenshire, the army of Wales spread like a vast city sprung up overnight. They had grown bold in their movements at times, less inclined to seek cover, quicker to strike and resolute when they did so. But there was a delicate balance to be struck between decisiveness and patience, for Owain knew that Harry’s soldiers had not been paid in some time. Their food would be rationed; discontent would burgeon. If he drew things out long enough, that could all work to his advantage.

Steadily, Owain was gaining an advantage. His men were well fed and well provisioned. They were in bold spirits. His newly vowed supporters had proven faithful. Some noteworthy warriors had joined his flock—men of station, influence, wealth and wisdom. The Welsh were no longer a band of roving brigands. They were an army, fully armed and numbering in the tens of thousands.

Sunset was in its blazing glory when the night’s song began. Walking amongst his men, Owain was drawn on by the silken strands of a female voice, one that he had not heard before, he was certain, for he would never have forgotten it. He wandered past the tents and threaded between the woolen blankets spread around small cooking fires. His soldiers smiled and bowed in salutation. Owain put on no lofty airs. He had been the same in the early days with his family at Sycharth, when people would travel from across the land to share in the merrymaking of his hall. But somehow that all faded from his thoughts when he came to the clearing from where the golden song emanated.

Her hair tumbled to the small of her back in rebellious, satiny ringlets of jet black. She was dark of complexion and small, betraying her ancient Celtic blood. As she sang, her fine hands floated from her sides and gave her the likeness of a songbird stretching its wings as it trilled. Perched on a felled tree stump, her bare feet peeked from beneath a plain dress of green, tattered at the hem.

Owain was mesmerized by her sorrowful ballad—a song of lovers too often and too long parted. Iolo plucked his harp softly, his notes encircling her heavenly voice. Owain did not feel the first tug at his sleeve.

“You like her?”

Owain turned to see Rhys’s cheeks lifted by a smile as huge as his lips could manage. He nodded. “The sight of her makes me drunker than any wine.”

The corners of Rhys’s mouth sank. “Her singing... you like her singing?”

“Her singing, most definitely.” He leaned against the trunk of a solitary willow, its yellow catkins hanging low. “But I am certain there is more of her worth liking than that.” It made him feel young again, this gush of lustiness. She was delicate of form, yet incredibly powerful in the conveyance of her song. What an exotic beauty. Helen of Troy could not have rivaled her.

“Who is she?” he whispered.

“My daughter Nesta,” Rhys said.

Owain blinked. “Your daughter? She cannot be. She’s too beautiful.”

Fists clenched, Rhys bristled visibly. “Have I ever struck you before, Owain?”

“You have. On several occasions.”

“Have I ever struck you when we were sober?”

“Not that I recall.”

“You’re damn close to feeling my fist breaking your nose.”

Owain grabbed his belly as he shook with laughter. “Oh, try. You couldn’t reach that high.”

Rhys’s fist reeled around and struck Owain on the underside of his chin. Owain stumbled backward. When he finally caught his balance he stared wide-eyed at his friend. He swallowed back the blood that trickled from his tongue. “You missed.”

“Keep your eyes from her. I know you,” Rhys spun away, mumbling. “All you have to do is look a woman’s way and the next morning she’s feeding you cherries from her fingertips.”

In his youth, Owain had been too tongue-tied around girls to do more than draw their glances, but of late there had been no shortage of flirtatious maidens darting around him. He would not say so, but he found the attention invigorating and flattering, almost intoxicating. He wrapped an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “You’re talking about yourself again. Who is it that boasts about kitchen maids and shepherdesses from town to town? And wasn’t it you who sent that dark-haired girl to me at Plynlimon and —”

“You mean Madrun?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Not to you, I suppose.”

“Whatever happened to her? I couldn’t find her after awhile.”

“She went home, Owain, to marry some local boy, a farmer. She tired of you calling her by your wife’s name, she told me.”

The two men fell silent as Nesta’s song filled the air. By now, a lute-player had joined her and Iolo and she was singing a merry tune. Around her, a few girls had begun to twirl in a dance and the men clapped and whooped.

Rhys sighed and gazed at the darkening hills. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She is. Be proud, my friend, be proud. What a joy to behold. She is proof there is yet heaven in the world.”

Nesta’s lovely strains did not waver as Gruffydd, who had been standing among her admirers, reached out and tucked a single daisy behind her ear. Gruffydd bowed before her and plucked up her dainty hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles. Nesta’s eyes swept over the crowd and as they met with Owain’s her voice lifted up and her smile broadened.

“It would seem your son thinks so, as well,” Rhys said, not noticing his daughter’s exchange with Owain. “I should introduce her to your boys. Gruffydd, he needs to cease pining for that daughter of Grey’s—she’s long gone. And Maredydd, ah, he’s a bright lad. Keeps his wits about him when everything around him is in mayhem. He’ll outshine you one day soon, he will.”

“Outshine me soon? Are you saying I’m getting too old?”

“Nothing of the sort. We’re both fresh as spring lambs.” Rhys leaned toward Owain. “Then again, you’re soon to be a grandfather now, are you not? I hear Catrin is with child. She must have conceived on her wedding night—or before.”

Owain gave him a sharp look. “They wasted no time, I grant you. It’s breaking Edmund’s heart not to be with her. Most men would wish for a son, but he wants a daughter with a head full of golden curls, just like Catrin’s.” He remembered thinking the same before Margaret gave birth to Catrin. It had been weeks since he had written his wife or heard from her in return. How quickly the twenty years had passed since he had opened his shutters to find her on the London street below. How magical it had been to gaze upon her from across a room and feel the rhythm of her heart echoing inside his own chest. But now... now they were worlds apart. Looking into Marged’s eyes was like dropping a stone into a bottomless well. He could not even hold her close without the wrenching pangs of guilt reminding him that he had almost caused her to die.

Holding out a flask, Rhys elbowed him. “A bit of fire down your throat to celebrate, old man?”

“I would rather compliment your daughter... if you trust me, that is?”

Rhys groaned, and then chugged from the flask. “Ah, come on then. Devil take you, anyway.”

They were edging through the crowd of Nesta’s admirers when Edmund came flying forward. Breathless, he pushed a slightly crumpled letter into Owain’s hands.

“What is this?” Owain asked. But the look on Edmund’s face betrayed the ill news. Owain cast his eyes down and as he absorbed the words there his hands began to shake with rage.

Rhys peered past his arm. “Curse him.”

Gruffydd, who had noticed his brother-in-law’s frantic race through the camp, approached his father with trepidation. Maredydd was close behind him.

“What is it?” Gruffydd said. “Is mother well? Sion and little Mary? Catrin?”

“They are all fine. But our home...” Owain said, his voice quavering, “is no longer. Sycharth and Glyndyfrdwy both are but piles of ashes left to the ravishes of the wind. Prince Harry has descended like a winter gale upon Wales.”

Carefully, Owain rolled the letter up and tucked it into his belt. “Fetch Gethin at once. Rhys, I want an accurate count of our numbers. We will reinforce our siege parties at Harlech and Aberystwyth. Send word to Tudur, posthaste. He will be greatly relieved. Tomorrow at daybreak, we head for Llandovery. I will send another force on to Llandeilo. Gruffydd, you will accompany Rhys there. Maredydd, Edmund, you will follow me. If Henry and his son Harry want all out war, they shall have it.”

Edmund’s eyes sank with the blow. The babe was due any day now; he would not be at Catrin’s side to see their first child born.

After a hasty meeting with his commanders, Owain wandered from his tent into the starlight and sat down on the riverbank. Silver moonbeams glistened at the water’s surface and the gentle murmur of its gurgling brought him back to his childhood days. He did not hear the rustle of bare feet in the grass until she was before him.

Nesta’s smile broke through the darkness. “So, you are him—Owain Glyndwr? The glorious warrior? You are tall, I can see that even though you’re sitting, but I had imagined some giant with a lightning rod as his spear.” She sank to the ground and deftly arranged her skirts in a swirl around her.

“Such glory is spun from bards’ songs,” he said. “’Tis a myth, nothing more.”

“But you are no myth. It was not so long ago that the bards sang of Cadwaladr who drove out the Saxons. He was a real man, like you—a conquering hero fed by great vision. Now the name of Owain Glyndwr is upon their lips. They call you their Lord, their Prince of Wales...
Y Mab Darogan
, Son of Prophecy. I hear it everywhere. They are calling upon you to take the crown and lead them.”

 He shook his head. “A lofty calling... but you see, crowns never came to princes of Wales without great bloodshed. I am not that heartless or ambitious to seek it. It’s a life I would sooner not lead.”

She drew her knees up and hugged them against the cool air. “So you would rather live as you did before? A servant to Marcher lords? A slave to the wagging finger of a king?”

“Neither of those. I simply want the English gone from Wales, but I don’t long for any diadem, especially not one as transient as the mist in the valleys. If I could declare peace through courts and laws, by the saints, I would do it. What I have to do, however, is not what I would want to do. Peace and freedom are the products of war. And I fear their price will fall on my head, crown or not.”

“A heavy price indeed, but there is yet joy and beauty in the world—and hope, is there not?”