Uneasy Lies the Crown (29 page)

“Not as magical as that, but yes, powerful. If all continues to go well in France with Master Young and brother-in-law John, England’s Parliament will begin to consider us with some slight measure of respect. This day is only the beginning, Rhys. A parliament, laws, schools, a Welsh Church—our task does not end with the dislodging of English troops.”

Rhys helped himself to the bread and cheese that Owain, in his anxious anticipation, had ignored. “Best bring your head down from the clouds, Owain. You’ll have to explain to the
uchelwyr
how you’ll accomplish all that without making another Richard or Henry out of yourself. They’re never fond of taxes, no matter what the purpose. They may love you and your Welshness, but if it weren’t for the threat of their souls burning in hell they wouldn’t even part with a penny to save a starving monk.” He gobbled up the last crumb and wiped at his beard. “Ready?”

With a weighty sigh, Owain arranged his cloak, embroidered with his new coat of arms of four lions rampant, over his shoulders and fastened the gold clasp. “Ready.”

Rhys escorted Owain down the railed stairway. Servants scattered before them, awaiting orders that did not come. Owain had requested total privacy and quiet upon arising, for he had much to think about and plan for. The tranquility had left the kitchen help bewildered about how to prepare the day’s meals without some clanging. As Rhys and Owain approached the front door it was flung open before them. They went out into the street, where they met Maredydd and Gethin. A humble host of four guards fell in behind them.

Gethin gave a cursory bow. “You should have a horse, my prince.”

Owain scanned the street ahead. Machynlleth was packed beyond its limit. Surely the conniving merchants and stealthy thieves would not miss their opportunities for profit. Such an auspicious occasion had drawn more gentry and their servants than the town was prepared to hold. Many had been forced to lodge far beyond the town’s extremities and had begun their trek early in the morning. “It’s a short walk... and there’s no room for a horse in this crowd. Maredydd, where is your brother?”

“Late rising, I wager,” Maredydd said apologetically. “He was drowning over his cup in a tavern last night and on the brink of starting an argument when I left him. He’ll be along.”

Townspeople spilled out of doorways and dangled from open second-story windows to glimpse their prince. They shouted his name and scrambled backward to clear a path for him. Small children, hanging onto their mother’s skirts, giggled with delight at the sight of him—a golden-haired giant, his temples and beard streaked with silver, his red and gold robes flowing with each robust stride. The creases that fanned from the outer corners of his eyes betrayed his age even more, but none who saw him would have argued that he still did not strike a handsome figure. He was charismatic and commanding. He was regal. It was obvious in the way he held his chin aloft and the square set of his shoulders. Had he been the dirtiest, lowliest peasant in the land clad in soiled rags with no coin in his purse, his bearing alone would have convinced anyone that he was a force to be reckoned with and a man to be followed and obeyed, nothing less.

They moved along the streets toward the Parliament House. Owain took his time. He enjoyed witnessing the hope he saw shining bright in the people’s eyes and the cheers that burst from their smiling lips. Beside him, Gethin surveyed every movement with his hawkish eyes. The soldier in Gethin was more at ease on the battlefield than in public. Owain was smiling and waving and in no great hurry to get to his most important meeting where all of Wales’ gentry, the
uchelwyr
, had gathered.

A small chestnut-haired girl pressed herself through a sea of legs, clutching in her delicate arms a huge bouquet of flowers. A stocky man of stunted height with a blazing bush of red hair blocked her way. As she tugged at one of his stout arms, he stared at her through a slanted eye. She shrank away and tunneled herself a new path toward Owain. Intrigued, Owain stopped and reached out to accept the flowers and grant her a kiss.

“Gruffydd?” Maredydd said quizzically.

When Owain straightened and gave him a questioning glance, Maredydd pointed ahead to where Gruffydd, in rent clothes and looking as if he had just awoken, tottered out from an alleyway, searching the crowd frantically. A deep purple bruise marked the side of his face and there was dried blood from a cut on his lip.

Rhys nudged Owain. “Must have lost his quarrel.”

“Take him back to his room,” Owain said to Maredydd, pulling him in close, “and make certain he is in a proper state to present himself before attending the meeting.” Then he sent Maredydd off through the writhing crowd with two of the guards.

Gruffydd was leaning heavily against a wall as his brother approached. Trusting his son would be recovered within the hour, Owain returned his attention to the little girl ogling him. He touched her head of bouncy curls. “You will never love your freedom half as much as those who lived before you and only came by it after having none. But because of them, you will live in peace and know prosperity.”

The din of the crowd heightened, but Owain gave it no regard. As he gazed upon the little girl with her tiny smiling mouth, he saw in her face a reminder of his little Mary when she was younger: the same wild curls and small nose, the same quiet, intense look on her brow.

“Fatherrrrr!” Gruffydd’s shout sliced through the pandemonium.

Owain raised his face and saw behind the girl the red-haired man. A crooked grin tugged at the man’s lips beneath a drooping eye. The countenance stirred a distant remembrance in Owain.

“You? I know you, don’t I?” Owain guided the girl gently aside.

“Your kinsman, Davy Gam,” the man said with a sneer. “We served Henry of Bolingbroke, both of us. At Berwick. I bring a message from him.” And with that he threw himself at Owain.

A dagger flashed in Davy Gam’s hand. Owain had only a fraction of a second to suck his torso backward. The blade snagged his garments just as Gethin’s strong forearm deflected Gam’s thrust. The dagger’s edge caught Gethin across the top of his hand, but he took no notice as he loosed his sword and slammed the butt of its hilt across Gam’s jaw. Gam stumbled backward. His dagger went hurtling to the ground. He lunged for it, but Gethin kicked it into the crowd and tackled him.

Gethin brought his sword up and aimed it at Gam’s heart.

“No!” cried Owain. A tremor gripped him and he shook it off. “Take him! Put him in chains. Put him away. I will not have blood spilled before me today. Get him out of my sight—now.”

Backing away, Gethin obeyed. The guards hoisted the flailing little madman to his feet. His face pulsed scarlet with every profane syllable as they dragged him kicking down the crowded street. Gethin followed close behind for added security, searching for accomplices in every face he passed.

Maredydd was supporting his limp brother as they shoved their way through. Owain grabbed Gruffydd and pulled him into his arms.

“Are you harmed?” Owain said with deep concern.

Wincing, Gruffydd leaned back. He was sporting a black eye. “I don’t know what a broken rib feels like, but I think I may have one.” He attempted a smile, but the cut on his lower lip brought a grimace. “I heard him, in the tavern last night after Maredydd left. He boasted that he would carve out your rebellious heart and bring it to his good friend Henry on a silver plate. When he left, I followed him and challenged his cowardly words. He knocked me down with the first blow. The devil is ten times stronger than he looks.” He settled his forehead on his father’s shoulder. “Father, there were others there who heard him and none would put him in his place. He might have killed you.”

“I’m fine, Gruffydd. Very much alive, still.” He hugged his son hard, not wanting to let go. “Now, let Rhys lend you a shoulder and come with us. Traitors can be taken care of in due time. We have important work this day and nothing should hinder us.”

That night the howls of Davy Gam from the cellar of the Royal House robbed Owain and his sons of any notion of sleep. Gam was finally gagged and the following day he was transported to Dolbadarn, where Lord Grey had been shut up not so long before. The session of parliament flowed smoothly and Owain wrote many letters to rulers abroad. Attached to these letters was the Great Seal that bore his likeness and the signature that he put on them was
Owynus Dei Gratia Princeps Wallie
: ‘Owain, by God’s grace, Prince of Wales.’

That was how he signed the treaty with France when John Hanmer and Griffith Young returned with it that summer. Wales was no longer a wart on the cheek of England. And Owain Glyndwr was no longer a mere gnat to be swatted at.

Aberystwyth Castle, Wales — June, 1404

When the first Welsh Parliament finally dispersed, Owain returned to Harlech, but not directly. He stopped with Rhys at Aberystwyth. Gruffydd, however, would not go there. Owain’s oldest son feigned eagerness to greet his siblings and did not spare his father a stinging comment about how happy his mother would surely be to see them all.

That Gruffydd had fancied Nesta when she first joined their camp was an unspoken fact—just as Owain’s infidelity with her was also well known. So, as Gruffydd rode off alone, passing Aberystwyth from the road without ever giving it a glance, Maredydd stayed at his father’s side. Owain was beginning to discover the true character of his sons. Gruffydd was pure emotion—flaring in jealousy one minute, drowning in despondency the next. Even so, Owain could not begrudge him those feelings. Maredydd thought before he acted and he did so with a strong, unwavering silence. Thus, Maredydd found himself ever more in his father’s company and privy to his thoughts and plans while Gruffydd drifted away with increasing frequency.

When they arrived at Aberystwyth, Owain and Maredydd were served a hearty meal. Famished, Owain rushed through it and excused himself before the others were halfway done. As he went from the hall, he was aware that Rhys was watching him. Maredydd, though, did not look up from his plate.

The child Nesta had given birth to was a girl: Myfanwy. She was the mirror image of her mother and secretly for that Owain was thankful. She was a robust child with a black mop of curls and dark, sparkling eyes and a set of lungs to make her mother proud. When Nesta settled the baby in his arms, his brow clouded momentarily.

“You are not pleased?” Nesta asked, tilting her head. The baby was only three weeks old, but Nesta’s belly was already slim.

He kissed Myfanwy on the forehead and placed her, sleeping, into her cradle beside Nesta’s bed. “I have a granddaughter older than her. I was reminded, only for a second, of my age. I wish we were not so far apart in years, my little bird.”

“I don’t,” Nesta said without hesitation. “Do you think that I love you only for your looks? That I will flee when your head is too gray or your steps too slow to match mine? Men my age are impetuous and selfish. If you had not lived so many years upon this earth you would not be the man you are and not half as intriguing to me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap. “But because of who I am, there is only so much of me I can give to you.” He was not sure if she understood what he meant. No doubt he had no one to blame for the complexity of his own life, but being with her was bittersweet. “Tomorrow I must be off to Harlech. I will need to stay there for awhile.”

“Of course.” She approached him on silent, small feet. One of her shoes could almost fit in the palm of his hand, he mused. Her next sentence cut coldly. “You have your children and your wife.”

When he looked up at her he could not hide the ambiguity that wrestled in his heart. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” She forced a smile, but in the grit of her strained voice the hurt was there. “Say it not. Just come back to us as soon as you have played the dutiful husband. Be with me. When you can.”

“How could I not come back to you?” He took one of her hands and kissed her fingertips. “There is talk about us.”

Nesta’s eyebrows flickered. “It is only jealousy that makes their tongues wag.”

“Perhaps.” He gave a little laugh and squeezed her hands. “But it is our adultery they speak of.”

Settling herself onto his lap, she whispered warmly into his ear, “Then call on your priest tomorrow, for you will have a sin to confess.”

Nesta’s warm breath on his neck stirred the blood in his veins and set them on fire. With anguishing slowness, he lay back on the bed, letting her needy kisses pour over him.

Owain heard Maredydd’s voice in the hallway and his eyes flicked toward the chamber door as Nesta’s hands wandered over his entire body, which was growing weak with desire for her.

“The door is not latched,” he said, although he could not will himself to move. Tomorrow he would be with Margaret and their children. Gruffydd would be there. Could he still be father and husband, while loving another so helplessly and completely? He closed his eyes. The solid thud of a door reverberated. Maredydd’s voice was gone. The child, Myfanwy, was asleep. Margaret was miles away. The soft, promising rustle of linen stirred the air and he opened his eyes to his lover’s invitation. Her waist was so tiny it amazed him that she had ever carried a child inside her at all. His child. Their child.

An unlocked door mattered not at all to him anymore. He might have died in Machynlleth by Davy Gam’s knife, or at Hyddgen on the tip of a Flemish spear, or on the slopes of Cadair Idris by Hotspur’s keen sword. He could die any day in battle. How many times had he cheated fate, walked away from death while others around him fell to the blade?

He had only this night to share with her, to lose himself in her, to forget all his pains. Only the now in which to live.

Late the next day Owain left for Harlech, both sated in his passions for a young, fulfilling beauty and gnawed with shame over his persistent weakness toward her, but during the months following, whenever he rode out on a raid or to tend to business throughout his realm, he always tarried at Aberystwyth on his way home. With each lingering visit, the guilt that weighted his conscience became less and less and the days and nights he spent at Aberystwyth became more and more. Before the first snowflake of winter descended, Nesta’s belly was already growing with another child.