Uneasy Lies the Crown (3 page)

She imparted a fluttering kiss in the tangle of her son’s hair. “To bed.”

“Yes, Mother,” Owain said. He had no wish to displease her—a frown was enough to correct him. His head hanging low, Owain waited for the chiding that was sure to ensue over the deplorable state of his clothing, but it did not come. His mother merely pursed her lips as her fingers grazed over Owain’s dangling sleeve.

“Tomorrow I shall have Rhiannon draw you a bath. We will scrub the mud from behind your ears. Now off with you... and say your prayers twice,” she said, as she prodded him along, “for having missed your studies.”

After a few steps, Owain paused, looked back at her through a stray lock of golden hair and nodded dutifully. He scratched behind his ear. When he looked at his fingernails, the dirt was there, black as peat. How could she see it, in the half-dark, with such a cursory inspection? From behind the kitchen door, Rhiannon gossiped with the kitchen maids. The prospect of her scouring his flesh with hot water and a brush caused Owain to cringe. If only Father were here, surely Owain could have begged a day of fishing from him or some other distraction. But as things were, he was relegated to the company of womenfolk—coddled, cajoled and ushered off to bed barely past sunset. He had been sentenced to the solar more times than he cared to recollect, forced to read French verse to them as the womenfolk’s fingers raced across the looms. Mother told him it was part of his schooling. What good was it to speak French when you lived in the cloistered repose of the Welsh hills? Without the bustle of sport with other boys and the vivid tales his father provided, living amongst a flock of women was a dreadful, tedious existence for a boy poised on the verge of manhood and pining for gruffer company.

As he reached the door, beyond which was the chamber he shared with Tudur, a faint clattering of hooves from outside reached his ears. It could only be one person! His spirit on wings, before his mother could utter his name, Owain was bounding across the hall and out the front door, his long legs churning like the wheels of a runaway cart.

Halfway down the front steps he skidded to a halt. His heart leapt into his throat as he strained his eyes in the darkness. Half a dozen riders were crossing the wooden bridge over the ditch surrounding their home—the sharp ringing of horseshoes cutting through the night air. Dark cloaks flared behind the riders like eagles’ wings straining to soar. But as they entered the courtyard and the first of the company reined in his horse and dismounted, Owain’s heart plummeted.

Richard Fitzalan, the Earl of Arundel, in whose name and company Gruffydd Fychan had served in France, paused at the base of the steps. He slapped the dust from his leather gloves, tucked them into his belt and took something from another of his company. With sorrow plain in his old gray eyes, he gazed up at his neighbor’s son. In his arms he cradled a long object, swaddled in a plain white cloth.

Elen and half the household poured from the front door in mute stupor.

“My lord earl.” Elen moved reluctantly toward him, the fingers of one white-knuckled hand clenching her skirts. She beckoned for a rushlight. “What brings you at this hour?”

Arundel’s balding head reflected the wavering light as he bowed. “Lady Elen, your husband was on his way home aboard a ship with Prince Edward when the flux set upon him.” He glanced briefly into her limpid eyes and then back down at the shining row of buttons on his gypon.

Reaching out with a trembling hand, Elen touched his forearm. “My Gruffydd?”

Arundel’s eyes moistened. Gruffydd Fychan had been both friend and retainer to him. He cleared his throat and raised his angular, clean-shaven chin. “He succumbed to the malady before the ship put in to Dover. I’m sorry.”

“You lie! You lie!” Tudur screeched. He flung himself down the steps and hammered his fists against Arundel’s chest, the blows muffled by the thick quilting of the earl’s clothes.

The earl merely blinked at Tudur’s assault. Behind him, his men shared blank looks, unsure of whether to come to the earl’s relief, or let a grieving boy have his moment. Then Elen pulled her youngest into the circle of her arms and held him tight against her breast. They clung to each other as she rocked him, her tears cascading over Tudur’s tousled mop of light brown curls.

Peeling back the cloth, Arundel extended Gruffydd’s sword to Owain.

“This belongs to you now.”

Shards of moonlight danced on the blade. The sword’s fuller, Owain knew, had run with a river of blood. Owain stood frozen, staring at the macabre gift, the shock of Arundel’s tidings still seeping into him. The blood drummed in his ears. He shook his head and stepped back.

“Why? To kill in the name of your king?” They were biting words for one so young. He had always known that his father might not return home, but he was not prepared to accept the circumstances surrounding his death. His father was a Welshman, through and through; he should not have had to fight and ultimately die in the service of an English king.

Arundel glowered at him. “Edward is your king as well. You owe the comfort of your very existence to him and in turn you must pay your dues. Don’t forget that so readily. It is a heavy burden for now, I know, but in time you will take to it as your father did.”

“Never,” Owain whispered. His throat tightened. He would have none of it. Hours before he had sported with Tudur by the river, buffeting each other with play swords—but it was only for amusement, a game to pass time. Mere child’s play. The weapon that Arundel proffered was not meant for sport. It was a symbol of servitude. His stomach contracted into a knot.

Overhead, the sky was as black as coal dust and so was his heart. Suddenly, he felt cold, as if it were a January night and not the middle of June.

Arundel sighed and lowered the sword. As if unwilling to battle with an outspoken man-child, he handed the weapon to a young nobleman to his right.

“I know this news is hard to bear, my lady,” Arundel began, brushing off Owain’s sedition with little more than a harsh stare, “but there is yet another matter I must press upon you. Your husband accrued many debts these past years owing to misfortune. His loyalty to king and country are to his merit and not to be forgotten. I will take your hardship into consideration, arrange agreeable payment... upon one condition.”

Several cruel winters had nearly decimated their flocks. Elen had tried to compensate in other ways, but if it was not the blight ruining the orchard yields, then insects were to blame for gnawing the crops down to stubble long before harvest. The times had been exceedingly hard, especially with Gruffydd so often gone.

“I am a widow now,” Elen said, her voice thick with sorrow. “What else would you take from me?”

“Your oldest son is to become my ward.”

It was as if the words were spoken from some faraway place. Owain felt as though he were elsewhere, watching a scene among strangers unfold. His fate had been marked and sealed the moment he was born. His father was dead. And he was to be taken from his home and family when he was needed most.

Boyhood’s Eden faded away like sunlight banished by a storm cloud. The steps on which Owain stood seemed to crumble beneath his feet. He sank down on his haunches, averting his eyes from Arundel’s commanding gaze and the sight of his father’s sword.

4

Sycharth, Wales — 1393

Owain ran a calloused finger over the flat of the blade: smooth, cold, unyielding. As he reached toward its tip, the sharp edge sliced into his flesh. His indrawn breath whistled through clenched teeth and he snatched his hand back to his chest. A bead of crimson welled on the tip of his forefinger, dark and glistening. With each pulse of his heart, more blood oozed from the fine cut, until it began to drip onto the floor. His wife would give him a tongue-lashing for the mess he had made.

Lifting his father’s sword above his head, he rested it gently on its hooks on the wall above the mantel. So many years had passed since that fateful day that the Earl of Arundel delivered his father’s sword to him. A lifetime ago, it seemed. The memory of his father’s voice had long since faded, but he had far from forgotten his stories: of bloody battles and stormy voyages, long days riding in the saddle, the many nights gathered around the soldiers’ campfires. It had been a hard life for Gruffydd Fychan and one Owain had been determined not to repeat, even after his early years training as a page and then a squire in Arundel’s household. But it was only a few years after he and Margaret had begun their life together that King Richard had resurrected servitium debitum, calling on him to gather his own forces and report to John of Gaunt in York for the king’s campaign in Scotland.

Owain turned and strode across the floor of his library at Sycharth, each step prompting a small but distinct ache in his bones. He was only thirty-four, but already he could feel the effects of having been tossed from his horse once too often. A stinging finger reminded him of his cut and he pressed it between his lips to suck away the blood.

“You have no need of your sword anymore, Sir Owain.” Margaret stood at the doorway with one fist propped smartly on her hip. In her other arm, she held their two-year old son, Dewi. Ever since the arrival three months ago of their ninth child, Tomos, tottering Dewi had trailed behind his mother’s skirts with petulant possessiveness.

“Ah, Marged. How I wish that were so.” Owain settled down in his chair and put his feet on the writing table. “Forgive me for reminiscing with an old friend. She served me well at Berwick when —”

“When you held off a charge of Scots singlehandedly with a broken lance. Yes, yes, we all know the story—how King Richard was so dazzled by your reckless bravery that he knighted you on the battlefield that very day.” She shoved back a lock of sun-gold hair that had sprung from its pins and set the child at her feet. “Your quill has served you just as well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, I much prefer it. But we must ever arm ourselves against those who refuse to live by the word of the law.”

The year that the old Earl of Arundel died, Owain had gone to London to study law at the Inns of Court. There, after finally becoming an apprentice-at-law, Sir David Hanmer, a justice of the king’s bench, took young Owain under his tutelage. Soon, Owain became a frequent visitor to the Hanmer household. In truth, it was Sir David’s long-lashed daughter, Margaret, who had captured Owain’s attention far more than discourse about legal matters. In her presence, the smooth-tongued esquire was a speechless buffoon. A full six months lapsed before Owain could summon the courage to speak to her and even then it was by accident—he bumped into her at the marketplace. But the more he tried to put things right, the more tongue-tied he became. Margaret put him at ease not by laughing, but by saying, “I am so glad for your clumsiness, then. I thought you might never speak to me.” One year later, they were married in the little church in Maelor Saesneg.

Since then, the patter of babes’ feet had become a constant through the wooded warmth of Sycharth’s halls—a bright, cheerful place with tables full and tankards overflowing and where no guest, high or humble, was ever denied.

Just as their marriage had proven a fertile one, in the orchards beyond the manor, pears and apples exploded from the trees. So many weighed down the branches, gnarled like the fingers of old men, that bushels tumbled to the ground only to be eaten by the shy, roaming fallow deer.

In the bloated hush that followed the evening meal, dulcet ballads were plucked on Iolo Goch’s harp in the main hall. The home of Margaret and Owain became known far and wide to bards and Iolo was like their king. In winter, the bards would spread their pallets by the fireside to sleep and in summer bed down in mountains of straw in the barn. Their ancient yarns passed from the lips of one directly into the heart of another, there treasured and revered, to be later resurrected in the halls of Wales’
uchelwyr
, or gentry.

Whenever Owain was feeling amorous, he would tap a single finger on his knee until Iolo looked his way. Then, Iolo would cradle his harp to his breast, claim the center of the hall and all fell silent while the great bard sang of Owain’s love for his golden-haired lady. Whispers and winks circulated among the onlookers as Margaret glanced at her husband, a blush spreading from her cheeks to her ivory forehead.

Fighting a grin at the thought, Owain rose from his chair and tousled little Dewi’s hair.

Fingers in mouth, Dewi looked up at his father, and then pointed at the sword on the wall. Owain shook his head at his son, but the boy was determined. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbled two bowlegged steps, and collapsed onto his rump. A moment later, the child had forgotten about the glimmering weapon and instead busied himself studying an insect scampering across the floor.

“Can I steal you from the children for a few hours,
cariad
?” Owain said to his wife.

Margaret arched a skeptical eyebrow at him. “For what purpose?”

“What purpose?” He brushed Margaret’s cheek with his fingertips. “To look over the orchards, the fields... Dobbin says the hay is ready for cutting already, but I disagree.”

“The children are not the problem, my lord.” Drawing her head back from his exploring touch, Margaret warned her husband away with a stern glare. “Rhiannon is always at hand. It’s tonight’s supper I need to finish overseeing. Some of the... help is new and...”

Slipping around behind her, Owain’s hands skimmed over the ridge of her hips to encircle her waist. Breathily, he kissed her on top of her head, then her ear, and whispered, “One hour, then?”

She yielded to his tug as he drew her closer. “One hour.” Ever so slightly, her head lolled to the side, inviting more of his attention. “But no more. My brothers Philip and John are coming—or have you forgotten? I should think you’d like this evening to go well.”

“Who cares about this evening? This afternoon I promise you a paradise.”

“All boast, are you? We shall see about that.”