Uneasy Lies the Crown (40 page)

When Maredydd’s steps ceased, Dewi cast a look over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Gorse.Up there. On the slope.” Maredydd raised a finger, wrapped in strips of cloth rent from his cloak. The pale light of a winter evening revealed a yellow clump of gorse clinging to the rock face where even the best of climbers could not have gotten to it. But Maredydd remembered the farmers grazing their cows on such rough fare in hard times and figured if it sustained such massive beasts, surely it could provide them some sustenance.

Dewi shrugged and continued on.

“Gorse.” Maredydd took three leaps and clamped his brother on the shoulders, spinning him around. “Food!”

“You can’t be that hungry.”

“I’d eat grass right now if —”

Maredydd froze in mid sentence. His shoulders drew up stiffly.

“If what?” Dewi said.

Suddenly, Maredydd dug his fingers into the shoulder of Dewi’s cloak, dragging him across the stream while he pressed a finger to his own lips to silence his brother. He jerked Dewi down behind a boulder. Their feet were immersed in the icy stream. The tails of their cloaks sopped up water.

His eyebrows weaving together, Dewi whispered, “Has the devil gotten into you? What are you doing?”

Maredydd plucked a smooth rock from the streambed. He drew his arm back and slung it in his father’s direction. The rock smacked Owain squarely in the spine. It struck him so hard, he had his sword loosed and flashing in a circle behind him before he saw Maredydd crouched in the water.

Leaning out from the boulder, Maredydd pointed higher up toward a trail that crowned the ravine some thirty feet above. Braving a look, Dewi saw his brother was alerting them to an English soldier, who was pissing over the edge.

Urine splattered upon Iolo’s narrow shoulders. Owain yanked the bard toward the base of the cliff.

The soldier moaned in utter relief. His urinating went on for so long that Dewi’s teeth began to chatter. Maredydd wanted to sink to his haunches, but that would have put his buttocks right down in the frozen water. To stand straight up would have put his head above the rock. To move to join Iolo and Owain beneath the cliff would have thrust them into plain view. And where there was one soldier, there were more. So both he and Dewi had no choice but to stand half-stooped up to their ankles in the icy water, the chill gradually spreading up their legs.

Maredydd clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth to shush the rattle of his teeth. “I will not die here, like this,” he whispered. To which Dewi gave a small nod.

“Jesus!” the soldier exclaimed. “Swear my cock’s on fire.” He hoisted up his hose and rearranged his gear.

“Told you the girl was poison, Ralf,” boomed another, much deeper voice from upstream. Laughter and gibes rang out. A second, then a third, fourth, fifth soldier crested the ridge above and joined the trail.

The soldier named Ralf hustled back a little along the trail and seconds later was huffing along with a cantankerous donkey on the rein. Ralf, short and in miserable shape, was obviously a man of lower rank who had chanced upon an oversized suit of mail and a barely dented breast plate at a rather compromised time for its former wearer. He battled the pack animal, which was duly burdened with the supplies needed to get five gluttonous soldiers through these mountains. Ralf’s companions, upon witnessing the exchange of curses and braying, laughed riotously and went on their way. In short time, there was only Ralf on the upper trail in the gorge. The others had gone from view.

Maredydd’s fingers slipped beneath the water and once again emerged with a smooth, flat stone. He flipped the stone between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the abandoned soldier.

On the other side of the stream, fifteen feet away, Owain shook his head slowly at Maredydd. But Maredydd, starving and craving nothing but the contents of the donkey’s packs, ignored his father. When Gruffydd quit Aberdaron, Maredydd had gradually taken on a dauntless outlook toward danger to fill the role his brother had once inhabited. And where there was no danger to be found, he would uncover it. This newfound nature made him a valuable player, a fact which he relished. But it also meant, as in that moment while he fingered the tiny missile, that he offered up the lives of those around him as well.

Even if Ralf’s haughty companions came to his rescue it was four against five—and those were not bad odds. Maredydd stood up, drew his arm back and, closing his right eye, took aim. He gripped the stone securely, balanced it perfectly and tightened his muscles for the launch.

The keen point of a knife sought out his kidney. He winced in surprise.

“Easy prey, that one,” Dewi said lowly in his ear, “but the rest had bows.”

Maredydd met his father’s disapproving gaze and slowly sank back down behind the boulder. He pressed his cheek to it. He was frozen to the core, could no longer feel his feet. It seemed like hours that the stupid English soldier jerked and pulled on the donkey’s lead, giving as much ground as he gained. Finally, the stubborn animal relented and Ralf was sprinting along, trying to catch up with his companions.

When the soldier was well gone, Dewi and Maredydd slogged out of the stream, stumbling onto the rocky bank. Maredydd simply collapsed, while Dewi writhed in agony and slapped at his legs to get the feeling back.

Later, they went on another two hours, the sun long past set and only a faint scattering of stars to light the way.

It was perhaps some overdue blessing from above that placed the empty shepherd’s hut directly in their path. They did not care how soon its owner might be back, or if the English soldiers they had nearly collided with would see the smoke rising through the hole in the center of the thatched roof from the paltry fire they built—but it was a dry place, a warm place... and there was food.

With barely enough strength to sling the heavy iron pot over the hook above the cooking fire, Iolo made a stew of melted snow and beans. With ravenous impatience, Maredydd watched the beans stewing and then sucked them down while they were still hot enough to scorch his tongue, had he taken long enough to bother tasting the bland fare. In a few hours, they had all consumed what would have sustained the shepherd for several days.

That night they slept as deeply as the dead, well past daybreak and long after their meager fire had exhausted itself. Some time past midmorning, they gathered up what they could in makeshift bundles of burlap stolen from the shepherd’s hut and continued northward with renewed purpose.

55

Uplands of Wales — Winter, 1409

The wilderness into which Owain and the others had fled was vast and uninhabited, with purple-gray walls of rock that rose up in challenge at every turn. Flakes of stone as sharp as knives cut into their flesh whenever they stumbled. Their muscles flamed with every stride. Their ears, noses and fingers were frozen numb. Each footfall was challenged by slick inclines, every breath snatched away by relentless winds.

They went without fire and food. Frigid days gave way too quickly to even colder nights. They slept fitfully, if at all, wherever they could find a windbreak. Iolo mirrored their misery with fits of coughing harsh enough to expel his entrails along with his sputum.

It was on the seventh day that the snow began before dawn. Softly, silently, it piled upon the rocky ground. As they dove deeper into the highest of the mountains, the force of the wind drove the snow into drifting banks, creating a swirling sea of azure and ivory where sky and earth collided.

Crystals of ice frosted Owain’s eyebrows and beard. Thoughtlessly, he wiped at them and turned in a tight circle. He once knew these mountains even in the dark, but now, given his gaunt, compromised state, all he could do was rest and pray that his bearings would return to him. Whether it was afternoon or evening was impossible to tell. The sky was thick with clouds and he had no perception of time. He questioned himself, tried with immense effort to recall some landmark.

Somewhere, not far from here, was one of the caves where he and Gethin had sworn to rejoin, should they ever need to go into hiding again. But where it was... he couldn’t even think, wasn’t sure. His mind was dense with fog. He leaned over with his hands upon his knees and glanced behind him. The other three were shifting shapes of gray. For a fleeting moment, he had to think, concentrate to recall who they were.

Iolo clung to Maredydd’s arm as they struggled up the slope. Grunting, Maredydd grappled at a rock for a handhold. He heaved himself up, staggered forward and then collapsed on the snow-packed ground thirty feet from his father. Beside him, Iolo sank to the blanketed earth.

Although reluctant to retrace his steps, even so short a measure, Owain gave in to the ease of sliding downhill and joined Maredydd and Iolo. But before he could steal a moment’s rest, he spied Dewi’s prostrate form at the bottom of the hill, the snow drifting around him. He flew toward him and was lifting Dewi up in his arms before either Iolo or Maredydd knew what was happening.

Owain shook his son hard until Dewi pried his eyes open. Snowflakes dusted Dewi’s chin, softly whiskered with his first beard. Dewi used to lament how he couldn’t grow a beard when he would watch Maredydd daily scraping his away and cursing the practice while they were holed up in Harlech.

“I can’t,” Dewi croaked. “Too tired.”

“We’ll rest an hour,” Owain urged, and then added with forced optimism, “Gethin will probably find us before we find him. Faith.”

Maredydd shadowed them. He unclasped his cloak and tossed it over his brother.

Dewi smirked. “Save it for yourself, Brother. I can’t feel past my knees... can’t move my fingers.”

Iolo knelt in the snow. Gently, he drew one of Dewi’s hands from beneath the tattered cloak and unpeeled the strips of cloth that had been torn piecemeal from their garments. Dewi’s fingers were tipped with black. The flesh of his fingers was as rigid as wood. From the swelling beneath his boots, his toes were likely far worse.

A wave of vomit tossed Owain’s stomach upside down.
Oh God, not this way. Don’t let him suffer this way. It was a bad enough blow that Tomos fought the sea and lost, but even that was a swifter death. God, don’t take yet another son from me. Spare this one!

Maredydd ripped the rags from his own hands and began to re-wrap his brother’s. Like his father, Maredydd did not waste words or sink himself with worries if there was any action that could be taken. Helplessness was not an attribute that either of them conceded to.

“How much further?” Maredydd asked.

Shrugging, Owain guessed wildly. “A few hours. Maybe less.”

Intently, Maredydd gazed at his father. “You don’t know?”

“If we climb to the top of this peak, perhaps... perhaps I could be more certain. I have not been here in three years, Maredydd. More than that in a snowstorm.”

In one great heave, Maredydd had hoisted Dewi up in his arms and was on his feet, struggling toward the pinnacle. Owain and Iolo scrambled after him. Despite the added weight dangling across his arms, Maredydd was at the top first. His youthful years spent flailing weapons had built in him an unusual strength, not unlike his father’s.

“Ho there!” Maredydd cried.

As Owain reached his side, he saw half a dozen riders on stout hill ponies making way across the next valley. They were lightly armed, spears pointing skyward. Owain grabbed Maredydd’s arm and fought to pull him down, but it was too late—the riders had already spotted them.

“Are you insane?” Owain said. “Those could be English.”

Tearing himself away, Maredydd’s eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t give a damn! I will not let him die.”

Snow exploded around the ponies’ hooves as they bounded through the drifts. The riders gripped their spears and steadied their shields. Closer and closer they came.

Before Owain could make out their faces, Iolo was sliding down the hillside toward them.

“Help us!” Iolo yelled, waving his arms. He tried to shout again, but his cries were mangled by his coughing.

The front rider raised his spear in a salute and sailed past Iolo, who was clutching his abdomen as another cough gripped him. Ten feet from Owain, the rider dropped from his shaggy mount. Barrel-chested above a diminished waistline, the forest of a black beard, now frosted with silver at the chin, betrayed him. Rhys Ddu tossed his spear to the earth and swept off his helmet.

“Well, I would not have thought, when I awoke this morning, to see your handsome face today,” Rhys said.

Owain’s heart rebounded. “Nor I yours. But let us save our embraces for later. My son needs a fire and dry clothes.”

“Embraces? Hah. A hefty presumption on your part. I’ve no wish to let you close enough to sever my head for my disloyalty. Is that Dewi?” Rhys said, stepping closer, yet maintaining a safe distance from Owain. He was indeed a sliver of the bulky man that used to slouch on his stool at Sycharth, quaffing ale by the barrel and singing miserably in a drunken but merry state. Rhys’s eyes reduced to thin slits against the barrage of icy snow that was now coming down harder and faster. Then he shuffled back toward his mount. “Put him on my horse, Maredydd. We’re not far.”

Rhys grabbed at the halter and pulled the animal close. He climbed back in the saddle and helped Maredydd get his brother up.

Maredydd swept up Rhys’s spear and steadied himself with it. A moment later, he leaned against Rhys’s thigh, exhaustion and relief almost overwhelming him, and mumbled into his leggings, “Bless you, Rhys.”

“Yes... bless the bloody traitor.” Rhys glanced at Owain. He ruffled Maredydd’s hair and then, as if realizing the gesture was too much like the affection one would share with a small boy, pounded him on the shoulder. “Get yourself to one of the other mounts. Hold tight. The ride’s a treacherous one.”

With the flaccid Dewi clamped against Rhys’s chest, the others were mounted. Just as Rhys had said, a brief ride of a few minutes led them to a rudimentary shelter: a narrow cave, high up on the mountain, where the vestiges of the once formidable Welsh army huddled.