Uneasy Lies the Crown (35 page)

On the eighth night of their standoff on the wooded hill, Owain walked among his men. Faces void of expression glanced at him in mere recognition. A bout of bloody flux had left many of them struggling to regain their strength. Half-eaten bowls of barley and beans lay scattered around. Here and there, a soldier lay curled on his side, clutching at his stomach, moaning with discomfort.

Morale was at its nethermost. Owain saw it on their faces and in their words. There was a time when all he had to do was walk amongst them and voices would raise and hearts beat anew. A time when the hope for freedom and the thirst for justice were tonics potent enough to bring the dead to life. He saw none of that now.

The conviction within him wavering, Owain returned to his tent. He parted the flap to find Nesta sitting at the very table over which he had struggled that week. A single candle flickered before her as she drew breath to speak.

“My lord, you look distraught.”

“How did —”

“They know who shares your pillow,” she said with contentment, rising to her feet. “A soldier’s life is lonely. They understand that.”

“Why did you come here?” Owain eyed her from head to foot. She was a far cry from the barefooted girl who once earned her coin by trilling ballads. Instead of a kirtle tattered at the hem, she now wore a houppelande of plush scarlet velvet, the neckline low, the belt high. Her hair, never hidden, was woven with sparkling jewels. The attire did not seem quite practical for traveling into the midst of such a predicament, but then there was never anything subtle about Nesta. Long ago she had kindled his ambitions, urged him to think far beyond yesterday or tomorrow, but well into the past and centuries ahead. Yet something about her had changed in a way that did not appeal to him.

She traced a circle on the ground with the toe of her slipper. Her hand skimmed a gilded belt and then drifted lower over her belly. “I will bear another child. This time, it will be a son... and I want to know that you will acknowledge him and bequeath him with proper station and means. Title. Lands.”

“I have neither the luxury of time nor the inclination to discuss this with you now.”

“This is exactly the time to speak of such things, Owain. My children may be bastards, but they have a prince’s blood. And Welsh custom pays heed to all of a man’s natural children. Do not succumb to the English ways. Their king stands paralyzed before you. A mighty army awaits your command. Destroy Henry. Right every wrong that has been dealt to you. Answer to the prophecies that Hopkyn spoke of and seize the glory that is your destiny.”

Owain, however, was not so certain of that destiny any longer.

She stepped closer, but Owain shook his head to halt her. “I only ever wanted him gone from Wales. That is all.”

For over a week, he had toiled in anguish—ready to strike at Henry, weighing every possible outcome, retaliation fading to reluctance. But as he said those words to Nesta, a sense of merciful deliverance swept through him. It was as if he had been Atlas, holding up the heavens, and had not known it until then. He claimed the stool on which she had sat waiting for him and buried his face in his hands.

“Our son?” Nesta said.

“It could be a girl.”

“Is that what you wish?”

“I wish,” he said, raising his eyes and spreading his hands on the table, “for the health of you and the child and a safe journey home.”

Owain stood, went to the opening of the tent and paused. “I will arrange for an escort for you in the morning to take you back to Aberystwyth. This is not the place for you. Not in your state.”

“My place is with you.” She held her chin firm. Her dark eyes blazed with defiance in the dim light. “I will not abandon you, not even when there is danger.”

He hung his head. “Nesta, take my word to heart—there’s no reason for you to fear for my safety. Please, you will understand. Now... I have matters to set right. I’ll return to you the very moment I can.” As he reached to part the tent flap, he could see the heavy disappointment etched in the lines around her small mouth and knew she had not received what she had come for. “I would never deny our children, Nesta. Of all things, that is one fear you need not carry within your soul.”

At Owain’s orders, firewood was gathered and heaped into a pile. When it was done, the topmost piece of kindling was at the height of a man and a half. As the flames grew, both French and Welsh commanders gathered in a wide circle about it.

“Where are the storms?” Rieux moved away from the heat.

“What?” Owain said.

Rieux grinned. “The storms. You have called on them before, have you not? A drop or two of rain and Bolingbroke might run home.”

An emptied cup in his hand, Rhys brushed past Owain and strode forward. “He’s no wizard... and you’re no genius.”

“No.” Owain pulled back on Rhys’s shoulder. “Enough. No more quarrels. No more. Or the English won’t have to battle us to win. We’ll have beaten ourselves.”

They all stood in silence for a long while—some eyes on the fire before them, others casting glances at the distant flickers on Abberley Hill.

“Gethin,” Owain began, his voice low and solid, “when you won at Pilleth, did your army look like this? When we clutched victory at Hyddgen against insurmountable odds, we were strong and full of fire in our bellies. It takes more than numbers and weapons to win a battle.” He clutched a hand over his heart. “It takes this.”

Opening his arms, he walked to the other side of the circle. “All of you—look around and tell me if it is here.”

Their chins sank. No answer came.

Owain stormed away and a minute later returned. In his hands was the last treaty Edmund had penned. It flew from his fingers into the fire.

“Prepare the soldiers to leave. We march out tonight.”

Only Edmund dared to speak. “But what of the Indenture? My nephew?”

Owain looked at him blankly. “I don’t know, Edmund. I don’t know everything. Just that today... and tomorrow... are not the days to see it through.”

The sight of Woodbury Hill at dawn, barren and trampled, was a bitter disappointment to King Henry. For six years, he had been harassed and taunted by Owain Glyndwr, always waiting for the chance to meet him face to face and put an end to it all. Six long years. The night before, when the towering bonfire had blazed in the Welsh camp, he had resolved that the waiting would go on no longer. He was going to bring those Welsh bastards and their French hounds to their knees and drown them in their own blood.

It was a decision that came a day too late. Soon the Welsh would be safe within their own borders.

47

Westminster Palace, England — March, 1406

The sleeves of his shirt were so over-sized that Henry could easily keep his hands well hidden inside them. His left shoulder still sloped from the weakness on that side, but he had learned to prop his arm and lean to one side so that no one would ever know the difference. The discoloration of his skin, if bared, could not go unnoticed however, and so he had become a master at concealing his outbreaks.

He wiggled his fingers beneath the plush velvet of his sleeve and gripped the clawed arms of his throne as the eleven year old James, heir to Scotland’s crown, was marched down the long carpet of the Westminster throne room. The boy was willowy and fair, not unlike Richard as a youth, but as James’s clear, blue eyes darted about the room, drinking in every detail, Henry sensed something distinctly different about him. Something very keen. Something very... kingly.

“On your way to France?” Henry said. “’Tis a pity the storm interrupted your journey, but perhaps not so unfortunate you came to us, my dear James.”

“I was to be tutored at King Charles’ court,” James said plainly, with merely a trace of a Scottish accent.

Henry leaned forward, his lip curving upward on one side. “I have been to Charles’ court. You might find their jewels and feasts dazzling for the short term, but it is no place to learn anything besides madness and adultery. Consider yourself a guest here... for now.”

He fully expected the boy to bargain for his release, but James simply bowed his head and said, “I thank you, my lord.”

“You are quite welcome.”

Perhaps the boy would prove pliable after all.

Iolo Goch:

Not two weeks had passed between the time that young James of Scotland was captured off the coast of Yorkshire and the terrible news was delivered to his ailing father. With the name of his son on his lips, Robert drew his last breath. Scotland’s king was dead. His heir was a prisoner in the Tower of London. Albany would become governor.

And Henry of Bolingbroke became a little more secure in the fit of his crown. For the time being, there was one less foe to fret over.

48

Harlech Castle, Wales — Summer, 1406

In one of the guard rooms of the gatehouse of Harlech Castle, Owain was conversing with his chancellor, Griffith Young. Afternoon sun streamed through the tall, narrow windows and threw patches of golden light on the tiled floor. A single ray fell across Owain’s palm, in which lay a pair of spurs.

“Madoc’s spurs,” Owain said, his words heavy with sadness. He touched a fingertip to the fine point of one of the silver rowels and pressed until he felt a prick of pain. “I gave them to him the day we left for Aberdaron. A soldier’s spurs. My father was a soldier. I became one. And so did my sons. As a boy, I used to rue every time that my father would abandon us to fight for England’s king. I thought wars were senseless occasions to bring one man’s ego on par with God himself. I thought, through law, that I could make a difference. How naïve of me. And now, ah dear heaven, I understand all too well. I am as guilty as Henry. I have caused a great deal of suffering... and yet I can end none of it. But not for lack of trying.

“There are two ways I can return peace to Wales. One is to give Bolingbroke everything he wants, including my head, and subject the people of Wales to servility. The other is to stand and be strong. As strong as England. And where do we find that strength, Chancellor Young? We find it in allying ourselves with England’s many enemies.” Owain flicked the rowel, watching it spin, then placed both spurs on the table. He began to pace, hands folded behind his back. “Ireland has not had a fitting king since Brian Boru. Such a beautiful land. Have you seen it, Griffith?”

Chancellor Young nodded.

“They would love to have England off their backs, but they can’t stop hating each other long enough to get the job done. Blood feuds. Their pride runs deep.” He poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Young. Before pouring himself a drink, Owain paused with his hands fingering the stem of the jewel-encrusted goblet. “And Scotland. In another time, perhaps, we could have hoped for more from them. But with King Robert dead and Albany at the helm, that is a wasteland of hope. Albany rules so long as James is Henry’s captive. He’d be a fool to give that up. So what does that leave us with?”

“France?” Young answered.

Tipping the bottle until the wine, French wine, Owain filled his cup to the brim. “You say that as a question, as if you’re uncertain.”

“I have been there, my lord. And I have seen... what goes on.”

“What does go on there? Is it as we have all heard?”

Young sighed and nodded. “With the years, Charles falls further and further from sanity. His queen does little to hide her affection for Orleans. I myself saw them kiss, open-mouthed, in his very presence. She is with child again.”

Owain arched an eyebrow. Young didn’t need to speak the implication. The child’s parentage was questionable, no doubt. The French king was both mad and a cuckold. “Charles sends us gifts—opulent, useless frivolities—and more dribbled promises of military support, but at this stage I would be even madder than he is if I believed one whit of it. So we must look to the future. Are we secure in relying on Orleans’ support?”

“We are.”

“And what of the Church in France?”

“So long as you stand by Pope Benedict of Avignon and against Rome —”

“I was never
against
Rome. I was against the notion that Rome would deny Wales the right to a separate Church, apart from the control of English bishops. I know how reluctant Byfort and Trefor were for me to sign the letter at Pennal in support of Benedict. It puts their privileged station in jeopardy.”

“Trefor has always been your man, Prince Owain.”

“But Byfort?”

“His heart may yet lie with Rome, although I do not think he’ll betray you.”

“Think? In that case, all I can be sure of, given his piety, is that he’ll not stab me in my sleep. Bishops, monks, churches, popes... it is its own entire world, the workings of which I would not dare pretend to understand.”

In one long swallow, Owain emptied his cup. “Do you know something, Griffith? I never knew God while sitting at Mass, listening to Latin verse. But I saw God in the height of the clouds and the color of the sunset while sitting in the Berwyns in my youth. I have heard the voice of God in the waves lapping at the shore below Harlech. And when I saw my first son being born... I could feel God beside me... felt that I
knew
him. God for me is not imbued in holy relics. He is in every stone and drop of water around us. Does that make me a druid, Griffith? A heretic?”

“No. I think it makes you a truer believer than most men.”

 Owain grinned. “But we must learn to balance truth with impressions.”

“The impressions we make upon men do not matter in the eyes of God and the after-life.”

“Maybe so, Griffith, maybe so. But impressions lead to beliefs, and beliefs to actions, and actions become the course of history.”

Young tilted his head in thought and then gave a small bow. “You will have your place there, my prince. Of that I have never doubted. It is an imposing task to —”