Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She tilted her head. “What have you endured, Rhys, that you hope for so little?”

  “No more than most,” he said with a shrug.

  Tears filled Madeline’s eyes then and she averted her gaze. Rhys feared that she would close the portal and he spoke before he could consider the wisdom of what he offered.

  “I will confess to you what you have asked of me time and again,” he said abruptly, making a pledge to her before he could swallow the impulse. Madeline met his gaze, her own eyes bright. “I will tell you why I was named a traitor.”

  She said nothing, though her eyes widened. Rhys could not understand her mood and he feared that he would err again if he said more.

  Perhaps she did not wish to know his tale any longer.

  Perhaps she did not care.

  Perhaps he deserved no less for the wound he had granted her.

  “Are you hungry?” Rhys offered the stew and ale, the bread being tucked beneath his elbow, and the hound stretched to its toes to sniff the food. “It is humble fare, but it is yet a little warm.”

  Madeline’s glanced at the bowls of stew. “I am hungry, as must you be. We had best eat it, afore the hound finds all of it upon the floor.” She studied him with rare intensity. “And then I will have your tale, if you are still inclined to share it.”

  Rhys nodded, words abandoning him utterly for the moment. Madeline smiled then, a sight to warm him to his toes. She stood back and let him enter the small chamber, and Rhys’ heart thundered fit to burst.

  The lady granted him a chance, and he meant to ensure that she never had cause to regret it.

  Rhys FitzHenry had vowed to confide in her. Madeline could scarce believe it. She would have more readily believed that this was another man, one who resembled Rhys in appearance only. It was so unlike Rhys to share his own tales, no less to volunteer to do so.

  Madeline wondered why he felt so compelled. She was curious, though. She barely tasted the stew he had brought, though it put a satisfying heat in her belly. Madeline was not so annoyed that she could not admit herself glad of Rhys’ company. She felt safer with him beside her, for even if the ship foundered, Madeline believed that Rhys would not abandon her.

  There was much to be said for a man who could be relied upon.

  They ate in a companionable silence, the hound glancing up when Rhys ran the last bit of the bread around the inside of his bowl.

  “I thank you for bringing the food,” Madeline said. “I was more hungry than I had believed and I feel much better.”

  Rhys nodded. “One’s fears are always less when one’s belly is full.”

  “I suppose that is true enough.” Madeline said no more, merely waited, for she was not truly convinced that Rhys would keep his promise. It was as much against his nature to share such secrets as it was a part of his character to keep his vows.

  If he did confide in her, she wanted it to be because he chose to do so, not because she had entreated him.

  So, she sat in silence, showing a patience she had not known she possessed.

  It took him some moments to compose his thoughts, then Rhys lifted a finger. His own memories were entangled in the greater history and he wanted to recount a coherent tale. “You must know already Owain Glyn Dwr, and his dream of Welsh sovereignty.”

  Madeline nodded at his sidelong glance. “Hotspur was allied with him, and thus named a traitor.”

  “Indeed,” Rhys agreed, appreciating that his wife was not witless. “Owain Glyn Dwr and his allies meant to replace Henry IV with Edmund Mortimer as King of England. Further, they intended to divide England between them—Scotland and the north to the Earl of Northumberland, Wales and the west to Owain Glyn Dwr, and the rest to Mortimer. The scheme failed, of course, for it was too bold and Henry IV was too wily.”

  “It is bold to try to unseat the king.”

  Rhys chuckled. “Though Henry IV had done much the same. He himself deposed Richard III in his own favor.”

  “If one succeeds, there is no charge of treason.”

  Rhys nodded and sobered. “At any rate, Owain Glyn Dwr came oft to my uncle’s abode, filling the air with his dreams of what Wales might be, for they had fought side by each and were old comrades. Owain knew all the history of our people, he could recount all the old tales. He had a rare charisma and a resonant voice, and people listened to his words.

  “There is a tale that Arthur and his knights are but sleeping within Eryri, and that they will awaken to aid the true prince of Wales. It was said in those days that Owain was that one, the man chosen to reclaim Welsh independence. It was whispered that he was a sorcerer, so potent was the spell that he cast over his audience. He cast a potent spell over me, to be sure.”

  Rhys paused for a moment, then frowned at his own memories. “Owain was no sorcerer, though he was a man who knew how best to say what people wished to hear. They loved him for it. They followed him, they fought for him, and many of them died for him.”

  He looked to the lady beside him and was startled to find her watching him, listening avidly to his tale. He looked away, unable to hold her bright gaze.

  “I should begin sooner, the better for you to understand. Wales has been a kingdom for ages beyond recollection, though oft it has been without a prince. In the hearts of the Welsh is the certainty of their difference and the weight of their pride. The Normans were but the latest to try to claim the land of Wales: they enslaved the Welsh, or kept us in fetters, or reduced our status to serfdom, but their suzerainty was never assured. Rebellion was constant.

  “Llywelyn ap Gruffydd was our last leader, acknowledged as Prince of Wales by the English kings until Edward I declined to make such acknowledgement. Llywelyn withheld tribute in protest, was declared a rebel, and killed in 1285.”

  “Edward I made few allies in Scotland either,” Madeline murmured.

  “He was a king determined to unite the isle beneath his hand, one can say that much for him at least.”

  “At least,” Madeline agreed, and they shared an unexpected smile. Rhys felt a tenuous bond between them and he dared to take her hand within his own.

  She did not resist. Indeed, her chilled fingers curled around his own, as if taking comfort from his heat. She was finely wrought, this wife of his, as delicate and beauteous as a spring blossom. He thought of losing her and hastened on.

  “Llywelyn’s head was carried in triumph to London; his only daughter was confined to a nunnery; his nephew Owain was imprisoned at Bristol; his brother was dragged through Shrewsbury, then hanged, drawn and quartered. The crown’s message was clear: there would be no more seed of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, no more rebellion, no more Princes of Wales.

  “And lest anyone doubt his intent, Edward had fortresses built around Eryri, a circle of iron and stone that reminded all of his suzerainty and his power. Caernarfon, Aberystwyth, Harlech, Conwy, Beaumaris, Flint, Rhuddlan. Even the few Welsh keeps there, like Caerwyn, were captured and fortified in the English king’s name. Every child learned the names of those Norman castles, every child saw their pennants, ornamented with the English king’s insignia, snap against the sky. Every Welsh child learned to resent what they represented.”

  “Foreign authority, tithes and taxes sent abroad.”

  “More than that.” Rhys smiled that Madeline was no fool. “Towns grew behind the high walls of these fortresses, towns occupied solely by English men and women. There were ports, served by English ships, who sold goods to English merchants in those towns. Welshmen were not allowed to enter the towns, much less to live there or make their trade there; we were not allowed to hold title to land. With every issuance of military forces and plague through those fortress gates, Welsh discontent grew.”

  “No man of sense could have predicted otherwise,” Madeline said softly. “That is a harsh hand laid upon the land.”

  “Further, on the line that had once been the border with England, lands had been granted to Anglo-Norman noblemen. These Marcher lords, their holdings upon
the Welsh March, owed little suzerainty to any king.”

  “They could do whatsoever they desired,” Madeline guessed and Rhys nodded. “We have such lords upon the Scottish March, as well,” she said ruefully. “The crown is dependent upon them for whatever peace they keep. I would wager that between the March and that ring of fortresses, the Welsh were allowed to build a few baronies.”

  “Indeed they were, though the English judges and English law seldom ruled against their own. And so it was that Owain Glyn Dwr, Lord of Sytharch, a man of some comforts and a Welshman besides, knew that his boundary dispute with a neighboring Marcher lord would never be resolved in his own favor. He took up arms against the offending neighbor and against all expectation, he won.”

  “Ha!” Madeline cried.

  Rhys smiled fleetingly. “Flush with triumph, he called himself Prince of Wales and swore that he would recapture the independence of the land he so loved. His army swelled with each passing day and each victory. They ultimately drove the English from all lands between the Marcher lords and the sea. They even captured Harlech, which Owain made his own, as well as Aberystwyth, and Caerwyn.”

  “And Caerwyn became your uncle’s holding.”

  Rhys nodded. “He and Owain had fought together and Caerwyn was his spoil. Owain established a royal court at Harlech. He put the red dragon upon his pennant, he sent emissaries to the Pope and to the French king. He resolved to found a university, the better to educate the priests for the Welsh church, which would be loosed from the bounds of Canterbury. He dreamed boldly, and he dreamed the dreams of a thousand Welshmen. He called himself ‘the mighty and magnificent Owain, Prince of Wales’.”

  “He was not lacking in modesty!”

  “Not he! He was embraced by Fortune, charming, the closest to a king any of us had seen. His court was filled with musicians and poets, seers and sages, beautiful women and bold knights. It seemed that he launched a golden age, that the old Wales of tales had been reborn beneath his hand.”

  “Did all support him?”

  “There were tales of those who spurned his vision, all of whom met sorry fates. But there was a time, in 1405 or a little later, when it seemed that all Owain touched would turn to gold, that naught he touched could go awry.”

  “And then it did,” Madeline prompted, then smiled. “It is my sister Vivienne who always guesses the next part of the tale. I apologize, for I know it to be an irksome habit.”

  “I am not irked,” Rhys said, enchanted with the sparkle of her eyes. “But you speak aright, for then matters did go awry. The tide turned slowly but surely against Owain, and his forces lost more often than they won. His son was captured in 1406, his brother killed in the same battle at Usk. Sytharch was razed, and the English seized Harlech in 1408. Worse, Owain’s wife, two of his daughters and three of his grandchildren were taken to the Tower of London to die. Those of his men who survived became mercenaries, either traveling to France to fight against the English, or begging in Wales. They were known as Plant Owain, and the Welsh people treated them with kindness, for all knew they had tried to make a change.”

  “But what happened to Owain? I would wager little good.”

  Rhys shrugged. “No one is certain. He was offered a pardon by the king in 1415, but he never revealed himself. There are those who say he died in Dunmore in 1414, others who say he surrendered his life on hearing of his wife’s death—still in captivity—in 1413. Some insist he lives with another of his daughters in Herefordshire. I never saw him again myself, not after that rout at Usk.”

  “But Owain could yet be alive,” Madeline said. “It was not that long ago.”

  “That is what the seers say. There is a tale...”

  “There is always a tale, when you are speaking!” she teased. Rhys felt his neck heat. He made to apologize for his tendencies, but Madeline laid her other hand upon his arm. “I like that you tell tales, Rhys. You have an uncommon talent for it. You should sing more oft as well, for your voice is fine.”

  His neck heated in truth then, and it seemed his words stumbled from his lips. “There is a tale that Owain fled the battle of Harlech, devastated that he had lost all that he had gained. He was burdened with remorse that his wife and kin had been captured, certain that he could not have failed them more. And as he climbed into the mountains, unknowing where he went, he met an abbot. It was early in the morn, the sky still dark, so when the abbot greeted him, Owain said ‘You are too early, Abbot’. And the abbot smiled and shook his head and said ‘Not I. It is you, Owain Glyn Dwr, Last Prince of Wales, who have arrived too soon.’”

  Madeline shivered, then considered Rhys. “You did not see him after Usk, you said. Did you fight for him?”

  Rhys smiled ruefully. “All men old enough to swing a blade fought for him. I had the good fortune to survive my youth.”

  “You fought with Thomas,” Madeline guessed.

  “We fought in the rearguard. It was at my uncle’s insistence, for I had seen only fifteen summers, and it was the reason we survived.”

  “You were able to flee when the battle was lost.”

  Rhys nodded. “Thomas and I lost count of how oft each had saved the hide of the other in those years. There is no other man to whom I could better trust my back. We were young, we took foolish chances, but we had both bravado and Fortune at our sides.”

  “That was why you were named a traitor?”

  “Nay. It was later, in 1415 that I earned that charge.” He held up a finger. “But let me tell you first of my uncle. Despite his alliance with Owain, Dafydd did not lose Caerwyn when Owain lost all.”

  “But how could that be? Did he change loyalty to the king?”

  Rhys nodded. “Some say that Owain lost because my uncle withdrew his support, others say that Dafydd perceived the direction of the wind and acted in his own best interest alone. I cannot say what compelled him, but he sought an audience with Henry IV and secured his own future with a pledge of fealty in 1407. He was permitted to keep Caerwyn as a feudal grant from the English king. If Owain Glyn Dwr had ever crossed the threshold, however, Caerwyn would have been immediately forfeit.”

  “Would he have come?”

  Rhys rolled his eyes. “It would be safe to say that they two, once such fast friends and allies, had become estranged.” Rhys looked down at his hands. “I argued with my uncle then, the sole time ever. I was certain that he had betrayed all that I thought he believed.” He fell silent then, reliving that heated exchange. He had been so young, so rash, so certain he was right.

  “What did he say?”

  “Poni welwch-chwi’r syr wedi’r syrthiaw?” Rhys whispered, his voice hoarse.

  Madeline leaned against his side. “It sounds so beautiful, like music in words. What does it mean, Rhys?”

  “It is from an old poem, writ when Wales was lost to Edward I. ‘Do you not see the stars fallen?’” Rhys took a deep breath. “It is a lament, an elegy for the lost majesty of Wales. The last line of the verse is Poni welwch-chwi’r byd wedi r’bydiaw? ‘Do you not see that the world is ended?’”

  “Oh!” Madeline seemed to be fighting her tears.

  Rhys continued grimly. “My uncle said that he believed the time for rebellion had passed, that we could not defend Wales against England and win. The power and the wealth of the English crown was too great, and we could best preserve what we loved of Wales by ceding suzerainty.”

  “How?”

  “He said that paying tithes and ensuring order would sate the English king, and turn his eye away from us. Dafydd said that then we could teach our children, and train them for the king’s own posts, and gradually gain more wealth than ever we would win with war.”

  Madeline pursed her lips. “It seems a most pragmatic course. Were you persuaded?”

  Rhys laughed shortly. “Nay! I thought he made a tale that excused his own betrayal, and I told him as much. But then I left Caerwyn, and I journeyed through Wales, and I witnessed the devastation left by the war. Crops faile
d, plague raged, and the English merchants had left the towns in Wales, taking their coin and their trading agreements with them. More people died after the war of starvation than had been killed in the battles.”

  Rhys frowned and let his thumb slide across the softness of Madeline’s hand. “But I was sufficiently young to believe that all of our woes had been inflicted upon us by the cursed English, not that our own deeds had had any part in shaping our misfortunes. When the Henry IV died in 1413 and Henry V succeeded to the throne, it appeared that the son was the very mirror of his sire. He declared that no less than all of France should be his inheritance, and planned to reinvigorate the war with the French crown.”

  Rhys sighed. “We had all been taxed and tithed beyond belief in the name of these ambitious kings. When I heard that there was again a scheme to place a Mortimer upon the English throne, I pledged my aid. I thought to see the madness halted, for the Mortimer clan had a blood claim to the crown and surely could not be so lustful for power and wealth as the spawn of Henry of Bolingboke.

  “The Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scrope of Masham and Sir Thomas Grey of Heton were the trio at the heart of the scheme, though there were many of us. We aimed to sink the king’s ship upon his departure to France.”

  “You were caught.”

  “Upon the very eve that the plan was to be enacted.”

  “But you must have been betrayed!”

  Rhys nodded slowly. “Indeed we were.”

  “You know who betrayed you.”

  Rhys met her gaze steadily. “I alone broke our vow of silence. I only confided in another soul, for I believed that he would aid our cause. He had clung to the bright dream of Owain Glyn Dwr and it was rumored that he alone knew the location of the old rebel’s abode. He swore to keep my secret, but he lied.”

  “Your father!” Madeline breathed, her grip tight on his hand.

  Rhys nodded. “We were snared when we gathered on the wharf. Thomas and I escaped in the darkness, though the others named us and a price was put upon our heads. The three leaders were executed, and their blood is upon my hands. Thomas took his monastic vows and was forgiven.” Rhys inhaled deeply. “I had no intent to become a monk.”