“Du Goose-ling, is he a giant?” Tudur wrinkled his nose and swallowed a yawn.
“Du Guesclin, a giant?” Gruffydd scratched at his beard, chuckling. “Eh, he’s no giant. A pugnacious bastard, maybe. A burr in old Edward’s arse. A crafty one at that. But no more a giant than you, Tudur.”
Owain peered at his father, who was growing more ragged with battle scars every year, frayed about the edges like a piece of parchment carried too long. “Why has Edward failed?” he asked, his lips pressed in a serious line, curious to know more about this King Edward of England, third by that name.
Gruffydd touched Owain’s golden brown locks. He shifted forward and grimaced at the hard frame beneath the thinning cushion of his chair. “King Edward is far from done where the throne of France is concerned.”
“But what right has he, Father, to another king’s crown?”
“It’s not about right, my boy. It’s about revenues garnered from Bordeaux wine.”
Tudur was by then lost from the ring of conversation, his cheek pressed against his father’s shin and sleep dragging down his lids.
Owain inclined his head quizzically. “To deepen his purse, then?”
“Ah.” Gruffydd nodded, one side of his lips curled up in amusement. “You understand the English already.”
Then Elen came to hover at her husband’s shoulder, her face shining as she looked on at her two fine sons. Her slim fingers gently kneaded Gruffydd’s neck. She hummed a lover’s tune and slipped her arms around him.
“Promise me,” she begged in his ear, “promise me you’re here to stay.”
He pulled her around to him and down into his waiting lap. “Yes, cariad. I’ll tell the king my wife wishes me at home. One less soldier. What would he care, anyway?” He winked at her, sending oaths of delight in his strong gaze. In a lingering moment, their lips came together.
That was how Owain would choose to remember them. When peace and family and love were God’s undeniable gift. When all was as it should be. His mother there in his father’s arms and he and Tudur at their knees.
But such are children’s dreams.
A fortnight later Father was off again, summoned back to duty as Charles V of France swung his operations toward the English in Gascony. Every time Gruffydd Fychan left his wife, she became a puddle of worry. But this last time, as the months dragged on, even as word spread that the king’s son Prince Edward was returning, her hope had withered like daffodils that have bloomed before the final frost and must suffer winter’s cruel kiss.
Now the two brothers lay groggily beside the river, wondering when they would see their father again so they could hear more of his stories.
“He’ll make knight soon,” Owain assured Tudur. Another lie, Owain knew it even before the syllables sprang from his lips. Welshmen were seldom granted such accolades.
Tudur’s eyes brightened. “Perhaps he has already been knighted on the field by the Black Prince himself.”
“The very day he cut through fifty French soldiers.”
Abruptly, they both fell silent, aware they were only giving breath to wishes, and turned their faces to the sinking sun, now a hand’s width above the horizon.
Tudur stretched out his knobby-kneed legs. “Time to head home.”
“If I were invisible I could catch that pike.” Owain rolled over and crawled on his belly until he dangled from the lip of the bank. He dipped his hand in the clear, cool water, watching minnows dart from his grasp in broken shards of silver.
“Time to head home,” Tudur dully repeated.
Owain shrugged. “Go on. I want to wait here.”
“Ach, try to catch him. Invisible or not, you won’t catch anything but a scolding.” Tudur snatched up his shirt. Before he set foot on the path that wound homeward, past the wild cherry and gooseberry and beneath a cloud of flowering rowan trees, he dared one last glance, and then sulked off alone.
Time forgotten, Owain scrambled onto a slab of rock jutting out over the riverbed and perched there like a proud captain standing at the prow of his ship. There he waited, for nothing in particular, watching the serpentine ribbon of the Dee darken as the silhouette of the Berwyns purpled beyond.
3
Glyndyfrdwy, Wales — 1370
That he had not the springing feet of a hare, Owain was certain. Already as large as any full-grown man’s, they were more like the plodding hooves of an ox: steady and sure at a measured pace, dreadfully clumsy if forced to a trot. Before he made it home, his path lit only by a scattering of stars, he had fallen twice and his knees were sore and bloody. And while racing Tudur earlier that day to the top of a hill, he had caught his sleeve on a bramble bush and now it dangled from his left shoulder by only a few threads. If he could manage to charm Rhiannon, he could have his clothing mended before his mother ever took notice. He grinned at his own resourcefulness.
Above the broad, rolling fields that surrounded the manor of Glyndyfrdwy, a patrol of yew trees loomed on a bulging ancient mound. From one of the higher boughs, a sentry could see nearly all the way to the ruins of Dinas Bran. The small, slate-roofed manor denied the vastness of Gruffydd Fychan’s holdings, but in the many outbuildings and animal pens that clustered about it there spoke its riches. A bleating cloud of wool, ewes twitched their ears when Owain sprinted past. Unconcerned, they ambled to the nearby sheep cote and tucked their legs neatly beneath them to bed down for the night.
Owain bounded up the steps to the upper level three at a time. Assaulted by flies, his dinner sat untouched on a soggy trencher of bread at the trestle table’s end. No doubt his mother had ordered it left there to serve as a statement: that he should suffer mutton on the verge of turning rancid and a congealed bowl of leek soup in castigation for his tardiness. Weak punishment for a boy who loathed the dark taste of mutton anyway.
He crept toward his father’s chair at the head table and carefully inched it back. The stout legs groaned against the floor planks. Owain flinched. His mother had forbidden anyone to sit in his father’s place, but every night Owain had slipped down to the hall when all was still and silent. He would climb onto the tattered cushion and sit there with his fingers curled around the arms of the chair, imagining the resonating boom of his father’s voice, the chink of his spurs, his arms spread wide in greeting. Owain closed his eyes and pulled his knees up to his chest.
“Your father often falls asleep in that chair,” Elen said softly.
Owain’s eyes flew open as he tumbled from his post.
His mother floated across the empty expanse of the hall, each step releasing the scent of mint and rosemary sprinkled among the golden rushes. The plait of her auburn hair was frayed and the front of her light green skirt soiled from an honest day’s work. That day alone she had probably overseen the beehives, the milling, the brewing of ale, nursed a sick lamb, collected eggs, and embroidered for endless hours while she rattled off the rest of the day’s duties to her collection of servants. Lady Elen was like a hummingbird—never at rest, never weary.
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 do
orway 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.
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 2
