A new fear gripped him—that they would be found out. He began to roll away from her, but she grabbed his arm, turned him back to her.
Her fingers grazed his cheek. “Please, Gruffydd, please...”
Oh God, he had thought of her in this way for months now, watched her from a distance, longed for her, awoken drenched in sweat after dreaming of her. “But your uncle —”
“Never needs to know.”
He gazed upon her face, wanting to remember her just as she was, yet wanting more. Unable to resist her any longer, he brought his mouth to hers and —
“Elise!” Lord Grey bellowed through the darkness. “Where are you, girl?”
Gruffydd froze, his pulse racing, every fiery vein turning to slush.
“Run,” she whispered, and shot to her feet. As he reached for her, she plunged through the bracken.
Elise splashed through the brook and bounded up the far side, her feet slipping on the steep bank. She grabbed at a sapling branch, but it bent under her weight and she tumbled to the ground. He wanted to run after, help her up, or haul her back to him, but then he heard the caustic bellow once more. A moment later, Elise was up again, clambering up the incline and back onto the narrow path.
There, she froze, mouth agape, hands clutched to her breast. Her uncle’s bay steed barreled toward her. She jumped out of the way barely in time to avoid being trampled under its hooves. Grey wheeled his horse around and plunged from his saddle to storm at her.
“Where is he? Tell me where he is!” He hooked Elise’s small arm and reeled her in. “Tell me where the devil’s hiding! By God, I’ll gouge out that bastard’s eyes for having put a child in your belly. I told you he would make a whore of you and the next day deny having known you. Tell me, damn it! Were you to meet the shameless mongrel here? How long have —”
Child? What is he talking about? We haven’t...
The realization snatched the breath from Gruffydd’s lungs. She had already lain with another. He was not her first or her only love. She had invited him here with the intention of giving herself to him so she could claim him as the father of her child.
Elise’s voice rose in pitch and protest, but Gruffydd didn’t wait to hear more. He ran, as swift as his legs would carry him. In the distance, he thought he heard Elise scream, but he would not go back to save her, not after she had lied to him so. Limbs and rocks nearly tripped his unsteady feet. Branches lashed out as he flew past. More than once he stumbled, but without a thought he scrambled back up and raced onward.
The wind pursued him, roaring threats in his ears, mocking his innocence. By the time he reached Sycharth, his clothes were torn and muddy and he was minus a shoe.
Dawn came not with the habitual brilliance of a late summer morning, but instead it pounded with thunder and poured a bleak, oppressive rain that lasted for three straight days. The heavens were black in mourning and Gruffydd was the prisoner of a love he could neither confess nor continue to pursue. Elise had betrayed him.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He would have forgiven her, claimed the child as his own, if only to be with her forever. But it would never be. Lord Grey, he knew, would hunt him down and make a hell of his life. He could hardly bear to think what Grey already might have done to Elise to punish her.
10
Near Penmaenrhos, Wales — August, 1399
At Conwy, Richard was urged by the Earl of Northumberland to submit to Henry’s claims, but with full promise that he should retain all honor and authority due his kingship. Finally, Richard agreed to meet Henry at Chester and promptly sent Northumberland away. He was certain that if he could buy himself more time, appease Henry for the moment, that eventually he would be able to win back sufficient loyalties to crusade his cause.
But time is one thing there is never enough of—not for a dying man, not for two young, ill-fated lovers, not even for a king.
Richard’s appetite fled as well as his will to fight. Mindlessly, he shoved small hunks of coarse bread down his throat, chased by entire bottles of wine. When he slept, it was usually while sitting upright in his chair at the supper table. His nights were spent shuffling along the battlements, the sea air cold and biting upon his bare neck, as he argued aloud with himself.
A week later, Richard and a small party of guards and councilors stole away in the night from Conwy, for he did not trust the word of Henry of Bolingbroke, or his envoy Northumberland. Their aim was London—London, where once Richard the boy king had captured the hearts of the people when the peasants revolted, burned much of the city and slew hundreds before they gathered at Smithfield to throw down their demands. They had strangled the great city itself and chased its leaders trembling and fearful into hiding. All hope of reconciliation had seemed utterly lost then, but young Richard had staunchly defied their leader, Wat Tyler. When the king’s men killed Tyler, Richard had boldly ridden alone to the rebel mob and proclaimed: “I am your captain—your king! I am your king!”
Would they remember that day and gather as an army of peasants to march behind him? Or would they instead scatter from him and go back to their homes?
As mute as a funeral procession, Richard and his small party rode along a thinning trail, far from the main roads near a place called Penmaenrhos. He was beaten by a lack of sleep and it showed in the manner in which he slumped in his saddle, swaying with every stride of his horse. The king wore clothes borrowed from a soldier before leaving Conwy. He might have looked like a man of no importance, but for the nervous jerking of his shoulders as his head followed his eyes to investigate every cracked twig or rabbit bounding through the underbrush. He had reason to fear for his very life.
Half the day slipped away before he allowed them to stop long enough to relieve themselves and answer the rumblings of their stomachs. While his men sank to the ground in the shade of a dense grove, Richard stood with the reins of his horse clenched in one hand, scanning the countryside, seeking the humble army of Welshmen and peasants that would come to his aid, but also terrified of the vengeful English one that would pursue him to the furthest reaches of the isle. They had not been out of their saddles long enough to chew their stale bread before the king ordered them onward again.
Not far from Llanddulas as sunset neared, the king’s company entered a lushly wooded glen embraced by towering walls of crumbling limestone. Every hoof beat amplified in Richard’s ears, hammering in his head with relentless mockery. The deep, leafy shadows harbored goblins in hordes. Demons concealed in the burled limbs of trees jeered at Richard’s vain folly. Suddenly, one of the demons raised its hellish bow and aimed down at Richard’s fair head from a craggy cliff.
“Hold.” Richard raised a quivering hand, his eyes locked upon the arrow that marked his shrinking heart. On the trail before them, heavily armed English soldiers poured forth. Behind, above, around—everywhere. From their midst strode the stout Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, a forced smile bracing his plump cheeks. At his shoulder was his robust son of the same name, but more commonly known as Harry Hotspur.
“Percy, what is this?” Richard’s eyes darted from one man to the next; their hands were poised threateningly upon sword hilts. Perched on the limestone outcroppings were two dozen archers, arrows nocked.
Northumberland strode up to Richard’s prancing mount and hooked his fingers through the halter. “There, there.” Gently he pulled down on the horse’s muzzle and stroked its velvety cheek. Beneath his bushy, peppered eyebrows, he glanced up at the king, then back into the horse’s great, round eyes. “We have come to escort you to Flint, my lord.”
“Then you go against your word, Percy.” King Richard gathered the reins tighter in his sweating palms, his knees gripping his mount’s ribcage. “You promised to have but six in your escort party. I count tenfold that and more. And no escort, but an armed guard. Besides, it was Chester, not Flint, that I agreed to.”
“And you, sire, said you would wait for my return, so that I could personally accompany y
ou there. My guess is that you were headed elsewhere—and not to Chester either.”
Richard glanced at Hotspur, but he could read nothing in the knight’s stoic face.
“This is no peaceful escort,” Richard said. “It is an armed guard. I’ll go nowhere with you under these sly pretenses. I am the King of England. All that you see and more”—he raised his palm in the direction of the road ahead—“is my kingdom. So clear the road, Percy. Let us pass.”
“Your forgiveness, but I cannot let you go back to Conwy or anywhere else. You must come with me to Flint and meet with the Duke of Lancaster.”
“I will not. Besides, Henry is no longer the Duke of Lancaster. I stripped him of that inheritance long ago.” It was a futile protest, Richard knew. The slight waver of a bow caught his sight. Cold desperation crept under his skin and seeped into the very pith of his being.
“My lord, do not force my hand,” Northumberland said. “I am not good at this.”
“Good at what, Percy? Turning traitor?” Shattered bits of sunlight, broken by the canopy overhead, danced around him, but Richard felt only the chill of the shade and its completeness.
“Order your men to drop their weapons,” Northumberland said flatly.
With forced effort, Richard raised his fine chin and gathered in his breast what little resolve he still had. “Speak not thusly to me, Percy. Think again on what you are about to do. Take but a moment. Weigh it. Remember all I have done for you and your —”
“You are under arrest.”
Richard was stunned beyond belief.
“Arrest?” he echoed. It was the only word his lips would shape. He heard its sound, but the meaning fled his comprehension altogether.
Behind him, the cascading thud of surrendered weapons resounded in the glen. The point of Northumberland’s sword drifted upward to meet the king’s eyes. On the glinting tip of the earl’s blade tottered the very course of the Plantagenet dynasty.
“Your sword,” Northumberland commanded.
Slowly, Richard drew his sword and surrendered it to the earth. Hotspur, at last committing to action, darted forth to seize it.
“And your dagger.”
This time, with marked hesitation, the king closed his fingers over the hilt. He never thought himself capable of cold-blooded murder, but self-defense...
“Don’t.” Northumberland pressed the point of his sword against Richard’s throat. “I was told to bring you without harm to your person, but if I have to...”
“May this haunt you to your grave.” Richard flipped the dagger from his fingers. Its finely tapered point pierced the ground.
Northumberland bent to free the dagger. “As will your deeds, m’lord.”
Iolo Goch:
The tragic son of the lauded Black Prince became Henry of Bolingbroke’s captive. Young Harry was released from Castle Trim and escorted back to England to be at his father’s side. Richard’s reign was in ebb not because of a tidal wave of insurrection, but because none had stood against Henry. Richard’s troops had merely wandered off, his assumed friends were mute on his behalf, and the people had long since ceased to remember him as the idealistic child-king.
The baggage train that Richard had taken with him to Ireland was confiscated by Sir Thomas Percy and the Duke of Aumarle, one of Richard’s own cousins. Pelts of ermine and fox; cloth of damask, samite and velvet brocade; jewelry set in silver and gold and encrusted with pearls and precious stones; and coin enough to feed all of England south of the Trent. The confiscated goods were escorted through Wales on a long strand of wagons and foreign-bred horses. Such a spectacle was impossible to hide.
Days later, a band of our Welsh brethren, sympathizers to King Richard, ambushed the train in a narrow glen. They would not share their names, but after they stripped the English soldiers of their weapons and herded them into a clump, they left Sir Thomas with one final comment: “’Tis common knowledge the king did not give these trinkets to you. So we shall return them to their rightful owner and let you go on your way. Tell the vile traitor you serve that Wales is not his for the taking, either.”
If only Henry had heeded those words. Instead, he took them as a challenge.
11
Tower of London, England — September, 1399
For nearly a month, Richard’s domain had been reduced to the periphery of his chamber’s walls in the Tower of London. His apportionment of natural light was limited to the narrow aperture of a single high window. When Sir William Beauchamp appeared in his doorway late one day, Richard was so bereft of hope that he barely raised his bleary eyes to acknowledge his visitor.
“What is it Beauchamp? Come to gloat?” Richard sniveled. “And who is that with you?”
“This is Adam of Usk, sire.” Beauchamp tipped his head toward his companion. “Welshman, Oxford scholar, and a cleric as soon as his appointment is secured.”
Beauchamp, late in years and short on words, curled his fingers at a pair of mousy servants. They scurried in with plates of food, placed them before the king and raced past the guards before they could become targets. Richard had already launched a few goblets at them.
The king swept the food aside and laid his head on the table.
“Go away,” he mumbled into his forearm, “and take him with you. Whatever you’ve brought him along for.”
Beneath his straight brown mop of hair trimmed in the old Norman fashion, Adam nodded at Beauchamp, who with a shrug and a sigh shuffled out. The guards drew the door shut. The keys clinked with solemnity. Quietly, Adam lifted an unlit candle from its sconce and held its wick out over the dwindling hearth fire until it took flame. Then he circled the room, augmenting what light there was on that chilly September evening.
Richard raised his head. He groped for the jug of wine just beyond his reach. His fingers closed around it, pulled it to him. Empty, but not without use. He tested its weight, brought it over his shoulder and just as Adam turned to look at him, Richard grinned dully.
“All gone,” he said.
“I shall have them fetch more, my lord.” Adam folded his hands before him, but made no move to call for the servants.
“So why did he send you? Unless you have a dagger hidden in the folds of your sleeve, in which case you need not answer. Just do your duty. Collect your coin. And enjoy your journey to purgatory. I fancy we shall meet there.”
“Harry inquires of your health.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Richard shoved back his chair, toppling it onto the floor. He whirled away, so that Bolingbroke’s spy could not see his face. “But if, if you speak to Harry, tell him whatever lies his father would have him believe. Tell him... tell him I am well and think of him daily.” The last part was true.
“My lord,”—Adam’s steps came closer, his voice steady and sure—“you are correct in that I come at the Duke of Lancaster’s bidding. But I assure you, I have not been sent to extract any confession. Young Harry is in distress. He would have come himself, but...”
Slowly, Richard turned. “Then if you have come in his place to return with a picture of me more brightly painted than the blanched ghost you see, tell him the whole tale: that this England his father would fain have as his, this wonderful, fickle land, it is severe and merciless. So many kings and men of greatness it has exiled, destroyed and slain. Its soil is tainted with the blood of upheaval and greed. My God, if anyone ever truly realized that, no one would ever want it.” His eyes trailed along the dimming shaft of light from the floor to the world beyond. “I don’t. Not any longer.”
Adam righted the chair, went and rapped lightly on the door.
“Are you on your way now to tell Henry that I have been broken?”
“No, my lord.” When the guard opened the door, Adam asked for more wine and another goblet. Moments later, a servant delivered upon the request. Adam filled the king’s cup and poured himself a drink, then claimed the chair opposite Richard’s.
“I have all the time you will grant me,” Adam said. “I
f we talk until the candles have all burnt down, they will bring us more... and wine as well.”
Richard slid onto his seat, slumping with the strain of defeat. “Then hear my story, Adam of Usk, if you indeed have all night. And witness the woeful issue of this spiteful throne. Speak of it to Henry... and my dear Harry. They will not want to believe it, but England is a rose whose thorns bear a poison that kills slowly. I have been pricked and so will they.”
12
Glyndyfrdwy, Wales — September, 1399
“Another day,” Owain promised.
His back to his father, Gruffydd scowled. Since before dawn, they had been pursuing a stag, but when the beast finally came into clear view, Gruffydd had fumbled too long to nock his arrow and it had taken off. It was long gone by now and Gruffydd had cursed his slow reflexes, then swung the arrow against the nearest tree trunk, cracking the shaft.
His horse tethered to a pliant sapling, Gruffydd slid down the incline until the toe of his boot found water. Crouching over the stream, he scooped a handful of ice-cold water and doused his neck.
In an attempt to convert the glum nature of his oldest son, Owain had called for a day of hunting near Glyndyfrdwy, but the event had only served to aggravate Gruffydd further. Even as much as he tried to turn his thoughts from Elise, they kept drifting back to that night. He should have kept her from going back to her uncle, should have stolen away with her and married her in secret. Given what he had learned just a few days ago, that plan was still not out of the question. Even more appealing was the thought of plunging a sword into Lord Grey’s gut. Someone needed to take care of the bastard.
Tudur dropped from his mount and whirled about, one flattened hand shading his brow as he surveyed the forest around them. “Perhaps we should take to flying falcons instead?”
“Lady Margaret would be proud to show you about her mews,” Iolo hinted, as he clung, green-faced, to the cantle of his saddle and carefully brought his right leg over his horse’s rump. The bard was a reluctant hunter and a poor horseman, but he came along for the company. Gruffydd might have been glad for that, he liked Iolo, but he had not yet forgiven him for betraying his confidence to his father.
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 6
