Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  Sycharth was unusually silent: cold and hollow like a tomb awaiting the corpse. Owain settled Margaret in a chair and went about stirring the ashes of the hearth. He snapped a handful of twigs and tossed them onto a barely glowing ember, then knelt down and blew on it. A single, meager spark flashed, giving him hope. Grabbing the iron poker, he rearranged the kindling, until one spark became two, became several. Carefully, he placed a few small logs on the fire and sat back on his haunches.

  His eyes wandered up to the gracefully arched ceiling beams, higher and wider-spanning than those of any hall around, and he thought for certain something about them had changed or that the long tables and their benches had been moved or somehow altered. Flanking the hall were two impressive and immense tapestries shipped from Flanders. One was of St. George and the dragon, the other of the Last Supper. Owain stared at them as if he had never before laid eyes on them. Even in the scant light cast by his growing fire, their twisted threads of color emanated with the essence of long-ago life. There would be no such tapestries spun in honor of King Richard. By now any that hinted of him had probably already been burned.

  “You’re home far too soon. It did not go well at Parliament?” Margaret brought her knees up to her chest, her bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket’s edge. The faint light from a cloud-veiled moon shone from a window behind her, outlining her form in a silhouette of silver.

  “They denied my protests over Grey’s actions. Dismissed me like an impertinent child.”

  “What else? You can’t have been there long enough to sit in on the full session.”

  “It would have done no good to stay. Are you awake enough to hear it all?” he asked with weighty sobriety.

  “Well, I am sitting here half bare beneath a blanket with frozen feet and more awake than I care to be. Shall I fetch you some ale? A cup of wine?”

  After a long silence, he shook his head and stood. The heels of his riding boots scraped the floor as he paced, his rowel spurs chinking with each sluggish stride.

  It was Margaret who broke the silence. “Is it true... about Richard?”

  He stopped with his back to her. “It is. I saw his funeral procession. Ah, God have mercy on his soul. Whatever his end, he did not deserve it. And now all of England’s nobility spews lauds of Bolingbroke. Is it any wonder it has come to this? It is not a good day to be Welsh, my love. Not a good day.”

  “It will improve. Henry is merely unsteady. He needs to prove himself fierce. He will soften in time.”

  “A crown seized is an uneasy one, my love. He will not soften; only grow swifter to send men to the block.” He groaned under his breath, expelling the weight of his disappointment. “And Parliament—they laughed, Marged, even as I stood there and quoted their own laws to them. They roared at me, ‘What do we care for these barefooted Welsh dogs?’ Ach, I was not worth spitting on. I would rather be a hill cur, though, than one of those frothing pack hounds. Only Bishop Trefor said anything on my behalf and even that was half-hearted. You should have seen Grey sitting there amidst his miniver-wrapped murder of crows. He was ever so smug, so content, so blessed lofty. It was Grey himself who put the golden spurs on Henry before his coronation. He sits in high favor. The mere sight of that man rankles me to my guts. And Bolingbroke—it nauseates me to think of calling him ‘king’—tapped his ringed fingers and yawned, waving me off the floor before I was even half done. I tell you I have argued law with the best of them and won, but on that day it was as if they all conspired to some enormous secret to which I knew nothing of. I could have told them the roof over their heads was on fire and they would not have bothered to roll their eyes upward.”

  “Should have shot a flaming arrow into the beams,” came a rough voice, “and burned the whole damn lot of them.”

  Owain turned at the words. At a table tucked in the far corner of the room, a hunched, ogreish shape lifted its head. The stranger dragged a leather tankard across the table planks and tossed the last few drops down the back of his throat. The tankard smacked down and his head followed. He rumbled with laughter, and then abruptly clamped both hands over his ragged head, howling. “Aaaaagh, Mother of Christ, this headache is going to make my skull burst if I don’t get a drink to dull it. Quickly!”

  Margaret shrugged at Owain. “I’m sorry, my love. I had offered him a bed. Apparently, he didn’t make it.” She rose, shifting her bare feet on the cold floor. “I’ll have someone fetch him more ale... and you a cup as well. In the meanwhile, if you can do without my company for awhile, I need to go back to bed and warm my limbs. I’m feeling rather tired of late. Too many nights spent waiting for you.” She shuffled to him, stood on her toes as she pulled the blanket tight, and pecked him on the cheek.

  Smiling down at her, Owain cupped her chin in his large hand. “Marged,” he whispered, “you’re as beautiful as you ever were.”

  “You say that as if you believe it.”

  “I do.”

  She pulled back to go, but his hand on her arm stayed her.

  Owain tilted his head in the direction of the visitor. “Who is he?”

  “Hmm, I don’t recall. There are ever so many people loitering around this hall, invited or not. Don’t be long.” She winked and scampered off.

  “Fortunate man, you are.” The stranger propped his bearded chin on his upper arm.

  “Your pardon?” More curious than cautious, Owain moved away from the struggling fire toward him.

  The man stood with a grimace. Orange light danced like fiery demons in his black forest of curls. A servant scuttled into the hall, cradling a sloshing pitcher and two mugs in her arms.

  The swarthy man smiled broadly. “Now she was good. Very good... and would say the same of me, if I may boast.”

  The maid, a vaguely handsome woman, giggled, but when Owain shot her a look of reproach, she abruptly fell silent.

  Owain took the filled mugs from her, handed one to the stranger and waved the servant away. She flared her skirts as she disappeared through a doorway.

  “So,” Owain said, trying to regain the man’s attention, “you have enjoyed the service as well as the food and drink here?”

  “Rhys Ddu of Cardigan,” he said, as if Owain should instantly recognize the name, and bowed. “Your servant, m’lord.”

  His paunch gave evidence that he did not miss many meals and when he walked he thrust his abdomen before him as if unashamed of the fact. He had the characteristic dark looks and compact build of his Celtic ancestors. In physical traits, he was as opposite as any man could be to Owain. It was a glimpse of Hephaestus meeting Apollo.

  “We are well staffed, Rhys Ddu, but if you require employment in the morning my wife —”

  “Ah, never was there a more gracious lady. Your bard has been trilling ballads to her incessantly. But I think you mistake my offer. You see, I was a sheriff of Cardigan... that was until I saw fit to shackle a certain perpetual drunkard and put him on public display. The local English baron, who happened to be his father, was rather displeased with me.” He shrugged hugely, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “And so I am ousted. But a turn in fortunes sometimes leads us to other paths. Just as well, I had tired of my wife, and she of me, long before this. The talk of the taverns is that Lord Grey has dealt you a nasty affront. I’m here to serve you with my sword. You’ll have need of it.”

  Owain placed his tankard on the table and planted his fists before him, staring at Rhys. “Hear me, Sheriff. I have no need for armed men around me. He who surrounds himself with hired swords invites the contempt of others.”

  “Ah, well then, if you so believe, I wish you safety. But he who has no swords at all around him will surely fall by another man’s sword. You carry one yourself,” he observed, eyeing the prize at Owain’s hip that had been his father’s weapon on the fields of France. “Begun watching your back lately?”

  “Highwaymen are seething in the forests, even here in Wales.” Walking to the window, Owain pressed his palm against the co
ld glass.

  “Highwaymen... and Henry’s men.” Rhys Ddu finished off his drink.

  A blast of frosty air marched through the door as Tudur dragged himself in. Owain had nearly forgotten about his brother, who had offered to tend to the horses so he could trudge off to bed. Tudur threw back the hood of his cloak and immediately joined them, grabbing two stout logs and stuffing them in the hearth, as if dissatisfied with its conservative size.

  Owain introduced them with a sweep of his hand. “Tudur, this is Rhys Ddu of Cardigan. He comes to pledge me his sword. He says I shall have need of it.”

  Rubbing his hands together before the fire, Tudur glanced at Rhys and nodded, then looked back at Owain. “From what I saw, Brother, sympathy with your predicament is gravely lacking. Don’t toss his offer aside too soon... you may indeed need him.” He fumbled at the clasp of his cloak. “Forgive me, but I think I’m more exhausted than cold. Till morning, then.”

  They watched as Tudur ascended the stairs, his cloak slung over one drooping shoulder and his chin bobbing against his chest.

  “Go on,” Rhys urged, nudging Owain with his elbow as if they were already old friends. “Do you think I’d be standing here lost in thought over a weak drink if I had a wife such as yours waiting for me on a cold night like this?”

  Owain kneaded at his stiff neck and a smile crept over his mouth. “You’re good company, no doubt, but I think the maid and I would have different opinions as to just how good.”

  The slightest chuckle leaked from Rhys and he cocked his head. His eyes met with Owain’s and his thick brow flitted upward. They shared a moment of mirth—an odd hour, a cold night, Rhys’s head swimming with ale and Owain road-beaten—but yet they understood each other already.

  Margaret was fast asleep when Owain entered their chamber. He undressed, pulled back the covers and slid under. For an hour or more he lay on his side, studying the smooth line of her ear, cheek and jaw while a thousand thoughts twisted inside him.

  That he could find sleep at all was a matter of sheer and absolute exhaustion. When he opened his eyes again it was approaching noon.

  “I was dying to awaken you,” Margaret said dreamily, her skin aglow with sunlight. “I rose hours ago issuing orders to the children and servants to not so much as drop a spoon.”

  He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Although the sun shone brightly through their lead-paned window, he felt the cold biting at the tip of his nose. “They could have danced ‘Thread the Needle’ on our bed and I would have slept on like an infant.”

  “Are you still sleepy?” She grinned. Her robe gaped open and the white of her breasts rose and fell in rhythm with her breathing.

  “Oh, no, I am quite awake, quite alive...”—his fingers skirted over her clothing—“and quite hungry.”

  She slipped her robe off, baring herself and all that she had to offer to her husband. Rolling closer, she kissed him wetly on the neck, her kisses falling like soft rain over his thickly muscled shoulder and down his arm. He tugged away his braes—ready to demand nothing by right of marriage from her, but to receive the gift she was offering him with openness and pleasure. Her womanliness enjoined every muscle, every vein and every nerve of his being, commanding him with an absoluteness no king or foe ever could. Owain was thinking nothing of Henry or Lord Grey... only of his Marged—tender and generous and magical. His Aphrodite. His world, his sun, his stars. His and only his and this moment all that mattered.

  Owain took no notice of her momentary reluctance and pushed inside her until he found the wave that had built up within him. It was at the very moment that his ecstasy arrived that she ripped herself from him.

  He was half in shock, half beyond command of his own body, before he realized she was curled in a tight ball on her side away from him, clutching at her belly and shaking with violent sobs.

  “Marged?” He bolted up on his elbow, looking her over. Between her legs, she crammed one hand, trying to dam the blood that was trickling over her fingers and seeping onto the white sheets.

  “It hurts, Owain. It hurts,” she forced, gritting her teeth. Her face was jammed into the pillow, her fine mouth twisting with a soundless cry as she pulled tighter into herself, her knees almost touching her face.

  “Oh God.” He pulled the sheets up over her and grabbed the blanket that had fallen to the floor during their lovemaking. With it wrapped about his waist, he shoved the chamber door open. “Someone! Help her! Hurry, hurry. Please! At once.” He darted down the corridor, almost smashing into Iolo as he came around the corner. “Oh please, Iolo. Oh God, Margaret needs help. She’s bleeding.”

  Iolo placed a hand on his shoulder, motioning to a wide-eyed boy servant behind him. “Fetch Abraham, posthaste. Waste not a moment. Lady Margaret is very ill.” Then he led Owain back to the chamber.

  “Shhh.” Iolo comforted her, wiping at her tears with a corner of the sheet and arranging the blanket around her that Owain had handed him.

  Still bare-chested, Owain hovered close as he pulled on his braes and hose. “I don’t understand. All was well and she... then...” His voice cracked and he bent down at her bedside. He laid a hand on her arm, stroking it, willing her pain to vanish. “Have you been ill, Marged? Having pains?”

  “Ill?” Iolo’s jaw tightened as he looked away. He turned his back to watch the door. “She wasn’t ill, m’lord. She was with child. You weren’t aware?”

  With child? No, she would not have told me anyway. She always kept it a secret until the child had quickened.

  Owain’s heart clenched. The blood was now spilling into a bright pool that had spread from her knees to her ribs on the sheets beneath her. With so much lost, the child could not possibly —

  He embraced her, but in her tides of agony she could realize nothing of his compassion—or his guilt.

  When the physician Abraham came, it took him little time to diagnose her affliction. She had lost the child she was carrying. He told Owain in a blameless manner as she lay sleeping. A strong tea of willow bark and chamomile had eased her cramps and brought on needed slumber.

  After the difficult birth of their youngest twins, Owain and Margaret had avoided intimacy for awhile, both aware of the danger that another birth could impose upon her life. But in time, their deep love for one another had stirred old passions. They had both forgotten. They would not again.

  15

  Mid Wales — July, 1400

  In the very heart of Wales, two cloaked men rode into a deeply cut valley. As the sun bowed behind an abrupt ridge line, a dark shadow crept with cold certainty across the land. Uneasy, the men halted to gather their bearings. Their horses snorted and flicked their ears at every sound.

  “You had best discover it soon, Tom...” the one said, his dark eyes flitting from hilltop to hollow, “or it will be both our heads on Ruthin’s wall.”

  Tom, the younger of the two, sneered. “No one finds Gethin’s hiding place. It’s never the same. He’ll find us.”

  Further south, a huddle of cottages smoked with the lure of cooking fires, light beckoning ghostly from the cracks around their shutters.

  “Will we be aware of that fact before or after they knock us senseless from these two stolen horses?” The older man pulled his hood up. His name was Griffith ap David and, just like Owain Glyndwr, he had found himself the object of Lord Grey’s disdain. Though not a man of great station or wealth, he had been afforded some responsibilities in recent years, only to have them snatched away at whim by Lord Grey. At his age, the dangerous life of a rebel against the king held a very unsavory appeal.

  “God’s stinking breath,” Griffith muttered, “I thought you knew where the hell you were going. Well, I won’t tarry here waiting for starvation to take me. We’ll follow that trail... and if his men are watching us, I pray they recognize you in this failing light.”

  Griffith ap David spurred his horse and lurched ahead.

  “Allow me,” Tom growled.

 
“By all means. You can ride in a circle just as aimlessly as I can.”

  The trail took them directly away from the groggy hamlet—closer to the crags that crowded skyward. They soon found their path clinging tentatively to the thin shoulder of an escarpment. Rocks dislodged by their horses’ hooves clattered down the steep slope.

  “We should turn back,” Griffith said between his chattering teeth. “This wind will send us to our graves.”

  He thought he glimpsed a figure ducking behind a rock above them, then convinced himself it was only a shadow. Darkness was descending and there was neither moon nor stars to light their way. His stiff muscles protested going on any more, yet they couldn’t stop now. Turning his head, he glanced back toward the village, thinking of the food being cooked over its fires, but they had already lost sight of its buildings with all the twists in the roadway. He would have risked his life to beg for a bowl of stew, despite the great price that he knew must be on his head by now. Surely they would die in these hills anyway, with nothing more to claim than what they had fled with and the two horses stolen from Lord Grey’s barn in retaliation for his trickery.

  Before he turned back to gauge the willingness of his guide, Griffith heard a thud upon the trail before them. His eyes flew wide as a spear tip pricked his throat. Gruff hands ripped him from his saddle. He landed on his shoulder on the road, jagged stones cutting at his cheek.

  A well-aimed boot punched him in the kidney. Dark cloaks swarmed above him. He clutched his head in his hands to protect his face, while they rained blow after blow upon his frozen body. The air was crushed from his lungs. His only thought was the need to breathe.

  As he gasped for air, they hoisted him up and slammed his back against a rock.