“Take what time you will.” Gethin edged through the doorway and out into the rising day. Then abruptly, he turned around and said, “You’ll be glad to know our thorny Lord Grey has been called away on king’s business.”
The news was little relief to Owain, as he knew any Englishman, or even a desperate Welshman, would give him up for a sack of coin. But as he saw a figure part from the shadows and fill his eyes, all fear, all turmoil evaporated. In moments, Owain and Margaret were molded tightly in each other’s arms.
“I missed you so terribly,” Margaret murmured into the rough wool of his cloak. “Can we go home yet?”
“Not yet, Marged. Not yet.”
She tilted her head up to look into his face. “When then?”
“I wish I could say.” After closing the door, he took her cloak, hung it on a hook, and then placed his on top of it. The light within the cottage was scant, but it was enough to tell there was a thick coating of dust everywhere. A trestle table and a single bench were shoved against the near wall next to the single, shuttered window. Opposite the door stood a row of shelves lined with half a dozen clay jars and along the other wall was a narrow bed with a mattress of stuffed straw and a wool blanket. The bed at least looked clean, although it would not have mattered to them whether they met in a king’s palace or cowshed.
With his fingertips, Owain traced her hairline, her jaw, her lips. Then he held her face, gazing into her eyes for a long while. For days now, he had rehearsed what he might say, but nothing seemed to convey just what it was he felt for her. Finally, he kissed her fully on the mouth, but not for long. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
“You’ll write to me again, Owain? Say that you will.”
“I will. But not often. There are risks. You understand? And I cannot reveal my whereabouts for now.”
“Yes, of course. Send word, then. I need to know that you are all right. And if there is any way I can write to you and tell you how the children —”
He kissed her again, gently on the mouth, then her cheek just in front of her ear. “Tell me about them now. Tell me everything. Lowarch tells me Sion and Mary are a handful.”
Instead, Margaret turned her mouth to his. Her fingers wandered from his back, fluttering over his hip and lower abdomen. Waves of desire pulsed through every vein of his being. Their time apart had made the sensation of her touch more intense than he could ever remember, the nearness of her more commanding. She tugged at his hand, still kissing him as she stepped backward, gradually bringing them closer and closer to the bed. Moments later, she was lying back on it, pulling him down with her. Her skirts rustled as he lifted them to slide a hand over her thigh, smooth beneath the crisp linen of her chemise. Something brushed against his ear, like the air stirred by a voice from long ago.
If she were to deliver another child, she could die.
He rolled from her, burying his face against a fold of the blanket, its fibers stiff against his cheek. Wadding the blanket in his fist, he muttered, “We can’t, Margaret.” He twisted at the waist to gaze at her. It had to be said. “Not now. Not ever.”
She touched his shoulder. “Not now maybe, but later I could... I could take ‘precautions’.”
“No. It’s not worth the risk.”
“It’s not fair to you, Owain.” Her hand fell away. Sniffing back tears, she looked up at the ceiling. “If you strayed from our vows, I would not —”
“Nonsense, Marged.” He seized her jaw in his tender grip and turned her face back to him. “It’s a small price to pay for keeping you with me. A small, small price. One I would gladly pay for the rest of my life.”
Even as he said the words, a knot coiled tighter inside him. It was not a small price at all. Many times already, he had been tempted and he knew that as soon as he lay with another woman, it would happen again and again. If only he could be as strong as Margaret needed him to be. It didn’t help that she nearly gave him permission to be unfaithful.
Nestling beneath his arm, she whispered, “Hold me, Owain.”
He drew her against his chest, pressing his cheek against the silken crown of her hair.
19
Conwy Castle, Wales — April, 1401
It was Good Friday, the 1st of April, and the majority of Conwy Castle’s fifteen men-at-arms and sixty archers trudged along the dirt road from the castle to the toll of the parish church bells. It was a tenet of Captain John Massey’s that men of honor did not engage in acts of war on such sacred days and thus he felt secure in leaving two of his keenest as a skeleton force to guard the castle of Conwy. It was not a tenet that the wily Tudur brothers—cousins of Owain Glyndwr— adhered to, however.
As the English soldiers shuffled past on the street leading out from the castle toward the church, Gwilym ap Tudur and forty of his cohorts waited silently in the heated confines of the blacksmith’s shop just off Castle Street. In the hills beyond the upper gate to the town, Rhys ap Tudur lingered with an even larger body of fighting men.
The River Conwy spilled sluggishly into the estuary below the castle, another of James of St. George’s masterpieces. A giant slab of rock jutted into the estuary and upon it sat one of the imposing towers. An immense fortress, Conwy was as near to impenetrable as the site—and James of St. George’s genius—would allow. On the harbor side, the looming tower and a barbican flanked the castle entrance, accessible only by boat. On the town side of the castle to gain entrance one had to ascend a steep, narrow stairway, cross a drawbridge and then pass through no less than three gates—all winged by a host of walls and towers which were enhanced by timber hoardings pierced with arrow loops.
“Maelgwn?” Gwilym moved through the shadows and clasped his friend’s shoulder, his grip pinching until Maelgwn winced. He drew his hand away. “You’re prepared?”
Maelgwn nodded, tucking a short coil of rope in with his clanking sack full of carpenter’s tools.
“To your deed, then.” Gwilym sank back into the shadows with the others as Maelgwn crept away. One by one, the tools, knives and other weapons that had been lying scattered about were passed to eager hands.
A few minutes later, they heard a stifled cry, followed by Maelgwn’s shrill whistle. They darted out into the street and raced up the causeway. Within the gatehouse, Maelgwn stood triumphantly grinning by the corpses of the two strangled guards, their necks banded in violet from the deep bruise of his rope.
Gwilym paused but a second. “It is a good Friday, is it not?” he said to Maelgwn.
“The best,” Maelgwn proclaimed, pulling one of the dead soldier’s swords free of his belt.
“’Twill get even better, I wager,” Gwilym said, radiant with triumph. “Give my brother the signal. I want to see Conwy in flames. Let us test whether the thatch on an Englishman’s home burns as well as that of a Welshman’s.”
Denbigh Castle, Wales — April, 1401
On a grassy knoll outside Denbigh Castle, Harry Hotspur stood with his arm outstretched. Even in his statuesque pose he was a striking figure. While his nose was perhaps a bit too broad, his height less than average, and his chin a bit too small to match the width of his cheekbones, he commanded attention with his flurry of activity. No other knight could spur a horse to such speed as he did, nor shout across the clang of battle with such force and clarity. He could make women swoon with the smile dancing in his blue eyes and with those very same eyes instill in his enemy the cold promise of death. He was the Lancelot of his day and he was intent on wringing every flicker of glory from life—and if death came to him sooner for living by such passionate degrees, then he would meet death with honor and pride.
A very able commander and quick to act, as his name would imply, Hotspur was the Chief Justice of North Wales at the time of the capture of Conwy. He held a string of other titles, a ratification of Henry’s as yet unshaken faith in him, despite the fact that by both blood and marriage he had rather complicated ties. His father was Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland and Warden
of the Scottish Marches, who became even more powerful with Richard’s deposition; his wife was Elizabeth Mortimer, whose brothers were the late Earl of March, Roger, and Sir Edmund Mortimer. Their mother had been Philippa, daughter of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, second son of Edward III. Following tradition, the heirs of Lionel should have been next in line for the throne of England after Richard, but Henry had shaken that tradition soundly by his seizure of the crown. Still, Hotspur’s nephew, the young, imprisoned Earl of March, also named Edmund, possessed a very valid claim to kingship.
Relaxing his arm, Hotspur’s lips curled into an easy smile. There was a steady, but light breeze on which his peregrine glided, her blue-gray wings bowed to catch the wind and her yellow-rimmed eyes scanning the fields below.
“She will be a great one, m’lord,” his squire John Irby observed, one hand cupped above his peppered brow.
“I think I shall name her Artemis, after the goddess of the hunt. What do you think, John? Is that a good name for her? I only hope she will live up to it.”
“Oh, yes, I —”
Hotspur shushed him. Stepping close to Irby, he whispered, “She has her eye on something. Do you not see? Perhaps a hare that the plowman has scared up. Ah, what keen sight she has.”
The two were so intent on observing the falcon that they barely noticed the two riders who had stopped at the castle gate and were now riding toward them. The peregrine’s flight broke as she pulled up sharply and banked back toward them. Hotspur scowled at the riders, one of whom was waving anxiously at them.
“Ah, damn it. The afternoon is wasted. Who has come to so very rudely interrupt my sport?” Artemis alighted on the perch of his gloved arm, eyeing his finger as he proffered a small morsel of meat. He scratched at her snowy chest and blew her a kiss. “I would proclaim your beauty, lovely creature, but that it might stir jealousy in my Elizabeth. We’ll try again tomorrow. No doubt there is some grave matter that none but I can remedy. Perhaps all the wine barrels have burst and flooded the cellar?”
Irby chuckled with him. As the riders, John Charlton, Lord of Powys, and Lord Reginald de Grey of Ruthin halted before them, Hotspur’s smile vanished.
“You have ruined her first hunt, my lords,” Hotspur admonished. For Charlton and Grey to have come all this way, it could not be good news. The afternoon had been nothing short of perfect until now.
“My regrets, Sir Henry,” Charlton said, repositioning himself in his saddle to ease his sores, “but you are needed at Conwy.”
“I know of the rebels. I take it Massey has been unable to remove them?”
Grey’s mouth twitched. “They are firmly rooted. The king requests that you treat with them.”
“With rebels? And what have they to offer in return for their undeserved freedom?”
“Conwy Castle,” Grey growled. “The king is very displeased by this. If they are not removed it will give momentum to the Welsh uprising.”
“A pleasing triumph for your nemesis Glyndwr, yes, Lord Grey? I understand your stake in this. But why does the king call on me for help? Unless he has lately gone blind, the letter I recently wrote him should have made it obvious that I have yet to see any of that money which he has so fervently promised me. Am I to feed my soldiers on promises? My tolerance wears thin on this subject.” He had already put forth a sizeable amount of his own funds to ensure the timely payment of the troops under him, but Henry had been slow in repaying that debt.
“Troubles in Gascony and Scotland —”
“Gascony and Scotland? This is Wales and it is no less a threat than Gascony or Scotland. Perhaps even more so. Gascony is over the sea and Scotland has no Owain Glyndwr to stir trouble. Have you heard, Lord Grey, of Glyndwr’s latest escapade? He took on the guise of a cooper and with one of his sons at his side drove his wagon into the square of Dolgellau, from which the barrels opened up and poured out not ale, but armed men. They set free three Welshmen who had been imprisoned there and were awaiting trial—one, a man of seventy years no less, for hoarding a store of arrows in his barn, another for carrying a sword bundled in his blankets as he traveled through a forest reputed for its highwaymen and the third, and this one I am told most infuriated Glyndwr, for taking as his wife a woman from Coventry—an Englishwoman.”
Charlton climbed down from his lathered mount, his fingers kneading at his lower spine. “They broke the king’s laws, Sir Henry. Laws that were set in place for good reason.”
“Laws? Glyndwr himself ripped those laws from the door of the hall in Dolgellau and burned them with a hundred wide-eyed witnesses staring on. Some, I am told, even cheered him.” Hotspur laughed raucously. Startled, his peregrine spread her wings. He turned his face from her and gave her to Irby, then stomped toward Charlton. “Does Parliament think... does the king think... ah, do they think at all? Do they think that law upon law, meant to stifle and restrict a people, will suddenly throw a blanket of order and goodwill upon us? God’s teeth, this will get worse before it gets better. And I wager it will not be the king who has to deal with it at every turn. It will be the man you are ogling slack-jawed at. Agh, he’ll see the repercussions in time. Let him learn his own lesson, then. There is no sense in arguing with a lackwit, let alone a whole Parliament full of them.”
The last comment clearly shocked Charlton. Grey, however, revealed nothing. Hotspur knew he had perhaps said too much, but the king had pushed him too far already.
While Grey remained on the hilltop, Charlton grabbed at the reins of his horse to follow as Hotspur and Irby began the downhill trek back to the mews to return the bird. Charlton’s words tumbled out in a stammer. “But, but Sir Henry, please... please, I beg. You must come with me to Conwy. If you don’t, it will be my head as well as yours.”
“Heads roll like stones in this country. The loss of mine or yours will be of little significance.”
Charlton scurried faster. “Can you be ready by tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Hotspur scoffed. “Do you think me a magician?”
“The day after?”
Hotspur tossed him a look of annoyance, like Charlton was some fly whose buzzing must be dealt with. He raised his voice more than loud enough for Grey to hear. “Well enough... I am the king’s slave after all, am I not? Lest you think otherwise, all men are slaves. Even kings are slaves to the acts of outlaws. Unhappily, I am a slave to both.”
What Lord Reginald de Grey thought of him was of no concern to Harry Hotspur. His outspokenness was the cardinal point of his character. It was what rallied his soldiers to him. Without it, he would not have become the valuable pawn that he was.
20
Conwy Castle, Wales — May, 1401
A hundred and twenty men-at-arms and three hundred archers flew to Conwy. At their head galloped Harry Hotspur on a chestnut steed, its mane the same brilliant yellow as his own short-cropped, thick crown of hair, the bold sun of May setting sparks to every strand. To his immense relief, Grey had gone his own way, straight back to the king, no doubt to deliver an account of Hotspur’s damning remarks.
Arriving at the gates of the town of Conwy, Hotspur gazed upon the whitewashed, heaven-scraping towers of the castle. Although he was loath to do so, he immediately ordered Massey arrested for his negligence. The impenetrable walls, which had been meant to keep English forces safe within, were now the very thing keeping them out. The fortress had been amply provisioned. It would take a protracted siege to oust the rebels, given his limited means. It could be done, but there was a quicker, surer way to retake Conwy.
Hotspur began negotiations with the rebels. But what the Tudur brothers demanded of him Hotspur knew that he could no sooner deliver than he could the moon. They wanted total absolution: free pardons and a promise that charges would not be brought against them. Hotspur countered. Gwilym rejected. Negotiations dragged on.
While Hotspur began to count the sunsets from his camp just above the beach outside town, Henry sent his son Prince Harry to Conwy. In the meantime, word came to Hot
spur that the Welsh were raiding near both Bangor and further south beyond Dolgellau. A report that the Bangor raids were being led by the younger brother, Tudur Glyndwr, led Hotspur to surmise that Owain must be the one causing havoc in the south of Gwynedd.
As soon as Harry arrived at Conwy with additional forces, Hotspur took advantage of the reprieve. He sent Lord Charlton after Tudur’s party, while he went in pursuit of Owain Glyndwr himself. The chances of finding the rebel were small, but if he did, it would change everything.
Near Cadair Idris, Wales — May, 1401
It was necessary, from time to time, to gather provisions to feed a burgeoning army. While the English were befuddled by the problem of what to do about Conwy, Tudur remained with most of the Welsh fighters at their camp overlooking Llyn Peris, from where he could launch raiding parties toward both Bangor and Caernarvon. In the mountains between Dolgellau and Machynlleth, Owain’s men rounded up a large herd of cattle. Enough to keep his men fed well into the summer. It had all gone too easily, however. A fact which unnerved Owain, although he would not admit it.
As he unrolled his pack to sleep beneath the stars, he listened to the lowing of the cattle. Their plaintive song rolled through the valley, making him grimace. He would have his men up well before dawn to move them on again. There were a dozen men on watch for the night, but Harlech was less than a day’s ride away and Dolgellau only a few miles. He gathered his blanket and went to join Rhys.
Owain picked up an overturned cup from the ground and thrust it at Rhys.
“Your friendship is costly,” Rhys said, pouring the last of his drink from his flask into Owain’s cup.
“As my kitchen maids would attest is yours.” Owain sank to his haunches. He took a swallow of ale. It left a warm trail on its way down his throat. In moments, his worries began to dissolve.
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