“Agh, your kitchen maids are generous wenches. They take little convincing when met with a pair of pleading eyes.” Rhys rubbed at his whiskers. “What do you think will become of Gwilym and the lot?”
Draping his blanket over his shoulders, Owain shrugged. “What will become of any of us, Rhys?” He stared at the stars, his knees clutched to his chest, just as he used to do when he was a boy—hours upon hours spent gazing up at heaven.
Rhys emptied his cup and placed it on the ground. “This has become something more for you than just getting your lands back, hasn’t it? You hate them. You hate the English. You had no idea Gwilym would be so foolish as to capture a castle he could not keep and yet you revel that he’s thwarted them for so long.”
“I don’t hate the English, Rhys. I don’t hate any man.”
“Oh, come now. Not even Lord Grey?”
Sighing, Owain looked at his friend. “If you must pry me for an answer, yes, it is men who can never have enough who I detest. More money, more lands, more titles... What is all of that without freedom? They don’t know the value of it.”
Groaning, Rhys lay down and wrapped himself in his blankets. “So much talk of freedom,” he said as he tossed a glance at the cattle. “To me it’s about being able to fill my belly. I hate people who keep me from my supper.”
Owain wadded up his cloak for a pillow and eased back. “You forgot to mention your drink. You’d hate anyone who kept you from your drink, as well.”
He turned to look at Rhys. His friend’s chest rumbled with a snore. Somewhere in the herd, a cow bellowed for her calf.
Hill cattle were not easily goaded—and they left behind a very obvious trail. Shortly after dawn the next morning, the Welsh were being surveyed from across the foggy valley by a force slightly larger, better armed and less encumbered than their own. On a gentle slope that fell away into the gaping valley, the cattle twitched their ears and snorted into the damp morning air as they turned their huge brown eyes toward the opposite ridgeline.
The shout went up in the Welsh camp. “English!”
The Welsh bolted to arms. Gruffydd and Maredydd watched in terror as a line of English archers plunged down the far hillside. Behind the archers, a cluster of armored knights on horseback appeared. In their middle rode a knight in a plumed helmet.
Among the first to his horse was Owain. He grabbed a spear from someone frozen in indecision and began prodding the cattle with it, yelling and swinging it wildly. In protest, their hooves tapped at the rocky ground. Then one of them turned, thrusting its weight into the rump of another, and the stampede began. The herd rumbled toward the advancing English.
The English knight raised his arm and a call went up to his archers. They halted, forming a loose line, and sent their arrows into the stampede. Cattle fell in their tracks. They stumbled over one another and tumbled down the hill. Those behind plowed their hooves into the steep hillside. Some turned back. Others scattered laterally.
Owain bellowed orders to split the party. The Welsh exploded in a dozen directions. For those who dispersed on foot, they were aware they were marked. Through the mayhem of singing arrows and the drumming of hooves they took to the higher paths. They knew these would be a challenge for the English horses, which were long enough on leg to prove speedy across open ground and strong enough to bear an armored rider long distances, but also dangerously awkward on the broken mountainsides. The few stragglers who could not gain higher ground soon fell under swooping English blades.
Owain was well on his way south when he turned to look back. He reined hard. Beside him Rhys and Gruffydd pulled up.
“There is no time!” Rhys shouted. “We can only save ourselves!”
Owain glanced at him through the drifting mist. Then a flicker of color caught his eye and he peered across the valley. The banner that his men always carried with them, the bold red hands of a maiden painted on its field, beckoned to him from a precarious ledge several hundred feet away. Tom had always been its bearer, but there was no sign of him.
“Maredydd,” Owain mumbled.
Rhys and Gruffydd looked around and saw the quivering banner. Maredydd had gone back to save it. He was struggling along with it, finally tucking it under his arm, but the end of the pole caught on a stone and he stumbled.
“Go on,” Owain said. When Rhys and Gruffydd hesitated, he summoned his voice. “Go!” He dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks, racing across the ridge until he came to his son, the drumming of enemy hooves bearing down on them.
Maredydd was possessed with that look, that wide-eyed frozen look of young men who flock to battle with dreams of glory and courageous fighting only to discover it is chaos and fear and vomit pushing at your insides. Owain thrust out his hand. An errant arrow landed at Maredydd’s feet. He scrambled onto the back of his father’s saddle, dropping the banner on the ground.
A bank of fog had rolled around them. Although it gave them some degree of cover, it had also separated Owain and Maredydd from the others. There wasn’t time to calculate the best route. Owain heard the hoofbeats, loud, steady, and certainly not those of cattle. He hesitated, closing his eyes to pinpoint the sound and as soon as he was sure of its source, he guided his mount away. With his son gripping him tightly, he forged on into the whiteness.
The mists had grown heavier since dawn. Even the sun could not break through. There was no wind to usher it away. It was a godsend.
21
Cadair Idris, Wales — May, 1401
Hearing the rasp of his horse’s breathing, Owain at last ceased to urge the animal on. He swung down and helped his son off. Several times, the horse had pitched sideways and Owain felt Maredydd nearly falling and pulling him with him. But the horse, with its great heart, had carried them this far. The slight limp that came on when it stepped in a shallow hole was now verging on lameness. Now, as he looked on at the animal, he knew they had to abandon it.
Maredydd ducked beneath an outcropping and fell to his knees. There was no cover for miles, no cave, no cottage, no thicket of trees, only the little hollow that Owain had guided them to. The hills around them were jagged, broken and steep sided. They could rest safely here, but only for awhile.
“Where are we?” Maredydd’s eyes darted from rock to rock.
“Would that I could tell you.” Owain slapped at the horse’s rump, but it just stood there, wavering, its head hanging so low its lip touched the ground. The sun had broken through and the rising heat was beginning to take its toll. Owain wiped at his forehead and squinted, his face to the south. “Ah, that mountain is Cadair Idris. Iolo tells me if you sleep all night on the stone that was the giant’s chair, you will awaken either reciting brilliant verse or spewing madman’s nonsense.” Drawing his long sword from its scabbard, Owain stared hard at the horse and then with two hands on the hilt, drew it back.
“What are you doing?” Maredydd scooted forward, grabbing his father’s ankle. “No!”
Owain shot him a look of reproach. His leg flinched as if to kick. He had always been so gentle in speaking to his children, that it shocked even him when his words shot out tight and menacing. “Quiet yourself! Do you wish us dead? I merely want to send him away. He is of no use to us now. We can run faster than he can carry us. We’ll have to find our way back to the camp without a horse. Otherwise we are butts for English arrows.”
With that, Owain slapped the flat of his blade against the horse’s hindquarters with such force that its head shot up. He feared for a moment that it might just fall over from exhaustion—give up rather than go on. But it took a couple steps backward, eyeing him with confusion, and realizing its load was gone it trotted off in a hitched gait, weaving amongst the scattered rocks. He watched it go and finally sank to the ground beside Maredydd. It was some time before he noticed that his son was trembling.
Owain touched him on the leg. “It is never what you think it will be.”
Maredydd held a hand out, gazing at his palm. It quivered with each breath. �
��Tom was...”—he squeezed his hand into a fist and tucked it against his chest—“carrying the banner when they came. I was not five feet from him and an... an arrow struck him through the eye.” He looked at his father dolefully. “He didn’t die right then. He was just... lying there, the arrow sticking out of his eye... clear through his head. He called out and I went to him. I wanted to save the banner. I don’t know why. But I wanted to do it for him. I told him I would carry it. I told him I would.”
Owain knew that if the cattle had not trampled Tom, the English would have finished him off. He touched his son’s shoulder reassuringly. The grass waved across the land with the rising wind, the fog now reduced to scattered patches. “A banner is of no importance. You... are.”
They sat in their little shelter of shadows for a long, long time, waves of exhaustion beating at them both. There were things Owain wanted to say, questions Maredydd might have asked if he could have found his tongue, but they just sat in silence, close to each other—Owain’s hand now on his son’s thigh and Maredydd leaning against his father’s arm. Gusts of wind were making it harder to hear now, but all was seemingly undisturbed. Even though the fleeting clash and resulting flight were still fresh on his senses, Owain’s eyes began to drift shut. Fatigue crashed through his limbs. Yawning, he stretched his long legs and —
A rock, a very small rock, dropped from the overhang above. It clattered over a half-buried stone and fell silent into a clump of grass. Slowly, Owain reached for the hilt of his sword. He had barely touched it when an armored knight and half a dozen archers with their arrows nocked appeared before them. Maredydd shrank against the stone wall at his back.
A set of gleaming teeth amidst a flushed face was all that Owain could see as the knight flipped his visor up. The plume atop his helmet fluttered in the rising breeze. “Aaaahhhh... what have we found? Come out, come out. Have a drink, good fellows. You look parched.”
The knight motioned to one his soldiers who quickly unslung his flask and thrust it toward them. Hesitantly, Owain and Maredydd crawled out and stood. Maredydd stared at the flask, his fingers uncurling, lifting.
Owain read his thoughts. “No.”
The knight raised his pale eyebrows in amusement. “Yes, you looked Welsh and that proves it.” The knight took the flask himself and guzzled. When he had sated his own thirst, he dragged a sleeve across his mouth. “There. Harmless. Now please, won’t you introduce yourselves?”
His request was met with resolute silence. The knight, a rich and important one, judging by his fine new German armor, was taking the encounter with a sense of wry humor. “Very well, I’ll go first. Sir Henry Percy, also known as Harry Hotspur—long story to that, we shall save it for later. Now you. Your names?”
Owain stared at him, taking him in. He had heard much of this man, even seen a bit of him in action in Scotland when he was not much more than Maredydd’s age. The man may have danced around with his wit, but he meant business.
Hotspur raised his palm up and the archers pulled their bowstrings tight. It was answer the question or die on the spot.
“Owain Glyndwr.”
Hotspur tilted his head. A spark of delight shone in his eyes. “Give up your weapons. At once.” As soon as Owain and Maredydd had done so, he gave another order. “Now you,” he said, indicating Maredydd, “turn to your right. Go with them.”
Two soldiers placed their arrows back in their bags and slung their bows over their backs. They hooked Owain’s son by both arms and led him some hundred feet away. There, they settled him to the ground without force and drew their short swords. Maredydd did not flinch or turn his head or move in any way. It was as if he already accepted that his fate had come to him—too soon, too sudden perhaps, but altogether undeniable.
“Your son will make a good soldier,” Hotspur said. “I saw him take up the banner.”
“How did you know?” Owain asked with astonishment.
“I have a son, although he’s only an infant. Still, I know. That’s not the look a man gives a common soldier. Not even a friend. You’d rather die yourself than see his life end now.”
“Then take me. Let him go,” Owain pled. The tenor in his voice was steady, although it took every bit of his courage to keep it so.
Hotspur chuckled. “A noble offer, Sir Owain, but methinks it would serve me better to take him and leave you behind. I’m certain you could fetch a healthy sum to pay his ransom. Perhaps you could even call off your little rebellion to save his skin?”
He was shrewd. Grey would have killed them both on sight, if only to please the king. But this Hotspur—perhaps he was not as rash as his name implied.
“Agh, I will bake beneath this armor.” Hotspur removed his helmet. “It is damnable hot in these mountains in the day and freezing at night.” His helmet tucked beneath his arm, he walked a small circle around Owain. “I mean you and your son no harm. I want no prisoners, no ransom, no heads for trophies.”
Puzzled, Owain glanced at Maredydd, then back at Hotspur. “Then what do you want?”
He shrugged. “The truth. Only the truth.”
“Truth?”
“Sir Owain, this is no quarrel about land. You seek to see the rightful ruler of England on the throne.”
“Richard is dead.”
“So they say.” Hotspur plucked at the feathers of his plume. He appeared amused at something. “They also say he’s gone mad and lives at the court of King Robert of Scotland. Rumors, no more. But... the Earl of March lives.”
“He is a boy.”
“So was Richard when he came to the throne. The Earl of March is my nephew by marriage. Some would say that he should be the king. Do you agree?”
So that was the crux? Hotspur was not entirely fond of Henry, that much was obvious. But more than that, he was seeking an alliance. It was a dangerous ploy. If Owain answered to the affirmative, Hotspur could use that against him as grounds for treason. Owain would be drawn and quartered mercilessly. If Owain cried out against Hotspur none would believe him. On the other hand, if Henry were deposed and little Edmund Mortimer set on the throne, Hotspur would be a natural choice for a regent or at the least a councilor.
“I would say,” Owain replied carefully, “that some are right.”
Hotspur smiled. “A safe answer. But understood, Sir Owain. So you see, you and I have a common interest. Should you ever like to make more of it, let me know.” He pulled on his helmet, then reclaimed Owain’s sword and dagger from the soldier who had been holding them. He tossed them at Owain’s feet. “So that we both have the same story—you and I had blows, you knocked my sword away, but upon hearing someone approach you fled on foot. I did not ask your name, nor did I see anyone with you. And don’t fear, my soldiers are loyal men. They will have nothing to report. By the time they got here, you were gone.”
He signaled to the two guarding Maredydd to leave him and return back up the hill to where they had left the horses. Before going, he nodded to himself, as if to agree with a thought that he had held back. “One last thing—I must finish my business in Conwy. Then, I have matters on the Scottish border that demand my attention. They’re clamoring for a truce, whatever that’s worth. A piece of advice before I go: select your targets with prudence, m’lord. I hear the garrisons in the south of Wales are less vigilant than those to the north.”
Neither Owain nor Maredydd moved from their places until Hotspur was well out of sight. When they stumbled into the Welsh camp at Llyn Peris several days later, Maredydd collapsed as if his feet could not carry him one more step. Owain was helped to his tent by Rhys. They brought him water and food. He emptied his cup and lay down. A young woman with long brown hair, an occasional lover of Rhys’s, came to him with a vial of warm oil and massaged it into his shoulders and feet. While Iolo’s fingers plucked at his harp, Owain closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him. There was much to think about and he would need a clear head to sort it all out.
He did not know how long it would take him t
o travel the road he had set his feet on. He did not know what the end would be or what would be the price demanded of him. He did not know when again he would hold his sweet Marged in his arms. But perhaps in order for him to continue on this path, it was better for them to be apart for now. Still, convincing himself of that did not make it any easier.
Llys Bradwen, south of Dolgellau, Wales — May, 1401
Two days ride due south of Llyn Peris, Margaret stood on the banks of Afon Arthog, water up to her ankles, the hem of her skirt well soaked.
“Ready. Go!” shouted Sion. His feet slapped water onto Margaret’s face as he and his twin sister Mary sprinted past. Sand flew out behind their spinning legs.
Margaret felt the first smile in many months on her lips. Overhead, the sun shone brilliant. A warm breeze swept over the green hills and twisted loose strands of her hair.
“Sion, Mary, time to go back,” she said.
They swept the sand from their clothes, clasped hands and scrambled up the sheep path. Rejuvenated by their outing, Margaret joined the children at the top of the path where they had stopped to each gather a bouquet of wildflowers. Mary gave hers to her mother and took off after her brother again. As the slate-roofed manor came into view, Margaret paused. A cart heaped with market goods stood outside the house. Her bouquet fell to the ground. Grabbing up her hem, she ran barefooted toward it.
Sir Dafydd, whom Owain had sent with her when they were ushered from Sycharth, had just returned with Lowarch from the market at Dolgellau. He grinned when he saw Lady Margaret breathless before him and whisked the dust out of his bristly, graying hair. Lowarch dipped his head in greeting, grabbed a sack of grain and went inside.
“A splendid day, m’lady,” Dafydd remarked. Grunting under the strain, he hoisted a cask of ale out of the cart and up onto his shoulder.
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 12
