Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  “Father!” Gruffydd grabbed his father’s elbow. “You owe him your goodwill, not a death sentence.”

  “I hold no man in bondage here. He may decline, if he so chooses. And any who values his life above the freedom of Wales may leave us and go straight to the King of England and tell all.”

  Within the hour, Llywelyn was brought to Owain’s tent. Before he could even ask it of the old man, Llywelyn threw himself at Owain’s feet and wept for joy at the opportunity to thwart the English king. He was too old, he explained, to last more than a few minutes in pitched battle, but this... this he could do for his prince and his people.

  26

  Llandovery, Wales — Late September, 1401

  In Worcester, Leominster, and Chester, King Henry amassed his army. When they at last departed from Shrewsbury with Prince Harry commanding his own column from Hereford, they numbered a hundred thousand strong. Knights and gunners, clerks and chaplains, cooks and spearmen—the very sight of such an army inspired awe and fear. To the onlookers who peered at them from cottage doors, only slightly ajar, they must have looked like terror itself: overwhelming, absolute.

  By the time they reached the gates of Llandovery, a gentle, warm mist had developed into a chilly downpour. Henry was in his tent that evening outside the town with a collection of his commanders. By the light of an oil lamp they muttered above a mess of maps. Their bickering drowned out the steady drumming of the rain.

  Lord Charlton pointed at a blank spot on one of the smaller maps. “Perhaps there.”

  Fifteen-year old Prince Harry wrinkled his chiseled nose. “There is nothing there.”

  “Precisely,” Charlton replied. “A perfect place to hide.”

  “Hide? They are probably right beneath our very noses.” Sir Gilbert Talbot crossed his arms. “I tell you, compared to us they are invisible.”

  “They are not so invisible when they leave behind their smoking ruins,” Henry said.

  A cold sheet of rain blasted into the tent as Sir John Greyndour entered. Charlton cursed and threw himself across the table to keep the maps from being soaked.

  “Sire,” Greyndour announced, his thinning yellow hair plastered to his wet forehead, “we have been approached by a man calling himself Llywelyn ap Gruffydd of Caeo in Carmarthenshire. He says he can lead us to the caves where the rebels are hiding.”

  Henry, who had been stooped over the maps for hours, straightened with interest. “And how does he know this?”

  A confident smile lit Greyndour’s face. “He has just come from there, m’lord.”

  To some degree, the king’s army was prepared for its task. Scotland had taught them about the remoteness of the mountain wilderness and the need to sustain themselves when the land could not. Yet it was that very practice of preparedness that bogged them down. Carts of cheese, mutton, pork and peas rumbled along in formation. Others were packed with the paraphernalia of war: longbows and bundles of arrows, cooking pots, horseshoes, and tents... even trumpets and fiddles. Henry was intent that not only would his troops be well armed, but that they would grow neither hungry nor bored.

  What the English could not prepare for was the weather. The moment they stepped foot inside the Welsh border, it began to rain. In the marshes and flooded valleys, their encumbered carts became mired. Where there was not mud up to a man’s knees, there were boulders around which the carts had to be maneuvered by hand. With such a vast host, they could not venture far without their supplies. So they crept and crawled their way along, heads hung low and legs wearied to the marrow.

  Llywelyn led them skillfully through the hills, sometimes choosing a narrower path which would later join up with a wider one where the footing was better. Although their course was a meandering one, Henry expressed no overt doubts about Llywelyn’s knowledge. The old man had described the Welsh camp in such detail and even spoken of the rebel Glyndwr himself with such contempt that there was never any doubt in his mind that if anyone could lead them to the Welsh it was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd.

  On the fifth day of their waterlogged expedition, they were strung out along the valley of the Wye under ominous black clouds. A tight line of horsemen were breaking the force of the headwaters just upstream. The king flipped his visor up, watching. He and his guard were still on the western slope, waiting impatiently until they were assured it was safe to cross, when booms of thunder rattled the earth. Beneath his helmet padding, the hair on Henry’s scalp stood on end. A second later a stroke of lightning ripped from above and crashed close by. His horse startled. As the steed fought to bolt, swinging its hindquarters toward the lip of the precipice, Henry swallowed back his heart. Then the animal reared. There was nothing to do but hang on for dear life.

  A page dove from his hackney and scrambled to catch the reins of the king’s horse, but a hoof smashed him in the chest, hurtling him backward. Henry felt his weight pitching again. Rain slashed at his face, blinding him.

  Swiftly, four of his men surrounded the horse and eased it down. The moment it had calmed enough, Henry dropped from his saddle.

  “The boy?” he asked breathlessly.

  Greyndour peered over the edge. Mindless of his own safety, Henry joined him. Frightened, round eyes stared up at them. The page had landed on a thin, rock-strewn ledge ten feet below.

  “He’ll live,” Greyndour said. “A bit bruised, perhaps, but wiser.”

  Henry shuffled back and stared into the rain beneath his open visor. It slapped at his face in mockery. His eyelids drew down to slits. “Send me Llywelyn ap Gruffydd. By the Virgin Mary, I swear we were here not two days ago.”

  A few minutes later, Greyndour appeared with Llywelyn at his elbow.

  Rivulets of water streamed over Henry’s armor. Small rings of rust encircled the rivets on his gauntlets. He licked the raindrops from his mustache. “I would think the earth could hold no more water. Soon enough it will all be one vast sea. Think you not the same, Llywelyn?”

  Rain falling on his bare, silver-fringed head, Llywelyn grinned.

  “You know this area well,” the king went on. “How long, given our impediments, before we reach this cave where Glyndwr and his men are concealed?”

  Llywelyn’s grin slipped away. “My lord, I have two fine sons. They both serve the true Prince of Wales, Owain Glyndwr, and, by my life, I will not betray him to you or any other man.”

  Henry gave a short laugh, shaking his head. When he began to speak, though, the laughter shattered and his voice strained in fury. “Then your life is forfeit. It is my son Harry who is Prince of Wales—not your restive chieftain who strikes at families in their homes while they lie sleeping. A curse on you and your kind. Dogs—all of you!” He slammed his palm into Llywelyn’s sternum. The old man would have fallen over the edge had the guards not caught him. They nudged him forward and Henry stomped closer again, his face inches from Llywelyn’s. “By my head, your head shall fall from your crooked shoulders and roll through the square at Llandovery! Let all your friends and kinsmen there gaze upon you and see what becomes of a liar and a traitor to the king.”

  While Llywelyn’s hands were being tied behind him, he raised his angled chin proudly. “A liar I am and so confess. But I have not betrayed the king. After your father, you sir are Henry of Bolingbroke, the Duke of Lancaster.”

  “I am the king!” Henry screamed at him. Then he spun about and shoved his foot into his stirrup and vaulted onto his saddle. “Take him back to Llandovery immediately. He will meet his fate there. Or I will strangle him myself.”

  North Wales — October, 1401

  “And what became of Llywelyn?” Owain cupped a bowl of bean potage between his hands. An hour ago, the bowl had warmed his hands, but he had not been hungry then. He was even less so now.

  Squatting in the darkness of the tent, Gethin delivered the news stoically. A camp cur slunk along the ground to him, licking his hands in submission, but he pushed the dog’s nose away. “He was escorted back to Llandovery. There, King Henry watched
while the old man’s fate was delivered by the hooded executioner.”

  Owain hung his head. A brutal end. Even Llywelyn had known it would come to that. But the sacrifice had bought them precious time, enough to escape the English, fly north and plunder there. Meanwhile, young Harry and his column had continued to struggle through the mountains in search of the Welsh rebels. But it had been the rebels who found them. As Harry’s lines became strung out, almost losing contact with one another, a band of Welshmen led by Gethin descended upon the English in a mountain pass and cut off some of the wagons and extra horses, then rode away with them. In the ambush, a flight of arrows had been let loose. Lord Charlton, riding beside Prince Harry, caught an arrow through the neck and died in his saddle.

  “Besides the ambush and Charlton’s death,” Owain said, “what other news from the south do you have?”

  “They said Henry went mad with rage. He ordered Strata Florida Abbey to be leveled when he found some of the remains there of the baggage train Richard had taken to Ireland. The monks were herded into captivity. A few who resisted were murdered to serve as an example. Children from nearby homes were snatched up to serve in English households. Relics were smashed and looted and what could be burned was burned. While the English knights’ horses were tethered to the high altar, they drowned themselves in communion wine. Fourteen days after entering flooded Wales, King Henry left with his defenseless prisoners in tow. They say the cries of innocent children still echo in the hills.”

  Owain scraped the last of the cold potage from the bowl with his fingers and flung it to the ground for the dog to eat. “We’ll send another message to King Robert of Scotland. Meanwhile, I know someone else in the north who may be inclined to assist us against Bolingbroke.”

  Warkworth, England — October, 1401

  Harry Hotspur had seen it coming. His fingers pinched the edge of the table, girding himself for defeat. How many times in one day could this happen?

  His wife, Elizabeth Mortimer, slid her queen in front of his king. “Checkmate!”

  “Again?” He clamped a hand over his heart. “I am slain once more.”

  “You are impatient... and too easily distracted.”

  “By your beauty, but who would not be?”

  Ignoring his flattery, she began collecting the chess pieces and arranging them in their carved walnut box. Wind hissed between the shutters of their chamber window. Elizabeth shivered visibly. “I dislike Warkworth, you know that. I swear there is no place draftier. Does the wind ever cease to assault this rock? I shall freeze to death before winter’s end.”

  Hotspur leaned across the table, toppling the remaining pieces, and pressed his lips hungrily to Elizabeth’s.

  Laughing, she broke the kiss. “Trying to warm me, are you?”

  “Oh, I can do much better than that, my love. Between the two of us, we could set the bed afire. Care to retire early?”

  She answered with a shameless smile and Hotspur kissed her again, longer, more deeply.

  The door swung open, blasting them both with frigid air. The Earl of Northumberland stomped into the room with a wolfish growl rumbling in his throat.

  With his forehead still touching Elizabeth’s, Hotspur turned his gaze to his father. “Would you at least have the courtesy to shut the door? Otherwise, my lovely wife will turn into an icicle that will shatter at my touch.”

  Northumberland inclined his grizzly mane toward the open door. “Elizabeth, forgive the interruption, but I must speak with my son. Political matters. I do not wish to bore you, my dear.”

  Rising, she whispered into her husband’s ear, “Don’t let him keep you long—or you’ll find me asleep in a cocoon of goose down.” On her way to the door, she touched her father-in-law on the shoulder in farewell, and then blew her husband a kiss. He caught it in his hand. Softly, she closed the door behind her.

  Switching to his wife’s seat, Hotspur collected a bishop that had fallen to the floor and twirled the marble piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you know she has beaten me three times today alone? The truth of it is, I let her win—and often. If she is happy,”—he arched a brow in suggestion—“the better my chances of benefitting from her happiness. Small price to pay for delayed reward, wouldn’t you say? Now tell me, has King Robert changed his mind again?”

  “Not Scotland this time.”

  “Who then?”

  “Wales.”

  Hotspur stood, his attention now fully derailed from his wife’s tantalizing invitation. “Glyndwr?”

  Northumberland nodded.

  “Well, what does he want with us?”

  “Only to carry a request to the king. He’ll end his rebellion if Henry will give his lands back and spare his life.”

  Hotspur scoffed. The wily Welshman was bold, if nothing else. “And do you think Henry will agree?”

  “Henry? It’s hard to say. If he were wise, yes. It would save him grief in the end to accept, not to mention preserve his treasury. But there are others who would stand to lose too much if he compromised with the Welsh now. The king’s half-brother John Beaufort would surely not relish abandoning his new gifts. And Lord Grey... the man would sooner cut off his own head than see Glyndwr returned to his estates.”

  “So you’ll deliver the message, Henry will refuse the offer and then... ?” Hotspur picked up a knight and placed it in the box, then broke into a smile. “What has any of this to do with us?”

  “Us? It’s your wife’s nephew who bears as much claim to the crown as Henry. With Richard dead now, Glyndwr’s not the only one who would rather see little Edmund Mortimer on the throne of England. He wants our support—and not just in word, but in deed.”

  “Meaning... ?”

  “I think that is yet to be determined. Right now Glyndwr is playing both sides, but he knows Henry will refuse him. As for me, I’ll stand by cautiously for now. And you—tread carefully, son. Ousting a king is risky business. I’d not recommend it.”

  “Henry did it.”

  “And look what that earned him: enemies.”

  27

  Ruthin Castle, Wales — January, 1402

  The night sky glowed deepest violet, clouds veiling an endless universe where clustered a million unseen stars. Before the dawning of the 31st of January, 1402, a dense fog crept from rimed tree to tree, clinging heavily to the glistening snowy meadows in between and crouching broad in the hushed vales. In Coed-Marchon, the twisted woods beyond Ruthin Castle, two hundred and fifty Welsh fighters hid.

  Huddled between the mammoth roots of a centurial oak, Owain began his prayer. His lips, cracked from the dry air, moved in hurried whispers.

  “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur...”

  Time was short. He turned his face to the reddening sky, where the orange flames emanating from the village of Ruthin reached upward.

  “This time, Almighty Father, I beg your forgiveness. I am omitting the blessing of mine enemy.”

  Pressed against the jagged bark next to him, Rhys Ddu kissed the smooth blade of his sword. “Allow me then: Almighty, bless our enemy with rashness, fuming anger and the gullibility that he might fall into our trap.” He winked at Owain, then tucked his weapon beneath his stiff cloak. “And, oh yes... bless the bastard with a proper fear of Gethin’s sword. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  They fell silent, their breaths billowing in small frosted clouds and mingling with the mist. Dawn came in silver light sparked with ocher demons that danced upon the roofs of Ruthin. The screams began. Soon, Owain heard his small band of raiders riding from the village gates; their war cries cleaved the smoky banks of fog.

  The castle garrison overlooking the candent town bolted in alarm. Groaning in protest, the gridded portcullis was lifted. Grey’s company rushed forth, lured onward by the triumphant cries of the Welsh. In their midst rode Lord Grey himself, eager for revenge.

  Ahead of the English, Gethin led his raiding party. Their rush torches blazed like taunting beacons as
they sped toward the woods. They rode well spaced, each horseman following as far behind as the mist would allow. When they reached an open hollow, Gethin’s men dropped to the ground, shoved their torches into the packed snow and remounted. There, just beyond the field of torches in a crowded copse, rose the tops of Welsh helmets and spear tips glinting palely in the mirrored light of snow.

  In the frosty air, Gethin sat upon his creaking saddle. Only the snorting of their horses and the scattered jingling of bits broke the silence. They waited, loosely clustered, until the snow-muffled clatter of hooves reached their ears. Then in practiced order, the twenty Welshmen followed Gethin. Swinging south of the thicket, the line of raiders dipped into a frozen swale, then climbed over a hill and plunged into the woods.

  As the fog thinned and the first weak rays of sun pushed through, the last of Gethin’s party lingered at the forest’s edge. The lone rider paused just long enough to peel back the hood of his cloak and reveal himself. His sweeping golden hair glistened damply in the growing daylight.

  Grey’s contingent crested a rise overlooking the valley. Surely, he thought, that was Glyndwr himself, gloating over his destruction. White rage swelled inside him. He raised a hand and they halted. Then the figure turned and disappeared into the tangled woods.

  On the western lip of the valley was a rough thicket where a dozen-and-a-half torch fires sputtered. Hastily, he surveyed the scene. A flash of metal caught his eye—a weapon concealed behind a bush there. Dark forms were hunched low in hiding, their tarnished helmets betraying them. Hard to discern in the diffused light of pre-dawn, but there was no doubt they were Welshmen waiting to ambush. Grey pointed to the south and he and his forty men quickly swung far from the copse and into the woods where the last of Gethin’s people had disappeared.

  Tudur, who had pretended to be his brother and was the last of Gethin’s party to return, dropped from his mount when he reached the oak-crowded hill where the Welsh lay in concealment. He slapped his horse on the rump. Gethin, still mounted, tossed him a helmet to cover his bare head, and then plunged on his horse back into the thicket, along with several other men.