Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  Only once did they find any sign of the rebels. Scouts had discovered the tracks of horses that led deep into the remotest moors. It was not until much later that day that they discovered the ruse: the Welsh had put their horses’ shoes on backward, leading the English in the opposite direction. Yet another day lost in this shit-hole of God’s creation. Why did the Lord test him so?

  The following day, the wind shifted direction and the air warmed, but the rain came again, this time driving hard, so mercilessly hard it was blinding. When the English reached a ridge atop a gentle incline where the ground appeared driest, the king ordered camp to be set up. The order was carried out with disinclination. None of them wanted to stay in Wales any longer than they had to and what was the sense of setting up camp if they could not build fires? But Henry could not move on any further. He would not tell anyone, indeed he would sooner die in his boots than admit it, but he was very ill. If he did not find a bed soon, he would fall from his saddle and die of a broken neck.

  The ground into which his tent poles were sunk was sodden. His blankets were damp. Having abandoned the prospect of sleep, his soldiers huddled in tight packs, their knees clutched to their chests and their heads buried beneath their arms. As night crept on, the wind gathered force. And the rain kept coming.

  “He is a wizard! Glyndwr is a wizard and he’ll kill us all!” someone cried. The cold rain that had drenched them earlier was turning into icy daggers of sleet that slashed at their frozen faces.

  “He conjures up the clouds!”

  “And summons the lightning!”

  Henry, in his tent, heard their claims... and he half believed them. But he was too tired, too beaten by fatigue to rise and shout at them to cease their prattling. Although he was desperate for sleep, he could not find it either. The roaring wind was the voice of the devil to him: Glyndwr will beat you, it wailed. He will beat you without ever coming before you.

  He tried to turn over onto his side, but between his encasing armor and his infirmity it was too much effort. Fearing the Welsh might attack at any time, he had taken to sleeping fully protected, with his armor intact and his shield and sword always at this side. Another roaring gust hammered at his tent. The flap ripped open and a tempest rushed in. He shut his eyes against the rain that drove into his quarters.

  Then he heard the sucking of mud. The center pole of his tent strained against the force, leaning dangerously his way. He barely had time to open his eyes before the massive pole came crashing down on his chest and the tent collapsed around him in a dripping shroud.

  The sound of boots slapping through mud could barely be heard above the pounding rain and roaring wind.

  “My lord? My lord” Sir John Greyndour shouted, over and over. But Henry could not answer—the blow to his chest had knocked the air from his lungs.

  “Heaven save us. The king is dead,” murmured an old voice. Henry could not make out whose it was above his own wheezing gasps for air.

  “The stakes! Free the stakes,” ordered Greyndour.

  They jerked at the stakes, but the rain must have made them difficult to grasp. Then someone whacked at the ropes with a sword. Soon they were peeling back the soaked cloth of the tent. Henry lay mumbling, helplessly pinned beneath the weight of the post.

  “Dead? Dead?” he groused. “Imbeciles. I am not dead.”

  When they had finally freed him, they helped him to his unsteady feet. His armor had saved him from being crushed to death.

  “By St. George, I will not be so easily or haphazardly killed!” He stomped through the pelting rain to reaffirm that his feet were still beneath him. His hands shot up into the air, defying the lightning to strike him. “Damn you, Glyndwr! Damn you to eternal hell!”

  He pressed his fingers to his frozen cheeks and laughed crazily. Rain filled his mouth, confirming that he was indeed alive. Around him, his soldiers gawped at him.

  “Why,” he said, suddenly sober, as he grabbed the nearest man by the shoulders of his sodden cloak and shook him, “this is hell. And I will gladly leave it to him!”

  Henry abandoned Wales as fast as could be managed. The weather, in cruel irony, tortured them even more during their exodus. A rare September snow, wet and stinging, followed them with every stumbling step.

  It mattered not to Henry if he ever returned to that godforsaken land. Let his son Harry have his way there.

  Snug in his wool cloak, Owain watched from a distance as the army of Henry of Bolingbroke crawled on its muddy belly along the Severn valley back toward Shrewsbury.

  “Do you think he will ever learn?” Rhys Ddu said, peeking above the boulder that concealed them from English scouts.

  Gruffydd snorted. “He’s too proud.”

  Owain patted his son’s shoulder with a gloved hand and nodded. “Three times he has gone home, beaten by rain and having lost his boots. Three times we have won. He cannot play our game. With every try he grows weaker... and madder.” He sank to his haunches, satisfaction swelling his chest.

  “Go home, Henry,” Owain said. “Go home to bloody England.”

  31

  Northumberland, England — September, 1402

  Hotspur had it on good advice that the Earl of Douglas was an impatient man. When his troops checked the retreat of a Scottish army of ten thousand, rich with pilfered cattle, near the River Till, he rehearsed his options in his mind. It did not take him long to decide what to do next.

  With Hotspur’s army stationed securely on Harehope Hill, the sun flaring behind them and the wind pushing at their backs, he sent his five hundred mounted archers down into the valley. They left their horses out of range of the Scottish archers’ shorter bows and advanced on foot. When they had gone far enough, they rammed their long, pointed stakes into the earth to serve as defenses against the charge of Scots cavalry that was sure to ensue. At their feet, they arrayed their arrows, with swords and mallets close by for the inevitable hand-to-hand combat. Opposite them, on Homildon Hill, the Scottish schiltrons stood defiantly.

  Hotspur signaled and the command was relayed to the archers: “Engage the enemy!”

  Arrows arced through the sky and found their targets. Scots tumbled dead down the hill. With certain death singing its requiem overhead, the Scottish archers broke and ran back through their own lines. Douglas ordered his men to advance. It was a completely suicidal move and the very thing that Hotspur had counted on.

  Although fewer in numbers, the English—blessed with their longbows and a more calculating commander—won the day decisively. Late into the evening they were still pursuing Scots through the countryside. The Earl of Douglas, one eye injured thanks to an English arrow, was taken prisoner.

  Hotspur was headed toward Dunstanburgh, his prize captive in tow, when he spied a small party out ahead on the road. The Percy banner that heralded his father’s presence snapped in the stiff northern wind.

  Waving his sword above him, Hotspur rode out to greet his father and gave the Percy battle cry. “Esperaunce!” Within a couple of minutes he had delivered the entire account of the battle.

  Northumberland leaned back in his saddle. “What chance! Douglas will command a high price.” He spat at the ground. “But Henry will want him. He has debts to pay.”

  “Hah! I think not. Have you forgotten, Father, that he still owes me? Out of my own purse, I paid to defend his castles in Wales and have yet to see a shilling. Douglas is mine.”

  “You would be violating articles... blatantly violating articles if you do that. And rest assured the king will hold it over you. I know you bear him a grudge, but —”

  “A grudge? ’Tis a bit more than that.” He motioned his father beyond earshot of the other knights and they began down the road toward home riding abreast of one another. “I have spoken to Douglas. He says, nay swears, it would be easy enough to sway King Robert to take up arms against Henry. And not just these senseless skirmishes, but full force.”

  “Harry, Harry,” Northumberland said, shaking his head, “
the Scots are always eager to brawl with English kings. Take it with a grain of salt. It will just as easily blow over when their people weary of being trampled by English troops.”

  Hotspur clenched his reins. “We have spoken of this before. Think on it, Father. Think. Henry uses us like mindless puppets. And he does so begrudgingly, with very little thanks and even less favor. Each time it costs us and he is the one whose crown is protected—at our expense, I remind you. My wife’s nephew is the rightful heir to the throne. Richard himself named Elizabeth’s brother, Roger, as his successor. By Richard’s own tongue and by every law under the sun it ought to be the young Edmund to sit on the throne. It is wrong, wrong for Henry to take it. You know it as well as any. With Scotland behind us,”—he raised his face to heaven—“and Wales... what chance would Henry have?”

  Northumberland gave his son a sidelong glance and shrugged, but said nothing.

  Three weeks later, still drying out from his miserably failed Welsh campaign, King Henry sat wrapped in furs in front of a sputtering fire in Westminster Palace. There, he received the news of Hotspur’s victory. It should have pleased him, but it only served to infuriate him further. Hotspur was refusing to hand over the Earl of Douglas. In doing so, he had violated a slew of articles in the Ordinances of War. A subject could not refuse his king any captive. He would dare not, unless...

  Hotspur’s defiance reeked of collusion. But with whom?

  32

  Sycharth, Wales — October, 1402

  Although confined under heavy guard at Sycharth now, Sir Edmund Mortimer could not deny that he had been treated like a prince. The chamber where he had spent these past months was a comfortably furnished second-story room, the window of which overlooked the withering stubble of the herb garden and an orchard pregnant with apples. The wounds he had received at Pilleth had been superficial and healed quickly. A few deep bruises had made him sore for a short while, but all in all he had been far from bedridden. It was a quiet, contemplative existence that left him feeling more restless than anything.

  As a burning summer gave way to the sharp chill of October, he yearned to walk freely—without a small army of Welsh soldiers eyeing his every move. Even as he gazed out his window, three guards stared up at him in warning and yet more paced their watch at every turn of the manor grounds. No, he was no prince after all.

  Edmund barely heard the soft rapping of knuckles at his door. “Enter,” he bade.

  The outside bar slid heavily across its anchor and the door opened only slightly. It was several seconds before the fair features of the young Lady Catrin’s face presented itself.

  Swallowing, Edmund clasped his hands firmly behind his back. During the few occasions that Owain had granted Edmund the favor of sharing supper in the great hall, he had introduced him to several of his children, but one in particular caught Edmund’s attention. Still, it had been an awkward affair for Edmund to sup in the presence of his captors, although both Owain and his lovely wife had charmed him beyond belief with their generosity. He had never received such kindness from King Henry.

  When not chasing after English troops, Owain came to Edmund’s chambers often, merely to talk with him. It had surprised Edmund how learned a man he was. The Welsh prince’s eyes lit brightly as he talked of Charlemagne and Alexander the Great with obvious admiration and Julius Caesar with a twinge of pity. He had even taught Edmund a thing or two about the dark maelstrom of Welsh history—always pointing to its power struggles among kinsmen as its downfall. It was through these musings that Edmund began to understand more of the man than just the shrewd general he had seen from the other side of the battle line. Edmund was well aware that Owain was playing to his sense of loyalty and the frequent visits of this long-lashed, golden haired daughter were a ploy of genius to weaken him.

  “I have brought you some books,” Catrin said softly, as she set a tall stack on the round table where he took most of his meals alone.

  Turning his unfocused gaze to the world beyond his window, he said, “I don’t think I have ever seen so many books in one household before, except for King Richard’s.”

  “My father says you can never have enough.” She selected a book and, clutching it to her chest, moved in front of him. When he finally turned to look at her, she was blushing.

  He offered his palm and it was a long moment before she extended the book to him. He walked in a small circle, flipping through the pages. He settled himself in a chair at the table, pressing the stiff parchment open and propping his chin with the other hand. After a minute, he gazed up at Catrin, who stood wordlessly behind the opposite chair as if waiting for an invitation to speak. He had tried to ignore her, but it was impossible to forget she was there. Even when she wasn’t in his presence, he had found himself thinking of her lately.

  Her lips parted and she lowered her eyes. “Would my lord care to walk with me in the gardens?”

  He closed the book, staring at her incredulously. “Your pardon?”

  “I know it is past its splendor, but —”

  “Have you forgotten I am your prisoner?”

  “You are not my prisoner, Sir Edmund. So do not rebuke my generosity with mistrust.” She raised her head boldly. “The clothes—they hang well on you.”

  “They do. Very well.”

  She grinned brightly. “I made them. With a tiny bit of help from my seamstress, Emma, I confess, but I had only your old clothes to go by. They were too far shredded and bloodied to be of much help, but I guessed them to be about the same size as what my oldest two brothers wear. It was a lucky guess.”

  Edmund stood. How brave she was in her innocence, he mused. He could have been a lascivious ogre, for all she knew. “Why...” He looked down abruptly, uncertain how to pose the question so as not to insult her again. “Why have you come here? Surely, you have better things to do than attend to a guest who —”

  “Who wishes himself elsewhere?”

  Edmund meant only to glance at her, but when he met her eyes he could not look away, so entranced he was. What was it about her that so intrigued him? Indeed, she was beautiful, but —

  “Look,” she said, rushing to the window. “The apples are ripe. And the sun may not be so bright again until spring. This room must be a dreary place when it is your whole world.”

  Suddenly, he realized that his stay at Sycharth was not as gloomy as he had painted it. She was refreshing, this young, excitable creature—almost childlike in her joyfulness and innocence. A thought entered his mind. Some good could come of this predicament of his after all.

  Catrin tilted her head. “Is that smile a ‘yes’?”

  “It is,” he replied. Shoulder to shoulder, they walked to the garden together. There were watchful eyes everywhere, but as Catrin bent over to pinch off a rose hip, Edmund forgot all about them. He saw nothing but her—so youthful, so vital, so in awe of the world’s beauty. He could not help but feel a little imbued by her spirit.

  It did not take Edmund Mortimer long to give Owain Glyndwr an answer about what to do with him. He was more than pleasantly surprised when Owain agreed to his proposal.

  Not long afterward, Edmund wrote a letter to Sir John Greyndour asserting his nephew’s right to wear the crown and elaborating on his consent to join in cause with the Welsh. Also, along with the letter was the news to be delivered to King Henry that he, Sir Edmund Mortimer, had married Catrin, daughter of Owain Glyndwr.

  33

  Sycharth, Wales — March, 1403

  The Welshman had boasted once too often and too loudly.

  The first buds of spring were on the trees when Prince Harry came upon deserted Sycharth with his army. He grabbed a torch from his friend and mentor, Sir John Oldcastle, and raced his horse madly through the maze of outbuildings, touching the hungry flame to dry thatch. When no signs of inhabitants were found, he tossed the torch to one of his soldiers.

  “Burn the house,” Harry ordered. “Burn it all.”

  “Your uncle Beaufort will not
take kindly to this,” Oldcastle warned him. After outlawing Glyndwr, the king had granted his lands to his half-brother John Beaufort, the Earl of Somerset. Mindful not to destroy Beaufort’s property, Henry had thus far left it intact—a mistake Harry would not repeat.

  “Beaufort has reaped nothing from these holdings and will not unless we destroy this manor and give Glyndwr nothing to come back to. If Beaufort thinks otherwise, he’s merely pissing himself.”

  Oldcastle nodded to the soldier holding the torch.

  With mounting satisfaction, Harry watched the beacon of flame rise into the brightening dawn sky, the tail of its smoke twisting eastward. “The only thing more satisfying than burning the Welsh bastard’s home, John, would be knowing he’s inside. He’s a clever rascal. Always a step ahead. The braggart will reckon with me now and he’ll not find it so easy a task. He’ll come to his knees, by God’s eyes, he will. I will see to it, even if it takes me the next ten years. And centuries from now all that will be remembered of Sir Owain Glyndwr is the ruin he brought upon his own land.”

  Harry had known since his tortured days at Oxford that the scholar’s life was not for him. He was a soldier and by a soldier’s ways he would win what was his. For now it was under the premise that he was guarding his father’s realm, or so others would see it, but he was thinking ahead of the years to come. His father was plagued by some mysterious illness. He would not, could not last much longer.