Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  Northumberland bowed his head deeper, until his white hair brushed the floor. He drew in breath and slowly raised his face. “You know my son, sire. Harry is...” He seized up, another sob threatening to overtake him, but he gulped it down. “Harry was a man of his own mind. Fierce and proud. He could have returned from hell itself for all his determination. Did it matter what advice I gave him? Did it matter? He would not listen.”

  “You knew then? All along?” Henry’s voice cracked. Deep inside, he wept for Hotspur as well. He had admired him greatly. Sometimes, he even liked him. Prince Harry, he knew, worshipped the very ground that Hotspur had walked on. The man had not been without merit. Yet he had failed to act with caution, failed to honor his oaths.

  “I could only pray that he would come to his senses, my lord,” Northumberland said, “and give up his grudges. Would you not have done the same for your own son?”

  Henry swept a hand over his face to collect himself. “My son would never have been so rash—and if he had thought to, I would have convinced him otherwise.”

  “I failed to do so.” Northumberland averted his eyes. “Then I should be condemned, as well.”

  Henry clasped his shoulders so hard, the earl could not but help to meet his gaze. “I want your solemn oath, in the name of your son and your brother and all that is holy, that you will never take up arms against me, that you will stand by me in all and do me honor. Swear it, Percy, here and now before these witnesses.”

  Northumberland swiped at his tear-streaked face. He looked at Henry with eyes that had seen much in his sixty years. “Tell me first my punishment.”

  “There is none as long as you swear and mean it. You have lost your son. I cannot inflict any more harm on you than what that loss has caused you.”

  “I swear,” he said, hanging his head low again.

  Henry helped him to his feet. He knew that without Hotspur at his father’s side to exhort his assistance, Northumberland was an inert figure. But he also wondered what resentment might burn deep inside Northumberland over the loss of his heir. For now, he would take his word.

  Iolo Goch:

  When Henry returned to London in sore need of rest, he learned that his son’s wound had become infected. The prince, still in Shrewsbury, was consumed by fever. Physicians were at his bedside constantly, but Henry, nursing his own secret ailment, stayed in London.

  My lord Owain grieved over the loss of his friend Hotspur. But all was not lost. The English had ceased in their harassment of Wales, momentarily content in their victory.

  Owain’s letters to France finally elicited a response. French ships raided the English coastal towns to the south. Plymouth was burnt to the ground. It was enough distraction for the English that my lord was able to continue with what he had set out to do. Among Owain’s new treasures were the grand castles of Aberystwyth and Beaumaris—two of the very symbols of English domination commissioned to Master James of St. George by Edward I.

  In January of 1404, at Parliament’s insistence, Henry conceded command of Wales fully to his son, now recovered from his wound. But Harry’s task was so dire, the Welsh now so strong, and his own troops so completely discouraged by the lack of pay that by June he withdrew to Worcester, leaving Wales entirely to the Welsh—as he should have always done.

  After a long, arduous siege, Harlech fell to Tudur. He delivered it into his brother’s hands with serene contentment. It was a palace fit for princes and if Owain had been reluctant the year before to own up to any designs of sitting upon a throne, he was now, most seriously, considering what it might mean to Wales if he did so.

  38

  Harlech Castle, Wales — Spring, 1404

  Late into the spring, Owain’s family was still establishing itself at Harlech. The children had been collected from their various transitory arrangements and at long last brought together under a single roof. But some of them were no longer children, Owain recognized. He had lost two more daughters, Alice and Janet, to bridegrooms. Gruffydd and Maredydd were often gone on soldiers’ business and Madoc was yearning sorely to follow them.

  With her children growing and several gone, Margaret consumed herself with arranging furniture and tapestries. That the soldiers who had occupied the castle the year past had decimated the gardens vexed her to no end. When she was not busy with those matters, she was stocking the cellars and storerooms with enough victuals to feed an entire army. She was concise and far-thinking and even though she was exacting of her servants, she knew the precise moment to grace them with a smile or a compliment that would keep them scurrying at her whisper for weeks. It may have appeared that Margaret was simply fashioning herself anew to fill the role now allotted to her—that of a princess. But in truth, her purpose was entirely different. If she did not occupy every waking moment with household affairs, a minute of thought could tear at her soul, as she wondered how Owain spent his nights away from her when he went to Aberystwyth.

  In all of Wales, Harlech was the most perfectly situated castle. Like an eagle guarding its nest, it sprung from a rock, lofty and untouchable above Tremadoc Bay. On its western side, a great wall of jumbled stone fell to the sea. To the south and east, a deep ditch had been carved into the hard earth. Although Margaret and Owain ruled from a castle perched on ragged cliffs above the battering sea, Margaret no longer knew what or where ‘home’ was. If not for the ballads strummed by Iolo on his beloved harp in the vast great hall, nothing would have been the same. Certainly, there was something very different about Owain.

  The afternoon sun was at its zenith when Owain went for a long walk along the sandy shore alone. Far above, Harlech commanded everything within view. Over the cobalt waters, seagulls dipped their wings and plunged from the sky to land on foamy crested waves.

  A smile of delight lifted Owain’s mouth as Madoc galloped past on his new gray horse—a fine animal of Irish blood and the filly of the horse he had brought back from Ireland when he accompanied Richard there.

  “Trust her, Madoc,” he called out, his hands cupped around his mouth to carry his voice over the steady roar of the sea. “She’ll give you her heart if you just let her go!”

  Although he was of an age to be considered a young man, Madoc had not inherited the robust build his older brothers possessed. He looked perpetually underfed and had never gained the weight to match his gangly limbs. Awkward with words, curly-haired Madoc had found comfort in the company of the horses in his father’s ever-growing stables. Honing in on that singular strength, Owain had fostered it diligently and now watched with pride as Madoc relaxed his posture and flew along the glistening shoreline.

  “Ho!”

  Owain looked up to see Rhys trotting toward him. He must have just arrived from Aberystwyth. The castle was his to care for now, so it concerned Owain to see him away from there and approaching with such haste.

  “Welcome, Rhys. Did you see Madoc there? His shield would weigh him to the ground, but by God the boy’s a fine horseman. We’ll make a soldier of him yet. I would not have thought it when he was four and fell from his first pony. He refused to ride again for more than three years. We gave the little beast to his twin sister, Isabel, but even jealousy would not inspire him to get back on then.”

  Rhys’s mouth was set in a firm line, his bushy brows pinched together. “My Nesta’s with child. Is it yours?”

  Owain gazed out at the sea. His stomach churned with every wave that pummeled the shore. “It is.” Then he looked squarely at his friend. “But she and the child will never want. I promise you, Rhys. I’ll not put her aside because of it.”

  “I told you to keep from her and you ignored me to suit your own selfish needs.”

  Owain could see Rhys’s fists tightening. “Rhys... you don’t understand.”

  “Understand? I don’t understand? Understand this: she is my daughter. Mine. Not some nameless wench plucked from a tavern to warm your bed on a drunken night. Now you’ve made her into a whore!”

  “Do not speak of
her that way.”

  “Why? Are you going to tell me that you love her? Should I tell your dear wife that?”

  Owain spun around and began to stomp away. He was not fifty feet down the shore when he turned and went back to Rhys. He stopped an arm’s length from him and thumped Rhys’s chest with a heavy forefinger.

  “You’re going to be a grandfather now, too. Does that make you feel old, Rhys?”

  “I am three years younger than you.”

  “You are three years older than me. And you’re one to condemn me. How long has it been since you’ve seen your wife? Do you even know where she is? Bedding pretty girls is daily sport to you.”

  Rhys’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

  “Not as much as this.” Owain slammed his fist into Rhys’s nose. Rhys staggered backward. “That’s for calling your own daughter a whore.”

  Blood gushed from Rhys’s nostrils. Covering his face, he sputtered through the blood-wet cracks between his fingers, “You broke... my nose. Holy Mother of God... I can’t breathe.”

  Owain hooked him under the armpit and guided him along the beach toward the castle. The salty wind beat at their faces as they trudged through the sand.

  Rhys sucked back the blood in his throat, coughing on it. “I would never have said anything to Margaret, Owain. It would break her heart. I would never do that.”

  “I know.”

  But Owain realized that he did not need Rhys to do that for him.

  Iolo Goch:

  Owain’s dream was nestled in the palm of his hand like a newly hatched chick taken from its nest. The English were ousted from Wales. Gone! Henry’s treasury was so empty his parliament would have been loath to finance another disastrous Welsh campaign. And while England’s king had to beg for loans, money was flowing into Wales like an endless river. The monasteries of Wales and England alike were the collecting points for those who desired funds to be channeled toward the Welsh cause. Many an English baron, who despised Henry and the manner in which he had come to his present state, had no qualms about striking a blow to his purse, even though they would not openly defy him.

  In early May of 1404, Owain dispatched his chancellor Griffith Young and his brother-in-law John Hanmer to Paris. They were entertained with tremendous ceremony and feasted upon delectable dishes the likes of which neither had ever before known. There were masked balls and tournaments conjured up to impress the visitors. In time, they had secured an alliance with King Charles VI of France.

  Beyond its borders, Wales was gaining powerful allies and within them it was becoming nothing but stronger and surer of its own identity.

  39

  Machynlleth, Wales — May, 1404

  When they placed the crown upon Owain’s head it was nothing but a plain circlet of silver, without jewels or fancy embellishments, but it sat upon his golden brow with perfection. The ceremony was at daybreak just outside of Machynlleth, with the sun waiting behind the mountains to shine upon Owain, a robe of blue brocade draped from his high shoulders. Only his closest generals, councilors and oldest sons were there to witness the solemn, understated occasion. Owain would not have it any grander. It was the meaning of it that held value, he said, not the pomp.

  In a half-timbered house in Machynlleth, with its narrow and twisted streets, Owain convened his first Welsh Parliament.

  The accommodations in Machynlleth were exceedingly modest and so Owain had selected the most suitable residence available: the Royal House on Penrallt Street. From his window, he could look out in the mornings to the sun climbing above the mountains. There was a knock at his chamber door and Rhys Ddu entered. The swelling was gone from his now crooked nose, but traces of bruising still remained in the dark circles under his eyes.

  “You were never one to wait for an invitation.” Owain slid a bulky ring onto his right hand.

  “Is that it?” Squinting, Rhys walked closer to where Owain stood by the window.

  Owain spread his fingers out against the bold backdrop of sunlight. “The seal of the Prince of Wales.”

  “Humph.” Rhys crinkled his nose as he inspected it. He wiggled his fingers in a circle around it. “Does it shoot fire or give you the gift of soothsayers?”

  “Not as magical as that, but yes, powerful. If all continues to go well in France with Master Young and brother-in-law John, England’s Parliament will begin to consider us with some slight measure of respect. This day is only the beginning, Rhys. A parliament, laws, schools, a Welsh Church—our task does not end with the dislodging of English troops.”

  Rhys helped himself to the bread and cheese that Owain, in his anxious anticipation, had ignored. “Best bring your head down from the clouds, Owain. You’ll have to explain to the uchelwyr how you’ll accomplish all that without making another Richard or Henry out of yourself. They’re never fond of taxes, no matter what the purpose. They may love you and your Welshness, but if it weren’t for the threat of their souls burning in hell they wouldn’t even part with a penny to save a starving monk.” He gobbled up the last crumb and wiped at his beard. “Ready?”

  With a weighty sigh, Owain arranged his cloak, embroidered with his new coat of arms of four lions rampant, over his shoulders and fastened the gold clasp. “Ready.”

  Rhys escorted Owain down the railed stairway. Servants scattered before them, awaiting orders that did not come. Owain had requested total privacy and quiet upon arising, for he had much to think about and plan for. The tranquility had left the kitchen help bewildered about how to prepare the day’s meals without some clanging. As Rhys and Owain approached the front door it was flung open before them. They went out into the street, where they met Maredydd and Gethin. A humble host of four guards fell in behind them.

  Gethin gave a cursory bow. “You should have a horse, my prince.”

  Owain scanned the street ahead. Machynlleth was packed beyond its limit. Surely the conniving merchants and stealthy thieves would not miss their opportunities for profit. Such an auspicious occasion had drawn more gentry and their servants than the town was prepared to hold. Many had been forced to lodge far beyond the town’s extremities and had begun their trek early in the morning. “It’s a short walk... and there’s no room for a horse in this crowd. Maredydd, where is your brother?”

  “Late rising, I wager,” Maredydd said apologetically. “He was drowning over his cup in a tavern last night and on the brink of starting an argument when I left him. He’ll be along.”

  Townspeople spilled out of doorways and dangled from open second-story windows to glimpse their prince. They shouted his name and scrambled backward to clear a path for him. Small children, hanging onto their mother’s skirts, giggled with delight at the sight of him—a golden-haired giant, his temples and beard streaked with silver, his red and gold robes flowing with each robust stride. The creases that fanned from the outer corners of his eyes betrayed his age even more, but none who saw him would have argued that he still did not strike a handsome figure. He was charismatic and commanding. He was regal. It was obvious in the way he held his chin aloft and the square set of his shoulders. Had he been the dirtiest, lowliest peasant in the land clad in soiled rags with no coin in his purse, his bearing alone would have convinced anyone that he was a force to be reckoned with and a man to be followed and obeyed, nothing less.

  They moved along the streets toward the Parliament House. Owain took his time. He enjoyed witnessing the hope he saw shining bright in the people’s eyes and the cheers that burst from their smiling lips. Beside him, Gethin surveyed every movement with his hawkish eyes. The soldier in Gethin was more at ease on the battlefield than in public. Owain was smiling and waving and in no great hurry to get to his most important meeting where all of Wales’ gentry, the uchelwyr, had gathered.

  A small chestnut-haired girl pressed herself through a sea of legs, clutching in her delicate arms a huge bouquet of flowers. A stocky man of stunted height with a blazing bush of red hair blocked her way. As
she tugged at one of his stout arms, he stared at her through a slanted eye. She shrank away and tunneled herself a new path toward Owain. Intrigued, Owain stopped and reached out to accept the flowers and grant her a kiss.

  “Gruffydd?” Maredydd said quizzically.

  When Owain straightened and gave him a questioning glance, Maredydd pointed ahead to where Gruffydd, in rent clothes and looking as if he had just awoken, tottered out from an alleyway, searching the crowd frantically. A deep purple bruise marked the side of his face and there was dried blood from a cut on his lip.

  Rhys nudged Owain. “Must have lost his quarrel.”

  “Take him back to his room,” Owain said to Maredydd, pulling him in close, “and make certain he is in a proper state to present himself before attending the meeting.” Then he sent Maredydd off through the writhing crowd with two of the guards.

  Gruffydd was leaning heavily against a wall as his brother approached. Trusting his son would be recovered within the hour, Owain returned his attention to the little girl ogling him. He touched her head of bouncy curls. “You will never love your freedom half as much as those who lived before you and only came by it after having none. But because of them, you will live in peace and know prosperity.”

  The din of the crowd heightened, but Owain gave it no regard. As he gazed upon the little girl with her tiny smiling mouth, he saw in her face a reminder of his little Mary when she was younger: the same wild curls and small nose, the same quiet, intense look on her brow.

  “Fatherrrrr!” Gruffydd’s shout sliced through the pandemonium.

  Owain raised his face and saw behind the girl the red-haired man. A crooked grin tugged at the man’s lips beneath a drooping eye. The countenance stirred a distant remembrance in Owain.

  “You? I know you, don’t I?” Owain guided the girl gently aside.