Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  The last one through the door was Robert Stewart, the Duke of Albany and brother to the king—an absent king on this occasion.

  Albany sank into his chair and inspected his fingernails closely. “Have you at last chosen sides, good earl?”

  “Where is King Robert? I was promised an audience,” said Northumberland.

  “My dear brother has taken ill... as is often the case these days.”

  “Then I will wait until he’s better.”

  “That could be some time from now. I cannot promise you a meeting with him.” Albany pushed down a yawn and at last gazed upon the desperate Northumberland. A smirk altered his countenance from a look of boredom to one of amusement. “So unless you plan to stay in Scotland indefinitely, which given your history might be inadvisable, I beg of you to share your business here and now.”

  “I can only speak with the king.”

  “Impossible.”

  Northumberland figured perhaps the king’s heir would be more amenable to reason than Albany. “Then tell me where the Duke of Rothesay is.”

  The wry smirk evaporated from Albany’s mouth. “In his grave. So young. Such a pity. He perished while a prisoner at Falkland. Put there by orders of his father, the king. The lad was rather, ah... free in his ways. The candle that burns the brightest is soonest spent, or so they say.” He crossed his arms across a bulging chest. “It would seem, m’lord, you are stuck with me for a pair of ears. I am, again, Guardian of Scotland, and always with her best interests at heart. Now, what can we do for you? We have heard about York. That Westmorland never strayed far from opportunity. Betraying a holy man has done little to mar his conscience, no doubt.”

  Albany’s reception was such a far cry from what Northumberland had expected that he was at a loss for words. Robert III had never been a strong king, but he had been receptive to Owain’s plans, at least.

  “My lord,” Northumberland began, bowing his head, “I only ask that you honor your brother’s arrangement with Prince Owain of Wales.”

  Pertly, Albany flipped a hand forward. “And that so-called arrangement was...?”

  “An alliance. To stand against Henry of Bolingbroke until the true heir of England is restored.”

  Gazing out the far window, Albany scratched at an ear. “Aye, alliance. He did mention some correspondences. But I am not aware of any formal treaty with Wales... or yourself for that matter. So whatever it is you’ve come here for will have to wait until my brother’s health has improved sufficiently.” He slouched in his chair and stretched his legs out before him. “Stay on if you wish, but there’s no telling when that will be.”

  Suddenly aware that the audience with Albany was a barren work, Northumberland glanced at Douglas.

  “Good day, my lords.” He bent at the waist, even though Albany did not acknowledge his departure.

  The earl’s footsteps echoed down the gray, stone corridor. Where was he to go now? Back to Northumberland? King Henry would have his head. To Wales? What use was he to Glyndwr without an army?

  “Lord Henry?”

  Northumberland turned to see old Archibald Douglas limping to catch up with him.

  An easy smile spread over Douglas’s features. He clasped Northumberland on the upper arm. “You are loyal to your son’s memory. I value that in a man.”

  “Just biding my time, Archibald. But after all these years of waiting, now that I have chosen to act...”—he shook his snowy head—“after all these years, for what?”

  Douglas looked both ways down the length of the corridor and pulled the earl in close. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Albany is no friend of the King of England’s... but he does no’ want war with him, either.”

  “I think we both know what Albany wants: his brother’s crown.” Northumberland nodded to himself. He understood everything now. And yet he knew not a whit of what to do from that point onward. “Share a drink with me, Archibald, before I’m off again.”

  Turning his face away so that the earl could not see his good eye, Douglas shook his head. “I owe my freedom to Albany. He saw to it my ransom was paid.”

  “And do you blame me for putting you in English hands?”

  Douglas tensed. “You should ha’ been at Shrewsbury, Henry. Things would be very different now.”

  “Knowing the outcome, I’m not so certain of that,” Northumberland said as he walked away. It was not how he would have chosen to leave Douglas, but at that point, there were very few choices left to him.

  Northumberland went home by land. As soon as arrangements for transport on a merchant’s ship could be made, Trefor and Daron journeyed to Wales where long overdue news had arrived.

  A French invasion force was sailing for Wales.

  43

  Aberystwyth Castle, Wales — June, 1405

  “I thought of naming her Gwenllian—after my mother.” Nesta tugged her gown from her shoulder and let the baby girl, only two-days old, but bright-eyed and vigorous, nurse.

  Owain had come to Aberystwyth as soon as the news arrived at Harlech. He had given Margaret no explanation for his sudden departure. None was needed. Nor had he told her where he was going. That was a given.

  “Gwenllian?” Owain repeated.

  “Do you not like it?” She eased back against the cushion of her chair. “Perhaps Emma or Susanna or —”

  “No, Gwenllian is a fine name. It’s only that, well, I have never heard Rhys talk about your mother, let alone mention her name.” Owain stroked the fine golden fuzz on the top of his youngest daughter’s head. It would be plain to all that this was indeed his child. “So little,” he remarked. “Is it possible that Gruffydd was ever so small?” But even as his oldest son’s name passed his lips he was struck with remorse. Gruffydd had disapproved of his relationship with Nesta. Ever since the day Owain had first met her that summer evening in the Tywi Valley, he and Gruffydd had drifted apart. It was as if he had traded his son’s love for Nesta’s. As if he could not have both. And now Gruffydd was imprisoned in London.

  “I wish I could have given you a son,” Nesta mused. “Perhaps I yet will.”

  Owain ripped himself from his thoughts. “What?”

  “A son.A prince.” She beamed, swaying gently from side to side as she hummed to the baby. The baby’s eyelids fluttered and closed. Soon, the child’s small mouth relaxed. Nesta fixed her gown and pulled a small blanket around the baby, then settled her into Owain’s arms.

  “She does not cry like her sister—at least not yet.” A wide smile lifted Nesta’s cheeks.

  “Nesta, I...” Owain rearranged words in his mind, searching for a gentle way to phrase it. “If we had a son, I do not think he could be a prince.”

  “What else would he be?”

  “A knight, certainly. Perhaps a lord, if he were skilled in diplomacy or soldiering.”

  “A knight... or a lord?Perhaps?” She stiffened at the insult. “Will they never be equals with your other children? In Wales, a prince’s sons are all acknowledged. Many a bastard has succeeded his father.”

  “I am not the only one who would have a say in what title or wealth they might be granted.”

  “Who else would have a say? Your wife?”

  “The uchelwyr, for one.” Owain quickly directed the conversation elsewhere. “Gwenllian,” he said, kissing his daughter’s small forehead. “What was... what is she like?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.Gwenllian.”

  “Oh, her.” Nesta crinkled her nose, as she often did. “She left him when I was very young.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh heaven, I don’t know. For some other man. Someone who wooed and flattered her more than my father could... or would. He has a roving eye. He likes a pretty maid. Likes them for the curl of their hair and the curve of their waist. He called her his wife, but they were never married, did you know that? Like you and me.” She swished her skirts, made of the finest cloth from Flanders, and then traced a finger lightly from his neck do
wn his arm. “At any rate, my mother, last I knew, was in Dublin. My father is a bit rough around the edges, but he’s a good-hearted man and I felt far more love in his embrace than I ever felt at my mother’s knee. When I was with her, I spent more of my youth waiting outside taverns than I care to recall. She often pretended I was her younger sister, so as not to scare away her companions. But father, he was always proud to call me his own.”

  Nesta looked long and hard at Owain, cradling their daughter in his arms.

  That night Owain lay beside Nesta with Gwenllian sleeping soundly in a cradle an arm’s reach from the bed. He did not sleep at all, for it was in the quiet hours of night that he searched for solutions to insurmountable problems. Each morning he awoke more tired than the day before. Bearing such weight upon one’s soul was an exhausting vocation—even for one so determined, so brimming with conviction and so unable to turn from the path that wove on before him.

  Tenby, Wales — August, 1405

  Nestled on the southern coast of Pembrokeshire, the town of Tenby stirred at dawn. Owain watched as a heron stretched its wings overhead—its long, slim neck leading it out over the choppy, cobalt waters of Carmarthen Bay. The siege on Tenby had been a brief one, lasting only days. Upon hearing of the French landing at Milford Haven, twenty miles to the west, the town had capitulated with little persuasion.

  A string of storms had delayed the departure of the French and when they finally set sail, many of their horses had died during the Channel crossing, the result of too little drinking water to accommodate both man and beast.

  The parliament at Harlech had graciously voted Owain the funds to muster ten thousand Welshmen to join the French in a march on England. It had been a promise so long in coming that Owain was still in disbelief.

  Owain crouched between two wind-scoured dunes. A hundred troublesome thoughts had once more robbed him of sleep and so he had risen and dressed early, long before any of his soldiers were up. Salt air and sand stung his eyes. For a minute, he closed them tightly and listened to the steady roar of the wind and the furious lapping of the water.

  “Nothing awakens the senses more,” came an unfamiliar, yet gentle voice, “than the wind coming in from the sea.”

  Startled, Owain looked over his shoulder to see a priest weaving his way through clumps of marram grass. Every step the tonsured holy man took was thoughtfully chosen. In one hand he clutched a walking stick and over the other arm swung a willow basket half full of rattling cockles.

  “You’re up early, Father,” Owain said.

  “Me? Ah, no. I rise every day at this hour. It is you who are up too early, my lord. A hundred years too early.” The priest smiled innocently at Owain, before continuing down the shoreline on his way to a favored spot to dig for more treasures.

  Owain blinked. He rose and started toward the priest, hungry for a snatch of conversation which had nothing to do with sappers or siege engines. But before he could interrogate the priest further, Maredydd was sliding down a small dune, calling after him.

  “Gethin was ready to send a search party out for you.” Maredydd slipped as he reached his father and landed on his buttocks. He jumped to his feet and brushed away the sand. “You might have told someone you were coming out here.”

  “That would have destroyed my purpose altogether. Can I not have a moment’s peace? The Lord knows I could use it.”

  “Your forgiveness, Father, but I have a message for you.”

  “Will the French grace us with their presence soon?”

  “By noon, if not before.”

  Owain raked the hair off his forehead and attacked the hillside as Maredydd followed him back toward camp. “Pay close attention, Maredydd. When Marshal de Rieux gets here, if you see me fall silent, I am collecting my patience. Pray that I find it.”

  44

  Near Worcester, England — September, 1405

  When the first pennons of the English army could be seen fluttering above the horizon, the September sun was sinking into the western hills. The king’s standard drooped in the viscous air. Behind it trudged a column of soldiers—a swarm of locusts in the distance, each man indistinguishable from the next, uncountable in the purple-gray of twilight, but an entity of unfathomable proportions.

  On Woodbury Hill, the French, who had until that hour been high on pillage and slaughter, were swallowed up by dread. Their own magnificent armor had impressed the ingenuous Welsh warriors to the point of near worship. The mere sight of their chest plates glinting in the sun had sent the citizens of Worcester running for their lives. But even behind their gleaming shells, visions of restoring the new Arthur to the throne withered with the mirage that came to life before them.

  Firmly encamped on a summit, with a clear view in every direction, the Welsh and French were a united force of thirteen thousand riding on the crest of a tide of triumphs. But they were also deep within the enemy’s heart, with no lines to fresh supplies and a limited amount remaining. It appeared they had marched victoriously on only to confront the impossible. But to Owain and the tattered Welsh who followed in his name, achieving the impossible was their strongpoint.

  Jean de Rieux, Marshal of France, dismounted from his raven black courser with the stunted, feeble motions of an aged man who is aware how easily his bones may break. He approached Owain, who stood rock-like at the front edge of camp, watching the enemy pour into the valley and snake their way up Abberley Hill, one uncomfortably close mile to the north. At Owain’s right shoulder stood Rhys Ddu.

  Rieux sidled nearer. His thin lips twitched above his pointed beard. He whispered as if he were the god Mars delivering divine inspiration. “Send the archers. Cut them down.”

  “Now?” Owain questioned, still surveying the scene on Abberley Hill as the English just kept coming and coming like a river encircling the earth.

  “Matin,” Rieux said. “First light.”

  For a minute Owain remained silent, then he dropped his chin, glanced momentarily at the marshal and back again across the valley. “Do you see what they are doing?”

  “Oui,” Rieux said, as they observed Henry taking up an equally defensive position on the steep-sided mound on the opposite side of the valley. Between the two hills was cradled a perfect battle site: broad and sweeping and crying out for blood. He twisted the ends of his mustache between a thumb and finger.

  “If we begin the battle now, we’ve only a couple of hours of daylight left. If we wait until morning and then send our archers, they will be even better positioned than they already are. Don’t you agree?”

  The French commander’s hand fell away from his mouth. His silver-white eyebrows rose. “Then send your men now, today, while they’re still —”

  “Today.Tomorrow.” Owain faced him. “Who leads this army, Marshal?”

  “I was, eh... simply advising you.”

  “My regrets, then,” Owain said, inclining his head. “I thought you were telling me what to do. But then, a man of your experience has much advice to offer.”

  Rhys grunted. “Is it the practice of the French to begin battles at nightfall? Maybe you ought to send Hugueville’s crossbowmen now and see for yourself how quickly the English can mince them into fodder for the crows.”

  At that very moment, Owain’s thoughts did not dwell upon tactics and geographic advantages. Instead, he remembered the day he heard the news from Shrewsbury: that Hotspur was dead, that Henry had triumphed. How it should not have been. How it needn’t have been. How his heart had hardened that very day. And Pwll Melyn—Madoc and Tudur killed on the battlefield and dear, pining Gruffydd a prisoner of the King of England. That was when Owain had stopped feeling altogether. When all his passion, his dream of a free Wales metamorphosed into the cold, hard lust for revenge.

  Then why now was he filled with such foreboding, such smothering doubt? The rebellion in York had not fulfilled its purpose. It had merely bought them time. And once again, Northumberland had fallen short. Another ally issuing empty promises. He turned
to look at the French knights stationed along the hill and those clustered behind him, their armor capturing the last rays of daylight.

  Robert de la Heuse, the French commander they called Le Borgue, meaning one-eyed and aptly so, swaggered forward. His tightly tied black patch cut an angular line across his upper cheek and forehead. A deep violet crevice had been carved into his face from nose to temple. But rather than a disfigurement, he wore the evidence of his injury more like a badge of honor, strutting about with his chin thrust out and peering haughtily at others with his one stark eye. He scanned the distant lines of English and laid an open hand against his chest plate.

  “Certainement,” Le Borgue began, squinting his good eye, “les Anglais... they have a weakness, non?”

  Abberley Hill blackened with English soldiers. Their customary sharp movements were absent. From the hill’s base a line of stragglers trailed away. Far into the distance lurched a wobbly line of supply wagons. It was nothing short of miraculous that they had made it from Hereford to York and back in so short a time.

  Rieux strained his eyes to gaze across the valley, long with shadows. “Ils sont fatigué,” he remarked. He shifted his hips and grimaced, as though some old familiar pain had been resurrected.

  “Et nous sommes fatigué, aussi, non?” Le Borgue said.

  Rieux nodded.

  Sighing, Le Borgue mopped at his brow with the back of his hand, crisscrossed with fresh scars. He shrugged. “Perhaps, the prince... he has a plan? He knows this Bolingbroke better than we do. He and his men, they have defeated him many times.”