Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  A pair of hands, spotted with age and blue-veined, reached down to help her. She fell back on her bottom and gaped, open-mouthed, at her father.

  “Is it you? Truly, is it you?” she said.

  “Marged would go out into the orchard at Sycharth... do you remember Sycharth, Alice?” Owain began, as he plucked the apples from the ground and placed them neatly in his daughter’s basket. “Out into the orchard and pick apples even after her labor had begun. She said there was no sense in pacing the floors for hours when there was work to be done. As if she had no help.”

  He extended a hand toward his daughter and smiled dreamily at her. “You look very much like her, too.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard?” Alice asked tentatively, laying her hand in her father’s grasp and heaving her bulk up with an ungraceful grunt. She wasn’t sure where to begin, not having seen her father in years and shocked to see him alive at all.

  “I regret I was not there to hold her when the time came.” Owain gazed out over the valley, bright in the crisp, dry warmth of the season, so rich in abundance, so peaceful.

  He was gaunt, pale and bleary-eyed, not at all like the regal prince that Alice remembered. But when one is a child many things appear grander than they really are.

  Owain reached up and easily picked the apple that Alice had strained over. “Shall we share this one?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He pulled his knife from his belt and sliced through the apple. “Ach!”

  His knife still partially embedded in the apple, he dropped it and clutched at a bleeding palm.

  Alice grabbed at his hand to inspect it. “It was you who used to tell me to be careful when cutting up the apples. Must I chide you like one of my own children now?”

  Fearing for his safety, being so close to Hereford as Kentchurch was, she took him around the back and into the kitchen where she washed his hand in a bowl of clean water. The cut continued to bleed until the water was bright red. She fetched another bowl, dabbed at his palm and then sent her old kitchen maid to find clean rags.

  As she bound up her father’s hand, they began to talk. He told her of his life in the mountains, living in caves, of traveling from place to place with Iolo and of the botched raid on Welshpool. He did not say so much, but his transient existence had taken a hard toll on him. He had aged so severely that it was not hard to believe he hadn’t been discovered.

  Then Alice told him of her life with her husband John. A quiet life, except for the noise of their two young children and another coming soon.

  “John is good to you? Home often, I trust?” Owain questioned.

  “Always. He is a deputy squire in Brecon, but spends no more time away than what duty calls for.” She squeezed her father’s good hand across the table.

  “If he knew I was here —?”

  Alice leaned close, even though the kitchen was now empty. “He would never betray you, Father. He’s still loyal to you.”

  “Then you’ve both made a public admission of your vows?”

  Alice pulled back in humiliation. She and John had been secretly married for years now. Only the servants had knowledge of their marriage and a healthy pay encouraged them all to secrecy. “We can’t. You know that. Not now, at least.”

  An awkward silence drove between them. Alice stared down at her unadorned fingers, folded in the lap of her plain dress. She could have dressed better, being John’s wife, she knew, but it was never her will to draw attention to herself or put John’s good station at risk if they were found out. Finally, she recalled her manners and offered her father some food.

  Owain’s head drooped wearily. “A bed, please. That’s all I need. A soft bed, in a safe, quiet place. One night... and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of putting you out so soon.” She stroked his forearm. “I want you to see your grandson. He’s going to be tall, like you, and with your deep, blue eyes and mother’s hair. He has gone to Hereford for the day with my John. They’ll be back on the morrow.”

  Owain rose from his stool slowly, his joints cracking. “I’ve already put you at risk by coming here. No, I’ll leave in the morning. I want you and your family, Alice, to go on living like this. In peace. Now please, a bed is all I ask. Can you indulge an old man that one single comfort?” He laid his hand on top of her head and kissed her where her hair parted.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around him and pressed her cheek against his stomach, just like she used to do when she was small.

  Alice showed him to a room far from the main activity of the house, where he at once laid down, closed his eyes and was sound asleep before she shut the door behind her.

  When Alice rose early in the morning and went to his bed, she could not rouse him. He was burning with fever and she feared the worst—that he had come to Kentchurch to die.

  The smell of burning peat curled inside Owain’s nostrils. He burrowed deeper inside his cocoon of wool and opened his eyes.

  “You’ve slept long. Three days.” Nesta stooped over him. The long, dark plait of her hair fell forward. She tossed it back and then placed a hand across Owain’s chest.

  In the comfortable bed his daughter had granted him, Owain stretched his limbs. He ached from the marrow out and his hand was stiff and sore. He brought it out from beneath his blanket and noticed the clean bandage there.

  Nesta touched his forehead. “Your fever has broken.”

  Blinking, Owain gazed at her. “Am I not in heaven, then?”

  “Hardly.” She grinned, then just as quickly her brow clouded over. “Maredydd sent word to me, some time ago, and asked me to come to you. I’ve searched for weeks now. It was only out of desperation that I came here to see if Alice knew where you were. Fate seems to have delivered us both here at just the right time. One week either way and we would have missed each other entirely.”

  Owain stared into her eyes, the color of rich earth. “Then he knew my needs even when I did not.”

  She wrapped her fingers around his.

  “I have heard them talk in the taverns,” he said, “of the ruin I brought upon Wales. They blame me for —”

  Nesta shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Rest. I’ll have Alice bring you a broth.”

  There was a comfortable silence between them, an unspoken need answered only by the presence of the other.

  Nesta went to the door and lingered there, her hand upon the latch. “Myfanwy and Gwenllian are well and safe. Their company is a blessing to all who know them. You have not lived for nothing, Owain. If peace and freedom do not come in our time, perhaps they will come in theirs.”

  Her words were but a small comfort to a man who carried within his soul a burden too huge to bear.

  “I outlived Bolingbroke,” Owain said, his words soft in volume, but strong in conviction. “Some victory in that, don’t you think?”

  “Victory? Oh, more than that. The Welsh will speak the name of Owain Glyndwr with love and admiration a thousand years from now.”

  Later, as night crept over the world, Alice carried a pair of lit candles to her father’s chamber. There she found Nesta holding her father’s cold, lifeless hand and singing to him softly.

  Owain Glyndwr, the one true Welsh Prince of Wales, was dead.

  61

  Herefordshire, England — 1416

  In the murky light of a cramped tavern on the western fringe of Herefordshire, Maredydd ap Owain nursed a warm cup of cider. Across the table from him sat Sir Gilbert Talbot, the very man who had taken part in the slaughter at Grosmont and also begun the siege on Harlech.

  From beneath his cloak, Sir Gilbert drew a roll of parchment and pushed it across the table. “Do you know where to find him?”

  “At one time, I did,” Maredydd answered carefully. He stared at the document for a long time and then took another drink.

  Sir Gilbert glanced at his guards, flanking the door of the tavern. The other patrons, ten muttering townsmen avoiding the company of the
ir nagging wives and a few travelers in need of rest, passed curious glances toward the back table where they sat.

  “Then he is... dead?”

  Maredydd suppressed a smile. “No more so than you or I.”

  Sir Gilbert tapped on the roll. “Then see that he gets this.” He rose, but before leaving he hesitated beside Maredydd. “I will await his answer in Hereford.”

  Without meeting his gaze, Maredydd snagged the corner of his cloak. “I fear you will wait for nothing.”

  Sir Gilbert leaned close and whispered in his ear, “If he accepts, he walks freely... just as you now do. My king extends the same to you. Do not forget that.”

  Uplands of Wales — 1416

  Maredydd knelt before a mossy boulder blocking the entrance to a cave. Around him rose a ring of mountains deep in the heart of Wales. He placed his hand upon the rock and touched his forehead to its rough surface. It had taken ten men to put it there.

  Behind him, Nesta held hands with blind Gethin. The wind lashed at her hair. At her shoulder, stood Iolo, weeping like a child.

  “In our hearts you will live forever.” Maredydd’s lips brushed the hilt of his father’s sword, and then he leaned it against the boulder. Fingers still on the blade, he exploded in grief, tears cascading down his face.

  Above, the first stars of twilight pierced an endless silver sky. Around, the mountains lay in eternal slumber.

  Nesta raised her face to heaven. Her voice mingled with the sigh of the wind like an angel’s clarion.

  Westminster Palace, England — 1416

  King Henry V had recently returned from France when he received Maredydd alone. Harry watched while Maredydd strode across the length of the hall of Westminster Palace and bent his knee before the king—a gesture which elicited a raised eyebrow from the monarch seated upon his throne.

  “You have presented the offer of pardon to your father and discussed the matter with him?” the king said.

  “Thoroughly.”

  “And?”

  Maredydd rose to his feet. “He says he is a free man now and does not need your pardon. And to correct matters, he says it is you who ought to seek his pardon for stealing his title, his lands, his holdings, and using them all to your own purpose while you raped and murdered and plundered Wales.”

  “He says this?”

  “He does.”

  “As I expected.” Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully. “‘I would rather be bound to the soil as another man’s serf, than be king of all those dead and destroyed.’ Do you know who said that? Homer. Over two thousand years ago. Who is to say he was right?

  “Go from here a free man, Maredydd ap Owain. And tell your father... tell him he wears his crown well.”

  With a nod, Maredydd began toward the door behind him. After only a few steps, he paused, and then turned around to face the king. “He would say the same of you, my lord.”

  Iolo Goch:

  Maredydd, I hear, took the pardon that was offered to him and later served in Harry’s court, although in what manner I do not know. In truth, it matters not. He deserved to find his peace. To continue to fight would have been futile and I would like to think that Owain would have taken some small pleasure in knowing that a few of his children had lived out their natural lives, if not happily, then at least free of struggle and strife.

  Gethin died the winter following Owain. He wandered off in a snowstorm and froze to death, sword in hand, as he would have wanted to.

  I have been told Nesta returned to Ireland, although others claim to have seen her somewhere near Cardigan. She has her daughters and her voice... they will keep her well.

  My own days are dwindling, but I bear no sadness in my soul, for I was richer than any king, more beloved than an angel.

  In the hearts of the Welsh, Owain lives on. Some even say he lies sleeping in a cave beneath a mountain and one day... one day he will rise again.

  Historical Notes

  In the year 1415, Henry V crossed over the English Channel and stormed into France with his army. On a muddy field within sight of the castle of Agincourt, they met the French. Facing a force nine times their own numbers and weakened by exhaustion and hunger, the English stood their ground, arraying their archers to the fore. The French advanced across the quagmire. A hailstorm of arrows, many of them shot by Welsh bowmen, descended. At the end of that fateful day, over seven thousand Frenchman lay dead. It was the greatest defeat up to that time that France had ever known.

  In the years following his victory at Agincourt, Henry V (Harry) returned to France and brought it begging to its knees. The French agreed to a treaty in which Harry was named the heir to the French throne. Soon afterward, he married the daughter of King Charles VI of France, Katherine de Valois. He returned to England with his bride, but while awaiting the birth of their child Harry was forced to return to France to settle a disturbance. There he received news of the birth of his son, Henry. He was at Vincennes, not far from Paris, when a bout of dysentery brought him to the verge of death.

  Queen Katherine flew with all haste to France, but she did not make it to him in time. He had reigned for nine years, most of which was spent not in England, but on the battlefields of France. At the age of twenty-one, Queen Katherine was a widow. Their son, Henry VI, was a mere nine months old.

  Katherine de Valois, Queen Dowager, later secretly married Owen Tudor, whose family was of the Anglesey Tudors. Owen Tudor was Clerk of her wardrobe and had fought under Henry at Agincourt. Together they had three sons, one of which later became Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond. Edmund married Margaret Beaufort and their son Henry Tudor, born in Pembroke Castle in Wales, took as his wife Elizabeth of York, great granddaughter of Anne Mortimer, the sister of Sir Edmund Mortimer. A protracted civil war, called the Wars of the Roses, was fought between the Lancastrians and Yorkists, two branches of the royal family.

  In 1485, the forces of Welsh-born Henry Tudor, which included a great number of Welsh followers, defeated those of Richard III at Bosworth. Henry Tudor became King Henry VII of England, thus fulfilling the ancient prophecies of Myrddin Emrys (Merlin) of which Hopkyn had spoken, that one day a Welshman would rule the island.

  Except for Maredydd, Owain’s sons all died before the end of the Welsh War for Independence, but today Owain’s blood lives on through the present-day descendants of his daughters: Alice, Janet and Mary (Margaret). Owain also had several illegitimate children who survived him. Nesta, it should be mentioned, is a fictional character of my own invention, as is Elise.

  Iolo Goch, Owain’s bard, outlived him and some of Iolo’s odes to his lord have survived the centuries, which is a great blessing, for after Owain’s downfall much of what may have been written from the Welsh perspective was forgotten or destroyed.

  For a brief time in the lengthy annals of history, Owain Glyndwr united the people of Wales under one banner and led them on to victory. He earned the admiration and respect of other countries and of another Prince of Wales, Harry. We can only imagine how the course of history might have been altered if the alliances that Owain had so carefully woven had held up, if he had been able to join Hotspur at Shrewsbury, if he had taken the field at Woodbury Hill against Henry IV, or if he had just plain not had the misfortune of being the circumstantial adversary of the tenacious Henry V.

  *****

  About the Author

  N. Gemini Sasson holds a M.S. in Biology from Wright State University where she ran cross country on athletic scholarship. She has worked as an aquatic toxicologist, an environmental engineer, a teacher and a cross country coach. A longtime breeder of Australian Shepherds, her articles on bobtail genetics have been translated into seven languages. She lives in rural Ohio with her husband, two nearly grown children and an ever-changing number of animals.

  Long after writing about Robert the Bruce and Queen Isabella, Sasson learned she is a descendant of both historical figures.

  For more details about N. Gemini Sasson and her books:

  www.
ngeminisasson.com

  www.facebook.com/NGeminiSasson

  Books by N. Gemini Sasson:

  Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

  The King Must Die, A Novel of Edward III

  The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I)

  Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)

  The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy: Book III)

  List of Characters

  Owain Glyndwr – Welsh nobleman.

  Gruffydd Fychan – Owain’s father. Descendant of the princes of Powys Fadog.

  Helen Goch – Owain’s mother. Descendant of the princes of Gwynedd and Deheubarth.

  Tudur Glyndwr – Owain’s younger brother.

  Margaret Hanmer – Owain’s wife.

  Gruffydd Glyndwr – Owain and Margaret’s oldest son.

  Maredydd Glyndwr – Second oldest son of Owain and Margaret.

  Madoc, Dewi, Tomos and Sion Glyndwr – Owain and Margaret’s other sons.

  Catherine, Alice, Isabel, Janet and Mary Glyndwr – Owain and Margaret’s daughters.

  Iolo Goch – Bard to Owain.

  John Hanmer – Margaret’s older brother.

  Philip Hanmer – Another of Margaret’s brothers.

  Rhys Ddu (Rhys the Black) – A former sheriff of Cardiganshire. Owain’s general and friend.

  Nesta – Rhys Ddu’s daughter and Owain’s mistress.

  Gethin (Rhys ‘The Fierce’ Gethin) – An outlaw who becomes one of Owain’s generals.

  Gwilym and Rhys ap Tudur – Owain’s cousins.

  Lord Reginald de Grey of Ruthin – A Marcher lord.Owain’s neighbor.