Uneasy Lies the Crown (15 page)

“Heads roll like stones in this country. The loss of mine or yours will be of little significance.”

Charlton scurried faster. “Can you be ready by tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Hotspur scoffed. “Do you think me a magician?”

“The day after?”

Hotspur tossed him a look of annoyance, like Charlton was some fly whose buzzing must be dealt with. He raised his voice more than loud enough for Grey to hear. “Well enough... I am the king’s slave after all, am I not? Lest you think otherwise, all men are slaves. Even kings are slaves to the acts of outlaws. Unhappily, I am a slave to both.”

What Lord Reginald de Grey thought of him was of no concern to Harry Hotspur. His outspokenness was the cardinal point of his character. It was what rallied his soldiers to him. Without it, he would not have become the valuable pawn that he was.

20

Conwy Castle, Wales — May, 1401

A hundred and twenty men-at-arms and three hundred archers flew to Conwy. At their head galloped Harry Hotspur on a chestnut steed, its mane the same brilliant yellow as his own short-cropped, thick crown of hair, the bold sun of May setting sparks to every strand. To his immense relief, Grey had gone his own way, straight back to the king, no doubt to deliver an account of Hotspur’s damning remarks.

Arriving at the gates of the town of Conwy, Hotspur gazed upon the whitewashed, heaven-scraping towers of the castle. Although he was loath to do so, he immediately ordered Massey arrested for his negligence. The impenetrable walls, which had been meant to keep English forces safe within, were now the very thing keeping them out. The fortress had been amply provisioned. It would take a protracted siege to oust the rebels, given his limited means. It could be done, but there was a quicker, surer way to retake Conwy.

Hotspur began negotiations with the rebels. But what the Tudur brothers demanded of him Hotspur knew that he could no sooner deliver than he could the moon. They wanted total absolution: free pardons and a promise that charges would not be brought against them. Hotspur countered. Gwilym rejected. Negotiations dragged on.

While Hotspur began to count the sunsets from his camp just above the beach outside town, Henry sent his son Prince Harry to Conwy. In the meantime, word came to Hotspur that the Welsh were raiding near both Bangor and further south beyond Dolgellau. A report that the Bangor raids were being led by the younger brother, Tudur Glyndwr, led Hotspur to surmise that Owain must be the one causing havoc in the south of Gwynedd.

As soon as Harry arrived at Conwy with additional forces, Hotspur took advantage of the reprieve. He sent Lord Charlton after Tudur’s party, while he went in pursuit of Owain Glyndwr himself. The chances of finding the rebel were small, but if he did, it would change everything.

Near Cadair Idris, Wales — May, 1401

It was necessary, from time to time, to gather provisions to feed a burgeoning army. While the English were befuddled by the problem of what to do about Conwy, Tudur remained with most of the Welsh fighters at their camp overlooking Llyn Peris, from where he could launch raiding parties toward both Bangor and Caernarvon. In the mountains between Dolgellau and Machynlleth, Owain’s men rounded up a large herd of cattle. Enough to keep his men fed well into the summer. It had all gone too easily, however. A fact which unnerved Owain, although he would not admit it.

As he unrolled his pack to sleep beneath the stars, he listened to the lowing of the cattle. Their plaintive song rolled through the valley, making him grimace. He would have his men up well before dawn to move them on again. There were a dozen men on watch for the night, but Harlech was less than a day’s ride away and Dolgellau only a few miles. He gathered his blanket and went to join Rhys.

Owain picked up an overturned cup from the ground and thrust it at Rhys.

“Your friendship is costly,” Rhys said, pouring the last of his drink from his flask into Owain’s cup.

“As my kitchen maids would attest is yours.” Owain sank to his haunches. He took a swallow of ale. It left a warm trail on its way down his throat. In moments, his worries began to dissolve.

“Agh, your kitchen maids are generous wenches. They take little convincing when met with a pair of pleading eyes.” Rhys rubbed at his whiskers. “What do you think will become of Gwilym and the lot?”

Draping his blanket over his shoulders, Owain shrugged. “What will become of any of us, Rhys?” He stared at the stars, his knees clutched to his chest, just as he used to do when he was a boy—hours upon hours spent gazing up at heaven.

Rhys emptied his cup and placed it on the ground. “This has become something more for you than just getting your lands back, hasn’t it? You hate them. You hate the English. You had no idea Gwilym would be so foolish as to capture a castle he could not keep and yet you revel that he’s thwarted them for so long.”

“I don’t hate the English, Rhys. I don’t hate any man.”

“Oh, come now. Not even Lord Grey?”

Sighing, Owain looked at his friend. “If you must pry me for an answer, yes, it is men who can never have enough who I detest. More money, more lands, more titles... What is all of that without freedom? They don’t know the value of it.”

Groaning, Rhys lay down and wrapped himself in his blankets. “So much talk of freedom,” he said as he tossed a glance at the cattle. “To me it’s about being able to fill my belly. I hate people who keep me from my supper.”

Owain wadded up his cloak for a pillow and eased back. “You forgot to mention your drink. You’d hate anyone who kept you from your drink, as well.”

He turned to look at Rhys. His friend’s chest rumbled with a snore. Somewhere in the herd, a cow bellowed for her calf.

Hill cattle were not easily goaded—and they left behind a very obvious trail. Shortly after dawn the next morning, the Welsh were being surveyed from across the foggy valley by a force slightly larger, better armed and less encumbered than their own. On a gentle slope that fell away into the gaping valley, the cattle twitched their ears and snorted into the damp morning air as they turned their huge brown eyes toward the opposite ridgeline.

The shout went up in the Welsh camp. “English!”

The Welsh bolted to arms. Gruffydd and Maredydd watched in terror as a line of English archers plunged down the far hillside. Behind the archers, a cluster of armored knights on horseback appeared. In their middle rode a knight in a plumed helmet.

Among the first to his horse was Owain. He grabbed a spear from someone frozen in indecision and began prodding the cattle with it, yelling and swinging it wildly. In protest, their hooves tapped at the rocky ground. Then one of them turned, thrusting its weight into the rump of another, and the stampede began. The herd rumbled toward the advancing English.

The English knight raised his arm and a call went up to his archers. They halted, forming a loose line, and sent their arrows into the stampede. Cattle fell in their tracks. They stumbled over one another and tumbled down the hill. Those behind plowed their hooves into the steep hillside. Some turned back. Others scattered laterally.

Owain bellowed orders to split the party. The Welsh exploded in a dozen directions. For those who dispersed on foot, they were aware they were marked. Through the mayhem of singing arrows and the drumming of hooves they took to the higher paths. They knew these would be a challenge for the English horses, which were long enough on leg to prove speedy across open ground and strong enough to bear an armored rider long distances, but also dangerously awkward on the broken mountainsides. The few stragglers who could not gain higher ground soon fell under swooping English blades.

Owain was well on his way south when he turned to look back. He reined hard. Beside him Rhys and Gruffydd pulled up.

“There is no time!” Rhys shouted. “We can only save ourselves!”

Owain glanced at him through the drifting mist. Then a flicker of color caught his eye and he peered across the valley. The banner that his men always carried with them, the bold red hands of a maiden painted on its field, beckoned to him from a precarious ledge several hundred feet away. Tom had always been its bearer, but there was no sign of him.

“Maredydd,” Owain mumbled.

Rhys and Gruffydd looked around and saw the quivering banner. Maredydd had gone back to save it. He was struggling along with it, finally tucking it under his arm, but the end of the pole caught on a stone and he stumbled.

“Go on,” Owain said. When Rhys and Gruffydd hesitated, he summoned his voice. “Go!” He dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks, racing across the ridge until he came to his son, the drumming of enemy hooves bearing down on them.

Maredydd was possessed with that look, that wide-eyed frozen look of young men who flock to battle with dreams of glory and courageous fighting only to discover it is chaos and fear and vomit pushing at your insides. Owain thrust out his hand. An errant arrow landed at Maredydd’s feet. He scrambled onto the back of his father’s saddle, dropping the banner on the ground.

A bank of fog had rolled around them. Although it gave them some degree of cover, it had also separated Owain and Maredydd from the others. There wasn’t time to calculate the best route. Owain heard the hoofbeats, loud, steady, and certainly not those of cattle. He hesitated, closing his eyes to pinpoint the sound and as soon as he was sure of its source, he guided his mount away. With his son gripping him tightly, he forged on into the whiteness.

The mists had grown heavier since dawn. Even the sun could not break through. There was no wind to usher it away. It was a godsend.

21

Cadair Idris, Wales — May, 1401

Hearing the rasp of his horse’s breathing, Owain at last ceased to urge the animal on. He swung down and helped his son off. Several times, the horse had pitched sideways and Owain felt Maredydd nearly falling and pulling him with him. But the horse, with its great heart, had carried them this far. The slight limp that came on when it stepped in a shallow hole was now verging on lameness. Now, as he looked on at the animal, he knew they had to abandon it.

Maredydd ducked beneath an outcropping and fell to his knees. There was no cover for miles, no cave, no cottage, no thicket of trees, only the little hollow that Owain had guided them to. The hills around them were jagged, broken and steep sided. They could rest safely here, but only for awhile.

“Where are we?” Maredydd’s eyes darted from rock to rock.

“Would that I could tell you.” Owain slapped at the horse’s rump, but it just stood there, wavering, its head hanging so low its lip touched the ground. The sun had broken through and the rising heat was beginning to take its toll. Owain wiped at his forehead and squinted, his face to the south. “Ah, that mountain is Cadair Idris. Iolo tells me if you sleep all night on the stone that was the giant’s chair, you will awaken either reciting brilliant verse or spewing madman’s nonsense.” Drawing his long sword from its scabbard, Owain stared hard at the horse and then with two hands on the hilt, drew it back.

“What are you doing?” Maredydd scooted forward, grabbing his father’s ankle. “No!”

Owain shot him a look of reproach. His leg flinched as if to kick. He had always been so gentle in speaking to his children, that it shocked even him when his words shot out tight and menacing. “Quiet yourself! Do you wish us dead? I merely want to send him away. He is of no use to us now. We can run faster than he can carry us. We’ll have to find our way back to the camp without a horse. Otherwise we are butts for English arrows.”

With that, Owain slapped the flat of his blade against the horse’s hindquarters with such force that its head shot up. He feared for a moment that it might just fall over from exhaustion—give up rather than go on. But it took a couple steps backward, eyeing him with confusion, and realizing its load was gone it trotted off in a hitched gait, weaving amongst the scattered rocks. He watched it go and finally sank to the ground beside Maredydd. It was some time before he noticed that his son was trembling.

Owain touched him on the leg. “It is never what you think it will be.”

Maredydd held a hand out, gazing at his palm. It quivered with each breath. “Tom was...”—he squeezed his hand into a fist and tucked it against his chest—“carrying the banner when they came. I was not five feet from him and an... an arrow struck him through the eye.” He looked at his father dolefully. “He didn’t die right then. He was just... lying there, the arrow sticking out of his eye... clear through his head. He called out and I went to him. I wanted to save the banner. I don’t know why. But I wanted to do it for him. I told him I would carry it. I told him I would.”

Owain knew that if the cattle had not trampled Tom, the English would have finished him off. He touched his son’s shoulder reassuringly. The grass waved across the land with the rising wind, the fog now reduced to scattered patches. “A banner is of no importance. You... are.”

They sat in their little shelter of shadows for a long, long time, waves of exhaustion beating at them both. There were things Owain wanted to say, questions Maredydd might have asked if he could have found his tongue, but they just sat in silence, close to each other—Owain’s hand now on his son’s thigh and Maredydd leaning against his father’s arm. Gusts of wind were making it harder to hear now, but all was seemingly undisturbed. Even though the fleeting clash and resulting flight were still fresh on his senses, Owain’s eyes began to drift shut. Fatigue crashed through his limbs. Yawning, he stretched his long legs and —

A rock, a very small rock, dropped from the overhang above. It clattered over a half-buried stone and fell silent into a clump of grass. Slowly, Owain reached for the hilt of his sword. He had barely touched it when an armored knight and half a dozen archers with their arrows nocked appeared before them. Maredydd shrank against the stone wall at his back.