Uneasy Lies the Crown (20 page)

Switching to his wife’s seat, Hotspur collected a bishop that had fallen to the floor and twirled the marble piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you know she has beaten me three times today alone? The truth of it is, I
let
her win—and often. If she is happy,”—he arched a brow in suggestion—“the better my chances of benefitting from her happiness. Small price to pay for delayed reward, wouldn’t you say? Now tell me, has King Robert changed his mind again?”

“Not Scotland this time.”

“Who then?”

“Wales.”

Hotspur stood, his attention now fully derailed from his wife’s tantalizing invitation. “Glyndwr?”

Northumberland nodded.

“Well, what does he want with us?”

“Only to carry a request to the king. He’ll end his rebellion if Henry will give his lands back and spare his life.”

Hotspur scoffed. The wily Welshman was bold, if nothing else. “And do you think Henry will agree?”

“Henry? It’s hard to say. If he were wise, yes. It would save him grief in the end to accept, not to mention preserve his treasury. But there are others who would stand to lose too much if he compromised with the Welsh now. The king’s half-brother John Beaufort would surely not relish abandoning his new gifts. And Lord Grey... the man would sooner cut off his own head than see Glyndwr returned to his estates.”

“So you’ll deliver the message, Henry will refuse the offer and then... ?” Hotspur picked up a knight and placed it in the box, then broke into a smile. “What has any of this to do with us?”

“Us? It’s your wife’s nephew who bears as much claim to the crown as Henry. With Richard dead now, Glyndwr’s not the only one who would rather see little Edmund Mortimer on the throne of England. He wants our support—and not just in word, but in deed.”

“Meaning... ?”

“I think that is yet to be determined. Right now Glyndwr is playing both sides, but he knows Henry will refuse him. As for me, I’ll stand by cautiously for now. And you—tread carefully, son. Ousting a king is risky business. I’d not recommend it.”

“Henry did it.”

“And look what that earned him: enemies.”

27

Ruthin Castle, Wales — January, 1402

The night sky glowed deepest violet, clouds veiling an endless universe where clustered a million unseen stars. Before the dawning of the 31st of January, 1402, a dense fog crept from rimed tree to tree, clinging heavily to the glistening snowy meadows in between and crouching broad in the hushed vales. In Coed-Marchon, the twisted woods beyond Ruthin Castle, two hundred and fifty Welsh fighters hid.

Huddled between the mammoth roots of a centurial oak, Owain began his prayer. His lips, cracked from the dry air, moved in hurried whispers.

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur...”

Time was short. He turned his face to the reddening sky, where the orange flames emanating from the village of Ruthin reached upward.

“This time, Almighty Father, I beg your forgiveness. I am omitting the blessing of mine enemy.”

Pressed against the jagged bark next to him, Rhys Ddu kissed the smooth blade of his sword. “Allow me then: Almighty, bless our enemy with rashness, fuming anger and the gullibility that he might fall into our trap.” He winked at Owain, then tucked his weapon beneath his stiff cloak. “And, oh yes... bless the bastard with a proper fear of Gethin’s sword. Amen.”

“Amen.”

They fell silent, their breaths billowing in small frosted clouds and mingling with the mist. Dawn came in silver light sparked with ocher demons that danced upon the roofs of Ruthin. The screams began. Soon, Owain heard his small band of raiders riding from the village gates; their war cries cleaved the smoky banks of fog.

The castle garrison overlooking the candent town bolted in alarm. Groaning in protest, the gridded portcullis was lifted. Grey’s company rushed forth, lured onward by the triumphant cries of the Welsh. In their midst rode Lord Grey himself, eager for revenge.

Ahead of the English, Gethin led his raiding party. Their rush torches blazed like taunting beacons as they sped toward the woods. They rode well spaced, each horseman following as far behind as the mist would allow. When they reached an open hollow, Gethin’s men dropped to the ground, shoved their torches into the packed snow and remounted. There, just beyond the field of torches in a crowded copse, rose the tops of Welsh helmets and spear tips glinting palely in the mirrored light of snow.

In the frosty air, Gethin sat upon his creaking saddle. Only the snorting of their horses and the scattered jingling of bits broke the silence. They waited, loosely clustered, until the snow-muffled clatter of hooves reached their ears. Then in practiced order, the twenty Welshmen followed Gethin. Swinging south of the thicket, the line of raiders dipped into a frozen swale, then climbed over a hill and plunged into the woods.

As the fog thinned and the first weak rays of sun pushed through, the last of Gethin’s party lingered at the forest’s edge. The lone rider paused just long enough to peel back the hood of his cloak and reveal himself. His sweeping golden hair glistened damply in the growing daylight.

Grey’s contingent crested a rise overlooking the valley. Surely, he thought, that was Glyndwr himself, gloating over his destruction. White rage swelled inside him. He raised a hand and they halted. Then the figure turned and disappeared into the tangled woods.

On the western lip of the valley was a rough thicket where a dozen-and-a-half torch fires sputtered. Hastily, he surveyed the scene. A flash of metal caught his eye—a weapon concealed behind a bush there. Dark forms were hunched low in hiding, their tarnished helmets betraying them. Hard to discern in the diffused light of pre-dawn, but there was no doubt they were Welshmen waiting to ambush. Grey pointed to the south and he and his forty men quickly swung far from the copse and into the woods where the last of Gethin’s people had disappeared.

Tudur, who had pretended to be his brother and was the last of Gethin’s party to return, dropped from his mount when he reached the oak-crowded hill where the Welsh lay in concealment. He slapped his horse on the rump. Gethin, still mounted, tossed him a helmet to cover his bare head, and then plunged on his horse back into the thicket, along with several other men.

Catching eyes in the half-dark with Owain, Tudur nodded once then fused himself to a tree next to Gruffydd. They did not have to wait long for their ruse to be discovered.

As Grey and his men came crashing through the woods, the trees came to life. Naked branches transformed into spears and axe hafts. A sea of Welsh blades flashed and engulfed the English on three sides.

In frantic chaos, some of Grey’s party spun about, seeking retreat to the rear, their horses crashing into one another. But even as they put spurs to flanks and turned back toward Ruthin, Gethin and his marauders surged from behind and blocked their way.

“Fight, men! Cut through!” Grey screamed.

The first Englishman was skewered at the tip of a spear.

Tighter and tighter, the English huddle drew as their men were picked off one by one, dropping in pools of bloody snow upon the frozen ground. Grey slashed out, his weapon swinging wildly, striking no one. The lopsided fray was as fleeting as it was fierce. The end came when the butt end of a pike smacked into Grey’s neck and toppled him from his horse.

He lay face up on the cold earth, eyes wide in shock. His sword lay just beyond his grasp. With a jerk of his arm, he freed his dagger, but as he did so a circle of spears and swords hovered above him.

Owain kept his voice level as he stepped between two of the spearmen. “I believe this is when you beg for mercy, my goodly lord.”

His knuckles whitening as he gripped the dagger, Grey swallowed hard. “You heathens bear no mercy toward any.”

Only a handful of Grey’s soldiers had been spared, enough to carry back the shameful tale of their defeat.

“No mercy?” Owain unsheathed his sword. “What a grand idea. I will remember that.”

But it was Gruffydd who pressed the flat of his blade, gleaming with blood, firmly across Grey’s naked throat. His arm quivered with a barely contained rage.

“You may have kept Elise from me,” Gruffydd said, drawing a piece of well-worn parchment from beneath his tunic just enough to reveal its constant proximity to his heart, “but I know the truth.”

Jaw taut, Grey drawled, “Truth? You are late in your tidings, pup. My niece left the abbey long ago after bearing your bastard. It was a blessing the whelp was born dead. The Church would not have her, whore that she was, so I convinced a Flemish merchant to take her as his wife... She carries his child now.” He licked away the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. “It is cruel to envision, is it not, her lying there trembling in pleasure beneath the loins of some other man?”

“I never lay with her. I have more honor than that. The child was yours.” Gruffydd’s boot smashed down on Grey’s bare wrist. With a shriek, the lord’s dagger fell from his fingers. “Rape and incest. Murder and thievery. Is there a crime left you have not committed?”

Then Gruffydd extended his other hand toward Tudur, who gave him a smoking rush light. Slowly, he lowered the flame until Grey’s naked cheek reddened from the heat. “I will introduce you to hell long before your actual death.” Grinning smugly, he stepped away.

In seconds, Welsh soldiers had shoved Grey’s bruised face into the snow and were binding his hands behind his back. Then gruffly, they yanked off his battered helmet and hoisted him up to stand before Owain.

Swinging his sword back and forth at his side, Owain approached Grey. “Much as I want to make a sacrifice of you, heathen that I am, and see you bleed to death here and now for all the wrongs you have caused, I won’t grant you such mercy. That would be too kind.”

Eyes red from smoke, Grey glared at him. He took two faltering steps, the rope that bound his hands cutting deeply into his wrists. Fast behind him, Rhys kicked at the back of his legs. Grey stumbled forward, landing on his knees an arm’s reach from Owain.

Lord Grey knelt before his archenemy on a carpet of blood-splattered snow, the bodies of his garrison strewn about him like squashed flies. Beads of melted snow dripped from the end of his nose. He spat at Owain’s boots. “Raise your God damn, bloody sword and take my head. Do it! Get on with it, you fucking bastard! You’ve killed so many, what is one more? Put my head in a basket and deliver it to London. I care not. You will get yours... one day.”

“I will get...”—Owain lifted his weapon up, then back—“what was mine to begin with.” He thrust the long blade forward. Iron sliced the air.

Grey’s eyes shut instinctively. Cold metal kissed his neck. When he looked again, Owain held the sword level, a teasing inch from his jugular.

“So easy,” Owain said, his lips tight. “It would be so very easy to kill you. But it would bring me a great deal more satisfaction to see you suffer and live with what you have done... and the knowledge that I have beaten you. I hope you live long.”

In slow cruelty, Owain withdrew the blade and then motioned to one of his men. Grey’s horse was brought up and they shoved him onto the saddle as roughly as a miller handles a sack of flour. Gethin slung a noose around Grey’s neck and pulled the knot tight until he gagged.

Grey glared at Gethin. “Going to hang me from my own walls, then? Fitting justice from the hands of a criminal.”

The invitation was a temptation to Owain, but he muffled his amusement. “A sweet sight it would be. But that’s not your noose.”

“It is a leash, Lord Grey,” Gruffydd announced, smiling great and broad. “We wish to keep you close at hand. There’s value on your head, ugly as it is.”

“Gruffydd,” Owain wagged his sword, “I grant you a prisoner.”

By the look on his face, nothing could have satisfied Gruffydd more.

The six remaining English soldiers were stripped of their weapons, armor and shirts and tied together to the trunk of a large tree.

It was midmorning before Owain and his men rode out from the woods of Coed-Marchon. Grey, who had left without a cloak that morning, shivered convulsively. As they passed the thicket which the English had so prudently avoided, Tudur went and plucked up the last fizzling rushlight. He set fire to the helmeted figures, which were nothing more than cloaks and tunics stuffed with dry straw and set on poles.

The building containing the ruthless Marcher Lord was a single room, wide enough for two men to lie abreast and one and a half times the length of a man, but not nearly tall enough to stand in. Once, it had served as a sheep cote; now it was a prison. The floor was a mixture of dirt and manure, his bed a pile of moldy straw. It was comprised of aged oak beams and a loosely planked roof that acted as a sieve whenever it rained. Between some of the beams of the walls was enough space to slide a man’s arm halfway to his elbow. It was through these slats that his meals came and dirty dishes went. The wind funneled and whipped through the cracks like knives flung at his skull. He tried to burrow his way out with his fingernails, but his captors had already thought that possibility through and hammered iron rods deep into the surrounding ground. When they threw Grey in this ignominious cell, they nailed the door shut. He was forced to bury his own feces and endure the stench of his own urine.

As if living in his own stench was not enough, his Welsh tormentors would dance and sing outside his tinderbox prison, juggling torches and sprinkling the walls with boiling pitch nightly. Glyndwr’s oldest son Gruffydd seemed to take the greatest delight in it, circling with the satisfaction of a hawk above a wounded hare. Occasionally, Gruffydd would cease his pacing, glare with judgmental eyeballs at Grey, and chant, “Rapist, murderer, thief, traitor, rapist, murderer...”

Sleep became Grey’s only desire. He teetered on the brink of madness, fantasies of revenge filling his waking moments and nightmares of fiery death consuming his dreams.