Uneasy Lies the Crown (25 page)

He tried to hide his smile from her. He had said much the same to Rhys in regard to her. How quickly she had wiped away his cares by reminding him.

She turned her face toward the firmament so that starlight glittered upon her brow like a circlet of diamonds. “Yes, maybe it’s hope they most want and need—and who will give them that if you do not?”

“But why me?”

“Who else? Does it matter if the prophecies are true or not? If the people believe them, if they believe you are
Y Mab Darogan
, then let them.”

He nearly asked her if she believed it. Certainly, he did not. No, he was nothing more than a country landowner of a long and distantly noble lineage who had been robbed of his lands. And even though he acknowledged her point—that the Welsh cause was worthless without a leader and he had fallen into that role, whether by design or accident—it did not sit comfortably on his shoulders. But if he listened to her long enough, he might find ways to use it to his advantage to ensure the freedom of Wales.

No, he must not allow her adulation to inflate his own self-image. Still, she was alluring. “You’re as clever as you are beautiful.”

“And you, my lord, are drunk.”

He hadn’t had a drop from Rhys’s flask, nor any drink that whole day. But yes, he
felt
drunk, sitting there next to her. Perhaps he should walk it off, clear his head a bit? “I have it in mind for a stroll along the river. Will you come with me?”

He stood, towering above her, and reached down. She fitted her tiny hand inside his strong grasp in answer.

As they strolled beside the river, Nesta moved closer so that his knuckles brushed her arm.

“I wonder,” she mused, “what will happen after you rid this land of its English demons?”

He shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“How many years ahead have you thought, my lord? A general can lead an army to victory, but a country is made of more than just soldiers. I, for one, carry no bow or sword. What will you do when the English have gone?”

“Go home... and live in peace.”

“But they will come back eventually, don’t you think?”

Owain stopped, turning to face the river as he weighed her question.

Nesta twirled around and planted herself before him, the riverbank dropping away steeply just inches behind her. She tilted her head to pose an even more difficult question. “How will you keep them away? Beg for their kindness?”

“I will do”—he stepped closer to her—“what I have already done... for as long as I need to do it.”

“Hmm, then you will not have your peace after all.” Nesta tapped a finger in the middle of his chest. “Something tells me there is more to you than being a soldier.”

Owain pushed away a curling strand of hair that had blown across her cheek. Leaning closer, his lips parted, seeking a kiss, but she shoved her finger hard against his chest, pushing him back.

“If you want your peace to last, take the crown. Build a nation stronger than its army—strong from within.
You
could be that strength.”

She took her kiss then, as if she would be the one to determine where and when. She parted from him silently, her hand trailing down over his chest, a lingering look between them.

As Owain lay awake in his tent that night, a tiny seed took root in his mind. If he accepted the crown, as some had called on him to do, he could bring an end to untold centuries of wars and raids. He could bring lasting peace and knowledge through places of worship and learning, by maintaining a trained army, by making laws to protect the people’s rights, by forming alliances that would open Wales to trade and prosperity. For hours he stared at the walls of his tent, a gentle breeze fluttering against it, as he thought on a whole new world. It seemed he had barely closed his eyes before Rhys was shaking him from slumber.

While the rising sun was but a sliver of gold above the eastern hills, before Owain set off with his men, Nesta appeared at the edge of camp. She did not approach him while his squire slipped his surcoat over his armor and handed him his helmet. She said nothing while he climbed up on his mount. She just stood there watching, her fingers twined together before her.

When he took up his sword that day, it was no longer merely to chase English soldiers from Wales. A larger purpose, a grander scheme now lay ahead.

Iolo Goch:

Over eight thousand spearmen strong, we took not only Llandovery and Llandeilo, but also Newcastle Emlyn and Carmarthen. In the early weeks of summer, an envoy was dispatched to the Percys with news of Owain’s conquests and an invitation which was sure to shake the very roots of English nobility.

Soon afterward, Owain received a reply: Hotspur and his father agreed that the time to strike against the king was now. The Percys had already sent word to Henry that his aid was required to put down the Scots—bait meant to draw the king away from Wales.

Evidently, Henry still trusted the Percys, for he brushed aside the urgently scribbled appeals from the panic-stricken English gentry on the Welsh border. What the king was unaware of as he began the ride north to join the Percys against Scotland, was that they were now fully in league with Owain and the Earl of Douglas and were themselves on their way southward.

34

Carmarthen, Wales — Summer, 1403

Owain’s temporary residence was a spacious half-timbered house less than a mile from Carmarthen. He had spared it from the torch in a moment of forethought, because it reminded him vaguely of Sycharth with its sheep pens and barns clustered about. For weeks he had longed for a bed contained within a room of solid walls, for there was too little privacy to be found in a tent surrounded by other tents. And the need for privacy was an increasing concern.

It had happened so... naturally, so unforced. Like bending to drink from a stream when his throat was parched. One night, he had been lying in his tent, unable to sleep, his senses a heightened whirl of awareness. The air was hot and breezeless. Sweat trickled over his temple, pooled on his breastbone, and dampened his clothes. Sitting up, he had ripped his tunic off and tossed it to the ground. It did not help. There were no books to read, no hall to wander into to demand a tankard of ale.

Then, from somewhere in the camp, the sound of lowered voices had drifted to him. Perhaps he could talk with his men, encourage them? Too hot to don his shirt, Owain left it where it lay in a crumpled wad and stepped outside. He stretched his arms wide and his spine cracked. The bones of an aging man, he thought.

He had not gone one step when he saw Nesta. Whether she had been there waiting for him or merely happened by did not matter. She was there and he wanted her, had since he first saw her. Wanted her so much his chest ached. Without saying a word, she came to him, joined him inside, and stayed with him until the first birds heralded the dawn.

Arranging to be with her had not been easy in a city of tents, where doors did not exist and walls were no thicker than a sheet of oiled canvas. He might have been less secretive of his trysts with her, if not for Gruffydd. Not since Elise had his eldest son taken interest in a woman. Until now.

Owain stumbled into his room at Carmarthen bleary-eyed and angst-ridden. He found Nesta there, although it was not her usual habit to come without being called. If not for the incident with Gruffydd earlier in the day, he would have taken delight in her presence.

She sat upon the window ledge, one knee pulled up to her chest, the other leg dangling bare with her toes just touching the floor. She yawned and stretched one arm high above her, showing off the silhouette of her deep curves framed in the pale glow of moonlight.

“He came to me,” Owain began, his tongue thick with... guilt, perhaps? “Gruffydd told me, told me he wanted to make you his wife. Asked if it would be fitting, given your —”

“Lack of lineage?” She tilted her head at him.

Owain lowered his eyes. “Not those exact words, but yes, that is what he inferred.”

“And you told him —?”

“Nothing. I told him I couldn’t answer him. Told him...”—he looked up at her—“told him he must speak with you first.”

A long minute passed before she said, “But you don’t want him to have me, do you? You want me for yourself?”

God help me, I do. More than I need to breathe.
He nodded.
And yet I know I should let you go.

“What if I consented to be his wife? Gruffydd is a good man. Very much like you.”

“Then I would not stand in your way... though my heart would shatter.”

She pushed herself up from the window ledge and stood. “I shall tell him ‘no’, then.”

“He’ll want to know why.”

“Perhaps. I’ll simply tell him I love another. Don’t worry—I won’t tell him it’s you. He’ll figure that out on his own, eventually, if he hasn’t already.”

She was more right than he cared to admit. And when it happened, Gruffydd would be angry—for stealing Nesta from him, for betraying his mother. But he could not give Nesta up. Not now. Not ever. So much of what lay ahead was unclear to him. Having Nesta beside him at night eased his worries. Her words imbued him with confidence and courage. Yet why this knot of anxiety twisting at his insides?

It would have numbed him to his troubles to simply pull her close and lose himself in her. But instead he just stood there in the doorway, his feet firmly rooted, his eyes lacking focus, his shoulders stooped. The weight he bore was tenfold that of his armor. He was beginning to wonder if the plans he had suggested to Hotspur were beyond their means.

She pressed a goblet of wine into his fingers. When he was done with it, she took his hand and led him to stand in front of a chair. Kneeling at his feet, she began to unfasten the straps that secured his leg armor.

“My squire will be along shortly to attend to me,” he said wearily.

“There is no need for your squire when I can put you in a comfortable state.” Her fingers flew from one strap to the next. She laid each piece aside with practiced precision. “I have been in the company of a knight or two before you, my lord.”

“I would never have flattered myself by assuming I was your first, but I am scarcely in the mood for pleasures tonight, my love.”

“I can plainly see that. You’ll need your rest. You have much to consider on the morrow.”

Suddenly, he clamped a hand on her fingers. “Did they find him?”

She answered with a glance and a nod.

“And did he agree to come?”

“He’s in the kitchen.”

Owain squeezed her hand tighter. “How will I know if what he says is true?”

There was a piercing sincerity in her dark eyes. “Hopkyn ap Thomas is no charlatan, Owain. He is a Master of Brut. For many, many years he has studied the divinations of Myrddin Emrys.”

“Merlin?King Arthur’s Merlin? The wizard?”

“Or prophet, some say. Yes, Merlin, Merlinus Ambrosius, Myrddin Emrys—they’re all the same man.”

“I still don’t understand why I should listen to this Master Hopkyn.”

“Do you believe Arthur existed?”

He scoffed. “Of course. What Welshman does not?”

“Many believe he will come again and that the time of his return was foretold by Myrddin Emrys. As for his prophecies, there is no man alive who knows them better than Master Hopkyn. If you seek to know what is in the stars, he will tell you their meaning.”

“But I have heard soothsayers before, and they speak of bears and wolves, of boars and foxes, swans and ravens, not men. Things that make no sense.”

She pressed a pair of fingers to his lips. “Owain, to the rest of us it seems they all speak in riddles. You were born with a vision that only of late you have allowed yourself to follow. Do not let doubt cloud that. Go, listen to Master Hopkyn. Heed him.”

“Mind you, I’m curious, nothing more.” Freeing himself from the last of his body armor, he laid it thoughtfully aside, and then wriggled out of his chain mail with her help. Finally, he removed his shirt and leggings. There was no modesty between them anymore.

“Nesta, I lived a quiet life until a few years ago. When Grey stole my lands I could have lain at his feet like a beaten dog, but when he began his selfish plotting to turn me into a rebel, I vowed to become a more troublesome one than he could ever have counted on. I was put in that position. God knows I did not seek it. My only ‘visions’ are of freedom for my countrymen and to have my own peaceful life back.” He was painfully aware, as the last words left his tongue, that the life he had been fighting to return to was the one he had before her, one without her.

“My love,”—she wrapped her arms about his neck, her fingers teasing at the tangles in his hair—“you will not fail. There is too much greatness in you. Your brow was made for a crown. Take what is meant to be yours. Let no one and nothing stand in your way.”

He buried his cheek against the wild crown of her curls and held her tight. “I need you, Nesta. I need your faith. And I will need it in days to come more than ever.”

The face of Hopkyn ap Thomas of Gower was obscured behind a veil of steam. A pair of peppered, feathery eyebrows flicked upward as Owain entered the kitchen.

“A bit warm for stew, is it not?” Owain said. The cooks, upon seeing him duck his head to enter through the doorway, scurried to clear the table of bowls and plates. He waved them away.

In slow motion, Hopkyn lowered his bowl. He stared at Owain as if struck by awe. Finally, he shoved his stool back, toppling it, and dropped to his knees. The bald top of his head shone in the firelight.

“Please, get up.” Owain had never become accustomed to these reverent displays. They gave him a sense of feeling unattached. Back at Sycharth, the hasty bows and respectful greetings were but formalities that were quickly dispensed with. But frequently now he found people kneeling at his feet, drinking in his image as if he were Jesus Christ walking upon water and he found it all ridiculous. “I’m pleased to see that you agreed to come. I wasn’t sure if you would.”