Uneasy Lies the Crown (33 page)

“
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.”

When Owain glanced at Le Borgue, he detected a twinkle in that one dark eye and a suppressed grin. Behind his back, Owain clutched his hands. The bulk of his armor made it nearly impossible to do so. He recalled the days when he used to turn somersaults in full plate armor. How very long ago that was. Blasted eternity. He should have been an old man sitting by his hearth now, singing to his grandchildren and teaching them how to catch trout in the Dee, just as he and Tudur used to do.

Oh, Tudur... you always gave voice to the doubts that I never dared to. There were times I should have been more cautious, but if I had I would have gained nothing.

“Our men are hungry, Marshal de Rieux,” Owain said, echoing the leonine rumble in his belly. He paced back and forth, his thumbs circling one another behind his back. Abruptly, he halted and shoved a hand up through his tangle of sweat-soaked hair. “Rhys, have Gethin cut out the remainder of their baggage train before it reaches the hill. He is an expert at that.” He smiled at Rieux and then wider at Le Borgue. “Tomorrow, we will see how willing the English are to treat with us.”

Rieux grimaced. His patience was obviously being pushed to the edge. “But, my prince, why not end this, now?”

Rhys spat at the ground. “We may be a crude lot, Marshal, but we aren’t idiots.”

“Idiots, no. But you hesitate.” Rieux stretched his neck and a stream of sweat rolled from beneath his beard and down his throat. “Opportunity is in our very hands. Seize it. Do not be blind.”

“Blind?” Rhys said.

“
Oui
... blind.”

“I’d rather be a blind Welshman than a pompous, teat-sucking Frenchman.” Rhys stomped closer. His rotund chest heaved as he jabbed a finger at the marshal. “You can’t even control your own bloody soldiers. You didn’t have the discipline to take Haverfordwest properly. You don’t need wine. The smell of blood makes you drunk. Pitiful bastards. The only reason you’re still in this godforsaken country is that you didn’t have the ships to take you back to Brest. Worcester was a bloody shame. A bloody fucking shame. You watched while Le Borgue and his men unpenned cattle and sent them stampeding down Smock Alley, trampling little children. Innocents dying in the name of revenge. Is that your idea of reviving the legend of Arthur? Chivalry. What do you lusty, drunken Frenchmen know of it? God damn son of a —”

“Enough!” Owain flared.

“— French whore!” Rhys roared over him, his hands flailing.

Owain grabbed Rhys by the throat, cutting his air off. “Shut up! Do you hear me?”

Rhys’s cheeks blazed red, and then went purple as he struggled to breathe. His feet left the ground as Owain pushed upward. The hand on his windpipe tightened. His head bobbed backward. Owain unclenched his iron fingers. Stumbling, Rhys doubled over, grabbing his knees, great gasps for air rattling in his throat like a broken down mare with the heaves. While he gathered himself, the marshal ranted in French, his hands flying in furious gestures, slashing through the heavy air.

The soldiers on Woodbury Hill turned to gawk at the squabble unfolding in their midst. Rieux’s voice pitched in indignation, drawing Hugueville, Master of the Crossbowmen, and other Frenchmen into the heated ring. Le Borgue tried to calm the marshal, but soon enough Rieux was arguing with him, too.

Raising a pair of watery eyes, Rhys looked up at Owain.

“Your sense of timing is reprehensible,” Owain chastised lowly. He hoisted Rhys up by the arm and jerked him aside.

“What is he blathering about?” Rhys croaked.

“You don’t want to know.” Owain dragged him through the ragged lines of soldiers who were wilted from days of scorching sun. When they arrived at Owain’s tent, Maredydd came rushing forward, his features slack with worry. Owain spared formality altogether. He shoved Rhys ahead and through the tent flap, then turned to his son. “Send Gethin to cut out what he can of their supplies. Now!”

Without detailing anything to Maredydd, Owain stormed into the tent. He kicked at a stool and sent it flying into a pole. The whole thing shuddered and Rhys threw his arm above his head, as if it were going to crash down and bury both of them.

“Imbecile!” Owain blared so that they must have heard him halfway down the valley. “For years I have struggled to bring them to our shores, to raise arms with us against the English! With us, by God. And you insult them and attempt to enlighten them to their own faults? You are more hotheaded than they are, Rhys Ddu. What the French did at Worcester was no different than what Prince Edward did at Limoges. Or you yourself at Ruthin and a dozen other places. And do I have to remind you that there were as many Welshmen,
your
men, cutting down the English in Worcester? It’s true. Admit to it. War makes savages of us all. Even those of us who deem ourselves compassionate and just. You are not so different. Just turn your own eyes inward and take a good, hard look.” He paused only long enough to glare at Rhys. Then he commenced his berating. His bellowing hammered against the cloth walls.

In the stuffy confines of the dark tent, Rhys looked as though he had been tied to the stake and the fire had been lit. He slipped his puffy fingers beneath the leather straps that secured his arm plates and scratched. Without warning, he swooned forward.

Owain caught him under the arms. In a moment, he drew Rhys toward the stool and righted it with one hand. Still holding on to him with the other, he gently lowered him. Owain popped outside and called for a bucket of fresh water and a cloth. Moments later he was sponging Rhys’s head.

“Are you all right?” Owain asked in a softer tone.

“It’s a God damn inferno in here.”

“Yes, well, it was just as hot out there with Marshal de Rieux.” He handed the cloth to Rhys, who buried his face in it.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys mumbled. They weren’t words Owain could ever recall him saying before.

“You needn’t be. You were every bit right.” Smiling, Owain crouched down on the balls of his feet before his friend and put a hand on his knee. “Listen, I had to do that. You understand? Foolish as they are, we need them. Now,” he said, rising, “come outside. We’ll see what Gethin can manage.”

“If you don’t mind, I need to crawl out of this armor first. The unlucky Englishman who gave it up to me was a size smaller.” He winked at Owain, who nodded and reached a hand to part the tent flap. Rhys stretched his legs and fumbled with one of the straps that secured his greave. “Owain?”

“Yes?”

“One thing.”

“Say it.”

“In the future, when you need to feign a quarrel with me, could we work out a signal? If it would keep you from crushing my windpipe again, I can fake an injury amazingly well.” In an instant, his eyes rolled up inside his skull. Rhys’s neck bent at an odd angle and his jaw dangled, spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Owain bolted back inside, but just as quick Rhys was alert and laughing. “Hell, I’d even bleed for you. Just ask, will you?”

Owain looked at him a moment and nodded. Drawing aside the stiff canvas, he strolled out into the lavender wash of twilight to gaze at his enemy.

Dawn’s fingers crept lamblike over the Herefordshire hills and rubbed the sleep from the eyes of weary soldiers. Sunlight poured over the green valley, burning brighter minute by passing minute. On Abberley Hill, the English stood at attention. It took all their strength to do so. They were short on sleep, worn to the bone, and had been harried relentlessly by their commander. York had been a sour disappointment for Henry—the whole ordeal over before they ever arrived. Then news of the French landing came to bring them slingshotting back south again.

In his tent, Henry swirled a cup of flat ale and picked at his morning meal. Sir John Greyndour shuffled in and bowed low.

“Anything yet?” Henry asked dully.

Greyndour moved reluctantly closer. “The scoundrels absconded with over half our baggage train.”

Too weary to be angry, Henry found some amusement in their misfortune. “Only half? Ah, Gethin strikes again.”

“I did my best, my lord.”

“You did, certainly.” The king stabbed at a hunk of meat and devoured it. Plucking up a linen handkerchief, he pushed his tongue around his mouth and then probed his teeth with his thumbnail to dislodge a piece of food. “An inconvenience. Send to Worcester for more provisions.”

“That cannot be done, sire. They burned it on the way.”

Putting down his knife, Henry leaned back on his stool. He thought a moment, and then nodded. “A wise move on their part. The French or the Welsh?”

Greyndour shrugged. “According to reports, let’s just say that Glyndwr didn’t stop the French.”

“Humph,” Henry mumbled. “Hereford?”

“I can have supplies sent from there. It will take longer. We’ll have to swing out behind the Welsh rather far.”

“Whatever you can manage. We won’t be here long.” Henry scooped up his cup and doused his throat. “Where is Harry?”

“At the front. Shall I summon him?”

“No, no need. He is where he serves best.”

“Any orders, sire?” Greyndour seemed anxious to get on with this.

To Greyndour’s dismay, Henry shook his head and attacked the rest of his plate. “No orders. We will wait for Glyndwr to yield. And he will.”

By noon, nerves were fraying. French knights straddling their puissant coursers began to heckle the English. Hugueville’s crossbowmen checked their weapons repeatedly and counted their bolts. They elbowed each other and laughed. The Welsh pikemen, who had been propped against their weapons, even though they understood not a syllable, grinned and rustled with anticipation.

Woodbury Hill began to awaken. Gethin, never to be omitted when there was rabble-rousing to be had, unsheathed his sword and struck it against his shield in measured beats. He nudged his mount in the flanks and wove through the tangle of men-at-arms.

Within minutes, the entire hill throbbed in rhythm. The heartbeat of Wales pulsed over the English countryside, declaring its existence, daring to be defied.

At the base of Abberley Hill, Harry took to his own horse. With upraised blade, he sailed back and forth, rallying his troops. Infinitely pleased by his son’s capacity to resurrect his dispirited army, Henry emerged but briefly from his tent.

“So it begins,” Henry muttered. Then he disappeared back into his oasis of shade.

The clamor intensified and so did Marshal de Rieux’s temper. Owain, surrounded in his tent at a table by his generals—Rhys Ddu, Edmund and Maredydd—glanced up from a long roll of parchment as Rieux blustered in. Several tight-faced Frenchmen clipped at his heels.