Uneasy Lies the Crown (6 page)

Richard dabbed at his upper lip with a kerchief. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he wasn’t about to go back to England without making some sort of statement that rebellion came with consequences. “Perhaps it was all a ruse, Thomas? Carefully planned from the very beginning. They think to mock their king. My young cousin here is a clever lad. Do as he says: burn the village.”

An hour later, as Richard rode on to Dublin at the head of his army, the smoke of burning thatch blotted out the sun.

Dublin, Ireland — June, 1399

Young Harry was sitting cross-legged on his bed in Dublin Castle, bent over a cherished copy of
Troilus and Cressida
, when the king rushed into his private chamber at well past Compline, startling him. They had been ensconced in Dublin for nearly two months now, with no apparent cause keeping them there. Already, Harry had begun to feel himself a prisoner of circumstance, subjected to Richard’s increasingly unpredictable moods.

The lamplight drew long shadows on Richard’s thinning face. The corners of his mouth were weighed down with a hundred years’ worry. He trailed his hand along the rough stone wall. “Oh, poor Harry. Do you know what your father has done?”

Harry closed his book, studying the king. Yes, he knew. Half the world knew by then. Henry of Bolingbroke had set sail from Boulogne and landed at Ravenspur at the Mouth of the Humber earlier that month. He had then headed toward Pontefract in the north and along the way the people had joined him, shouting and cheering. Even the mighty lords of those northern lands—Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Harry Hotspur—had merged with Henry of Bolingbroke’s ranks. They were more than mere rumors, as sources had been highly reliable, and with each report Harry had watched his cousin rant and worry endlessly.

While Harry understood his father’s yearning for justice, it grieved him to see the king so helplessly cornered. For several tense, volatile weeks, Richard had paced the floors of Dublin Castle, bestowing precious time on Henry’s cause. The loyalties of those that the king had left behind had proven to be as shifting as sand dunes in a gale. Left and right, Richard’s closest councilors had submitted to Henry. If Richard remained in Ireland much longer, soon enough he would have no kingdom at all to return to.

Pressing his back against the wall, Richard covered his face for a long minute. Finally, he raked the woven tangle of hair back from his forehead. “He invaded my land. Beautiful, glorious England. And... and without trial or cause or mercy he has put to death my faithful subjects. Oh, Harry, I do love you. I am so sorry for you. Your father’s doings will cost you your inheritance. I would not have had it so. Dear God, you don’t know how this pains me.” Tears washed over his cheeks. “My friends, my own kinsmen—they all turn from me. It feels as though my soul is in flames and there is nothing left inside me but ashes.” He crumpled to the floor, his head upon his knees, sobbing.

In his nightshirt, Harry slid from his bed. He approached slowly, knelt down and laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. He had spent far more years of his youth at the king’s side than his own father’s. The affection he felt for Richard was genuine, as was his pity of him. “I had prayed the rumors were not true. But please, please... I had no part in my father’s deeds. None. I am innocent.”

Grasping Harry’s fingers tightly, Richard raised his watery eyes. “Yes, I know. You had no part in his crimes. I don’t accuse you of anything. Still...”

Harry wrapped his arms around the king. Richard, unable to endure the embrace, bolted up. He went to the doorway and hung there, both hands braced against the frame as if there existed some degree of safety in its structure.

“Harry?” He glanced over his sloping shoulder. “If I could have chosen a son...” Quickly, he averted his face. “I must return to England. Try to amend matters there. Tomorrow, Thomas will take you to Castle Trim in Meath for your own protection, where you will remain until this is over.”

Over? It would not be over until Harry’s father had his way. Only one end could come of Richard.

8

Sycharth, Wales — Summer, 1399

Margaret fanned her supple fingers over the ridge of Owain’s knuckles. They sat side by side at the head of the table in Sycharth’s hall. Their home was thronged with family and friends. The rafters rang with the echo of laughter. Owain’s family was celebrating the sixteenth birthday of his oldest son Gruffydd and it was much to Gruffydd’s chagrin that Iolo had chosen as his verse the woeful romance of Tristan and Iseult. Only yesterday, Gruffydd had confided in Iolo that the object of his every waking moment was a young maiden named Elise, a niece to Owain’s petulant neighbor Lord Reginald de Grey of Ruthin.

Owain poured a cup of usquebaugh and pushed it in front of Gruffydd, who regarded it with disdain. Gruffydd had never liked the way it warmed his veins, made his tongue feel thick and filled his head with fog. Besides, to him it tasted no better than vinegar.

“The Irish call it ‘water of life’.” Owain winked. “It will put a beard on your chin.”

Gruffydd brought it to his nose and inhaled, then plunked the cup down on the table. “The devil’s own piss. It will burn my insides on the way down.”

“Only the first time.” Owain cuffed him on the shoulder. “Ah! The mummers have arrived.”

Owain and Margaret clapped gleefully as a small parade, led by their second oldest son Maredydd, entered the hall. The children drew out in a line, from tallest to shortest, all ten of Gruffydd’s younger brothers and sisters. Sweeping down from their shoulders were brightly colored cloaks borrowed from their parents’ wardrobe. Sion and little Mary, now five years of age, were more concerned with gathering up the ends of their trailing encumbrances to keep from tripping than playing their parts. Madoc, one of the middle children, stood beside his twin Isabel with a grin that was spread from one stuck out ear to the other. Dewi and Tomos traded punches. Janet clutched a mended doll, the stitched features on its face frayed, its dress a patchwork of color. Holding Janet’s free hand was her older sister Alice, the very image of her mother. Each of the children, except Catrin, who was second oldest after Gruffydd, had a wooden sword tucked beneath their belts of rope. Circling Catrin’s pale brow was a crown of yellow-faced daisies.

Plucking up Catrin’s hand, Maredydd strutted forward. The pair stopped in front of Gruffydd and swooped low at the waist toward him.

“I am King Arthur. Let me present my lovely queen, Guinevere. And these,” Maredydd proclaimed, spreading his arms, “are the Knights of the Round Table!”

The audience hooted. Mugs banged on the tables and feet stomped louder and louder until the clatter was deafening. Then Maredydd swept aside the plates still in front of his parents and sprang atop the table. He held up his palms to hush the crowd. Behind him, Margaret and Owain exchanged glances of delight at their son’s ability to cast such a spell of amusement. Gruffydd, however, was bored of all the regalia and would rather have been alone hunting with his bow—or better yet, somewhere secluded with Elise—than be forced to watch such meaningless child’s play.

“But wait, good people!” A deep seriousness weighed down Maredydd’s voice. Slowly, his hands drifted downward. “There is blight in my kingdom. One of my knights, my own nephew Mordred, has fallen from grace and seeks to destroy me.” He pointed accusingly to the far end of the hall, where Tudur sprang from behind a tapestry.

Tudur flashed a grin and shrugged. In mocking fashion, he flipped back the ends of his long black cloak and strutted into the middle of the hall. Jeers and whistles followed him.

It was in the midst of this earsplitting folly that the doors to the hall swung open and a sagging figure stumbled in. There was little cause for notice at first. More than one guest had already had too much to drink and people had been coming and going all day. Gruffydd’s first instinct, however, was to claim a weapon from above the hearth to chase away the bedraggled stranger. The man looked to be no threat, but clearly he was either drunk or deranged. Gruffydd turned a questioning gaze upon his father.

The smile now gone from his face, Owain detached himself from his wife’s gentle handclasp and moved around the table. Maredydd dropped from his perch to stand behind his father. Tudur whirled around, and then took several steps back. Almost in unison, the children turned to see who had interrupted their play.

Head bowed, Owain sank to his knee. “My lord.”

The hall went silent. Not even a whisper rippled the air. Gruffydd had seen the man perhaps once before and then from a distance. But he knew by his father’s reaction who it was.

King Richard’s eyes were dull and drooping. He moved in a detached manner. The clothes he wore were plainer than even those of Sycharth’s servants, unmended and tinged with the dust of mountain trails. Just beyond the doorway stood a remnant of his fragmented army, far cleaner than him, but looking every bit as weary.

“Your guests are lacking in their manners.” Richard stole a tankard from one of the tables and wetted his lips. Then he groped inside a torn sleeve and, discovering his kerchief gone, wiped at the split corners of his mouth with the backs of his fingers.

Owain shot a glance at Tudur, who obediently dropped to one knee. Maredydd grabbed at the arms of Alice and Tomos and pulled them down. The younger children, bewildered, huddled together beneath a table. Her mouth hanging aghast, fair Catrin slowly knelt, her eyes never leaving the king.

“What are you staring at?” Richard stomped toward Catrin. Trembling, she lowered her eyes. “Have your eyes never beheld a king?”

He looked anything but a king as he staggered around Owain’s hall. The shadow on his whiskered cheeks from too many days without a shave and a bundle of limp, knotted hair gave him the appearance of a cat that had been stranded in a rainstorm. Halting behind Owain, Richard bent over and whispered in his ear, “Get rid of them.”

“Rid of whom, sire?” Owain whispered back.

“
Them
. All of them.”

“M’lord, if you wish to speak in private we could —”

“I wish to speak to you here. Now. I haven’t any time. I am pressed for Conwy.”

Nodding, Owain rose.

Richard grabbed his sleeve. “That one may stay.” He pointed at Gruffydd. “He reminds me of my cousin—young Harry.”

Gruffydd hadn’t even been aware that the king had noticed him. As curious as he was about what had brought him here, Gruffydd had no desire to be privy to Richard’s troubles. Life at Sycharth was, for the most part, uncomplicated. English politics were anything but simple. Certainly, Wales had had its share of troubles in the past, but his father had done his best to remain on good terms with both his neighbors and his English overlords—whatever it took to live in peace. Gruffydd, too, preferred it that way.

Owain turned to Margaret and gave the instructions for the hall to be cleared. It was several minutes later before the last guest exited and the doors were drawn shut. Richard stood in the middle of the hall, his eyes fixed on the distant hills beyond the windows as if contemplating some looming fate.

“They gave up Bristol,” Richard said. “Opened the doors, let Henry in to murder my men.” Then he turned his face toward Owain. Behind his pupils was an extinguished soul. The flamboyance for which he was known was vanished, his fingers unadorned but for the ring that bore the royal seal. “My kingdom is in chaos. My army, hearing rumors of my supposed death, has scattered to the winds. My people... they hail Henry and toss petals before his godly steps. Yet they flee from me, as if I were some ogre afflicted with leprosy. Have I even one loyal man to defend my name? One? Alas, he has turned them all against me—every soldier, every nobleman, every beggar and every child.” Again, he looked out over the hills and flinched, as if he thought he had seen Henry himself riding for him. “Oh, this I swear, by God I do swear—if ever I get my hands on that bastard Bolingbroke’s neck, he will die in such a manner that they will retell the tale even in Turkey.”

Richard was rambling as if Henry had woven some spell over the whole of England, when in truth it was Richard’s confiscation of the Lancastrian inheritance that had severed any and all devotion he might have claimed. Even Gruffydd, just turned sixteen and more interested in a certain young English girl than English politics, knew that.

The king then turned to Owain, inviting a response with a pleading, doleful stare.

“Say it,” Richard challenged Owain. “Whatever it is, say it. I did not come here so that you could tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what I need to hear. Say it or I’ll damn you every day until my death.”

Owain glanced around the room—at the immense timber rafters, at the host of empty chairs and half-eaten plates of food—then at the king. “You must give back to Henry everything you have taken from him.”

Gruffydd cringed at his father’s boldness, wishing he could scamper beneath the table like his siblings had and crawl from the hall unnoticed.

Richard laughed hollowly. “Everything?”

“Yes. Everything. Including his father’s titles.”

His hands on his hips, the king paced the length of the head table. He tittered like a madman. Then he thumped a finger on his temple and pointed at Owain. “I don’t think there was ever a man in my court who spoke half as honestly as you, Welsh.”

“I have nothing to gain or lose by doing so.”

“Ah, but you do. You are the wealthiest Welshman west of the Severn. You have a great deal to lose.” Leaning idly against one of the tables, Richard picked at the food around him until he found a morsel of still warm capon to his liking. “I upheld your right to the lands that your neighbor Grey so covets... but fortune may not smile so pleasantly on you in the future. You in all your golden splendor, with an army of children, rivers flowing in wine, a sea of grain around you—mark me, one stroke of the blade or swipe of the pen and all is gone. All...”—he gazed down at his sullied palms as if he were watching a handful of sand sift between his wriggling fingers, his voice fading to a frail whisper—“all is gone.”