Uneasy Lies the Crown

by N. Gemini Sasson

  “Who are you and what business do you have here?” one of the ambushers snarled.

  Still fighting for breath, Griffith opened his eyes to mere slits. He swallowed and tasted blood draining down the back of his throat. A sidelong glance told him Tom was in no shape to answer. His friend lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Griffith counted the number of his attackers—only four, but it might has well have been forty, so swift and ruthless they were.

  “We seek...” Griffith began, as one of them grabbed his hair to lift his head up, “a man named Rhys Gethin of Cwm Llanerch.”

  A trickle of blood ran from one of his nostrils. It felt as though there were bars of iron squeezing his chest from every side.

  One of the attackers pulled a stone cudgel from beneath his cloak and raised it above his head. “There is none by that name here.”

  “No.” A man from behind shoved him aside. He stepped forward and by the dim light of a starless night all that Griffith ap David could see was the ragged outline of a bearded chin. “Let him state his business first.”

  Fighting against the stabbing sensation in his ribs, Griffith coughed and for a moment it was all he could do not to give in to unconsciousness, the pain was so intense.

  “Your business?” the bearded one questioned, stooping to within just inches from his face.

  “I come seeking aid. Lord Grey would have my head. Mine and other Welshmen’s, as it pleases his fancy. He promised me many things—a pardon among them. But if not for the keen ears of my friend there...”—swallowing more blood, Griffith nodded at Tom, who was now moaning, his fingers clawing at the flakes of rock near his head—“if not for him, I would have gotten Grey’s dagger clear through my belly.”

  The bearded man pulled back his hood and smiled in the darkness. “If it’s Gethin the Fierce you seek, look no further. But unless a life hiding in the hills suits you, you are lost coming here. If it’s retribution you so desire, that would take a true fight. Are you up to that, man?”

  A fight? Not presently. Sensing he was at last no longer marked as a foe, Griffith ap David let his eyelids drop down and blackness take him away.

  Sycharth, Wales — August, 1400

  Outside Sycharth, a persistent drizzle soaked the earth. In the room where Owain Glyndwr wrote his letters, kept his records and met with important guests, it was dry and warm, yet quite unsettled.

  “Two days?” Owain slapped the summons against his palm. He stomped toward the hearth and thrust the letter over the hungry flames. Then he shook his head, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the floor. “How am I to raise enough retainers to comply with his demands in two days?”

  Iolo and Rhys exchanged a glance, neither daring to answer just yet.

  The messenger who had delivered the summons quivered in Owain’s shadow. He had been dispatched from Ruthin that very morning, sent with haste even though Lord Grey himself had been in preparation for his own departure to Scotland for over a fortnight.

  “Get yourself back to Ruthin as quick as you came,” Owain said to the youth, “and tell your master this: he will march to Scotland without this Welshman.”

  The messenger, now shaking visibly, did not move.

  “Leave, I said!” Owain was more apt to keep his ranting private and work through his troubles while staring into the shifting waters of the Dee, but this insult had hurled him to eruption. If Grey had been standing in the room himself, he likely would have felt Owain’s strong hands upon his throat.

  “But... your pardon, my lord.” The youth glanced up, swallowed, and quickly lowered his eyes again. “Am I to tell him you will be delayed in your arrival?”

  “Delayed? It is he who is delayed in having this message delivered. He will get nothing from me in this manner.” Owain strode to the window. “Get this boy a fresh horse, Iolo, and send him on his way.”

  Iolo pulled the messenger to his feet and escorted him hastily out the door.

  Rhys picked up the letter and smoothed it out on the table. “He meant to do this, you know?” Squinting, he drew out his knife, then plunged it into the top of the letter and pulled it cleanly downward. He separated the two halves, uncorked the leather costrel which he often kept on his person and dribbled ale over them. Ambling over to the hearth, he cocked his head. “He’ll make damn certain he gets every kernel of grain and remnant of chaff you own.” Then he cast the letter into the fire.

  Owain’s mind was roiling with anger, but then he caught sight through the open window of movement beyond the bridge over the moat and his attention drifted there. The mist and late hour made nearly indistinct, gray images of everything. If not for the people by the bridge moving into a huddle, he would have found it hard to distinguish them from the buildings and trees beyond.

  Only four guards were posted at the bridge. Before them now were a group of mounted strangers numbering a dozen. They appeared to be seeking entrance. Travelers, perhaps, in need of shelter from the dampness? They did not appear to be imposing. On the morrow, he would make certain to triple the guard.

  Owain faced Rhys. “Lord Grey does as he pleases and a pretender wears England’s crown. Richard’s rule may have had its own troubles, but this tyranny is no better. Bolingbroke has no right to sit upon the throne while the young Earl of March yet lives. What will become of the boy, Rhys? Would anyone cry ‘murder’ if he too met a sudden death?” He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “God help me, but I will not bow to Grey on this or any matter. If I did, it would never end.”

  “If you stand against Grey, you stand against all of England.”

  “Do I? Bolingbroke does not stand for all of England. Certainly, he does not stand for Wales.”

  On the wall behind his writing table rested his father’s sword—the very weapon that had been carried through the bloody fields and smoking villages of France and swung by his father’s strong arm with unquestioning repetition on behalf of England’s king, Edward III. Carefully, he lifted it from its hooks and studied it. The edge had been sharpened many times following Owain’s own madly fought battles in Scotland under Richard’s banner and the binding was worn, but there was no hint of rust on the blade. Even in times of peace when Owain was seeing to his own lands and growing family, he had taken great pains to care for it.

  “Shall we look to our guests?” Owain slid the sword beneath his belt. He had forgotten what it was like to know it was there at his side.

  “But Owain —?”

  Owain glanced over his shoulder. He knew the question that was coming: What will you do about it?

  “Don’t ask me,” Owain said. “For now, I haven’t the answers, my friend.”

  Then he turned on his heel and, with Rhys only a few feet behind, strode through the vast hall, where a handful of servants were preparing for the evening meal and Owain’s family and guests had gathered. He passed his place at the table’s head with barely a glance at Margaret. An ever-present porter flung the front door open.

  Fine droplets of mist hung suspended in the air. Owain stalked down the front steps and over the short expanse of roadway before the bridge, Rhys doubling his steps to keep up with Owain’s long stride. As they moved across the bridge, one of the visitors pushed his way past the guards.

  A man with a short, dark beard and a prematurely balding head gazed boldly at them. Then, bowing his head, he flung his cloak over his shoulders and held his hands wide, palms up, to show he held no weapons there.

  Owain eyed him with caution, keeping a safe distance. The man had a shrewd look to him, with eyes and ears that Owain was sure missed nothing.

  “Sir Dafydd,” Owain said, addressing an older knight who had taken on the duty of overseeing his guard, “who are these men?”

  “If I may speak, m’lord,” the bearded man requested softly, looking up.

  “You may not.” Owain stared him down. “Dafydd?”

  Sir Dafydd leaned on his poleax. “If I knew I would say. He says he will only speak to you.”
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  “I haven’t the tolerance for this today. It can wait until morning.” Owain spun about and proceeded back toward the manor. Feet scuffled behind him. He drew his sword and whirled about in one smooth movement.

  The bearded man had plunged to his knees, but the guards were swift behind him and had already hooked him under the armpits to drag him away.

  “I am Rhys Gethin of Cwm Llanerch and I come to speak of the crimes of one Lord Grey of Ruthin!”

  Owain raised his hand, halting the guards. It was the last name he wanted to hear. “I know well of his crimes. I have been the subject of them.”

  Tearing himself from his captors, Gethin rushed forward. “Then you know the lawlessness that festers in this land. This man, Griffith ap David”—he pointed to him and Griffith shyly stepped forward—“was promised a pardon and an appointment as bailiff of Chirk. But when he came to meet with Lord Grey at Oswestry to discuss the terms, they seized and murdered one of his men-at-arms. He and this other man, Tom, escaped and came to me in the hills of Powys, seeking sanctuary.”

  “Is this true?” Owain surveyed Gethin’s companions, unsure what to make of them.

  Griffith ap David raised his chin. “As I stand before you, m’lord, it is the full truth.”

  “I have heard of your troubles, Griffith ap David,” Owain said. He glanced at Gethin whose features were as unreadable as the stones littering the mountain slopes, then returned his gaze to Griffith. “There are Marcher Lords who claim their herds are much depleted due to you. I am not in the habit of granting favors to outlaws.”

  Clearing his throat, Rhys spoke from behind him. “Yet you are one yourself now. As am I.”

  “Wales has no voice in the kingdom,” Gethin said, “unless you would become that voice.”

  Half-turning, Owain took a step back. He did not want to be anyone’s messiah. He simply wanted to be left to live in peace with his family. “You ask too much of me.”

  “I ask nothing that is not possible,” Gethin said. “I tell you, these insults against your people —”

  “My people?How do you surmise that I hold claim to lead anyone?”

  Gethin lowered his eyes, letting the question hang in the air awhile before replying. “I am not a man who disguises my words. I speak plainly, to the point, and I say this—the Cymry will be ground into dust beneath the heel of the one who calls himself ‘King of England’. He will take from us whatever suits his purpose, as will his minions. For fear of their lives and families, not a single Welshman will resist him unless he has someone to rally to. That someone is you, Sir Owain Glyndwr. By blood and by brotherhood—there is no one but you. And although I may be the first here to say it, everyone knows it is so.”

  From inside the house, the clatter of plates rose as the first course was brought to the tables. Merry voices rolled from the great hall of Sycharth, among them those of his own children. Tiny Mary peeled with laughter.

  He looked at the faces of these coarse hill men and he was well aware of the insults they had been dealt. Every strand of common sense he possessed told him to turn them away, to disassociate himself. He had a family to provide for, to keep safe. But Grey would be back to make him answer for his insolence. There was no doubt of that. And no law would bring him to reason. If someone did not defy him, Grey would be back to take more.

  Owain gazed up at the darkening sky. Above the drifting mist, a crescent moon swung from a cloud of palest purple. Then the wind swept a bank of thicker clouds over the moon. “I have never turned out a soul in need. Sycharth is home to all.”

  Holding an arm out, he waited until Gethin and the others accepted the invitation and crossed the bridge.

  As they ascended the wide steps to Sycharth’s hall, Owain stopped Rhys with a hand on his arm. He whispered, “God grant me guidance, for I have no idea what is right and what is wrong anymore.”

  “Oh, I think you know.” Grinning, Rhys winked at him. “But ‘right’ is not always easy, is it? Grey knows he’s wrong. Flatten the bastard. It’s the only way you’ll keep what’s yours.”

  16

  Near the River Annan, Scotland — September, 1400

  In the moorland of Scotland, the English army was encamped in a broad valley overlooking the River Annan, a hard day’s march north of Carlisle. A cutting wind raced over the dead sweep of heather and slid its icy fingers beneath blankets and hoods.

  “Have you uncovered the Scots, William?” King Henry addressed the scout who stooped before him. He scanned the naked countryside around them. His growing army filled up the vast valley that ran between two rock-cluttered ridgelines. On either side, a swarm of Scots could be clenching their spears even now. The wind carried in its howling a whisper of primal war cries from long ago and Henry tried hard to listen for snatches of nearby soldierly conversation, anything, to drown out the madness of it.

  “If there are any Scots, sire,” William answered with a grumble, “they have disguised themselves as stones. But I do report, with pleasure, that our numbers will be augmented before sunset by the arrival of men from the Welsh Marches.”

  “At last. Good, good. Have them report to me as soon as they arrive.” A servant offered a steaming bowl to the king. He sipped, and then spat it out, his lips twisting in disgust. The bowl fell to the ground, its hot contents splashing on the thinly leathered shoes of the servant. “Toad piss! Find me something palatable.” Then he moved off in search of his tent. Once inside, he buried himself in a pile of blankets.

  As night crept over the world, an attendant came to the king’s tent and announced the arrival of Lord Grey. Wrapped in his fur-lined cloak, Henry waited on his portable throne.

  Grey bowed as he entered, then eased closer.

  “Your numbers?” Henry uttered, his gloved thumb caressing the carved arm of his chair. He gazed into the glow of the peat brazier at his feet.

  Satisfaction danced on Grey’s smiling lips. “As many as you asked for, sire, and more. And enough archers to plant a dozen arrows in every Scotsman.”

  Stretching an arm, Henry took a drumstick of goose meat from his plate on the nearby table and sank his teeth into it. It was cold and dry, but he was beyond complaining at that point. Suffering was part of the Scottish experience. “How did you convince that impudent Welshman to follow you here?”

  Grey tugged off his riding gloves and held his fingers toward the brazier. “Glyndwr does not count himself among your loyal subjects, I am sorry to relay, sire. He refused to come or send any men on his behalf.”

  “Refused? The insolent bastard!” Henry hurled the meat at Grey. “He cannot refuse me. This is unpardonable.”

  “Deplorable, sire. Perhaps even verging on... rebellious. And in times such as these, my lord can ill afford such disobedience. Then again, I suppose it comes as no surprise that a Welshman would defy you, does it?”

  “No, no it doesn’t.” The king leaned forward and pointed at Grey. “You will correct the matter?”

  “With delight, sire.”

  “See to it, then.” He sniffed back the stream pouring from his nose and slumped in his chair, his appetite suddenly vanished. “Take whatever measures are needed.”

  “As you wish, sire.” Bowing, Grey backed away. “I’ll make certain he does not defy you again.”

  Iolo Goch:

  The English were not long in Scotland. The skies opened up and spewed out not rain but snow, turning the moors into quagmires that sucked at wagon wheels and horses’ hooves. The impressive numbers that Henry had gathered amounted to nothing more than a show of strength, as the Scottish army melted into the countryside, never rising to clash with their frozen foes... and more than happy to see them go on their way.

  17

  Sycharth, Wales — Late September, 1400

  Along the road that paralleled the Dee, a wagon laden with newly bought goods rumbled. A driver and three anxious passengers rode in it. At the reins was an old man, silent except for his sniffing. With him were three women—one of m
iddle years and two younger. The women exchanged comments about the weather and hopes that the rain would hold off until they were back at Sycharth. Ahead of the wagon, two mounted guards rode, their hands light upon their reins, for the horses knew the way.

  From time to time, Margaret, who was seated in the wagon with her daughters, Alice and Catrin, glanced at the hills, trying to mark how many miles they had yet to go. The sun had not revealed itself that day, so how many hours had passed since they had left was impossible to tell. Margaret returned her eyes to the road ahead. The broad loin of the horse that pulled the wagon swayed with each stride.

  She had been at Wrexham for three days, exploring the shops there and visiting her brother John. As much as she had enjoyed her stay, she was anxious to return home to see the rest of her children. Yet when Sycharth finally came into view, she was met by a very disturbing sight. Every stick of furniture, every tapestry, every plate and spoon in the place was being piled haphazardly onto carts and the backs of horses. She told the driver to go faster and he snapped the reins.

  Before crossing the bridge over the moat, she ordered the driver to halt. As the wagon slowed, she took everything in. Then cautiously, she climbed down from the wagon. Alice and Catrin pulled their cloaks tighter around them to ward off the brittle cold and followed close behind their mother, gawking at the chaotic scene around them.

  Dobbin the shepherd ran out into the mess, a cage of squawking hens under each arm. He tossed one of the cages on top of a fully loaded cart and then, discovering no room left for the other, darted toward Margaret’s wagon and wedged it in between the sideboard and a bolt of new green velvet. Margaret immediately snatched it out and put it on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Margaret demanded. “That cloth came all the way from Flanders. And what is going on here? Why are all my things being loaded up? Where is Sir Owain?”