“Dafydd,” Margaret said, “is there anything for me in particular?” That sounded like something the children would say, but there was always hope.
Sion climbed the spokes of the cart wheel like a ladder to peer inside the cart. Lowarch lifted a string of fish from the top and handed it to him. “Away with you.”
A thumb and finger pinching his nose, Sion took it, leapt off and raced inside, the string held at arm’s length.
“There’s a jar of nutmeg for you,” Dafydd said to Margaret. “Up near the front.”
A familiar emptiness settled in Margaret’s stomach, just as it did every week when Dafydd returned from market. A thousand such frivolous favors would not have lifted her spirits. Out of kind acceptance, she rummaged through the sacks of grain near the front of the cart. The only jars she found were one of honey and another of oil. She dug her fingers deeper. Something stiff crinkled at her fingertips. Was it possible? A letter from Owain! She tugged it loose and clutched it to her breast, cherishing the moment and at the same time whispering prayers that the news it contained was good.
Dafydd lingered at the open door to the house.
Although there was no signature, she knew the handwriting by its sharp slant to the right and broad loops. The letter was deeply creased, the ink smeared, and there was a small tear in one corner.
“May God, who knows full well the hell we have endured while we have been apart one from another, reward us with heaven when we meet again.”
She read it three more times, turned it over to inspect the back and rushed toward Dafydd. “But where did it come from? Is there nothing else?”
Dafydd shifted the cask. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Gwladys, Lowarch’s wife, who emerged through the doorway to take inventory of the goods stuffed in the cart. Gwladys claimed the jars of honey and oil, heaping words of thanks upon Dafydd. As she shuffled back inside, Dafydd placed the cask on the ground.
“I heard... some news, but only a little,” he confessed softly. “Gwilym has taken Conwy. But they’ve sent Hotspur to take it back and —”
“And Owain?” Margaret asked, her fingers pinching the creases of the letter.
A broad smile parted Dafydd’s thin lips. “Stole their cattle. Was chased by Hotspur. Lived to tell about it. Four, maybe five days ago, near Cadair Idris.”
Margaret gazed off into the distance. To the east on the horizon, the foothills of Cadair Idris pushed upward. A few days ago, Owain had been only miles away. So close. By now, though, he could be anywhere.
“Then we shall have to find him,” she said, “however long it takes, however far away.”
Iolo Goch:
For well over a century, since the murder of Prince Llywelyn the Last on the banks of the Irfon near Builth, the Welsh had bowed down before their English lords. There was peace to be had, as long as we obeyed. But now there was a new king—the Pretender, some called him—a king who sought to destroy that peace.
Laws were set down by Parliament that forbade things we had until then taken for granted. We could not hold office or bear arms within any city. We could no longer serve among the garrisons of the numerous castles in Wales. Welshmen could not bring suit against any Englishman, no matter the offense. We were forbidden from sending our sons to the universities or apprenticing them to a trade in any town. Any Englishman who married into a Welsh family was subject to the same restrictions as the Welsh. Aimed specifically at my lord Owain, the marriage of a Welshman to an Englishwoman was an act subject to severe penalty. Bards were not allowed to travel or perform in groups, in essence cutting them off from their livelihood. Even the practice of assembling to help neighbors during harvest was outlawed.
Still, there was talk. Talk passed from lips of the old farmer who came to town to sell his sheep. The butcher and the cloth merchant talked to any who did business with them and those people in turn went back out into the countryside of Wales and told what they had heard. They talked of Owain Glyndwr’s bravery, his long, noble lineage, and his gigantic height. They talked of the Tudurs’ trickery and how they had stolen Conwy out from beneath the very noses of the English garrison. They talked of freedom and how Wales was once a place that knew of such a thing—before the first Edward of England put an end to it.
In the day of our great-great grandfathers there had been song and ale and food enough to tip the tables. The flowers had bloomed more brightly then. The sun had shone more boldly.
The hills of Wales filled with men, young and old, starving to taste a dream. They flocked to Owain. They called him their ‘prince’.
Some even called him Owain, Prince of Wales. Others gave breath to the name ‘Arthur’.
22
Conwy Castle, Wales — June, 1401
For three months the Tudurs and their outlaws had been holed up in Conwy. Three months without an agreeable settlement. Three months during which Hotspur paced and fumed and shook his fist at the walls while his pupil Prince Harry stood by, asking incessant questions.
In that time, King Henry’s tone had changed from one of patient determination to insult and blame. The letters that Prince Harry received were very clear on that point, labeling Hotspur’s tepid negotiations as ‘an evil precedent’. The letters that Hotspur himself received went so far as to insinuate that he had grown sloppy and ineffectual in his jurisdiction. It was an affront that infuriated Hotspur far more than the lack of funds he was meant to operate on. It was an attack on his character and that is something he did not take lightly. He vowed to finish what he had started and be on his way.
Three months was also a very long time to have your enemy staring up at you with murderous intent. The isolation had worn the Welsh captors to a fray. The giddy victory they had enjoyed at their accomplishment clashed with the reality that the English were prepared to starve them out. Despair had a way of bending even the most iron of wills.
On St. John the Baptist’s Day, the 24th of June, the Welsh bound and offered up nine of their own in return for their freedom. Hotspur intended to imprison them for a time, but Prince Harry overruled him and ordered that they should suffer a traitor’s fate. Despite Hotspur’s vehement protests, the nine men were hanged, disemboweled, beheaded, drawn and quartered.
As the rest of the Welsh filed out of Conwy past the fly-covered heads of their comrades, sitting atop the town walls, and went off to their bittersweet freedom, Hotspur’s throat burned with bile. He had agreed with Gwilym ap Tudur to take nine prisoners—prisoners, not sacrifices. This despicable means was not how he had meant to close the matter. If Harry had wanted to show himself fierce, it would have sufficed to behead them with all swiftness. Such barbarity was beyond Hotspur’s code. He held nothing back when he admonished Harry for the act.
“This is a disgrace to your honor! What man will treat with you now, but one with no memory at all?”
Brooding in a cloud of disgrace, Hotspur left for Northumberland. He had much to say to his father when he arrived at Warkworth and the earl was swayed by every colorful word. His son had been humiliated. It was not wise for any man, not even a king, to insult a Percy.
Hyddgen, Wales — June, 1401
After his encounter near Cadair Idris with Hotspur, Owain ordered camp moved from Llyn Peris. His followers often called themselves the ‘Children of Owain’ and their numbers were now in the hundreds. They traveled south, in the shadow of the spine of the Cambrian Mountains and finally made their base, a veritable city, on the western slope of a peak called Plynlimon.
Several days later, Owain’s army shifted their camp to a deep glen slightly north of Plynlimon at Hyddgen. The grazing was good there and the breezes cooling. A small river twisted through the glen and the cattle meant to sustain them were gathered on its banks, lying peacefully amongst the fluttering grass and short rushes.
On a peak overlooking the valley was a cairn that had marked the way for many a shepherd.
Gruffydd, who had gone there to steal time alone, scrambled to the top
of the rocky cairn and swung his legs over the side. Downy sheep, stolen from the Flemings nearby, wandered the hillsides, content in their paradise. He unfolded the last letter sent from his dear, long-lost Elise and read it for the five hundredth time. Minutes later, he paused to rest his eyes and looked off into the next valley. The sun was blindingly bright and he blinked to regain his vision. As the world sharpened, his pulse began to race wildly. The sheep lifted their heads, then took to flight.
“Holy Mother of Christ!” he muttered, for he saw a great army approaching. As he lowered himself, the letter slipped from his fingers. He dropped to the ground and reached for it, but a gust of wind blew it several feet away. Desperate, he dove for it, but the wind took it again. By now, he could hear them coming. Against caution, he scampered after the letter once more, grabbed it by the corner just as another gust buffeted him and ran for his life back to camp.
It was Gethin who snatched him in mid-stride and put a lock on Gruffydd’s shoulders, waiting for the boy to catch his breath. “What is it?”
Owain and several others worked their way through the little city of tents and came to stand behind Gethin.
His heart hammering at his ribs, Gruffydd looked toward his father. “An army!” He pointed toward the ridge line. A line of spearheads flashed against the light of a setting sun.
Moments later, a wave of Flemings broke over the mountain. In recent years, a great number of Flemings had immigrated to these parts to deal in the wool trade and they were indebted to the English crown. Thus, the unrest caused by the Welsh uprising had not been to their liking. Threats had been issued, warning the Welsh army to disperse. Owain had thought it merely idle prattle. Obviously, it had not been. Three times the size of the Welsh army, they flooded down into the valley, a river of swords and spears and poleaxes, rushing unstoppably onward. The Welsh camp erupted in pandemonium.
Owain bounded onto a boulder and thrust his sword in the air. “To arms, brave men! Keep your brothers at your back! Break their lines!”
They grabbed up their weapons. Those that kept their blades always at their sides reached the edge of camp just as the initial impact of Flemings struck. A great clang shook the sky. The screams of dying Welshmen rang out. In every direction, Flemish soldiers beat at the ragged lines of the Welsh, tearing them apart like wet pieces of parchment. The spontaneous defense of the Welsh crumpled under the weighty onslaught. One after another, Welsh warriors fell to the ground in bloody pools.
Gethin and Rhys, side by side, levied their swords against the endless wave of attack with such ferocity that those Flemings they encountered in the lopsided fray yielded. Bit by bit, the two seasoned warriors gained ground and those next to them saw their great courage and took strength in it.
For a brief while, Gruffydd stood clenching his sword, unsure of what to do. He had lost sight of his brother Maredydd. Pushing his way through the confusion, he at last spotted him, engaged with a Fleming twice his age and far more experienced. With a roar, Gruffydd rushed forward. He did not stop until his sword point pierced the Fleming’s belly clear to his spine. Gruffydd yanked his weapon free and the Fleming fell face forward between them.
On his horse now, Owain swept through the melee—a god-like figure with his golden mane flowing behind him and his sword taking down a man with every swing. As he urged his soldiers on by name, the Welsh began to fight with a strength larger than the mountains.
The Flemings had numbers, but they did not have the heart of the Welsh. Their attack was not a well-planned one and soon their lines ebbed. Bodies of Flemings began to pile on top of Welsh ones.
A small pocket of Flemings broke and ran. Soon it was a stream. Then a river.
A short hour after the assault had begun, two hundred Welshmen lay lifeless in a meadow of carmine. Over four hundred and fifty Flemings had given up their lives. Owain walked among the ravaged bodies, searching the faces. Between his thumb and forefinger he rubbed at a coin—the Roman coin Richard had given him. As he bent over and laid hands on a body that was face down—hair the same color and length as his Gruffydd’s—the coin fell onto the trampled, blood-stained grass. He grappled at the young man’s bloody shirt and, breath held, turned him over. His heart leapt wildly to discover it was not his son.
Iolo Goch:
The tale of Owain’s victory at Hyddgen spread far and wide. Welshmen, old and young, uchelwyr and peasants, came to join in the cause. A new age had come to Wales. A golden age, for we had a golden prince. That summer, the hills echoed with the song of bards and an army arose, the likes of which had not been known in the land for centuries.
From the highest summit of the five peaks of Plynlimon, the enemy could be spotted miles away. To the northeast ran the first rivulet that would become the broad waters of the mighty Severn; on the southeast slopes, where a crease formed between two of the peaks, the headwaters of the Wye rushed cold and clear.
The exultant wave of the victory at Hyddgen hurtled them through New Radnor, Montgomery and Welshpool. Heralding their leader, a new banner waved boldly: the golden dragon of Wales. Gone were the days of hiding away in mountain caves and stealing cattle. King Henry IV of England, sitting content in London, would soon learn of their triumphs.
23
Plynlimon, Wales — June, 1401
A great cheer rose up in the camp as Owain galloped into its midst. The returning soldiers passed out the casks of wine they had brought back from their raid into Radnorshire. They whooped with glee as they did so, tossing their loot into greedy hands and unloading sacks of grain and fresh vegetables.
As Owain dismounted, Iolo rushed up to greet him. This life of roving outdoors had not been to Iolo’s liking, but the tales of their endeavors had filled his genius to overflowing.
“Ah! There will be song tonight,” Iolo trilled, his delicately framed mouth spreading into a huge smile. “I’ve just finished a new ode in your honor, my lord. I think you’ll be pleased. I know Lady Margaret will be delighted to hear it. But first, if you could grant your approval, it would mean much to me.”
Owain tied his horse’s reins to a tent stake. He glanced down at his surcoat and seeing the blood there he unbelted it and lifted it over his head. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
Iolo’s smile drooped. “You are exhausted, certainly. A little rest should restore you.”
Loud cries of “One, two, heave!” went up as wood was gathered and catapulted into a huge bonfire. The clamor of celebration grew.
Eager to bed down, Owain started toward the flap of his tent and then paused, looking back at Iolo. “Could you... could you bring some wine? Otherwise, I shall not sleep.”
“Of course.”
A short minute later, Iolo had returned. In his right hand, he held two jeweled goblets by the stem and in the crook of his left arm he clutched a small cask to his chest. “Judging by these goblets, you’ve had good success.”
Owain’s page worked with silent speed, fingers flying over the laces of his plate armor. When Owain was finally free of his chainmail, he took a sip of wine from his goblet. Then he set it down on a small table where the page had placed a basin of clean water for him. Repeatedly, Owain cupped the water in his hands and splashed it on his face to rinse the soot away. “Lord Charlton finally stopped us at Welshpool. But this time we left our mark.”
“Welshpool? The king will hear of that.”
Owain pulled on the clean shirt the page laid out for him and settled himself on a cushioned stool across from Iolo. With a flip of his hand the page scurried out. “He will hear of New Radnor, as well.”
“New Radnor? What went on there?” By now Iolo was seated and leaning forward, waiting for the first strand of a story to unfold.
“We captured the entire garrison.” He drained his goblet in one swallow.
“You have prisoners, then?”
“No.” Owain winced. “They are headless. All sixty.”
For a long minute it was painfully quiet inside the tent. Beyond the canva
s walls, the drunken song of victory filled the valley.
Iolo studied his benefactor long and hard before asking, “Why so?”
“Conwy,” Owain uttered.
But it was only one of many reasons. Owain meant to send a message to other English constables in Wales. Now that it was done it left him feeling anything but vindicated for the usurpation of the English throne from King Richard, the seizure of his lands, and the murder of nine Welshmen at Conwy. He stared at his distorted image reflected on the side of his goblet.
Rhys Ddu popped his head of wild black hair into the tent. “Ah, celebrating alone, I see.”
“Owain, I... if you don’t mind... I would like to join the others.” Iolo rose. “Every harp in the camp will be possessed with song. Verse flows like a fountain when coaxed forth by good wine.”
Dully, Owain nodded as Iolo left.
Rhys stepped inside. “I have just the thing to revive wearied bones. I shall send my girl along—ah, what is her name?” He scratched his head. “It will come to me later. You’ll sleep well afterward. Like a babe at his mother’s breast.”
When she came, Owain recognized her but vaguely from the time he had returned from Cadair Idris with Maredydd. On that night, she had kneaded at his stiff shoulders and although she had obviously been meant to be available for his needs, he had resisted. He lay stomach down on his bed as he had before. She trickled her little vial of oil onto her supple fingers and fanned them over his back. He closed his eyes and tried to forget the heinous scene at New Radnor in the castle yard. But the scents and sounds came back to him, even above the sweet-smelling oil and the warbling of his men: the iron tang of blood, the whack of an axe blade falling, and the dense thud of a head striking the ground. He had witnessed only the first few, but the sight of sixty heads crowning the walls of the castle as he rode away were forever seared upon his mind.
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 13