The very same archers, who only moments ago had sent their arrows into the Welsh lines, had turned without warning on their English masters.
“Judas.” Mortimer groaned as his stomach turned in on itself. He flipped his visor down and headed into the ill-fated fray.
The glow from the oil lamp was harsh upon Gethin’s dark features, cleaving grave shadows above his cheekbones and pushing back even further eyes that were already deeply set. He stood in judgment before his commander.
When Owain had finally regained consciousness, he found himself at Mynachdy, his lower leg heavily bandaged and his head light from loss of blood. Iolo described the battle and its aftermath in great detail to him. The defection of the Welsh archers over to the rebels had inscribed Mortimer’s lot that day. Near to a thousand Herefordshire men had fallen. Welsh losses, thankfully, were only a fraction and most of those had been in the first flight of arrows. Owain’s general, Rhys Gethin of Cwm Llanerch had commanded the fight brilliantly, but afterwards he consented that a rabble of hill women be allowed to pick over the dead and ransom their bodies. And when those women undressed the English corpses and with their knives cut off unmentionable parts, Gethin had walked among them without a word of reproach.
“Sir Edmund Mortimer was taken prisoner,” Gethin said.
“So I heard.” While pleased with that fact, Owain could not have been more disturbed by Gethin’s actions that day. He had trusted the man. Gethin had dishonored the dead. It was unforgivable.
“He’ll fetch a healthy ransom,” Gethin added.
“If I ask for one. You’ll take him to Sycharth for now, where he’ll remain until I decide what to do with him.”
Gethin eyed him questioningly.
With his wounded leg propped up on the table, Owain straightened in his chair. The shift brought a wince and he slouched back into the comfort of its cushions. His eyes went shut for a moment, and then opened with their accusation. “Enough of Mortimer for now. What you have done... it is not war. It is a mortal sin.”
The condemnation wafted over Gethin. Clearly, he would not allow himself to be so casually damned, even by Owain.
Tenderly, Owain rubbed at the dressing around his arrow wound. “I will not speak of it again. Nor shall you. God will judge you for it one day. For now, I’ve need of you. But don’t ever let it happen again. If you do, your fate will be the same. I’ll see to it.”
Gethin’s mouth opened, but Owain stayed him with a hand and pointed to the door. “Leave,” Owain said lowly, his voice choked with shame. “I find it hard to look at you, knowing.”
In the blackness of Gethin’s eyes there smoldered something of long ago. He stared at Owain and turned to take his leave, but before he reached the door, he spun around.
“When I was —”
“I said leave!”
“No, no. I won’t scuttle off at the parting of your chastising lips. You will hear me out or you will do without me.” His words fell with the weight of boulders from a sea cliff. “When I was eighteen, I was newly married and my wife... she was carrying our first child. The English forced their way into our home and... and they raped her.” A single shudder gripped him and he went on, remarkably stoic.
“When she struck one of them, he cut off her hand. She screamed and screamed until he bashed her skull in. And while they did this to her, they had me tied to a post. I watched her die and there was nothing... nothing I could do... until today.” Without waiting for Owain’s response, he left.
The quiet of midnight suffocating him, Owain clasped his hands in prayer. He stared into the lamplight above his knuckles and whispered, “Almighty Father, I do not want this burden. Why then have you given it to me?”
29
Sycharth, Wales — July, 1402
“Get up.”
Sir Edmund Mortimer rubbed the sleep from his eyes as they gained focus. At the foot of his bed stood the one he recognized as Rhys Gethin. Visions of his possessed nature on the field at Pilleth swept over Edmund and he recoiled toward the wall, waiting for the swift mortal stroke of a blade. Behind Gethin stood four guards, one of them holding a lantern that cast a dim glow throughout Edmund’s room of confinement at Sycharth.
“Get up,” Gethin repeated with a sneer of contempt.
Edmund had no desire to cross him. He doubted there was any soul at all to the dark heathen. Never taking his eyes from the man, Edmund put his feet on the floor and asked, “What hour is it?” It had been the first night in weeks he had slept deeply—only to be awakened by this walking nightmare.
“Does it matter? Now get dressed.” Gethin nodded and one of the guards threw a pile of clothing at Edmund’s feet. “And make haste. You’re wasting time.”
They were new clothes, the stitching still taut. Edmund felt the suppleness of satin beneath his fingers as he bent to gather them. If he were to die today, why such finery? Why not a tunic of hemp?
While Gethin and his accompaniment watched impatiently, Edmund doffed his threadbare nightshirt and pulled on a pair of scarlet leggings. Once secured, he then picked up the shirt and squeezed his hands through the tight cuffs. The elbows of the sleeves hung in drooping billows. Out of an almost forgotten habit, he straightened the tunic and then belted it. They were trappings fit for a man of his station and somehow they lent him a sense of being refreshed. The shoes that Gethin thrust at him were fur-lined. Slipping his feet inside, Edmund paused.
“Will you tell me the purpose of this rude awakening? If my time is short, I wish to prepare myself to meet Our Father.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Come.”
As Gethin turned his back and the guards ringed Edmund in a tight circle, he mused on the new set of clothing and wondered if it were at all possible that Henry had finally delivered the ransom. He ran his fingers, still stiff from sleep, through his uncut hair, raking the tangles away. They led him through a narrow corridor, down the stairs and through the great hall to the door of another chamber. The walls were lined with copper lanterns housing candles of beeswax, their wicks neatly trimmed. The lead guard knocked at the door and it swung inward.
Edmund shuffled in, blinking at the brightness. A fire had been newly lit, the tinder still sparking, the logs blazing in full. At the far side of the room, behind a writing table sat a golden-haired man, his temples frosted with silver. An inkwell and plumed quill were neatly arranged in the corner of the table and a single roll of parchment lay in its middle. He did not need an introduction.
Owain rose to his feet and, with a stilted gait, stepped around the table. As he did so, Edmund was astonished at his height.
“Sir Edmund.” Owain smiled with vigor, even though it was late into the night. With a flip of his hand, a servant flew forth with a great tankard of spiced mead. “I never welcome a guest without a hale drink.”
“Guest, m’lord?” The term sat strangely on Edmund’s lips. He held the tankard loosely in his hands, staring into its depths. “I am indeed grateful that you have spared me, but I wish to return home.”
“I would imagine you do.” Owain drank from his own tankard. He absently wiped at the corners of his mouth, gazing at Edmund almost with a look of regret. “Bolingbroke has come to Wales... and left again as quick. He finds the weather disagreeable.” A spark of amusement danced in Owain’s eyes. He seated himself again and took another, deeper swallow of mead. Tapping the broken seal of the roll before him, he asked Edmund, “Why do you serve Henry of Bolingbroke?”
“He is the King of England.”
“Hmm, yes. So says Parliament.” Owain indicated two chairs on either side of the hearth. “But what of your nephew, the young Earl of March?”
Edmund had no ready answer. Feeling the need for warmth, he claimed the chair closest to the fire, but opposite the door, so he could be aware of Gethin’s movements. His own room was perpetually drafty and cold. There was no hearth in it and the peat brazier they had given him was hardly enough to warm it entirely.
“G
ethin,” Owain said, “Wait outside, please. There is no reason for a guard here.”
As Gethin exited with his guardsmen, Owain moved toward the chair opposite Edmund. Each halting step brought an obvious grimace to Owain’s face. Edmund had seen the arrow pierce his calf, seen his brother Tudur race across the battlefield to lead his horse to safety and then watched Owain fall from the saddle. He marveled that the Welshman was here before him at all, let alone up on his feet already.
“Now tell me outright,” Owain began as he carefully lowered himself into the chair and leaned forward, “tell me how it is that you serve Henry of Bolingbroke.”
Why the interrogation? There was nothing to discuss. Henry had returned to England, forced Richard from the throne and taken the crown. That was that. Was it really so complicated?
Edmund cupped the tankard between his palms and gazed into its amber depths. “My ransom? Has it been delivered?”
The fire popped and sizzled. Owain pulled at his beard. “No.”
“When will he send it?”
Owain stood then and took the letter from the table.
Hesitating, Sir Edmund received it from Owain’s outstretched hand. He skimmed its contents. Disbelief, then shock, surged through him. He re-read it, this time more slowly to be certain he had not misinterpreted it. “This cannot be. It’s a forgery.”
“That is the king’s seal, is it not? And the handwriting... Sir Edmund, you know Henry’s penmanship well. It is no forgery, I assure you. He accuses you of collusion at Pilleth.”
Edmund dropped the letter into his lap as his eyes met Owain’s. “Why would I—why would any man...?” He covered his face with his hands to try to hold back the anger now roiling inside him. “How could he even suggest this? I have been nothing but loyal. The archers betrayed me. It was none of my doing. None!”
“It was convenient for Henry to blame you, that is all.”
His hands fell away. “But what of Lord Grey? You took him prisoner and Henry made certain his ransom was met. And he was no kinsman of the king.”
“Grey was not in line for the throne, either,” Owain said. In three uneven strides he was back behind his writing table.
“Do you think... do you think he would harm my nephews?”
“If he did, that would put you closer to the throne, would it not? Perhaps he’s betting that I’ll end your life out of retaliation for him not delivering on the ransom I requested for you—and it was a modest amount, I might add. He could have found the money, if he had wanted to.”
Edmund approached him, the letter clenched in his hands. “So what does this mean? What will become of me?”
“That will be up to you,” Owain said. “At this stage it would be rather useless to kill you, wouldn’t it? Although judging by your cousin’s attitude it would likely please him if I did so. Take the letter. Think on it. Then perhaps you should tell me what I ought to do with you.”
“You haven’t planned for my execution, then?”
“You have no value to me dead, Sir Edmund. I assure you.”
Edmund scoffed. “I fail to see how I have any value to you alive then, either.”
“Oh, but you do, you do. Think on it. Call for me when you have an answer.”
“You’ll let me go?”
“Ah, no, no. You misunderstand me. I’m saying you should take time to think about it. Should you come up with a favorable solution, you may yet gain your freedom.”
With that, Owain called for the guards. Edmund was more confused and uncertain than he had been an hour ago. As he was escorted toward the door, he glanced back at Owain. His chin was propped on folded hands, his gaze on nothing in particular. Having finally met the man, Edmund wasn’t sure what to make of him. Certainly, he was not the ruthless savage tales had portrayed him as. On the contrary, he was almost soft-spoken, deliberate in his speech.
In his room, while the last few hours of night trudged on, Edmund thought long and hard on his unlikely predicament. He had been tossed away by his cousin the king, at whose command his nephews’ fate also rested. Little Edmund and his younger brother Roger were kept under close guard at Windsor Castle. Two young boys who knew very little of the pivotal role they played. He had sworn to his brother Roger, the late Earl of March, sworn on his life that he would protect the boys. It was a stroke of misfortune Roger had been killed in Kells. How very different this whole thing would have played out if his brother had lived to fight for the inheritance that Richard had named him to. How different it all might have been if Richard had ruled more wisely.
How different it all might have been...
Henry had accused him of taking sides with the rebels. Owain was right. His capture, this fabrication of treason, was all a convenient way for Henry to rid himself of little Edmund’s only remaining protector. Did Henry indeed wish him dead at Owain Glyndwr’s hands? Yet Owain seemed unlikely to send him to his death. So what then was it that Owain wanted from him?
As the first silvery glow of dawn pried through the cracks around his window, Edmund took out the letter and read it once more. Then, he gave its words up to the flame of his candle.
Margaret was fixated on a piece of needlework when Owain limped into the room late the next morning. Startled by the opening of the door, she pricked her finger and gasped. “Owain! I didn’t hear you arrive.”
“I have been home some time now.” Each word was thick and clumsy on his tongue. He was beyond exhausted. The journey had drained him. It had taken nearly two weeks for Owain to recover from his arrow wound well enough to travel from Pilleth to Sycharth.
“Oh, how long?” Margaret placed her work in her lap.
Trying to rid himself of a clawing ache, Owain rubbed at his forehead. “We rode in late last night. I didn’t want to awaken you.”
She did not ask where he had been or how long he would stay. She did not even rise from her bench, although it had been weeks since they had seen each other. Her fingers busied themselves with the needlework, flying deftly among the colored threads. When Owain’s foot scraped the floor heavily, she finally started toward him. “Your leg —”
He waved her away. “Improving quickly. Although it begins to throb still if I stand too long.”
In actuality, there wasn’t a waking moment when it didn’t pain him and the scar was hideous, but no need to concern her. The less she knew of such things the better. He pulled off his boots and began to undress. “Marged?”
“Yes?” She came to him then and sat down on the bed an arm’s length from him, her body rigid, as though they were mere acquaintances and not a husband and wife of nearly twenty years.
“Mortimer? Has he fared well in his stay here? I trust he has given you no trouble?”
“No, none. But Catrin, I am concerned, my love. I know she is of an age, but she seems overly intrigued by him. He is considerably older...”
“Ten years, perhaps. ’Tis not unnatural.” He slipped under the covers and turned away from her. “And the children have been well, I trust?”
“Yes,” she said softly, “very.”
Owain heard the disappointment in her voice. He wanted to ask more, wanted to tell her about events, carefully abridged for feminine ears, but the effort was more than he could bear. What does one say when there is nothing shared? Would she understand anything of politics and strategies? He had come here mainly to break the news to Mortimer about Henry’s bold-faced accusations. He and Marged would need time to get to know each other again...
If only he could promise her that he could stay for awhile. But there was so much to be done. So great a price to pay for freedom.
Iolo Goch:
Far to the north, Scots poured across England’s border and raided into the Scottish Marches. The Earl of Northumberland was consumed with defending his holdings. Meanwhile, coastal towns along the English Channel were harried by French fleets. With Henry conveniently distracted, the Welsh, who were still riding on the crest of victory at Pilleth, stormed through Gwen
t and Glamorgan in southernmost Wales to take Caerleon, Usk, Caerphilly, Abergavenny and a string of other undermanned castles.
Castle by castle, my lord Owain was driving the English out of Wales. He was indeed Y Mab Darogan: the Son of Prophecy.
30
North Wales — September, 1402
The Welsh who had once relied on the English for commerce and protection, now flocked to the golden dragon banner of Owain Glyndwr—and that infuriated Henry. Their defection was an insult he could no longer ignore. Once again, preparations were made to march. By now, he so hated Wales and its people that he would just as soon cut them loose as reel them in.
Plagued by reoccurring bouts of subtle illness, Henry was in a reluctant state of commitment. At first, he thought he merely suffered bruises that were slow to heal, but time betrayed that the strange discolorations of his skin were something more. His fingertips were numb extensions and if he did not watch what he was doing, he sometimes found it hard to perform even simple tasks, such as dressing himself or cutting his own meat. More and more he called on a page to do these things for him. It humiliated him to do so and stripped him of his pride, but he would not have others see him perform menial tasks like a clumsy buffoon. Even a sword felt so much heavier to hold than he remembered.
A king must not show any sign of his failing strength. A king must be strong, mighty, indomitable. But how his bones ached. Where was the suppleness of youth? Was this what it was to grow old and infirm? Sometimes it was hard to rise from bed. It was particularly true when the weather turned cool or rain fell. And Wales... cursed Wales was rife with rain. But he could not allow the rebels to mock and taunt him. He would keep his crown. And he would keep Wales.
When September came, Prince Harry was dispatched with a sizeable force into North Wales, while the Earls of Warwick, Stafford and Arundel were sent to South Wales. Henry left from Shrewsbury to delve into the mountainous heart of that rugged country. The weather was the most horrific that any under Henry’s command had ever seen. It did more than rain. It was the modern version of Noah’s flood. They lost as many men and horses to drowning as they did to sickness. Henry himself was consumed by a fever even as he witnessed a dozen of his archers being swept away by the raging Severn during a crossing.
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 17