His voice trailed away, leaving the thought unfinished.
Harry had not budged when he saw the discomfort flare in his father’s face. Always, there stood the unspoken battle between father and son. A friction that rubbed away at already fine threads. Henry knew his son had never forgiven him for Richard’s deposition. Even worse had been the questionable manner of his death. During those final months, Harry had begged his father for an audience with Richard, but any and all encounter was severely denied. In the confines of the Tower, Richard had wasted, his thin skin clinging to his bones, death’s pallor upon him, his mind feebly slipping away. How could he have ever explained to his son that it was Richard’s choice to forego sustenance that had killed him, not that he, Henry, had ordered food withheld? Harry would never have believed him anyway.
Beyond earshot of his father, Harry pulled Gilbert away. “Bring my horse at once. I will ride out with Greyndour to meet the man who so vexes my father.”
It would be fitting justice to witness the Welsh calling upon their old gods to conjure up a tempest to send Henry of Bolingbroke back to London. He wouldn’t miss it for anything. Not even for a cellar full of wine and free rein in a brothel.
When Harry caught up with Greyndour, he was handing over the king’s answers to the one they called Gethin the Fierce.
“Fetch your master,” Harry said to Gethin. “I’ll have a word with him.”
Instead of a flat denial, Gethin gave a fleeting grin and sped back to the lines of the Welsh camp with the bowl of ashes in the crook of his arm.
As Owain Glyndwr rode his silver-maned courser across the open field, Harry was charged with excitement. He knew his father was watching this all unfold from afar—undoubtedly fuming.
Oh, but let him watch. Let him see how it is done.
Owain halted a hundred feet from Harry’s party and dismounted alone. He stayed his men with his palm and looked toward Harry. Withdrawing his sword and handing it to Gethin, he pulled his helmet off and sat it on the ground at his feet. Then he waited.
Taking his cue, Harry leapt from his saddle and also abandoned his weapons and headgear.
“My prince,” Greyndour said, a note of caution in his voice, “I do not think this wise.”
Harry laughed. “It’s not wise of him either.” And he went forward.
Owain Glyndwr was extremely tall and his hair fell in sun-gold waves about his shoulders. His hungry strides betrayed a purpose, yet the smooth glide of his steps displayed a grace uncommon for a man of such proportions. His gaze was cool and gentle and his bearing regal in a manner that Harry had not expected. They met halfway between Abberley and Woodbury Hills—two great armies at their backs and the sun strong above them.
“I applaud your bravery,” Harry said, smiling.
“I have been called a fool of late,” Owain said, “and this would prove me so.”
“But the curiosity was killing you.”
“Indeed it was. I beg your pardon, but I am not sure how to address you.”
“Henry, Prince of Wales.”
“And by what descent of lineage would you make that claim?”
Harry’s amusement melted. He curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist at his side. “Let us not quibble over ancestral titles, Sir Owain.”
Owain’s gaze never wavered. “Is that not how this all began?”
Harry chuckled and shook his head. “Really, now. How do you think this will end?” He glanced behind him at the hill, black with English soldiers. “I must admit, I don’t think my father ever expected this of you. He is a stubborn man, you see. One might think that by now he would cease to underestimate you. You have surprised us all. And with French soldiers at your bidding, no less. We are evenly matched, wouldn’t you say?”
It was oddly silent. The taunting chants from both sides were absent. A long while passed before Owain spoke.
“Evenly, yes. Either could win.”
“And either could lose.”
Owain tilted his head back. “What do you want?”
“I only wanted to know whether or not we agreed... and I think we do.”
Then Harry turned, his head bare and his back to his enemies, and went to his horse, leaving Greyndour to collect his things. He was sure the rebel now realized he was quite a different sort from his father, which had been his whole purpose in this meeting.
When he returned to camp his father berated him and then pressed him for information—of which Harry had none to give. Even as the king flared with indignation at his son, the soldiers glowed with admiration for Harry. They may have cowered at Henry’s command, but it was Harry they followed in heart.
Iolo Goch:
My lord Owain got exactly the answer he expected. And with a very clever twist on Henry’s part, he thought. But Harry, so arrogant in his bold youthfulness and yet so astute, had planted the nagging seed of doubt in Owain’s mind. Years of planning hinged on this event—and how easily it could all come undone. Just as it had for Hotspur.
The following day, Edmund penned the demands again precisely as they had read before: that Henry relinquish his false claim to the throne; that the young Earl of March be rightly crowned, that the north of England be given over to Northumberland and Wales to Owain; that due compensation be paid to Wales for the destruction inflicted by the army of England, that Wales be permitted to establish its own universities and church; and that England once and forever forfeit all claim to Welsh lands.
This time, my lord Owain struck one demand from the document. One single term. He would graciously allow Henry of Bolingbroke to live out his life in exile and avoid trial.
Again, the document came back. This time in illegible shreds. For four more days, Rhys Gethin rode down into the valley and met Sir John Greyndour.
Each time, Gethin returned with the same riposte from Abberley Hill. Furious, the French would send a small party of knights onto the field. The English replied likewise. From both hills, cheers rattled the sky. Lances were lowered as French and English targeted one another. But always, the skirmishes ended the same: some wounded, others run through at the point of a sword, their bleeding corpses dragged back to camp. Nearly two hundred men from both sides died. A terrible waste of good fighting men.
The French were not above picking fights with their own allies, leaving the Welsh a grumbling lot who despised the very men who had come to aid them.
46
Near Worcester, England — September, 1405
On the eighth night of their standoff on the wooded hill, Owain walked among his men. Faces void of expression glanced at him in mere recognition. A bout of bloody flux had left many of them struggling to regain their strength. Half-eaten bowls of barley and beans lay scattered around. Here and there, a soldier lay curled on his side, clutching at his stomach, moaning with discomfort.
Morale was at its nethermost. Owain saw it on their faces and in their words. There was a time when all he had to do was walk amongst them and voices would raise and hearts beat anew. A time when the hope for freedom and the thirst for justice were tonics potent enough to bring the dead to life. He saw none of that now.
The conviction within him wavering, Owain returned to his tent. He parted the flap to find Nesta sitting at the very table over which he had struggled that week. A single candle flickered before her as she drew breath to speak.
“My lord, you look distraught.”
“How did —”
“They know who shares your pillow,” she said with contentment, rising to her feet. “A soldier’s life is lonely. They understand that.”
“Why did you come here?” Owain eyed her from head to foot. She was a far cry from the barefooted girl who once earned her coin by trilling ballads. Instead of a kirtle tattered at the hem, she now wore a houppelande of plush scarlet velvet, the neckline low, the belt high. Her hair, never hidden, was woven with sparkling jewels. The attire did not seem quite practical for traveling into the midst of such a predicament, but then th
ere was never anything subtle about Nesta. Long ago she had kindled his ambitions, urged him to think far beyond yesterday or tomorrow, but well into the past and centuries ahead. Yet something about her had changed in a way that did not appeal to him.
She traced a circle on the ground with the toe of her slipper. Her hand skimmed a gilded belt and then drifted lower over her belly. “I will bear another child. This time, it will be a son... and I want to know that you will acknowledge him and bequeath him with proper station and means. Title. Lands.”
“I have neither the luxury of time nor the inclination to discuss this with you now.”
“This is exactly the time to speak of such things, Owain. My children may be bastards, but they have a prince’s blood. And Welsh custom pays heed to all of a man’s natural children. Do not succumb to the English ways. Their king stands paralyzed before you. A mighty army awaits your command. Destroy Henry. Right every wrong that has been dealt to you. Answer to the prophecies that Hopkyn spoke of and seize the glory that is your destiny.”
Owain, however, was not so certain of that destiny any longer.
She stepped closer, but Owain shook his head to halt her. “I only ever wanted him gone from Wales. That is all.”
For over a week, he had toiled in anguish—ready to strike at Henry, weighing every possible outcome, retaliation fading to reluctance. But as he said those words to Nesta, a sense of merciful deliverance swept through him. It was as if he had been Atlas, holding up the heavens, and had not known it until then. He claimed the stool on which she had sat waiting for him and buried his face in his hands.
“Our son?” Nesta said.
“It could be a girl.”
“Is that what you wish?”
“I wish,” he said, raising his eyes and spreading his hands on the table, “for the health of you and the child and a safe journey home.”
Owain stood, went to the opening of the tent and paused. “I will arrange for an escort for you in the morning to take you back to Aberystwyth. This is not the place for you. Not in your state.”
“My place is with you.” She held her chin firm. Her dark eyes blazed with defiance in the dim light. “I will not abandon you, not even when there is danger.”
He hung his head. “Nesta, take my word to heart—there’s no reason for you to fear for my safety. Please, you will understand. Now... I have matters to set right. I’ll return to you the very moment I can.” As he reached to part the tent flap, he could see the heavy disappointment etched in the lines around her small mouth and knew she had not received what she had come for. “I would never deny our children, Nesta. Of all things, that is one fear you need not carry within your soul.”
At Owain’s orders, firewood was gathered and heaped into a pile. When it was done, the topmost piece of kindling was at the height of a man and a half. As the flames grew, both French and Welsh commanders gathered in a wide circle about it.
“Where are the storms?” Rieux moved away from the heat.
“What?” Owain said.
Rieux grinned. “The storms. You have called on them before, have you not? A drop or two of rain and Bolingbroke might run home.”
An emptied cup in his hand, Rhys brushed past Owain and strode forward. “He’s no wizard... and you’re no genius.”
“No.” Owain pulled back on Rhys’s shoulder. “Enough. No more quarrels. No more. Or the English won’t have to battle us to win. We’ll have beaten ourselves.”
They all stood in silence for a long while—some eyes on the fire before them, others casting glances at the distant flickers on Abberley Hill.
“Gethin,” Owain began, his voice low and solid, “when you won at Pilleth, did your army look like this? When we clutched victory at Hyddgen against insurmountable odds, we were strong and full of fire in our bellies. It takes more than numbers and weapons to win a battle.” He clutched a hand over his heart. “It takes this.”
Opening his arms, he walked to the other side of the circle. “All of you—look around and tell me if it is here.”
Their chins sank. No answer came.
Owain stormed away and a minute later returned. In his hands was the last treaty Edmund had penned. It flew from his fingers into the fire.
“Prepare the soldiers to leave. We march out tonight.”
Only Edmund dared to speak. “But what of the Indenture? My nephew?”
Owain looked at him blankly. “I don’t know, Edmund. I don’t know everything. Just that today... and tomorrow... are not the days to see it through.”
The sight of Woodbury Hill at dawn, barren and trampled, was a bitter disappointment to King Henry. For six years, he had been harassed and taunted by Owain Glyndwr, always waiting for the chance to meet him face to face and put an end to it all. Six long years. The night before, when the towering bonfire had blazed in the Welsh camp, he had resolved that the waiting would go on no longer. He was going to bring those Welsh bastards and their French hounds to their knees and drown them in their own blood.
It was a decision that came a day too late. Soon the Welsh would be safe within their own borders.
47
Westminster Palace, England — March, 1406
The sleeves of his shirt were so over-sized that Henry could easily keep his hands well hidden inside them. His left shoulder still sloped from the weakness on that side, but he had learned to prop his arm and lean to one side so that no one would ever know the difference. The discoloration of his skin, if bared, could not go unnoticed however, and so he had become a master at concealing his outbreaks.
He wiggled his fingers beneath the plush velvet of his sleeve and gripped the clawed arms of his throne as the eleven year old James, heir to Scotland’s crown, was marched down the long carpet of the Westminster throne room. The boy was willowy and fair, not unlike Richard as a youth, but as James’s clear, blue eyes darted about the room, drinking in every detail, Henry sensed something distinctly different about him. Something very keen. Something very... kingly.
“On your way to France?” Henry said. “’Tis a pity the storm interrupted your journey, but perhaps not so unfortunate you came to us, my dear James.”
“I was to be tutored at King Charles’ court,” James said plainly, with merely a trace of a Scottish accent.
Henry leaned forward, his lip curving upward on one side. “I have been to Charles’ court. You might find their jewels and feasts dazzling for the short term, but it is no place to learn anything besides madness and adultery. Consider yourself a guest here... for now.”
He fully expected the boy to bargain for his release, but James simply bowed his head and said, “I thank you, my lord.”
“You are quite welcome.”
Perhaps the boy would prove pliable after all.
Iolo Goch:
Not two weeks had passed between the time that young James of Scotland was captured off the coast of Yorkshire and the terrible news was delivered to his ailing father. With the name of his son on his lips, Robert drew his last breath. Scotland’s king was dead. His heir was a prisoner in the Tower of London. Albany would become governor.
And Henry of Bolingbroke became a little more secure in the fit of his crown. For the time being, there was one less foe to fret over.
48
Harlech Castle, Wales — Summer, 1406
In one of the guard rooms of the gatehouse of Harlech Castle, Owain was conversing with his chancellor, Griffith Young. Afternoon sun streamed through the tall, narrow windows and threw patches of golden light on the tiled floor. A single ray fell across Owain’s palm, in which lay a pair of spurs.
“Madoc’s spurs,” Owain said, his words heavy with sadness. He touched a fingertip to the fine point of one of the silver rowels and pressed until he felt a prick of pain. “I gave them to him the day we left for Aberdaron. A soldier’s spurs. My father was a soldier. I became one. And so did my sons. As a boy, I used to rue every time that my father would abandon us to fight for England’s king. I thoug
ht wars were senseless occasions to bring one man’s ego on par with God himself. I thought, through law, that I could make a difference. How naïve of me. And now, ah dear heaven, I understand all too well. I am as guilty as Henry. I have caused a great deal of suffering... and yet I can end none of it. But not for lack of trying.
“There are two ways I can return peace to Wales. One is to give Bolingbroke everything he wants, including my head, and subject the people of Wales to servility. The other is to stand and be strong. As strong as England. And where do we find that strength, Chancellor Young? We find it in allying ourselves with England’s many enemies.” Owain flicked the rowel, watching it spin, then placed both spurs on the table. He began to pace, hands folded behind his back. “Ireland has not had a fitting king since Brian Boru. Such a beautiful land. Have you seen it, Griffith?”
Chancellor Young nodded.
“They would love to have England off their backs, but they can’t stop hating each other long enough to get the job done. Blood feuds. Their pride runs deep.” He poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Young. Before pouring himself a drink, Owain paused with his hands fingering the stem of the jewel-encrusted goblet. “And Scotland. In another time, perhaps, we could have hoped for more from them. But with King Robert dead and Albany at the helm, that is a wasteland of hope. Albany rules so long as James is Henry’s captive. He’d be a fool to give that up. So what does that leave us with?”
“France?” Young answered.
Tipping the bottle until the wine, French wine, Owain filled his cup to the brim. “You say that as a question, as if you’re uncertain.”
“I have been there, my lord. And I have seen... what goes on.”
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 27