Uneasy Lies the Crown

  Table of Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Prologue

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  Historical Notes

  About the Author

  Books by N. Gemini Sasson:

  List of Characters

  Some Welsh Pronunciation and Words

  Bibliography

  UNEASY LIES

  THE

  CROWN

  A Novel of Owain Glyndwr

  N. GEMINI SASSON

  Cader Idris Press

  UNEASY LIES THE CROWN

  A Novel of Owain Glyndwr

  For centuries, the bards have sung of King Arthur’s return,

  but is this reluctant warrior prince the answer to those prophecies?

  In the year 1399, Welsh nobleman Owain Glyndwr is living out a peaceful gentleman’s life in the Dee Valley of Wales with his wife Margaret and their eleven children. But when Henry of Bolingbroke, the Duke of Lancaster, usurps the throne of England from his cousin Richard II, that tranquility is forever shattered. What starts as a feud with a neighboring English lord over a strip of land evolves into something greater—a fight for the very independence of Wales.

  Leading his crude army of Welshmen against armor-clad columns of English, Owain wins key victories over his enemies. After a harrowing encounter on the misty slopes of Cadair Idris, the English knight Harry Hotspur offers Owain a pact he cannot resist.

  Peace, however, comes with a price. As tragedies mount, Owain questions whether he can find the strength within himself not only to challenge the most powerful monarch of his time, but to fulfill the prophecies and lead his people to freedom without destroying those around him.

  UNEASY LIES THE CROWN,

  A NOVEL OF OWAIN GLYNDWR

  (Kindle Edition)

  Copyright © 2012 N. Gemini Sasson

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Author.

  For more information about the author: www.ngeminisasson.com

  For updates on N. Gemini Sasson’s books: www.facebook.com/NGeminiSasson

  Cover art by Lance Ganey: www.freelanceganey.com

  Also by N. Gemini Sasson:

  Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer

  The King Must Die, A Novel of Edward III

  The Crown in the Heather (The Bruce Trilogy: Book I)

  Worth Dying For (The Bruce Trilogy: Book II)

  The Honor Due a King (The Bruce Trilogy: Book III)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In the latter part of the thirteenth century, Edward I of the Plantagenet dynasty rose to the throne of England. King Edward I, or Longshanks as he was later known, was determined to secure his borders and bring the whole Isle of Britain under his domain. He subdued the Welsh by hiring the brilliant James of St. George to design and erect formidable castles throughout Wales and he also invaded Scotland innumerable times, finally setting the pliable John Balliol on the throne of that country. While Scotland struggled for its independence, Wales lay in a state of tacit subjugation that was to last for over a century—until Henry of Bolingbroke seized the English throne from Richard II in the year 1399 and circumstances thrust Owain Glyndwr into the forefront of an Anglo-Welsh conflict.

  Shakespeare best captured the essence of Owain Glyndwr when he gave him these words in his play, Henry IV:

  “... At my birth

  The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

  The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds

  Were strangely clamorous to frightened fields.

  These signs have marked me extraordinary,

  And all the courses of my life do show,

  I am not in the role of common men.”

  Prologue

  Iolo Goch:

  Humble and good-hearted was my lord Owain. He loved his wife, his children, and his home. Above all, he loved the land unto which he was born, as any true Welshman does. He wept quietly when the English scorched the crops and razed our towns, as if he had been burned and beaten himself. He smelled the smoke of fired thatch miles before anyone else ever saw the plumes lifting skyward. He sensed storms upon the wind a day before they came. When the rains arrived, he would lift his face and thank God for the gift, as those around him cursed, shivered and complained.

  When I first came to his household at Sycharth, it was only as a passing guest, a bard traveling from manor to manor. Like too many, I stayed overlong. I was free and content, trading my love of song and words for my keep.

  Myself—Iolo Goch, Lord of Lechrydd—I own a parcel of land which is, more or less, a weedy pile of manure on a scattering of rocks. Scant enough to live on, let alone pay English taxes. Now, I have returned to the home of my childhood—a place forgotten by all but me and one or two others—and here it is that I sit upon my wobbly stool, night after night, wondering if I’ve enough candles to finish what it is I set out to do before my weakening heart gives up the fight. My hands, though—they ache when I hold my quill. My fingers do not always do as I will them and the words come out blotched, looking like flies squashed beneath my fist. Even in the daylight my old eyes strain to see what I have written. I must stoop so low to the parchment at times that the ink smears my chin and nose.

  Let me tell you, then, of my lord, his wife, and their children. I will tell you, as well, how fate taunted and beckoned to my lord and set him on a path he would rather never have known, but for which he was destined.

  1

  Treffgarne, Wales — 1359

  On the threshold of heaven lies Wales. Rugged and remote, it is a land more suited to hunting and shepherding than planting crops or building cities; a land of sweeping moors and verdant meadows; of forests deep with shadow and bottomless lakes concealed in deeply cut valleys. Along its jagged spine running from north to south, the rocky earth thrusts upward, parting the clouds as they drift by. Rivers that begin as a trickle from melting snows grow until they are broad and sluggish with silt, finally disgorging their burden into the mouth of an angry sea. Across the water, beyond the setting sun, lies Ireland. To the east, beginning at the fertile, undulating Marches, is England, ever present and ever persistent.

  In late May of the year 1359, a
gathering wind marched down from the Irish Sea and collided with the Welsh shore. Battalions of marram grass held their ground while nesting terns stood guard over their clutches beneath the hammered blades. A line of thunderheads, dark as death, advanced. Daylong, storm clouds had convened over the cold, restless waters—building, growing and waiting for nightfall just as an army amasses before descending upon the enemy.

  There had been no sunrise or sunset, just the slow, subtle change of hue from blackness to shades of gray and back again in a sky without sun or moon or stars.

  While nature raged, inland the first drops of rain gently splattered on the roof of a manor near the little village of Treffgarne.

  Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan was shoved into the world a bloody mess. His purple fists, balled tight in protest, quavered at the chill air. From between his naked gums a mighty wail issued forth and rent the heavens. In answer, the gods rumbled.

  Outside the stone-clad house, daggers of rain slashed at the windows. The sky was a splendid show of terror. In the thin-soiled hills beyond Treffgarne, snowy-faced sheep ran and scattered. The hill cattle, with their sturdy frames and shaggy hides, being of a more obstinate constitution, packed themselves brisket to flank in the windbreak of a craggy cirque.

  On that lightning-scoured night—a decade past the purging of the Black Death, which knew neither class nor calling, and less than a century after the exigent Edward I had thrown his stone yoke of castles about the necks of the Cymry—a life was delivered to Wales. A beginning amidst the cataclysm. And a glory, as any child, in the making.

  The midwife Enid pinned the wriggling babe under an age-spotted forearm. She blotted at his cheeks with a frayed strip of linen and hoisted him up, unclothed, for his new mother to see. His legs kicked at the air with all his might.

  “He has strength, ’tis certain,” she heralded as he gulped in air. Dried blood tinged the creases in her knuckles. She laid him in his cradle. “You’ll not get a wink of sleep till his belly’s filled.”

  With a steady hand, Rhiannon helped her lady to bed and moved the peat brazier closer. Elen, wife of Gruffydd Fychan, who was off fighting in France, had delivered the boy straining and squatting upon the planked floor of her parents’ chamber. She had cried out not once, though the pain of birthing had been fierce enough for her to wish herself unconscious. It was only the wooden handle of a spoon, clenched hellishly between her teeth, which rescued her mind from the stony bulging in her loins as the baby had rammed his way out of her.

  The old midwife dabbed her wrinkled fingers in a hornmug of water, then caked them with salt from a wooden bowl. After rubbing little Owain’s slimy skin with the paste, she wiped her hands clean and dunked a honey-smeared finger into the infant’s mouth. He sputtered and finally swallowed. Soon, his pink tongue licked at the roof of his mouth and his lips puckered into an ‘o’. She settled the boy onto his mother’s bare stomach, still bloated and tender.

  Dark blue irises, like sapphires sparkling in the bed of a mountain runlet, gazed in adoration at Elen. His left fist, with fingers barely broad as a spike of sedge grass, opened up and kneaded at her blue-veined breast. All the while, his bright eyes never strayed from his mother’s worshipful face as he studied every detail there.

  Faintly, Elen smiled. He winked, or so it seemed, and curled his strong digits around her thumb. Elen crooked her neck to place a kiss upon his salty knuckles, and her tousled auburn hair brushed against his skin. Deep in his throat, Owain gurgled in delight.

  “There now... tall and strong he’ll be,” Elen beamed, then added with a mother’s vain pride, “and charming as a fresh born lion cub. Small and helpless this day. A danger to those who would cross him later.”

  “Lion indeed.” Rhiannon tugged at a heap of blankets to cover her lady. “He’s a babe and soon to take chill if you don’t cover him.”

  Children were born every day. But he was no common child, this smiling little Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan. He had noble blood and much of it. His father had inherited two rich lordships through his descent from the princes of Powys Fadog. His mother’s house traced its lineage from Llywelyn the Great, Prince of Gwynedd, and Lord Rhys, last Prince of Deheubarth.

  So much greatness to be realized. So little matter as he clutched his mother’s thumb, anchoring himself in a world that was new and full of wonder for his glittering eyes to behold. An infant yet, he knew nothing of freedom... or what it meant to be without it.

  2

  Glyndyfrdwy, Wales — 1370

  A cascade of sunlight danced like hand-flung jewels upon the River Dee in North Wales. On its twisting banks, two boys eyed each other with grave concentration, wooden swords gripped fiercely in their blistered hands. They might have passed for twins, but for a slight difference in height.

  “Tudur, think... just once,” Owain, barefooted and stripped to the waist, said to his brother. He stepped backward and lowered his weapon as he drew himself up to full height to accentuate the authority that two more years had afforded him. “How do you reckon David beat Goliath? He was not bigger or stronger. He did not batter him to death or dizzy him into unconsciousness. Think now. How did he win?”

  “You’re no Goliath,” Tudur protested between ragged breaths, his fingers flexing on his splintered hilt. “We’re close to evenly matched, don’t you think? Besides, Owain, how else am I to make myself stronger if I don’t fight hard? It’s good practice.”

  “Agh. Have you ears?” Owain tucked his sword into the hemp cord that held up his hose, turned his back and sauntered away, whistling a made-up tune.

  Tudur squinted at the target before him, and then lunged toward Owain as his blunt weapon parted the air with a whoosh.

  Barely glancing over his shoulder, Owain whipped his sword free and deflected the blow, sending Tudur’s sword hurtling end over end. It landed with a dull thud on the far side of the bank, stirring a cluster of violet-crowned teasel into an abrupt dance. The river between gurgled in mockery.

  “Will you ever learn?” Owain admonished.

  Tudur rubbed the sting from his hand. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “And you rushing at my back was? At least you knew an opportunity when you saw one, I’ll grant you.” Owain planted a fist on his hip as his brother’s lip began to quiver. “Oh, not that. I suppose you’ll start to cry now.”

  Tudur clenched his fists. “I will not!”

  “Good.” Owain returned his sword to his belt like a seasoned warrior and pushed back a yawn with his fingertips. “Leave me be, then. I’ve had enough of trying to teach you what you refuse to learn or even think about and my whole head hurts from the effort. I feel like I’ve been beating a stone against my own forehead. If you would only listen better to Father when he’s about.”

  Beneath the flickering shade of a willow, Owain plopped down on a bed of wild oats. Below, the trickling water of the Dee chimed a lullaby. If not for the stir his brother was causing, he would have fallen asleep as fast as his cheek nestled against the pillow of his forearm. One eye propped open, Owain watched in lazy amusement.

  Intent on retrieving his honor, Tudur hopped over the slick stepping stones that bridged the river and plucked up his weapon, entangled in its grassy bed. As he returned along the slippery path, his balance failed him. Arms flailing, mouth agape, he tumbled backward into the swift waters. Moments later, he emerged in an explosion of curses, his sword lost to the taunting current, and struggled up onto the bank. He wrung out his shirt with a grumble and flung it onto a jagged tree stump, then collapsed, cross-legged, beside his gloating brother. He sniffed and bit his lip hard. An easy silence settled between them.

  A long time later, the sun warming his skin, Owain pushed himself up on one elbow and gazed across the river. His eyes skipped over an argent glint on the water’s rippling surface.

  “Tudur—a pike,” he whispered, touching his brother on the knee through soggy breeches.

  But Tudur took no notice. Instead, he stared down wistfully at a shiny gree
n beetle clinging upside down to a blade of bent grass. He flicked it to the ground and then pummeled it beneath his fist.

  “Will Father be home soon?” Tudur asked thickly.

  “Today... or tomorrow.” Lies were not so easily put upon one as hopeful and fragile as Tudur. Yet what Tudur lacked in confidence or conviction, he more than made up for in his devotion to his older brother.

  They were seldom apart, Owain and Tudur. Although Tudur hovered in his brother’s shadow and always let Owain lead the way, he did not seem to reflect much of his brother’s quickness in learning, whether at swords or books. Where Owain was brave and reckless to a fault, Tudur always gave voice to better judgment. Owain may never have admitted it, but Tudur, in some ways, was wise—wise enough to know better when to yield to caution. Together, they invented stories and explored, turning over rocks at the river’s edge and climbing to the highest boughs of the forest groves.

  Their home for most of the year, through winter dark till sodden spring, was Sycharth. It was only during the height of summer that their mother, Elen Goch, daughter of Thomas, Lord of Treffgarne, preferred to retreat here to the cool glen of the Dee. Glyndyfrdwy—meaning glen of the River Dee—was perched on the pastoral slopes of the valley like a nesting eagle. Somewhat smaller than Sycharth, it was a perfect place from which to launch hunting parties in the nearby fields and forests.

  They had last laid eyes on their father, Gruffydd Fychan, a year and a half ago at Sycharth. Father’s umber beard then had been patched with new gray at the chin and there was a hitch in his once steady gate from a deep slash to a calf muscle he had received at marshy Auray. What little they had seen of him then was mostly a man too weary to talk, too absorbed with long overdue business to teach or mold his children in any way. What little they knew of him was formed in fleeting snatches—a hastily scribbled letter that all was well, an obligatory kiss on Elen’s cheek before leaving once again. All but for that one last winter. Tudur, moon-eyed with awe, and Owain, his forehead tight in concentration, had sat many an evening that rare winter at their father’s knee barraging him with questions that only children could invent. They knelt humbly at the feet of their idol. Every word was a nugget of gold. In the company of their father, they were rich beyond belief.