The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (38 page)

He
looked to the lady beside him and was startled to find her watching him,
listening avidly to his tale. He looked away, unable to hold her bright gaze.

“I
should begin sooner, the better for you to understand. Wales has been a kingdom
for ages beyond recollection, though oft it has been without a prince. In the hearts
of the Welsh is the certainty of their difference and the weight of their
pride. The Normans were but the latest to try to claim the land of Wales: they
enslaved the Welsh, or kept us in fetters, or reduced our status to serfdom,
but their suzerainty was never assured. Rebellion was constant.

“Llywelyn
ap Gruffydd was our last leader, acknowledged as Prince of Wales by the English
kings until Edward I declined to make such acknowledgement. Llywelyn withheld
tribute in protest, was declared a rebel, and killed in 1285.”

“Edward
I made few allies in Scotland either,” Madeline murmured.

“He
was a king determined to unite the isle beneath his hand, one can say that much
for him at least.”

“At
least,” Madeline agreed, and they shared an unexpected smile. Rhys felt a
tenuous bond between them and he dared to take her hand within his own.

She
did not resist. Indeed, her chilled fingers curled around his own, as if taking
comfort from his heat. She was finely wrought, this wife of his, as delicate
and beauteous as a spring blossom. He thought of losing her and hastened on.

“Llywelyn’s
head was carried in triumph to London; his only daughter was confined to a
nunnery; his nephew Owain was imprisoned at Bristol; his brother was dragged
through Shrewsbury, then hanged, drawn and quartered. The crown’s message was
clear: there would be no more seed of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, no more rebellion,
no more Princes of Wales.

“And
lest anyone doubt his intent, Edward had fortresses built around Eryri, a
circle of iron and stone that reminded all of his suzerainty and his power.
Caernarfon, Aberystwyth, Harlech, Conwy, Beaumaris, Flint, Rhuddlan. Even the
few Welsh keeps there, like Caerwyn, were captured and fortified in the English
king’s name. Every child learned the names of those Norman castles, every child
saw their pennants, ornamented with the English king’s insignia, snap against
the sky. Every Welsh child learned to resent what they represented.”

“Foreign
authority, tithes and taxes sent abroad.”

“More
than that.” Rhys smiled that Madeline was no fool. “Towns grew behind the high
walls of these fortresses, towns occupied solely by English men and women.
There were ports, served by English ships, who sold goods to English merchants
in those towns. Welshmen were not allowed to enter the towns, much less to live
there or make their trade there; we were not allowed to hold title to land.
With every issuance of military forces and plague through those fortress gates,
Welsh discontent grew.”

“No
man of sense could have predicted otherwise,” Madeline said softly. “That is a
harsh hand laid upon the land.”

“Further,
on the line that had once been the border with England, lands had been granted
to Anglo-Norman noblemen. These Marcher lords, their holdings upon the Welsh
March, owed little suzerainty to any king.”

“They
could do whatsoever they desired,” Madeline guessed and Rhys nodded. “We have
such lords upon the Scottish March, as well,” she said ruefully. “The crown is
dependent upon them for whatever peace they keep. I would wager that between
the March and that ring of fortresses, the Welsh were allowed to build a few
baronies.”

“Indeed
they were, though the English judges and English law seldom ruled against their
own. And so it was that Owain Glyn Dwr, Lord of Sytharch, a man of some
comforts and a Welshman besides, knew that his boundary dispute with a
neighboring Marcher lord would never be resolved in his own favor. He took up
arms against the offending neighbor and against all expectation, he won.”

“Ha!”
Madeline cried.

Rhys
smiled fleetingly. “Flush with triumph, he called himself Prince of Wales and
swore that he would recapture the independence of the land he so loved. His
army swelled with each passing day and each victory. They ultimately drove the
English from all lands between the Marcher lords and the sea. They even
captured Harlech, which Owain made his own, as well as Aberystwyth, and
Caerwyn.”

“And
Caerwyn became your uncle’s holding.”

Rhys
nodded. “He and Owain had fought together and Caerwyn was his spoil. Owain
established a royal court at Harlech. He put the red dragon upon his pennant,
he sent emissaries to the Pope and to the French king. He resolved to found a
university, the better to educate the priests for the Welsh church, which would
be loosed from the bounds of Canterbury. He dreamed boldly, and he dreamed the
dreams of a thousand Welshmen. He called himself ‘the mighty and magnificent
Owain, Prince of Wales’.”

“He
was not lacking in modesty!”

“Not
he! He was embraced by Fortune, charming, the closest to a king any of us had
seen. His court was filled with musicians and poets, seers and sages, beautiful
women and bold knights. It seemed that he launched a golden age, that the old
Wales of tales had been reborn beneath his hand.”

“Did
all support him?”

“There
were tales of those who spurned his vision, all of whom met sorry fates. But
there was a time, in 1405 or a little later, when it seemed that all Owain
touched would turn to gold, that naught he touched could go awry.”

“And
then it did,” Madeline prompted, then smiled. “It is my sister Vivienne who
always guesses the next part of the tale. I apologize, for I know it to be an
irksome habit.”

“I
am not irked,” Rhys said, enchanted with the sparkle of her eyes. “But you
speak aright, for then matters did go awry. The tide turned slowly but surely
against Owain, and his forces lost more often than they won. His son was
captured in 1406, his brother killed in the same battle at Usk. Sytharch was
razed, and the English seized Harlech in 1408. Worse, Owain’s wife, two of his
daughters and three of his grandchildren were taken to the Tower of London to
die. Those of his men who survived became mercenaries, either traveling to
France to fight against the English, or begging in Wales. They were known as Plant
Owain, and the Welsh people treated them with kindness, for all knew they had
tried to make a change.”

“But
what happened to Owain? I would wager little good.”

Rhys
shrugged. “No one is certain. He was offered a pardon by the king in 1415, but
he never revealed himself. There are those who say he died in Dunmore in 1414,
others who say he surrendered his life on hearing of his wife’s death - still
in captivity - in 1413. Some insist he lives with another of his daughters in
Herefordshire. I never saw him again myself, not after that rout at Usk.”

“But
Owain could yet be alive,” Madeline said. “It was not that long ago.”

“That
is what the seers say. There is a tale...”

“There
is always a tale, when you are speaking!” she teased. Rhys felt his neck heat.
He made to apologize for his tendencies, but Madeline laid her other hand upon
his arm. “I like that you tell tales, Rhys. You have an uncommon talent for it.
You should sing more oft as well, for your voice is fine.”

His
neck heated in truth then, and it seemed his words stumbled from his lips.
“There is a tale that Owain fled the battle of Harlech, devastated that he had
lost all that he had gained. He was burdened with remorse that his wife and kin
had been captured, certain that he could not have failed them more. And as he
climbed into the mountains, unknowing where he went, he met an abbot. It was
early in the morn, the sky still dark, so when the abbot greeted him, Owain
said ‘You are too early, Abbot’. And the abbot smiled and shook his head and
said ‘Not I. It is you, Owain Glyn Dwr, Last Prince of Wales, who have arrived
too soon.’”

Madeline
shivered, then considered Rhys. “You did not see him after Usk, you said. Did
you fight for him?”

Rhys
smiled ruefully. “All men old enough to swing a blade fought for him. I had the
good fortune to survive my youth.”

“You
fought with Thomas,” Madeline guessed.

“We
fought in the rearguard. It was at my uncle’s insistence, for I had seen only
fifteen summers, and it was the reason we survived.”

“You
were able to flee when the battle was lost.”

Rhys
nodded. “Thomas and I lost count of how oft each had saved the hide of the
other in those years. There is no other man to whom I could better trust my
back. We were young, we took foolish chances, but we had both bravado and
Fortune at our sides.”

“That
was why you were named a traitor?”

“Nay.
It was later, in 1415 that I earned that charge.” He held up a finger. “But let
me tell you first of my uncle. Despite his alliance with Owain, Dafydd did not
lose Caerwyn when Owain lost all.”

“But
how could that be? Did he change loyalty to the king?”

Rhys
nodded. “Some say that Owain lost because my uncle withdrew his support, others
say that Dafydd perceived the direction of the wind and acted in his own best
interest alone. I cannot say what compelled him, but he sought an audience with
Henry IV and secured his own future with a pledge of fealty in 1407. He was
permitted to keep Caerwyn as a feudal grant from the English king. If Owain
Glyn Dwr had ever crossed the threshold, however, Caerwyn would have been
immediately forfeit.”

“Would
he have come?”

Rhys
rolled his eyes. “It would be safe to say that they two, once such fast friends
and allies, had become estranged.” Rhys looked down at his hands. “I argued
with my uncle then, the sole time ever. I was certain that he had betrayed all
that I thought he believed.” He fell silent then, reliving that heated
exchange. He had been so young, so rash, so certain he was right.

“What
did he say?”

“
Poni
welwch-chwi’r syr wedi’r syrthiaw?”
Rhys whispered, his voice hoarse.

Madeline
leaned against his side. “It sounds so beautiful, like music in words. What
does it mean, Rhys?”

“It
is from an old poem, writ when Wales was lost to Edward I. ‘Do you not see the
stars fallen?’” Rhys took a deep breath. “It is a lament, an elegy for the lost
majesty of Wales. The last line of the verse is
Poni welwch-chwi’r byd wedi
r’bydiaw?
‘Do you not see that the
world is ended?’”

“Oh!”
Madeline seemed to be fighting her tears.

Rhys
continued grimly. “My uncle said that he believed the time for rebellion had
passed, that we could not defend Wales against England and win. The power and
the wealth of the English crown was too great, and we could best preserve what
we loved of Wales by ceding suzerainty.”

“How?”

“He
said that paying tithes and ensuring order would sate the English king, and
turn his eye away from us. Dafydd said that then we could teach our children,
and train them for the king’s own posts, and gradually gain more wealth than
ever we would win with war.”

Madeline
pursed her lips. “It seems a most pragmatic course. Were you persuaded?”

Rhys
laughed shortly. “Nay! I thought he made a tale that excused his own betrayal,
and I told him as much. But then I left Caerwyn, and I journeyed through Wales,
and I witnessed the devastation left by the war. Crops failed, plague raged,
and the English merchants had left the towns in Wales, taking their coin and
their trading agreements with them. More people died after the war of
starvation than had been killed in the battles.”

Rhys
frowned and let his thumb slide across the softness of Madeline’s hand. “But I
was sufficiently young to believe that all of our woes had been inflicted upon
us by the cursed English, not that our own deeds had had any part in shaping our
misfortunes. When the Henry IV died in 1413 and Henry V succeeded to the
throne, it appeared that the son was the very mirror of his sire. He declared
that no less than all of France should be his inheritance, and planned to
reinvigorate the war with the French crown.”

Rhys
sighed. “We had all been taxed and tithed beyond belief in the name of these
ambitious kings. When I heard that there was again a scheme to place a Mortimer
upon the English throne, I pledged my aid. I thought to see the madness halted,
for the Mortimer clan had a blood claim to the crown and surely could not be so
lustful for power and wealth as the spawn of Henry of Bolingboke.

“The
Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scrope of Masham and Sir Thomas Grey of Heton were the
trio at the heart of the scheme, though there were many of us. We aimed to sink
the king’s ship upon his departure to France.”

“You
were caught.”

“Upon
the very eve that the plan was to be enacted.”

“But
you must have been betrayed!”

Rhys
nodded slowly. “Indeed we were.”

“You
know who betrayed you.”

Rhys
met her gaze steadily. “I alone broke our vow of silence. I only confided in
another soul, for I believed that he would aid our cause. He had clung to the
bright dream of Owain Glyn Dwr and it was rumored that he alone knew the location
of the old rebel’s abode. He swore to keep my secret, but he lied.”