the keen ears of my friend there...”—swallowing more blood, Griffith nodded at Tom, who was now moaning, his fingers clawing at the flakes of rock near his head—“if not for him, I would have gotten Grey’s dagger clear through my belly.”
The bearded man pulled back his hood and smiled in the darkness. “If it’s Gethin the Fierce you seek, look no further. But unless a life hiding in the hills suits you, you are lost coming here. If it’s retribution you so desire, that would take a true fight. Are you up to that, man?”
A fight? Not presently. Sensing he was at last no longer marked as a foe, Griffith ap David let his eyelids drop down and blackness take him away.
Sycharth, Wales — August, 1400
Outside Sycharth, a persistent drizzle soaked the earth. In the room where Owain Glyndwr wrote his letters, kept his records and met with important guests, it was dry and warm, yet quite unsettled.
“Two days?” Owain slapped the summons against his palm. He stomped toward the hearth and thrust the letter over the hungry flames. Then he shook his head, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the floor. “How am I to raise enough retainers to comply with his demands in two days?”
Iolo and Rhys exchanged a glance, neither daring to answer just yet.
The messenger who had delivered the summons quivered in Owain’s shadow. He had been dispatched from Ruthin that very morning, sent with haste even though Lord Grey himself had been in preparation for his own departure to Scotland for over a fortnight.
“Get yourself back to Ruthin as quick as you came,” Owain said to the youth, “and tell your master this: he will march to Scotland without this Welshman.”
The messenger, now shaking visibly, did not move.
“Leave, I said!” Owain was more apt to keep his ranting private and work through his troubles while staring into the shifting waters of the Dee, but this insult had hurled him to eruption. If Grey had been standing in the room himself, he likely would have felt Owain’s strong hands upon his throat.
“But... your pardon, my lord.” The youth glanced up, swallowed, and quickly lowered his eyes again. “Am I to tell him you will be delayed in your arrival?”
“Delayed? It is he who is delayed in having this message delivered. He will get nothing from me in this manner.” Owain strode to the window. “Get this boy a fresh horse, Iolo, and send him on his way.”
Iolo pulled the messenger to his feet and escorted him hastily out the door.
Rhys picked up the letter and smoothed it out on the table. “He meant to do this, you know?” Squinting, he drew out his knife, then plunged it into the top of the letter and pulled it cleanly downward. He separated the two halves, uncorked the leather costrel which he often kept on his person and dribbled ale over them. Ambling over to the hearth, he cocked his head. “He’ll make damn certain he gets every kernel of grain and remnant of chaff you own.” Then he cast the letter into the fire.
Owain’s mind was roiling with anger, but then he caught sight through the open window of movement beyond the bridge over the moat and his attention drifted there. The mist and late hour made nearly indistinct, gray images of everything. If not for the people by the bridge moving into a huddle, he would have found it hard to distinguish them from the buildings and trees beyond.
Only four guards were posted at the bridge. Before them now were a group of mounted strangers numbering a dozen. They appeared to be seeking entrance. Travelers, perhaps, in need of shelter from the dampness? They did not appear to be imposing. On the morrow, he would make certain to triple the guard.
Owain faced Rhys. “Lord Grey does as he pleases and a pretender wears England’s crown. Richard’s rule may have had its own troubles, but this tyranny is no better. Bolingbroke has no right to sit upon the throne while the young Earl of March yet lives. What will become
The bearded man pulled back his hood and smiled in the darkness. “If it’s Gethin the Fierce you seek, look no further. But unless a life hiding in the hills suits you, you are lost coming here. If it’s retribution you so desire, that would take a true fight. Are you up to that, man?”
A fight? Not presently. Sensing he was at last no longer marked as a foe, Griffith ap David let his eyelids drop down and blackness take him away.
Sycharth, Wales — August, 1400
Outside Sycharth, a persistent drizzle soaked the earth. In the room where Owain Glyndwr wrote his letters, kept his records and met with important guests, it was dry and warm, yet quite unsettled.
“Two days?” Owain slapped the summons against his palm. He stomped toward the hearth and thrust the letter over the hungry flames. Then he shook his head, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the floor. “How am I to raise enough retainers to comply with his demands in two days?”
Iolo and Rhys exchanged a glance, neither daring to answer just yet.
The messenger who had delivered the summons quivered in Owain’s shadow. He had been dispatched from Ruthin that very morning, sent with haste even though Lord Grey himself had been in preparation for his own departure to Scotland for over a fortnight.
“Get yourself back to Ruthin as quick as you came,” Owain said to the youth, “and tell your master this: he will march to Scotland without this Welshman.”
The messenger, now shaking visibly, did not move.
“Leave, I said!” Owain was more apt to keep his ranting private and work through his troubles while staring into the shifting waters of the Dee, but this insult had hurled him to eruption. If Grey had been standing in the room himself, he likely would have felt Owain’s strong hands upon his throat.
“But... your pardon, my lord.” The youth glanced up, swallowed, and quickly lowered his eyes again. “Am I to tell him you will be delayed in your arrival?”
“Delayed? It is he who is delayed in having this message delivered. He will get nothing from me in this manner.” Owain strode to the window. “Get this boy a fresh horse, Iolo, and send him on his way.”
Iolo pulled the messenger to his feet and escorted him hastily out the door.
Rhys picked up the letter and smoothed it out on the table. “He meant to do this, you know?” Squinting, he drew out his knife, then plunged it into the top of the letter and pulled it cleanly downward. He separated the two halves, uncorked the leather costrel which he often kept on his person and dribbled ale over them. Ambling over to the hearth, he cocked his head. “He’ll make damn certain he gets every kernel of grain and remnant of chaff you own.” Then he cast the letter into the fire.
Owain’s mind was roiling with anger, but then he caught sight through the open window of movement beyond the bridge over the moat and his attention drifted there. The mist and late hour made nearly indistinct, gray images of everything. If not for the people by the bridge moving into a huddle, he would have found it hard to distinguish them from the buildings and trees beyond.
Only four guards were posted at the bridge. Before them now were a group of mounted strangers numbering a dozen. They appeared to be seeking entrance. Travelers, perhaps, in need of shelter from the dampness? They did not appear to be imposing. On the morrow, he would make certain to triple the guard.
Owain faced Rhys. “Lord Grey does as he pleases and a pretender wears England’s crown. Richard’s rule may have had its own troubles, but this tyranny is no better. Bolingbroke has no right to sit upon the throne while the young Earl of March yet lives. What will become
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