Authors: Lynn Granville
Rosamund was desperately unhappy as she took her leave of the King after Morgan had departed. Richard did not like emotional scenes, so she did not cling to him or beg him not to leave her behind, but though she held her head high she could not keep the sparkle of tears from her eyes.
'I pray that we shall meet again one day, Sire.'
Richard took her hand and carried it to his lips. He loved her as much as he had ever loved a woman, but she was not his lover. He had been tempted to take her to his bed when she came to him, for he had wanted her since he first saw her at his court. Yet to dishonour her, now when he knew not what was to happen, would be an evil thing. She must be able to return to her husband if need be with her head held high.
After what she had told him of de Grenville's behaviour towards her that knight would soon find himself on service in some foreign land, hopefully to die there of his wounds or a fever. He would certainly never be allowed to mistreat her again – and if things went well perhaps…
'Be of brave heart,' he told her. 'When I am in London I shall send for you.'
Rosamund was silent, remembering the fear that had possessed her on waking from a dream a few days earlier. That shooting star had seemed to be the harbinger of evil, and now she was very afraid that something terrible was about to happen.
'I shall pray for that day,' she said. 'May God keep and protect you, Richard.'
'Amen to that,' he said and smiled wearily. 'I must leave you now, sweet lady, for I have councillors waiting to discuss the meeting with Bolingbroke.'
'Did any warn against it?' Rosamund asked, for she knew that he had spent many hours in discussion with men who had persuaded him that he must meet with his enemy.
'Some but I have made up my own mind that this must be.'
Rosamund said no more for she knew he would not listen. As a youth he had been dictated to too often and it had made him stubborn, but she wondered at the wisdom of trusting Henry Bolingbroke. If Morgan Gruffudd thought it unwise…but he was merely a Welsh singer. Or was he? She had never quite believed in his story, though his voice was beautiful and there was no reason to suppose he was lying – and yet the way he had swooped down on the rogues attacking her that morning had made her think him a fighting man.
Why should he pretend to be other than he was? She wondered if she had been wise to recommend him to Richard as their messenger, and yet there was no one else she could spare. She needed all her men-at-arms, for Richard had bade her hold the castle for as long as he lived.
'If you hear that I am dead, you must decide what to do for your own sake,' he had told her. 'But until then hold true for me, Rosamund.'
She had sworn that she would, and given him a kiss to seal her promise. For a moment they had clung together and she had wished that he would carry her to his bed, but knew that he loved her too well. He would not dishonour her lest she be forced to return to her husband one day.
She would never, never do that! Rosamund vowed fiercely to herself. This little time of freedom had taught her that she would rather die than submit to Philip again.
*
Richard was full of confidence as he set out towards the meeting with Bolingbroke that morning. He had been persuaded by the Earl of Northumberland, and Arundel the former Archbishop of Canterbury, that it was the best way forward. Morgan was with the King's party, which had left Conway an hour earlier than Lady Rosamund and her people. There was an atmosphere of tension amongst some of the men for despite Richard's manner, which seemed one of determined cheerfulness, some were uneasy.
Morgan knew most of the men by sight now, but though accepted outwardly by them, he had met no one he could talk to, as he would have Thomas Bridger. For the most part he rode in silence, the sense that something was wrong growing steadily inside him, his eyes on the King's back. It would not have surprised him had an attack come while they were in the forest for he suspected treachery and thought the King foolish to have abandoned a position of strength.
Richard's army was by all accounts no match for the one Bolingbroke had amassed against him but had the King remained at Conway he might have held out for some months, and by then perhaps others would have rallied to his cause.
Morgan was surprised when during a break to rest their horses, Richard sent for him. He was standing a little apart, staring into the distance, his back towards Morgan when he approached, almost as if he scorned to take any precautions for his safety.
'You sent for me, Sire?'
Richard turned and Morgan was struck by his expression.
'Ah, my lady's singer of songs,' he said and smiled oddly. 'I wished for some private words with you.'
Morgan inclined his head, waiting as he was silent once more. There was an air of resignation about the King, almost as if he were expecting…his own death? Something in his eyes told Morgan that he knew or suspected more than he had indicated to Rosamund. No fool then, but perhaps a man who believed too strongly in his own right to rule. A man who was prepared to die rather than surrender those rights he cherished.
'If anything should happen…' Richard took a ring from his little finger and handed it to Morgan. 'Give this to your lady. Tell her that if I should be killed and she should need help there are men who might offer her shelter. If she is in trouble she should place herself under the protection of Hotspur or Thomas Percy. Even if they take my enemy's side now, I believe them both to be as honest as any man in my realm. They will not deal well with Bolingbroke and the day may come…' He broke off, shaking his head as if to clear it of unwelcome thoughts.
Morgan glanced at the ring, then placed it safely within his clothing. It was fashioned of gold and wrought in the shape of a pair of clasped hands with a small ruby at its centre.
'I shall carry your message faithfully, Sire.'
'If we are attacked you must get away and warn her. Go at once to your lady, for she will need you more than I.'
'It shall be as you command.'
For a moment the King's sad eyes dwelt on him.
'Like others of your race you think I have acted out of self interest and greed in Wales, but what was done was done for the good of my realm as a whole. I sought to bring peace to my people. War can only bring ruin and hardship. For this land to be at peace it must be united under one strong hand. Before God, I have done my duty. I ask only that one day men shall say of me that I tried to bring good to this land and its peoples.'
Morgan made no reply. He had been taught to hate the English as a nation of conquerors and to long for the day when the yoke of oppression could be cast off. Yet for a moment in this man that many reviled as a tyrant he saw sincerity and one other thing - that the burden of kingship was heavy for a man to carry alone. Perhaps this man had done what he believed right by his standards but he had succeeded only in stirring up hatred and resentment against him.
Richard made a gesture of dismissal and Morgan went back to join the other men, who were talking uneasily amongst themselves. He sensed that their unease was growing and there were murmurs that they should turn back while there was still time and make their stand at Conway.
The respite was brief and soon they were riding again. The attack came towards evening. They had been making good time, anxious to reach a secure place before stopping to make camp for the night. Suddenly, without warning, they were surrounded by a superior force of men-at-arms and, in the trees, Bowmen could be glimpsed in the failing light.
Some of the King's men drew their swords, prepared to defend their lord and themselves
to the death, but before they could do more than look about them and shout to one another, a hail of arrows came at them, cutting down men and horses indiscriminately. Pandemonium broke out as they tried to rally themselves into a fighting unit, jostling and manoeuvring for position, but the site chosen for the ambush was a good one and there was little chance the King's men could survive the attack. It looked as if they would be slaughtered to a man where they stood.
Morgan looked towards the head of the train, seeing that some of the men had closed ranks to try and prevent the King being taken. He tried to reach Richard himself, but in the confusion and chaos was unable to make any headway, and then the order came from His Majesty. Turning, he raised himself in the saddle and cried out that there must be no more fighting.
'Let no more lives be lost,' he commanded in a voice of iron. 'I am prepared to go willingly with this escort Henry of Bolingbroke sends for me. Sheath your arms and let us depart in peace. I command you to bury your dead and return to your homes. We shall treat with our enemies and there shall be no more bloodshed.'
The men looked at one another in consternation. The King seemed to be resigned to his fate and there were some wild murmurings amongst the hotheads who wanted to fight.
'We should fight. All is not yet lost…'
'Aye, fight on,' a man next to Morgan agreed and went charging out of the line on his horse, his sword arm raised as he made a valiant attempt to reach the King.
His scream as the arrow entered his eye was fearful, his body crashing to the ground where it writhed in agony for a time before lying still. Morgan hesitated as he waited to see what would happen next. It seemed that a small detachment of soldiers was being allowed to go with Richard, and that His Majesty was so far being treated with the respect due to a King.
One of the attacking force, clearly an officer by his manner and dress, was riding along the line of the King's men, calling out in a loud voice that any who joined him now and pledged allegiance to Bolingbroke could go with him, those who did not wish to change sides would be permitted to leave in peace. Only a handful of men accepted the terms offered, their faces shamed as they moved to join him and were directed to join the ranks of Bolingbroke's men.
'Are you all decided?' the officer asked again and was met with a sullen silence. 'God have mercy on your souls…'
A hail of arrows came from out of the trees, the men's screams horrible as they died for their act of defiance. Morgan had expected treachery and was ready for it, bending low over his horse's back, he raced towards the officer who had offered terms to the King's men, a wild battle cry on his lips. His action spurred the men around him to a similar desperate act and their combined force took the enemy by surprise. Morgan was on the officer who had betrayed them in seconds, and with one blow he sliced into his shoulder, passing by swiftly without stopping to glance back. But he heard yelling behind him and guessed that he was not the only one to seek revenge for dead colleagues.
He knew that he must reach the trees, must force his way through the Bowmen still gathered there, their bows trained on what was left of the King's men. His horse was maddened by the stench of blood and the screaming that rent the air on all sides as the bloodbath Richard had hoped to prevent began. The screams of dying men ringing in his ears, Morgan had almost reached the safety of the trees when he felt the arrow strike his arm. He reeled with the pain, yet managed to hold on, clutching on to his horse's reins as he ploughed into the forest, trampling on the Bowman crouched there before he could load another arrow into his bow.
Gritting his teeth against the agony of the iron tip embedded deep in his arm, he rode without stopping until the sounds of screaming were far behind him and he was lost deep within the forest. Alone and faint from loss of blood, he dismounted at last beside a small stream. Taking the arrow with his right hand, he pulled it from his arm, a scream of agony wrenched from his lips as he staggered to the edge of the water. There he bent to cup his hand, drinking a few sips and then lying back, his eyes closing as he tried to fight the exhaustion creeping over him and failed. The sleep that claimed him was restless and wrought with fever, but after a while it became strangely pleasant, carrying him to a place that he had never visited before – a place of sunlight and music and a face that seemed to gaze down at him with love.
*
Day was breaking when the shock of icy water dashed into his face brought him back to consciousness. He swore and opened his eyes, thinking himself back at home until he looked up into the face of a stranger. Starting up, Morgan reached for his sword but found it was not beside him.