The Forgotten Princess

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Prologue

The Council of Lincoln - (February 1301)

Ah, Burnell my friend. The king rose to his full height from his seat on the dais as his chancellor entered the wood panelled hall. As he did so, those attending him scattered, bowing as they retreated backwards and leaving only his host, Henry de Lacey, the geriatric Earl of Lincoln, decrepit and hard of hearing, at his side. The king smiled in greeting, his arms wide. Our Parliament would not be complete without you, Robert, whatever my son might think.

No indeed, my Lord. The new entrant coughed and rubbed his cold hands together. By your leave? He glanced at the blazing fire of enormous seasoned oak logs positioned to the left hand wall and half way down the hall.

Of course... and, hot wine for my Lord Burnell! he gestured to a courtier as his chancellor, weary from his journey and soaked through by the rain and sleet he had ridden through, paced slowly and stiffly over to the fireplace.

Burnell exchanged his wet cloak for a steaming goblet of wine, knelt to warm himself briefly, coughed again, rubbed some life back into his aching limbs and slowly straightened up to face his monarch, his back to the enormous fire.

The king had reseated himself and regarded him carefully. Burnell was as grey as he was, as ever short and stout in the belly but hunched and arthritic now in his old bones. His pointed goatee beard was neat as usual and though his cough betrayed advancing illness his loyalty had been unfailing over the years.

I regret, but I had to send you, Robert. The king smiled. I know you are more comfortable in your warm tower dealing with my papers and the more delicate affairs of state, but as we were in Lincoln I had to send you in person. In light of events here tomorrow I needed answers. Answers we could all believe in and trust.

The old spy master coughed again, tasting a little blood. He would not have chosen February or Lincoln to hold the investiture of the Prince of Wales but he was better than anyone at practising discretion in the presence of King Edward. The king’s parliament of barons was assembled and tomorrow the seventeen-year-old Prince Edward of Caernarfon would be furnished with his new title though he be miles from his Principality and the Welsh themselves.

It was all part of the king’s succession plan. But while ‘The Hammer of the Scots’ was ageing too, he still cut an imposing figure who could handle a sword as well as any man alive and was not in need of immediate replacement.

I am not disposed to campaigning as yourself, Lord King, Burnell sipped his wine. Not so comfortable in the saddle. But as you say, it was not too burdensome a ride from Lincoln. I am pleased to find you in good health, my Lord.

I have my young Queen to keep me warm on the winter nights, my friend.

The Queen is well, I trust?

She carries her baby capably and should deliver in the spring. The king paused. But I do miss my Eleanor. You passed her cross in Lincoln township?

Burnell nodded, for he was well acquainted with the monuments the king had ordered be set up to mark the funeral procession of his first Queen ten years before.

I paid my respects. We all miss her, Sire, his old friend reassured him. No doubt the Prince will think of her tomorrow.

The king scowled and as he narrowed his eyes his drooping left lid all but closed his left eye completely.

"I wish but that the Prince would do some thinking," he sighed.

He will thrive in his new responsibilities, My Lord, as will befit his new position.

If but his brothers had lived, the king shook his head. He is weak, Robert, and has bigger eyes for the Queen and bigger ears still for that idiot Piers Gaveston than he does for his ageing father or for matters of state. More fool me for adding Gaveston to his household as a companion, Burnell. I’ve a mind to exile the knave, yet young Edward wants me to give him an earldom.

Then must he learn his craft, my Lord, with troublesome Wales?

The Earl of Lincoln nodded sagely at this, but the king was decisive.

He was born in Caernarfon and he has always known the people rebellious. Now must we see Wales finally put beneath our feet. He paused in thought a moment then leant forward in his chair as if revitalised.

Now then, Robert, you have news from the Priory of Sempringham?

Some news, my Lord, Burnell spoke tentatively, and coughed again as he pulled up a stool closer to his master.

Leave us, the king ordered and the hall cleared noiselessly. Only the king, his chancellor and the immobile Earl of Lincoln remained.

Chapter 1

The House of Aberffraw

(Begins at Rhuddlan Castle early December 1282)

It is a simple matter of homage, Burnell. I pay homage to the King of France for my lands there. Alexander of Scotland pays homage to me for his lands here. So why do they persist?

The chancellor studied the rushes on the chamber floor and played with his pointed goatee beard as he considered his answer.

The speaker, Edward Plantagenet, stood tall at the window, also in ponderous thought. Thought interrupted by an itching in his beard. A louse? A flea? He scratched at it absent-mindedly with a single gold ringed finger. Such parasites did not discriminate, they afflicted both the mighty and the lowliest in the realm and this little tormentor had a liking for royal blood.

From his view in the tower, the king could see a flurry of activity at the twin turreted gatehouse and as he extended his flea combing to a full four fingered scratch of his jaw line, he sighted a single rider to clatter over the wooden draw bridge, pass through the barbican and enter the inner ward of the castle.

The horse was in a lather, having been ridden hard and as it was brought to a stop, the rider recovered a leather bag from the back of his saddle before dismounting and leaving his exhausted mount in the care of a waiting groom. If he had news for the king, it would take him a little time yet to negotiate the steps to his eyrie and any number of guards who would search him thoroughly.

They told Llywelyn at the Council of Aberconwy that they would not accept a Lord who knows not their tongue, their ways or their laws, the chancellor at last replied. They hate us Normans and...

Stinking Welsh pox ridden cattle thieves! The king interrupted impatiently. They will hate more the yoke I place upon them and the scourge I beat them with! I have been merciful to them once, have I not? All he need do is acknowledge his feudal Lord and he can roam his mountains in peace. Yet I must humble him again!

Burnell noticed the familiar lisp creeping into the king’s tone; a warning sign to those who knew him best that his temper was rising. His master was prone to spontaneous outbursts of anger and violence and was of a notoriously unpredictable demeanour. The chancellor, and Guy de Beauchamp, the mighty Earl of Warwick, were the only counsellors trusted enough to speak plainly in his presence without fear of consequences.

There is perhaps more to it, Lord King. Their old tales tell that one day a Welshman will be crowned in London. Delusions of grandeur perhaps, but men take inspiration from what they see as prophecy.

Old tales, old fish wives’ tales! The king waved his arms dismissively. By my long legs, no Welshman will wear a king’s crown in London while a Plantagenet sits on the throne!

Precisely what they will be hoping, my Lord.

Humph! the king retorted.

Had de Montfort not suffered a reverse at your own royal hand perhaps they would feel closer to fulfilling that dream.

Evesham. A good day. I battered my enemies then, Burnell. De Montfort stretched out on the field, vengeance for my own incarceration, he yawned. But Llywelyn did not take the field with his ally that day, more’s the pity. Perhaps I should have gone after him then?... No, he reflected as he scratched again at his chin. "I was not strong enough...

Yet I knew he wouldn’t stand by the treaty of Montgomery. He would always agree to pay tribute, whatever was asked: to de Montfort, to my father, though he could never find his purse deep enough! But homage he would not pay, and it is only on my authority he wields any power at all... I should have killed him five years ago when I had the chance!

As you say, de Montfort had yourself and your royal father in custody after the battle of Lewes, my Lord, Burnell replied carefully. Perhaps he too should have killed you.

Nobles know better than to kill a Prince, a rightful Prince, Burnell. It’s no small matter to wage war on the Lord’s anointed. Why even King David wouldn’t do it, and he could murder, philander and pillage with the best of them, or so Father Crispin tells me!

The king strode over to a large campaign map he had spread across a low table and tried to calm himself.

From last reports, Burnell, Llywelyn tries to rally support in the south while he revels in his victory over Mortimer at Llandeilo Fawr and his ambush of our forces crossing the Menai by bridge of boats at Moel-y-don, he scowled. He leaves his brother, Dafydd, to defend the north, but my Lord of Warwick will flush him out.

Dafydd the traitor. I know not how Llywelyn can trust him, Lord King. For he paid homage to your father and sided with their brother, Owain, against him years ago. Then joined with Llywelyn to fight our army at Cadfan and so force their other sibling, Rhys Fychan, to submit, before plotting to murder Llywelyn with our own loyal lord Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, and then defected again to your royal father when Llywelyn first claimed the principality.

You had your spy master’s hand in that assassination attempt, Burnell, the king grimaced. But you are right, he did eat at my table once, and he fought with our army in the last campaign. Llywelyn has let him return like a dog to its vomit. Dafydd has no honour, no loyalty. It was he who started this war, his men who attacked Hawarden, Burnell, and he would have taken this, our castle of Rhuddlan, too, if it were not for Master James’ improvements.

But Llywelyn was quick to press home the advantage, he took Aberystwyth and Carreg Cennen quickly enough, Lord, and you would always have held him accountable for any revolt!

Damned right I would, if he cannot control his vassals! Yet he had to ride the tide right enough, he would have lost the support of his own if he had not.

Well, I may be a book man rather than a sword wielder, but you out manoeuvred Llywelyn last time, my Lord, you seized the Menai, cut off his supplies and forced him to the treaty of Aberconwy. Cannot the same be done again?

That I have, the king tapped the map with a powerful finger, which is why Llywelyn goes south.

To lead out an attack into the marches, to bring the fight to you, Lord King. A Welshman shall be crowned in London...

Enough of such nonsense! Mortimer and le Strange shall stop any advance and Warwick shall press down and clear up afterwards. We are far too strong, the king grunted as he seated himself, reclined in the chair and stretched out his long legs. The itch on his face had gone but he could feel another bug deep under his layers of loose-fitting robes to be tickling at his belly.

Dafydd has changed sides so many times, my Lord, it is hard to know what he wants. Perhaps he doesn’t even know himself.

He wants to be Prince of Wales, Burnell. The king spat angrily, it was not a title he had ever recognised yet it was that which Llywelyn had claimed for himself. Dafydd is probably disappointed I did not replace Llywelyn with himself after the last war... And when this business is over I shall show him how a feudal Lord disciplines an errant serf!

He may have good reason to believe he will still become such, the chancellor ventured, for his brother ages with no male heir.

There is an infant girl, is that right?

My spies tell me she still lives, Burnell confirmed, though Lady Eleanor died in bearing her.

Why did I ever sanction that marriage? The king shook his head slowly, The daughter of my enemy de Montfort to that upstart Llywelyn.

For peace, my Lord.

Peace! Did I ever think peace would last?

It is a peace Dafydd has broken.

Yes, and he has always wanted his brother’s coronet. He may be forever treacherous but the one thing we can trust Dafydd not to do this time is change sides, Robert, for he will do his best to seize power when his brother is gone.

The king shuffled his long limbs in frustration, sniffed loudly to inhale the dank smell of damp plaster and shouted loudly for his confessor, a shout which echoed around the tower’s chamber: Father Crispin!

Here, my Lord, a scrawny monk with a weasely face appeared at the door within seconds. A Dominican Friar in the dull brown habit of the Benedictines tied at the waist with the usual belt of rope with three knots, the king’s confidante had his cowl lowered to display the neatly shaved tonsure on the top of his head and did not appear to be overcome with the exertions of running very far. Burnell, ever suspicious, did not entirely trust him, suspected him of eaves dropping, and had been seeking an opportunity to bring him under his own wing.

Father Crispin, tomorrow I leave this place. I have been a prisoner before, and I do not like to sit tight too long like a badger in its sett, the king said.

Then he rose again and crossed back over to the window to look out over the grey castle battlements, the curtain wall of the outer ward with its defensive ditch and the channel cut to the Clwyd river. Bouncing on the tide were the boats which supplied the castle by sea. He gazed on over the wooden stockade which encircled the borough town outside the castle walls and the flat forested lands beyond, frosty and leafless in the winter cold, which gave way in the distance to the foothills of the Berywn mountains over which a thin mist fell.

I go to lead my armies out against Llywelyn, to force him to battle and end all this. You shall accompany me, Father Crispin, and give me confession as we look to bring his grey head down to the grave in shame. For as you read to me yesterday, vengeance is mine, and he is a thorn in my side as the sons of Ner were to King David of old.

The priest nodded his approval of the biblical references but was none too keen to leave the comparative warmth and comfort of the castle for an uncertain period in the saddle.

The Queen is at her birthing chamber, my Lord, and...

The Queen whelps repeatedly, the king reinforced his mind, and spawns only healthy girls and sickly boys.

It is true that your sons Henry and John could not survive infancy and Alphonso fares little better in his crib, the priest implored him, would not my prayerful attentions be of greater service to your grace within the Queen’s household at this time?

Burnell gave the friar a suspicious look but the king was not faltering.

Battle is to be joined, Father Crispin, and I would have your intercession close by me as we see out this holy cause.

The Lord will smile on the righteous, the friar replied. As you will, my Lord, he conceded slowly.

But fortunately for him, the prospect of campaigning in the great outdoors was to be short lived. The clatter of feet on the winding tower stair announced the arrival in the chamber of the rider the king had seen from the window.

Father Crispin gasped at the new entrant’s damp and dishevelled appearance, he looked dirty and fatigued and the leather pouch bag he carried proudly in his hand was stained dark with blood. He had the harassed look of one who had ridden a long distance in haste, but bore the glint in his eye that told he realised there were benefits in bringing good news to a king and betrayed his relief at being the one to impart it.

Mortimer. The king greeted him, you bring news from your brother and Lord Le Strange?

My Lord King, Edmund Mortimer, the younger of the brothers, bowed as he approached the king’s presence. I bring more than news, Sire, he beamed and as he spoke he jubilantly emptied the content of the blood-stained pouch onto the table top. The grey haired, neat bearded head of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd made a dull thudding sound as it smacked nose first onto King Edward’s campaign map, smearing it with black congealed blood from the neck wound as a thin watery red residue seeped from its orifices anew.

The head of your enemy, my Lord, Mortimer announced proudly.

The head of a traitor! The king delighted in the contents of the grisly parcel. Then pacing towards it in just a few long strides he picked up the severed cranium in his left hand and examined it carefully in the flickering light of a tallow candle. Rotating his wrist slowly, he held it in his long fingers as he sought clarification that it was indeed Llywelyn’s face he held just inches from him.

The skin had turned a dull waxy white but bore a sallow yellowish hue, the features were sunken and lips tinged blue. The eyes and mouth were half open to show cloudy eyes and unnaturally white teeth and the clot-blackened blood had matted thick in the hair and beard. But it didn’t take long for the king to be satisfied that this was indeed the head of the man whose marriage he had reluctantly sanctioned and attended at Worcester just a few years before.

The movement loosened a little more wet blood which seeped from deep inside and ran in a little trickle over the king’s palm and wrist. Father Crispin felt light headed and rather sick but a broad smile spread slowly over the king’s face and his eyes blazed from under his drooping left eye lid.

Llywelyn my enemy, my Prince of Aberffraw, he addressed the cold, sickly sweet smelling face, and as he did so he raised his arm and he raised his voice. Now you pay me homage! He hurled the head of his foe against the wall causing his priest to jump at the cracking sound as it struck the stone work. It left a smudge on the whitewash before falling away, almost in slow time, to the floor and rolling over itself on the rushes to come to rest on its left ear, mouth gawping half open at its conqueror’s fireplace.

I have his privy seal also, my Lord King, taken from his person. Mortimer busied himself to bring out the artefact and place it on the table to prove the head’s identity.

It is he, the king motioned him to calm and took a pewter jug of wine from the table.

He poured himself a cup, passed it to Father Crispin who crossed himself, sipped from it and handed it back to his master. The king paused a moment and, satisfied that his confessor presented with no ill effects, he handed the cup to his messenger and poured himself another from the same jug. Then he sighed deep and seated himself comfortably in a chair by the fire.

Father Crispin, it appears our plans have changed. He crossed his long legs one over the other, his foot inches from his fallen enemy’s face, and sipped at his wine. You may go.

As the friar scurried away, the king gestured to Mortimer to seat himself, and with Burnell loitering at his right side, he turned to the messenger intently.

How did you come by it? How did he meet his end? I trust his army is routed? he added hurriedly.

In disarray, my Lord. Mortimer was going to enjoy this. He held a strong position on a hill top flanked by the Irfon river and commanding the bridge across...

Where?

About here, my Lord, he pointed to the rough position on the map. He had chosen his ground well but Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn knows his lands better than his old enemy the Prince and confided in Le Strange and my brother of a ford lower down where the Irfon meets the Wye.

The king nodded his approval. He too would take any chance to turn an enemy’s flank, for a frontal assault through a narrow funnel could be easily contained as any commander knew.

Llywelyn was a cunning fox and my brother was keen to draw him away. He sent him word that we, the marcher lords, sought audience. That Gifford, Le Strange and ourselves were contemplating betraying you, Lord King, and changing sides.

His brother, Roger, had instilled in him the importance that the king understood the notion had been entirely for the purpose of deception so that any suggestion they had genuinely considered disloyalty be dismissed quickly. But he needn’t have worried, King Edward visibly glistened.

Oh, treacherous house of Aberffraw, how easily you are hauled in, he beamed, and Burnell also endorsed the tactic.

Masterful young Mortimer, so used was Llywelyn to dishonesty and plotting that whilst he may well have suspected a trick he must have thought it worth a chance so he could be sure one way or another.

Yes, my Lord Chancellor, and with Llywelyn drawn away my brother sent le Strange with the mounted knights and most of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s archers by way of the ford. Once the Welsh saw the mounted threat to the south, they turned away from the bridge to face up to it and formed schiltrons. The archers rained down arrows on them to make them hold a tight formation and Gifford led the men at arms over the abandoned bridge to engage them in the flank. Le Strange then led the mounted knights around and behind to charge the Welsh rear and the rout began. We slaughtered many but they quickly broke and ran for the trees.

And, did you see any action, young Mortimer? The delighted king clasped his hands together.

I was bid to wait, my Lord, in the woods to the west. I had a small party set in ambush, a place called Aberedw.

A net to catch the fox in. The king grinned.

Llywelyn must have been alarmed to find no one at the rendezvous and more alarmed still to see his men engaged in his absence. He rode back past our ambush at speed in hope of rallying his men and ceasing the panic but my party broke out of the woods, charged his little retinue and cut them down. The Prince was lanced as he tried to break back to his scattering men. Stephen de Frankton, one of my household, made him fall.

He has been suitably rewarded?

He shall be, Sire.

As will you, for your news, young Mortimer, and your brother for his victory. The king turned to his chancellor. What is the latest news from my Earl of Warwick?

He was to move on Dolwyddelan Castle, my Lord, my spies had intelligence that Dafydd was retreating there.

Retreating or rallying? The king considered. It matters not, Warwick will outnumber him and will crush him in open battle.

Prince Dafydd will not seek open battle, my Lord, Burnell mused.

Prince Dafydd is it?

So it must be, Lord King, with his brother’s head at your feet! He has what he wanted, as you just said, but he knows he has no strength left to fight. He will sue for peace, peace at any price if he gets to sit as Prince in Abergwyngregyn when negotiation is done.

The king rose in fury.

There shall be no negotiation, he shouted and struck the table so hard the wine jug clattered to the floor. I have had enough of this treacherous lineage, he lisped through clenched teeth, of this turbulent nation! His thundering voice echoed round the chamber and Edmund Mortimer, quite unused to his tantrums was quite taken aback. He glanced at Burnell but the chancellor offered no reassurance, looking quietly down at the floor rushes again and playing nervously with his beard.

No negotiation, no ransom, no mercy, the king continued to rant. I shall be avenged of this whole house and it shall never rise again!. Then he calmed slowly and looked over his map with renewed consideration.

He shall flee to his Castell y bere, he indicated it with a finger, if Warwick cannot take him at Dolwyddelan. Here, Burnell, south of the mountains. He will look to join up with the remnants of Llywelyn’s army. See, here, we can encircle him.

Indeed, my Lord.

Mortimer, the king turned to the young man with a sense of urgency, break your fast then ride back to your brother, I shall provide horses and an escort for you. Tell him to move north to Castell y bere... and Burnell, he snapped.

I shall send word to Warwick that he is not to enter negotiations but crush Dolwyddelan and to pursue the upstart wherever he may flee.

Very good, the king returned to his chair by the fire and resumed scratching after the louse on his belly as Edmund Mortimer bowed out of his presence. Send for Father Crispin again, Burnell.

My Lord? the chancellor raised his eyebrows in question.

I would have him say prayers for the repose of Llywelyn’s soul. He did at least retain his honour, for when the Arch Bishop tried to intercede he refused to abandon his people, though he must have known it would be his death sooner or later.

Yes, Lord King... and his head? The chancellor looked down at the battered mess on the floor.

You said a Welshman shall be crowned in London.

So the old legends say, my Lord, King of all Britain, another Bran the Blessed perhaps.

You have an idea?

He can have his coronation, Burnell suggested. I can have a rider take the head to London, to the pillory on the Thames, and crown it there in ivy.

King of the Outlaws!

Such was my thinking, my Lord. It can then be impaled above the tower gate. He can hold court in his father, Gruffydd’s, esteemed company.

Good. The king leaned back and shut his eyes. And Burnell, old friend, I can leave it with you to circulate rumours...

That the surcoatless Llywelyn was fleeing the field and abandoned his men, the chancellor smiled. So the Welsh abandon their cause.

The king was alone only a few moments before he heard the sound of familiar feet on the stairs.

Father Crispin, you scurry like a rat, he said without even opening his eyes. Take down a letter for me to the Earl of Warwick concerning Llywelyn’s, no, Dafydd’s castles of y bere and Dolwyllelan. He ordered. Give him my greetings and refer, if you will, to the verses you read at this morning’s mass from the book of Jeremiah.

The fall of Jerusalem to the King of Babylon?

The same; Lambs, you said, shall feed among the ruins of the rich. Vineyards shall be broken down and briers and thorns shall grow there.

Indeed, my Lord.

And so shall it be in those Welsh strongholds.

***

Three months on and the new Prince of Wales was not in such jubilant mood. Dafydd ap Gruffydd, a tough old campaigner in his mid-forties, stood in his mail on the battlements above his little keep of Castell y bere, his face to the breeze. The small Welsh castle on a rocky outcrop gave him a commanding view of the cattle rich Dysynni valley to the south and west where it stretches on to the sea, the hill country to the southeast from whence the danger came and the imposing ridge of Cadair Idris mountain behind him, the landmark which held the gateway to his family’s original princedom of Gwynedd to the north.

It was early spring but the fat sheep, gathered in the courtyard below for safety, were still a month off lambing and a kite, using the breeze to soar down the valley, was still feeding its mate who sat on her un-hatched eggs. The cattle which had escaped the raids of recent English patrols had been driven north to hiding in poorer pasture and the absence of their bellows in the valley gave it an eerie quiet. Above him fluttered the red and gold lions passant of Gwynedd’s standard in a show of defiance, but the sky, like his mood as he looked to the hills with his loyalist retainers, was dour and overcast.

There, the fair bearded Morgan ap Maredudd pointed to the horizon, they come. Or their vanguard anyway. There had been riders keeping observations on the castle over the last week from the ridge top, but now distinct clusters of foot soldiers could be seen gathering.

It won’t be a quick business, my Lord. Cynfrig ap Madog, the short, wiry keeper of the castle tried to sound reassuring. We have provision enough to withstand siege and resilience too. They’ll find my death pits no mean barbican. We shall hold, my Lord, until you bring an army to relieve us.

What army? The prince was dejected. We have no one left... any news from Rhys Ieuanc at Dolwyddelan? He turned to Rhys Wyndod, a lord of Deheubarth, gruff of voice and the most trusted of all his retainers.

The last I heard was three days after you fled, my Lord. Ieuanc said the English had him totally besieged and had brought up heavy artillery, that they looked for victory and not surrender. I have had no word since and you know as well as I the Earl of Warwick’s disposition towards mercy. He tugged on his long drooping moustache in unhappy reflection.

Ieunac will be saying mass with the angels by now, Morgan crossed himself. Warwick will be coming south to join with Mortimer and they will break over these rocks like the tide over the sand castles your children build on the beach.

My children, the prince looked down at them exasperated. His eight-year-old son, Owain, and youngest daughter, the toddling Gwladys, busied themselves in the ward, dodging the sheep and scattering them bleating, oblivious to the looming danger gathering on the ridge. His eldest son, Llywelyn, was in his mid-teens and could handle a sword but he would be no match for seasoned English knights or men at arms.

You must go north and rally what you can, Rhys Wyndod urged him, Llywelyn Bren has some men still defending the coast.

Longshanks ignores my letters? The prince turned to Morgan, will he take the children as hostages? But the tall man returned only a despairing look.

Rhys Wyndod said nothing and turned away.

He means to wrap his net about us and land us all like a school of herring, Cynfrig spoke grimly, but we’ll not sell you out. I shall hold this rock as long as I can. It will buy you time to get to Castell Dolbardan if you can break through.

He’s right, my Prince. Rhys Wyndod took him by the shoulder and urged him again. You must try, must stay on the move just as you have these past weeks. Flee north to the mountains, for his net cannot stretch for ever and if you can rally some support at Dolbardan perhaps you can make a stand.

You don’t know his temper as I do, Rhys my friend, I who lived in his court. Dafydd sighed and walked round the battlements in thought.

His eyes fixed on his niece. The tiny daughter and only child of his dead brother, sat on the lap of her wet nurse, the Lady Rowena, who squatted in a small shard of sunlight which had broken through the clouds and tried to warm her charge as she kept her out of the wind. Little Gwenllian’s mother had died within days of her birth and just months later she had been orphaned. She was a healthy girl with wispy blond curls, not long weaned and hers was a life likely to be cut even shorter than that of her cousins if she had to undergo the dangers and disease of siege and battle.

The children cannot go with you, Cynfrig had read his mind. They will slow you too much, my Lord, and will suffer from the constant running.

They cannot stay, the prince said simply. Rhys, ready our horses. Morgan, you ride with us too. Have you a man you can send to the English?

Of course, my Lord.

Cynfrig, my friend. I turn to you. Buy me time as you said you would. But don’t hesitate to sell yourselves out if you have to.

***

The children gathered, the small party clattered out of the lower gate on their ponies and north in haste towards Cadair Idris mountain, the Lady Rowena clasping the baby princess, wrapped tightly in woollens, to her breast as she sat side saddle and broke her mount into a canter. They left under the dispirited gaze of Cynfrig’s men on the gatehouse who knew what was to come, and of Mortimer’s vanguard who watched them go with interest.

Just a few moments later, one of Morgan ap Maredudd’s men, primed up to look quite the deserter, lowered himself from the ramparts and ran south. On his lips was a message for the English lords that the prince had sent others away as a diversion and was really still inside the castle, but under his shirt and against his skin was a letter for Robert Burnell, a letter the contents of which the bearer did not know and could not read.

***

The fugitives fled north up the valley and on through the forests, edging over towards the coast as they went to steer clear of Warwick’s patrols moving down from Dolwyddelan, which encroached ever westward. Little Owain clung to the mane of his own small pony as he tried to keep up and Lady Rowena strapped the princess Gwenllian’s tiny arms and legs around her body to wrap her close about herself for fear of dropping her.

As her mount cantered in Prince Dafydd’s wake, Rowena had to concentrate hard to keep herself in the saddle. It had not been that long ago that she and other ladies in waiting had ridden elegant and erect out of Abergwyngregyn beside her mistress, Eleanor de Montfort, in fine dresses and each with a splendid hooded falcon on their wrist. Now she clattered endlessly in battered travelling clothes upon a muddy, tiring mount as they skirted the foothills of the mountain and the Irish Sea unfolded over her left shoulder and out beyond the beautiful Mawyddach estuary.

Dafydd’s wife, Elizabeth de Ferrers, rode beside her husband. Gwenllian’s cousin, Gwladys, her child, was perched precariously in front of her in the saddle, her arms spread around the child to hold the reins.

Rhys Wyndod and two of his men rode on ahead a little to scout out in front. Morgan ap Maredudd, three of his men and the prince’s oldest son made up a rear guard.

They bypassed Cymer Abbey, for it would not be safe to seek refuge there overnight for fear of leaving a trail. They found a safe path through Coed y Brenin forest, then on into the mountainous lands where, after nearly three days continuous trekking through rain and sleet, they arrived at the foot of Snowdon’s Llanberis pass and the comparative safety of Dolbardan Castle above the waters of Llyn Padarn.

It had not passed without incident. An ambush as they forded the river at Beddgelert had seen Morgan ap Maredudd briefly un-horsed and left one of his men and three English scouts for the kites and the wolves to pick over. Lady Rowena, stiff and totally exhausted, cleaned, fed and comforted the baby princess as best she could and wondered when this nightmare would ever end.

***

The May sunshine warmed the dull grey stone of Dolbardan Castle’s round keep but it could not lighten the mood of the man who had fled one fortress after another in recent months. Dafydd’s spirits hung as limp as his lion banner from the turret in a breathless air as he slowly digested the news brought him by Maelgwn ap Rhys, the castle constable, who stood before him with Morgan ap Maredudd and Rhys Wyndod, those with whom he had already been through so much.

How many days? he enquired.

Cynfrig was besieged by Mortimer and le Strange a week, Maelgwn replied, then terms were offered.

What was to be my ransom?

They offered £80 for the castle, my Lord. Maelgwn continued carefully, I’m told four days later when Cynfrig surrendered, £53 was paid to him. They made no offer of ransom for you.

Then it seems they have but one aim in mind. The prince looked blank.

Cynfrig did at least delay them, my Lord, Morgan sought to soothe him, and he has saved his garrison from certain slaughter. You told him yourself to surrender when the time came. We made good our escape and the English believed you there until the end.

If that is the case, why are there 7000 of those Norman bastards marching on us now? Rhys Wyndod challenged. They know only too well the Prince is here.

It is Warwick who marches on us here, the prince spoke firmly, Warwick who will tighten Longshank’s choke hold.

There is still time enough to take a boat and the Bishop of Bangor said...

Boats are no good, Morgan, the English have the sea tied up so tight an eel couldn’t slip through, and if I tried to take one, the people would only see it as cowardice. Even if I could get through where would I go? France? Ireland? They would sell me back to Edward. He’d take a ransom then...

I still think there is a spy among us, Rhys Wyndod tried to change the subject.

Aye, that Norman wench maybe, suggested Maelgwn.

The Lady Rowena? Never! The prince replied firmly. You need only see how she tends to my niece to see she is loyal. That child was born weak and suffered with ague, for hers was a hard labour. I remember it said she would not feed for days after her mother’s death and my brother asked the Lady Rowena, suffering in her own grief, to take the child. It was only through her persistence and nurturing that the child ever got suckling, and so my wife says, she has a special bond with that child, she brought her back from the brink.

She treats her like her own, Rhys Wyndod agreed, she lives for that babe and I, for one, wouldn’t want to fight her for it.

They stood in silence a moment, a silence broken only by the prince’s daughter Gwladys, as she squeaked at play in the chamber below, giggling each time she made her tiny cousin smile with the faces she was pulling.

A spy, Maelgwn! Dafydd spat and glanced at Morgan ap Maredudd. Send a man to Warwick, Morgan. Tell him I’ve taken the wretched boat to France.

Warwick shall destroy this place whether he believes you here or not, my Lord, Rhys Wyndod tugged at his droopy moustache, he takes no payment but blood, and Edward does not even ride to complete his victory.

If only he would come, we could at least try and send a delegation, Dafydd lamented.

King Edward hunts deer in the rich forests of Rhuddlan, not foxes in the rugged highlands... His words, my Lord, not mine, Morgan added hurriedly.

Or we could try and kill him, said the Prince’s son, Llywelyn, as he climbed the steps to join his father’s counsel on the ramparts. The fifteen-year-old was dressed for war in a coat of mail and his surcoat bore the lions of Gwynedd standing in quarters as on the banner in red and gold and roaring as in his own anger.

We run and run but we don’t fight, he protested, and the excited, earnest tones of his voice, born out of all the frustrations of the last few months, displayed all the optimism of the young.

"I’ll kill him, Father. Let me and a few others slip out tonight and go after the King of