He squatted down and shook Stephen’s shoulder. “Come, lad. Prince Glyndwr has much on his mind, and I do not wish to keep him waiting.”
Catherine picked up the ornate headdress she wore yesterday. Stephen had helped her remove it last night, but there was no hope of getting it back on today.
She heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it but to make do as best she could. After painstakingly detaching the gold mesh and circlet from the headdress, she combed her hair with her fingers and plaited it into a single braid down her back. Then she put the mesh over her hair and fixed the circlet across her forehead to hold it in place. The makeshift covering left too much hair exposed, but that was that.
She looked down at the dismal state of her gown. Working methodically, she began brushing the dirt from it, top to bottom. She was so absorbed in her task that she was startled when she looked up to find Stephen and all three Tudors staring at her, slack-jawed.
She narrowed her eyes at them. “How long have you been watching me?”
There was a general shrugging of shoulders.
“Do you men have nothing better to do?” she asked, her irritation evident in her tone.
Stephen had the grace to look away. The three Tudors, however, just shook their heads and smiled.
The other men were breaking camp when Catherine and Stephen rode off with the Tudors. Praise God her captors brought her here, rather than into Wales. William was in Worcester. She could be ransomed and delivered to him this very day.
“Can you see the old Celtic fort at the top of that hill?” Maredudd said, pointing ahead. “That is where we and the French are encamped.”
Catherine dragged her thoughts from her reunion with William to prepare herself to meet the rebel leader. Quickly, she reviewed what she knew of Owain Glyndwr. He was a Welsh nobleman, close kinsman to the Tudors. Before the rebellion, his home was known as a center of Welsh culture, where troubadours and musicians were always welcome.
A man who liked music, she told herself, could not be completely heartless. The common folk claimed he used magic to call up terrible storms. There were other stories she could not dismiss so easily. She had ridden out after rebel raids. She had seen the smoldering villages and heard the women weeping.
Before she knew it, they were riding through the gates of the old fort. The bailey was teeming with soldiers. They rode through the chaos of men and horses and carts to the main building. After helping her from her horse, Maredudd led her up the steps with Stephen and the two brothers following on their heels.
The guards inside the entry nodded to the Tudors and opened the second set of heavy doors. Once her eyes adjusted, Catherine saw they were in a dark, cavernous hall. There was a huge hearth against one of the long walls and trestle tables set up along the other. A number of men were in the room, talking in groups or cleaning weapons.
Only one man drew her attention, however. He was watching her from the far end of the hall.
With his hand firmly on her arm, Maredudd walked her across the room to him. Catherine dropped into the low curtsy reserved for monarchs and kept her head down until a deep voice told her to rise.
When she did, she got her first good look at the famous rebel whose name had been on everyone’s lips for the past five years. Owain Glyndwr looked to be in his late forties. His sternly handsome face was lined, and the dark hair that fell to his shoulders was streaked iron gray. Catherine had the impression of long limbs and a powerful body beneath his robes. The riveting black eyes held hers.
“Lady FitzAlan, you have done great harm to me and my people.” Glyndwr’s words carried through the hall and reverberated off the walls.
Taken aback, Catherine could make no reply. What did he think she had done?
“I wondered for a long time who passed the information that led to my son and his men being caught unawares at Pwll Melyn,” Glyndwr said. “In the end, I decided it could only be you.”
How had he known?King Henry did not believe she was the one, even when the prince had told him.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered. “It was my duty.”
“Prince Harry took three hundred Welshmen prisoner at Pwll Melyn,” he said. “He executed them all, save one.”
Involuntarily, she put her hand to her mouth. She had heard something of this before but had not believed it.
“At least young Harry does not kill for sport or revenge. He kills ruthlessly in pursuit of his aims, as a great commander must.” Glyndwr’s face looked suddenly weary as he turned to gaze into the hearth fire. “The difference, however, matters not to the widows and orphans.
“He executed them all, save for my son Gruffydd, who was taken to London in chains.” Glyndwr paused and pressed his lips together. “He is tortured, I am told. After he was caught attempting to escape, the king had his eyes put out.”
Catherine felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. The truth of Glyndwr’s words was etched in the pain on his face. She did not want to believe her king capable of such barbarism. Yet, in her heart, she knew he was. For the first time, she wondered if what she had done was right. Should she have told Harry he could catch the Welsh unprepared that day? Would she have, if she could have foreseen the consequences?
“I hear you have a son, Lady FitzAlan,” Glyndwr said, jolting her attention back to the present. “So you will understand that I will do what I can to get my son out of my enemy’s hands.”
Catherine held her breath, waiting for Glyndwr to reveal his purpose in telling her this.
“You shall be my son’s deliverance. His life is the ransom I will claim for your return.”