Uneasy Lies the Crown by N. Gemini Sasson Read Free Book Online

the people had joined him, shouting and cheering. Even the mighty lords of those northern lands—Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Harry Hotspur—had merged with Henry of Bolingbroke’s ranks. They were more than mere rumors, as sources had been highly reliable, and with each report Harry had watched his cousin rant and worry endlessly.
    While Harry understood his father’s yearning for justice, it grieved him to see the king so helplessly cornered. For several tense, volatile weeks, Richard had paced the floors of Dublin Castle, bestowing precious time on Henry’s cause. The loyalties of those that the king had left behind had proven to be as shifting as sand dunes in a gale. Left and right, Richard’s closest councilors had submitted to Henry. If Richard remained in Ireland much longer, soon enough he would have no kingdom at all to return to.
    Pressing his back against the wall, Richard covered his face for a long minute. Finally, he raked the woven tangle of hair back from his forehead. “He invaded my land. Beautiful, glorious England. And... and without trial or cause or mercy he has put to death my faithful subjects. Oh, Harry, I do love you. I am so sorry for you. Your father’s doings will cost you your inheritance. I would not have had it so. Dear God, you don’t know how this pains me.” Tears washed over his cheeks. “My friends, my own kinsmen—they all turn from me. It feels as though my soul is in flames and there is nothing left inside me but ashes.” He crumpled to the floor, his head upon his knees, sobbing.
    In his nightshirt, Harry slid from his bed. He approached slowly, knelt down and laid a hand on the king’s shoulder. He had spent far more years of his youth at the king’s side than his own father’s. The affection he felt for Richard was genuine, as was his pity of him. “I had prayed the rumors were not true. But please, please... I had no part in my father’s deeds. None. I am innocent.”
    Grasping Harry’s fingers tightly, Richard raised his watery eyes. “Yes, I know. You had no part in his crimes. I don’t accuse you of anything. Still...”
    Harry wrapped his arms around the king. Richard, unable to endure the embrace, bolted up. He went to the doorway and hung there, both hands braced against the frame as if there existed some degree of safety in its structure.
    “Harry?” He glanced over his sloping shoulder. “If I could have chosen a son...” Quickly, he averted his face. “I must return to England. Try to amend matters there. Tomorrow, Thomas will take you to Castle Trim in Meath for your own protection, where you will remain until this is over.”
    Over? It would not be over until Harry’s father had his way. Only one end could come of Richard.
     

8
     
    Sycharth, Wales — Summer, 1399
     
    Margaret fanned her supple fingers over the ridge of Owain’s knuckles. They sat side by side at the head of the table in Sycharth’s hall. Their home was thronged with family and friends. The rafters rang with the echo of laughter. Owain’s family was celebrating the sixteenth birthday of his oldest son Gruffydd and it was much to Gruffydd’s chagrin that Iolo had chosen as his verse the woeful romance of Tristan and Iseult. Only yesterday, Gruffydd had confided in Iolo that the object of his every waking moment was a young maiden named Elise, a niece to Owain’s petulant neighbor Lord Reginald de Grey of Ruthin.
    Owain poured a cup of usquebaugh and pushed it in front of Gruffydd, who regarded it with disdain. Gruffydd had never liked the way it warmed his veins, made his tongue feel thick and filled his head with fog. Besides, to him it tasted no better than vinegar.
    “The Irish call it ‘water of life’.” Owain winked. “It will put a beard on your chin.”
    Gruffydd brought it to his nose and inhaled, then plunked the cup down on the table. “The devil’s own piss. It will burn my insides on the way down.”
    “Only the first time.”