Read Online Uneasy Lies the Crown by N. Gemini Sasson - Free Book Online
Authors: N. Gemini Sasson
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next day deny having known you. Tell me, damn it! Were you to meet the shameless mongrel here? How long have —”
Child? What is he talking about? We haven’t...
The realization snatched the breath from Gruffydd’s lungs. She had already lain with another. He was not her first or her only love. She had invited him here with the intention of giving herself to him so she could claim him as the father of her child.
Elise’s voice rose in pitch and protest, but Gruffydd didn’t wait to hear more. He ran, as swift as his legs would carry him. In the distance, he thought he heard Elise scream, but he would not go back to save her, not after she had lied to him so. Limbs and rocks nearly tripped his unsteady feet. Branches lashed out as he flew past. More than once he stumbled, but without a thought he scrambled back up and raced onward.
The wind pursued him, roaring threats in his ears, mocking his innocence. By the time he reached Sycharth, his clothes were torn and muddy and he was minus a shoe.
Dawn came not with the habitual brilliance of a late summer morning, but instead it pounded with thunder and poured a bleak, oppressive rain that lasted for three straight days. The heavens were black in mourning and Gruffydd was the prisoner of a love he could neither confess nor continue to pursue. Elise had betrayed him.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He would have forgiven her, claimed the child as his own, if only to be with her forever. But it would never be. Lord Grey, he knew, would hunt him down and make a hell of his life. He could hardly bear to think what Grey already might have done to Elise to punish her.
10
Near Penmaenrhos, Wales — August, 1399
At Conwy, Richard was urged by the Earl of Northumberland to submit to Henry’s claims, but with full promise that he should retain all honor and authority due his kingship. Finally, Richard agreed to meet Henry at Chester and promptly sent Northumberland away. He was certain that if he could buy himself more time, appease Henry for the moment, that eventually he would be able to win back sufficient loyalties to crusade his cause.
But time is one thing there is never enough of—not for a dying man, not for two young, ill-fated lovers, not even for a king.
Richard’s appetite fled as well as his will to fight. Mindlessly, he shoved small hunks of coarse bread down his throat, chased by entire bottles of wine. When he slept, it was usually while sitting upright in his chair at the supper table. His nights were spent shuffling along the battlements, the sea air cold and biting upon his bare neck, as he argued aloud with himself.
A week later, Richard and a small party of guards and councilors stole away in the night from Conwy, for he did not trust the word of Henry of Bolingbroke, or his envoy Northumberland. Their aim was London—London, where once Richard the boy king had captured the hearts of the people when the peasants revolted, burned much of the city and slew hundreds before they gathered at Smithfield to throw down their demands. They had strangled the great city itself and chased its leaders trembling and fearful into hiding. All hope of reconciliation had seemed utterly lost then, but young Richard had staunchly defied their leader, Wat Tyler. When the king’s men killed Tyler, Richard had boldly ridden alone to the rebel mob and proclaimed: “I am your captain—your king! I am your king!”
Would they remember that day and gather as an army of peasants to march behind him? Or would they instead scatter from him and go back to their homes?
As mute as a funeral procession, Richard and his small party rode along a thinning trail, far from the main roads near a place called Penmaenrhos. He was beaten by a lack of sleep and it showed in the manner in which he slumped in his saddle, swaying with every stride of his horse. The king wore clothes borrowed from a soldier before leaving Conwy. He might have looked like a man of no
Child? What is he talking about? We haven’t...
The realization snatched the breath from Gruffydd’s lungs. She had already lain with another. He was not her first or her only love. She had invited him here with the intention of giving herself to him so she could claim him as the father of her child.
Elise’s voice rose in pitch and protest, but Gruffydd didn’t wait to hear more. He ran, as swift as his legs would carry him. In the distance, he thought he heard Elise scream, but he would not go back to save her, not after she had lied to him so. Limbs and rocks nearly tripped his unsteady feet. Branches lashed out as he flew past. More than once he stumbled, but without a thought he scrambled back up and raced onward.
The wind pursued him, roaring threats in his ears, mocking his innocence. By the time he reached Sycharth, his clothes were torn and muddy and he was minus a shoe.
Dawn came not with the habitual brilliance of a late summer morning, but instead it pounded with thunder and poured a bleak, oppressive rain that lasted for three straight days. The heavens were black in mourning and Gruffydd was the prisoner of a love he could neither confess nor continue to pursue. Elise had betrayed him.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He would have forgiven her, claimed the child as his own, if only to be with her forever. But it would never be. Lord Grey, he knew, would hunt him down and make a hell of his life. He could hardly bear to think what Grey already might have done to Elise to punish her.
10
Near Penmaenrhos, Wales — August, 1399
At Conwy, Richard was urged by the Earl of Northumberland to submit to Henry’s claims, but with full promise that he should retain all honor and authority due his kingship. Finally, Richard agreed to meet Henry at Chester and promptly sent Northumberland away. He was certain that if he could buy himself more time, appease Henry for the moment, that eventually he would be able to win back sufficient loyalties to crusade his cause.
But time is one thing there is never enough of—not for a dying man, not for two young, ill-fated lovers, not even for a king.
Richard’s appetite fled as well as his will to fight. Mindlessly, he shoved small hunks of coarse bread down his throat, chased by entire bottles of wine. When he slept, it was usually while sitting upright in his chair at the supper table. His nights were spent shuffling along the battlements, the sea air cold and biting upon his bare neck, as he argued aloud with himself.
A week later, Richard and a small party of guards and councilors stole away in the night from Conwy, for he did not trust the word of Henry of Bolingbroke, or his envoy Northumberland. Their aim was London—London, where once Richard the boy king had captured the hearts of the people when the peasants revolted, burned much of the city and slew hundreds before they gathered at Smithfield to throw down their demands. They had strangled the great city itself and chased its leaders trembling and fearful into hiding. All hope of reconciliation had seemed utterly lost then, but young Richard had staunchly defied their leader, Wat Tyler. When the king’s men killed Tyler, Richard had boldly ridden alone to the rebel mob and proclaimed: “I am your captain—your king! I am your king!”
Would they remember that day and gather as an army of peasants to march behind him? Or would they instead scatter from him and go back to their homes?
As mute as a funeral procession, Richard and his small party rode along a thinning trail, far from the main roads near a place called Penmaenrhos. He was beaten by a lack of sleep and it showed in the manner in which he slumped in his saddle, swaying with every stride of his horse. The king wore clothes borrowed from a soldier before leaving Conwy. He might have looked like a man of no
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