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Overton-on-Dee
September 1284
Day One
Rhys
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King Edward’s voice sliced the air. “I will see his tongue cut out!”
Rhys froze in his tracks a few paces from the entrance to the king’s pavilion, which was surrounded on all sides by fields of tents, stalls, stages, and pavilions, all awaiting the beginning of the music festival that was set to begin that afternoon. It was from this magnificent pavilion that the king had spent the last week conducting business, and from here that he would continue to do so during the festival.
Fortunately, the only one to see Rhys’s hesitation was Math, who was on guard at his usual spot outside. For a moment, the two men stood side-by-side, Math facing outward and Rhys inward.
“I assume you saw our wayward bard safely away?” Math said in Welsh in the lowest of undertones.
“He is already across the Dee. We ourselves could be hanged if what I’ve done is discovered. Do you regret joining with me?”
“Never.” Math’s answer was immediate and impassioned, indicating he was more certain than Rhys about what he’d done.
Rhys didn’t know how the king had arrived at the idea of a grand music festival, a gathering of bards known as an eisteddfod to the Welsh. Rhys hadn’t been in the room when it was first discussed. But whether his own idea or someone else’s, the king had latched on to it with an urgency that would not be denied. He’d gone to Vale Royal Abbey to present the monks there with a silver cup created from Llywelyn’s melted seal; he had a plan to tour all his new Welsh castles between now and Christmas Day; but somehow, he was taking a fortnight out of that short amount of time to order a thousand bards from all over Wales to play at Overton-on-Dee.
Rhys had overheard some members of the court complaining that it made no sense. The king liked music, but he didn’t like it that much. To Rhys, however, it was plain as day that the king’s purpose here was exactly the same as it had been in Caernarfon, at Llyn Cwm Dulyn, at Nefyn, and at Vale Royal Abbey: to announce from the mountain tops that Wales was conquered and would never rise again. One by one, their holy objects, their sacred sites, their history and traditions, were being taken by the king and turned to his own ends. The Welsh were never getting them back.
In all his cunning, King Edward knew that before the people could see this truth, he had to impress it upon their bards. When they dispersed after this festival, they would do the job for him.
And Rhys, God help him, would be standing at the king’s side every step of the way.
Putting on a cloak of confidence he didn’t feel, Rhys strode into the pavilion as if nothing was amiss. There, he found no revelers or hangers-on, just a half-dozen men, frozen as he had been a moment ago, at the king’s ire. These men included Edward’s steward, William de Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick; Robert Burnell, his chancellor, visiting from London; and John de Vesci, his secretary.
At Rhys’s arrival, King Edward’s gaze locked on to him. “Come here!”
Rhys held his bow until he’d halted at the king’s throne. “Yes, my lord?”
“Is this man’s translation of that minstrel’s song a true one?”
Rhys looked down at the older man the king indicated. He was slight in body, and his hood was pressed to his chest to further accentuate the respect he was paying the king while on his knees. He gazed back at Rhys with eyes as wide as serving platters.
Rhys returned his attention to the king. “My apologies, my lord, I did not hear what he said.”
“Tell him!”
Though his voice trembled, the man obeyed, perhaps realizing only now the danger inherent in being the first to bring this new form of treason to the king’s ear. He spoke first in Welsh and then translated his words into French, “Cadwaladr is a spear at the side of his men; In the forest, in the field, in the vale, on the hill; Cadwaladr is a candle in the darkness walking with us; Gloriously he will come, and the Cymry will rise ...”
“And who was it that sang thusly?” King Edward showed no signs of calming.
“One Trahaearn ap Deiniol, a bard from Llandecwyn.” The man named a place in southern Eryri, what the English called Snowdonia, some twenty miles southeast of Caernarfon.
Rhys bent his head respectfully. “Yes, my lord, that is a true translation. I heard about the song myself and have already looked into Trahaearn’s tent. He appears to have fled.”
In the aftermath of the events at Vale Royal Abbey, following hard on the heels of those at Windsor, Rhys had found a way forward through this duty to the king. He knew his service for what it was, and he had resolved to fulfill it absolutely to the best of his abilities—right up to the moment that duty conflicted with what he knew in his soul was the greater good.
He'd determined as well that the best way to deceive his Norman masters about the big things was to speak the absolute truth about the small ones.
Not that this incident was necessarily small. What Rhys wasn’t telling the king specifically was that he had not only heard about Trahaearn singing that morning, he had heard him. It just so happened that the bard had pitched his tent not far from Rhys and Catrin’s. They hadn’t been asleep, but had been lying in each other’s arms, putting off their duties in the royal court for another quarter of an hour. Just before dawn, Trahaearn’s baritone had filled the air, throwing his listeners into disarray.
Rhys had risen from his bed in a flash, flung on breeches and shirt, and was out the door before the last notes of the song faded.
“What in the name of all the saints do you think you’re doing!” Even as he had laid into Trahaearn, Rhys had started tossing a few of Trahaearn’s possessions into a satchel he’d found at the end of his pallet.
“My duty. To Llywelyn. To Gwynedd. To Wales.” Trahaearn had been insistent. “How can we not sing as we have always sung?”
“You can’t be that naïve! Sing whatever you want after you leave this place, but you must know the world has changed. Do you not realize the position into which you’ve put everyone who heard you? I have learned that I can serve our people better by living than dying, and I’m not dying for your stupidity today!”
“Worse, if we don’t report you, somebody else definitely will.” Catrin had arrived with a portion of cheese and bread for the road.
“I am not afraid of a martyr’s death,” Trahaearn said proudly. “It would show all the world who Edward truly is.”
“Those of us who fought against him already know.” Rhys pressed the now-full satchel to Trahaearn’s chest. “Was not Llywelyn’s death enough? Did you not hear how Dafydd died? Have you not seen that this king is capable of any cruelty?”
“More specifically, how do you feel about the removal of your tongue?” Catrin had been more blunt than Rhys. “Run. Now. Before it’s fully light.”
Trahaearn hadn’t wanted to listen to Rhys, but Catrin’s comment had finally forced the issue home. As it turned out, she had been right about the danger to Trahaearn’s tongue too.
Now, as the king glared around the tent, his eyes were as hard as Rhys had ever seen them. Then he turned to Simon, who was standing stiffly off to one side. “Send men to find me this minstrel. When we open the festival this afternoon, we will begin by making an example of him.”
