The Last Princes of Wales (Violent Delights Book 7)

Chapter 1: The siege, August 1407

According to Rhys Ddu ap Gruffyd

They are ringing the bells in Aberystwyth.
They are here.
Four years I've held this castle. One of two lynchpins in securing the freedom of Wales, and our people. The right to our own government. To speak our own language. The right to own our own land and have our claims heard in court. Not to be ground under the boot of the english.
And of course they seek to take it back from us. A patch of green land at the foot of the Snowdonia's. Nothing compared to their claims in France. But mines and longbows will draw any English king. We knew that they'd come back. But summer's nearly over. Spies whispers or no, I thought we were almost safe.
Now I stare out at the remains of the day and wonder if this will be the year that I die. We're not going to give up, no. We'll go down fighting. But I don't have supplies to last the winter. Let alone a few weeks. Nothing has gotten in or out of Wales since April. And we are starving. Plumes of smoke in the distance herald the English's advance.
"They're here," Meredith skids into my room, bare feet scattering dust on the floors. My son turns fourteen in October. He's only a child. But he begged to remain at Aberystwyth when I sent his mother away, that was this spring. We've had little but game for months now and he's as lean as I am, dark hair limp with sweat against his forehead.
"Is he here?" I ask, spinning a loose arrowhead in my hand. A nervous habit I've never broken, and which my wife finds amusing so she'll just place small objects in my hands to watch me toy with them.
"I don't know. I couldn't see," Meredith says, leaning on the doorframe, "The spies said he's here."
"Let's go look eh?" I ask, forcing a smile for him.  It's his world now. Everything has to be all right, at least some of the time. If war is all we know then war must become a game as well.
He nods, following me out of the main keep. Aberystwyth is grand, built by the English of course, centuries ago. A beautiful castle to defend second perhaps only to Harlech or Beaumaris. I've kept it for four years now, as the seat of government, Meredith probably barely remembers living elsewhere. His mother and he came not long after my brother and I took it.
We wind our way up to the ramparts. We know they have longbows, and they know we have longbows, and we know they know we know they have longbows. It's a very lovely stalemate since everyone is clever enough not to get close. Well. At Shrewsbury they say the English were not clever enough to stay back from the longbows but I'm assuming they've learnt. That is, I can't afford not to assume they've learnt.
When we get to the ramparts, Ieuan is standing there with a spyglass, staring out into the trees, silent. His soft gold hair is ruffled in the wind, and he's even more ruddy than is usual, meaning he's been up here in the sun all day.
"Well?" I ask, stopping by his side.
"Meredith, go get one of my sons and have him help you check that all the dogs are locked up, eh?" Ieuan says, ignoring me. That means he doesn't want to speak in front of the boy.
"Which one of your sons?" Meredith asks, softly.
"Does it matter? There's not a whole lot of difference, which ever one you can find, go on then," Ieuan says. He has three sons, all not much more than a year apart, all admittedly similar. That said I've witnessed him distinguish between them with his back turned, the only clue the gentle footfall of a five year old stumbled out of bed. Having three he can be more casual about their care than my sole, precious, heir, though of course he chooses not to be even if he acts it.
"Yes," Meredith says, ducking his head quickly, before scurrying off.
"Well?" I ask, leaning on the battlement.
"Well what? You can see the smoke as well as I can," Ieuan grunts.
"Is he here?" I ask, quietly.
"My spies say yes, yeah," he says, lowering the spyglass. His face is red and will burn. He has been up here all day. But he's a bowman by trade. He can stand anywhere all day.
"They said he was mad after Shrewburry, that the arrow struck his brain and he was little more than a child in his mind," I growl.
"He's here, Rhys," he says.
"If he's well why did it take him four years to return?" I ask.
"Why are you afraid of a twenty odd year old boy?" He asks.
"The same reason you've spent the day looking for him," I growl. Because if he was shot in the face. And he did live, and is somehow well enough to go to battle, then his men will follow him to the end. Then he's resurrected somehow. How can we hope to defeat something that will not simply stay dead?
"He's here," Ieuan says, quietly, "We have to operate, as though he's here."
"And how's that?"
"Like one wrong move, and we lose our heads," he says, raising the spyglass again, "I sent word to my father, that they're surrounding us. That Harry of Monmouth is likely here. And that this is likely my last message."
"That is all?" I ask, I probably should have helped him write that. Ieuan is a good person but he's not a comforting one.
"I sent my mother and sister my regards."
"Which were?"
"I said 'give my mother and sister my regards, I'll likely die you know me'," he says.
I definitely should have helped him write it he should have told me he was sending it.
"That will comfort them," I say, a bit sarcastically.
"They had better stay put in Harlech, I told them as much," he says. They being his family. His father is Prince of Wales, the family is at Harlech as it's our strongest base. They've been there for some time, but with no ships coming in and no food besides that which we can grow or hunt, they too are beginning to starve. Half of Wales has been on fire for entire summer. By spring the land will be so scorched we'll be unable to grow anything even if the english leave us. 
"They will, your father is no fool," I say.
"No but he's foolhardy," Ieuan will probably do something foolhardy in the next week if that is Harry of Monmouth's army. "I'd sooner the English bastard come bother us first. Give them some time."
To amass an army? What army when the people are starving and are terrified of being burned alive? I don't blame them. We don't have enough people not if the full force of England falls on us.
"I don't have a plan here, Ieuan, my only plan was they not get this far," I say, quietly.
"I know," he says, quietly, "A miracle could still come. My brothers could raise an army. My father could get an army and relieve us."
"Yes," but that is quite literally a miracle.
"By god," he breaths, staring through the spyglass.
"What?" I ask.
"He is here."
"You see him?"
"Yes," he says, softly, "Unless two men have risen from the dead, a welsh arrow still in their brain."
"How can you tell?" I ask.
He looks directly at me, holding out the spyglass, "There, edge of the trees, where the bowmen are setting up."
I take the spyglass and look, it takes a moment to see them. They're just casually out of range. A few knights, clearly discussing the line. At first I am prepared to ask Ieuan how he picked him out. Then I see him.
A solid head taller than his companions. Hair short like a churchman and wavy in the summer heat, surprisingly lean, he's clad in fine, looks like Italian armor. But his face. My god his face— he's my mortal enemy and I still shudder. The right side is completely, seemly melting away, the skin beneath his eye dragged down revealing red, into a black hole just next to his nose. The rest of the skin is oddly sliced up in a spiderweb of red scars, stopping just above his mouth. He's standing among his men, clearly in command, clearly giving rather rapid orders, but his stance is calm, casual even.
"He knows we can see him there," I say.
"Aye," Ieuan says, "he wants us to."