The Last Princes of Wales (Violent Delights Book 7)

Chapter 9: The siege, December 1408

According to Catrin ferch Owain ferch Margaret

We've been at siege for over a year now. Aberysywyth fell in the fall. We know because they shouted it to us. They dragged great cannons here, but they couldn't fire them. They can't reach us. Harlech, is as ever, untouchable.
Our food stores are dwindling. Nothing has gotten in or out for months. And we grow thinner. And thinner. We stretch the rations as best we can. But we have less than a few barrels of grain. And no meat. The archers shoot birds but that is all.
My girls are thin, and they have less and less energy. They are getting no food. They go and visit their father's grave in the outer ward, and they sing to him.
We sing songs for their grandfather. My mother tries to smile for me. But each day we know we are making the choice to die here. To stand up to them. Each day is another victory. For they want us out. And we will not yield.
I talk to Edmund's grave. I lie there on the cold ground and remember the nights I lay in his arms. When I told him I was carrying our babies. How he kissed their sweet faces. Rejoiced at his daughter's births. How he held me in his arms and kissed me, so reverently. I didn't know I could be loved like that. In such a way that could make me feel loss like this.
It's winter again. We've spent over a year here. And Harlech is safe. It's like being locked in a mausoleum. But we're not dead yet. I want to scream that we're not dead yet.
I want to imagine happy, summer days. I want to imagine my girls in beautiful dresses. Blushing at the advances of young men. Eventually, Ieuan tells me of one who's asked for their hand. I play with my grandchildren. I visit Alys and her children who must be getting so tall now.
But that future isn't coming. We're locked here in emptiness. Harlech will protect us. But soon it will be protecting nothing but bones. For we are almost gone.
We saw him once. The devil himself. Harry of Monmouth. He's as ugly as the bards say. His head his half gone, a Welsh arrow did its best to destroy a demon.
He came here to stare at us. Then he left. He knows we are surrounded. We can't leave. Yet they simply cannot get in. And we will not let them in. We will not yield. He doesn't get to win.

According to Henry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales

I've won.
That's all I can think. I've won. I nearly weep for joy.
"Comatose, but not dead," Richard takes my hand, "He collapsed again, your step mother's note reads. We must go to Montlake. You've been recalled. We must see that it's true. Then we can act."
"Yes, yes," I grip his hands. We've done it. I've won. I've won.
We were at my uncle's house in London, so the Archbishop's house is near. We ride, rather than take the Thames, I and my party, which does not consist of my brothers. Not yet. Warwick is on his precious crusade, so Cornwall and Porter are my primary companions and Scrope is now back in my inner circle, of course Richard comes, skulking as ever. I'm about to need all of them. Arundel holds primary power still. But that's about to change. Drastically.
"Is he dead?" I ask, as contritely as possible.
"He won't wake," my step mother says, upon seeing us.
"Let me just test something, first," I say, stepping into the room. Sure enough my father is entirely out, his face is melting away with disease, and his flesh already smells of death. He's lying there on the great bed, clutching a crown.
I step forward, taking hold of the crown, gently. It slides from his weak fingers, and he does not stir.
"Yes, he is quite out. Well. It seems I have work to do," I say, unable to press a smile from my lips, "Richard, send that letter with all haste. And arrange a ship."

According to John Fastolf

"We're going home!" I don't mind both children launching themselves into my arms. The baby babbles happily, unaware why its parents are so jubilant.
"Yes, yes yes," Thomas sobs, hugging me tightly.
"We're going home," I say, squeezing both kids as they cling to me.
"Really? We're really going to England?" The girl asks, nervously, going to scoop up her chubby baby.
"You are about to become an English lass," I say, tapping the baby's head with the precious letter, "Go pack your things."
"Where will we live?" The girl asks, quietly.
"With me. I've got—houses I'm sure of it. Anyway Hal does. Anyway our Uncles do. You won't have to work," Thomas says, going to her.
"Will they let us stay with them?" She asks, unaware how being gentry works.
"They don't use half those houses yes they will," I say.
"Anyway Fastolf has a house or two now, he's married to the widow Scrope," Thomas says, "We can stay with him."
"We found out my wife doesn't want me. Your uncles will want you, Thomas you're the bloody lord of Ireland, open bloody Berkhampsted, stay in Windsor they'll not notice, we, are going home," I say, unable to stop grinning, "Now go pack your things, you two. We sail in two days time."
"Don't you have to pack?" Thomas asks.
"My dear prince I've been packed since 1402," I say, very nicely.
"You coming with us to London?" Thomas asks.
"Wherever we're going?" The girl asks.
Both are frowning at me very pathetically.
"Yes, I'm making sure you get someplace. We are safe now, do you understand?" I ask, holding up the letter, "We're going home. Finally."
"They won't cancel it?" The girl asks.
"The bloody Prince never-fail-in-no-way of bloody Wales, does not fail himself," I say.
"But why now?" The girl asks.
"Oh my father is dying," Thomas says, as an after thought, "So Hal's in charge so we're coming home."
"The king is dying?" The girl asks, "Why didn't you lead with that?"
"Because Hal being in charge is most important, hopefully you never meet him, now go get whatever things you have, and we're going," I say, "Now. I am not missing this boat."