Cold Curtain Series

Glyndŵr Rises: Chapter One

"Those who don't know history are condemned to repeat it."

George Santayana

December 16, 2147

While waiting in Kyle of Lochalsh for the invasion of Ireland, the three lieutenants from Company C—Charles Morgan, Jessica Greer, and Côme Travere (all about nineteen)—were quartered together. Greer's hair constantly frizzed and sometimes the static shocked her helmet. Travere was as black as a person could be. Even though Charles was blond and fair-skinned, he inherited his father's trait of tanning instead of burning and his mother's enormous amount of dark brown freckles. His face looked almost like a triangular freckle.

Travere dug in his barracks bag for old canteens.

"We're not buying that stuff," Charles and Greer said at the same time.

"I'm giving it to you."

"You only do that if it's a worse than normal batch," Greer said.

"Because we haven't seen each other since Aberdeen. Remember that? I still don't know what happened..."

Charles left the tent for about an hour, in the hopes Travere and Greer finished talking about Aberdeen before he returned.

"It isn't carbolic acid anymore," Greer said. "He's improving."

Charles took a somewhat hesitant drink from the remaining canteen.

"And shooting the rebels...I know why we have to, but why does the highest ranking officer involved in the capture have to? Why can't we have firing squads like every other army?" Travere asked.

"They trust us the most," Greer said.

"But you can escape from prison." Charles began getting ready for bed.

"Not the Bastille," Travere said.

"Because nobody who goes in comes out alive," Greer said.

"Unless you work there. That's what my uncle says, anyway," Travere said.

"I heard some lieutenants in Ireland are on strike," Greer said. "They're refusing to do anything, and their sections are striking with them. They're all going to be shot unless they stop. They're holding up the invasion!"

"Are they Scots or something?" Travere asked.

"Irish nationals," Greer said. "Hey, were you the one who killed the ravens in the Tower, or was it some other Travere?"

"It was me. And I don't think..." He changed his mind.

In the middle of the night, a sudden, steady, dazzling golden glow woke up Charles. A man, somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties, wearing early 15th-century plate armor, stood over him. The man's gray beard divided into the shape of a snake's tongue and his shoulder-length hair curled away from his shoulders.

"BLOODY HELL!" Charles flattened against the wall whilst sitting straight upright, hitting his head on Travere's bunk.

"Hail, good sir, I am Owain Glyndŵr, your grandfather. You are my child through your mother. You are he who shall free Wales from French tyranny," the glowing man said.

"Whatsamatter?" Travere asked.

"There's this...bloke...in a suit of armor..."

Travere looked over. "There's nobody there. Turn off the light, will you?" He fell asleep again.

"He cannot see me, and nobody but you may hear me. You are descended from me directly through your mother. You are he through whom I shall rise up to free Wales from France."