1408
Harlech Castle, Gwynedd
In an uphill scenery, a castle stood tall and strong, its imposing walls blending with the rugged dune landscapes of northern Wales in Gwynedd. Harlech Castle, renowned for its impregnable fortifications, was the current residence of Owain Glyndŵr, the Prince of Wales. This stronghold had fallen to Owain after a series of rebellious campaigns against English forces, though the tide of war now favored the enemy. Earlier this year, the English had claimed Anglesey under the command of Prince Henry and controlled much of southern Wales.
Atop the castle, a solitary tower served as Owain's sanctuary—a place to reflect and clear his mind. Today, he wasn't alone. His wife, Marred, stood with him, her arms wrapped around his waist as they shared a quiet moment. Owain, with his long brown hair and thick beard, possessed a fierce visage and deep, contemplative eyes. He wore a finely woven tunic under a heavy cloak adorned with a wyvern-type dragon, the symbol of his claim to the title of Prince of Wales.
Owain hailed from a distinguished lineage that connected him to several prominent Welsh dynasties. His inheritance included extensive estates in northern and central Wales, which he used to fuel his rebellion against English oppression. As the son of Gruffudd Fychan II and Elen ferch Tomas ap Llywelyn, his noble heritage encompassed the houses of Powys Fadog and Deheubarth, solidifying his claim to leadership among Welsh nobility.
As the sun set over the Welsh plains, Owain gazed toward a solitary, towering oak tree in the distance. His voice carried a solemn note.
"How old do you think the elder is?" he asked, turning his head slightly to look at his wife.
Marred, snuggling into his shoulder with her eyes closed, replied softly, "Older than us, that I know."
Owain's gaze remained fixed on the tree. "I wonder if it will live to see us gain independence over our lands," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow.
Marred tilted her head to meet his eyes and gently took his hand. "My love… why don't we go far away?" she pleaded. "Perhaps France? We could take our family there." Her eyes gleamed with a fleeting hope.
Owain sighed deeply, retreating as if surrendering to fate. "We both know that's not possible." He cupped her face in his hands, wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
In another part of the castle, Gruffudd, Owain's eldest son, sparred with his younger brother Ieuan. The clash of their wooden swords echoed across the courtyard. Ieuan struggled to match Gruffudd's movements, his hands shaking as he tried to maintain his grip on the hilt.
Maredudd, their muscular middle brother, leaned against a nearby wall, laughing. "Gruffudd, stop wasting your time on him!" he called out.
Gruffudd sighed in disappointment as Ieuan dropped his sword, clearly fatigued. "You haven't improved at all since I left," Gruffudd muttered, stepping back.
Maredudd, biting into a large apple, gestured dismissively at Ieuan. "Go read your books, boy," he said mockingly.
Ieuan bit his lip, his cheeks reddening as he retrieved his sword. Without a word, he turned and stormed off toward his quarters.
Moments later, a female servant arrived to collect Gruffudd's sword and bring him water to wash. As Gruffudd rinsed his hands and face, Maredudd leaned in, smirking.
"You've become soft like Father," Maredudd said.
Gruffudd dried his hands and fixed his hair, exchanging a brief glance with the servant. Turning to Maredudd, he smirked. "Oh, if only Father were like the great Maredudd —the mighty, fearless warrior," he said with mock reverence.
Maredudd scoffed, taking another large bite of his apple.
Gruffudd's expression grew serious as he placed a hand on Madog's shoulder. "These are hard times, brother. I worry for us all." He hesitated, then added, "The day after tomorrow, I'll be leaving for the battlefield."
Maredudd's eyes widened. "So soon?"
Gruffudd sighed. "Yes. The English bastards have taken another castle."
Maredudd's face fell. "Does Father know?"
"No," Gruffudd admitted. "I received word this morning. I'll tell him at supper."
Maredudd stood abruptly, pacing with his hands on his head. "We've lost this war," he said in a hushed tone. "Perhaps we should—"
"Enough," Gruffudd interrupted, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. His voice dropped to a warning whisper. "If Father hears you, he'll have your head."
Maredudd nodded nervously. His fear wasn't just for himself—it was for their family's uncertain future.
In his quarters, Ieuan sat quietly, his frustration weighing heavily on him. The room was dimly lit, with stone walls and a small wooden bed. A desk cluttered with books and parchment sat in one corner, alongside a sword propped against the wall.
Esma, the young servant who had brought Gruffudd water earlier, entered carrying a basin. She dismissed the other servant in the room and approached Ieuan. Her long black hair framed a face that was both delicate and determined.
"My lord," she said softly, kneeling before him. "Shall I wash your feet?"
Ieuan nodded stiffly.
Esma dipped a cloth into the basin and began cleaning his feet with practiced care. After a moment, she asked, "Is the water too cold, my lord?"
"No, it's fine," Ieuan said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Esma glanced up at him, sensing his turmoil. "Is something troubling you, my lord?"
Ieuan snapped, "You're just a servant! What would you know?"
Esma paused, her tone softening. "I share your pain," she said, touching his fingers gently. "I know your strengths"—her eyes flicked toward the books on his desk—"and your weaknesses." Her gaze shifted to the sword.
Ieuan felt her touch linger, light but deliberate. Esma kissed his hand, her lips soft against his skin. "Let me help you ease your pain, my lord," she murmured, her fingers moving to the edge of his tunic.