The flickering torchlight danced across the dimly lit chamber as Catrin and Tarwyn tangled in a secret embrace, their breaths heavy with desire. The weight of their passion pressed against the reality of their betrayal, but in this moment, nothing else mattered. Catrin's hair spilled across Tarwyn's chest as they lay entangled on the bed, their bodies slick with sweat from their forbidden tryst.
As the intensity of their lovemaking waned, Tarwyn leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from Catrin's flushed face. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. "When can I see you again?" he murmured, tracing the line of her jaw with his fingers.
Catrin smiled faintly, a bittersweet expression that softened her sharp features. "This was the last time we do this," she whispered, her voice tinged with a mix of regret and resolve.
Carwyn's lips curled into a smirk. He reached out, his hand gently encircling her neck as he pulled her close. His kiss was fervent, possessive, as though he could imprint his claim on her with the force of his passion alone. "You're mine," he breathed against her lips, his voice a low growl.
Catrin kissed him back, her hands clutching at his head, but the reality of their situation loomed over them like a specter. She pulled away slightly, her brow furrowed. "My husband will be back soon, Tarwyn. We have to be careful."
Tarwyn smiled, his fingers lightly tucking a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. His touch was tender, but his eyes betrayed a hunger that refused to be satiated. "Of course, my lady," he whispered, his voice a promise and a warning all at once.
Catrin's heart thudded in her chest as she gathered her clothing, slipping back into her gown with practiced ease. She glanced at Tarwyn one last time, her eyes filled with a mixture of longing and fear. "We cannot be caught," she said firmly, adjusting the fabric around her shoulders. "Not for my sake, nor yours."
Tarwyn stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. He stepped forward, capturing her hand in his. "I would risk anything for you, for us," he said, his voice low and steady. "Even my life."
Catrin's throat tightened at his words. She squeezed his hand briefly before slipping away, her footsteps light as she vanished into the corridors of the castle, leaving Tarwyn alone in the fading light of their shared secrecy.
---
It had been years since he had been held captive by Glyndŵr's forces. The betrayal by the English crown—the refusal to pay his ransom—had turned the tides for him. Once a pawn of the crown, now he was an ally to Owain Glyndŵr and married his daughter, Catrin. But as the tides of war shifted again, he could feel the whispers, the gathering clouds of treason within his ranks.
The council hall of Machynlleth was heavy with the weight of whispered betrayal. The flickering light from the torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, as Edmund Mortimer sat at the head of the table, his face unreadable. The voices of the lords had quieted, the room thick with unspoken tension. Edmund had always been a man of action, but tonight, the air felt different. The murmurs in the room, the fleeting glances, the promises of English gold—they all pointed to the same conclusion. The rebellion was crumbling, and its supporters were scattered like leaves in a storm.
He had been the one to defy the English, the one who had risen to the cause of Glyndŵr. But now, as he looked around the room, he sensed the shift. The lords had spoken of survival, of surrender, of giving up the fight. The rumblings of betrayal were clear, and Edmund knew that soon enough, Owain Glyndŵr would be left alone in his struggle.
The council session had ended, and the lords departed, murmuring among themselves. Edmund remained seated for a moment longer, his mind racing. He turned to his squire, a young man named Rhys, who had been standing quietly nearby.
"Prepare the horses and tell our men, discreetly," Edmund ordered in a low voice. His heart hammered in his chest, but there was no time for hesitation.
Rhys, didn't question the order. Edmund's face was tight, his eyes narrowed with the sharpness of a man on the edge of a decision he didn't want to make. The squire nodded and hurried off.
---
The chapel at Harlech Castle was silent except for the faint hum of the wind pressing against the wall. Owain Glyndŵr knelt before the altar, his brow furrowed in prayer. His heart, heavy with the weight of his rebellion, felt the pressure of an uncertain future. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows, turning the stone walls into silent witnesses to his whispered words.
Father Bernard, an old, silver-bearded priest, stood beside him, murmuring blessings under his breath. The scent of incense swirled through the air, comforting in its familiarity. The priest laid a hand gently on Owain's shoulder, feeling the tremor of exhaustion beneath the hardened warrior's exterior.
"Have hope, your grace." Father Bernard said, his voice low but steady. "God still has a plan for you, even in these dark times. You are not alone."
Owain's eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, holding onto the priest's words like a lifeline. "Father," Owain murmured, his voice strained. "I thought i was stronger. I have failed Cymru...perphaps this is my fate."
The priest gave him a soft but firm squeeze. "There is more to the path you walk than you can see now. Have faith. Even in suffering, God's will is at work."
Owain stared at the altar, silent for a moment. He sought comfort in the prayers, but it felt hollow. His eyes slowly drifted toward the high windows, where the stormy sea stretched out beneath the cliffs. How much longer could he carry this burden?
The priest, sensing his unease, stepped back. "Go now, . Strength comes not just from the faith of others, but your own. God walks with you."
Owain stood, muttering a final prayer before leaving the chapel in silence. He had been through worse. Or so he told himself. Now, it was time to consider the next steps. His rebellion, his cause—it all seemed to be slipping away. But there was still hope.
In his study, the room was heavy with the smell of parchment and ink. Owain's finger traced the coastline, the river routes, the locations of his remaining loyal forces. His mind was already working, formulating the plan ahead.
"Gruffudd," he called, his voice resolute, though his eyes were clouded with weariness.
His eldest son, a seasoned veteran with a rough countenance, was already in the room. He stood in front of the desk, his posture tense, as though carrying the weight of the rebellion on his own shoulders.
Owain's eyes met his. "We must send messengers. To France and Scotland. We need them. We cannot do this alone."
Gruffudd's brow furrowed in concern. "Father, we've sent word before. We've asked for help time and again. But we're yet to receive the aid we need. The French and the Scots—they are no closer than they ever were."
Owain leaned forward, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself. "I know. But I will not give up. We will not give up. I refuse to let the flame of this rebellion die. We are Welsh. We must stand."
Gruffudd eyed him for a long moment, his expression uncertain.
Owain stood and walked to the window, the weight of the question settling in his chest like a stone. He clenched his fists at his sides. "I don't know what I will do if they do not come. But I do know this—we will fight, even if we are alone. We will die on our feet, not our knees."
The two men stood in silence, the quiet tension in the room thick with uncertainty.
Meanwhile, outside the door, Esma lingered. She had been in the hallway when the conversation began, just close enough to overhear their words, the hushed tones of their desperate discussion. Esma had known her place in the castle for some time now—a servant.
She was a spy, placed among the Welsh to gather information, to sabotage the rebellion from within. And though she had played her part well, listening in on these conversations, her heart grew colder each time. The Welsh cause had more than just fire; it had something the English could not easily extinguish.
Esma carefully straightened, brushing down her apron as she moved away from the door, prepared to continue with her duties. But she couldn't help the lingering unease in her chest.
In the study, Gruffudd left quietly, shaking his head as he walked away. Owain, deep in thought, had not noticed the soft sound of Esma's retreating footsteps.