The lone rider galloped tirelessly through the rugged Welsh landscape, his steed's hooves pounding the earth. He beared precious parchments, the blueprints Ethan had painstakingly prepared the night before. His destination was Harlech Castle.
As the rider approached the gates of the imposing fortress, the guards stood at attention, their eyes wary. "Identify yourself," one of them demanded, his spear poised.
The rider, breathless but resolute, lifted his head. "I come bearing a message for Lord Owain," he declared. "It is urgent."
The guards exchanged glances before allowing him entry. Inside, the atmosphere buzzed with the energy of preparation and strategy. The rider was escorted through the stone corridors until he reached the hall where Owain and his council were deep in discussion.
The rider entered and bowed low. "Lords, I bring this," he announced, presenting the bound parchments.
Edmund, one of Owain's trusted advisors, stepped forward and took the bundle, his brow furrowing as he opened it. The detailed sketches and annotations caught his attention immediately. "What is this?" he murmured, his fingers tracing the intricate lines.
"A gift," the rider explained. "The young Lord Ieuan said I should call it such."
Owain, leaning back in his chair, chuckled softly. "Theatrics, no doubt. What is he up to now?"
Edmund, his curiosity piqued, continued to examine the documents, passing them to Philip Scudamore, who was seated nearby. Philip's eyes widened as he perused the blueprints. "These... these are remarkable!" he exclaimed, rising to show them to Owain.
Owain took the parchments, his gaze growing sharp as he studied the designs. The blueprints detailed improved cannon designs, with precise instructions that left little room for error. "Where did he acquire this knowledge...." Owain wondered aloud, his voice laced with both astonishment and suspicion. Did he create this himself....no it can't be
The rider shook his head. "I do not know, my lord. I was merely tasked with delivering them."
Edmund, interjected. "Regardless of their origin, if these designs can enhance our artillery, we should waste no time in implementing them."
Philip nodded and swiftly took the blueprints to the castle's weapons craftsmen and smiths. As he laid them out, the artisans gathered around, their eyes widening in amazement. "Whoever drew these has a mastery beyond anything we've seen," one craftsman whispered. "The instructions are so clear, it's as if the creator anticipated every potential mistake."
"Indeed," Philip agreed, his tone urgent. "Begin work immediately. These improvements could be the edge we need against the English."
Back in the hall, Owain and Edmund sat in contemplative silence. Edmund finally spoke, his voice steady. "If these designs work, your son will have brought us a gift of great value."
Owain, still grappling with the implications, shook his head slowly. "It cannot be him...it must be Gruffudd."
"Does it matter?" Edmund countered. "What matters is that these designs could elevate our cannons to rival the English, it will be a significant victory."
Owain exhaled, his gaze fixed on the parchments laid before him. "We shall see," he said, his voice tempered with both hope and doubt. He leaned back, his gaze narrowing. "And where is Gruffudd?" he asked.
The rider straightened. "Lord Gruffudd has ridden to Llangollen with his men. While young Ieuan remains in power at Bala."
Owain scoffed, a bitter smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Bala? Left in Ieuan's hands? The town will be in ruins before long." His eyes flicked to Edmund, the weight of ancestral pride evident. "Your ancestors built that town. Now it stands on the brink of chaos."
Edmund, asked calmly, "And who did Gruffudd leave to assist Ieuan?"
"Tarwyn, my lord," the rider responded.
At this, Edmund allowed a small nod. "That is good. Tarwyn will ensure some semblance of order. Bala may yet endure."
---
Gruffudd and his men rode into Llangollen, the setting sun bathed the valley in a golden hue, casting long shadows over the rugged slopes of the Berwyn Mountains. The River Dee sparkled in the fading light, its rushing waters a constant undertone to the scene. The narrow streets of the town bustled with life—market stalls were packed with goods, townsfolk haggled over prices, and the scent of wood smoke and fresh bread mingled in the air. Llangollen, nestled amidst such breathtaking natural beauty, held an air of unease, a sense that conflict could erupt at any moment due to its position.
As they approached the center of the town, they were greeted by Gwilym ap Tudur. His black hair was unkempt, His dark eyes gleamed with ambition, and his mouth curled into a half-smirk that spoke of confidence. The sigil of his family—a golden lion rampant on a field of azure—was emblazoned on his worn cloak, a reminder of the Tudur family's proud lineage.
Gwilym, once a lord of substantial holdings in Anglesey, had seen his lands seized by the English. Now an outlaw, he had joined his cousin Owain Glyndŵr's rebellion, a cause that flickered but had yet to die out completely.
Gruffudd reined his horse in and dismounted with ease. His eyes met Gwilym's, and for a moment, the two men simply stood there, taking each other in.
"Well, well," Gwilym said with a grin that bordered on mischievous. "Look who's come to grace us with his presence. You've been well, cousin?" His voice was smooth, laced with warmth.
Gruffudd met his gaze, his own expression calm, but his mouth curling into a smirk. "I've been well enough," he replied, stepping closer. "Not as well as you, by the looks of it."
Gwilym chuckled, "Ah, don't flatter me." His gaze flicked over Gruffudd's men, sizing them up. Disappointing number of men...
Gruffudd observed him, his expression calm but firm. "More will join us in time," he said, pulling a bound set of parchments from his saddlebag. "But I have something else for you." He handed the blueprints to Gwilym, who took them with a skeptical glance.
Gwilym took them, his fingers brushing against Gruffudd's in a brief but telling contact. He unrolled the parchments slowly, his expression shifting from skeptical to intrigued. "This… What is this?" he asked, his voice lowering, full of something far more serious than before.
Gruffudd didn't answer immediately, his eyes scanning Gwilym's face for any sign of recognition or understanding. Finally, he spoke. "Improvements. For the cannons. For the war ahead."
Gwilym's smirk returned, but this time, it was edged with suspicion. "You've got my attention, cousin."
Later that day, the smiths of Llangollen gathered around the blueprints, their calloused hands tracing the fine lines of the designs. Their eyes widened with awe and disbelief at the complexity and precision of the plans.
One of the smiths, an older man with a face weathered by years of labor, spoke hesitantly, "Lord, it would take us two months to complete this work, maybe more."
Gwilym, his patience always thin, shook his head. "No. I want them in one month." His tone left no room for argument.
The smiths exchanged uneasy glances but nodded, understanding the urgency. Gwilym turned back to Gruffudd, his skepticism giving way to curiosity. "Where did you get these blueprints... "
Gruffudd's expression remained serious. "From a dreamer." Gwilym raised his brows, A dreamer?