Free Uneasy Lies the Crown by N. Gemini Sasson Page B

enormous rack, the largest Gruffydd had ever laid eyes on, and bounded to its feet. He slapped the arrow against his bow, pulled back —
    It had claimed but one single leap toward freedom when an arrow, sure and swift, pierced its thundering heart. Gruffydd’s fingers stung with the twang of his bowstring. Stunned, he watched the stag stumble as if drunk, dip its head and bellow in agony. From its soft red-brown hide gushed a fountain of blood. Crimson spotted the forest floor. Astounded and mortified, Gruffydd approached the animal. He freed his hunting knife from his belt.
    The honor was not to be his. The pack of hounds that had chased the beast there poured over the ridge, yapping and panting, frothing tongues trailing the ground. The first dog that reached the weakened stag sank its powerful jaws into the deer’s neck and pulled it down. In seconds, the knot of sanguinary hunters was drowning with delight in a scarlet sea.
    “No! No!” Gruffydd flailed his knife before him and ran toward the pack.
    Owain tackled him. His body pinned across his son’s, he cried, “Leave it! You’ll make quarry of yourself.” He hoisted the angry Gruffydd to his feet. As he was dragging him away from the bloodbath, a party of horsemen appeared.
    Lord Reginald de Grey of Ruthin leered at his discovery. Swarming around him was a full corps of fifteen huntsmen, lesser lords eager to impress. One rushed in and rammed a spear into the deer, although it was a task that need not have been done.
    “Aha! My gratitude, good men, for bringing down my prize,” Grey proclaimed.
    “ Your prize?” Owain started forward. “These are my lands you’re on. And well you know it. You are beyond your bounds. Parliament has upheld my claims on Croesau.”
    “Richard’s parliament.” Grey clucked his tongue in admonishment. “’Tis a hard task to wield influence from a dungeon.”
    Owain’s arms were locked stiffly at his side, though they had the strength to heave the dripping, dog-shredded carcass at Grey’s head. “Take it. Take the hide and the meat and the bloody set of antlers. But don’t come back. This land is not yours.”
    “I’ll come as often as I please. These are my lands now, everything you see. The Welsh sympathizer is not long to wear the crown and Bolingbroke owes me a good turn.” One hand upon his hip, he flexed the gloved fingers of his other hand and nodded with satisfaction. “This hunting ground will do, littered though it is with Welsh beggars. Incidentally, I took liberty to evict some troublesome peasants of yours in the next valley.”
    Owain sprang forward. “You have no right!”
    “Yes, yes... hmmm. We shall see who has rights. Anyway, they were a little, shall we say, obstinate. A torched roof is very convincing. It has a tendency to make people into believers.”
    Owain glared up at Lord Grey, haughty in his pride. Grey’s huntsmen gathered up the stag, its great ebony eyes glazed over in death, and lashed its slender graceful legs to a stout pole so that it dangled limply upside down. Heaving the prize onto their shoulders, they began trudging back through the forest toward Grey’s estate. The hounds had already been leashed and led away.
    “Oh, and Gruffydd is it?” Grey smirked with wicked glee. “I have removed my niece to Yorkshire. I thought it best to tuck her away in a nunnery, given her condition. Once the child is delivered, she will take her vows to serve Christ. Saved from the likes of you.”
    Owain shot his son a questioning glance.
    Fists balled until his fingers were bloodless, Gruffydd cast his eyes downward, trying with all his will to master the anger boiling up inside him. He thought of Elise, far to the north, alone, soon to give birth to a bastard child that would likely be taken from her. Gruffydd lunged forward, but Owain latched onto his arm and yanked him back.
    “Lying bastard!” Gruffydd shouted at Grey.
    “Leave be, Gruffydd.” Owain tightened his grip on his