Nanotechnology: The Last Prince Of Wales

Two Weeks Later

Harlech Castle

"RING THE BELLS!" The cry echoed across the ramparts, urgent. A guard's voice cracked through the air, panic threading each syllable. The bells rang loud and clear, their sound vibrating the very stone beneath the feet of the soldiers.

Inside, Edmund was hunched over his workbench with other smiths, his eyes fixed on the designs for the canister cannons. Sweat beaded on his brow as he worked tirelessly overseeing the production.

Edmund wiped his face with the back of his hand and stood up, staring at the designs before him one last time. The sound of the bells reverberated through the castle's stone walls, drowning out everything else. He had no time to wait. The enemy was here. Early.

His boots echoed on the stone floors as he moved up the winding staircase that led to the higher battlements. The wind whipped his hair as he stepped out onto the parapet, and his eyes scanned the horizon, his gaze narrowing as he saw the English army approach. Hundreds, no, thousands of them, blackening the land with their numbers. He clenched his jaw.

"They're here!" Edmund shouted to those within earshot, his voice booming over the noise of the wind.

At the castle's heart, Owain Glyndŵr stood grim, his face drawn tight with concern. His eyes, tired from the constant strain of leadership, flicked upward as Edmund's voice reached him.

"Maredudd isn't back yet?" Owain asked, his voice low, almost imperceptible against the rising tension in the castle.

Edmund shook his head, his expression clouded with uncertainty. "No, Lord. No word from the scouts."

Owain's jaw tightened, his brow furrowing. He looked out at the advancing army, his gaze hardened by years of battle. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

His eyes returned to the approaching enemy, his mind calculating the options. "They're not attacking from the sea," he said aloud, his voice solemn, as though trying to convince himself. "This is good. Underestimating us are they."

He turned to Edmund, his eyes sharp despite the weariness that lingered in them. "How are the canons coming along?"

"Thankfully, we've been able to rely on the skill of our smiths," Edmund replied, his voice gruff but proud. "They haven't slept in days, but the cannons are ready."

Owain allowed himself a small, bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the air. He raised his hand to his temple, his fingers massaging the tension there. "I can't believe I'll be relying on Ieuan designs to work for us...Life truly is... interesting."

Edmund's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

Owain turned to face the stone wall behind him, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "If the castle falls… take the family down the tunnel and escape. Get them to safety."

Edmund nodded, a heavy lump of dread rising in his throat.

A guard burst into the scene, his voice urgent and strained. "Your Grace, they have a prisoner at the gates."

Owain's heart sank, his fists tightening instinctively. He exchanged a tense glance with Edmund, dread filling his gut. "Don't tell me…" he whispered, his voice low and hard.

Without hesitation, Owain stormed from the room, donning his chainmail with practiced speed. His footsteps echoed heavily against the stone floors, a grim prelude to the scene awaiting him. His mind raced with dark thoughts.

At the gates, two mounted knights stood in stark contrast against the dark sky. Their armor gleamed under the light, casting long shadows across the ground. Between them, slumped and bound, was Maredudd. His face was a canvas of bruises, his once bright eyes now clouded with pain, yet defiance still burned within them.

The lead knight, his face a cruel mask, guided his horse forward. His voice rang out, sharp and cutting, as he addressed the battlements. "Owain Glyndŵr, the rebel," he declared, a sneer twisting his lips. "We have your son. Surrender now, or watch as we place his head on a spike."

Maredudd struggled against his bonds, lifting his head despite the pain. "No, Father! Don't—"

Before he could say more, the second knight silenced him with a harsh gag, his movements rough and merciless. Sir Thomas's smile widened, cruel satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "You have until dawn," he continued, his tone mocking. "To decide."

Owain's knuckles turned white, his fists clenched so tightly that they trembled. His body was a taut wire of rage and anguish, his gaze locked on his son's battered form.

From the crowd atop, Marred and Catrin pushed through, their faces etched with horror. Marred's sobs were heart-wrenching as she reached for Owain, her fingers clutching at his arm in desperation. "My son!" she cried, her voice breaking with grief. "We must save him. Please, Owain… he's our child."

Owain remained rigid, his breath heavy and labored. His mind churned with the unbearable choices laid before him.

---

Corwen, North Wales

The manor of Corwen reeked of ale and sweat. Lord Cadogan ap Rhys reclined on a worn chair, his tunic half-open, a leg draped lazily over the armrest. Around him, the soft laughter of barely-clad women mixed with the clink of goblets. His ruddy face gleamed with grease as he tore into a hunk of roasted meat, eyes glazed with the stupor of indulgence.

Peter entered abruptly, the heavy oak doors groaning in protest. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor, sharp and purposeful. Beside him, Talog shuffled in, his eyes darting nervously, the firelight casting shadows across his gaunt features. The guard at the door gave Peter a curt nod before pulling the doors closed with a thud.

"Is my father inside?" Peter asked, though the raucous laughter from within had already answered him.

Cadogan's eyes lifted sluggishly from the cleavage of a departing woman. His lips spread into a wide, mocking grin. "Ah, my prodigious son!" His voice was thick with mockery and the slur of too much drink. "While your father shits, eats, and fucks, you run this little town in my stead!" He raised his goblet, spilling wine over the rim. The women around him tittered as they slipped away, their bare feet padding softly on the cold stone.

As they passed, Talog's gaze lingered, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow. Peter caught the look and gave him a sharp nudge, pulling him back to focus.

Peter approached the throne-like chair, standing tall over his seated father. "Father, I bring a visitor from Bala."

Cadogan's eyes, heavy-lidded, turned lazily to Talog. He leaned forward slightly, swirling the dregs of his wine. "And what news does this shit-faced fucker bring from Bala?" he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Talog's fingers twitched at his sides. His mouth opened, but before he could speak, Peter stepped in, his voice cold and deliberate. "Glyndŵr's bastard son is the new lord."

Cadogan bit off another chunk of meat, chewing thoughtfully as the juice dripped down his chin. He swallowed heavily, reaching again for his cup. "What of it?" he mumbled, lifting the goblet to his lips.

Peter's hand shot out, snatching the cup from his father's grasp and slamming it down onto the table. The sharp clatter reverberated through the room, silencing the crackle of the fire. Cadogan's eyes widened slightly in surprise, focusing now, albeit reluctantly, on his son.

"Can't you see, Father?" Peter's voice was low, seething with suppressed frustration. "This is a chance. If we give the English his head and take the town…"

Cadogan leaned back in his chair, a hand stroking his bearded chin. His eyes narrowed in contemplation. "And what of his older brother? Last I heard, he's with that Tudur in Llangollen." His gaze flicked to Talog, scrutinizing. "Can we even trust this man?"

Peter turned to Talog, his eyes urging him to speak. Talog cleared his throat, the words catching before he managed to force them out. "Lord... the bastard has recruited farmers and youngsters. It would be easy to take the town and it is not fortified heavily."

Cadogan's lips curled into a sneer. He rubbed his jaw, the rough bristle of his beard scratching against his palm. "We refused to send our men to Bala after Gruffudd's request....this would make our treason even more despicable."

Peter leaned in, his eyes alight with ambition. "Father, we aren't the only ones who have turned their backs on Glyndŵr. That poor old fart will lose his last castle. This is our chance!" His voice dropped, his breath quickening with the vision of English gold and glory.

Cadogan's sneer turned into a slow, deliberate smile. He nodded, his decision made. "Alright gather the men. But we must act fast."

Talog's lips twitched into a grin, a dark satisfaction curling in his chest. As the firelight flickered across his face, his eyes gleamed with malice. Just wait, you little monster, he thought, the image of Ieuan's severed head vivid in his mind. I'll have your head, Ieuan ap Owain Glyndŵr.