Scores of camp fires could be seen from the gatehouse. Henry's garrison were camped to the east and south-east of the castle. Owain realized that these, more than any other aspect of the siege, were what was demoralizing those in the castle. Water was not a problem, the well actually seemed to be bottomless, he had never known it run out. In the beginning food and even live sheep could be smuggled in through the myriad of tunnels and water courses that emerged in the castle cellars. But as each stream was either diverted or blocked or each tunnel entrance discovered the food became more and more scarce. The last remaining usable tunnel involved passing through a fifteen foot long sump, a dark, wet, claustrophobic experience of mud and stone below, rock above and only water in between, it had rendered the bringing in of firewood in fruitless. So whilst they had still had been fed all the food was mainly cold, and as the winter approached they had used all the wood of the castle's inner buildings as fuel to make fires. Now it was just a cold, dark and largely roofless place where both men and women clung to the gatehouse wall to avoid the opportunist stray arrow that fell every few minutes from over the castle walls.
Owain knew he had to make a decision. The choices were stark: surrender himself, for almost certain execution in the tower, and allow the rest of his friends and family some stay on their mortality or continue this slow, wet war of attrition with only certain death after prolonged suffering. He had to find another way to save himself and his country.
Since the Dean of Llanelwy had made him Prince of Wales, monarch of not just this mountainous countryside but also of large swathes of agricultural land known as the marches on the borders with England, he had realized that he was not just the leader of the rebellion but also its figurehead. Without him it would wane and sicken into smaller and smaller self-interested groups whom would not have his notion of nationhood. The French would abandon their support and Henry, his heirs and all their bastards would grind the Welsh into the mud for centuries.
A lone sentinel on the ramparts watching the first grey purple of dawn he acknowledged to himself what he would have to do. With a heavy heart he returned to the remains of the kitchens to to talk to Mortimer, once his foe now his confident perhaps even a friend.
Mortimer was slumped on a bench, a jar of the watered down mead in the crook of his elbow. Owain could not determine weather he was awake or not, he kicked the one of the table legs. Mortimer rose and drew his sword in one fluid movement. The blade horizontal, the tip nestling between Owain's clavicles, Mortimer's fury could be seen to subside with the waking recognition of his Prince. "I'll fucking kill you in my sleep one day 'Dwr". Owain managed a small smile. They sat down and spoke quietly and intently as the castle woke up around them.
Three days later Owain, standing alone on top of Rhinog Fawr, screamed into the wind. Mortimer was dead. His beloved Maggie and many other members of his family he had seen captured and then brutally beaten. Below him were what remained of his followers, battle weary, hungry and wet. The plan had gone so very wrong, Owain had lost what was dear to him. He hoped that his wealth, very discreetly hidden in the bowels of the castle would remain undiscovered. until he could recapture the Castle.
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