The Hammer of the Scots

Chapter VI THE PRINCE OF WALES

Davydd had been right, Llewellyn told himself. He felt alive again. Only the prospect of regaining what he had lost could give him such an interest in life.

About the same time as the Sicilians were rising against the French and awaiting the signal of the vesper bell, he had aroused the whole of that part of Wales which remained in Welsh hands.

They were going to march against the English. The enthusiasm with which he was greeted amazed him. He was greatly admired. He was a man whom they could trust which was more than they could his brother Davydd. Davydd had been for the English at one time and then had done a quick change-about to the Welsh. He might be a good general but he was not a man to be trusted. It was different with Llewellyn. Llewellyn’s love story was recorded in song; the sad death of his wife had turned the idyll into a tragedy. Llewellyn was a popular romantic figure; and then there was Merlin’s prophecy.

In the beginning there were a few victories for Llewellyn. He even took Rhudlan Castle and held it briefly. But when Edward began his march north Llewellyn knew he could not hold the castle and wisely retreated. But the initial success was inspiring.

Edward’s wrath he guessed to be great, and he knew that it would be a powerful army which would be marching upon him, and the fact that it was led by the King himself would strike terror into all those who seemed to have endowed Edward with some supernatural power.

All through the summer the war continued. Edward was gaining on his enemies but it was no easy victory. There was an occasional success which greatly heartened the Welsh as when a large force of the English had crossed the Menai bridge and encamped there awaiting the rest of the army to join them. In the night the flood tide broke the bridge over the Straits and the English were cut off. It was an easy matter for the superior Welsh forces – who would have been easily defeated if the entire English army had been able to cross the bridge – to wipe out the stranded English.

‘A great victory,’ cried the Welsh bards. This was God’s will. It was like Moses dividing the seas, only this time God had sent the flood tide to smash the bridge. It was Merlin’s prophecy coming true.

But alas this was soon seen to be the little victory it was, and it was realised that it could have no effect on the outcome of the war when every day it was becoming more and more clear that Llewellyn and the Welsh were losing.

Once more Llewellyn was forced to retire to Snowdon. Here he brooded on his ill fortune, recalling the happy days with the Demoiselle and he cursed afresh the fate which had taken her from him.

If she had but lived, she would never have let him go to war. She would have kept him a prince of his small country and they would have been content.

What was there left to him now? He could not regain his power. He was no match for mighty Edward. He had lost everything that had made life worthwhile to him and he longed for death.

There in his mountain stronghold he was visited by John Peckham, who had taken the place of Robert Kilwardby as Archbishop of Canterbury and who had come to discuss the terms on which Edward would make a peaceful settlement.

These terms, said John Peckham, were reasonable and Llewellyn should accept them.

‘Reasonable!’ cried Llewellyn. ‘I see no reason in them. They will rob me of my country.’

And indeed they would, for Edward had set down that Llewellyn must abandon the Principality of Wales and give it to Edward in exchange for which he would place in Llewellyn’s possession lands to the value of one thousand pounds a year. These would be in an English county as yet to be decided on. The King of England would take charge of Llewellyn’s young daughter and would seriously consider the possibility of allowing any male heirs she might have to succeed to Snowdon.

‘Reasonable terms to offer a prince!’ cried Llewellyn. ‘My lord Archbishop, I do not understand you.’

‘You are a ruined man,’ replied the Archbishop. ‘And there have been abuses in the Welsh churches which have not pleased me.’

Llewellyn knew that he was defeated. ‘My lord Archbishop,’ he said, ‘I know that I must throw myself on the bounty of the King of England but I could not submit to such harsh terms. If the King of England will reconsider his demands it might be possible for us to come to some agreement.’

The Archbishop left and later Edward’s messengers came with the information that the King would accept nothing but unconditional surrender. He had made terms previously. He had kept his bargain. He had released the Demoiselle and seen her married to Llewellyn. And what had happened? Llewellyn had broken his part of the contract. The King could not trust him again and he – and all men – must see what happened to those who broke faith with the King of England.

There was only one thing to do. To retreat into the mountains, to call together faithful Welshmen, to remind them once more of the prophecy of Merlin and to defend the passes.

To return to the mountains! It was November. Winter was coming. He and his followers would be starved into submission. He must move from the mountains. He must join up with friends in the South. He must make his way down to Llandeilo where the English were scoring great victories.

He knew his mountains well and found his way through unfrequented passes, thus escaping the English besiegers, but the Marcher Barons were on the alert. It was true that some of their tenants came over to Llewellyn, but they were useless against the trained forces of the barons. When the fierce Mortimer brothers heard that Llewellyn was in their district they determined to capture him.

The name of Roger Mortimer was spoken of with dread. Though he was the third son he had already made a name for himself. A violent man, audacious and strong, a lecher into the bargain, who had been reproved by John Peckham for frequently committing the sin of adultery with numerous women. Roger Mortimer snapped his fingers at the Archbishop and was at this time eager to win the approval of the King.

The coming of Llewellyn seemed a heaven-sent opportunity.

There were some who said that Llewellyn had the death wish on him. He had nothing to live for. He had lost his land and, more tragic than ever, his wife. He cared for nothing. He welcomed death, they said afterwards.

It was a strange way for a great prince to die.

There on Mortimer land he was in his camp when he saw a party of his followers attacked by a troop of Mortimer’s men. It was folly, for they had not a chance and he could have remained in hiding, but he rode out to join them, like a man, they said afterwards, going joyfully to meet his God.

He was immediately slain.

When Roger Mortimer heard and came to view the body he was exultant.

‘Cut off his head,’ he said. ‘I will present it to the King.’

Edward received it solemnly.

‘The head of my enemy,’ he said. ‘Thus perish all who seek to betray me.’

‘My lord, what shall be done with this man?’ asked Mortimer.

Edward was silent for a few moments then he said: ‘Let his body be buried in consecrated ground at Cwmhir. I would not have it said that I did not honour a brave man, for brave he was though foolish.’

‘And his head, my lord?’

‘Ah, his head. My lord Mortimer, I want everyone to know what happens to those who are false to me. He thought he would be a King of England. There was some prophecy of Merlin’s. I want men to see what happens to those who believe they will drive the true King of England from his throne with talk of prophecies.’

The King then ordered that the head should be taken and placed on a pole. It should be set up on the Tower of London and, to remind those who looked at it that this was a man who had believed he might be King of England, a crown of ivy was to be placed on his head.

And so the decaying head of Llewellyn looked down on London’s river, and the Queen, when her barge sailed beneath it, looked up and thought of the beautiful Demoiselle who had loved that head, and she shuddered that such a fate could befall two who had loved so truly.

There remained Davydd.

‘I want him, dead or alive,’ said the King, ‘for although I have defeated the Welsh, there will be trouble while he lives.’

When Davydd heard of the death of his brother his feelings were mixed. The prophecy of Merlin concerning a Llewellyn clearly did not refer to that one and that had been a great incentive to men to fight for them. On the other hand with Llewellyn out of the way he was the undisputed leader.

He retreated into the mountains with a few of his followers – a pitiful few. He wondered how it would be possible to attract more men to his banner. He was not Llewellyn. He had once gone over to the English; true, he had come back to stand beside his brother when he had thought he had a chance, but now his brother was dead and Wales was in the hands of the English – all but the inaccessible mountains. He talked to those of his followers who remained; he tried to inspire them with promises of what would be theirs when the hated English were driven from the land. Lacking the sincerity of Llewellyn he lacked his fire. No one really believed in Davydd. They guessed that if it should prove to be to his advantage he would sell them all to the enemy.

There was one castle left to him – that of Bere, and when he heard that the Earl of Pembroke had stormed and taken it, he had no place of refuge. He had become a wanderer in the mountains and every morning when he awoke it was to find that his band of followers had dwindled still further.

There came a time when all but three had gone. Thus was Davydd, a Prince of Wales, wandering in the mountains like an outlaw, which he supposed he was. Wales was Edward’s now. ‘By God,’ he cried, ‘it shall not remain so. I will show him that Welshmen will not remain vassals for ever.’

He was forced to take shelter where he could – in any lowly cottage he could find. He did not always say who he was for fear of betrayal, for even those who would offer him succour were afraid to because the King of England – who was their master now – had said that he was a wanted man.

One night, exhausted and hungry, he came to a cottage and begged for food and shelter. He was given a dish of meat and a flagon of ale which he devoured while the man and his wife questioned him as to his purpose in being in the mountains.

He said he was a soldier who had escaped when the Welsh army was in retreat and he was trying to get back to his wife and family.

They listened sympathetically and agreed to help him.

‘But you need a night’s rest first,’ said the cottager. ‘Make yourself comfortable and in the morning I will help you on your way.’

He sank into a grateful sleep.

When he awoke it was to find soldiers standing over him.

The cottager and his wife were peering into the room.

‘Davydd ab Gruffydd,’ said one of the soldiers, ‘you are our prisoner. Get up. We are leaving at once.’

‘It is so then,’ said the cottager’s wife. ‘We made no mistake.’

‘Mistake?’ replied the cottager. ‘Of course not. I told you, did I not? I served with him before he went over to the English.’

‘He’ll go back to the English now,’ said the cottager’s wife with a certain grim humour.

They took him to Rhudlan and there he was put in fetters. He sent a messenger to Edward begging for an interview, reminding him that they had once worked together.

Edward’s reply was that he did not parley with traitors, and Davydd realised that the fact that he had once worked with Edward would not be a point in his favour. Edward had had a respect for Llewellyn who had always stood firm in his cause, but for a man like Davydd who changed sides according to the way the wind blew, he had nothing but contempt.

Edward’s orders were that Davydd should be taken to Shrewsbury and there the trial of this traitor (as Edward called him) should take place.

At Shrewsbury were gathered together the earls, barons, judges and knights to assist at the trial and the King made it clear that he was determined to have justice. This man on trial was a murderer, sacrilegious and a traitor to the King. He must be made to suffer the full penalty.

He was quickly found guilty and sentenced to death. The method of his killing was to be one which had never been carried out before. It was called ‘hung, drawn and quartered’. It was the most barbaric form of killing which had ever been devised and Davydd would be remembered as the first man on whom it was carried out.

Davydd’s suffering was intense on the last day of his life.

He was dragged through the streets of Shrewsbury at a slow pace to the gallows and there in the view of a great crowd he was hanged. Before he was dead he was taken down and his entrails were torn from him and burned. Mercifully for him he was then beheaded and his body quartered that parts of it might be displayed in five towns. There was a dispute between York and Winchester for his right shoulder which Winchester won. York had to put up with another presumably less desirable part, and Bristol and Northampton shared the other grim honours. The head was preserved for London and it was placed beside that, now unrecognisable, of his brother.

Edward could survey them with satisfaction. He had conquered Wales.

But of course it was not easy to subdue such a proud people. They resented the conqueror, and there continued to be small pockets of rebellion throughout the country. All were aware though of the strength of the English King. He was as unlike his father as it was possible for one man to be from another; he swept through the castles of the land and brought builders with him in order to improve them. Where there had been stone fortresses, magnificent castles were beginning to appear. Being a man of great energy Edward allowed no slackness in those about him. No sooner had he decided that a castle should be improved than the workmen were busy obeying his orders.

Many Welshmen realised that if they would accept him as their King they could grow prosperous, but there were always the rebels. For this reason it was necessary for Edward to keep a strong force on the borders and as he was still unsure of his newly acquired territory he wished to be close at hand himself.

Rhudlan remained the headquarters and there he kept his family, spending as much time as he could with them. He was struck by the coincidences which had allowed him to keep his beloved daughter with him, although he guessed it was but a temporary respite. Still he enjoyed it. She was now nearly twenty years of age, in the prime of her beauty. Of course she should have been married long ago, but he preferred to forget that.

It was a happy family atmosphere at Rhudlan. The conquest of Wales was virtually complete. Everywhere Edward was accepted as the strong man England had lacked since the reign of Henry II, for Richard, strong as he was, had not been a good king for England and had squandered his strength elsewhere. No, Richard was a legend, not a king. Who wanted a king, however brave, however popular a hero in legend, who was so fond of his own sex that he failed to get an heir? They preferred Henry II who scattered his seeds all over the land. Better still great Edward – victorious general, strong king determined to bring justice to the land and a good family man. There had never been any scandal about extra-marital relations in which he indulged for there was none. That was rare in a man of power. He had been a faithful husband and a devoted father. He was a rare king.

The only drawback was that he could not get a healthy son. Alfonso was growing more and more weedy every day. Pale of face, feeble of body, he was not the king to follow on such a father.

But glory be! The Queen was pregnant once more.

Would it be the old familiar pattern? The easy confinement, and then … another girl.

The King loved his girls dearly and some said that he did not greatly want a boy because he was so enamoured of his eldest daughter that he would like to see her on the throne. That could not be true. Much as he loved her and admired her he would rejoice in a boy. It was only because he looked on her as a substitute that he made so much of her.

In early April of the year 1284 he was at Caernarvon Castle, a place of which he was immensely proud because he had recently completed the building of it. The structure which had been there before he had raised his impressive castle had been by comparison nothing more than a fortress. And what a spot on which to build. The castle stood on a rock projecting into the Menai Straits. On one side was the sea, on another the river Seiont. Its castellated architecture filled the King with pride. It gave an immediate impression of beauty allied with strength. It was both a delightful dwelling place and an impregnable fortress. Of all his castles in Wales this was his favourite. Turreted towers rose above the embattled parapets. There were thirteen of them and he had ordered that there should not be one exactly like another. He had said there should not be another castle like Caernarvon and there was not. The towers were pentagonal, hexagonal and octagonal.

Before the entrance tower he had had erected a statue of himself – with a sword half drawn from its scabbard in his hands. This would remind the Welsh that he was the conqueror and that all Wales was now under his rule.

As he stood at one of the windows of the state apartments he felt a great longing to be with his family. The birth of his child could not be far off. It was expected somewhere around the twentieth of the month. His family were at Rhudlan and he thought it would be nice to have them with him.

He sent a messenger to Rhudlan. Let the Queen and the rest of his family join him at Caernarvon. He had a notion that his next child should be born at the castle which he had so recently completed and which was the finest in Wales.

In a very short time they arrived. The Queen was very heavy but she assured him that the journey had been easy. She was so accustomed to child-bearing that it caused her little inconvenience. What a pleasure he derived from showing them his castle.

‘There is of course much to be done yet, but work progresses.’

How he wished he could spend more time with them but they had scarcely settled in when news came that after the family had left Rhudlan trouble had sprung up there and it was felt that the King’s presence was needed at once.

‘So it goes on,’ said Edward. ‘I am of an opinion that we shall have trouble here for years ahead unless I can find some way of placating these people.’

He said a fond farewell to his family.

And the Queen’s last words to him were: ‘This time it must be a son.’

‘Send me news of him to Rhudlan as soon as he comes,’ was his answer.

At Rhudlan he went into conference with his generals. There was trouble in the mountains. Certain chieftains were raising their banners and trying to rally men to the cause of a free Wales.

‘They should be taken to London and shown the rotting heads of those who attempted to defy me,’ was the King’s grim rejoinder.

‘They are talking about a prince who should be appointed. They want a Welshman. They want someone who does not even speak the English language.’

‘It is not what they want but what I want which will come to pass. They forget they are a conquered nation.’

‘There are some men, my lord, who will never admit to defeat. The Welsh are of this kind.’

‘We shall see,’ said Edward.

He was a little melancholy. He wanted to return south. He was finding that too many problems beset him and they came from all sides. He wanted to be at Windsor or Westminster. That was the centre of his government. How could he know what was happening there while he was concerned with the Welsh matter?

‘By God,’ he cried, ‘these are a defeated people. They shall do as I say or feel my wrath.’

And while he was musing upon this a messenger arrived from Caernarvon.

The Queen had given birth to a boy. A healthy boy.

He stared at the messenger. He could not at first believe it. Then he cried out in joy.

‘Is this indeed true then?’

‘My lord, it is so. The Queen is overjoyed.’

‘As I am. As I am. And a healthy boy you say.’

‘They say they have never seen a healthier. If his lungs are any indication, my lord, he gives good evidence of strength.’

‘Blessings be on you. You shall be rewarded for bringing this news. A grant of land and this day a knighthood is yours.’

‘May the lord preserve you and the baby Prince, my lord.’

The man was grovelling on his knees but Edward had stepped past him.

He would keep his promise to the man and then … all speed for Caernarvon.

It was true. The Queen lay in her chamber which she had made beautiful and comfortable after her fashion by hanging up her Spanish tapestries. Beside her was the wooden cradle which hung on rings attached to two upright posts.

‘My love,’ he cried and knelt by the bed kissing her hands.

She smiled at him triumphantly. ‘The child,’ she said.

And there he was, lying there, only a few days old but with a look of health on him – so different from the other boys who had all been puny from birth.

‘Let us call him Edward,’ said the Queen.

‘Edward he shall be.’

‘I shall pray that he will grow up to be exactly like his father.’

The Princesses greeted their father with their usual devotion, but the Princess Eleanor was subdued. She did not want to speak to anyone, not even Joanna. Eleanor was now twenty years old, Joanna herself was twelve. There would be no more delay, Eleanor thought. How could there be? The child in the cradle had ousted her from her position. Alfonso could not live long. Everyone was saying that. And just as her ambition was about to be realised this boy had to be born.

Joanna was a little mischievous. ‘I wonder why God sent the Sicilian Vespers?’ she said. ‘It all seems of no moment, does it not? You might as well be in Aragon as here in England.’

Eleanor could not speak. She could not shut herself away so she must try to compose herself, so that her father might not see how bitterly disappointed she was.

She could not shut out the memory of Joanna’s mocking comment. Whatever was God thinking of?

It was unwise to share one’s secret thoughts with anyone – even one’s sister.

Edward received the Welsh chieftains who had come to Caernarvon to pay homage to him.

He received them with respect and after they had made admission of their fealty to him they asked leave to speak to him. This he readily gave.

‘My lord,’ said their leader, ‘there will be no peace in this land until we have a prince of our own – a prince who is beyond reproach, one who can speak neither French nor English.’

Edward was silent. If he could speak neither French nor English that meant that he must be Welsh.

‘A prince,’ he repeated, ‘who has never offended you, a prince who has never fought against you on the side of the English, you mean.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘A prince who can speak no English nor French. I see what you mean. I think I can agree to this. And if I do will you promise me peace in Wales?’

‘My lord, we promise it.’

‘No more rising. No more rebelling. You will accept the prince I shall appoint and make him your Prince of Wales.’

‘We should do that, my lord.’

‘Wait here awhile. I shall not be long.’

The chieftains looked at each other in astonishment. It was victory beyond their expectations. The King was agreeing to their request. A Welsh Prince for Wales!

The King returned. They stared at him in astonishment for in his arms he carried a baby.

‘You asked me for a Prince of Wales,’ he cried. ‘Here he is. I give him to you. He has been born in your country. His character is beyond reproach. He cannot speak either French or English and if you wish it the first words he shall speak shall be in Welsh.’

The chieftains were astounded. They had been tricked they knew. But something in the King’s gesture appealed to them. There was a man of great resource. He was one whom it would be in the interests of Wales to follow.

They conferred together. Then their spokesman said: ‘My lord, we accept your son as our Prince of Wales.’

The King was overcome with delight, as one by one the chieftains kissed the baby’s hand and swore fealty to him.

He believed he had completed the conquest of Wales.