The Last Plantagenets (39 page)

To tell his story it is first necessary to explain the conditions which existed in the Marcher country, on the edge of which he maintained his broad domain. During Norman and Plantagenet days the English kings did not have large standing armies. The country was divided into wide tracts held by the barons, who were expected to join the king with all their dependents, armed and ready, in the event of war. There would have been small advantage in having standing armies because of the bad roads and the scarcity of bridges. The Scots could come down over the border and create havoc in the north, or the Welsh could issue out from their mountains and harry the western counties, and vanish into thin air, before the king with his trained troops could get to the scene of action. It was necessary, therefore, to maintain forces in the exposed areas which would always be ready to repel attack. This was done by a system of “farming out” the defense of the north and the west to certain great families. Whole counties were turned over to them, on their guarantee to maintain the safety of the borders. In the north there were the Percy and Neville families, in the west the Greys of Ruthin, the Talbots and the Mortimers of Wigmore and Chirk. They became known as Marcher barons, and their powers verged on the absolute. In Wales the king’s writ did not run beyond the Wye, and so not only the safety of the land rested on the shoulders of the Marcher families but the administration of the law as well.

To maintain themselves in security and comfort in the sparsely settled country, the barons had to create principalities of their own. They brought in tillers of the soil as well as men skilled in the use of arms. Every kind of workman had to be recruited from the outside—doctors, spinners, tailors, carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, armorers, cooks, barbers. Over the people thus assembled about them the barons ruled like absolute kings, exercising the power of life and death, and being ever ready to use it. They made their own laws. And when a man crossed over the line beyond which the king’s writ did not run, he knew it was almost certain he would never return.

These principalities clustered around the strong castles erected by the barons at strategic points. The “Lordship courts” were held in the Great Halls and the justice meted out there was of the kind that might be expected from proud noblemen of no education and slight sensitivities. The common Englishman, knowing the folly of disputing those above him, had small chance of getting an honest verdict. The Welshmen,
“those barefooted rascals,” had no chance at all. In fact, a native who appeared there was condemned from the start because he was not allowed to speak in his own defense or to summon witnesses.

It follows that the Welsh who were unfortunate enough to live under the Marcher barons had to accept roughshod tyranny without question or protest. They labored with fortitude and resignation, although underneath there was deep hatred of the intruders and a fierceness which manifested itself, when it came to open conflict, in the mutilation of the slain. Crosses were cut on foreheads and bodies were hacked and dismembered. No mercy could be expected and so none was given.

The Welsh found their greatest relief in their love of music. In the evenings when the day’s work had been done, a single voice would begin to sing and others would join in the air until the hills resounded with the chorus of the shepherds as they wended their weary way homeward. The barons, who had inherited with their Norman blood little appreciation of poetry or music, had another contemptuous term for the Welsh—“the Singers.”

It is generally believed that Owen Glendower was born in 1359, which places him in his forties when the need for his leadership arose. His family was one of the wealthiest in the country and he had large estates in both North and South Wales, as well as the dower lands of his beautiful wife, Margaret Hanmer. He had a good education, including some years at Oxford and a term in the Inns of Court at London. He had then taken up the profession of arms and was in the train of Henry of Bolingbroke when the latter was first exiled to Europe. Apparently he returned before Henry and for some time thereafter was in the service of Richard. This was the natural course for a Welsh gentleman to pursue. All Wales, for reasons which have never been satisfactorily explained, remained loyal to the ineffectual son of the Black Prince through all his ups and downs and his final sad ending. It will be recalled that a small force of Welshmen under Glendower hung on the edge of the company which took Richard from Chester to London, looking for a chance to rescue him.

Owen Glendower seems to have been the personification of the Welsh race, with all their virtues and their greatnesses and also some of their faults. He was tall and compelling in looks, with vibrant dark eyes, a long nose, a forked beard, and a mouth which combined strength with a hint of urbanity. He believed above everything else in the traditions of
the race and so kept about him the best of the native bards. Now minstrels constituted the most consistent of crops in Wales and this meant that Sycharth, the home which Glendower preferred, had to be both large and well provisioned to accommodate all the bards who came there with harps strapped on their shoulders and throats filled with song. One of them, Iolo Goch (the Red Bard), left a curious description of the home of the great patriot. Sycharth stood almost within sight of the frontier with a single line of hills to cut it off from the gentle lands now known as Shropshire, and so it had to be strongly entrenched. It had, says the Red Bard, a gatehouse of stone and a deep moat with the necessary drawbridge. Enclosed within the moat was a cluster of what can only be described as an odd assortment of buildings. There was “a Neapolitan building of eighteen apartments, a wooden structure raised on posts in which were eight apartments for guests, and a church in the form of a cross.” The place clearly was planned to stand siege, for within the confines of the moat were establishments to provide every kind of food. There were well-stocked warehouses, a mill, a spicery, a salt house, orchards, vineyards, fish ponds, a stone pigeon house, a rabbit warren. Three separate tables could be maintained, one of them for the “encampment of bards.” As for the variety of the dishes offered and the capabilities of the cooks, the Red Bard waxes ecstatic on both points. One can imagine him rubbing his well-rounded stomach and rolling his eyes as he descants on the splendor of the roasts and the piquancy of the wines. Sycharth, clearly, was the very ideal of a gentleman’s house in this century which fancied itself close to perfect in everything.

But Sycharth was close to the domain of the Greys of Ruthin. At the time when Owen settled himself down with his wife and his handsome children and his warbling guests, the head of the Greys was one Reginald, who had become filled with arrogance by the exercise of his absolute power. Between Sycharth and the Red Castle of Ruthin lay a stretch of moorland which both claimed. The dispute over this land led to the wars which must now be told in brief form.

When Grey of Ruthin’s craving for that piece of moorland, which was called the common of Croisau, became too urgent to repress, he simply took the property over. One day his men went in and expelled all the tenants of Sycharth who held land there. From the hills where he could see far up the banks of the Dee, Glendower watched this highhanded
and wanton thievery but did not meet the move by a resort to arms. This was in Richard’s time and the Welsh magnate, being still of pacific bent, carried the case to the King’s Court in London. He won a verdict and the highly enraged Grey had to give up the land.

Things were different after Henry IV succeeded to the throne. Glendower had openly espoused the cause of the late king and so had no reason to expect favors at Westminster. Grey lost no time in seizing the land a second time. Still relying on the law, Glendower went to London and protested. This time his petition was dismissed without a hearing.

Bishop Trevor of St. Asaph, who knew Glendower well, was present and strove to show what consequences this rash and unfair procedure might have.

“Honorable gentlemen,” he said, “you are making a mistake, a grave mistake. This man has much power. Provoke him and he will cause trouble. He can cause more serious trouble than anyone today in all these British isles.”

It became apparent in time that the good bishop had been right. Owen Glendower was to cause more trouble than anyone in the British islands—England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales—with all the smaller islands thrown in for good measure, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, the Channel Islands.

Grey of Ruthin, exultant over his legal victory, consolidated his hold on the disputed land by sending in his own settlers with their flocks and herds. With watchful sagacity, Glendower took no steps to oppose him.

Grey was not yet satisfied. He was determined to complete the ruin of his neighbor. As chief Marcher lord of the north he was supposed to summon all of the king’s liege men to the royal standard when Henry planned his first thrust into Scotland. He neglected to send notice to Glendower and then reported to the king that the Welshman had refused to obey the summons, labeling his neighbor both traitor and coward. Even this did not satisfy the master of the Red Castle. He asked permission, and received the royal assent, to send a force against Glendower and to seize all his possessions as confiscated to the Crown.

The move was made with more secrecy than might have been expected from one as rash and hot-tempered as Grey. With the assistance of Talbot, he marched one night to Sycharth and surrounded the castle before its owner had any inkling of an attack. The moat and the stone walls, described by Iolo Goch, were strong enough to hold out against this surprise foray long enough for Glendower to escape by a rear postern and to take refuge in the woods. The two Marcher barons sacked the house, killed many of the people, and stole everything worth carrying
off. Grey then returned to Ruthin, convinced that he had suitably punished this proud neighbor for daring to oppose his lordly will.

Soon after this episode the most alarming communications began to reach the king, who was still in Scotland and also his son Prince Hal. The latter now held the title of Prince of Wales and had been left in charge of military operations there. It was proving a hollow dignity for it was impossible to collect any revenue from the Welsh people. The royal chamberlain at Carnarvon wrote that the people “were meeting in secret,” that they were buying arms and horses and stealing where they could not buy. An even more disturbing evidence of racial unrest was that the Welsh students at Oxford (where they went in large numbers and figured furiously in the street riots), and even some at Cambridge, had deserted their hospitia and their books and were banding together to return to Wales, marching in secrecy by night and sleeping by day. Welsh laborers in the cities and towns were leaving their employment and crossing the border. It was very clear that an uprising was being planned, although there was nothing as yet to indicate how general it might become. Nor was there any mention of Owen Glendower.

On September 20, 1400, the annual fair at Ruthin was being held. The town was bedecked with flags, there were booths in the streets and companies of strolling players and mountebanks to amuse the people. There was even a slightly festive atmosphere to be noticed about the grimly bastioned walls of the Red Castle. In the evening there would be morris dancing and singing.

And then suddenly, swarming down out of the hills, came a large army of Welshmen, some mounted but most of them on foot. They carried their longbows over their shoulders (for the Welsh, who were great archers, had invented that tremendous weapon) and they sang as they marched. The dragon standard of Wales was carried in front, and beneath it rode Owen Glendower, proclaiming himself the real Prince of Wales and heir of the last Llewelyn.

There were few armed men to defend the town, so it was swept clean of everything. Then, remembering what Grey of Ruthin had done to Sycharth, the town was burned to the ground.

The honorable gentlemen at Westminster would have been wise to listen to the Bishop of St. Asaph. Owen Glendower was slow to anger but unappeasable when once aroused. All of North Wales was up in arms.

The myth of Glendower’s magic powers became generally believed after the first campaign that King Henry waged to put down the uprising. The Welsh leader had been successful in capturing some of the castles of the Marchers and even in throwing the city of Shrewsbury into a panic. Returning from Scotland, where he had accomplished nothing of note, Henry elected to redeem himself by routing the Welsh without any delay. He called up the levies of all the shires of the Midlands, as well as the border counties, and with a large and well-equipped force struck into the foothills.

Glendower showed himself at intervals with numerous and noisy followers, with flags flying and instruments blazing away and all the byplay helpful in keeping the Welsh enthusiasm at a fighting pitch. Henry struck at him savagely every time he appeared but always with the same lack of result. The cheering and the music stopped, the proud banners seemed to fade away, and the army was soon invisible. When this had gone on for a month, and the winds which swept down the peaks became cold and harsh with a threat of sleet and snow, the English king called a halt.

“There is magic in this, and the help of the devil himself,” was the substance of what he said to his lieutenants. “However else, I demand ye tell me, could so many vanish so completely?”

The barons were entirely in agreement with him. The Fabian tactics of the Scots had prepared them for delaying action, but this went further than they had expected. One minute the enemy would be in full sight and the trees of the foothills would be glistening with steel and filled with bonnets, and then, almost in a trice, the Welsh would disappear and the forests into which the royal forces eagerly plunged would be empty and still.

“The secrets of Merlin have been revealed to him,” was an opinion often expressed and generally believed. Merlin was associated in their minds with trees. Had he not gone to sleep in the trunk of one centuries before, and did not the Welsh expect him to emerge from it some day and lead them to victory and freedom? Perhaps the spirit of Merlin had entered the body of Owen Glendower.