Elizabeth Jane Corbett

writing her way home

Tag: tower of london

Longing is a woman’s song – in search of Marred Glyn Dwr

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The idea of writing a novel from Marred Glyn Dwr’s viewpoint came to me early one morning. I woke to the impression of a woman alone in a tower room looking back over her life. I heard her voice that morning, knew she had a story to tell. The aim of the last three days in London has been to forge a tactile connection with Marred and the people in her life.

Public Records Office

My pressing dilemma (because I’m ready to write the scenes) is to determine how long Glyn Dwr served under Gregory Sais at Berwick in the year 1384. It has been pointed out to me that this was possibly not the highpoint of Owain’s military career. That is true. But guess what? This isn’t about Owain! Marred, his young wife, would have been sixteen years old at the time (possibly younger) and newly married. This would have been the first time she’d managed her husband’s household in his absence. The first time she sent him off on campaign. She’d have been homesick, heartsick, perhaps even morning sick. She would have been counting down the days until his return.

There are two entries for Glyn Dwr in the Medieval Soldiers database for 1384 – 24th January and 1st of March. Both are from Muster Rolls. From my reading I had gathered that men undertook to serve on a campaign some months prior mustering. In my mind, the above dates represented the day Glyn Dwr signed up and the day he actually turned up. I’ve since been told this wasn’t the case. I hoped therefore to gain some clarity from the Muster Rolls. A naive assumption, as it turns out. But well worth the effort. See it turns out the Muster Rolls were real, fourteenth century lists enscribed on vellum. Like real. As in six hundred years old real. Faded, barely legible and, of course,  written in no form I could decipher. I am as a consequence no closer to knowing how long Glyn Dwr served at Berwick. But I saw his name on Muster Rolls for 1384, 1387 and 1388. Which gave me a tangible frisson of excitement (even if it isn’t all about Owain).

British Library

I applied for a British Library Readers Ticket online, prior to leaving Australia, and ordered items in advance. There is a system to using both the British Library and National Archives – no pens or pocket knives, multiple security checks, free lockers and large clear plastic bags provided for your research essentials. I particularly wanted to see the Exchequer Rolls in which the evidence of Marred’s imprisonment are to be found. Fortunately, these were not six hundred years old. A historian had been there before me, translating them and publishing them in an easily readable form. But it was thrilling and more than a little sobering to see the black and white paper trail of her final days.

Tower of London
Marred’s son, Gruffudd, was captured and imprisoned around 1405. Since most of Glyn Dwr’s men were executed upon capture, we can only assume that Gruffudd’s imprionment in the Tower was intended to force his father’s surrender. Owain never surrendered. Gruffudd died (possibly from the plague) sometime during 1409. The fall of Harlech gave the king a fresh new set of hostages. I didn’t visit the Crown Jewels while at the Tower or buy an ice cream, or visit the Tudor Armoury, or peruse the Fussilier’s Museum. I simply wandered the grounds trying to envisage the Tower as it would have been in 1409. A palace, a fortress, and a prison. From the £30 spent on their upkeep, we can guess the Glyn Dwr women were initially kept in a degree of comfort. They would have been allowed out into the castle ward under guard and perhaps to worship in the church on Sundays. But the siege of Harlech had been harsh and protracted, during one of the longest, coldest winters on record. Catrin had lost her husband during the siege. Marred most likely knew she would never see Owain again. Starved and heartsick, the women and children faced a long journey to London, whereupon they were imprissoned in a forbidding stone fortress surrounded by a foetid moat. As Catrin’s infant son had a distant claim to the throne of England (stronger than the usurper Henry IV’s) his demise would not have been unwelcome. As it became clear Glyn Dwr wasn’t going to surrender, the women would have become an encumbrance.

We do not know how Marred ended her days. But Catrin and her remaining daughters died in 1413 under suspicious circumstances. They were not buried among the headless bodies of traitors at the Tower, nor in the cemetery set aside for the working community. They were buried in St Swithin’s Churchyard, a brisk twenty-five minute walk away. Why, St Swithin’s? That is a mystery yet to be solved. Though a pamphlet in the British Library hints at a list of St Swithin’s rectors dating back to 1237. Maybe that will hold a clue? St Swithin’s was under the advowson of the Earls of Arundel prior to being assigned to the prior and convent of Tortington in 1367. So that is another possible link. We also know there was a chapel to St Catherine and St Margaret in the church complex. The church was bombed during the Blitz and never rebuilt. Today all that remains is a memorial garden, surrounded by office blocks, builders scaffolding, and the persistent whine of pneumatic drills. A not unfitting resting place for these forgotten women of history. Once I’d found them, I found it strangely moving to be in their presence.

 

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Historical Research and the dispelling of fondly held myths

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One of the disadvantages of of doing historical research is that you have to let go of fondly held myths. In this instance, the myth was learned at my mother’s knee. ‘When Edward conquered Wales,’ she told me. ‘He promised the Welsh a prince who could speak not a word of Welsh. ‘Then he tricked us by giving us his baby son.’

Now, I’ve always had an affection for this story. For although it did make the Welsh look a tad gullible it perfectly illustrated the perfidy of the conquerors. Turns out the story isn’t true. Born in 1294, Edward of Caernarfon was not crowned Prince of Wales until 1301. We have an Elizabethan historian to thank for my mother’s quaint version of history.

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Unfortunately, although the baby story was a fabrications the perfidy certainly wasn’t. After the conquest, Pura Wallai was turned into a series of royal shires. Local inhabitants were relocated, castles erected, and boroughs established in which English settlers held a number of closely guarded privileges. Welsh men were barred from holding important offices. Welsh population were governed by a mixture of English Common Law (much harsher than the Welsh) and traditional Welsh law. If the latter sounds benevolent, think again. The Welsh Laws were used to impose outmoded feudal taxes and obligations on the Welsh population – obligations to which the English settlers were not subjected. Things were no better in the March. Wales was a fragmented territory in which there were two levels of government and society.

Why am I telling you this? Because I am knee deep in research for a new project. A novel written from the perspective of Owain Glyn Dŵr’s wife. What is not discussed at length in the literature on the period, is that the decision to declare himself Prince of Wales ruined Margaret’s Glyn Dŵr’s life. She ended up in the Tower of London while only two of her children survived the revolt. The whole of Wales was laid to waste.

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What kind of man would make such a decision? And why? what were his aspirations?

One of my friends suggested he was probably a selfish, misogynistic sod (actually she used stronger words) who didn’t even consider his wife or family. But really? Would that make a good story? Besides, I don’t believe it is true. The above mentioned perfidy was as alive in Glyn Dŵr’s day as it was post conquest. He appears to have made an effort to adapt to the new social system, even when doors to advancement were closed against him. When a neighbour seized a tranche of his land he initially took the case to parliament. Where, his concerns, and the Welsh population in general were dubbed ‘bare foot rascals of no account.’

Still, you might say. Why go on a rampage? Destroy English towns?

I agree. It’s not my version of good citizenship. But it seems rampaging was a common medieval pastime. Barons often pursued their aims at the point of the sword. There were no elections or referendums. No true parliamentary representation. When a man fell out of favour, he could easily end up dead. Only a year prior to the Glyn Dŵr revolt, Richard II, the king of England, had been deposed by his cousin Henry Bolingbroke and starved to death at Pontefract Castle. It wasn’t good, or right. But it was the modus operandi in those days.

But declaring himself Prince of Wales? That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?

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The jury is out on whether Glyn Dŵr actually envisaged a full scale national revolt from the outset. Or whether he was simply trying and force a negotiation. Indeed, whether he even proclaimed himself Prince of Wales in September 1400. But, due to the above mentioned perfidy, the situation quickly went viral (note to file: if you are going to conquer a country treat the local inhabitants well or they may resent the situation). For although he didn’t officially use the title Princeps Wallie until much later in the revolt and, although the only hard evidence we have for him claiming the title prior to this comes from hysterical English sources, there is an historical precedent. You see, in 1287, Rhys ap Maredudd of Dryslwyn had declared himself Prince of Wales. In 1294, Madog ap Llewelyn and Morgan ap Maredudd rose in revolt. In 1316, Llewelyn Bren also laid claim to the titles. In 1378, Owain Lawgoch was assassinated by the English Crown for daring to assert his claim to the throne. Glyn Dŵr’s response was not without precedent.

But enough of the man, how did his wife Margaret feel about the situation? Was she there at the fateful declaration? What was her feelings? What about later, when her husband’s lands were declared forfeit? Or when she lay besieged and starving in Harlech Castle?

No one knows the answer to those questions. I get to write my own version of history. My challenge being to let go of modern perceptions and try to enter her medieval mindset. Imagine how she might have felt as her world spiralled out of control, who she would have turned to in those early terrible weeks. Did she hitch herself to her husband’s star when it started to rise? Or try to work against him? And how did she feel at the end, trap or within those grey stone tower walls, while her husband was still at liberty?

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History – a matter of perspective

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I have started researching a new novel, set between the years 1383 and 1413. It will begin in the Tower of London and end in the Tower of London and range from Flintshire to Snowdonia before finally reaching its harrowing climax in Harlech Castle. That’s all I’m going to say at this point. Apart from the fact that (to my knowledge) there are no statues of my viewpoint character in Wales, hardly anything written about her. Why is that? I’m sure she played her part. Why do men’s exploits so dominate the pages of history?

Before we ponder that question, let us examine my suitability for the task.

I was raised in Australia. I did a project on beef cattle in grade four (for which I received a gold stars), heard a fair bit about convicts (despite SA where I grew up being colonised entirely by free settlers). I absorbed similar jaw cracking stories about the sailors from the good ship Corromandel who absconded in the Adelaide Hills, along with obligatory visits to pioneer village and old government house. I did a term of American history in year ten, focussing on slavery, a term on the Russian Revolution, another on the French, and similar units on the history of China and India. In my final school year, I studied the causes of the First and Second World Wars. I did an undergraduate history degree majoring in history (primarily Australian) and my urban history units touched on Europe. But there was no Welsh history in that mix, barely any English (apart from those horrible old judges who sent innocent convicts to the antipodes for stealing handkerchiefs).

So, on paper, hmm… not so well qualified.

Fortunately, I’m a librarian <insert research junkie> and I have a slight (cough) interest in Wales. I’ve made it my business to do a spot of reading on the side and, now, thanks to the recent referendum, I am able to buy second hand books far dirtier and cheaper than I could a month ago. I have started with an overview of the period. This entailed re-reading, Land of My Fathers’.

Land of My Fathers’ is an unashamedly partisan history of Wales. It’s author, Gwynfor Evans, was a Welsh hero, politician and statesmen who took on Maggie Thatcher and won (yep, that good). I believe every word of his history. I read parts of it every now and again to regain a true perspective on the world. However, despite the fact, that I share the author’s considerable biases, I thought it best to cast my research nets a little wider. Over the last few weeks I’ve also read, The Hollow Crown, Owain Glyndŵr: the story of the last prince of Wales, The Three Richards, The Revolt of Owain Glyn Dŵr, The Time Traveller’s guide to Medieval England, A History of Wales, and the Cambridge University Press title: Medieval Wales. 

Amazon tells me David Walker, the author of Medieval Wales was “born in or near Wilmington in or near, North Carolina, the son of a slave father and a free black mother (thus under the laws of slavery, he was born free).” These biographical details can’t be correct, as the book’s prefaces Walker as a former senior lecturer in Medieval studies at University College Swansea, a contemporary of Glanmore Williams (b. 1920) and R. R. Davies (b. 1938). I don’t know where he hailed from or what his background. Only that reading Medieval Wales felt like receiving a series of slaps in the face.

Here is what Walker had to say about the reign of Owain Glyn Dŵr, the last native Welshman to hold the title Prince of Wales.

In the literary record his prospects and his capacity as soldier and leader were, by well known convention, overstated. […] The records suggest that Glyn Dŵr had a sense of style and he knew the value of the outward trappings of power, but the limitations of his power were all too easily identifiable. […] Plunder and thinly disguised extortion provided (Glyn Dŵr with) short-term supplies but left a legacy of bitterness […] In one important sense the Pennal scheme was well based: an independent Welsh church was a sound ambition. In another sense, […] it implied a capacity to inflict a massive defeat on the English King which was far beyond Glyn Dŵr’s resources.

Now by English standards of wealth and power, Glyn Dŵr may not have been considered a great threat. But as I’ve mentioned before on this blog, there are two worlds in Wales – the English speaking and the Welsh speaking – and, my preliminary reading tells me, this phenomenon was active in fourteenth century Wales. In the Welsh speaking world, Glyn Dŵr was considered the pre-eminent claimant for the title. Under the surface of an outwardly subservient populace a powerful network of kinship alliances and aspirations was in operation. Added to which, the English crown was in disarray – the King having been usurped and starved to death by his own cousin.

The History of Wales was written by the late John Davies, an eminent Welsh historian who won the Owain Glyndŵr Award for his outstanding contribution to the arts. The tone of his work is less condescending than Walker’s. Here is what Davies had to say about Glyn Dŵr:

By 1400, Owain Glyndwr was a man with considerable experience of the ways of the world. In addition to the mass support which Owain received from the villeins and poorer clergy, he also won the allegiance of most of the members of the low ranks of the Welsh official class. By 1404 […] so great was the prince’s authority and so feeble the reaction of Henry IV that English officials, Marcher Lords and the inhabitants of the border counties were making their own local agreements with the new power that had arisen in Wales. At the same time, Owain was seeking an alliance with the Percy and Mortimer families. […] At the beginning of 1405, French soldiers (yes, he had secured the backing of the Pope and the French King) landed at Milford Haven.

History is a matter of perspective. And most often a male perspective.

Yet amidst these records of power bases, battles and alliances, there is another narrative. The story of a woman, all but forgotten by time, who lost her home as a result of her husband’s decisions, who watched many of her children die, who ended her days a prisoner of the English crown. A Welsh woman, of Norman descent, Marged ferch Dafydd, who lived, loved, laboured and no doubt played her part. Yet history simply remembers as the wife of Owain Glyn Dŵr.

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