A great escape

In the outer bailey, at the far left hand corner as you walk in, is the ruin of St Peter’s Chapel. This is accessible from Mortimer’s Walk, which runs around the outside of the castle walls, and stands next to Mortimer’s Tower. The Mortimer family were powerful barons in the Welsh Marches, the strip of land on the border of England and Wales. It could be a lawless place that attracted hard men out to make their fortunes.

The Mortimer family were originally based at Wigmore Castle, not far from Ludlow, but made Ludlow Castle their powerbase when they acquired it through marriage. They became Earls of March when Roger Mortimer backed Queen Isabella in deposing her husband, Edward II, in favour of her son, Edward III in 1327. Mortimer had previously fallen from favour under Edward II and ended up a prisoner in the Tower of London. He escaped in 1323 after getting his guards drunk and climbing out through a chimney in the kitchens.

Once he had become Earl of March, Roger had St Peter’s Chapel built to celebrate his breakout. The Tower’s chapel is dedicated to St Peter ad Vincula (St Peter in Chains), and Roger had made his daring escape on that saint’s feast day too.

15th-century manuscript illustration depicting Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella in the foreground

Image Credit: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Rebel fortress

In the 1450s, failures in the Hundred Years’ War with France were leading to problems in England that would become the Wars of the Roses. Ludlow Castle was, by this time, in the hands of Richard, Duke of York, the leader of opposition to King Henry VI. York’s mother was Anne Mortimer, and he inherited the vast Mortimer portfolio from his uncle Edmund, 5th Earl of March.

As tensions increased, York moved his family from their home at Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire to the more defensible Ludlow in the Marcher heartlands, writing letters from here to gather support. It was here that York mustered his forces in 1459.

This moment is the first time we have a record of all of the sons of York gathered together in one place: the future Edward IV (then Earl of March), Edmund, Earl of Rutland, George, later Duke of Clarence, and the future Richard III. Their cousin, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, remembered as the Kingmaker, was there too. It’s incredible to walk through the grounds today where so many key players in the Wars of the Roses once gathered.

The result of this moment is known as the Battle of Ludford Bridge, named after the bridge not far from the castle. Ludlow was sacked by a royal army and the castle was looted. York and his allies fled, but returned the following year to claim the throne of England. The youngest children, Margaret, George and Richard, were left behind with their mother Cecily and witnessed the carnage that ensued.

Fit for a prince

York and his second son Edmund were killed at the Battle of Wakefield on 30 December 1460. In the following year, Edward took the throne and began the rule of the House of York. Although he was ejected from England in 1470 after falling out spectacularly with his cousin Warwick, Edward returned in 1471 to retake his crown, and to find that his wife had given birth to a son and heir in his absence.

Edward had been raised at Ludlow Castle with his brother Edmund, and when his own son was two years old, he was sent to learn to rule in a household here that used Wales to teach the Prince of Wales how to be a king one day.

Edward IV created a set of ordinances to govern his son’s household in 1473. He was to awake at a convenient hour, hear Mass, take breakfast, learn lessons, followed by dinner at 10am. After this, there would be more music, grammar and humanities lessons, followed by physical activities in the afternoon, including horse riding and weapon training suitable to his age. He was to go to bed at 8pm, until he was 12 years old, when he could stay up until 9pm.

Ironically, the king insisted his son should not be in the company of any ‘swearer, brawler, backbiter or common gambler, adulterer or user of words of ribaldry’. It’s ironic, because those were Edward’s favourite kinds of people.

This prince was to become Edward V, briefly proclaimed king but never crowned, and remembered now as one of the Princes in the Tower.

Tudor mystery

Another Prince of Wales was to make a home at Ludlow. Arthur was Edward IV’s grandson, the son of Edward’s oldest daughter Elizabeth of York, who married Henry VII, the first Tudor monarch. Unlike the Yorkist Prince Edward, Arthur only arrived in Ludlow at the age of 15, in 1501. In November that year, he was back in London marrying the Spanish princess Catherine of Aragon.

The newlyweds made their way to Ludlow where they would establish their court. The castle was extensively refurbished for them. You can still see the Tudor chimney stacks on the apartment block in the Inner Bailey. However, in March 1502 both fell ill with what was described as ‘a malign vapour which proceeded from the air’. Catherine recovered, but on 2 April 1502, Arthur died aged 15. His heart is buried in St Laurence’s Church in Ludlow, and his tomb can be found at Worcester Cathedral.

Arthur’s untimely death made his younger brother, the future Henry VIII, heir to the throne. Henry would marry his brother’s widow Catherine. When he ultimately sought an annulment of their marriage, part of his claim was that Arthur and Catherine had consummated their union. Part of the testimony at the trial to annul the marriage was that Arthur had claimed ‘I have been in the midst of Spain last night’ and that ‘having a wife is a good pastime’. Catherine denied that they had slept together until her dying day. If only Ludlow Castle’s walls could talk.

Ludlow Castle

Image Credit: Shutterstock.com

The Council of the Marches

The remainder of the 16th century saw Ludlow Castle go from strength to strength. As other fortresses declined, its role as the focus of the Council of the Marches meant that it was used and well maintained, particularly when Sir Henry Sidney became President of the Council in 1560. A keen antiquarian, he oversaw a great deal of refurbishment.

In 1616, James I and VI declared his son, the future Charles I, to be Prince of Wales at Ludlow Castle, reinforcing its importance. Like many castles, it held for the royalist cause during the civil war but fell to a Parliamentarian siege.

When Charles II came to the throne, he re-established the Council of the Marches, but it was officially disbanded in 1689. Without such a vital use, the castle declined. Owned today by the Earl of Powis, it is open to the public, and is a stunning place to visit and to be amongst such a long and fascinating history.

A Troubled Childhood

George was born on 21 October 1449 in Dublin. His father, Richard, 3rd Duke of York was then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland for King Henry VI. His mother Cecily came from the powerful Neville family based in the north of England. George was the couple’s ninth child in ten years, the seventh child and third son to survive infancy.

His family were soon caught up in the Wars of the Roses as tension built. In 1459, George was at Ludlow when his father and older brothers fled, leaving him behind with his mother, older sister Margaret and younger brother Richard, and a royal army sacked the town and castle. George was placed into his aunt’s custody.

His fortunes changed the next year when his father was appointed heir to the throne, but when York was killed at the Battle of Wakefield on 30 December 1460, George and his little brother Richard (later Richard III) were sent into exile in Burgundy alone. Kept at arm’s length by the Duke of Burgundy, they were left to worry about what was happening to their family at home.

Heir to the Throne

The wheel of fortune span again for George when his oldest brother took the throne to become Edward IV, the first Yorkist king. George and Richard were now warmly welcomed to the Duke of Burgundy’s court as royal princes and prepared to go home for their brother’s coronation. Edward was 18 and unmarried. Their other older brother Edmund had been killed with their father, so George, aged 11, was now the heir to the throne.

George was created Duke of Clarence on 29 June 1461, the day after his brother’s coronation. The Clarence title, centred on the Honour of Clare, had been held by Lionel, the second son of Edward III, and then by Thomas, second son of Henry IV. It was a piece of Yorkist propaganda to portray George as the second son of a rightful king, as York was now depicted. George would remain his brother’s heir for the next nine years.

Growing up while holding a position of such potential power but which might be whipped away at any moment made George a volatile and petulant man concerned about his rights.

George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, by Lucas Cornelisz de Kock (1495-1552) (Image Credit: Public Domain).

Under Warwick’s Influence

Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick was a first cousin to George and his brothers. He had helped Edward win the throne, but through the 1460s their relationship soured. By the final years of the decade, Warwick was slipping into rebellion.

The earl lacked a male heir so wished to marry his oldest daughter Isabel to George, hoping that it might bring his family to the throne one day. Edward refused to allow the match. Warwick arranged a papal dispensation because George and Isabel were first cousins once removed and had them married on 11 July 1469 at Calais.

George joined Warwick in open rebellion. They managed to capture Edward and hold him prisoner for a while, but trouble on the Scots border forced them to release him. The tension continued, and in 1470, paperwork found among the baggage of a defeated rebel army confirmed George was still plotting with Warwick, now planning to replace Edward as king.

The defeat drove Warwick and George into exile in France, where the earl made a pact with the Lancastrians he had deposed to restore Henry VI, relegating George in his plans. When Henry was reinstated on the throne, George found life in Lancastrian England predictably hard and turned back to his brothers, helping them win back the crown for the House of York and appearing reconciled.

A Final Downfall

George’s wife Isabel died on 22 December 1476, almost three months after giving birth to a son who died shortly after his mother. The couple had a daughter, Margaret, and a son, Edward, and had lost their first child, Anne, born at sea when George had fled into exile.

Suddenly, on 12 April 1477, four months after Isabel’s death, George had one of her ladies arrested, tried, and executed for poisoning his wife. George did not have the authority to dole out justice in this way, and a spate of arrests in May included men associated with George. He burst into a council meeting to protest and, finally at his wit’s end, Edward ordered his brother arrested.

George was tried for treason by parliament in January 1478, though the outcome was a forgone conclusion. The trial heard that George had tried to smuggle his son to Ireland or Burgundy, and claimed he plotted against the king,

‘and against the persons of the blessed Princess our other Sovereign and Liege Lady the Queen, of my Lorde the Prince their Son and Heir, and of all the other of their most noble issue’.

He had also kept a document granted when Henry VI had been restored making George heir to the Lancastrian line if it failed, which it had by now. Edward, and, many suspected, the queen, had endured enough of George’s treachery, scheming and refusal to be satisfied.

The Execution of a Duke

On 18 February 1478, aged 28, George, Duke of Clarence, brother to the King of England, was executed. A tradition has grown up that George was drowned in a vat a malmsey, an expensive sweet wine. Some stories even claim this was at his own request, having been permitted to choose the manner of his execution.

The truth is that, as his rank allowed, George was executed in private. Having condemned his own brother, Edward had no intention of making a public spectacle of it and highlighting problems within his family.

Drowning was a form of execution used in Scotland until the 18th century, and some cultures were concerned about shedding royal blood. Edward may have opted for this method to prevent spilling blood, or George might have chosen it as a recognised method, with the selection of malmsey mocking Edward’s reputation for heavy drinking.

A portrait believed to be of Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, George’s daughter, intriguingly shows the lady wearing a barrel charm on a bracelet. Was this in remembrance of her father?

Unknown woman, formerly known as Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury from National Portrait Gallery (Image Credit: Art Collection 3 / Alamy Stock Photo, Image ID: HYATT7).

For a man who was only King of England for just over two years, between 26 June 1483 and 22 August 1485, it is astonishing that he still garners such interest. Yet, it should come as little surprise. His reign is a story of high politics, rebellion, death on the battlefield, and the fate of his two young nephews, remembered by history as the Princes in the Tower.

Richard III is alternately remembered as a cruel tyrant and a worthy sovereign. Given the scarcity of evidence and the problems with the available material, the disputes are likely to continue for some time yet.

So, why exactly is Richard III controversial?

The sources

The second half of the 15th century is a bare, rocky chasm between the rich shores of the monk chronicles of the previous centuries and the fertile plains of government records that evolved in Henry VIII’s reign under Thomas Cromwell. There were a few citizen chronicles, such as Warkworth’s, which ends in 1474, and Gregory’s, which concludes even earlier in 1470. They provide useful information but stop before Richard becomes a central figure.

Monks generally no longer kept their local or national accounts of events. They had scribbled away in their cloisters in previous centuries and came with their own set of problems. Still, they were frequently reasonably well informed and at least kept long-term records of the significant events within the kingdom. Knowing a source’s problems is always vital in making the best use of it.

King Richard III

Image Credit: National Portrait Gallery, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Those sources that refer to Richard III’s accession and reign are frequently compiled later, after his death, and during the rule of the Tudor family, who defeated Richard. They often speak in terms of rumours, too, because it seems even those living through some of these events were never quite sure exactly what had gone on.

The Crowland Chronicler is one of the most politically informed commentators but wrote anonymously in 1486, after Bosworth. Despite this apparent freedom to criticise Richard and bolster the fledgling Tudor regime, he actually has some nice things to say about Richard. Most telling of all, his only comment on the Princes in the Tower is that as part of the October Rebellions in 1483, “a rumour was spread that the sons of king Edward before-named had died a violent death, but it was uncertain how”.

The writer never offers his opinion of what happened to the sons of Edward IV, only that a rumour of their death was begun to swell support for a rebellion against Richard. If Crowland didn’t know what had happened, it seems likely no other commentator would.

Mancini: French spy?

“I was insufficiently apprised of the names of those to be described, the intervals of time and the secret designs of men in this whole affair.”

This is how Domenico Mancini begins his account of the events of 1483. He explains that his patron, Archbishop Angelo Cato, has twisted his arm to write down what seems to have been a popular after-dinner talk Mancini had been giving. Thus, he writes:

“… you should not expect from me the names of individuals and places, nor that this account is complete in all particulars: rather it will resemble the likeness of a man, which lacks some of the limbs, and yet the viewer clearly designates it as a man.”

Failing to take his work with a pinch of salt when he has warned us to do so would seem reckless.

Mancini’s patron, Angelo Cato, was in the service of Louis XI of France. Mancini wrote his account in December 1483, by which time Louis had died, leaving behind a 13-year-old son. By 1485, France was embroiled in The Mad War, a civil war for the regency that lasted until 1487.

France had been on the brink of renewing hostilities with England when Edward IV died, shortly followed by Louis XI. It is possible that Mancini was in England as a French spy in the spring of 1483, and certainly, he tailored his story of the terrible English to appeal to a French ear. Speaking no English and bearing a potential political agenda, Mancini is right to urge us to caution in relying on his testimony.

Sir Thomas More

One of the sources most often cited for condemning Richard III is History of King Richard III by Sir Thomas More. More, a lawyer who rose high in the service of Henry VIII, only to fall foul of the executioner’s axe when he refused to back Henry’s break with Rome, is a fascinating figure.

Many consider his testimony almost unquestionable: he would surely have checked his facts as a lawyer and later a saint, had no reason to lie and he had access to people who had lived through the events. Born in 1478, More was five at the time of the events of 1483. He wrote his account from about 1512, left it unfinished, and never published it. More himself never meant us to read it. His nephew finished it and published it years after More’s execution.

More’s account of Richard has been celebrated more as a great literary work than for historical accuracy. Sir Thomas More (1527) by Hans Holbein the Younger.

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

In the 16th century, history was a branch of rhetoric. It was not the investigation and retelling of facts as we understand history today. More’s Richard III appears to be a work of allegory. He points to this in his very first sentence. “King Edward of that name the Fourth, after he had lived fifty and three years, seven months, and six days, and thereof reigned two and twenty years, one month, and eight days, died at Westminster the ninth day of April”. Edward IV actually died 19 days short of his 41st birthday. So much for fact-checking.

Interestingly, Henry VII died aged 52. If More’s Edward IV is meant to be read as Henry VII, then Edward V is the promise of a new, young king, which is what everyone expected from Henry VIII in 1509. Richard III represents the destruction of that promise and descent into tyranny, which can be seen in Henry’s early actions, including the executions of Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley. They were killed for doing as Henry VII had instructed them, sacrificed to court popularity.

Perhaps More stopped writing as he rose in royal service, believing he could effect change from the inside. When we consider More’s reliability, like Mancini, his own words should give us pause for thought.

Shakespeare

Believing that Shakespeare should be accepted as a historical account of any history is akin to watching Downton Abbey and taking it as an accurate account of the Crawley family in the early 20th century. Like More, there is an interpretation of Shakespeare’s Richard III that has him hanging a contemporary political message on the mannequin of Richard III. If Shakespeare remained a staunch Catholic, as some theories suggest, he might have pointed to Robert Cecil, the son of William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Elizabeth I’s chief minister.

Robert is known to have suffered from kyphosis, the forward curvature of the spine that Shakespeare’s villain displayed. Richard III’s skeleton has demonstrated that he had scoliosis, but not a limp or withered arm. The audience watches as Richard explains his plans to disrupt the succession and murder anyone in his way, just as Robert Cecil was orchestrating the Protestant succession of James VI of Scotland.

William Hogarth’s depiction of the actor David Garrick as Shakespeare’s Richard III. He is shown to awake from nightmares of the ghosts of those he has murdered.

Image Credit: Walker Art Gallery via Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

So, a large part of the reason debate continues about Richard III’s reputation and the events of 1483, in particular, is the lack of source material to help reach a definitive conclusion. This creates space that only a subjective assessment can fill.

Most people approach the story of Richard III with a firmly embedded pre-conception, and the lack of evidence means that all sides of his story can be argued convincingly, while none can be proven conclusively. Unless new evidence is uncovered, the debate seems likely to continue.

As Thomas was confronted by four knights, swords drawn, on the very brink of losing their temper, it is hard to work out what was going through his mind. His reaction to the threat he bravely faced suggests he might have had a plan that required his death that day.

Background

Born on Cheapside in London around 1120, Thomas was provided with a good education that included a spell in Paris. After returning to London in 1141 aged 21, Thomas secured work in the household of Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas’s life was transformed when the period of civil war known as the Anarchy came to an end with the coronation of King Henry II on 19 December 1154.

By the end of January 1155, Thomas was witnessing royal documents as the new king’s chancellor. The office gave Thomas control of the royal chapel and the scriptorium, the king’s writing office. The appointment was at the recommendation of Archbishop Theobald, but no one foresaw the friendship that developed between the king and chancellor.

The New Archbishop

When Archbishop Theobald died on 18 April 1161, Henry summoned Thomas to tell him that he was to be the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas protested, asking, ‘How religious, how saintly, is the man whom you would appoint to that holy see, and over so renowned a monastery!’ Henry would not be moved.

At Canterbury, the horrified monks refused to elect Thomas. On 23 May 1162, the brothers were in London to hear that the king was not asking. Thomas was duly elected as the new Archbishop of Canterbury. He had been appointed to hand the king control over the English Church, and he immediately refused to do so. Henry was furious and tried to prosecute Thomas for financial irregularities during his term as chancellor.

Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral. Image Credit: Public Domain

Refusing to be cowed, the archbishop left England to seek refuge in France at the court of Henry’s rival King Louis VII. Over the years that followed, Thomas refused to be reconciled, but his belligerence was proving inconvenient and embarrassing to Louis and Pope Alexander III.

In June 1170, Henry organised the coronation of his son, known as Henry the Young King. As Archbishop of Canterbury, it was Thomas’s prerogative to perform the ceremony, but Henry allowed the Archbishop of York to officiate.

In what looked like a prearranged performance, Louis complained that his daughter Margaret, the Young King’s wife, had been excluded. Henry offered to repeat the ceremony and allow Thomas to crown the couple if he would be reconciled.

Realising his sympathy had been exhausted, Thomas agreed. When he sailed back to England, though, it was with a plan. When he heard that his bishops were gathered at Dover to meet him, Thomas diverted his ship to Sandwich and rushed to Canterbury. His first act was to excommunicate all the bishops involved in the coronation. In dismay, they fired off letters to the king in Normandy.

The Plot

Henry was celebrating Christmas at Bur-le-Roi near Bayeux. What followed was as hotly debated in the immediate aftermath as it has been for the 850 years since. Edward Grim, a monk at Canterbury, recorded that Henry bellowed

‘What miserable drones and traitors have I nurtured and promoted in my household who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric!’

Four knights rose from the feast, rode to the coast, crossed the Channel and made for Canterbury. Reginald FitzUrse, Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, and Richard le Breton burst into Thomas’ chamber on 29 December 1170. When Thomas refused to lift the excommunications, the knights threatened violence. Thomas waved them away, and they stomped out to collect their weapons.

Miniature of Henry II enthroned, arguing with Thomas Becket. (Image Credit: Public Domain).

The monks ushered Thomas to the altar in the Cathedral, hoping it would offer more protection. The sub-deacon, Hugh the Evil-clerk, led the armed knights back in. ‘Where is Thomas, traitor of the king and kingdom?’ roared one. When no answer came, he bellowed louder ‘Where is the archbishop?’

Thomas pushed his way out of the protective huddle of monks. ‘Here I am, not a traitor to the king but a priest’, Thomas quietly answered. The knights repeated their demand that he reverse the excommunications and Becket refused again. ‘Then you will now die,’ they growled. Thomas assured them calmly ‘I am prepared to die for my Lord’. The knights grabbed at Thomas and tried to drag him outside, but he tightly gripped a pillar.

The Murder

Eventually, Thomas let go, pressed his hands together, leaned forward, stretching his neck out, and began to pray. The monks had scattered in terror, but some rushed back now to protect their archbishop. Grim was among them, and as he raised his arm to shield Thomas, one of the knights swung his sword down, carving into Grim’s arm and skimming Thomas’s scalp. A second blow severed the monk’s limb and crashed into Becket’s head.

A third sent the archbishop to the ground in a crumpled heap as Grim heard him mumble ‘For the name of Jesus and the protection of the church I am ready to embrace death’. A fourth blow sliced the top of Becket’s skull off. The sword shattered on the stone floor in the pool of blood.

Hugh the Evil-clerk stepped on the archbishop’s neck so that his brains poured from his skull into the puddle of gore. ‘We can leave this place, knights,’ Hugh crowed, ‘he will not get up again.’

The Death of Thomas Becket. (Image Credit: Public Domain).

Henry became an international pariah, the murder by his men fodder for his enemies. Thomas was canonised on 21 February 1173, and a cult quickly sprang up around his tomb. In 1174, as threats gathered around his lands, Henry made a pilgrimage to Becket’s tomb, spending the night in tears and prayers. His fortunes were instantly transformed, and Thomas’s saintly reputation was sealed.

The Mystery

The lingering question is why things ended the way they did on 29 December 1170. Henry always denied that he meant for Thomas to be murdered. The four knights disappeared in shame. But had Thomas planned his death that day? He knew his opposition to Henry was floundering. Martyrdom may have been the ace up his sleeve.

Thomas deliberately wound the knights up into a frenzy. When they tried to drag him outside, he refused to leave the cathedral because it was the perfect place for the moment to play out. Spotting the tipping point in his attackers’ rage, Thomas suddenly, calmly offered himself as a sacrifice. He bravely withstood several blows with no effort to protect himself or escape.

Thomas Becket had refused to give up his defiance of King Henry’s desire to control the church. Martyrdom offered victory, and it worked. Henry dropped his plans. Thomas Becket faced his death with astonishing bravery, and his murder would redefine his reputation and Henry II’s kingship.


Background

At the beginning of the 13th century, Llywelyn ap Iorwerth, King of Gwynedd in North Wales, married an illegitimate daughter of King John. By 1210, relations were worsening, and in 1215, Llywelyn sided with the barons that forced Magna Carta on John. In the following year he was able to use the problems in England to establish his own dominance over the other princes of Wales, a position he would retain until his death in 1240.

Remembered as Llywelyn the Great, he was succeeded by his son Dafydd, who imprisoned his brothers Gruffydd and Owain. Both brothers were then handed over to Henry III of England as hostages.

Gruffydd died in 1244 trying to escape from the Tower of London by tying sheets together to climb out of his cell window. The makeshift rope broke, and Gruffydd fell to his death. The window he used was bricked up, but can still be made out today.

Gruffydd’s son Llywelyn supported his uncle Dafydd in the brutal fighting with the English that followed. When Dafydd died in February 1246, Llywelyn was able to claim his uncle’s lands and titles.

A New Rivalry

On 14 February 1254, Henry made some provisions for his son Edward, the future Edward I, by making him Earl of Chester and giving him castles in Wales. In 1256, a long rivalry was begun when Llywelyn tried to expand his holdings by attacking Edward’s properties.

With the English unable to catch the Welsh and Llywelyn unwilling to risk a pitched battle, an uneasy peace was agreed. As Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester fell into dispute with King Henry in the 1260s, Llywelyn allied himself with the rebels, as his grandfather had done, to try and make further gains. Targeting Prince Edward’s lands again, the alliance fell apart when Edward concluded peace with the de Montfort family.

At the Battle of Lewes on 14 May 1264, King Henry and Prince Edward were both captured by Simon de Montfort, who took control of the government. Llywelyn negotiated the Treaty of Pipton, which was sealed on 22 June 1265, and recognised Llywelyn as Prince of Wales in return for a payment of 30,000 marks.

Within two months, de Montfort was defeated and killed at the Battle of Evesham on 4 August, restoring King Henry and negating the Treaty of Pipton. Llywelyn’s continued resistance combined with ongoing problems in England forced Henry to negotiate the Treaty of Montgomery, finalised on 29 September 1267.

Llywelyn was recognised as Prince of Wales but was required to give homage to the English crown for his control of Wales and pay 3,000 marks a year. This peace would endure for the rest of Henry III’s reign.

Llywelyn ap Gruffudd paying homage to King Henry II. (Image Credit: Public Domain).

Rising Tensions

King Edward I succeeded his father in 1272 but was on crusade in the Holy Land. The task of running England was given to three barons, one of whom, Roger Mortimer, was a rival of Llywelyn’s on the Welsh borders. Mortimer backed an attempt to take Brycheiniog Castle from Llywelyn and conflict erupted again.

Edward retained a strong dislike for Llywelyn, possibly holding a grudge stemming from earlier attacks on his lands. Edward would always have an abrasive relationship with London after the city had harassed his mother during a revolt against his father.

Llywelyn tried to revive his alliance with the de Montfort family by arranging a marriage to Simon’s daughter Eleanor, a first cousin of the king, despite the family’s fall from influence. Edward ordered the Prince of Wales to come to him on several occasions and renew his homage, but Llywelyn refused, claiming he feared for his life.

Edward I’s Invasion of Wales

In 1277, Edward took a large army into Wales after declaring Llywelyn a traitor. The king managed to march far into North Wales and sent a second force to Anglesey to seize the island and the harvest there. By November, Llywelyn was forced to agree to the Treaty of Aberconwy. He kept his lands west of the River Conwy but lost those to the east to his brother Dafydd.

Edward I, also known as Edward “Longshanks”. (Image Credit: Public Domain).

Although he kept his princely title after giving homage to Edward, Llywelyn lost control over the other rulers of Wales and with no mechanism to pass his overlordship to anyone else, the office of Prince of Wales would die with Llywelyn. The first part of Edward’s campaign to conquer and subdue Wales was completed by the construction of castles around Gwynedd, encircling Llywelyn’s dwindling power base.

In 1282, Llywelyn, now around 60 years old, found those Welsh princes who had been lured away by Edward looking to return to him to escape the uncomfortable grip of the English crown. Llywelyn’s brother Dafydd began an offensive, and though Llywelyn claimed he was not involved at all, he nevertheless offered his brother support. Edward’s new castle at Aberystwyth was burnt down, and Carrey Cennen Castle was taken.

The king sought to repeat his success in 1277 by invading Gwynedd from the east and taking Anglesey. Luke de Tany quickly took the island and its harvest again, but then tried to cross the Menai Straights to attack Llywelyn without waiting for Edward. Alert to the threat, Llywelyn met the English force at the Battle of Moel-y-don on 6 November and drove them back into the sea.

Walter of Guisborough recorded that ‘The Welsh came from the high mountains and attacked them, and in fear and trepidation for the great number of the enemy, our men preferred to face the sea than the enemy. They went into the sea but, heavily laden with arms, they were instantly drowned.’

Llywelyn’s Downfall

Llywelyn moved south. At Builth Wells he was confronted by an alliance of English Marcher lords and Welsh princes. On 11 December, they fought the Battle of Orwin Bridge where the English cavalry and archers outmatched the Welsh spearmen.

Llywelyn was reported to have been absent when the battle began, negotiating with a local lord, but quickly returned when he heard the news. As he approached the fighting, Llywelyn was killed by an English soldier who had not recognised him.

Death of Llywelyn. Illustrations and photographs of places and events in Welsh history from a childrens book, ‘Flame Bearers of Welsh History’. (Image Credit: National Library of Wales, Public Domain).

It was the next day before his body was recovered. His corpse was decapitated, and the head sent to Edward before being placed on the gatehouse of the Tower of London. The gruesome trophy remained there for at least fifteen years.

Dafydd was captured in June 1483 and hung, drawn, and quartered. After that, Edward stormed into Gwynedd and stripped it of all royal regalia, destroying the position of Prince of Wales. He would later create his son Prince of Wales, a tradition that endures to this day, but Llywelyn the Last was Wales’s last native Prince of Wales.

Llywelyn ap Gruffydd statue. (Image Credit: CC).

Other coins entered circulation at times. In 1344, Edward III attempted to revive the use of gold coinage by minting a gold noble, worth 6s 8d. Another accounting measure of money commonly used was the mark, which was worth two-thirds of a pound, or 13s 4d.

Debts and payments to the crown often appear measured in marks. The value of the gold noble was carefully set so that it was worth a third of a pound, and half a mark.

But what exactly could these denominations of money buy someone in medieval England? Here’s an introduction to the use of cash and currency in England’s middle ages.

Access to coinage

A collection of medieval silver pennies issued in the reigns of Edward I and Edward II

Image Credit: The Portable Antiquities Scheme/ The Trustees of the British Museum, CC BY-SA 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

Despite these complex measures of money, the only coin most people would ever have seen during the middle ages in England was a silver penny. There was no shilling coin, or pound coin. A gold noble was beyond the reach of all but the wealthiest elite.

In the early 13th century, King John’s broken relationship with the Pope made him incredibly wealthy as he gathered the church’s income alongside his own. He had to transport and store chests and barrels packed with chinking silver penny coins, and would lose a vast amount in the Wash, on the east coast of England, in 1216.

Typical incomes

During the middle ages, a labourer could expect to earn £2 a year, which meant 2 pence per day. In 1351, Parliament set the wages for various jobs in the face of rising wages during the Black Death, which made labour more scarce and forced up wages. Edward III’s government set payments at pre-pandemic levels.

Haymaking could pay no more than 1d a day. Reaping would pay 2d a day. Coopers (barrel makers) would receive 3d a day. Carpenters were limited to a wage of 4d a day, masons to 5d. To provide some context, a  knight could expect to receive 4s, or 48d a day. A modest baronial income was around £600 a year, 300 times that of a labourer.

Essentials

Good wine was 8d per gallon (in 1331), though cheaper alternatives were available if you weren’t fussy. Ale was around 1 to 1.5 pence a gallon (in the 14th century), so you could get around 8 pints for a day’s wages.

Your medieval penny would get you 2lbs of cheese (in the late 12th century), or two dozen eggs (in the 14th century), or two chickens (also in the 14th century). A goose would set you back 6d though (1375 price). A sheep could be 17d (in the mid 14th century), a pig 24d (in 1338), and a cow 72d (in the late 13th century, rising to 108d by the mid 13th century), making them incredibly expensive for most. One penny would also get you a pillow (in 1457), but a towel would cost 6d (in the mid 13th century). A chair cost 3d (in 1457), a table twice that (in the same year), and a bucket the same, at 6d (also in 1457). If you wanted to be able to see after the sun had gone down, a tallow candle cost 1.5d per lb (in the 15th century), so you would want to use it sparingly. 

A university education would cost around £8 a year (in the late 14th century), putting it beyond the reach of most. Books could cost around a pound each (in 1397). Even some everyday items seem expensive. A linen shirt, worn by most under their clothes, cost 12d (in the early 14th century), several days’ wages for most.

Trade costs and rent

If you were looking to take up a trade to earn more money, buying the equipment you would need might well put that dream beyond reach. A spinning wheel was around 10d (in 1457). A blacksmith’s anvil cost £1, or 240d , and the bellows to go with it would set you back another 30s, or 360d . A cheap hammer retailed at 8d, while the same money could buy two chisels (all in 1514). Even a spade would cost you 3d, more than a day’s wages for most (in 1457).

All of that was without paying rent for somewhere to live. A cottage cost 60 pence a year to rent . A craftsman’s house was around 240 pence a year, and a wealthy merchant’s home could be £2 or £3 a year. Buying your cottage would set you back £2 (all in the 14th century), a year’s wages for a labourer, which actually doesn’t seem bad compared to house prices today.

A Reeve overseas serfs working in the fields

Image Credit: anonymous (Queen Mary Master), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Many of those occupying the lowest position in society, serfs, were required to spend some of their time, particularly around harvest, working for the lord of the manor for free. This limited the days available to gain wages for the family, meaning that what could be earned had to go even further.

Arms and protection

If you were required to fight, there were times when a stock of weapons was kept at the parish church for the use of those called up. Trying to equip yourself could be expensive. The longbow was a staple of the English medieval army and could cost around 1s, or 12d, depending on the quality. A cheap sword would set you back 6d (in the 1340s).

Protecting yourself was infinitely more expensive. A mail shirt was valued at 100s, or 1200d (in the 12th century). A Milanese suit of armour was an eye-watering £8 6s 8d (in 1441). Some protection could be afforded by the kind of leather armour found in a merchant’s possession in the 13th century that had cost 5s, or 60d, more than a month’s wages for most. So, a sword, longbow and leather armour could come to 78d, or 40 days’ wages for a labourer (and that’s without any arrows at around 12d for two dozen).

Buying many things was a huge investment for most working people, making career changes or social mobility an unreachable dream. Making do and mending was important, and handing on the tools or possessions one did have became imperative to offer the next generation the chance of a future.

In the medieval era, Ukraine didn’t exist as a formal, sovereign nation. Instead, Kyiv served as the capital of the Kyivan Rus state, which encompassed portions of modern-day Ukraine, Belarus and Russia. As such, the city has a hold over the collective imaginations of those beyond modern Ukraine, in part contributing to the 2022 invasion. 

In the early modern era, the Rus peoples of what we now know as Ukraine allied themselves with the Grand Princes of Moscow and later, the first Russian tsars. Eventually, this link to Russia would lead Ukraine into crisis during the 20th century as World War Two and the rise of the USSR had a devastating impact on Ukraine and the Ukrainian people.

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Ukraine emerges

During the 19th century, a Ukrainian identity began to emerge more fully, closely linked to the region’s Cossack heritage. By this stage, Russians considered Ukrainians, as well as Belarussians, as ethnically Russian, but referred to both groups as ‘Little Russians’. In 1804, the growing separatist movement in Ukraine led the Russian Empire to ban the teaching of the Ukrainian language in schools in an effort to eradicate this growing feeling.

From October 1853 to February 1856, the region was rocked by the Crimean War. The Russian Empire fought a coalition of the Ottoman Empire, France and the United Kingdom. The conflict saw the battles of Alma and Balaclava, the Charge of the Light Brigade, and Florence Nightingale’s experiences that led to a professionalisation of nursing, before being resolved by the Siege of Sevastopol, a critically important naval base on the Black Sea.

The Russian Empire lost, and the Treaty of Paris, signed on 30 March 1856, saw Russia forbidden from basing naval forces in the Black Sea. The embarrassment felt by the Russian Empire led to internal reforms and modernisation in an effort not to be left behind by other European powers.

Ukraine remained unsettled too, and in 1876 the ban on teaching the Ukrainian language put in place in 1804 was extended to prohibit publication or importation of books, performances of plays and the delivery of lectures in the Ukrainian language.

In 1917, in the wake of the Russian Revolution, Ukraine was briefly an independent nation, but was soon to become part of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The USSR, which would be a dominant force in world politics for most of the rest of the 20th century, was about to be born.

The USSR

In 1922, Russia and Ukraine were two of the signatories to the founding document of the USSR. With its wide, sweeping, fertile plains, Ukraine would become known as the breadbasket of the Soviet Union, providing grain and food that made it an invaluable part of the USSR. That fact only made what happened next all the more shocking.

The Holodomor was a state-sponsored famine created by Joseph Stalin’s government in Ukraine as an act of genocide. Crops were seized and sold to overseas markets to fund Stalin’s economic and industrial plans. Animals, including pets, were removed. Soviet soldiers ensured whatever remained was kept from the population, resulting in the deliberate starvation and deaths of up to 4 million Ukrainians.

During World War Two, Germany invaded Ukraine, moving across the border on 22 June 1941 and completing their takeover by November. 4 million Ukrainians were evacuated east. The Nazis encouraged collaboration by appearing to back an independent Ukrainian state, only to renege on that promise once in control. Between 1941 and 1944, around 1.5 million Jews living in Ukraine were killed by Nazi forces.

After the USSR was victorious at the Battle of Stalingrad in early 1943, the counteroffensive moved across Ukraine, retaking Kyiv in November that year. The fight for western Ukraine was hard and bloody until Nazi Germany was driven out altogether by the end of October 1944.

Ukraine lost between 5 and 7 million lives during World War Two. A famine in 1946-1947 claimed around a million more lives, and pre-war levels of food production would not be restored until the 1960s.

A scene from the centre of Stalingrad after the Battle of Stalingrad

Image Credit: Public Domain

In 1954, the USSR transferred control of Crimea to Soviet Ukraine. There was perhaps a feeling that, with the USSR strong, it made little difference which Soviet state administered which territory, but the move stored up problems for a future in which the Soviet Union no longer existed.

On 26 April 1986, the Chernobyl nuclear disaster took place in Ukraine. During a test procedure on reactor number 4, a power decrease made the reactor unstable. The core went into meltdown, the subsequent explosion destroying the building. Chernobyl remains one of only two nuclear disasters to be rated at the highest level, alongside the 2011 Fukushima disaster. The catastrophe caused ongoing health issues for the surrounding population and the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone covered more than 2,500 km2.

Chernobyl has been pointed to as one of the contributing causes of the collapse of the USSR. It shook faith in the Soviet government, and Mikhail Gorbachev, last General Secretary of the Soviet Union, said it was a “turning point” that “opened the possibility of much greater freedom of expression, to the point that the system as we knew it could no longer continue”.

For the other chapters in the story of Ukraine and Russia, read part one, about the period from Medieval Rus to the First Tsars, and part three, about the Post-Soviet Era.

The play is a complex presentation of psychology and evil, but it is also a play that forces the audience to ask questions of themselves. We are encouraged to like Richard III, to laugh at his jokes and to be on his side, even as he tells us the wicked plots he is putting into action. Where is the line at which we, the audience, stop hoping he succeeds? What does it mean that we watch all of this and make no effort to stop it? Shakespeare ingeniously presses us to demand answers to these questions.

A succession crisis

This central magic trick in Richard III, the sleight of hand of making us like a villain so that we fail to stop him, just might provide the explanation for Shakespeare’s play. The play was written somewhere around 1592-1594. Queen Elizabeth I had been on the throne for about 35 years and was around 60 years old. One thing was clear: the Queen would not be having any children, and the image she crafted as timeless Gloriana could not hide that fact.

A succession crisis was brewing, and those moments were always dangerous. If Shakespeare wanted to tackle this contemporary issue, he would need a safe facade from behind which he could do it. Openly questioning the succession would mean discussing the queen’s death, which strayed into treason.

There had been recent succession problems in the Tudor dynasty, but discussing the queen’s siblings would be indelicate too. However, there was a succession crisis, or series of crises, the Tudor dynasty had positioned itself as having solved: the Wars of the Roses. That might do nicely.

William Hogarth’s depiction of the actor David Garrick as Shakespeare’s Richard III. He is shown to awake from nightmares of the ghosts of those he has murdered.

Image Credit: Walker Art Gallery via Wikimedia Commons / Public Domain

Missing the point

Viewing Shakespeare’s Richard III and his other histories as, well, history is to miss the point of them entirely. They speak to something timeless in human nature, and they often say more about Shakespeare’s own day as much as the time they were set in. It is possible that we can see the Bard’s message far more clearly in Richard III than elsewhere. This theory relies on accepting that Shakespeare was a recalcitrant Catholic, preferring the old faith to the new.

During the 1590s, work was underway to deal with the looming succession crisis, even if it could not be discussed openly. William Cecil, Lord Burghley, Elizabeth’s closest advisor throughout her reign, was in his 70s, but still active. He was supported by his son, the man he was planning to take his place eventually. Robert Cecil was 30 in 1593. He was central to the plan to make James VI of Scotland the next monarch after Elizabeth’s death. James, like the Cecil family, was a Protestant. If Shakespeare’s sympathies were Catholic, then this would not have been an outcome he would have hoped to see.

Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury. Unknown artist, after John de Critz. 1602.

Shakespeare’s real villain?

In this context, Robert Cecil is an interesting man. He would serve James VI when he also became James I of England, becoming Earl of Salisbury too. He was at the centre of uncovering the Gunpowder Plot. Motley’s History of the Netherlands contains a description of Robert Cecil dating from 1588. He is described, in language we would not use today, as “a slight, crooked, hump-backed young gentleman, dwarfish in stature”.

Robert Cecil is known to have had kyphosis, the forward curvature of the spine depicted in Shakespeare’s Richard III, which differs from the scoliosis the historical Richard’s skeleton revealed. The same source goes on to describe the “massive dissimulation [that was], in aftertimes, to constitute a portion of his own character”.

So, if Robert Cecil was a lying schemer who also had kyphosis, what would a late 16th-century audience have made of Shakespeare’s iconic villain as he shuffled onto the stage? It is easy to imagine an audience nudging each other and exchanging knowing glances, understanding immediately that they were looking at a representation of Robert Cecil. As this monstrous character breaks the fourth wall to tell the audience all that he plans to do, and as Shakespeare forces the audience to confront their own complicity through silence, Shakespeare is really asking a different question.

How can the people of England sleepwalk into Robert Cecil’s scheme? If the nation can see what he is doing, what he is planning, then allowing him to get away with it is allowing him to get away with murder. It will be the death of the Old Faith in England. The innocent Princes in the Tower would represent the Catholic religion, abandoned to be put to death silently, off stage, by a monster the audience laughs along with.

A Victorian scrap for a Shakespeare character card of Richard III, 1890.

Image Credit: Victoria and Albert Museum / Public Domain

Reclaiming Shakespeare as fiction

For centuries, Shakespeare’s Richard III has been viewed as a history textbook. Indeed, after Shakespeare’s time, subsequent generations erroneously put Shakespeare’s masterpiece to a purpose it was never meant to serve, proclaiming a false history. But increasingly, we are beginning to accept that it was never meant to be that.

The Royal Shakespeare Company has been championing this shift in perspective. Their 2022 production of Richard III approached the play as a work of fiction rather than a piece of history, and it cast Arthur Hughes, who has radial dysplasia, as the first disabled actor to take the title role. 

“Shakespeare knows that laughter is assent,” said Greg Doran, director of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s 2022 production of Richard III. “I think he’s not interested in historical accuracy,” Greg continues, “but he is interested in pulling in an audience and keeping their attention.”

In a heatwave, after days of relentless marching, the houses of Lancaster and York would undergo the trial of battle once more.

The return of Edward IV

Edward IV had been forced from England by an alliance between his cousin Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, remembered now as the Kingmaker, and the deposed House of Lancaster, led by Queen Margaret and her teenage son Edward, Prince of Wales. Henry VI himself had been a prisoner of Edward IV in the Tower of London, but found himself restored to power, at least as a figurehead.

King Edward IV, by Unknown artist, circa 1540 (left) / King Edward IV, by unknown artist (right)

Image Credit: National Portrait Gallery, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons (left) / Unknown author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons (right)

In 1471, Edward landed on the north-east coast and moved south, reaching London and taking back power before moving to confront Warwick on a foggy morning at the Battle of Barnet on 14 April 1471. On the same day Warwick was defeated. Margaret and Prince Edward landed in the south-west and began recruiting support. As Margaret tried to reach the Welsh border to join up with reinforcements, Edward marched out of London to confront her. What followed was a desperate game of cat and mouse.

The road to Tewkesbury

On 30 April, Margaret was at Bristol. She sent word to Edward that she would meet his forces the following morning at Sudbury Hill. Edward arrived and prepared for battle before realising he had been tricked. The Lancastrian army was nowhere to be seen. Realising they would try to cross the River Severn, Edward sent riders ahead to Gloucester, the first available crossing, and ordered them to prevent the Lancastrians passing through. When Margaret arrived at Gloucester, she was denied entry.

The next available fording point was at Tewkesbury. The Lancastrians marched on, covering 36 miles as they marched day and night, reaching Tewkesbury as night fell on 3 May. Edward IV had pushed his army to match the Lancastrian pace, and they camped three miles from their quarry as darkness fell. The weather was stifling. One eye witness called it “right an-hot day”, and the Crowland Chronicle described how “both armies had now become so extremely fatigued with the labour of marching and thirst that they could proceed no further”.

The prince fights

On the morning of 4 May, Margaret made the difficult decision to let her 17-year-old son take his place in the centre of the Lancastrian army. It would be his first taste of battle. Not only was he her son, but the entire future of the Lancastrian line rested on his young shoulders. If their cause was to have any hope, he had to prove he was everything his ineffectual father was not. He was placed alongside the experienced Lord Wenlock. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset took the Lancastrian vanguard and the Earl of Devon the rear.

Edward IV stood at the centre of his army. His youngest brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester (the future Richard III) was given the vanguard, and Lord Hastings the rearguard, perhaps as a result of having been routed at the Battle of Barnet. Edward had found himself with 200 spare cavalry, and stationed them in a small wood off to his flank with orders to do anything they felt was useful. It was to prove fortuitous.

The Battle of Tewkesbury

Edward IV’s army opened fire with cannon and arrow. The Lancastrians, who had positioned themselves among “foul lanes and deep dykes, and many hedges”, knew they could not stand and take the punishment, so Somerset advanced. Gloucester moved to meet the enemy’s vanguard, but Somerset swung around, through lanes they had found in the night, and tried to attack Edward’s flank.

Spying the Lancastrian approach, those 200 cavalry saw their moment and attacked, catching Somerset unawares. As his men retreated, they were caught by Gloucester’s force and chased from the battlefield. Many drowned in the nearby river, while others fled into the Abbey at the edge of the site.

Tewkesbury Abbey also known as The Abbey Church of St Mary the Virgin, Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire, England

Image Credit: Caron Badkin / Shutterstock.com

For a long time, the fighting in the centre was close and the outcome of the battle uncertain. But eventually, Edward IV’s Yorkist army was victorious. Prince Edward was killed. Whether he died in the fighting or was captured and killed afterwards is unclear from the sources.

Tewkesbury Abbey

Edward IV burst into Tewkesbury Abbey in the aftermath of the battle, demanding that those Lancastrians sheltering within should be handed over. One brave monk apparently confronted the 6’4 king, fresh (or not so fresh) from the battlefield, and chastised him for entering the Abbey with his sword drawn. Edward withdrew, but continued to demand the handover of those inside. When they were forced to leave, they were tried and executed in Tewkesbury town centre two days after the battle, on 6 May. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, the last legitimate male of the House of Beaufort, was amongst those who lost their heads.

By way of an apology to the Abbey, Edward paid for it to be redecorated. However he had it painted in the Yorkist livery colour of murrey (a deep red) and blue and covered with his personal badge of the Sun in Splendour. If you visit Tewkesbury Abbey today, you can still see this decoration in place. There is also a plaque commemorating Prince Edward, the last of the Lancastrian line (his father, Henry VI, would die, probably murdered, when the Yorkists returned to London). It seems cruel not only that another young man lost his life, but that his resting place is loomed over by the badges and colours of his vanquisher.

Sometimes, if you visit the Abbey, you can also get to see the inside of the vestry door, which is covered in metal. It is claimed that this is horse armour recovered from the battlefield, showing the puncture marks where arrows pierced it.

The end of the Wars of the Roses?

If the Wars of the Roses is viewed as a dynastic struggle between the royal Houses of Lancaster and York, then it can be argued that the Battle of Tewkesbury on 4 May 1471 brought it to an end. Prince Edward was killed, and his death meant there was no reason to keep his father alive any longer.

Henry VI had probably been kept alive to prevent his younger, active son becoming the focal point for Lancastrian support, which rested instead on an ageing and ineffective deposed king. Henry’s life ended on 21 May 1471, and with that, the House of Lancaster became extinct, and the Wars of the Roses, at least as a dynastic struggle between Lancaster and York, ended.

It was not the end of trouble, though, whatever it might be named from this point onwards.

The legend goes that Hay Castle was built in a single night, by a giantess. The truth, of course, is far more down to earth, but the story of Hay Castle is nonetheless one of violence, treachery and tragedy.

Here’s the story of Hay Castle, and the tragic tale of its owners, William and Matilda de Braose.

The Ogre of Abergavenny

A castle was erected in Hay as part of Norman efforts to invade Wales after 1066. The original ringwork castle was located near to St Mary’s Church and the motte, known as Hay Tump, remains visible today. The castle that can be visited today was built in stone in the early 1200s and is associated with the de Braose family. William de Braose was close to King Richard I and then to King John before falling foul of John’s fickle temper.

William de Braose was close to King Richard I. Richard I in profile, funerary effigy above the tomb containing his heart in Rouen Cathedral

Image Credit: Giogo, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

William earned the nickname ‘The Ogre of Abergavenny’ in 1175. He invited local princes and barons from around Powys to a Christmas feast at his castle in Abergavenny as an act of reconciliation following some tension. Once they were all inside the Great Hall, William had the doors locked and slaughtered them to a man. He claimed it was done in revenge for the murder of his uncle. It added to his reputation as a brutal Marcher lord.

The Lady of Hay

Hay Castle is less about William de Braose, though, than his wife Matilda. Known as the Lady of Hay, she is much more closely associated with the town and castle. Matilda has a formidable reputation. In 1198 while her husband was on campaign in Normandy, she is credited with defending Painscastle from an attack by Welsh forces. Some stories tell of her riding out in armour to fight among her men, and the feat led to Painscastle being known as Matilda’s Castle.

One legend explains that Matilda was a giantess who built Hay Castle in one night. She carried the stones in her apron. There is one of them in St Mary’s Church because Matilda dropped it on her toe and threw it as far as the church in rage. Matilda was clearly a very impressive and well-respected lady in Hay, but she obviously didn’t build the castle in one night. There is a reason for the creation of this legend, though.

‘One night house’

Hay Castle during a cloudy day

Image Credit: RogerMechan / Shutterstock.com

Tŷ unnos, which translates from Welsh as ‘one night house’, is an old folk tradition that has parallels around the British Isles. Essentially, it states that if you can build a house within 24 hours on common land, you could keep the house and own the land it stood on freehold. Some traditions require smoke to be seen from the hearth to prove completion. Others said that an axe or something similar could be thrown from the four corners of the house to mark out the extent of the landholding. Although Tŷ unnos had no status in common law, it featured in medieval folk traditions.

The legend of Matilda de Braose building Hay Castle in one night probably sought to tap into this Welsh folklore. The de Braose family were Normans seeking to expand their landholdings by pushing into Wales. That meant taking land from the Welsh. By fostering the idea that Matilda built Hay Castle in one night, they were using Tŷ unnos to express their presence and their right to the land they had under Welsh law. The Normans were here, and they were staying. The land was theirs now.

Fall of a family

William and Matilda de Braose would fall foul of King John. William had been a favourite of the fickle king until they fell out for reasons that are unclear. John claimed William owed vast sums of money and called it in. Some chroniclers believed it was made worse when John demanded the couple’s sons as hostages. William had been given custody of John’s rival for the throne, his nephew Arthur, Duke of Brittany. It’s widely believed that John killed Arthur, perhaps even with his own hands.

Roger of Wendover reported that Matilda shown her defiance by telling messengers, “I will not deliver my sons to your lord, King John, for he foully murdered his nephew Arthur, whom he should have cared for honourably.” It was an understandable response, but it hardly made things better.

Unwilling or unable to pay the sums demanded, the family fled to Ireland. John pursued them. Matilda and their oldest son William tried to escape to Scotland but were captured and handed over to John. William managed to escape to France. Matilda and William Junior were imprisoned (either at Corfe Castle or Windsor, depending on which source is believed). John ordered them starved.

King John on a stag hunt, 14th century

Image Credit: British Library, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

A gruesome end

The Anonymous of Bethune, a contemporary chronicler, wrote, “on the eleventh day the mother was found dead between her son’s legs, still upright but leaning back against her son’s chest as a dead woman. The son, who was also dead, sat upright, leaning against the wall as a dead man. So desperate was the mother that she had eaten her son’s cheeks. When William de Braose, who was in Paris, heard this news, he died soon afterwards, many asserting that it was through grief.”

It was a gruesome end to the story of a powerful woman. William died shortly afterwards in Paris, with some blaming it on a broken heart after hearing what had happened to his wife and oldest son.

The grand reopening

On 26 May 2022, Hay Castle opened to the public – for the first time in its 900-year history. The reopening was thanks to the work of the Hay Castle Trust, which purchased the castle in 2011 when it was on the brink of being lost forever. The castle and Jacobean mansion inside were then renovated. 

The renovation and opening of Hay Castle is a reminder of the stories attached to the stronghold, but also of its brutal past on a violent frontier. It has been transformed from a place of closed doors, designed to keep everyone out, into a welcoming community institution dedicated to sharing its history with visitors.