Uneasy Lies the Head that Wears a Crown:
A Timeline of the Owain Glyndwr Uprising and its Consequences
"Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
- Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2
Prologue: The Red Hand
A Timeline of the Owain Glyndwr Uprising and its Consequences
"Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
- Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2
Prologue: The Red Hand
AD MCCCLXXVIII
Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri lay dying and he was painfully aware of that fact. One hand, desperately, futilely, attempted to staunch the flow of blood that gushed freely through his gambeson from multiple dagger wounds and the other, desperately, futilely, tried to pull his failing body up on the map table.
“Why John?” He gasped, blood spittling the the plain rug on the tent floor as he coughed with the effort. “How did he come to this?”
The man named John looked down at his former master. Traces of pity and regret passed across his face as he considered the dying man in front of him and the bloody dagger in his hand but he did not answer. Instead, he turned away, looking behind through the tent flap and out into the dark camp beyond. Beyond the traitor, the gloom remained oblivious to the events going on in its midst and the flickering torchlight revealed little more than the dark cut outs of tents and passing soldiers.
“I’m sorry.” Was all the Scotsman said as he let the dagger fall to the rug with a disturbing silence. Owain’s blood coating the blade added itself to the growing stain. Welsh wool this rug was supposed to be, bought for Owain by Charles V himself to remind the soldier of his ancestral home but that mattered little to a son of Scotland in the pay of the King of England. Wool was wool as far as the Scotsman was concerned and all of it equally good at soaking up the blood of a dying man. Crouching down, the Scotsman wiped his hands on the still untainted edged of the rug, leaving a scarlet trail behind, and made a sign of the cross over the dying man before he turned and left the tent.
The dying man saw none of this. No longer able to muster the strength to speak or attempt to pull himself up, Owain had finally slumped forwards into the blood-soaked wool. His eyes blinked once, twice, trying and failing to focus on his glistening red right hand as the last Prince of Wales died alone in a field in Poitou.
---
“For God, for France and Lawgoch!” Went up the cry from his men, the words still sounding strange in Welsh mouths that had last called the war cries of England and English Kings. As the echoes died, they charged forwards against the advancing foe and their cries were replaced by the familiar sounds of battle. Clanging steel, the grisly thuds of weapons meeting flesh and the shouts and screams of the living and the dying. Surrounded by an endless sea of infantry, his men a pool of Welsh blood between the English tide and the French shore, Owain strangely felt his spirits lift. On this muddy field in the south of France he was a freer man that he had ever been as a lord of the manor in England.
An English man-at-arms broke through the ranks in front of him and Owain smiled, thrusting his sword and impaling the unfortunate soldier with a single blow, feeling it pierce through leather and sin in the process. The stranger, just another dead man among many today, slumped forwards as Owain pulled back his blade and Owain stepped forwards once more into the fray. To his left and right, Welshmen armed with a ragtag assortment of swords, spears and axes struggled with cross marked Englishmen whilst the French lines disintegrated around them. Another soldier stepped forwards towards Owain, smarter than his predecessor, with a shield raised warily against him. Owain smiled again, he had always enjoyed a challenge, and lunged forwards.
His sword crunched into the English shield, splintering the wood but no more. He raised his own shield to block the swinging blade of the Englishman and felt his position slip sideways in the churned mud of the battlefield. Steadying himself, Owain counterattacked and attempted to drive his sword through the chest of his foe. He was swiftly disabused of that gambit as the Englishman knocked his sword aside with his shield and aimed his own blow at Owain’s head. Ducking swiftly before jumping back out of the Englishman’s reach, Owain once again had to steady himself before he struck again. This time attack struck true, almost. The Englishman had raised his shield again, but where he had manged to deflect Owain’s blade last time, he could only divert it into his shoulder.
Grunting in pain, the Englishman reeled backwards but held his shield well, blocking Owain’s follow up strike that crunched harmlessly into it. Despite this failure, Owain had now all but won. The Englishman’s sword arm was hanging feebly from the wound to the shoulder. Owain prepared himself to strike the killing blow but he had let complacency creep in too soon and the Englishman, clearly with considerable effort, had raised his sword for a final attack, flailing it wildly to slash across Owain’s cheek. Blood poured down Owain’s face to join the red of his surcoat but the Englishman had missed his chance.
Owain let the blood flow and instead attacked, breaking the Englishman’s shield were a decisive blow from his sword before thrusting it straight through the Englishman’s neck as the four lions of his surcoat flapped in the wind of Poitiers.
---
Owain gazed out at the rolling sea. He had been told it was a calm day by people who knew better but to him the sea always looked like it resented his presence on it. White horses of foam charged past the side of his vessel and crashed against the side of its companions as the flotilla sailed towards Guernsey. It was a decent flotilla as war fleets go, it numbered 21 ships, a mix of cogs and hulks as had been supplied at Harfleur, that carried some 800 men between them, a fleet worthy of an expedition to reclaim his birth right as Prince of Wales. First though, they would test their strength against the English in the Channel Islands. It would not be the sternest of tests, Guernsey was guarded by castles but his French contacts reported that they were frequently undermanned and the population at large lacked both the desire and wherewithal to actively resist, but it would be a worthy one.
“Still brooding?” A shout from behind him and a hand clapping him on the shoulder interrupted Owain’s thoughts. He turned to meet the man he need would be standing there, Ieuan Wyn, his steward.
“I’m not brooding. I’m planning.” Owain said with mock seriousness before grinning and embracing his closest friend, their armour providing a loud accompaniment as metal met metal.
“Hah!” Ieuan cried with a smile as he pulled back. “We both know this will be an easy fight!”
Owain’s brow furrowed and Ieuan flashed him another smile, teasing this time, and held up his hands placatingly.
“Fine, fine. I know you take this very seriously.” He patted the hilt of his sword with a flourish before adding. “How about we take your mind of it with a quick duel?”
Owain could tell Ieuan was studying his face for that first flicker of a smile but Owain was determined that he would not see one today. He loved his steward but he was incapable of taking anything seriously.
“Awww.” Ieuan sighed eventually. “Always so serious before we fight. How ever will we get you to lighten up a little?”
“When we win brother, when we have won.” Owain replied. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be preparing the soldiers instead of bothering me?”
“Hrmmm, I suppose you’re right there.” Ieuan said, but made no motion to leave. Instead he stood drumming his fingers against the hilt of his sword distractedly as he stared over Owain’s shoulder. “I think we have our target.”
Owain turned back out to the sea and there it was. A smudge on the horizon that foretold the imminent appearance of land amidst the blue.
“You’re welcome.” Ieuan said behind him in a smile evident in his voice. Owain looked back at Ieuan but he was already dramatically turning on his heel, a little unsteadily in all his armour, and marched off.
That smudge on the horizon steadily grew closer as the wind propelled Owain’s flotilla towards it and cliffs and beaches coalesced out of the blur. They were, in turn, quickly followed by small houses whose chimneys gently puffed trails of smoke and the bobbing masts of fishing boats. It was a pastoral scene as one might hope for, only broken by the stone-built bulk of Castle Cornet that guarded the harbour. In soon became apparent too that their arrival had evidently not gone unnoticed in town or castle. People ran this way and that between the houses, most of them soon vanishing from sight but a handful who gleamed brightly in the sun were hurrying down to the waterfront.
It was the castle that would be the only stumbling block in the occupation of the island. Where the island in general seldom mustered any resistance at all, Castle Cornet and Castle Vale had defied French invasion before and Owain was not foolhardy enough to try to take it on from sea. Instead, Owain and his army were heading for a beach further along the coast where they could make a safe landing. In the mean time, the fleet just had to stay far enough away from…
An almighty splash shattered the focus in the air as a plume of spray erupted within a hundred yards of Owain’s vessel. Two more quickly followed, both falling into the sea well short, to complete the warning catapult from the castle. Owain couldn’t help but smile at this beginning, war had not yet lost its thrill. He drew his sword and turned away from the edge of the deck.
“I think that’s our cue to make some noise!” He cried, raising his sword skywards. The rows of Welshmen and Frenchmen on the deck in front of him clashed their weapons and shields together producing rolling peals of thunder as they did so. This continued for minutes as they sailed past the castle, just out of range and drew closer, guided in by their helmsmen, to the landing beach. Only then did it stop as his men readied to disembark.
And so they made landfall with little difficulty in the end, Castle Cornet offering no more than warning shots to block their progress. The beach that they had chosen was roughly a mile from Castle Cornet and utterly devoid of Englishmen as Owain and his warband waded ashore through the surf. All that stood between them and the fields of Guernsey was a row of fishing boats, pulled up hours ago by night-fisherman before Owain’s ships were even a blot on the clear sky. Indeed, had their owners known of the impending arrival of an invading army, they might well have reconsidered their boats’ safe harbour to prevent them being used as they were being now, as improvised defences. The first of Owain’s soldiers who had crunched their way up the sand dunes now fanned out behind the fishing boats, archers sticking their arrows into the sand ready and men-at-arms polishing their French bought weapons for something to do. Behind them, Owain and Ieuan directed the rest of the disembarking men and before long the golden sands of the beach were obscured by the silver of cold iron, the brown of damp wood and the bright colours of banners and pennants. Soldiers mingled with sailors, both temporarily pressed into service as labourers as they carried supplies slowly, but surely, ashore.
“Is there such a thing as too easy?” Ieuan called over passing heads to Owain, his jovial tone undercut with just a hint of anxiety. “I know we said this would be easy but…” He trailed off lamely.
“Calm yourself brother!” Owain called back “Maybe if you weren’t so cocky before, you’d have some confidence left now!”
Ieuan chuckled sportingly but Owain knew he wouldn’t appreciated being reminded of his mid-action nerves, it was a sore point for his otherwise irrepressible steward.
“And to that I say, remember how serious you were.” Ieuan pulled a mock severe expression before cracking into a grin. Owain rolled his eyes and went back to instructing his men.
It took them a good hour to finally fully disembark, an hour in which nothing threatened to hinder their progress. When at last the final barrel of salted pork had been dumped unceremoniously on the sand by a now exhausted sailor, Owain was deep into planning with his officers.
“Its simple really, I will take the main force and the fleet back to Saint Peters Port and Castle Cornet and besiege them.” He began, pointing at the marker on the map of Guernsey that had been laid across the top of a barrel under a makeshift planning tent. “Ieuan, take a second force and besiege Castle Vale.” Owain continued, pointing a second marker further round the coast. “And the rest of you, split the remaining men between you and make sure the rest of the island is under our control.” He concluded, looking at his other officers. They promptly saluted and went to do his bidding. Ieuan lingered for a moment longer, looked Owain and the eyes and nodded once, a nod conveying both understanding and a message of good luck.
The march from beach to the quay opposite Castle Cornet was not a long one but the journey by sea was even shorter and the by the time Owain and his force had reached Saint Peter’s Port, his flotilla was anchored off shore, just out of range of the castle. Owain and his men, though, had no such luxury. Saint Peter’s Port was easily taken, the civilian population too used to French occupation to bother lifting a finger against them. The castle, though, that would be different story. Hardly a challenge, having been taken several times by French soldiers over the past decades, but the garrison at least had the guts than to surrender immediately. No, it would take three days.
Undermanned and cut off by land and sea, Castle Cornet did not put up any fight at all. Aside from a handful of catapult bombardments by either side and a volley of arrows if any Welshmen got too close, Castle Cornet went quietly into the good night. Its constable surrendered on the third day of Owain’s siege and its garrison marched out unmolested. By that time Castle Vale had already surrendered and the rest of island had been occupied the day that the Welsh had landed, leaving Guernsey now entirely in the control of Owain Lawgoch. That night, the hearth in Castle Cornet’s great hall was lit and a feast, of sorts, was had by all. Wine was poured, salted beef and pork were served as fancily as possible on pewter trays and a good time was had by all for a bloodless victory was rare indeed. The stage was set for Owain to reclaim his throne.
Through the dusk rode a lone man on his horse. Fresh off a boat from France, he wore a fleur de lis surcoat and was wrapped up in both hat and cloak against the sea chill. He reached Saint Peters’ Port, his horse’s hoovers clattering across the cobbles and down to the quay. He leapt down from his horse and tossed a coin at the nearest fisherman. “For your troubles.”
The fisherman caught the coin, nearly fumbling it into the sea, but was clearly at a loss.
“My troubles sir?”
The royal messenger, for that is what he was, pointed at Castle Cornet on his island. “To take me there my good man.”
Without waiting for a reply, the messenger hopped down into the fisherman’s boat and sat down whilst the fisherman just stood there and scratched his head.
“Right you are sir.” He finally said, confusion still evident in his tone. “To the big castle it is.”
The journey took a matter of minutes but on arrival the fisherman and his passenger were immediately accosted by 2 guards, some of the few not at the feast and distinctly unhappy about it.
“What the hell are you doing!” One guard, dressed in a simple leather jerkin, helmet and plain trousers and carrying a spear shouted at the fisherman. “You English were told to stay away from here.” The words were harsh in his Welsh accent and the fisherman, only ever a reluctant participant, quailed. The other guard, similarly dressed an also carrying a spear, looked like he was about to add further invectives to his fellow’s words but before he had the chance, the messenger leapt to his feet. The boat rocked wildly as he did so but he did not seem to notice as the fisherman tried to steady the ship.
“I am a messenger from Charles VI, By Grace of God, King of France, carrying royal commandments to your master Yvain de Galles.”
---
“That was the end of that expedition and all other dreams besides. I have served the King all my days and this is how I die, the last son of my fathers.”
---
No-one heard these final thoughts of Owain Lawgoch, Prince of Wales, as he died alone in France but many in Wales mourned his passing as the last hope of Welsh freedom seemed lost to an assassin's blade.
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Author's Note:
Some of you, even many of you, reading this may remember that for roughly 2 years I wrote on this board a TL called The Golden Dragon of Wales about this very topic, Owain Glyndwr winning his uprising. What some of you may also remember is that about 2 years of that time, the TL was mostly just stumbling along and it was eventually locked by Calbear. The idea of the TL and the implications of not just an independent Wales but also of no England and a divided British Isles has not left me though. And so, after some planning, some encouragement, and what I hope is 3, nearly 4, years of writing improvements, I'm here again to give it another go. We start, I think appropriately, we something a bit different and, as I used to say, I hope you all enjoy.
Some of you, even many of you, reading this may remember that for roughly 2 years I wrote on this board a TL called The Golden Dragon of Wales about this very topic, Owain Glyndwr winning his uprising. What some of you may also remember is that about 2 years of that time, the TL was mostly just stumbling along and it was eventually locked by Calbear. The idea of the TL and the implications of not just an independent Wales but also of no England and a divided British Isles has not left me though. And so, after some planning, some encouragement, and what I hope is 3, nearly 4, years of writing improvements, I'm here again to give it another go. We start, I think appropriately, we something a bit different and, as I used to say, I hope you all enjoy.
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