THE CONQUEST OF WALES--PRINCE ALPHONZO.
In our first stroll about Westminster Abbey, we saw its gray walls
towering up in the midst of noisy, hurrying London. We stood in the
Sacrarium and looked at the foundations of Edward the Confessor's great
Norman Church. We learned how Henry the Third built the new and noble
Abbey which is standing at this day. We saw how he crowned his long and
troubled reign by the translation of the Confessor's body to the
gorgeous shrine he had prepared for it. Let us now, standing for a
moment beside this shrine, talk of a little boy whose memory is closely
bound up with an important event in the history of Great Britain.
Yet first, for the sake of those who have not been to Westminster, I
will try to explain the general plan of the eastern end of the Abbey.
Imagine a narrow horseshoe of which the points are straight instead of
being bent inwards. The space inside the horseshoe represents Edward the
Confessor's Chapel; the shoe itself the ambulatory, a wide passage where
the monks used to walk, and processions passed round to the shrine; and
outside this passage are built, on the south the chapels of St. Edmund,
and St. Nicholas; on the north the chapels of St. Paul and St. John the
Baptist; while on the east of the horseshoe curve are the steps up to
Henry the Seventh's Chapel. These chapels all lie behind the grand
screen that runs right across the choir at the back of the altar, and
are not used for service any longer, with the exception of Henry the
Seventh's. All the congregation sit in the choir in front of the altar
rails, and in the north and south transepts, which spread out right and
left from the choir like two broad arms of a cross.
I know few more overpowering sights than the vast Sunday congregation of
between three and four thousand people. The Sacrarium black with men.
The wide altar steps closely packed with people who have often been
waiting for more than an hour outside the doors to secure a good place.
Men and women and children wedged together in the densely crowded
transepts, standing willingly throughout the long service because there
is not a seat left. The privileged few coming in by the comparatively
empty nave from the cloisters, and taking their places in the stalls or
in the seats of those connected with the Abbey; well-known faces there
are among them--princes and statesmen, men of letters and foreigners of
note. Then the hush as the clock strikes three in Poets' Corner, and a
faint harmonious "amen" is sung in the distant Baptistery by the choir,
at the end of the prayer which is always said before they come in to
service. The organ plays softly, so softly that you hear the echoing
tramp of the long procession now winding up the nave. Six or eight
pensioners, old soldiers in quaint blue cloth gowns and silver badges,
enter and take their places. And as the white-surpliced boys appear in
the black shadow of the gateway under the organ screen, the whole three
thousand people rise quietly to their feet and stand. First come the
boys of Westminster School with their masters, and take their places
right and left. Then the little chorister boys, walking two and two, the
smallest in front--little mites who look as if they would hardly know
their letters, but who march gravely to their seats, and sing the long
service like sweet-voiced little birds. Then the "singing gentlemen of
Westminster Abbey," as the men in the choir are called--many of them
well-known professionals, whose names are seen during the week at the
best concerts in England. Then come the clergy. The minor Canons first
who intone the service. Next to them the Canon in residence, who, during
his two months at Westminster, is present at every service week-day and
Sunday. And last of all the Dean.
After the Dean has gone into his stall on the right of the entrance, the
service begins. The monotone of the prayers breaks into rich harmonies
now and again at the responses--the organ re-echoes through the arches
and pillars with thundering of the pedals, and wild, pathetic
reed-notes. The splendid voices of the choir fill the building from end
to end in the Psalms and canticles; or a boy's voice, singing a solo
verse, floats up quivering and throbbing like a nightingale's song in a
still wood at evening. And then--but I am speaking of "the days that are
no more"--a small figure--unutterably dignified, with a pale, refined,
determined face--in his white robes, his scarlet Doctor of Divinity's
hood, and the crimson ribbon of the Order of the Bath with its golden
jewel round his neck--followed the black-robed verger who carried a
silver mace, up from the stalls, through the two walls of human beings,
to the marble pulpit just outside the altar rails. And every face turned
with eager expectation towards the bowed head, and hung breathless on
the eloquent words that rang like a clarion through the great church;
for it was Arthur Stanley, Dean of Westminster, who was preaching.
But we are lingering in the choir, full, to us who know and love it, of
such keen present interest. I must take you back into the Confessor's
Chapel and the remote past.
We go through the iron gates that shut off the chapels from the choir,
and climb the steps out of the ambulatory, for the Confessor's Chapel is
raised several feet above the pavement of the Abbey. It lies, as I have
said, directly behind the altar, only divided from it by the splendid
screen which was erected early in the fifteenth century. This screen on
the western side has been beautified and restored, and forms the reredos
to the altar. But in the Chapel its eastern face is untouched; and, if
you have patience to trace out the quaint carvings along the top, you
will find they are a history of some of the miraculous and wonderful
events of Edward the Confessor's life; the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus;
St. John giving the ring to the Pilgrims; the quarrel between Tosti and
Harold, Earl Godwin's sons, when the king predicted the calamities they
would bring in after years upon England; and many more scenes of like
nature.
Below the screen, which is wrought with exquisite carving into niches
and canopies, stands a curious old chair. This is the Coronation Chair,
in which all English sovereigns have sat at their coronations since it
was made in Edward the First's reign. But more curious than the chair is
the rough block of stone which it incases. That block is the mysterious
stone of Fate which Edward the First captured at Scone in Scotland--the
stone on which every Scotch king had been crowned from the days of
Fergus the First--the stone on which every English king or queen has
been crowned since. And legends carry the history of that stone back
into the remotest past. They say that it was the stone pillow on which
Jacob slept at Bethel; that it was carried by the Jews into Egypt; that
the son of Cecrops, King of Athens, carried it off to Sicily or Spain;
that from Spain it was taken by Simon Brech, the son of Milo the Scot,
to Ireland, where after many marvelous adventures it was set up on the
sacred Hill of Tara as the "Lia Fail" or Stone of Destiny; and that
Fergus, the founder of the Scottish monarchy, bore it at length across
the sea to Dunstaffnage.
[Illustration: DEAN STANLEY.]
Whether we believe the whole history of the Stone of Destiny or not, the
chapel in which it stands is a wonderful place. In the centre rises the
Confessor's shrine, the remains of the mosaics with which it was
encrusted showing what its splendor must have been. The mosaic pavement
of 1260 is under our feet. Henry the Fifth's shield and helmet hang
aloft on a bar above his chantry. All round us are the splendid
monuments of the kings. Richard the Second, Edward the Third and Queen
Phillipa, Henry the Fifth under his beautiful chantry, Henry the Third
in his gorgeous tomb inlaid with marbles and mosaic, Good Queen Eleanor,
and her husband Edward the First--they all are there! "The greatest of
the Plantagenets," as he has been called, lies beneath an enormous
monument of solid gray stone, absolutely plain, without carving, brass
or mosaic. Only his gigantic two-handed sword lies upon it, and along it
runs this inscription:
"_Edwardus Primus Scotorum malleus hic est, 1308. Pactum Serva._"[15]
It is of Edward the First's reign we are to talk. For besides being the
Hammer of the Scots, he conquered the last stronghold of the British
race, and made their land forever a part of England.
For four hundred years Wales had been a thorn in the sides of the Saxon
kings, a thorn in the sides of the Norman Conquerors and their
descendants. The Britons, driven westward by the all-conquering
Anglo-Saxons, had taken refuge in the fastnesses of that wild and
mountainous region. There they had lived, "a mass of savage herdsmen,
clad in the skins and fed by the milk of the cattle they tended,
faithless, greedy, and revengeful."[16] Every fresh earldom which the
English had wrested from them, often with barbarous injustice and
cruelty, had been the signal for some equally barbarous reprisal. The
history of the border countries is one perpetual record of raids and
fightings, of lands laid waste with fire and sword, flocks and herds
driven off, women and children carried into captivity.
But in Henry the Second's reign, just as the British race seemed sinking
deeper and deeper into barbarism, a strange revival of patriotism took
place. The Bards of Britain, for centuries silent, suddenly burst into
song again. The praise of every British hero, the glory of every fight,
was sung throughout the land; and the sound of the harp heard in every
house. These singers of freedom chanted of joy in battle, of their
country's liberty, of hatred of the Saxon oppressor. And they sang of
their great prince, Llewellyn, "towering above the rest of men with his
long red lance, his red helmet of battle crested with a fierce wolf;
tender-hearted, wise, witty, ingenious." Wales, stirred by their trumpet
calls, had soon burst aflame to drive the Saxon from the land.
With a succession of victories for the Welsh prince, Llewellyn--the Lord
of Snowdon--the hopes of his people had risen high. The dissensions of
Henry the Third's reign had strengthened their hands. Llewellyn the
younger, no longer calling himself Lord of Snowdon, but "Prince of
Wales," had made himself sovereign of all the Welsh chieftains, and had
also allied himself with Simon de Montfort during the great earl's
revolt against the king.
But now in the very moment of Llewellyn's triumph, the accession of
Edward the First to the English throne revived all the old questions of
homage to the sovereign. Llewellyn and the King of Scotland were both
summoned as vassals of the crown to Edward's coronation--the first that
took place in Westminster Abbey as we know it. The King of Scotland
came. But the "Prince of Wales" was absent. He did not dispute Edward's
right to claim his homage: but excused himself on account of the dangers
he would run on a journey to London, by reason of the enmity that
existed between him and some of the lords marchers. Six times in two
years was he summoned. And to none of these appeals did he vouchsafe the
slightest attention.
Edward was a wise and politic prince; he saw of course from the very
beginning that the union of England and Wales would be a boon to both
countries, and that it must inevitably come about sooner or later. But
though some historians have accused him in this matter of grasping
ambition, and greedy haste to seize on the principality, the records
seem to show that he exercised most uncommon patience with his turbulent
and troublesome neighbor, wishing rather to make him his loyal vassal
and friend than to wrest his territory from him.
In 1276, in reply to the sixth summons Llewellyn sent letters demanding
his bride, Eleanor de Montfort, Earl Simon's daughter, and cousin of the
king, who had been taken prisoner the year before on her way from France
to join Llewellyn to whom she had been married by proxy. He further said
that he would do homage at Oswestry or Montgomery, "provided a safe
conduct were sent him guaranteed by the archbishop and the archdeacon,
by the Bishop of Winchester, and by the earls of Warrenne and
Gloucester, Lincoln and Norfolk"--thereby implying that the king's word
was not sufficient.
[Illustration: CHAPEL OF HENRY THE FIFTH.]
This insolence raised a universal feeling of anger. The king's patience
was exhausted. "The Parliament at once declared Llewellyn contumacious,"
and the "military tenants" of the crown were ordered to assemble in the
following midsummer at Worcester, to march into Wales. Six months seem
in these days rather a long pause after declaring war. But this gives
one a notion of the slowness of communication, and the difficulties of
travel and transport in the Middle Ages. It now takes but three weeks or
so to equip a whole army, and send it overseas in transports that can be
had at a moment's notice. But in the thirteenth century it was all that
Edward, one of the first generals and greatest politicians of his age,
could do, to prepare a little fleet at the Cinque Ports, and to gather
his land forces by the appointed time. When once, however, he found
himself face to face with the enemy, "the fabric of Welsh greatness fell
at a blow." The southern chiefs speedily submitted. Llewellyn's
brothers, David and Roderick, joined the king, and were honorably
received by him. The fleet attacked Anglesea by sea, and the "Prince of
Wales," finding himself hemmed in on every side in the wilds of Snowdon,
threw himself upon the royal mercy.
Edward now gave full proof of his natural generosity and clemency. A
treaty was signed in which Llewellyn consented to pay the king a tribute
of one thousand marks a year for the Isle of Anglesea; to pay fifty
thousand pounds for the cost of the war; and to give ten hostages for
the fulfilment of these engagements. The very next day, Edward, who had
made peace the moment the Welsh Prince desired it, remitted the fine of
fifty thousand pounds and soon after gave up the tribute for Anglesea
and restored the hostages. He then invited Llewellyn to spend Christmas
at Westminster; and in the following summer prepared a princely wedding
at Worcester for him and Eleanor de Montfort.
For four years the Welsh troubles seemed at an end. All was apparently
peace and content. But "a prophecy of Merlin had announced that when
English money became round, the Prince of Wales should be crowned at
London, and a new coinage of copper money, coupled with the prohibition
to break the silver penny into halves and quarters, as had been usual,
was supposed to have fulfilled the prediction."[17] Upon such slight
matters do the fate of nations hang. The hopes of the misguided Welsh
were again excited; and in 1282, Llewellyn's brother David--who had been
heaped with favors by Edward, given an English earldom, and married to
the Earl of Derby's daughter--suddenly broke into open rebellion. On
Palm Sunday he surprised the garrison of Hawarden Castle--now well known
as the residence of Mr. Gladstone, the English Premier. He hurried Lord
Roger de Clifford the governor, wounded and in chains, over the
mountains, while he himself and Llewellyn, who never before agreed, were
now reconciled, and together overran the marches with fire and sword.
Even now Edward strove to come to terms before taking up arms. He
allowed the archbishop to go to Llewellyn as a mediator. It was of no
use. So in the summer of 1283 he collected his forces and once more
entered Wales.
In the campaign which followed, the sufferings of the English were
terrible. Llewellyn held out in Snowdon with the determination of
despair. An English detachment was cut to pieces at the Menai Straits;
and the war was prolonged into the winter. The undaunted king, however,
rejected all proposals of retreat; and gave orders for the formation of
a new army at Caermarthen to complete the circle of investment. This
proved needless. Llewellyn, fearing probably to be shut up and starved
out in his fastness, left Snowdon and passed into Radnorshire. Here he
fell in with a party of English under the command of Edward Mortimer and
John Gifford; and in a skirmish at Builth on the banks of the Wye he was
killed by Adam Frankton, an English soldier, who did not even know who
he was. But the body of the dead man, lying in the little hollow among
the broom beside the spring, was recognized by some of the leaders. His
head was cut off and sent to the king. Then, crowned with ivy, it was
set up over the gate of the tower of London. Thus was Merlin's prophecy
fulfilled. The "Prince of Wales" was indeed crowned at London.
David of Snowdon held out in the wilds of the mountains for a few
months, and at last was arrested and sentenced to a traitor's death.
With Llewellyn's death Wales became and has remained ever since, part of
the kingdom of England. English laws were established, and the barbarous
Welsh laws abolished. The country was divided into shires and hundreds
on the English model. Strong castles were built at Conway and
Caernarvon; and at the latter in 1284, Queen Eleanor gave birth to "the
Prince of Wales, who could not speak a word of English," as his father
said when he presented the future Edward the Second to the Welsh
chieftains. A tradition has existed that Edward completed the
pacification of Wales by a massacre of the Bards. In spite of that very
familiar quotation from Gray's Ode,
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!
one is thankful to know that modern historians have proved this terrible
accusation to be a mere fable; besides it is a fact that from the time
of Edward to that of Elizabeth, the productions of the bards were so
numerous as to fill more than sixty volumes in quarto.
Meantime the Abbey had been yearly growing in beauty. Edward the First
added to his father's building. On his return from the crusades he
brought from France the slabs of porphyry, the precious marbles, which
still help to make his father's tomb one of the most gorgeous monuments
in the Abbey. He filled the Confessor's Chapel with trophies of his
wars--the dagger with which he was wounded at Acre--the Black Rood of
St. Margaret and the Stone of Fate from Scotland. But these were all
given in later years. What we have to do with were certain trophies of
the Conquest of Wales.
While the king was still engaged in quieting down his new principality,
his eldest son Prince Alfonzo, named after his grandfather Alfonzo of
Castile, came journeying back to London. He brought with him Llewellyn's
golden crown, said by tradition to have belonged to King Arthur, also
jewels and ornaments, and possibly the precious Crocis Gneyth (or Cross
of St. Neot) which certainly was brought to the Abbey from Wales during
Edward the First's reign.
The little lad who was twelve years old, came with these treasures to
Westminster; and he offered up Llewellyn's crown and the jewels in the
Confessor's Chapel, where "they were all applied to adorn the tomb of
the blessed King Edward."[18] We can fancy the boy, dressed after the
fashion of those days in chain armour from head to foot with a long
flowing cloak, accompanied by a great train of knights and nobles,
wending his way up the solemn Abbey with his offerings, and gravely
hanging up the crown in the Sanctuary of the English Kings.
There is indeed something to touch one's imagination in this act--the
hand of the innocent boy putting the finishing stroke to the great
struggle between the British and Anglo-Saxon races. Henceforth they were
to be one. The proudest title of the heir to the English throne was to
be "Prince of Wales." The Plantagenets were to reign over Arthur's
mysterious realm, till two hundred years later Arthur and Llewellyn's
descendants, the Tudors, should sit on the throne of England.
But Alfonzo's short life was nearly at an end. Matthew of Westminster
goes on to say: "This Alfonzo died this year, being about twelve years
of age--dying on the nineteenth of August, on the day of St. Magnus the
king, and his body was honorably buried in the Church of Westminster,
near the tomb of St. Edward, where it is placed between his brothers
and sisters, who were buried before him in the same place."
The exact spot where Alfonzo lies is uncertain. Bur Mr. Burges, writing
in Sir Gilbert Scott's _Gleanings from Westminster Abbey_, makes a happy
suggestion, which I like to think is a correct one. When all England was
mourning for Henry the Fifth, a chantry where daily masses were said for
the repose of his soul, was built over his tomb at the extreme east end
of the Confessor's Chapel. The heavy stone step on which his tomb rests
was laid upon, and nearly covered, a flat monumental slab in the mosaic
pavement. The part of the slab which projects beyond the step is worn
down by hard usage into a mere mass of gray stone. But Sir Gilbert Scott
thought that if a bit of the superincumbent stone was raised, some
portion of the more ancient monument might exist beneath. He therefore
cut a square block out of the step, and underneath it, sure enough,
found the remains of a fine Purbeck slab. It was inlaid with a brass
cross, brass letters ran around the edge, and what heralds call "the
field" was filled with glass mosaic. Four letters of the inscription
remain on each side--most likely part of the words "_pries pur
l'ame_."[19] This monument is generally said to commemorate the infant
son of William de Valence. Mr. Burges however suggests that it is just
as likely to be the tomb of Alfonzo; and as it would exactly correspond
with the position in which Matthew of Westminster says he was buried, I
think we may safely conclude that the young prince lies there.
Near by in the Chapel of St. John the Baptist there is a very beautiful
monument to a little nephew and niece of Prince Alfonzo--Hugh and Mary
de Bohun. They were children of his sister Elizabeth and of the powerful
and resolute Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, who more than once
opposed Edward the First in measures which he thought hurtful to the
kingdom.
"This gentleman and his sister," as one of the Abbey historians calls
the children, died about 1300; and their tomb stood at first in the
Confessor's Chapel. It was removed from thence by Richard the Second to
make room for his own monument, and placed in the Chapel of St. John
the Baptist, where it is half buried in the wall.
Young Alfonzo, the bearer of the trophies of the conquest, sleeps
peacefully enough here at our feet, while we tell his part in the growth
of England. But what memorial remains in the nineteenth century of the
last hero of the Britons--the "Eagle of men"--the "Devastator of
England." The Golden Crown that Alfonzo hung up disappeared from the
Abbey at the Reformation, when sacrilegious robbers broke in and carried
off the silver head from Henry the Fifth's monument, and many another
treasure. At Builth a modern house is built over the "Lord of Snowdon's"
grave. While at the "Llewellyn Arms," a little inn close to the spot
where he fell, some local artist has made a rough copy of the well-known
picture of Napoleon crossing the Alps do duty on the signboard as a
portrait of Llewellyn ap Gruffyd.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Edward the First, Hammer of the Scots, is here. Keep the Pact.
[16] "Green's Short History of the English People," p. 155.
[17] Green, p. 162.
[18] "Matthew of Westminster."
[19] Gleanings. p. 138.