Dr David Stephenson’s new book on medieval Wales has been hailed as a bold commentary on a difficult era of Welsh history, as well as a deliberate challenge to traditional interpretations. This is the judgement of Professor Ralph A Griffiths, Emeritus Professor of Swansea University, and it is hard to disagree. At the same time a ‘deliberate challenge to traditional interpretations’ might sound provocative, as if the author is dealing in subversion to whip up controversy. Thankfully, the book is far more intelligent and incisive than that.
Stephenson concentrates on the political history of Wales c.1050-1332, between the rise and fall of Gruffudd ap Llywelyn and the turbulent reign of Edward II. It is, in the author’s words, meant to provide a sketch of the Age of Princes, and provide an honest - sometimes brutally honest - assessment of why the princes failed to unite Wales. As such the book might not make many friends, but is far too easy to view this era in romantic terms. The truth is not black and white, but the usual muddy shades of grey streaked with someone else’s blood.
The book begins with a fairly conventional outline of the history of Wales in this era, chronicling the invasion of the Normans, the rise and fall of the various native dynasties of Wales and the final conquest by Edward I. Stephenson’s intention is to present an overview of Welsh history as it is generally understood, and then devote the rest of the book to presenting a more ambivalent view: hence the title.
Stephenson examines the Ages of the Princes in terms of shifting political structures. In the thirteenth century the lords of Gwynedd laid claim to the title Prince of Wales, but were not the first to do so. The competing dynasties of Powys and Deheubarth had similar ambitions, and were willing to work with and against each other to undermine their rivals. Many of the princes were hard-nosed, practical men, able to play the game of thrones as well as anyone. The lords of Gwynedd showed a particular eagerness to marry into the royal dynasties of England, and thus cement their overlordship in Wales. These alliances also served to integrate the rulers of Wales into the wider ranks of European royalty. This was a canny move: for all the emphasis on warfare in histories of medieval Wales, the best hope off staving off conquest lay in political ties with English kings and nobility. Thus, Dafydd ap Owain Gwynedd married Emma Plantagenet, his nephew Llywelyn ab Iorwerth cast aside his first wife to marry Joan Plantagenet, and Llywelyn ap Gruffudd married (disastrously) Eleanor de Montfort.
Yet Stephenson refuses to indulge in the tendency to assume that Gwynedd equalled Wales. This impression is understandable, since the princes of Gwynedd were nation-builders who led the final effort to unite the Welsh. There is a danger, however, of ignoring the ‘other Wales’ i.e. the Wales of the Marcher lords and the native dynasties outside Gwynedd. Their actions and desires are frequently subsumed in the obsession with the conflict between Gwynedd, principally the two Llywelyns, and the English crown. The actions and decision-making of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in particular come under the microscope.
Stephenson tackles the difficult question of why, at a vital juncture, Llywelyn’s principality crumbled about his ears. He isn’t the first historian to question the prince’s competence. JG Edwards, for instance, accused Llywelyn of fumbling his way to disaster. Stephenson doesn’t say anything so drastic, but there is a sense that Llywelyn’s career can be divided into two halves. In the first, he enjoyed remarkable success and was the only Welsh ruler to force a King of England to formally recognise his title. Latterly, after the Treaty of Montgomery in 1267, Llywelyn staggered from one mistake and defeat to the next. The contrast is stark enough for Stephenson to suggest that Llywelyn suffered from the loss of a key advisor; possibly Goronwy ab Ednyfed, who died just before the prince’s fortunes started to turn.
The first real fractures in the fledgling principality appeared in the Middle March, where Llywelyn practised heavy-handed methods of retaining the loyalty of local magnates. These were a combination of hostage-taking and intimidation, with neighbouring lords forced to stand surety for the loyalty of those whom the prince suspected. Men such as Hywel ap Meurig, whose families had been in the service of Marcher lords for generations, were not to be bullied into submission. When war finally broke out between England and Wales in 1276, Hywel and his neighbours were in the vanguard of Edward I’s army.
The war of 1282, in which Llywelyn died in murky circumstances, tends to hog the headlines. In terms of hard political reality, the previous war of 1276-77 witnessed the destruction of his power. Much of the explanation lies in the rejection of Venedotian hegemony by the Welsh themselves. The lords of West Wales, Ystrad Tywi and southern Powys all turned against the prince, as did the magnates of the Middle March. Nor was this simply a revolt of the upper classes. When Llywelyn’s hereditary enemy, Gruffudd ap Gwenwynwyn, returned from exile to his lordship, the men of Powys abandoned any pretence of loyalty to Llywelyn and flocked to their lord’s banner. The overriding impression is that land and lordship counted for more than ‘nationalism’ in this era, and that shifting allegiances were rarely dictated by love of one’s country.
Not that Stephenson seeks to reinvent the conquest as a misunderstood exercise in Welsh emancipation. As he states, it is depressingly easy to list the dire consequences for the Welsh after 1282: the oppression and discrimination, the eviction of entire communities in favour of English settler communities. North Wales was carved up into English lordships and royal demesne. In the Honour of Denbigh alone, over ten thousand acres of fertile land was occupied by English incomers. Many of the Welsh, meanwhile, were forcibly resettled on vastly inferior uplands. Llanfaes on Anglesey, the principal trading centre of the princes, was destroyed to make way for the castle and new town of Beaumaris, and its inhabitants forced to move across the island to the less profitable centre of Newborough. Stephenson also highlights the massive exploitation of Welsh manpower. Only the large-scale enlistment of Welsh troops in every theatre of war enabled Edward to sustain his tottering empire in the last decade of the reign. Ironically, thousands of these men must have fought against Edward in previous conflicts.
The Edwardian conquest itself is a thorny issue. In recent times some (not unbiased, it must be said) commentators have argued there was no ‘conquest’ per se, but rather a partial occupation. The reality, as RR Davies pointed out long ago, is that Edward I conquered Gwynedd. This made him the most powerful landholder in Wales, able to spend the next decade imposing his power on the rest of the country. Only in 1294, after two further military campaigns and the breaking of the great Marcher lords, could Edward truly call himself the ‘master of Wales’, as Stephenson puts it. In this context 1282, for all its tragedy and drama and emotional appeal, was the first step of a process of conquest. Yet a conquest it was.
Not all Welshmen greeted the new order with dismay. Many of the ‘uchelwyr’ or gentry, men of non-princely rank, fulfilled a prominent role in the Edwardian administration. After the destruction of the princes, these were the natural leaders of Welsh communities. The most prominent in the immediate postconquest era were Morgan ap Maredudd, Gruffudd Llwyd and Dafydd ap Gruffudd of Hendwr. All three appear to have been realists, willing to serve as spies and commissioners of array for Edward I and Edward II. They were possibly torn by conflicting loyalties: Morgan and Gruffudd both intrigued with enemies of the English state, though it is impossible to tell whether they were genuine or acting as mere agent provocateurs.
Closer examination of the evidence reveals all kinds of similar ambiguities. For instance, the revolt against English rule in Gwent in 1294 was not led by Morgan ap Maredudd, as traditionally assumed, but by an obscure local landholder named Meurig ap Dafydd. Meurig had previously been employed as a royal tax collector: a supreme example of this ‘age of ambiguity’.
The last word goes to the author:
“In truth, the post-conquest decades offered to the people of Wales a kaleidoscopic blend of oppression, suffering, frustration, advancement, accumulation of honours and power.”
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