Now he had been called to his mother’s bedside and it occurred to him that if this marriage into Wales could be brought about and Llewellyn became King of England, the fortunes of the de Montforts would be reversed. His sister Queen of England! Proud Edward deposed! What a glorious prospect. And Merlin had prophesied that a Llewellyn should be a King of England. If it were this Llewellyn …
His mother’s breathing was becoming more difficult. He wondered if he should call the priest.
His sister came in and when she looked at the bed her beautiful eyes were sorrowful.
She knelt by the bed, and her mother sensing her presence stretched out a hand.
Eleanor took it.
‘I am here, Mother,’ she said.
‘Go … and be happy,’ said the Countess. ‘Almeric …’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Take care of your sister. Promise me. Take her to her bridegroom. Start afresh … Do not grieve.’
She closed her eyes, smiling. Perhaps, thought the young Eleanor, she was thinking of her own marriage; those days when she, the bold adventurous princess, widow of an old man, had met and loved the handsome Simon de Montfort – the man who was to make his mark on history – the one whom they called the adventurer.
They had adventured together and the adventure was coming to an end. She was dying and Simon de Montfort had met his end long ago on the battlefield of Evesham.
A gentle reminiscent smile was on the lips of the Countess de Montfort as she slipped away from this life.
There was no reason why they should delay, said Almeric when news came that Llewellyn, Prince of Wales, had sent two ships to escort his bride to her new home.
The Countess was buried in the nunnery of Montargis in accordance with her wishes and after this had been done the young Demoiselle with her brother as escort made her way to the coast where the ships were waiting to take them to Wales.
Those ships were good to look on. Llewellyn had clearly sent of his best and they were equipped with everything for his bride’s comfort. He had sent a company of knights and men-at-arms to protect her should the need arise.
And so they set sail. As the coast of France faded from sight the crew grew apprehensive. It was to be hoped that news of the journey might not have reached English ears but this seemed unlikely as there were always spies to betray such news and the discovery of Merlin’s prophecy had naturally been blazoned throughout the country. It was good from the Welsh point of view for the English to know this. There was nothing like a prophecy of this nature to strike terror into the hearts of enemies. If the English believed that supernatural powers were working against them they were halfway to defeat.
It would be a long journey, for the party dared not land in England or be seen by the English ships. Therefore the passage through the English Channel would be hazardous indeed.
Fears increased as they caught sight of the coast of England. The navigator dreaded a strong wind which might blow them close to the land and worst of all force them to take shelter. Great was their elation when they saw that the end of the land was in sight. Once they had rounded the tip known as Land’s End they could sail straight up to Wales.
Alas, as they changed course preparing to sail northwards, four merchant vessels were seen bearing down upon them.
The two Welsh ships had no chance against them.
Proudly the English captain escorted his captives back to Bristol and immediately sent a message to the King that his mission had been successfully accomplished.
Llewellyn ab Gruffyd Prince of Wales was mad with rage when he heard that his bride had been captured by the English.
What of this fine prophecy! Was he always to be beaten by the English? He, Llewellyn ab Gruffyd, the elect – if Merlin’s prophecy did indeed point to him – to be failed once more by the English and just as his Demoiselle was to be brought to him!
He had dreamed of her for many years. He would marry no other. He would never forget her – a beautiful child with eyes that had shone with admiration for him when she had heard that she was to be his wife. That had been years ago when her father Simon de Montfort had been a great power in England and it had appeared that he would depose the King. If only the tide had not turned against Simon, the Demoiselle would long since have been his wife.
The disaster had been due to Edward who had escaped from captivity and beaten the de Montfort army – Edward Longshanks, who looked like a conqueror and was one.
Edward had inspired the faith which leaders demanded – the sort of faith which a prophecy by Merlin could produce. Edward had the looks, the manners, the strength of a king. Only the supernatural could come against him. And Merlin had prophesied …
Llewellyn had never believed that Edward could outwit him and take his bride from him, and it had shaken him to realise that the first move in the attempt to make Merlin’s prophecy come true had failed.
Life had not been easy for him. When had it ever been for a Prince of Wales? If he was not harried by the English on his borders it was trouble in his own family.
In the first place it had been bad luck to be born the second son of Gruffydd ab Llewellyn; not that he had not overcome that difficulty for Owain, his elder brother, was now in safe custody, his prisoner.
But family conflict was not good and he would have preferred to have had loyal brothers – providing of course he had been the eldest. A series of adventures had brought him to his present position.
Wales was a constant anxiety to England but no more so than England was to Wales. The Celtic Welsh were different from the English. That mixed race, made up of some of the greatest warriors in the world, like the adventuring Vikings, and with the blood of the Angles, Saxons and Romans in their veins, were born to be rulers and conquerors. The Welsh like the Celts of the North and those who lived in the extreme south-west corner of England were of a different breed. They liked to sing and play the lute or harp, for music meant a great deal to them; they were poetic and they had vivid imaginations which bred superstition in them. They were full of fancies; and it had seemed that they were no match for that hybrid race which now called itself the English.
To sally forth from the mountains and make war on the English could be disastrous. Llewellyn thanked God for the mountains. They had saved his country from being overrun by the invading English many a time.
William the Conqueror had known he could conquer the Welsh but even he could not conquer their mountains. He it was who had established the Marcher Barons – great Normans headed by lords like the FitzOsborns and Montgomeries. For two hundred years the Marcher Barons had ruled that no man’s land.
Now there was Merlin’s prophecy. Llewellyn believed that he must be the chosen one. He did wonder why the Llewellyn in the prophecy had not been his grandfather, a mighty warrior to whom many had looked for the deliverance of Wales from the English persecution. He had been known as Llewellyn the Great because it was said he was the greatest ruler Wales had known in all her history up to that time.
There must be a greater … Merlin’s chosen.
Looking back it seemed there had been too much fighting among themselves. No country could make progress when brother fought against brother. But that was how it was now and had been in the days of Llewellyn the Great.
Men of Wales sang of Llewellyn the Great, son of Iorwerth who in his turn was the only son of Orwain Gwynedd who could call himself legitimate. They were a wild and roving lot those rulers of Wales – loving to sing and make love wherever they went. And as a consequence, boys learned of the exploits of their ancestors through the songs which were sung at their mothers’ knees and those mothers were rarely the wives of their fathers.