All through the summer the war continued. Edward was gaining on his enemies but it was no easy victory. There was an occasional success which greatly heartened the Welsh as when a large force of the English had crossed the Menai bridge and encamped there awaiting the rest of the army to join them. In the night the flood tide broke the bridge over the Straits and the English were cut off. It was an easy matter for the superior Welsh forces – who would have been easily defeated if the entire English army had been able to cross the bridge – to wipe out the stranded English.
‘A great victory,’ cried the Welsh bards. This was God’s will. It was like Moses dividing the seas, only this time God had sent the flood tide to smash the bridge. It was Merlin’s prophecy coming true.
But alas this was soon seen to be the little victory it was, and it was realised that it could have no effect on the outcome of the war when every day it was becoming more and more clear that Llewellyn and the Welsh were losing.
Once more Llewellyn was forced to retire to Snowdon. Here he brooded on his ill fortune, recalling the happy days with the Demoiselle and he cursed afresh the fate which had taken her from him.
If she had but lived, she would never have let him go to war. She would have kept him a prince of his small country and they would have been content.
What was there left to him now? He could not regain his power. He was no match for mighty Edward. He had lost everything that had made life worthwhile to him and he longed for death.
There in his mountain stronghold he was visited by John Peckham, who had taken the place of Robert Kilwardby as Archbishop of Canterbury and who had come to discuss the terms on which Edward would make a peaceful settlement.
These terms, said John Peckham, were reasonable and Llewellyn should accept them.
‘Reasonable!’ cried Llewellyn. ‘I see no reason in them. They will rob me of my country.’
And indeed they would, for Edward had set down that Llewellyn must abandon the Principality of Wales and give it to Edward in exchange for which he would place in Llewellyn’s possession lands to the value of one thousand pounds a year. These would be in an English county as yet to be decided on. The King of England would take charge of Llewellyn’s young daughter and would seriously consider the possibility of allowing any male heirs she might have to succeed to Snowdon.
‘Reasonable terms to offer a prince!’ cried Llewellyn. ‘My lord Archbishop, I do not understand you.’
‘You are a ruined man,’ replied the Archbishop. ‘And there have been abuses in the Welsh churches which have not pleased me.’
Llewellyn knew that he was defeated. ‘My lord Archbishop,’ he said, ‘I know that I must throw myself on the bounty of the King of England but I could not submit to such harsh terms. If the King of England will reconsider his demands it might be possible for us to come to some agreement.’
The Archbishop left and later Edward’s messengers came with the information that the King would accept nothing but unconditional surrender. He had made terms previously. He had kept his bargain. He had released the Demoiselle and seen her married to Llewellyn. And what had happened? Llewellyn had broken his part of the contract. The King could not trust him again and he – and all men – must see what happened to those who broke faith with the King of England.
There was only one thing to do. To retreat into the mountains, to call together faithful Welshmen, to remind them once more of the prophecy of Merlin and to defend the passes.
To return to the mountains! It was November. Winter was coming. He and his followers would be starved into submission. He must move from the mountains. He must join up with friends in the South. He must make his way down to Llandeilo where the English were scoring great victories.
He knew his mountains well and found his way through unfrequented passes, thus escaping the English besiegers, but the Marcher Barons were on the alert. It was true that some of their tenants came over to Llewellyn, but they were useless against the trained forces of the barons. When the fierce Mortimer brothers heard that Llewellyn was in their district they determined to capture him.
The name of Roger Mortimer was spoken of with dread. Though he was the third son he had already made a name for himself. A violent man, audacious and strong, a lecher into the bargain, who had been reproved by John Peckham for frequently committing the sin of adultery with numerous women. Roger Mortimer snapped his fingers at the Archbishop and was at this time eager to win the approval of the King.
The coming of Llewellyn seemed a heaven-sent opportunity.
There were some who said that Llewellyn had the death wish on him. He had nothing to live for. He had lost his land and, more tragic than ever, his wife. He cared for nothing. He welcomed death, they said afterwards.
It was a strange way for a great prince to die.
There on Mortimer land he was in his camp when he saw a party of his followers attacked by a troop of Mortimer’s men. It was folly, for they had not a chance and he could have remained in hiding, but he rode out to join them, like a man, they said afterwards, going joyfully to meet his God.
He was immediately slain.
When Roger Mortimer heard and came to view the body he was exultant.
‘Cut off his head,’ he said. ‘I will present it to the King.’
Edward received it solemnly.
‘The head of my enemy,’ he said. ‘Thus perish all who seek to betray me.’
‘My lord, what shall be done with this man?’ asked Mortimer.
Edward was silent for a few moments then he said: ‘Let his body be buried in consecrated ground at Cwmhir. I would not have it said that I did not honour a brave man, for brave he was though foolish.’
‘And his head, my lord?’
‘Ah, his head. My lord Mortimer, I want everyone to know what happens to those who are false to me. He thought he would be a King of England. There was some prophecy of Merlin’s. I want men to see what happens to those who believe they will drive the true King of England from his throne with talk of prophecies.’
The King then ordered that the head should be taken and placed on a pole. It should be set up on the Tower of London and, to remind those who looked at it that this was a man who had believed he might be King of England, a crown of ivy was to be placed on his head.
And so the decaying head of Llewellyn looked down on London’s river, and the Queen, when her barge sailed beneath it, looked up and thought of the beautiful Demoiselle who had loved that head, and she shuddered that such a fate could befall two who had loved so truly.
There remained Davydd.
‘I want him, dead or alive,’ said the King, ‘for although I have defeated the Welsh, there will be trouble while he lives.’
When Davydd heard of the death of his brother his feelings were mixed. The prophecy of Merlin concerning a Llewellyn clearly did not refer to that one and that had been a great incentive to men to fight for them. On the other hand with Llewellyn out of the way he was the undisputed leader.
He retreated into the mountains with a few of his followers – a pitiful few. He wondered how it would be possible to attract more men to his banner. He was not Llewellyn. He had once gone over to the English; true, he had come back to stand beside his brother when he had thought he had a chance, but now his brother was dead and Wales was in the hands of the English – all but the inaccessible mountains. He talked to those of his followers who remained; he tried to inspire them with promises of what would be theirs when the hated English were driven from the land. Lacking the sincerity of Llewellyn he lacked his fire. No one really believed in Davydd. They guessed that if it should prove to be to his advantage he would sell them all to the enemy.