Chapter 1: Student at Law - Owain in London
"Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school."
- Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 2
AD MCCCLXXVIII
"Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school."
- Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 2
AD MCCCLXXVIII
It was not only in Wales that the news of Owain Lawgoch’s death was mourned. The end of independent Welsh princedoms after the final Edwardian defeat of Llywellyn the Last and conquest of Gwynedd had led to significant increase of both long-term and temporary immigrants into England. Some moved there to live and work, taking English names and doing their best to blend in against the heavy anti-Welsh discrimination, both legal and illegal. The conquest had also proved to have unexpected benefits for the nobility and gentry of Wales, scant benefits against the upheaval in their lives but benefits nonetheless. Newly brought into the power networks of the English nobility, they sent their sons, often under the protection or as proteges of English marcher lords, into England to study and learn the skills that their positions required at the great universities of Oxford and Cambridge or at the Inns of Court in London.
It is not surprising then that those three cities, despite being in the heartlands of the conqueror, were played hosts to informal wakes by the conquered. As the news arrived, filtered out from court by rumour and no doubt after some bribes changed hands, small gatherings of Welsh students met in together to mourn their last Prince. Few indeed would have known Lawgoch personally and none could have remembered an independent Welsh realm, but still they mourned the dream that he had represented. Many may well have gone onto achievements both terrible and great but their names are not recorded by history. All except for one, a 19-year-old Owain ap Gruffydd.
Born to Gruffydd Fychan II, Tywysog of Powys Fadog, Owain was the heir to two of the most noble lineages in Wales and one of its most noble princedoms. Powys Fadog was a successor to the Kingdom of Powys, one of the traditional three kingdoms of Wales, and in Owain ran the blood of the Princes of Deheubarth, Gywnedd and Powys. By the time of Owain’s birth, both his blood and his father’s title had passed beyond great relevance, their lustre lost except in ballads. Now, it was only their lands that carried value. Despite his young age, Owain, as well as being Prince of Powys Fadog (a purely honorary title), was the master of two estates at Glyndyfrdwy and Sycharth. These were not wealthy nor even particularly large but they still opened doors. Richard FitzAlan, 3rd Earl of Arundel and one of the greatest magnates in the land, possessed many estates in the Welsh Marches and, unlike many of his contemporaries took a keen interest in them. This was how Owain had first encountered the Earl as an ally of his father. That had turned into a wardship at Arundel’s seat at Arundel Castle and that, after the Earl’s death in 1376, into an apprenticeship at the Inns of Court as the protégé of Sir David Hanmer, a future Justice of the King’s Bench.
So here he was, a Welshman with impeccable connections, studying the law like any other son of the gentry. The White Hart was a common haunt for Owain and his compatriots at the Inns of Court, they were drawn by its Welsh landlord and its status a frequent watering hole for visiting Welshmen to the city. This brought them news from home and a taste of their homeland all rolled into one. That evening, though, Owain and his fellow students were gathered there for a particular reason.
“To Lawgoch!” One student, Owain thought he was called Rhys, called from the end of the table as he raised his tankard. His companions quickly followed suit and tankards, not to mention flying spittles of ale, filled the air. “To Lawgoch!” They answered, mostly in unison, before taking long swigs on their drinks. Owain looked around as he set his tankard down with a thud, the other patrons of the White Hart seemed to be ignoring their corner, either blissfully unaware who the students were remembering or wilfully so.
“To Lawgoch!” Went up the cry again, from a different student, Llywellyn, and once more the gathering raised their tankards in near unison. Owain mechanically joined in with the rest of them but looked around again at the rest of the tavern. It was a humble place, popular with the Welsh students at the Inns for exactly that reason, and only one entrance and exit on the other side of bar from where he was sat. The landlord was a fellow Welshman, another reason they came here, and kept them regularly supplied with fresh tankards of ale, as long as the coins were equally regular in the other direction. Unfortunately for Owain, that evening the coin was supplied by someone else.
“Not trying to leave already are you?” Owain’s neighbour, a boy from Cerdigion called Maredudd who was studying at Middle Temple, piped up.
“What? No, no, of course not.” Owain replied, then looked around himself again.
“Then what’s with the nerves? You keep looking around like a hunted rabbit.” Llywellyn teased, taking another swig from his tankard.
Owain swallowed, he wasn’t as subtle as he thought. Plastering a smile on his face, he looked at Llywellyn. “It just doesn’t seem like a good idea, tempting fate even.”
Llywellyn laughed. “Ha! Divine judgement?” He crossed himself zealously. “For drinking?” He added as he raised his tankard again.
“More like honouring a traitor under the nose of the king.” Owain snapped. “Hardly safe.”
“Ever the Earl’s lapdog aren’t you?” Llywellyn taunted and Owain sighed but did not answer. Instead, he stared into his drink, gently swirling his tankard as he did so. Being the protégé of the Earl of Arundel had its benefits, like being here in the first place, but his compatriots, all 6 of them, wouldn’t let him live it down.
“As long as you don’t blame me when we get caught.” Owain said at last, settling back on the bench they were sharing. “I’ll have one more.”
Predictably, one more quickly turned out to be several more and the warming of the ale banished, for the moment at least, Owain’s worries. Many more cries of ‘Lawgoch’ were heard in the White Hart before that night was out. Eventually they were turned out by landlord, long after the other patrons had deserted the tavern, and made their way home.
It is not surprising then that those three cities, despite being in the heartlands of the conqueror, were played hosts to informal wakes by the conquered. As the news arrived, filtered out from court by rumour and no doubt after some bribes changed hands, small gatherings of Welsh students met in together to mourn their last Prince. Few indeed would have known Lawgoch personally and none could have remembered an independent Welsh realm, but still they mourned the dream that he had represented. Many may well have gone onto achievements both terrible and great but their names are not recorded by history. All except for one, a 19-year-old Owain ap Gruffydd.
Born to Gruffydd Fychan II, Tywysog of Powys Fadog, Owain was the heir to two of the most noble lineages in Wales and one of its most noble princedoms. Powys Fadog was a successor to the Kingdom of Powys, one of the traditional three kingdoms of Wales, and in Owain ran the blood of the Princes of Deheubarth, Gywnedd and Powys. By the time of Owain’s birth, both his blood and his father’s title had passed beyond great relevance, their lustre lost except in ballads. Now, it was only their lands that carried value. Despite his young age, Owain, as well as being Prince of Powys Fadog (a purely honorary title), was the master of two estates at Glyndyfrdwy and Sycharth. These were not wealthy nor even particularly large but they still opened doors. Richard FitzAlan, 3rd Earl of Arundel and one of the greatest magnates in the land, possessed many estates in the Welsh Marches and, unlike many of his contemporaries took a keen interest in them. This was how Owain had first encountered the Earl as an ally of his father. That had turned into a wardship at Arundel’s seat at Arundel Castle and that, after the Earl’s death in 1376, into an apprenticeship at the Inns of Court as the protégé of Sir David Hanmer, a future Justice of the King’s Bench.
So here he was, a Welshman with impeccable connections, studying the law like any other son of the gentry. The White Hart was a common haunt for Owain and his compatriots at the Inns of Court, they were drawn by its Welsh landlord and its status a frequent watering hole for visiting Welshmen to the city. This brought them news from home and a taste of their homeland all rolled into one. That evening, though, Owain and his fellow students were gathered there for a particular reason.
“To Lawgoch!” One student, Owain thought he was called Rhys, called from the end of the table as he raised his tankard. His companions quickly followed suit and tankards, not to mention flying spittles of ale, filled the air. “To Lawgoch!” They answered, mostly in unison, before taking long swigs on their drinks. Owain looked around as he set his tankard down with a thud, the other patrons of the White Hart seemed to be ignoring their corner, either blissfully unaware who the students were remembering or wilfully so.
“To Lawgoch!” Went up the cry again, from a different student, Llywellyn, and once more the gathering raised their tankards in near unison. Owain mechanically joined in with the rest of them but looked around again at the rest of the tavern. It was a humble place, popular with the Welsh students at the Inns for exactly that reason, and only one entrance and exit on the other side of bar from where he was sat. The landlord was a fellow Welshman, another reason they came here, and kept them regularly supplied with fresh tankards of ale, as long as the coins were equally regular in the other direction. Unfortunately for Owain, that evening the coin was supplied by someone else.
“Not trying to leave already are you?” Owain’s neighbour, a boy from Cerdigion called Maredudd who was studying at Middle Temple, piped up.
“What? No, no, of course not.” Owain replied, then looked around himself again.
“Then what’s with the nerves? You keep looking around like a hunted rabbit.” Llywellyn teased, taking another swig from his tankard.
Owain swallowed, he wasn’t as subtle as he thought. Plastering a smile on his face, he looked at Llywellyn. “It just doesn’t seem like a good idea, tempting fate even.”
Llywellyn laughed. “Ha! Divine judgement?” He crossed himself zealously. “For drinking?” He added as he raised his tankard again.
“More like honouring a traitor under the nose of the king.” Owain snapped. “Hardly safe.”
“Ever the Earl’s lapdog aren’t you?” Llywellyn taunted and Owain sighed but did not answer. Instead, he stared into his drink, gently swirling his tankard as he did so. Being the protégé of the Earl of Arundel had its benefits, like being here in the first place, but his compatriots, all 6 of them, wouldn’t let him live it down.
“As long as you don’t blame me when we get caught.” Owain said at last, settling back on the bench they were sharing. “I’ll have one more.”
Predictably, one more quickly turned out to be several more and the warming of the ale banished, for the moment at least, Owain’s worries. Many more cries of ‘Lawgoch’ were heard in the White Hart before that night was out. Eventually they were turned out by landlord, long after the other patrons had deserted the tavern, and made their way home.
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AD MCCCLXXXI
AD MCCCLXXXI
Owain was leaning heavily on his desk. Stuffed in the corner of the room used by an elderly lawyer, it was his to use as an apprentice in the Inner Temple but at that moment Owain was doing nothing more than trying not to fall asleep. It had been a late night pouring over precedents and the warmth of the day combined with a gentle breeze through a crack in the window left him struggling to stay awake. His master, sat at a larger, clearer and more easily accessible desk in the middle of the room, was having no such problems and sat scribbling away furiously with his quill.
“Tch, tch, stop leaning there like a half-dead ship.” He snapped without looking up from his scrawls. His black robes shifted as he spoke, giving the unsettling impression that it was they speaking instead of their wearer. Owain hastily pulled himself up and fumbled for his own quill and parchment, nearly knocking them both off his desk in the process.
“You’re all the same you are, fickle! One minute you want to work, the next you’re not even awake.” His master’s robes’ continued. Owain was pretty sure it was a hallucination but the illusion deepened when an arm thrust out of the robes wielding a sheaf of papers.
“Copy these up before you change your mind again.”
Owain sighed, but took the sheaf and took them down on his table. This took a little effort as he pushed rejected contracts and old notes out the way, sending them drifting off the desk to join their fellows on the floor. The new addition was no more interesting than the fallen comrades, the proceedings of an old customs that this master had worked on last week, easy money for his master, more work for Owain. He dipped his quill in his inkwell and started to write.
That particular sheaf of papers took at least an hour, as best as Owain could make out by the sun, and the by the time he had finished he was nearly asleep at his desk as his hand mechanically copied out the last of few lines. Finally done, he set down his quill and sat back, shaking out his writing hand against cramp, before the robes spoke again.
“Took you long enough boy.” Said his master’s voice and Owain gritted his teeth a little. “Some more papers for you, do them faster this time.” Once again an arm appeared out of the robes, waving a new sheaf of papers at Owain whilst the other hand kept on writing and his master stared down at his work. Owain twisted round, struggling to squeeze himself back out of his desk, but just as he reached out to take this second sheaf, he paused. From somewhere in the distance he could hear shouts, screams and the beat of marching feet.
“Can you hear that?” He asked his master, without thinking.
“Eh, what’s that boy? Not trying to make excuses I hope?” Said the robes that he was sure contained his master.
“No, sir, no.” Owain stammered quickly, regretting his words already. “But, er, listen sir.” Owain held up a finger and let the faint, but growing, sounds fill the room. “If I didn’t know better sir, I’d say there was a mob heading this way.”
“Ha.” The robes snorted, still without looking up. “As if you would know boy. All these years and you haven’t even mastered common law.”
Owain gritted his teeth again, he couldn’t deny his underperformance in the law but he was sure what he had heard. “With respect sir, surely you can hear it?” It would be just like his master to be deaf, he thought ruefully as the shouts, screams and tramping feet got louder and were joined by the bitter edge of smoke. “Or smell.”
The robes shifted. The quill stopped scratching. For the first time that day, his master looked up. Great white eyebrows dominated the wrinkled face, overshadowing his master’s eyes from their perch on the top of his bulbous nose. His master sniffed, one, twice, three times, then shook his head dismissively.
“Probably just some…”
He railed off lamely and waved the papers at Owain again, more insistently this time. Owain ignored them, instead climbing out from behind his desk and standing up. His master’s eyes widened a little and he dropped his quill.
“Sorry, sir.” Owain said quietly and span on his heel to leave. The dramatic gesture would be swiftly undercut, though, as he stumbled over a book on his way out the door.
Outside Owain saw that others shared his fears. Talk of an armed throng of peasants approaching, for what purpose no-one knew, had gripped London for days and now the gossip had been realised. If half of what Owain had heard was true then the hordes of Hell itself were heading for them. He pushed his way through huddles of students and lawyers whispering quietly in doorways and found himself in the courtyard. The warm sunshine that had been lulling him to sleep indoors was now contending with thick clouds of smoke that were only growing bigger. Outdoors the crowd of lawyers and students had spilled out across the courtyard but they remained in their nervous huddles, they might be experts in the common law of Edward I but they were not men of action. Owain looked around, panic creeping in a little as he scanned the crowd for any of his compatriots. He reflected briefly that they blended in well before he spotted Rhys and Llywellyn emerging from a doorway. He waved at them through the crowd and Rhys gave a wave back.
The three Welshmen huddled together amidst the rest of the crowd.
“Do you know what’s happening?” Llywellyn asked and gestured vaguely behind him. “They seem to think some man called Tyler is on the war path with a gang of brigands.” Llywellyn ended with a forced chuckle that did nothing to hide the nerves.
“What, come to aggressively retile the roofs?” Responded Rhys, a more genuine grin on his face.
Llywellyn elbowed him in the ribs in response and glared at him. “Take this seriously idiot. I don’t know what they want but it can’t be good.”
Owain nodded along but, thinking hard, offered nothing by way of a response.
“Fine, serious.” Rhys replied, forcing the grin off his face. “What can we do about it?”
Llywellyn looked at Owain who shrugged. “We could leave?”
“Er, I think we might not have a choice in that.” Rhys was staring behind Owain.
There was a crash against the gates of the courtyard and Owain and Llywellyn looked behind them. The crowd had gone quiet, staring in shock at the gates as it shuddered on its hinges and started to splinter.
“Let us in! Let us in rich boys!” A hoarse cry came from the other side of the door, accompanied by raucous laughter. The gates shook again. And again. And again. The courtyard resounded to the noise of axes meeting wood. The crowd thinned, there was nowhere to go but still went where they could, back through the doors and up stairs, looking for somewhere to hide. Again the gates shook, again, again. Suddenly the Inns of Court had become a castle under siege. Someone called out to ask where the town guard were but was met only with the repeating crashes.
Owain, Llywellyn and Rhys backed up until they met the wall. “What do we do now?” Rhys hissed. “Pray.” Owain hissed back. “Or run.” Added Llywellyn. “Run where?” Rhys replied.
The gates were splintering now, the planks, not designed for a sustained act, giving way under the barrage of axe blows.
“Upstairs?” Owain whispered. “Smoke remember.” Llywellyn responded. “They’re burning buildings idiot.”
Only the lock, sturdy even as the wood around them broke, was holding the gates together now. Arms wielding axes, pitchforks, harpoons, came through the gaps, waving their weapons at anyone who had been foolish enough to stay close to the gate.
“Or we fight?” Rhys’ voice had a surprising steel to it.
The gate finally gave way completely and the mob poured in.
The worried murmurings and huddles gave way to shouts and chaos. Lawyers and apprentices were rapidly lost beneath a tide of armed peasants. Owain from his position pressed against the far wall of the courtyard, waited for screams and the iron scent of blood to join the shouts and smoke but it did not come. The peasants were violent and almost certainly drunk but seemed to have no interest in killing the inhabitants of the Inns of Court. Instead, they barged their way through the crowd, pushing down some of the more elderly lawyers but otherwise leaving them unharmed. Reaching the doors into the building, they pushed their way into the still-crowded corridors and headed inside.
“I said we had to fight didn’t I?” Rhys hissed, stumbling backwards towards Owain. He turned to look at his friend and Owain could see shock in his face.
“Watch out!” Owain cried as one of the mob separate himself from the mass and headed towards them wielding a pitchfork. Rhys span round, his student robes giving the movement all the drama of a passion play, and held his hands up in front of him.
“Stay calm.” He said, fear and forced composure battling in his voice. “You don’t need to do this.”
The advancing peasant sneered back. It was a strange expression on the dirt smeared and pockmarked face and only served to show his rotting teeth to the world. “Do what posh boy? You think we’re going to kill you?” He laughed, a short and harsh laugh that gave way to coughing. Wiping his mouth, the peasant looked back at Rhys. “Hand over the money, I know you rich boys always carry your purses.” He finished the performance with a jab of pitchfork, forcing Rhys to jump back.
“Easy now.” Rhys responded and reached inside his robes. As he did so, Owain, from his position behind Rhys, looked around the courtyard. The man with the pitchfork was right, across the courtyard many of his fellows were handing over their money pouches and from the building behind him the sounds of rooms being ransacked and furniture being smashed. Owain breathed out, it might cost them but they were going to be fine.
“Aaaargh!”
Rhys snapped back into focus, screaming. His body crumpled forwards, collapsing to the floor. Blood leaked out around his fallen body, staining the cobbles. Owain stood frozen against the wall, staring at the pitchfork. It shook in the man’s hands like a branch in the wind as blood dripped down from it like the gentle fall of rain. The sounds of the courtyard were gone as Owain focussed on nothing but the twin spikes in front of him.
“I didn’t…” The peasant stuttered, all bravado gone. “I didn’t mean to.”
The noise. The sounds, the smells, it all came rushing back. Shouts, screams, smoke and blood.
“You bastard!” Owain lunged forwards, sidestepping Rhys’ body and the pitchfork before seizing its shaft. The peasant man stood frozen in place as Owain yanked downwards, wrenching the pitchfork from his grasp. “You damn bastard!”
Owain raised the pitchfork, blunt-end first, and smashed it into the man’s face. He fell backwards, sprawling across the cobblestones.
“He was too slow!” The peasant cried, pleading. “I didn’t mean to!”
Owain grimaced and raised the pitchfork for another strike. “That doesn’t help now does it?” He tried to bring his weapon down but he couldn’t, the pitchfork meeting a hand in the air.
“Don’t.” Owain had forgotten that Llywellyn was standing next to him. He had stuck out his arm, grasping the end of the pitchfork. “Look around you.”
Owain did so. The courtyard had become a battlefield. Lawyers and students wrestled with the mob, but it was never a fair fight. They were either too old, too young or too bookish to really fight back. That hadn’t stopped them trying of course but that didn’t improve their odds.
“See? We need to get out of here.” Owain paused, tried to pull the pitchfork out of Llywellyn’s grip once, twice but Llywelyn held firm. “You can’t help him either Owain.”
Owain didn’t remember what happened next. Llywellyn’s arm around his shoulders. The smoke. Llywellyn hauling him through the courtyard. The screams. Hurrying through the gateway. The blood. Stumbling down the street, leaning on Llywellyn. The flames flickering in the window as they looked back.
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Took longer to produce the second chapter than I thought, work got in the way. Hopefully its worth the wait though now that our main character has entered the stage. Don't worry either, I won't be going through Owain's entire life scene by scene, we'll fast forward to the beginning of it all with the deposition of Richard II next time out. So, as I always say, I hope you enjoy!
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