A great prince

I hope all of my readers in the path of this outrageous April blizzard are staying warm and safe. There is something very perverse about a snowstorm wreaking havoc at a time when we ought to be admiring the cherry blossoms in DC, looking for the first robins, and—for American football fans like me—counting the days till the draft. But at least this unwelcome visitor won’t hang around for too long. Now….onto my true passion—medieval history.
On April 11th, 1240, the Welsh prince Llywelyn Fawr died at the abbey of Aberconwy, having taken holy vows in his last hours; this became quite popular, even fashionable in the 13th century. He was sixty-seven and had ruled Gwynedd since the age of 21. While he never claimed the actual title of Prince of Wales as his grandson Llywelyn ap Gruffydd would do, he was the Prince of Wales in all but name. He is one of the few figures in British history to be known by the sobriquet The Great and I think he well deserved it. He is also one-half of one of history’s better love stories. As many of you probably suspect, in my pantheon of historical characters, he is one of my favorites. Below is his death scene from Falls the Shadow, pages 114-116.
* * *
Llywelyn awoke with a gasp. He lay still for a time, listening to his own labored breathing. More and more his lungs were putting him in mind of a broken bellows, he never seemed to get enough air. He wondered almost impersonally how long they could operate at such a crippled capacity. He wondered, too, how long his spirit would be tethered like this.
A log still burned in the hearth, and as his eyes adjusted to the flickering firelight, he saw a shadow move. “I’m awake,” he said, glad of the company, and then, when he realized who was keeping vigil, his smile flashed, sudden, radiant. “I’d almost given up on you, lad,” he confessed, and Llelo moved forward, sat beside him on the bed.
(omission)
Llywelyn was quiet for some moments. “Of all the books of the Scriptures, I’ve always found the most comfort in Ecclesiastes. It tells us that time and chance happen to all men—“
“I know what it says, that everything has its season, its time—even death. Is that what you’d have me believe, Grandpapa, that it is your time?”
“Yes.” Llywelyn shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. The pain was back—by now an old and familiar foe—spreading down his arm, up to his neck. But he did not want the boy to know. He found a smile, said, “It has been more than three years, after all. Joanna grows impatient—and I’ve never been one to keep a lady waiting.”
Llelo’s head jerked up. “How can you do that? How can you jest about dying?”
He sounded angry. Llywelyn looked at him, at last said quietly, “What other way is there?”
Without warning, Llelo’s eyes filled with tears. He sought without success to blink them back, then felt his grandfather’s hand on his.
“Try not to grieve too much, lad. I’ve not been cheated; I’ve had a long life, with more than my share of joys. I sired sons and daughters. No man had better friends. I found two women to love, and a fair number to bed with. And I die knowing that Wales is in good hands…”
Llelo frowned. “Davydd?” he mumbled and his grandfather nodded.
“Yes, Davydd….and you, Llelo.”
He heard the boy’s intake of breath. “Me?”
“Davydd has no son. God may yet bless him with one. But if not, he’ll need an heir. And in all of Christendom, he could do no better than you, Llelo.”
As young as he was, Llelo had learned some hard lessons in self-control. But he’d never felt the need for defenses with his grandfather and Llywelyn could see the boy’s confusion, could see the conflict of pride and excitement and guilt.
Llywelyn shifted his position; the pain was starting to ease somewhat. He was very tired and not at all sure that he should have shared his dream with the boy. But then Llelo said, “Do you truly have so much faith in me?” and there was wonderment in his voice.
Llywelyn swallowed with difficulty. He nodded, then leaned forward and gathered his grandson into his arms. Llelo clung tightly; he made no sound, but Llywelyn could feel him trembling. “I’d be lying if I said I had no regrets, Llelo. But I was not lying when I told you I believe it is my time.” After a long silence, he said, very softly, “I should have liked, though, to have seen the man you will become.”
* * *
April 11th, 1471 was also the day upon which the Londoners opened the gates of their city to Edward IV, just a month after he’d ended his exile by landing on the Yorkshire coast with his brother Richard and a small band of supporters. Before another month would pass, the Earl of Warwick would die at Barnet Heath, the Lancastrian army would be routed at Tewkesbury, and Edward would face no further challenges to his sovereignty. Sadly, he himself would do what his enemies could not—ruin his health and doom his dynasty with his premature death.