Escape from the Tower

If it is true that everyone is Irish on St Patrick’s Day, then we all are Welsh today, for St David is the patron saint of Wales.
This date is also an important one in Welsh history, for on March 1st, 1244, Llywelyn Fawr’s eldest son, Gruffydd ap Llywelyn, died in a failed escape attempt from the Tower of London. He was attempting to climb down on knotted sheets and the makeshift rope broke, plummeting him to his death ninety feet below. A chronicler’s account of this incident gave us some interesting information about Gruffydd’s physical appearance; he reported that the Welsh prince was a big man and he’d gained weight in captivity, which caused the sheets to give way. I still remember the strange looks I was getting from other tourists when I was prowling about the upper story of the White Tower, checking out the windows and even whipping out my tape measure to check the width!
Here is Gruffydd’s death scene in Falls the Shadow, page 206, with omissions due to length.
* * *
The night air was bitter cold; he felt as if he were inhaling ice. He’d passed all his life upon the alpine heights of Eryri, but as he looked down at the snow-blanketed ground so far below him, he experienced a dismaying jolt of dizziness. He closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled at his son. “Once it’s your turn, do not tarry, lad, for it’s cold as a witch’s teat!” And he swung his legs over the ledge, pushed out into space.
While planning all aspects of their escape, he’d not given much thought to the climb itself, had seen it merely as the means to an end, to freedom. That had been a mistake. Within moments, his arms felt as if they were being wrenched out of their sockets, and every muscle was in rebellion against this unaccustomed abuse. His body had always done what he demanded of it. It had never occurred to him that a time might come when it could fail him, when will alone would not be enough. He fought back this surge of panic, sought to get air into his laboring lungs. He’d make it. Slow and easy. He’d make it.
(omission)
When it happened, it was without warning. The ripping noise the rope made as it gave way was muffled by the wind. There was a sudden slackness, and then Gruffydd was falling, plunging backward into blackness. There was a moment or two of awareness, but mercifully no more than that. The last sound he heard was a man’s scream, but he never knew if the scream came from him or from Owain.
* * *
In non-medieval happenings, on March 1st, 1562, the murder of 23 Huguenots by Catholics marked the beginning of the bloody Wars of Religion in France, which would last for thirty-six years.