The next morning the princess Joan walked forth early, in a musing mood: she was young, beautiful, she had been admired and caressed in her father’s court, was there the theme of minstrels and the lady of many a tournament—to what avail? her hand without her heart had been bestowed on a brave but uneducated prince, whom she could regard as little less than savage, who had no ideas in common with her, to whom all the refinements of the Norman court were unknown, and whose uncouth people, and warlike habits, and rugged pomp, were all distasteful to her. Perhaps she sighed as she thought of the days when the handsome young De Breos broke a lance in her honour, and she rejoiced, yet regretted, that the dangerous knight, the admired and gallant William, was again beneath her husband’s roof. In this state of mind she was met by the bard, an artful retainer of Llywelyn, who hated all of English blood, and whose lays were never awakened but in honour of his chief, but who contrived to deceive her into a belief that he both pitied and was attached to her. Observing her pensive air, and guessing at its cause, he entered into conversation with her, and having ‘beguiled her of her tears’ by his melody, he at length ventured on these dangerous words.—
“Diccyn, doccyn, gwraig Llywelyn,
Beth a roit ti am weled Gwilym?”“Tell me, wife of Llywelyn, what would you give for sight of your William?”
The princess, thrown off her guard, and confiding in harper’s faith, imprudently exclaimed:—
“Cymru, Lloegr, a Llywelyn,
Y rown i gyd am weled Gwilym!”“Wales, and England, and Llywelyn—all would I give to behold my William!”
The harper smiled bitterly, and, taking her arm, pointed slowly with his finger in the direction of a neighbouring hill, where, at a place called Wern Grogedig, grew a lofty tree, from the branches of which a form was hanging, which she too well recognised as that of the unfortunate William de Breos.
In a dismal cave beneath that spot was buried “the young, the beautiful, the brave;” and the princess Joan dared not shed a tear to his memory. Tradition points out the place, which is called Cae Gwilym Dhu.
Notwithstanding this tragical episode, the princess and her husband managed to live well together afterwards; whether she convinced him of his error, and he repented his hasty vengeance, or whether he thought it bettor policy to appear satisfied; at all events, Joan frequently interfered between her husband and father to prevent bloodshed, and sometimes succeeded. On one occasion she did so with some effect, at a time when the Welsh prince was encamped on a mountain above Ogwen lake, called Carnedd Llywelyn from that circumstance; when he saw from the heights his country in ruins, and Bangor in flames. Davydd, the son of the princess, was Llywelyn’s favourite son. Joan died in 1237, and was buried in a monastery of Dominican friars at Llanvaes, near Beaumaris; Llywelyn erected over her a splendid monument, which existed till Henry the Eighth gave the monastery to one of his courtiers to pillage, and the chapel became a barn. The coffin, which was all that remained of the tomb, like that of Llywelyn himself, was thrown into a little brook, and for two hundred and fifty years was used as a watering trough for cattle. It is now preserved at Baron Hill, near Beaumaris.
ABERDARON,
(Caernarvonshire.)
| Caernarvon | 36 |
| Nevyn | 16 |
| Pwllheli | 16 |
This is a miserably poor village, at the very extremity of Caernarvonshire, seated in a bay, beneath some high and sandy cliffs. On the summit of a promontory are the ruins of a small church, called Capel Vair, or Chapel of our Lady. The chapel was placed here to give the seamen an opportunity of invoking the tutelar saint for protection through the dangerous sound. Not far distant, are also the ruins of another chapel, called Anhaelog. At this spot, pilgrims in days of yore embarked on their weary journey to pay their vows at the graves of the saints of Bardsey.