Then the more undeserving lecturer,
Last of all the most undeserving rector of this parish.
Do not think, speak, or write anything evil of the dead.”
If we are going to Rhuddlan it will not be necessary for us to cross the shaking bridge, designed—perhaps—by Inigo Jones. I see no object in a bridge shaking, myself, but there are always those at hand who for a consideration will shake you the bridge if it gives you pleasure. Our way, however, lies to the right, up a winding hill three miles in length, with an average gradient of 1 in 12. It is a serious climb; but the backward view of the mountain range beyond the Conway is magnificent—a view of rather a rare quality, and not often seen by those who depend upon horses’ legs or their own. The road that crosses the top of the hills runs through scenery of rather a commonplace type; then, as we drop down into Abergele the Morfa Rhuddlan lies before us like a map—a dull map—with fashionable Rhyl in the distance; and from Abergele to Rhuddlan the road is surely the straightest and flattest that ever was seen.
The ivy-smothered towers of Rhuddlan Castle stand on the banks of the Clwyd. That great statesman and soldier, Edward I., being weary of the “Welsh Question,” determined to get the affair finished once for all; so he rebuilt this castle, settled down here with his Court and family, conquered the country, made its laws, and saw that they were carried out. There is a remnant still standing of the house where he held his parliament and “secured its independence to the Principality of Wales.” These words, though not Edward’s, are quite in the spirit of his little jokes. It was here that he played his historical practical joke upon the Welsh nation, when he promised them a prince who was a native of Wales and could not speak a word of English—and then showed them the baby. There is nothing for us to see inside this castle, for Cromwell altogether dismantled it, and its heavy green towers, though impressive enough as being the grave of Welsh independence, are not nearly so typical of the “ruthless king” as his great fortresses of Carnarvon and Harlech and Conway.
Conway is only seventeen miles away, and we may see it on our return journey to Bettws, by driving back to Abergele, where there is a nice old posting-house, and thence passing on above Colwyn Bay. Five hundred years ago another traveller came by this way from Conway: a poor, duped, heart-sick king riding helplessly to imprisonment and mysterious death. It was at Conway that Bolingbroke’s messenger Northumberland, a man of a most treacherous heart, met Richard II. with solemn vows of friendship; and along this coast that they rode together, still smiling, the knave and the fool, to Rhuddlan and Flint, where Bolingbroke’s army lay waiting on the sands o’ Dee. Those splendid walls and towers of Conway that we see beyond the estuary, piled high above the water-side, were Richard II.’s last refuge. From that day forward every roof that sheltered him was a prison.
All through the history of Wales this estuary has played an important part. Long, long before Edward’s magnificent towers rose over the desecrated burial-place of the great Llewelyn there was a castle guarding the river-mouth at Deganwy. We can see its fragments still if we choose to drive round that way before crossing to Conway; but there is only a remnant left, a few stones on a hillside facing the sea—stones that tell of Maelgwyn of the sixth century, and of Norman Robert, lord of Rhuddlan, who rebuilt Maelgwyn’s fortress and met his death there, and of King John of England, who was starved out by the Welsh. Robert of Rhuddlan’s death was picturesque, and, I imagine, well deserved. This was the manner of it. He was still employed in rebuilding the Welsh castle of Deganwy for the harrying of the people to whom it really belonged, when one day he fell asleep—a rash thing to do in those days and in that place. Then came Griffith, Prince of Gwynedd, with his ships, and stole all Robert’s cattle, and was just setting sail again when Robert awoke and saw what was going forward. Down this steep bank below the castle he dashed to the shore, and fought desperately, with only one follower to support him; but soon died, of course, by the spears of the Welsh. Griffith nailed his head to the mast and sailed away; then, when the Normans chased him, flung it into the sea before their eyes.
As for King John, when he in his turn tried to strengthen the fortress of Deganwy, he was glad enough to escape with his wicked head on his shoulders. He had come into Wales “minded to destroy all that had life within the country”; but he departed, we are told, in a great fury, leaving a large proportion of his army behind him for Llewelyn to bury. For the Welsh had cut off all the supplies of the English, “so that in time they were glad to take up with horseflesh or anything, were it never so mean, which might fill up their greedy and empty stomachs.” So says Caradoc of Llancarvan. Other historians give us a letter written on the spot by a certain knight, a man of parts, of whose life and letters one would like to know more. He describes the royal army as “watching, fasting, praying, and freezing. We watch,” he continues, “for fear of the Welsh.... We fast for want of provisions.... We pray that we may speedily return safe and scot-free home; and we freeze for want of winter garments, having but a thin linen shirt to keep us from the wind.” This vivid letter-writer goes on to tell us of the spoiling of Aberconwy Abbey and the burning of all the valuable old Welsh records there, and he shows a good deal of nice feeling in the matter.
It was on the ruins of Aberconwy that Edward’s glorious castle rose later on to overawe the Welsh. This Castle of Conway is the most beautiful of all Henry de Elfreton’s works, I think; more beautiful in itself even than Harlech; and we can well believe, as we drive across the bridge and under the great machicolated town gate, that in early days it could only be taken by the help of guile or famine. Glyndwr’s men won their way in by disguising one of their number as a carpenter, and to dislodge them Hotspur, finding his engines useless, was obliged to starve them out. During the Civil War the castle was held for the King by the Archbishop of York, an extremely “muscular Christian,” who on being superseded in his command felt the slight so deeply that he joined Mytton the Roundhead, and himself led the assault! And these great walls, fifteen feet in thickness, yielded at last. As one climbs the long flight of steps to the entrance with all these things in one’s mind there is something almost overwhelming in the grandeur of these strong towers.
“A very neat castle,” says Camden.