The rebellious aftermath of an unlawful execution

by Anna Belfrage

It is said that in the late 13th century, Edward I decided that he needed to up the death-penalty somewhat, make it even more of a deterrent. Specifically, Edward I wanted people considering treason to think again – which was why, on October of 1283, he had the last Prince of Wales, Dafydd ap Gruffydd, subjected to horrific torture before the poor man finally died. Dafydd thereby became the first recorded person to be executed by the gruesome means of being hanged, drawn and quartered.

Being drawn (Matthew Paris)

To be thus executed involved a lot of stages. First, you were tied to a horse (or in some cases several horses) and dragged through the town. Sometimes, you were strapped to a rough hurdle, at others, there was a large piece of leather beneath you. Sometimes, there was nothing protecting you from the ground beneath. Doesn’t sound too bad, you may think, but imagine being dragged over uneven cobbles, over gravel and stones, mud and slime, while the spectators lining the road pelt you with stuff – hard stuff, mostly. By the time the victim arrived at the gallows, he was a collection of bruises and gashes, his garments torn to shreds. Chances were, the man couldn’t stand, but stand he had to, and soon enough he was hoisted upwards, to the waiting noose.

The second stage involved the hanging as such. Now, in medieval times, hanging rarely resulted in a broken neck. The condemned man didn’t drop several feet. Instead, the victim was set to swing from his neck and slowly strangled to death. A painful and extended demise, with the further indignity that when a man dies, his bowels and bladder give. However, the unfortunate soul who’d been condemned to being hanged, drawn and quartered, never got to the bladder and bowels part. He was cut down before he died and placed before the executioner and his big, sharp knife. The horror was just about to begin.

In some cases, the executioner started by gelding the man. Loud cheers from the spectators – or not, depending on who was being executed. Once the condemned man had been rid of his manhood, he was cut open, and a skilful executioner would keep him alive all through the process, ensuring the dying man saw his organs being pulled from his body. And then, once he’d died, they chopped him up, sent off body parts to be displayed in various parts of the kingdom, and buried what little was left over.

Not, all in all, a nice way to die. Men condemned to die that way must have swallowed and swallowed, knowing full well that no one could bear such indignities and die well. Before he drew his last breath, he’d have cried and wept, suffered horrific pain, hoped for the release of unconsciousness, only to be brought back up to the surface so as to fully experience what they did next to him. A truly demeaning death – most definitely a deterrent! (And in case you're wondering why I only refer to male victims, it's because women were never hanged, drawn and quartered. It was considered too immodest a way to die, so instead treasonous ladies were burned alive at the stake.)

Edward I was rather fond of his new method of execution (although, to be honest, it is still a matter of dispute if it was Edward I who “invented” it – there seems to have been earlier cases, like when a man tried to assassinate Henry III). Other than the unfortunate Dafydd, Edward had several Scottish “rebels and traitors” – in itself a strange label to put on men fighting for the freedom of their country – hanged, drawn and quartered, notably among them William Wallace and some of Robert Bruce’s brothers.

Edward II 

Edward I’s son and heir, Edward II, was less blood-thirsty than his father, and there are very few recorded instances of men having been hanged, drawn and quartered during his reign. But among these unfortunates one man stands out: In 1318, Llywelyn Bren was executed without having been sentenced to die – a serious violation of existing law.

Llywelyn Bren was Welsh. His real name was Llywelyn ap Gryffudd ap Rhys, and his father had been one of those men loyal to Llywelyn ap Gryffudd, often referred to as the Last True Prince of Wales (He was Dafydd’s brother. Dafydd was something of a weathervane when it came to his loyalties – he had actually sworn allegiance to Edward I prior to his brother being killed, which was why Edward I was so incensed when Dafydd turned around and proclaimed himself Prince of Wales…) Bren is a Welsh honorific meaning something akin to “royal”, and our Llywelyn had earned the sobriquet, not only due to his lineage, but also because he acted like a king should – he defended “his” people.

The story starts in 1315. England was in something of a disarray after the Battle of Bannockburn, and this was especially true of the Welsh Marches, where the powerful Earl of Gloucester had died without a male heir. Young Gilbert de Clare did leave three sisters, but until the inheritance issues could be properly sorted, the huge de Clare lordship was administered by royal officers – with varying success. The period also coincided with famine. The second decade of the 14th century saw a sequence of failed harvests, and by 1315, the people were hungry and finding it increasingly difficult to pay the royal taxes.

The king, of course, insisted his taxes be paid, and his various sheriffs were charged with ensuring the subjects coughed up their pennies. In Wales – and especially in Glamorgan – the situation was very bad, and the newly elected sheriff, a certain de Turberville, did not make things any better when he started by dismissing all Welshmen holding office. One of the men so discourteously snubbed was Llywelyn Bren.

Bren had been a respected sub-lord under the Earl of Gloucester, held in high regard by Welsh and English alike. When de Turberville resorted to force – he sent out armed men to terrorise the Welsh into giving up what little they had, some of which he kept for himself – Llywelyn Bren protested. De Tuberville responded by accusing Bren of sedition, and Llywelyn was so outraged he penned a letter to the king, asking that he remove de Tuberville. Edward II answered by telling Llywelyn Bren to present himself before Parliament – and prepare to hang, should the court find him guilty of the charges made by de Turberville.

De Turberville continued with his persecution of the Welsh. Forced into a corner, Llywelyn Bren had no choice but to defend his people. In a well-planned action, he surrounded the detested sheriff and his closest men while they were holding court just outside Caerphilly castle. De Turberville tried to reach the safety of the castle, but the portcullis came down, the drawbridge was pulled up, and so a number of Englishmen – including de Turberville – were cut down in the outer bailey of the castle. The victorious Welsh then descended on Caerphilly town, looting and burning as they went.

Obviously, the king could not allow this to happen. He ordered the Earl of Hereford, Humphrey de Bohun, and the Lords Mortimer (Roger Mortimer and his uncle Roger Mortimer) to handle the issue, supported by further troops. Llywelyn quickly realised he was hopelessly outnumbered, and decided he had to do what a true leader had to do: set the safety of his men before that of himself. So he gave up, offered himself as a prisoner on terms that allowed his men to keep their lives. Llywelyn himself was to be taken to London, and I dare say he held little hope of ever seeing his homeland again.

Llywelyn’s bravery made a huge impression on both de Bohun and Roger Mortimer. Both of them pleaded with the king that he be lenient – Llywelyn had served the king loyally for many years. Besides, there was ample proof that de Turberville had exceeded his authorities. This time, the king listened, and Llywelyn Bren had the threat of being hanged, drawn and quartered commuted into imprisonment in the Tower. Phew, Llywelyn probably thought.

Time passed. Roger Mortimer was sent to Ireland to handle that Scottish would-be Irish king upstart Edward Bruce, and in England a certain Hugh Despenser nestled himself closer and closer to the royal bosom. Hugh was wed to Eleanor de Clare, one of the heiresses to the Earl of Gloucester, and as a consequence of his new position as the king’s favourite, in November of 1317 he (well, formally his wife) was awarded the plum pieces of the huge inheritance –  the lordship of Glamorgan, where Llywelyn Bren held his hereditary lands. Neither Roger Mortimer nor de Bohun were too thrilled by the news that Despenser had acquired the lordship of Glamorgan. In one fell swoop, the royal favourite had become a power to be reckoned with on the Welsh Marches, thereby threatening Mortimer’s traditional power base.

To celebrate his new lands, Despenser had Llywelyn Bren removed from the Tower. Despite the lack of a formal royal approval, the Welshman was handed over into the less than loving hands of Despenser and carried back to Wales sometime in early 1318. In Cardiff, the poor man was attached to two horses, dragged through the town to the waiting gallows where he was subsequently hanged before being cut down and resuscitated enough to see (and feel) his heart being cut out. Once dead, he was quartered and Hugh Despenser appropriated Llywelyn’s lands, imprisoned his widow and as many of his sons as he could lay his hands on.

The English nobility was appalled. More particularly, Roger Mortimer and Humphrey de Bohun were enraged. With what right had Despenser deprived Llywelyn Bren of his life? After all, Llywelyn Bren had been sentenced to imprisonment in London, not execution in Cardiff. Even worse, the man had died the death of a traitor, an awful extended death that a man like Llywelyn Bren did not deserve – this was a man both de Bohun and Mortimer held in high regard, an educated man with whom the Mortimers even shared (distant) kin. The king was expected to act, punish his favourite for this blatant disregard of the law. Except, of course, that Edward II didn’t, proving yet again to his disgruntled barons that he was not much of a king – or a man of his word. Or a defender of law and justice…

When Roger Mortimer and Humphrey de Bohun – together with the royal cousin Thomas of Lancaster – rose in rebellion in 1321, one of the reasons they put forward was the despicable treatment of Llywelyn Bren. The royal chancellor Hugh Despenser had violated the law and effectively murdered a loyal servant of the king, with not so much as a slap on the wrist as retribution. England, the rebel barons claimed, deserved to be ruled by better men, men who respected law and order.

And so, indirectly, the awful death of Llywelyn Bren set in motion events that would subsequently lead to the deposition of a king – and the equally harrowing death of Hugh Despenser, who died just like Llewlyn Bren did, in November of 1326. Maybe Llewlyn smiled down from the skies as he saw Hugh suffer. One who definitely smiled was Roger Mortimer, now permanently rid of that personal burr up his backside, the equally ambitious Hugh Despenser.

(all pictures in the public domain)

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Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing. 

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. And yes, Hugh Despenser plays a central role.The first book, In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015, the second, Days of Sun and Glory, was published in July 2016.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him.

More about Anna on her website or on her blog!

The Favourite from Hell

by Anna Belfrage

There are few men in English history as vilified as Hugh Despenser the younger. This man, it would seem, was Satan come to earth, and it was his evil influence that indirectly caused the situation which led to Edward II being deposed and locked away in Berkeley Castle. Except, of course, that it was Edward II who was the king, not Despenser, and if Edward allowed Hugh to lead him about by a figurative ring through his nose, then how can that be Hugh’s fault?

Edward I and his son, Edward

Hugh Despenser was born in 1286, making him a couple of years younger than Edward of Caernarvon, Edward I’s fifth and only surviving son. Hugh’s father was another Hugh, and accordingly today’s protagonist usually goes by the name of Hugh Despenser the younger so as to differentiate from his father, Hugh Despenser the elder. These two gentlemen had more in common than their name, namely a rapacious greed that quickly made them extremely unpopular with everyone but their king, Edward II.

The Despensers came with something of a stain, seeing as our Hugh’s grandfather had died at Evesham, fighting for Simon de Montfort against the royal forces. Somewhat ironically, this Despenser (also a Hugh) was killed by a Mortimer (also a Roger) thereby laying the grounds to the implacable enmity between the Despensers and the Mortimers. In brief, all of this history resulted in two of Edward IIs most capable barons detesting each other.

Thanks to Hugh the younger’s paternal great-grandmother, all had not been lost to the Despensers after the debacle of Evesham. Hugh the elder worked hard to re-establish himself in Edward I’s favour, and his son was an intelligent and personable young man who found favour with the king – so much favour, in fact, that in 1307 Edward I did Hugh the younger the honour of giving him Eleanor de Clare as his wife. Eleanor was not only beautiful she was also Edward I’s granddaughter. Hugh Despenser the younger had thereby through his marriage become a member of the royal family.

In July of 1307, Edward I died. Rejoicing broke out in both Scotland and (I assume) in Wales, but the English knew they had lost a great king, and looked with some concern at his heir, the newly crowned Edward II. This second Edward was a handsome man, gifted with a vivid intelligence and physically agile and strong. He was brave, he had presence, and appeared to be everything a king should be – had it not been for his odd pastimes. The new English king enjoyed manual work and would happily spend his time in smithies or thatching. And then there was his faiblesse for handsome young men – and especially for Piers Gaveston, the Gascon knight who so easily twirled Edward II round his little finger.

As Piers is not the subject of the post, suffice it to say that this charismatic man effectively became the power behind the throne. This did not please the barons, and soon enough loud voices were calling for the favourite’s exile.

Piers and Edward, Marcus Stone (1876) 

Piers was not only the king’s favourite, he was also Hugh’s brother-in-law, having married Eleanor’s younger sister, Margaret, late in 1307. I’m not sure this endeared Piers to Hugh, and by 1310 or thereabouts Hugh was firmly in bed with the baronial opposition. Hugh the elder, meanwhile, stood by his king. Now and then I wonder if this was a tactic, the two Hughs sitting down and deciding it made sense to have one foot in each camp, so to say.

By 1312, Piers was dead, executed (murdered, some said, among them the distraught king) by the barons led by Thomas of Lancaster, first cousin to the king. Edward was never to forgive him for this. Hugh the younger was not in a position to comfort his distraught king – at least not initially, given his support for the barons – so the king consoled himself elsewhere. But bit by bit, Hugh wormed his way into the king’s confidence, no doubt helped by the fact that Edward was very fond of his niece, Eleanor de Clare.

Bannockburn (Scotichronicon, c:a 1440)

The Scots had been quick to capitalise on the unrest in England, and in 1314 the king decided it was time to show the Scots once and for all that the son of The Hammer of the Scots could do some hammering of his own. Well, we all know how well that worked out for Edward, don’t we? At the Battle of Bannockburn, the English hit the dust, and among the many, many men killed was Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester – and Hugh the younger’s brother-in-law.

Gilbert left no children, and so his huge estates were to be distributed between his three sisters. In the ensuing free-for-all, Hugh the younger showed his very rapacious side, having no qualms about hogging the lion’s share on behalf of his beloved wife. What Eleanor may have thought about all this is uncertain, but I I suppose she was as dynastic in her approach as her husband – after all, she had the future of her children to consider. Whatever the case, Hugh’s behaviour alienated his sisters-in-law and their husbands. But by now, Hugh was rising rapidly in Edward’s favour, so I dare say he wasn’t all that worried.

Soon enough, Hugh was a constant presence at the king’s side, hungry for more land, more power. The king was more than happy to give it to him, no matter that the barons grumbled. Edward shrugged and made Hugh his royal chancellor. Suddenly, Hugh controlled access to the king, making him the most powerful man around – well, with the exception of his easy-going royal master.

This is where we can return to my initial paragraph: Hugh did not take his power by force. It was freely given to him by the king, who chose to ignore the rumbling protests this caused. Edward had no desire to submerge himself in the details of running his kingdom and was more than happy to let Hugh handle the day-to-day. Besides, I suspect Edward enjoyed twisting the noses of his recalcitrant barons out of joint – and in particular that of Thomas of Lancaster who was predictably enraged at having someone like Hugh wielding power he felt should be his.

So instead of stopping Hugh when he appropriated land that did not belong to him – Edward even looked the other way when Hugh claimed land belonging to the king’s half-brothers, the earls of Norfolk and Kent – instead of curbing his favourites excesses, Edward sat back and enjoyed the ride. He didn’t even intercede when Despenser violated the law, as he did in the case of the Welshman Llewellyn Bren, whom Hugh had hanged, drawn and quartered, without a trial.

By 1321, the barons had had enough. Their attempts to reach an amicable solution with the king had failed, and consensus among them was that Hugh Despenser – both of them – had to go. The rebellious barons devastated Despenser land and marched in force against the king, throwing a cordon of armed men round the royal court. Led by Thomas of Lancaster, Humphrey de Bohun and Roger Mortimer, they demanded that the king exile his favourite – and Papa Hugh – that he allow himself to be counselled by his barons, and that order and the rule of law be restored within the realm. This last was a not-so-oblique reference to the unjust killing of Bren. The king was trapped and had no choice but to comply.

Hugh the younger and elder left – but they did not go far. For the coming months, they took up a career as Channel pirates, while in England the king plotted his revenge. For once, Edward II showed an impressive capacity for swift action, and come late autumn he had the tables turned on the victorious barons.

Had Lancaster ridden to Mortimer’s aid, the king might not have had such an easy win, but Lancaster preferred to stay in the north, thereby giving Edward the opportunity to pick his enemies off one by one. Mortimer ended up in the Tower, Lancaster was executed, and Hugh Despenser returned to his beloved king. And this time, Despenser and the king thought they had won for good.

Turns out they hadn’t. In 1323, Mortimer escaped from the Tower and fled to France, where he was warmly welcomed by Queen Isabella’s brother, King Charles.  Edward II and Despenser went into a frenzy. It became paramount to cleanse the realm of England of any potential traitors, a.k.a. Mortimer supporters, and so a large number of men were hauled before the assizes, in many cases subjected to crippling fines, but just as often found guilty of treason and executed. Family members of these traitors – wives, children – were confined or thrown out to starve. Dark, dark years for the English – and most blamed Hugh Despenser.

By now, Hugh had also earned the enmity of the queen, firstly by marginalising her at court, secondly by suggesting to the king that he take back her dower lands and exile her French household. Seeing as England was at war with France over Gascony, exiling potential French spies made some sense, but Isabella had been Edward’s loyal wife for sixteen years, and she took it badly. Very badly.

The war in France did not go well, and Edward saw no option but to send Isabella to negotiate with her brother. Which she did, brokering a peace treaty which called for Edward to do homage for his French lands – in France. Not a good idea, as per Hugh, because with the king gone, God knew what might happen to him, poor unprotected favourite left behind in England? Hmm, the king said, but he loved Hugh, and these last few years of tyranny had not endeared Hugh to the barons – rather the reverse.  So instead, Edward sent his son, the future Edward III to France.

In retrospect, Edward could just as well have tightened a noose around his own neck. Waiting for Prince Edward in France was not only the disgruntled queen, but also Roger Mortimer – and Mortimer had scores to settle, especially with his personal enemy, Hugh Despenser.

An artistic interpretation of Edward II's arrest

In 1326, Mortimer and Isabella returned to England, bringing with them a small invasion force – and the young prince. The people of England flocked to their banners, tired of living under the heavy Despenser yoke. The king could easily have raised an army to meet them, but Despenser panicked and suggested they flee west, make for Ireland before it was too late. Edward did as his favourite asked, but they never made it to Ireland. Instead, the king and his favourite were captured in Wales. Edward was hauled off to Kenilworth as a prisoner. Hugh Despenser was hauled off to Hereford, there to die.

On November 24, 1326, Hugh Despenser the younger stood some sort of trial in Hereford. The verdict was never in doubt, and the naked man was attached to four horses that dragged him towards the waiting gallows, built very high so that everyone could see how the king’s favourite, the rapacious and greedy Despenser, died. He was hanged, taken down while alive, castrated and disembowelled. Purportedly, Mortimer and Isabella sat watching the spectacle while partaking of food and wine. Hugh, they say, died well – whatever that means when you’re being tortured to death.

Following Despenser’s death, Queen Isabella had Despenser’s wife incarcerated in the Tower. Three of Hugh’s daughters were forcibly veiled as nuns (the oldest of them was about ten), and his sons were locked up. And as to Hugh, his bodily remains were quartered and hung from the city walls in York, Bristol, Dover and Carlisle, while his parboiled head adorned London Bridge. By then, of course, Hugh was no longer in a position to care.

Hugh Despenser was not a nice man. Once in power, he stopped at little to further his own interests, whether that meant disinheriting orphans and widows, or killing men without trial. But ultimately, he was a product of his king, a sovereign too weak to keep his favourite in check.

All images from Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain

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Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing. 

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. And yes, Hugh Despenser plays a central role.

The first book In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015, the second, Days of Sun and Glory, will be published in July 2016.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him. 

More about Anna on her website or on her blog!