The church houses examples of the work of the Brute family, master masons from Llanbedr, who were active from the 1720s through to the 1840s. Thomas, Aaron, and John Brute worked in a distinctive style of artisan Rococo, and there is a fine collection of tombstones and memorials in this local tradition. Some examples are painted as well as carved, the fat little cherubs surrounded by Rococo wreaths of leaves and flowers.
Look out for some memorable epitaphs too, like the one on the grave of Thomas Price, who died in 1682.
Thomas Price he takes his nap
In our common mother lap
Waiting to heare the Bridegroome say
“Awake my dear and come away.”
Also of interest at St. Martin’s is a medieval stone cross that was dug up on a nearby farm in the 19th century. The cross is believed to be post-Norman, possibly a copy from an earlier cross or the design taken from a manuscript. It may well have been a cross marking the pilgrim’s route along the valley to Brecon and on to the cathedral at St. David’s. The font is also early medieval and the marks of the mason’s chisel still plainly to be seen.
In this area of unspoiled medieval churches, Cwmiou would be unremarkable were it not for its structural irregularities. I have never experienced a building like it, and it really is an experience.
The journey to Cwmiou is a pilgrimage in itself. Although it is not far from the busy market town of Abergavenny, you will need to watch out for stray sheep as you drive through sleepy hamlets and along corkscrewing, almost perpendicular lanes. As the sunlight flickers through the trees and you turn the last bend and glimpse the staggering walls of St. Martin’s peeking from the woods, you will know in that instant that you were right to come.
Welsh Idylls: St. Gwenog’s Church
by Judith Arnopp
Just a stone’s throw from my home in the parish of Llanwenog is St. Gwenog’s church. I have only recently found the time to go and have a close look and thought I would share my visit with you.
The Church of St. Gwenog is delightful, and anyone in love with ancient churches and planning a trip to the area should put it on their list of places to visit. It is only a small building and does not take long to explore, but entering the church is like stepping into another world.
A memorable battle was fought in Llanwenog in 981, between the Dane Godfrid and the native Welsh chieftain, Eineon ab Owain, a battle in which the Danes were totally defeated. Nearby, there is a field on a farm named Ty Cam where the engagement is believed to have occurred. The field is called Cae’r Vaes, or roughly translated, “the battle field,” although whether the story has its root in fact or legend is open to debate.
In ancient, pagan times the word “Llan” was used to denote an enclosure or sacred place. Early Christians built their churches in such places in an attempt to displace older religions. By utilising ancient religious sites, Christian priests thought to encourage pagan worshippers to abandon the old gods and adopt the new teachings.
There are many such sites in Wales, and Llanwenog is possibly one of the oldest for, although most of the extant building dates back to the 13th century, the foundation of the earliest church dates to the 6th. As I circumnavigate the graveyard, it is still just possible to detect that the original enclosure or “Llan” was circular, or oval, in shape although it has now been extended and squared off at one end.
We know almost nothing about St. Gwenog. She is mentioned in the Laws of Howell Dda copied in the 15th century, and in the 18th century an annual local fair, held in January, was known as Ffair Gwenog’s.
Links have also been made with St. Gwennlian who was active locally, but it is a link that is difficult to establish. Even St. Gwenog’s Well, once famous for its healing properties, has long since disappeared. Its existence points to the reason for the site being allocated as a “Llan” in pagan times as water was the earliest form of worship, followed by that of the sun, until Christianity incorporated elements of those older religions into its own.
Inside the church, I see thick whitewashed walls and, at the altar, an early stone carving of Mary and St. John at the foot of the cross. It is very badly weathered, having originally been built into the exterior end of the side chapel. Now it is safe and sound in the new altar, the figures barely discernible. I turn away and spy an early wall painting of the Apostles and the Ten Commandments; the faces peer out at me through the fog of time while, above me, the beautiful ceiling rafters smile down. Richly carved pews escort me to the door, and I climb a few worn stone steps while the tiny carved heads of the saints watch me as I pass.
Outside, the battlemented tower draws my eye from the older, softer parts of the church. It is an imposing feature, providing protection for the village in times of strife. It was a later addition to the building, built in the 15th century by Sir Rhys ap Thomas whose heraldric shield is displayed above one of the windows. The building was to commemorate Henry VII’s victory over Richard III at Bosworth in 1485. Many men from Llanwenog parish fought and died for Henry in his quest for the throne, but, once established, the Tudor dynasty did little to enhance the fortunes of their Welsh countrymen.
I sit for a while among the markers of the dead and think about what I have seen. I am touched by the peace and the great age of the place and love every inch of it. But for me, the best thing about the visit is the font. I slip back inside for another look.
It used to sit near the western doorway but has been moved to the south side of the lady chapel. Today it is filled with a tacky flower arrangement totally out of keeping with the awesome antiquity of the piece.
I take away the flowers and with the tip of one finger trace the marks where the cover once sat. It dates from the Norman period and is showing its age. The stone is carved with the heads of the twelve Apostles, worn from centuries of visitors drawn to touch the primitive features as I am doing now.
I have seen these carved faces described variously as “crude”, “grotesque”, and “rough”, but to me, they are beautiful—the tracks of the ancient chisel giving voice to the long dead craftsman. I wish I could spend longer here. I run my fingers over the surface and feel as if I am clasping the gnarled hand of the mason that worked it.
Tretower Court and Castle
by Judith Arnopp
I have lived in Wales for almost twenty years now, and, although I am still stumbling upon new treasures, there are some places that I find myself returning to time and time again. One of my favourite places is Tretower Court. It sits in the green Usk Valley between Abergavenny and Brecon, seemingly untouched, timeless.
When compared with the tourist hot spots like Pembroke and Conwy castles, the site is small, but for me, the lack of gift shop and tearoom simply adds to the atmosphere. The noise of the traffic dwindles, and all you can hear is birdsong and the sporadic bleating of sheep. Best of all, as the place is little known, there are occasions when you can find yourself there completely alone, with the ghosts of the past whispering in your ear.
Tretower marks the period when castles were abandoned in favour of more comfortable, less fortified homes. There are two distinct sites at Tretower, each as valuable in their own way as the other: the later medieval house and, two hundred yards to the north-west, the remains of the 12th century castle stronghold, the round tower being added later in the period.
Although the more domestic court building was erected early in the fourteenth century, later additions to the Tower suggest that the stronghold was not entirely abandoned at this time. Should the house have come under attack, the inhabitants would simply gather up their possessions, round up the livestock, and head for the impregnable walls of the tower.
The earliest part of medieval house is the north range, which dates from the early fourteenth century. The masonry and latrine turret on the west end may even have been built as early as 1300. The four major phases of building can clearly be
seen from the central courtyard as can the later modifications added as late as the seventeenth century.
As you move through the building from room to room, duck through low doorways, climb twisting stairways, and creep into the dark recesses of the latrine turrets, you will know you are not alone. So much has happened here, so many people have passed through, so much laughter has rung out, and so many tears have fallen. A very brief history of the place reveals a wealth of stories waiting to be told.
The first building on the site was a motte and bailey raised by a Norman follower by the name of Picard. The property passed through the family’s male line until the fourteenth century when it moved, via the female line, to Ralph Bluet and then, again through the marriage of another daughter, to James de Berkeley.
His son, also James, became Lord Berkeley on the death of his uncle. Tretower was later purchased from James by his mother’s husband, Sir William ap Thomas. Sir William’s second wife, Gwladys, gave him a son, William Herbert, later the earl of Pembroke, who inherited both Tretower and Raglan Castle on his father’s death. Tretower was later gifted to William’s half-brother, Roger Vaughan the younger, around 1450.
Herbert and Vaughan both played an important role during the Wars of the Roses with William Herbert becoming friend and advisor to Edward IV. His career continued to prosper until he was executed in 1469, following the Yorkist defeat at Edgecote.
Roger Vaughan, who was responsible for most of the major reconstruction of Tretower Court, was knighted in 1464, was present as a veteran at Tewkesbury, and was finally captured at Chepstow. There, he was beheaded by Jasper Tudor in an act of vengeance for beheading his father, Owen Tudor, ten years previously. Tretower remained in the possession of the Vaughans until the eighteenth century when it was sold and became a farm.
Years of neglect and disrepair followed, and it was not until the twentieth century that preservation and repair work began.
I am not a great fan of reconstructions, although I do realise their value. Too often historic buildings are Disneyfied and their historic role trivialized, but the restoration at Tretower Court is not like that at all, or not yet anyway. The work is totally sympathetic, and the building maintains an elegance and integrity. At the risk of spouting clichés, it is like stepping back in time—one can almost hear the laughter of children from the orchard, the sound of a minstrel singing, or the murmur of women’s voices from the gardens.
The garden is as beautiful and as authentic as any I have seen is this country. Laid out and designed by Francesca Kay, it has a covered walk to keep the sun from the ladies’ cheeks. Tumbling red and white roses, lavender, aquilegia, foxgloves, and marigolds sprawl beside a bubbling fountain in the midst of a chequered lawn.
I spent a long time here on a Sunday morning in July, wandering through the rose arbour, lingering in the orchard before returning to the house. As I progressed along the dim corridors, I could almost hear the skirts of my gown trailing after me on the stone floors. I paused, and time was suspended as I looked through thick, green glass to the courtyard and garden below.
If you should have the good fortune to visit Wales, make the time to call in at Tretower, and don’t forget to bring a picnic and a blanket, for I guarantee you will want to stay a while.
Buried Treasure: St. Mary’s in Burford
by Anne O’Brien
A pilgrim’s heart, a much loved son, and a forgotten Plantagenet princess....
St. Mary’s in Burford is a village church, isolated in its churchyard, surrounded by green fields and trees, all within a short distance of the dark and secretive River Teme in the Welsh Marches county of Shropshire.
Far away from any major towns—the nearest market town is Tenbury Wells—it is a beautiful and peaceful place to spend an hour or two. The church is small, perfect in its rural setting, and visitors, I imagine, are few compared with the likes of Worcester Cathedral and Tewkesbury Abbey, both fairly close.
Inside, it is dark and full of history. The chancel goes back to the 12th century, the nave and tower to the 14th. Stepping inside, one gets the impression that very few changes have been made over the centuries, even though we know that it was extensively restored in 1889. The restoration has been very sympathetic.
But the most compelling reason for a visitor to leave the beaten track and go to Burford is to see the astonishing collection of tombs in this little church, the most important connected with the Cornewall family who were medieval Lords of Burford.
In the chancel there are three in particular not to be missed.
To the left of the altar, set in the wall under a carved arch is what looks like the base of an old brightly-painted altar. Now it is the memorial to Sir Richard Cornewall. He died in 1436, in the reign of Henry VI, in Cologne, possibly when returning from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He left instructions for his body to be buried in Cologne, but his heart to be returned here to his home in Burford.
In the centre of the chancel, directly before the altar, is the fully painted, wooden effigy of Edmund Cornewall. Wooden effigies are quite rare in this part of the world. Edmund died in 1508 at only 20 years of age. He is shown in full plate armour with angels supporting his head and his feet resting on a splendid little dragon wearing a golden crown, crudely carved but with much charm. There is nothing sophisticated or elegant about the carving of Edmund, but this life-sized portrayal of the young man resonates with a sense of tragic loss and grief. His distraught parents must have felt his death keenly to place his tomb in the very centre of the chancel before the altar. It takes the eye, as it was intended to.
And then, the most surprising tomb of all. Set in the wall of the chancel is the life-sized figure and tomb of Elizabeth Plantagenet. Younger daughter of John of Gaunt and Blanche of Lancaster, her governess was, of course, Katherine Swynford. She is beautifully painted as she lies under the arch—the rich red and blue looks to me as if it was restored in the 1889 renovations—with angels at her head, her cloak lined with ermine. Her face is young and serene in repose, even though she was about 61 years old when she died in 1426. She looks truly royal. Who would have expected such a Plantagenet treasure here, far from a major town?
Elizabeth was buried here because her third husband was Sir John Cornewall, Lord of Burford. Perhaps it was her choice to be brought here after death because she loved the place. We will never know. Interestingly, her husband is not buried at Burford beside her, but in Ludgate in London.
And finally, the ceiling is a true treasure. Above the tombs is a splendid late 19th century barrel vault, carved with angels with their wings outstretched, as if watching over the pilgrim, the much-mourned son, and the Plantagenet princess.
Shropshire is a beautiful county to lure the tourist who wishes to enjoy rural seclusion, and this little church at Burford with its memorials (and there are others not even mentioned here!) is an unexpected jewel in its crown.
Tudor Period (1485-1603)
An Inconvenient Princess
by Nancy Bilyeau
On November 11, 1480, a child was baptized in the Palace of Eltham with all solemnity and grandeur, as was fitting for a royal princess of the House of York. The child was named Bridget, after the 14th century Swedish saint who wrote of personal visions of Christ and founded a religious order.
On baptism day Lady Margaret Beaufort, the Lancastrian heiress who was nonetheless in high standing at court, carried the one-day-old princess, a singular honor. Designated godparents were Bridget’s oldest sister, the 14-year-old Elizabeth, and Bridget’s grandmother, Cecily, duchess of York and mother of King Edward IV. No one could have foreseen how profoundly this trio of women would influence the destiny of Bridget of York.
After the Bishop of Chichester completed the baptism, the party carried the tiny princess to her waiting mother, with “great gifts” borne before her in procession. Bridget was the tenth and last chil
d of Elizabeth Woodville, now 43 years of age.
History has not been kind to the consort of Edward IV. She is seen as an icily beautiful conniver who ensnared a love-struck king into a mismatch. There is another side to Elizabeth Woodville, that of a pious and diligent queen who produced a bevy of heirs as she did her best to ignore her husband’s continual infidelities. But no one could deny her stubborn devotion to her own family, the Woodvilles, a myopia that cost her the trust of the kingdom’s nobility.
During the first years of Bridget’s life, her parents were much occupied with matchmaking diplomacy for their older children in the courts of Europe. Everyone assumed glittering futures for the two princes and six princesses.
The family’s Christmastide in 1482 awed chroniclers. Like his grandson Henry VIII, the strapping King Edward loved fashion and splendor. He was “clad in a great variety of most costly garments, of quite a different cut to those which had usually been seen hitherto in our kingdom,” said one. The king presented a “distinguished air to beholders, he being a person of most elegant appearance, and remarkable beyond all others for the attractions of his person.” The beauty of the daughters who surrounded him was “surpassing.”
Less than four months later, King Edward caught a chill and died of his illness. Bridget’s golden future darkened. She was now set on a path of troubling obscurity, tinged with rumors of madness and even, far in the future, sexual scandal.
It all happened very fast. A few weeks after the death of the king, the Prince of Wales was seized by Edward’s younger brother, Richard of Gloucester, and Queen Elizabeth fled with the rest of her children to the sanctuary of Westminster. There she was observed “all desolate and dismayed.” The most powerful in the land supported Richard, not Elizabeth. Conditions were not comfortable for the new widow and her children. But she refused to leave the Church-sanctified protection of sanctuary.
Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors Page 24
