The Twice-Hanged Man

by Priscilla Royal

  Author’s Note

  For those who fear I have really jumped the rails and wantonly exceeded all limits of acceptable fiction with the details of Hywel’s double hanging and survival, I want to assure you that the story is based on a papal investigation that was quite detailed and well-documented.

  In 1307, Pope Clement V ordered a canonization inquiry into the claim that Thomas de Cantilupe, a dead bishop of Hereford, might be a saint. The most dramatic proof offered by the bishop’s supporters was that a notorious Welsh rebel, William Cragh, had been hanged twice on the same day, in approximately 1287, and came back from the dead after begging for the bishop’s intercession.

  William originally claimed to be innocent of the charges that he had murdered thirteen Englishmen during the rebellion of Rys ap Maredudd, but he was convicted nonetheless. As his relatives led him to the gallows, holding the rope that would hang him, Cragh said he prayed to the dead bishop for mercy.

  Although I did change some of the details of the original story, I kept what I thought were the most intriguing and significant aspects. Like my Hywel, Cragh was hanged with another felon. The crossbar did break, possibly because the second man was very fat. When it did, both men were declared dead by the hangman who pointed out all the usually accepted signs of death.

  By order of the sheriff, Sir William de Briouze, the second felon’s body was released for burial, but the hangman was told to haul Cragh up once more on the repaired beam, in part because he was considered an especially vile rebel but also because the sheriff had an unexplained personal loathing for the man.

  The chaplain, accompanying Cragh to the gallows, refused to hear his confession. This was not because the condemned denied guilt but because he could only speak Welsh, and the chaplain had no knowledge of that language. Apparently, the problem was solved by finding a Welsh-speaking priest, although this person was never identified. At the 1307 inquiry, the chaplain couldn’t even remember who it was.

  It is also true that the sheriff’s wife, Lady Mary, unsuccessfully pleaded for the lives of both condemned men. She even asked to be given their bodies after the execution. She went so far as to insist her ladies in waiting pray with her to Thomas of Cantilupe for mercy and/or a miracle. Why she did this, despite her husband’s ardent dislike and the verdict proclaiming both men guilty of homicide, is unknown. Even assuming she was simply fulfilling a noble lady’s expected role of begging clemency, Lady Mary went further than was required or was even common. At the 1307 inquiry, she wasn’t asked for a reason.

  After the second hanging, Cragh’s body was taken to the house of a local merchant so the corpse could be prepared for burial. While Lady Mary’s lady in waiting was measuring the body for a candle to entrust Cragh’s soul to Thomas de Cantilupe’s care, the “corpse” began to move. One of the witnesses to this was the sheriff’s son, who later testified at the 1307 inquiry. Another was the chaplain who confirmed the story and added some impressively gory details about the state of Cragh’s body. (In my opinion, some of these details sound suspiciously enhanced to add greater justification for the bishop’s sainthood.)

  About ten days later, William Cragh regained his health, thanks in part to the nutritious meals prepared for him under the Lady Mary’s direction. Because this was considered a miracle, Cragh was not hanged a third time. He publically gave thanks to Thomas de Cantilupe and was allowed to return to Wales where he remained a law-abiding man for years.

  In 1307, William Cragh came back from Wales to give his extensive testimony at the papal inquiry, all of which was meticulously translated into English and recorded. The sheriff, who had condemned him and then demanded his body be hanged a second time, had died in 1291. The sheriff’s son, who did not seem to share his father’s personal animosity for the Welshman, appeared in his stead as a witness to the miracle.

  It took until 1320, but Thomas de Cantilupe was canonized.

  By that time, William Cragh had really and finally died.

  So could a man be hanged twice and survive? In the Middle Ages, people died of asphyxiation in hanging or compression of the carotid arteries, not a broken neck. However, people of the era would have had scant understanding of all the biological details. Instead, they relied on the presence of certain clearly observable signs to determine death. Today, we know it is possible to survive, depending on the position of the noose and the length of time actually dangling. We also know that some of those previously deemed accurate signs of death are not conclusive (voiding of urine and feces, for instance).

  In Cragh’s story, the details proving his death, reported in 1307, were all intended to establish the bishop’s sainthood and never meant as a scientific investigation. The precise length of time for each hanging, how long the body lay on the ground between hangings, as well as the positions of the noose were not included in the testimony because they were irrelevant to the inquiry. Most medievals, as they did in 1307, would have concluded that his survival must have been a miracle. Whether due to a miracle or a combination of bad timing and a badly placed noose, the hanged man did return in 1307 to testify and was very much alive.

  As backdrop to this story, I chose the part of the war between King Edward I and the Princes Llewellyn and Dafydd in which there was some lull and doubt about who was going to prevail or even the terms under which the war would end. That allows the reader to grasp the unease and fear which the characters living through such a time probably felt.

  On March 21, 1282, Dafydd ap Gruffudd attacked Hawarden Castle, five miles from Chester. He not only ravaged the household, he burned the place and took the constable, Roger Clifford, hostage. In quick succession, Flint, Rhuddlan, and Aberystwyth were taken. Towns associated with the castles were looted, burned, and residents slaughtered. In the south, castles at Llandovery and Carreg Cennen were captured. Even the border town in England, Oswestry, was pillaged.

  Edward I was caught completely by surprise and couldn’t believe that the Welsh were doing this, convinced as he was that he had been admirably fair and even generous to them after the 1277 war.

  The Welsh, both princes and the common folk, begged to differ. Dafydd and his brother, Llewellyn, had grown bitter over slights and outright insults. Dafydd resented Edward’s failure to properly reward him for his loyalty in the earlier war. Llewellyn remained angry over what he believed Edward had stolen from him. English administrators mistreated the princes’ huntsmen, messengers were arrested for no reason, woods belonging to Dafydd were chopped down, and Llewellyn had to sue for land he believed was rightfully his in an English court under English law. For the people themselves, they had to endure murders by Englishmen who were never brought to trial. They were obliged to trade only in towns run and populated by English but were forbidden to live there and often cheated. They, too, in their own land, had to obey English customs and laws.

  The biggest complaint by everyone from top to bottom of the Welsh social scale was that Edward insisted that English law was superior to Welsh and must be followed. One of the rallying calls of Dafydd ap Gruffudd was to demand that Welsh law be honored as the laws in other nations were. In short, their customs and laws should be respected as valid. This rebellion was truly a national one, not just a squabble amongst princes.

  Edward was apparently as oblivious to the high-handed tactics of his administrators as he was to the fact that evidence was planted in the coin clipping pogrom so innocent members of the Jewish community would be hanged. He was also not alone amongst the English for thinking the Welsh were backwards and barbaric. He saw nothing wrong in requiring a Welsh prince to plead for land in an English court stacked against him. When, after four years of getting the runaround, Llewellyn asked him to give him the land he believed was his right, Edward was peeved and retaliated by assigning a particularly offensive administrator in Chester who proceeded to constantly outrage Llewellyn’s brother, Dafydd, whose own lands bordered on those of Chester.

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p; Edward’s reaction, to what he perceived as an egregious lack of loyalty and appreciation for his kind generosity, was swift. As is often true with swift and somewhat undigested orders, there were glitches that allowed the Welsh to continue their victories for a while longer. English nobles resented being ordered to provide troops outside the common practices of the feudal system. Supplies from military to food stuffs arrived sporadically.

  Yet, by the early summer of 1282, Edward’s armies were recapturing castles and it seemed the momentum was swinging to the English.

  Then Llewellyn finally joined his brother, Dafydd.

  His prior hesitation, despite having significant grievances, was that his wife, Eleanor, was pregnant. Llewellyn was also sixty years old. If the child was a boy, he saw merit in supporting Edward (or at least not fighting against him) for the sake of his son’s future. If the child was a girl, he might be better off with his traitorous brother, Dafydd, who had once even attempted to assassinate him.

  On June 19, 1282, Llewellyn received a double blow. His wife died in childbirth, and the baby was a girl. He opted to fight with his brother. Llewellyn’s choice to join the war against Edward gave the Welsh a fresh spurt of hope and somewhat dimmed English confidence.

  By the autumn of 1282, however, Edward was still making some inroads. A boat bridge to Anglesey had been constructed and the south of Wales was secured, although small raids by the Welsh continued to be common and locally devastating.

  But his success was muted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Pecham, who insisted on conducting peace negotiations despite Edward’s ardent disapproval. Although the Archbishop’s motives were reasonable (he thought the Welsh princes might have justification for their grievances), he discovered by early November that both sides were adamantly opposed to compromise. He gave up on any hope of settlement.

  This uncertain period, where the Welsh were still victorious in local skirmishes but Pecham had stalled the effectiveness of Edward’s plans, is the period setting for this book. In hindsight, we know that, despite some devastating and humiliating losses by English troops in the early winter of 1282, Llewellyn was perhaps lured to his death and killed in November. Dafydd was captured in June 1283. Edward was triumphant. The Welsh hopes for any better treatment were dashed.

  For those of you who are suspicious about my Abbot Gerald, you are partially right. I did base him on Gerald of Wales, a man who died almost sixty years before this book takes place.

  I emphasize the word base. My abbot is not a total clone, and I did not give the real man several more decades of life because I thought it might be fun. My character is intended to represent the difficulties any person of mixed ancestry faced at a time when England and Wales were at war, as well as the uncomfortable choices of loyalty they had to make. There are major differences between him and the dead Gerald of Wales. For one thing, the real Gerald was known for his biting humor on matters ranging from clerical malfeasance to stories from the king’s court. Sadly, my abbot lacks all mirth. Unlike the historical Gerald, my abbot runs a small and obscure abbey, and his life story is far from impressive.

  Gerald of Wales, also called Giraldus Cambrensis (c.1146-c.1223), was a noted archdeacon and historian. He was the author of many works, but the two most readily available are Journey Through Wales and History and Topography of Ireland. There is some belief that Edward I may have read his book on the Welsh to better understand how to conquer and later rule them.

  Born in Wales at Manorbier Castle, his father was of Norman descent and his grandmother was the daughter of the last king of South Wales. Gerald himself was firmly loyal to the English kings. He was educated in Paris, employed by the Archbishop of Canterbury to much praise, and, in 1174, was rewarded with the archdeaconry of Brecon. Two years later, however, politics reared an ugly head.

  In 1176, Gerald’s uncle, the Bishop of St. David’s, died, and the nephew was nominated by the monastic Chapter to succeed him. Unfortunately, King Henry II was wary of him, especially after his own quarrels with Thomas Becket. He rejected the nomination, possibly because of Gerald’s Welsh ancestry and family ties through his grandmother, but also because the king feared he would support St. David’s desire to be free of Canterbury. St. David’s, fearing the king’s disfavor, caved in and ultimately approved the king’s choice instead.

  Gerald, terribly disappointed, spent the next several years in the study and teaching of canon law and theology before becoming a clerk and chaplain to the same King Henry II in 1184. Seems our Henry now thought our Gerald’s Welsh connections might be useful in diplomatic efforts with Wales. For his efforts, Gerald was offered several bishoprics, all of which he turned down, either because he felt they weren’t grand enough or he really only wanted the position at St. David’s.

  In 1198, he was again nominated by St. David’s for the bishopric. This time it was the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Hubert Walter, who refused confirmation, even after King John said St. David’s could elect whomever they wished. Gerald did take the position, but Walter refused to ever confirm the election choice. The battle was taken to Pope Innocent III, and Gerald, again for political reasons, lost the job.

  Matters got almost fatally worse when Llywelyn the Great and Gruffydd ap Rhys II supported Gerald’s right to the bishopric of St. David’s while King John now took the part of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Gerald was actually put on trial for encouraging Welsh rebellion but was released and fled to Rome. He was later briefly imprisoned in France for passionately protesting the selection of another for the St. David’s position.

  During the rest of his life, Gerald believed his Welsh ancestry had been to blame for his failure to gain the position he most longed for and he even resigned as archdeacon of Brecon. It is believed he died in Hereford and may actually be buried in St. David’s.

  I hope he is. There would be some justice in that.

  Finally, I couldn’t resist including Son of the Morning, a name for Satan that I hadn’t heard before. It is based on one of the many stories about his fall from grace that I found especially impressive.

  In medieval times, the ruler of Hell was a figure that generated both fear and fascination, an interest that has continued to modern times. The fellow is very complex. His various names come from several traditions, each of which provides a different view of him as well as his connection to God. These often contradictory and even troubling aspects have generated passionate debates over centuries about how good and evil function as well their exact relationship.

  No, I am not getting into all that. Quite apart from the need to keep Author Notes to a Note, I am not academically qualified to enter the debate. Nor will I get into the multifaceted origins of the terms Satan and Devil. I will keep to the story of Lucifer which generated the story of Son of the Morning.

  The term Prince of Darkness needs no explanation, but to call Satan something that means light? Lucifer was the Latin name for the morning star, Venus, and originally had nothing to do with evil or devils. It only became linked through an apparent series of biblical passage confusions and maybe some mistranslations. Whatever the exact truth of that, the name allowed for the incredibly stunning imagery as the once formerly privileged angel is tossed out of Heaven in a flaming arc of light that matched the brightness of the morning star.

  Being fond of vivid imagery as well as seeming contradictions, there was no way I was going to pass on including Son of the Morning in the books as one of Satan’s names. It also fits the medieval love of the dramatic as illustrated by their artwork depicting souls being carted off to Hell.

  Bibliography

  The book on which I based my tale is a short one and well worth reading. The documentation in 1307 of both the events and the roles of the people involved in the 1287 incident is a fascinating snapshot of what was considered a fact (or not even considered at all), what was important in analysis, and what a logical conclusion would be at the time. That
a man could survive two hangings, yet be declared dead by a presumably experienced hangman, is amazing but certainly not impossible. It also tempted me beyond all hope of deliverance to twist it into a mystery. If you read the Bartlett book, I think you will sympathize with my plight.

  Included below are also books on Gerald of Wales, the Welsh war, and Marcher lands. May you enjoy as much as I have!

  Gerald of Wales: A Voice of the Middle Ages, by Robert Bartlett; The History Press, 2006.

  The Hanged Man: A Story of Miracle, Memory, and Colonialism in the Middle Ages, by Robert Bartlett; Princeton University Press, 2004.

  Edward I and the Governance of England, 1272-1307, by Caroline Burt; Cambridge University Press, 2013.

  Eduard I’s Conquest of Wales, by Sean Davies; Pen and Sword Military, 2017.

  The Medieval March of Wales: The Creation and Perception of a Frontier, 1066-1283, by Max Lieberman; Cambridge University Press, 2010.

  Medieval Wales, by David Walker; Cambridge University Press, 1990.

  Acknowledgments

  Patrick Hoi Yan Cheung, Christine and Peter Goodhugh, Maddee James, Henie Lentz, Paula Mildenhall, Sharon Kay Penman, Barbara Peters (Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Scottsdale, Arizona), Robert Rosenwald and all the staff of Poisoned Pen Press, Marianne and Sharon Silva, Lyn and Michael Speakman.

  About the Author

  Priscilla Royal, author of fifteen books in the medieval mystery series, grew up in British Columbia and earned a BA in world literature at San Francisco State University, where she discovered the beauty of medieval literature. She is a theater fan as well as a reader of history, mystery, and fiction of lesser violence. When not hiding in the thirteenth century, she lives in Northern California and is a member of California Writers Club, Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime. Visit her at priscillaroyal.com.