Marged Glyndŵr: Liz Corbett’s unfinished manuscript

Julie Bromilow-Nicklen

Corris. Where, on a cold January day in 2020, the Holy Trinity Church was packed for the funeral of Elizabeth Jane Corbett, an Australian author of Welsh descent, who we all knew as Liz.

Alongside family were Liz’s friends from across Cymru; Welsh learners and teachers, and people whose advice she had sought when researching her book Marged, about Owain Glyndŵr’s wife.

I met her on a Welsh course in 2012 at Aberystwyth University. Standing straight and tall, with a voice like a church bell, Liz had presence. She was kind, enthusiastic, and super-serious about Cymraeg, which she learned in Cymru, then taught back home in Melbourne.

When here, she stayed in Corris at Maelor — a gallery and retreat for artists and writers, run by Veronica Calarco. Veronica says if it turns out not to be the case that Welsh is the language of heaven, by the time we join Liz there, she’ll have made sure that it is.

She was equally committed to her writing. Her first book The Tides Between is a beautiful portrayal of Welsh immigrants on the boat to Australia, seen through the eyes of a girl called Bridie.

Liz was writing her second book Marged as part of a master’s she was in the process of turning into a PhD, when in Maelor, her heart packed up.

Her unfinished manuscript survives. Liz had travelled across Cymru seeking out and speaking to numerous historians and experts such as Gareth Jones of the Owain Glyndŵr Society, and Emeritus Professor Gruffydd Aled Williams, impressing them all with her thoroughness. “It’s very important I tell Marged’s story,” she had whispered fiercely – almost tearfully – to me, in the National Library of Wales. “Nobody talks about what it was like for the women.”

So two years ago, when invited to participate in the inaugural Gŵyl Glyndŵr, naturally, Liz was the first person I thought of. She seemed to be jumping excitedly around in my head.

I am grateful to Liz’s husband Andrew for entrusting me with her unfinished manuscript, and to Gareth Jones for arranging the chapters into chronological order. The ending is unwritten. We’ll never know what Liz had in mind. But what exists is a vivid imagining based on her thorough research.

To celebrate Glyndŵr week, here is a snippet from Chapter Three, where we find Marged and Owain after their wedding in Hanmer, en route to Owain’s home in Sycharth. The party are travelling through Croesoswallt (Oswestry), where border tensions are running high.

There was something wrong in Oswestry this afternoon. People streamed out through the English gate, though it was not yet closing time, their carts clogging the road. Men stepped aside, respectfully, on seeing Owain’s horse trappings. But their greetings were subdued, the exchange of news and proud boasts of newly acquired purchases strangely absent as people trudged their way homeward.

The road immediately outside the gate thronged like a carnival. People stooped, muttering as they gathered scattered belongings, secured bundles and repacked creaking hand carts. Beyond them a posse of armed men guarded the gate.

‘Is something amiss?’ Crach asked the porter.

‘A felony. Horace the silversmith’s been knocked on the head. Goods taken. We’ve orders to search all Welshmen.’

‘Only Welshmen?’ Crach’s answering voice was tight.

The gatekeeper shrugged, his mouth turning down at the edges. ‘Those are my orders.’

‘Even those of us who are passing through?’

‘Not, if it were up to me, seeing as Lord Owain is known to us.’ The gatekeeper shook his head. ‘But, we’ve a new guard on the Welsh gate who’s come lately from Caernarfon, and, as you can see,’ he waved his hands expansively, ‘we’re in chaos here.’

‘What do you think?’ Crach turned to consult Owain. ‘Go round, or take a chance on this new man?’

Thunder pealed. Owain glanced up at the lowering sky. Turning, he searched my face. ‘It’s been a long day and, though I doubt she’ll admit it, Marged’s not been easy in her saddle this past hour. As for Heledd.’ He swung round, his expression softening at the sight of my maid’s tired, white face. ‘Not long now, Mistress Heledd, we’ll be home soon. Then you can rest your weary bones.’

‘So, it’s through?’

‘Yes, why not? Their search won’t be extensive. Not once they realise who we are. Besides, we’re only passing through. Can hardly be blamed for a felony.’

The streets of Oswestry were deserted. Doors to the scattered timber dwellings, shut tight, their shutters drawn. Signs above shops and empty stalls creaked in the wind. Rats scuttled. Pigs rooted among the refuse. Men from the castle garrison banged on doors, demanding entry. In between, lay silence—the town a wary, watchful place. I shivered, pulling my mantle tight about my shoulders, and nudged my horse closer to Owain’s. ‘Why only Welshmen?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps there is evidence? I think it unlikely. We often get the blame.’

I searched his face. ‘Even those of wealth and rank?’

‘I trust not.’ His answering smile was tight. ‘I have a great deal of support, as you’ve seen on the road, albeit unofficial. They’ll think twice about having me searched.’

We rode in silence, our banners fluttering forlornly in evening’s fading light. The clouds overhead rumbled in ominous sympathy with our plight. If the English gate was a carnival, the Welsh gate was a riot, the crowd banked up in tight murmuring knots, fear and anger twisting their faces.

‘Why us?’ they muttered in Welsh. ‘We come here every week.’

‘Pam lai? Why not? We are always the buwch dihangol.’

The crowd parted at the sight of Owain. Heads rose in recognition.

‘Lord Owain.’ I heard more than one voice hiss. ‘With this new English wife.’

I swallowed, hands tight on the reins, and glanced sideways at Owain. He kept his head high, his gaze forward, the tight white set of his lips the only indication of his distaste for the situation. Ahead of us, baskets were being tipped over, apples, onions and broken eggs strewn across the ground. An elderly woman with toothless, sunken cheeks clutched at her bag as a guard in a leather jerkin struggled to prise it from her fingers.

‘Fy hadau i! Paid â cholli fy hadau!’

‘Owain ap Gruffudd, lord of Glyndyfrydwy.’ Crach raised his voice above her cries.

The gatekeeper scanned our party, his gaze travelling from Owain’s horse and trappings, to his fine wool mantle and the pewter brooch pinned at his throat. ‘We have orders to search all Welshmen.’

‘So it would appear!’ Crach leaned forward, his smile forced. ‘Though we are lately travelled from Flintshire. Have arrived to find this felony already committed.’

The gatekeeper’s eyes narrowed. ‘Lord Owain, you say, from Sycharth, who’s marrying the English judge’s daughter?’

‘Indeed, come straight from his nuptials. He’s well known in these parts, served as a squire in the Earl of Arundel’s household.’

‘Fy hadau!’ The old woman’s voice rose thin.

‘Stop talking gibberish.’

The guard snatched at the woman’s bag. She kicked out at him. His arm rose, slapping her across the face. She stumbled, still clutching her bag, and fell to her knees, the mark of his hand livid on her cheek. I gasped, tears filling my eyes. ‘Her seeds!’ The shrill voice was mine. ‘She’s only worried about her seeds.’

Silence. Crach’s sharp, indrawn breath. Owain’s eyes wide with shock. The leather jerkin’d man spun round, sneering. ‘Then why doesn’t she say so?’

‘She’s old, not fully in her wits,’ Owain’s calm voice cut in, ‘as my wife has correctly pointed out. She does not speak your tongue.’

‘Or she’s got something to hide.’ The guard stepped forward, holding a knife to the old woman’s throat. ‘Get up, you old hag.’

The woman turned frightened eyes on Owain.

‘Codwch!’ he translated, softly.

The old woman rose trembling and held out her leather bag. Opening the flap, the guard took out a small drawstring pouch and emptied its contents onto the ground.

From Marged, by Elizabeth Jane Corbett.

If you would like to help publish Liz Corbett’s unfinished manuscript, please get in touch, or come to Llanfyllin for ‘Owain Glyndŵr’s People,’ part of Gŵyl Glyndŵr.

Alongside presentations and discussions from Paul Hughes, Dan Llywelyn Hall, Gruffydd Aled Williams, Rhun Emlyn, Carolyn Hodges and me, you can hear another chapter of Marged, learn more about our hopes to publish it, and hear about Veronica Calarco’s plans for an accompanying exhibition at her new gallery in Dolgellau, opening soon.

More information and tickets here: Gŵyl Glyndŵr tickets

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