The Glyndŵr Chronicle - An Exclusive Extract from Chapter I

A routine visit to the Public Record Office leads historian Henry Arthur Willoughby towards a missing chapter of Welsh history...

The entry appeared halfway down an otherwise unremarkable page of catalogue notes, written in the same neat administrative hand as everything surrounding it and giving, at first sight, little reason for particular attention. Had I not already been tracing a series of scattered references to medieval Welsh ecclesiastical records, I might easily have overlooked it altogether. What first caught my eye was the description itself: ‘Chronicle and miscellaneous papers removed from the Abbey of Strata Florida.’

I frowned.

The wording did not sit comfortably with the material in which it had been placed. Something about it felt incomplete, as though the catalogue entry referred to only part of a larger collection that no longer existed. I drew the volume a little closer and read it again. Even then I did not fully appreciate what I had stumbled across. The brief notation, entered in a hand of no particular distinction, described a collection of manuscripts attributed, at least in part, to the great Cistercian abbey of Strata Florida, the Latin rendering of the Welsh Ystrad Fflur—the Valley of Flowers.

The catalogue offered little further help. The surviving material was described only in the broadest terms, and a later archivist had added a short remark in the margin: ‘Incomplete. Believed to represent only part of a larger collection. Remainder untraced.’

Such observations are by no means uncommon. Archives abound with fragments whose companions have disappeared through destruction, neglect or simple misfortune. I had encountered many such references before, and not all had rewarded the time they demanded. But I had also learned, during an earlier investigation into certain abbey papers of a rather later period, that it is sometimes the fragment, rather than the complete record, that proves the more revealing.

This entry, however, troubled me for another reason. The catalogue reference simply did not sit comfortably beside the surrounding material. Elsewhere in the same sequence were descriptions of papers relating to Owain Glyndŵr's rebellion which appeared to assume the existence of a much fuller chronicle than the surviving manuscripts contained. Glyndŵr himself was mentioned only in passing, while several of his principal captains appeared without introduction, as though the account of how they had come together had once formed part of an earlier section that was no longer there. The fragment seemed less like a complete manuscript than the surviving middle chapters of a much longer story.

None of this amounted to proof of anything. A less curious reader might have dismissed it as nothing more than the untidy consequences of six centuries of archival survival. Even so, I found myself copying the reference into my notebook. Experience had taught me that it is often the smallest inconsistency that proves worth following. I transferred the catalogue reference to a request slip and carried it across to the desk where Cufflin was arranging several bundles of documents with the grave concentration of a man handling matters of state.

He became aware of my approach almost immediately. “Ah, Mr. Willoughby,” he said, bowing his head slightly as he accepted the slip between careful fingers. “And what are we researching today, Sir?” He examined the reference through his spectacles with an expression of polite concern, as though the catalogue itself had personally disappointed him and mumbled under his breath. “Mm. Yes. Interesting.”

There followed a brief silence during which he appeared to revisit, internally, several decades of administrative grievances.

“I rather believe,” he said at length, “that this particular collection has enjoyed an unusually adventurous history within the filing system.”

“Misplaced?”

“Repeatedly, sir.”

The last word carried the faint weariness of a man long acquainted with the consequences of other people’s actions. “Though naturally,” he added quickly, with the instinctive loyalty of one defending the institution against itself, “all reasonable efforts have since been made towards clarification.”

“Naturally.”

“Whether those efforts may accurately be described as successful remains, I think, a matter upon which opinions could differ.”

I had long suspected that Cufflin derived a quiet private pleasure from cataloguing the failures of previous archivists while remaining professionally too courteous ever to condemn them directly.

He entered the request into the ledger with elaborate care. “I shall see what may be produced for you, Mr. Willoughby.”

“You make it sound as though it has to be dug up first.”

“In certain departments of the Record Office, sir,” he replied gravely, “the distinction can become surprisingly narrow.” He passed the slip away with a small nod, and I returned to my desk to wait.

I spent the better part of the morning with the leaves spread across the library table, trying to work out how they fitted together. It was slow work. Few were dated, and the handwriting, though neat enough, offered little to distinguish one section from another. More than once, I thought I had found the beginning of a sequence, only to discover that it led nowhere.

Even so, the longer I looked, the more I became convinced that something was wrong. The missing sections did not seem random. Time and neglect leave ragged edges behind them. These gaps felt different, as though someone had deliberately taken away parts of the story while leaving the rest untouched. I could not prove it. Indeed, I had little more than a suspicion. But experience has taught me that such instincts are not to be dismissed too readily. More than one worthwhile investigation has begun with nothing stronger than the uncomfortable feeling that something does not quite fit.