Evolution of Love 2

Sacrifice

She was leading an army into battle when the messenger arrived: her husband needed help in the north. She looked at her troops, looked at the enemy castle, and said: "We attack now." Three hours later, they beheaded her on the battlefield.
Princess Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd died fighting. And her death started a revolution.
Kidwelly, South Wales, 1136.
Gwenllian was preparing to attack Kidwelly Castle—a Norman fortress that symbolized everything wrong with Wales. For decades, Norman lords had been carving up Welsh territory, building castles, imposing foreign rule, and treating the Welsh as conquered people in their own land.
Gwenllian had decided: enough.
She was 34 years old, a princess of Gwynedd and wife to Prince Gruffydd ap Rhys of Deheubarth. More importantly, she was a military commander leading an army of Welsh warriors who believed they could drive the invaders out.
She'd grown up understanding war. Her father was Gruffydd ap Cynan, King of Gwynedd—one of the most powerful Welsh rulers of his generation. He'd spent decades fighting to reclaim his kingdom from Norman control. Gwenllian had watched him strategize, negotiate, fight, and rebuild.
She'd learned that Welsh independence wasn't given—it was taken, by force, repeatedly, until the enemy gave up trying to conquer you.
In 1116, when she was about 14, Gwenllian had met Gruffydd ap Rhys. He was a prince without a principality—his father's kingdom of Deheubarth in southern Wales had been seized by Normans. He was essentially a guerrilla fighter, leading resistance forces from the mountains and forests.
They fell in love. Or perhaps they recognized in each other the same fierce determination to fight for Welsh freedom.
They married. And Gwenllian joined the resistance.
For twenty years, she and Gruffydd lived as rebels. They raised four sons in forest camps and remote hideouts. They led raids against Norman positions. They rallied Welsh support. They fought to reclaim Deheubarth piece by piece.
By 1136, they'd made real progress. Parts of southern Wales were back under Welsh control. The Normans were weakening. Welsh princes across the country were beginning to coordinate their resistance.
Then, in late 1136, an opportunity emerged: King Henry I of England had died. The English succession was in chaos. Norman attention was focused on England's internal crisis, not on controlling Wales.
This was the moment to strike.
Gruffydd traveled north to meet with Gwenllian's brother, Owain Gwynedd, King of Gwynedd, to coordinate a major uprising. Welsh princes across the country would attack simultaneously, overwhelming Norman defenses.
Gruffydd left Gwenllian in command of their forces in the south.
She didn't wait for him to return.
Gwenllian looked at the situation strategically: Kidwelly Castle was a key Norman stronghold. It controlled access to important trade routes. Its garrison could threaten any Welsh uprising in southern Wales.
If the coordinated rebellion was going to work, Kidwelly needed to fall.
Gwenllian gathered her army—accounts vary, but likely several hundred men. Some were professional warriors. Many were farmers and common people who'd taken up arms for Welsh independence.
They marched on Kidwelly Castle.
Here's what made this decision remarkable: Gwenllian knew the odds were against her. Kidwelly was well-fortified. The Norman garrison was experienced. She was attacking without siege equipment, without her husband's forces, without certainty that other Welsh attacks were happening simultaneously.
But she also knew that hesitation meant losing the momentum. The Normans were distracted by English succession crisis. This window might not open again.
So she attacked.
On a winter day in 1136, Gwenllian's forces engaged Norman troops near Kidwelly Castle. The exact details of the battle are lost to history, but we know the outcome:
The Welsh were defeated.
Gwenllian fought alongside her men—she wasn't commanding from behind the lines. Medieval sources specifically note she was in the battle itself.
When the fighting turned against the Welsh, Gwenllian was captured.
The Norman commander was Maurice de Londres, a brutal lord who'd spent years crushing Welsh resistance. He'd seen countless Welsh rebels. He'd executed them routinely.
But he'd never captured a Welsh princess leading an army.
He made a decision that would echo through Welsh history: he had Gwenllian executed immediately, on the battlefield.
Not held for ransom. Not imprisoned to use as leverage. Not taken back to England for trial.
Beheaded. Right there. Surrounded by the dead and wounded from the battle.
The Normans thought they were making an example. They thought executing a rebel princess would terrify other Welsh leaders into submission.
They were catastrophically wrong.
News of Gwenllian's death spread through Wales like wildfire.
A princess—a daughter of the King of Gwynedd, a mother of four, a woman who'd fought for twenty years to free her people—beheaded like a common criminal by foreign invaders.
The rage was immediate and explosive.
Welsh forces that had been planning attacks accelerated them. Warriors who'd been hesitating joined the fight. Gwenllian's death became the spark that ignited the Great Revolt of 1136.
Her sons—Morgan, Maredudd, Maelgwn, and Rhys—all grew up to be fierce warriors and leaders. One of them, Rhys ap Gruffydd (known as "The Lord Rhys"), would eventually become one of the most powerful Welsh princes of the 12th century, ruling Deheubarth successfully for decades.
They fought in their mother's name.
Within months of Gwenllian's death, Welsh forces won a series of major victories. At the Battle of Crug Mawr, Welsh troops crushed a Norman army, chanting Gwenllian's name as their battle cry.
For the next several years, Welsh forces pushed the Normans back across southern Wales, reclaiming territory that had been lost for decades.
Gwenllian became more than a historical figure—she became a legend. A symbol of Welsh resistance. A reminder that the fight for independence was worth dying for.
Medieval Welsh poetry celebrated her courage. Chronicles recorded her as a warrior-princess who'd died defending her people. Folk tales transformed her into an almost mythical figure.
For centuries afterward, Welsh rebels would invoke her name before battle. "Revenge for Gwenllian!" became a rallying cry during Welsh uprisings against English rule.
But here's what often gets overlooked in the legend: Gwenllian was a real person making real decisions in an impossible situation.
She was a mother leaving her children to lead an army. She knew the risks. She knew she might die.
She chose to fight anyway because she believed Welsh independence was worth the sacrifice.
Think about what that decision meant:
She was 34 years old. She had four young sons. Her husband was away. She could have waited for him to return. She could have stayed in the mountains, kept her forces safe, avoided direct confrontation.
Instead, she saw an opportunity and seized it—knowing it might cost her life.
That's not reckless bravery. That's calculated courage. She assessed the strategic situation and made the choice that gave Wales the best chance, even though it put her at maximum risk.
And when the battle went wrong, when capture was imminent, medieval sources suggest she didn't try to escape or surrender for clemency.
She fought until she was captured. And when Maurice de Londres brought her forward for execution, she reportedly faced death with the same courage she'd shown in life.
The Normans executed her to make a point: this is what happens to Welsh rebels.
But they created a martyr instead.
Gwenllian's execution proved to the Welsh people that the Normans would show no mercy—not even to royal women, not even to mothers, not even to princesses who should have been valuable hostages.
If the Normans would execute Gwenllian, they'd execute anyone.
Which meant there was nothing to lose by fighting.
That realization transformed the Welsh resistance from scattered rebellions into a coordinated national uprising.
For the next several years, Wales was in open revolt. Norman control weakened significantly. Welsh princes reclaimed substantial territory.
Gwenllian didn't live to see it. But her death made it possible.
Today, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd is remembered as one of the great Welsh heroines. There are monuments to her. Historical societies dedicated to preserving her memory. Her name appears in lists of notable women warriors throughout history.
But for centuries, she was nearly forgotten outside of Wales. English histories didn't celebrate Welsh rebels. Welsh stories were suppressed under English rule. Gwenllian became a name in genealogies, a footnote about a minor battle in 1136.
Only in recent decades has her story been properly recovered and celebrated.
Here's why Gwenllian's story matters beyond Welsh history:
She represents countless women who led, fought, and died in wars throughout history—but whose stories were erased because recording history was done by cultures that couldn't imagine women as military leaders.
Medieval chronicles mention her almost in passing: "And the Princess Gwenllian was killed at Kidwelly." As if that's not one of the most remarkable facts in 12th-century Welsh history—a princess leading an army into battle.
If she'd been a prince leading that same army, his last stand would be celebrated as heroic. There would be epic poems, detailed chronicles, monuments.
Because she was a woman, she became a footnote.
Until Welsh people who remembered refused to let her be forgotten.
That's the power of remembering: when history tries to erase women's contributions, communities that refuse to forget keep those stories alive until they can be properly told.
Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd led an army. She made strategic decisions. She fought for her people's freedom. She died in battle and became a symbol that inspired a successful uprising.
That's not a supporting character in someone else's story. That's a protagonist.
The messenger arrived while she was preparing to attack. Her husband needed help in the north. A different leader might have retreated, regrouped, waited for reinforcements.
Gwenllian looked at the castle, looked at her army, and made a decision that would cost her life but change Welsh history:
"We attack now."
Three hours later, she was dead.
Within a year, Wales was in successful revolt, chanting her name as they drove the Normans back.
She didn't live to see victory. But her death guaranteed others would keep fighting until they achieved it.
That's not just courage. That's leadership—the willingness to make the sacrifice that others can build upon.
Princess Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd (c. 1097-1136): Daughter of a king, wife to a prince, mother of four, commander of armies, and the woman whose death started a revolution that would echo through Welsh history for centuries.
Sometimes the most powerful act isn't surviving—it's fighting for something bigger than yourself and trusting others to finish what you started.
Gwenllian started the fight.
Wales finished it.
And her name became the battle cry that made victory possible.