Hartlebury Castle Surrenders 1646
- 16th May 2026
Today, 16th of May, marks 380 years exactly since the supposedly humiliating surrender of Hartlebury Castle during the Wars of the Three Kingdoms (also known as the English Civil War). This event in 1646 was recorded by a single contemporary commentator, Henry Townshend of Elmely Lovett. He recorded that it was a place “which put the country to an excessive charge the fortifying by the covetousness of the governor and the officers there and was made very strong, being situated on a rock and huge moat, provision and ammunition for 12 months.” He further recorded that the Royalist governor of the castle Captain Sandys “most poorly and cowardly, without a shot, delivered it up within 2 days, being the 16th of May.” This presents a single viewpoint of a man who, it has to be said, was not in the site. His life was not at risk that day.
As a balance to this, we present below a little counter history, an imagining of how that day 380 years ago today could have played out. We give you a fictitious viewpoint from a fictitious character, Fidkin the stable boy. Whilst this character and his family are imagined, the names of the key protagonists, such a Captain Sandys, Lord and Lady Windsor and Colonel Morgan, are real and based upon the record of those present. We hope also to give you a sense of the site at that time, which has come into sharp focus over the last few years through the work of one of our project officers and the Dig Hartlebury project. We hope you enjoy our reimagining of these events!
Fidkin, the stable boy, woke up from his bed of straw, the day was crisp with the last of the winter hanging on. There had been a galloper from Worcester in the night, the gossip Fidkin had heard in the torchlight was that the king had surrendered. “Thank him above, maybe it’s all over” Fidkin thought to himself. But his job was not grand things like war plans and the will of God, his had been tending to the messenger’s horse.
For two days there had been a nervous tension running through the garrison, ever since old John out on the rampart had spotted the force of Roundheads gathering in the village. Since then, Fidkin had not be able to sneak out to take whatever food he could to his mum, she had been struggling even more recently. Dad had still not come home from the fighting in the north.
Photograph courtesy of the Sealed Knot.
But even if he was here, would he have been able to stop the Roundheads breaking in and taking their food? He had not been able to stop the sweaty socked Jocks stealing their few sheep two years back or this Garrison stealing the barley stocks at leaf fall last year. Some of this was still stored in the castle brewhouse, Fidkin had seen it. “This fighting needs to stop else we’ll go hungry” he thought to himself.
Around the cooking fires, the chat was of Captain Sandys and Lord Windsor talking and praying through the night in the Chapel. What would be in the next letter he sent out to the Roundheads? Would it be fighting on. Would it be surrender? Fidkin could tell what the veterans around old John wanted, war weariness was etched onto the lines of their faces. But there were, as always, a few of the younger men wanting nothing more than to fight on. This was the moment, the fight they had been praying for. Another chance to get at the soulless puritan rebels.
At that moment lady Windsor walked out from the doors of the Great Hall with a smile across her face and a tear on her cheek. Despite the confusion in this, Fidkin’s heart felt a sudden unexpected lift. The snippets of conversation he had heard left him liking her. A surprisingly thoughtful, forthright and sensible lady. Quickly following her was the messenger from the night before, as well as a wave of murmur and excitement running through the groups of men and women folk gathered around.
It was true! They would be walking out of here alive! The note in the messengers’ hands confirmed the surrender. Fidkin lost no time in the scene of distraction. He grabbed his cloth bag and ran to the back of the brewhouse. No one was there; they were all outside taking in the momentous news. He found the barley and filled his bag as much as he dared, taking care not to let it bulge too much. Fidkin was no thief, he just wanted back that which his family had grown.
“Boy!” came a shout from outside. Fidkin froze for an instant then, tied his bag and ran back outside. Two Musketeers collared him asking “where did you shoot from like a little rat? Captain Sandys wants you”. Fidkin was marched towards the gatehouse where Captain Sandys barked at him “boy, fetch this man’s horse and then take him to the schoolhouse. Find Colonel Morgan”.
Photograph courtesy of the Sealed Knot
Before he could really take any of this in, he found himself walking beside the messenger out through the gate tower, out across the lowered drawbridge, out through the breastwork gates and out across the bare landscape between the castle and the village. Fidkin, his family and the villagers had been there only a few years before, chopping down the trees to make clear shot lines for the new bastion and stripping the turf all around for its revetments.
In the end Colonel Morgan and his force were not hard to find, being strung out along the Torton road. They were clearly readying themselves for the hot works of a siege. The Colonel had just a short a manner as Captain Sandys. Once he had the letter, Fidkin and the messenger were dismissed with the wave of a hand. Neither needed to be told twice, the messenger trotting up off past the bank of quarries towards Worcester and Fidkin through the churchyard. What happened next to the garrison was not Fidkins’ concern, his mind was only on home. When he ducked in through the creaking front door, he saw his mum skinning a rabbit by the fire. His little sister had done as he has asked, she had been checking his traps.
That evening the small family sat around their hearth eating a stew of fresh spring woodland greens, rabbit and barley. Fidkin could not think of having had any finer meal than this. More than the woollen blankets pulled close about him, it was the feel of the stew in his belly that kept him warm through that night. Long after the last flame in the grate had shrunk back, long after the last embers had flickered out and the dark blanketed around him.
If you want to know more about the archaeology of the Bastion at Hartlebury Castle the archaeological report for Dig Hartlebury 2023 and 2024 is available to download here: https://doi.org/10.5284/1141002
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