Roch Castle

The castle was founded in the second half of the 13th century, although the lordship de Rupe can be traced back to about 1200. An earlier fortress may have existed here, but the prominent D-shaped tower on this isolated rocky outcrop is thought to have been built by Adam de Rupe, a Norman knight typical of the adventuring settlers of that time. Roche incidentally, is in fact the usual French word for ‘Rock’, while rupestre signifies ‘a plant growing among rocks’.

There is a story that Adam de Rupe built his castle on this isolated rocky outcrop because he feared the prophecy that he would be killed by the bite of an adder if he chose a less remote site. The prophecy was apparently to catch up with de Rupe anyway, because a snake got into the castle concealed in a bundle of firewood and bit him. A story is just what this probably is: de Rupe may well have died from the bite of a viper, but in building his stone castle he probably simply selected the defensible position occupied by its wooden predecessor.

The de Rupe family died out in the early fifteenth century, and the castle thereafter changed hands a number of times. By the seventeenth century, it had come into the hands of the Walter family. A daughter of this family, Lucy, was arguably its most famous inhabitant.

She was born about 1630 in the castle, and she had a remarkable and some would say scandalous life. Her childhood coincided with the unrest that in 1642 was to break out into full scale Civil War. At about this time, she is said to have met the future King Charles II in Llandeilo. The young Prince was the same age as herself, and it seems that even then they were attracted to each other.

The English Civil War was soon raging in earnest. The Walter family declared for the King, but although Pembrokeshire was initially Royalist, the Puritans gained the upper hand and the family had fled the castle when it was captured and burned by Parliamentary forces in 1644. Lucy Walter had a hard few years trying to stay alive in war-torn Britain, and in about 1647 she was sold to a Puritan colonel for ‘fifty broad pieces’.

The colonel had to give his attention to military business before he could enjoy the fruits of his purchase, and Lucy Walter’s favours passed to his brother, Colonel Robert Sydney. She went to Holland to join him, and it was there that she renewed her acquaintance, now on a much more intimate basis, with the future King Charles II.

They had a son, born when they were both still only 18. There are even stories that the couple secretly married, which would have made this son, James, the legitimate heir to the throne. At all events, Charles II did acknowledge him as his natural son, and even made him Duke of Monmouth in 1663 (he had ascended the throne in 1660). Lucy had died in Paris five years earlier, during the years of the interregnum when Oliver Cromwell was still Lord Protector.

For two decades the son of Lucy Walter was well regarded. It was even thought by some that he, a Protestant, and not the Catholic James Duke of York, would succeed Charles II. But his fortunes were to take a downturn. In 1683 he was implicated in the Rye House Plot and was forced to go into exile in Holland. When his father died two years later he landed in the south-west of England and declared himself king. But his invasion force initially of only 82 men (they were to be joined by 7000 others, but only 1500 could be armed) was defeated fairly easily by the army of James II (the former Duke of York) at the Battle of Sedgemoor in July, 1685.

James, the former Duke of Monmouth, was beheaded on Tower Hill after the trials that became known as ‘The Bloody Assizes’ a few weeks later. There is a grisly footnote to this. When it was realised that no picture of him existed, there was consternation - it was unthinkable that there should not be one for a claimant to the throne, even an unsuccessful Pretender. So the head was sewn back onto the corpse, which then ‘sat’ for the portrait painter, Sir Peter Lely. Presumably Sir Peter didn’t voice too many complaints about the restlessness of his subject.

Meanwhile, Roch Castle, unoccupied since 1644, was falling into ruin. Things were to get steadily worse over the next few centuries, and repair work was not begun until 1900 when Viscount St. David sought to halt the neglect. The restoration has continued until recent times, and now Roch Castle would probably be unrecognisable to Adam de Rupe.

There is still said to be a link with the stormy past of the castle. Present-day guests sometimes have their sleep disturbed by the noise of running footsteps in locked rooms. If we are to believe the stories, it is the sound of the white-robed wraith of Lucy Walter that can be heard.

This article was written by Raymond Humphreys (www.benybont.co.uk) for the Pembrokeshire Life Magazine.