Friday, 1 April 2016
King John's Treasure Found in the Wash
Alas, no. It is 800 years since John lost his treasure. It's also April 1.
Saturday, 12 March 2016
Framlingham Castle and the Bigods
If you want to imagine yourself in the guise of a medieval warrior – and, let’s face it, who doesn’t – there are few better places to visit than Framlingham Castle in Suffolk. Approach as if to attack, and you are confronted with one of the most impressive and impregnable-looking fortresses in England: a mighty ring of stone walls, thirteen metres high, surrounded by a broad, deep ditch. Twelve surviving towers stand taller still, and are amply supplied with arrow-loops. Make no mistake about it: this is a fantastically tough old building, designed in expectation of trouble.
To say that this is a veritable and venerable fortress, however, is to tell only a small part of its story. Inside those giant walls, the only structure that stands today is a seventeenth-century poorhouse. Now home to the local museum, it’s a building well worth visiting in its own right, with a harrowing history that recently reduced the normally flinty Jeremy Paxman to tears. Medievalists, meanwhile, lament the fact that it was ever built at all, for its stones were salvaged from the castle’s original interior. As a result, the casual observer now has a highly distorted view of Framlingham; one which reinforces the traditional misapprehension that castles were all about fighting, battlements and boiling oil. The reality was, of course, very different.
Framlingham was established by the Bigods, a family who came to England with William the Conqueror in 1066 and quickly established themselves as the most powerful barons in East Anglia – a position officially acknowledged in the middle of the twelfth century when they were invested as earls of Norfolk. A cursory glance at the history of these men suggest that they liked nothing better than a scrap with England’s kings. Earl Hugh Bigod (d. 1177), for instance, unsuccessfully challenged Henry II, with the result that the original Framlingham Castle, a conventional earth-and-timber structure, was torn down by royal command in 1174. The present castle was built by Hugh’s son and successor, Roger (d. 1221), to proclaim that the Bigods were back in business – and ready to challenge King John, who laid siege to the castle in 1216. But in actual fact, the Bigods, like most medieval magnates, almost always worked in partnership with the Crown. Framlingham was hardly ever used as a fortress (even the so-called ‘siege’ of 1216 lasted less than 48 hours). It was, on the contrary, a place where power was expressed in a very different way – through benign local lordship, conspicuous consumption and luxurious living.
Ironically, a fantastic snapshot of ordinary, everyday life at Framlingham has been preserved because of the desperate, extraordinary decision taken by the last of the Bigod line. In 1297, at the end of a long but fairly unremarkable career, Earl Roger IV led a movement of popular resistance against the indomitable Edward I, whose government was widely deemed to have become unjust and oppressive. Although he met with considerable success, the earl was bankrupted by this stand, and so ended up having to cut a deal with the king. In return for an annuity for the rest of his life, Roger agreed to make Edward his heir. Accordingly, when the earl died a few years later, his vast estate in England, Wales and Ireland – Framlingham Castle included – passed to the Crown. And so too did all his estate accounts, some 650 neatly written rolls of parchment, which survive to this day in the National Archives at Kew. It is these documents which permit a unique glimpse into the earl’s private affairs, and a window through which we can look at life inside Framlingham Castle.
Roger himself was only occasionally in residence. Medieval magnates, like modern rock stars, were forever on tour. Nevertheless, in the earl’s absence, the castle did not stand idle. It was from here that his officials oversaw the workings of the entire Bigod administration in East Anglia, and it was to here that money generated on other manors was sent to be kept in the treasury. Framlingham was also an agricultural centre in its own right: the account rolls reveal all manner of produce being farmed, ranging from the expected (dairy, poultry, sheep and cattle) to the surprising (regular wages and robes were given to the earl’s vintner for tending his vineyards). Periodically there were visits from members of the earl’s own household: his knights came to hunt venison or to track falcons in the adjacent park; his accountants to check every bushel and barrel, even as they themselves consumed large quantities of fancy foodstuffs.
When the earl himself was due to arrive, the administration went into overdrive. Roger typically travelled with around fifty people in tow, and the castle had to be brought rapidly up to speed to cater for this entourage. Produce and provender poured in from the outlying manors. Deer were driven from the park, beer was brewed and bread baked. At Easter 1286 it was even necessary to bring in extra crockery from Tattingstone, some twenty miles away. Equally as important, the buildings in the castle had to be cleaned, repaired and, where necessary, rebuilt. The full extent of the castle’s vanished interior stands revealed in the rolls. We read of service buildings, such as the saucery, larder and kitchen, and accommodation, including the chambers of the earl, his steward, his knights and his servants.
The most important building of all was the castle’s hall. It was here that the earl and his household were wined, dined and entertained. Originally located on the eastern side of the courtyard, the hall was moved to face west when the castle was rebuilt around the year 1200, and this move reflects a corresponding shift in the Bigods’ domestic priorities. To the west of the castle, the ground falls away until it reaches a great lake or mere. This itself was a man-made feature, a piece of medieval landscaping. Of course, it could have helped to defend the castle, but its primary purpose was to provide dramatic effect. From afar, the castle’s appearance is greatly enhanced by its own reflection. From within, the views to the west are spectacular, which explains the relocation of the hall. The mere also provides the backdrop to the so-called Lower Court, a levelled area directly below the hall, almost certainly created as a private enclosure for the earl and his family. Whether in the hall or the garden, the Bigods and their guests could watch the sun setting across the water as they dined and relaxed.
Roger himself was only occasionally in residence. Medieval magnates, like modern rock stars, were forever on tour. Nevertheless, in the earl’s absence, the castle did not stand idle. It was from here that his officials oversaw the workings of the entire Bigod administration in East Anglia, and it was to here that money generated on other manors was sent to be kept in the treasury. Framlingham was also an agricultural centre in its own right: the account rolls reveal all manner of produce being farmed, ranging from the expected (dairy, poultry, sheep and cattle) to the surprising (regular wages and robes were given to the earl’s vintner for tending his vineyards). Periodically there were visits from members of the earl’s own household: his knights came to hunt venison or to track falcons in the adjacent park; his accountants to check every bushel and barrel, even as they themselves consumed large quantities of fancy foodstuffs.
When the earl himself was due to arrive, the administration went into overdrive. Roger typically travelled with around fifty people in tow, and the castle had to be brought rapidly up to speed to cater for this entourage. Produce and provender poured in from the outlying manors. Deer were driven from the park, beer was brewed and bread baked. At Easter 1286 it was even necessary to bring in extra crockery from Tattingstone, some twenty miles away. Equally as important, the buildings in the castle had to be cleaned, repaired and, where necessary, rebuilt. The full extent of the castle’s vanished interior stands revealed in the rolls. We read of service buildings, such as the saucery, larder and kitchen, and accommodation, including the chambers of the earl, his steward, his knights and his servants.
The most important building of all was the castle’s hall. It was here that the earl and his household were wined, dined and entertained. Originally located on the eastern side of the courtyard, the hall was moved to face west when the castle was rebuilt around the year 1200, and this move reflects a corresponding shift in the Bigods’ domestic priorities. To the west of the castle, the ground falls away until it reaches a great lake or mere. This itself was a man-made feature, a piece of medieval landscaping. Of course, it could have helped to defend the castle, but its primary purpose was to provide dramatic effect. From afar, the castle’s appearance is greatly enhanced by its own reflection. From within, the views to the west are spectacular, which explains the relocation of the hall. The mere also provides the backdrop to the so-called Lower Court, a levelled area directly below the hall, almost certainly created as a private enclosure for the earl and his family. Whether in the hall or the garden, the Bigods and their guests could watch the sun setting across the water as they dined and relaxed.
Such was the normal life at Framlingham during its thirteenth-century heyday. It was not a place that the Bigods used to confront their kings, but rather to welcome them. In 1256 Roger’s predecessor threw open his doors to Henry III, and Roger himself played host to Edward I in 1277 (sadly, a year for which no accounts exist). The earl died a peaceful death at Framlingham in 1306 and, under the terms of his agreement with Edward, his dynasty drew to an close. It seems only fitting, on the seven-hundredth anniversary of the family’s eclipse, that we remember their main castle as it really was. Mount the walls at Framlingham and exercise your imagination, but bear in mind that the sight of an advancing army would have been almost as surprising for the Bigods as it would be for us today. Picture instead a ‘landscape of lordship’: men fishing in the mere and felling trees, knights hunting in the park; carpenters and masons, glaziers and gardeners, all seeking to beautify the castle and its surroundings; carts creaking across the drawbridge, laden with building materials, fine foods and bags of money. A peaceful panorama, but a busy one, animated by the news that the earl was riding towards Framlingham, eagerly anticipating the comforts and pleasures to be had within.
Taken from Kings and Castles
Monday, 9 November 2015
Anglo Saxon Moustaches
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is the most important historical source for events in England between the fifth century and the mid-twelfth century. It survives in nine different versions and runs to several hundred pages in modern English translation. But it contains only one reference to a moustache.
In 1055 the city of Hereford, far in the west of England on the border with Wales, was attacked by the Welsh. Many citizens were killed, many other were taken away as slaves, and the city’s cathedral was plundered, and robbed of its valuables and holy relics.
In response, the defence of the Welsh border was reorganized by Harold Godwineson, earl of Wessex, the most powerful man in England, who would famously become king in 1066 and perish at Hastings later that same year. Harold had a new defensive earthwork built around Hereford and led counter-raids into Wales.
Harold also installed a pugnacious new bishop. The old bishop of Hereford, Athelstan, died on 10 February 1056, perhaps as a result of the stress of the previous year’s attack. In his place Harold appointed one of his own household chaplains, a man named Leofgar. He was clearly a very secular sort of cleric. Churchmen were supposed to be clean-shaven, but the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle noted that Leofgar
'wore his moustaches [kenepas] during his priesthood until he became a bishop. After his consecration he forsook his chrism and cross, his spiritual weapons, and seized his spear and sword, and, thus armed, joined the levies against Gruffudd [ap Llywelyn, the Welsh king]: and there he was slain with all his priests who were with him, together with Ælfnoth the Sheriff, and many good men with them, while the rest escaped. This took place eight days before midsummer.’
In 1055 the city of Hereford, far in the west of England on the border with Wales, was attacked by the Welsh. Many citizens were killed, many other were taken away as slaves, and the city’s cathedral was plundered, and robbed of its valuables and holy relics.
In response, the defence of the Welsh border was reorganized by Harold Godwineson, earl of Wessex, the most powerful man in England, who would famously become king in 1066 and perish at Hastings later that same year. Harold had a new defensive earthwork built around Hereford and led counter-raids into Wales.
Harold also installed a pugnacious new bishop. The old bishop of Hereford, Athelstan, died on 10 February 1056, perhaps as a result of the stress of the previous year’s attack. In his place Harold appointed one of his own household chaplains, a man named Leofgar. He was clearly a very secular sort of cleric. Churchmen were supposed to be clean-shaven, but the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle noted that Leofgar
'wore his moustaches [kenepas] during his priesthood until he became a bishop. After his consecration he forsook his chrism and cross, his spiritual weapons, and seized his spear and sword, and, thus armed, joined the levies against Gruffudd [ap Llywelyn, the Welsh king]: and there he was slain with all his priests who were with him, together with Ælfnoth the Sheriff, and many good men with them, while the rest escaped. This took place eight days before midsummer.’
Monday, 19 October 2015
The Death of King John and the (later) Accession of Henry III
Today is the anniversary of the death of King John. Or maybe yesterday. In the absence of any clinching official document, it depends on which contemporary chronicler you believe. Ralph of Coggeshall says 18 October. The Waverley Annalist says 19 October. John died at night, so perhaps it was difficult to be sure of the date, even at the time. Coggeshall says it was a terrible, stormy night, and adds that many people had ‘dreadful and fantastical visions’ of the king, the nature of which it was best not to write down — the implication being that John was being dragged off to suffer the torments of Hell.
Whatever the date of John’s death, it is not the same date as the anniversary of the accession of his son, Henry III, whatever it says on Wikipedia. In England, in the period between the 1066 and 1272, there was no sense that the reign of a new king began automatically and instantaneously on the death of his predecessor. It began when the new king was anointed during his coronation ceremony.
This had not always been the case. Before the Norman Conquest, a new king’s reign began at the moment he was acclaimed, or sworn in. In the interests of peace and security, this would happen as soon as possible after the old king’s death. Consider, for example, the accession of Edward the Confessor in 1042. His predecessor, Harthacnut, died suddenly on 8 June that year, ‘as he stood at his drink’, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. ‘Before he was buried’, the Chronicle continues, ‘the whole nation chose Edward to be king in London’. For this reason, pre-Conquest English kings could afford to delay their coronations for a long time. The Confessor was not crowned until Easter 1043, a full nine months after his accession. Being a pious man, he probably wanted to be crowned on the holiest day of the year.
The essential point is that in pre-Conquest England coronation was simply confirmation, an act designed to call down God’s blessing on the new ruler; there was no sense in which it conferred the kingship itself.
This changed completely after the Normans took over. In France, coronation was all-important, and a new king’s reign began only when the holy oil of unction was poured on his head. Whatever the English thought, it is clear that William the Conqueror considered himself to be king of England from the moment of his coronation, not before. Indeed, we're told that the English begged William to be crowned as soon as possible, so that some degree of law and order could be re-established, to stop all the Norman harrying and pillaging.
This new rule was maintained for the next two centuries. The first detailed description of an English coronation ceremony is Roger of Howden’s account of the coronation of Richard I in 1189. Howden punctiliously refers to Richard as ‘the duke’ right up to the moment he is anointed. It meant, of course, that would-be candidates for the throne tended to spur their horses hard in the direction of Westminster when they heard the news of their predecessor’s death. Henry I set the all-time record in 1100, racing there from Hampshire to be crowned just three days after the death of his brother, William Rufus. But no king in this period delayed their coronation any longer than was absolutely necessary.
What happened, then, between the death of one king and the coronation of his successor? The answer is: chaos. There was no law and there was no government, at least officially. Great men garrisoned their castles in expectation of attack from their neighbours. Old scores were settled. In the case of several medieval English kings, we read how, the instant they were dead, their servants fearfully deserted their bodies, riding off in all directions in order to safeguard their property. Order was only restored once a new ruler was in place.
The change came in 1272, with the death of Henry III. Two years earlier, his eldest son and heir apparent, the future Edward I, had set out for the Holy Land on crusade. It would obviously have been intolerable to have a situation where Henry - already elderly when Edward departed - died in his son’s absence, and England had to wait for months until his successor returned home. Elaborate security arrangements were made prior to Edward’s departure, including the transfer of many royal castles into the hands of his supporters, so his grip on England would be secure in the event of his father’s death. But it was also evidently decided to disregard previous practice when it came to the coronation, for when Henry III died on 16 November 1272, Edward’s reign began more or less immediately. The next day the new king’s peace was proclaimed in Westminster Hall, and three days later, when Henry was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, all the magnates present swore fealty to Edward as their new king. As they explained to Edward in a letter, they did this before his father’s tomb had been sealed.
As a result of this shift, which went unremarked at the time, Edward was able to defer his coronation ceremony for a long while. It was not until 19 August 1274, almost two years later, that he eventually returned to England and was crowned. One consequence was that coronation ceremonies could be far grander and more elaborate after 1272 than before, because royal officials had months to plan and organize them, rather than weeks or days.
So, King John died on either 18 or 19 October 1216, but Henry III did not succeed him that day. Apart from anything else, John died at Newark Castle in Nottinghamshire, and Henry was being kept at Devizes Castle in Wiltshire, more than 150 miles away. It would have taken at least two days, possibly three, for news of John’s death to arrive. Sorry, Wikipedia, but your accession dates for all the kings of England between William the Conqueror and Henry III are wrong. The reigns of these monarch begin on the day of their coronations.
One more thing. I’m also fed up with reading that England has had one King John because no future English monarch was willing to give such a tarnished name to their sons. John had an evil reputation, no question, but plenty of English kings called their sons John, including Edward II, Edward III and Henry IV. In 1266 Edward I named his firstborn son John, but the boy died aged 5. The lack of later Johns is down to chance, not deliberate avoidance.
Whatever the date of John’s death, it is not the same date as the anniversary of the accession of his son, Henry III, whatever it says on Wikipedia. In England, in the period between the 1066 and 1272, there was no sense that the reign of a new king began automatically and instantaneously on the death of his predecessor. It began when the new king was anointed during his coronation ceremony.
This had not always been the case. Before the Norman Conquest, a new king’s reign began at the moment he was acclaimed, or sworn in. In the interests of peace and security, this would happen as soon as possible after the old king’s death. Consider, for example, the accession of Edward the Confessor in 1042. His predecessor, Harthacnut, died suddenly on 8 June that year, ‘as he stood at his drink’, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. ‘Before he was buried’, the Chronicle continues, ‘the whole nation chose Edward to be king in London’. For this reason, pre-Conquest English kings could afford to delay their coronations for a long time. The Confessor was not crowned until Easter 1043, a full nine months after his accession. Being a pious man, he probably wanted to be crowned on the holiest day of the year.
The essential point is that in pre-Conquest England coronation was simply confirmation, an act designed to call down God’s blessing on the new ruler; there was no sense in which it conferred the kingship itself.
This changed completely after the Normans took over. In France, coronation was all-important, and a new king’s reign began only when the holy oil of unction was poured on his head. Whatever the English thought, it is clear that William the Conqueror considered himself to be king of England from the moment of his coronation, not before. Indeed, we're told that the English begged William to be crowned as soon as possible, so that some degree of law and order could be re-established, to stop all the Norman harrying and pillaging.
This new rule was maintained for the next two centuries. The first detailed description of an English coronation ceremony is Roger of Howden’s account of the coronation of Richard I in 1189. Howden punctiliously refers to Richard as ‘the duke’ right up to the moment he is anointed. It meant, of course, that would-be candidates for the throne tended to spur their horses hard in the direction of Westminster when they heard the news of their predecessor’s death. Henry I set the all-time record in 1100, racing there from Hampshire to be crowned just three days after the death of his brother, William Rufus. But no king in this period delayed their coronation any longer than was absolutely necessary.
What happened, then, between the death of one king and the coronation of his successor? The answer is: chaos. There was no law and there was no government, at least officially. Great men garrisoned their castles in expectation of attack from their neighbours. Old scores were settled. In the case of several medieval English kings, we read how, the instant they were dead, their servants fearfully deserted their bodies, riding off in all directions in order to safeguard their property. Order was only restored once a new ruler was in place.
The change came in 1272, with the death of Henry III. Two years earlier, his eldest son and heir apparent, the future Edward I, had set out for the Holy Land on crusade. It would obviously have been intolerable to have a situation where Henry - already elderly when Edward departed - died in his son’s absence, and England had to wait for months until his successor returned home. Elaborate security arrangements were made prior to Edward’s departure, including the transfer of many royal castles into the hands of his supporters, so his grip on England would be secure in the event of his father’s death. But it was also evidently decided to disregard previous practice when it came to the coronation, for when Henry III died on 16 November 1272, Edward’s reign began more or less immediately. The next day the new king’s peace was proclaimed in Westminster Hall, and three days later, when Henry was laid to rest in Westminster Abbey, all the magnates present swore fealty to Edward as their new king. As they explained to Edward in a letter, they did this before his father’s tomb had been sealed.
As a result of this shift, which went unremarked at the time, Edward was able to defer his coronation ceremony for a long while. It was not until 19 August 1274, almost two years later, that he eventually returned to England and was crowned. One consequence was that coronation ceremonies could be far grander and more elaborate after 1272 than before, because royal officials had months to plan and organize them, rather than weeks or days.
So, King John died on either 18 or 19 October 1216, but Henry III did not succeed him that day. Apart from anything else, John died at Newark Castle in Nottinghamshire, and Henry was being kept at Devizes Castle in Wiltshire, more than 150 miles away. It would have taken at least two days, possibly three, for news of John’s death to arrive. Sorry, Wikipedia, but your accession dates for all the kings of England between William the Conqueror and Henry III are wrong. The reigns of these monarch begin on the day of their coronations.
One more thing. I’m also fed up with reading that England has had one King John because no future English monarch was willing to give such a tarnished name to their sons. John had an evil reputation, no question, but plenty of English kings called their sons John, including Edward II, Edward III and Henry IV. In 1266 Edward I named his firstborn son John, but the boy died aged 5. The lack of later Johns is down to chance, not deliberate avoidance.
Monday, 14 September 2015
Drama at Dover Priory, 18 September 1191
A quick post inspired by a visit yesterday to Dover College, which was open to the public as part of Heritage Open Days. The college was founded in 1871 on the site that had been Dover Priory (it’s right by the station in Dover which bears the same name). The priory was founded by King Henry I in 1130, and quite a lot of medieval buildings survive, including the gatehouse, guesthouse and refectory. The refectory is still used for dining by the college’s students, making it (according our guide) the oldest refectory in the world still in daily use.
Yesterday’s tour was timely, because this week sees the anniversary of a dramatic incident that took place at the priory over eight hundred years ago, which brought the regency government of Richard the Lionheart to its knees. Richard had left England at the end of 1189, just a few weeks after his coronation, heading in the direction of the Holy Land on his famous crusade. He was concerned that in his absence his younger brother, John, and his illegitimate half-brother, Geoffrey, might make trouble, and had made both of them swear to stay out of England for three years. The kingdom had been entrusted to a regency government headed one of Richard’s favourite clerks, William Longchamps.
Longchamps, who filled the roles of both chancellor and justiciar, and was also a papal legate, quickly became very unpopular, appointing his friends and relatives to key castles and top ecclesiastical positions as they became vacant. Very soon people were complaining about his tyranny. This gave John an edge to exploit for his own purposes. At some point early in 1191 he returned to England in breach of his oath, and placed himself at the head of the opposition to Longchamps’ regime. Throughout the spring and summer of that year there were a number of stand-offs and sieges, leading to fears of civil war, but talks ensured that a fragile peace was maintained.
Until 14 September 1191, at which point Geoffrey returned to England. A bastard son of Henry II, Geoffrey had been made archbishop of York against his own wishes and those of the cathedral chapter, Richard no doubt reasoning that by forcing Geoffrey into a tonsure he would nix any hopes that his half-brother entertained in the direction of inheriting the crown. But Geoffrey was still quite capable of causing trouble, and Longchamps had given strict orders to arrest him on sight.
When the archbishop landed at Dover on 14 September he was immediately surrounded by soldiers, but somehow he managed to evade them and make his way to Dover Priory. After five days the soldiers, presumably on direct orders from Longchamp himself, entered the priory, violating its sanctuary, and dragged the archbishop out, bashing his head on the pavement as they did so. He was lead from the priory up the steep hill to Dover Castle and imprisoned their by the castellan, who happened to be Longchamps’ brother-in-law.
The repercussions were devastating. The news, says the contemporary chronicler Richard of Devizes, flew round the country quicker than the wind. He may have had few merits as a clergyman, but Geoffrey was apparently a popular individual, and for the clergy this constituted a violent attack on the sanctity of the Church. Geoffrey had played his part for all it was worth, wearing his archiepiscopal robes at the time of his removal and clutching his ceremonial cross. Everyone was reminded of the time, just twenty-one years earlier, when royal knights had entered Canterbury Cathedral and murdered another archbishop, Thomas Becket.
The violence against Archbishop Geoffrey did for the regime of William Longchamps. He tried to disassociate himself from the event, denying all knowledge and ordering Geoffrey’s immediate release, but the damage had already been done. While the archbishop made his way to London, making great play of his arrest and injury, John rallied the outraged magnates and clergy, assembling them at Loddon Bridge near Reading and demanding that the chancellor come and answer the charges against him. When he failed to do so they marched on London and Longchamps fled to the Tower. A few days later he surrendered, and was tried before a great multitude of people outside the city walls. Stripped of all his power and possessions, he was sent to stay at Dover Castle. A short while later he escaped across the Channel to France. Scurrilous reports composed by his enemies say that he disguised himself so by dressing as woman, and had a humiliating sexual encounter on Dover beach.
So that’s what happened at Dover Priory on this day in 1191. Apologies for any errors, I bashed this out on the train to London for tonight’s revels — today also happens to be my birthday. You can read the full story, and also John’s subsequent schemes, in my book King John: Treachery, Tyranny and the Road to Magna Carta. It’s very cheap on Amazon at the moment.
Yesterday’s tour was timely, because this week sees the anniversary of a dramatic incident that took place at the priory over eight hundred years ago, which brought the regency government of Richard the Lionheart to its knees. Richard had left England at the end of 1189, just a few weeks after his coronation, heading in the direction of the Holy Land on his famous crusade. He was concerned that in his absence his younger brother, John, and his illegitimate half-brother, Geoffrey, might make trouble, and had made both of them swear to stay out of England for three years. The kingdom had been entrusted to a regency government headed one of Richard’s favourite clerks, William Longchamps.
Longchamps, who filled the roles of both chancellor and justiciar, and was also a papal legate, quickly became very unpopular, appointing his friends and relatives to key castles and top ecclesiastical positions as they became vacant. Very soon people were complaining about his tyranny. This gave John an edge to exploit for his own purposes. At some point early in 1191 he returned to England in breach of his oath, and placed himself at the head of the opposition to Longchamps’ regime. Throughout the spring and summer of that year there were a number of stand-offs and sieges, leading to fears of civil war, but talks ensured that a fragile peace was maintained.
Until 14 September 1191, at which point Geoffrey returned to England. A bastard son of Henry II, Geoffrey had been made archbishop of York against his own wishes and those of the cathedral chapter, Richard no doubt reasoning that by forcing Geoffrey into a tonsure he would nix any hopes that his half-brother entertained in the direction of inheriting the crown. But Geoffrey was still quite capable of causing trouble, and Longchamps had given strict orders to arrest him on sight.
When the archbishop landed at Dover on 14 September he was immediately surrounded by soldiers, but somehow he managed to evade them and make his way to Dover Priory. After five days the soldiers, presumably on direct orders from Longchamp himself, entered the priory, violating its sanctuary, and dragged the archbishop out, bashing his head on the pavement as they did so. He was lead from the priory up the steep hill to Dover Castle and imprisoned their by the castellan, who happened to be Longchamps’ brother-in-law.
Dover Castle from the Priory. The castle was built in the 1180s by Henry II,
so was brand new in 1191.
The repercussions were devastating. The news, says the contemporary chronicler Richard of Devizes, flew round the country quicker than the wind. He may have had few merits as a clergyman, but Geoffrey was apparently a popular individual, and for the clergy this constituted a violent attack on the sanctity of the Church. Geoffrey had played his part for all it was worth, wearing his archiepiscopal robes at the time of his removal and clutching his ceremonial cross. Everyone was reminded of the time, just twenty-one years earlier, when royal knights had entered Canterbury Cathedral and murdered another archbishop, Thomas Becket.
The violence against Archbishop Geoffrey did for the regime of William Longchamps. He tried to disassociate himself from the event, denying all knowledge and ordering Geoffrey’s immediate release, but the damage had already been done. While the archbishop made his way to London, making great play of his arrest and injury, John rallied the outraged magnates and clergy, assembling them at Loddon Bridge near Reading and demanding that the chancellor come and answer the charges against him. When he failed to do so they marched on London and Longchamps fled to the Tower. A few days later he surrendered, and was tried before a great multitude of people outside the city walls. Stripped of all his power and possessions, he was sent to stay at Dover Castle. A short while later he escaped across the Channel to France. Scurrilous reports composed by his enemies say that he disguised himself so by dressing as woman, and had a humiliating sexual encounter on Dover beach.
So that’s what happened at Dover Priory on this day in 1191. Apologies for any errors, I bashed this out on the train to London for tonight’s revels — today also happens to be my birthday. You can read the full story, and also John’s subsequent schemes, in my book King John: Treachery, Tyranny and the Road to Magna Carta. It’s very cheap on Amazon at the moment.
Monday, 27 July 2015
The Battle of Bouvines
On this day in 1214 King Philip Augustus of France defeated his enemies in battle at Bouvines. It was a victory that had calamitous consequences for his principal enemy, King John (who was 400 miles away at the time). Here's my account from my new book. John's army was led by his half-brother, William Longsword, earl of Salisbury.
Four hundred miles away in Flanders, the king’s half-brother was almost ready to commence his attack. Although he had been conducting raids into French territory throughout the spring, rallying all the members of the coalition for a major invasion had taken longer than anticipated, and at the start of July they were still awaiting the arrival of the Holy Roman Emperor, Otto IV. At last, however, Otto mustered his forces from the Rhineland and, around 23 July, linked arms with Salisbury and his companions at Valenciennes, about thirty miles south-east of Lille.
The delay of his opponents had given Philip plenty of time to marshal all the military strength he could find to resist them. The problem, from the French king’s point of view, was that it was still insufficient. Estimates of the size of medieval armies are always hazardous, but it seems clear that the combined forces of the coalition were bigger, possibly by as much as forty per cent. Philip therefore had good reason to be cautious as he marched his army northwards. William the Breton portrays him as eager for combat, but it may be that he was actually intending to shadow the movements of his enemies, hoping that they would eventually run into logistical difficulties and be forced to retire. When the two armies unintentionally came within ten miles of each other on 26 July, the French king, then at Tournai, decided this was too close for comfort, and set out early the next morning for Lille, eighteen miles to the west.
It was probably around midday on 27 July, roughly halfway through this journey, that Philip was warned that his enemies were pursuing him and were about to attack. This was surprising, for it was a Sunday, a day when even the most devious medieval commanders usually tried to avoid bloodshed. It was also deeply alarming, for the French army was marching in a column several miles long, and was at that moment crossing a river by means of the bridge in the village of Bouvines. The warning gave Philip just enough time to avert what could have been a disastrous ambush. Those troops that had already crossed the bridge were recalled, and those that had not were able to array themselves. As a result, they turned the tables on their pursuers, who were themselves faced with the sudden difficulty of converting their own column into a line of battle.
What followed was one of the most decisive and momentous clashes in European history. William the Breton, who was an eyewitness, devoted many pages to describing the action. It was, he said, a melee so thick that the combatants scarcely had room to swing their weapons. The silk surcoats of the knights, emblazoned with their coats of arms, were cut to shreds, so that it became difficult to distinguish friend from foe. The day was searingly hot, and the clouds of dust kicked up by the two armies added to the sense of chaos. Everywhere across the field lay horses, dead or terribly maimed, having been targeted by knights seeking to unhorse and capture their opponents. Philip Augustus was brought down by the count of Boulogne but rescued by one of his household knights, while Otto reportedly had three of his mounts killed beneath him. The number of human casualties, given that there were also thousands of infantry involved, must have been huge. ‘There was hardly anywhere’, said William the Breton, ‘that one did not find a body stretched out or a horse dying.’
Despite the confusion, it eventually became apparent that Philip’s forces were having the best of the fighting. The coalition, because they had been forced into a hasty deployment, could not make use of all their troops, and their cavalry were too disorganized. ‘I must tell you’, says the Anonymous of Béthune, ‘that they did not ride so well and in such an orderly manner as the French, and they became aware of it.’ The duke of Brabant was the first to flee, and his departure seems to have triggered a general collapse. Otto decided to retreat, abandoning his army and his imperial banner. Others fought on doggedly against dwindling odds. The count of Boulogne was surrounded and captured, as was the count of Flanders. The earl of Salisbury was clubbed from his horse by a notorious fighting cleric, the bishop of Beauvais, with such force that it shattered his helmet. He too was taken prisoner.
The Battle of Bouvines was a historic turning point. It signalled Philip’s God-given triumph over his rivals, and ensured the survival of the French monarchy. When news of their king’s victory reached Paris, the students there are said to have danced for seven days; today Bouvines is recognized as being as important in the making of France as Hastings is in the making of England. At the same time, the battle signalled the end for Otto IV, who rapidly lost ground to his rival, Frederick II.
It also marked the end of the road for King John. In early August, as yet oblivious to what had happened, he was once again advancing rapidly northwards, skirting around Poitiers, perhaps planning to attack the city of Tours. But on 6 August his advance came to a sudden halt, suggesting that he had heard the disastrous news, and registered its catastrophic implications. The project to recover the lands of his ancestors, planned for so long, and for which he had governed England so relentlessly, was over – and, despite his massive expenditure, he had almost nothing to show for it. A few hours of bloody mayhem at Bouvines had confirmed that his loss of Normandy, Brittany and Anjou would be permanent. All he could hope for now was to salvage something from the campaign’s wreckage by tightening his tenuous grip on his territories south of the Loire. In the last days of August Philip brought his army south and the two sides agreed to a two-week ceasefire. By 18 September they had agreed a five-year truce. In early October John returned to La Rochelle and took ship for England. He was not expecting a hero’s welcome.
Four hundred miles away in Flanders, the king’s half-brother was almost ready to commence his attack. Although he had been conducting raids into French territory throughout the spring, rallying all the members of the coalition for a major invasion had taken longer than anticipated, and at the start of July they were still awaiting the arrival of the Holy Roman Emperor, Otto IV. At last, however, Otto mustered his forces from the Rhineland and, around 23 July, linked arms with Salisbury and his companions at Valenciennes, about thirty miles south-east of Lille.
The delay of his opponents had given Philip plenty of time to marshal all the military strength he could find to resist them. The problem, from the French king’s point of view, was that it was still insufficient. Estimates of the size of medieval armies are always hazardous, but it seems clear that the combined forces of the coalition were bigger, possibly by as much as forty per cent. Philip therefore had good reason to be cautious as he marched his army northwards. William the Breton portrays him as eager for combat, but it may be that he was actually intending to shadow the movements of his enemies, hoping that they would eventually run into logistical difficulties and be forced to retire. When the two armies unintentionally came within ten miles of each other on 26 July, the French king, then at Tournai, decided this was too close for comfort, and set out early the next morning for Lille, eighteen miles to the west.
It was probably around midday on 27 July, roughly halfway through this journey, that Philip was warned that his enemies were pursuing him and were about to attack. This was surprising, for it was a Sunday, a day when even the most devious medieval commanders usually tried to avoid bloodshed. It was also deeply alarming, for the French army was marching in a column several miles long, and was at that moment crossing a river by means of the bridge in the village of Bouvines. The warning gave Philip just enough time to avert what could have been a disastrous ambush. Those troops that had already crossed the bridge were recalled, and those that had not were able to array themselves. As a result, they turned the tables on their pursuers, who were themselves faced with the sudden difficulty of converting their own column into a line of battle.
What followed was one of the most decisive and momentous clashes in European history. William the Breton, who was an eyewitness, devoted many pages to describing the action. It was, he said, a melee so thick that the combatants scarcely had room to swing their weapons. The silk surcoats of the knights, emblazoned with their coats of arms, were cut to shreds, so that it became difficult to distinguish friend from foe. The day was searingly hot, and the clouds of dust kicked up by the two armies added to the sense of chaos. Everywhere across the field lay horses, dead or terribly maimed, having been targeted by knights seeking to unhorse and capture their opponents. Philip Augustus was brought down by the count of Boulogne but rescued by one of his household knights, while Otto reportedly had three of his mounts killed beneath him. The number of human casualties, given that there were also thousands of infantry involved, must have been huge. ‘There was hardly anywhere’, said William the Breton, ‘that one did not find a body stretched out or a horse dying.’
Despite the confusion, it eventually became apparent that Philip’s forces were having the best of the fighting. The coalition, because they had been forced into a hasty deployment, could not make use of all their troops, and their cavalry were too disorganized. ‘I must tell you’, says the Anonymous of Béthune, ‘that they did not ride so well and in such an orderly manner as the French, and they became aware of it.’ The duke of Brabant was the first to flee, and his departure seems to have triggered a general collapse. Otto decided to retreat, abandoning his army and his imperial banner. Others fought on doggedly against dwindling odds. The count of Boulogne was surrounded and captured, as was the count of Flanders. The earl of Salisbury was clubbed from his horse by a notorious fighting cleric, the bishop of Beauvais, with such force that it shattered his helmet. He too was taken prisoner.
The Battle of Bouvines was a historic turning point. It signalled Philip’s God-given triumph over his rivals, and ensured the survival of the French monarchy. When news of their king’s victory reached Paris, the students there are said to have danced for seven days; today Bouvines is recognized as being as important in the making of France as Hastings is in the making of England. At the same time, the battle signalled the end for Otto IV, who rapidly lost ground to his rival, Frederick II.
It also marked the end of the road for King John. In early August, as yet oblivious to what had happened, he was once again advancing rapidly northwards, skirting around Poitiers, perhaps planning to attack the city of Tours. But on 6 August his advance came to a sudden halt, suggesting that he had heard the disastrous news, and registered its catastrophic implications. The project to recover the lands of his ancestors, planned for so long, and for which he had governed England so relentlessly, was over – and, despite his massive expenditure, he had almost nothing to show for it. A few hours of bloody mayhem at Bouvines had confirmed that his loss of Normandy, Brittany and Anjou would be permanent. All he could hope for now was to salvage something from the campaign’s wreckage by tightening his tenuous grip on his territories south of the Loire. In the last days of August Philip brought his army south and the two sides agreed to a two-week ceasefire. By 18 September they had agreed a five-year truce. In early October John returned to La Rochelle and took ship for England. He was not expecting a hero’s welcome.
Taken from King John: Treachery, Tyranny and the Road to Magna Carta, pp. 233-6
Sunday, 17 May 2015
The Rebels Seize London
[An extract from my new book. 17 May 1215. The rebel barons had defied King John a fortnight earlier, and three days ago he had responded by seizing their lands]
The barons, meanwhile, had been making slow progress with their siege of Northampton Castle. Not having any siege engines, they would probably have conceded, put them at a distinct disadvantage. Several of their number had already been killed, including Robert fitz Walter’s standard-bearer, who had been shot in the head by a crossbow bolt. After a week or so, having achieved nothing, they moved twenty miles east to Bedford and took the castle there without a fight, thanks to the defection of its keeper, William de Beaumont. But this was only a minor victory, for Bedford was a far less important fortress than Northampton. Their threat to humble the king by seizing his castles was not off to an auspicious start.
It was at this point that the rebels received exciting intelligence. A faction of Londoners was ready to help them, provided they moved fast. Bedford is almost sixty miles from the capital, but by setting off at once the barons managed to cover more than half that distance, arriving at Ware in Hertfordshire later that same day. They then, according to Roger of Wendover, rode through the night to reach London early in the morning on 17 May. It was a Sunday, and so they waited for the moment when most of the citizens were attending Mass. At that hour their accomplices within the city helped a small number of rebels to scale the walls, and they in turn were able to open the gates and admit those waiting outside. In this way London was taken by stealth. The barons quickly captured almost all the king’s supporters and plundered their possessions; under fitz Walter’s direction, the houses of the Jews were destroyed and their stones used to strengthen the city walls. Only the Tower and its small royalist garrison held out. But having manned the walls and stationed their own sentries on the gates, the barons were able to settle down to build siege engines.
The fall of London was the tipping point. For John, it meant not only the ignominy and embarrassment of having lost his capital; far more damaging, it also meant the loss of his main treasury at Westminster, which must now have fallen into the hands of his enemies. Although some treasure was shut up in the Tower, this was small consolation since the king himself could no longer get to it. John was forced to turn to the regional treasuries that Peter des Roches had created in 1209, but these had been much depleted by the failed campaign of 1214. Nor could they be easily replenished, for the loss of London also meant the loss of the Exchequer and all its records. Regular royal finance collapsed, and the king was driven to the desperate expedient of pawning his prized collection of jewels. For a man who was reliant on mercenaries, this was a catastrophe.
Perhaps even more important than all of this, the fall of London gave heart to the rebels. At a stroke they had gone from holding a single royal castle of little significance to controlling the principal city in the kingdom. According to Wendover, they now sent letters to all the other magnates, urging them ‘to abandon a king who was perjured and warred against his own barons’, at the same time threatening to regard all who did not join them as their enemies. Previously, says the Crowland chronicler, the rebels had mostly been young men, eager to make a name for themselves in war. But now fathers began to join sons, and uncles to join nephews; at this juncture, if not before, the earls of Hertford and Norfolk followed their heirs into rebellion. Such was the scale of the swing, in fact, that the chroniclers found it easier to list those who had not abandoned John’s cause. William Marshal, Ranulf of Chester and William Longsword, the king’s half-brother, are named among the remaining loyalists, along with the earls of Surrey, Derby and Arundel. Apart from them and a handful of lesser barons, said Ralph of Coggeshall, everyone else had gone over to the rebels. New risings broke out across the country. In the north a rebel army occupied Lincoln and laid siege to its royal castle. In Devon rebels who had recently been dispersed by John’s Flemish mercenaries renewed their attacks and ravaged the king’s manors. Shropshire was invaded by Llywelyn and the Welsh, and the king of Scots was also said to be in league with the barons. Even Philip Augustus had pledged his support and promised to send as much aid as he could supply.
A week after London’s fall, John accepted that he had no choice but to negotiate...
The barons, meanwhile, had been making slow progress with their siege of Northampton Castle. Not having any siege engines, they would probably have conceded, put them at a distinct disadvantage. Several of their number had already been killed, including Robert fitz Walter’s standard-bearer, who had been shot in the head by a crossbow bolt. After a week or so, having achieved nothing, they moved twenty miles east to Bedford and took the castle there without a fight, thanks to the defection of its keeper, William de Beaumont. But this was only a minor victory, for Bedford was a far less important fortress than Northampton. Their threat to humble the king by seizing his castles was not off to an auspicious start.
It was at this point that the rebels received exciting intelligence. A faction of Londoners was ready to help them, provided they moved fast. Bedford is almost sixty miles from the capital, but by setting off at once the barons managed to cover more than half that distance, arriving at Ware in Hertfordshire later that same day. They then, according to Roger of Wendover, rode through the night to reach London early in the morning on 17 May. It was a Sunday, and so they waited for the moment when most of the citizens were attending Mass. At that hour their accomplices within the city helped a small number of rebels to scale the walls, and they in turn were able to open the gates and admit those waiting outside. In this way London was taken by stealth. The barons quickly captured almost all the king’s supporters and plundered their possessions; under fitz Walter’s direction, the houses of the Jews were destroyed and their stones used to strengthen the city walls. Only the Tower and its small royalist garrison held out. But having manned the walls and stationed their own sentries on the gates, the barons were able to settle down to build siege engines.
The fall of London was the tipping point. For John, it meant not only the ignominy and embarrassment of having lost his capital; far more damaging, it also meant the loss of his main treasury at Westminster, which must now have fallen into the hands of his enemies. Although some treasure was shut up in the Tower, this was small consolation since the king himself could no longer get to it. John was forced to turn to the regional treasuries that Peter des Roches had created in 1209, but these had been much depleted by the failed campaign of 1214. Nor could they be easily replenished, for the loss of London also meant the loss of the Exchequer and all its records. Regular royal finance collapsed, and the king was driven to the desperate expedient of pawning his prized collection of jewels. For a man who was reliant on mercenaries, this was a catastrophe.
Perhaps even more important than all of this, the fall of London gave heart to the rebels. At a stroke they had gone from holding a single royal castle of little significance to controlling the principal city in the kingdom. According to Wendover, they now sent letters to all the other magnates, urging them ‘to abandon a king who was perjured and warred against his own barons’, at the same time threatening to regard all who did not join them as their enemies. Previously, says the Crowland chronicler, the rebels had mostly been young men, eager to make a name for themselves in war. But now fathers began to join sons, and uncles to join nephews; at this juncture, if not before, the earls of Hertford and Norfolk followed their heirs into rebellion. Such was the scale of the swing, in fact, that the chroniclers found it easier to list those who had not abandoned John’s cause. William Marshal, Ranulf of Chester and William Longsword, the king’s half-brother, are named among the remaining loyalists, along with the earls of Surrey, Derby and Arundel. Apart from them and a handful of lesser barons, said Ralph of Coggeshall, everyone else had gone over to the rebels. New risings broke out across the country. In the north a rebel army occupied Lincoln and laid siege to its royal castle. In Devon rebels who had recently been dispersed by John’s Flemish mercenaries renewed their attacks and ravaged the king’s manors. Shropshire was invaded by Llywelyn and the Welsh, and the king of Scots was also said to be in league with the barons. Even Philip Augustus had pledged his support and promised to send as much aid as he could supply.
A week after London’s fall, John accepted that he had no choice but to negotiate...
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