Gloucester Cathedral & the Æthelflæd Connection

By Annie Whitehead

Approach Gloucester Cathedral and the first thing you'll see, long before the building itself, is the beautiful tower.

This place was not originally a cathedral, however, but was a Benedictine monastery, dedicated to St Peter. In 1072, William I appointed as its abbot a Norman named Serlo, and the Domesday survey of 1086 shows that Serlo did a remarkable job of increasing the abbey's fortunes, doubling the value of its pre-Conquest assets. Flushed with success, Serlo built a new abbey in the Romanesque style, and sustained growth in income enabled the building programme to continue over the centuries.

In the thirteenth century a large central tower, the Lady Chapel, and the refectory were added, and in the fourteenth century, funds arising from devotion to King Edward II allowed for further remodelling, while in the fifteenth, the Norman west end was knocked down and rebuilt. The sixteenth century heralded a change in fortunes for the abbey, in the form of Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries.

The Lady Chapel

Gloucester abbey was dissolved in 1540 and the building was re-designated as a cathedral in September 1541.

The eleventh-century Norman crypt can be visited (by arranged tour only) as can the tower. But a visit to the main cathedral brings rewards aplenty and shows the building's royal connections.

A foundation charter, which may or may not be authentic, shows King Osric of the Hwicce (by this time a sub-kingdom of Mercia) as the founder of the abbey:

Æthelred, king of Mercia, [Penda's son] to Osric and Oswald, his noble ministri; grant of 300 hides (tributarii) at Gloucester, Gloucs., to Osric, and 300 hides (cassati) at Pershore, Worcs., to Oswald; Osric's part being used by him for the foundation of a minster at Gloucester. [1]

There is a rather impressive effigy of Osric in the cathedral:

The royal connections don't stop there, however. In the south ambulatory is a wooden effigy of Robert Curthose, [2] Duke of Normandy and the eldest son of William I. Eldest son of a king he may have been, but he was never King Robert, because he was imprisoned by his brother, Henry I, in 1106, having been captured after the battle of Tinchebray. He died at the age of eighty, in captivity at Cardiff Castle, but was buried in Gloucester. I have to say, though, that he looks rather relaxed here! (The crossed-legged effigy may denote the fact that he had been on Crusade.)

You'll recall that I mentioned money amassed from devotion to Edward II. I'm aware of the theory that Edward was not murdered, or even that he died at all at Berkeley Castle, but fled abroad. However, the official version of events is that he died at Berkeley, perhaps suffocated, in 1327 and that his body was brought to Gloucester where it lay in the nave to allow visitors to see it.

After a state funeral, attended by his widow and his son, the king's body was buried on the north side of the presbytery and in 1329 that son, Edward III, commissioned a tomb for his father, built by London stone masons working with alabaster and Purbeck marble.

There are recent connections to the monarchy, too. On display in the cathedral is the processional cross used in the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953:

As you might expect, the architecture of this building is almost an artwork in itself. The cathedral cloister famously has fan vaulting above all of its four walks. It dates from the fourteenth century and replaced the original Norman cloister.

The stained glass windows are a sight to behold. One of them is the second largest, in terms of area of glass, in any church in Britain. It dates from the fourteenth century and the quire had to be widened to accommodate it.

But this is no historical monument, to be merely preserved and revered. It is a 'working church' and during the entire length of my visit, the organist was rehearsing for Evensong. At around 4pm, the local school disgorged its pupils, many of whom headed straight over to the cathedral for choir practice. One of the guides I spoke to told me that Gloucester is able to boast not just a boys' choir, but a girls' choir too.

At the time of my visit, the whole of this area was gearing up for the celebrations to mark the 1100th anniversary of the death of Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, on June 12th. While I was in the vicinity, I wanted to take the opportunity to visit the spot where she and her husband were buried.

At first, it might be easy to assume that she was buried in the cathedral. We know that she was buried in the church of St Peter, and that the cathedral was dedicated to St Peter. In fact, in order to visit and pay my respects, I had to take a short walk from the cathedral close to what remains of St Oswald's Priory.

This priory was originally dedicated to St Peter, but had its name changed to St Oswald's after Æthelflæd arranged to have the bones of St Oswald (King Oswald of Northumbria, slain in battle by the Mercian pagan king, Penda) translated* from Bardney Abbey in Lincolnshire. A short walk from the cathedral close, the remains of St Oswald's Priory is now a simple stretch of wall, jutting up incongruously on an island surrounded by roads full of traffic. Having reached this spot, it was an emotional moment for me, having written so much about her in fiction and non-fiction. I've often repeated my daughter's comment about me, that I regularly stand around in fields, getting emotional. This much is true. But here was something different again, as I stood as close as I'll ever get to the woman who has taken up so much of my writing life.

Æthelflæd is something of an anomaly; one of the very few women to lead an Anglo-Saxon kingdom, she was the daughter of Alfred the Great, and yet she was never a queen. The only time she is given this title is in the Irish and Welsh annals. Some of the English annals hardly mention her at all. And yet she was instrumental in the fight against the Danish 'Viking' invaders, building fortified towns in strategic areas which enabled the English to arrest the incursions and ultimately to force the invaders into submission. Shortly before her death, she was approached by the men of York who sought her protection and assistance against the Norse raiders too. A formidable woman indeed.

Back in the cathedral close, a short hop through an archway brings the visitor face to face with a completely different kind of history, for here is the shop where the author and artist Beatrix Potter imagined that her little mouse, the Tailor of Gloucester, had his premises.

From the magnificence of the stained glass windows, to the simplicity of the remains of St Oswald's priory, to the delight of finding the shop where the little mouse sewed, this was a joyous visit, made all the more special by being able to connect to closely with the woman whose place in history was celebrated in this, the 1100th year since her death, on June 12.

[1] Charter S 70 from the Gloucester archive, 671 for 679
[2] Curthose = from the Norman French courtheuse, meaning 'short stockings'.

All photographs by and copyright of the author.

* Translated - the movement of saints' relics

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Annie Whitehead is an author and historian, and a member of the Royal Historical Society. Her first two novels are set in tenth-century Mercia, chronicling the lives of Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, who ruled a country in all but name, and Earl Alvar who served King Edgar and his son Æthelred the Unready who were both embroiled in murderous scandals. Her third novel, also set in Mercia, tells the story of seventh-century King Penda and his feud with the Northumbrian kings. Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom will be published by Amberley in September 2018.

Find out more at www.anniewhiteheadauthor.co.uk

Lately a Rebel - or a Well-intentioned Traitor

by Anna Belfrage

Most people live out their lives in obscurity—something to be grateful for, I believe, as celebrity comes with its own set of challenges. Many people live below the radar for most of their lives, but then a sequence of events propels them onto the central stage and for a while their name is on everybody’s lips. Well, in medieval times not everyone’s lips as information spread but slowly and usually rather locally. Still, today’s protagonist did achieve name recognition – especially in connection to the events that led to his death.

Andrew de Harcla or Andrew Harclay was born around 1270, close to Kirkby Stephen in Westmoreland, and was probably the eldest son of one William Harclay who held land from the Cliffords. While the Harclays were extremely minor landowners, the Cliffords were a power to be reckoned with in the north of England and little Andrew would have grown up in a relatively bellicose environment as most Englishmen this far north were constantly engaged in defending themselves against the Scots—or attacking them in return.

By the time Andrew really steps into the limelight, we’re in the year 1315. By then Sir Andrew was a battle-hardened knight, veteran of numerous campaigns against the Scots. It was just over a year since the English had been routed by the Scots at Bannockburn and now here was a huge Scottish army, led by Robert Bruce himself, intent on taking the town of Carlisle. It is estimated the Scottish host numbered around 10 000 men. Defending Carlisle’s two-mile wall perimeter were approximately 600 men. An easy picking, the Scots may have thought.

At the time, the Scots, led by James Douglas, had just done some serious raiding as far south as Hartlepool. In general, northern England lay defenceless before the confident Scots, in part due to the resounding defeat a year earlier, in part because England in 1315 was a kingdom at odds with itself, King Edward II not seeing eye-to-eye on anything with his cousin Thomas of Lancaster, who effectively ruled most of the north. The Scottish leaders were quick to capitalise on this inertia, and as Carlisle lay only a few miles south of the border, I imagine Robert Bruce felt it would make a nice little addition to his lands.

Contemporary depiction of Sir Andrew

In charge of defending Carlisle was Sir Andrew, and I dare say he swallowed somewhat at this challenging task: not only were the Scots far superior in number, but the defendants were short of supplies of all kinds—including weapons. This, however, Andrew did his best to remedy. He had Carlisle's smiths and craftsmen produce arrows and javelins and stockpiled these, along with heaps of rocks, along the walls, knowing the Scots would try to scale the walls. The Scots, in turn, were confident they’d overrun the walls. Robert Bruce had almost done so in 1311 but because he had other pressing concerns he’d allowed the town of Carlisle to ransom itself and gone on to do other things. Thing is, in 1311, Sir Andrew was not in charge of Carlisle’s defences.

For close to two weeks, Andrew and his few men held the walls, rebutting every attempt made by the Scots to scale them. The weather conspired against the Scots, miring their siege engines, and after yet another attempt to scale the walls led by James Douglas failed, the Scottish leaders decided to give up. There were rumours of an English army hastening towards Carlisle and Robert the Bruce decided to return home. Had they persisted, it is likely Carlisle would have fallen, as no matter how brilliant a commander Andrew was, his few men must have been borderline exhausted after ten days of being constantly on their toes.

The defence of Carlisle earned Sir Andrew some well-deserved fame, personal praise and a nice heavy purse from the king—and a lot of jealousy from other well-born knights in the region who did not exactly warm to this scruffy upstart.

Later in 1315 Andrew was captured by the Scots who demanded a substantial ransom for him. The king contributed to the ransom, but Andrew’s absence gave those who disliked his rise to prominence an opportunity to whisper their opinion in the royal ear—or at least in that of the up-and-coming royal favourite Hugh Despenser.

Still: Andrew was restored to his post as constable of Carlisle, was named sheriff of Cumberland in 1319 and things were as calm as they could be this close to the Scottish border. Or maybe not, as the infected relationship between King Edward and Thomas of Lancaster exploded into a full-blown rebellion. Sir Andrew was ordered to ride south in haste and in March of 1322 he commanded the royalist forces that defeated Thomas of Lancaster and Humphrey de Bohun at the Battle of Boroughbridge. The rebellion was crushed, the king was victorious and generously inclined towards his loyal knight. Sir Andrew was rewarded with the title of Earl of Carlisle, and the king himself belted him. Life, it seemed, was good.

Truth be told, life wasn’t that good. The Scots continued to raid with impunity, Robert Bruce determined to use violence to force Edward II to the negotiating table. For the people living along the Scottish border, life was difficult and frightening—and Andrew seems to genuinely have cared for them.

Edward II

Edward II, meanwhile, was meting out harsh justice to those who had participated in the rebellion against him. Many were the men who over the coming months lost their lives, most through hanging, a handful through the substantially more gruesome death of being hanged, drawn and quartered. The king was in no mood to be conciliatory, neither against his internal enemies or his external enemies, among which he included the Scots. Edward, just like his father, considered himself overlord of Scotland, declaring Robert the Bruce a traitor rather than a fellow king. And as to the Scots’ demands that Edward recognise Scotland a truly independent nation—pshaw!

At some point, Andrew despaired of ever seeing some sort of permanent peace in his neck of the woods. The king just didn’t want it. So what did our Andrew do? Well, he began his own, very private negotiations with Robert Bruce. Early in January of 1323, Sir Andrew rode to meet Robert Bruce in person and a treaty was signed. I suppose it is indicative of just how much respect Robert Bruce had for Sir Andrew that he entered into negotiations with him. What is also very apparent is that Andrew must have been a political fool: to enter into an agreement with Robert Bruce on behalf of England was, in effect, treason. It doesn’t matter that his main concern seems to have been to create some sort of lasting peace and thereby allow the people of the north some respite from continuous raids and violence.

Within a week or so after the treaty was signed, Edward was informed of its existence. There followed some weeks of pussy-footing about—after all, Edward did have a lot to thank Andrew for—but ultimately no medieval king could tolerate such an affront to their authority. Up in the north, many of the men disgruntled by Andrew’s rising star saw their chance. One of them was Sir Anthony Lucy, who, by all accounts, was a man Sir Andrew trusted. More fool he, one could say, as in early February Lucy arrested Harclay. A month later, Sir Andrew was arraigned for treason before the royal justices.

He was not allowed to speak for himself. Instead, he was ungirded of his earl’s belt and had his spurs struck off. No longer neither a knight nor an earl, Andrew Harclay was condemned to die a traitor’s death. As he stood by the gallows he expressed what he had not been allowed to express at his trial, namely that he had done what he did for the sake of the greater good, wanting somehow to broker a permanent peace between Scotland and England. The contemporary Lanercost Chronicle seems to agree that these were his primary motivations, but as Edward II would likely have said it was not Andrew’s place to force the king’s hand.

A hanged, drawn and quartered man in the
background (in this case being Hugh Despenser)

Once he’d said his piece, Andrew turned himself over into the hands of the executioner. By all
accounts, he died well—or as well as one can die when you are first hanged, cut down while alive, disembowelled in such a way that you are still alive to see your intestines burned before you, and then beheaded.

Some years later, Andrew’s nephew approached Edward III in the hopes of having his uncle’s conviction overturned. It didn’t happen, and so Andrew Harclay’s epitaph in the royal rolls is simply “lately the king’s enemy and rebel”. It does not, IMO, do this man justice. But it is, unfortunately, the truth.


All pictures in public domain and/or licensed under Wikimedia Creative Commons

~~~~~~~~~~~

Had Anna Belfrage been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing.

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. And yes, Edmund of Woodstock appears quite frequently. The first book, In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015, the second, Days of Sun and Glory, was published in July 2016, and the third, Under the Approaching Dark, was published in April 2017. The fourth instalment, The Cold Light of Dawn, was published in February 2018.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex(andra) and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him. The ninth book, There is Always a Tomorrow, was published in November 2017.

Robert Hood of Wakefield

by Chris Thorndycroft

Much has been written on the possible historical basis of the Robin Hood legends and the search is problematic to say the least. Even if we accept the idea that England’s famous forest-dwelling outlaw was a real person and not a literary character or a mythological archetype, the name Robin/Robert Hood was hardly an uncommon one in medieval England. To even be in the same ballpark we need to look for specific Robin Hoods whose lives bear at least a passing resemblance to the figure of the legends. And the search has turned up some interesting candidates.

First of all we need to reacquaint ourselves with the Robin Hood of the medieval ballads in which he makes his first appearance. Forget Prince John trying to usurp the throne while his brother King Richard the Lionheart is a prisoner on his way home from the crusades. The only king mentioned in the early ballads is an unspecified King Edward. There were three Edwards who ruled in succession in the Middle Ages which indicates a timeframe of 1272 to 1377; a good hundred years after the Lionheart’s reign. Sherwood Forest also has to go. The stomping ground of Robin Hood in the ballads is Barnsdale which once took up a sizable portion of West Yorkshire.

With the aforementioned facts in mind, a possible candidate has been put forward in the form of Robert Hood of Wakefield who lived during the reign of Edward II. Aside from his name and era, there is one other thing about him that makes him a possibility; his hometown.

Wakefield was a manor ruled by Earl John de Warenne until around 1317 when Earl Thomas of Lancaster took it from him as a result of a bitter feud. The previous spring Lancaster’s wife, Alice de Lacy, was purportedly abducted by de Warenne’s men (although rumour had it that she and de Warenne were lovers). Immensely powerful and more or less ruler of the north, Lancaster also had a falling out with his cousin, King Edward II. Lancaster drew support from the Marcher Lords who resented the king and his relationship with the hated royal favourites; the Desepnsers. What began as an attack on the Despensers’ lands soon turned into open rebellion and ended with the Battle of Boroughbridge in 1322 and the subsequent execution of Lancaster for treason.

It is interesting to find a Robert Hood living in Wakefield at this time because the forest of Barnsdale encroached upon that very manor and was a natural hiding place for any outlaw on the run. The antiquarian Joseph Hunter was the first to put Robert Hood forward as the real Robin Hood and his findings were largely culled from the Wakefield Court Rolls(1). Subsequent historians like J. W. Walker(2) and J. C. Holt(3) found additional entries and bolstered his brief biography. What follows is a basic outline of Robert Hood’s life according to Hunter, Holt and Walker.

• On Jan 25th, 1316 Robertus Hood, son of Adam Hood (who hailed from nearby Stanley and was a forester for Earl de Warenne) and his wife Matilda gave 2 shillings for leave to take one piece of the lord's waste on Bichill (the market place in Wakefield) between the houses of Phillip Damyson and Thomas Alayn.
• In 1316, Robert Hood's handmaid was fined for taking wood from Old Park. In the same year, Hood himself was fined 3d for not obeying Earl de Warenne’s summons to join the forces of Edward II's Scottish invasion.
• After the Battle of Boroughbridge and Lancaster’s execution in 1322, his followers were outlawed and their properties seized. One property seized in 1322 was a ‘building of five rooms of a new construction on Bichill, Wakefield’.

Hunter’s hypothesis is that Robert Hood was outlawed after taking part in Lancaster’s rebellion against the king and fled to nearby Barnsdale to begin his life of crime. But that’s not all. Hunter also found a ‘Robyn Hode’ serving in the chamber of King Edward II not long after. That these two people could be one and the same sounds highly unlikely were it not for the events in the earliest ballad; A Gest of Robyn Hode. In this story, King Edward travels to Nottingham and, furious at the poaching of the deer in his royal parks, tracks Robin and his companions down. Impressed by his honour and skill, the king takes Robin into his service where he remains at court for ‘twelve months and three’. Then, longing for the greenwood, Robin returns to Barnsdale and lives there for a further twenty-two years until his death at the hands of the treacherous Prioress of Kirklees.

King Edward II did indeed tour the north of England after the defeat of Lancaster’s rebellion and was particularly interested in the state of his forests such as Pickering and Knaresborough which had seen many trespasses during the war. He stayed at Nottingham in November, 1323 and Hunter remarks that from April, 1324, several payments were made to a porter of the chamber named Robyn Hode. On the 22nd November, 1324 – a year after the king visited Nottingham – Hode is given five shillings as a gift because he is ‘no longer able to work’ and nothing further is heard of him.

Later research by J. C. Holt shows that Robyn Hode was already in the king's service from June 27th, 1323, a good five months before the king arrived in Nottingham. This has weakened Hunter’s hypothesis in the eyes of many but it is interesting to note that on June 27th the itinerary of King Edward II places him at Chapel Haddlesey; a village roughly ten miles east of Barnsdale.

Hunter calculated the year of Hood’s death as 1347; twenty-two years after he left the service of the king. Interestingly there is a grave at Kirklees Priory (in the Wakefield manor) inscribed with Hood’s name and the date of 1247; exactly a century earlier than Hunter’s prediction. The grave is a relatively recent replacement for a previous monument and its inscription makes it clear that Robin Hood of legend is meant. That the date is a century earlier than Robert Hood of Wakefield’s death (according to Hunter) either means that the Robin Hood buried at Kirklees is not Robert Hood of Wakefield or, it is and a scribal error was made on the part of the engraver.

It’s tempting to consider Robert Hood of Wakefield (and possibly Robyn Hode of the king’s chamber) as the real life Robin Hood. After all, he has the right name and lived in the right place at the right time. However, not only is it pure conjecture that Robert Hood of Wakefeld and Robyn Hode of the king’s chamber are the same man but there is also no evidence that either were ever outlawed. Nevertheless, of all the possible candidates for the historical Robin Hood, Robert Hood of Wakefield provides both name, location and a tantalising correspondence to the Gest ballad in the appearance of a similarly named man in the chamber records of King Edward II who is also known to have been in the area at the right time. Coincidences maybe, but intriguing ones at that.

In my recent novel Lords of the Greenwood, Robert Hood of Wakefield, or more correctly, his son (also called Robert), is the Robin Hood of legend. Robert Hood the Elder (the one who was married to a Matilda in the Wakefield court rolls) was killed by the Scots at the Battle of Myton as a result of Lancaster’s treachery. His son, Robert the Younger, finds himself outlawed for murder and has only his bitter enemy Will Shacklock for company in the woods of Barnsdale (the Wakefield court rolls show a Schackelock family living at nearby Crigglestone at this time(4) and the name bears a similarity to the variants of Will Scarlet’s original surname in the ballads). Robert and Will learn to put aside their differences and begin recruiting a band of outlaws fleeing the chaos of Lancaster’s rebellion. Their actions eventually draw the attention of the king himself who comes to them with a proposition…
Sources

1. Joseph Hunter. The Great Hero of the Ancient Minstrelsy of England, “Robin Hood”: His Period, Real Character, Etc. Investigated, and Perhaps Ascertained. 1883
2. J. W. Walker. Robin Hood Identified in The Yorkshire archaeological journal vol. 36 (1944)
3. J. C. Holt. Robin Hood. 1982
4. P. Valentine Harris. The truth about Robin Hood : a refutation of the mythologists’ theories, with new evidence of the hero’s actual existence. 1952

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Chris Thorndycroft is a British writer of historical fiction, horror and fantasy. His early short stories appeared in magazines and anthologies such as Dark Moon Digest and American Nightmare. His first novel under his own name was A Brother’s Oath; the first book in the Hengest and Horsa Trilogy. He also writes under the pseudonym P. J. Thorndyke.

His recent novel, Lords of the Greenwood, blends history with medieval ballads. This is the entwined saga of two men, separated by a generation and united by legend, who inspired the tales of England’s famous hooded outlaw. Lords of the Greenwood is available through Amazon.

For more information, please visit Chris Thorndycroft’s website. You can also find him on Twitter and Goodreads.

In Search of Bannockburn

By Annie Whitehead

On a recent trip to Scotland I had, as is my wont, attempted to see as many historical sites as possible, and, looking at the map as we left Doune Castle (filming location for Outlander, and Monty Python and the Holy Grail) it seemed to me that a short drive would take us to Bannockburn, and since the place was marked clearly on the map, we'd be there in a matter of minutes.

I'll say no more about that, except that the words lost, minor roads, and divorce were uttered.

But, a roadside sign showed how close we were, for we had inadvertently found ourselves at the very edge of the battle site.

We had arrived on the eastern slope of Gillies Hill, where the servants, cooks, smiths - essentially the non-combatants - of Robert Bruce's army were placed for safety before the battle. It is assumed that at some point they went down the hill, nearer the fighting, but perhaps only to loot, sensing that the battle was all but won.

Bannockburn was a major engagement between the forces of King Edward II of England and Robert Bruce, thenceforth Robert I of Scotland. A short distance from Gillies Hill we could see the monument to Bruce, and we set off. Eventually we found the Visitors' Centre, down in the valley but not, necessarily, on the site of the battle.

For, although it is known that the battle commenced on 23rd and continued into 24th June, 1314, it has never been established exactly where the main fighting took place.

On 22nd June, Bruce had moved his men to the New Park, two miles south of Stirling Castle. There were trees beside the road to the castle which would make it hard for Edward II's cavalry to be deployed, while to the southwest, a place named Halbert's Bog, and rolling hills, would be protection from attack.

Stirling Castle, seen from Bannockburn

On the morning of 23rd, Edward's troops marched from Falkirk towards Stirling (a matter of some fourteen miles). Edward received word that Robert had blocked the road through the Park. Edward commanded his army to stop for a break, but, either through disobedience or confusion, the vanguard pressed on, only to be pushed back by the Scots.

Later in the day, two of Edward's knights attempted to take 300 cavalry to higher ground, but they were met by a schiltron*, which pushed them back.

Mindful of a possible night-time attack by the Scots, that night Edward decided to cross the Bannock Burn and set up camp on the far side, on the 'Carse', an area of lower ground.

This was no easy feat. They needed to erect makeshift bridges to get the horses across the water. It took a long time, with some having to wait until nearly dawn to cross.

Meanwhile, at dawn, Robert Bruce ordered an advance, as close to Edward's line as possible. First to engage were the archers, but it was the Scots who were forced to pull back first. The English cavalry lined up, as best they could in the unfavourable terrain.

The English cavalry could not get past the schiltron, led by the Earl of Moray. Unable to present more than a limited front, they could not take advantage of their superior numbers, and were further hindered by those who began to retreat, pushing them back. Sir Robert Keith successfully led the Scottish cavalry against the English archers, depriving Edward of his deadliest resources.

Hand-to-hand combat ensued, with many English soldiers being pushed back to drown in the Bannock Burn.

After the battle, Edward fled to Dunbar, and thence to Berwick. The fighting did not end there, with Scots harrying into England and Robert Bruce facing opposition still from the Balliols, in the form of John Balliol's son, Edward, but a plot against Robert in 1320 failed.

Edward II meanwhile, refused to accept Robert as king of Scotland, but in 1320 the Declaration of Arbroath , a letter (sealed by the nobles of Scotland) to Pope John XXII, asserted Robert's right to rule Scotland.

So, that's a potted history of the battle itself. But while the Visitors' Centre has a wealth of information about it, it cannot provide the answer to the question: where was the battle?

There is hardly any archaeological evidence for the battle. No human remains, no pieces of military or personal equipment, and no mass graves have been found. The fighting took place over a huge area, and this was subject to wholesale looting. The sources refer vaguely to 'the wood', the 'kirk', 'the great ditch' and even a 'dry field', hard to identify now without specific place-names.

It seems to have been agreed that the first day's fighting occurred round New Park, which roughly equates to the site of the Visitors' Centre, but argument continues about the second day, with many topographical features, such as the 'great ditch' still unidentified. Up to eight potential sites have been identified from written sources. These sources include: 

The Lancercost Chronicle, The Chronicle of Andrew of Wynton, Liber Pluscardensis, Chronica gentis Scotorum, Vita Edwardi Secundi, The Brut, or Chronicle of England, and The Anonimalle Chronicle. 

This is not even a complete list, yet still the site cannot be pinpointed with precision. One theory contends that the battlefield was specifically on the Carse, between the Pelstream Burn and the Bannock Burn. Another potential site is under a school and a modern housing estate. The Visitors' Centre was set up to preserve the general area, rather than commemorate a specific site, and there is a magnificent monument to Robert Bruce there.

In 2012 and 2013 an archaeological survey of the Carse was undertaken, yielding some medieval pottery which was of roughly the date of the battle, which suggests human settlement and thus reduces the weight of one argument which contends that the area was too boggy to be a battle site.

The best hope for identification lies in a technique known as LiDAR, a system of recording the landscape using lasers to create a computer model of the landscape, and then studying the possible routes taken by Edward's army.

Ironic, then, that we had initially been unable to find Bannockburn, for it transpires that there is nothing really to find.

As an Anglo-Saxonist, I am used to relying on written and archaeological evidence. Rarely am I able to visit a known battle site, or see a building which dates from the period. So it still surprises me that such a major battle as Bannockburn, one which marks, to all intents and purposes, Scottish independence from the Plantagenet kings, should have left so little trace of itself. A huge impact on history, yes, and a wealth of written material, too. But for the visitor to Bannockburn, all that awaits is - an admittedly impressive - 3D visual 'experience', a chance to view the monument, but no insight at all into where the fighting actually took place.

*Schiltron - a formation of tightly-packed spearmen (around 500-1000)

[all illustrations are photographs taken by and copyright of the author, except the Declaration of Arbroath, which is a Public Domain image via Wikipdedia]

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Annie Whitehead is an author and historian, and a member of the Royal Historical Society. Her first two novels are set in tenth-century Mercia, chronicling the lives of Æthelflæd, Lady of the Mercians, who ruled a country in all but name, and Earl Alvar who served King Edgar and his son Æthelred the Unready who were both embroiled in murderous scandals. Her third novel, also set in Mercia, tells the story of seventh-century King Penda and his feud with the Northumbrian kings. She is currently working on a history of Mercia for Amberley Publishing, to be released in 2018.

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Organised Crime in the 14th Century

By Susan Appleyard

When a propertied man died, he usually left the whole kit and kaboodle to his eldest son. Sir John Folville was a respected member of the gentry who had seven sons. The eldest, also Sir John, inherited the property and took little part in his brothers’ nefarious activities. The younger ones had to fend for themselves. There were options, a career in the church being the most popular and one of the brothers, the unlucky Richard, became a member of the clergy. A man who knew how to use a sword – and most of them did – could hire it out; there was always a war going on somewhere in Europe. Another option was outlawry. Like many others of good birth, that was the route to infamy and riches chosen by Eustace Folville and his five brothers.

The church at Teigh were Richard Folville was murdered

The gang’s organisation was not dissimilar to any other business. There was a hierarchy headed by the top man, Eustace, division of labour, recruitment program, maintainers, and laws. Some of the brothers held public office. Richard was the rector of Teigh and the only one to suffer for the gang’s crimes. A local justice of the peace and his officers entered the church, dragged him into the churchyard and beheaded him. Pope Clement ordered the guilty parties to do penance for killing a priest, which involved a whipping at the major churches in the area.

The Folville cross marks the place where
Roger Bellers was murdered

When they were not committing crimes on their own behalf the Folvilles were often hired by other men of rank to commit robbery, extortion and murder. They appear to have been hired by members of Sempringham Priory and Haverholm Abbey. One of their most notable crimes was the murder of the corrupt Roger Bellers, a Baron of the Exchequer, who was said to be a henchman of the infamous Hugh Despenser. Arrest warrants were issued naming, among others, four of the brothers.

Some of the fugitives, including Eustace, fled to France where they joined Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. When the Queen led an invasion to rid the kingdom of Hugh Despenser, it’s likely the Folvilles returned with her.

The return of Isabella to England

King Edward II issued a general pardon to all who would fight for him, with the sole exceptions of Mortimer and the Folville gang. The invasion was an overwhelming success. Despenser and his father were executed and the King fell into the hands of his wife.  The Folvilles were pardoned by the new regime.

Within a few years of their return, they were up to their old tricks and indictments were issued against them. They did not appear in court to answer the charges but made off to Derbyshire where they rode openly with the Cotterel brothers.

Such reprobates were bound to come to a bad end. Right? Well, no. To start with, they really weren’t all that bad. The ones they killed were considered worse than their killers, so the common people regarded them with approval and would not bear witness against them in court, nor help the authorities to apprehend them. Eustace was seen as a hero, an enforcer of God’s law against corrupt government officials, a kind of Robin Hood.

And no, they did not come to a bad end. None of them (excluding the unlucky Richard) ever stood trial for their crimes. They were given a pardon by King Edward III in return for military service. Eustace Folville was knighted for exemplary service. He served on commissions and one of his brothers became a member of Parliament. At the end of his life, Eustace was a member of the Abbott of Croyland’s Council. A very upright citizen.

Like the Folvilles, the outlaw Cotterel gang held responsible posts at both shire and national levels, as well as attracting influential supporters. James Cotterel managed to obtain the wardship of a rich widow. Nicholas Cotterel was the bailiff of Philippa, Edward III’s queen. A notable supporter of the gang was none other than the Sheriff of Nottingham, Sir Robert Ingram. High born gentry often hired the gang to do their dirty work.

They ignored summonses to court and rampaged through the Royal Forest of the Peak. Gradually, however, Crown officers caught members of the gang until the brothers were reduced to wandering through the forest with about 20 followers. Neither of them stood trial. Nicholas was selected to lead 60 men to fight in Scotland, but he absconded with their pay and was never seen again. James, who had some kind of association with Lincoln Cathedral became a Crown administrator!

And they say crime doesn’t pay!

It’s interesting to note that these gangs and others, were most active during the latter part of the reign of Edward II, a time of unrest when the king was hugely unpopular, his greedy and unscrupulous favourite Hugh Despenser virtually ruling the country and universally hated, and fighting between barons and King was rampant. There was little justice to be had at such times and the poor people suffered.

Why did they, and other gangs, manage to stay at large for so long – and in some cases, for the rest of their life – when they were well-known offenders. Why were such reprobates given pardons, even though they were credited with five murders? One of the reasons is that they undoubtedly had far-reaching influence. There is a suggestion that the Folvilles were supporters of Roger Mortimer and benefited from his protection.

It wasn’t only a few of the mighty who protected them. Justices of the Peace and other law enforcement officers were dependent on local information and assistance in their operations. Given the powerful hold which the Folvilles held on Leicestershire, and the Cotterels in Derbyshire, it’s not surprising that many people wouldn’t inform on them for fear of retribution. But there was more to it than that.

The Folvilles are mentioned by William Langland in Piers Plowman, written at least forty years later and containing the first allusion to Robin Hood.

‘..and fechen it for false men

 with Folvyles law…’

‘and fix it for false men

with Folvilles law…’

The Folvilles may have been the basis for the Robin Hood legend. They certainly won the approval of the commons. The murder of Bellers, for instance, would have been cheered because he was corrupt and oppressed the poor. In many complaints against the outlaws are suggestions that they were aided and abetted by the local people. They may well have lined their own pockets and perhaps committed crimes of retribution, but it seems they also dispensed vigilante justice.

In a time of lawlessness and mayhem, it was perhaps the only form of justice the common people were able to obtain.

~~~~~~~~~~

Susan Appleyard is the author of :

Queen of Trial and Sorrow,  This Sun of York, The Remorseless Queen, The First Plantagenet, In a Gilded Cage, Dark Spirit, and The Forsaken Queen, which is available for pre-order now.

Find her on her Amazon author page

On her Blog

On Facebook

On Twitter

and on Goodreads

Behold the head of a traitor - of the sad fate of Edmund of Woodstock

by Anna Belfrage

In March of 1330, a parliament was held at Winchester. As always since 1327, the young king Edward III officially presided, but the real power lay with his regents: his mother, Queen Isabella, and her favourite & purported lover, Roger Mortimer, 1st Earl of March.

The men assembling in Winchester fell into two categories: those who supported the regents and those who didn’t. The king himself belonged among the latter, but as things stood, our seventeen-year-old king had no option but to smoulder and bear it—for now.

Among Mortimer’s more vociferous enemies were Henry of Lancaster, cousin to the king, and Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent and the king’s uncle. When the Winchester parliament opened, Edmund was not among those present. He was under arrest—for treason.

Edmund's coat of arms

Let us take a few steps back: Edmund of Woodstock was born in 1301, the second son in Edward I’s second marriage. As can be deduced from his name, he was born at the palace of Woodstock, and we can assume there was quite some rejoicing at his birth—Edward I now had three sons to safeguard his bloodline.

When Edward I died in 1307, Edmund’s half-brother, Edward II, became king. The age-gap between the new king and his much younger brothers was such that we can assume their relationship was somewhat distant—Edward was busy governing his kingdom and enjoying the freedom his new role brought with it and likely had little time for Edmund and his brother Thomas of Brotherton.

Edward I had made plans for his two younger sons, but had not followed through on them prior to dying. His intention had been to settle an earldom each on his sons, but early on in his reign Edward II decided to invest his beloved favourite Piers Gaveston with the earldom of Cornwall, which was one of the titles earmarked for his brothers. Edmund’s mother seethed, Edward likely shrugged—but as his brothers grew older he invested Thomas as Earl of Norfolk and granted Edmund sufficient land to keep the lad in style.

Edward II dining in splendid isolation

Where Thomas of Brotherton rarely emerges from the shadows in what documents we have, Edmund has left a substantial impression. He quickly proved himself a capable servant of his king, especially during those tumultuous years when Roger Mortimer and Thomas of Lancaster led the baronial revolt against Edward II in 1321-22. Edmund was in the thick of things—all the way from the initial conflict at Leeds Castle to the signing of the execution order for the captured Thomas of Lancaster.

The baronial rebellion was quashed, Mortimer was thrown in the Tower, and Edward was very pleased with his young brother, who emerged from the fray as the Earl of Kent and holder of substantial lands in the Welsh Marches. Our Edmund had every reason to be grateful to his royal brother—except, of course, that where Edmund got some land, Edward’s new favourite, Hugh Despenser, got much, much more land. In fact, so generous was the king to Hugh that he had an annual income almost four times higher than Edmund’s. Not something that pleased Edmund—or anyone else, to be honest, seeing as the English barons were getting very tired of the grasping Despenser.

In the aftermath of the baronial rebellion, Edward II, together with his trusted advisors Bishop Stapledon and Hugh Despenser, implemented what is best described as a dictatorship. Anyone suspected of colluding with the rebels risked losing everything they had, including their lives. Their paranoia increased tenfold when Mortimer managed to escape from the Tower and flee to France. Suddenly, the baronial opposition had a leader again, and the more heavy-handed Edward II and Despenser became, the more attractive the option of joining Mortimer became.

Not only did Edward manage to aggravate his barons. He also alienated his wife when he deprived Queen Isabella of her dower lands. Isabella was closer in age to Edmund than to her husband, and seeing as she was drop-dead gorgeous and Edmund was just as mouth-wateringly handsome, I imagine these two shared a common admiration for each other. Besides, they were cousins, grandchildren to Philip III of France.

At the time, being French to any degree was not an advantage in England: yet again, England and France were at war, this time over Gascony. In 1324, Edmund was sent to France to attempt a diplomatic solution, and when that failed he was put in charge of defending Gascony, an almost impossible task seeing as Edmund lacked both men and means. But he did his best, holding out until late September of 1324 before he was forced to surrender and agree to a six-month truce.

Edmund chose to remain in France. Maybe he preferred not to face his brother’s wrath at having failed him in Gascony, or maybe he was sick and tired of dancing attendance of the royal chancellor, Hugh Despenser. Whatever the case, he was in France when Isabella arrived in March of 1325, charged by her husband with the delicate task of negotiating a permanent truce between him and his French counterpart, Charles IV.

How Isabella had managed to convince Edward to entrust her with this mission is unknown, but I suppose Isabella was smart enough to hide her anger and humiliation at being deprived of all her income while promising herself she would have revenge—some day. Whatever her feelings, she successfully negotiated a treaty with her brother Charles. All Edward II had to do was to come to France and do homage for his French lands and everything would be peachy-pie.

Edward of Windsor doing homage to Charles IV with his mama at his side

Except that Edward II didn’t want to come to France—or rather, Hugh Despenser didn’t want him to go, worried that the moment the king left the country, the baronage would rise in rebellion and kill poor Hugh. Probably a correct assessment of the sentiments of the time, and apparently Edward agreed. Instead of going himself, he sent his young son and heir, Edward of Windsor. Unwittingly, he had thereby handed Isabella the weapon with which to destroy him.

Young Edward came to France, young Edward did homage, young Edward did not go straight back home as instructed by his father. Instead, he stayed with his mother, who simply could not bear to let him go. Isabella had collected several disgruntled English noblemen as her admirers, including Edmund of Woodstock. I imagine there were already whispers of invasions, of doing something to oust that despicable Despenser. When Roger Mortimer rode in to present himself to Isabella, the invasion had found its leaders: the extremely capable and ruthless combo of Isabella and Mortimer.

Edmund would likely not have been entirely thrilled at seeing Mortimer rise so rapidly in Isabella’s favour. Mortimer would not have been delighted at coming face to face with the man who’d been rewarded with Mortimer land for his efforts in putting down the rebellion of 1321. For the moment, whatever differences they had were laid aside, and to reinforce this fragile truce Edmund married Margaret Wake, Mortimer’s first cousin. By doing so, he sent a clear signal to his half-brother that he’d changed his allegiance, and in March of 1326 Edward II retaliated by stripping Edmund of all his lands and titles. (As an aside, Edmund and Margaret were to have four children, one of whom is Joan of Kent, famous for her beauty and her somewhat complicated marital life)

Isabella leading the siege at Bristol

Mortimer’s and Isabella’s invasion of England was a resounding success. Soon enough, Hugh Despenser was dead and Edward II was locked up in Kenilworth, his son crowned as Edward III in his stead. Edmund expected to be part of the inner circle that guided his young nephew, but neither Isabella nor Mortimer were all that interested in sharing their power. This did not go down well with Edmund, who was also struggling with feelings of guilt related to his deposed brother. That guilt became a crushing burden when it was announced in 1327 that their former king, Edward of Caernarvon, had died while in captivity.

In 1328, Edmund joined Henry of Lancaster’s rebellion against the regents, demanding that Mortimer be set aside in favour of the true peers of the realm. Mortimer acted with speed and determination. Edmund, knowing just how efficient Mortimer could be, abandoned Lancaster’s cause and returned to the royal fold just before Lancaster’s final humiliation.

By now, Edmund had acquired the reputation of being a weather-vane: first he’d supported his royal brother, then he’d joined Mortimer and Isabella, then he’d thrown his lot in with Lancaster only to change his colours yet again when things got sticky. Not a man to count on, one could say, even if Edmund would probably have disagreed, protesting that he’d been driven into rebellion against his brother and king by the grasping and conniving Despenser.

Whatever his reputation, Edmund was concerned with other matters: there were rumours that his brother had not died but was still alive behind the thick walls of Corfe Castle. Disenchanted with Isabella’s and Mortimer’s continued rule, Edmund chose to investigate further. One little piece here, another there, and soon enough Edmund was convinced his brother was alive. If so, what better way to right the wrongs he’d done his brother than to spring him from his prison and help him retake his throne?

This was the plot Mortimer uncovered early in 1330, his agents presenting him with a letter Edmund’s wife had written on his behalf to the imprisoned king. (In itself interesting: does this mean Edmund did not know how to write or was it a matter of penmanship?) Being somewhat gullible, Edmund had handed the sealed missive to an intermediary who’d promised to smuggle it into Corfe and hand it to the unhappy erstwhile king. Instead, the rascal gave it to Mortimer, and so Edmund was arrested and brought before parliament where his confession was read out loud.

There was only one verdict: death.

Appalled, Edmund threw himself on his nephew’s mercy, begging piteously for his life. He’d do anything—anything!—to prove his loyalty. He’d even walk all the way to London with a noose round his neck to atone for his actions. But there was nothing Edward III could do. Mortimer had seen to that, making it impossible for Edward to pardon his uncle without implicitly admitting there could be some truth in Edmund’s assertions that the former king was alive.

Whether or not Edward II was alive is, as per some historians, an open question. The men named as co-conspirators included several barons and bishops, men who would be in a position to know—and surely they’d not risk Mortimer’s displeasure for a dead man? We will never know, of course. It does, however, seem probable that Mortimer very much on purpose fed Edmund the little bits and pieces that convinced him his brother was alive, thereby luring the earl into treason. Ultimately, Mortimer’s behaviour in this matter would lead to his own death: the king, disgusted at having been duped into signing away his uncle’s life did not forgive. Or forget.

On a cold March morning in 1330, Edmund of Woodstock was led out to meet his maker. The executioner had done a runner, refusing to soil his hands with the blood of a man condemned for trying to help his brother. None of the assembled men-at-arms volunteered in his stead, neither did their captains. Poor Edmund shivered in only his shirt as the hours passed and no one was found willing to strike off his head. At long last, a condemned man undertook the task in exchange for a reprieve. The earl knelt. The axe fell. The severed head was held aloft, accompanied by the traditional cry of “behold the death of a traitor.” Usually, the crowd would cheer. This time, no one did.

All pictures in public domain and/or licensed under Wikimedia Creative Commons

~~~~~~~~~~~

Had Anna Belfrage been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing.

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. And yes, Edmund of Woodstock appears quite frequently. The first book, In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015, the second, Days of Sun and Glory, was published in July 2016, and the third, Under the Approaching Dark, was published in April 2017.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex(andra) and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him.

More about Anna on her website or on her blog!

The Life of a Queen Bee - or doing your royal duty

by Anna Belfrage

One of the things a medieval queen was expected to provide her husband with was a male heir. Plus, preferably, a spare. For a medieval king to have only female heirs caused a number of problems, primarily that of convincing the male barons to swear allegiance to a woman. Plus, from a purely dynastic perspective, whatever children the female ruler had would belong to their father’s house.

To not have male heirs was a problem Henry I of England faced. When his only (legitimate) son died in the White Ship disaster of 1120, this powerful king was left with a mere daughter as his legitimate heir. Not that Matilda was in any way a mere anything, but as per the mind-set of the times, being a woman did not exactly make her the self-evident choice as next ruler of England. Henry knew this, which was why he had his barons swear allegiance to Matilda while he was still alive. Didn’t help much, because no sooner was Henry dead, but the majority of the Anglo-Norman barons turned to Matilda’s cousin, Stephen of Blois instead.

What followed was a period known as the Anarchy, several decades of civil war that ravaged the country. No future king wanted a repeat on that. Ever.

Matilda - as per a 15th C chronicle

No matter that ultimately Matilda’s side “won”, she never became queen. Instead, the crown passed from Cousin Stephen to her son, Henry II, a vigorous young man whom the nobles gladly acclaimed. Henry wasn’t about to risk ending up in the same pickle as his grandfather. Once wed to Eleanor of Aquitaine – several years his senior, and judged incapable of producing a son for her first husband, king Louis of France – they did some serious begetting which resulted in many sons. Too many, one could say, as all those haughty young princes were soon to become Henry II’s major headache – and heartache. But at least he didn’t leave his vast lands without a male heir: upon his death, Richard Lionheart was ready to take over. When Richard died, baby brother John picked up the pieces, rid himself permanently of the competition in the form of his nephew Arthur, and settled down to rule – and beget heirs of his own.

By the time John’s grandson Edward was old enough to wed, the Plantagenet kings had established themselves firmly on the English throne, the crown passing safely from father to son. Edward was only fifteen when he married Eleanor of Castile in 1254, and as always when it came to royalty, this wedding had a political purpose at heart – in this case, to keep Alfonso X of Castile from invading Gascony.

Edward & Eleanor - not the most flattering
of likenesses

The happy couple only met a few days before being married. He was already inordinately tall – if lacking in bulk, I imagine. She was not quite thirteen. Was she fair? Dark? No idea. She did, however, come with a good pedigree. Her mother, Jeanne de Dammartin, had once been considered by Henry III as a wife for himself, but due to political reasons this was not to be. Instead, Jeanne was wed to Fernando III of Castile (the future St Fernando) as his second wife. With her husband came an entire brood of step-children, first and foremost the future Alfonso X of Castile.

Eleanor not only had a saint for a father, but also had Plantagenet blood, in that her great-grandmother was Henry III’s aunt, Eleanor of England, who wed Alfonso VIII. (I know: it does get a bit complicated with all these Eleanors and Alfonsos). Plus – and this was a major point in her favour – she came from a notably fertile family. Her mother had given Fernando five children, four of whom were sons. Her paternal grandmother, Berenguela, had produced five children during seven years of marriage. And as to Eleanor of England, well she had presented her husband with twelve children – one every other year or so. However, very few of the sons survived – in fact, once the youngest was killed by a falling tile, the Castilian crown passed through Berenguela to Fernando. (Berenguela was wise enough to understand the Castilian nobles would not accept her as queen – but they readily accepted her son as king.)

Anyway, with all these fertile females up Eleanor of Castile's family tree, no one was particularly worried about the mandatory male heir. In the fullness of time, Edward’s new wife would surely present him with a healthy, squalling son.

The young couple seem to have taken an immediate liking to one another. This resulted in a stillborn (or dead shortly after its birth) baby in 1255, the first of sixteen (at least fourteen) children. At the time, Eleanor was not yet fourteen, so I imagine this was a traumatic experience. There was a gap of some years – years in which the affection and love between Edward and Eleanor grew, making them almost inseparable. Whether or not there were miscarriages, we don’t know. I hold it likely: Edward and Eleanor not only liked each other but also desperately needed to produce an heir. Besides, throughout their marriage, Eleanor did not seem to have a problem conceiving – it was more a matter of the viability of the children she gave birth to.

There was probably quite some rejoicing and relief when, in 1261, Edward and Eleanor welcomed a daughter, Katherine, into this world. Their joy was short-lived. Little Katherine died at three, and one year later, in 1265, Eleanor was delivered of yet another daughter, Joanna, who died some months later. I imagine that by now, Eleanor and Edward were beginning to become quite concerned. More than ten years married, and no living children – that did not bode well.

Fortunately, in 1266, little John arrived, and he was miraculously healthy. Prayers of gratitude rang in the royal solar, even more so when in 1268 yet another son, Henry, saw the light of the day. Two boys, albeit that little Henry was sickly.  To round things off, a healthy daughter, Eleanor, was born in 1269.

Edward I

In 1270, Edward took the cross. As a matter of course, Eleanor decided to accompany him, leaving her babies in the care of their grandmother and, in the case of the precious heir, their great-uncle. In 1271, there was a stillborn child. In 1272, while in Palestine, Edward and Eleanor welcomed yet another daughter, Joan. By then, they would have heard that their son John had died and what little joy they experienced at the birth of their daughter soured into fear when Edward was almost murdered. Clearly, they weren’t welcome in the Holy Land, and they set off for home. On the way, they learnt Henry III was dead. Edward was now king, and the pressing matter of a male heir became even more pressing – little Henry was not expected to live long.

In 1273, son number three, Alphonso, was born. A fine, lusty son, and Eleanor must have wept in relief. It was therefore with great happiness Edward and Eleanor celebrated their coronation in 1274. By then, they’d been married almost twenty years, and even if little Henry died some months later, they did have their lovely Alphonso – and two healthy little girls. Does not seem much, given that Eleanor had carried nine babies to full term. Nine. As she was only thirty-three, she could look forward to several more pregnancies. I wonder if there were times when this thought filled her with trepidation.

1275, 1276, 1277, 1279 – four pregnancies, four births, resulting in four little girls of whom two died. But at least Alphonso, this apple of his parents’ eyes, still thrived.

1281 – a little boy came and went like a shadow in the night. But still, they had Alphonso.

1282 – Elizabeth of Rhuddlan was born. A healthy child, and now there were five daughters – plus the precious Alphonso.

In April of 1284, a heavily pregnant Eleanor accompanied her husband to Wales. And there, in the building site that was Caernarvon Castle, Eleanor was delivered of a boy. A boy! Yes, a miracle baby, a strong little prince, and Eleanor smiled and wept as she presented her husband with the much-desired spare. And as to Alphonso, their sweet son was now old enough to wed, and a marriage had been arranged for him with Margaret, daughter of the Count of Holland. For a little while there, everything was perfect in the Eleanor-Edward household. Until Alphonso fell ill, dying in August of 1284.

Alphonso

Alphonso lived the longest of all those children who died. Long enough for his parents to pin hopes on him, long enough to grow from an anonymous baby into an adored boy. And then, just like that, he died.  It must have been utterly devastating. Yes, they had Prince Edward, but both Eleanor and Edward knew just what frail things children were – after all, with Alphonso they buried a tenth child.

Eleanor was not to have any more children. After sixteen births, I guess she was worn out, and besides, her health was failing. So all hopes for a surviving male heir now rested on baby Edward, and even if he was a robust child, there were concerns that he too would die young. On a daily basis, Eleanor did not see much of her youngest son. In fact, she rarely saw much of any of her children, seeing as she was always travelling from one place to the other.

Judging by moral standards, this behaviour does not make a good mother. After all, we expect mothers to spend time with their children. As per the standards of her time, Eleanor was a conscientious mother, ensuring her children were in good, competent hands and lived relatively stable lives while she accompanied her husband from one end of his kingdom to the other. Did she love her children? I’d say yes – as much as she dared to, given all those losses. But no matter that she loved them, she loved her husband much, much, more. It was with him she wanted to be, it was at his side she belonged, as his loyal and supporting spouse. And he, I believe, agreed.

Edward I with Prince Edward

In 1290, Eleanor died. Edward was numb with grief – so much so that for three whole days all royal business was suspended. But life goes on, and Edward had a duty to the crown – and his dynasty – to ensure there was more than one little boy in line to the throne. So in 1299, Edward married a second wife, the pretty and vivacious sister of the king of France. At the time, he was sixty and she was twenty – and fertile enough to present him with two beautiful and healthy sons.

In the event, these little spares would not be needed. In 1307, Eleanor’s lastborn, Edward of Caernarvon, became king after his father. I daresay she would have been mightily pleased. She had done her duty – she had birthed the next king.

Eleanor's life consisted of more than having babies - much more. In fact, this is an intriguing lady who surprisingly often surfs just under the radar, despite building up a considerable real estate fortune and being a proactive member of Edward's court. But that side of her will have to wait for another day, another post.

All pictures in public domain and/or licensed under Wikimedia Creative Commons

~~~~~~~~~~~

Had Anna been allowed to choose, she’d have become a professional time-traveller. As such a profession does not exist, she became a financial professional with two absorbing interests, namely history and writing.

Presently, Anna is hard at work with The King’s Greatest Enemy, a series set in the 1320s featuring Adam de Guirande, his wife Kit, and their adventures and misfortunes in connection with Roger Mortimer’s rise to power. The first book, In The Shadow of the Storm was published in 2015, the second, Days of Sun and Glory, was published in July 2016.

When Anna is not stuck in the 14th century, she's probably visiting in the 17th century, specifically with Alex(andra) and Matthew Graham, the protagonists of the acclaimed The Graham Saga. This is the story of two people who should never have met – not when she was born three centuries after him.

More about Anna on her website or on her blog!