Parliament in the Middle Ages

by Susan Appleyard

Parliament was the feeble offspring of the Magna Carta. ‘No taxation without representation.’ That was the slogan of a later age and a different country, but it serves here. Magna Carta was forced on King John by the barons, and what the barons meant by representation was… well, themselves, plus some of the more prominent landed knights. The barons were serving the commonwealth of the realm which was… well, themselves.

Nevertheless the weakling child that had been born in a meadow near Runnymede, despite lack of nurturing, survived and was given an infusion of vitality in 1265 by Simon de Montfort.

Simon de Montfort

His father of the same name was the one who did such sterling service for the Catholic Church during the Albigensian campaign. De Montfort junior is credited with being the Founder of Parliament, but his motives were far from altruistic. He was a rebel who seized power from King Henry III after his victory at the battle of Lewes. But his position was tenuous. To gather more support for his cause, he summoned burgesses from all the major towns, as well as the barons and knights who had previously counseled the king. It was the creation of a new limb: the Commons.

Under Henry’s son, Edward I, the calling of parliament became a more frequent event. In the thirty-five years of his reign, parliament was summoned no less than forty-six times. Nor was Edward’s motive altruistic. He needed money to pursue his Welsh and Scottish wars. The Commons had not yet learned that they could say ‘No, Sire,’ or perhaps they were a little overawed by him, but they did soon learn that if they voted the King money they could get something in return.

16th-century illustration of Edward I 

presiding over Parliament 

To summon parliament writs were sent out from the chancery instructing the sheriffs of each county to hold a county court for the election. Freemen who owned freehold land worth 40 shillings a year could vote. Two knights of the shire were elected from the thirty-seven counties in England, and two burgesses were elected from every town that had the right to send members to parliament enshrined in its charter, as many as two hundred and twenty-two.

Inevitably there were abuses and fights aplenty. A man who thought he had a good chance of being elected and took along some friends for support would swiftly change his mind when he arrived and found the door blocked by a rival who had even more friends. In 1362 deputies of the sheriff of Lancaster returned themselves without consulting the constituents.

John Paston got into a fight at the shire house with the sheriff, Sir John Howard, and was twice struck by a dagger. Members were supposed to live in the borough, but sometimes nobles and knights would invade a town, bringing along their own candidate and forcing the voters to elect him. Or a local baron would send along his thugs to make sure the candidate who best supported his interests was elected. Some of the great nobles didn’t have to resort to strong-arm tactics; they simply let their wishes be known, and it was done. These practices were particularly prevalent during the War of the Roses.

The money was good: four shillings a day for the knights; two shillings for the burgesses. Not bad when the average daily wage for a peasant was two pennies. The financial burden fell on the shires and the boroughs.


By the late middle-ages the Commons had won some clout. They made laws and they made kings. And they unmade some kings too.

For more information visit:
http://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/evolutionofparliament/originsofparliament/birthofparliament/

http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/middle_ages/birth_of_parliament_01.shtml


This Editor's Choice from the EHFA Archives was originally published on May 24, 2015.
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Susan Appleyard is the author of numerous work of historical fiction. Her latest release is Bonfire of the Perfect: The Albigensian Crusade. See all Susan's works at Amazon.

Connect with Susan
Blog: https://susanappleyardwriter.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/susan.appleyard.9
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Mexisue1

The Prisoner of Dolbadarn

By Annie Whitehead

Last time, I talked about the hidden history to be found along the trails in Padarn Country Park. It seemed that every time there was a clearing through the trees which offered a view, I could see Dolbadarn Castle in the distance. During my stay in Llanberis, most of my walks started from the castle, which is in the grounds of the Royal Victoria Hotel where I was staying.

Dolbadarn (stress on the middle syllable) is an imposing ruin and is notable for being a Welsh Castle. Yes, of course, you might be thinking; it’s a castle in Wales so it’s a Welsh castle, obviously! But what I mean is that this is not one of the ‘Iron Ring’ castles built by Edward I when he subjugated the Welsh, nor is it one which he remodelled - unlike, say, Rhuddlan where he even altered the water course.

Dolbadarn was built by a native prince, Llewelyn Fawr, ruler of Gwynedd, probably in around the 1230s. The very fact that however far I walked - up to ten miles most days - I could almost always see the castle, just shows what a good site he chose, and how imposing it would have been.

Situated at the tip of Llyn Padarn (Lake Padarn), it was built to protect the route from north to south. No one was getting through without being seen. Like another Welsh castle, Dolwyddelan, it appears that the entrance to the castle was on the first floor, (or second floor, for US readers) as seen here, but originally access might have been provided by a moveable wooden ladder which, when taken away, would make it hard to get inside.

Despite the fact that today it nestles in one of the most popular tourist areas, only a short walk from the foot of Mount Snowdon and the National Welsh Slate Museum, on many of my frequent visits I had the place to myself. Although of course when it was garrisoned, there would have been a lot of soldiers there, still one can have a sense of isolation, even today.

So how must it have been for the man who spent twenty years imprisoned here?

Although the castle was built by Llewelyn Fawr (Fawr means ‘great’), it was his descendants who created the ‘human’ story of this place. Despite being married to King John’s natural daughter, Joan, Llewelyn Fawr had an uneasy relationship with the king of England. Not much changed with the next generations. The Welsh were fighting for their independence, but unfortunately they were fighting each other, too.

Llewelyn with Gruffudd & Dafydd

There were separate Welsh ‘kingdoms’ which Llewelyn Fawr had, during the course of his reign, managed to incorporate into his sphere of authority. The trouble was that Welsh laws of inheritance meant that lands were divided amongst brothers, which led to fraternal discord.

Llewelyn Fawr had a son Gruffudd, who was not the son of princess Joan, but the product of an earlier liaison. Joan gave birth to a son named Dafydd. To cut a long and complicated story relatively short, Dafydd was the one who succeeded his father and Gruffudd was imprisoned, along with his son, at another Welsh castle, Criccieth. The prisoners were then handed over to King John’s successor, Henry III and incarcerated in the Tower of London. Famously, Gruffudd attempted to escape, but fell and broke his neck.

Gruffudd falls from the
tower

The son who was imprisoned with him was called Owain, known as Owain Goch (Goch means red, so presumably he was a redhead). War broke out between Dafydd of Gwynedd and Henry of England, who no longer had the prisoner Gruffudd as leverage. When his Uncle Dafydd died without issue, it was not Owain, however, who succeeded.

Gruffudd had three other sons besides Owain and it was Owain’s younger brother, another Llewelyn, who was able to take control. Brotherly love was conspicuous by its absence. Of the four brothers, Rhodri, who might have been the youngest, played less of a part in the fighting between England and Wales and, indeed, between the Welsh siblings.

Owain, and another Dafydd, the fourth brother, were more prominent. Dafydd was often a thorn in Llewelyn’s side, sometimes fighting alongside him, sometimes throwing in his lot with the English.

To begin with, though, Llewelyn and Owain were allies. When their Uncle Dafydd died childless, technically the king had a legal claim to Gwynedd. Henry tried to stir up support for Owain, but Owain, held at Chester at this point, managed to evade his captors, fleeing into Wales, and catching up with his brother where the two were able to put up a united front.

They had to come to terms with the English, though, and the Treaty of Woodstock in 1247 saw Llewelyn and Owain forced to agree to Henry’s conditions. As has been pointed out by Michael Senior, the very fact that the brothers ‘had to arrange to meet [there], and under the auspices of a neighbouring king, implies that they were not that close.’ Had they already begun to argue? They controlled only a small part of their grandfather’s old kingdom, but seem at first to have managed to work together, forming alliances with neighbouring princes.

However, when Dafydd, their younger brother, came of age he ingratiated himself with the English king, paying homage to him and receiving land in return. His share was not as great as that controlled by his brothers though and he wasn’t especially happy about it. Owain took his side, happy for Dafydd to have a greater stake in Gwynedd. Llewelyn was not so well-disposed to the idea.

Now, brother fought brothers. At the battle of Bryn Derwin in June 1255, Llewelyn took on Owain and Dafydd, and won. He then went on to breach the terms of the Treaty of Woodstock, retaking the Perfeddwlad, an area of Gwynedd which had been under Henry’s control.

Thereafter, Llewelyn’s story became inextricably linked to that of Simon de Montfort - he married Simon’s daughter - and the fighting with King Henry’s son Edward which eventually saw the deaths of both Llewelyn and, fighting at that point on Llewelyn’s side, Dafydd, too.

But what of Owain Goch? The brothers initially worked together to control the lands confirmed by the Treaty of Woodstock, but when Dafydd came of age, bent the knee to the English and received land in return, Llewelyn got cross, and Owain did not support him. The battle of Bryn Derwin apparently lasted only an hour or so, and Llewelyn emerged the victor. Both of his brothers were then imprisoned. Dafydd was released not long after, but Owain was not so lucky.

The Brut y Tywysogion (Chronicle of the Princes) describes the fight: "Llywelyn and his men, trusting in God, awaited, unafraid on Bryn Derwin the fierce coming of his brothers, and a mighty host along with them. And before the end of one hour Owain Goch was captured and Dafydd fled, after many of his host had been slain."

Owain remained a prisoner until 1277. Not everyone agrees that he was incarcerated at Dolbadarn, but it is generally assumed that this was where he spent his years as a prisoner. The sixteenth-century antiquarian John Leland believed he had been held in a tower, and the thirteenth-century court poet, Hywel Foel ap Griffri ap Pwyll Wyddel, described how the prisoner was kept in a tower as a ‘guest’ for a long time: "Gŵr ysydd yn nhŵr yn hir westai." Surely this was the tower?

Imprisoned first with his father in 1239 at Criccieth, then again at the Tower of London, and now in the stronghold at the head of Llyn Padarn; Owain must have wondered at his ill-fortune. He was released under the terms of the Treaty of Aberconwy, in 1277, when Llewelyn was forced to submit to Edward I at Rhuddlan. By the terms of the treaty, Llewelyn was allowed to retain the title of Prince of Wales, but he was no longer an overlord, although he was now finally able to meet and formally marry his bride, Eleanor de Montfort. Perhaps all might have been peaceful, had Dafydd not risen up and attacked Hawarden Castle and provoked Edward's ire. Perhaps Llewelyn might have stayed out of things had his wife not died in childbirth. The attack on Hawarden occurred in March, 1282, on Palm Sunday. Things 'escalated quickly', and were not destined to end well for these two brothers.

What did Owain make of it? After he was released, he lived quietly on his estates and is believed to have lived until around 1282. Long enough to see his brother seemingly triumphant over the hated English king? Or a little longer, enough to learn that Llewelyn, apparently betrayed, lost his head in an ambush in Powys?

Standing at the foot of this imposing castle, on a quiet sunny evening, I couldn’t suppress a shiver. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, but it is bleak too. How must it have felt, to be a prisoner here for over twenty years? How much would it have worsened the suffering to know that one was a prisoner at the command of one’s own brother? Owain’s story does not occupy much space in the books about Welsh history. Most of it, after all, was spent here in this tower. But it’s certainly a story worth thinking about, if we want to think, write, and learn about the human stories which lie in hiding amongst the pages of those books.

Further reading: A Time for Princes - Michael Senior
The Welsh Kings - Kari Maund
The Welsh Princes - Roger Turvey
Brut y Tywysogion - available online here

Illustrations: Public Domain images via Wikipedia - Mss from Matthew Paris
Photographs: taken by and copyright of Annie Whitehead

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Annie Whitehead is an author and historian, and a member of the Royal Historical Society. She has written three award-winning novels set in Anglo-Saxon Mercia. Her history of Mercia, from Penda the pagan king to the last brave stand of the earl of Mercia against the Conqueror, Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom, is published by Amberley. Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England is published by Pen & Sword Books. Annie has a deep and abiding love of North Wales and its rich history and takes every opportunity to visit.

Connect with Annie: Website, Facebook, Twitter, Blog, Amazon

England and France: Sibling Rivalry

By Erica Lainé

Robert and Isabelle Tombs wrote a book* - which begins in the 1600s, charting the relationship between England and France - called That Sweet Enemy, a quote from a 1591 sonnet by Sir Philip Sidney: ‘That sweet enemy, France.’ But there were quarrels, bitter and sweet, long before this.

The First Hundred Years War

The 100 Years War, lasting from 1337 to 1453, has been the subject of much in-depth research and critical analysis. Some French historians refer to an earlier period from 1154 to 1259 as the First 100 Years War. When Eleanor of Aquitaine, newly divorced from the French heir Prince Louis, married Henry of Anjou in 1152, this marriage set in train a relationship between England and France that was almost that of siblings. Henry became King of England in 1154 and ruled over that vast land mass from the borders with Scotland to the Pyrenees, with Aquitaine sitting like a very rich plum in the middle of the pie.


This did not make for an easy relaxed partnership between the two crowns.  Instead it was a relationship full of petty squabbles, some periods of savage fighting and frequent competition. The English and the French shared a feudal Christian heritage during the Middle Ages and had overlapping areas of influence, especially as the English kings, the Anglo-Angevins, tried to hold onto their lands in continental France. So a common heritage, but where they differed was in the size of the domains held and wealth and power. Their main interactions were based on trade and war.

In France the Capets held the île de France and relied on surrounding counties, Champagne, Burgundy, Blois and Flanders for support. France was not unified by allegiances to the centre or indeed by language and culture. Power was shared out among many feudal lords and some of these had very divided loyalties. From time to time each monarch tried to enlist the support of his rival’s men; local risings were stirred up against both the English and French kings. 

Further problems were caused by English nobles who held lands in France and swore loyalty to the French king but were called upon by their English overlord to fight against him. There was no unified state in the modern sense. Power was fragmented amongst this melange of feudal lords. Monarchs could not command direct authority over them; local dukes and counts or major towns owed the king, as their overlord, a duty of obedience but within their own territories they could act as independent rulers. When a king managed to get most of the big players on his side, they would support him; if not they could and frequently did rebel. Especially when they felt he or his officials were encroaching too much on their independence. 

And the problem of loyalty existed for the king himself. As English monarchs also had titles and lands within France, these possessions made them vassals to the kings of France. They had to swear fidelity to the French king as a duke of those lands, not as the King of England but as, for example the Duke of Normandy. Normandy was a huge sticking point and in May 1200, King John and Philippe Augustus signed a treaty at Le Goulet in an attempt to end the war over the duchy and to draw up new borders. Philippe now had a legal right over the English king’s lands but not over Aquitaine, which was still held by John as heir to Eleanor of Aquitaine.  

By 1202 the two kings were at loggerheads as Philippe had summoned John to answer charges brought against him by the Lusignans and John had refused to attend the court. He argued that as a king he did not need to answer such commands. Philippe replied that he summoned him as vassal duke of France and deposed him of his fiefs and went to war for Normandy. He was successful and Normandy was lost in 1204.

South West France: A Rebellious Region 

South West France from just below the Loire to the Pyrenees was not a heavily populated region. Aquitaine was a confusing collection of a dozen or so counties. Few towns of any significant size existed before 1200. But there was a growing sense of power and independence and many castles and fortified churches (which can be seen to this day) were built by forceful local lords and bishops.

Siorac de Riberac 

Who owned the Poitou? It was complicated. John seems to have agreed that it belonged to his mother and that it was hers to have and to hold forever. In May 1199 after he inherited the English crown, she ceded it to him as ‘her right heir’ and received his homage for it.  She made over to him the rights to govern and the fealty of its vassals. But one month later she also met Philippe and he had allowed her make homage to him for the Poitou, and this act formally recognised her as its lawful countess. Eleanor was determined to be the person legally responsible for the Poitou as far as the king of France was concerned. Perhaps she knew that the region would not be as loyal to her son as it was to her. The Poitevins had been described by William Marshal as ‘scheming traitors.’

Poitiers was Eleanor’s stronghold, a well-fortified town and always dominant. Further south control moved from Périgeuex to Angoulême and Thouars. Among the powerful local lords were the Lords of Lusignan and this map shows how their influence grew. 

 

Draft map - John and Erica Lainé

Their story is almost archetypical for the region. Swerving loyalties, savage raids on towns that stood out against them, grasping at charters and taxes and tolls, brutal ambushes, lies and treachery. In 1220 Hugh Lusignan married the widow of King John, Isabella of Angoulême thus binding himself to Henry III as his step-father. Except he was only loyal when it suited him. They were both happy to turn away to the French king when it didn’t and as the French could offer far more in the way of cash, betrothals and promises of more land the swerving allegiance paid well.

The Poitou was eyed by the Capets as a region they wanted under their control and King Louis VIII (who as Prince Louis had been invited, in 1215, to take the English throne at the time of the Barons’ War) decided in 1224 to ride down from Bourges and take it. Louis mopped up every Poitevin town with ease and besieged La Rochelle, which looked in vain to England for support. 

When Henry III decided to campaign in 1230 to take back the Poitou he was helped and encouraged by the Duke of Brittany, and other rebellious French lords who were intent on unseating Blanche of Castile, a formidable mother to a young King Louis IX. Henry’s campaign meandered down the Poitou to Bordeaux and back again and achieved nothing except expense and loss of life to disease, most likely malaria as the Vendée was marshy and the army marched through here in the height of the summer.  

Battle of Taillebourg:  Delacroix 1834: public domain

In 1242 Henry tried again to retake the Poitou and safeguard Gascony, his mother and step father had called on him for help as their independence was severely threatened by the Capets. They had invested King Louis’s brother Alphonse, as Count of Poitou and called for all kinds of allegiances to be sworn and homages made. This was another disastrous campaign ending in the Battle of Taillebourg, which Henry lost.  

The Poitou was now firmly part of the newly expanded France. Henry retreated to Bordeaux and was determined to hold onto Gascony and the lucrative wine trade.

 

The relationship between England and France continued to be uneasy until the Treaty of Paris in 1259. Henry III held Gascony and pockets of the Poitou and it was as Duke of Gascony and King of England that he negotiated. His resources seemed to be eternally limited though and at one stage he pawned the crown jewels to fund an expedition to put down strife in Gascony.  

Two Kingdoms: One Problem, Two Solutions 

For both the kings of France and England there was a similar difficult situation. However much they might desire to wage a major war, a king’s private income could not finance a costly war. 

The English kings’ problem was maintaining an army across the sea in France and having access to safe ports. The ports in Normandy were lost after John’s defeat. La Rochelle remained a safe haven until Louis took it, thus depriving Henry III of a landing place for easy excursions into the Poitou. Unless the Duke of Brittany was paid great sums of money, St Malo would be a place of unwelcome piracy and raids. It was a long and difficult voyage to sail down the Bay of Biscay to Royan or the mouth of the Gironde. Knights, soldiers, provisions and horses had to be carried by ship. Mercenaries had to be paid.  All of this was very expensive. 

When Henry III inherited an almost bankrupt kingdom he struggled to find money to regain those lost French lands.  A king who was now relying on contributions from the magnates and the church and who had to persuade, but not coerce them, or face rebellion.  Raising money for warfare by imposing a new tax meant asking a nascent parliament for agreement.  Often the council was reluctant to do so, unless they were convinced that the war was of benefit to them, and held out for concessions. Gradually this became how the king and his circle, the king and the magnates conducted policy. It had all the ingredients to make for a belligerent and acrimonious relationship. This tussle led to the beginnings of a political system where the centres of power, nobles, the Church, the king and his advisers would determine their differences in the context of parliament. 

In France the problem was in reverse. The campaigns were fought on its soil and the towns and villages and people suffered. It became easier for French kings to justify taxes to raise armies and maintain them, even if lords and knights would only give their 40 days of service before returning home. The king asked for aid and it was very rarely refused. Louis IX had a healthy annual revenue of between £200,000 and £250,000 parisi. During his reign the monetary system in France consolidated and stabilised. His father and grandfather had been prudent and managed to have sons who did not quarrel within the family or turn against them. 

Taxes were collected year after year without there necessarily being a war to justify the imposition and without the necessity for an assenting vote. The church and the French kings also tended to be in agreement most of the time, which kept the balance of power firmly with the king. 

The several wars that made up the First 100 years War and The 100 Years War paved the way for the French kings to build a very central and absolute monarchy. 

Two Kings, Two Systems

In each situation these years of war, helped to shift both England and France onto a new path. In France, instead of various magnates controlling large, almost princedoms within the borders, there was now a sense of greater unity. The king did not rule only because of their support and consent. His power extended throughout the realm, and this began in the late 1220s. The concept of a sovereign king rather than a suzerain or feudal overlord was born and France was becoming a nation–state. But always with the king and his officials firmly holding centre stage. 

The concept of an English nationality became more apparent now that the English were expelled from France. Borders were more defined; possessions on the continent were no more. Loyalty was more straightforward. And so strong central government came about in England too, but here it was a partnership between king and parliament. In 1236 the term parliament was recorded for the first time. A new term for something that was often fractious and inconsistent. But it described the assemblies and councils held by the Anglo-Saxons and which had existed for many centuries. Now it evolved again. 

This article began with a quote from the 16th century and it ends with one from the 15th. Sir John Fortescue, a Chief Justice of the King's Bench, reflected that the king of France could rule his people by such laws as he made himself and set taxes without their assent. The king of England by contrast could not rule his people 'by laws other than those the people had assented to'. 

[*Tombs, Robert and Tombs, Isabelle, That Sweet Enemy: Britain and France: The History of a Love-Hate Relationship, Vintage 2008]

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Erica Lainé has been an actress, a beauty consultant, a box office manager for an arts festival, a domiciliary librarian, a reader liaison officer, a speech and drama teacher, a writer of TEFL textbooks for Chinese primary schools, and an educational project manager for the British Council in Hong Kong. She was awarded an MBE for her work there. 

After Hong Kong she came to south west France with her architect husband to live in the house he had designed, a conversion from a cottage and barn. She is president of An Aquitaine Historical Society and through this came to know about Isabella Taillefer, the subject of her trilogy. Isabella of Angoulême: The Tangled Queen.

https://www.facebook.com/ericalaineauthor

https://www.facebook.com/An-Aquitaine-Historical-Society-952885338058987/

https://ericalainewriter.com/

https://twitter.com/LaineEleslaine

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Isabella-Angoulême-Erica-Lainé/dp/1781324573/

Giving it and taking it back - the complicated case of Whilton manor

by Anna Belfrage

In 1264, William de Whelton faced something of a conundrum. He wasn’t alone. England was at war, on the one side Simon de Montfort seemed to be carrying the day, on the other King Henry III and his son, the future Edward I, claimed hereditary right to rule. In between were all those men who were fast approaching a point at which they had to choose sides. Sitting on the fence was not an option, not when the rattling of swords and lances clearly proclaimed the conflict was about to turn bloody. Very bloody.

William lived in Northamptonshire. He was the proud owner of four manors which in this case made sitting things out even more of an impossibility. He was simply too important to be allowed to remain neutral. In William’s region, the flamboyant Earl of Leicester threw the longest shadow and to stand in opposition against de Montfort while surrounded by his allies would likely have resulted in a very short lifespan. Plus, it is probable William agreed with the Provisions of Oxford—even saw Simon as something of a refreshing counterbalance to the weak king, so dominated by his French half-siblings and his wife’s Savoyard kinsmen.

To choose wrongly came at a price. Whoever ended up on the losing side could say bye-bye to whatever manors they might have had. This may be the reason behind William’s decision regarding his manor at Whilton. Maybe he was hoping to safeguard something for the future by granting the manor to his second son. Or maybe it was as simple as William wanting Nicholas de Whelton to have his own land and by granting him the manor in his own lifetime he could bypass the laws of inheritance that would otherwise have seen all his belongings pass to his eldest son.

To ensure his second son had property was also a way to facilitate Nicholas’ search for a bride. At the time, Nicholas had found a bride and as Joyce la Zouche came from a powerful family I imagine her father would have insisted on Nicholas having something to his name so as to safeguard Joyce’s future dower income should Nicholas predecease her.

Whatever the case, in 1264 William undertook a number of actions whereby he transferred ownership of Whilton to Nicholas. In return, Nicholas granted William full rights of usage for the rest of William’s life, i.e. any incomes deriving from the manor would still end up in William’s purse. But formally the manor would belong to Nicholas. Well, it would do once Nicholas had taken seisin of it.

To take possession of land—delivery of seisin—was a rather formal affair. Not so that it required a lot of written documentation. No, delivery of seisin was all about actively doing a number of things. In view of future events, a written document would not have been a bad idea, but in 1264 William saw no reason to have his clerk put quill to parchment. After all, he knew exactly what the next steps were.

First of all, William had to visibly transfer ownership. This was done by a ritual whereby William led Nicholas up to the main entrance of the manor and placed his hand on the door hasp, thereby “giving” him the door and all the contents within. Then he presented Nicholas with a branch of a fruit tree to show that Nicholas now had the right to make use of everything that grew on the manor. Finally, once he’d done this, William waved “bye-bye” to his son (and Joyce, one presumes) and left Nicholas to formally take possession.

Taking possession in this case meant Nicholas remained at Whilton for two weeks or so, very much behaving like the lord of the manor. He burned wood, he took oaths of fealty from the tenants and did some fishing—all of this to show he was entitled to use the land as he saw fit.

Two weeks later, William returned and now it was Nicholas’ turn to grant the manor back to his father for life. After all this seisin stuff the manor was formally Nicholas’ and once William was dead the full use of the manor would revert to Nicholas, not to big brother Roger who, according to the laws of primogeniture that were applied to everything to do with land, otherwise would inherit. As an aside, it is interesting to note that William could never have written a will in which he left one of his manors to Nicholas as this would never have been recognised as a valid transfer of land, not when there was an older brother. But gifting land in your own lifetime was okay.

Anyway: to really seal the deal William then persuaded his eldest son Roger de Whelton to sign a quitclaim, a document in which he accepted his father’s gift to his younger brother. After all this, Nicholas was now safely in possession of Whilton—well, so one would think.

All William’s careful planning proved totally futile after August 1265. At the Battle of Evesham Simon de Montfort was killed and all those fighting for him were branded rebels, their lands forfeited. William and his sons had been fighting for Simon and so the de Whelton family suddenly found themselves without any manors at all. A most dire situation and had it not been for the fact that they were not exactly alone—many, many were the men of noble birth who were suddenly rendered destitute, thereby becoming a potentially dangerous and destabilising influence on society—this story would have ended there.

However, eager to bring peace and stability to his realm, King Henry approved the Dictum of Kenilworth. This allowed for the rebels to buy back their lands with a hefty fine. Yes, things would be tight for some years, but most who could leapt at the opportunity. So did those who did not have the money at the ready but hoped to somehow finance the repurchase of their hereditary lands. Among them was William. Not among them was Nicholas, who had sadly passed away, leaving a young widow and a very young daughter.

Oh, dear. Suddenly, gifting Whilton to Nicholas appeared a very, very bad idea. William never expected his son to die that young—or to leave an infant girl as his heir. This was all very bad for the de Whelton family as Nicholas’ widow, Joyce, could claim a third of the income from the manor for life. And as to baby Felicia, well she was now the ward of William’s overlord (although the lord in this case was a lady) and her two-thirds of the income would end up in the hands of said lord. Instead of setting his son up for life, William had managed to lose control over 25% of his total income.
If we’re going to be correct, at the time Whilton was still under attainder as William had not managed to raise the money to cover the fine. This, however, was just a temporary setback. The gifting of Whilton was a much more permanent setback. The future of the de Whelton family now depended on whether the gift was valid yes or no.

Joan de Stuteville was the overlord of Whilton and thereby automatically became Felicia’s guardian. The baby was whisked away to be raised in Joan’s household and Joyce returned to her father, there to prepare for her next marriage. She was young, she was fertile and in possession of an annual income of 8 pounds or so from Whilton—assuming the gifting of the manor to Nicholas was considered legal.

Joan de Stuteville was all for upholding the gift. After all, this gave her access to Felicia’s inheritance for well over a decade.

In all this upheaval, William de Whelton died, still without having paid the fine. It fell to his eldest son, Roger, to finalise these matters. Roger was short of money and when Joyce’s father approached him with a plan, he therefore listened.

William la Zouche was determined to do his best for his recently widowed daughter. In this case this meant negotiating a good second marriage for her and to do so it would help if Joyce brought a nice chunk of property to her new husband.

La Zouche’s plan was simple: Roger was to claim his father’s grant to Nicholas was invalid. Thereby, Whilton reverted to Roger. La Zouche would lend him the money Roger required to pay the fine and in turn Roger would name William la Zouche his heir for Whilton—and for his other three manors. Effectively, la Zouche was cheating little Felicia out of her inheritance to boost his daughter’s marital prospects. He sugar-coated the offer by throwing in some land which would pass from Roger to “heirs of his body.” If no such heirs existed, this land would revert to la Zouche.

All very complicated, isn’t it? The end result was that Joyce became quite the catch. She’d bring four manors to her future husband rather than a paltry eight pounds a year. Roger would be able to pay the fine, end up with some land and have use of the manors for his life. Felicia would be left disinherited and dependent on the goodwill of her relatives. In view of how they were all acting—her maternal grandfather, her paternal uncle, even her mother—this was not a good thing for Felicia.

One major hurdle remained for Roger. He had to prove his father’s grant of Whilton was invalid. To do so, he examined just what decisions Nicholas took during those fifteen days in which he’d been in possession of Whilton prior to re-granting it to William. Turns out burning wood and taking oaths was not enough. Nicholas should have ordered a field to be ploughed or had a pig slaughtered or fired the reeve. Nicholas did none of this. Had he lived it would never have mattered. Now, however, he was as dead as a rock and the one paying the price for his ploughing negligence was his little daughter.

For years, the dispute was brought before various assizes and juries. The fact that Roger had signed a quitclaim was neither here nor there—unless Nicholas had properly taken possession, the document was irrelevant. For years, Felicia’s guardian defended the rights of her ward against Felicia’s family and stepfather.

In 1273, Joyce remarried. Her new groom was Robert de Mortimer and he was determined to see his wife recognised as heir to those four manors. After all, he hoped she would give him a son, a boy to inherit those nice, fat livings. At the time, Felicia (well, her guardian, seeing as Felicia was at most eight) was in possession of Whilton. Some months later, her representatives were ejected by the Mortimers who now claimed they had seisin of the manor.

The Court of Common Pleas

Once again, the case was dragged before the assizes. One judge gave Felicia the right of it, another ruled in Joyce’s favour. Somewhere along the lines this had become a mother-daughter fight, something which must have soured their relationship permanently. Back and forth went the rulings until, in 1280, the courts handed down a final verdict: Roger de Mortimer and his wife Joyce were to be considered rightful owner of Whilton. Felicia had lost it all: her father, her lands and, one assumes, her mother—and all because her father had been somewhat remiss in claiming possession.

Things did not end here. Once Felicia married, her husband was as determined as de Mortimer to get his hands on Whilton. What then followed is probably the longest ever land dispute in English history, stretching all the way from 1264 to 1380. Along the way a wife would poison her husband, cousins would marry cousins and one judge after the other would be presented with a case where the stack of documents grew into a huge tottering pile. How it all ended? Well, I am happy to report Felicia’s descendants won out—but that, I think, is the subject for a future post.

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.

Roger Godberd of Swannington

by Chris Thorndycroft

In my previous post on a possible historical basis for the Robin Hood legend, I looked at Robert Hood of Wakefield; a man with the right name who lived in the right period within an arrow’s flight of Barnsdale (the main stomping ground of Robin Hood in the ballads). But there was one other figure of an earlier generation who, despite his name bearing no resemblance to Robin Hood, lived a life with several striking parallels to England’s famous outlaw.

Roger Godberd hailed from Swannington in Leicestershire and the records of his life come from a number of court rolls. Several people have tried to construct his biography from these tantalising scraps but the most readable is David Baldwin’s(1).

The first mention of Godberd is in 1250 where he makes a complaint that his mother and stepfather cut down sixty oaks on his land. He is noted as being underage at this time which would make his year of birth 1229 at the earliest. He appears to have later had a daughter called Diva who is mentioned in a court case in 1258 over disputed land.

Swannington was part of the manor of Whitwick until it became a manor in its own right in more recent times. There is evidence of a moated hall north of the village dating to the 12th century. Godberd appeared to be in charge of Swannington by 1259 as he is recorded handing it over to Jordan le Fleming for a period of ten years but then forcibly booting him off it a year later.

Godberd was a tenant of Robert de Ferrers, the 6th Earl of Derby. De Ferrers – a hot-headed and quarrelsome man – came of age in 1260 and immediately began a campaign to take back his lands which had been held in wardship by the Lord Edward (Longshanks, later to become Edward I, the ‘Hammer of the Scots’). One of these properties was Nottingham Castle of which Roger Godberd was a member of the garrison.

Roger seems to have run into some legal trouble during his time at Nottingham as a record included in The Sherwood Forest Book (a collection of legal documents from various sources) tells of an episode in 1264 where Roger and several companions are accused of poaching deer in Sherwood Forest(2). That this accusation arose in 1287 – twenty-three years after the fact – is perhaps indicative of the efficiency of the medieval judicial system.

The delay may have been partly caused by the outbreak of the Second Barons’ War; a civil war in which the barons, under Simon de Montfort, attempted to establish a parliament more sympathetic to their demands. Robert de Ferrers threw himself into the conflict but was more interested in pursuing his personal vendetta against the Lord Edward than supporting the baronial cause. He ultimately missed out on the Battle of Lewes which saw the barons’ victory over King Henry III.

With the king and the Lord Edward under house arrest, Simon de Montfort became ruler of England in all but name. But while squabbling broke out amongst his supporters, Edward escaped custody and rallied an army to his father’s cause. The resulting slaughter at the Battle of Evesham spelled the end for de Montfort’s movement (not to mention his life) and his followers found themselves disinherited.

The ruins of Kenilworth Castle; once one of England's strongest medieval
fortifications and the site of one of the longest sieges in English history

Pockets of resistance held out; rebels entrenched themselves on the Isle of Axholme in Lincolnshire and at Kenilworth Castle which endured one of the longest sieges in English history. Roger Godberd was apparently financially desperate and appears in the Close Rolls of 1266 for forcing the Abbot of Garendon to hand over the charters for the lands he had leased the abbey.

In October, 1266, Godberd was granted safe passage to attend the Dictum of Kenilworth; the king’s offer to the rebels to buy back their lands at rates according to their level of involvement in de Montfort’s rebellion. Eventually pardoned, Godberd appears to have moved north to begin a life of crime with his brother Geoffrey and others.

When he was finally brought to trial in 1276, the charges against him vary from burglary, homicide, arson and robbery in Leicester, Nottinghamshire and Wiltshire, the most heinous of which was the robbery of the monks of Stanley Abbey in 1270, one of whom was killed.

Reginald de Grey, Justice of Chester, was given money from Nottingham, Leicester and Derby to raise an army to hunt down the outlaws who were running rampant in those counties. De Gray had recently held the position of High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests (Nottingham didn’t get its own sheriff until 1449). Interestingly, de Grey was also one of the accused Sherwood poachers of 1264 alongside Roger and Geoffrey Godberd suggesting that they had previously been comrades in the Nottingham Castle garrison and now operated on opposite sides of the law.

All this about Nottingham and Sherwood may sound more like the Robin Hood of later tradition, not the outlaw of Barnsdale in the earliest ballads. But even in those stories, it is the Sheriff of Nottingham who plays the part of the chief villain despite the fact that he would have been out of his jurisdiction pursuing outlaws in Barnsdale. Not only does this suggest that there were once two separate traditions – a Nottinghamshire one and a Yorkshire one that got blended at some point – but one of the first stories of Robin Hood includes an episode that bears a striking resemblance to what Roger Godberd did next.

In the ballad A Gest of Robyn Hode, Robin and his companions befriend a knight called Sir Richard who shelters them at his castle from an assault by the Sheriff of Nottingham. The Calendar of the Close Rolls of Henry III show that a knight called Richard Foliot was accused of sheltering Godberd and his companions at his castle of Fenwick. Richard was eventually forced to hand over his castle and son Edmund to the Sheriff of Yorkshire as surety until he stood trial for harbouring outlaws.

Sherwood Forest

There is also a record (unfortunately undated) in the Hundred Rolls of Edward I showing that Godberd and a number of his followers were captured at a grange owned by Rufford Abbey in Sherwood and imprisoned at Nottingham Castle. The man who captured them was Hugh de Babington, undersheriff at this time to Walter Giffard, High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire etc. and also Archbishop of York. Another record of Godberd’s capture has Reginald de Grey take him at Hereford before conducting him to Bridgenorth. This second arrest suggests that Godberd escaped custody (possibly from Nottingham Castle itself) only to be recaptured by de Grey.

While Godberd spent the next few years in various prisons, his followers remained active. There was an attempt to rescue him from Bridgenorth and Godberd’s brother Geoffrey attacked the servants of Lucy de Grey (Reginald’s step-mother) while they were en route to Leicester.

Stays at Hereford and Chester gaols are also recorded before Godberd was incarcerated at Newgate and brought to trial at the Tower of London in 1276. Inexplicably, King Edward I pardoned him and Roger Godberd wandered off the map of history.

So, we have a rebellious outlaw operating from Sherwood, robbing the clergy and defying the sheriffs and justices. He was sheltered by a knight called Richard and eventually pardoned by a king called Edward (just as Robin was the Gest ballad). Robert Hood of Wakefield may be an interesting candidate but there is no denying Roger Godberd’s possible influence on the legend. That the ballads alternately switch between Barnsdale in Yorkshire and Sherwood in Nottinghamshire suggest there may have been more than one source for the legend. Perhaps Godberd provided one part of the tale while another outlaw in Yorkshire provided the rest.

My recent novel Lords of the Greenwood focuses, in part, on the exploits of Roger Godberd and the Second Barons’ War. It also deals with Robert Hood of Wakefield who is outlawed a generation later and, inspired by tales of Godberd told to him by an old beggar who used to be one of Godberd’s band, sets up his own band of robbers who operate in Barnsdale.

Sources

For a fairly comprehensive list of all records pertaining to Roger Godberd, visit; http://www.robinhoodlegend.com/records-of-godberd/.

1.      David Baldwin. Robin Hood: The English Outlaw Unmasked. 2011

2.      Boulton, H. E. (ed). Sherwood Forest Book. Thoroton Society Record Series Volume XXIII. 1964

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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.

Two ladies, two crowns - of Jeanne de Dammartin and Eleanor of Castile

by Anna Belfrage

Henry on his way to France

In 1234, Henry III of England was in his twenties and ready to wed. It was his obligation to marry a fertile wife, someone who would present him (and his kingdom) with a lusty, squalling heir. It was also his obligation to marry a woman who would bring other benefits, like a nice chunk of land or extremely valuable connections. It went without saying that a royal bride also had to be of high birth with a nice line-up of illustrious ancestors.

After some consideration, Henry decided that the woman best placed to become his wife was a certain Jeanne de Dammartin. The lady came with various benefits, the principal one being that she stood to inherit not only the county of Ponthieu but also Aumale, thereby giving Henry III a foothold in Normandy and an opportunity to recoup on everything his father, King John had lost.

Further to this, Jeanne also came with an impressive pedigree, being the granddaughter of the princess Alys, that unfortunate woman who was promised to Richard Lionheart as his wife, raised in England where she purportedly was seduced by her future father-in-law, Henry II, returned as soiled goods to France where her brother, King Philippe Augustus, hastily married her off to the much, much younger William of Ponthieu. Not that Henry III cared all that much about Alys’ unhappy life: the important thing was that little Jeanne had Capet blood in her veins.

Jeanne's uncle on his way to his prison

On her father’s side Jeanne was a Dammartin. Probably made Henry nod in approval, as the Dammartins had proved themselves to be loyal to the Angevin kings. So loyal, in fact, that after the Battle of Bouvines in 1214 (where Philippe Augustus crushed the English and their allies) Jeanne’s uncle, Renaud de Dammartin had been dragged off to captivity, fated to spend the rest of his life chained to the wall. A harsh punishment meted out by Philippe Augusts who considered Renaud’s decision to support the Angevin to be doubly treasonous: not only had Renaud sworn to serve Philippe Augustus, but he was also one of Philippe’s oldest and best friends. Well, until Bouvines. Afterwards, that friendship was as dead as a rock.

Renaud’s brother (Jeanne’s father), Simon, had fought with his brother at Bouvines. After the battle, he fled and spent a number of years in exile. His wife, Marie of Ponthieu, was left holding the can, so to say. Philippe Augustus had had it with the Dammartins, and when Simon’s father-in-law passed away, he therefore denied Marie her inheritance, which seems rather unfair as Marie’s father had fought for Philippe Augustus.

Fortunately for Marie (and, indirectly, for Jeanne) Philippe died in 1223. His son proved easier to negotiate with, so Marie was recognised as countess of Ponthieu and after a further few years of negotiation, Simon was allowed to come back home. To show his goodwill, Simon made a promise that he would not marry off any of his daughters without the consent of the French king. As an aside, it is interesting to note that his daughters were all born in the 1220s when Simon officially was exiled. I’m guessing that old adage “distance makes the heart grow fonder” was valid for Simon and his Marie as well, ergo a certain willingness to take risks to meet and hold each other.

By the time Henry III decided to pay court to Jeanne, twenty years had passed since the Battle of Bouvines. So maybe Henry was hoping that bygones were bygones – or maybe he didn’t know that the Dammartin daughters could not be wed without royal French consent. Whatever the case, negotiations started in secret in 1234. Simon and Marie were likely delighted at the idea that their eldest would become queen consort of England, their grandson a future king.

Queen Blanche

However, early in 1235 rumours about the proposed match reached Paris and the ears of Queen Blanche. This formidable lady was the widowed mother and regent of the young French king Louis IX and being a most conscientious and capable ruler, she wasted no time in informing Papa Simon that he could forget about marrying his daughter to Henry. The French king would not consent. Neither, it turned out, would the pope. Swayed by Blanche, he refused the dispensation Henry had asked for.

Eleanor of Provence

Henry soon found a new bride. I am sure Blanche was delighted by the fact that Henry chose to marry Eleanor of Provence as this meant the new English queen was also the sister of the future French queen, Marguerite. But Blanche had one remaining headache: she somehow had to compensate Jeanne de Dammartin for the lost opportunity of becoming a queen.

Queen Blanche was Castilian by birth, daughter of Alfonso VIII and Eleanor of England. Eleanor was Henry III’s aunt, so Blanche and Henry were cousins, albeit Henry was close to two decades younger than Blanche and thereby of an age with Blanche’s precious son, Louis. He was also of an age with King Fernando of Castile, Blanche’s nephew. (It all gets a bit complicated here: Fernando and Louis were first cousins, Henry was first cousins with both Blanche and Berenguela, Fernando’s mother)

In 1235, Fernando’s first wife, Elizabeth of Hohenstaufen, known as Beatriz in Spain, died. By all accounts, Fernando and Beatriz had enjoyed a happy—and fruitful—marriage. Now, the Castilian kings had a bit of a reputation when it came to women, but as long as Fernando had been married to Beatriz, he’d shown little inclination to stray. This may have been because Fernando spent most of his life fighting the Moors, women and leisure being something he rarely had time for. His mother Berenguela decided it was better to be safe than sorry and started looking for a new wife for her son. Blanche was quick to suggest Jeanne and Berenguela approved.

Fernando

Instead of marrying an English king, Jeanne was now set to marry a Castilian king. Was she thrilled to bits? No idea. Rarely did anyone ask a young bride for her opinion in matters of dynastic importance, but I suspect the Dammartins weren’t too happy with this new marriage for their eldest daughter. After all, Fernando’s first wife had left him with at least nine surviving children of which seven were sons. It was therefore highly unlikely that any son of Jeanne’s would become king. Also, Jeanne was of an age with her eldest stepson, Fernando being close to twenty years her senior.

Whether she objected or not, in 1237 Jeanne and Fernando were wed in Burgos. In 1239 she gave birth to a son, Fernando, who would go on to become Count of Aumale. Some years later, she gave birth to a daughter, Leonor. Three more sons followed of which two died very young.

In 1252, Jeanne became a widow, her dying husband entreating his eldest son and heir to treat his stepmother fairly and with kindness. Not much of that around, as Alfonso never warmed to Jeanne whom he found severely lacking compared to his own saintly mother. Even worse, Jeanne conspired with Alfonso’s younger brother Enrique when this disgruntled gent threatened rebellion. There were even rumours that Jeanne and Enrique were lovers, but that should probably be treated as salacious gossip.

Upon his deathbed, Fernando also commended the care of his younger children to his eldest son, and while Alfonso may have had issues with his stepmother, he seems to have genuinely cared for his half-siblings. Especially for Leonor.

While Jeanne had been in Spain birthing babies, Henry and his Eleanor had been in England doing the same. Well, not Henry, obviously, but he was more than delighted when his eldest son, Edward, was born in 1239, interestingly enough at almost the same time as Jeanne’s first boy was born. Some years down the line and Henry started looking for a bride for his son. As always, a royal marriage was a negotiating tool, and in this case Henry wanted to come to some sort of accord with Alfonso X of Spain, this related to a dispute involving Gascony going back to the wedding between Eleanor of England and Alfonso VIII.

Alfonso

In 1254, Henry and Alfonso reached an agreement over Gascony. According to the treaty, Henry’s eldest son would marry Leonor (or Eleanor), at the time thirteen or so. Jeanne’s opinion in the matter was never asked for. After all, Leonor was an Infanta of Castile and it was her royal brother, not her mother, who had the right to arrange her life as it suited him. Besides, by 1254 Jeanne was no longer in Castile, having returned to France with her eldest son.

Late in 1254, Leonor married the recently knighted Prince Edward. They would go on to have a long and happy marriage, albeit marred by all those babies who died. Something of a full circle, one could say, the son of Henry marrying the daughter of Jeanne.

While Leonor—oops, Eleanor—adapted to her new life, Jeanne was enjoying the relative freedom of being a widow with a steady income. As Countess of Ponthieu in her own right she had the wherewithal with which to spoil herself and others. Truth be told, Jeanne had quite the indulgent side to her, so she happily spent far more than her income. Soon enough, the title passed to her son, but this did not stop Jeanne’s lavish spending and I am guessing her son was more than relieved when dear mama married again. Jeanne’s eldest son died in 1265, the title of Count of Aumale passing to his young son. The title of Count of Ponthieu passed to Jeanne’s second surviving son, Louis, but he too was destined to die relatively young and due to the customs of Ponthieu, his children could not inherit the title. Instead it reverted to Jeanne.

Upon Jeanne’s death in 1279, Ponthieu—and Jeanne’s huge debts—passed to Eleanor (and Edward).  That piece of land which the French had been so determined to keep from the English king now became an English fief and would remain so until 1369. I wonder what Queen Blanche would have thought of that!

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. The ninth book, There is Always a Tomorrow, was published in November 2017.