The Battle of Shrewsbury, 1403

By Annie Whitehead

Last time, I explored the history of the medieval town of Shrewsbury. My visit there also included a walk round the site of a bloody battle which took place in 1403, between royal forces and rebellious nobility.

Just four years earlier, in 1399, Richard II was ousted as king of England by his ambitious cousin, Henry Bolingbroke, who then became Henry IV. Usurpations haven’t happened all that often in English history, and Henry couldn’t have done it without help. Among those who assisted him were the powerful northern Marcher lords, the Percy family of Northumberland.

Still, even if you are the richest in the land, wars don’t come cheap. The Percys claimed that the king owed them £20,000 and they were also peeved that Scottish nobles who’d been captured at the battle of Homildon Hill in 1402 had not been ransomed. This meant, of course, that Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, was also being denied a source of income.

It was Percy’s son, also Henry but nicknamed ‘Hotspur’, who was instrumental in the battle of Shrewsbury. He had been given high office in Wales, where he’d been busy trying to bring the Welsh rebel Owain Glyndŵr to heel. But yet again, payment was withheld and Hotspur did a ‘u-turn’, entering into alliance with Glyndŵr and Edward Mortimer, a powerful Marcher lord. Their claims superficially rested on the financial injustices, but Henry IV saw this as a bid for his crown, and an attempt to replace him. Their proposed candidate for the throne was the earl of March, nephew of Mortimer.

The battle at Shrewsbury was fought on 21 July. Rebel troops had gathered in Cheshire, where Hotspur issued a proclamation which suggested that Henry IV was not king but merely ‘Henry of Lancaster’ and that Richard II was in fact still alive. The rebels marched south and Hotspur was accompanied by his uncle, Thomas Percy, 1st earl of Worcester and Archibald Douglas, 4th earl of Douglas.

Shrewsbury was garrisoned by the eldest son of the king, whose name was ‘Harry’ and who would go on to make a bit of a name for himself at Agincourt as Henry V. Here, though, he was not leading the battle. King Henry IV managed to intercept Hotspur before he could join forces with Glyndŵr. Henry got to Shrewsbury before Hotspur on 20th July and this left Hotspur stuck on the north side of the town, and with the king’s army and the River Severn between him and the Welsh.

The next morning, with no sign of Glyndŵr and with the king’s troops advancing from the town, there was nothing for it but to stand and fight. Several hours of parlaying preceded the fighting, but it could not stave off the inevitable. The picture below shows the suggested positions of the armies, with the Percys on the ridge and the king’s troops having to force their way up the slope. The fighting lasted until nightfall.

Estimates suggest that the king had at his command some 14,000 men while the rebels had 10,000.*

Both sides seem to have had difficulty in recognising coats of arms and there was a great deal of confusion during the battle. It was rumoured that Henry IV had died, but in fact the king was removed to safety. Nevertheless, royal casualties were heavy. The losses have not been calculated with certainty but to walk round the site is to get some idea of the scale of the fighting and, indeed, the numbers of casualties. Estimates are that the dead numbered around 1,600 on both sides, with at least 3,000 wounded subsequently dying from their injuries or killed by looters seeking booty.

The longbow played an important and decisive role in the fighting. The battle began with an archery onslaught, in which Hotspur’s Cheshire bowmen appeared superior and the English Chronicler, Thomas Walsingham, said that the royal troops fell “like leaves in Autumn, every one [arrow] struck a mortal man". ** Famously, the Prince of Wales was struck in the face by an arrow and it is incredible that he survived. The arrow sank into his cheek (the surgeon stated that it was the left, although I have seen debates in which people argue that he might have meant the left as he looked at it.) That the prince survived was down to the skills of his surgeon, John Bradmore, who later described in detail how he used a specially designed implement, using a sort of corkscrew motion, to extract the arrow-head and then treated the wound with honey and alcohol.

Prince Henry survived, and no doubt learned a great deal about the effectiveness of the longbow in battle, but the other leaders involved were not so lucky. Hotspur led a charge directly at the king and was surrounded and killed. Other rebel leaders survived, but not for long. Thomas Percy was tried and beheaded. The earl of Northumberland, Hotspur’s father, was not executed but was stripped of his office as Constable and of several castles, which were thenceforth to be controlled by royal officers.

Hotspur’s body, first buried at Whitchurch, was exhumed and put on display at Shrewsbury, and then was cut up, the parts being sent to various cities and his head sent to York and displayed at Micklegate Bar.

Battlefield Church was constructed on the orders of the king, to commemorate the fallen, and it has been suggested that it stands on ground where most of the fighting took place. There is an area of the churchyard which does look as if it might be the site of a mass grave, but archaeology has not confirmed this.

The church itself is no longer open to the public. It was dedicated to St Mary Magdalene as the battle took place on the eve of her saint's day. In 1410 the chapel was converted into a college of chaplains, where a master and five chaplains said daily mass for the dead. The existing church is the only chapel building to survive and in 1548 the college was closed. In 1982 the church was declared redundant.

There are two visitors’ points. The first is at the southern side of the battle area, and gives views across to the church and offers a walking trail. The area is still agricultural land and is easy to imagine the forces lined up, and to envisage where the fighting might have taken place. On the northern side of the site, the Battlefield 1403 complex houses an exhibition which gives information about the battle and a walk back down to the church. Slightly further north is a village called Upper Battlefield, suggesting to me that the fighting might have extended further still.

Top- from the south. Bottom - from the north

I was there on a sunny September day, and presumably it would have been warmer still in the month of July when the battle was fought. It all looks very bucolic now, but not for nothing did Edith Pargeter call this A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury.***


*The Annales Henrici Quarti offers the figure of 14,000 Royal troops, while Jean de Waurin, a medieval French chronicler, estimated 60,000. It seems that Henry's army was the larger, but in his Chronicle of England John Capgrave suggested that Hotspur had, "as is wrytyn, XIIII thousand men".

**The Chronica Maiora of Thomas Walsingham (1376-1422) by David Preest (Translator), James G. Clark (Translator)

*** Her novel about the battle, and the events leading up to it.

[All photos by and copyright of the author]

This is an Editor’s Choice from the #EHFA archives, originally published October 1, 2019.
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Annie Whitehead studied History under the eminent Medievalist Ann Williams. She is a member of the Royal Historical Society and an editor for EHFA. She has written three award-winning novels set in Anglo-Saxon England, one of which was long-listed for the Historical Novel Society (HNS) Indie Book of the year 2016, and a full-length nonfiction book, Mercia: The Rise and Fall of a Kingdom. She has contributed to fiction and nonfiction anthologies and written for various magazines, including winning the New Writer Magazine Prose Competition. She was the winner of the inaugural Historical Writers’ Association/Dorothy Dunnett Prize 2017. She has recently been a judge for that same competition, and for the HNS Short Story Competition. Annie’s new book, Women of Power in Anglo-Saxon England, is published by Pen & Sword Books.

For more information, visit Annie's Website or her Author Page. Also connect with Annie through her Blog and Twitter (@AnnieWHistory)

The Duchess and the Necromancers

By Nancy Bilyeau

On Monday, November 19th, 1441, the people of London lined the streets to observe an act of public penance. That morning a woman, perhaps forty years of age, bare-headed, plainly dressed, was rowed in a barge to Temple Stairs off the Thames. She stepped off the barge and proceeded to walk all the way to St. Paul's Cathedral, carrying before her a wax taper of two pounds. Once she made it to St. Paul's, she offered the taper to the High Altar.

The woman was Eleanor Cobham, mistress-turned-wife to Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, only surviving uncle to the childless Henry VI and thus the heir to the throne. The duchess had been tried and condemned for heresy and witchcraft. This was the first of three days of ordered pilgrimages to churches, showing a "meke and a demure countenance." Afterward, she would be forced to separate from her husband and live in genteel prison for the rest of her life.

The Penance of Eleanor, painted in 1900

The downfall of Eleanor Cobham was a shocking event in the 15th century, and it's disturbing today. Certain elements of her life echo Katherine Swynford's, the longtime mistress of John of Gaunt who eventually became his third wife. A bold beauty marries a royal--it's a maneuver seen again, and much more famously, in the following century with Elizabeth Woodville and Anne Boleyn. But while rumors of witchcraft swirled around both of those queens, they are, historians now agree, not based in reality. While Eleanor Cobham most probably did traffic in what were called the black arts. And the most serious of such crimes was to seek to know--or perhaps even alter--the future, through the practice of necromancy.

Ever since the age of Homer, necromancers have flitted in the darkest shadows of society. They were believed to possess the secrets to unlocking the power of the underworld to divine the future. (See my earlier blog post, From Homer to The Hobbit: The History of the Necromancer.) No matter the results—or lack thereof—necromancers did a brisk business in the Greek and Roman world. It was only by following their secret and ornate rituals, they said, could the boundaries be dissolved between the living and the dead.

Page from the Munich Manual

After Rome fell, the early Christian popes struggled to extinguish the pagan practices of not only necromancy but witchcraft, astrology and alchemy. But these practices survived through the Middle Ages, in one form or another, and in the Renaissance, as scholars pored through ancient texts, experienced something of a rebirth. Some popes employed their own astrologers. The Munich Manual of Demonic Magic, a textbook in Latin, was compiled in the 15th century. Necromancy became, if anything, more far-reaching. After drawing a series of magic circles, saying conjurings, and making sacrifices, necromancers claim a demon would appear to assist: see the future, drive a man to love or hatred, discern where secret things were hidden, such as treasure.

During the 15th century, England was an orthodox kingdom of devout Catholics--and yet superstition ran amok. In 1456, 12 men petitioned Henry VI for permission to practice alchemy, among them two of the king's own physicians. Some courtiers owned astrological books. What was heresy and what was knowledge linked to the fashionable pursuit of ancient texts? It was not always possible to know what was forbidden--until you made a mistake.

The stage was set for Eleanor Cobham and her ambitious play for love, power and glory.

The daughter of Sir Reginald Cobham, Eleanor in her early twenties entered the service of the highborn and illustrious Jacqueline, Countess of Hanault. Jacqueline repudiated her husband, John of Brabant, and fled to England in search of champions, marrying the youngest brother of Henry V: Humphrey, duke of Gloucester.

At some point over the next five years, Eleanor herself became the mistress of the duke. After a failed war in Hainault, Humphrey abandoned his wife; the pope annulled the marriage because of legalities to do with her first husband. Later, when John of Brabant died, Humphrey could have remarried Jacqueline. But instead he married her lady in waiting, Eleanor.

His nickname of "Good Duke Humphrey" notwithstanding, Gloucester was a complex figure. Well educated, he supported learning more than most aristocrats and was a devoted patron of the arts. An enthusiastic soldier, devoted to his oldest brother, Henry V, he was a champion of the people. But Humphrey was also impulsive, vengeful, and unable to sustain a political policy. There is little doubt he was, in addition, a womanizer. After the death of his brother the king, he claimed the right to be regent for his infant nephew. His claims were supported in the dead king's will. But Cardinal Henry Beaufort and the rest of the Beauforts opposed Gloucester. The two branches of the Lancaster family fought for power for the rest of Humphrey's life.

Humphrey, youngest son of Henry IV

Eleanor did not make Humphrey more popular. She was criticized for her immoral history with Gloucester and for her ostentation. Historian Ralph Griffiths says, "One chronicler noted how she flaunted her pride and her position by riding through the streets of London, glitteringly dressed and suitably escorted by men of noble birth." She is thought to have shared her husband's sophisticated tastes in literature.

The unmarried Henry VI, passive and easily led, was fond of his aunt and uncle. He gave Eleanor beautiful presents. Historians believe a decision was made in the Beaufort camp to permanently weaken the duke of Gloucester, and the key to this was his wife.

A young Henry VI

In late June 1441, word spread through London that two men had been arrested for conspiring against the king--divining the king's future through the use of necromancy and concluding that he would soon suffer a serious illness. The accused were two clerks, Roger Bolingbroke, an Oxford priest, and Thomas Southwell, a canon. (Those who practiced necromancy were often low-level clericals, because they possessed the knowledge of Latin necessary to read forbidden books and learn the rites.) The men were sent to the Tower of London and possibly tortured. Bolingbroke told his interrogators that he had been prompted to look into the future of the king by the duchess of Gloucester.

Eleanor did not behave like someone innocent of all crime. She fled to Westminster, seeking sanctuary. Later, when she was set to appear before an ecclesiastical court, she tried to escape onto the Thames river, but was caught. The investigation went deeper. A witch was produced, Marjorie Jourdemayne, who said she procured love potions for the duchess to make Gloucester marry her. In her trial, Eleanor denied seeking to know the future of the king through necromancy, but she "did acknowledge recourse to the Black Art." It is believed she turned to the necromancers and witch to try to bear a child. Eventually, Eleanor abjured her heresies.

Eleanor's co-conspirators were condemned and executed--Margaret Jourdemayne was burned at Smithfield. One of the clerks was hanged, drawn, and quartered. Eleanor spent the rest of her life confined in various castles: Kenilworth, the Isle of Man, and in 1449, Beaumaris Castle, where she died in 1452. Her husband Humphrey, who, to the puzzlement of many, had done little publicly to free her—he "said little"—died five years before Eleanor. His wife's disgrace had finished him as an important man of the kingdom.

Did Eleanor turn to the dark arts to try to bring about the death of Henry VI so that her husband could become king and she become queen? Most historians doubt she went that far; more likely, she dabbled in the same forbidden practices that other court ladies did. But in the tense and treacherous political climate of the Lancastrian court, where rivalries were soon to explode into the War of the Roses, a mistake in judgment could cost one everything. As was learned by Eleanor Cobham.

This article is part of my series of necromancy. To read more, see From Homer to the Hobbit: The History of the Necromancer, Conversations with Angels: The Strange Life of Edward Kelley, and Henry VII and the Curse of Prophesy.

This is an Editor's Choice and was originally published January 29, 2013. 

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Nancy Bilyeau is a historical novelist and magazine editor based in New York. She wrote the Joanna Stafford trilogy, a trio of thrillers set in Henry VIII’s England, for Simon & Schuster. Her fourth novel is The Blue, an 18th century thriller revolving around the art & porcelain world. Her latest novel is Dreamland, set in Coney Island of 1911, is published by Endeavour Quill. A former staff editor at Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, and InStyle, Nancy is currently the deputy editor at the Center on Media, Crime and Justice at John Jay College and contributes to Town & Country, CrimeReads, and Mystery Scene magazine.

For more information, visit www.nancybilyeau.com.

The English Rose with the Heart of a Lion

by Anna Belfrage

Philippa of England is the first of only two English women to have been queens of Sweden.  (The second one was Louise Mountbatten who married widower and future king Gustav VI Adolf in 1923) Mind you, had Sweden been all that was on offer, Philippa’s father would not have been all that interested – at the time, Sweden was a “Here be dragons” place, in that no one really knew what might live in those impenetrable northern woods. Not even the Swedes did.

Philippa was the daughter of the future Henry IV, the last child born in his marriage to Mary de Bohun. Philippa’s birth in 1394 led to Mary’s death, and her early childhood must have been rather confusing, what with her father being exiled by Richard II in 1398, only to return in 1399, depose the king, and claim the crown himself. In one fell swoop, Philippa became a princess.

Henry’s usurpation was not welcomed everywhere, testament to which was the plot which had as its goal to murder Henry and his four sons while they were celebrating Twelfth Night at Windsor. Somehow, Henry got wind of the plot (some say due to a kind-hearted whore, some say due to the guilty conscience of one of the would-be plotters) and managed to gather up his brood and flee to the safety of London. While there was never any intention to kill Philippa or her older sister, I imagine these events would have affected a five-year-old. They certainly had a major impact on Henry, who would never feel entirely secure on his throne, not even when Richard II met his timely death some weeks later.

Henry claiming the throne

A royal princess was a valuable asset when building alliances. For Henry, negotiating splendid marriages for his daughters was also a way of legitimising himself as king – something he had to do, as there were quite a few who considered his claim to the throne secondary to that of Edmund Mortimer, fifth Earl of March, whose paternal grandmother was the daughter of Edward IIIs second son, while Henry was “only” the son of Edward IIIs third son. Fortunately for Henry, Edmund was a child at the time of the usurpation – but boys have a tendency to grow into men, which is why little Edmund and his brother Roger were to grow up very supervised, especially after their Mortimer uncle proclaimed Edmund king and rebelled against Henry.

All these political events would have coloured Philippa’s childhood, just as her future as consort to an as yet unknown prince would have impacted how she was educated and raised. By 1405, Henry IV had made his choice: his youngest daughter was to marry Erik of Pomerania, nominal king of Denmark, Norway and Sweden.  True power resided with Erik’s impressive maternal great-aunt, Margareta of Denmark, the lady responsible for unifying the Scandinavian realms under one very strong hand: hers.

Bogislav becoming Erik

Erik’s real name was Bogislav.  At the age of six he was elevated to the position of Margareta’s heir, this as a consequence of the personal tragedies that afflicted the great Margareta, culminating with the death of her only and very beloved son, Olof, in 1387. As he reached his majority, he was formally recognised as king in his various kingdoms, but Margareta had no intention of relinquishing control, and Erik had no desire to force her to, being wise enough to realise it would benefit them both is she called the shots. It was Margareta who negotiated for Erik’s bride. It was Margareta’s support and recognition, not Erik’s, that Henry wanted. The lady in question, often referred to as “the king without pants”, was an admired person, and I imagine Henry felt he was placing his daughter in safe hands.

What Philippa thought of all this, we don’t know. She was married by proxy late in 1405 – all of eleven – and come next summer she was accompanied by her father to King’s Lynn where she boarded a ship and sailed due north-east. She would never see any members of her family again.
Upon her arrival in Helsingborg, Philippa was twelve or so. Her prospective bridegroom was twelve years older – a full-grown man who was very much in the thick of things. Margareta was a firm believer in learning by doing, and so she involved Erik in all aspects of ruling his vast kingdoms. Their main concern was the Hanseatic League and what to do to curtail its power. Philippa was initially too young to understand all this – I imagine she had other challenges to overcome, such as learning the language.

Erik, as per a contemporary
caricature

In October of 1406, Philippa wed Erik. A splendid ceremony celebrated in the Lund Cathedral, and recorded as being the first time ever the bride wore white – from head to toe. Once wed, Philippa was crowned queen of Norway, Denmark and Sweden, and upon all these solemn ceremonies followed a couple of weeks of partying, with the very tall, very handsome, groom treating his little bride with much respect and affection.

Of all the kingdoms presently under Margareta’s control, Sweden was the most restless, which was probably why Erik and Philippa made Kalmar in Sweden their home.  As per tradition, Philippa’s household was managed by a granddaughter to St Birgitta, which would explain why Philippa developed such an interest in the Brigittine order and its impressive combined nunnery and monastery in Vadstena.

As she grew older, Philippa became very devout and would expend considerable energies in supporting the Brigittines, with frequent visits to Vadstena.  But she was also a regnant queen, and Erik, who had grown up with a very strong woman, seems to have trusted his wife with several complex matters, such as more or less ruling Sweden single-handedly and acting as regent when he went off on pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the 1420s. By then, formidable Margareta had been dead for a decade or so, and Erik spent most of his time travelling from one corner of his realm to another. Sometimes Philippa accompanied him. Just as often, she preferred to remain in Sweden, a tangible reminder of the absent king.

Philippa won the hearts of her subjects by her demeanour and grace, and by all accounts her marriage was happy enough, albeit that she never experienced the joy of presenting her husband with a healthy heir. There are indications that she was brought to bed of a child, but the baby was either born stillborn or died very soon after. Philippa herself remained bedridden for some time afterwards, and already in 1416 the royal couple seem to have given up on future children, as Erik drew up an Order of Succession favouring his nephew.

Erik had his hands full with his various kingdoms – and even more so with the Hanseatic League, which did everything it could to foment dissatisfaction in Erik’s realms. The League felt threatened by a unified Scandinavia, and at some point the growing hostilities exploded into war. Philippa was dispatched to Sweden to convince the Swedes it was in their interest to side with their king.
“Hmm,” the Swedish nobility said, but Philippa was good at presenting her arguments, and so she rode off with the promise of Swedish support in the ongoing conflict.

Queen Philippa came into her own during the war with the Hanseatic League. In April 1428, the German merchants brought in a huge mercenary fleet to crush the Danish-Swedish feet, presently under anchor in Copenhagen. While Erik retired to a nearby island, Philippa refused to abandon Copenhagen and its inhabitants and was a loud and constant presence among the defenders, cheering them on with, I imagine, as much verbal skill as her famous brother Henry V. Except that she probably spoke Danish.

Philippa cheering on her forces in Copenhagen
(Illustration to H.C.Andersen's story about her)

The mercenary fleet approached, more than 260 ships determined to destroy Copenhagen once and for all. But the Danish city wasn’t giving up without a fight. Cannon roared, both from land based firing platforms but also from innovative floating batteries which could get that much closer to the ships flying the distinctive red and white Hanseatic pennant. When the Danish and Swedish ships joined the melee, the Hanseatic fleet chose to flee, while a very victorious queen pumped her arm in the air and hollered “Yay!” (Well, whatever the 15th century equivalent of that would be)

Angered and humiliated, the Hanseatic League reformed and returned in force in June of 1428. This time, they emerged victorious, sinking most of the Danish and Swedish ships in Copenhagen’s harbour. But Philippa escaped, as did Erik, and soon enough they had new ships ready to go, forcing the Hanseatic League back into their own harbours.

It must therefore have been with a certain buzz of success that Philippa in 1429 decided to undertake the long journey north from Copenhagen to Vadstena, there to meet various of the Swedish nobles. While in the best of health when she rode off, by the time she reached Vadstena she was ill. She died on the eve of Twelfth Mass and was buried under the floor of the chapel she herself had added to the Brigittine Abbey church.

Philippa, stainglass window in Vadstena
(Photo: Mariusz Pazdziora)

Her husband was, by all accounts, quite distraught. Her Swedish subjects even more so. With Philippa’s death, what little loyalty they had ever felt towards Erik dissipated like mist in the sun. In 1434, Erik was deposed as king of Sweden, and over the coming years he would also lose the Norwegian and Danish crown, retiring to Gotland and the far more lucrative pursuit of piracy.

Philippa was not quite 36 years old when she died. A short life, we would think, and I suppose Philippa would have preferred not to die as she did. But for all its brevity, Philippa’s life was full of adventure, all the way from the trip she undertook in 1406 to meet her husband, to her inspired leadership during the Bombardment of Copenhagen.  She is remembered in Sweden as a good and capable queen, a Lancaster rose who thrived in the colder climates of the north, who ruled wisely and well, and had the heart of an English lion.

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

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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!

The Ill-Fated House of Lancaster

by Anne O'Brien

The House of Lancaster has become of interest to me since writing about Elizabeth of Lancaster in The King's Sister and then more recently about the marriage of King Henry IV and Joanna of Navarre in my new novel The Queen's Choice to be published in January 2016. 

What a short-lived dynasty the House of Lancaster turned out to be in spite of the promising beginnings.

In 1399 Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Hereford, son and heir of John of Gaunt and grandson of Edward III,  usurped the Crown of England from his cousin Richard II and was himself crowned King Henry IV after acclamation by the Lords and clerics.  Thus the first King of the House of Lancaster took the throne of England.  With four healthy sons and two daughters, all grown to adulthood, all married, Henry might have expected that England was set fair for a time of regal stability with a healthy and increasing number of Lancaster children and grandchildren to occupy the throne.  Even though Henry's wife, Mary de Bohun, was dead by 1399, and Henry had no more children with his second wife Joanna of Navarre, probably due to his own ill-health, Henry had no need of more heirs.

In 1399, with a new and potent king, who would have believed that the House of Lancaster would have been so short lived, that by 1471 it should have come to an end with no more possible claimants?  Although its demise was indisputably influenced by death in battle, disease and mental frailty - all prevalent in many medieval families at this time-  it was also due to the Lancaster inability to reproduce themselves, or at least legitimately. 

Without legitimate descendents, the House of Lancaster was doomed.

Henry's four sons laid down the pattern for lack of heirs.

Henry, Prince of Wales, later Henry V:  his marriage to Katherine de Valois, of short duration, produced only one son who would become Henry VI.  Henry V died at Vincennes in France, probably from a severe form of dysentery in 1422 at the age of 35.

Thomas, Duke of Clarence: married to Margaret Holland but killed in 1421 at the Battle of Bauge in France at the age of 34 without legitimate issue.  He had one illegitimate son, Sir John Clarence, who was granted lands in Ireland and is buried in Canterbury Cathedral.

John, Duke of Bedford: married twice, first with Anne of Burgundy and then with Jacquetta of Luxemberg.  There were no children from either marriage.  In addition, out of wedlock he had a daughter named Mary, who married Pierre de Montferrand with whom she had a son, Richard.  John died in 1435 at the age of 46.

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester: also married twice, first to Jacqueline of Hainault, a marriage that was annulled, and then to Eleanor Cobham.  There were no children from either marriage.  Humphrey had two illegitimate children:  Arthur of Gloucester who died in 1447 and Antigone of Gloucester who married Henry Grey, Earl of Tankerville, Lord of Powys.  Humphrey was the longest lived of the four sons of Henry IV.  He died in 1447 at the age of 57.

So of the four sons of Henry IV, there was only one legitimate descendent to carry on the royal claim to the throne. 

Henry IV's two daughters fared no better:

Blanche married Louis, the Elector Palatine.  She died in childbirth in 1409 at the age of 17 after the birth of a son Rupert.  This young man died in 1429 at the age of 19 years, unmarried and without issue.  Blanche's dowry included the oldest surviving royal crown known to have been in England.  It probably belonged originally to Anne of Bohemia, Queen of Richard II.

Philippa married Eric, King of Denmark, Sweden and Norway.  She gave birth to a stillborn boy in 1429, and herself died in 1430.  Philippa was the first documented princess in history to wear a white wedding dress during a royal wedding ceremony: she wore a tunic with a cloak in white silk bordered with grey squirrel and ermine.

Henry IV had an illegitimate son Edmund Lebourde who was born in 1401.  He was educated in London.  It is thought that he entered the church since in 1412 a Papal dispensation was granted to allow this, but Edmund thereafter disappeared from history as so many illegitimate children did.

The legitimate line of Lancaster after Henry V fared no better with Henry VI.  Mentally unstable, he married Margaret of Anjou with whom he had only one child, a son Edward of Lancaster.  Edward, married to Anne Neville, had no children and died in 1471 at the Battle of Tewkesbury.  Henry VI died, murdered, in the same year. 

Thus ended of the House of Lancaster.  What a sad tale of inability to produce legitimate heirs to the crown.  Battle and disease took its toll, far more than with most medieval families, yet we might have expected a much higher degree of fertility, being descended from Edward III who, with Philippa of Hainault, had thirteen children. Henry IV's family had promised so much but lasted less than a century.

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My novel of Joanna of Navarre, The Queen's Choice, will be published in hardback in the UK on 15th January 2016.  To keep up to date with all events and promotions, visit my website.

www.anneobrienbooks.com

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What price a crown?

by Anna Belfrage

Henry Bolingbroke 

On July 4, 1399, a man landed at Ravenspur, Yorkshire, returning from his exile in France. With him came a handful of companions, and I suppose the man must have been nervous, no matter how determined. He was, after all, risking his life and his future. Henry Bolingbroke had come to claim the English crown.

It reads like an improbable adventure. The red-headed Henry, son of John of Gaunt, speedily took control over most of England, further helped along by the fact that Richard II was in Ireland, having taken his loyal lords with him.

By the time Richard made it back in late July, it was too late. Inexplicably, Richard left his main host in Pembrokeshire and disguised as a friar rode north, there to meet with the Earl of Salisbury, who had been charged with raising a royal army. No such army materialised. At Conwy Castle, Richard was forced to receive Henry’s messengers. On August 19, Richard II surrendered to his cousin at Flint Castle and rode in his retinue all the way back to London, no doubt most indignant at having to ride behind Henry rather than in front of him.

Henry (in black hat) claims the throne

Richard presented his abdication to Parliament on September 29, and on October 13 Henry Bolingbroke was crowned as Henry IV, the first of the Lancastrian kings. A quick and neat usurpation, taking no more than twelve weeks.

Three Plantagenet kings have been named Richard. Apart from their name, they also have in common the fact that none of them had a son to which to bequeath their throne. The first died – rather ingloriously for this embodiment of chivalric virtues – from a crossbow quarrel in his armpit. The other two share the distinction of being ousted from their thrones by a man called Henry. While Richard III’s death at Bosworth and the subsequent enthronement of Henry Tudor still inspires a lot of controversy and opinionated discussions, in general Henry IV’s usurpation back in 1399 is met with little more than a shrug. Why is that? Well, I believe it is due to Henry Bolingbroke, a man far less controversial to his future subjects than Henry Tudor.

Henry Bolingbroke was a respected man – admired for his prowess at tournaments, loved because of his largesse. A renowned warrior and leader of men, a crusader, the father of a bevy of sons where Richard II had none, Henry epitomised the male ideals of the time. Add to this a thorough education, an excellent role model in his father, and a reputation for fairness, and it is easy to understand why so many considered Henry a far more palatable choice for king than Richard II.

Richard II

Poor Richard never succeeded in living up to his subjects’ expectations of becoming like his father, the beloved Black Prince. Besides, Richard had a tendency to expend huge amounts of money on his court, himself and his beloved arts. Just like his great-grandfather, Richard II also liked handing out gifts and lands to his favourites – often at the expense of the public purse.

Besides, Henry Bolingbroke could claim he had been most unfairly treated by his royal cousin. Despite loyal and steadfast service to the crown, Richard had rewarded him by forcing him into exile, and even worse, when John of Gaunt died, Richard had refused to honour the laws of inheritance, effectively disinheriting Henry. Not a popular thing to do, not in a country where more and more of his people were beginning to consider the king petty and unreliable, prone to consider himself well above the laws and customs of the realm. Richard’s barons were even more worried; if the king chose to act so unjustly towards his first cousin, what was to stop him from acting in a similar way towards other rich and powerful noblemen?

John of Gaunt

When Henry Bolingbroke initiated his armed rebellion, he officially stated that he was in England only to claim his paternal inheritance, wrongfully denied him by the king. Smart move, as everyone could sympathise with that. He made a big show of proclaiming his desire to help reform government in England, to bring order and stability, reinstate the rule of law rather than that of royal prerogative. Not once did he say “I want the crown”, as had he voiced his intent to claim the throne, he might have had a problem rallying support. Richard’s subjects were sick of their king’s high-handed rule, but to depose a king was a grievous sin.

This presented something of a conundrum to Henry. Having once before experienced just how capable Richard was of holding a grudge (it took him more than a decade to plan his cunning revenge on the Lords Appellant, a group of men, including Henry, who had protested against the mismanagement of the government. Rumours had it he had even ordered the murder of one of the Lords Appellant, his own uncle, Thomas of Woodstock), Henry was disinclined to allow Richard to remain on the throne. Somehow, the king had to be convinced to abdicate in favour of Henry, preferably in such a way as to allow Henry to emerge untarnished from this whole sordid matter.

Richard is taken into custody 

In hindsight, that didn’t work. To ensure Richard’s cooperation, Henry’s supporters lied to him. At Conwy Castle, the Earl of Northumberland and the Earl of Westmoreland perjured themselves by swearing on holy relics that the intention was not to relieve Richard of his crown, rather to “help” him govern. Richard was an intelligent man and wasn’t convinced, but he played for time, hoping that by pretending to accept these lies, he’d get the opportunity to flee and gather support. Not to be, as next morning Richard was forcibly taken into custody by the Earl of Northumberland and transported to Flint Castle, there to wait for Henry.

Henry went out of his way to be as courteous as possible towards his unhappy cousin. A steel hand in a velvet glove, one could say, as there was no doubt in either man’s mind as to who was presently in charge, but all the same, Henry attempted to make things as comfortable as possible for Richard, treating him always with respect. I suspect Henry was uncomfortably aware of just how displeased his father, John of Gaunt, would have been with this whole mess. John would never have countenanced deposing the Lord’s anointed – but then John had died (obviously) before Richard committed the unforgiveable act of denying Henry his inheritance.

What forces were brought to bear on Richard for him to sign his abdication remain unclear. Undoubtedly, threats to his life would have been made – never by Henry personally, of course. And maybe Richard believed that signing the abdication was the only thing he could do at present, hoping no doubt to turn the tables on his cousin at a future date.

Once on his throne, it seems Henry IV was quite willing to let Richard live. This was his first cousin, and while they were too different to have much of a natural liking for each other, they were both aware of their blood-ties. Maybe Henry’s intention was to keep Richard in comfortable captivity – although choosing Pontrefact as the future home of the retired king indicates Henry didn’t want him too comfortable (or too close to London).

All that changed when several of Richard’s former favourites became involved in a plot against the new king, with the intention of murdering not only Henry but also his four sons, all of them children.  The Epiphany Rising in 1400 might not have implicated Richard per se, but it underlined the risk of keeping the former king alive, a potential rallying point to all future discontent.

Conveniently, sometime in February 1400, Richard II died. It was said he starved to death – whether voluntarily or not is still up for debate. Personally, I believe he was murdered. To have kept him alive would have been too much of a risk.

To take a crown comes at a price. Henry was never entirely comfortable on his throne, and to make matters worse his relationship with his eldest son was permanently damaged by his usurpation. Young Henry was very fond of Richard, and never quite forgave his father for having deposed him. Besides, there was the matter of guilt. By all accounts, Henry Bolingbroke was a man of tender conscience, a devout man who worked hard at being good and just. Mostly he succeeded.

But the false promises made to Richard back in August of 1399, promises that Richard would remain king, no matter that Henry would rule, gnawed at Henry for the rest of his life. Then there’s the matter of Richard’s death, a millstone of guilt for a man as upright as Henry to carry. It broke him, and over the coming years of his life, the once so powerful, so vibrant Henry Bolingbroke would transform into a sick and melancholy man. Upon his death he left no instructions as to how he was to be buried, and his will breathes of humility and guilt, in glaring contrast to most other wills of the period.

I guess the lesson is easy; never do anything that makes it difficult to meet your eyes in the mirror. Fate, however, now and then obliges us to act against our conscience. Henry Bolingbroke felt he had no choice – he had to safeguard his inheritance, for himself and for his sons. I dare say he never forgave himself; I dare say he found the price too steep.

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Anna Belfrage is the author of three published books, A Rip in the Veil , Like Chaff in the Wind and The Prodigal Son. The fourth book in The Graham Saga, A Newfound Land, will be published in the autumn of 2013. Set in seventeenth century Scotland and America, the books tell the story of Matthew and Alex, two people who should never have met – not when she was born three hundred years after him.

Rebellion in Wales ~ Owain Glyn Dŵr and Cydweli Castle - Carmarthenshire

by Judith Arnopp

Standing proud above a small village, over-looking the River Gwendraeth near Carmarthen in West Wales, is Cydweli Castle. Of Norman origin, the fortress is testament to the years of Anglo/Welsh conflict, its dominant position in the landscape making it quite clear who was in control of whom.

The earliest castle was a Norman earth and timber construction built shortly after the conquest, the village growing up around it. During the 12^th century the castle fell several times into Welsh hands and by the 13^th century it had been rebuilt in stone with the latest in defensive design.

Today, we see most phases of building; a square inner bailey defended by four round towers, a semi-circular outer curtain wall to protect the landward side and the massive gatehouse and jutting tower defending the riverside walls.

Cydweli (or the anglicised Kidwelly) is of concentric design with defensive walls set one within the other providing the best defence possible at the time of building. The gate house was still under construction when Owain Glyn Dŵr held it under siege during his campaign against the English.

Owain Glyn Dŵr was born around 1359 and through his parents, Gruffydd Fychan II and Elen ferch Tomas ap Llywelyn,  descended from the Welsh princes of Powys and Deheubarth.  His early life is quite unremarkable and law abiding. He was educated in London and served as a squire and a soldier, fighting for the English king in campaigns in Scotland. By the year 1400 he had become a well-respected Welsh gentlemen but events over the next few years pushed Glyn Dŵr further into rebellion.

Baron Grey de Ruthyn, a neighbour of Glyn Dŵr’s, had seized control of some land, forcing him to appeal to the English Parliament.  In 1400, Lord Grey failed to inform Glyn Dŵr in time of a royal command to levy feudal troops for service on the Scottish border. This apparent dereliction of duty enabled the Welshman to be named a traitor in London court circles

Possibly due to Lord Grey’s  personal friendship with King Henry IV, Glyn Dŵr lost the case and when, in January 1400, civil disorder broke out in Chester in support of the deposed king, Richard II, Glyn Dŵr’s relationship with Henry IV broke down completely.

In September 1400 Owain Glyn Dŵr was created Prince of Wales by the dissenting Welsh.

By 1401, after a series of confrontations between Owain’s followers and Henry IV the revolt began to spread. Welshmen studying at Oxford abandoned their studies, labourers lay down their tools, returned to Wales and flocked to Owain’s  banner. Welsh troops who had fought for the king in France and Scotland also joined the cause, Welsh archers and men-at-arms abandoned the English king to join the Welsh rebellion.

Early in the campaign the Welsh skill at guerrilla warfare gained them some notable success. They were victorious at the battle of Bryn Glas in Powys in 1402; inflicted much damage on many towns (including Cardiff) and took control of several of the strongest castles in Wales, notably Aberystwyth and Harlech.

During the fourth year of the revolt Owain Glyn Dŵr and his armies turned up in the Tywi Valley and captured a number of castles, including Dyslwyn and Carmarthen and persuaded Henry Don, a former steward of the Duchy of Lancaster and a fellow of considerable standing and power, to throw in his lot with the rebels. It was Henry Don who led the attack on Cydweli Town and castle.

However, around 1405 the rebels began to lose ground, they were defeated at Usk and sometime between 1408-9 the castles at Aberystwyth, Harlech were retaken by the crown. Owain himself was never captured but faded from history, believed to be dead by 1416. Many tales are told about the circumstances of his death.

A supporter of Glyn Dŵr,  Adam of Usk, wrote  in his Chronicle in the year 1415 that, ‘After four years in hiding, from the king and the realm, Owain Glyndŵr died, and was buried by his followers in the darkness of night. His grave was discovered by his enemies, however, so he had to be re-buried, though it is impossible to discover where he was laid.’

Adrien Jones, the president of the Owain Glyn Dŵr Society, as late as 2006 visited Sir John Scudamore who is a direct descendant of Glyndŵr and lives  near Abergavenny. He told him that Glyn Dŵr spent his last years with  his daughter Alys at Monnington Straddel in Herefordshire and eventually died there. The family kept the secret for six hundred years but Sir John claimed that Glyn Dŵr is buried beneath a mound nearby at Monnington Straddel.

Whatever the truth of the matter may be Owain Glyn Dŵr is gone but never forgotten and remains a hero in Wales, a household name and icon of Welsh nationalism.

 By AlexD (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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Castle photos property of Judith Arnopp.
You can find out more about Judith and her historical novels on her website: www.juditharnopp.com
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Llewellyn ap Gruffydd Fychan -- Welsh Hero

by Judith Arnopp

Edward I’s defeat of Llewellyn the Last in 1282 and his subsequent subjugation of the Welsh people caused seething discontent among the Welsh.  After a hundred years of continuing discontent, things finally reached boiling point when the English crown refused to settle a land dispute between  Baron Grey de Ruthyn  and the forty-something, grey-haired and law abiding Owain Glyn Dŵr. It is difficult to access the details of this matter but we do know that events quickly spiraled out of control and ultimately, Glyn Dŵr took up arms against King Henry IV. 

Glyn Dŵr himself, on calling for Welsh assistance, is likely to have been surprised at the alacrity of response.  In September 1400 when he raised his banner at Ruthin, supporters came from far and wide and, due to his descent from the Welsh Princes, they dubbed him, Prince of Wales.

In response, the English king marched his army through North Wales burning and looting without mercy. The population were easily quelled and sought peace with Henry, leaving Glyn Dŵr and a few remaining supporters to take to the hills.

But things weren't over yet and the rebellion took off again when Conway Castle was taken by the Welsh, allowing Glyn Dŵr access to mid and south Wales. Consequently, the rebellion picked up momentum and Welshmen living and working in England laid down their tools and returned home to join his ranks.

It was around this time that Henry IV, following Glyn Dŵr into the wilds of Wales, called at the home of Llewellyn ap Gruffydd Fychan who lived in Caeo in Carmarthenshire. 

According to the chronicle of Adam of Usk, Llewellyn was a ‘bountiful’ member of the Carmarthenshire gentry, a country squire whose household used ‘fifteen pipes of wine’ annually. This is not to imply that the man was a drunk but shows him to be a wealthy and generous host. 

At the time in question Llewellyn was around sixty years of age, too old to fight perhaps, but it is believed two of his sons were at Glyn Dŵr’s side.  Henry IV forced Llewellyn to lead him to Glyn Dŵr’s base camp, and for several weeks the old man led the King on a goose chase through the wild uplands of Deheubarth, allowing Glyn Dŵr time to escape into Gwynedd and gain a position of greater strength.

King Henry, cold, tired and frustrated, realising somewhat belatedly what was afoot, forced Llewellyn to admit his stratagem. Knowing full well what punishment lay in store, the Welshman spoke out bravely as a loyal follower of Glyn Dŵr and supporter of Wales.

On October 9^th 1401 Llewellyn was dragged to the gallows at Llandovery Castle where he was publicly disembowelled and dismembered in front of his eldest son. (Documentation does not make clear whether this refers to Llewellyn’s eldest son or Henry’s.)  As a deterrent to future rebels Llewellyn’s remains were displayed in towns across Wales and his lands were granted to Henry’s supporter Gruffydd ap Rhys. But the rebels weren't done with Henry yet and unrest continued for more than a decade.

It seems that Llewellyn ap Gruffydd was not alone in his loyalty to the last Welsh Prince of Wales for, although Henry IV led one of the largest, most feared armies in Europe (remember Agincourt a few years later in 1415), Owain Glyn Dŵr, who had re-united the Welsh nation, was never captured, mostly because his countrymen refused to betray him. His final end remains a mystery today.

Six hundred years later, in 1998, a campaign was started by residents of Llandovery to construct some sort of a monument to their local hero, Llewelyn, and after an exhibition of proposed designs in the year 2000, a statue by Toby and Gideon Peterson of St Clears was chosen.

The effigy stands sixteen feet tall and is fashioned of stainless steel, standing on a base of stone brought from near Llewellyn’s home in Caeo. The figure of Llewellyn, clothed in cloak, armour and wearing an empty helmet, stands proudly on the skyline, looking out across the town of Llandovery as a mark of Welsh solidarity.

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Judith Arnopp writes historical novels set in the medieval and Tudor period. for more information please visit her website: www.juditharnopp.com

Photos from wikimediacommons.