Men of his own tongue

On 25 April 1283 the defenders of Castell y Bere in the heart of North Wales surrendered to the armies of Edward I. In exchange for handing over the castle, they received about two-thirds of a promised bribe of £80 in silver: the shortfall might have rankled, but they were probably just relieved to get away with life and limb.

Castell y Bere

The fall of Bere was an important step in the Edwardian conquest of Wales. Seen from other perspectives, it was one of the final acts in a very long-running drama. Among the royal commanders were Rhys ap Maredudd, lord of Ystrad Tywi in south Wales, and several of the sons of Gruffudd ap Gwenwynwyn, lord of southern Powys. These men chose to fight for the King of England against the Prince of Wales because the latter, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, was their hereditary enemy.

The conflict between the lords of southern Powys (Powys Gwenwynwyn) and Prince Llywelyn's family went back over two hundred years. Their ancestor, Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, had once ruled Gwynedd and Powys in the mid-eleventh century, including the site of Castell y Bere inside Meirionydd. Bleddyn lost Gwynedd to the ancestors of Llywelyn, and a feud had rumbled on ever since. At times the lords of Powys joined with their ancestral foes against the English, but they were uneasy allies. Gruffudd had been Llywelyn's ally for a time, only to conspire with his brother Dafydd to murder the prince in his bed.

That plot had failed, but in December 1282 Llywelyn fell victim to another. The Chronicle of Peterborough Abbey claims that Gruffudd and his sons were present at the death, and it is difficult to believe they were not complicit in luring Llywelyn to his doom. After his death, the crown of Wales passed to his treacherous brother Dafydd, who continued to resist Edward's invasion. This meant that the former conspirators, Gruffudd and Dafydd, were now on opposite sides.

It seems Edward was well aware of the feuds between rival dynasties in Wales, and the value of symbolism. When Bere fell, the castle was handed over to one of Gruffudd's sons – ironically named Llywelyn – and a force of Powysian soldiers. The lions of Gwynedd were torn down from the battlements and replaced with the red lion rampant of Powys Gwenwynwyn:

The symbolic significance, and the irony, of his custody of the castle built by his grandfather's great enemy, Llywelyn ab Iorwerth, in the heart of the land that had long ago been held by members of his dynasty, cannot have been lost on Llywelyn or his father. The revenge of the house of Bleddyn ap Cynfyn was complete. (David Stephenson)

In the spring and summer months of 1283 the war devolved into a man-hunt. After the loss of his castles, Dafydd and his remaining followers scattered and went on the run. The payroll for this campaign shows the men of Powys were heavily involved in hunting down the fugitive prince. For instance:

Item, payment to William de Felton and David ap Griffin ap Wenonwin, with 2 covered horses, for themselves and 140 foot-soldiers returning with them to Cymer from the parts of Powys, seeking David ap Griffin, for Saturday 22 May, for 1 day, 26s 6d.

And:

Item, to the same William and David ap Griff’ ap Wenonwin, with 2 covered horses, for themselves and 200 foot-soldiers going towards the parts of Powys, for Tuesday 18 May, the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday following, for 4 days, each day counted, £7 8s, to pursue David ap Griffin.

These payments indicate Dafydd was thought to be hiding somewhere in Powys, perhaps on the lands of one of his late brother's followers, Llywelyn Fychan of Bromfield. He was eventually caught on 22 June on the Bera mountain in Gwynedd, by 'men of his own tongue'; possibly men of Gwynedd, or perhaps of Powys and Ystrad Tywi.

The killing of Prince Llywelyn

In the final days of the war, on 28 June, Gruffudd and his Marcher ally Edmund Mortimer were ordered to clear all the passes under their control of trees. This was because one of Dafydd's sons, Llywelyn, was lurking with 'certain thieves' inside the woods; the last dregs of resistance. Gruffudd and Edmund's men soon flushed them out and delivered Llywelyn into royal custody. His fate was to spend the rest of his days as a prisoner at Bristol Castle with his younger brother, Owain.

A few years later Gruffudd died in his bed at Welshpool, aged about 65. He had been entirely successful:

It was thus, with the territorial extent of his lordship largely restored and in one region extended significantly beyond the territories that he had entered in 1242, with his principal rivals eliminated and his erstwhile persecutor, Prince Llywelyn, dead and his house all but destroyed, that Gruffudd ap Gwenwynwyn died in 1286. (David Stephenson)

Finding Jerusalem

The Commendiato Lamentabilis in Transitu Magni Regis Edwardi is a lengthy eulogy to Edward I of England, composed shortly after his death in 1307 by John of London. John was a clerk in the service of Edward’s widowed consort, Margaret of France. His text was widely copied and distributed about England at the time, and presents a highly complex image of fourteenth-century kingship.

The text consists of a short summary or preface followed by eight lamentations, proffered respectively by the Pope, the kings of Christendom, Queen Margaret, the prelates, earls and barons, clergy, and general laity, each highlighting different aspects of royal virtue. Edward is presented as the greatest of kings, comparable to Arthur and various Biblical figures. His people, the Pope exhorted, should now grieve as Job had grieved over the loss of his sons, Abraham over the death of Sarah, Judah over the death of Josiah, and Christ over Lazarus.

Edward’s deeds in life, so often portrayed as negative or even wicked in modern times, are shown as proof of his greatness. His crusade, the conquest of Wales, the wars against the Scots and the expulsion of the Jews are all celebrated. The Commendiato is a form of propaganda, of course, but we should not fall into the trap of imagining that Edward’s contemporaries thought as we do. So far as they were concerned, his war-mongering and bigotry - as his more extreme critics might put it - were ideal traits in a king.

The dominant theme is Edward’s piety and desire to rescue the Holy Land. His Christian enemies, especially Philip IV of France, are condemned as enemies of holy church and worse than Saracens. Philip had, after all, prevented Edward from liberating Jerusalem. There is some basis for this hyperbole: Edward did genuinely plan to go on crusade again in 1293, but the outbreak of war with France prevented it.

A depiction of Jerusalem

Interestingly, the Commendiato is echoed by another eulogy for Edward, composed in Anglo-Norman. This repeats the charge against Philip and expresses the hope that, even in death, Edward’s spirit might yet find its way to the Holy Land:

“Place à Dieu en Trinité,/Que vostre fiz en pust conquere/Jerusalem la digne cite,/E passer en la seinte tere!”

The sheer length of the Commendiato is unusual for royal eulogies at this time. One comparison is the panegyric for King Wenceslas II of Bohemia (died 1305), who was praised in similar terms. He, too, was a pious king who had aggressively expanded his territory: not for reasons of mere empire-building, but because he loved justice and hated evil-doers. The peculiar emphasis on mercy and clemency, as necessary adjuncts to brutal wars of conquest, may come across as laughable hypocrisy to us. Yet these were the traits and behaviours required of successful kings.

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The League of Franche-Comté (1)

Otto IV, Count of Burgundy (1248-1302). His highly personalised style of armour is derived from a series of sketches commissioned by his wife for Otto's tomb in 1312, a decade after his death. The tomb hasn't survived, but the sketches have, so it appears Otto really did wear a metal lizard on his head.

Described as of weak character, spendthrift and debauched (sounds like fun), Otto had little interest in being a count and in 1295 sold Burgundy to Philip IV for a lump sum of 100,000 livres tournois and an annual fee of 10,000 livres in rents. This enabled him to live as Philip's pensioner at the French court, and be as debauched as he pleased with zero responsibility.

When the nobles of Franche-Comté (eastern Burgundy) learned that Otto had flogged his inheritance - and hence their independence - to the king of France, they formed a solemn league and covenant and declared they would never swear homage to Philip or his heirs, or give up their rights to the French crown.

To read and write

Could medieval kings read and write? It seems likely they could read, but writing was for clerks.

For instance in July 1282 Eleanor of Provence, the queen dowager, asked her son Edward I to listen to a draft message to the king of France and amend it if he wished. The relevant part of her message read:

“Nos avoms fet feire une letre depar vos la quele nous vo envoions et voz prioms, que vos la vuillez oir, si ele vos plest, facez la seler, et si non, voillez commander, que ele soit amendee a vestre plesir.”

(‘We have had a letter made on your behalf which we send to you, and we pray that you should wish to hear it. If it please you, have it sealed; and if not, may you wish to command that it be amended to your satisfaction’)

From this it appears that the king would listen to a letter - presumably read out by a clerk - and then order the content to be amended, if he thought it appropriate. It has been argued that kings had basic literacy, but the process of letter-writing was generally beneath them. God’s representative on earth did not lick his own postage stamps.

The earliest known example of the handwriting of a medieval English king is a code written by Edward III - ‘pater sancte’ - on letters sent to the pope in 1330 (above).

The fens of Ely

The sons of Belial (3)

The Isle of Ely in the fenlands of Cambridgeshire is famous as the stronghold of Hereward the Wake, a folk-hero of English resistance to William the Conqueror. Hereward was real enough, even if his deeds were exaggerated, and the remains of his fortress were still visible in the thirteenth century.

The isle continued to be used as a haven for political rebels. It was occupied by the barons during the Anarchy of King Stephen’s reign, and again during the Monftortian civil wars at the end of Henry III’s reign. In the summer of 1267 the garrison was burnt out by local militia led by the Lord Edward, and scattered in all directions. One of them escaped to Paris, only to be hanged on the public gallows.

In July 1272, between the deaths of Richard of Cornwall and Henry III, sinister reports reached Westminster of a fresh attempt to occupy the isle. Orders hurriedly went out to the bishop of Ely, as well as all abbots and priors and tenants, to keep guard ‘night and day’ over the isle, since it was ‘one of the stronger refuges of the realm’ and could not be allowed to fall into rebel hands again.

Two years later, with the realm still in a nervous and uncertain state, there was yet another attempt to occupy Ely. This one seems to have been more determined, and it would be interesting to know who was attempting to re-establish a rebel headquarters on the isle at such a late stage. The regents were sufficiently concerned to order all boats to be sunk and for ‘watches and ambushes’ to be kept night and day against ‘malefactors and suspected persons’.

Freedom of Elections

This seems appropriate, given events in the Supreme Court today…

The Freedom of Elections Act is the second of two clauses of Statute of Westminster I (1275) still in force in England and Wales. It reads thus:

"There shall be no Disturbance of Free Elections. Elections shall be free. AND because Elections ought to be free, the King commandeth upon great Forfeiture, that no Man by force of Arms, nor by Malice, or Menacing, shall disturb any to make free Election."

The original purpose of this act was to ensure that the election of sheriffs, coroners, bailiffs and so forth were fair and equal, and could not be influenced by intimidation or corruption etc. As time went on the act became a convenient basis for representative government. It has influenced the growth of democratic legislature all over the planet.

Edward’s notions of representation were absorbed in his youth from Simon de Montfort and the baronial reform movement. He eventually destroyed Simon - before Simon could destroy him - but the the principles of reform were enshrined in the great statutes and parliaments of Edward’s reign.

The Pope and Lord Edward

Pope Boniface VIII on Edward I and his father, Henry III.

"The king of England we listen to readily and more readily grant what he asks, and we readily receive and readily listen to his envoys, because we have a special affection for him and have had for a long time; and his father (God bless his soul) was greatly loved. They did us great honour. And we recall when we were in England with the lord Ottobon and were besieged in the Tower of London by the Earl of Gloucester, this king, then a young man, came to deliver us from this siege and he did us many a service, and his father did too. And it was then that we gave this king our particular affection, and formed the opinion from his appearance that with him it was bound to happen that he would be the finest prince in the world, and we believe without a doubt that we did not err in this judgement, for we firmly believe that there is not now living a better prince. True enough, he has some faults, for no man is faultless, but comparing his shortcomings with his advantages, he is of all princes of the world the best, and this we would say out boldly before all the world."

Boniface said this as part of a series of private conversations held with the French chancellor, Pierre Flote, held at Sculcula near Anagni on 21, 22 and 24 August 1300. He refers to the siege of London in 1267, when Gilbert de Clare, earl of Gloucester, held the capital for a few weeks against Henry III and the Lord Edward.

During their talks Boniface asked Pierre if it was the policy of the French to drive the English from their territories on the continent? At which the Frenchman smiled and replied:

"Certainly, sir, what you say is very true."

Which might cast the origins of the Hundred Years War in a slightly different light.

Adam Gurdun: Quite Possibly Indestructible

In October 1295, eight years after his last military service in Wales, Adam Gurdun was summoned once again to serve his king.

This time he was placed in charge of the defence of Hampshire, part of the chain of coastal defences hurriedly set up against the threat of a French invasion. Adam was appointed ‘custos’ of the Hampshire coast, while similar power was given to Henry of Cobham for Kent and William Stoke for the rapes of Lewes, Pevensey and Hastings.

The threat of invasion was very real. Philip le Bel had brought ship-builders from Genoa to build galleys in Marseille and in Normandy, and in 1295 a squadron sailed from the Mediterranean to invade England. In August a French raiding party landed at Dover and set fire to the town, killing two monks of the priory. An assault on Winchelsea was beaten off, and a French galley foundered on some rocks when it tried to attack Hythe. All along the southern coast, alarm bells were ringing. From his base at Wingham in Kent, King Edward declared the French intended to wipe the English language from the face of the earth. His emphasis on the language - English, not Norman-French or domestic variants - suggests the upper classes in England no longer despised the native tongue.

Adam, now in his 70s, was given total responsibility for mustering soldiers and organising the defence of Hampshire. From his headquarters at Portsmouth, he was in command of a licensed private army. The old knight went about his task with relish: within days he had organised a general mobilisation of all able-bodied men, and come up with a detailed plan for the defence of his section of coastline.

The coastal defence scheme for Hampshire survives in its entirety. Adam’s defences consisted of a strong garrison on the Isle of Wight, with the mainland beaches along the Solent and Spithead and the Southampton Water guarded by infantry. These men were drawn from seaside villages and inland hundreds as a first line of defense. Behind them was a mobile reserve of cavalry. If the French attempted to land on the mainland, they would be outflanked by the garrison on the Isle. If they tried to attack the Isle, they would be bottled up by Adam’s forces on the mainland and ships from the Cinque Ports.

Adam also set about raising the landholders of the region. Everyone in Hampshire who could afford to raise men was summoned in Hampshire, to be ‘assessed for horses and arms’. The Bishop of Winchester was assessed for one hundred covered horsemen, the Prior of St Swithin for ten, the Abbot of Waverley at four, the Abbot of Hyde for six, and so on. More cavalry were distributed among Hurst Castle, Portsmouth, and the Isle of Wight. All told, some 246 mounted men were named and tapped for service with horses and arms in defence of Hampshire.

The Jewish diet

Some comments by Mundill on the diet of Anglo-Jews in 13th century England, as opposed to Jews in France. Ten glasses of beer a day!

"In France, meat was commonly eaten in the form of a pastide; whilst in England, the annual gift from Richard Foliot to Hagin of Lincoln (found in the Lincoln areha) of a beast of the chase and other references to Jews enjoying hunting must have meant that hunting and eating the spoils was within the kosher laws.

Wine was of great importance to the Jews. The Eiddush after every meal was always recited over wine. It is clear that the London Jews and in particular Rabbi Elijah Menahem imported his wine from Gascony. There were Jewish vintners in Oxford and Isaac of Colchester had his awn vineyard. It seems that in France cider and liquor made from berries and cherries was not regarded as wine and could be purchased from a Gentile.Alcohol was not forbidden and the Tosafists give as an example of the partial abstinence enjoined on the Feast of the Ninth of Ab the advice that if a Jew was accustomed to drink ten glasses of beer a day, on this day he should drink only five.

Two continental Rabbis had noted with disapproval that 'It is surprising that in the land of the Isle they are lenient in the matter of drinking strong drinks of the Gentiles and along with them'. They claimed that this could lead to intermarriage but went on to add, 'But perhaps as there would be great ill-feeling if they were to refrain from this one must not be severe upon them.' Thus, the Jews' diet set them apart from their host society."

Adam and the prince

On Ascension Day (30 May) 1266, Adam Gurdun and his gang descended upon Shortgrave, a grange in Bedfordshire belonging to Dunstable priory. They stayed all day, looting the manor and eating up the stores, and then rode off taking all they could carry.

The outlaws rode back to their hideout in the forests of Alton in Hampshire, via Kimble and the Chiltern Hills. Adam’s men were in the habit of lying in wait for travellers between the town of Alton and Farnham Castle:

“Which was then in a valley rendered tortuous by well-wooded promontories, and because of this advantageous for robbers…” (William Rishanger)

The outlaws didn’t know it, but they were being tracked. Robert Chadd, a deserter, had told the Lord Edward of the location of Adam’s hideout. Guided by Chadd, the prince set off with his knights and discovered the outlaw camp at dusk, ‘about the setting of the sun’. There are several versions of what happened next. One account says that Edward challenged Adam to ‘take his arms and defend himself like a brave man’, after which the two engaged in single combat. Another says that Edward went berserk and charged at Adam without waiting for his men; the prince ended up stranded on the wrong side of a ditch and had to fight the outlaws all by himself until help arrived.

This might sound unlikely, but armoured princes with all the best gear and training were capable of doing some serious damage. Take the account of King Louis VII of France, when he found himself in a tight spot in Asia Minor:

“During the fighting the king lost his small and famous royal guard, but he remained in good heart and nimbly and courageously scaled the side of the mountain by gripping the tree roots that God had provided for his safety. The enemy climbed after him, hoping to capture him, and the archers in the distance continued to shoot arrows at him. But God willed that his cuirass should protect him from the arrows, and to prevent himself from being captured he defended the crag with his bloody sword, cutting off many heads and hands.”

It seems Edward and the outlaw knight fought for a while, until Adam suffered a ‘savage wound’ and had to yield. His life was spared, but Edward ordered all his followers to be hanged on the trees of the wood. This was the fate of penniless thieves, who could not afford to pay ransoms. One later account says that Edward promised Adam life and fortune if he surrendered.

The harsher reality was that Adam was sent off to Windsor as a prisoner. Edward cheerfully quipped he could provide company for Robert Ferrers, Earl of Derby, recently captured by royalist forces at Chesterfield. Adam was given to the queen, Eleanor of Provence, but was later able to buy back his estates at a stiff price. Meanwhile his men rotted on the trees of Alton wood.

Adam Gurdun, part the next

Back to the bold Sir Adam.

In 1251 the Sheriff of Dorset, Henry of Earley, was replaced by Elias de Rabayn. Elias was a Poitevin and had only arrived at the English court in 1248, probably in the entourage of Henry III’s Lusignan half-brothers. He soon made his presence felt in Dorset.

The king granted Elias the wardship of the lands and two daughters of Stephen of Bayeux, an old man who had just inherited a barony in Lincolnshire and two manors in Dorset. Just before he died, Stephen was ‘persuaded’ by the king to marry one of his daughters, Maud, to Elias. The entire estate was then settled on the couple and the other daughter, Joan, disinherited. Joan was sent to Sixhills convent in Lincolnshire, a favourite dumping ground for unwanted female gentlefolk. In 1253 she was abducted by Elias and smuggled off abroad, to be married to a Poitevin nobleman. She never saw England again, though her son later returned to try and claim his inheritance.

 It may be that Henry appointed Elias as Sheriff of Dorset to stifle local opposition to his marriage. The new sheriff didn’t help matters by screwing down hard on the locals: he and his deputy, Walter Burges, were accused of extortion. In February 1253 Walter was violently assaulted by the people of Shaftesbury, a rare experience for Henry III’s sheriffs and unprecedented in Dorset. Elias and Walter also engaged in a power struggle with the Earl of Gloucester, and began to stockpile weapons at Corfe Castle.

Another of the king’s half-brothers, Aymer de Lusignan, also threw his weight around in Dorset. As bishop-elect of Winchester, Aymer grabbed the port of Weymouth, the manor of Wyke and the island of Portland, in the teeth of protests from local landowners. Aymer also got permission to fortify Portland by a royal licence obtained from a council packed with his friends, while his bailiff squeezed tolls from local shipping. His activities were condemned in the Petition of the Barons:

“No-one shall be allowed to fortify a castle upon a harbour, or upon an island within a harbour, unless by the consent of the council of the whole realm of England.”

By the early 1260s Dorset was ready to boil over. All the protesters lacked was a leader. Step forward Adam Gurdun. In June 1263 the justices in eyre at Sherborne in Dorset reported they dared not leave the town, for “the enemies of the lord king were going with flags flying through the country plundering loyal subjects”.

The ‘loyal subjects’ were the king’s supporters in the region. Adam’s revolt had begun.

'Put to silence'...the fate of the Princes in the Tower.

"...their breath failing, they gave up to God their innocent souls into the joys of heaven, leaving to the tormentors their bodies dead in the bed."

- Sir Thomas More

"Of their death's manner was many opinions, for some said they were murdered between two feather beds, some said they were drowned in malmsey, and some said they were sticked with a venomous poison..."

- The Great Chronicle

"The princes, by some unknown manner of destruction, had met their fate..."

- The Crowland Chronicler

"In this year (1483) the two sons of King Edward were put to silence in the Tower of London."

- Robert Ricart, recorder of Bristol

The princes

I've held off writing this post, to allow some of the dust over the discovery of Richard III's remains under the now-famous Leicestershire car park to settle down. Richard has always been a controversial subject, but the finding of his bones caused some tempers to get a wee bit risen, especially via social media. He has plenty of admirers and detractors, and I sincerely hope the more extreme members of either faction never meet in person, unless there is a police van in attendance. 

Much of the controversy over Richard stems from one of England's most famous unsolved mysteries: what happened to the sons of his brother, Edward IV? The traditional view is that their Wicked Uncle Richard, regarding the boys as an inconvenience after he had snatched the crown, caused them both to be quietly disposed of. The murder of two innocent boys, even by late medieval standards, was so shocking that Richard's reputation lay in ruins for centuries, until the likes of Clements Markham and Paul Murray Kendall decided to redeem it.

Kendall's book on Richard III, published in 1955, proved hugely influential, and inspired a spate of pro-'Ricardian' fiction and nonfiction. Authors such as Josephine Tey, Sandra Worth, Sharon Penman, John Ashdown-Hill, Philippa Langley and others have all scrambled to declare Richard innocent of any wrongdoing, and reached for alternatives to the traditional version of events. Many alternative candidates for the death of the princes have been put forward, including Margaret Beaufort, Lord Stanley, Henry Tudor, the Duke of Buckingham, even John Howard, Duke of Norfolk and Richard's principal ally. 

Margaret Beaufort

The problem is lack of evidence. Not a shred of genuine evidence can be produced to implicate any of the above, including Richard. All we know for certain is that the boys were last seen playing in the grounds of the Tower between July-November 1483. Dominic Mancini, an Italian eyewitness to events in London, wrote that Edward and his brother 'were withdrawn into the inner apartments of the Tower proper and day by day began to be seen more and more rarely behind the bars and windows, till at length they ceased to appear altogether.' A similar version appeared in various versions of the London Chronicle, and the Great Chronicle records that 'the children were seen shooting and playing in the garden of the Tower by sundry times' before November 1483, and were then seen no more. 

The second problem is the nature of the crime, and the creeping horror of it: two innocent boys, swallowed up by the dreaded Tower and never seen again. No-one who has read the positive accounts of Richard, and who admire him for his undoubted talents, wants to believe that he ordered such a thing. Far more comforting to pin it on someone else - and who better than his various enemies? After all, Henry Tudor and his hard-nosed mother also had vested interests in getting rid of the princes. 

Arms of William, Lord Hastings

For me - and this is where I make myself unpopular - there is a fatal lack of practicality to most of the alternative theories. How, for instance, was Margaret Beaufort supposed to have gained access to the princes, held securely inside the strongest fortress in England? She had only recently been placed under house arrest in the custody of her husband, Lord Stanley, and all her assets confiscated. Even if she was able to hire an assassin to do the deed, he would have needed superhuman powers to get inside the castle, creep past Richard's guards, murder the boys and creep out again, all without being detected.

Another theory is that Henry Tudor found the princes still alive in the Tower when he arrived in London after his victory at Bosworth in 1485, and quietly murdered them himself. A few years later the cunning rat tortured Sir James Tyrrell, a loyal Yorkist knight, into 'confessing' that Richard was responsible, and then executed Tyrrell. Job done! 

Henry VII

It won't do. If Margaret planned to clear the way to the throne for her son, then her Super-Assassin would have to bump off not only the princes, but Richard himself, his son, and all the male de la Poles, who were next in line to the Yorkist succession. The eldest, John de la Pole, would cause Henry VII serious problems immediately after Bosworth.

The crux is the rebellion of 1483. Kendall tried to explain away the rebellion as a Woodville conspiracy, but Woodville influence was limited, and the ringleaders were essentially Edward IV's old retainers. Men such as Sir George Brown (who carried the banner of St George at Edward's funeral), Sir John Fogge and Nicholas Gaynesford, among many others, cannot be accused of being traitors to the House of York. They had spilled much blood in the Yorkist cause, and gained great rewards. Having served the old king so faithfully, they wished to know what had become of his sons, and yet Richard would not produce them. Why?

It looked suspicious then, and still looks suspicious now. Richard's defenders point to his previous record of loyal service to Edward, but his loyalty didn't prevent him from trying to smear Edward's mother (also his own) as an adulteress, from killing Edward's best friend (William Hastings) without trial, from declaring Edward's sons illegitimate and taking Edward's crown. Whether or not you believe in the Stillington pre-contract and everything that flowed from it is a moot point, and too complex to go into here. The timing of it, however, was extremely convenient for Richard's purposes.

What of Richard's character? Here was a man whose father and brother were killed in battle when he was just eight years old, who presided over his first treason trial at the age of eighteen, and from an early age was exposed to the lethal, bloodstained politics of late medieval England. His role model was the Earl of Warwick, later know as the Kingmaker and the living embodiment of realpolitik. Richard was happy to benefit from the ruthless carve-up of the estates belonging to Warwick's widow (Edward IV had her legally declared dead!), and later mercilessly persecuted the aged and defenceless Countess of Oxford, until she agreed to sign over her lands to him for half their annual value. He was no innocent lamb riding guilelessly to the slaughter, as some would have him portrayed.

The man himself...Richard III

Richard's actions in the immediate aftermath of Edward IV's unexpected death show a man trying to act decisively and in haste, in order to protect and secure his own position as Lord Protector. I don't personally believe he always planned to take the throne: rather, his behaviour suggests he was making it up as he went along. Rivers, Grey, Vaughan and Haute were seized and despatched to Pontefract Castle, to be later judicially murdered after a show tribunal presided over by the Earl of Northumberland. Hastings was dragged out of a council chamber in the Tower, on vague suspicion of conspiracy, and brutally slaughtered on the green beside the chapel. Buckingham was executed after deserting his former ally, and many of his fellow rebels, including 'divers of the king's own household' also ended on the block.

None of these ruthless acts, however you interpret them, suggest a man who was incapable of ordering the death of his own nephews, if he thought it necessary. Ricardians may throw their hands up in horror at such a statement, but I find it impossible to read him any other way. His brother Edward, the other great exemplar in his life, was himself guilty of breaking the rules of sanctuary at Tewkesbury, ordering a private gangland-style execution of their troublesome brother Clarence, and murdering the defenceless madman, Henry VI.

For all these reasons, I believe the traditional verdict still stands, and that Richard is the most likely candidate for the murder of the princes. They vanished while under his official care and protection, so at the very least he stands charged with criminal negligence. His decision to kill them may have been prompted by a bungled effort - probably instigated by the Woodvilles - to rescue the princes from the Tower in the late summer of 1483. Feeling himself threatened, Richard reacted as he always did in such circumstances, and struck out. Blindly, hastily, and mistakenly. He paid for the mistake two years later, in a marshy field a couple of miles south of Market Bosworth.

Far-fetched notions of the boys being smuggled out of the country to Burgundy, where one later re-emerged as Perkin Warbeck while the other found his true calling as a bricklayer, are (for me) so much hogwash, and take wishful thinking to the extreme. By the summer of 1483 the princes had become surplus to requirements, and in this era spare royals had the life expectancy of a kitten in a furnace.

To ram home the point, I'll leave the last word to Prince Geoffrey and his brother John, sons of Henry II, from The Lion in Winter:

Geoffrey: We are extra princes now, and you know where extra princes go?

John: Down. 

The White Hawk IV: Redemption

Part IV of The White Hawk, my series following the fortunes of a family of Lancastrian loyalists during The Wars of the Roses, is now available on Kindle. 

Those who have been following the series will know that the Boltons have taken some pretty hefty knocks in the past, and the beginning of this installment (possibly the last) finds the surviving members in a very bad way indeed. Can they scrape themselves up the floor and hit back? There's only one way to find out...

“Loyaulté me lie…” 

The dynastic wars are over. The House of York reigns supreme after the shattering victories of Barnet and Tewkesbury, and King Edward IV can look forward to a long and happy reign. 

For diehard Lancastrian loyalists such as the Boltons, there is no peace or happiness. James is a prisoner in the Tower, and has been for the past twelve years. His brother Martin is reduced to a common sell-sword, fighting in the service of the Black Army, the most ruthless and destructive army in Christendom. Elizabeth, their niece, lives under a false name as a prostitute in the stews of Southwark. 

Everything changes when King Edward dies unexpectedly, leaving his crown to an underage boy. The young Edward V is controlled by the Woodvilles, his mother’s relatives, who seek to use him as their puppet. Edward’s uncle, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, is named as Lord Protector. Suspicious of the Woodvilles, Gloucester takes drastic action to protect himself and seize the person of his nephew. 

Across the Channel, the few surviving Lancastrians sniff an opportunity to restore their fortunes. Their last hope is Henry Tudor, the exiled Earl of Richmond, who possesses a faint claim to the throne. While the House of York threatens to tear itself apart, Richmond slowly gathers allies and plans to invade England. 

From the cold ashes of defeat and despair, the Boltons are handed an opportunity to redeem their fortunes. Victory or death awaits as they fight like never before to claw back what was lost. 

The White Hawk (IV): Redemption on Amazon

Blog Hop winner...

A few days have passed since the 'Casting Light on the Darkness' blog hop, and it's time to announce the winner...Alison Bahmuller! A signed paperback copy of my novel, Nowhere Was There Peace, will be winging its way towards Alison as soon as possible. Congratulations to her, and thanks to you all for participating.

Oh, and a belated Merry Christmas and a peaceful and prosperous New Year to you all!

The Withermen

In my last post I made reference to Sir Robert Thweng, one of the ringleaders of the anti-papal riots in England in the early 13th century. I thought it was worth writing a more complete piece about the Thwengs, one of the many extinct and largely forgotten baronial Norman families. They caused quite a stir in their time, though they never progressed to the upper ranks of the nobility, and several members of the family achieved a fame out of proportion to their worldly status.

The arms of the Thwengs of Kilton

The earliest surviving references to the Thwengs date from the late 12th century, where they are recorded holding a knight's fee from the Percies in Lincolnshire. They appear to have taken their odd surname - also spelled as de Tweng, Thwing, Tuenge etc - from the manor of Thweng in Holderness in East Yorkshire, a few miles south of Scarborough. A Sir Marmaduke Thweng was part of the baronial opposition to King John and acted as a coroner in Yorkshire in 1230.

So far, so unremarkable, but the family history took a turn for the dramatic with Marmaduke's son, Robert. Evidently a hot-tempered Norman with the usual acute Norman awareness of property rights, Robert de Thweng achieved national fame by his revolt against the imposition of foreign clergymen upon the English church. The granting of so many English church revenues to foreigners saw a constant flow of wealth streaming out of the country, while the imposition of a heavy tax on ecclesiastical incomes by the Pope further rubbed salt into the wound. Desperate to win favour with Pope Gregory, the young King Henry III had turned the English church into a gigantic milch cow, ripe to have her udders squeezed by grasping hands.   

Kilton Castle in North-East Yorkshire, family seat of the Thwengs

Enraged by all this lovely money slipping through his mailed fingers, and by the appointment of an Italian to a church he claimed to own, Thweng decided to perform a sort of medieval Batman routine. In 1232 he assumed the nickname William Wither, possibly meaning William the Avenger, and put himself at the head of the various gangs of rioters and protesters infesting Yorkshire. William Wither and his 'Withermen' descended on barns and grainstores owned by the 'aliens', pilfered the grain and burned the property. They gave the stolen grain to the poor, or sold it off cheap. Were it for the fact he already had a nickname, one might be tempted to identify Robert de Thweng as the historical genesis figure for the legend of Robin Hood.

Violence had already broken out in other parts of the country. In the autumn of 1231 a group of northern barons sent out letters to English bishops and monasteries, declaring that they would rather die than submit to the tyranny of the Pope and Roman clergy. Violent incidents followed. A group of foreign clerics were attacked at Saint Albans as they left a council meeting. One, a man named Cincius, was taken prisoner and only released upon payment of a hefty ransom. Another was forced to take sanctuary in York minster, in fear for his life after the protestors threatened to cut his head off.

The Great Charter

King Henry could do little to suppress the Withermen. By the winter of 1232 the protests had spread from Yorkshire down as far as Hampshire and Kent. The Justiciar himself, Hubert de Burgh, was no friend to the aliens and issued letters declaring that the rioters were immune from the authority of local Sheriffs. Hamstrung by de Burgh's effective desertion, Henry could do little except complain to the Pope and watch as England burned.

Meanwhile, Thweng had been busy. He appealed for support among the northern barons, and these hard-faced, brutish, politically volatile men were not slow in responding. The Percies, Nevills, Fitz Randolph, de Mauley, de Menyll, de Ros, and de Brus, plus some twenty other knights, all converged on Thweng's castle at Kilton in Yorkshire to plan the campaign ahead. It is easy to imagine them gathered in the smokey vault of the great hall, faces enflamed with drink and righteous indignation, fingers bloody with tearing meat from the carcase of a deer slow-roasting over a great fire. Their fathers had rebelled against old King John and wrung concessions out of him in the form of the Great Charter. Now it was time to remind John's son that royal tyranny would not be tolerated in England, so long as privileged men with swords existed to oppose it.

Hubert de Burgh at prayer

Pope Gregory supported the hapless monarch, and in February 1232 every one of the protesters was formally excommunicated. This did little to halt the attacks on the aliens. The Pope sent a further letter to Henry, threatening him with serious consequences if the violence was not stopped. Still, Henry could do nothing. His agents reported that so many high-ranking men, clerics, nobles, knights and barons, were involved in the uprising that it would be impossible to punish anyone.

Left high and dry, and with nothing to turn to save his own wits, Henry resorted to mediation. William Wither/Robert de Thweng was induced to lay down his arms and received no punishment for his crimes beyond a heavy fine. He was later reconciled to the king, and travelled to Rome with letters of safe conduct so he could voice his complaints before the Pope in person. The immediate results of this stormy meeting are unknown, but in 1240 the Pope wrote to Richard Earl of Cornwall, the King's brother, recognising the rights of English lay patrons over the claims of foreigners.

The onset of middle age did nothing to calm Robert's temper. In 1245 he again incurred the displeasure of the king, and his lands were briefly seized as punishment for a violent assault on Richard de Sarr, a clerk employed by the Archbishop of York. During the rebellion of Simon de Montfort, when Robert was an old man, King Henry did much to keep his family on the side of the royalists, granting them a number of fees and manors. Henry needed all the swords he could muster against de Montfort, even that of the one-time rebel who had caused him so much distress in his youth. Having the Thwengs onside gave the King a useful ally in the northeast, and a counter-balance to all the turbulent northerners, such as John Deyville, who had thrown in their lot with de Montfort.

Robert's date of death is unknown, but he probably died sometime in the late 1260s. Both his sons proved to be loyal servants of the crown, and his grandson Marmaduke earned fresh fame for the family by his exploits during the Scottish wars. That is for Part Two...