A negative review of Angus McFayden's new film on Robert de Bruce. The reviews have only just started coming in, but it isn't looking good.
This is the fourth stab (as Bruce said to Comyn) at depicting Bruce's life in modern cinema, and none have really worked. Perhaps the best depiction is in the otherwise ridiculous Braveheart, in which Bruce is shown as a conflicted character while everyone else is playing goodies and baddies.
In my 'umble opinion, the problem lies in the basic lack of honesty in these films. A dishonest piece of art carries no conviction either, and you're left watching a silly pantomime. The adage 'it's a movie, not a documentary' simply won't wash. Give us the reality plus detail, and perhaps we will finally get a decent movie or mini-series out of this subject. It can be done: see the likes of The Devil's Crown, Shadow of the Tower and the more recent Wolf Hall.
Friday 28 June 2019
Philip the not-so-fair
JF Verbruggen on Edward's cousin and contemporary, Philip IV of France, known as Philip le Bel or Philip the Fair:
"Philip IV had an acute, probably too acute, sense of his royal dignity. His reign marks the culmination of the medieval French monarchy. From 1285 to 1314, all his enterprises were executed with an extraordinary constancy, leading to an increase of the royal might and the destruction of the persons, groups and institutions that opposed or obstructed it. To attain these results, all means were good: obstinate war against the Flemings till the end of the reign, and spectacular trials well ordered, the accused going from interrogation to torture, accused of sorcery, heresy, crimes against nature, and eventually going to the stake."
Colour me cynical, but these medieval potentates were all the same. Philip arguably took things to extremes by perverting the course of justice to tear down Christian institutions such as the Knights Templar, but whatever.
"Philip IV had an acute, probably too acute, sense of his royal dignity. His reign marks the culmination of the medieval French monarchy. From 1285 to 1314, all his enterprises were executed with an extraordinary constancy, leading to an increase of the royal might and the destruction of the persons, groups and institutions that opposed or obstructed it. To attain these results, all means were good: obstinate war against the Flemings till the end of the reign, and spectacular trials well ordered, the accused going from interrogation to torture, accused of sorcery, heresy, crimes against nature, and eventually going to the stake."
Colour me cynical, but these medieval potentates were all the same. Philip arguably took things to extremes by perverting the course of justice to tear down Christian institutions such as the Knights Templar, but whatever.
Thursday 27 June 2019
Wolf meat
Another line from the WIP (Work in Progress). This is a further sequel to the adventures of Hugh Longsword.
"A strange lull fell over the place of slaughter. Somewhere in the deep forest – Art later wondered if he imagined it – a wolf howled. The carrion-eaters were impatient for meat."
"A strange lull fell over the place of slaughter. Somewhere in the deep forest – Art later wondered if he imagined it – a wolf howled. The carrion-eaters were impatient for meat."
Wednesday 26 June 2019
Galloglass
A poetic description of a galloglass warrior in Ireland, from Edmund Spenser's Faerie Queen:
"All armed in a coat of iron plate,
Of great defence to ward the deadly fear,
And on his head a steel cap did wear
Of colour rusty brown, but sure and strong;
And in his hand an huge pole-axe did bear,
With which to wont his fight, to justify his wrong."
Spenser, a colonial administrator in Ireland as well as a poet, knew the galloglass well. He was writing in the 16th century but his account could apply just as well to the galloglass of the medieval era.
Their first certain appearance in Irish history is apparently in the Annals of Loch Cé for 1259, which records a band of eight score óglaigh (young warriors) as part of the escort of the daughter of Lord Dugall MacRory of Garmoran, Argyll, on the occasion of her wedding to Aodh O'Connor of Connacht. Attached is a pic of stone carvings of galloglass on a tomb at the Dominican Priory of St Mary in Roscommon.
"All armed in a coat of iron plate,
Of great defence to ward the deadly fear,
And on his head a steel cap did wear
Of colour rusty brown, but sure and strong;
And in his hand an huge pole-axe did bear,
With which to wont his fight, to justify his wrong."
Spenser, a colonial administrator in Ireland as well as a poet, knew the galloglass well. He was writing in the 16th century but his account could apply just as well to the galloglass of the medieval era.
Their first certain appearance in Irish history is apparently in the Annals of Loch Cé for 1259, which records a band of eight score óglaigh (young warriors) as part of the escort of the daughter of Lord Dugall MacRory of Garmoran, Argyll, on the occasion of her wedding to Aodh O'Connor of Connacht. Attached is a pic of stone carvings of galloglass on a tomb at the Dominican Priory of St Mary in Roscommon.
The White Hawk! The White Hawk!
The White Hawk Saga is now available as a box set on Kindle! Don your armour, grab your sword, try not to trip over your lance and for God's sake remember which badge to wear - it's going to get messy.
"England, 1459.
Following her final defeat in The Hundred Years War, England has plunged into the bloody chaos of civil war. King Henry VI, the feeble son of the victor of Agincourt, is unable to prevent the rival houses of Lancaster and York from tearing each other to pieces. Included in The White Hawk Saga are all three novels from the series:
Revenge
Loyalty
Sacrifice
This epic tale follows the fortunes of a family of Lancastrian loyalists, the Boltons, as they attempt to survive and prosper in this world of brutal warfare and shifting alliances. From the pitiless massacre of Blore Heath to the blood-soaked hell of Towton, they must fight like wild beasts to protect their lands and their king. More than 200,000 words of action-packed historical fiction, ideal for fans of Bernard Cornwell, Conn Iggulden, David Gemmell and Simon Scarrow."
Following her final defeat in The Hundred Years War, England has plunged into the bloody chaos of civil war. King Henry VI, the feeble son of the victor of Agincourt, is unable to prevent the rival houses of Lancaster and York from tearing each other to pieces. Included in The White Hawk Saga are all three novels from the series:
Revenge
Loyalty
Sacrifice
This epic tale follows the fortunes of a family of Lancastrian loyalists, the Boltons, as they attempt to survive and prosper in this world of brutal warfare and shifting alliances. From the pitiless massacre of Blore Heath to the blood-soaked hell of Towton, they must fight like wild beasts to protect their lands and their king. More than 200,000 words of action-packed historical fiction, ideal for fans of Bernard Cornwell, Conn Iggulden, David Gemmell and Simon Scarrow."
A gentle romance
Extract from the new WIP (that's Work in Progress, hem hem). And it's all kicking off in Ireland in 1275.
"The noise and the confusion was enough to drive a man mad. Screaming horses, shouts and orders and curses and whimpers of pain, clattering blades, the swirl of pipes and blast of horns. Wounded and crippled men lay in pools of blood and dung and piss. Others tried to crawl to safety, dragging shattered limbs or spouting blood from gory stumps. An English squire, still a boy, his nose hanging from a strip of skin, stood over his weeping master and fought off all comers with a broken spear. A galloglass knocked him down and plunged his axe into the squire's chest, shattering every rib in his body. A dying horse rolled in its guts, limbs flailing, its piercing shrieks horrible to hear. Two galloglass squabbled over the boots of a dead knight, then fell on each other with daggers drawn, teeth bared, spitting curses. One killed his rival with a stab to the eye and stole his purse. He was still counting out the handful of copper pennies when an English mace crushed his skull from behind..."
"The noise and the confusion was enough to drive a man mad. Screaming horses, shouts and orders and curses and whimpers of pain, clattering blades, the swirl of pipes and blast of horns. Wounded and crippled men lay in pools of blood and dung and piss. Others tried to crawl to safety, dragging shattered limbs or spouting blood from gory stumps. An English squire, still a boy, his nose hanging from a strip of skin, stood over his weeping master and fought off all comers with a broken spear. A galloglass knocked him down and plunged his axe into the squire's chest, shattering every rib in his body. A dying horse rolled in its guts, limbs flailing, its piercing shrieks horrible to hear. Two galloglass squabbled over the boots of a dead knight, then fell on each other with daggers drawn, teeth bared, spitting curses. One killed his rival with a stab to the eye and stole his purse. He was still counting out the handful of copper pennies when an English mace crushed his skull from behind..."
Patrick of the droppings
The arms of Patrick IV de Dunbar, Earl of March, a Scottish nobleman.
Patrick was an important magnate in Scotland and one of the Competitors for the crown of Scotland after the death of Alexander III. He was one of those who sent an appeal to Edward I, called the Appeals of the Seven Earls, asking for the English king’s help against Bishop Fraser and John Comyn, both of whom were Guardians. The earls claimed they had the right to make the king, and to place him on the throne. Meanwhile John Balliol was already describing himself as heir to the Scottish kingdom and making some interesting promises of land worth 500 marks to Antony Bek, Bishop of Durham and Edward’s right-hand man.
Like so many Scottish nobles, Patrick also held lands in England, which made him eligible to do military service for King Edward. In 1294 he was called up to serve in Gascony. As earl of Dunbar and March, he swore fealty to the king at Wark in 1296. He appears to have been opposed by his wife, who took the Scottish side and held the castle of Dunbar against the English. Prior to the battle of Falkirk, it was spies in the service of Patrick and his colleague, the pro-English earl of Angus, who discovered Wallace’s army when Edward was on the point of falling back to Edinburgh for supplies. At the battle itself Patrick fought in the Bishop of Durham’s bataille.
To have any hope of controlling Scotland, Edward needed men like Patrick. Possibly there was no love lost. In 1304 the king accused Patrick of cowardice and negligence in the face of the enemy, and compared him to a pile of wolf droppings.
Patrick was an important magnate in Scotland and one of the Competitors for the crown of Scotland after the death of Alexander III. He was one of those who sent an appeal to Edward I, called the Appeals of the Seven Earls, asking for the English king’s help against Bishop Fraser and John Comyn, both of whom were Guardians. The earls claimed they had the right to make the king, and to place him on the throne. Meanwhile John Balliol was already describing himself as heir to the Scottish kingdom and making some interesting promises of land worth 500 marks to Antony Bek, Bishop of Durham and Edward’s right-hand man.
Like so many Scottish nobles, Patrick also held lands in England, which made him eligible to do military service for King Edward. In 1294 he was called up to serve in Gascony. As earl of Dunbar and March, he swore fealty to the king at Wark in 1296. He appears to have been opposed by his wife, who took the Scottish side and held the castle of Dunbar against the English. Prior to the battle of Falkirk, it was spies in the service of Patrick and his colleague, the pro-English earl of Angus, who discovered Wallace’s army when Edward was on the point of falling back to Edinburgh for supplies. At the battle itself Patrick fought in the Bishop of Durham’s bataille.
To have any hope of controlling Scotland, Edward needed men like Patrick. Possibly there was no love lost. In 1304 the king accused Patrick of cowardice and negligence in the face of the enemy, and compared him to a pile of wolf droppings.
Tuesday 25 June 2019
Daddy got drunk
I'm cut off from my internet sources today - damned Internet Archive is offline - so here is a quote from Fiona Watson on the Falkirk campaign:
"The army he [Edward I] mustered in the early summer of 1298 was immense by medieval standards, numbering some 3000 horsemen and over 25,000 footsoldiers. This was a testament to how miraculously the previous year's troubles had evaporated in the aftermath of Stirling Bridge and Edward's tacit acknowledgement - through the reissuing of Magna Carta - that he had treated his people badly. The king was absolutely determined to make 1298 a much better year than 1297."
Short of being hit in the face by a comet, it is difficult to see how 1298 could have gone much worse for Edward than the previous year. The defeats of his armies at Bellegarde and Stirling Bridge, the fiasco of the Flanders campaign, the domestic chaos in England, all combined to make 1297 one massive anus horribilus for the English king.
Edward seems to have finally cracked at the wedding of his daughter, Elizabeth of Rhuddlan, where the king got rotten drunk and threw Elizabeth's coronet into the fire. For good measure he also beat the crap out of a defenceless squire with a stick: possibly in a fit of hungover guilt, Edward later paid the boy the hefty compensation of £13 8 shillings and 6 pence.
"The army he [Edward I] mustered in the early summer of 1298 was immense by medieval standards, numbering some 3000 horsemen and over 25,000 footsoldiers. This was a testament to how miraculously the previous year's troubles had evaporated in the aftermath of Stirling Bridge and Edward's tacit acknowledgement - through the reissuing of Magna Carta - that he had treated his people badly. The king was absolutely determined to make 1298 a much better year than 1297."
Short of being hit in the face by a comet, it is difficult to see how 1298 could have gone much worse for Edward than the previous year. The defeats of his armies at Bellegarde and Stirling Bridge, the fiasco of the Flanders campaign, the domestic chaos in England, all combined to make 1297 one massive anus horribilus for the English king.
Edward seems to have finally cracked at the wedding of his daughter, Elizabeth of Rhuddlan, where the king got rotten drunk and threw Elizabeth's coronet into the fire. For good measure he also beat the crap out of a defenceless squire with a stick: possibly in a fit of hungover guilt, Edward later paid the boy the hefty compensation of £13 8 shillings and 6 pence.
Monday 24 June 2019
Loving and courteous language
An oddly neglected Close Roll entry from 17 May 1297. This is a lengthy instruction from Edward I to his commissioners of array in Wales, detailing how they are to go about raising Welsh troops for the king's war in Flanders.
Interestingly, the language of the instruction is couched in terms of a request. The king's officers are to lay his arguments for war before the leaders of Welsh communities, and persuade them that the war is to the 'common profit' of the realm. The officers are to mind their language and persuade the Welsh with 'the most loving and courteous manner that they are able'.
From a Welsh perspective, the only 'common profit' of a war in Flanders was the prospect of wages and plunder. So much is admitted in the instruction, whereby Edward offers to pay wages in advance. To further sweeten the deal, open letters sealed with the great seal are to be carried into Wales and shown to the Welsh as proof of the king's good faith.
The offer of money did the trick: in August John de Havering, justice of North Wales, reported that the North Welsh were coming into the muster 'of good will'. The same positive response was repeated elsewhere. In effect, the Welsh chose to fight in Flanders and get the king out of a tight spot, since he could raise very few men in England. The entry is thus another example of the ambiguous conditions in postconquest Wales.
Interestingly, the language of the instruction is couched in terms of a request. The king's officers are to lay his arguments for war before the leaders of Welsh communities, and persuade them that the war is to the 'common profit' of the realm. The officers are to mind their language and persuade the Welsh with 'the most loving and courteous manner that they are able'.
From a Welsh perspective, the only 'common profit' of a war in Flanders was the prospect of wages and plunder. So much is admitted in the instruction, whereby Edward offers to pay wages in advance. To further sweeten the deal, open letters sealed with the great seal are to be carried into Wales and shown to the Welsh as proof of the king's good faith.
The offer of money did the trick: in August John de Havering, justice of North Wales, reported that the North Welsh were coming into the muster 'of good will'. The same positive response was repeated elsewhere. In effect, the Welsh chose to fight in Flanders and get the king out of a tight spot, since he could raise very few men in England. The entry is thus another example of the ambiguous conditions in postconquest Wales.
Of bastard he was none
The arms of Sir John Botetourt, 1st Baron Botetourt and lord of Mendlesham.
John was once thought to have been a bastard son of Edward I, a myth that remained popular until quite recently: he appears as the king’s ‘massively tall and sombre-eyed bastard’ in Nigel Tranter’s series of novels on Robert de Bruce.
Whether or not he was a massively tall sombre-eyed bastard, John was no son of Edward I. The mistake stems from his inclusion in a genealogical table in a Hailes Abbey chronicle, where his name is scribbled over an erasure. No explanation is given for John’s appearance on the table, and his alleged bastardy is not explicitly stated in the chronicle or anywhere else. He was in fact the son of a Norfolk knight, Guy de Botetourt.
John began in royal service as a falconer and rose to the status of banneret. In 1295, as admiral of the Yarmouth fleet, he burnt and plundered the town of Cherbourg on the coast of Normandy, as well as the abbey. He did the usual exhausting round of military service required of so many English knights in the latter part of the reign. In the summer of 1295 he led a relief force to Gascony, where he was wounded in action, apparently while defending two Franciscan monks from the French. John also served in Scotland, where in 1298 he fought in the king’s bataille at Falkirk.
Like many of Edward I’s veterans, John reacted with horror to the doings of the old king’s successor. He loathed the royal favourite, Piers Gaveston, and helped the Earl of Warwick to carry off Piers from the protective custody of the Earl of Pembroke. John made his peace with Edward II in 1313, but later went back into rebellion under Thomas of Lancaster. He fought on the losing side at Boroughbridge, and for some reason was excluded from the stiff round of executions that followed. He was pardoned on 8 October 1322 and died in 1324, leaving a grandson to succeed him.
Whether or not he was a massively tall sombre-eyed bastard, John was no son of Edward I. The mistake stems from his inclusion in a genealogical table in a Hailes Abbey chronicle, where his name is scribbled over an erasure. No explanation is given for John’s appearance on the table, and his alleged bastardy is not explicitly stated in the chronicle or anywhere else. He was in fact the son of a Norfolk knight, Guy de Botetourt.
John began in royal service as a falconer and rose to the status of banneret. In 1295, as admiral of the Yarmouth fleet, he burnt and plundered the town of Cherbourg on the coast of Normandy, as well as the abbey. He did the usual exhausting round of military service required of so many English knights in the latter part of the reign. In the summer of 1295 he led a relief force to Gascony, where he was wounded in action, apparently while defending two Franciscan monks from the French. John also served in Scotland, where in 1298 he fought in the king’s bataille at Falkirk.
Like many of Edward I’s veterans, John reacted with horror to the doings of the old king’s successor. He loathed the royal favourite, Piers Gaveston, and helped the Earl of Warwick to carry off Piers from the protective custody of the Earl of Pembroke. John made his peace with Edward II in 1313, but later went back into rebellion under Thomas of Lancaster. He fought on the losing side at Boroughbridge, and for some reason was excluded from the stiff round of executions that followed. He was pardoned on 8 October 1322 and died in 1324, leaving a grandson to succeed him.
Box set!
Check me out and my sexy Kindle box set. This is a repackage of The White Hawk, a three-part family saga set during the Wars of the Roses. Further information and release date to be announced!
Sunday 23 June 2019
Marmaduke of the parrots
The arms of Marmaduke de Thweng, 1st Baron Thweng, an English knight of Yorkshire. Apart from his wonderful name, Marmaduke also sported three green parrots on his shield, making him an even more wonderful.
Marmaduke was a kinsman of the Bruces and an example of cross-border links among the English and Scottish nobility. His mother was Lucy de Bruce of Kilton, a descendent of Adam de Brus, lord of Skelton and brother to Robert de Bruce, 1st lord of Annandale. Marmaduke was a vassal of his kinsman Robert de Bruce, father of the victor of Bannockburn, by virtue of the latter's fiefdom in the North Riding.
Marmaduke fought at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, where his heroic behaviour was the only bright spot in a day of shame and disaster for the English. He rode with the vanguard across the bridge, where the English cavalry were trapped and slaughtered as they tried to deploy in boggy ground. Marmaduke's son was killed in the fight. His father threw the young man's body over his saddle, cut his way out of the mess and swam his horse across the river. Once on the other side, he advised Earl Warenne to break down the bridge and withdraw, which was done. After the rout, Marmaduke was appointed one of the two English castellans of Stirling Castle. The English were quickly starved out and Marmaduke taken off to captivity at Dumbarton, though he was released in time to serve at Falkirk. At the battle he fought in the Bishop of Durham's bataille and would have been involved in the initial charge against the Scottish schiltrons.
In 1314 Marmaduke had the misfortune to fight for the English at Bannockburn. After the destruction of Edward II's army he spent the night in a hedge, and the following morning wandered about the battlefield in his nightshirt, looking for someone to surrender to. He and Ralph de Monthermer, another English baron, were entertained to breakfast by Bruce before being released without ransom. Marmaduke was clearly a competent and chivalrous character, well-respected by the leading lights on both sides of the border.
Not being an effeminate, cackling psychopath with a taste for legalised rape, he doesn't appear among the English characters in Braveheart.
Marmaduke was a kinsman of the Bruces and an example of cross-border links among the English and Scottish nobility. His mother was Lucy de Bruce of Kilton, a descendent of Adam de Brus, lord of Skelton and brother to Robert de Bruce, 1st lord of Annandale. Marmaduke was a vassal of his kinsman Robert de Bruce, father of the victor of Bannockburn, by virtue of the latter's fiefdom in the North Riding.
Marmaduke fought at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, where his heroic behaviour was the only bright spot in a day of shame and disaster for the English. He rode with the vanguard across the bridge, where the English cavalry were trapped and slaughtered as they tried to deploy in boggy ground. Marmaduke's son was killed in the fight. His father threw the young man's body over his saddle, cut his way out of the mess and swam his horse across the river. Once on the other side, he advised Earl Warenne to break down the bridge and withdraw, which was done. After the rout, Marmaduke was appointed one of the two English castellans of Stirling Castle. The English were quickly starved out and Marmaduke taken off to captivity at Dumbarton, though he was released in time to serve at Falkirk. At the battle he fought in the Bishop of Durham's bataille and would have been involved in the initial charge against the Scottish schiltrons.
In 1314 Marmaduke had the misfortune to fight for the English at Bannockburn. After the destruction of Edward II's army he spent the night in a hedge, and the following morning wandered about the battlefield in his nightshirt, looking for someone to surrender to. He and Ralph de Monthermer, another English baron, were entertained to breakfast by Bruce before being released without ransom. Marmaduke was clearly a competent and chivalrous character, well-respected by the leading lights on both sides of the border.
Not being an effeminate, cackling psychopath with a taste for legalised rape, he doesn't appear among the English characters in Braveheart.
Longbows strongbows
“For they feared the English king's infantry because amongst them were many archers.”
Walter of Heminburgh, describing Edward I’s march from Bruges to Ghent in 1297. The flanks of the king’s little army were allegedly ‘bare of troops’, but the French refused to attack due to their fear of his archers.
This might be an early reference to Welsh archers armed with the longbow or war bow (or mega-bow, whatever). All of Edward’s infantry at this stage of the Flanders campaign were Welsh, recruited largely from Gwynedd and Glamorgan. Contemporary sketches of Welsh soldiers (see below) show them armed with short bows, though it is difficult to see why armoured French knights should have baulked at charging men armed with ordinary missile weapons. It would seem Gerald of Wales’s description of 12th Welsh archers armed with bows of dwarf elm, rough and unpolished, yet capable of pinning knights to their saddles, has some foundation after all.
There is also the evidence from the siege of Dryslwyn in 1287. One contemporary account of the siege describes an arrow from a Welsh archer shot with such force that it drilled clean through the head of an English soldier. Modern excavations at Dryslwyn and elsewhere have found plenty of arrowheads that would have been launched from ‘true longbows’. Dr Chris Caple, in charge of the digs, answered my query thus:
“Yes these arrowhead were from longbows, the longest arrowhead with socket being over 16cm in length – the bows launching these arrowheads were effectively true longbows. Olly Jessop (who wrote the typology of medieval arrowheads) wrote the specialist report for us (reference below). There is plenty of evidence for similar arrowheads from other castles such as Criccieth in Wales. Our examples are perhaps a little better dated than other given the modern excavation standards at Dryslwyn. The problems are always to do with words – terms such as war bow, longbow etc mean different things to different authors. The best and most telling evidence is from archaeology.”
None of the above, however, supports the popular view of Wallace’s spearmen being shot to bits by longbows at the battle of Falkirk. Most chronicle accounts agree the Welsh refused to fight at Falkirk until the closing stages. Therefore the schiltrons must have been broken up by other means, and there is no evidence of English troops using longbows at this stage.
This might be an early reference to Welsh archers armed with the longbow or war bow (or mega-bow, whatever). All of Edward’s infantry at this stage of the Flanders campaign were Welsh, recruited largely from Gwynedd and Glamorgan. Contemporary sketches of Welsh soldiers (see below) show them armed with short bows, though it is difficult to see why armoured French knights should have baulked at charging men armed with ordinary missile weapons. It would seem Gerald of Wales’s description of 12th Welsh archers armed with bows of dwarf elm, rough and unpolished, yet capable of pinning knights to their saddles, has some foundation after all.
There is also the evidence from the siege of Dryslwyn in 1287. One contemporary account of the siege describes an arrow from a Welsh archer shot with such force that it drilled clean through the head of an English soldier. Modern excavations at Dryslwyn and elsewhere have found plenty of arrowheads that would have been launched from ‘true longbows’. Dr Chris Caple, in charge of the digs, answered my query thus:
“Yes these arrowhead were from longbows, the longest arrowhead with socket being over 16cm in length – the bows launching these arrowheads were effectively true longbows. Olly Jessop (who wrote the typology of medieval arrowheads) wrote the specialist report for us (reference below). There is plenty of evidence for similar arrowheads from other castles such as Criccieth in Wales. Our examples are perhaps a little better dated than other given the modern excavation standards at Dryslwyn. The problems are always to do with words – terms such as war bow, longbow etc mean different things to different authors. The best and most telling evidence is from archaeology.”
None of the above, however, supports the popular view of Wallace’s spearmen being shot to bits by longbows at the battle of Falkirk. Most chronicle accounts agree the Welsh refused to fight at Falkirk until the closing stages. Therefore the schiltrons must have been broken up by other means, and there is no evidence of English troops using longbows at this stage.
Saturday 22 June 2019
Horsey and Brucey
Two letters, just a few days before the disagreement at Falkirk. On the first, dated 29 June 1298, Edward I orders the sheriff of Northumberland to receive the king's horse from Adam Riston, who served a dual role as captain of the royal bodyguard and master of horse.
Horsey was to be kept in the castle of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and fed daily on oats, bran and 'other things needful'. In the second, dated 3 July, Robert de Bruce earl of Carrick and lord of Annadale informs the chancellor of England that he will do 'anything' the chancellor requires of him. In addition he has despatched three of his knights to join King Edward in Galloway. This is Bruce senior, father of the future victor of Bannockburn.
Horsey was to be kept in the castle of Newcastle-upon-Tyne and fed daily on oats, bran and 'other things needful'. In the second, dated 3 July, Robert de Bruce earl of Carrick and lord of Annadale informs the chancellor of England that he will do 'anything' the chancellor requires of him. In addition he has despatched three of his knights to join King Edward in Galloway. This is Bruce senior, father of the future victor of Bannockburn.
Friday 21 June 2019
Plain red bunting
The not very flamboyant arms of Amanieu VII d'Albret, another Gascon exile in English service at Falkirk.
Amanieu was the head of the Albret, one of the oldest families of Plantagenet Aquitaine. Stemming from the poor and insignificant lordship of Labrit, they steadily built up their holdings via marriage and purchase. Both Henry III and Edward I were careful to cultivate the loyalty of the Albret, now one of the most powerful Gascon lineages in the northern part of the duchy. The Albret in turn held true to the Plantagenets: Amanieu VII was especially loyal and served Edward in France and Scotland. He is briefly mentioned in the Song of Caerlaverock, otherwise a praise piece for English knights.
The loyalty of the Albret, so painstakingly built up over decades, was thrown to the winds by Edward II. Edward chose to favour the Gaveston faction, Amanieu VII's hereditary enemies. In 1310 Amanieu was expelled from his lordship of Nérac by Piers Gaveston's older brother, and appealed to Philip le Bel for justice. In his appeal Amanieu complained the Gavestons were conspiring to compromise Edward II's honour by giving away Gascon lands and offices to unsuitable candidates. Edward's response was to appoint John de Ferrers as seneschal of Gascony: John murdered several of Amanieu's kinsmen and had others arrested and mutilated. Amanieu raised an army against the seneschal and was probably responsible for his poisoning in 1312. This once-loyal supporter of the Plantagenet regime then defected to the French.
At Falkirk Amanieu seems to have fought all on his lonesome, holding his plain red flag.
Amanieu was the head of the Albret, one of the oldest families of Plantagenet Aquitaine. Stemming from the poor and insignificant lordship of Labrit, they steadily built up their holdings via marriage and purchase. Both Henry III and Edward I were careful to cultivate the loyalty of the Albret, now one of the most powerful Gascon lineages in the northern part of the duchy. The Albret in turn held true to the Plantagenets: Amanieu VII was especially loyal and served Edward in France and Scotland. He is briefly mentioned in the Song of Caerlaverock, otherwise a praise piece for English knights.
The loyalty of the Albret, so painstakingly built up over decades, was thrown to the winds by Edward II. Edward chose to favour the Gaveston faction, Amanieu VII's hereditary enemies. In 1310 Amanieu was expelled from his lordship of Nérac by Piers Gaveston's older brother, and appealed to Philip le Bel for justice. In his appeal Amanieu complained the Gavestons were conspiring to compromise Edward II's honour by giving away Gascon lands and offices to unsuitable candidates. Edward's response was to appoint John de Ferrers as seneschal of Gascony: John murdered several of Amanieu's kinsmen and had others arrested and mutilated. Amanieu raised an army against the seneschal and was probably responsible for his poisoning in 1312. This once-loyal supporter of the Plantagenet regime then defected to the French.
At Falkirk Amanieu seems to have fought all on his lonesome, holding his plain red flag.
Pons de Castillon
The arms of Pons de Castillon. Pons was one of the many lords of Gascony who fled into exile in England when the French invaded the duchy in 1294. This lent King Edward a handy pool of extra fighting men, who were then thrown into service in Flanders and Scotland.
At the battle of Falkirk Pons led a conroi of seventeen Gascon knights and sergeants and one rather incongruous Welshman, John de Galeys. Of these, twelve lost their horses in the battle. Since Pons served in the king's bataille, this can only mean the king's own battalion had to go into action, implying Falkirk was an even more desperately fought action that previously thought.
After the shattering French defeat at Courtrai in 1302, Pons was one of 112 Gascon exiles who sailed home from Portsmouth at the head of an army. He afterwards helped the seneschal, John de Havering, to put down private wars in the duchy.
At the battle of Falkirk Pons led a conroi of seventeen Gascon knights and sergeants and one rather incongruous Welshman, John de Galeys. Of these, twelve lost their horses in the battle. Since Pons served in the king's bataille, this can only mean the king's own battalion had to go into action, implying Falkirk was an even more desperately fought action that previously thought.
After the shattering French defeat at Courtrai in 1302, Pons was one of 112 Gascon exiles who sailed home from Portsmouth at the head of an army. He afterwards helped the seneschal, John de Havering, to put down private wars in the duchy.
King of the North Wind
One of the supporting players in The Hooded Men is Sir James Chandos, an outlaw knight who calls himself the King of the North Wind or the Green Knight. James has made a base for himself in the ruined castle of Tickhill in West Yorkshire, from where he and his men ride out to plunder the surrounding countryside. His nicknames are meant to overawe the peasantry, duped into believing that Chandos is no man at all, but an avenging spirit of the greenwood.
James is based on a mixture of fact and legend. The Chandos family were real enough, and held lands in Herefordshire and Derbyshire. In the late thirteenth century a Sir John Chandos was pardoned by Edward I for holding Chartley Castle, in Staffordshire, against a royal army led by the king’s brother, Prince Edmund. This John was a knight of Derbyshire and as such a follower of the Earl of Derby, Robert de Ferrers, who was in revolt against the crown. I took part of the inspiration for James from John’s real-life rebellion.
The image of the Green Knight is taken from Gawaine and the Green Knight, a popular medieval tale set in the days of King Arthur. In the story Sir Gawaine, a knight of the Round Table, is forced to play ‘the beheading game’ with the mysterious knight, itself based on much older folklore motifs. Gawaine eventually tracks down his enemy at the Green Chapel, a lair inside the forest, where his life is spared as a reward for his honesty.
The King of the North Wind was another real-life outlaw, though we don’t know much about him. In 1336 a man calling himself ‘Lionel, King of the Rout Raveners’ wrote a threatening letter to the parson of Huntington, Yorkshire, addressed thus:
“Given at our Castle of the North Wind, in the Green Tower, in the first year of our reign.”
It seems Lionel saw himself as a forest lord or king, ruling from his greenwood palace of the Green Tower.
James is based on a mixture of fact and legend. The Chandos family were real enough, and held lands in Herefordshire and Derbyshire. In the late thirteenth century a Sir John Chandos was pardoned by Edward I for holding Chartley Castle, in Staffordshire, against a royal army led by the king’s brother, Prince Edmund. This John was a knight of Derbyshire and as such a follower of the Earl of Derby, Robert de Ferrers, who was in revolt against the crown. I took part of the inspiration for James from John’s real-life rebellion.
The image of the Green Knight is taken from Gawaine and the Green Knight, a popular medieval tale set in the days of King Arthur. In the story Sir Gawaine, a knight of the Round Table, is forced to play ‘the beheading game’ with the mysterious knight, itself based on much older folklore motifs. Gawaine eventually tracks down his enemy at the Green Chapel, a lair inside the forest, where his life is spared as a reward for his honesty.
The King of the North Wind was another real-life outlaw, though we don’t know much about him. In 1336 a man calling himself ‘Lionel, King of the Rout Raveners’ wrote a threatening letter to the parson of Huntington, Yorkshire, addressed thus:
“Given at our Castle of the North Wind, in the Green Tower, in the first year of our reign.”
It seems Lionel saw himself as a forest lord or king, ruling from his greenwood palace of the Green Tower.
Thursday 20 June 2019
John ap Adam
The arms of John ap Adam, 1st Baron Ap-Adam. The first is from the Falkirk Roll, the second from the window of the south aisle of St Mary's church at Tidenham in Gloucestershire.
John Morris, in his Welsh Wars of Edward I, describes John as 'one of the very few Welsh adherents of England of whom we have knowledge'. The statement is dubious, since there were plenty of well-known Welsh adherents of the English crown and John was born in Charlton Adam, Gloucestershire.
That said, John must have had some Welsh connections. The form of his name - ap Adam instead of the Norman fitz - implies as much, and the parish of Tidenham used to be part of the Bigod lordship of Striguil based on Chepstow. John was unique among English nobles of this era in taking a Welsh form of his surname. At Falkirk he fought in the king's bataille, and was afterwards frequently summoned to the Scottish wars.
John Morris, in his Welsh Wars of Edward I, describes John as 'one of the very few Welsh adherents of England of whom we have knowledge'. The statement is dubious, since there were plenty of well-known Welsh adherents of the English crown and John was born in Charlton Adam, Gloucestershire.
That said, John must have had some Welsh connections. The form of his name - ap Adam instead of the Norman fitz - implies as much, and the parish of Tidenham used to be part of the Bigod lordship of Striguil based on Chepstow. John was unique among English nobles of this era in taking a Welsh form of his surname. At Falkirk he fought in the king's bataille, and was afterwards frequently summoned to the Scottish wars.
Simon Fraser
The arms of Simon Fraser of Oliver and Neidpath. Simon was captured at the Battle of Dunbar in 1296 and afterwards released in exchange for military service in Flanders. He swore fealty to Edward I on 13 October of that year, and on 28 May 1297 swore a solemn oath to serve the king in Scotland against the King of France. This oath was made at Bramber in Essex, and was a very serious affair. Both Simon and the king laid their hands on the altar as the oath was sworn. Simon’s kinsman, Richard, was present to stand surety.
Simon served in the English army in Flanders, to King Edward’s great pleasure: the king wrote that the Scotsman’s service had ‘pleased him much’, and commanded that the lands of Simon’s valet, Geoffrey Ridell, should be restored to him. Edward then made Simon a household knight, a mix of soldier-diplomat-administrator, fed daily in the king’s hall and given new robes twice a year. Before the Battle of Falkirk he was gifted a ‘ferrand pomele’ horse by the king, another mark of favour. At the battle Simon was in the king’s bataille and led a small conroi of four valets.
Simon served in the English army in Flanders, to King Edward’s great pleasure: the king wrote that the Scotsman’s service had ‘pleased him much’, and commanded that the lands of Simon’s valet, Geoffrey Ridell, should be restored to him. Edward then made Simon a household knight, a mix of soldier-diplomat-administrator, fed daily in the king’s hall and given new robes twice a year. Before the Battle of Falkirk he was gifted a ‘ferrand pomele’ horse by the king, another mark of favour. At the battle Simon was in the king’s bataille and led a small conroi of four valets.
Mortimer of Chirk
The arms of Roger Mortimer of Chirk, taken from a modern version of the Falkirk Roll.
Mortimer, a tough lord of the Welsh March, was a busy man. In the winter of 1294 he served in the first expeditionary force sent to recover Gascony from the French, and was present at the storming of St-Macaire. He was then appointed captain of Blaye, one of two remaining ducal citadels in the northern part of the duchy. Mortimer was still in Gascony the following August, where he obtained quittance for his service. In July 1297 he was summoned again to serve overseas, this time in Flanders.
As one of Edward I’s most experienced captains, Mortimer naturally served on the Falkirk campaign. In April 1298 he and William de la Pole were ordered to raise 600 Welsh foot from the lands of ‘Lanhudo’, Maskyn and Moghelan, and lead them to the King at Chester. Mortimer and his retinue were placed in the king’s own battalion, ‘Le batayle de Roy’, among such big nobs as Thomas of Lancaster, Hugh Despenser, the Earl of Warwick and John of Brittany. His kinsman, Hugh Mortimer of Richard’s Castle, served in the same bataille.
The horse-rolls for the English army at Falkirk show that Mortimer’s own troop or conroi consisted of twenty men and included three more Mortimers, Henry, John and another Roger. There were also two Welshmen, Jereward Voiel and Ivan ab Adam, and an Adam de Wygemore, doubtless raised from Mortimer’s own lordship of Wigmore on the March.
Mortimer, a tough lord of the Welsh March, was a busy man. In the winter of 1294 he served in the first expeditionary force sent to recover Gascony from the French, and was present at the storming of St-Macaire. He was then appointed captain of Blaye, one of two remaining ducal citadels in the northern part of the duchy. Mortimer was still in Gascony the following August, where he obtained quittance for his service. In July 1297 he was summoned again to serve overseas, this time in Flanders.
As one of Edward I’s most experienced captains, Mortimer naturally served on the Falkirk campaign. In April 1298 he and William de la Pole were ordered to raise 600 Welsh foot from the lands of ‘Lanhudo’, Maskyn and Moghelan, and lead them to the King at Chester. Mortimer and his retinue were placed in the king’s own battalion, ‘Le batayle de Roy’, among such big nobs as Thomas of Lancaster, Hugh Despenser, the Earl of Warwick and John of Brittany. His kinsman, Hugh Mortimer of Richard’s Castle, served in the same bataille.
The horse-rolls for the English army at Falkirk show that Mortimer’s own troop or conroi consisted of twenty men and included three more Mortimers, Henry, John and another Roger. There were also two Welshmen, Jereward Voiel and Ivan ab Adam, and an Adam de Wygemore, doubtless raised from Mortimer’s own lordship of Wigmore on the March.
Wednesday 19 June 2019
Mean and mild
Two starkly contrasting views on Edward I's actions in Scotland.
"By a piece of cold-blooded cruelty which shows Edward in a singularly unattractive light, he had refused to accept the garrison's surrender, even after it surrendered unconditionally, until the castle had been bombarded for a day by one of his new engines, the 'Warwolf'...the king's meanness of spirit and implacable, almost paranoiac hostility were not shared by his subjects."
"It would be wrong to think of him [Edward] acting in Scotland as a mere tyrant, if by tyrant we mean a ruler whose arbitrary whims are law, who pays no regard to local feeling and opinion, or for whom cruelty towards his subjects had become settled policy. If we look at the situation in 1304 as it appeared to Edward, we must in fairness admit that his attempted settlement was fair and statesmanlike. How many kings or governments emerging as the victors of long and bloody wars in the seventeeth, eighteenth or nineteenth centuries treated their vanquished foes as prudently and leniently as Edward treated the Scots in 1304 and 1305?"
What seems odd about the above is that both judgements come from the pages of the same book, and from the same author, GWS Barrow. One minute Edward is a mean, paranoid loony tune, the next he's a mild and statesmanlike ruler who could have taught Bismarck a thing or two. Now that's what you call dividing opinion.
"By a piece of cold-blooded cruelty which shows Edward in a singularly unattractive light, he had refused to accept the garrison's surrender, even after it surrendered unconditionally, until the castle had been bombarded for a day by one of his new engines, the 'Warwolf'...the king's meanness of spirit and implacable, almost paranoiac hostility were not shared by his subjects."
"It would be wrong to think of him [Edward] acting in Scotland as a mere tyrant, if by tyrant we mean a ruler whose arbitrary whims are law, who pays no regard to local feeling and opinion, or for whom cruelty towards his subjects had become settled policy. If we look at the situation in 1304 as it appeared to Edward, we must in fairness admit that his attempted settlement was fair and statesmanlike. How many kings or governments emerging as the victors of long and bloody wars in the seventeeth, eighteenth or nineteenth centuries treated their vanquished foes as prudently and leniently as Edward treated the Scots in 1304 and 1305?"
What seems odd about the above is that both judgements come from the pages of the same book, and from the same author, GWS Barrow. One minute Edward is a mean, paranoid loony tune, the next he's a mild and statesmanlike ruler who could have taught Bismarck a thing or two. Now that's what you call dividing opinion.
A multi-cultural mugging
A tale of multi-cultural wonderfulness on the March, in which men of all nations and tongues came together to stage a massive robbery.
“Other, more dramatic forms of acculturation were taking place. This is evidenced by events in the south-east in October 1252, when Robert de Chandos, lord of Wilmaston in the Golden Valley, and a following that included some of his esquires, men with ‘French’ names and at least one Welsh accomplice, gathered in Monmouth, travelled through Archenfield to the manor of Sir John de Turvill, which they burned and from which they took considerable spoil. They moved on through the land of Sir Robert Tregoz (Ewias Harold) along the edge of the land of the king, into the territory of Sir William de Cantilupe (Abergavenny). They stayed a night in the land of Sir Robert Turberville (Crickhowell) and went finally to the land of Rhys ap Gruffudd. He can be identified as the lord of Senghenydd. There the spoil was divided, with Rhys taking fifteen oxen and one warhorse, as his share in return for harbouring the raiders. They were still living under his protection in December of the year.”
- David Stephenson, Centuries of Ambiguity.
Robert Chandos was an ancestor of Sir John Chandos, the famous warrior of the French wars and one of the original Knights of the Garter. Attached is a pic of the remains of Snodhill Castle, a Chandos stronghold, in Herefordshire’s Golden Valley.
“Other, more dramatic forms of acculturation were taking place. This is evidenced by events in the south-east in October 1252, when Robert de Chandos, lord of Wilmaston in the Golden Valley, and a following that included some of his esquires, men with ‘French’ names and at least one Welsh accomplice, gathered in Monmouth, travelled through Archenfield to the manor of Sir John de Turvill, which they burned and from which they took considerable spoil. They moved on through the land of Sir Robert Tregoz (Ewias Harold) along the edge of the land of the king, into the territory of Sir William de Cantilupe (Abergavenny). They stayed a night in the land of Sir Robert Turberville (Crickhowell) and went finally to the land of Rhys ap Gruffudd. He can be identified as the lord of Senghenydd. There the spoil was divided, with Rhys taking fifteen oxen and one warhorse, as his share in return for harbouring the raiders. They were still living under his protection in December of the year.”
- David Stephenson, Centuries of Ambiguity.
Robert Chandos was an ancestor of Sir John Chandos, the famous warrior of the French wars and one of the original Knights of the Garter. Attached is a pic of the remains of Snodhill Castle, a Chandos stronghold, in Herefordshire’s Golden Valley.
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| Sir John Chandos |
Tuesday 18 June 2019
More pre-Falkirk foreplay
On 17 March (my birthday, as it goes) 1298, soon after his return from Flanders, Edward I sent a letter to Earl Warenne. He thanked the earl for his services in the north while Edward was abroad, and asked him to continue fighting the good fight until the king could join him.
In truth, Earl Warenne had made a ghastly cock of everything. The previous September he was thrashed at Stirling Bridge by William Wallace and Andrew Murray, and then fled south to York after the king had explicitly ordered him to stay in Scotland. Warenne, a perfectly adequate military commander before and after the time of Stirling Bridge, appears to have been taking incompetence pills. Over the winter of 1297-8 he did manage to break the siege of Roxburgh and recapture Berwick, but even these limited successes were owed to others.
Robert, the lord of Warkworth, along with John Fitz Marmaduke, gathered their levies and rode quickly at night to ambush the Scottish army outside Roxburgh. They slaughtered the crewmen handling the Scottish siege engines and then drove off the rest of the Scots. This was the sort of feat the Black Douglas would later specialise in, but on this occasion it was the English who stole a march. After hearing of this reverse, Henry de Haliburton abandoned Berwick and withdrew into Scotland.
Robert, the lord of Warkworth, along with John Fitz Marmaduke, gathered their levies and rode quickly at night to ambush the Scottish army outside Roxburgh. They slaughtered the crewmen handling the Scottish siege engines and then drove off the rest of the Scots. This was the sort of feat the Black Douglas would later specialise in, but on this occasion it was the English who stole a march. After hearing of this reverse, Henry de Haliburton abandoned Berwick and withdrew into Scotland.
Roger Godberd
Below is a membrane of a court roll of 1278, in which one Richard Coleshill accused a gang of thieves of taking his goods and chattels from the manor of Swannington in Leicestershire.
The gang was led by Roger Godberd, one of the most remarkable gangsters or mob bosses of the thirteenth century. Roger was a prominent Montfortian outlaw during the 1260s and led a gang of robbers in the forests of Charnwood and Sherwood. Finally, after several years of plaguing the Midlands, he was hunted down and captured by Reynold Grey, High Sheriff of Nottingham.
Unsurprisingly, Roger the Dodger has been suggested as the inspiration for the later Robin Hood ballads. He appears as a supporting player in my new novella, Longsword (IV) The Hooded Men, and I will post more on him in the near future.
The gang was led by Roger Godberd, one of the most remarkable gangsters or mob bosses of the thirteenth century. Roger was a prominent Montfortian outlaw during the 1260s and led a gang of robbers in the forests of Charnwood and Sherwood. Finally, after several years of plaguing the Midlands, he was hunted down and captured by Reynold Grey, High Sheriff of Nottingham.
Monday 17 June 2019
Most dear sire
More pre-battle of Falkirk stuff, but with a twist.
Pictured is the Chateau d’Ornans, perched upon a rocky ledge above the Loue valley in Burgundy-Franche-Comté (eastern France). In the summer of 1297 Ornans was briefly the centre of the war of the Grand Alliance; a spectacular extravaganza of treachery and incompetence in which almost every ruler of Western Europe stabbed his neighbour in the back.
One of the few exceptions was Jean de Chalon-Arlay, a lord of Franche-Comté in eastern Burgundy. Jean had been at war with Philip le Bel since 1294, but he and his allies couldn’t hope to defeat the might of France on their own. They were only too pleased to accept cash from Edward of England to help fight the French, and to enter into an alliance with Adolf of Nassau, King of Germany. Adolf promptly broke his word to both Edward and the lords of Franché-Comte, and used the English king’s money to fight a private war in Germany. Clever Adolf! Only not really, since the following year he was butchered at Gollheim by a platoon of Welsh archers. The Plantagenets send their regards, mein herr.
Jean kept his word to the English king and in autumn 1297 went into action against the French. On 8 October the League of Franché-Comte climbed the rock of Ornans - shades of the Scots at Edinburgh in 1314 - and broke into the castle. Taken by surprise, most of the French defenders were either killed or captured, save a few miserable wretches who chose to hurl themselves off the rock.
Proud of his exploit, Jean wrote the following letter to Edward on the same day. Unfortunately the letter is in poor condition and only partially legible:
“Most dear sire, this is to inform you, that on Tuesday, the eve of the feast of Saint Denis, myself and my companions of Burgundy captured and razed the castle of Ornans, which was held by Burgundy of the King of France and was the strongest castle in the whole of Burgundy. And know that, I and my other comrades broke down the walls of the castle and forced our way inside, and secured the castle, and took nine prisoners and put a large number to the sword, apart from those who threw themselves down below the rock. And know, my very dear Sire, that we are committed to the business of…of Burgundy, I will come to join your company, if you desire it…that I think…took. May God guard you sire…and grant you victory against your enemies, which is our dearest desire.”
Pictured is the Chateau d’Ornans, perched upon a rocky ledge above the Loue valley in Burgundy-Franche-Comté (eastern France). In the summer of 1297 Ornans was briefly the centre of the war of the Grand Alliance; a spectacular extravaganza of treachery and incompetence in which almost every ruler of Western Europe stabbed his neighbour in the back.
One of the few exceptions was Jean de Chalon-Arlay, a lord of Franche-Comté in eastern Burgundy. Jean had been at war with Philip le Bel since 1294, but he and his allies couldn’t hope to defeat the might of France on their own. They were only too pleased to accept cash from Edward of England to help fight the French, and to enter into an alliance with Adolf of Nassau, King of Germany. Adolf promptly broke his word to both Edward and the lords of Franché-Comte, and used the English king’s money to fight a private war in Germany. Clever Adolf! Only not really, since the following year he was butchered at Gollheim by a platoon of Welsh archers. The Plantagenets send their regards, mein herr.
Jean kept his word to the English king and in autumn 1297 went into action against the French. On 8 October the League of Franché-Comte climbed the rock of Ornans - shades of the Scots at Edinburgh in 1314 - and broke into the castle. Taken by surprise, most of the French defenders were either killed or captured, save a few miserable wretches who chose to hurl themselves off the rock.
Proud of his exploit, Jean wrote the following letter to Edward on the same day. Unfortunately the letter is in poor condition and only partially legible:
“Most dear sire, this is to inform you, that on Tuesday, the eve of the feast of Saint Denis, myself and my companions of Burgundy captured and razed the castle of Ornans, which was held by Burgundy of the King of France and was the strongest castle in the whole of Burgundy. And know that, I and my other comrades broke down the walls of the castle and forced our way inside, and secured the castle, and took nine prisoners and put a large number to the sword, apart from those who threw themselves down below the rock. And know, my very dear Sire, that we are committed to the business of…of Burgundy, I will come to join your company, if you desire it…that I think…took. May God guard you sire…and grant you victory against your enemies, which is our dearest desire.”
Sunday 16 June 2019
Ferrers a la carte
As part of some shameless promo for my new slice of pulp fiction, here’s a potted bio of one of the chief protagonists, Robert de Ferrers, 6th Earl of Derby.
Robert was born in 1239, the eldest son and heir of the 5th earl, William. The Ferrers were not particularly strong stock and suffered from a hereditary strain of gout, which usually killed off the menfolk in early middle age. They often had to be carried about in a litter, a terrible disgrace for medieval noblemen: condemned criminals were carried in carts to the gallows, so for an aristocrat to travel in the same way was considered shameful. The 12th century poem by Chrétien de Troyes, Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart, lampoons this aspect of chivalric culture.
To add to his shame, Robert’s father was accidentally thrown from his litter while crossing a bridge at St Neots in Huntingdonshire. He survived, but never fully recovered and died in 1254. His heir Robert was still a minor, so his wardship was granted to the Lord Edward, who promptly flogged it to Italian financiers for 6000 marks. This was probably the source of Robert’s later deadly feud with his royal kinsman.
Robert came of age in 1260. His estate was crippled by charges arising from his father’s death, which might explain why the young earl immediately embarked on a career of violence and wayward, sometimes baffling behaviour. He spent the early part of the decade attacking his neighbours in Derbyshire, stealing livestock and goods like a common brigand, at the head of a vast gang of followers. The ‘wild and flighty’ earl even attacked his own family priory at Tutbury. In the process he damaged some of the tombs of his ancestors, extremely odd behaviour for a medieval magnate. Robert certainly inherited a lot of problems, but there was an undeniably savage and unpredictable element to his character.
Fatally, Robert also lacked political judgement, which meant he got screwed by everyone. During the civil wars in England he initially supported Simon de Montfort, only to quit in disgust when Simon’s sons allowed Edward to escape from Gloucester. Simon wanted to get his hands on Robert’s assets in the lordship of Chester, and threw the hapless earl into prison after luring him to London on a false pretext. While Robert was banged up, his tenants in Derbyshire continued to resist and attacked royal officials acting in Simon’s name. Whatever Robert’s flaws, he had a peculiar gift for inspiring loyalty among the ‘men of Ferrers’, as they were called.
After Simon and his army were blown to bits at Evesham, Robert was given a chance to walk away and start again. Henry III gave him a royal pardon, sealed by the gift of a golden cup studded with precious jewels. Even Edward showed he was willing to bury the hatchet. Robert stupidly chose to throw away his shot at redemption and joined the baronial rebels in northern England. In May 1266 the rebel army was ambushed and defeated at Chesterfield while Robert was flat on his back, having his blood let for gout. He then suffered the humiliation of being captured in a church while hiding under a pile of woolsacks. The captive earl was sent south, stuck inside a cage on the back of a wagon, and imprisoned for three years at Windsor.
Despite all his naughty doings, Robert's life was spared. As yet there was no precedent for the execution of an earl in England, and nobody wanted to take that final step: it wouldn’t happen until the execution of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, in 1322. Instead the royal family conspired with the leading magnates of the realm to swindle Robert out of his inheritance, and forced him (probably under threat of torture) to sign away all his lands. Afterwards he was released, landless and penniless, to do as he pleased.
This proved a mistake. Robert gathered the men of Ferrers about him and spent five years waging a guerilla campaign to seize back his lost estates. In 1273 he stormed Chartley Castle, his family seat in Staffordshire, and was only evicted after a year-long siege. After this defeat and the return of his old enemy, Edward - now Edward I - in 1274, it might be expected that Robert had truly had his chips. Once again his head was permitted to remain on its shoulders. Edward allowed Robert to recover two of his lost manors, Chartley and Holbrook in Derbyshire, and live quietly until his death, aged forty, in 1279.
Robert left a son, John, who spent his youth lobbying in vain to recover the rest of his once-vast patrimony. This was impossible since the earldom of Derby was now in the hands of Prince Edmund, King Edward’s younger brother, and would form the basis of the great Honour of Lancaster. John was eventually appointed seneschal of Gascony, where he was poisoned by the Gascons after proving every bit as violent and unstable as his father.
Robert de Ferrers, a crashing failure in life, has the magnificent posthumous honour of appearing in my book Longsword (IV) The Hooded Men, now available on Kindle. The lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky…(etc)…
Robert was born in 1239, the eldest son and heir of the 5th earl, William. The Ferrers were not particularly strong stock and suffered from a hereditary strain of gout, which usually killed off the menfolk in early middle age. They often had to be carried about in a litter, a terrible disgrace for medieval noblemen: condemned criminals were carried in carts to the gallows, so for an aristocrat to travel in the same way was considered shameful. The 12th century poem by Chrétien de Troyes, Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart, lampoons this aspect of chivalric culture.
To add to his shame, Robert’s father was accidentally thrown from his litter while crossing a bridge at St Neots in Huntingdonshire. He survived, but never fully recovered and died in 1254. His heir Robert was still a minor, so his wardship was granted to the Lord Edward, who promptly flogged it to Italian financiers for 6000 marks. This was probably the source of Robert’s later deadly feud with his royal kinsman.
Robert came of age in 1260. His estate was crippled by charges arising from his father’s death, which might explain why the young earl immediately embarked on a career of violence and wayward, sometimes baffling behaviour. He spent the early part of the decade attacking his neighbours in Derbyshire, stealing livestock and goods like a common brigand, at the head of a vast gang of followers. The ‘wild and flighty’ earl even attacked his own family priory at Tutbury. In the process he damaged some of the tombs of his ancestors, extremely odd behaviour for a medieval magnate. Robert certainly inherited a lot of problems, but there was an undeniably savage and unpredictable element to his character.
Fatally, Robert also lacked political judgement, which meant he got screwed by everyone. During the civil wars in England he initially supported Simon de Montfort, only to quit in disgust when Simon’s sons allowed Edward to escape from Gloucester. Simon wanted to get his hands on Robert’s assets in the lordship of Chester, and threw the hapless earl into prison after luring him to London on a false pretext. While Robert was banged up, his tenants in Derbyshire continued to resist and attacked royal officials acting in Simon’s name. Whatever Robert’s flaws, he had a peculiar gift for inspiring loyalty among the ‘men of Ferrers’, as they were called.
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| Ferrers arms |
Despite all his naughty doings, Robert's life was spared. As yet there was no precedent for the execution of an earl in England, and nobody wanted to take that final step: it wouldn’t happen until the execution of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, in 1322. Instead the royal family conspired with the leading magnates of the realm to swindle Robert out of his inheritance, and forced him (probably under threat of torture) to sign away all his lands. Afterwards he was released, landless and penniless, to do as he pleased.
This proved a mistake. Robert gathered the men of Ferrers about him and spent five years waging a guerilla campaign to seize back his lost estates. In 1273 he stormed Chartley Castle, his family seat in Staffordshire, and was only evicted after a year-long siege. After this defeat and the return of his old enemy, Edward - now Edward I - in 1274, it might be expected that Robert had truly had his chips. Once again his head was permitted to remain on its shoulders. Edward allowed Robert to recover two of his lost manors, Chartley and Holbrook in Derbyshire, and live quietly until his death, aged forty, in 1279.
Robert left a son, John, who spent his youth lobbying in vain to recover the rest of his once-vast patrimony. This was impossible since the earldom of Derby was now in the hands of Prince Edmund, King Edward’s younger brother, and would form the basis of the great Honour of Lancaster. John was eventually appointed seneschal of Gascony, where he was poisoned by the Gascons after proving every bit as violent and unstable as his father.
Robert de Ferrers, a crashing failure in life, has the magnificent posthumous honour of appearing in my book Longsword (IV) The Hooded Men, now available on Kindle. The lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky…(etc)…
Filthy lucre
Keith Williams-Jones on the motives of the conquest of Wales. Amazingly, it was all about money. What. A. Shock.
“The conquest was certainly not a benevolent act of state. Edward I and his armies, like the Normans before them, conquered for their own profit. All potential assets were to be exploited to the full - even German miners were specially recruited to explore the possibilities of working the copper mines at Diserth. It is true that the issues of the archbishoprics of York and Dublin and those of the king’s lands in Ireland had to be diverted to help finance the construction of the castles, but that applied for the most part to extraordinary expenditure. It is also true that the principality’s accounts were heavily in arrears in the early years after 1282-3. But the aim of making the principality self-supporting was soon achieved: by 1300 it had ‘ceased to be a financial burden to the king’ and more than half the proceeds of the principality’s revenue found its way to the royal coffers.
Further, it was only to be expected that a strong, calculating monarch would, sooner or later, seize the opportunity his vast new power in Wales gave him of exacting some kind of payment from the Marcher lords in return for removing the threat which Llywelyn II had once posed for them. The subsidy of 1292-3 was one way of discharging the debt and proved fairly lucrative from the point of view of the crown - far more so, in sum and proportionately, than the ‘new’ subsidy demanded in 1543 immediately after the ‘Union’. If we are correct in assuming that Wales’s contribution to the subsidy of 1292-3 amounted to about £10,000, it follows that as much as one-twelfth of the total raised by the corresponding subsidy in England came from Wales. The amount Wales was expected to furnish in 1543, however, was only £4,291 out of a total of £74,070 - or about one-eighteenth of the whole. In one particular field, at least, Edward got a better bargain out of his conquest that Henry VIII did in forging the ‘Tudor Union’.”
Those who did get a nasty shock were the Marcher lords, who in 1292 were presented with a massive bill by the king as the price of getting rid of their chief enemy.
“The conquest was certainly not a benevolent act of state. Edward I and his armies, like the Normans before them, conquered for their own profit. All potential assets were to be exploited to the full - even German miners were specially recruited to explore the possibilities of working the copper mines at Diserth. It is true that the issues of the archbishoprics of York and Dublin and those of the king’s lands in Ireland had to be diverted to help finance the construction of the castles, but that applied for the most part to extraordinary expenditure. It is also true that the principality’s accounts were heavily in arrears in the early years after 1282-3. But the aim of making the principality self-supporting was soon achieved: by 1300 it had ‘ceased to be a financial burden to the king’ and more than half the proceeds of the principality’s revenue found its way to the royal coffers.
Further, it was only to be expected that a strong, calculating monarch would, sooner or later, seize the opportunity his vast new power in Wales gave him of exacting some kind of payment from the Marcher lords in return for removing the threat which Llywelyn II had once posed for them. The subsidy of 1292-3 was one way of discharging the debt and proved fairly lucrative from the point of view of the crown - far more so, in sum and proportionately, than the ‘new’ subsidy demanded in 1543 immediately after the ‘Union’. If we are correct in assuming that Wales’s contribution to the subsidy of 1292-3 amounted to about £10,000, it follows that as much as one-twelfth of the total raised by the corresponding subsidy in England came from Wales. The amount Wales was expected to furnish in 1543, however, was only £4,291 out of a total of £74,070 - or about one-eighteenth of the whole. In one particular field, at least, Edward got a better bargain out of his conquest that Henry VIII did in forging the ‘Tudor Union’.”
Those who did get a nasty shock were the Marcher lords, who in 1292 were presented with a massive bill by the king as the price of getting rid of their chief enemy.
Saturday 15 June 2019
Pre-Falkirk
We’re coming up to the Battle of Falkirk, about the only medieval anniversary I ever remember; largely thanks to the late Patrick McGoohan’s fantastic sneering performance as Longshanks in That Film, betraying and backstabbing everybody all over the place. The movie strains every sinew to get round the awkward fact that the hero, Wallace, got stuffed at Falkirk. Naturally, it was because the other guys cheated, and not at all because Wallace was simply outgunned and outgeneralled on the day. Naturally.
I digress. In a desperate search to find something new to say about the battle, I stumbled across this document in a printed collection. On 8 June 1298, a few weeks before the battle, King Edward’s diplomats met the King of France, Philip le Bel, for talks at Provins in the diocese of Sens. Here they agreed to a truce proposed by the French, along with an exchange of prisoners. This appears to show the French had already dumped Wallace, even before he engaged the English in battle. Among the documents presented by the English diplomats was a list of names of Scottish landholders (attached, above). These men had aided John Balliol in his war against Edward I, before submitting to the English and swearing to aid Edward against their former lord. This agreement was sealed on the day of St John the Baptist, 1296.
The named individuals on the list appear to have been Galwegians, probably drummed up by Robert de Bruce’s father, Bob Senior. Bruce the elder was given authority by King Ted to take submissions in Scotland, and allegedly provided the English with counterfeit banners to dupe the Scots at Berwick into opening their gates. This latter episode was omitted from a later version of the Scotichronicon, presumably because it was politically embarrassing to mention it in a Scotland ruled by Bruce’s descendants. History written by the victors.
I digress. In a desperate search to find something new to say about the battle, I stumbled across this document in a printed collection. On 8 June 1298, a few weeks before the battle, King Edward’s diplomats met the King of France, Philip le Bel, for talks at Provins in the diocese of Sens. Here they agreed to a truce proposed by the French, along with an exchange of prisoners. This appears to show the French had already dumped Wallace, even before he engaged the English in battle. Among the documents presented by the English diplomats was a list of names of Scottish landholders (attached, above). These men had aided John Balliol in his war against Edward I, before submitting to the English and swearing to aid Edward against their former lord. This agreement was sealed on the day of St John the Baptist, 1296.
The named individuals on the list appear to have been Galwegians, probably drummed up by Robert de Bruce’s father, Bob Senior. Bruce the elder was given authority by King Ted to take submissions in Scotland, and allegedly provided the English with counterfeit banners to dupe the Scots at Berwick into opening their gates. This latter episode was omitted from a later version of the Scotichronicon, presumably because it was politically embarrassing to mention it in a Scotland ruled by Bruce’s descendants. History written by the victors.
Medraut review
A neat but short but nice review of Medraut, the fifth and last book of my Arthurian series, Leader of Battles.
"An extraordinary story. Interesting beyond a doubt. A sorrowful ending for the great Artorius who still lives in our hearts as King Arthur."
"An extraordinary story. Interesting beyond a doubt. A sorrowful ending for the great Artorius who still lives in our hearts as King Arthur."
The Great Thingy
On this day in June 1215, King John was compelled to put his seal to the Great Charter by a bunch of democratically-minded barons. Yep, those barons - they were always giving it to the poor.
Here, Messers Sellar and Yeatman remind us of the meaning of this momentous thingy, from 1066 And All That.
Here, Messers Sellar and Yeatman remind us of the meaning of this momentous thingy, from 1066 And All That.
Friday 14 June 2019
New book review
So I've reviewed this. It's very good and makes the reader learn and think, which is also good.
Dr David Stephenson’s new book on medieval Wales has been hailed as a bold commentary on a difficult era of Welsh history, as well as a deliberate challenge to traditional interpretations. This is the judgement of Professor Ralph A Griffiths, Emeritus Professor of Swansea University, and it is hard to disagree. At the same time a ‘deliberate challenge to traditional interpretations’ might sound provocative, as if the author is dealing in subversion to whip up controversy. Thankfully, the book is far more intelligent and incisive than that.
Stephenson concentrates on the political history of Wales c.1050-1332, between the rise and fall of Gruffudd ap Llywelyn and the turbulent reign of Edward II. It is, in the author’s words, meant to provide a sketch of the Age of Princes, and provide an honest - sometimes brutally honest - assessment of why the princes failed to unite Wales. As such the book might not make many friends, but is far too easy to view this era in romantic terms. The truth is not black and white, but the usual muddy shades of grey streaked with someone else’s blood.
The book begins with a fairly conventional outline of the history of Wales in this era, chronicling the invasion of the Normans, the rise and fall of the various native dynasties of Wales and the final conquest by Edward I. Stephenson’s intention is to present an overview of Welsh history as it is generally understood, and then devote the rest of the book to presenting a more ambivalent view: hence the title.
Stephenson examines the Ages of the Princes in terms of shifting political structures. In the thirteenth century the lords of Gwynedd laid claim to the title Prince of Wales, but were not the first to do so. The competing dynasties of Powys and Deheubarth had similar ambitions, and were willing to work with and against each other to undermine their rivals. Many of the princes were hard-nosed, practical men, able to play the game of thrones as well as anyone. The lords of Gwynedd showed a particular eagerness to marry into the royal dynasties of England, and thus cement their overlordship in Wales. These alliances also served to integrate the rulers of Wales into the wider ranks of European royalty. This was a canny move: for all the emphasis on warfare in histories of medieval Wales, the best hope off staving off conquest lay in political ties with English kings and nobility. Thus, Dafydd ap Owain Gwynedd married Emma Plantagenet, his nephew Llywelyn ab Iorwerth cast aside his first wife to marry Joan Plantagenet, and Llywelyn ap Gruffudd married (disastrously) Eleanor de Montfort.
Yet Stephenson refuses to indulge in the tendency to assume that Gwynedd equalled Wales. This impression is understandable, since the princes of Gwynedd were nation-builders who led the final effort to unite the Welsh. There is a danger, however, of ignoring the ‘other Wales’ i.e. the Wales of the Marcher lords and the native dynasties outside Gwynedd. Their actions and desires are frequently subsumed in the obsession with the conflict between Gwynedd, principally the two Llywelyns, and the English crown. The actions and decision-making of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in particular come under the microscope.
Stephenson tackles the difficult question of why, at a vital juncture, Llywelyn’s principality crumbled about his ears. He isn’t the first historian to question the prince’s competence. JG Edwards, for instance, accused Llywelyn of fumbling his way to disaster. Stephenson doesn’t say anything so drastic, but there is a sense that Llywelyn’s career can be divided into two halves. In the first, he enjoyed remarkable success and was the only Welsh ruler to force a King of England to formally recognise his title. Latterly, after the Treaty of Montgomery in 1267, Llywelyn staggered from one mistake and defeat to the next. The contrast is stark enough for Stephenson to suggest that Llywelyn suffered from the loss of a key advisor; possibly Goronwy ab Ednyfed, who died just before the prince’s fortunes started to turn.
The first real fractures in the fledgling principality appeared in the Middle March, where Llywelyn practised heavy-handed methods of retaining the loyalty of local magnates. These were a combination of hostage-taking and intimidation, with neighbouring lords forced to stand surety for the loyalty of those whom the prince suspected. Men such as Hywel ap Meurig, whose families had been in the service of Marcher lords for generations, were not to be bullied into submission. When war finally broke out between England and Wales in 1276, Hywel and his neighbours were in the vanguard of Edward I’s army.
The war of 1282, in which Llywelyn died in murky circumstances, tends to hog the headlines. In terms of hard political reality, the previous war of 1276-77 witnessed the destruction of his power. Much of the explanation lies in the rejection of Venedotian hegemony by the Welsh themselves. The lords of West Wales, Ystrad Tywi and southern Powys all turned against the prince, as did the magnates of the Middle March. Nor was this simply a revolt of the upper classes. When Llywelyn’s hereditary enemy, Gruffudd ap Gwenwynwyn, returned from exile to his lordship, the men of Powys abandoned any pretence of loyalty to Llywelyn and flocked to their lord’s banner. The overriding impression is that land and lordship counted for more than ‘nationalism’ in this era, and that shifting allegiances were rarely dictated by love of one’s country.
Not that Stephenson seeks to reinvent the conquest as a misunderstood exercise in Welsh emancipation. As he states, it is depressingly easy to list the dire consequences for the Welsh after 1282: the oppression and discrimination, the eviction of entire communities in favour of English settler communities. North Wales was carved up into English lordships and royal demesne. In the Honour of Denbigh alone, over ten thousand acres of fertile land was occupied by English incomers. Many of the Welsh, meanwhile, were forcibly resettled on vastly inferior uplands. Llanfaes on Anglesey, the principal trading centre of the princes, was destroyed to make way for the castle and new town of Beaumaris, and its inhabitants forced to move across the island to the less profitable centre of Newborough. Stephenson also highlights the massive exploitation of Welsh manpower. Only the large-scale enlistment of Welsh troops in every theatre of war enabled Edward to sustain his tottering empire in the last decade of the reign. Ironically, thousands of these men must have fought against Edward in previous conflicts.
The Edwardian conquest itself is a thorny issue. In recent times some (not unbiased, it must be said) commentators have argued there was no ‘conquest’ per se, but rather a partial occupation. The reality, as RR Davies pointed out long ago, is that Edward I conquered Gwynedd. This made him the most powerful landholder in Wales, able to spend the next decade imposing his power on the rest of the country. Only in 1294, after two further military campaigns and the breaking of the great Marcher lords, could Edward truly call himself the ‘master of Wales’, as Stephenson puts it. In this context 1282, for all its tragedy and drama and emotional appeal, was the first step of a process of conquest. Yet a conquest it was.
Not all Welshmen greeted the new order with dismay. Many of the ‘uchelwyr’ or gentry, men of non-princely rank, fulfilled a prominent role in the Edwardian administration. After the destruction of the princes, these were the natural leaders of Welsh communities. The most prominent in the immediate postconquest era were Morgan ap Maredudd, Gruffudd Llwyd and Dafydd ap Gruffudd of Hendwr. All three appear to have been realists, willing to serve as spies and commissioners of array for Edward I and Edward II. They were possibly torn by conflicting loyalties: Morgan and Gruffudd both intrigued with enemies of the English state, though it is impossible to tell whether they were genuine or acting as mere agent provocateurs.
Closer examination of the evidence reveals all kinds of similar ambiguities. For instance, the revolt against English rule in Gwent in 1294 was not led by Morgan ap Maredudd, as traditionally assumed, but by an obscure local landholder named Meurig ap Dafydd. Meurig had previously been employed as a royal tax collector: a supreme example of this ‘age of ambiguity’.
The last word goes to the author:
“In truth, the post-conquest decades offered to the people of Wales a kaleidoscopic blend of oppression, suffering, frustration, advancement, accumulation of honours and power.”
Dr David Stephenson’s new book on medieval Wales has been hailed as a bold commentary on a difficult era of Welsh history, as well as a deliberate challenge to traditional interpretations. This is the judgement of Professor Ralph A Griffiths, Emeritus Professor of Swansea University, and it is hard to disagree. At the same time a ‘deliberate challenge to traditional interpretations’ might sound provocative, as if the author is dealing in subversion to whip up controversy. Thankfully, the book is far more intelligent and incisive than that.
Stephenson concentrates on the political history of Wales c.1050-1332, between the rise and fall of Gruffudd ap Llywelyn and the turbulent reign of Edward II. It is, in the author’s words, meant to provide a sketch of the Age of Princes, and provide an honest - sometimes brutally honest - assessment of why the princes failed to unite Wales. As such the book might not make many friends, but is far too easy to view this era in romantic terms. The truth is not black and white, but the usual muddy shades of grey streaked with someone else’s blood.
The book begins with a fairly conventional outline of the history of Wales in this era, chronicling the invasion of the Normans, the rise and fall of the various native dynasties of Wales and the final conquest by Edward I. Stephenson’s intention is to present an overview of Welsh history as it is generally understood, and then devote the rest of the book to presenting a more ambivalent view: hence the title.
Stephenson examines the Ages of the Princes in terms of shifting political structures. In the thirteenth century the lords of Gwynedd laid claim to the title Prince of Wales, but were not the first to do so. The competing dynasties of Powys and Deheubarth had similar ambitions, and were willing to work with and against each other to undermine their rivals. Many of the princes were hard-nosed, practical men, able to play the game of thrones as well as anyone. The lords of Gwynedd showed a particular eagerness to marry into the royal dynasties of England, and thus cement their overlordship in Wales. These alliances also served to integrate the rulers of Wales into the wider ranks of European royalty. This was a canny move: for all the emphasis on warfare in histories of medieval Wales, the best hope off staving off conquest lay in political ties with English kings and nobility. Thus, Dafydd ap Owain Gwynedd married Emma Plantagenet, his nephew Llywelyn ab Iorwerth cast aside his first wife to marry Joan Plantagenet, and Llywelyn ap Gruffudd married (disastrously) Eleanor de Montfort.
Yet Stephenson refuses to indulge in the tendency to assume that Gwynedd equalled Wales. This impression is understandable, since the princes of Gwynedd were nation-builders who led the final effort to unite the Welsh. There is a danger, however, of ignoring the ‘other Wales’ i.e. the Wales of the Marcher lords and the native dynasties outside Gwynedd. Their actions and desires are frequently subsumed in the obsession with the conflict between Gwynedd, principally the two Llywelyns, and the English crown. The actions and decision-making of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in particular come under the microscope.
Stephenson tackles the difficult question of why, at a vital juncture, Llywelyn’s principality crumbled about his ears. He isn’t the first historian to question the prince’s competence. JG Edwards, for instance, accused Llywelyn of fumbling his way to disaster. Stephenson doesn’t say anything so drastic, but there is a sense that Llywelyn’s career can be divided into two halves. In the first, he enjoyed remarkable success and was the only Welsh ruler to force a King of England to formally recognise his title. Latterly, after the Treaty of Montgomery in 1267, Llywelyn staggered from one mistake and defeat to the next. The contrast is stark enough for Stephenson to suggest that Llywelyn suffered from the loss of a key advisor; possibly Goronwy ab Ednyfed, who died just before the prince’s fortunes started to turn.
The first real fractures in the fledgling principality appeared in the Middle March, where Llywelyn practised heavy-handed methods of retaining the loyalty of local magnates. These were a combination of hostage-taking and intimidation, with neighbouring lords forced to stand surety for the loyalty of those whom the prince suspected. Men such as Hywel ap Meurig, whose families had been in the service of Marcher lords for generations, were not to be bullied into submission. When war finally broke out between England and Wales in 1276, Hywel and his neighbours were in the vanguard of Edward I’s army.
The war of 1282, in which Llywelyn died in murky circumstances, tends to hog the headlines. In terms of hard political reality, the previous war of 1276-77 witnessed the destruction of his power. Much of the explanation lies in the rejection of Venedotian hegemony by the Welsh themselves. The lords of West Wales, Ystrad Tywi and southern Powys all turned against the prince, as did the magnates of the Middle March. Nor was this simply a revolt of the upper classes. When Llywelyn’s hereditary enemy, Gruffudd ap Gwenwynwyn, returned from exile to his lordship, the men of Powys abandoned any pretence of loyalty to Llywelyn and flocked to their lord’s banner. The overriding impression is that land and lordship counted for more than ‘nationalism’ in this era, and that shifting allegiances were rarely dictated by love of one’s country.
Not that Stephenson seeks to reinvent the conquest as a misunderstood exercise in Welsh emancipation. As he states, it is depressingly easy to list the dire consequences for the Welsh after 1282: the oppression and discrimination, the eviction of entire communities in favour of English settler communities. North Wales was carved up into English lordships and royal demesne. In the Honour of Denbigh alone, over ten thousand acres of fertile land was occupied by English incomers. Many of the Welsh, meanwhile, were forcibly resettled on vastly inferior uplands. Llanfaes on Anglesey, the principal trading centre of the princes, was destroyed to make way for the castle and new town of Beaumaris, and its inhabitants forced to move across the island to the less profitable centre of Newborough. Stephenson also highlights the massive exploitation of Welsh manpower. Only the large-scale enlistment of Welsh troops in every theatre of war enabled Edward to sustain his tottering empire in the last decade of the reign. Ironically, thousands of these men must have fought against Edward in previous conflicts.
The Edwardian conquest itself is a thorny issue. In recent times some (not unbiased, it must be said) commentators have argued there was no ‘conquest’ per se, but rather a partial occupation. The reality, as RR Davies pointed out long ago, is that Edward I conquered Gwynedd. This made him the most powerful landholder in Wales, able to spend the next decade imposing his power on the rest of the country. Only in 1294, after two further military campaigns and the breaking of the great Marcher lords, could Edward truly call himself the ‘master of Wales’, as Stephenson puts it. In this context 1282, for all its tragedy and drama and emotional appeal, was the first step of a process of conquest. Yet a conquest it was.
Not all Welshmen greeted the new order with dismay. Many of the ‘uchelwyr’ or gentry, men of non-princely rank, fulfilled a prominent role in the Edwardian administration. After the destruction of the princes, these were the natural leaders of Welsh communities. The most prominent in the immediate postconquest era were Morgan ap Maredudd, Gruffudd Llwyd and Dafydd ap Gruffudd of Hendwr. All three appear to have been realists, willing to serve as spies and commissioners of array for Edward I and Edward II. They were possibly torn by conflicting loyalties: Morgan and Gruffudd both intrigued with enemies of the English state, though it is impossible to tell whether they were genuine or acting as mere agent provocateurs.
Closer examination of the evidence reveals all kinds of similar ambiguities. For instance, the revolt against English rule in Gwent in 1294 was not led by Morgan ap Maredudd, as traditionally assumed, but by an obscure local landholder named Meurig ap Dafydd. Meurig had previously been employed as a royal tax collector: a supreme example of this ‘age of ambiguity’.
The last word goes to the author:
“In truth, the post-conquest decades offered to the people of Wales a kaleidoscopic blend of oppression, suffering, frustration, advancement, accumulation of honours and power.”
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