Lies and hostility

The sons of Belial (1)

In March 1270 Archbishop Walter Giffard of York cited the dire state of the realm - “turbatio regni” - as the reason for his inability to visit the pope. In August of the same year, the ageing Henry III declared that his fears for the kingdom’s safety prevented him from accompanying his son, Edward, to the Holy Land.

There is plenty of evidence for the disturbed state of England. The chronicle of the sheriffs of London records a projected uprising by the commons, the “populares”, against the aldermen. This was supposed to coincide with the death of Henry III. Shortly before the king’s demise in November 1272, the prior of Norwich quarreled with the men of the city and summoned to his aid “a great multidude of malivoli who, when the kingdom was disturbed, had been thieves and malefactors”. From this it appears the prior hired ex-Montfortians, bands of old soldiers wandering the land with nothing better to do than cause mayhem.

The midlands and northern counties were especially afflicted by these “malivoli”, called the Sons of Belial or sons of wickedness by the London chronicler. In scripture Belial is a demon of lies and guilt, the king of hostility. In Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, it was reported that nobody dared to travel the Great North Road because the counties were overrun by an army of outlaws. Their leader was Roger Godberd, a former tenant of Earl Ferrers who went back into revolt after his master was disinherited.

After Henry’s death, the regency government was especially fearful of old seats of rebellion. In August 1273 Walter Merton, the chancellor, spoke of bands of malivoli gathering together and conspiring to break the peace in Essex and Leicestershire. This was worrying since Leicestershire had been a Montfortian heartland; it was the county of the villagers of Great Peatling, who had attacked the king’s men after the battle of Evesham for “going against the commonalty of the realm and against the barons”. Here, if anywhere, trouble would arise.

Merton’s letter has survived (see third pic) but is virtually illegible even under ultraviolet.