Foundation (History of England Vol 1) (31 page)

It was also clear that the Angevin Empire, once broken, could not be put back together again. Only Gascony remained, to provide England with much of its wine. The vintages of Bordeaux are still very popular, and so the Angevin Empire can be said to remain in the wine racks of England. But Gascony provided more forbidding fruit: as the price of his title to the duchy Henry pledged fealty to the king of France. But how can one king be the vassal of another? The uncertain status of the area, poised between France and England, was to become an occasion for the Hundred Years War.

It is a commonplace of English history that Henry III was an ineffectual king. When the royal seal was changed, in the middle
of the reign, he was portrayed as bearing a sceptre rather than the original sword. But in the course of his life the economy of the country improved, with the absence of war playing some part in this general prosperity. The lords and tenants of the land were not removed to fight in foreign territories, and were allowed to concentrate upon the condition of their estates. The surviving documents suggest that there was increased traffic in the sale and purchase of land. A vogue for manuals of estate management soon followed, with advice on matters from dung to dairy production. 14 gallons (63.6 litres) of cow’s milk should produce 14 pounds (6.3 kilos) of cheese and 2 pounds (0.9 kilo) of butter. There had not been such a profitable farming industry since the days of Roman England.

The king exacted fewer taxes from his subjects than any of his predecessors and so encouraged the flow of wealth about the realm. Henry relied upon the exploitation of his royal lands, and on the profits to be gained from justice. Richard and John had open mouths, swallowing England’s silver; Henry, partly under the strictures of the Magna Carta, was obliged to hold back.

Other reasons for prosperity can be found. The uncertain relations of England with both France and Flanders were eased by the late 1230s, allowing a great increase in the export of wool to those countries. A threefold increase in overseas trade took place in the course of the thirteenth century; this was the age of road-building, easing the routes of commerce. The silver poured in, much to the advantage of the merchants in the towns and ports. The ‘marble of Corfe’ and the ‘scarlet of Lincoln’, the ‘iron of Gloucester’ and the ‘cod of Grimsby’, were celebrated in doggerel rhyme. They provide the context in which we may best understand the king’s programme of church- and chapel-building.

Some unknowable bond exists between the economic and physical health of the nation, marked by the fact that in the period of Henry’s rule the population began to rise ever more rapidly. As a result demand at home grew for corn, cheese and wool; the economy expanded together with the number of people who took part in it. There were 5 million inhabitants and 8 million sheep. Yet growth is not always or necessarily benign. Prices were rising as a result of increased demand; the consequence of a larger working population was that wages could be kept low. While the more
efficient or prosperous farmers flourished, and enlarged their properties, their poorer neighbours were generally left with smaller and smaller plots of land.

The king once remarked that there were no more than 200 men in England who mattered, and that he was familiar with all of them. Many of them were bound together by ties of marriage or of tenure; many of them were associated in local administration and local justice. They were all in kinship and alliance, one with another. They were bound within regional as well as courtly groupings; and there were times, as Henry soon learned to his cost, when they could act together.

The problem was that the majority of these significant lords were distrustful of a king who surrounded himself with his advisers from Poitou, the greatest of whom were Peter des Roches and Peter des Rivaux. The issue was, in part, their foreignness. The English lords were by the thirteenth century all native-born, and in written documents professed their affection for ‘native ground’ or ‘native soil’. In the sixth year of Henry’s reign the feast of St George had been turned into a national holiday. The monkish chronicler of St Albans recorded that those people who did not speak English were ‘held in contempt’.

The foreignness of the Poitevins was compounded by their greed. They came to the court to receive annual stipends. They were eager for lands and for money, but these could only be granted at the expense of the native lords. In the spring of 1233 these magnates let it be known that they would refuse to attend the king’s council if ‘the aliens’ were present; the king’s representative replied that he had every right to choose foreign counsellors and that he would find the force necessary to quell this baronial mutiny. In June 1233 the lords were summoned to the king’s presence in Oxford; they refused to obey. They also delivered a message to the effect that they would throw Henry and the foreigners out of the country before electing a new king. The barons were declared contumacious; they were exiles and outlaws, their lands nominally granted to the Poitevin courtiers.

In this lay a cause for war. The barons went on the offensive,
and within six months the king’s forces were defeated. The lands and properties of ‘aliens’ were despoiled. The bishops of the land enforced a truce, in which the king effectively surrendered. The rebel lords were pardoned, and certain of the Poitevins were banished from court. Yet Henry could not separate himself from his instinctive partiality for his extended family of Frenchmen. He was himself half-French, the son of Isabella of Angoulême.

His marriage to Eleanor of Provence in 1236 only compounded the problem. According to Matthew Paris, ‘he took a stranger to wife without the advice of his own friends and natural subjects’. The twelve-year-old girl had brought in her entourage her uncle, William of Savoy. He was half-brother to the king himself, sharing a mother in Isabella. He knew that Henry was impressionable and pliable. He had come to stay. The Savoyards were soon everywhere. Peter of Savoy was given the territory in Yorkshire known as the honour of Richmond. It was he who built the Savoy Palace between the Strand and the Thames, now the site of the Savoy hotel. Boniface of Savoy was granted the archbishopric of Canterbury. Henry had not learned the simple lesson. He believed that the country was his alone. Why should he not distribute it to half-brothers or second cousins or great-nephews if he so wished? He was king.

The opposition to Henry, over succeeding years, took various forms and the expressions of grievance were variously couched. The Poitevins and Savoyards were still too much favoured. The queen was playing too dominant a role. The king was being given ill, or indifferent, advice. He was irresolute and inconstant in policy. He was too much in thrall to the pope. When one of his English barons remonstrated with him for ignoring the clauses of the Magna Carta he is said to have replied, ‘Why should I observe this charter, which is neglected by all my grandees, both prelates and nobility?’ The answer came, that he ought as king to set an example. The general impression is of weak or bad government on a sufficiently large scale to merit some intervention.

In 1244 he demanded a large sum from parliament. In return the lords insisted that they be given authority to elect the justiciar and the chancellor, thus taking command of the law and the
exchequer. The king agreed only to renew his vow to accept the provisions of the Magna Carta. Four years later, when he asked parliament to grant him more money, the lords refused. They told him the revenue was wasted on wax candles and on useless processions; they also informed him that the food and drink he consumed, even the clothes he wore, were snatched from their lawful owners. Five years later Henry again demanded money, on the ground that he was about to lead a crusade to the Holy Land. No one really believed him. Once more he only exacted the sum by a solemn vow to obey the precepts of the Magna Carta. Once more he reneged on his promises. We see here the unsettled reign of the first king of England struggling in the restraints of law.

Then there came what was called at the time ‘a new and sudden change’. On 7 April 1258 a parliament was called, since the king again needed money. He had promised the pope the vast sum of 135,541 marks, in return for his son Edmund being installed as king of Sicily; the Sicilian adventure was a fiasco, but the debt remained.

The king’s demands were all the more onerous because this was a time of famine. The harvest of 1257 had failed, and by the spring of the following year the price of wheat had increased two and a half times. We may survey the activities of kings and lords, but another life sometimes escapes observation: the life of the wretched. Matthew Paris reports, in this year of dearth, ‘an innumerable multitude of poor people, swollen and rotting, lying by fives and sixes in pigsties, on dunghills, and in the dirt of the streets’. The resources of the country were confined to relatively few people. Approximately 60 per cent of the agricultural population was deemed to be too poor to pay taxes. They were not on anyone’s list to be saved or protected. No ‘state’ was in place to succour them, and so they went to the wall. The king was in any case only concerned with his own financial problems.

The barons of England were not inclined to honour his debts. At the end of April 1258, after much fruitless debate, a party of barons made their way to the court at Westminster. They deliberately put their swords beside the entrance to the king’s hall before saluting Henry in the expected manner. But he was unnerved by
the sight of their weapons. An eyewitness report, placed in the Tewkesbury chronicles, describes the scene. ‘What is this, my lords?’ he asked them. ‘Am I, wretched fellow, your captive?’

Roger Bigod, the earl of Norfolk, replied for them all. ‘No, my lord, no! But let the wretched and intolerable Poitevins and all aliens flee from your face and ours as from the face of a lion, and there will be glory to God in the heavens and in your land peace to men of good will.’

This affords a glimpse of the colourful and spirited speech of the thirteenth century. Bigod then asked the king to accept ‘our counsels’. Henry, naturally enough, asked what they might entail. The barons had already agreed among themselves on their demands. The king was to be guided and advised by a group of twenty-four councillors, twelve to be chosen by the king and twelve chosen by the barons. If the king had refused these terms, he faced a real prospect of civil war. He knew as much himself, and so after deliberation he accepted the terms offered to him. He must also have been swayed by the fact that the barons agreed to grant him ‘aid’ in his financial embarrassments.

A committee of twenty-four was chosen and, in the summer of 1258, published what amounts to a manifesto on domestic and international affairs. The major proposal was a simple one. The king was to be directed by the advice of a council of fifteen men nominated by the barons, and parliament itself would choose the justiciar, chancellor and treasurer. The king’s acceptance of what became known as the Provisions of Oxford was issued in English as well as in Latin and French, testimony to the manifest identity of the realm. In practice the council was soon ruling the country. It took possession of the great seal. It settled all the matters of state without the king’s presence. If he remonstrated with them, they replied that ‘this is how we wish it’. Henry had become a minor again. This was no longer the government of a king.

That was the reason it did not, and could not, work. How could the power of the country, exercised by one man for thirty-one years, now be dispersed between fifteen people? Quarrels broke out between the barons over the nature and purpose of their control of the king, and they found it difficult to deal with international affairs without the direct intervention of the king with his fellow
monarchs. The barons themselves had their own local interests – they were, after all, primarily regional magnates – which were not necessarily compatible with national administration. It was said that they were concerned only with self-aggrandizement.

The baronial government collapsed within two years. A papal bull was published, releasing Henry from any promises made under duress to his lords; the bull stated that when a king was distrained by his subjects it was as if a woodman was assaulted by his own axe. Henry also declared that the barons had stripped the king of ‘his power and dignity’. He moved into the Tower, both as a defence against his enemies and as a potent symbol of that power.

Not greatly chastened by events, he resumed the exercise of sovereignty. It lasted for only two years. The ‘aliens’, the Savoyards in particular, were once more blamed for being ‘over-mighty’. Henry had also introduced a body of foreign mercenaries, provoking rumours that the country was about to suffer an invasion. So in 1263 a group of dissident barons found themselves a new leader to press their claims, and in particular their demand that they should be governed only ‘
per indigenas
’ or by native-born men.

Simon de Montfort, summoned by the barons, sailed to England. It has been said that he was the first ever leader of an English political party. He was perhaps an odd representative of the English cause. He was born in France and was part of a noble French family. Yet he had native connections. He had inherited the earldom of Leicester, by virtue of the fact that his grandfather had married the sister of the previous earl; it was a circuitous route, but it was a proper one. He had also married the king’s sister Eleanor. So, as one chronicler put it, he became ‘the shield and defender of the English, the enemy and expeller of aliens, although he himself was one of them by nation’. The barons summoned the representatives of the shires to an assembly at St Albans, while the king called them to Windsor.

The confrontation between Henry III and Simon de Montfort could not be contained. De Montfort himself was an obstinate and intolerant man, with an obsessive hatred for Jews and heretics. He was something of an isolated figure in England, with a disdain for the compromises and irresolution of his English supporters whom he had once described as ‘fickle and deceitful’. He was impatient of
fools, and could be high-handed both in his manner and in his methods. He was, in other words, a bully. He knew what was right. He knew, or thought he knew, what had to be done. He had in the past commanded a crusading army, and Henry himself had once despatched him to Gascony as his seneschal or viceroy. The king was notoriously fearful of storms. It was an aspect of his simplicity. But on one occasion he told de Montfort that ‘by God’s head, I fear you more than all the thunder and lightning in the world’.