As Simon de Montfort’s army approached in July 1263, Queen Eleanor (of Provence) had no intention of capitulating like her husband, Henry III. She knew that would spell the end of the good life for her foreign friends and relations, the hated Savoyards. From the Tower she could see that all of London was up in arms against the royal family, not least because the heir to the throne, Edward (I), and his alien mercenaries had robbed them of their deposits at the New Temple. Eleanor decided she preferred her son’s way of doing business to her husband’s and had her barge readied on 13 July so she could join his gang at Windsor. Word of her flight brought throngs to London Bridge, where they shouted “whore” at her and pelted her with all kinds of rubbish. She was forced to turn back, but Henry refused to let her dock at Tower Wharf. Serves her right, he was probably thinking. In the end, the Montfortian mayor brought in an escort and had her safely conducted to St. Paul’s. He was denied the same decency after Evesham, however. Edward invited him to discuss the surrender of London under safe conduct, only to throw him in jail and left him there for three years. Edward’s robbery was forgiven, London was slapped with a £14,000 fine, and Eleanor got half that money, plus custody of the bridge. As might be expected, she used the rents and tolls from the bridge for her personal benefit without providing any upkeep or repairs, hence she could well be the “my fair lady” of the nursery rhyme.
On 28 June 1264 an ordinance was sealed by Parliament following the victory of the Montfortian party at Lewes six weeks earlier. It ordained that the king shall dispose of all the business of the realm, whether dispensing patronage or naming Crown officials, with the advice and consent of a council of nine. These nine would be chosen by three electors confirmed by the king, all elaborated by a system of checks and balances. Officially Henry III gave his “consent, will and precept” to this form of government, which for all intents and purposes changed England into a constitutional monarchy. Read the article here.
June 22 was the date set “at the latest” for the great Parliament of 1264 to meet and discuss a form of peace (forma pacis) for the realm. The summons was part of the appointment of 27 custodians charged with overseeing the election of four “prudent” knights to represent the counties at the assembly. That was the easy part, for the main concern following the victory at Lewes was maintaining any form of peace. The custodians were ordered to arrest anyone involved in plunder, arson, assaults, and other outrages. They were to act faithfully and diligently in this business so that “we shall not be forced by any negligence on your part to deal severely with you and yours. Witness the king at St. Paul’s, London, on 4 June.”
On 14 June 1261 Henry III was at Winchester, the city of his birth, to proclaim that Pope Alexander IV had absolved him and his family of their oaths to preserve and protect the Provisions of Oxford, the reforming legislation meant to put the kingdom on a sounder footing. He had commissioned the painting of a Wheel of Fortune in the Great Hall of Winchester, perhaps in keeping with his firm belief in charity, and doubtless he felt that his fortunes, which had sunk so low when the Provisions were enacted three years earlier, were definitely on the rebound. Indeed, while this bit of royal duplicity reunited the barons in a show of strength that summer, by autumn the king had succeeded in gutting the reform movement. All the magnates had been subdued except one, Simon de Montfort, who left for exile in France. Henry knew Simon was as much a threat abroad as he was at home and was determined to deal with him there, but in two years’ time the wheel had swung around and Montfort was marching on London.
The Song of Lewes is arguably the first great masterpiece of political literature in England and yet its composition in Latin has prevented it from wider renown today. The choice of language reflects the anonymous author’s intention to spread the word about the miraculous victory of Simon de Montfort over the forces of King Henry III and his son the Lord Edward. The friar who composed it wanted all of Europe to rejoice in the victory, and for that he needed the lingua franca at the time. And rejoice he does.
‘The faith and fidelity of Simon alone is become the security of the peace of all England; the rebels he humbles, he raises those lying in despair; the realm he reconciles, repressing the proud; he squeezes out the red juice by fighting, for truth compelled him to fight.’
Thank God, he continues, because what is to become of England when Edward ascends the throne?
‘Treachery or falsehood whereby he is advanced he calls prudence; the way whereby he arrives, crooked though it be, is regarded as straight; wrong gives him pleasure and is called right; whatever he likes he says is lawful, and he thinks that he is above law, as though he were greater than the King.’
On May 2nd in 1264 Henry’s favorite cook named Thomas was killed by an unseen archer while riding out ahead of the royal column. In his fury the king, after taking counsel with his brother Richard, ordered over 300 archers who had already surrendered to be executed by beheading in a village called Flimwell. Beyond the atrocity itself, Henry could have used these men at the upcoming battle of Lewes, where he was reported to have had no archers to stem the Montfortian tide rolling down the hill above the town.
The archers lurking about in the woods during these troubled times inevitably gave rise to the legend of Robin Hood. The famed outlaw would not appear in print for another century, but there is evidence he might have been a common fugitive named Robert Hood who ran afoul of the law before the reform period began. His execution at the hands of the sheriff doubtlessly began to take on a life of its own with every new extortion and injustice meted out by Henry’s oppressive sheriffs.
With UK elections less than two weeks away, it should be noted that on 25 April, in 1263, Simon de Montfort returned from self-imposed exile in France to lead what was in essence England’s first political party. Their makeup was like a blueprint for political parties to this day. A charismatic and determined leader, able lieutenants, spiritual guides, idealists and preachers in the field, even disaffected members of the royal family. The platform of the founding meeting in Oxford was to force Henry III to submit to reform once and for all. Within three months, the king capitulated and the Montfortians marched into London with next to no bloodshed. Of course, every party has its disreputable likes, and here they were the Marcher lords, Edward’s former friends who were mainly out for revenge and personal gain. Their goal was to get rid of all foreigners (namely the queen’s family and Edward’s new friends) and launched a violent campaign against Italian clergy, French merchants and the Jews. Montfort himself was a foreigner, so it was no surprise that, after a chastened Edward agreed to take them back (for a price naturally), the Marchers threw Montfort over and his government, the first one in England led by a premier, collapsed.
With the war being lost after the loss of Northampton, Montfort knew he needed to draw the king’s forces south if he hoped to regain the initiative. Now that Gilbert de Clare was finally on board, he worked out a plan for Clare to strike the royalist stronghold of Rochester from the south while he advanced on it from the west. This way he could also remove the rowdy elements from London that had been close to sacking the city from within. On Good Friday, 18 April 1264, Simon breached the city’s defenses by use of a fireboat alight with pitch, coal and fatty pork, a tactic he may have learned of on the continent. His irregulars swarmed in and took the place apart much the way Henry and Edward’s men were doing in the Midlands at that point. They ransacked the church of St. Andrew, stole its treasure, and stabled their horses inside. The siege of the castle commenced, with a break for Easter Sunday, but the Montfortians were unable to take the great Keep manned by Warenne and Leybourne. By April 26 Simon had to call of the siege when Henry and Edward arrived in the southern theatre to relieve the city. Far from a defeat, Montfort had achieved his objective: he now had Henry where he could strike at him.
The ease with which Northampton fell generated rumors that traitors were at work, and in London, as in any city in any age, the Jews made convenient scapegoats. On the night of 9-10 April, they were savagely set upon by a horde that massacred as many as 500 of their community in the vicinity of Guildhall. The Dunstable annalist claims they were planning to betray the city with keys they had secretly made to the gates, and failing that, set it on fire, and because of that, Simon ordered their destruction. This has led historians like Marc Morris to make the baseless charge that Montfort encouraged his supporters to kill the Jews. Baseless because the monk of Dunstable, writing from afar, had no evidence against the Jews, unlike the treachery of the Christian oligarchs, whereas local chronicler Arnold Fitz-Thedmar, who was generally unfriendly to the Montfortians, says it was Hugh Despenser and Mayor Fitz-Thomas, stalwart allies of Simon, who saved the survivors by giving them shelter in the Tower. While Montfort’s exact whereabouts at this time cannot be determined, it’s ludicrous to think he would have unleashed a fearful massacre within his lone bastion of support at that time, or have risked alienating the bishops with such an atrocity. However much this singular tragedy of the civil war owed to sadistic depravity, robbery or anti-Semitism, Henry’s idiotic taxation of the Jews was one of the causes of the unrest throughout the land, and they, as usual, paid the price.
It couldn’t be put off any longer. On 1 April 1265 Simon and his retinue left Odiham, destination Northampton, meant to be the venue for the tournament canceled in Dunstable in February. The idea was to placate Gilbert de Clare, the earl of Gloucester, but this perennially unhappy young man and partner in government had already retreated to the marches to work out a plan to bring down the man he referred to as the ‘alien’. This called for royalist forces from abroad to land at Pembroke, which Clare was holding, and for his brother Thomas to continue to insinuate his trust and loyalty at court. All this would culminate in the disaster at Evesham four months down the line.
And so on this date 750 years ago, in front of Odiham castle, Simon and Eleanor saw each other for the last time. They couldn’t have known it then, but there’s no reason to suggest they might not have reflected at some point on their lives together up to that point, ever since that January day in 1238 when Henry married them in secret at Westminster. He was 29 then, the promising younger son of a French noble family, probably beardless with a full mane of hair like his father and standing tall in the saddle; she 23, the beautiful widow of William Marshal II, a semi-nun but longing to be a mother. They were two headstrong, high-spirited individuals who were supreme organizers, full of phenomenal energy, and who, importantly, were not afraid to speak their minds or stand up to authority. How could Henry refuse them.
It was on 19 March 1265 that Simon arrived at Odiham for what would be the last time the Montfort family was all together. Also visiting were his nephews Edward and Henry of Almain, having arrived two days earlier under an armed escort led by Henry de Montfort. Their aunt and hostess Eleanor de Montfort sought to ease tensions by serving up plenty of food, including pike, the most expensive of the freshwater fish. Her daily household expenses increased more than five times to keep the entourage of several hundred people fed, to just over £5, impressive indeed, but still less than the £8 for the royal household. Here’s what that money bought: Nearly 1,000 loaves of bread, 74 gallons of wine, 240 gallons of beer, a variety of fish, including 1,700 herrings, 36 pounds of almonds, and hay for 334 horses.
On this day 750 years ago the mayor of London, Thomas Fitz-Thomas, led the aldermen of that city to St. Paul’s to renew fealty to the king. Nothing untoward there, for a new political era had dawned, but then Fitz-Thomas did something that, in the words of the chronicler, was “wondrous and unheard of in that age”: he qualified his oath to Henry. “My lord, so long as unto us you will be a good lord and King, we will be faithful and duteous unto you.” Be a good king and you shall be king. Otherwise… Fitz-Thomas paid dearly after Evesham for his choice words. Despite giving him a safe conduct to parley the surrender of London, Edward had him imprisoned for the next three years.
On this day 750 years ago, Parliament concluded in Westminster Hall with a ceremony handing the Lord Edward over to his father’s household. This involved reading the declarations of king and heir to abide by the constitutional framework in place, with nine bishops on hand to excommunicate anybody who acted otherwise. As one historian wrote, Simon de Montfort “must have seemed irresistible on that great day.” Of course, it also marked the apex of his career, as the two principals had been coerced into the arrangement and oaths meant nothing to them in any case.
Marking this International Women’s Day with a salute to Eleanor de Montfort, whose vital role in her husband’s government can be seen in her political networking. On 8 March 1265 she was at Odiham and welcoming Robert de Brus as a guest very much against his will. He had been captured at Lewes and was waiting for his son, the father of Edward’s future nemesis Robert the Bruce, to ransom him. He was accompanied to Odiham by Thomas of Astley, who later fell at Evesham.
Three new articles have rounded out the tour so far, including the view that Montfort’s contribution to the development of Parliament was more than just summoning the burgesses in January 1265. Kathryn Warner’s Edward II site is the most fitting venue to discuss what was behind that unfortunate king asking to hear songs sung about Simon de Montfort. And today we visit Sara Cockerill’s site for Eleanor of Castile to ponder whether Edward’s wife and the rest of the royal family were ever in any danger on account of the ambitions of the Montfort family.
The tour wraps up tomorrow with a visit to In Thirteenth Century England and an interview conducted by Montfortian scholar Kathleen Neal.