The next house being 1241, in this year Simon de Montfort went on crusade and took the family with him. He left them in Brindisi, Italy, where the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II lent them a palace (Eleanor de Montfort’s sister Isabella was married to Frederick). There was a truce in the Holy Land, so Simon spent his time there getting mixed up in the local politics. His cousin Philip was the head of one faction and it was through him that a petition was sent to Frederick, who was the nominal overlord for Jerusalem, to make Simon the governor of the place. Meanwhile Simon’s older brother Amaury was ransomed along with the other French knights captured at the battle of Gaza two years earlier. Amaury had had a rough time of it because he wouldn’t name names to the sultan. He was now free but broken, and died on the way home. Simon also left, the petition to Frederick having come to nothing, and found that he had left his wife pregnant before going to Jerusalem. They had a son, their third, and named him Amaury.
Just walking through a nearby neighborhood and saw this house number. So what happened in 1240? Simon de Montfort returned from France in April to raise funds for his projected crusade. He was welcomed by Henry III despite the fact that Henry nearly had him thrown in the Tower eight months earlier after Simon ran up enormous debts and named him, the king, as security for them. He also accused Simon of seducing his sister Eleanor and in this way forced his hand in allowing them to marry. The Montforts figured it was better to leave the country and did so in such haste that they had to leave their newborn son, named after the king, behind with his wet nurse. That was another reason for Simon to make the trip to England, to bring the infant boy to his mother. Queen Eleanor (of Provence) hoped to put that squabble behind them and gave Simon, while he was there, a pot and two cups made of silver, costing £14 for the set, about £10,000 today.
Today 1 October marks the birth of Henry III in 1207. Born in Winchester, he had just turned nine when his father King John died amidst a baronial revolt to put a French king on the throne. He was quickly knighted by the aged William Marshal and crowned in Gloucester. Four years later, after the French had been expelled, he got a proper coronation in London, making him the only English monarch to undergo anointing twice. That might explain his overly pious nature, which made going to mass and feeding the poor daily priorities for him. He loved spectacle and went all out for royal weddings. His achievements include making Magna Carta the bedrock of English law, the rise of parliament, and reconstruction of Westminster Abbey. His attempt to establish a cosmopolitan court and nobility met with fierce resistance, however, culminating in increasing intolerance towards foreigners and eventually in civil war with followers of Simon de Montfort. After their defeat, Henry concentrated on finishing the work at Westminster and sending his sons on crusade. He died in his bed on 16 November 1272 and was interred inside the abbey, undisturbed to this day.
Of the other Plantagenet kings, only his great-grandson Edward III died in his bed, not wracked by disease or an overtly bad conscience. These two ‘thirds’ make an interesting comparison. Both were boy kings, succeeded fathers deemed failures, both had French tiger mothers named Isabella, and each surpassed half a century on the throne. There it mostly ends. Henry was a man of peace, Edward of war. Henry wanted another man of peace, Englishman Edward the Confessor, to be the patron saint of the nation, while Edward III preferred the warlike, and foreign-born, St George for the honour. Henry didn’t shy away from war and showed he was actually good at it when he stormed Northampton in 1264. He lost the Battle of Lewes to de Montfort, but that owed to the impetuosity of his son Edward (I) and cowardice of his brother Richard of Cornwall. Henry himself is described at the front line taking blow after blow.
Edward III won great victories, but the gains were in rapid decline at his death and coastal raids by the French were in full swing. Just a month or so after he died, they captured the Isle of Wight and advanced as far inland as Lewes. By contrast, Henry pursued a foreign policy that has often been derided by historians for its cost and scale of ambition, but excepting Welsh incursions, it kept England safe from invasion for half a century.
The open question following the battle of Evesham was whether Simon de Montfort had been aspiring for the throne, if not for himself then for his son Henry, who was a grandson of King John. In all likelihood not, because there were five royals with a better claim, and that’s nothing to speak of the king himself, Henry III, who was still very much alive, in good health and in command of his faculties. Certainly the Montforts could never enjoy the purple cushions of the big chair while Henry’s heir Edward was still alive. Simon had resisted all pressure to release the young man, knowing he was going to kick some ass the first chance he got, so he organized a phony early release ceremony for him, which is to say Edward was going to have a squad of parole officers dogging his every move. And to make sure he didn’t head for his lands in Cheshire and hook up with his old gang, Simon included a land swap in the ceremony. Edward was to give him Cheshire in return for some property closer to London worth three times less. This act was formalized in the patent rolls on this day of 20 March in 1265, but what’s really interesting is it mentions Simon for the first time as the Steward of England. After nearly a year in power, he was looking for any title to legitimize his rule, which suggests he knew the throne was out of reach, at least for the time being. He had every right to call himself Steward because that hereditary office belonged to the Earls of Leicester. Of course, the traditional function was to hold a water basin for the king at banquets so his grace could dip his greasy fingers in it between courses. The first known time Simon exercised this honour was at Henry’s wedding in 1236. Now nearly three decades later, Simon was licking his own chops over how far he had come, but Edward, now free to mount a horse again, was biding his time.
Celebrating the life of Eleanor of Provence (1223-91) this International Women’s Day, the first woman in post-Conquest England to be named regent. On 3 July 1253, her husband Henry III declared in the patent rolls, “Mandate to all justices, sheriffs, constables and other bailiffs of England, Wales and Ireland to be intendant to Queen Eleanor during the king’s absence in Gascony, and if the lot of humanity befalls the king in Gascony, to deliver the castles, lands and bailiwicks in their keeping to the said queen for her to keep to the use of Edward the king’s son during his minority.” Eleanor was pregnant at the time, gave birth in November, and in January attended parliament as the first woman head of state to do so. Later in spring, she summoned another parliament, this one the first ever where local representatives were elected.
It’s the 14th of February, the year 1265, and something big is about to go down in the chapter house of Westminster Abbey. Parliament has already been in session for more than three weeks, long for parliaments of that era, and the agenda is dominated by one issue: what to do with the lord Edward, heir to the throne. It will be remembered how a disaffected group of barons and clergy under Simon de Montfort defeated forces loyal to King Henry III in the spring of 1264. They established a constitutional monarchy, with Edward and other male members of the royal family held hostage for the king’s good behavior. A complicated scheme of government has now been worked out for Edward’s release, and Montfort decides to have it proclaimed in the chapter house. This will be a bitter pill for Henry to swallow. It’s not just that he has to accept their plan or risk the imprisonment or banishment of Edward and his other son Edmund (father of the House of Lancaster), but the chapter house was his pet project, envisaged as the home for future parliaments, where the business of the realm would be discussed under his beneficent lordship. Such was its beauty that he inscribed it with the motto, ‘As the rose is the flower of flowers, so is this building the house of houses’. Now, that house belonged to Simon de Montfort and his party.
On this day of 12 February in 1266, Walter de Cantilupe, the bishop of Worchester, died a broken man. He had been a mentor to Simon de Montfort and headed the coterie of bishops that legitimized his regime. There was nothing in Cantilupe’s background to suggest he would one day be the spiritual guide to opposition to Henry III. Born around 1200, Walter came from a family steeped in royal service. His father and brother, both former stewards in the king’s household, were among the “evil councillors” cited for their loyalty to King John. Walter benefited from the connection and held thirteen benefices when he was elected bishop in 1236. His faith was strong – he owned a hair shirt – but he remained a passionate defender of pluralism and was a politician at heart. It was at this time that he and other clerics turned to Magna Carta for protection against the king. Since Henry wasn’t about to give them more privileges than they already had, they looked to Simon de Montfort and supported his victory over Henry at the battle of Lewes. Cantilupe and eight other bishops gave sanction to the new Montfortian constitution proclaimed in Westminster Hall on 11 March 1265. The king was forced to give his consent, but took names during the ceremony. After Montfort’s defeat and death at Evesham in August of that year, Henry sued to have the bishops suspended from office, but Cantilupe died before his turn came. His nephew Thomas de Cantilupe was another prominent Montfortian, but was rehabilitated, became the bishop of Hereford and was canonized after his death in 1282. This effigy found during reconstruction of Worcester Cathedral in the 19th century is said to belong to Walter.
On this date of 02 February in 1239, Henry III invested Simon de Montfort with the title of Earl of Leicester at a ceremony in the Great Hall of Winchester. This was nine years after Simon stepped ashore in England for the first time. He had come in 1230 specifically to ask for the earldom, which had been inherited by his English grandmother Amicia, the widow of French noble Simon de Montfort (II). Their son was another Simon de Montfort (III), who directed the Albigensian Crusade until his death in 1218. (No, he did not give the infamous order “Kill them all, God will know his own.” Likely nobody did.). By then the earldom was in the custody of this Simon’s cousin, Ranulf, the earl of Chester. The oldest son of Simon III was Amaury. He had no chance to claim the earldom of Leicester because he was a leading noble of France. But his younger brother Simon (IV) thought he might give it a go. He got Ranulf to relinquish custody (for £200), Amaury to relinquish his claim (for £500), and he impressed Henry as man who could get things done. Simon was allowed to take possession of Leicester, but Henry was very particular about his earls and would sometimes make rightful claimants wait years before belting them. Simon’s claim was tenuous at best and there were lots of grumblings at court about “damn foreigners”. Everything changed when Henry’s widowed sister Eleanor and Simon got married in 1238. Henry recognized that Montfort needed a title more befitting the husband of a princess, and so made him the Earl of Leicester at last. But there was still all that money Simon owed to acquire the earldom, with interest on it accumulating every day. In secret, he named the king, now his brother-in-law, as security for it. In August 1239, just six months after the investiture, Henry found out about it, flew into a rage, and ordered Simon to take his sorry ass back to France. Thus ends part one of their story.
In 1258 Henry III and his barons set out to reform the realm under a constitution known as the Provisions of Oxford. Five years later their partnership was in ruins and each side turned to King Louis IX of France to settle the issue of these Provisions once and for all. Making the case for Henry was his chancellor Walter Merton. The barons, he declared, had usurped the king’s authority and wreaked havoc throughout the land. Merton had been brief and to the point, and for his efforts was granted the privilege of taking ‘one or two deer’ from any forest in England for the rest of his life. Speaking for the barons was Thomas Cantilupe, future saint and bishop of Hereford. His argument was six times longer and read like an indictment of the king. He did this, this and this, all in violation of Magna Carta. On this day of 23 January in 1264, Louis delivered his ruling. Without saying why, he quashed the Provisions of Oxford. Null, void and no law. Simon de Montfort and his followers had sworn to abide by his award, now they set out to settle the issue by war and defeated the royalists at the battle of Lewes. The Provisions again became the law of the land, Henry was a captive of his own government and Merton was out of a job. He took the time off to found a college in Oxford, reputedly the oldest one there and the one that bears his name today. Since he later became the bishop of Rochester, this relief above the gatehouse entrance of the college shows him dressed as one, although what John the Baptist and the unicorn are doing there is anyone’s guess.
More evidence that the ‘Second Barons’ War’ was in fact a ‘Clerical War’ comes in the writs for parliament to meet on this day of 20 January in 1265. Only 23 barons were summoned, practically all of them Montfortians, but the clergy had five times more representation, 120 ecclesiastics, 12 of them bishops. History tends to remember this parliament because it was the first time on record that the towns were also invited to attend, conferring credit on Simon de Montfort, then the de facto ruler, for being the founder of the House of Commons. But the clergy was still the dominant voice, because they saw in Montfort their dream of an English state where the Church was truly free of interfering monarchs like Henry III. Montfort needed their support, much as he now needed the towns and counties, to break the baronial opposition determined to bring him down. For more about how Simon de Montfort himself saw parliament as the future of national government, see this article I wrote for the History Vault.
On this day of 7 January in 1238 (780 years ago), one of the first sex scandals in English politics was about to play out. The setting was the end of the Christmas court held at Westminster, where Henry III enjoyed the company of his wife Eleanor of Provence and various female relatives. They included his sisters Joan (Queen of Scotland) and Eleanor (Countess of Pembroke), his niece Helen (Countess of Chester) and his cousin Eleanor of Brittany, the forlorn and confined sister of Arthur. As the court broke up, Henry led Eleanor and his most trusted courtier at that time, Simon de Montfort, into his private chapel. There Walter, the chaplain of nearby St Stephen’s, married the two of them, with the king giving the bride away. Supposedly none of the other ladies of the court had an inkling that it was coming. Had word of it got out beforehand, it would have created a scandal. Eleanor had taken a vow of chastity following the death of her first husband William Marshal II, and Simon was just a courtier, nothing else. He came from France, owed everything to Henry, so marrying a princess like Eleanor to him brought no benefit to the realm. Sure enough, when word of the marriage got out, there was a storm, with Henry and Eleanor’s brother Richard of Cornwall at the centre of it. But it was over in a month, in part due to the unexpected death of Joan. So Simon and Eleanor were comfortably married and their first child wasn’t born until 11 months later, thus muting any suggestion that theirs had been a crossbow wedding. And then like that it exploded. In August 1239 Henry learned that Simon had been naming him as surety for the loans he had borrowed. He went ballistic and accused his friend in front of the court of seducing his sister. He had let them marry only to avoid a scandal, which of course it was now. Humiliated, both Simon and Eleanor left for exile and didn’t return to court for another four years. As for any truth in the charge, it seems that the Montforts (their seals in the images) did have some pangs of conscience and vowed to go on crusade to do something about it. They ended up not going because Henry asked them for a favour instead, and that turned into the next huge disaster in their relationship.
As of 22 November 1263, crimes of all sorts were being committed in England. This was the report of the papal legate appointed by Urban IV to sort out the mess created by ‘the chief disturber of the realm’, Simon de Montfort. The pope had been informed of Montfort’s takeover of Henry III’s government and gave the legate, Guy Foulquois, wide ranging powers to evict him, but Montfort refused to allow him to enter. Guy’s legateship ended when Urban died, but he got a better job as the next pope. Now Clement IV, he appointed another legate to ‘pluck that pestilent man and all his offspring out of England’. One month later, Montfort was chopped up at Evesham. Clement could afford to be forgiving and accepted one of the offspring, third son Amaury, as a papal clerk. In September 1266, at Amaury’s request, Clement lifted the excommunication he pronounced against Simon two years earlier while standing on the shores of the English Channel, frustrated in his attempts to catch a boat over. He never saw England.
In May 1265 Simon de Montfort had been at the head of a parliamentary state for one year, with King Henry III a mere figurehead in it. The escape of Henry’s son Edward at the end of that month led to a royalist resurgence and decisive battle at Evesham on 4 August 1265. Here on Greenhill, north of the town, the sky darkened as Edward’s men unleashed a slaughter that claimed Montfort, most of his knights, and very nearly his own father. The butchery, thunderstorm and pathos of an aged king forced to fight against his will anticipate later Shakespearean tragedy.
Henry of Winchester, in nine years’ time to be the third king to bear the name Henry since the Norman Conquest. This excerpt from my new biography describes what kind of man he was: ‘He was witty, eloquent, and well informed, had a phenomenal memory and mischievous sense of humour, but he could also be temperamental, devious and prone to making hasty judgements. While he had a mystical side that drew him, not surprisingly, to the number three, he wasn’t as superstitious as some supposedly steelier kings. Some of the chances he took appear positively reckless, but also understandable given what he hoped to achieve, and more or less had to in order to revive the Plantagenet dynasty. He took pride in being the first king since the Norman Conquest to be born and raised in England, but he never longed to see more of it, or the rest of Britain and Ireland for that matter, the way he did for France. Although abandoned by his mother and manipulated by the ministers of his minority, piety and charity led him to forgive them and everybody else who betrayed his trust. The insecurity and loneliness of his youth made him needy and emotionally driven, something most men in his position would try to conceal, but not Henry. With him, everything was out there, in his speeches, letters, and documents. It might just as well be, for deep down he knew everything was part of a plan that would turn out well in the end.’