When the Tudor antiquarian, John Leland, visited the Shropshire church of Whitchurch in the 1530s, he saw the tomb of Sir Gilbert Talbot, a ‘knight of fame’, and noted, with apparent approval, that Talbot had brought the bones of his grandfather, the great soldier, John Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury, from Castillon, where he had fallen in 1453, for reinternment in the church. Sir Gilbert did not have a career to compare with that of his famous ancestor; none the less, despite the disadvantage of being a younger son, he was a notable servant, as soldier, administrator, and diplomat, of three Kings, Edward IV and the first two Tudors. Such future success had appeared improbable in his boyhood. His father, John Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury, had fallen in the Lancastrian cause in the battle of Northampton in July 1460, when Gilbert was about nine years old. Fortunately for the family, however, the new Yorkist King, Edward IV, was content for their lands to pass to Gilbert’s elder brother, another John, and, in the early 1470s, both brothers found places in Edward’s service, with the young Gilbert becoming one of the King’s cupbearers.

Gilbert’s career began in earnest with his elder brother’s death in June 1473 – in the mysterious words of Leland, ‘not without suspicion of poison’ – leaving as his heir a son, George, only five years old. This made Gilbert the effective head of the family during a long minority. As such, he led a retinue in the invasion of France in 1475, his first known military experience in what was to prove a long military career. He also advanced himself materially by marriage to a wealthy widow, as younger sons of leading families often did. In 1477 he married Elizabeth, widow of Thomas, Lord Scrope of Masham, and daughter of Ralph, Lord Greystoke, lord of the extensive lordship of Wem, about nine miles from the Talbot manor of Whitchurch.

Talbot’s prosperity was threatened by the deposition of Edward V.  He and the new King, Richard III, clearly distrusted each other. There was one obvious point of tension between them. Talbot’s stepson, Thomas, the new Lord Scrope of Masham, had been brought up in Richard’s household, and Talbot had every reason to consider this personal connexion a threat to his own wife’s interest in the Scrope lands. Probably more significant, however, was a more nebulous consideration. In constructing his title to the throne, the new King relied on the story of Edward IV’s alleged pre-contract with Gilbert’s paternal aunt, Eleanor, widow of Sir Thomas Butler of Sudeley (Gloucestershire). She had died in 1468, when Gilbert was only in his late teens, but there can be little doubt that the Talbots knew the truth (or otherwise) of the story. In this context, Gilbert can only have interpreted his removal from the Shropshire bench and the loss of his stewardship of the Talbot lordships of Blackmere and Whitchurch as evidence of the King’s hostility. 

His response was to return to his family’s earlier Lancastrian allegiance and enter communications with Henry Tudor. According to an admittedly rather doubtful source, The Song of Lady Bess, an early-modern narrative poem, there was a crucial meeting on 3 May 1485 at which he, alongside Tudor’s stepfather, Thomas, Lord Stanley, and others, firmly committed themselves to supporting Tudor. This story may be wrong in detail, but Talbot was certainly one of the first men of substance to join Henry after he landed at Milford Haven on the following 7 August. According to the Tudor chronicler, Polydore Vergil, he brought 500 men to Henry at Newport, about seven miles from the Talbot manor of Shifnal. He then went on to command the vanward of Henry’s army at the battle of Bosworth, where he was knighted.

Sir Gilbert’s reward was a place in the new King’s household, and, much more importantly, a grant of an inheritable estate in the valuable Worcestershire manor of Grafton.  These rewards were justified by further military service, both at home and abroad.

He fought for Henry at the battle of Stoke on 16 June 1487 and was there created a knight  banneret.  In June 1489 he was one of the commanders of the army, under the lieutenant of Calais, Giles Daubeney, Lord Daubeney, which repelled a Franco-Flemish force besieging the town of Diksmuide, some 50 miles to the east of the English garrison; and, in 1492, he joined with much of the political nation in the bloodless invasion of France. His military distinction was recognised in 1495 when he was admitted to the Order of the Garter, and he was again in arms in the autumn of 1497 to resist the unthreatening landing of Perkin Warbeck in Cornwall.  Later his status as soldier and courtier brought him an ambassadorial role. In February 1504 the King sent him to Rome to offer congratulations to the new Pope, Julius II, and to invest Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, duke of Urbino, with the Garter. The duke rewarded this service by commissioning Raphael, a native of Urbino, to paint an image of St. George adorned with the Garter, for presentation to his fellow Garter knight.

Not long after Sir Gilbert’s return from Rome, he was appointed as deputy-lieutenant of Calais, where he remained, on and off, for the remainder of his life.  As such, he took part in the 1513 invasion of France, commanded by his nephew, George, earl of Shrewsbury. A tantalising reference suggests that his service came at great personal cost. On 11 July it was reported that, during the siege of Thérouanne, some 30 miles south of Calais, the French artillery had done ‘great hurt’ to the besieging English camp. Talbot is said to have lost a leg and the chamberlain of the royal household, then Charles Somerset, Lord Herbert, to have been killed. In respect of Somerset’s death, the report was wrong, but it is possible that Talbot, who relinquished his Calais office soon afterwards, was severely injured.

On his death in August 1517, Sir Gilbert had an elaborate funeral, costing about £175, equivalent to the annual income of a substantial gentry family, before internment at Whitchurch (his tomb was lost when the church collapsed in 1711, rather ironically the year after his manor house at Grafton burnt down). He died a very wealthy man, in part because of the rewards of royal service but also because of his own entrepreneurial spirit.  His second wife, the widow of a London alderman and mercer, Richard Gardener, gave him an entrée into an élite commercial world, and he became a major wool merchant.  In the inventory taken on his death, his most valuable possession single possession was the store of wool he had at Calais, appraised at as much as £1850. In the longer context of the history of the comital family of Talbot, his successful career and his consequent establishment of a robust junior branch had great significance.  In 1618 his great-great-grandson, George, succeeded his childless fourth cousin, Edward Talbot, as earl of Shrewsbury.

SJP

In the study of medieval landholding, it is a common theme that an aristocratic marriage might have the most unpredictable of material consequences. A bride, with scant prospects of inheritance at her marriage, might, in her descendants, bring an unlooked-for windfall to the groom’s family. It was, famously, such a match, made in the late 1410s, that brought the great Mowbray dukedom of Norfolk to their social inferiors, the Howards, some sixty years later. Of more general interest, however, are those matches that had profound political consequences, largely unanticipated or entirely disregarded when they were made.

Of these one of the most consequential is that of Edward III’s grandson, Richard of Conisbrough, younger brother of Edward, duke of York, to that King’s great-granddaughter, Anne, sister of Edmund Mortimer, earl of March. Even when it was completed in 1408, some at least must have been aware of its potential implications. If the cards of birth and death were to fall in a certain way, it would bring about two profound political changes. First, it would unite the lands of York and Mortimer and so create the largest aristocratic inheritance in the realm. Second, the beneficiary of that union would be the representative of two claims to the throne, the one in the male line from Edward III’s fourth son, Richard’s father, Edmund of Langley (d.1402), duke of York, and the other, much more importantly, from his second, Lionel of Antwerp (d.1368), duke of Clarence. 

Even in 1408, this convergence of lands and titles was a distinct possibility. Only one life, that of his brother, stood between the groom and the duchy of York, and, significantly, that life was unlikely to be perpetuated in issue. The duke had no issue by his wife, the twice-widowed Philippa Mohun, who was several years his senior, and it was clear that, unless she died and the duke remarried, his younger brother only needed to survive him to be his heir. The bride’s prospects were less clear, but hardly remote. Only two lives, those of her unmarried brothers, Edmund and Roger, lay between her and a half share (with her sister) of the earldom of March. With the birth of a son, Richard, to the couple on 22 September 1411, there was a potential long-term beneficiary should the male line of the Mortimers fail, and, as seemed highly probable, the duke died childless. 

In these circumstances, a supporter of the house of Lancaster would not have been unduly pessimistic in predicting that the greatest aristocratic inheritance in the land would come into the hands of the representative of the Mortimer claimant. In 1399 the political nation had adjudged the seniority of that claim to that of the Lancastrian line of Edward III’s third son, John of Gaunt, negated by a female descent (through Clarence’s only child, Philippa, wife of an earlier Edmund Mortimer (d.1381), earl of March).  That judgment, however, was not beyond revocation.

The marriage thus posed obvious, albeit contingent, dangers to the house of Lancaster. The Mortimer claim had served as a rallying point for rebels against Henry IV’s rule, most notably the Percy rising of 1403. Further, in February 1405, the hazard of a hostile alliance between the houses of York and Mortimer had been made evident when Richard’s sister, Constance, Lady Despenser, abducted the two Mortimer boys from Windsor castle.  Her aim was to take them to their uncle, Sir Edmund Mortimer, an adherent of the Welsh rebel, Owain Glyn Dŵr. It was fortunate for Henry, that the boys were quickly recaptured.  

This raises an obvious question: how did a marriage so apparently pregnant with danger to the house of Lancaster come about?  It is likely that Richard met his future bride in 1404 when he was campaigning against Glyn Dŵr, and she was at the Welsh castle of Powis in the custody of her mother, Eleanor, and stepfather, Edward, Lord Cherleton, one of the leading English commanders in Wales. When they married, they did so secretly, without the papal licence necessary to dispense them from the disability of consanguinity and without the reading of banns. As a result, they were excommunicated, but, on 23 May 1408, they secured papal absolution, and their marriage was confirmed. This secrecy may reflect the couple’s awareness of the political sensitivity of their union, yet, secret or not, the need for a papal licence offered the opportunity for external intervention. If Henry IV had wished to intervene, that was the moment he might have lobbied at the papal curia against the granting of the licence.  

If this lack of apparent intervention suggests that Henry IV did not view the marriage as threatening, his son and successor, had a livelier appreciation of the dangers posed by the Mortimer claim. When Henry V acceded to the throne in 1413, the earl of March, the sole male representative of the main Mortimer line after the death of his younger brother, Roger, remained unmarried. Soon, however, he found himself a bride in Anne Stafford. She had the prospect of a great inheritance, for she was heiress-presumptive to her unmarried brother, Humphrey, later duke of Buckingham. The marriage, like that of Anne Mortimer, thus raised the possibility that two great aristocratic inheritances would be united in the hands of the Mortimer claimant. Henry V reacted with characteristic ruthlessness. On grounds of doubtful legality, he imposed a massive fine of 10,000 marks on the earl. The mystery is why the young earl was free to choose his own bride. He had been in royal wardship since 1398 and over the canonical age of consent since 1405. The Lancastrian regime may have calculated that the longer he remained unmarried, the greater the probability that he would die childless. The great fine may reflect the King’s anger at the frustration of that hope.

In this context, Richard of Conisbrough’s marriage is yet more surprising. If the extinction of the Mortimer line was the calculation, it was folly not to have prevented the marriage of his sister into the ducal house of York. What Henry V feared in the earl of March’s marriage, namely an expanded landed inheritance in the hands of the Mortimer claimant, was already in prospect because of this earlier match. Indeed, it was this marriage that later turned this fear into reality, for the dynastic cards played out horribly unfavourably for the house of Lancaster. The childless deaths of the duke of York at the battle of Agincourt in 1415 and the earl of March in Ireland in 1425 brought about the union of lands and titles in the hands of son of the marriage between York and Mortimer.  From the dynastic viewpoint, another childless death was equally important.  Anne’s sister, Eleanor, had, at about the time of her sister’s marriage, married Sir Edward Courtenay, son and heir-apparent of the blind earl of Devon, but she died childless at some unknown date between 1414 and 1418.  Had she had male issue, that issue would have been coheir to the Mortimer inheritance with her infant nephew, the duke of York. The claim to the Crown would then have become divided and, as long as both these male lines survived, beyond realization. As this did not happen, the marriage of 1408, and the series of childless deaths that followed it, brought the grandson of that marriage, Edward IV, the claim to the throne he vindicated in 1461. 

Further reading

T.B. Pugh, Henry V and the Southampton Plot of 1415 (Southampton Record Series, 1988)

J. Evans, ‘Edmund of Langley and his Tomb’, Archaeologia, xlvi. 297-328. For more information on the tomb of Edmund duke of York and Isabella of Castile.

Peter starts with the received wisdom that, in the late 1450s, Coventry was militantly Lancastrian. Such a view had the endorsement of the greatest authority on the reign of Henry VI, Ralph Griffiths (who, incidentally, supervised Peter’s thesis on the Kentish gentry), who described its citizens as ‘fiercely loyal to the Lancastrians’ (R.A. Griffiths, The Reign of Henry VI, pp. 777-8). This conclusion has a persuasive context, which Peter sets out.  The city had close and historic ties with the Crown. The royal earldom of Chester, part of the endowment of the heir to the throne, was overlord of its southern half; and, when Crown and duchy of Lancaster were united on Henry IV’s accession in 1399, its proximity to the great duchy castle of Kenilworth brought it closer to the centre of the political nation.  In the late 1450s the increasing power of Queen Margaret, who held Kenilworth as part of her dower, brought these connexions into the most intense political focus. The court spent extended periods there, and the notorious Parliament of November 1459, which confiscated the lands of the Yorkist lords, was convened in the city’s Benedictine priory.  

This was the well-established picture Peter set out to re-examine. A small doubt had already been raised by Michael Hicks, who, in 2010, pointed out that the court’s residence in the city in the late 1450s was more intermittent than is generally supposed (M. Hicks, The Wars of the Roses, 126).  Peter took this doubt very much further.  Indeed, he entirely subverted the argument.  In his formulation the court’s periodic sojourns there, even if less prolonged than was once thought, eroded rather than strengthened the city’s ties with the house of Lancaster. He describes the tensions evident from the outset.  On 11 October 1456, during a great council in the city, there was ‘a gret affray’ between the followers of Henry Beaufort, duke of Somerset, and the city’s watchmen in which two or three of the citizens were killed. By 1460 there are clear signs that the court had become an unwelcome visitor. Royal signet letters to the city authorities on 8 February of that year, cited reports that ‘diuers of thinhabitantes of oure Cite of Couentre haue …. vsed and had right vnfittyng langage ayenst oure estate and personne’ and in favour of the recently-attainted Yorkist lords, a curious circumstance in a city of unquestioned loyalty.  

The next evidence Peter cites is yet starker. On 17 February 1461, in signet letters in the name of the young prince of Wales and dated at St. Albans, where the Lancastrians had just defeated the  leading Yorkist lord, Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, the mayor and aldermen were peremptorily ordered to be ‘assystent, helping and faverable’ to three local Lancastrian loyalists, the King’s carver, Sir Edmund Mountfort, Sir Henry Everingham of Withybrook, only a few miles from the city, and William Elton, MP for the city in 1453. This reads, Peter suggests, as a desperate attempt to recall the city to its earlier Lancastrian allegiance. If so, it failed. When it was read before the ‘Comyns’ in St. Mary’s Hall, they were so ‘meved’ against its bearer, a priest in Everingham’s service, that they would, but for the mayor’s intervention, ‘A smytt of the prestes hed’.  Soon after, according to one chronicle, its erstwhile resident, Queen Margaret, singled out the city for punishment.  In this context, it is not surprising that the city authorities soon came to share the Yorkist sympathies of the ‘Comyns’. They provided £100 for soldiers to accompany Edward, earl of March, to London in the wake of Neville’s defeat at St. Albans, and a further £80 for 100 men to go with him to what proved to be the decisive battle of Towton.

To explain this support for the Yorkist cause in a city with long-standing Lancastrian connexions, Peter pointed not only to the tensions inherent in the court’s presence but also to influence of the earl of Warwick, whose castle of Warwick lay only ten miles away. It is instructive here that, in the crisis of 1469-71, the city appears to have sided, albeit rather equivocally, with the earl when he rose against Edward IV. Peter shows that, in the campaign of the spring of 1471 during which the earl met his death at the battle of Barnet, Coventry provided him with at least 40 soldiers and was fined by the restored Edward IV for its temerity in doing so. He might also have cited other evidence for the city’s support for the earl. Two of its leading citizens, Richard Braytoft, a former MP, and Robert Onley, were accused of complicity in the execution at Gosford Green, just outside the city, of the King’s father-in-law Earl Rivers, one of the principal victims of Warwick’s rising against Edward IV (TNA, KB27/836, rot. 61d). The reception accorded to Everingham’s priest may, therefore, have been an expression of the city’s support not for the Yorkist cause in general but for the earl of Warwick in particular. Even so, one thing is clear: Peter has shown that Coventry was not a Lancastrian stronghold, even in the late 1450s when its ties with the Lancastrian ruling house were, at least to outward appearances, at their closest.

S.J.P.

Further reading

P. Fleming, Coventry and the Wars of the Roses (Dugdale Society Occasional Papers, 2011)

and Late-Medieval Bristol: Time, Space and Power (2024).

The Commons,1422-61, ed. L. Clark, iii. 497-9 (for Braytoft), iv. 235-8 (for Elton), 281-3 (for Everingham), v. 547-56 (for Mountfort).

All long-lived institutions have their antecedents, and the antecedents of Parliament (or, perhaps more accurately put, the origins of the House of Lords) are to be found in the Anglo-Saxon witan which brought the leading men of the realm periodically together with the King for ceremonial, legislative and deliberative purposes.  In its earliest history ‘Parliament’, first used as a technical term in 1236, was a gathering of the same type, an assembly of prominent men, summoned at the will of the King once or twice a year, to deal with matters of state and law. It remained largely in that form for much of the thirteenth century. Occasionally, however, these assemblies were afforced by the summons of a wider grouping.  At first these extended assemblies – the first known dates from 1212 – served as a means by which the King could communicate with men who, although below the ranks of his leading tenants, were of standing in their localities and well-informed about local grievances. 

Had the Crown been able to subsist financially upon its landed and feudal revenues alone, these representatives of the localities, the precursors of the Commons, might have remained, from its point of view, no more than conduits of information and recipients of instruction. The decline in the real value of its traditional revenues and the financial demands of war, however, transformed these local representatives from an occasional to a defining component of Parliament.  Above all else, this was because the levy of taxation came to be understood as depending on their consent. The theoretical principle of consent had been stated in Magna Carta, but that consent was conceived, on the feudal principle, as residing exclusively in the King’s leading subjects, his tenants-in-chief.  But as the thirteenth century progressed this principle gave way to another, namely that consent must also be sought from the lesser tenants as the representatives of the localities.  There was both a theoretical and practical reason for this: on the one hand, there was the influence of the Roman law doctrine, ‘what touches all shall be approved  by all’, cited in the writs that summoned the 1295 Parliament; and, on the other, there was the practical consideration that the efficient collection of a levy on moveable property, the form that tax assumed, depended on some mechanism of local consent.  Hence, from the 1260s, no general tax was levied without the consent of the representatives of local communities specifically summoned for the purpose of giving their consent, and only Parliaments in which the Crown sought no grant of taxation met without these representatives.  The Crown’s increasing need for money meant it was a short step to the Commons becoming an indispensable part of Parliament.  After 1325 no Parliament met without their presence.

None the less, although this right of consent gave the Commons their place in Parliament, it did not give them any meaningful part in the formulation of royal policy.  In so far as that policy was determined in Parliament, it was determined between the King and the Lords, who came to Parliament not through local election, as was the case with the Commons, but by personal writ of summons from the monarch.  Further, the Commons’ right of consent was as much an obligation as it was a privilege.  Since subjects had a duty to support the Crown in the defence of the realm, the Commons had few grounds, even had they sought them, on which to deny royal requests for taxation.  What did, however, remain to them was some scope for negotiation.  To make demands on his subjects’ goods, the Crown had to demonstrate an exceptional need, a need generally arising from the costs of war; and, in making a judgment on the level of taxation warranted by this need, the Commons were drawn into a dialogue with the Crown over matters of policy, at least in so far as those matters  concerned expenditure.  Hence the Crown had to measure its demands to avoid exciting criticism of its government.  The consequences of its failure to do so are exemplified most clearly by the ‘Good Parliament’ of 1376, when the Commons, in seeking to legitimate the extreme step of refusing to grant direct taxation, alleged misgovernance, accusing certain courtiers of misappropriating royal revenue.

Aside from the granting of taxation, the other principal function of the medieval Parliament was legislative.  Even before the early Parliaments lawmaking was theoretically established as consensual between King and subjects, yet, in the reign of Edward I, legislation arose solely out of royal initiative and was drafted by royal counsellors and judges.  As the medieval period progressed, however, the assent of Parliament, first of the Lords and then of the Commons, became an indispensable part of the legislative process.  Here, however, the question was not, as in the case of taxation, simply one of parliamentary assent, it was also one of initiative.  New law came to be initiated not only by the Crown but also by the Commons.  In the early fourteenth century, in what was a natural elaboration of Parliament’s role as the forum for the presentation of petitions of individuals and communities, the Commons began to present petitions in their own name, seeking remedies, not to individual wrongs, but to general administrative, economic and legal problems.  The King’s answers to these petitions became the basis of new law. Even so, it should not be concluded from this important procedural change that Crown conceded its legislative freedom.  Not only could it deny the Commons’ petitions, but, by the simple means of introducing its own bills among the common petitions, it could steer its own legislative program through the Commons.  

By the end of the medieval period, Parliament was, in both structure and function, the same assembly that opposed the Stuarts in the seventeenth century. It bargained with the Crown over taxation, formulated local grievances in such a way as to invite legislative remedy, and, on occasion, most notably in 1376, opposed the royal will. Yet this is not to say that Parliament had yet achieved, or even sought, an independent part in the polity.  The power of the Lords resided not in their place in Parliament, but in the landed wealth of the great nobility.  For the Commons, a favourable answer to their petitions remained a matter of royal grace, yet they were under an obligation to grant taxation as necessity demanded (a necessity largely interpreted by the Crown); and their right of assent to new law was a theoretical rather than a practical restraint on the King’s freedom of legislative action.  Indeed, Parliament amplified, rather than curtailed, royal power, at least when that power was exercised competently.  Not only were the Crown’s financial resources expanded by the system of parliamentary taxation, so too was its legislative force and reach extended by the Commons’ endorsement of the initiatives of a strong monarch, a fact strikingly demonstrated by the legislative break with Rome during the Reformation Parliament of 1529-36. 

S.J.P.

This is a revised version of the article ‘Parliament and politics before 1509’ by Dr Simon Payling, originally posted on historyofparliamentonline.org.

It is a familiar theme in medieval chronicles, whether monkish or secular, that extreme weather, natural disaster or even just unusual events were, or, at least, could be interpreted as, manifestations of divine interaction with the temporal world. At the most extreme, they were seen as expressions of God’s displeasure, as punishment for some recent transgression. The chronicle of Henry Knighton (d.c.1396), a monk in Augustinian abbey of St. Mary, Leicester, provides a diverting and unsubtle example. He writes, with strong disapproval, of a recent and remarkable development. In the late 1340s troops of women, sometimes as many as 50, had taken to travelling to tournaments, riding on fine horses and ‘dressed in men’s clothes of striking richness and variety’. These women, disparagingly described as, ‘hardly of the kingdom’s better sort’, ‘wantonly with disgraceful lubricity displayed their bodies’.  From Knighton’s point of view, however, the story had a happy ending: God ‘had a marvellous remedy to dispel their wantonness’, visiting great storms upon them (Knighton’s Chronicle, ed. G.H. Martin, p. 93).  Such specific connexions were, however, rarely drawn. Much more commonly, extreme events were seen as portent rather than punishment, as predictors of some upcoming misfortune in human affairs. Curiously, one of these concerns Parliament. The Monk of Westminster relates that, on 1 February 1388 near Abingdon, the bed of the Thames was empty of water for the length of a bowshot and remained so for an hour, ‘conveying a striking omen of events that were to follow’.  He then, although without making the connexion explicit, describes in detail the violent and disturbing events of the ‘Merciless Parliament’ that began two days later (Westminster Chronicle, ed. L.C. Hector and B.F. Harvey, p.234). 

Such examples could be multiplied, but it is worth asking whether the chroniclers were as credulous and unthinking as they appear to the modern observer.  One may doubt whether the Monk of Westminster really believed that a lack of water in the Thames was a predictor of grave parliamentary events, the juxtaposition looks more like a literary device to relate human to natural events.  He was usually content simply to describe the most extreme natural phenomena free of the overt implication that they were omens. He was not moved to speculate even on the meaning of the ‘amazing marvels’ seen in Cheshire on 1 August 1388 when ‘the heavens were seen to open and angels carrying lights to flit about in the air’. This far-from sinister apparition encapsulates a difficulty chroniclers had in interpreting omens.  Imaginatively, within the thought processes of the time, it was just about coherent to see some grave natural disasters as a harbinger of some more general crisis in human affairs; it was less easy (or at least chroniclers were less ready) to see some positive natural event, like the apparent appearance of angels, as portending some happy one. Thomas Walsingham, the most sophisticated of the monastic chroniclers of the late-medieval period, overcame this difficulty by offering both positive and negative interpretations.  His account of two major political events shows his interpretative ingenuity. He reports that, as Anne of Bohemia arrived at Dover in December 1381 (for her marriage to Richard II), a sudden ‘disturbance of the sea’ caused the ship she had come in to be dashed to pieces, just after its passengers had safely alighted. Not surprisingly, perhaps, some thought this a forecast of future misfortune; others, however, took the view that it ‘showed the favour of God and presaged future happiness for the land’. Walsingham concluded that, ‘Subsequent events will show why it was a dark, perplexing omen of doubtful meaning’ (Chronica Maiora, ed. D. Preest, pp. 170-1). The same duality is apparent in his account of another event.  Although Henry V’s coronation took place in the spring, Walsingham reports that, to everyone’s surprise, there was a great fall of show.  Some feared that this harsh weather presaged an unhappy fate, for the new King ‘would be a man of cold deeds and severe in his management of the kingdom’; but others believed it to be the ‘best of omens’, predicting that the new King ‘would cause to fall upon the land snowstorms which would freeze vice and allow the fair fruits of virtue to spring up’ (p.389).

On this evidence, one must wonder whether these monastic chroniclers believed that portents, as manifestations of divine intervention in the real world, could be meaningfully discerned. Although Knighton seems to have thought that God was ready to punish female jousters by visiting storms upon them, this was an isolated expression of a belief in God’s active intervention.  Like the Monk of Westminster, he was generally content to report extreme natural events, like a fatal heatwave in Calais in August 1347, without seeking to draw any lessons from them. Walsingham, although clearly ready to believe in portents, was so playful in his interpretation of them as to reduce them almost to meaninglessness. Characteristically, he could also employ them as expressions of his own prejudices. He was hostile to the Welsh rebel leader, Owain Glyndwr, and was thus happy to report the ‘dreadful omens’ that were said to have attended his birth, namely that his father’s stables became flooded with blood. Prejudice of a different sort probably informed Knighton’s story of the female jousters.  He did not really believe that they were punished by God; he was rather claiming divine endorsement for the sexual and social prejudices of the cloister.

S.J.P.

The troubled politics of the mid-fifteenth century are illuminated by the histories of leading gentry families just as much as they are by those of Neville, Stafford and other great aristocratic families. In one sense, lesser families offer a more subtle perspective in that, while great families were so central to politics that they could hardly avoid active involvement in the struggle between York and Lancaster, the leading gentry had the third option of neutrality. Those families that did commit themselves thus have a particular interest. Some, like the Yorkist Devereuxs or the Lancastrian Treshams, were consistent in their loyalty.  Others, however, transferred allegiance, whether through perceived self-interest, as a reaction (even a principled one) to political events or as a calculated gamble.  The story of the Blounts, one of a small coterie of gentry families that dominated Derbyshire politics, is particularly revealing in this regard. Their two changes of allegiance – in 1454 and 1484 – were examples of anticipating, rather than swimming with, the political tide. 

They were a family to whom commitment came naturally. In the early fifteenth-century they served the house of Lancaster with great distinction. Sir Walter Blount was killed at the battle of Shrewsbury in 1403 (according to some reports, acting as a decoy Henry IV); his son, Sir John Blount, a soldier notable enough to be promoted to the Order of the Garter, fell at the siege of Rouen in 1418; and Sir John’s brother and successor Sir Thomas, spent his best years in the service of Lancastrian arms in France. Sir Thomas’s eldest son, Walter, looked set to continue this tradition, entering the household of Henry VI in about 1440.

Soon, however, Walter, was to commit himself to the house of York with the same enthusiasm as his predecessors had supported Lancaster. The decisive moment came on 28 May 1454 with the famous sack of his manor of Elvaston.  This was a particularly acute example of the damaging interaction of local rivalries among the leading gentry with the crisis in national affairs. Sir Nicholas Longford of Longford, head of another family long connected with the house of Lancaster, led an armed band of 1,000 men to a raid on Elvaston. There they allegedly quartered tapestries charged with the Blount arms, justifying their action on the grounds that Blount ‘was gone to serve Traytours’.  They clearly believed that Blount had come to identify himself with the duke of York, who, the King mentally incapacitated, had become protector two months earlier.            

Whatever Blount’s prior connexion with the duke, the sack of Elvaston drove him further into the Yorkist camp. In the late 1450s he was serving both York and his ally, Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, who, as captain of Calais, appointed him as his marshal there.  The outbreak of civil war in 1459 thus presented him with opportunities. Just as his grandfather, Sir Walter, had actively supported the Lancastrian usurpation of 1399, he fought for its end. He was in the Yorkist ranks in March 1461 at the decisive battle of Towton, where he was knighted.

Blount’s support for York brought him substantial rewards, not least a great marriage. In the aftermath of the earlier Yorkist victory at Northampton in the previous July, he had tried to win the hand of Elizabeth Butler, widow of one of the Lancastrian victims of that battle, John Talbot, earl of Shrewsbury, but she repudiated him on the incontestable grounds that he ‘unequal and inferior to her in nobility and wealth’.  Fortunately for Blount, a widow of yet greater rank did not share her scruples. He soon married another of those widowed at Northampton, namely the King’s maternal aunt, Anne Neville (who was also Warwick’s aunt), dowager-duchess of Buckingham, the wealthiest widow in England.  It is hard to believe that Blount did not owe the match to royal patronage. With this marriage came a greater status: he served in the great office of treasurer and, in June 1465. was elevated to the peerage as Lord Mountjoy.

In the great crisis of Edward’s reign from 1469 to 1471, provoked by the King’s alienation from the earl of Warwick, Blount, after a brief period of equivocation, firmly committed himself to Edward. He fought for him in the victorious campaign of the spring of 1471, during which his son and heir, William, was killed at the battle of Barnet. In April 1472 he followed his uncle, Sir John, in having the honour of installation to the Order of the Garter.

On Blount’s death in 1474, effective headship on the family devolved on his son, James. Although land and title passed to James’s elder brother, John, it was James who was the most politically active, and it was James who took the lead in the next major event in the family’s history. At the beginning of his rule, Richard III confidently placed his trust in the Blounts, giving them a central role in the defence of Calais (with which the family had long been associated), In James’s case this trust proved spectacularly misplaced, for he soon dealt the new King a major blow. Among the captives at Hammes castle, of which James was lieutenant, was the militant Lancastrian, John de Vere, the attainted earl of Oxford, who had been imprisoned there since 1474. The two men must have known each other well, and, at some date shortly before 28 October 1484, Oxford persuaded James not only to release him but to join him in fleeing to join Henry of Richmond at the French court. The probability is that Blount, alienated by the deposition of Edward V, needed little persuasion to revert to the family’s Lancastrian loyalties. He was now wholly committed to Richmond. He landed with him at Milford Haven on 7 August. 1485 and fought at the battle of Bosworth two weeks later. Unsurprisingly, albeit not as mightily as his father had done after the change of regime in 1461, James prospered in the early years of Henry VII’s rule. Sadly, he died childless in 1492 at the height of his career.

Whether Lord Mountjoy shared James’s dramatic change of allegiance cannot be known.  It may be that James, as a younger brother, took the active role because his forfeiture, should Richmond have failed, would not endanger the family’s future. John may also have been restrained by a natural caution.  The striking and well-known provision of his will is suggestive: he advised his sons (the eldest of whom, William, was only seven) , ‘never to take the state of Baron upon them if they may leye it from them nor to desire to be grete about princes for it is daungeros’.  Given that between 1403 and 1471 three of his family, including his eldest brother, had met violent deaths serving ‘princes’, such caution is understandable. Yet this was to be balanced by the positives: the family had been advanced to the peerage by their service to the Yorkists, and, when he drew up his will, his brother’s support for Henry VII promised further promotion.  In any event, the new Lord Mountjoy disregarded his father’s well-meaning advice.  Most famous as a friend and patron of Erasmus, he made a very successful career at the court of the most dangerous of princes, Henry VIII.

S.J.P.

Further reading

H. Castor, ‘Sack of Elvaston’, Midland History, xix. 21-39.

For biographies of Sir Walter Blount (d.1403), Sir Thomas Blount (d.1456) and Walter Blount, Lord Mountjoy: The Commons, 1386-1421, ii. 258-60, 262-5; 1422-61, iii.  382-91.  A biography of Sir James Blount will appear in The Commons, 1461-1504.

In defeating the rebellion of the Percys at the battle of Shrewsbury, Henry IV overcame an existential threat to the infant Lancastrian regime. It was a threat that came upon him suddenly and undeservedly. The rebellion had but one cause, the overweening ambition of the Percys, and no justification, or at least no meaningful one. The best the Percys could offer was Henry’s alleged duplicity in the deposition of Richard II in 1399: they claimed that they had supported him because he had sworn to claim only his great Lancastrian patrimony and not the Crown.  Given their readiness to accept the rewards the new King bestowed upon them (and their belief that even these were not enough), this justification must have been widely perceived as hollow as it was. 

It was these rewards that made the rising so dangerous to Henry IV. Not only did they give the Percys a virtual monopoly of the local exercise of royal authority in their northern heartland, the east march towards Scotland, but also in north Wales, where the earl of Northumberland’s son, Henry Hotspur, was made justiciar.  Hotspur, a renowned soldier with a military career extending back to the late 1370s, repaid the King’s trust by fighting against Glyn Dŵr in the early stages of the Welsh rebellion, and, much more significantly, by defeating an invading Scottish force at Homildon Hill on 14 September 1402.  This victory, however, was to drive a wedge between the Percys and the King, or, perhaps to put it more accurately, to give the aggressively acquisitive Percys expectations of reward beyond anything a prudent monarch could give. The Scottish commander, Archibald Douglas, earl of Douglas, was among those captured, and the King exercised his legitimate right to deny the Percys permission to ransom a soldier whose reputation was almost as elevated as Hotspur’s.  This rebuff was added to another unjustified grievance over a ransom. At the battle of Pilleth on the previous 22 June Hotspur’s brother-in-law, Sir Edmund Mortimer, had been captured by Glyn Dŵr, and the King refused to assent to his ransom, taking the view, correctly as it transpired, that Mortimer (who subsequently married one of the Welsh rebel’s daughters) was a traitor. 

This was the immediate background of a rising that took the King entirely by surprise.  On 9 July Hotspur raised rebellion in Cheshire, as the King, with a small force, was advancing north from London, ironically with the aim of supporting the Percys against the Scots on the northern border, ‘to the last unaware of the yawning danger that was opening at his very feet’ (as the great Victorian scholar, James Hamilton Wylie, elegantly put it).  He was at Nottingham when, on 12 July, he heard that Hotspur had rebelled. Perhaps acting on the advice of the experienced Scottish soldier, George Dunbar, earl of Dunbar, whose feud with the earl of Douglas had brought him into Henry’s ranks, he determined to risk the hazard of an immediate battle rather than return to London.  Here he had one advantage. The great Lancastrian retinue was particularly strong in the Midlands, and many of its leading gentry rallied to his cause, as they had done in 1399.

The King was also aided by what appears to have been a miscalculation of the rebel side.  No one could dispute Hotspur’s choice of Cheshire as the locus of rebellion, for not only had it been a Ricardian stronghold but its geographical position offered the prospect of joining the Welsh rising with his own.  If, however, the location of the rising was logical, its timing was not.  Hotspur’s plan appears to have been to seize Shrewsbury, the headquarters of the heir to the throne, Henry, prince of Wales, who, despite his youth, had been appointed royal lieutenant in Wales in the previous March, and there to await reinforcements from his father in the north and from the Welsh rebel leader.  This plan, however, was thwarted by the King’s swift and decisive action.  Had Hotspur delayed making plain his intentions until the King had reached the north, he would have had time to seize Shrewsbury and the prince. The King would then have been faced a long march back to intercept Hotspur, who would probably have made for London. The timing of the rebellion was also unfortunate in another sense, although one that was not apparent at its beginning. On 12 July Glyn Dŵr was defeated near Carmarthen by the Pembrokeshire levies, headed by Sir Thomas Carew, constable of Narberth, so diminishing any aid he might have been able to offer Hotspur in a future campaign. Carew, something of an unsung hero of the campaign, was later fittingly rewarded by a grant of Sir Edmund Mortimer’s forfeited estates.

These considerations aside, the rapid approach of the royal army forced Hotspur to abandon his plan of taking Shrewsbury, and draw up in battle array on its outskirts.  None the less, although much had run in the King’s favour in the lead up to the battle, when that battle was joined, it was still a close-run thing.  Although it appears to have lasted no more than two hours, it was, in the words of the later Gregory’s Chronicle, ‘one of the wyrste bataylys that ever came to Inglonde,, and unkyndyst’.  The casualty rate was very high, a product of the intense exchange of longbow fire with which it began, with, according to the St. Albans chronicler, Thomas Walsingham, men falling ‘as fast as leaves … in autumn’.  These casualties were heaviest on the royalist side, certainly in respect of the leading men (the most notable casualty on his side was the young Edmund, earl of Stafford), and it is probably fair to say that, if Hotspur had not fallen on the field, the result of the battle, if not that of the rebellion, might have been different. Indeed, if the accidents of battle had brought death to the King rather than to Hotspur, the civil war, the ‘Lancastrian’ title against the ‘Yorkist’, (represented in 1403 by the young Edmund Mortimer, earl of March, nephew of Hotspur’s wife) would have begun in 1403 rather than 1459.

SJP

Further reading

J.M.W. Bean, ‘Henry IV and the Percies’, History xliv (1959), pp. 212-27.

P. McNiven, ‘The Scottish Policy of the Percies and the Strategy of the Rebellion of 1403’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library lxii (1979-80), pp. 498-530.  

For biographies of some of the casualties on the royalist side: The Commons, 1386-1421, ed. Clark, Rawcliffe and Roskell, ii. 262-5 (Sir Walter Blount of Barton Blount, Derbyshire), 467-9 (Sir John Calverley of Stapleford, Leicestershire), 593-4 (Sir John Clifton of Clifton, Nottinghamshire); iv. 364-6  (Sir Hugh Shirley of Shirley, Derbyshire), 607-9 (Sir Thomas Wensley of Wensley, Derbyshire). For a probable casualty on the rebel side see ii. 384-6 (Sir Hugh Browe).

For leading landowning families ready to commit themselves to one side or the other, the Wars of the Roses offered both hazard and opportunity. In terms of the latter, that commitment needed to be whole-hearted, but not necessarily consistent. So frequent were the turns of the political tide, consistency was hard to reconcile with self-interest. Family connexions across the divides of national political division facilitated changes of allegiance, as did the readiness of the ascendant party to reconcile with all but the intractable. At certain moments there were significant shifts, notably in the wake of the attainder of the Yorkist lords in 1459 and the usurpation of Richard III in 1483. Some families, however, were consistent in their loyalty. One such was the Devereuxs of Weobley, who energetically supported the house of York from the 1430s until the death of Richard III at Bosworth.

Their service to York began well before the outbreak of civil war when one young man entered the service of another. In 1435 Richard, duke of York, recently come of age, appointed Walter Devereux as steward of his Welsh estates, perhaps on the recommendation of Walter’s father-in-law, the influential John Merbury, formerly justiciar of South Wales. Walter quickly became one of the duke’s most trusted servants, serving under him in France in the early 1440s, and he took plentiful advantage of the enhanced status that came with so close a connexion to so great man. He contracted two important marriages for his young children. Materially, the most important of these was that of his son and heir, another Walter, to Anne, the young daughter of Sir William Ferrers of Chartley in Staffordshire, in 1446. When Ferrers died in 1450, Anne was left sole heiress to an estate worth some £500 p.a., enough (at least when it fell into their hands in its entirety on the death of her mother in 1471) to raise the family to the ranks of the greatest gentry. Politically more important, however, was the marriage, in 1449, of his own daughter within the ducal network, to a Welsh esquire, William Herbert of Raglan, then at the beginning of a career that culminated in his elevation to the earldom of Pembroke.

In the 1450s Devereux and Herbert were the duke’s principal lieutenants in the marches as he moved into active opposition to the Crown.  Devereux led the Herefordshire part of York’s failed rising in 1452 and was accordingly indicted for treason. He was pardoned on personal supplication to the King, but four years later his Yorkist allegiance led him into greater difficulties. After a resurgent court party had once more driven York into the political wilderness, Devereux joined Herbert in an orgy of violence in the marches. Most seriously, on 10 August 1456, some 2,000 men, with Devereux and Herbert at their head, took Carmarthen castle, imprisoning its keeper, the King’s half-brother, Edmund Tudor, earl of Richmond. Devereux was imprisoned for seven months but eventually, in February 1458, he was acquitted of treason. 

Sir Walter’s death in the spring of 1459, when in his early fifties, spared him further trouble.  That lot fell to his son.  He was in the duke’s ranks at the rout at Ludford Bridge in the following October, and, although he escaped attainder, he was fined 500 marks and was among those Yorkist partisans forced to abase themselves, in ‘schyrtys and halters’, before the King. Not surprisingly, he rallied to York when the duke returned from exile early in September 1460. On 4 October he and Herbert were elected to Parliament in which the duke dramatically claimed the throne, and he went on to fight at the battles of Mortimer’s Cross and Towton, where he was knighted.  With York’s son, Edward IV, now King, this loyalty brought him substantial rewards.  On 26 July 1461 he and Herbert were among the five new peers created in the interests of the new regime, and, to support his new rank, Devereux was granted forfeited Lancastrian estates worth over £250 p.a.

In the great crisis of the reign, although he appears not to have gone into exile with Edward IV, Devereux fought for him at the battles of Barnet and Tewkesbury in the spring of 1471. His military value was recognised a year later when he was accorded the singular honour of admission to the Order of the Garter. Fittingly, he fought on the French campaign of 1475 and then played a prominent role in the elaborate chivalric ritual that attended the reburial of the duke of York in the collegiate church at Fotheringhay in July 1476.  

This simple pattern of loyal service to the ruling house was to be complicated by events following Edward IV’s death in April 1483. However much Devereux may have disapproved of the deposition of the prince of Wales, upon whose council of the marches he had served, his gains from royal patronage depended on the continuation of Yorkist rule. Yet, on the other hand, he had, by a fortuitous route, personal connexions with Richard’s would-be supplanter, Henry Tudor.  In the wake of the battle of Edgecote in July 1469, the young Tudor, who had come to the field in the company of his guardian, the Herbert earl of Pembroke, was brought safely away by Devereux’s own former ward, Richard Corbet, who took the boy to Weobley and the custody of Devereux’s sister, the newly-widowed countess of Pembroke. Henry remained there until the Readeption.  Perhaps it was knowledge of this personal connexion that led Henry Stafford, duke of Buckingham, ready to rebel in Tudor’s favour in October 1483, to come to Devereux’s house at Weobley to rally aid.

If, however, Devereux was wavering in his support for Richard III, the duke’s endeavour was too desperate to attract his support, and soon afterwards he was given a new reason to support Richard.  Early in 1484 his nephew, the Herbert earl of Huntingdon, married the King’s bastard daughter, Katherine. This family connexion, combined with his family’s long-standing loyalty to the house of York, led him to fight for it one last time. While Corbet, now his son-in-law, was one of the first to join Tudor on his landing in early August 1485, Sir Walter was among those killed on the Ricardian side at Bosworth. Instructively, however, although he was duly attainted in the first Parliament of the new reign, the new King, perhaps because of his youthful experience at Weobley, allowed the family speedy rehabilitation. After Devereux’s son and heir, John, had proved his loyalty by fighting for him at the battle of Stoke in June 1487, the attainder was reversed.  The family won further promotion in Tudor England.  John’s great-grandson, another Walter, was made earl of Essex in 1572 and was the father of Elizabeth I’s ill-fated favourite, Robert. 

SJP

Further reading

For detailed discussions of the careers of the two Sir Walters, see: The Commons, 1422-61, iv. 121-39.  For those of Sir Walter (d.1402) and John Merbury (d.1438), see: The Commons, 1386-1421,  ii. 783-4; iii. 716-20; 1422-61, v. 448-50.

The tomb was probably commissioned by her husband, Sir William Lichfield, a veteran of Agincourt, whose friendship with her father had enabled him to marry above his birth rank. Although, however, one of the couple’s children died with her, Elizabeth, aged in her early thirties on her death in about 1422, left two young daughters as her coheiresses. Her inheritance was thus destined to pass through the female line for a second successive generation.

That descent, however, for reasons that are unclear, did not follow predictable lines.  One of her daughters survived to have a daughter of her own, and the Cornwall inheritance should eventually have passed to this daughter, Margaret, the wife of Humphrey Stafford of Halmond’s Frome (Herefordshire), but it did not. Instead, it came to Humphrey Blount, to whose memory, and that of his wife, Elizabeth Winnington, the second tomb was erected. He was a descendant of the Cornwalls in the female line, the great-nephew of Sir John, and was quickly and unexpectedly able to establish title after the death, in 1446, of Lichfield, who had lived at Kinlet, as tenant by the courtesy (a husband’s life interest in the lands of his deceased wife), since Elizabeth’s death. Blount, from the least wealthy of the two surviving branches of an ancient family, now found himself a man of account. He moved to Kinlet from his ancestral manor of Balterley in Staffordshire, and with this move came, both geographically and tenurially, significant new connexions. Kinlet was held of Richard, duke of York’s lordship of Cleobury Mortimer, and, in the civil war of 1459-61, Humphrey put his new gains at hazard by committing himself to the duke’s cause. He was in his ranks at the rout at Ludford Bridge, and his Yorkist credentials were further confirmed in the following autumn, when he was named as sheriff of Shropshire after Yorkist victory at the battle of Northampton. This support explains his election for the Shropshire borough of Bridgnorth, about nine miles north of his home at Kinlet, to the first Parliament of the new reign. He no doubt sought the seat because he was excluded as sheriff from representing the county.

Blount’s active loyalty to the house of York was to be made further manifest in the crisis of 1470-1.  He fought for Edward IV at the battles of Barnet and Tewkesbury, where he was knighted.  This, however marked the highpoint of his career.  At his death a few years later, he was only in his mid-fifties. By 6 September 1477, when he made his will, he had moved, perhaps due to ill-health, from Kinlet to Worcester. It was, however, at Kinlet that he was interred, and he bequeathed to the church there a velvet gown for the making of a cope and a gold chain to be sold for the support of a chaplain. 

Blount was survived by his wife, Elizabeth Winnington.  She had played an important part in his elevation, and her career is as interesting as his own. Her early marital life had been troubled.  In 1426, at the age of only four, she had been contracted in marriage to Richard, the ten-year-old son and heir-apparent of Sir John Delves, a match that represented an alliance between two leading Cheshire families. Sir John, however, died in 1429, and his friend, Ralph Egerton, saw this as a means of advancing one of his own daughters at the expense of the young Elizabeth.  He persuaded Richard to disavow his intended bride. Years of uncertainty followed before, in July 1439, William Heyworth, bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, confirmed the validity of Richard’s marriage to Elizabeth.  The match, however, proved childless, with Richard dying in 1446. Lichfield died in the same month, enhancing Blount’s prospects and hence his qualifications as her suitor. For her part, Elizabeth had, as a result of her troubled marriage, a life interest in the caput honoris of the Delves family, the manor of Doddington. Her marriage to Blount, contracted soon afterwards, had obvious advantages for both bride and groom. 

Elizabeth was probably responsible for commissioning their fine tomb, for she survived her husband by some 25 years.  It is a commemoration not only of herself and her late husband, but also of their many children. The long side of the tomb appears to commemorate the three sons of the marriage, all of whom are mentioned in Sir Humphrey’s will, and the short side, at the effigies’ feet, their three daughters (the other two sides are blank).  This was a fitting to memorial to one who had elevated his family into the front rank of the Shropshire gentry, acquiring, seemingly against the odds, an inheritance to which his claim was far from unchallenged; and, early in the civil war of 1459-61, committing himself to what proved the winning side. He was unfortunate not to receive greater recognition from Edward IV.  He established a dynasty that survived at Kinlet in the male line until the death of a prominent parliamentarian, his great-grandson, Sir George, in 1581.  The most notable of the family, however, was George’s sister, Elizabeth, mistress of Henry VIII and mother of Henry Fitzroy, duke of Richmond.

Further reading

E. Norton, ‘The Depiction of Children on the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Century Tombs in Kinlet Church’, Transactions of the Shropshire Archaeological and Historical Society 87 (2012), 35-46.

A biography of Sir Humphrey Blount will appear in The Commons, 1461-1504 and those of Sir John Cornwall, Sir William Lichfield and Sir George Blount are in The Commons, 1386-1421, ii. 661-3; 1422-61, v. 275-8 and 1509-58, i. 445-7 respectively.

Political geography ensured that the town of Ludlow would, for good or ill, play some part in the great civil conflict that began when its lord, Richard, duke of York, moved into active opposition to the government of his cousin, Henry VI. The town was part of the great inheritance that came to the duke on the death of the last Mortimer earl of March in 1425, and, throughout his career, its castle was a favoured residence and a place of refuge in troubled times.  But his interest extended beyond the castle, for he showed a benevolent concern for the town beyond its walls. In the late 1430s he and his wife, Cecily Neville, were admitted to the Palmers’ guild, by far the largest and most prestigious of the town’s fraternities, and the period of his lordship coincided with the major rebuilding, begun in the early 1430s (although not completed until the early 1470s), of the town’s church, of St. Lawrence.  More significantly, in terms of the town’s institutional development, he acknowledged the right of the townsmen to a certain amount of administrative freedom.  In 1449 he allowed that the town councils of 12 and 25 had the right to govern the town in all matters, save those that belonged to his steward ‘in the holding of our courts’.

The escalating political tensions of the following decade, however, revealed a less welcome side to the town’s position as a centre of benevolent lordship. In early 1452, as the duke launched a campaign (the so-called ‘Dartford rising’) to remove the King’s chief minister, Edmund Beaufort, duke of Somerset, he rallied forces at Ludlow before marching to London, only to submit tamely in face of the King’s superior forces. This humiliation was followed by another in the summer when royal commissioners toured the duke’s estates to investigate the local disturbances that had attended the rising.  Coming to Ludlow in August, they took an indictment that implies that some radical and dangerous political ideas were circulating in the town. Two of its tradesmen were among those indicted for claiming that Henry VI had neither the ability nor the right to rule (‘non est habilis nec de potestate gubernare regnum .. nec illud regnum de recto regere debuisset’), and that he could be deposed by ‘a Parliament of the whole community of the realm (‘parliamenti tocius communitatis regni’) and another elected in his place (TNA, KB9/103/1, m. 15).  The rebels then gave active expression to their treasonable designs by participating in the murder of a yeoman of the Crown who had come to the town with a message for the duke.  There is no reason to suppose that the duke himself approved this conspiracy nor that it had the support of any of the leading townsmen, but it provides an indication of the strength of Yorkist feeling there.

The strength of that feeling was to be tested seven years later when the duke and his Nevilles allies, feeling themselves endangered by the militant regime of Henry VI’s queen, Margaret of Anjou, brought national conflict to its very gates.  On 12 October 1459 the Lancastrian army, nominally led by the King, confronted an inferior Yorkist force at the bridge over the River Teme on its southern edge. To avoid defeat, the Yorkist lords fled into exile under cover of darkness, the duke leaving his town to face the unhappy consequences. ‘Gregory’s Chronicle’, in its typically vivid style, describes them: ‘The mysrewle of the kyngys galentys at Ludlowe, whenn they hadde drokyn i-nowe of wyne that was in tavernys … robbyd the towne, and bare a-waye beddynge, clothe, and othyr stuffe, and defoulyd many wymmen’.

 These sufferings did not deflect the town from support for the house of York. According to the Burgundian chronicler, Jean de Wavrin, when the duke came there on his return from exile in September 1460, the townsmen were among the Shropshire men who went further than the duke himself had yet publicly gone by acclaiming him King. This loyalty was to bring the town considerable rewards when York’s son, Edward, took the Crown in the following March.  Its castle had been his childhood home, and he spent a week there in the autumn after his accession. The burgesses took the opportunity to lobby for the grant of a comprehensive new charter. That charter was granted on the following 7 December (while Parliament was in session), and the townsmen were given extensive powers of self-government under two bailiffs elected annually from among their ranks. With administrative privileges went financial ones. The townsmen were to hold at a favourable annual farm of 37 marks all the royal property in the town, save for the castle; to regulate the town’s trade through a guild merchant; and to levy a sales tax to maintain its bridges, gates and walls. Most important of all, however, at least from the aspect of parliamentary history, was the grant of representation: the burgesses were given the right to elect two MPs ‘of themselves or others’. This enfranchisement was an important mark of the town’s enhanced status.

The town’s importance was further enhanced in the second half of Edward’s reign.

In July 1471, to improve peace-keeping in the Welsh marches, the newly-restored King established a council there for his infant son, Edward, not yet a year old. Some 18 months later, in February 1473, this council was formalised and enlarged, and soon after the infant prince took up residence in the town, which remained his principal home for the rest of his father’s reign. The council came to exercise wide-ranging functions, supervising the administration of the principality of Wales and the marches. The town later became home to Henry VII’s eldest son, Arthur, who lived there from the spring of 1493 until his death in April 1502. This, in the words of Ralph Griffiths, gave the town a ‘unique profile among England’s provincial centres’, and an importance far beyond its population of about 2,000.

S.J.P.

Further reading

R.A. Griffiths, ‘Ludlow During the Wars of the Roses’, in Ron Shoesmith and Andy Johnson (eds.), Ludlow Castle: Its History and Buildings (Hereford: Longstone Press, 2000), 57-68.

Simon Payling, ‘Making the most of a parhelion: the earl of March and the battle of Mortimer’s Cross’, History of Parliament, 3 February 2020.

Simon Payling, ‘The battle of Ludford Bridge’, History of Parliament, 10 October 2019.