At the end of 1425, just three years into the reign of the infant Henry VI, the English polity, such as it was, was in turmoil. Although arrangements for the conduct of government during the King’s minority had been agreed shortly after Henry V’s death in 1422, these were now called into question by an acrimonious quarrel between the protector of England, the boy-king’s uncle, Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, and the chancellor of England, Henry Beaufort, bishop of Winchester.

Each man had his own ideas of how the king’s affairs should be managed in his name, although, it is fair to say with the benefit of hindsight, Duke Humphrey perhaps emerges from the affair with less credit. The decision of assembling Parliament at Leicester (very much in the heartland of Lancastrian power in England) was taken in view of the armed might that the two squabbling magnates brought to bear: Bishop Beaufort in his manor at Southwark, and Humphrey in the streets of London itself. In the autumn of 1425, their enmity had found an outlet in an actual armed fight on London bridge, and it was thus deemed necessary for Humphrey’s elder brother, John, duke of Bedford, to return from France, where he otherwise served as regent, and to preside over Parliament.

The Parliament was convened in something of a hurry: just 42 days were to elapse between its summons and assembly (the fourteenth-century tract, the Modus Tenendi Parliamentum stipulated a minimum of 40 days to allow the northern counties whose shire courts met in six-week intervals to conduct their elections). Conversely, the Commons rather dragged their feet in choosing their Speaker, at nine days taking rather longer than the two days this process normally demanded.

But what (according to a chronicler) gave the Parliament its name, were the armed retinues that the various lords brought to the assembly. The administration thus harked back to the fourteenth century, when it had been common practice for a proclamation to be made in Westminster Hall at the beginning of each Parliament, prohibiting the wearing of swords and other weapons. Also prohibited was the playing of silly games, as it had apparently become common practice to pull men’s hoods off their shoulders. Now, in 1426, the prohibition of bearing arms was reiterated. According to a London chronicler, ‘every man was warned and it was cried throughout the town that they should leave their weapons in their inns, that is to say their swords and shields, bows and arrows’.

Yet, the lords’ men were not cowed: ‘And then the people took great bats on their shoulders, and so they went. And the next day they were charged that they should leave their bats at their inns, and then they took great stones in their bosoms and their sleeves, and so went to the parliament with their lords.’ And so, the chronicler concluded, ‘some men called this Parliament the “Parliament of bats”.

In the event, it seems, it proved possible to get the session under way, and for Humphrey and Beaufort to plead their respective cases. The pleadings have come down to us in the form in which the clerk of the Parliament recorded them. There has to be some suspicion that he was a partisan of Beaufort’s, for much of what Duke Humphrey put forward sounds little short of petty to the modern observer. Among the stories he dredged up was one dating back to Henry V’s lifetime, when he had been accommodated in the palace of Westminster’s Green Chamber, and by virtue of the barking of a spaniel a man had been discovered hiding behind a wall hanging. This man had allegedly been induced by Bishop Beaufort to murder him, and for his pains was drowned in the Thames.

Beaufort for his part kept his statements dignified, and above all pointed to his ecclesiastical dignity in his defence. In the event, Bishop Beaufort was dismissed as chancellor, but at long last granted permission to accept the papal offer of a cardinal’s hat. He and duke Humphrey were made to seal their reconciliation with a formal handshake.

With that, the first session of a parliament was drawn to a close and the Lords and Commons were dispatched to their homes for Easter. The bulk of the assembly’s business was probably transacted in the month that followed their return on 29 April, a period during which the young king (still only four years old) was knighted by his uncle, the duke of Bedford.  

H.W.K.  

Further Reading:

R.A. Griffiths, The Reign of King Henry VI (London: Benn, 1981), 73-81

The Parliament Rolls of Medieval England (16 Vols., Woodbridge: Boydell, 2010), x. 276-317

The long reign of Henry VI was not short of high political drama, and so it is perhaps not surprising that is has also given us two of the most dramatically named Parliaments of the middle ages, the Parliament of Bats of 1426 and the Parliament of Devils of 1459. By their names, the two assemblies would seem an apt subject for a blog in the Halloween season, yet, in the first instance at least, the nomenclature is not everything it seems.

The Parliament of Bats assembled at Leicester on 18 February 1426, and continued to sit there over two sessions from 18 February to 20 March, and 29 April to 1 June of that year. The political atmosphere in the country was highly charged, owing above all to an acrimonious quarrel between two of the young King’s closest relatives and counsellors, Henry Beaufort, bishop of Winchester, and Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, in which other lords took sides. It was this dispute which, above all, accounted for the unusual choice of venue: while the Bishop of Winchester could rally armed support in Southwark, where he controlled a sizeable liberty, the ever unruly London mob could be expected to back the duke of Gloucester, and the council was thus justified in fearing that a Parliament at Westminster might lead to open violence between the two sides.

Even in Leicester, a stronghold of the ruling house of Lancaster, there were concerns about outbreaks of violence among the retainers of the various lords. Therefore, as a London chronicler recorded, ‘every man was warned and it was cried throughout the town that they should leave their weapons in their inns, that is to say their swords and shields, bows and arrows’. This, however, did not deter those intent on a fight: ‘And then the people took great bats on their shoulders, and so they went. And the next day they were charged that they should leave their bats at their inns, and then they took great stones in their bosoms and their sleeves, and so went to the parliament with their lords.’ And so, the chronicler concluded, ‘some men called this Parliament the “Parliament of bats”.

Some 23 years after the events at Leicester, Parliament again met in the midlands. For much of the late summer and early autumn of 1459, Henry VI’s close relative Richard, duke of York, and the Neville earls of Salisbury and Warwick, who were implacably opposed to the court party surrounding Henry VI and his formidable French queen, Margaret of Anjou, had been preparing themselves for an armed confrontation with the court’s forces. Matters came to a head in late September and early October, and following the desertion of part of their army from an encampment at Ludford bridge, York and the Nevilles had fled into exile. Already, a Parliament had been summoned to meet at Coventry, where the King and his court had based themselves, and in the Yorkist lords’ absence this now turned into an outright reckoning with the ruling party’s opponents, who were attainted and stripped of their property.

The measures of the Coventry Parliament were promptly overturned a year later, when the Yorkists had returned from exile to overcome their opponents. Much opprobrium was heaped by contemporaries on the Coventry assembly and those who had dominated its business, but it was left to later historians to coin the now well-established usage. It may have drawn upon the existence of a mystery play of the ‘Parliament of Devils’ in the play cycle performed at Coventry, but seems to have become associated with the Parliament of 1459 only in modern historiography.

H.W.K.

Further reading:

Andrew Broertjes, ‘The Lancastrian Retreat from Populist Discourse? Propaganda Conflicts in the Wars of the Roses’, Limina, 20:3 (2015), 1-21