FIVE
HALIDON HILL ANSWERED the two most important questions in Edward’s mind in 1333. He had proved he could lead his men into battle – a test of his confidence in himself as much as theirs in him – and success had shown that God favoured him. In England there was general delight at ‘this gracious victory’, as one chronicler described it.1 After the battle, the Scots surrendered Berwick, and Edward returned to England ‘with much joy and worship’. In London, the citizens followed their clergy in procession from St Pauls to Trinity Church, solemnly singing thanks to God. The English poet Laurence Minot was moved to write his first extant poem, and exemplified the shifting of opinion, from his initial fears – ‘of England had my heart great care / when Edward first went to war’ – to his pride in England’s victory, which he specifically associated with the king: ‘the Lord of Heaven might Edward lead / and maintain him as he well may’.2 All the ‘great care’ and caution of parliament in January 1333 was forgotten.
Thanks were due to God as well as to his fellow fighters. Three days after the battle Edward sent letters to all the archbishops and bishops in England, Wales and Gascony requesting that they give thanks for his victory. A week later he set out south, first making for Bamburgh Castle, where Queen Philippa was waiting for him.3 He stopped at most of the shrines on the way south and gave alms at each of them.4 He returned to Durham, and gave thanks at the tomb of Saint Cuthbert, beneath whose banner he had fought. As he approached East Anglia he made a brief visit to the great shrine at Walsingham. Some chroniclers described this victorious journey southwards as a pilgrimage.5 He gave alms to those who had been injured in the battle, and paid a hermit who lived near Norham to assist in the burial of the dead.6 In order to commemorate his victory he ordered a nunnery in the locality to be repaired at his cost. It was a symbol of victory in more ways than one. The money was to be paid by the people of the wrecked town of Berwick.
Edward clearly wanted to project a religious dimension to his victory, to emphasise that he – and thus the English – had been favoured by God. But how religious was he? Edward’s reputation as a paragon of religious kingship was firmly established by the end of the 1340s, and that reputation never diminished in his lifetime. But was it real or just another part of his chivalric propaganda programme?
In considering this we need to be aware of a whole string of problems affecting past judgements on his religious life. First it has to be said that most nineteenth- and early twentieth-century historians labelled Edward unreligious because they wished to castigate him as a warmonger. Since their own interpretation of Christian doctrine excluded the promotion of war, they decided Edward could not possibly have been a religious man, thereby completely disregarding the differences between their own steady, supposedly enlightened age and the fourteenth century. In Edward’s day, war could be seen as an instrument by which leaders carried out God’s will. We also need to remember that even though Edward consciously used religion to bolster his reputation, it does not necessarily follow that he did it cynically, or only for this reason.7 His coronation had been laden with religious symbolism, and was basically a ritual designed to establish the changed earthly and spiritual status of the king; but there is no reason to believe such a demonstration did not have as profound an effect on the king as on his subjects. It is the same with his other religious demonstrations, including those during and after a battle. They had a political purpose, but that does not mean that Edward did not believe in them.
Edward was still not yet twenty-one, and this alerts us to another misjudgement frequently made in historical assessments of medieval spirituality. We cannot presume that a man’s faith remained consistent throughout his life, and that his spiritual outlook was the same at twenty as it was at fifty. This is not to say that Edward experienced a ‘road to Damascus’ conversion at any point in his life, but it does mean we should be cautious about reaching for evidence from his fifties or sixties (when the reformer John Wycliffe was influential at court) to explain his religious outlook at the age of twenty. Indeed, in 1333 the great religious debates of the fourteenth century were still in their infancy, and William Ockham (who was in the vanguard of the reformers) was a refugee from papal censure, in exile, having been imprisoned by Pope John XXII for heresy. It is not surprising therefore that Edward’s life was largely unaffected by popular religious dissent.8
Edward himself was a religious man. He was chosen by God to be king, that was a fundamental and widespread understanding. As an anointed king, he was the instrument through which God might cure men and women of certain diseases, notably the King’s Evil (scrofula) and epilepsy. Edward undertook ‘touching’ for the King’s Evil in thousands of cases in the 1330s and 1340s.9 When processing into a city, he often distributed alms to all the main orders of friars, not just the Dominicans (his father’s choice) or the Franciscans (his mother’s) but Carmelites and Austins as well.10 But if we try to differentiate between his religious acts and his actual faith, we may observe that many of his religious acts were routine. Religion formed his outlook on a world which was largely Christian or Moslem, as far as he knew. Every feast day and every Sunday he would hear a mass. Family events required religious observance, such as the birth of a child or the mother’s churching a few weeks later. Visits of certain dignitaries – especially emissaries from the pope – required ecclesiastical audience. Religion was thus a function of his everyday life, and a part of his royal status. Piety and power went hand-in-hand, and it would have been difficult for him to further his political and diplomatic ambitions without seeming a perfectly religious king. Edward needed religion to reassure his people (bishops and archbishops included), so they would have faith in him as worthy of God’s favour and their respect.
In keeping with his royal status, Edward possessed many religious objects. The keeper of his wardrobe in late 1332 reported that he had a gilded silver crystal reliquary vase bearing divers precious stones topped by an engraved silver image of the Crucifixion.11The same source mentions two gilded silver basins engraved with images of Christ, and numerous ecclesiastical bowls, chalices, vestments and candelabra. There were also many religious books – chorals, missals, graduals, antiphons, martyrologies and gospels – including a text of the gospels illustrated throughout with silver and gilded images. Interestingly, one of the ceremonial copes worn by Edward’s priests included images of the martyrs and their sufferings – Saints Thomas, Laurence, Denis, Blasius, Edmund and Stephen, and the beheading of Saint John the Baptist – all ornamented with gold and silver. Physical suffering as worship, and ultimately a means of obtaining redemption – the cult of the crusader – was here apparent for him to dwell on, if he felt so inclined.
And then there was the relic collection. Both of Edward’s parents had gathered relics with a pious fascination, and Edward had inherited his father’s collection, and probably his fascination too. In 1332 he had ‘eight silver gilded images of saints, each standing and carrying their own relics’, the saints being St George, St Leonard, St John the Baptist, St James the Less, St Agnes, St Margaret, St Mary Magdalene, and St Agatha. He also possessed relics of the saint-king Edward the Confessor, St Stephen, St Adrian and St Jerome. And most important of all he possessed a thorn from the Crown of Thorns and the Neith Cross, a fragment of the True Cross, which he kept safely with his other relics at the Tower of London.
To go beyond the religious routine of royalty, and to investigate Edward’s actual faith, is much more difficult. The problem lies in that virtually all the evidence relates to his showing his religion, and thus potentially relates to a religious or a political statement rather than his spirituality. The temptation therefore is to do the opposite, and to look for signs of his apparent lack of spirituality, such as his merciless hanging of Thomas Seton at Berwick, his massacre of one hundred after the battle of Halidon Hill, and his order to execute those who had imperilled his queen’s life at Cheapside. But it would be rash to presume that what we assume to be ‘mercilessness’ automatically implies a lack of faith. If the punishments were ruthless rather than merciless, it would be possible to see how they could have been compatible with spiritual conviction. No one would doubt that Edward II was deeply spiritual and yet he too was capable of atrocious acts of barbarity, such as the massacre following Boroughbridge. We must remember that Edward was able to forgive men, and to a far greater extent than his father. He forgave Mortimer’s supporters, and he forgave the Cheapside workmen after Philippa pleaded for their lives. Also, to kill men in or after a battle was not an ungodly thing to do. Subjects who took up arms against the king were flouting God’s law, and, if exacting retribution in the name of the saints, to punish them with death was not necessarily an irreligious act.
There are some signs that, even at the age of twenty, Edward had strong spiritual beliefs and was convinced – if not fervent – in his faith. Three points particularly stand out in relation to this early stage of his life. The first is that he often gave away his possessions – even presents which had been made specially for him – but he did not give away relics. The lavishly illustrated books which Philippa gave him at their wedding were broken up and given away, as was the wonderful basin decorated with Caesar, Judas Maccabeus, Arthur and other figures which she gave him in 1333.12 Religious artefacts were treated more carefully, suggesting either genuine religious passion or a streak of superstition, or both. Next we may note that some of Edward’s religious choices were passionate and lifelong. For instance, there is a marked contrast between his patronage of the local, Northern English saints in the 1330s (when fighting in Scotland with armies of Northern Englishmen) and his lifelong adoptions of St George, St Thomas the Martyr and the Virgin. He made almost yearly pilgrimages to the shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury, the saint who best represented the guilt of English kings. He paid even more attention to the cult of the Virgin. Most chroniclers record him swearing an oath in her name. From the 1330s to the 1350s he made special efforts to visit her statues. In 1338, when making an exceptionally rapid journey north, he took the time to stop at the image of the Virgin Mary in Darlington and donated two cloths of gold to the church there.13 As this was a ‘secret’ journey, one could well have forgiven him for not making such a detour, or such a gift, and thus it points to a real engagement with the cult.14 Likewise he went miles out of his way secretly to visit a statue of the Virgin in Herefordshire in the 1350s. In later years he even included her image on his seal. Such sustained support went beyond religion as a matter of routine, and beyond a mere propaganda statement. We have to consider it as an indicator of genuine, lifelong devotion.
The third sign of his youthful spirituality is his combination of war and spirituality. The crusade, promoted by his rival Philip, remained on the agenda even while relations with France were deteriorating. It was still being discussed in July 1334, and even in September of that year Edward sent negotiators to set up a meeting between himself and Philip so they could discuss it.15 This should not be taken too seriously as an indicator of faith, for there were political overtones to the crusade of the 1330s. Nevertheless there is no doubt that, beyond crusading, war and spirituality were interwoven in his imagination. Edward’s personal appropriation of St George as his personal saint as well as the national one is particularly revealing. Although his choice of saint was military, and thus perhaps political, he was under no obligation to justify his militarism with religious patronage, it was a matter of choice. It was, moreover, a choice made at a very young age.16 He could simply have established a jousting society, like the count of Holland, but instead he subjected his militarism to saintly protection. And then he worked tirelessly at promoting the saint. Even some of Edward’s tournament armour at this time was white with a red cross, putting him in the position of being St George’s champion, wearing the saint’s arms.17 This put a heavy responsibility on the wearer, to live up to the expectations of a saint, especially if he went into battle invoking the saint’s protection. Edward may have been deliberately publicising his relationship with St George, the Virgin, St Cuthbert and a number of other English saints, and he may have been making ‘a show of his religion’, but it was very probably based on a sincere spiritual footing. Had he or his followers perceived that St George had reason to doubt his sincerity, he and they could have expected retribution of a kind which would have put an end to him, and them, and all their ambitions. His confidence never seems to have suffered in this way – not in battle at least – and so we may be sure that his faith remained firm, ardent, and grateful to the victory-delivering saints.
As a result of all this, we may look at Edward as a young man who genuinely believed that he was a soldier of God, a champion of St George. His spirituality may have extended no further than the point of his sword, but his approach to God was that of a genuine supplicant, not a cynic. He had no pretensions to be spiritually humble, nor did he have any leanings towards theology, nor was he yet a great patron of ecclesiastical architecture. But he did believe in his calling as a warrior, and he believed his cause – to fight for England – had been divinely sanctioned. As he came south from his victory at Halidon Hill in 1333, he repeatedly gave thanks to God, both for his own sake and for the sake of all those who were with him. His leadership, his warring, his diplomacy and even the well-being of his kingdom were all founded on the fact of his divine appointment, and the success of his reign depended on his retaining God’s favour. Much more than just English military skill had been put to the test at Halidon Hill, and confirmed.
*
Edward spent Christmas 1333 at Wallingford Castle. The feasting was sumptuous, the joy of the court was unbridled and royal extravagance was let loose. All the objectives Edward could reasonably have set himself to achieve by the age of twenty-one had been met and surpassed. Any doubts he had had in 1330 about his taking power from Mortimer were long-since forgotten. Any doubts he had had in his own abilities had proved to be merely a youthful lack of confidence. Although he had been very cautious about handing large rewards to his nobles, now in return for their part in his victory he richly rewarded men like William Montagu, to whom he gave Wark Castle and the Isle of Man. There was no longer any threat to his kingship. Indeed, it is likely that in February 1333, even before the siege of Berwick, he received further information about his father’s whereabouts, reassuring him that the man was not in England, but under papal protection.18
Edward’s family life was broadening out too. He had forgiven his mother for supporting Mortimer, and left her free to indulge herself in collecting jewellery and relics, and even augmented her income.19 Rumours of her affair and the possible birth of a bastard son of Mortimer’s had lingered on, and had reached the papal curia, but the pope now wrote to express his relief that such rumours had been ‘discredited’.20 Interestingly, although close relationships between sons and their mothers often impact negatively on their wives, there is some evidence that Philippa was supportive of Isabella. When Isabella’s name had first fallen into disrepute, Philippa had helped her, and the pope had written to acknowledge and thank her for her support.21 So it seems that Edward’s family life was as happy as could be. In March 1334 he granted Philippa the revenues of the earldom of Chester to support the infant earl, Edward, and their other children. Philippa was now expecting their second daughter, Joan.22 More children meant more possible marriage alliances, and Edward soon began considering how best to marry off his family. His daughter Isabella he planned to marry to the heir to the Castillian throne.23 His brother John he decided should marry Mary, daughter of the lord of Coucy.24 Two years earlier he had tried to negotiate a marriage between his three-year-old son, Edward, and a daughter of Philip of France, but the worsening relations between the two countries had ended that. Little Edward remained ‘on the shelf’. Newly born Joan also escaped her father’s enthusiastic international matchmaking, for the moment at least.
In the wake of Halidon Hill the exuberance of the court hit a new high in its tournaments and games. It is difficult even to begin to represent the vast expenditure and huge range of elaborate costume and gilded and decorative armour which Edward now ordered for himself and his courtiers. One writ of March 1334 may be considered representative. It included:
Eighteen green surcoats made for the king’s knights embroidered on the chest with two images, one of a knight, the other of a damsel, and covered with leaves and branches of gold. Thirty-one striped blue surcoats with hoods for the king’s squires embroidered on the chest with the heads of a knight and a damsel encircled by silver foliage. Seven surcoats made of cloth of gold with blue sleeves for the king’s minstrels, on each sleeve an image in gold and silver of a minstrel performing his art. Three hoods of scarlet with peacocks, snails and other beasts worked in gold, silver and other colours, all encircled in gold. Two suits for the king to be worn in the joust, one of which is of Tartar cloth fringed with gold and bearing escutcheons (shields) containing images of a lioness and leaves in gold and vermilion velvet; the other likewise with a lioness in a field of silver, studded with silver rosettes and quartered with red velvet, along with a banner of the same livery. Seven blue surcoats trimmed with miniver and embroidered with velvet leaves. Seven brown scarlet hoods studded with one thousand white pearls around the edge, the pearls being provided by the king for two of the hoods and by John (of Eltham) for the remaining five. Five more brown and scarlet surcoats made for the king and trimmed with miniver and embroidered with a letter ‘M’ above the arms, within which are two silken figures holding a roll bearing further silken letters.25 A bed for the king made of silk, sparkling with powdered gold and studs of jasper and decorated with foliage and baboons . . . ten cotehardies (tunics) for the joust made of Norwich worsted and russet. Three russet coats for the king, William Montagu and John Meules, each coat bearing two figures on the chest each carrying a roll in their hand. A russet coat for the king with a roll above the arms bearing silken letters. Four surcoats of brown scarlet trimmed with miniver for the king, William Montagu, Robert Ufford and Ralph Neville, each bearing little spaces above the arms containing a figure holding a roll of silken letters . . . Twelve black surcoats for the king; twelve hoods lined in red scarlet and adorned with red roses. Thirty-five coats for the king’s esquires lined with white woollen cloth; thirty-five lined hoods for the same esquires. Two suits of armour for William Trussell and two for William Lengleis. A harness for the king for three horses bearing the arms of William Montagu. Four aketons for the king of red cloth adorned with divers heads and leaves. A suit for Thomas Purchaz and two aketons for the king. Six white surcoats of embroidered cloth. A suit of armour for the king embroidered with baboons and other animals; a hood studded with pearls; a pair of pearl garters for the king encrusted with gold. A surcoat and hood of red velvet for the earl of Chester, the king’s son, the hood being embroidered with pearls and the surcoat with gold and silver; fifty-six pearls delivered to the prince’s tailor to make buttons for the prince’s surcoat, each pearl being priced at 12d. A surcoat of russet adorned with golden branches and foliage made for the king and lined with fur . . .26
Imagine a total of commissioned items amounting to twenty times this list for a single year. The quantity of costume, its richness and the imagination which went into designing and making it, are extraordinary, even for a medieval king. This particular writ includes a series of hangings ‘all of which have been ornamented at the king’s request’ showing that Edward was personally behind at least some of the court’s brilliant decoration. The unbounded extravagance of this display is something to which historians have rarely done justice, and biographers have never even mentioned. Edward’s mounting debts have usually been blamed exclusively on his wars, but making new and dazzling costumes for dozens and sometimes hundreds of men on a monthly or even more frequent basis cannot have helped the royal finances, especially when they were made of expensive cloths and – for the élite – decorated with furs and pearls.
Picking out choice items from an adjacent writ enrolled on the same parchment roll, we see that Edward’s St George tournament armour was accompanied by ‘three horse harnesses of the same livery with pennons, flags and standards’. He also ordered ‘two great suits of armour for tournaments, one for the joust embroidered with the arms of Lionel’. This was for just one tournament, that at Dunstable in January 1334. The reason for Edward’s choice of Sir Lionel – a knight of the Arthurian Round Table – was not that he was a hero, for he tried to kill his beloved brother. It was a reference to growing up under Mortimer. Lionel and his brother, Sir Bors, had grown up under the domination of an interloper lord who had made himself king at their father’s expense. No fewer than 135 knights and esquires took part in the Dunstable tournament, and Edward seems to have clothed many of them elaborately. And for the next tournament, he clothed them all in something different. The whole court and all its chivalric onlookers were dressing up, role-playing and changing identities in line with the king’s whims and passions.
So many clothes are mentioned in the accounts that it is difficult to believe that Edward wore any single item regularly, perhaps with the exception of his golden and gem-encrusted eagle crest. This goes for armour as well as daily wear. In 1330 he employed seven armourers, including several foreigners, showing that he used not just the best local manufacturers (such as Thomas Copham, and William Standerwyk) but foreign-born experts, such as John of Cologne, Gerard of Tournai and Peter of Bruges. He also imported pieces of German and Italian armour.27 In 1338 his list of armourers included several more foreigners, James of Liège, Gottschalk and Arnold of Cologne and Herman Keplyn.28 And all these men were turning out quantities of equipment. At Barnard Castle in July 1334 he ordered the controller of his wardrobe, William Zouche, to account with Gerard of Tournai for a total of one hundred and seven pieces of armour then brought to his chamber, including a number of ‘black helmets for war’, burnished helmets, tournament helmets ‘with gilded eye-holes’, a complete suit of jousting armour and, most interestingly, ‘a plate corset lined in white silk for the king’s person [and] an identical corset for the person of William Montagu’, early appearances of the breastplate.29Armour developed very rapidly over the course of Edward’s reign, so that the general coif or hauberk of chainmail – ubiquitous in 1330 – had become a thing of the past for the leading knights in his army by 1345.
Those who benefited most from all this elaborate costume-making were, of course, those closest to Edward: his wife and his selected band of knights. Even after Halidon Hill, Edward continued his bonding exercise with his leading men by giving them costly tournament gear and linking them into a fraternity of warriors. He himself would fight in their mock-armies during a tournament, or joust in their coats of arms. On many occasions he ordered a pair of suits so that a particularly favoured knight should be seen to be dressed like the king. In late 1334 or early 1335 he ordered ‘two surcoats of tawny-red decorated with various birds, from the mouth of which springs forth a roll bearing song lyrics and another bearing a different legend’, one of these surcoats being for the king, the other for Sir William Montagu.30 Over and over again we read of clothes being given away. Some of these were for the king and later distributed after being made or worn once.31 Others were made expressly for the band of his intimate knights.32 Yet other items were made so that Edward and his son were seen in the same livery, accentuating their royalty. On one occasion, although his son was still only a toddler, Edward ordered for himself, his son Edward and Sir William Montagu a brown coat and mantle each. These were:
embroidered with gold trees and garnished with silk fowl, trimmed with gold throughout, and decorated with birds on branches; on the breasts of these birds were two embroidered angels studded with pearls holding a golden crossbow crafted with gilt silver and a string of pearls.33
In this way the little prince was tied into the band of close knights at court. By the age of four he had a little palfrey of his own, and was receiving decorative apparel for it. By the age of seven he had his own suit of armour.34 He would have never have known a time when he was not associated with the military élite of England. The only significant difference from Edward’s own upbringing was that his son was surrounded by this new confraternity of knights, led by his warrior father, which was most unlike growing up at the court of Edward II.
*
Edward in 1334 was fully adult, a proven leader, favoured by God, and a dazzling king of a magnificent court. His family was fine, and growing; his marriage was a good one. And to cap it all, he had the two things which most men who have reached a pinnacle of achievement lack: health and youth. But he also had problems. In his very victory, in his chivalry and public religiosity, in his encouragement of overseas diplomatic links through marriage, and in his refusal to compromise over the Agenais, Edward had established a culture of triumphant belligerence which neither Scotland nor France could ignore. In particular, he had failed completely to reverse the tide of Scottish patriotism, and had failed to press home his advantage after Halidon Hill.
In terms of conquering Scotland, Edward had been rather short-sighted. In his determination to confront the Scottish army he had concentrated wholly and exclusively on one big battle. Although he had proved his leadership qualities during that battle, he had ignored the wider aspects of subduing a country, expecting that it would capitulate. He was not far wrong – only five castles continued to hold out against his rule – yet he did not attempt to subdue these last few rebels. Instead he let Balliol take responsibility for putting down all opposition. Edward concentrated instead on exerting his maximum gains from Balliol, in terms of grants of land. The ease with which he could control his client king fooled him into thinking that he had power over Scotland. In reality, Edward provided insufficient men to keep the northern kingdom subdued, and this, coupled with Balliol’s own shortage of men, allowed the Scottish rebels to regroup. Most of all, Edward let slip through his fingers the one man he should have secured above all others, his brother-in-law, King David II.
The landing of David II and Queen Joan in France in May 1334 merely confirmed what Edward had hitherto only suspected: France would continue to support his enemy. While Edward took part in yet more extravagant jousts at Burstwick, including gunpowder demonstrations,35 the Scottish rebels were covertly winning over many of the leaders who had ostensibly acknowledged Edward’s overlordship. France too was shifting towards a position of war. The newly installed archbishop of Canterbury, John Stratford, was deep in negotiations with the French king. At the begining of July Stratford returned with the news that Philip was prepared to bargain over the Agenais but he demanded to know why Edward continued openly to support Balliol against his own brother-in-law, whom Philip regarded as the rightful king. Why had Edward again received Balliol’s homage as King of Scots? This greatly complicated the discussions over the Agenais and put negotiations about the French throne beyond the reaches of diplomacy. Significantly it ensured that any refugees from English administration north of the border had a safe refuge south of the Channel, where they could regroup and plan.
Edward did not doubt the seriousness of this resumption of the alliance against him. After Stratford’s return to England, Edward attended one more tournament at Nottingham, but this was probably the last for some years.36 He sent messengers back to Philip to discuss a possible meeting between the two men about the crusade, as if this was a carrot with which to tempt Philip into sacrificing David II. But although Philip might have been prepared to do almost anything to be able to lead his expedition to the Holy Land, he could not acquiesce to Edward’s demands. He had to maintain his opposition to this young English lion, and hope that by encouraging others to oppose him, Edward would receive such a setback that he would learn some humility. If Edward were to receive a bloody nose in Scotland, for example, the way would be left free for Philip to lead his crusade without Edward, and without having to share the glory.
What Philip probably could not have appreciated was how much the tentative eighteen-year-old he had met in 1331 had grown in confidence. Edward had already decided on his course of action, and it was straightforward. He was not going to compromise with Philip de Valois, David II or anyone, under any circumstances. As early as August 1334 he was thinking of a new expedition to Scotland. He summoned parliament to meet in September, and made preparations for the defence of the north. Balliol’s allies were deserting the English cause, Berwick was threatened with attack and, amid all this distant confusion, the idea that only he, Edward, could quell the Scottish revolt greatly appealed to him. At the September parliament he personally paid for a settlement between two of his warring lords – Edward Bohun and Henry Percy – in order to secure their support.37 He asked parliament to grant him a tax for the forthcoming war. As parliament deliberated, news came that one of Edward’s principal agents in Scotland, Richard Talbot, had been captured. Another, Henry Beaumont was besieged in Dundarg Castle, and yet another, David of Strathbogie, had been pursued and forced to swear allegiance to David II. It only remained for Edward Balliol to take the fast road back to safety in Carlisle for the north of England to be threatened once more. Parliament gave him everything he wanted.
No one can doubt Edward’s resolution in organising his new Scottish campaign. Troops were to assemble at very short notice, on 6 October, at Newcastle. Monthly loans were secured from the Italian bankers, the Bardi. Clerics and laymen were induced to give personal loans to the king. New means of taxation were devised to maximise Edward’s ability to raise and sustain an army.38 Old forms of taxation were revamped to guarantee delivery of specific amounts of silver.39 Once again, all those of sufficient income were ordered to become knights. Edward was not just mobilising English society, he was forcing it through a socio-economic funnel so that it might more efficiently respond to his demands. By the end of December 1334, negotiations with Philip had been terminated, the army had gathered, banners bearing the royal arms and the arms of St George and St Edmund had been ordered, hundreds of pennons bearing St George’s arms were in the making, and Edward was dressed in new armour and surrounded by a bodyguard of two hundred mounted archers picked from the men of Cheshire.40
Archers were an essential part of Edward’s new army, and his willingness to employ them was one of the real achievements of his war policy at this time. It was experimental, cutting-edge strategic thinking, combining the manoeuvrability of the Scots army in 1327 with the firepower of the English archers at Dupplin Moor and Halidon Hill. On this expedition there were 481 mounted archers in his own household.41 He also provided 371 knights and men-at-arms. Other lords provided at least 838 knights and men-at-arms and 771 mounted archers.42 The sheriffs of the English counties also were required to raise and send large numbers of infantry archers. Lancashire alone was expected to provide four thousand, Yorkshire more than five thousand. Only a fraction of these turned up, but the message was emphatic. The sheriff of Lancashire may well have scratched his head on receiving the royal writ, and wondered where he was going to find four thousand men who could shoot longbows rapidly and accurately, but he would have known that this was what could be expected in future campaigns.
Edward had two significant challenges to overcome. The first was that he had chosen to fight the Scots in winter, in Scotland. Moreover, of all Scottish winters he had chosen one of the very worst. In the words of one Yorkshire contemporary:
that year, about the feast of Saint Martin (11 November), frost, snow and hail began to fall, and they lasted continually for four months. And on the eve of St Andrew the Apostle (29 November), about midnight, flashes and bolts of lightning were seen, and terrible thunder crashes were heard. And in the same night, about the hour of dawn, the west wind blew up a tempest and blew snow everywhere, such that no one could remember ever having seen such bad weather. The new nave of Whitby Church was blown down . . . the columns within the outer walls collapsed . . . and similarly many houses and churches throughout England and other places were destroyed.43
With weather so appalling it is a wonder that Edward managed to sustain a campaign at all. Having marched north from Newcastle on 14 November, many of his men would have been billeted in tents at the time of the storm; and after such a blowing and a soaking, four months foraging in frost and snow on reduced wages cannot have been a happy experience for anyone.44 Those sleeping on the decks of the many ships Edward had requisitioned to attend off the northern coast must have had a particularly grim experience.
Edward’s second challenge was how he was going to engage the Scots in battle. As his father had learned, there was little point amassing an army if the enemy did not appear. After a period of service – three months in this case – the English troops could begin to return home, as the Scots knew. Edward’s choice of strategies to try to bring them to battle was limited. One was to try and relieve Dundarg Castle, where Henry Beaumont was besieged by the Scottish leaders Sir Andrew Murray and Sir Alexander Mowbray; but that was a remote place, and offered little strategic advantage other than freeing Beaumont. Besides, not all the Scots were at Dundarg, and to try to relieve that siege would have been to follow their agenda, to respond to their initiative. Instead he began to establish a new centre of operations at Roxburgh Castle. There he ordered his masons to restore the walls of his grandfather’s fortress, and spent the harsh Scottish winter, surveying the snowy emptiness around him.
No Scotsman in his right mind was going to attack Edward at Roxburgh, surrounded by his archers. The view from the castle walls remained empty, barren, and frozen. Troops, coming to the end of their periods of service, began to depart. Beaumont capitulated and surrendered Dundarg on 23 December 1334. Edward saw he was going to be left stranded. His reaction was to demand more men; those who had failed to respond to the summons before were now summoned again, and threatened with the forfeiture of their estates if they failed to come. But everyone could see that Edward was slowly being defeated by the Scots’ strategy of avoidance, the cruel weather, and the need for the English infantry to return home to their farms and their spring sowing.
By the end of January 1335 Edward realised he had no option but to retreat. Until the last he continued to demand reinforcements to replace his dwindling army, but on 2 February he left Roxburgh and headed south. To keep pressure on the Scots, he ordered as many ships as possible to begin a naval blockade. This included merchant ships as well as the handful of royal ships regularly maintained by the king. Mariners who would not volunteer were press-ganged into serving, and ordered to seize any ship taking cargo to or from the Scottish rebels. If Edward could not defeat them in battle, he would try other methods of attack.
Edward was having to learn some hard truths about war. The battles he had yearned to fight as a teenager were turning out to be long, drawn-out campaigns. Strategies of supply mattered just as much as battlefield heroics. Leadership involved far more careful diplomacy than military glory. The French now demanded that Edward negotiate a solution to the Scottish question with them, and without the means to pursue a new offensive he had no option but to receive ambassadors. They arrived in March, quickly followed by envoys from the new (French) pope, Benedict XII. In early April Edward agreed to a truce until the summer, and even acknowledged the right of four Scots partisans to attend parliament, to present their case, as requested by the French envoys.45
It was not just warfare which was teaching Edward a few hard lessons. When parliament met at York on 26 May, it discussed money too. Money was becoming a subject of interest to Edward, who knew that continual failure to pay his men’s wages would defeat his army as completely as any enemy. Moreover it would damage his ability to raise subsequent armies. If he wished to continue to fight his wars, he needed higher income from taxation. As taxation was granted or withheld by parliament, it seemed advisable for him to work with parliament to increase their willingness to grant him money. And parliament too wanted to use its influence to increase its wealth. At York in 1335 Edward began to pay his first serious attention to economic reforms. He passed the Statute of York, whereby free trade was permitted: ‘merchant strangers may buy and sell within this realm without disturbance’. The Londoners were astonished by this, and complained bitterly that it went against charters to run their own affairs which Edward had previously granted them. But for the moment Edward was resolute. He only acted to reverse his free trade policy with regard to Londoners a few years later, when he found it in his interest to do so.
Whoever had convinced him of the merits of allowing foreigners to trade freely had also set his mind thinking with regard to other financial matters. The Statute of Money was also passed, in an attempt to make sure that no gold or silver left the realm. Money was flowing from the kingdom to the Continent as a result of an unfavourable balance of trade.46 The cause, however, was not properly understood. It was thought that the shortage of silver was due to hoarding and people taking silver abroad. To prevent this, pilgrims were restricted to using Dover as their sole port, searches were to be made for money, it was forbidden to melt down money to make silver vessels, and no counterfeit sterling was permitted to be brought into the realm. Although it was not the solution, it was at least an honest attempt to tackle the problem.
None of this distracted Edward from his war in Scotland. Everything came second to his military plans. He spelled the matter out clearly to the French and Scottish envoys that, as soon as the truce expired, he would attack again. As far as he was concerned, the truce served only one purpose. It was to give him time to gather his resources and to prepare for the next stage of the war. And he was serious. He had issued the summons for the next campaign, on 27 March, only a few days after he had left Roxburgh. When a gang of Frenchmen led by a Scotsman seized an English ship at the mouth of the Seine, stole its cargo and killed its crew, Edward had yet another excuse to renew his Scottish onslaught. Orders went to Ireland to prepare a great siege engine there and for the Irish justiciar, John Darcy, to raise more troops. Writs were sent out to the counties to demand specific numbers of men for the summer campaign.47 By June Edward was ready to fight again.
The army was set to muster at Newcastle on 23 June 1335.48 This time Edward was joined by a foreign ally, Count William of Juliers (now a part of Germany), who had married Queen Philippa’s sister. From the shires another large contingent of archers was ordered: more than 5,500 of his total army of more than thirteen thousand.49 Balliol came south to join him and take part in the war council. Two armies would proceed, one led by Edward, the other by Balliol. With Edward rode his brother John, earl of Cornwall, the count of Juliers and the earls of Warwick, Lancaster and Hereford. Balliol rode to Berwick with the earls of Arundel, Oxford and Angus. The contrast with the reign of his father, who rarely managed to persuade more than two or three earls to join in a Scottish expedition, was striking. Any Scotsmen unfortunate enough to witness the approach of either of the two armies would have had no doubt that this was a serious display of English military strength.
Edward was in his element. Leading his men, he could forget his ecclesiastical advisers and his money troubles, and he could fully exercise his favourite faculty, to command. This was the exertion of real power, combined with the unquestioning loyalty of his men, and the comradeship of his friends. In south-west Scotland, in the forest of Dalswinton, he brought forward a destrier clothed in Sir William Montagu’s arms, and gave it to him as a present. He also gave Montagu one of his two precious eagle crests.50 This was honour indeed, and it pleased Edward to favour Montagu in this way. As he had recently been reminded, his friends would not necessarily always be with him. Sir Edward Bohun, one of the men who had risked Mortimer’s wrath in 1330 and who had commanded one of the battalions at Halidon Hill, had drowned crossing a river in the appalling weather of the winter of 1334. On the way into battle, there was no saying who would be the next of the companionship to be struck down.
The summer campaign of 1335 was war without compromise. Knights were dubbed, prayers were said, and then the looting, raping, killing and burning began. Few who found themselves in the path of the English armies escaped. Even monastic property was destroyed: Welsh troops under Balliol’s command attacked a nunnery and a monastery.51 Gradually the two armies closed in on Glasgow. At Cumbernauld, Balliol found the tower held against him. After burning it, he captured more than two hundred men and women found sheltering inside. The men he killed; the women he spared. Chivalry – an intense contrast of light and dark even in peacetime – became horrific in times of war.
Edward pushed on to Perth. Wherever they went, the English wrought destruction. The sailors of Newcastle attacked Dundee and burnt much of the town, including part of a friary; they also burnt a friar and looted monastic property.52 The conduct of such individual raids was largely beyond Edward’s control, but he did nothing to stop the destruction. His thirteen thousand troops were taken on swift marches up and down the kingdom as much to strike fear into the hearts of the Scottish civilians as to engage with their troops. It had become part of his policy to demonstrate his power in person by showing he could, at will, destroy any semblance of nationalist power in Scotland. It was a logical strategy. After repeated campaigns of this nature, who could reasonably be expected toserve a rebel leader, and entertain further death and destruction? That Edward would never earn the love of the Scottish people in this manner was relatively unimportant, in his opinion.
Then came August 1335. Although Edward did not yet know it, the French parliament had declared that France would support the Scots with six thousand troops, including one thousand men-at-arms.53 There was a message to this effect on its way to him. Philip also invited Edward to submit his quarrel with David II to the arbitration of himself (Philip) and the pope, for Edward’s quarrel was endangering the crusade. At the same time, Robert of Namur was making his way to Edward, to help him in his campaign. With only one hundred supporters, however, Namur was chased by the Scots to Edinburgh, where he was captured. More humiliatingly, after his English guides had been killed, he was set free upon swearing an oath that he would not fight in Scotland. Namur then went to Berwick, and caught ship with Philippa, joining Edward at Perth. Namur was a nephew of Robert d’Artois, a cousin of Edward and a bitter enemy of Philip. There was also a message on its way to Edward placing the disagreement between Philip and d’Artois beyond negotiation. All these messages and men were closing in on Edward over the course of August. The battle lines of the first stage of the first great war of European nations – the Hundred Years War as it came to be known in the nineteenth century – were being drawn up.
On 7 August Edward was at Perth. The French message had still not reached him, but his messengers had brought news that the French were gathering ships in the Channel. Rumours of Philip’s plans to aid the Scots had also reached him. And the vulnerability of his kingdom, stripped of its fighting men, was very much on his mind. On 12 August he designated men to represent him at a council in London, and appointed others to array and lead the Londoners if the realm should be invaded. On 18 August the seriousness with which Edward regarded the threat of invasion was shown by his order to remove his infant son, Edward, to the safety of Nottingham Castle. The rumour in the north was that Philip had requisitioned seven hundred and fifteen vessels, in alliance with the king of Bohemia.54 Edward divided his kingdom into three and ordered local magnates to oversee the defence of each part. Ships were requisitioned to defend the coasts. Beacon fires were to be assembled. Edward ordered Montagu to defend the Channel Islands. England and Wales were poised to expect a French armada, to be launched by Philip of France in the name of David II.
The situation had developed to a point of war between England and France on account of the intransigence of their two leaders. On a personal level, this was merely the natural arrogance of medieval warrior-kings. But at a diplomatic level, royal pride could have serious consequences. It was only to be expected that not backing down should become a point of honour between the two kingdoms as well as the two kings. And both men dominated their courts so completely that royal advisers were urging both kings on to greater declarations of bellicosity. Neither side was proceeding with caution. Having said that, there was a fundamental difference between their two positions at this time. Edward was on the offensive, and he did have a legal claim to back up his actions. Thus he had something to gain, and the initiative accordingly lay with him. In any compromise, it was Edward who stood to benefit most. And in the matter of Scotland, Philip had nothing to gain at all. Even if he had been successful, and had forced Edward to acknowledge the right of David II to rule, Edward would merely have turned his attention elsewhere, perhaps to an attack on France. This is why, although Philip did not let on as much, the pope had secretly urged him to back down and to give up the Scots cause.55 Philip’s sole achievement in sending a few dozen ships to raid the English coast was to shock the richest and hitherto most secure towns of the kingdom into the realisation that they too were vulnerable to attack from France, even though France had no claim on England. Until then only northern England had recently experienced foreign aggression at first hand. When the good burghers of Southampton and Portsmouth found themselves set upon and their houses burnt, Edward’s ability to raise money for a foreign war was suddenly increased.
August 1335 was the point of no return in the developing struggle between Edward and Philip. When Philip’s letter of support for the Scots finally arrived, Edward replied that his pacification of Scotland would be over quickly and would not impede arrangements for the crusade. He added that Philip had no right to get involved, as this was a purely domestic matter between him and his subjects. Quietly, the pope was saying much the same thing to Philip. Even more telling was the capture by the garrison of Roxburgh of the Scots patriot, the earl of Moray. With his capture, pressurised by Edward’s army, the other Scots leaders saw they now had little to gain and much to lose, and gave themselves up. David of Strathbogie surrendered and received his English estates back. The earl of Fife surrendered Cupar Castle. Alexander and Geoffrey Mowbray gave themselves up, and promised to renew their allegiance. Robert Stewart – next in line to the throne after David II – also surrendered. To cap it all, Edward’s Irish invasion force finally arrived and proceeded with an onslaught on Rothesay Castle. Although they were unsuccessful, Edward had emphatically made his point. He could bring three armies against Scotland simultaneously from three different directions, as well as a naval attack on the Perth and Dundee region. If Scotland wanted a king, it would have to be one appointed by him. And if Philip wanted to mediate in Scottish affairs, he would have to use force.
As Edward returned to the lowlands of Scotland in September, he was minded to make another permanent reminder of his Scottish foray. Edinburgh was the weak link, where Robert of Namur had been captured. To secure the Scottish city would be further to strengthen his grip on the lowlands, and a safeguard on the English border. Bruce had originally conquered Scotland through subduing and reducing the English fortifications; now Edward set himself the task of rebuilding them, and reinforcing them. He maintained Roxburgh and Berwick on the border. With Edinburgh now a third castle under his control, and Caerlaverock a fourth, it seemed that Edward had reinforced the border for the foreseeable future. There was just one flaw in his plan. It was obvious to the man whom he appointed to command Edinburgh, John Stirling. Edward was bent on saving money, coming away from Scotland with more than £25,000 of wages still unpaid.56 Therefore he ordered the smallest garrison which conceivably could maintain each fortress. How would they withstand the next wave of attacks? John Stirling realised that such small numbers were insufficient to guard them against all eventualities. Only in 1337 did Edward begrudgingly acknowledge that Stirling was right.57
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Edward’s policy towards Scotland – a state of continual war, punctuated by occasional large-scale expeditions – had worked satisfactorily. The long respites in the fighting meant his men could return home to their communities while he himself could set about arranging further instalments of much-needed cash to pay for the next expedition. Keeping the war going – never agreeing to peace but only a series of truces – allowed him to keep the pressure on the Scots, and eventually to wear them down. Hence he remained on the border through the winter, to emphasise his readiness to resume the fighting. Christmas was spent not in comfort with Philippa but at Roxburgh Castle, looking out at the frozen flood waters which covered the land.58 The war, he was reminding the Scots, the French and the pope, was not over. Unless a permanent peace could be arranged, and one which was on his terms, he would raise another army the following year, and yet another the next.
Edward was not going to initiate such a peace agreement. This was not just because of his pride; each time the Scots or French asked him to renew the truce he could demand more concessions. But in late 1335 Philip of France and the pope were particularly eager to see a permanent settlement come about. Philip had been told in no uncertain terms by the pope that his cherished crusade was dependent on peace in Europe, and especially between England and France. Accordingly both Philip and the pope sent negotiators to see Edward. Edward was in no rush to come to any agreement, and it was January 1336 before any measure of acceptable compromise was tabled. Edward renewed his truce with Scotland for a further three months – to 12 May – and demanded that the Scots who had not surrendered to him (now led by Sir Andrew Murray) should give up their sieges of two Scottish castles. It was agreed that Edward Balliol would rule Scotland for his lifetime and that David II would be his heir. Andrew Murray himself seems to have agreed to this. The only other party whose agreement was required was David II himself, still in exile in France. This was merely a formality: David was still only twelve years old and had no real personal authority. But messengers, not ambassadors, arrived from the king of Scotland at the Westminster parliament in March 1336. David II had refused, and he had refused to countenance any further compromises or truces. The papal nuncios and the French envoys – who were present at the parliament – were probably no less aghast than Edward.59
Edward’s reaction was utter disbelief, followed swiftly by anger. It certainly seems strange to the modern reader that David II did not agree to the peace. But we are too detached from the hatreds, pride, jealousies, animosities and envies of the period, and the sources barely convey how much hatred there must have been on somebody’s part to come to this decision on David II’s behalf. For it was not David’s own decision – the boy was too young – and therefore someone in his faction ordained this course of action. It could have been Andrew Murray and his associates, adopting a strategy of parleying with Edward but continuing resistance through their safely-protected boy-king. Or it might have been King Philip, secretly persuading David’s guardians that they could only lose by this deal. Whoever was behind it, the rebuke set Edward on a path of angry war, and crucially it caused the pope to call off the crusade. Edward now knew that, when Philip’s disappointment had worn off, it would leave him with all his men and ships unused, his weapons sharpened for war, and no obvious enemy except the man who had come between him and his dream of reconquering the Holy Land.
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On 3 April 1336, Edward had dinner on his ship called the Christopher, which was then moored in the Thames near the Tower of London.60 We do not know who was with him, but we may suppose he did not dine alone; eating on board a boat was a way to achieve a high degree of privacy with regard to one’s companions as well as what was said. He had been staying at Eltham, and seems to have come briefly to the Tower for this meal. The next day he began a journey to Waltham Abbey, the pilgrimage site in Essex which he often visited. He stayed at Waltham for a week, during which he granted at least three requests to found chantries to pray for his father’s soul,61 then returned to the Tower on 13 April. All this seems curious when we consider that the truce with Scotland was about to run out on 12 May, and that Edward was supposed to be heading north again with his troops, as he had previously arranged. He even took the unusual step (for him) of appointing someone else to lead the army. It so happens that this delay coincides with the appearance of Niccolinus Fieschi. On 15 April, Edward issued letters confirming the engagement of Niccolinus, otherwise known as ‘Cardinal’, as a member of the king’s council, with an annuity of £20 and robes befitting a knight.62
Niccolinus was a relative – perhaps first cousin once-removed – of the author of the Fieschi letter, Manuel. Edward had previously received him at Westminster in February 1333, and his visit then had coincided with Edward sending his trusted friend Richard Bury to the papal court on ‘secret business’.63 Now his reappearance coincided with another important date, for the Fieschi letter was very probably written in early 1336.64 Niccolinus’s arrival marked the start of a long and important relationship with Edward, in which Niccolinus undertook much secret business for the king at Avignon and other places, and was paid the very significant sum of between two and three hundred pounds each year in lieu of this work, his status rising eventually to the point of helping to negotiate several international treaties on Edward’s behalf.65 This points to an extraordinary level of trust placed in a man who was not only a foreigner, but a foreigner who was related to the author of that letter and who had prior obligations to two potentially hostile foreign powers: the Genoese (who fought on the French side in the forthcoming war) and the pope.
If Edward received the Fieschi letter at this time, as seems likely, then this marks the point when he finally learnt where his father was: Northern Italy. But however relieved he may have felt, this news raised as many problems for him as it solved. Firstly, if we are right in thinking that Edward II had been held all this while by his kinsman Cardinal Luca Fieschi, with the acquiescence of the pope, then the peace negotiations were delicate, as the pope was French and Cardinal Fieschi had just died.66 For this reason, as well as his own standing in England, it was of paramount importance to Edward that the information itself remained secret. Prayers and masses were said for Edward II just as before. Chantries were founded to help his soul even more frequently than before. But Edward did start at this point to resolve the conflicts which had arisen from the problem involving his father. One example is his smoothing out of the anomaly of the accusation still hanging over Lord Berkeley – of appointing the men who supposedly murdered Edward II – which he did through wholly acquitting him at the next sitting of parliament. Another was that he purchased the land for his father’s intended foundation of King’s Hall at Cambridge University (now part of Trinity College), which he properly recognised and endowed by charter the following year.67 A third is that he turned his attention to his father’s tomb, with the fake body in it, at Gloucester. On 15 September 1337 Edward paid a visit to Gloucester (his first since taking power in 1330).68 There he saw the newly elected abbot, Adam Staunton, and may have indicated his intentions eventually to bury his father in the tomb.69 His idea as to how to get the bodies changed over was beautifully simple: he lent his own great mason and architect, William Ramsey, to supervise the rebuilding of the choir there.70 Lastly, it is possible that we may discern a fourth resolution, that of his own relationship with his long-lost father. It would appear that he asked Niccolinus Fieschi to arrange for him to meet his father in person.
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By mid-May 1336 Edward was ready for another attack on Scotland. He set off at an extraordinary pace. He was in or near Reading on 16 May.71 Thereafter his progress north was very quick indeed. On 4 June his wardrobe was at Towcester, the next day Northampton, the next day Leicester, the next Allerton, the next Pontefract, the next Topcliffe, and on 10 June Edward arrived in Durham. After a quick supper with the bishop of Durham, Richard Bury, he went on northwards, his tired servants reaching Kelso on 15 June and Perth on the 19th. So sudden was his arrival in Scotland that not only was the enemy surprised to see him arrive; his own army was too.
Edward’s haste was not just due to a desire to catch up with his army, led in his absence by the earl of Lancaster. He was also acutely aware of the growing ambitions of France. Philip had realised the weakness of a policy which committed him to a war in Scotland and which he was never prepared to support with force. He had accordingly persuaded the French parliament to act on its resolutions of the previous year to land a French army in Scotland. Invading armies needed landing places where they could enjoy safety and find supplies. Edward thus had plans to destroy any possible form of nourishment within reach of suitable landing places on the east coast of Scotland. Abbeys were emptied of their food supplies, cattle slaughtered, corn fields burned. Whole towns were destroyed. Edward personally saw to the destruction of Aberdeen. Against the vigour of the English army in full destructive flow, the Scots could do nothing. William Keith, Andrew Murray and William Douglas may have felt bitterly angry that Edward was wrecking their countrymen’s homes, food supplies and livelihoods but they too would have seen that this was a strategic necessity. The ambition to be a ‘perfect’ king was not incompatible with the ruthless destruction of food supplies and defensive structures, or any other aspect of the efficient prosecution of a bloody conflict.
While Edward was savaging the north, and chivalrously rescuing the widow of the earl of Atholl from a siege at Lochindorp, a great council was held at Northampton. Edward had appointed the archbishop of Canterbury (Chancellor), Henry Burghersh (Treasurer) and his brother, John, to preside at this council, but on one day at least it seems Philippa took charge.72 Beside the archbishop of Canterbury, seven bishops, and forty-six barons, knights and other magnates were present. They decided another embassy should be sent to France, to seek a compromise to the conflict which was developing. Edward agreed, and sent word accordingly to the bishops of Durham and Winchester. He also summoned his brother to help him in Scotland. As a precaution, he placed all the royal castles of southern England on a state of alert, and instructed the earls of Arundel and Surrey to defend their fortifications at Arundel and Lewes.
At the end of the summer, the crisis suddenly worsened. Edward summoned another council to meet at the end of September, this time at Nottingham. The envoys proposed by the previous council had been utterly unsuccessful in trying to get a compromise from Philip, who was determined to go to war. In fact, Philip declared openly to Edward’s envoys that he would send an army to help the Scots, and would do all he could to assist them. The French fleet – amassed by Philip to fight the infidel – was now sailing around the southern English ports attacking any English ships they found. Edward wrote to his admirals on 18 August urging them to intercept the enemy and declaring that ‘our progenitors, the kings of England, have before these times been lords of the English sea on every side . . . and it would very much grieve us if in this kind of defence our royal honour should be lost’.73 But Edward’s claim to sovereignty of the seas was of little help to the crews of those merchant vessels which the French caught. Those who were trapped at sea had the choice of the sword or the waves. No merchant was safe. Englishmen in Ghent and Bruges began to be rounded up on the orders of the count of Flanders, Philip’s ally. At the height of this extreme panic, which Edward was powerless to control from Scotland, he received utterly dreadful news. John of Eltham, his only brother, had died suddenly.
John was just twenty years old. Edward had been fond of him, had raised him to the earldom of Cornwall, and had shared with him the terror of Mortimer’s dictatorship. John alone had benefited from a flood of estates and rewards after Mortimer’s fall, when Edward was too cautious to distribute largesse to his non-royal friends.74 He had been the Sir Bors to Edward’s Sir Lionel: the two brothers growing up under the rule of the usurper ‘King Claudas’. John’s marriage was a subject to which Edward had given very considerable thought, first favouring Jeanne, a daughter of the count of Eu, then Mary of Blois, then Mary of Coucy, and lastly a daughter of King Ferdinand of Castile.75 John’s death also marked the loss of the only one of Edward’s brethren still in England. His sister Joan was in France, married to his enemy David II, and Eleanor was married to the count of Guelderland, in the Low Countries. Of his family he had only his wife and three children, his forty-year-old mother, and one uncle left. In this light it is all the more shocking to read of a rumour that the cause of John’s death was murder. And a most extraordinary murder too. He was supposed to have been stabbed in a rage by Edward himself.
The shock of this story tends to deflect attention from the impact of John’s death on Edward. Edward was exceedingly upset. He ordered nine hundred masses to be said for John’s soul.76 A year later, John’s death was still giving him bad dreams, as his household accountant noted, after extra alms-giving by the king; but the cause of those bad dreams was almost certainly not regret for a knife wielded in rage.77 John had died on 13 September at Perth, and although it is probable that Edward was at Perth at the time, the source of this story, The Scotichronicon, is very doubtful.78 It was written about twenty-five years later by John Fordun, a clerk from Aberdeen, which Edward had just burnt to the ground. We therefore have to accept that the truth remained hidden from all Edward’s English companions for twenty-five years before being leaked to an embittered and relatively unimportant Scottish clerk. Sir Thomas Gray – writing while a prisoner in Scotland in 1355 – stresses that John died a ‘good death’, which probably implies fortitude in the face of an illness sent by God.79 Most fourteenth-century English chroniclers record the death; not one of them states he was murdered.80 Barnes believed that he died of a fever brought on by his military exertions.81 There is little room for doubt that Fordun’s story of Edward stabbing John to death was not a rare fragment of a hideous truth but a choice piece of Scottish propaganda. An inspiration for the theme of the story may be found in Edward’s adopted role of Sir Lionel, for this Arthurian knight attempted to kill his brother Sir Bors. In the wake of the destruction of Aberdeen, men from the town may have believed that Edward was so ruthless in destroying the land of which his sister was queen that he could have killed his own brother.
Edward probably remained at Perth until the third day after his brother’s death. He had sent his wardrobe ahead to Nottingham in readiness for the council to be held there, but still he lingered by the body of his brother. He seems still to have been at Perth on 16 September.82 This left him a mere eight days to reach Nottingham, more than three hundred miles away. When he finally moved off he hastened south at a breakneck speed.83 He entered his council chamber at Nottingham Castle on 22 September, tired from a very long journey, distraught, and facing the gaunt faces of men who knew that the kingdom was facing imminent invasion.84 Worse, the Scots had been pricked into action by the French support. Andrew Murray was burning and levelling his own lands – in emulation of Edward at Aberdeen – to stop the English being able to station an army there. The isolated English castles were already under attack. In this climate, it is no wonder that the council granted Edward his taxes without question. Men were raised from the shires. An immense defensive army was conceived, and large sums of money were secured from the Bardi and Peruzzi banking houses as a means of paying troops. Edward summoned naval help from Bayonne. He even wrote to the king of Norway to request that that monarch refuse to supply ships to Philip. In doing so he admitted that he was likely also to face the opposition of the counts of Hainault and Guelderland, his relatives. Far from setting an example of perfect kingship, he now looked very beleaguered indeed.
As it turned out, the invasion threat was more imagined than real. By the end of October the large army ordered for the defence of the country could be sent home, and the naval contingents of the south coast could be safely directed to protect the merchant fleet heading to Gascony. They were to be replaced by ships raised from Great Yarmouth and twenty-four other ports. Further protection measures were made – including a repeated order to Bayonne to send ships, and an order to protect the port of Dartmouth in Devon – and gradually the sense of fear calmed. But as it calmed in England, it grew in Gascony. In the Agenais, fear of attack became reality as a French army was sent to assault Gascon outposts, and plans for the seizure of the whole duchy of Aquitaine were contemplated.85 Philip was now writing to Edward saying that he should expel Robert d’Artois from England, or, rather, send him to France in chains for judgement as an enemy of the French king. In Scotland, to which Edward had returned after the council at Nottingham, his rebuilding of Bothwell Castle was hampered by constant attacks from William Douglas. For Edward, the glories of war had turned into the long, bitter reproaches of diplomacy. It was a discomfiting contrast to the glorious tournaments of the years after Mortimer’s fall.
Edward left Bothwell in mid-December and came south with his brother’s embalmed body.86 Philippa travelled with him as far as Hatfield, where they spent Christmas together. Heavily pregnant, she remained at Hatfield while Edward went on with John’s corpse to the Tower, arriving on Friday, 10 January. The next morning, he walked with it in a great solemn procession to St Paul’s Cathedral, surrounded by clerics and citizens, where it lay the night. The following day, Sunday, he attended mass in its presence. After mass it was taken to Westminster Abbey. The next day solemn exequies were celebrated by the archbishop of Canterbury in the presence of the king and many earls, prelates and barons. Funeral feasts were arranged at Westminster and St Paul’s. Finally, on Wednesday 15 January, John of Eltham was laid to rest in St Edmund’s Chapel, Westminster. As a mark of respect, Edward commissioned one of two exceptionally fine alabaster effigies for his tomb. The other was for their father, to be incorporated in the tomb at Gloucester.87
The day after John was lowered into the stone floor of Westminster Abbey, Philippa gave birth to a second son, William of Hatfield. Edward responded to the good news by making a journey to Canterbury to give thanks at the shrine of Becket.88 But beyond this, the birth of a second son was greeted with muted enthusiasm. The reason is not hard to find. The child was sickly, and dead within weeks. Edward seems to have been disturbed by this, as he decided that his dead baby should not be buried in the family mausoleum at Westminster. Instead he sent its corpse all the way to York Minster. Although grief for a lost new-born was, in medieval times, often less profound than today, it was another blow. God was not favouring Edward. He had lost his brother and now a son. And that was not the end of his worries. The French had attacked Portsmouth and Jersey. In Scotland the rebels had won a series of victories against the under-resourced English garrisons. Bothwell Castle, only just repaired, was under attack and soon to be destroyed. It was as if Edward had never fought and won at Halidon Hill. His achievements were being undone, the winter had set in very cold, and bad rumours were spreading. It was said that a calf was born with two heads and eight feet. A very bright comet was seen which ‘darted forth its rays with terrible streams’, as if a precursor of devastation.89 If Edward was a warrior of God, then God required something more from him than this. It is a telling sign that most chroniclers do not mention the birth, let alone the death, of his doomed baby.