On This Day

Wild asters, traditionally known as Michaelmas daisies.
Photo: author’s own. All rights reserved.

This blog is being published on Saturday, October 5, 2024 to align with #HistoryWritersDay24, a celebration of history writers, publishers and bloggers – both non-fiction and fiction. 

Happy fall, y’all! The autumn season officially started two weeks ago, though with temps consistently popping in and out of the mid-80s here in Minnesota, it hasn’t quite felt like it. Yet despite the heat, we’ve come to the official end of summer.

In the U.S., these first weeks of fall might not seem terribly eventful, aside from homecoming football games, hayrides and apple picking excursions. In Plantagenet England, however, the early autumn season shepherded in an important date on the religious and civic calendars: the 29th of September, or the feast of Michaelmas. 

Michaelmas (pronounced “mickel-mas”) is a feast day in the western Christian church honoring St. Michael the Archangel, that foremost of angels who commands the heavenly armies and defeated Satan, tossing him and his followers out of Heaven as pictured in the statue below. The tradition dates back to the 5th century A.D., when a chapel was dedicated to the saint in Gargano, Italy, and vestiges of this celebration persist even into our modern-day culture. Once called “St. Michael’s mass,” the name of the observation became truncated as “Michaelmas” over time, just as Christmas was once known as “Christ’s mass.” Some Christian traditions have included other heavenly beings in the same feast day, celebrating specific archangels such as St. Raphael or “all angels” at the same time. 

Jakub Hałun, 20190816 Archangel Michael sculpture, St. Vitus Cathedral, 1400 5302, CC BY-SA 4.0

As with all the best holidays, Michaelmas was celebrated with a feast. Falling as it did at the end of the harvest, the Michaelmas banquet table was loaded with the many bounties of the season, but the main star of the culinary show was the goose. Having been fattened on the leftover grain in the fields after the harvest was complete, the goose was a symbol of prosperity, and it was even said that eating a goose on Michaelmas prevented financial hardship in the coming year! All in all, folks were surely glad of the opportunity to take a break from their labors in the field, gather with friends and neighbors as the days shortened, and enjoy the fruits of their hard work. 

The period of English history we now refer to as the Plantagenet era (strictly for ease of use, despite its many problematic aspects) fell toward the end of the Middle Ages, at a time when Michaelmas commemorations had grown beyond being a Catholic “Day of Observation” – or as we might say in today’s parlance: a “Get Your Behind To Church (Or Else) Day.” (Mostly joking, of course, but making sure you went to church on these extra-important days was a Big Deal.) The 29th of September had become an important date on the socio-economic and political calendars as well. In a society dominated by the seasons and celebrations of the Church, it made sense to align secular obligations and timetables with the ecclesiastical calendar already familiar to nearly all members of society. As a result, Michaelmas became one of four “quarter days” that divided the year into fourths and signified the beginnings & endings of contracts, employment terms, and educational sessions. Debts and legal proceedings were to be resolved in time to be publicly recorded on the quarter day, serving the public interest by preventing disputes from running on indefinitely.

Raphael artist QS:P170,Q5597 (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Raphael_-_St._Michael_Vanquishing_Satan.jpg), „Raphael – St. Michael Vanquishing Satan“, marked as public domain, more details on Wikimedia Commons: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Template:PD-old

In England and Wales, the quarter days were established in line with the solstices and equinoxes and have generally been observed as Lady Day (March 25), Midsummer (6/24), Michaelmas (9/29) and Christmas (12/25) since at least the Middle Ages. In other parts of the British Isles, a similar quarter day system was also utilized, but the quarter dates themselves were tied instead to the old Celtic calendar. Before its Christianization in the 5th century, Ireland observed the Celtic festivals of Imbolc (2/1), Beltane (5/1), Lughnasadh (8/1) and Samhain (11/1). Scotland and parts of northern England had their own set of quarter days, marked by Christian festivals that fell halfway between the solstices and equinoxes and close to the traditional Celtic dates: Candlemas (2/2), Whitsunday (traditionally the 7th Sunday after Easter, later set by law as 5/15), Lammas (8/1) and Martinmas (11/11).

All this is a quaint slice of history – and maybe a nice bit of trivia to tuck away for the next pub quiz – but irrelevant to our modern life, right? Well, perhaps not; the quarter days system isn’t quite as obsolete and antiquated as we might think.

Michaelmas in the Modern

First, the idea of neatly dividing the year into quarters is still prevalent in both England and the United States. Though the dates of the calendar and fiscal years have shifted away from the traditional quarter days, most residents of both countries are likely familiar with quarterly financial accounting practices as used by businesses, organizations and government agencies. We use these convenient markers as opportunities to evaluate past performance, review future goals and chart course corrections as needed, and we acknowledge the importance of tying up loose ends more frequently than once a year.

Second, many American and British academic institutions still begin their school years with fall terms, following the centuries-old traditions of farming communities to start school after the majority of the harvest was in (aligning with St. Michael’s feast day) and the students’ help was no longer needed to wrap up their families’ summer agricultural work. Students of all ages in the U.S. are used to dividing their school years into two semesters, or perhaps four quarters, with the new school year usually beginning in August or September.

Yearly terms for primary and secondary students in the United Kingdom and Ireland run along similar timeframes, though they are often divided into three terms  with breaks in between. Most universities in the U.K. begin their academic years in late September or early October, and each subdivided period is referred to as a semester or a term. Some of the oldest and most distinguished universities still retain the traditional nomenclature and begin their academic years with a Michaelmas term. The University of Cambridge, the University of Oxford and Trinity College, Dublin are examples of this continuing practice.

Looking east in the interior of the Divinity School in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, Oxfordshire, England. Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC BY-SA 3.0, Divinity School Interior 3, Bodleian Library, Oxford, UK – Diliff, CC BY-SA 3.0

Finally, law courts in England, Wales and Northern Ireland begin their legal years with a Michaelmas term, which has been accompanied by a number of ceremonial activities throughout history. The United States Supreme Court also begins its legal year on the first Monday in October, though it is referred to simply as the October Term. While not directly related to St. Michael or his feast day, another religious tradition grew up in conjunction with the start of legal terms across Europe and is continued in some Christian communities worldwide today: the Red Mass.

The Red Mass is a Catholic mass traditionally celebrated annually at the start of the legal year to request, in short, heavenly guidance for all those involved with the administration of justice. It has a long, if interrupted, history dating back to the first recorded event at the Cathedral of Paris in 1245, after which it increased in popularity across Europe. It came to England around six decades later, during the reign of Edward II. Readers with any familiarity with the intense and sometimes violent struggles between Catholics and Protestants over the centuries, however, will be unsurprised to hear that there does not seem to be any recorded continuous celebration of the Red Mass extending back to the Middle Ages. Presumably, it went underground along with other Catholic practices during times of danger, then resurfaced again when it was perceived safe to bring it forward once more.

Today, following a resurgence of Catholicism in the 20th century, the Red Mass is observed in many countries around the world to . In London, the annual service takes place at Westminster Cathedral. In Washington, D.C., where the U. S. Supreme Court sits, the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle is celebrating the 72nd annual Red Mass on Sunday, October 6, 2024.

Villanova Law Library, Red Mass 2012 (11222993585), CC BY-SA 2.0

So there it is: a quick history highlighting the traditions of Michaelmas, an observation stretching back over a millennium while still peeking into our modern lives today. If you want to learn more, check out the sources and suggested reading below!

Sources and Suggested Reading

https://www.nts.org.uk/stories/st-michaels-day-and-michaelmas-traditions

On Michaelmas
Dr. Janega’s work is absolutely phenomenal, but I should add a *teensy* content warning: there’s a wee bit of grownup language included in this excellent article. Consider yourself warned!

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanctuary_of_Monte_Sant%27Angelo

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aster_amellus#:~:text=The%20English%20common%20name%20derives,Michael%20the%20archangel).

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michaelmas

https://theabbotscircle.com/post/the-story-of-michaelmas

https://www.britannica.com/topic/Michaelmas

https://www.rte.ie/brainstorm/2024/0927/1078446-september-29th-michaelmas-ireland

https://www.britannica.com/topic/Quarter-Day

What Are Quarter Days & Why Do We Use Them?

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michaelmas_term

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Academic_term

https://www.supremecourt.gov/about/procedures.aspx

https://www.johncarrollsociety.org/membership/the-red-mass

https://web.archive.org/web/20130407032833/http://www.johncarrollsociety.org/about-jcs/index.aspx

https://www.stmatthewscathedral.org/events/15430/72nd-annual-red-mass

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Mass

Red Mass, to mark the Legal Year
Read more

From The Bedford Hours

Hello history friends! I’m trying something different today, so here we go! Usually when I go to write a post, I plan it out carefully in advance, do my research and have my notes handy before I start typing. Today, I’m going entirely off-book and simply sharing some thoughts with you about a question that occurred to me this morning, simply because I think you might enjoy mulling it over, too.

This is also not going to be a post about historical reality: in fact, it’s the exact opposite. Normally I don’t go in for “what ifs” very much, for a number of reasons: there are too many unknowns to predict with any level of precision; I prefer researching to speculation; and frankly I’m just not that imaginative when it comes to alternate outcomes. This one caught my fancy, however, and I just can’t help myself! So in the spirit of pleasant diversion, let’s speculate!

John who?

As the die-hard Hundred Years War fans out there probably know, today marks the anniversary of the death of John, Duke of Bedford in 1435. For those unfamiliar, Bedford was a son of Henry IV of England and brother to Henry V, and he was named Regent for the 9-month-old Henry VI when his father died in 1422. Bedford commanded the forces fighting in France on behalf of the young king until his death, just days before the Treaty of Arras saw his former ally and onetime brother-in-law, the Duke of Burgundy, side with the French against the English.

John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford from The Bedford Hours. (Extreme bowl cut, aw yisssss.)

In a Twitter (I refuse to use the dumb new name) post commemorating the date, historian Matt Lewis hypothesized that Bedford was perhaps the best king that England never had. The idea has been proposed before, and it’s a fascinating debate. On the one hand, he was well-regarded at home for his sensible and measured guidance given to the young Henry VI, and unlike many royal uncles in the Middle Ages, Bedford seems to have been wholly loyal to his nephew and committed to setting him up for success. Some of Bedford’s contemporaries were critical of his unwavering devotion to winning the war in France on behalf of his brother (Henry V of Agincourt fame) due to the considerable strain put on the coffers of England’s treasury, but unlike the infant king’s two other uncles and closest advisors, Bedford did not engage in power struggles to advance his own personal position. On the other hand, Bedford has been justifiably criticized for other shortcomings, such as his role in the trial and execution of Joan of Arc.

Henry V

Yet Bedford’s merits as potential king are still not the topic I’ve been debating today. What if, instead of dying at age 46, reportedly visibly careworn and aged from the strain of the French wars, John had lived on into his 60s or even his 70s, as was not at all uncommon for noble men who survived high infant mortality rates and other childhood diseases? Could the Wars of the Roses even have been prevented?

As I said before, this is not an academic article or even a very serious think piece. I’m not going to be backing up my theorizing with hard facts, so if that’s what you’re looking for, thank you for coming but you’ll want to exit now; you’ll be sorely disappointed and frankly I’m not interested in serious scholastic sparring on this topic. If you’re down for a bit of frivolous historical reimagining, though, I hope you’ll come along on our merry jaunt!

‘What If’ #1: what if Bedford remained Henry VI’s chief advisor?

Ask almost any historian today what caused the Wars of the Roses and they’ll probably give you a look of “are you sure you want to do this?”, do the deep breath/big sigh combo thing, and then start in on 20 minutes of detailed background and analysis that will still probably leave you with furrowed brow and muddled mind. This isn’t a dig at any of those historians; it’s just an acknowledgement of the truly convoluted fact pattern that led to several decades of internal war and several throne swaps between 1450-1490. For today, though, let’s do the unthinkable: pick out just a couple contributing factors and oversimplify them for our purposes.

Henry VI, the king really not born to be king

Henry VI is often picked on as, if not the very worst, at least one of the weakest kings England has ever seen. That’s not an entirely unfair analysis, but in his defense, the poor boy became king of both England and France when he was less than a year old after his father died; he was removed from his mother’s care at a young age; and his upbringing was governed from then on by his two closest male relatives, one his uncle (Gloucester) and the other his great-uncle (Beaufort), who took opposite viewpoints on almost everything under the sun and apparently dedicated their political lives to bettering their own positions and one-upping each other without regard for the welfare of their nephew, their country or much of anything else. Add in that the job title of ‘king’ was probably the very last one Henry would ever have chosen for himself – he much preferred quieter pursuits like study, prayer and frankly not being continually pulled in opposite directions by everyone around him – and it’s easy to see that this heir to the hero of Agincourt was facing an uphill battle from the start.

Luckily for Henry, he had his uncle John of Bedford balancing and playing referee until he was almost 14, keeping Gloucester and Beaufort mostly at bay. After Bedford’s death, however, the tug-o-war over the king kicked into high gear, and Henry’s non-combative nature made him susceptible to the covert whisperings of his remaining uncles. Henry’s situation worsened in 1447, when both Gloucester and Beaufort died within months of each other, leaving the king without even the questionable guidance of his family and vulnerable to an influx of other nobles, all trying to secure favor with (and influence over) the impressionable king and his new bride, Margaret of Anjou.

Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester; self-described “son, brother and uncle of kings” & right self-absorbed you-know-what

The young couple, politically unprotected and insecure, clung to a small handful of close friends and advisors. Not only did that inner circle receive the royal largesse, but they had exclusive access to advise on matters of policy, finance and the ongoing overseas war. Far from being business as usual in England at the time, the exclusion of the remaining, non-favored nobles from the king’s council flew in the face of generations of English tradition, and those left out felt deep bruises to their pride and honor. Such ostracism led to active protests and eventually open rebellion from the Duke of York and his allies.

Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou

But what if the Duke of Bedford had survived his brother Gloucester and uncle Beaufort, not only preventing them from battling over the young king during their lifetimes but also remaining as Henry’s chief advisor into the 1450s or even later?

Given Bedford’s proven commitment to his role as the proverbial “mama bear” to his nephew during his lifetime, it would be reasonable to assume that he would have continued in that role, thereby minimizing the power struggle between Henry’s other uncles by arranging terms between them as he’d done in 1426. His keen administrative abilities and understanding of the important part played by the king’s council, demonstrated by his declared intentions to follow the will of the council in previous matters, further support a supposition that Bedford would have precluded the advancement of individual favorites that did so much damage to Henry’s reign and instead aided the king in drawing on the support of all his nobles. As the son of a previous king whose success and very life depending on the acknowledgement and acceptance of the nobility on both sides of the divide, Bedford would have known just how dangerous losing that support could be.

There’s no telling whether the continued presence of Bedford’s steadying hand could have prevented Henry VI’s mental collapse in 1453, but had he been present, it’s likely that the 64-year-old Bedford would have been put into the Lord Protector role once more, staving off power grabs from both Richard, Duke of York and Queen Margaret. A stable, well-run government during the king’s illness would have removed York’s initial reason for rebellion, which he stated was to see the king well-counseled by rightful advisors; without that motivation, it is unlikely that other malcontents would have had sufficient incentive to engage in internal warfare, either instead of or in addition to continuing martial efforts in France.

Richard, Duke of York in the Talbot Shrewsbury Book

Despite the many arenas in which I think Bedford would have made significant improvements during Henry VI’s reign, there remains an Achilles’ heel that I fear might have undone his good works elsewhere: his overzealous commitment to continuing the Hundred Years War in France. Bedford experienced a long period of success following his brother Henry V’s death in 1422; the English situation was even stable enough that he was able to return home to England in 1433. The reprieve was short-lived, however, and Bedford was back in Paris by 1434. By 1435, just months before Bedford’s death, English fortunes had fallen far enough that peace talks were being held at Arras, and John was forced to acknowledge that concessions were unavoidable and reconciliation with the Burgundians was impossible.

Given the level-headedness with which Bedford seemed to approach most things, one would hope that had he survived, Bedford would have come to accept the futility of further fighting in France at least for the immediate future and returned to his nephew’s side to address domestic issues that had been pushed aside for far too long. We cannot know for sure, however, and considering Bedford’s obvious dedication to upholding his brother’s legacy, the possibility that he would have continued to doggedly pursue the reclamation of French territory, despite the crippling cost to England, remains.

‘What If’ #2: what if Bedford provided an alternate Lancastrian heir?

In the same year as her husband’s mental collapse, Queen Margaret of Anjou gave birth to their only child, Edward of Westminster. Despite surviving to the age of 17 and his father’s instability, this Prince of Wales never ascended to the throne; he was killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, fighting for his father’s right to the English crown. Even had Edward survived the battle, it seems there may have been some concern about his ability to rule. Whether these fears were founded in logical fact or not, some worried that Henry VI’s debilitating condition may have passed to his son. Others were suspicious of his mother, the foreign queen, and distrusted what she may have taught him while he was in her custody during the wars. Another rumor persisted for years that even as a boy Edward was exceptionally cruel, despite a lack of documented evidence.

Drawing of Edward of Westminster

Regardless of the reasons why, the English nobility found themselves with a king who was frequently incapacitated, and a young heir who inspired little or no confidence. The alternative was the king’s cousin and next closest male relative, Richard of York, whose claim to the throne was debatably equal but who was not only an adult but also a tried-and-tested military commander and political leader. The dividing line between the two sides tended to put those who defended the king’s right to be king, despite his shortcomings, on the side of King Henry VI; while those who were weary after years of weak leadership and ongoing battles supported the Duke of York.

Our scene is set for another BIG ‘what if’: what if there had been a third contender for the throne, one who was more closely related to Henry VI than the Duke of York and also came from a line untainted by mental illness? In other words, if John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, had lived long enough to have a son with his second wife, Jacquetta of Luxembourg, could that child have become the next king of England and headed off the wars between Lancaster and York?

I can hear the immediate protests already: “but Bex, Bedford was married to Jacquetta for two whole years before he died and they never had a child! And he never had one with his first wife, either! It sounds pretty far-fetched.” Is it, though? While the duke died without a legitimate heir, it’s not unreasonable to consider that had he lived longer, the reality might easily have been different.

John and his first wife, Anne of Burgundy, remained childless throughout their decade of marriage, but we know that John had fathered an illegitimate son prior to their wedding. We also know that during her second marriage, Jacquetta and her then-husband Richard Woodville had an absolute plethora of children who survived to adulthood, so both John and Jacquetta were capable of having children at least at some point in their lives. Any number of reasons may have prevented them from having children during their two years of marriage, whether it was separation due to the demands of war, the impact of stress and responsibility on John’s health, or even Jacquetta’s young age (she was married at 16 or 17).

Anne of Burgundy, The Bedford Hours

So if we presume that in our alternate universe, the Bedfords did have a son that survived, what might have made him a stronger candidate to be king than Henry VI, Edward of Westminster or Richard of York? Without drowning in the minute details of royal inheritance, let’s look at why Bedford Junior’s claim to the throne would have been stronger than that of York.

In the 15th century (and well past, but that’s for another day), the English monarchy was inherited according to the rules of male-preferenced primogeniture. (Warning: massive oversimplification ahead, but it should suffice for our purposes.) This meant that when one king died, his oldest legitimate male child inherited the throne. If the king had no children who could inherit, the throne might pass to the king’s younger brother if he had one, but if not, the throne would revert to the next oldest son of the deceased king’s father – in other words, the dead king’s eldest uncle on his father’s side.

In our scenario, if Henry VI was out of the picture either due to his death or after being ousted as a result of his incapacity, his son Edward would inherit. Unless, of course, Edward had predeceased Henry, had been declared illegitimate, or had been otherwise excluded from the succession for whatever reason. If we play out our ‘what if’ here, presuming the Duke of Bedford survived past 1435 and was still living at the time Edward of Westminster was removed as an heir to the throne, Bedford would have been next in line. To take it a step further, if Bedford had a son, that son would have also been the closest male relative and therefore next in succession after his father.

John, 1st Duke of Bedford’s arms, differentiated from his father Henry IV’s by the points across the upper quarters; The Bedford Hours

Why would this matter? Because the Bedford line would have superceded the Duke of York’s line, which stemmed from a brother of Henry VI’s great-grandfather, John of Gaunt. As a much closer branch on the family tree, the claim of Bedford and his heirs would have taken higher precedence over the claim of Richard of York. It’s possible that if the succession had passed to a Bedford, York still may have raised his hand and said “hey, if we’re passing the throne outside of the direct line to whomever has a claim…I’m such a “whomever,” so consider me, too!” With another ready, viable contender so closely related, however, I doubt York’s claim would have gained the traction that it did in reality, when he was literally the king’s next closest male kin.

So there you have it, folks. A few fun-to-think-about considerations, reflecting on how English history might have looked very different if John, Duke of Bedford hadn’t died 588 years ago today but instead continued in his role as selfless elder statesman and perhaps furthered his own lineage.

Further Reading

If you enjoyed this article, you may also enjoy my other articles about this time period:

This Week in History: The Death of Henry V
OTD 1453: End of the Hundred Years’ War
Read more

This past week, we commemorated the death of Henry V of England on 31 August 1422. For a man who was hailed in his day as a mighty warrior king, immortalized by Shakespeare, and even today looms larger than life in historic memory, his end was abrupt, unexpected and lacked glory. Perhaps fittingly, I will save full discussion of his eventful life for other occasions, but as the impacts of his passing would be felt for decades, the event itself deserves commemoration. 

Henry V of England. National Portrait Gallery

A note to prepare the reader: if you feel somewhat turned around by the plethora of Henrys in this story, it’s for good reason! Three generations of Plantagenet kings in succession, all christened Henry, marked the start of the 15th century, much as the 12th century was home to multiple powerful matriarchs who shared the name Matilda. (Read about one such Matilda, mother of the Plantagenet dynasty who also carried the title of Empress, here.) In an effort to maintain the distinction between each as much as possible, I have utilized their alternate names or titles to assist. 

Boyhood in the Royal Family 

Our Henry was the oldest child of Henry Bolingbroke (the future Henry IV) and Mary de Bohun. Born at Monmouth Castle in September 1386, he was known in his early years as Henry of Monmouth. His grandfather was John of Gaunt, the powerful Duke of Lancaster and one of Edward III’s sons. John’s nephew, Richard II, was on the throne at the time of his grandson’s birth.

Monmouth Castle, birthplace of Henry V
“Monmouth Castle” by Philip Halling is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Throughout his youth, Henry’s father Bolingbroke found himself increasingly at odds with his cousin, the king. Just as Henry was reaching his teenage years, Richard sent Bolingbroke into exile, even while Henry himself was still serving the king on campaign in Ireland.

An Inheritance Denied 

The following year, Henry’s grandfather John of Gaunt died, and Richard II refused to allow the Lancaster titles and lands to pass to his heir, the exiled Henry Bolingbroke. The ensuing conflict is worthy of further discussion at another time, but for our purposes now, suffice it to say that Bolingbroke did not take the loss of his inheritance well. It was the proverbial last straw, and it galvanized Bolingbroke to take action.

Richard II

Richard II had become increasingly tyrannical as his reign progressed, so by 1399, Bolingbroke had easily gathered supporters from amongst those nobles who had been alienated from the crown.  He returned to England, declaring that his aim was to reclaim his title and rights as Duke of Lancaster, but he found that he had enough support have himself proclaimed king. 

Henry was still with Richard in Ireland when Bolingbroke usurped the throne as Henry IV. To his credit, Richard did not punish the son for the sins of the father, though it certainly must have made for some uncomfortable moments. 

Henry IV of England (r. 1399-1413 CE). Made by an unknown artist c. 1597-1618 CE. 580 mm x 445 mm (22 7/8 in x 17 1/2 in). National Portrait Gallery

Henry, Prince of Wales

With his father now on the throne, Henry was made Prince of Wales and joined his father on his military campaigns, where he gained experience and demonstrated significant skill. They suppressed a revolt by the Welsh prince Owain Glyndwr and defeated a group of rebellious English nobles led by Sir Henry “Hotspur” Percy at the Battle of Shrewsbury.

Despite that battle ending in a royal victory, it nearly had fatal consequences for the new royal family. During the fighting, 16-year old Prince Henry was struck in the face by an arrow, which missed his nose and his eye but embedded itself into the back of his skull.

The task of treating the prince’s gory wound fell to John Bradmore, a surgeon from London. I will omit the grisly details here, but Bradmore later wrote a book, Philomena, about the inventive treatment he successfully used on the prince.  He was able to prevent a deadly infection from taking hold, and Henry escaped with only the scars on his face.

The King is Dead. Long Live the King!

Henry IV died in 1413, and his son succeeded him as Henry V and the second king of the Lancastrian line. The new king set about piecing the country back together and smoothing over some of the fissures that opened after his father deposed Richard II. He saw to it that Richard’s body was respectfully reinterred in Westminster and welcomed his father’s enemies back into his councils.

With things on the home front settling down, Henry prioritized the continuing wars in France. His forebears had been pursuing their claim to the French throne since 1337 in what would become known as the Hundred Years’ War, and Henry’s military training and instincts led the way to fresh successes in battle. 

Victory at Agincourt

Henry V’s most illustrious victory came in October 1415 at Agincourt. The English were heavily outnumbered and should have lost the battle, at least on paper, but the French suffered from disorganized leadership and a battleground site that put them at a disadvantage.  

English archers using longbows cut down many knights and horses at a distance, while remaining protected from the advancing French lines by sharpened poles embedded into the ground in front of them at an angle. Any foot soldier or cavalry rider who got too close would have been impaled on those stakes. Many French fighters even suffocated in the mud left behind from the previous day’s rains; the battlefield was so crowded that once a soldier slipped and fell, he was unlikely to be able to get back up and instead either drowned or was trampled by his fellows pressing onward from behind.

The Battle of Agincourt. “File:Wikibooks – Histoire de France.jpg” byEnguerrand de Monstrelet is marked with CC0 1.0

After their victory, the English captured a large number of French prisoners of war. Normally, those prisoners of noble rank would have been ransomed back to their families. Not only was it the chivalric thing to do, it also meant that both sides benefitted from the transaction: the victorious side gained significant sums of money, and the vanquished were spared their lives. At Agincourt, however, Henry ordered his men to execute all of the prisoners they had taken. Whatever his motives may have been, Henry’s battlefield glory and reputation were somewhat tarnished by his treatment of his defeated enemy.

Warrior King on Campaign  

For the next several years, the tide of the war remained in England’s favor. The French were in such political disarray that Henry was able to conquer and hold large areas of territory. By 1420, Charles VI of France was forced to sue for peace.

That summer, Charles and Henry signed the Treaty of Troyes. As part of their agreement, Henry was recognized as regent of France and named as Charles’ successor to the throne. To cement the peace and symbolize the joining of England and France together, Henry was to marry Charles’ daughter, Catherine of Valois. The two were married at Troyes Cathedral in June 1420.

Marriage of Henry V and Catherine of Valois. British Library.

Henry spent the next several months continuing his campaign, but he returned to England at the end of that year. He remained there until June 1421, when he returned to France after the death of his brother, who had been leading the English forces.

Fateful Parting 

While Henry was away, his new queen, Catherine, gave birth to the couple’s first child: a baby, Henry, born at Windsor Castle in December 1422. Sadly, baby Henry would never meet his father; even as Catherine welcomed their son and heir, Henry V had already embarked on what was to be his last military campaign.

Over the winter of 1421-22, the English army laid siege to the town of Meaux. Sometime during the siege, Henry had contracted dysentery, then known as the bloody flux. While such diseases were common occurrences amidst the unsanitary conditions of siege warfare, Henry was strong and still only around 35 years of age; it must have been hard for anyone who knew the young warrior king to imagine him brought low in such a manner.

Unfortunately for his family and his country, Henry succumbed on August 31, 1422. His body was returned to England and interred at Westminster Abbey. Suddenly the old king was gone, and the new king of England and heir to France was a tiny boy, barely nine months old. 

Arrangements for an Infant King

During the months following his initial illness, Henry had made what preparations he could to protect his son’s future and the stability of England in the event that he did not recover. He would have been painfully aware that his heir was his baby son, whose minority would be a dangerous time for both the boy king and the country. 

Henry named his brother John, Duke of Bedford, as regent of France on behalf of the baby Henry VI, who inherited his father’s role as successor to Charles VI. Henry and John’s remaining brother, Humphrey, would be appointed as the boy’s protector and regent in England to protect, guide and advise him at home.

“Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child….” – Ecclesiastes 10:16

With their new sovereign a nine-month-old baby and an ongoing foreign war, England’s stability began to fracture. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester had control over the infant king at his late brother’s command, but his powerful uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, often opposed and even undermined Humphrey. 

Fifteenth-century drawing of Humphrey Duke of Gloucester

Factions soon formed that supported either the duke or the cardinal. Throughout Henry VI’s minority, the nobility quarreled for influence over the impressionable young king and sought the favor of his uncles.

Impact on the French Wars

While his soldiers certainly may have grieved the loss of their warrior king, Henry V’s death did not have an immediate detrimental effect on the English objectives in France. Bedford proved himself to be a capable administrator, and the next several years saw a succession of victories as the army worked its way south.

Eventually, however, the years of intense warfare took their toll on the English government, its army and its people. The treasury was running dry, old reliable commanders died or could no longer lead troops, and the French started to rally, aided by the arrival of Joan of Arc. Over the years, lands won by Henry V were gradually lost, one after another, and the English people grew disenchanted with the fight for glory across the Channel. 

In the eyes of many English citizens, all of the money, time, effort and blood they had spent for the cause over nearly a century was being squandered away by feuding nobles and disastrous military mistakes. Unsurprisingly, these frustrations contributed to the increasing instability at home.

A Very Different Sort of King

By the time Henry VI reached his majority and could rule on his own, it had become evident that this king was made of different stuff than his father had been. By nature, he was more suited to be a scholar than a warrior. He was extremely pious and devout, but he lacked the natural instincts for ruling a country or curbing a raucous bunch of nobles. More and more, Henry relied on his favorites and rewarded them richly, which only served to further unbalance the court.  Where his father had worked to reunite the country and expand its influence on the continent, Henry’s reign was a slow spiral downwards until ultimately he, too, was deposed from the throne. 

Henry VI. National Portrait Gallery

Ultimately, Henry V’s early death led to significant imbalances both at home and abroad. Those factors simmered until they eventually erupted into the civil war that would later become known as the Wars of the Roses. 

Sources and Further Reading

https://www.history.com/topics/british-history/henry-v-england

https://www.history.com/topics/british-history/battle-of-agincourt?li_source=LI&li_medium=m2m-rcw-history

https://www.history.com/topics/middle-ages/hundred-years-war?li_source=LI&li_medium=m2m-rcw-history

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/true-story-henry-v-englands-warrior-king-180973432/

https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/things-you-didnt-know-facts-henry-v-battle-agincourt-shakespeare-hundred-years-war-france/

https://www.historytoday.com/archive/coronations-henry-vi

The Scar of Henry V

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On this day in history, 12 August 1469, the father and brother of the Queen of England were executed by the King’s former closest friend. How did such a horrible act come to pass? To set the scene, we must step back to the beginning of Edward IV’s reign, to the early summer of 1461. 

A Fraught and Fragile Peace

Edward IV was officially crowned king following his decisive victory at the battle of Towton, where the Lancastrian forces supporting Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou were defeated so soundly that all but the most deluded acknowledged that the Cousins’ War (later known as the Wars of the Roses) was finally all but over. After long years of strife and instability, Henry VI was deposed and the Yorkist line of the Plantagenet dynasty was established on the English throne. The new king now faced the challenge of restoring a workable peace. 

Edward IV by an unknown artist, National Portrait Gallery

Unsurprisingly,  Edward rewarded the men who had been loyal supporters of his cause and kept them close; notably Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, who had been the cousin and most loyal ally of Edward’s father, Richard Duke of York. The support Warwick gave to the Yorkist cause, ultimately resulting in Edward IV’s kingship, earned him the nickname “Kingmaker.” 

Edward also realized that in order to avoid further rebellions and keep himself on the throne, he needed to mend fences with the Lancastrian lords who had supported Henry VI. He pardoned those former enemies that surrendered and swore fealty to him, in most cases even returning their lands. Edward had learned from Henry VI’s disastrous early reign that if he did not rule with the advice and input of lords on both sides, he could just as easily be deposed himself.

For the first several years of the new reign, despite the addition of their former enemies to the royal council, Warwick enjoyed his position as Edward’s closest advisor and effectively the most powerful person in England after the king himself. In Warwick’s mind, he was where he deserved to be after all the efforts he’d made to put Edward on his throne: in a place of influence and respect.

The King’s Independence

The internal harmony at Edward’s court lasted until the fall of 1464. By September, Warwick had returned from the continent, where he’d been negotiating a marriage for Edward with the French princess, Bona of Savoy, no doubt pleased with his efforts and ready to report his success to the king and his council. 

Instead, Edward preempted his longtime mentor and made a shocking announcement: he had already made a marriage of his own in secret! Warwick was undoubtably shocked that Edward had ruined this opportunity to make an alliance that would strengthen England’s position abroad and cement Edward as the true king. 

Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s chosen queen. Daughter of Richard Woodville, Baron Rivers and Jacquetta, Dowager Duchess of Bedford

Even worse in Warwick’s eyes, Edward’s chosen queen was the daughter of Richard Woodville, Baron Rivers, one of those Lancastrian lords that the king had pardoned after Towton. To Warwick, it was complete and utter betrayal. 

The Envious Earl

In the months and years after Edward and Elizabeth’s marriage, the king became more reliant on his Woodville in-laws. He rewarded them as well; Elizabeth’s father was made Earl Rivers, and her siblings made advantageous marriages with the other noble families of England. 

Warwick’s jealousy grew. Despite Rivers’ proven success throughout his long military and administrative career, Warwick believed that his own higher birth and his constant loyalty to York should ensure his unchallenged place at the top of Edward’s government, and he deeply resented the diminishment of his own influence.

Warwick suffered another blow to his pride when Edward refused to grant his permission for his brother, George, Duke of Clarence, to marry Warwick’s elder daughter, Isabelle. It proved to be too much for the earl to stomach. He retreated to Calais with his family, where Isabelle and George were married on 11 July 1469 in defiance of the king.

George, Duke of Clarence

The Kingmaker Strikes Again

Just a day after the wedding, the Earl of Warwick was joined by his new son-in-law the Duke of Clarence, and his brother the Archbishop of Canterbury in issuing a proclamation, officially stating their grievances against the state of Edward IV’s government. Naturally they could not take issue with the king himself; that would be treasonous. 

Instead, they leveled attacks against his advisors, including the Woodville men and even Queen Elizabeth’s mother, Jacquetta, who was not only Countess Rivers but also the Dowager Duchess of Bedford. Warwick declared them to be guilty of giving Edward poor advice that damaged the country’s peace and economic success, and he accused them of looking only to their own betterment.

Following that declaration, Warwick and Clarence readied their forces to return to England. Warwick intended to replace Edward on the throne with his brother. To him, any York king would do, as long as it was he who pulled the strings.

Kingmaker Captures King

Back on English soil, a band of rebels led by Robin of Redesdale had been operating that summer in the north, probably at Warwick’s encouragement. Their mischief had been handled easily enough by loyal lords, so Edward was not overly concerned. He had been traveling to various locations around the country with his entourage, including his father-in-law, Earl Rivers, and his two brothers-in-law, Anthony and John Woodville. 

In late July, Redesdale’s rebel forces were moving south, and the Earl of Pembroke took the royal army out to suppress them. The two sides met in battle at Edgecote Moor on 26 July 1469, where despite the earl’s best efforts, the royal army was defeated. Meanwhile, Warwick and Clarence had landed in England and marched to Coventry, where Warwick’s supporters were to meet and join forces. The captured Earl of Pembroke was brought before Warwick at Coventry, where he was beheaded on 27 July 1469 (see my previous post on this topic here).

William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, kneeling before the king

When Edward heard the news of the disastrous battle and Pembroke’s fate, he was farther north in Nottingham. From there, he ordered Earl Rivers and his sons to ride immediately away for their own safety. Edward knew his old ally Warwick well enough to know that his wife’s family would not be treated mercifully if they fell into his hands. Edward’s small force rode south, but they were overtaken by the Warwick faction and the king was taken prisoner. 

Warwick’s Vengeance

With King Edward in his custody, Warwick effectively controlled the government. He took this opportunity to eliminate several of his opponents, including the Woodvilles.

Richard and John Woodville, who had been sent to Wales, evaded Warwick for a time but were eventually captured at Chepstow and handed over to him. At Warwick’s command, Earl Rivers and his son were beheaded on 12 August 1469 at Kenilworth.

Anthony Woodville was also captured, but for unknown reasons he was spared the judicial murder suffered by his father and brother. He returned to London later in 1469, now as the new Earl Rivers, which must have brought at least a small measure of comfort to his grieving mother, sister and nieces. 

Anthony Rivers, 2nd Earl Rivers, kneels before his brother-in-law, Edward IV and his sister, Elizabeth

Sources and Further Reading

Higginbotham, S. (2015). Murder at Coventry. In The Woodvilles: The wars of the roses and England’s most Infamous family (pp. 53–61). essay, The History Press. 

Gregory, P., Baldwin, D., & Jones, M. K. (2012). Jacquetta of Luxembourg. In The women of the Cousins’ War: The Duchess, the Queen and the King’s Mother (pp. 132–133). essay, Simon & Schuster. 

Gristwood, S. (2014). Blood sisters: The women behind the wars of the roses. Basic Books, a member of the Perseus Books Group. 

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On this day in 1469, William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke and his brother were executed. Both had been captured the previous day after the battle of Edgecote Moor, fighting for King Edward IV against his former friend and ally, the Earl of Warwick.

William Herbert and his wife, Anne Devereaux, kneeling before the king. (British Library)

William Herbert started his military career in France, defending the lands of the Lancastrian king, Henry VI of England. He gained significant experience during his time there until his capture at the Battle of Formigny in 1450, after which he was ransomed and returned home to the Welsh Marches. There he formed alliances with both the Duke of York and Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick. Herbert was one of the men who found himself cultivating relationships with both Lancastrian lords and Yorkist ones during this period, which undoubtedly led to conflicts of conscience down the road.

Ultimately siding with the Yorks paid off for Herbert, as after Edward IV ascended to the throne, he was ennobled and eventually entrusted with the command of the Welsh forces protecting the Yorkist interests. In 1468, Harlech Castle surrendered to Herbert, and Edward IV rewarded him with the title of Earl of Pembroke, which had until recently belonged to the staunch Lancastrian, Jasper Tudor. Herbert also gained the wardship of Jasper’s nephew, the future Henry VII.

Remains of Raglan Castle, Herbert’s family home
“Raglan Castle” by hugh llewelyn is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Favor with King Edward threatened Herbert’s other alliances, however. The Earl of Warwick, also known as the Kingmaker for his efforts to put the dukes of York on the English throne, took exception to the preference Edward showed to Herbert, who had previously been in Warwick’s service. Warwick also targeted the family of Edward’s queen, Elizabeth Woodville, whom he resented for their influence with the king. By 1469, Warwick had lost patience with the king and was ready to take matters into his own hands.

In July 1469, Warwick married his eldest daughter to Edward’s younger brother George, Duke of Clarence, without the king’s permission. Just days after the wedding, Warwick and Clarence invaded England with the intention of deposing Edward and setting up Clarence and Isabelle on the throne. Edward, initially not believing that his cousin and oldest friend was truly taking up arms against him, bid Warwick and his brother come to him for a meeting. Upon realizing that this was no mere disagreement to be solved with gentle words, Edward armed and rode out to confront the earl.

Herbert’s Welsh forces marched to meet the king’s near Edgecote Moor. Herbert even brought along his ward, Henry Tudor, to give the young nobleman an education in the art of war. Battle broke out with Warwick’s troops on July 26, and Edward’s army was defeated. Herbert and his brother, Richard, were captured and taken to Warwick at Northampton the next day. On July 27th, the two Herberts were beheaded.

Sources and Further Reading

http://www.luminarium.org/encyclopedia/williamherbert.htm

https://henrytudorsociety.com/2016/08/05/sir-william-herbert-earl-of-pembroke-edward-ivs-master-lock/

Johnson, L. (2020). Shadow King the life and death of Henry Vi. Head of Zeus, An Apollo book. 

Jones, D. (2015). Hollow crown – the wars of the roses and the rise of the tudors. Faber & Faber. 

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On this day: July 17, 1453

King Henry VI’s English forces, led by John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury, were defeated by the French at the battle of Castillon in Gascony. Neither side realized it at the time, but this encounter would come to be known as the final battle of the Hundred Years’ War.

The term ‘Hundred Years’ War’ came about in the 19th century to describe the period of intermittent warfare between the French and English that lasted over a hundred years, from the 1340s to 1453. The causes of this conflict are many and varied, and as several excellent books already address the topic in detail, we will boil it down to the barest bones here.  

Edward III‘s effigy, Westminster Abbey

In 1328, Charles IV of France, the last king of the Capetian dynasty, died childless. In the ensuing contention and disagreement about who should be his successor, several of Charles’ relatives staked their claims to the empty throne. One of these claimants was Edward III of England, whose mother Isabella of France was Charles’ only surviving sibling. Ultimately, the French crown was awarded to Philip of Valois, the dead king’s first cousin. 

This turn of events didn’t sit well with Edward, who viewed himself as Charles IV’s closest living kin. Old grudges die hard, especially when a crown is at stake, so Edward’s successors clung fast to the title of King of France for generations. As a result, the next century saw a series of intermittent battles and campaigns as the English kings made attempts to reassert their claim to the French throne and its territories. 

Territorial Tug-of-War

As one might expect in a war that wore on for so long, the advantage teetered back and forth throughout the decades. In the 1420s, the Duke of Bedford made significant gains in securing English territory for his nephew, King Henry VI, only to see the French surge back following the inspiring leadership of Joan of Arc. By the final years of what the English people knew as the French wars, Henry’s finances were sorely stretched, his subjects were weary of seeing their hard-won territories gradually retaken by the French, and his leading nobles were quarreling and causing deep divides amongst their followers. 

Henry VI of England

In the fall of 1452, his confidence buoyed up by increased successes at home and ready to make a definitive show of might on the Continent, Henry VI named John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury, as his deputy in France. Henry didn’t exactly go down in military history as a sterling commander, but his choice of Talbot for this final mission was well-founded.

The ‘Terror of the French’

John Talbot earned an early reputation as a competent and decisive military commander, serving early on in the Welsh rebellion of Owain Glyndwr and subsequently in Ireland. Later, he served in the French wars with the Duke of Bedford and the Earl of Warwick, including at the 1428-9 siege of Orleans, where Joan of Arc’s forces turned the tide of the war in favor of the French. His signature aggressiveness and successful techniques earned him sobriquets such as ‘the English Achilles’ and ‘the terror of the French.’

John Talbot, kneeling, presenting a book to Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou

Talbot was taken prisoner after the Battle of Patay on June 18, 1429. He was eventually ransomed after four years of imprisonment, then continued to support Henry VI militarily both in France and at home in England. Two decades later, Talbot found himself in French hands once again following the English loss of the city of Rouen in 1449, this time as a hostage to ensure that the Duke of Somerset handed over both the city and six key castles per the terms of the peace agreement. Some sources state that as a term of his release, Talbot promised to never again take up arms against the French king. (As poignant as this story is, I have been unable to verify any primary sources that support it as of the time of this writing; I will update once I have confirmation one way or the other.)  

Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, negotiating with French envoys at Rouen

Regaining the Upper Hand

Charles VII of France

Despite setbacks caused by the failures by his quarreling dukes, Henry VI’s faith in Talbot as a commander remained strong. He appointed Talbot as his deputy in France in early September 1452, and by late October Talbot’s forces had retaken the city of Bordeaux and were on their way to reclaiming dozens of towns and garrisons in Gascony. It looked as though England was turning the tide in its favor at last. 

The French king, Charles VII, took the winter of 1452-3 to regroup, and by the summer of 1453 his troops had invaded Guyenne. On July 8, they laid siege to Castillon, east of Bordeaux. Talbot’s forces were bolstered by new troops brought that spring by his son, Viscount Lisle, and he set out to relieve the garrison at Castillon on July 16. 

Fateful Decisions

Talbot’s signature decisive actions served him well early in the day on July 17, as his troops easily defeated a small contingent of French archers they discovered near Castillon. His luck soon changed, however. Perhaps emboldened by this early victory, or tricked into thinking that a cloud of dust raised by retreating camp followers in advance of the battle instead signaled the flight of enemy troops from the siege, Talbot decided to attack the main French camp without waiting for the reinforcements he expected to arrive soon. 

Instead of marching into an easy victory, the English troops collided with the full strength of the French army. Talbot pushed his men on, despite the unanticipated adversary and the lack of reinforcements, only to be defeated by French artillery. John Talbot was killed during the battle, though the exact circumstances of his death are debated. His son, Lord Lisle, also died that day. 

Painting of the Battle of Castillon, Charles-Philippe Lariviere

Aftermath and Aftershocks 

What had seemed to many as a revival of English dominance in France ended instead as the last gasps of a dying claim. Realizing the desperation of their situation, the citizens of Castillon surrendered to the French the next day, and by late October of that year, Bordeaux had also capitulated.

The shock at home in England was intense as well. Henry VI himself was an unexpected casualty of the final battle of the Hundred Years’ War. Upon hearing of England’s devastating defeat, he lapsed into a catatonic state that left him ineffectual as a ruler and spurred the discord that resulted in the Wars of the Roses.  

No official peace treaty was ever signed, but after the loss of Gascony, the English became painfully aware that any further military advance into France was a minor priority compared to establishing peace at home. Hostilities ceased, and Calais remained the sole remaining vestige of English power in France for another hundred years. 

Sources and Further Reading

Johnson, L. (2019). Shadow king: the life and death of Henry Vi. Head of Zeus. 

History.com Editors. (2009, November 9). Hundred Years’ War. History.com. https://www.history.com/topics/middle-ages/hundred-years-war. Access date: July 17, 2021.

Wikimedia Foundation. (2021, July 17). John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury. Wikipedia. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Talbot,_1st_Earl_of_Shrewsbury. Access date: July 17, 2021.

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On this day in 1189, King Henry II of England died at Chinon Castle. Henry was the very first Plantagenet king of England, and though his eventful life could be the subject of many posts (ooh, foreshadowing!), today we’re focusing on how he led a new dynasty to the throne.

“Chinon, Vienne, France, 1993” by In Memoriam: PhillipC is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Before we dive in, though, a note: you’re going to see the name Henry repeated throughout this article. A lot. For that matter, there are also quite a few Matildas in this story, but as we’re focused on one particular Henry and his mother, Matilda, I’ll refer to the others primarily by their relationship to our main duo whenever possible.

Henry and Matilda…and Henry…and another Henry….

Henry I as depicted in the 14th century

Henry Plantagenet’s claim to the English throne came through his mother, Matilda. Matilda was the eldest child of Henry I of England, who was in turn son of William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy, who became the first Norman king of England after he won the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Matilda also had a younger brother, William Adelin, who was Henry I’s sole legitimate son.

The Empress

Matilda spent only the first few years of her childhood in England, as she was soon sought out as a bride for Henry V (another one!) of the Holy Roman Empire. As this was an enormous honor for Matilda and a boost to her father’s prestige, young Matilda was sent off to Germany to be raised and prepared there for her future role as queen and empress.

Matilda was married in January 1114, and even though disagreements between her new husband and the Pope meant that she was never officially crowned empress, she still adopted the title and used it for the rest of her life. Matilda also gained first-hand experience in leading and governing during her time in the Holy Roman Empire, as her husband left her in charge as regent several times during his absences. In 1118, Matilda ruled Henry’s Italian holdings while he put down a rebellion in Germany, yet despite being only 16, she proved herself to be effective and capable in the role. These experiences undoubtedly shaped her belief in a woman’s ability to govern, which would play a significant role in her future.  

Empress Matilda

Catastrophe in the Channel

Disaster struck Matilda’s family in 1120 when her brother, William, drowned in the sinking of the White Ship as it sailed from Normandy back to England. Despite his numerous illegitimate offspring, Matilda’s father never had any further legitimate sons, and his queen had died two years before. Henry I remarried quickly, hoping to produce another legitimate heir, but suddenly the future of the English crown was very much in question. 

The sinking of the White Ship, 1120

Despite the uncertainty in her homeland, Matilda remained secure and settled until May 1125, when her husband also passed away. Henry V left her with lands and property in Germany, and though she seemed content to remain in her adopted country, her father demanded her return to England. Matilda initially resisted, but as she was his sole remaining heir, she capitulated eventually. 

Oaths in England

Matilda had returned to her father’s court by Christmastime 1126. Despite his remarriage to Adeliza of Louvain nearly six years before, Henry I still had no new son, and he realized that he must make arrangements of some kind to protect the kingdom in the event of his death. He took the unusual step of commanding his barons to swear fealty to his only living heir, Matilda. 

Even though Matilda was now recognized as his heir, Henry I never envisioned a future where she fully occupied the English throne herself, alone and in her own right. Instead, he looked to Matilda to do what he could not: remarry and produce a son, who would then inherit his grandfather’s throne. Matilda’s primary role was to be the bridge between generations, safeguarding the Norman kingship until her son could don the crown. In 1127, Henry announced his choice for his daughter’s next husband: Geoffrey of Anjou, the son of Henry’s old enemy.

Geoffrey of Anjou

An Angevin Alliance?

Henry I might have been pleased with his announcement, but he was nearly the only one who was. Matilda was furious; she despised her intended, who was 11 years her junior, as an immature boy, and she considered him to be wildly inferior in terms of noble rank. How could she, an empress, even consider marrying the son of a mere count? It was unthinkable!

Many of the English barons disliked the idea as well. Historically, Normandy and Anjou had been tense rivals, so those barons with a Norman background instinctively mistrusted their longtime enemies. Nor did they want any Angevin getting so close to the English throne; the prevailing assumption of the time was that the husband was in charge in any marriage, regardless of social rank, so the barons feared Geoffrey’s interference if he became Matilda’s spouse. 

Rather than viewing the situation as a risk, Henry I saw it as an opportunity to eliminate an enemy and further safeguard the Anglo-Norman holdings. By creating an alliance with Anjou, he intended to protect Normandy’s southern borders and reduce the risk of invasion on the edges of his territory. So regardless of his daughter’s rage and the misgivings of his barons, Henry proceeded with the marriage negotiations. 

A New Hope

Matilda’s second marriage took place in 1128. Despite several years of tumultuous relations between Geoffrey and Matilda, their first son was born in 1133. This newest Henry, known as Henry Plantagenet (after his father’s family) or as Henry FitzEmpress (meaning “son of the empress”), carried all his family’s weighty ambitions on his tiny shoulders.

With baby Henry’s birth, it looked as though all of his grandfather’s plans were coming to fruition. All the old king needed to do now was hold things together for a few more years, and then the dynastic disaster triggered by the White Ship’s sinking would be averted. Unfortunately for England, fate had other plans.

Betrayal or Absolution?

Little more than two years later, Henry I fell ill and died on December 1, 1135. Most accounts reported that Henry reaffirmed Matilda as his heir on his deathbed, but some later swore that in his last moments, Henry absolved his barons of their previous oaths, clearing the way for another claimant to the throne.

That claimant was Henry’s nephew, Stephen of Blois. Stephen had long been close to the old king and had sworn his own oaths to Matilda, yet upon hearing the news of his uncle’s death, he raced to London to claim the crown.

King Stephen

On the other side of the Channel, Matilda had been counting on the loyalty of the English barons to preserve the throne for herself and her son. Some did remain true, but many switched allegiances and accepted Stephen instead. Whether they did so because they believed that Henry I had actually changed his mind (or at least chose to believe so to ease their consciences after breaking their oaths), or because they feared the combination of an unprecedented female ruler with a distrusted Angevin consort, the outcome was the same: suddenly, Matilda found herself without the support of the nobles she needed.

An Aside About Kingship

At this point in our story, we should recall that in 12th century England, kingship did not transfer from one ruler to another the same way it did in later centuries. At this time, the passage of the crown from father to heir was not yet assumed as an established custom, nor was there any automatic conferral of kingship to the next heir at the exact time of the previous king’s death. The previous ruler had the right to name his successor, whether that be a blood relative or not, but until certain formalities were undertaken by or on behalf of that successor, the country was leaderless and vulnerable.

Taken together, these nuances meant that not only was the crown NOT automatically assumed to belong to Henry I’s child (and/or designated heir), but also that as of the moment Henry I took his last breath, there was no king – and therefore no king’s laws – in England until the next ruler was determined. No wonder so many people of England were content to embrace the first claimant, a man who did have a reasonable familial claim to the throne, in order to preserve peace and order. 

Anarchy

Based on what we’ve already witnessed about Matilda’s nature, you will likely not be surprised to learn that she did not simply accept that Stephen got the better of the situation. Instead, Matilda started planning her path to reclaiming her rightful inheritance. In 1139, the Empress was joined by her half-brother, Robert of Gloucester. Robert was  thought to be Henry I’s favorite illegitimate son, and though he initially accepted Stephen’s usurpation, he soon came to regret that decision. He fully committed his resources and military experience to asserting his half-sister’s claim.

The next several years, which later became known as the Anarchy, were a difficult time for the people of England. Civil war broke out and battles between Stephen’s troops and Matilda’s forces, led by Robert, took place across the country, causing damage and disrupting lives. Neither side seemed able to gain and hold an advantage as the tide of momentum swept back and forth. 

In February 1141, it seemed that Stephen’s luck had run out. He was captured at Lincoln and taken prisoner, and for several months that summer, Matilda was recognized as ruler and known as the Lady of the English. Then in September, it was Matilda’s turn to suffer a grave setback, as Robert of Gloucester was captured and Matilda was forced to negotiate a prisoner exchange with Stephen’s wife. Stephen was released in exchange for Robert’s return, and any gains the Empress had made vanished.

Depiction of the Battle of Lincoln, from Historia Anglorum

Late in the spring of 1142, Stephen besieged Matilda at Oxford, and it appeared that he might finally claim the victory. Yet Matilda escaped by night with a handful of knights as escorts; they wore white cloaks to blend in with the snowy landscape, then escaped through Stephen’s lines and traveled six miles to safety. She had eluded Stephen once more, but still neither side gained a significant advantage.

Periods of fighting persisted until 1147, when Robert of Gloucester, Matilda’s staunchest ally and vital supporter, passed away. Worn down and without her chief commander, Matilda relinquished her fight to gain the throne for herself, and instead passed her claim on to her son, Henry, to pursue.

Reaching a Resolution

Henry FitzEmpress engaged Stephen’s forces in battle now and again over the following years until 1153, when after a period of stalemate, supporters of both Henry and Stephen urged them to make a settlement. In early August, the two men finally reached agreement on the Treaty of Wallingford. Under the terms of the treaty, Stephen would remain king, but Henry would be named Stephen’s heir and would assume the throne after his death.

Stephen died on October 25, 1154, exhausted after the long fight for his kingdom and the recent deaths of his wife and son. Henry II was crowned king in Westminster Abbey on December 19, 1154, becoming the first king of the Plantagenet dynasty. That dynasty would go on to rule England for over 300 years, until the battle of Bosworth in 1485 saw the last Plantagenet king slain in battle and the crown picked up by a new dynasty: the Tudors.

King Henry II
Empress Matilda

As for Matilda, she spent her remaining years counseling her son and serving as his regent in Normandy. Upon her death in 1167, she was buried in the abbey of Bec-Hellouin. Her inscription reads ‘Great by birth, greater by marriage, greatest in her offspring, here lies the daughter, wife and mother of Henry.’ 

And that, folks, is how the Plantagenet dynasty got its start – but it’s just that, a start! We’ll have plenty more to learn from this exciting, if contentious, family line.

Related post: learn about the botanical basis of the dynasty’s name!

Sources and Further Reading

Norton, E. (2015). England’s Queens: From Boudica to Elizabeth of York. Amberley. 

Lewis, M. (2019). Stephen and Matilda’s civil war. Pen & Sword History. 

SPENCER, C. (2021). The White Ship: Conquest, Anarchy and the Wrecking of Henry I’s Dream. William Collins. 

Jones, D. (2014). The Plantagenets: The Warrior Kings and Queens Who Made England. Penguin Books

https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/matilda-daughter-of-henry-i-a-queen-in-a-kings-world/

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From Thomas More’s illustrated manuscript on the coronation of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon (1509)

Pomegranate. Rose. Neither of these blooming beauties are likely to strike fear into one’s heart at their mere mention of their names, yet almost 500 years ago this week, the Pomegranate did indeed defy England’s royal Rose.  

No, this description isn’t of some type of horticultural Street Fighter matchup (though that DOES sound interesting).  Instead, it refers to medieval European emblems that were used to represent important families and individuals. In an age when most of the population was illiterate, recognizable symbolism played a key role in communicating a person’s identity, prestige and societal rank.  Chosen not simply according to personal preference but often for a common symbolic meaning, the choice of one’s heraldic emblem or badge could convey a message about its owner’s character, aspirations, and even lineage.

A pomegranate tree

The Pomegranate:  Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England

The pomegranate has a long and symbolic history in much of the Mediterranean region, including the ancient Egyptian, Jewish and Greek cultures. The many seeds of its fruit represented fertility, life and marriage, and its rounded shape could represent an imperial orb, symbolizing imperial rule. With such associations, the pomegranate was a fitting emblem of Katherine of Aragon, daughter of those renowned Spanish monarchs, Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile. 

Katherine was born on December 16, 1485, and although she was the youngest daughter, she was engaged to the Prince of Wales at only three and was raised to be a capable queen. The Treaty of Medina del Campo not only secured Katherine’s future, it also created an alliance between Spain and England against France. When Katherine wed into the Tudor family (marrying first her betrothed, Arthur, and after his death marrying his younger brother, Henry VIII), her pomegranate was established within English heraldry, joining his Tudor rose as the visual representation of the monarchy.  

Katherine of Aragon’s pomegranate badge

The Rose:  Henry VIII, King of England

Roses were a popular emblem around the world during the medieval and early modern periods, rich in symbolism in many cultures. In Europe, faithfulness, enduring affection and beauty were among the secular qualities associated with the rose, while Christian imagery often associated the white rose with the Virgin Mary’s purity and the red rose with Christ’s blood.

Roses had long been used in English royal imagery, and when Henry Tudor claimed the English throne after his victory at the Battle of Bosworth, he combined the red rose of his house of Lancaster with the white rose of defeated house of York to create the symbol of his new dynasty, a single red and white rose that symbolized the peace and unity he hoped to achieve.  This Tudor rose was adopted by his son and heir, who became Henry VIII upon his father’s death.

The Tudor rose represented the houses of York and Lancaster united

Alliance and Marriage

Seven years after the death of Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales and Katherine’s first husband, hopes for the continued friendship between England and Spain were bolstered when Henry VIII, newly ascended to the throne, chose Katherine as his wife and queen in a love match.  They were married and crowned together at Westminster Abbey in 1509. All appeared rosy indeed. 

Katherine and Henry’s celebrity marriage may have started as a fairytale-come-true, but the pressures of 16th-century king- and- queenship could take its toll on the best of relationships. After England had suffered decades of civil war during the Wars of the Roses, ensuring a smooth succession from father to son was a vital necessity for the new Tudor dynasty.  Henry and Katherine now desperately needed a boy to raise and prepare to take over his father’s throne.  

The coronation of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon, featuring the Tudor rose and Katherine’s pomegranate (woodcut, 16th c.)

‘The King’s Great Matter’

Sadly, despite their best efforts – Katherine had at least six pregnancies during their marriage – only one of their children survived to adulthood. That child, Mary I, went on to occupy the English throne, but Henry was not satisfied with leaving his kingdom to a female. By the late 1520s, Henry became convinced that their lack of surviving male children was proof that God did not approve of his marriage to Katherine. (Why? That’s the subject of a separate post, dear reader, but some of the sources listed below may satisfy your curiosity in the meantime.) In Henry’s mind, he needed a new wife – one that would please God – and fast.  

As Henry discovered, ending a marriage in the early 16th century wasn’t as easy as he (and his lord chancellor, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey) had hoped. They appealed to the Pope to annul Henry’s marriage to Katherine, but Pope Clement VII was reluctant to angering Katherine’s parents, his strong supporter. Clement forestalled making the decision by sending his representative to England to hear Henry’s case and pass judgment on what became known as The King’s Great Matter.  

Cardinal Thomas Wolsey

The Pomegranate with an Iron Spine

In June 1529, Cardinal Campeggio, the papal legate, opened a court session to essentially put the marriage of Henry VII and Katherine of Aragon on trial.  On June 21, both Henry and Katherine were seated in the impressive Parliament Hall of Blackfriars Friary, and both were officially called into the court.  Henry idly announced his presence, expecting all the hubbub to be merely a formality.  

Katherine, however, was not a meek or timid woman who was content to have her fate (and subsequently that of her daughter, Mary) decided by a king’s whim.  Instead of responding demurely when the court’s clerk called her name, Katherine rose and presented herself not in front of the Legatine Court, but directly in front of Henry.  She fell to her knees and addressed him plainly, as her husband, calling him to account for the injustice being dealt to her.  

Katherine of Aragon appealing to Henry VIII before the Legatine Council

Contemporary writer George Cavendish recorded her words:   

Sir, I beseech you for all the love that hath been between us, and for the love of God, let me have justice. Take of me some pity and compassion, for I am a poor woman, and a stranger born out of your dominion. I have here no assured friends, and much less impartial counsel…

Alas! Sir, wherein have I offended you, or what occasion of displeasure have I deserved?… I have been to you a true, humble and obedient wife, ever comfortable to your will and pleasure, that never said or did any thing to the contrary thereof, being always well pleased and contented with all things wherein you had any delight or dalliance, whether it were in little or much. I never grudged in word or countenance, or showed a visage or spark of discontent. I loved all those whom ye loved, only for your sake, whether I had cause or no, and whether they were my friends or enemies. This twenty years or more I have been your true wife and by me ye have had divers children, although it hath pleased God to call them out of this world, which hath been no default in me…

When ye had me at first, I take God to my judge, I was a true maid, without touch of man. And whether it be true or no, I put it to your conscience. If there be any just cause by the law that ye can allege against me either of dishonesty or any other impediment to banish and put me from you, I am well content to depart to my great shame and dishonour. And if there be none, then here, I most lowly beseech you, let me remain in my former estate… Therefore, I most humbly require you, in the way of charity and for the love of God – who is the just judge – to spare me the extremity of this new court, until I may be advised what way and order my friends in Spain will advise me to take. And if ye will not extend to me so much impartial favour, your pleasure then be fulfilled, and to God I commit my cause!

Henry and the Counsel were, understandably, stunned by the power of her words and by her temerity in speaking so against the king’s obvious will. Katherine curtsied to Henry, then turned on her heel and glided from the courtroom, her ladies following.  Astounded, the clerk cried for her to return to her seat, but Katherine kept her head high and her eyes forward, declaring without turning  “On, on, it makes no matter, for it is no impartial court for me, therefore I will not tarry.”  

Katherine of Aragon in later years

Katherine ultimately lost her battle to retain her place as queen, but her impassioned speech that day at Blackfriars proved once again that she was no wilting flower.  The Pomegranate of Spain was a formidable woman indeed.  

Sources and Further Reading

https://www.hrp.org.uk/hampton-court-palace/history-and-stories/katherine-of-aragon/#gs.4sxvzn

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Catherine-of-Aragon

https://thetudortravelguide.com/2019/06/08/blackfriars/

https://janetwertman.com/2017/06/21/june-21-1529-catherine-of-aragons-epic-speech-at-blackfriars/

Touw, Mia. “Roses in the Middle Ages.” Economic Botany 36, no. 1 (1982): 71-83. Accessed June 26, 2021. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4254352

https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/sir-thomas-more-writing-on-the-coronation-of-henry-viii

https://nerdalicious.com.au/books/royal-library-the-rose-and-pomegranate-henry-viii-and-katherine-of-aragon/

www.tudorsociety.com/the-pregnancies-of-katherine-of-aragon-by-sarah-bryson/

https://royalarmouries.org/stories/queen-katherine-of-aragon/

https://www.hrp.org.uk/hampton-court-palace/history-and-stories/katherine-of-aragon/#gs.4sxvzn

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Catherine-of-Aragon

https://thetudortravelguide.com/2019/06/08/blackfriars/

https://janetwertman.com/2017/06/21/june-21-1529-catherine-of-aragons-epic-speech-at-blackfriars/

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This past week, we marked the 529th anniversary of the death and burial of Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of England as the wife of Edward IV from 1464-1483, and a member of the last generation of Plantagenet rulers.  

Elizabeth was born circa 1437 to Sir Richard Woodville (alternately spelled Wydville, Widvile or Wydeville) and Jacquetta of Luxembourg*, Dowager Duchess of Bedford, probably at Grafton Manor in Northamptonshire.  Her first marriage to Sir John Grey of Groby Hall produced two sons, Thomas and Richard, before John was killed fighting for the Lancastrian side at the Second Battle of St. Albans, part of the Wars of the Roses.  

Elizabeth’s glamorous second marriage to Edward IV, the victorious Yorkist claimant to the English throne, raised eyebrows amongst nobility and commoners alike, as it had been expected that Edward would marry a princess from France or elsewhere on the Continent.  Despite the resulting public shock and Edward’s frequent infidelity, the couple had 10 children, including future English queen Elizabeth of York, and the two ill-fated Princes in the Tower, Edvard V and Richard of York. She was also the grandmother of that most notorious English king, Henry VIII.

After her daughter Elizabeth of York married the Lancastrian heir Henry VII, Elizabeth Woodville retired to Bermondsey Abbey in London, where she remained until her death on June 8th, 1492.  She is buried with her second husband, Edward IV, in St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle. 

Elizabeth chose as her emblem the gillyflower, which was the predecessor of the pink (referring to its pinked edges, not its color) or clove pink and carnation.  Symbolizing virtuous love and marriage, and perhaps reminding viewers of the Virgin Mary’s chastity and motherhood, it is pictured surrounding Elizabeth in her coronation robes in the Worshipful Company of Skinners’ Fraternity Book (pictured below).

The gillyflower had medicinal value in addition to its symbolic uses, as recorded by two noted early modern herbalists. Nicholas Culpeper wrote that the gillyflower is “good to remove all difficulty of breathing, and helps the cough; they also provoke the courses and urine, and by bathing or sitting over the decoction it causes perspiration.”

John Gerard distinguished between the Clove Gillofloures and Pinks, or wilde Gillofloures.  The former, he said, when made into a conserve with sugar, will “comfort the heart” when occasionally eaten.  The latter have no medical purpose in Gerard’s estimation, but they are to be enjoyed as part of floral arrangements.

*Jacquetta should in no way be overlooked; an influential and fascinating figure in her own right, she is the subject of my independent research project, and I can’t wait to share the story of this remarkable woman with the world!  Watch this space for further updates. 

Sources and further reading: 

Sutton, Anne F. and Livia Visser-Fuchs (1997). The Device of Queen Elizabeth Woodville: A Gillyflower or Pink. The Ricardian. Vol. 11. (Issue no.136). Pp 17-24. http://www.thericardian.online/downloads/Ricardian/11-136/04.pdf

Culpeper, Nicholas. Culpeper’s English Physician And Complete Herbal. London, UK: Forgotten Books (2015).

Gerard, John and Marcus Woodward (1927). The Herball or Generall Historie of Plantes. London, UK: Gerald Howe.

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