ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER
If any of the English Barons remembered the murdered Arthur’s sister,
Eleanor the fair maid of Brittany, shut up in her convent at Bristol,
none among them spoke of her now, or maintained her right to the Crown.
The dead Usurper’s eldest boy, Henry by name, was taken by the Earl of
Pembroke, the Marshal of England, to the city of Gloucester, and there
crowned in great haste when he was only ten years old. As the Crown
itself had been lost with the King’s treasure in the raging water, and
as there was no time to make another, they put a circle of plain gold
upon his head instead. ‘We have been the enemies of this child’s
father,’ said Lord Pembroke, a good and true gentleman, to the few
Lords who were present, ‘and he merited our ill-will; but the child
himself is innocent, and his youth demands our friendship and
protection.’ Those Lords felt tenderly towards the little boy,
remembering their own young children; and they bowed their heads, and
said, ‘Long live King Henry the Third!’
Next, a great council met at Bristol, revised Magna Charta, and made
Lord Pembroke Regent or Protector of England, as the King was too young
to reign alone. The next thing to be done, was to get rid of Prince
Louis of France, and to win over those English Barons who were still
ranged under his banner. He was strong in many parts of England, and in
London itself; and he held, among other places, a certain Castle called
the Castle of Mount Sorel, in Leicestershire. To this fortress, after
some skirmishing and truce-making, Lord Pembroke laid siege. Louis
despatched an army of six hundred knights and twenty thousand soldiers
to relieve it. Lord Pembroke, who was not strong enough for such a
force, retired with all his men. The army of the French Prince, which
had marched there with fire and plunder, marched away with fire and
plunder, and came, in a boastful swaggering manner, to Lincoln. The
town submitted; but the Castle in the town, held by a brave widow lady,
named Nichola de Camville (whose property it was), made such a sturdy
resistance, that the French Count in command of the army of the French
Prince found it necessary to besiege this Castle. While he was thus
engaged, word was brought to him that Lord Pembroke, with four hundred
knights, two hundred and fifty men with cross-bows, and a stout force
both of horse and foot, was marching towards him. ‘What care I?’ said
the French Count. ‘The Englishman is not so mad as to attack me and my
great army in a walled town!’ But the Englishman did it for all that,
and did it—not so madly but so wisely, that he decoyed the great army
into the narrow, ill-paved lanes and byways of Lincoln, where its
horse-soldiers could not ride in any strong body; and there he made
such havoc with them, that the whole force surrendered themselves
prisoners, except the Count; who said that he would never yield to any
English traitor alive, and accordingly got killed. The end of this
victory, which the English called, for a joke, the Fair of Lincoln, was
the usual one in those times—the common men were slain without any
mercy, and the knights and gentlemen paid ransom and went home.
The wife of Louis, the fair Blanche of Castile, dutifully equipped a
fleet of eighty good ships, and sent it over from France to her
husband’s aid. An English fleet of forty ships, some good and some bad,
gallantly met them near the mouth of the Thames, and took or sunk
sixty-five in one fight. This great loss put an end to the French
Prince’s hopes. A treaty was made at Lambeth, in virtue of which the
English Barons who had remained attached to his cause returned to their
allegiance, and it was engaged on both sides that the Prince and all
his troops should retire peacefully to France. It was time to go; for
war had made him so poor that he was obliged to borrow money from the
citizens of London to pay his expenses home.
Lord Pembroke afterwards applied himself to governing the country
justly, and to healing the quarrels and disturbances that had arisen
among men in the days of the bad King John. He caused Magna Charta to
be still more improved, and so amended the Forest Laws that a Peasant
was no longer put to death for killing a stag in a Royal Forest, but
was only imprisoned. It would have been well for England if it could
have had so good a Protector many years longer, but that was not to be.
Within three years after the young King’s Coronation, Lord Pembroke
died; and you may see his tomb, at this day, in the old Temple Church
in London.
The Protectorship was now divided. Peter de Roches, whom King John had
made Bishop of Winchester, was entrusted with the care of the person of
the young sovereign; and the exercise of the Royal authority was
confided to Earl Hubert de Burgh. These two personages had from the
first no liking for each other, and soon became enemies. When the young
King was declared of age, Peter de Roches, finding that Hubert
increased in power and favour, retired discontentedly, and went abroad.
For nearly ten years afterwards Hubert had full sway alone.
But ten years is a long time to hold the favour of a King. This King,
too, as he grew up, showed a strong resemblance to his father, in
feebleness, inconsistency, and irresolution. The best that can be said
of him is that he was not cruel. De Roches coming home again, after ten
years, and being a novelty, the King began to favour him and to look
coldly on Hubert. Wanting money besides, and having made Hubert rich,
he began to dislike Hubert. At last he was made to believe, or
pretended to believe, that Hubert had misappropriated some of the Royal
treasure; and ordered him to furnish an account of all he had done in
his administration. Besides which, the foolish charge was brought
against Hubert that he had made himself the King’s favourite by magic.
Hubert very well knowing that he could never defend himself against
such nonsense, and that his old enemy must be determined on his ruin,
instead of answering the charges fled to Merton Abbey. Then the King,
in a violent passion, sent for the Mayor of London, and said to the
Mayor, ‘Take twenty thousand citizens, and drag me Hubert de Burgh out
of that abbey, and bring him here.’ The Mayor posted off to do it, but
the Archbishop of Dublin (who was a friend of Hubert’s) warning the
King that an abbey was a sacred place, and that if he committed any
violence there, he must answer for it to the Church, the King changed
his mind and called the Mayor back, and declared that Hubert should
have four months to prepare his defence, and should be safe and free
during that time.
Hubert, who relied upon the King’s word, though I think he was old
enough to have known better, came out of Merton Abbey upon these
conditions, and journeyed away to see his wife: a Scottish Princess who
was then at St. Edmund’s-Bury.
Almost as soon as he had departed from the Sanctuary, his enemies
persuaded the weak King to send out one Sir Godfrey de Crancumb, who
commanded three hundred vagabonds called the Black Band, with orders to
seize him. They came up with him at a little town in Essex, called
Brentwood, when he was in bed. He leaped out of bed, got out of the
house, fled to the church, ran up to the altar, and laid his hand upon
the cross. Sir Godfrey and the Black Band, caring neither for church,
altar, nor cross, dragged him forth to the church door, with their
drawn swords flashing round his head, and sent for a Smith to rivet a
set of chains upon him. When the Smith (I wish I knew his name!) was
brought, all dark and swarthy with the smoke of his forge, and panting
with the speed he had made; and the Black Band, falling aside to show
him the Prisoner, cried with a loud uproar, ‘Make the fetters heavy!
make them strong!’ the Smith dropped upon his knee—but not to the Black
Band—and said, ‘This is the brave Earl Hubert de Burgh, who fought at
Dover Castle, and destroyed the French fleet, and has done his country
much good service. You may kill me, if you like, but I will never make
a chain for Earl Hubert de Burgh!’
The Black Band never blushed, or they might have blushed at this. They
knocked the Smith about from one to another, and swore at him, and tied
the Earl on horseback, undressed as he was, and carried him off to the
Tower of London. The Bishops, however, were so indignant at the
violation of the Sanctuary of the Church, that the frightened King soon
ordered the Black Band to take him back again; at the same time
commanding the Sheriff of Essex to prevent his escaping out of
Brentwood Church. Well! the Sheriff dug a deep trench all round the
church, and erected a high fence, and watched the church night and day;
the Black Band and their Captain watched it too, like three hundred and
one black wolves. For thirty-nine days, Hubert de Burgh remained
within. At length, upon the fortieth day, cold and hunger were too much
for him, and he gave himself up to the Black Band, who carried him off,
for the second time, to the Tower. When his trial came on, he refused
to plead; but at last it was arranged that he should give up all the
royal lands which had been bestowed upon him, and should be kept at the
Castle of Devizes, in what was called ‘free prison,’ in charge of four
knights appointed by four lords. There, he remained almost a year,
until, learning that a follower of his old enemy the Bishop was made
Keeper of the Castle, and fearing that he might be killed by treachery,
he climbed the ramparts one dark night, dropped from the top of the
high Castle wall into the moat, and coming safely to the ground, took
refuge in another church. From this place he was delivered by a party
of horse despatched to his help by some nobles, who were by this time
in revolt against the King, and assembled in Wales. He was finally
pardoned and restored to his estates, but he lived privately, and never
more aspired to a high post in the realm, or to a high place in the
King’s favour. And thus end—more happily than the stories of many
favourites of Kings—the adventures of Earl Hubert de Burgh.
The nobles, who had risen in revolt, were stirred up to rebellion by
the overbearing conduct of the Bishop of Winchester, who, finding that
the King secretly hated the Great Charter which had been forced from
his father, did his utmost to confirm him in that dislike, and in the
preference he showed to foreigners over the English. Of this, and of
his even publicly declaring that the Barons of England were inferior to
those of France, the English Lords complained with such bitterness,
that the King, finding them well supported by the clergy, became
frightened for his throne, and sent away the Bishop and all his foreign
associates. On his marriage, however, with Eleanor, a French lady, the
daughter of the Count of Provence, he openly favoured the foreigners
again; and so many of his wife’s relations came over, and made such an
immense family-party at court, and got so many good things, and
pocketed so much money, and were so high with the English whose money
they pocketed, that the bolder English Barons murmured openly about a
clause there was in the Great Charter, which provided for the
banishment of unreasonable favourites. But, the foreigners only laughed
disdainfully, and said, ‘What are your English laws to us?’
King Philip of France had died, and had been succeeded by Prince Louis,
who had also died after a short reign of three years, and had been
succeeded by his son of the same name—so moderate and just a man that
he was not the least in the world like a King, as Kings went. Isabella,
King Henry’s mother, wished very much (for a certain spite she had)
that England should make war against this King; and, as King Henry was
a mere puppet in anybody’s hands who knew how to manage his feebleness,
she easily carried her point with him. But, the Parliament were
determined to give him no money for such a war. So, to defy the
Parliament, he packed up thirty large casks of silver—I don’t know how
he got so much; I dare say he screwed it out of the miserable Jews—and
put them aboard ship, and went away himself to carry war into France:
accompanied by his mother and his brother Richard, Earl of Cornwall,
who was rich and clever. But he only got well beaten, and came home.
The good-humour of the Parliament was not restored by this. They
reproached the King with wasting the public money to make greedy
foreigners rich, and were so stern with him, and so determined not to
let him have more of it to waste if they could help it, that he was at
his wit’s end for some, and tried so shamelessly to get all he could
from his subjects, by excuses or by force, that the people used to say
the King was the sturdiest beggar in England. He took the Cross,
thinking to get some money by that means; but, as it was very well
known that he never meant to go on a crusade, he got none. In all this
contention, the Londoners were particularly keen against the King, and
the King hated them warmly in return. Hating or loving, however, made
no difference; he continued in the same condition for nine or ten
years, when at last the Barons said that if he would solemnly confirm
their liberties afresh, the Parliament would vote him a large sum.
As he readily consented, there was a great meeting held in Westminster
Hall, one pleasant day in May, when all the clergy, dressed in their
robes and holding every one of them a burning candle in his hand, stood
up (the Barons being also there) while the Archbishop of Canterbury
read the sentence of excommunication against any man, and all men, who
should henceforth, in any way, infringe the Great Charter of the
Kingdom. When he had done, they all put out their burning candles with
a curse upon the soul of any one, and every one, who should merit that
sentence. The King concluded with an oath to keep the Charter, ‘As I am
a man, as I am a Christian, as I am a Knight, as I am a King!’
It was easy to make oaths, and easy to break them; and the King did
both, as his father had done before him. He took to his old courses
again when he was supplied with money, and soon cured of their weakness
the few who had ever really trusted him. When his money was gone, and
he was once more borrowing and begging everywhere with a meanness
worthy of his nature, he got into a difficulty with the Pope respecting
the Crown of Sicily, which the Pope said he had a right to give away,
and which he offered to King Henry for his second son, Prince Edmund.
But, if you or I give away what we have not got, and what belongs to
somebody else, it is likely that the person to whom we give it, will
have some trouble in taking it. It was exactly so in this case. It was
necessary to conquer the Sicilian Crown before it could be put upon
young Edmund’s head. It could not be conquered without money. The Pope
ordered the clergy to raise money. The clergy, however, were not so
obedient to him as usual; they had been disputing with him for some
time about his unjust preference of Italian Priests in England; and
they had begun to doubt whether the King’s chaplain, whom he allowed to
be paid for preaching in seven hundred churches, could possibly be,
even by the Pope’s favour, in seven hundred places at once. ‘The Pope
and the King together,’ said the Bishop of London, ‘may take the mitre
off my head; but, if they do, they will find that I shall put on a
soldier’s helmet. I pay nothing.’ The Bishop of Worcester was as bold
as the Bishop of London, and would pay nothing either. Such sums as the
more timid or more helpless of the clergy did raise were squandered
away, without doing any good to the King, or bringing the Sicilian
Crown an inch nearer to Prince Edmund’s head. The end of the business
was, that the Pope gave the Crown to the brother of the King of France
(who conquered it for himself), and sent the King of England in, a bill
of one hundred thousand pounds for the expenses of not having won it.
The King was now so much distressed that we might almost pity him, if
it were possible to pity a King so shabby and ridiculous. His clever
brother, Richard, had bought the title of King of the Romans from the
German people, and was no longer near him, to help him with advice. The
clergy, resisting the very Pope, were in alliance with the Barons. The
Barons were headed by Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, married to
King Henry’s sister, and, though a foreigner himself, the most popular
man in England against the foreign favourites. When the King next met
his Parliament, the Barons, led by this Earl, came before him, armed
from head to foot, and cased in armour. When the Parliament again
assembled, in a month’s time, at Oxford, this Earl was at their head,
and the King was obliged to consent, on oath, to what was called a
Committee of Government: consisting of twenty-four members: twelve
chosen by the Barons, and twelve chosen by himself.
But, at a good time for him, his brother Richard came back. Richard’s
first act (the Barons would not admit him into England on other terms)
was to swear to be faithful to the Committee of Government—which he
immediately began to oppose with all his might. Then, the Barons began
to quarrel among themselves; especially the proud Earl of Gloucester
with the Earl of Leicester, who went abroad in disgust. Then, the
people began to be dissatisfied with the Barons, because they did not
do enough for them. The King’s chances seemed so good again at length,
that he took heart enough—or caught it from his brother—to tell the
Committee of Government that he abolished them—as to his oath, never
mind that, the Pope said!—and to seize all the money in the Mint, and
to shut himself up in the Tower of London. Here he was joined by his
eldest son, Prince Edward; and, from the Tower, he made public a letter
of the Pope’s to the world in general, informing all men that he had
been an excellent and just King for five-and-forty years.
As everybody knew he had been nothing of the sort, nobody cared much
for this document. It so chanced that the proud Earl of Gloucester
dying, was succeeded by his son; and that his son, instead of being the
enemy of the Earl of Leicester, was (for the time) his friend. It fell
out, therefore, that these two Earls joined their forces, took several
of the Royal Castles in the country, and advanced as hard as they could
on London. The London people, always opposed to the King, declared for
them with great joy. The King himself remained shut up, not at all
gloriously, in the Tower. Prince Edward made the best of his way to
Windsor Castle. His mother, the Queen, attempted to follow him by
water; but, the people seeing her barge rowing up the river, and hating
her with all their hearts, ran to London Bridge, got together a
quantity of stones and mud, and pelted the barge as it came through,
crying furiously, ‘Drown the Witch! Drown her!’ They were so near doing
it, that the Mayor took the old lady under his protection, and shut her
up in St. Paul’s until the danger was past.
It would require a great deal of writing on my part, and a great deal
of reading on yours, to follow the King through his disputes with the
Barons, and to follow the Barons through their disputes with one
another—so I will make short work of it for both of us, and only relate
the chief events that arose out of these quarrels. The good King of
France was asked to decide between them. He gave it as his opinion that
the King must maintain the Great Charter, and that the Barons must give
up the Committee of Government, and all the rest that had been done by
the Parliament at Oxford: which the Royalists, or King’s party,
scornfully called the Mad Parliament. The Barons declared that these
were not fair terms, and they would not accept them. Then they caused
the great bell of St. Paul’s to be tolled, for the purpose of rousing
up the London people, who armed themselves at the dismal sound and
formed quite an army in the streets. I am sorry to say, however, that
instead of falling upon the King’s party with whom their quarrel was,
they fell upon the miserable Jews, and killed at least five hundred of
them. They pretended that some of these Jews were on the King’s side,
and that they kept hidden in their houses, for the destruction of the
people, a certain terrible composition called Greek Fire, which could
not be put out with water, but only burnt the fiercer for it. What they
really did keep in their houses was money; and this their cruel enemies
wanted, and this their cruel enemies took, like robbers and murderers.
The Earl of Leicester put himself at the head of these Londoners and
other forces, and followed the King to Lewes in Sussex, where he lay
encamped with his army. Before giving the King’s forces battle here,
the Earl addressed his soldiers, and said that King Henry the Third had
broken so many oaths, that he had become the enemy of God, and
therefore they would wear white crosses on their breasts, as if they
were arrayed, not against a fellow-Christian, but against a Turk.
White-crossed accordingly, they rushed into the fight. They would have
lost the day—the King having on his side all the foreigners in England:
and, from Scotland, John Comyn, John Baliol, and Robert Bruce, with all
their men—but for the impatience of Prince Edward, who, in his hot
desire to have vengeance on the people of London, threw the whole of
his father’s army into confusion. He was taken Prisoner; so was the
King; so was the King’s brother the King of the Romans; and five
thousand Englishmen were left dead upon the bloody grass.
For this success, the Pope excommunicated the Earl of Leicester: which
neither the Earl nor the people cared at all about. The people loved
him and supported him, and he became the real King; having all the
power of the government in his own hands, though he was outwardly
respectful to King Henry the Third, whom he took with him wherever he
went, like a poor old limp court-card. He summoned a Parliament (in the
year one thousand two hundred and sixty-five) which was the first
Parliament in England that the people had any real share in electing;
and he grew more and more in favour with the people every day, and they
stood by him in whatever he did.
Many of the other Barons, and particularly the Earl of Gloucester, who
had become by this time as proud as his father, grew jealous of this
powerful and popular Earl, who was proud too, and began to conspire
against him. Since the battle of Lewes, Prince Edward had been kept as
a hostage, and, though he was otherwise treated like a Prince, had
never been allowed to go out without attendants appointed by the Earl
of Leicester, who watched him. The conspiring Lords found means to
propose to him, in secret, that they should assist him to escape, and
should make him their leader; to which he very heartily consented.
So, on a day that was agreed upon, he said to his attendants after
dinner (being then at Hereford), ‘I should like to ride on horseback,
this fine afternoon, a little way into the country.’ As they, too,
thought it would be very pleasant to have a canter in the sunshine,
they all rode out of the town together in a gay little troop. When they
came to a fine level piece of turf, the Prince fell to comparing their
horses one with another, and offering bets that one was faster than
another; and the attendants, suspecting no harm, rode galloping matches
until their horses were quite tired. The Prince rode no matches
himself, but looked on from his saddle, and staked his money. Thus they
passed the whole merry afternoon. Now, the sun was setting, and they
were all going slowly up a hill, the Prince’s horse very fresh and all
the other horses very weary, when a strange rider mounted on a grey
steed appeared at the top of the hill, and waved his hat. ‘What does
the fellow mean?’ said the attendants one to another. The Prince
answered on the instant by setting spurs to his horse, dashing away at
his utmost speed, joining the man, riding into the midst of a little
crowd of horsemen who were then seen waiting under some trees, and who
closed around him; and so he departed in a cloud of dust, leaving the
road empty of all but the baffled attendants, who sat looking at one
another, while their horses drooped their ears and panted.
The Prince joined the Earl of Gloucester at Ludlow. The Earl of
Leicester, with a part of the army and the stupid old King, was at
Hereford. One of the Earl of Leicester’s sons, Simon de Montfort, with
another part of the army, was in Sussex. To prevent these two parts
from uniting was the Prince’s first object. He attacked Simon de
Montfort by night, defeated him, seized his banners and treasure, and
forced him into Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire, which belonged to
his family.
His father, the Earl of Leicester, in the meanwhile, not knowing what
had happened, marched out of Hereford, with his part of the army and
the King, to meet him. He came, on a bright morning in August, to
Evesham, which is watered by the pleasant river Avon. Looking rather
anxiously across the prospect towards Kenilworth, he saw his own
banners advancing; and his face brightened with joy. But, it clouded
darkly when he presently perceived that the banners were captured, and
in the enemy’s hands; and he said, ‘It is over. The Lord have mercy on
our souls, for our bodies are Prince Edward’s!’
He fought like a true Knight, nevertheless. When his horse was killed
under him, he fought on foot. It was a fierce battle, and the dead lay
in heaps everywhere. The old King, stuck up in a suit of armour on a
big war-horse, which didn’t mind him at all, and which carried him into
all sorts of places where he didn’t want to go, got into everybody’s
way, and very nearly got knocked on the head by one of his son’s men.
But he managed to pipe out, ‘I am Harry of Winchester!’ and the Prince,
who heard him, seized his bridle, and took him out of peril. The Earl
of Leicester still fought bravely, until his best son Henry was killed,
and the bodies of his best friends choked his path; and then he fell,
still fighting, sword in hand. They mangled his body, and sent it as a
present to a noble lady—but a very unpleasant lady, I should think—who
was the wife of his worst enemy. They could not mangle his memory in
the minds of the faithful people, though. Many years afterwards, they
loved him more than ever, and regarded him as a Saint, and always spoke
of him as ‘Sir Simon the Righteous.’
And even though he was dead, the cause for which he had fought still
lived, and was strong, and forced itself upon the King in the very hour
of victory. Henry found himself obliged to respect the Great Charter,
however much he hated it, and to make laws similar to the laws of the
Great Earl of Leicester, and to be moderate and forgiving towards the
people at last—even towards the people of London, who had so long
opposed him. There were more risings before all this was done, but they
were set at rest by these means, and Prince Edward did his best in all
things to restore peace. One Sir Adam de Gourdon was the last
dissatisfied knight in arms; but, the Prince vanquished him in single
combat, in a wood, and nobly gave him his life, and became his friend,
instead of slaying him. Sir Adam was not ungrateful. He ever afterwards
remained devoted to his generous conqueror.
When the troubles of the Kingdom were thus calmed, Prince Edward and
his cousin Henry took the Cross, and went away to the Holy Land, with
many English Lords and Knights. Four years afterwards the King of the
Romans died, and, next year (one thousand two hundred and seventy-two),
his brother the weak King of England died. He was sixty-eight years old
then, and had reigned fifty-six years. He was as much of a King in
death, as he had ever been in life. He was the mere pale shadow of a
King at all times.