Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors (27 page)

From there they spread all over England the news of their mistreatment by the would-be Earl of Leicester. It made a very bad beginning for a young Frenchman hoping to redeem an English title.

Another instance of the impact of the youthful Simon de Montfort on Leicester appears in the royal court’s legal records. The villeins of the Leicester fief brought suit against Simon for fencing their fields. He had done more than fence the fields—he had tried to persuade them away from the age-old three-field system of cultivation and toward the raising of sheep and cattle.

It may be that the depopulation of Leicester had made the three-field system too unproductive, with too many of the field rows going uncultivated. It is well to remember Montfort’s mentor again, the ubiquitous Robert Grosseteste, who had published the then most respected “modern” work on manor management.

It is unlikely Montfort ventured such a change without Grosseteste’s advice. As for the future of Leicester, woolen processing became its chief industry and remained so until after WWII.

But let’s go further back in time.

After the conquest of Britain by the Angles and Saxons and the division of Britain into the heptarchy, the “seven kingdoms,” in 753, Leicester became the capital city of the kingdom of Mercia.

The name “Leicester” derives from “Legre-caestre.” Lyger, or Legre, was the old name of the River Soar, which encloses two sides of the old city. If King Lear is not to be looked upon merely as mythical, then Leicester was the site of his castle.

There is a mysterious conical mound with a door set in it on the castle grounds. A fairy hill? My inquiries when I was there only gained the answer,
“It was where m’lord kept his wines.”
Well, that too—probably.

In 874, Leicester fell to the Danes. Its Roman walls protecting its perimeter (not the walls of the baths that became the Jewry) were destroyed, and the city became incorporated in the Danish “five boroughs,” which included Nottingham, Lincoln, Derby, and Stamford.

In 920, Ethelfloeda, the daughter of King Alfred, succeeded in raising an army and driving the Danes from Leicester, Derby, and Nottingham. She caused the Roman walls to be rebuilt, with an assortment of stone and Roman tiles cemented together with an extraordinarily sturdy mortar that adhered in clumps, making any subsequent reuse of the building materials all but impossible.

City and castle walls were knocked down and rebuilt regularly in medieval times. The Palestinian castle at Caesaria was disassembled and reassembled with every passing phase of Moslem or Christian crusading success. To not be able to reassemble the cut stones of a city or castle wall was an unusual and serious problem.

After Ethelfloeda’s death at Castle Tamworth in 922, Leicester passed back and forth between the Anglo-Saxons and the Danes, resulting in further demolition—no longer repairable thanks to Ethelfloeda’s mortar.

In 1068, the Saxon Earl Edwin of Coventry and Leicester (grandson of the minimally covered Lady Godiva of Coventry and Leicester—one always hopes that notable ride was in summertime) surrendered and did homage to William the Conqueror. Leicester passed to William’s follower Hugh de Grantmesnil as Norman governor.

After William’s death, Hugh supported Robert of Normandy, rather than William’s heir, William Rufus, or his brother Henry. When Henry succeeded as Henry I, Hugh retired to a monastery in France, and the king created his friend, Robert de Beaumont, the first Norman Earl of Leicester. After him came Robert de Bosso, who enjoyed the earldom for fifty years.

Then there was Robert “White Hands.” His son and heir, Robert FitzParnel, died without heirs and the inheritance of the earldom of Leicester passed to Father White Hands’ surviving sisters. One of those ladies was Margaret, the Countess of Winchester, the very one who welcomed the fleeing Jews—she already had complaints of her own against her grand-nephew for putting up his fences and encroaching on a corner of her lands. But Margaret only got twelve of the seventy-eight fiefs belonging to the earldom.

The other sister, who inherited the earldom’s titles and sixty-six fiefs, was the mother of Simon de Montfort Pere, the crusader and harrier of Albigensians. There was a prediction, in his time, that the people of England would rise up and elect Simon de Montfort their king. The crusader announced he would “
never set foot in a land given to such prophecies
.” And he never did.

Chartres window has roused a great deal of confusion regarding the arms of Simon, the Earl of Leicester, whose blazon, as depicted by his friend Matthew Paris in his
Chronica Majora
, shows a two-tailed,
red
lion rampant on a
white
ground—suitably differenced from his father white-lion-on-red arms as a younger son’s would be.

Simon Pere might have been disappointed if he had claimed his titles. Of those sixty-six fiefs, sixty were held by the knights whom the earl was expected to lead in battle. Most of those knights paid no rent, giving military service instead, although one of them was compelled, in lieu of rent, to deliver to the earl each year a single red rose. (This has echoes of
Beauty and the Beast
, but it’s true. One wonders how commonly acceptable a single rose was for the clearing of a debt. There were certain advantages to living in the Middle Ages.)

Simon de Montfort’s son and namesake, after the father’s death and the family’s relative bankruptcy, not only set foot in England, but did everything he could to gain the titles.

But fighting the Welsh for King Henry III accomplished little for him. It was when he fell in love with the King’s sister, who was a nun, and entered into a secret and hasty marriage with her—followed by a successful effort at bribing the Pope to lift the nun’s vows—that King Henry finally granted Simon the title Earl of Leicester and its companion honor, Steward of England.

A few decades later, much to Henry’s chagrin, the people of England did elect Simon de Montfort to be their king. Luckily for Henry, he refused the Crown.

With Simon’s death at Evesham, and the stripping from his sons of all of their claims of inheritance in England, Leicester passed to the Crown and became a bonus for royal relatives, enjoyed by a series of Lancastrians until John of Gaunt’s heir ascended the throne as Henry IV.

The earldom then remained in the Crown’s keeping again until Queen Elizabeth’s favorite, Robert Dudley, was granted the title in 1564.

With the fall of Dudley from royal favor, Leicester went back to the Crown—to be lobbed like a tennis ball out to the Sidney family in 1618, where it bounced happily for the next hundred and fifty years before a royal serve sent it to Thomas Coke. Strangely, Coke’s descendants didn’t receive the earldom after his death in 1795, but it was lobbed back to them in 1837, and has remained with the Coke family ever since, the Seventh Coke Earl of Leicester receiving the title in 1994.

Leicester’s chief industry, from the time of Earl Simon on, was the processing of wool. Prior to WWII, a major business was the lindsey-woolsey works, where a sturdy fabric of wool and linen was manufactured. During the war the factory was taken out of private hands for the war effort.

In recent years, Leicester has blossomed as an academic center, with Montfort University perhaps the largest and fastest growing educational institution in England. Earl Simon, whose statue is one of four ringing the base of the town clock, would be pleased.

Sources

Hollings, James Francis.
Roman Leicester
. The Literary and Philosophical Society, 1851.

Nichols, John.
History and Antiquities of the Town and County of Leicester
. 1795.

Staveley, Thomas.
History and Antiquities of the antient Towne and once Citte of Leicester
, MS. 1679 .

Stenton, F.M. “Documents Illustrative of the Social and Economic History of the Danelaw,”
British Academy
347 (1920).

Thompson, James.
History of Leicester from the Time of the Romans to the End of the Seventeenth Century
. 1849.

Throsby, John.
History and Antiquities of the Town of Leicester
. 1791.

Miniature Cathedrals: England’s Market Crosses

by Deborah Swift

T
here is a wonderful market cross at Kirkby Lonsdale, a town nea
r to where I live, where I sometimes go to shop or enjoy a pot of tea with friends. Seeing it made me curious to find out about other market crosses which are wonderful examples of miniature architecture, reflecting their time and the style of the day.

The primary purpose of wayside crosses was to remind the traveller that he was there but for the Grace of God:

for this reason ben Crosses by ye waye that whan folke passynge see the Crosse, they sholde thynke on Hym that deyed on the Crosse, and worsyppe Hym above all thynge

—Wynken de Worde, 1496

In Norman times crosses were often put up to define boundaries, particularly of a place of sanctuary. Within a mile of St. Wilfrid’s church in Ripon a man was safe, no matter what crime he had committed. Crosses were therefore erected on each of the five major roads leading into the town to show the boundaries of the sanctuary.

However, as time went on, these crosses developed a more secular use as landmarks, meeting places, and points of trade. They also became places where punishment was meted out under the eye of God as represented by the cross. Stocks and pillories are often to be found at their bases. In Oakham, the market cross, used to trade butter and other produce, has its stocks right up next to the cross.

In Wales, the market cross was used to hang the heads of foxes and wolves captured in the vicinity as well as to punish thieves—foxes and wolves being considered a type of thief. A reward was offered for the capture of a wolf which was the same price as that of the reward for a robber; dog foxes were worth 2s 6d and vixens 1s 6d as late as the middle of the nineteenth century. Examples of these crosses can be seen at Eglwyscummin and Amroth.

As time went on, the cross grew a roof, and the covered areas beneath the crosses were used for trade, particularly after the Reformation, when people were unsure whether they were still to be used as “places of worship” or whether these old monuments would be against the edicts of the King. But even as early as 1337, the market cross at Norwich was large enough to house a chapel and four shops—the early equivalent of the modern shopping mall!

The finest of these is at Chichester. Built in 1501, it is octagonal in shape, features eight flying buttresses with matching arches, and above it the pinnacle is a lantern spire, originally lit at night. Salisbury has a similar one but hexagonal. It is known as the Poultry Cross, presumably because poultry was sold there. There are other examples at Leighton Buzzard and Shepton Mallet.

One of the most famous “preaching crosses”, ones from which open air sermons were delivered, was Paul’s Cross, erected in the early 13th century near the wall of old St. Paul’s, London. Before it was pulled down in 1641, it was the scene of many historic events—mayors were elected under its shadow, heretics excommunicated there, and in 1588, the first news of the Armada’s defeat was announced from it to the public. Today few preaching crosses remain, except the
Black Friar’s Preaching Cross in Hereford
and the one at Iron Acton Gloucestershire.

In 1643, under Puritan rule, Parliament passed an act ordering all crosses in churches, chapels, and churchyards to be taken away, as “Monuments of Superstition and Idolatry”. This led to the destruction of many fine crosses including Charing Cross in London, although stones from this cross were later used to make the pavements in front of the Palace of Whitehall.

Enterprising sympathisers who wanted to retain their connection with the cross also made souvenirs by cutting and polishing the stone and using it as knife handles. This is the period that interested me when writing
The Gilded Lily
, which features some Puritan characters alongside the libertines of London.

My explorations into these crosses led me to explore what are known as “The Eleanor Crosses”, twelve crosses erected between 1291 and 1294. This became a whole separate interest, quite apart from the research I was doing for my books, and you can find out more about these beautiful monuments on my
blog
.

Relic in the Valley: St. Martin’s at Cwmiou

by Judith Arnopp

A
t the time of the crucifixion, when darkness swallowed the world, a great ea
rthquake struck the Vale of Ewyas, ripping a chunk from the side of the mountain above Cwmiou.

Today, nestled among ash, alder, and beech, the church of St. Martin seems to erupt from the undergrowth, the gravestones heaving and swaying in waves of bending grass. From the top of the graveyard, where the ancient stones stagger like an old man’s teeth, it looks as if the church has come to life and is lumbering off down the hill. And the feeling of disorientation does not end when you push open the heavy oak door and step inside.

The silence swallows you, the aroma of mildew and a thousand years of Christian faith seep from yellow internal walls that twist and buckle like a living thing, making your feet run off of their own accord as you progress along the Welsh flag-stoned aisle. As your brain battles to make sense of the odd angles, it is uncannily like being aboard ship. I expect you are wondering why.

The name “Cwmiou” or “Cwmyoy” translates as “the valley of the yoke” and refers to the shape of the mountain above, which resembles an oxen’s yoke.

The nature of the geology of the Honddu valley has caused the land to slowly shift and slide, and it is this land slippage, upon which the church was built, that has endowed St. Martin’s with its matchless charm.

There are no right angles at St. Martin’s. The tower lurches north (5.2” out of perpendicular), while the chancel arch and east window tilt alarmingly to the right. Consequently, it confuses the mind, confounds the senses—but there are other reasons besides this for visiting.

The church itself is a simple structure, consisting of nave, chancel, tower, and porch, dating from the 13th to 16th centuries. An original 15-16th century window bears some wonderful scrollwork, and a small stone stairway in the chancel leads to the remains of a rood loft, which was destroyed during the Reformation. (Just a little drive up the road at St. Issui’s church at Patricio there is a superb example of a 15th century rood loft and screen that you should really not miss if you ever make this journey.)

19th century restoration work saw some of the windows at St. Martin’s replaced, and it is believed that the plaster ceilings were removed at that time, but some examples of the original survive in the porch. To prevent further slippage, the church is now buttressed at the west end and large iron stays were added in the 1960s.

The church houses examples of the work of the Brute family, master masons from Llanbedr, who were active from the 1720s through to the 1840s. Thomas, Aaron, and John Brute worked in a distinctive style of artisan Rococo, and there is a fine collection of tombstones and memorials in this local tradition. Some examples are painted as well as carved, the fat little cherubs surrounded by Rococo wreaths of leaves and flowers.

Look out for some memorable epitaphs too, like the one on the grave of Thomas Price, who died in 1682.

Thomas Price he takes his nap

In our common mother lap

Waiting to heare the Bridegroome say

“Awake my dear and come away.”

Also of interest at St. Martin’s is a medieval stone cross that was dug up on a nearby farm in the 19th century. The cross is believed to be post-Norman, possibly a copy from an earlier cross or the design taken from a manuscript. It may well have been a cross marking the pilgrim’s route along the valley to Brecon and on to the cathedral at St. David’s. The font is also early medieval and the marks of the mason’s chisel still plainly to be seen.

In this area of unspoiled medieval churches, Cwmiou would be unremarkable were it not for its structural irregularities. I have never experienced a building like it, and it really
is
an experience.

The journey to Cwmiou is a pilgrimage in itself. Although it is not far from the busy market town of Abergavenny, you will need to watch out for stray sheep as you drive through sleepy hamlets and along corkscrewing, almost perpendicular lanes. As the sunlight flickers through the trees and you turn the last bend and glimpse the staggering walls of St. Martin’s peeking from the woods, you will know in that instant that you were right to come.

Welsh Idylls: St. Gwenog’s Church

by Judith Arnopp

J
ust a stone’s throw from my home in the parish of Llanwenog is St. Gwenog’s church. I have only rec
ently found the time to go and have a close look and thought I would share my visit with you.

The Church of St. Gwenog is delightful, and anyone in love with ancient churches and planning a trip to the area should put it on their list of places to visit. It is only a small building and does not take long to explore, but entering the church is like stepping into another world.

A memorable battle was fought in Llanwenog in 981, between the Dane Godfrid and the native Welsh chieftain, Eineon ab Owain, a battle in which the Danes were totally defeated. Nearby, there is a field on a farm named Ty Cam where the engagement is believed to have occurred. The field is called Cae’r Vaes, or roughly translated, “the battle field,” although whether the story has its root in fact or legend is open to debate.

In ancient, pagan times the word “Llan” was used to denote an enclosure or sacred place. Early Christians built their churches in such places in an attempt to displace older religions. By utilising ancient religious sites, Christian priests thought to encourage pagan worshippers to abandon the old gods and adopt the new teachings.

There are many such sites in Wales, and Llanwenog is possibly one of the oldest for, although most of the extant building dates back to the 13th century, the foundation of the earliest church dates to the 6th. As I circumnavigate the graveyard, it is still just possible to detect that the original enclosure or “Llan” was circular, or oval, in shape although it has now been extended and squared off at one end.

We know almost nothing about St. Gwenog. She is mentioned in the Laws of Howell Dda copied in the 15th century, and in the 18th century an annual local fair, held in January, was known as Ffair Gwenog’s.

Links have also been made with St. Gwennlian who was active locally, but it is a link that is difficult to establish. Even St. Gwenog’s Well, once famous for its healing properties, has long since disappeared. Its existence points to the reason for the site being allocated as a “Llan” in pagan times as water was the earliest form of worship, followed by that of the sun, until Christianity incorporated elements of those older religions into its own.

Inside the church, I see thick whitewashed walls and, at the altar, an early stone carving of Mary and St. John at the foot of the cross. It is very badly weathered, having originally been built into the exterior end of the side chapel. Now it is safe and sound in the new altar, the figures barely discernible. I turn away and spy an early wall painting of the Apostles and the Ten Commandments; the faces peer out at me through the fog of time while, above me, the beautiful ceiling rafters smile down. Richly carved pews escort me to the door, and I climb a few worn stone steps while the tiny carved heads of the saints watch me as I pass.

Outside, the battlemented tower draws my eye from the older, softer parts of the church. It is an imposing feature, providing protection for the village in times of strife. It was a later addition to the building, built in the 15th century by Sir Rhys ap Thomas whose heraldric shield is displayed above one of the windows. The building was to commemorate Henry VII’s victory over Richard III at Bosworth in 1485. Many men from Llanwenog parish fought and died for Henry in his quest for the throne, but, once established, the Tudor dynasty did little to enhance the fortunes of their Welsh countrymen.

I sit for a while among the markers of the dead and think about what I have seen. I am touched by the peace and the great age of the place and love every inch of it. But for me, the best thing about the visit is the font. I slip back inside for another look.

It used to sit near the western doorway but has been moved to the south side of the lady chapel. Today it is filled with a tacky flower arrangement totally out of keeping with the awesome antiquity of the piece.

I take away the flowers and with the tip of one finger trace the marks where the cover once sat. It dates from the Norman period and is showing its age. The stone is carved with the heads of the twelve Apostles, worn from centuries of visitors drawn to touch the primitive features as I am doing now.

I have seen these carved faces described variously as “crude”, “grotesque”, and “rough”, but to me, they are beautiful—the tracks of the ancient chisel giving voice to the long dead craftsman. I wish I could spend longer here. I run my fingers over the surface and feel as if I am clasping the gnarled hand of the mason that worked it.

Tretower Court and Castle

by Judith Arnopp

I
have lived in Wales for almost twenty years now, and, although I am still stumbling upon new treasures, there are
some places that I find myself returning to time and time again. One of my favourite places is Tretower Court. It sits in the green Usk Valley between Abergavenny and Brecon, seemingly untouched, timeless.

When compared with the tourist hot spots like Pembroke and Conwy castles, the site is small, but for me, the lack of gift shop and tearoom simply adds to the atmosphere. The noise of the traffic dwindles, and all you can hear is birdsong and the sporadic bleating of sheep. Best of all, as the place is little known, there are occasions when you can find yourself there completely alone, with the ghosts of the past whispering in your ear.

Tretower marks the period when castles were abandoned in favour of more comfortable, less fortified homes. There are two distinct sites at Tretower, each as valuable in their own way as the other: the later medieval house and, two hundred yards to the north-west, the remains of the 12th century castle stronghold, the round tower being added later in the period.

Although the more domestic court building was erected early in the fourteenth century, later additions to the Tower suggest that the stronghold was not entirely abandoned at this time. Should the house have come under attack, the inhabitants would simply gather up their possessions, round up the livestock, and head for the impregnable walls of the tower.

The earliest part of medieval
house
is the north range, which dates from the early fourteenth century. The masonry and latrine turret on the west end may even have been built as early as 1300. The four major phases of building can clearly be seen from the central courtyard as can the later modifications added as late as the seventeenth century.

As you move through the building from room to room, duck through low doorways, climb twisting stairways, and creep into the dark recesses of the latrine turrets, you will know you are not alone. So much has happened here, so many people have passed through, so much laughter has rung out, and so many tears have fallen. A very brief history of the place reveals a wealth of stories waiting to be told.

The first building on the site was a motte and bailey raised by a Norman follower by the name of Picard. The property passed through the family’s male line until the fourteenth century when it moved, via the female line, to Ralph Bluet and then, again through the marriage of another daughter, to James de Berkeley.

His son, also James, became Lord Berkeley on the death of his uncle. Tretower was later purchased from James by his mother’s husband, Sir William ap Thomas. Sir William’s second wife, Gwladys, gave him a son, William Herbert, later the earl of Pembroke, who inherited both Tretower and Raglan Castle on his father’s death. Tretower was later gifted to William’s half-brother, Roger Vaughan the younger, around 1450.