Peterborough Divided by the Sword: The Town in the English Civil War

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Having recently given a lecture of the impact of the English Civil War for the Conflict Archaeolgy Module of the Archaeology course at University Centre Peterborough, and as it is the time of year that I tend to get enquiries from local Secondary School students who have been set an essay on what happened during the Civil War in this area, I thought I would jot down some useful notes on our local story. It may also prove useful to those interested in the mid-17th century as a microcosm of how this tempestuous period impacted upon one particular community.

Peterborough was a prosperous market town during the late medieval period, dominated by the Abbey of St Peter. Not only was the abbey church (today Peterborough Cathedral) an imposing physical presence over the town, but the abbey was local landlord, rent collector, tax collector, owner of many local pubs, custodian of the markets and guardian of law and order in the town. The town also had the honour of the burial of a Queen of England, with Katharine of Aragon’s remains being laid to rest within the Abbey church in January 1536. Such an honour was not to ensure the Abbey’s prosperity for long. (1)

Peterborough’s economy suffered with the dissolution of the abbey in November 1539. The pragmatism of the last abbot, John Chambers, who threw the gates open and welcomed Henry VIII’s commissioners, meant that the church building survived the Reformation relatively intact. Although the church, and indeed Chambers himself, were elevated by the creation of the diocese of Peterborough in 1541, the town never fully recovered from the impact of half the wealth of the key local economic powerhouse being confiscated by the Crown. (2)

By the early 1600s Peterborough was then an unremarkable market town, like so many others across the country, albeit dominated by a magnificent Cathedral church, as shown in John Speed’s map of the town published as part of his county map of Northamptonshire in 1611. The population numbered perhaps 2,500, and the economy centred around the markets held on the central Marketstede and trade from river traffic. (3)

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The town did hold a strategically important position, controlling an important river crossing across the Nene, and being situated just off the Great North Road. The political power by this period had passed from the church – although the incumbent Bishop and Dean were always important – to elected local burgesses (or ‘feoffees’) and local gentry families. These included the Fitzwilliam family of Milton Hall, who had taken the opportunity to increase their landholdings by purchasing lands before and during the Reformation, and the Orme family. Humphrey Orme had been a groom of the bedchamber under Henry VIII, Edward VI, and Elizabeth I, under whom he had leased substantial landholdings around Peterborough including West Deeping (1536) and Warmington (1573). His son, also Humphrey, had purchased a knighthood from James I in 1604 and was now resident in a substantial mansion, Neville Place, on Priestgate in the town (today the site of Peterborough Museum). (4)
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With the outbreak of the Civil War in England in August 1642, Peterborough declared for the King. This royalist sentiment may seem odd to modern eyes given the associations we know of today within Cambridgeshire of Cromwell and the Eastern Association. Given that the town was only on the cusp of East Anglia and was in fact within the county of Northamptonshire, which leaned more towards the Royalist cause, this is perhaps less surprising. The local elite families such as the Ormes and Fitzwilliams were Royalist in sympathy and the local clergy of high church inclination. Bishop John Towers (appointed in 1639) was one of the twelve bishops imprisoned in the Tower of London for protesting against the Bishop’s Exclusion Bill of 1642 and after his release the following year spent the duration of the first Civil War at the Royalist capital at Oxford. (5)

A substantial amount of local worthies were away from Peterborough serving the Royalist cause. In 1643 as part of the Parliamentary ordinance denouncing known ‘delinquents’ (or known Royalists away from their homes) the following Peterborians were named:

Captain Styles, Walton
Newdigate Pointz of Dogsthorpe
Dr. Cosin, Dean of Peterborough
William Hake, Peterborough
Matthew Robinson, Longthorpe
John Towers, Bishop of Peterborough
Thomas Dove, Upton
James Carrier, Helpston
John Bourne, Ufford
Mr Styldolph, Wittering
Robert Dixon, Peterborough
Millicent Pratt, Dogsthorpe (6)

As with most places, communities and even families were divided by the sword. Newdigate Pointz’s cousin Sydenham rose to become a Parliamentary general in the North, and there is evidence to suggest Sir Humphrey Orme’s son was also a parliamentary sympathiser.

Peterborough had no substantial defences and does not even seem to have had a garrison of troops. Given its position as a river crossing and its proximity to the other ‘malignant’ town of Crowland (thus acting as a potential staging post for an assault), it was a prime military target.

The town was taken by Parliamentary forces commanded by Oliver Cromwell (then Colonel Cromwell, prior to his subsequent rise to prominence) on April 18 1643 with Colonel Hobart’s regiment of foot and his own regiment of horse. Cromwell was quartered in the house at the Vineyard at the back of the precincts, and most prominent Royalists were captured with little resistance. An account cited by Symon Gunton, local antiquarian and parish priest for St John’s church in this period described how Cromwell found himself confined to bed for several days at Peterborough after riding under a low gateway in the precincts and forgetting to duck – resulting in a severe concussion! (7)
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Gunton describes how Cromwell’s troops ransacked the high church Cathedral the day after the capture of the town, which many saw as an affront to their Puritan beliefs. The rood screen was pulled down, the Lady Chapel so badly damaged it had to be subsequently demolished, stained glass smashed, tombs vandalised, church doors removed, statues used as target practice (although this rebounded on one soldier very literally), metalwork looted and papers burnt. (8)

The Royalist Newsbook‘Mercurius Aulicus’ describes the damage wrought thus:
‘It was advertised this day from Peterburgh, that Colonell Cromwell had bestowed a visit on that little City, and put them to the charge of his entertainment, plundering a great part thereof to discharge the reckoning, and further that in pursuance of the thorow Reformation, he did most miserably deface the Cathedrall Church, breake downe the Organs, and destroy the glasse windowes, committing many other outrages on the house of God which were not acted by the Gothes in the sack of Rome, and are most commonly forborn by the Turks when they possesse themselves by force of a Christian city.’ (9)

Having reduced Peterborough, Cromwell’s troops then went on to take Crowland in May, taking the fortified centre around the already ruined abbey. In the meantime, other Parliamentary patrols took it upon themselves to ‘cleanse’ local churches. On June 10th troopers from Captain Beaumont’s company arrived in the nearby village of Yaxley. There they broke into the church, and according to Gunton’s account, did “piss in the Font, and then baptize a Horse and Mare, using the solemn words of Baptism, and signing them with the sign of the Cross.” (10)

There was a brief attempt to retake Peterborough, the attack coming from the midland Royalist capital of Newark. In July 1643 a thousand Royalist troops tried to retake Peterborough, but were driven off by Col. Palgrave in a brief skirmish on the north side of the city at Millfield. The Royalists withdrew towards Stamford, pursued by Palgrave who was joined later by Cromwell who had been at Rockingham. Initially the Royalists attempted to defend Wothorpe Tower, but thought better of it and withdrew to Burghley House. Cromwell surrounded the house until reinforcements arrive. The Royalists initially refused to surrender but did so after a brief artillery barrage of the house on 24 July. (11) After his success in this area Cromwell was appointed Governor of the Isle of Ely in August 1643.

To the south of Peterborough, in modern day Stanground, are the remains of Civil War earthworks at Horsey Hill. These were almost certainly built in 1643 under the auspices of Parliamentary troops. Here at the south eastern corner of the city the fort could dominate the approach to Peterborough by road (part of the so-called ‘Fen Causeway’), an ancient byway which ran between the Nene and the northern reaches of Whittlesey Mere.

The fort may have been started for one of two strategic reasons:

Construction may have started shortly after Cromwell took Peterborough in mid April as part of a chain of defences to protect the eastern side of Peterborough from a possible counter-attack from the Royalist garrison at Crowland. As Crowland was taken only a month later the rest of these defences would then have never been started, although Crowland was retaken for the King in 1644.

It may have been started (or completed after Crowland fell, as an alternative use) from the summer of 1643 as a means of securing the main road into the Fens and to Ely after Cromwell had been appointed governor and the Royalists had attempted to retake Peterborough. Had a future attempt to retake the town succeeded the fort would have provided a means of delaying a follow-up action against Ely and the Cromwellian heartlands. This would tie in with a small defensive work at Stanground Sluice. (12)

Other than garrisons being stationed locally (and therefore one assumes at such a strategically important position), there is no evidence to suggest that any military action took place at the fort site. Given the fact that substantive fighting in the area had finished almost certainly by the time the fort was completed there would probably have been only a limited garrison on site. This is evinced by the fact that in October 1644, after the Royalists recaptured Crowland, the Eastern Association felt the need to rush an additional 300 men from Cambridge to hold ‘Horsey Bridge Pass’.(13)

The fort at Horsey Hill is a very fine example of an artillery fortification of the Civil War period. It is similar to the ‘sconce’ type artillery fortifications found elsewhere, such as those at Earith and March and further afield the stunning example of the ‘Queen’s Sconce’ at Newark. (14) These fortifications were all built of piled and rammed earth to form ramparts surrounded by a protective ditch. The rampart would have been topped with a wooden palisade, with sharpened stakes and pits placed as traps around the fort.

These forts were designed to be built relatively quickly, with an unskilled workforce and for minimal cost compared to stone defences. There was the additional advantage that the earth ramparts would largely absorb or deflect cannon shot compared to traditional castle walls. (15) Accommodation for any garrison within the fort is unknown as the site remains unexcavated, but based on similar structures elsewhere it seems likely this would have consisted of tents or temporary wooden shelters within the structure. A magazine for containing gunpowder was likely to have been excavated into one of the bastions.

Unlike these other examples Horsey Hill has five, as opposed to four, bastions and is arranged in a pentangular form, with the entrance on the south curtain wall covered by a salient. Each bastion would have been built as a gun emplacement, and it is significant that three of these cover the river/western approaches to the fort, indicating that it was most likely built to cover the river, crossing and road. (16) The site covers some five and a half acres, with the rampart rising to some 4 metres above the base of the ditch. The area around the fort would have been levelled of vegetation for a considerable distance (at least half a mile) to deprive any attacking force of cover and provide a clear field of fire for the defenders.
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The site is relatively complete and, compared to similar sites, is in a remarkable state of preservation. The road has dug into the north side of the fort a little, the construction of a later toll house and the grange within the fortifications has encroached a little and the site is overgrown in many places, but otherwise is in excellent order.

There were no further events of note for the remainder of the First Civil War, which ended in June 1646 with Charles I’s capture. Charles spent his last night of freedom, 3 May 1646, in Stamford. (17) The next day he surrendered to the Scots army near Newark, expecting their support, but the Scots sold him to Parliament for £400,000. Charles was taken south to Holdenby House in Northamptonshire, on the beginning of the road that would lead to his execution in January 1649. Local tradition has it that he spent two nights as Parliament’s prisoner en route to Holdenby confined in the King’s Lodging above the Cathedral gateway in Peterborough.

The one substantial military action that took place in Peterborough was during the Second Civil War, at the 13th century moated and fortified manor house, Woodcroft Castle near Helpston, which survives today as a private house. Woodcroft was garrisoned for the king by Dr Michael Hudson, priest, former chaplain to King Charles and latterly Royalist Scoutmaster-General. (18) In June he had been trying to forment a further rising against the victorious Parliamentarians in Stamford, only to be driven out. He was pursued back to Woodcroft by a troop of soldiers led by Captain William Smart. The Parliamentary troops attempted to storm the castle, only to be driven off with the loss of several men including Smart himself.

Within hours, a full regiment of Parliamentary reinforcements arrived led by Captain Smart’s brother-in-law Colonel Winters, now out for vengeance, but who began by summoning Dr Hudson to surrender. Hudson refused, so the Roundheads assaulted the castle, spending several hours attempting to break in before being repulsed. They then again summoned Hudson to surrender, threatening to give no quarter and kill everyone they found inside. Hudson again refused to give up the Castle.

Again the Parliamentarians attacked. During the assault Hudson stood on his tower shouting encouragement to his own men and hurling abuse at his enemies. He then got rather a shock when the gate was blown in by his enemies using a petard, a gunpowder packed bomb placed against the castle gates. As the only way out was being stormed, Hudson attempted to avoid being hacked to pieces by dangling from the ramparts. He was found by Parliamentary soldiers who cut off his hands, causing him to plunge into the moat below – a genuine case of ‘look no hands’!

Hudson somehow managed to swim across the moat, only to be dragged out by two vengeful soldiers. One called Egborough was the former servant to the parish priest at Castor and the other, Walker, a ‘low-born shopkeeper from Stamford‘. Dr Hudson was disembowelled by the men with a halberd and had his tongue ripped out in retribution for the insults he had hurled from the ramparts. At this point he finally expired. The grisly relic of his tongue is said to have been dried and paraded around local towns and villages as a trophy. (19)

Peterborough saw no more military action for the duration of the Civil Wars, and struggled to recover some form of normality. Oliver St John, Member of Parliament for Totnes and Chief Justice of the Common Pleas acquired property in the area. St John had risen to prominence for championing John Hampden in the Ship Money trial in 1636 and helping steer through legislation to create the New Model Army in 1645. He was also married to Oliver Cromwell’s cousin, Elizabeth. Now he acquired the the lease of Thorpe Manor from sale of confiscated church land, and arranged for the ransacked remains of the Cathedral to be used by the townspeople as a parish church. Duly the townspeople began to make repairs to the Cathedral, pulling down the remains of the wrecked Lady Chapel to provide building materials. (20)

In the meantime St John had embarked upon his own building project in the shape of Thorpe Hall, built between 1653 and 1656. Today the hall is a Sue Ryder hospice and is accounted as being the best surviving Commonwealth period mansion in the country. In 1654 the diarist John Evelyn visited the house during the building works, and described it as ‘a stately palace built out of the ruins of the Bishop’s palace and cloisters’. (21)
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Whilst the town may have had a prominent Parliamentarian building a new home on its outskirts, it was determined to still proclaim its Royalist loyalties. For the 1654 Parliament Peterborough was the only place in England to send a Royalist MP, in the shape of Sir Humphrey Orme, the new incumbent of the Orme estates after the death of his namesake grandfather in 1648. The new Sir Humphrey was known to consort with Royalists in London, and was allegedly a ‘prophane swearer, hard drinker and a drinker of the health of the late King.‘ To make matters worse for the other MPs, his wife Mary was a Catholic. As a result they spent a good deal of time trying to expel Sir Humphrey from Parliament for his behaviour and beliefs! (22)

Whilst Peterborough might have celebrated the Restoration of the Monarchy in 1660, the town never truly recovered from the impact of the events of recent years. The Dissolution of Peterborough Abbey the century before had a caused a downturn in the local economy from the wealth and glory of the Middle Ages, which half the monastic lands and wealth that the town depended on for its prosperity having been confiscated by the Crown. The Civil War only compounded this misery, with the most visible feature of the town, its magnificent Cathedral, having been badly damaged by the depredations of Cromwell’s troops. Many of its glories were gone forever, never to be replaced. Many of the local gentry had been heavily fined for supporting the Royalist cause, again taking money out of the local economy. Although a new Guildhall was commissioned as a centrepiece for the Market Square, which still stands today, adorned with the Royal arms of Charles II as a celebration of his Restoration, it is significant that this was not completed until 1671. (23) This was because as it took time to raise funds from the now cash-strapped local economy, not least as another disaster hit Peterborough in the meantime. In September 1665 the Plague made a final visitation upon Peterborough, killing a third of its population in a matter of months. Whilst many of the Cathedral clergy fled the town, Symon Gunton stayed at his post as Parish Priest of St. John’s Church to bury 543 of his parishioners. (24) It would take over a century, another war, and the arrival of military prisoners from it in the area, before Peterborough’s fortunes would begin to recover fully from the effects of this tumultuous period in history.

Notes

(1) See W. T. Mellows ‘The Last Days of Peterborough Monastery’ (Northants Records Society, 1947) for a full discussion of this.

(2) Ibid; M. Barcroft ‘Luckiest of All’ passim (Minimax, 1983)

(3) Ibid

(4) S. Orme, ‘The Orme Family’ in People of Peterborough (Peterborough Museum, 2009), p. 68-70

(5) ‘The Bishops of Peterborough’ , Cathedral publications, 1984

(6) ‘Fenland Notes and Queries’, Ed: Rev W.D. Sweeting (Vol. 45, 1900)

(7) S. Orme, ‘Oliver Cromwell’ in ‘People of Peterborough’, p. 71 – 73

(8) S. Gunton, ‘History of the Church in Peterborough’ (1686, reprint edition, ed. Jack Higham, Clay Books, 1990), p.333 – 340

(9) Mercurius Aulicus, Friday 28 April 1643

(10) Gunton, ‘History of the Church in Peterborough’, p. 335

(11) C. Davies, ‘Stamford and the Civil War’ (Watkins, 1992), p. 31 – 33

(12) M. Osborne, ‘Cromwellian Fortifications in Cambridgeshire’, (Cromwell Museum, 1990) p. 15 – 16

(13) P. Harrington, ‘English Civil War Archaeology’, (English Heritage, 2004), p. 98 – 99

(14) See Osborne and Harrington for detailed analysis of these sites

(15) Ibid

(16) Osborne, ‘Cromwellian Fortifications in Cambridgeshire’, p.32

(17) Davies, ‘Stamford and the Civil War’, p. 40 – 41

(18) J. Whitehead, ‘Cavalier & Roundhead Spies: Intelligence in the Civil Wars and Commonwealth‘, (Pen & Sword, 2009) p. 83

(19) See Davies, ‘Stamford and the Civil War’, p.42 – 44 and S. Orme, ‘Haunted Peterborough‘, (History Press, 2012), p.45 – 47

(20) Gunton, ‘History of the Church in Peterborough’, p. 339

(21) E Davies, ‘Peterborough: A Story of City and Country, People and Places‘, (Pitkin, 2001), p. 18 – 19

(22) Orme, ‘The Orme Family’ in People of Peterborough, p. 69

(23) Ibid

(24) Gunton, ‘History of the Church in Peterborough, Introduction p. xiv

Burying Richard III once and for all?

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As someone who is interested by late Medieval history, particularly the Wars of the Roses, it won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve been following with some interest the debate, and resulting courtroom wrangling, over which city should provide the final resting place of Richard III. Ever since the University of Leicester announced the positive identification of the bones found under a Leicester car park, much ink has been spilt over the rights and wrongs of where the last Plantagenet King should be buried. The considerations of a substantial boost to tourism, the rights of (admittedly very, very distant) relatives, the mishandling of the affair by some of the parties concerned and the emotional response of many of Richard’s adherents has led to an increasingly heated debate.

As I write this, the courts are deciding whether to recommend a full consultation on the decision to bury Richard in Leicester. I don’t propose to comment on this, or any of the other peripheral, legal or other parts of the discussion, simply to present what I think is a likely explanation based on the historical evidence as to where Richard should be buried in a 15th century context (which is when he lived and died), rather than a 21st century one. I will claim to have no axe to grind personally as I have a great affection for both York and Leicester; I was an undergraduate at the former and did my postgrad at the latter. These are just a few thoughts I’ve had for debate…

The first thing to state, quite clearly, is that we have no definite evidence as to where Richard III himself intended to be buried. He left no will or instruction that survives. It is a best guess based upon the available evidence, but there are two real candidates based on what perhaps he himself would have wanted.

Richard’s connections to York are undeniable, ironic given the fact that the city was pro-Lancastrian for the majority of the Wars of the Roses. It is a common misapprehension that the words ‘Yorkist’ and ‘Lancastrian’ have anything to do with geography, but instead are related to branches of the Royal family in this period of political infighting that rather resembled a battle for supremacy within a Mafia dynasty. In fact the north and west of England tended to support the House of Lancaster, whilst the south and east were more Yorkist. Richard knew the north very well though, having spent his youth being brought up in the household of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick at Middleham Castle in North Yorkshire.

After his brother Edward IV regained his throne in 1471, Richard was sent to bring the north on side, something he seems to have done very successfully, not least as he seems to have gone out of his way to represent the interests of York at court, was a very competent administrator and a fair adjudicator of disputes. Richard seems to have gained a substantial personal following in the north in general and in York in particular as a result, and was given a rapturous reception when he visited the city as King in 1483. The city reacted with horror to his death at Bosworth in 1485, famously noting in the civic records “King Richard, late mercifully reigning over us, was through great treason . . . piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this city”.

The main evidence cited for Richard’s desire to be buried in York, other than his frequent visits and obvious affection for the city, is that he commissioned plans for a Chantry Chapel at York Minster on a grand scale, which would also have 100 chaplains to pray for his immortal soul. This was a large project, the construction of a powerhouse of prayer to usher the King’s soul through Purgatory as quickly as possible after his death. A wealthy and devout man such as Richard would have considered these prayers an essential part of his spiritual journey. These plans were never completed due to his death, and there is no indication that there was a tomb planned for this chantry, although it is possible. Certainly prior to becoming King, Richard may well have planned to have been buried at York, something which was quite possible for the Duke of Gloucester and brother to King Edward IV.

This would seem far less likely once Richard became King, simply as there was little precedent for a monarch to be buried in such a manner. Post 1066, the Norman and Angevin Kings had largely been buried in their French territories, considering these the more important parts of their empire than England. Since these lands had been lost, most had been buried in London as the centre of power, the now established capital, and by being buried at Westminster Abbey they were in close proximity to the revered patron saint of English royalty, St Edward the Confessor. There were exceptions – King John at Worcester and Edward II at Gloucester, but these could be considered, I suppose, as Royal ‘Black Sheep’ that were kept out of the way. Henry IV was the one monarch who bucked the trend through personal choice, being buried at Canterbury Cathedral, most likely as he had a particular attachment to St Thomas Becket.

By the mid 15th century, Westminster Abbey had a problem as the Royal Mausoleum, as the historian John Ashdown-Hill has pointed out, as it was getting rather full. There was nowhere to build a Royal tomb, indeed Henry VII had to build a new chapel to extend the Abbey, originally intended for the re-interment of Henry VI had he been canonized, but used instead for his own tomb (and those of many Tudor and Stuart monarchs too). As such, Edward IV established through his building programme at Windsor Great Chapel a new Royal Mausoleum, where he buried Henry VI and himself was laid to rest.

It is romantic to suggest that Richard might have liked to have been buried at Westminster, where his Queen, Anne Neville, had been buried after her fatal illness. However, had Richard triumphed at Bosworth and continued his reign he would have certainly remarried, not least to produce a new heir and prolong his dynasty. Negotiations were already underway to secure the hand of Princess Joanna of Portugal at the time of his death; had Richard lived and taken a second wife he would have been buried with her, particularly if she gave him an heir. In order to accommodate a suitable burial place, the most likely spot would have been at Windsor.

My suspicion, based on the evidence, is that had Richard been given the option of where to be laid to rest, his heart might have said York, but his head and political reality would have said London, most likely Windsor Great Chapel, alongside his brother. In order to cement his dynasty Richard would have needed to curry favour in the south, particularly as many felt alienated there by the northern influence he brought to court, and to ensure a smooth succession to any heirs it would be politically expedient to be buried near to the capital. It would also send out a clear message about the legitimacy of his rule.

But there’s a problem with all this, simply put, it wasn’t Richard’s choice. He had been defeated and killed in battle, and it was therefore up to the victor, Henry VII, as to where he should be buried. This is something which keeps being forgotten in this debate.

Even so, he still presented a unique problem. What on earth do you do with the body of a dead King? This may sound strange, but actually there was no precedent for what to do about a royal burial under these circumstances. Medieval kings had died of injuries, disease, old age or had been murdered, but none had died having been defeated in battle since King Harold had been killed at Hastings in 1066. The closest parallel was Richard I, mortally wounded by an arrow in a siege in 1199, but the siege was successful and he was able to give instructions to his followers about the disposal of his body. Richard III did not have that luxury, having been killed, his supporters dispersed and his corpse being part of the spoils of war to the now victorious Henry VII.

Whilst there wasn’t a precedent for a King, there was a precedent for how to handle royalty under these circumstances. In 1471 Edward of Lancaster, the son and heir of Henry VI, was killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury. His body was recovered and laid to rest in Tewkesbury Abbey, which had been the scene of some of the violence at that day. Tewkesbury Abbey provided a suitably dignified resting place for someone of high status within proximity to where he had fallen, but without providing the honour of a full royal burial in London.

I’d argue that the same thinking was applied to Richard III and his burial in Leicester. Richard’s body was taken back to Leicester and displayed for two days to the populace so that enough people could attest that he was actually dead. This was important in an age when ‘Pretenders’ had a habit of popping up, as Henry VII was to keep finding out. Perhaps following similar practice to Edward of Lancaster – who Henry would certainly have known about – Richard was buried in the house of the Greyfriars in Leicester, a religious house that provided some status to the burial, whilst keeping it away from the recognition of a royal tomb in the capital. In time, Henry even paid for a suitable tomb to mark Richard’s grave.

In short, by the unfortunate turn of events and spoils of war and based perhaps on what limited precedent there was, Richard III was buried at Leicester on the decision of another anointed King, Henry VII. Perhaps, therefore, that is where he should remain. Anything else could be seen, arguably, as altering the decisions of history to suit modern sensibilities; perhaps almost unconsciously on the part of some people to try to somehow reverse the outcome of the Battle of Bosworth.

Whatever the decision of the courts, I hope that the acrimony and wrangling can finally be put to rest, and a brave man who died as the last Plantagenet King can finally be laid to rest – in all senses – once and for all.

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Hollywood History: Episode 2 – Attack of the Historians…

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In my last blog, I talked about ways in which one can assess historical dramas in film and television, both in terms of their quality as a production and form of entertainment, but also for historical accuracy and authenticity.

What do you mean, you can’t remember what I said…? Go back and read Episode 1 then…

Caught up now? Excellent!

I said I’d spend this second post applying some of those criteria to some films and television dramas, highlighting what (in my opinion) have been some of the good, the bad and the most definitely ugly productions in quality, entertainment and historical veracity. I have had to be very selective, choosing an exemplar for each, but there are many more I could talk about (frankly I am tempted to do a whole ‘Hollywood History’ by time period at some point). Anyway, enough of my waffling, here we go…

Where to start? Well, let’s begin with an example of a film that ticks all the boxes, which for me is Peter Weir’s 2003 film ‘Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World‘. An adaptation of many of the scenes and stories from Patrick O’Brien’s novels set during the Napoleonic Wars, this is a beautifully shot and produced movie that succeeds on many different levels. The film is enjoyable, funny in places (“Lesser of two weevils”), poignant, tense and shocking in its brutal depiction of a sea battle of the period. It also makes (as I can attest from one showing I went to) British audiences let out a suitably patriotic cheer! It boasts cracking performances from its cast, particularly the two leads, ship’s captain Jack Aubrey (Russell Crowe) and surgeon Stephen Maturin (Paul Bettany) and has a superb soundtrack. Nominated for ten Oscars (it won only two, being up against the juggernaut of ‘Lord of the Rings: Return of the King‘ that year), it is a great piece of cinema.

‘Master and Commander‘ is also a wonderful evocation of a time and place in history. The detail is exhaustively researched and impeccably accurate – the list of historical advisors at the end reads like a who’s who of naval historians. Having sat with devotees of the period through the film, we could find only one fault with its historical accuracy, in a scene on the Galapagos Islands when cricket is being played and the bowlers bowl over arm (something that didn’t happen until the Victorian period). More importantly the film establishes an astonishing authenticity in terms of a sense of time and place. From its opening scenes where the camera goes through the ship at night, with shots of the closely packed hammocks, cannon with graffitied names on, livestock and more, it sucks you into an utterly convincing recreation of life on board a ship in Nelson’s navy. Anyone making an historical drama should be forced to watch this film as an object lesson in how to do it properly.

Some productions may struggle with some of the detail, but still provide an incredible view of the past in terms of an authentic atmosphere. A classic example of this, to me at least, is the BBC’s classic 1976 television dramatization of Robert Graves’ novels in the series ‘I, Claudius‘. Today the production values seem very dated and of its time, being virtually entirely studio bound, and the historical accuracy is somewhat suspect. Costuming, set design and props are based on Hollywood stereotypes rather than any real depiction of Ancient Rome, and the script makes significant changes in terms of events thanks, not least, to the source novels. Having said that, the cast is superb, not least Sian Phillips as the manipulative Livia, John Hurt as a suitably deranged Caligula, and of course Derek Jacobi in the titled role. The drama is superb, and it provides a wonderfully convincing atmosphere of the power politics, backstabbing, murder and general debauchery of the early Imperial Roman court. Gripping stuff.

My next candidate is, I suppose, inevitable. If I’m going to pick a film that may be a great movie, but has no historical accuracy whatsoever, then it really has to be Mel Gibson’s 1995 film ‘Braveheart‘. Let me say that I enjoyed it at the cinema when it first came out as an entertainment (switching my brain off). It’s a great adventure yarn, well filmed, emotive and has some good performances (not necessarily Mr Gibson himself, who sounds like a Rangers supporter channelled via Sydney…). It was critically applauded at the time, nominated for ten Oscars, of which it won five, including Best Film and Best Director.

There’s just a small problem with ‘Braveheart’. Historically, it’s complete crap. Seriously, other than that there was a bloke called William Wallace who fought against the English, pretty much everything else is nonsense.

William Wallace was from a lowland Scots gentry family, not brought up in a Highland bothy as portrayed in the film. As such he would have been dressed and equipped much as the gentry and knights of the period, not as a blue-painted highlander. Besides this, there is no evidence for war paint in this period, nor the wearing of a plaid or kilt prior to the 16th century. Contrary to the assertion that England had occupied Scotland for centuries, in fact the two countries had been independent and at peace for over a century until the last King of Scotland had died and Edward I had been asked to adjudicate. The costuming and set design is awful, such as castles that seem to be composed of sticks and glorified garden sheds. Wallace did defeat the English at Stirling, but at the battle of Stirling Bridge. The bridge was the decisive part of the battle – it’s lack of inclusion actually devalues Wallace’s achievement. Wallace never got as far south as York, let alone sacked it, nor did he sleep with the French princess, who was 3 years old at that time. Edward I did not defenestrate his son’s homosexual lover, nor did he die at the same time as Wallace, but over 18 months later… For anyone who suspects me of an English bias by the way, Scottish historians are as equally, if not more vociferous in their condemnation. If you watch ‘Braveheart‘, enjoy it but don’t believe a word of it. Interestingly, as I’ve noted before, in the run up to the Oscars nowadays films are judged on or criticized for their lack of historical accuracy. On that basis one wonders whether ‘Braveheart‘ would win so many awards now…

Moving on to consider historical films which have no real accuracy, authenticity or quality other than pure entertainment value, my nomination in this category is the Jerry Bruckheimer produced 2004 movie ‘King Arthur‘. The film has a script which makes little sense, is oddly edited (although the Director’s Cut is better), and has some very dodgy performances, not least from its star Clive Owen, who makes the least charismatic Arthur imaginable. His inspirational speeches sound less Shakespearian in their delivery and more like he’s reading a rail timetable for all the passion he puts into them.

Historically, the film is nonsensical. In the opening prologue we’re told that this is based on archaeological evidence (it’s not), that historians agree on a real King Arthur (they don’t) and that it’s 476AD and the Roman army is about to leave – a clever trick as in reality it pulled out in 410AD. For some reason the Saxon army has landed in Scotland and is marching South; they must have been terribly lost as the Saxons actually landed in England. The costume is either based on earlier uniforms (the Roman infantry) or apparently Lord of the Rings (Arthur’s Knights)… And so it goes on… And yet, I enjoy it. It may be complete bobbins and pure cheese, but it’s fun and watchable, one of those films if I’m channel hopping on the television that I come across, I’ll inevitably end up watching. It has a fun supporting cast – Ray Winstone, Ray Stevenson and Mads Mikkelson, a cracking soundtrack (note how many TV documentaries use bits from it) and Keira Knightley in a floaty Pre-Raphaelite dress…

Then we come to the final category, which is where I look at a drama which fails as a piece of entertainment, as a quality production and as a realistic depiction of the past both in terms of detail and atmosphere. This is always going to be subjective, and for many people what I’ve chosen may be unfair as they may well have enjoyed it. But, assessment is, as I’ve said before, often a matter of expectation and of this I had high hopes which I felt were cruelly dashed. So therefore, I give you what is (at the time of writing) what for me is scraping the bottom of the historical barrel, the recent BBC dramatization of the Wars of the Roses, ‘The White Queen’.

I should explain. It’s a period of history I’m fascinated with and have long since wanted to see brought to greater prominence, particularly, as a closet Yorkist, with a more balanced approach to Richard III. This, however did not provide that. With one or two exceptions (Aneurin Barnard wasn’t bad as Richard), the cast were miscast. Max Irons was dreadful as Edward IV – a man who was charismatic, intelligent and irresistible to women, but at the same time was a six foot three one-man battle tank and the greatest military commander of his time. Irons conveyed none of that, whilst the actress playing Elizabeth Woodville was positively wooden. The script was risible and reduced one of the most complex, fascinating and rich periods in English history to an incoherent and turgid mess. Historical accuracy was non existent. Costume seemed to be mostly held together by Velcro and zips, with one hilarious sex scene between Edward and Elizabeth where all their clothes were on the floor in two seconds, which anyone who has ever worn replica costume will tell you is impossible in less than five minutes. Nobody seemed to ever wear a hat – something virtually mandatory for all stations of society in the 1400s – except Cecily Neville, whose hat was so large it seemed, as a friend of mine commented, to be auditioning for its own chat show. The series was filmed in Belgium and just succeeded in looking that at best it was in 15th century Belgium as opposed to England, at worst filmed in a museum, given the faded tapestries that should be bright and new, and the dark ancient furniture. The battle scenes were filmed with twenty extras in plastic armour (Bosworth bizarrely was in a wood with snow on the ground – neat trick for a Leicestershire field in August). This is all before we even get to any broader historical facts. Important characters such as William Hastings or John Neville were missed out, others figures were completely misrepresented. Margaret Beaufort was reduced to being portrayed as a deranged woman trying to get her son to be king from his birth, an idea as ridiculous as Shakespeare’s wilder assertions as Richard III, and a disservice to one of the most intelligent, cunning and remarkable women of her age. Buckingham appeared in 1484 (played by Rory from Doctor Who with a comedy stick-on moustache), a clever trick as his rebellion and subsequent execution took place the previous autumn. I could go on….

Ok, so this seems a bit of a rant, but my expectations were dashed and it could have been so much better (perhaps adapting Sharon Penman’s ‘Sunne in Splendour‘ rather than Philippa Gregory’s novels would have been a start). Filming in the UK and using many of the Wars of the Roses re-enactors to do the battle scenes might have been another. Much of the criticism couched at the makers when it came out was answered by saying that it was a fantasy based on the period, and that events and characters had to be simplified to allow the audience to follow the story without it being too complex.

In answer to the first, why bother filming a drama that is based on the events of the Wars of the Roses if you are not going to stick to what actually happened? Why not just make something up, and with something as rich as this historical material, why would you bother? As to the second defence, that can be countered with three words: Game of Thrones. If people can follow the labyrinthine plotting, complex drama and about 50 major characters in George R.R. Martin’s fantasy, then they should have no trouble with 15th century English history. The two are not entirely unrelated….

So that’s some examples of what, in my opinion, are good and bad depictions of the past in filmed drama. But does it matter? Why should filmmakers try and get it right anyway? Well, for my thoughts on that, you’ll have to wait for the third and final installment…

What’s your view? What makes a good historical movie and what do you think are good and bad examples? Let me know in the comments section…

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Hollywood History: Episode 1 – The Phantom Authenticity…

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One of the questions that I get asked by some of our regular visitors to Peterborough Museum goes something like this:

‘Have you seen (insert name of film or television drama set in at some period in history) yet?’

A cautious yes will then inevitably lead to the follow up question:

‘So is that what really happened then? Was it really like that?’

It’s something I have an interest in personally, not just with my historian’s hat on, but as someone who enjoys films and is a regular cinema-goer. I enjoy historical movies, as well as dramas on the television and, more often than not, manage to switch off my historical faculties and just try to enjoy the drama for what it is. Even so…

The question of accuracy in the dramatization of historical events on the screen is nothing new, but it has recently been featured in a number of News stories. As has been the case in the last few years during the run up to the Oscars, there have been attempts to question some films fitness to win the Best Film award based on a perceived lack of historical accuracy. Here in the UK there has been a frenzied debate in recent weeks about the way that the First World War should be taught in schools, triggered by comments from the Education Secretary that it was too much of a negative view, particularly as he alleged that teachers were relying on excerpts from dramatized versions such as ‘All Quiet on the Western Front‘ and the television comedy ‘Blackadder Goes Forth‘.

As such, I thought I’d type a few random and rambling thoughts on how history is portrayed dramatically on the screen. In true current Hollywood fashion I’m going to stretch this out over a trilogy, this part looking at criteria for judging film and TV historical dramas, episode two will look at what in my view are some good, bad and ugly examples of historical accuracy in such dramas, and part three will ask whether it matters anyway and to what extent such things can be used as source material in historical study.

Before I go into my criteria then, I thought I’d better put in a few qualifications and disclaimers…

1) This is about historical drama only, that is the dramatization of historical events, adaptation of a novel or creation of an original drama set against the background of a period in the past. It does not include any historical documentaries as that, frankly, is a whole other can of worms. There are some excellent TV documentaries on the television, any fronted by Simon Schama, Michael Wood, Janina Ramirez or Helen Castor are pretty much guaranteed to be of good quality. On the other hand there’s a lot of dross too, mostly some channels endlessly wringing yet another poor quality documentary out of a very obscure part of the Nazi regime. I’m expecting Channel 5 to start screening something entitled ‘Battle Underpants of the Waffen SS’ any day now…

2) This is purely my set of judgements on said films or TV shows, feel free to disagree, but they are my views. That includes my personal prejudices, including that (apart from for the film ‘Gravity’) 3D is a gimmick and complete waste of time. Deal with it.

3) That any review or criticism is, by it’s very nature, subjective. It will depend on the personal interests and biases of the reviewer. An historian of the Early Modern period is likely to be a kinder reviewer of a film set in World War II than an historian of that period, as the latter has more expertise to draw on to find faults (the eternal cry of the historian of ‘it’s not my period!) Likewise expectation will play a part, as the film critic Mark Kermode has observed. One is more likely to be critical of a film that you go into with high expectations but proves to be very average, as opposed to one that you go into with low expectations which are exceeded. As Dr Kermode has been heard to observe on some of his Radio 5 film reviews, ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed…’

4) That some historical dramas will have higher production values and a greater chance of historical accuracy than others by their very nature. Some periods of history or events are considered sacrosanct even by film-makers for fear of offending people. This is particularly the case with events in living memory (back to and particularly including World War II), but also applies to the works of particular authors such as Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. Woe betide the film-maker who interferes with the authenticity of the Regency period in a production of ‘Pride and Prejudice‘, lest they cause the wrath of the ‘Jane-ites’! The medieval period, on the other hand, seems to be fair game for film-makers to do what the heck they like with and, with a few honourable exceptions, seems to be interfered with and misrepresented more than most.

5) That by the nature of drama, there are of course going to be some changes and alterations to events, characters and places as part of any dramatization. That’s perfectly normal and understood to service the needs of the drama and story. Some alterations still manage to beggar belief though…

So with that in mind, I go and see a film at the cinema or watch a television drama. How, as an historian, do I assess what I’m watching? Well, to my mind, there are four criteria, only two of which actually have anything to do with history.

Entertainment value – am I enjoying this film or television programme? It could be argued that this is the most important criteria of all. Even if it’s pure cheese, appalling production values and is pants historically, a film can still be enjoyable. Conversely, I’ve sat through some things which have been very worthy, beautifully produced, but so devoid of entertainment that it’s felt like watching the entire Hundred Years War in slow motion, backwards whilst blindfolded…

Is it a good film? The other crucial one. Is it well written, with a good cast who are acting their socks off, well directed with a great storyline? Is it beautifully shot, with high production values and a cracking good score? Is it more likely to win an Oscar or a Razzie…?

Historical Accuracy – the first of our two historical ones, and the easiest to assess. Does the film portray events in the correct order, and historical characters consistently with the known personalities of the people concerned? Do the actors look like the people they are portraying? Are the costume, manners, set dressing, props, battle scenes, locations, manner of speaking and so forth correct to the period the drama is representing? Or are the actors all wearing wristwatches in the Roman Empire or using a World War II landing craft to do a beach landing in the 12th century…?

Historical Authenticity is rather more indefinable, the sense that even though much of the accuracy and detail may be wrong the drama still conveys a sense of time and place, that you are still transported to a different world in the past that is more than just about costume or location. This can be instantly discounted for any film where Keanu Reeves is asked to do an English accent.

So that’s my criteria, based on these what do I think makes the historical grade, and who should be sent off to copy out Gibbon’s ‘Decline and fall of the Roman Empire’ a hundred times in penance for their cinematic historical atrocity? For that, you’ll have to tune in to the next exciting installment. In the meantime, feel free to comment with your thoughts, or any nominations for good or bad historical dramas….

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‘Absolution delivered by the Sword': A local perspective on the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381

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Tableau vivant image of the Peasants’ Revolt by Photographer Red Saunders

Visit Cathedral Square in Peterborough first thing on a Monday morning in the 21st century, and in common with most other cities in the UK you’ll find a steady trickle of early shoppers, people on their way to work and those enjoying the morning air, against the background chimes of Peterborough Cathedral’s bells announcing a morning service.

Now imagine those bells ringing with greater urgency over screams and shouts of terror, the thunder of hooves and the sounds of combat, coupled with the acrid stench of blood and burning…

Difficult to visualise isn’t it? Yet this is precisely what happened right in the heart of Peterborough on Monday 17 June 1381 with a riot and its bloody aftermath, a local offshoot of the events we know today as the Peasants’ Revolt. Many people have half remembered memories of these events from their schooldays – Watt Tyler, John Ball, Richard II, an army of the poor marching on London and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Simon Sudbury having his head stuck on a pike. What is less often remembered is that it was not just events in London that were the focus of this story. Throughout towns in the east of England riots ensued, including Bury St Edmunds, Cambridge and St Albans. However, some of the most dramatic events were in Peterborough.

In brief, the Peasants’ Revolt was triggered by the treatment of the labouring classes of the period. After the Black Death had ravaged England in 1348 and 1349, killing perhaps a third of the population, a profound labour shortage followed. Peasants who had been previously tied to the land found that they were now in demand and could expect higher wages, better conditions and more freedom to get these terms. Attempts to try and curb these demands with a Statute of Labourers in 1351 led to popular discontent.

The trigger for violence came with the imposition of a new Poll Tax. This tax was supposed to help fund the wars against France and was first levied in 1377, but the government got its sums wrong, calculating the likely income based on pre-Black Death population levels. As such a second Poll Tax had to be levied in 1381, at an inflated amount of 3 groats (12 pennies – about 2 weeks wages for an average farm labourer), treble what been levied before. This, coupled with what many saw as unfair exemptions and the fundamental problem that everyone paid the same tax, regardless of their ability to pay, led to riots in late May in Essex. By early June a large army from Essex and Kent marched on London, led by Watt Tyler and the Lollard priest John Ball. Many were peasants, but there also seems to have been wider support from artisans, tradesmen, merchants and even some lesser gentry.

On June 14 the Peasant army arrived and camped at Smithfield. A deputation met the 14 year old King Richard II who agreed that he would meet rebel leaders the following day. In the meantime more of the rebels stormed the Tower of London to seize weapons, where they also found Simon Sudbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury. As the Chancellor, Sudbury was particularly associated with the tax and as a result was brutally slain and his head stuck on a pike. The following day Watt Tyler and the rebels met the King at Smithfield. During the meeting Tyler was rude to the King and, in response, was stabbed by the Mayor of London. In the fracas that followed the King defused the situation by riding to the peasant army and announcing to them that they ‘should have no King but me’ and promising reform. Leaderless, the peasant army started to dissolve and within days royal control was re-established. The ringleaders were arrested and executed, and any terms or concessions that had been promised were quickly revoked. (1)

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Peterborough at this time was a bustling market town, dominated in all ways by the great abbey at its heart. Although there has been continuous settlement in and around the modern city centre since the Middle Bronze Age, the place that would be recognisable to us today (and indeed the townsfolk in 1381) has its origins in the 12th century. In 1116 the Saxon monastic complex was destroyed in a great fire, along with the town that had sprung up to its east. A new abbey church was started in 1118, which survives today as Peterborough Cathedral. To bankroll this massive building project, Abbot Martin de Bec created a new market square to bring in revenue through rents and taxes to the west of the monastery, with a surrounding street plan. This created the townscape which still substantively survives over 800 years later. (2)

By the time of the Peasants’ Revolt, the market which was held weekly on the Marketstede (today Cathedral Square) every Saturday was a major source of income for the town, as was its annual fair. Its main trades were leather working and wool, focused on the north side of the square around Cumbergate (‘wool-comber’s street’). (3) The town also functioned as an inland port, the River Nene being navigable to the coast and substantial wharves being situated adjacent to the town bridge. (4) Although a third of the town’s residents had died in the Black Death of 1349, the population had already begun to recover and by 1371 there were perhaps 1,300 inhabitants, (5) about the same size as medieval Leicester. (6)

Looming over the town was the great Abbey church of St Peter for which it was named, today the city’s Cathedral. It dominated Peterborough in every sense, having grown from being a small monastic community at its foundation in 655AD, to become a powerhouse of prayer. By the 14th century, in addition to its religious functions, the abbey was the principal landowner and landlord for the town and surrounding area, and the political power and centre of government for the old Soke of Peterborough. The Abbey controlled the markets, the tolls over the town bridge, the rents and tax collection, law and order locally and even owned many of the local pubs such as the Angel on Bridge Street. It owned substantial estates in Lincolnshire, Northamptonshire and beyond, and the Abbot maintained a lodging in Fleet Street in London. (7) The Abbey was famed for its substantial library and scriptorium (8) and maintained a significant collection of over 70 holy relics to attract pilgrims, including the miraculously preserved arm of St Oswald, six pieces of the true cross, the jaw, tooth and arm of St George, and a vial of blood and bloodstained vestments of St. Thomas Becket. (9) Although the Abbey was hit badly during the Black Death of 1349, 32 of its 64 monks having lost their lives, it quickly recovered. (10) All told it was extremely wealthy, its tax value and income in 1401 were reckoned to be £1,218 15s. 5¾d, a phenomenal sum, making it one of the ten wealthiest religious houses in England. (11)

On first sight it might appear that Peterborough Abbey had complete dominance over the town, but after the Black Death this appears to have been weakened. Relations between the townspeople and the monks became strained, particularly since the installation of Abbot Henry Overton in 1361. Overton began to enforce a lapsed local bye-law which required the permission of the Lord of the Manor prior to marriage and to demand cash rents from his tenants rather than allowing payment in kind as had been previous practice.(12) The latter would have caused particular misery on a population already struggling to find the ready coin to pay the Poll Tax, and when coupled with wage restrictions and rising prices it would have made the people of Peterborough ripe for revolt in the summer of 1381.

What the final trigger for violence was is unknown. It may have been news of events in London, or the letters and messages that were being circulated by John Ball in the days after the Smithfield meeting. It may have been news about the murder of the renowned knight Sir Robert Salle in Norfolk, rumours of other members of the nobility fleeing the country, (13) or simply that that the people of Peterborough wanted to vent their frustrations against what could be seen as their oppressor. Either way, on Monday 17th June a mob gathered in the centre of Peterborough to give vent to their grievances. Their focus was Peterborough Abbey as the key source of their frustrations and, as with other local centres of revolt, the place where court rolls and tax records were stored that the rebels wanted to destroy.

One can only imagine the monks nervousness as they sensed trouble, with what would have been tantamount to a lynch mob gathering on the market square. The square itself followed the borders of the modern Cathedral Square in Peterborough, the edges of which – and indeed some of the shops – still conform to the medieval property boundaries. At the western end of the square was Cowgate – literally the street of cattle – along which livestock was driven to market on the square, and often to slaughter in the butcher’s shops on the Shambles, today Queen Street.(14)

The eastern end of the square was fronted by the great fortified gateway into the monastic precincts which still stands today, buttressed to its left by the nave of a chapel dedicated to St Thomas Becket, which was the repository for the Abbey’s collection of holy relics and the focus for pilgrims to the city. The right of the gateway was flanked by the King’s lodging, a set of apartments for royal and other important visitors, underneath which was the Abbot’s Gaol, the main town prison, part of which still survives today. (15) It is possible that one aim of the rebels was to release any prisoners in the gaol, as had been the case in the other town risings in 1381.

To the south east of the square was Hythegate (today Bridge Street), at this time a narrow medieval street only some 22 feet wide leading down to the River Nene, town bridge and the wharves on the riverside. Opposite Hythegate on the north eastern side of the square was (and is today) Long Causeway, a wide street providing overspill for stalls from the main square during market days. The centre of the square looked rather different in 1381 to today. Visitors nowadays see the parish church of St John the Baptist in the middle of the square, with the 17th century Guildhall next to it. Neither of these buildings existed in 1381, the original parish church being located at this time on the other side of the monastic precincts, on what is today St. John’s Street. The area covered by the buildings on Cathedral Square today would have been the commercial market space in the 14th century, whilst the modern paved area in front of the guildhall would have been covered by a roofed buttermarket and a high status stone building uncovered by archaeologists during excavations on the square in 2009. (16) Given its proximity to the gateway and the pilgrimage Chapel, this is most likely the remains of the Infirmary of St Thomas the Martyr, built around 1174, which provided care for sick pilgrims, many of whom came in hope of a miracle cure from the relics, as well as caring for local people. (17)

Quite rapidly the monks would have attempted to secure the Abbey. Panic seems to have led to many important documents being hidden by the monks inside the precincts, lest they fall into the hands of the mob who were intent on destroying any such papers. In the 1673 workmen mending the cathedral roof found behind an old plank wall a Papal bull dated to 1146, granting to the Abbey its rights, possessions and liberties, which local antiquarians ascribed to having been hidden for safe keeping due to its importance during the Peasants’ Revolt.(18)

There is only one contemporary account of what happened in Peterborough, that of Henry Knighton, Canon of the Augustinian Priory of St Mary in the Meadows at Leicester, writing in his Chronicon Henrici Knighton. Knighton describes the events thus:

‘Likewise at Burgh (Peterborough) the neighbours and tenants of the abbot rose against him and proposed to kill him – which they would have done without redress had God not laid his restraining hand upon them at the last moment. For help came in the shape of lord Henry Despenser, bishop of Norwich, who, through the agency of divine mercy, arrived with a strong force. He prevented the malefactors from carrying out their aims and scattered the mob, paying them back as they deserved. Sparing no one, he sent some to death and others to prison. Several of the rebels fled to the church for protection but fell into the pit of perdition they had dug themselves: for those who had not feared to destroy the ramparts of the church did not deserve its immunity. Some were struck down with swords and spears near the altar and others at the church walls, both inside and outside the building. Just as they had spared no one from their own furious vengeance, so now the bishop’s eye spared none of them – he repaid them in like kind and measure for measure. Because they had come to destroy the church and churchmen I dare say that they deserved to perish at the hands of an ecclesiastic. For the bishop gladly stretched his avenging hand over them and did not scruple to give them final absolution for their sins with his sword…’ (19)

The Bishop referred to by Knighton was Henry Despenser, the Bishop of Norwich. Despenser’s brother had recently died and it seems likely that he had gone to tie up his brothers affairs at his manor of Burley on the Hill near Oakham, and so happened to be in the area. (20) Despenser was one of that peculiar brand of clergy in the medieval period who seems to have been more warrior than priest. His family had a reputation for producing great soldiers and although he was educated at Oxford and ordained a priest, Despenser had served Pope Urban V in a military capacity in his war against Milan in 1369, hence his elevation to Bishop in 1370. It was said that he rather regretted his shift in career in some respects; that he ‘felt the helmet fit more comfortably on his brow than the mitre’. (21) Rumour had it that he sometimes took services whilst wearing armour under his vestments, and he has become nicknamed in more modern times as ‘The fighting Bishop of Norwich’. (22)

Hearing of the riot in Peterborough, Despenser headed in to deal with the trouble with his retinue of eight knights and a number of archers, gathering other troops from the local gentry as he went. (23) Upon the arrival of this warband the reaction of the mob in Peterborough, which would have included women and children, can only be imagined. Even though the mob is likely to have outnumbered the bishop and his entourage several times over, they would have stood little chance as poorly armed civilians against heavily armed and armoured professional soldiers. Panic ensued as people fled in all directions, trying to escape the carnage as the bishop gave orders to his troops to give no quarter. One can imagine the stampede away from the horses’ hooves with many people being hacked down from horseback or trampled underfoot. Many people may have sought shelter in the surrounding houses, shops and taverns, as well as the pilgrim infirmary on the square. This would be to no avail as the questing soldiers would have likely despatched summary justice or dragged anyone suspected of any involvement with the rising out onto the square for later trial.

Knighton’s description colourfully describes many of the rebels being cut down around or even at the altar of ‘the church’, the traditional right of sanctuary on church property being waived on this occasion, presumably as the revolt was a direct offence against the church and its authority. As such most historians naturally ascribe this violence as having taken place in the monastic church, today Peterborough Cathedral. However, it is unclear from Knighton’s description if this was indeed the case and in practical terms this seems unlikely, not least as it would have involved the mob forcing the Abbey’s not insubstantial defences. The great gateway that still stands today between the precincts and main square was built for defence, with a licence to crenelate given for its fortifications in July 1308. (24) It was complete with the great gates that still survive today and a portcullis, complemented by a ditch crossed by a stone bridge. With flanking fire from the equally fortified King’s Lodging, it would seem unlikely that a mob could storm the precincts unless by another entrance or some form of subterfuge.

The reference to a church as the site of violence could instead refer to the nave of the pilgrimage chapel of Thomas Becket, which stood at this time and could have been accessed from the square. W.T. Mellows thought it more likely that it was here in which the rioters might have sought sanctuary in vain. (25) This would tally with the deconsecration of this building within a few years of the revolt, whilst the chancel of the Becket Chapel survives inside the precincts, the nave was demolished and the stone reused for building the new parish church of St John the Baptist on the main square from 1402, that was consecrated in 1407. (26) It is tempting to suggest that this development came about because of the violence in 1381; few would want to worship in a chapel that had been the scene of a massacre.

Despenser then continued on his tour of local rebellions, putting down revolts in Ramsey, Cambridge and in his home county of Norfolk. A group of peasants was famously defeated by his forces at the ‘battle’ of North Walsham at the end of June. (27) The ‘fighting Bishop’ continued to have a colourful career after the Peasants’ Revolt, even leading a disastrous crusade into France. (28)

One local historian has challenged the notion of the revolt in 1381 taking place in Peterborough at all, arguing that Knighton’s account of the revolt in ‘Burgh’ actually refers to Bury St Edmunds, not least as there is no corroborating local documentation or accounts regarding the rising. This challenge can easily be discounted on a number of grounds. Firstly, Knighton is accounted by most medieval historians as a reliable chronicler (in as far as any such thing exists) and is used as a key source for both the Peasants’ Revolt and the Black Death. The naming of the town as ‘Burgh’ is not surprising as Peterborough was still commonly referred to as that or ‘Burgh St Peter’ in the late 1300s. The lack of any local contemporary sources is not surprising, as the substantial part of Peterborough Abbey’s library, records and archive was destroyed by Parliamentary troops in April 1643. Anything relating to the 1381 Peterborough rising is most likely to have been destroyed by Cromwell’s soldiers. (29) Secondly, the ‘Burgh’ narrative in Knighton bears no resemblance to the events of the Bury St Edmunds rising, which is well documented in contemporary accounts such as the Anonimalle Chronnicle. At Bury the rebels were led by a priest called John Wrawe and succeeded in storming the abbey, before beheading the prior and one of his monks on June 15 – two days prior to the ‘Burgh’ rising. The rebellion was suppressed and Wrawe hung, drawn and quartered. (30) Tellingly, the Bury St Edmunds accounts mention no involvement from Bishop Despenser, whose movements have been carefully mapped from chronicle accounts by R.B. Dobson and Dan Jones. (31) Given that the Bishop was near Stamford on June 16 and at Ramsey on June 18 on his progression through Cambridgeshire suppressing revolts, the dates also fit with Peterborough being ‘Burgh’. We can therefore be confident that the events described took place here.

Today Peterborough is a diverse, busy and modern city with an ancient and remarkable story that lies just below the surface – often literally. The site of the nave of the Chapel of St Thomas Becket is now occupied by a branch of Starbucks, next to the surviving medieval gateway to the precincts which the rebels attempted to storm (below). One wonders how many people enjoying their lattes and cappuccinos in this cafe are aware that they are sitting on the site of where such dramatic and bloody events took place over 600 years ago!

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Footnotes
(1) For a full account of the Peasants’ Revolt, read Charles Oman (1906), The Great Revolt of 1381, Dan Jones (2009), Summer of Blood: The Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 or Alastair Dunn (2004), The Peasant’s Revolt: England’s Failed Revolution of 1381, passim.
(2) For a summary of the development of Peterborough, see H.F. Tebbs (1979), Peterborough, Chapters 1-3, and Denis Bracey (1985), The Book of Peterborough, Chapters 1-4.
(3) Archaeological work on Cumbergate has uncovered physical remains of these trades. See Paul Spoerry and Mark Hinman (1998), The Still, Peterborough: Medieval Remains between Cumbergate and Westgate, p.14-40.
(4) Peterborough Historic Environment Record no. 51274 records the wharf finds and construction.
(5) Tebbs, p.118. A good idea of the pre-Black Death population in terms of heads of households and trades can be found in the 1301 tax assessment, which can be accessed at: http://www.medievalgenealogy.org.uk/subsidies/transcripts/nassaburgh1301.shtml#368
(6) Matthew Morris, Richard Buckley and Mike Codd (2011), Visions of Ancient Leicester: reconstructing life in the Roman and medieval town from the archaeology of the Highcross Leicester excavations.
(7)) Victoria County History (1906), A History of the County of Northamptonshire, Volume 2, p.83-95.
(8) For full listings of the library and its holdings see M.R. James (1901) Lists of Manuscripts Formerly in Peterborough Abbey Library.
(9) A full list of relics can be found in Symon Gunton (1686), A History of the Church of Peterburgh, p.13
(10) Tebbs, p.118.
(11) Victoria County History, p. 90.
(12) Bracey, p.25.
(13) Jones, p.172.
(14) For details on Peterborough street names and their origins and commercial purposes see Neil Mitchell (2007), The Streets of Peterborough.
(15) W.T. Mellows (1934), The King’s Lodging at Peterborough in Journal of the Peterborough Natural History, Scientific and Archaeological Society, p.29-30.
(16) Peterborough Historic Environment Record no. 51788 has details.
(17) Victoria County History, p. 162.
(18) Symon Patrick (1686), A Supplement to the History of the Church in Peterburgh, p.280.
(19) Chronicon Henrici Knighton, translated in R.B. Dobson (Ed) (1983), The Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, a Source Book, p.238.
(20) Richard Allington-Smith (2003), Henry Despenser: the Fighting Bishop, p.41.
(21) Oman, p.90.
(22) See Allington-Smith for a comprehensive biography of Despenser.
(23) Oman, p.90.
(24) Mellows, p.30
(25) Ibid, p.30.
(26) June and Vernon Bull, (2007) A History of Peterborough Parish Church
(27) For a full account of Despenser’s movements and actions, see Dobson, p.42-43 and Jones, chapters 19-22.
(28) See Allington-Smith for the Bishop’s later career.
(29) Gunton, p.337.
(30) Dobson, p.235-236.
(31) For a full account of Despenser’s movements and actions, see Dobson, p.42-43 and Jones, chapters 19-22.

The blog has landed…

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I’ve been threatening this for a while. Yes, in my slow march from the 15th century to the 21st, I’ve just about mastered Twitter, and now begins my sojourn into the world of blogs.

I’ll try and update this regularly, and it will be a mixture of content. Mostly it will be my ramblings, but I’ll welcome the occasional guest post in too. Mostly it’ll be articles I’ve written, many on local or medieval history, but also musings on the nature of history, thoughts on current events, and even the occasional diversion off into the world of film or the latest series of Doctor Who. Watch this space as articles will be landing in the next week or so on a rather unpleasant episode from Peterborough’s medieval story, followed by a summation of the impact a national event had on the city.

Please enjoy, and feel free to feed back thoughts and join the debate!