Showing posts with label Monarchy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Monarchy. Show all posts

Monday, 29 July 2019

Matilda: Empress, Queen, Warrior by Catherine Hanley



Book Review

Empress Matilda: power-hungry, haughty, arrogant, stubborn … or so we were once told. Modern lines of thought have now questioned this, however, and in her new book Matilda:Empress, Queen, Warrior Catherine Hanley gives us a fresh perspective on this fascinating character, providing a much-needed in-depth look at the life of Matilda, heir to the English throne, and the events that unfolded as a result of her being named as such.

The book opens with Matilda’s epitaph: ‘Great by birth, greater by marriage, greatest in her offspring. Here lies the daughter, wife and mother of Henry.’ Hanley then sets the tone for the rest of the book as she takes a gendered approach and rightly points out that memorialising Matilda in a way such as this defines her by the men that surrounded her – her father, her husband, her son – and is rather disappointing for a woman such as she, who accomplished a great deal in her own right. Yet, sadly, it is also rather unsurprising.  

The truth is that during this time women were defined by the men around them, though perhaps not solely. There were ideals and expectations for femininity and women (as there were for masculinity and men) and they did not include making your own mark on the world independent of the men around you. In fact, Hanley links this with the very crux of the issue surrounding Matilda.

Hanley makes an excellent point when she says that, on paper, there should not have been any issue regarding Matilda’s succession: she was of royal blood, the only legitimate child of the previous king, she was well-educated and had leadership experience and, perhaps most importantly, she had been named heir to the Crown by the king and the leading nobility had sworn oaths of fealty to her. If Matilda had been male, there would have been no question at all about her right to rule. However, she was not. And one of the primary concerns was that she was seeking to rule in her own right. There had been no precedent for this in England and, due to Matilda’s gender, it was deemed improper for her to actively pursue this for herself. As Hanley puts it, ‘it was impossible at the time not to view her situation through the lens of gender; she was not a person but a woman, and thus her ambitions became both unusual and unacceptable’.

Furthermore, Matilda went as far as to wage war in her pursuit to rule. And she was very much involved in the planning of her campaign, but this was a masculine ideal. Hanley noted that while it’s true women often took on more masculine roles in this period, it was only ever considered acceptable at this time when it was done on behalf of a man – a mother acting as queen regent, for example, or a wife overseeing the rule of her husband’s lands while he was away. As a result of this Matilda became condemned for her decisiveness in her campaign, her wartime leadership abilities and her authoritative manner – the very qualities she would have been praised for had she been a man.
This book therefore raises some interesting issues regarding gender and women in medieval England; however, at the same time it provides a much-needed biography of an often-overlooked person from our history, yet one who had a staggering impact upon it.

The book is generally chronological in structure, beginning with Matilda as a child and being sent away at the age of eight to marry the much older future Holy Roman Emperor Henry V. Hanley considers how hard this must have been for the young girl, but how very well she adapted to her new surroundings and later thrived in them. In fact, Hanley does a wonderful job throughout the book of really personalising the people she is writing about and making you think about how their situations affected them and their actions. This can be a hard thing to do with history. It can be easy to forget these were real people. Instead, Hanley makes us think how scary it must have been for an eight-year-old girl to be uprooted to a new country and culture and married to a stranger. Yes, this was common practice for medieval nobility, but it would nonetheless have been daunting. There are countless moments like this throughout the book where Hanley pauses to consider what a person may have been thinking or feeling, or contextualises the situation to help you understand their motivations better. The history she writes is more than an account of names, places and dates; it is brought to life. Furthermore, she breaks down complex issues (such as the Investiture Contest) and explains them clearly and concisely. This approach makes the book easy to follow for the casual reader, but it is also informative and original enough in its content and arguments for those with a more specialist interest. It strikes a perfect balance.

'Medieval England countenanced the reign of several underage boys and at least one lunatic – to say nothing of various men who were alleged to have been murderers, rapists, or both – but never of a woman.' 

The narrative progresses throughout the next couple of chapters to discuss key events such as the disaster of the White Ship, Henry I’s succession dilemma, Emperor Henry’s death and Matilda’s return to court and, of course, his eventual naming of her as heir to the English throne and the oaths the barons swore to uphold this, including Stephen of Blois, future Stephen I.

Stephen’s usurpation of Matilda’s throne is covered in its own chapter. Hanley points out that a lot of this was luck on Stephen’s part: he was geographically closer than Matilda, meaning news of the king’s death reached him first, and he was also at a location where the shortest possible crossing of the Channel could be made, again granting him the benefits of additional time. It is possible that Stephen arrived in England as soon as one week after the king’s death.

Once news eventually reached Matilda she failed to make a swift departure to England, as Stephen had. Hanley looks at the significance of this and questions the reasons for it. She makes the fascinating conclusion that she was very likely with child at this point – possibly eight to twelve weeks. This is another instance where Hanley really breathes life back into these long-forgotten figures, for she discusses that if this were the case Matilda would have been in her first trimester – a peak time for sickness. A sea journey simply may have been too much for her to bear. With a frustrating inability to travel for the most female of reasons, Matilda’s gender had hindered her once more.

Later chapters continue to proceed broadly chronologically, deviating from time to time to discuss significant individuals (such as Robert of Gloucester, Geoffrey of Anjou and, of course, the future Henry II) and matters of importance concerning them. The events of 1141 are so numerous that Hanley devotes two chapters to it, dividing it by the initial good fortune Matilda’s campaign took in this year (the Siege of Lincoln Castle and Stephen’s capture), to the spiralling downturn it ultimately took. Hanley does an excellent job of telling a complex tale in an easy to follow yet informative manner.

The final two chapters (there are ten in total) look at Matilda’s son Henry, the peace discussions and Matilda’s later years as queen mother. The ultimate agreement that Matilda’s son would become king is an interesting one, and another fine example of Hanley personalising the people she is discussing. She considers how Matilda must have felt at Henry being ‘adopted’ by Stephen in order to be named his heir. While it made a degree of sense due to the legalities (as Stephen had a son, by rights the Crown should have passed to him, but if the king named Henry in his own right then this would have undermined Stephen’s own claim), Hanley emphasises how much of a blow this must have felt like to Matilda. Henry was her son. His claim was through her blood. Yet he was being publically portrayed as Stephen’s son. It was, as Hanley puts it, as if ‘Matilda was written out of her own story’.


In all, this is a fascinating and little-discussed period of history. Matilda was a remarkable woman – intelligent, regal and full of determination and strength of character. Hanley’s well-researched, superbly written biography of her is both sympathetic to Matilda, yet also notes her shortcomings and failures. The gendered approach she takes when considering certain aspects of her story feels both natural and necessary. Matilda’s gender simply was a factor in her story. And what a story it was. 

***

Matilda: Empress, Queen, Warrior is available to purchase now. Click here to purchase a copy directly from the publisher's website.

Format: Hardback 
ISBN: 9780300227253
Imprint:Yale University Press 
Dimensions: 296 pages: 235 x 156mm 
Illustrations: 21 b-w illus.


Monday, 12 June 2017

Berengaria of Navarre

Today I have a guest blog post for you from Daniel Fernández de Lis. Daniel has an interest in medieval English history, particularly the Plantagenets. You can find his own blog at https://curiosidadesdelahistoriablog.com/, and he has started to translate a few posts from Spanish to English here. You can find Daniel on Twitter @FdezLisDaniel or via the account for his blog @littlebitofhist.

Welcome to the Medieval World, Daniel!

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Berengaria of Navarre


1. Introduction

Berengaria (or Berenguela) of Navarre, Queen of England is a peculiar case in history. Always in the shadow of her charismatic husband, Richard de Lionheart, in most of historical books she receives no more than a few lines, just to point out that she was the only English queen not to set foot on English soil, and that she produced no heir to the throne (arising speculations about the sexual inclinations of Richard).

A more complex study of Berengaria is not easy, due to the scarce sources about the years before her marriage. She was the daughter of King Sancho VI el Sabio (the Wise) of Navarre, and sister of King Sancho VII el Fuerte (the Strong), one of the leading figures of a paramount victory of the Christian kings of Spain against the Muslims in the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa (1212). All we know about her birthdate is that she was between twenty one and twenty six years old when she married Richard in 1191.

In those years, Richard was the golden boy of European royalty. King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou, he added to this impressive collection of titles a well-earned prestige as a warrior and military leader. He was also good looking, tall and well built, and a renowned minstrel in several European courts. And he was about to set sail to the Holy Land to recover Jerusalem from the hands of Saladin. So, what caused this shining star of the European bridal market to engage himself to the unknown daughter of the king of a tiny kingdom in the Iberian Peninsula?

Richard had been engaged since he was a boy with Alice (or Aelis), sister of King Philippe of France. However, this marriage never took place. After the agreement, Alice was handed over to Richard's father, Henry II. Rumors spread fast: despite not being more than a child, Henry had seduced Alice; some gossips suggested that she even gave birth to a child. No matter if this was true or false, Richard did not intend to marry the young French princess under these circumstances. Nevertheless, the breach of the agreement was a difficult question, because Alice dowry included strategic lands like the Vexin.

Henry II committed himself in his last years in arbitrations between the kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula. And both the father and the brother of Berengaria had interests at the other side of the Pyrenees; so it is possible that they met Richard while he was ruling Poitou. Although several sources remark that Richard knew and fell in love with Berengaria on a trip to Pamplona (as a minstrel or a as a pilgrim heading to Santiago de Compostela), there is no evidence that this trip took place. The only source, the Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, written by a companion of Richard in the crusade by the name of Ambroise, said that the King loved her a lot and had desired her since he was Count of Poitou. That sentence suggests that he knew her before being crowned King of England in 1189, because it didn't mention this title, but instead the one of Count of Poitou. It is true that Ambroise is not a very reliable source, because his opus is an exaggerated tale of Richard´s feats, but in this point Ambroise has no need to idealize or lie to encourage the King; nothing will come out of his reputation regarding whether he did or did not meet Berengaria before the wedding.

There is no evidence either that Richard knew Sancho VII; the similar characteristics and military prestige of both the English and the Spanish monarch make it possible that they both knew each other. Some sources point out that the engagement between Richard and Berengaria was agreed in 1185. According to these sources, in 1185 Richard met Alfonso II of Aragón in Gascony, and Alfonso sought Richard's help in some conflict with Sancho VII, which that could mean that the Lionheart had some kind of influence in the King of Navarra. And precisely this same year, Sancho granted several lands to his sister Berengaria. That was, according to these sources, an indication of Berengaria's new status as bride of Richard. 



2. Queen of England
What we know for sure is that in 1190, while Richard was making the preparations to sail to the Holy Land, his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, travelled to Navarre to take care of Berengaria and accompany her to his son and to their wedding. Those who considered Eleanor as the main promoter of the marriage mark that with this movement she was after a number of goals: to grant an heir to the throne before Richard engaged himself in a dangerous adventure that could cost him his life; her wish to move Richard away from his peculiar friendship with Phillippe of France and find a wife outside the environment of the French King; as maybe Richard himself had told her about his attraction towards Berengaria.

For others, like John Guillingham, the engagement was Richard's idea. According to Guillingham, 1190 was a year of great military and diplomatic activity in Gascony and there was a meeting between Richard and Sancho at La Reole that well could be the conclusion of the arrangements that begun in 1185. For Sancho VII the engagement was a great diplomatic achievement: it consolidated his position at the other side of the Pyrenees and allowed him to focus on his problems in the Peninsula with his neighbors of Castile and Aragon.

As we said, Eleanor traveled to Pamplona in September 1190, picked up Berengaria, and together they departed in a toilsome trip across the Pyrenees and the Alpes, through Lombardy, Pisa, Rome and Naples and finally arriving at Sicily. Philippe of France departed before they arrived; obviously he had not wished to meet either Eleanor (first wife of his father Louis VII) or Berengaria (Richard broke the engagement with his sister Alice because of the Spanish princess). The chronicles described Berengaria as wise, noble, brave, instructed and beautiful.

The couple set sail from Sicily to the Holy Land, where the marriage should take place. They didn't embark in the same ship, and Eleanor was replaced by his daughter Joan as Berengaria's companion. But the vessel where the two women traveled was hit by a storm and they had to seek refuge in Cyprus. Richard arrived at the island when the governor of the island tried to request a ransom for the women, set them free and decided to marry Berengaria there and then. The marriage took place in Limassol, on 12 May 1191.

Regarding the question of Berengaria not being pregnant before Richard was captured in his return from the crusade, there are obviously no records about the consummation of the marriage, but when the couple set sail to the Holy Land they departed in different vessels. When they arrived at Outremer, Berengaria took no part in the military campaign of her husband and traveled from one Christian fortress to another. Fifteen days after the crusaders conquered Acre, on 6 July 1191, Berengaria reunited there with Richard. But his conditions were far than suitable to the marital obligations: he was sick and feeble, confronted with Philippe of France and other Christian leaders and taking tough decisions, like the slaughter of two thousand Muslim captives.

A month later Berengaria arrived at Acre, Richard left the place and headed to Jerusalem, leaving her behind. There is no record mentioning if they slept together or not, but Berengaria was not pregnant. In September, Richard conquered Jafa and the next month Berengaria joined him there, where they stayed for six months, although Richard spent most of this time in campaign against Saladin. Again there is no mention about the couple’s marital relations, and again Berengaria was not pregnant.

The whereabouts of Richard after the signing of a truce with Saladin in 1192 are well known: he was captured by Leopold of Austria and held captive by the Emperor Henry VI, and was released in February 1194.

And as for Berengaria, she traveled from the Holy Land with Joan, reached Cyprus and Naples and arrived in Rome in December 1192. She stayed there for six months, joining forces with her mother in law in trying to make the Pope persuade the Emperor to set Richard free. In June 1193, Berengaria and Joan, escorted by Alfonso of Aragon and Raymond of Toulouse, moved to Poitou. Despite being Queen of England and despite the situation of the King, Berengaria did not travel to England, but stayed in Poitou during Richard's captivity.

It is true that the situation was not easy, neither in England nor in Poitou. In England, John Lackland was plotting to grasp his brother’s crown and Eleanor, while trying to stop his younger son, was heavily taxing the English people to pay the ransom and set Richard free. In Poitou, Berengaria faced the Aquitaine nobility, traditionally independent and reluctant to obey the orders of their dukes. They were not easily submitted by Henry II, but on the other hand they were willing to take advantage of this new situation.

When Richard was released, he quickly returned to England to reassert his power; he arranged a new ceremony of coronation in Winchester. Eleanor was with him in the coronation, but Berengaria was not. It is difficult to elucidate if this was a sign of previous problems between the couple or simply was a matter of lack of time (Richard needed the ceremony to be hastily performed and Berengaria was in France). It is even possible that Richard thought that there was not need of a dangerous crossing of the Channel, especially since he himself has intention to travel to France as soon as possible. The question is that Berengaria did not accompany Richard in his new coronation.

Richard only stayed in England for three weeks after his coronation. Then he headed to France, never to return to England. He spent the remaining five years fighting Philippe in France; his campaigns are widely documented, but unfortunately these chronicles said nothing about Berengaria and her whereabouts (as usual, medieval queens were invisible, except to write down her marriages and the birth of royal children).

When we say that Richard spent his final five years fighting Philippe, we don’t mean that he was in the battlefield each and every day. Wars in the Middle Ages were a limited affair – both in time and in space. There were a few clashes between the enemy armies during spring and summer, followed by long truces to allow the soldiers to go home and harvest the crops and then take shelter during the winter. That means that if Richard and Berengaria didn’t produce an heir during this last five years, it was not because he was always in a tent in the battlefield or setting siege or being besieged by the French army.

Just as an example, Richard spent Christmas in 1194 in Rouen, and Berengaria was not with him. This year his father died and she was mourning him in Anjou, most likely in Beaufort Castle, where she presumably set her residence because she was also there when Richard died.

There is a famous fact, quoted by Roger of Howeden in 1195. It is always related with Richard’s sexual conditions, but it has his significance also in connection with Berengaria. A hermit addressed Richard, calling him a sinner and reminding him of the destruction of Sodoma. The King then accepted he penitence, received his wife (he has not been with her for a long time), and he joined her so they were one flesh. We don’t know for sure if this is true, but what we do know is that, again, Berengaria was not pregnant.

There is no reference to the activities of Berengaria in the last years of Richard. She must be present in the wedding of Joan, Richard’s sister, at Poitiers in 1196. But in those years Richard was dedicated to the project of building the formidable Chateau Gaillard, and there is no record of Berengaria being there with him, not even when the construction of the fortress was finished.

When Richard was fatally wounded in Chalus-Chabrol, he called by his side his mother Eleanor and the knight William Marshal, not his wife. This could be another sign of the lack of affection between the couple, although it could be argued that by calling on Berengaria (she was never present in the battlefield) this could cause speculation about the seriousness of the wound. Walter de Guiseborough, who wrote in the fourteenth century, stated that the physicians forbade the King, due to the deepness of his wound, to embrace and even to see his wife. But other sources claimed that the wound did not prevent Richard to engage with several women in his bed.

3. Humblest Former Queen of the English and Lady of Le Mans 
After Richard's death, bishop Hugh of Lincoln, who was about to join the King, decided to go to Beaufort Castle to see Berengaria. He found her bereaved and with her heart broken. After Richard was buried, his widow headed to Fontevraud and played an important role in the engagement between her sister Blanca and Theobald of Champagne. The wedding took place in Chartres on 1 July 1199 and Berengaria acted as witness.

In the months that followed, both the new King of England, John I, and Eleanor of Aquitaine showed no concern at all for Berengaria. She had to take refuge in her sister's court in Champagne. Pope Innocent III, who always acted in favor of the widow queen, described her situation as ‘a beggar, poor and humiliated’.

Had Berengaria gave birth to an heir for Richard, her role as a widow would have stayed linked to the center of power as a regent, or at least in charge of his education. But as she did not have a boy, her only two choices were a new marriage or a retreat in an abbey or a monastery (that didn't necessarily involve taking vows as a nun).

The situation was not easy for Berengaria due to the tensions between England and France. Philippe was trying to recover the possessions that the Plantagenets had inherited or conquered in France. John I, even if he was concerned about his sister-in-law’s welfare (which he wasn't), had his own problems because he was losing all of the continental Plantagenet empire. That meant that every castle or town where Berengaria decided to live was at risk of being sieged or taken by the French. Berengaria traveled from one place to another (Beaufort, Chinon, Fontevraud, Champagne) and finally in 1204 established her residence in Le Mans; she lived in this town for the rest of her life.

Berengaria reached an agreement with Philippe of France, She gave up the places that she inherited as Richard's widow (Falaise, Domfront y Bonneville), recognizing him as overlord. In exchange she received the city of Le Mans and one thousand sterling marks. For the rest of her life, Berengaria didn't use the titles of Duchess of Normandy or Countess of Anjou. Instead, she always signed her writs as ‘humblest former Queen of the English’. Nevertheless, she was later known as Lady of Le Mans.

Financially, Berengaria was almost in dire straits. She never married again and John didn't fulfil the dowry promised to her when she married Richard. They signed a document in the year 1200 where John granted her one thousand marks a year, but despite several reclamations and even the intervention of the Pope on behalf of Berengaria, the King delayed this payment for many years. Only in September 1215, after John sent a letter to Berengaria warning her about the confidentiality of the negotiations between them, they signed a new document where John agreed to pay her two thousand marks plus the amount he already owed her.

Knowing John, it came as no surprise when, the following year, he wrote to Berengaria saying that he couldn't pay his debts because he was bankrupted due to the costs of the war in France. John even said that he was sure Berengaria must understand his reasons. Years of fighting, humiliation and the personal intervention of the Pope came to nothing when John died this same year.

Finally, in 1218, and after the mediation on her behalf of the new Pope Honorius III, Henry III of England fulfilled the promises that his father John didn't and paid Berengaria four thousand five hundred marks (over five years).

In Le Mans, where she spent the last twenty six years of her life, Berengaria is remembered by her generous contributions to the churches and abbeys of the city. As one author put it, she left a ‘persistent fragrance of charity’. She was the benefactor of the Church of Saint Pierre; this church, even before the arrival of the queen, had a lot of clashes with the cathedral town hall regarding tax payments and fines for slow payers. Berengaria strongly vouched for the church's rights before the Pope and even left the city for a time when the cathedral town hall lifted an interdict against the Church of Saint Pierre. She retired to lands she had acquired with Richard in the village of Thorée.

When she returned to Le Mans, the citizens cheered her all the way home. Berengaria was very popular because of her charities and donations to all kinds of institutions dedicated to help the poor and sick (including the cathedral). It must be said, however, that part of the money she donated was earned by acquiring at low price property from Jews of the city who had been forced to convert to Christianity and sell their properties below their value.

We do not know much of her personal life during these years. It is possible that she planned to return to Navarre, because Henry III signed passports for her and her messengers to travel to her homeland, but there is no evidence that she traveled home. She kept in touch with her sister Blanca, who was regent in Champagne on behalf of her son Theobald.

The situation around her was now quite different in just a few years. Philippe of France was dead, as was his son Louis VIII. The new king, Louis IX (later St Louis) was advised by his mother, Blanca of Castile, who was Berengaria's niece. Her situation improved with her new overlords, who helped her with her most beloved project: the foundation of a Cistercian abbey called Notre Dame de la Piété-Dieu.

Louis IX granted her the domain where the abbey was built, although she had to contribute with a large amount of money of her own to solve a dispute regarding the property of the sandlot and to buy adjacent lands. She chose the Order of Cistercians because of their links with Navarre and with her husband Richard. The construction was hastily concluded and the monks occupied the abbey on May 1230. The abbey seal represents a lady who has in her left hand a cross crowned with a dove under several fleurs de lis. She was surrounded by the words: ‘Countess of the Normans and the Angevins’ and ‘Berengaria, by the grace of God Queen of the English’.

Only a few months later, on December 1230, Berengaria of Navarre died in Le Mans. She was buried in the abbey she founded. But during the Hundred Years War the abbey was burnt to the ground. It was rebuilt years later, and after the French Revolution went to private owners. The Germans seized it during the Second World War, and in the 1960s it passed to public property again before being rebuilt.

It is believed that her tomb has been plundered several times since the fourteenth century, and the statue of Berengaria that presided over the monument was transferred to the Cathedral of Le Mans in 1821. In 1960, the remains of a woman were found under the floor of the abbey’s hall. There was a huge discussion whether or not it was Berengaria. The University of Caen made some examinations and afterwards most of the experts considered that the remains were indeed those of Berengaria. Now the effigy and the tomb with the remains are located in the new hall of the abbey where everybody can pay a visit.




Source
Ann Trindade, Berengaria. In search of Richard the Lionheart´s Queen.



Friday, 28 August 2015

Book Giveaway and Guest Post by Gareth Russell: ‘Gasping for comprehension’: The Plantagenet monarchy’s treatment of the Jews


I am delighted to welcome Gareth Russell to The Medieval World today as he makes his fifth stop on a virtual book tour for the newly released A History of the English Monarchy


In addition to a wonderful guest post by Gareth, MadeGlobal have several copies of  the book to give away! To be entered into a draw to win, leave a comment at the end of this post with your email address (so that you can be contacted), or email me directly at themedievalworld@hotmail.co.uk. Entries close on Friday 4 September, so be quick!


‘Gasping for comprehension’: The Plantagenet monarchy’s treatment of the Jews

By Gareth Russell

While writing my latest book A History of the English Monarchy: From Boadicea to Elizabeth I, there were very few stories that affected me more than the Diaspora under Edward I. Between 1290 and 1656 there were no Jews in England – or, at least, none who could admit to it. In November 1290, Edward I had the entire Jewish community expelled from England in an event known as the Diaspora. Prior to this, Jews had no civil rights in thirteenth-century England; only Christians had rights in relation to their ruler. As a result, Anglo-Jewry existed as a unique legal class that was offered protection by the Sovereign but not by the letter of the law.

Unfortunately, royal protection was not always efficacious. Anti-Semitic riots had erupted during the festivities for Richard the Lionheart’s coronation in 1189 and King Richard was severely criticised by the clergy for allowing Jews who had been forced to convert to Christianity during the violence to return to their old religion. When Richard went on Crusade, the absence of their kingly protector left the Jews particularly vulnerable and massacres of local Jewish communities occurred at Stamford, Bury St Edmunds and Lynn. The Jewish community in Lincoln were granted sanctuary in the royal castle, but during the celebrations for Passover their co-religionists in York were not so lucky. They were surrounded in Clifford’s Tower by a baying mob who demanded that they either convert to Christianity or perish. Imitating the actions of the Jewish martyrs at the fortress of Masada in the first century AD, the Jews of York chose mass suicide over falling into the hands of their enemies. Those few who did not were butchered within minutes of leaving their place of shelter.

Clifford's Tower, York, 2014.
There were some medieval English Christians who objected to the persecution of the Jews. The Bishop of Lincoln criticised Simon de Montfort’s cruelty towards them during the reign of Henry III by reminding him that the Jews ‘are a wandering people [...] they are fugitives from their proper home, that is Jerusalem, they wander through uncertain stopping places and flee from fear of death’. But the majority of medieval Christians believed sympathy to be wasted on the non-believer. In 1234, Pope Gregory IX argued that there was strong theological justification for discriminating against the Jews, because the Gospel according to Saint John made it quite clear that the Jews were forever stained with the blood of Christ. Despite the fact that the Jewish community made up less than a quarter of a percent of the overall English population in the thirteenth century, anti-Semitism was widespread, as were stories of Jews participating in human sacrifice or the kidnapping and murder of Christian martyr-children. Christians, so it was claimed, were the real victims and it was their way of life that was being threatened.

In contrast to this consensus of clerical and popular paranoia, the English royal family struggled to define their policy towards the Jews on both a personal and political level. Queens were likely to be particularly familiar with high-ranking English Jews due to a levy known as the queens-gold, a tax that had originally been created by Henry I to supplement the income of his second wife, Adeliza of Louvain. It meant that an extra ten percent was added to any fine owed to the Crown by a Christian over the value of ten marks, as well as on any tax paid by the Jews.

However, in a climate of hatred, considerable popularity could be won by any sovereign who took a stand against the Jewish community. Shortly after his coronation, Edward I decreed that all Jews should be removed from any estates that had been granted to the Queen Mother in her widowhood. Eleanor of Provence had apparently made this request herself, since she did not want any contact with sin imperilling the salvation of her soul. This led to the eviction of Jewish communities in Marlborough, Gloucester, Worcester, Andover, Bath, Guildford and Cambridge. Later in the same year, Edward implemented that Statute of the Jewry, which forbade Christians to live near Jews, implemented a special new tax on every Jew above the age of twelve, restricted where Jews were allowed to live and, amongst other provisions, declared that when in public every Jew over the age of seven had to wear a yellow badge, known as the tabula, measuring six inches by three. In 1287 all Jews were expelled from English territory in Gascony and on 18 July 1290, the policy was extended to England. In the midst of the wedding celebrations for his daughter Mary, who was marrying the Duke of Brabant, King Edward issued a decree banishing all the Jews from his kingdom. They were given just over three months to pack up their lives and leave in time for the Feast of All Saints, which falls on the first day of November.

Persecution of Jewish people was an ongoing feature of medieval life
Some of those in the elite who had maintained relatively friendly relations with the Jews, like the King’s younger brother Edmund, his wife Queen Eleanor of Castile and the Archbishop of York, tried their best to secure safe passage out of England for their former associates. Desperate to prevent a triumphalist pogrom against the émigrés, Archbishop John le Romeyn of York threatened any Christian caught in his diocese molesting or harming the Jews as they left with excommunication. Prince Edmund managed to obtain a special license for a Jewish gentleman called Aaron fil Vives to sell his houses and rents in London, Canterbury and Oxford to Christians and Queen Eleanor begged Edward to grant Hagin fil Deulecresse, the Jewish Archpresbyter, a similar permit. He did so on the grounds that Hagin was ‘the Jew of his dearest consort Eleanor’.

The majority of English Jews were not so lucky. As one ship carrying the exiles sailed up the Thames, the captain claimed that his ship had run aground on a sandbank. To lighten the load as the vessel was re-floated, the Jewish passengers were allowed off to stretch their legs on the bank. Once they had disembarked, the captain and crew sailed away, leaving them to drown in the incoming tide. Those who survived the Diaspora of 1290 were scattered to the wind and Anglo-Jewish settlers were found in Amiens, Paris, Spain, northern Italy, Germany, and even as far afield as Cairo. A London scribe reflected that they had become ‘a fugitive people exiled from England for all time, always a wretched people to wander anywhere in the world’.

Reflecting on the importance of History is easy, but its applicability is an altogether more fraught concept. The expulsion of the Jews in 1290, with all the cruelty it showcased and the misery it entailed, certainly has an even more sinister appearance in light of the Holocaust of the twentieth century. That the Nazi Holocaust had nothing to do with Christian teaching should be obvious to all but the most zealous and disingenuous of Christianity’s critics. What happened in the 1940s was the result of a totalitarian political ideology and a perverted interpretation of evolutionary science. However, simply because Christianity’s fundamental teachings are the antithesis of the horrors found in Auschwitz does not mean that it is automatically innocent of nurturing the long-term European anti-Semitism that helped make Auschwitz or its sister camps possible.

For centuries, the Christian faith taught that Jews were not only inferior to Christians but also harmful – a tumour in the body politics. This was not a view unique to Catholicism. The diatribes of Martin Luther and the pogroms carried out by Russian peasants show that Protestantism and the Orthodox churches were just as capable of vicious hatred against Judaism. Jews were admittedly treated badly under the pagan Roman Empire and their religion was mocked, but so too were many other peoples of the empire, none of whom endured bitter persecution once the Roman Empire had vanished. Anti-Semitism as we know it was encouraged and hideously magnified by medieval Christianity and it is impossible to escape reaching that conclusion when examining the fate of the Jewish community in thirteenth-century England.

Medieval Christianity was an extraordinarily beautiful thing. It moulded some of the noblest minds in European history. Its capacity to move the faithful towards acts of courage, charity and compassion, the haunting beauty of its music, its art, the brilliant and subtle complexities of its theology, the men and women who sacrificed everything to live by its teachings, its cathedrals, built by thousands of hands over the course of generations, are proof of the devotion it inspired and the wonders it was capable of. In a violent age, it tried to promote values like chivalry, mercy and honour. It preached strongly against rape and canonised dozens of young women who had been its victims. And yet, it condoned and even celebrated the persecution of the Jews. In 1943, even as the Nazi Holocaust gathered its dread momentum, the historian Joshua Trachtenburg wrote that ‘the most vivid impression to be gained from a reading of medieval allusions to the Jews is of a hatred so vast and abysmal, so intense that it leaves one gasping for comprehension’. Perhaps, in the end, the Diaspora’s greatest lesson is not just of what was wrong with the thirteenth century or medieval religion, but a reminder, if ever one was needed, of man’s inhumanity to man, how readily he can justify it and the tragedies of the past.

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Thank you for an interesting post, Gareth! 

Here's a description of the book from the publisher:
In A History of the English Monarchy, historian Gareth Russell traces the story of the English monarchy and the interactions between popular belief, religious faith and brutal political reality that helped shape the extraordinary journey of one of history’s most important institutions.
From the birth of the nation to the dazzling court of Elizabeth I, A History of the English Monarchy charts the fascinating path of the English monarchy from the uprising of ‘Warrior Queen’ Boadicea in AD60 through each king and queen up to the ‘Golden Age’ of Elizabeth I. Russell offers a fresh take on a fascinating subject as old as the nation itself. Legends, tales and, above all, hard facts tell an incredible story… a history of the English Monarchy.
ISBN: 978-84-943721-2-4        Pages: 322
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About the author:
Gareth Russell is an historian and writer from Belfast, Northern Ireland. He studied Modern History at the University of Oxford and completed a postgraduate in medieval history at Queen’s University, Belfast. He is the author of two novels and three non-fiction books, including his most recent book, A History of the English Monarchy: From Boadicea to Elizabeth I. He is currently writing a biography of Queen Catherine Howard.


Be sure to take a look at Gareth's wonderful blog too, Confessions of a Ci-Devant  

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