And, as their claims and demands came together, a more general sense of protest was being enunciated against the conditions of life in the fourteenth century. ‘Ah, good people,’ John Ball declared in a sermon to the rebels on Blackheath, ‘matters will not go well in England until everything is held in common and there are neither villeins nor gentlemen. These gentlemen dwell in fair houses, and we have the pain and labour, the rain and wind in the fields. Let us go to the king. He is young. Let us show him in what servitude we live.’
Other wandering preachers dwelled on the age-long theme of equality and justice, going from parish to parish and calling to the villagers just as they were leaving church; their theme was that all things under heaven should be held ‘in common’. The day of 13 June – the day when the king’s barge turned back to the Tower in the face of the rebels – was Corpus Christi, the feast of the body of Christ in which the whole community was deemed to be a token of that holy body. It was a day of village celebrations and processions, in which the eucharist was carried in triumph around the streets and lanes of each community. So the rebels had, in a sense, pronounced themselves to be holy by marching or riding in a host. They were pronouncing the sacredness of fellowship. The holy bread is made up of many grains. Christ is the miller.
It was claimed at the time that Ball was a follower of Wycliffe, and that Lollardy itself was one of the causes of sedition. Since the Lollards were in no sense a popular movement, the connection is in many respects implausible. But ideas of change and renovation were in the air. Wycliffe had taught that the right of property was founded in grace and that no sinful man was entitled to the services of others; the theories of the scholar could easily be translated into the slogans of the people. So Ball, in his sermon at Blackheath, taught that all men were created equal, and that the ranks and stations of the social hierarchy were the inventions of their oppressors. God wished them to recover their original liberty.
Songs and sayings flew out of the rebellion like sparks from a fire. ‘Jack Trueman would have you know that falseness and guile have reigned too long. Truth has been put under a lock. Falseness reigns in every flock … Sin spreads like the wild flood, true love, that was good, is fled, and the clergy work us woe for gain … Whoever does wrong, in whatever place it fall, does a wrong to us all … With right and with might, with skill and with will; let might help right, and skill go before will, and right before might, so goes our mill aright … The commons is the fairest flower that ever God set on an earthly crown.’
The consequence of the revolt was unease and even dread. A chronicler, recording troubles eleven years after the events here related, remarked that ‘men all over England were sure that another general insurrection was at hand’. For more than two centuries the fear most expressed by the authorities was that of local rebellion. A revolt of the masses could trigger disaster for the state. Sporadic revolts after 1381 did indeed take place, often in the form of ‘rent strikes’ against oppressive landlords. In the face of unbearable tensions, however, attempts were made to appease and accommodate the demands of the peasants. No further poll tax was ever exacted, not at least in the medieval period. The slow abolition of serfdom, and the rising prosperity of those in work, created a sense of freedom that had found one manifestation in the revolt. It also encouraged a greater relaxation of the old feudal order.
The living standards of the agricultural workers improved perceptibly over a generation. Real wages grew, despite the attempts at legislation prohibiting any such rise, and a poem such as ‘How the Ploughman learned the Paternoster’ reveals the profusion of meat, fish and dairy products in the households of the labourers:
November: At Martinmas I kill my swine
December: And at Christmas I drink red wine.
Life expectancy also rose. The historians of dress have noted that clothing became brighter, and more luxurious, and jewellery more evident, in the latter years of the fourteenth century.
The king himself had passed a test of fire. He had confronted, and defeated, the first and last popular rebellion in English history. His later behaviour suggests that his belief in himself, and in the essential divinity of kingship, was thereby redoubled. At the age of fifteen he was truly a king whose presence alone was enough to command large crowds of people into obeying his will. He was 6 feet (1.8 metres) in height, with blond hair and a round, somewhat feminine face; he had flared nostrils, prominent cheekbones and heavy eyelids. John Gower, at the beginning of the king’s reign, described him as ‘the most beautiful of kings’ and the ‘flower of boys’. He may have been indulging in a little flattery, but the chroniclers of the period were at one in emphasizing Richard’s beauty. He looked the part.
His manner, however, was considered to be abrupt. He was inclined to stammer, when he was excited, and he flushed easily. His temper was somewhat uncertain, and he was always quick to assert his royal dignity. His words to the rebels of Essex, whether he actually uttered them or not, are in that sense characteristic. Other accounts of his speech and behaviour tend to corroborate them. ‘I am a king,’ he said to one earl, ‘and your lord. I will continue to be king. I will be a greater lord than ever I was before, in spite of all my enemies.’ His anger was terrible, just like that of his Plantagenet ancestors. He once drew his sword on the archbishop of Canterbury, and would have killed him had he not been restrained. One chronicler, known only as ‘the monk of Evesham’, described him as being extravagant in dress and imperious in temper; he was frightened of war and preferred to spend the night ‘carousing with friends’ and indulging himself in ‘unmentionable’ ways. This has often been taken as an allusion to Richard’s possible homosexuality, but to a monk many things may be unmentionable.
The emphasis on his royalty meant that he cared deeply for ceremony and for spectacle. He enjoyed dressing up. On one occasion he wore a costume of white satin on which were hung cockle-shells and mussel-shells plated in silver; his doublet was adorned with orange trees embroidered in gold thread. He loved to preside at tournaments, but he was not so enthusiastic about true battles. One of his relatives, Thomas of Lancaster, declared at a later date that ‘he is too heavy in the arse, he only asks for drinking and eating, sleeping, dancing and leaping about’. The medieval texts often refer to ‘leaping about’ without explaining what is meant by it. Thomas of Lancaster went on to say, according to the chronicler Froissart, that ‘this is no life for men-at-arms who ought to win honour through deeds of arms and put their bodies to work’.
In 1383 the young king declared that he was now prepared to rule in person, having taken the precaution of marrying Anne, the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor, at the beginning of the previous year. Both parties were fifteen years old, and Anne was described by a chronicler as ‘a tiny scrap of humanity’. Now bolstered by formidable marital relatives, and by his own assumption of power, Richard felt able to choose his advisers beyond the charmed circle of the hereditary lords. This was not to the taste of his uncles, John of Gaunt and Thomas of Woodstock – dukes of Lancaster and Gloucester respectively – who withdrew from the court in protest against what they called ‘evil advisers’. Richard feared Gaunt and Woodstock, as possible claimants for the throne, and he filled his household with favourites. The new king was lavish in the grants of lands, castles and titles; he borrowed heavily, and was obliged to give the crown of England as security. The old lords, out of favour and denied gifts, were growing restless. It is the familiar story of jealousy and suspicion, compounded by the king’s own secretive and sensitive temperament. The court had become a dangerous place once more.
In the spring of 1383 there had been a botched campaign to relieve Flanders of French control; it had been led by Henry Despenser, bishop of Norwich, but the bishop did not prove to be a good commander. In full martial gear he led his troops into battle against the Flemish towns, but his victims were ordinary Flemish citizens. ‘Men, women and children’, according to one report, ‘were hewed together in one vast massacre.’ The bi
shop may have believed that he was saving their souls. His army was eventually surrounded, and terms were agreed without Despenser ever having attacked the French enemy. It seems likely that the king himself planned an invasion of France in this year, but the prospect of heavy taxation and another popular insurrection deterred him.
Another military failure followed two years later. France and Scotland, old friends in arms, were eager to pursue a joint campaign from the north of England. So in the summer of 1385 Richard II gathered an army to forestall them. He called a feudal summons, the last such summons in English history, and the larger magnates were obliged to respond to the call. The English army met at Newcastle and marched northwards, burning Melrose Abbey and other religious houses on their way to Edinburgh. Once the king arrived in the capital, however, he realized that the Scots had gone; the Scottish soldiers were moving towards the Highlands. Some of his commanders urged him to pursue them, but he declined to do so. Why march into barren countryside without the chance of finding supplies? So he went home. This was an eminently wise decision. Doing nothing is sometimes the best course. But it did not improve the king’s reputation for valour. He had been given the opportunity of displaying himself as a sovereign of war, the indisputable qualification for a king, but success eluded him.
The debacle only served to increase the young king’s antipathy to war. In the course of his reign he would never again lead his armies against the French or the Scots. There would be no memorable battles, no sieges, no towns or castles conquered. In any case the English treasury could no longer afford the cost of further military adventure.
Further rumours of war were being whispered in the spring and summer of 1386. A French army of 30,000 men was being gathered on the coast of Flanders, and was compared to the Greek army that had overcome ancient Troy. The people of Rye, Sandwich and Dover were commanded to remain within the walls of their towns, and the castles close to the southern coast were strengthened and refurbished. The citizens of London were ordered to stock food supplies that might last for three months. It was reported that some Londoners were leaving the city. Richard himself planned yet another attack upon France, but the Commons refused to supply his coffers. The threat of invasion faded away by the end of the year. The French court, like that of the English, did not have the funds to maintain so large an army for so long. Autumn gave way to winter. The fierce weather of that season was another deterrent. The business of the country could go on unimpeded, in theory, and the English people could enjoy the pleasures of peace.
In October 1386 the parliament met in Westminster Hall, as had become the custom, but Richard had prepared a surprise for its members. The statues of previous monarchs, larger than life-size, adorned the hall; the thirteen kings, from Edward the Confessor to Richard himself, looked down upon the proceedings. It was a signal vision of Richard’s concept of kingship. The power of sovereignty was meant to overawe the lowlier subjects of the realm.
It did not work out like that in practice. The Lords sent several petitions to the king, all designed to curb his use or abuse of power. He was accused of flouting the law, and ignoring the advice of his proper councillors. He was condemned for appointing and rewarding unsuitable advisers; he gave out land and offices without advice, and made free use of pardons for rape and murder in order to raise revenue. It was clear, at least, that he was now strong enough to resist the counsels of the senior members of the realm.
A deputation from the parliament visited the king at the palace of Eltham, since Richard himself had refused to travel to Westminster. They demanded the removal of his chancellor, Michael de la Pole, one of the ‘new men’ whom Richard favoured at the expense of the old nobility. The king raged against the assembled Lords and Commons, accusing them of disloyalty and even of treachery. He told them, in his abrupt and angry manner, that he would not dismiss a servant from his kitchen at the behest of parliament. Rumours of plots and counter-plots were everywhere. Richard was behaving in secret and arbitrary ways, and it was whispered that he wished to behead the most notable of his enemies.
It was time for a more powerful intervention. Thomas of Woodstock, the duke of Gloucester, sought a further interview with Richard at Eltham; he was accompanied by Richard FitzAlan, eleventh earl of Arundel, a powerful and skilful nobleman. These two magnates informed the king that he had been ruling England unwisely and unlawfully. They said that the country had always been governed by the concord between the king and the noble lords; only a sliver of truth can be found in this argument, but they enforced their claim with a barely disguised threat that the king could be deposed. The example of his great-grandfather, Edward II, was laid before him. That unfortunate monarch had been forced to resign in favour of his son before being cruelly murdered. Thomas of Woodstock, one of Richard’s uncles, may even have desired the throne for himself.
Richard took the example of Edward II to heart. Nine years later he would plead with the pope to canonize his predecessor as one of the great royal saints of England. There is no doubt that he always felt a strong sense of identification with his unhappy ancestor. But in the winter of 1386 he was obliged to temporize with his enemies. He was still only twenty-one years old, and could not have been entirely sure of himself. He could not yet afford to antagonize them. So he yielded to their demands. The king would come to Westminster. He agreed that his household could be investigated and administered by a commission of nobles and bishops. Michael de la Pole was dismissed, and later imprisoned. Thomas Arundel, bishop of Ely and brother of Richard FitzAlan, took his place as chancellor.
The parliament house had never been so powerful as it was in the last months of 1386, but it would be unwise to praise its members too highly. They were not necessarily good patriots fighting against a tyrant. They were just as preoccupied with their own interests as were the king and his household; a poem of the period describes their conduct as confused and uncertain. Some members sat there ‘like a nought in arithmetic that marks a place but has no value in itself’. Some were taking bribes from royal officials or other interested parties, and some were paid dependants who would not say anything without orders. Some stumbled and mumbled; others slept or stammered their way through their speeches, not knowing what they meant to say.
The king chafed under the restrictions imposed upon him by what soon became known as the ‘Wonderful Parliament’. The commission was given its powers for a year; Richard decided to wait and watch, while at the same time mustering his resources. He consulted with the aldermen of London and the sheriffs of the counties, but received only ambiguous encouragement. His exactions had hardened their hearts. Then he called upon the judges. The most senior of them met in the summer of 1387, and determined that the king could change or dismiss the ordinances of parliament at his will. This effectively annulled the power of both Lords and Commons. The judges also declared that those who had attempted to curb the power of the king could be punished as traitors even if they were not technically guilty of treason.
This was most serious for the king’s opponents. The earls could be beheaded, for example, and their lands held forfeit. Throughout the autumn a tense confrontation was continued, the lords refusing to meet the king after he had summoned them. The earl of Northumberland tried to act as a mediator between the two parties, but it became clear that there was no room for compromise or negotiation. So in November the lords rose up in arms. They called upon their household forces and, at a battle beside the Thames near Radcot on 20 December 1387, they defeated an army sent against them. Then they marched upon London, where Richard was sheltering in the Tower.
It seems likely that the king was deposed for two or three days, effectively stripped of his power, but no clear agreement about the name of his successor could be found. Faced with rival claims, the only real choice was to reinstate the young king suitably chastened and obedient. To be deprived of his throne, even for a few days, was a severe blow to his own regal sense of selfhood. He had in effect been stripped of his identity.
Richard did indeed submit to their demands. The lords took over his household, and dismissed some of the royal servants. Other household officials were arrested. The lords then summoned a parliament to meet on 3 February, where they wished to deal with their other enemies. There is an account of the opening session in which the lords, dressed in gold robes, linked hands and slowly advanced upon the king as he sat upon the throne; then they bowed to him, and filed into their places. It became known as the ‘Merciless Parliament’.
Their first victims were the judges who had pronounced them to be traitors. The Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, Robert Tresilian, was tried and condemned to death while his judicial colleagues were sentenced to exile in Ireland. Tresilian fled for sanctuary to a chapel of Westminster Abbey, but he was dragged out and carried off to Tyburn. The mob carved images of the devil, and of the zodiac, upon his body before his throat was cut and his corpse hung upon the gallows. Seven of the king’s followers were also executed.
Yet the new regime of the lords was not marked by any great success. The Commons had hoped that the removing of the ‘evil’ counsellors from the king’s side would benefit the realm by financial and judicial reform. But the Lords were divided; they pursued their own interests to the detriment of the Commons. The finances of the country did not improve, and factional violence became increasingly common. They also failed in the pursuit of military glory; a planned invasion of France degenerated into a series of coastal skirmishes. The kingdom could only properly be guided by a king. A gathering of notables was not sufficient.
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