I think Henry V was one of the more inscrutable kings—not least because the great bard took him in hand. Shakespeare’s play has, of course, immortalized Henry, giving him a fabulous speech on St. Crispin’s Day that still sends chills down our spine. Well, you know what I mean. There is no doubt that Henry V elevated the Lancastrians from usurpers to heroes, which was very possibly the reason he launched his French invasion in the first place. God was on his side, and after Agincourt no one dared suggest he didn’t deserve to sit on the throne.
If you had a chance to read my previous novel, THE ACCURSED KING, you would have seen Henry in his formative years. He was not the favorite son; the one-year younger Thomas filled that slot. I suspect this was because Thomas was the only son to accompany Henry Bolingbroke when he was exiled by Richard II. Before that, their father was so busy gallivanting around Europe he had very little time to spend with his family. Young Henry’s mother died in childbirth when he was eight, and the children were farmed out to relatives. During his father’s exile, twelve year-old Henry served as hostage to the king, and he accompanied Richard II to Ireland. He was favoured by the childless king, and Richard knighted him on campaign. When the king was usurped, young Henry was appalled, and I’m sure the stress between him and his father was intense. As first-born, Henry was given the titles due to the heir of the throne, and he was pragmatic enough to accept what fate had handed down to him. But as soon as he was crowned, one of the first things he did was give Richard II a proper burial.
King Richard knights young Henry, Harley ms 1319 f005r Wikipedia
As Prince of Wales, Henry was given full responsibilities. He spent eight years subduing the rebellious Welsh, learning much about warfare in the process. In 1403, when he was seventeen, he engaged in the full-scale Battle of Shrewsbury against the Percies, where he received an arrow in the face that nearly killed him. In 1410 he actually took control of his father’s council, since Henry IV’s illness had nearly incapacitated him, though a year later he was summarily dismissed when he and his uncle Bishop Beaufort reportedly suggested Henry IV retire. Then he spent a couple of years in enforced inaction.
Shakespeare gives us a lively tale of young Hal traipsing around town, drinking, causing trouble, and hanging about with disreputable characters (sorry, Falstaff was a made-up charlatan). As usual, this version of Hal went down in the history books as fact. But really, between fighting the Welsh and running the government, when could he have had the time? It’s possible that the two years he was in disgrace gave him the opportunity to proverbially let his hair down. This may have been the only time in his life he had a chance to enjoy himself. But by all accounts, he really did sober up the night his father died, and redefined himself as a serious, resolute leader ready to step into his father’s shoes. I just don’t believe his personality changed. He was ready for the task, and embraced it wholeheartedly.
It is said that Henry was well-loved by his companions and retainers. He was sincerely pious—to a fault, many historians state. He surrounded himself with bishops and clerics and took them on campaign, attended three masses in a row (I think every morning, but I’m not certain). Throughout his life, he didn’t waste time with flowery orations, and gave concise, common-sense responses like “No, that’s not acceptable” or “Yes, that’s possible”. In ordinary circumstances, he was very approachable and even sociable, as records of his losses at cards attest. He loved music, played the harp, and kept a large group of minstrels at his side, even on campaign. However, when the situation called for it—like a surrender after sieges—he exhibited an arrogance that intimidated his enemies.
As a commander, he demanded absolute obedience. His army was reportedly even better behaved in France than the French soldiers; there was no random violence against peasants, women and clergy for the most part. It was his intent that the French should come to see him as a better leader than their own incompetent king. As we know from the famous incident before Agincourt, he didn’t hesitate to hang a soldier who stole a pyx from a local church. At the same time, he did his best to take care of his troops. When he lay siege in the winter, he made sure to build little wooden houses for his own soldiers to shelter in. For the most part, food and supplies were shipped over from England rather than live off the land. Rarely did his besieging army suffer the pangs of hunger.
Nonetheless, a closer look at Henry’s deeds and behavior—especially during his Norman invasion after 1417—gives us some cringe-worthy moments. It can be terribly difficult not to judge Henry from our modern point of view. He was a product of a violent society, where human lives had little value unless you were of the upper classes. Might made right, and chivalric ideals didn’t necessarily include sympathy for the downtrodden. No one gave any thought to poor farmers whose crops were devastated and homes burned to the ground. It was commonly stated that the French occupying forces actually did considerably more damage than the English (France was in the middle of a civil war when Henry invaded).
Battle of Agincourt from ‘St Albans Chronicle’ – Wikipedia
One of the more damning stains on Henry’s reputation was during the battle of Agincourt. He ordered the prisoners to be killed when he was convinced that the enemy were gathering to attack again. Many modern historians are appalled at the order, which seems ruthless in the extreme. However, this wasn’t the first time prisoners were killed on the field of battle. It happened at Aljubarrota in 1385 when John of Portugal ordered prisoners killed so they could fight the Castilians. In an even more cold-blooded example, on the morning after the battle of Halidon Hill in 1333, Edward III ordered the beheading of over 100 Scottish prisoners. There are other examples, too much to describe here. It is significant that no one can find contemporary denunciations of Henry V’s decision at Agincourt. What he did was apparently within the acceptable code of war at the time. He may have regretted the killing, but he thought it was necessary.
Later on, during his second invasion of France after 1417, Henry’s attitude became more unforgiving. After one siege, he insisted on hanging a trumpeter that repeatedly annoyed the English with his derisive blasts from the battlements. He hung Scottish prisoners after the siege at Melun because they dared fight against him. Most of these petty retributions occurred after sieges, when he was angry at the resistance that caused the deaths of many Englishmen.
I think modern historians are harder on Henry V then contemporaries. But I’ll leave you with this quote from the great K.B. McFarlane, mid-century Oxford historian whose research was unparalleled: “It pleases lesser mortals to detect the Achilles’ heel of the great ones that live in the world’s eye; but by whatever standards he is judged, Henry was superlatively gifted: his only weakness was the physical one from which he died. He was born to rule and to conquer… Take him all round and he was, I think, the greatest man that ever ruled England.” (Lancastrian Kings and Lollard Knights) That’s informed judgment I would find it hard to argue with!
John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, Portrait after Rogier van der Weyden – Wikipedia
Much of the distress surrounding the French court in the early 15th century can be laid directly at the door of John the Fearless. What a slippery character! He was uncle of the schizophrenic King Charles VI and sought to control the ailing king but was frustrated by Louis Duke of Orléans, the king’s brother. However, Louis was not popular among the Parisians because of the taxes he raised (and was accused of squandering). So John made it his business to woo the people with promises: he would reform the administration and lower taxes. It worked. On the night of 23 November, 1407, Louis was murdered in cold blood in the streets of Paris. In a rare moment of weakness, John admitted his guilt then fled the city. But not for long; he figured out a way to clear his name. Labelling the murder as tyrannicide, John staged an elaborate apologia that persuaded the befuddled king to absolve him—though he never entirely escaped condemnation from his peers.
Needless to say, Louis’ son, the fourteen year-old Charles (and his mother) denounced the murderer, though ultimately they just didn’t have enough support for their cause and were forced to go home in humiliation. However, there were plenty of men who formed a faction around him—mostly southerners, like himself. They came to be known as the Armagnacs, named after Charles’s father in-law. The Count of Armagnac was a force of nature—brutal, efficient, and bull-headed. He was one of the few men who could stand up to Duke John.
Murder of the Duke of Orléans, BNF – Wikipedia
The two factions clashed continually; both parties wanted possession of Paris and, of course, the king, who blithely went along with whoever got a hold of him. Paris was simmering with discontent, and in January of 1413 grievances broke into rioting, directed by agents of Burgundy but led by the powerful butcher’s guild. Under their ringleader, Simon Caboche, the Cabochiens sported white hoods, laid siege to the Bastille—sound familiar?—then turned their attentions to the Hôtel Saint-Pol where the Louis the Dauphin was staying. John turned up to save the day, so to speak, and shrugged when the teenaged Dauphin bitterly blamed him for the uproar while his supporters were seized and dragged away. The Dauphin himself was detained and confined to the palace with his incapacitated father and helpless mother. It only took a day or so before Burgundy lost control of the mob, and he watched helplessly while Caboche produced a list of victims to be hauled to prison. Personal vendettas were carried out, and a reign of terror gripped Paris while suspected Armagnacs were arrested, impris- oned, and murdered. This went on for four months.
But insurrections are bad for business, and eventually the Parisians had had enough. When the time was ripe, the Armagnacs gathered their forces and converged on the city, inspiring the anti-Cabochiens to rise up against their oppressors. It all happened very quickly. Caboche and hundreds of his followers slipped out of Paris, taking refuge with the Duke of Burgundy who was one of the first to leave. The Armagnacs moved in, arrested anyone suspected of misconduct, and launched their own reign of terror. They kept a strangle-hold on Paris for the next five years, though Burgundy periodically laid siege to neighboring towns and the city itself in an attempt to push them out.
The Cabochien revolt, from Les Vigiles de Charles VII,BnF, Manuscrit Français 5054 – Wikipedia
Since the King of France was off limits, John turned his attention to the King of England. Although Henry V put on a good front and pretended to negotiate with Charles VI, he was undoubtedly planning an invasion, and John hoped to benefit. He could jointly invade any of the Armagnac’s territories, offer troops to supplement the English army as long as Henry offered troops to him when he needed them. As long as he wasn’t obliged to attack his own king directly, he was ready and willing to partner with England. By the time Henry launched his first invasion, Burgundy may have signed something resembling a non-interference agreement, though no one knew for sure.
The Armagnacs maintained their uneasy grip on Paris, and Burgundy’s threat was immediate enough that they dared not spare troops to confront the English. Once Henry landed at Harfleur, the king and Dauphin sent out orders commanding his nobles to assemble at Rouen, which was about fifty miles up the Seine. It was already too late! The Duke of Burgundy was requested to send five hundred men but not to come himself; the same request was made to Orléans. Both dukes were insulted, but John took the matter to its extreme and ordered that his lords in Picardy do nothing without his direct orders. No one dared disobey, and they all stayed home. On the day Harfleur surrendered, Burgundy was hunting in the forests of the Côte d’Or and making plans to travel to Dijon, where he would attend the christening of his nephew.
As we know, a huge army gathered to crush the English, after Harfleur shamefully capitulated following a six-week siege. The bulk of the French combatants were Armagnacs, since John’s restrictions were honoured by most of his captains. Even John’s nineteen-year-old son Philip, Count of Charolais, was removed to the castle of Aire, where his guardians— under pain of death—locked him in his room. Two of John’s brothers ignored his wishes and both were killed at Agincourt. One of them was Count of Nevers; it was his son who was christened that very day.
At least the Duke of Burgundy could console himself that Agincourt was an Armagnac defeat, for almost all the leading nobles killed and imprisoned were his enemies.
Did the French come to their senses after Agincourt? The short answer is no. The civil war was too ingrained for either side to budge. So while Henry V reinvaded in 1417 and took town after town throughout Normandy, the Armagnacs and Burgundians continued to fight over Paris. In 1418, an even greater, more vicious insurrection took place, this time against the Armagnacs. The Count himself was one of the victims, and his government was totally wiped out, along with leading citizens, merchants, and anyone who was suspected to be an ally. But the next Dauphin was whisked away to safety (Charles, this time. Louis died in 1415.), and all the Armagnacs gathered around him. Same faction, but they were now called Dauphinists. And once again, both Burgundy and the Dauphin negotiated with Henry V.
At the same time Paris was in crisis, King Henry was busy laying siege to Rouen, the capital of Normandy. This put John the Fearless in a predicament. Up until this point, his non-interference conduct played to his advantage. But now, he was the champion of France, and the king. He could no longer ally with Henry; their “understanding” was over.
Assassination of John the Fearless from Chronicle of Monstrelet – Wikipedia
Ultimately, he and the Dauphin decided to join forces, and after much negotiating they agreed to meet on a bridge at Montereau. A wooden enclosure was built around their meeting, but it didn’t help John! As soon as he knelt before the Dauphin, one of the participants stepped forward and drove an axe into his skull!
I can’t think of a worse idea. John’s son Philip (later Philip the Good) immediately went over to the English and swore to avenge his father’s death. He was almost single-handedly responsible for the English’s successful occupation of Normandy from then on. As a monk would later say when showing John’s skull to King Francis I: “Sire, this is the hole through which the English entered France.”
Charles VI, miniature from des Dialogues de Pierre Salmon – Wikipedia
When Henry V landed on the shore of Normandy in 1415, he was relatively sure the French were in no position to offer him much resistance. Already in his father’s reign, both factions of a budding civil war had already approached the English for assistance against the other. Henry IV had responded with an invasion force in support of the Armagnacs against the Burgundians. The Armagnacs—the party of Charles, Duke of Orléans—had made a better offer. However, Prince Henry was in favour of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, and this antagonism against his father’s policy placed him on the wrong side of the political fence. Henry IV’s death a year later put an end to that!
So what was this all about? Since 1392, poor France was afflicted by a schizophrenic king, Charles VI, who slipped in and out of madness with unpredictable frequency. He was sane often enough to negate removing him from the throne permanently, though the older he got, the less he was able to rule rationally even when cognizant. His illness created a political firestorm, as his nobles fought to control his presence; whoever possessed the king ran the country. In the early years of the king’s “absences” (as his schizophrenic episodes were called), the government was ruled by his brother, Louis, Duke of Orléans along with the queen. Orléans was bitterly opposed by John the Fearless, the king’s cousin, who was the popular favorite. In 1407, John had Louis murdered one night in the streets of Paris, but he was such a manipulator that he got away with it. Of course, Louis’s son Charles did all he could to condemn the Duke of Burgundy, but he was too young and inexperienced to pull it off. He eventually formed an opposing faction led by his father in-law, the brutal and effective Count of Armagnac, who carried on after Charles was captured at the Battle of Agincourt.
In 1412, when Henry IV sent an invasion force to France under his second son the Duke of Clarence, King Charles managed to patch up a peace between his warring factions. Clarence was bought off and returned home, but the temporary truce soon failed and matters came to a head just after Henry IV died. Paris had become a proverbial powder keg, and simmering grievances broke into rioting, directed by agents of Burgundy but led by the powerful butcher’s guild. Under their ringleader, Simon Caboche, the Cabochiens sported white hoods, laid siege to the Bastille—sound familiar?—then turned their attentions to the Hôtel Saint-Pol where the Dauphin was staying. The insurgents seized and imprisoned many of the Dauphin’s supporters and detained the teenaged heir, confining him in the palace with his incapacitated father and helpless mother. Thus began a reign of terror where any suspected Armagnacs were arrested, imprisoned, and murdered. This went on for four months.
The Cabochien revolt, from Les Vigiles de Charles VII,BnF, Manuscrit Français 5054 – Wikipedia
But insurrections are bad for business, and eventually the Parisians had had enough. When the time was ripe, the Armagnacs gathered their forces and converged on the city, inspiring the anti-Cabochiens to rise up against their oppressors. It all happened very quickly. Caboche and hundreds of his followers slipped out of Paris, taking refuge with the Duke of Burgundy who was one of the first to leave. The Armagnacs moved in, arrested anyone suspected of misconduct, and launched their own reign of terror. They kept a strangle-hold on Paris for the next five years, though Burgundy periodically laid siege to neighboring towns and the city itself in an attempt to push them out.
John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, Portrait after Rogier van der Weyden – Wikipedia
Duke John was not one to take matters sitting down, so to speak. There was always King Henry of England, ready to discuss terms. Just like his father back in 1412, Henry negotiated with both sides while he prepared to invade. He hoped that John would offer to swear fealty to him, but Burgundy was not willing to go against his own king. So the best Henry could manage was something resembling a non-interference agreement; no one knew for sure what they came up with. But by all indications, Burgundy cooperated. He concentrated his efforts against the Armagnacs, throwing the government into such a panic that they dared not commit troops to the English invasion while Paris was threatened.
Harfleur was the first to experience the might of the English army. Henry laid siege to the city, blockading it both by land and sea. Repeated calls for help generated nothing but excuses: the king was working on it. They hadn’t gathered enough troops yet to confront the English. King Charles and the Dauphin both made their way toward Harfleur, but didn’t travel any further than Vernon, about eighty miles upriver, while the army slowly gathered at Rouen, thirty miles closer. Before he left Paris, the Dauphin sent messages in the king’s name to both the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Orléans, requesting them to send five hundred men each—but not to come themselves. This gave John the excuse he needed to pretend that he had been insulted, and he ordered all his lords in Picardy to stay put until he ordered otherwise. Neither he nor his men—with few exceptions—showed up at Agincourt. Too bad for the French; Burgundy’s leadership skills were sorely needed. Orléans belatedly decided to go. But he was an inexperienced twenty-one year old, and when he took command of the army—as was his right—he fatally ignored the advice of both the Constable and Marshal of France. He survived the battle, only to spend the next twenty-five years an English prisoner.
Because Burgundy stayed away, a disproportionate number of Armagnacs met their deaths on the battlefield of Agincourt. Once again, John the Fearless attempted to take advantage of the situation by laying siege to Paris. But once again, he was foiled. His day would come, but not for another three years, and when a new insurrection broke out in 1418, it made the Cabochien revolt look like a dress rehearsal. I’ll explore the Paris massacres in my next book, HENRY, SCOURGE OF NORMANDY.
The Agincourt King (The Plantagenet Legacy Book 5) by Mercedes Rochelle is a lavish depiction of one of the most famous battles in English history, which was won by one of England’s most beloved kings.
Immortalised by Shakespeare, and to some extent, Kenneth Branagh, Henry V is probably one of the more recognised kings of this era. Shakespeare is a hard act to follow, but I was really looking forward to seeing Rochelle’s take on the man famed for his St Crispin’s Day Speech. Rochelle has breathed new life into Henry. He is a capable and somewhat caring king, devoted to the well-being of his people, yet driven by ambition to achieve the same greatness as his great grandfather, Edward III. Edward triumphed in the French battle at Crecy, and Henry was determined to achieve a similar feat, ultimately surpassing Edward’s victory at The Battle of Agincourt.
The level of historical detail in this story is astonishing. Rochelle’s dedication to research is reflected in her authoritative penmanship. The historical background of this story is so impressive, that it practically screams authenticity. There was no question about the time period I was in while reading this book. Rochelle’s skilful writing revives this era in all its agony and splendour.
Beyond being a narrative of conflict, this story explores the complexities of family, emphasizing the bond between brothers. Humphrey, Henry’s youngest brother, admires the king with fierce pride. Humphrey adores his brother but this devotion does not blind Humphrey to Henry’s faults. At times, he finds Henry rather confusing. Although cold-blooded murder bothers Henry, he doesn’t have the same moral dilemma about causing the death of thousands in battle. Witnessing the death of his closest friends and comrades from the bloody flux during the Siege of Harfleur was not a cause for retreat. Humphrey sees that Henry values honour above all else, especially when it comes to defeating the French.
Henry is portrayed as an extraordinarily astute leader, effortlessly navigating the realm of power and politics, and orchestrating the French like a masterful musician. He whistled the melody and the song unfolded just as he desired. He wants to be perceived as a compassionate leader, refraining from aggressive actions against the innocent. However, he has no qualms about causing mass starvation and murdering prisoners of war to achieve his goals. By observing his actions and inactions, the reader, and indeed Humphrey, gain insight into Henry’s true character. He is a driven individual who is hungry for success and recognition. The Battle of Agincourt served as the platform for him to showcase that God was on his side. Once he had done that, he went home. At least for a while.
The way the book explored the relationships between the brothers, particularly Henry and Thomas, was expertly executed. From Humphrey’s musing, he sees greatness in both his elder brothers and comes to the conclusion that both men have the makings for a great king, it is just that fate made Henry the eldest. The portrayal of the brother’s relationships was skilfully done, allowing the reader to truly grasp the dynamics of this family. Henry’s relationship with his brothers was unique compared to previous kings – he cared for them and valued their thoughts, although he had the ultimate authority as king. And as Humphrey notices, although Thomas is the heir to the throne, and looks the part, Henry is the better man for the job. I really enjoyed as a reader getting to know the brothers and the different strengths they had. The way Humphrey told his story from his perspective added a personal touch that I found particularly enjoyable while reading. Humphrey was the ideal narrator for Henry’s story and I really liked him as a character. I thought he was wonderfully depicted.
Rochelle does give the reader both the English and French perspectives in this novel. With Charles VI’s unpredictable illness, there is a lack of strong leadership. The depiction of the Dauphin, Louis, Duke of Guienne, was masterfully rendered. In contrast to Henry, he fails to command the loyalty of his nobles, is burdened with rival noble Houses, lacks combat experience, and is surrounded by men he doesn’t trust. Henry cleverly outwits and outmanoeuvres him every time. Nevertheless, the Dauphin was a captivating character to read about and I thoroughly enjoyed witnessing the complete chaos that enveloped him and the French throne.
Rochelle subtly indicated the future by mentioning Henry VI’s disputed lineage – after all, he was an usurper which would have made Henry V the son of an usurper. Henry needed this decisive battle that would validate the Lancastrians’ claim of divine backing. Rochelle illustrates how crucial this war was for Henry’s reign. He needed that success. What happened after in the future generations is, as they say, another story!
I anticipated greatness from this novel because Rochelle can create authentic battle scenes and, at the same time, grasp the complexities of human emotions, and as I anticipated this book is great. It is an utterly brilliant book from start to finish and one I highly recommend.
Morning of the Battle of Agincourt by John Gilbert – Wikipedia
The early fifteenth century would see a mix of weapons and armour and mail depending upon who was wearing it. Let’s start with the archers (the battle winners, no matter what anyone says!)
Archers
The archers would be a mix of hired on Yeomanry who would supply their own kit and archers who were on a Lord’s payroll and who would have some equipment supplied. The archers helmet was usually of two basic types (if they had one, the poorer ones may only have had waxed leather/cloth hoods) Anyway, the helmets – the “Kettle hat” as it is called is shaped just like a first world war British/American soldiers, it is almost identical with a bowl for the head and a rim all the way around. Check out the first world war soldiers for a look. The second helmet is still basic, shaped to the head and covers it and the neck to the collar, the front is plain leaving the eyes, cheeks and mouth open and fits down the side of the face, there is no nasal bar, there would be cut outs for the ears enabling the archer to hear well.
The Captains or leader of an archer band may have a mail shirt and possibly some shoulder plates and elbow plates but not much more than this. Some archers would just have a padded jacket (gambeson?) this would be stuffed/padded with wool or fabric shreds and stitched in long seams down the garment. This stitching bunches the wool/fabric and helps to deflect or at least slow down incoming arrows or crossbow bolts, it would also deflect bladed weapons to some degree. Archers would start off the campaign with boots or at least shoes, by Agincourt many would be barefoot and even fighting trouserless! (owing to the dysentry that was rife in the army) All would carry a dagger, a “poniard” or a “ballock dagger” and/or a knife, many had small hand axes used as both a tool and weapon. Don’t forget the large wooden mallets the archers would have for driving in their wooden stakes (their anti horse device) this could also double as a weapon to bludgeon a Knight to death. The Captains may carry a short sword (badge of rank).
Battle of Crecy from Froissart’s Chronicles (Wikipedia)
Men at Arms (Under a Lord)
These men are usually in a Lord’s retinue and liveried via a gambeson or shirt over their mail shirt to show their association. Not many of these would have plate armour, however some would have picked up pieces from previous battles and again the Captains would be better armed/protected than the ordinary soldier. So, usually dressed in a mail coat with a fabric or leather shirt etc over it to show their Lord’s colours. All would have a helmet but usually a basic one covering the head and neck but open faced, under this would be a mail coif that covered the back of the neck and top of the shoulders as well. Again, the veterans would likely have plate on the shoulder, elbows and knees too that they had taken from the dead in previous battles. Weapons would be axes, war hammers, halberds (pole arm with an axe one side and a spike on the other) or variations of this – axe/spike/hook etc. The hook is used to haul a Knight from his horse. Maces would be another common weapon. Short swords would be used and carried by most men at arms, all would carry a “poniard” or a “ballock dagger” both had long slim blades for slipping through helmet visors to kill quickly. All would have boots.
Knights/Lords/King
These lads are mainly in complete plate armour made to fit them personally like a modern day ‘made to measure suit’. Helmets would be visored, however I have read that many would lift their visor to enable better vision during battle (it must have been terrifying and claustrophobic in a battle when trying to look through slits? Your hearing would also be reduced) Hence archers being trained to hit a turnip at 200 yards! (see the similarities?) and thus Henry suffering an arrow wound in the face. Popular helmets were ‘Pig faced bascinets’ where the front of the helmet is shaped like a long snout with only two narrow slits for the eyes and small perforations in the snout to help breathe. They would have plate armour that was well articulated for all movement. Weapons would be maces, battle axes, shortened lances, war hammers and some would carry a shield if the weapon they were using was one handed (mace/hammer etc), if they had shortened lances they would need two hands and abandon the shield. They would have plate shoes and plate gauntlets. All would carry a sword as a badge of rank, again a dagger would be compulsory.
In this age when a Knight was so well protected the best and quickest way to kill him was; arrows to the face/bludgeoning to death/stabbing through the visor or under the armpit or groin which was hard to protect.
Archers would aim for horses as a larger target and had special shaped arrows designed to cut arteries or bury deep in unprotected areas. Once a knight was unhorsed he would likely be concussed at the least, and an easier target to beat/bludgeon/stab to death. From what I have read of Agincourt after each French charge the archers would slip out to recover arrows and dispatch wounded and concussed knights via axes/daggers/mallets etc.
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Garrett Pearson is an author of historical fiction: 4 Books about Hannibal and one on Stamford Bridge.
Put simply, an indenture was a contract written in two identical parts and divided irregularly—or indented—so that both halves could be joined together in the future. This post is mainly concerned with indentures made between King Henry V and his nobles for the invasion of France.
Funding an army was an intricate operation. An astonishing amount of paperwork has survived from the reign of Henry V, informing us of the exactitude practiced by the exchequer clerks. Several steps along the way guaranteed that every soldier was accounted for. But how were they paid?
For the most part, the king did not pay the soldiers directly. He would be responsible for his own household, as well as recruiting specialists such as gunners, 119 miners, 100 stonecutters, 120 carpenters and turners, 40 smiths, 60 waggoners, and the like (Anne Curry, 1415 Agincourt, p.71). For the rest, the nobles indented to bring a certain number of men-at-arms and archers with them. By now, the old feudal system had mutated into what many historians now call Bastard Feudalism, more of a fee-based agreement between the king and noble, or noble (I’ll call him the Captain) and his retainers (or retinue). For military service, the indenture might be drawn up for one year or less, depending on the plan of campaign. For the Agincourt campaign, the indentures were for twelve months.
So when the Captain applied his seal to the indenture, he was paid, up front, one half of the first quarter’s wages (the king having raised the money through taxes and loans). The second half of the first quarter would be paid at the muster, when the Exchequer’s officials actually counted the men to determine that everyone showed up. For the second quarter, because funds were short, the Captain was given jewels or some equivalent collateral to be redeemed at a future point (some were still outstanding in the reign of Henry VI). He was expected to pay the second quarter’s wages out of his pocket. The third quarter’s wages were supposed to be paid after six weeks of that quarter, and so on, though as the months progressed, things got a little messy.
But, as everyone knew, the real fortunes to be made would come from booty and, especially, ransoms. This, too, had a very specific breakdown. For anything worth more than ten marks, the Captain was entitled to a third share from every man in his retinue, regardless of rank. The king took a third part of the Captain’s gains, and a third of a third from each soldier and archer. Prisoners of certain rank, like dukes, would automatically get turned over to the king, and the soldier would expect some sort of compensation.
Men were recruited in a three-to-one ratio: three archers to each man-at-arms. The latter included earls, bannerets, and knights. The earls, knights, etc. that were recruited by the great dukes would in turn recruit the men-at-arms and archers. From what I can gather, many servants doubled as archers, but not all. Some household servants were directly paid by their masters, and were not in receipt of military wages. Those numbers are unknown. The greater the noble, the larger his contribution. The Duke of Clarence, Henry’s brother, indented for one earl, two barons, 14 knights, 222 esquires, and 720 mounted archers. The Duke of Gloucester, the next brother, brought 800 men total. After that, the numbers fell considerably; York and Arundel brought 400 each, Suffolk 160 and Oxford 140. Many of the knights indented directly with the Exchequer for somewhere between 40 and 120. So there were many small indentures, all of which had to be accounted for. The men were counted on their return, as well, including those invalided home after Harfleur.
Wages were calculated on a daily basis. A duke earned 13s 4d, an earl would get 6s 8d, a baron 4s, a knight 2s. an esquire 12d, and an archer 6d—this at a time when a skilled craftsman earned between 3d and 5d per day. So the incentive for archers was high. The king was responsible for shipping to and from France, including horses, harnesses, and supplies—another huge expense, when it is calculated that over 25,000 horses were needed for this campaign.
Each of the king’s copies of the indentures was kept in a drawstring pouch at the Exchequer with the Captain’s name on it. Any documentation that accrued during the campaign was added to the bag, such as muster rolls and wage claims. What a pile that must have been! Interestingly, since the Agincourt campaign ended before the third quarter began and many had been invalided home, the accounting was considerably complex. Some men were left behind to garrison Harfleur, and of course, there were those who had died during the siege or had been killed in the battle. Ultimately, the king decided to fix the start and end dates of the campaign, and even determined to pay the men who had been killed the full amount. This generosity was not forgotten, at least by the yeomen. The nobles, on the other hand, who had paid the second quarter in full, were shortchanged by the king’s decision to end the campaign forty-eight days early. It was left to them to petition Parliament for their loss. For some of the nobles, it was easier to compensate them with castles and land, and in some cases, admission to the Order of the Garter. Not everyone was happy, but who was going to complain to the hero of Agincourt?
We can fill volumes with what we don’t know about what people ate in the Anglo-Saxon period. Forget about recipe books; we have to wait until Richard II’s reign for the first cookbook. Of course the Romans were way ahead of the game, and Apicius wrote several volumes about soups and sauces and the art of cookery. The oldest surviving manuscripts date back to the eighth and ninth centuries, though I suspect they were probably hidden away in some dusty monastery.
We must remember that the Norman Conquest marked a substantial change in customs, habits, and even access to provisions. By access, I mean the forest laws, imposed by William the Conqueror to protect his hunting animals and vegetation that supported those animals. This had to have come as quite a shock to the natives, who were not used to being prohibited from catching their own game.
The Anglo-Saxon aristocrats hunted, of course, and even practiced falconry. King Edward the Confessor was said to have loved the hunt and indulged himself at every opportunity. So we know that wild birds found their way to the table (often roasted), as well as boar, deer, and fox. As far as domestic meat goes, the pig was the only farm animal that was used exclusively for food; they bore large litters and grew fast, and it is believed they were slaughtered as needed rather than certain times of year. Beef was mostly only eaten by the wealthy, and herds consisted mostly of cows for the milk. They were usually slaughtered in November and salted or smoked to last the winter; their hides were tanned for leather goods. Goats were kept for milk, chickens for eggs, and sheep for wool. These animals were usually slaughtered only when they were old or unproductive, or possibly for holiday meals. So the average Saxon was more likely to have a vegetarian diet, with rare exceptions.
Fruits were a big part of every diet; pears, apples, plums, cherries and berries were plentiful in season and were also used in cooking. Honey was used for sweetener, and all these items could be made into alcoholic beverages. As for vegetables, peas and beans were widely used, as well as mushrooms, onions, garlic, turnips, cabbage, parsnips, and even carrots (not orange—they were white or purple). These ingredients were often brewed in stews and pottages. In fact, I would say the pottage was the primary food for many Anglo-Saxons, along with bread made from grains such as barley, oats, and rye and mixed with ground beans and peas. Wheat bread was reserved for the upper classes. In the medieval period they called the grains corn, which was not to be confused with maize, an American “modern” crop.
Steward pouring drinks, Cotton MS Tiberius B V, f. 4v, British Library
Fish was an important staple on the Anglo-Saxon table, especially on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, feast days, Lent and most of Advent. Inland folk would have to purchase salted, pickled, or smoked fish which could last for months. Shell fish was very popular, like oysters, cockles, eel, crab, and lobster.
The Anglo-Saxon feast would have seemed quite boring to later medievalists. All the food was served at once on wooden platters. Guests were expected to bring their own knives, spoons, wooden bowls, and drinking vessels. The roasted meats would be placed on platters before the guests, and stews would be spooned into their bowls. Cheeses, breads, and fruits would be served in bowls or platters. The local bard would provide songs and story-telling—an important part of the feast. Meanwhile, mead and ale would be consumed in great quantities, and cider in the autumn. Most everything was dependent on the season, and autumn provided the greatest abundance of choices.
Some Norwood online trees trace their genealogy directly back to Jordanus de Sheppey, and then to Harold Godwineson as his father, basing this on Marion Norwood Callum’s researches – that cannot be true. The chronology does not hold; court documents for Jordan’s wife and children make it clear that he had to have been born long after Harold Godwinson was dead at Hastings, indeed in 1135.
Grave of Harold Godwinson
All of the uncertainty surrounding the descendants of King Harold could be removed if, like Richard III, his body could be found. In the case of Richard, apart from the physical description of the body and its location close to the battlefield etc., proof was found through the DNA of modern supposed descendants. There are many branches of the Norwood family who would be very happy to offer their DNA as proof, including our own! There is controversy however over its location. He had been a benefactor of Waltham Abbey where they claim that a body which was originally under the chancel and was moved later to outside of the Church is Harold II. He has a marked grave in the church yard and the town celebrates his presence; there is at least one society that champions him. But academic opinion is not convinced.
The most detailed medieval account of his location comes from the Waltham Chronicle. The author describes how two canons from Waltham, Osgod Cnoppe and Aethelric Childemaister, accompanied Harold from Waltham to Hastings. After the battle, they asked permission to recover Harold’s body, which could only be identified by his “concubine”, (their pejorative term as clergymen- she was his “hand fast” wife, a recognised Anglo- Scandinavian status) Edith Swans Neck, who recognised “secret marks” on it (only known from their intimate relations.) From Hastings the body was brought to Waltham and buried under the floor of the church. This story was related to the author of the Chronicle when he was a boy, by the Sacristan Turketil, who claimed to have himself been a boy at Waltham when Harold arrived en route from Stamford Bridge, and later witnessed the interment of the king. The author himself claims to have seen Harold’s body being disinterred and moved twice during the rebuilding work which started in 1090.
After the defeat at Hastings, Edith was said to have retreated to Minster on Sheppey where she joined, according to some accounts a nunnery. This too has been challenged, as there was no scope for giving sanctuary as a nun to a prominent figure like Edith, and neither was there an existing community of nuns as the Church had been ruined during the actions by Earl Godwine against Edward the Confessor and therefore it was not in a fit state to serve either as a refuge, or a home for nuns who had already moved on by 1050. The site had a very sad history right through the Anglo Saxon period from the location of a monastery there in 664 through to the 11th century as a result of raids by Vikings. The payment of Danegeld did little to alleviate its suffering. As buildings were made of wattle and daub, they had little resistance to pillage, so by the time of Edward the Confessor in 1042, there was little of the Priory left, probably just a rough settlement around the remains of the Church, and even less after Godwine had done his worst. It is the case however that much later the Abbey was restored and became a priory accommodating wealthy “brides of Christ”.
Moreover, although Edith had some land in Sheppey, according to Domesday, and Thanet her major holdings were in Cambridgeshire, Hertfordshire and East Anglia which was a more natural retreat – she has been linked for example to the foundation to our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk. But nothing is known for sure and some have speculated that she joined her sons and her husband’s second wife in the abortive attempts to resist Williams rule at Exeter and Bristol. Harold’s wife Aeditha ended her days in St Omer. Edith is said to have died in 1087 but there is no proof that this was in Sheppey.
The family dispersed after the Conquest. Only two members of the family were allowed to live undisturbed in England under Norman rule. Edward the Confessor’s widow Edith, daughter of Godwin, lived in retirement, remaining in possession of all her private lands, until her death in 1075. She was buried near her husband in Westminster Abbey. Her niece Gunnhild, daughter of Harold Godwinson, was an inmate of the nunnery in Wilton until 1093, when she was abducted by Alan the Red, a Breton who held the lordship of Richmond. She lived with him, and then with his successor Alan the Black, after which she disappears from history. The Alans’ goal was evidently to consolidate their hold on land taken from Edith Swans Neck by marrying her daughter.
In the aftermath of the battle of Hastings Godwin’s widow, Gytha, (mother of Harold II) by then in her sixties, withdrew to the south-west of England, where she held vast estates and where resistance to the Conquest was mounting. William the Conqueror turned his attention to crushing this resistance at the beginning of 1068, and laid siege to the city of Exeter, but Gytha had already fled, probably with her daughter Gunhild and Harold’s daughter Gytha, and taken refuge first on an island in the Bristol Channel, probably Flat Holm, and then at Saint-Omer in Flanders.
The young sons of Harold, Godwine and Edmund, and possibly also their brother Magnus, may have been at the siege of Exeter; certainly they made their way to the court of King Diarmalt of Leinster in Ireland, from where they launched two unsuccessful raids against south-west England. Two of the sons, probably Godwin and Edmund, survived to join their relatives in Saint-Omer. From there the whole party seems to have proceeded to Denmark in the hope that its king, Sweyn II, would help them regain their position in England. Sweyn failed them in this, but after a few years he arranged an advantageous marriage for the younger Gytha with Vladimir Monomakh, Prince of Smolensk and later Grand Prince of Kiev. Their descendants intermarried with royal houses across Europe, and transmitted the blood of the Godwins to, among many others, the present Queens of Great Britain and Denmark.
Harold, the youngest and probably posthumous son of Harold Godwinson, was taken by his mother to Dublin, and later went to Norway, where he was welcomed by the king. In 1098 he was one of the men Magnus III Barelegs took with him on an expedition to Orkney, the Isle of Man and Anglesey; the target of this operation, Dublin, was left untouched as the Norwegians retreated home. No further mention of Harold appears in any source. Before passing to the Jordanus connection, it is worth noting that one historian suggests that Alnod/Ulf stayed on in Normandy after being knighted by Robert and changed his name to Loup Fitz Heraut (Wulf, son of Harold) whose signatures have been found in attestations in late 11C charters. Little is known about this knight.
Minster, Isle of Sheppy, an 1830 engraving that appeared in Ireland’s History of Kent.- Wikipedia
Assertions have been made that Alnod/Ulf lays buried in the Minster Abbey, Isle of Sheppey. There is no proof of this. There are however many other Norwood burials in the Abbey, beginning with Jordanus’ s grandson, Roger de Northwode, which are less contentious. Roger’s father, Sir Stephen de Norwood (Northwood) born c. 1165 built two manor houses, the manor on the Isle of Sheppey was known as “Norwood Manor” within Sheppey and a manor in the Parish of Milton was known as “Norwood without Sheppey” and also known as “Norwood Chasteners.” Stephen is recorded as a son of Jordan de Sheppey, and lived during the reigns of Richard I and King John, (1189 – 1216). His Isle of Sheppey manor was granted by the crown, his mansion was moated around and encompassed within a park, it was well wooded, and said to be stored with an abundance of deer and wild boars. Hence, he assumed the name of Northwood, which was borne by all his descendants.
There is of course a mysterious tomb in the Minster church which was attributed in the Daly book on Sheppey to Jordanus. According to Daly “ In the reign of Henry 1 about AD 1126, the paramount Lord of Sheppey appears to be one Jordanus de Sheppey, or, as it was spelt then “ Sceapiege”. He resided at Northwood Manor, that is to say, the northern Manor immediately adjoining Minster. He died there and was buried, according to Hasted the historian at the Abbey Church of Sexbugha, where his tomb still remains without any inscription or character, though it once had the coat armour, which this family afterwards bore on it. A life size effigy, however, which is now ascribed to him, has been discovered since Hasted wrote (1776); it is deserving of particular attention and is believed to be unique. Of Purbeck marble, it represents a recumbent knight, and was dug up in the churchyard if Minster Abbey in 1833, from about 5 feet below the surface. The hands of the knight are upraised as if in prayer, clasping within them the unique sculptured figure of a soul in prayer also enclosed in a mysterious oval. The Vicar of Minster, the Rev Bramston, is of the opinion that this memorial was probably buried in the churchyard in the troublesome times of the 16th Century.”
In more recent times, the church is more reluctant to ascribe this figure to Jordanus, suggesting that it could belong to the Cheyne family who intermarried with the Norwoods. Close examination of the “soul” also suggests that it is more likely to represent a sheep, the source of wealth in Sheppey at the time. Interestingly, the figure exhibits none of the usual characteristics testifying to participation in the Crusades, such as crossed feet or appropriate weaponry.
When Jordanus died he left an only son Stephen, who assumed the name of Northwood and who succeeded to his father’s estates in Sheppey. He liked like his father in a manor house on the site of the existing more modern house called Norwood manor.
The first time the surname Norwood occurs, is in a court case in the year 1206. At this time, Stephen is also recorded as Stephen, son of Jordan of Sheppey or Stephen son of Cecily. The earliest dated occurrence of Stephen is in the tax rolls for the years 1198-1202 still existing in the public record office in Chancery Lane, London. He occurs with his mother, Cecily, and his brother William. Since Jordanus is not mentioned, he is assumed to be dead by this time.” Stephen’s approximate birthdate of 1165 is based on the fact that he paid to have King John re-confirm his grants that he received from King Richard I around the year 1185. He would have had to be of age at that time so his birthdate is guessed to be the near 1165 figure. [James Dempsey, “Norwood – Northwood families of Kent Warwickshire and Gloucestershire”, 1987]
Stephen’s name can be found in a variety of ways because before the year 1200, the use of surnames or spelling had not been rigidly adopted. In tax rolls for the years 1214 and 1219, Northwood Manor has become well-known enough for Stephen to identify himself as “Stephen of Norwood”.
By far the best short description of the Northwode/Norwood line out of Sheppey is contained in Chapter V11 of Sheila Judge’s book “The Isle of Sheppey” first published in 1983. Sheila details the line from Sir Stephen de Northwode, son of Jordanus, through to John de Northwode who was Constable of the Queensborough Castle in the reign of Edward IV. He was the last male of that line and the Norwood manor was sold and lost its importance. But according to Sheila “The Norwoods were a noble family with a long history. One of the first was a Crusader with Richard I and over the years different members were Sheriffs of Kent; Knights were sent to Westminster, and all of them undertook willingly the commissions that would be expected of a family of their standing. They were a large prolific family, owning large estates in different parts of Kent, where they continued to live for many years after they left Sheppey .”
In her excellent book “Conquered”, sub titled “The Last Children of Anglo Saxon England”, Eleanor Parker of Brasenose traces the lives of the generation of children from the ruling elite born on the eve of the Conquest whose adult lives would be shaped by the new forces. They were entering adulthood, some might choose to play an active part in rebellion against Norman rule, others chose to leave the country or were forced into submission, some did little but watch. They were the last generation of Anglo-Saxon England but they were also the fathers and mothers of the country England was to become.
It is clear that the raids from Ireland with the support of Diarmait, King of Leinster on Bristol, Devon and Cornwall were the last throw of the dice for Harold’s oldest children, Godwine, Edmund and Magnus. Gytha their sister left Flat Holm in the Bristol channel after her effort at Exeter failed and the three eldest of Harold’s children were eventually reunited at the Danish Court. It is possible that Magnus returned to England at some point because there is a medieval monument at Lewes which commemorates Magnus “of Denmark’s royal race” who became an anchorite there. It is clear that by the end of 1066 the English leaders unwilling to accept William had turned to Edgar Aetheling, not the sons of Harold.
Although as written before, Ulf is mentioned in the records as having come into the power of Robert Curthose who also held Duncan, the son of Malcolm of Scotland, according to Parker the Anglo-Norman records are then silent on Ulf’s subsequent fate. Her book goes extensively into the contemporary myth making that produced the English hero Hereward the Wake and the sanctification of Margaret of Scotland, the granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, whose daughter Matilda married Henry 1. She observes that the almost complete disappearance of the grandchildren of Gytha and Godwine from English history after the Conquest is remarkable – although Harold and his brothers were written about in the run up to the 13th century. These stories propagated the myth that Harold had survived Hastings and had come to terms with Norman rule, thereby showing an interest in a King who had lost his kingdom, strength and status but had acquired spiritual power over his conquerors. But no stories were written about his children.
Parker observes that this is more than a simple lack of information. No one is interested in telling stories because for historians in Anglo-Norman England the question of what happened to these children was an awkward subject. To consider their fates worth of investigation might seem tantamount to recognising Harold’s legitimacy as King which was impossible to reconcile with the dominant Norman narrative that “Harold was a grasping usurper who unjustly seized the throne” To address the issue of Harold’s sons and daughters was a more complicated issue and it was perhaps easier and more comfortable to forget the grandchildren of Godwine and Gytha rather than to acknowledge all that they had lost.
Tomb of Robert Curthose- Wikipedia
This explains why our knowledge of Ulf derives from the various records that I have cited and not from any broader narrative. It would of course have suited Alnod/Ulf well in his process of normanisation if his Anglo- Saxon heritage was not a subject of myth making; Roger Curthose had set him on a new course that lead to the creation of a new generation of Norman knights in Kent.
We know so much about the history of the Norwoods because their genealogy was recorded between 1385 and 1405 with further additions some years later. It was contained in a roll considered to be the work of Thomas Brumpston working for the family and is a very rare chronicle in the Surrenden collection now in the National Archives. However as Sheila Judge says in her book, it omits the perplexing Jordanus of Sheppey entirely. It is probable that unless some hitherto undisclosed documents are found in a forgotten archive, or the body of King Harold is disinterred and DNA tested, the missing link between the Norwoods and the Anglo Saxon King through Alnod/Ulf will never be established. In the meantime, perhaps members of the extended Norwood family should be content that they have an ancestor who fought alongside King Edward 1 at Caerlaverock, another ancestor who accompanied Richard I, Coeur de Lion in the Third Crusade and participated in the battle of Acre, leading to an eventual agreement with Saladin and yet a third fought alongside Henry V at Agincourt, one of the most famous victories in British History.
Whilst on the subject of DNA, if it is the case that Queen Elizabeth II was descended from Harold through Gytha’s marriage to Vladimir Monomakh, Prince of Smolensk and later Grand Prince of Kiev, then her DNA would provide some kind of verification of the Norwood link to Harold. Or, to put it another way, the absence of any common characteristics in the DNA of the Norwoods and the House of Windsor would suggest that the story of a connection with Alnod/Ulf is regrettably not true. I leave it to more intrepid members of the Norwood Clan to take up the matter with Buckingham Palace. Who knows, King Charles might be more amenable to making his DNA available?
Interested in more about the ancestry of John Norwood?
It has long been the case that members of the Norwood family in its many manifestations, claim descent from King Harold Godwineson, otherwise known as Harold II who was killed at Hastings in 1066, through his son Alnod or Ulf. I followed the convention in my book on John Norwood VC by citing the researches of Marian Callum Norwood, the noted genealogist and family historian who did much to develop the histories of the various branches of the family. I met her in the 1990s when she was already quite old but still full of enthusiasm. In the many years since Marion’s death however, others who have followed her work more critically have taken issue with the absence of a credible connection between Jordanus of Sheppey, the 12th century patriarch of the family from whom the Norwood clan indubitably descended and Alnod or Ulf, the son of Harold.
Marion goes wrong early in Volume Two of the Norwood books by referring to Alnod as the eldest son of Harold and Edith; he was not. The title of eldest son belongs to Godwine who fled to the continent after various attempts post-Conquest to achieve power. That said, her formidable research into heraldry and the translation of the Domesday Book for Kent by Lambert Blackwell Larking which she used, revealed that Alnod had very significant holdings indeed around Kent which after the Conquest fell into the hands either of Odo of Bayeux, or William himself or the Canterbury Archdiocese. We verified these findings ourselves by examining the same document at the Kent Archives in Maidstone in both translations of Domesday. Larking uses “Alnod Cilt” as his translation, but the modern interpretation in a Domesday translation edited by John Morris is “the young Alnod”. He will therefore be identical to Ulf who was a young teenager at the Conquest but who was endowed with significant land.
Also featuring large in the Domesday record is Wulfnoth, born circa 1035, the youngest brother of Harold. He was captured after Hastings, held in Normandy, transferred to Winchester Castle by William Rufus on his release in 1087 by William on his deathbed and then allowed to join a monastery where he died around 1094 in his late fifties – early sixties. His place in the family is often confused with the children of Harold.
According to the book “Harold, the Last Anglo Saxon King” by Ian Walker, the descendants of Harold and his hand fast wife Edith in terms of seniority were; Godwine, Edmund, Magnus, Gytha, Ulf and Gunnhild. He had a son Harold from his conventional second marriage to Aeditha, who was too young to play any role in the Conquest and indeed is thought to have been born after Harold’s death. However, he may well be the son involved years later in the abortive Norwegian attacks on Dublin and Anglesey and must be presumed to have settled in Scandinavia.
Alnod or Ulf was also seized after Hasting (where he was too young to fight) and confined in Normandy. But later, like Wulfnoth, he was released by William on his deathbed, reportedly at the urging of the church, as an act of mercy. There is evidence that William’s estranged son, Robert Curthose, the next Duke of Normandy, took a shine to Ulf and knighted him not long after.
Duke Robert Curthose with his army by Joseph Martin Kronheim, 1868 Source: Wikipedia
Robert Curthose has been ill served by historians who have failed to look behind tainted contemporary sources all of whom have their own reasons for a critical view. A recent book about him by William Aird, a lecturer in medieval history at Cardiff is more even handed. Aird brings out in particular that his leading role in the First Crusade (1095-99) made him one of the most famous warriors of his time, returning to Western Europe in 1100 as a chivalric hero with a reputation that extended from Palestine to Scotland.
Aird writes that in the 11th century the dubbing ceremony was the granting of weapons to a new Knight who was deemed capable of holding land and bearing arms to defend it; this honour was usually awarded to young men and had connotations of social status partly derived from personal ancestry but also by association with the Lord making the grant. It seems clear that Ulf’s privileged retention in Normandy after Hastings led to a close relationship with Robert which could only be recognised on the death of the Conqueror who evidently harboured a strong antipathy to the Godwins.
It is inconceivable that Ulf would not have remained close to his benefactor and fought with him during the many actions that troubled Normandy from the rivalry between Robert and his siblings, William Rufus and Henry. It is equally improbable that Ulf did not accompany him as a mature warrior when he went on the Crusade. This service would have been the most evident route towards reacquiring and retaining his ancestral lands, the defence of which was an inherent element in the knight’s role.
Ulf’s aspirations to land were associated with Kent, so after his formal release in 1087, and after his belting as a knight, he is likely to have sought restoration. By this time, his Anglo-Saxon identity would have been transformed by 20 years of Norman tutelage. It is clear that Alnod or Ulf once had major manorial holdings in Kent which overlap with the later location of the Jordanus/Norwood family, thereby consolidating the supposed connection. Alnod’s former lands are well laid out from Domesday in Marion’s third book and cover widespread manors in Alnod’s name from Rochester to Dover, embracing Canterbury, Whitstable, Sheppey, Thanet, Norwood, Chart Sutton and many more. These had been held by Alnod /Ulf from King Edward, presumably from childhood, but were subordinated to the feudal over-lordship of Odo of Bayeux, William’s half-brother and the Church after the Conquest. Marian asserts that Alnod recovered some of these and that they continued in the possession of Jordanus of Sheppey and the Norwoods for 300 years.
Aird states that there is no complete record of the knights who served Robert and who participated in the First Crusade which was known to be hazardous but Pope Urban had said that “by the will of God, he absolved all penitents from their sins from the moment that they took the cross of Christ”, which produced a surge of participants. Around 60,000 soldiers took part in the Crusade of which around 6,000 were knights and a further 30,000 provided support. This is not the moment to detail the history of the Crusade but the crowning moment for Robert was in August 1099 when after victory in Jerusalem, the crusaders were confronted by an Egyptian Fatimid army at Ascalon, southwest of Jerusalem. Robert commanded the centre division of the Crusader Army and charging at the heart of the Egyptian camp, personally captured the Viziers banner and his tent. The Emir was lucky to escape leading to a great victory for which Robert’s part was much celebrated. After the battle and before beginning the return home, Robert completed his pilgrimage by immersing himself in the River Jordan. It was this act which encouraged crusaders to give themselves the soubriquet “Jordanus”.
Alnod/Ulf appears to disappear from history after 1087 but the change of name to either Jordanus and/or John of Northwoode may contribute to this apparent obscurity. If Robert was his master, the latter’s continuous attempts to challenge at first William Rufus and later Henry 1 for the throne of England, in between battling with his neighbours in France, eventually lead to ignominy. He was bamboozled by Henry I into taking a very large pension in lieu of his claim, which was soon in arrears leading to conflict in which Robert ended as the loser. Henry invaded Normandy in 1106, defeating Robert at the battle of Tinchebray, he then imprisoned his brother in Devizes Castle for 20 years and later moved him to Cardiff where he ended his life in 1134; he is buried in St Peter’s in Gloucester. Tinchebray is in the Orne region of lower Normandy, the scene of much fighting after the D Day landings.
The obvious conclusions that one draw from this story is that Alnod/Ulf after his release from nominal confinement in Normandy, receiving his knighthood and giving service to Robert, was able to claim back at least some his lands. His 20 or so years in Normandy had “normanized“ him. He would have been required of course to offer continued service to Robert – after all, his knighthood involved obligations, but this did not mean that he had to stay in Normandy. It was timely to pursue land claims in the late 80s in Kent because the Church under Archbishop Lanfranc had initiated proceedings, with William’s blessing to strip Odo of Bayeux of lands that he had misappropriated after the Conquest, especially from the Church but also from previous holders such as Alnod/Ulf.
The Trial of Penenden Heath may well have had a role in restoring Alnod/Ulf’s fortunes, although this occurred when he was still in Normandy, as its effects were far reaching. The Trial occurred in the decade after the Conquest probably in 1076, and involved a dispute between Odo of Bayeux , the half-brother of William and Lanfranc, the Archbishop of Canterbury and others. Odo de Bayeux was previously Earl of Kent and the primary landowner of the region subsequent to his half-brother William the Conqueror’s victory in 1066. In 1070, Archbishop Lanfranc succeeded to Canterbury and requested an inquiry into the activities of Odo (and Lanfranc’s predecessor, Stigand) who had allegedly defrauded the Church (and possibly the Crown) during his tenure as Earl of Kent.
William the Conqueror arrests Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, from John Cassell’s Illustrated History of England
It has subsequently been argued that most of the lands had been lost not to Odo, but to Earl Godwine (Harold II’s father) and his family during Edward’s reign and perhaps even earlier and that Odo had simply succeeded to these encroachments. Therefore the conflict between Archbishop and Earl was to a large extent a reprise of that between Robert of Jumièges and Godwine in 1051-2, the suggestion being that Lanfranc, despite being the Prior of a Norman monastery was attempting to restore the pre-conquest landholdings for the Church of Canterbury.
William I determined that the matter should be settled by the nobles of Kent and ordered that an assembly be formed on the heath at Penenden (near present-day Maidstone) for the purpose. William I ordered that the findings of the inquiry or ‘trial’ of Odo de Bayeux were to be final. Various prominent figures in the country at the time were called, which included Geoffrey de Montbray, Bishop of Coutances (who represented the King), Lanfranc (for the Church), Odo de Bayeux (defending himself), Arnost, Rochester Bishop, Athelric II (former Bishop of Selsey), Richard de Tunbridge, Hugh de Montfort, William de Arsic, Hamo Vicecomes and many others.
Athelric II in particular had been compelled by William I to attend as the authority on pre-Norman law. Described as: “A very old man, very learned in the laws of the land “he was brought by chariot or other carriage to Penenden Heath “in order to discuss and expound these same old legal customs”.
The presence of a contingent of English (or Saxon) witnesses as experts in ancient laws and customs as well as the French-born representation is regarded as a significant indication of the basis of the Church’s claims being grounded in the ancient laws of the land. However it is unclear from the sources which of those laws were cited. Precisely when the inquiry was held is also unclear although many historians have determined it took place between 1075 and 1077. Similarly a number of varying transcripts or records of the trial exist and it is unclear which may be regarded as the definitive version of events. The trial of Odo de Bayeux lasted three days and ended in the partial recovery of properties for the church from Odo and others. Odo of Bayeux was later to be stripped of his properties entirely and imprisoned for five years following further challenges to his wealth and powers in 1082.
By all accounts the Penenden trial occurred prior to the Domesday survey and was an early attempt by the church to reclaim rights and interests from the Crown and its agents. Since the assessments of property and rights which followed the trial were of significance, Domesday Book has come to be seen as a response to a need to have a definitive record of the ownership and administration of Crown property.
The Domesday Book was commissioned in December 1085 by William the Conqueror. The first draft was completed in August 1086 and contained records for 13,418 settlements in the English counties
Alnod/Ulf would have been at least around 40 and possibly older when he challenged for the return of his land. His most likely date of birth is around 1050 and possibly later. As Harold’s older sons, starting with Godwine were of an age to contest the throne, post Conquest, it must be assumed that the hand fast marriage with Edith took place in the 1040s with children appearing at regular intervals. This would have made Ulf a young teenager at the Conquest, in his thirties upon his release by William in 1087 and in his late forties during the First Crusade. What appears to be clear and is suggested by a number of references in Domesday is that Alnod/Ulf successfully reclaimed land that we know is associated with the subsequent Northwode holdings. Marion says that Alnod/Ulf had held 20 manors but at the Domesday Survey, none, as almost half had been conveyed to Odo of Bayeux. At Penenden Heath, Alnod’s name is cited as a recent subtenant of Manors which Odo had assumed. The thesis is that on his release and rehabilitation by Robert Curthose, Ulf seized back two parts of Kings Wood on Sheppey which he was allowed to keep not by feudal but by costumal tenure, which effectively recognized the earlier status of his ownership. The source for this is Henry Bracton (c.1210–c.1268) an English cleric and jurist. These properties were also held by gavelkind, which means that they were sellable and not just held in fealty to an Earl.
Notwithstanding these credible assertions, it stretches probability that Alnod/Ulf was the father of Jordanus of Sheppey, as the latter was born in 1135 making Ulf around 80 at the time of his conception. Not impossible but improbable. However, there is a possibility of a link between Ulf and Jordanus – the honorific title passing through a third person. As some commentators have suggested, Jordanus could be the grandson of Alnod/Ulf through an illegitimate or unrecognised son.
St. Paul’s Cathedral during the London Blitz in 1940. Photo in the Public Domain
The Second World War was a defining moment in British history, and the impact of the war on the daily lives of those who lived through it was profound. Virtually nothing was the same in 1945 as it had been in 1940. Not only had the British Empire’s place in the world been irreparably damaged, but the social fabric of Britain was starting to tear. Respect for authority had deteriorated, acceptance of the class-system undermined, and the role of women transformed. Furthermore, the material substance of Britain was battered, run-down and partially shattered.
The two most important factors contributing to these changes were: 1) the total mobilization of society necessary to continue the fight, something that entailed near universal conscription (industrial as well as military) and an economy characterized by shortages, and 2) the damage, threat and cost in lives of the air war.
With the wisdom of hindsight, it is easy to dismiss the impact of Hitler’s air war against Britain as paltry. Yet when the Germans opened their assault on London on 7 September 1940 with a raid involving nearly 1,000 aircraft, it represented a scale of aerial warfare no one had previously encountered anywhere in the world.
The all-out assault on London and other urban centers lasted unremittingly for roughly nine months, costing enormous damage, and sporadic conventional air attacks continued throughout the war. Nor was London alone the Luftwaffe’s target. Liverpool was bombed 60 times, Southampton 37, Birmingham 36, Coventry 21 times, while many other cities were bombed lesser numbers of times. Nearly every raid left thousands of casualties and tens of thousands of homes and shops destroyed, scores of factories, dockyards and other installations damaged.
After the Allied landings in Normandy, Britain was subjected to a new terror from the skies when Hitler unleased his “vengeance weapons,” the V1 and the V2. The V1s were essentially drones, while V2s were rockets which fell from 60 to 70 miles high at speeds of 3,600 mph — faster than the speed of sound. They came in too fast to set off air raid warnings or to be intercepted by fighters. The destruction they caused was unprecedented — an entire block or row of houses could be turned into rubble in an instant, while causing collateral damage in a quarter-mile radius.
Altogether, Hitler’s air offensive killed 60,447 people in the British Isles. Of those, 51,509 had fallen victims to conventional bombing, and nearly 9,000 (8,938) to Hitler’s “vengeance” weapons. In London alone, every sixth person had been made homeless during the Blitz which damaged nearly 1.1 million homes. After much had been repaired, the V1s and V2s damaged fully half of the housing in the British capital in 1944/1945.
It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the British public demanded and expected their government and armed forces to respond. One Air Marshal watching a night attack on London in 1940 was reminded of a phrase from the Old Testament (Hosea 8:7), and predicted: “They have sowed the wind,” he said, “and they will reap the whirlwind.” Truer words were rarely spoken — but the road was long and cost high.
An ariel photograph of Berlin in 1945. Public domain.
It was not until 1942 that the RAF could launch its first “thousand plane” raid against Germany. The casualty rates among bomber crews were also appalling. Although chances of survival varied over time depending on a number of factors (the type of aircraft, the targets, the timing of attacks, i.e. daylight or nighttime, the availability of fighter escorts, technological innovations in radar and counter-radar etc.), by the end of the war a total of 57,205 aircrew or 46% of all men who flew with Bomber Command had been killed in action. In addition, 8,403 had been invalided and 9,838 taken prisoner. The effective casualty rate was thus 60%. During the height of the bombing offensive, 1943 – 1944, casualty rates hovered around 5% per raid and each crew was required to fly 30 operational flights before they were eligible for a rest.
Yet all the men who flew with the RAF in whatever capacity were volunteers, and only one in ten of the men who served in the RAF during WWII actually flew. In other words, it took nine men on the ground to support (recruit, train, equip, house, feed, and maintain the equipment of) each man who flew. “Aircrew,” the men who flew in whatever capacity (i.e as pilots, navigators, bomb aimers, wireless operators, flight engineers or air gunners), were all viewed as an elite. They were given status and privileges above those of their non-flying comrades and enjoyed gestures of appreciation and admiration from civilians — particularly by the opposite sex.
Winning the coveted “aircrew brevet” was not easy, however. Many candidates “washed out” before qualifying. Pilot, navigator and wireless operator training took as much as two and a half years, and it was dangerous. Over 8,000 men training for Bomber Command alone were killed in training accidents and an additional 4,200 were seriously injured.
Sobering as this must have been for the participants, it had no apparent impact on the willingness of young men to volunteer. The RAF always had more volunteers than they could absorb and to the end could afford to be choosy. (The image below shows one of the many “Wings Parade” at which cadets received the coveted cloth wings symbolizing their qualification as a pilot in the RAF. This particular picture shows the graduation at an airfield in the U.S. Throughout the war, the RAF sent tens of thousands of trainee aircrew overseas for their training — including to the U.S. until the U.S. entered the war the USAAF required all training facilities for itself.)
Photo courtesy of Adrian Stevens, whose father Sidney “Stevie” Stevens is the young man receiving
his wings in the foreground.
And yet! The realities of combat, brushes with death, the loss of friends inevitably took their toll on those on active service. “Shell-shock” and “PTSD” are familiar concepts nowadays. Yet the RAF leadership was shocked when increasing numbers of their carefully selected and meticulously trained volunteer aircrew refused to fly. The refusal to volunteer was hardly a breach of the military code, so the RAF needed another procedure for handling these cases since they otherwise threatened to undermine overall morale.
The term “Lack of Moral Fibre” (LMF) was invented, and any man who refused to fly without a valid medical reason or “lost the confidence of his commanding officer” could be immediately posted off a squadron and subjected to disciplinary measures for “LMF.” During the war itself, it was widely believed that aircrew found LMF were humiliated, demoted, court-martialled, and dishonourably discharged. There were rumours of former aircrew being transferred to the infantry, sent to work in the mines, or forced to do demeaning tasks. Although historical analysis of the records show almost no evidence of widespread humiliation, the rumours of draconian punishment served as a deterrent. Tragically, the threat of public humiliation may also have pushed some men to keep flying when they had already passed their breaking point, leading to errors, accidents, and loss of life. Yet we should not forget that behind the notion of LMF was the deeply embedded belief that courage is the ultimate manly virtue and that a man who lacks courage is inferior to the man who has it.
(Below a Lancaster crew immediately following an operation. It belongs to a collection of photographs concerning Sergeant William Frederick Burkitt (1922-1944). Burkitt flew as a flight engineer with No 9 Squadron.)
Photo courtesy of the International Bomber Command Centre Digital Archive.
Moral Fibre takes you into the world of the RAF in 1944. While the themes — the many faces of courage, the cost of love, the scars left by grief — are universal and timeless, the book is firmly grounded in the period in which it was set. The hero, Kit Moran, has been posted for LMF in the past, but when the book opens, he is returning to operations. As the pilot of a Lancaster, he is responsible for the lives of six other men — and he is prepared to die for them. Yet his desire for life is kindled by his love for Georgina, a trainee teacher who has already lost her fiancé in the air war against Hitler and is afraid of giving her heart again.
Riding the icy, moonlit sky, they took the war to Hitler. Their chances of survival were less than 50%. Their average age was 21. This is the story of just one Lancaster skipper, his crew and the woman he loved. It is intended as a tribute to them all.
Flying Officer Kit Moran has earned his pilot’s wings, but the greatest challenges still lie ahead: crewing up and returning to operations. Things aren’t made easier by the fact that while still a flight engineer, he was posted LMF (Lacking in Moral Fibre) for refusing to fly after a raid on Berlin that killed his best friend and skipper. Nor does it help that he is in love with his dead friend’s fiance, who is not yet ready to become romantically involved again.
Helena P. Schrader is an established aviation author and expert on the Second World War. She earned a PhD in History (cum Laude) from the University of Hamburg with a ground-breaking dissertation on a leading member of the German Resistance to Hitler, which received widespread praise on publication in Germany. Her non-fiction publications include Sisters in Arms: The Women who Flew in WWII, The Blockade Breakers: The Berlin Airlift, and Codename Valkyrie: General Friederich Olbricht and the Plot against Hitler, an English-language adaptation of her dissertation. Helena has published nineteen historical novels and won numerous literary awards, including “Best Biography 2017” from Book Excellence Awards and “Best Historical Fiction 2020” from Feathered Quill Book Awards. For more on her publications, works-in-progress, reviews and awards visit: http://helenapschrader.com
