Thomas Becket, Aftermath

It's a rare medieval post that starts with a Star Wars reference, but here it is (spoilers!): when Obi Wan confronts Darth Vader, he warns his former pupil "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine." As it turns out, the murder of Thomas Becket by knights acting (so they believed) on Henry II's wishes gave to the problematic and disgraced Archbishop of Canterbury a level of celebrity I doubt he would have achieved otherwise.

Henry's involvement—deliberate or not—in the murder tarnished his reputation; the death of Becket was one of the points brought against him during a rebellion in 1173. But let's focus on the immediate events after 29 December 1170.

The four knights responsible fled northward, to the castle of one of their number, Hugh de Moreville. Regardless of their "good intentions"—they thought they were carrying out orders of a king—the murder of an archbishop was not going to be without consequence. They might have thought to get to Scotland, where English law would not follow them. The four were excommunicated by Pope Alexander III. They were not in immediate danger of secular punishment: Henry did not confiscate their lands, which would have been appropriate for the circumstances. When they appealed to him for advice on their future in August 1171, however, he refused to help them. They ultimately went to Rome to seek forgiveness from the Pope, whose penance for them was to go to the Holy Land and support the Crusading efforts.

Back to Canterbury and 29 December 1170: the monks began to prepare the body for burial. Legend says they were astounded to find that he wore a hair shirt under his clothing: a sign of great piety, to willingly do penance through discomfort. His coffin was placed beneath the floor of the cathedral, with a hole in the stone floor where pilgrims could stick their heads in and kiss the tomb. The martyr's tomb became an enormously popular pilgrimage site; from martyr to saint took only two years: he was canonized by Alexander III on 21 February 1173.

Fifty years after his death, his bones were put into a shrine of gold and jewels—affordable because of the radical increase in donations and offerings due to the popularity of St. Thomas of Canterbury—and given a more prominent place behind the high altar. Sadly, the shrine and bones were destroyed by Henry VIII in 1538, and all mentions of Becket's name were to be eliminated. Despite Henry's efforts, Thomas Becket is still one of the most popular and best-known martyrs and saints in English history.

As was typical for prominent figures, especially saints, several legends cropped up about him with no evidence, but several locales tried to connect themselves to a now-famous figure. I'll share some of the more outrageous stories next.

Thomas Becket, Martyr

Thomas Becket rose from decent middle-class origins to the highest non-royal position in England. As Archbishop of Canterbury, however, his apparent long-term friendship with and loyalty to King Henry II was replaced by an obligation to promote ecclesiastical priorities over secular royal wishes. 

One crisis point was averted when Pope Alexander III created a compromise that allowed Becket—in self-exile on the continent to avoid arrest for malfeasance—to return to England. Becket might have been more careful after that close call, but his awareness of the significance of his position as Archbishop of Canterbury guided his every move.

So when the king had his young son Henry crowned as his successor, the ceremony should have been performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, as was tradition. The elder Henry chose the secondary, the Archbishop of York, Roger de Pont L'Évêque, along with the Bishops of London and Salisbury, to elevate his son. Becket was insulted by this, and in November 1170 he excommunicated the three clergy involved.

...and here is where supposition takes over. King Henry, exasperated by the news, uttered words in what we would now call a "hot mic" situation. Exactly what he said, we don't know. A monk, Edward Grim, who says he was standing next to Becket during what happened next, reports Henry's words as "What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my household, who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric?" There are other accounts, including variations on the terse "Won't someone free me of this troublesome cleric?"

Four knights present took this as a command. Richard le Breton, Reginald FitzUrse, Hugh de Morville, and William de Tracy set out for Canterbury. On 29 December, they came to the cathedral, hiding their weapons and putting cloaks over their armor. Demanding that Becket come to the king in Winchester, his refusal made them retrieve their weapons and threaten him. They tried to drag him outside, but he held onto a pillar. With three sword blows to the head, Becket was finished.

This conclusion was only a prologue to more, and tomorrow I'll talk about what happened after.

Thomas Becket, Archbishop

When King Henry II of England saw his good friend and loyal Lord Chancellor become Archbishop of Canterbury, he assumed he had an ideal opportunity to extend his secular authority over ecclesiastical issues. After all, Henry had trusted Becket enough to have his eldest son raised in Becket's household, and Becket, in his rôle as Chancellor, had efficiently enforced the king's policies over things like revenue from landowners, including churches and bishoprics.

Becoming archbishop, however, either motivated or simply coincided with a change in Becket's attitude. He had not formally been ordained a priest prior to this appointment to the highest ecclesiastical position in England. He was finally ordained a priest on 2 June 1162; his consecration as archbishop took place one day later. The ordination seemed to change him, and he began to live an ascetic lifestyle, quite different from how he would have lived as Chancellor.

Becket resigned as Chancellor and focused his energies on the needs of the clergy. In fact, he started trying to extend the "separation of Church and State" and reclaim the rights of the clergy for appointments to positions and jurisdiction without royal interference. This created a significant rift between archbishop and king. Within months of Becket's new position, Henry tried to formalize royal authority over clerical rights in the Constitutions of Clarendon. The Constitutions attempted to regain royal authority over the clergy and weaken the influence of the papacy in England. Becket's old friend Richer L'Aigle (mentioned here) supported Clarendon. Although many English bishops were willing to go along, Becket opposed the move strongly, causing Henry to demand he appear for trial for malfeasance. Becket agreed verbally to the points in the Constitutions, but refused to formally sign the document. He was convicted of malfeasance, but fled the court and went to the continent into the protection of Louis VII of France.

Becket threatened excommunication for Henry and Interdict for England (meaning no one could partake of the sacraments). Pope Alexander III intervened, however, sending papal legates who negotiated a compromise that would allow Becket to return.

Becket came out of exile and resumed his duties, but remained a thorn in Henry's side. In 1170, a stray comment from Henry expressing his frustration (so the story goes), led to an infamous event that would vault Becket's popularity higher than ever. It's a sad story, however, and I'll share it tomorrow.

Thomas Becket, Origin

Thomas Becket is a name already familiar to many, but I am going to talk about him anyway.

It is popular to think of Becket as having 'humble beginnings," but his father Gilbert was a Norman merchant and a one-time sheriff of London. A popular legend says that his mother, Mathilda, was originally the daughter of a Middle eastern emir, who fell in love with Gilbert while Gilbert was captured on Crusade. Mathilda helped him escape, then later tried to join him although the only word she knew in English was "London." She kept traveling, repeating the word "London" wherever she went, until finally she was directed to a ship bound for England.

Having reached London, her foreign appearance attracted attention. Gilbert discovered her, and consulted with the clergy about marriage; they advised him to have her baptized a Christian. One bishop predicted she would give birth to a saint. (see the picture below, from the Queen Mary Psalter) It is far more likely is that Mathilda was of Norman descent. The pair are buried in Old St. Paul's Cathedral.

The young Thomas (born c. 1120) was often invited to the estate of a wealthy family friend in Sussex, Richer L'Aigle, where he learned the aristocratic pursuits of hawking and hunting. Thomas attended Merton Priory school in Surrey, and later a grammar school in London. He is not known as a particularly good student. He learned the basics, but his Latin was not very good.

His father had some financial difficulties when Thomas was about 20, and Thomas was forced to earn a living as a clerk. He eventually found a position with the current Archbishop of Canterbury, Theobald of Bec. (One hypothesis is that the surname "Becket" indicated origins in Bec in Normandy, and that Gilbert and Theobald were related.) Theobald trusted Thomas with missions to Rome and sent him to study canon law. Theobald named him Archdeacon of Canterbury in 1154 and gave him several responsibilities for different places and made him Provost of Beverley. He was so efficient at these posts that Theobald recommended him to King Henry II for the vacant position of Lord Chancellor. Thomas became Chancellor in January 1155. As Chancellor, he was responsible for carrying out the will of the king in law and policy.

Henry and Thomas seemed to get along extremely well. Henry sent his son, the Young King Henry, to be raised in Becket's household. (It was common for aristocratic families to "foster" each other's children.)

A few months after the death of Archbishop Theobald, Thomas Becket was named Archbishop of Canterbury. Henry was pleased to have a trusted friend who understand the aristocratic life and had proven loyal to the king's interests in the highest ecclesiastical position in the land. It was an opportunity for Henry to extend his authority over the Church in the matter of legal disputes and appointment of clergy, etc.

...and that's when the trouble started. See you tomorrow for part two of three about Thomas Becket.

What Is a Chancellor?

The term "chancellor" has appeared over two dozen times throughout this blog, but the position—and its changing rôle over time—has never been examined.

The term itself comes from the Latin cancellarius, which was someone who hung around the cancelli. The cancelli referred to the lattice-work screens that divided the judge and lawyers from the audience. The cancellarii were the clerks who waited by the divider, waiting to be sent as messengers or given other tasks by the officials. At some point, one of these minor administrators was appointed to a more prominent position. The Latin term for the place cancelli became the English words chancery and chancellery to denote the office of a chancellor.

Inspired by the Carolingian administrative system, Edward the Confessor (reigned 1042 - 1066) appointed what some consider the first chancellor in England, a priest named Regenbald. Titled regis cancellarius, he was probably put in charge of the king's clerks and scribes, and his name shows up as witness to charters. Regenbald was given many estates and the status of a bishop, although he was not ordained one.

For centuries the chancellor was a member of the clergy, likely because for centuries in England the clergy was where you could find a literate man. Early chancellors seem to have been chosen because the king wanted someone to deal with the paperwork of charters, and the chancellor was the Keeper of the Great Seal, freeing the king from having to handle the paperwork himself. The picture above is the chancellor's purse, for storing the Seal. (The Keeper of the Great Seal evolved into a separate office.)

Eventually the chancellor became the Chief Justice, managing the law courts. For a time he was the only judge for cases that needed the king's authority. By the time of Edward III, the chancellor's work evolved into a separate tribunal, the High Court of Chancery, and the chancellor could decide cases based on his judgment regardless of the dictates of law. Two of the better known chancellors, who were sometimes referred to as "the keeper of the king's conscience" were under Henry VIII: Sir Thomas More, the only chancellor who ever cleared the day's docket, and Cardinal Thomas Wolsey; after Wolsey's failure to procure an annulment of Henry's marriage to Catherine of Aragon, Henry (and subsequent kings) mostly appointed lay people as chancellor.

The Lord High Chancellor (now just Lord Chancellor) in the Middle Ages was primarily responsible for the functioning of the law courts.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer is responsible for financial matters; the first appointed was Eustace of Fauconberg (c. 1221 - 1228) by Henry III.

After the Archbishop of Canterbury, the chancellor was the highest-ranking non-royal in England.

Chancellors who have appeared in this blog include Robert Bloet, William Wykeham, Simon Sudbury, Thomas Arundel. Probably one of the most famous chancellors in England was Thomas Becket, who has so far had little exposure in Daily Medieval, so let's give him some much-deserved attention next.

Simon Sudbury

Simon of Sudbury, or just Simon Sudbury, was one of those people who shows up here and there, for instance during the Peasants' Revolt when he was killed by the mob. Now that I've spoiled the ending, let me go back to the beginning.

Born to the middle-class Nigel and Sarah Theobald in Sudbury, Simon studied at the University of Paris and became a priest, working for Pope Innocent VI during the Avignon Papacy. Innocent sent him to Edward III in England, where he stayed and became Bishop of London in 1362. His career flourished, and he was named Archbishop of Canterbury in 1375. After Edward III's death in 1377, it was Sudbury who crowned Richard II as the new king. In 1380 he was named Chancellor of England.

Still emotionally attached to his hometown, he had St. Gregory's Church there renovated, building a chapel at the east end of the north aisle and rebuilding the aisles. He also founded a college in Sudbury along with his brother, John of Chertsey.

Despite any good acts he may have performed, as Archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor of England, he was representative of a government that was considered corrupt and oppressive. To be fair, he was involved in the creation of the third poll tax that pushed things over the edge. When the Peasants' Revolt occurred in 1381, he became a target. The mob damaged his properties at Canterbury and Lambeth, and then entered the Tower of London where he was celebrating Mass. There they found Sudbury and the Lord High Treasurer, Sir Robert Hales. Supposedly, the guards stood by and let the mob in, whereupon the mob dragged Sudbury and Hales out and executed them.

Sudbury's head was hacked off with a sword; the head was placed on a pole on London Bridge for six days, then taken down and sent to St. Gregory's, where it can be seen to this day (see picture above). In 2011, a scan of the skull was used by a forensic expert to make a facial reconstruction, which you can view here. The body is interred at Canterbury Cathedral, with a cannonball in place of the head.

His is one of the rare coats of arms that feature a Talbot dog.

The office of chancellor has been mentioned numerous times throughout this blog, but never explained to an audience (mostly) that did not grow up in a country that has that position. It's time we explained what a chancellor does...next time.

The Talbot Dog

The dog pictured here is the Talbot Dog or Talbot Hound.  The Talbot was a hunting dog popular in the Middle Ages. I saw was because the breed has been extinct for at least two centuries.

Hunting hounds are bred and used for different skills. There are hunting dogs used for their ability to scent things, some for their ability to see better, and some for their ability to dig into burrows. We don't know what the Talbot was used for, but the short legs and large feet would make it good for digging.

The Talbot was linked to John Talbot, 1st Earl of Shrewsbury (the kneeling man in this post with a Talbot Dog behind him). Henry VI called him "Talbot, oure good dogge." This may have to do with Talbot's "doggedness" at pursuing the French during the Hundred Years' War. Or just a joke. The Talbot is not on the coat of arms of either the Talbot family or the Earls of Shrewsbury until much later than the 15th century. (Regarding heraldry: the Talbot and the greyhound are the only two dogs found in English heraldry.)

Talbots seem to have died out by the end of the 18th century. The only place they are seen now besides heraldic emblems is on signs for public houses. You can also see a Talbot carved in stone at Canterbury Cathedral in the coat of arms of one-time Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor of England Simon Sudbury. You can see Simon himself—or rather, his skull—at a different church.  That's a story for tomorrow, however. 

The Talbot Shrewsbury Book

The picture in this post shows the 1st Earl of Shrewsbury presenting a book to Margaret of Anjou, wife of King Henry VI. The earl, John Talbot, was highly praised by Henry, who named him Constable of France—this was merely honorary, since Henry didn't really control France. Pictured here is the entire first page.

The book is real. It is known as the Talbot Shrewsbury Book (also known as British Royal Library 15 E vi). It is a beautifully illustrated collection of 15 legends, stories, and other information written by several authors. Talbot commissioned it for Henry and Margaret's wedding in 1445. The book includes the illustration of Talbot presenting it to Margaret

Made of parchment bound in 440 pages, it is an example of Medieval/Renaissance book production at its height. The contents start out looking appropriate as a wedding gift for a queen, but near the end they become something else.

The Romance of Alexander the Great is followed by five tales of Charlemagne. After that are two Anglo-Norman prose romances, the story of King Horn and the Romance of Guy of Warwick (one of the most popular medieval romances). There follows a highly creative history of the Crusades.

The last 140+ pages seem to be less oriented toward a queen and more toward a queen's son, leading some to think it was intended for a future son of Margaret and Henry. There is a scholarly dialogue on war and battle, then a Mirror for Princes, a history of Normandy from the 8th century to 1217, a poem about chivalry, and the rules for the Order of the Garter.

If you look closely at the picture, you'll see a little white dog behind the kneeling Earl of Shrewsbury. This is the Talbot Dog, and it has its own place in history, which I'll talk about next.

The Earls of Shrewsbury

Why was the 1st Earl of Shrewsbury (pictured to the left on his knees and mentioned here) the second 1st Earl of Shrewsbury? That is because the first 1st Earl of Shrewsbury was deemed a traitor, and the title disappeared for 340 years.

The title "Earl of Shrewsbury" was first created in 1074 for a counselor of William the Conqueror, Roger de Montgomerie. He was given extensive lands to the west in order to keep an eye on the Welsh. Roger had two sons: Hugh and Robert. Hugh became the 2nd Earl at Roger's death, and Robert inherited his father's lands in Normandy. When Hugh died in 1098, Robert inherited the title. Robert then made the political miscalculation of joining Robert Curthose in one of his rebellions against King Henry I. The title Earl of Shrewsbury was discontinued.

Forward to the Hundred Years' War, and John Talbot, 7th Baron Talbot is distinguishing himself as a military commander. He is called the "English Achilles" and the "Terror of the French." He was an aggressive man both militarily and personally, not always making friends. His devotion to the cause of English rule over France was unquestioned. When he left the battlefields of France to return to England and request reinforcements in 1442, King Henry VI made him 1st Earl of Shrewsbury. He got the reinforcements he wanted, and went back to France.

The war was winding down, however, and England's chance of winning looking less likely. When in June 1443 he returned to England for more reinforcements, he was refused by the Council (they sent a different force under command of Edmund Beaufort, who would figure largely in the Wars of the Roses). Taken hostage in Rouen in 1449, he promised never again to fight against the French; he did, however, advise and command others, even if he himself did not use a weapon in battle.

He was killed at the Battle of Castillon, a decisive ending to the War. Supposedly his horse was injured and fell on him, enabling an enemy soldier to finish him off with a battleaxe. His son John Talbot became the 2nd Earl of Shrewsbury, a line of succession that continues to the present day.

"Second Creation" is the term used when a title that has become defunct because the line died out with no heirs or the title is revoked by the king's decree gets re-created for a new person. Many titles have needed a Second Creation or more.  

Now, about that picture above: why is he on his knees, what is that in his hands, and to whom is he giving it? Tomorrow we talk about the Talbot Shrewsbury Book.

Alton Castle

The image to the left shows Alton Towers in 1880, designed by Augustus Pugin, near the town of Alton in Staffordshire (not the Alton where the Treaty of Alton was signed). Although what we see now is a magnificent 19th century building designed as part of the Gothic Revival, the place has a much older history.

In the 1st century BCE there was an Iron Age fort on the site, but more continuity started when King Ceolred of Mercia built a wooden fortress there. The place was attacked by King Ine of Wessex in 716 in a battle so bloody that the location was called Slain Hollow (until Pugin turned it into an oriental water garden).

After the Conquest of 1066, the castle was rebuilt and enlarged in stone by the Norman noble Bertram de Verdun, who had been granted land in England by William. It stayed in the Verdun family through three generations of "Bertram de Verdun"s; then, in 1318, Joan de Verdun married Thomas de Furnival. Thomas died crusading in 1348, and the estate went to Sir John Talbot who married Furnival's daughter Maud. Talbot was created the first Earl of Shrewsbury (sort of; I'll explain later). Alton Castle stayed in the Talbot family; the 16th Earl of Shrewsbury was the owner during the 19th century expansion, after which the building was renamed Alton Towers.

In the 20th century the grounds were opened to the public, and now in the UK the phrase "Alton Towers" invokes images of an enormous theme park and resort that has been developed at the site.

But back to the first Earl of Shrewsbury. The first Earl of Shrewsbury was not the first; I'll explain how there were two "firsts" tomorrow.

Augustus Pugin — Reviving the Middle Ages

Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812–1852) was an architect who designed the tower the houses Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the interior of the Palace of Westminster, several churches in England, Ireland, and Australia, numerous other buildings, and at least one castle.

He disapproved of the materialism of the Industrial Revolution, he designed according to "Christian principles," which to him meant medieval. He explained this in his 1836 book Contrasts, or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the 14th and 15th Centuries and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, Shewing the Present Decay of Taste. 

He brought his "Gothic Revival" style to things other than buildings, and the pictures offer two examples of a chair and a table designed by him and inspired by what he might have called the "medieval aesthetic." I personally find his furniture and accessories odd. The holes in the chair don't match in my (admittedly limited) memory any design motif from the Middle Ages. The side table is even more odd. The quatrefoils hanging down—when they would have normally been oriented upward—seems to be adding architectural motifs into places where they don't quite fit in. Years ago, while visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum, I saw a Gothic Revival chair where the gothic pointed arch that enabled the larger windows of Gothic cathedrals was carved into the wood upside down.

As a fan of the European Middle Ages, I am glad that the 19th century saw value in the art and architecture of that earlier era. I think it possible that, at times, they went too far. (But perhaps that's just me.) An article in Architectural Review on the occasion of the bicentennial of his birth can tell you more.

I think it is better for me to stay focused on his architectural work, such as his castle. His Alton Castle had a long history before Pugin came along to rebuild it, which we'll look at tomorrow.

Pewter

Sometime during the Bronze Age, as human beings were experimenting with different metal ores, someone tried mixing the abundant-but-brittle tin with some lead (a 10:1 proportion worked well). The result with fairly soft at room temperature, enabling easier shaping. The Egyptians (the earliest known piece of pewter was found in an Egyptian tomb and dated to 1450 BCE) and the Romans used it extensively. In Britain, once the Romans left in the 5th century, there was little use of pewter until the 12th century.

Pewter ware was made by melting and pouring into molds, which in the Middle Ages were often plaster or clay reinforced with calf hair. Adding a design was done by chiseling or etching with acid. Stamping a design was not always useful, since the pewter was soft enough that you would need to support it from the other side; the force of the stamp could easily deform the nice round shape of a goblet or tankard. (Stamping a flat plate would work.)

Pewter was turned into anything imaginable for daily use: plates, bowls, mugs, flatware, basins, measuring spoons and cups, ladles, goblets and cups and tankards, candlesticks (see picture for a 14th century example), teapots and sugar bowls and cream jugs. Pewter was so useful and common that regulations cropped up to ensure quality control.

The lead content is a concern, of course, and modern pewter designed for human contact contains no lead. Higher lead content produced darker pewter, so if handling an antique, the darker it is, the less you want it in contact with your skin. Lead toxicity was well-known to the Romans; they recognized that those who worked extensively with lead suffered the same cognitive symptoms. Colonial American higher quality pewter—a well-to-do person's dining room table, for instance—was likely lead-free (substitutes were antimony, brass, copper, or zinc), even though there was plenty of lower quality pewter being made using lead, especially in the kitchen.

Developments in glass-making and pottery, such as the introduction of porcelain—especially when Portuguese traders started bring back kaolin from China, allowing potters to make their own fine white "china"—made pewter less desirable. In the 19t century, however, there was a revived interest in England in medieval styles and art. I first mentioned the man responsible for this interest a decade ago; time to re-visit him ... tomorrow.

Mining in Cornwall

Tin is a relatively rare metal, found in two parts per million (as opposed to copper's 70 parts per million and the abundant iron at 50,000 parts per million). It was very useful, however, for its workability and especially for the making of alloys, so any source was a valuable find. Large deposits were found in the Far East, Iberian Peninsula, and souther France, but we will confine this post to talking about Cornwall.

The earliest evidence shows that tin was being mined in at least 2150BCE, the early Bronze Age. Copper was also found there, along with some arsenic, lead, silver, and zinc, but tin mining has been the most consistent use of the mines for millennia. When a small amount of tin is added to copper, the resulting bronze is much harder than either and more useful. This made tin a more useful commodity than just using tin on its own, and a tin trade with the Mediterranean started long before even the Roman Empire. Herodotus mentions an area called the Cassiterides, the "tin islands," and Cornwall is thought to be the likeliest spot.

One of the oldest mines in Cornwall is the Ding Dong mine (the name may refer to the "head of the lode"). The picture above is a shaft at the Ding Dong. A local legend claims that the mine was visited by Joseph of Arimathea, tin trader and uncle to Jesus, who visited the mine with the young Jesus; not his only trip to Britain, since he later founded Glastonbury Abbey, etc. (There is, of course, no evidence, but that's what legends are.)

Curiously, Domesday Book doesn't mention Cornwall tin, but Henry II acknowledged it when he granted to Dartmoor, another mining location,

all the diggers and buyers of black tin, and all the smelters of tin, and traders of tin in the first smelting shall have the just and ancient customs and liberties established in Devon and Cornwall.

This indicates that Cornwall mining was "ancient" as of Henry's reign. Henry's son John granted a charter for the miners' rights, establishing stannaries that allowed the tin-mining community to administer its own laws, etc.

The mines produced an enormous amount: 650 tons in 1337, falling to "only" 250 tons during the Black Death, but rising to 800 tons by 1400.

Demand for tin decreased in the 20th century. Increased recycling efforts, as well as the use of aluminum for containers and the development of protective polymer lacquers to coat food containers hastened the closing of tin mines as unprofitable. One of the last tin mines in Cornwall to close was the South Crofty mine in 1998, Europe's last tin mine.

Fear not for Cornwall mining, however! The 21st century is finding reasons to re-open defunct Cornish mines for a substance as important to our time as tin was to the Bronze Age: lithium, an element vital to our battery-operated world. (Here is a link to National Geographic article.)

Going back to the Middle Ages, however, I want to talk about another substance, made with tin, that was so associated with daily use in the Middle Ages that a 19th century revival of interest in the Middle Ages made this substance much in demand. Check back tomorrow and we'll learn more about the lovely, useful, and toxic pewter.

Stannaries

A stannary was an administrative division in the counties of Cornwall and Devon based on tin-mining. The term comes from Middle English stannarie based on Medieval Latin stannaria, "tin mine,"which itself is from the Latin stannum, "tin." (You may know that the chemical symbol for Tin is Sn; now you know why.)

Tin was so important that a body of law was developed to deal specifically with stannaries. King John in 1201 gave the tin miners of Cornwall the Stannary Charter: the right to prospect for tin anywhere, to be exempt from standard taxation, and to have their own stannary courts in the case of law-breaking. King Edward I in 1305 confirmed these rights, as did Edward III when he created the Duchy of Cornwall in 1337. Crockern Tor, pictured above, was the site of the Stannary Parliament, representing the tin industry.

Tin mining pre-dated the Middle Ages in Cornwall. When the Romans arrived, it was already thriving. Diodorus Siculus in 44BCE wrote the earliest reference to Cornwall we know:

The people of that promontory of Britain called Belerion [west Cornwall] are friendly to strangers and, from their contact with foreign merchants, are civilised in their way of life. They carefully work the ground from which they extract the tin.

In the Middle Ages, the tin was smelted and made into blocks (later standardized at 170 kilograms). They were taken to specifically designated locations called stannary towns where a "prover" would test it for quality, then put an official stamp on it and allow it to be sold. A duty would be calculated on the sale, equivalent to four shillings per hundredweight (170 kilograms = 3.34 hundredweight) under Edward I. Duty amounts changed over time, but the amount of tin coming out of Cornwall and Devon was considerable, so anyone given the right to the duties could have a hefty income. After King John died (and after some other events), the king's council allowed his widow, Isabella of Angoulême the duty from the stannaries of Devon.

This whole system of special privilege, etc., existed until the Tin Duties Act of 1838.

The history of mining in Cornwall was far more extensive than dealing with tin, even tied to a Biblical legend. I'll tell you more next time.

Isabella of Angoulême

Isabella of Angoulême was born c.1186-88, the only daughter of Count Aymer Taillefer of Angoulême. At a very early age she was betrothed to Hugh IX, Count of Lusignan (who was at least 20 years older). A long-running rivalry between Angoulême and Lusignan would have been put to rest by this union.

It was not to be, however: King John of England came looking for a wife who could give him heirs, which was not going to happen with his first wife, Isabella of Gloucester. He settled on Isabella of Angoulême, annulled his first marriage, and married for the second time on 24 August 1200.

Isabella was still a child, and John treated her carefully, so it was not until 1 October 1207 when she was about 20 years old that she gave birth to a son and heir, who would become Henry III. She bore John a total of five children.

Henry was nine when John died, and Isabella swiftly arranged to have him crowned king. Unfortunately, John had lost his crown and much of his treasury, so she provided her own queen's circlet as part of the ceremony. By this time, she was already Countess of Angoulême (her father had died in 1202), so a year after the coronation, she left Henry in the care of his regent, William Marshal, and went to her lands in Angoulême.

In an interesting parallel, her daughter Joan (born 1210) was being raised in the Lusignan court and had been betrothed to Hugh X of Lusignan, son of the man to whom Isabella was originally betrothed. Hugh, however, seeing that Isabella's beauty had not diminished (she was only in her 30s), proposed to the woman who had long ago been promised to his father. They were wed in the spring of 1220. A different marriage was arranged for Joan.

As it turns out, the king's council in England reserved to itself the power to determine whether and to whom a queen dowager should marry; after all, she held lands due to her dead husband, and had a pension from the council. They objected to her marriage to Hugh that was done without their consent, so they canceled her pension and confiscated her English possessions. They wrote to the pope, asking for her to be excommunicated, but ultimately decided to negotiate with her for a swifter conclusion, because Isabella was keeping Joan with her, preventing the alternate marriage that was arranged to the King of Scotland. The council decided to allow her some financial support, like the stannaries in Devon.

Isabella had a difficult time adjusting to life as less than a queen. She and her husband tried uniting some of the French nobles against Louis IX. She encouraged Henry III when he invaded Normandy in 1230 (but could not provide him any military support). An attempt to poison King Louis IX by two cooks was foiled in 1244, but the cooks admitted they were paid by Isabella. She fled to Fontevrault Abbey for sanctuary ahead of the king's men, where she died on 4 June 1246. She was buried outside the abbey. Henry III visited the abbey later and objected to her burial outside. He had her moved inside, near Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine.

All of her children—five with John, nine with Hugh—survived to adulthood and had titles and good careers, any of whom would be interesting to look at next. I think, however, the "stannaries in Devon" wants explanation, and will be a nice respite from political marriages. See you next time.