The Story of Britain Read online

  One by one Robert Bruce’s little army attacked castles and destroyed them. They swooped on isolated detachments of English soldiers. They seized carts taking supplies to garrisons, so that soon the English began to grow hungry. And whenever they found themselves facing a larger English army, they disappeared back into the hills.

  I must be like the spider, Robert Bruce thought.

  Hearing of his success, Scottish lords started to join him. He attacked larger castles and destroyed them as well. People began to whisper that Scotland could survive.

  Then the Scots had a stroke of luck. Edward, the soldier king of England, died. He was buried in Westminster Abbey and on his tomb were carved the words Scottorum Malleus, Hammer of the Scots. Edward’s son, Edward II, gathered an army and marched north to carry on beating the Scots like his father.

  “We should fight!” some of Robert Bruce’s advisers urged him. “We’re strong enough now, and Edward II is nothing like as good a soldier as his father!”

  “And lose everything we’ve won?” said others. “The English always win battles. We’re better off waiting till they’ve gone.”

  All of them fell silent when Robert Bruce stood up. He thought of the spider waiting in its web, waiting – and then striking.

  “We will fight,” he said.

  Some Scots wished he had decided not to when they saw the English army drawn up opposite them at a place called Bannockburn. They couldn’t even count the knights – there were too many of them. Troop after troop of archers marched out to take up positions on the flanks. The king’s banner flew above a tent in the centre.

  If Robert Bruce was afraid he didn’t show it. Nor did the Scottish spearmen who waited grimly in the heather. They spoke to one another in the Gaelic of the Highland people, wishing each other luck. Then a trumpet blared somewhere across the valley and the English line rolled forward.

  “Wait,” ordered Robert Bruce. He knew he could only win by being patient. And he knew the Scots would fight to the death.

  On their side, the English weren’t expecting much of a battle. The Scottish infantry would wave their swords fiercely enough, but melt away into the heather when the knights charged. They would ride down the Scottish spearmen. The English always won battles.

  But this time it didn’t work. However often they charged, the Scots didn’t give way.

  “What shall we do, sire?” a knight asked the new king.

  Edward I might have thought up some clever strategy; his son just gave the order to charge again. The English charged until they were exhausted, but still the Scots stood firm. And when Robert Bruce’s men attacked in their turn, the English broke, knights turning headlong, archers dropping their bows and fleeing for their lives. The king himself only just managed to escape on a fast horse.

  Bannockburn was a great victory for the Scots. The next year Robert Bruce invaded England, and eventually the English recognized him as king of Scotland.

  The Scots knew England would always be larger and more powerful than Scotland. But they had not given in to English force – and they never would. A few years later, the Scottish barons wrote a letter to the pope. It is known as the Declaration of Arbroath, and is one of the proudest statements ever made by people of these islands:

  For as long as a hundred men remain alive we will never in any way be bowed beneath the yoke of English domination; for it is not for glory, riches or honours that we fight, but for freedom alone, that which no man of worth yields up, save with his life.

  Edward II and Piers Gaveston

  EDWARD II went back to England in disgrace. As he entered his palace, the barons muttered behind his back.

  “His father would never have been beaten,” they whispered.

  Weak kings are worse than no kings, and Edward II turned out to be England’s weakest king. He was no good at fighting. When his chancellor of the Exchequer started talking about money, he got muddled. When advisers told him what to do, he got angry. To make matters worse, he fell in love with a young man called Piers Gaveston.

  “Isn’t Piers good-looking!” he exclaimed to his courtiers. “Aren’t his jokes funny? Doesn’t he sing well?”

  In those days people didn’t think much of men who fell in love with other men. And they didn’t think much of Edward. Edward gave Piers Gaveston presents; he threw parties for him; he made him earl of Cornwall. At last the barons ran out of patience.

  “Remember Magna Carta?” they said. “Kings can’t just do what they like.”

  So a group of them got together in a society called the Ordainers. They drew up a set of rules for the king to follow, and forced him to get rid of Piers Gaveston. The king did send his favourite away for a time, but he found he couldn’t live without him, so Piers Gaveston came back. Then the Ordainers captured Piers Gaveston and put him to death.

  Edward just fell in love with someone else.

  His new favourite’s name was Hugh Despenser. Hugh and his father were the greediest men in England, and they decided to use the king’s love for Hugh to make themselves rich and powerful. When people complained, Edward just laughed. The Ordainers rebelled, but their army was beaten.

  Then Edward showed he was not only foolish but cruel as well, by putting many of his enemies to death. Everyone complained, but Edward didn’t care. He was king of England and would do what he liked – kill his enemies, reward his friends, spend all day with Hugh Despenser if he wanted to! There was no one left to stop him.

  Unfortunately Edward had forgotten about one person – his wife.

  Isabella and Mortimer

  PEOPLE called Edward’s wife, Isabella, the French She-Wolf. She was very beautiful, but behind her lovely face Isabella was as fierce and cruel as a wolf. She hated being married to Edward. She was the most beautiful woman in Europe, but every day she had to watch him laughing and joking with Piers Gaveston or Hugh Despenser. After a few years, Isabella returned to France and announced that she wasn’t coming back.

  Then she met Roger Mortimer. Mortimer was charming and clever, and Isabella fell in love with him.

  “Why do you put up with Edward?” Mortimer whispered to her as they lay in bed together. “You would be much better at running England than he is.”

  “But I am a woman,” Isabella objected.

  Roger Mortimer smiled. “Then we could run it together!” he said.

  So Isabella and Mortimer invaded England. Isabella took her eldest son, Edward, prince of Wales, with her. By now, everyone in England hated Edward II and his favourites, so no one defended him. Edward was captured and forced to give up the throne. Isabella and Mortimer threw him into prison and made Isabella’s son Edward III.

  “We’ll rule England in his name,” Mortimer said.

  But Isabella and Mortimer proved to be just as greedy as the Despensers. Mortimer made himself earl of March; Isabella spent a fortune on fine clothes. They killed their enemies and gave presents to their friends.

  As he grew up, Edward III became more and more ashamed of his mother. One day he burst into the bedroom where she and Roger Mortimer were lying together.

  “Arrest them,” he ordered the soldiers he had brought with him.

  “Edward!” his mother cried.

  “I’m seventeen years old,” Edward said coldly. “It’s time I ruled as king.”

  Mortimer was put to death. Isabella was allowed to go on living – she was the king’s mother, after all – but the French She-Wolf never had any power again.

  And what happened to Edward II? Isabella and Mortimer had ordered him to be killed in secret. Edward, who had once been king, came to an end so nasty I won’t even tell you about it. It happened at Berkeley Castle, where fortunately the walls were so thick that no one outside could hear his screams.

  The Hundred Years War

  EDWARD III couldn’t have been more different from his father. He was a fighter. He had read stories about his grandfather Edward I, and longed to be like him. He visited his grandfather’s tomb and re
ad the inscription that called him Hammer of the Scots. He hoped that when he died, people would talk of him as a strong king who beat his enemies. But whom should he fight? Wales was conquered and Scotland had shown itself too strong to defeat. Whom else could he attack?

  That was when Edward thought of France.

  In the old days the English kings had owned a lot of France. William the Conqueror had been duke of Normandy; Henry II’s father had owned Anjou; and Henry had won even more of France by marrying Eleanor of Aquitaine. Since then, King John had lost Normandy, and the other English lands had grown smaller.

  But I could become king of France, Edward thought. I could take back everything we have lost – and the rest of France as well!

  And so the war began. Edward declared himself king of France, gathered an army, and sailed across the Channel. Neither he nor his army knew that the war would still be going on when they died. It would still be going on when their children and grandchildren died. Today we call it the Hundred Years War.

  For England to attack France was like a small dog attacking a bull. France was the richest kingdom in Europe. It had more people than England, more knights, more castles. And to start with the war went badly for England. It cost a fortune – as wars always do – and Edward didn’t win anything. People started to mutter that it was all a waste of time.

  But the English had a secret weapon – the longbow.

  French archers used crossbows. They were very accurate, but took a long time to load. English and Welsh archers used longbows instead. With a longbow, a skilled archer could shoot so fast that his next arrow was in the air even before the first landed. Archers practised for hour after hour on village greens, where barrels were set up as targets. Edward wanted every man in England and Wales to be a trained archer, so he banned them from playing all other sports – even football.

  The best archers were Welshmen from Glamorgan, who wore a uniform of green and white. Edward took thousands of them with him when he went to France in 1346. But the French paid no attention. They thought beating the English and Welsh was going to be easy.

  “We are the best knights in the world,” they boasted. “One charge from us and Edward’s soldiers will soon run away!”

  They didn’t even bother to make a plan before the battle. They were too busy arguing about who would capture the most English knights. Next morning they lined up near a village called Crécy, where the English and Welsh were waiting. Their armour glittered in the sunlight; their horses tossed their manes. No one even gave the French the order to charge. They just galloped forward, each one trying to get in front. The line became a terrible mess as they cursed and swore at each other.

  And then arrows started to fall.

  King Edward had put his archers on high ground at the side of the battlefield. Grimly they strung their bows, and stuck arrows into the grass in front of them so they could snatch them up more quickly. They didn’t fire until the order was given. But when it came, their arrows turned the sky black.

  The French knights didn’t understand what was happening. Jostling against each other, turning this way and that in their confusion, they felt searing pain as the arrows stung them. Knights fell from their chargers, who kicked out and whinnied, mad with terror. The knights in front tried to retreat; those at the back pushed forward. And through it all, the torrent of arrows kept raining down as archers took aim and fired.

  In the end, one charge by English knights was all it took to sweep the French from the field. The Battle of Crécy was a great victory. The French knights – supposed to be the best in the world – had been defeated.

  Perhaps, after all, Edward III had a chance against mighty France.

  The Black Prince

  EDWARD went back to England and celebrated his victory with a tournament. Brightly coloured tents sprang up on the fields around his castle at Windsor. The air filled with the noise of blacksmiths shoeing horses and sharpening swords, the whinnying of horses, and the bustle of squires hurrying to and fro with their knights’ armour.

  Edward loved tournaments, which were the best test of a knight’s fighting skills. Knights spent all their lives learning how to fight, first as squires to other knights; then, when they had proved their own courage, being knighted themselves. Once they were knighted, they could wear their family’s coat of arms on their shields and tunics – a falcon’s head, perhaps, or a fist in chain mail. The best knights had armour so skilfully made that when they wore it, they became like steel men. It was expensive to be a knight, because fine horses and armour were not for the poor, but knights were admired by everybody. They were supposed to be not only brave but chivalrous, which meant never breaking your word, never running away, and always behaving graciously – particularly to ladies.

  After the victory at Crécy, Edward wanted to prove that English knights were the best in the world. He wanted people to think of them like King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table, so he founded his own version of the Round Table. It was called the Order of the Garter, and his twenty-six bravest knights were chosen to join it. The bravest knight of all was his own son, the prince of Wales.

  The prince of Wales was named Edward, like his father and grandfather, but everyone called him the Black Prince because of his black armour. No one ever defeated him in a tournament. At the Battle of Crécy he led the final charge. People said the Black Prince was the greatest knight in the Christian world – “the greatest knight in Christendom”.

  And it was the Black Prince who won England’s next victory. He took an army to France and led it through the countryside, capturing castles and burning towns. At Poitiers he fought a battle against the French king, John II, beat him, captured him, and brought him back to London as a prisoner. That was a victory even greater than Crécy. Without a king, people said, the French were bound to give up.

  But sometimes, after a string of triumphs, everything suddenly goes wrong. And that was what happened to England. After two great victories, it entered a century of trouble, the worst it had known since the Norman invasion.

  The Black Death

  THE first disaster struck even before the Battle of Poitiers. A plague came from the east, devastated Europe, and finally reached Britain. Merchants heard the first reports of sickness from their sea captains. Returning from voyages, they brought stories of a new disease that killed everyone who caught it. The merchants wrote to their trading partners in the east for more details, but got no reply.

  Then news came of a Spanish seaport where a ship from the east landed, and everyone in the town fell sick. Like a shadow stalking ever closer to Britain and Ireland, new rumours of the sickness kept arriving, first from Italy, then from France. Doctors were powerless against the new disease, people said. Anyone who caught it found terrible swellings under their arms, vomited and soon died.

  Most people refused to believe the rumours. Everything was going so well! Britain was richer and more populous than ever before. Villages were bigger, and the bawl of new babies seemed to come from every window. The countryside, which had once seemed empty, was almost overcrowded. You couldn’t take a step without coming across a farmer chopping wood or cutting hay, and the thump and creak of watermills echoed along valleys.

  And then a ship arrived in Dorset.

  It came from France, and no one paid much attention to it at first. The captain said one of his men was sick, but it was nothing serious. However, the next day the man was dead, and when the harbour master came to visit, he saw that the captain looked terrified.

  The harbour master went home. He ate with his family and played with his little daughter. Just before going to bed he said he had a sore throat. His wife was woken by the sound of someone being sick. She lit a candle. Her husband’s face was so distorted that she hardly recognized him. Sweat started from his forehead, and he gasped for air. When she pulled off his nightshirt to cool him, she saw hideous black swellings under his armpits.

  The news spread quickly. People gathered in marketp
laces to hear the latest: the plague was all over Dorset; it had reached Bristol. They shared ghastly descriptions of the victims’ suffering. But what could anyone do? Doctors couldn’t think of a cure. No one in those days knew anything about how diseases worked, or how they were passed from one person to another. They hardly knew anything about science.

  “It’s a punishment from God,” priests said. “And we must pray for God to save us.”

  So churches were packed with offerings and candles, and people stayed on their knees all night, begging God to deliver them from the plague.

  It made no difference. The plague reached London, and in street after street, people could be seen staggering out of doorways, clutching their throats and vomiting. Doctors hurried from house to house to help, but they caught the plague and died as well. There was no time even to bury bodies; they were flung into great pits outside towns, with hardly a prayer to remember them. Ordinary life came to a halt. No one harvested the wheat; no one milked the cows. Markets were deserted and shops empty. Abandoned dogs roamed the streets.

  “Our Father in heaven,” people prayed, “please take pity on us!”

  When winter came everyone hoped the plague would end, but people kept dying. The ground was too hard to dig, so bodies were buried under mounds of straw. Not until next spring did the plague finally relax its grip.

  Then the survivors looked around them. They saw abandoned farms, houses boarded up, and alleyways inhabited only by cats. They saw empty streets and deserted villages. To this day no one knows exactly how many died in the plague we call the Black Death – perhaps one in every three. Before it, about six million people lived in England, Wales and Scotland. It would be centuries before that many lived in Britain again.

  The Peasants’ Revolt

  UNFORTUNATELY the Black Death was only the beginning of England’s troubles.