The Greatest Traitor

by Ian Mortimer

  After the discovery of the Earl of Kent’s plot it was too dangerous to keep the deposed king in England, and so Maltravers ordered the ex-king’s gaoler to take him to Ireland, where Roger had influence and the young king had few close friends. Edward II himself still believed he was on the run. But Roger could not afford to lose control of his secret prisoner. Edward III was constantly growing in age and authority. Edward II stayed in custody in Ireland for nine months. Then Roger was arrested, Maltravers fled from England, and Edward’s gaoler probably decided it was wise to disappear too. Edward II now found himself truly free, but only as long as no one recognised him. If his son knew he was alive, he would be locked up again. Hence he went to the Continent, dressed as a pilgrim, to see the one person who could advise him: the Pope. John XXII convinced him to give up all thoughts of becoming king again, and may have helped him find his spiritual path.

  It is just possible that Edward III heard a reliable report about his father, for in the spring of 1331 he and fifteen of his knights dressed as merchants and went ‘as if on pilgrimage’ in France at the same time as Edward II was probably crossing that country dressed as a pilgrim. The usual explanation for this mission is that Edward III wanted to keep his performance of homage to King Philip quiet; and indeed Edward did perform homage at this time. But it is not beyond possibility that he hoped to find his father as well. If so, he failed. The next he would have known about his father’s fate was possibly the information of Gurney; it was for his information, not his head, that Edward wanted him brought back to England alive. After that the next news about his father’s fate was the testimony of John Maltravers, in March 1334. Then came the letter from Manuele de Fieschi, probably brought by Nicholinus de Fieschi in 1336. Edward III paid Nicholinus 8,000 marks, and, later, asked him to bring Edward II to meet him in Cologne. Edward III then summoned his father to Koblenz to see him crowned Vicar of the Holy Roman Empire, and took him to Antwerp, albeit in disguise and under guard, to see his grandson there. After this Edward II disappears from the sources. He may have died in 1341, when Nicholinus de Fieschi was paid the sum of one mark per day, being sent by Edward ‘to divers parts beyond the sea on certain affairs’.53 Edward visited his father’s tomb on his pilgrimage to Gloucester Abbey two years later.54

  In subsequent years no one did more to perpetuate the myth of Edward II’s death in Berkeley Castle than Ranulph Higden, the monk of Chester who wrote the Polychronicon, in which he explicitly repeated the story of the red-hot spit. This chapter cannot end without noting that, in 1352, when Edward III finally forgave John Maltravers for his part in the death of the Earl of Kent, he summoned Higden to an audience at Westminster ‘to have certain things explained to him’.55 The monk was to bring all his histories and parchments with him. We do not know what was said during that audience, but it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that Edward told Higden that the murder was an untruth, and that the encyclopaedic Polychronicon was wrong. All we know is that, there and then, Higden’s life work came to an abrupt end. He never wrote another word.

  As for the tomb in Gloucester, this was opened for a brief moment on 2 October 1855. The wooden coffin was found and a part of it removed. The lead coffin inside was seen but not opened.56 From the evidence of Nicholinus de Fieschi’s continued secret work and Edward III’s pilgrimages to Gloucester in 1343 one can be relatively confident that Edward II’s remains do indeed lie inside, but that they were placed there not in December 1327 but some time after January 1339, probably in 1341. It is one of the wonders of British history that beneath that spectacular tomb lies the body of a man who was both a king and a penniless hermit, who lost his wife, his kingdom and everything he possessed to his childhood companion, Sir Roger Mortimer.

  Everything except his life.

  Afterword

  And seeing there was no place to mount up higher,

  Why should I grieve at my declining fall?

  Farewell, fair Queen, weep not for Mortimer

  That scorns the world, and as a traveller,

  Goes to discover countries as yet unknown

  Christopher Marlowe, Edward II (1594)

  AT THE BEGINNING of this book, the question was asked: did Roger Mortimer deserve to go down in history as a crooked, selfish, adulterous traitor? The answer to this has to be that this description is inappropriate for it is lacking in depth. As has been shown, the scope of his activities towards the end of his life, and, in particular, his actions against the English royal family, amounted to treason on a scale never known in Britain before or since. No man in English history could be so deserving of the title of this book. He did not just depose King Edward II; he judicially murdered the king’s brother, executed the king’s friends, went to war with the king’s cousin, seduced the king’s wife (and possibly had a child by her), and forced the king’s nephew into a marriage with his daughter. In addition he took the king himself illegally into custody, feigned his death, and kept him alive secretly like a piece of political veal for three years. He controlled the king’s heir, reduced his patrimony and ruled in the heir’s name. He undermined the monarchy, and insulted the occupants of the throne and their families. In short, he stole the royal power, just as Edward III claimed at his trial.

  This extremely negative historical judgement begs the question: are there any mitigating circumstances which might excuse his behaviour? This is an interesting question, for it demands that we make a more considered moral judgement on the man, independent of the judgement of his contemporaries. For example, if he committed acts of treason for the greater good of the country, are we right to uphold the accusations levelled by contemporaries who were personally threatened by him, such as Henry of Lancaster and Edward III? From this moral point of view, a very different picture of Roger emerges, in which we may sympathise with most of the pivotal decisions he made in his career. In his early years he was a loyal friend to the king and a capable public servant with an almost unblemished record. His rebellion in 1321 was morally justified, as Hugh Despenser was a menace to the nation, and Roger was not alone in wishing the man stopped. Edward II himself forced Roger to take arms by so closely supporting the Despensers. While Roger badly miscalculated in 1321 by supporting Badlesmere, he was at least doing so against the unwarranted oppression of Edward II. After his imprisonment and a second death sentence, Roger can hardly be blamed for saving his life by escaping from the Tower. His plot against Edward II in France, and the close association with Isabella, although certainly treasonable, were merely extensions of the conflict which Edward II had provoked by attacking Badlesmere in 1321. Although he orchestrated the king’s deposition and enforced abdication, it is clear that the move had many supporters and was to the benefit of the country. One can find a mitigating factor for his restraint during the Weardale campaign, for, although he was very probably to blame for the fiasco, his wider policy presented an opportunity of a permanent peace with the Scots. Even his decision to feign the ex-king’s death and keep him secretly in custody at Corfe may be excused, for this was at least more merciful than murdering the man. It goes without saying that there was a personal element to his actions – and it is clear that he kept Edward alive not for humanitarian reasons but to secure his own position – but ambition is not a crime in itself. While he may be justly accused of dictatorship from 1328, his administration was more acceptable than the last years of the reign of Edward II, and thus his appropriation of power may, in part at least, be excused. It corrected some of the wrongs of the old regime, it did not lead to huge self-aggrandisement on Roger’s part (although it did allow Isabella to acquire and spend a fortune), and it did not result in the unmitigated destruction of his personal enemies. It would be fair to say that he governed England as best he could, but was increasingly compromised by his most controversial policies, especially Scottish independence, his failure to restrain Isabella’s acquisitiveness, and keeping the ex-king secretly alive.

  In this light one has to say that Roger’s greatest
crime was that he was not a member of the royal family. If it had been possible for him to inherit the throne, he would undoubtedly have made a much better king than Edward II. He was courageous, successful, clever, far-sighted and (on the whole) fair. He was able to forgive most men who turned against him, and sensible to his own limitations and those of his people, as shown by his reluctance to carry on the war in Scotland or to begin a war in France. But his lack of royal blood meant that, as a leader, he was exceptionally vulnerable and constantly under pressure. His unpopular policies, however far-sighted they may have been, led to repeated calls for his removal from court, a fact which makes him more akin to a modern government minister than a medieval king. His familiarity with members of the royal family made him act as if he were himself royal, and this encouraged the envy of others, which added to the pressure. Finally, his policies allowed his enemies to undermine his position to such a great extent that he was isolated, able only to wield power destructively as he struggled to maintain his and Isabella’s position at the heart of government.

  The one aspect of Roger’s later life which has appealed to modern readers is his relationship with Isabella. While there is little doubt that this was morally wrong at the time, such all-consuming passions among historical characters today have a more sympathetic audience. There is no reason to doubt that Roger did love Isabella deeply, as shown by his blurted out threat to kill her if she returned to her husband in 1325. Similarly, the likelihood that she had a child by him and remained at his side for the rest of his life suggests she was, after her initial hesitancy, equally devoted to him. That she chose to be buried in her wedding dress does not necessarily indicate she turned from Roger’s memory, for he may well have been in Edward’s company at the royal wedding in Boulogne, and thus would first have seen her in this dress.1 If one were to ask whether Isabella, not Joan, was the love of his life, one would have to say that she probably was. However, the true extent of their devotion to one another continues to be something of an enigma, as does the fate of any offspring.

  Finally, we may turn to the question of Roger’s integrity. As indicated above, there is a constant sense of natural justice which runs throughout his career. He was prepared to act against the interests of his fellow peers – and even against his king – on moral principles, and was not prepared to let those principles be hijacked by self-interested semi-royal grandees like Thomas of Lancaster and his brother, Henry of Lancaster. One could argue that this sense of natural justice continued with him right up until 1329, when he dealt very fairly with those who had been prepared to take up arms under Henry of Lancaster. But after this, in the summer of 1329, when repeated criticisms made him frightened of losing power and when Edward III started to stand up to him more openly, that sense of justice was obscured. In 1330 he was a frightening example of a man corrupted by both power and fear, and therein lies the tragedy of his last years, for he was not by nature tyrannical. He was a believer in chivalric virtue, the ideals of knighthood and duty to the Crown. He believed in Arthurian romance and the noble deeds of his ancestors. But so desperate was he at the end of his life that he betrayed all these things: king, country, chivalry, vows of knighthood and justice. That he understood this in the last moments of his life is evidenced by the single vestige of his gallows confession which has come down to us: that the Earl of Kent was the victim of his conspiracy. One can say little more damning about a historical character than that he knowingly acted in his own self-interest against what he believed was virtuous, just and right.

  Wigmore Castle – Roger’s seat – engraved by Samuel and Nathaniel Buck in 1731, ninety years after its partial demolition.

  Wigmore Castle as it might have looked in the mid-fourteenth century, after the completion of Roger’s rebuilding programme. Reconstruction drawing by Brian Byron.

  Catherine Mortimer, one of Roger’s eight daughters. She married Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, with whom she was buried in St Mary’s Warwick in 1369.

  Roller’s seal (left), together with that of his eldest son, Edmund, both bearing the family coat of arms. These are attached to Edmund’s grant settling certain estates on his three-year-old wife on the occasion of their wedding in 1316.

  Contemporary images of Isabella are rare. This worn face is one of the few which certainly represent her. It appears on the same tomb in Winchelsea Church as the face of Edward II reproduced on the opposite page.

  This carving in Beverley Minster is thought to represent Isabella. Conclusive evidence is lacking, but it resembles several queen’s heads of the early fourteenth century which are probably stylised representations of Isabella or Philippa of Hainault.

  Nottingham Castle as it might have appeared in the sixteenth century. Although the tunnel which Sir William Montagu used to gain access to the castle and capture Roger survives, the castle itself was almost entirely demolished in the seventeenth century.

  Trim Castle – the largest castle in Ireland – was Roger’s seat in that country. Like Wigmore, it was rarely used as a residence after Roger’s death, and the ruins are largely those of buildings Roger would have known.

  The solar of Ludlow Castle built by Roger in readiness for the visit of Isabella and the young king on 2 June 1328. It is situated at the opposite end of the great hall from the old solar, where Roger’s wife, Joan, probably stayed.

  Edward II: face from the effigy on his tomb in Gloucester Cathedral.

  Edward II: face from the tomb of a member of the Alard family in Winchelsea Church.

  Roger and Isabella with their army at Hereford (and Hugh Despenser being executed in the background). This illumination, from a copy of Froissart’s chronicle, dates from the 1460s – more than 130 years after the event – but it shows how late medieval readers pictured the couple in the course of their invasion.

  The Fieschi Letter [AD Hérault, G 1123]: ‘one of the most remarkable documents in the whole of English medieval history’ (G.P. Cuttino). See Chapter Twelve Revisited.

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  NOTES

  * * *

  Introduction

  1. Dramatic works which have dealt with Roger Mortimer include: Christopher Marlowe, Edward II (1594) and J. Bancroft, The Fall of Mortimer (1691), late editions being attributed to William Mountfort. The verse satire is Francis Richardson, An Ode to the Pretender … to which is added Earl Mortimer’s fall (1713). Mortimer’s usefulness as an object of satire in the eighteenth century is evident in two works, The Lives of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, and of Robert, Earl of Oxford &c … (1711) and The Norfolk Sting, or the history and fall of Evil Ministers (1732). Alma Harris, In Days of Yore: Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer: A Royal Romance (Nottingham, 1995) is the only recent non-academic part-biography of Roger Mortimer. An earlier part-biography was J. Adamson, The reigns of King Edward II, and so far of King Edward III, as relates to the lives and actions of Piers Gaveston, Hugh de Spencer, and Roger, Lord Mortimer (1732). A fictional account of Roger Mortimer (apart from those primarily concerning Isabella) is Emily Sarah Holt, The Lord of the Marches: or the story of Roger Mortimer: a tale of the fourteenth century (1884).

  2. The sole doctoral thesis concerning Roger Mortimer has only recently been completed by Paul Dryburgh at the University of Bristol. The text of this book was completed while Dr Dryburgh’s thesis was still unsubmitted, and the author has not had access to any part of Dr Dryburgh’s written work.

  1: Inheritance

  1. 25 April 1287 is the most probable date of Roger’s birth. The ages given for him in the various Inquisitions Post Mortem relating to his father’s death (1304) suggest two dates. The first of these is derived from the statement that he was seventeen on the feast of St Mark last, i.e. born on 25 April 1287. The other is that he was seventeen on the last Feast of the Invention of the Holy Cross, i.e. 3 May 1287. The date of the Feast of the Invention of the Holy Cross was the date of the demise of the estates of Edmund Mortimer (Roger’s father) to Geoffrey de Geneville in 1300, and this has
probably been confused with his birth. A family chronicle, written almost a century later, states he was sixteen and a quarter at the time of his father’s death, which would imply a birthdate about April 1288, and the Complete Peerage indeed notes that the Chronicle of Hailes (British Library, Cottonian MSS, Cleopatra D3) states he was born on 17 April 1288. Also the Wigmore Annals in the John Rylands Library (transcribed in B.P. Evans’s Ph.D. study of the family, for details of which see Bibliography) mentions Roger was born ‘circa festum apostolorum Philippi et Jacobi’ in the year 1288 (1 May). This chronicle is a year out on a number of details, however; with regard to the birth of Edmund FitzAlan it is two years adrift, a reflection on its being written a long time after the event. Also with regard to the fifteenth-century family chronicle, which has clearly been compiled from earlier sources (including, quite possibly, the Wigmore Annals in the John Rylands Library), although this correctly dates Edmund’s death in one paragraph, in the paragraph in which it states Roger was sixteen and a quarter at the time it places the death a year early, in the thirty-first year of the reign of Edward I: i.e. November 1302–3. The Inquisitions Post Mortem are the nearest to a contemporary source we have, all being written in the summer of 1304; none of these mentions 1288 as the date of his birth, and most favour the St Mark date. The date of 25 April 1287 was probably supplied centrally by a clerk of the family within a few weeks of the death of Edmund Mortimer, and this, being legally binding, and the only date of birth definitely associated with him in his lifetime, must therefore be considered the most trustworthy evidence we have. Confirmation of the day, 25 April, is perhaps to be found in the number of grants that Roger awarded himself and his son Geoffrey on that day in 1330 (see Cal. Charter Rolls, pp. 172, 175).