CASTLES THEIR HISTORY AND EVOLUTION IN MEDIEVAL BRITAIN MARC MORRIS To my parents who took me to a lot of castles CONTENTS INTRODUCTION ONE HUMBLE ORIGINS TWO TOWERS OF STONE THREE BUILDING AN EMPIRE FOUR AN ENGLISHMAN’S HOME FIVE SAFE AS HOUSES SIX THE CASTLE’S LAST STAND EPILOGUE FURTHER READING PICTURE CREDITS INDEX INTRODUCTION T he county of Kent has more than its fair share of castles, and my parents and schoolteachers conspired to ensure that I was familiar with most of them from a young age. Not, you understand, that I needed much encouragement—trips to castles were always my favorite. Around every corner, through every doorway, there was the promise of fresh excitement. An over-imaginative little boy could easily picture knights in shining armor, damsels in distress, sieges, feasts and tournaments. Whether ruinous or restored, castles were magical places. Or at least, most of them were. Some of them, I’m sorry to say, I found a bit boring. Certain castles, I noticed, had lots of cannon, but nowhere for the king to eat his dinner. Others, by contrast, had plenty of fancy bedrooms, but nowhere for the soldiers to sleep. Either way, one or two of the castles I visited as a child seemed to lack certain important things, and I would return home a little disappointed, though for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom. Clearly these buildings didn’t measure up to my idea of what a castle should be. So what is a castle? Is there a good definition? The Oxford English Dictionary helpfully tells us that the word itself derives from the medieval Latin word castellum, and ultimately from the classical Latin word castrum, meaning “camp.” A castle, it goes on to say, is “a large building, or set of buildings, fortified for defense against an enemy; a fortress, stronghold.” Many people, I think, would find nothing to disagree with in this statement. The word “castle” tends to conjure up images of boiling oil, bows and arrows, catapults and battering rams. But is that all there is to it? Are castles just about fighting, or even self- defense? Haven’t the dictionary compilers missed an important point? On the outside of a castle, we expect to see drawbridges and battlements, portcullises and arrow-loops; but what about on the inside? There, surely, we expect to see evidence of luxury and creature comforts. There are great halls for banqueting, and huge kitchens to prepare lavish feasts; bedrooms, chambers, and chapels, all once sumptuously decorated; stables, granaries, bakeries, breweries— everything, in short, that was necessary to make them perfect residences for their owners. So a castle might be a fortress, but it is also, crucially, a home. This was the definition famously offered by Professor R. Allen Brown in his groundbreaking book, English Castles. From the moment it was first published in 1954, the book established itself as the most influential work on castles, and it is still required reading today for anyone even remotely interested in the subject. A castle, to quote Professor Brown, is basically “a fortified residence, or a residential fortress.” Castles were not simply buildings into which people retreated when the going got tough; they were places where people spent time willingly. When I read the book for the first time, I realized why certain castles had bored me as a boy; the less interesting ones had been either entirely military in purpose, or else they had no defensive capability at all. These so-called castles, it turned out, were really nothing more than forts, and mere stately homes. According to Brown’s definition, a real castle was a fortress and a stately home rolled into one. For many medieval historians—myself included—this textbook definition of a castle seemed to fit the picture perfectly. It also explained why we love castles so much. For how can a building be warlike and homely at the same time? Luxury demands more space, thinner walls, bigger windows. Security, on the other hand, says keep everything crammed inside thick walls, and make the windows small. For castle designers, the major challenge was reconciling these two apparently contradictory imperatives. For castle enthusiasts, the ingenious ways in which they did so is part of what makes castles so endlessly fascinating. Recently, however, castle experts have begun to question this definition. The problem with deciding that a castle is a fortress and a home, they say, is that this excludes a lot of castles from the club. Take, for example, the subject of Chapter Four—the gorgeous Bodiam Castle in Sussex. There is no doubt at all that this was once a classy home for a rich aristocrat. But did its owner ever intend to use it as a fortress? Most of the exterior features (as we shall see) seem to be just stuck on for effect. The moat, the battlements, and the portcullises, all of which might suggest we are dealing with a formidable stronghold, are in actual fact all highly suspect. If Bodiam had ever ended up in a really serious fight, chances are it would have been quickly clobbered into submission. So does this mean that Bodiam, and other similarly weedy castles, are not really castles at all? The answer must surely be no. We can call Bodiam a castle because . . . well, because it plainly looks like a castle. And, more importantly, the people who were around when Bodiam was built also called it a castle: it would be very arrogant of us in the twenty-first century to disqualify Bodiam on the grounds that we knew better than they did. Clearly it is not Bodiam Castle that is the problem—it is our definition. None of the castles I’ve visited recently seem to be having an identity crisis, but some of the experts I’ve encountered have grave doubts. Professor Matthew Johnson has just concluded his new book by confessing that he is “less certain than ever about what castles ‘really are.’” And yet, in spite of the uncertainty among historians, there still seems to be a general consensus about which buildings are castles, and which ones are not. What we no longer have is an easy, no-nonsense, one-size-fits-all definition. This, of course, makes it tough if you find yourself writing a book on castles, because, as R. Allen Brown rightly said, “Any book about castles should begin by saying what they are.” So, with this advice in mind, here’s what I think. A castle was first and foremost a home to its aristocratic owner and his or her household. That, I believe, must be our starting point. Down to the end of the thirteenth century in England, and slightly later in Wales and Scotland, these noble residences were also strong, defensible buildings that we can reasonably describe as “fortresses.” Some of the castles in this book were—indeed, are—tremendously tough buildings, designed to withstand the most deadly assault weapons of the Middle Ages. From 1300 onward, they could afford to be less effective at keeping people out, even to the point of not being defensible at all. But, as with Bodiam, what made a castle was not how tough it was, but whether or not it looked like one. In order to be considered a castle, a building had to have at least some of the physical attributes that contemporaries associated with castles, such as battlements, portcullises, arrow-loops, and drawbridges. Whether they actually worked or not was irrelevant. They were still essential, because they had come to symbolize something—that the people inside were important, that they had a right to rule others, and that they expected deference, obedience, and respect. Of course, it is the portcullises and the drawbridges that we all love, especially as children, and I was no exception. The older I get, however, it is the thought that castles were homes that really provides the attraction. As residences, they possess a richness of historical association that mere fortresses can’t even begin to offer. Naturally, as great strongholds, some castles were absolutely decisive in determining the course of British history. But other castles, perhaps less strong and warlike, were decisive in other, subtler ways. As the homes to kings, queens, and nobles, they were the places where plots were hatched, marriages were consummated, and murders were committed. As places of work, they were important to scores of others: clerks, cooks, farriers, stable lads, traveling players, and troubadour poets. And even for those who lived outside their walls, castles were a central part of their lives. It was to the castle that people would come to pay their taxes, or to stand trial in their lord’s court. Whether royal or noble, castles were the administrative hubs of the Middle Ages, and were important to every rank of society. What follows is not a guide to castles, nor a comprehensive gazetteer. It is certainly not the final word on the subject, which is currently attracting more scholarly interest than ever before. It is simply my version of the castle story, and an invitation to readers to think further about these magnificent buildings. I hope it will encourage people to reflect on the motives of the men who built them, the experiences of the families who lived in them, and the pain of the people who died defending them. Most of all, I hope it will incite people to visit the castles themselves. To stand on top of the battlements of Rochester in the middle of winter, whipped by the wind and the rain, is enough to make you sympathize with those knights who were trapped inside during King John’s great siege of October and November 1215. To gaze on the massive walls of Caernarfon, one can only wonder what on earth drove Edward I to construct such an undeniably impressive, but colossally expensive and ultimately unsustainable demonstration of power. To walk around the moat at Bodiam in the early morning sunshine, and see the reflection of the castle shimmering on the water, is a sufficient reminder, if any reminder is necessary, of just how splendid and beautiful these buildings can be. CHAPTER ONE HUMBLE ORIGINS T he story begins almost a thousand years ago. A monk was sitting in Canterbury, writing his chronicle of the year’s events. It was the year 1051—and what a year it had been! A great struggle had taken place in the kingdom between two powerful factions. On the one side stood the king, Edward the Confessor, with his friends and allies. On the other stood Earl Godwine and his sons, the most powerful noble family in England. The question they were debating, with armies and swords at the ready, was of the highest importance. Who was going to be king after Edward died? The monk set down these events in detail. At one point, however, he departed from his main account to report an incident that had taken place in distant Herefordshire. Some members of the king’s party—Frenchmen, if you don’t mind—had been given lands in that county, and had been getting up to some outrageous things. “The foreigners,” wrote the monk, “committed all kinds of insults and oppressions on the men in that region.” But that wasn’t the worst of it. What really surprised the monk was the thing that these foreigners had built. It was a great mound of earth, topped with a large wooden tower, surrounded by an enclosure of wooden palisades. It was so new and so different that the monk didn’t even have a word of his own to describe it. In the end he settled for the word the foreigners themselves used, and called it a castle.