Have I at long last found that illustrious ancestor connected to royalty? Sadly, no. This is about a trip last week to the Severn Valley Railway (SVR). The King & Castle is the public house forming part of Kidderminster station, the eastern terminus of the heritage railway that runs through the Severn valley from Bridgnorth, Shropshire. Speed has to Continue reading “The King & Castle”
Everyone of us has been in this situation. Usually, it is something from the school playground, but in times of war, especially when it is in your own country, it can be more serious, fatal, even. “Be like Dad, keep mum” was a World War II poster. Toadying up to the enemy might save you in the short term, but it might not save you from your “friends” later. In a land ravaged by almost a decade of war this is what some of my ancestors faced.
On 30 January 1649, King Charles of England was executed. From that point his son, also Charles, pursued his claim to the throne on the battlefields of England and Scotland, the monarchy having been abolished by Parliament on 17 March. The final defeat came at the battle of Worcester on 3 September 1651, when Charles was forced to run for his life.
Most of the fleeing Royalists were quickly rounded up, but Charles was more fortunate. He headed for the Catholic stronghold of southern Staffordshire and eastern Shropshire, where he would be helped by local houses. In my junior school days the story of the king hiding in an oak tree while Parliamentarian troops marched beneath as they scoured the land was a staple of the curriculum.
What did this mean for my Upton and Onion ancestors who lived in the area? They must have known that Charles was on the run and, doubtless, some people would have at least claimed to have taken some part, however small, in the excape. The country would have been crawling with soldiers hunting down the fugitive Charles. There would be a knock at everyone’s door, the inhabitants questioned as to whether they knew anything. I imagine the soldiers would be none too friendly, knowing that at least some of the men had fought against them and might have killed or maimed one of their own, or, perhaps, burned down their farmstead. Houses, barns, cowsheds and other outbuildings would be searched without ceremony.
Naturally, the labourers employed by their Catholic lords and masters would keep anything they did know to themselves. Why risk angering them, when it could cost them their meagre livelihoods? It could mean destitution, starvation, even.
In escaping from Worcester Charles was accompanied by, among others, Charles Giffard and Lord Derby, both powerful Catholic landowners. Lord Derby had previously been helped by the Pendrel family, of Boscobel House, Shropshire, tenants of Charles Giffard. He suggested White Ladies Priory, nearby and also on Giffard’s estate, as a safer refuge. They arrived in the early hours of 4 September.
According to English Heritage, the priory dates from the late twelfth century and operated largely unaltered until the 1530s, when its days were ended by the Dissolution. It was still used for Catholic burials up to 1844. In 1651, then, it would be unoccupied?
On my copy of a rather beaten-up map, White Ladies, is in the lower left. Chillington Hall, seat of the Giffards, is lower right. My Onion and Upton kindred lived at various places on the map, including Langley Lawn (just west of Chillington), Tong, White Pump Farm on Watling Street (red line, east-west), Aqueduct, where the canal crosses (top right), places just east of the canal, and at Black Ladies, more or less in the centre. The places in the escape story would have been familiar to them. Giffard was the man from whom most of them rented their farmhands’ cottages and on whom their livelihoods depended.
The story goes that a man named Pendrel came from Hobbal Grange near Tong and he helped to disguise Charles as a farm labourer. In pouring rain Charles and Richard Pendrel moved out of White Ladies not long before a party of local militia turned up. The occupants said they had missed him by some considerable time and they seemed to buy it. Charles and Richard hid in a nearby wood, Spring Coppice, and it is thought the rain put off any search.
They waited until dark and went to Hobbal Grange for a meal before setting off for Wales, where they knew someone who they thought would help, but the River Severn was so heavily guarded that they were forced to return to the Giffard estate and Boscobel House. The following day Charles and another supporter spent the day high in an oak tree while the neighbourhood was searched.
The next day, 7 September, Charles was taken to Moseley Old Hall, the home of another Catholic. There he received dry clothes, and a meal and the family priest (a dangerous occupation!) attended to his injured feet. Charles stayed there for two days and when Parliamentary troops arrived he was hurriedly concealed in a priest hole. The Elizabethan Moseley Old Hall is currently a National Trust property. If you have a mind to visit you can enter by the same door as the fugitive Charles and see the four-poster bed in which he slept, as well as his letter of thanks to Jane Lane for her part in his escape. Various events are held, for example this coming weekend you can play games from the seventeenth century.
The next leg was to Bentley Hall, near Walsall, home of Colonel Lane and his sister Jane Lane, one of the celebrities of local history, from where Charles was taken, disguised as Jane’s servant to a friend’s house near Bristol, hoping to take ship. In my time working for Walsall Council I went to Bentley a number of times. The land on which Bentley Hall stood is now open space, but there is a cairn that commemorates Jane’s role in Charles’ epic escape.
Eventually, on 5 October, after 32 days on the run, beating the pursuers by just two hours, Charles sailed from Shoreham for France and the home of his mother, Queen Henrietta Maria. He became King Charles II when the monarchy was restored in 1660.
Today is 3 November 2016. At the time I am writing about it would have been the third day of November in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and forty six. Yes, it was a long time ago, 370 years, the time of my seventh and eighth great grandparents.
The country was at war. England was at war. Not with Rome, Vikings, Germany or France. Not even the Scots. England was at war with itself. There was one substantial issue: one side believed that King Charles and his cronies should rule the land and use and abuse its people as they pleased; the other thought the country should be ruled by the people through Parliament. It is a simple enough concept, but it took going on for a decade of brutal armed conflict to decide. I guess, like everyone else, my ancestors fought on both sides.
Imagine that for a moment. A group of heavily armed, armoured, muscular, aggressive men on horseback arrive at your door. Some lad in the fields warned of their approach. They were the people who came for the rent, or to dispense “justice”, from the lord of the manor, the man (or just possibly the woman) who owned the land you worked on, your food, your wife, your house, your children, your own body, everything. You had concealed anything you thought might be of value and could be taken in lieu of unpaid rent or on any other trumped-up pretext. The leader, the local squire’s man, then summons the men and “strong boys” of the household and orders them to accompany the horsemen and bring along the weapons they were supposed to have trained with every Sunday after church: long bow, pike, axe and any protective garment they might have. Not next week, not tomorrow, but now, this minute. Resistance is futile and will probably result in agonising death and dreadful consequences for your family. You have heard that there is an issue about the king and the government, but what difference it makes to you is anyone’s guess. It will probably just make things worse either way. Nonetheless, you say an all too cursory goodbye to your wife, daughters and young boys, imploring them to do what you know is their wholly inadequate best to look after mother, and off you go, with your sons, your neighbours, and their sons. And to who knows where. And when. Or for how long. Not knowing whether you or any of your party will find your way home. You know which side you (or at least your master) is on, but not what it really means for the future. And you have no idea if he will change sides if things go badly. Your brother Harry and your wife’s favourite nephew, in the next village, are on the other side.
If you have endured this far, and you live in the UK or the USA, you might wonder how far politics has come in 370 years!
Everyone who was in England in the 1640s was on one side or the other. There was no provision for abstention, pacifism or referendum, so every John, William and Thomas and his neighbour was compelled to sharpen his pike or pitchfork and join the military organisation that his master favoured: King or Parliament, Cavalier or Roundhead.
The Parliamentarians won. (If your local is The Royal Oak you might, as Inspector E Morse would have said, contemplate that though the bottom of a glass.) At first, their version of parliamentary government was not something we would recognise today as democratic, but, eventually, we arrived at a style of governance (and I quote: “The mother of all Parliaments”) that provides what those Parliamentarians wanted: that is government not by the birthright or wealth or military strength of the monarch, or the smarm of his or her toady hangers-on, but by the people through Parliament.
The people, albeit by a small majority, voted in referendum to authorise Parliament to withdraw the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland from the European Union. Whether or not all or any of those voters knew about Article 50, the unavoidable consequence of that vote is that if Parliament is to comply with the outcome of the referendum it can only do so by invoking Article 50. To my simple, logical mind, therefore, the people authorised Parliament to invoke Article 50. Any other conclusion is pure artifice, it is bound in obscure legal argument and flies in the face of the general principle that this country is governed by the will of its people and not by the weasel words of the “establishment”. This last is, apparently, the very reason why people voted in their droves to “leave”. Judges out of touch? Who would have thought it?
Perhaps we should return absolute sovereignty to Queen Elizabeth (after all we have not endured invasion, pestilence, conflagration or other national catastrophe during her reign). But doesn’t that mean … ?
That is, I think, you know, er yes, but it’s all wrong …