South London

There was a certain Thomas, a natural son of William Nevill, Lord Fauconberg, Earl of Kent, generally called the Bastard of Fauconberg, or Falconbridge. This man was a sailor. In the year 1454 he had received the freedom of the City of London and the thanks of the Corporation for his services in putting down the pirates of the North Sea and the Channel. It is suggestive of the way in which the Civil War divided families, that though the Earl of Kent did so much to put Edward on the throne, his son did his best to put up Henry.

He was appointed by Warwick Vice-Admiral of the Fleet, and in that capacity he held Calais and prevented the despatch of Burgundians to the help of Edward. He seems to have crossed and recrossed continually.

A reference to the dates shows how slowly news travelled across country. On April the 14th the Battle of Barnet was fought. At this battle Warwick fell. On May the 4th the Battle of Tewkesbury finished the hopes of the Lancastrians. Yet on May the 12th the Bastard of Fauconberg presented himself at the head of 17,000 Kentish men at the gates of London Bridge, and stated that he was come to dethrone the usurper Edward, and to restore King Henry. He asked permission to march through the town, promising that his men should commit no disturbance or pillage. Of course they knew who he was, but he assured them that he held a commission from the Earl of Warwick as Vice-Admiral.

In reply, the Mayor and Corporation sent him a letter, pointing out that his commission was no longer in force because Warwick was dead nearly three weeks before, and that his body had been exposed for two days in St. Paul's; they informed him that the Battle of Barnet had been disastrous to the Lancastrians, and that runners had informed them of a great Lancastrian disaster at Tewkesbury, where Prince Edward was slain with many noble lords of his following.

All this Fauconberg either disbelieved or affected to disbelieve. I think that he really did disbelieve the story: he could not understand how this great Earl of Warwick could be killed. He persisted in his demand for the right of passage. The persistence makes one doubt the sincerity of his assurances. Why did he want to pass through London? If he merely wanted to get across he had his ships with him – they had come up the river and now lay off Ratcliffe. He could have carried his army across in less time than he took to fight his way. Did he propose to hold London against Edward, and to keep it while the Lancastrians were gathering strength? There was still one Lancastrian heir to the throne at least.

However, the City still refused. They sent him a letter urging him to lay down his arms and acknowledge Edward, who was now firmly established.

Seeing that he was not to be moved, the citizens began to look to their fortifications: on the river side the river wall had long since gone, but the houses themselves formed a wall, with narrow lanes leading to the water's edge. These lanes they easily stopped with stones: they looked to their wall and to their gates.

The Bastard therefore resolved upon an assault on the City. Like a skilful commander he attacked it at three points. First, however, he brought in the cannon from his ships, laying them along the shore: he then sent 3,000 men across the river with orders to divide into two companies, one for an attack on Aldgate, the other for an attack on Bishopsgate. He himself undertook the assault on London Bridge. His cannonade of the City was answered by the artillery of the Tower. We should like to know more of this bombardment. Did they still use round stones for shot? Was much mischief done by the cannon? Probably little that was not easily repaired: the shot either struck the houses on the river's edge or it went clean over the City and fell in the fields beyond. Holinshed says that 'the Citizens lodged their great artillerie against their adversaries, and with violent shot thereof so galled them that they durst not abide in anie place alongst the water side but were driven even from their own Ordnance.' Did they, then, take the great guns from the Tower and place them all along the river? I think not: the guns could not be moved from the Tower: then the 'heavie artillerie' could only damage the enemy on the shore opposite – not above the bridge.

The three thousand men told off for the attack on the gates valiantly assailed them. But they met with a stout resistance. Some of them actually got into the City at Aldgate, but the gate was closed behind them, and they were all killed. Robert Basset, Alderman of Aldgate, performed prodigies of valour. At Bishopsgate they did no good at all. In the end they fell back. Then the citizens threw open the gates and sallied forth. The Earl of Kent brought out 500 men by the Tower Postern and chased the rebels as far as Stepney. Some seven hundred of them were killed. Many hundreds were taken prisoners and held to ransom, 'as if they had been Frenchmen,' says the Chronicler.

The attack on the bridge also completely failed. The gate on the south was fired and destroyed: three score of the houses on the bridge were fired and destroyed: the north gate was also fired, but at the bridge end there were planted half a dozen small pieces of cannon, and behind them waited the army of the citizens. It is a pity that we have not another Battle of the Bridge to relate.

The captain, seeing that he had no hopes of getting possession of London, resolved to march westward and meet Edward. By this time, it is probable that he understood what had happened. He therefore ordered his fleet to await him in the Mersey, and marched as far as Kingston-upon-Thames. It is a strange, incongruous story. All his friends were dead: their cause was hopeless: why should he attempt a thing impossible? Because it was Warwick's order? Perhaps, however, he did not think it impossible.

At Kingston he was met by Lord Scales and Nicolas Fanute, Mayor of Canterbury, who persuaded him 'by fair words' to return. Accordingly, he marched back to Blackheath, where he dismissed his men, ordering them to go home peaceably. As for himself, with a company of 600 – his sailors, one supposes – he rejoined his fleet at Chatham, and took his ships round the coast to Sandwich.

Here he waited till Edward came there. He handed over to the King fifty-six ships great and small. The King pardoned him, knighted him, and made him Vice-Admiral of the Fleet. This was in May. Alas! in September we hear that he was taken prisoner at Southampton, carried to Middleham, in Yorkshire, and beheaded, and his head put upon London Bridge.

Why? nobody knows. Holinshed suggests that he had been 'roving,' i. e. practising as a pirate. But would the Vice-Admiral of the English fleet go off 'roving'? Surely not. I take it as only one more of the thousand murders, perjuries, and treacheries of the worst fifty years that ever stained the history of the country. There was but one complete way of safety for Edward – the death of every man, noble or simple, who might take up arms against him. So the Bastard – this fool who had trusted the King and given him a fleet – was beheaded like all the rest.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PILGRIMS

The town was full of those who carried in their hats the pilgrim's signs. Besides the ordinary insignia of pilgrimage, every shrine had its special signs, which the pilgrim on his return bore conspicuously upon his hat or scrip or hanging round his neck (see Skeat, Notes to Piers Plowman) in token that he had accomplished that particular pilgrimage. Thus the ampullæ were the signs of Canterbury; the scallop shell that of St. James of Compostella; the cross keys and the vernicle of Rome – the vernicle was a copy of the handkerchief of St. Veronica, which was miraculously impressed with the face of our Lord. These shrines were cast in lead in the most part. Thus in the supplement to the Canterbury Tales,

Then as manere and custom is, signes there they bought,
For men of contre should know whom they had sought;
Eche man set his silver in such thing as they liked,
And in the meanwhile the miller had y-piked
His barns full of signes of Canterbury brought.

Erasmus makes Menedemus ask, 'What kind of attire is this that thou wearest? It is all set over with shells scolloped, full of images of lead and tin, and charms of straw work, and the cuffs are adorned with snakes' eggs instead of bracelets.' To which the reply is that he has been to certain shrines on pilgrimage. The late Dr. Hugo communicated to the Society of Antiquaries a paper in which he enumerated and figured a great many of these signs found in different places, but especially in the river when Old London Bridge was removed. Bells —Campana Thomæ– Canterbury Bells – were also hung from the bridles, ringing merrily all the way by way of a charm to keep off evil.

Every day in the summer parties of pilgrims started from one or other of the Inns of Southwark: there was the short pilgrimage and the long pilgrimage: the pilgrimage of a day: the pilgrimage of a month: and the pilgrimage beyond the seas. From Southampton and at Dartmouth sailed the ships of those who were licensed to carry pilgrims to Compostella, which was the shrine of St. Iago: or to Rome: or to Rocamadom in Gascony: or to Jaffa for the Holy Places. The pilgrimage outremer is undoubtedly that which conferred the longest indulgences, the greatest benefits upon the soul, and the highest sanctity upon the pilgrim.

In the matter of short pilgrimages, the South Londoner had a considerable choice. He might simply go to the shrine of St. Erkenwald at Paul's, or to that of Edward the Confessor at Westminster, he might even confine his devotions to the Holy Rood of Bermondsey. If he wished to go a little further afield, there were the shrines of Our Lady of the Oak; of Muswell Hill; or of Willesden. But these were all on the north side of London and belonged to the City rather than to Southwark. For him of the Borough there was the shrine of Crome's Hill, Greenwich, which provided a pleasant outing for the day: it might be prolonged with feasting and drinking to fill up the whole day, so that the whole family could get a holiday combined with religious exercises in good company and return home at night, each happy in the consciousness that so many years were knocked off purgatory.

For the longer pilgrimages there were of course the far distant journeys to Jerusalem, generally over land as far as Venice, and then by a 'personally conducted' voyage, the captain providing escort to and from the Holy Places. There were also pilgrimages to Compostella: to Rome: to Cologne: and other places.

For pilgrimage within the four seas, the pious citizen of South London had surely no choice. For him St. Thomas of Canterbury was the only Saint. There were other Saints, of course, but St. Thomas was his special Saint. No other shrine was possible for him save that of St. Thomas. Not Glastonbury: nor Walsingham: nor Beverley: but Canterbury contained the relics the sight and adoration of which would more effectively assist his soul.

In Erasmus's Dialogue of the Pilgrimage we have an account of what was done and what was shown at the shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham and St. Thomas of Canterbury.

'The church that is dedicated to St. Thomas raises itself up towards heaven with that majesty that it strikes those that behold it at a great distance with an awe of religion, and now with its splendour makes the light of the neighbouring palaces look dim, and as it were obscures the place that was anciently the most celebrated for religion. There are two lofty turrets which stand as it were bidding visitants welcome from afar off, and a ring of bells that make the adjacent country echo far and wide with their rolling sound. In the south porch of the church stand three stone statues of men in armour, who with wicked hands murdered the holy man, with the names of their countries – Tusci, Fusci, and Betri…

'Og. When you are entered in, a certain spacious majesty of place opens itself to you, which is free to every one. Me. Is there nothing to be seen there? Og. Nothing but the bulk of the structure, and some books chained to the pillars, containing the gospel of Nicodemus and the sepulchre of I cannot tell who. Me. And what else? Og. Iron grates enclose the place called the choir, so that there is no entrance, but so that the view is still open from one end of the church to the other. You ascend to this by a great many steps, under which there is a certain vault that opens a passage to the north side. There they show a wooden altar consecrated to the Holy Virgin; it is a very small one, and remarkable for nothing except as a monument of antiquity, reproaching the luxury of the present times. In that place the good man is reported to have taken his last leave of the Virgin, when he was at the point of death. Upon the altar is the point of the sword with which the top of the head of that good prelate was wounded, and some of his brains that were beaten out, to make sure work of it. We most religiously kissed the sacred rust of this weapon out of love to the martyr.

'Leaving this place, we went down into a vault underground; to that there belong two showmen of the relics. The first thing they show you is the skull of the martyr, as it was bored through; the upper part is left open to be kissed, all the rest is covered over with silver. There is also shown you a leaden plate with this inscription, Thomas Acrensis. And there hang up in a great place the shirts of hair-cloth, the girdles, and breeches with which this prelate used to mortify his flesh…

'Og. From hence we return to the choir. On the north side they open a private place. It is incredible what a world of bones they brought out of it, skulls, chins, teeth, hands, fingers, whole arms, all which we having first adored, kissed; nor had there been any end of it had it not been for one of my fellow-travellers, who indiscreetly interrupted the officer that was showing them…

'After this we viewed the table of the altar, and the ornaments; and after that those things that were laid up under the altar; all was very rich, you would have said Midas and Croesus were beggars compared to them, if you beheld the great quantities of gold and silver…

'After this we were carried into the vestry. Good God! what a pomp of silk vestments was there, of golden candlesticks! There we saw also St. Thomas's foot. It looked like a reed painted over with silver; it hath but little of weight, and nothing of workmanship, and was longer than up to one's girdle. Me. Was there never a cross? Og. I saw none. There was a gown shown; it was silk, indeed, but coarse and without embroidery or jewels, and a handkerchief, still having plain marks of sweat and blood from the saint's neck. We readily kissed these monuments of ancient frugality…

'From hence we were conducted up higher; for behind the high altar there is another ascent as into another church. In a certain new chapel there was shewn to us the whole face of the good man set in gold, and adorned with jewels…

'Upon this, out comes the head of the college. Me. Who was he, the abbot of the place? Og. He wears a mitre, and has the revenue of an abbot – he wants nothing but the name; he is called the prior because the archbishop is in the place of an abbot; for in old time every one that was an archbishop of that diocese was a monk. Me. I should not mind if I was called a camel, if I had but the revenue of an abbot. Og. He seemed to me to be a godly and prudent man, and not unacquainted with the Scotch divinity. He opened us the box in which the remainder of the holy man's body is said to rest. Me. Did you see the bones? Og. That is not permitted, nor can it be done without a ladder. But a wooden box covers a golden one, and that being craned up with ropes, discovers an inestimable treasure. Me. What say you? Og. Gold was the basest part. Everything sparkled and shined with very large and scarce jewels, some of them bigger than a goose's egg. There some monks stood about with the greatest veneration. The cover being taken off, we all worshipped. The prior, with a white wand, touched every stone one by one, telling us the name in French, the value of it, and who was the donor of it. The principal of them were the presents of kings…

'Hence he carried us back into a vault. There the Virgin Mary has her residence; it is something dark; it is doubly railed in and encompassed about with iron bars. Me. What is she afraid of? Og. Nothing, I suppose, but thieves. And I never in my life saw anything more laden with riches. Me. You tell me of riches in the dark. Og. Candles being brought in we saw more than a royal sight. Me. What, does it go beyond the Parathalassian virgin in wealth? Og. It goes far beyond in appearance. What is concealed she knows best. These things are shewn to none but great persons or peculiar friends. In the end we were carried back into the vestry. There was pulled out a chest covered with black leather; it was set upon the table and opened. They all fell down on their knees and worshipped. Me. What was in it? Og. Pieces of linen rags.'

At Canterbury, as at Walsingham, the object of the pilgrim was to see the relics, kiss them, saying certain prayers prescribed, and to make offerings at every exhibition of relics. Thus on beholding the precious place containing the milk of the Virgin, the pilgrim recited the following prayer: —

'Virgin Mother, who hast merited to give suck to the Lord of heaven and earth, thy Son Jesus, from thy virgin breasts, we desire that, being purified by His blood, we may arrive at that happy infant state of dovelike innocence in which, being void of malice, fraud, and deceit, we may continually desire the milk of the evangelical doctrine, until we grow up to a perfect man, and to the measure of the fulness of Christ, whose blessed society thou wilt enjoy for evermore, with the Father and the Holy Spirit. Amen.'

On being shown the little chapel which was the actual dwelling-place of the Virgin like the Casa Sancta of Loreto, the pilgrim prostrated himself and recited as follows: —

'O thou who only of all women art a mother and a virgin, the most happy of mothers and the purest of virgins, we that are impure do now come to visit and address ourselves to thee that art pure, and reverence thee with our poor offerings, such as they are. Oh that thy Son would enable us to imitate thy most holy life, that we may deserve, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, to conceive the Lord Jesus in the most inward bowels of our minds, and having once conceived Him, never to lose Him. Amen.'

As regards the offerings, it was found necessary to station a priest at each place in order to encourage the pilgrims to give openly in the sight of all, otherwise they would give nothing at all, so great was their piety. Nay, even with this stimulus, there were found some who, while they laid their offering on the altar, by sleight of hand would steal what another had laid down. Since pilgrimage was reduced to the easy performance of a journey with recitals and repetitions of set prayers, one easily imagines that the pilgrims would no more hesitate to steal from the altar than to commit any other offence against morality.

On returning from Canterbury to London the pilgrims were waylaid by roadside beggars who came out and sprinkled them with holy water, and showed them St. Thomas's shoe to kiss. In fact, what with the treasures brought home by pilgrims, presented to archbishops and kings, and sold by pardoners and friars, the whole country was crammed with relics; at the great shrines as shown by Erasmus, there were cupboards filled with holy bones and precious rags; but there were too many: the credulity of the people had been tried too much and too long. Erasmus shows the profound disbelief that he himself, if no other, entertained for the sanctity of the relics.

Thomas à Becket was canonised in 1173. Fifty years afterwards his remains were transferred from their original resting-place by Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, to the shrine prepared for them behind the high altar.

Erasmus, whose contempt for pilgrimage is sufficiently indicated by the extracts quoted above, was not alone in his opinions. Indeed, it required no great wisdom to perceive that a religious pilgrimage conducted without the least attention to the religious life was a mockery.

Nor was Erasmus the first to make this discovery. Piers Plowman, long before, had expressed the same contempt for pilgrims:

Pilgrims and Palmers plihten hem togederes
For to seche Seint Jeme and seintes at Rome;
Wenten forth in heore wey with mony wyse tales,
And hedden leve to lye al heore lyf aftir.
Ermytes on a hep with hokide staves
Wenten to Walsingham, and here wenches aftir.

But there is a more serious indictment still.

In the year 1407, a certain priest named Thorpe, a prisoner for heretical opinions, was allowed to state these opinions to Archbishop Arundel. An account remains, written by the priest himself, of his arguments and of the Archbishop's replies. On the subject of pilgrimage he is very strong.