During the latter half of the fourteenth century, a new royal dynasty, the House of Trastámara, established itself in the central Iberian kingdom of Castile, largest of five states that occupied the peninsula. Early in the following century, one branch of that dynasty also came to power in the neighboring Crown of Aragon, a political conglomerate that included the kingdoms of Aragon and Valencia, the county of Catalonia, and the Balearic Islands as well as a small slice of southern France stretching along the Mediterranean coast. The establishment of this family in the two most important Iberian polities set the stage for their eventual unification, one that was accomplished through a famous marriage in 1469 of two cousins, Ferdinand of Aragon (r. 1474–1516) and Isabel of Castile (r. 1474–1504).3 From that marriage sprang a Spanish state that would soon incorporate all of Iberia with the exception of Portugal and would become by around 1500 the most powerful kingdom in early modern Europe.

The period in Castilian history that witnessed both the birth and coming of age of the Trastámaran dynasty was one of extensive conflict, a period of roughly four decades (1350–1387) torn by warfare, both foreign and domestic.

Introduction

Despite the traditional image of the heavily armored knight on horseback, lance couched, charging recklessly into the fray, it has become a well-established truism of medieval military history that typical large-scale military activity in the period involved a siege rather than a set-piece battle. While battles did indeed occur, sieges conducted against castles, towns, and cities far surpassed them in number.

If a target were strong and the defenders resolute, it might well hold out indefinitely, or at least long enough to witness the disintegration of the attacking army. On the other hand, there were not-a-few instances when the place under attack was not well fortified, not adequately supplied, or simply not strongly inclined to resist the forces brought against it. In such a case, its best hope lay in reaching some kind of negotiated accommodation with the attackers that would preserve the lives, liberty, and property of its inhabitants. Upon occasion, however, such a place might feel compelled to take pains to avoid having its surrender being seen as treason by its former lord, in order that it might avoid retribution at some future date in the event that that lord managed to regain possession.

Such was the case with Burgos, the northern capital of the Iberian kingdom of Castile, when, in the spring of 1366, it was caught between two warring halfbrothers, one legitimate, the other illegitimate, both of whom were claiming the Castilian throne. Its actions on this occasion exemplify the careful path a city might have to tread in an effort to protect itself against present destruction as well as future retribution.

In March of 1366, Enrique, count of Trastámara and illegitimate son of King Alfonso XI (r. 1311–50) invaded Castile accompanied by his principal captain, Bertrand du Guesclin (d. 1380), the legendary Breton warrior who would later become constable of France and drive the English out of much the territory they had conquered in the opening stages of the Hundred Years War (1339–1453). The pair led an army, paid for by France, Aragon, and the Papacy, composed of Castilian exiles, Aragonese volunteers, and thousands of men from the Free Companies, bodies of soldiery thrown out of work by a lull in the conflict raging north of the Pyrenees. The invasion's purpose was to overthrow the reigning monarch of Castile, Pedro I, widely known as “the Cruel” (1350–66/1367–69).

Introduction

The two stanzas reproduced above come from one of the most famous works of medieval literature, the Song of Roland, first of the chansons de geste or “song of deeds,” depicting in a highly fictionalized manner what would ironically become Charlemagne's most remembered battle, the defeat of his rearguard at Roncevaux. Prominent among those named in the chanson as having died fighting at Roland's side was Archbishop Turpin of Rheims, to whom the passages refer. Although the appearance of the poem around 1100 converted Turpin into the prototype “warrior churchman” of the age, there is no certainty that such an individual actually existed outside of legend. To the extent that the fictional character accords with reality, he was probably a conflation of several clerics who held the see in the late eighth century, the best-known of whom was no warrior at all.

In contrast to such a shadowy figure, one encounters throughout the medieval period real flesh-and-blood warrior churchmen about whom a good deal can be known, men who make it possible to arrive at a better understanding of just what it meant to combine the two roles. One such individual who lived in the late Middle Ages was the cardinal-archbishop of Toledo, Pedro González de Mendoza (1428–95), who occupied the primate see in the Castilian church near the end of the fifteenth century and was dubbed by one of his early biographers el gran cardinal.

Introduction

In the fall of 1378 a pair of envoys from Italy arrived at the royal court of Enrique II of Castile (r. 1366–1367 and 1369–1379) then located in the city of Cordoba near Spain's southern coast. They brought greetings to the king from a new pope, the sixty-year-old archbishop of Bari, Bartolomeo Prignano, who had taken the papal name Urban VI (r. 1378–1389). Never himself a cardinal, the archbishop had been a compromise candidate in a severely divided election and was the first pope to be selected by a conclave held in Rome since the papacy had removed to Avignon some seven decades earlier. Urban's election and its “cancellation” several months later by the same cardinals who had elected him together set the stage for an era in Church history known as the Great Schism (1378–1417), one of the most divisive periods experienced by the Roman Catholic Church of the Middle Ages. During the forty years it endured, the schism forced most western and central European states to choose which of two and eventually three squabbling popes they would acknowledge as the true successor to Peter: the one ensconced in Rome or his rivals in Avignon and Pisa.

Introduction

Over the centuries, a great deal of poetry has been devoted to warfare and its practitioners. While the majority has tended to celebrate the heroism of men involved in conflict, a not insignificant part has condemned the carnage and futility, a condemnation that reached its height during the First World War in the works of such writers as Wilfred Owens, Siegfried Sassoon, and Robert Service.

During the Middle Ages, martial poetry followed both strains. Much of it emphasized the glory of combat, serving as the supreme tool for recalling honor and assigning shame earned on the battlefield. This was true of the most widely-recited works of the period, the great epics and chanson de geste, including Beowulf, the Song of Roland, the Tales of King Arthur, and the Poema del mio Cid, to name only the most prominent. All centered on human conflict and extolled the heroism of their protagonists. Poets, like the great troubadour, Bertran de Born (c. 1140–c. 1215), could look on war as a spectacle complete with “proud pavilions high … squadrons of armored chivalry … trumpets and tabors, ensigns and pennants.” To Born's mind, participants were expected to spill blood and engage in butchery in their pursuit of “death or victory.”

Byzantine military events in the early fourteenth century have captured the imagination of Western scholars for well over a century, thanks to the participation of Spanish mercenaries in the Catalan Company led by the flamboyant Roger de Flor. The important contribution to this military adventure made by another company of mercenaries composed entirely of Alans has been grossly underestimated when not totally ignored by both Western and Russian historians. Since the Alans were implicated in the disastrous defeat of the Byzantines in Anatolia as well as the first historical success of the Turkish leader Osman, eponymous founder of the Ottoman state, examining the specific role of these warriors may shed light on the military debacle that the Byzantines suffered at the hands of the Turks and Catalans in the first decade of the fourteenth century. Despite its importance, the military effectiveness of this company while contributing to the defense of the empire has never been examined in detail, so that the question remains: why did a Mongol-trained division of considerable military potential fail so spectacularly?

The appearance of the Alans in Byzantine service first attracted attention because scholars in Western Europe, especially Spain, have long been fascinated by the adventures of the Catalan Company, comparing its exploits in the East with those of Cortez and Pizarro in the Americas. Although composed of Aragonese, Calabrians, and Sicilians, it is usually referred to as the Catalan Company since most of the officers and men were from Catalonia.

The “Little Battles”

Italian communal armies were, as is well known, largely made up of infantry. Admittedly, the strength of these latter would have resulted more from numbers and determination than from combat experience; still, the term “infantry” properly means “a group of soldiers with a certain level of training and discipline,” two qualities that result only from some form of instruction. And yet, if we wish to develop at least a rough understanding of the military obligations of the mass of the population, of the armament the people had to provide for themselves, and of how it (the population) was mobilized to train for war – with the exception of some late provisions concerning marksmen – the sources as a rule are simply silent concerning training.

One can certainly maintain that economic reasons would have prevented regular exercises for the communal infantry in times of peace, but it is difficult to believe that all training would have taken place on the battlefield or in the course of the socio-political conflicts between milites and pedites. There is, however, a third possibility offered by certain war games – a sort of plebeian rival to the aristocratic tournaments – practiced specifically by those classes that furnished the infantry for the city militia.

In 1966, John R. Hale, following up an earlier essay, which had addressed in general the subject of warfare and public opinion during the fifteenth and sixteenth century, published an article focusing on the question of that same society's acceptance of early gunpowder weaponry. In this article, “Gunpowder and the Renaissance: An Essay in the History of Ideas,” Professor Hale concluded that although there were historical examples of societal acceptance of early guns, on the whole, the people of the fourteenth through the sixteenth centuries had rejected this new military technology. In a time of scholarly protest against the war in Vietnam and a growing concern over the arms race of the Cold War, Hale found some solace in the fact that substantial literary evidence showed that the period of his research also had a large number of intelligentsia who criticized their kingdoms' weapons policies. And while, as he concludes, “by the early seventeenth century, ideals had given ground to the arguments of fact,” yielding to an increased use of and, equally, a growing complacency towards, gunpowder weapons, that period of intellectual fervor known as the Renaissance had at least held out a disdain for the killing power of the new weapons.

Sir John Radcliffe of Attleborough, Norfolk, had an admirable career as a soldier and administrator in the service of the Lancastrian kings of England. His assignments took him into all the dominions of the crown: Ireland, Wales, Normandy, and Gascony. While Sir John's life is of considerable interest in its own right, his career both exemplifies as well as personalizes the English military experience of his lifetime.

Sir John came from a landed family with Lancashire roots. He was the second son of James Radcliffe (d. 1410) and his wife Joan, daughter of Sir John Tempest of Bracewell, Yorkshire. Nothing has come to light on the early years of Sir John, but his career suggests that he was given a firm grounding in military, financial, and administrative matters. The first sure record of John Radcliffe is in a military context helping his king consolidate his hold upon the throne. Many years after the event, in 1429, it was noted that while an esquire (probably in the service of his father, James), John had participated in the battle of Shrewsbury on 21 July 1403. In that battle the first king of the Lancastrian dynasty, Henry IV, defeated a rebel force led by Henry Percy, known as Hotspur, the son of Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland. Six days after the battle, James Radcliffe was one of the men commissioned to gather forces from Lancashire and bring them to the king at Pontefract in Yorkshire.

Introduction

The purpose of this study is to examine the military schemes of defense that were employed in the town of Southampton during the late medieval period, 1300–1500. In many ways this is the most basic and vital of the varied roles Southampton had as a military entity. If the town was incapable of protecting its own possessions and dependencies, it would be unable to fulfill its other military roles. Moreover, if the town was unable to defend the area it was expected to, that would represent a major vulnerability in the region and ultimately the kingdom. If, on the other hand, the townsmen of Southampton were able to fulfill this responsibility of self-protection, that would not only maintain their day-to-day activities but would also give the kingdom an important defense.

The protection of Southampton was actually a multi-tiered system of various parties and individuals. The townspeople of Southampton managed their own defense in two primary methods. First they created various plans to organize themselves for conflict, second they participated in the gathering and control of information. The town also fitted into a wider defense structure in the kingdom with various groups and individuals supporting it in this endeavor. This organization was at one point the basis of English defense though many questions remain unanswered. How did these defensive schemes develop in Southampton? Were these schemes created in response to or in preparation for dangers posed to the town?

Preface

“We learn from history that we do not learn from history”: this was the title of an address by Captain B. H. Liddell Hart on 3 May 1938 to the Manchester Luncheon Club at the Midland hotel. A major point he made, based on twenty years' of study of the records of the First World War, was:

Liddell Hart's conclusions were based on abundant data which contradicted official documentation. He interviewed people who participated in battles, read the memoirs of politicians and army officers, compared archives, etc. All these are utterly irrelevant while dealing with medieval battles. In these cases, the only relevant part of Liddell Hart's assertion is that documentation is not reliable. In other words, fishing out facts from medieval records is almost impossible. Therefore, having independent data which may shed some light on events that took place during a battle might be an important contribution to its reconstruction and understanding.