Chapter 1

Setting the Scene

The king of England sits straight-backed on his horse, surrounded by a mass of armed men. His snow-white hair is concealed by a helmet, upon which is mounted a gleaming circlet. He surveys his enemy’s dispositions with a cold eye, exuding arrogance and disdain. King Edward gives the word, and the royal army advances towards the Scottish host. When the troops in the van seem about to close with the enemy, however, they suddenly come to a halt. The king’s attendants look on aghast as the soldiers cheerfully greet the Scots, and then abruptly change sides.

‘Irish’, spits the king, with a brief shake of his head, but he remains unperturbed. He gives the impression, like a chess grandmaster, that he has anticipated his enemy’s moves. But the Scottish commander, Sir William Wallace, has further surprises in store. Even King Edward winces, albeit almost imperceptibly, as the Scots use fire-arrows to set light to carefully prepared lines of pitch, engulfing the next wave of Edward’s soldiers in flames. Those who survive are brutally cut down, as the Scots counter the English attack with a ferocious assault of their own.

Sensing the entire English army is ready to break and run, Wallace signals his cavalry to enter the fray. But now it is Wallace’s turn to look on with horror as his horsemen leave the field: the noble leaders of the cavalry have been bribed to take no part in the battle. King Edward allows himself a grim smile of satisfaction. Then, with the threat of the Scottish cavalry neutralised, he calls for his archers to unleash their arrows.

In the king’s mind, checkmate is near, but one of his subordinates has the temerity to question his order: ‘I beg pardon, Sire, but won’t we hit our own troops?’

‘Yes,’ retorts King Edward, ‘but we’ll hit theirs as well.’

Watching as the archers carry out their bloody work, fighting off a brief cough that betrays his failing health, he also orders that his hidden reserves should be committed to the struggle.

Now supremely confident of success, he instructs one of his officers to ‘bring us news of our victory’ – and also to bring him Wallace, whether dead or alive. Then he turns back to his personal bodyguard: a mysterious figure, dressed all in black, who will soon be revealed as another traitor to Wallace’s cause. ‘Shall we retire?’ Edward enquires briskly, in his clipped tones. But it is clear this is a command, not a question.

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Many readers will have recognised this abridged description of Edward I in the film Braveheart, as portrayed by the late Patrick MacGoohan, commanding his troops at the battle of Falkirk. Braveheart, as is well known, has perpetuated a number of historical inaccuracies and is full of anachronisms. Nevertheless, the characterisation of Edward in the film – stubborn, unfeeling, cruel and duplicitous, yet also fiercely intelligent, resourceful and undeniably formidable – is one that can be traced in many other places. All of these elements can be found in medieval sources (although naturally there is a variety of emphasis within the different accounts), as well as in the work of many modern historians.

Braveheart has also helped to ensure that Edward’s Scottish wars remain the most famous aspect of his career – although this, too, is not entirely due to Mel Gibson. While Edward has gained a number of soubriquets over the years – including ‘the English Justinian’ (after the Roman/Byzantine emperor who was famous for his laws) and ‘Longshanks’ (a contemporary nickname which requires no explanation) – the most enduring is the one inscribed on his austere black marble tomb at Westminster Abbey: Edwardus Primus Scottorum Malleus hic est – ‘Here is Edward I: the Hammer of the Scots.’

It must be stressed, however, that Edward’s Scottish wars form only a part, albeit a significant one, of his long, dramatic story. In the year 1286, when Scottish affairs first loomed large on his agenda, Edward was already in his forties. He had been king of England for thirteen years, and had established a substantial reputation. At this time the English kings still held significant lands in south-west France – they were dukes of Aquitaine, often referred to as Gascony – and Edward was respected throughout Europe as a soldier and statesman. This chapter provides a brief insight into Edward’s earlier life, with a particular focus on his military career, before moving on to examine his early relations with Scotland.

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Edward was born in 1239, the eldest son of King Henry III of England and his queen, Eleanor of Provence. Little is known about Edward’s childhood, although by the time he reached adolescence it was clear that his character was very different from his father’s. The difference was particularly marked in their respective attitudes towards war and violence. Henry was no saint (notwithstanding his dedicated patronage of Westminster Abbey), but he did not relish military activity, whereas his son was evidently keen to acquire and demonstrate the skills of a warrior.

The first indication of Edward’s martial vocation came in the year 1253, when he was just fourteen years of age. A rebellion broke out in Gascony, and Henry III sought to raise an army in order to quell the revolt there. Desperate to raise funds for the approaching war, Henry resorted to an expedient, demanding the traditional levy to pay for the knighting of his eldest son. Edward might well have imagined, therefore, that he would be expected to join the campaign. But when Henry set out for France in the late summer, Edward was left behind in England. His dubbing as a knight, it might be added, had also been delayed. As the chronicler Matthew Paris tells the story, Edward watched the departing ships in anguish, sobbing uncontrollably, until their sails could no longer be seen on the horizon.¹

Henry’s Gascon war was one of his more successful endeavours. Edward did join his father in the following year, and may have gained his first glimpse of warfare as the royal army reduced the last of the rebel strongholds. But Henry’s achievements in Gascony were largely based on diplomacy, and it was for this purpose that Edward had been summoned to southern France. The Gascon rebels had received Spanish support from King Alfonso X of Castile, who possessed a distant claim to the duchy of Aquitaine, but Henry and Alfonso were able to come to terms. Alfonso’s price was a marriage alliance: it was agreed that Edward would marry Alfonso’s half-sister Eleanor. This matter was out of his control, although the fifteen-year-old Edward gallantly praised his bride-to-be, making reference to reports of her beauty and other accomplishments. The marriage duly took place on 1 November at Burgos, where Edward was now also knighted by Alfonso.

The marriage of Edward and Eleanor (then aged just thirteen) would last for thirty-six years. Despite the couple’s youth, Eleanor fell pregnant within the first year of marriage, although the child did not survive. It is one of the tragedies of Edward’s life that so few of his many children lived to be adults (even given the prevailing rates of infant mortality), and no further children were born until the 1260s. Nevertheless, along with marriage and knighthood, the next few years would bring other responsibilities; these included a carefully supervised experience of administration and lordship in Gascony. But Edward was still a young man, who attracted other young men to his side, and he remained eager to test himself in combat. His late teens and early twenties did not provide an opportunity to engage in real war, but he became an enthusiastic participant in tournaments.

By the end of the Middle Ages tournaments had become showy spectacles (although they could still be dangerous): they were courtly rituals, involving complex allegories and featuring lavish settings and costumes. Some of these elements were also present in the thirteenth century, but at that time tournaments had fewer rules, and the chaotic mêlées that ensued were often bloody encounters. Edward made his début in 1256, at the age of seventeen, in a specially arranged tournament from which he fortunately emerged unscathed. In the early 1260s Edward made two trips across the channel to take part in tournaments in France, where chronicles suggest that he and his followers endured a more difficult time.² Edward suffered some minor injuries, as well as several defeats, though we might imagine that he emerged from this experience a tougher (albeit somewhat chastened) young man.

The behaviour of Edward and his young companions sometimes aroused disquiet, but amidst some examples of youthful high spirits, and perhaps even outright thuggery,³ it seems clear that Edward was keen to identify himself with the prevailing ideals of chivalry: the warrior code of the medieval aristocracy. Chivalry is an evocative word, but it is not easy to define – perhaps not least because medieval people often held differing views about the subject. Modern scholars sometimes prefer to concentrate on isolated aspects – the traditions of courtly love, for example, or the ethics of war – but all of these must be situated within a larger whole. The most effective modern definition of chivalry remains that of the late Sir Maurice Keen, who described it as ‘an ethos, in which martial, aristocratic and Christian elements were fused together’.⁴

With Keen’s definition of chivalry in mind, it is evident that the most obvious of the prized chivalric virtues, prowess, was not enough in itself; the ideals of chivalry could also inspire other qualities, notably commitment to a cause, commitment to others (including people of both sexes) and generosity of spirit. Chivalry, of course, was a code of honour. Yet, as is the case in all ‘honour societies’, a strong emphasis on respect and reputation could sometimes induce irascible, arrogant behaviour. Moreover, as we shall see, exhortations to ‘chivalrous’ men to defend the weak did not always protect defenceless people from unspeakable horrors. Another modern writer has written eloquently of the ‘ambivalent force of chivalry’ during the Middle Ages,⁵ and it is perhaps unsurprising that it played a similarly ambivalent role in the life of Edward I, a man who has provoked so much debate and curiosity – both in his own time and in ours.

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The later years of the reign of Henry III were marred by dissension in England, at the very heart of his realm. Dissatisfaction with various aspects of his rule, notably his patronage of the queen’s relatives, led to demands for reform. The opposition found an effective leader in Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester – a charismatic and determined figure, albeit somewhat egotistical. Edward’s relationship with his father was often difficult, and for a time Edward fell under the influence of Montfort (who was, incidentally, his uncle by marriage). When civil war broke out, however, in the mid-1260s, Edward fought hard on Henry’s behalf. He took part in his first battle on 14 May 1264 at Lewes, yet this would prove to be another humbling experience. Edward led his own division in a successful cavalry charge, but he then allowed his men to indulge themselves in pursuit of the enemy. By the time his cavalry returned to the battlefield, the royal army had already been defeated.

Edward subsequently endured a period of captivity (as did his wife), while Montfort acted as de facto ruler of England on King Henry’s behalf. But Edward was able to effect a daring escape from Gloucester with the help of some devoted companions. On 4 August 1265, by which time he was twenty-six, he led the army that defeated and killed Montfort at Evesham. As is often the case in civil wars (when loyalties are uncertain and both sides eager to settle the matter), Edward’s tactics employed speed and guile. In order to ensure that Montfort could not escape from Evesham, for example, Edward advanced under banners that had been captured from Montfort’s son (who had been expected to bring reinforcements to his father). Montfort therefore found himself trapped and outnumbered, and he was specifically targeted for elimination: one medieval writer referred to ‘the murder of Evesham, for battle it was none’.⁶

It is unlikely that Edward’s use of subterfuge would have unduly worried his contemporaries. Medieval authors, especially those concerned with chivalric values, often adopted an ambiguous attitude towards the ruse de guerre; many accounts do show a sneaking admiration for the use of cunning in warfare. However, some contemporary writers appear to have believed that Edward was too ready to break his word, and this was more damaging to his reputation than his use of military guile. In taking flight from Gloucester, for instance, Edward had broken his sworn promise that he would not try to escape. The author of the Song of Lewes compared Edward to a leopard (leopardus), because he combined the merits of a lion with the flaws of a panther; the lion (leo) was widely admired for its pride and ferocity, whereas the panther (pardus) was thought to have a deceitful and unreliable character.⁷

Despite the criticisms of some contemporary writers, the Lord Edward (as he was then known) had emerged as a person of substance. By the mid-1260s he had proved himself in warfare, in spite of some disquiet about his methods, and there are also some indications of growing wisdom; the battle of Evesham was not quite the end of the civil war, and it is possible that Edward’s reputation began to improve as a result of his subsequent attempts to bring about reconciliation. One former rebel, for example, John de Vescy, would become one of Edward’s most devoted servants. Doubtless there were some who began to look forward to Edward’s coronation as king, although his father remained in robust health. Henry III was now in his early sixties, but he would reign for several more years. In the meantime Edward sought a new purpose. Eventually he found an outlet for his talents and restless energy as a crusader.

Most readers will be aware that the medieval Crusades were holy wars, which were thought to bring rewards in the next life. Originally conceived in the later eleventh century as wars against Islam, with the city of Jerusalem as the primary target, they were later unleashed against pagans and some considered heretics. Edward’s was a traditional form of Crusade, in that it was directed against the Muslims. After what must have seemed like endless difficulties and delays (Edward ‘took the cross’ in 1268), he finally set out from England in August 1270. He himself would surely have seen this as the most significant moment of his career so far; at this time the Crusade was still widely thought of as the highest calling available to a European noble warrior. Moreover, Edward was following in the footsteps of a celebrated ancestor, Richard the Lionheart, with whom he quickly began to be compared. This, it might have been argued, was truly chivalry in action.

Edward was accompanied on his great adventure by his wife, as well as by several other characters who would go on to become important figures during his kingship, including the Savoyard knight Otto de Grandson. When Edward set out, his intention was to join Louis IX of France, who had been persuaded to launch an attack on the North African city of Tunis, but the French king’s death from illness brought an end to this aspect of the Crusade. Edward therefore decided to push on to the Holy Land, arriving at the port of Acre in May 1271. In the wake of the spectacularly successful First Crusade, the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem had been established. The Muslims had retaken Jerusalem in the 1180s, but the ‘kings of Jerusalem’ maintained a precarious hold on other parts of the Holy Land. Now Edward hoped to help save what was left of the crusader kingdom, although in truth, with a force of less than a thousand men, he was never likely to make the decisive impact he craved.

Edward remained in the Holy Land for around a year, during which time he engaged in limited operations against the Muslims, although the crusader state was now in a desperate position. In May 1272 the titular king of Jerusalem, Hugh de Lusignan, agreed a longterm truce with the famous Muslim Sultan Baybars. Edward, disgusted, began to make preparations to leave. But Edward had been identified as a determined enemy of Islam, and an assassin was despatched, armed with a poisoned dagger, to take him by surprise and kill him. The assassin gained access to Edward’s personal apartments and attacked. But in a dramatic display of personal prowess, Edward was somehow able to overpower the assassin, killing him with his own weapon. We might imagine a brief moment of relief, before it became clear that Edward had been wounded in the struggle. It is said that Edward’s wife Eleanor was the first to react, saving his life by sucking the poison out of the wound.

There is more than one version of the tale of Edward and the assassin (in another account it is Otto de Grandson who saves Edward’s life), and it has taken on a legendary quality.⁸ Even so, it must also be said that Edward and Eleanor were clearly devoted to each other. In an age when the marriages of great men and women were almost always determined by political rather than personal factors, Edward and Eleanor do seem to have formed a particularly strong bond. Moreover, the extraordinary episode with the assassin is only one of several occasions when Edward came close to death over the years: he appears to have led a remarkably charmed life, and this doubtless added to the popular notion that he was destined for great things.

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Henry III died in November 1272, when Edward was still abroad. His succession as king was accepted without question, but he did not return to England until the summer of 1274. He spent time in Italy and at the court of France, as well as staying for almost a year in Gascony. Once he did return to England, however, it quickly became clear that the new king would be a monarch to be reckoned with. Thirteenth-century England was already one of the most centralised and intensively governed kingdoms in Europe – there was an extensive bureaucracy – and Edward was determined to build on this legacy. Early in his reign he launched a substantial inquiry into landholding in England – an initiative that rivalled the more famous Domesday survey in its scope and ambition. Then the Quo Warranto proceedings (from the Latin for ‘By what warrant?’) called for men to provide proof of their rights to exercise various jurisdictions. He also passed a succession of new laws, which clarified and developed the work of previous statutes.

Much of this activity was undoubtedly designed to consolidate Edward’s own power – he was determined to avoid the difficulties of his father’s reign – but what did it mean for his subjects? Edward has emerged from one recent study as a ruler with a more sophisticated and responsible attitude towards governance than is sometimes allowed.⁹ While he jealously guarded and promoted his own rights (and this was almost certainly the spur behind the Quo Warranto proceedings), there is evidence to suggest that he was genuinely committed to providing order and justice throughout his realm.¹⁰ It has also been argued that Edward’s relations with the nobility – a vital aspect of medieval kingship – were generally more positive and constructive than was previously thought. Rather than simply attempting to terrorise his barons into submission, it has been suggested that Edward employed a judicious balance of ‘carrot and stick’.¹¹

An element of compromise could be vital, because the king’s power was not unchecked: whilst ideas derived from Roman law helped to justify an exalted conception of royal authority, there was simultaneously a growing perception that rulers were obliged to consult their subjects. Parliament was still a limited institution by modern standards; it was by no means truly representative, and an assembly would only come into being when it was summoned by the king. Nevertheless, parliament became more firmly established during Edward’s reign as the most appropriate forum for debate. Edward inherited a tacit acceptance that the king should seek approval when he wished to levy taxation, and this could provide an opportunity for parliaments to extract concessions in return.

The king’s actions could also be restricted in other ways. One important factor was the pervasive influence of religion in the medieval world, at a time when virtually every person in medieval Europe was a practising Christian – at least in theory. The structures of the Church ran in parallel to secular institutions, and religion permeated every aspect of medieval life (including warfare, as we have seen). Moreover, all of the kingdoms of Western Europe could still be perceived as part of a larger whole, known as Christendom. Important figures in the Church – notably, of course, the Pope in Rome – could not be easily ignored, and the lines between secular and spiritual authority could sometimes become blurred.

A medieval king, then, faced a variety of challenges. His role was complex and wide-ranging. Nevertheless, it is also clear that leadership in war was commonly regarded as the ultimate test of a medieval ruler, and this was undoubtedly a crucial aspect of Edward’s own conception of kingship. Whereas his father was at heart a peaceable man, who chose an unusual exemplar in Edward the Confessor (after whom Edward I was named), his son would seek to prove himself as a true warrior king.

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The first decade of Edward’s reign witnessed substantial military activity in Wales. Anglo-Norman colonists had taken control of much of Wales, and the kings of England had established a loose form of authority over the whole country, but the thirteenth century saw a remarkable resurgence of native power. Two outstanding princes of Gwynedd, Llywelyn ap Iorweth and Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, successfully gained hegemony over other native lords. For long periods they ruled large parts of Wales as de facto independent rulers. In 1267, via the Treaty of Montgomery, Henry III acknowledged Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s status by granting him the title prince of Wales. Edward himself had been forced to give up lands as a result of the treaty; this followed earlier clashes between Edward’s men and Llywelyn, in which the prince had gained the upper hand. But the Treaty of Montgomery would prove to be the high point of Llywelyn’s career.

When Edward returned to England in 1274 he called on Llywelyn ap Gruffydd to acknowledge his superior lordship (this was a stipulation of the 1267 treaty), but the Welsh prince failed to answer the summons. Perhaps Llywelyn simply over-estimated his strength, although he may genuinely have feared for his safety if he were to meet with Edward; there had also been disagreements between Llywelyn and the English government about various matters while Edward was still abroad.¹² The situation was further complicated by the fact that a number of Welsh exiles were then maintained at the English court. These men included Llywelyn’s own brother Dafydd, from whom he had become estranged. Llywelyn also infuriated Edward by pursuing a marriage with Eleanor de Montfort, Earl Simon’s daughter, although she was intercepted on her way to join Llywelyn in Wales. These, as well as other issues, eventually made conflict inevitable, and Edward’s first Welsh campaign ensued in 1277.

Victory in the mountainous terrain of Gwynedd would not be achieved by exuberant charges on a battlefield; rather, warfare in Wales would provide a test of Edward’s management of logistics. In some ways precedents were set for later efforts, although Edward also encountered a number of challenges. His officials found it particularly difficult to procure sufficient victuals to feed his troops – a constant theme in Edward’s wars. On this occasion the problem was partly solved when a seaborne English force, led by Otto de Grandson and John de Vescy, captured Anglesey. A party of around 300 harvesters was put ashore to gather in the grain, and thus Edward’s army gained vital supplies, whereas the Welsh now faced starvation. Terms were agreed for Llywelyn’s surrender, and in the subsequent treaty his power was severely curtailed. Llywelyn was also compelled to restore his rebellious brothers, including Dafydd, to lands in Gwynedd.

But tensions continued between the English and the Welsh. There were complaints about the behaviour of English officials in various parts of Wales, and a number of Welsh lords became embroiled in complicated legal disputes which soon raised greater issues. In the case of Arwystli, which involved Prince Llywelyn himself, there was a protracted debate about whether the matter should be resolved according to Welsh or English law. Somewhat ironically, however, it was Dafydd ap Gruffydd who first took up arms against the English in 1282, although his elder brother also quickly became involved in the struggle. A second Welsh campaign ensued, which was more bitter and protracted, in which the power of Gwynedd was finally destroyed. Llywelyn was killed in the fighting, and his head was impaled on a spike in London. Dafydd, who briefly claimed the title prince of Wales, was captured and horrifically executed at Shrewsbury.

Edward had released Eleanor de Montfort to marry Llywelyn after his submission in 1267, but she subsequently died in childbirth; their daughter Gwenllian lived out her life in an English convent. The young children of Prince Dafydd would also spend the rest of their lives in English prisons or convents. Many of Edward’s supporters were granted lands in Wales, as a reward for their service, although the heartland of Gwynedd was retained by the crown. As Edward’s Statute of Wales put it, Wales was now ‘wholly and entirely transferred under our proper dominion’.¹³ In order to cement his victory in Wales (quite literally), Edward ordered the construction of several remarkable castles. Whilst these were primarily intended to act as military and administrative structures, they were also designed to be representative of his triumph. This symbolism was particularly marked at Caernarfon, where the architects incorporated Arthurian and Roman imagery that was intended to point towards Edward’s power and majesty.

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Edward’s rule must be judged largely on the basis of his policies and the outcome of his decisions, but can we gain a more intimate impression of the man behind them? While medieval sources can often be heavily stylised, there is surely enough to suggest that Edward was a ‘larger than life’ figure: the sort of man about whom stories circulate widely. Many of these stories concerned his fearsome temper. This was something he shared with most of the Plantagenets (and we will encounter much of it in the pages that follow), although it will already have become apparent that it did not always dominate his character. Moreover, whilst Edward could undoubtedly be a hard and ruthless man, there were other sides to his personality.

One aspect of Edward’s character that is sometimes overlooked, for instance, is his sense of humour. The Edward of Braveheart has an effective line in rather acerbic quips, and there is some basis for this in contemporary letters and chronicles, but the real Edward’s humour was sometimes of a more exuberant variety. On one occasion, for example, Edward engaged in some playful banter with his laundress, Matilda de Waltham, betting one of his prized warhorses that she would not be able to ride it. When the spirited Matilda proved Edward wrong, the king cheerfully kept to his wager: records prove that he subsequently bought the horse back.¹⁴

The episode with the laundress (and others might also be cited) suggests an ability to engage with others that was somewhat at odds with his more imperious tendencies. Indeed, Edward’s most recent modern biographer has concluded that one of his major virtues was a talent for friendship, often forged through a ‘common experience in arms’.¹⁵ His closest companions included Henry de Lacy, earl of Lincoln, who provided the king with valuable service in peace and war. As Edward’s reign progressed, and he outlived most of his contemporaries, he was also able to forge effective relationships with younger men; these included his kinsmen John of Brittany and Aymer de Valence.

Contemporary accounts suggest that Edward had an impressive appearance. The friar and scholar Nicholas Trivet had close connections with the royal court, and one of his works provides us with an excellent pen portrait of the king. Trivet’s description of Edward’s looks and physique is fairly detailed, and deserves to be quoted extensively:

In build he was handsome and of great stature, towering head and shoulders above the average. In boyhood his hair was silvery with a touch of yellow; in manhood it turned to black, but later it beautified his old age by becoming as white as a swan. His brow was broad, and the rest of his face regular, though a drooping of the left eyelid recalled his father’s expression.¹⁶

Medieval art was often rather abstract, and only rarely provided truly life-like representations of people, but the last feature mentioned – the drooping left eyelid, which was a family trait – was widely known and is represented in a contemporary illustration. Edward’s great height is also attested by other evidence: his body was exhumed in the eighteenth century, and he was found to be 6 feet 2 inches tall.

Trivet goes on to explain how Edward’s natural attributes made him well fitted for martial pursuits. He had a broad chest and long arms – ‘their agile strength made them supremely fitted for the use of the sword’ – while his long legs (i.e. long shanks) ‘gave him a firm seat even when galloping and jumping on spirited horses’. Like many medieval kings, Edward enjoyed hawking and hunting; the latter was often seen by medieval writers as training for war. Apparently Edward took particular delight in hunting the stag, which, in a remarkable display of courage and skill, ‘he used to pursue on a swift horse and slay with his sword, instead of using his hunting spear’.

Trivet’s work also tells us a little more about Edward as a person. We learn that he was an eloquent and persuasive speaker, for example, in spite of the fact that he ‘spoke with a stammer’ (which is sometimes translated as ‘lisp’). Significantly, Trivet adds that Edward ‘was a man of strong character too, not willing to submit to injuries, and this made him forget danger when he wanted revenge’.

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With the benefit of hindsight, it may seem that it was only a matter of time before this most assertive and warlike of English kings turned his gaze towards the north. Scotland’s status as an independent kingdom was well established, but in the 1250s the minority of the Scots’ king, Alexander III, provided the opportunity for Henry III to make a forceful intervention in Scottish political affairs. It might be argued that in this, if in little else, Edward saw his father’s actions as an example to follow. Yet for much of Edward’s life he did not seek to impose his power upon the Scots. Alexander III continued to rule Scotland during the first half of Edward’s reign, and the two kings established an effective rapport. In part this was due to family connections: Alexander had married one of Edward’s sisters, Margaret.

A number of sources suggest that Margaret’s early years in Scotland were unhappy,¹⁷ but eventually her marriage helped to provide a basis for cordial relations between Edward and Alexander. During his youth Edward made two visits to Scotland, in 1256 and 1267, where we can assume he was well received by his sister and her husband. On the first occasion he was accompanied by Eleanor, and the two young couples made a pilgrimage together to St Ninian’s shrine at Whithorn. Alexander and Margaret also made several visits to the English court. In 1274, for example, Alexander and Margaret were in London to attend Edward’s coronation.

The coronation was a lavish affair, but Alexander was keen to remind the world that he was also a king, and an entertaining tradition has been preserved about his contribution to the festivities.¹⁸ A hundred of Alexander’s knights suddenly appeared, dismounted from their horses and then released them, while Alexander called out that anybody who caught one of the horses could keep it. Not wishing to be upstaged by the king of Scots, a number of Edward’s barons followed Alexander’s example, ordering their attendants to release more horses. The result, unsurprisingly, was total mayhem – but the whole affair also provided great amusement for Edward’s guests. We can assume that such a gift, and the manner of its giving, would surely have appealed to Edward himself.

Similar personal connections existed between members of the English and Scottish nobility. This was not least because many noblemen at this time held lands in both kingdoms, forming what is often described as a ‘cross-border’ aristocracy. This phenomenon owed much to David I, who was king of Scots between 1124 and 1153. He spent much of his youth in exile at the English court, and when he succeeded to the Scottish throne he encouraged Anglo-Norman settlers – including warriors, administrators, merchants and churchmen – to follow him north. This influx of people helped David to introduce a range of Anglo-Norman customs and processes, most notably ‘feudal’ patterns of landholding, although the long-term impact continues to be debated by historians.¹⁹ Over time, most of the immigrants became more integrated into local areas, but their descendants often maintained important links with England and sometimes also with France.

Many of the great Scottish families we will encounter – including the Balliols, Bruces and Comyns – had Anglo-Norman ancestors, and this heritage was reflected in their landholdings: the Bruces, for example, held English lands near Hartlepool and in Essex. There is some debate about the preferred language of the thirteenth-century Scottish aristocracy (would they have mainly spoken French, like their English peers, or would they have preferred to speak Scots or Gaelic?²⁰), but many Scottish nobles were clearly adept at operating in a range of settings. In terms of culture, lifestyle and outlook they shared a great deal with their peers from south of the border – and also throughout Europe.

The application of modern ideas of nationality – with their connotations of citizenship or ethnicity – is therefore problematic: the political decisions of medieval noblemen often hinged on the question of allegiance, rather than national identity. For others, we must assume, the importance of local and family connections – as well as a powerful instinct for self-preservation – would always trump more abstract considerations. Nevertheless, it is also very clear that the concept of a distinctive kingdom of Scotland was a real and powerful force in the thirteenth century. It was an idea for which many Scots, both high-born and low, would ultimately give up their lives.

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People did not have to face hard choices, as far as Anglo-Scottish relations were concerned, during the first part of Edward’s reign. Yet in truth this period was something of an anomaly, as by this time there was already a long history of conflict between England and Scotland. Both kingdoms had emerged as coherent political entities in the wake of the Viking invasions, but the path taken thereafter by the British Isles was by no means inevitable. In the twelfth century, for example, David I had taken advantage of English weakness during a civil war to take control of large parts of northern England. This Scottish occupation was short-lived, but David’s successors continued to maintain that Northumberland should be part of the Scottish realm. Moreover, as the Middle Ages progressed, there was also potential for Anglo-Scottish conflict in the territories bounding the Irish Sea, as the kings of both kingdoms sought to expand their power to the west.

The Treaty of York (1237) settled the question of where the border should lie (it was remarkably close to the modern border), but another key issue concerned something less tangible: this was the assertion of superiority, sometimes referred to as overlordship, which was often put forward by English rulers.

By Edward I’s time English claims were underpinned by a tenacious myth, which was popularised by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the twelfth century.²¹ It was said that a British kingdom was founded in distant antiquity by Brutus, a descendant of the Trojan Aeneas, and that his realm was subsequently divided between his three sons – thereby explaining the existence of England, Scotland and Wales. Geoffrey’s readers concluded, did this not offer proof that English superiority was both ancient and inevitable? Following Geoffrey, it was also widely believed that the fabled King Arthur had ruled over the whole of Britain, having subjugated the Scots, providing further inspiration for the English kings.

Geoffrey of Monmouth’s ‘history’ was taken seriously in the Middle Ages (although his credibility was not accepted without question), but England’s rulers could also point towards less esoteric evidence. There had been several occasions in earlier Anglo-Scottish wars when the greater resources of the English had proved decisive, and a number of earlier Scottish kings, including Malcolm ‘Canmore’ (meaning ‘Great Chief’) and William ‘the Lion’, had been forced to make abject submissions. Yet the Scottish kings appear to have regarded these submissions as temporary expedients, whereas the English kings saw these occasions as important precedents to be jealously remembered.

The situation was further complicated by the fact that Alexander III had inherited certain lands in England, although these were not regarded as part of his kingdom; this was a legacy of David I’s time in England and his marriage to an English noblewoman, and it was perpetuated by the Treaty of York. More specifically, in the light of medieval conceptions of landholding, it should be said that he held these lands from the king of England. This meant that the king of Scots, like all great landowners, was expected to give homage for his lordships in England: this entailed a ceremonial act of submission whereby he offered service to the English king in return for acknowledgement of his title to his English lands.

As far as Alexander III was concerned, the ritual of homage was connected specifically and exclusively to his obligations as an English baron, with no bearing on his status as king of Scots: a somewhat odd state of affairs, although Alexander’s position is not really difficult to understand. However, Edward I was always keen to define, clarify or expand his rights, and could Alexander’s act of homage be interpreted as having a deeper significance?

Alexander was aware of the dangers that his situation might pose and therefore, when he rode south to pay homage to Edward in 1278, he demanded an escort of three English earls and two archbishops as an acknowledgement of his exalted status. But Alexander’s fears were realised when one of Edward’s councillors, the bishop of Lincoln, asserted explicitly that Alexander’s homage should also apply to his kingdom. The response was fierce: ‘Nobody but God’, said Alexander, ‘has the right to the homage of my realm of Scotland, and I hold it of nobody but God himself.’²² This, at least, is how a later Scottish writer presented the episode; an alternative English source, also composed much later, offers a very different account.²³ Whatever the truth of the matter, there is no evidence to suggest that Edward pushed this point any further. Several years later, of course, his attitude towards another king of Scots would be very different.

On the whole, though, while Alexander III was still alive, war between England and Scotland must have appeared extremely unlikely. Peaceful relations with England provided Alexander with the space to establish himself as one of medieval Scotland’s most effective kings. He fostered economic growth, as well as the continued development of royal government; his reign also saw the expansion of the kingdom, at the expense of Norway. In the thirteenth century the Western Isles and Orkney still owed allegiance to the Norwegian kings, and in 1263 King Hakon IV attempted to reassert his power in the west. Hakon’s forces were confronted by a Scottish army at Largs, although the subsequent engagement was inconclusive. But Hakon then decided to withdraw, and he died of illness on his way home. In 1267 King Magnus of Norway formally ceded the Western Isles: a significant moment in Scottish history. Unfortunately, however, for the Scots and their king, there would be much less to celebrate during Alexander’s final years.

In the first of several tragedies that beset the House of Canmore, Queen Margaret died in 1275, still only in her thirties. But she had left a legacy in her children, fulfilling what would have been seen as her primary duty as queen. She had given birth to three children who survived infancy: Alexander, Margaret and David. Alexander III’s line seemed secure, in spite of the loss of his wife, although by 1284 all three of his children had followed their mother to the grave. The middle child, Margaret, married King Eric of Norway; she died in childbirth in 1283, although her daughter survived. This child, another Margaret (although perhaps better known as the Maid of Norway), subsequently became King Alexander’s heir. Now acutely aware of his own mortality, Alexander convened a meeting of his nobles at which they swore to uphold the rights of the little Maid. Nevertheless, even though Alexander was now a widower, he still hoped to have more children of his own.

By this time King Alexander was in his early forties – a mature man by medieval standards, but scarcely in his dotage – and in the autumn of 1285 he married for the second time. His new queen was Yolande de Dreux, who came from a noble French family. The wedding was celebrated with great cheer, yet later sources suggest it was accompanied by evil portents.²⁴ On 19 March, despite a terrible storm, Alexander crossed the Forth by boat from South Queensferry on his way to visit Yolande at Kinghorn. The boat reached land safely, but the awful weather showed no sign of abating. Tradition tells us that the ferryman implored Alexander to go no further, but the king shrugged him aside: impatient to see his young bride, he rode off alone into the night. Somewhere on the Fife cliffs his horse must have slipped and fallen, throwing Alexander down onto the rocks below. In the morning the king’s attendants found his body on the shore.

When any medieval king died without an adult male heir, it almost always led to a period of tension and instability, but Alexander’s death would prove to be a seismic moment in the history of the British Isles. There is no reason to believe that Edward I desired Alexander’s death, but the event must also be seen as a defining moment in his own life too. When the news reached Edward he was in France, fully engaged in wider European affairs. Yet in the years that followed Edward’s gaze would be irresistibly drawn towards Scotland, with all that ultimately entailed.