Part 2

Let us begin with the word treasury. In the fourteenth century treasury meant simply a storehouse, or at its narrowest a storehouse of valuables. To us the “treasury” is the government department of finance, but under Edward I the state office of finance was the Exchequer, which, as we saw, was located normally at Westminster, but since 1298 at York. When at Westminster the Exchequer had a “treasury” or storehouse there also, yet in its absence it is not likely that it kept either valuables or money at Westminster. But side by side with the state office was the household office of finance, the Wardrobe, and, though the wardrobe office was itinerating with the king, it still kept a “treasury” or storehouse at Westminster, and this, for the sake of greater safety, had been placed for some years at least within the precincts of the abbey. From the monastic point of view, it was doubtless an inconvenience that nearness to the royal dwelling compelled them to offer their premises for the royal service. Accordingly, kings not infrequently made demands upon the abbey to use its buildings. Thus the chapter house became a frequent place for meetings of parliament, and at a later time it was used and continued to be used till the nineteenth century, for the storage of official records. In the same way Edward secured the crypt underneath the chapter house as one of the storehouses of his Wardrobe. When the crypt was first used for this purpose I do not know, but records show us that it was already in use in 1291, at which date it was newly paved. It was not the only storehouse of the Wardrobe. There was another “treasury of the wardrobe” in the Tower of London, but this was mainly used for bulky articles, arms and armour, cloth, furs, furniture, and the like. Most of what we should call treasure was deposited in the Westminster crypt, and we are fortunate in having still extant a list of the jewels preserved there in 1298, the time when the court began to establish itself for its five years’ sojourn in the north. In 1303 jewels and plate were still the chief treasures preserved there. Some money was there also, notably a store of “gold florins of Florence,” the only gold coins currently used in England at a time when the national mints limited themselves to the coinage of silver. But I do not think there could have been much money, for Edward’s needs were too pressing, his financial policy too much from hand to mouth, for the crypt at Westminster to be a hoard of coined money, like the famous Prussian _Kriegsschatz_ at Spandau, which, we now rejoice to learn, is becoming rapidly depleted. Whatever its contents, Edward estimated that their value was £100,000, a sum equivalent to a year’s revenue of the English state in ordinary times. Unluckily mediaeval statistics are largely mere guess-work. But the amount of the guess at least suggests the feeling that the value of the treasures stored in the crypt was very considerable.

The crypt under the chapter house is one of the most interesting portions of the abbey buildings at Westminster. It is little known because it is not, I think, generally shown to visitors. I am indebted to the kindness of my friend, Bishop Ryle, the present dean, for an opportunity of making a special inspection of it. It is delightfully complete, and delightfully unrestored. The chief new thing about it seems the pavement, but the dean’s well-informed verger told me that it was within living memory that this pavement had replaced the flooring of 1291. Numerous windows give a fair amount of light to the apartment; though the enormous thickness of the walls, some thirteen feet, it was said, prevent the light being very abundant, even on a bright day. The central column, the lower part of the great pillar from which radiates the high soaring vaults of the chapter house above, alone breaks the present emptiness of the crypt. Considerable portions of the column are cut away to form a series of neatly made recesses, and there are recesses within these recesses, which suggest in themselves careful devices for secreting valuables, for it would be easy to conceal them by the simple expedient of inserting a stone here and there where the masonry had been cut away, and so suggesting to the unwary an unbroken column. I should not like to say that these curious store-places already existed in 1303; but there is no reason why they should not. Certainly they fit in admirably with the use of the crypt as a treasury.

One other point we must also remember about the dispositions of this crypt. There is only one access to it, and that is neither from the chapter house above nor from the adjacent cloister, but from the church itself. A low, vaulted passage is entered by a door at the south-east corner of the south transept of the abbey, now for many centuries the special burial place for poets, eminent and otherwise. This passage descends by a flight of steep steps to the crypt itself, and the flight originally seems, I am told—doubtless as another precaution against robbery—to have been a broken one suggesting that a steep drop, presumably spanned by a short ladder, further barred access to the crypt. We must remember, too, that this sole access to the treasury was within a few feet of the sacristy of the abbey. The sacristy was the chapel to the south of the south transept, and communicating with it where the sacrist kept the precious vessels appropriated to the service of the altar. Altogether it looks as if the crypt were originally intended as a storehouse for such church treasure as the sacrist did not need for his immediate purposes. From this use it was diverted, as we have seen, to the keeping of the royal treasures. Nowadays the sacristy is called the chapel of St. Faith and is used for purposes of private devotion. We must not forget the close connexion in our period of the sacristy and the crypt. The connexion becomes significant when we remember that among Pudlicott’s monastic boon companions at the palace-keeper’s lodge was the sacrist of the abbey, Adam of Warfield.

Pudlicott had made up his mind to steal the king’s treasure. The practical problem was how to get access to it. If we examine the evidence collected at the enquiry, we find that there are two discrepant accounts as to how the robber effected his purpose. The one is warranted by the testimony of a large number of sworn juries of reputable citizens of every ward in the city of London, of burgesses of Westminster, and of the good men of every hundred in the adjacent shires of Middlesex and Surrey. It is—like much truthful evidence—rather vague, but its general tendency is, while recognizing that Pudlicott is the prime offender, to make various monks and palace officers his accomplices. Of the latter category William of the Palace seems to have been the most active, while of the many monks Adam Warfield the sacrist was the most generally denounced. But the proved share of both Adam and William was based largely on the discovery of stolen property in their possession. The evidence of the juries suggests theories as to how the crime may have been perpetrated; it does not make the methods of the culprits clear and palpable. But it suggests that masons and carpenters were called in, so that some breaking in of the structure was attempted, and in particular it suggests that the churchyard was the thoroughfare through which the robbers removed their booty.

Let us turn next to Pudlicott’s own confession, that remarkable document from which I have already borrowed many details, though seldom without a word of warning. According to his confession, Pudlicott, having resolved to rob the treasury, came to the conclusion that the best way to tackle the business was to pierce a hole through the wall of thirteen feet of stone that supported the lower story of the chapter house. For so colossal a task time was clearly needed. Richard accordingly devoted himself during the dark nights of winter and early spring to drilling through the solid masonry. He attacked the building from the churchyard or eastern side, having access thereto from the palace. But the churchyard was open to the parish and the thrifty churchwardens of St. Margaret’s had let to a neighbouring butcher the right of grazing his sheep in it. Now the butcher was told that his privilege was withdrawn, and passers-by were sent round by another path. This was a precaution against the casual wayfarer seeing the hole which was daily growing larger. To hide from the casual observer the great gash in the stonework, Richard tells us that he sowed hempseed in the churchyard near the hole, and that this grew so rapidly that the tender hemp plants not only hid the gap in the wall, but provided cover for him to hide the spoils he hoped to steal from the treasury. When the hole was complete on 24 April, Pudlicott went through and found to his delight that the chamber was full of baskets, chests, and other vessels for holding valuables, plate, relics, jewels, and gold florins of Florence. Richard remained in the crypt gloating over the treasure surrounding him from the evening of 24 April to the morning of 26 April. Perhaps he found it impossible to tear himself away from so much wealth; or perhaps the intervening day, being the feast of St. Mark, there were too many people about, and too many services in the abbey to make his retreat secure. However, he managed on the morning of 26 April to get away, taking with him as much as he could carry. He seems to have dropped, or to have left lying about, a good deal that he was unable to carry, possibly for his friends to pick up.

Such is Pudlicott’s story. It is the tale of a bold ruffian who glories in his crime, and is proud to declare “I alone did it”. But there was a touch of heroism and of devotion in our hero thus taking on himself the whole blame. He voluntarily made himself the scapegoat of an offence for which scores were charged, and in particular he took on his own shoulders the heavy share of responsibility which belonged to the negligent monks of Westminster. Now as to the credibility of Pudlicott’s story, we must admit that some of the juries accepted evidence that corroborated some parts of it. Sworn men declared their belief that the crypt was approached from the outside; that masons and carpenters were employed on the business; that the churchyard was closely guarded, and access refused, even to the butcher who rented the grazing. It is clear too that the booty was got rid of through the churchyard, and that piecemeal. There is evidence even that hemp was sown, though the verdict of a jury cannot alter the conditions of vegetable growth in an English winter. We must allow too that it is pretty certain that Warfield had not the custody of the keys of the crypt; though he was doubtless able to give facilities for tampering with the door or forcing the lock. Yet Pudlicott’s general story remains absolutely incredible. It was surely impossible to break through the solid wall, and no incuriousness or corruption would account for wall-piercing operations being unnoticed, when carried on in the midst of a considerable population for three months on end. Some of Pudlicott’s lies were inconceivable in their crudity. Is it likely that hemp, sown at Christmas-time, would, before the end of April, afford sufficient green cover to hide the hole in the wall, and to secrete gleaming articles of silver within its thick recesses? And how are we to believe that there was a great gaping hole in the wall of the crypt when nothing was heard of the crime for several weeks after its perpetration, and no details of the king’s losses were known until two months after the burglary, when the keeper of the Wardrobe unlocked the door of the treasury and examined its contents? A more artistic liar would have made his confession more convincing.

What really happened seems to me to have been something like this. I have no doubt that Pudlicott got into the treasury by the simple process of his friend, Adam of Warfield, giving him facilities for forcing the door or perhaps breaking a window. He remained in the crypt a long time so that he might hand out its contents to confederates who, as we learn from the depositions, ate, drank, and revelled till midnight for two nights running in a house within the precincts of the Fleet prison, and then went armed and horsed to Westminster, returning towards daybreak loaded with booty. But not only the revellers in Shenche’s headquarters, but many monks, many abbey servants, the custodians of the palace, the leading goldsmiths of the city, and half the neighbours must have been cognisant of, if not participating in, the crime. It speaks well for honour among thieves, that it was not until deplorable indiscretions were made in the disposal of the booty that any news of the misdeed reached the ears of any of the official custodians of the treasure.

Suspicion of the crime was first excited by the discovery of fragments of the spoil in all sorts of unexpected places. A fisherman, plying his craft in the then silver Thames, netted a silver goblet which had evidently been the property of the king. Passers-by found cups, dishes, and similar precious things hidden behind tombstones and other rough hiding-places in St. Margaret’s Churchyard. Boys playing in the neighbouring fields found pieces of plate concealed under hedgerows. Such discoveries were made as far from Westminster as Kentish Town. Moreover, many other people lighted upon similar pieces of treasure trove. Foreign money found its way into the hands of the money-changers at London, York, and Lymm, and other remote parts. The city goldsmiths were the happy receivers of large amounts of silver plate, among them, I regret to say, being William Torel, the artist-goldsmith, whose skill in metal work has left such an abiding mark in the decorations of the abbey church. There were, too, scandalous stories whispered abroad. One of them was that a woman of loose life explained her possession of a precious ring by relating that it was given her by Dom Adam the sacrist “so that she should become his friend”.

Such tales soon made the story of the robbery common property. At last it came to the ears of the king and his ministers, then encamped at Linlithgow for the Scottish war. Thereupon, on 6 June, the king appointed a special commission of judges to investigate the matter. On 20 June, John Droxford, the keeper of the wardrobe, came to Westminster with the keys of the crypt, and then and only then did any official examination of the treasury take place. An entry was made into the crypt and the damage which had been done was inspected. The result is still to be read in an inventory of the treasures lost and the treasures found which Droxford drew up, and which may now be studied in print.

It is pleasant to say that by the time Droxford went to work much of the treasure, which had been scattered broadcast, was being brought back and that more was soon to follow. The first investigations as to where the treasure had been carried led to fruitful results. A good deal of it was found hidden beneath the beds of the keeper of the palace and of his assistant. Still more was found in the lodgings of Richard Pudlicott and his mistress. Adam the sacrist, and some of his brother monks and their servants, were discovered to be in possession of other missing articles. Altogether, when Droxford had finished his inventory, a large proportion of the articles which had been lost were reclaimed. Ultimately it seems that the losses were not very severe.

Wholesale arrests were now made. Richard Pudlicott was apprehended on 25 June, and William of the Palace soon experienced the same fate. Before long the connexion which the monks had had with the business seemed so well established that the whole convent, including the abbot and forty-eight monks, were indicted and sent to the Tower, where they were soon joined by thirty-two other persons. This time the king’s net had spread rather too widely, and the indiscriminate arrest of guilty and innocent excited some measure of sympathy, even for the guilty. The majority of the clerical prisoners were released on bail, but some half-dozen laymen and ten monks were still kept in custody. Both the released and the imprisoned culprits raised a great outcry, sending petitions to the king demanding a further enquiry into the whole matter.

The first commission meanwhile had been empanelling juries and collecting evidence. But the matter was so serious that in November a second royal commission was appointed to hear and determine the matter. The members of this second commission were chosen from among the most eminent of the king’s judges, including the chief justice of the king’s bench, Sir Roger Brabazon and the shrewdest judge of the time, William Bereford, afterwards chief justice of common pleas.

I have already indicated in outline the result of the investigations of the two judicial commissions. I have told you how juries were empanelled from every hundred in the counties of Middlesex and Surrey, and from the wards of the city of London and from Westminster. The details of the evidence are worthy of more special treatment than I can give them here, because they afford a wonderful picture of the loose-living, easy-going, slack, negligent, casual, and criminal doings of mediaeval men and women. I must, however, be content to restate the general result of the trials. Richard of Pudlicott was found guilty. Various other people, including William of the Palace, and certain monks, were declared accomplices, while Adam Warfield was shrewdly suspected to be at the bottom of the whole business. More than a year was spent in investigations, and it was not until March, 1304, eleven months after the burglary, that William of the Palace and five other lay culprits were comfortably hanged.

The great problem was how to deal with the clerical offenders without adding to the king’s difficulties by rousing the sleeping dogs of the church, always ready to bark when the state meditated any infringement of the claim of all clerks to be subject solely to the ecclesiastical tribunals. Accordingly Richard of Pudlicott, and ten monks were reserved for further treatment. Pudlicott, as we have seen, had been a tonsured person in his youth, and he probably claimed, as did the monks, benefit of clergy. It was probably now that Pudlicott nobly tried to shield his monastic allies by his extraordinary confession. His heroism, however, availed him nothing. But whatever his zeal for the church, Edward I was upon adequate occasion ready to ride rough-shod over clerical privileges, and he always bitterly resented any attempt of a culprit, who had lived as a layman, trying to shield himself on the pretext that he had been a clerk in his youth. His corrupt chief justice, Thomas Weyland, had sought to evade condemnation by resuming the tonsure and clerical garb which he had worn before he abandoned his orders to become a knight, a country squire, and the founder of a family of landed gentry. But Weyland’s subdiaconate did not save him from exile and loss of land and goods. Pudlicott’s sometime clerical character had even less power to preserve him. He also paid tardily the capital penalty for his misdeed. But it was surely his clergy that kept him alive in prison for more than two years after the date of the commission of his crime.

The fate of the incriminated clerks still hung in the balance when in the spring of 1305 Edward came back in triumph to London, rejoicing that at last he had effected the thorough conquest of Scotland. His cheerful frame of mind made him listen readily to the demands of the monks of Westminster to have pity on their unfortunate brethren, and to comply with the more general clerical desire that ecclesiastical privilege should be respected. Only a few months after the burglary, the news of the outrage on pope Boniface VIII at Anagni had filled all Christendom with horror. At the instance of Philip the Fair, king of France, and his agents in Italy the pope was seized, maltreated, and insulted. In the indignant words of Dante, “Christ was again crucified in the person of his vicar”. The universal feeling of resentment against so wanton a violation of ecclesiastical privilege was ingeniously used in favour of the monks of Westminster. Among the monks, arrested at first, but soon released with the majority of their brethren, were two men who had some reputation as historians. One of these was magnanimous enough to write, two or three years afterwards, a sort of funeral eulogy of Edward, but the other, Robert of Reading, who, in my opinion, kept the official chronicle of the abbey from 1302 to 1326, set forth the Westminster point of view very effectively in the well-known version of the chronicle called _Flores Historiarum_, the original manuscript of which is now in the Chetham Library. In this is given what may be regarded as the official account of Richard’s burglary. The robbery of the king of England was a crime only comparable to the robbery of the treasure of Boniface VIII, six months later at Anagni. The chronicler is most indignant at the suggestion that the monks had anything to do with the matter, and laments passionately their long imprisonment and their unmerited sufferings. He relies in substance on the story as told in Pudlicott’s confession. The burglary was effected by a single robber.

So lacking in humour was the Westminster annalist that he did not scruple to borrow the phraseology and the copious Scriptural citations of a certain “Passion of the monks of Westminster according to John,” the whole text of which is unfortunately not extant. I may say, however, that the species of composition called a “Passion” was particularly in vogue at the turn of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and is mainly characterised by its extraordinary skill in parodying the words of the Scripture in order to describe in mock heroic vein some incident of more or less undeserved suffering. For profanity, grim humour, and misapplied knowledge of the Vulgate the “passions” of this period have no equal. They are a curious illustration of the profane humour of the mediaeval ecclesiastic in his lighter moments.