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When was the worst time to be alive? You'll be surprised at what our expert has to say
If there's one lesson we should take from history, it's that we're fortunate not to be living in the past, Professor David Carpenter tells Dr David Musgrove
Imagine you’re having a truly bad day. You’ve dropped your phone down the toilet, burnt your toast, endured a packed commute on a slow-running train, and got soaked in a rain shower. And that’s all before you get to work. If there’s one lesson from history that might get you through such woes, it’s the fact that however bleak things are for you now, chances are they would have been worse if you’d had the misfortune to be alive in the past. That’s the message I got from the great medieval historian Professor David Carpenter, as he compared England in the 13th century to today. Professor Carpenter knows that century intimately: he is a world authority on Magna Carta (and was in the news recently over the discovery that he and Professor Nicholas Vincent made of a medieval copy of Magna Carta in an American library) and the definitive biographer of King Henry III. Recently I was chatting to him about Magna Carta for a HistoryExtra podcast, and when I asked him, at the end of that conversation, if there was any learning from his deep and extensive study of the past that he carried with him in day-to-day life, this was his reply: “We ought to feel how profoundly lucky we are, in two key ways: the first is parliamentary democracy, in which we have evolved a system whereby political conflicts are conducted within a democratic framework. That contrasts hugely with the 13th century when we had two very, very violent civil wars from 1215–17 and 1263–67 in which property was ravaged, people were killed, Jews were massacred, and peasants starved to death. So I think that we should value our parliamentary democracy compared to, for example, the situation in the 13th century. “The other thing we should value is that, although I know there’s obviously a lot of poverty, we live in a society where no one starves to death. Whereas in the 13th century, in years of bad harvest, very considerable numbers of peasants, and to some extent townsmen too, quite literally, starved to death.” Back to the future Professor Carpenter here is comparing Britain today to the 13th century. Clearly, globally, there are wars going on where political conflict is definitely not being solved by democratic means, and the news shows us that people are suffering terribly from malnutrition and starvation in some parts of the world right now. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/David-Carpenter-by-Damian-McFadden-crop-5f59ee0.jpg" width="2328" height="1551" alt="A man with white hair and round black glasses, wearing a suit and a dark blue and red spotty tie" title="Professor David Carpenter is a world authority on Magna Carta and the definitive biographer of King Henry III (Image by Damien McFadden)" /> Nevertheless, I think Prof Carpenter’s view is broadly shared by most people who study the past seriously. Over the years, I’ve asked various historians when and where they’d like to go back to if they could hop in a time machine, and I think pretty much universally they make the point that they wouldn’t really want to live in the past, because broadly speaking it’s better now. They generally mention dentistry as something they definitely wouldn’t want to experience without anaesthesia. Reflecting on that, I was reminded of an article we ran in BBC History Magazine a few years back, which you can now read on the HistoryExtra website, by the historian Derek Wilson, who has sadly recently passed away. We invited him to come up with a list of the worst years to be alive in history. Wilson was not short of contenders, but 1349 was a fairly obvious pick. If the 13th century wasn’t a great time to be alive, the 14th century was rock bottom. The Black Death of 1348–50 wiped out up to 60 per cent of Europe’s population, according to some estimates. “It was not just a health crisis,” he explained. “The psychological impact was devastating. It bred fear, paranoia, and a deep distrust of the authorities who had no answers.” Norwich was one of the worst-hit cities in England, losing around 7,000 of its 12,000 residents. They are just numbers now at this remove, and hard to compute, but take a moment to just sit with that level of devastation in one single urban centre. Imagine what it was like to live there at the time, and hold that thought, because I’ll come back to it momentarily. Wilson’s other choices were similarly grim: AD 60 in Britain when Rome brutally stamped out rebellion; persecution and revolt in the Reformation in 1536; war and social breakdown in 1812; and economic depression and the looming threat of global conflict in 1937. None of those years would have been much fun, but I find it hard to look past 1349 for outright existential horror. Read more | Black Death facts: your guide to "the worst catastrophe in recorded history" Escape to the past Does it actually help to know that people in the past had it pretty bad? To an extent, but David Carpenter did point out that although he does take solace in the fact that Britain today isn’t wracked by political violence and extensive starvation as it was in the 13th century, we do still have to worry about nuclear war and climate change. I get the sense that to escape those troubling new concerns, Prof Carpenter is quite happy to retreat back into the very period of the past that he’s so happy not to live in, but purely from an academic perspective, rather than any desire to time travel. “I enjoy teaching medieval history so much,” he told me. “What I take away, I think, is how invigorating and eternally fascinating both teaching medieval history is, but also researching and writing about it. It’s kept me going all my life.” So history offers two exit routes from today’s troubles – to escape from it, and to escape back into it. I guess we are supremely privileged to have the opportunity to do both of those things now. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/Julian-of-Norwich-illu-by-Rose-Wilkinson-7974a9f.jpg" width="1713" height="2362" alt="A nun reads from a scroll. In the background, a cross is hanging on the wall and two candles burn on a table" title="An illustration by Rose Wilkinson of the mystic and anchoress Julian of Norwich, the 14th-century author of the remarkable Revelations of Divine Love" /> All shall be well Going back to the 14th century, and the horrors of the Black Death, I sometimes find myself recalling the words of the remarkable mystic and anchoress Julian of Norwich. She lived in the second half of the century and bears a male name because we don't actually know what she was called. We do know that she spent years of her life walled up in a cell in St Julian’s Church in the East Anglian city, and that’s why she’s called Julian. As I’ve said, Norwich was hammered by the Black Death. Though Julian’s life took in that horrific plague, as well as social dislocation, and religious stress, she wrote a remarkable text called Revelations of Divine Love. The historian and TV presenter Professor Janina Ramirez is, I think it’s fair to say, a Julian enthusiast. This is a quote from an article that Professor Ramirez wrote for BBC History Magazine about her (available on the HistoryExtra site for members too): “Julian lived through a time when the church was divided, communities were imploding and death was indiscriminate. Yet in the midst of this chaos she wrote a calm, optimistic and loving book. In it she stresses that God sees no sin, he is both mother and father, and that love is the root of everything.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/06/Janina-Ramirez-by-Fran-Monks-b4b32dc.jpg" width="728" height="485" alt="Professor Janina Ramirez is a historian, broadcaster and author of Julian of Norwich: A Very Brief History (SPCK Publishing, 2016) (Image by Fran Monks)" title="Professor Janina Ramirez is a historian, broadcaster and author of Julian of Norwich: A Very Brief History (SPCK Publishing, 2016)" /> Read more | Medieval influencers: 4 women who brought change to the Middle Ages Now, I’m not a religious sort, but nevertheless I do find something incredible in the fact that this woman was able to live the life she did, in a time of such general and deep horror, and still find a chink of light to cling onto. If I am having a bad day, I do occasionally reflect on Julian's famous mantra: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” In fact, I chanted it to myself recently when I wasn’t feeling in tip-top shape on a ridiculous ultra-marathon running race that I had willingly paid to enter. I don’t know whether Julian would have been impressed with my voluntary submission to suffering, or confused by my strange self-inflicted decision to run myself into the ground, but either way, her wise words helped me get to the finish line. “It is a message that transcends theology,” says Professor Ramirez. “It speaks to anyone who has experienced hardship and found a way to endure.” If someone who had seen the devastation of the Black Death could have that attitude and write something that still helps people today, I think that’s a lesson from history that we can probably all take something from. This article is part of HistoryExtra's new Life Lessons from History Substack newsletter. Subscribe to the newsletter for more articles and podcasts exploring the ways in which history can help us live better, happier, healthier or more productive lives.
How King John helped bring about a political miracle in medieval England
From the historic moment that 'bad' King John was made to put his seal to Magna Carta to parliament, taxation and the law courts, the 13th and 14th centuries heralded many changes in England. In fact, Caroline Burt and Richard Partington explore how these changes laid the foundations for the modern British state
Good. But could do better. That was the message that the English people conveyed to their all-conquering monarch at the height of the Hundred Years’ War. In 1358, England’s great warrior-king Edward III asked parliament if he should accept a peace treaty he’d negotiated with the French, following a series of dramatic military victories. Parliament emphatically advised the king to fight again. Too much blood had been shed and too much treasure expended. The French, MPs declared, were not offering enough. For Edward’s distant predecessor King John, such a scenario would have been unthinkable. Then, at the dawn of the 13th century, there was no notion of shared national enterprise around foreign policy. The English king’s lands in France were a matter for the king alone – not for the community of the realm expressing its will through parliament. The people, if they had been courageous enough to venture their opinions to John, would have been told – not so politely – to keep their noses out. It was also unimaginable during John’s reign that other matters that parliament routinely considered in Edward III’s day – issues such as how much tax people paid, and the way in which law and justice was dispensed to the masses – might be a matter of nationwide debate. English state transformed Yet the 150 or so years between John’s reign and Edward’s victories over the French witnessed the utter transformation of the English state. This extraordinary period saw the introduction of a system of national taxation by consent, and the advent of the forum that approved that tax: parliament. It saw the legal system grow exponentially and a network of royal officers being appointed across the land. It saw striking advances in military organisation, including the professionalisation of the army. And, of course, it saw the introduction of Magna Carta, which established the much-cherished principle that the king was subject to the same law as his subjects. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2024/07/2PNNK27-b49fb23-e1721910912835.jpg" width="620" height="414" alt="Edward III, shown in a 15th-century miniature, sought parliament’s agreement before striking a treaty with the French (Photo by incamerastock/Alamy Stock Photo)" title="Edward III, shown in a 15th-century miniature, sought parliament’s agreement before striking a treaty with the French (Photo by incamerastock/Alamy Stock Photo)" /> Today we think of the 13th and 14th centuries as a period of protracted warfare and plague. It was undoubtedly both those things. But it was also the period that laid the foundations for many elements of the English, and by extension British, state as we know it today. So why did this transformation happen? And who were the main drivers behind this change? When John became king in 1199, it is doubtful that he gave any thought to these grand questions of statehood. That’s partly because the concept of the state as we know it did not exist. But it’s mainly because John had far more urgent concerns occupying his in-tray. He had to fend off a rival claim to the throne of England from his nephew Arthur, and he had to get to grips with a major assault launched by his great French rival, King Philip II. English losses in France Philip was determined to assert himself, and that meant seizing lands held in France by John. Those English possessions stretched far across France, from Normandy in the north to Aquitaine in the south-west – a block much larger than the territory directly controlled by the French king. Unfortunately for John, Philip was not only hugely ambitious but also vastly capable, and in 1204 the French king seized the jewel in the English crown, Normandy, shortly followed by many of the other English territories in France. The key moment in this English debacle was the loss of Château Gaillard, Richard the Lionheart’s extraordinary defensive system on the cliffs of the Seine at Les Andelys. Richard had declared that the walls of this mighty castle could hold out against the French even had they been made of butter. John’s manifold deficiencies as both a king and a military commander proved his older brother decisively wrong. The loss of Normandy in 1204 was a shattering blow. But it was also a turning point in English history: for it prompted a chain reaction that would lead to Magna Carta. Determined to regain his territories, John returned to England to regroup. Over the following decade, he raised vastly more money in England than any of his predecessors, money he used to build continental alliances and fund a new military expedition to France. Read more | Was King John really that bad? Yes! Funds flowed into the royal coffers through fines levied by the king on members of the nobility. These were extorted with threats, violence and the sale of justice to the highest bidder – and triggered a wave of resentment across the realm. John is rightly seen as one of England’s cruellest kings. According to one chronicler, he violated the wives and daughters of his nobles; in the words of another, he roasted French prisoners of war on tripods and gridirons. The unfairness and brutality of all this was not lost on England’s barons, who, as the wealthiest subjects, bore the brunt of John’s impositions. King John and Magna Carta If the common law – which since 1166 had offered all men and women cheap access to royal justice – dictated that the barons could not abuse, bribe and extort their fellow countrymen without facing legal action, then why, they asked, should the king be allowed to do it? And so, when John’s ambitions to regain lost territory came crashing down with military defeat in 1214, his opponents in England lost no time in demanding change. In Magna Carta, literally the ‘Great Charter’, they attempted to put an end, one by one, to all the questionable practices of their king. While John fought the rebels with all his might, his death in 1216, and the accession of his son as Henry III during a civil war that showed little sign of leading to any lasting settlement, meant that no government could hope to move forward in peace without compromise. Read more | Alternate history: what if Magna Carta hadn’t been written? That compromise was the confirmation of Magna Carta. By placing kings under the same law as their subjects, Magna Carta made it impossible for future monarchs to raise money for war arbitrarily. Doing so would bring political crisis, as Henry III discovered when, in an echo of his father, he began to threaten the landed property of his barons. It soon became abundantly clear that if the king wanted to defend his lands, he would have to find a new way of raising the money he required – one that involved accessing his subjects’ wealth in a legitimate manner. It was this imperative that led to the introduction of a national system of taxation by consent – and, in the 1230s, the emergence of the body that would grant (or refuse) such consent: parliament. Birth of the English parliament Parliament took its name from the French Parlement, ‘the place of discussion’, and true to that name, it soon became an arena for national debate on all areas of public policy. It was initially the exclusive domain of the very rich and powerful. But, by the end of the 13th century, a wider cross-section of the population was contributing to that debate. In 1258, when political crisis erupted in the face of Henry III’s unpopular foreign and financial policies, demands were made that angry knights, as well as disaffected barons, should be represented. This broader social representation was extended again during the reign of Edward I. In the 14th century, parliament came to consist of Lords and Commons, just as it does today – the latter elected to represent all the localities in the country. Read more | “He was not a great king but he was respected as a most Christian one”: David Carpenter on Henry III Under Edward, a partnership was established with parliament that led to repeated grants of taxation to support the king in wars in Wales, Scotland and France. This practice – of the crown co-opting the resources of the realm to royal military imperatives – led to a developing sense that foreign policy was not merely dynastic but national, in the interests of the entire country. By the time Edward I’s grandson Edward III was striding across Europe with aplomb in the mid-14th century, his subjects in parliament were fully engaged in consultation with the king, his ministers and judges on all aspects of national government. National taxation, approved by parliament, produced predictable and reliable war finance that enabled England to professionalise its army under Edward I and particularly Edward III. This enabled England to punch well above its weight internationally until the mid-15th century, most especially in the first half of the Hundred Years’ War with France. The battle of Crécy in 1346 and Poitiers in 1356 respectively saw the English destroy the French field army and capture the French king, John II. At the naval battle of Sluys in 1340, thousands of French soldiers drowned, fleeing English men-at-arms and archers charging across their decks. This was the English realm in its military pomp, producing arguably the country’s most significant naval triumph until the battle of Trafalgar in 1805. “How do we know that French knights are braver than English knights?” asked a jester of his master, the French king Philip VI, in the aftermath of Sluys. When Philip failed to provide an answer, the jester gave the sardonic reply: “Because English knights are afraid to jump into the sea.” Read more | 9 things you didn’t know about the history of parliament England's legal system Government, too, was growing increasingly sophisticated. The common law was in such demand that the courts struggled to keep up with the volume of business. The people of England were clearly hungry for the impartial, enforceable and centrally recorded justice provided by this ever-growing national legal system. Kings added to the pressure themselves because they regularly commissioned nationwide enquiries into crime and corruption. Edward I created so much legislation during his 35-year-reign that he was later called the English Justinian, after the famous law-giving Roman emperor. Such extensive legislating required a new professional cadre of judges, attorneys and justices of the peace. Government co-opted so many of the king’s subjects into its work that it is estimated that, by the mid-14th century, some 40 per cent of male house-holders were involved in some way – as sheriffs, jurors, constables, military recruiters, purveyors of supplies and tax collectors. England was hardly alone in all of this. Rapidly evolving ideas about the authority of the king as lawgiver were mirrored across Europe. Monarchs from Louis IX of France to the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II embarked upon vast legislative programmes. In Iberia, Alfonso X of Castile ordered the compilation of law codes into a document, La Siete Partidas, that remains celebrated today. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2024/07/GettyImages-1768235900-ccfea11-e1721910986494.jpg" width="620" height="414" alt="Charles III and Queen Camilla at the state opening of parliament, 2023. The seat of British democracy grew into a force to be reckoned with in the late Middle Ages (Photo by Arthur Edwards - WPA Pool/Getty Images)" title="Charles III and Queen Camilla at the state opening of parliament, 2023. The seat of British democracy grew into a force to be reckoned with in the late Middle Ages (Photo by Arthur Edwards - WPA Pool/Getty Images)" /> The 13th-century rediscovery in Europe of Aristotle’s work added another flavour to this. Influenced by the ancient Greek philosopher’s ideas, writers began to see government as a force for good, not simply a necessary evil. Kings and their subjects eagerly embraced these ideas, both to claim power and to demand accountability. Yet not all nations experienced this thirst for power and accountability in the same way. In England, the quest for the common good was put under intense pressure by conflict and mass death. War in France and across the British Isles drove political change – and brought with it significant disorder. In the early 14th century, during a break in hostilities, demobbed soldiers formed armed bands that marauded across England, leaving a trail of outrages in their wake. That prompted one of the biggest enquiries into crime that had yet taken place in England – the so-called ‘trailbaston’ commissions. Black Death and Peasants’ Revolt Pandemic also shattered society’s sense of security. The Black Death, which first hit England in 1348 and re-appeared in several waves, killed at least 40 per cent of the population, forcing government to intervene to regulate the labour market. The Statute of Labourers of 1351 sought to constrain wage growth and labour mobility, as workers exploited their scarcity to demand higher pay and move to better paid jobs. Those in the upper echelons of society were clearly disturbed by this new thirst for social mobility. We can see this in the Sumptuary Law of 1363, which stipulated that the lower orders should not dress in clothes above their station. Such enforced restraint was hugely controversial, and the combination of a surprisingly buoyant economy and fierce opposition meant that the laws were widely ignored. What no one could ignore, however, was the crisis that struck the economy in the early 1370s. The fall-out from the financial downturn – caused by a collapse in prices, for reasons historians do not fully understand – was long and ultimately bloody. In the immediate aftermath, peasants experienced a double whammy of the sudden enforcement of earlier labouring legislation and the imposition of the first poll tax. Anger and resentment simmered away until, in 1381, they exploded in the popular uprising known as the Peasants’ Revolt. It took the authorities just a few months to put down the revolt, but not before the rebels had chopped off the heads of two of the most powerful men in the land – the archbishop of Canterbury and the lord high treasurer – and reduced the Savoy Palace, John of Gaunt’s opulent residence on the Thames, to a smouldering ruin. At the height of the uprising, the king himself – Richard II – felt compelled to ride out to Smithfield to listen to the rebels’ demands. Read more | The Peasants’ Revolt: did Richard II side with the rebels? Richard II survived his encounter with the peasants but it was a mere stay of execution. Like John before him, Richard was a weak, negligent and ultimately tyrannical ruler. And like John, his reign ended in ignominy, deposed by his cousin Henry Bolingbroke in 1399. Yet there was a crucial difference – one that signals just how far the tectonic plates of the English state had shifted over the two centuries between the reigns of these hapless rulers. John’s downfall occurred in the midst of a chaotic war in which a tiny cadre of the most powerful men in the land sought to limit the power of the king on behalf of ‘the community of the realm’. When Bolingbroke ousted Richard II, he presented deposition articles for the approval of a packed parliament of Lords and Commons gathered from across the kingdom. Where John had failed his dynasty, Richard had failed the entire English nation. Caroline Burt and Richard Partington are medieval historians at the University of Cambridge, and the authors of Arise, England: Six Kings and the Making of the English State (Faber & Faber, 2024) This article was first published in the September 2024 issue of BBC History Magazine
“Slapstick and smutty”: the real medieval history behind The Decameron
As the darkly comic tale of 14th-century Florentine nobles escaping the Black Death is brought to life in a Netflix limited series, we investigate the real history behind the bawdy medieval bestseller with expertise from Dr Rebecca Bowen…
The Black Death, the 14th-century pandemic that caused the deaths of as many as a third of all Europeans, perhaps isn’t a likely contender as the backdrop for an irreverent comedy. When the writer Boccaccio saw the plague ravage the city of Florence in 1348, he described the symptoms in vivid detail: “Its first sign here in both men and women was a swelling in the groin or beneath the armpit, growing sometimes in the shape of a simple apple, sometimes in that of an egg.” After this, he explains, “symptoms would develop then into dark of livid patches that many people found appearing on their arms of thighs or elsewhere.” There was little hope, he wrote. “No physician's prescriptions, no medicine seemed of the slightest benefit as a cure for this disease,” and “nearly all the sick would succumb within three days.” It doesn’t sound fun. Yet Netflix’s black-humoured take on Boccaccio’s Decameron doesn’t shy away from the brutal realities of the pestilence, from showing flagellants tearing their own flesh with cattle whips to the widespread abandonment of the sick and dead – all while inviting laughs at the petty vanities, squabbles and desires of its main characters. It's a raunchy and far-from-grave take on this devastating event, and set to a thoroughly modern soundtrack – New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ doesn’t feature in many medieval lute players’ repertoires. But this (literal) romp through the Decameron’s many-layered stories still borrows much from the spirit of Boccaccio’s original book, and has much to teach us about life amid the Black Death. Read on for the real history of the slapstick source material, and the grim realities of an era-defining pandemic that caused Boccaccio to put pen to paper. Is The Decameron a real story? No, Netflix’s The Decameron is not a true story. The series is very loosely based on Italian writer Giovanni Boccaccio’s 14th-century Decameron, which was a collection of fictional stories. Boccaccio imagines a group of young men and women meeting up at a church in Florence, where the Black Death is raging. They arrange to flee in the countryside outside the city, moving between various villas where they entertain one another by each telling each other ten stories a day, for ten days. Though the characters are fictional, the setting for the action – the plague that ravaged Florence in 1348 – is real. Boccaccio’s observations on the symptoms and the devastation, and how people struggled to both deter the pestilence and flee from it, are accurate and emotive. As Dr Rebecca Bowen shared on the HistoryExtra podcast, “Boccaccio does have something to say about a world turned upside down. He says: ‘Things of this world are wholly lacking in stability and are in a constant state of flux.’” Listen now | The Decameron: sex, plague, and a medieval Love Island He gives vivid descriptions of the physical symptoms, says Bowen, talking about “the ‘buboes on the body’, and ‘dark patches on the skin’, which modern science identifies as necrosis and sepsis. He chillingly observes that most people were dead in three days, and likens the spread of the disease to ‘fire’.” <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2014/11/GettyImages-544165724-7bb2879-e1722000248295.jpg" width="619" height="413" alt="Miniature depicting a couple suffering from the blisters of the Black Death, the bubonic plague that swept Europe in the Middle Ages. (Photo by VCG Wilson/Corbis via Getty Images)" title="Miniature depicting a couple suffering from the blisters of the Black Death, the bubonic plague that swept Europe in the Middle Ages. (Photo by VCG Wilson/Corbis via Getty Images)" /> Boccaccio also details the various remedies attempted, such as “electing new officials, cleaning the cities, banning sick visitors”, and even mentions that “praying didn’t work”, a big problem in the deeply Christian society of the Middle Ages. His characters also offer human perspectives, says Bowen. Pampinea, one of the young storytellers, describes how terrifying she finds the spread of the pestilence. Boccaccio writes: “My hair stands on end. Everywhere I go about the house, everywhere I stop, I fancy I see the ghosts of those who’ve died. And they don’t look the way I’ve known them. They look utterly ghastly. Heaven knows why.” The Black Death Member exclusive | Listen to our six-part podcast series on how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages Listen to all episodes now What does Decameron mean? The title of The Decameron is significant, rooted in the Greek language. Composed of the Greek nouns deca (meaning ten) and hemeron (meaning days), the title translates literally to “the book of ten days”. Bowen notes that the title “recalls and satirises an important genre of Christian religious texts called the Hexamerons”. The Hexamerons, named from the Greek term hex (meaning six), refer to the six days of creation as described in the Bible. Boccaccio was perhaps positioning his work in relation to these religious texts, suggesting a contrast and a secular parallel. “As soon as we start reading the Decameron, we realise it’s not going to be like these religious hexamerons,” says Bowen. “Because he tells us in this prologue that he wants his readers to ‘derive entertainment from the amusing events there described and equally, helpful advice’.” Who was Giovanni Boccaccio? Giovanni Boccaccio was born in 1313, though his birthplace is uncertain, possibly being Florence or the small town of Certaldo in the Val d'Elsa valley near Siena. Boccaccio was the illegitimate son of a merchant, Boccaccino di Chellino, who immediately recognised him as a legitimate child. Boccaccino was a currency converter, a vital profession at a time when each city-state minted its own currency, Bowen explains. This job brought him to Paris in late 1313, “leading to an apocryphal tale that Boccaccio's mother might have been a French princess,” though her true identity remains unknown and, the fact that Boccaccio was already born by the time Boccaccino arrived in Paris somewhat discredits this tale. Boccaccio grew up in Florence until the age of 13, when he moved to Naples with his father – who had secured a prominent position as the director of the Naples branch of the Bardi Bank, serving King Robert d'Anjou of Naples. In this vibrant and international city, Boccaccio was exposed to the high culture of the European elite and admitted to the learned circle of the Biblioteca Angiolina at age 20, a royal library that housed texts from across the world. Despite being expected to study law, Boccaccio notoriously neglected his studies in favour of literary pursuits, producing four major works in both verse and prose during these formative years. After spending around 15 years in Naples, the 28-year-old Boccaccio returned to a plague-devastated Florence (the plague had hit the city in 1340). According to Florentine historian Giovanni Villani, this plague killed a sixth of the population. The banking system of the city was also in chaos, as Edward III of England had defaulted on a major loan, collapsing the banking system that employed his father. Despite the turmoil, explains Bowen, “Boccaccio stayed in Florence for the next decade, and he started to write more poems as well as his first prose novel – this is called the Elegy of Lady Fiammetta [Elegia di Madonna Fiammetta]. “It's while he's there that he witnesses the second plague, in 1348.” Read more | Black Death quarantine: how did we try to contain the most deadly disease in history? It’s not known where or even whether Boccaccio self-isolated during the plague, though it’s likely that he was in Florence for some time. The plague killed his father, leaving him a somewhat diminished family fortune. “And then for three years, we don't really know what happened to him, but those are the three years in which he wrote the Decameron.” What is the plot of Boccaccio’s Decameron? You might think that Boccaccio's Decameron is a simple tale of the 1348 plague in Florence, but the story is a deeper than that. Bowen describes it as a “Russian doll narrative”. The book begins with a clear declaration from Boccaccio: “I'm going to tell a hundred stories.” However, says Bowen, the writer immediately complicates this by offering multiple names for these tales – “fables, parables, stories, or whatever you want to call them” – indicating the complexity within. At the first level, she explains, the plot is set against the backdrop of the plague that devastated Florence in 1348. “The historical narrator provides a detailed, almost scientific account of the plague’s impact,” says Bowen, but the grim reality quickly transitions to a more intimate story of a group seeking escape from the city’s misery. The narrative focuses on seven women who meet at the church of Santa Maria Novella, still a notable site in Florence today. These women, a mix of friends and relatives, discuss fleeing the city to find solace in the countryside. They decide to head towards the hills, specifically the area around Fiesole, “a popular retreat even now, particularly when it’s hot”, Bowen explains. However, they faced a dilemma: it was deemed inappropriate for seven women to travel alone. Fortuitously, three young men – also relatives or connected through marriage – enter the church. These men agree to join the escape and with a couple of servants in tow, this ‘brigata’, or merry band, sets out for the hills, with drama immediately coming from their romantic interest in one another. “That’s just the introduction,” explains Bowen. Over ten days, the group stays in various villas. Each day, they elect one member to be the master of ceremonies, responsible for planning meals and activities. Central to their routine is the storytelling session. “Within the narrative,” says Bowen, “they've got these rules. They decide that the game that they're really going to play for their entertainment during the plague, for their wellbeing, is to tell stories. This is going to be the thing that saves their spirits from this grim moment.” The characters’ days follow a pattern, says Bowen. “Usually in the early morning, they all wander about, then they meet up somewhere cool and airy, and then in the heat of the day, they'll pause and have a siesta. Once the heat goes down a bit, they'll meet up again and they'll start telling these stories.” The stories themselves, told in various styles over 10 days, form the bulk of the narrative, until “eventually, they finish their journey through the hills and they head back down to Florence.” In what language is the Decameron written, and who was it for? Boccaccio wrote the Decameron in the Tuscan dialect. “At the time, there was no standard Italian language,” explains Bowen. “Italian actually only became the dominant language spoken in Italy with the advent of mass-produced television programming in the 1960s. Up until the 1960s, most people in Italy didn't speak Italian; they spoke their local dialects.” “Nobody had written a long prose piece in the vernacular before Boccaccio writes Decameron,” says Bowen, and he was inspired by Dante and his Divine Comedy. While the educated elite read Latin, the vernacular Tuscan dialect was widely spoken, making his work available to a broader audience. “He was able to weave together lots of different stories of genres, of styles, and he was working to sort of flavour his writing with a little bit for everybody,” says Bowen. As in the most recent Netflix adaptation, Boccaccio's Decameron was intended to be funny; Bowen notes that “there's quite a lot of slapstick humour in it” – though some of the humour does not translate well to contemporary sensibilities. “There are elements that might seem inappropriate or even chilling today,” she explains, “such as jokes about sexual violence, ableism, ageism, and body shaming.” Despite these aspects, Bowen highlights that some characters "really are still funny, even by modern standards”. Boccaccio crafted his narratives to be engaging and amusing, with a mix of bawdy and dark tales, and uses the reactions of his in-text audience, the ‘brigata’, to perhaps serve as a model for how readers might respond to the stories. Bowen likens this to "old sitcoms when they hold up the signs saying ‘cheer’ or ‘laugh’ or ‘clap’." Boccaccio frequently describes the ‘brigata’, especially the women, laughing heartily at the more risqué tales, sometimes to the point of “cracking their jaws”. How much sex is in the Decameron? Sex and sexuality permeate many of the tales in the Decameron, says Bowen. A notable disruptor character, Dioneo, introduces the first erotic tale. “Dioneo – whose name evokes the Greek god of wine and revelry, Dionysus – sets the tone with a narrative about a monk who brings a young woman into his cell for sex. “The story escalates when the abbot, upon discovering the affair, decides to partake himself, leading to a scenario where the monk catches the abbot in the act. This tale highlights both sexual themes and the corruption of the clergy, a recurring motif in Boccaccio’s work.” The sexual content increases as the days progress, explains Bowen. By the fifth day, the stories are not just innuendo-laden but explicit in their eroticism. Boccaccio presents a range of scenarios involving sexual desire, infidelity, and the natural impulse for sex. For instance, tales feature young women falling in love, wives cheating on their husbands, and even nuns and monks seeking sexual fulfilment. There is also a significant defence of sex as a natural impulse, often emphasising female pleasure. Read more | Monks behaving badly: stories of the fornicating clergy Boccaccio did intend for women to read his work, says Bowen, incorporating female characters who both narrate and listen to the stories. However, he later expressed concern about the appropriateness of these tales for women. In a letter written decades years after completing the Decameron, he advised his friend and patron Mainardo Cavalcanti not to allow the women in his household to read the book, stating, “You know how much they contain is less than decent and offensive to propriety.” He was also worried, says Bowen, about how he would be perceived. In the same letter, Boccaccio wrote: “I cannot praise your having allowed the honourable ladies of your household to read my trifles, rather I beg you to give me your word that you will not do so again.” He was concerned, as Bowen quotes, that readers might view him as “a smutty panderer, an incestuous old man, an impure person, a foul-mouthed scandalmonger”. Despite these concerns, Boccaccio defended the risqué nature of his text in the Decameron's conclusion, says Bowen. In the topsy-turvy world where “highly respectable folk ... went about with a pair of breeches wrapped about their heads as a precaution,” Boccaccio argues that in the face of such chaos, his stories are warranted. As Bowen puts it: “What's a couple of sexy stories in exchange for this madness that ensued?” You can listen to the full episode with Dr Rebecca Bowen on the HistoryExtra podcast, available now. Dr Rebecca Bowen is a postdoctoral research associate on the AHRC project and an associate scholar at the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florenz - Max-Planck-. The translation quoted in the podcast episode is Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron, translated by Guido Waldman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) An eight-part 2024 adaptation of The Decameron, starring Zosia Mamet, Jessica Plummer and Saoirse-Monica Jackson, is available on Netflix now. View oEmbed on the source website
Did Black Death trigger the rise of Europe?
James Belich considers how the Black Death had consequences that stretched far beyond the Middle Ages – and was, in fact, one of the key reasons why Europe rose to prominence
The Black Death unquestionably wrought a horrific death toll in the mid-14th century, but did it also sweep in social and cultural changes that eventually led to the rise of Europe? Professor James Belich certainly thinks so, and he lays out his argument in new book The World The Plague Made. Speaking to David Musgrove, James considers how the inventiveness required in a depopulated world led to global changes with long-term consequences. James Belich is the author of The World the Plague Made: The Black Death and the Rise of Europe (Princeton University Press, 2022) Buy now on Bookshop.org Buy now on Amazon Buy now on Waterstones
The Black Death: death, sin & spirituality
Join us for episode five in our six-part series examining how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages…
The arrival of a terrifying pandemic made medieval people increasingly preoccupied with death, sin and the afterlife. In this episode, Ellie Cawthorne speaks to Helen Carr about spiritual responses to the Black Death, from special prayers to self-flagellation. The primary sources quoted in this series are mainly taken from: The Black Death, translated and edited by Rosemary Horrox (1994) The Black Death, The Great Mortality of 1348-1350: A Brief History with Documents, John Arberth (2005) Want to hear more? Browse the rest of the episodes in our podcast series on the Black Death
The Black Death: medieval medical thinking
Join us for episode four in our six-part series examining how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages…
How do you fight a disease, when you don’t know what causes it? In this episode, Ellie Cawthorne speaks to Elma Brenner about medieval medical thinking and how it informed responses to the Black Death, from ideas about how bad air and misaligned planets could make you sick, to the rituals and remedies used to treat plague victims and the state of 14th-century hospital care. Note: the primary sources quoted in this series are taken from: The Black Death, translated and edited by Rosemary Horrox (1994) The Black Death, The Great Mortality of 1348-1350: A Brief History with Documents, John Arberth (2005) Want to hear more? Browse the rest of the episodes in our podcast series on the Black Death
The Black Death: living through the plague
Join us for episode three in our six-part series examining how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages…
What would it have been like to live through a Black Death outbreak? In this episode, Ellie Cawthorne speaks to Professor Samuel Cohn about the experiences of medieval people in communities ravaged by the deadly disease. He reveals what the chroniclers tell us about the range of responses to the crisis in the late 1340s, and the lengths people went to to survive. Note: the primary sources quoted in this series are taken from: The Black Death, translated and edited by Rosemary Horrox (1994) The Black Death, The Great Mortality of 1348-1350: A Brief History with Documents, John Arberth (2005) Want to hear more? Browse the rest of the episodes in our podcast series on the Black Death
Join us for episode two in our six-part series examining how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages…
Over recent years, our understanding of the Black Death has been radically transformed by new scientific developments. In this episode, Ellie Cawthorne speaks to Professor Monica Green about what the latest research can tell us about where the plague originated, and how it spread to eventually engulf vast swathes of the globe. Note: The primary sources quoted in this series are taken from: The Black Death, translated and edited by Rosemary Horrox (1994) The Black Death, The Great Mortality of 1348-1350: A Brief History with Documents, John Arberth (2005) Want to hear more? Browse the rest of the episodes in our podcast series on the Black Death
Join us for episode one in our six-part series examining how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages…
In the late 1340s, people in cities, towns and villages across the medieval world began to fall ill from a mysterious pestilence. This six part series looks at the how the Black Death shook the Middle Ages, killing millions and transforming societies. Speaking to expert historians, we'll track the spread of this devastating disease, reveal what it was like to live through the pandemic and consider its dramatic, long-lasting impact. Note: The primary sources quoted in this series are taken from: The Black Death, translated and edited by Rosemary Horrox (1994) The Black Death, The Great Mortality of 1348-1350: A Brief History with Documents, John Arberth (2005) Want to hear more? Browse the rest of the episodes in our podcast series on the Black Death
Part seven in our 20-part series looking at decisive moments of the last 1,000 years in British history explores 1300–1349. Mark Ormrod looked at the year when a third of the population perished due to the Black Death, a cataclysm which was to change the nature of society in the British Isles
The Black Death was one of the greatest human tragedies ever experienced in the British Isles. Since the 1920s, historians have compared it to the First World War, so great was its demographic and psychological impact; more recently it has been analysed in relation to the advent of AIDS. In fact, the scale and effect of the 14th-century disaster is still much disputed. How many people died, and how were the survivors affected? Did the Black Death really change the course of British social history, or merely accelerate trends that would have occurred anyway? In particular, historians have recently begun to consider whether it is appropriate to make comparisons with modern First World disasters because medieval people were much more conditioned and resigned to the notion that things have a tendency to fall apart. The “calamity-sensitive” nature of the medieval economy (a telling phrase) inured people to the prospect of hunger and disease in a way that would be unthinkable in modern Britain – even though it is still, of course, a daily reality in the Third World. Of all the outcomes of the Black Death, then, the one that is most difficult to fathom is probably the relative lack of comment on the disaster: when Geoffrey Chaucer wrote his Canterbury Tales, he made only a single allusion to a phenomenon that contemporary society must surely have held as its greatest fear. The plague was first reported in continental Europe in 1347 and reached Britain in the summer of 1348: the historical convention is that it entered England via the port of Melcombe Regis in Dorset. The name Black Death came later: at the time, people simply called this new disease the “pestilence”. Although many different theories have been put forward, it seems most likely that the Black Death was bubonic plague, which is transmitted by fleas borne on the backs of rats; the apparent virulence of the outbreak of 1347–50 is explicable not only in terms of the lack of immunity among the population of Europe but also by the fact that the bubonic form may have been accompanied by outbreaks of pneumonic plague, which is spread by direct contagion between humans and which offered very little chance of survival. The plague raged in England over the second half of 1348 and on into 1349, then extended to Wales, Scotland and Ireland, and subsided during 1350. 1348: in context By the mid-14th century, English rule in Scotland looked increasingly unlikely, while Welsh and Irish national identities remained strong The first half of the 14th century witnessed huge changes in the political make-up of the British Isles. At the beginning of the period, England’s King Edward I (died 1307) appeared to be close to realising his fantasy of a “British empire”. He had subdued and assimilated the remaining independent enclaves in Wales, building the great ring of fortresses that survive as testimony to his favoured technique of rule by force. He had also embarked on a war of conquest in Scotland and begun to make significant gains there: in 1305 he put to death the Scottish insurgent William Wallace and instituted a new programme for the government of Scotland as an annexe of the English crown. The English lordship of Ireland established since the 12th century apparently held firm. And Edward’s successful defence of his dynastic possessions in the duchy of Aquitaine demonstrated the continued wider reach of Plantagenet rule. By the end of the period, the picture was very different. Edward’s son (Edward II, 1307–27) and grandson (Edward III, 1327–77) maintained a public commitment to English rule in Wales and Ireland. However, after the coronation of Robert the Bruce as an independent king of Scotland in 1306 and the English defeat at Bannockburn in 1314, the idea of direct English rule north of the Tweed became increasingly fantastical. In 1328 Edward III’s government acknowledged Robert’s son, David II, as an independent king, and although Edward extricated himself from this position in the 1330s, his declared aim was not to take over Scotland directly. Rather, he wanted to secure the succession of a new king, Edward Balliol, and revive the feudal lordship over the northern kingdom that had, in fact, been Edward I’s original strategy. The opening of Edward III’s war with France in 1337, however, fundamentally changed the nature of the Plantagenet regime by drawing attention away from Edward I’s notion of a united British Isles and focusing English ambitions on the revival of the Norman and Plantagenet empires in western and northern France. The long-term impact can be seen in both practical and cultural ways. Except in the case of the Welsh longbowmen who played such an important part in the French wars, it was largely impossible by Edward III’s reign for the English to move men, money and provisions between the further-flung corners of their British and continental territories. More significantly still, the elites that ran England’s dependencies no longer saw it necessary to identify with the fashion trends of the Westminster court. Within a generation the “English of Ireland” would be condemned for adopting the dress and music of their adopted land. In Scotland and Wales the adoption of “native” customs by the aristocracy and gentry contributed significantly both to the preservation of ancient cultures and to the maintenance of a tradition of independence. Across the British Isles, the imperial strategies of Edward I can themselves be seen to have forged “national” identities that were to challenge the political hegemony of English for centuries to come. In the path of the plague Thanks to relatively good documentation, we can track the path of the plague quite closely in some parts of the country. Bishops’ registers, which record the death and replacement of members of the clergy, and manor court rolls, which detail the transfer of tenancies on the deaths of holders, provide particularly detailed and time-specific evidence that has been the stock in trade of all modern historians of the plague. This and other statistical evidence is, inevitably, patchy. We know much more of what went on in England than in other parts of the British Isles. In any case, one of the things that is so difficult about the evidence is its typicality: it is well understood that, even within very particular localities, the impact of plague could vary considerably, ravaging some villages but leaving others untouched. A more general qualification is that in upland areas, which had a much smaller population scattered over isolated farmsteads, plague tended to have a proportionately smaller effect than in the nucleated villages and urban communities that were a feature of lowland Britain. All that said, it is now generally agreed, on the basis of the available statistical models, that the plague of 1348–50 carried off at least a third of the population of the British Isles. If we ask how many people that proportion actually represents, we immediately get into much more difficult territory. There is no way of calculating precisely how many people lived in Britain in the 14th century. England – and more precisely lowland England – was clearly and by far the most populated part of the British Isles: indeed, it appears that some areas, especially in East Anglia and the area around the Wash, were supporting populations comparable with those of the same rural communities in the 19th century. The fragile human condition Historical orthodoxy currently has it that the population of England rose from about two million at the time of Domesday Book (1086) to perhaps six million in 1300, tailing off from that point and then plummeting dramatically in 1348–50. When we get to the English poll tax returns of 1377, we can extrapolate a population figure of about 2.75 million. By that point, Britain had experienced at least four visitations of plague – after the initial epidemic, there were other national outbreaks in 1360–1, 1368–9 and 1375. One of the important points about the Black Death, indeed, is the fact that it became endemic in Britain: indeed outbreaks of plague – albeit often more localised – were a regular feature of life down to the great plague of London in 1665. Those who experienced directly the great mortality of 1348–50 were already more than usually conscious of the fragility of their condition. The steady growth in the population over the previous centuries had put tremendous pressure on natural resources. Land already under the plough was farmed more intensively, and marginal land previously used only as pasture was increasingly turned over to the growing of cereals and pulses. In some parts of Britain, there was no further viable land available for arable farming. To maximise their profits from a hungry market, landlords gave up the traditional practice of allowing fields to lie fallow once every few years. In the absence of anything but the most basic of fertilising techniques, however, the impact was simply to drain the soil of its goodness and, in the longer term, to reduce yields. The Black Death: the historians' view To all of these problems was added that most British of concerns, the weather. Around 1300, Europe entered a mini-ice age that lasted until the 17th century. Longer, harsher winters and shorter, wetter summers impacted seriously on the agricultural economy. Between 1315 and 1322 harvests repeatedly failed, sending grain prices rocketing and leaving the poor with no means to feed themselves. Ten or even fifteen percent of the population of England may have died from the effects of malnutrition during this period. These natural disasters were compounded by human-made ones. Edward I’s military interventions in Wales, Scotland and Ireland created a legacy of warfare that was deeply damaging to the economy. Farmers and merchants, the main taxpaying groups, groaned under the weight of new subsidies, while the Anglo-Scottish border suffered huge disruption as a result of the scorched-earth policies of armies on both sides. It is not surprising that the arrival of the Black Death in 1348 was seen as God’s punishment on a people gone astray. For many, it seemed, quite literally, the end of the world. This sense of looming disaster is captured most obviously and strikingly in the chronicles of the period. They show the sense of shock that ran through the elite as the plague made its inexorable path across the country. The death of the recently appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, John Offord, was a particularly disarming event, demonstrating that not even the highest members of God’s taskforce, the clergy, were immune from risk. Those uppity peasants The genuine fright of the agricultural labour force was another preoccupation of monkish chroniclers, who resented the idea that their fields could not be ploughed and sown as normal. There are also hints at the moral issues raised by the plague. A few people followed the continental trend of seeking refuge in ostentatious penance through acts of public flagellation. Much more common in the years immediately after 1350 was the founding and joining of religious guilds as mutual societies designed to support their members’ physical needs in this world and spiritual welfare in the next. Disapproving moralists noted, above all, the way that the peasantry, taking advantage of the low rents and high wages that resulted from a dramatic fall in the population, grew rich, lazy and uppity. The last word – literally – is reserved for John Clynn, a Franciscan friar from Kilkenny. His chronicle represents the only detailed contemporaneous account of the impact of the Black Death in Ireland. Having recounted what be regarded as the especially severe ravages of the plague in the urban centres of Dublin and Drogheda, Clynn concluded his chronicle with a reflection on his own position, “waiting among the dead for death to come”, and offered the idea that he had provided additional unused parchment so that his work might be continued “if anyone is still alive in the future and any son of Adam can escape this pestilence”. Clynn’s self-conscious preparation for the onset of the plague, to which he did indeed apparently succumb, is one of the really vivid memorials of the real terror and tragedy that was the Black Death. History facts The population of London | In 1300 it was 100,000; by the 1370s, it was down to 40,000 Coinage | Edward III introduced the first gold coin – the noble – in 1343, and a new silver coin – the groat – in 1351 Wages | The Ordinance of Labourers of 1349 aimed to fix wages at pre-plague levels Key years: Other important events in the first half of the 14th century 1306 – Robert ‘the Bruce’ becomes King of Scots. He launches a major challenge to Edward I of England’s efforts to assimilate the northern kingdom into his “British empire”. Having previously made significant inroads into Scotland and defeated and executed the rebel leader William Wallace in 1305, now Edward’s apparent invincibility begins to be questioned openly. 1307 – Death of Edward I and accession of Edward II. Edward dies at Burgh by Sands in Cumberland on his way to yet another campaign against the Scots. Although his reputation has become somewhat tarnished in his last years, Edward is now mythologised as a new Arthur and held up as a model of kingship for his successors. Edward II makes an unpromising start to his reign and is soon locked in political dispute with the barons over the influence of his favourite, Piers Gaveston, whom they put to death in 1312. 1314 – Battle of Bannockburn. Edward II’s forces suffer humiliating defeat from Robert the Bruce. The Scots make effective use of the shiltrom, a tightly-packed contingent of infantry pikemen; English cavalry forces prove ill-disciplined and many prominent knights are cut down. Edward II’s subsequent withdrawal from Scotland leaves significant parts of northern England vulnerable to regular and devastating Scottish raids and creates much political discontent. 1320 – Declaration of Arbroath. A group of Scotland’s political leaders appeal to the pope for assistance, declaiming – in words that have had resonance ever since – that “as long as a hundred of us are left, we will never submit on any condition to English rule”. 1327 – Deposition of Edward II, accession of Edward III. The disastrous and tyrannical regime of Edward II and his cronies, the Despensers, is brought to a violent close in a coup led by his own wife, Isabella, and her lover, Roger Mortimer. Edward, taken prisoner while fleeing through Wales, is forced to abdicate the throne and is imprisoned at Berkeley Castle. A parliament called in the name of his 14-year-old son is summoned to Westminster and the new regime of Edward III begins. Edward II is subsequently murdered and buried at Gloucester Abbey (now the Cathedral), though some historians suggest that he escaped to the Continent. Isabella and Mortimer run the country for three years, but in 1330 Edward III launches an attack on Mortimer at Nottingham Castle, puts him to trial and execution, and assumes control of his regime. 1328 – Treaty of Edinburgh. The new regime of Edward III acknowledges the independence of Scotland. In the following year, Robert the Bruce dies, succeeded by his young son David II. Later, in 1333, Edward III re-opens the war in support of a rival claimant for the throne, Edward Balliol. 1337 – Beginning of the Hundred Years War. Tensions between the English and French crowns over the Plantagenet possessions in Aquitaine have rumbled on since the Treaty of Paris of 1259, and the English argue that the duchy should be theirs in full sovereignty, not a fief held under the lordship of the king of France. In 1337 Edward III renounces his homage to Philip VI of France for the duchy and sets about defending his rights there by force; for the first years of the war, however, diplomatic and military strategy is focused on the Low Countries and Northern France. In 1340 Edward announces himself king of France by right of descent, through his mother, from the house of Capet. 1346 – Battles of Crécy and Neville’s Cross. Edward III achieves a major victory over France’s Philip VI, at Crécy. His commanders in northern England capture David II of Scotland at Neville’s Cross. The victories transform Edward’s status, and the reputation of his armies, throughout Europe. 1348 – Foundation of the Order of the Garter. Edward III celebrates his recent military successes by setting up what remains today as England’s oldest and most important order of chivalry. More turning points in British history Read next: 1381: The Peasants' Revolt Go back: 1295: Edward I Consolidates English Rule <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2006/11/TP-Images-with-overlay8-71d7b44.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="The Peasants' Revolt of 1381 in England began in Brentwood, Essex as a protest at the collection of poll tax and reached a climax at Smithfield, London. Richard II (1367-1800) met the Kentish peasants who, under Watt Tyler (d1381), were demanding the end of serfdom. During the meeting William Walworth (d1385) Lord Mayor of London, wounded Wat Tyler who was taken to St Bartholomew's Hospital but was later dragged out of the hospital and beheaded. 19th century lithograph. (Photo by: Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty Images)" title="The Peasants' Revolt of 1381 in England began in Brentwood, Essex as a protest at the collection of poll tax and reached a climax at Smithfield, London. Richard II (1367-1800) met the Kentish peasants who, under Watt Tyler (d1381), were demanding the end of serfdom. During the meeting William Walworth (d1385) Lord Mayor of London, wounded Wat Tyler who was taken to St Bartholomew's Hospital but was later dragged out of the hospital and beheaded. 19th century lithograph. (Photo by: Universal History Archive/UIG via Getty Images)" /> The late Mark Ormrod was professor of history at the University of York and the author of The Reign of Edward III (revised edition, 2000), and co-editor of The Parliament Rolls of Medieval England (2005) and A Social History of England, 1200–1500 (2006) This article was first published in the October 2006 issue of BBC History Magazine