Before ever the ‘representative Parliament’ came into being, awareness of social and political realities had always ensured that English kings would have recourse, whenever they deemed it necessary, to a national assembly from which to obtain, by counsel and consent, support for both domestic and external policies. Called, with the passage of time, by different names—witenagemot in the Anglo-Saxon period, curia regis under the Norman and Angevin kings, and parliamentum from the reign of Henry III onwards—such an assembly always included prelates (the archbishops and bishops, and, until the dissolution of the monasteries, a number of abbots and priors), secular magnates of divers degrees and, as another essential element, members of the judiciary. Together they embodied such an impressive concentration of experience, knowledge and expertise of various kinds as could reasonably be expected to provide sound advice upon which social, political and other decisions might be reached by the King and his government. By the end of the 14th century their two main categories were being described as ‘the lords spiritual’ and ‘the lords temporal’; and, even if they happened to be high officials of state or members of the King’s continual Council, these lords were summoned by individual writs, issued by the Chancery under the great seal, attendance being owed as a directly personal obligation (unless it was formally excused). In certain respects, however, the criteria observed by the Chancery in determining whom to summon in this way were affected by changing circumstances.
The prelates attending Parliament themselves fell into two distinct groups, made up, respectively, of the episcopate and the heads of monastic houses. The archbishops of Canterbury and York and all the other 19 bishops of England and Wales were always summoned, unless they were abroad (in remotis agens), in which case the writ was addressed to the vicar-general of the diocese. If a see was vacant, the writ went to the keeper of the spiritualities.
The establishment of the criteria by which secular magnates were summoned to the national assembly had a somewhat longer, and certainly more complicated, history behind it. Earls and, eventually, lay peers of higher rank (such as dukes) were always summoned as of right; and by the end of the 14th century the principle of hereditary succession to a place in Parliament had become so firmly established that the list of ‘lords of Parliament’ hardly changed at all from one assembly to the next. But this had by no means always been the case. In the 12th century, when the terms ‘barons’ and ‘baronage’, however elastic in their application, came to be used to describe all the lay nobles summoned to provide ‘common counsel’, the basic criterion of selection was possession of lands held of the King in chief by barony (as set out in the Constitutions of Clarendon in 1164). When, in the Great Charter of 1215, an admission of the right to be summoned was exacted from King John, the definition was still couched in feudal terms: earls and ‘greater barons’ were to be summoned individually, and all other tenants-in-chief generally, through the sheriffs.
However, a combination of unusual circumstances (such as the extinction of lines, forfeitures, the amalgamation of lands and titles, minorities, and the absence of individual peers on foreign service or special royal duties, not to mention the political situation at any given moment), could affect the identity and, of course, the number of lay magnates summoned. And the number sometimes fluctuated a great deal, especially in the earlier years of the 14th century. Whereas 11 earls and 53 barons had been summoned to one or other of the two Parliaments of 1295, the prince of Wales, 11 earls and no fewer than 86 barons were called upon to attend Edward I’s last Parliament, at Carlisle in 1307 (when an expedition into Scotland was in prospect). Writs of summons for the first Parliament of Edward II’s reign, which met at Northampton in 1307, were dispatched to a total of nine earls and 71 barons. Thereafter, the general tendency was towards a reduction in numbers: to Edward III’s first proper Parliament, at Lincoln in 1327, six earls and 46 barons were summoned; to Richard II’s first, in 1377, the duke of Lancaster, 12 earls and 47 other secular lords; to Henry IV’s first, in 1399, the dukes of York, Aumâle, Surrey and Exeter, the marquess of Dorset, ten earls and 34 other lords; and to Henry V’s first, in 1413, six earls (the duke of Clarence was in France) and 32 others.
To go no further back in time than Edward III’s accession, it will have become clear that, unless the list of lay magnates was greatly reduced for special reasons, the number of bishops, abbots, priors and lay peers summoned to Parliament came to a large total. In 1327, this stood at 89; in 1377 at 106; in 1399 at 97; and in 1413 at 85 (but in 1414 at 98). Besides being composed of men of distinction, high social standing and considerable, sometimes immense, personal wealth, the Upper House constituted a formidably large assembly, at least potentially. But how many of those summoned actually came to Parliament?
All the same, this problem continued throughout Richard II’s Parliaments, and dogged those of Henry IV as well. Some bishops and many abbots seldom attended Parliament, and a few never came at all, while most of the lords, both spiritual and temporal, could sometimes prove remiss.
No such problems conspired to delay the Wonderful Parliament of 1386, which was opened by the chancellor (Michael de la Pole, earl of Suffolk) on the very day prescribed in the writs of summons. More bishops (13) attended on this occasion than had done so since the Northampton Parliament of November 1380;
For the years following the great crisis of 1388, when meetings of Parliament were, if not all of them peaceful, certainly less stressful occasions, little evidence is available about the lords’ attendance in general, although we do know how the bishops fared. Their record seems to have deteriorated: in each of the Parliaments of 1393 and 1394 only nine put in an appearance, with no more than 12 all told coming to one or the other, and as few as six to both.
So far as the vexed question of the lords’ attendance was concerned, the next Parliament, held in the following September, provided a contrast which, in the circumstances, can only have been expected. Richard II, who had recently been demonstrating once again his high and wide-ranging personal conception of the royal prerogative, was now bent upon the annulment of the principal acts of the two Parliaments (that of 1386 and the Merciless Parliament of 1388) which had not only brought it into contempt, but had, effectively, set it at naught. He was also determined, using Parliament as his instrument, to reactivate the procedures used in the Merciless Parliament (appeals of treason and impeachments resulting in trials before the lay peers) to revenge himself against those magnates who, in the course of the long constitutional and political crisis of 1386-9, had been mainly responsible for his humiliation. It was not until the second session of the Parliament, at Shrewsbury in January 1398, that all the acts of the Merciless Parliament were annulled; but the first had seen the invalidation of the parliamentary commission of 1386, and also, successfully from the King’s point of view, the trials for treason of the duke of Gloucester and the earls of Arundel and Warwick (the leading Lords Appellant of 1387-8) and Archbishop Arundel (chancellor in 1386-9).
Under these circumstances, and especially in view of Richard’s highly volatile temper, any absentee from the Upper House would have been running a grave personal risk; and, in fact, there is clear evidence that, in the first session at least, attendance was good, probably even far better than on any occasion since the Merciless Parliament itself. For one thing, the turn-out of the bishops was a distinct improvement upon anything since 1388: out of the 21 summoned, as many as 16 came to Parliament (St. David’s had died before it met, Lincoln and also Bath and Wells had exemptions, and Coventry and Lichfield was at the Roman Curia, leaving only Rochester unaccounted for). Indeed, no less than 14 bishops were present at the ceremony in Westminster abbey with which the first session ended on 30 Sept., when, following a mass, and before the altar of the Confessor’s shrine, the lords spiritual and temporal swore to maintain all the enactments of the session. Only Archbishop Arundel, who had just been impeached and condemned to forfeiture and exile, and Bishop Despenser of Norwich were then absent. It is possible that a royal writ of 14 Aug., ordering the Convocation of Canterbury to meet in London on 1 Oct. had encouraged the bishops of the province to attend Parliament by providing them with an additional incentive to make the journey, although a similar writ, instructing the northern Convocation to meet at York on 10 Oct., had not deterred Archbishop Waldby and his two suffragans of Durham and Carlisle from coming to Parliament, and all three were on hand to take the oath in Westminster abbey.
Parliament was next summoned, to meet at Westminster on 30 Sept. 1399, by writs dated at Chester on 19 August. Richard II, in whose name they were issued, had by then been taken prisoner; and he was still in Henry of Bolingbroke’s custody (having been moved to the Tower of London) when those who responded to the summons arrived on the appointed day to accept his abdication, sanction his deposition, and recognize Henry’s claim to succeed him. Since the writs were deemed to have been automatically invalidated by Richard’s abdication, this assembly could not, however, be regarded as a Parliament; and, in any case, if the Lords and Commons then present were to constitute the new King’s first Parliament, strict legality required them to be summoned again, in his name. Consequently, new writs were issued on the same day (30 Sept.), summoning Parliament to meet on 6 Oct., when the session was formally opened, only to be instantly prorogued until 14 Oct., the day after Henry’s coronation.
Although the evidence for attendance at Henry IV’s subsequent Parliaments is scanty, it at least supports the conclusion that deficiencies were mostly attributable to the regular clergy and barons. Certainly, the episcopal bench was rarely at fault. No fewer than 16 of the 19 bishops summoned to Henry’s second Parliament, in January 1401, were present at some time or other; and an attendance at the next, in September 1402, of two out of every three bishops (14 out of 21) was again quite satisfactory. Admittedly, a decline then set in, and at Westminster in January 1404 and at Coventry in October following those bishops who came were in a minority (only eight for sure on the first occasion, as few as seven on the second). For the rest of Henry’s reign, however, episcopal attendance followed a generally upward trend. In the long Parliament of 1406 as many as 14 out of the 17 bishops originally summoned put in an appearance during one or other of the three sessions, with only Norwich, Salisbury, and Coventry and Lichfield figuring as persistent absentees. Whereas a mere nine of the 15 summoned travelled to Gloucester in 1407, 15 out of 20 attended the first session of the Parliament of January 1410 (barely half of them, however, turning out for the second session after Easter); the Parliament of November 1411 saw a combined presence of 13; and Henry’s last Parliament, terminated by his death in March 1413, attracted at least 15 (with four bishops unaccounted for, but only one definitely absent).
Evidence for the attendance of the temporal peers between 1401 and 1413 is, unfortunately, largely confined to the Parliaments of 1401 and 1406. At the start of the first, Chief Justice William Thirning declared the causes of summons and then proceeded to warn both Lords and Commons that nobody should absent themselves, or even leave town at all, at any point in the session, and that they should all, moreover, put in a prompt appearance every day. Of course, Thirning may simply have been eager for Parliament to do its work efficiently, rather than being concerned about any initial absenteeism as such. And, as we have seen, the attendance of the bishops in 1401 gave no cause for anxiety. Nor did that of the higher nobility. For when, early in March, towards the end of the Parliament, all the lords temporal present were party to a judgement of treason against the pro-Ricardian magnates who had either been killed during the futile revolt of January 1400 or executed soon afterwards, they comprised the prince of Wales, Edmund, duke of York, and no fewer than eight out of the ten earls summoned (the aged Warwick, who died a month later, and Devon, who had gone blind, being the only absentees). Conversely, of the remaining 36 members of the baronage, no more than 14 were on hand, although another two (Lords Roos and Cobham), who figure in the lists of triers of petitions, should no doubt also be added, thus bringing the total number of lay peers known to have attended the Parliament to 26: that is barely half of the 48 summoned. Our other useful source of information derives from the second session of the long Parliament of 1406, when, on 7 June, the lords spiritual and temporal sealed an exemplification of the statute entailing the Crown on Henry IV’s sons and their heirs male.
Little is known about the attendance of the lords as a whole in Henry V’s Parliaments, although the bishops maintained a respectable turn-out, being never less than a majority of those actually summoned. Eight was the lowest number ever present (in 1417 when, however, the bishops of Winchester, London, Norwich, Bath and Wells, and Coventry and Lichfield were attending the General Council at Constance, and the sees of Salisbury and Chichester were vacant); and the highest was in the Parliament of May 1421, where Henry V was present for the first time in nearly five years, a factor bound to encourage attendance generally. On this occasion, as many as 14 bishops came to Parliament and, had not one of the bench (Hereford) been at the Papal Curia, another (Rochester) probably in France, and the see of Chichester again vacant, there might well have been more.
Another question, arising from the general problem of attendance in the medieval House of Lords, concerns the extent to which the sworn members of the King’s Council (who were under a particular obligation to take part in proceedings) managed either to swell the ranks when the turn-out was already quite good, or make up for the lack of numbers when it was poor. Admittedly, the surviving evidence is defective, since the full constitution of the Council is not always known, and only on special occasions (as we have seen) were individual lords attending Parliament listed. These two types of information, moreover, seldom coincide in point of time, so there are relatively few opportunities for direct comparison. When, however, this is possible, the conclusions are revealing. For instance, of the 14 bishops, including Archbishop Waldby of York, who swore oaths in Westminster abbey on 30 Sept. 1397 to uphold the Acts passed during the session, four were royal councillors; so were five of the seven dukes; and of the eight earls then present Worcester (Thomas Percy, steward of the Household) and Wiltshire (William le Scrope, chief chamberlain) also sat on the Council.
Converted in May 1406 into an almost exclusively aristocratic body, the Council was to retain this character for the rest of Henry IV’s reign and a major part of Henry V’s. Only once again before 1422, however, was it actually nominated in Parliament, on 2 May 1410, when Henry IV, after a first, unsuccessful attempt to compose a Council of his own personal preference, nominated advisors acceptable to the prince of Wales. Besides the prince, who was to be its head, this Council comprised Bishops Beaufort of Winchester, Langley of Durham and Bubwith of Bath and Wells, the earls of Arundel and Westmorland, Lord Burnell and, among the ex officio councillors, another peer, Lord Scrope, the treasurer. A week later (on the day of Parliament’s dissolution), the bishop of Durham and the earl of Westmorland were needed on the Scottish border and thus ceased to be available, so Bishop Chichele of St. David’s and the earl of Warwick were recruited instead.
The above survey of the composition of the Upper House in the Parliaments of the 14th and early 15th centuries reveals that, although the writs of summons individually addressed to the lords spiritual and temporal persistently emphasized the need for personal attendance, this was often far from complete. Indeed, there were times when almost as many lords failed to attend Parliament as those who came; and, at least occasionally, the turn-out was so poor that the government had to resort to threats of fines. Evidence of absenteeism points to the reluctance of all but a few of the parliamentary abbots ever to attend in person (it being easier to appoint proxies), and also to the indifference shown by many lesser nobles of baronial rank. Not surprisingly, great political crises (such as those of 1388, 1397 and 1399) proved a spur to all save the monastic prelates, but whenever, on other occasions, attendance was at all satisfactory, this was mainly to the credit of the episcopate and higher nobility, a clear majority of whom did discharge their duty at most times in an exemplary fashion. It is also clear that whether or not the lords spiritual and temporal in general were conscientious, those who put in a regular appearance invariably included, as a matter of practical, governmental necessity, bishops and lay magnates on the royal council; and, being specially obliged to attend, they might well be roughly a quarter of all the lords present. Obviously, the peers who were councillors constituted a minority, but at least they guaranteed a basic presence in the Upper House. Indeed, without them, attendance in the Lords would have been even more unsatisfactory than, demonstrably, it so often was. In the Lower House on the other hand, attendance seems to have been less irregular, even though the Commons did not have to be present in their entirety to outnumber all the lords spiritual and temporal. There was always a far greater number, collectively, of commoners, most of whom, individually, counted for less than members of the peerage.
