Inquests in Medieval
Domesday Book
makes its appearance in modern English publications almost on a daily basis. No
story about the countryside is complete without mentioning that Little
Twittering in the Marsh ‘appears in the
Domesday Book’ and estate agents, it seems, would be unable to sell a single
heritage executive home without a guarantee of inclusion in the great survey.
Earlier this year Domesday Book was declared a national treasure along with the
pub, cricket, and the mini skirt. It was also nominated as one of fifty book
that ’changed the world’ along with the Bible, the Koran and The Joys of Sex. All
peculiarly English. What is the more surprising is that Domesday Book
should be so regularly cited elsewhere. In the last couple of years it has been
held up in the Vietnam Daily News as a notable turning point in history; in an
Iraqi insurgents’ website
as evidence of the innate iniquity of the west; in
It might, then, come as some surprise to those who recognize the brand
that it was not the only survey, or inquisitio,
‘inquest’ as it was known, to survive from medieval
In the event, the Hundred Roll inquest was to prove almost the last of
a great series of regional and national surveys. In the early twelfth century
there were tax inquests in the
The records that survive from
these processes are basic sources for the history of
Geoffrey himself holds Wanborough. It is not
[part] of Esger's land. Swein and Leofwine, brothers,
held it of King Edward. It was then assessed at 7 hides; now at 3 hides. There
is land for 7 ploughs. There were 2 manors; now there is 1. In demesne is 1 plough; and 12 villans and 17
bordars with 8 ploughs. There is a church, and 8 slaves, and 6 acres of meadow,
[and] woodland for 30 pigs. The whole TRE was worth 7; afterwards 100s; now 7.
There are over
29,000 entries of this kind. Its arid statistics pale, however, compared with
the detail in the later sources. To take a passage at random.
In the Ragman Roll for
They
say that, although the bailiffs of
And you thought takeaways were a modern
invention! It is difficult to resist the allure of such passages, especially
when the principal offender in this case was a certain Walter Dragun! It is not surprising, then, that historians have
tended to invest them with particular authority. They see them as the product
of some peculiar legal process, no less than tried and tested truth.
This
tendency is most apparent in Domesday studies. Until recently it has been held
as axiomatic that Domesday Book had always been intended as a comprehensive
survey of title and land. William the Conqueror demanded information about his
new realm and through sheer force of will brought it
about. Reading many accounts it is almost as if he clicked his fingers to
activate the well-oiled machine of English local government, and, within the
constraints of the system, it smoothly produced the goods in extra-quick time
to his command. To a greater or lesser degree all the surveys of the Middle
Ages have been viewed in this way. They are seen as a product of strong
kingship which brooked no opposition and got what it wanted.
This view is fostered by the
undoubted extensive use of inquest records in routine administration throughout
the period. Much of the business of the Domesday inquest survives only in the
abstract that was Domesday Book. Throughout the medieval period and beyond it
was a basic source of reference in the Exchequer. So it was with most of the
other inquests. The early twelfth-century surveys were transmitted through
private archives, but the Carte Baronum were
abstracted in the Red Book of the Exchequer and the inquests from 1195 to 1255
in the Testa de Neville, another book of reference in the Exchequer. The
verdicts of 1274-5 and 1279-80 alone survive in large numbers and even there
much is extant only in extract rolls. To all appearances the records were
produced for the exclusive use of royal government.
And so the abstracts were. In all cases, however, (I would include
Domesday Book here) these abbreviations were bureaucratic afterthoughts,
sometimes as much as a hundred years after the event, which sucked the life out
of the original inquest records. Where the originals survive we glimpse a very
different process. First of all, the inquest was no automaton. Its procedure,
the way in which it was conducted, reveals the active involvement of the
community at every level. In essence it remained remarkably consistent
throughout the period. A series of questions, the capitula, were first
drawn up and commissioners were appointed to put them to representatives of the
local communities. It was the men of the hundred, a group on average of twenty
villages or so, that answered them. It might appear from many of the rolls that
are validated with their seals that the answers, the veredicta or 'verdicts', were passive responses to the articles of
inquiry. They typically rehearse the capitula
and then curtly record the reply of the jurors.
'They say that they know nothing' is perhaps the commonest answer. But
laconic statements of this kind conceal a more complex and active process. The
sessions before the commissioners were largely formal occasions that came after
a long process of data collection and that was predominantly communal and even
personal. We draw on Domesday evidence here, Roger of Hoveden’s
account of the carucage of 1198, rolls from 1274-5, and a number of reference in between. Initial inquiries were conducted
locally by what came to be called inquisitores
milites, enquiring knights – they
were probably called thegns of the shire in 1086 - and representatives
of the vill as well as individuals were invited to voice their concerns. Querele
or individual complaints were a constant throughout the period. A composite
verdict was then drawn up and it was this that was endorsed by the jurors of
the hundred. Almost all are well-drafted fair copies. The hundred, then,
functioned as the mouthpiece of the community at large, marshalling its
concerns, formulating them, and then presenting them to the commissioners.
Something very like this procedure, it is true, was used in routine
legal processes from the twelfth century onwards (the evidence is wanting for
the earlier period). Hundreds and vills gave evidence in the sheriff’s tourn, the periodic review of policing, and subsequently in
the general eyre, the visitation of royal justices,
in reply to a set of questions. Here, however, the capitula were
standard, often formulaic, and the answers the vill and hundred gave were
checked against existing documents. At all levels of administration detailed
records were routinely kept. The sheriff and justices were asking questions to
which they already knew the answers. One gets the impression that the idea was
to catch the jurors out and fine them!
The inquests, by contrast, were genuine inquiries. They were
commissioned because there were no answers: either records were wanting or the
local royal administration could not be trusted to supply them. The local
community was a perfect foil to vested interest, bureaucratic blindness, and
good old plain ignorance. Nevertheless, its participation can rarely have been
entirely disinterested or, indeed, uninterested. All the surveys under
consideration were concerned with the king’s income, and many were exclusively
so. It is difficult to see what the hundred got out of the survey of capital
fees in 1212. (It was, of course, a different matter for the knights of the
shire, but there again we have only summaries of the returns). In 1255,
however, the recitation of royal prerogative served to confirm communal rights
by the mere fact of defining its limits. Know thy enemy and thereby tie him
down. In the later Middle Ages the device became a potent means of establishing
individual rights against the crown.
Other surveys, though, more directly recognized the voice of the
community. The hundred’s verdicts became the touchstone of further action.
Domesday is a prime example, making better sense as communal business than
exclusively royal. In 1085 William the Conqueror was in a fix. Invasion from
Or so I read the evidence. Communal
business is more explicit in the Inquest of Sheriffs of 1170. Here the process
began with a purge of local officials and the arrest of over two thirds of the
sheriffs in the country. Local communities, who had suffered most at their
hands, were then invited to detail their crimes, that is, dish the dirt. They
were effectively used as a check on the workings of local government and
seigneurial administration. So it was again in 1258. Local officials, both
royal and baronial, had been running roughshod over the sensibilities of local
communities at a time when Henry III was attempting to rule without the counsel
of his barons. A reform programme, the Provisions of Oxford, was drawn up and
the inquest was commissioned to identify abuses. The returns were used to help
redefine relations between the king and his subjects as embodied in the Provisions
of Westminster of 1259. In 1274-5 the target was additionally bailiffs of all
kinds who had taken advantage of the chaos of the civil war in the decade
before to oppress opponents. Again, the returns were used in the drafting of
the Statute of Westminster I which attempted to remedy the abuses by
introducing structural reforms in local administration.
In all these cases the
inquests were fact-collecting exercises which were precursors to further
action, be it social, legal, or legislative. They were no simple stock-taking
by a powerful centralized bureaucracy. Their force came from the fact that they
were a powerful alliance between the crown and community against particular
interests. For the king they provided an audit of regalia and a check on his
ministers. For the communities of his realm they offered a definition of rights
and the hope of a redress of grievances.
The meeting of government and the governed,
then, was at the heart of the inquest and therein lay its power and raison d’être.
Far from being the expression of strong government, the inquest often signals a
king in difficulties. Kirkby’s Quest of 1284 was to be the last of the great
general inquests, but of course it was not to be the last of the crises. The
hundred was to continue to be consulted on various matters well into the
fifteenth century, but its role became increasingly formal. From the late
thirteenth century it was superseded by Parliaments which became the main and
then only forum in which the king met and consulted his subjects. The inquest
belongs properly to the pre-history of Parliament: it was a potent means of
consultation in a world in which power still resided in the localities.
How, then, to read the surveys? Where inquests are seen as executive
processes, then the data are transparent. Domesday becomes a series of simple
estate surveys, the Ragman Rolls a simple record of wrongs, and so on. But as
collections of data for subsequent negotiation, they become more subtle and
indeed interesting. Clearly they were ‘true’ in the sense that every attempt
was made to ensure that the information was accurate, but none of the facts
were tried and tested. One man’s truth was another man’s livelihood.
Some matters did eventually reach court and determinations were made.
By necessity, however, the task of assessment largely falls upon us as
historians. Often the process is next to impossible since the context is lost.
The purpose of inquiries is not always obvious from the content. It is only the
chance survival of the so-called summaries, statistical digests of the lands of
certain tenants-in-chief, in other sources that hint that service and geld were
central to the negotiations conducted in
But given context, then interpretation can begin. The prominence of
claims in Domesday Book has suggested to many that the
Domesday inquest must have been about title to land. What is now clear is that
none of the claims represent judgements (although, of course, they might be the
precursors to routine legal action). Very few are formally recognized in the
texts. They are merely the presentments that were put forward by the
representatives of the shire and there is therefore no necessity to see them as
anything more than the querele that all inquests generated. They are the
background noise, if you like, of the inquest process. Rather I have recently
argued that the Domesday inquest was not about land or, strictly speaking,
lordship at all per se. Its concerns were confined to land that was
assessed to the geld and service. This might appear a trifling matter until it
is realized that both lords and free men held land that was assessed to
neither. Such unassessed lands are largely absent from the text. The accounts
of estates, then, represent the community’s perception of what rightfully owed
geld and service and what did not.
Communal perception is central to all inquest records and sometimes it
led to contradictions. The hundred tried to present a united front, but
sometimes it found it impossible to do so. Difference in opinion is most
apparent in the Ragman Rolls. The passage already quoted from one of the
When interpreted thus the inquest can provide
a rich insight into the workings of English medieval society. Consultation was as real then as it is
today. And, yes, the voice of the people was as often ignored In 1086 the verdict of Robert of Hereford was
that ‘the land was vexed by much violence arising from the collection of the
king’s taxes’, while in 1275 the Dunstable chronicler opined of the Ragman
inquest that ‘nothing came of it’.ectations were often disappointed. But the
mechanism was no less important for that. Kings might try to rule without
consent and they might be successful for a while. Ultimately, however, they had
to consult if only to check the administrative monsters they had themselves
created. The inquest was the means that English kings used when power still
rested in the hundred. With a shift of that power and the wealth that went with
it to the shire and towns, the inquest was superseded by Parliaments.
©David Roffe 2006