The entrance from the Market Place to what were once the Abbey precincts, where the churches of St. Lawrence and All Saints stand closely neighbouring one another, in one churchyard, is by the so-called Norman Gateway. There is not much left of the Norman work, the upper part being a half-timber building, apparently of the fifteenth century. The view into this corner from the Market Place is very picturesque, but it was better before the adjoining public library was built, a few years ago. Not only were some charmingly old-world houses destroyed to make way for it, but it is itself a building lamentably out of character with its surroundings. The church of St. Lawrence, very late in style and remarkable for the originality of its tower and spire, has some delicate and elaborate work; and in that of All Saints is the richly-panelled and fan-vaulted chantry built by Clement Lichfield, the last Abbot of Evesham, who lies here.
A relic of the Abbey of a more domestic character is seen in the lovely little building on Abbey Green called the Almonry. It was formerly the place where the almoners distributed their doles, and is of all periods from Early English to Perpendicular, its materials ranging from stone to timber, brick and plaster. Many generations have had something to say in the building of it, and the present has at the moment of writing these lines said yet another word, stripping off the plaster with which the front had been covered for some two centuries. The sturdy oak timbering is now uncovered, and is a revelation to many of unsuspected beauty. An ancient stone lantern is inside the building, which is now occupied as the “Rudge Estate Office.” Perhaps, now that these new and better ways with old buildings are revealing long-forgotten craftsmanship, attention will be turned to the ancient Booth Hall, or market-house, still standing in the Market Place, covered in like manner with plaster.
It would not be well to leave Evesham without referring to the greatest event in its history, the fierce battle fought here August 4th, 1265, at Greenhill, on the road to Worcester. Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, in arms against Henry the Third, and with the King himself a prisoner in his hands, lay at Evesham the night before with his army. De Montfort and his men were at mass early the next morning and then marched out to meet an enemy who outnumbered them and had cut off every avenue of escape. They were fighting for the popular cause, and De Montfort, Frenchman though he might be, was the chosen champion of English liberties. Privilege and the reactionaries had their way that day, for Prince Edward and his numerically superior and encircling army cut down De Montfort and his men in swathes. None asked or gave quarter on that fatal day. A large number hewed their way through and fled to the Castle of Kenilworth, but the old Simon and his son Henry were slain. The King himself was almost slain by mistake. The sculptured base of an obelisk on the site of the battle at Abbey Manor, Greenhill, portrays this incident, with the King’s words, “I am Henry of Winchester, your King. Do not kill me.”
“It is God’s grace!” exclaimed the dying De Montfort. The exultant enemy did not scruple to mutilate his body and to send portions of it about the country.
“Such,” says Robert of Gloucester,
“was the murder of Evesham, for battle none it was,
And therewith Jesus Christ ill pleased was,
As he showed by tokens grisly and good.”
In spite of the Ban of Kenilworth, which forbade the people to regard Simon de Montfort as a saint, and forbade them to pay reverence to his memory, the resting-place of what remains of him could be collected was before the High Altar of the Abbey Church, and there thousands prayed and miracles were performed. For generations his shrine was the best asset of the church and contributed largely to its rebuilding.
The next important warlike incident at Evesham was also the last; the assault and capture of the town in May 1645 by Massey, the Parliamentary Governor of Gloucester, in spite of a gallant defence by Colonel Legge and his small garrison of 700 men. It was a three-to-one business, for Massey had 2000 men at his disposal. Since then the town has had peace to follow that fruit-farming and market-gardening career which it has pursued with ever-increasing success for two centuries. There are not many tree- and bush-fruits uncultivated in the Vale of Evesham, whose deep rich soil yields abundantly to the growers’ efforts, but the plum is the speciality of this Vale. It is not like the fabled Arthurian Vale of Avalon, “where comes not hail nor frost”; for indeed the belated frosts of spring are the bugbear of the Evesham fruit-farmer, and he has been driven in self-defence of late years, to combat those nipping temperatures by burning nightly “smudges” of heavy oil, to take the sting out of the airs that would otherwise congeal his fruit-buds at the time of their setting, and thus ruin his prospect of a crop. The plum—and especially the yellow “egg plum”—is the Evesham speciality, and in April its blossom fills the Vale like snow. But there are comparatively few strangers who see that wonderful spectacle. If the close of April be kind, you may see it and rejoice, but if the month be going out in rain and wind, then it is better to be at home than on Cotswold or in this sink of alluvial earth below those hills. I was caught in April showers at Evesham, on a day that was “arl a-collied like,” as they say in these parts, meaning gloomy and overcast; and then “the dag came arn, an’ then et mizzled, an’ grew worser ’n worser, until et poured suthin tar’ble.” And there I stood long in one entry off the High Street until I was tired of it, and then in another, and thus having done Evesham by double entry, ended the unprofitable day by staying the night, while the wind raged, and it hailed and rained and snowed by turns and simultaneously. But the next morning was a glorious one, although the roads were full of puddles and strewn with plum-blossom ravaged from the orchards by those nocturnal blasts.