In April 1303, one of the most daring burglaries in English history took place within the walls of Westminster Abbey. Thieves broke into the treasury of King Edward I’s Wardrobe and made off with nearly a year’s worth of tax revenue collected over the entire Kingdom of England. At the time, the King and most of his forces were away waging war in Scotland, leaving the royal coffers seemingly secure but ultimately vulnerable.
The scale of the crime only became apparent when priceless treasures began surfacing in the most unexpected places—pawnshops, brothels, and even tangled in fishermen’s nets along the Thames. What followed was one of the largest trials of the High Middle Ages in England, leading to the arrest of many and the execution of some half a dozen men. At the center of the heist was a man named Richard of Pudlicott, the supposed mastermind, who bore a very personal grudge against the King.
“North West View of Westminster Abbey” by an unknown artist. Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons
Richard of Pudlicott was a traveling merchant who dealt in various goods, including wool, cheese, and butter. In 1298, his trade took him to the great cloth-producing towns of Flanders, where he hoped to sell England’s finest wool. Like many wool merchants of the time, Richard was under immense financial strain due to the heavy taxes King Edward I had recently imposed on wool exports to fund England’s ongoing wars. To make matters worse, a devastating outbreak of disease among sheep had severely reduced the country’s wool supply, leaving many traders with little to no reserves to fall back on.
A year earlier, in August 1297, King Edward had sailed to Flanders with an army, intending to launch an offensive against France. However, once there, he found his allies unreliable, and his campaign ended in failure. The King had hired mercenaries and accumulated significant debts to Flemish and Italian financiers, but without military success, those debts remained unpaid. In retaliation, Flemish authorities seized the goods of every English merchant in the region, attempting to recover the money owed to their traders and moneylenders.
Richard was among those who lost everything. Stripped of his precious cargo and left in financial ruin, he returned to London, seething with resentment. Desperate and determined to seek redress, he made his way to Westminster to demand compensation from the King for his losses.
Richard did not meet the King, for he was in Scotland waging yet another war. Instead, he was received by John Shenche, the Keeper of the King’s Palace at Westminster, and his deputy, William Palmer—a man of dubious reputation. In the King’s absence, Shenche and Palmer frequently indulged themselves, inviting friends over to drink their fill of the royal wine and ale while feasting on provisions from the King’s pantry. The monks of Westminster Abbey, unable to resist the temptation of revelry, often joined in these drunken gatherings. Before long, Richard became a familiar face at these debauched affairs, and wel known among the monks.
Plan of the Westminster Abbey and Palace, from “A Mediaeval burglary” by Thomas Frederick Tout.
As time passed, Richard grew increasingly comfortable within the Abbey’s grounds. It was not unusual for him to wander the premises unsupervised, blending in with the daily life of the monastery. One day, while strolling through the cloisters, he noticed a group of monks preparing for dinner, carefully setting the table with gleaming silverware. The sight lingered in his mind. A few days later, he spotted a ladder propped against the palace wall. Seizing the opportunity, he repositioned it beneath a window of the chapter house, climbed inside, and made his way to the refectory. There, he helped himself to several silver plates and cups, which he quickly sold for a tidy sum.
For the next nine months, Richard lived off his stolen wealth, but by the end of 1302, he was once again destitute and desperate. Stealing from the monks was no longer an option—he had come to know and like them, and besides, another theft from the Abbey would surely raise suspicion. Instead, he set his sights on a far more ambitious target: the King’s treasury.
The King’s treasury, known as the Wardrobe, was housed in a crypt beneath the Chapter House within Westminster Abbey. Originally, the Wardrobe had been just that—a chamber where the King stored his clothing and valuables, typically located next to the royal bedchamber. Over time, as the King’s chamber became a meeting place for his closest advisers, the Wardrobe evolved into a powerful administrative body of its own right, responsible for safeguarding royal robes, treasures, archives, and armaments.
The crypt itself was one of the most secure rooms in Westminster. In some places, its walls were an imposing 13 feet thick. Entry was originally possible only via a stairway that had been deliberately broken at one point, requiring a ladder to bridge the gap. Access to this stairway was through the church, making unauthorized entry all but impossible.
After carefully considering his options, Richard realized that his best chance of reaching the treasury was not through the church or the stairway—but by tunnelling through the massive walls of the crypt itself.
According to his later confession, Richard spent months hacking through the crypt’s thick walls, working alone under the cover of darkness during the harsh winter nights and early spring. To conceal his efforts, he claimed to have sown hemp seeds in the churchyard near the hole, allowing the rapidly growing plants to shield his excavation from prying eyes. By late April 1303, after months of labour, he finally broke through.
Illustration of the crypt, also known as the Pyx Chamber, where the King’s Treasury was located. Illustration by Herbert Railton (1857-1910). Image credit: Wikimedia Commons
On April 24, Richard entered the crypt for the first time and was awestruck by the riches before him—baskets, chests, and vessels overflowing with gold and silver plate, relics, jewels, and other treasures. He remained inside for two nights, carefully selecting what to take, and on the morning of April 26, he slipped away with as much as he could carry.
But Richard’s account raises several problems. First, it is highly unlikely that hemp seeds sown in December would have grown tall enough during an English winter to provide the cover he described. More critically, tunnelling through 13 feet of stone, alone and unnoticed for months, seems implausible given the Abbey’s bustling surroundings. But the most damning inconsistency was the fact that there was no gaping hole in the crypt!
The far more likely scenario is that Richard had help from within. Suspicion fell on Adam of Warfield, the sacrist of the Abbey, who held the keys to its doors and gates. At the time of the robbery, Adam had ordered the Abbey gates closed, as if to protect those attempting to get into the treasury. While Richard and his accomplices emptied the King’s coffers, Adam refused entry to anyone seeking passage, including a farmer who had paid for grazing rights in the Abbey wastelands and townspeople needing access to the Abbey latrine.
It has long been speculated that Richard was not acting alone, that several monks and Abbey servants were complicit in the heist. Many more, including “half the neighbours,” may have at least known of the crime, if not actively participated in it.
The theft remained undetected for nearly two months, but eventually, fragments of the stolen treasure began surfacing in the most unexpected places. A fisherman on the Thames pulled a silver goblet from his nets. Expensive cups, dishes, and other valuables were found hidden behind tombstones in the churchyard. Boys playing in nearby fields stumbled upon pieces of silver plate concealed beneath hedgerows. Some of the missing treasures even turned up as far away as York.
At last, word of the theft reached King Edward and his ministers, who were encamped at Linlithgow during the Scottish campaign. The King appointed a special commission of judges to investigate the crime. On June 20, John Droxford, Keeper of the Wardrobe, arrived at Westminster with the keys to the crypt and began a full examination of its contents.
The Pyx Chamber today. Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons
By the time Droxford set to work, many of the stolen items had already been quietly returned, likely by those overcome with guilt or fear of discovery. However, not all of the missing treasures had made their way back voluntarily. Some were found hidden beneath the beds of the palace keeper and his assistants. Still more turned up in the lodgings of Richard of Pudlicott and his mistress. Adam the sacrist, along with several monks and their servants, was also found in possession of stolen valuables.
Then came the arrests. Forty-eight monks, including the abbot, were indicted and sent to the Tower of London, along with thirty-two other individuals. The King’s investigators cast a wide net, sweeping up not only those directly involved but also many who were either innocent or only loosely connected to the crime. Most were eventually released.
In the end, Richard was found guilty, and several others—including William and certain monks—were declared his accomplices. In March 1304, eleven months after the burglary, William and five other culprits were hanged.
The greatest challenge, however, was deciding what to do with the monks. In medieval England, clerics could only be tried in ecclesiastical courts, and the King was reluctant to provoke the Church by subjecting them to secular justice. Even Richard, who had been tonsured in his youth, attempted to claim benefit of clergy—a legal protection that could spare him from execution. Richard and the monks remained imprisoned for two years while the King deliberated on how to handle the sensitive matter. He also had more pressing matters at hand—the war in Scotland.
In the spring of 1305, King Edward returned from his successful conquest of Scotland and was relieved to find that Richard of Pudlicott had penned a confession taking sole responsibility for the crime and absolving the monks of any wrongdoing. Whether this confession was an act of genuine loyalty to his monastic brethren or the result of coercion remains unknown. What is certain is that Richard had become the scapegoat.
Edward gladly accepted Richard’s version of events, as it provided a convenient resolution to the affair without provoking further conflict with the Church. Most of the stolen treasure had been recovered, and with no significant losses incurred, the King saw little reason to pursue the matter further. Rather than risk a scandal, he chose to let the matter slide.
All the imprisoned monks were eventually released, while Richard was hanged as the sole perpetrator of the crime. According to some accounts, his skin was flayed from his body after his execution and nailed to the door of Westminster Abbey as a grim warning to others.
Some of the monks later recorded their own versions of the events. One such account, written by Robert of Reading which later became part of the Flores Historiarum, became the official monastic narrative of the burglary. Relying heavily on Richard’s confession, it reinforced the idea that a single thief had stolen the King’s treasure, while the monks of Westminster had been unjustly imprisoned, persecuted, and made to suffer.
“The callousness of the monks and their arrogance are truly breathtaking. They had betrayed their colleague, companion and associate and, once he was dead, they continued to fashion the legend,” writes P. C. Doherty.
A crude illustration depicting Richard of Pudlicott stealing valuables through a window in the crypt.
The King learned little from the events of 1303. John Shenche, one of the prime suspects, was reinstated as Keeper of the King’s Palace at Westminster. However, the Treasury was permanently relocated from the Abbey to the Tower of London, and the crypt where it had once been stored fell into disuse.
At Westminster Abbey, the aftermath of the scandal left a legacy of resentment and discord among the monks. Shortly before Richard’s execution, the prior died and was succeeded by Reginald de Hadham, whose relationship with Abbot Walter of Wenlock quickly soured. Their rivalry would dominate Abbey affairs for years to come.
In 1307, Abbot Wenlock died, but his appointed successor faced staunch opposition from Hadham and his faction. Tensions escalated to such a degree that the new king, Edward II, was forced to intervene, sending royal justices into the Abbey to restore order.
While the Abbey suffered internal turmoil after the scandal, the broader relationship between the monarchy and the Church remained intact. Edward I continued to rely on ecclesiastical support for his wars and governance, and the Crown’s overall authority over the Church in England remained unchallenged. In the long run, the robbery proved to be little more than a temporary embarrassment—one that, like Richard of Pudlicott himself, was soon forgotten.
References:
# Paul Doherty, The Great Crown Jewels Robbery of 1303: The Extraordinary Story of the First Big Bank Raid in History.
# Thomas Frederick Tout, A Mediaeval Burglary
Wonderful story.
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