“Mandatum novum do vobis.”
The King hears the words, as does every other being in the great Cathedral. They apply to all, but—tonight—to him in particular.
Sure enough, the King is shortly presented with a humble bowl of water. He gazes into its shallow dullness, then glances over at the most contemptible array of subjects gathered from this far-flung outpost of the Kingdom. From their matted hair, to their decrepit, weather-beaten features, down along the miserable sacks passing for clothing and finally to the bare, loathsome, ulcerous appendages he can just about recognise as feet…
He stifles a shudder. Can this be right? Perhaps this is all a mistake. I am God’s anointed… Lord, let this bowl pass from my…
No. It is right. It is commanded. Mandated.
“I give you a new commandment.”
King Edward—in his most honest moments—would concede he had not been the best student of the Holy Scripture, or even the weight of his own position in the Great Chain of Being. At his studies, he had been easily distractible…
But in his faith he was sincere, and this was not complicated: “Mandatum novum do vobis.”
Love one another.
And so Edward II—King of England; Duke of Aquitaine; Prince of Wales; Lord of Ireland—took up his bowl, knelt before the abject creatures assembled, and one by one, poured water over their feet.
Edward was practising pedilavium—literally “foot-washing.” It was he who introduced this act of de imitatione Christi to the annual Royal Maundy service in Rochester Cathedral during his tumultuous reign.
The lineage of Royal Maundy can be traced at least back to 600, and it is the most unlikely monarch of John who is first recorded as distributing Maundy Money—alms to needy subjects—at Knaresborough Cathedral in 1210, thus first identifying the ideal of Christian service as also a specifically kingly one. But with the practice of pedilavium, it was his tortured, pious great-grandson who truly embodied it.
And so it would continue. Like any tradition, Royal Maundy grew with time, accruing ever more subtraditions as various monarchs distinguished themselves by ever-more grandiose displays of humility. John’s issuing of 13 pence each to 13 men in 1213 had by 1363 sprawled into Edward III’s distribution of 50 pence each to 50 commoners, marking his own age of that year. A decree by Henry IV later made the monarch’s age the fixed determinant of the amount given.
Royal consorts also became known devotees of Maundy almsgiving, to the extent that Catherine of Aragon had to plead permission from her divorced husband that she might continue to “keep her Maundy”; only in 1536—five years after their separation—did he relent. Understandably then, Catherine’s daughter Mary became the monarch most renowned for her adherence to Royal Maundy. The devout 41-year-old Catholic performed pedilavium to forty-one common women “while ever on her knees,” plus donating the customary 41 pence to each along with food and clothing, including a gown of her own to a woman said to be the poorest. Mary’s half-sister Elizabeth was also a noted practitioner, though she opted for neat purses containing the Maundy Money to avoid unseemly graspings and tearings that had sometimes resulted from gifting royal garb.
It was in the Stuart era that the Royal Maundy traditions started to fray. Charles I was an infrequent attendee and of course everything went fine for him. His son Charles II for some reason thought it wise to steadfastly counteract this, even making sure to attend during the Great Plague year of 1665. The end for royal pedilavium was nigh, however; the last king to have practised it was his brother James II in 1685.
The reign of William and Mary presented an opportunity for paupers of both sexes to receive alms, as traditionally the beneficiaries were of the same sex as the Sovereign. From the reign of George I (1714-27), an equal number of men and women received donations, the number of each sex corresponding to the age of the King. So, in 1720, when George was 60, 60 men and 60 women each received 60 pence. (This would be economically interesting today in our times of perennially elder monarchs and 94 gender identities…)
The other significant thing about George’s Maundy practice was his absence; as notoriously German as he was disinterested in his island kingdom, the first Georgian king’s Maundy duties were deputised to the Lord High Almoner or even (ouch…) Sub-Almoner. The only Hanoverian who distinguishes himself here is William IV who kindly ensured that money—by that time, 30 shillings—was indeed given rather than foodstuffs worth that amount, as some naïve recipients had been found selling their gifts for less than their value. But it was not until the Second Georgian era that another monarch attended, and then only once—George V in 1932 (though less senior royals including Royal Consorts had done so).
In fact, the last recorded monarchical attendance had been 1698, four years before the death of William III due to a riding accident. Paining as may be for this loyal supporter of the 1688 Settlement to admit, it does seem that the fulsomeness of Royal Maundy was a casualty of the “Protestantization” of the monarchy. While one might whiggishly suggest that Parliamentary Sovereignty had negated any strict need, it’s clear that something special was lost.
Not forever though. Among the many distinctions of our much-mourned late Queen Elizabeth was her wholehearted revival of Maundy Money. Beginning in 1954, she attended Royal Maundy and presented—by that time, purely symbolic—alms to pensioners recognised by their parish churches for charity work. With characteristic diligence, she missed the service only four times prior to the 2020-21 pandemic, two of which she was represented by her mother. She also ensured geography would be no barrier to participation, decreeing that the ceremony not take place in London more than once in ten years; an act of levelling up before Dominic Cummings and Boris Johnson had ever been heard of. Leicester became the last Anglican Cathedral in England to host Royal Maundy in 2017. Her dedication to Maundy affirmed it as “part of the modern monarch’s armoury,” as Revd Dr. William Whyte put it.
So then, what of regiis pedilavium? Would that be so wacky in today’s cynical world? Its revival would be a taller order; if Her Late Majesty delivered resuscitation to Maundy Money, royal pedilavium would require full-blown resurrection.
Nonetheless, in no particular order, a case for its return:
Demonstrate the Christian ideal of the Servant King:
Church historian Bruce L. Shelley identified Christianity as “the only major religion to have as its central event the humiliation of its god.” If King Charles III wants to walk in the path of that God—and I have every confidence that he does—then what better way than kneeling before the least of his brothers—and sisters? Let’s not forget another religious leader’s success in recentring pedilavium: “This is a symbol, it is a sign—washing your feet means I am at your service,” Pope Francis told 12 convicts in his first Maundy Mass as Pontiff in 2013.
Inculcate the next generation:
Full disclosure, this is a hobby-horse of your writer’s, who spent the locked-down Maundy Thursday of 2020 blogging an embittered screed demanding lesser royals take a good course in “doing unto the least.” This would surely help weed out any entitled misconceptions that modern monarchy is about privilege before it is about service. Yes, recent iterations have been cut off and increasingly satirised out of the public eye, but prevention is better than cure. Henry III ensured all his children accompanied him for his Maundy duties. Wouldn’t that be more preemptive than relying on South Park and Prince Andrew: the Musical to clean up our mess?
Undercut the identarian-left:
We are never quite out of the republican woods, and the monarchy has survived partly through hypervigilance in narrative warfare. No, they’ll never convince everyone, but the little things royals do can accumulatively resonate. Consider the impact of the Firm’s “secret weapon,” the royal walkabout for instance. A YouGov survey of 2017 suggested up to a third of the British population had seen the Queen in real space: “That 20 million undergoes a compounding effect because, when you meet the world’s most famous woman, you want to share the experience,” argued Colin Brazier. Having your feet washed by a senior royal would certainly be a more niche ripple effect than handshakes on the Court Circular, but a profound one in its way. One thing I would not have considered in early 2020 was the impact it could have on Critical Race Theory-driven narratives. The royals can say little-to-nothing for or against the outlandish demands for “reparations” from baiting Caribbean politicians, but wouldn’t Prince William and Princess Catherine kneeling before ex-convicts in St. John’s Cathedral, Antigua, or Zara and Mike Tindall before OAPs in St. George’s Cathedral, the Windward Islands send a message about who’s really checking their privilege?
Just a thought.
NB: all credit for Royal Maundy research goes to Brian Robinson, “The Royal Maundy,” (1977), Virginia Cole, “Ritual charity and royal children in thirteenth century England,” (2002) and Revd. William Whyte (2010) https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2010/2-april/features/keepers-of-the-queen-s-purse
Colin Brazier on royal walkabout (2021): https://www.spectator.co.uk/article/the-queen-has-a-secret-weapon-in-the-war-of-the-waleses/
And for those with nothing better to do, Jason Plessas (2020): https://occidentalpartridge.blogspot.com/2020/04/maundy-monarchy-and-pedalavium.html
This article and other works on kingship, servitude and religion appeared in the Fellowship & Fairydust issue Happy & Glorious: A Royal Celebration.