The Edict of Expulsion

On July 18, 1290, King Edward I of England signed an order that would force every Jew in the kingdom to leave. It was called the Edict of Expulsion, and it came down like a hammer. The king’s signature sealed the fate of about 3,000 men, women, and children. They were told to be gone by All Saints’ Day, November 1, or else.

This didn’t come out of nowhere. Jews had been living in England for over 200 years, since William the Conqueror invited them after the Norman invasion. They weren’t just tolerated. They were essential to the economy. The Church banned Christians from lending money at interest, but Jewish law allowed it. So Jews became the lenders of last resort. They financed castles. They kept the wheels of the royal court turning. They were the lifeblood of credit in a kingdom that was always short on coin.

But their position came with a catch. Jews were not free citizens. They belonged to the king, legally speaking. He could tax them as he pleased, seize their wealth without warning, imprison them, or protect them, depending on how useful they were at the moment. They were a tool in the king’s financial toolbox. And by the time Edward came to power, that tool was dull, worn out, and deeply unpopular.

By the mid-thirteenth century, resentment was rising. Antisemitism was fanned by wild tales like the blood libel, false accusations that Jews were kidnapping Christian children for ritual murder. When these stories got traction, mobs formed. In 1190, the Jewish community of York was massacred. Nearly every Jew in the city was killed at Clifford’s Tower. And although the violence slowed for a time, it never really disappeared.

The Church helped make things worse. The Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 required Jews to wear badges. England adopted the policy shortly after, forcing Jews to mark themselves with a yellow patch shaped like the tablets of the Ten Commandments. The Church forbade Jews from building new synagogues, banned them from most professions, and pushed the idea that Jews were enemies of Christ.

Under King Henry III, Jews were squeezed dry. The crown needed money, so it taxed the Jewish community heavily. By the time Edward came to power, the well had nearly run dry. The Jewish population had been forced to sell off debts at reduced prices. Rich courtiers scooped them up, called them in, and took land when people couldn’t pay. The result was a public relations disaster. The Jews got the blame, even though the real profiteers were Christian lords and the crown itself.

Edward tried to shift the economy. In 1275, he issued the Statute of Jewry, which outlawed moneylending and gave Jews fifteen years to reinvent themselves. They were supposed to become farmers or craftsmen. But most guilds didn’t allow Jews in, and they weren’t permitted to buy land. It was a setup for failure. Edward followed that up with more restrictions. Jews were herded into certain towns. They were banned from interacting with Christians beyond basic business. They were taxed for being Jewish. Preachers were sent to convert them, but few converted. The king’s patience ran out.

Then came the tipping point. Edward was deep in debt. He had been waging wars in Wales, Scotland, and Gascony. He needed cash, and Parliament knew it. The knights and gentry in Parliament didn’t like paying taxes, but they hated the Jews even more. So a deal was struck. Edward would expel the Jews. In return, Parliament would approve a massive tax, 116,000 pounds, the largest of the Middle Ages. Three days later, the edict was issued.

The timing wasn’t random. Edward signed it on the ninth of Av, a day of mourning in the Jewish calendar. It marks the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and other calamities. The symbolism was sharp. The king told his sheriffs to see that the Jews were gone before All Saints’ Day. They could take their personal belongings and money, but their homes, synagogues, and properties were forfeited. Some Jews were robbed as they left. Some were drowned trying to cross the channel. Pirates took others.

Many resettled in France, Italy, or Spain. Some even made it as far as Cairo. Their documents have turned up centuries later, scattered across the Jewish diaspora. Meanwhile, the English crown claimed their properties and debts, distributing them among the royal family and favored nobles. Queen Eleanor acquired vast tracts of land that had once belonged to expelled Jews. And Edward? He was praised for ridding the land of unbelievers.

The expulsion wasn’t reversed until 1656, when Oliver Cromwell quietly allowed Jews to return. Even then, it wasn’t through any formal law. England just pretended the edict didn’t exist. For more than 350 years, the country lived without a Jewish population. And it came to see that absence as a kind of virtue. England was “pure.” Its people began to believe that they had replaced the Jews as God’s chosen. That belief dug deep into the culture and stayed there.

In 2022, the Church of England issued a formal apology, not for the edict itself, but for its spiritual ancestor, the Synod of Oxford in 1222. That council had laid the groundwork, banning Jews from owning land, wearing regular clothes, and mingling with Christians. At a service in Oxford, the Chief Rabbi and church leaders gathered to acknowledge that shame. But the apology came with its own awkwardness. Some Christian leaders still viewed Jews as a conversion target, not as a people with their own faith and dignity. The apology fell flat in places, even as it tried to do right.

History doesn’t offer tidy endings. Edward I remains a figure of strength and power in English memory. He was a reformer, a crusader, a king who brought Wales to heel and made Parliament a permanent institution. But he was also a man who scapegoated a small, vulnerable community in exchange for money and political favor. The edict may have pleased his contemporaries, but it left a scar that has not fully healed.

What happened in 1290 was not just an act of state. It was a decision to trade justice for expediency, to use people as bargaining chips. That choice echoed through centuries.

And if we’re paying attention, it still speaks today.