The Weaponisation of Law

Author’s Note

This series is not written from a place of certainty, superiority, or ideological allegiance. It is written from curiosity – and from a growing discomfort with the stories we are taught about law, justice, and the structures that govern our lives. I am not asking anyone to accept my conclusions. I am asking only that readers pause, look again at what we have inherited, and consider whether the systems we assume to be neutral or protective truly function that way in practice.

My aim is not to persuade but to provoke thought; not to preach but to examine; not to offer a new dogma but to question the old ones. If this series succeeds in anything, I hope it is in encouraging readers to think for themselves, to interrogate the foundations of the legal world around them, and to explore ideas that sit outside the narrow boundaries of conventional discourse.

Preface

For as long as I can remember, I have been struck by the gap between what we are told law is and what it actually does. We are taught that law is a shield, a safeguard, a neutral arbiter standing above politics and power. Yet history tells a different story – one in which legal systems repeatedly emerge as instruments of hierarchy, centralisation, and control.

This series traces that story from its earliest roots to the present day, within the context of the legal system of England and Wales. It is not a nostalgic journey, nor a call to return to any earlier legal era. Every system of the past had its virtues and its failures. Instead, this is an exploration of the structure of law itself: how it forms, who it serves, and why it so often fails to deliver the justice it promises.

By examining the evolution of law across centuries – from Celtic customs to common law, from equity to empire – we can begin to see patterns that are otherwise obscured by the comforting myths of legal neutrality. Only by understanding those patterns can we meaningfully question the systems we live under today.

This is not a series of articles containing answers. It is a book of questions – and an invitation to think differently about the legal world we have inherited.

Why I Wrote This Series

I wrote this series because I believe many people sense that something is fundamentally wrong with the way law operates today, yet struggle to articulate why. We are surrounded by legal language, legal institutions, and legal rituals, but rarely encouraged to examine the deeper architecture beneath them. We are taught to debate policies, cases, and political personalities – but not the structure that shapes them all.

My intention is not to claim authority or to present myself as a definitive voice. I am not offering a new ideology or demanding agreement. I am simply tracing a pattern that becomes visible when we step back far enough: that our law, across history, has repeatedly been shaped by those who hold power, and has just as repeatedly been used to maintain that power.

I wrote this series because I believe people deserve the chance to see that pattern for themselves – and to decide what they think about it.

I also wrote it because I believe there is a way out of the structural trap we have inherited. Not through nostalgia, not through political “isms,” but through principles rooted in natural law: voluntaryism, moral agency, and the inherent sovereignty of the individual. These ideas are not new, but they have been overshadowed by centuries of hierarchical governance.

This series is my attempt to clear some of that fog.

If it helps even a handful of readers think more freely, question more deeply, or see the legal world with fresh eyes, then it will have done what I hoped.

Introduction

I have wanted to write about the weaponisation of law for a long time, but I hesitated because I worried that discussing how the law once operated – and how it has been gradually weaponised over many years – might give the impression that I believe returning to an earlier legal era would fix everything. I want to make it clear from the outset that this is not my position.

Yes, the law has been weaponised in countless ways (which I will explore throughout this series). And yes, looking back at our legal history and the protections that once existed makes this painfully obvious. But the deeper problem is structural. It lies in the foundations of the legal system and the systems of governance that sit around it. These structures were never designed to serve ordinary people. They exist to uphold an unequal hierarchy in which those at the bottom suffer the consequences of decisions made by those at the top. The legal system, as it stands, shields those who cause real harm while punishing people for poverty, for moral courage, and for resisting a system built to generate struggle, instability and loss.

So, I want every reader to understand that this series is not an argument for returning to a historical model of law. Even if earlier systems were better in some respects – and even if they might have somewhat curtailed, for a short while, the bureaucratic and administrative overreach we face today – they would still lead us back to the same place. Because the issue is structural. And as long as we remain within a system where power flows downward and people are ruled over, true equality is impossible. Such a master–servant structure cannot produce happiness, abundance, good health or meaningful legal protection.

Whether the system we live under is labelled capitalism, socialism, communism, or any other “ism,” the underlying structure always remains the same. These “isms” are simply different flavours presented to the public – interchangeable labels that create the illusion of meaningful choice. They encourage a cycle of false hope: “capitalism isn’t working, let’s try socialism,” then “socialism isn’t working, let’s go back to capitalism.” This merry‑go‑round keeps people debating the packaging while ignoring the machinery underneath.

The real problem is not the ideology of the day. It is the architecture beneath it – a master‑over‑servant hierarchy in which power flows downward and obedience flows upward. The law is built inside this hierarchy. It does not sit above it, neutral and protective; it sits within it, shaped by it, and ultimately serving it. The law is sold to the public as a shield, but in practice it functions as a gatekeeping mechanism: a tool that protects the interests of those who benefit from the hierarchy, and disciplines those who live under it. It punishes the many while insulating the few.

This is why every “ism” eventually produces the same outcomes: surveillance disguised as safety, compliance disguised as civic duty, punishment disguised as justice, wealth extraction disguised as taxation, austerity disguised as responsibility, bureaucratic intrusion disguised as efficiency, and control disguised as order. These mechanisms are not flaws in the system; they are the system. They are the tools through which the hierarchy maintains itself while convincing the public that it is acting in their interest. This structure ensures that the law can never be a universal protector within it. It can only ever be a selective tool – protective for those at the top, punitive for those at the bottom.

We do not live under any “ism” at all. We live under an empire of hierarchy, maintained through suffering, obedience and the illusion of choice. A system designed so that those at the top win, and we lose. Always.

I would like every reader of this series to keep the above in mind as we move through the history of our legal system and examine how it has been weaponised – particularly in relation to our constitution which many hold up as a saviour, a remedy for our current legal decay. But when viewed through the structural lens I have outlined, I propose that it is clear that it is no such thing. And as I will argue later in this series, if we are to move beyond hierarchical systems that have always, and will always, inevitably reproduce inequality, then we must look not to the past, nor to any “ism,” but to the principles of natural law – the kind articulated by thinkers such as Larken Rose, Mark Passio Lysander Spooner, Murray Rothbard, and Henry David Thoreau – which rest on voluntaryism, moral agency, and the inherent sovereignty of the individual.

So let us now move forward by first looking back – into the legal system we were given, and the protections it allegedly once offered – and examine them in detail.

A brief history of the evolution of our law

Pre-Roman Celtic Law: Before the Roman conquest of Britain in 43 CE, the Celtic tribes inhabiting the island -such as the Brigantes, Iceni, and Catuvellauni -operated under a decentralised system of customary law rooted in oral tradition and communal governance. Evidence is sparse, but Brehon laws from Ireland suggest a system of compensation (éric) and kinship-based justice, which may have persisted informally under Roman rule.

Pre-Roman Celtic law was not a unified code, but instead a patchwork of tribal practices shaped by kinship, social hierarchy, and a deep connection to the natural and spiritual world. It functioned as a mechanism for maintaining harmony within and between tribes, emphasising restitution over retribution, and relied heavily on local leaders and collective decision-making rather than one centralised authority.

At the heart of Celtic law was the tribe, organised around extended family units or clans. Justice and the enforcement of decisions were often carried out through a system of sureties, where individuals were linked by relationships in which they guaranteed each other’s actions and ensured the righting of wrongs. Decisions were made through community discussions and consensus, with the goal of maintaining social harmony and resolving disputes peacefully, although ‘legal authority’ rested with chieftains, elders, and druids – priests who doubled as judges and mediators due to their spiritual and intellectual prestige. Unlike later, more formalised legal systems, Celtic law lacked a system of courts. Instead, justice was dispensed at the local level, with disputes ranging from theft to boundary conflicts, and resolved through negotiation or arbitration in communal assemblies often held at sacred sites like hillforts or stone circles.

The Celtic legal system suggests one of recompense and kinship-based justice, prioritising compensation (e.g., payment in cattle or goods) to restore balance, rather than punishment, reflecting a restorative justice ethos. Offences against honour, such as slander, carried heavy penalties, underscoring the value placed on reputation in a society where status was paramount.

As Celtic law operated orally and was passed down through generations by bards and druids, it ensured flexibility to adapt to local needs. Kinship enforced accountability -crimes were collective responsibilities, with families liable for their members’ actions. This fostered social cohesion but limited scalability as tribes grew or clashed. Roman observers, like Julius Caesar in De Bello Gallico, noted the Celts’ reliance on druidic judgments and their resistance to written law, contrasting with Rome’s formal legalism. Thus, pre-Roman Celtic law in Britain was a fluid, community-driven system, effective for small-scale tribal life but vulnerable to the centralised power that Rome would come to impose.

Romano-British Period (43-410 AD): Roman law in Britain during the Romano-British period (43–410 AD) was a cornerstone of Roman imperial governance. It brought a highly structured and codified legal system to a land previously dominated by the Celtic oral traditions noted above. This shift was both profound and disruptive, creating a dichotomy between Roman legal principles and the indigenous ways of life.

Roman law was a centralised and systematic framework rooted in “jus civile” (civil law). It relied heavily on written codes, statutes, edicts, and legal precedents. This reliance on documentation marked a stark departure from the oral Celtic traditions which were deeply embedded in tribal culture. Roman officials administered the law from urban centres like Londinium (modern London) and Eboracum (modern York), underscoring the Roman emphasis on urbanisation and central authority.

Justice was dispensed hierarchically. Local magistrates handled minor disputes but appeals often escalated to provincial governors or even directly to Rome. This tiered judicial system was instrumental in maintaining control over a vast empire, ensuring that Roman citizens and provincial inhabitants alike were subject to the emperor’s authority. However, the application of law varied considerably based on status. Roman citizens enjoyed protections under civil law, while native Britons -especially those resisting Roman rule – often faced harsher military justice. We still see this two tier system in operation around the world in countries that have been colonised and exist under colonial style rule.

For the native Britons Roman law represented an alien and imposed system. It not only governed criminal and civil disputes but also enforced taxation and land rights – key sources of tension. The Iceni tribe, led by Queen Boudica, became a prominent example of the clashes between Roman law and indigenous rights. Initially, the Iceni were nominally allies of Rome, with their autonomy preserved under client-king Prasutagus. However, upon Prasutagus’s death, Roman authorities attempted to annex Iceni lands outright, ignoring customary inheritance practices. Roman law did not recognise tribal traditions, and the Iceni were treated as subjects rather than equals. The seizure of property, coupled with the brutal treatment of Boudica and her daughters, violated Celtic honour codes, sparking one of the most famous uprisings against Roman rule.

Boudica’s revolt in AD 60–61 highlighted the limitations of Roman law as a tool for governance in a culturally distinct province. While Roman officials viewed their actions as lawful under imperial statutes, the Iceni and neighbouring tribes saw them as a profound betrayal. This highlights the tension between what is regarded as “law” by one group, and regarded as immoral and unlawful by another – the only mechanism by which one group wins such an argument about what is right is through enforcement, which is often bloody. Boudica’s army razed Roman settlements, including Londinium, demonstrating the fragility of Roman legal authority in the face of widespread resistance. Roman efforts to suppress this rebellion reinforced their reliance on military justice in volatile regions. Yet, the uprising exposed the underlying tensions in applying Roman law to non-Roman cultures. Following Rome’s withdrawal around 410 AD, this centralised legal system collapsed, leaving a fragmented Britain to develop its own local governance.

Despite the collapse of Roman law, it has had a lasting influence on the UK’s notary public system. Notaries in England and Wales are specialised legal professionals who authenticate and verify documents, often for use abroad. Their role and practices are rooted in the Roman “jus civile” system. The office of notary public originated during Roman times, where notaries were scribes responsible for preparing and certifying legal documents. Over time, their role evolved into a respected profession, with notaries acting as impartial witnesses to the execution of legal acts. This tradition was carried forward into medieval Europe and eventually into England, where notaries became integral to international trade and legal transactions.

In England, notaries are appointed through the Court of Faculties under the Archbishop of Canterbury, a system established in the 13th century. Their training includes studying Roman law, as it forms the foundation of many civil law systems worldwide. This knowledge, it is claimed, is essential for notaries to bridge the gap between English common law and foreign legal systems. Therefore whilst Roman law is not directly applied in the UK’s legal system today, its principles continue to shape the practices of notaries, especially in their role as impartial certifiers of legal documents.

Roman law legacy in Britain lies in its introduction of structured legal principles that would later influence medieval law. However, its rigidity and failure to accommodate Celtic traditions ensured that it was seen as a symbol of oppression, rather than unity, by many native Britons. This complex interplay of governance and resistance remains a defining feature of the Romano-British period.

Anglo-Saxon Period (5th-9th Centuries): Law during the early days following Rome’s withdrawal from Britain in the 5th century was a product of Germanic tribal customs brought by settlers like the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes. It reverted to a decentralised model based on unwritten, oral traditions and local practices, a sharp departure from the highly codified Roman system.

Key characteristics of Anglo‑Saxon law included its reliance on “folcriht”, or customary law. This unwritten tradition operated on a community‑driven basis, with justice dispensed locally through moots – assemblies of freemen and local leaders. These were distinct from the witenagemot, which was a royal council of nobles, bishops, and thegns advising the king. Local moots aimed at consensus‑driven dispute resolution, reflecting community values rather than central authority.

The Anglo-Saxon justice system prominently featured the wergild, (meaning man payment), a framework of compensation designed to resolve disputes and prevent feuds. Rather than relying on punishment or retribution, the wergild ensured that crimes such as theft, injury, or murder were compensated through monetary payments to the victim or their family. This approach fostered social harmony in small, agrarian communities, by focusing on restitution as opposed to punitive measures.

A notable aspect of the wergild system was its scaling based on social status, which reflected the deeply hierarchical nature of Anglo-Saxon society. For instance, the wergild for a noble was significantly higher than that for a ceorl (commoner). This differentiation underscored the value placed on individuals according to their social standing, reinforcing the stratified nature of Anglo-Saxon society. It was a legal mechanism that mirrored and perpetuated the societal hierarchy of the day, and this discrepancy in value illustrates how the law was not applied equally across all social strata even at this time, but was instead shaped to benefit those of a higher status more fully. By assigning greater value to the lives and injuries of nobles, the wergild reinforced existing social hierarchies and gave an early insight into how the law would eventually be wielded as a tool not purely of justice, but of maintaining and legitimising top-down societal structures.

While the wergild system helped to avoid cycles of retaliation and blood feuds, its inherent inequality highlighted a utilitarian approach to justice, where maintaining societal order often outweighed considerations of fairness. The scaling of compensation amounts based on status underscored how Anglo-Saxon law was as much a reflection of societal power dynamics as it was a means of resolving conflicts. This characteristic of the wergild system exemplifies the enduring tension between justice and social privilege within legal frameworks of the modern era. Notwithstanding this, Anglo-Saxon legal practices differed across the kingdoms of Wessex, Mercia, and Northumbria, although similarities persisted due to shared Germanic roots. However, law was still a fluid and localised system in this period, embodying a balance between communal needs and individual justice.

By the 7th century, the Christianisation of Anglo-Saxon kings marked a pivotal shift in the development of law. Following the arrival of Saint Augustine in 597 AD, Christianity brought new moral and ethical principles that began to permeate Anglo-Saxon legal codes. Kings such as Æthelberht of Kent (c. 602) were among the first to issue written laws in Old English, combining traditional customs with Christian influence. Æthelberht’s code, for example, outlined wergild tariffs alongside provisions influenced by biblical values. Later codes, such as those of Ine of Wessex (c. 688–694), expanded legal protections for property and outlined specific rights for the Church, reflecting the growing authority of Christian institutions. By the time of Alfred the Great (c. 871–899), law had started to become a tool for centralised governance, blending older Germanic principles with Christian and Roman influences.

Alfred the Great’s Doombook is a significant example of the synthesis of Anglo-Saxon law, Roman-Christian principles, and Mosaic law. Compiled in the late 9th century, the Doombook served to unify earlier laws under a single framework. Whilst it retained the traditional focus on compensation and social harmony, it also reflected Alfred’s ambition to establish a more centralised authority, partly in response to the destabilising Viking incursions that were occurring at this time.

The Doombook aimed not only to preserve social order but also to assert the king’s role as a unifying figure in law and governance. Its biblical elements demonstrate the deepening influence of Christianity in shaping moral conduct and justice at that time, indicating a belief that divine principles guided legal practices.

The rise of Christianity in Britain during the Anglo-Saxon period profoundly shaped the purpose and function of law. The Church provided both ideological and practical support to kings, enabling them to frame laws as divinely inspired. Bishops often played a significant role in drafting legal codes and were instrumental in extending the reach of royal authority into moral and spiritual realms. The Church’s involvement also helped standardise certain practices across kingdoms, contributing to the gradual creeping centralisation of legal authority. Additionally, Christian values influenced laws concerning marriage, family, and property, embedding religious ethics into the everyday lives of Anglo-Saxon communities.

The arrival of the Vikings from 793 AD disrupted this progression. As Viking incursions expanded into settlements and territorial control, Anglo-Saxon law faced significant challenges. The establishment of the Danelaw across parts of Britain introduced a hybrid legal framework, merging Norse customs with existing Anglo-Saxon practices. This blend created a distinct legal landscape in the regions under Viking influence, reflecting both disruption and cultural integration.

Despite the upheaval, the core principles of Anglo-Saxon law – its emphasis on justice through compensation and its community-driven nature – endured. These principles continued to shape the evolution of English legal traditions in subsequent centuries, serving as a bridge between the localised practices of early Anglo-Saxon communities and the centralised legal systems that followed in their path.

Viking Influence and the Danelaw: Communal Roots of a Subjugating Grid (circa 865–954):

The Viking invasions of England, culminating in the establishment of the Danelaw across northern and eastern regions from circa 865 to 954, introduced a distinctive legal framework that blended Norse customary laws with Anglo-Saxon traditions. Under the Danelaw, Viking settlers governed through local moots – communal assemblies where freemen resolved disputes – and emphasised compensation over punitive enforcement, as seen in practices like wergild, adapted from Anglo-Saxon codes. This system, rooted in collective negotiation and localised justice, appears at first glance to embody communal ideals. However, even in this early phase, the Danelaw’s legal practices laid the groundwork for a “control grid” by reinforcing elite hierarchies, a pattern that would intensify through centuries of centralisation, corporate influence, and cultural decline.

Notwithstanding this, the Danelaw’s legal system was mostly pragmatic, reflecting Viking cultural values of honour, reciprocity, and community survival. Moots, held at Norse‑influenced sites – with Tynwald on the Isle of Man offering a close cultural parallel – reflected similar traditions of communal dispute resolution and allowed freemen to settle disputes ranging from land claims to blood feuds, through dialogue and agreed reparations. The Wergild, as a compensation scale for injuries or deaths, was central, with payments varying again by social rank (e.g., 1,200 shillings for a thegn, 200 for a ceorl). This mirrored Anglo-Saxon doombooks, like Alfred the Great’s (c. 890), but Viking influence streamlined enforcement, favouring restitution over royal or ecclesiastical punishment. The Laws of the Danelaw (c. 900), attributed to agreements between Alfred and Guthrum, codified this blend, standardising fines and oath-taking to integrate Norse and Saxon communities. Such practices suggest a justice system responsive to local needs of the time.

However, the Danelaw’s communal façade did conceal an element of elite control. Moots were dominated by jarls and thegns – Viking and Anglo-Saxon elites – whose influence shaped outcomes to protect their land and status. The Wergild’s tiered structure further entrenched social stratification, ensuring higher compensation for the powerful, a bias reflected in cultural artifacts like Viking runestones glorifying chieftains. This elite sway influenced lawmaking and legal findings served hierarchy, foreshadowing modern laws which today shield corporatist elites under moral pretexts. The Danelaw’s reliance on local lords to enforce moots also prefigures the executive dominance of modern secondary legislation, where power concentrates in unaccountable hands.

Culturally, the Danelaw’s legal system found echo in Norse sagas and Anglo-Saxon poetry, like Beowulf, which celebrated honour-based resolutions mirroring wergild. These rooted expressions hinted at resistance – sagas often critiqued elite greed – but their focus on heroic elites ended up reinforcing the legal hierarchy, rather than actively challenging it. Thus, the Danelaw represented a dual legacy: a communal framework reflecting and upholding community needs, yet also a system starting to tilt toward subjugation.

The Norman Conquest (1066) and the rise of common law under Henry II: Justice or Control?

Common law, as a distinct legal tradition characterised by judge-made precedent and royal courts, emerged after the Norman Conquest of 1066, with its foundations solidified under Henry II (1154-1189). It marked a shift from the decentralised, customary laws of the Anglo-Saxon and Viking periods to a unified, centralised system, tied to the Crown.

While Anglo-Saxon law laid some groundwork for common law – e.g., written codes and royal involvement – it lacked the uniformity and judicial precedent that define what we understand to be the common law today. The Norman Conquest was the catalyst for change, when William I (1066-1087) imposed feudalism, centralising power and land ownership.

William’s reign saw Royal Writs – early standardised orders from the king to local courts – hinting at centralised justice. His reign also saw the Domesday Book (1086) – a survey of land and resources – not a legal code, but a tool to enforce Norman control – setting the stage for royal oversight of law.

Having said this, true common law did not crystallise until the 12th century under Henry II. Henry is widely credited with establishing common law through systemic reforms such as expansion of the Royal Courts, making them accessible beyond feudal lords, as well as standardising rulings across England. Henry introduced specific writs to initiate cases, creating a uniform process and he also formalised the use of local juries to determine facts. The Assize of Clarendon (1166) mandated royal involvement in serious crimes, cementing the king’s law as “common” to the realm.

By Henry’s death in 1189, England had a cohesive legal framework distinct from Roman civil law traditions on the continent. The term “common law” (from Latin “lex communis”) reflected its application across the kingdom, superseding local customs.

Magna Carta (1215) reinforced common law by limiting royal caprice, although it was more a political than legal document of the time. Bracton’s Treatise (c. 1250s): On the Laws and Customs of England by Henry de Bracton, formalised common law principles, drawing on case records. From the 13th century (e.g., Statute of Westminster 1275), parliamentary laws supplemented judge-made law, but the core remained judicial precedent.

Common Law’s emergence under Henry II ties justice to royal power, a shift toward centralisation – perhaps the true genesis of subjugation – later amplified by equity and modern executive rule. This centralisation, whilst standardising justice across England, marked the birth of a dual-edged sword: common law offered predictability and access to royal courts, yet it consolidated power in the hands of the Crown and its allies, laying the foundation for the “control grid”. The Norman Conquest and Henry II’s reforms were both pivotal in this shift, but their legacy – both as a liberating force and a mechanism of subjugation – require closer scrutiny to understand why common law is often lionised as a darling of justice whilst its historical baggage is overlooked.

The Norman Conquest of 1066 was a seismic rupture, dismantling the decentralised, customary laws of Anglo-Saxon and Viking communities. William I’s imposition of feudalism restructured land ownership, placing all property under the Crown’s ultimate authority. His Domesday Book was a meticulous survey of resources, enabling William to enforce feudal dues and monitor local lords – a precursor to centralised legal oversight. Royal writs further extended this control, compelling local courts to align with royal directives. These writs, although embryonic, hinted at a system where justice was being set up to flow from the king instead of through the community, setting a precedent for elite-driven lawmaking that we see reflected in today’s modern corporate lobbying and secondary legislation.

Henry II’s reforms crystallised this consolidation of power, transforming common law into a tool of royal dominion. By expanding the royal courts Henry of course made justice accessible beyond feudal lords, a move that ostensibly democratised recourse. Justices on eyre, traveling circuits, heard cases in shires, ensuring consistent rulings, but these rulings also eroded the local customs within each shire. The introduction of specific writs, such as the writ of right (for land disputes) and writ of novel disseisin (for wrongful dispossession), standardised legal processes, whilst the Assize of Clarendon for serious crimes shifted jurisdiction from manorial courts. The use of local juries to determine facts further centralised power by tying community input to royal judges’ rulings. Most critically, the practice of recording judges’ decisions laid the foundations for what would later become the doctrine of stare decisis, which fully crystallised in the fourteenth century and ensured precedent bound future cases – a hallmark of common law that entrenched royal authority as the arbiter of “common” justice.

This unification worked for many. Landholders benefited from clear property rights, merchants from predictable dispute resolution, and freemen from access to royal courts over capricious lords. The Magna Carta 1215, though primarily a baronial check on royal power, reinforced common law’s role by codifying rights like due process (Clause 39), offering a semblance of justice that resonated with communal ideals. Yet, this justice was selective. The Magna Carta prioritised baronial interests – land and tax privileges – over peasants, while common law’s uniformity crushed local customs, such as Danelaw’s compensatory moots, marginalising communities tied to oral traditions. In colonial contexts, this centralisation proved even more oppressive: when common law was exported to Ireland (13th century) and later India, under the East India Company (EIC), it enforced English norms, disregarding indigenous practices and enabling imperial subjugation.

The EIC became a vehicle for British imperial expansion in India from the 17th century and gained territorial control most notably post the 1757 Battle of Plassey, after which it applied common law principles – such as property law, contract law, and judicial precedent – in its courts (e.g., Mayor’s Courts in Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras), to govern British subjects and regulate trade. However, for Indian populations, the EIC initially retained local laws (e.g., Mughal or Hindu customs) under a pragmatic “dual system,” only gradually imposing common law frameworks as its power grew. By the 19th century, especially after the Regulating Act of 1773 and Pitt’s India Act of 1784, the EIC’s legal administration became more centralised, with common law shaping land revenue systems (e.g., Permanent Settlement of 1793) and commercial contracts. These laws prioritised British economic interests, often disenfranchising Indian landowners and peasants, mirroring a centralising subjugation. The argument here of course is that law, even in its “justice” guise, served elite power – in this instance the EIC’s corporate elite -over local communities, a pattern echoed in later modern corporatist examples, as we shall see.

Common law’s enduring appeal as a darling of justice stems from its adaptability, stability, and global reach. Unlike rigid civil law systems rooted in Roman codes, common laws reliance on precedent allowed it to evolve organically, responding to societal shifts and Henry de Bracton’s On the Laws and Customs of England formalised this by synthesising case records. Its principles shaped legal systems across the British Empire and Commonwealth, from Canada to Australia to India, embedding notions of fairness like trial by jury. The Statute of Westminster and later parliamentary acts supplemented judge-made law, reinforcing its flexibility while maintaining judicial authority. This adaptability fostered a perception of common law as a living system, balancing tradition with progress, a narrative that persists in legal scholarship and public imagination today. Yet, this reverence often glosses over its historical problems and potential for misuse – common law’s centralisation under William I and Henry II was not a neutral unification but a deliberate consolidation of royal power, sidelining local agency. The Domesday Book and royal writs served Norman elites, much as EIC charters later enriched corporate shareholders. Juries, while community-based, were overseen by royal judges, ensuring outcomes aligned with Crown interests – a structural flaw prefiguring the critique of later executive dominance in secondary legislation. In colonial settings, common law’s imposition marginalised non-English groups, enforcing feudal and later imperial control. Culturally, while Anglo-Saxon sagas resisted elite greed, the common law era saw tapestries like Bayeux glorify Norman rule, early signs of cultural and societal propaganda upholding elite status.

The myth of common law as justice’s darling persists because of its many successes -e.g. standardised justice, precedent’s predictability – which are tangible – whilst its failures are obscured by time or framed as aberrations. Baronial lobbying for Magna Carta is today still romanticised by many as a democratic triumph. But this is selective memory or deliberate ignorance of how common law, by tying justice to royal power, sowed seeds of subjugation which were then later amplified by equity’s elitism, evangelical moralism, and modern corporatism. A call to rethink justice demands confronting this duality: common law worked for many, offering recourse against feudal caprice, but its centralising force favoured elites, crafting a grid that persists in today’s unaccountable legal frameworks.

The Emergence of Equity: A Remedy Turned Weapon

By the 13th century, the common law’s rigidity chafed, its writ system’s strict procedures and limited remedies – primarily damages – often failing to deliver justice when technicalities or precedent left parties without relief. Equity emerged through the Court of Chancery, offering flexible remedies like injunctions, specific performance, and trusts, purportedly grounded in fairness rather than legal formalism. Administered by the Lord Chancellor, equity was heralded as a moral corrective, prioritising justice over the common law’s narrow confines. The maxim “equity follows the conscience” encapsulated this ethos, promising adaptability to individual cases. Yet, equity’s promise was undermined by its susceptibility to elite influence, its reliance on subjective fairness, and its eventual codification, transforming it from a communal remedy into, once again, a tool of centralised power. This evolution perfectly captures the theme of a “control grid”, where law’s potential for justice is co-opted to serve the powerful, a pattern amplified by the colonial misuse of equity, religious legalism, and later by modern executive dominance.

Equity’s early flexibility was both its strength and its Achilles’ heel. As Lord Chancellors, often clerics trained in canon law, drew on ecclesiastical principles to rule, their decisions were supposed to reflected moral, hierarchical and religious values, echoing the Christian influence in Anglo-Saxon codes (e.g., Æthelberht’s laws). However, in Cooke v. Fountain (1676), a trust dispute, the Chancery upheld a noble’s complex trust arrangement to secure family estates, prioritising aristocratic wealth over a claimant’s equitable claim to shared inheritance. Trusts, viewed as moral obligations by the Church, aligned with Christian stewardship, emphasising fairness and accountability to God. Yet, this ruling favoured aristocratic wealth, mirroring the EIC’s later legislative manipulations and also modern evangelical-driven US laws, where moral pretexts shield corporatist elites. Such cases reveal equity’s canon law bias toward the landed gentry.

This bias extended to colonial contexts, where the EIC wielded equitable remedies to entrench British control. In 18th-century Bengal, post the Battle of Plassey, EIC courts applied equitable principles under the Permanent Settlement 1793. Zamindars, (feudal lord landowners) gained proprietary rights via trusts to stabilise revenue, but Chancery-style injunctions dispossessed smaller tenants lacking representation, mirroring the Domesday Book’s resource control. These equitable interventions, framed as fair adjustments to common law’s rigidity, prioritised EIC profits and British settlers over Indian peasants, and extended this pattern globally, crushing local customs like common law’s colonial exports.

Equity’s clerical roots, steeped in canon law, prefigure later patterns where religious frameworks are used to legitimise legal authority. While the Scofield Reference Bible (1909) did not shape legal doctrine directly, its dispensationalist influence on certain strands of American political culture illustrates how faith‑based narratives can be used to justify elite‑aligned legal and political agendas. In a similar way, the Chancery’s canon‑law foundations allowed moral rhetoric to cloak rulings that often favoured the landed classes. This religious undercurrent, evident in cases like Cooke v. Fountain, where moral rhetoric upheld noble privilege, suggests that faith has long legitimised legal subjugation, a thread seen from medieval Church courts to modern evangelical lobbying. The broader argument is, of course, that religion has historically been used to legitimise legal systems that in practice often subjugate or control people.

Equity’s much vaunted flexibility eventually waned as its subjectivity drew criticism. The 17th-century jurist John Selden quipped that “equity varies with the length of the Chancellor’s foot,” highlighting inconsistent rulings based on personal discretion. In Earl of Oxford’s Case (1615), equity’s supremacy over common law was established, but this victory spurred on the development of precedents in equity, such as trust law doctrines, which began to rigidify the system.

By the 18th century, the Chancery’s burgeoning caseload had led to delays and corruption, famously satirised in Charles Dickens’ Bleak House (1853) through the endless Jarndyce v. Jarndyce. To address these flaws, the Court standardised practices, relying on maxims like “he who seeks equity must do equity,” which only served to further constrain equity’s adaptability. The Judicature Acts (1873–75) eventually fused equity and common law into a single court system, locking equity into a legalistic framework that mirrored the common law’s rigidity, and this codification helped cement equity’s transformation into an elite instrument alongside the common law. Trusts, once tools for fairness, preserved aristocratic wealth, while Chancery’s delays and costs had excluded ordinary litigants, just as Dickens critiqued.

Equity’s legacy reveals law’s communal promise undermined by elite co-optation. Its flexibility suggested a return to Celtic or Viking justice, but clerical bias, colonial misuse, and rigidification favoured centralised power, excluding the masses. By the 19th century delays and costs had synthesised equity into a body of law as a subjugation tool, sidelining the populace for a “rules-based order.” This “legal elitism” prefigured modern executive dominance, where unaccountable discretion, just as with Norman writs or EIC charters, enabled secondary legislation to enforce agendas of the day.

As equity’s moral facade masked subjugation, so too does today’s modern legal system, demanding a reckoning with its historical roots to reclaim justice.

Summary

In this first part of the series, we have traced the evolution of law in Britain from pre‑Roman Celtic customs through Anglo‑Saxon and Viking practices, the Norman Conquest, the rise of common law, and the emergence of equity. At each stage, we have seen the same pattern repeat: legal systems presented as instruments of order, fairness, or even morality, while in practice they embed and reinforce hierarchical power. From wergild’s stratified compensation scales to Norman feudal courts, from Henry II’s centralising common law to equity’s moral façade and eventual rigidification, law has consistently operated less as a neutral shield for all and more as a selective tool -protective for the few, punitive or exclusionary for the many.

This historical survey is not an exercise in nostalgia or antiquarianism. It is a foundation. If the past shows us that legal structures have repeatedly been used to centralise authority and legitimise subjugation, then we must ask how this pattern continues in the present. In the next article of this series, I will turn to modern times, examining the doctrine of the separation of powers. Taught as a safeguard against tyranny, it has in practice become one of the most misused and misunderstood pillars of governance. By exploring how it functions, how it fails, and how it has been co‑opted, we can begin to understand how the “control grid” of earlier centuries has simply evolved into a more sophisticated form in the present day.

Part 2 of this series will be published shortly with a link back to this article. In the meantime, thank you for taking the time to read this article. This is a complex subject and I have done my best to simplify it and present it in plain English so that readers can better understand matters and come to their own conclusions

If you found this article valuable or learned something new, you can support my work by buying me a coffee – if you wish to and can afford it. The link is Buy Me a Coffee, or you can copy and paste the URL directly: https://buymeacoffee.com/claredwillb

You can also subscribe to this Substack for free to access all my previous and future work.

See you all again soon!

---