Authorising History : Gestures of Authorship in Fourteenth-Century English Historiography [1 ed.] 9781443868419, 9781443848190

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Authorising History

Authorising History: Gestures of Authorship in Fourteenth-Century English Historiography

By

Nicole Nyffenegger

Authorising History: Gestures of Authorship in Fourteenth-Century English Historiography, by Nicole Nyffenegger This book first published 2013 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Copyright © 2013 by Nicole Nyffenegger All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-4819-0, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-4819-0

Dedicated to Lucien, Jules, Michelle, and Rolf

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ....................................................................................................... ix Introduction ................................................................................................ 1 The four works .................................................................................. 16 Robert Mannyng of Brunne’s chronicle ............................................ 19 Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle ....................................................... 24 The Northern and the Southern versions of the Cursor Mundi ......... 26 Chapter One: The Task of Writing History .............................................. 31 The historiographer as mediator ........................................................ 32 The “unlearned” audience ................................................................. 39 The written text and aural prelection ................................................. 48 Material metaphors for the writing of history.................................... 56 Chapter Two: History: The Subject Matter .............................................. 63 Time matters: past, present and the authorial persona ....................... 65 Space in time: “land” as epoch marker and motif ............................. 74 Conquerors, kings, and the Virgin Mary ........................................... 80 Chapter Three: Empowering Written Texts.............................................. 89 The power of the book to preserve the truth ...................................... 91 Books as the exclusive domain of the literatus ................................. 97 Letters of liberation ......................................................................... 102 Robert Mannyng’s emphasis on letters of liberation ....................... 112 Chapter Four: Negotiating Authority...................................................... 119 Robert Mannyng’s evaluation of his sources................................... 121 Appropriating the sources’ authority ............................................... 131 Eluding the control exerted by the authoritative sources ................. 139 Criticising and challenging the sources ........................................... 147 Chapter Five: Inscribing Authority ......................................................... 165 Framing the text with the authorial persona .................................... 166 The functions of “here” and “now” ................................................. 179 Mannyng’s reaction to Wace’s gestures of authorship .................... 189

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Table of Contents

Conclusion .............................................................................................. 195 Bibliography ........................................................................................... 203 Primary Sources .............................................................................. 203 Secondary Sources .......................................................................... 204 Index ....................................................................................................... 215

PREFACE

Writing the preface to a book that is almost finished is an exciting moment: Finally, one gets to express one’s gratitude to all the people who helped along the way. I am grateful to my Ph.D. supervisor Margaret Bridges and to my teachers, advisors, and colleagues at the University of Berne for their ungoing support and encouragement: Annette KernStähler, Virginia Richter, Christian Hesse, Rainer C. Schwinges. I received invaluable feedback in the Ph.D. colloquium at the English Department: Philipp Schweighauser, Matt Kimmich, Kellie Goncalves, and from my students—thank you all very much. My special thanks go to Kathrin Jost and Miriam Locher for many years of friendship and support. I also want to thank Tim Machan for his encouragement. Apart from being an inspring scholar, he made some truly insightful comments on the challenges of juggling family and academic commitments when we met on a riding tour in Iceland. The team of Cambridge Scholars Publishing: Thank you for your work on this book. I am grateful to the Inner Temple library for giving me permission to reproduce a page from Robert Mannyng’s chronicle on the cover, and I thank Michael Frost and Ian Jones for organising and providing the photograph. There are more people who read parts of this book at earlier stages and provided helpful comments; I want to thank them all, including C.P. and A.R. for the time they invested in this project. For their work on the manuscript at different stages, I thank Eva Grädel, Xenia Netos and John B. Finally, I thank my family, Peter Staub, Regula and Theo Häberli, and Rosanna Salvi for always supporting me. My husband and my children are willing to spend many evenings and weekends without me. I thank my boys, Lucien Philippe and Jules Emanuel Pax, and my little daughter Michelle Sophie Fay for their loving generosity and for the wonderful days we do spend together. Rolf, none of this would be possible without you.

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Preface

Fig. 1: Inner Temple Library Petyt Ms.511 vol. 7, f. 1r. Reproduced by permission of the Masters of the Bench of the Inner Temple. Photograph © Ian B. Jones

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Fig. 2: Inner Temple Library Petyt Ms.511 vol. 7, f. 2r. Reproduced by permission of the Masters of the Bench of the Inner Temple. Photograph © Ian B. Jones

INTRODUCTION

Suich was þe morþre of einesham uor bataile non it nas & þerwiþ Iesu crist wel vuele ipaied was As he ssewede bi tokninge grisliche & gode As it vel of him sulue þo he deide on þe rode Þat þoru al þe middelerd derkhede þer was inou Al so þe wule þe godemen at euesham me slou As in þe norþwest a derk weder þer aros So demliche suart inou þat mani man agros & ouer caste it þo‫܌‬te al þut lond þat me mi‫܌‬te vnneþe ise Grisloker weder þan it was ne mi‫܌‬te anerþe be An vewe dropes of reine þer velle grete inou Þis tokninge vel in þis lond þo me þis men slou Vor þretti mile þanne þis isei roberd Þat verst þis boc made & was wel sore aferd (Robert of Gloucester 11,736-49, my emphasis).

When Robert of Gloucester describes the fear-inspiring darkness that overshadows the slaughter of “good men” at the battle of Evesham in 1265 (the dramatic climax of the “Second Barons’ War”), he authorises history in that he inscribes himself into the scene. The internal focaliser “roberd,” who at that particular moment in the past witnessed the darkness and “was wel sore aferd,” however, is also the external focaliser who enunciates the account. Robert the author, who “first made this book,” and whose view goes beyond the spatial and temporal limits of his past self, aligns this darkness with the darkness at Christ’s crucifixion. Robert’s authorising thus consists of two elements: his witnessing (the atmosphere if not the events) and his authoring. What we see in this passage are different gestures of authorship. The first one of these is to put his name, “roberd,” into the text. The second is to present himself as a contemporary, perhaps eyewitness, of the events. Doing so, he makes this passage his history rather than that of some other, older auctor. The third gesture of authorship is to present himself, consequently, as the one who “first made this book.” He thus clearly fashions himself as an author rather than a compiler or translator of the relevant auctores, as would be typical for so many medieval writers. Gestures of authorship hence range from different strategies of self-inscription to implicit and explicit negotiations with the auctoritates.

2

Introduction

In this book, I propose to investigate the diverse gestures of authorship in historiographical works as a way of authorising history. English historiography and questions of authorship have all too seldom been brought together in medieval scholarship. I will do so for a number of important vernacular historiographical works of the fourteenth century: The chronicles of Robert of Gloucester and Robert Mannyng of Brunne, and the Northern and Southern versions of the Cursor Mundi.1 The anonymous poets of the two versions of the Cursor Mundi and Robert of Gloucester and Robert Mannyng have up to date only rarely been discussed as writers who write themselves into their works and who employ specific strategies of authorising their works and themselves. The underlying assumption of this study is that, in the case of these historiographers, gestures of authorship function both in ways similar to other types of medieval narratives and in ways specific to the writing of English vernacular history in the fourteenth century. These historiographers, I will argue, inscribe themselves into their works in relation to and as a reflection of their conception of (the writing of) history. The outcome of their authorising history is the multi-layered construct of the historiographer’s authorial persona.2 The authorial persona is the same construct that has variously been called “narrating ego,”3 “textual persona,”4 “the author’s

1

Robert Mannyng of Brunne, The Chronicle, ed. and introd. Idelle Sullens, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 153 (Binghampton, NY: Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies, 1996), hereafter referred to as “Robert Mannyng’s chronicle” or RM I (first book, based on Wace) and RM II (second book, based on Pierre de Langtoft) respectively and line numbers; Robert of Gloucester, The Metrical Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester, ed. William A. Wright, Rolls Series 86 (1887; repr., 2 vols., London: Kraus Reprint, 1965), hereafter referred to as “Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle” or RG and line numbers; Cursor Mundi, ed. Richard Morris, Early English Text Society 57, 59, 62, 66, 68, 99, 101, 7 vols. (1874-1893, London: Kraus Reprint 1961-1966), hereafter referred to as “Northern Cursor Mundi” or NCM and line numbers; The Southern Version of the Cursor Mundi, ed. Sarah M. Horrall et al., 5 vols. (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 1978-2000), hereafter referred to as “Southern Cursor Mundi” or SCM and line numbers. 2 I use this term along the same lines as Peter Damian-Grint in his discussion of Anglo-Norman historiographers: Peter Damian-Grint, The New Historians of the Twelfth-Century Renaissance: Inventing Vernacular Authority (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1999): ix, 41-42, 170. 3 Suzanne Fleischman, “On the Representation of History and Fiction in the Middle Ages,” History and Theory 22 (1983): 292, 295-96.

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author,”5 or “l’homme dans le texte.” By the latter, Paul Zumthor refers to the author in the text that must not be confounded with “l’homme comme tel,” the author (of the text) but that may nevertheless coincide with him.6 The four works of my corpus (I treat the two versions of the Cursor Mundi as different works here) have been discussed as a group before. Thorlac Turville-Petre has argued his case for “England the Nation” based on the explicit discussion contained in these works of the choice of the English vernacular as opposed to Latin or Anglo-Norman.7 The four authors certainly do construct a collective self by means of this language discourse; whether that collective self should indeed be termed a “national” one has been questioned.8 What has hitherto not been given sufficient scholarly attention however, is the fact that the construction of a collective self simultaneously produces an authorial persona. If these historiographers hence claim that those who live in England and speak English need historiography in the English language, they each also present themselves as the one writer to have realised that and to provide such a text. In this way, they authorise themselves as writers of English historiography in the vernacular. There were forerunners, of course. Most importantly, La‫܌‬amon’s Brut was written in the vernacular more than half a centry before. In contrast to 4 This is Philip Bennett’s translation of Paul Zumthor’s “l’homme dans le texte.” Paul Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, trans. Philip Bennett (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992), 44. 5 Lee W. Patterson, “The Historiography of Romance and the Alliterative Morte Arthure,” Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 13.1 (1983): 10. 6 Paul Zumthor, Essai de poétique medievale (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1972), 69. Bennett translates “author as textual persona” and “author as extratextual being.” Zumthor, Medieval Poetics, 44. 7 Thorlac Turville-Petre, England the Nation. Language, Literature, and National Identity, 1290-1340 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996); Thorlac Turville-Petre, “Politics and Poetry in the Early Fourteenth Century: The Case of Robert Manning’s Chronicle,” Review of English Studies 39.153 (1988). 8 Edward D. Kennedy raises the question in his review “as to whether such sentiments might not, during this period, also have been adequately expressed in languages other than English.” Edward D. Kennedy, review of England the Nation: Language, Literature, and National Identity, 1290-1340, by Thorlac TurvillePetre, Speculum 73.02 (1998). See also Jocelyn Wogan-Browne et al., eds., The Idea of the Vernacular: An Anthology of Middle English Literary Theory, 12801520 (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1999); Derek Pearsall, “Before-Chaucer Evidences of an English Literary Vernacular with a Standardizing Tendency,” in The Beginnings of Standardization, ed. Ursula Schaefer (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2006), 29.

4

Introduction

La‫܌‬amon, however, who follows Wace and ends his account with the downfall of Briton rule, Robert Mannyng, Robert of Gloucester and, in a way, the two Cursor Mundi poets all take their histories up to (almost) their own present day. This has an influence on these historiographers’ perceptions of history and of their own role in the transmission of knowledge. In other words, these historiographers distinctively look at the past “from out of the context of contemporary, late thirteenth- [and early fourteenth-]century England.”9 Middle English vernacular historiography, in turn, had its antecedent in the Anglo-Norman vernacular historiography of England and Normandy 150 years earlier and in the Anglo-Saxon chronicle, although that influence should probably not be overrated.10 Peter Damian-Grint argues that Anglo-Norman historiographers such as Wace, Geffrei Gaimar, and Benoît de Sainte-Maure had to devise their very own strategies for establishing a specifically vernacular authority against the pre-eminence of the Latin auctores.11 Tim William Machan, by contrast, has pointed out that the general strategy of vernacular writers was “not to attempt to establish a different kind of authority for the vernacular but to appropriate for Middle English literary authority as it was conventionally defined.”12 To approach these questions from the angle of gestures of authorship, as I will do here, has the advantage of taking away the focus from the success or failure of the project of vernacular authority. Instead, I will investigate how different contemporary historiographers 9

Sarah Mitchell claims this to be true for Robert of Gloucester in her “Kings, Constitution and Crisis: ‘Robert of Gloucester’ and the Anglo-Saxon Remedy,” in Literary Appropriations of the Anglo-Saxons from the Thirteenth to the Twentieth Century, ed. Donald Scragg and Carole Weinberg (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 40. 10 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 16; Antonia Gransden, “Prologues in the Historiography of Twelfth-Century England,” in Legends, Traditions and History in Medieval England (London and Rio Grande: The Hambledon Press, 1992). 11 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 85-171; see also 141: “While some elements of Latin historiography can also be found in vernacular works, the vernacular authors’ approach to their task is distinct: not only are the major Latin concerns of veritas and providential history completely absent, but the key elements of vernacular historiography—scholarly self-authorisation and the emphasis on sources—are similarly lacking in Latin historiography.” 12 Tim William Machan, Textual Criticism and Middle English Texts (Charlottesville and London: University Press of Virginia, 1994), 133; see also Tim William Machan, “Editing, Orality, and Late Middle English Texts,” in Vox Intexta: Orality and Textuality in the Middle Ages, ed. Alger N. Doane and Carol Braun Pasternack (Madison and London: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 234.

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5

make gestures of authorship and how these produce different authorial personae. The gestures of authorship vary from one historiographer to the other not just in terms of quality but also, and very notably, in terms of quantity. Consequently, they produce authorial personae that cover a great range, from the almost completely effaced one of the Southern Cursor poet to the fully-fledged authorial self fashioned by Robert Mannyng.13 Consequently, Robert Mannyng is the historiographer that is discussed most intensively in this study, while Robert of Gloucester (whose authorial persona is an effaced one aside from the quote at the beginning of this book) serves as a counterpart against which Mannyng’s construction of the authorial persona is measured. In the discussion of the two versions of the Cursor Mundi, I will focus on what I (in contrast to John J. Thompson) think is the conscious suppression in the Southern version of the authorial gestures apparent in its Northern source.14 The quality of the diverse gestures of authorship employed by the historiographers of this corpus varies greatly. The most straightforward one is explicit self-naming which can occur either as a first-person reference (“Robert Mannyng is my name”) or as a third-person reference (“roberd Þat verst þis boc made”). These two different types of selfnaming authorise a text in different ways. In the case of a first-person reference, the inscription of the name into the text creates an authorial presence. Such authorial presence gained particular importance when literature largely ceased to be orally presented by the author himself. It was still, however, just as often received in aural prelection15 as in private

13 For Mannyng only, I use the term “self-fashioning” that Stephen Greenblatt has so influentially defined for the Renaissance as an overt and “deliberate shaping in the formation and expression of identity.” Self-fashioning, as Stephen Greenblatt acknowledges on the same page, does not “spring up from nowhere when 1499 becomes 1500.” Stephen Jay Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 1. 14 John J. Thompson claims that what he terms “the blurring of the ‘I’-narrator” in the Southern version should be attributed to careless scribal copying. I will argue differently here. John J. Thompson, The Cursor Mundi: Poem, Texts and Contexts, Medium Aevum Monographs, New Series XIX (Oxford: Society for the Study of Medieval Languages and Literature, 1998), 51. 15 Joyce Coleman defines “aural prelection” as “the reading aloud of a written text to one or a group of listeners.” Joyce Coleman, Public Reading and the Reading Public in Late Medieval England and France (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 28, 229-230.

6

Introduction

reading (Zumthor’s oralité seconde).16 The authorial presence created by self-naming in the first person (“Robert Mannyng is my name”) prevented a possible later prelector from appropriating both the role of the author and his claim to authority. The third-person reference, by contrast, authorises a text because it implies that someone else is referring to the author. This happens in the same way as a reference to other, particularly Latin, authorities would happen. As Damian-Grint states: In the context of an oral delivery of a work, there is no way in which the audience can distinguish a reference to “si cum dit Ambroise” from “com lison en Isidorus;” the phrase works as an implicit self-authorisation of the author, and the narrative voice here becomes that of the author-asauthority.17

According to medieval literary theory, one of the defining features of an auctor was that his name was known.18 Thus, the mere presence of the author’s name in his work is authorising in that it aligns him with his Latin auctores. As a “signature” (which, sometimes together with additional information, establishes personal deixis)19 both types of self-naming historicise the work, strengthen its credibility and present it as historia rather than as fabula.20 Since extratextual evidence is usually lacking, the question remains whether that name in the text is indeed that of the author or, perhaps, that of a fictitiously named narrator. However, Machan states that fictitiously named narrators are rare in Middle English and that “so far

16 Paul Zumthor defines oralité seconde as follows: “quand elle se recompose à partir de l’écriture au sein d’un milieu où celle-ci tend à exténuer les valeurs de la voix dans l’usage et dans l’imaginaire.” Paul Zumthor, La lettre et la voix. De la “littérature” médiévale (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1987), 18-19, 109. See also such concepts as “semiliteracy” (Ong) or “craft literacy” (Havelock) as discussed in Walter J. Ong, “Orality, Literacy, and Medieval Textualization,” New Literary History 16.1 (1984): 5. 17 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 170. 18 Machan, Textual Criticism, 99. 19 Fleischman, “Representation of History and Fiction,” 292. On the functions of the author’s name see also Michael Foucault, “What Is an Author?” Partisan Review 42 (1975): 606-608. 20 Machan, Textual Criticism, 101-102; see also Monika Otter, “Functions of Fiction in Historical Writing,” in Writing Medieval History, ed. Nancy Partner (London: Hodder Education, 2005), 109-114.

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7

as we can tell the name of the narrator typically seems to be that of the writer as well.”21 The use of the first person singular pronoun “I” as a gesture of authorship is more problematic. Even within a text containing an authorial signature by name, the “I” can be what has been termed an “institutional I.” In his discussion of “narrative impersonality,” Zumthor defines such instances of “I” in historically oriented texts as follows: the I is hardly more than a representative of the universal. A constant oscillation between moral reflection and event destroys the I’s individuality every time it begins to take substance. The destiny of the I becomes one with the collective fate of man and the world.22

At most, such an “I” serves as a vehicle for the audience’s emotional responses, as Machan points out. He adds that “while it creates immediacy, it does not specify itself or its own authority.”23 Conversely, it has been argued that the referential framework of “I” may include an authorial persona beyond the narrator, and that even anonymous texts can contain instances of personal authorial “I.”24 Monika Otter points to the interrelation between fictionality and the “je,” which can be, in more “written” genres, “that of the author, absent but dramatized as a fictional persona:” In traditional narrative, orally transmitted, or, even when written down, dependent on performance (chanson de geste), the speaking subject, the “je,” is that of the current reciter, in the roman, the first truly “written” vernacular genre, the “je” is that of the author, absent but dramatized as a fictional persona.25 21

Machan, Textual Criticism, 102. Zumthor, Medieval Poetics, 130-131, see also 131: “It [the “I”] is a sort of extreme extension of the regular technique of reporting a character’s words in the body of the story.” Despite the fact that Zumthor here explicitly refers to prose texts, this is a valid definition of one of the forms the “I” can take also in verse historiography. 23 Machan, Textual Criticism, 99-100. 24 Bella Millett makes this claim for the earliest versions of the Ancrene Wisse in her online tutorial: Bella Millett, What Is Mouvance?” Last accessed November 2012, http://www.southampton.ac.uk/~wpwt/mouvance/mouvance.htm; see also Damian-Grint, New Historians, 170. 25 Monika Otter, Inventiones. Fiction and Referentiality in Twelfth-Century English Historical Writing (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1996), 15. 22

8

Introduction

These arguments should be read in conjunction with the fact that the narrator’s name need not be the author’s but nonetheless often is. Robert Mannyng, for example, seems to be aware of the potential impersonality of the “I.” Consequently, he connects it closely to his name in the prologue. Along the lines proposed by A. C. Spearing, I suggest that the “I” (and, by extension, other first person singular pronouns such as the possessive “my”) should be understood as textual deixis. Textual deixis, Spearing claims, effects textual subjectivity: “not how the poems express or represent individual subjectivities, whether of their writers or of fictional characters, but how subjectivity is encoded in them as a textual phenomenon.”26 The subjectivity thus expressed in the “I” is that of the historiographer’s authorial persona, the construct in and of the text that may (as Spearing also seems to suggest) or may not coincide with the “real” author. Interjections are another gesture of authorship. They take different forms, ranging from short exclamations such as “Allas!” to extensive metatextual comments. Damian-Grint proposes a taxonomy of such interjections. He describes three types: rhetorical, narrative and authorising interjections. Rhetorical interjections (e.g. the audite topos: “Listen!”) use an immediate voice to evoke an oral presentation/aural prelection and, according to Damian-Grint, express the persona of the narrator rather than of the author. Narrative interjections (e.g. “I will tell you . . . ”) impose shape on the narrative and use an authorial voice although they also primarily purport an oral stance. Authorising interjections (e.g. selfnaming), finally, “underscore the role of the author as provider of auctoritas.”27 I find this taxonomy helpful primarily because it assigns different types of interjections to different levels of the text. However, I don’t think that rhetorical interjections (“Listen!”) can completely be detached from an authorial presence just as the narrative interjections (“I will tell you . . . ”) cannot. Instead, the three types of interjections described here work as gestures of authorship to different degrees. Rhetorical interjections contribute least to the construction of the authorial persona, authorising interjections most. The gestures of authorship discussed so far are common to most medieval narratives. They will reappear throughout this book. There are, however, also those gestures of authorship that are specific to historiography. In historiographical works, I will suggest in chapters one 26 A. C. Spearing, Textual Subjectivity: The Encoding of Subjectivity in Medieval Narratives and Lyrics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 1. 27 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 171.

Authorising History

9

and two, the writer is also inscribed into the text in relation to and as a reflection of his conception of (the writing of) history. However, to start with the assumption of a kind of professional consciousness of medieval historiographers would be anachronistic. The writing of history, in the Middle Ages, was not a profession, did not, in theory, require any specialist training and history itself was not part of the university curriculum.28 Instead, it was generally seen as a branch of rhetoric, and the writing of history was thus often no more than a literary exercise.29 As chronicles were often written within and for monastic communities, the writing of history may not even have been a voluntary choice, but was, instead, just another duty of the monastery’s record keeper.30 Nevertheless, many historiographers shared a common background: most were male, clerical, middle-aged and relatively prosperous. This in turn led to a dominant memory culture, a “common attitude,” as Chris Given-Wilson states, “to ‘those things which ought to be remembered.’”31 While the professed aim of such clerics/historiographers was to relate the “truth” about the events of the past, the moral teachings of religion were equally close to their hearts. As Bernard Guenée so succinctly puts it : “notre moine aura une tendance trop naturelle à tremper sa plume historique dans son encre hagiographique.”32 It is not surprising that the ways in which the historiographers inscribe themselves into their texts as a reflection of their conception of history and historical writing are rarely individualistic. In fact, this is where the works of the corpus, which otherwise differ greatly in their gestures of authorship, 28 Taylor points out that instead, “history was an auxiliary science whose role limited its ambitions. The rise of the universities with their emphasis on theology, logic, and philosophy would seem if anything, therefore, to have retarded the study of the past. In the Schools history gave a student only his first intelligence of a text which was to be understood not so much historically as allegorically, tropologically, and anagogically.” John Taylor, English Historical Literature in the Fourteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987), 30. See also Chris Given-Wilson, Chronicles. The Writing of History in Medieval England (London: Continuum, 2004), 65. 29 Otter, “Functions of Fiction,” 109-114; Hayden White, “The Fictions of Factual Representation,” in his Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (1978; repr. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 123. 30 Taylor, English Historical Literature, 13. 31 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 64-65. This is confirmed for the fourteenth century by Taylor, English Historical Literature, 8, 15. 32 Bernard Guenée, “Y a-t-il une historiographie médiévale?” Revue Historique 258 (1977), 266.

10

Introduction

correlate most. They all draw their audiences’ attention to the fact that historiography is the mediation of the events of the past. They, knowledgeable and educated clerics, are the mediators.33 Likewise, both the envisaged presentation of the historiographical works to the audiences and the construction of the audiences themselves form part of the construction of the authorial personae. However, I will not stop at the analysis of what the historiographers claim to be doing (most prominently in their prologues). Instead, I will also look at what they actually do when they write history in chapters one and two.34 They all, for example, place themselves and their audience in time in relation to their concepts of past and present facets of history. They all emphasise certain aspects of history over others in light of their ideas of the value of history for their own present: land (conquered or lost), rulers (rightful or not), conquerors (all of them, ultimately, foreshadowing William of Normandy). In addition, I will treat a strategy of inscribing the historiographer that is more implicit in chapter three. Along the lines suggested by Monika Otter in her reading of twelfth-century historical works,35 I propose to read the historiographers’ representation of writing in general and of books in particular as mirroring their attitudes towards their own work. Also, the four historiographers not only inscribe themselves into their texts as individuals but they also inscribe themselves as members of one or several groups that may at least partly be conflicting. Psychologists have

33

Damian-Grint claims this to be true for Wace: “[The] presentation of the clerc as the intermediary between text and audience forms part of Wace’s overall literary strategy.” Damian-Grint, New Historians, 40-41. 34 See Virginie Greene’s review of Damian-Grint’s book: “To focus on the parts of the text where authors assert in various ways their authority is not in itself a bad idea, but it leads Damian-Grint to look almost exclusively at what authors claim they are doing, without looking at what they are actually doing. How do these claims of truth, serious scholarship, and knowledge of trustworthy sources compare with the content of the narratives?” Virginie Green, review of The New Historians of the of the Twelfth-Century Renaissance, by Peter Damian-Grint, Speculum 76.3 (2001): 710. 35 Otter, Inventiones, 5. Otter here understands her “mirror episodes” as “poetic emblems” and “mises-en-abyme” as defined by Robert Hanning and Lucien Dällenbach: Robert W. Hanning, “Poetic Emblems in Medieval Narrative Texts,” in Vernacular Poetics in the Middle Ages ed. Lois Ebin, Studies in Medieval Culture 16 (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute, 1984); Lucien Dällenbach, The Mirror in the Text, trans. Jeremy Whiteley and Emma Hughes (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1989); see also Otter, “Functions of Fiction,” 118.

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11

pointed out the mechanisms at work when defining the “self” as a member of the group(s) to which it belongs. Jerome Bruner states that: Defining the Self and its allies also defines those who are in the out-group, and . . . there seems always to be a degradation of the out-group that has a special role, by contrast, in defining one’s own qualities and the qualities of those with whom one is allied, one’s in-group.36

All four historiographers inscribe themselves into their texts as members of an in-group of clerics whose shared qualities are literacy, learnedness and language skills. Through their extensive discussions of their choice to write “in English for the English,” however, they also present themselves as members of another in-group. The assertion of a common English language and culture defines an “English” in-group against an out-group of those who, by their own exclusive use of Anglo-Norman, had hitherto defined their own in-group as “non-English.” It is obvious that the qualities of language knowledge (Latin and French/Anglo-Norman) on the one hand and the qualities of a shared and unique Englishness on the other are potentially conflicting. The gestures of authorship discussed so far, whether general or specific to historiography, are all forms of self-inscription into the work. I will now (and in chapters four and five) turn to another group of gestures of authorship, that of negotiating authority against the sources. This group is not, in fact, of a completely different kind. Rather, it is a particular yet essential subgroup of the first group. It is defined by the complex interrelations between three elements: the different kinds of authority, auctoritas and auctoritates, the medieval historiographer, and the ways in which he seeks to establish his own authority. In historiography, the attempt of establishing authority is closely linked to truth claims. Hayden White, in his article “Narrativity in the Representation of Reality,” discusses the different types of authority connected to the truth claims of the narrative of Richerus of Rheims: The first authority invoked by the author is that of his patron, Gerbert; it is by his authority that the account is composed . . . Then there are those “authorities” represented by the classic texts on which he draws for his construction of the early history of the French (Caesar, Orosius, Jerome, and so on). There is the “authority” of his predecessor as a historian of the 36 Jerome Bruner, “Self-Making and World-Making,” in Narrative and Identity. Studies in Autobiography, Self and Culture, eds. Jens Brockmeier and Donald Carbough (Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2001), 34-35.

12

Introduction see of Rheims, Flodoard, an authority with whom he contests as a narrator and on whose style he professes to improve. It is his own authority that Richerus effects in this improvement, by putting “other words” in place of Flodoard’s, and modifying “completely the style of presentation.” There is, finally, not only the authority of the Heavenly Father, who is invoked as the ultimate cause of everything that happens, but the authority of Richerus’ own father . . . who figures as a central subject of a segment of the work as the witness on whose authority the account in this segment is based.37

In other words, the historiographer’s own authority is established by invoking any, several, or all of the following: firstly the authority of a patron; secondly, the authority (auctoritas) of the often classical sources; thirdly, the authority of immediate predecessors and, fourthly, the authority of God (to which the fatherly authority quoted above is connected in intriguing ways). This list should be expanded to include yet another authority, namely the one gained through self-authorisation. An example of this is Wace inscribing himself into his prologue with the following words: “Maistre Wace . . . Ki en conte la verité.”38 Providing name and title of himself in the third person, he evokes the impression of someone else referring to him in the same way as one would refer to an auctoritas. His name thus acquires authority and can vouchsafe the veracity of the account. To underline this, the title “maistre” points towards Wace’s authorisation to teach (granted, as well, by someone else). Another example is La‫܌‬amon complimenting himself, in the third person, of his “excellent idea” (“mern þonke”) to write history. White, in the quote above, draws our attention to the fact that Richerus effects his own authority by undermining that of his predecessor Flodoard. I suggest that such undermining is also possible with the other authorities described, with the patrons, the classic auctores and perhaps even God. Concerning the latter, Alastair Minnis has coined the term translatio auctoritatis, a shift of auctoritas from “the divine realm to the human.”39 37

Hayden White, “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality,” in his The Content of the Form (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 19. 38 Wace, Wace’s Roman de Brut: A History of the British, Text and Translation, ed. and trans. Judith E. Weiss, (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 199), ll. 7-8. I use this recent edition which is largely based on that by Ivor Arnold, hereafter referred to as “Wace” and line numbers. 39 Alastair Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (Aldershot: Gower Publishing Company, 1988), vii.

Authorising History

13

Minnis connects this specifically to the later Middle Ages and to Chaucer who in a similar context has even been called “the first writer to take on God.”40 All of these authorities can be used in two ways. Firstly, their authority is asserted. If they are presented as reliable and truthful, the historiographer’s own account gains authority through referring to them. Secondly, their authority is undermined. If they are presented as wanting, the historiographer’s own account gains authority through rejecting them. To reject an auctoritas produces authority: Only someone who knows more, has better and more reliable information may do so. Robert Mannyng, I will argue, applies both these strategies very skilfully. The scholarly discourses of authorship and authority have been greatly influenced by the work of two scholars, Alastair Minnis and Paul Zumthor. Alastair Minnis, in his seminal work Medieval Theory of Authorship, criticises the application of concepts of modern literary theory to medieval literature (“concepts which have no historical validity as far as medieval literature is concerned”),41 and proposes to apply medieval theories instead. According to these theories, which were primarily Latin ones,42 an auctor was someone who created his material, as is famously exemplified in Bonaventure’s often-quoted definition.43 In the case of historiography, the called-for original creation of material is closely connected to the importance attributed to eyewitness accounts, as Isidore

40

Barry Sanders, “Lie It as It Plays: Chaucer Becomes an Author,” in Literacy and Orality, ed. D. R. Olson and N. Torrace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 111. Sanders here claims that “[Chaucer] is the first English writer to use the word author in its secular meaning . . . and because he is the first truly literate English author, Chaucer is, above all, the first writer to take on God.” 41 Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship, 1. 42 Machan, Textual Criticism, 96. 43 Bonaventure, as cited in Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship, 94. Bonaventure’s definition is the following: “The method of making a book is fourfold. For someone writes the materials of others, adding or changing nothing, and this person is said to be merely the scribe. Someone else writes the materials of others, adding, but nothing on his own, and this person is said to be a compiler. Someone else writes both materials of other men, and of his own, but the materials of others as the principal materials, and his own annexed for the purpose of clarifying them, and this person is said to be the commentator, not the author. Someone else writes both his own materials and those of others, but his own as the principal materials, and the material of others annexed for the purpose of confirming his own, and such must be called the author.”

14

Introduction

of Seville’s definition of history makes clear.44 The most authoritative historical account, then, was in fact that of an auctor who is an eyewitness.45 Since most historiographers, however, could not claim to have witnessed the events they described, the highest authority was attributed to those “writers whose compositions were made venerable by their antiquity.”46 These authors not only came to be regarded as auctores but they were also regarded as possessing auctoritas.47 Consequently, Minnis states: In a literary context, the term auctor denoted someone who was at once a writer and an authority, someone not merely to be read but also to be respected and believed . . . . The writings of an auctor contained, or possessed, auctoritas in the abstract sense of the term with its strong connotations of veracity and sagacity.48

It is thus through and against the authority of the Latin auctores that medieval historiographers writing in the (English) vernacular seek to establish their own authority. Machan and Damian-Grint (although they come to different conclusions) both piont out that the constant negotiations of matters of authority and the enormous importance thus attributed to the sources are a particularity of vernacular historiography.49 Paul Zumthor’s influential Essai de poétique médiévale led to another school of thought concerning medieval authorship. He opposed editorial practices that tried to establish “the original text” of works that were at least partly manifest as oral performances. With his concept of mouvance,50 he called for a new understanding of works produced within a culture which, despite the existence of written texts, was more an oral than a written one (oralité mixte) or within a culture in which written texts were

44 Isidore of Seville as cited in Otter, “Functions of Fiction,” 113. His definition reads: “History is the narration of events, through which that which occurred in the past is known.” See also E. R. Curtius’ summary of Isidore’s literary theories: E. R. Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. Willard Trask, 2nd ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 450-457. 45 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 68. 46 Machan, Textual Criticism, 96. 47 Ibid. It is no coincidence, Machan argues, that there were no appropriate vernacular terms for auctores and auctoritas. 48 Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship, 10. 49 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 141. 50 Zumthor, Essai de poétique médiévale, 155-177.

Authorising History

15

created for both aural prelection and private reading (oralité seconde).51 In his own concise summary, he states that: By mouvance I mean to indicate that any work, in its manuscript tradition, appears as a constellation of elements, each of which may be the object of variations in the course of time or across space. The notion of mouvance implies that the work has no authentic text properly speaking, but that it is constituted by an abstract scheme, materialized in an unstable way from manuscript to manuscript, from performance to performance.52

Building on this, but with a greater emphasis on the varying written realisations of medieval works, Bernard Cerquiglini proposed his related concept of variance, according to which it is anachronistic to see medieval works as the intellectual property of just one author.53 With Zumthor and Cerquiglini, Bella Millett points out that scholarly attempts to find an original text “failed to take into account the way the work was seen in its own time.”54 Rather, she suggests in her succinct summary of the two concepts, there is, under such conditions, “less concern for the textual integrity of the original work, and a less clearly-marked distinction between the functions of the author and scribe.”55 This school of thought has a great effect on the terms in which the construction of the historiographer’s authorial persona can be discussed. A good starting point is Zumthor’s definition of author (the term he uses to mean author, reciter and scribe, “except when there is clear proof otherwise”)56 as “l’homme dans le texte” which may or may not coincide with “l’homme comme tel.” I will argue that the degree to which the two coincide (or are made to coincide) depends precisely on the applicability of the theoretical concept of mouvance to the work. This is not unlike Chaucer, whose anxiety for the integrity of his work has usually been read as a caveat to the concepts 51

Zumthor, La lettre et la voix, 18-19, 109. Paul Zumthor, Speaking of the Middle Ages, trans. Sarah White (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986), 96. 53 Bernard Cerquiglini, Éloge de la variante (Paris: Cerf, 1989), 58. 54 Bella Millett, “Mouvance and the Medieval Author: Re-Editing Ancrene Wisse,” in Late-Medieval Religious Texts and Their Transmission, ed. Alastair Minnis (Cambridge: Brewer, 1994), 12. 55 Millett, What Is Mouvance? 56 Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 41. Zumthor explains: “there is a frequent failure to distinguish clearly between the categories of author, reciter, and . . . . It would perhaps be safer, except when there is clear proof otherwise, that the word “author” covers all three of these overlapping meanings.” 52

16

Introduction

of mouvance and variance.57 Robert Mannyng clearly applies different authorising strategies in order to control all possible levels of the written and oral/aural realisations of his work.58

The four works The works that form the corpus for this study (the chronicle of Robert Mannyng of Brunne, the chronicle of Robert of Gloucester and the scriptural history Cursor Mundi in its two versions) were all written at approximately the same time, between 1275 and 1338. It was a time often described as a period of many crises.59 One such crisis is the almost constant warfare between the English and the Scots in the wake of the Scottish king Alexander III’s death in 1286. This conflict and the impending alliance between Scotland and France posed a “continuous threat to England as a sovereign state.”60 People in the North of England, where both Robert Mannyng and the Northern Cursor poet lived and worked, lived in constant fear of raids. In addition, they also suffered from the famines of 1315/16 that were accompanied by a virulent epidemic as well as a sheep- and cattle plague.61 Robert of Gloucester, in turn, witnessed 57

Millett, What Is Mouvance?; Machan, in contrast, suggests that “the anxiety that motivates much of Chaucer’s metatextual exposition, indeed, is occasioned by the consequences of the denial of auctorial status.” Machan, Textual Criticism, 134. 58 In contrast to authors such as Chaucer and Mannyng, Millett claims that the author of the Ancrenne Wisse “accepted both the short-term and the long-term instability of his work, and that he actively collaborated in the process of textual change.” Millett, “Mouvance and the Medieval Author,” 14. 59 For definitions of the term for the fourteenth century see František Graus, Pest Geissler - Judenmorde: Das 14. Jahrhundert als Krisenzeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1994); Walter Buckl, Das 14. Jahrhundert: Krisenzeit (Regensburg: Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1995); Bruce M. S. Campbell, Before the Black Death: Studies in the “Crisis” of the Early Fourteenth Century (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991); Ferdinand Seibt and Winfried Eberhard, Europa 1400: Die Krise des Spätmittelalters (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1984); Wendy R. Childs and John Taylor, Politics and Crisis in Fourteenth-Century England (Gloucester: Alan Sutton, 1990). 60 Thea Summerfield, The Matter of Kings’ Lives: The Design of Past and Present in the Early Fourteenth-Century Verse Chronicles by Pierre De Langtoft and Robert Mannyng (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998), 8. 61 Sarah M. Horrall, general introduction to The Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol. 5, ed. Laurence M. Eldredge and Anne L. Klinck (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 2000), 17.

Authorising History

17

some of the events of the so-called “Second Barons’ War” of 1264-1267. He accuses Henry III of openly favouring his and his wife’s Frenchspeaking relatives and constructs (quite unrealistically as I will show in chapter one) the rebellious barons as “English:” “Þoru hom & þoru þe quene was so muche frenss folc ibrou‫܌‬t. Þat of englisse men me tolde as ri‫܌‬t nou‫܌‬t” (RG 10,992-93). Not all of these events are discussed in the works, but a sense of crisis is inherent in many passages. As mentioned, Turville-Petre has discussed such passages under the focus of the construction of national selves.62 His ideas have met with considerable criticism, among others from Jocelyn Wogan-Browne and Derek Pearsall.63 Pearsall, for example, states: These remarks about England and the English language, and others of a similar kind by Robert Mannyng, Robert of Gloucester and the anonymous author of the South English Legendary are evidence only of fragmentary, sporadic, regional responses to particular circumstances, not of a wave of English nationalism sweeping the country.64

What has also been neglected in Turville-Petre’s discussion is that this process also produces authorial personae. While the arguments of the four historiographers that contribute to the construction of the collective (and, arguably, national) self are quite similar, the ways in which the authorial personae are construed are not. The elements that unite the four works have been discussed extensively, but what separates them is just as important and has not been discussed much: The very different degrees to which the historiographers, by their use of diverse gestures authorship, construct their authorial personae. I propose to amend this in this book. Robert of Gloucester’s and Robert Mannyng of Brunne’s chronicles are verse chronicles that have been categorised as “Brut continués.”65 In contrast to Wace’s Roman de Brut and La‫܌‬amon’s Brut (works that are classically called “Bruts”), which end with the exile of the last Celtic king, 62

Turville-Petre, England the Nation. Wogan-Browne, Idea of the Vernacular, 16-20; Pearsall, “Before-Chaucer Evidences,” 29. 64 Pearsall, “Before-Chaucer Evidences,” 29. 65 Edward Donald Kennedy, Chronicles and Other Historical Writing, vol. 8 of A Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 1050-1500, ed. Albert E. Hartung and J. Burke Severs (New Haven: Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1989), xxi. Kennedy here distinguishes nine categories of historical writing, one of them being the Brut chronicles: “chronicles which begin with the legendary founding of Britain, or, although beginning later, are derived from Brut chronicles.” 63

18

Introduction

the “Bruts continués” continue their accounts up to their writers’ own present time.66 The Brut and its continuations were something of a national history, despite the fact that there was neither an official history nor an official writing centre in England in the fourteenth century. There is no evidence that the Brut was in any way officially commissioned, instead, as John Taylor states, “it was a popular history addressed to the widest possible medieval audience.”67 The two versions of the anonymous Cursor Mundi are not chronicles, of course. Modern scholars have called the work a “Biblical paraphrase,” or more fittingly a “scriptural history.”68 As such, the Cursor Mundi belongs with the group of early Middle English Biblical paraphrases such as the Middle English Genesis and Exodus or the prefatory material of the South English Legendary.69 Although it is, therefore, a very different kind of work, it can still be classified as historical writing because it embeds the few historical events (that would be considered historical by modern definition) in salvation history. Sarah M. Horrall, in her introduction to the first volume of her edition of the Southern versions calls it “a verse history of the world, based on scripture.”70 Suzanne Fleischman points out that the Bible was considered history in the Middle Ages, “and the most authoritative history at that.”71 Like the two chroniclers, both Cursor Mundi poets start their work with a Biblical account. For all four writers, history at the outset is salvation history. Like Robert Mannyng and Robert of Gloucester, both Cursor poets emphasise the teachings that the past holds for the present. Like the two chroniclers, the Northern Cursor poet (not the Southern one!) presents himself as the one person to bring those teachings to his audience.

66

Summerfield, Matter of Kings’ Lives, 2. Taylor, English Historical Literature, 45,110. 68 Thompson, The Cursor Mundi, 114. 69 Horrall also mentions the Metrical Paraphrase of the Old Testament as “a third paraphrase of interest.” Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 8-11. See also also Sarah M. Horrall, introduction to The Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol. 1 (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press, 1978), 11. 70 Horrall, introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi vol. 1, 11. 71 Fleischman, “Representation of History and Fiction,” 301. 67

Authorising History

19

Robert Mannyng of Brunne’s chronicle Robert Mannyng has been called “the most skilful story-teller of his time,”72 and the “[embodiment of] much of the vigour of English poetry in the thirteenth century.”73 It is not all too surprising then, that his name has often been mentioned in the same breath as Chaucer’s. Frederic Madden in the nineteenth century commented, “there is no poet previous to Chaucer his equal.”74 Ruth Crosby in her short biography of Mannyng called him “one of Chaucer’s most interesting predecessors in the art of storytelling.”75 Even more recent commentators state that although Mannyng’s works “certainly lack Chaucer’s virtuoso literary depth, in terms of the author’s attempt to both educate and entertain his audience . . . such a comparison may carry some merit.”76 While I do not wish to venture further into such comparisons that would inevitably be to the disadvantage of Mannyng, I will nevertheless claim that Mannyng has more in common with Chaucer than merely his attempt to educate and entertain. Like Chaucer, he is anxious about the potential loss of control over his work (this anxiety of Chaucer’s has been read as a caveat to theoretical concepts such as mouvance and variance). Like Chaucer, he consciously and skilfully

72

Clara F. Thomson, “Later Transition English: Legendaries and Chronicles,” in The Cambridge History of English and American Literature, ed. A. W. Trent et al., vol. 1 (orig. publ. 1907-21; now available online, New York: Bartleby.com, 2000), last accessed November 2012, www.bartleby.com/cambridge. 73 Derek Pearsall, Old English and Middle English Poetry, vol 1 of The Routledge History of English Poetry, (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1977), 118. 74 As quoted in Idelle Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 153 (Binghampton, NY: Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies, 1996), 2. 75 Ruth Crosby, “Robert Mannyng of Brunne: A New Biography,” PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 57.1 (1942): 15. Ruth Crosby’s short biography of Robert Mannyng is still influential. According to Thea Summerfield “the only fact about Mannyng’s life that has come to light since Ruth Crosby’s article is the discovery of the name of ‘Sir Robert de Brunne in (or ‘of’) Lincoln, chaplain,’ in a will of 1327.” Summerfield, Matter of Kings’ Lives, 101-2. 76 Ryan Perry, “Robert Mannyng,” in The Literary Encyclopedia, last accessed November 2012, http://www.litencyc.com.

20

Introduction

inscribes into his text an authorial persona in order to prevent that from happening.77 Most of the biographical information on Robert Mannyng can be inferred from his comments in his two works Handlyng Synne78 and the chronicle. He came from Bourne in Lincolnshire, was born sometime between 1265 and 1280, and was probably a canon in the English Gilbertine order.79 Although Mannyng never claims to be a member of the order, nor explicitly states that he is a canon, his knowledge of several of the Gilbertine masters’ and priors’ names as well as his acquaintance with the duties of a parish priest suggest that he was both.80 In Handlyng Synne, he claims that he lived in the Gilbertines’ main house in Sempringham for fifteen years;81 in his later chronicle he states that he lived in the priory of Sixhills during the reign of Edward III. Beforehand, Robert quite probably studied at Cambridge. There was a Gilbertine priory at Cambridge, and Mannyng remarks in the chronicle that he knew Alexander Bruce and met his brother Robert shortly before he became king of Scotland.82 77

This is in conatrast to Handlyng Synne, for which Machan claims that “Mannyng the author does not insert Mannyng the narrator thematically or rhetorically into the translation.” Machan, Textual Criticism, 103. 78 Robert Mannyng, Handlyng Synne, ed. Idelle Sullens, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 14 (Binghampton, NY: Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, State University of New York, 1983), hereafter referred to as HS and line numbers. 79 Gilbert of Sempringham (1083-1189) had founded this purely English order around 1130. Originally a small monastic cell for a group of women attached to the parish church, it developed into a monastic community to which Gilbert joined lay brothers and sisters as well as canons. From the original double monasteries, the order gradually turned into a predominantly male one when, as of the twelfth century, most of the new foundations were reserved for men. R. B. Dobson, “Sempringham,” Lexikon des Mittelalters, vol. 7 (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1977-1999), cols. 1742-4. According to Summerfield, the fact that the Gilbertines were a purely English order was “a matter of chance rather than intention. Gilbert travelled to Citaux in 1147 to ask if the general chapter of the Cistercian Order would take over the charge of his order, but the Cistercian fathers were reluctant.” Instead, Gilbert was confirmed in his administration by the pope. Summerfield, Matter of Kings’ Lives, 103. 80 Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 13-22; Summerfield, Matter of Kings’ Lives, 102. 81 Lesley Johnson, “Robert Mannyng of Brunne and the History of Arthurian Literature,” in Church and Chronicle in the Middle Ages: Essays Presented to John Taylor, ed. Ian Wood and A. Loud (London: Hambledon Press, 1991), 132. 82 RM II:8225-34.

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The chronicle, which according to Mannyng’s own explicit was completed in 1338, is a “genealogical narrative” starting at a founding father and ending (almost) in the historiographer’s present time.83 Mannyng’s chronicle covers “English” history from Noah to the death of Edward I in almost 24,000 lines. The work is divided into two parts. The first is a translation from Wace’s Roman de Brut, and the second is a translation from Pierre de Langtoft’s Anglo-Norman Chronicle.84 The works of Geoffrey of Monmouth, Gildas, Bede, Henry of Huntingdon, William of Malmesbury and a number of unidentifiable sources supplement these two main sources. Mannyng also makes references to Ovid, Juvenal and several French and English romances.85 Based on the fact that Mannyng never calls his own work a chronicle,86 Joyce Coleman makes an argument for the use of Story of England as a title. She states that: 83

Johnson, “Robert Mannyng,” 139; the definition of “genealogical narratives” is according to Howard R. Bloch, Etymologies and Genealogies: A Literary Anthropology of the French Middle Ages (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1983), 81; see also Lesley Johnson, “Etymologies, Genealogies, and Nationalities (Again),” in Concepts of National Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. Simon Forde, Lesley Johnson, and Alan V. Murray, Leeds Texts and Monographs 14 (Leeds: University of Leeds, 1995). 84 Pierre de Langtoft, who died ca. 1307 was an Augustinian canon of Bridlington in Yorkshire. His chronicle in Anglo-Norman verse is partly a paraphrase of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia with some influence from Henry of Huntingdon, and partly original to him. Lister M. Matheson, “King Arthur and the Medieval English Chronicles,” in King Arthur through the Ages, ed. Valerie Marie Lagorio and Mildred Leake Day (New York: Garland Publications, 1990), 252; Taylor, English Historical Literature, 150. To date, only one edition of Langtoft’s work exists: Pierre de Langtoft, The Chronicle of Pierre De Langtoft, ed. Thomas Wright, Rolls Series 47, 2 vols. (London: Her Majesty’s Stationary Office, 18661868). Hereafter referred to as “Langtoft” and line numbers. 85 Matheson, “King Arthur,” 252; Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 53-55. 86 He does, however, use the word for the works of others in his account of how Edward I had historical records and books searched for confirmation of his claim to overlordship of Scotland (RM II:5999). The OED lists an occurance of the word “chronicle” in Mannyng’s Handlyng Synne as the first instance of the word in English in 1303. This is confirmed by the MED where the entries are however sorted according to MSS rather than to supposed composition date (in this case 1400), which results in other entries being listed before Handlyng Synne. See entry for “chronicle,” in Oxford English Dictionary Online, last accessed November 2012, http://www.oed.com; see also entry “cronicle,” in Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med/.

22

Introduction By not using Mannyng’s chosen title, scholars obscure two important innovations. One is Mannyng’s act of naming–both of himself, as author/translator, and of his book. The other is the intention to provide an authenticating narrative of England in English–an intention communicated in Mannyng’s chosen title but effaced in the neutral title of Chronicle.87

This is a very valid argument, particularly because of the connection of the naming of the book and the self-naming which will be central to my study. However, I decided against calling the work Story of England and will instead refer to it as the chronicle (not Chronicle which would suggest, wrongly, that this is the title of the work) for two reasons. First, I do not completely agree with Coleman’s reading of the first few lines (RM I:1-5) of the work that she interprets as Mannyng’s “naming of his book.” I will argue instead that when Mannyng writes “if ‫܌‬e will listene & lere alle þe story of Inglande als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand,” he refers as much to history in a more abstract sense as to his own, material book. Second, in modern terminology, Mannyng’s work is clearly a chronicle.88 The term as it is used today takes into account the medieval specificities of a work of history, such as influences from other genres, dependencies on patrons and adaptations to audience taste.89 Much has been written about the intended audience and possible patronage of the chronicle. Clearly, Mannyng’s own famous remarks that he is writing “not for þe lerid bot for þe lewed” (RM I:6), for a “comonalte” somehow connected with “þe lewed man” (RM I:123-26), as well as his extensive discussion of language and style have provided much material for scholarly argument. In his article “Politics and Poetry in the 87 Joyce Coleman, “Strange Rhyme: Prosody and Nationhood in Robert Mannyng’s Story of England,” Speculum 78.4 (2003): 1214. 88 For example Given-Wilson’s definition: “Strictly speaking, the word ‘chronicle’ describes a record or register of events in chronological order. In practise, when used to describe medieval texts, it is commonly employed (as it was in the middle ages) to describe any work the subject-matter of which claimed to be essentially historical, whether that meant events in the past or events contemporary with the time at which the author wrote.” Given-Wilson, Chronicles, ix. 89 Hayden White, in his famous taxonomy of medieval historical writing, divides historical texts into annals, chroniques, and histoires and claims that, while annals lack narrativity altogether, the chronicle “seems to wish to tell a story, aspires to narrativity, but typically fails to achieve it. More specifically, the chronicle usually is marked by a failure to achieve narrative closure.” White, “The Value of Narrativity,” 16. I don’t intend to further discuss this taxonomy here; according to it, all the works of my corpus are “chronicles.”

Authorising History

23

Early Fourteenth Century: The Case of Robert Mannyng,” Turville-Petre describes in detail the economical and political context of the work. Lincolnshire was affected more heavily by the Scottish wars than other regions, “hit by the demands for soldiers, by direct taxation on movables, and by imposition of purveyance by which the King provided for the needs of his household and the army as it travelled.”90 It is against this historical background that Turville-Petre suggests the intended audience was the unfree Saxon peasantry of Lincolnshire, with whom the Gilbertine order would have felt the need to associate, in the hope that their gratitude would be expressed in the form of “money, land, and labour.”91 Expanding on Crosby’s claim that the chronicle was written for the novices and lay brothers of the order,92 Thea Summerfield suggests that Mannyng’s audience, in addition, included the workers with the Gilbertine order.93 I agree with Coleman who contradicts both suggestions. Firstly, as Coleman states, “the common folk would have been overwhelmed by a 24,000-line chronicle” despite Mannyng’s promise of “simple language.”94 Secondly and more importantly, the money, land and labour that the unfree peasantry could have provided would probably have been rather meagre. The local gentry are a much more likely audience, not just because of a greater affinity for historiography but also because they would have had the means “to reward the Gilbertine order for providing the text.”95 Interestingly enough, the audience that is constructed in the chronicle is not clearly defined along these lines. Turville-Petre, eight years after the article mentioned above, also states: It must be stressed that in their characterisation of an audience the writers are not providing us with descriptions of actual audiences and their social condition. Authors are not in a position to choose their audiences in advance, especially once the text has passed out of their immediate control and into a social context perhaps quite different from any they may have envisaged. Instead the prologues fashion and define an audience in relation to the work they are introducing96

90

Turville-Petre, “Politics and Poetry,” 7. Ibid., 18. 92 Crosby, “Robert Mannyng,” 27. 93 Summerfield, Matter of Kings’ Lives, 112-13. 94 Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1224-25. 95 Ibid. 96 Turville-Petre, England the Nation, 28. 91

24

Introduction

The chronicle is extant in two manuscripts, MS P [London, Inner Temple Library, Petyt 511, Vol. 7]97 and MS L [London, Lambeth Palace Library 131]. Neither preserves the complete text. A fragment is preserved on an additional single leaf in MS R [Oxford, Bodleian Library, Rawl. D.913]. P is the most complete manuscript while L ends in the middle of the second part. Most notably missing from L is the prologue: the first sheet was torn out of the MS at an unknown date. Both seem to derive from an exemplar “made one or more generations after Mannyng finished his work in 1338,” P dating from around 1400 and L from 1450.98 Despite the fact that L was written long after P and represents a revised version, the relationship between the two manuscripts is very close. The few textual variants interesting to my study will be discussed; otherwise, the references are to MS P as edited by Idelle Sullens in 1996.

Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle The historiographer who refers to himself as Robert and who has been associated with Gloucester due to his apparent first-hand knowledge of the events in the region during his lifetime, may not have written the whole chronicle. Only the part containing the years 1135-1270 in the longer of the two extant versions is usually attributed to him. It is at this stage that the work which has been deemed “as worthless as twelve thousand lines of verse without one spark of poetry can be” by its editor99 becomes livelier and more poetic.100 The two versions agree up to the end of the reign of Henry I, but the events from the accession of Stephen to the end of Henry III’s reign are treated in 3000 lines in the longer and older version and in a compressed 600 lines in the shorter one. Supposedly, the chronicle as a whole was composed in a monastery and a Robert of Gloucester added 3000 lines of his own in around 1300, resulting in what is generally termed the longer version. About 1325, another writer added 600 lines to the original manuscript, resulting in what is now known as the shorter version. This instance of variance naturally affects my discussion of Robert of Gloucester’s gestures of authorship. I have decided to follow 97

See figures 1 and 2 at the beginning of this book for reproductions of the first two folios of the manuscript. 98 Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 2-6, 22-39. 99 William A. Wright, preface to The Metrical Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester, Rolls Series 86 (1887; repr., 2 vols. London: Kraus Reprint, 1965), xl. 100 Pearsall, Old English and Middle English Poetry, 117.

Authorising History

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Sarah Mitchell in her treatment of the work “as a single whole.” She comments: The name “Robert of Gloucester” is a convenient term for referring to the chronicle; my use of it is not intended to limit authorship to a single, identifiable, person. Even if it is the work of more than one person, the unity of the first-recension text–its polemical and ideological coherence – allows its analysis as a single whole.101

Thus, I will generally treat the work as a whole, but will point out the different versions when it is relevant for the analysis. The sixteen extant manuscripts and fragments (ranging from the early fourteenth to the sixteenth century) suggest that the chronicle was quite popular at the time, perhaps, as Lister Matheson suggests, due to its description of king Arthur’s reign. Matheson goes on to state that it was even “of a wider medieval popularity than Layamon.”102 Apparently, this popularity diminished only very late and still had an influence on the early critics’ perception of the work. Several scholars erroneously attributed MS P of Mannyng’s chronicle to Robert of Gloucester.103 John Bridges (a friend of Thomas Hearne who produced the first editions of both Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s works) commented in the early eighteenth century: “It is very strange, that this author [Mannyng] has never been taken notice of or quoted. In my opinion, it far exceeds R. of Gloucester, both for the matter and manner of his story.”104 What appeared to be an exciting discovery to John Bridges is now commonly accepted. However, despite the differing quality of their writing, the two Roberts share a great number of features. The writing of history “in English for the English” is close to the hearts of both and this leads to rather similar constructions of collective selves. The nearcontemporaries also have a similar background as literate and Latinate members of the clergy. They possibly shared very similar experiences involved in the task of writing history: the search for and the evaluation of sources, the restrictions set by their patrons or the limited holdings of their libraries, the adaptation of the content to their envisaged audience. Despite these similarities, the quality and quantity of authorial gestures employed and the authorial personae consequently produced differs greatly between 101

Mitchell, “Kings, Constitution and Crisis,” 39. Matheson, “King Arthur,” 251. 103 Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 24. 104 Ibid., 2. 102

26

Introduction

the two Roberts. It is in this respect that the chronicle of Robert of Gloucester is central to this study: with this foil to compare his contemporary Robert of Mannyng against, the latter’s authorial selffashioning becomes visible.

The Northern and the Southern versions of the Cursor Mundi The Cursor Mundi in its two versions is an anonymous scriptural history of almost 30,000 lines.105 Its Latin title derives from the fact that the work runs through the six ages of the world from creation to doomsday, as a couplet at the end of the prologue explains (“Cursur o werld man aght it call,/ For almast it ouer-rennes all,” NCM 267-68.). The generally accepted composition date for the lost original is 1275-1325.106 The nine extant manuscripts form an interesting corpus for a study because they fall into two groups: an early Northern group of five manuscripts written around 1340 and a later Southern group of four manuscripts dating from 1400 to 1450.107 The two groups differ so considerably that Horrall, the general editor of the Southern version, suggests they should actually be treated as two different poems.108 For the present study, it is particularly 105

The standard edition for the Northern MSS is still the one by Richard Morris. A more recent edition of some of the Southern manuscripts exists in the edition by Horrall et al. The number of lines varies not only in the different manuscripts but also depends on scholarly definitions as to which of the additions to the main text are to be regarded a part of the Cursor Mundi. This difficulty results from the fact that the Southern MSS do not have any of the additions extant in the Northern MSS but nevertheless preserve lines 217-20 in their prologues which state that the poem will deal with the “Sorrows of Mary” and the “Festival of the Conception of the Virgin.” The text ending after the account of Doomsday (as preserved in the Southern MSS) is only about 24,000 lines long. 106 Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 13; Thompson suggests that the original text was written as early as the late thirteenth century: John J Thompson, “The Governance of the English Tongue: The Cursor Mundi and Its French Tradition,” in Individuality and Achievement in Middle English Poetry, ed. Oliver S. Pickering (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1997), 19. 107 Some critics list a tenth MS, MS McGill University 142. Horrall claims that this is in fact a version of the Southern Assumption. Horrall, introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi vol. 1, 11, footnote 1. For a detailed description of the manuscripts see Thompson, The Cursor Mundi; Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi; Sarah M. Horrall, “The Manuscripts of Cursor Mundi,” in Text: Transactions of the Society for Textual Scholarship 2 (1985). 108 Horrall, introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol. 1, 12.

Authorising History

27

interesting to see that not only do the two versions differ when they treat the choice of language, as discussed by John J. Thompson (the only recent extensive study)109 but they also differ greatly in their gestures of authorship. To my mind, the latter has not been given the scholarly attention it deserves. Thompson claims that what he terms “the blurring of the “I”-narrator” in the Southern version (that is the blurring of the boundaries between author and implied audience) should be attributed solely to careless scribal copying and states that in his “view, there is nothing to suggest that the figure of the Cursor-poet has been consciously suppressed in the ‘Southern version.’”110 On the contrary, I propose that the Southern poet objected to the gestures of authorship of his Northern counterpart, and that the changes he accordingly made should be regarded as intentional, just as the ones he made concerning the language choice.111 Nothing is known about the poet of the “original” Northern work apart from what can be deduced from his self-references and from his use of sources. The former clearly suggest that he was a member of the clergy; the latter have helped Horrall to draw a number of conclusions. She states that the Cursor poet draws on an “unusual variety of French, Latin and English sources.”112 Among them are Peter Comestor’s Historia scholastica, Wace’s La conception Nostre Dame, Robert Grosseteste’s Le 109

Thompson, The Cursor Mundi. Hugh Magennis refers his readers to Thompson for “an authoritative account of textual issues relating to the poem.” Hugh Magennis, “Cursor Mundi,” in The Literary Encyclopedia, last accessed November 2012, http://www.litencyc.com. See also Anne Hudson’s review in which she expresses the “only regret that he [Thompson] did not continue to suggestions about the likely cultural centre which produced the Cursor poet and his text, suggestions which would necessarily have had to be more speculative, but which Thompson is best placed to advance.” Anne Hudson, review of The Cursor Mundi: Poem, Texts and Contexts by John J. Thompson, The Review of English Studies 50.199 (1999): 364. The only other extensive study on the Cursor Mundi dates from 1970: Ernest G. Mardon, The Narrative Unity of the Cursor Mundi (Glasgow: William MacLellan, 1970). 110 Thompson, The Cursor Mundi, 51. 111 See also Tim William Machan’s review: “The clerical and cultural contexts that sanctioned the textual fluidity he [Thompson] charts, for example, bear more scrutiny, as does the question of whether some of the Cursor manuscripts constitute a distinctive ‘southern’ version, which Thompson mentions as a controversial view but nowhere explores in detail.” Tim William Machan, review of The Cursor Mundi: Poem, Texts and Contexts by John J. Thompson, Speculum 74.4 (1999): 1132. 112 Horrall, introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi vol. 1, 11.

28

Introduction

château d’amour, Isidore of Seville’s De vita et morte sanctorum, Jacobus de Voragine’s Legenda aurea. A number of works in Old French such as Herman of Valencienne’s Bible that were not easily found in England are also important.113 This, as well as the fact that the poet apparently copied directly from his wide variety of source texts (rather than from memory), suggests that he had access to a library with substantial holdings. In addition, Horrall places the poet within “the general chaos” of the Northern England of his time (constant warfare between England and Scotland, famines, epidemics) and concludes that the necessary security for continuous library studies could only have been provided by one of the large monasteries: Under these dreadful conditions someone sat, in a reasonably wellfurnished library, over a number of years, composing CM. The only conclusion possible is that the poem is a product of one of the largest and most secure northern monasteries, probably Durham, or possibly somewhere in York, places which were a great deal less vulnerable to the general chaos.114

As for the intended audience, the Northern poet explicitly states that he is writing for a lay audience with no mastery of French or Latin. This claim is supported by textual features usually connected with oral delivery such as formulaic verse and recurrent phrases as well as by its “popular romance-like style, mostly in octosyllabic couplets.”115 Similarly, evidence in some of the extant manuscripts (such as financial records relating to sheep) suggests that the work circulated almost exclusively among merchants and landed gentry. Only one manuscript was undoubtedly owned by a

113

Also the Vulgate Bible, Pseudo-Matthei Evangelium, the Assumption of Our Lady, Honorius Augustodunensis’ Elucidarium and Adso’s De ortu et tempore Antichristi, Traduction anonyme de la Bible entière and many others. For a detailed discussion of the sources and the poet’s use thereof see Horall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi “General Introduction,” 3-8; Richard Morris, preface to Cursor Mundi: Four Versions Part VI, Preface, Notes, and Glossary (London: Oxford University Press, 1892). 114 Sarah M. Horrall, “‘Man Yhernes Rimes for to Here:’ A Biblical History from the Middle Ages,” in Art Into Life: Collected Papers from the Kresge Art Museum Medieval Symposia, ed. Carol-Garrett Fisher (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1995), 79; Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi. 115 Magennis, “Cursor Mundi.”

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member of the clergy.116 Comparison between the Northern and the Southern versions indicates that the latter was adapted to the increasing affective piety in its time. Horrall also suggests that it was even more directly aimed at a lay audience than its Northern predecessor, since the excisions and the increased number of headings break “the poem into chunks suitable for an hour or so’s reading.”117 The Cursor Mundi, particularly if seen as one work can be characterised as an “open” or “unstable” text in that it was susceptible to rearrangement and revision, a text “for use,” as Hugh Magennis puts it.118 However, Horrall claims that “the ‘openness’ of the poem must not be exaggerated” since there is, despite all the additions and deletions a “very stable core to the poem.”119 I suggest that this stable core, in fact, marks the manuscripts of the Northern version as a group separate from the manuscripts of the Southern version. It is on the basis of this assumption that I use for my analysis only one manuscript as representative of the Northern and, one as representative of the Southern version. For the Northern version, I will refer to Richard Morris’ edition of MS C [Cotton Vespasian Aiii, British Library], which, according to both Morris and Horrall is “closest to the poem actually written by the mediaeval poet.”120 For the Southern version, I will use Horrall and her colleagues’ edition of MS H [Arundel LVII College of Arms, London].121 Also, as pointed out before, I will follow Horrall in treating the two versions as two separate works. I will consequently refer to a Northern and a Southern Cursor Mundi poet.122

116

Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 18-24. Ibid., 12-13. 118 Magennis,“Cursor Mundi;” John J. Thompson, Robert Thornton and the London Thornton Manuscript: British Library Ms Additional 31042 (Cambridge: Brewer 1987), 25; Manfred Görlach, The Textual Tradition of the South English Legendary (Leeds: The University of Leeds School of English, 1974), 6. 119 Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 11. 120 Horrall, introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol. 1, 12. 121 For extensive information about the individual manuscripts, see Horrall, “The Manuscripts of Cursor Mundi;” introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol. 1, 13-23. 122 See Derek Pearsall’s use of “northern author of the Cursor Mundi.” Pearsall, “Before Chaucer Evidences,” 29. 117

CHAPTER ONE THE TASK OF WRITING HISTORY

In this first chapter, I will analyse the historiographers’ professed view of their task of writing history in connection with diverse gestures of authorship. The authorial personae are here construed as a reflection of a power play between audience, text and author. Some of the strategies by which the historiographers seek to ensure their enduring control over their works on all possible levels of realisation (oral/aural and written) call into question the applicability of such concepts as mouvance and variance. This is especially the case in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle. First, I will turn to the ways in which the historiographers present history as fundamentally mediated and themselves as mediators. Their self-ascribed role of mediator places the historiographers between the audience and the knowledge of the events of the past (which is inaccessible to that audience because it is in Latin, French, or Anglo-Norman). Consequently, this role also elevates historiographers above their audience: The audience’s alleged dependency, caused by the lack of learning and language skills, establishes the supremacy of the historiographers and an imbalance of power. Next, I will address the question of who the historiographers present their audience to be and how they claim to be adapting their work to the needs and tastes of this audience. The third part of this chapter then addresses the ways in which the historiographers envisage the presentation of their historical work to that audience. Tensions between orality/aurality and vernacular literacy become apparent when the historiographers situate their written text within the context of an aural prelection. The anxiety about the potential loss of control over the text becomes apparent in two ways: Firstly, the fear that a prelector may appropriate the role of the “I,” secondly, the fear that the text will speak for itself. Books and written texts in general are often presented as speaking, as saying something.1 Such 1

See Brian Stock: “The conventional agreement between speaker/author and hearer/reader is still in effect, because speaking and writing, in order to achieve communication, employ the same grammar. And the text, once decontextualised from its original author, together with its social and historical mode of production,

32

Chapter One

presentations and the counter-strategies to attempt and secure authority nevertheless are discussed in the third section. One such strategy is to employ the imagery of the historical text as a material object that can consequently be handled and controlled. This will be discussed in the last part of this chapter.

The historiographer as mediator Robert Mannyng, Robert of Gloucester and the Northern Cursor poet all, albeit with slightly differing emphases, call their audience’s attention to the fact that the events of the past are only ever accessible in their mediated form, as history. Their central purpose, as they claim, is to mediate the past to those who would not otherwise have access to it. According to Turville-Petre, it is based on this claim that these historiographers construct an “English nation.” This nation (which can, with all due caution, be so called because the historiographers themselves call it thus)2 is defined in terms of territory, people and language.3 Whether one subscribes to Turville-Petre’s idea of the construction of “English nation” or not, it is clear that a collective self of “the English” is construed in these passages. The general argument of the historiographers is that the English, brought into “seruage” through the different conquests of their land, have hitherto been deprived of their own past simply because they have not been able to understand the existing historical works. Consequently, the most important of several levels on which the historiographers present themselves as mediators is the one of language. They all translate French, Anglo-Norman and Latin texts into English and, by commenting on that fact, present themselves as mediators between otherwise inaccessible historical material and their Anglophone audience. The Northern Cursor poet claims to translate his unnamed source(s) into English for the English. The seemingly superfluous rhetorical repetition “Inglis lede, Inglis lede of Ingland” actually serves to underline

can appeal to any audience. The possibility is thereby opened for the consideration of an ontology of the text itself, describing the nature of the reality it represents and the sort of meaning it alone conveys.” Brian Stock, “Medieval Literacy, Linguistic Theory, and Social Organization,” New Literary History 16.1 (1984): 24. 2 “Ingland the nacion,” NCM 241. 3 Turville-Petre, England the Nation, 71-107. See also Turville-Petre, “Politics and Poetry.”

The Task of Writing History

33

exactly such a definition of nation by a shared language and a shared homeland: Efter haly kyrc state Þis ilk bok is es translate In to Inglis tong to rede For the loue of Inglis lede, Inglis lede of Ingland, For the commun at understand (NCM 231-36).

The remarks “efter haly kyrc state” and “for the commun at understand” both point toward the fact that since the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, religious writing in the vernacular had been encouraged by church authorities (and the call for religious works in the vernacular is indeed found in the Cursor poet’s continental sources). The poet employs rhetorical repetition (“Inglis lede, Inglis lede”) and multiple sound repetition (“Ing-, Ing-, Ing-, Ing-”), which are suggestive of an oral performance/aural prelection. Hence, he underlines not only the fact that the vernacular he has in mind is explicitly English, but also that there is an internal logic to his argument: English people of England should have access to salvation history (and, by implication, to salvation) in English. When he goes on to complain that most religious literature in England is written in “frankis rimes,” hence written for the “frankis man” and pugnaciously asks “quat is for him na frankis can?” one feels that the concern for the English goes far beyond merely the inaccessibility of texts in their own language: Frankis rimes here I red, Comunlik in ilk[a] sted, Mast es it wroght for frankis man: Quat is for him na frankis can? 4 (NCM 237-40)

The Northern Cursor poet thus poses as a mediator not only between the English “common man” and the “French” text but also implies that it is

4

Horrall states that this is a reference to the French paraphrases the Cursor poet uses. For a detailed discussion of these French paraphrases and the poet’s use thereof see Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 811.

Chapter One

34

through his mediation that salvation itself might come within closer reach of his Anglophone audience. The authorial persona thus constructed by the Northern Cursor poet, however, does not seem to have met with the approval of his Southern counterpart. Although the two versions are otherwise close in these first few hundred lines of the work, the complaint of the Northern poet quoted above, including his indignant rhetorical question (“quat is for him na frankis can?”), is missing altogether in the Southern version. The discussion of the language choice in general is given much less prominence, as a comparison of this “translation passage” in the two versions shows. The Northern version’s emphasizing repetition (“Inglis lede,/ Inglis lede of Ingland”), for example, has been collapsed with the following line in the Southern version. As a result, the need of the English people (who are English because they inhabit England) for works in the English language is much less pronounced: Efter haly kyrc state Þis ilk bok is es translate In to Inglis tong to rede For the loue of Inglis lede, Inglis lede of Ingland, For the commun at understand. (NCM 231-36)

Aftir holy chirches astate Þis ilke book is translate Into englisshe tonge to rede For þe loue of englisshe lede For comune folke of engelonde Shulde þe better hit vndirstonde (SCM 231-36).

The impression given in the Northern version that the common man (the implied audience) cannot at all understand works in languages other than English is changed in the Southern version. Here, the hope is expressed that, because of the translation, the audience will understand the work better. This is significant for the construction of the authorial persona since it implies that the audience is not entirely dependent on the poet’s mediation. Apparently, the Southern poet suppresses the central role in the transmission of knowledge that the Northern poet envisages for himself. The equation of the English common man with the lack of languageknowledge (which necessitates the historiographer-as-mediator) is also found in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle: So þat heiemen of þis lond þat of hor blod come Holdeþ alle þulke speche þat hii of hom nome Vor bote a man conne frenss me telþ of him lute Ac lowe men holdeþ to engliss & to hor owe speche ‫܌‬ute. (RG 7540-43)

The Task of Writing History

35

Equating language with nation as Robert of Gloucester does here (the Norman-stemming “heiemen” speak French, the “lowe men,” apparently of English descent, speak English) had a long tradition in anti-foreign discourse in England.5 However, this equation is a crude simplification of the complex realities of the trilingual society of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. At the time when Robert of Gloucester wrote, England had probably already ceased to be “the only country in the world that does not hold to its own language,” as he complains in another passage (“Ich wene þer ne beþ in al þe world contreyes none/ Þat ne holdeþ to hor owe speche bote engelond one,” RG 7544-45). Instead, English was already well on the way to regaining its status as the predominant language in England.6 However, French (only part of which was Anglo-Norman),7 like Latin, remained the language used by a powerful minority as a social barrier that helped to maintain the supremacy of the group who mastered it.8 This is nicely illustrated by Robert of Gloucester’s comment “bote a man conne frenss me telþ of him lute” (RG 7542). The growing use of the vernacular in later medieval chronicles has consequently been read as an indication that the chroniclers were writing with a wider readership in mind.9 However, what should not be overlooked is the fact that the historiographers themselves, despite their use of the vernacular, were not usually members of that “wider readership” but were, instead, part of the exclusive minority who was able to speak and write French. This is true for Robert of Gloucester, Robert Mannyng, and the Northern Cursor poet. They style themselves as literati when they highlight their ability to access, understand and translate their French/Anglo-Norman and Latin sources.10 5

Tim William Machan, English in the Middle Ages (Oxford: University Press, 2003), 71-110. 6 Michael Richter claims this to be the case as of the early fourteenth century: Michael Richter, Sprache und Gesellschaft im Mittelalter: Untersuchungen zur mündlichen Kommunikation in England von der Mitte des elften bis zum Beginn des vierzehnten Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1979), 29. 7 Ibid. 8 Susan Crane, “Anglo-Norman Cultures in England, 1066-1460,” in The Cambridge History of Medieval English Literature, ed. David Wallace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 48; Mitchell, “Kings, Constitution and Crisis,” 42-3. 9 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 152. 10 Since the twelfth century, the term literatus coincided with clerk; with the rise of the universities, the literacy and learnedness connected with the term was gradually becoming a quality of university scholars. Sarah L. Mitchell, “‘We Englisse Men:’

36

Chapter One

In the case of Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle, this educational and social gap between the professed mediator/historiographer and his implied audience leads to a number of confusing inconsistencies. While he seemingly champions the English-speaking “lowe men,” he also sympathises with the protagonists of the so-called “Second Barons’ War,” as his comment on the Provisions of Oxford in 1258 makes clear: So þat atte laste þe king her to hii drowe To remue þe frensse men to libbe bi ‫܌‬onde se Bi hor londes her & þer & ne come no‫܌‬t a‫܌‬e & to graunti gode lawes & þe olde chartre al so Þat so ofte was igraunted er & so ofte vndo (RG 11,015-19).

The king’s forced promise to remove the “frensse men” and to re-establish the “good laws and old charters” is certainly more appealing to landowners formerly deprived of their inheritance than it would be to the lower social strata.11 While, in response to King Henry III’s open favouritism of his and his wife’s “French” relatives, the rebellious barons were constructed as English, they were not all of English descent. Some of them, and most prominently their leader Simon de Montfort, probably did not even speak English.12 The terms “Norman,” “French” and “English” were sometimes used as political rather than as national terms, as John Gillingham observes in his study on Henry of Huntingdon. “Norman”/“French,” he states, could be used of cross-Channel magnates whose primary interests were with their possessions on the continent, while the rival “English” faction was only “English in the sense that its members, though also Francophone, had their lands, interests and careers almost entirely based in England.”13 It is quite likely that Robert of Gloucester uses the relevant terms in this way. He even extends that usage to the languages English and French and thereby causes considerable confusion. The “low men” of Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle may in fact have been “English” landowners (i.e. Construction and Advocacy of an English Cause in the Chronicle of Robert of Gloucester,” in The Medieval Chronicle, ed. Erik Kooper (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999), 196; Damian-Grint, New Historians, x; Curtius, European Literature, 384. 11 Mitchell, “‘We Englisse Men.’” 197. 12 Machan, English in the Middle Ages, 53. 13 John Gillingham, “Henry of Huntingdon and the Twelfth-Century Revival of the English Nation,” in Concepts of National Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. Simon Forde, Lesley Johnson and Alan V. Murray (Leeds: Leeds Studies in English, 1995), 89.

The Task of Writing History

37

owning land in England) who felt brought low by the inept Henry III and his predominantly French entourage. However, even though the passage above and others similar in wording can thus be re-evaluated, they cannot be entirely dismissed, especially in view of questions related to the construction of authorial persona. Against the background of the historical language situation (which was not, for English, as dramatic as Robert of Gloucester makes his audience believe), Sarah Mitchell reads Robert of Gloucester’s confusing language passages as “heavy with irony.”14 The precondition for such a reading is to see, as Mitchell does, Robert as a “highly educated [and] astute man.”15 While I am willing to believe that Robert was indeed educated, there is little intraand no extratextual evidence for it. Likewise, the astuteness he displays in some of these passages should probably not be overrated. The inconsistencies in Robert of Gloucester’s explanations, I suggest, instead point to a genuine difficulty of applying a commonly used model to the complex realities of trilingual England. When these passages are read as gestures of authorship, however, they effect an authorial persona determined to mediate the events of the past to an oppressed people deprived of its own history. However, while Robert of Gloucester styles himself as part of that ingroup of the “English,” it is precisely because he also belongs to the outgroup of the “oppressor” (i.e. those able to read French/Anglo-Norman) that he is able to act as a mediator between the “French” literary culture and his “English” audience. The supremacy of the mediator/historiographer over his implied audience is most pronounced in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle. Mannyng aligns those unlearned people for whom he undertakes his translation (“not for þe lerid bot for þe lewed”) with those “þat in þis land won þat þe Latyn no Frankis con.”16 The lines directly preceding this primary definition of his audience establish the historiographer’s superior position in two ways: Firstly, they introduce Mannyng as the translator and hence forgeground his important role as mediator. Secondly, they quite literally place him above his audience by his (“Robert Mannyng”) position in the text two lines above the mention of the audience:

14

Mitchell, “‘We Englisse Men,’” 193. Ibid. 16 The definition of “unlearned” as “not knowing Latin” is here extended to “not knowing Latin or French.” 15

38

Chapter One alle þe story of Inglande als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand & on Inglysch has it schewed, not for þe lerid bot for þe lewed, ffor þo þat in þis land won þat þe Latyn no Frankys con (RM I:3-8).

Although Mannyng does not (at this stage) explicitly point out the languages in which his sources are written, his remark that he is translating the history of England into English implicitly points towards the fact that he, unlike his audience, knows French and Latin and, by extension, that he is, unlike his audience, indeed “lered,” rather than “lewed.” The claim to be writing for an unlearned audience is so common in the literature of the time that it has been seen as not much more than a topos. Helen Phillips consequently suggests that Mannyng’s claim cannot be taken at face value.17 However, if one entirely dismisses such an audience-construction because it lacks correspondence to “reality,” one may overlook certain elements that are important to the construction of the authorial persona. Thus, topos though it may be, this topos was consciously chosen with the aim of expressing most fittingly and understandably what needed to be expressed.18 In this case, I suggest, what needed to be expressed is an authorial persona who is superior to but also considerate of his audience. Lesley Johnson suggests a similar interpretation of Mannyng’s use of this topos: Mannyng’s assertion in the introduction to his Chronicle that he writes “not for þe lerid bot for þe lewed’ (i, 6), perhaps has done little to excite the interest of modern academics, and yet he is a writer who clearly aspires to be recognised and remembered for his literary labours which provide his English audience with a manual for their spiritual welfare (Handlyng Synne) and a guide to their history (the Chronicle).19

17 Helen Phillips, “Robert Mannyng, Chronicle: Prologue,” in The Idea of the Vernacular: An Anthology of Middle English Literary Theory, 1280-1520, ed. Jocelyn Wogan-Browne and et al. (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1999), 19. 18 See Zumthor’s claim that “types” (in his original French: “le type”) which he chooses to use for “clichés, topoi, formulas, key images, and motifs,” “render usable what is ineffable in unique individuality by making it instantly recognizable.” Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 56, 88. 19 Johnson, “Robert Mannyng,” 132.

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39

It is consistent with this apparent sense of mission that Mannyng makes himself the finder of English history in the third and fourth line of his prologue. In contrast to Wace’s similar remark about his having found historical writings (“Ki jesqu’a poi vus sera dite/ Si come jo la truis escrite,” Wace 945-46, my emphasis), Mannyng’s expression “alle þe story of Inglande/ als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand” seems to be deliberately ambiguous. It simultaneously denotes the source books, Mannyng’s own work of history and the abstract concept of history as “the events of the past.”20 Once again, the role of the historiographer as mediator and the audience’s dependency on his mediation is foregrounded.

The “unlearned” audience In light of the historiographers’ attribution of a lack of language, learning and social status to their audience, I now turn to the question of how they present their works as written for and adapted to such an audience. One important point has just been discussed: their histories are written in the English vernacular, a quality that is presented as extraordinary in all the works of the corpus. Both the Northern and the Southern Cursor poet however go further in their attempt to adapt their work to their audience. Aware of the fact that romance works are usually more attractive for the audience than the kind of religious work at hand, they provide a long list of romance heroes at the very beginning of the Cursor Mundi prologue: Man yhernes rimes for to here, And romans red on maneres sere, Of Alisaundur þe conquerour; Of Iuly Cesar þe emparour; O grece and troy the strang strijf, Þere many thosand lesis þer lijf; O brut þat bern bald of hand, Þe first conquerour of Ingland; O kyng arthour þat was so rike, Quam non in hys tim was like, O ferlys þat hys knythes fell, Þat aunters sere I here of tell, 20 Paul Strohm has demonstrated the same three meanings of “story” for Lydgate’s Troy Book: “the story is ‘what happened’ . . . the story is Lydgate’s source . . . and, with þis story taking the place of presens ystoria, it is his own narrative.” Paul Strohm, “Storie, Spelle, Geste, Romaunce, Tragedie: Generic Distinctions in the Middle English Troy Narratives,” Speculum 46.2 (1971): 352.

40

Chapter One Als wawan, cai and oþer stabell, For to were þe ronde tabell; How charles kyng and rauland faght, Wit sarazins wald þai na saght; [Of] tristrem and hys leif ysote, How he for here be-com a sote, O Ioneck and of ysambrase, O ydoine and of amadase Storis als o ferekin thinges O princes, prelates and o kynges (NCM 1-22).

It is intriguing to see such a list of romance heroes at the opening of a work of scriptural history. Naturally, this list also affects the construction of the authorial persona; the Northern Cursor poet here shows a surprisingly good knowledge of the reading tastes of his contemporaries, and hence suggests that he shares the knowledge of, if not the love for, such texts. What he does here is to acknowledge his audience’s favoured texts and (seemingly) engage with them to then gently lead his audience to another type of text, namely his own. Indeed, immediately following his list of romance heroes, the Northern Cursor poet points out that there is the appropriate type of literature for everyone: Þe wisman wil o wisdom here, Þe foul hym draghus to foly nere, Þe wrang to here o right is lath, And pride wyt buxsumnes is wrath; O chastite has lichur leth On charite ai werrais wreth (NCM 27-32).

Those who seek salvation, that is roughly the message of the lengthy explanations and rather complex imagery that follow, should give up transitory worldly “paramours” in favour of love of Mary and turn to the appropriate texts such as his. In addition to his willingness to adapt the very beginning of his work to his audience, there is another important element in this passage of the Northern Cursor poet: an awareness of what I would like to call, perhaps slightly anachronistically, the “entertainment factor” of a work. The entertainment factor of the Cursor Mundi is certainly heightened by those first few lines. One might even argue that these opening lines serve to lure the audience into engaging with this text. Only after seventy lines of this kind does it then reveal its true nature as a work of religion. Only when the

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41

Northern Cursor poet begins his direct comparison between the worldly “paramours” and the Virgin Mary does it become obvious that the scope of the work is a religious one. The heightening of the entertainment factor is, I suggest, a special kind of captatio benevolentiae.21 The importance attributed to the entrainment factor of a work is even more explicit in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle. Mannyng follows the primary definition of his audience as unlearned and lacking knowledge of Latin and French with an unequivocal comment about his work’s purpose: “ffor [them] to have solace & gamen/ in felawschip when þai sitt samen” (RM I:9-10.). While the envisaged reception of the historical work is here connected with the semantic field of “game, entertainment, joy,” it is significant that it is not imagined as a solitary pleasure. Rather, it is presented as a group entertainment, a social activity. Lister Matheson states that the verse chronicles were extremely important in shaping “the shared cultural and historical consciousness of the secular populace of medieval England.”22 In this passage in Mannyng’s chronicle, the aggregating effect of a shared history is present on a literal level, namely the one of a group of listeners being united in sitting together and sharing aurally presented history. The same image is evoked again later in the prologue when Mannyng states that he “did it wryte for felawes sake/ when þai wild solace make.” (RM I:143-4). Mannyng thus seems well aware of the fact that in order for an historical account to work in such a community-building way, it primarily has to be entertaining. The uneducated, “lewed” audience (perhaps not “lered” enough to be visualised perched over a book) is best reached by an enjoyable performance. Mannyng particularly heightens the entertainment factor of his work by adapting his language to achieve a better “audibility” (“a quality that allows a satisfying pattern to emerge as one listens to the text”).23 He does so by turning his sources’ preterits into present tense, by 21

See Thompson’s suggestion that this prologue stands in the tradition of the “Nine Worthies,” of which it however only mentions four. John J. Thompson, “The Cursor Mundi, the ‘Inglis Tong,’ and ‘Romance,’” Readings in Medieval English Romance, ed. Carol M. Meale (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1994), 114-116. See also Horrall’s comment: “Interestingly enough, the southern version calls itself a ‘boke of storyes’ rather than a ‘tretis.’ The excisions of the southern version, coupled with the increased number of headings breaking the poem into chunks suitable for an hour or so’s reading, suggest that this version of the work may have been aimed even more directly than its original at men who ‘‫܌‬ernen iestes for to here.’” Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 12. 22 Matheson, “King Arthur,” 248. 23 Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 103.

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turning their indirect speech into direct speech,24 and by imitating and sometimes elaborating their most impressive poetic achievements, which, more often than not, are found in battle scenes.25 I will argue in more detail below that the aimed-for entertainment factor of their works does not prevent the historiographers of the corpus from insisting on their own clerical education as one strategy of authorising history. This stands in contrast to Peter Damian-Grint’s argument that, in the case of the Anglo-Norman writers 150 years earlier, the constant insistence on scholarly learning functioned “to the exclusion of virtually any suggestion that listening to an estoire might actually be enjoyable.”26 Coleman provides a possible explanation for this difference between the Anglo-Norman and the English historiographers. She states that, in contrast to other parts of Europe, reading material in England was regarded as either devotional or secular and that the works of the latter group, whether chronicles, romances, or poetry, “tended to be read in a cheerfully relaxed atmosphere that might include some awareness of their 24

For example, Caesar’s comment upon first sighting England: “What is one lond I ondere se,/ & what folk euer þerin be?” (RM I:4171-72.), which is presented in indirect speech in Wace (3857-59), in Geoffrey of Monmouth (iv:1) and Robert of Gloucester (RG 1042). 25 Damian-Grint states for Wace, who is the source for the first part of Mannyng’s chronicle: “There are large-scale rhetorical expansions, particularly in Wace’s battle scenes (which have distinctly epic overtones).” Damian-Grint, New Historians, 54. One such battle scene, heavy with alliteration in both Wace’s and Mannyng’s versions, is the following: De darz i out grant lanceïz E de pieres grant geteïz E de lances grant boteïz Ed'espees grant chapleïz. Gettent, lancent, fierent e botent, Cheent, jambetent, almes rotent (Wace 2545-50). (There was much throwing of spears, Casting of stones, thrusting of lances And slaughter with swords. They threw, struck, hit and thrust; They fell, kicked helplessly and belched out their souls.) 26

Damian-Grint, New Historians, 18.

dartes tille oþer þei schote fast, grete stones with slenges cast, scharp lances þorgh scheldes smote, bright suerdes þorgh helmes bote; som bi nekkes seised sore, with kyues smyte togidere aiwhore, þorgh hede & throte, breste & bak, frussed togider þe nekkes brak. (RM I:3001-8)

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43

improving effect.”27 For Mannyng, his unlearned audience is more likely to relate to an enjoyable performance than to a private reading, an obvious simplification that, again, helps to establish the authorial persona as a mediator. However, it is important in this context to note that public reading remained popular among literate and learned members of the upper class long after the rise of literacy, as Coleman points out: Public reading maintained its popularity long after the rise in late medieval literacy rates and the advent of word-separation, paper, private chambers, and even print. While illiterates might have listened because they had no choice, and the book-deprived to share out the goods, the evidence shows that many literate members of the upper classes–even those renowned for their libraries–chose to listen to books. According to everything they say, they did so because they enjoyed and felt they benefited from the experience.28

Coleman’s suggestion that members of the upper classes chose to listen to books is criticised by Nicholas Orme who claims that, since life was less private in the Middle Ages, “the aristocracy read literature together not just through choice but because other people were usually with them.”29 If we hence read Mannyng’s presentation of history as entertainment for the uneducated as a simplification that primarily serves to construct the authorial persona as a mediator, we should also look for hints that the scope of his work goes beyond simple entertainment. Indeed, one passage in Mannyng’s prologue (in which “solace” is so prominent) contains a hint towards something slightly less profane than mere entertainment: þerfore ‫܌‬e lordes lewed ffor wham I haf þis Inglis schewed, prayes to god he gyf me grace: I trauayled for ‫܌‬our solace. (RM I:131-34)

In addition to the same elements which are also present in the two previous quotes, the motif of industria (“I trauayled”) is more pronounced here. Interestingly, it is so in the context of the enticing of the audience’s 27

Coleman, Public Reading, 129. Ibid., 55; Nicholas Orme, review of Public Reading and the Reading Public in Late Medieval England and France by Joyce Coleman, The English Historical Review 113.451 (1998): 433. 29 Nicholas Orme, review of Public Reading, 433. 28

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Chapter One

prayers in favour of the historiographer. In the same context, the rhymed pair “grace-solace” suggests that “solace” could here be understood as “consolation, alleviation of sorrow, spiritual joy.” This would broaden the work’s envisaged purpose considerably. In addition to the aggregating shared pleasure of an aural prelection of history, there is now an allusion to the (spiritual) liberation of an enslaved people, an aspect which is indeed central in Mannyng’s work.30 I will now turn to some passages in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle that have usually been misread, I think, as part of his construction of an implied audience. I suggest that instead, these passages are gestures of authorship. At first sight, Mannyng seems to take the argument about his writing in English for the simple Englishmen another step further by stating that he is translating his sources into simple language: Als þai [Wace and Pers Langtoft] haf wryten & sayd haf I alle in myn Inglis layd in symple speche as I couth þat is lightest in mannes mouth. I mad noght for no disours, ne for no seggers, no harpours, bot for þe luf of symple men þat strange Inglis can not ken. (RM I:71-78)

The discussion of “symple speche” as opposed to “strange Inglis” is quite an extensive one in Mannyng’s prologue, and has usually been seen as documentation of a translator’s efforts to adapt literarily high-standing Anglo-Norman source material to his unlearned audience. Turville-Petre, for instance, interprets “simple” as “straightforward, not duplicitous, unpretentious, humble” and concludes: “The lewed have chosen to be simple, and the poet who has followed them in this choice shares this virtue with them.”31 He further suggests that Mannyng, “with his strong

30 For an extensive discussion of the motif of “seruage” in Mannyng’s chronicle see Douglas Moffat, “Sin, Conquest, Servitude: English Self-Image in the Chronicles of the Early Fourteenth Century,” in The Work of Work: Servitude, Slavery, and Labour in Medieval England, ed. Allen J. Frantzen and Douglas Moffat (Glasgow: Cruithne, 1994), 146-168; see also Turville-Petre, “Politics and Poetry;” Turville-Petre, England the Nation. 31 Turville-Petre, England the Nation, 36-37. See also Derek Pearsall’s comment: “Mannyng seems to regard poetic elaboration and the attempt to extend the poetic

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sense of the injustice of serfdom, and with his solidly English name, himself escaped from servitude through ordination.”32 At first glance, such a reading seems to be confirmed by Mannyng’s assertion that he wrote his work “not forto be praysed,/ bot at þe lewed men were aysed” (RM I:83-84). However, there is also, in this statement, a hint that Mannyng sacrifices his writerly ambitions for love of the “lewed men,” indicating that he could have chosen a different language. If, “for þe luf of symple men” simple or light language really is what Mannyng aims for (RM I:125), why then does he betray his own declarations only a few lines later? Here, he ventures into a presentation of the different verse forms that would be available if one chose to use them: If it [the poem] were made in ryme couwee, or in strangere or enterlace, þat rede Inglis it ere inowe þat couthe not haf coppled a kowe; þat outhere in couwee or in baston (RM I:85-89).

Except for “baston,” these terms do not occur in other Middle English texts, and their mere presence in the text thus inhibits the simplicity Mannyng claims he is aiming for.33 As Johnson states: “the apparently humble stance of the writer/narrator as he describes his own stylistic skills and, by implication, the tastes and abilities of his non-learned audience is belied, in practice, by the performance which follows.”34 Along the same lines, Coleman has proposed a reading of what she calls the “prosody passage” within Mannyng’s prologue that challenges the “image of Mannyng as a working-class hero who championed straightforward English poetic forms and language in order to empower

vocabulary of English as almost immoral.” Pearsall, Old English and Middle English Poetry, 118. 32 Turville-Petre, “Politics and Poetry,” 22. 33 Coleman states that “Rime couwee” means “tail rhyme;” the associated term “kowe” is the “tail” itself. To “copple a kowe” is to link up the tail ryhmes. Mannyng’s complaint about the inability of performers to link rhymes implies that the rhyming sounds should be punched with a slight emphasis, a feature that he seems to feel is important in helping listeners follow the text.” Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1219. See also the MED and OED entries of these terms that base their definitions on Mannyng. 34 Johnson, “Robert Mannyng,” 134.

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his oppressed compatriots.”35 She claims that these metapoetic remarks should be read primarily in terms of his anxiety that his work will be misperformed. Indeed, Mannyng explicitly complains that some lay prelectors do not perform the poems by Thomas Erceldoune and Thomas Kendale in the way the authors intended them and in the process devalue the poems as a whole: I see in song, in sedgeyng tale of Erceldoun & of Kendale: Non þam says as þai þam wroght, & in þer sayng it semes noght. (RM I:93-96)

This is reminiscent of Chaucer’s envoy to Troilus and Criseyde: And for ther is so gret diversite In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge, So prey I God that non myswrite the, Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge 36 (Troilus and Criseyde, 5:1793-96).

Chaucer’s anxiety of “miswriting” and “mismetering” of his work (which can, I think, be compared to Mannyng’s anxiety of misperformance) has been read as a caveat to theoretical concepts such as mouvance and variance. If we accept that these concepts are not applicable to authors like Chaucer because he so clearly foregrounds the wished-for verbal integrity of his work,37 then the very conscious strategies employed by Mannyng should probably be read along similar lines. I suggest that, in order to 35

Coleman states that “the heroic Mannyng, rising from the lowest ranks of society to empower his Saxon fellows with a sense of linguistic and political identity, has become sort of neo-fact.” Coleman. “Strange Rhyme,” 1216. Coleman also points out that what could be read as Mannyng’s criticism of Erceldoune and Kendal as “vaingloriously thinking no one their equal” and “making themselves incomprehensible to English audiences” should in fact be read as a comment about the inability of the performers. Ibid., 1223. 36 Larry D. Benson, ed., The Riverside Chaucer, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 584. All references to Chaucer’s works are to this edition. Henceforth referred to as “Chaucer” and page numbers. See also Chaucer’s threat to his scribe Adam, Chaucer 650. 37 Millett, What Is Mouvance? However, this concern of Chaucer has been deemed non-medieval, as Machan, who follows Derek Pearsall in this, points out: Machan, “Editing, Orality,” 234.

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prevent misperformance, which Mannyng claims to have witnessed in the prelection of those other texts, from happening to his own work, he opts for “symple speche.”38 This choice seems to be additionally encouraged by those who “besoght [him] many a tyme/ to turne it bot in light ryme” (RM I:117-18); possibly a reference to his patrons. One may also interpret the reference to those “who do not know strange English” as a reference to lay prelectors who are contrasted to the professional reciters (“disours,” “seggers,” “harpours”) that Mannyng declares explicitly he is not writing for. After all, Mannyng defines “symple speche” as being “lightest” in men’s mouth (“in symple speche . . . þat is lightest in mannes mouth,” RM I:78) rather than ear. It is hence connected to some kind of speaker rather than to a more general unlearned audience. Coleman’s suggestion that Mannyng’s metapoetic remarks should be read in terms of his anxiety that his work will be misperformed can be developed further. I suggest that these remarks also include the anxiety of misrepresentation of the author. If Mannyng was indeed, as Coleman argues, forced by his patrons to adapt his language to lay prelectors and to use “symple speche” and “light ryme,”39 this can explain the contradiction between his claim to be aiming for simple language and his simultaneous listing of complex and rare poetic terms. It may well be a way of informing his audience about the fact that the choice of “simple speech” is not due to a lack of poetic skill. In this passage, there is more than the “unauthorized fascination” with elaborate verse forms that Coleman detects.40 Instead, Mannyng here demonstrates his in-depth knowledge of the available poetic forms that would have enabled him to write in more elaborate style if he or his patrons had decided differently. Secondly, he also demonstrates the difficulties his audience would have in understanding him. The difficulty of understanding elaborate language is demonstrated as a first-hand experience for a possible reader of the text 38 Damian-Grint describes the expression of contempt for jongleurs and vilains conteurs as one of the four strategies proposed by the Ciceronian model of the exordium: Damian-Grint, New Historians, 88. 39 Coleman continues: “He seems less like the champion of the oppressed, as described in recent scholarly discussions, than like a prosodic experimentalist whose ambitions need reining in, “many a tyme (line 117), by his more simpleminded patrons.” Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1224; see also: “Rather than rejecting overwrought French models on behalf of a native English audience, Mannyng seems to have been under pressure from an assimilated Anglo-Norman audience to abandon overambitious English—or, more precisely, northern English and Scottish—models. Ibid., 1228. 40 Ibid., 1224.

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who encounters problems reading the mere list of verse forms Mannyng says he will not employ. These passages, I thus suggest, show that he is less concerned with the needs of his audience, than with his gestures of authorship. They effect an authorial persona who chooses to employ simple language despite his ability to do otherwise.

The written text and aural prelection Both the anxiety of misrepresentation of the historiographer and the anxiety of misperformance of his work, which I have discussed in the previous section, lead to a specific (though in its kind not uncommon) 41 opening for Mannyng’s chronicle: Lordynges þat be now here, if ‫܌‬e wille listene & lere alle þe story of Inglande als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand (RM I:1-4).

Someone who is physically present in the same place (“here”) and at the same time (“now”) as his audience (“Lordynges”) is addressing them in direct speech. This clearly evokes an oral performance.42 There is also, however, a reference to history in its written form, the “history” that Mannyng here claims to have found in writing. According to Coleman’s definition, this would make the above an aural prelection (aurality as dependent on a written text) as opposed to an oral performance (orality as based on the oral performance of bards or minstrels).43 While Mannyng thus presents the then still prevailing tensions between orality, aurality and 41

Damian-Grint claims that the audite topos is in fact so common that its absence in a work would be more significant than its presence, Damian-Grint, New Historians, 146. 42 See Horst Wenzel’s argument: “In der Kommunikation von Angesicht zu Angesicht verbinden sich Gleichzeitigkeit und Gleichräumlichkeit mit der wechselseitigen Wahrnehmung von Sprecher und Hörer.” Horst Wenzel, “Die Stimme und die Schrift: Autoritätskonstruktion im Medienwechsel von der Mündlichkeit zur Schriftlichkeit,” in Self-Fashioning—Personendarstellung, ed. Rudolf Suntrup and Jan R. Veenstra (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2003), 49. There are numerous additional references to an aural prelection in Robert Mannyng’s prologue: “for to here þe dedis of kynges” (RM I:16); “telle” (I:159); “here” (I:161); “saiynge” (I:198) etc. 43 Coleman, Public Reading, 28.

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(vernacular) literacy as one of his concerns, he also emphasises these tensions by evoking an aural prelection within what is, of course, a written text.44 Based on concepts of “oralité seconde”/“secondary orality” this can be read in two different ways, both of which are connected with the attempt of the historiographer to ensure his enduring control over his work. Firstly, we can imagine a situation in which the text is indeed read aloud by a prelector other than Mannyng himself, someone who holds a manuscript of the work, reads from it and thus mediates between text and audience. The direct speech in the text forces that prelector to use Mannyng’s words in what consequently turns into Mannyng’s, rather than the prelector’s, address to the audience. The prelector is forced also to mention the author’s name in the fourth line, and to mention him as the “finder of history.” This will inevitably shift the audience’s attention to Mannyng’s mediation of history and restore to the historiographer the prominent role he envisages for himself.45 The presence of the book (in the absence of the author), in addition, draws the audience’s attention to the fixity and authority of the text and consequently restricts the prelector.46 We can, secondly, picture an individual reader of the manuscript, who is forced, by the diction of the passage, to imagine an aural prelection. The written text, which potentially eludes the control of its maker/author through its capacity of speaking for itself, is thus firmly replaced in the hands of someone who stands in front of an audience, presenting it. That someone is Robert Mannyng himself. Of this, the reader will be certain after thirty-five clearly personal rather than institutional instances of “I” in the 201-line prologue.47 Later in the prologue, Mannyng explicitly connects the audience of the aural prelection (“þat wild listen to me”) to himself as the author of the text in “light language” (“And þerfore for þe comonalte/ þat blythely wild listen to me, on light lange I it began,” RM 44

See also Stephan Kohl, “Fingierte Mündlichkeit: Erzähler in mittelenglischer Literatur,” in Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit im englischen Mittelalter, ed. Willi Erzgräber and Sabine Volk-Birke (Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 1988). 45 The same argument can be made for the self-naming in the prologue to Handlyng Synne which however happens considerably later into the text: “Þe felaushepe of symprynghame./ Roberd of brunne gretyþ ‫܌‬ow.” HS 60-61. 46 See also Coleman’s argument: “The audience’s awareness of the book before them entailed an increased awareness of the fixity and authority of the text, and of the author’s role as mediator of the traditions that text represented.” Coleman, Public Reading, 28. 47 See figure 1 at the beginning of this book.

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I:123-25). If he however refers to himself in the third person by his name instead of another first-person pronoun in the fourth line of the prologue, this is because a nondescript “I” would simply not be specific enough. He wants his audience to know his name as early as possible, long before the historical account proper starts, 197 lines later. This important role of a self-reference by name is confirmed by the fact that in Handlyng Synne, the first mention of the author (although it happens notably later on in the text) is likewise in the third person (“Roberd of Brunne gretyþ ‫܌‬ow,” HS 61). This is then followed by first-person pronoun references. This example from Handlyng Synne is interesting because it evokes the presence of the author in the same place as the audience even more clearly. Apart from evoking authorial presence, such explicit self-naming (in contrast to an “I”) prevents the prelector from passing the work off as his own. All of these self-inscriptions of Mannyng are clearly directed at unmaking the time gap between the moment in which a work is written by the author and the moment in which it is presented to an audience.48 Rather than accepting the eventual distance between the historiographer and his work, Mannyng tries to control all possible levels of written and oral/aural realisation of it. Particularly in this context of aural prelections, written texts of all kind were indeed prosopopeically presented as capable of speaking for themselves and hence potentially eluding the author’s control. This is evident in the many references, not only in the works of the corpus but also in many other Middle English works, to texts and books as speaking. A “story” (defined as “narrative account, oral or written” but also used as “history”)49 can say something (“þe stori sais,” NCM 1481),50 witness and 48 Franz H. Bäuml, “Medieval Texts and the Two Theories of Oral-Formulaic Composition: A Proposal for a Third Theory,” New Literary History 16.1: 44. See also Ursula Schäfer: “If the original voice was separated from the hearer because writing interfered, this voice had to be inscribed in the text as a fiction that could be actualized “as if” it were present at the time of the performance.” Ursula Schäfer, “Hearing from Books: The Rise of Fictionality in Old English Poetry,” in Vox Intexta. Orality and Textuality in the Middle Ages, ed. Alger N. Doane and Carol Braun Pasternack (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 119. See also Ong about writing: “To make yourself clear without gesture, without facial expression, without intonation, without a real hearer, you have to foresee circumspectly all possible meanings a statement may have for any possible reader in any possible situation.” Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (London: Methuen, 1982), 104. 49 “stori(e.” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med.

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relate something (“Storyes witnes it & sais,” RM I:712), tell and say something (“hali storis tels and sais,” NCM 17545),51 speak (“þe story spake,” RM I:330),52 narrate (“þe story . . . mones,” RM I:2532-33).53 A “story” can direct its words at an audience (“als sais vs vr stori,” NCM 13967-69).54 Similarly, two terms which more explicity refer to written work, the “geste” (defined as “poem, prose romance or chronicle”)55 or the book can say something (“so sais þe gest,” RM I: 6537; “als sais þe bock,” NCM 627)56 and tell something (“as þe boc aþ itold,” RG 9733).57 The Bible can narrate (“þe bible it mones,” RM I:214)58 and “scripture” (the written quality being inherent in this term for the Bible) can say something (“als sais scripture,” NCM 327).59 In one instance, Robert Mannyng presents a book as being in a dialogue with him, the author. The book disagrees with what is apparently another source (“my boke tellis nay, Godwyn did him no dere”) and then argues the opposite: “it sais þe Quene Egyn, þe blame suld scho bere” (RM II:1570-71). If written texts are presented as speaking for themselves, the distance between the historiographer and the text he refers to is more pronounced. This distancing move can be employed for several purposes. First, it can be used to refer to authoritative texts that are thus marked as clearly different from the author’s own text. Second, it can be used as a means to distance the author from an account that he is not certain about or that he doubts. Such is the case in the following reference to giants in Robert 50

References that do not clearly have “story” as the subject were excluded here (e.g. “Als it in þe stori sais,” NCM 8818). Many further instances can be found in the four works: NCM 1418, 2276, 3894, 12,678, 17,631 etc.; RM I:713, 902, 1309, 1695 etc.; RM II:1216, 2696, 3017. 51 Also NCM 13,968; 14,137 52 Also RM I:2221. 53 RM I:329, 2532, 2770, 3961; RM II:3134-36; see also “monen, (v.(1)),” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 54 Also NCM 627, 1819, 2042, 3862, 7045, 11,507, 29,249; RM I:230, 1731, 1752, RM II:697, 1505, 2783. 55 “geste.” Middle English Dictionary. last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 56 Also NCM 627, 1819, 2042, 3862, 7045, 11,507, 29,249; RM I:230, 1731, 1752, RM II:697, 1505, 2783. 57 This is the only reference to a “speaking text” I could find in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle. 58 Also “þe bibul sais,” NCM 1900. 59 Also NCM 352.

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Mannyng’s chronicle: “Geant es more þan man, so says þe boke, for I ne kan./ Like men þei ere in flesch & bone; in my tyme, I saw neuer none.” (RM I:1751-54). This distancing move is even more striking if the text is referred to only as “it,” and hence loses any point of reference and, as I think, also its authority: Tuenty geant‫ ܌‬were in þis lond; of one þe name writen I fond, Gogmagog þus was told; for he was strong, grete & bold, Gogmagog þus men hym calle; it says he was most of alle. 60 (RM I:1757-62)

References which contain a possessive pronoun such as “our buke says” (RM I:1731), “als sais vs vr stori” (NCM 13,967-68), on the other hand, can be interpreted as an act of re-appropriation of the hitherto all-too independent text: “The books that speaks is mine and I control it.” Interestingly, while references to a story as “saying something” are frequent in Middle English texts,61 Mannyng seems to be more inventive than others in expressing the notion of speaking texts. The combination of the terms “stori” and “speken” which Mannyng uses twice only appears in two other Middle English texts.62 The combination of “stori” and “monen” seems to be unique to Mannyng.63 Was he, perhaps, more aware and more afraid of the possibility of the text’s afterlife, independent from and uncontrollable by the author? A comparison of the opening lines of his prologue to a similar passage in the Northern Cursor Mundi suggests that this is indeed the case. The Northern Cursor poet pursues a different opening strategy than Mannyng and does not address his audience directly but rather refers to them in the third person. However, he provides another, 60

Another instance in Mannyng’s chronicle is “Humbert, a kyng of Huneis,/ a robbour he was, it sais.” (RM I:1977-78). 61 Also, among others, in Chaucer’s “Physician’s Tale” and “Man of Law’s Tale” respectively: “as seith the storie;” “as telleth us the storie” (Chaucer 161, 696). 62 Other kinds of texts, especially books, letters, the Bible, etc, are however often referred to in combination with the word “speken,” see “speken.” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. Also RM I:2221. A search in the Middle English Corpus suggest that the “speaking story” only appears twice more within the Middle English works included. 63 See the Corpus of Middle English Prose and Verse, Boolean search for stor* + mon*, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/c/cme.

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53

separate opening for the only clearly historical part of his work. This opening is similar to that of Mannyng. The account of the “Establishment of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception” (NCM 23,909-24,968) opens as follows: [L]isten godmen, wit your leue, Wele lath me war yow for to greue, þat yow mi talking thoght to togh, For me thinc neuer mar i-nogh, þat i mai of hir louuing rede, þat bette us all vte of ur nede. All mi liue vn-to min end, In hir loueword þof i moght spend, Al þat i cuth or thinc or sai, It war not half an hore o dai, And þis thar naman nick wit nai, Sua brad of hir blis es þe wai. (NCM 24,731-44)

This heavily subjective prologue then continues for another twenty lines to praise Mary’s inspiring love and thereafter begins the account of the establishment of the feast with a reference to “willam basterd” (NCM 24,765). In this prologue, the Cursor poet, like Robert Mannyng, evokes an oral presentation/aural prelection (“listen godmen”) and portrays the author/prelector (“me”) and his audience (“yow”) as being present in the same place at the same time. With its many references to the spoken word (“listen,” “talking,” “loueword”), the written quality of the work is almost suppressed, but not quite. In the line “þat i mai of hir louuing rede,” the term “redden” can refer to “relating, telling” as well as to “reading.” This would suggest the presence of a piece of writing. In addition, the last two lines of the separate prayer to Mary point to an awareness of the two coeval ways by which a work can be received: “All þat þis bok hers or redes,/ Leuedi! þam help in all þair nedes” (NCM 23,943-44.). Both this separate prayer and the account of the “Establishment of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception” are missing in the Southern version. Horrall suggests that the omission of this narrative (which was apparently intended for inclusion as references to it earlier in the text suggest) “seems to indicate an unwillingness to include stories from secular history.”64 Perhaps, I would argue, it also indicates that the way in which the Northern Cursor poet authorises history by writing himself into an aural 64

Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 12.

Chapter One

54

prelection of his own work did not meet with the Southern poet’s approval. Unlike his Southern successor, the Northern Cursor poet thus writes himself into an aural prelection in ways that are similar to those employed by Mannyng. However, his discussion of orality/aurality and literacy is far less consciously construed than that of Mannyng, whose self-inscription works on all possible levels of the realisation of his work. Numerous passages in all the works of the corpus evoke comparable presentations of oral performances/aural prelections, albeit most of them do so in less elaborate ways than the passages discussed above. Such evocations are akin to the anxiety of “elimination of authorial presence” that Joachim Knape detects in Sebastian Brant’s work: [Sebastian Brant] employed images and writing very consciously in order to create authorial presence and in order prevent elimination of authorial presence, because especially in his German prints he did not yet want to give free rein to things and let them become detached from the author.65

While Knape connects this anxiety to the drastic medial changes caused by the introduction of printing, I suggest it is also present in a culture that experiences the constant interplay of and tensions between orality/aurality and vernacular literacy. In the following example, the Northern Cursor poet announces that he will “now” turn to a different “stori,” i.e. episode within history (about how Adam lived for 900 years) which he will relate to an audience he addresses directly as “you.” Again, he evokes a physical presence of himself and the audience in the same place and hence poses as a prelector: Na mare o þe wandes now Bot stori sal i rede ‫܌‬ow. Adam liued nine hundret yeir (NCM 1431-33).

65

“[Sebastian Brant] setzte Bild und Schrift sehr bewusst zur Erzeugung auktorialer Präsenz und zur Abwehr auktorialer Präsenzentfremdung ein, denn vor allem in seinen deutschen Druckschriften wollte er den Sachen als solchen noch keinen vom Autor weitgehend abgekoppelten Lauf lassen.” Joachim Knape, “Autorpräsenz: Sebastian Brants Selbstinszenierung in der Oratorrolle im TraumGedicht von 1502,” in Self-Fashioning—Personendarstellung, ed. Rudolf Suntrup and Jan R. Veenstra (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2003), 80, my translation.

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By so doing, the Northern Cursor poet also draws the readers’ or audience’s attention to his power to control the text, a function of such narrative interjections that will be discussed again in chapter five. As in the quote above, such comments which are evocative of an oral presentation, are often used to introduce a new topic: “How it began bituex þam bale,/ listes & I salle rede þe tale.” (RM I:4125-26, about the conflict between the sons of Lud). They can also, however, be used to emphasise an important element within the narrative (“Bot here now of þe kyngis wille,” RM I:9466) or mark the beginning of a more detailed account (“þe Bretons wist it wele inouh,/ bot what þei did, listen how,” RM I:4565-66). Less frequently, such interjections are used in a self-referential way, referring back to what was “said” earlier within the text (“Octe & eose þis luþer saxoynes tueie/ In prison were in londone as ich ‫܌‬ou tolde beye,” RG 3377-78; “Tald es in þis bok be-forn/ Hu þat sco was geten and born,” NCM 24,753-54). There are also instances in which a book is referred to in terms of aurality. Robert of Gloucester, for example, states: “in this book one shall hear all that” (“Her after in þis boce me ssal ihere al þis,” RG 138). The Northern Cursor Mundi has a similar example: “Yee cristen men, yow vmbilok,/ All þat has euer herd þis bok,/ O yur liif þat yee her lede” (NCM 23,705-07). In these cases, the situation of an aural prelection (of which the book itself is part) is inscribed the book. The anxiety writers felt in leaving their text alone and the strategies they adopted to retain it within the sphere aurality may well be connected to a more general distrust of written texts as Chris Given-Wilson describes it: Not everyone, however, even in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, would have agreed . . . that writing things down was necessarily the best way to “immortalise” them. This was, after all, still a society which, just as it placed great store by personal, eyewitness testimony, also continued to place great store by aural memory, and in which the ability to memorise things was much more highly, prised that it is today. Indeed, there were some who still believed that it was the only genuine way to understand what was being learned, and that writing, far from being an aid to memory, was more likely to act as an aid to forgetfulness66

66 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 58. See also Ong, Orality and Literacy, 117-155; M. T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066-1307, 2nd ed. (London: Blackwell, 1993).

56

Chapter One

Finally, when Mannyng calls his work “my sawe” (“Of þare dedes salle be my sawe,” RM I:21), he carries these strategies to extremes in that he first denies his text the status of text by placing it within the semantic field of “utterance, speech, discourse”67 and then marks it, once again, as “his.”68

Material metaphors for the writing of history One strategy of (re-)appropriation of the potentially independent text is to evoke the work’s materiality. One impressive example of this strategy is found in the proem to La‫܌‬amon’s Brut: La‫܌‬amon leide þeos boc and þa leaf wende; he heom leofliche biheold–liþe him beo Drihten! Feþeren he nom mit fingren and fiede on boc-felle, and þa soþere word sette togadere, and þa þre boc þrumde to are. (La‫܌‬amon’s Brut, proem 24-28)69

Everything in this passage, from the handling of the source books, to the turning of the pages, to the quill that is taken up and joined to the parchment, is directed towards evoking the tangibility of the task of writing history. The act of writing is presented as “material” when La‫܌‬amon, rather than referring to it by the abstract and abstracting term “writing,” deconstructs it into the very precise separate movements of taking the quill with the fingers, joining it to the parchment and putting the words together. The words themselves become tangible, material objects to be placed on the page by the author. In addition, the combining of the three books into one (“þrumde to are”) does not explicitly happen on new material. This suggests a possible violation of the three books’ original integrity in order to make them into one.70 The materiality presented in this passage has been interpreted in terms of the author’s sexual and explicitly male desire for conquest, possession, and domination. Monika Otter construes La‫܌‬amon’s authorial persona within a tradition of male 67

“sau(e,” Middle English Dictionary, Last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 68 This is also found in Handlyng Synne: “to my sawe blame may be leyd. For foule englyssh & feble ryme.” HS 8638. 69 La‫܌‬amon, Brut or Hystoria Brutonum, ed. William R. J. Barron, and S. C. Weinberg (Harlow: Longman, 1995), 2. 70 See also Spearing, Textual Subjectivity, 13-15.

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conquest and successive marking of property.71 Kenneth Tiller points out that not only do the books in this proem have bodies that can be taken (inomen elsewhere in the work denotes military conquest), but the language that La‫܌‬amon uses is one of violence and sexual desire. In the passage quoted above, Tiller claims, “La‫܌‬amon’s positioning of his source texts evokes images of sexual aggression” in that leide elsewhere in the Brut denotes rape.72 Otter’s and Tiller’s readings of La‫܌‬amon’s proem point toward the fact that the material aspects of writing history go far beyond a presentation of the matter involved. Instead, through a presentation of the work as a book, as a material object, the historiographer’s control of his work is once again established. Robert Mannyng employs this strategy along the same lines as La‫܌‬amon. The (re)placing of his book into his hands that is implied by the evocation of an aural prelection at the beginning of his prologue can be understood as his desire for control and domination. The strategy of appropriating authority by stressing the materiality of a work, by presenting it as an object to be handled and controlled will be further discussed in chapter four. However, the term “book” can also denote the more abstract notions of historical narrative or history (the events of the past as mediated) itself. When Robert of Gloucester promises that “[we] ssulleþ her after in þise boc telle of al þis wo” (RG 56), he uses the term “book” to refer to his historical narrative. When Mannyng declares that he has “found history” (“þe story of Inglande/ als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand,” RM I:3-4.), he simultaneously refers to his source books, his own work and the abstract concept of history.73 When presented as a book, history can be found, be brought to the audience and be shown to them (“I salle ‫܌‬ow schewe fro gre to gre,” RM I:23).74 Even the words that Mannyng uses to refer to the act of translating (“schewe,” “layen,” “turne,” “remue,” “bring”)75 point towards an object that can be handled and consequently controlled by the writer. Translation, along the lines suggested by Tiller, can hence be seen as an act of (male, maybe 71

Otter, Inventiones, 90. Kenneth Tiller, Layamon’s Brut and the Anglo-Norman Vision of History (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2007), 105-106. 73 Strohm has demonstrated the same three meanings of “story” for Lydgate’s Troy Book: “the story is ‘what happened’ . . . the story is Lydgate’s source . . . and, with þis story taking the place of presens ystoria, it is his own narrative.” Strohm, 352. 74 “sheuen.” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 75 RM I:5, 72, 118, 119, 164, 172, 176, 179, 184, 197, 15,924, 15,929, 15,944. 72

58

Chapter One

sexual) abduction and abuse. It is an act of appropriation of a given text which is removed from one language and brought into another. The concluding passage of the first part of Mannyng’s chronicle, in which he announces his intention of translating Pierre de Langtoft’s work in the following second part, is an impressive example for such a violent act. Both the book as material object and the act of translation as something that is physically done to a work are present here. They are brought together in an assertion of modesty. Mannyng expresses self-abhorrence at his potential abuse and defilement of the book (as material object) through his touch and gaze, and through his translation (of the narrative) into his language that is “only shit:” bot his faire spech I can not say. I am not worþi open his boke, for no konyng þeron to loke, bot forto schew his mykelle witte, on my spech þat is bot skitte (RM I:15,926-30).

At first sight, this looks like a modesty topos, and Coleman has thus called it, adding that it comes as a “belated” example.76 Belated it certainly is (virtually in the middle of the work), but I would argue that it is much too exaggerated both in its wording and its content to be taken as a serious example of the customary apologetic. The pose of self-abhorrence is much too extreme when compared to any other self-reference of Mannyng’s. Instead, I propose to read this as a gesture of authorship. Mannyng here draws the audience’s reader’s attention to his physically handling and (mis)treating his source book, and thus ultimately to his power over it. Material imagery for the task of writing history is not only present in the historiographers’ prologues and epilogues. It is also implicitly present in the way the historiographers deal with the events of the past. Mannyng, after relating the great flood at the very beginning of his historical account, presents a detailed, 120-line genealogy of Brutus, which ranges from Japheth through Aeneas to Brutus’ descendants (RM I:261-383). He concludes this list with the comment “Now agaynward vnto Noe” (RM I:387) and then enumerates all the names again, in reverse order, finishing with Noah. He ends this reverse genealogy at Assarak, who is somewhere in the middle of the genealogy between Brutus and Noah, with the comment “of Assarak þis is þe degre” (RM I:410). Mannyng follows this 76

Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1224.

The Task of Writing History

59

comment with yet another reverse genealogy, this time that of Hector, ending again with Noah. He thus provides the proof that Hector and Assarak both stem from Noah (RM I:412-27). History, as presented here, is thus not necessarily a linear sequence of events but rather a texture, woven by the historiographer, once forward, twice backward, completely at his discretion as to what best fits his purpose (in this case the demonstration of a common ancestry). The image of weaving for writing (the term “text” is derived from the Latin texere, to weave) was also used by a number of fourteenth-century chroniclers in connection with the “process of integrating a variety of materials into their chronicles.”77 While one may of course argue that genealogies are, firstly, a classical way of starting a work and, secondly, particularly suited to such artful manipulations, it is noteworthy that Mannyng chooses this first genealogy rather than any of the later ones for this demonstration. It is, I suggest, an extension of the discussion of the writer-text relationship we saw earlier in the prologue into the historical account proper. With this, Mannyng establishes himself as an “external focaliser,” someone who, to use Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan’s words, “has at his disposal all the temporal dimensions of the story (past, present and future).”78 Another material metaphor for the task of writing history is found in what functions as an epilogue to the Northern Cursor Mundi: A besaunt es me taght to sete Þat i him agh to yeild wit dette, Þar-for agh i me for to pain To yeild him wit biyeit again, All behouis vs yeild ilkan, A-cont efter þat we ha tan; Sum for mar and sum for less, Efter þat vr giftes ess, Þat þat besaunt rote noght in hord, Þat agh be spend in werc and word. Here i haf a littel spend, In word þat efter i entend, 77

Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 15. See also Alexander Demandt, Metaphern für Geschichte: Sprachbilder und Gleichnisse im historisch-politischen Denken (München: Beck, 1978), 311-19; Otter, Inventiones, 12; Ong, Orality and Literacy, 113-14; Ong, “Orality, Literacy, and Medieval Textualization,” 9; Stock, “Medieval Literacy,” 21. 78 Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan, Narrative Fiction: Contemporary Poetics (London New York: Methuen, 1983), 78.

60

Chapter One Moght i mar, godd wat mi mode, I aght it all at spend in gode, In his wirscip, þat mighti mek, And maria mild his moder eke. (NCM 23,885-900)

In this passage, the poet’s talent of writing is presented as a “besaunt” bestowed to him by God, which comprises a twofold obligation: It must not be hoarded and left to rot but has to be spent “in werc and word,” and it must be repaid with interest. Neither the metaphorical connection of (written) language to money, nor the idea of the divine-human relationship as an economic exchange is uncommon in medieval literature. Richard A. Shoaf refers to Boethius’ comment on Aristotle’s De interpretatione as an influential authority on the analogy between language and money.79 In this comment, Boethius “argues that a word is formed in a manner similar to that by which a coin becomes current money.”80 Having discussed the impact of that analogy on Dante and Chaucer, Shoaf concludes: If Dante and Chaucer are poets of money as well as of love, this is mainly because, as Christian poets, they understand that humans’ relations with God and their relations with others under God are relations of exchange, of commerce.81

The concept of the thesaurus ecclesiae or “treasure of merit” developed by the scholastic theologians of the thirteenth century (among whom Thomas Aquinas and Bonaventura figure most prominently) is similarly influential. It was this concept, according to which the amassment of merits through Christ and the saints could be redistributed by the church, which more often than not led to abusive practices of sales of indulgences.82 When the Northern Cursor poet thus relates his talent of writing to the world of commerce, he follows long standing ecclesiastical and literary traditions of representing the divine-human relationship as a commercial one. However, the poet of the Northern version goes beyond that concept when he states that he has only spent a little of that divine gift (“Here i haf 79

Richard Allen Shoaf, Dante, Chaucer and the Currency of the Word: Money, Images, and Reference in Late Medieval Poetry (Norman, OK: Pilgrim Books, 1983). 80 Ibid., 9. 81 Ibid., 240. 82 L. Hödl, “Ablass,” in Lexikon des Mittelalters, vol. 1 (Stuttgart: Metzler, 19771999), cols. 44-46.

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a littel spend,” NCM 23,895) and that he intends to continue writing in the name of God. The effect of this claim is an authorial persona who is able to appreciate the great value of such a gift and able to economise if necessary. The image of the “besaunt” might even incite the audience to consider the extraordinary virtues that qualify a clerk for such divine gifts. Secondly, the claim is likely to command the audience’s admiration because this poet, who claims he has spent but little of this gift is about to conclude a work of the impressive length of 23,944 lines. Awe-inspiring as this achievement may be, the poet belittles it when he implies that he is capable of writing much more. Intriguingly, this claim, as are many other gestures of authorship, is suppressed in the Southern versions. The passage in which the divine gift of “a besaunt” is first introduced shows remarkable variations: A besaunt es me taght to sete Þat i him agh to yeild wit dette, Þar-for agh i me for to pain To yeild him wit biyeit again (NCM 23,885-88).

Riche besauntis of gold þei ben Somme lasse & somme mo to sen Þo besauntis so þat we bi set Þat we may wel paye oure det (SCM 23,885-88).

The most obvious difference between the two versions is the change of the narrating “I” of the Northern version to a more general first person plural (“we,” “oure”) in the Southern one. God’s personal gift to the individual and the individual’s subsequent debt retreats in the Southern version behind more general and far less binding considerations. It even becomes unclear whether the debt is the clergy’s debt (which would be repaid by writing in the name of God) or a common debt of all humankind. However, even more striking are the following variations: Efter þat vr giftes ess, Þat þat besaunt rote noght in hord, Þat agh be spend in werc and word. Here i haf a littel spend, In word þat efter i entend, Moght i mar, godd wat mi mode, I aght it all at spend in gode, In his wirscip, þat mighti mek, And maria mild his moder eke. (NCM 23,892-900)

Aftir þat oure ‫܌‬iftis wes He ‫܌‬yue vs grace so to acounte Þat we may to heuen mounte Þad sprad was on an harde tre Nailed naked þeronne to be Oure fadir maker of alle þing Þat neuer shal haue endyng AMEN (SCM 23,892-99).

The entire part in which the Northern Cursor poet refers to himself as the receiver of the “besaunt,” to his yet having spent only little of his talent and to his wish to write more, has vanished in the Southern version. Line

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Chapter One

23,892 (the first line of the passage quoted above) as well as lines 23,88588 (in the passage quoted previously) clearly suggest that the poet of the Southern version had knowledge of the text of the Northern version. Hence, the gestures of authorship that contribute to the construction of an authorial persona seem to have been consciously suppressed by the Southern Cursor poet. I believe that the reason for this is that these gestures did not seem appropriate to the Southern poet. The authorial persona constructed in the Northern version, also through a metaphorical commercial relationship to God, may just have been too self-important. Yet another passage that is present in the Northern version of the Cursor Mundi and missing in the Southern one likewise points to the materiality of the work. It is an envoy that takes the form of a separate prayer to Mary. As a figure of closure, the poet is pictured as offering his finished work (and, by implication, the written book) to Mary: Leuedi lok to þis caitif clerc, For-sak þou noght his stubul werc, For þof i[t] rude and stubel be, It es in worscip wroght o þe. I prai leuedi if þou wald seme, To tak þis littel werc to quem, Suilk als it es, for-sak it noght, To þin be-houe þan es it wroght (NCM 23,909-16).

The omission of this prayer in the Southern version underlines my suggestion that a clear-cut authorial persona was objectionable to a later poet. After all, the elements of the conventional modesty topos (“caitif clerc,” “stubul werc,” “rude and stubel,” “littel werc”) evoked here form another way of authorising history by inscribing the poet, however modest.

CHAPTER TWO HISTORY: THE SUBJECT MATTER

In the previous chapter, I have treated strategies of authorising history as reflections of the historiographers’ conception of their task, of their audience and of the envisaged presentation of their works. In this second chapter, I would like to turn from an examination of what the historiographers claim to be doing to what they actually do when they write history.1 I will divide my discussion of the historiographers’ explicit and implicit presentation of history as their subject matter into three areas: time, space and actors. Doing so, I will reflect on the ways in which content choices, as well as emphasis of certain elements over others, play a role in the construction of the historiographer’s authorial persona. Chris Given-Wilson, in his study of English medieval chronicles, states that “the act of writing history can be said to begin with an attitude towards what ought to be remembered.”2 This attitude cannot be assumed to be solely that of the historiographer; it should also be attributed to the patrons who commissioned the work. Similarly, the choice of sources was not usually that of the author. It was much rather influenced by external circumstances such as the number of available books in the respective monastery’s library, or the historiographer’s possibilities of travelling to other libraries.3 Finally, the historiographers’ social and educational background would likewise have influenced their choices of content. These influences however do not result in great variations of content choice, mainly because most medieval historiographers shared a similar 1

See Greene’s review of Damian-Grint’s book: “To focus on the parts of the text where authors assert in various ways their authority is not in itself a bad idea, but it leads Damian-Grint to look almost exclusively at what authors claim they are doing, without looking at what they are actually doing. How do these claims of truth, serious scholarship, and knowledge of trustworthy sources compare with the content of the narratives?” Greene, review of New Historians, 710. 2 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 61. 3 Guenée, “historiographie médiévale?” 269-71.

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background (most were male, clerical, middle-aged and relatively prosperous).4 Hence, it is rather in the smaller choices of diction and sequence, in the choices of whether to discard or embellish specific episodes from their sources, that historiographers “make a difference.” By presenting certain events (ever so slightly) differently, and emphasising certain elements over others, they authorise history and make the account of past events theirs. As Thea Summerfield states: “The distribution of material in a particular chronicle or the emphasis given a particular event or person, may be intentional, and attributable less to the sources used, a common explanation, than to the author’s conscious moulding of his work.”5 Such conscious moulding of the work becomes apparent, for example, in the ways in which historiographers place themselves and their audience in time in relation to their concepts of past and present. The four works of the corpus underline the value of the knowledge about the past for an understanding of their own present. In the process, the historiographers present themselves, as has been argued above, as mediators. The diverse concepts of past and present and the ways in which the presentation of these concepts contributes to the construction of authorial personae will be discussed in the first part of this chapter. In the second part, I will address the strong emphasis the historiographers put on the conception of land as a commodity to be conquered, lost and regained. This emphasis is most striking in the fact that the historiographers employ the events of conquest or loss of land as epoch markers. The treatment of space (together with the treatment of time) is a useful indicator, according to Monika Otter (who refers to Bakhtin’s chronotope), “of the way a narrative situates itself with respect to the reality it tries to represent.”6 In the case of the four historiographers under scrutiny here, their specific treatment of space is most probably due to their present-day concerns about what they exaggeratedly present as the dominion of French/Anglo-Norman lords. Gabrielle Spiegel claims that history had the “ability to address contemporary political life via a displacement to the past, and to embed 4 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 64. See also Antonia Gransden, “The Chronicles of Medieval England and Scotland,” in Legends, Traditions and History in Medieval England (London and Rio Grande: The Hambledon Press, 1992). 5 Summerfield, The Matter of Kings’ Lives, 7. 6 Otter, Inventiones, 3; Mikhail M. Bakhtin, “Forms of Time and of the Chronotope in the Novel: Notes toward a Historical Poetics,” in The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays by M. M. Bakhtin, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, ed. Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981), 84-85.

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both prescription and polemic in an apparently ‘factual,’ because realistic, account of the historical legacy.”7 In the last section of this chapter, I will turn to the historiographers’ presentation of the main actors of history. The actors presented in the corpus texts are not in any way unusual to medieval historiography: conquerors, kings and the Virgin Mary (in the two versions of the Cursor Mundi) respectively. What I propose to do here, however, is to re-evaluate the presentation of these actors in the light of how it contributes to the construction of the historiographers’ historical personae.

Time matters: past, present and the authorial persona In Robert Mannyng’s chronicle, the first (albeit implicit) remark about the reasons for his project of writing history is about the present rather than about the past: “it is wisdom forto wytten/ þe state of þe land” (RM I:1112). History is thus not only concerned with the past of a kingdom, but also with its present state as a result of the past. The past, in this quote described as “what manere of folk first it wan/ & of what kynde it first began” is hence not self-contained but continues to shape the present: And it is wisdom forto wytten þe state of þe land & haf it wryten: what manere of folk first it wan & of what kynde it first began. (RM I:11-14)

This view is also evident in some of Mannyng’s comments which relate past events to the present landscape: “Merlyn set þe stones togider;/ als þei were ore in þat certayn,/ stand þei now vpon þe playn” (RM I:8811-13). Other passages “translate” past denominations into present place-names: “Kaerleir he did it calle,/ Leicestre þe name is now withalle” (RM I:226566). Similarly, Robert of Gloucester begins his work with a remark not about the past but about the present: “Engelond his a wel god lond/ ich wene ech londe best” (RG 1). He thus presents England in its present state as the focal point of his interest. This focal point is evident also in his representation of past and (nearly) present events later in his work. In this first line of his chronicle, Robert of Gloucester refers to “England” rather 7

Gabrielle M. Spiegel, “Theory into Practice: Reading Medieval Chronicles,” in The Medieval Chronicle: Proceedings of the 1st International Conference on the Medieval Chronicle, ed. Erik Kooper (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999), 2.

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than to “Britain.” He hereby deviates from his major sources Geoffrey of Monmouth and Henry of Huntingdon, who, by their use of “Britain,” put their emphasis on a Celtic past. The use of “England,” by Robert of Gloucester is suggestive, in Sarah Mitchell’s words, of “a potential proEnglish nationalistic stance.”8 When Robert of Gloucester and Robert Mannyng hence prioritise the present over the past at the very outset of their works, they do so within a long-standing tradition of beginning a historiographical work with a topographical preface. In the case of English accounts, this tradition ranges from Nennius’ Historia Brittonum and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle to Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica, to Henry of Huntingdon’s Historia Anglorum and Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia de Regum Britanniae, to the many historiographers who used the latter as their primary source. Such topographical prefaces, which can range in length from just a few lines (e.g. in the Anglo-Saxon chronicle) to extensive geographical, economical, ethnological, and linguistic descriptions, are bound to be about the present rather than about the past. The fact that they are presented as the starting point of so many historical accounts confirms the existence of a shared concept among medieval historiographers that history is indeed concerned as much with the present as it is with the past. Both Robert Mannyng and Robert of Gloucester add gestures of authorship to these preliminary statements about time matters. Robert of Gloucester’s sources Geoffrey of Monmouth and Henry of Huntingdon both contain the praise of “Britain, the best of islands” (“Britannia, insularum optima,” Geoffrey of Monmouth i:2, “Britannia igitur beatissima est insularum,” Henry of Huntingdon i:1).9 Robert of Gloucester here 8

Mitchell, “Kings, Constitution and Crisis,” 41; Turville-Petre, England the Nation, 15. 9 Unless stated otherwise, all references to Geoffrey of Monmouth are from Acton Griscom’s edition: Geoffrey of Monmouth, The Historia Regum Britanniae of Geoffrey of Monmouth, ed. Acton Griscom and Ellis Robert Jones (Geneva: Slatkine, 1977), hereafter refered to as “Geoffrey of Monmouth” with book number and lines. Quotes in modern English are from Lewis Thorpe’s 1966 Penguin translation of Griscom’s edition: Geoffrey of Monmouth, The History of the Kings of Britain, ed. and trans. Lewis Thorpe (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1966). Hereafter referred to as “Geoffrey of Monmouth” and page numbers. See also Mitchell, “Kings, Constitution and Crisis,” 41. All quotes from Henry of Huntingdon are from Diana Greenway’s edition: Henry of Huntingdon, Henry, Archdeacon of Huntingdon: Historia Anglorum, The History of the English People, ed. Diana Greenwaay (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996). Hereafter referred to as “Henry of Huntingdon” and page numbers.

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inserts a self-reference: “Engelond his a wel god lond/ ich wene ech londe best” (RG 1). The first-person reference “ich” explicitly connects the praise of England as “the best” to the historiographer who claims this to be true. Looking back in history from his own present time, it is not some other unnamed authority but he, Robert of Gloucester, who is presented as qualified and entitled to make this judgement. Doing so, he authorises himself and, consequently, his work. Robert Mannyng’s authorial gesture is a different one. He begins by making clear that wisdom consists not only of knowing history but also of having it written down (“it is wisdom forto wytten/ þe state of þe land & haf it wryten,” RM I:11-12). The historical text is the prerequisite for history, a fact that is underlined by the rhymed pair of “wytten” and “wryten” (RM I:11-12). The passive formulation “haf it wryten” can be read as an implicit incentive for patrons to commission historical works and thereby demonstrate their wisdom. However, the writing of history of course also requires a writer. Mannyng thus implicitly refers to himself and his central role when he hints at the reciprocity between history and historical texts. It is through the work of historiographers that the past is preserved, a topos that goes back to Latin historians.10 Past, present, and historical writing are connected in similar ways in the Cursor Mundi. Like Robert of Gloucester and Robert Mannyng, the Northern Cursor poet (as does the Southern one) starts his work with a remark about the present when he writes about the literary tastes of his audience: “Man yherenes rimes for to here,/ And romans red on maneres sere” (NCM 1-2). In contrast to Robert Mannyng, who foregrounds the act of writing and thus points to the historiographer’s central role for the transmission of knowledge, the Cursor poet foregrounds the acts of listening and reading (“rimes for the here”/”romans red”).11 He thus focuses on the reception of history rather than on its production. However, the two coeval ways of reception of a work, by aural prelection and by private reading, implicitly problematise the poet’s position in relation to his work and his audience. For the Cursor poets, history is in fact salvation history. The future here becomes an additional time matter. In the Northern Cursor poet’s lengthy prologue, in which he amply presents himself and his project, he portrays Mary as man’s best love. He states that love of Mary, in the present and on earth, saves man from sin. In the future 10

Damian-Grint, New Historians, 39-40. Thompson points out that it would be anachronistic to read this as a generic distinction and claims that “romans” simply refers to a work in French: Thompson, “The Cursor Mundi, the ‘Inglis Tong,’ and ‘romance,’” 104.

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(after the last judgement) and in heaven, it will help win heavenly bliss. The passages in which the Northern Cursor poet and the Southern one formulate this thought differ slightly but significantly: For-þi blisce and þat paramour, Quen i haue nede me dos socure, Þat saues me first in herth fra syn, And heuen blys me helps to wyn. For þof i quilum haf ben untrew, Hyr luue is ay ilik[e] new (NCM 69-74).

Þerfore blesse we þat paramoure Þat in oure nede doþ vs socoure Þat saueþ vs in erþe fro synne And heuen blisse helpeþ to wynne For þou‫܌‬e I sumtyme be vntrewe Hir loue is euer I liche newe (SCM 69-75).

Here, as throughout the work, the Southern poet replaces the first-person singular pronouns of his Northern source by first-person plural pronouns. While the “untrue” sinner is an “I” in both cases (l.74), Mary’s help in the present and in the future is envisaged for a collective “us” in the Southern version and for an “I” in the Northern one. The “I” of the Northern version in this passage is a typical case of an “institutional I,” whose referent is not an individual person. However, the Southern poet obviously did not perceive it as such and replaced it by plural forms along with a great number of other instances of “I.” In addition to this passage, the future aspect of history also becomes apparent in the outline of the Northern (and Southern) Cursor poet’s project (NCM 132-215). In it, he presents the stations of his work, starting at the creation of the world and ending with the Antichrist and Doomsday rather than (as is the case in Robert of Gloucester’s and Robert Mannyng’s works) in his own present time. What is common to all the works of the corpus is the historiographers’ commitment to put their writing of history into the service of a better understanding of the present. This is not, in itself, extraordinary. GivenWilson states: “medieval chroniclers believed that history must have didactic significance, in other words, that the “universal truths” to be deduced from any specific episode were just as important as the need to provide an incontestably factual account of that episode.”12 On a more abstract level, Paul Zumthor formulates: History was only a more profound form of memory that added substance to the present and projected it into the future as a more intense form of being. It was conceived both as the milieu in which the social group existed and as one of the ways in which the group perceived and knew itself. Although

12

Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 2.

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closed and finite, it was felt as progress toward a goal and the hope of future perfection.13

If history, for medieval historiographers, thus holds important teachings for their contemporaries, this affects the past that is presented and the choices, in Given-Wilson’s words, of the “things which ought to be remembered.”14 The central role attributed to the concept of land or the prominent role of conquerors that will be discussed in this chapter are the best examples of this fact. Their “interest in the political struggle within the emergent nation state,” which according to Taylor is evident in the work of many fourteenth-century historiographers,15 clearly influences the historiographers’ choices. These choices, on their part, partake in each historiographer’s construction of an authorial persona as someone who is aware of the problems and interests of his time. The periodisation in the Cursor Mundi follows the scheme of the “Six Ages of the World,” which divides history into the following periods: Creation to flood, Noah to Abraham, Abraham to David, David to the Babylonian captivity, Babylonian captivity to the appearance of Christ on earth, and finally the life of Christ to the second coming and last judgement. This scheme had originally been propounded by Augustine of Hippo in the fifth century, and was “a linear and explicitly Christian scheme which sought to encompass the whole of human history in a finite timescale from the Creation to the Last Judgement.”16 While this scheme was widespread, there were variations as to the beginnings and endings. There were even variations as to the number of epochs, as the example of Robert of Gloucester shows, who counts seven ages (RG 190-205). Zumthor suggests that this scheme is one of the representational schemes imposed on the text by the author’s remoteness in time or space from the events.17 This is helpful to see how periodisation may connect to the construction of authorial personae. I will argue below that land (the loss 13

Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 16 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 65 15 Taylor states that this interest in the present aspect of history, which in some works leads to a prominence of contemporary and local aspects of history, is particular to fourteenth century historiography. Comparing the works of the fourteenth century chronicler Thomas Walsingham to that of Matthew Paris in the thirteenth century, he argues that the latter displays a much wider geographical and temporal range while Thomas Walsingham’s work is predominantly a chronicle of the Lancastrian revolution: Taylor, English Historical Literature, 41. 16 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 114-15. 17 Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 135. 14

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and conquest thereof) as a prominent marker of epochs seems to be particular to the works under scrutiny here. I suggest that this is an effect of the historiographers’ preoccupation with the natural right of the English to “the land of the English” and the lament about the temporary loss thereof. The scheme of the “Six Ages of the World” is also the underlying periodisation of Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles. However, the past that they report on is restricted to the third to seventh ages in the case of Robert Mannyng and to the third to seventh age in that of Robert of Gloucester.18 Apparently acknowledging that fact, Robert of Gloucester, before presenting his account of the Trojan wars, summarises world history “fram þe biginning of þe world to þe tyme þat now is” following the scheme of the “Seuene ages” (RG 190-91). He concludes this summary with his own time, the seventh age: “þe seueþe was & is/ Fram oure louerdes bur tyme to þe worldes ende iwis” (RG 198f-99). With the seventh age lasting from Christ’s birth to the end of the world, Robert of Gloucester hence embeds history in salvation history. Next, he focuses on England, which he claims was first settled in the third age, the time between Abraham and Moses: So þat in þe þridde age it was ar it com to engelonde For in þe time bi tvene abraham & moyses hit was Men come verst to engelond ich wille telle þat cas (RG 203-5).

Mannyng less obviously connects history to the scheme of the Six Ages, but he also embeds it in salvation history. Having started his account in the first age with a short reference to Cain (“When god toke wreke of Caym synne,” RM I:202), he presents a genealogy which constructs Brutus as a direct descendant of Noah (RM I:202-380). Both Robert of Gloucester and Robert Mannyng thus establish a direct connection between salvation history according to the scheme of the “Six Ages of the World” and England. Robert of Gloucester does so by locating Brutus’ arrival as the first man in England in the third age, Robert Mannyng by connecting Brutus “þat all þis land wan” (RM I:380) directly to Biblical forefathers. In the context of this embedding of history in salvation history, it is also noteworthy that both Robert Mannyng and Robert of Gloucester frequently insert time-references for the time following Christ’s birth that

18

Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 117.

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are not found in their respective sources. Mannyng, for example, connects Brutus’ arrival with the year 1200 before Christ’s incarnation: Þe tyme Brutus aryued here a thousand & tuo hundreth ‫܌‬ere, so mykelle was it þer beforn are Ihesu was of Mary born. (RM I:1745-48)

In a similar way, he connects also the Romans’ refusal to return and help the Britons against the invading kings Guanis and Melga with the year 409 after Christ’s incarnation. His source Wace, by contrast, does not give a time reference for these events: 19 Þat tyme þe Romeyns þis forsoke, þe birth of criste was writen in boke, foure hundreth ‫܌‬ere & nien were gone siþen Ihesu tok flesch & bone. (RM I:6758-61)

Claudius’ conquest of Orkney is also placed in time by reference to Christ’s birth. Apart from adding a reference to Christ’s birth to Wace’s account, Mannyng also enters a reference to the informant for that date, “saynt Bede:” & wan to Rome alle Orkenay & oþer ildes þat þer are; with him was sir Arwigare. Claudius regned þat ilk tyme, as saynt Bede sais in his ryme, siþen Ihesu was born of our lady, þer fele ‫܌‬ers sex & fourty. (RM I: 5473-79)

What may look like a simple time reference at first is yet another way of inscribing English history into salvation history. The reference to Bede implies that Mannyng is willing to deviate from his main source Wace in order to accomplish this and to follow a “more religious” source for the purpose. It is no coincidence that Bede is here explicitly called a saint. 19

Wace, by contrast, has no time-reference in the passage relating the departure of the Romans and their refusal to help: Wace 6223-321.

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Similarly, Robert of Gloucester embeds Merlin’s construction of Stonehenge in salvation history by referring to the year and to the feast of Whitsuntide. In addition, he also contrasts Whitsuntide to the “enchanterie” involved in Merlin’s undertaking: Ac þer was som enchanterie þer to ich vnder stonde To þe doune of ambresbury þes stones ybro‫܌‬t were A‫܌‬en þe feste of witesontyd as merlin gan lere Four hondred ‫܌‬er & fourscore & aboute þe teþe ‫܌‬ere After þat god an erþe com yset hii were þere (RG 3109-13).

The embedding of English history in salvation history is even more obvious in the passages that directly relate Christ’s birth. Mannyng enters the birth of Christ into his narrative after his account of Cymbeline’s upbringing, reign and death. Christ’s birth is here connected firstly to the Biblical prophecy and secondly to Taliesin whom Mannyng presents as the prophet “in this land:” Ihesu criste þat ‫܌‬ere was born, so had a prophete tald beforn. In þis lond þan was a Deuyn; his name was called Teselyn. He told þe Bretons many selcouth, alle fond þei trewe he said with mouth. He bad þam leue withouten erroure: “Now is born our saueoure; now is toward ioy & blis. Of a maiden, a child born is. Alle mankynd salle he saue. Ihesu, þat name salle he haue.” Þis worde þat þer prophete said þe Bretons in hert wele it leid (RM I: 5260-73).

The words of this “English” prophet are shown as preparing the Britons for their subsequent conversion. “There was no people in the world,” Mannyng claims in the lines following, “which was so soon drawn to the [Christian] faith:”

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Þis worde þat þer prophete said, þe Bretons in hert wele it leid. Many day þat worde þei held; þei fond it soth þat he þam teld. Was no folk in alle þe werld trowed so sone whan þei ouht herd preche ouht of Ihesu lawe, ne to þe faith so sone wild drawe. Þan was a þousand ‫܌‬ere gone þat Brutus aryued in Albion, & tuo hundreth, sais it mo, þat Kymbelyn to dede gan go. (RM I: 5272-83)

Taliesin, his prophecy and the preparation of the Britons for conversion, are found in Mannyng’s source Wace as well.20 Hence, Mannyng follows his source in making “his people” a chosen one, apt for the reception of God’s word earlier than others. However, Mannyng goes further than Wace when he inserts a first reference to an unnamed Biblical prophet who is subsequently countered with an “English” one, and when he dates Taliesin’s prophecy, once again, by a reference to English history. According to Mannyng’s account, the prophecy took place one thousand years after Brutus’ arrival in Albion and two hundred years before Cymbeline’s death. Similarly, Robert of Gloucester relates Augustus’ taxing of the world (“hou moni men in al þe worlde were,” RG 1393), and dates the birth of Christ as the year in which Cymbeline was king “of brutaine here:” Þulke time vr louerd was in bedleem ibore Of marie to saui men þat were arst vorlore Bi kimbeles dai þat was king of brutaine here & in þe emperours august two & fourtiþe ‫܌‬ere (RG 1400-3).

It has been suggested that Mannyng in general “shows a more religious spirit than Wace,”21 and this could indeed explain the importance attributed in his work to the relation between English history and salvation history. However, the findings in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle are very 20 Wace 4846-76. While Nennius mentions Taliesin in a different context (chapter 62), Geoffrey of Monmouth does not mention either him or his prophecy. 21 Thomson, “Later Transition English.”

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similar and it is much more difficult to establish his relative “religious spirit” in comparison to his partly unknown sources. I thus propose to read this embedding of English history in salvation history in terms of a shared “English” spirit of the two Roberts, rather than as a sign of outstanding religiousness.

Space in time: “land” as epoch marker and motif In addition to its obvious temporal dimension discussed in the previous section, history also has a significant spatial dimension in the works of the four historiographers. Land as a motif is central in all of them. This central role can be understood in connection with these historiographers’ construction of an English collective self in terms of a shared land and language. As Turville-Petre points out, they “pick out three principal criteria, representing the nation in terms of its territory, its people, and its language.”22 I will argue here that Robert Mannyng and both Cursor poets achieve this central role of land by employing it prominently as an epoch marker. They inscribe references to land being lost and gained into their works to mark the ending or the beginning of certain epochs of English history. Mannyng, as seen above, defines the knowledge about the state of the “land” as wisdom of his present time (“it is wisdom forto wytten/ þe state of the land & haf it wryten”). Then, he looks back at the beginning of history and at “what was first:” “what manere of folk first it wan/ & of what kynde it first began (RM I:11-14). First, he states, there was a “folk” that won the land and a “kynde” that began (to inhabit?) it. This land is the same at the beginning of English history and at it is at its preliminary end in Mannyng’s own present and it thus becomes the element that connects the English to their forefathers. The genealogical continuity typical for this type of chronicle is hence placed in space and evolves from the shared land. It is noteworthy in the lines quoted above that the land’s history does not start with the people that are there at a certain point in time but with the people that first conquer it. In view of his many complaints about the diverse conquests of the land from Brutus to the Normans, it is not surprising that Mannyng should give the conquerors precedence over the rather indistinctive race (“kynde”) that first began to inhabit the land. The

22

Turville-Petre, England the Nation, 14.

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sequence here is crucial: nobody can inhabit a land before conquering it.23 However, while conquest may establish preliminary control over the land, the conqueror should also be worthy of his success.24 In a historical tradition in which “cause and effect of historical events of the past are often . . . explained in terms of sinfulness and divine retribution,”25 those who do not deserve the land will eventually lose it. The Britons’ loss of England due to their sinfulness, which will be discussed in more detail below, is one such example. Throughout Mannyng’s work, the conquest of land or its loss is employed to mark different epochs. Mannyng announces the contents of the first part of his work as the history from Noah to Aeneas, from Aeneas to Brutus, from Brutus to Cadwallader. Both Noah and Aeneas lost and found land, Brutus found (and founded England) and Cadwallader lost it. Consequently, the list ends with the comment: “Cadwaladres,/ þe last Bryton þat þis lande lees” (RM I:30). The diction here emphasises that it is Cadwallader’s loss of the land to the Saxons/English, rather than his death, that ends the epoch. The fact that there are no such references to the loss of the land through Cadwallader in Wace suggests a conscious shift of emphasis on Mannyng’s part. For the preceding account of Cadwallader’s life and deeds, Mannyng at first follows Wace’s account closely. He describes how the last Briton king escapes to Brittany because of the pestilence (“manqualme,” RM I:15,677) that has befallen his people, and relates how, when Cadwallader decides to return, he finds his land populated by the English. While Cadwallader is preparing to reconquer the land, a divine voice bids him to give up his plans. It advises him to instead hope for the fulfilment of Merlin’s prophesies that the Britons shall regain their land in the future. Mannyng still follows Wace for the second part of the vision and relates that the prophecy cannot be fulfilled before the king’s bones are returned to England.26 In both works, Cadwallader 23 See also the reply given to Caesar when he inquires after the land he can see from afar: “Men him told it was a lond/ þat þe folk of Troie first fond.” RM I:4173-74. 24 “winnen,” according to the MED can mean “to take possession by aggressive action” as well as “to be awarded (a physical token indicating the bestowal of honour),” “to be allotted one’s portion,” “receive.” “winnen,” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 25 Summerfield, The Matter of Kings’ Lives, 5. 26 There are, however, important changes from Geoffrey of Monmouth (xii:17) to Wace here. In the Historia, the divine voice refers to unspecified relics of the Britons that have to be returned to Britain and adds that the relics of other saints that had been hidden from the invading Saxons also have to be on display again

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thereafter turns to Rome, where he confesses his sins to the pope, falls ill, dies and is buried far away from his homeland. Wace, who follows his source Geoffrey of Monmouth closely here, then ends the account (and his work) on a note of hope. He relates how Cadwallader’s son Yvor and his nephew Yni, at the late king’s request, cross the sea to make the remaining Britons their subjects (Wace 14,843-58). Although Wace claims that the Britons thereafter never acquire enough power and degenerate from their original nobility, he establishes some continuity through his presentation of the return to, and partial control of, the land. Mannyng, by contrast, concludes the account (and the first part of his work)27 with the remark that Cadwallader’s body is entombed in Rome (“þe body at Rome in fertre is,” RM I:15,892). He follows this with Cadwallader’s epitaph: Culmen opes sobolem pollencia regna triumphous Exuuias proceres castra menia lares Queque patrum virtus et que congesserat ipse Cadwal armipotens liquit amore dei Vt petrum sedemque petri rex cerneret hospes Cuius fonte metas sumeret almus aquas. (Robert Mannyng I:15,895-900)

This epitaph is part of a much longer one in book 6.15 of Paulus Diaconus’ Historia Langobardum, where Cadwallader is remarkably called an Anglo-Saxon king.28 The six lines in Latin used by Mannyng, together with the body that is entombed in Rome underline the location of the king’s bones in foreign earth and his absence from his homeland (which was the very cause of the loss of that land) even after his death. By ending with the last king buried in a foreign country, Mannyng emphasises the impossibility of continuity and the change of epoch much more than does Wace. The king’s body that is not buried in the homeland is reminiscent of other buried and unburied bodies in that final era of the Britons: Cadwallader’s father Cadwallo, who holds the land before him, dies and is before the prophecy can be fulfilled. This stands in stark contrast to Wace’s and Mannyng’s versions which specify that it is the king’s bones that have to return. 27 Mannyng places the account of this return to England at the beginning of the second part of his work instead. 28 Paulus Diaconus, Historia Langobardorum, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS Rerum Langobardicarum (Hannover, 1878). This epitaph is rendered in a special way in MS P: every other line is in red: Idelle Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 709, note to lines 15,901-04.

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buried in London.29 There is, in most histories of England, an unusual amount of detail about Cadwallo’s grave. In remembrance of the king, a copper knight is made, dressed in the king’s clothes, set on top of a copper horse and placed on top of a westward gate in London.30 Robert of Gloucester and, among others, Geoffrey of Monmouth and Wace all relate that the king’s body is then placed inside the copper statue.31 Robert Mannyng thus deviates from most other accounts when he relates that the king is buried beside the statue on top of the gate (“þer biside laid his body,” RM I:15,647). The statue evokes the picture of the king riding out to ensure, by his physical presence, the control of the land. But in Mannyng’s version, the king’s physical presence is doubled: By his dead body on the gate and in the form of the statue. The statue is said to have stood in its place firmly for a long time (RM I:15,650), a reminder of the last king who successfully held the land. Mannyng thus constructs this king’s grave as a counterpart to the exiled grave of Cadwallader. By their respective location in the homeland and in a foreign country, the graves of Cadwallo and Cadwallader mark a turning point in history. This is further underlined by another impressive account containing graves in Mannyng’s chronicle. Mannyng relates that, after the first few peaceful years under Cadwallader’s rule, the land is afflicted first by a great famine, then by a pestilence that spares nobody. MS L of Mannyng’s chronicle follows Wace (14,679) and recounts how the people fall down dead even while eating, speaking or walking (MS L, addition after line 15,680 of MS P). Both manuscripts relate that there are so many dead lying around that there are not enough living to lay them into the earth. MS L, again following Wace (14,690-92), makes the scene even more dramatic by adding that, once somebody put a corpse into the pit, he dies and falls into the same pit himself. The unburied and unburiable bodies, like the exiled body of the dead king, suggest that this land virtually rejects the Britons. A new people will take over the land and a new epoch is about to begin. 29

While MS P has “He died at London, þei laid him þere” (RM I:15,640), MS L, in addition, implicitly points to the fact that this is the last time the Britons bury a king in England: “At Londone wax he syk, & deyde,/ þe Bretons þere his body leyde (RM I:MS L 16,395-96, following lines 15,640 of MS P). 30 The gates as burial sites seem to be important: King Lud is burried next to a gate in London which is henceforth called Porlud/Ludgate (RM I:4084, RG 1026; Wace 3785, Geoffrey of Monmouth iii:20); Cassibellan’s brother Nennius is buried at the North gate in London, together with the sword he had acquired from Caesar (RM I:4437-56; RG 1156-65; Geoffrey of Monmouth iv:4). 31 RG 518-5027; Geoffrey of Monmouth xii:13; Wace 14,639-56.

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The Northern Cursor poet similarly uses land as a prominent epoch marker even while he follows the scheme of the “Six Ages.” The first mention of land is a reference to paradise as the first land given to man. It is the “land of life, safety and bliss,” which is to be the dominion of the worldly lord Adam just as heaven is the dominion of the heavenly lord: Als oure lauerd has heuen in hand Sua suld man be lauerd of land. Þer-for he gafe him to be-gin A luuesum land at lenger in,A land o lijf, o beld, and blis, Þe quilk man clepes paradis (NCM 601-6).

This first gain of land is followed by Adam’s loss of the “lovely land” and expulsion from paradise into the “wretched world” (“For ‫܌‬ee most leue þis lufsum land,/ Vnto þe wreched werld to gang,” NCM 948-49). The loss of land is doubled by Cain’s having to live in an “unknown land” (“I sal be flemed for mi sin/ In vncuth land to won ai in,” NCM 1169-70). The account of this first gain and subsequent (double) loss of land ends with the temporary return of Seth to paradise on behalf of his dying father.32 In the second age, the flooded land and the eventual reappearance of land mark a turning point in the history of mankind. The third age is shaped by Abraham leaving “the land of wrath” (“land of ire,” NCM 2367) and the Israelites searching for a “better land” (“vte of þis kyth and þis cuntré/ ‫܌‬ee sal weind til a better land,” NCM 2362-63). That better land, as another “lovely land” (“luuesum land,” NCM 2467), is reminiscent of the lost paradise. The fourth age contains Moses’ promise to lead the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt to a land like no other in the world, a land of milk and honey: I sal þam bring vte of thain-hede, In-till a land, a wonsun thede, A land rinnand bath honi and milk, In al þis werld now es nan suilk. (NCM 5791-94)

32

The account of Seth’s quest for the Oil of Mercy which leads him to paradise was very popular in the Middle Ages. For references to sources and secondary literature see: Horrall et al., The Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol. 1, notes to 1237-39.

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As a contrast to this paradise-like promised land, the land of the Egyptians is afflicted by the ten plagues. God sends these to force the obstinate pharaoh into freeing the Israelites and many of them are described as afflicting the land: the waters “in this land” turn to blood (“þat all þe waters on þis land/ Wex son in to blod redd,” NCM 5918-19); the land is cleansed of the flies after Moses’ prayers (“All þe fleies ware went awai,/ þat all þe land it wex sa clene,” NCM 5994-95), and after the killing of the first born there is no house in that land which has not at least one dead man lying inside (“For was na hus in al þat land/ þat þar ne was ded man ligand,” NCM 6129-30.). With the turn of the fifth age, beginning with Mary’s childhood, land starts to lose its role as an epoch marker in the Northern Cursor Mundi. It does so altogether after Christ’s resurrection, since this last and sixth age, that of Doomsday, marks man’s definite loss of all dominion of land. Robert of Gloucester, in contrast to Robert Mannyng and the Northern Cursor poet, does not make any considerable changes to the accounts given by his sources in order to present land as an epoch marker. His use of land as motif likewise doesn’t deviate from his sources Geoffrey of Monmouth and Henry of Huntingdon. Nevertheless, Robert of Gloucester does assign land an important role. This becomes apparent when he expands his sources’ introductory parts considerably. The very first line of his chronicle already contains three instances of the term land (“Engelond his a wel god lond/ ich wene ech londe best,” RG 1), with the very first word being England, that good, that best land of all that is to be at the centre of his historical account. He continues in this spirit and lists many more details for the topographical description of England than do his sources. Thereby, as Chris Given-Wilson points out, he provides “a fitting prelude–as Robert intended it to–to a deeply nationalistic work: a demonstration, as he asserted, that England was indeed “‘the best land.’”33 In this case, land marks the present epoch, the time in which Robert of Gloucester lives and writes and in which he perceives England as the best of all lands. Throughout his work, this land is consequently tied to the present. In other words, it is noteworthy that, whenever, Robert of Gloucester refers to England, he renders the past present by his use of deictics. He calls England “this land” throughout, has the earliest settlers and missionaries “come” “here” (Þus com lo verst here in to þis lond cristendom,” RG 1656). All the kings, even the earliest ones, are presented as “our” kings and as the “kings of this land” (“Kymbel vr king of þis 33

Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 128.

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lond,” RG 1422).34 As does Mannyng, Robert of Gloucester thus presents the land that is the same in the past and in the present as the one element that connects to the English to their forefathers.

Conquerors, kings, and the Virgin Mary Since land, according to the four works of the corpus, is such a central aspect of history, it is not surprising that some of the major agents of history are conquerors. Robert Mannyng describes the sequence of five conquests from Brutus to the Normans twice in his work. Once again, he thus uses land, or the conquest thereof, as epoch marks. This sequence is not Mannyng’s invention however; rather, he follows a model originally proposed by Henry of Huntingdon in his Historia Anglorum. Huntingdon outlined five periods corresponding to the five invasions of the Romans, Picts, Scots, Anglo-Saxons, Danes and Normans.35 This model was adopted by many historiographers, including Robert of Gloucester (who presents it in only 14 lines, RG 42-55) and Pierre de Langtoft. Mannyng follows his source Pierre de Langtoft (who, in turn, refers to Henry of Huntingdon) closely for one of his two presentations of the conquest sequence:36 He [bisshop Henry] sais þis lond has suffred so many tyme wo, fiue sorowes he writes, withouten oþer mo. Þo ilk fiue sorowes he calles fiue woundes þat ere not ‫܌‬it haled, ne salle be many stoundes. ... Now of fiue sorowes, þat ‫܌‬it not endid are, Henry in his writyng telles what þei ware. The first of þise fiue was þorgh Romeyns þhat wan it of Casbalan into þer demeyns. Grete treuage þei toke of þis lond here, þre þousand pounde of gold to paye ilk a ‫܌‬ere; & four hundred ‫܌‬ere lastid þat ilk wo, þei mad þe lond fulle pouere, þe folk did þei slo. Þe toþer sorow of þis lond, mykelle gan it greue; þe Scottes & þe Peihtes togider gan þei cheue 34

See also Spearing, Textual Subjectivity, 15-16. Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 118. 36 I print this passage with inserted breaks for better readability. 35

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to waste alle Northumberland, þe godes away þei ledde, þat men with þe bestes in feldes þei þam fedde. Þe þrid sorow of þis lond com þorgh þe Sessons þat ten siþes aryued vppon þe Bretons, & siþen were chaced ageyn aw with maistrie, & eft aryued on þam here þorgh quantise of spie. At þe last þei chaced out þe Bretons so clene, Away vnto Wales þer kynd is, I wene. Þe Englis of þis lond þe lordschip þei toke & haf it ‫܌‬it in þer hond, þe Bretons forsoke. Þe ferthe sorow of þis lond com þorgh þe Danes; þe folk of the north slouh, destroied þer wanes. Siþen wan þei alle þe south, maistrie þei schewed, & laid þer Dangilde on lered & lewed, & left þe Inglis þe lond on a forward dere, to pay ilk a hede a peny to þam bi ‫܌‬ere. Þe fift sorow þer after com whan William conqueroure þat aryued on þis lond, Harald he slouh in stoure, & barons oþer inouh, þat died in þe feld, þe lond lese þe armes, changed is þe scheld. Siþen he & his haf had þe lond in heritage þat þe Inglis haf so lad þat þei lyue in seruage. He sette þe Inglis to be thralle þat or was so fre. He þat bigan it alle, in þe geste may ‫܌‬e se. Henry of Huntyngton testimons þis title (RM II:101-43).

This passage is noteworthy for several reasons. Firstly, it is noteworthy because of the initial assertion (which is made twice within a few lines) that all of these conquering peoples did not just conquer the land but left wounds that are not yet healed. Thus, the English people are presented as a deeply wounded people, afflicted by as many as five “misfortunes”–or even more: “withouten oþer mo” is Mannyng’s addition to Langtoft’s version. These misfortunes are embodied in the different conquering peoples; but only the worst of them is identified with an individual conqueror, “William conqueroure.” The connection of the “fifth sorrow” to a specific name makes this decisive conquest more comprehensible and accentuates it as the one that leads to the present, lamented state of English “seruage.” Robert of Gloucester, by contrast, presents a much shorter version of the conquest sequence. While he similarly describes the enduring condition of the Normans living “among us,” he does not

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specifically refer to William: “Þe vifþe time ‫܌‬wan engelond þat folc of normandie/ Þat among vs wonieþ ‫܌‬ut & ssulleþ euere mo” (RG 54-55). Mannyng’s conquest sequence quoted above is also noteworthy because, secondly, this “summary” is clearly attributed to Henry of Huntingdon by three references to him in the lines immediately preceding the passage and by a comment following the passage which marks the account as Henry’s testimony. Hence, Mannyng makes a clear connection of periodisation (by reference to conquerors) to historical writing. It is not surprising, then, that Mannyng also connects different conquerors to the type of historical work in which their deeds are related. In the following passage from his independent prologue, he “þe Brute,” and “þe Inglis gest:” Alle þat kynde & alle þe frute þat come of Brutus, þat is þe Brute. And þe ryght Brute is told nomore þan þe Brytons tyme wore. After þe Bretons þe Inglis camen, þe lordschip of þis lande þai namen. South & north, west & est, þat calle men now þe Inglis gest. (RM I:31-38)

The conquering people are thus connected both to a period in history and to the relevant historical works. This makes clear that, for Mannyng, both history and historical writing are conceived as belonging to a people. By their conquest, different people make their own, “national” history. History, in turn, especially when passed on in writing, creates a community’s identity. Mannyng, who elsewhere in his work seeks to reclaim English history of the English, consequently adds this connection of conquering people, historical period and historical work to the common model. Generally, of course, the conquerors presented by the historiographers overlap with the primary agent of medieval history, the king. The king, in turn, is usually shown as engaged in some kind of martial activity. There was a long tradition of ascribing the deeds and achievements of a whole people to its leader, from the Homeric epics and the Bible to the classical sources for medieval historiography such as the Aeneid.37 By the middle of the twelfth century, Given-Wilson points out, historical writing in England 37

Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 111.

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was essentially about the deeds of kings, and their reigns were regarded as the “natural divisions into which material was partitioned.”38 Robert Mannyng follows this model, but also judges the deeds of the kings from a moral perspective. Jack Bennett states that Robert Mannyng’s chronicle “helped to confirm the manner of setting out history that was to be dominant for several centuries: his history is the reigns of the kings, viewed from a moral standpoint.”39 This is visible in lines 15-22 of Mannyng’s prologue: And gude it is for many thynges for to here þe dedis of kynges, whilk were foles & whilk were wyse & whilk of þam couth mast quantyse, and whilk did wrong & whilk ryght, & whilk mayntend pes & fyght. Of þare dedes salle be my sawe, & of what tyme & of what lawe (Robert Mannyng, I:15-22).

In addition to the connection of wisdom to the knowledge of history and historical writing which I have discussed above, Mannyng here points out that it is “good for many things” to learn about the deeds of kings. He presents these deeds as exemplifying the fundamental dichotomies of human existence: folly and wisdom, wrong and right, peace and war. Mannyng’s moral standpoint, in this passage, becomes apparent in the term “quantyse” which has a double meaning. It can mean both, “wisdom, intelligence, skill,” but also “guile, cunning, deceit, trickery.”40 The word “quantyse” disrupts the list of dichotomies in that it is not paired with another quality as are all the terms (folly/wisdom, wrong/right, peace/war). Instead, it forms a group with the rhyming “wyse” and its counterpart “foles.” This implies that wisdom alone does not suffice, but that a king also needs to know how to, “skilfully, intelligently,” make use of his wisdom. This finding is confirmed when analysing the occurrences of the term “quantise” in connection with kings throughout Mannyng’s chronicle. The first king to be attributed with “quantise” is Brutus. Wise

38

Ibid., 164. Jack A. W. Bennett, Middle English Literature (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), 94. 40 “queintis(e.” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 39

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men urge Brutus to come up with plans to fight his enemies and Brutus reacts by “bethinking himself of ‘quantise:’” Þus þei seid, þo men were wyse, & Brutus bethouht hym of quantyse: quantise behoues hym nedly thynk þat his enmy salle wate a blenke. (RM I:1069-72)

The other instances in which kings are attributed with “quantise” all suggest a positive connotation of the word: Brutus; the faultless King Coyl who “couth of many quantise” (RM I:5626); Emperor Constantine, a “man of quantise” (RM I:6104); King Stephen who wins the crown “þorg quantise & conseile” (RM II:2653). Even Julius Caesar, the muchdespised adversary of Cassibellan, is initially described as in ideal ruler. He is “fulle quaynte” and wise according to Mannyng (RM I:4485) and, according to Robert of Gloucester, he rules his kingdom with “quoyntise & wisdom” (RG 1872). This ties in with Robert Mannyng’s exceedingly positive first description of Caesar: Iulius Cesar, a mighty man, þat tyme was Emperour of Rome; of knyghthede he bare þe blome of alle þo þat tyme were herd, for he conquerd alle þe werld. Als he was douhty knyght & gode, in clargie wele him vnderstode; of conseile was he man fulle wys & of manhede he bare þe pris. (RM I:4128-36)

Whenever the term “quantise” is attributed to non-royal persons however, it is utterly negative: Belyn getting the better part of land through someone’s “quantise” (RM I:2831); the Saxon Appas who disguises himself as a monk to poison King Aurelius (RM I:8894); Hengest who plots his cow-hide trick to get land from Vortigern (RM I:7331); and John Baliol’s appeal to the pope (RM I:6408). The greatest trickster of all, however, is Merlin, to whom Mannyng attributes with “quantise” as often as three times, and who announces to King Uther that “Quayntise ouercomes alle þing” (RM I:8683). Robert of Gloucester likewise attributes Merlin with “quantise” in the passage describing his building of Stonehenge. He connects it with enchantment (RG 3124-25). Thus, “quantise” has a positive meaning when connected to a king (“skill”) and a

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negative one when connected to others (“trickery”). Mannyng’s usage of the term suggests that only a king is entitled to that kind of skill while others, who unjustifiably claim it for themselves, end up cheating and killing. There is, however, one single instance in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle of a negative connotation of the word in connection with a ruler. Vortigern is accused of “fals quantise” (RM I:7044). In the light of the consistent usage throughout the work, the negative connotation here, underlined by the adjective “false” suggests that Vortigern is not a rightful king at all.41 In view of such moral differentiations between kings and other people, I agree with Bennett’s assessment that Robert Mannyng followed the long tradition of foregrounding kings as the main protagonists for his work and did so from a clear moral standpoint. However, as concerns kings and conquerors, Mannyng also made some conspicuous alterations to certain passages of his direct source Wace. Let’s return, once more, to their respective prologues and their reflections on history: Ki vult oïr e vult saveir De rei en rei e d’eir en eir Ki cil furent e dunt il vindrent Ki Engleterre primes tindrent, Quels reis i ad en ordre eü E qui anceis e ki puis fu, Maistre Wace l’ad translaté Ki en conte la verité (Wace 1-8). (Whoever wishes to hear and to know about the successive kings and their heirs who once upon a time were the rulers of England—who they were, whence they came, what was their sequence, who came earlier and who later—Master Wace has translated it and tells it truthfully.)

And it is wisdom forto wytten Þe state of þe land & haf it wryten: what manere of folk first it wan & of what kynde it first began. And gude it is for many thynges for to here þe dedis of kynges, whilk were foles & whilk were wyse & whilk of þam couth mast quantyse, and whilk did wrong & whilk ryght, & whilk mayntend pes & fyght. Of þare dedes salle be my sawe, & of whyt tyme & of what lawe, I salle ‫܌‬ow schewe fro gre to gre sen þe tyme of sir Noe, ffro Noe vnto Eneas, & what betwix þam was. (RM I:11-26)

While Wace here identifies history as a sequence “De rei en rei e d’eir en eir,” Mannyng prominently places both the land and the “folk” that conquered it before his first mention of the kings. In addition, while “Ki 41

Also about Vortigern: “an erle þat lufed tricherie;/ quante he was & fer couth þenk/ to compasse a wikked blenk” (RM I:6929-31).

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cil furent e dunt il vindrent/ Ki Engleterre primes tindrent” in Wace is ambiguous and may be about kings or about a people, the equivalent passage in Mannyng (“what manere of folk first it wan/ & of what kynde it first began”) is clearly about the “folk.” This could well be interpreted as evidence that Mannyng’s vision of history is one that does not primarily focus on kings but rather on (conquering) people. In the case of such consciously “English” works as the ones discussed here, a collective group of Englishmen may indeed be conceived of as more important than the many “foreign” kings who held their land. In both Robert of Gloucester’s and Robert Mannyng’s chronicle, the important protagonists of the early stages of English history are borrowed from the classical Troy accounts. Beginning an account of history with the tale of Troy was not at all unusual in the fourteenth century.42 This did not, as the works of the corpus show, prevent the historiographers from embedding these figures (as forefathers of the English) in salvation history. Robert of Gloucester, for example, places Brutus’ arrival in Britain in the third age of his “Seven Ages:” So þat in þe þridde age it was ar it com to engelonde For in þe time bi tvene abraham & moyses hit was Men come verst to engelond ich wille telle þat cas (RG 203-05).

While Robert of Gloucester here makes a connection between the “Seven Ages” and England and hence places England itself within salvation history, he does not construct Brutus as a direct descendant of Noah as Robert Mannyng does. Mannyng, in turn, presents a long genealogy for the eponymous founder of Britain beginning with Noah, which may have been influenced by some version of Nennius’ genealogy for Brutus.43 Mannyng does two things with this genealogy. Firstly, he unmakes the confusing dichotomy of classical and Biblical traditions and merges them into one, and secondly, he embeds his account of history in salvation history. 42 See also Bennett’s argument: “In the fourteenth century any history of Britain had to begin (witness the opening lines of Sir Gawain) with the tale of Troy and the descent of Brutus.” Bennett, Middle English Literature, 94. 43 For a special strategy in handling this genealogy in order to present his authorial persona as controlling history, see section 1.4 above. These Biblical references are not in Wace. Sullens suggests that Robert Mannyng’s unspecific Biblical references in this part of his work might be influenced by Nennius. Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 696, notes to lines 202f.

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The first named protagonist in Mannyng’s chronicle is Cain. He is placed after the two-hundred-line prologue and at the beginning of the historical account proper: “When god toke wreke of Caym synne” (RM I:202). The words “When god” in fact place God even before Cain, and while Mannyng then continues his narrative with the account of the flood, these first two words are an implicit reference to Genesis 1:1, to the fact that every history, Biblical or other, is authored by God. Consequently, Mannyng uses this placing of God at the beginning of the narrative to authorise history. His gesture of authorship here works at the transitional moment from prologue to narrative proper. At line 201, he ends his prologue and his metahistory by stating that the “story” will now begin, to then his account at God’s realisation of Cain’s sin: “Now of þe story wille we gynne./ When god toke wreke of Caym synne” (RM I:201-02). God still stands at the beginning of all history but his authority is embedded in that of the historiographer who directs the timing of just when, exactly (“now”) this (account of) history begins. The protagonists of both versions of the Cursor Mundi are Biblical or apocryphal. However, both poets start their prologue with a long chronological list of historical and legendary heroes, the first of whom, Alexander the Great, is presented as a “conquerour” (NCM 3). Like Mannyng, the Northern Cursor poet also presents Brutus as “þe first conquerour of Ingland” (NCM 8), underlining the importance usually attributed to conquerors in historical works. Like the other historiographers, he presents the major protagonists as “princes, prelates and . . . kynges” (NCM 22). His list includes Alexander, Julius Caesar, the heroes of the Trojan wars, Brutus, King Arthur and his knights, Charlemagne and Roland, Tristan, Ioneck, Isombras, and Amadas and Ydoine. However, the Northern Cursor poet makes quite clear that this list is not history but a list of the heroes of the “rimes” that people want to hear and the “romans” they want to read. He places a historical figure like Julius Caesar, who was not a popular romance character44 among the half-historical and legendary romance characters. This clearly indicates that history, in his eyes, cannot be anything but salvation history. Historical figures like Caesar, who are not part of salvation history, are thus seen as nothing more than the “romans” figures. They are part of entertainment but without any significance to the supreme divine plan. While the Northern Cursor poet thus shows a surprisingly good knowledge of the reading tastes of his contemporaries, he urges them to turn to more edifying religious texts. 44

Horrall et al., The Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol.1, 341, notes to line 4.

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The Northern (as well as the Southern) Cursor poet then parallels Mary with a worldly “paramour,” maintaining that, while love-relationships are bound to end in sorrow, Mary’s love persists even if the believer has been untrue to her (NCM 58-84). Therefore, he invokes all those who have the talent to do so to “mak bath rim and sang” of her: Off suilk an suld ‫܌‬e [mater] take, Crafty þat can rimes make; Of hir to mak bath rim and sang, And luue hi suette sun amang. (NCM 85-88)

Of course, the Northern Cursor poet himself writes about Mary in the very text in which he invokes others to do so. This is a gesture of authorship in that it ascribes the skills to make “crafty rhymes” to the poet. The only clearly historical figures in the Cursor Mundi are found in an appendix to the Northern version. Lines 23,909-24,968 here contain “Mary’s Lament” and the “Establishment of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.” The main protagonist of this addition is Elsey, the abbot of Ramsey, whom William the Conqueror sends to the Danish king having killed King Harold. While Elsey succeeds in pacifying the Danish king, he and his men are caught in a storm on their homeward journey. They are saved by an angel after their promise to establish this day, the day of the conception of Mary, as a feast day in the churches in England (NCM 24,731-967). It is unclear why this account of the “Establishment of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception” is not in the Southern version. Lines 217-20, where the Southern Cursor poet presents the outline of his work in his prologue (herein following the Northern version), imply that it was originally intended for inclusion in the Southern version as well. Horrall suggests that the omission of this narrative “seems to indicate an unwillingness [on the side of the Southern poet] to include stories from secular history.”45 This ties in with my argument that the Southern Cursor poet made some conscious decisions as to what to exclude from his account. Not only does he drop the pronounced language discussion presented by his Northern counterpart, he also suppresses many instances of the “I” of his source, along with so many gestures of authorship that produce an authorial persona.

45

Horrall, general introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, 12.

CHAPTER THREE EMPOWERING WRITTEN TEXTS

Robert of Gloucester reports that the heathen Roman emperor Maximian, in his ambition to destroy the Christian movement, murdered Christians and destroyed churches but also publicly burnt Christian books.1 In contrast, books underscore the beneficial rule of King Athelstan when they are presented as prominent gifts to abbeys that the king has either built or restored. Here, books appear on a par with buildings, land, cloth and “other rich things” with which these abbeys are endowed.2 As the two episodes show, written texts had come to assume a significant cultural and political position as sites of power. In the works of the corpus, books often metonymically signify the authority under which they emerged (a threatening and a beneficial one respectively, in this case). Besides being part of a ruler’s display of power however, written texts are also conceived as powerful and potentially empowering in themselves. Having discussed different strategies employed by the historiographers of the corpus to establish and secure their continuing control over their work, I will now turn to the ways in which the historiographers present written texts. They all present letters and books as powerful and empowering. The term “book,” in these works, is used to denote the Bible and other religious works as well as specified and unspecified historical texts. I will argue in this chapter that the representation of texts as sites of power is complex and self-reflexive and that it mirrors the historiographers’ attitudes towards writing in general and their own writings in particular.3 1

RG 1811-15. “& cristen men þat he vond to stronge deþ he bro‫܌‬te/ Chirchen he velde al adoun þer ne moste non stonde/ & alle þe bokes þat he mi‫܌‬te finde in eni londe/ He wolde lete berne echon amidde þe heie strete/& þe cristenmen alle sle & non aliue lete.” 2 RG 5494-97. “Nywe abbeys he made vaste þe gode aþelston/ & þer nas of olde house in þe londe non/ Þat he ne amendede wiþ som lond oþer mid buldinge/ Oþer mid boc oþer riche cloþ oþer som oþer riche þinge.” 3 I propose this reading along the lines of that suggested by Monika Otter in her discussion of twelfth century historiography: Otter, Inventiones; Otter “Functions of Fiction.”

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First, I will look at the notion that books have the capacity to preserve the truth in cases where human memory fails. An example of this notion is Edward I’s search in chronicles for proof of his rights to overlordship of Scotland.4 Books are also presented as being able to immortalise the elusive oral moment, almost as if they were able to “resurrect” the spoken word. They thus turn the past into the present and prove the truth by (the illusion of) enabling the audience to become eyewitnesses of the events. Yet to elaborate on such qualities of books mirrors the historiographers’ perception of their own work of history and hence partakes in the construction of their authorial persona. Following a discussion of this, I will address the question of how books are construed as an exclusive domain of specialists (literati). By presenting the writing of history as an exclusive undertaking, the historiographers construct an authorial persona that is necessarily competent and learned. Such self-constructions as learned and consequently authoritative figures have been seen as a strategy employed by vernacular historiographers for “blurring the distinction” between themselves and Latin historians, and of hence claiming authority.5 It is the exclusive access to books, in this case, which enables the historiographer to construct an “in-group” of learned men (past and present) and an “out-group” of both their audience and his own readers. Following this discussion of the power and empowering qualities of books, I will then turn my attention to letters, firstly addressing what I choose to call letters of liberation (since letters, in the works of this corpus, are more often than not connected with pleas for liberation or the defence of liberty). In general, letters are seen as powerful and empowering in the same ways as books. The possession of land or natural and God-given rights, for example, are inscribed into letters and are hence vindicated through the written text’s power of proving the truth. The letter’s specificity of having a sender and a recipient, however, adds more facets; power relations between sender and recipient are established in various ways, primarily by the amount of space that the historiographers dedicate to the potentates’ respective letters and by the use of direct or indirect speech. In cases where direct speech is chosen, letters are 4

See Lee W. Patterson’s examples on the writing and rewriting of history for political reasons and Gabrielle Spiegel’s discussions of the use of history to political actors: Lee W. Patterson, “The Historiography of Romance,” 6; Gabrielle M. Spiegel, “Theory into Practice,” 2; Gabrielle M. Spiegel, Romancing the Past: The Rise of Vernacular Prose Historiography in Thirteenth Century France (Berkeley and Oxford: University of California Press, 1993), 5. 5 Damian-Grint, The New Historians, 38.

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attributed performative power. Able to gap geographical divides, they generate passionate speeches in the presence of the letter’s recipient and thus evoke the physical presence of the sender. Robert Mannyng again seems more sensitive to the power and the empowering potential of letters than his near contemporary Robert of Gloucester or his main sources Wace and Pierre de Langtoft. He often elaborates on letters mentioned by his sources or adds letters to their accounts. Ultimately, the historiographers’ presentation of all of the above-mentioned capacities of written texts contributes to the construction of an authorial persona, a “writing I,” that is empowered by his own written text.6

The power of the book to preserve the truth A passage in the Northern Cursor Mundi demonstrates the power invested in the written text. Jesus, confronted with the Jews’ incredulous questions about his human nature, first refers them to “the books” (as a storage place of knowledge) and then to “your aun bok” (presumably the Tanakh) which he accuses them of not being able to understand, “[y]our aun bok yee can noght spell:” And for þe luue o þi missau; Þou mas þe godd, and þou art man.” “Soth it es,” coth iesus þan, “Bath i am, qua right wil men, For sundri mai we neuer tuin. Gas lokes þe bokes o your lai, And vnderstandes quat þai sai, In bok þe soth al mai we find, Bot-if yee self willi be blind; Your aun bok yee can noght spell, Þat yee wat noght, i will yow tell. (NCM 14,683-93)

Since the Jews do not understand their own book, Jesus is willing to explain it to them (“þat yee wat noght, i will yow tell”)—an appealing metaphor for the appropriation through Christianity of the hitherto

6

See also Nicole Nyffenegger, “Gestures of Authorship in Medieval English Historiography: The Case of Robert Mannyng of Brunne,” in Medieval and Early Modern Authorship, ed. Guillemette Bolens and Lukas Erne (Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 2011).

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“misunderstood” divine word.7 The conception of books as sites of power, capable of preserving the “true” events of the past primarily (though not exclusively, as I shall argue below) derives from the power ascribed to the Bible. As the book and the embodiment of God’s word it is truth to the medieval writer. Connected with this Biblical truth is the extensively described ritual of oath-taking in which the gospel books involved do not even need to be opened. As an embodiment of God’s word they have the power to vouchsafe the sincerity of the oath-taker by their sheer presence.8 There are numerous examples of swearing on “books” in both Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles,9 but since the books concerned are most likely to be gospel books, these examples are only indirectly linked to the power the historiographers envisage to have through writing.10 It is still noteworthy in this context however, that the ritual of swearing on a book is treated much more prominently in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle than it is in Robert of Gloucester’s. The comparison to Mannyng’s sources Wace and Pierre de Langtoft shows that this emphasis is, in fact, Mannyng’s own. I suggest that this should be read as an indicator that Mannyng is generally more interested in and more attentive to the power of the written text—even though Biblical in this case. One example is the famous incident of an oath taken and apparently forgotten later which brought about one of the major conflicts in English history—and the “seruage” of the English people which is such an important issue for Mannyng. Reporting on the oath taken by Harold Godwinson “whan he was ‫܌‬onge” (RM II:1670), Mannyng writes: Þe presons forth were fette tille Harald or he foore; to hold þat he had hette, on þe boke suore. Now gos he home, Harald, & has ouercomen his tene; þe othe þat he suld hold, it is forgeten clene. Edward is dede, allas; messengers ouerwent 7

Ironically, according to Zumthor, it was Judaism that transmitted “to Christianity the idea of the Book’s hallowed nature, Scripture and writing being one.” Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 25. 8 See also Margaret Bridges, “Mehr als ein Text. Das ungelesene Buch zwischen Symbol und Fetisch,” in Buchkultur im Mittelalter: Schrift—/Bild— /Kommunikation, ed. Michael Stolz and Adrian Mettauer (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 110. 9 RG 9683-85, 10,418, 10,426; RM I:3843-45, 10,713-15; RM II:1706-12, 6801-4. 10 However, Fleischman states that the Bible was considered as history in the Middle Ages “and the most authoritative history at that.” Fleischman, “Representation of History and Fiction,” 301.

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to William, Harald was þorgh comon assent was corouned nobly & for kyng þei him helde (RM II:1706-12, my emphasis).

Having travelled to France and been taken captive, Harold is liberated by William of Normandy and, in return for the freedom of his brother and nephew, promises to help William obtain the crown of England. However, after returning home and having overcome his misfortune (“tene”), Harold completely forgets his oath. All of the successive events and the “bondage” and “seruage” (RM II:1760-61) into which the English are brought as a result, are, not just in Mannyng’s account, tied to the breaking of this oath: “Our fredom þat day for euer toke þe leue;/ for Harald it went away, his falshed did vs greue.” (RM II:1762-63). While Harold’s oath on the book is now a famous scene pictured prominently on the Bayeux Tapestry, Pierre de Langtoft, who generally seems less preoccupied with the power roles of books than Mannyng, does not report on Harold’s swearing an oath on a book: “Après la mort Eduuard la terre ws rendray.” Les prisouns sunt delivers, Harald se mette en vay; La chose, kaunt tens vent, est mys en oblay. (Pierre de Langtoft 1:404) (“After Edward’s death, I will deliver the land to you.” The prisoners are delivered, Harold starts on his way; The thing, when time comes, is put in oblivion.)

Referring quite vaguely to “la chose,” readers are left to determine whether attention is drawn to the oath, or to the release of the prisoners as being “mys en oblay,” leading to an implicit debt of Harold. When Mannyng recounts Edward I’s re-establishing of control in Scotland, he likewise includes the book-oath scene, missing in that of his source Pierre de Langtoft:

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þat Frankis no Flemmyng power suld non haue bot forto selle þer þing, merchandise to saue, þat to þe pes þam toke & com vnto his mercy, he did þam suere on þe boke to com vnto his crie, homage & feaute mad him with þer hand at his wille to be bi se & bi sand (RM II:6799-6804, my emphasis).

(Neither Fleming nor Frenchman will henceforth have power To enter into Scotland, except for merchandize. Of all those of most account who are to remain, Taken are the homages, the king makes them swear That they would be loyal to him by land and by sea.)

While Langtoft here has the king make his subjects swear (“les fist jorer”) that the French and Flemings shall never again enter Scotland except for commerce, Mannyng has the king make his subjects swear the same oath “on the boke.” In the first part of his work, Mannyng alters the accounts of his source Wace in the same way. The account of the submission of the Danish king Achil to Arthur, in Wace, contains a reference to homage being paid (“feelté fist”), which may or may not include the swearing on a book. Mannyng, in turn, very clearly points out that homage is pledged on a book: Al rei Arthur se concorda; Feelté fist, sis huem devint, Sun regne ot tut, d’Artur le tint. (Wace 9884-86)

þat of Arthure he had grantise þe lond in pes for his seruyse, & Arthure his seruyse toke; homage he suore on þe boke. (RM I:10,514-17)

(he reached an agreement with king Arthur: he did homage, became his man, and held his whole kingdom in the king’s name.)

Another case in point is the account of the Briton king Elidur who, out of love for his brother Argal, tricks his subjects into swearing loyalty to

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Argal. Pretending to be mortally ill and bidding his subjects to come into his bedroom individually, he seizes them and has them submit to his brother under threat of force. Again, while Wace has the subjects pay homage (“Qu’il faiseit a sun frere homage,” Wace 3549) in an unspecified way, Mannyng has them swear to pay homage on a book: “þe kyng þem toke/ and did þem swere on þe boke/ ffor to do Argail homage” (RM I:3843-45). Mannyng thus edits his sources in order to include books in all scenes related to oath-taking. It is obvious that he pays greater attention than the authors of his source texts to the power of the written text and thus hints at his own power as a writer. Books in general are however also construed as having the capacity to immortalise oral communication and eyewitness accounts, the veracity of which, due to their oral nature, is otherwise bound to become uncertain. Mannyng, for example, relates an episode about the peace treaties between the Muslim Sultan Saladin and King Richard I which Saladin’s treacherous brother Safadin tries to sabotage by false testimony. Safadin tries to set King Richard against Saladin by telling the Christian king that Saladin, in spite of his friendly words, slanders him behind his back: For Safadyns sawe Richard had enuie, wherfore a gode þrawe he stode in a studie; þat sawe þat he þer said, so wele it was of leten, In boke it was vplaid, ‫܌‬it is it not forgeten. Richard þis ansuerd to Saladyn for treu, for þo men þat it herd wrote vs þat word alle new. (RM II:4835-40)

The oral quality of Safadin’s “sawe” is emphasised by repetition as much as by unnecessary elaboration: “þat sawe þat he þer said.” Mannyng, however, assures the audience that “‫܌‬it is not forgeten” because it was written down in a book, “in boke it was vplaid.” Richard’s answer to Saladin is similarly not forgotten, as Mannyng goes on to relate, because eye- (or rather ear-)witnesses, “men þat it herd,” wrote it down. They did so consciously, it appears, in order to preserve that answer for posterity, as the wording “wrote vs” (the writing as directed at us) suggests. Furthermore, the statement that those eyewitnesses “wrote vs þat word alle new” suggests that the written text empowers the eyewitnesses (as well as, at the receiving end, the book’s audience) to renew Richard’s words, to bring the moment itself and hence its verifiability, back to life. According to these reflections, what is preserved in the historical text is much more than just a reflection of the past; it is the past itself. Through the power of the book, it can be resurrected and become the verifiable present of the

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audience or the reader. Mannyng’s direct source Pierre de Langtoft also relates the meeting of Saladin and Richard I, Safadin’s attempted obstruction of the peace treaty by false testimony, and the truce that is nevertheless achieved (Langtoft 2:107-13). Unlike Mannyng however, he does not elaborate on the oral nature of Safadin’s treachery nor, more importantly, does he in any way mention the preservation of the past through writing.11 Mannyng’s quote is quite exceptional in its elaboration of the process of immortalising the elusive oral moment through writing. More generally, however, books are perceived as preserving and proving the truth. Dates are considered certain once they are found in books (“þe date þat certeyn es in boke writen here,” RM II: 547), and “facts” are proven by a simple reference to them being recorded in a book (“Þis was as me may in bok reden & ise,” RG 646; “he was as it is iwrite,” RG 1917). Historical texts in general, as Chris Given-Wilson states, “‘proved’ things” and were not only consulted in important political matters, but, in fact, often exploited very consciously.12 One example is King Edward I’s 1201 order to the monasteries to search their chronicles for evidence that would enable him to prove that the English king had a right to the overlordship of Scotland.13 While Robert of Gloucester does not relate this event (his chronicle, in both recensions, ends at the death of King Henry III), Robert Mannyng relates it in a lengthy passage: In þe north, at Norham, he [Edward] wanissed þe castelle, þe barons þider cam & conseild þat best felle; þei brouht þe cronykles þat were in Scotland, þe olde chartres & titles þat wer in abbays hand, of ilk a bisshop se & ilk a priourie þat were of dignite, of olde ancestrie, examend þam & cast ilk amountment. 11

Pierre de Langtoft 2:110. “Du dyt Saffadyn le rays ad graunt envye;/ Par quai à respoundre Richard estudye./ Chose ne volt promettre, si il ne sayt complye;/ Respouns ilokes donné à nul jour ert ublye./ Le rays à Saladyn dist en respoundaunt,/ “De trewe kant tu parles, tu me voys mokaunt.” “The king has great ill-will of the saying of Saffadin; On which account Richard studies his reply. He will not promise anything if it be not carried into effect; The reply there given, will never be forgotten. The king to Saladin says in reply, When you talk of truce you are only mocking me. All translations for Pierre de Langtoft are from Wright’s edition. 12 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 65-73. 13 Taylor, English Historical Literature, 57.

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þei said alle at þe last þorght of on assent, of Inglond suld þei hold þorh right & skille; fo wild þe feffementes ald & þei granted þertille. Þis was certified & sikere on ilk side; it myght not be denied for þing þat mot betide. (RM II:5997-6008)

In Mannyng’s rendering of this impressive case in point, the chronicles are, in contrast to Pierre de Langtoft’s much shorter account,14 supplemented by “olde chartres & titles.” Hence, while historical texts are perceived as being able to preserve the truth, Mannyng seems to be aware (and this awareness may well be unique to him) that other pieces of writing, and by implication any kind of written texts, share this power.

Books as the exclusive domain of the literatus The account of King Edward I’s search for proof of his right to overlordship of Scotland described above is also remarkable because (in both Robert Mannyng’s longer and in Pierre de Langtoft’s shorter version)15 the search for proof is not accomplished by the king himself. Instead, it is accomplished by the barons who act as the king’s counsellors and a bishop respectively. Here, as in other passages in Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles,16 the consulting of books and the finding of the truth in them is reserved for specialists of some kind. Books thus become the exclusive domain of those with specialist knowledge or, in the more specific descriptions, of the literati, those who stand out due to their learning and knowledge. Since historiographers are likewise involved in searching and finding information in books, such accounts form part of the construction of the historiographer’s own authorial persona. There are 14 Pierre de Langtoft 2:190. “A Norham s’en va, chastel ben garnye,/ E là fet venir de abbeye e priorye/ Tutes les cronicles de auncesserye./ La gest examyne, trop ben certifie/ Ke sire Eduuard ad drait à la seygnuryie./ Ço fist le evesk Auntoyne, par sen e grant vaydye;/ Benette pusse-il estre de Deu le fiz Marye!” “He goes to Norham, a castle well furnished, And there causes to be brought from abbey and priory All the chronicles of our forefathers. Examines the history very clearly ascertains That sir Edward has right to the sovereignty. That did bishop Anthony by sense and great subtlety; Blessed may he be by God the son of Mary!” 15 Robert of Gloucester, whose chronicle ends at the death of King Henry III in both recensions, does not relate these events. 16 In contrast, I have not been been able to find an example in either of the two Cursor Mundi versions.

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further examples of specialist knowledge required to consult books in Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles. One is the account of how the Briton king Cadwallader seeks advice in the interpretation of his vision at the moment of his intended return to England. In Mannyng’s version, Cadwallader asks the Breton king Alan for advice and Alan in turn calls for “his wise clerks” and has them search “all the books:” His wise clekes he did calle, & dide þam seke þer bokes alle to wite what þe prophecies ment & said in sere parties ... Þei souht þe prophecies of Aquile, at Chestre was it said suld be. Sibile sawes forþe þei laid & also what Merlyn said, & þe sawes of Sophonie; non of þam wild not lie, þe voice & þer bokes ilkone, bot þei acorded alle tille one; non seid sere forto blame, & þe voice said þe same. (RM I:15,851-66)

The books referred to in this passage contain prophesies and are thus doubly able to “speak” the truth. As written texts, they prove the truth of oral prophesies which in themselves are perceived as revealing the truth (“non of þam wild not lie”). What proves the accuracy of Cadwallader’s vision, in the end, is the fact that it agrees with the books (“þe voice said þe same”). The intricate interplay between oral “voice” (i.e. vision, prophecy) and the written text that is typical for Mannyng is lost in Robert of Gloucester’s much shorter version of the same episode: Þe king alein let þo anon in is bokes aspye Boþe of sybile þe sage & of merlines prophecye Were hii to is auision acorded in eche þinge & þo he vond þat bituene hom nas non discordinge (RG 5106-109).

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What the accounts do have in common is that, in both, the Breton king does not search the books himself but has someone else consult them. That someone, however, is defined as having specialist knowledge only in Mannyng’s version. What exactly such specialist knowledge consists of often remains unclear. The fact that the specialists are regularly referred to as “clerks” points towards ecclesiastical learning. So does the fact that ecclesiastical learning, in turn, is sometimes metonymically called “the books:” “to boc is fader him drou/ Þat he was as to him biuel god clerc ynou” (about King Henry I, RG 8690-91).17 Such training would certainly include an ability to read the Latin classics, but beyond that also later Latin and French texts.18 It would also include, as a passage in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle suggests, having access to books. Robert of Gloucester ascribes “book-wit” to the clergy (bishops and Abbot Dinoth) present at the council called by Saint Augustine to unify the practices of the church: Wende aboute & prechi as þe pope hom sende Þe bissopes him ansuerede & þe abbot dinoc Al wiþ grete reysons & wit of hor boc Þat wanne hii adde hom sulue erchebissop & king Hii ne ssolde to englissemen abuye ri‫܌‬t no þing (RG 4816-20).

Robert of Gloucester, Robert Mannyng, and both Cursor poets all, of course, possess that kind of training. They are part of the group of men, regular and secular clergy, who, up to the time when lay chronicles gained in importance, carried “the main burden of historical writing.”19 Thus, when these historiographers inscribe into their accounts wise or excellent clerks (“clerkes of pris,” RM I:8804; “clerkes þat are wis,” NCM 343) who are able to find the truth in books thanks to their specialist training and skills, they also put emphasis on their own specialist, book-related knowledge as empowering them. The historiographers of this corpus indeed frequently draw their audience’s attention to the fact that the information rendered in their accounts was, quite literally, found by them: “In sum bok find i þar a wile” 17

See also NCM 8435. As of the twelfth century, the terms “clerk” (i.e. the Latin clericus) and “literatus” were concomitant: Mitchell, “‘We Englisse Men.’”196.; Given-Wilson, Chronicles, x; E. R. Curtius European Literature, 384. 19 Taylor, English Historical Literature, 15. 18

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(NCM 4749).20 Such a remark does not only emphasise the research (and finding of information) done by the historiographer, it is also a very efficient way of appropriating authority, as will be discussed in more detail in chapter four. Just how powerful that exclusive knowledge is envisaged to be is impressively demonstrated by the manuscript variation in Mannyng’s chronicle in the aforementioned episode in which the Breton King Alan’s asks his clerks for help in interpreting Cadwallader’s vision: Þe kyng did his clerkes calle & bad þam cast lotes alle, what suld of þat childe com, gude or ille, what maner dome. (RM I: 835-38 MS P, my emphasis)

Þe kynge dide his clerke calle, & bad hem loke þer bokes alle, “What chold of þat child bycome, Good or wykke, what maner dome.” (RM I: 839-42 MS L, my emphasis)

Where MS P has King Alan ask the clerks to cast the lots (“bad þam cast lotes alle”), MS L has him ask them to consult their books (“bad hem loke þer bokes alle). This is an extremely telling variation, suggesting that the specialist knowledge needed for finding the truth in books is not unlike the quasi-magical powers needed by those who cast and interpret the lots. It is noteworthy in this context that Mannyng also translates another reference of Wace’s to Vortigern’s “soothsayers and best men” (“sortisseürs/ E de ses humes les meillurs,” Wace 7313-14), for which Vortigern sends after having fled to Wales, as “clergy and wise men of astronomy” (“He did send after þe clergie,/ wise men of astronomie,” RM I:7827-28). Additional examples, such as the characterisation of the Spanish clerk Pellith at Edwyn’s court as a diviner and savant in astronomy,21 point toward the fact that the concepts of soothsaying, clerical training, and astronomy were closely connected and the terms sometimes used interchangeably.22 Mannyng is the only historiographer of the corpus who was (almost certainly) university-trained, as a remark about his meeting Alexander and 20

See also, for example: NCM 26,407; RM II:4903. RM I:15,002-5. “Of chances he couþe telle beforn./ He knewe alle foules crie/ & inouh of astronomie;/ Pellith hight þat ilk clerk.” 22 Another variation between the two Mannyng manuscripts also suggests so: “Þo maisters þat said þat devyne (RM I:8029 MS P) vs. “Þise maistres of astronomie & of devyne” (corresponding lines MS L); Mannyng also translates Wace’s “Cumete ot nun sulunc clergie” (Wace 8289) as “comete is cald in astronomye” (RM I:8918). Astronomy (as one of the seven liberal arts) is here, as was often the case, used interchangeably with astrology, see “astronomie,” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 21

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Robert the Bruce at Cambridge implies (RM II:8225-34).23 His academic training and his pride in his distinctive learnedness influence the way he writes about books as the domain of specialists. It is no coincidence, I suggest, that he goes further than other historiographers in presenting clerks as learned men. Peter Damian-Grint, in his study of Anglo-Norman vernacular historians makes an argument that is interesting in this connection. He points out that these historians, in referring to themselves as maistre (which, like the Latin equivalent magister points to university training and authorisation to teach) claimed authority by “blurring the distinction between themselves and Latin historians.”24 Similarly, Mannyng aligns the clerks of the past more clearly with himself when he, unlike the other historiographers of the corpus, portrays them as not only consulting the books but also as writing them: Alle þe world makes ‫܌‬itt menyng how Troie was stroyed for þis thyng. Clerkes wyse in buke it wrote; 25 þorgh þer writyng we it wote. Þai wrote þe names of þe kynges & of alle þat oþer lordynges, whilk were men of most honoure þat fled fro þat grete stoure. (RM I:719-26)

In this reference to the sources for the fall of Troy, Mannyng once more draws his audience’s attention to the fact that it is through the books and the writings of “clerkes wise” that the knowledge about the Trojan wars has been preserved for his audience to his present day (“þorh þer writyng we it wote”). He goes on to elaborate that “we” know details such as the “names of þe kynges/ & of alle þat oþer lordynges” through their writing. Had the events at Troy not been written down, the story would not be as widely known as it is (“alle þe world makes ‫܌‬itt menyng”). While Mannyng elsewhere refers to the Excidio Trojae Historia attributed to Dares the Phrygian as his source for the Trojan wars, this more general reference to “wise clerkes” could be read as a hint at the fact that he also used other sources (as his rendering of the events indeed suggests).26 23

Crosby, “Robert Mannyng,” 24. Given-Wilson, New Historians, 38. 25 MS L has “whiche wrytynge wel alle hit.” 26 Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 696, notes to lines 320-726. She comments: “RMB’s actual source was a version quite different from 24

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However, I propose it is also a reference to the specialist knowledge that enables a historiographer not only to read the truth from other books but to also render it in his own writing. In addition, Mannyng here connects the importance of historical writing for the knowledge about the past with the potential world-encompassing (“alle þe world”) dispersal of that knowledge. Such a presentation of historical writing ultimately, of course, partakes in constructing a crucial role of the historiographer in the transmission of knowledge.

Letters of liberation In a similar way to books, letters are also closely related to power in the works of the corpus. More often than not, they are conceived of as a plea for liberation or as a defence of liberty. This quality makes them essential elements in the construction of the historiographers’ authorial persona because the historiographers of the corpus maintain one of their major aims to be the liberation of English (salvation)history and ultimately the English people from the “seruage” of French language, writing, and culture into which they were brought by the Normans. The first letter in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle, and, in fact, the first reference to a written text after the prologue, is the letter Brutus writes to the Greek king Pandras, which is rendered in a thirty-line passage of direct speech: “For þe schame & þe outrage þat is done þe noble lynage of Kyng Dardan, our ancessoure, at myschefe is in dishonoure. In caytifte long have þei layn, bot now þai hope to com ageyn In o wille alle haf þei spoken & in o counselle þei ere alle loken, me to haf vnto þer heued, & with þam alle I am beleued. I send to þe þer allere sawe þat to þe wod þei wille þam þan drawe. Þer is þam leuere lif in wo, in wildernes with bestes go, ffor haf wille þer fre þan in thraldom haf plente. the Excidio Trojae Historia attributed to Dares. RMB drew some of the details from the anonymous Compendium Historiae Trojanae-Romanae.”

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No maugre þou þam con þat þe wille in fredom won. It is þer kynde fredom to haue; þat owe be lord, now is he knaue. Ne meruelle þe if þei haf grace franchise & fredom to purchace, for ilk wild be at þer myght in fredom to lif as ryght. Þerfor þei pray þe with gude wille, & I comande for drede of ille, þat hiþen forward þou grante þam fre & no more in þi seruage be. Sire, we ask þe bot skille: graunte vs to go where we wille.” (RM I:941-70)

There are several ways in which this first letter in Mannyng’s chronicle is significant as an example of an empowering written text. Firstly, the letter preserves the spoken words of Brutus’ followers (“In o wille alle haf þei spoken”) and hence empowers their chosen leader (“me to haf vnto þer heued”) to transmit those words, in his own words, to the king (“I send to þe þer allere sawe”). Secondly, the preference of the people to live in wilderness and woe rather than in thraldom, which was probably originally a multivoiced and therefore abstruse wish expressed at an open council (“in o counselle”), is channelled into what sounds and reads like one voice and hence is given more weight. The written text is, thirdly, able to convey both the plea of the people (“þei pray þe”) and the command and threat (“I comande for drede of ille”) of Brutus without either of them having to face their enemy, the Greek king. Finally, the inscription into the letter of the claim that “itt is þer kynde fredom to haue” makes the claim more factual and in consequence allows it to justify itself: “in fredom to lif as ryght” [my emphasis]. A written text is here presented as having the potential to liberate an enslaved people. I cannot help but read this example as a presentation, at the outset of his work, of the issues which are close to Mannyng’s heart: The “enslavement” and hoped-for liberation of the English people to which he contributes with his own written text that is in English for the English. While most chronicles mention Brutus’ appeal, only few represent it in the form of a letter. Wace and Robert Mannyng are among them, while there is, for instance, no mention of a letter in the relevant passage in

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Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle.27 The versions by Mannyng and his source Wace diverge in intriguing ways especially in the lines immediately preceding the direct speech of the letters. While Wace introduces the letter in three lines, mentioning “breif” once and neither naming Brutus nor Pandras,28 Mannyng has the following four introductory lines: Brutus did write a brefe vnto sire Pandras, kyng & chefe. Þis is þe brefe þat he sent þat Latyn vnderstode þus ment: . . . . (RM I: 937-40)

Mannyng mentions “brefe” twice, and, more importantly, names the sender, Brutus, and the receiver, Pandras, in close proximity to the word. Mannyng’s version enhances the notion of letter-writing as an act of liberation: Brutus as the soon-to-be liberator of an enslaved people is portrayed as having the letter written before attacking and fighting Pandras. It is certainly no coincidence that Mannyng, as a “writing I,” thus commends the pre-eminence of the quill over the sword. But he also, in contrast to his source Wace, mentions the language of the letter, Latin, which has to be translated, by some literatus, on two narrative levels. Firstly, probably to the Greek king Pandras, and secondly to the chronicle’s audience who receives the letter’s contents in English. The literatus who provides the translation in the latter case is clearly Mannyng himself, who thus underlines his role as intermediary. It is no coincidence, I suggest, that Mannyng here shows particular sensitivity to the empowering potential of literacy. As a university-trained cleric, he probably experienced the increasing influence of the universities on

27

RG 261-65. “To þe king of grece he send/ þat ihote was pandras/ Þat he ssolde þe noble folc þat of so noble blod com/ Oout of seruage lete & out of þraldom/ Oþer him ne ssolde no‫܌‬t wondri þei hii dede hor mi‫܌‬te/ Wiþ hor bodies þat a‫܌‬te be so fre vor to winne hor ri‫܌‬te.” 28 Wace 224-26. “Puis ad sempres un breif fait faire./ Le rei de Grece salua/ E ces paroles li manda: . . . .”

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church hierarchies,29 and his text thus presents learning as a means to establish power relations.30 Another example, this time a defence of freedom rather than a plea for it, is the exchange of letters between the Roman emperor Julius Caesar and the Briton king Cassibellan. The differences in quality between the two potentates’ letters, in Mannyng’s chronicle, are most telling. Caesar first states his intention of summoning his prospective British subjects by letter (“Bi lettre wille þam first somoune,” RM I:4201). The letter itself, in which he demands to be paid tribute, is treated minimally and rendered in indirect speech by Mannyng:31 þan did Iulius write a brefe & schewed þam how he was chefe, & how his kynde first it wan, of Eneas com Brutus, þat man, & siþen was Belyns heritage. He wild it wyn or take treuage. (RM I:4209-14)

In Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle, the presentation of the Roman emperor’s message is more elaborate and more dramatic, containing not only Caesar’s claim that “alle oþere kinges” have surrendered into “noble seruage” and pay him tribute, but also concrete threats of destruction and bloodshed: Þat þe king abude is herte to þe noble stude of rome As alle oþere kinges dude & is noble seruage Dude to þe heye emperour & sende him is truage & his lond huld of him & dude him omage Laste þe heie emperour vor is outrage Come & destruede al is lond & ‫܌‬ut þat worse were Þe blod schedde of his owe kunde & defoulede so þere & þe olde heinesse of priamus worrede so 29

See Taylor, English Historical Literature, 5: “University influence was increasingly powerful within the hierarchy of the Church where university-trained bishops often assisted the careers of graduates.” 30 See Stock, “Medieval Literacy,” 16: “By and large, reflections on literacy and nonliteracy were from the outset made exclusively by literati. The terms of reference for the discussion were overtly biased in favor of the written exchange.” 31 Mannyng expands Wace’s version by only two lines: “Dunc fist ses briefs faire e porter/ A Cassibellan ultre mer,/ Si manda que de lui tenist/ E as Romains treü rendist” (Wace 3895-98).

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Chapter Three Of was kunde hii come echone & þat were him loþ to do Vor þer ne scholde in al þe world no lond be uer bore . . . . (RG 1058-67)

However, Caesar’s message is not presented as a letter here. Rather, it is brought, as in Robert of Gloucester’s source Geoffrey of Monmouth (iv:1), to Cassibellan through messengers: “Þe emperours messagers to engelonde come” (RG 1057). In contrast to the minimal weight attributed to Caesar’s message (indirect speech for the letter, messengers instead of a letter), Cassibellan’s reply is presented as a long and passionate letter in direct speech by Robert Mannyng (4223-78), his source Wace (3900-60), Robert of Gloucester (1069-92) and his source Geoffrey of Monmouth (iv:2). In all four versions, it is a fervent defence of freedom. Of particular interest to this study are Robert of Gloucester’s and Robert Mannyng’s lengthy passages, in which the pair writing/speaking as well as different ways of addressing the opponent are foregrounded. Both start their letters with the claim found in Geoffrey of Monmouth (iv:2), that Caesar should leave the islanddwellers at the world’s end alone: “Þat beþ here bi vs sulue at þe worles ende” (RG 1076) and “we þat ere at þe wordes ende,/ in an ilde lif & lende,/ ‫܌‬it wille ‫܌‬e nouht passe vs forbi” (RM I:4235-37). This claim to unimportance is captivating in its two-sidedness. On one hand, Cassibellan takes a passive (feminine?) stance vis-à-vis the potential conqueror in asserting to be unattractive; a claim that may deflect the (masculine?) conqueror’s attention but still leaves the land vanquishable. On the other hand, the written text in form of a letter is clearly presented as having the power to mark the space of the senders as theirs (“we that are here”), thus forestalling the perception of the land as “a cultural blank on which the conqueror [can] inscribe his own history.”32 This marking of space is underlined by the clear gap that is established between the “here” of the sender and the “there” of the recipient that must not be crossed by either. It can, however, be bridged by the letter, as is suggested by Caesar’s first statement concerning his own letter as presented by Mannyng: “Bi lettre wille þam first somoune . . . noht ne wille passe þe see/ tille I witte how þei ansuere me” (RM I:4201-04). The letter’s journey here precedes and is expected to make unnecessary, the conqueror’s crossing of the sea. 32

Margaret Bridges, “Premodern as Postmodern? On the Preposterous Representation of Gender in Mandeville’s Orient.” Geschlechterdifferenz und Macht: Reflexion gesellschaftlicher Prozesse, ed. Stefanie Brander, Rainer J. Schweizer, and Beat Sitter-Liver (Freiburg i.Üe.: Universitätsverlag, 1999), 307.

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Cassibellan’s answering letter, in both Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s versions, reads like a passionate speech in which the challenged freedom of his people is presented as their natural and therefore rightful state. In Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle, the central arguments of the letter are presented in direct speech: To bringe us so fre as we beþ In to so gret seruage Þat we bere þe & þine eueremo truage ... Siker þou be we ne conne no‫܌‬t of þralhede ne of wo So muche we abbeþ euere ibe in franchise ‫܌‬ut her to Þat þei vr owe god vs wolde in þralhede do . . . . (RG 1079-1088)

Mannyng presents the same arguments in even more lines: Euer ‫܌‬it haf we lyued fre in þis lond, bot now for þe, & we suld life also freli ... þat suilk vilany in þe now lis, in seruage to putte vs to; & we wote nouht how we salle do, ne neuer lerid ne nought wille lere, if þat we may, in no manere. Of alle our kynde, I wist no man þat couth of seruise ne ‫܌‬it kan; ne we ne knawe on what wyse we suld serue seruage seruyse. Fre we ere, so salle we be, if god wille, Cesar, for þe. (RM I:4245-70)

The diction of both versions clearly suggests that Caesar’s impending invasion threatens to obliterate a primeval state of freedom (“so fre as we beþ,” RG 1079; “Euer ‫܌‬it haf we lyued fre,” RM I:4245). However, Mannyng argues, this state of freedom cannot be altered even by force because this people neither knows “seruise” nor is it able to learn about it (“þat couth of seruise ne ‫܌‬it kan;/ ne we ne knawe on what wyse/ we suld serue seruage seruyse,” RM I:4266-67). The letter, at the same time as transporting such elaborate reflections on freedom across the gap between sender and recipient, is also able to transport a fervency and passion that evokes the immediacy of a publicly rendered speech. This performative

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power of the letter is underlined by Cassibellan’s final, angry answer to Caesar as presented by Robert Mannyng: Witte þou wele be our ansuere, tille we may ourseluen were & fend our lond & our franchise of vs getis þou neuer seruise ne treuage, I gyf þe a gyue. (RM I:4271-75)

Robert of Gloucester’s version reads: Wite to soþe þat we wulleþ vor oure franchise fi‫܌‬te & vor oure lond raþer þan we lese it wiþ vnri‫܌‬te (RG 1091-92).

In both accounts, the written text thus has the power not just to reflect the spoken word but also to originate a speech not previously held. It is no coincidence that it does so for Cassibellan’s words while what remains of Caesar’s spoken words is a mere reflection of them (in the letter’s indirect speech, and in the messengers’ words, respectively). Rather, this is a consciously employed strategy of imparity. This imparity is established by attributing the written text’s performative power to originate a speech to one and not to the other potentate. While the accounts of this exchange of letters in Robert of Gloucester’s and Robert Mannyng’s chronicles (and in fact also in their sources) are very similar, they differ in Cassibellan’s address to Caesar. Robert of Gloucester, it seems at first sight, has Cassibellan address the Roman emperor with the respectful words due to a powerful leader: “sire emperour of þi noble gentrise/ Þat is so noble anerþe iwolt wiþ so vil coueitise” (RG 1071-72). However, the nobility ascribed to Caesar here is contrasted later in the passage to his vile plans and hence called into question, and the opening words thus only imitate the standard respectful greeting. Mannyng, by contrast, follows Wace who points out that Cassibellan is too enraged to greet his opponent in writing (“Unches saluz n’i vult escrire,” 3901) and formulates a very direct and rather discourteous address: “Cesar,” he said, “we haf meruaile & gre disdeyn witouthen faile, þat of ‫܌‬ow Romeyns rennes suilk los

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& long it lastes & fer it gos, þat ere of so grete couetise . . . .” (RM I:4223-27)

Thus, both historiographers, despite the different strategies they adopt to represent Cassibellan’s aversion for Caesar, ascribe the written text in the form of a letter the power to establish and to undermine power relations between potentates. One last example in Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles in which freedom is queried by one party and defended by the other in and through letters is the communication between the Roman emperor Lucius and King Arthur.33 The exchange of letters is opened by twelve messengers bringing a letter by Lucius to Arthur.34 The long letter (similarly to Brutus’ letter discussed above) evokes the illusion of Lucius holding a speech at Arthur’s court. In it, he presents the reasons why Arthur should submit to him (“Vor þine auncetres hit dude al þat we þe hoteþ do,” RG 3998; “Oure ancessoure, Iulius Cesar,/ wan Bretayn, ert þou not war,/ & toke treuage þerof long,” RM I:11,255-57) and concludes with an outright threat should Arthur not agree. In Mannyng’s version, this threat reads as follows: & þou salle not tapise a nyght to slepe þat I salle do þe stirte & lepe, & bring þe to Rome in bandes, & leue þe in þe Romeyn handes. (RM I:11,287-90)

Robert of Gloucester’s version of the threat is: & bote þou do of one þinge nym wel god ‫܌‬eme Þat icholle þe mi sulf seche out & þoru suerd restore Al þat þi reuerye vs aþ binome & more (RG 4008-10).

33

King Arthur also sends a letter (or letters, in Wace’s version, 9145) to his cousin Ohel, king of Britanny, asking him for help in defending the land of their common forefathers: “bi letter his nedes gan him mone/ & praied him of help a stounde” (RM I:9747-48). 34 RM I:11,212-14: “‘Bi vs he sendes þis letter here/ & þe comandes on alle weies/ þou do als þis letter seis;’” “A lettre hii toke þe kinge þat þo he hit let rede/ Fram þe senatour of rome hii come & þus sede” (RG 3987-88).

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The first reaction of the courtiers to this “lettre of vilanie” (RM I:11,294) is to demand the messengers to be hanged. Faced with such a menace in form of a letter, Arthur then announces that he will write another letter in answer to Lucius’ request. This declaration of intention to write a letter, again, is only found in Mannyng’s account: Trewe þei ask, so haf þei had; þat is behynd, send þam þei bad, of þis lond & oþer mo; & France wille not forgo, for Bretayn wille first ansuere, writen in letter, þat þei salle here; ansuere for ‫܌‬ow & me wille I þat þis lettre be. Þus wille I say & þus write, my skille listens me a lite: . . . . (RM I:11,401-10)

This is followed by a long speech by Arthur in both Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s accounts. In this speech, the Briton king not only presents his arguments against the Roman emperor’s claims, but also sets up his own claim to overlordship of Rome: & force, ‫܌‬e wote wele, is no right, bot pride out of mesure myght. It is no skille, ne lawe non makes þing þat þou þorgh force takes, ... I wille set chalange on Rome, & with þer skille I may wele þe lond of Rome ask ilk dele. [Belyn & Brenne] Rome conquered here biforn (RM I:11,415-42). Vor Iuli & oþere emperours hii seggeþ come þer to Þat emperours were of rome ich may segge al so Þat min auncetres of þe lond wule wonne rome As bely þe noble king þat ‫܌‬e abbeþ yhurd ylome & constantin eleyne sone ‫܌‬e witeþ wel rome nom & suþþe maximian þat of hor beyre blod ich com (RG 4045-50).

In Mannyng’s chronicle the speech starts with “listens me” and triggers a discussion after Arthur’s last words: “Whan Arthur had said his reson,/

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wele was alowed with ilk Breton;/ with o worde þei said alle at ons” (RM I:11,497-99). In Robert of Gloucester’s version, Arthur, after his speech, summarises his words to the messengers he then sends to Lucius (“þe king sede to þe messagers þat hii þe senatour sede/ Þat he wolde to rome come ac no truage him to lede/ Ac vorto conquery of hom,” RG 4113-15). While Robert of Gloucester, at this stage, ends the communication between Lucius and Arthur, Mannyng inserts yet another letter (called “charter”). Mannyng’s comment about the document’s reception in Rome makes clear that the speech presented by Arthur earlier must have been put into writing: Þe chartere þei schewed þer barons & said, “Suilk ere Arthure respons.” Whan þe Romeyns had wele herd how þe messengers ansuerd, & þer chartre acorded wele vnto þer saw ilka dele, þat Arthure wild no seruise do, bot haf treuage, þe letter wild so. (RM I:11,651-58)

This is hence an example of a speech (given earlier in the account) standing in for a letter, the wording of which is never as such represented. It is the opposite of what I discussed above for the letters of Brutus and Lucius, which have the performative power to originate a speech, i.e. represent words that are not (in the chronicles) rendered beforehand.35 The effect in both cases, however, is the same. The written text is evoked not merely as a reflection of the spoken word, which would make it secondary and inferior, but as being interchangeable and on a par with it. The written text, thus established as powerful and potentially empowering is in turn a reflection of the power the historiographers envisage they have through their writing.

35 See Ong’s comment on the new possibilities of a literate culture: “One can compose in writing, put together on a writing surface utterances with no independent oral existence. To be fully at home in such a culture, one needs to be able to read. Orality and textuality now interplay vigorously in the language.” Ong, “Orality, Literacy, and Medieval Textualization,” 6.

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Robert Mannyng’s emphasis on letters of liberation The three examples of empowering letters discussed in the previous section quite clearly show that Robert Mannyng puts more emphasis on the empowering written text (in the form of a letter) than do his sources and his contemporary Robert of Gloucester. The numerous additional examples in his chronicle in which letters are envisaged as having the power to liberate enslaved peoples or to preserve their present state of freedom, are, in fact, either his additions to the accounts of his sources or his (often extensive) elaborations. For example, he has the Cornish earl Asclepiodotus36 write a letter to the Bretons asking them for support against the Romans (RM I:5958-59), where Wace only has an orally transmitted message being sent out to the barons.37 Robert of Gloucester, while he has a more detailed account of the death of the Roman general Gallus for which he follows his source Geoffrey of Monmouth, does not even mention a call for support at this stage (RG 1790-1804). Letters, and letter writing as acts of liberation, according to Mannyng, are not only involved in episodes concerning the freedom of a whole people, but also in episodes in which an individual craves liberty. Such is the case in the rare instance from early Briton history in which the sender of the letter is a woman: King Brenne’s unnamed queen writes a letter to the Danish king Guthlac, whom she has been in love with for a long time, asking him to come and rescue her from her unhappy marriage (RM I:2907-12). The letter is again an addition of Mannyng’s; Wace merely has her send word to Guthlac (Wace 2446). Robert of Gloucester, who follows his source Geoffrey (III:2) does not assign the queen such an active role and instead has Guthlac attack on his own account (RG App. G: 104-10). In Mannyng’s account the letter (which is another example of a text speaking for its sender: “letter þat þus spake,” RM I:2906), manages to move Guthlac to come and fight Brenne in a naval battle and capture the ship on which the lady is waiting. However, while leading to the liberation of the queen, the letter ultimately brings about the enslavement of her lover in that he, having been taken captive by Brenne’s brother Belin, is freed only under the condition that he accepts Belin’s overlordship of Denmark.

36

The styling of the Roman prefect Julius Asclepiodotus as earl of Cornwall and later Briton king seems to go back to Geoffrey of Monmouth v:4. 37 Wace 5521-22: “As baruns fist dire e preier/ Qu’il li viengent al siege aider.”

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In a much later episode, found in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle but not in Robert of Gloucester’s,38 King Richard I, on his way to the Holy Land, learns that his brother-in-law William II of Sicily has died. He also learns that as a consequence, Earl Tancred has had himself crowned and has put the widowed Joan, Richard’s sister, in prison. Pierre de Langtoft has Richard simply ask Tancred (perhaps in person; both Langtoft and Mannyng describe Richard’s landing in Messina) to deliver his sister in friendship (“Ad ray de Cecille ad Richard prié/ Delivrer ly sa soer Jone en amysté,” Pierre de Langtoft 2:42). Mannyng however again introduces a letter. It is characterised as “hard,” and partly rendered in direct speech, thereby adding to the urgency of Richard’s threat in case Tancred should not consent: Thre days in þat cite duellid Kyng Richard; to þe kyng of Tancre he sent his letter hard to deliuer his sister Ion out of his prison. Men mad tille him grete mone, it was without reson. “Bot he deliuer hir me with luf at my praiere, þat tyme salle he se, scho salle be bought fulle dere!” (RM II:3707-12)

Only a little later, still on his way to Jerusalem, King Richard is forced to write yet another such letter. In this episode, which is related by both Robert Mannyng and Robert of Gloucester, some of Richard’s men have fallen captive to Isaac Komnenos of Cyprus. Robert of Gloucester mentions the capture of “king richardes folc,” follows it immediately with the battle between Richard and “þe prince of þe lond” (RG 9950-51) and comments dryly “þe bataile was sone ido & þe prince ouercome” (RG 9957). Mannyng, by contrast, elaborates on yet another letter that is only fleetingly mentioned by his source Pierre Langtoft: “[Richard] al rays Ysake devotement escrit” (Pierre de Langtoft 2:54). Mannyng’s account is already much more detailed in that it relates the names of the three messengers who take the letter to King Isaac. The letter itself is presented in direct speech and thus becomes a moving plea by Richard, in which he invokes the sanctity of his journey as a pilgrimage to the Holy Land:

38 Robert of Gloucester perhaps follows Roger of Hoveden and Roger of Wendover here, who do not relate these events. See Wright, preface to Metrical Chronicle, xxx.

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Chapter Three Whan Kyng Richard herd of þat mischuos tide & how his schippis misferd, he turned vnto þat tide; tille Isaac lettres sent bi Roberd of Thornham, Sir Steuen with him went, anoþer knyght, William. “Praie him for god aboue als I am his pilgrime, ‫܌‬eld it me with loue þat he holdes of myne, my godes þat he has þare, my men deliuere of bond, & destorbe not our fare, we salle to þe Holy Lond; & if he wille nought deliuer me my þing, fulle dere it salle be bouht, bi Ihesu heuen kyng.” (RM II:3907-16)

It is also the sanctity of this journey that enables Richard to put pressure on Isaac in the name of God (“if he wille nought deliuer . . . fulle dere it salle be bought, bi Ihesu heuen kyng”). The letter is thus here conceived of as potentially moving the recipient, as it contains sacred acts and references to the divine and is of course more impressive and powerful than Langtoft’s laconic remark “Richard devotedly wrote a letter to king Isaac.” It should not be left unmentioned that Mannyng not only ascribes such liberating letters to (subjectively defined) good causes as is the case for the examples discussed so far, but that he also presents them as instruments of villainy and treachery. Vortigern, liberated by Vortimer’s death and crowned king again, sends for Hengest by letter in Mannyng’s account (RM I:7694) whereas Mannyng’s source Wace, and his near-contemporary Robert of Gloucester only have Vortigern send for Hengest by unspecified means (“Pur Henguist, sun suegre, enveia,” Wace 7190; “after hengist he sende,” RG 2627). Mannyng also adds a letter to the account of the attempted murder of Prince Edward (later to become Edward I “Longshanks”) while on crusade.39 The Muslim Sultan sends out one of the famous assassins of “Haut Assise:”40

39

Robert of Gloucester, whose chronicle ends at the death of King Henry III in both recensions, does not relate these events. 40 The so-called assassins were a sect founded in the late eleventh century. Their religious and political centre was Mount Alamut in the Elburs Mountains (today’s Iran), their most infamous leader Rashid ad-Din, known as “the Old Man of the Mountain” (1183-1193). Their Latin name derives from their alleged consumation of hashish. The modern word “assassin” derives from their political murders: M. C. Lyons and W. Meyer, “Assassinen,” in Lexikon Des Mittelalters, vol. 1 (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1977-1999), cols. 1118-19.

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Ther es a stede of wynne, þei calle it Haut Assise, men norise childre þer inne on merveilous wise, euer in ioy & blisse in alle þat þei may do, þei wene it salle neuer misse ne oþer dede com to; þei faire right als dos foles, þei do as men þam say, þe childir of þo scoles, þei þink to lyue ay. Þe soudan of þo in cloþes of gold him clad, tille Edward suld he go & do as þe soudan bad. A letter þis fole tok, bad him for nessh or hard, þeron suld no man loke bot only Sir Edward. Envenomed knyfe he bare also priuely ... He said he wild speke with þe kyng priuely, conseile non to breke no telle it alle on hii. Sir Edward granted wele, tille his chambre him brouht; of treson neuer a dele no þing þeron he þouht. Þe letter in his hand laid, enselid & in silke bounde, þe envenomed knyfe out braid & gaf Edward a wounde. (RM II: 5601-24)

The assassin is sent to Edward with a letter and a poisoned knife. The letter here serves as pretence for the murderer to approach the king and perhaps to hide the murder weapon. The letter of liberation and the murder as the intended act of liberation are closely connected; the separate movements of putting the letter in Edward’s hand and pulling out the knife appear to be almost one, an impression that is underlined by the rhymed pair “laid-braid.” By contrast, there is no letter involved in Pierre de Langtoft’s version of the same story. Rather, the boy asks to see Edward privately in order to reveal unspecified secrets (“Sir, le soldan te salue cum amye,/ “Soul à soul en chaumbre saunz altre compayne/ “Te moustray privetez,” Pierre de Langtoft 2:156-58). Once again, Mannyng thus foregrounds the liberating power of letters when he builds one into the account of how the Sultan tries to liberate his realm and people from pillaging crusaders by the attempted assassination of Edward. In Mannyng’s chronicle, however, the liberating letters written by traitors usually turn against the traitor. The written text’s power to prove the truth is here expanded to a power to effect truth and the letter liberates the deceived and endangered “good” party instead. Such is the case in another episode about Richard I and the French king Philipp II related by Mannyng and his source Pierre de Langtoft (2:48-50), but neither are

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found in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle nor in his sources.41 Richard’s new friend Tancred of Sicily shows him a letter which he has received from King Philipp. He not only informs Richard about the letter, but also hands it over to him as a proof to be shown to Philipp should he deny having sent the letter: Bi Hugh of Burgoyn he sent a letter vnto me þat I suld or þou went be bitraied þorgh þe, & if werre or wo had risen vs bituen, þe & þine to slo, with me he suld haue bien. Þe soth þan schewes it þat my sawe is trewe Sir, haf here þis writ & schewe him alle newe; if he it geynsay, I wille proue it on him. ... & þhit þer owen writte þer dede dos certifie. Me þink in myn inwitte it semed traytorie. (RM II:3809-30)

Philipp’s letter, rather than liberating him, now serves as a proof for his treachery. It has turned against him and betrayed the traitor. Another traitor given away by the letters he had conceived of as liberating is Mordred in yet another episode to which Mannyng adds letters to the version of his source. While Wace relates Mordred’s betrayal of Arthur by his usurpation of the land in the king’s absence and by his marrying Queen Guinevere (Wace 13,010-53), Mannyng has the information brought to Arthur in letters: A day als he to mete went, out of þis lond lettres were sent; right als his trompes blewe, a messengere þat he wele knewe þe lettres in his hand laid, & tille him with mouth said þat Modrede, his sistir sonne, had don him grete tresonne (RM I:13,469-76).

The letters play a crucial role in this passage: They come from England together with the messenger who carries them and both together, the 41

For the life of King Richard I possibly Roger of Wendover, Roger of Hoveden, the Annals of Waverly, the Annals of Tewkesbury. Wright, preface to Metrical Chronicle, xxx.

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messenger and the letters, bring the bad news. The letters testify to the truth of the messenger’s elusive spoken words (“with mouth said”)— otherwise it would have sufficed to send just a messenger with an orally transmitted message. The letters are put in Arthur’s hand and become, again in contrast to the spoken words, a physically graspable form of the bad news. Mannyng clearly puts much greater emphasis on the liberating power of the written text in the form of a letter than do his sources or his nearcontemporary Robert of Gloucester. This becomes obvious when he significantly elaborates on short references to letters found in his sources or adds letters to the accounts. However, this is not the case for other types of letters which Mannyng mentions, such as those which are presented as establishing and confirming bounds between potentates and their retainers. These are found, in similar length and detail, in his sources as well as in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle: Androcheus’ letter sent to Caesar assuring him of his support should the Roman emperor endeavour to conquer Britain,42 the treacherous Duke Edrik’s letter to King Olaf of Norway assuring him of his support against King Ethelred “the Unready,”43 Robert Curthose’s letters defying his brother King Henry I,44 and Empress Matilda’s letters to potential supporters throughout England after the death of her father Henry I.45 Mannyng thus solely expands his sources references to letters (or adds letters to their accounts) in cases where letters are presented as liberating or truth-proving. This suggests that these features, to him, are what matters most in letters. Perhaps he hereby suggests that these features are what matters most in any kind of written text, including his own chronicle.

42

Geoffrey of Monmouth iv:viii; RG 1246-66; Wace 4424-534; RM I:4804-911. RM II:954-55; Pierre de Langtoft 1:352. Robert of Gloucester mentions Edrik only at a later stage, during the reign of Edmund, and does not mention any letters involved in his constant treachery. RG 6188, 6330, 6372. 44 RM II:2352-57; Pierre de Langtoft 1:452; Robert of Gloucester does not mention any letters in the conflict between Robert and Henry. RG 8752-800. 45 RM II:2900-11; Pierre d Langtoft 1:484. Robert of Gloucester does not mention any letters written or sent by Matilda. Also see Saladin’s peace proposal to Richard and Philipp RM II:4569-79; Pierre de Langtoft 2:93. 43

CHAPTER FOUR NEGOTIATING AUTHORITY

In this fourth chapter, I turn to the strategies of authorising history that are concerned with establishing the historiographer’s authority vis-à-vis the authority of his sources. Following Hayden White’s categorisation of the different types of authority, the sources can be divided into the auctores that are invested with authority by their Latinitas on the one hand and the immediate predecessors that are invested with authority by their perceived comprehensiveness (in the sense of up-to-dateness) on the other.1 The textual evocation of and elaboration on these sources’ authority can be employed in two ways by the historiographers. Firstly, an affirmation of the sources’ authority (presenting them as reliable and truthful) can be used to establish the historiographer’s own authority in terms of similarity. Secondly, an undermining of the sources’ authority (presenting them as wanting) can be used to establish the historiographer’s own authority in terms of difference. Unlike other genres, with historiography such establishment of authority is also closely connected to the means by which the historiographers seek to support their truth claim. Firstly, they can claim to be an eyewitness of the events, or, alternatively, present their source as being an eyewitness account. Isidore of Seville’s definition of history as based exclusively on eyewitness accounts clearly shows how much value and authority was attributed to these.2 Secondly, historiographers can claim that their accounts are based on reliable sources and therefore they need to establish the reliability of those sources by their own careful evaluation. Then, thirdly, the presentation of this evaluation process guarantees the reliability of the work. Fourthly, subsequent to such an evaluation, historiographers can choose to reproach those authors who

1

White, “The Value of Narrativity,” 19. His taxonomy discerns the authority of 1) the patron, 2) the auctores, 3) the immediate predecessors and 4) God. 2 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 198; see also Curtius’ summary of Isidore’s literary theories: Curtius, European Literature, 450-57.

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have impaired the veracity of their own sources by altering them and, in so doing, present themselves as rendering the reliable sources truthfully.3 The only historiographer of the corpus to present his evaluation process is, not surprisingly, Robert Mannyng. I will discuss the ways in which he negotiates authority by doing so in the first part of this chapter. In the second part, I will concentrate on the ways in which authority is established by affirming, appropriating and sometimes undermining the authority of the sources. In addition to analysing explicit references to source texts, I will explore the interpretative possibilities opened by A. C. Spearing’s concept of “textual subjectivity.” It makes a difference, I will argue, whether a reference to a source book is preceded by a personal deictic such as “my” or not. The third part of this chapter will take up again, from the different angle of authorising strategies, the representation of books as empowering. In this case, books are represented as enabling the historiographer to control future generations of historiographers. In addition, authoritative sources are presented as “speaking books” which act authoritatively or enter into a dialogue with the historiographer. While the historiographers may envisage their own text as an authoritative text of the future, they seek to undermine the authority thus imposed on them by their own sources. Next, I will discuss how the expression of doubts about, or the overall rejection of, certain episodes from the sources is a strategy of claiming authority. The truth claim is again central here. Chris GivenWilson points out that, in contrast to the modern use of the term, “truth” in medieval historiography was often understood as “accuracy” or “trustworthiness.”4 However, even within such a reduced semantic field, the historiographers of this corpus, in view of some of the more fantastic events and characters contained in their sources, apparently found it difficult to maintain their truth claim. The alleged immortality of King Arthur, the magical powers of Caesar’s sword, the existence of giants and dragons and, arguably, the miracles attributed to saints were the challenges a medieval historiographer had to meet. Especially saints’ miracles have often been cited by modern scholars as examples for the fact that there are clearly “cognitive dissonances” between what medieval people were willing to accept as historical and what we consider historical.5 Since

3

Strohm, “Storie;” Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 6. Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 1. 5 Otter, “Functions of Fiction,” 113. See also Zumthor’s claim that “marvels” (which he takes to be “any narrative phrase implying a break in the chain of “real” 4

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saints’ miracles generally “made things more, not less, credible” and because romance was such an important influence on historiography, it is naturally difficult to determine the limits of what medieval people were capable and willing to believe.6 As Lister Matheson points out: It would be perverse to suggest that medieval man was so gullible as to accept uncritically every romance as historically true, no matter what its author called it, but it is clear that many romances were accepted as historical, and that some so-called romances might be better considered as 7 chronicles or biographies instead.

However, as Given-Wilson states, “late medieval English chroniclers did not record a large number of preternatural events in their chronicles.”8 When they did, they had the choice to catalogue the phenomenon as precisely as possible, noting date, time, and circumstances of the event in order to enable future historians to judge their significance,9 or (and this will be discussed in more detail below) they could take up a critical stance and distance themselves from their sources.

Robert Mannyng’s evaluation of his sources An overt strategy of authorising a historical work is the inscription into the work of the processes involved in its creation. For example, the historiographer can present his search for his sources and his subsequent evaluation of them. Finally, as is done only in a few cases, he can also criticise them. La‫܌‬amon’s proem is a good example of how the researching and writing of history, according to Kenneth Tiller, becomes a dynamic of domination:10 La‫܌‬amon gon liðen wide ‫܌‬ond þas leode, and biwon þa æðela boc þa he to bisne nom. He nom þa Englisca boc þa makede Seint Beda. Anoþer he nom on Latin þe makede Seinte Albin. causes or consequences”) form “one of the points at which medieval poetry most obstinately refuses to conform to our own criteria for judgment.” Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 101. 6 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 33. 7 Matheson, “King Arthur,” 263. 8 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 23. 9 Ibid., 32-33. 10 Tiller, Laвamon’s Brut, 97-126.

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Chapter Four and þe feire Austin pe fulluht broute hider in. Boc he nom þe þridde; leide þer amidden, þa makede a Frenchis clerc, Wace wes ihoten, þe wel couþe writen; and he hoe ‫܌‬ef þare æðelen Ælienor þe wes Henries quene þes he‫܌‬es kinges. La‫܌‬amon leide þeos boc; & þa leaf wende; he heom leofliche biheold - liþe him beo Drihten! (La‫܌‬amon’s Brut, proem 15-25)

La‫܌‬amon here presents himself as a conscientious historiographer who does not shy away from travelling in order to obtain three excellent (“æðela”) books. Having travelled “far and wide” however, one would assume that he came across more than just three books. His words thus imply that he is qualified to choose and able to distinguish excellent books from among others. When La‫܌‬amon states that Wace “wel couþe writen,” he is complimenting himself on his own ability to recognise Wace’s skill as much as he is complimenting Wace. The three books he chooses (or rather pretends to choose, since most of his work is in fact based on Wace, as is ascertained by Damian-Grint)11 are the anonymous Anglo-Saxon translation of Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica, Wace’s Roman de Brut and an additional book that remains mysterious.12 La‫܌‬amon next goes on to establish the authority of those books, connecting them with the authority of religion (Saint Bede, Augustine, the “cleric” Wace) as well as with the authority of such powerful secular patrons as Eleanor of Aquitaine. When he then evokes a picture of himself as opening the books, looking at them lovingly and turning the pages, he also claims to have exclusive access to them. Not only did he make the extraordinary effort of travelling widely in order to access the books; they are “now” lying in front of him, inaccessible for the time being, to anybody else. La‫܌‬amon next undermines the books’ authority: He does so firstly through his choice of vocabulary. Tiller has pointed out that the very prominent word inomen elsewhere in the work denotes military conquest and that the diction also suggests sexual desire and rape.13 Secondly, La‫܌‬amon also undermines the books’ authority through his claim that he is collating the three books into one. It is likely that it was understood that putting together three books into one 11

Damian-Grint, New Historians, 181. It has been suggested that it was a book containing material by Augustine of Hippo and Alcuin (who was commonly identified with Albin at the period). Tiller, Laвamon’s Brut, 97. 13 Ibid., 99-103. 12

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requires selection. The fact that La‫܌‬amon does not find it necessary to make the selection explicit, however, suggests that nothing is lost in the process, and that La‫܌‬amon is providing his audience with a shorter and better version of history. As discussed above, Robert Mannyng, at the beginning of his prologue also declares to have “found” history (“alle þe story of Inglande als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand,” RM I:4). This implies that he has undertaken research and has found source texts. These sources, the diction suggests, are not mere representations of history, they are history; the past itself is preserved in them. When Mannyng then discusses the different qualities and contents of his sources Wace (“One mayster Wace þe ffrankes,” RM I:57) and “Pers” (Pierre de Langtoft, RM I:56), he very quickly skips to and fro between them. One is prompted to picture him sitting at this desk with the two books lying in front of him and comparing them even as he introduces them to his audience: þes Inglis dedes ‫܌‬e may here as Pers telles alle þe manere. One mayster Wace þe ffrankes telles þe Brute, alle þat þe Latyn spelles ffro Eneas tille Cadwaladre. Þis mayster Wace þer leues he, and ryght as mayster Wace says, I telle myn Inglis þe same ways, ffor mayster Wace þe Latyn alle rymes þat Pers ouerhippis many tymes. Mayster Wace þe Brute alle redes, & Pers tellis alle þe Inglis dedes; þer Mayster Wace of þe Brute left, ryght begynnes Pers eft and tellis forth þe Inglis story, & as he says þan say I. (RM I:55-70)

In this manner, like La‫܌‬amon, Mannyng presents his sources as objects of his evaluation and editorial control. In contrast to La‫܌‬amon however, who clearly refers to all three books as the product of their authors (“þa Englisca boc þa makede Seint Beda;” “anoþer . . . þe makede Seinte Albin;” “þe þridde þa makede a Frenchis clerc”), Mannyng refers to the authors themselves (“mayster Wace þe Latyn alle rymes,” “Pers tellis alle þe Inglis dedes”) who stand metaphorically for their books as a result. Mannyng thus establishes his control over the books as well as, by extension, over their authors.

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When he thus introduces his main sources, Mannyng first mentions “Pers” without providing the full name of the historiographer whom he here mentions for the first time. He provides the complete name and affiliation only later in the prologue (“Than com out of Brydlyngton,/ Pers of Langtoft, a chanon,” RM I:187-88). Then, he turns to “mayster Wace the ffranke,” providing title and place of origin, and he repeats both name and title four times within the next seven lines. Mannyng takes over the title that Wace attributes to himself (“maistre,” the equivalent of the Latin magister) by which Wace points to his university education and authorisation to teach.14 When Mannyng thus introduces Pierre de Langtoft fleetingly and incompletely, while emphasising Wace’s name and title, he creates an obvious imbalance between his two sources. Indeed, Mannyng clearly states that Wace as a source outweighs Langtoft, since Wace’s translation of “þe Latyn” (a reference to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia as becomes clear later in the prologue) is a more detailed one. Langtoft, in turn, is criticised for skipping too much (“ouerhippis many tymes”)15 and Mannyng suggests that it is only at the point where Wace’s account ends that Langtoft’s work is of use as his main source (“þer Mayster Wace of þe Brute left,/ ryght begynnes Pers eft”). Mannyng—at least in his prologue, but not in the body of his work, as I will argue—confirms John Taylor’s observation that chroniclers, instead of constructing their own narratives “usually copied the most ‘authentic’ source [they] could find.”16 Translation is another central issue in the passage above. Mannyng twice declares that he intends to translate his sources faithfully: “and ryght as mayster Wace says,/ I telle myn Inglis þe same ways” [my emphasis] and “as he [Pers] says þan say I.” Sullens states that this obvious concern about fidelity to the works of other authors can be read as him “deploring the debasement of original texts by careless later speakers or writers,” i.e. with what I have termed Mannyng’s “anxiety of misrepresentation” in chapter one.17 It is certainly worth noticing here that Mannyng seems to be 14

Damian-Grint, New Historians, 18, 38. Sullens suggests that this judgement could actually have been taken over from Langtoft’s chronicle, since one of the extant Langtoft manuscripts (BL Royal MS 20. A. XI [B]), which may have been the one used by Mannyng, has the following scribal comment at the end of the first part: “Le livere mestre Wace counte plus parfit/ E dit tut la lettre qe Pers trop salit./ Pers par tut lessa meint bone respit/ Qe bon fust a lire e aver la delit.” Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 53. 16 Taylor, English Historical Literature, 47. 17 Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 53. 15

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more committed to a faithful (“ryght,” “þe same ways”) translation of “mayster” Wace’s work (whose own faithful translation of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia he appreciates), than to a faithful translation of Pierre de Langtoft’s chronicle, whom he criticises for skipping too many details. This implies that only those historiographers who honour the integrity of their sources by providing a translation which does not leave out any details, may expect similar treatment from later historiographers.18 While here Mannyng seemingly submits to the authority of his sources, he undermines their authority through this explicit evaluation as well as, more implicitly, through the moderately respectful treatment he subsequently grants them. In addition, while Mannyng himself translates from French, his comment about Wace’s faithful translations from Geoffrey’s Latin suggests that his knowledge of Latin is extensive enough for a thorough comparison of his sources with their own source, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia. Mannyng’s frequent comments “as the Latin says” are in fact evidence of his direct knowledge and use of the Historia.19 In this passage, Mannyng thus presents himself as a conscientious researcher who is willing and able to question his sources, and he claims authority for his own work by presenting it as the product of a process of careful selection, compilation, and evaluation, a process that has also taken into account texts other than his main sources. Later in his prologue, Mannyng presents a list of historiographers and places his own name at the end of it. In line with his historical protagonists for whom he outlines genealogies in the prologue and at the beginning of his historical narrative, he here presents his genealogy as a historiographer.20 The list begins with “Dares þe Freson” as the first historiographer to write about the Trojan wars. Mannyng asserts Dares’ trustworthiness by presenting him as an eyewitness (“When Troie was lorn, he sawe þat fight”) as well as someone well enough acquainted with the nobility perhaps even to have been personally involved (“Alle þe barons wele he knewe”). At any rate, Dares’ “knowing the barons well” enables him to give many details about their appearance which underline the reliability of his account: 18

For different concepts of translation see Machan, Textual Criticism, 114; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 21. Here, Damian-Grint states that “a purely linguistic concept of translation—a simple shift across languages, without any attendant concept of interpretation—is foreign to writers of vernacular literature in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.” 19 Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 53. 20 See figure 2 at the beginning of this book.

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Chapter Four Dares þe Freson of Troie first wrote & putt it in buke þat we now wote; he was a clerk & a gude knyght. When Troie was lorn, he sawe þat fight. Alle þe barons wele he knewe: he tellis þer stature & þer hewe, long or schorte, whyte or blak, alle he telles gude or lak. Alle þer lymmes how þai besemed, in his buke has Dares demed, both of Troie & of Grece, whatkyns schappe was ilka pece. Of manyon he reknes & sayes, both of Troiens & of Gregeis, þat it were oure long to telle; & many wald not þerin duelle þare names alle forto here, bot þe Latyn is fayre to lere. (RM I:145-62).

This early source recounts the events with which Mannyng begins his historical narrative and hence constitutes a first reference point for the veracity of his own work.21 Mannyng suggests that he (as do his contemporaries) knows Dares’ work himself (“buke þat we now wote”), and states that some parts are overly long and that the audience may not enjoy dwelling on the Trojans’ and Greeks’ names (“þat it were oure long to telle;/ & many wald not þerin duelle/ þare names alle forto here”). He thus implies that he will shorten his source’s account because he knows better what the audience likes or dislikes. The evocation of the authoritative work and its contents as unfixed is a strategy to undermine the work’s authority.22 Mannyng pursues this strategy further when he benevolently adds, “bot þe Latyn is fayre to lere.” With this comment, he casually hints at his ability to judge and appreciate the quality of the language. When he then, finally, makes a qualitative statement about Dares (“he was . . . a gude knyght”), it becomes obvious that, with all his comments about this 21

Damian-Grint states that the status attributed to eyewitness accounts resulted in Dares’ work being regarded as superior to the Illiad because, by contrast to Dares, Homer lived centuries after the events he describes. Damian-Grint, New Historians, 71. 22 Similarly, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s references to Gildas’ work, despite his modesty topos, serve not only to shorten his account but to establish his own authority. Geoffrey of Monmouth iv:20 and vi:13.

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source, Mannyng assumes a position from which he assesses and somewhat patronizingly approves of the other author. In so doing, he imposes his own authority upon that of his source. The next authoritative source that Mannyng discusses in his prologue is the work by “Geffrey Arthure of Minumue.” Apart from a few notable exceptions such as William of Newburgh’s fervent criticism,23 the authority of Geoffrey’s Historia remained unquestioned for most of the Middle Ages. Until well beyond the Middle Ages, as Robert W. Hanning points out, “British history was Geoffrey’s Historia.”24 Despite its fantastic touches, it was considered “a genuine historical account of British history,” and hence served as a source for many historical works.25 Given-Wilson points out: Thus did Geoffrey of Monmouth’s history in Britain’s first two millennia enter the collective historical memory of the English people in the midtwelfth century, there to remain for the rest of the middle ages. How many of them genuinely believed that the “matter of Britain” (as it came to be known) conformed to historical fact is, in the end, unknowable; what is incontestable is that it continued to be cited, repeated, and embellished as if it were historical fact. This is not as surprising as it might seem. There was, after all, no alternative version of early British history. More importantly, however, the Historia Regum Britannie conformed to a generallyperceived plausibility as to the genesis of nations and the history of the 26 world.

Mannyng’s frequent references to the Historia throughout his chronicle, most simply as “the Latyn” (the Latinitas here underlining its recognised truthfulness),27 suggest that he, similarly, does not, perhaps dares not, overtly question it. While he explicitly distances himself from some of the 23

William of Newburgh, William of Newburgh. The History of English Affairs, ed. P. G. Walsh and M. J. Kennedy (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1988), 29. On William’s attack on Geoffrey’s work as political propaganda and for a concise summary of other critical voices see Antonia Gransden, “Bede’s Reputation as an Historian in Medieval England,” in Legends, Traditions and History in Medieval England (London and Rio Grande: The Hambledon Press, 1992); Patterson, “The Historiography of Romance,” 4, footnote 8. 24 Robert W. Hanning, The Vision of History in Early Britain: From Gildas to Geoffrey of Monmouth (New York: Columbia University Press, 1966), 174. 25 Matheson, “King Arthur,” 249; Antonia Grandsen, “Bede’s Reputation.” 26 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 6-7. 27 For example: “þe Latyn sais þe temple flamyns” (RM I:5664). See also: RM I:58, 5694, 5757, 14,383, etc.

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more fantastic elements such as Arthur’s immortality, giants and dragons at later stages in his chronicle, he does not do so in his introduction. Instead, relating Geoffrey’s account of his translation of the mysterious “ancient book in Breton language” into Latin, Mannyng foregrounds translation as a central linking element in the transmission of historical knowledge: Geffrey Arthure of Minumue fro Breton speche he did remue & made it alle in Latyn þat clerkes haf now knawing in. In Gloucestere was fonden a buke þat þe Inglis couthe not rede no luke. On þat langage þai knew no herde, bot an erle þat hyght Roberde, he prayed þat ilk clerk Geffrey to turne it fro þat speche away in to Latyn as it mente þat þe Inglis mot know þe entente, ffor Geffrey knew þe langage wele, in Latyn he broght it ilka dele. (RM I:163-76)

A comparison of this passage to Mannyng’s comment about his own translation from the French of his main sources into English and specifically into “light ryme,” (RM I:71-80) makes obvious that Mannyng models his self-presentation as a translator on none other than Geoffrey of Monmouth. Like Geoffrey, who was asked by Earl Robert of Gloucester (Empress Matilda’s half-brother) to translate the book from Breton into Latin so that the English can understand it, Mannyng claims to have been asked many times to translate his work into simple language so that “symple men” can understand it (“men besoght me many a tyme/ to turne it bot in light ryme,” RM I:117-18; “bot for þe luf of symple men/ þat strange Inglis can not ken,” RM I:77-78). Like Geoffrey, Mannyng knows the language of his sources well (that is true for French as well as for “strange Inglis,” as I have argued above), and is able to translate the texts into a language which his contemporaries can understand. In addition, Mannyng, in this passage, also reflects on historical language change. While Geoffrey claims to have translated the book from Welsh into Latin so that the English can understand it, Latin is “now” (i.e. in Mannyng’s own time) a language exclusive to clerks (“þat clerkes haf now knawing in”). Mannyng, himself a member of the exclusive minority who knows Latin, accordingly translates his French sources into English so that the

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English can understand them. Once again, he presents himself as trilingual and thus qualified to mediate between otherwise inaccessible texts and his Anglophone audience. While Mannyng in the passage above does not attempt to undermine the authority of Geoffrey he at least attempts to measure up to it. Mannyng continues the presentation of his authorial lineage with the first of his two main sources, Wace: Siþen com a clerk, Mayster Wace, to make romance had he grace, & turned it fro Latyne & rymed it in Frankis fyne vnto þe Cadwaladres, no forer: þer makes he ses. Als Geffrey in Latyn sayd, so Mayster Wace in Frankis layd. Þe date of criste was þan þis lyue, a thousand ‫܌‬ere fifty & fyue. (RM I:177-86)

That Mannyng appreciates Wace’s work becomes clear in the earlier passage in the prologue, I discussed above. In this second passage now, Mannyng does not criticise the content or language of Wace’s work as he did for Dares (“to make romance had he grace,/ & turned it fro Latyne/ & rymed it in Frankis fyne”)28 but he nevertheless finds the source wanting: “vnto Cadwaladres,/ no forer: þer makes he ses.” This reference to the limited temporal range of Wace’s work reads as a reproach, in particular when read alongside Mannyng’s repeated claim to relate “alle þe story of Inglande” (RM I:3,140, my emphasis) or his promise not merely to relate the history from Noah to Aeneas (and beyond) but to also fill the gaps between them (“& what betwix þam was,” RM I:26).29 28

“Romance” here clearly refers to the French language which is contrasted to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Latin. Sullens states that “the different meanings intended by the word “romance” evidently did not trouble RMB . . . . In the second part of his Chronicle [Ch2], RMB frequently refers to one or another work as ‘the romance,’ indicating that it is a specific work (unnamed) used as a source . . . . In his epilogue to Ch1, RMB explicitly states that ‘Frankis spech is cald romance’ (15,917).” Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 696, notes to lines 177-78. 29 A promise he does not keep, since he ends his own historical account a full thirty one years before his own time, as discussed in above. Line 140, in slight variation to line 3, in fact reads: “when I wrote alle þis story” (my emphasis).

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Next, Mannyng turns to the last name on this list of sources, “Pers of Langtoft:” Than com out of Brydlyngton, Pers of Langtoft, a chanon, Als Mayster Wace þe same he says, bot he rymed it oþer ways. He begynnes at Eneas: of alle þe Brute he tellis þe pas, & spen alle þe Inglis dedis; feyrere langage non ne redis. After þe Inglis kynges, he says þer pris þat alle in metir fulle wele lys. (RM I:187-96)

Mannyng explains that Langtoft follows Wace but uses “different rhyme” (“Als Mayster Wace þe same he says/ bot he rymed in oþer ways”). The fact that Langtoft is not criticised here, but rather complimented on his language (“feyrere langage non ne redis”), stands in stark contrast to the earlier passage discussed above, in which the qualities of Wace and Langtoft are compared. One possible explanation is that here, Langtoft is part of Mannyng’s lineage of historiographers from Dares the Phrygian to Mannyng himself, and that, therefore, the explicit criticism found elsewhere is restrained in favour of an impressive list of distinguished forerunners. This may also explain the conspicuous absence of the Bible, the divine author of which could hardly be presented as a forerunner. The comment that “there is no fairer language” than Langtoft’s , apart from thus establishing an immaculate list, is again also a strategy to establish Mannyng’s own authority. He presents himself as someone knowledgeable enough to judge that there is “no fairer” language than Langtoft’s and thus presents himself as an authority on language quality. While the clear-cut textual filiation suggested by this list is already problematised in the prologue, and definitely unmasked by Mannyng’s relative independence in the main body of his text,30 it nevertheless serves not only to establish the veracity of Mannyng’s account by reference to the sources but also to place him in their company. When Mannyng concludes

30 He for example renders the Troy story from some other source than the one he claims, His text actually differs quite clearly from that of Dares (Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 696, notes to lines 320-726).

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the list with his own name, he inscribes “himself into the tradition of historical writing on which he draws:”31 And I, Robert, fulle fayn wald bringe in Ynglis tonge þer faire saiynge. God gyf me grace wele to spede, þis ryme on Inglis forto rede. (RM I:197-200)

By making his own the last name on this impressive list, Mannyng fashions himself as the one who brings the collected and collated knowledge of these auctores and predecessors to his audience.

Appropriating the sources’ authority Robert Mannyng is the only historiographer of the corpus who discusses his sources so overtly. In what follows, I will turn to shorter and more covert remarks as appear in all the works of the corpus. Short and covert as these remarks may be, they are nevertheless strategies of appropriating the sources’ authority. Peter Damian-Grint has called such remarks “authorising interventions” since they focus on the extra-textual sources of auctoritas.32 The only way to completely circumvent the mention of the sources and their authority is to establish oneself as an eyewitness, and the only historiographer of this corpus to do this is Robert of Gloucester: As in þe norþwest a derk weder þer aros So demliche suart inou þat mani man agros ... An vewe dropes of reine þer velle grete inou Þis tokninge vel in þis lond þo me þis men slou Vor þretti mile þanne þis isei roberd Þat verst þis boc made & was wel sore aferd (Robert of Gloucester, 11,742-11,749).

I have placed and briefly discussed this quote in the introduction of this study because in very few lines it exemplifies many of the points central to the construction of the authorial persona: The claim to authorship (“I was the first one to make this book”), which functions as a refusal to recognise any other authority; the claim to authority through the authenticity only an 31 32

Phillips, “Robert Mannyng, Chronicle: Prologue,” 20. Damian-Grint, New Historians, xii.

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eyewitness can offer; and the implicit demonstration to the audience of the historiographer’s indispensability as a mediator.33 The authenticity claim is highlighted by the fact that Robert of Gloucester presents himself not only as an eyewitness, but also (as Mannyng presents Dares) as someone who “lived history.” The lively immediacy he creates with his detailed description of the fear-inspiring darkness arising in the Northwest and the rain that forebodes ill affects him personally: “Robert, who first made this book, was terribly afraid.” Unfortunately, this is the only passage in which Robert of Gloucester, deliberately and skilfully, establishes himself as an authority by reference to himself. Robert Mannyng, finishing his account a full thirty-one years before his own present time, can hardly establish his authority by likewise claiming to be an eyewitness. Instead, as I have argued above, he both establishes the authenticity of his sources’ accounts and undermines their authority. The best example for this is his account of the Trojan wars. The truthfulness of the account is ensured by the fact that his source Dares was an eyewitness and perhaps even a participant in the events he reports on, but the authority of the source is undermined by Mannyng’s assessment that it contains boringly long lists of names. However, Mannyng does not always question his sources’ authority in order to claim authority for his own work. In a tradition which determined the authenticity of sources by their age or by their Latinitas, he also refers to Ovid, Juvenal, Gildas, Bede, William of Malmesbury, and Henry of Huntingdon.34 Together with the works he explicitly discusses as his sources in the prologue, this makes a rather long list of authorities which he draws on or, more to the point, presents himself as drawing on. Dares, for example, despite Mannyng’s assertion to the contrary, is not the source he used for his account of the Trojan wars.35 His claim to authenticity and reliability is further underlined by the many times he refers to some of these historiographers. Bede, the “unassailable authority for the authentic 33 White states for Richerus of Rheims that the chronicler’s suggestion “that his own personal observations gave him insight into the facts he is recounting that no one else could claim” suggests “a certain self-consciousness about his own discourse.” White “The Value of Narrativity,” 18. 34 Ovid: RM I:1363; Juvenal: RM I:5564; Gildas: RM I:10,407, 10,412, 14,151, RM II:521; Bede: RM I:5586; RM II:1, 90, 521 etc. (a total of twenty references), William of Malmesbury: RM II:522, Henry of Huntingdon RM II:91, 110, 143, 521. 35 Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 696, notes to lines 320-726: Mannyng’s “actual source was a version quite different from the Excidio Trojae Historia attributed to Dares . . . . RMB drew some of the details from the anonymous Compendium Historia Trojanae-Romanae.”

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history of England” is mentioned as many as twenty times.36 Bede is also the only one of these authorities who is mentioned (albeit only six times) in Mannyng’s other work Handlyng Synne. This fact leads to two interesting conclusions: Firstly, it suggests that Mannyng perceived the majority of his authorities to be specific to historiography, secondly, the tripling of the number of references to Bede in the chronicle suggests that he regarded even Bede primarily as a historical authority. This is confirmed by the fact that two of the six references to Bede in Handlyng Synne are connected with the term “geste.”37 Authority in medieval historiography was not only established by referring to the (alleged) antiquity of the sources however. It was also established by the claim that the source had been approved, commissioned or issued by such authorities as a pope, bishop or king (as seen in La‫܌‬amon above, who refers to Queen Eleanor). Consequently, Mannyng invests Bede with additional religious authority by usually referring to him as a saint or a “holy man” (RM I:5477, 15,938; RM II:1, 90, 205) and he establishes Henry of Huntingdon’s authority by connecting him to this holy man Bede. When Mannyng claims that since Bede’s death there has been nobody writing English history on a par with Henry, he virtually makes the latter Bede’s successor: þe holy man, Saynt Bede, died a ‫܌‬ere beforn. Henry of Huntyngton, sen þat day & þat ‫܌‬ere, to write Inglis gestes, fond he non his pere. (RM II:90-92)

As if that were not enough, Mannyng also, following Henry’s own claim to episcopal patronage, relates how Henry had been implored (“praied”) to write true (“right”) history by Bishop Alexander of Lincoln.38 Nevertheless, Mannyng undermines Henry’s thus established authority promptly by presenting him as a “compiloure,” someone who is dependent on older authorities: A bisshop of Lincoln, Alisandre he hight, praied him to write þe gestes þat were right; þerfor þis Henry is cald a compiloure. He wrote þe Englis gestes whilom of honoure, þus wrote to þe bisshop Henry þe same. 36

Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 60. HS 2475-76, 4363-64, 10,516-17, 10,519, 10,534, 10,538. 38 Diana Greenway, preface to Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, 2-9. 37

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Chapter Four He sais þis lond hight Bretayn þat now has oþer name (RM II:93-8).39

The Northern Cursor poet establishes the veracity of Saint Augustine’s works in the same way, by referring to him as “sant austin,” or “austin . . . þe hali man” (NCM 360, 587, 29,160). The other sources which are explicitly mentioned in the Northern Cursor Mundi are “the gospel,” the four “gosspellere[s]” or the psalms (NCM 11,288, 13,442, 18,889), none of which, being part of the Bible, seems to require further proof for their reliability. Neither the Northern Cursor poet nor Robert of Gloucester make many references to their sources by mentioning authors’ names. Instead, they often refer to unspecified “stories” or “books.” I have shown in chapter one that these books are often represented, in terms of prosopopoeia, as speaking to the author and as relating certain events. When a book speaks, it becomes the subject, and as such, it dominates its indirect object, the historiographer (“as þe boc aþ itold,” RG 9733).40 One authorising strategy is to invert these roles. Hence, when an author relates that he has found some information in a book, he evokes the book as a material object that can be handled and searched by him: “In sum bok find i þar a wile/ þat ioseph fand þat was sutile” (NCM 4749-50).41 The author becomes the subject, the book his object. This effect is even more striking when the author of the source is named (something only Mannyng does): “In Gildas boke þus I fond/ þat Gurmund departed þe lond” (RM I:14,151-52). The maker and original “owner” of the book, Gildas, is dispossessed and his authority appropriated by the researcher who, at the moment of finding information in the book, is imagined as holding it in his hands. However, I contend that that does not necessarily mean that the authority of the source is called into question. Instead, the source’s authority is appropriated in the sense of a recognition and inheritance of the auctor’s authority. This is the case in a passage that Mannyng adds to Langtoft’s account about the untrustworthiness of the Welsh: Was neuer withouten gile, Walsh man no Breton, for þei were euer in wehere, men so of þam told, 39

This presentation is, in fact, very close to Langtoft’s version: Langtoft 286-88. This is the only reference to a “speaking text” I have found in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle. 41 Also NCM 361. See Damian-Grint’s discussion of the equivalent trover in Anglo-Norman historiography as authorising. Damian-Grint, New Historians, 15556. 40

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whilk was best banere, with þat side forto hold. Saynt Bede sais it for lore, & I say it in ryme: 42 (RM II:7460-63).

Mannyng points out that Bede wrote his judgement about the Welsh for educational reasons while he, Mannyng, writes it “in ryme,” probably hinting at the different types of historical works (i.e. written in prose or in verse).43 Mannyng also, however, places his “saying it in rhyme” on the same line as Bede’s “saying it for instruction,” suggesting that he has inherited Bede’s educational stance and turns it into something different. Of the historiographers of this corpus, Mannyng is also the only one who directly connects his finding of information to his teaching his audience: I fynd writen, ‫܌‬ow to teche, þat tyme ‫܌‬ede saynt Petir to preche; fro Antioche þat tyme he cam, þorgh prechyng brouht it to cristendam & was comen late to Rome, & preched þer of cristes dome. (RM I:5506-11)

Mannyng’s placement in this passage of his finding (of information) and teaching (of his audience) before Saint Peter’s preaching, as well as the rhymed pair “teche—preche,” creates a peculiar tension. While it may be argued that Mannyng here aligns himself with Saint Peter, it is certainly safe to state that these lines are much more clearly directed at claiming authority than are Wace’s lines in the equivalent passage: A cel terme, ço truis lisant, Alout saint Pierres preechant (Wace 5093-94) (I find in my reading that at that time Peter was travelling about preaching)

The strategy of appropriating the authority of a source text by treating it as a material object and hence making it the object of the historiographer’s 42 Stepsis identifies this reference as v:23 in Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica. Stepsis as quoted in Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 730, notes to lines 7460-64. 43 “lor(e,” and “rim(e,” in Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med.

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control is, once more, most adeptly employed by Robert Mannyng. In the next passage, Mannyng not only claims to have “found” the information about Ethelbright, he also “takes the words from Bede,” thus again appropriating Bede’s text and, by extension, Bede’s authority: Ethelbert as we fynd was of Hengestis kynd. Gurmund þam seised in þat kyngdam, þe kynd þat of Hengist cam. Þis word of Saynt Bede I toke, þe fifte capitle of þe boke; þorgh þat capitle, I wist, bituex Ethelbright & Hengist (RM I:14,325-32).

When Mannyng here makes reference to the exact passage where he found the information (“þe fifte capitle of þe boke”), he maintains that his account is verifiable (a claim which is not unlike principles of referencing in modern historical writing). However, Mannyng also reinforces the impression that he has handled the book himself and in his handling it has appropriated control. A second strategy of appropriating authority is similarly based on the emphasis of the book as object. When an author refers to a book as “my book” rather than as “a book” or “sum book,” he symbolically appropriates it: “My boke sais certayn þat he gaf neuer þat rede;/ þerfor kyng William did fleme alle þat kynde,” (RM II:2045-46).44 While Robert of Gloucester does not appropriate authority by using this strategy, and while there is only one such reference in the Northern Cursor Mundi (referring to a plural “us” rather than an individual author: “als sais vs vr stori,” NCM 13,967-68), there are three references to a source as “my book” in Mannyng’s chronicle. One of these passages is particularly interesting because the thus appropriated book speaks (“so sais my boke”) and hence threatens to undermine the historiographer’s act of appropriation: God delyuerde Athelstan of many hard affaies; sextene ‫܌‬ere was he kyng & seuentene daies. Siþen at Gloucestre, dede euelle him toke, bot quik he out went, so sais my boke. (Pers can not say where he lies, bot as I herd telle, I say myn auys.) 44

Also RM II:4903.

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Men say he was fonden in þe north cuntre at Hexham now late, I wene soth it be. (RM II:701-8)

The book’s potential challenge of Mannyng’s appropriation is however counteracted: The book speaks but the historiographer does not listen. Instead, he listens (“I herd telle”) to some unspecified oral source. Since “Pers” through his book (which is no longer his, but Mannyng’s, “my boke”) cannot say where Athelstan’s grave is, Mannyng relates instead what he has heard, namely that the grave is found in Hexham. Before concluding this analysis of appropriating strategies, I will briefly turn to the question of how Mannyng reacts to such strategies when they are employed by his sources. Wace, in the passage below, claims authority by emphasising his own researches: Unches ne poi lisant trover, Ne a home n’oï conter Qu’Engleterre treü rendist Dessi qe Cesar la conquist (Wace 4817-20) (I could never read anywhere, nor hear any tale from anyone, that said England paid any tribute, until Caesar conquered her.)

Judith Weiss, in a footnote to this passage states: “Here, as in many places, Wace substitutes ‘England’ for HRB’s ‘Britain,’ and inserts a characteristic emphasis on his own researches.”45 I suggest that Mannyng, who worked with Geoffrey’s Historia directly,46 realised that Wace here emphasises his own researches. Mannyng’s reaction to this claim of authority is characteristic for him: he puts even greater emphasis on his own researches: Unches ne poi lisant trover, Ne a home n’oï conter Qu’Engleterre treü rendist Dessi qe Cesar la conquist (Wace 4817-20). 45 46

Before or þis, neuer I fonde þat any man conquerd þis londe, tille Cesar com & mad conqueste as ‫܌‬e haf herd in þis geste. Euen sexty ‫܌‬ere þis was beforn

Weiss, Wace’s Roman De Brut, 123, footnote 1. Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 53.

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138 (I could never read anywhere, nor hear any tale from anyone, that said England paid tribute, until Caesar conquered her.)

þat Ihesu criste was born. Here withalle acordes saynt Bede, þe gestes of Ingland first ‫܌‬e rede (RM I:5221-7).

Not only does Mannyng expand on Wace’s passage, he also makes additional moves to claim authority for his own version. While Wace declares that he has not been able to find oral or written evidence that anyone conquered England before Caesar, Mannyng only refers to written evidence (“neuer I fonde” as parallel to Wace’s reference to the ineffective search of a written source). The “oral aspect” of Wace’s claim, however, is reintroduced as a reference to Mannyng’s own work: “as ‫܌‬e haf herd in þis geste.” In a circular argument, Mannyng’s account thus authenticates itself. Mannyng then gives additional information as to the year in which Caesar’s conquest took place and thus inserts, to apply Judith Weiss’ argument, emphasis on his own research. Furthermore, while he does not acknowledge Wace as his source at this stage, he refers to “saynt” Bede. Intriguingly however, he does not explicitly present Bede as his source, but instead has Bede agree with the account of “þis geste,” Mannyng’s own work (“Here withalle acordes saynt Bede”). In so doing, he inverts the roles between authoritative source and his own account, giving his own account precedence. In this passage, Mannyng thus appropriates the authority which his sources Wace claims for himself firstly by emphasising his own research even more than Wace does his, secondly by having his work authenticate itself and thirdly by letting his authoritative source Bede accord with his own work.

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Eluding the control exerted by the authoritative sources The flow of authority between source texts, their authors and the later historiographers resists an easy one-directional characterisation. Having discussed the ways in which the historiographers of this corpus authorise their works by presenting the evaluation of their sources or by appropriating their sources’ authority, the question remains as to the ways in which the historiographers negotiated the power exerted upon them by their sources. In the works of the corpus, authoritative texts are occasionally represented as acting in an authoritative way, as commanding or forbidding the historiographer to write something. This is the case in the following example from Mannyng’s chronicle, in which the (source)book forbids the historiographer to write about the death of Robert II Duke of Normandy: At Coue is Roberd dede; þe maner of his endyng my boke it me forbede to telle þerof no þing. A hardy knyght was he, ouer all bare þe pris. 47 (RM II:2486-88)

The authority of the book is of course, ultimately, the authority of its author. A book, because of its potential to become an authoritative text, hence has the capacity to empower an author to exert control over future generations of authors. While Mannyng may well envisage this kind of control over future authors for his own work and himself, he tries to elude the control (“my boke it me forbede”) exerted on him by his source.48 He does so firstly by referring not to a book but to my book. The possessive pronoun, I suggest along the lines of A. C. Spearing’s concept of textual subjectivity, makes a significant difference.49 It produces a pose of taking possession, as if Mannyng said: “if this book tries to push me around, I’ll just make it mine.” In addition, just above the reference to the forbidding book, Mannyng interpolates a reference to Duke Robert’s bravery proven 47

The double negation does not make this statement ambiguous, see “forbeden,” in Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. This is a translation of Pierre de Langtoft’s account which does not, however, contain the double negation: “Robert est mort à Corve, mès de sun finement/ Recorder la maner mon lyvre me defent.” Pierre Langtoft 1:458. 48 The reference to the forbidding book is also in Pierre de Langtoft. The controlling text would thus possibly be Langtoft’s own source. 49 Spearing, Textual Subjectivity, 1-3.

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in the battles against the Saracens. This information he presents as having come to him in oral form (“often I haf heard told”): Often I haf herd told of þis Duke Roberd, so gode knyght no so bold was non in alle þe werld ageyn þe Sara‫܌‬ins in bataile forto go; now he ligges in pynes, sorow wille him slo. Why felle him suilk chance & þis ilk mishap? (RM II:2478-82)

The authority which Mannyng gains through mediating this information from his unnamed oral sources to his audience, and through immortalising the spoken words in his writing, is here placed before the authority which some past author and his book have over him. The source’s authority is further removed from the “real because oral” moment and seems inferior to the authority Mannyng establishes for himself as mediator of the oral account. More often than commanding and forbidding however, authoritative texts are represented as informing the historiographer by speaking to him: “Penda was euer ille in dede,/ So sais þe boke of Saynt Bede” (RM I:15,251-52). In a case such as this, in which the book is presented as a named author’s work, the author of the authoritative text is enabled to address future authors through his book. Accordingly (as is in fact the case in present-day criticism), long-dead authors of the past are often represented as speaking or saying something in the present tense: “Claudius regned þat ilk tyme,/ as saynt Bede sais in his ryme,” (RM I:5476-77), or: “For in his bok sant austin sais” (NCM 29,160). Sometimes, an author’s words are rendered in direct speech rather than just referred to: “Ouide witnes it & seis/ þat it is non oþer weis:/ Diua potens nemore terror siluestribus/ apris. Cui licet amfractus” (RM I:1363-64).50 In a few cases the book even metaphorically becomes its author: “A boke, men calle it Iuuenal” (RM I:5564). The author’s words thus bridge the time gap because they have been immortalised in writing, as another quote from the Northern Cursor Mundi makes clear: “Als austin sais, þe hali man,/ Als we in his bok writen find” (NCM 360-61). The authoritative source-book’s address may also acquire a dialogic quality when the book’s one-way communication is represented either as several consecutive utterances or as a direct address to the author that 50

The two lines in Latin are in red in both manuscripts, see the editor’s comment in the edition: Sullens, Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 123.

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cannot be visualised outside of a dialogue. Writing thus enables the author not only to control, but also to enter into a dialogue with future generations of writers by way of his book. One example is the “book” in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle which contradicts an opponent’s claim that Godwin (earl of Essex and Harold Godwinson’s father) was responsible for the assassination of Gospatric: “My boke tellis nay, Godwyn did him no dere.” The book instead claims that Harold’s sister Queen Edith is in fact to blame: “it sais þe Quene Egyn, þe blame suld scho bere” (RM II:157071). When Mannyng here refers to “my boke” he apparently means Pierre de Langtoft’s chronicle, which, without containing a comparable metalevel, blames Edith outright: “Eggyve la rayne la blame dayt porter;/ Kar tuer le fist, et si n’avayt mester” (Pierre de Langtoft 1:396). Another instance is the book that defends Algar, earl of Kent, who was exiled wrongfully, according to the book, for murdering Edward Ætheling (the Exile): of þis no more to speke: þe childe died right sone. Algar, an erle of Kent, þat tyme exiled was. (My boke sais with wrong: he did no trespas.) 51 (RM II:1503-05)

Again, Mannyng here refers to Langtoft’s work when he writes “my book.” Again, Langtoft does not have the metalevel: “Algare, counte de Kent, cel houre fust exillez/ A tort hors de la terre” (Pierre de Langtoft 1:390). Langtoft here states as a fact that the exile of Algar was wrongful. In Mannyng, it is consequently Langtoft’s book which relates that fact to him. Another element which makes the source-book’s one-way communication appear dialogic is when the book is presented as addressing its words directly to the historiographer as is the case in the following quote from Mannyng: “þe þrid hight Reynfride, þus told my boke to me” (RM II:1987.) The address (“to me”) as well as the possessive pronoun (“my book”) presents the relationship between the authoritative sourcetext and the historiographer as an intimate one. Such intimacy has the potential to exclude others and hence, once again, is a way of claiming authority in that it underlines the historiographer’s special status and role in the transmission of knowledge. 51

Mannyng, not following Langtoft here, makes Edward Ætheling a “childe,” perhaps confounding him with his son Edgar Atheling. The latter was proclaimed King of England but was still too young to be crowned when Edward the Confessor died.

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Books are thus presented as having the capacity to empower an author to control, speak to, or even enter into a (sometimes exclusive and intimate) dialogue with future generations of authors. The effect that I have discussed in chapter one for the “speaking book” also remains: the authoritative book is marked out as an entity of its own. This quality can both empower as well as disempower the book, depending on how the author defines his relationship to it. If, instead of stressing intimacy as above, he stresses disagreement, the book is disempowered and its authority undermined. Mannyng does this, in some cases, to express uncertainty or doubt: “Geant es more þan man, so says þe boke, for I ne kan./ Like men þei ere in flesch & bone; in my tyme, I saw neuer none.” (RM I: 1751-54). Here, Mannyng achieves a critical distance between the source and himself by clearly contrasting what the book says with what is his own knowledge. In the light of my discussion of the role of personal deictics (“my book”) above, it is certainly noteworthy that the book is referred to as “the book” rather than as “my book” in this example. Two passages in Mannyng’s chronicle illustrate how consciously he eludes the control exerted on him by his authoritative sources, or, rather, the control exerted on him by their silence. Both passages share the same precondition: Mannyng complains about the lack of sources that relate the stories of Havelok and King Arthur respectively. His response to this lack, however, is different in each of the two cases. The story of Havelok, to which I will turn first, marks the one major difference between the two manuscripts of Mannyng’s chronicle. While the story of Havelok is presented in MS L (in the so-called “Lambeth interpolation”),52 it is not mentioned in MS P. In MS P, Mannyng instead presents a whole list of auctores and predecessors that have not written about Havelok: Bot I haf grete ferly þat I fynd no man þat has writen in story how Hauelok þis lond wan: noiþer Gildas, no Bede, no Henry of Huntynton, no William of Malmesbiri, ne Pers of Bridlynton writes not in þer bokes of no Kyng Athelwold, ne Goldeburgh, his douhtere, ne Hauelok not of told. Whilk tyme þe were kynges, long or now late, þei mak no menyng whan, no in what date.

52

Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 31. The “Lambeth interpolation,” which is 82 lines long and replaces lines 519-38 of MS P, may have been derived from Gaimar’s L’Estoire des Engleis or from a lost earlier version. Pierre de Langtoft does not have the Havelok story.

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Bot þat þise lowed men vpon Inglish tellis, right story can me not ken þe certeynte what spellis. (RM II:519-28)

In this passage (that is omitted in MS L), Mannyng lists Gildas, Bede, Henry of Huntingdon, William of Malmesbury and Pierre de Langtoft, all of whom, except for William of Malmesbury, he also mentions elsewhere. He hence points to his extensive (and fruitless) research and declares that, since none of these authorities has written about Havelok, there is no way of ascertaining the “right story.” As an alternative, Mannyng then tries to situate the story in reality by referring to landmarks that are still present in his and his audience’s present time.53 At the same time however, he expresses his doubts by connecting these sites to folk tales, which he presents as unreliable oral sources (“Men sais; men redes”): Men sais in Lyncoln castelle ligges ‫܌‬it a stone þat Hauelok kast wele forbi euerilkone, & ‫܌‬it þe chapelle standes þer he weddid his wife, Goldeburgh, þe kynges douhter, þat saw is ‫܌‬it rife, & of Gryme, a fisshere, men redes вit in ryme þat be bigged Grymesby, Gryme þat ilk tyme. (RM II: 529-34, my emphasis)

This is as much as Mannyng (in MS P) is willing to report on Havelok. His “searching through” (“þorh sought,” which points to the historiographer’s handling of the books) all possible sources (“alle stories of honoure”) has not yielded any results. Mannyng thus concludes his account with the comment that he rather wants to turn to stories which he can find in writing: Of alle stories of honoure þat I haf þorgh souht, I fynd þat no compiloure of him tellis ouht. Sen I fynd non redy þat tellis of Hauelok kynde, turne we to þat story þat we writen fynde. (RM II:535-8)

53

See Otter’s comment that “in historiography . . . our ‘contract’ with the author is that all place names will have outside reference, that the internal geography of the narrative will faithfully reproduce, or at least be consistent with, the real-life map of the area under discussion.” Otter, Inventiones, 8.

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MS L, in contrast, omits the whole argument and with it omits several authorising references to the historiographer’s research as well as the comments about the historiographer’s choices as to what and what not to relate. Instead, the narrative in MS L passes smoothly from the previous account of Alfred’s battles against and subsequent baptisms of the Danish kings Rollo and Gunter, to the story of Havelok.54 It is clearly wrong to conclude from the missing Havelok story in MS P that Mannyng is unwilling to report stories that cannot be found in his authoritative sources. The most obvious counter-argument to such a conclusion is Mannyng’s extensive discussion of the lack of English sources for King Arthur. After relating Arthur’s victories, his wedding to Guinevere, and his setting up of the round table, Mannyng refers to Geoffrey of Monmouth. Geoffrey wrote on Arthur and, according to Mannyng, he castigates Gildas and Bede for not mentioning the great king: Geffrey Arthur of Menimu wrote his dedis þat wer of pru & blames boþe Gildas & Bede, whi of him þei wild not rede, siþen he was pris of alle kynges, þei wild not write his praysynges, & more wirschip of him was þan of any þat spekes Gildas, or of any þat Bede wrote saue holy men þat we wote. (RM I:10,405-414)

In view of Mannyng’s response to the lack of sources about Havelok, one would expect him at least to be suspicious about the absence of Arthurian 54

Cf. Turville-Petre’s different reading of these passages: Thorlac Turville-Petre, “Havelok and the History of the Nation,” in Readings in Medieval English Romance, ed. Carol M. Meale (Woodbridge: D. S. Brewer, 1994), 121-34. Turville-Petre here suggests that Mannyng “attempted to fit the poem’s account into his Chronicle, but found difficulties with its chronology, and was assailed by doubts on all sides” (122). When Turville-Petre uses Mannyng’s reference to the landmarks to claim that “the tension in Manning’s first puzzled account of Havelok resides in the conflict between the apparently authenticating evidence on the ground and the silence of reputable historians,” (124) he disregards Mannyng’s use of oral sources as one way of indicating uncertainty (cf. my discussion in the last part of this chaper, below). On the interpretation of the landmark comment see also Scott Kleinman, “The Legend of Havelok the Dane and the Historiography of East Anglia,” Studies in Philology 100.3 (2003): 248.

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material in Gildas and his own most valued authority, Bede. However, unlike in the case of Havelok, Mannyng wants to write about this “best of all kings” even if he is absent from the authoritative sources. Consequently, instead of emphasising his dependency on the sources (as he does in the case of Havelok), he castigates his sources for their omission. Or rather, he has Geoffrey castigate them in his place; what Mannyng refers to as a quote from Geoffrey in fact seems to be his own fabrication. Geoffrey does not criticise Gildas and Bede as explicitly as Mannyng here claims.55 This fabrication allows Mannyng to elude the control exerted on him by his sources’ silence while not having to castigate Bede himself. Mannyng then tries to reconcile (part of) the oral tradition on Arthur with “the truth:” .

In þis tuelue ‫܌‬eres tyme felle auentours þat men rede of ryme; in þat tyme wer herd & sene þat som say þat neuer had bene; of Arthure is said many selcouth in diuers landes, norht & south, þat man haldes now for fable, be þei neuer so trew no stable. Not alle is sothe ne alle lie, ne alle wisdom ne alle folie; þer is of him no þing said þat ne it may to gode laid; more þan oþer was his dedis þat men of him so mykelle redis. 56 (RM I:10,391-404)

55

Johnson, “Robert Mannyng,” 141. MS L adds: “Ne were his dedes hadde be writen/ Of hym no þyng men scholde haue wyten.” This passage is also found in Wace 9787-98: “En cele grant pais ke jo di,/ Ne sai si vus l’avez oï,/ Furent les merveilles pruvees/ e les aventures truvees/ Ki d’Artur sunt tant recuntees/ Ke a fable sunt atrunees:/ Ne tut mençunge, ne tut veir,/ Ne tut folie ne tut saveir./ Tant unt li cunteür cunté/ E li fableür tant flablé/ Pur lur cuntes enbeleter,/ Que tut unt fait fable sembler.” I do not know if you have heard of it—/the wondrous events appeared and the adventures were sought out which, whether for love of his generosity, or for fear of his bravery, are so often told about Arthur that they have become the stuff of fiction: not all lies, not all truth, neither total folly nor total wisdom. The raconteurs have told so many yarns, the story-tellers so many stories, to embellish their tales that they have made it all appear fiction. 56

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“Not all is true, not all is lies, not all is wisdom and not all folly,” Mannyng comments, following Wace (9785-98). He hereby leaves open which of these adventures he will and which he will not relate in his account of Arthur’s reign of more than a thousand lines. In the case of Arthur, Mannyng has an additional problem. He complains quite openly about the fact that “men in all countries” wrote about Arthur and refers especially to “France:” In alle londes wrote men of Arthoure; his noble dedis of honoure, in France me wrote & ‫܌‬it write; here haf we of him bot lite. Tille Domesday men salle spelle of Arthure dedis, talk & telle. 57 (RM I:10,415-20)

In a later passage, Mannyng explains why there is more Arthurian material found in France than in England. As a result of his alliance with France, Arthur sends young men there “Þo þat were ‫܌‬ong & wilde/ & had noiþer wife ne childe/ þat lufed to bere helm & shelde,/ nyen ‫܌‬ere in France he þam helde” (RM I:10,757-60). Since then, the French have books about “all of Arthur’s life:” Þer haf men bokes, alle his life, þer ere his meruailes kid fulle rife; þat we of him here alle rede, þer ere þei writen ilk a dede. Þise grete bokes, so faire langage, writen & spoken on France vsage, þat neuer was writen þorgh Inglis man; suilk stile to speke no kynde can. (RM I:10,765-72)

The absence of the Briton Arthur in English works in contrast to his presence in French ones underlines Mannyng’s constant preoccupation with English “seruage” under the yoke of the “French.” While there seems to be a fascination for the beauty of the French style (“suilk stile to speke 57 MS L adds: “Þere fore of hym more men fynde/ In farre bokes als ys kynde/ Þan we haue in þys lond/ Þat we haue þer men hit fond.” A similar, albeit much less explicit, complaint is also found in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle, RG 9986: “Me ne mai not al telle her ac wo so it wole iwite/ In romance of him imad me it may finde iwrite.”

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no kynde can”), Mannyng’s willingness to elude the control of his sources by writing about Arthur while they do not, is certainly connected to Mannyng’s “nationalist” spirit. After all, Arthur, in contrast to Havelok, is an “English” hero and should hence be part of English history.

Criticising and challenging the sources As discussed above, the historiographers of this corpus claim authority by appropriating, undermining, and eluding their sources’ authority. They also, as I will outline in what follows, claim authority by manipulating certain episodes as they are related by their sources. When the historiographers change, criticise or altogether reject certain passages, they explicitly distance themselves from their sources. They also, in so doing, claim authority for the remaining episodes, for those which they adopt from their sources without changing, criticising or rejecting them. What may appear to be uncritical adoption, hence, is not. Instead, it is construed as the product of critical evaluation and authorial approval, exactly by reason of the fact that there are, for other episodes, overt moves of distancing.58 In addition, comments about the unreliability of certain sources or the uncertainty of their accounts allow the historiographer, by way of apophasis, to refer to them and reject responsibility for them at the same time. Outright rejection of certain episodes is rare in the works of this corpus. In fact, most of the instances treated here are by Robert Mannyng who, in this respect, has even been compared to Chaucer. “Like Chaucer,” Coleman states, “Mannyng had a sometimes wary and even rebellious attitude to his authoritative sources.”59 The most striking example of such a rebellious attitude is Mannyng’s version of Edward the Confessor’s deathbed instructions as to who will inherit his throne. Mannyng follows Langtoft’s account of how King Edward returns to London in order to spend Christmas at the Minster of St. Peter (today’s Westminster Abbey), of how he, illness-ridden, becomes more feeble by the day and finally calls his barons to him. Langtoft here laconically reports that Edward leaves his 58

Johnson claims this to be true for Wace: Johnson, “Robert Mannyng,” 140. See also Spiegel’s comment about French vernacular chronicles. Spiegel, Romancing the Past, 7: “even literal translations are the product of conscious intentions and if the Old French texts replicate the substance of Latin texts, it is because the translators believed those Latin works to offer adequate expressions of their own historiographical goals.” 59 Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1237.

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kingdom to Harold, thereby forgetting his promise, “which nobody reminds him of,” to the duke of Normandy: A Harald fiz Godewyn sun regne devisayt, Le duk de Normendye ublyez avayt, Du covenaunt k’il ly fist nul ly mentyvayt. Vynt iij. aunz vj. mays xxvij. jours regnayt, Mort est, et gist à Loundres à Westmouster tut drayt. (Langtoft 1:398) (Left his kingdom to Harold son of Godwin, He had forgotten the duke of Normandy, Nobody reminded him of the covenant he made to him. He reigned twenty-three years, six months, and twenty-seven days, He is dead, and lies right at London at Westminster).

Mannyng, however, refuses to accept this version and, after presenting in direct speech Edward’s bestowal of the kingdom on Harold, openly accuses his source of “miswriting” the events: “Tille Harald, Godwyn sonne, þe regne wille best falle.” Me meruailes of my boke, I trowe he wrote not right, þat he forgate Wiliam, of forward þat he him hight; neuerles þe forward held, what so was in his þouht. (RM II:1593-6)

“Me meruailes of my boke, I trowe he wrote not right,” the most outspoken criticism of a source in the corpus, is sustained by Mannyng’s claim “I wote wele criste it wild þad Edwardes wille wer wrought” (RM II:1597). This claim introduces a thirty line long interpolation in which Mannyng fervently declares that what appears to be forgetfulness is instead Edward and God’s joint plan for the English to be shriven of their sins by William’s sword: Edward god bisouht þat it suld be forgyuen & amendid with penance, & þerof clene be scryuen of þat þat þei had don, & þat þat suld betide (RM II:1608-10).

This interpolation, of which I only quote the central lines, has to be seen within the wider context of Mannyng’s preoccupation with English “seruage.” He clearly claims authority for his version of history, not only by deviating from his source but also by openly criticising it and

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countering his source’s miswriting with what he, author and authority, knows to be true: “I wote wele.” Another example of Mannyng’s “rebellious attitude” to his sources is his account of King Arthur’s transfer to Avalon and his alleged longevity. After relating the deadly fight between Arthur and Mordred, Mannyng at first follows his source Wace closely in expressing doubt about Arthur’s alleged survival: Arthur, si la geste ne ment, Fud el cors nafrez mortelment; En Avalon se fist porter Pur ses plaies mediciner. Encore i est, Bretun l’atendent, Si cum il dient e entendent; De la vendra, encore puet vivre. (Wace 13,275-81)

men sais, he [Arthur] wonded sore; for his wondes wer to drede, þerfor þei did him lede into þe ilde of Aualoun; & þus sais ilk a Bretoun þat o lyue þer he es, man in blode & in flesch, & after him ‫܌‬it þei loke. (RM I:13,706-13)

(Arthur, if the chronicle is true, received a mortal wound to his body. He had himself carried to Avalon, For the treatment of his wounds. He is still there, awaited by the Britons, as they say and believe, and will return and may live again.)

Both Wace and Mannyng distance themselves from the account about Arthur’s deadly wounds and his being taken to Avalon by referring to the untrustworthiness of the sources. Wace does so by indicating that there is the possibility that the source is lying (“si la geste ne ment”), Mannyng by his reference to unspecified oral sources (“men sais”). They distance themselves again when they state the belief (clearly marked as someone else’s, namely that of the Welsh) that Arthur might still be alive on Avalon. Mannyng closely follows Wace for the lines following, for the claim that “Arthur’s death is doubtful,” and he also copies the authorial self-reference (“Maistre Wace”) as he finds it in his source:60 60

Langtoft, by contrast, follows Wace only for the first part. Langtoft 1:224: “Arthur fu nafré, parmy sa wambeysoun/ Passa le coup de sa espeye; Arthur pur garysoun/ Se fist de ilokes porter en le ylle de Avaliroun./ Pur le veyr ne say counter si mort sayt u noun,/ Mès unkore est vifs, ceo dyent ly Brettoun.” “Arthur was wounded, through his gambeson/ The stroke of the sword passed, Arthur for cure/ Caused himself to be carried thence into the isle of Avalon. For truth, I

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Maistre Wace, ki fist cest livre, Ne volt plus dire de sa fin Qu’en dist li prophetes Merlin; Merlin dist d’Arthur, si ot dreit, Que sa mort dutuse serreit. (Wace 13,282-86)

Maister Was þat mad þis boke, he sais no more of his fine þan dos þe prophete Merlyne. Merlyn sais fulle meruailous þat Arthur dede was doutous (RM I:13,714-18).

(Master Wace, who made this book, will say no more of his end than the prophet Merlin did. Merlin said of Arthur, righthly, that his death would be doubtful.)

Wace here, by naming himself, clearly claims authority for his book (“Maistre Wace ki fist cest livre”). Mannyng’s apparently slavish translation of that claim (“Maister Was þat mad þis boke”) is in fact a strategy to distance himself from the account. In this way, the account is clearly connected with Wace’s name rather with his own, which completely changes the nature of the gesture of authorship in the passage from an overt claim to makership/authorship by Wace to a rejection of responsibility by Mannyng. After these lines, Mannyng deviates from Wace. Wace preserves a sense of Merlin’s trustworthiness by claiming that “the prophet spoke truly” and by complicatedly arguing his case that the people have always been and will always be in doubt about whether Arthur is dead or alive: Li prophetes dist verité; Tut tens en ad l’um puis duté, E dutera, ço crei, tut dis, Se il est morz u il est vis. Porter se fist en Avalun, Pur veir, puis l’Incarnatiun Cinc cenz e qurante dous anz. Damage fud qu’il n’ot enfanz. (Wace 13,284-94) (The prophet spoke truly: ever since, people have always doubted it and always will, I think, doubt whether he is dead or alive. cannot tell if he be dead or not, But the Britons say he is still alive.” Langtoft does not have any of the critical discussion for which Mannyng (at first) follows Wace.

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It is true that he had himself borne away to Avalon, five hundred and forty-two years after the Incarnation. It was a great loss that he had no children.)

Mannyng does not give Merlin the benefit of the doubt and elides the line. He does not give the Welsh (“Bretons”) the benefit of the doubt either. Instead, he claims that those who believe that Arthur is still alive are mistaken: “bot I say þei trowe wrong:” þerfor þe Bretons drede & sais he lyues in lede; bot I say þei trowe wrong, if he life, his life is long. Bot the Bretons loude lie; he was so wonded þat him burd die. (RM I:13,719-24)

Thus, Mannyng clearly presents himself as an authority when he not only counters what the Welsh say with what he says (i.e. “I say differently”), but also forthrightly declares that they are wrong. He follows this truth claim with a sarcastic remark: “if he lives, his life is long.” This is much more than an expression of doubt, as has been stated.61 Instead, the sarcasm serves to ridicule the Welsh in their erroneous belief and creates an in-group of audience and author against the out-group of the misguided Welsh. Mannyng establishes his trustworthiness and authority by positioning himself in that in-group. Interestingly, MS L of Mannyng’s chronicle shows a bit less spirit here than does MS P; it interpolates two more lines immediately after the sarcastic remark: “& ‫܌‬yf he lyue þis ilke day/He schal lyue for euere & ay” (14,303-04). These lines, (“should Arthur live to this day, then he shall live forever”), take away some of the acidity of the preceding remark and imply that immortality is not entirely impossible. Robert of Gloucester is likewise critical of the accounts of Arthur’s longevity. While he closely follows Geoffrey of Monmouth (xi:2) for his own account of most of Arthur’s reign and his transfer to Avalon, he interpolates the finding of Arthur’s grave as evidence against the belief of the “brutons & þe cornwalisse” that Arthur is still alive:62

61

Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 52. The source for this insertion is unknown. Wright, preface to Metrical Chronicle, xvii. 62

152

Chapter Four He aueng deþes wounde & wonder nas it non Ac ouercome nas he no‫܌‬t þei is wounden dedlich were Þo he adde is laste chiualerye þus nobliche ydo þere He ‫܌‬ef þe croune of þis lond þe noble constantin Þe erl cadoures sone of cornwayle þat was is cosin & he let him lede in to an yle vor to hele is wounde & deid as þe beste kni‫܌‬t þat me wuste euere yfounde & naþeles þe brutons & þe cornwalisse of is kunde Weneþ he be aliue ‫܌‬ut & abbeþ him in munde Þat he be to comene ‫܌‬ut & to winne a‫܌‬en þis lond & naþeles at glastinbury his bones suþþe me fond & þere at uore þe heye weued amydde þe quer ywis As is bones liggeþ is toumbe wel vair is In þe vif hundred ‫܌‬er of grace & vourty & tuo In þis manere in cornwaile to deþe he was ydo. (RG 4582-96).

In this passage, Robert of Gloucester asserts Arthur’s death even before relating the king’s transfer to Avalon by doubling his source’s comment that the wounds are deadly: “He received a deadly wound and it is no wonder that he could not overcome since his wounds were deadly” (“He aueng deþes wounde & wonder nas it non/ Ac ouercome nas he no‫܌‬t þei is wounden dedlich were”). Up to Arthur’s passing of his crown to the “noble constantin,” Gloucester follows his source. After this, he engages in a series of refutations to prove Arthur’s death. To begin with, he counters the hoped-for healing of the wound on Avalon (“& he let him lede in to an yle vor to hele is wounde”) with Arthur’s death as the best of knights (“& deide as þe beste kni‫܌‬t þat me wuste euere yfounde”). Arthur’s death, which he has thus established as a fact, is then placed before, and contrasted with, the Welsh and Cornish belief that their king is still alive and will return to reconquer the land (“deid as þe beste kni‫܌‬t . . . naþeles þe brutons & þe cornwalisse . . . Weneþ he be aliue ‫܌‬ut & abbeþ him in munde/ Þat he be to comene ‫܌‬ut & to winne a‫܌‬en þis lond”). Next, Robert of Gloucester counters that belief with the claim that Arthur’s bones were found in Glastonbury and that the bones in the grave clearly prove that he died in Cornwall in the year 542 (“As is bones liggeþ is toumbe wel vair is/ In þe vif hundred ‫܌‬er of grace & vourty & tuo/ In þis manere in cornwaile to deþe he was ydo”).63 This insertion of the account 63

For the development of the Glastonbury-Arthur connection see Antonia Gransden, “The Growth of the Glastonbury Traditions and Legends in the Twelfth Century,” in Legends, Traditions and History in Medieval England (London and

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of the finding of Arthur’s bones is more than just a deviation from Geoffrey of Monmouth. It is a claim to authority, established by refuting what are presented as the misguided Welsh and Cornish beliefs (which were, in fact, instigated mostly by Geoffrey of Monmouth). Another instance of overtly expressed doubt which is contrasted with the author’s own word is Mannyng’s account of the twenty giants that inhabit Britain at the time of Brutus’ arrival. In his comparison of the giants to men, Mannyng counters every statement of his source with a comment about his own position: Geant es more þan man, so says þe boke, for I ne kan. Like men þei ere in flesch & bone; in my tyme, I saw neuer none. (RM I:1751-54)

“So says the book, because I cannot” is a clear refusal to take responsibility for what his source says, and this refusal is underlined by his second comment “in my time, I never saw none.” By this comment Mannyng states that he cannot verify the appearance of giants as an eyewitness. In so doing, he places the giants in a distant past, the reality of which he clearly doubts. He thus establishes his authority by distancing himself from his source and calling its veracity into question. Interestingly, “the boke” in this case cannot have been Wace, who does not have a similar comparison between men and giants, and who, instead, relates that the giants were large and feared by all other peoples (“Gaianz erent mult corporu,/ Sur altres genz erent cremu,” 1065-66).64 After this interpolation, Mannyng again follows Wace closely for the claim that he knows only of the name of one of the giants, namely Gogmagog: Ne vus sai lur nuns aconter Ne nul n’en sai, fors un, nomer. L’un sai nomer, cel vus puis dire, Goëgmagog, qui ert lur sire.

Tuenty geant‫ ܌‬were in þis lond; of one þe name writen I fond, Gogmagog þus was told; for he was strong, grete & bold,

Rio Grande: The Hambledon Press, 1992); J. P. Carley, “Arthur in English History,” in The Arthur of the English. Arthurian Literature in the Middle Ages, ed. W. R. J. Barron, 2nd ed. (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1999), 47-57. 64 In both Robert of Gloucester (RG 480-505) and Pierre de Langtoft (1:20-21), the giants are far less prominent at the moment of Brutus’ arrival. They are only fleetingly mentioned in favour of the description of the land’s riches for which both historiographers apparently follow Geoffrey of Monmouth (i:16).

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154 Pur sa force e pur sa grandur L’orent li altre fait seinnur. (Wace 1067-72)

Gogmagog þus men hym calle; it says he was most of alle. (RM I:1757-62)

(I cannot tell you their names; I know none of them except one, and that one, I can tell you, was Gogmagog, their leader. Because of his strength and power the others had made him their lord.)

However, Mannyng again inserts three references to his sources which are not found in Wace. While Wace writes “I can only name one of them,” Mannyng has “I found the name of only one of them in writing.” Wace’s claim that the other giants had made Gogmagog their leader because of his strength and size is expanded to contain both a reference to oral (“men hym calle”) and written sources (“it says”). These references to sources serve to underline the distance between the historiographer and the account, a distance that is initially established by the plain refusal to speak about the appearance of giants. These references to sources in the Gogmagog passage are less overt instances of the strategy that is applied in the Arthurian example discussed above. In the latter, Mannyng’s adoption of Wace’s self-reference connects an account which he finds doubtful with the name of another author; in the former, references to unnamed oral sources (“men say”)65 or to unspecified written ones (“þe story seies,” “it tellis,” “it says”)66 create a similar distance between the sources for the related events and the current author. Given-Wilson points out that the Latin equivalent ut fertur was generally used “not as an excuse for the retailing of unsubstantiated rumours, but in order to indicate either genuine doubt or a reluctance to engage with controversial topics.”67 In some cases, this doubt is made explicit and the distance between the source and the author becomes a very marked one, as two examples from Mannyng’s chronicle show. In the first example, Mannyng points to a lack of further information about the treason that led to the killing of the Briton king Maximian. Since he does not know the details (“I ne wote hou”), he

65

Also RM I:2209, 3021-22, 5692-93, 6493 etc.; NCM 555, 1073, 1083 etc. Also RM I:1309, 1762, 7790 etc. 67 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 9. 66

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refuses to take responsibility for the account as given by his source and thus explicitly refers to the source (“so sais þe gest”):68 [I]n þis at Rome ros Valentyn and all his kynd, eam & cosin; with him com a king of þe est, Theodosius, so sais þe gest. Þrou tresoun, I ne wote hou, algate Maximian þei slou. (RM I:6534-36)

In the second example, Mannyng expresses doubts about Morpidus’ slaying more men than his whole army. He contrasts the oral and written sources (“Þus said men & ‫܌‬it sais”) with his own doubts (“I ne wote what wais”) about how this deed could have been proven: Þus said men & ‫܌‬it sais hou it was proued I ne wote what wais þat Morpidus sleu me alone þan al his ost dide ilkone. 69 (RM I:3732-35)

Here, Mannyng claims authority against the authority of the sources. At the same time, such interpolations also emphasise the fact that history always depends on mediation. They foreground the importance of writing down and (re)telling the events of the past, and, ultimately, the central role of the historiographer in the transmission of knowledge. Of the historiographers of this corpus, Mannyng is the one who interpolates such references most frequently, and he does so predominantly in the accounts of early British history. In contrast, such references are scarcer in the second, “later,” part of his chronicle. This may well point to an awareness of the fact that accounts from a distant past, by being passed on from one source to the next, tend to acquire legendary aspects. In some cases, as in the ones discussed above, Mannyng is overtly critical of his 68

Wace reports on the murder without an equivalent expression of doubt or a refernce to sources: Wace 6119-22. 69 This is in Wace as well, although only with a reference to oral sources: Wace 3390-417. Mannyng is also doubtful about the sea-monster slain by Morpidus. He explains that people call monster whatever is bigger than usual or has more or less limbs than usual: “Swilk cal men Monstre, als I finde,/ þat limes has out of kynd;/ þat has limes more or lesse,/ monstre men seis þat swilkone es.” RM I:3748-51.

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sources’ versions; in others, he no more than hints at his doubts. One example is a comment about Caesar’s sword. Allegedly, there is no remedy against the wounds inflicted by this sword, which Geoffrey of Monmouth calls “Yellow Death.” While Geoffrey only makes a very short comment about this sword, (“Erat nomen gladii crocea mors quia nullus euadebat uiuus qui cum illo uulnerabatur,” iv:4), Wace elaborates on it by adding a comment about the sword’s fame and the engraved golden letters which indicate its name. Mannyng, in turn, expands Wace’s version a little further and adds another two lines concerning the sources for this miraculous sword: L’espee ert merveilles preisee Si ert de letres d’or merchee; Lez le helt escrit out en sum Que Crocea Mors aveit nom; Pur ço out nom Crocea Mors Que ja n’en fust nafré nul cors Ki ja medicine trovast Ki de la mort le retornast. (Wace: 4129-35) (The sword was greatly prized, and stamped with letters of gold. On top, next to the hilt was written that its name was Crocea Mors. It was called this because nobody wounded by it would ever find a medicine to rescue him from death.)

Þat suerd was of suilk matal þat if any were wonded with al, he myght not long liue, for medecine men mot him gyue. Whi of dede it had þe gilt, it was writen on the hilt, lettres of gold burnissed bright, þat “Crucia mors” þe suerd hight; & ‫܌‬it men say, as sais þe romance, þe empourer suerd was alle vengeance. (RM I:4445-54)

The remark “& ‫܌‬it men say, as sais þe romance” distances Mannyng from the account by clearly marking it as part of oral tradition and romance.70 However, the mention of two sources instead of just one also purports a higher degree of probability (a strategy which Mannyng employs repeatedly),71 and draws the audience’s attention to the extensive knowledge and research of the historiographer and to his role as the mediator between the events of the past, the ways in which they are preserved, and the audience. 70

The term romance, here, is more likely to be a reference to sources in French than a generic definition. Thompson, The Cursor Mundi, 104. 71 For example RM I:2787-90:”for þus men said be olde dawe/ & it it is a comon sawe:/ sothron dere gos northward/ & northren were to þe south is hard.”

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Another instance where Mannyng distances himself from his source’s account is the onomastic passage about the division of Britain among Brutus’s sons Locrinus, Kamber and Albanac. Mannyng follows Wace for the overall structure but, again, adds two references to sources: Locrin, cil ki esteit ainz nez E plus fort ert e plus senez, Out a sa part la region Ki de sun nun Logres out nun; E Kamber ad la terre prise Ki Saverne vers north devise, E quant il out cele saisie De sun nom l’apela Kambrie. Granz palais i fist e granz sales. Mais ore ad nom Kambrie Guales; Kambrie out nom, Guales aprés, Our la reïne Galaeis; U Guales out Guales cest nom Pur memorie del duc Gualon. (Wace 1267-80)

Lokerin ches first, he was eldest, 72 þis lond of Logres, it felle hym best. Camber tille his parte gan ‫܌‬erne northwest þe water of Seuerne, in length, in brede, as it gan lie, & for his name called it Cambrie. Cambrie it hight, be þo tales, alle þe lond þat is now Wales; & for þe quene, dame Galaes, for luf of hire þat name þei ches. Som say, for oþer reson, Gales was called for Duke Galon (RM I:1952-62).

(Locrin, the eldest, strongest and wisest, had as his portion the region that took its name from him, Logres. And Kamber took the land marked off by the Severn the north of Logres and when he had taken it he called it Kambrie, after his name and erected a great palace and great halls there. But Kambrie is now called Wales because of queen Galaes ; or else Wales Has this name in memory of duke Guales.)

Wace’s comment about Kamber’s building of great palaces and halls (in which “sales” rhymes with “Guales”) is replaced by Mannyng with a reference to the sources which relate the fact that the former name of Wales was “Cambrie” (“tales” replacing “sales” to rhyme with “Wales”). Both Wace and Mannyng point out that the name derives either from Queen Galaes or from Duke Galon, but while Wace presents both 72

MS L follows Wace more closely and adds: “Logeres hit ys after his name/ ffor Lokeryn Logres had hit þe name.”

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possibilities without an assessment, Mannyng clearly gives preference to the first. He presents as a simple fact that the people chose the name out of love of queen Galaes (“& for þe quene, dame Galaes,/ for luf of hire þat name þei ches”) but he distances himself from the second possibility by his commenting “som say, for oþer reson,/ Gales was called for Duke Galon”). One last comparison between Mannyng and his source Wace, this time one with a slightly different slant, will suffice to underline the argument. In the account of one of the several battles between Cassibellan’s Britons and Caesar’s Romans, both Wace and Mannyng express uncertainty about the death toll and maintain that they do not know the names of the individual combatants. Ne vus sai les mors acunter Ne les mielz combatanz nomer, Mails mult i chaeient suvent E mureient espessement, E plus en i morust assez Si la nuit nes eüst sevrez (Wace 4093-98).

(I cannot tell you the number of dead, or name the best fighters, but many men kept falling and dying in great numbers, and many more would have died if night had not separated them.)

How many died, I may not ame; of alle fighters I knew no name. Bot manyon doun was laied, mo þan any wrote or said, & mo suld if þat þe nyght had ne sondred þam & left þer fight. (RM I:4411-16)

While Wace follows the claim (“Ne vus sai les mors acunter”) with the comment that there must nevertheless have been many who died, Mannyng refers to the unreliability of some written and oral sources when he states, “many died, more than anyone wrote or said.” The prior refusal to give exact numbers or names gives even more weight to this statement which is presented as Mannyng’s own. It is he who, despite his lack of knowledge of exact numbers, knows that there were more dead than for which any of the written or oral sources account.73 In the second part of his chronicle (which ranges from Cadwallader’s death to that of King Edward I), Mannyng, following his source Pierre de Langtoft, applies the same strategy of claiming authority by distancing 73

Also: RM I:3501-2.

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himself. Here, his distancing of himself from his sources expresses primarily, it seems, his uncertainty about how to reconcile the “meruiales” connected to some saints with his own truth claim. Having related the story of Thomas Becket (how he was made archbishop, challenged Henry II in questions of jurisdiction and was finally murdered by four knights), he refers his audience to “his [Thomas’] boke,”74 for a more detailed account: Who so wille wit þis chance, his lif & his languour, & how þe kyng of ffrance did him grete honour, & how þe pape sent his bulle with a legate, & how or he went he serched alle þe state, & how at Pountney þe angelle to him said, & how alle his kynde exile was on þam laid, & how þe apostoile laid on þam grete payn or he wild þam assoile þat had Thomas slayn, & how for Holy Kirke he suffred passion, & how god dos wirke in schrine þer he is don, open his boke & se, for þer in ere þei writen, meruailes grete plente þat fele of vs ne wite[n]. (RM II:3210-21)

While this summary mentions one encounter of Thomas with an angel, Mannyng commends this other book (Thomas’ book) to his audience because there are “meruailes grete plente” which many people, including himself (“fele of vs”) do not know about.75 As clerics, it is unlikely that Mannyng and Langtoft doubted Thomas Becket’s sanctity. As historiographers however, they may have found it difficult to relate the miraculous details of a saint’s life. This is underlined by the account of another saint which both Langtoft and Mannyng mention briefly. Earl Waltheof II of Northumbria, wrongfully killed by King William I and subsequently regarded as a martyr, starts to work miracles even at his burial: Vnto þe Marche gan long an erle, Wolnot he hight; þe kyng with mykelle wrong did him slo þat knyght. Abowen Wynchester was schewed tille alle þat þer ware, 74 It cannot be determined whether this is a reference to the French vitae either by Guernes de Pont-Sainte-Maxence or by Benoît de Saint-Alban or to some of the Latin texts about Thomas. 75 Langtoft 2:8 has: “Regarde [ben] sun lyvre, ke n’est past petyt,/ E là la verité trovera escryt.”

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Chapter Four to lewed men & lerid, to kirke as þei him bare, miracle faire & myrie whan þei laid him in pitte. William of Malmesbirie witnes it in his writte. (RM II:2034-39)

Langtoft and Mannyng both assert that the miracles were witnessed by William of Malmesbury in his writings. This clearly shows that references to authoritative sources, while serving to establish the author’s authority as based on theirs, at the same time create a distance between the historiographer and the respective episode. Another example, one in which Mannyng refers to Langtoft as “the other text,” is the miraculous second entombment of King Edgar (“the Peaceable,” father of Saint Edward the Martyr) at Glastonbury. Both Langtoft and Mannyng relate that, twenty-seven years after Edgar’s original burial, abbot Edward of Glastonbury makes a new tomb into which to transfer the great king who has done much for the churches and abbeys of the land while alive (RM II:795-96). However, the new tomb is too small and the abbot breaks Edgar’s legs to fit him in. The abbot is punished with blindness for this desecration, which is marked as such by the “warm and fresh blood” effusing from the dead body (an unmistakable sign of sanctity): Of Edgar þe kyng, þus fond I writen; Pers telles þe same þing, at his boke may ‫܌‬e witen. Sen four & tuenti ‫܌‬ere, þat he in erth was laid, an abbot of Glastebiri, Edward his name is said, he did mak a toumbe Edgar in to lay, bot it was ouer litelle in alle maner way. Þei brak in tuo his schankes to mak þe toumbe mete; þe blode was boþe warme & fresh þat of þe schankes lete. Þe abbot wex alle blynd þat did his bones breke. (RM II:801-9)

Although Mannyng follows Langtoft for the details of the account, he again inserts two references to his sources. The first one is to an unknown text, “þus fond I writen.” This unknown text is presented as being approved by Pierre de Langtoft (“Pers telles þe same þing”) to whose book Mannyng explicitly refers his audience. If this double reference to other texts is meant to authorise the account, then the apparent need to do it so explicitly is telling: more than the usual authorisation is needed to safely relate such miracles. However, I contend that such a reference simultaneously distances the historiographer from the account by making it someone else’s. Sullens also suggests that Mannyng added the many

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references to Langtoft, throughout the second part of his chronicle, in order to distinguish Langtoft’s version from his own.76 It is precisely the connection of one account to another historiographer that serves to underline the historiographer’s claim to authority for all other accounts. It should not be left unmentioned that Robert Mannyng does sometimes report on manifestations of preternatural or divine power without distancing himself from them. This is especially the case for the very beginning of the chronicle in which he jauntily mixes Biblical, mythical and legendary elements. There is, for example, an uncommented reference to the dragon that guards the golden apples of King Atlas (RM I: 285-90). For the rest of the chronicle, however, as is the case also for Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle, dragons are referred to only as similes (the comet which sparkles like a dragon and announces Aurelius’ death,77 King Richard I who fights like a dragon78), as heraldic and/or eponymous animals (of Uther Pendragon,79 Arthur80 and Henry III81), or as symbols in Arthur’s dream.82 The one exception to this rule is the account of the discovery of the red and white dragon underneath the building site of Vortigern’s palace, a scene whose dramatic possibilities Mannyng apparently could not resist, as his “brief flight into alliteration” suggests:83 What þei [the dragons] had long togidir smyten, spouted sperkes, bolued & biten, wipped with wenges, ouerwarpen & went, kracchid with clawes, rombed & rent, þe batelle lasted day & nyght vnto þe toþer day light. (RM I: 8081-86)

76

Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 57. RM I:8923, 8970; RG 3179, 3195. 78 RM II:4552. 79 RM I:9022-35; RG 3229, 3233-43, 3611. 80 RM I:13,133, 13,177; RG 4357, 6176, 6182. 81 RM II:5311, 5320; RG 11,331. 82 RM I:11,805-11,821, 11828; RG 4143-51. 83 Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 702, notes to lines 8082-84. Wace’s version is less spectacular, Wace 7527-30: “Par grant fierté s’entr’assaillirent/ Si que tuit li baron les virent./ bein les veïssiez escumer/ E des geules flambes jeter.” 77

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While Mannyng greatly expands Wace’s version of the dragon fight from 64 to 102 lines,84 he also expands Wace’s refusal to translate Merlin’s prophesies. Wace expresses his doubts about the prophesies as related by Geoffrey of Monmouth by stating his unwillingness to render them since they could turn out not to be true (“Que si ne fust cum jo dirreie,” Wace 7542).85 This stands in contrast to Robert of Gloucester’s disclaimer which lays the blame for the difficulties in understanding the prophesies on the inability of the “simplemen” rather than on Merlin: “Of þe prophecye of merlin we ne mowe telle namore/ Vor it is so derc to simplemen bote me were þe bet in lore” (RG 2819-20). Mannyng’s doubts, even more obviously than Wace’s, are connected to Merlin’s abilities as a prophet. Mannyng laments that he is unable to untie the “knots Merlin has knytted” and that Merlin spoke in such a way so as not to be understood until the announced event has actually passed. Thus, he characterises Merlin’s prophesies as impossible to untangle and in fact as worthless predictions. In addition to these overt expressions of doubt, Mannyng once more interpolates a reference to three other sources: Dunc dist Merlin les prophecies Que vus avez, ço crei, oïes, Des reis ki a venir esteient, Ki la terre tenir deveient. N vuil sun livre translater Quant jo nel sai interpreter; Nule rien dire nen vuldreie Que si ne fust cum jo dirreie. (Wace 7535-42) (Then Merlin made the prophecies which I believe you have heard, of the kings who were to come and who were to hold the land. I do not wish to translate this book, since I do know how to interpret it; I would not like to say anything, in case what I say does not happen.)

84

Merlyn said þan many þinges: what in þis lond suld tide of kynges þat in Blase boke is writen; þo þat it haf, þei it witen, & in Tholomer & sir Auntayn; þise had Merlyn bokes playn. Þyse þre wrote his prophecies & were maistres at sere parties. Som haf þam mykille in hande þat can not þam vnderstande. I say for me, I haf no witte to open þe knottis þat Merlyn knytte; non may say more þan he has said, ne nouht þerto may be laid. Merlyn spak on suilk manere tille it be gon, non may it lere. (RM I:8099-114)

Sullens, notes to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 702, notes to lines 8057-58. 85 MS L of Wace however does insert the prophesies. Weiss, Wace’s Roman de Brut, 190, footnote 2.

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Given-Wilson states that it must have been difficult for many historiographers to know “what to make of Merlin.”86 Clearly, Mannyng’s approach is to refuse the responsibility for untying Merlin’s confusing knots, and instead to connect them to the writings of others. The few instances in which the Northern Cursor poet comments on his sources (rather than just tacitly interpolating) generally function in the same ways as the examples above, but are much less bold authority claims. One example is the description of the cross tree which miraculously refuses to be used for building, and is, instead, brought into the new temple of Salomon together with the thirty silver circles which are later to become the silver pieces paid to Judas.87 The poet closes this account with the comment that the Bible does not relate it and hence implies that he doubts the veracity of his other sources: “And þus sais sum opinon,/ Bot sua sais noght þe passion” (NCM 8843-4). This comment however, first and foremost, establishes the unquestionable authority of the Bible on which he relies. The challenge of the sources is not made by the author himself as is the case with Mannyng’s comment “I trowe he wrote not right,” but by the Bible. Another example is the Northern Cursor poet’s comment after the account of the finding of the true cross by Saint Helen: Þis tale, queþer it be il or gode, I fand it written o þe rode, Mani telles diuersli, For þai find diuers stori. 88 (NSC 21,805-8)

While the poet here presents himself as the finder of an historical account,89 he relativises this account’s claim to veracity (“queþer it be il or gode”) and presents it as just one of many possible accounts: “Many [other authors] tell it differently because they find differing accounts” (“Mani telles diuersli,/For þai find diuers stori.”). Unlike Mannyng or Gloucester, the Northern Cursor poet does not establish one of the accounts as more trustworthy and criticises or ridicules the others. Consequently, the move is not an authorising one but rather becomes self-deprecating because he 86

Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 41. See also Horrall, introduction to Southern Version of Cursor Mundi, vol.1, 6-7. 88 Ibid., 7. 89 The Middle English Dictionary defines the term “tale” as “relation to an event . . . purporting to be true.” “tale,” Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 87

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himself challenges the version he provides (“queþer it be il or gode”) and presents it as just one among many equally valid others. He takes a similar stance in part of the legend of the three Magi: Fra he was born þe dai thritteind, Þai offerd him, þaa kinges heind, Wit riche giftes þat þai broght, Þat he was born, bot þat yeire noght, And sum sais bot þe nest yeire Foluand, and sum, wit resun sere, Sais yere efter þai com. Iohn gilden-moth sais wit þis dome Þat he fand in a nald bok, Þis kinges thre þar wai þai tok A tuelmoth ar þe natiuite, For elles moght not kinges thre Haf raght to ride sa ferr ewai, And com to crist þat ilk dai. He sais þat in þe bok he fand Of a prophet of estrinland, Hight balaam, crafti and bald; And mikel of a stern he tald, A sterne to cum þat suld be sene, Was neuer nan suilk be-for sua scene. (NCM:11373-92)

The poet here refers to different sources giving different information about the time of arrival of the three kings (“sum sais bot þe nest yeire/ Foluand, and sum, wit resun sere,/ Sais yere efter þai com”). Then, he refers to the authority of the Greek church father Saint John Chrysostom (called “golden-mouthed” because of his eloquence), who in turn claims to have found his information in “a nald bok.” Similarly to Robert Mannyng and Robert of Gloucester, the Northern Cursor poet here draws the audience’s attention to his research and knowledge. More importantly, and again similarly to the chroniclers, he also defers responsibility for this account by attributing it to other oral and written sources. However, he never clearly criticises any of his sources as do the two chroniclers, and hence lacks that additional gesture of authorship.

CHAPTER FIVE INSCRIBING AUTHORITY

In the previous chapter, I discussed primarily content-related ways of claiming authority, such as the explicit evaluation of the sources or the expression of doubts concerning a source’s account. In this last chapter, I will turn to strategies which inscribe (the claim to) authority into the work by creating a textual presence of the historiographer. Pro- and epilogues are the usual places where such a textual presence is created and they have consequently been discussed most extensively in this respect.1 This is certainly the case for the prologues to Robert Mannyng’s chronicle and the Northern Cursor Mundi. Their justifications of their language choice and their supposed consequent construction of “nationhood” or of their implied audiences have received most scholarly attention.2 By contrast, I will focus on the ways in which gestures of authorship are placed at the beginning and at the end of a work as a means of marking the text as the historiographer’s own. Hence, because the authorial persona is inscribed into those parts of the text, it frames and embraces the narrative. Along the same lines, Peter Damian-Grint suggests that the traditional scheme of exordium-narratio-conclusio was a convenient means of reassuring readers that they had, in fact, a complete text. Such framing of the text will be discussed in the first part of this chapter.

1

Most influentially so by Alastair Minnis. Alastair Minnis, “The Influence of Academic Prologues on the Prologues and Literary Attitudes of Late-Medieval English Writers.” Mediaeval Studies 43 (1981) and Alastair Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (Aldershot: Gower Publishing Company, 1988). 2 Turville-Petre, England the Nation; Turville-Petre, “Politics and Poetry;” Douglas Moffat, “Sin, Conquest, Servitude;” Phillips, “Robert Mannyng, Chronicle: Prologue;” Coleman, “Strange Rhyme;” Sarah M. Horrall, “For the Commun at Understand: Cursor Mundi and Its Background,” in De Cella in Seculum: Religious and Secular Life and Devotion in Late Medieval England, ed. Michael G. Sargent (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1989), 97-107; Thompson, “The Cursor Mundi, the ‘Inglis Tong,’ and ‘Romance.’”

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Then, I will turn to other, less obvious way of inscribing gestures of authorship into the text. Robert of Gloucester, for example, does not frame his work with an authorial persona as do the other historiographers of the corpus. Instead, his gestures of authorship take the form of interjections. These (also found in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle and in the two Cursor Mundi versions) range from rhetorical ones such as “Allas!” to extensive narrative interjections. “Allas!” and comparable interjections evoke an authorial presence (although its status is debatable, due to the oral/aural quality of the interjection). Narrative interjections such as “I will next tell you…,” in turn, shape the narrative and are a gesture of authorship in that they emphasise the historiographer’s control over the text and (by way of presenting the historiographer as a mediator of history) also over the audience. Such manners of inscribing authority will be treated in the second part of this chapter. The third part of this chapter will be dedicated to a more detailed analysis of Robert Mannyng’s inscribing of his authority as a response to Wace’s very marked textual presence. As a rule, Mannyng, far from slavishly translating, reacts to Wace’s interjections and regularly increases the degree of authorial presence in his translation. Nevertheless, Mannyng is clearly opposed to one particular kind of interjection that Wace frequently uses: assertions of ignorance. Mannyng quite obviously either avoids them or replaces them by claims of certainty, their exact opposite. Damian-Grint states that Wace uses such ignorance assertions to give more air of authenticity to the rest of the account, along the lines I have suggested above in the case of overt criticism of the sources’ accounts.3 However, there is, of course, a considerable difference between Mannyng’s “I find that he wrote wrongly” and Wace’s “I do not know,” a difference which greatly affects the authorial persona constructed and a difference of which, I will argue, Mannyng is well aware.

Framing the text with the authorial persona Robert Mannyng skilfully constructs an authorial persona and places it at the beginning and the ending of his chronicle and hence frames his historical work. In a minimal way, his source Wace does likewise. Wace names himself in his short, eight-line prologue and does so again, together with a reference to the date, in another eight-line passage at the end of his

3

Damian-Grint, New Historians, 166-168.

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work.4 Mannyng, whose framing of his text can hardly be based on this source, does it in a 201-line prologue and two lengthy epilogues at the end of the first and second part of his work, respectively. His prologue has already been discussed extensively above (chapter one); he presents himself as the “finder of history,” the mediator through whose hands (metaphorically and literally) history is passed on to his audience, and as the speaker-author who stands in front of his audience and recites his history and thus as much originates as controls his written text: Lordynges þat be now here, if ‫܌‬e wille listene & lere alle þe story of Inglande als Robert Mannyng wryten it fand & on Inglysh has it schewed, not for þe lerid bot for þe lewed (RM I:1-6).

By evoking, through the use of deictics, the physical presence of his audience and himself as being in the same place (“here”) at the same time (“now”), he places himself, his distinctive self “Robert Mannyng” (distinguished by name as early as in the fourth line of his text), in space and time. Furthermore, he places himself at the very beginning of his text and before (his version of) history, thus posing as the originator of both. There are more gestures of authorship within the 201-line prologue. In it are thirty-five first person singular references, four instances of the historiographer’s first name Robert, and two instances of his surname Mannyng. The prologue contains rather detailed information about Mannyng; about his birthplace Bourne in Lincolnshire (“Of Brunne I am,” RM I:135); the time he wrote his work, in the years between 1327 and 1338 (“In þe thrid Edwares tyme was I/ when I wrote alle þis story,” RM I:139-40); and his attachment to the Gilbertine house at Sixhills and its master Robert of Malton (“In the hous of Sixille I was a throwe;/ Dan‫܌‬ Robert of Malton þat ‫܌‬e know,” RM I:141-42). In fact, this profusion of detail dwarfs the rather fleeting modesty topos of the preceding lines: “ffor this makyng I wille no mede/ bot gude prayere when ‫܌‬e it rede” (RM 4

On the basis of such framing, J. S. P. Tatlock characterises Wace as a “professional literary man.” J. S. P. Tatlock, The Legendary History of Britain: Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and Its Early Vernacular Versions (New York: Gordian, 1974), 464-65. Sullens points out that “all of these aspects are equally characteristic of Mannyng.” Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 20, footnote 30.

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I:129-30). The fact that Mannyng’s main sources, Wace and Pierre de Langtoft, do not have comparable prologues (Wace’s prologue is merely eight lines long and contains one single self-reference, Pierre de Langtoft’s seven-line prologue contains none) is not in itself astonishing; there were certainly many other models which Mannyng could follow. What is significant, however, is the degree to which the frames of the text, as the primary places to construct the authorial persona, are made to interact with each other. As Mannyng in the prologue opens his book (on several levels) he also closes it at the end of his work. At first, it appears that his chronicle concludes with the very detailed account of the death and burial of King Edward I in 1307. The last word of the historical account, suggestive of an eschatological closure, is “paradis,” followed by “Amen:” þe floure of cristendam was dede & lay on bere, Edward of Inglond. He said with heuy chere, in spirit he it fond, fiue ‫܌‬ere he gaf pardoun of peyns to be fre, þat for him with deuocioun said Pater & Aue. To Waltham þei him brought, baronage & þe clergie, for monethes for him wrouht his seruise solempnelie; þei bawmed his body, tresore wild þei non spare, þe pouere þei gaf party, his soule bettere to fare. Four & tuenty ‫܌‬ere, auht monethes & fiue daies noblie regned he here bi profe & gode assaies. Fro Waltham befor said, to Westminster þei him brouht, biside his fadere is laid in toumbe wele wrouht; of marble is þe stone & purtreied þer he lies, þe soule to god is gone to the ioye of paradis. Amen. (RM II:8338-52)

However, Mannyng does not end his work at this apparent closing point. Instead, he draws the audience’s gaze back to a very pronounced authorial persona. In the lines that follow, the very last six lines of his work, there are six instances of the first person singular “I,” coupled three times with the verb “write:” Now most I nede leue here of Inglis forto write, I had no more matere of kynges lif in scrite; if I had haued more, blithly I wild haf writen. What tyme I left þis lore, þe day is for to witen:

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Idus þat is of Maii left I to write þis ryme, B letter & Friday bi ix þat ‫܌‬ere ‫܌‬ede prime. (RM II:8353-58)5

This “writing I” controls different types of texts, oral and written, which are presented as his objects. The writing subject has in his possession no more “matere of kynges lif in scrite” (which of course implies that he possesses some for the preceding times) and he leaves “þis lore” and “þis ryme.” Mannyng is clearly not to blame for the account’s end at this stage, since, as he declares, he would “blithely” have continued writing had he had the necessary source materials: “if I had haued more, blithly I wild haf writen.”6 In addition, this authorial persona is placed in time, and at a very precise moment at that: between three and four o’clock on Friday, May 15, 1338. Mannyng, having concluded his historical account at the year 1307, virtually forces his audience to engage with his own, later, present time and to picture him as the author, who, having run out of source material, is in the process of writing the last few words of his work. With this striking immediacy, Mannyng not only places himself in time but also above time. Putting down the quill, it is he, in his own present time, who closes the narrative. His closing of the narrative antedates and foreshadows the closing of the book by the reader. Mannyng’s claims to have run out of source material for the thirty one years between King Edward I’s death and his own present time is interesting. While it could well be formulaic,7 Joyce Coleman suggests it indicates that Mannyng “had little control over when, what, or how he wrote.”8 If this is in fact the case, and his patrons or the limited holdings of his library did indeed constrict Mannyng’s choices, then his construction of the “writing I” in the very last lines of his work are even more clearly a gesture of authorship, aimed at re-establishing a certain degree of authorial control. 5

For comments about scribal errors concerning the dating of this explicit see Crosby, “Robert Mannyng,” 15, footnote 5. These errors however have no relevance for the present argument. 6 See also Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1226. 7 This claim is also found, for example, in Caxton’s comment in the epilogue to the “Liber Ultimus” of his edition of Trevisa’s Polychronicon translation: “For yf J coude haue founden moo storyes, J wold haue sette in hit moo.” As quoted in Matheson, “King Arthur,” 262. 8 Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1226. These very last lines still prominently influence the perception of Mannyng as a historiographer. Thea Summerfield for example starts her discussion of Mannyng’s life and works by quoting it: Summerfield, The Matter of Kings’ Lives, 101.

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This ending of the chronicle stands in intriguing contrast to the beginning of the work. There, Mannyng opens his book in the inferred presence of his audience and presents himself as a prelector who brings history to them—keeping the book in his hands and thus controlling it (or, as I have argued, he forces, by his strong textual presence, both the audience of a prelection and the private reader to imagine him doing so). By contrast, the authorial persona evoked in the last lines of the book is a solitary one. This shifts the focus from the plurality of an “us” (authorprelector and audience), to the singular and unique “writing I,” the historiographer who produces the work. An additional effect is that the recurrent tension between orality/aurality and literacy also encloses the work as a whole—with the written word and the writing subject quite literally having the final say. Here, Mannyng strikingly exemplifies the way in which, according to Coleman, aurality (in contrast to orality), empowered the writing author: Although writing for performance, the author had time to compose the text at his own pace and alone, knowing that it would be preserved in written form and that this written form would visibly dominate the group experience, in a way that no oral or memorial author’s text could do. The audience’s awareness of the book before them entailed an increased awareness of the fixity and authority of the text, and of the author’s role as mediator of the traditions that text represented.9

The idea that pro- and epilogue were indeed construed to interact with each other is supported by Coleman’s suggestion that the prologue was written after the completion of the work in 1338. In addition, Idelle Sullens maintains that the chronicle needs to be considered as a whole work rather than as two separate ones as was the case in earlier scholarship.10 While Wace for example “completes the circle” of his narrative by echoing, at the end of his account, a line from the beginning,11 Mannyng clearly completes the circle with the inscription of his authorial persona. One may even argue that framing the text with gestures of authorship as

9

Coleman, Public Reading, 28. Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1216; Sullens, introduction to Robert Mannyng of Brunne: The Chronicle, 10 and footnote 17. 11 Wace 4: “Ki Engleterre primes tindrent” and Wace 14,862: “Ki Engleterre lunges tindrent.” See also Damian-Grint, New Historians, 126. 10

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Mannyng does achieves (in the framing parts) the closure which Hayden White has claimed is absent in (the narrative part of) chronicles.12 Yet Mannyng’s framing of his text goes beyond giving a prominent role to the authorial persona in the pro- and epilogue; he also frames the individual parts of his bi-partite work (which consequently has two prologues and two epilogues). The epilogue to the first part of Mannyng’s chronicle starts with a concise review of its contents and an announcement of the contents of the second part to follow. The subproject just coming to a conclusion, and the next subproject about to be started are here connected and framed by the mediating historiographer whose own present time (“now”) is once again imposed on the audience: “Now haf I told of þe Bretons . . . now of Inglis wille we telle:” Now haf I told of þe Bretons, of kynges & som barons, how þei mayntend þis lond siþen Brutus first it fond vnto Cadwaldrus tyme. Þerof Bretons leue we to ryme & now of Inglis wille we telle. (RM I:15,905-11)

Mannyng then introduces (for the second time, as he names him also in the prologue) his source for the second part, Pierre de Langtoft, and relates how Pierre invoked “[Saynt Bede] to gyue him grace wele to spede” (RM I:15,937-38) as he himself intends to do. Between those two great names, Mannyng manages to capture the audience’s attention with what at first glance appears to be a modesty topos:

12

White, “The Value of Narrativity,” 16. White states that “the chronicle, like the annals but unlike history, does not so much conclude as simply terminate, it typically lacks closure, that summing up of the ‘meaning’ of the chain of events with which it deals that we normally expect from a well-made story. The chronicle typically promises closure but does not provide it.” See also Robert Payne’s claim that “there is an important difference between poems that present themselves to us in the speaking voice of an author for whom a framing persona is provided, and poems which do not, or which do so only minimally.” Robert Payne, “Late Medieval Images and Self-Images of the Poet: Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, Henryson, Dunbar,” in Vernacular Poetics in the Middle Ages, ed. Lois Ebin (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institut Publications, 1984), 250.

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Chapter Five Of his menyng, I wote þe way, bot his faire spech I can not say. I am not worþy open his boke, for no konyng þeron to loke, bot forto schew his mykelle witte, on my spech þat is bot, how he was quaynt in spech & wys þat suilk a boke mad of pris, & gadred þe stories alle tille one þat neuer ore was mad for none. (RM I:15,925-34)

Coleman has called this “a belated modesty topos”13 and I would add that not only does this apparent modesty topos come much too late (it is virtually in the middle of the work) to be taken seriously; it is also exaggerated both in wording (“skitte”) and content. After all, Mannyng, in his prologue, quite clearly points out that Langtoft as a historiographical source is inferior to Wace, yet he never prostrates himself in a comparable way before Wace. Instead, I propose this hyperbolic outburst of apparent humility be read as Mannyng’s dramatic strategy to draw his audience’s attention to the authorial persona once again before beginning the second part with a reference to “saynt Bede bokes” (RM II:1) which, for once, he rather humbly allows to stand on its own. Finally, the strategy of framing is also employed within the frames themselves. For instance, in the prologue to the first book (which I have so far called the prologue), Mannyng not only evokes his presence in the very first line by directly addressing the audience (“Lordynges þat be now here,” RM I:1), he also evokes it by the use of a narrative interjection in the very last line before starting the historical account proper: “Now of þe story wille we gynne” (RM I:201). Although Wace’s prologue to the Brut cannot have served as the model for Mannyng’s prologue, it is interesting to compare the transitional moment from prologue to historical account in both works. Wace, who omits the geographical description of earlier historical accounts,14 presents this moment as a shift from the dedicated translator (“Maistre Wace” l’ad translate”) to his sources’ (“li livres”) accounts of the Greek conquest of Troy:

13

Coleman, “Strange Rhyme,” 1224. Gildas, Bede, Nennius, Henry of Huntingdon and Geoffrey of Monmouth all begin their accounts with a geographical description of Britain. See also Weiss, Wace’s Roman De Brut, 3, footnote 1. 14

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Ki vult oïr e vult saveir De rei en rei e d’eir en eir ... Maistre Wace l’ad translaté Ki en conte la verité. Si cum li livres le devise, Quant Greu ourent Troie conquise (Wace 1-10). (Whoever wishes to hear and to know about the successive kings and their heirs ... Master Wace has translated it and tells it truthfully. As the book relates, When the Greeks had conquered Troy).

Mannyng, in contrast, does not allow any other authority to intrude at that important transitional moment from prologue to text. While he extensively discusses his sources from Dares the Phrygian to Geoffrey of Monmouth to Wace and to Pierre de Langtoft beforehand (RM I:154-96) and while, elsewhere, he regularly refers to his sources in the same way Wace does, namely by calling them “the book” or “my book” (an act of appropriation of the authoritative source-text), he does not do so here. He does promise a faithful translation just as Wace does but then, in contrast to Wace it is he himself (rather than a “book”) who starts the account, and it is consequently he who decides just when the moment has come to end the introduction and to start the historical account: And I, Robert, fulle fayn wald bringe in Ynglis tonge þer faire saiynge. God gyf me grace wele to spede, þis ryme on Inglis forto rede. Now of þe story wille we gynne. When god toke wreke of Caym synne (RM I:197-202).

It is Mannyng who controls the narrative and its presentation to the group of listeners that is evoked by the use of the first person plural (“Now of the story wille we gynne”). Another transitional moment, this time within the prologue, is also marked by the insertion of gestures of authorship. Before Mannyng establishes the long list of authoritative sources starting at Dares and ending with his own name, he presents the bulk of information about himself, which I mentioned above, as a preliminary frame (RM I:135-44).

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Both Cursor Mundi versions are framed by gestures of authorship as well, but in a more traditional way, and the tensions that do open between the pro- and the epilogue may not be intentional. The comparison between the Northern and the Southern versions is, once again, intriguing since the authorial persona in the Northern version is more pronounced and apparently more consciously constructed than is the one in the Southern version. As discussed above, the prologue in both versions opens with a long list of references to romance works (NCM and SCM 1-22) which, as I have suggested, serves to entice the audience and get them to engage with a work which only seventy lines later turns out not to be what these first lines suggest it is. The authorial persona constructed by this strategy shares with his audience the knowledge of, and, perhaps, the love for romance and seems to engage with them so that he can then gently lead his audience away from those works to his own religious work. Neither of the two poets does this by simply claiming that the religious text is “better” for the audience. Instead, they both prove this to be the case by comparing the transitory worldly love to eternal love and the courtly lady to the Virgin Mary (NCM and SCM 52-111). The long discussion of language choice that follows is much less pronounced in the Southern version. Consequently, important elements that contribute to the construction of the authorial persona are reduced, as I have discussed in chapter one. As with Mannyng’s chronicle, the transition from prologue to text is marked by an authorial presence. It is achieved by the narrative interjection “now” which points to the author’s own time as well as to his decision to now turn from prologue to main text. But this authorial presence retreats behind that of God to whom the last line of the prologue and first line of the main text are reserved: Now o þis proloug wil we b[lin], In crist nam our bok be-gin, Cursur o werld man aght it call, For almast it ouer-rennes all. Tak we our 174et174nning þan Of him þat al þis werld bigan. ... Of all men agh þat drightin dride (NCM 265-71).

However, just as in Mannyng’s prologue, at the stage when the poet begins to lay out the planned contents of his work, there is another transitional point within the prologue in both versions of the Cursor Mundi. As in

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Mannyng’s prologue, that transitional point is marked by an authorial presence: Al þis werld, or þis bok blin, Wit cristes help I sal ouer-rin, And tell sum gestes principale; For all may na man haue in talle, Bot for-þi þat na werc may stand Wit-outen grundwall to be lastand, Þar-for þis werc sal I fund Apon a selcuth stedfast grund, Þat es, þe haly trinite, Þat all has wroght wit his beute; At him self first i sette mi merc, And sithen to tell his hand werc; O þe angels first þat fell, And siþen i will of adam tell (NCM 121-34).15

The poet, who here reveals his plans of writing (“with cristes help”) a history that “overruns the world,” employs architectural imagery and presents the Holy Trinity as the only safe foundation wall for all history. He also, however, presents himself as the builder of “þis werc.” It is thus he, the poet, who becomes central at the transitional point, he who focuses his attention first on God (“At him self first I sette mi merc”), and he who tells “his [the Trinity’s] hand werc.” While the poet thus reserves the primary transitional moment from prologue to main text (quoted above) for God, he here claims a central role as the builder of this work of salvation history. One could even argue that his creative power is likened, by the mention of “his hand werc,” to that of God who is evoked as the Deus artifex.16 Also, the poet’s role as a mediator is emphasised by the recurring “I tell” (“to tell his hand werc,” “I will of adam tell”). 15 The version of the Southern Cursor Mundi, apart from the dialect differences, does not deviate from this. 16 Deus artifex as discussed in Curtius, European Literature, 544-46. See also David F. Hult’s comment on Benoît de Saint-Maure’s metaphorical selfpresentation as stonemason: “his studied elaboration of the stonemason metaphor further accentuates the plasticity of the written word, its pliabilty and materiality— a metaphorical association that will enjoy a great fortune in the speculations of vernacular artists and will carry through to Jean de Meun’s elaborate thematics of forging and sculpting in his Roman de la Rose.” David F. Hult, “Author/Narrator/Speaker,” in Discourses of Authority in Medieval and Renais-

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Thus far, the Northern and the Southern Cursor Mundi do not differ much. However, in what serves as an epilogue, the Northern poet seems to juxtapose the authorial persona of the prologue (who is acquainted with the romance heroes) with another one. This second one is clearly a priest, a shepherd chosen by God to feed his “hali folk:” Thoru hirdes þat þe lauerd has sett, Þat he will þat his folk be gett. He has us chosen for vr mede, His hali folk all for to fede; Amang þaa hirdes am i an, — Sa wreche vnworthi wat I nan (NCM 23,877-82).

The pastoral imagery here is not extraordinary but, rather, part of the religious discourse of the time. The impression the audience here gets of the poet is that of a priest with a clear mission. If one were to suppose that the poet constructs this authorial persona in juxtaposition with the one at the beginning, then this clear mission would perhaps justify the guise as a romance-lover in the beginning of the work. As stated above, I am not certain whether this tension between the two personae is intentional, because both versions of the Cursor Mundi, with their many appendices to the main text, are much less clearly structured than is Mannyng’s chronicle. It is noteworthy, however, that the Southern Cursor Mundi poet apparently did not approve of his Northern counterpart’s gestures of authorship. A comparison between the two versions shows that the two lines which define the authorial persona as “one of those shepherds” are omitted in the Southern version while the more general plural “us” in the first four lines remain: Thoru hirdes þat þe lauerd has sett, þat he will þat his folk be gett. He has us chosen for vr mede, His hali folk all for to fede; Amang þaa hirdes am I an, — Sa wreche vnworthi wat I nan (NCM 23,877-82).

Þour‫܌‬e herdis þat oure lord haþ set For he wole his sheep beget He haþ vs chosen for oure mede His holy folk for to fede Vche mon ri‫܌‬tly to deme His owne soule haþ to ‫܌‬eme (SCM 23,877-82).

sance Literature, ed. Kevin Brownlee and Walter Stephens (Hanover NH: University Press of New England, 1989), 83.

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The same is the case with the subsequent passage from the Northern version that I have discussed from a different angle above (chapter one): Here i haf a littel spend, In word þat efter i entend, Moght i mar, godd wat mi mode, I aght it all at spend in gode, In his wirscip, þat mighti mek, And maria mild his moder eke. (NCM 23,895-900)

The “I” that occurs four times in these concluding six lines of the Northern version rather self-importantly asserts that he has spent only a little amount of his talent (“Here i haf a littel spend”). Thus, while the very last line is again reserved for divinity (“maria mild his moder eke”), the emphasis of this last passage is on the author who declares that he would have spent his talent further. In the Southern version, this gesture of authorship is completely effaced in favour of an evocation of the crucified Christ: Efter þat vr giftes ess, Þat þat besaunt rote noght in hord, Þat agh be spend in werc and word. Here i haf a littel spend, In word þat efter i entend, Moght i mar, godd wat mi mode, I aght it all at spend in gode, In his wirscip, þat mighti mek, And maria mild his moder eke. (NCM 23,892-900)

Aftir þat oure ‫܌‬iftis wes He ‫܌‬yue vs grace so to acounte Þat we may to heuen mounte Þad sprad was on an harde tre Nailed naked þeronne to be Oure fadir maker of alle þing Þat neuer shal haue endyng AMEN (SCM 23,892-99).

While the lines quoted here conclude the main text of the Southern Cursor Mundi, the Northern version has an adjoining prayer to Mary which serves as an envoy. The gestures of authorship here take the form of a conventional modesty topos. Nevertheless, they frame the main text: Leuedi lok to þis caitif clerc, For-sak þou noght his stubul werc, For þof i[t] rude and stubel be, It es in worscip wroght o þe. I prai leuedi if þou wald seme, To tak þis littel werc to quem, Suilk als it es, for-sak it noght, To þin be-houe þan es it wroght;

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Chapter Five To þi seruis and to mi pru, Qua seruis þe wele yeildes þou, Þat i þe can nouht serue in dede, Mi will ic hope þou will me spede. For mede ic ask a littel bone Þat i besek wit wordes quone, Þou giue me grace quils ic her hon Mi sinnes to bete þat i ha don. If i eft fall on ani wise, Rapeli þou do me for to rise, Þi suns ded to mon on ai, And on min aun last dai, Þat es nu mi hope be þan mi hald, O gain þat brem þat es sa bald! Þi leme leuedi vs light emell, Þat he mot haueles hurl to hell, Lede me þe wit befor þi sun For euermar wit yow to won. Þis ilk praier leuedi þou here, For þaa þat ar me lijfe an dere, And for all cristen folk alsua, Bath quick and ded and freind and fa, Þou do þam haf þi suns grace To liue be-for his luueli face. All þat þis bok or hers or redes, Leuedi! þam help in all þair nedes. (NCM 23,909-944)

The invocation of Mary, “Leuedi lok to þis caitif clerc,” turns not only Mary’s but also the audience’s gaze to the poet. While taking a humble stance through his presentation of his work as “clumsy, unskilled and modest,” the poet at the same time persistently mentions himself (twenty first-person singular pronouns!) and his work (three direct references, four by pronoun). In the two concluding lines, he solicits Mary’s grace for those who read it: “All þat þis bok or hers or redes,/ Leuedi! þam help in all þair nedes.” In this passage, the Northern Cursor poet, while meekly offering his book to Mary, simultaneously advertises it as one way to salvation. These examples suggest that the effacing of the authorial persona in the Southern version of the Cursor Mundi is more than a coincidence. I contend that it is also more than the scribal carelessness proposed as an

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explanation by Thompson.17 I suggest, instead, that it is a conscious and diligently applied strategy. The author of the Southern version was sensitive to the gestures of authorship by which his Northern counterpart sought to control the text and to claim authority. Perhaps he perceived these moves of authorising salvation history (reserved to the one, divine authority in the eyes of many religious authors) as preposterous?18 It is certainly significant that almost all of the instances of authorial selfconstruction that can be found in the Northern Cursor Mundi were either reformulated to be more self-effacing or altogether obliterated in the Southern version.

The functions of “here” and “now” After discussing the strategy of framing the text with the authorial persona, which is predominantly a structural one, I will now turn to other, often less obvious, ways in which the historiographers inscribe themselves into their works. Many of the instances I will treat here suggest that the poems could have been presented orally/aurally (termed by Zumthor as “indices d’oralité”),19 and a such, they have been discussed extensively as general features of medieval literature. I will reread some of these instances as ways of inscribing particularly the historiographer (rather than just any author). These instances are authorising in that they foreground the historiographer simultaneously as the “finder” and mediator of history. Damian-Grint suggests that authorial interjections which are particularly linked to truth claims are characteristic of “a historiographical style” and perhaps they are even more so in the case of vernacular historiography.20 Some comments in addition are self-reflexive in that they make explicit mention of the historical work; they indicate the further development of the narrative, mark a change of topic, or sum up what has been said. These will be my first focus in what follows. Most of the self-reflexive remarks in the works of the corpus point to another time (“as I have told you before,” “listen and I will tell you”), 17

Thompson, The Cursor Mundi, 51 Given-Wilson, for example, claims that “monastic chroniclers in particular usually wrote anonymously: to state—quite brazenly, as it were—that ‘I, Guibert of Nogent . . . wrote this chronicle’ would well have been seen as trying to claim a degree of creative authority beyond what was thought to be proper.” GivenWilson, Chronicles, 149. 19 For an overview see Zumthor, La lettre et la voix, 37-59. 20 Damian-Grint, New Historians, xii, 145. 18

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within an event of oral presentation or aural prelection of the historical work. Some, however, point also to another place (“as I have told you elsewhere”), which places the point of reference on a particular page within a written work.21 The latter, as an example of what Zumthor has called “oralité seconde,”22 evokes the presence of the written text as part of a prelection, if not a private reading of the work. One example of manuscript variation between the two manuscripts of Mannyng’s chronicle implies that the use of “space” (period of time)23 and “place” is indeed a differentiated one. In MS P, a reference to Lud’s sons is followed by the comment “as I told before” (literally “as I told another time”): “Androche & Tenuace,/ Lud sons boþe, I told or space” (RM I:4748-49). MS L, however, has “as I told you before in a different place:” “Androcheus was Luddesone & Tenuace/ As y forn telde in oþer place.” This apparently very deliberate handling of references to oral and written texts suggests that the respective writer disposed of a high consciousness about texts which challenges the following claim by Zumthor: “A text is created in time, but written in space, and it is through its spatial dimension that we modern readers receive it. Up to the fifteenth century it was heard, and hearing is a purely temporal activity.”24 One may safely assume that it is not a coincidence that this (however covert) reference to a written text is found in one of the manuscripts of Mannyng’s chronicle. Nonetheless, most of the examples found in the works of the corpus evoke a prelection rather than a private reading, when they recapitulate what “has been told before” (“Arthure vteres sone of wam we tolde biuore,” RG 3467). They are also often conceived as interactions with the audience. The audience is asked to listen to a tale (“How it began þe last bale,/ listes a partie of þe tale,” RM I:453-54), promised, in a kind of visualisation, that it will “see,” how a discord began (“It bigan, as e may 21 See Suzanne Fleischman, “Philology, Linguistics, and the Discourse of the Medieval Text,” Speculum, 1.65 (1990): 32-33. “To the extent that the spatial metaphor underlies a notion of textual discourse based on writing (the text unfolds across the space of the page) and the temporal metaphor a notion of discourse based on speech (the text unfolds through the time of its recitation), it would be of interest to investigate a possible correlation between the passage from oral to written transmission of the cultural legacy and the use of temporal versus spatial adverbs as articulators of discourse.” 22 Zumthor, La lettre et la voix, 18-19. 23 “space,” in Middle English Dictionary. Last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. 24 Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 18

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se,/ of Cassebelan & Androche,” RM I:4119-20),25 or promised to be told how “Albanie” came to be called Scotland (“Albanie hight þat is Scotland,/ as I salle telle ow who it fand,” RM I:1969-70).26 I suggest that such explicitly oral/aural vocabulary in the written texts of my corpus functions as a strategy of authorising in that it helps the historiographer to regain control along the lines suggested by Franz Bäuml: Whereas the fictionality of the narrator, which developed concurrently with written narrative, strips the narrator of this authority as source by incorporating him in the fiction of the narrative, the narrator in a pseudooral-formulaic written text appears to regain his former function. But he is, after all, part of the fiction of the written text, which is not his product.27

These explicit and self-reflexive comments often contain references to the past (what has been told), as well as references to the future of the narrative (what will be told): “þis is þe kynde fro gre to gre/ betuen Eneas & Noe./ Now donward it is þus/ fro Eneas tille sir Brutus” (RM I:361-64). Such authorising narrative interjections are not randomly distributed. Instead, they are most pronounced at transitional moments in the historical narrative and often interrupt the narrative flow at the turning points between one era and the next.28 Robert of Gloucester, for example, makes such an interjection before he starts to relate the Christianisation of England: Þoru wan verst cristenmen to engelond come Icholle ‫܌‬ou sone telle hou as ich vnder stonde & telle after þis emperours of kinges of þis londe After king aruirag of wan we abbeþ itold Marin is sone was king (RG 1631-5).

Robert of Gloucester’s promise to tell his audience “soon” how the first Christians came to England, is, in fact, no more than a preview since he 25

This authorising interjection is also in Wace 8879. See also Zumthor about the equivalent vocabulary in French dire-ouïr, which mark the communication as a discourse situation in praesentia: Zumthor, La lettre et la voix, 42, 27 Bäuml, “Medieval Texts,” 44. 28 According to Zumthor, such interventions, which occur “at every articulation of the narrative, marking off its parts and emphasizing its artistic progression” have a clear textual function, in contrast to others which are “no more than a virtually empty cliché.” Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 42-43. 26

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instead continues his account with King Marin about whose father Aviragus he claims he has spoken before. These comments thus serve as structuring devices which hinge on the historiographer’s authorial persona. They draw the audience’s attention to the fact that the historiographer has the power to manipulate his material, to decide when he relates what and when he wants his audience to look at the past or at the (past’s and the narrative’s) future. Mannyng takes his moderating power to extremes in the first genealogy of his work, which, apart from establishing Brutus’ descent from Noah, also serves as a general outline of his work: how þa departed þis land in thrinne, þat may ‫܌‬e here alle within. Now haf I sayd alle þe kynde vnto Loqeryn as we fynde. Now agaynward vnto Noe: schortly to say, wille þou see þe kynde of alle þat I are spak (RM I:383-89).

Disrupting the genealogy after Brutus’s sons, Mannyng looks ahead by announcing that his audience will later hear all about how Brutus’s sons divided the land between them (“how þa departed þis land in thrinne,/ þat may e here alle within”). He then looks backward, summarising that he has “now” presented the genealogy down to Loqueryn and announces that he will “now” continue backwards to Noah and in the process give the genealogy “of all the people [he] spoke of before.” Through these alternating previews and reviews, Mannyng virtually has his audience constantly turning their heads to and fro and hence emphasises the control he has over his materials and ultimately also over his audience. There is yet another temporal aspect involved in many of these interjections. They are frequently used as a means for the historiographer to link any moment in the past to his (and perhaps, though not necessarily, his audience’s) present time. Mannyng, for example, after concluding the era of King Belyn with the remark that there is no other man of whom so much can be told, shifts to a more recent past in which the ward in London that is “now” called Billingsgate was called Belyn’s gate: Mikelle plente was in his tyme; of no man more may we ryme. Long he lyued þe lond to welde, & faire he endid in his elde; for of þat ‫܌‬ate þat Belyn auht, of Belyn þe name it lauht.

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Long men called tille now late, after Belyn, Belyns gate. Þorgh schort langage I told ar how, Billinges gate men calle it now. (RM I:3573-82)

This shift from the distant past of Belyn’s death to the more recent past of “Belyn’s gate” and then to the present of “Billingsgate,” apart from being informative, also serves to interrupt the narrative, in that it brings the audience’s attention back to the present and to the mediating historiographer. This effect is here added to by the remark “as I have told you before,” which once more underlines the audience’s dependency on the historiographer.29 Even more complex in terms of chronology and much more political, Mannyng discusses the many changes of the name of London, which he connects to the different conquerors of England: Tille Luddes tyme, men held þat haunt to calle London Trinouaunt; for þe luf of Lud ilk dele ... Karelud men called þat toun. Þan com oþer men were strange. for þe Lud, London did chance; þan com Sessons, men of Angle, as þei couth on þer langage iangle, for Kaerlud called it Ludden, þat couth þei best com on & ken; þan com Normand & Frankis couth not com on to calle it þis. For Ludden, Lundres þei calde; on Frankis it þat name men halde. ... I hope fo tounes þat now ere holde þe names þat first were. (RM I:4057-80)

Again, the historical narrative is interrupted in order to bring the audience (via many intermediate historical steps) to the present in which the historiographer condemns the many changes and, by extension, the conquerors, and expresses his hope that the towns that are “now” will keep 29

Also RM I:1969-70: “Albanie hight þat is Scotland,/ as I salle telle ow who it fand.”

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their original names (“I hope fo tounes þat now ere/ holde þe names þat first were,” RM I:4079-80). In some instances, the historiographer’s powerful role is made even more explicit. Mannyng expands some of his moderating comments so that they not only advertise the content of what is to follow but also announce what is to be expected in terms of quality: Now salle we telle, as we fynde, how Eneas com of Iaphet kynde. fful myrke it is for to here bot alle gate a man may lere. (RM I:257-60)

When Mannyng here points out that it is boring to listen to this genealogy, but that men may learn by various ways (“alle gate a man may lere”), he presents himself as someone who is as aware of the varying quality of his own work as he is of its educational value. He also presents himself as someone who is willing to expose (perhaps at his patrons’ orders?) his audience to such boring genealogies so they will receive education. The historiographers’ power over their work as their own creation is also emphasised in the many examples in which historiographers not only elide passages from their sources but comment on these elisions. I have discussed some such examples under a different focus above (chapter four). While any excisions are indeed a way of establishing the historiographers’ authority at the expense of the authority of their sources, they are also, when the excisions are commented on, a way to inscribe the historiographers into their work. An impressive example is Geoffrey of Monmouth’s statement that he will not give more details on the Picts than the fact that the Britons had refused to give them their daughters as wives: “Set hec hactenus cum non proposuerim tractare hystoriam eorum siue scotorum qui ex illis & hybernensibus originem duxerunt . . . .” (This is not enough about them, for it isnot my purpose to describe Pictish history, nor, indeed, that of the Scots, who trace their descent from them, and from the Irish, too,” Geoffrey of Monmouth iv:17). Robert of Gloucester may well be following this example when he announces that he will not relate the names and reigns of all the kings between Gurguont and Lud. In so doing, he actually shortens the version given by his source Geoffrey who does name all of these kings: After kyng gurguont kinges monion Þer were here in engelond me ne may no‫܌‬t telle echon Aboute ane four hondred ‫܌‬er after him þer com

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A kyng þat was lud icluped þat wel huld þis kinedom (RG 1015-18).

In another example, Robert Mannyng only hints at the destruction of Troy and explains that he does not plan to go into further detail: “Of þis is noght to telle here;/ it is noght of oure matere” (RM I:341). One may argue that there are very practical reasons for these elisions. It may, for example, simply not have been in the interest of the patrons to include all the reigns and names of those early kings or details of the destruction of Troy. Whether it is an authorial choice or not, the effect of such comments as “one may not tell [about] each of them” or “this is not our purpose” is to inscribe the historiographer into the text as someone who makes choices as to what to relate and what not. Having discussed the more overt, self-reflexive, interjections by which the historiographers of the corpus inscribe themselves into the text and thereby construct themselves as mediators, I will now turn to shorter, rhetorical interjections which nevertheless create an authorial presence in the text. One of the most frequently employed interjections has already been mentioned above; it takes the form of “translating” former place names into the present, a “now” which is the narrator’s own present time (which he may or may not share with his audience): “Ytalie was þan þe name/ þat land þer now men Rome ame” (RM I:743-44).30 In addition to being informative, such comments interrupt the narrative flow and foreground the present time of the mediating historiographer and his knowledge.31 Similarly, seemingly empty comments such as “þus I vnderstond,” “þus we fynde,” “ich wene” or “I trow” may well be explained by the coercions of writing in verse. “þus I vnderstand,” for example, can be employed to form an end rhyme with “land” or “England” (“Out of þe shippe þei com to land/ with mykelle ioye, I vndirstand,” RM I: 1737-38; “Mid gret ost he wende in to engelonde/ In þe contreie of souþhamptone hii ariuede ich vnder stonde,” RG 1434-35),32 or it can be employed to complete a sentence metrically (“What he wrote & þider 30 L has, more logically: “Ytalie was kalled þenne/ Þe land þat Rome now standes ynne.” 31 See Otter’s comment that “in historiography . . . our ‘contract’ with the author is that all place names will have outside reference, that the internal geography of the narrative will faithfully reproduce, or at least be consistent with, the real-life map of the area under discussion.” Otter, Inventiones, 8. 32 Also rhyming with “hand” (“honde”/“understonde”) RG 1440-41; “rood” (“understode”/“rode”) RG 1521-23; “blood” (“blode”/“vnderstode”) RM I:2603-4.

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sent,/ þus I vnderstond þe entent,” RM I: 4802-03). Nevertheless, these comments are present in the text and as such do signify.33 While they rarely have an effect on the narrative itself, they create a metalevel (interrupting the narrative) on which the historiographer’s authorial persona in its mediating role is foregrounded. Such is the case in the following passage from Mannyng’s chronicle about Brutus’s worshipping Diana: Þe mylk þat he about bare, in a fyre he cast it þere. Afterward, þus we fynde, he toke þe skyn of þe hynde & spred it þer on the grounde, & sleped þeron a welle gude stounde. (RM I:1371-6)

The use of the remark “þus we fynde,” which is not in the equivalent lines in Wace, may well have been instigated by the rhyming “hynde.” Nevertheless, it creates the historiographer’s authorial presence (arguably one which includes the audience) which concurrently makes the historiographer the “finder of history” (i.e. underlines his research) and creates a distance between him and the account, two strategies which I have discussed above. The heathen rituals at Diana’s temple form an episode that Mannyng is apparently uncomfortable with, and from which he therefore wishes to distance himself. A few lines before the passage quoted above, he condemns the worship of the goddess as the idolatry (“maumetrie”)34 of people whose beliefs are false and he presents Diana as “þe fende” (i.e. Satan): Als þei went þorgh þat cuntre, þei vnto a waste city & fonde þerin a temple stande, whilom þe folk misleuande 33 Cf. Machan who suggests that such references have “no metatextual significance” in some cases. He presents as an example that of Lydgate, whose “author and authorial book are essentially metrical fillers that rather statically occupy a half-line before or after the caesura but that are not extension of the surrounding themes or narrative matter.” Machan, Textual Criticism, 122-23. 34 “maumetri(e,” in Middle English Dictionary, last accessed November 2012, http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med.

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worschipped þerin maumetrie. Diane in liknes of a ladie, woman liknes þe fende did take; in þat liknes þe folk did make an ymage & worshipped þat same; Diane was þat fendes name. (RM I:1325-34)

Mannyng follows Wace closely for this condemnation of Diana, and he reinforces it a few lines later by replacing Wace’s more neutral comment about the visions sent by the goddess (“Diane lur donout repsuns/ Par signes e par visiuns,” Wace 649-50). Mannyng replaces this with his own comment that “that enemy” employed her powers in order to bind her subjects in “misbelief:” “þat fende telled þam mykelle thyng/ to hald þam in mysleuying” (RM I:1339-40). A remarkable case in point for the power of seemingly negligible comments is Mannyng’s interjection in the account of how Cassibellan’s brother Nennius acquires Caesar’s miraculous sword. Following Wace, Mannyng very dramatically describes how Caesar sees Nennius approach, lifts his shield, draws his sword, strikes, and intends to hit his enemy’s head. But Nennius holds his head low and his shield high, and the emperor’s sword gets stuck in the shield: Cesar perceyued þat he cam; ageyn his stroke his scheld vp nam. Cesar suerde was out fulle sone; Nenny to smyte he was alle bone, & Nenny in þe hede he smote; it was trenchand, ouer fer it bote; bot Nenny bare vp his schelde, his hede lowe a parti helde, ‫܌‬it his stroke sank so doun þorh þe schelde & brak his croun; litille failed þat he ne had, clouen þe borde, dynt was sad; bot Nenny bare þe scheld o skere & Iulius smot his suerde ouer fere þat he ne myght drawe it ageyn. (RM I:4371-85)

With the sword stuck, both warriors try to retrieve what is theirs. Nennius then wants to turn and run, but Caesar draws him back, and—in the midst of this breathtaking scene appears the authorial interjection that breaks the tension of the narrative:

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Chapter Five Neuerþeles he did his peyn; he drouh his suerde, Nenny þe schelde, ilkon wele his owen helde. Nenny wild haf turned & went; Iulius ageyn with þe drauht him hent. I hope Iulius had drawen it out, bot Nennius folk were egre & stout. Androche, Nenny neuow, with þam of Kent did grete prow; on ilk a side þei slouh aboute (RM I:4386-95, my emphasis).

“I think,” the historiographer states, “that Julius would have drawn his sword out, had not Nennius’ followers been so eager and stout . . . as to hit on either side.” After this short interjection, the account continues as grippingly as it started. Caesar flees; Nennius turns his shield, draws the sword out and continues fighting with the miraculous sword: & Cesar sawe himself in doute & fro þam fled into þe felde, & left his suerde in Nenny schelde; & Nenny sawe of help inouh. He turned þe schelde, þe suerde out drouh & with þe suerde forth he fauht; & þo þat þer with wondes lauht myght þei neuer haf medicyne, bot to þe dede bod þam pyne. (RM I:4396-404)

This very short and seemingly insignificant comment “I hope” stands at the very middle of the account dedicated to these events, and it is as central to the strategy of a historiographer’s textual presence as its position suggests. It serves to break the tension and, in the middle of a gripping narrative, serves to remind the audience of the fact that they are not witnessing the past themselves. The historiographer, who, by his poetic skill, resurrects the events for his audience, is also able to destroy the illusion of the past being made present, an illusion which he, the historiographer, has created. The “I” becomes a turning point not only in the narrative (when fate turns in favour of Nennius) but also of the narrative (when Mannyng, once again, draws his audience’s attention to his mediating role). The fact that this authorial interjection is not original to Mannyng, but is in fact copied from Wace (“Bien crei que Cesar l’en traïst/ E l’un od l’altre retenist,” 4071-72), does not diminish its effect. Instead, it proves that Mannyng is well aware of the effect to which such

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authorial interferences can be employed. In comparison, Robert of Gloucester (RG 1125-44), while his overall account is very similar, does not have such a comment and neither does his source Geoffrey of Monmouth (iv:3).

Mannyng’s reaction to Wace’s gestures of authorship A comparison between Mannyng’s work and that of his source Wace makes clear that Mannyng consciously applies the ways of inscribing himself into the text that I have discussed in the previous section. What is more, he quite apparently perceives it to be important as a means of controlling the text and the audience. Since Mannyng translates French verse into English verse, one might suspect (as indeed medieval as well as modern critics of verse histories have done)35 that the coercions of verse limit his diction and his possibilities of aptly translating such strategies as applied by his source. Mannyng in fact translates only a few of these instances line-by-line. When, for example, Wace declares that he will tell his audience about Arthur’s qualities and not lie about them, Mannyng translates that very closely (“I sale not mykelle lie”): Les thecches Artur vus dirrai, Neient ne vus en mentirai; (Wace 9015-16).

Som of his thewes I wille discrie (I trowe I salle not mykelle lie). (RM I:9612-13)

(I will tell you what Arthur was like And not lie to you.)

Wace here serves as his own guarantor of authenticity,36 a quality which Mannyng appropriates for himself when he translates his source so closely. In other instances, slight semantic changes may occur in the translation process, as in the following passage, where “serjant u chevalier” becomes “knyght, squiere or page:” Dunc prist li reis un messagier, Ne sai serjant u chevalier (Wace 4695-96). 35

I ne who did þe message wheþer knyght, squiere, or page (RM I:5084-85).

See also Zumthor, Toward a Medieval Poetics, 69; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 172, 177. 36 See Fleischman’s reading of Jordan Fantosme’s claim “in this I do not lie!” Fleischman, “Representation of History and Fiction,” 302.

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(Then the king took a messenger (whether man at arms or knight, I do not know).)

However, Mannyng often doesn’t translate Wace’s gestures of authorship in the equivalent lines. Instead, he quite obviously responds to them by interpolating a similar gesture a few lines before or after. He usually does so to the same degree: a simple “I”-reference such as “I do not know how many” is countered with another simple “I”-reference such as “I do not know when.” A remark which is more overtly directed at the audience such as “why should I make a long speech of it?” (“N’en poeit anceis nuls pareir,” Wace 6429) is countered a few lines further into the narrative with a similar address: “Listen how a traitor killed him [King Constantine]” (“listen how a traitour did him slo,” RM I: 6904-5). In the battle following the death of Turnus (the nephew of Brutus) for example, Wace’s “I” appears in the text by way of apophasis: Ne vus savreie mie escrire Le tueïz ne le martire, Le damage ne la dolur Que des Franceis fu fait le jur. (Wace 1035-38) (I cannot describe to you the killing or the slaughter, the losses or the torment inflicted on the French that day)

In his translation, Mannyng’s authorial persona does not appear in the text at this stage. It does not claim to be shortening the account either (although it is in fact no longer than Wace’s “shortened” one).37 Instead, Mannyng inscribes himself at a later stage of the same episode (where Wace in turn is not present). Like Wace, Mannyng does it in the form of a dialogue with the audience. He concludes his account of the “parliament” which follows the battle with the words: “Whan þei had don as I ‫܌‬ow saie,/ þei sette vp saile & furth þer waie” (RM I:1727-28). Another example of Mannyng’s responding to Wace’s textual presence is the account of the battle between Corineus and Suharz in which Suharz is split in half by his enemies before Brutus and his men join the battle. While Wace interrupts at this stage and comments that he will shorten the account of the battle (“Briefment vus en 37

RM I:1714-15.

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dirrai la fin,/ Vencu furent li Peitevin,” 919-20), Mannyng appears in the text at almost the equivalent line by making a comment about France, whereto Goffard escapes to get help. By inserting this digression about the name of France (“It hight not France, þe name was Galle;/ Galle was it called þat tyme alle,” RM I:1595-96), Mannyng makes a similar gesture of authorship as Wace. Mannyng is thus not only sensitive to the gestures of authorship in his sources but also to the differing degrees of these gestures (simple comment, more extensive comment, dialogue with the audience). He reacts to these gestures, consequently, by inserting one of the same kind. What is more, Mannyng is sensitive also to the ways in which such instances of authorial presence contribute to the construction of the authorial persona. This becomes obvious by the fact that Mannyng reacts in a very consistent way to all the instances of authorial presence in Wace by which the latter expresses uncertainty. Lesley Johnson states that Wace, in contrast to Pierre de Langtoft and Mannyng, does not “buttress his text with named authorities.” Instead, he “develops a clerkly figure who alerts the attention of his audience to material beyond his knowledge.” This is often done in connection with a “formulaic profession of ignorance.”38 This, quite apparently, is not to the liking of Mannyng. When Wace, for example, reports on the British taking protective measures against Caesar’s renewed attack and comments “I do not know how they had heard the news” (“Bretun se sunt contregarni,/ Ne sai cum il ourent oï,” Wace 4243-44), Mannyng reacts by evoking a much more self-confident historiographer. Not only does he not express similar doubts but he addresses the audience in a way that suggests he knows the truth and is ready to share it with them: “Þe Bretons wist it wele inouh,/ bot what þei did, listen how” (RM I:4565-66). Another example is the downfall of Octo who disdainfully opens the gates of the hitherto unscalable city of Verulam. Wace comments that he believes (“ço crei”) pride to have been the cause of Octa’s downfall (“mais lur orguil, ço crei, lur nut,/ E cil venqui ki veintre dut,” 8909-10). Again, Mannyng reacts by creating an authorial presence by the rhetorical interjection “Allas!” and again, it is a presence which evokes less personal uncertainty: “Allas, he was no cirsten man,/ þis Octa, þat so fer wan./ His ouerwenyng & his pride/ did þam open þe ‫܌‬ates wide (RM I:9496-99). A last and impressive example is Wace’s short comment about Claudius’ conquest of Orkney “and other surrounding islands, whose names I do not know” (“Entretant cunquist 38

Johnson, “Robert Mannyng,” 139-40; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 54.

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Orchenie/ Par Arvirage e par s’aïe,/ e altres illes envirun/ Que jo ne sai coment unt nun.” Wace 5057-60). Mannyng here not only elides this rather jaunty declaration of ignorance (“& wan to Rome alle /& oþer ildes þat þer are,” RM I:5473-74), but adds a reference to Bede, the authority which has most weight for him, as has been shown above: with him was sir Arwigare. Claudius regned þat ilk tyme, as saynt Bede sais in his ryme, siþen Ihesu was born of our lady, þer fele ‫܌‬ers sex & fourty. (RM I:5475-9)

Bede’s authority and his providing of an exact date for the conquest heighten not only the veracity of the account but serve to counter the uncertain historiographer constructed by Wace’s interjection with a historiographer who, proud of his research and knowledge, consciously and self-confidentially draws his authority from authoritative sourcetexts.39 Against the background of these findings, it is not surprising that the majority of the gestures of authorship in Wace to which Mannyng does not (seem to) respond are instances in which Wace expresses uncertainty. One example is Wace’s very first “I”- reference (apart from his short preface), a comment about how statues of the gods that Ascanius moved to his new town Alba did not stay there but returned to the temple to which they had first been brought. Wace comments: “They would return to the temple, but how, I do not know” (“El temple ralouent ariere,/ Mais jo ne sai en quel maniere” Wace 103-04); Mannyng shifts the uncertainty to Ascanius who “does not know in which way they [the gods] returned” (“He ne wist no

39

There are many more examples to the point. When Wace in his description of the fight between Frollo and Caesar comments “But Frollo missed his stroke—I do not know if his horse swerved—and Arthur struck him” (“Mais Frolles al ferir failli,/ Ne sai se sis chevals guenchi,/ E Artur ad Frolle feru,” Wace 10,047-49), Mannyng elides the elements suggestive of uncertainty: “Bot ffrolled failed of his dynt/ (I trow his stede oside stynt)/ & Arthure smote him in þe schelde” (RM I:10,663-65). See also the murder of Constantine, where Wace has an unnamed traitor turn against the king and comments “ne sai pur quei” (6462). Mannyng here introduces Vortigern as the traitor and addresses the audience within only a few lines: “listen how a traitour did him slo./ One Vortiger . . . . Listes how þis treson for him cam” (RM I:6905-9).

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was certayn/ in what maner þai com agayn” (RM I:821-22).40 Unlike in Wace’s text, it is hence not the historiographer who is uncertain but one of the characters of the narrative. Another example is Wace’s comment about the exiled Saxons who choose the murderers to kill King Uther Pendragon: “They chose some wicked men, I cannot tell you whom, or when” (Humes unt eslit malfaisanz,/ Ne vus sai dire quels ne quanz,” Wace 8961-62). Mannyng replaces this with “they chose men capable of such deeds” (“Þei chese men þat couth suilk dede,” RM I:9554). What may hence, at first sight be deemed Mannyng’s non-reaction to Wace’s gesture of authorship is, in fact, a refusal to present such signs of uncertainty.41 In some cases, Wace even coquets with his ignorance, as is the case in his explanation of the name “Maiden Castle.” Here, he playfully stresses his ignorance by repeating “ne jo n’ai (pas) mie” three times: Mais jo ne sai par quel raisun Li chastels out nun des Pulceles Plus que de dames ne d’anceles; Ne me fu dit ne jo nel di Ne jo n’ai mie tut oï Ne jo n’ai mie tut veü Ne jo n’ai pas mie entendu, E mult estovreit home entendre Ki de tut vuldreit raison rendre. (Wace 1528-36) (but I do not know why the castle is called this rather than “Ladies Castle” or “Handmaidens’ Castle.” I was not told, nor did I invent it, nor have I heard about it, nor have I seen it all, nor have I understood all about it, and a man who wants to give an account of everything must have a good understanding.)

40

Mannyng in fact interpolates an instance of authorial presence earlier in the passage: “Askaneus, Eneas son/ þat com with hym, I gan ow mone,/ after his fadere þe londe he toke;/ his broþer Silui he did to loke” (RM I:801-4). MS L has “as ‫܌‬e wel mone” and “Syluius he dide hit.” 41 Also: Wace 4206 and Mannyng 4529; Wace 4838 and Mannyng 5244; Wace 9265-66 and Mannyng 9868-70.

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Mannyng, who apparently objects to such ignorance assertions, changes this passage to: “Maydens castelle, bi þat day,/ with maydens had he þer his play” (RM I:2163-64). In the cases in which Wace purports his own authority, however, Mannyng reacts in several different ways, depending on his aims in the construction of his authorial persona. I have discussed above (chapter four) one instance where Mannyng seemingly slavishly takes over Wace’s self-reference as the maker of his book. Wace’s self-reference “Maistre Wace, ki fist cest livre” (13,282) becomes “Maister Was þat mad þis boke” (13,714) in Mannyng. This however, far from being a slavish translation, is a rejection of responsibility on the side of Mannyng. The book, and the responsibility for it, is it shifted to Wace. Another clear gesture of authorship by Wace is elided and replaced by Mannyng’s address to his audience. Wace’s “Ço testemonie e ço recorde/ Ki cest romanz fist, maistre Wace,” (3822-32), is replaced by a very marked break in the narrative in Mannyng. Here, the historiographer appears in his role as mediator: “It [the discord] bigan, as ‫܌‬e may se,/ of Cassebelan & Androche” (RM I:4119-20). After this initial address, Mannyng gives some information about how the Romans managed to subject Cassibellan (RM I:4121-4). However, he stops the narrative flow again, announcing that he will now start telling the tale: “How it began bituex þam bale,/ listes & I salle rede þe tale” (RM I:4125-6). While this self-reference may appear to be less obvious than Wace’s self-naming, it is just as efficient in constructing an authorial persona who controls the narrative.

CONCLUSION

In this book I have proposed to approach authorship in medieval historiography from the perspective of the gestures of authorship that are employed by Robert Mannyng and Robert of Gloucester in their respective chronicles, as well as by the two poets of the Northern and the Southern versions of the Cursor Mundi. Up to date, these four writers have rarely been discussed as authors who write themselves into their works and who employ specific strategies of authorising. Instead, scholarly attention has focused on individual aspects of the works, such as, and most prominently, the explicit discussions of their choice of the English vernacular for their writing. I have suggested here that this choice, as well as the implied audience resulting from the discussion of this choice, constitute gestures of authorship. They are one way of self-inscription along with explicit selfnaming, use of the pronoun “I,” interjections and the like. Another set of gestures of authorship are those that serve to negotiate authority with the auctoritates, predecessors, patrons, God, and possible successors. The sum of these gestures of authorship in a work effects the authorial persona. Many of these gestures of authorship are common to all types of medieval narrative, others are specific to the writing of (English, vernacular) history. In a first step (chapter one), I have analysed the ways in which the historiographers’ professed view of their task of writing history contributes to the construction of their authorial personae. The historiographers present their task primarily in terms of mediation between their French/AngloNorman sources and their Anglophone audience. The proclaimed “seruage” of the English, which is marked also by the inaccessibility of accounts of their own history, serves to construct the historiographers as mediators and helpers of the suppressed English “low and unlearned man.” The historiographers of the corpus present their works as especially adapted to such an unlearned audience. This, in turn, also leads to the construction of an authorial persona as someone who has greater poetic skills than he is allowed (by his patrons, by the incapability of prelectors, by the unlearnedness of his audience) to show. Thus, even though the claim to be writing for the unlearned is a topos (which, if taken at face value, leads to confusing inconsistencies, especially in Robert of Gloucester’s chronicle), it was chosen because it expressed best what needed to be expressed. In this case the topos is a gesture of authorship that contributes to the construction of an authorial persona who is aware of

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the problems of his time and committed to solving them in the best possible way, namely by writing English history in English. This explicit language discourse, as has been pointed out before, is almost completely elided in the Southern version of the Cursor Mundi. This marked change to the Northern source is accompanied by a similar elision of almost all first person pronouns. Unlike John J. Thompson, I do believe there to be a connection. I suggest that the Southern poet did not approve of his Northern counterpart’s authorial gestures, whether they were made in the form of comments on the language or in the form of self-inscriptions by first-person pronoun. The authorial self-inscriptions in the prologues in particular suggest that the historiographers also took into account the circumstances of the presentation of historical works in the fourteenth century. At the time, it has been suggested, historical works were still just as often presented in aural prelection as they were read in private. Robert Mannyng inscribes himself in a way that is geared to controlling all possible levels of realisation of his work. By extensive self-naming and the recurrent connection of the “I” to his name, he prevents possible future prelectors from appropriating the first person singular pronoun (and the historiographer’s authority) for themselves. Finally, I have also discussed material imagery for the task of writing history in this first chapter, suggesting ways in which such imagery may also be read as gestures of authorship. Again, it is intriguing to note that the monetary imagery that is employed by the Northern Cursor poet to describe his talent of writing is suppressed by his Southern counterpart. In a second step (chapter two), I turned from what the historiographers claim to be doing (treated in chapter one) to what they actually do when they write history. I tackled the question from three angles: time, space and actors. In their comments about the relationship of past, present and future, the historiographers primarily underline the importance of the knowledge about the past for an understanding of the present. Again, in so doing they also emphasise their own importance as mediators. In terms of space, there is a strong emphasis on land and the possession or loss thereof. Land is in fact extensively used to mark the beginnings and endings of historical eras, one example being the account of the unburiable bodies of the Britons in the age of Cadwallader which is employed to show that Britons, dead and alive, can no longer stay on that land and will be replaced by a new people. The main actors in Robert Mannyng’s and Robert of Gloucester’s chronicles, unsurprisingly, are conquerors. While all the conquests left wounds, the one that is foregrounded is the one through which William the conqueror brought the English into their

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lamented state of servitude. In Robert Mannyng’s chronicle, there are some conspicuous alterations to the primary definitions of historical actors as he found them in his source Wace. These alterations suggest that for Mannyng, the (English) people are almost as important actors as are kings and conquerors. The Northern and the Southern Cursor poets, whose main actors of (salvation) history are all biblical, nevertheless begin their work with a long list of romance heroes. In doing so, they present themselves as authors who are willing to engage with the tastes of their audience in order to lead them towards their own religious and equally appealing scriptural histories. Next, in chapter three, I suggested that the presentations of written texts such as books and letters mirror the historiographers’ attitudes towards their own work. Books, for instance, are presented as having the capacity to preserve the truth in a variety of ways, most of which are connected to the all-encompassing truth of the Bible. Even explicit references to the Bible can be read, with due caution, as indirect allusions to historical works. Robert Mannyng, for example, puts much greater emphasis on the presence of the truth-ensuring (gospel) book in episodes of oath-taking than do his sources or his contemporary Robert of Gloucester. In so doing, he underlines the empowering role of the written word and ultimately his own power as a writer. In the episode about the attempted sabotage of the peace-treaty between Sultan Saladin and King Richard I, Mannyng establishes the power of the written word to preserve the elusive oral moment of the attempted treachery. In addition, he presents (historical) books as able to resurrect the past and, as it were, make it the verifiable present of the audience. The presentation of the written word as the domain of the literatus similarly establishes not just the past specialists’ power but also the historiographers’ supremacy over others. Particular attention is paid to portraying as distinctly learned those who are asked by their superiors to find the truth in books. The ways in which this learnedness is established (being religious and book-related) aligns the historiographers, who themselves possess that kind of learning, with the specialists of the past and allow them to construct an in-group of past and present literati against an out-group of the respective audiences. Similarly, the presentation of letters as empowering also mirrors the historiographers’ attitude towards their own works as potentially liberating what they claim is the “enslaved people of England.” Such liberating letters are much more prominent in Robert Mannyng’s chronicle than in his sources or in the work of Robert of Gloucester. Many of them are in fact Mannyng’s own additions. While these letters are

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envisaged primarily for (subjectively defined) good causes, they are also presented as instruments of treachery. However, because of the written word’s capacity to prove the truth, these letters inevitably turn against traitors and hence liberate the “good” parties. The fact that Mannyng puts so much emphasis on the liberating quality of letters suggests that for him, this is the most important feature of letters and, perhaps, any type of writing. In the two final chapters, I then discussed gestures of authorship that involve negotiations of authority. The most overt strategy is to inscribe into the work the processes involved in its creation, such as the historiographer’s search and evaluation of his sources. Robert Mannyng describes this evaluation process in much detail. He also establishes his own genealogy as a historiographer when he presents his audience with information about each of his sources in chronological order. In this genealogy, the sources’ authority is first established (its author is an eyewitness, it is old, it is in Latin, it is faithful to its own sources, it is written in excellent verse) and then undermined (it is too long or too short, it is incomplete). In some cases, such undermining is disguised as a positive comment: When Mannyng compliments an authority on his beautiful language, he also compliments himself on his ability to recognise it. Robert of Gloucester and the two Cursor poets do not present similar discussions of their sources. Indeed, in contrast to Robert Mannyng, they only occasionally refer to their sources by their authors’ names. Instead, they usually refer to them as “the book.” This strategy, also employed by Robert Mannyng, evokes the authoritative source-text as a material object and the historiographers very literally appropriate their sources’ authority when they present themselves as handling the books. Another strategy is one of eluding the control exerted on the historiographers by their sources. Two examples from Robert Mannyng, in which he responds differently to the silence of his sources about a particular character exemplify how this is done: In the case of Havelok, Mannyng simply refuses to write more, since, as he claims, it is impossible, in the absence of sources, to determine the “right” story. In the case of King Arthur, he responds differently to the absence of source material: He accuses the sources of not having written about Arthur. Or rather (because he himself does not want to call into question the authority of Bede), he fabricates this accusation as one being made by Geoffrey of Monmouth. Yet another strategy is to challenge the sources, doubt their veracity and accuse the authors of misrepresenting the truth. Robert Mannyng accuses his source Pierre de Langtoft openly of “not writing right” the episode of Edward the Confessor’s bestowal of the kingdom to

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Harold, and he ridicules the Briton’s belief that Arthur is still alive. With it, he ridicules the sources (Geoffrey of Monmouth and Wace) in which this belief is related. “If he is still alive, then his life is long,” he comments, and presents himself, by his sarcasm, as an authority who can judge whether something is likely to be true or not. Robert of Gloucester does something similar when he interpolates the account of the finding of Arthur’s bones in Glastonbury as a proof that Arthur is indeed dead. The interpolation of this account is more than just a deviation from Geoffrey of Monmouth, it is a claim to authority which is established in opposition to his own source. Another, less overt, strategy of claiming authority is to connect an account which the historiographers are doubtful about with the names of other writers. Thus, what may often look like a slavish translation (Mannyng’s adopting of Wace’s name as the source of information) is in fact a refusal to take the responsibility for an account. In a final step (chapter five), I analysed gestures of authorship that create a textual presence of the historiographer. Robert Mannyng very elaborately frames his work with his textual presence and makes pro- and epilogue interact with each other. While the “speaking I” of the prologue controls the book he is reading from in the presence of his audience, the solitary “writing I” of the epilogue antedates and foreshadows the closing of the book by its reader and draws the audience’s attention to him and him alone as the maker of the book. But Mannyng also frames the individual parts of his bipartite work and even the transitional moments within the frames. Textual presence is also created by interjections that often evoke a prelection rather than a private reading. The authority which is lost in the written text (because of the text’s potential independence from its author) is hence re-established by the evocation of an oral/aural presentation in which the historiographer addresses his audience directly. Such authorial interjections, even minor rhetorical ones such as “Allas,” often occur at transitional moments in the narrative, interrupt the narrative flow and consequently draw the audience’s attention to the mediator. Robert Mannyng, for example, interrupts a gripping battle scene with the interjection “I think.” Far from being meaningless, this interjection breaks the tension and reminds the audience that they are not witnessing the past themselves. The historiographer, who, by his poetic skill resurrects the events for his audience, here destroys the illusion of the past being made present, an illusion which he created. Finally, I present in this chapter a close analysis of how Robert Mannyng responds to the textual presence of his source’s author Wace. He only translates a few of Wace’s textual presences word-for-word and instead mostly responds to them by interpolating, before or after the

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passage, a similar instance of his own authorial presence. He does so to the same degree as Wace (a simple “I think” is countered with “I hope;” more extensive comments are countered with other more extensive comments). But Mannyng is not only sensitive to the degree of Wace’s textual presence but also to the effect the textual presence has on the construction of the authorial persona. He refuses to take over Wace’s frequent ignorance assertions for himself. Instead, he shifts Wace’s insecurity assertion to the level of the narrative and presents a character, rather than himself, as insecure. In other cases, he simply does not respond to authorial presence created by uncertainty claims—and his refusal to respond is a response as well. By authorising history, I have suggested in this book, we can understand a number of gestures of authorship that in their sum effect the historiographer’s authorial persona. The historical works of the corpus authorise history in a wide variety of ways and the degrees to which the historiographers’ authorial personae are constructed in the process vary greatly. The authorial persona of the Southern Cursor poet is an almost completely effaced one, the only clearly conceivable characteristic in fact is his suppression of the elements that construct an authorial persona in his Northern counterpart and his apparent refusal to construct an authorial persona at all. The Northern Cursor poet, by contrast, constructs an authorial persona that is greatly concerned about the consequences of the lack of religious literature in English, someone also, who is willing to engage with the values (and literary tastes) of his contemporaries. Finally, he also seems proud of his own achievement in that he draws his audience’s attention to an individual “I” who writes in English for the English in order to bring salvation within closer reach of the herd entrusted to him by God. Robert of Gloucester’s authorial persona takes shape predominantly in his preoccupation with the status of the English language, the English people and the “English” cause of the rebellious barons. In addition, he occasionally expands on the accounts of his sources (most prominently so in his treatment of land as a motif). By his singular presentation of himself as an eyewitness of the events he authorises history by his self-inscription as well as by his refusal to accept any other authority. At the other end of the spectrum, there is the fully-fledged authorial persona constructed by Robert Mannyng: A highly educated clerk, empowered by his learnedness and his ability of reading three languages, a writer with a name, an affiliation and a patron, located in space and time. He presents himself as someone who is capable of finding, selecting, evaluating his sources, and who has enough authority to call into question

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openly, challenge and even ridicule them. In addition, he presents himself as a skilled writer, someone who is able to resurrect the past in his writing and to bring it—as a mediator—to his audience. However, he also reveals “the past which is made present” as an illusion which is his own creation. While he purports to be writing in simple language, he also suggests that his poetic skill is greater than his patrons allow him to show. Finally, by his careful framing, he seeks to ensure his enduring control over his work on all possible levels of realisation. Mannyng’s authorial persona is a consciously and skilfully constructed, clearly defined authorial self. As such, it represents an incipient stage of a development which will lead to authorial self-fashioning as we see it in Chaucer half a century later.

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INDEX

Alan, King of Britanny, 98–100 Alexander III, King of Scotland, 16 Alexander the Great, 87 Alexander, Bishop of Lincoln, 133 Arthur, King, 25, 87, 94, 109–17, 142, 144–49, 161, 189 auctor, auctores, 4, 6, 12–14, 119, 131, 135, 142 auctoritas, 8–14, 131 Aurelius, King, 84, 161 authorial persona, 2–10, 15, 20, 31– 43, 48, 56, 61, 62, 63, 69, 86, 88, 90, 97, 102, 132, 165–76, 178, 179, 182, 186, 190, 191, 194, 195, 200 authorising history, 2, 42, 62–64, 87, 119, 200 authority, 4, 6, 7, 10, 11–14, 32, 49, 52, 57, 60, 63, 67, 87, 89, 90, 100, 101, 119, 120, 125–42, 145– 55, 158, 160, 161, 163–65, 170, 173, 179, 181, 184, 192, 194, 195–200 Baliol, John, 84 Bäuml, Franz, 50, 181 Bede, Saint, 21, 66, 71–72, 122, 133–45, 171, 172, 192 Belyn, King, 84, 105, 110, 182 Bennett, Jack, 83, 85 Bridges, Margaret, 92, 106 Bruce, Robert and Alexander, 20, 101 Bruner, Jerome, 11 Brutus, 58, 70–75, 80–87, 102–5, 109, 111, 153, 157, 171, 181, 182, 186, 190 Cadwallader, 75–77, 98, 100, 158 Cadwallo, 76, 77

Caesar, Julius, 11, 42, 75, 77, 84, 87, 105–9, 117, 120, 137, 138, 156, 158, 187, 188, 191, 192 correspondence with Cassibellan, 105–9 Cain, 70, 78, 87 Cassibellan, King, 77, 84, 105–9, 158, 187, 194 Caxton, William, 169 Cerquiglini, Bernard, 15 Charlemagne, 87 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 3, 13, 15–19, 29, 46, 52, 60, 147, 171, 201 Coleman, Joyce, 5, 21–23, 42–48, 58, 147, 165, 169–70, 172 Coyl, King, 84 Crane, Susan, 35 Crosby, Ruth, 19, 23, 101, 169 Curtius, Ernst, 14, 36, 99, 119, 175 Dällenbach, Lucien, 10 Damian-Grint, Peter, 4–8, 14, 42, 48, 101, 122, 125, 131, 179 Demandt, Alexander, 59 dragons, 120, 128, 161 Edith, Queen, 141 Edward I, 90, 93, 96–97, 114, 158, 168 Edward the Confessor, 141, 147 Elidur, King of Britons, 94 Fleischman, Suzanne, 2, 6, 18, 92, 180, 189 Foucault, Michael, 6 Geoffrey of Monmouth, 21, 42, 66, 76–79, 106, 112, 117, 124, 125, 127–29, 144, 151–56, 172, 173, 189 and textual presence, 184 gestures of authorship, 1, 7, 8, 58, 87, 88, 150, 164, 166, 169, 177, 191–200

216 giants, 51, 120, 128, 153, 154 Gildas, 21, 126, 127, 132, 134, 142, 143, 144, 145, 172 Given-Wilson, Chris, 9, 22, 55, 63, 68, 79, 82, 96, 120, 121, 127, 163, 179 Gransden, Antonia, 4, 64, 127, 152 Graus, František, 16 Greenblatt, Stephen, 5 Greene, Virginie, 10, 63 Guenée, Bernard, 9, 63 Guthlac, 112 Hanning, Robert, 10, 127 Harold II, 92 Havelok, 142–47 Helen, Saint, 163 Hengest, 84, 114 Henry III, 161 Henry of Huntingdon, 21, 36, 66, 79, 80, 82, 132, 143, 172 Horrall, Sarah, 2, 16, 18, 26–29, 33, 41, 53, 78, 87, 88, 163, 165 Hult, David F., 175 interjections, 8, 55, 166, 181–85, 195, 199 Isidore of Seville, 14, 28, 119 Johnson, Lesley, 20, 21, 36, 38, 45, 145, 147, 191 Juvenal, 21, 132 Kennedy, Edward D., 3, 17 Langtoft, Pierre de, 16, 21, 44, 58, 81, 92–97, 113–17, 123–25, 130, 134, 135, 139–41, 147, 148, 150, 153, 168, 171–73, 191 La‫܌‬amon, 3, 12, 17, 25, 57, 121, 133 and material metaphors for writing, 56–57 and sources, 122–23 Machan, Tim William, 4–8, 13, 14, 16, 20, 27, 35, 36, 46, 125, 186 Mannyng, Robert, of Brunne, 19– 24, 189–94 and ‘unlearned’ audience, 37–48 and books as tokens of authority, 94, 142 and framing of text, 166

Index and gestures of authorship, 58, 87, 150, 169, 191, 193 and history, 65 past as lesson for present, 68– 74 and history, kings as protagonists of, 80–87 and history, spatial aspects of, 74–77 and language, 37–39, 124 and language, Latin, 125–29 and learnedness, 97–102 and letters, 91 and material metaphors for writing, 57–59 and sources, 21, 173 and sources, appropriation of authority of, 131–38 and sources, control exerted by, 139–47 and sources, criticism regarding, 147–64 and sources, evaluation of, 121– 31 and textual presence, 182 and written text versus aural/oral presentation, 48–56, 96, 108 Matheson, Lister, 21, 25, 41, 121, 127, 169 Maximian, 89, 154, 155 Merlin, 72, 75, 84, 98, 150–51, 162, 163 Millett, Bella, 7, 15, 46 Minnis, Alastair, 12–14, 165 miracles, 120, 159, 160 Mitchell, Sarah, 4, 25, 35, 37, 66, 99 Moffat, Douglas, 44, 165 Northern Cursor poet, 18, 26–29 and audience, 39–41, 52–54 and authority, 136, 165 and books, 91 and framing of text, 174–79 and gestures of authorship, 88, 164, 177 and history, 67–68

Authorising History and history, kings as protagonists of, 87–88 and history, spatial aspects of, 78–79 and language, 33 and material metaphors for writing, 59–62 and sources, 27, 32, 134, 163 and textual presence, 61–62 Ong, Walter J., 6, 111 Orme, Nicholas, 43 Otter, Monika, 6, 7, 9, 10, 14, 57, 59, 64, 89, 120, 143, 185 Ovid, 21, 132 Partner, Nancy, 6 Patterson, Lee, 3, 90, 127 Pearsall, Derek, 3, 17, 19, 24, 29, 44, 45, 46 Phillips, Helen, 38, 127, 131, 165 Richard I, 95–96, 113, 115, 161 Richter, Michael, 35 Robert of Gloucester, 1, 4, 16–18, 24–26, 32, 34–37, 42, 51, 55, 65– 86, 89, 91, 92, 96–117, 128, 132– 36, 146, 152, 153, 161, 162, 164, 166, 181, 184, 189 and books, 99 and gestures of authorship, 1 and history past as lesson for present, 68– 74 and history, kings as protagonists of, 80 and language, 34–37 and learnedness, 97–100 and letters, 106 and material metaphors for writing, 57 and sources, 151 and textual presence, 181 and written text versus aural/oral presentation, 108 saints, 60, 75, 120, 159 Saladin, Sultan, 95–96, 117, 197 Sanders, Barry, 13 Schäfer, Ursula, 50

217

Seibt, Ferdinand, 16 Shoaf, Richard Allen, 60 Six Ages of the World, 69–70 Southern Cursor poet, 5, 18, 26–29, 34, 53 and audience, 39–41 and elision of ‘I’, 5, 27, 34, 54, 61, 62, 68, 88, 176, 177, 179, 196 and framing of text, 174–79 and history, 67–68 and history, kings as protagonists of, 87–88 and sources, 27 and textual presence, 61–62 and the suppression of authorial persona, 5, 27, 34, 54, 61, 62, 68, 88, 176, 177, 179, 196 speaking text, 31, 50–53, 134, 137, 139–42 Spearing, A. C., 8, 56, 80, 120, 139 Spiegel, Gabrielle M., 64, 65, 90, 147 Stock, Brian, 31, 32, 59, 105 Strohm, Paul, 39, 57, 120 Sullens, Idelle, 2, 19, 20, 21, 24, 25, 76, 86, 101, 124–25, 129, 131, 133, 135, 137, 140, 142, 151, 160–62, 167, 170 Summerfield, Thea, 16–23, 64, 75, 169 Taliesin, 72, 73 Tatlock, J. S. P., 167 Taylor, John, 9, 16, 18, 20, 21, 69, 96, 99, 105, 124 Thompson, John J., 5, 18, 26, 27, 29, 41, 67, 156, 165, 179, 196 Tiller, Kenneth, 57, 121, 122 Turville-Petre, Thorlac, 3, 17, 23, 32, 44, 45, 66, 74, 144, 165 Vortigern, 84, 85, 100, 114, 161, 192 Wace, 2, 4, 10, 12, 17, 21, 27, 39, 42, 44, 71–77, 85–86, 91, 92, 94, 95, 100, 103–6, 108, 109, 112– 17, 122–25, 129–30, 137, 135–

218 38, 146–62, 166–73, 181, 186– 94, 197, 199 and authority, 137 and gestures of authorship, 150, 191, 193, 194 and sources, 149–50 and textual presence, 12, 189–94 Weiss, Judith, 12, 137, 138, 162, 172 White, Hayden, 9, 11, 12, 15, 22, 119, 132, 171

Index William of Malmesbury, 21, 132, 143, 160 William the Conqueror, 4, 10, 21, 81, 82, 88, 93, 148, 196 Wogan-Browne, Jocelyn, 3, 17, 38 Zumthor, Paul, 3, 6, 7, 13–15, 38, 41, 68, 69, 92, 120, 121, 179–81, 189 and mouvance, 14–16, 19, 31, 46