Episcopal Power and Ecclesiastical Reform in the German Empire: Tithes, Lordship, and Community, 950-1150 9781139018050

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E P I S C O PA L P OW E R A N D E C C L E S I A S T I C A L REFORM IN THE GERMAN EMPIRE Focusing on the way bishops in the eleventh century used the ecclesiastical tithe – church taxes – to develop or reorder ties of loyalty and dependence within their dioceses, this book ofers a new perspective on episcopacy in medieval Germany and Italy. Using three broad case studies from the dioceses of Mainz, Salzburg, and Lucca in Tuscany, John Eldevik places the social dynamics of collecting the church tithe within current debates about social change in the eleventh century and the so-called feudal revolution, and analyses a key economic institution, the medieval tithe, as a social and political phenomenon. By examining episcopal churches and their possessions not in institutional terms, but as social networks which bishops were obliged to negotiate and construct over time using legal, historiographical, and inter-personal means, this comparative study casts fresh light on the history of early medieval society. J ohn Eldevi k is an assistant professor of history at Hamilton College in Clinton, New York. In addition to articles and reviews in a range of international journals, he is the author of Medieval Germany: Reasearch and Resources, a reference guide to medieval German history published by the German Historical Institute in Washington, DC.

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Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought Fourth Series General Editor: ro samond mckitte ri ck Professor of Medieval History, University of Cambridge, and Fellow of Sidney Sussex College

Advisory Editors: christine carpe nte r Professor of Medieval English History, University of Cambridge

jonathan she pard

The series Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought was inaugurated by G. G. Coulton in 1921; Professor Rosamond McKitterick now acts as General editor of the Fourth Series, with Professor Christine Carpenter and Dr Jonathan Shepard as advisory editors. The series brings together outstanding work by medieval scholars over a wide range of human endeavour extending from political economy to the history of ideas. A list of titles in the series can be found at: www.cambridge.org/medievallifeandthought

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E P I S C O PA L P OW E R A N D ECCLESIASTICAL REFORM IN THE GERMAN EMPIRE Tithes, Lordship, and Community, 950–1150

J OHN ELDEVI K Hamilton College

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camb ridg e unive r sity p re ss Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Mexico City Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9780521193467 © John Eldevik 2012 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press. First published 2012 Printed in the United States of America A catalog record for this publication is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data Eldevik, John. Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire : tithes, lordship and community, 950–1150 / John Eldevik. p. cm. – (Cambridge studies in medieval life and thought) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-521-19346-7 1. Tithes – Germany – History. 2. Episcopacy – History. 3. Patronage, Ecclesiastical. 4. Church history – Middle Ages, 600–1500. I. Title. BV771.E63 2012 282′.4309021–dc23 2012006884 ISBN 978-0-521-19346-7 Hardback Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Web sites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Web sites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

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CONT ENT S

List of Maps and Figures Acknowledgements Abbreviations A Note on Names and Translations

page vi vii xi xiv

I ntroduc ti on: B ishop s, Powe r, and M e dieval S oci ety: A C omparative Ap proach

1

1 Th e Soc i al Wor lds of the E ccle siastical Tith e

34

2 T ith e s, B i sh ops, and S ociety in F rankish Europe

62

3 Landscape s of E piscopal A uthority: L ucca, M ai n z, and S al zburg

103

4 D i aboli c C ont racts : The Leasing of P I E V I and Pe rc e p tions of Orde r and Powe r i n Ear ly M e di eval Italy

139

5 Pi ety, Powe r, and Me mory: B ishops and Tithe s in th e D i oce se of S al zburg

17 9

6 Th e St ru g gle f or T ithe s in an Age of T ransition

215

Conclusion

256

Bibliography Index

268 305

v

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MAPS A ND F IGURES

MAPS

1 3.1 3.2 3.3

The German Empire under the Ottonians and Salians Thuringia and the Diocese of Mainz Bavaria and the Diocese of Salzburg Western Tuscany and the Diocese of Lucca

page xv 104 113 128

FIGURES

4.1 The Family of Donnuccio and the Lords of Porcari, c.900–1070 5.1 The Eppensteiner, c.950–1122

162 200

vi

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ACKNOWL EDGEMEN TS

The ecclesiastical tithe was a debt owed in the Middle Ages by all members of a Christian community to their priests and bishops. Tithing provided for the material infrastructure that allowed the clergy to confer its spiritual beneits upon a community. As my family and those who have known me since graduate school can testify, this project has gestated for many, many years through shifting professional and personal fortunes and across several states and continents. Along the way, I have accumulated many debts of my own to those who conferred the beneits of their wisdom upon me. I can only hope that the present study ofers something of value to repay those eforts and remind the reader that despite the sage advice and constructive criticism so many have ofered over the years, the errors and infelicities that no doubt remain are my responsibility alone. This book is based – very loosely – on my 2001 UCLA dissertation, supervised by Patrick J. Geary, which was titled AYoke We Could Not Bear: Episcopal Lordship and the Politics of Submitting Tithes in Medieval Germany. Completed in the emotionally and politically charged weeks following the September 11 attacks, it retained something of the rawness and uncertainty of the time in which it was written. Looking back, I probably could have chosen a more suitable – and marketable – subject on which to write than tithe disputes in medieval Germany. One eminent European scholar told me lat out that ‘he would not have given me that topic’. Yet Pat Geary, with his inimitable appreciation for the idiosyncratic, was willing to take a chance on not only a young, somewhat rakish student with mediocre Latin skills, but also on a dissertation that in scope and subject did not it the mould of what one was supposed to write on. I will always be grateful for his judicious advice, incisive criticism, and generous support over the years, and for never losing faith in this project and my career, even when my own conidence faltered at times. I also could not have completed this project without the training, guidance, vii

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Acknowledgements and warm encouragement from two other members of my dissertation committee, Richard H. Rouse and Piotr Górecki, whose friendship and mentorship over the years have amounted to far more than I can acknowledge here. Piotr in particular took many aspects of my dissertation and later chapter drafts that remained unfocused and poorly thought out, and over many cofees, beers, and sandwiches in cafes throughout Los Angeles, Claremont, and Riverside, gradually helped me order them into something resembling a coherent scholarly vision. A Fulbright Fellowship allowed me to spend one year of my graduate studies at the Institut für österreichische Geschichtsforschung in Vienna, Austria, where I was warmly received by its then-director, Herwig Wolfram, who invited me to participate in his graduate privatissimum and provided much helpful advice and many excellent references as I began working my way through the Institut’s extensive collections. Karl Brunner took a particular interest in my subject, providing much needed encouragement and feedback on my early forays into Bavarian history, and has graciously made the IOeG and its resources available to me on subsequent visits to Vienna during his tenure as director. In 2002–3, I was able to further reine and revise my thesis while pursuing a licentiate degree at the Pontiical Institute for Mediaeval Studies with a post-doctoral fellowship from the Mellon Foundation. There I irst decided to expand my project to include the tithes of the diocese of Lucca and produced a licentiate thesis that would become the ifth chapter of this book. My work in Toronto beneited immeasurably from the close critical and editorial attention of my readers James K. Farge, C.S.B., and Isabelle Cochelin of the University of Toronto History Department. Roger Reynolds and Edouard Jeanneau placed their formidable expertise in theology and canon law at my disposal as well, sharing both their knowledge and wonderful anecdotes and insights gleaned from decades of experience in their ields. The late and deeply missed Virginia Brown was at the Pontiical Institute for what seemed an all-too-brief semester during my fellowship year, but in that time was a gracious and learned source of information, insight, and delightful encouragement on all matters Italian and paleographical. On research trips to Italy, the staf of the Dipartimento di medievistica at the University of Pisa (now within the Dipartimento di Storia) kindly allowed me access to their reading room and to the unpublished editions of the Lucchese charters kept there, and the Bibliotheca and Archivio archievescovile in Lucca likewise provided a congenial setting in which to examine the medieval manuscripts and charters of the diocese. Throughout Germany, Italy, Austria, Canada, and the United States, archivists, librarians, and scholars aided me with questions, queries, and viii

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Acknowledgements problems related to my subject and sources, while others read and commented upon drafts of the book or various portions thereof. I wish to thank the two anonymous readers for Cambridge University Press who gave my manuscript a far more appreciative and thorough review than I could have hoped for and took the time to grapple in an intelligent way with both the strong and weak points in my work. I am equally grateful to Elizabeth Friend-Smith at Cambridge who showed tremendous patience and understanding as she guided me through the editorial process. Early on, Giles Constable and Stefan Weinfurter read and ofered highly constructive comments on my dissertation manuscript that sharpened my understanding of the material and helped me avoid a number of careless blunders along the way. Chris Wickham and Maureen Miller diligently commented on early versions of my chapter on Lucca, ofering cogent insights as well as astute critiques and suggestions for improvement. The wonderful group of scholars and students in the California Medieval History Seminar never failed to respond to the several chapter drafts I submitted there with both a sharp critical eye and warm encouragement. During my tenure as a visiting assistant professor at Pomona College, 2006–10, I was privileged to enjoy the collegial support of a distinguished scholarly community and a department that went to generous lengths to help me realize the completion of my work. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to the whole history department, but particularly to Kenneth Baxter Wolf, Sam Yamashita, Miguel Tinker-Salas, Robert L. Woods, and our administrative coordinator, Gina Espinoza. The interlibrary loan department at Honnold Library retrieved all manner of material for my work from just about every major collection in North America. In Claremont, I was welcomed into a wonderful community of medievalists at Pomona and the other Claremont Colleges who ofered moral support and scholarly guidance on many occasions. Nancy Van Deusen of the Claremont Graduate University was a tireless advocate for our ield throughout the Five Colleges, and understood well the critical importance of community and sociability to good scholarship. My art history colleagues George Gorse and Jud Emerick generously shared their knowledge and experience throughout my time at Pomona, and afternoon drinks with Shane Bjornlie, Jacob Latham, and Meg Worley at The Press helped keep things in perspective when the pressures of teaching and writing seemed overwhelming. My greatest debt, however, has been to my family. Through all of this, my wife, Madeleine La Cotera, has stood by me and this project with the patience and endurance of a saint. The inal stages of this book were completed during a marvellous and daunting year when we adopted two ix

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Acknowledgements beautiful girls, Cloee and Mistee, and moved across the country to a new job. None of this would have been possible without her. My parents, Jarle and Marjorie Eldevik, have been, along with Madeleine, steady sources of love and encouragement over the years as well, as have my in-laws Toña and Luis La Cotera. This book is for all of them. Clinton, New York May 2011

x

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A BBR EVIATIONS

AAL AKKR ANF AQ Atti del 5. Congresso CCCM CCSL CDF Dizionario EME FMS HRG HZ I ceti dirigenti LMA Memorie e documenti MDC MGH AA Capit.

Archivio Archievescovile di Lucca Archiv für katholisches Kirchenrecht Ante-Nicene Fathers Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters Atti del 5. Congresso Internazionale di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo (Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’ Alto Medioevo, 1973) Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalia Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Codex Diplomaticus Fuldensis Emanuele Repetti (ed.), Dizionario geograico isico storico della Toscana, 6 vols. (1833–43) Florence Early Medieval Europe Frühmittelalterliche Studien Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte Historische Zeitschrift I Ceti dirigenti dell’età comunale nei secoli XII e XIII : Atti del II convegno: Firenze, 14–15 dicembre 1979 (1982). Pisa: Pacini Editore Lexikon des Mittelalters Memorie e documenti per servire all’istoria del ducato di Lucca Monumenta Historica Ducatus Carinthiae Monumenta Germaniae Historica Auctores Antiquissimi Capitularia regum Francorum xi

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Abbreviations Capit. Episc. Capit., n.s. Concil. Const. DD DD Karol. DD Merov. Epist. Epist. Sel. Form. LdL LL LL nat. Germ. Necrol. Poet. SRM SS SRG SSRG, n.s. MGM MGSLk MIÖG MUB NCMH NPNF PL QEBG QFIAB Regesten Mainz SUB TAF UB Fulda

Capitularia episcoporum Capitularia regum Francorum, nova series Concilia aevi Karolini Constitutiones regum et imperatorum Diplomata regum et imperatorum Diplomata Karolinorum Diplomata regum Francorum e stirpe Merovingica Epistulae Epistulae Selectae Formulae Libelli de lite imperatorum et pontiicum Leges Leges nationum Germanicarum Necrologiae et Libri Memoriales Poetae Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum Scriptores in Folio Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, nova series Monographien zur Geschichte des Mittelalters Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Salzburger Landeskunde Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung Mainzer Urkundenbuch New Cambridge Medieval History Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers Patrologia cursus completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, 221 vols, Paris (1844–55). Quellen und Eröterungen zur Bayerischen Geschichte, Neue Folge Quellen und Forschungen aus Italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken Regesta archiepiscoporum Maguntinensium Salzburger Urkundenbuch Traditiones et Antiquitates Fuldenses Urkundenbuch des Klosters Fulda xii

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Abbreviations UB Hersfeld VMPIG ZRG g.A. k.A

Urkundenbuch des Klosters Hersfeld Veröfentlichungen des Max-Planck Instituts für Geschichte Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte germanistische Abteilung kanonistische Abteilung

xiii

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Map 1 The German Empire under the Ottonians and Salians.

xv

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Introduction

BISHOP S, POWER , A ND MEDIEVAL SOCIETY: A COMPA R AT IVE APPROACH

In his Annals, eleventh-century chronicler Lampert of Hersfeld describes a contentious scene at a royal assembly held in the town of Erfurt in 1073 in which the archbishop of Mainz, Siegfried I, demanded that the monasteries of Hersfeld and Fulda render tithes from churches within their domains to the diocesan church.1 The abbots of the two monasteries – jealously guarding long-standing papal and royal immunities – refused to acknowledge the bishop’s rights, but, under pressure from King Henry IV, ofered to partition their tithes with the bishop according to canonical custom. The bishop latly refused, saying that while previous bishops had been indulgent on this matter, as though giving milk to children, he would now demand that they receive the solid food of ecclesiastical discipline and pay their tithes.2 After a bitter debate, the bishop and the abbots each inally conceded some ground and reached an agreement wherein the parish tithes would be divided equally. Following the agreement with the monasteries, a number of lay lords in Thuringia also conceded tithes from their estates to the archbishop. The so-called Thuringian tithe dispute actually persisted for a long time after this. The monasteries and the Thuringians eventually reneged on their promises and what little Siegfried had hoped to gain was lost in the Saxon uprising of 1074 – which Lampert for his part alleges was instigated in no small part by the bishop and the king’s attempt to extract tithes

1

2

Lampert of Hersfeld, Annales, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH SRG, 38 (Hannover, 1894), pp. 141–4. Lampert, Annales, p. 143. ‘… scilicet precessores suos sua aetate pro suo prbitratu aecclesiae Dei moderatos fuisse, eosque rudibus in ide auditoribus et pene adhuc neophitis lac potum dedisse, non escam, et sapient dispensation multa indulsisse, quae processu temporis, dum in ide convaluissent, sucessorum suorum industria resecari vellent. Se autem iam adulta vel pocius senescente aecclesia spiritualia comparare spiritualibus, nec iam parvulis lac, sed perfectis solidum cibum ministrare atque a iliis aecclesiae leges aecclesiasticas exigere’. The allusion to milk and spiritual food is from 1 Corinthians 2:13.

1

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Introduction in the region.3 Well into the twelfth century, the archbishops of Mainz faced stif resistance in collecting tithes around Erfurt. The unfolding of this conlict, the journey from indulgence to strenuousness by the bishops of Mainz, and the clash of customary norms and new legal discipline are part of a larger story about the reordering of European society in the eleventh century as old ideas about legitimate authority were challenged by new claims to power and the imperatives of reform.4 Bishops across the German empire in the later eleventh century, not only in Mainz, were increasingly intent on exercising their authority in new ways that focused in particular on the tighter control of landed resources, such as the tithe.To do so, they came into conlict with entrenched monastic and aristocratic interests that had previously held tithes on good terms from bishops, but also wished to assert more exclusive rights over them. This book is an attempt to understand changing perceptions of order, lordship, and community in the German empire between the tenth and twelfth centuries and the role bishops played in a period that many historians have observed marked a critical transition in the development of European society, economy, and culture.5 To do so, it examines various types of interaction, conlict, and negotiation between the episcopacy, laity, and monastic institutions in the dioceses of Mainz, Salzburg, and Lucca between roughly 950 and 1150. My observations are gleaned primarily from a detailed analysis of one issue in particular, the ecclesiastical tithe, that I argue is of singular importance in unpacking social, economic, and political relationships between a diocesan church and the leading families, institutions, and communities it served. The humdrum details of the medieval tithing regime may seem an odd point of departure for asking questions about something as complex and weighty as episcopal lordship or social change across such a large swathe of time and geography. As I aim to show, however, a creative study of this ostensibly mundane aspect of episcopal administration renders a surprisingly rich picture of the social landscape of a region and the contours of interest and authority that deined it. My assertion is that around the year 1050, the nature of episcopal authority and bishops’ perceptions of their relationship to land and people underwent a profound change that shaped the nascent ecclesiastical reform movement and transformed the nature 3 4

5

Lampert, Annales, p. 172. John Eldevik, ‘Episcopal Lordship and the Politics of Submitting Tithes in Medieval Germany:The Thuringian Tithe Dispute in Social Context’, Viator 33 (2003), pp. 40–56. R. I. Moore, The First European Revolution, c. 970–1215 (Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 2000); Patrick J. Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millenium (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1994); Robert S. Lopez, The Commercial Revolution of the Middle Ages, 950–1350 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1976).

2

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Introduction of the episcopacy and bishops’ relationship with the larger society. As I explain in the chapters that follow, isolating the precise factors driving this change is a complicated venture, but I hope that the overall work can further illuminate recent discussions in medieval historiography about social and religious change in the eleventh century. hi storiog raphi cal contexts : b i sh op s, p owe r, and s oci ety around the year 10 0 0 Social and political change in post-Carolingian Europe has been one of the more contested topics in medieval history studies over the past several decades.The main point of departure has been the legacy of Georges Duby’s famous study of the Mâconnais region of Burgundy.6 In it, Duby posited a dramatic collapse of post-Carolingian ‘public order’ – which he deined largely in terms of courts and assemblies convened by a count – in the late tenth and early eleventh century in Western Europe, accompanied by the rise of a new social order dominated, often violently, by petty castellans who imposed their authority on the surrounding countryside. Duby’s thinking about social change resonated with that of a contemporary German scholar, Karl Schmid, whose research on monastic commemorative literature in southern Germany led him to conclude that during the irst half of the eleventh century, aristocratic families dramatically reoriented their genealogical identities, converging on newly conceived patrilineages rather than broader, cognatic kin groups.7 Landmark regional studies of other areas in Europe and the Mediterranean from the 1970s onwards appeared to paint a similar picture of signiicant social and economic change, though others, most notably Dominique Barthélemy in his research on the Vendômois, suggested fundamental continuities.8 As 6

7

8

Georges Duby, La société aux XIe et XIIe siècles dans la région mâconnaise (Paris, A. Colin, 1953); Stephen D. White, ‘Tenth-Century Courts at Mâcon and the Perils of Structuralist History: Re-reading Burgundian Judicial Institutions’, in Conlict in Medieval Europe: Changing Perspectives on Society and Culture, ed.Warren C. Brown and Piotr Górecki (Aldershot, UK and Burlington,VT, Ashgate, 2003), 37–68; R. I. Moore,‘Duby’s Eleventh Century’, History 69 (1984), pp. 36–49. See too Jean-Francois Lemarignier,‘La dislocation du “pagus” et le problème des “consuetudines” (Xe–XIe siècles)’, in Mélanges d’Histoire du Moyen Âge pour Louis Halphen (Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1951), pp. 401–10. Karl Schmid, ‘Über die Struktur des Adels im früheren Mittelalter’, Jahrbuch für fränkische Landesforschung 19 (1959), pp. 1–23; Karl Schmid, ‘Zur Problematik von Familie, Sippe, und Geschlecht: Haus und Dynastie beim mittelalterlichen Adel’, Zeitschrift für Geschichte des Oberrheins 105 (1957), pp. 1–62; John B. Freed, The Counts of Falkenstein: Noble Self-Consciousness in TwelfthCentury Germany,Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 74: 6 (Philadelphia, American Philosophical Society, 1984), pp. 1–8; Constance Brittain Bouchard, Those of My Blood: Constructing Noble Families in Medieval Francia (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000). Pierre Bonnassie, La Catalogne du milieu du Xe à la in du XIe siècle: croissance et mutations d’une société, Publications de l’Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail : Série A, 23; 29 (Toulouse, Association

3

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Introduction Barthélemy’s ideas began to gain ground against the so-called mutationist thesis in the early 1990s, American medievalist Thomas N. Bisson sparked a major debate when he asserted in a series of articles that the feudal mutation imagined by Duby – and called into question by Barthélemy – was not merely a change in the exercise of justice, but a revolution in the exercise of lordship more broadly: the rise of a new political order based on the violent imposition of control over land and people by the castellan class.9 In a more recent elaboration of his ideas, Bisson has argued that the experience with chaotic castellan violence in the tenth and eleventh centuries across Europe was the primary impetus for the creation of the governing institutions of the high medieval royal state (courts, parliaments, etc.) and other political achievements we associate with the so-called Renaissance of the Twelfth Century.10 One of the respondents to Bisson’s thesis about lordship and power in the high Middle Ages was the late Timothy Reuter, who noted that questions about the origins of banal lordship and the feudal revolution were products of the peculiarly Franco-centric gaze of French and Anglophone medieval studies. East of the Rhine, in German lands, the chronology and contexts of social and political change were quite diferent.11 There was no dramatic collapse of royal rule or public order (kings had little control over counts and local lords to begin with) and the rise of territorial, seigneurial lordships was a feature of the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. Recent Anglophone scholarship on the post-Carolingian period in Western Europe has both illuminated and further complicated the mutationist thesis about justice, kinship, and social change in the early eleventh century. In regional studies based largely on the records of important monastic institutions, historians like Matthew Innes, Marios Costambeys, Richard Barton, Hans Hummer, and Robert Berkhofer have shown that stark delineations between public order and

9

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des publications de l’Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail, 1975–6); Pierre Toubert, Les Structures du Latium Médievale (Rome, École Francaise de Rome, 1973); Guy Bois, The Transformation of the Year 1000:The Village of Lournand from Antiquity to Feudalism, translated by Jean Birrell (Manchester, UK, St. Martin’s Press, 1992); Dominique Barthélemy, La société dans le comté de Vendôme de l’an mil au 14e siècle (Paris, Fayard, 1993). Thomas N. Bisson, ‘The “Feudal Revolution”’, Past and Present 142 (1994), pp. 6–42; Thomas N. Bisson, ‘Medieval Lordship’, Speculum 70 (1995), pp. 743–59; Dominique Barthélemy, ‘Debate: The Feudal Revolution’, Past and Present 152 (1996), pp. 196–205; Stephen D. White, ‘Debate: The Feudal Revolution’, Past and Present 142 (1996), pp. 206–23; Timothy Reuter, ‘The Medieval Nobility in Twentieth-Century Historiography’, in Companion to Historiography, ed. Michael Bentley (London and New York, Routledge, 1997), pp. 177–201; Chris Wickham, ‘Debate: The Feudal Revolution’, Past and Present 155 (1997), pp. 196–208. Thomas N. Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century: Power, Lordship and the Origins of European Government (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2009). Reuter, ‘Medieval Nobility’, pp. 189–92.

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Introduction private lordship in the early Middle Ages were not always as clear as we might think – even during the Carolingian period – and that focusing on the construction and mediation of power relations through processes of dispute resolution, monastic patronage, and the adopting of new administrative strategies allows for a more nuanced contextualization of violence, feuds, and other phenomena typically viewed as signaling a major crisis in a society.12 While these studies and others like them have come to varying conclusions about degrees of continuity and change in this period – indeed, underscoring such variation has been an important contribution – they have done so by relying principally on sources generated by, and focused on, monastic institutions.13 This does not in any way undercut their conclusions, and given that monasteries produced the great bulk of surviving texts of any kind for this period, they remain the principal source of our evidence. On the other hand, bishops and the institution of the episcopacy have remained relatively underdeveloped subjects in recent medieval social history. In one of his last published essays, Timothy Reuter suggested that a broadly conceived history of the episcopacy could open important new vistas onto many of the changes in Western European society in the decades around the irst millennium.14 Reuter pointed to the numerous ways bishops in the eleventh century established themselves as leaders within their dioceses, creating out of spiritual and secular lordships a unique kind of charismatic, non-royal rulership that shaped medieval society in profound ways throughout the Middle Ages. In this prescient article, Reuter synthesized a number of ideas and perspectives on bishops that had been taking shape in newer monographic and edited studies, but that had not really been made to speak to each other or to other issues in the ield in a coherent way. In contrast to kings, counts, and castellans (or even monks), bishops are seemingly everywhere, yet nowhere in current histories of the tenth and eleventh centuries. While larger surveys of the period discuss bishops to one degree or another, there have been until recently comparatively few works treating the 12

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Matthew Innes, State and Society in the Early Middle Ages: The Middle Rhine Valley 400–1000 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2000); Marios Costambeys, Power and Patronage in Early Medieval Italy: Local Society, Italian Politics and the Abbey of Farfa, c.700–900 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2008) Richard E. Barton, Lordship in the County of Maine, c.890–1160 (Woodbridge, Sufolk and Rochester, NY, Boydell & Brewer, 2004); Hans Hummer, Politics and Power in the Early Middle Ages: Alsace and the Frankish Realm, 600–1000 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2006); Robert F. Berkhofer, Day of Reckoning: Power and Accountability in Medieval France (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). Barbara Rosenwein et al., ‘Monks and their Enemies’, Speculum 66:4 (1991), pp. 764–96. Timothy Reuter, ‘Nobles and Others: the Social and Cultural Expression of Power Relations in the Middle Ages’, in Nobles and Nobility in Medieval Europe, ed. Anne J. Duggan (Woodbridge, Sufolk and Rochester, NY, Boydell & Brewer, 2000), pp. 85–98.

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Introduction episcopacy, or even individual bishops, as a discrete subject between 950 and 1150.15 Stephen Fanning’s 1988 study of the life and times of bishop Hubert of Angers (1006–46) probably comes closest as an attempt to situate a bishop in a social world and relect upon its signiicance for understanding a period of feudal change.16 More recently,Anna Trumbore Jones has examined the bishops of a speciic region over time – in this case, Aquitaine from the later ninth to the mid-eleventh century – in order to map the evolving intersections of episcopal and lordly power there in the post-Carolingian period.17 A comparable study on an early medieval German diocese was not forthcoming until the appearance of Giuseppi Albertoni’s book on episcopal lordship and local society in tenth- and eleventh-century Tyrol that ofered a precedent – setting new evaluation and interpretation of the Traditionsbuch of the bishops of Säben-Brixen.18 Albertoni describes the creation of an episcopal domain straddling the Alps in southern Tyrol over the course of the tenth and eleventh centuries and how its maintenance required the bishops to appropriate new forms of economic administration as well as lordship. The bishops’ demand for administrative and military service to maintain this lordship contributed to a signiicant reordering of the region’s politics, which then came to an abrupt end during the War of Investitures. A number of medievalists working on Italy, however, represented strongly among David Herlihy’s students, have produced studies of bishops and their diocesan communities which rely on a variety of comparative 15

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Michel Parisse, ‘Les évêques et la noblesse: continuité et retournement (XIe–XIIe siècles)’, in Chiesa e mondo feudale nei secoli x-xii. Atti della diodecesima settimana internazionale di studio Mendola, 24–28 agosto 1992 (Milan,Vita e Pensiero, 1995), pp. 61–85; The Bishop Re-Formed: Studies in Episcopal Culture and Power in the Central Middle Ages, ed. John Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones (Aldershot and Burlington, VT, Ashgate, 2007); Mary Frances Giandrea, Episcopal Culture in Late AngloSaxon England (Woodbridge, Sufolk and Rochester, NY, Boydell & Brewer, 2007); Rosamond McKitterick, ‘The Church’, in NCMH, vol. III, ed. Timothy Reuter (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 130–62 is a good general overview of the period. Stephen Fanning, A Bishop and his World before the Gregorian Reform: Hubert of Angers 1006–1047, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 78:1 (Philadelphia, American Philosophical Society, 1988). Fanning, writing just prior to the outbreak of the great disputes on the feudal mutation, for the most part appropriates the traditional model of the decline of public order and the rise of feudal lordship in the early eleventh century to frame his study. Compare to Constance Brittain Bouchard, Sprituality and Administration: The Role of the Bishop in Twelfth Century Auxerre (Cambridge, Medieval Academy of America, 1979). Anna Trumbore Jones, Noble Lord, Good Shepherd: Episcopal Power and Piety in Aquitaine, 877–1050 (Leiden and Boston, Brill, 2009). Giuseppi Albertoni, Die Herrschaft des Bischofs: Macht und Gesellschaft zwischen Etsch und Inn im Mittelalter (9.-11. Jahrhuntert) (Bolzano, Athesia, 2003); Two other important studies of episcopal power in German lands, but with somewhat diferent focal points, include Georg Jenal, Erzbischof Anno II von Köln (1056–75) und sein politisches Wirken, MGM, 8 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1974); Benjamin Arnold, Princes and Territories in Medieval Germany (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1991).

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Introduction source analyses to lesh out not only the social, political, and economic dimensions of the bishop’s oice, but also particular aspects of the local society in which the bishop operated.19 One advantage of works like these, as well as Fanning’s work on Hubert of Angers and Albertoni’s work on Säben-Brixen, is that they were able to use the episcopacy as an entry point onto a broader social history of a region, typically deined by the diocese and lands under the control of the bishop and his family.The oice of the bishop served as a critical nexus for numerous interests that could be traced through gifts and exchanges of land, liturgical commemoration, and literary artefacts. Unfortunately, studies focusing on a particular bishop or a particular diocese are also restricted in size and scope and necessarily limit the conclusions one can draw about phenomena over larger areas or periods. While many aspects of episcopal history in the German empire have been treated within the framework of regional social history, or Landesgeschichte, the subject of the episcopacy in a comparative context has been viewed typically within other registers of political, institutional, and cultural history, particularly the paradigm of the imperial church system. In its classic form, articulated by scholars like Leo Santifaller and Josef Fleckenstein, the idea of an imperial church system served as a way of framing the episcopacy between the tenth and twelfth centuries (and far beyond in some cases) as an institution situated between the structures of the monarchy and the aristocracy.20 Following the death of Louis the Child, the last Carolingian ruler in the east, and the rise of the newly independent and assertive regional duchies, interventions in the episcopate – particularly the process of appointing and investing bishops in their sees – became the primary means by which the new Ottonian emperors exerted control over the church and enhanced their own authority as monarchs. By further ofering bishops (and abbots) immunities for their 19

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E.g. George W. Dameron, Episcopal Power and Florentine Society 1000–1320 (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1991); Maureen Miller, The Formation of a Medieval Church: Ecclesiastical Change in Verona, 950–1150 (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1993); Steven Epstein, Genoa and the Genoese, 958–1528 (Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1996). Although he was not a student of Herlihy, I would also add to this list the work of Duane Osheim, particularly An Italian Lordship:The bishopric of Lucca in the Late Middle Ages (Los Angeles and Berkeley, University of California Press, 1977). A retrospective overview of the key literature, and the history of the concept, is provided by Oskar Köhler, ‘Die ottonische Reichskirche: Ein Forschungsbericht’, in Adel und Kirche. Gerd Tellenbach zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Josef Fleckenstein and Karl Schmid (Freiburg, Herder, 1968), pp. 141–204. See too Leo Santifaller, Zur Geschichte des ottonisch-salischen Reichskirchensystems, Sitzungsberichte der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-Hist. Kl., 229: 1 (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1954); Josef Fleckenstein, ‘Problematik und Gestalt der ottonischsalischen Reichskirche’, in Kirche und Reich vor dem Investiturstreit, ed. Karl Schmid (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1985), pp. 83–98.

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Introduction domains, and combining these privileges with secular oices and military obligations, the German emperors efectively appropriated the church as a branch of the royal state and deployed its resources as a counterbalance against the interests of the regional nobility throughout their realm.Then, according to the traditional model, the reforms of Gregory VII and the papacy’s inal victory over the institution of royal investiture of bishops in 1122 efectively broke the link between royal and episcopal power, setting the church on a path independent from that of the secular state. Even as this appears to map rather well onto a narrative about discontinuities between the Carolingian and Ottonian period popularized in the debates about feudalism and the rise of castellan lordship, it has been recognized for some time now that this construct had a number of weaknesses.While Ottonian bishops were certainly closely involved with royal afairs, it is not certain that this can be characterized in the terms of a rationalized system that seamlessly wove together the functions of royal and ecclesiastical administration.21 Furthermore, as recent research by Mayake de Jong, Boris Bigott, and Monika Suchan has shown, bishops had been well integrated into royal government beginning in the ninth century, since at least the reign of Louis the Pious, if not earlier.22 Roland Pauler concluded in his study of the Italian episcopate in the Ottonian period that the tenth century was characterized by continuity more than change; the German emperors pursued what might be called a laissezfaire approach to Italy (outside Rome) and did not actively intervene in diocesan politics the way they did in German lands.23 Stefen Patzold’s recent study of the Frankish episcopate in the early Middle Ages has 21

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Some important critiques include Timothy Reuter, ‘The ‘Imperial Church System’ of the Ottonian and Salian Rulers: A Reconsideration’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 33:3 (1982), pp. 347–74; Eugenio Dupré-Theseider, ‘Vescovi e città nell’Italia precomunale’, in Italia Sacra, vol. 5, Vescovi e Diocesi in Italia nel Medioevo. Atti del 2. Convegno di Storia della Chiesa in Italia (Padua, Antenore, 1964), pp. 55–109, esp. pp. 92–5; Rudolf Schiefer, ‘Der geschichtliche Ort der ottonisch-salischen Reichskirchenpolitik’, Vorträge der Nordrhein-Westfälische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Geisteswissenschaften, G 352, (Opladen, Westdeutscher Verlag, 1998). Boris Bigott, Ludwig der Deutsche und die Reichskirche im Ostfränkischen Reich (826–876) (Husum, Matthiesen Verlag, 2002); Monika Suchan, ‘Kirchenpolitik des Königs oder Königspolitik der Kirche? ZumVerhältnis Ludwigs des Frommen und des Episkopates während der Herrschaftskrisen um 830’, Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 111:1 (2000), pp. 1–27. On church-state relations in the Carolingian period more generally, especially in the early ninth century, see Mayake de Jong, ‘Sacrum palatium et ecclesia. L’autorité religieuse royale sous les Carolingiens (790–840), Annales H.S.S. 58 (2003), pp. 1243–69; eadem, ‘Ecclesia and the Early Medieval Polity’, in Staat im frühen Mittelalter, ed. Stuart Airlie, Walter Pohl, and Helmut Reimitz, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 11 (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006), pp. 113–32; eadem, ‘The State of the Church: Ecclesia and Early Medieval State Formation’, in Der frühmittelalterliche Staat – Europäische Perspektiven, ed. Walter Pohl and Veronika Wieser, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 16 (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), pp. 241–54. Roland Pauler, Das Regnum Italiae in ottonischer Zeit: Markgrafen, Grafen und Bischöfe als politische Kräfte (Tübingen, Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1982).

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Introduction also emphasized that to understand the position and signiicance of the bishop in his contemporary society, it is necessary to look at a fuller range of activities and representations beyond those which explicitly concern their oicial duties or competencies.24 Indeed, one of the central insights of Patzold’s work was to problematize not only the analytical categories used to study bishops in the past, but also the somewhat anachronistic distinction between ideas about secular versus spiritual authority. As Monika Suchan’s recent article suggests about bishops and kings in the ninth century, it is just as possible to speak of an ecclesiastical imperial system as an imperial church system.25 While episcopal and royal politics were interwoven at various levels, the careers of most bishops, even those closely attached to the royal court and the trans-regional nobility, tended to be far more enmeshed in the dynamics of local and regional politics over the broader span of their careers.26 As chancellors, special legates, or military commanders, bishops were indeed expected to bear the banner of imperial sovereignty. But the overlapping of their functions in those speciic contexts and the structuring of their relationships to other groups and institutions within their dioceses should not be taken for granted without further qualiication. When not acting in the context of royal government, bishops were pastors and regional potentates with command over a vast array of human and material resources.27 Burchard of Worms’ extensive eforts to assemble a practical manual of canon law for his diocese, or to codify rules governing conlict and administration within the episcopal familia, for example, give some idea of the range of issues facing a bishop in the eleventh century.28 While we cannot lose sight of the importance of royal – indeed, public – power in relation to the German and Italian episcopate in the early Middle Ages, it is equally important that we approach the problem of episcopal administration with as few programmatic assumptions as possible. The igure of the bishop was a multivalent one and while 24

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Stefen Patzold, Episcopus. Wissen über Bischöfe im Frankenreich des späten 8. bis frühen 10. Jahrhunderts, Mittelalter-Forschungen, 25 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 2008). Suchan, ‘Königspolitik der Kirche’, pp. 1–27. The tensions between the political obligations of many imperial bishops and local governance are illustrated by John Nightingale, ‘Bishop Gerard of Toul (963–94) and Attitudes to Episcopal Oice’, in Warriors and Churchmen in the High Middle Ages. Essays presented to Karl Leyser, ed. Timothy Reuter (London and Rio Grande, Hambledon Press, 1992), pp. 41–62. McKitterick, ‘The Church’, pp. 143–7. Compare Heinrich Fichtenau, Living in the Tenth Century: Mentalities and Social Orders, translated by Patrick J. Geary (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1991), pp. 121–3. See too Greta Austin, ‘Jurisprudence in the Service of Pastoral Care: The Decretum of Burchard of Worms’, Speculum 79 (2004), pp. 929–59, who observes that Burchard’s canon law collection was designed primarily to aid in the education of priests and the day-to-day pastoral care duties of a diligent clergy.

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Introduction rendering a complete picture of the bishop or the episcopate is not possible, a substantial amount can be learned about bishops and how they related to changes in the broader society by beginning with a more bottom-up approach to the issue. This does not mean simply a close study of episcopal land lordship or iscality using the traditional sources of social history, such as a cartulary or inventory. Instead, I want to understand bishops and their construction of lordship and power in far broader terms, and thus require not a particular source, but a particular practice to focus on. In the following section, I shall draw the preceding discussion of the historiography of the imperial episcopacy into a more detailed contextualization of the social history of the episcopacy, as well as the categories of analysis used here. conc e ptual contexts : p owe r and th e tithe Comparing forms of episcopal activity and administration of the tithe in the Middle Rhine, Tuscany, and Bavaria requires crossing and triangulating between a number of methodological and thematic boundaries. The Italian historiography on what was once referred to as Il secolo di ferro, particularly in the peninsula north of Rome, has generally embraced the idea of the Carolingian state coming to an end in the early tenth century and being replaced by smaller centres of seigneurial power, particularly those dominated by bishops.29 The world of the German lands north of the Alps in the tenth century has been construed quite diferently, however, making both the idea of feudal mutation and the sudden emergence of banal lordship a less useful analytical framework – if it is even at all appropriate elsewhere.30 The king remained a central igure in the eastern Frankish kingdom, but scholars have long recognized that inter-personal relations mediated by customary norms, rather than transpersonal institutions, deined public order.31 Over the past twenty years, 29

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Il secolo di ferro: mito e realtà del secolo X, Settimane di Studio, 38 (Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo, 1991); Giovanni Tabacco, The Struggle for Power in Medieval Italy, translated by Rosalind Brown Jensen (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 151–69; Giuseppi Sergi, ‘Le istitutzioni politiche del secolo XI: trasformazioni dell’apparato pubblico e nuove forme di potere’, in Il Secolo XI: una svolta? ed. Cinzio Violante and Johannes Fried (Bologna, Società editrice il Mulino, 1993), pp. 73–95. A good overview of the pertinent historiography is in Giovanni Tabacco, Dai re ai signori. Forme di trasmissione del potere nel Medioevo (Turin, Bollati Boringhieri, 2000). A recent critical reassessment – based on sources from Farfa in central Italy – is Costambeys’ Power and Patronage. For an examination of ecclesiastical institutions in this period, see Miller, Formation of a Medieval Church, pp. 73–95. Reuter, ‘Medieval Nobility’, pp. 187–91. Hans-Werner Goetz, Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbewusstsein im hohen Mittelalter (Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 1999), pp. 174–85; Helmut Beumann, ‘Zur Entwicklung transpersonaler Staatsvorstellung’, in Das Königtum: seine geistigen und rechtlichen Grundlagen. Mainauvorträge 1954, Vorträge und Forschungen, 3 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1954), pp. 185–224.

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Introduction a number of German scholars have proposed a model of rulership under the Ottonians and early Salians that relied on personal, social ties among the ruling house and high nobility – including important bishops and abbots – rather than authority inhering in formal, bureaucratic institutions.32 Implicit in this view is the idea that public authority expressed itself primarily through performative, ritualistic displays and ceremonies that reinforced royal sacrality while promoting consensus building and conlict resolution over coercive power.33 The igure of the bishop in this context appears somewhat Janus-like, occupying a socio-political space between the king and aristocracy and playing an important role as a mediator or intermediary between contesting interest groups and factions.34 The result is that we tend to perceive German bishops primarily in terms of their roles as political actors at the higher levels of imperial politics rather than as elites with more circumscribed local interests or as pastors whose roles as spiritual leaders and lords were not always clearly divorced from one another. A subsequent narrative predicated upon these assumptions about Ottonian politics is how the Salian and Staufen emperors in the later eleventh and twelfth centuries gradually altered this tradition and governed their realms more as leaders at the top of a feudal hierarchy and less as a ‘primus inter pares’ – something that may also explain the dramatic aristocratic uprisings against Henry IV in the 1070s.35 The ‘crisis of 32

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Gerd Althof, Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter: Kommunikation in Frieden und Fehde (Darmstadt, Primus Verlag, 1997); Hagen Keller, ‘Zum Charakter der “Staatlichkeit” zwischen karolingischer Reichsreform und hochmittelalterlichen Herrschaftsausbau’, FMS 23 (1989), pp. 248–64; David Warner, ‘Ritual and Memory in the Ottonian Reich’, Speculum 76 (2001), pp. 255–83. Recently David Bachrach has attempted to push back against the current consensus that early German kingship lacked centralized administrative institutions. See David S. Bachrach, ‘Exercise of Royal Power in Early Medieval Europe:The Case of Otto the Great, 936–73’, EME 17:4 (2009), pp. 389– 419. But compare Wolfgang Huschner, Transalpine Kommunikation im Mittelalter. Diplomatische, kulturelle und politische Wechselwirkungen zwischen Italien und dem nordalpinen Reich (9.-11. Jahrhundert), SMGH, 52 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2003). On the performative turn in medieval studies, see the collection by Jürgen Martschukat and Stefen Patzold (eds.), Geschichtswissenschaft und ‘Performative Turn’: Ritual, Inszenierung und Performanz vom Mittelalter bis zur Neuzeit, Norm und Struktur, 19 (Cologne and Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 2003), esp. pp. 12–18 and Frank Rexroth, ‘Rituale und Ritualismus in der historischen Mittelalterforschung: eine Skizze’, in Mediävistik im 21. Jahrhundert. Stand und Perspektiven der internationalen und interdisziplinären Mittelalterforschung, ed. Jörg Jarnut and Hans-Werner Goetz (Munich, Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2003), pp. 391–406. Stefen Patzold, ‘L’épiscopat du haut Moyen Âge du point de vue de la médiévistique allemande’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 48 (2005), pp. 341–58 at pp. 345–52; Sean Gilsdorf, ‘Bishops in the Middle: Mediatory Politics and the Episcopacy’, in The Bishop: Power and Piety at the First Millenium, ed. Sean Gilsdorf (Münster, Lit Verlag, 2004), pp. 51–74; Geneviève Bührer-Thierry, Evêques et pouvoir dans le royaume de Germanie: Les églises de Bavière et de Souabe, 876–973 (Paris, Picard, 1997); Rudolf Schiefer, ‘Der ottonische Reichsepiskopat zwischen Königtum und Adel’, FMS 23 (1989), pp. 291–301, provides a good overview of the scholarship to this date. Jutta Schlick, König, Fürsten und Reich (1056–1159) (Stuttgart, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 2001); Stefan Weinfurter, The Salian Century: Main Currents in an Age of Transition (Philadelphia, University of

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Introduction medieval Germany’, as Karl Leyser called it, was not the collapse of public order and the rise of petty castellans’ power within private domains of lordship, but the king and high nobility clashing over public rights and honours within the community of the realm.36 The view of German and imperial politics in the long eleventh century presented here is a compeling one. Indeed, the evidence presented in this study will show that the German and Italian bishops were caught up in this transformative period and emerged not into a world of feudal anarchy, but into a world where aspects of their administration and governance within the diocese that had previously not been thought of in terms of coercive power began to acquire the characteristics of a lordship. The phrase ‘thought of ’ is key here. Much as Mary Frances Giandrea has demonstrated how Norman historiographers both created and distorted the image of the Saxon church as backward and in need of correction, so do we have to be attuned in this case to the ways in which new structures of power were a function of new realities as well as corresponding new cultural norms that dictated how the past was conceived and power legitimated.37 It is also important to recognize, as Timothy Reuter cautioned in an important review article in 1994, that imagining the Ottonian and Salian worlds as fundamentally diferent based on a ritualized versus more rationalized exercise of power may prevent us from acknowledging those elements of the tenth-century world where power was exercised along institutional channels and those areas of Salian rulership that still relied heavily on performativity or ceremonial.38 It is therefore important that historians remain attuned to the resonances of power in society as relected in the sources (rather than only interpretive models), as well as the constructedness of theoretical concepts – both then and now. Indeed, the reasons for the prevailing interest in the way power could be exercised in ritualized or ‘staged’ interactions (Inszenierung) between negotiating parties lie in the complex, and often methodologically and politically problematic, roots of twentieth-century German social and constitutional history and have not escaped criticism.39 In addition to

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Pennsylvania Press, 1999); Karl Leyser, ‘Am Vorabend der ersten europäischen Revolution. Das 11. Jahrhundert als Umbruchzeit’, HZ 257 (1993), pp. 1–28. Karl Leyser, ‘The Crisis of Medieval Germany’, in Communications and Power in Medieval Europe, ed. Timothy Reuter (London, Hambledon, 1994), pp. 21–49. Giandrea, Episcopal Culture, pp. 7–34; Ovidio Capitani, ‘Storiograia e Riforma della chiesa in Italia’, in La Storiograia Altomediovale. Settimane di Studio, 17 (Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo, 1970), pp. 557–629. Timothy Reuter, ‘Pre-Gregorian Mentalities’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 45 (1994), pp. 465–74. John B. Freed, ‘Medieval German Social History: Generalizations and Particularism’, Central European History 25 (1992), pp. 1–26; James Van Horn Melton, ‘From Folk History to Structural

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Introduction Reuter’s caveats, Philippe Buc has argued that certain social anthropological constructs, particularly the idea of ‘ritual’, have been applied too cavalierly to early medieval texts.40 Reliance on such models threatens to replace the content of our sources with a concept derived from modern (and often anachronistic) anthropology, foreclosing a nuanced understanding of the text’s particular authorial and social situation.41 Others have raised problems with the way the concepts of lordship and power have been used to frame the history of the early medieval episcopacy and other ecclesiastical institutions, pointing out that these categories of analysis are frequently used as if their meanings were a priori.42 If we want to say something about what bishops did and why, however, it is still necessary to describe and analyse sources and documents in which they interacted with individuals and groups in both secular and religious contexts, and in a way that does not simplistically functionalize everything they did or impose a simplistic model to explain the inherent messiness of medieval society. At the same time, if we concede that we ought to resist reifying lordship as the use of coercive authority in a speciic administrative or legally instituted framework (e.g. ‘feudalism’ or ‘land lordship’), it requires us to be attuned to other vectors of textual and oral communication, gestures, and performativity that were used to articulate and exercise authority.43 One of the most signiicant ways power relations could be constructed was through the exchange of gifts or other tokens of patronage, alliance, or friendship.44 As noted previously, performative practices such as

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History: Otto Brunner (1898–1982) and the Radical-Conservative Roots of German Social History’, in Paths of Continuity: Central European Historiography from the 1930’s through the 1950’s, ed. Hartmut Lehman and James Van Horn Melton (Cambridge and New York, Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 263–92. Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Medieval Texts and Social Scientiic Theory (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 2001). Geofrey Koziol,‘The Dangers of Polemic: Is Ritual Still an Interesting Topic of Historical Study?’ EME 11:4 (2002), pp. 367–88 is a sharp rebuttal to Buc’s criticisms of historians who employ social anthropology in their work. Patzold, Episcopus, pp. 30–4; Ludolf Kuchenbuch, ‘Abschied von der “Grundherrschaft”: Ein Prüfgang durch das ostfränkisch-deutsche Reich, 950–1050’, ZRG. g.A 121 (2004), pp. 1–99. Hans-Werner Goetz, Moderne Mediävistik. Stand und Perspektiven der Mittelalterforschung (Darmstadt, Primus Verlag, 1999), pp. 193–8. Arnoud-Jan A. Bijsterveld, Do ut des: Gift Giving, Memoria, and Conlict Management in the Medieval Low Countries, Middeleeuwse studies en bronnen, 104 (Hilversum, Verloren, 2007); Lorenz Sebastian Benkmann, ‘Schenken als historisches Phänomen. Gewandelte Sichtweisen zum mittelalterlichen Schenken im Gang der Forschung’, in Moderne Mediävistik, pp. 206–12; Barbara Rosenwein, To Be the Neighbor of St. Peter (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1989); Patrick J. Geary, ‘Sacred Commodities: The Circulation of Relics’, in The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. Arjun Appadurai (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 169–94; Stephen D. White, Custom, Kinship and Gifts to the Saints: The Laudatio Parentum in Western France 1050–1150 (Chapel Hill, NC, University of North Carolina Press, 1988).

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Introduction these are not transparent structures. Yet their pervasiveness and importance can be inferred clearly from the sources. To paraphrase Wendy Davies, we have to look at patterns in the pieces of a diicult puzzle and draw some conclusions.45 Accordingly, we should understand power in terms that sociologist Michael Mann has deined broadly as ‘the ability to pursue and attain goals through the mastery of one’s environment’, including people (social power), that was highly difused in the early Middle Ages. I shall use lordship in a more limited sense to refer to a command-oriented, coercive kind of authority – what Mann calls ‘military power’, but what has also been called banal lordship in medieval historiography.46 These are admittedly still somewhat artiicial distinctions; in medieval society, all lordship was about power, but not all power relations implied relations of lordship.47 Separating them out, however, makes it possible to discuss patterns of social relationships, conlicts, and agreement making – the spaces in which power could be exercised – that produce a more educative picture of episcopal administration and changing attitudes towards the relationship between the church and lay society. In this way, I hope that this study can serve as a bridge of sorts between the history of social structures and practices, and the history of their institutional contexts as they emerge more clearly in the eleventh and early twelfth centuries. By the twelfth century, bishops were exercising lordship in a way that they had not done in earlier centuries, even those who held ostensibly secular oices, such as that of the count. As we shall see, one of the interesting outcomes of a reform movement that sought to extricate the inluences of lay lordship from the church was that it produced bishops and abbots whose authority came to resemble that very kind of power. The politics of the episcopate should not be reduced entirely to prosopography or land tenure, something Ludolf Kuchenbuch cautions has led scholars to become overly focused on the technical issues of land management at the expense of larger questions about social relations. Sociologist Arjun Appadurai has observed, however, that insofar as exchange produces value, things that are circulated or exchanged do so in a context which deines, and is deined by, social and political relationships.48 If, along with Mann, we can argue that social relations can also be relations of power, then observing how individuals and groups 45

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Wendy Davies, Patterns of Power in Early Wales. O’Donnell Lectures delivered in the University of Oxford, 1983 (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1990), esp. ch. 2. Michael Mann, The Sources of Social Power. Volume I: A History of Power from the Beginning to A.D. 1760 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 6–8; Bijsterveld, Do ut des, p. 49. Davies, Patterns of Power, pp. 81–6. Arjun Appadurai, ‘Commodities and the Politics of Value’, in The Social Life of Things, pp. 3–63.

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Introduction handle the circulation of a speciic commodity illuminates the exercise of power, and when that coercive power is exercised over people or resources, it becomes lordship. The tithe functioned as a commodity circulated between a community of believers and its bishop, creating ties of power and authority as families who possessed and donated tithes built up reserves of symbolic capital.49 As tithes gradually lost their salience as a means for negotiating social relationships, bishops and their subjects turned to new ways of articulating and displaying their relationships and this deined the important change that I argue takes place around 1050. A comparative perspective, as well as close attention to the individual textual and manuscript contexts of our sources on tithing, will provide a necessary degree of critical distance to understand the nature of this change and the larger context in which it occurred. th e re l ig ious frame: the me dieval ch urc h and s ocial change In the preceding discussion, I laid out the historiographical and methodological contexts for my investigation and hopefully provided an analytical rubric for drawing connections – if tenuous at times – between the multivalent image of the bishop and his social world in the tenth and eleventh centuries using the ecclesiastical tithe. There is another axis of analysis to consider here, however, namely that of religious culture and ideology. The tithe, uniquely, was a religious duty as well as a subject of iscal administration and thus its use imbricated the sacred and secular duties of the bishop. As noted earlier, most studies of imperial bishops have taken careful account of their political careers. Less attention has been paid, until fairly recently, to the nexus between ideas about issues like reform, pastoral authority, lordship, and social change. Religious change and social change in the Middle Ages often overlapped and informed each other in signiicant ways. The use and control of tithes varied widely across the empire despite a well-articulated body of canon law that sought to regulate them. Thus diferences and changes in the administration of tithes from diocese to diocese and region to region map quite readily onto distinctions and changes in the structure of social relationships among those who possessed interest in tithes and tithe revenue. Put another way, the handling of a church’s tithes says something at once about institutional iscality and administration, as well as about 49

Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1977), pp. 177–83, esp. 178–9; Frederic Cheyette, Ermengard of Narbonne and the World of the Troubadors (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 2001), p. 107.

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Introduction the relationship between those with an interest in that revenue. As we shall see, tithes had uses and many of those uses carried important social signiicance. The ecclesiastical tithe represents an important intersection of social, political, and religious interests that deserve the attention of historians who wish to better understand the dynamics of regional politics and church reform in the German empire. Sources on the tithe serve as a particularly powerful lens through which to view cultures of power in a particular region – the values, ideas, and actions that created and perpetuated the authority of certain individuals, institutions, and groups.50 In the later tenth and eleventh centuries, the ecclesiastical tithe had become an increasingly important resource for bishops and other lords attempting to assert their control over wider territories, their churches, and their people; in other words, to develop lordships. I suggest that this change was grounded in two distinct but inter-related processes: a desire by bishops to assert authority and lordship on terms similar to their lay counterparts, which required a more institutionalized, territorialized conception of that authority and at the same time demanded resources for securing armed retinues and other accoutrements of lordly power. Second, the politics of tithing in the eleventh-century empire relects the desire of institutions to construct lordships by reconnecting with lost historical roots, rights, and identities. As Patrick J. Geary has observed in Phantoms of Remembrance, to many writers in the eleventh century, received ways of remembering and interpreting that past no longer made sense or carried the authority they once did.51 In a similar way, social and economic relationships that had sustained bishops in their communities in the ninth or tenth centuries seemed no longer viable.52 Particularly as bishops struggled to assert their authority in a more politically competitive and uncertain environment under the Salian emperors, issues such as tithe rights, which had not seemed so pressing earlier, acquired new signiicance for their identities as lords. The fact that so many tithes lay in the hands of laymen or large monastic foundations, often by virtue of extensive papal or royal immunity privileges, was an enduring thorn in the side of bishops everywhere and a pointed reminder of the limits of episcopal lordship. Consequently, 50

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I have lifted the phrase ‘cultures of power’ from the collection of articles edited by Thomas Bisson of the same name: Cultures of Power: Lordship, Status and Process in Twelfth-Century Europe (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995). Patrick J. Geary, ‘Saints, Scholars and Society: The Elusive Goal’, in Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1994), pp. 9–29 at p. 25. Cinzio Violante, ‘I vescovi dell’Italia centro-settentrionale e lo svilluppo dell’economia monetaria’, in Studi Sulla Cristianità Medioevale, ed. Piero Zerbi (Milan,Vita e Pensiero, 1972), pp. 325–47; Werner Rösener, ‘Die kirchliche Grundherrschaft im deutschen Reich des frühen Mittelalters’, in Chiesa e mondo feudale, pp. 193–222 at pp. 207–10; Albertoni, Herrschaft des Bischofs, pp. 102–24.

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Introduction ecclesiastical reform initiatives that had as their goal the strengthening of the position of the bishop over other groups or institutions in the diocese often took the form of reorganizing the possession or collection of tithes. Not merely economic resources, but the social power (if not lordship) inherent in projecting control over land and people were at stake in such confrontations. It is not surprising that attempts to bring the collection and possession of tithes into line with canonical norms risked unleashing protracted conlict. The decision to pursue a reform of tithing, or bring up the matter of tithe possession or payment in the course of another conlict, was fraught with danger, ambiguity, and (sometimes) opportunity. The tithe served as a tool for leveraging interest and inluence within processes of conlict and the negotiation of social and power relationships in medieval society. Conversely, bishops could – and did – use their traditional prerogatives to pass tithe rights along to lay or monastic allies as a way of airming friendships and alliances. At irst glance, it might seem most reasonable to begin looking at these questions in the context of church reform, in particular the reception in Germany and elsewhere of the critiques leveled in the eleventh century at lay possession of church property.53 Discourses or programmes of ecclesiastical reform tended to manifest themselves between layers of social change and conlict.54 It is diicult in the Thuringian tithe dispute, for example, to distinguish clearly between the conlict over tithes and the broader conlict between the Thuringians and King Henry IV. This is not to dismiss the notion that ideas or ideology did not matter in their own right – indeed they did. But ideas do not arise or exist in vacuums. Social change and political challenges in the tenth and eleventh centuries gave new salience and impetus to certain discourses of reform that had been percolating since the Carolingian period.55 This means that historians should be cautious in taking a single, paradigmatic reform movement as a point of departure when looking at ecclesiastical institutions in the German empire or Italy in the eleventh century. Rather, they should allow the varied manifestations and dynamics of church reform in diferent regions to come into sharper relief by examining those issues in which it was ultimately embedded – land tenure, lordship, and conlicts of interest and authority that drew upon scriptural 53

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Gerd Tellenbach, The Church in Western Europe from the Tenth to the Early Twelfth Century, translated by Timothy Reuter (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 135–84; Susan Wood, The Proprietary Church in the Medieval West (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 824–9; 851–82. Cinzio Violante, ‘La réforme ecclésiastique du XIe siècle: une synthèse progressive d’idées et de structures opposées’, Le Moyen Age 97:3–4 (1991), pp. 355–65. The long-standing development of ideas about clerical celibacy and purity, for example, is one of the key observations of Johannes Laudage, Priesterbild und Reformpapsttum im 11. Jahrhundert (Cologne, Böhlau, 1984).

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Introduction and ecclesiastical ideologies as a basis of support.56 Church reformers did not simply wake up one morning in 1050 to discover that greedy laymen had ravished the bride of Christ and corrupted bishops. It was the product of a long-term shift in how people assigned meaning to power in the hands of churchmen and laymen respectively. Between the late ninth century and the twelfth century, perceptions about the proper role of the bishop and the nature of the relationship between a bishop and the diocesan community changed signiicantly. Transformations in the economy of continental Europe (particularly Italy and the Rhine) beginning in the tenth century, as well as upheavals and discontinuities brought about by periodic invasions (Vikings, Magyars, Saracens), rebellions, and natural disasters pushed secular and ecclesiastical lords towards new ways of wielding power and, more important, new ways of legitimating, deining, and describing it.57 A bishop in the twelfth century was a diferent creature from his early medieval predecessors, at least in terms of the socio-political environment in which he was expected to operate. Understanding how this came about tells the story of social and political transformation between the early and high Middle Ages, but from a perspective not widely considered until now. William North’s recent study of a controversy over ecclesiastical property in Arezzo in the early 1050s places the relationship between bishops and the diocesan community in a context that illuminates the underlying changes in perceptions about authority that spurred much of the debate over property and reform.58 Examining a brief account of a conlict between the canons of San Donato and a group of lay custodians accused of alienating church property, North suggests that controversy over lay possession of church property and revenue lowed from a search for ‘social, liturgical and economic order’ wherein the fragmentation of ecclesiastical property among a host of lay possessors represented an untenable violation of what ought to have been a uniied, coherent body of the clergy and its material possessions.59 More than this, however, the 56

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As Maureen Miller has observed, such approaches are far more useful than the traditional model of describing the story of church reform as a duel between the forces of Gregory VII and Henry IV. See ‘Masculinity, Reform and Clerical Culture: Narratives of Holiness in the Gregorian Era’, Church History 72:1 (2003), pp. 25–52, esp. nn.2–3 for the classic literature on the reform movement. In addition to Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, see Hagen Keller, Zwischen regionaler Begrenzung und universalem Horizont: Deutschland im Imperium der Salier und Staufer, Propyläen Geschichte Deutschlands, vol. 2 (Berlin, Propyläen Verlag, 1986), pp. 126–43 and Moore, The First European Revolution, pp. 55–64. William North, ‘The Fragmentation and Redemption of a Medieval Cathedral: Property, Conlict and Public Piety in Eleventh-Century Arezzo’, in Conlict in Medieval Europe, pp. 109–30. North, ‘Fragmentation’, p. 129.

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Introduction account of the canons’ redemption of the lay custodial prebends they believed were damaging their church (Historia custodium ecclesiae Aretensis) was an exercise in reforming memory. This suggests that we have to be attuned not simply to reform programmes in particular places and times, but to their speciic social contexts and the way those contexts were created within various media of preserving identity and communal memories. Much of what appears to be a tremendous gap, for example, between the free-wheeling days of lay inluence over the church in the tenth century and the sterner mores introduced in the eleventh is a product of reformers’ attempts to justify or explain the changes they advocated.60 th e spatial f rame : an e mpire of bishop s One of the main features that distinguishes this study from the studies of bishops that have gone before it is the wider territory and timeframe it encompasses. The geographic scope of this study extends over what I term the German empire of the Middle Ages. With the term German empire, I refer not to some essential linguistic or geographic entity, but, as a convenient shorthand, to the lands and peoples that constituted the Kingdom of the Eastern Franks (regnum francorum orientalis) at the end of the Carolingian period, along with the territories of northern Italy and Tuscany annexed by Saxon ruler Otto the Great in 962.61 Even though most historians today have abandoned the anachronistic label ‘Holy Roman Empire’ for the earlier Middle Ages, there remain diicult issues in trying to study regions, institutions, and peoples in the past whose social and political conigurations align rather poorly with familiar political categories today, even when speaking about something as ostensibly transparent as the notions of German and empire.62 The fragmentation of this German-Italian polity from the late medieval period onwards resulted in the difusion of its history over time as well; there is little in the way of a historiographical precedent for what I am attempting to articulate in this study and thus I ind myself obliged to impose some of my own preconceived categories on the subjects at 60

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Gerhard Dilcher, ‘Zeitbewusstsein und Geschichtlichkeit im Bereich hochmittelalterlicher Rechtsgewohnheit’, in Hochmittelalterliches Geschichtsbewusstsein im Spiegel nichthistoriographischer Quellen, ed. Hans-Werner Goetz (Berlin,AkademieVerlag, 1998), pp. 331–54; Capitani,‘Storiograia e Riforma’, p. 557–629. Benjamin Arnold, Medieval Germany 500–1300: A Political Interpretation (Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1997); Wolfgang Eggert, Das Ostfränkisch-Deutsche Reich in der Aufassung seiner Zeitgenossen (East Berlin, Akademie-Verlag, 1973). Geofrey Barraclough, ‘The Medieval Empire: Idea and Reality’, Historical Association Publications, General Series, G 17 (London, G. Philip, 1950); Johannes Fried, Der Weg in die Geschichte: Die Ursprünge Deutschlands bis 1024, ed. Dieter Groh, Propyläen Geschichte Deutschlands, vol. 1 (Berlin, Propyläen Verlag, 1994), ch. 1.

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Introduction hand. In the twentieth century, academic medieval history in the United States evolved to work within the parameters of more historically coherent nation-states, such as France, Britain, or Spain, leaving the study of medieval Germany largely to a handful of canon law and church history scholars.63 From the North Sea to the Alps, the various regions and historical polities that eventually comprised the modern nation of Germany were highly diverse, with their own unique social, legal, and religious institutions, rendering broad generalizations about ‘German’ history theoretically untenable.64 It is also not possible to speak of an ‘Austria’ in the Middle Ages. There was, to be sure, a march of the ‘eastern realm’ (Ôstarrichi) from the late tenth century onwards, and a formal duchy of Austria beginning in 1156, but the modern country of Austria also contains elements of medieval marches, duchies, and counties whose territories once overlapped with parts of present-day Italy, Slovenia, Hungary, and the Czech Republic. The diocese of Salzburg, which forms a major part of the present study, lies historically within the region of Bavaria, but as an ecclesiastical province controlled lands and churches in areas that lie today as far aield as Italy, Slovenia, and Hungary.This has led Austrian medievalists to talk instead about ‘Grenzen’, ‘Länder’, and ‘Marken’ with a strong focus on the regional diversity of medieval political structures when analyzing their own past.65 The tremendous cultural and geographic diversity of the Italian peninsula has likewise made a uniied ‘Italian’ history of the Middle Ages extremely problematic. After the risorgamento, or nationalist uniication in the 1860s, professional Italian historians adopted the techniques of the German institutional history and regionalism, and, like German scholars of the same generation, began to search for the historical roots of collective action across Italy’s fractious medieval past.66 Consequently, the 63

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See e.g. Patrick J. Geary, Medieval Germany in America, German Historical Institute,Washington, DC, Annual Lecture series, nr. 8 (Washington, DC, 1995), pp. 9–31, and the remarks by Patrick J. Geary, Johannes Fried, and Gerd Althof, ‘Introduction’, in Medieval Concepts of the Past: Ritual, Memory, Historiography (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 2–18. Among the few major American scholars who dedicated substantial portions of their careers to the medieval empire were James Westfall Thompson who taught at Chicago, and later UC Berkeley, in the 1930s and 1940s, and, more recently, Boyd H. Hill, Jr. who studied Ottonian institutions and taught at Colorado. On the problem of conceiving and writing ‘German’ history, see the illuminating article by James J. Sheehan, ‘What is German History? Relections on the Role of the Nation in German History and Historiography’, Journal of Modern History 53 (1981), pp. 1–23. Herwig Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume. Geschichte Österreichs vor seiner Entstehung, Österreichische Geschichte 378–907, ed. Herwig Wolfram (Vienna, Ueberreuter, 1995); Karl Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken. Vom Ungarnstrum bis ins 12. Jahrhundert, Österreichische Geschichte 907–1156, ed. Herwig Wolfram (Vienna, Ueberreuter, 1994). Tabacco, The Struggle for Power, pp. 1–15. See too Paolo Cammarosano, Guida allo studio della storia medievale (Rome and Bari, 2004), pp. 21–7, who notes other currents of social and economic history in Italian medieval historiography.

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Introduction emergence of the urban commune and its political culture, particularly in Lombardy and Tuscany, has tended to be the main organizing principle of Italian medieval historiography.67 As noted previously, one of the main efects of this aspect of Italian history writing has been to highlight the proliferation of smaller, feudal territories in the era preceding the rise of the communal movement. Moving away from this paradigm in recent decades, modern Italian scholars, through institutions like the Centro italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo in Spoleto, have devoted themselves to the world of late antiquity and the early Middle Ages, where topics such as religion, spirituality, economics, and literary culture can be critically examined in a more interdisciplinary and less teleological framework.68 One thing that the German kingdom north of the Alps, Bavaria, Lombardy, and Tuscany all had in common, however, was that they had been part of the Carolingian empire from the late eighth century onwards. Lucca, Mainz, and Salzburg were all old ecclesiastical sees with institutional roots well antedating the Carolingian period. Each was the leading town or city in a larger region, but had to struggle to assert its authority over people and institutions in the countryside. Despite the fact that they now all appear to be rather centrally located, in the Middle Ages, Mainz, Salzburg, and Lucca were positioned to control important boundary regions – the Saxon and Thuringian marches, the Carinthian march, and the Tuscan march between imperial Lombardy and the rest of papal and Norman Italy. Thus they were areas of key importance for Carolingian administration, where the new dynasty’s norms of justice and canon law were introduced at an early stage and with particular attention. By the ninth century, there was an established set of normative principles in place in all three areas that governed tithing and the administration of local churches. The divergent trajectories of how tithes were administered in each region can thus reveal important contrasts in the ways power was exercised by bishops, how lay aristocratic power constituted itself, as well as the inluence of monastic institutions. But did Carolingian rule create enduring public institutions – particularly around the episcopacy – that permit the territories under its sway to be compared in a meaningful way? As discussed earlier, the question of the ‘stateliness’ (Staatlichkeit) of the Carolingian empire has framed an important debate about how structures of power and authority changed in the tenth and eleventh centuries.69 At least one eminent Carolingian 67 68

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Tabacco, The Struggle for Power, pp. 7–8. Claudio Azzara, Corinna Bottiglieri, and Massimo Oldoni, ‘Il Medioevo e l’Italia’, in Mediävistik im 21. Jahrhundert, pp. 101–15. Two new volumes of essays are particularly important for this topic: Staat im frühen Mittelalter, ed. Stuart Airlie, Walter Pohl, and Helmut Reimitz, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 11

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Introduction scholar has argued that the empire of Charlemagne is in fact a historiographical cipher and that historians’ focus should be on the social history of smaller communities and regions rather than synthetic, politically oriented narrative about a state that existed more in the imagination of its successors than in reality.70 More recently, British medievalist Matthew Innes suggested that the Carolingian state was in reality no state at all (in the Weberian sense of the term), but a conglomeration of social relationships centred on local zones of aristocratic inluence.71 The Carolingian count or missus operated under a theoretical umbrella of public authority, but his actual power efectively remained a function of his private interests at the regional or local level. Innes replaces the traditional focus on institutions and delegated administration with a discussion of how social and political power was actually exercised in processes like dispute resolution and the gifting of land.72 Not surprising, refracting sources of the period through the lens of more social-scientiic categories like power renders a picture of the period that appears strikingly less institutionalized than previously assumed, and simultaneously calls into question the discontinuities posited between the Carolingian and Ottonian periods.73 If Carolingian minimalists like Sullivan or Innes are right in suggesting that the empire of Charlemagne was not more than the sum of its parts, is there any point in noting that Lucca, Salzburg, and Mainz were at one point important dioceses in the Carolingian empire and that their comparison across several succeeding centuries has any heuristic value? I do not see this as an either-or question – that the Carolingian empire was either a centrally organized institutional state or a tenuous federation of regional spheres of lordly

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(Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006) and Der frühmittelalterliche Staat – Europäische Perspektiven, ed. Walter Pohl and Veronika Wieser, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 16 (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010). Richard E. Sullivan, ‘The Carolingian Age: Relections on its Place in the History of the Middle Ages’, Speculum 64 (1989), pp. 267–306. Innes, State and Society, p. 165: ‘The Frankish polity was polycentric, a series of interleaved and interacting segments bound together by the personal interests of local elites at its core’. Some of the classic works representing the traditional view on Carolingian institutions include Louis Halphen, Charlemagne et l’empire carolingien (Paris, A. Michel, 1947); François-Louis Ganshof, Frankish Institutions under Charlemagne, translated by Bryce and Mary Lyon (Providence, Brown University Press, 1968); Hans K. Schulze, Die Grafschaftverfassung der Karolingerzeit in den Gebieten östlich des Rheins (Berlin, Duncker and Humblot, 1973). A similar process was at work in Rosamond McKitterick’s masterful survey of Carolingian manuscript production, from which she concluded that Carolingian government was highly literate and that its ideas and administrative directives were efectively circulated to potentates and decision makers throughout the realm. See The Carolingians and the Written Word (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1989) and Rosamond McKitterick, Charlemagne: The Formation of a European Identity (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2008), esp. ch. 4.

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Introduction interest that can only be studied on a case-by-case basis. Although some criticism of Innes’s thesis in particular has been unduly sharp,74 a gentle re-problematization of the notion of Carolingian governance is perhaps warranted. Recent studies by Warren Brown and Philippe Depreux, for example, have underscored the complex ways in which inter-personal relationships within the royal court and between the court and local potentates constituted a kind of institutional framework for exercising power in the Carolingian kingdoms.75 Christoph Sonnlechner, in a dramatic comparison of property surveys from southern Gaul and Bavaria, has shown that agricultural practices and land use patterns could be strongly afected by policies emanating from royal initiative.76 As my own evidence shows in this book as well, Carolingian royal government was remarkably successful in establishing a framework for universal tithing and networks of proto-parishes (baptismal churches) across the territories it controlled. Ironically, the success of this particular programme was largely due to the fact that it granted priests and local communities the power to administer their own tithes as proprietary assets. Later conciliar and capitulary legislation attempted to ine-tune and re-emphasize the scope of the bishop’s prerogative in the tithing regime, but on the whole, local tithe boundaries with the baptismal church at their centre remained one of Carolingian government’s most enduring creations.77 It is also a good illustration of the need to see past the either-or debate in the historiography of Carolingian history – and of medieval political history more broadly. Unique regional structures and practices could assert themselves alongside, within, and around the parameters of public institutions erected through royal initiative.78 Royal government may not have directly dictated what happened in local courts, in local parishes, or in individual town markets, during Carolingian times as well as under later dynasties, but it did still matter in terms of how participants in local economies and social communities made strategic decisions in public life. 74

75

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See e.g. Alexander Callendar Murray, review of State and Society in the Early Middle Ages, by Matthew Innes, American Historical Review 107:3 (2002), pp. 923–4. Warren Brown, Unjust Seizure: Conlict, Interest and Authority in an Early Medieval Society (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 2001); Philippe Depreux, Prosopographie de l’entourage de Louis le Pieux (781–840) (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1997). Christoph Sonnlechner, ‘The Establishment of New Units of Production in Carolingian Times: Making Early Medieval Sources Relevant for Environmental History’, Viator 35 (2004), pp. 21–48. Carola Brückner, ‘Das ländliche Pfarrbeneizium im hochmittelalterlichen Erzbistum Trier, pt. 2’, ZRG. k.A. 85 (1999), 298–386, esp. pp. 299–304. This is an important point in Chris Wickham’s response to the feudal revolution debate. See Wickham, ‘Feudal Revolution’, pp. 201–5.

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Introduction th e problems and p romise s of re g ional hi story What, then, is the proper distance setting for our historical lenses as we approach the study of the episcopate in three separate areas of the German empire? Is all episcopal history necessarily local? Or must it embrace an entire region or kingdom? As Benjamin Arnold explains in his insightful book on the politics of identity and the notion of empire in medieval Germany, authors of the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries mapped the diverse polity ruled by the German emperors in both geographical and ideological dimensions.79 They understood the empire as the historical kingdoms of Germany (regnum Teutonicum, or the old east Frankish kingdom), Burgundy (regnum Burgundium), and Italy (regnum Italicum), each consisting of numerous provinces, marches, and duchies united under one imperial crown attained in Rome from the Pope. This last fact meant that the empire was also a space deined by a concrete political-religious ideology, predicated upon a protective and mutually beneicial relationship with the Roman church. Understanding the dynamics of territorial lordship, taxation, and social power therefore requires us to move within the religious-political, as well as geographic, dimensions of empire. At a time when no bureaucratic state – as we understand the term today – existed to deine political boundaries or interests, institutional lordships, whether religious (episcopal; monastic) or secular (empire; duchy; county), constituted the political topography of the empire. Because the so-called stem-duchies in particular (Saxony, Bavaria, Swabia, Burgundy, Lotharingia,Thuringia) exerted such a strong inluence on the political evolution of the realm as a whole, the impulse towards comparative regional social history – vergleichende Landesgeschichte – has been particularly strong in Germany and Austria. Landesgeschichte, however, is approached in a very diferent way from the more holistic socialregional history displayed in many French theses d’états of the 1970s and 1980s that contributed to the ongoing debates over feudal mutation.80 The reasons for this are complex, but can be traced to the early modern focus on local and regional history by associations and academies within the many petty states of pre-uniication Germany more than medieval political institutions or boundaries.We might also point to the ideological 79 80

Arnold, Medieval Germany, pp. 8–10. One interesting attempt by a French scholar trained in the Annales tradition to try his hand at interpreting German regional history is Philippe Dollinger’s L’evolution des classes rurales en Bavière depuis la in de l’époque carolingienne jusqu’au milieu du XIIIe siècle (Paris, Belles Lettres, 1949). Dollinger studied before the war with Marc Bloch in Strasbourg and later inished his degree in Paris under Charles-Edmond Perrin, who also trained Georges Duby.

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Introduction commitments of some of its more prominent exponents in the 1930s and 1940s like Theodor Mayer, Otto Brunner, and Walter Schlesinger, who also pioneered the methods of the new constitutional history discussed earlier.81 After the war, this historical paradigm continued to exercise a profound inluence on the questions German-language scholars asked about local and regional history. Landesgeschichte thus efectively replaced the traditional ield of Verfassungsgeschichte, or constitutional history: Political history was now observed through the far narrower lens of the Land, region, or city, helpfully obviating the need to speak of the relationship between institutions, structures, and processes in the Middle Ages as purported antecedents to those of a larger German polity, nation, or – more problematically – Reich.82 Instead one looked at the history of structures or institutions – the oice of the count, serfdom, the royal court, guilds, or the ministerial class – by building upon examples that carefully took into account local circumstances from the environment and geography to social relations and traditions.83 As members of an aristocratic elite within the broader social landscape, bishops certainly igured prominently in many of these studies, but the diocese as a historical entity itself never developed as a primary focus of the Landesgeschichte tradition in German historiography, except in a few cases, such as that of Salzburg, where the historical territory of the archdiocese later became a modern political province.84 Italian regional history, on the other hand, has been largely developed by students and scholars working at institutions like the École Française de Rome and the Deutsches Historisches Institut, the modern-day successor to the old Prussian institute set up to study papal-imperial relations in the wake of the great Bismarckian Kulturkampf and the opening of the Vatican Secret Archive in 1881. Perhaps the most famous of these studies was Pierre Toubert’s 1973 thèse d’Etat on medieval Lazio (Latium), 81

82

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Freed, ‘German Social History’, pp. 5–6; Bernd Schönemann, ‘Die Region als Konstrukt. Historiographiegeschichtliche Befunde und geschichtsdidaktische Relexionen’, Blätter für deutsche Landesgeschichte 135 (1999), pp. 153–87 at pp. 158–60. On the prospects of viewing political history through the lens of regional history as seen by a contemporary practitioner, see the programmatic essay by Walter Schlesinger, ‘Verfassungsgeschichte und Landesgeschichte,’ Hessisches Jahrbuch für Landesgeschichte 3 (1953), pp. 1–34. See also Friedrich Prinz, ‘Landesgeschichte und Mediävistik: Ein Forschungsbericht über Arbeiten von Karl Bosl, Heinrich Büttner und Walter Schlesinger’, Historisches Jahrbuch 88 (1968), pp. 87–101. Karl Bosl, Franken um 800. Strukturanalyse einer fränkischen Königsprovinz (Munich, C.H. Beck, 1969). For example, Heinrich Büttner, ‘Das Erzstift Mainz und die Klosterreform im 11. Jahrhundert’, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte 1 (1949), pp. 30–64; Heinrich Büttner, ‘Mainz im Mittelalter: Gestalten und Probleme,’ in Mittelrhein und Hessen. Nachgelassene Studien von Heinrich Büttner, ed. Alois Gerlich, Geschichtliche Landeskunde, 33 (Stuttgart, Steiner Verlag, 1989), pp. 1–50. On Salzburg, see Heinz Dopsch and Hans Spatzenegger (eds.), Geschichte Salzburgs: Stadt und Land, 3 vols. (Salzburg, Anton Pustet, 1981–8).

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Introduction an astoundingly detailed twelve-hundred-page exploration of the rugged Apennine foothill region east of Rome.85 Toubert’s choice of Latium was determined in great part by the availability of sources in the archives of the region’s two famous monasteries, Farfa and Subiaco, which yielded an abundance of detailed, quantiiable information ideally suited to longterm structural analyses of environment, population, agronomy, patterns of inheritance, land conveyance, and settlement. Toubert’s book has exerted a tremendous inluence on the types of issues historians look at in medieval Italy, in particular the enclosure of villages within fortiied settlements in the tenth and early eleventh centuries (incastellamento). Another important contribution was Hagen Keller’s 1971 Habilitation, which traced the evolution of systems of vassalage, idelity, and lordship in Lombardy.86 Keller detailed the origins and rise of various noble lineages in and around Milan and showed how they beneited from the disintegration of public domains and rights over the course of the tenth century. Although centred on an urban commune, the picture that emerges from Keller’s work on northern Italy suggests an overtly Duby-esque world of local elites who reinvented themselves in the wake of the retreat of the state, creating new territorial lordships and communal urban institutions in the process. British and American historians working on Italian material have made important contributions as well, particularly in the area of comparative history. David Herlihy, following his mentor, Robert S. Lopez, was for many years the doyen of medieval Italian-Mediterranean studies in the United States and a pioneer in computer-assisted research for history and the social sciences. Herlihy focused on comparative social and economic history of Italian cities in the later Middle Ages, applying statistical data from those places to draw broader conclusions about transformations in European social structures such as marriage, inheritance, and employment.87 In The Mountains and the City, British historian Chris Wickham ofers a detailed, inter-regional comparison of forms of lordship, agricultural exploitation, and social mobility in medieval Tuscany.88 Wickham examines two separate areas within Tuscany – the Garfagnana valley north of Lucca and the Casentino highlands north of Arezzo – where 85 86

87

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Toubert, Structures du Latium. Subsequently revised and published as Adelsherrschaft und städtische Gesellschaft in Oberitalian, 9.-12. Jahrhuntert (Tübingen, Max NiemeyerVerlag, 1980). For example in Medieval Households (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1985) and, with Christine Klapisch-Zuber, Tuscans and their Families: The Florentine Castasto of 1427 (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1985). Chris Wickham, The Mountains and the City:The Tuscan Appennines in the Early Middle Ages (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1988).

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Introduction the sources allow a detailed investigation, and then compares their developments without attempting to extrapolate a single, overarching thesis about the entire region. Wickham’s work in particular provides a useful template for comparative social history. While it is tempting to see a region like Tuscany or the diocese of Mainz – or the empire as a whole for that matter – as an analytical unity, we must remain attuned to the ways in which these units of analysis are historic ictions to a degree that imposes an often unwieldy logic on the historical sources. By not demanding that one set of sources automatically speak to the other, we preserve some sense of the integrity of the unique historical landscapes in which we work. On the other hand, this should not automatically encourage a retreat to micro-history, or mini case studies, where we supposedly feel safe not venturing to impose observations from one area on another. Is it possible to establish a basic unit of analysis, a geographic and historical template, to use as a point of departure for a comparative history? The assumptions behind traditional Landesgeschichte, as well as more contemporary forms of regional history, are now being re-appraised through new paradigms generally expressed with the notion of space or landscapes.89 These concepts re-emphasize the social, political, and cultural contingency of geographical historical settings while focusing on the subjects that can help us better understand and deine them on their own terms, particularly communication, conlict, and exchange. If modern nation-states, or even provinces, provide a poor template for understanding medieval political and social relationships, what categories of analysis, if any, might we fall back on? I suggest that the medieval bishopric – the diocese – and the regions and communities it encompassed, are good places to start. It is easy to conceive of the ecclesiastical province in fairly one-dimensional terms as an institutional entity, a territory controlled by a particular bishop from his cathedral. But a diocese can also be imagined as a dynamic space deined by cultures of control, competition, communication, and alliance among numerous urban, ecclesiastical, and rural communities deined by the parameters and claims of episcopal jurisdiction.90 Susan Reynolds, in her landmark study of communalistic ideas in medieval society, noted correctly that communitarian identities and impulses never really seem to have crystallized around the episcopacy in the way they did around 89

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Edward W. Soja, Postmodern Geographies:The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (New York, Verso, 1990); Landschaften im Mittelalter, ed. Karl-Heinz Spieß (Stuttgart, Steiner Verlag, 2006). Florian Mazel (ed.), L’Espace du diocèse. Genèse d’un territoire dans l’Occident médiéval (Rennes, Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2008).

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Introduction towns and parishes, for example.91 I am not suggesting here that the medieval diocese itself formed a coherent community in Reynolds’s sense of the term, but that it did serve as a stage upon which various communities – from parishes to villages to monasteries to cathedral chapters – could all play a role in negotiating social, economic, and political power. If an external authority had day-to-day inluence over the lives of average (free) people in the early Middle Ages, particularly in the towns and cities, it was likely to be the bishop rather than a count, duke, or king. Control in the countryside was of course more tenuous. Just as kings and counts endeavoured to exert their authority through mobile, itinerant rule, so too were bishops continually on the move through their domains, working to validate their authority in the face of other competing lordships, including that of the papacy. The primary tool bishops deployed to master this environment was the possibility of granting people or institutions the use of tithes, or threatening to take away tithes which they already possessed. It is thus in the administration of tithes that we see episcopal power most clearly at work and thereby also come to understand the exercise of a kind of power that was felt directly by people in a community. While many bishops in the German and Italian kingdoms under Ottonian and Salian rulers may have come to their posts with strong royal credentials or connections, their ability to actually carry out the functions of their oice and manage the many complex institutions and duties incumbent upon the bishop was contingent upon their ability to muster the cooperation and support of people and families in their dioceses who dominated the local economy and its social structures. This was particularly true south of the Alps, where the idea of a centralized, imperial church system is particularly ill suited for describing the complex relationship among bishops, the nobility, and the crown. If some bishops occasionally sought royal support for their positions, it was not because they viewed themselves as appendages of the royal court, but because the king was an outside authority who could be called upon to intervene in local disputes and airm the authority of bishops as a general rule. In a more recent study of the reign of the last independent king of Italy, Arduin of Ivrea (d. 1015), for example, Ursula Brunhofer showed how Arduin’s aggressive posture towards many northern Italian bishops was driven more by their relationships to his local political opponents than their ostensible allegiance to the Ottonian emperors.92 91

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Susan Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities in Western Europe (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1986). Compare pp. 219–41. Ursula Brunhofer, Arduin von Ivrea und seine Anhänger (Augsburg, Arethousa Verlag, 1999), pp. 16–17. This would seem to contravene the thesis of Keller in Adelsherrschaft that northern Italian

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Introduction s ource s Hayden White once observed that a surfeit of historical sources about a certain period or event can make the historian’s job more, not less, complicated. ‘The more we know about the past’, writes White, ‘the more diicult it is to generalize about it’.93 This of course depends on the assumptions one makes about the relative scarcity or diiculty of the sources, or indeed about the meaning of ‘generalization’. One of the things I intend to show with this study is that sparse, meagre, and diicult sources – even when transmitted in isolated contexts and along dimly discernable paths – can speak to us when asked the right questions. The later eleventh century was unstable ground to many observers who thought they ought to be able to negotiate the terrain of their world with the traditional historical and exegetical tools. Instead they found themselves faced with dramatically new situations without a clear way to contextualize and understand them, especially when it came to the proper relationship of the lay to the clerical order. One way of coping, as we shall see, was to create models of ninth- and tenthcentury history that helped explain the perceived disorder and threats of the present.94 Bishops and their courts were particularly active in this regard, especially since bishops, more than nearly any other igure in the community, were viewed as symbols of order, stability, and authority in times of turmoil. To place the episcopate on irm ground – literally, a coherent, uniied church body and patrimony – in a time of instability was to re-form, or re-establish, order in the diocesan community.95 Increasingly, contemporaries turned to written instruments – cartularies, tradition books, hagiography, and historiography – to enact these reforms and in doing so, also re-wrote the history of the ninth and tenth centuries. The historical sources in the three regions under consideration here are erratic, sparse, diicult, and therefore also most interesting. Ideally when writing about episcopal administration or ecclesiastical lordship in the tenth and eleventh centuries, to say nothing of something as economically and politically complex as tithing, one might hope to have a distribution of several kinds of sources that could be used to ill in gaps and

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94 95

politics at the turn of the millennium pitted independent-minded Italian nobles against the interests of the Ottonians. Hayden White, ‘The Historical Text as Literary Artifact’, in The Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), pp. 81–100 at p. 89. Capitani, ‘Storiograia e Riforma’, pp. 557–629. John Eldevik,‘Driving the Chariot of the Lord: Siegfried of Mainz and Episcopal Power in an Age of Transition’, in The Bishop Re-Formed, pp. 159–86.

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Introduction silences among one another, such as a bishop’s vita, a cartulary or archive, letter collections, a necrology or memorial book, and perhaps a narrative chronicle or annalistic work. One might also like to have a body of source material from which statistically signiicant information can be gleaned. For better or worse, in White’s terms at least, we are spared from a debilitating plethora of sources for bishops in the tenth and eleventh centuries – at least if one wishes to focus on sources apart from the royal and papal diplomas that have traditionally served as the foundational texts of episcopal history.The Ottonian-Salian period in Lucca, Salzburg, and Mainz left for posterity an unwieldy and spare assortment of texts and monuments on tithes and lordship that allow for few of the comfortable critical triangulations in which historians prefer to couch their observations and conclusions. If our knowledge of the German-Italian episcopacy at this time is not to be reduced to a mosaic of disconnected local studies, how do we bring them into sharper relief in a way that says something about the community of the realm as a whole? This problem can be obviated in some ways through judicious comparison of cases and contexts, but it still requires an imaginative approach to gleaning information on social relationships and ideas about power and authority from records that were not necessarily created to express those ideas. The historian of the Lucchese church in the mid-eleventh century, for example, inds himself or herself awash in hundreds of charters and documents from the episcopal archives with few narrative histories, letters, or other kinds of texts to provide an interpretative counterbalance.96 Thus we are able to map the lie of the land, as it were, with great precision in Lucca, but with little contemporary relection outside those documents to guide us on what it all might mean. While the mid-tenth to early eleventh centuries are quite well documented in Salzburg thanks to the surviving Traditionsbücher for several of the bishops, the historian faces a relatively parched historical landscape for the remainder of the eleventh century, particularly in the decades after about 1060 when the archbishops appear to have ceased formally keeping records altogether.97 One turns 96

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Duane Osheim, ‘The Episcopal Archive of Lucca in the Middle Ages’, Manuscripta 17 (1973), pp. 131–46. See too Hansmartin Schwarzmeier, Lucca und das Reich bis zum Ende des 11. Jahrhunderts (Tübingen, Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1972), pp. 9–13. On Salzburg sources in the early Middle Ages, see Herwig Wolfram, ‘Libellus Virgilii: Ein quellenkritisches Problem der ältesten Salzburger Güterverzeichnisse’, in Mönchtum, Episkopat und Adel zur Gründungszeit des Klosters Reichenau, ed. Arno Borst, Vorträge und Forschungen, 20 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1974), pp. 177–214; Willibald Hauthaler, ‘Die Salzburgischen Traditionscodices des X. und XI. Jahrhunderts I: Beschreibung der Codices und Abdruck der bisher unbekannten Stücke’, MIÖG 3 (1882), pp. 63–95. For the surviving parchments of the latter half of the eleventh century and their peculiarities, see Heinrich Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen in Österreich vom 8. bis frühen 13. Jahrhundert, MIÖG Erg.-Bd., 23 (Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1971), pp. 134–53 is essential.

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Introduction up the odd scrap of documentation on tithe rights here or there and encounters a few episcopal biographies towards the end of the century that tout their subjects’ dedication to reforming tithe administration.98 Eleventh-century memorial books from the church of Salzburg, in particular the monastery of St. Peter, contain a plethora of contemporary names that indeed resonate with those we ind in the limited number of available charters, though without toponyms or other identiiable associations within the entries, making irm identiications is tentative at best.99 What few parchments have survived in the private monastic foundations of the Bavarian and Carinthian aristocracy guide us dimly through the world of lay-ecclesiastical interactions in the decades leading up to the Investiture Controversy. To the north in central Germany, in the diocese of Mainz, the mideleventh century is chronicled in great detail, primarily by annalist Lampert of Hersfeld, but only a relatively small number of documents from the church of Mainz or the great monastic institutions of Hersfeld and Fulda survive from the period to supplement the narrative provided by Lampert.100 This presents us with nearly the inverse of the situation in Lucca. We have a great deal of observation and interpretation by a single individual (primarily Lampert), but only a vague idea of how some of the same assemblies, events, and transactions he describes might have been recorded or remembered in another context. While this necessarily limits the ways in which we can describe and demarcate the past, it also presents opportunities to ask more creative questions of the sources that do survive in each area. If Lampert of Hersfeld, for example, insists that episcopal tithing policy is tied closely to the bishop and king’s attempt to establish their power in a region like Thuringia, could we bring this insight to a reading of a few surviving charters in Salzburg dealing with episcopal eforts to recover tithes from the regional aristocracy there? If the Lucchese archives are replete with records of bishops strategically alienating tithes and parish churches to laymen in order to create ties of friendship and alliance at certain times, could a similar process be taking place in Mainz in the early eleventh century where only a few lapidary documents survive detailing these kinds of conveyances? The point of such comparison is not to show that the answer to questions like these 98

99 100

See generally Alfons Lhotsky, Quellenkunde zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte Österreichs (Graz and Cologne, Böhlau Verlag, 1963), pp. 164–221. MGH Necrol. II, ed. Sigmund Herzberg-Fränkel, 82, 2. For an overview of the narrative sources, compare Wilhem Wattenbach and Robert Holzmann, Deutschlands Geschichtsquellen im Mittelalter. Die Zeit der Sachsen und Salier, 3 vols, ed. Franz-Josef Schmale (Cologne, Böhlau Verlag, 1967–71), II, 443–91; III, 591–602. On diplomatic sources for the episcopacy, see Manfred Stimming, Mainzer Urkundenbuch, vol.1 (Darmstadt, Kommission für Hessische Geschichte und Landeskunde, 1932), hereafter MUB.

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Introduction is ‘yes’ in every instance, but to open up new possibilities for reading the sources that do exist. If no neat, well-rendered picture of tithing and episcopal administration emerges from any single one of these cases, neither does a clear argument about the development of administrative practices and literacy. The scattershot nature of our evidence would suggest in the end that the trend towards the systematic use of literate administration and accounting which appear to be developing in places like England and France at this time had not yet begun to set roots down in the empire.101 Italy, of course, remained throughout this period a highly literate society (in terms of its legal institutions, in any case).102 No single approach to writing history is going to satisfy everybody, including the author. I have chosen to pursue a more synchronic arrangement that looks at underlying issues of the history of tithes, episcopal authority, and strategies of conlict and negotiation across time. In all these areas, I shall draw upon various contrasting cases and examples from Mainz, Salzburg, and Lucca that illustrate the variety of episcopal responses to the question of the tithe and its place in the empire. In the following chapter, I sketch an introduction to the ecclesiastical tithe and its origins in late antiquity and use a wide range of sources to illustrate how in the early Middle Ages, tithes acquired a kind of symbolic capital that enabled bishops, parish priests, and monks to use them as instruments for negotiating power relationships. Chapter 2 delves more speciically into the evolution of a law of tithing in the eastern Frankish kingdom and Italy, using several key cases of tithe disputes in the ninth and tenth centuries to illustrate how bishops negotiated the structure of tithe giving and church possession in their dioceses. Chapter 3 is a transitional section which moves from questions of the development of episcopal authority and the tithe to address the three particular regions under investigation in this study. The evolution of the episcopal church and the primary ecclesiastical foundations in each city is examined through the lens of pre-reform authority developed in the previous chapters, as well as contrasts in the economy, social structures, and institutions among the three regions. Using evidence from the extensive archiepiscopal and cathedral chapter archives of Lucca, Chapter 4 centres on the case of bishop Teudgrim of Lucca, who in the year 983 alienated most of the parishes and tithes in his diocese to laymen in a series of lease contracts known as livelli. Why did he do this and what were the long-term efects on ideas 101

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Berkhofer, Day of Reckoning; Michael Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record. England 1066–1307 (Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 1993). Armando Petrucci and C. Romeo., ‘Scrivere ‘in iudicio’: Modi, soggetti, e funzioni di scrittura nei placiti del ‘regnum Italiae’ (secc. IX–XI)’, Scrittura e Civiltà 13 (1989), pp. 5–48.

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Introduction about the church and lordship in Tuscany? Next, in a close examination of the episcopal Traditionsbücher from the see of Salzburg between the mid-tenth and mid-eleventh century, I ask how Bavarian bishops forged close relationships with kin and other aristocratic groups through the strategic exchange or granting of ecclesiastical property. Over time, did these transactions become more or less restricted? What do they reveal about the changing relationship of the archbishop to the regional nobilities in the diocese? In the 1060s, Archbishop Gebhard I attempted to recoup the diocese’s tithes through a series of exchanges and buyouts that reveal a signiicant reordering of the bishop’s lordship, as well as that of the diocese’s aristocratic families. Finally, Chapter 6 follows the saga of the bishops of Mainz in the eleventh century as they sought to recoup tithes and churches that had fallen into the hands of laymen and monasteries in the provinces of Hessen and Thuringia.

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Chapter 1

THE SOC IA L WOR LDS O F THE ECC LESIA ST ICA L TITHE

The subject of tithing has long been of interest to historians studying a wide range of topics in medieval history, from law and economics to agriculture and the environment.1 What I intend to provide in this chapter is not a comprehensive introduction to the institution of the Christian tithe as a general subject, but rather a survey of the ways in which it came to articulate social and political relationships in the Middle Ages.2 In particular, I wish to pay special attention to the evolution of episcopal oice alongside the practice of tithing and the way paying and receiving tithes deined important aspects of the relationship between a bishop and the tithe-paying communities in his diocese. As tithing evolved from a voluntary act of piety to a compulsory tax paid (theoretically) by all Christians, it assumed new meanings by creating 1

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Norma Adams, ‘The Judicial Conlict over Tithes’, English Historical Review 52 (1937), pp. 1–22; Robert I. Burns, ‘A Medieval Income Tax: The Tithe in the 13th Century Kingdom of Valencia’, Speculum 43:1 (1966), pp. 438–52; Antonio Domingues de Sousa Costa, ‘Posizione di Giovanni di Dio, Andrea Dias de Escobar e altri canonisti sulla funzione sociale delle decime’, in Proceedings of the Fourth International Congress of Medieval Canon Law,Toronto, 21–25 August 1972, ed. Stefan Küttner, Monumenta Iuris Canonici, series C: subsidia, 5 (Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, 1976), pp. 411–66; Piotr Gorecki, Parishes, Tithes and Society in Early Medieval Poland, ca. 1100–1250, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 83: 2 (Philadelphia, American Philosophical Society, 1993); Miguel Angel Ladero, Jimenez Quesada, and Manuel Gonzalez, Diezmo eclesiástico y producción des cereales en el reino de Sevilla 1408–1503 (Sevilla, Universidad de Sevilla, 1979); James C. Scott, ‘Resistance without Protest and without Organization: Peasant Opposition to the Islamic Zakat and the Christian Tithe’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 29:3 (1987), pp. 417–52; Tithe and Agrarian History from the Fourteenth to the Nineteenth Centuries, ed. Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie and Joseph Goy (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1982). For general introductions to the history of the tithe, see s.v. Zehnt in LMA, vol. IX, pp. 499– 502; s.v. Dîme, Dictionnaire de droit canonique, vol. IV, pp. 1231–3; s.v. ‘Dîme’ in Dictionnaire de l’Archaeologie Chrétienne et de Liturgie, vol. IV, pp. 995–1003; s.v. Zehnt in Handwörterbuch zur deutsch. Rechtsgeschichte, vol. V, pp. 1629–31; s.v. Tithe in Dictionary of the Middle Ages, vol. VI, pp. 62–5. Key monographic treatments are Paul Viard, Histoire de la dîme ecclésiastique jusq’au Décrêt de Gratien (Dijon, Jobard, 1909); Giles Constable, Monastic Tithes from their Origins to the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1964); Catherine Boyd, Tithes and Parishes in Medieval Italy (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1952).

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe power relationships between those with the authority to collect the tithe and those with the obligation to pay it. Tithes were not necessarily the most signiicant source of income for churches in the Latin West, but their religious and social signiicance elevated them above most other forms of material support.3 As tithes became attached to speciic territories and boundaries rather than to persons, they functioned increasingly as commodities whose value was set not by the actual revenue they produced, but by the politics of the social relationship between the possessor and payer.4 As such, tithes became important subjects and symbols in hagiographic literature, where authors could bring their subjects into contact with tithes as a way of showing how they forged community and consensus. No single tradition, religious or secular, served as a deinitive origin of the medieval ecclesiastical tithe. Medieval tithes were an outgrowth of complex cultural, religious, and economic relations in the ancient world which expressed themselves in the giving of ten per cent of crops, earnings, or some other body of resources to a state or religious institution as a sign of subordination, deference, or dependence upon the recipient’s favour.5 Ten per cent seemed the benchmark igure for several types of revenue collection that persisted well into the Middle Ages. While the medieval ecclesiastical tithe regime was not directly descended from later Roman tax structures or traditions of tithe oferings, when writers in the fourth century began to put forward serious arguments about the necessity of tithing within a Christian theological framework, they were not introducing something entirely novel – their arguments for it were grounded exclusively in exegesis of the Old Testament. tithe s as secular taxe s The Latin term for a tithe is decima, and in Roman parlance it referred to several types of secular taxes or votive oferings.6 The Romans imposed a land tax in certain provinces, particularly Sicily, called a decima or decuma, discussed at some length by Cicero in his corruption case against the

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Rösener, ‘Die kirchliche Grundherrschaft’, p. 195. Appadurai, ‘Commodities and the Politics of Value’, p. 3: ‘The economic object does not have an absolute value as a result of the demand for it, but the demand, as the basis of a real or imagined exchange, endows the object with value’. A cultural-sociological approach to understanding systems of taxation, tribute, and tithing is suggested in the short piece by Karl Häuser, ‘Opfer und Steuer. Von der Antike zur Gegenwart’, in Mit dem Zehnten ing es an. Eine Kulturgeschichte der Steuer, ed. Uwe Schulz (Munich, C.H. Beck, 1986), pp. 13–24. See the list of citations in Lewis and Short, s.v. decimus, decima, p. 520.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire former governor,Verres.7 Other kinds of tithes could be voluntary donatives or pledges made by urban elites for municipal improvements and projects, such as those commented upon by Ulpian in the Digest.8 In the late empire, dependent tenant farmers, or coloni, rendered dues called decimae – or agrarium – to landlords and continued to do so in some areas of the Latin West well into the early medieval period.9 An early seventhcentury Visigothic formulary, for instance, contains a clause in which the recipient of a precarial lease promises to continue paying the tithes and other tribute owed by the estate’s coloni to the landowner.10 Another early medieval ecclesiastical formulary of uncertain provenance, perhaps of the eighth century, contains an agreement in which the brothers of one monastery lease back to the abbot of another a portion of some property which they had recently purchased from him, with the stipulation that each year he would pay one denarius toward lighting, and a tithe from whatever crops he grew.11 In a Roman context, public oicials, or conductores, would have been the recipients of agricultural tithes, but by the time these formularies were produced, the lord (dominus) of the land received them as private payments.12 Reinhold Kaiser has shown that episcopal churches gradually assumed many of the functions of secular tax collector and administrator in many areas of the Mediterranean and Latin West, controlling the oice of count and negotiating with royal authorities over the level of taxation in the civitas.13 Such exactions would never have been confused 7

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Cicero accused Verres of having levied this tithe in Sicily at exorbitantly high rates when the price of grain was low. Compare Cicero, Orationes in Verrem, II, iii, 16–18 (Loeb Classic Library), pp. 45–55. See also Pauly-Wissowa, Reallexikon, vol. IV.2, s.v. decuma, pp. 2306–14. Corpus Iuris Civilis, ed. Theodor Mommsen and Paul Krüger (Berlin, Weidmann, 1899–1902), II, Digest 50.12.2.2: ‘Si decimam quis bonorum vovit, decima non prius esse in bonis desinit, quam fuerit separata. et si forte qui decimam vovit decesserit ante se positionem, heres ipsius hereditario nomine decimae obstrictus est: voti enim obligationem ad heredem transire constat’. Adriaan Verhulst, The Carolingian Economy (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 53. Formulae Visigothicae, nrs. 36–7, MGH Form. I, ed. Karl Zeumer (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1886), p. 591: ‘Decimas vero praestatione vel exenia, ut colonis est consuetudo, annua inlatione me promitto persolvere…’. Formulae Salicae Bignonianae, nr. 21, MGH Form. I, pp. 235–36: ‘…ut annis singulis censo dinarius tantus ad luminaria sancti ill. et illa decima de omnia fructa, quicquid supra ipsa rem conlaborare potuerimus, quot evenit festa sancto illo, pro hoc vobis dare et adimplere faciam’. On this formulary, see Alice Rio, Legal Practice and the Written World in the Early Middle Ages: Frankish Formulae, ca. 500–1000 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 126–7. This shift has been noted by Shoichi Sato using an early polyptich from the abbey of St. Martin at Tours in ‘L’agrarium: La charge paysanne avant le régime domanial,Vie-VIIIe siècles’, Journal of Medieval History 24: 2 (1998), pp. 103–25. See too Ernst Levy, West Roman Vulgar Law: The Law of Property (Philadelphia, American Philosophical Society, 1951), pp. 48–9. Reinhold Kaiser, ‘Steuer und Zoll in der Merowingerzeit’, Francia 7 (1979), pp. 1–17 at pp. 13–14. See the particularly illustrative incident about the control of tax rolls narrated by Gregory of Tours, Decem Libri Historiarum, IX.30, ed. Bruno Krusch and Wilhelm Levison, MGH SRM I, pp. 448–9.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe with ecclesiastical tithes, which were still viewed as a personal donation, but as time went on, the growing iscal prerogatives of the bishop made subsuming pious tithing within a regime of episcopal social authority and control of churches an important, if not inevitable, agenda. The Alemannian and Bavarian law codes of the seventh and eighth centuries, respectively, contain articles devoted to calculating the types of tithes and tribute owed by coloni, or servi ecclesiae – further eliding the distinction between a tax paid by free tenants and what was rapidly becoming an obligation of dependency and servitude.14 All these sources refer to agricultural dues, not ecclesiastical tithes per se. As we shall see, however, this leads to considerable confusion by the ninth century, when religious and secular tithes appear alongside each other in many sources. A dispute in the middle of the ninth century between the monastery Hersfeld and the archbishop of Mainz, for example, appears to have turned on the question of which institution had the right to collect steora et decimae porcorum in the region of Thuringia – a reference to secular taxes in kind and a traditional fee paid for masting pigs on private land.15 But since the only sources recording the incident survive from several centuries later when disputes over the ecclesiastical tithe were much at issue, it remains maddeningly unclear whether the archbishop and the monastery at the time were laying claim to these tithes as secular landholders or ecclesiastical institutions with canonical tithe privileges. In central Italy, too, Pierre Toubert observed that the monastery Farfa in the early Middle Ages still commanded a large income from tithes which were actually secular agricultural rents and not ecclesiastical in nature.16 Like all landlords of the period, Frankish kings extracted revenues called decimae ex isco from tenants on their estates and property, as well as from trade and other business conducted throughout their kingdoms. Fiscal tithes, or a tithe of iscal revenue (of various types), were very often granted as gifts and transferred to ecclesiastical foundations in the eastern peripheries of the kingdom, particularly under the Carolingians, 14

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Lex Alamannorum, I, c. xxi, ed. Karl August Eckhardt, MGH LL nat. Germ. I, 5, 1 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1965), pp. 82–3, taken over in the Lex Baiuvariorum, c. xiii., ed. Ernst Heymann, MGH LL nat. Germ. I, 5, 2 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1926), pp. 287–8. UB Hersfeld, nr. 34.; Lampert, Annales, p. 356; Erwin Hölk, Zehnten und Zehntkämpfe der Reichsabtei Hersfeld (Marburg, N. G. Elwert, 1933), pp. 46–57. Toubert, Structures du Latium, II, p. 875. Toubert argues that the majority of Farfa’s tithe income was in fact from such secular rents. Ninth-century papal and royal privileges, however, grant protection to the monastery’s ‘tithes and oblations’ – a stock phrase that during the Carolingian period referred exclusively to the ecclesiastical tithe. Compare the privilege of Pascal I from 817, Regesta Pontiicum, nr. 2546. An example of what are likely secular tithes might be seen in Il Regesto di Farfa, ed. Ignazio Giorgi and Ugo Balzani, 5 vols. (Rome: Società romana di storia patria: 1879–1914) II, nr. 910 (1060), where the abbot of Farfa and the bishop of Ascoli agree to divide the tithe on a disputed property paid by the servi and coloni there.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire which further elided the distinction between secular and religious tithe rights.17 In the eighth century, the monastery Hersfeld was a major beneiciary of iscal tithe gifts from Charlemagne in Thuringia, some of which may have been at the centre of the controversy mentioned previously.18 As late as 1025, Salian emperor Conrad II ceded tithes from newly conquered Bohemian territory north of the Danube to the bishop of Passau.19 In 897, Adalbert, the margrave of Tuscany, gave the cathedral canons of Lucca an enormous donation of iscal tithes from his goods in the Garfagnana valley and the Valdinievole region to the east of the city.20 This was a way for a king (or other powerful magnate) to, in a sense, tithe himself and his own resources for the beneit of churches or monasteries he wished to support.21 Fiscal tithes could also be diverted to support the churches serving dependents on the royal estates. In the Capitulare de Villis, for instance, Charlemagne ordered that all tithes from his estates be applied to the churches where his coloni were baptized and heard mass, efectively turning de jure iscal tithes into de facto ecclesiastical tithes.22 Royal bequests of iscal revenues had the efect of placing enormous resources – formerly at the disposal of the crown – in the hands of monasteries, as well as bishops and cathedral chapters. It also meant that these resources, although possessed by the monks or clerics, now also fell under the ostensible jurisdiction of the bishops who were charged in canon law with overseeing the administration of all church property in their 17

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See Ernst Perels, ‘Kirchliche Zehnten im karolingischen Reiche’ (Ph.D. diss., Berlin, 1904), pp. 71–6, and more recently, Jean Durliat, Les inances publiques de Dioclétian aux Carolingiens 284–888, Beihefte der Francia, 21 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1990), pp. 105–6. It appears fairly certain that this practice began with Pippin III; the only possible example of a Merovingian monarch ceding iscal tithes, or tithes from iscal revenues, to an ecclesiastical foundation is MGH DD Merov., I, nr. 46 for the church in Speyer by Sigibert III (633–57), but which is likely a later, Carolingian-era forgery. Compare later examples of Carolingian generosity: MGH DD Karol. I, nr. 4 (Pippin III for Utrecht); DD Karol. I, nr 56 (Charlemagne conirming previous privilege); MGH DD Arnolf, nr. 69 (for Würzburg). UB Hersfeld, nrs. 9, 10, 12,14. See too Hölk, Zehnten und Zehntkämpfe, pp. 46–57. MGH DD Konrad II, nr. 47. See too Willibald Plöchl, Das kirchliche Zehntwesen in Niederösterreich, Forschungen zur Landeskunde von Niederösterreich, 5 (Vienna: Verein für Landeskunde und Heimatschutz von Niederösterreich und Wien, 1935), p. 18. Regesto del capitolo di Lucca, ed. Pietro Guidi and Oreste Parenti, 3 vols., Regesta Chartarum Italiae vols. 6, 9, 18 (Rome, Istituto storico per il medio evo, 1910–39), I, nr. 3. The royal isc itself was not subject to any taxation or tithing, making speciic grants necessary. See Erica Widera, ‘Der Kirchenzehnt in Deutschland zur Zeit der sächsischen Herrscher’, AKKR 110 (1930), pp. 33–110 at p. 50. Captiulare de Villis (c.800?), c. 6, MGH Capit. I, nr. 32, p. 83: ‘Volumus ut iudices nostri decimas ex omni conlaboratu pleniter donent ad ecclesias quae sunt in nostris iscis, et ad alterius ecclesiam nostra decima data non iat, nisi ubi antiquitus institutuj fuit. Et non alii clerici habeant ipsas ecclesias nisi nostri aut de familia aut de capella nostra’. This was at the same time an admonition to the king’s overseers not to divert tithe revenue from older churches to newer ones and deprive the established churches and their clergy of critical support.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe dioceses.23 The Carolingian period saw the shift of a tremendous amount of landed wealth – both property and extracted revenue like tithes – from a secular to a religious context, thereby creating a substantial new dynamic within which ecclesiastic lords could exercise lordship and exert their inluence over a community.24 As we shall see, however, such prerogatives were more diicult to implement than to assert. The link between secular and ecclesiastical tithes is not the increasing fogginess of the legal and historical boundaries between the two over time, but how the ecclesiastical tithe emerged alongside a set of longstanding practices of taxation dominated by relations of lordly power and political patronage. Contemporaries would not have mistaken seigneurial dues or taxes for church tithes, but church tithes in the Frankish world increasingly began to look less like voluntary, pious oferings and more like a rent or tax imposed by those in power, even before they indeed became so in the later eighth century. Thus conlicts and negotiations over the proper rendering of ecclesiastical tithes were simultaneously a negotiation of power relationships between bishops, clergy, and the lay community. tithing as a re l ig ious p ractice The idea of submitting one-tenth, or a comparable portion, of one’s produce and income for the support of religious activities was common in many cultures of the ancient Near East. Christians living in the irst two centuries after Christ would have seen the practice of religious tithe giving at work around them in the pagan Mediterranean world. The Greeks, and later the Romans, practised a type of religious tithing especially popular with devotees of Apollo and Hercules.25 It was evidently still widespread in the second century when Tertullian found space to criticise the practice in his Apologeticus.26 The ancient Hebrews, however, had the most elaborate system of sacred tithing. As the Hebrew Scriptures came to play a more prominent role in Christian theology over the course

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A. H. M. Jones, ‘Church Finance in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries’, in The Roman Economy: Studies in Ancient Economic and Administrative History, ed. Peter Astbury Brunt (Totowa, NJ, Rowman & Littleield, 1974), pp. 339–49 at pp. 344–5. David Herlihy, ‘Church Property on the European Continent’, Speculum 36:1 (1961), pp. 81–105. See for example, Plautus, Stichus, Act II, 2 (Loeb Classic Library), p. 47: ‘Hercules, decumam esse adauctam tibi quam vovi gratulor!’; Livy, Ab Urbe Condita., V, 23 (Loeb Classic Library), p. 80: ‘Agi deinde de Apollonis dono coeptum. Cui se decimam vovisse praedae partem cum diceret Camillus…’. Tertullian, Apologeticus, XXXIX, 5, ed. Eligius Dekkers, CCSL, vol. I, pt. 1 (Turnhout, Brepols, 1953), pp. 150–1.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of the second and third centuries, Christians found themselves needing to respond to the centrality of tithing in the Hebrew tradition.27 The Torah taught that one-tenth of all produce of the land and the tenth animal in every herd belonged to Yahweh.28 This tradition was honoured by submitting tithes at speciied times and places. The recipients of tithes were the Levites29 who, because of their economic segregation from the rest of the community, had to rely on this charity for their livelihood, but the priests also received certain oferings, speciically the irst fruits, or heave ofering, from speciied crops, or the irstborn male of a family.30 The Levites in turn were expected to tithe their own income to the priests who carried out liturgical activities. Other tithes were collected every three years for the beneit of the Levites, widows, and orphans in each community, or consumed at an annual feast traditionally held in Jerusalem.31 Other Old Testament passages provided an equally important template for Christian ideas about tithing, particularly the story in Genesis 14:18–20 that tells how Abraham ofered tithes to the priest-king Melchizidek.32 In the allegorical reading of the Old Testament developed by Christian exegetes, Melchizidek came to be identiied with both Christ and the priesthood, pre-iguring and legitimizing the idea of tithing in a Christian context.33 Malachi 3:10–12 was perhaps the most widely invoked passage in later Christian theology on tithes.34 In Malachi, the prophet condemns the people for not having submitted their tithes and proclaims that the timely and full submission of tithes results in Yahweh’s favour and abundant crops.35 The story of the pious Tobit (from the eponymous deuterocanonical book) who faithfully ofered tithes at the Temple in Jerusalem served a similar didactic 27

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Fundamental is Raymund Kottje, Studien zum Einluss des alten Testaments auf Recht und Liturgie des frühen Mittelalters, 2nd ed., Bonner Historische Forschungen, 23 (Bonn, Ludwig Röhrscheid Verlag, 1970). Lukas Vischer, ‘Die Zehntforderung in der alten Kirche,’ Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte, 4th ser., 70 (1950), pp. 201–17 is an often cited and important summary of the development of an early Christian doctrine of tithing, but incredibly tendentious in its criticism of the idea of Christian tithing generally. Leviticus 27:30. 29 Numbers 18:23–24. Exodus 22:29; 23:19; 34:26; Nehemiah 10:37. 31 Deuteronomy 14:22–29. Genesis 14:18–20: ‘at vero Melchisedech rex Salem proferens panem et vinum erat enim sacerdos Dei altissimi benedixit ei et ait benedictus Abram Deo excelso qui creavit caelum et terram et benedictus Deus excelsus quo protegente hostes in manibus tuis sunt et dedit ei decimas ex omnibus’. See n. 46. As noted by Vischer, ‘Zehntforderung’, p. 201, who expresses astonishment at the naïve exegesis of certain ‘ernste Christen’ who have always relied on this passage to justify Christian tithing. Malachi 3:10–12: ‘inferte omnem decimam in horreum et sit cibus in domo mea et probate me super hoc dicit Dominus si non aperuero vobis cataractas caeli et efudero vobis benedictionem usque ad abundantiam et increpabo pro vobis devorantem et non corrumpet fructum terrae vestrae nec erit sterilis vinea in agro dicit Dominus exercituum et beatos vos dicent omnes gentes eritis enim vos terra desiderabilis dicit Dominus exercituum’.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe purpose.36 The idea of irst fruits (primitiae) is often conlated with tithes and oblations (oblationes) in Christian literature without any substantive distinction. Originally the irst fruit was a separate tithe ofering made to a priest, as opposed to tithes paid to the Levites. The New Testament does not broach the subject of tithing, save for Jesus’ rebuke of the Pharisees in Matthew 23:23, whom he accuses of meticulously tithing the herbs in their gardens while neglecting ‘the weightier matters of the Law.’37 It is very important to recognize, however, that early Christians themselves were not exposed to the tithe regime outlined in the Torah, which had largely disappeared after the Babylonian captivity, but rather traditions of tithing formulated in postexilic rabbinic regulations. In the Hellenistic and Hasmodean eras, for instance, Levites appear to have been largely excluded from receiving tithes, which at the time went directly to the priests.38 Particularly after the destruction of Jerusalem in the second century, a theology of tithing emerged in the Mishnah which justiied the practice in the absence of a physical temple or priesthood by emphasizing God’s supreme lordship over all aspects of life and the things one enjoys on earth.39 Faithfully ofering a tithe of food consumed in the home for charity ensured God’s grace over one’s life and household by acknowledging his authority and generosity – an attitude that emerged strongly in Christianity after the fourth century as well. Thus the rabbinical traditions mostly did away with distinctions between the yearly versus three-year tithe, focused exclusively on the tithe in the context of the priesthood, and expressed the list of crops subject to the tithe in much more detail, as the passage from Matthew relects.40 Neither the rabbis nor Christians, for example, adopted the annual tithe from Deuteronomy earmarked for a religious feast. It was not immediately apparent to early Christians that tithing was something they wanted or needed to adopt. Indeed, in an environment 36

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Tobit 1:6: ‘…et pergebat ad Hierusalem ad templum Domini et ibi adorabat Dominum Deum suum Israhel omnia primitiva sua et decimas suas ideliter oferens’. Luke 11:42: ‘Vae vobis scribae et Pharisaei hypocritae quia decimatis mentam et anethum et cyminum et reliquistis quae graviora sunt legis iudicium et misericordiam et idem haec oportuit facere et illa non omittere’. Two deuterocanonical Old Testament texts, the Book of Jubilees 32:15 and Judith 11:13, both probably from the second to irst century BC, relect this new structure in the tithe regime. Fragments of the writings of a pagan Egyptian, Hecataeus of Abdera, transmitted in Josephus’s Contra Apionem I, 187; 197–9, from around the third or second century BC likewise describe priests as the exclusive recipients of the people’s tithes, cited in The Jewish Temple: A Non-Biblical Sourcebook, ed. Robert Hayward (New York, Routledge, 1996), pp. 18–25. Martin S. Jafee, Mishnah’s Theology of Tithing: A Study of Tractate Maaserot, Brown Judaic Studies, 19 (Chico, Scholars Press, 1981). s.v. ‘tithe’, Anchor Bible Dictionary, vol.VI, 580.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of increasing antagonism between Jews and Christians, tithing could be viewed as an undesirable form of Judaizing. Early church fathers often pointed to the practice of tithing in the Old Testament and its ten per cent benchmark as a deiciency in the Jewish tradition upon which Christ’s teachings had improved. Irenaeus (c.120–c.200), writing at the end of the second century, pointed out that the Jews were required to give ten per cent, whereas Christ commanded Christians to give all their possessions to the poor.41 Old Testament models of religious charity were applied sparingly in other literature; examples of spontaneous and more extensive pious Christian giving exempliied in the Gospels and Acts of the Apostles seem to have carried more weight in irst- and second-century Christian teaching. Some ainity with Second Temple practices of ofering irst fruits to priests is evident in the Didache, a pastoral treatise from the late irst or early second century, possibly of Syriac or Egyptian origin. The author urges Christians to give irst fruits (i.e. a heave ofering) from a list of commodities drawn from the Old Testament (grain, wine, oil) to prophets in the church or to the poor.42 Tertullian (l. 160–215), the irst Christian theologian to write primarily in Latin, observed that the Christians of his day voluntarily made small donations at churches for the beneit of the poor.43 Whether such gifts were actually tithes is unclear, but Tertullian stressed that no one was coerced to give anything and, as pointed out earlier, compared it favourably to what he saw as the vanity of pagan tithing. Precisely when or under what circumstances leaders in the Christian movement irst developed a doctrine on tithing as distinct from the general admonitions and models of charitable giving found in the New Testament or other early texts is not clear. To be sure, in the late second century there was a broad shift in Christian theology towards embracing the Old Testament in its scriptural canon alongside the Gospels and the 41

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Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, IV, 18.2, ed. and translated by Adelin Rousseau et al., Sources Chrétiennes, 100:2 (Paris, Éditions du Cerf, 1965), pp. 598–99. John Chrysostom, Homily on Ephesians, IV, NPNF, vol. XIII, p. 69 made a similar point, saying that if the Jews were required to tithe, Christians should be all that more generous. Teaching of the Twelve Apostles (Didache), c. 12, ANF, vol.VII, p. 381.Viard, Dîme avant Gratien, 19–20. The date of the Didache has been long disputed, ranging from AD 70 (roughly contemporaneous with Paul) through the early second century. It survived only in a single eleventh-century manuscript from Palestine, so its origins and transmission are diicult to discern. See s.v. ‘Didache’ in Encyclopedia of Early Christianity, ed. Everett Ferguson (New York, Garland, 1990), p. 262 with further literature. Apologeticus, XXXIX, 5, ed. Eligius Dekkers, pp. 150–1: ‘Modicam unusquisque stipem menstrual die vel cum velit, et si modo velit et si modo posit, apponit. Nam nemo compellitur, sed sponte confert’. He contrasts this voluntary practice with that of the mystery cults of the day which required certain payments and donations as a price of initiation or membership. Compare ibid., XXXIX, 14–15, p. 152.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe Pauline letters.44 Perhaps more important, however, as the church grew geographically and institutionally within the Roman empire, so did its inancial burdens and charitable obligations. The rise of religious tithing as a prominent doctrine within Christianity coincides fairly strongly with the emergence of the episcopate as the centre of the Christian community, particularly in urban areas.45 The Apostolic Constitutions, a thirdor fourth-century collection of regulations for church life compiled in Syria or Asia Minor, is probably the earliest surviving text to fold the Old Testament tithing regime explicitly into a Christian model of charity by describing Christ as the High Priest (Melchizidek) and bishops like the Levites.46 Tithes were to be submitted to bishops who would, as the Levites had once done, put them towards the care of the poor and needy, particularly widows and orphans, as well as the maintenance of the cult. Augustine, Jerome, and Ambrose, the most important of the Latin fathers, all urged believers to submit tithes to the clergy.47 Yet their writings unfortunately contain little indication of how Christians in late antiquity actually paid, dispensed, or consumed tithes, or what the economy of a local church looked like. Instead, the Latin fathers of the fourth and ifth centuries made clear not only the moral and legal necessity of tithing, but also the explicit consequences of neglecting to do so. There were certain spiritual and material prices to be paid for withholding one’s 44

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Irenaeus and Origen were leading igures in this trend. See Francis Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture (Cambridge and New York, Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 290–2. See, for example, the discussion of social obligations and charity that fell under the pervue of bishops in late antiquity in Judith Herrin, The Formation of Christendom (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1987), pp. 72–5. Constitutions of the Holy Apostles (Didascalia), ch. 25, ANF vol.VII, pp. 408–10. The patristic literature on tithing, while important, was not extensive and never registered in medieval exegesis as profoundly as Old Testament passages or later sermons by igures like Caesarius of Arles or Eligius of Noyon. Compare Augustine, Enarrationes in Psalmos, 146, 17, ed. Eligius Dekkers and Johannes Fraipont, CCSL, vol. XL (Turnhout: Brepols, 1956), 2135: ‘Exime aliquam partem redituum tuorum. Decimas vis? Decimas exime, quamquam parum sit. Dictum est enim quia pharisaei decimas dabant.… Et ille super quem debet abundare iustitia tua, decimas dat; tu autem nec millesimam das. Quomodo superabis eum cui non aequaris?’ English trans: NPNF, ser. 1, vol. VIII, p. 668. Compare too idem, Sermo IX, 19, Sermones de vetero Testemento, ed. Cyril Lambot, CCSL, vol. XLI (Turnhout, Brepols, 1961), 144–5. In a letter to Nepotianus, Jerome states that the clergy, heirs to the Old Testament priests and Levites, ought to be supported solely by tithes of the faithful rather than their own wealth: Jerome, Epistola ad Nepotianum, ed. Isidor Hilburg, in Sancti Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae, nr. 52, CSEL vol. LIV, (Vienna and Leipzig,Tempsky and Freytag, 1910/1918); English trans. NPNF, ser. 2, vol. VI, nr. 52, p. 91. In a Lenten sermon, Ambrose of Milan, Sermo XXV, PL 17, col. 677 argued that someone who does not give tithes robs both God and his fellow man: ‘Et si tu non dederis Deo decimam partem, Deus tollet a te novem partes. Item si quis recognoscit in se quod ab aliquo tulit aliquid injuste, emendet reddendo quod injuste tulit. Nam qui non vult Deo reddere decimas quas retinuit, et homini non studet reddere, quod injuste ab eo abstulit; non timet adhuc Deum, et ignorat quid sit vere poenitentia, veraque confessio’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire tithe, as Malachi 3:10 amply demonstrated for exegetes like Jerome.48 In this way, the Christian tithe, like its predecessors in the Jewish and Roman traditions, acquired a distinctly votive or sacriicial character, and noncompliance resulted in divine disfavour.49 Despite the tough homiletic rhetoric, however, neither individual bishops nor the church as a whole in late antiquity endeavoured to impose any oicial institutional sanctions upon Christians for neglecting to give tithes. Indeed, none of the early church councils – ecumenical or regional – debated the issue of tithing. There were substantial debates, however, over how funds collected by a church – including, presumably, tithes – were to be distributed or allocated.To control systems of benefaction and charity in the ancient world was no small part of social authority and since churches were important centres of patronage, bishops, local clergy, and lay lords came to clash over the use of endowments and revenues.50 The division of ecclesiastical revenue for charitable projects and the general inancial needs of both episcopal and local churches was given more formal shape by Pope Gelasius I (492–6), best known for his pronouncements on papal supremacy. In considering the question of how bishops should go about consecrating private churches built or endowed by laymen, Gelasius wrote in a pastoral letter to the bishops of Lucania and Bruttium (mod. Calabria) that church revenue (reddita ecclesiarum) ought to be divided in four parts: One portion should go to the priest of the local church, one to the fabric (maintenance of the ediice and liturgical articles), one to the poor, and the last to the bishop.51 This meant that the founder of the church, or the lord on whose land it was situated, renounced any claims over the income and property of the foundation and that the right of the clergy, including the diocesan bishop, to manage ecclesiastical income was given priority. This so-called Gelasian, or Roman, principle of quadripartition gained wide currency in the Carolingian period and became a normative standard for the deposition of tithes, particularly in areas of Bavaria and the Middle Rhine later inluenced by Boniface.52 48

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Jerome, Commentariorum. in Malachiam, ed. Marcus Adriaen, CCSL, vol. LXXVIa (Turnhout, Brepols, 1970), pp. 932–8, esp. p. 936: ‘Quod qui non fecerit (viz. decimas redderit), Deum fraudere et supplantare convincitur, et maledicitur ei in penuria rerum omnium, ut qui parce seminaverit, parce et metat, et qui in benedictione seminaverit, in benedictionibus fructus colligat abundanter’. Häuser, ‘Opfer und Steuer’, pp. 16–17. Richard Finn, Almsgiving in the Later Roman Empire (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006); Häuser, ‘Opfer und Steuer’. Regesta Pontiicum, nr. 636. On the historical context for this letter, see Walter Ullmann, Gelasius I Der Papsttum an der Wende der Spätantike zum Mittelalter, Päpste und Papsttum, 18 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1981), pp. 226–8. In addition to the Roman model of quadripartition, there was the so-called Toledan or Spanish tradition of tripartition, as described by Martin of Braga, Concilium Bacarense Primum, c. 7, ed. C.W. Barlow, Martini Episcopi Bracarensis Opera Omnia, Papers of the American Academy in Rome,

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe The irst formal pronouncement from a church body on tithing survives in a pastoral encyclical issued by the Council of Tours in 567 admonishing the people of the province to submit alms and tithes as Abraham had done.53 This does not seem to have been intended as a universal directive, however, but rather a discrete response to growing social and political disorder in the Frankish kingdom, particularly the issue of ransoming prisoners in an anticipated war. Not long after this, however, a council at Mâcon in 585 also emphasized the importance of paying tithes for aiding the poor and ransoming captives, but went a step further and ordered that any Christian refusing to give tithes ought to be excommunicated – ‘severed from the members of the church for all time’.54 These two councils are often touted in the historical literature as introducing landmark changes in the overall conception of tithing in Latin Europe.55 While useful as indicators of contemporary episcopal sensibilities in certain areas of Gaul, their broader signiicance needs to be downplayed somewhat, especially when compared to the texts on tithes which actually enjoyed a far wider circulation and readership in the early Middle Ages, particularly in Italy and east of the Rhine.56 One such textual tradition were the sermons of Bishop Caesarius of Arles (502–42), who published several homilies exhorting his congregation

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12 (New Haven,Yale University Press, 1950), p. 165: one part for the bishop, a second part for the priest, and a third part for the church fabric. This was also conirmed at the Fourth Council of Toledo in 634. See A. H. M. Jones, ‘Church Finance in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries’, pp. 339–49 at pp. 345–6. Council of Tours (567), Concilia Galliae, a.511–695, ed. Charles le Clercq, CCSL, vol. CXLVIIIa (Turnhout, Brepols, 1963), pp. 198–9: ‘Et licet superius dictum sit ad exemplum Abrahae decimas oferri debere, attamen propter cladem, quae imminet, hortamur ut etiam unusquisque de suis mancipiis decimas persolvere non recuset, quia dicitur in illa inirmitate ad divisionem nescio quam venire personas, quasi novem auferat, decimam ut relinquat. Unde satis congruet cum mercede animae unum soluere, ut nouem non posit amittere, quam cum peccati crimine et reliquos perdere et, quem dare noluit, non habere’. The ‘clad[es] quae imminet’ mentioned in the letter probably refers to the feared civil war brewing between Merovingian kings Charibert, Sigibert, and Guntram at the time. See J. M.Wallace-Hadrill, The Frankish Church (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1983), pp. 102–3 and Ian Wood, The Merovingian Kingdoms, 450–751 (London and New York, Longman, 1994), pp. 88–93. Council of Mâcon (585), c. 5, Concillia. Gallicae, p. 241: ‘Si quis autem contumax nostris statutis saluberrimis fuerit, a membris ecclesiae omni tempore separetur’. See for example, Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, p. 28;Viard, Dîme avant Gratien, p. 55. These texts were, to my knowledge, never cited by Carolingian or later authorities on discussions about the ecclesiastical tithe. Odette Pontal, Die Synoden im Merowingerreich, Konziliengeschichte: Darstellungen, vol. 2 (Paderborn, etc., Ferdinand Schöningh, 1986), p. 300 provides a useful table showing the transmission of early councils, especially in the Vetus Gallica, the most important manuscript tradition of pre-Carolingian church legislation.The Council of Mâcon is found in the Vetus Gallica, but c. 5 on tithing is not transmitted in any other canon law collections that were important in the tenth or eleventh centuries, such as Regino of Prüm or Burchard of Worms.The pastoral letter from Tours is, interesting, transmitted separately from the council canons in two manuscripts, Paris, BN Lat. 1448 (saec. ix–xiv, f. 84) and Paris BN Lat. 1454 (saec. ix–x, f. 241). See the apparatus provided by de Clercq, Concilia Gallicae, p. 175.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire to submit their tithes faithfully to the church.57 Naturally we cannot gauge the immediate efect of the sermons as Caesarius delivered them at his church, but in their later textual life, particularly as they came to be attributed to Augustine in the Carolingian period and after, they formed a cornerstone of the doctrine of tithing in continental Europe. This is not surprising, seeing how Caesarius concisely transmits much of the thought of the Latin fathers on tithing, particularly the patristic exegesis on Malachi 3. Caesarius speciies that one owes tithes from whatever means one earns a living or income – whether as a farmer, soldier, or merchant. Faithful tithing ensures God’s grace and the material beneits accorded with it, and to withhold tithes is tantamount to robbing the poor who are supported by them.58 Caesarius’s sermons laid out a wellargued case for tithing as a moral obligation and fundamental act of Christian charity, but did not include any speciic instructions on how tithes are to be paid, where, or to whom. It seems Caesarius envisaged a situation in which individual believers voluntarily tithed themselves and distributed the proceeds to the poor or clergy as they saw it. We also see in Caesarius’s imagery an illustration of an important point made earlier, namely that in the post-Roman Latin West, the ecclesiastical tithe was not so much conlated with other forms of secular taxation as expressed within a parallel discourse of lordship and submission. Exhorting his lock to honour God and pay tithes, for example, Caesarius writes: If indeed the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it, we are like the servi and coloni of the Lord and how can we not know our master? For He has said: the ox knows its master, and the ass its lord’s manger; Israel however does not recognize me and my people have not understood.59

Caesarius’s audience in southern Gaul knew very well the relationship of a servus or colonus to his master, and although the bishop was invoking these relationships as an illustration of how the believer ought to submit 57

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Caesarius of Arles, Sermones, ed. Germain Morin, CCSL, vol. CIII (Turnhout: Brepols, 1953), nrs. 33–4. On Caesarius’s career, see William Klingshirn, Caesarius of Arles: The Making of a Christian Community in Late Antique Gaul (Cambridge, 1994), esp. pp. 186–7 for Caesarius’s eforts to solicit tithes. Caesarius seems to use the term pauperes to mean both the clergy and the actual poor. Serm., nr. 33, pp. 145–6.: ‘Quicquid enim nobis deus plus quam opus est dederit, non nobis specialiter dedit, sed per nos aliis erogandum transmisit. Si non dederimus, res alienas invasimus’. A second sermon (nr. 34) links giving tithes to honouring one’s parents and mandates that tithes ought to be given from all types of income: ‘Redde ergo tributa pauperibus, ofere libamina sacerdotibus. Quod si decimas non habes fructuum terrenorum, quod habet agricola, quocumque te pascit ingenium dei est: inde decimas expetit unde vivis. De militia, de negotio, de artiicio tuo redde decimas…’. Caesarius, Serm. nr. 33, p. 143: ‘Si ergo domini est terra et plenitudo eius (Ps. 24:1), servi dominis sumus pariter et coloni; et nescio quomodo non omnes agnoscimus possessorem. Dicit enim: agnovit bos possessorem suum, et asinus praesepe domini sui; Israhel autem me non cognivit, et populus meus me non intellexit’.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe to the commands of Christ, it was also a clear reference to the way in which paying dues like the tithe expressed servile or dependent status.60 If one’s lord demanded payment, it was incumbent upon one to submit. The payment of tithes, whether religious or secular, was construed explicitly in terms of power relations between the payer and the receiver. Caesarius, particularly in his textual Nachleben as pseudo-Augustine, was also clearly preaching the doctrine of tithing as a pastor and a bishop, which gave special weight to the notion that bishops were uniquely imbued with the authority to receive, or at least play a key role in administering, tithes.61 Caesarius’s pseudo-Augustinian sermons on the tithe tend to survive in manuscripts like the eighth- or ninthcentury homiliary attributed to Burchard of Würzburg, Würzburg, Universitätsbibliothek, Mp. Th. f. 28, or the late eighth-century compilation from the cathedral of Freising, Munich, Clm. 6298, known as the Homiliary of Corbinian.62 Yitzhak Hen has suggested that sermon 33 may actually have been Burchard’s, but this is unlikely.63 Not only was the homiliary itself not likely Burchard’s, but terms in which it presents tithing do not seem out of place in the late antique Mediterranean – as opposed to quasi-pagan eighth-century Germany.64 The same sermon appears in Vienna, Nationalbibliothek, Cod. Lat. 1051, a mid-twelfthcentury homiliary and Kopialbuch from the cathedral of Passau that contains a dossier of charters on the Passau bishops’ claims to tithes in the Danube valley, and in Vienna, Cod. Lat. 2198, a tenth-century canon law compilation from Regensburg.65 Venice, Bibliotheca Marciana, Lat. II.82 60

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On social stratiication and rural servitude in Arles in Caesarius’s day, see Klingshirn, Caesarius, pp. 206–7. Caesarius’s sermons inluenced several other homiletic traditions in the early Middle Ages, particularly the sermon and catechal collections composed by Martin of Braga and the early Carolingian missionary Pirmin. Pirmin’s Scarapsus in particular contained several key passages exhorting listeners to tithe freely ad sacerdotes. See De singulis libris canonicis scarapsus, c. 24, ed. Eckhard Hauswald, ‘Pirmins Scarapsus: Einleitung und Edition’ (unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, University of Konstanz, 2006), p. 98. On the larger tradition and the complex dependencies between Martin, Pirmin, Caesarius, and other sermon collections, see Yitzhak Hen, ‘Martin of Braga’s De correctione rusticorum and its uses in Frankish Gaul’, in Medieval Transformations: Texts, Power, and Gifts in Context, ed. Esther Cohen and Mayke de Jong; Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions, 11 (Leiden, Brill, 2001), pp. 35–50, esp. pp. 40–3. See too Constable, Monastic Tithes, pp. 23–4. The provenance of Clm. 6298 is not clear, but may have been produced at Würzburg or Fulda before inding its way to Freising. See Bernard Bischof, Die Südostdeutschen Schreibschulen und ihre Bibliotheken in der Karolingerzeit, 2 vols. (Wiesbaden, Otto Harrasowitz, 1980), I, pp. 59; 141–2. Yitzhak Hen, Culture and Religion in Merovingian Gaul, A.D. 481–751 (Leiden, Brill, 1995), p. 165. Compare Albert Hauck, Kirchengeschichte Deutschlands, II (Leipzig, J.C. Hinrich’sche Buchandlung, 1890), p. 222, n. 5. Vienna, Nationalbibliothek, Cod. Lat. 1051, fol. 17r-18v. (= excerpts from Caesarius, Serm. I, 33, ed. Morin, pp. 143–6.) The other Passau material related to tithes is discussed further in Chapter 5;Vienna, Nationalbibliothek, Cod. Lat 2198, fol. 74b-75b (= exerpts Caesarius, Serm. I, 33); Title 79 (Pseudo-Remedius) = Caesarius, Serm. I, 33, p. 143.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire (2402) from the later ninth century, reproduces parts of sermon 34 as well. In all these texts, Caesarius’s sermon served as a reference not just to the imperative of tithing, but to an argument about its inextricable connection to charity, maintaining divine favour, and the centrality of the clergy as a link between God and the community of believers. As we shall see, all these notions correspond well to the ecclesiology of the Carolingian period and the role of the tithe in mediating the relationship between the laity and the church. Another link between the clergy, their communities, and the tithe was sacramental, particularly in the context of confession and penance. The Council of Mâcon went to an extreme in condemning recalcitrant tithe payers with excommunication, which is perhaps why its prescriptions were never really publicized to a great extent. Penitential practices popularized on the continent in the early Middle Ages enjoined tithing in a way similar to Caesarius’s sermons, though the evidence for how negligent tithing was confessed or punished is decidedly spotty. Moreover, the penitential literature further complicates how we understand the relationship between parish priests, tithe giving, and the involvement of the bishop. Between the seventh and tenth centuries, penance and tithing were contested areas of authority between bishops and members of the lower orders. Private penance wherein laymen confessed in secret to a priest was introduced to the continent from Ireland and Anglo-Saxon England in the eighth century and quickly spread to parts of Italy and the lands east of the Rhine with Frankish missionaries and clerics.66 The payment of tithes was a long-established custom in Irish canon law by then, and insular penitentials seemed to provide a useful means for individual clerics in Francia to encourage their lay subjects on the matter.67 By the early ninth century, however, Frankish councils such as that at Chalon-sur-Saône in 813 prohibited unsanctioned penitentials and attempted to normalize the practice of penance in a more public fashion under episcopal authority and using traditions more clearly associated with Rome.68 66

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Hen, Culture and Religion, pp. 188–9.; Sarah Hamilton, The Practice of Pennance, 900–1050 (Woodbridge, Sufolk and Rochester, NY, Boydell & Brewer, 2001), pp. 44–50. Canones Hibernenses, III (‘Synodus Sapientium sic de decimis disputant’), ed. and translated by Ludwig Bieler, in The Irish Penitentials, Scriptores Latini Hiberniae, 5 (Dublin, Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1963), pp. 166–9. On Irish canons and their transmission on the continent, see Raymund Kottje, ‘Überlieferung und Rezeption der irischen Bussbuecher auf dem Kontinent,’ in Die Iren und Europa im früheren Mittelalter, vol. 1, ed. Heinz Löwe (Stuttgart, Klett-Cotta, 1982), pp. 511–24. Roger E. Reynolds, ‘The Organization, Law and Liturgy of the Western Church, 700–900’, in NCMH, vol. II, ed. Rosamond McKitterick (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 587–621; Arnold Angenendt et al., ‘Counting Piety in the Early and High Middle Ages’, in Ordering Medieval Society: Perspectives on Intellectual and Practical Modes of Shaping Social Relations, ed. Bernhard Jussen (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), pp. 15–54 at p. 31–2.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe Compared to other matters of the lesh, tithing does not appear to have been a major concern of either the insular or Frankish penitential traditions. Where these traditions do appear, however, they give some indication of the way in which paying tithes remained a religious, as much as an economic and legal, obligation. Individuals faced various sanctions for failing to pay tithes, or for misusing or misappropriating them. For example, an eighth-century codex in the Cologne cathedral library contains parts of a collection of Irish canons known as the Collection Hibernensis that include excerpts from the Irish penitentials as well as other late antique councils and synods.69 A section on tithing consisting of various fragments of Caesarius’s sermons and the Canones Hibernenses – and found only in this exemplar as well as the late ninthor early tenth-century Bibliotheca Vallicelliana, Cod. T 18 – has been inserted within a larger set of statutes on handling the misappropriation or theft of gifts to the church.70 The Penitential of Theodore, an AngloSaxon collection dating to the seventh or early eighth century picked up in a number of continental penitential books, stipulates that ‘there are three legitimate fasts in a year for the people; the forty [days] before Easter, when we pay the tithes of the year, and the forty [days] before the Lord’s nativity and the forty days and nights after Pentecost’.71 The days leading up to Lent were a time for confession and penance and it may have likewise been a good time to take accounting of who was paying their tithes. One early Frankish collection, the so-called Penitential of St. Hubert, prescribes a three-year penance for anyone misappropriating tithes intended for the care of the poor, particularly for secular purposes.72 This statute subsequently circulated in several other key collections, including versions of the Penitential of Merseburg, an eighthor possibly early ninth-century collection from Saxony, and later the penitential of Burchard of Worms in Book 19 of the Decretum.73 The 69

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Dombibliothek, Cod. 210 (olim 2178) (CLA VIII 1959, 1161). See Friedrich Wilhelm Hermann Wasserschleben, Die irische Kanonessamlung, 2nd. ed. (Leipzig, Bernhard Tauschnitz, 1885), p. 52. In the Cologne ms., fols. 46v-47v.; In the Vallicelliana, compare fols. 75v.-76r. I thank Roger Reynolds for providing me with a photocopy of these leaves of the Vallicelliana from his personal iles. On the tithes in the Collectio Hibernensis and these mss., see Raymund Kottje, Studien zum Einluss des alten Testaments auf Recht und Liturgie des frühen Mittelalters, Bonner Historische Forschungen, 23 (Bonn, Ludwig Röhrscheid Verlag, 1970), p. 65 and n. 44. Poenitentiale Theodori, II, c. 14, § 1, ed. Friedrich Wilhelm Hermann Wasserschleben, Die Bussordnungen der abendländlichen Kirchen (Halle, Graeger, 1851), p. 168 = Medieval Handbooks of Penance, ed. and translated by John T. McNeill and Helen Gamer, Columbia Records of Civilization, 29 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1938), p. 212. Poenitentiale Hubertense, c. 48, ed. Wasserschleben, Bussordnungen, pp 383–84. = McNeill-Gamer, Medieval Handbooks of Penance, p. 293. Poenitentiale Merseburgensis b, c. 7, ed. Wasserschleben, Bussordnungen, pp. 429–30. = Burchard of Worms, Decretorum Libri XX, XIX, c. 139, PL 140: cols. 537–1058, (see further, Chapter 2).

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire penitential texts also reveal an ongoing tension between tithing as a personal obligation and tithing as a tax which increasingly adumbrated the relationship of the community to the parish and to the episcopal church. The Penitential of Theodore, for example, stated that priests should not have to pay tithes and that when collecting tithes from the poor, the consuetudo provinciae ought to be observed so that they are not unduly oppressed.74 The text of Theodore’s penitential migrated to Bavaria and Saxony with the Frankish annexation and made its way into tenth-century Salzburg compilations like Vienna, Nationalbibliothek, Cod. 2195 and the Merseburg penitential in Merseburg, Dombibliothek, Cod. 103, from the late eighth or early ninth century. Theodore and the Merseberg penitential both state that ‘tithes may not be given legitimately to anyone but the poor and pilgrims’, suggesting that a layperson might be questioned about where or to whom they were donating tithes.75 In this context, the penitentials are not much diferent in form or function than synodal canons, and that may have been intentional. Like some collections of synodal canons, penitentials were intended to be practical guides for priests in the ield. Indeed, penitential principles eventually migrated into vernacular forms for the German-speaking laity east of the Rhine. Old-High German formulae for confessing that one had not given all his or her tithes survive in the so-called Reichenauer and Lorcher Beichte.76 There is also indication from very early Lombard charters from Lucca that pious aristocrats in Tuscany understood this sacramental character of the tithe. In 730, a group of nobles established a deaconate, or deanery, outside of Lucca and stipulated that a tithe from their estates in Tuscany was to be given to the church and used exclusively for the care of poor and pilgrims.77

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Penitential of Theodore, II, c. 6, in MacNeill and Gamer, Medieval Handbooks of Penance, p. 200, and XIV, c. 10, p. 200: ‘A presbyter is not obligated to give tithes’. It is doubtful that Theodore himself was actually the author of the tract, but it probably arose in a circle of his students under strong Celtic/Irish inluence. It circulated on the continent with collections of Irish canons. See Thomas Charles-Edwards, ‘The Penitential of Theodore and the Iudicia Theodori’, in Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury: Commemorative Studies on his Life and Inluence, ed. Michael Lapidge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 141–74. Poenitentiale Theodori, II, c. 14, §11 = Poenitentiale Merseburgensis a, c. 126, ed. Wasserschleben, Bussordnungen, III, p. 404: ‘Decimas non sunt legitimas dare nisi pauperibus et peregrinis, nec non cogitur presbyteris decimas dare…’. Elias von Steinmeyer, Die kleineren althochdeutschen Sprachdenkmäler (Berlin: Weidmann, 1916), LXXIIb and LXXV. The confessionals transmit diverse elements of tithing theology from AngloSaxon, Carolingian, and Late Antique sources. See Franz Hautkappe, ‘Über die altdeutschen Beichten und ihre Beziehung zu Cäsarius von Arles’, in Forschungen und Funde, 4, ed. Franz Jostes (Münster: Aschendorf, 1917). Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, 34–5; Codice diplomatico Longobardo, ed. Luigi Schiaparelli (Rome, Tipograio del senato, 1929) I, nr. 48.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe th e pol itics of re lig ious tith ing in th e caroli ng i an world A key outcome of the universalization of tithing in the Carolingian period was that the line between the tithe’s sacramental and political functions became increasingly blurred. If good religion produced good political outcomes, then the universal tithe was a political tool as much as a spiritual tool.The relationship between tithes, bishops, and social power comes into sharper relief when one considers the politics of tithing in newly conquered areas of the Frankish realm especially Saxony, in the late eighth and early ninth centuries.78 Ought the church or its representatives to immediately compel recent pagan converts to Christianity to pay tithes? Despite the apparent clarity of the normative principles, the decision to exact tithes more or less rigorously from a given group or in a certain region was a political one. Around the turn of the ninth century, a not inconsiderable controversy erupted among Carolingian elites over whether conquered (and, at least supericially, converted) peoples ought to pay the ecclesiastical tithe. Israeli scholar Yitzhak Hen has recently advanced the bold thesis that the imposition of tithes in Saxony, as described in the famous Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae (775– 90), was directly inspired by the practice in Muslim lands of making subject Christians and Jews submit the jizya poll tax.79 As we saw previously, however, demands for universal submission of the tithe had roots extending far back into the Merovingian period and the discursive association between tithing and social submission was perhaps even older. Anglo-Saxon traditions, by contrast, as noted in works like the Penitential of Theodore, tended to encourage more lexibility.Thus it is not surprising that Alcuin of York, already critical of Charlemagne’s violent campaigns in Saxony, registered grave concern with the Franks’ decision to impose tithes on the Saxons and Slavs in the late eighth century. The Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae, a text of uncertain date and provenance, included the universal tithe among its many prescriptions for the imposition of Christian rites in Saxony: ‘according to the commandment of God, we order that everyone give a tenth part of their assets and laboured to churches and priests’.80 While the Saxons generally had to accept many 78

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On the Saxon wars, see s.v. ‘Sachsen’ in LMA, vol.VII, pp. 1224–5 as well as Matthias Becher, Rex, Dux und Gens. Untersuchungen zur Entstehung des sächsischen Herzogtums im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert (Husum, Matthiesen Verlag, 1996). Yitzhak Hen, ‘Charlemagne’s Jihad’, Viator 37 (2006), pp. 33–51. MGH Capit. I, nr. 26, c. 17, p 69: ‘Similiter secundum Dei mandatum praecipimus, ut omnes decimam partem substantiae et laboris suis ecclesiis et sacerdotibus donent: tam nobiles quam ingenui similiter et liti, iuxta quod Deus uincuique dederit christiano, partem Deo reddant’. See McKitterick, Charlemagne, pp. 253–4 for a discussion of the possible date and context for this capitulary.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of the changes wrought by Frankish hegemony, such as the dissolution of the Gaue and acceptance of Christianity, paying tithes remained a serious point of contention. In the spring of 796, more than a decade after the initial conquest of Saxony, Alcuin wrote to his good friend Arn, the bishop of Salzburg, who was about to embark on a mission to the Slavic territories in the south accompanied by a strong army.81 Alcuin wished Arn success in ‘the work of God’ among the pagan Slavs. But he also cautioned Arn to: [B]e a preacher of piety, not an exactor of tithes, because a new soul is to be nourished with the milk of apostolic piety until it grows, becomes healthy and strengthens to where it can accept solid food.Tithes, it is said, turned the Saxons away from the faith. Why is a yoke to be placed upon the necks of the ignorant which we or our brothers could not bear? Therefore we believe that the souls of believers are saved in the faith of Christ.82

A letter from Alcuin to Charlemagne in August of the same year used similar biblical allusions to equate tithing with a spiritual diet given gradually to new converts.83 Alcuin urged the king not to make the same mistake among the Slavs he had with the Saxons, namely attempting to subdue them with a strict religious regimen that had included full payment of the tithe. Does it make sense, he wrote, ‘to place the yoke of tithes upon a simple people in the early stages of faith, so that their full exaction is made through each home’?84 Instead he urged the king to consider a remission of the tithe so that the Christian faith would have time to take root in the country: ‘We know that tithing is a great beneit to us; but it is better to exempt it rather than to [have people] lose the faith’.85 As though unsure his message was getting through, Alcuin wrote at the same time to Meginfrid, the palace treasurer (arcarius) in Aachen, urging him to speak personally with Charlemagne about the tithe issue 81 82

83 84

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On Charlemagne’s 796 campaign, see Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, p. 244. MGH Epist. IV, nr. 107, pp. 153–4: ‘Et esto praedicator pietatis, non decimarum exactor, quia novella anima apostolicae pietatis lacte nutrienda est, donec crescat, convalescat et roboretur ad acceptionem solidi cibi. Decimae, ut dicitur, Saxonum subverterunt idem. Quid inponendum est iugum cervicibus idiotarum, quod neque nos neque fratres nostri suferre potuerunt? Igitur in ide Christi salvari animas credentium conidimus’. Compare Acts 15:10. See now Max Diesenberger and Herwig Wolfram, ‘Arn und Alkuin 790 bis 804: zwei Freunde und ihre Schriften’, in Erzbischof Arn von Salzburg, ed. Meta Niederkorn-Bruck and Anton Scharer (Vienna and Munich: Oldenbourg, 2004), pp. 81–106 at p. 86–7. MGH Epist. IV, nr. 110., pp.156–7. Ibid., p. 158. ‘… rudibus populis in principio idei iugum inponere decimarum, ut plena iat per singulas domus exactio illarum’. Ibid., p. 158. ‘Scimus, quia decimatio substantiae nostrae valde bona est; sed melius est illam amittere quam idem perdere’.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe and emphasize how the Saxons became hostile to Christianity because of tithes.86 Clearly Alcuin believed that the universal commandment to tithe had to yield at times to political and religious practicalities. Indeed, this letter demonstrates, with great passion, the tensions between ideology and practice with regards to the tithe. In addition, it is a telling witness to the meaning of tithes as a form of social and political authority. Alcuin, and no less the Saxons themselves, viewed the imposition of tithes – collected house by house – as a type of oppression. In certain regions along the northern marches and in Bavaria, it does appear that bishops, with the acquiescence of Frankish authorities, were willing to demand less than the full tithe from newly converted populations.87 The so-called Slavic tithe was never a formally recognized institution, but part of a long-term process of accommodation between Frankish rulers and the peoples along their frontiers. Indeed, as late as 1036, Emperor Conrad II still used the Slavic tithe as a policy tool: At a royal council held in early May that year in Tribur, just before he launched a major campaign against the Liutizi on the northern frontier, Conrad ordered that the Slavs were henceforward to pay the full tithe as all other Christians did.88 When he had inally received submission from the Liutizi by the end of summer, Conrad’s biographer, Wipo, tells us that the emperor likewise forced them to pay their full tribute as they had to previous emperors.89 In this case, imposing the full tithe on Slavic settlers along the Saxon and Thuringian marches or otherwise under nominal German rule was clearly intended to signal their subjugation to the church and to the emperor. Like Charlemagne before him, Conrad understood that enforcing the tithe emphasized the piety of royal government while sending a strong message to those he wished to subdue. To what extent Conrad’s policy was put into action is not clear – there was no Alcuin at Conrad’s court acting as a voice of conscience; some tithe redemptions in the province of Salzburg under Archbishop Baldwin may have been related to a reform of the Slavic tithe there, but the evidence is far from overwhelming.90 86 87

88 89

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MGH Epist. IV, nr. 111, pp. 159–60. Heinrich Felix Schmid, ‘Die Entstehung des kirchlichen Zehntrechts auf slawischem Boden’, Lecture delivered at the 6th International Congress of Historical Sciences, Oslo, 15. August, 1928 (Lwów, 1930). I thank Herwig Wolfram for providing me with a rare ofprint of this lecture. MGH Const. I, nr. 44, c. 6, p. 88. Wipo, Gesta Cuonradi, c. 33, ed. Harry Bresslau, MGH SRG, 61 (Hannover and Leipzig: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1915), 52–3. On Conrad’s 1036 campaigns and the synod of Tribur, see Herwig Wolfram, Conrad II, 990–1039: Emperor of Three Kingdoms, translated by Denise Adele Kaiser (State College, PA: Penn State Press, 2006), pp. 222–4. See Chapter 5, p. 179.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire saints and tithe s Another context that gave shape to the ideas about the way tithes mediated the relationship between a community of believers, the church, and divine favour was the legacy of the saints. The hagiographic literature that began to proliferate throughout Gaul and Italy beginning in the late sixth and early seventh centuries suggests that individual bishops or holy men, as well as local shrines and churches, received tithe oferings. The power of saints to reward those who gave tithes and punish those who did not smoothed out the ambiguities and contradictions raised by tithing in more mundane contexts.The lives of the saints showed their audiences how tithes could be used to link the faithful to channels of divine favour mediated by the saint. One of the most important holy men of late antiquity was St. Severinus, who established churches and preached in the dwindling Roman communities along the Danubian frontier at the end of the ifth century. A near-contemporary vita, penned by a Neapolitan monk named Eugippius around 511, depicts Severinus collecting tithes from the populace to aid the poor.91 Eugippius claims that ‘although this command of the law was very well known by all, they obeyed with gracious devotion, as though they had heard from the mouth of an angel in front of them’.92 The people of the town of Lorch on the Danube refused to bring tithes to Severinus, however, and were punished with a blight (rubigo) which struck their grain crop. When the townspeople confessed their greed to the saint and fasted for their sin, a rain came and removed the blight. Tiburnia, another town in the south of Noricum, also delayed in giving tithes and was besieged by a Gothic army that took whatever might have gone to tithes as a ransom.93 To be sure, such stories are crafted to illustrate the prophetic virtus of the respective saints rather than analyse tithes as such. No single author of the early Middle Ages strove to demonstrate such virtus more than Gregory of Tours.94 Gregory writes in his account of the miracles of St. Martin that the people from the region of Bordeaux once came to a shrine of the saint in Marsas, praying that their horses (caballi) be spared a terrible plague decimating herds in the area. They 91

92

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Vita s. Severini, ed. Hermann Sauppe, MGH AA I, pt. 2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1876), cc. 17–18. For various perspectives on Eugippius and his subject, see Eugippius und Severin: der Autor, der Text und der Heilige, ed. Walter Pohl and Max Diesenberger, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 2 (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001). Vita s. Severini, c. 17, 2. ‘Quod mandatum licet cunctis ex lege notissimum tamen, quasi ex ore angeli praesentis audierent, grata devotione servabant’. Ibid., 4. See especially Raymond Van Dam, Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993).

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe pledged to ofer tithes from those herds to St. Martin if their prayers were answered – and they were.95 In a story from the Ten Books of History, Gregory reports that a hermit near Nice named Hospicius predicted an invasion of Lombards in 574 that resulted from the people’s sins, in particular their refusal to give alms, especially tithes.96 Venantius Fortunatus, in his biography of the holy queen Radegund, notes that whenever she came to possess any royal tribute, she always tithed her portion to the priests of the church.97 In the seventh century, Audoin of Rouen recounts in his biography of St. Eligius how a count named Ingomarus was spared a plague ravishing the region when he promised to ofer Eligius a tithe from all his goods.98 Scattered as such anecdotal evidence from hagiographic literature may be, it does seem to reinforce observations made earlier about the use of tithes to arouse or assuage divine favour. It also brings into sharper focus the relationship between tithes, power, and patronage. In the context of sacred biography, tithes often serve as a symbol of an individual or community’s submission, repentance, or gratitude mediated by the saint. The world depicted by Eugippius, and particularly Gregory, was, as Peter Brown eloquently expressed it, one ‘where fortune and misfortune were thought of as so many direct and palpable consequences of the remission and the retribution of sin’.99 It also paints a picture of tithing during this time not as a neatly administered system of extraction, but a far looser, almost extemporaneous, gesture mediated by the saint when ill fortune threatened. In short, one of the extraordinary abilities of a saint like Severinus or Martin was that they could get people to pay tithes voluntarily, an exercise of spiritual and pragmatic power leveraged by their holiness. It would seem to imply that such a goal often eluded more worldly men, who had to resort to measures like excommunication. Thus the faithful had to be on guard to ensure that the prestige of saints was maintained in this respect. True saints united the Christian community through their power to work miracles; paying tithes played a key role in this process by bringing the community to terms with their sins and giving them a way to access the saint’s favour in a way that bolstered his, and the church’s, role as a patron. 95

96

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De virtutibus s. Martini, III, c.25, PL 71, col. 980, Engl. translation in Raymond Van Dam, Saints and their Miracles, pp. 199–303. Decem libri historiarum, VI, 6, ed. Bruno Krusch and Wilhelm Levison, MGH SRM I, pt. 1 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1951) pp. 272–3. Vita Radegundis (auct. Fortunato), ed. Bruno Krusch, MGH SRM II (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1887), p. 366. Vita S. Eligii, II, c. 43, ed. Bruno Krusch, MGH SRM IV, pt. 2. (Hannover and Leipzig, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1902), p. 726. Peter Brown,‘Relics and Social Status in the Age of Gregory of Tours’, in Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and Los Angeles, University of California Press, 1982), pp. 222–50 at p. 232.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire In the later tenth and eleventh centuries, episcopal saints and their pious administration of a diocese became a dominant model of sanctity.100 Saints were outstanding exemplars of holy behaviour on earth, but as heavenly patrons they exercised a powerful type of other-worldly lordship over the social and legal relationships of their devotees in a monastery or church. Hagiographies composed by eager canons, clerics, and monks not only sought to establish a cult, but to evoke the memory and power of a saint to protect a church or monastery’s vital interests.101 In the eleventh century, saints such as Boniface were given new biographies and remembered not so much for their miracles, but for their ability to secure a patrimony for their foundations.102 The vita of Benno II of Osnabrück touts its protagonist’s political acumen in restoring tithes to his see which had been allegedly usurped by the monasteries of Corvey and Hereford.103 This and other contemporary saints’ lives, and their role in tithe disputes, are discussed in more detail in following chapters. The concern over property and the proper defence and administration of resources such as tithes were a critical sentiment bequeathed to later generations by the Carolingian-era church. If the Merovingian saint possessed power to make people pay tithes, the Salian bishop-saint possessed the power to oversee, administer, and protect tithes. As with sermon collections, paying close attention to hagiographic manuscript traditions can help us better understand how hagiography functioned as a discourse within speciic socio-political contexts as much as a way to remember the relationship between a holy igure and a particular place through his or her miracles. Ulrich of Augsburg, for example, was not only one of the irst saints oicially canonized by the Roman see, but the subject of an archetypical episcopal biography that helped deine the relationship between a bishop, his church, and the royal court in the tenth century.104 Ulrich’s primary vita was composed by a priest of Augsburg named Gerhard not long after the good bishop’s 100

101

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Stephanie Haarländer, Vitae Episcoporum. Eine Quellengattung zwischen Hagiographie und Historiographie, untersucht an Lebensbeschreibungen von Bischöfen des Regnum Teutonicum im Zeitalter der Ottonen und Salier, MGM, 47 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 2000). Hans-Jürgen Becker,‘Der Heilige und das Recht’, in Politik und Heiligenverehrung im Hochmittelalter, ed. Jürgen Petersohn, Vorträge und Forschungen, 42 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1994), pp. 53–72. Petra Kehl, Kult und Nachleben des heiligen Bonifatius im Mittelalter (754–1200), Quellen und Abhandlungen zur Geschichte der Abtei und der Diözese Fulda, 26 (Fulda, Parzeller, 1993), pp. 112–20. Norbert, Vita Bennonis II episcopi Osnabrugensis, c. 16, translated by Hatto Kallfelz, in Lebensbeschreibungen einiger Bischöfe des 10.-12. Jahrhunderts, AQ, 22 (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1973), pp. 403–5. Kathleen Cushing, ‘Events that Led to Sainthood: Sanctity and the Reformers in the Eleventh Century’, in Belief and Culture in the Middle Ages: Essays Presented to Henry Mayr-Harting, ed. Richard Gameson and Henrietta Leyser (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 197–206.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe passing and is transmitted in a number of manuscripts.105 It was revised again in the eleventh century by Bishop Gebhard of Augsburg, as well as by eminent monk and scholar Bern of Reichenau.106 In chapter 6 of the vita, Gerhard details Ulrich’s pastoral activities, particularly his visitations where he carefully surveyed each of the churches in his diocese to see that they were being properly stafed and that their clergy was fuliling its duty according to canon law.107 Gerhard writes: Gathering the clergy before him, he sought to ind the archpriests, deacons and leading men among them and carefully inquire how they fuliled the daily service to God, and with how much diligence infants were baptized, the sick visited and anointed, with how much compassion the bodies of the deceased were given over for burial [and how the poor and weak were aided from the tithes and oblations of the faithful].108

Interesting, the last clause about tithes is an interpolation found in only four of the manuscripts of Gerhard’s life of Ulrich, but was subsequently picked up in Bern’s revision.109 The passage recalls several model questionnaires for episcopal visitations that had circulated in canon law collections since the ninth century, widely used in Germany by the mideleventh century particularly the Decretum of Burchard of Worms.110 The most recent editor of the Vita Uodalrici, Walter Berschin, detected 105

106 107 108

109 110

Vita Sancti Uodalrici: Die älteste Lebensbeschreibungen des heiligen Ulrich, ed. Walter Berschin and Angelika Häse, Editiones Heidelbergensis, 24 (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1993), pp. 12–68. Vita Sancti Uodalrici, p. 8. Ibid., I, c. 6, pp. 147–50. Ibid., I, c. 6, p. 148, with the interpolation cited in n. 67. ‘Congregatis ante se clericis, archipresbitos et decanos et optimos quos inter eos invenire potuit, caute interrogative qualiter illis populus subiectus ex eis regeretur in studio praedicandi docendique quantaque cautela infants patizarentur, inirmi visitarentur et ungerentur, defunctorum etiam corpora quanta compassione sepulturis traderentur [ qualiter de decimis et oblationibus idelium paupers et debiles recrearentur]’. Bern of Reichenau, Vita Udalrici, c. 10, PL 142:col. 1193. See e.g. Hincmar of Rheims, Capitula in Synodo data 874, c. 4, PL 125, col. 799: ‘Quam fraudem de facultatibus ecclesiarum contra sacros canones, et sanctarum seriem Scripturarum, praedicationemque majorum, ex magna parte possent retundere comministri nostri, si secundum capitulum ex sacris regulis a nobis collectum, et illis ac vobis datum, studerent requirere quid de decimis singuli agant presbyteri’; Regino of Prüm, Libri III de synodalibus causis Das Sendhandbuch des Regino von Prüm, ed. Wilfried Hartmann, AQ, 42 (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2004) I, cc. 14: (Quot mansos habeat ingenuiles, et quot serviles, aut accolas, unde decima reddatur); 48: (Si decimam ad alterum pertinentem recipit); 67: (Si de decimis quatuor i ant portiones); Burchard, Decretum, III, c. 137, PL 140, col. 701: ‘Instruendi sunt presbyteri, pariterque admonendi, quatenus noverint decimas et oblationes quas a idelibus accipiunt, pauperum et hospitum et peregrinorum esse stipendia, et non quasi suis, sed quasi commendatis uti. De quibus omnibus sciant se rationem posituros in conspectu Dei, et nisi eas ideliter pauperibus et his qui praemissi sunt administraverint, damna passuros. Qualiter vero dispensari debeant, canones sancte instituunt. Scilicet, ut quatuor partes inde i ant, una ad fabricam ecclesiae relevandam, altera pauperibus distribuenda, tertia presbytero cum suis clericis habenda, quarta episcopo reservanda, ut quidquid exinde jusserit, prudenti consilio i at’. On the sources for Burchard, see Hartmut Hofmann, with Rudolf Pokorny, Das Dekret des Bischofs Burchard von Worms.Textstufen — Frühe Verbreitung – Vorlagen, MGH Hilfsmittel, 12 (Munich: Monumenta

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire two very early recensions of Gerhard’s biography. The irst includes the earliest surviving witness, Augsburg, Universitätsbibliothek, I.2.4o.6 (orig. Tegernsee), along with Vienna, Nationalbibliothek, 554 (orig. Ossiach), Paris, Cod. Lat. 10867 (Supp. 165) (orig. St. Afra, Augsburg), and Munich, Clm 14615 (orig. St. Emmeram, Regensburg) – all dating to the irst part of the eleventh century. This group is probably only one or two copies removed from the autograph and does not contain the interpolation about tithing found in I, 6.The second recension, created by an anonymous reviser Berschin calls ‘Gerhard b’, is represented in a group of manuscripts that include the Oxford, Bodleian Library, Canon., Misc. 273 (saec. X–XI), Einsiedeln, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 261 (saec. XI), Augsburg, Bistumsarchiv, 80 (saec. XV), and Stuttgart, Württemburgische Landesbibliothek, HB XIV 8 (saec. XVI). Despite the late date of the last two survivals, they contain a version of the text very similar to the earlier Oxford and Einsiedeln texts.111 While the Oxford manuscript appears to have come from an Alemannian scriptorium, possibly Reichenau, the other important exemplar of this group, Einsiedeln, Cod. 261, was originally produced for abbess Wicburga of Obermünster in Regensburg (c.1004–29).112 It also contains the vitae of St. Emmeram and St. Corbinian, who were venerated in Regensburg and Freising, respectively, as well as the passio S. Albani (the English martyr, not of Mainz). Thus the contents represent not so much the patrons of a particular church or city, but the exponents of a broad Bavarian episcopal heritage. The inclusion of Alban – frequently confused with the patron of the old Mainz monastery – might be an outlier, though by 1083 a monastery under his patronage had been founded in Basel.113 Whether the codex is a product of Einsiedeln or a Regensburg scriptorium has not been deinitively clariied in the art historical literature. In 1925, Ernst de Wald suggested it bears signiicant features of the Einsiedeln school, but he does not seem to have noticed the Oratio pro Wicburga as evidence for its Regensburg association.114 More recent literature, including Berschin, has assumed that the codex is from Obermünster originally.115

111 112 113

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Germaniae Historica 1991), p. 195 (for the preceding titles: Collectio anselmo dedicata, X. 19; Gelasius I, Regesta pontiicum, nr. 636, c. 27). Vita Sancti Uodalrici., p. 40. Ibid., pp. 36–7. P. 79 of the manuscript contains an Oratio pro Wicburga. Rudolf Pister, Von den Anfängen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters, Kirchengeschichte der Schweiz, 1 (Zurich, Zwingli Verlag, 1964), p. 108. Ernest T. deWald, ‘The Art of the Scriptorium of Einsiedeln’, Art Bulletin 7:3 (1925), pp. 27–8. See ig. 67 on p. 27 for an illustration, pp. 79–90. Vita Sancti Uodalrici, p. 37.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe As Berschin observes, the alterations and interpolations common to the ‘Gerhard b’ version of the Vita Uodalrici are not the result of occasional scribal errors (Schreibwillkür), but ‘eine bewußte Umredaktion’.116 In addition to the interpolation about tithes in the episcopal visitation protocol, ‘Gerhard b’ also omits a key passage in the original work detailing Ulrich’s irst pilgrimage to Rome in which Pope Marinus [sic] informs him of the death of Bishop Adalbero and urges him to assume the oice himself.117 Ulrich declined the Pope’s request and did not become bishop for another ifteen years, during the rule of Henry I (923). Additionally, the Oxford manuscript and the Einsiedeln codex, which contains a wellknown illustration depicting Ulrich saying mass at an altar with the hand of God emerging from a cloud above in a gesture of benediction,118 make some unusual alterations when speaking of Ulrich’s relationship to the king or emperor. In I, 3, for example, the original version reveals that Ulrich’s nephew, Adalbero, was groomed as a young man to succeed his uncle and rode in Ulrich’s place at the head of the episcopal forces at the emperor’s (Otto’s) wish.119 This way, Gerhard explains, Ulrich had more time to dedicate to spiritual matters. The author of the EinsiedelnRegensburg text omits any mention of a militia episcopalis or voluntas imperatoris, however, simply stating that Adalbero was able to ‘serve in his place’. The Oxford text retains the segment about the imperial army but removes the idea that Adalbero illed in for Ulrich in the court of the emperor. Later in the same chapter, Gerhard writes how Ulrich honourably received any vassals of the emperor, but the Einsiedeln copyist replaced ‘vasalli imperatoris’ with ‘vasalli eius in propria’.120 Clearly the Regensburg copyist was uncomfortable with certain aspects of Ulrich’s relationship with the imperial court and army and sought to downplay those aspects of the vita which had previously emphasized them.121 In addition, he omitted a key story, noted earlier, about the Roman Pope proclaiming Ulrich’s destiny as a bishop. Separately, these emendations and interpolations may not seem all that signiicant or coherent, but seen in dynamic relationship to the addition of the enquiry about tithes and oblations, it seems clear that the Gebhard b copyist attempted to shape Ulrich’s legacy in a way that de-emphasized relations with the royal court and the papacy and emphasized elements of the bishop’s own lordship 116 118

119 121

Ibid. 117 Ibid., I, c. 1, p. 95. Karl Haupt, ‘Die Ulrichsvita in der mittelalterlichen Malerei’, Zeitschrift des historischen Vereins für Schwaben 61 (1955), pp. 122; pp. 1–159. Vita Sancti Uodalrici, I, c. 3, p. 112. 120 Ibid., I, 3, p. 116. Compare Ibid., I, c.27, p. 292 where Ulrich’s nephew Rhiwin returns just before Ulrich’s death with a ‘message from the emperor’ (legatio imperatoris). Einsiedeln 261 omits ‘imperatoris’, leaving Rhiwin to simply deliver ‘a message’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire and authority, such as providing for his own vassals and making sure that the poor were suiciently cared for with parochial tithe revenue. Even the vita’s frontispiece, which featured Ulrich receiving a blessing directly from the ingers of God, seemed to reinforce this idea of episcopal autonomy and authority, particularly when contrasted with contemporary images of the emperor and his bishops in illustrations like that in the famous Sacramentary of Henry II in the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, which depicts the emperor receiving his crown from Christ while his left and right arms are supported by saints Ulrich and Emmeram.122 The two contrasting images were of course not always mutually exclusive.123 As a symbol of the episcopate, Ulrich’s legacy was multivalent. This excursus on the transmission and variants in the Vita Uodalrici illustrates, perhaps only very suggestively, a key moment of episcopal ascendancy at the turn of the eleventh century. Bolstered by an emergent tradition of canon law scholarship over the previous two centuries that placed the bishop at the centre of church governance, and empowered by the cultivation of ecclesiastical institutions and the episcopal oice under the Carolingians and Ottonians, the bishop of the late tenth and early eleventh centuries was a uniquely powerful and visible igure.124 The Gerhard b versions of Ulrich’s life imagine the bishop as a dynamic and independent authority igure whose oice and prerogatives do not derive expressly from either the king or the Pope. As Rather of Verona put it in his Praeloquia, ‘neither Jerusalem, nor Rome, nor Alexandria or any other [see] received primacy to the exclusion of any of the others: the Church is universal and it is free’.125 The subtle insertion of the tithe question in chapter 6 of the vita underscores the way in which the proper control and disposal of tithes had become a way to contest and shape the image of the autonomous bishop in dynamic relationship with his other obligations and ties. It also illustrates the way in which hagiographic texts in particular are so diicult to characterize as projecting a single image of the bishop at a particular time. Like charters and local chronicles, hagiographies were labile and mutable texts that could be narrowly tailored to convey certain ideals to a discrete audience. From the fourth century to the ninth century, the doctrine of tithing underwent a profound transformation in Christian teaching that played 122

123

124 125

Henry Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination:An Historical Study, 2 vols. (London, Harvey Miller Publishers, 1999), I, pp. 66–7. The manuscript is Munich, Clm. 4456 (Regensburg, saec. xi). Compare Vita Uodalrici, I, c. 4, for example in which Ulrich re-enacts Christ’s entry to Jerusalem in Augsburg on Palm Sunday. See Chapter 2, pp. 62–103. Rather of Verona, Praeloquiorum Libri VI, III, 5, ed. Peter L. D. Reid, CCCM, vol. XLVIA (Turnhout: Brepols, 1984), pp. 3–196 at p. 83. Compare too Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, II, p. 58.

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The social worlds of the ecclesiastical tithe an important role in articulating the relationship of the laity to the parish clergy and the episcopacy. Religious tithing had been a part of Christian teaching from the early centuries of the church, but acquired a new salience in the early medieval Latin West alongside types of secular taxation which not only took the form of a ten per cent levy, but were expressly construed as a marker of submission to seigneurial authority. As Caesarius of Arles put it, all the faithful are to pay tithes to the church, just as coloni pay tithes to their lords. In the following chapter, we shall trace in a closer fashion the processes by which the bishop became embedded in these discourses of authority and how the law of tithes played a concrete, key role in shaping the idea of episcopal power from the ninth to the eleventh centuries.

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Chapter 2

TITHES, BISHOPS, AND SOCIETY IN FR ANKISH EURO P E

The belief in earning God’s favour for a political community by submitting tithes and other alms gained momentum in the early Carolingian period and was formalized in a number of capitularies and synodal canons in the later eighth and ninth centuries. As we have seen, however, Carolingian rulers, along with their bishops and other courtesans, were merely building upon practices going back to the Merovingian period.1 The Council of Mâcon in 585 threatened to excommunicate those who failed to pay tithes and by 765, not long before church tithes were formally made compulsory in Frankish law, Pippin III could write to Archbishop Lull of Mainz that by the king’s command, ‘everyone, whether they wish to or not, shall render his tithe’.2 It was not only Frankish rulers, however, who involved themselves with ordering the church in this way. Not long before the time of Pippin’s correspondence with Lull, a regional council held under Bavarian duke Tassilo III in 756 recommended that the duke ine anyone withholding tithes a double assessment based on the ofender’s ability to pay: Concerning the rendering of tithes to God, the prophet has testiied that if anyone does not give a tenth [tithe], he shall be reduced to a tenth. Whence it is agreed, that whoever, either to spite the priest or out of greed, does not want to render tithes, that a decree by your hand be conirmed, namely that the tax be rendered doubly to the church and so that your punishment proceed according to the means of the guilty.3 1

2

3

Ernst Perels, ‘Die Ursprünge des karolingischen Zehntrechts’, Archiv für Urkundenforschung 3 (1911), pp. 233–50. MGH Epist. III, nr. 118, p. 408, ‘… ut unusquisque homo, aut vellet aut nollet, suam deciman donet’. From the context of the letter, however, it appears that this was a one-time edict intended to demonstrate gratitude for a bountiful harvest following a year of famine in the Frankish kingdom.While it was preserved in Mainz, the edict was probably circulated to all the dioceses in the kingdom. See J. M. Wallace-Hadrill, The Frankish Church (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1983), p. 173. MGH Concil.II, c. 5, 57. The broader context of this canon should not be overlooked. Joachim Jahn, Ducatus Baiuvariorum, MGM, 35 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1991), pp. 344–5 points out the synod’s emphasis on episcopal authority, particularly vis-à-vis monasteries and local churches.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe Some of these early examples of conciliar canons or royal edicts underscore the more prominent role the tithe was coming to play in the Frankish-dominated areas of the continent, as opposed to Spain, England, or Italy where it does not seem to have registered much up to this point.4 The Penitential of Theodore still considered tithing a matter of personal piety, as it seems did Anglo-Saxons like Venerable Bede.5 However, the missionary-reformer Boniface, active in eastern Francia in the irst half of the seventh century, described tithes as the ‘milk and wool’ of Christ’s sheep which their shepherds (the bishops) receive ‘in the daily oblations and tithes of the faithful’ in return for their pastoral care.6 Boniface, complaining about bishops who neglect the spiritual welfare of their locks even as they enjoy the material beneits of their oice, was quoting sixth-century monastic writer Julianus Pomerius, whose work circulated under the name of Prosper of Aquitaine in the early medieval West and who came to enjoy a place of prominence in eighth- and ninth-century discussions about clergy, property, and the common life.7 The statutes on regular canons from the reform Council of Aachen in 816 quoted the same sections of Pomerius (as pseudo-Prosper) in calling for all clergy to embrace regular life.8 There are several pre-ninth-century witnesses to Pomerius’s De vita contemplativa, so it is not likely that Boniface’s letter was the only source for this text available to the clerics at the court 4

5

6

7

8

The earliest mention of compulsory tithing in England appears to be the decrees of the reform Council of Chelsea, held under the auspices of King Ofa and Roman legates, in 787 and is not mentioned again until the laws of Edward the Elder in 901. See William Easterby, History of the Law of Tithes in England (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1888), pp. 10–11. On other types of church tributes and revenues in Anglo-Saxon England, see John Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 152–7. Boyd notes the appearance of ecclesiastical tithes in Lombard charters as early as the late seventh century, but these are clearly private in nature and stem mostly from donations to churches in Lucca and elsewhere. See Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, pp. 33–5. On tithes in Visigothic and Mozarabic Spain, see Jesus San Martin, El diezmo eclesiástico en España hasta el siglo XII (Palencia, El Diario Palentino, 1940). Bede notes that Abbot Eadbert of Lindisfarne displayed exceptional holiness by annually tithing all his goods and locks for the beneit of the poor. See Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. and translated by Bertram Colgrave and Roger A. B. Mynors (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1969), IV, c. 29, p. 146. Die Briefe des heiligen Bonifatius und Lullus, ed. Michael Tangl, MGH Epist. Sel, I (Berlin,Weidmann, 1916), nr. 78, p. 168: ‘Lac et lanas ovium Christi oblationibus cotidianis ac decimis idelium suscipiunt et curam gregis Domini deponent…’ The quoted passage is from Julianus Pomerius, De vita contemplativa, I, 21, PL 59: col. 437; English trans: The Contemplative Life, ed. and translated by Mary Josephine Suelzer (New York, Newman Press, 1947), p. 40. On Pomerius’s inluence in discussions of clerical reform in Gaul, see M. A. Claussen, The Reform of the Frankish Church: Chrodegang of Metz and the Regula Canonicorum in the Eighth Century (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 184–205. Concilium Aquisgranense A. 816, (Institutio canonicorum) c. 32, MGH Conc. II, 1, 1, pp. 353–4. On the council, see Wilfried Hartmann, Die Synoden der Karolingerzeit im Frankenreich und in Italien, ed. Walter Brandmüller, Konziliengeschichte, Reihe A, no. 2 (Paderborn, u.a., Ferdinand Schöningh, 1989), pp. 156–60.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of Louis the Pious who drafted the canons of the 816 Aachen council.9 For reformers like Boniface and Louis the Pious, however, who were concerned irst and foremost with the proper ordering and correction of ecclesiastical discipline, Pomerius’s metaphor aptly delineated the proper relationship between the laity and the clergy and suggested that this relationship is deined and mediated by gifts and tithes. That the tithe igured more prominently and regularly in Francia is a particularly signiicant observation. More interesting, however, are the speciic arguments which councils, synods, and interested churchmen put forward for how churches and revenue ought to be administered, and, secondarily, the use of tithes as a way of deining relations between the religious and secular orders. I argue in this chapter that ideas about how to use the tithe and the bishop’s role in doing so grew up around speciic conditions related to the growth of the Frankish kingdoms and the need to create self-sustaining ecclesiastical institutions within a rapidly changing and expanding realm. The ultimate result was a strengthened diocesan system wherein episcopal administration was built up around close social, economic, and political relationships with the lay community. conf li ct and conse nsus in carol ing ian c ircle s Following Jerome, Ambrose, and Augustine, the most prominent scriptural exegetes of the eighth and ninth centuries all weighed in on the critical importance of tithing, as did much royal legislation under the Carolingians beginning with the Capitulary of Heristal in 779 and continuing through the ninth century.10 While various theories have abounded about why 9

10

Max L. W. Laistner, ‘The Inluence during the Middle Ages of the Treatise De vita Contemplativa and its Surviving Manuscripts’, in Miscellanea Giovanni Mercati, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 2 (Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana 1946), pp. 344–58; Classen, Reform of the Frankish Church, pp. 194–5. Beginning with Alcuin, we see a renewed exegetical focus on the story of King Melchizidek and Abraham’s donation of tithes, recounted in Genesis, as well as the New Testament epistle to the Hebrews, believed at the time to be by Paul.Alcuin argues, following Jerome (Epistola ad Evangelum, c. 4, CSEL LXI, pp. 308–12), that the igure of Melchizidek preigured Christ, but that since the ‘priesthood of Melchizidek’ is one of the eternal salvation promised by the Messiah, his order of priests is the superior successor to the Aaronic priesthood and the Levites. Hence Christian priests are due tithes as the igurative descendants of Melchizidek. Compare Alcuin, Expositio in epistolo sancti Pauli ad Hebraeos, c. 7, 6–10, PL 100, col. 1065 as well as Hrabanus Maurus, Commentariorum in Genesim libri quatuor, II, c. 16, PL 107, col. 540 and Walafrid Strabo, who opens his short exposition on tithes with reference to Abraham and quotes Caesarius (as pseudo-Augustine) as well, Libellus de Exordiis, c. 28, ed. and translated by Alice L. Harting-Correa, Mittellateinische Studien und Texte, 19 (Leiden, Brill 1996), p. 182. The Council of Aachen in 836, c. 18 likewise justiied tithing through an appeal to the example of Melchizidek. MGH Concil. II, p. 734. The emphasis on the Levitic tradition was not entirely eclipsed, however. Compare Hrabanus Maurus, Expositionum in Leviticum libri septem, c. 17, PL 108, cols. 583–6, and the Council of Friaul (Cividale), c. 14, MGH Concil. II, p. 189, which quotes Malachi 3:10–12 on tithes. On the capitulary legislation, see esp.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe Charlemagne instituted a universal tithe in 779, it is important to keep in mind the powerful ideological dimensions of the question. Tithes were a way to provide the church with income for its various tasks, from supplying servitium to the itinerant royal court, to charity for the poor, and ransoming prisoners and captives.11 But they were also mandated in Scripture and by the church fathers. In a well-ordered Christian realm, the faithful tithed their income to support the church. While there were frequently conlicts, contradictions, and dissonances in the way Carolingian laws attempted to organize and regulate tithing, such issues demand special attention only if we assume that eforts at reform under Charlemagne and Louis the Pious should be viewed as coherent, programmatic processes driven by a centralized authority rather than eforts to tackle speciic, localized issues with some broad, guiding principles in mind.12 The period seemed of two or more minds when it came to tithes, churches, and episcopal authority. On one hand, contemporary churchmen recognized the importance of episcopal authority and the foundational position it held in any coherent ecclesiology.13 On the other hand, however, the Carolingian impetus towards normalizing church practices naturally emphasized the importance of local churches where most people received sacraments, baptism, and burial as the centres of Christian life in the realm.14 This created a situation whereby new laws and legislation unambiguously recognized and reiterated the supreme authority – potestas – of the bishop over all ecclesiastical institutions in his diocese, but granted a great deal of de facto power to local clergy and lay lords when it came to how local churches, chapels, monasteries, and their endowments were actually governed. Even these goals, however, were not realized as part of some grand, programmatic vision on the part of the Carolingian elites, but, as scholars have increasingly come to realize, articulated over time in reaction to concrete situations which contemporaries believed called for a revival of biblical law and principles of governance.15

11

12

13

14

15

Perels, ‘Kirchliche Zehnten’, p. 22, along with Wilfried Hartmann, Die Synoden der Karolingerzeit im Frankenreich und in Italien, Konziliengeschichte, 2 (Paderborn, Ferdinand Schöningh, 1989). Arnold Pöschl, Das karolingische Zehentgebot in wirtschaftsgeschichtlicher Bedeutung (Graz, Leuschner & Lubensky, 1927). Franz J. Felten, ‘Konzilakten als Quellen für die Gesellschaftsgeschichte des 9. Jahrhunderts’, in Herrschaft, Kirche, Kultur. Festschrift für Friedrich Prinz, ed. Georg Jenal, with Stephanie Haarländer, MGM, 37 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1993), pp. 177–201. Rosamond McKitterick, The Frankish Church and the Carolingian Reforms 789–895 (London, Royal Historical Society, 1977), esp. chs. 2–3. Reynolds, Kingdoms and Communities, pp. 81–2; Carine Van Rhijn, Shepherds of the Lord: Priests and Episcopal Statutes in the Carolingian Period (Turnhout, Brepols, 2007). Abigail Firey, ‘The Letter of the Law: Carolingian Exegetes and the Old Testament’, in With Reverence for the Word: Medieval Scriptural Exegesis in Judaism, Christianity and Islam, ed. Barry D.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Charlemagne and his successors, along with the leading clerics of the realm, viewed the regularization of tithe giving not only as critical to bringing the church and religious life into line with biblical precepts, but meeting the practical, material needs of the clergy and the poor, whose welfare was a key bellwether of just government. When Charlemagne convened a royal synod at Heristal in 779 that made religious tithing compulsory, the consensus was driven by the same ideals of reform and renovatio that inspired so many other policies in the late eighth and early ninth centuries. The seventh statute of the capitulary, after reinforcing the importance of bishops in regulating church life, ordered: ‘concerning tithes, each person shall pay their tithe, and it shall be distributed on the orders of the bishop’.16 François-Louis Ganshof observed in a seminal article on Carolingian government that the Capitulary of Heristal and its programme were in fact the products of desperate times and an attempt to restore the kingdom’s proper relationship with God.17 In 778, the Saxons under rebel leader Widukind launched a major uprising while Charlemagne’s army was occupied in the Spanish March.18 Charlemagne was informed of the uprising in Auxerre as he returned to Francia late in the summer, but it was too late to save the town of Deutz on the Rhine from being sacked.19 The infamous ambush in the Pyrenees during the army’s withdrawal from Spain must have also weighed heavily on the Franks’ mind, even before it gave rise to the legend of Roland.The author of the so-called Revised Version of the Royal Frankish Annals (Annales Regni Francorum) was the irst to record the debacle and noted that ‘to have sufered this wound shadowed the king’s view of his success in Spain’.20 The expedition to Spain in 778 was an attempt to intervene militarily against the Umayyads on behalf of local Muslim rulers who had sought the Franks’ aid. In a letter supporting the mission, Pope Hadrian hoped

16

17

18

19 20

Walish, Joseph W. Goering, and Jane Dammen McAulife (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 204–24. MGH Capit. I, nr. 20, c. 7, p. 48: ‘De decimis, ut unusquisque suam decimam donet, atque per iussionem pontiicis dispensentur’. François-Louis Ganshof, ‘The Impact of Charlemagne on the institutions of the Frankish realm’, in The Carolingians and the Frankish Monarchy, translated by Janet Sondheimer (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1971), pp. 143–61. Compare esp. pp. 143–5 on Heristal. Compare Einhard, Vita Karoli magni, ed. and translated by Louis Halphen (Paris, Champion, 1923), c. 9, p. 29 and Annales Regni Francorum, ed. Friedrich Kurze, MGH SSRG, 6, (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1895), s.a. 778, p. 51.The account of the infamous ambush at a place later identiied as Roncevalles in the French Pyrenees is found in the so-called revised (R) version of the Annales, where it was subsequently used by Einhard, who noted that one of the fallen was Roland, count of the Breton March. See McKitterick, Charlemagne, p. 134. Annales Regni Francorum, p. 52. I use here the translation from Carolingian Chronicles, translated by Bernhard Walter Scholz (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1972), p. 56.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe that ‘the Arab race would be subjected to you and laid low beneath your feet so that they can never threaten you again’.21 Overall, the expedition failed to accomplish much and the loss of a number of key leaders in the rearguard attack by vengeful Basques was no doubt discouraging, particularly in the light of the Pope’s promise of certain victory for the Lord’s faithful.22 As Ganshof observed: ‘Undoubtedly in the opinion of Charlemagne and his counsellors, the crises of 778 were interpreted as a warning from Heaven to eradicate scandalous abuses and to make justice prevail’.23 A redaction of the Capitulary of Heristal that originally circulated in Italy was somewhat more speciic about the tithe, stating that it was to be distributed ‘on the orders of, and in consultation with, the bishop in whose parrochia [diocese] they are distributed’.24 This perhaps relects an acknowledgement of the more established institutions in Italy, particularly baptismal churches, or pieve, which had a better-deined relationship with the bishop and were from an early point the exclusive recipients of tithes. When this chapter of the capitulary is viewed in context with the preceding six, however, reinforced more than anything else is the authority of bishops within their dioceses, not merely the rendering of tithes: (1) that archbishops have authority to correct their sufragen bishops; (2) that any currently unordained bishop be ordained without delay; (3) that all monks and nuns live according to a prescribed rule and that abbesses should permanently reside in their convents; (4) that all priests and clerics recognize the authority of their diocesan bishop; (5) that bishops correct those engaged in incest; (6) no one but bishops ought to ordain any cleric of any rank. One notable feature of the Capitulary of Heristal is the fact that several copies of it which circulated, particularly in the tenth century, omit the section on tithes altogether.25 The three manuscripts 21

22

23 24

25

MGH Epist. III, nr. 61, p. 588,‘… Agarenorum gentem vobis subiciat et vestri eam substernat pedibus, et minime prevalere adversus vos valeant’. For background on Charlemagne and the Spanish March, see Roger Collins, Early Medieval Spain, Unity in Diversity, 400–1000, 2nd ed. (New York, St. Martin’s Press, 1995), pp. 167–9. The only concrete achievement by the Frankish army was the siege and capture of Pamplona, but this had to be abandoned when Charlemagne decided to return home. See Roger Collins, ‘Spain, The Northern Kingdoms and the Basques, 711–910’, in NCMH, vol. II, p. 285. Ganshof, ‘The Impact of Charlemagne’, p. 144. Capitulary of Heristal (Forma Langobardica), MGH Capit I, c. 7, p. 48:‘… per iussionem et consilium episcopi in cuius parrochia fuerit dispensentur’. On the Lombard redaction, see Hubert Mordek, Bibliotheca capitularium regum Francorum manuscripta. Überlieferung und Traditionszusammenhang der fränkischer Herrschererlasse, MGH Hilfsmittel, 15 (Munich, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 1995), p. 1082 for a list of the pertinent manuscripts. On the circulation of Carolingian capitularies in Italy, see Claudio Azarra and Pierandrea Moro, I capitolari italici: storia e diritto della dominazione carolingia in Italia (Rome,Viella, 1998). Some thirty-three manuscripts transmit the ‘forma communis’ of the Capitulary of Heristal, according to Mordek, Bibliotheca capitularium, p. 1081. The mss. omitting the chapter on tithes are

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire in question represent a fairly small branch of the entire tradition, mostly from the tenth century, but they demonstrate how labile such material was and ought to be a caveat against viewing the capitularies outside discrete social and editorial contexts. No part of the capitulary of Heristal, for instance, was used by Ansegis, the abbot of St. Wandrille, in creating his very inluential collection of synod canons and capitularies around 826–7.26 Beginning in the early ninth century, royal assemblies and church councils tended to pursue solutions which airmed the rights of the bishop as the sole legitimate disposer of tithes, but made local churches where people were baptized and heard mass – the ecclesiae baptismales – the place where tithes were collected on behalf of the bishop.27 The origins of this idea are not clear, but it may have in fact been imported from Lombard Italy, where from an early period bishops had designated community churches in their dioceses as plebes, or pievi in Italian, which, unlike private capellae, retained rights of baptism and burial and which often had a deined territory from which their priests collected revenue.28 The push to territorialize ecclesiastical jurisdiction arose from rather practical concerns. As churches proliferated in the Frankish kingdom, particularly east of the Rhine, the priests of older chapels complained that newer churches had usurped their rights and revenues.29 Thus the councils and capitularies ixed the rights of the older churches, stipulating that they alone retained the right to baptism and, by extension, tithes.

26

27

28

29

Leiden, Voss. Lat. Q 119, saec. ixex–x (Mordek, Bibliotheca, 215; omits only ch. 7); Heiligenkreuz, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 217, saec. xex (Mordek, Bibliotheca, 158–72.; omits chs. 5–7); Munich, Clm. 3853, saec. x2 (Mordek, Bibliotheca, 302; omits chs. 5–7).The Leiden ms. appears to have been produced in southwestern France towards the latter part of the ninth century. See Bernhard Bischof , Katalog der festländischen Handschriften des 9. Jahrhunderts (mit Ausnahme der wisigotischen), ed. Birgit Ebersberger, 2 vols. (Wiesbaden, Harrasowitz, 1998–2004), II, nr. 2239. Heiligenkreuz 217 was made for missionaries working in the eastern marches in the tenth century and probably copied from Munich 3853, a massive compilation perhaps from Augsburg but drawing much material from Italian sources of canon and secular law. Franz Zagiba, ‘Der Codex 217 der Stiftsbibliothek Heiligenkreuz in Niederösterreich’, in Millennium dioeceseos Pragensis 973–1973. Beiträge zur Kirchengeschichte Mitteleuropas im 9.-11. Jahrhundert, Annales istituti slavia, 8 (Vienna, Cologne and Graz, 1974). Ansegis, Collectio Capitularium, ed. Gerhard Schmitz, MGH Capit, n.s. I (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1993). The most important discussion of this development is Josef Semmler, ‘Zehntgebot und Pfarrtermination in karolingischer Zeit’, in Aus Kirche und Reich. Festschrift für Friedrich Kempf, ed. Hubert Mordek (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1983), pp. 33–44. See too Heinrich Schaefer, Pfarrkirche und Stift im deutschen Mittelalter (Stuttgart, Enke, 1903), pp. 21–2. Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, pp. 47–52; Cinzio Violante, ‘Pievi e parrocchie dalla ine del X all’inizio del XIII secolo’, in Le Istituzioni ecclesiastiche della ‘Societas Christiana’ dei secoli XI-XII: Diocesi, Pievi e Parrocchie, Miscellanea del Centro di Studi Medioevali, 8 (Milan,Vita e pensiero, 1977), pp. 643–800; Hans-Erich Feine, `Studien zu langobardisch-italischem Eigenkirchenrecht, Teil III’, ZRG, k. A. 32 (1943), pp. 64–191 at pp. 91–4. Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 68–70.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe The capitulary of Salz, for example, promulgated around 803, addressed a number of issues related to tithes, episcopal authority, and the management of lower churches.30 If several later sources are to be believed, the capitulary may have been aimed in part at regulating the foundation of churches in Saxony and the tithe regime there.31 It stated in particular that tithes could not be removed or reassigned from the baptismal church to which they had originally belonged and if any property from which those tithes were paid was later transferred to another diocese or monastery, the tithes from that property still had to go to the original church. Further, if a landowner wished to build a private church on his land, he had to have the bishop’s permission and promise not to divert any tithes from an older church to the new one.32 About a decade later, more precise declarations about the territorialization of tithes and baptismal churches began to emerge. The Capitula Ecclesiastica of 810–13, a group of canons from an otherwise unknown synod transmitted in the collections of the abbot Ansegis, as well as the collection of Benedictus Levita, state explicitly that ‘tithes ought to be controlled by the bishop, [who shall determine] how they are dispensed by the priests’, and that ‘each and every church shall have a territory from whose estates it shall receive tithes’.33 The Council of Châlons in 813, one of several major reform synods held that year, ordered that bishops and abbots allow tithes to be brought to churches on their estates and that their dependents bring tithes to the churches where their children received baptism and where they heard mass.34 Baptismal churches also served an important function in episcopal administration by providing supplies – servitium – for the bishop (or other lord) and his retinue as they perambulated the diocese. As we saw previously in the Vita Uodalrici, one of the bishop’s duties on this itinerary was to enquire about the performance of the clergy and the proper disposal of tithes at parish churches. An eleventh-century note in a southern German (possibly Swabian) manuscript of hagiographic and homiletic material 30 31

32 33

34

Capitula ad Salz, c. 2, MGH Capit. I, nr. 42, p. 119. Salz was a Frankish royal estate on the Saale River in Franconia. On the peace conference, see Annales Quedlinbergensis, s.a. 803, ed. Martina Giese, MGH SRG, 72 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2004), p. 437. and Poeta Saxo, De gestis Caroli Magni imperatoris libri quinque, IV, ll. 92–108, MGH Poetae IV, 1, ed. Paul de Winterfeld (Berlin, Weidmann, 1899), p. 48. Capitula ad Salz., c. 3, 119. MGH Capit. I, nr. 81, cc 4; 10 = Ansegis, Collectio Capitularium, ed. Schmitz, cc. 143; 148. On Benedictus, see further on page 86. Ansegis was active during the reign of Louis the Pious in the later 820s. On dating these canons to the years 810–13 (more probably 813, just around the time of the great reform synods of that year), see the remarks by Schmitz, Collectio Capitularium, pp. 29–30. Council of Châlons, c.19, MGH Concil. II, p. 277. On the 813 reform councils, including those held concurrently in Arles, Mainz, Rheims, and Tours, see McKitterick, Frankish Church, pp. 12–15.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire lists the goods and services owed by an unnamed ecclesia baptismalis for the bishop’s itinerant court.35 Aside from a number of provisions one might expect (wheat, pigs, chickens, eggs, cloth, wood, etc.), the church also provided utensils, such as basins and pans, specialties such as pepper, mustard, and vinegar, as well as six vigilatores, or watchmen, and liturgical cloth and napkins.36 Some of this may have been produced by estates or workshops attached to the church, but a lot of it no doubt was collected from the church’s tithe revenues. At the end of the text, the scribe noted: ‘These [items] are to be rendered for the servitium of the bishop from the baptismal church in the fourth year when he journeys through his diocese’.37 While this note appears to be from the eleventh century, an 842 inventory for the church of Bergkirchen near Freising made by Bishop Erkambert (836–54) reveals strikingly similar information about the economy and assets of a ninth-century ecclesia baptismalis. In addition to the types of liturgical vestments and vessels one would expect to ind, the inventory states that nine villages bring tithes to the church, a courtyard and house with a grainery (horrea) supporting nine dependents (mancipia), six servant/ slave boys (servi), six servant/slave girls (ancillae), twelve herders (armenta), seven oxen (ive younger ones), twenty-six pigs, two sheep, seven cows, four chickens, and two kettles – one large and one small.38 There are also containers of beer, bee hives, and a meadow worth 200 cartloads – essentially the same kinds of commodities used for the bishop’s servitium in the Vienna manuscript. Indeed, one of the reasons Erkambert undertook such an inventory was most likely in order to assess how much the church should supply for his itinerary. We know that earlier in the ninth century, for example, Bishop Hatto held a placitum at Bergkirchen.39 35

36

37

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Vienna, Nationalbibliothek, Cod. lat. 474, fol 145r. (saec. xi?). In the later Middle Ages, the manuscript was in the collection of the eminent Vener family of Speyer, whence it passed to a woman named Barbara Steinhausen and then to Vienna. For a discussion of the manuscript and a transcription of the text, see Herman Heimpel, Die Vener von Gmünd und Strasburg, 1162–1447, 3 vols., VMPIG, 52 (Göttingen,Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), II, p. 990. The list seems to have been compiled in a fairly random manner and possibly amended at one or two points. The list is as follows: 5 1/2 modia of wheat; 2 pigs, [one] worth 30 denarii and the other worth 16; 3 geese; 10 chickens; one pound of pepper; one sextarius of vinegar and the same of mustard and honey; 30 platters; 3 hand cloths; 10 pitchers of wine and 12 of beer; 4 cartloads of wood; 6 watchmen; 2 pots and 6 pans of good quality; 2 pounds of wax; suicient carceoli (= calceoli, shoes?); 10 modia of straw; 2 [cartloads] of maniples and of hay; 3 pitchers; 60 eggs. The word carradas is added above the words duas manipulorum in the last line, and the a in the word duas has been corrected from o.The text seems to have originally read ‘duos manipulos’, which was then altered to increase, ludicrously, the amount of goods being requested. It could be the writer had intended to delete ‘manipulorum’ but did not do so for whatever reason. ‘H[a]ec danda sunt ad servitiu[m] ep[iscop]i de baptismali eccl[esi]a in quarto anno quando iturus est per parrochiam suam’. Traditionen des Hochstifts Freising, ed. Theodor Bitterauf, vol. 1, QEBG 4–5 (Munich, Riger, 1905), nr. 652. Brown, Unjust Seizure, 153.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe If a church were not to receive suicient tithe payments, it is clear that the bishop’s ability to function efectively in his diocese would be limited. But it is also clear that baptismal churches could become signiicant centres of economic activity for the local village community and thus an attractive asset to control. While the problem in Francia seemed to be the misappropriation of tithe revenue by private parties, the Italian statutes – particularly those generated by the secular courts – targeted bishops themselves and were far more explicit about penalties for recalcitrant tithe payers. A relatively minor capitulary of unknown provenance from the latter part of Charlemagne’s reign, or perhaps of Louis the Pious, levied a ine of six solidi on laymen refusing to pay the tithe.40 Unfortunately, the origins of this piece are unclear, but either it was an otherwise unattested attempt to apply Italian law north of the Alps or it was intended to apply only in the Italian kingdom; its only analogue is a provision found in an Italian capitulary issued by Charlemagne’s grandson, Bernard of Italy, at Mantua around 813.41 Lothar I reiterated its stipulations in 825 at Olonna.42 The Lombard kingdom had not been subdued with the same scorchedearth war that characterized the Saxon conquest and, more signiicant, the Lombards were Christians with well-established laws and customs regarding the administration of churches and their resources.43 Early bishops in the Lombard kingdom, more so than in the Frankish kingdom, exercised strong control over the pievi in their dioceses and the new Carolingian rules attempted to guarantee that baptismal churches and their clergy were not entirely at the mercy of bishops and that they could maintain a modicum of control over their tithe revenue. One chapter in Bernard’s capitulary admonished bishops not to extort resources from their pievi beyond that ‘allowed by the canons or ancient custom’.44 The king also warns bishops not to redirect unlawful tithes and other oferings made to a baptismal church to the ‘greater’ (i.e. bishop’s) church (ecclesia maiora).45 If these guidelines for a public inquest into the non-payment of tithes were meant to be anything more than a regional efort, the results did 40

41

42 43 44 45

Capitula de Rebus Ecclesiasticis, c. 3, MGH Capit. I, nr. 87, p. 186. The only copy is in Vatican, Cod. Reg. 263, and attributed there to the reign of ‘Louis’. Which Louis is unclear. A ifth and sixth chapter in this capitulary are lifted from others of Charlemagne’s capitularies, leading the editor to presume the irst four chapters edited here should also be dated to the reign of Charlemagne. Capitulare Mantuanum Secundum Generale, c. 8, MGH Capit. I, nr. 93, p. 197. Alfred Boretius, the editor of the Carolingian capitularies, assumed that the edict was Charlemagne’s from around 787, but newer manuscript discoveries have shown it to be Bernhard’s. See Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, 42 and n. 52. Capitulare Olonnense, c. 9, MGH Capit. I, nr. 163, p. 327. Feine, ‘Langobardisch-italisches Eigenkirchenrecht’. Capitulare Mantuanum Primum., c. 5, p. 195. Ibid., c. 11, p. 195.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire not register in any of the oicial canons promulgated as part of the reform of 813.46 However it does indicate that at least in Italy, a discussion took place about ways in which secular authorities could force the payment of tithes; the trans-alpine capitularies and canons are somewhat vague on that account until well into the reign of Louis the Pious.47 Perhaps speaking to that very problem, this Italian material did make its way as far north as Bavaria where an enterprising compiler of royal capitularies in the ninth century, probably at the monastery of Tegernsee, inserted this chapter directly after the seventh chapter in his copy of the Capitulary of Heristal!48 The copyist was apparently either impressed with the detail given to describing judicial procedure or felt that the Italian procedures might be useful to know when undertaking his own (or his patron’s) enquiries. Catherine Boyd suggested that these statutes indicate ‘a strong current of resistance to the introduction of the compulsory tithe in Italy and to its regulation by the secular authorities’.49 A more likely explanation is that the Carolingian capitularies in Italy incorporated ideas and language lifted from Lombard law, hoping to derive greater authority by speaking in the terms of the great legal traditions like the Edict of Rotharius.50 Of course, Italian courts, stafed by professional judges and notaries, were better prepared to investigate and levy ines over an issue like the tithe, though no speciic evidence survives from such a case. The creation of a boundary around churches and the demand that tithes serve as the basic form of support for parish churches represented the culmination of a trend towards establishing ecclesiastical integrity and homogeneity within the Carolingian realm down to the local level. At the highest levels, this meant normalizing liturgy and canon law practice as well as establishing clear diocesan and metropolitan boundaries and competencies.51 For local churches, it meant binding sacramental services and the mass to a single altar in one church overseen by the priest, while on the other hand placing that church within a discrete territorial boundary 46 47 48 49

50

51

See Concordia Episcoporum, MGH Concil. II, p. 299. E.g. the Council of Worms (829), discussed further in n. 58. Munich, Clm. 19416, saec. ixex. Compare Mordek, Bibliotheca capitularium, pp. 357–64. (M8). Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, p. 46; Giles Constable, ‘Resistance to Tithes in the Middle Ages’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 13:1 (1962), pp. 172–85 pointed out, however, that outright resistance to paying tithes was notably rare until the later Middle Ages. The six-solidi ine, for example, was assessed on a wide variety of misdemeanours, particularly maimings or thefts, suggesting that, at least in the late eighth century, the Lombard-Frankish court did not see withholding the tithe as a particularly serious violation. More serious crimes were penalized with a twelve-solidi ine while crimes against the state merited a massive 900-solidi penalty. Edictum Rothari, MGH Leges IV, pp. 3–90, translated by Katherine Fisher Drew, The Lombard Laws (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1973), pp. 39–130. Reynolds, ‘The Organization, Law and Liturgy’, pp. 587–601.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe whose community would support it.52 We saw, too, in the previous chapter, how penitential practice was brought within a similar set of constraints. This principle was a far more enduring and profound legacy in the history of tithes than any civil or religious enforcement of its payment. At the same time, however, this tithe legislation also relected the conlict of interest that came to bear upon the decision-making process at Carolingian assemblies, which brought together the leading clerics and laymen of the realm along with the king to address current problems afecting the church and the commonwealth.53 Carolingian government wanted to be Christian above all else, and this meant bringing religion to its subjects through missionary work and encouraging church building in rural or remote areas.54 Bishops were to have full authority over all churches and their tithes, but the collection of the tithes themselves took place on the local level where lay, and especially monastic, inluence was most pronounced. Yet despite the best intentions of kings, bishops, and royal agents, it was almost inevitable that networks of kinship, patronage, and friendship, so closely bound up with the control of landed resources, proved a stubborn obstacle to reproducing a tithe regime across the kingdom which achieved the lofty goals imagined for it.55 Early in the reign of Louis the Pious, churchmen yielded to the realities of private patronage of churches and permitted new churches on private estates to receive tithes.56 To ensure the maintenance of other churches, however, the same capitulary mandated that each church was to have a permanent endowment of at least one mansus free of any obligation.57 At minimum, bishops could directly collect one-quarter of a church’s tithe revenue, according to the long-standing principle of quadripartition.58 However, the distinction between the legal right to one-quarter of the 52 53

54

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56 57 58

See the discussion by Eric Palazzo, Liturgie et société au Moyen Âge (Paris,Aubier, 2000), pp. 130–3. On councils as forums of conlict resolution and collective negotiation, see Janet Nelson, ‘Legislation and Consensus in the Reign of Charles the Bald’, in Politics and Ritual in EME (London and Ronceverte, Hambledon Press, 1986), pp. 91–111 at pp. 100–1 and, more recently, Christina Pössel, ‘Authors and Recipients of Carolingian Capitularies, 779–829’, in Texts and Identities in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Rob Meens, Richard Corradini, Christina Pössel, and Philip Shaw, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 8 (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006), pp. 253–74. On the tensions between monastic and episcopal churches, see Giles Constable, ‘Monasteries, Rural Churches and the cura animarum in the Early Middle Ages’, Settimani di Studio, 28 (Spoleto, Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 1982), pp. 349–89. See in particular Innes, State and Society, esp. chapters 3–4 on the persistence of personal networks of lordship within public institutions. Wood, Proprietary Church, p. 464. See MGH Capit. I, nr. 138 (Capitulare Ecclesiasticum), c. 12. MGH Capit. I, nr. 138, c. 10, p. 277. Council of Worms, c. 5, MGH Concil. II, p. 335. On the origins of the quadripartition of church revenue, see Chapter 1, p. 44.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire parish’s tithes and the right to advise the parish priest on the collection and disposal of the rest seems to have been the point on which many tithe disputes throughout the early and high Middle Ages turned. The Council of Mainz in 847, which drew prelates from throughout Saxony, Lothringia, and Bavaria, mandated that tithes were to be collected in ‘individual churches’, but ‘they should be distributed with the greatest diligence by the priests, with the advice of the bishops, towards the use of the church and the poor’.59 Whether by this time the council still assumed that ‘individual churches’ were oicial baptismal churches directly under the bishop’s control, or any church within the diocese regardless of its jurisdiction, is unclear. In 909, however, the Synod of Trosly, the last major regional synod in the western Frankish kingdom, stated clearly that all churches, even rural ones, along with their tithes, were subordinate to the bishop.60 It also conceded the earlier position of Hincmar of Rheims that while laymen did in fact possess churches, and parish priests should show proper deference to their lords, laymen should not control tithes.61 In Italy, a council of bishops at Pavia around 845–50 pushed to have the baptismal church recognized as the only kind of church eligible for tithes, declaring that: Certain laymen who maintain churches either on their own property or on beneices disregard the episcopal right of deposition and do not give their tithes to the churches where they receive baptism, preaching, the imposition of hands 59

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Council of Mainz (847), c. 10, MGH Concil. II, nr. 248, p. 178: ‘Volumus, ut decimae, quae singulis dantur ecclesiis, per consulta episcoporum a presbiteris ad usus aecclesiae et pauperum summa diligentia dispensentur’. Synod of Trosly, c. 6, PL 132, col. 690C: ‘Ab antiquo denique tempore a sanctis Patribus, et a nostris est majoribus constitutum, ut sicut habet episcopus in sua ordinatione omnem generaliter parochiam, cum omnibus rusticanis parochiis, quas per tricenium inconcusse possedit,ita et unusquisque presbyter in sua ordinatione ac dispositionis cura habeat parochiam suam cum dote, et decimis ecclesiae’. Synod of Trosly, c. 6, PL 132, cols. 691A–691D: ‘Quod si quaeritur, quae dicat omnia, procul dubio, decimas, primitias fructuum, et oblationes eorum et ea quae parochiis in terris, vineis, mancipiis, atque pecuniis, seu quibuslibet rebus, quaecunque ideles obtulerint. Quae omnia sub immunitate a tributis iscalibus, et omni dominorum exactione libera, sub potestate et dispositione, ut diximus, episcoporum, ac regimine et dispensatione presbyterorum manere debent inconcussa.[…] Haec autem deducentes ad medium, nequaquam seniorum ab eis tollimus dominium, quasi ipsi nomen senioratus in rebus sibi a Deo concessis habere non debeant, aut non possint, sed potius ecclesiae episcoporum esse debeant, designamus denique gubernationem episcopi, non nobis vindicamus potestatem Domini. Et quia mitis et humilis Magistri discipuli sumus, presbyteris nostris humilitatis exempla et monita dare debemus, videlicet ut eis, in quorum ditione suae consistunt ecclesiae, congruum honorem et obsequium impendant debitum, id est, spiritale atque ecclesiasticum, et hoc sine ullo typho, vel contentione aut rebellione’. On the transmission and reception of the various parts of the synod and its canons, see Gerhard Schmitz, ‘Das Konzil von Trosly (909), Uberlieferung und Quellen’, Deutsches Archiv 33 (1977), pp. 341–434, esp.420–2. Compare Hincmar of Rheims, De ecclesiis et cappeliis, ed. Martina Stratmann, MGH Fontes iuris antiqui in usum schol., 14 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1990), pp. 91–5.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe or other sacraments of Christ, but give them according to their whim to their own churches or clerics.62

By the end of the ninth century, it had become mostly standard practice both north and south of the Alps that the only churches eligible to receive tithes would be churches which also served as baptismal and burial sites and that these churches should have a ixed boundary from which they received those tithes. The consecration of a church with its tithe boundary – even for private churches – became an important way for the bishop to advise in the administration of the tithe regime, particularly in the Middle Rhine region. As Roman Deutinger has recently elucidated, however, although a number of late medieval and early modern forgeries claim to record church dedications and tithe boundary establishments for a number of Middle Rhine churches going back to the ninth century, the earliest genuine conirmed documents, from Trier, date no earlier than the mid-tenth century, suggesting that the practice of formally establishing – or at least documenting – boundaries for parish churches arose in Germany far later than the normative texts would suggest.63 The Codex Eberhardi, for example, Fulda’s twelfth-century cartulary, preserves a number of alleged parish boundary conirmations for Fulda’s churches as they were consecrated by the bishop of Mainz at the request of the abbot between the ninth and eleventh centuries, but only one or two of these appear genuine, particularly the portions which describe the boundaries and tithes themselves.64 The irst arguably genuine tithe boundary charter for the Mainz region is one created for the parish of Mörschbach (in the Hunsrück) by Archbishop Willigis of Mainz in 1006.65 While Josef Semmler was right to draw our attention to the importance of the development of the idea of boundaries for local Seelsorgezentren in the Carolingian period, the practice of formally establishing them does not seem to have been widely implemented until the tenth century – right around the time we see a rise in 62

63

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Capitulare Episcoporum Papiae Edita, MGH Capit. II, nr. 210, p. 82: ‘… quidam autem laici, qui vel in propriis vel in beneiciis suas habent basilicas, contempta episcopi dispositione non ad ecclesias, ubi baptismum et praedicationem et manus impositionem et alia Christi sacramenta percipiunt, decimas suas dant, sed vel propriis basilicas vel suis clericis pro suo libitu tribuunt’. Roman Deutinger, ‘Die ältesten mittelhreinischen Zehntterminationen’, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte 54:2 (2002), pp. 11–36. TAF, ed. Dronke, cc. 15–19; 21–2; 31.The consecration for Salzschlirf in 885 (TAF, c.31) appears to be genuine in its basic form, but the boundary description contains linguistic and terminological elements that are clearly from the twelfth century, though probably not from Eberhard himself. See Franz Staab, ‘Echte Terminierurkunden aus dem früheren Mittelalter und die Fälschungen Eberhards von Fulda’, in Fälschungen im Mittelalter, 3 vols., SMGH, 33 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1988), III, pp. 283–313 at pp. 307–8. Deutinger, ‘Älteste Zehntterminationen’, pp. 34–5.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire episcopal involvement with pastoral issues and tithing in texts like the Vita Uodalrici, as well as a strong surge in the practice of leasing parochial tithe rights to laymen in Italian pievi. To understand how this point was reached and why settling the territorial boundaries of parish churches attained particular salience around the mid-tenth century, it is important to go back to the question of how episcopal authority was constituted within the diocese in the ninth and tenth centuries and how traicking in church property created important social relationships. i nte re st, conf lict, and f rie ndship : tith e s, pe op le, and churche s in the evide nc e of e piscopal capitulari e s and canon law statute s A number of individual bishops in the ninth century published their own diocesan capitularies to regulate their priests and churches.66 The tradition of episcopal capitularies appears to have died out by the midtenth century, but their statutes continued to be transmitted in various forms, often through royal capitularies, homiletic, and penitential literature, throughout the early and high Middle Ages.67 Although frequently more laconic than we would wish, they provide an important glimpse of how individual bishops, or diocesan synods, approached problems of priestly education, morality, and pastoral care, and negotiated the complex issues generated by the general capitulary legislation. Interesting, most do not have anything to say about the tithe.68 This may have to do with the fact that they tended to be modelled on royal legislation such as the Admonitio Generalis of 789, itself based on elements of the Collectio Dionysio-Hadriana, which, while focusing generally on ecclesiastical orders and church governance, likewise had little speciic to say on the subject of the tithe. A few of the more signiicant episcopal capitularies did have statutes addressing tithes, however, and demonstrate the dynamic relationship between the dioceses and the grand councils where general statutes were formulated on the basis of experiences with local clergy and the provincial or diocesan synods. 66

67

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The texts are edited in the MGH series Capitula Episcoporum., 3 vols., ed. Peter Brommer, Rudolf Pokorny, and Martina Stratmann, with Wolf-Dieter Runge (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1984–95). On episcopal capitularies and ideas about pastoral care in the Carolingian period, see Carine van Rhijn, Shepherds of the Lord: Priests and Episcopal Statutes in the Carolingian Period (Turnhout, Brepols, 2007). Peter Brommer, ‘Capitula Episcoporum’: Die bischölichen Kapitularien des 9. und 10. Jahrhunderts, Typologie des Sources du Moyen Age Occidental, 43 (Turnhout, Brepols, 1985); McKitterick, Frankish Church, ch. 2. Peter Brommer, ‘Die bischöliche Gesetzgebung Theodulfs von Orléans’, ZRG, k.A. 60 (1974), pp. 1–120, esp. pp. 67-72.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe The homilies of Caesarius of Arles continued to be important in helping Carolingian bishops understand the tithe as well; the capitulary of Theodulf of Orléans from around 797, for example, instructs priests to admonish their locks not to neglect to give tithes of all their income, including that from commerce and trade.69 A second capitulary of Theodulf instructs priests to keep track of the tithes and oblations they receive from the faithful and to put them to their proper use for the poor and pilgrims, as opposed to treating them as their own private income.70 It also reminds priests that tithe income must be divided in four portions, including one for the bishop ‘so that whatever he orders for it, let it be done with prudent counsel’.71 As with so many other kinds of capitulary legislation, statutes like Theodulf ’s could be bundled with other relevant material and used to create entirely new corpora of normative law that relected the needs of the episcopacy. Benedictus Levita reproduced this latter canon, with very minor alterations, in his capitulary collection in the mid-ninth century. Regino of Prüm subsequently picked it up in the early tenth century.72 In Vienna, Nationalbibliothek Cod. Lat. 751, for instance, a mid-ninth century codex produced in Mainz, Theodulf ’s capitularies are transmitted along with the letter collection of Boniface, a collection of Augustinian sermons, and the texts of the 813 reform councils.73 Other capitulary collections may indicate that ideas about tithe management sometimes gestated at the diocesan level before being promulgated in a kingdomwide council or capitulary. This may have been the case with the idea that dependent persons owed tithes to the church where they heard mass or were baptized, as relected in the Capitulare de Villis and the reform councils of 813.74 Another codex which may demonstrate a kind of synergy between royal and episcopal administrative practice is Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, 69

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Capitulare Theoduli episc., I, c. 35, MGH Capit. Episc. I, pp.132–3. See too Viard, Dîme avant Gratien, p. 103. Capitulare Theoduli episc. II. c. 5, MGH Capit. Episc. I, p. 150. Ibid., ‘… ut quidquid inde iusserit, prudenti consilio iat’. On Benedict, see p. 86. Benedictus Levita, III, 375 = Regino, Sendhandbuch, I, 353. The capitularies are on fols. 167r–172v. Interesting, inserted among the Bonifatian correspondence in the codex is a letter from a certain cleric Frotwin to Louis the Pious complaining about the tithe of a church unjustly taken from him by the relatives of the Alsatian count Erkangar. See fol. 71v. = MGH Epist. III (Epist. Karol.V), nr. 25, 339–40. Captiulare de Villis (c.800?), c. 6, MGH Capit. I,nr. 32, p. 83, ‘Volumus ut iudices nostri decimas ex omni conlaboratu pleniter donent ad ecclesias quae sunt in nostris iscis, et ad alterius ecclesiam nostra decima data non iat, nisi ubi antiquitus institutum fuit. Et non alii clerici habeant ipsas ecclesias nisi nostri aut de familia aut de capella nostra’. Susan Wood, Proprietary Church, p. 468, and n. 53, argues that conlaboratio in this context appears to refer to work done by serfs on the demesne, not the income of estate managers or judges, as might be inferred. Compare however Niermeyer, Lexikon, s.v. conlaboratio, where the term applies more generally in the ninth century to the fruits of agricultural labour.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Lat. fol. 626 (saec. XII), which contains a wide range of Carolingian capitulary texts (all from the reign of Charlemagne), including an important witness for Ansegisus, the Admonitio Generalis, parts of the Capitula ad Salz, and the capitularies of Gerbald of Liège, who likely also created the original exemplar.75 Gerbald’s capitulary, from around the turn of the ninth century, demands that ‘each priest should instruct all those for whom he is responsible, so that they know how they ought to ofer tithes of all their means to the holy churches’.76 A second capitulary of Gerbald, composed in the early ninth century, possibly between 802 and 809, suggests that bishops were trying to work through ways of calling people to account who avoided paying tithes.77 Anyone – nobiles sive servientes – who did not pay tithes from their agricultural increase was to be summoned before the bishop to give a reason for the delinquency. What would happen after that was apparently left to the discretion of the bishop, but it is clear that getting some laymen to relinquish their tithes was a diicult task and not one necessarily accomplished by brute force.78 A letter by Hrabanus Maurus that Mathias Flacius Illyricus excerpts in his Centuries contains a sharp rebuke of a certain priest named Hadubrand, who had evidently forced people in his parish to swear an oath to pay the tithe and had barred them from communion until they paid in full.79 Only later in the mid-ninth century do canons appear north of the Alps – as opposed to some in 75

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Mordek, Bibliotheca capitularium, pp. 34–43; Wilhelm A. Eckhardt, Die kapitulariensammlung Bischof Ghaerbalds von Lüttich (Göttingen, Musterschmidt, 1955); Rosamond McKitterick, ‘Charlemagne’s missi and their books’, in Early Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald, ed. Catherine E. Karkov, Stephen Baxter, and Janet Nelson, Studies in Early Medieval Britain (Farnham, England and Burlington,VT, Ashgate, 2009), pp. 253–68 at pp. 263–65. Capitulare Gharibaldi, I, cc. 4–5, MGH Capit. Episc. I, p. 17: ‘Ut unusquisque sacerdos cunctos sibi pertinentes erudiat, ut sciant, qualiter decimas totius facultatis ecclesiis divinis debite oferant’. Capitulare Gharibaldi, II, c. 9, MGH Capit. Episc., I, p. 29: ‘Ut quisquis decimas pleniter non dedit de sua conlaboratione, ut exinde ante nos rationes deducat sive nobiles sive servientes.…’ Note the use of conlaboratio, as in the Capitulare de Villis. Indeed, in the late ifth or early sixth century, Roman law (Codex Justinianus, ed. Paul Krueger, Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. 2 (Berlin, Weidmann, 1954), I, iii, 48, § 8) forbade clergy from using ecclesiastical sanction to coerce donations to the church. See Jones, ‘Church Finance’, p. 338. Alain Dierkens has observed as well that one of the functions of these episcopal capitularies was to use institutions such as episcopal inquests to normalize and regularize Christian life at the parish level, particularly in the countryside. Extending control over local churches through regularizing the tithe regime would have been part of this. See ‘La christianisation des campagnes de l’empire de Louis de Pieux, L’exemple de diocèse de Liège sous l’épiscopat de Walcaud, c. 809-c. 831’, in Charlemagne’s Heir, New Perspectives on the Reign of Louis the Pious (814–840), ed. Peter Godman and Roger Collins (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1990), pp. 309–29. MGH Epist.V, p. 521. Mathias Flacius Illyricus was a sixteenth-century Protestant polemicist who scoured Germany’s monastic libraries and archives for sources of early church history which he then presented in the Centuries to demonstrate the apostasy and corruption of the medieval church. In the meantime, he preserved many early texts from Fulda, including letters of Hrabanus, which were subsequently lost.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe Italy, as discussed previously – which bring secular authority to bear on matters of the tithe. Perhaps wary of the creeping hand of secular justice, Herard of Tours (855–66) declared in his capitulary that ‘no priest shall receive tithes by dispute or ighting, rather through preaching and admonition’.80 Legislation like this relects the fact that managing the tithe was a diicult prerogative for the church at every level, particularly in terms of delineating the bishop’s role vis-à-vis the local clergy and lay tithe payers. It does nonetheless reinforce the observation that bishops viewed consistent tithe giving as an integral part of what constituted a wellordered diocesan community, but that episcopal visions of good order and administration were not always universally assented to. Resolving conlicts over how, by whom, and in what amount tithes were to be paid was not simply a matter of calling an individual to account and demanding payment or threatening to excommunicate them. The politics of church patronage, lordship, and friendship within the lay world were much more complicated and circumscribed the bishop’s power in signiicant ways. In his De Institutione Laicali (c.820), a ‘princely mirror’ prepared for the inluential count Matfried of Orléans, Bishop Jonas of Orléans (818–43) writes how powerful men would appoint their friends as priests in local churches and then use this arrangement to funnel tithe revenues to themselves or their circle of friends, depriving the bishop of his right to administer them.81 Jonas’s description of the problem from a bishop’s perspective is educative: There are, however, a number of powerful men, who, forgetful of their rank and calling, possess churches like this, poorly equipped, but abounding with generous tithes of the faithful; contrary to divine will, they bestow them upon their people, both clerical and lay, as a beneice, so that they can proit themselves from gifts and tithes of this kind. But however immoderate this might be, and incompatible with the Christian religion, as well as most dangerous to those who do it, anyone who considers it, understands. It is not the prerogative of laymen, but of bishops, through whom churches are dedicated to God, to determine how gifts and tithes of the faithful presented to God ought to be distributed. It is clearly the duty of bishops, and not laymen, to sort out how much from those gifts of the faithful ought to be applied to the fabric [maintenance] of the church, how much for the beautifying lights, how much ought to be collected for hospices and for aiding the poor, and how much ought to be spent on supplying the 80

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Capitula Herardi, MGH Capit. Episc.., II, pt. 2, ed. Rudolf Porkorny (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1995), c.132: ‘Nullus sacerdotum decimas cum lite et jurgio suscipiat sed praedicatione et admonitione…’ Compare Viard, Dîme avant Gratien, p. 96. De Institutione Laicali, II, c. 19 (De decimis idelium), PL 106, cols. 204–6. On Jonas’s work and its context, see Hans Hubert Anton, Fürstenspiegel und Herrscherethos in der Karolingerzeit, Bonner Historische Forschungen, 32 (Bonn, Ludwig Röhrscheid Verlag, 1968), pp. 211–14.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire necessities of their priests, who wage with him the battles of Christ. It is not for the laymen to determine, so that from these [tithes] it might be diverted to his people and some use of theirs.82

Jonas’s complaint illustrates one way, probably quite familiar to someone like Count Matfried, that tithe collection and distribution operated on the local level. However, since a layman rather than the bishop controlled this church, or at least its priest, the tithe revenue quickly disappeared into the lay lord’s network of personal patronage rather than being put towards appropriate projects, namely those given priority by the bishop or his clergy.83 Understanding this aspect of tithes helps bring the motivations behind certain other Carolingian conciliar statutes into sharper relief. In 829, for example, a royal council in Worms suggested that tithes could cement earthly relationships as much as those between God and man. The sixth canon states: Whoever takes a tithe from the church to which it is rightly owed, and presumptuously gives it to another church for money or friendship [amicitia] or some other reason, he is to be reprimanded by our count or missus so that the full amount of the tithe be restored along with a ine.84

The following canon also condemned those who refused to pay their tithe unless they were compensated in some way.85 Although this is one of the irst statutes north of the Alps that threatens intervention of secular 82

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Jonas of Orléans, De Institutione Laicali (loc. cit above, n. 81): ‘Sunt etiam plerique potentes, qui obliti ordinis et ministerii sui, hujuscemodi basilicas possidentes, rebus tenues, idelium vero largissimis decimis abundantes, contra fas suis aut clericis aut laicis beneiciario munere conferunt, ut de hujuscemodi oblationibus et decimis sibi serviant, quod quam sit extraordinarium, et religioni Christianae incongruum, nec non et facientibus periculosum, qui animadvertit, intelligit. Non enim ad laicorum, sed ad pontiicum ministerium, per quos basilicae Deo dedicantur, pertinet, qualiter oblationes et decimae idelium Deo oblatae dispensentur, ordinare. Pontiicum sane ministerium est, quantum ex eisdem idelium oblationibus in fabricis applicetur ecclesiae, quantum in luminaribus concinnandis, quantum in hospitibus colligendis, et pauperibus recreandis, quantumque in presbyterorum eorumque qui secum militiam Christi gerunt necessitatibus sublevandis expensetur, disponere; non laicorum, ut in suos suorumque ex his quidquam retorqueatur usus, exigere’. Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 487–8. Council of Worms (829), MGH Capit. II., nr. 191, c. 6, p. 13. Even the missi themselves could stray, however, Bishop Frotharius of Toul (826–40) once wrote a letter to the empress Judith complaining that several of her missi had taken one-half a manse and half a tithe from a church and ‘given it to a layman contrary to canonical statutes and contrary to our duty (ministerium) and will’. MGH Epist. V, nr. 29, p. 295 = La Correspondence d’un évêque carolingien. Frothaire de Toul (c. 813–847), ed. Michel Parisse (Paris, Publications de la Sorbonne, 1998), p. 102. ‘…Sed de ecclaesia istius prebiteri vestri tulerunt [the missi] dimidium mansum et dimidiam suam decimam et dederunt homini laico contra canonica statuta et contra ministerium ac voluntatem nostram’. Council of Worms, c. 7: ‘De decimis, quae dare populus non vult, nisi quolibet modo ab eo redimantur, ab episcopis prohibendum est, ne iat…’. The second part of the canon states that the crown will force any of its dependents who refuse their tithes to restore them to the proper church.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe authorities over the tithe, passages like these also open up small windows onto what must have been a complex and dynamic world of negotiation and compromise over tithes, one wherein the tithe was viewed as one of many gestures of favour and patronage that deined relationships between a priest, a bishop, and the lay community. Someone would pay their tithe but expect a favour or payment in return. Obviously these kinds of arrangements were not tenable within the scriptural-legal tradition of tithing – the reward for tithing was God’s blessing – and it was not only laymen who could use (or, rather, abuse) tithes in this way. Earlier, the reform council at Châlons in 813 condemned certain bishops and counts who had accepted pledges (that is, sureties or bail) from people caught committing incest (i.e. marrying within forbidden degrees of consanguinity) or not paying tithes, as well as from priests convicted of various ofences.86 These bishops and counts were then apparently splitting the sum among themselves. The council recommended that if someone refused to pay tithes, even after repeated admonitions and preaching by the priest, he or she ought to be excommunicated. And later, in 874, a diocesan synod convened by Hincmar of Rheims lodged a similar complaint against priests who treated the property, including tithes, in their parishes as though they were allods for the beneit of themselves and their families.87 He reminded his clergy that the facultates of the church are to be put towards charitable endeavours, as prescribed in Scripture and the law. Friendship here certainly had more complex valences than simple afection or favouritism. As Gerd Althof , among others, has shown, amicitia in the early Middle Ages described a powerful social bond created through mutual exchange of favours, gifts, and other signs of reciprocity and generosity.88 Tithes could be used by ecclesiastical and lay lords as a source of largesse that secured friendships and alliances. Conversely, withholding them could serve as a way to signal protest or dissatisfaction 86

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Council of Châlons (813), MGH Concil. II, c. 18, p. 277: ‘Dictum est nobis, quod in quibusdam locis episcopi et comites ab incestuosis et ab his, qui decimas non dant, wadios accipiant et a presbyteris pro quibusdam neglegentiis et inter se pecuniam dividant…’ Hincmar of Rheims, Capitula IV, MGH Capit. Episc. II, pp. 84–5. Gerd Althof, Verwandte, Freunde und Getreue: zum politischen Stellenwert der Gruppenbindungen im frühen Mittelalter (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1989), English: Friends, Family and Followers: Political and Social Bonds in Early Medieval Europe, translated by Christopher Carroll (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2004); Timothy Reuter, ‘Property Transactions and Social Relations between Rulers, Bishops and Nobles in Early Eleventh-century Saxony: The Evidence of the Vita Meinwerci’, in Property and Power in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Wendy Davies and Paul Fouracre (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 165–99; Arnoud-Jan A. Bijsterveld, ‘The Medieval Gift as Agent of Social Bonding and Political Power: A Comparative Approach’, in Medieval Transformations: Texts, Power and Gifts in Context, ed. Mayake de Jong and Esther Cohen (Leiden and New York, Brill, 2001), pp. 123–56.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire with clerical authorities or the bishop, something to which the episcopal capitulary legislation in particular seemed to be sensitive. A form of tribute like the tithe created and complicated inter-personal relationships and could be abused, to be sure, but it remained inextricably part of the reason for their existence. In his Regula Canonicorum, Chrodegang of Metz stated that when priests receive tithes from the people, their names should be written down and placed upon the altar.89 Gerbald had stipulated something quite similar in his capitulary, namely that parish priests ought to keep a written record of the individuals who paid their tithes.90 While serving a practical administrative function, this kind of record keeping was simultaneously a commemorative act that recognized the donor’s special relationship – friendship – with the institution, its patron saint, and ultimately, God.91 We should not become ixated on only the term amicitia, however. It is important to remain attuned to other types of relational language that displays similar valences of meaning. In 929, for instance, Bishop Berno of Mâcon granted the abbey Cluny the tithes and dues from several churches it controlled in his diocese. In return, the bishop and his chapter received the close familiaritas of the monks, who included them in their prayers.92 Understanding capitulary and conciliar legislation as trying to mediate a complex set of social dynamics that deined the relationship between a bishop, the clergy, a church, and the laity it served is a more helpful approach, in my view, than simply viewing them as a set of norms stacked against the growing threat of the secularization of church property. 89

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Chrodegang, Regula Canonicorum, c. 75, ed. and translated by Jeremy Bertram, in The Chrodegang Rules: The Rules for the Common Life of the Secular Clergy in the Eighth and Ninth Centuries: Critical Texts with Translation and Commentary, (Aldershot, UK and Burlingon, VT, Ashgate, 2005), p. 220: ‘Sacerdotes populi suscipient decimas, et nomina eorum quicunque dederint scripta habeant super altare…’ Capitulare Gharibaldi, I, c. 5: ‘Ut ipsi sacerdotes populi suscipiant decimas et nomina eorum, quicumque dederint, scripta habeant…’ Chrodegang, like Gerbald, probably refers here to some kind of parchment or charter record placed or made on the altar, but sometimes the names of patrons and gift givers were literally inscribed on altars in churches. See the study of the Altarplatte of the abbey Reichenau, inscribed with the names of people whom the monastery remembered in its prayers, Die Altarplatte von Reichenau-Niederzell, ed. Dieter Guenich, Renate Neumüllers-Klauser, and Karl Schmid, MGH Libri memoriales et necrologia, N.S. 1, Suppl. (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1983). On the dynamic relationship between administrative and commemorative textual practices, see Patrick J. Geary, ‘Entre Gestion et Gesta’, in Les Cartulaires, Actes de la table ronde organisée par l’Ecole nationale des chartes et le G.D.R. 121 du C.N.R.S (Paris, 5–7 décembre 1991), ed. Laurent Morelle, Michael Parisse and Olivier Guyotjeannin (Paris, C.N.R.S., 1993), pp. 13–26. This agreement is discussed in Barbara Rosenwein, Negotiating Space: Power, Restraint, and Privileges of Immunity in Early Medieval Europe (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1999), p. 167.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe the p roble m of monasti c tithe s Bishops, priests, and laymen were not the only groups who could beneit from the dynamic meaning of tithes in social relationships. Giles Constable’s 1964 study on the subject of the tithe in the context of Western monasticism is still the standard work and I cannot add anything substantive to his sources or conclusions here.93 In this section, however, I can bring Constable’s work into conversation with more recent studies on the meaning of monastic privilege and the social relationships created by monastic patronage, in particular the work of Susan Wood and Barbara Rosenwein. Monasteries, particularly as they served as institutional repositories of social memory and religious patronage, came to play an especially signiicant role in the history of the medieval tithe regime.94 The question of episcopal jurisdiction over the revenues of local churches was further complicated by the rise of extensive lay patronage of monasticism in the seventh and eighth centuries, particularly in the wake of Irish reformer Columbanus’s activity in Francia and, to a lesser extent, Italy.95 While bishops continued to actively found and maintain monasteries, monastic foundations of the post-Columbanian era – whether inluenced directly by the Irish tradition or not – challenged the long-held principle that bishops had unquestioned authority over monks in their dioceses by encouraging the private endowment of monasteries and creating family legacies centred on monastic foundations.96 Although public laws like the Capitulary for the Missi of 802 subordinated monasteries to episcopal authority, royal, and later papal, privileges of immunity and exemption for many monasteries created spaces of inviolate economic control where property brought under the monks’ authority was efectively removed from further secular or episcopal oversight.97 In a particularly infamous case, the monks of Fulda successfully altered their papal exemption privilege to include ‘tithes of the faithful’ alongside other goods protected from episcopal interference and managed to have 93 95

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Constable, Monastic Tithes, chapter 1, n. 1. 94 Ibid., pp. 1–8. Marilyn Dunn, The Emergence of Monasticism: From the Desert Fathers to the Early Middle Ages (Malden, MA. and Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 2000), ch. 8, esp. pp. 158–64; Friedrich Prinz, Frühes Mönchtum im Frankenreich (Munich and Vienna, Oldenbourg Verlag, 1965), pp. 121–5;Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 109–38. Dunn, Emergence of Monasticism, p. 161; Ugo Dovere, ‘La igura del vescovo tra la ine del mondo antico e l’avvento dei nuovi popoli Europei’, Archivum historicum pontiicum 41 (2003), pp. 25–49, at p. 41; Rosenwein, Negotiating Space, pp. 64–6. Rosenwein, Negotiating Space, pp. 68–9; Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 193–4; Josef Semmler, ‘Episcopi Potestas und Karolingische Klosterpolitik’, in Mönchtum. Episkopat. Adel zur Gründungszeit des Klosters Reichenau, ed. Arno Borst,Vorträge und Forschungen, 20 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1974), pp. 305–95.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the amended privilege conirmed by the Carolingian monarchs through the ninth century.98 The inluence of Columbanus himself should not be overstated here; monastic discipline, as opposed to the issue of institutional exemption, seems to have been a more pressing concern for him personally.99 However, Columbanus’s activities and the monastic foundations he inluenced paralleled and drew upon a signiicant growth in lay patronage and intensiied lordship within Francia and the lands east of the Rhine more generally from the mid-seventh century onwards.100 Through generation-to-generation traditions of donation and patronage, Frankish aristocrats built up social capital and created political relationships and alliances that secured their regional authority and interests in periods of signiicant political change, particularly as the ascendant Carolingian dynasty clashed with the older Merovingian establishment in the eastern parts of Francia.101 Included in many bequests were churches and the attached property which then came under the control of the abbot and his monks – allowing the monks to receive, as the Fulda privilege put it, ‘tithes of the faithful’.102 Did the monks, however, or the clergy that stafed their churches, still have to divide the revenue, including tithes, with the diocesan bishop and, further, were the monks liable to pay tithes from their own income and assets? Again, this returned observers to the question of whether a bishop actually retained control of all ecclesiastical assets in his diocese, or merely had to be consulted regarding the disposal of a church’s tithe revenue when it came to foundations owned by another institution, namely a monastery.103 As they accumulated more territories and churches, the great monastic foundations of the eighth and ninth centuries were content to allow their bishops to consecrate churches, as noted earlier, but largely limited any other kinds of interference.104 Councils, such as the one convened in 755 at Verneuil under King Pippin, stated quite clearly 98 99 100

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Michael Tangl, ‘Die Fuldaer Privilegienfrage’, MIÖG 20 (1899), pp. 193–252. Wood, Proprietary Church, p. 194 and note 28; Rosenwein, Negotiating Space, pp. 64–8. Wood, Proprietary Church, ch. 9; Régine Le Jan, Famille et pouvoir dans le monde franc (VIIe-Xe siècle). Essai d’anthropologie sociale (Paris, Publications de Sorbonne, 1995); Hummer, Politics and Power, p. 34. Hummer, Politics and Power, ch. 1; Guy Halsall, Settlement and Social Organization: the Merovingian Region of Metz (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 49–50. See e.g. TAF, ed. Dronke, c. 4, nrs. 30, 39; c. 6, nr. 159 for donations of estates with churches that explicitly mention the decimatio, or tithe rights.Though most of the two dozen or so donations of churches, or portions thereof, in the early Fulda cartulary do not mention tithe rights, asserting the right to collect tithes from its churches was a major project of the Fulda monks from at least the turn of the ninth century when the Pippin/Zacharias privilege was forged. On this point, the discussion by Franz Staab, ‘Die Würzel des zisterziensichen Zehntprivilegs: Zugleich zur Echtheitsfrage der “Querimonia Egilmari episcopi” und der “Reponsio Stephani V papae”’, Deutsches Archiv 40:1 (1984), pp. 21–54 at pp. 26–8 is particularly insightful.. Arnold Angenendt, Geschichte der Religiosität (Darmstadt, Primus Verlag, 1997), p. 327; Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 196–9.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe that religious houses were subordinate to the authority of the diocesan bishop and that clerics and monks were to remain stable, but at the same time did not explicitly deine the full scope of that authority. For example, did bishops have the right to decide which priests stafed churches owned by a particular monastery, and did they thereby also have a say in how any tithes it might receive were divided?105 A letter from Archbishop Hrabanus Maurus to Abbot Hatto of Fulda, for example, discusses a major dispute that had taken place between Archbishop Riculf of Mainz, Abbot Bagaulf of Fulda, and Bishop Bernwolf of Würzburg in the late eighth century (between 787 and 800) over whether the bishop of Würzburg had the right to consecrate priests at Fulda. A royal synod condemned Bernwolf based on the strength of Fulda’s papal exemption.106 Because we do not have any further information on this incident, it is diicult to discern what the full context of this dispute might have been or on whose side Archbishop Riculf stood. Not long afterwards, however – probably in the irst decade of the ninth century – the monks of Fulda produced the forged conirmation of Pippin with the tithes and oblation clause which Charlemagne, and later Louis the Pious, eventually conirmed.107 We might conclude from this that the scope and nature of monastic immunity was continually contested and negotiated, as Barbara Rosenwein has also observed. No single model of reform deined immunity or exemption for monasteries or for bishops; indeed, as with other types of capitulary legislation, material from councils or monastic writings could be made to conform to local interests and needs. Conciliar and capitulary statutes were perhaps deliberately vague when it came to deining the kinds of prerogatives diocesan bishops could exercise, allowing the king or his missi to act as judges in bridging the gaps between norms and practices.108 Likewise, institutions such as Fulda could employ their best scribes at creating ictional precedents for the rights they believed to be theirs. In response, bishops produced collections of texts that attempted to create new precedents for their power and interests.Among the most notable of these are the Le Mans forgeries, a dossier of literature and charters from the reign of Charles the Bald (840–77) – some fabricated, some genuine – intended to demonstrate that all diocesan property belonged 105 106

107

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MGH Capit. I, nr. 14, pp. 32–7. Tangl, ‘Fuldaer Privilegienfrage’, p. 249. MGH Epist. IV, p. 528. This letter, too, is only summarily preserved in the Magdeburg Centuries,VIII, c. x, col. 808, 193–252. MGH DD Karol. I, nr. 215. Louis the Pious’s conirmation is summarized in Regesta Imperii, I, 1, nr. 1004. This was no less true of Frankish than Anglo-Saxon rulers, as Patrick Wormald pithily observed in The Making of English Law: King Alfred to the Twelfth Century, Vol. 1: Legislation and its Limits (Oxford, Blackwell Publishers, 2001), p. 108: ‘Power resided in allocating a stake in the system to the potentially obstructive’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire under the control of the bishop.109 Around the same time, possibly slightly earlier, another group of editors in the province of Rheims produced an immense collection of papal decretals, capitularies, and conciliar canons, again with mixed authenticity, designed to airm the authority of diocesan bishops and clergy against interference from their metropolitan superiors and laymen.The Pseudo-Isidorian corpus, which takes its name from a ictitious editor associated with its collection of papal decretals, was long thought to have been generated in the mid-ninth century in the wake of a long-running dispute among the clergy at Rheims over the controversial legacy of Archbishop Ebo (816–35) and his involvement in the coup against Louis the Pious in the early 830s.110 A new, pathbreaking reassessment of the earliest Pseudo-Isidorian manuscripts by the late Klaus Zeckiel-Eckes, however, suggests that they may have in fact originated earlier, in the circle of Paschasius Radbertus at Corbie.111 Later on, particularly in the eleventh century, Pseudo-Isidorian material would lay the groundwork for the assertion of papal primacy in ecclesiastical afairs, but in its ninth-century context, it stands as an important monument to the continuing debates over episcopal prerogatives and the idea of the diocese and its ecclesiastical property as a uniied whole under the care of the bishop.112 A number of the false decretals – many later reproduced by Burchard of Worms and Gratian – emphasize exclusive episcopal control of church property.113 Tithes in particular igure prominently in the ‘false capitularies’ of the editor known as ‘Benedictus Levita’ or Benedict the Deacon, which circulated with the other Pseudo-Isidorian collections.114 The extent of Benedict’s direct collaboration with the other 109

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113 114

Walter Gofart, The Le Mans Forgeries (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1966). At issue in particular was the bishop of Le Mans’s claims over the monastery of St. Calais, which was litigated at the royal court with an unfavourable outcome for the bishop. Reynolds, ‘Law, Organization and Liturgy’, pp. 616–17;The foundational study of Pseudo-Isidore is Horst Fuhrmann, Einluss und Verbreitung der pseudo-isidorischen Fälschungen von ihrem Auftreten bis in die neueren Zeit, 3 vols. SMGH, 24, (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1972–4). Compare too Courtney M. Booker, Past Convictions: The Penance of Louis the Pious and the Decline of the Carolingians (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), p. 196 and Mayake de Jong, The Penitential State: Authority and Atonement in the Age of Louis the Pious (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2009), p. 103. Klaus Zeckiel-Eckes, ‘Ein Blick in Pseudoisidors Werkstatt: Studien zum Entstehungsprozess der falschen Dekretalen; mit einem exemplarischen editorischen Anhang (Pseudo-Julius an die orientalischen Bischöfe, JK +196)’, Francia 28 (2001), pp. 37–90. David Ganz, ‘The Ideology of Sharing: Apostolic Community and Ecclesiastical Property in the Early Middle Ages’, in Power and Property in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Wendy Davies and Paul Fouracre (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 17–30; Constable, Monastic Tithes, pp. 45–6; Johannes Fried, Donation of Constantine and Constitutum Constantini:The misinterpretation of a Fiction and its Original Meaning, translated by Wolfram Brandes, Millennium Studies, 3 (Berlin and New York, Walter de Gruyter, 2007), pp. 17–20. Constable, Monastic Tithes, p. 45, n. 3. See art. ‘Benedictus Levita’ in HRG, 2nd. ed., vol. 1, cols. 520–2.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe Pseudo-Isidorian editors is not clear; he claimed to work in Mainz under Archbishop Otgar (825–47), but this may have merely been a device to lend some sort of credibility to the collection by placing its origins outside the area where it was intended to be directly applied.115 The collection pretends to supplement the already well-known work of Ansegis with some genuine and some forged material, though the excerpts regarding the tithe – some of which have already been mentioned – are mostly free from serious alteration or interpolations.116 He reproduces in particular the Capitula Ecclesiastica and other material from Ansegis,117 along with relevant canons on the tithe from the Council of Worms (829),118 the 813 Council of Mainz,119 and the Capitulary of Heristal.120 Benedict also provides some key Old Testament references to tithing.121 One text in which Benedict does make some interesting changes is in III.468, which heavily modiies a canon of the Third Council of Toledo, not so much changing its overall import, but certainly making the bishop’s authority over church property more explicit.122 115

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118 119

120 121

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See the ongoing work, including searchable page proofs for a new edition of Benedictus being prepared at the MGH by a team led by Gerhard Schmitz at www.benedictus.mgh.de. Until this new edition is inished, however, I will refer to an older edition by Étienne Baluze, Capitularia regum francorum, etc., rev. ed. Petro de Chiniac, in Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima Collectio, 17B, ed. Joannes Dominicus Mansi, (Paris, 1780; repr. Paris, Welter, 1902). On Benedict’s alleged position in Mainz, see Benedictus Levita, Praefatio, ed. Baluze, col. 802–5. On the relationship of Benedict to the Pseudo-Isidore corpus, and Benedict’s status as a forger, see Rosamond McKitterick, ‘History, Law, and Communication with the Past in the Carolingian Period’, in Comunicare e signiicare nell’alto Medioevo, Settimane di Studio, 52 (Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo, 2005), pp. 941–79, esp. pp. 969–73. The sources for Benedict’s capitulary extracts were identiied and studied by Emil Seckel in a series of articles in Neues Archiv and the Savigny-Zeitschrift. See the bibliography, with online articles, at www.benedictus.mgh.de/studien/seckel.htm. Benedictus Levita, I, c. 45, ed. Baluze, I, cc. 43–54, col. 834. are all lifted from Ansegis, Collectio, I, pp. 141–52. See Emil Seckel, ‘Studien zu Benedictus Levita VI’, Neues Archiv (1906), pp. 59–139 at p. 73. Benedictus Levita, I, ed. Baluze, c. 101, col. 841. Benedictus Levita, I, ed. Baluze, c. 154, col. 854; c. 157, col. 855. Benedict does add one clause to the end of the canon at 154: ‘et qui decimam dare neglexerit, novem partes auferentur ab eo’. The reference does not appear to have a concrete antecedent, but compare the Lenten sermon of Ambrose, ch. 1, n. 41. Benedictus Levita, I, c. 194, ed. Baluze, col. 860. Benedictus Levita, II, c. 29, ed. Baluze, col. 929 = Exodus 22, 29 (‘decimas tuas et primitias non tardabis ofere domino…’); II, c. 41, col. 930 = Deuteronomy 14, 28–29 (‘Separabis decimas ex omnibus…’). Benedictus Levita, III, c. 468, ed. Baluze, col. 1130. On the sources and interpolations, see Emil Seckel, ‘Studien zu Benedictus Levita VIII, ergänzt aus dem Nachlass von Josef Jüncker’, ZRG, k. A., 24 (1935) pp. 1–112 at p. 70. Council of Toledo (III), c. 19 = PL 84, 355

Benedictus Levita, III.468

Ut ecclesia cum rebus eius ad episcopi ordinationem pertineat

Placuit, ut omnes ecclesiae cum dotibus et omnibus rebus suis in episcopi proprii potestat consistant atque ad ordinationem vel dispositionem suam semper pertineant.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Textual traditions like the Le Mans forgeries or the Pseudo-Isidorian corpus illustrate the way institutional and legal memories were increasingly embedded in the form of written instruments and could be created or deployed (not always successfully, as the Le Mans case illustrates) in the context of conlicts.123 Archival practices had a much longer pedigree in Italy, of course, particularly in places like Lucca and Milan where public judicial institutions persisted throughout the early Middle Ages and where formularies were maintained for notaries to record various kinds of disputes and court cases in addition to donations and conveyances.124 While not formalized institutionally in the same way as in Italy, written legal culture centred on the archiving of records lourished north of the Alps as well. Following the Carolingian annexation of Bavaria, Bishop Arn of Salzburg produced a detailed dossier of his church’s property and privileges, particularly those originally obtained from the Agilolinger dukes, in order to secure a conirmation for them from Charlemagne.125 Later in the ninth century, a dispute between Salzburg and Passau over their sees’ respective rights over the newly Christianized Slavic frontier prompted the bishop of Salzburg to confect a major documentary/narrative account of the church’s early activity in Pannonia and Carinthia.126 In the 1070s, it appears that Bishop Benno II of Osnabrück produced a series of forged letters and charters – some dated as far back as the late ninth century – to bolster his claims that the monasteries of Corvey and Herford illegally held tithes belonging to the diocese.127 He successfully used these to solicit a privilege from Henry IV restoring the tithes to Osnabrück.128 Episcopal documents from north and south of the Alps 123

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Peter Johanek, ‘Zur rechtlichen Funktion von Traditionsnotiz, Traditionsbuch und früher Siegelurkunde’, in Recht und Schrift im Mittelalter, ed. Peter Classen,Vorträge und Forschungen, 23 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1977), pp. 131–62. Chris Wickham, ‘Land disputes and their social framework in Lombard-Carolingian Italy, 700– 900’, in The Settlement of Disputes in Early Medieval Europe, ed. Wendy Davies and Paul Fouracre (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 105–24; Giovanna Nicolaj, ‘Storie di vescovi e di notai ad Arezzo fra XI e XII secolo’, in Il Notariato nella Civiltà Toscana. Atti di un convegno, Maggio 1981, Studi storici sul notariato italiano, 8 (Rome, Consiglio Nazionale del Notariato, 1985), pp. 148–70. Herwig Wolfram, ‘Die Notitia Arnonis und änliche Formen der Rechtssicherung im nachagilolfingischen Bayern’, in Recht und Schrift im Mittelalter, pp. 115–30 at p. 117. Here, in contrast to Le Mans, the case seems to be that the church wanted to protect its lands from potential coniscation by the Franks. The language and structure of the Notitia suggests that Arn and his scribe, a cleric named Benedict, copied from a pre-existing archive of charters and documents. Herwig Wolfram, Salzburg, Bayern, Österreich. Die Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum und die Quellen ihrer Zeit (Vienna and Munich, Oldenbourg, 1995). Kurt-Ulrich Jäschke, ‘Studien zu Quellen und Geschichte des Osnabrücker Zehntstreits unter Henrich IV, pt. 1’, Archiv für Diplomatik 9/10 (1963/64), pp. 112–285; pt. 2 Archiv für Diplomatik 10/11 (1965/66), pp. 280–401. See too Staab, ‘Würzel des Zisterziensischen Zehntprivilegs’. Compare Vita Bennonis, ed. Kallfelz, c. 16, pp. 402–6.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe demonstrate how it was through processes like disputes that institutions and aristocratic families actually staked claims to power and privilege, rather than through normative declarations alone. norms and texts : disp uting tithe s in th e dioce se of sal zburg Arn’s decision to create an oicial compilation of his see’s property rights was clearly motivated by the knowledge that ready access to such information was vital to defending his church’s interests. A series of disputes mediated by Arn around the turn of the ninth century illustrates the intersection of episcopal authority, monastic privilege, and the place of tithes in the negotiation of power in an early medieval religious landscape. In 800, the same year he attended Charlemagne’s imperial coronation in Rome, Arn presided over a series of church councils which airmed the Gelasian principle for the quadripartition of tithes for the bishop, clergy, fabric, and the poor.129 If the pressing issue at the Bavarian Synod of Ascheim a generation earlier had been the withholding of tithes by certain people, by the ninth century, more complex issues of possession and control of tithes needed to be clariied. If a bishop were not able to oversee the entire process of tithe assessment, collection, and disposal, he at least had to be sure he could collect the quarter of the revenue due him personally. A few years after Arn’s irst council, Hatto, the bishop of Freising, initiated a dispute on this account with two Bavarian monasteries. The dispute is recorded in two cartularies from Freising, one compiled in the mid-ninth century by a canon of the cathedral named Cozroh, and a second copy made by a canon named Conrad in the twelfth century.130 The two records are not identical, raising some interesting questions about the nature of the dispute and its outcome. In 804, Hatto brought cases against Chiemsee and Tegernsee for allegedly possessing churches and tithes that should have rightfully belonged to Freising.131 The process of the dispute, especially the terms of the settlement, sheds a great deal of light on the ways in which bishops had to negotiate and assert their authority within the tithe regime as well as on the scribal and literary practices which transmit those accounts. At a mallus publicus at the royal estate of Aibling, presided over by Arn of Salzburg, Hatto’s representative claimed that Chiemsee retained 129 130

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Council of Reisbach, Freising and Salzburg (800), c. 13, MGH Concil. II, p. 209. On Cozroh, see Joachim Jahn, ‘Virgil, Arbeo und Cozroh. Verfassungsgeschichtliche Beobachtungen an bairischen Quellen des 8. und 9. Jahrhunderts,’ MGSLk 130 (1990), pp. 201– 91. This dispute is also treated in Brown, Unjust Seizure, pp. 151–7. Traditionen Freisings, nr. 197, pp. 185–6.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire illegitimate possession of several churches belonging to his diocese.132 Cozroh’s version of the case seems to focus more on what happened to the property while Conrad seemed more interested in elucidating the process which produced the agreement. Cozroh’s version explains that Arn, along with the count Erchanbald and the judges Otperht and Albricus, ordered an inquest into Hatto’s charge and discovered that Chiemsee had apparently annexed the churches in question during the abbacy of the irst abbot, Dobdagrecus, an Irish cleric who had come to Bavaria at the time of Virgil’s episcopate in Salzburg in the mid-eighth century.133 After the enquiry, it was decided that Liutfrid, the abbot of Chiemsee, should keep three of the churches, at Willing, Berbling, Mietraching, which had been gifts of homines iscalines, and another at Tattenhausen, which had been donated by homines nobili. In addition, the abbot would keep ‘whatever tithes of free men and barshalks ought to apply to those churches’. Then comes an interesting transition: ‘This they left to the judgement and authority of Hatto, namely whether or not he wished to dismiss abbot Liutfrid, so that he could go and, according to canon law, do with those tithes as he had been ordered’.134 The phrase canonica institutio may refer to any number of statutes, but we might suggest that Hatto had an opportunity here to decide whether or not he was satisied with the agreement as arranged by Arn and his colleagues. Liutfrid retained nominal control of the tithes, but it seems that he would at least owe Hatto his canonical fourth and a say in how the rest was handled. Would Hatto be satisied with this? Instead, Hatto apparently decided to take two churches, along with their parrochia, from Liutfrid in Högling, as well as in a place called Perch. The term parrochia here appears to mean something akin to what we call a parish and might refer to the territory from which the churches collected their tithes.The document concludes by stating that there ‘should be permanent peace and concord thereafter, free from any dispute or contention’.135 The outcome of this dispute is diicult to interpret. Did Hatto forego receiving one-quarter of Chiemsee’s parish tithes in order to accept the churches in Högling and Perch and their parrochia? Tithes were clearly a central issue in this dispute, but this version appears to suggest that Hatto considered exclusive control over two parrochia preferable to just the canonical fourth of the tithes in several others. The second version 132 133 134

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Ibid., nr. 193, pp. 182–83. On Arn’s key role as a mediator, see Brown, Unjust Seizure, p. 156. On Dobdagrecus, see Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, pp. 113; 129. Traditionen Freisings., nr. 193a, p. 182: ‘Hoc in arbitrio et potestate Hattone episcopo posuerunt, utrum Liutfridum abbatem dimittere voluisset annon, ut secundum canonicam instiutionem de eandem decimam faceret quod iuberet’. Ibid., ‘et sit inter eos pax et concordia inconvulsa in postmodum absque lite et contentione’.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe complicates Hatto’s intentions, however, and suggests that the tithes may have been what were important after all. Conrad’s version, although copied later, may relect an alternate account which circulated in Freising in the ninth century and presents a considerably diferent version of the events. It attributes the original alienations not to Dobdagrecus, but rather to Duke Tassilo and his wife, Liutpirga, who ‘took away not only those churches, but many other things on account of their hatred for bishop Arbeo, saying that he was more loyal to the lord king Charles and the Franks than to them’.136 In addition to explaining the alienation using an anti-Agiloling memory and the more well-known history of St. Arbeo, this later account emphasizes that the assembly, headed by Arn, was convened at the request of Charlemagne himself, thus downplaying Arn’s role and emphasizing instead the public nature of the assembly, as well as the personal involvement of the monarch.137 The outcome in Conrad’s version is nearly the opposite of the one recorded by Cozroh. The notice states that Arn and the count, having heard sworn testimony from ‘old and reliable men who knew the case well’, concurred that the contested churches belonged to Freising and ordered the abbot to return them. The abbot and his advocate return three churches at Willing, Högling, and Perch, but refuse to surrender a fourth at Mietraching, asking for more time to assemble a case for that property. There is no compromise here, it seems, save for an unresolved stalling tactic on the part of the abbot, and the bishop goes away with three churches and no mention of tithes. In the end, Freising ends up with substantially the same properties – save for Willing – but with its claim couched in diferent terms. Warren Brown has observed that the second account was crafted by Freising in order to put a more positive spin on the outcome of the compromise forced on it by Arn.138 The actual course of events cannot be reconstructed by simply splitting the diference between the two accounts, but assuming Brown is correct, some aspects of the irst story become more interesting. First of all, were the churches and tithes returned to Freising in Cozroh’s account actually the ones Hatto had complained about in the irst place? Hatto had come seeking compensation for churches allegedly taken by Dobdagrecus, but the four churches returned to Freising in the end were originally gifts of various royal vassals and noblemen and still received tithes, it appears, from the same 136

137 138

Ibid., 193b. ‘…et quod Tassilo dux atque Liutpirga uxor eius non solum istas ecclesias, sed et multas alias de eodem episcopatu iniuste abstulerunt propter invidiam quam hababant super Arbonem episcopum dicentes eum ideliorem esse domino Karolo regi et Francis quam illis.’ Brown, Unjust Seizure, p. 153. Ibid., p. 154

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire circle of people. In addition, Arn’s compromise might have forced Hatto to concede the tithes to all four churches in return for Liutfrid agreeing to give at least two churches and their parrochia back to Freising. The latter version seems to ‘correct’ this by stating that the churches involved were unlawfully seized by Tassilo and his wife and cedes them to Freising rather than Chiemsee – with the exception of Mietraching.This suggests that the copyist tried to create a record for Freising’s possession of the parishes wherein it received back Perch, Högling (which it also did in the irst agreement), and Willing, but without acknowledging that such an outcome had been reached as a result of any concession on the bishop’s part. In other words, in the later version, Hatto does not surrender any of his prerogatives regarding the tithe in order to secure possession of the other churches, making it possible for Freising to later pursue those claims – assuming its new record would be taken as credible evidence. Arn was skilled at pushing for compromises like the one Cozroh records, whether the bishop of Freising liked it or not. But not all such compromises were to the disadvantage of the bishop. Later that year at a council in Regensburg, Hatto brought similar claims against Adalbert, abbot of Tegernsee, and its vicarius, Zacho.139 In front of the gathered prelates, Adalbert and Zacho promised to rectify the situation regarding the contested churches and even gave a surety (wadium), but, the account relates, ‘nihil profuit de his omnibus’. Not long thereafter, a monk named Meginhard assumed the abbacy of Tegernsee and Hatto was forced to take up the case again at a mallus held at Tegernsee during a ceremony for the translation of the relics of St. Quirinus. Arn was present along with other important Bavarian clerics and laymen, including several who had helped decide the case with Chiemsee.140 At stake was the possession of several baptismal churches and the tithe to one other church. At irst, Meginhard argued that the churches had been legitimately given to the monastery and he would not return them. Arn then told Meginhard he needed a solid legal argument as to why his monastery should possess the churches rather than the bishop; otherwise he ought to return them.141 Faced with this uncomfortable option, Meginhard agreed to return the 139 140

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Traditionen Freisings, nr. 197, pp. 188–9. In addition to Arn, these include Ellandod, the archpriest who, according to version A of the Chiemsee dispute, brought the case forward on Hatto’s behalf, and a count, Pippin, Meginhard, and two judges. Traditionen Freisings, p. 189, ‘Tunc ipse Maginhardus abba iuxta auditum et dicta multorm dominum qui illud adserebant retinere temptabat in multitudin hominum traditionum ad ipsius monasterii facta. Tunc Arn pontifex taliter adserens aiebat,‘Si istas ecclesias et omnia quicquid a te repetit domnus Hatto episcopus habere vis, veniat advocatus tuus in praesente et faciat inde legem et conquiratur ad ipsa casa dei quicquid legitime secundum ordinem conqiri potest; sin autem, reddatur qua legitime possidere non queas’.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe churches and the contested tithe to Hatto, but on the condition that if at some point he could ind witnesses or evidence that the monastery ought to have the churches, he would request them back from the bishop in accordance with canonical norms. After this, however, Arn approached Hatto and asked the bishop for a concession on his part, namely that he return the churches to Tegernsee as a beneice, keeping only that portion of the tithe due the bishop for the support of his priests. Hatto agreed to this, keeping only the church and tithe from Tannkirchen entirely for himself. The two parties then agreed to no longer carry on the dispute and also agreed that if the abbot presumed to restrict the bishop’s rights any further, the bishop retained the right to repossess the other churches entirely. These anecdotes from the Freising copy book illustrate the ways in which tithe rights were coupled with churches and that canonical norms were continually subject to interpretation and compromise in the interest of mediating the power relationship between the bishop and the monastery. Arn called Meginhard’s bluf when he demanded that the abbot produce a concrete legal argument for his possession of the churches, ordering that the abbey’s advocate ‘come [here] and do law’.142 As Brown has noted, Arn achieved settlement by threatening to undertake a more formal adjudication of the dispute.143 Instead, the abbot chose to make a compromise and hold the churches in beneice from the bishop. Shortly after this, in 807, Arn convened a council in Salzburg in which he attempted to formalize the tithe regime in his diocese.144 Hatto of Freising was among the sufragen bishops present, along with numerous abbots, including Meginhard of Tegernsee and Hrolf of Niederaltaich. The council reairmed the Gelasian formula of quadripartition and the abbots agreed to henceforth render the proper portion of their tithes to the diocesan bishop, ‘so that no further discord should arise over the matter’.145 This in itself was a compromise, if we can infer that the abbots essentially remained in possession of their tithes and could do so as long as the bishop received his quarter. It is tempting to suggest that it was perhaps in the wake of this very synod that Hatto began to develop the alternate version of events around the Aibling mallus that found its way in to the second version of the conlict with Chiemsee.

142

143 144 145

Ibid., p. 189: ‘Tunc Arn pontifex taliter adserens aiebat,’Si istas ecclesias et omnia quicquid a te repetit domnus Hatto episcopus habere vis, veniat advocatus tuus in praesente et faciat inde legem.’ Brown, Unjust Seizure, p. 158. Council of Salzburg, MGH Concil. II, 1, p. 234. Ibid.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire But if the division of tithes had been a cause of discord, as the record of the council would have us believe, one wonders whether this was a greater concern in the Freising disputes than the sources state directly. After all, the compromise brokered by Arn in the Tegernsee case was essentially that the abbot kept the churches in beneice while rendering the canonical fourth to the bishop. In the Chiemsee afair, Hatto apparently had the opportunity to settle for essentially the same thing: The monastery kept the churches but gave the bishop what canon law ordered. He opted, perhaps not entirely willingly, for control of two different churches instead and bided his time until he could produce an alternate record of the agreement to prove title to all the churches and tithes. Thus it seems that at least in early ninth-century Bavaria, a bishop could theoretically be content with monastic possession of tithes and churches in his diocese as long as he received his due portion, certainly a recognition of his prerogatives and authority over the churches in his diocese. Conlicts over churches and tithes in Freising illustrate the processural character of dispute resolution in early medieval Bavaria as well as the longer-term political character of churches and tithes. Bishops like Hatto worked within the framework of compromise proposed by Arn of Salzburg not only because it helped speed a resolution, but also because in a sense, his objectives had been met when the abbots were obliged to recognize the legitimacy of his position and airm his gubernatio of churches in his diocese. The dispute further illuminates the tendentious politics of early Frankish Bavaria as representatives of a new hegemonic power – the Carolingians – attempted to assert themselves against institutions whose inluence in the region rested on connections and privileges that dated back to the days of Bavarian independence. As with many tithe disputes, little probably changed on the ground as far as the distribution of resources was concerned, but within the community of powerful laymen and clerics who met at the malli publici, decisions that recognized a bishop’s authority and produced documents forged a consensus about public power and a bishop’s status in the region. There is obviously no single image of the bishop that emerges from this. But what we can understand from attempts by bishops and church councils to grapple with the problem of the tithe is the extent to which episcopal governance, outside a very limited sphere controlled directly by the bishop, consisted of delicate, often contradictory, interactions and accommodations with the laity and monks who viewed themselves as stakeholders in local church management as much as the bishops did. In the end, however, the realities of lay piety and patronage created more complicated ties with churches and their personnel than the law could 94

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe efectively deal with.While capitularies in Italy in the eighth century and north of the Alps from the time of Louis the Pious expressly sanctioned the use of secular authority to coerce the payment of tithes, there is little evidence for any cases actually having made it to a mallus publicus. Nor do we see any clear cases of anyone excommunicated for not tithing. Instances such as the forced submission of tithes by military force in the wake of the Saxon conquest noted in the previous chapter are of course an exception. The lack of evidence is partly due, no doubt, to the vagaries of the survival of sources from this time period.146 But the other evidence we have seen also suggests that bishops and priests were encouraged to take another tack, namely to use moral suasion or extra-judicial means of resolving such conlict. Even in an age when, on parchment, bishops were given about as clear control over ecclesiastical institutions in their dioceses as one might imagine, their actual ability to enforce the law depended, as always it seems, on the much more nuanced and complex regime of personal inluence, networks of patronage, and the strategic ability to deploy instruments of the law such as documents and assemblies. tith e s, c h urche s and the law in th e ottonian e ra Ottonian-era church councils in the German kingdom generally reinforced the main points of the Carolingian tradition on tithes, particularly the notion of episcopal rights over how parish tithes were divided and disposed of.147 Viewed through the lens of tithe legislation and administration, the continuities and diferences between the ninth and tenth centuries when it comes to episcopal oice appear more subtle than one might assume.While certain aspects of episcopal church governance, particularly appointment and consecration of bishops, were drawn into a closer relationship with the royal court in the tenth and early eleventh centuries, other areas of episcopal oice and administration developed greater autonomy.148 Regions like Bavaria under the Liutpoldinger 146

147

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Warren Brown, ‘When Documents Are Destroyed or Lost: Lay People and Archives in the Early Middle Ages’, EME 11:4 (2002), pp. 337–66. See now Ernst-Dieter Hehl, ‘Die synoden des ostfränkischen-deutschen und westfränkischen Reichs im 10. Jahrhundert. Karolingische Traditionen und Neuansätze’, in Recht und Gericht in Kirche und Welt um 900, ed. Wilfried Hartmann (Oldenbourg,Wissenschaftsverlag, 2007), pp. 125–50. The councils of the period are collected Die Konzilien Deutschlands und Reichsitaliens, 916–1001, ed. Ernst-Dieter Hehl, MGH Concilia, VI, 1 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1987). On tithing, see esp. Council of Hohenaltheim (916), cc. 11; 17; Council of Ingelheim (948), c. 9; Council of Augsburg (952), c. 10. Josef Fleckenstein, Die Hofkapelle der deutschen Könige, 2 vols. SMGH, 16, (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1966), pp. 18–20.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire dukes, for example, charted a strongly independent course over the irst third of the ninth century and some bishops, such as Frederick of Mainz, even participated in the several major revolts that shook the German kingdom under Otto I.149 Liturgical, legal, and hagiographical monuments increasingly depict the bishop as lords and their dioceses as domains through which they exercise both pastoral and seigneurial powers. The Vita Brunonis, the exemplary biography of Otto I’s younger brother, Archbishop Brun of Cologne (925–65), depicted the prelate’s highly unorthodox possession of both the see of Cologne and the duchy of Lotharingia as a natural extension of his character as both a noble and a bishop.150 Even so holy a bishop as Ulrich of Augsburg was genuinely surprised when a major scandal erupted over his attempt to secure the episcopal succession for his own nephew.151 It certainly seemed a natural and reasonable thing to do. By the early eleventh century, these trends had not produced an ‘imperial church’ which merely served as an auxiliary to the royal court, but rather an invigorated and self-assured episcopate which saw itself as a partner in royal government with kings and queens, as well as a partner in the local governance of churches alongside the nobility.152 As Timothy Reuter observed, the tenth and early eleventh centuries were, in some sense, a golden age for bishops in the German and Italian kingdoms. Bishops, more than they had previously, began appropriating many of the trappings of royal rulership and adapting it to their oice; they raised militias; perambulated their dioceses in grand entourages and were buried with funerals that rivalled those of royalty; they began building immense cathedrals and sponsoring the production of luxurious manuscripts for their own libraries or to present as gifts.153 This is not to say that either relationship was without tensions, contradictions, and complications.The Gerhard b redaction of the Vita Uodalrici, as we saw in the preceding chapter, subtly massaged the received text in a way that made the bishop’s relationships within and without the diocese more ambiguous than the original. Church councils and other sources speak to the 149

150

151 152

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Kurt Reindel, Die bayerischen Liutpoldinger, 893–989: Sammlung und Erläuterung der Quellen (Munich, Beck, 1953); Bührer-Thierry, Evêques et pouvoir, 51–2; Edgar N. Johnson, The Secular Activities of the German Episcopate (Lincoln, NE, University of Nebraska Press, 1932), pp. 24–39. Hartmut Hofmann,‘Politik und Kultur im ottonischen Reichskirchensystem. Zur Interpretation der Vita Brunonis des Ruotger’, Rheinische Vierteljahresblätter 22 (1957), See Ruotgeri Vita Brunonis, ed. Irene Ott, MGH SRG, n.s. 10, esp. c. 37, pp. 38–9. Vita Uodalrici, I, c. 23. Ernst-Dieter Hehl, ‘Der widerspenstige Bischof. Bischöliche Zustimmung und bischölicher Protest in der ottonischen Reichskirche’, in Herrschaftsrepräsentation im ottonischen Sachen, ed. Gerd Althof and Ernst Schubert (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1998), pp. 295–344. Timothy Reuter, ‘Nobles and Others,’ (Introduction, n.14).

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe tensions between an increasingly assertive sense of episcopal authority in many parts of the empire, and an equally assertive territorial nobility who governed the several stem duchies.154 Although the Ottonian kings convened church councils with some regularity, often with a papal representative, such gatherings increasingly focused on regional or local matters and their canons ceased to have kingdomwide salience.155 After 952, there were no further councils in the old tradition that reairmed previous prescriptions or issued programmatic collections of new canons.156 Consequently, bishops in many places were left to their own devices to ind ways of defending against or accommodating the interests of the landowning elites in their dioceses, a situation exacerbated in many parts of the kingdom by the Magyar invasions.157 From one point of view, this could be described as a time of secularizations and lay plundering of the church; from another, however, it represented a broadening and complicating of the ways in which bishops and clergy could relate to the laity. In Italy, the threat created by the Magyars prompted post-Carolingian Italian kings to grant many bishops extensive privileges, later conirmed and expanded by the Ottonians, that allowed them to build up signiicant lordships and spheres of inluence within their cities and in the surrounding countryside.158 This was the case more in Lombardy than further south in Tuscany, where the role of the margrave or duke was more signiicant, but nonetheless accelerated 154

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157

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Walter Schlesinger, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft. Untersuchungen vorwiegend nach mitteldeutschen Quellen (Darmstadt, WBG, 1941), pp. 257–59. Heinz Wolter, Die Synoden im Reichsgebiet und in Reichsitalien von 916 bis 1056, Konziliengeschichte, Reihe A, 5 ed.Walter Brandmüller, (Paderborn, Ferdinand Schöningh, 1988); Fried, Der Weg in die Geschichte, p. 783; Timothy Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages, 800–1056 (Harlow, Longman, 1991), pp. 236–41. Ernst-Dieter Hehl, ‘Iuxta canones et instituta sanctorum patrum. Zum mainzer Einluss auf Synoden des 10. Jahrhunderts’, in Papsttum, Kirche und Recht im Mittelalter. Festschrift für Horst Fuhrmann zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Hubert Mordek (Tübingen, Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1991), pp. 117–33 at p. 126. Arnold Pöschl, Bischofsgut und mensa episcopalis: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des kirchlichen Vermögensrechts (Bonn, 1908–12), II, p. 70; Karl Brunner,‘Der österreichische Donauraum zur Zeit der Magyarenherrschaft’, in Österreich im Hochmittelalter, ed. Die Kommission für die Geschichte Österreichs der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (Vienna, Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1991), pp. 49–61. Livia Fasola, ‘Vescovi, città e signorie (secc. VIII ex.–XV)’, in Chiesa e società. Appunti per una storia delle diocesi lombarde, ed. Antonio Rimoldi, Luciano Vaccaro, and Adriano Caprioli (Brescia, Editrice La Scuola, 1986), pp. 79–126;Vito Fumagalli, ‘I Poteri temporali dei vescovi in Italia e in Germania nel Medioevo’, ed. Carlo Guido Mor and Heinrich Schmidinger, Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico, Quaderno 3 (Bologna, Il Muligno, 1979), pp. 77–86; Giuseppi Sergi, ‘Poteri temporali del vescovo: il problema storiograico’, in Vescovo e città nell’alto medioevo: Quadri generali e realtà Toscane. Convegno internazionale di Studi, Pistoia, 16–17 maggio 1998, ed. Giampaolo Francesconi (Pistoia, Centro Italiano di Studi di Storia e d’Arte, 2001), pp. 1-16 ofers an important corrective to the tendency of earlier scholars to see an explicit ‘episcopal policy’ for Italy in some of these privileges.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the development of independent spheres of action and power under the bishops, particularly as bishops developed retinues of rear vassals and clienteles using church property as beneices.159 The underlying impetus for these changes was not so much royal policy as the reaction of bishops to changes in the way laymen exercised power in their territories. The tone of some tenth-century councils suggests that tensions with the laity had not ebbed since the Carolingian period, particularly when it came to expanding local church networks, and that churchmen of the period still looked to the corpus of Carolingian legislation as a source for their decision making. The canons of Tribur, for example, convened under the auspices of King Arnulf in 895,160 were not promulgated as a single set of statutes to be applied across the kingdom in a general way, but appear to have been customized to the needs of individual regions and were quickly dispersed across a number of canon law miscellany manuscripts.161 Regino of Prüm, whose canon law collection transmitted many of the Tribur canons, noted in his historical chronicle for the year 895 that the council had been organized expressly to counter the eforts of ‘a number of laymen [seculari] who were trying to diminish the authority of bishops’.162 The canons of the Council of Hohenaltheim in 916, convened by Conrad I and a papal legate, betray a similar set of concerns.163 The council emphasized the prerogatives of the episcopate, particularly its jurisdiction over clergy and other af airs subject to canon law, including tithes; but, as Gerd Tellenbach noted, most of the Saxon clergy stayed away and recent lay violence against bishops in Strasburg and Speyer certainly focused the council’s attention on questions of how the church ought to maintain itself in the face of powerful threats to social stability and the peace of the realm.164 Although the canons are not transmitted, the Council of Duisberg in 929 addressed similar issues.165 Questions about the bishop’s authority and relationship to lay interests in particular continued to crystallize around the tithe. The 948 Synod of Ingelheim sought to remove investigations about refusals to pay tithes from secular courts and demanded that they be resolved ‘in a holy synod 159 160 161

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163 164

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Keller, Adelsherrschaft, ch. 2, esp. pp. 91–103. MGH Capit. II, nr. 252. Rudolf Pokorny, ‘Die drei Versionen der Triburer Synodalakten um 895: eine Neubewertung’, Deutsches Archiv 48:2 (1992), pp. 429–511 at pp. 432–49. Regino of Prüm, Chronicon, s.a. 895, ed. Friedrich Kurze, MGH SRG, 50 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1890), p. 143. Konzilien Deutschlands und Reichsitalien, nr. 1, pp. 1–40. See Wolter, Synoden im Reichsgebiet, 11–20. Tellenbach, The Church in Western Europe, pp. 50–1. See too Bührer-Thierry, Evêques et pouvoir, pp. 92–104. Konzilien Deutschlands und Reichsitalien, nr. 6, pp. 89–92.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe by the priests to whom they [the tithes in question] were assigned’.166 A few years later in 952, the Synod of Augsburg, an assembly of prelates from the German and Italian kingdoms convened on the Lechfeld with Otto I, reiterated the classic statement of the 812/813 Capitula ecclesiastica transmitted in Ansegis and Regino, but added that any correction on the payment of tithes be conducted ‘in the presence of the bishop or his missus’.167 Both statutes suggest that some individuals or groups who had refused to pay tithes or who had misappropriated them in some way had found it expedient to settle the matter in a court of secular peers where they might have received a more sympathetic hearing. It possibly betrays at the same time, however, that bishops continued to assert that the ecclesiastical tithe was their prerogative alone and that secular enforcement represented an unwanted diminution of their power. The preface to the canons of the Synod of Augsburg in 952 declared that the king is aecclesiasticorum rerum auxiliator et defensor.168 Accordingly, the Ottonians issued and renewed privileges for bishoprics, cathedral chapters, and monasteries that bound those institutions to the crown even as it helped them maintain independent lordships and rights. Indeed, their right to do so was a critical part of their ability to aid the kingdom spiritually and materially.169 Interesting, as Erica Widera demonstrated, the Ottonian kings did not expressly include tithes in their privileges for bishoprics north of the Alps,170 though they were careful to make such rights clear in new episcopal foundations, such as Havelberg (948), Magdeburg (968), and Bamberg (1007).171 In the particular cases, however, this was probably necessary because the new diocese was, in toto or in part, carved out of one or more pre-existing ecclesiastical provinces and the king wished to ensure that other bishops did not raise claims against the tithes of the new see. The guarantee to tithes was not something that generally needed to be defended from encroachment by royal oicials, although, as shown earlier, bishops were keen to keep jurisdiction over legal issues arising from resistance to paying tithes. In Italy, on the other hand, a number of royal immunities granted by the Ottonians for Italian bishoprics speciically include the right to diocesan tithes among the rights protected in the charter.172 Widera seems 166

167 168

169 170 171 172

Council of Ingelheim, ed. Hehl, c. 9.Widera,‘Kirchenzehnt in Deutschland’, p. 38;Wolter, Synoden im Reichsgebiet, pp. 45–9. Council of Augsburg, ed. Hehl, c. 9; Wolter, Synoden im Reichsgebiet, pp. 58–60. Council of Augsburg, ed. Hehl, p. 191. The phrase is actually lifted from the preface to the Council of Tribur. See Bernhardt, Itinerant Kingship, pp. 1–33. Widera, ‘Kirchenzehnt’, p. 57. Ibid., pp. 54–6. Ibid., pp. 57, esp. nn. 3–14.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire to have assumed that these were privileges for the bishops, but it is clear that a number of them were in fact directed to the canons and specifically immunized their property and churches from interference from the bishop. In Lucca, for example, all three Ottos conirmed a privilege for the cathedral chapter originally granted by Hugh of Provence to protect a major donation to the canons from Margrave Adalbert and his wife, Bertha.173 Others, such as Otto III’s conirmation for Mantua, were based on earlier privileges of King Berengar that granted wideranging rights and income sources to northern Italian bishoprics.174 The Ottonians had by and large co-opted patterns of patronage and protection that had been in place in Italy from the late ninth century and extended them to support their own rule and interests. In Lucca, as we shall see further in Chapter 4, this included favouring the interests of the cathedral chapter over the bishopric, a signiicant factor in deciding how bishops used leases of baptismal churches to secure networks of alliance and patronage for themselves. Aside from developments in synodal legislation, a second important transition in the tenth century was the appearance and popularization of two foundational canon law collections by Regino of Prüm (d. 915) and Burchard of Worms (c.950–1025).175 There was technically little new in either collection – both relied heavily on Carolingian-era councils and capitularies, particularly the collection of Ansegis, as well as the collections of Benedictus Levita and (especially in Burchard) the Pseudo-Isidorian decretals.176 Nonetheless, both collections represent an important landmark in the evolution of the bishop’s relationship to his diocese and an important distillation of disparate texts in one convenient compendium.177 Neither writer intended his book to be circulated outside the diocese for which it was written. Regino wrote his book for Archbishop Hatto of Mainz, hoping, he stated in his preface, that it would be useful as a convenient reference when he lacked access to all his 173

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Thomas L. Scott, ‘The Cathedral Chapter of Lucca, 901–1200: Economic and Religious Developments’, unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin — Madison, 1979, p. 86–90. See MGH DD Otto I, nr. 238, DD Otto II, nr. 289, DD Otto III, nr. 301. MGH DD Otto III, nr. 238. Compare Diplomi di Berengario I, ed. Schiaparelli, Fonti per la storia di Italia, vol. 35 (Rome, Istituto storico italiano per il medio evo, 1903), nr. 12. See comprehensive bibliographies on both collections in Lotte Kéry, Canonical Collections of the Early Middle Ages (ca. 400–1140): A Bibliographical Guide to the Manuscripts and Literature (Washington, DC, Catholic University of America Press, 1999), pp. 131–3 (Regino) and pp. 149– 55 (Burchard). On tithes, see Regino, Sendhandbuch, I, cc. 43–4, ed. Hartmann, p. 44; Burchard, Decretum, III, cc. 52–3; 131–9; 146. For the sources of the individual canons in Burchard, see Hofmann-Pokorny, Das Dekret des Bischofs Burchard von Worms (Chapter 1, n. 110). Cornelius W. Davin, ‘The role of the diocesan bishop according to the Decretum of Burchard of Worms’, unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, Catholic University of America, 1981.

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Tithes, bishops, and society in Frankish Europe books.178 Similarly, Burchard wrote his Decretum for the cathedral provost, Brunicho, hoping that it would be used as a guide for pastoral care by his priests.179 He expressly states that he hopes ‘it does not pass beyond the boundary of our bishopric’, but that it remains to be studied by the clergy of Worms.180 Regino and Burchard placed the bishop at the centre of church life and the administration of the diocese by producing systematic collections designed to give the prelate a complete overview of all the necessary statutes and regulations for maintaining a well-ordered diocese – materially and spiritually.181 Book XIX of Burchard’s Decretum was a penitential, underscoring, as Greta Austin has shown, the way in which legal order and pastoral care were viewed as two sides of the same coin. The section on tithes asked if the penitent had given all the tithes he owed from every crop and animal. If he had neglected to do any of this, he was to pay a four-fold restitution of what he owed and do twenty days penance on bread and water.182 Erica Widera, cleverly catching an interesting interpolation, noted that Burchard was not an entirely neutral editor and updated certain earlier passages he worked with to include tithes.183 In book III, c.146, Burchard copied Benedictus Levita’s heavily altered canon from III Toledo. Burchard attributes it as ‘ex conci/. Cabilonensi’, possibly either due to a faulty source, or in order to associate it with the more well-known 813 reform Council of Châlons, used heavily in tenth-century synodal and conciliar collections. Second, after ‘dotibus suis’, he inserts ‘et decimis’, not unlike an enterprising monk of Fulda had done to their papal privilege two centuries earlier. If neither Burchard nor Regino contributed anything radically new to the canons they collected, they did nonetheless enable what Gerhard Theuerkauf referred to as an ‘intensiication of lordship’ in the tenth and eleventh centuries made possible by new attitudes towards law and texts.184 Part of this new legal consciousness manifested itself in the writing of law and, in other places, composing new hagiographic and archival monuments in order to stake claims to land, people, and privileges in an increasingly dynamic social and political environment. Stefan Weinfurter’s recent work has emphasized that a more hierarchical conception of 178 179

180 181

182 183 184

Regino, Sendhandbuch, Praefatio, ed. Hartmann, p. 2. See Prefaces to Canon Law Books, Selected Translations, 500–1245, ed. and translated by Robert Somerville and Bruce Brasington (New Haven,Yale University Press, 1998), nr.8, pp. 99–104. Ibid., p. 104. Widera,‘Kirchenzehnt’, p. 37; Austin,‘Jurisprudence in the Service of Pastoral Care’ (Introduction, p. 9). Burchard, Decretum, XIX, ‘De decimis,’ PL 140, cols. 969–70. Widera, ‘Kirchenzehnt’, pp. 37–8. Gerhard Theuerkauf, ‘Burchard von Worms und die Rechtskunde seiner Zeit’, FMS 2 (1968), pp. 144–61 at p. 148.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire lordship developed under the Salian kings in particular, and that bishops too began taking their cues from shifts in royal ideology.185 ‘The outward symbols of episcopal power and identity’, writes Weinfurter, ‘were clearly aimed at emphasizing the bishops’ hierarchical position’.186 Although he considered a diversity of evidence in his analysis, including building projects, history and hagiography, the organization of cathedral chapters, and the production of artwork, Weinfurter does not address tithes and it is here that a new discussion of the issue needs to be taken up. Tithe possession represented a critical outward symbol of episcopal power. Furthermore, as new attitudes towards power emerged, they manifested themselves as appeals to the reassertion or restoration of old rights and law.187 The tithe retained the social potential created in the Carolingian period; thus its importance for bishops magniied as the stakes in building episcopal lordship increased over the eleventh century. 185 186 187

See Weinfurter, Salian Century, ch. 4, pp. 61–84. Ibid., p. 68. Compare Keller, Regionale Begrenzung, p. 137.

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Chapter 3

LAND SCAPES OF EPISC OPA L AUTHOR ITY: LUC CA, MAINZ, A ND SALZBURG

Having examined the evolution of tithing as religious, social, and legal practice, we turn in this chapter to looking more concretely at the history of the episcopacy in the Rhineland, Bavaria, and northern Italy and in particular, the shape of episcopal power as it functioned within the social world of the diocese. All three of the episcopal sees under consideration in this study trace their origins to Roman settlements and their primary development to the empire’s Germanic successor kingdoms in the early Middle Ages.The successful appropriation of urban Christian communities and their bishops in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages contributed signiicantly to the ultimate success of the Merovingian and Lombard kingdoms, in part because the episcopal church represented an important axis of continuity with the language, history, and administrative practices of the Roman world.1 Admittedly, this is true of Lucca and Mainz to a greater extent than Salzburg, which, although founded on the site of the defunct Roman town of Iuvavum on the Isar, was an episcopal see only from the seventh century onwards. Nearby, however, the memory of the last provincial capital and bishopric of Noricum ripense, Lauriacum (Lorch), and its purported archiepiscopal status, persisted well into the Middle Ages, nurtured especially by the bishops of Passau when they felt threatened by their metropolitan colleagues in Salzburg.2 For the Carolingians, ever mindful of such symbolic gestures, Lorch served as an important military and political centre in the Bavarian eastern march in the late eighth century.3 Episcopal sees mattered as administrative centres, but also as sites of memory and political action where interests could be defended or asserted within the structures of authority and 1

2 3

John H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2003), p. 166; Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 292–3. Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, pp. 50–2. Julia M. H. Smith, ‘Fines imperii: the marches’, in NCMH, vol. II, pp. 169–89 at p. 179.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire

Map 3.1 Thuringia and the Diocese of Mainz.

mediatory spaces created by the episcopate and the other ecclesiastical institutions that usually grew up around it. As Arnold Angenendt has observed, kings too learned to take the initiative in creating new centres of episcopal authority that conformed to their own interests and allowed them to insert themselves in these critical sites of religious and political patronage.4 Angenendt uses the Visigothic kings as his example, but one could easily point to Charlemagne’s establishment of new dioceses in conquered Saxony, or his raising Salzburg to a metropolitan see, Otto the Great’s creation of a new archbishopric at Magdeburg in 968, or Henry II’s foundation of Bamberg in 1007. For this reason, it is important to sketch some of the background and development of the dioceses of Mainz, Lucca, and Salzburg, not only in order to better contextualize our sources, but also to understand the ways in which the idea and political legacy of the diocese and its past was appropriated and shaped by bishops over time in these diferent regions. The following survey will 4

Angenendt, Geschichte der Religiosität, p. 316.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority also help bring the discussion of tithes and their importance for bishops into sharper focus, showing how episcopal attention to tithe rights changed over time in lux with prevailing socio-political conditions and the need to sharpen the outlines of episcopal rights and identity. Mainz and the Middle Rh ine Mainz grew out of the Roman civitas of Moguntiacum, which served as the capital of the Germania superior province (covering most of the Middle and Upper Rhine, along with Alsace and parts of Burgundy) until the collapse of the Rhenish frontier in the early ifth century.5 The importance of its strategic location at the conluence of the Rhine and Main Rivers – two major transportation corridors – is not diicult to discern. A key Roman road that followed the length of the Rhine went directly through Mainz and branched of at the nearby castellum of Bingen towards Trier and Metz over the Hunsrück. Although there is evidence of a Christian community in Mainz from a very early period – Irenaeus of Lyon mentions it6 – an organized episcopacy seems to date to the fourth century or later when Mainz bishops begin appearing in the records of post-Constantinian church councils in the Latin West.7 The irst pre-Bonifatian Mainz bishop who can be identiied with any certainty is Sidonius (l. 560–70), possibly of Gallo-Roman stock, whom Venantius Fortunatus praised in a brief encomium for restoring the churches of Mainz following the devastation of the barbarian invasions.8 The early diocese of Mainz was not extensive and evolved as a network of local churches along the Rhine and its tributaries under the bishop’s control rather than a territorial entity with ixed boundaries. Towards the east, there are signs of early Mainz activity extending as far as Aschafenburg on the Main and in the Odenwald-Spessart region along the old limes.9 Bishops like Sidonius would build or dedicate a chapel, thus bringing the town or community it served under Mainz’s 5

6

7 8

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Karl-Viktor Decker and Wolfgang Selzer ‘Mongontiacum: Mainz von der Zeit des Augustinus bis zum Ende der römischen Herrschaft’, in Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt, II.5.1, ed. Hildegard Temporini (Berlin and New York, Walter de Gruyter, 1976), pp. 457–559; Karl Heinemeyer, Das Erzbistum Mainz in römischer und fränkischer Zeit (Marburg, N.G. Elwert, 1979). Irenaeus, Adversus haereses, I.10, 2, ed. and translated by Adelin Rousseau and Louis Doutreleau, Sources Chrétiennes, 263–4 (Paris, Editions du Cerf, 1979). Heinemeyer, Erzbistum Mainz, p. 8. Venantius Fortunatus, Carmina, IX.9, ed. Friedrich Leo and Bruno Krusch, MGH AA IV, pt. 1 (Berlin, Weidmann, 1881), pp. 215–16. Heinrich Büttner ‘Frühes fränkisches Christentum am Mittelrhein’, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte 3 (1951), pp. 40–1.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire authority.10 We can infer from numerous boundary descriptions of property donated to Fulda in the eighth century that the church of St. Martin in Mainz did possess vineyards and other property in and around the city as well as throughout the Rhine and Wormsgaue.11 But whether Mainz may have controlled estates, forests, or water rights further aield before the ninth century, while quite likely, is not clear.12 The religious geography of the city itself was similarly pointillistic. The oldest Roman-era ecclesiastical foundations, such as St. Hilarius in Zahlbach, St. Nicomedia, and the church (later monastery) of St. Albans and their cemeteries, lay well outside the city’s extensive walls.13 Only in the Frankish period – the time of Sidonius and later – do we ind Christian foundations emerging in the city centre.14 The cathedral of St. Martin, the quintessential Frankish patron, probably dates from the time of Sidonius (mid-sixth century) or shortly thereafter, though it is not expressly mentioned in any surviving sources before the mid-eighth century.15 By the time Boniface arrived in the region in the middle of the eighth century, the episcopacy appears to have become something of a heritable patrimony for at least one Frankish family: Bishop Gewilib of Mainz, forced to resign by Boniface in 745, had inherited the see from his father, Gerold, a close ally of Charles Martel.16 Gerold fell in a skirmish against the Saxons in 743.Two years later, Gewilib – now bishop – joined an army led by Charles’s son Carloman as it left Mainz for the interior of Saxony; Gewilib sought out and personally killed the Saxon warrior who had slain his father.17 10

11

12

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14 15 16

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Heinemeyer, Erzbistum Mainz, pp. 27–31; Büttner, ‘Frühes fränkisches Christentum’, p. 17; Hans Patze and Walter Schlesinger, eds., Geschichte Thüringens, Mitteldeutsche Forschungen, 48, II, pt. 1 (Cologne and Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1974), p. 339. Manfred Stimming, Die Entstehung des weltlichen Territoriums des Erzbistums Mainz (Darmstadt, Grossherzoglich Hessischer Staatsverlag, 1915), pp. 9–10. UB Fulda, I, nrs. 24 (Rheinhessen); 27 (Rheinhessen, near Bingen); 37 (in Mainz); 87 (Wormsgau). Further, see Büttner, ‘Frühes fränkisches Christentum’, pp. 33–4. Claudia Theune, Germanen und Romanen in der Alamannia, Johannes Hoops et al., ed., Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertümskunde Ergänzungsband, 45 (Berlin and New York,Walter de Gruyter, 2004), p. 253. Büttner, ‘Frühes fränkisches Christentum’, pp. 9–55 at p. 15. Heinemeyer, Erzbistum Mainz, p. 14. Hans Werner Nopper, Die vorbonifatianischen Mainzer Bischöfe: Eine kritische Untersuchung der Quellen zu den Anfängen des Bistums Mainz und zur Zuverlässigkeit der Bischofslisten. (Norderstedt, Books on Demand, 2001), pp. 118–23; Eugen Ewig, ‘Milo et eiusmodi similis’, in Spätantikes und fränkisches Gallien, ed. Hartmut Atsma (Munich, Artemis Verlag, 1979), pp. 189–219. On the practice of making bishoprics heritable in the Merovingian period, see too Wood, Proprietary Church, p. 294, who notes that while some bishoprics (such as that of Chur) were indeed held by a family from generation to generation by custom or royal indulgence, this practice never grew to constitute a concrete legal claim as it sometimes did with monasteries or other private churches. See Boniface’s report (745) to Pope Zacharias on his decision to remove Gewilib: Briefe des Bonifatius, ed. Tangl, nr. 60. Boniface’s complaint is vague (‘…false episcopi honore fungebatur’),

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Landscapes of episcopal authority The Middle Rhine was a region of densely layered aristocratic and royal landholdings, a characteristic subsequently inherited by its ecclesiastical institutions. In contrast to Tuscany in the Lombard period, for example, where cities and their formalized judicial institutions remained at the centre of political life, politics, communication, and power in the north were far more difused across the landscape.18 This meant that, as Matthew Innes has demonstrated, the region contained many possible centres of political and social power, from villages to monasteries to royal estates to cathedral churches.19 Consequently, exercising power and inluence lay in being able to project one’s control over a wide range of these places, where disputes were settled and patronage solicited and dispensed. Establishing ecclesiastical foundations in the episcopal city of Mainz provided many local nobles with proximity to the bishop and an important locus of power. An aristocratic woman named Bilhild, whom twelfth-century hagiographers identiied as the widow of Duke Heden I of Würzburg, was claimed as the founder of the convent of Altenmünster in the irst part of the eighth century.20 The Rupertiner, a prominent lineage of Wormsgau counts in the Carolingian period who founded the abbey Lorsch, owned the church of St. Lambert in Mainz. In 813, 847, and 852, Mainz served as the site of important church councils bringing together secular and ecclesiastical princes from the whole eastern Frankish kingdom.21 Fulda frequently served as a conduit linking local aristocratic families to the church and city of Mainz. This is not surprising given the massive investment in land and people Fulda attracted through pious donations in the second half of the eighth century, much of it located in and around the city of Mainz.22 Hrabanus

18

19 20

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22

but appears to be based on the fact that neither Gewilib or his father Gerold were properly ordained in their oice and most certainly did not exhibit proper behaviour in carrying out the duties of that oice. Gewilib actually appealed his case to Rome, but was nonetheless forced to step down. See Nopper, Die vorbonifatianischen Mainzer Bischöfe, p. 120. Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean 400–800 (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2005), p. 213 and, more generally, pp. 650–5. Innes, State and Society, p. 96–7. Mathias Werner, Adelsfamilien im Umkreis der frühen Karolinger: Die Verwandtschaft Irminas von Oeren und Adelas von Pfalzel: personengeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur frühmittelalterlichen Führungsschicht im Maas-Mosel-Gebiet, Vorträge und Forschungen Sonderband, 28 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1982), pp. 149–52. Eric J. Goldberg, Struggle for Empire: Kingship and Conlict under Louis the German, 817–876 (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 2006), pp. 161–4. Werner Rösener, ‘Die Grundherrschaft des Klosters Fulda in Karolingischer und Ottonischer Zeit’, in Das Kloster Fulda in der Welt der Karolinger und Ottonen, ed. Gangolf Schrimpf (Frankfurt a. M., Josef Knecht Verlag, 1996), pp. 209–24; Eckhard Friese, ‘Studien zum Einzugsbereich der Klostergemeinschaft von Fulda’, in Die Klostergemeinschaft von Fulda im früheren Mittelalter, ed. Karl Schmid, vol. 8.2.3 (Munich, Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1978), pp. 1154–204 at 1003–269; Stimming, Territorium, pp. 7–8.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Maurus (847–56), the sixth archbishop of Mainz, was the son of a local magnate – and resident of Mainz – named Walaram who had been a major donor to Fulda in the late eighth century and who sent his bright young son there to study. Hrabanus eventually rose to become the abbot of Fulda.23 Hrabanus’s transit from abbot of Fulda to archbishop of Mainz set something of a precedent that would persist – if inconsistently – for many centuries and that would be claimed as a formal right by some sources in the eleventh century. Indeed, three eleventh-century archbishops, Erkanbald (1011–21), Bardo (1031–51), and Siegfried (1060–84), were abbots of Fulda before being raised to their higher secular oice. One bishop, Sunderold (889–91), was a monk at Fulda before the powerful Duke Poppo of Thuringia nominated him as successor to Bishop Hatto at a royal assembly in Forcheim in 889.24 The regions beyond the Rhine and north of the Main to the northeast of Mainz that eventually became the diocese were essentially those where St. Boniface had been active as a missionary and church reformer in the mid-eighth century.25 When Boniface was killed in Frisia in 754, his appointed successor, Lull (754–86), built upon his mentor and predecessor’s legacy to develop Mainz from a peripheral bishopric on the frontier of the Frankish kingdom to a major ecclesiastical powerhouse and metropolitan province in the centre of Europe.26 Lull founded two important monasteries that became early anchors for Mainz’s interests north of the Main-Rhine juncture: Hersfeld, north of Fulda on the Hessian/Thuringian border, and Bleidenstadt in the Taunus about six miles northwest of Wiesbaden. Hersfeld, like Fulda, grew quickly into a major owner of land and churches in Hessen and Thuringia before Lull turned it over to Charlemagne as a royal abbey in 775. Bleidenstadt remained a proprietary episcopal monastery and was expanded and rededicated under Archbishop Richulf in 812, who provided it with a substantial territorial

23 24

25

26

Innes, State and Society, pp. 65–8. Franz Staab, ‘Das zentrale Erzbistum im ostfränkischen Reich’, in Handbuch der Mainzer Kirchengeschichte I, 1, ed. Günther Christ, Georg May, and Friedhelm Jürgensmeier (Würzburg, Echter, 2000), pp. 163–94 at p. 176. Sunderold was the irst bishop since Boniface to be killed in oice. He fell in skirmish against the Vikings. On Boniface’s mission, see Theodore Schiefer, Winfrid-Bonifatius und die christliche Grundlegung Europas (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1972) and Friedhelm Jürgensmeier, Das Bistum Mainz, Beiträge zur Mainzer Kirchengeschichte, vol. 2 (Frankfurt, Josef Knecht Verlag, 1988) pp. 28–30. I have unfortunately been unable to examine Christopher Carroll’s relevant thesis ‘The Archbishops and Church Provinces of Mainz and Cologne during the Carolingian Period, 751–911’, unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, Cambridge University, 1998. James Palmer, ‘The “vigorous rule” of Bishop Lull: Between Bonifatian Mission and Carolingian Church Control’, EME 13:3 (2005), pp. 249–76.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority endowment in the Taunus including tithe rights.27 Lull also dissolved two of Boniface’s dioceses in Hessen and Thuringia, Büraburg and Erfurt, and folded their territories (covering much of upper Hessen and Thuringia east of the Werra) into that of Mainz.28 Both sites were later reconstituted as episcopal archdiaconates, with either monasteries (at Fritzlar in the case of Büraburg) or canonries (Erfurt) supplying priests and provosts for the bishop’s domain.29 While several of Mainz’s key archdiaconates had their roots in Boniface’s mission, the bishops continued to expand their ecclesiastical network with the cooperation of the regional aristocracy.30 In 987, for example,Wigger, a member of a family of Hessian counts, gave Mainz a church in the Thuringian village of Dorla which Archbishop Willigis consecrated and made an archdiaconate.31 Among Willigis’s other foundations and acquisitions as canonries were Disibodenberg on the Rhine near Bingen, the church of Sts. Peter and Alexander in Aschafenberg, as well as St. Peter’s on the Jechaberg near Sondershausen in Thuringia. These were key outposts of Mainz’s authority in those regions. From the mid-tenth century onwards, several collegiate churches in Mainz under the bishop’s control, such as St. Stephen, St. Mary (Liebfrauenkirche), and St. Peter, also possessed archdiaconal territories and tithe rights in the Rhinegau, Hessegau, and Thuringia, providing another layer of administrative control and income for the bishop in those places.32 Despite being well-positioned at these sites, particularly in the Rhine and Wormsgaue around Mainz, the episcopal domain was fragmented and the vast majority of lands and churches within the diocese were not under the bishop’s control or inluence, but in fact belonged to lay lords or, more commonly, a monastery or canonry.33 Fulda and Hersfeld were the primary institutions in this regard, particularly due to their imperial and papal exemption privileges, but other monasteries and episcopal churches as far aield as Rheims, Verdun, Metz, and Weissenburg 27 28 29

30

31

32 33

Staab, ‘Das zentrale Erzbistum’, p. 147. Regesten Mainz, 48f; MUB, I, nr. 250, pp. 152–4. Stimming, Territorium, p. 10. Jürgensmeier, Bistum Mainz, pp. 58–60. The diocese was divided into districts headed by archdeacons under whom served the archpriests. The archpresbyteries were divided into parishes or local church jurisdictions stafed by individual priests. The chorbishops and provosts appointed by the archbishop to the regional churches like St. Peter’s in Fritzlar, St. Martin’s in Heiligenstadt, and Sts. Maria and Severus in Erfurt served as the archdeacons in those areas. Karl Heinemeyer, ‘Territorium ohne Dynastie: Der Erzbischof von Mainz als Diözesanbishof und Landesherr’, Hessisches Jahrbuch für Landesgeschichte 44 (1994), pp. 1–15 at pp. 5–6. Hans Patze, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft in Thüringen (Cologne and Graz, Böhlau Verlag, 1962), p. 99. Jürgensmeier, Bistum Mainz, pp. 58–60; Stimming,Territorium, pp. 30–2. Compare the situation in Saxony, where bishoprics seem to have possessed few resources apart from tithe rights. See Christopher Carroll, ‘The bishoprics of Saxony in the irst century after Christianization’, EME 8:1 (1999), pp. 219–46.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire in Alsace owned properties and churches within the diocese of Mainz. In the 1030s, for example, when Archbishop Bardo attempted to collect tithes from the nuns of Kaufungen in Hessen, he had to irst reach an agreement with members of the familia of Metz who maintained an interest in the convent’s properties.34 The crown also possessed many important estates throughout the diocese of Mainz, but clustered in particular around the Rhine-Main region in places like Ingelheim, Tribur, Wiesbaden, and Frankfurt and especially throughout northern Hessen and Thuringia between the Werra and Saale.35 These palace/estate complexes were the sites where local power interests encountered and treated with the crown, soliciting favours, privileges, and requesting royal justice and where kings projected their power on the local level. Rural settlement in the Middle Rhine tended to cluster in village communities called villae or marcae, particularly if they included extensive woodlands.36 Villages were occasionally described as self-contained units of production and collective social action, but most inventories and documents from the ninth century onwards describe estates or manors, as well as churches, as located within a particular villa. A survey of estate incomes from Fulda from around the turn of the eleventh century portrays a diversiied agricultural economy with grain production at its core and supplemented by pig and sheep herding, poultry, and assorted small craft industries such as wool and linen production.37 Larger villages and towns with markets, such as Mainz and Erfurt, were important trade centres where these commodities could be sold to generate cash income. Individual estates, at least those under monastic and royal control for which we have a fairly detailed picture in the sources, were tended in large part by dependent tenants and, not infrequently, slaves.38 The classic model of the Frankish ‘bipartite manor’ with its clear division of demesne and tenant lands seems to have been employed somewhat haphazardly east of the Rhine, particularly by lay lords who preferred having their land worked directly by unfree or partially free dependent tenants known as mancipia.39 As each villa also typically contained a church, the village was also efectively coterminous with the 34

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36 37 38 39

MUB, I, nr. 282, pp. 177–8. Kaufungen had long-standing ties to Metz and the Luxemburger dynasty through its founder, Empress Kunigunde, and her older brother, Bishop Theoderic of Metz (1005–47). See Bernhardt, Itinerant Kingship, pp. 228–33. See the twelfth-century inventory (Tafelgüterverzeichnis) of royal properties owing servitium in Das Tafelgüterverzeichnis des römischen Königs (Bonn, Ms. s. 1559), ed. Theo Kölzer and Carlrichard Brühl (Cologne and Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1979). Innes, State and Society, pp. 105–10. Kuchenbuch, ‘Abschied von der “Grundherrschaft,”’ p. 61. See TAF, ed. Dronke nr. 43. Innes, State and Society, pp. 77–82. Ibid., pp. 78–9.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority parish and thus represented the community which paid tithes. In this way, tithes formed a basic institution around which communal identity and interests coalesced, particularly when it came to the lord to whom the tithes were owed. While the bishops of Mainz were not yet powerful territorial princes in the early Middle Ages, they were key igures in royal government from the mid-ninth century onwards and later cultivated a special relationship with Rome as papal legates in the German kingdom.40 Sometimes held up as paragons of the ‘imperial church system’, the bishops of Mainz served in the key posts of archchancellor and (until Liutpold, 1053–60), from 965, archchaplain at the royal court and frequently rose to their positions through service in the royal chapel.41 In the tenth and eleventh centuries, the bishops of Mainz – challenged on occasion by Cologne and Trier – claimed the exclusive right to crown the German king following his election.42 Mainz’s scriptoria, particularly the eminent workshop at St. Alban’s, apparently produced some of the more interesting liturgical monuments of the Ottonian period, including the Romano-Germanic Pontiical, a major compendium of liturgical oices for the bishop.43 The rise of the Ottonian dynasty marked an important turning point for the diocese. While the ninth-century Mainz bishops had played key roles in the politics of the eastern Frankish kingdom, it was the Ottonians who irst began to extensively use royal resources to the beneit of the church of St. Martin and its ailiated foundations. The irst major gifts of royal lands or rights to St. Martin or other episcopal churches date to the early tenth century and the reign of Hatto I (891–913).44 The irst royal immunity for the archdiocese came from Otto II in 975 and the irst judicial lordship outside the city was conferred in 983 when the same Otto granted the ban over the town of Bingen to Archbishop Willigis (975–1011).45 By this time, Mainz was situated at the centre of a thriving Rhenish mercantile and agricultural economy and the archbishop involved himself in this diverse economy on many levels.46 Through royal 40 41 42

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44 45

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Heinemeyer, ‘Territorium ohne Dynastie’, pp. 2–3. Fleckenstein, Hofkapelle, II, pp. 238–41. Since Boniface was believed to have crowned Pippin in 751 following the deposition of the last Merovingian, Chilperic III, the bishops of Mainz claimed a special privilege in Frankish royal coronations. This was not formally recognized until the royal privilege of 975, however. See n. 45. Carl Erdmann, ‘Königs- und Kaiserkrönung im ottonischen Pontiikale’, in Forschungen zur politischen Ideenwelt des Frühmittelalters, ed. Friedrich Baethgen (Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 1951), pp. 52–91. See too McKitterick, ‘The Church’, p. 157. Stimming, Territoriums, p. 12. MGH DD Ludwig das Kind, nr. 60, 189. MGH DD Otto II, nrs. 95; 306. See too the conirmation by Henry II, MGH DD Heinrich II, nr. 139. Ludwig Falck, Mainz im frühen und hohen Mittelalter, Geschichte der Stadt Mainz, 1, ed. Anton Ph. Brück and Ludwig Falck, vol. 2 (Düsseldorf, Walter Rau Verlag, 1972), pp. 68–80; Compare

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire privileges, the bishop had the right to mint coinage and collect tolls on merchants passing up the Rhine-Main valleys.47 This income provided for building projects like a new harbour and trading centre (wik) on the Rhine and the renovation to St. Martin’s church begun under Hatto I.48 Towards the end of the tenth century, Archbishop Willigis began construction on the new cathedral of St. Martin in the centre of Mainz which subsequently burned to the ground in 1009, the day after it had been consecrated. Reconstruction began soon afterwards and Archbishop Bardo inally re-consecrated the re-built sanctuary in 1036.49 The bishop’s dominance of the city of Mainz and its markets gave the episcopacy unprecedented economic inluence and wealth in the region, though the bishops lacked extensive secular lordships outside the city of the kind that provided power and income for other ecclesiastical princes.50 In 1033, Conrad II bestowed the otherwise unidentiied comitatus of Cluinga on the bishop of Mainz as compensation for reversing an earlier gift of a comitatus that had previously belonged to a Wesphalian count, Dodico, and which he was returning to the church of Paderborn. This, however, is the only comital jurisdiction known to be in Mainz’s possession in the eleventh century.51 Even so, this level of power lent bishops a strong sense of independence that sometimes complicated the royal agenda. During the reign of Otto I in 954, for example, Archbishop Frederick sided with the rebellious Count Conrad ‘the Red’ of the Wormsgau, the ancestor of the future Salian kings, and his ally, Prince Liudolf.52 Despite eventually surrendering to Otto, Frederick retained his position as bishop. Upon his death not long afterwards, however, Otto was sure to place someone more loyal on the archiepiscopal throne: his illegitimate son William (954–68). There are some indications that, by the middle of the eleventh century, the archbishops began to encounter challenges to their authority from within the city of Mainz itself. Bardo (1031–51), for example, found himself feuding with the local Burggraf, or urban count, whose oice had become more prominent under the Salians (themselves former Burggrafen

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48 49 50 51 52

Georges Duby, The Early Growth of the European Economy, translated by Howard B. Clarke (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1974), pp. 131–7. Falck, Mainz, pp. 71–2. Archbishop Aribo (1021–31) was the irst prelate to strike his own coins (as opposed to royal currency) at Erfurt. Siegfried I began striking archiepiscopal coins at Mainz in the 1060s. Jürgensmeier, Bistum Mainz, p. 50. Ibid., pp. 51–2. Hartmut Hofmann, ‘Grafschaften in Bischofshand’, Deutsches Archiv 40 (1990), pp. 375–480. See MGH DD Konrad II, nr. 198. Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages, pp. 157–8; Johnson, Secular Activities, pp. 28–32.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority

Map 3.2 Bavaria and the Diocese of Salzburg.

in Worms).53 The Burggraf was a royal vassal who commanded the town castle and defences and Bardo seems to have positioned himself as a protector and intercessor for the beleaguered populace who sufered under the count’s tyranny.54 By the second half of the eleventh century, the citizen community of Mainz also had developed to the point where it felt it could freely dispute the bishop’s authority, something Anno of Cologne encountered in his own city.55 When Siegfried of Mainz joined the opposition to Henry IV in 1077, he was promptly expelled from the 53

54

55

Vita Bardonis auctore Vuculdo, c. 6, MGH SS XI, p. 320.Vulculd complains that the count, Erkanbald, abused city judges, extorted other citizens, and denounced the bishop before the emperor. Conrad II’s cousin and uncle had plagued Bishop Burchard of Worms when they served as urban counts there in the early eleventh century. Compare Vita Burchardi episcopi, c. 7, MGH SS IV, p. 835: ‘Otto dux suusque ilius Conradus intra civitatem habebant munitionem turribus et variis aediiciis irmissimam. Ad quam domum raptores et fures et omnes contra episcopum delinquentes refugium tutissimum habebant…’ Stefan Weinfurter, Henrich II. Herscher am Ende der Zeit (Regensburg, Verlag Friedrich Pustet, 1999), pp. 80–1.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire city by its pro-imperial populace and was never able to return.56 It could have gone worse for Siegfried; in 1160, the citizens of Mainz revolted against Archbishop Arnold von Selenhofen (1153–60), striking him down in St. Jakob’s where he had taken refuge.57 S al zburg In the later half of the ifth century, the missionary Severinus, travelling in the province of Noricum along the Danube as the barbarian tribes were pressing across the frontier, stopped by the town of Iuvavum where he helped some priests (spiritales) in a local chapel light their lamps for the evening services and later healed a gravely ill woman brought to Severinus’s cell by distraught relatives.58 Severinus’s preaching on tithes in the town of Lorch has been noted earlier, but his brief stay in what would become Salzburg is also noteworthy for its indications of an early Christian community there.59 Eugippius’s use of the term basilica to describe the church where Severinus’s miraculous lighting of the lamps occurred appears to refer to a monastic foundation of some sort, as does the mention of a cellula there where the saint was staying when he healed the sick woman.60 Indeed, postwar archaeological surveys of the city centre have located evidence of ecclesiastical structures in Iuvavum dating back to at least the fourth century.61 Like the Rhenish frontier, the area around Salzburg was an active zone of interaction and interpenetration between the Roman empire and the barbarian communities beyond. The name Salzburg refers to the salt mines in the nearby foothills that had been exploited since at least the Bronze Age and were a mainstay of the local economy, along with iron mining and pottery making, throughout antiquity and the Middle Ages.62 About a century after Mainz fell to the Alemannians and Suevians, the Danubian frontier collapsed too, bringing the era of Roman rule there to an end.63 By the early sixth century, the region had come under the rule of the Lombards and then the Bavarians, whose dukes, led by the Agiloling dynasty, settled in Regensburg and gradually extended their control eastward down the Danube and across the 56 57 59

60 62

Ekkehard von Aura, Chronicon, s.a. 1077, MGH SS V, p. 203. Jürgensmeier, Bistum Mainz, pp. 90–1. 58 Vita Severini, c.13–14. Alois Gerlich,‘Geschichte Salzburgs.Vorgeschichte – Altertum – Mittelalter’, in Geschichte Salzburgs. Stadt und Land, I, 1, ed. Heinz Dopsch and Hans Spatzenegger (Salzburg, Universitätsverlag Anton Pustet, 1984), pp. 94–5. Ibid., p. 96. 61 Ibid. Ibid., pp. 66–9. 63 Ibid., p. 103.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority former province of Noricum as Lombard and Slavic regimes moved or collapsed under pressure from the Franks.64 People of Roman descent were still present in the early Middle Ages, though those who appear in the sources tend to be dependents of the new Germanic settlers. In 700, for example, the Bavarian duke Theodo bestowed several dozen Romani along with their dependent mansi on the church in Salzburg.65 Slavic settlements proliferated in the southeast part of the diocese, particularly in the Lungau around the watershed of the upper Mur and Enns Rivers, where Slavs occasionally clashed with the Bavarians as their settlements pushed inexorably south and east towards Carinthia.66 North of Iuvavum itself, around the Mattsee and Wallersee, Bavarian settlers created small proto-villages (Weiler) with individual houses and their gardens surrounded by narrowly divided ields (Gewannfelder) and pasturage for animals.67 Later, as settlements like these coalesced into larger estate complexes or villages through the eforts of the dukes or local lords, they established small churches for their nascent communities. Until around the turn of the ninth century, however, few could be described as ‘parish churches’ with exclusive baptismal and tithe rights.68 Evidence for the evolution of smaller private churches in eastern Bavaria, along the Danube or around Salzburg, remains spotty.69 As 64

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Matthias Hardt, ‘The Bavarians’, in Regna and Gentes:The Relationship between Late Antique and Early Medieval Peoples and Kingdoms in the Transformation of the Roman World, ed. Jörg Jarnut, Walter Pohl, and Hans-Werner Goetz, with the collaboration of Sören Kaschke (Leiden, Brill, 2002), pp. 429–62; Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, pp. 76–81; Patrick J. Geary, Before France and Germany: The Creation and Transformation of the Merovingian World (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1988), p. 158. Fritz Posch, ‘Siedlung und Bevölkerung’, in Österreich im Hochmittelalter, pp. 359–444 at p. 377. See too Herwig Wolfram, Salzburg, Bayern, Österreich. Die Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum und die Quellen ihrer Zeit (Vienna and Munich, Oldenbourg, 1995), pp. 152–4. See Notitiae Arnonis, ed. Losek, c. 10. The Maximillianzelle in Bischofshofen, for example, was repeatedly burned by Slavic raiders who no doubt saw it as an outpost of Christian-Bavarian colonialism. Fritz Posch, ‘Die Anfänge der Steiermark’, in Österreich im Hochmittelalter, pp. 103–28 at p. 103. See too Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, pp. 108; 180. Posch, ‘Siedlung und Bevölkerung’, p. 379. Generally on this form of settlement, see Friedrich Lütge, Die Agrarverfassung des frühen Mittelalters im mitteldeutschen Raum vornehmlich in der Karolingerzeit (Jena, Gustav Fischer Verlag, 1937), pp. 24–5. The term ecclesia parrochialis in the eighth and ninth centuries referred to a church controlled by the bishop (ostensibly) which possessed baptismal and burial rights, but was not, as such, a ‘parish church’. See Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, p. 178 and Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 79–81. Wilhelm Störmer, ‘Frühes Christentum im Altbayern, Schwaben und Franken’, in Von den Anfängen bis zur Schwelle der Neuzeit, vol. 1 of Handbuch der Bayrischen Kirchengeschichte, ed. Walter Brandmüller (St. Ottilien, Eos Verlag, 1998), pp. 1–93 at pp. 56–62; Egon Boshof, ‘Die Kirche in Bayern und Schwaben unter der Herrschaft der Karolinger’, in Handbuch der Bayerischen Kirchengeschichte, I pp. 95–132 at pp. 108–10; Siegfried Haider, ‘Zum Niederkirchenwesen in der Frühzeit des Bistums Passau (8.-11. Jahrhundert)’, in Das Christentum im Bairischen Raum. Von den Anfängen bis ins 11. Jahrhundert, ed. Egon Boshof and Hartmut Wolf (Cologne,Weimar and Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1994), pp. 325–88.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire noted in the previous chapter, synods held under Duke Tassilo, as well as Arn of Salzburg in his new capacity as archbishop, indicate that tithes were nonetheless collected in local churches, as do Hatto of Freising’s disputes with Tegernsee over the several ecclesiae parrochiales in upper Bavaria. The late eighth-century polyptic of the abbey Niederaltaich likewise mentions a villa where Duke Odilo had donated a capella with rights to nine mansi and their tithe.70 The emergence of the tithe as a privilege attached to churches in a villa, or to speciic mansi, coincided with a broader intensiication of agricultural production in Bavaria and the introduction of Frankish nomenclature and organizational principles, particularly lordly control of villages and estates, but not necessarily with the emergence of territorially bounded parish churches.71 The creation of formal baptismal churches with tithes and a parish priest seems to have come about in the eastern Bavarian lands speciically in the aftermath of the Magyar invasions and the reorganization of the dioceses and marches under the Ottonians.72 The Agilolings maintained close ties to the Frankish west as well as to Lombard Italy. Marriage ties among all three groups were important, as were contacts among religious communities.73 The second generation of Iro-Frankish missionaries carrying on the work of Columbanus played a key role in spreading a monastically oriented Christianity in Bavaria from the late seventh century onwards.74 The inluence of Frankish clerics in the eighth century left a more enduring imprint, however. Sometime shortly before the turn of the eighth century, a Frankish bishop named Rupert arrived in Bavaria and secured from Duke Theodo as a gift the old Roman settlement of Iuvavum, where he established (or, perhaps, re-founded or reformed) a monastery (St. Peter’s), as well as a nunnery.75 South in the Pongau, he received a substantial donation from an old Roman family out of which he 70

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Brevarius Uroli abbatis, I, c. 7, Beiträge zur deutschen Sprach-, Geschichts- und Ortsforschung, vol. 3 (Munich, Finsterlin, 1854). Sonnlechner, ‘The Establishment of New Units of Production (Introduction, n. 76). Haider, ‘Niederkirchenwesen in Passau’, pp. 374–6, 325–88. Störmer, ‘Frühes Christentum’, pp. 14–22; Geary, Before France and Germany, pp. 208–10. Störmer, ‘Frühes Christentum’, pp. 16–18. Vita Hrodberti, cc. 6–7, MGH SRM VI, ed.Wilhelm Levison (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1913), pp. 159–60; Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum: Das Weissbuch der Salzburger Kirche über die erfolgreiche Mission in Karantanien und Pannonien, ed. Herwig Wolfram (Graz, Böhlau Verlag, 1979), c. 1. Whether or not Rupert actually established the monastery St. Peter is subject to some debate. The earliest version of Gesta Hrodberti only mentions the nunnery of Nonnenberg explicitly and refers simply to ‘a church’ put up by Rupert on the site of some old Roman ruins. See Othmar Hageneder, ‘Kirchliche Organization im Zentralalpenraum’, in Frühmittelalterliche Ethnogenese im Alpenraum, ed. Helmut Beumann and Werner Schröder, Nationes, 6 (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1985), pp. 224–46 at p. 223.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority created the Maximillianzelle. This area formed an important centre of Salzburg’s property interests in the trans-alpine region between Bavaria and Carinthia. When, precisely, Salzburg came to be recognized as an episcopal see, rather than a monastic settlement, is not clear. The earliest ecclesiastical source for Salzburg, the confraternity book of St. Peter’s, which dates in its oldest portions to the later eighth century, names Rupert as ‘episcopus et abbas’, a dual designation applied to Rupert and three successors up to the time of Virgil (d. 784).76 Yet when Rupert left the area in 715 or 716 to return to Francia, Duke Theodo travelled to Rome seeking Pope Gregory II’s permission to establish four episcopal sees in his realm, including one metropolitan.77 This initial plan did not immediately come to fruition, but appears to have been the general schema implemented by Boniface when he reformed the Bavarian church on behalf of Duke Odilo beginning in 739, formally installing bishops in Salzburg, Passau, Freising, and Regensburg.78 We know little about the irst post-Boniician bishops of Salzburg until the episcopate of Virgil (c.755–84), an Iro-Frankish monk who lived for a time at the court of Pippin III before coming to Bavaria and whom Boniface once denounced to the Pope as tolerating poor Latinity among the clergy and even harbouring heretical beliefs.79 Serving as a kind of freelancing missionary at large for several years, Virgil was not formally installed as bishop until after the death of Boniface in 754. He constructed and dedicated the irst cathedral and 76

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Liber confraternitatum S. Petri vetustior, col. 41, MGH Necrol. II, 18. A more recent edition, with a facsimile, is Das Verbrüderungsbuch von St. Peter in Salzburg. Vollständig Faksimile-Ausgabe im Originalformat der Handschrift A1 aus dem Archiv von St. Peter, ed Karl Forstner (Graz, 1974); See Herwig Wolfram, ‘Die Zeit der Agilolinger’, in Geschichte Salzburgs, I, pp. 121–56, esp. pp. 122; 125. Wolfram, ‘Die Zeit der Agilolinger’, pp. 134. The duke’s visit is recorded in a papal letter to four Bavarian clerics outlining the proper observation of church practices, MGH LL III, pp. 451–56. Gregory sent a similar missive to the rulers of Thuringia along with Boniface in 722, which, as noted earlier, transmitted the Gelasian quadripartion formula for church revenue north of the Alps for the irst time. The letter survives in several Bavarian and Swabian codices of the Lex Baiuwariorum from the ninth century onwards. See MGH LL III, pp. 235–6. Störmer, ‘Frühes Christentum’, pp. 36–8; Jahn, Ducatus Baiuvariorum, pp. 74–6. The reforming angle is pitched by Willibald’s Vita Bonifatii, esp. c. 7, which had a strong interest in emphasizing Boniface’s agency in the history of Bavarian church organization. See Ian Wood, The Missionary Life: Saints and the Evangelisation of Europe, 400–1050 (London and New York, Longman, 2001), pp. 61–4. The complicated political background of Boniface’s organization of the Bavarian church is discussed by Lutz von Padberg, Bonifatius: Missionär und Reformer (Munich, C.H. Beck, 2003), pp. 59–63. Virgil’s origins and career prior to his appearance in Salzburg remain subject to debate. See most recently Virgil von Salzburg: Missionar und Gelehrter, ed. Heinz Dopsch and Roswitha Juinger (Salzburg, Amt der Salzburger Landesregierung. Kulturabteilung, 1984). On Boniface’s run-in with Virgil, see Boniface’s letter, Briefe des Bonifatius, ed. Tangl, nr. 68. and von Padberg, Bonifatius: Missionär und Reformer, p. 62.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire defended Salzburg’s control over its subject churches and properties against the dukes and regional aristocracy, establishing the episcopacy as the most important centre of power in Bavaria between the Inn and Traun. Virgil was also the irst bishop of Salzburg to attempt to organize a mission to the Slavs along his diocese’s south-eastern frontier. This partly explains why he was insistent on maintaining control over Salzburg’s possessions in key overland travel routes between the Salzburggau and Carinthia: The low of personnel and information between the two regions was essential if Salzburg were to extend and maintain its control over the great alpine passes into the Drau and Save watersheds. In Carinthia and Pannonia, Salzburg used chorbishops, or even only priests, directly appointed by the archbishop, to establish churches which could be used as bases for garnering the critical support of local leaders and evangelizing the population.80 Considerable efort was given to establishing churches in Carinthia, some in places with Christian traditions going back to late antiquity and the time of St. Severinus: St.Andrä in the Lavanttal; St. Peter’s in Taggenbrunn; St. Lorenz in Görtschitz; the ‘ecclesia ad Undrimas’ (near Pöls in the Judenburg area); St. Peter-imHolz in Liburnia81; Molzbichl; and Maria Saal, near the Wörthersee.82 Salzburg’s inluence in Pannonia east of the Danube and Mur was disrupted in the mid-ninth century by the arrival of the Greek missionaries, Cyril and Methodius, who preached in the Slavic language and efectively limited Salzburg’s sphere of inluence to Carinthia itself. In 788, Charlemagne deposed the last Agiloling duke, Tassilo, and absorbed the duchy into his rapidly expanding realm.83 Between 791 and 796, Charlemagne used Bavaria and the march of Friuli in north-eastern Italy as a staging ground for a hugely successful invasion of the Pannonian basin, which ended in the destruction of the Avar kingdom there and the appropriation of an enormous treasure by the Frankish army.84 The Carolingians installed Frankish counts as administrators in the province, but relied as well on the regional nobility, bishops, and abbots to 80

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On the history of Salzburg’s Slavic mission, see Heinz Dopsch, ‘Salzburg und der Südosten’, Südostdeutsches Archiv 21 (1978), 5–25. This was the old town of Tiburnia which had refused to give tithes to St. Severinus and was subsequently besieged by the Goths. See Vita Severini, c. 17, 4 (and Chapter 1, pp. 34–61). See too Pohl and Diesenberger, Eugippius und Severin, p. 89. See Hageneder, ‘Kirchliche Organization’. Matthias Becher, ‘Zwischen Macht und Recht: der Sturtz Tassilos III von Bayern’, in Tassilo III. von Bayern: Großmacht und Ohnmacht im 8. Jahrhundert, ed. Lothar Kolmar and Christian Rohr (Regensburg, Pustet, 2005), pp. 39–55. Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, p. 212; Walter Pohl, Die Awaren. Ein Steppenvolk in Mitteleuropa, 567–822 n. Chr. (Munich, C.H. Beck, 2002), pp. 306–20. See Annales regni francorum, s.a. 791–96, ed. Kurze, pp. 86–99.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority secure their interests.85 Much as in the Middle Rhine, in the Bavarian Altsiedelland, that is, the region extending roughly from the River Lech to the Enns, counts were placed variously over individual, or even several, Gaue.86 Further to the east, however, particularly on the lower Danube past the Traun and Enns Rivers, the Carolingians organized new frontier marcher counties which, like the later Thuringian marches between the Saale and Elbe, were of a greatly diferent character than the old Bavarian heartland: less populated, marginally Christianized, and far enough away from other centres of power to allow for a high degree of political independence of those governing it.87 This was the eastern realm that would eventually come to be called ‘Ostarr îchi’. By the mid-ninth century, Louis the Pious and his son, Louis the German, separated this region, along with Carinthia, from the march of Friuli, whose dukes had been pressing their claims north of the Save for decades.88 In its place, they installed marcher counts who would go on to establish important noble lineages in the region. In response to the Carolingian annexation, Arn produced two important inventories of Salzburg’s property, the Notitia Arnonis in 790 and the Breves notitiae around 798, which document holdings principally in the Salzburggau, Chiemgau, and up the Salzach River into Tirol as far as the Zillertal.89 Both these texts – now preserved only in various copies from the high and later Middle Ages – show how lands and churches held by the church of Salzburg originated as gifts from the Bavarian ducal house or other regional nobles.90 Here, in contrast to Le Mans collection, the Notitia Arnonis sought to defend Salzburg’s property from potential coniscation by the Carolingian monarchy and from claims by the relatives of the earlier donors. The instigation for the Breves Notitiae, on the other hand, seems to have been Salzburg’s elevation to metropolitan 85

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Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, p. 213; Brown, Unjust Seizure, chapter 2. Early on, Charlemagne assigned an Alemannian count named Gerold – who was also his brother-in-law and related to the Agilolings – to be praefectus in Bavaria. Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, pp. 213–14. Michael Mitterauer, Karolingische Markgrafen im Südosten, Archiv für österreichische Geschichte, 123 (Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1963), p. xviii. Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, p. 220. Christoph Sonnlechner, ‘Die Etablierung Salzburgs als Netzknoten: Karolingiasche Kirchenstruktur, Raumstrategien und Organisation der Landnutzung um 800’, in Places of Power – Orte der Herrschaft – Lieux du Pouvoir, ed. Caspar Ehlers, Deutsche Königspfalzen, 8 (Göttingen, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2007), pp. 199–226; Max Diesenberger, ‘Sammeln und Gestalten – Erinnern und Vergessen. Erzbischof Arn von Salzburg und die Ursprünge des Salzburger Episkopats’, in Die Suche nach den Ursprüngen: Von der Bedeutung des frühen Mittelalters, ed. Walter Pohl, Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 8 (Vienna, Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2004), pp. 171–89. Kurt Reindel, ‘Die Organisation der Salzburger Kirche im Zeitalter des hl. Rupert’, MGSLk 115 (1975), pp. 83–98.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire status by Charlemagne and subsequent privilege for its lands and rights.91 Further boosting these claims, the life of Salzburg’s proto-bishop, Rupert, was also composed around the same time and emphasized the saint’s noble Frankish background and his preaching activity around the former Roman castrum of Lorch, the seat of an early Christian bishopric in the fourth and ifth centuries.92 The bishops of Passau would later claim to exercise primacy in the eastern Slavic marches based on their see’s purported descent from this early Christian settlement.93 The bishops of Passau and Freising also established a presence along the eastern marches in the ninth century. Passau claimed the territory extending east along the Danube as far as the conluence of the Raab River in present-day Hungary. The rise of the principality of Moravia and missionary eforts of Methodius along the north-south-running Danubian frontier in the middle of the ninth century likewise efectively limited Passau’s eforts to create a durable institutional presence beyond the Enns River, although missionaries continued to be sent out.94 Like Salzburg, Passau’s bishops administered these remote areas using chorbishops (later archpriests) and churches like the monastery at St. Florian near the ancient town of Lorch, central in the stories of St. Severinus and St. Rupert. These chorbishops often became men of great power and distinction, even though they were technically subordinate to the diocesan bishop. One of them, Madalwin, bequeathed an enormous fortune in land and books to Passau when he died in the early part of the tenth century.95 Freising played an active role in acquiring churches and properties in the marcher regions. An important step in the process for Freising was its acquisition under Arbeo (764–83) of the Agiloling monastery of Innichen in southern Tirol, which became a base for organizing missions into Slavic Carinthia, as well as the object of rich donations by the regional aristocracy.96 By the end of the ninth century, Freising 91 92

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Wolfram, ‘Zeit der Agilolinger’, pp. 122–3, 121–56. Vita Hrodberti, c. 5, 159. On the politics of the Vita Hrodberti and how its author accommodated the new situation in Bavaria and Salzburg after 788, see Herwig Wolfram, ‘Der heilige Rupert und die antikarolingische Adelsopposition’, MIÖG 80 (1972), pp. 7–34 and more recently, Christian Rohr, ‘Hagiographie als Spiegel der Machtverhältnisse? Arbeo von Freising und die Gesta Hrodberti’, in Tassilo III. von Bayern, pp. 89–102. Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, pp. 50. Friedrich Lotter, ‘Lauriacum-Lorch zwischen Antike und Mittelalter’, Mitteilungen des oberösterreichischen Landesarchivs 11 (1974), pp. 31–49. Max Heuwieser, Geschichte des Bistums Passau: von der Gundung bis in die Karolingerzeit, Veröfentlichungen des Instituts für ostbairische Heimatsforschung, 20 (Passau, Egger, 1939), p. 195; See too Heinz Dopsch, ‘Passau als Zentrum der Slawenmission. Ein Beitrag zur Frage des ‘groβmährischen Reiches’, Südostdeutsches Archiv 28/29 (1985–6), pp. 5–28. Heuwieser, Geschichte Passaus, p. 187; Wolfram, Grenzen und Räume, p. 188. Heinz Dopsch, ‘Anfänge der Kärntner Klöster: Grundungsgeschichte und Klostergrundungen vom 8. bis zum 11. Jahrhundert’, in Studien zur Geschichte von Millstatt und Kärnten, ed. Franz Nikolasch (Klagenfurt, Geschichtsverein für Kärnten) pp. 89–122 at p. 90.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority had established a signiicant presence in Carinthia. In the 880s, it established a church at Maria-Wörth on the shores of the Wörthersee and in 891 received the Salzburg foundation St. Peter-im-Holz as a gift from Arnulf of Carinthia (887–99).97 In 1007, Henry II founded the bishopric in Bamberg and endowed it with substantial properties in Carinthia and the surrounding alpine marches that allowed closer royal control of the strategically critical passes into northern Italy.98 The most important of these properties included the town of Villach in the Kanaltal, and Lind, near the abbey St. Lamprecht north of Friesach.99 The eastern Bavarian nobility retained close ties with Bamberg through the eleventh century. The irst provost of the cathedral, for example, was Poppo, the son of the margrave Liutpold (Leopold), who later became bishop of Trier. In 1053, the Eppensteiner Adalbero became bishop of Bamberg.100 The ecclesiastical organization of these regions went hand in hand with the colonization of the former Slavo-Avar regions by the Bavarians.101 The period 840–60 was one of intensive Frankish-Bavarian colonization beyond the River Enns and south into Styria and Carinthia, though it is important to remain wary of the claims of contemporary Bavarian sources – especially the Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum – about the extent of Frankish inluence in these areas.102 Frankish power was made efective through a three-fold process: colonization of Slavic areas by Bavarian landowners and farmers, the erection of ecclesiastical institutions such as the chorbishoprics and local churches, and the imposition of a political structure on the frontier through the organization of duchies and marches. Originally, the eastern Bavarian frontier was simply the ‘eastern march’ (marcha in oriente) and supervised by a prefect, and later various counts, appointed by the king.103 By the middle of the ninth 97 98

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Compare Hageneder, ‘Kirchliche Organization’, p. 233. Heinz Dopsch, ‘An der Grenze des Reiches. Herrschaften, Hoheitsrechte und Verwaltungspraxis des Bistums Bamberg in Kärnten’, in Das Bistum Bamberg in der Welt des Mittelalters, ed. Christine and Klaus von Eikels (Bamberg, University of Bamberg Press, 2007), pp. 189–210; Harald Zimmerman, ‘Gründung und Bedeutung des Bistums Bamberg für den Osten’, Südostdeutsches Archiv 10 (1967), pp. 35–49. Dopsch, ‘An der Grenze des Reiches’, pp. 190–3; Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp.108–10. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 109. On Adalbero, compare Annales Altahensis maior., s.a. 1054, ed. Edmund von Oefele, MGH SRG IV, p. 49. Charles Higounet, Die deutsche Ostsiedlung im Mittelalter (Berlin, Siedler Verlag, 1986), pp. 35–6. An older, but still useful, overview is Otto Kämmel, Die Besiedlung des deutschen Südostens vom Anfange des 10. bis gegen das Ende des 11. Jahrhunderts (Leipzig, Kommissionsverlag der Dürr’schen Buchhandlung, 1909), pp. 30–3. Higounet, Ostsiedlung, p. 36. For a more modest assessment of Bavarian/Carolingian inluence and organization in Carinthia, see Florin Curta, Southeastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 500–1250 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 95–6. On the Conversio, see p. 121. The most important treatment of Carolingian political history in the eastern march is still Mitterauer, Karolingische Markgrafen im Südosten. Connections between the noble kin groups

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire century, around the same time as the Slavic princes in Pannonia switched their support to the mission of Methodius and Cyril, Carinthia was set up as a separate march under the authority of various counts, and eventually a margrave whose jurisdiction lay along the Mur River. Carinthia and the Danubian march were separated from Bavaria in 976 following a series of major rebellions and made independent duchies. The Carinthian and Danubian frontiers were remote, if not unstable, areas and the counts assigned to control them exploited their positions of relative independence from the central authorities in the Carolingian east while also taking advantage of their proximity to the Slavic Moravians, a polity located in what is today parts of Slovakia and Hungary that functioned both as friend and foe, given which way the political winds were blowing within the Frankish realm at any one time.104 Throughout the tenth century, the region along the Danube in particular sufered repeated attacks by the Magyars, who, after eliminating the Moravians, wiped out much of the Bavarian nobility in one battle in July 907 at Pressburg (today Bratislava) and were not completely paciied (despite Otto I’s victory at the Lechfeld in 955) until the conversion of Stephen I around 1000. One of the most enduring igures in such a volatile region was the margrave Aribo, who ruled the eastern Danubian march and the Traungau of and on from 876 to 909, even surviving the devastating defeat of the Bavarian army in 907. His family, closely tied to several archbishops of Salzburg, remained important in Bavaria and Carinthia until the twelfth century.105 Another important family was that of Liutpold, the margrave of Carinthia and count of the Donaugau at the turn of the tenth century. Liutpold was related on his mother’s side to Arnulf of Carinthia and the Carolingians, and counted easily as the most powerful nobleman of the eastern marches at the end of the ninth century.106 Following the catastrophe at Pressburg, where Liutpold fell, the marches east of the Enns River fell to the Magyars, while the duchy of Bavaria under Liutpold’s son, Duke Arnulf the Bad, attained a semi-autonomous

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active in these areas and other political conigurations in the Carolingian east are treated in Karl Brunner, Oppositionelle Gruppen im Karrolingerreich, Veröfentlichungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, 25 (Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1979), pp. 141–8. Compare Charles Bowlus, Franks, Moravians, and Magyars: The Struggle for the Middle Danube, 788– 907 (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1995), who argues that the Moravian empire was actually centred much further to the south in what is today parts of Serbia and Croatia.While aspects of Bowlus’s detailed exploration of Carolingian frontier politics are insightful, his conclusions about the location of the Movarian empire are not tenable. See the response by Wolfram, Salzburg, Bayern Österreich, pp. 87–100. For the genealogies of each archbishop, see Heinz Dopsch,‘Der bayrische Adel und die Besetzung des Erzbistums Salzburg im 10. und 11. Jahrhundert’, MGSLk 110–11 (1970–1), pp. 125–51. See Reindel, Die bayerischen Liutpoldinger.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority status within the post-Carolingian Conradiner and Ottonian regimes.107 Otto I, however, was determined to reign in the independent-minded Bavarians and succeeded in inally ending the Liutpoldinger dynasty’s reign when he promoted his younger brother Henry – married to Arnulf ’s daughter Judith – to the position of duke in 947. When Otto achieved his signal victory over the Magyars in 955, he began bringing the eastern marches back under Bavarian control. In the wake of an antiSaxon rebellion among a number of eastern dukes and counts in 976, which had included his nephew Henry ‘the Quarrelsome’ of Bavaria, Otto II separated the Ostmark and Carinthia from the duchy of Bavaria and placed them back in the hands of the old Liutpoldinger family.108 The new Ostmark extended from the upper Bavarian Nordgau along the Danube through the area which today comprises the provinces of Upper and Lower Austria, which were part of the diocese of Passau, while Carinthia fell to Salzburg, as did the various comital domains bounded by the Traun, Enns, and Mur Rivers between the Danubian plain and Carinthia. The dukes of Carinthia in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries were frequently lords in abstentia, holding the region more as an honourary oice from the monarch than as a serious territorial base of power. Between 976 and 1077, no fewer than thirteen individuals served as dukes in Carinthia.109 In 978, for example, Count Otto of Worms, the ancestor of the Salians, received the duchy, but never managed to exercise any meaningful control there.110 More inluential – particularly vis-à-vis the archbishops of Salzburg – were local comital families in these border regions, such as that of the margrave Markwart, whose lordship was centred around the Judenberg on the Mur in the latter tenth century, and whose descendents would eventually take the name of a new castle, Eppenstein, and rise to the position of dukes of Carinthia under the Salian emperors.111 The family of the count-palatine and Gewaltbote Hartwig,

107 108

109 110 111

Karl Brunner, ‘Der österreichische Donauraum (see chapter 2, n. 157). Karl Lechner, Die Babenberger. Markgrafen und Herzoge von Österreich 976–1246 (Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1976), pp. 39–41; Claudia Fräss-Ehrfeld, Geschichte Kärntens (Klagenfurt, Verlag Johannes Heyn, 1984), p. 115. On the creation of the duchy of Carinthia, in addition to Fräss-Ehrfeld, see Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 70–2, who makes the point that it may be anachronistic to speak of Otto formally creating a ‘new’ duchy in Carinthia, strictly speaking, as opposed to ‘restoring’ the Liutpoldinger family to its ancestral patrimony. Alfred Ogris, ‘Die Anfänge Kärntens’, in Österreich im Hochmittelalter, pp 129–53 at p. 131. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 73. Gerald Gänser, ‘Die Mark als Weg zur Macht am Beispiel der Eppensteiner’, Zeitschrift des historischen Vereines für Steiermark 83 (1992), pp. 83–125; Fritz Posch, ‘Die Besiedlung und Entstehung des Landes Steiermark’, in Das Werden der Steiermark, ed. Gerhard Pferschy (Graz, Verlag Styria, 1980), pp. 23–62.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire who is attested in numerous sources and documents from the later part of the tenth century, also played a key role in building new lordships in the marcher counties below the Mur in Carinthia. His younger son, Hartwig, was archbishop of Salzburg from 991 to 1023, while his daughter, Adela, married another palatine count, Aribo I (d. 1020), from whom the so-called Aribonids descend, and later married Engelbert, whence she became the ancestor of the Sighardinger.112 While the Bavarian bishops and their dependent chorbishops were quite successful at establishing churches in the marcher regions, wealthy laymen were equally active in founding chapels that served their families and the dependent peasants who worked on surrounding estates, as well as monasteries endowed with family property.113 As in the Middle Rhine, these private foundations were a constant thorn in the side of bishops who struggled to retain some degree of control over the ordination of priests, and, in particular, the collection and distribution of any tithes the church received. In the case of episcopal proprietary churches, the bishop held the economic strings of the foundation; when the church in question was a lay foundation, establishing its proper legal status was a matter of negotiation. When Count Gunther of Chiemgau established a monastery at Otting sometime in the second half of the eighth century, he endowed it with his own property and called on Bishop Virgil to conirm his gift in perpetuity.114 But when Virgil asked the count under whose authority he expected the abbot and his monks to be, the man would not say. Finally, when Virgil declared that – in accordance with canon law – he would not consecrate any church in an undeclared jurisdiction and threatened to leave, the count understood and donated the entire project to Salzburg. In this case,Virgil was able to impress his episcopal authority upon Count Gunther, who had obviously wanted a proprietary church, but, ‘divino compunctus amore’, saw the light in handing the church and its patrimony over to the bishop. At other times, negotiations over episcopal power were less confrontational. The Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum, a mid-ninthcentury ecclesiastical history from Salzburg designed to legitimate the see’s claims over Carinthia and Pannonia, tells how Louis the German gave the Moravian prince Priwina some land on the Sala River in Lower Pannonia (modern Hungary around the Plattensee) where he 112

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Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 72; Martin Lintzel, ‘Der Ursprung der deutschen Pfalzgrafschaften’, ZRG. g. A. 49 (1929), pp. 233–63. Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 33–45, 161–6. Breves Notitiae, ed. Losek, c. 13. Compare Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 65–6 and 207–8, who notes that whatever Gunther or Virgil’s intentions may have been, the text assumes that the church was in fact Gunther’s property and that he did transfer it to Virgil.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority settled, became a powerful lord, and built a castle with a church.115 Bishop Liutpram of Salzburg (836–59) consecrated this church in 850, ordained Priwina’s priest there, and established a boundary for the church in what the Conversio calls a complicatio, or agreement, witnessed by a large group of individuals. The bishop also ordained priests in two nearby churches with Priwina’s son, Chezil, both of which subsequently received substantial donations from Chezil and his family. Herwig Wolfram has correctly observed that these churches probably belonged to Chezil and the fact that Liutpram worked so closely with him in their consecration testiies to the power and inluence of such lords.116 But the other side of the equation is equally important: The proprietary church owner sought to work with the bishop to legitimate the role of his churches in the local community. This model of expanding ecclesiastical infrastructure in the German kingdom would persist well into the eleventh century. One major issue that the bishops of Salzburg did not have to deal with to the extent that the bishops of Mainz did was the monasteries. This was partly due to a series of secularizations undertaken by Duke Arnulf in the early tenth century.117 This efectively limited the economic and political inluence that the larger monasteries were able to exert independently within the diocese. A more signiicant contrast with the situation in the Middle Rhine and Thuringia, however, is the fact that since the Agiloling period, the bishops of Salzburg, like many of their fellow Bavarian prelates, were fairly successful in bringing the region’s monastic foundations under their direct control.118 The abbey of St. Peter’s in Salzburg was treated essentially as the episcopal church until the mid-tenth century, when the reforms of Wolfgang of Regensburg were adopted by Archbishop Frederick and the monastic congregation separated from the bishop and his canons.119 Other monasteries came under episcopal control through royal gifts, such as the canonry of Herrenchiemsee, which Frederick I received from Otto I in 969.120 Noble gifts of private foundations were also important. In

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Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum, ed. Wolfram, c. 11, p. 53. Wolfram, Conversio, pp. 133–4. Dollinger, L’Evolution des classes rurales, pp. 30–1; Reindel, Die bayerischen Liutpoldinger, nr. 49; Kurt Reindel, ‘Herzog Arnulf und das Regnum Bavariae’, Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte 17 (1954), pp. 187–252 at p. 217. Boshof, ‘Die Kirche under der Herrschaft der Karolinger’, p. 119, 95–132; Floridus Röhrig, ‘Die Kirchliche Entwicklung’, in Österreich im Hochmittelalter, pp. 343–4, 331–58. Rudolf Schiefer, Die Entstehung von Domkapiteln in Deutschland (Bonn, Röhrsheid, 1976), pp. 192–5. Heinz Dopsch, ‘Die Frühzeit Salzburgs’, in Österreich im Hochmittelalter, pp. 155–94 at p. 160. MGH DD Otto I, nr. 380.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire 1036, Hemma, the widow of Count William of Sanntal, a leading Styrian magnate, founded a nunnery at Gurk which she endowed with her family’s extensive holdings in Styria and Carinthia. Following the untimely death of her husband in a feud with the Carinthian duke Adalbero of Eppenstein, she handed control of the convent over to Archbishop Baldwin.121 Baldwin’s successor, Gebhard, later dissolved Hemma’s convent and raised Gurk to a proprietary bishopric, establishing a key centre of power for Salzburg in central Styria.122 The see of Salzburg traditionally enjoyed a close relationship to the German crown and its institutions throughout the tenth and eleventh centuries, though not in a way that tends to it with the classic notion of the imperial church system.123 Even though a number of Salzburg bishops owed their appointments to royal patronage, the vast majority were scions of one of several major Bavarian comital families with longstanding interests in the region. One reason Bavaria and the Ostmark had become heavily dominated by the margraves, palatine counts, and their families was that the property interests of the crown consisted more of the vast resources and undeveloped land that had come under royal control as a result of Carolingian-era expansions and the Magyar campaigns than in the types of estates and fortiications characteristic of the Middle Rhine, or even Lombardy.124 Just as these margraves, counts, and Gewaltboten beneited greatly from the distribution of royal lands and oices, the archbishop and his cathedral received important royal grants of land and income sources, such as Louis the Child’s 908 grant of the royal curtis of Salzburghofen and the nearby saltworks in Reichenzell and Otto III’s grant of market rights in Salzburg itself to Archbishop Hartwig in 996, both of which became key centres of economic development for the region as a whole.125 The recipient of the Reichenzell grant, Pilgrim I (907–23), was a member of the Bavarian Aribonid-Sighardinger kindred and served as archchancellor and archchaplain under Conrad I.126 In 939, Otto approved the election of another bishop from the same 121 122

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SUB, I, nr. 16, 54–5. Heinz Dopsch, ‘Gebhard (1060–1088): Weder Gregorianer noch Reformer’, in Lebensbilder Salzburger Erzbischöfe aus zwolf Jahrhunderten, ed. Peter F. Kramml and Alfred S. Weiss (Salzburg, Freunde des Salzburger Archivs, 1998), pp. 41–62 at pp. 44–5. This is discussed further in Chapter 5, pp. 179–214. Dopsch and Spatzenegger, Geschichte Salzburgs, pp. 208–13; Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 110–12. Kämmel, Besiedlung des deutschen Südostens, pp. 14–16; Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 66–7. MGH DD Ludwig das Kind, nr. 208. See too several key privileges of Otto I to Archbishop Herold: MGH DD Otto I, nr. 32 (940); nr. 170 (953); nr. 171 (953). Fleckenstein, Hofkapelle, I, p. 201.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority family, Herold, who also served as royal archchaplain, though only for his metropolitan province.127 As noted previously, in 947, Otto I appointed his younger brother, Henry, duke of Bavaria following the death of the Liutpoldinger, Berthold. Henry’s descendants continued in the oice until the rise of Duke Henry IV, who became King Henry II when his cousin, Emperor Otto III, died in 1002. When Otto I’s elder brother, Liudolf , revolted in 952, Henry supported Otto and turned sharply against the local aristocracy around Salzburg, which included having Archbishop Herold, whom he suspected of supporting the insurgency, arrested and blinded in 954.128 Frederick I (958–91), another Sighardinger, was particularly close to Otto, accompanying him to his coronation in Rome in 961 and participating with Otto II in the 976 assembly where the Liutpoldinger Henry was named duke of Carinthia.129 By the eleventh century, however, the delicate balancing act the Ottonian kings had maintained between the bishops of Salzburg, the regional nobility, and the ducal magnates had begun to change in favour of more direct interventions in Bavarian politics. In 1023, Henry II promoted Gunther, the son of the powerful margrave Ekkehard of Meissen, from the royal chancery – where he had served from around 1009 – to the see of Salzburg.130 Whether Gunther’s successor,Thietmar II (1025–41) was likewise a product of the royal chapel or chancery is unclear, but it is during his reign that we begin to detect from the Traditionsbücher signiicant changes in the episcopate’s view of property relations with the laity in particular.131 Baldwin I (1041–60) and his successor, Gebhard I (1060–88) were royal candidates and non-Bavarians who struggled to assert their authority in a socio-political environment increasingly resistant to royal interference. L ucca Lucca lies in a broad, fertile plain where the Sercio River breaks out of the rugged canyons of the Apuane Alps and the Garfagnana Valley, and is situated within some of the best-preserved fortiied walls in Italy.132 Lucca 127

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Ibid., II, p. 23; Christian Rohr,‘Pilgrim I. von Salzburg (907–923). Zwischen Bayern und Ungarn’, in Lebensbilder Salzburger Erzbischöfe, pp. 23–40. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 69–70. Dopsch, ‘Frühzeit Salzburgs’, pp. 160–1, 155–94. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 222; Fleckenstein, Hofkapelle, II, pp. 168–9. Gunther’s short pontiicate lasted from 1023–5. See further, Chapter 5, pp. 179–214. For the following details, see Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 1–3; Pier Maria Conti, ‘La Tuscia e i suoi ordinamenti territoriali nell’alto medioevo’, in Atti del 5. Congresso, pp. 59–116; Chris Wickham,‘Economic and social institutions in northern Tuscany in the 8th century’, in Istituzioni ecclesiastiche della toscana medioevale (Galatina, Congedo, 1980), pp. 7–34, esp. 9–14.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire

Map 3.3 Western Tuscany and the Diocese of Lucca.

lay along the old Via Francigena, the most important north-south artery running from Cisalpine Gaul to Rome. By the third century BC, Lucca had become an important market town. It grew under the Romans into a lourishing provincial city, complete with an amphitheatre, large forum, and fortiied walls. In the early Middle Ages, the Lombards quickly recognized its strategic signiicance and established it as the political centre of their rule in Tuscany.The Carolingian Franks maintained this tradition, making early medieval Lucca less distinguished as an ecclesiastical province than as the seat of the Tuscan dukes and margraves, whose palace 128

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Landscapes of episcopal authority in the city famously outshone even local royal estates.133 The boundaries of the diocese itself were generally coterminous with that of the county, though thinking of an early medieval diocese in terms of ixed lines on a map is misleading. Lucca’s territory extended north from the city up the Serchio river valley into the mountainous area known as the Garfagnana where it extended as far as Castelnuovo and up to the crest of the Emilian Appennines at Monte San Pellegrino. At Monte San Pellegrino, Lucca met the dioceses of Reggio to the northwest and Modena to the northeast.To the east, the diocese’s borders followed the crest of the mountains to the southeast across the Alpe Tre Potenze and continuing down to Pescia and the Valdinievole at Altopascio – the boundary of Pistoia – and across the marshy Lago di Bientina to S. Maria a Monte and the Arno. The Monte Pisano massif to the west of the Lago di Bientina divided Pisa from Lucca, but to the east of the mountains, Lucchese territory extended south from the Lago di Bientina beyond the Arno into the Val d’Era and the Val d’Elsa as far east as San Miniato. Due west of the town of Lucca, the diocese extended across the southern foothills of the Apaune Alps to Viareggio and up the coastline to Camaiore and Pietrasanta. While this roughly describes the limits of the diocese and duchy itself, the church of Lucca of course owned property elsewhere in Tuscany.The pieve of S. Regulo in Gualdo near Livorno, for example, was an important Lucchese property. The province of Lucca embraced a geographically and territorially diverse region, albeit far smaller than that of Mainz or Salzburg. As Chris Wickham’s work has shown, this resulted over time in a wide range of agricultural, as well as landholding, patterns across the region, especially between highland areas like the Garfagnana and the fertile lowlands around the city of Lucca itself (the Sei Miglia).134 Wine and grain cultivation was established in the Sei Miglia, as well as around the Arno and into the Val d’Era, while forest products, swineherding, and shepherding predominated in areas like the hills of Cerbaia, between the Lago di Bientina and the Valdinievole, and further north into the Garfagnana. Unlike in the Frankish world, where ecclesiastical and secular lords frequently oversaw large, integrated estates with numerous, often unfree or semi-free, dependents, the early medieval economy in the Lucchese was dominated by smaller farmsteads worked by free peasants who either owned their land outright or leased it from other freeholding peasants 133

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Hansmartin Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich bis zum Ende des 11. Jahrhunderts (Tübingen, Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1972), p. 36; Fedor Schneider, L’ordinamento pubblico nella Toscana medievale (Florence, Cassa di Risparmio, 1975), pp. 224–7. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 15–20; Robert Endres, ‘Das Kirchengut im Bistum Lucca vom 8. bis 10. Jahrhundert’, VSWG 14 (1918), pp. 240–92 at pp. 242–3.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire or larger landlords like the bishop and count.135 This produced a socioeconomic order in the region in which power was difused among a number of stakeholders rather than just one or two institutions or families, though the more inluential families often spread their landholding and interests across the diocese instead of in a single area. In the Lombard period, holdings tended to be deined in terms of a casa or dwelling, with an accompanying plot of land, wood or pasture, and private churches. In 728, for example, a certain Trasualdus built a church on his property and, after dedicating it to St.Terence, donated to it ‘one half of my casa, where I am seen to dwell, along with its farmland [fundamentum] and everything attached to it…’ and granted it to the bishop of Lucca.136 By the tenth century, however, more prominent lords in the diocese were controlling larger estates (cortes) on behalf of the bishop, such as Rodilandus, who held the corte of Capannoli in the Val d’Era from the church of Lucca, and paid, among other renders, twenty-two cartloads of wine.137 One important characteristic of lower church proprietorship in Italy, particularly in Tuscany, was corporate ownership among members of an extended family.138 Interest in local churches, as well as more important pievi, was often spread broadly among numerous member of a family – brothers, uncles, and cousins – one of whom was frequently the named priest. As a result, when bishops engaged in exchanges, donations, and other interactions with a private church, the ways it touched upon the afairs and interests of the broader family or kin group involved was not merely implied, but often explicit. Sales and exchanges were fairly common as pieces of property, orchards, ields, meadows, and other goods circulated among the regional landholders, or within families.139 Among the most frequent forms of conveyance was the livellum, or lease, which transferred property to a second party for a ixed length of time in return for a rent.140 This was similar to the well-known institution of the precarial contract of the Frankish 135

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Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages, pp. 387–93. Bavaria, notably, was dominated by unfree or partially free tenants. See Carl I. Hammer, A Large-scale Slave Society of the Early Middle Ages: Slaves and their Families in Early Medieval Bavaria (Aldershot and Burlington,VT, Ashgate, 2002); see also Rio, Legal Practice and the Written Word, chapter 9, which ofers an important reminder about the luidity of freedom and unfreedom in the early medieval world. Codice diplomatico Longobardo, ed. Luigi Schiaparelli (Rome, Istituto storico italiano, 1929), I, nr. 42, pp. 144. Inventari del vescovato della cattedrale e di altre chiese di Lucca, ed. Pietro Guidi and Ermenegildo Pellegrinetti, Studi e Testi, 34 (Rome, Typograia poliglotta vaticana, 1921), nr. 1, p. 11. Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 605–11; Heinrich Felix Schmid, ‘Gemeinschaftskirchen in Italien und Dalmatien’, ZRG. K.A. 77 (1960), pp. 1–61. Anne Mailloux, ‘Constitution du patrimoine épiscopal de Lucques’, Mélanges de l’Ecole francaise de Rome, Moyen Age 111:2 (1999), pp. 701–23 at p. 702. Endres, ‘Kirchengut’, pp. 240–2.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority world whereby a landowner (most frequently a monastery) granted use, but not title, of property to someone for a speciied period of time, usually a lifetime tenure.141 Livelli were generally of shorter duration, but this was more frequently a function of the status of the recipient than the nature of the contract itself.The terms of the livellum made it possible for landowners to ensure that their property was cultivated and that it generated income while bringing the leasee into, if not a clearly dependent relationship upon the leasor, then at least a social relationship characterized by idelity between a more powerful and a less powerful individual or group.142 From the ninth century onwards, however, the Lucchese bishops increasingly granted livelli not only to dependents who planned to work the plot of land themselves, but to third parties who themselves would sublet portions of the holding and collect income from it.143 In the irst instance, the leasor retained jurisdiction over the recipient and the land, however in the latter, control over the leased land and its people passed to a new lord, though technical ownership and the ultimate right of disposal still resided with the original leasor.144 These arrangements, as far as we can discern from the numerous surviving documents of the episcopal archives, allowed a landlord like the church, and, we can assume, other major proprietors, to manage a fairly dispersed and fragmented patrimony across the province without being continually compelled to seek ways of concentrating landholding.145 It also provided a dynamic and lexible way for bishops and the cathedral canons to use property conveyance as a way of cultivating and maintaining social relationships with important individuals and families. Livelli were often combined with grants of land or churches in beneice. An early tenth-century inventory in the episcopal archive, noted previously, mentions pievi and other church property held as beneices or per livellum. The extensive beneice of a man named Willeram, for example, contained lands, dependent cultivators, and churches from Roggio, in the far northern part of the 141

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Hubert Dubled,‘La notion de propriété en Alsace du VIIIe au XIe siècle’, Le Moyen Age 65 (1959), pp. 429–52 at pp. 440–7. Amleto Spicciani, ‘Concessioni livellarie e infeudazioni di pievi a laici (secoli XI–XI)’, in Nobilità e chiese nel medioevo e altri saggi: Scritti in onore di Gerd Tellenbach, ed. Cinzio Violante (Rome, Jouvance, 1993), pp. 183–97 at p. 188. Endres, ‘Kirchengut’, pp. 260–71; Laurent Feller, ‘Précaires et livelli: les tranferts patrimoniaux ad tempus en Italie’, Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome 111:2 (1999), 725–46; Gabriella Rossetti, ‘Motivi economico-sociali e religiosi in atti di cessione di beni a chiese del territorio milanese nei secoli XI e XII’, in Contributi dell’Istituto di Storia Medioevale. Raccolta di Studi in Memoria di Giovanni Soranzo (Milan,Vita e Pensiero, 1968), pp. 349–410. Endres, ‘Kirchengut’, p. 264; Bruno Andreolli, ‘Contratti agrari e patti colonici nella Lucchesia dei secoli VIII e IX’, Studi medievali 19 (1978), pp. 69–158. Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages, p. 216.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Garfagnana, all the way to Vaccole in the Monte Pisano south of Lucca, where he paid ifteen solidi for the pieve there.146 Christianity had a long and ancient history in Lucca, going back at least to the second century.147 One of the earliest surviving ecclesiastical foundations – and possibly the irst episcopal church – inside the city walls of Lucca was the church of S. Reparata, which was later also given the patronage of S. Giovanni and converted into a baptistery adjacent to the cathedral of S. Martino.148 Just outside the Roman walls, near the western gate, there was also a church of S. Donato whose origins may go back to late antiquity and which appears in later documents as lying next to, or within, the grounds of the ducal palace complex.149 In the late sixth century, the relics of an Irish holy man, Fredianus, were reportedly already an attraction for pilgrims on their way to Rome.150 Fredianus was celebrated as the city’s proto-bishop and credited with building a church of S. Vincenzo, just outside the Roman walls, which later became the eponymous collegiate church of S. Frediano. Beginning in the mid-eighth century, the new episcopal church of S. Martino began receiving extensive donations pro anima from the regional aristocracy, who also founded a number of private churches in the city as well as in the surrounding countryside.151 The trend was probably sparked by new provisions in Lombard law allowing a father to donate a portion of the family’s estate to the church upon his death, but it was also a sign of the Lombard elites’ concern for support of the church and their own sense of religious piety.152 As a result of this outpouring of pious patronage in the eighth century, Lucca’s bishops amassed a considerable patrimony in estates and churches throughout the diocese, which they then began in the ninth century to lease out to clerics and laymen in the form of livelli.153 The turn towards leasing church property per livellum came at the same time 146 147

148

149

150

151 152 153

Inventari, nr. 1, pp. 6–7 Almenico Guerra, Compendio di storia ecclesiastica lucchese (Lucca, Coop. Tipograica Editrice, 1924). Isa Belli Barsali, ‘La topograia di Lucca nei secoli VIII–XI’, in Atti del 5. Congresso (1973), pp. 461–554 at pp. 478–80; Guerra, Compendio, p. 55. Reparata, a Palestinian martyr, was a popular patron in early Tuscany, including Florence and Pisa. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 21–5. The Donatus patronage was also shared with the episcopal cathedral of Arezzo. The cult of Fredianus was mentioned by Gregory the Great, Dialogues, III, 10, ed. Adalbert de Vogüé, Sources Chretiennes, 260 (Paris, Editions du Cerf, 1979). See too the recent critical edition of the Vita Frediani by Gabriella Zaccagnini, Vita Sancti Fridiani: contributi di storia e di agiograia Lucchese medioevale (Lucca, M. Pacini Fazzi, 1989). Endres, ‘Kirchengut’, pp. 243–45; Mailloux, ‘Constitution du patrimoine’, pp. 705–6. Wickham, ‘Economic and Social Institutions’, pp. 24–8. Mailloux, ‘Constitution du patrimoine’, pp. 713–16.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority as lay donations to the church declined signiicantly. The reasons for this are diicult to discern clearly. Chris Wickham has suggested that as the Lucchese bishops grew substantially wealthier and more powerful over the course of the late eighth and early ninth centuries, it became harder for aristocratic families to keep some measure of control over the properties donated to the episcopal church, making it correspondingly less attractive as a recipient of family property.154 On the other hand, Anne Mailloux has recently noted that the power of the Lombards in the city began to sufer beginning with the administration of the FrancoBavarian count Boniface I, appointed around 810–12, as key political and judicial posts were usurped by Franks or Frankish supporters from north of the Alps.155 This too perhaps rendered the episcopacy less attractive to potential donors who did not wish to see their property compromised in some way by Frankish interests. Non-Frankish or Frankish-appointed bishops in particular subsequently turned to leasing church property – though rarely whole pievi – as way of securing support and income in a politically uncertain environment. By the end of the ninth century, most of the small-scale and medium-scale village landowners in the province of Lucca held livelli of various types from the bishop and rendered dues in kind to him.156 Over the long term, the oice of the bishop grew steadily more attached to a fairly circumscribed group of well-to-do peasants, rural landowners, and urban oicials who likewise had interests in the countryside or in urban churches and maintained those ties through leasing. In the tenth century, the new Saxon monarchy selectively insinuated itself into the regional politics of the Italian kingdom by carefully cultivating alliances with key bishops and local aristocrats prepared to advance or protect its interests. In Lucca, however, bishops and their local allies seem to have been left out of the loop to a great extent.157 Otto I and his successors favoured monasteries and the cathedral chapter instead, which had begun to assert more independence from the bishop since the end of the ninth century.158 The rise of the cathedral chapter in the city of Lucca 154 155 156 157

158

Wickham, ‘Economic and Social Institutions’, p. 250. Mailloux, ‘Constitution du patrimoine’, pp. 711–12. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 49. Maureen C. Miller, ‘Fraolmo Viscount of Lucca and the Political History of the Regnum Italiae: Another Look at Ottonian Government’, Actum Luce 18 (1989), pp. 93–106. The history of the cathedral of S. Martino traditionally dated back to St. Fredianus, but was not mentioned in any oicial documents until the irst quarter of the eighth century. The canons of S. Frediano are mentioned in a Lombard charter of 685 which guaranteed the rights of the monks against any interference from the bishop or ‘[his] priests or clergy’, (Codice diplomatico longobardi, I, nr. 7, p. 18) The cathedral clergy – judging by the few eighth- and ninth-century documents in which they are mentioned – were irmly under the authority of the bishop but not organized under a rule.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire accompanied both the consolidation of the episcopacy as the province’s most substantial landowner after the margraves, as well as the increasing laicization of the judicial and notarial oices which had previously operated under the auspices of the bishop.159 Lucca’s cathedral chapter appears to have only very loosely followed a corporate lifestyle and resisted for a long time any attempt by the bishops to impose a rule upon them, particularly when it would have forced them to relinquish private control of property.160 The members of the cathedral chapter, who are named occasionally in episcopal livelli for pievan priests, have mostly Roman or Frankish names and can sometimes be identiied as the sons or younger brothers of many of Lucca’s notaries and judges. Several important monasteries also attracted royal patronage and immunity. The abbey of S. Salvatore in Sesto, on the western edge of the Lago di Bientina between Lucca and the Arno, is documented since the mid-eighth century and was granted royal immunity by Otto III in 996.161 It controlled a widely scattered patrimony across western Tuscany as far aield as Corsica, consisting notably – according to Otto’s immunity – of churches and whole cortes and a number of castelli. This suggests that much of Sesto’s endowment probably originated from ducal or royal lands, though precisely when is not clear.162 Sometime around 980, Willa, the mother of margrave Hugo of Tuscany, re-endowed the defunct nunnery of S. Ponziano (as a male monastery), near the church of S. Donato just outside Lucca’s walls, and shortly thereafter received an immunity from Otto III.163 Together, the cathedral chapter and the public notariate/judiciary formed a class of elite urban professionals with important ties to the margraves and kings that tended to resist encroachment upon their interests by the bishops and the rural aristocracy. The exact nature of the dynamic between the episcopacy and the urban elites at this point is diicult to sort out, but some deinite trends emerge, particularly in the mid-tenth century as the Ottonians began exerting their inluence in Italy. It is 159

160

161 162

163

Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 268–70; Hagen Keller, ‘Der Gerichtsort in oberitalienischen und toskanischen Städten’, QFIAB 49 (1969), pp. 1–72, esp. pp. 13–20. A number of good studies on the Lucchese canons exist for the period after about 1070, but not before. See, for example, Martino Giusti, ‘Le Canoniche della Città e Diocesi di Lucca al Tempo della Riforma Gregoriana’, in Studi Gregoriani, vol. 3, ed. Giovanni Battista Borino (Rome, Abbazi di San Paolo, 1948), pp. 321–67; Cosimo Damiano Fonesca, ‘Il movimento canonicale a Lucca e nella diocesi Lucchese tra XI e XII Secolo’, in Allucio da Pescia (1070 Ca. – 1134): Un santo laico dell’età postgregoriana: Religione e soceità nei territori di Lucca e della Valdinievole (Rome, Jouvence, 1991), pp. 147–58. DD Otto III, nr. 219, p. 630. Wilhelm Kurze, ‘Die Gründung des Salvatorklosters Sesto am Lago di Bientina und die Klostergeschichte des Fra Benigno von 1578. Späte Überlieferung als methodisches Problem’, Studi medievali 32 (1991), pp. 685–596, here pp. 685–8. DD Otto III, nr. 269. See further Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 53–5.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority possible that secular rulers began paying more attention to the cathedral canons because they were aware of the chapter’s growing importance and inluence in the diocese. Ottonian patronage of the cathedral chapter merely extended a tradition going back to the late-ninth century and the episcopacy of Peter II (896–921), a member of one of the city’s most inluential notarial families. In 895, just before Peter’s ascension to the see, Bertha, the wife of the margrave Adalbert, bestowed a large curtis in Massa Macinaia upon the cathedral chapter of Lucca.164 This was followed up in 897 by a gift from Adalbert himself of numerous iscal tithes from his estates in the Garfagnana and Valdinievole.165 In 932, Kings Hugh and Lothar II assigned the chapter a curtis in Massarosa, at the foot of the Apuane Alps west of Lucca, along with other properties and dependent tenants (manentes) in the nearby hills and along the Versilia coast (today Pietrasanta-Viareggio).166 The two major gifts to the cathedral chapter seem to have marked a turning point in the dynamics of diocesan politics in Lucca. From that point onwards, the cathedral chapter, but not the bishop, periodically received royal immunities and privileges. In 932, and again in 941, co-kings Hugh and Lothar granted the clergy of S. Martino immunity for their property – speciically the gifts of Bertha and Adalbert – and forbade any episcopal interference in their afairs.167 In 962, the year he irst assumed the crown of Italy, Otto I granted an immunity to the cathedral chapter which essentially copied the previous privilege of Hugh and Lothar.168 The intervention, however, came from Otto’s new wife, Adelheid, who had been married previously to Lothar. As per the previous immunities, Otto forbade any diminution of the chapter’s rights by the bishop, and in the case that any property were to be taken away, it would immediately fall under the control of the duke and margrave of Lucca. Bertha and Adalbert’s gifts ensured the cathedral chapter an institutional stake in the power structures of the Tuscan countryside. Their patronage then subsequently provided royal rulers with a way to insert themselves into diocesan politics through the granting of immunity privileges. Unlike many Lombardy bishops in the tenth century, the bishops of Lucca possessed no public judicial powers or economic rights, but were surrounded by a secular elite whose interests and position lay ostensibly with the margrave and the king, as well as with a corps of cathedral canons whose property and rights remained protected from 164 165 167

Regesto del capitolo di Lucca, ed. Pietro Guidi and Oreste Parenti (Rome, Loescher, 1910—.), nr. 6. Regesto del capitolo, nr. 3. 166 Ibid., nr. 9. Ibid., p. 5. 168 MGH DD Otto I, nr. 238.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire episcopal interference. This left the bishop to manoeuvre in the sociopolitical landscape of the region using the tools he had – the ability to grant livelli and distribute ecclesiastical resources such as tithes to friends, family, and allies. Yet, as we shall see, power and political interest in the diocese of Lucca, and in Tuscany more broadly, cannot be broken down along the neat lines of ‘episcopacy,’ ‘urban notariate,’ ‘cathedral chapter’, or ‘rural aristocracy’. More than mere institutional or social labels aixed to an individual, these groups and their interests served as luid reservoirs of power from which people could draw when it served their needs. Indeed, many times an individual itted rather cosily into two or more categories. Lucca’s complex situation was not typical of all of Tuscany. Arezzo, for example, was dominated in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries by prominent relatives of the Tuscan margraves.169 They imposed reform and a rule of common life upon the cathedral clergy by the middle of the ninth century and ruled efectively as local magnates in the stead of the duke and margrave.170 In the early eleventh century, Bishop Elemperto succeeded in bringing the notariate under his control and establishing a new cathedral school.171 With the city’s most important judicial and clerical institutions under their control, succeeding bishops like Teodald (1023–36), the brother of margrave Boniface of Canossa, could then focus their patronage on monasteries in the region, bestowing rich gifts of tithes on monasteries like St. Fiora, Camaldoli, and Prataglia.172 Pisa’s bishops also made ample use of livelli, yet did not frequently include whole pievi or tithes in their cessions.173 In contrast to its neighbour Lucca, however, Pisa had a dominant comital family in the tenth century, possibly related to the Gherardeschi of Volterra.174 In one exceptional livello dated 949, for example, Bishop Zenobio granted Count Rodolfo one-third of the goods and the debitum of thirty-two villages in the pieve of SS. Stefano and Cristofero in Porto Pisano (near Livorno).175 In Lucca, where resources and status appear to have been difused among a number of prominent aristocratic families and urban institutions, we encounter 169 170

171

172 173

174 175

M. Nobili, ‘Le famiglie marchionali nella Tuscia’, in I ceti dirigenti, pp. 79–105. Jean Pierre Delumeau, Arezzo: Espace et Sociétés, 715–1230 (Rome, École francaise de Rome, 1996), pp. 270–1. Giovanna Nicolaj, ‘Storia di vescovi e di notai ad Arezzo fra XI e XII secolo’, in Studi Storici sullo Notariateo Italiano, vol. 8, Il notariateo nella civiltà Toscana. Atti di un Convegno, Maggio 1981 (Rome, 1985), p. 152–3. Giovanni Tabacco, ‘Arezzo, Siena, Chiusi nell’alto Medioevo’, in Atti del 5 Congresso, pp. 163–89. Some examples: Regesto della Chiesa di Pisa, ed. Natale Caturegli, Regesta Chartarum Italiae, vol. 24 (Rome, Istituto storico italiano per il medio evo, 1938), nrs. 38, 44, 50, 62. See the discussion by Rossetti, ‘Società e istituzioni’, pp. 233–5. Registro della Chiesa di Pisa, nr. 44. On speculation about the location of Porto Pisano, see Repetti (ed.), Dizionario, vol. 5, pp. 611–12.

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Landscapes of episcopal authority a more dynamic economy of leasing and the use of tithes in particular to establish or enhance social relationships. Traic in church property seems to have been a feature not of chaotic times but of changing times and attempts by individuals and the church to establish clearer lines of authority where they were most difuse. In contrast to their colleagues in Mainz and Salzburg, the bishops of Lucca made few successful attempts to reassemble or recoup tithes and churches that had passed into lay hands by the mid-eleventh century. Bishop Anselm I of Baggio – the future Pope Alexander II – attempted to restrict the leasing of pievi to laymen, but made little or no systematic efort to bring the churches back under direct episcopal supervision.176 During the Investiture Controversy, the city, seeking to ally itself with an outside power capable of recognizing its liberties, remained loyal to Henry IV while the bishop, Anselm II, was forced to lee and seek protection with Contessa Mathilda of Tuscany.177 Anselm’s successor eventually was able to return to Lucca, but the relationship between the episcopate, the commune, and the countryside would never be the same.178 While the bishop retained a broad area of inluence and lordship around the castles and pievi he still controlled, the urban commune, as well as numerous rural communes, developed as competing centres of authority.179 The description of the three medieval episcopal sees here illustrates that the diocese was far more than just a jurisdiction or a territory – it was a vibrant social community bound together by ties of social and political idelity. The bishop was a pastor and religious authority igure whose unique position also gave him the ability to play an important role as a mediator of resources, status, and authority in the region. It is nonetheless diicult to generalize about the bishops in the three regions under consideration here. Each faced unique constraints and opportunities as they attempted to situate themselves in the post-Carolingian order. Bishops north of the Alps were closer to royal politics and the nature and constitution of aristocratic power in the Bavarian marches, for example, does not readily translate to the realities of the power of elite families in a place like western Tuscany. However, these were all places that in one way or another were indelibly transformed by royal patronage, particularly in terms of the structure of ecclesiastical institutions, avenues of 176 177

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Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 19–20. Cushing, Papacy and Law in the Gregorian Revolution:The Canonistic Work of Anselm of Lucca (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1998), introduction. Rafaele Savigni, Episcopato e società cittadina a Lucca da Anselmo II (+1086) a Roberto (+1225) (Lucca, Accademia Lucchese, 1996), pp. 207–66. Chris Wickham, Community and Clientele in Twelfth Century Tuscany: The Origins of the Rural Commune in the Plain of Lucca (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1998); Dameron, Episcopal Power and Florentine Society, pp. 38–40 discusses a similar situation in Florence.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire conlict resolution, and the centrality of the bishop in the local political economy. One trend that does come into sharper focus over the course of the tenth century, however, is the way representations of episcopal power shifted gradually from being exercised within socio-political relationships mediated by the crown and the oice of bishop itself towards being articulated within a discourse of social relationships mediated by ties to property and territory. It is in this nexus that the problem of lay involvement with the resources of the church comes into play, though, as we shall see in the following chapters, the forging of close ties between the laity and the ecclesiastical institutions in a diocese had a logic and function that later reformers construed very diferently. It is not about a ‘feudalization’ of the church, as though there were once a pristine period when bishops exercised perfectly uncomplicated control over their churches. Rather the dynamics of idelity changed and as new centres of power began to crystallize around territorial domains, bishops likewise began to adopt a similar posture towards their own authority and the interests of their churches.

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Chapter 4

DIABOLI C C ONTR AC TS : T HE LEASIN G OF PI EVI AND PERC EPTI ONS OF ORDER AN D POWER I N EAR LY MEDI EVAL ITALY

In his Three Books against the Simoniacs, Humbert of Silva-Candida highlighted what he believed to be a particularly despicable practice: the alienation of tithes and other property through lease contracts known as livelli: Through diabolical contracts, [the simoniacal bishop] sells, gives or permanently alienates to laymen, by whatever means or in whatever circumstances he can, even the tithes and gifts of the living and of the dead and all the revenue which after him was supposed to belong to the Church until the end of the age, so that those who would serve God in future generations and work for his own and others’ salvation of others ind nothing left for themselves, not enough food for a single hour, nor clothing nor supplies for a single night. Thus [we have] lease contracts in secular hands, records of documents and the poorly secured instruments with the signatures of such people so that the ancient charters and canonical privileges of the churches of God are voided and every ecclesiastical possession is added to, and conirmed to, the jurisdiction of laymen.The decrees and privileges of the catholic pontifs are unable to overcome the alienations of these heretics; none of the canons or synods of the holy fathers prevails, nor do the edicts and precepts of the emperors or the laws of religious princes stand in their way.1

1

Humbert of Silva Candida Adversus Simoniacos Libri Tres, II, c. 36, ed. Friedrich. Thaner, MGH LdL (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1891), I, 184–5.: ‘Decimas enim et oblationes vivorum et defunctorum, atque cunctos redditus, quos post se usque in inem saeculi Ecclesia erat habitura, per diabolicos contractus saecularibus hominibus vendit, aut donat, et quibuscunque modis et conditionibus potest, perpetuo alienat, ut Deo post in futuris generationibus servituri, suamque et aliorum salutem operaturi, nihil omnino sibi relictum, nec ad victum unius horae, nec ad vestitum, nec ad diversorium sub nocte inveniant. Inde libelli in saecularibus manibus, inde chartarum monumenta, et instrumenta subscriptionibus talium male cauta, quibus evacuantur ecclesiarum Dei antiqua chirographa et canonica privilegia, et juri laicorum usque ad inem saeculi addicitur et conirmatur omnis possessio ecclesiastica. Nequeunt jam catholicorum pontiicum decreta vel privilegia conscriptionibus horum haereticorum obviare, nequeunt ulli canones, aut ullae synodi sanctorum Patrum jam praevalere, nequeunt ulla edicta et praecepta imperatorum, vel leges religiosorum principum jam obsistere’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Such images of the worldly and frivolous prelate were a common trope in the rhetoric of many eleventh-century reformers.The great monk and reformist critic Peter Damian likewise fulminated against the abuse of church resources through written conveyances. Whether granted in the context of a livello or more directly as a ief, Damian asserted that church property which falls into the hands of laymen is as good as gone: ‘Once granted, it is just as if they had been written on bronze tablets with a stylus of hardened steel’.2 The implications of this practice were clear: Many lay recipients of such leases tended simply to retain them as private property, thus depriving the church of needed income and support. The question raised by Humbert’s attack on the leasing of church property, and tithes in particular, is how the politics of leasing and holding church property and assets had changed over time. Many clerics in Italy and elsewhere, particularly those of the generation preceding Humbert, would probably have been dismayed at his vehement condemnation of a relatively routine practice. By the time observers like Humbert and Peter Damian assessed the state of ecclesiastical administration in the mid-eleventh century, these new forms of power and authority, especially the emergence of territorial lordships in Italy, appeared to disempower and corrupt the church. From their point of view, it made sense to blame the situation on the original sin of granting iefs or leases of church property to greedy laymen. Such concerns were of course not entirely new. As shown in the previous chapters, as far back as the ninth century, church synods and capitularies in Francia and Italy had warned against the alienation of churches, church property, and tithes. As recently as the end of the ninth century, Lambert of Spoleto issued a capitulary at Ravenna (one of the last) which, after several statutes relating to the rights of Lombard arimanni, lays down several strong prohibitions against the abuse of pievi and their tithes.3 It forbids owners of private chapels from diverting tithes away from baptismal churches to their own foundations without the bishop’s permission; no pieve may be granted to a count, a vassal of the bishop, or any layman in beneice; placita are not to be held in churches, but in public buildings or places; individual pievi shall be administered by an archpriest, but he shall not be unduly burdened by the bishop. Catherine Boyd highlighted this text as evidence of the abuse of church property that was typical of the tenth century with its weak central authority, 2

3

Die Briefe des Petrus Damiani, ed. Kurt Reindel, MGH Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit IV, 4 vols. (Munich, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 1983), II, nr. 74, p. 373, translated by Owen J. Blum, Letters of Peter Damian, 4 vols., Fathers of the Church, Medieval Continuation (Washington, DC, Catholic University Press, 1992), III, p. 154. MGH Capit. II, nr. 225, cc. 9–12, p. 110. See Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, p. 73–4.

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Diabolic contracts rapacious lordship, and general disorder.4 Yet it bears mentioning that the two issues in question here – granting livelli of church property to certain people and granting church property out in beneice – were not necessarily the same thing. Humbert understood the distinction, at least as originally intended. His complaint, as well as Damian’s, was that livelli had ceased to be temporary leases of church property and had become the equivalent of beneices – grants of land presumed to be heritable and which only reverted to the lord under exceptional circumstances. By the early eleventh century, this diference had clearly become a problem for bishops in Italy. In a case that became a foundational text for later feudal law, Conrad II in 1027 famously declared that ‘no knight of [any] bishop, abbot, abbess, margrave, count or anyone who holds a beneice from our public goods or from the lands of the church, or had held them before they were unjustly forfeited, whether by our greater valvassores, or of their knights, shall lose their beneice without clear and convincing guilt, according to the constitution of our predecessors and the judgement of their peers’.5 Archbishop Aribert of Milan had attempted summarily to revoke the privileges of some of his lesser vassals, leading to a revolt and an appeal to the king.6 By the irst third of the eleventh century, the privileges of these knights (milites) were understood as beneices – and the rear vassals themselves were viewed as an important constituency for the Salian monarchy – but many of them, particularly tithe rights, had originated as episcopal livelli and other temporary grants in the tenth century.7 Historiographers of the eleventh century, much like Humbert and Damian, attempted to explain this change in terms of a process of corruption, and modern historians have largely accepted this view. Landulf Senior, for example, a Milanese cleric writing during the height of the Investiture Controversy, explains that when Archbishop Gottfried of Milan died in 979, a local castellan named Bonizio attempted to secure 4

5

6

7

Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, p. 73: ‘The picture disclosed is a depressing one: a grasping and ambitious episcopate, devoted to the pursuit of mundane power; a greedy and cruel military class which seeks to gain control of church property and income and to exploit the rural classes; a parish clergy oppressed or neglected by the bishops, exposed to the encroachments of the lay aristocracy, and too ignorant and weak to resist the abuses of the time; and everywhere an agricultural class which pours rents, tithes, and oferings into the cofers of the church, only to see them swallowed up by the rapacity of the ruling classes’. MGH Const. I, nr. 45, p. 90. ‘…ut nullus miles episcoporum, abbatum, abbatissarum aut marchionum vel comitum vel omnium, qui beneitium de nostris publicis bonis aut de ecclesiarum prediis tenet nunc aut tenuerit vel hactenus iniuste perdidit, tam de nostris maioribus valvasoribus quam et eorum militibus, sine certa et convicta culpa suum beneicium perdat, nisi secundum constitucionem antecessorum nostrorum et iudicium parium suorum’. Cinzio Violante, La società milanese nell’età precomunale (Rome and Bari, Editori Laterza, 1974), pp. 190–5. Keller, Adelsherrschaft, pp. 91–3, 128.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the episcopacy for his son, Landulf (no relation to the writer), with large gifts of gold and silver.8 Many of the cathedral clergy and the people rejected the perceived interloper, murdered Bonizio, and forced his son to lee the city. Landulf subsequently headed over the Alps to Germany where his father’s ally, Otto II, received him. The king was eager to aid Landulf, particularly after hearing of his father’s murder, and quickly set out for Italy with his army and laid siege to the city. During the siege, however, Landulf was privy to a dream in which he saw the infernal punishments awaiting immoral bishops and quickly moved to secure peace with the townsfolk and clergy in order to spare them from the king’s wrath if the city were to fall. He met with a group of noblemen from the city and promised them in return for peace all the pievi, the dignities, and xenodochia held at the time by the city’s canons, the primicerius of the decumani, archpriests, and sacristans. Although war was averted, Landulf ’s actions unjustly deprived the cathedral clergy of their own prebends while ‘exalting the great knights’ of the city. The bishop continued to use church property to secure relationships with his relatives, giving some relatives who held a castle in Carcano forty thousand modia of agricultural dues ‘in ief ’, that is, as a beneice, from the patrimony of St. Ambrose.9 Landulf ’s account amounts to more of a ‘just-so’ story than anything else. In the irst place, Otto II was in Italy between 980 and 983, but his expedition aimed primarily to secure Benevento and Apulia against the Greeks and the Arabs and had nothing to do with events in Milan.10 Second, there is no contemporary evidence that Bishop Landulf had alienated church property in the way Landulf Senior and Arnulf later alleged; most of the surviving evidence from his episcopate suggests that much of the Ambrosian church’s property had already been granted or leased out by the later tenth century, leaving the archbishop to engage 8

9

10

Landulfus Senior, Historia Mediolanensis, II, c. 17, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach and Ludwig Bethman, MGH SS VIII (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1898), p. 54. On Landulf, see WattenbachHolzmann, Deutschlands Geschichtsquellen, III, 919–20. and Jörg W. Busch, ‘Landuli senioris Historia Mediolanensis: Überlieferung, Datierung und Intention’, Deutsches Archiv 45 (1989), pp. 1–30. Landulf quoted in Historia Mediolanensis, II. c. 17:‘Quo in tempore Landulfus omnes milites majores, quorum virtute archiepiscopatum teneret, expoliatis injuste clericis ecclesiarum, per detestandam investituram plebes illas dando sublimavit. Quin etiam propinquis quos in Carcanensi oppido habebat, de beati Ambrosii archiepiscopatus bonis, quibus ipse fruebatur indignus, quadraginta milia modios terrae fructuum, ut illos ultra omnes ditaret vicinos, per feudum dedit’. Compare too the account by Arnulf of Milan, writing around 1070: Gesta archiepiscoporum Mediolanensis, I, c. 10, MGH SS VIII, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach and Ludwig Bethmann (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1898), p. 9. Arnulf also detailed the alleged alienation of diocesan property under Landulf, albeit with diferent underlying details. On Otto’s campaigns and activity in Italy during the last three years of his reign, see Karl Uhlirz, Jahrbücher des deutschen Reiches unter Otto II und Otto III, 2 vols. (Berlin and Leipzig, Duncker & Humblot, 1902), I, pp. 137–207.

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Diabolic contracts primarily in small leases and other transactions.11 Landulf ’s histories, like those of his younger contemporary, Arnulf, attempt to explain the past in a way that made sense in the context of contemporary, or near-contemporary, situations, particularly the growing clerical reform movements and the Investiture Controversy, which, one will recall, was triggered by Henry IV’s intervention in the election of the archbishop of Milan.12 What was clear to a writer like Landulf Senior was that at some point, grasping laymen – many of whom characterized themselves in the eleventh century as ighters, milites – had appropriated the patrimony of the church of Milan, and likely did so with the connivance of the German monarchy that rewarded them with further royal beneices. After a while, the knights’ relationship with the king, and the relationship with the episcopate built around the conveyance of land and churches, started to look much the same. The ascendancy of the capitanei, and especially the valvassores, in a community that – in the view of clerical writers, at least – should have centred on the Ambrosian church and its rights, demanded an explanation in which the early medieval past was re-remembered in order to elucidate present concerns. This observation raises the question, however, of why Italian churches in the tenth century administered their property the way they did and why eleventh-century observers like Landulf and Humbert came to view it as a problem. While the tenth-century sources for Milan are fairly opaque on this account, the situation in Lucca, a comparatively smaller, but far more richly documented, diocese illuminates an important period for the episcopate of the Italian kingdom and helps us understand the dynamics of ecclesiastical administration that later reformist writers tended to obscure and redeine with their own agendas and perspectives. In recalling that the misfortunes of the diocese of Milan went back to the 980s, Landulf Senior may nonetheless have transmitted a kernel of historical knowledge about the Ottonian period in northern Italy, particularly the reign of Otto II. While Archbishop Landulf of Milan may or may not have recklessly alienated church property to local knights, the episcopacy of Teudgrim of Lucca (983–7) tells just such a story in a far more ine-grained fashion. During his brief tenure in the see of S. Martino, Teudgrim ceded a large portion of his diocese’s baptismal 11

12

Giancarlo Andenna, ‘Aspetti e problemi dell’organizzazione pievana milenese nella prima età comunale,’ in Atti del 11o Congresso Internazionale di Studi sull’alto Medioevo (Spoleto, Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo, 1989), pp. 344–5, 341–69; Fedele Savio, Gli antichi vescovi d’Italia dalle origini al 1300 descritti per regioni: La Lombardia (Florence, Libreria editrice iorentina, 1913), pp. 977–8. Ian S. Robinson, Henry IV of Germany, 1056–1106 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 122–5.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire churches and tithe revenue to laymen in the form of livelli. In his irst year alone, he granted forty-eight such leases, nearly one-third of which consisted of parish tithe rights along with other rents and dues owed to baptismal churches by local villagers. Thanks to the polemics of medieval reformers, even modern historians have come to view Teudgrim’s actions – like those alleged of Landulf of Milan – as emblematic of the kind of abuses and poor administration the reform movement of the later eleventh century attempted to remedy.13 At the same time, that shift in perceptions about the church’s lands and economic interests relects, along with similar changes taking place north of the Alps, a broader reordering of social and political relationships over the course of the eleventh century in medieval Europe. Much of what deined that change, and what it meant to people experiencing it, can be gleaned from understanding how contemporaries in the eleventh century recast the history of igures like Teudgrim of Lucca. We can trace Teudgrim’s leasing activity in charters preserved in the exceptionally rich Lucchese archives.14 The city of Lucca maintained a public notariate that recorded and preserved in its archives thousands of records of sales, promissory notes, wills, leases, and other instruments related to the business of the city and the episcopacy. In the Lombard period, most notaries were clerics attached to the episcopal church, but following the Carolingian conquest, they were gradually replaced by a corps of public oicials under the auspices of the Tuscan margraves.15 Beginning in the mid-tenth century, many of these notaries wore a second hat as public judges, placing their imprimatur upon the legal proceedings as well.16 Having serendipitously escaped substantial loss or destruction over time, the documentary evidence preserved in Lucca thus provides us with a unique view of a world that operated on the basis of mutual agreement and conciliation among parties searching, as Gerd Althof has phrased it, to create ‘network[s] of personal ties and associations that … guaranteed security and support in every area of 13

14

15

16

See for example the assessment of Hans Erich Feine, ‘Kirchenreform and Niederkirchenwesen. Rechtsgeschichtliche Beiträge zur Reformfrage vornehmlich im Bistum Lucca im 11. Jahrhundert’, Studi Gregoriani 1 (1947), pp. 505–24; Edmund Guy Ranallo, ‘The Bishops of Lucca from Gherard I to Gherard II (868–1003)’, in Atti del 5. Congresso, pp. 730–5; and Guerra, Compendio, pp. 127–8. In addition to Osheim, ‘The Episcopal Archive of Lucca’, see also Hansmartin Schwarzmaier, ‘La società lucchese nell’alto medioevo e gli archivi ecclesiastici di Lucca’, in Lucca archivistica, storica, economica. Relazione e comunicazioni al XV Congreso Nazionale Archivistico. Lucca, ottobre 1969 (Rome, Centro di ricerca, 1973), pp. 175–91. Keller, ‘Der Gerichtsort’; Hagen Keller, ‘La Marca di Tuscia ino all’anno mille’, in Atti del 5. Congresso, pp. 117–36. Compare Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 293–4 and, more generally, François Bougard, La Justice dans le Royaume d’Italie de la in du VIIIe siècle au début du XIe siècle (Rome, Ecole Française de Rome, 1995), pp. 281–305.

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Diabolic contracts life’.17 In contrast to a formal beneice, livelli did not, in and of themselves, create ties of vassalage or dependency, but they did function as a tool for forging alliances and networks of idelity among the social elites of a region.18 Livelli therefore preserve a snapshot of individuals and groups of people coming together to exchange or transfer resources in a world where those actions articulated social and economic relations. The fact that Teudgrim and the recipients of his livelli took the time and efort to preserve the memory of their activity in formal, written legal instruments suggests that they intended their transactions to be public statements of their relationship and the obligations inherent in receiving prestige goods from the bishop. The movement of tithe rights from bishops to laymen during Teudgrim’s episcopacy relects an important reordering of social relationships in eastern Tuscany on the eve of the millennium, but one that at the same time may challenge our expectations about what constituted registers of interest, identity, and power in the ‘pre-communal’ period of Tuscan history. e lite s i n the te nth ce ntury: betwe e n royal p owe r and local authority Following the death of Louis II (855–75), a series of monarchs from various corners of Italy and the old Frankish kingdom competed for the crown of the Italian kingdom, casting themselves not as new men, but as legitimate heirs or representatives of the existing Carolingian order.19 Rulers like Berengar I, Rudolf of Burgundy, Hugh of Provence, Guy of Spoleto, Lambert of Spoleto, and Arduin of Ivrea all wrapped themselves in the trappings of traditional royal authority – such as issuing capitularies – and rallied the populace against external threats, particularly Magyar and Saracen raiders. When the Saxon ruler Otto I married Adelaide, the widow of King Lothar II, it provided a pretext for him to claim the crown of Italy in 962.20 Nonetheless, rulers such as Arduin of Ivrea (r.1002–15) 17 18

19

20

Althof , Friends, Family and Followers, p. 2. See Gabriella Rossetti, ‘Motivi economico-sociali e religiosi in atti di cessione di beni’. For an example of land conveyances (in this case purchases more than leases) creating power relations in a region, see the recent study by Jonathan Jarrett, Rulers and Ruled in Frontier Catalonia, 800–1010: Pathways of Power (Woodbridge, Sufolk and Rochester, NY, Boydell & Brewer, 2010), esp. pp. 136–66. Chris Wickham, Early Medieval Italy: Central Power and Local Society, 400–1000 (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1989), pp. 168–81; Giuseppi Sergi, ‘The Kingdom of Italy’, in NCMH, vol. III, pp. 346–71; Tabacco, The Struggle for Power, pp. 151–66. Stefan Weinfurter, ‘Kaiserin Adelheid und das ottonische Kaisertum’, FMS 33 (1999), pp. 1–19. Ottonian propagandists often delegitimized native Italian rulers by besmirching their moral character and dynastic claims, particularly the character of their wives and consorts. See Philippe Buc,

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire managed to challenge the Saxon claim by rallying aristocratic allies who were not willing to accept a foreigner as ruler in Italy.21 As Giuseppi Sergi has emphasized, the tenth-century Frankish-Italian monarchs attracted continuing support because, like their Carolingian predecessors, they favoured the interests of regional elites and their allied ecclesiastical princes while upholding the idea of the kingdom and public order.22 Consequently, there was a remarkable continuity in many of the public institutions, such as the urban notariates, public placita, and tithing inherited from the Lombards and Franks, but with growing local control over those institutions.23 Royal capitulary legislation efectively ceased after 898 and the royal chancery thereafter produced only diplomas addressed to individuals and churches rather than broad promulgations.24 In Lucca, the courts and notariate continued to function under the auspices of the margrave and the king, yet both these igures actually asserted themselves in fairly oblique ways, mostly in the form of privileges for the cathedral chapter.25 The margraves seemed to prefer Florence and Arezzo as bases of power, and they rarely held court in or around Lucca or donated much land to local institutions.26 Margrave Hugo (961–1001) in fact sold of a number of his landed assets in the area of Lucca to a local lord in 983.27 The relative remoteness of these rulers in their own capitals created a somewhat more luid socio-political environment for the regional aristocracy and the urban elites in the tenth century. While the regional aristocracy tended to dominate the episcopacy, the cathedral chapter

21 22 23

24 25

26

27

‘Italian Hussies and German Matrons: Liutprand of Cremona on Dynastic Legitimacy,’ FMS 29 (1995), pp. 207–25. See e.g. Brunhofer, Arduin von Ivrea, as in Chapter 3, pp. 103–138. Sergi, ‘Kingdom of Italy’, p. 349. Compare Bougard, Justice, pp. 283–8, who observes that even as judges began identifying themselves iudices domini regis in the later tenth century, membership in elite urban institutions was becoming more circumscribed and homogeneous as select families consolidated their control over them. See esp. p. 287. Tabacco, Struggle for Power, pp. 153–4. Keller,‘La marca di Tuscia’, p. 245. On eastern Tuscany and Arezzo, compare Jean Pierre Delumeau, ‘L’exercice de la justice dans le comté d’Arezzo (IXe début – XIIIe siècle), Mélanges de l’École française de Rome, Moyen Âge, 90: 2 (1978), pp. 563–605. Delumeau observes that royal and ducal judicial institutions, in particular the public placitum, prevailed in Arezzo until the middle of the eleventh century when dispute resolution appears to have become increasingly privatized or moved into ecclesiastical venues. Not that this was unexpected or unusual.Tuscan lordship generally in this period was difused and not based on nucleated territorial lordships. See Chris Wickham, ‘La signoria rurale in Toscana’, in Strutture e trasformazioni della signoria rurale nei secoli X-XIII, ed. Gerhard Dilcher and Cinzio Violante (Bologna, Società editrice il Mulino, 1996), pp. 343–410, and Sergio Salvi, Nascita della Toscana. Storia e storie della marca di Tuscia, Le Vie della Storia, 54 (Florence, Le Lettere, 2001), pp. 196–9, 210–11. See note 100 in this chapter.

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Diabolic contracts and notariate remained the stronghold of a handful of families based in Lucca itself. As we see later, however, these were not rigid factions, but broad social circles whose boundaries often overlapped in interesting ways. This situation in Lucca does nonetheless stand in some contrast to other areas of the Italian kingdom where the oice of the bishop tended to be more prominent and served to connect local interests more directly to ducal or royal authority. According to Ursula Brunhofer, this was not so much a result of their integration into the imperial church system under the Ottonian and Salian emperors, but relected the way episcopal resources and alliance with the bishop could boost the visibility, wealth, and credibility of smaller lords within the wider political world.28 In Milan, for example, many of the landed aristocrats who held beneices or livelli from the archbishop attracted additional patronage from the crown, thus raising their proile considerably. Vassalage or close relationships to a bishop allowed many secular lords to establish their own networks of clientage and territorial authority and subsequently attract imperial favour. By the latter half of the eleventh century, for example, social pre-eminence in northern Italy expressed itself through the possession of assets like fortresses, and prestige beneices such as churches and tithes. Building on texts like Conrad II’s privilege for the episcopal vassals in Milan, the Lombard Libri Feudorum described a capitaneus as someone who held a parish church and its lands in ief from a ‘prince or other authority’.29 The beneits of acquiring tithes and other resources from the bishops in Lucca appeared to be more local in scope, however, perhaps rendering the connection between lay power and church beneices in even starker terms. The inability of the church to retain control over such assets, compared with the visible power of those who did control them, appeared to later critics like Peter Damian and Humbert of Silva Candida to be an unacceptable diminution of the church’s power and liberty.Yet a century earlier, it was precisely the bishop’s ability to forge social relationships through gifting and leasing of such resources that marked him as an inluential person in the community. Barbara Rosenwein has made an analogous observation with regard to King Berengar I, who ruled in Italy at the turn of the tenth century.30 Berengar’s marked liberality in granting royal privileges and immunities to bishops, cities, and key allies 28 29 30

Brunhofer, Arduin von Ivrea, p. 25. Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, p. 101; Keller, Adelsherrschaft, pp. 22, 130. Barbara Rosenwein, ‘The Family Politics of Berengar I, King of Italy (888–924)’, Speculum 71 (1996), pp. 247–89.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire in the Po valley has often been cited as a sign of his weak and contrived kingship – being forced to alienate large portions of the royal isc or royal rights to private institutions and individuals in order to maintain power. Rosenwein sees another side of the coin, however: Such liberality could also be a sign of a particularly self-conident and vigorous type of kingship that sought to channel the most visible and profound symbols of Carolingian rule. Who but a powerful and secure king could be so generous with the crown’s goods? To be sure, Teudgrim and other bishops like him may not have actually been in a particularly favourable position and it does not seem possible to stake out what was really going on with great precision, even with the large number of documents provided. Rosenwein’s observations about Berengar suggest, however, that medieval rulers – and bishops were lords in a very real way – need to be judged on the basis of perceptions about power, leadership, and administration of that time rather than our own or that of reformist critics generations later. There was a considerable upswing in the granting of livelli by the Lucchese bishops from the second third of the ninth century, no doubt out of a need to administer the large number of gifts received in the previous century as well as to establish an efective network of clients among the local landowning gentry.31 Signs of controversy emerged by the midninth century, however, as men of Frankish origin settled into the oice of bishop and attempted to intervene in, or change, the cosy relationship between the episcopacy and the lessees of church property, particularly pievi. In 854, King Louis II gave Bishop Jeremiah of Lucca permission to revoke any livelli issued under previous bishops that inappropriately granted church property to laymen.32 It is tempting to view Jeremiah as a bold reformer trying to stem the loss of church resources. We should keep in mind, however, that Jeremiah, along with his two predecessors, was probably among the irst bishops of Lucca installed by the Franks or to be of Frankish origin.33 Privileges like those from Louis II were often granted in cases in which the bishop’s interests conspicuously coincided with the crown’s. Jeremiah himself was a scion of the old Lombard nobility, but he did represent Frankish authority and thus may have had a vested interest in reversing some earlier grants to the disadvantage of the local aristocracy and its established connections with previous bishops – an interest Louis was happy to oblige, particularly if it meant that his 31 32

33

Mailloux, ‘Constitution du patrimoine’, pp. 712–13. I Placiti del Regnum Italiae, ed. C. Manaresi, Fonti per la storia d’Italia, vol. 96 (Rome, Istituto storico italiano per il medio evo, 1955.), I, nr. 57. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 92–7.

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Diabolic contracts missi were recognized and Frankish procedures and the use of documents prevailed.34 Disputes over pievi also provided a singular opportunity for royal justice to assert itself alongside the bishop’s authority. Although decrees against lay possession of baptismal churches were in keeping with a long tradition of Carolingian attempts to maximize episcopal control of local churches, distinguishing between clerical and lay interests in Lucca’s churches was not always clear. Just the previous year, in 853, Bishop John of Pisa, the margrave Adalbert, and a royal vassal named Gausebert, acting as imperial missi, held a placitum to resolve a dispute between Jeremiah and the family of a priest named Belisarius over the church of S. Gervasio (also known as S. Maria Forisportam), part of which they and their father had held per livellum from the previous bishop, Ambrose.35 Jeremiah claimed that Belisarius and his kin had allowed the church to fall into disrepair (peiorata esset) and thus deserved to forfeit it, but Belisarius and his brothers denied this. The bishop then produced a brief (brevis) reminding the court that the missi were empowered by Emperor Lothar to investigate any issues relating to things taken from the diocese of Lucca anywhere in Tuscany or Romagna and which could not be resolved or recovered though alternative means.36 The missi, their jurisdiction now conirmed, called several witnesses who airmed under oath that Belisarius had indeed let the property deteriorate. Neither Belisarius nor any of his brothers could impeach the testimony and the judges ordered that Samuel and Ansualdo, Belisarius’s two brothers, along with Leo his advocate, provide sureties (wadia) and pay Jeremiah’s advocate the forty-solidi ine stipulated in the lease for violating any of its terms. Clerical families like Belisarius’s were entrenched in the local churches, but Jeremiah skilfully used the authority of an imperial writ to force the missi to render a hard judgement against them. One senses in records of placita like this that the entire background story is not revealed, however; we learn in the reading of the original livellum in court, for example, that Belisarius and his brothers received a portion of the church of S. Gervasio – one of Lucca’s oldest and most prominent foundations – from not only their father, Anspald, but another priest, Teuderad, and renewed 34

35

36

On procedures and evidence in eighth- and ninth-century Italian courts, see Wickham, ‘Land Disputes and their Social Framework’, pp. 117–18. Memorie e documenti per servire all’istoria del ducato di Lucca, V, pt. 2, ed. Domenico Barsocchini (Lucca, Accademia lucchese di scienza, 1837), nr. 698, pp. 418–20. See too Rudolf Hübner, ‘Gerichtsurkunden der fränkischen Zeit, pt. 2 (Die Gerichtsurkunden aus Italien bis zum Jahre 1150)’, ZRG, g.A. 13 (1892), pp. 169–248, at. nr. 754, p. 40. Memorie e documenti,V, 2, p. 419: ‘…Si vero aliqua orta fuisset comtemptio, que deliberare ibi menime potuissent sub wadia irmisque idijussoribus, hoc ante nostra venire fecisset presentia’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire their lease with the bishop in return for several kinds of payments and oferings, as well as agreeing to maintain the lighting and perform the divine oice. As soon as he came of age, the younger brother, Ansualdo, was brought into the arrangement as well. Possession of S. Gervasio was clearly part of a family tradition and the father, Anspald, had even served as a scabinus under Bishop Ambrose.37 The fact that Jeremiah had speciically to direct the missi to hear the case on the grounds that it could not be resolved through an extra-judicial settlement suggests that he had found it diicult, if not impossible, to discipline the brothers on his own. Absent outside intervention, it was unlikely that someone like Belisarius, rector of an important church like S. Gervasio, would have yielded to the bishop’s demands to repair the church or, more likely, renew the livellum on the bishop’s terms. Indeed, in the end the brothers were required to post a surety and pay a ine, but were apparently not deprived of their holding. One wonders whether accusing the brothers of neglecting the church was more of a legal formality rather than the core of what the bishop wanted.38 Interesting, the judges never seemed interested in inspecting the church for themselves, nor did the brothers demand that they do so in their own defence. The church of S. Gervasio was on the opposite side of the city walls where the ducal palace was located, but still only about a half kilometre away, and requesting a formal inspection of disputed property occurred not infrequently in the course of inquests such as this one.39 While leasing pievi and their property to a priest fell within the normal purview of the bishop’s duties, it was also diicult to keep those priests from in turn making their own arrangements to sub-lease portions of the pieve and its land or resources to people in the community.40 In 936, for example, Bishop Conrad of Lucca granted a priest named Pietro, son of Leo, the pieve of S. Lorenzo in Vajano.41 Sometime after this, however, Pietro leased all the property and tithes of the pieve to Gottifredo, a royal judge in Lucca.42 The oice of pievano, or parish priest, represented the centre of the local community outside the city. As Chris Wickham observed, by the ninth century, it ‘conveyed considerable 37 38 39 41

42

Schwarzmeier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 276. Wickham, ‘Land Disputes and their Social Framework’, pp. 115–17. Ibid., p. 109. 40 Feine, ‘Niederkirchenwesen’, p. 514. Memorie e documenti, V, pt. 3, ed. Domenico Barsocchini (Lucca, Accademia lucchese di scienza, 1841), nr. 1241. The pieve was located in the hilly, forested region between Lucca and Florence known as Cerbaie, just east of Bientina. The livello is witnessed by what appears to be most of the cathedral chapter of Lucca and a number of the city’s leading judiciary and notariate. Memorie e documenti, V, 3, nrs. 1242–3. On Gottifredo and his family, see Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 320. Further leases of parish property by priests is listed in Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, appendix II, pp. 255–6.

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Diabolic contracts economic power and political importance in its own right and may have been much sought after’.43 Priests could reinforce this position by giving their local allies or their own families a stake in managing resources and people of the pievi, as we saw in the case of Belisarius and his brothers. Over the course of the tenth century, bishops increasingly bypassed the traditional prerogatives of the local priest and began leasing pievi directly to laymen who did not cultivate the land themselves.44 Historians of the Italian church in the early Middle Ages have viewed the movement towards direct episcopal leases of pievi and other property to aristocratic absentee landowners in places like Lucca, Pisa,Volterra, and Pistoia as a signiicant shift in the practices of episcopal administration and a symptom of the feudalization of the church that accelerated during the general disorder following the collapse of the state in the tenth and early eleventh centuries.45 Around the turn of the tenth century, Bishop Peter II of Lucca (896–921), much like Jeremiah a generation earlier, attempted to reassert episcopal authority over the pievi, though this time lay leaseholders as such appear to have been the subject of the dispute rather than clerical possessors.46 In 887, he approached a royal placitum in Florence complaining that laymen were illegally retaining numerous church properties.47 The judges ordered the several dozen persons in question to appear before the court no less than three times, but they declined and the bishop was by default declared to be in right of the property. An inventory probably produced in the context of the Florence placitum lists portions of twenty-one pievi in lay hands, with twelve speciically called beneicia.48 What is not clear is how many of these ‘beneices’ technically originated as livelli made directly to the beneice holders or had been let out on other terms. In the later ninth century, laymen were beginning to assert personal control over church property, which may have originated as ecclesiastical beneices or leases, however. Eriteo, a layman who served as advocate of S. Martino under Peter’s predecessor, Gherard I, successfully defended his possession of some property near Pescia in 884 43 44 45

46

47 48

Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 51. Spicciani, ‘Concessioni livellarie’, pp. 183–97; Endres, ‘Kirchengut’, p. 267. Spicciani, ‘Conciessioni livellarie’, pp. 184–6; Cinzio Violante, ‘Bénéices vassaliques et livelli dans le cours de l’évolution féodale’, in Histoire et société. Mélanges oferts à Georges Duby (Aix-enProvence, Publications de l’Univ. de Provence 1992), pp. 123–31. Cinzio Violante, ‘Pievi e parrocchie’, p. 657–8; Hansmartin Schwarzmaier, ‘Der Adel Luccas im 10. und 11. Jahrhundert. Kontinuität und Neuanfang bei den sozialen Oberschichten im Bereich Luccas’, QFIAB 52 (1972), pp. 68–89. Manaresi, Placiti, I, nr. 102. See too Hübner, Gerichtsurkunden Italiens, nr. 819, p. 56. Nota di renditori, Inventari del vescovato, nr. 1, 3–11. Interesting, Marc Bloch mentions this document in his Feudal Society as evidence of the emergence of the ‘beneice’ as a feudal tenure tied to military service, but the military context is far from clear. See Feudal Society, 2 vols., translated by L. A. Manyon (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1961), I, p. 178.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire by claiming to have held it more than thirty years.49 Gerhard presented charters he claimed vindicated the church’s rights, but the witnesses mustered by Eriteo satisied the judges – all local Lucchese scabini. Losing cases such as this no doubt prompted Peter, like Jeremiah earlier in the century, to appeal the case to a royal court where judges were more than happy to support the prelate over the local aristocracy; indeed, Eriteo is one of the people explicitly named in the bishop’s complaint at the Florence placitum. It appears, in fact, that Peter’s inventory describes a snapshot of – among other tenant dues – various sub-leases from episcopal and parish patrimonies that were referred to as beneicia and which the bishop did not want to slip away from the church’s control (as in Eriteo’s case). He did not, it seems, wish to revoke such arrangements outright, but wanted to make sure that the distribution of church beneices followed in a manner he controlled. In 899, for instance, Peter ordained priests in two pievi in Riana and Lammari, but expressly forbade them to sub-lease any of the parish property without his permission.50 On the other hand, he appears to have been rather sanguine about the activities of a certain priest named Tassilo, the rector of the pieve of S. Hippolyte in Aniano (near Diecimo in the Garfagnana), who sub-leased a number of properties in the area of S. Maria a Monte (on the eastern edge of Cerbaie) to other priests and individuals in 898 and 901.51 Tassilo was nonetheless ordained in his pieve in return for an annual rent of sixty solidi – roughly three times the size of many other livelli – and without any express limitations. The reason for this apparent discrepancy may have to do with the fact that Peter’s family were important landowners in the area around S. Maria a Monte and the Cerbaie.52 In 902, Peter leased land near S. Maria to his brother, Ghiselfrid, and in 906, gave a small homestead (casalino) to a certain Gumbaldus with the provision that Gumbaldus and his men could have use of the bishop’s castle there when necessary – no doubt in fear of Magyar raiders who had begun to penetrate into Friuli and Lombardy around the turn of the century.53 In those areas where Peter’s family had direct interests, perhaps he was more secure in allowing laymen and plebani lexibility in structuring the social contours of the region. In 936, co-rulers Hugh of Provence and Lothar II conirmed for the canons of S. Donato of Arezzo the donations of Bishop Peter and 49

50 51 53

Memorie e documenti, IV, 2, nr. 49, 65. See too the summary in Hübner, Gerichtsurkunden Italiens, nr. 803. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nrs. 1037, 1089. Ibid., nrs. 1008–13, 1047. 52 Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 102. Memore e documenti V, 3, nr. 1098. S. Maria a Monte also commanded a strategic hill overlooking the Via Francigena and the road from Pisa to Florence.

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Diabolic contracts property given by Emperor Lothar I which had been unjustly alienated.54 The donation’s terms suggest that already at this time, the problem foreshadowed in King Lambert’s 898 capitulary, namely the conlation of livelli and beneices, had become a problem in Arezzo as well. The privilege secured speciically a church of S. Donato in Longoria from which the canons were to receive all the proceeds and oferings without interference from the bishop: ‘Because it is customary in Tuscany that, having received a livello for a church, certain people turn it into a nuisance for the church by not paying their dues, we declare and order in every way, that no bishop or canon shall give a church to any man by livello or other written instrument, unless it is to workers who render the fruit of the land directly to the church or the canons without disturbance or any contradiction’. As these observations clearly suggest, granting livelli posed substantial risks for the church.The leaseholder might not pay the agreed rent fee, or – more likely – would simply divert all the dues and tithes from the area to his own cofers and storehouses without seeing that an adequate portion was reserved for the maintenance of the pieval church and clergy.Yet over the course of the tenth century, parish priests leased at least a portion, if not all, of the property and tithes of twelve Lucchese parishes to area laymen in return for rents ranging from two solidi to twenty-three solidi.55 Beginning around 970, those leases of parish property were primarily conducted by the bishops themselves, culminating in a mass transfer of most of Lucca’s remaining pievi to lay leaseholders under Bishop Teudgrim in 983. Unless we adopt the position that medieval churchmen were incredibly naïve or routinely let themselves be hoodwinked by laymen who solicited tithes and other property with no intention of respecting the bishop or the church’s interests, it is incumbent upon the historian to seek to understand what may have led bishops to pursue a policy that lew in the face of established legal norms and royal prohibitions in addition to being economically disadvantageous to the leaser. The money rents demanded in the livelli were not large, and because they were paid in coin, the episcopal church assumed the risk of inlation or devaluation going forward, while the livellarius could come out ahead by arbitraging the money rent versus the value of the surplus produce collected within the pieve.56 This 54

55

56

I Diplomi di Ugo e di Lotario II, ed. Luigi Schiaparelli (Rome, Istituto storico italico per il medio evo, 1924), nr. 33, pp. 101–5. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nrs. 1261, 1262, 1266, 1267, 1300, 1304, 1308, 1350, 1360, 1497, 1499, 1503, 1506, 1509, 1602, 1603, 1604. See Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, appendix II. David Herlihy, ‘The History of the Rural Seigneury in Italy, 751–1200’, Agricultural History 33:2 (1959), pp. 58–71 at p. 62. On the discrepancy between in kind revenues and money rents in pievan leases, see too Andrea Castagnetti, La pieve rurale nell’Italia padana (Rome, Herder, 1976),

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire is not to say that bishops or other clergy never acted out of intimidation, narrow self-interest, or disregard of recognized rules and laws when dealing with church property – inner motivations are usually something outside the scope of historical inquiry. It may be that the bishops of Lucca desperately needed to raise cash and granting livelli for tithe rights was a last resort. There is no evidence that Teudgrim of Lucca or his immediate successors (until Anselm I, who re-built the cathedral of S. Martino and established a hospital there c.1060), embarked on any lavish building or patronage programmes, however, or accumulated notable liturgical vessels or libraries. To be sure, Lucca’s emergent commercial economy in the tenth and eleventh centuries was increasingly monetized, as were the economies of other towns like Florence and Milan.57 There are some indications that the once moribund Luccan mint began reissuing coins in the mid-to-late tenth century, but a clear connection this early between the nascent monetized economy and the practices of episcopal lordship is not easy to establish and does not explain the full scope of the leasing phenomenon.58 Moreover, when bishops in the later eleventh century fought to regain control over the pievi, the tithes – ostensibly their most valuable asset – were rarely explicitly acknowledged.59 We ought to recall Appadurai’s observation that the thing being exchanged, more so than just its form or function, confers meaning upon it. We should equally consider some of these actions as part of a culture that valued, particularly from its leaders, the open symbols and gestures of generosity, reciprocity, and idelitas that accompanied the granting of privileges or leases like livelli. Some of these grants, particularly those which included forts or castles, may have been military in nature, but certainly not all, or even most, can be described in this way. On the other hand, particularly from the mid-eleventh century onwards, leases tied to some kind of castle or corte tended to become more important and the holders of such leases more prominent in the social landscape. In recent years, social historians have come to understand the livelli as a tool that allowed bishops to create ties of loyalty and idelity between themselves and important laymen, as well as members of their own family.60

57 58

59 60

pp. 123–34. There had been a royal mint in Lucca since at least the Lombard period, but that declined during the ninth century. See Gian Guido Belloni, ‘La zecca di Lucca dalle origini a Carlo Magno’, in Le zecche minori toscane ino al XIV secolo, Atti del 3° Convegno Internazionale di Studi, Pistoia, 16–19 sett. 1967 (Pistoia, Centro italiano di studi di storia e d’arte, 1974), pp. 58–71. See Cinzio Violante, ‘I Vescovi dell’Italia centro-settentrionale’. Alessia Rovelli, ‘Coins and trade in early medieval Italy’, EME 17:1 (2009), pp. 45–76 at p. 56; Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 52. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 19–21. Rossetti, ‘Motivi economico-sociali e religiosi’, as well as eadem, ‘Società e istituzioni nei secoli IX e X: Pisa,Volterra, Populonia,’ in Atti del 5.Congresso, pp. 209–337, here p. 288.

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Diabolic contracts Pievi and their tithes represented a prestige possession, one whose economic value and socio-political valences signalled a special kind of lordly prominence and closeness to the church.While the economic beneits of controlling tithes in a pieve were undoubtedly signiicant, great value also lay in their symbolic capital – the ability to signal status and honour for the person or group possessing them.61 As noted previously, for example, the Libri Feudorum deined the Milanese capitanei in terms of ecclesiastical beneices, speciically pievi. Such arrangements relect a value system that placed a premium on visible signs of privilege, friendship, and status.62 Thus changes in patterns of the possession of pievi in the early Middle Ages can indicate important changes in perceptions of order and power that necessitated the accumulation of, or divestment from, symbols of social prestige and ailiation with the diocesan bishop. fami ly connections : th e e piscopacy of teudg rim and the leasing of tith e s It is in this context that we ind Bishop Teudgrim, an otherwise inauspicious and unknown prelate were it not for the unusually large number of livelli granted to laymen during his episcopacy, concentrated almost entirely in the year 983.Yet it is not only the relative number of livelli he granted that is worthy of attention, but that a large number contained express cession of tithe rights, something that had only been conceded very rarely by earlier bishops.63 If tithes were, as I have argued, a particularly important prestige possession and a sign of a close personal relationship with the bishop, the fact that a signiicant number of Teudgrim’s livelli included tithe rights ought to attract our attention. Why disperse lucrative tithe rights – even for the cash rent provided in a livello – at this time? The rural aristocracy of Lucca was a relatively circumscribed group of elite landowners and urban oicials with interests in the countryside who had grown in wealth and inluence over the course of the tenth century through careful management and accumulation of churches, tithes, estates, and castles through purchase and/or lease, much of which they obtained 61 62

63

Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice, 171–83. In addition to Rossetti and Bourdieu, compare Rafaele Savigni, ‘La signoria vescovile lucchese tra XI e XII sècolo: consolidamento patrimoniale e primi rapporti con la classe dirigente cittadina’, Aevum 67:2 (1993), pp. 333–67, esp. pp. 333–5. Violante, ‘Pieve e parrochie’, p. 658 observed that 970 seems to have been a key date in the leasing of tithes to laymen in Lucca. Compare, Memorie e documenti, V, 3, nn. 1264 (Bishop Conrad); 1420 (Bishop Adalongus); 1446 (Adalongus); 1448 (Adalongus); 1501 (Bishop Guido); Memorie e documenti, IV, 2, ed. Domenico Bertini (Lucca, Accademia lucchese di scienza, 1818–36), nr. 74 (Adalongus).

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire from the bishops.64 There were no prominent comital families to speak of in the province of Lucca as there were in other parts of Tuscany, such as the Cadolingi of Pistoia or the Guidi of Florence. Although the archival documents generally list the name of the actor’s father (e.g. Cunimund f[ilius] Sigemundi or Cunimund f[ilius] q[uondam] Sigemundi if the latter was deceased), the relatively limited name stock of prominent Tuscan families makes constructing genealogies a diicult process.65 Only later in the eleventh and twelfth centuries did the leading families in the region come to dominate speciic areas with fortiications and adopt toponymics, as was typical elsewhere in Europe.66 The rural aristocracy of Teudgrim’s day was difused and, most signiicant, its landed wealth was scattered about the diocese, giving individual families interests in many areas simultaneously.67 Although their signiicance changes dramatically in the eleventh century, castles in the tenth century were only occasionally important components of local defence or rent collection.68 There is no evidence, however, of the kind of incastellamento, or reorganization of villages and people into fortiied settlements dominated by a local lord, so widely documented in other areas of Italy.69 What mattered more at this point in time was inter-personal relationships that one built across the community with important individuals and institutions, in particular the episcopacy and the cathedral chapter.70 Out of more than eighty leases of pievi and other church or familial property issued by Teudgrim between 983 and 988, twenty-eight included rights to tithes or ‘oblations and dues’ owed by the inhabitants of the pieve and were directed almost exclusively to members of a small clique of large landholding families in the region. Because there are so many leases for Teudgrim’s episcopacy, it would be burdensome to analyse them individually in laundry-list fashion. Instead, I shall examine several sets of livelli issued on behalf of certain important groups and trace the social 64

65

66 67 68 69

70

See generally Schwarzmaier, ‘Der Adel Luccas’, as well as Gabriella Rossetti, ‘Deinizione dei ceti dirigenti e metodo della ricerca di storia familiare’, in I ceti dirigenti, pp.59–78; Wickham, ‘La signoria rurale’. Though in the cases of some of the more prominent comital families, as well as those of some pievan priests, it is possible to reconstruct several centuries of descent with a fair amount of certainty. Compare Cinzio Violante, ‘Le strutture familiari, parentali e constortili della aristocrazia in Toscana durante i secoli X–XII’, in I ceti dirigenti, pp. 1–51. Wickham, ‘La signoria rurale’, pp. 344–5. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 120; Ranallo, ‘Bishops of Lucca’, p. 732. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 101. Gina Fasoli, ‘Castelli e signori rurale’, in Agricoltura e mondo rurale in ocidente nell’alto medioevo, Settimane di Studio, 13 (Spoleto, Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 1966), pp. 531–67 and Pietro Vaccari, La Territorialità come base dell’ordinamento giuridico del contado nell’Italia medioevale (Milan, Fondazione Italiana per la Storia Amministrativa, 1963).The classic study of incastellamento, focused speciically on the region of Lazio, remains Toubert, Les structures du Latium. Rossetti, ‘Deinizione dei ceti dirigenti’, p. 67.

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Diabolic contracts and political ramiications of the relationships that resulted, both on a local scale and in terms of power relationships and politics in the diocese as a whole. Teudgrim’s leases were not a haphazard giveaway of property, but strategically deployed instruments designed to reairm or create ties with certain important groups in his diocese or to inject his inluence among groups where he might have been more weakly represented, particularly in the context of the vigorous growth of the cathedral chapter’s inluence in the countryside. When Teudgrim became bishop sometime early in 983, many of his early leases of property, pievi, and tithe rights merely renewed or reafirmed previously existing arrangements, some dating back to the ninth century. One of Teudgrim’s irst leases in 983 was to Giovanni, the son of Rodiland, who received a curtis dominicalis in the pieve of Loppia (near Barga, upper Garfagnana), along with the tithe owed to the baptismal church there by twenty-eight surrounding villages.71 This lease seems to typify the kind of communal interest in local churches common across Italy in the early Middle Ages.72 Giovanni’s brothers, as well as several nephews, all received tithes and a portion of the church of S. Pancrazio in Marlia from Teudgrim in 983.73 But it is important to note that Teudgrim’s leases in Marlia were essentially renewals of leases granted to Giovanni’s father, Rodiland, and his uncles by Leo, the pieval priest of S. Pancrazio, in 939 and 940.74 Rodiland’s father, a powerful episcopal and royal vassal named Chunimund, had acquired numerous properties in the Garfagnana and around Marlia from several Lucchese bishops in the later ninth and early tenth centuries.75 It seems likely, as Hansmartin Schwarzmaier has pointed out, that portions of the church of S. Pancrazio had been in the family’s possession from at least that time.76 The livelli pertaining to S. Pancrazio and Marlia here are examples of the bishop exploiting a privilege that had once belonged to the pieval priest. Perhaps this is an indication of Teudgrim’s growing concern over the episcopacy’s ability to secure its resources and interests, but it could also be a sign that the family itself recognized the importance of having the bishop airm its rights in this formal way. The pieve of S. Pancrazio lay in Marlia, in the hills north of Lucca, and boasted a number of important royal properties, including at least one palace used on occasion by kings and emperors when doing business 71

72 73 74 75

Memorie e documenti, V, 3, nr. 1538; Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 103; Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 105–8. See Chapter 3, p. 103–38 and n. 98. Memorie e Documenti V, 3, nrs. 1540–4, 1547, 1548. Ibid., nrs. 1261, 1266, 1271. Compare Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 225. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 222–5. 76 Ibid., p. 223.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire in the area of Lucca.77 A family with landed interest there would have an important property base in close proximity to a royal estate and site of imperial power. Indeed, at a royal assembly held in Lucca in 964, Rodiland’s brothers, Inghifrid and Siegfried, witnessed a charter conirming the rights of the bishop of Reggio.78 The tithe of S. Pancrazio was split into quarters – or smaller portions – among the family members. The division of tithe rights into fractions as small as one-twelfth suggests that the symbolic value of the lease was perhaps at least as great as its economic potential. The tithes were thus distributed relatively equally among the members of this family, giving them all a stake in the relationship with the bishop and the people in the pieve. It appears that Giovanni died in 983 as well, because a livello that same year for his son, named Teudgrim (no apparent relation to the bishop), granted him a one-twelfth interest in the tithe of S. Pancrazio. Following some of the names in the witness lists to livelli provides further insight into the ways in which episcopal tithe privileges knit various interest groups together. A man named Donnuccio, the brother of Bishop Guido, Teudgrim’s predecessor, witnessed two of the S. Pancrazio livelli mentioned earlier.79 Donnuccio received the church of Santangelo in Brancoli (in the hills above the Serchio north of Lucca) ‘with all oferings and oblations collected there’.80 In three other livelli, Donnuccio also received the church of S. Regolo in Gualdo (near Populonia),81 a large curtis in Capannoli in the Val d’Era,82 a curtis in the diocese of Populonia, and the church of S. Lorenzo in Vaccoli (in the mountain pass between Lucca and Pisa) with all its oferings and oblations.83 The geographic spread of Donnuccio’s leases is striking, but not at all atypical. The livello for S. Lorenzo also included a house in the city of Lucca, near the church of S. Michele in Foro. Donnuccio and Guido’s family thus in one fell stroke acquired interests – though not direct lordships – in several key areas even as the family’s allodial holding remained in Porcari, in the plain east of Lucca. The house in Lucca also reinforced Donnuccio’s presence in the urban environment. Resources leased from the bishop complemented what was quickly becoming a signiicant lordship in the plain east of Lucca. In 952, Donnuccio and Guido’s father, Teudimund, 77

78 79

80 81

Compare Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nrs. 1541–4. On royal courts convened in the palace at Marlia, see MGH DD Otto I, nr. 343; MGH DD Otto III, nrs. 299–301. MGH DD Otto I, nr. 269. Memorie e documenti, V, 3, nrs. 1542–3 (both for Enrico, son of Sighifrid); Bruno Andreolli, ‘Donnuccio e Fraolmo-: due grandi livellari del secolo X’, in Uomini nel Medioevo: Studi sulla società lucchese dei secoli VIII–XII, Il mondo medievale, 4, ed.Vito Fumigalli (Bologna, Patron, 1983), 79–93. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nr. 1528. Ibid., nr. 1525. 82 Ibid., nr. 1530. 83 Ibid., nr. 1531.

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Diabolic contracts purchased an expansive curtis there from the margrave Hubert, the father of Hugo. The curtis of Porcari probably consisted of an old royal estate which had passed into the hands of the Tuscan margraves, who in turn sold it as private property.84 It included a castle and the church of S. Giusto situated atop a steep hill overlooking the surrounding countryside just a few kilometres east of Lucca. Guy Ranallo observed that between 980 and 986, that is, during the reigns of Guido and Teudgrim, Donnuccio accumulated leases that paid the diocese a total of ifty-nine solidi in rent.85 Teudgrim also paid close attention to the position of his own family, based in the far southeast corner of the diocese of Lucca abutting the territory of Florence. Although the connections are diicult to discern, Teudgrim appears to have belonged to one of several families called the lords (or lombardi) of San Miniato, where the leading name Teudgrim was prominent.86 The relationship between this group and the church of S. Martino and its bishops in Lucca was not new. In 975, for example, Bishop Adalongus granted a livello of property in Legoli to two brothers named Farofolo and Teudgrim, the sons of Farofolo, whom the document describes as a ‘lombard of San Miniato’.87 In 980, Bishop Guido leased to the same Teudgrim, son of Farofolo, one-half of the castle and estate (curtis) of S. Gervasio along with one-half of all the rents and dues owed to the church by the inhabitants of thirty-four nearby villages, which probably included tithes.88 In 983, a certain Willelmo, whom a dorsal note identiies as a ‘lord of San Miniato’, received the pieve of S. Maria di Atriana (Valtriano, southeast of Pisa) from Teudgrim, and the tithes of Crespina and several other surrounding villages in a mountain valley west of the Era river.89 In another, Teudgrim granted Willelmo and the latter’s brother, Guido, all the goods of the pieve of S. Maria di Quarratiana (i.e. Corazzano), which included the tithes of thirty-nine villages.90 Teudgrim 84 85 86

87

88

89 90

Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 111; Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 113–14. Ranallo, ‘The Bishops of Lucca’, p. 731. Compare Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 118–22, and the proposed genealogical tree on p. 121. Memorie e documenti, V, 2, nr. 1966. This is not Teudgrim the later bishop, but must have been a cousin or other close relative. Legoli lies in Valdera south of the Arno a few kilometres east of Péccioli in a region dominated by San Miniato. See Repetti, Dizionario, vol. II, p. 675. Lombard was a term used frequently in documents such as this to refer to a local lord or aristocrat and had no particular ethnic or geographic connotations. Memorie e documenti, IV, 2, nr. 74. S. Gervasio lay in Valdera south of the Arno River in the southernmost portion of the diocese of Lucca between San Miniato and Pontedera. Repetti, Dizionario, vol. 2, 434f. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nr. 1564. On Valtriano, see Repetti, Dizionario, vol. 5, 593f. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nr. 1568. Corazzano is a few kilometres south of San Miniato in the Egola river valley.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire also preserved his family and Lucca’s interest in the pieve and fortress of S. Gervasio, not far from San Miniato, because he leased goods there to his own brother Guido in 986.91 Although it remains diicult to understand precisely how these individuals were related, the concentration of their landed interests in the area of San Miniato and in the pieve of S. Gervasio in particular suggests a close association. Schwarzmaier is probably correct in conjecturing that Teudgrim, the son of Farofolo, was the father of Bishop Teudgrim and Guido. Willelmo’s position is more diicult to discern, but the size of the livello he received and its location near San Miniato, in addition to the fact that Guido appears to have been a common name in the family, points to a possible familial relationship. The distinction between the episcopal mensa and Teudgrim’s familial property in S. Gervasio was itself a bit murky, though this state of afairs would have been hardly unique to Lucca in the early Middle Ages.92 In the livello he received from his brother, Guido obtained a portion of two casae massaricae and their appurtenances in a place called Laviano (location uncertain) on the Arno belonging to S. Gervasio, but also requested, and received per livello ‘vestre medietatem’ [sic], that is, Teudgrim’s half of the pieve, which he no doubt had inherited from his father.93 In this way, Teudgrim circulated episcopal goods back to his own family and maintained an important connection between the episcopacy and the lords of San Miniato. A number of Teudgrim’s most signiicant leases – particularly ones that included broad tithe rights – seemed designed to give his allies resources, land, and dependents precisely near places where the cathedral chapter had been building its own lordship over the previous century, particularly southeast of the city around Massa Macinaia and to the east in Massarosa. The pieve of S. Christina in Massa Pisana, just north of Vaccoli, also igured prominently for the bishops and the cathedral chapter. Since at least the mid-ninth century, the church of S. Christina had been controlled by a single family whose members had served variously as episcopal missi and rectors of churches in and around Lucca, including S. Lorenzo in Vaccoli and the churches of S. Pietro Maggiore and S. Angelo in the city

91

92

93

Ibid., nr. 1606. This is not the same Guido as the brother of Willelmo. Guido and Teudgrim’s father, according to the charter, was also called Teudgrim and they are identiied in the dorsal notice as ‘Signori di Sanminiato’. See e.g. Everett U. Crosby, Bishop and Chapter in Twelfth Century England (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1994). Compare Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nr. 1606, 490: ‘…competi exinde suprascr. plebis vestre medietatem, ipsa vero in integra medietate, quod est per mensura ad iuxta pertica mensuratas de cultis rebus mod. sex, et sist. decem et nove, et de terris agrestibus, quo sunt silvis et buscareis mod. quatuor, in integrum mihi eas livell. nom. dedisti’.

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Diabolic contracts itself.94 In 943, the priest of S. Christina in Massa, Grimaldo, leased the entire pieve to Auderam with the consent of Bishop Conrad.95 Auderam, for his part, used his land in Vaccoli to acquire possessions south of the Arno, exchanging property from S. Christina with the canons in return for land in Scopeto and Capannoli. Bishop Conrad had subsequently leased the pieve to a man named Sisemund, the son of Chunerad. When Teudgrim became bishop, he divided the goods and tithes of the pieve between Sisemund and Fraolmo, son of Fraolmo (Figure 4.1).96 Fraolmo was the viscount of Lucca, an oice second only to that of the margrave, and a leading member of the urban governing class.97 He received leases of other property and some tithes from Teudgrim in the southern part of the diocese along the Arno River near San Miniato.98 Around the same time, Sisemund – described in a later dorsal note as ancestor of the ‘lords of Montemagno’ – received all the goods of S. Stefano of Villora (Villa) southeast of Lucca and all the tithes of several nearby villages, including Massa Macinaia. Sisemund’s brother, Chunerad, had received a lease of fourteen casae massaricae, or tenant holdings, and twenty-one other pieces of land throughout the diocese from Teudgrim earlier in 983.99 This was before Chunerad purchased all the property, including churches and monasteries, belonging to the margrave Hugo for the sum of £100 of silver.100 Both Sisemund and Chunerad also received one-ifth of the tithe of Camaiore, a village in the Apuane foothills above Versilia (Viareggio), suggesting that, like the family who split the tithes of S. Pancrazio in Marlia, they were two of at least ive siblings who held the pieve and its tithe together.101 Another brother, Gherhard, held leases in the Luccan plain and farther up in the Garfagnana valley.102 In 983, he received all the goods and tithes of the pieve of S. Maria in Pescia 94

95

96 97

98 99 100

101

102

The family featured the leading names Auderam and Diaprand. See Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 302. They may have been related to a certain Willeram who held the pieve of Vaccoli in the later ninth century, along with several other local churches, in beneice from the church of Lucca, as attested in the inventory of Bishop Peter. See Inventori, nrs. 1, 6–7. In Peter’s complaint to the Florence placitum, he is named again as ‘Willeram de Vacole’. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, 1304. Around the same time, Conrad leased Auderam half of the church of S. Pietro Maggiore and S. Pietro di Cortina. Compare nr. 1303. Ibid., nr. 1558; 1560; Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 237. Fraolmo’s father and uncles had dealings with the bishops of Lucca in the irst half of the tenth century: Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nrs. 1303, 1304, 1309, 1344. Compare Ibid., nrs. 1569, 1570 Ibid., nr. 1535. Ibid., nr. 1573. The charter does not specify a limit or location of the property in question; indeed, it appears to be a sale of all the margrave’s property in the region of Pisa and Lucca: ‘… quacumque res ubicunque in qualibet locas vel vocabulas abere et possidere visus sum…’ Memorie e documenti, V, 3, nr. 1586; Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 236–8. The document mentions that the pieve of Camaiore bordered lands owned by Donnuccio. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 237.

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Figure 4.1 The Family of Donnuccio and the Lords of Porcari, c.900–1070.

Diabolic contracts Maggiore, on the northern end of the Valdinievole. In the same month Gherard also received a livello for thirteen casae massaricae in Vecchiano and Malaventre (on the Serchio between Massarosa and Pisa).103 The ability to raise a sum in the order of £100 of silver underscores the fact that the family of Chunerad and Sisemund were not social parvenus, but well-established aristocratic landowners with large liquid incomes, no doubt supplemented now by substantial pieval tithes.104 Situating a powerful family with keen expansionist tendencies over the region north of Massarosa surely put pressure on the cathedral chapter’s interests there, and this may have been precisely what Teudgrim envisaged as he sought to secure the prestige and inluence of the episcopacy throughout the diocese. The relationship between Teudgrim and the deacon Gherard illustrates this further. In 984, Teudgrim leased the tithe of the pieve of S. Ambrogio in Elici to a deacon (levita) named Gherard and his sons and daughters.105 Elici lies in the hills overlooking Massarosa and was conveniently situated in the midst of the numerous mansi controlled by the cathedral chapter. Although levita often refers to a deacon, it does not appear that Gherard was an active member of the cathedral chapter, nor do we know in which church he may have served.106 Only a small handful of charters from Teudgrim’s episcopacy survive that provide a list of any members of the cathedral clergy, and a Gherard is not among any of them.107 He is, however, the same Gherard who was bishop of Lucca between 991 and 1003. We have also encountered Gherard’s family before, namely in the series of leases for the pieve of S. Pancrazio. Gherard was the son of Giovanni’s uncle Inghifrid (one of the signatories to the 964 royal charter mentioned earlier) and one of several nephews of Rodiland who had inherited a share in the church of S. Pancrazio. Gherhard apparently received his quarter of the church and tithe of S. Pancrazio from Teudgrim in 984.108 Like the others, this livello was in efect a renewal of one his father had held from Leo. The deacon Gherard served as an important social bridge for Teudgrim and the Lucchese episcopacy. Not only was he a scion of one of the most important regional aristocratic families and a cleric, but Gherard was married to Cuniperga, the daughter of a prominent imperial judge named Leo who witnessed numerous Lucchese documents of the tenth 103 104

105 107

Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nrs. 1554–5. On types of income collected by landowners from their dependent tenants in Tuscany, see Philip Jones, ‘An Italian Estate, 900–1200’, Economic History Review 7 (1954), pp. 18–32 at pp. 24–7, and for the Chunimundinghi generally, Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 97–9. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nr. 1596. 106 Ranallo, ‘Bishops of Lucca’, p. 734. Memorie e documenti,V, 3, nrs. 1581, 1598, 1601. 108 Ibid., nr. 1593.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire century.109 Gherard was also involved in an important acquisition by the cathedral chapter of a portion of a mansus called Colle Mancoli (current location unknown) in Valdottavo in the lower Garfagnana valley which had been purchased by a priest named Adalpaldo and subsequently donated to S. Martino in 957 for the repose of the soul of a man named Rodiland.110 In 986, Gherard ofered one-half of the same property to S. Martino.111 It is unsurprising in this case that in December 983, Teudgrim granted a livello to a certain Willeram, the son of Isimbald, that included two casae and a casalino belonging to the church of S. Salvatore in Valdottavo. The rest of Willeram’s lease included property just outside Lucca in Sorbano, and Turinghi (Pieve S. Paolo), as well as Sesto and Segromigno, for which he agreed to an annual rent of twenty-ive solidi and twelve denarii. Sorbano and Turinghi were centres of the cathedral chapter’s patrimony and lay along the route from the city to the area of Massa Macinaia. The relationship between Gherard, Rodiland – the man for whom the land in Valdottavo was ofered – and Willeram is not clear, but the fact that Gherard had an interest in the same parcel of land, as well as that Rodiland happened to be a leading name in his own family, are strongly suggestive of some kind of kinship. Even as Gherard played an important role in Teudgrim’s network of leaseholders and clients, he had positioned himself favourably vis-à-vis both the cathedral chapter and an important urban judicial-notarial family and this no doubt played a role in his election as bishop in 991. Just as Teudgrim’s family’s interest in the pieve of S. Gervasio represented a core link between it and the episcopacy that paved the way for one of their own to become bishop, it appears that S. Pancrazio and the pieve of Elici may have similarly lubricated the political ambitions of Gherard’s family, which historians have called the Cunimundinghi, after the elder Rodiland’s father, Cunimund. The tithes themselves in either of these leases was not inconsequential, but underscored a political and social investment that Teudgrim wished to make in the family, perhaps not unlike that which Bishop Guido had done for him. Teudgrim used the energetic distribution of livelli as a tool to hedge the episcopacy’s inluence in an increasingly uncertain and dynamic environment. However, this did not mean that recipients of episcopal livelli subsequently rejected dealings with the cathedral chapter. Indeed, it seems that some individuals efectively triangulated their own position vis-à-vis both the bishop and the chapter, maximizing their ability to receive and donate land in strategically important areas. We have already looked at the deacon Gherard’s 986 gift of land in Valdottavo. In another 109

Ibid., nr. 1594.

110

Regesto del capitolo, nrs. 15–17.

111

Ibid., nr. 32.

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Diabolic contracts mid-tenth century register entry the canons exchange property with Archdeacon Auderam in return for property in the pieve of S. Christina of Massa, where, as we saw earlier,Teudgrim had been careful to position his own lease recipients.112 In 982, Archdeacon Rofredus gave a lease to two brothers named Gumperto and Farimundo, sons of Sisemund, consisting of two tenant holdings (massariciae) in the curtis of Massarosa.113 The canons also gave livelli to important notaries and judges in the city, like Cofridus and Hildebrand, who received a dwelling and tenant holding in Colliclo (near Pescia?), and Giovanni and Lampertus, the sons of the episcopal vicedominus Ostrifuso.114 The gift of the future Bishop Gherard was but one of the many directed at the cathedral canons as a result of the new currency they had attained in the region, not only as a grantor of valuable leases in their own right but as an immunized institution insulated from episcopal and other public power. In 1003,Viscount Fraolmo gave the chapter two pieces of land in Vicopelago and in Porto Potholese (both just south of Lucca near Massa Pisana). His wife subsequently donated a quarter of her share of these properties to the chapter as well.115 In 1009, he followed up with a large gift of land and tenant holdings in Versilia.116 In 1005, Rainerio, the son of Rofredus, gave the chapter numerous properties, including a castle in Rivalto (dioc. Volterra). It is quite likely that Rainerio was related in some way to Archdeacon Rofredus and to a family of notaries and judges going back to Bishop Peter II and possibly Conrad I.117 The afterlife of the leases: Lucca and its bishops in the eleventh century As both Chris Wickham and Cinzio Violante have pointed out, the possession of tithes did not itself lead to the creation of seigneurial rights in a particular region.118 But it did give certain individuals and their families the prominence and resources to create other kinds of power relations that could, under appropriate conditions, help establish banal lordships. As their social status and wealth grew and stabilized, many of these families became net donors, rather than recipients, of land, churches, and castles to the episcopacy.We can see this process by following the legacies of some of the families who received leases of tithes under Teudgrim. In the relative short term at least, it is possible to see how the creation of ties between an extended family and the episcopal church through 112 115 116 118

Ibid., nr. 13. 113 Ibid., nr. 29. 114 Ibid., nrs. 43, 46. Scott, ‘The Cathedral Chapter of Lucca’, pp. 97–8. Registo del capitolo, nrs. 61–2. Registo del capitolo, nr. 77. 117 Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 101–2. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 109–10;Violante, ‘Pievi e Parrocchie’, pp. 717–21.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire leasing assets such as pievi and their tithes brought certain beneits to later bishops. By the mid-eleventh century, Donnuccio’s son, nicknamed Sirico, had built up the family’s possessions in Porcari into a formidable complex of estates, churches, and a castle, a portion of which he donated to Bishop John II in 1039.119 Sometime prior to 1042, John acquired a quarter of the castle and tower in Vaccoli, called Coterozzo, from Rodiland, son of Sisemund, and his brothers.120 In 1048, the same family donated a portion of the fortiied village (poggio) of Vaccoli to the bishop and the church of S. Martino.121 Viscount Fraolmo’s descendants established control over Versilia in the eleventh century from their castle in Corvaia (just outside Seravezza between Pietrasanta and Massa), situated not far from Montemagno, where Guido and Ildebrand, the other sons of Sisemund of Vaccoli, had created an important lordship. The son of Sisemund’s brother Gherard, who had received the lease for Pescia Maggiore in 983, was also called Gherard, but went by the nickname ‘Morecto’ and appears in several charters selling or donating land to the episcopacy in and around the Valdinievole and lower Garfagnana in the mid-eleventh century.122 More interesting, however, in 1055, he appears as the advocatus of Bishop John II at a royal placitum held to resolve a dispute between John and a count named Hugo over a large property in Marlia.123 Although they cannot be identiied with certainty, a group of men that included names like Ildebrand, Fraolmo, Siegfried, and Guido were present at the same placitum with John and Morecto. These were most probably members of Morecto’s family – the Corvaresi – including his sons and cousins, who also belonged to the bishop’s larger network of clients and supported his interests in Marlia.124 119

120

121

122 123

124

Carte del Secolo XI, vol. II, nr. 62.The gift includes one-third of 157 properties, dwellings, and tenant holdings in Porcari and the Valdinievole. By 1045, Sirico had apparently had second thoughts and in 1045 contested John’s possession of the castle in Porcari. Compare Carte del secolo XI, vol. III, ed. Giuseppe Ghilarducci (Lucca, Paccini Fazzi, 1990), nr. 13. See too Savigni, Episcopato e società, p. 210. Carte del Secolo XI, vol. III, nr. 92. We don’t have direct evidence of the sale or donation of this portion of Coterozzo/Vaccoli, but the cited document is a carta repromissionis in which Rodiland and his sons, Fraolmo and Guido, promise to defend the bishop’s interest in the castle. Compare Scharzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 257. Carte del secolo XI, vol. IV, nr. 39. A record from the register of the cathedral chapter shows that Rodiland sold a third share of his castle in Vaccoli to a certain Sisemund, the son of Ildito, in March 1048 as well. Compare Regesto del capitolo, nr. 223. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 240–1. See I Placiti del ‘Regnum Italiae’, ed. C. Manaresi, 3 vols. Fonti per la storia d’Italia, 96 (Rome, Istituto storico italiano per il medio evo, 1955–60), III, 1, nr. 395, p. 217. Hugo was related to the south Tuscan Aldobrandeschi family. See Gabriella Rossetti, ‘Gli Aldobrandeschi’, in I ceti dirigenti, pp. 151–63 at p. 160. See the genealogy in Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 240. On the role of this Corvaresi family as clients of the bishop in the later eleventh and early twelfth centuries, see Savigni, Episcopato e società, pp. 233–40.

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Diabolic contracts After the irst quarter of the eleventh century, Lucchese bishops were increasingly – but not completely – deracinated from the local social and political structures that had once been their power base. John II of Besate (1022–57), Anselm I of Baggio (1057–73, later Pope Alexander II), and his nephew, Anselm II (1073–86), were all from prominent Milanese capitanei families and imperial appointments. It was not that the local elites had run out of suitable candidates or lost interest in maintaining their hold on the oice, but that the Salian emperors, particularly Conrad II and Henry III, took a much more interventionist posture in Lucca than had their Ottonian predecessors, possibly hoping to balance the inluence of the independent-minded Canossan margraves in the region.125 At the same time the mercantile and administrative elites in the cities of Lucca and Pisa had grown more aware of their economic and political interests in the region, which often diverged from those of the bishop and the regional aristocracy. In 1088, for example, troops from Lucca destroyed the castle of Vaccoli after its lords – who were by that time calling themselves the ‘longobardi’ of Vaccoli – had possibly grown too friendly with Pisa.126 While Lucca’s eleventh-century bishops were unable to grant livelli with the same degree of frequency as their predecessors, it is clear that donations from the regional aristocracy to the bishops, as well as the cathedral chapter, grew sharply (relative to the tenth century, at least) from the irst third of the eleventh century, revisiting a trend we saw earlier in the mid-eighth century.127 Donations like those by Donnuccio-Sirico in Porcari, Rodiland in Vaccoli, and Count Hugo in Marlia gave the bishop a stake in the structures of rural lordship, concentrating episcopal interests more narrowly around fortiications and productive properties rather than among a widely difused community of individual aristocrats.128 The older urban families were part of this process as well. In 1041, for example, the judge Leo donated fourteen of his family possessions in Sorbano to the bishop.129 As noted earlier, 125

126

127 128

129

Savigni, Episcopato e società, p. 111; Guerra, Compendio, pp. 135–6. See too Hans Hubert Anton, ‘Bonifaz von Canossa: Markgraf von Tuzien und die Italienpolitik der frühen Salier’, HZ 214 (1972), pp. 529–56. A similar trend was underway in Salzburg as well under the Salians. See Chapter 6, pp. 215–55. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 70–1; Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 257. A brief mention of the action is made in Tholomeo of Lucca’s Annales, ed. Bernhard Schmeidler, MGH SRG, n.s., vol. 8 (Berlin, Weidmann, 1955), p. 21. The relationship between the family that controlled the castle in 1088 and in the 1040s is not clear, although, a charter in the register of the cathedral chapter records that Acto, the son of Fraolmo and Rodiland’s grandson, sold of a portion of the castle in 1075. Compare Registo del capitolo, nr. 408. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 22–3. For the Marlia gift, see Carte del secolo XI, vol. IV, nr. 89 and the discussion by Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 216, n. 202 for genealogical details. Carte del secolo XI, vol. III, nr. 81.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the cathedral chapter owned several properties in Sorbano as well and the bishops remained interested in securing their presence there. Under Anselm II, the bishopric also began purchasing a number of properties, particularly castles, from prominent families.130 John II and the two Anselms focused much of their energies on constraining the power of the cathedral chapter, mainly by imposing reforms that would force them into a more restrictive lifestyle – that is, celibacy – and limit their ability to act as independently as they had. Anselm I, the future Pope Alexander II, made a concerted efort, though with minimal success, to more strictly limit the extent of episcopal leasing.131 More precisely, he forbade the permanent alienation of episcopal goods per livellum, as opposed to ensuring that the temporal nature of the contract would be recognized. Along these lines, it appears that he then urged the holders of episcopal livelli to renew them as appropriate. Between 1062 and 1068, he conirmed numerous of his predecessors’ livelli, such as those for Fraolmo, Guido, Ademaro, and Sichelmo, the sons of Morecto, for their possession of the baptismal church of S. Tomasso in Lucca, along with revenues in the Valdinievole and in the pieve of Camaiore near Montemagno.132 Bishop Anselm II (1073–86) continued this policy and took a still harder stance against the clergy of S. Martino. At the height of the Investiture Controversy in 1081, Anselm was drummed out of the city by a coalition of judges and canons and replaced with an anti-bishop named Peter, a staunch partisan of Henry IV.133 Before this, however, even Anselm II, a passionate supporter of the Gregorian reform movement, found the need to use livelli as a tool for relating to the landed elites. In 1076, he granted two extensive livelli that conirmed for their sons the inheritance of leases or beneices granted earlier to Fraolmo and his brother Sigefredo in the area of San Miniato, including the pieve of S. Genesio in Vico Vallari.134 It is important to view Anselm’s actions in the context of local politics and the development of royal and ducal power in the diocese. Henry IV’s most powerful opponent in Italy, aside from the Pope, was Mathilda of 130 131

132

133

134

Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 24–5. Compare Regesta Pontiicum Romanorum: Italia Pontiicia, vol. III (Etruria), ed. Paul Fridolin Kehr (Berlin, Weidmann, 1908), p. 389 (Alexander II, nrs. 6–7). Anselm determined that at the time, only ive pieve remained in the hands of the episcopal church and forbade any further alienations of church property. AAL, Fondo diplomatico, + K7, cited in Savigni, Episcopato e società, p. 519. Compare the earlier lease of S. Tommaso to Gherard d. Morecto in 1021 from Bishop Grimizzo, Carte del secolo XI, vol. II, nr. 48. Savigni, Episcopato e società, p. 199 and following. See too Amleto Spicciani, ‘L’episcopato lucchese di Anselmo II da Baggio’, in Sant’Anselmo Vescovo di Lucca (1073–1086) nel quadro delle trasformazioni sociali e della riforma ecclesiastica, ed. Cinzio Violante (Rome, Istituto storico italiano per il medio evo, 1992), pp. 65–112. Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, pp. 91–2.

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Diabolic contracts Canossa, who inherited the Tuscan margravate from her father, Boniface, and skilfully used Rome’s feud with the German king to advance the interests of her family and oice in western Tuscany.135 Although Lucca had always been the titular capital and administrative base of the Tuscan margravate and (since 962) the German kings, not since the mid-ninth century had Lucchese society really felt the impact of an external political power of this type. Even Boniface, Mathilda’s father, held only one placitum in Lucca during his reign while asserting, much to the annoyance of the Salian emperors, quasi-regal powers in other areas of Tuscany.136 Beatrice and Mathilda, on the other hand, made more of an efort to capitalize on the marquisal institutions in the city of Lucca. Mathilda promoted and supported new families in judicial posts in Lucca, such as the judge Uberto, who appeared in Lucchese charters and placita between 1064 and 1086 and whose family acquired lands and livelli not from the bishops or cathedral chapter but from the monastery of S. Ponziano.137 The rise of these new oicers came at the expense of the old urban elites, like the family of Leo, whose power and privilege drew upon oices, local alliances, and a broad property base maintained from generation to generation. Anselm II helped mediate and intensify Mathilda’s inluence in Lucca when, in the account of an early hagiographer, he invited the contessa to help him bring the cathedral chapter into line.138 This project ultimately resulted in the expulsion of Mathilda and Anselm from the city in 1081 in an uprising led by a clique of the urban notariate and certain members of the cathedral chapter. In recognition of their loyalty to the empire, Henry IV subsequently granted a privilege to Pisa and Lucca liberating them from the jurisdiction of the margravate.139 As Hansmartin Schwarzmaier has observed, the expulsion of Anselm and the Canossans from Lucca was an act of more political than religious resistance: The canons and their allies believed that reforming the cathedral chapter was a pretext for establishing Mathilda’s exclusive lordship over the city and the region.140 Responding to this, Henry IV’s privileges for Lucca and Pisa in the summer of 1081 made sure to mention that the king wished 135

136

137 138

139 140

Herbert E. J. Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII (1073–1085) (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 297–303. Compare Mario Nobili, ‘Le famiglie marchionali’, p. 102. On the placitum in question, in 1047, see Manaresi, Placiti, vol. III, 1, nr. 376. Likewise, Godfrey of Lorraine, during his relatively long tenure as margrave (1054–69) held court in Lucca once. See Ibid., nr. 406, pp. 243–45. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, pp. 326–27. Bardo presbyter, Vita Anselmi episcopi Lucensis, ed. Roger Wilmans, MGH SS XII (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1861), pp. 15. See too Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 304–5. MGH DD Heinrich IV, nrs. 334; 336. Schwarzmaier, Lucca und das Reich, p. 401.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire to return the cities to the liberty and peace they had enjoyed in the days of the margrave Hugo – in other words, prior to the rise of the Canossans and the bad customs they brought with them.141 Not long after the beginning of his exile in the early 1080s, Anselm set to work compiling what would become a highly inluential dossier of canon law that airmed the Gregorian reform agenda, particularly with regard to the question of investiture and lay interest in church property.142 It is diicult to draw clear lines between Anselm’s canonistic concerns and speciic incidents during his career as bishop of Lucca relating to livelli or other church property. What is clear, however, is that the episcopacy of Anselm II – as fraught with upheavals and discontinuities as it was – marked a signiicant transition in the place of the bishop within the diocese and the city. By the end of the eleventh century, bishops like Anselm – no longer members of the regional aristocracy – had become solidly pro-reform and sought repeatedly to forbid further alienation of churches and other property. The pievi and their tithes were largely in the hands of laymen and could be conirmed – a minor consolation – but rarely recouped. In 1107, Pope Pascal II seemed to concede as much when he granted a privilege to Bishop Rangerio stipulating that no one, unless it is their oicial duty (facultas), should detain any proceeds from a church under the bishop’s control and that no monk or cleric should ever receive a church from a layman.143 In 1122, a privilege of Calixtus II for Bishop Benedict I (1118–28) reiterated the same admonition, while noting that much of the property of the church of Lucca, ‘both secular and ecclesiastical’, had been detained by certain individuals and fallen under their dominium – lordship – through the neglect of his predecessors.144 While popes ofered their regrets, it seems, for this situation, none of these privileges ofered any concrete solutions to the dilemma other than to try to mitigate future abuses and reinforce the bishop’s pastoral 141

142

143 144

Compare MGH DD Heinrich IV, nr. 334, p. 438 for Lucca: ‘Consuetudines ac etiam perversas a tempore Bonifatii marchionis duriter eisdem hominibus impositas omnino interdicimus et, ne ulterius iant, precipimus’, and nr. 336, 443 for Pisa: ‘Fodrum de castellis Pisani comitatus non tollemus, nisi quo modo fuit consuetudo tempore Ugonis marchionis; hominibus in villis habitantibus de eorum comitatu non tollemus. Nec aliquam consuetudinem super inponemus, nisi consuetudo fuit tempore supro scripti Ugonis…’And again, in the same privilege: ‘M … [lacuna] calciam in villis comitatus eorum ieri non sinemus nisi secundem consuetudinem tempore Ugonis sacramentis, sicut supra scriptum est, diinitam’. Cushing, Papacy and Law, pp. 90–1. As Cushing notes, it is in Anselm’s collection that Gregory VII’s 1078 synod prohibition against lay possession of tithes was irst highlighted. See Anselmi episcope Lucensis collection canonum, ed. Friedrich Thaner (Innsbruck, 1906–15, repr. Aalen, 1965),V, 45 = Register Gregors VII, VI: 5b, c. 7, ed. Caspar, p. 404. This article, along with other Gregorian prohibitions against lay possession of church property, was later picked up in Gratian’s Decretum, C. I, q. 3, c.xiii. and C. XVI, q. 7. Italia Ponicia, vol. III, ed. Kehr, pp. 390–91. Ibid., vol. III, ed. Kehr, p. 392. Full text is found in PL 163, cols. 1242–3.

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Diabolic contracts authority. Instead of pursuing restoration of all the pievi and tithes which had efectively passed out of their possession, the twelfth-century bishops began to focus intensely on accumulating, mostly through purchase or donation, castles and other properties with judicial courts and commercial markets in the countryside, joining their lay peers in developing territorial lordships to compete with the rising power of the urban commune in Lucca.145 If, as Humbert of Silva Candida pointed out, so much of the church’s land and revenue had been consigned to the jurisdiction of laymen, the solution seemed to be to join them rather than ight them, dominium for dominium. Mathilda’s activity was not limited to expanding her position in the city itself; she also wanted to ensure that the episcopacy’s base of power in the countryside was secure. In particular, Mathilda was instrumental in helping Anselm acquire castles in his diocese, the new measure of efective lordship and social prestige.146 In 1078, she donated an important castle in Diecimo, in the Garfagnana, to the bishopric.147 There followed donations of castles in the diocese of Volterra148 and the conirmation of castles and comital property donated by members of the Gherardeschi family in Capannoli.149 In 1074, Ildebrando da Maona, a scion of an important family in the eastern part of the diocese, gave Anselm II the castle and curtis of Montecatini in the Valdinievole, then placed under ban by Mathilda and her mother, Beatrice.150 More circumscribed areas of lordly interest and inluence like these sparked growing conlict towards the end of the eleventh century. Mathilda projected her authority in the region of Lucca more broadly by serving as a power broker among competing interests in the countryside and attempting to reinforce the interests of the bishop there. Sometime in the 1070s, the episcopacy and the family of the lords of Montemagno struggled for control of the Serchio valley around Moriano, where the bishop held an important castle.151 Itta, the widow of Ildebrand f. Guido, had attempted to extend the seigneurial lordship (districtio and iudiciaria) 145 146

147 150

151

On this trend, compare too Dameron, Episcopal Power, ch. 2. Die Urkunden und Briefe der Markgräin Mathilde von Tuszien, ed. Elke Goez and Werner Goez, MGH Laienfürsten- und Dynastenurkunden der Kaiserzeit II (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1998), nr. 14, pp. 68–9. On Montecatini, compare Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, pp. 90–1. Compare also Margherita Giuliana Bertolini,‘Enrico IV e Mathilde di fronte alla città di Lucca’, in Sant’Anselmo, Vescovo di Lucca, pp. 331–389, at p. 343–4. Die Urkunden Mathildas, nr. 26, pp. 97–8. 148 Ibid., nr. 28. 149 Ibid., nr. 52. AAL, + + s 76, cited in Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, p. 88, n. 76. For the conirmation, see Manaresi, Placiti, vol. 3, 1, pp. 327–30. See Vito Tirelli, ‘Il vescovato di Lucca tra la ine del secolo XI e i primi tre decenni del XII’, in Allucio da Pescia, pp. 55–146 at pp. 101–5. Moriano was in fact where Anselm irst took refuge after being expelled from the city in 1080.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of her castle in Mammoli over people under the bishop’s control.152 At a placitum held in Lucca before a large array of local oicials, nobles, and Canossan allies, the bishop and Itta’s family worked out which villages and people were under the jurisdiction of which lord and established that the claims against Mammoli had indeed been valid.153 In this case, we see not only an early instance of the language of banal lordship applied explicitly to castles, but the way in which Mathilda’s power manifested itself during the reign of Anselm II. Among those present, for example, was the judge Uberto, who had a particularly close relationship with the Canossans. Following her return to Lucca under Bishop Rangerio (1097–1112), Mathilda arbitrated a dispute between the cathedral chapter of Lucca and vassals of Guido and Ildebrand – the grandsons of Sisemund f. Chunerad/Cunitio, over a castle which the chapter’s people had attempted to erect in Licetro right above Montemagno.154 Threatened by Ildebrand’s men in the area, the canons began construction of a castle themselves, ostensibly for self-defence. But the men of Montemagno this time appealed to Mathilda, who intervened on their behalf with the cathedral canons and obliged them to destroy the castle if they received guarantees of safety and peace from Montemagno. In return, the inhabitants of Licetro and Montigiano, a nearby village, remained free of the jurisdiction of the lords of Montemagno except in cases of crimes committed directly within the castle and burgo of Montemagno or on the surrounding curtis. Another, less explicit, way Mathilda asserted her inluence during this period was by serving as an intervenient or witness in episcopal livelli, adding her own authority and prestige to acts by the episcopacy. One important example is the lease of the episcopal villa of Megognano (near the border to Siena) to a certain Benno, his brother, and some other supporters (consortes) in 1103.155 One of the changes concomitant with the move towards the establishment of castles and more localized territorial lordships was that the very oblique ties of friendship and clientage created in the leasing of episcopal property in the tenth century began to acquire the more concrete vocabulary of feudal vassalage.156 As noted previously, Pope Pascal in the 152

153 154

155 156

On the location of Mammoli, compare Repetti, Dizionario, vol. III, p. 37. The region in question lay in the hills opposite the Serchio River from Marlia and the pieve of S. Pancrazio. On the signiicance of the terms districtio and iudiciaria, see Vaccari, La territoiralità, p. 55 following, and Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 116. Memorie e documenti, IV, 2, nr. 84 (undated). An overview of this dispute is found in Chris Wickham, ‘Economia e società rurale nel territorio lucchese durante la seconda metà del secolo XI: Inquadramenti aristocratici e strutture signorili’, in Sant’Anselmo Vescovo di Lucca, pp. 391–2. Compare Regesto del capitolo, nrs. 562–70. Die Urkunden Mathildas, nr. 58, pp. 181–2. Compare Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, pp. 106–7. See the general discussion of idelis, vassis, miles, and so forth in Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, pp. 108–10.

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Diabolic contracts early twelfth century couched lay possession of pievi and other churches in terms of dominium. Dominium in this context was more than just possession or lordship; it implied a kind of imposing exclusivity that precluded other kinds of mutuality and idelity.When Ildebrando da Maona gave his share of the castle of Montecatini to Anselm II, for example, he included the stipulation that should his son wish in the future to become a miles of the bishop, then usufruct of the castle would apply to him as a beneice from the bishop.157 Along similar lines, a late eleventh- or twelfth-century copy of a 1039 carta repromissionis – a charter of mutual agreement – between John II and two brothers in Porcari interpolates ad vestris vassalis idelibus for ad tuis sucessoribus aut vestris hominibus in the original when talking about the bishop’s ‘men’.158 This shift in nomenclature has been the subject of much study and interest, particularly in France.159 As in other areas, it seems to relect the shifting self-perception in Lucca among the elite classes that aristocracy and idelity inherently involved a kind of militarism or soldiery.160 While actual violence may or may not have been more prevalent, the growing projection of power – both military and economic – from fortiied settlements and castles in particular lent itself to the proliferation of militaristic language, even though those calling themselves miles were in reality the scions of long-established aristocratic lineages and their actual inluence remained relatively local. Nonetheless, the emergence of a knightly class from among the ranks of the episcopal clientage and advocates was certainly one of the things that unsettled church reformers. Indeed, as Rafaele Savigni points out, in his version of the Vita Anselmi, Bishop Rangerio (perhaps echoing the sentiments in Pascal’s privilege) remembered an age of episcopal decadence, livelli, and the troublesome secular lordships they spawned: At irst the bishops remained steadfast; but then, as outward appearances gave way, all modesty ceased, and they fell from their former position. Some proited, while others fouled their own houses by placating others with their contracts. Witness the castle of Mammoli, the many other villas, and so many more farms. Their folly led to error, and episcopal mischief lessened the respect of those who owed them service. Every house was left on its own, and the common 157 158

159 160

Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, p. 88, n. 79. Carte del secolo XI, vol. III, nr. 69, p. 201. Compare Spicciani, ‘Anselmo II’, pp. 107–8. The original is AAL *L 5, the later copy, quoted by Spicciani, AAL + O 10. Rainero and Teuzio, sons of Guido detto Barcarello, receive a gold ring from Bishop John II and promise within thirty days to amend damage done by them or their men to the poggio or church of S. Giusto in Porcari. Compare the classic statement on the topic by Duby, La société, pp. 411 and following. Compare, however, Bisson, ‘Medieval Lordship’, who tries to make the case that the changing valences of lordship were speciically, tied to the distinction between authority derived from public oice holding and the private exercise of illegitimate power, which he characterizes as classic feudalism. A countervailing argument, albeit based on French evidence, is Dominique Barthélemy, ‘La mutation féodale: a-t-elle eu lieu’? Annales E.S.C. 42:3 (1992), pp. 767–7.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire good counted for nothing, because particular afection for one weakens that for all others. In the mean time it is not that which corrupts, because when the life of the master [i.e. a canon] is not what it should be, it leaves words with no hope.161

Land in the area of Mammoli, near Moriano, had been acquired by Rodiland f. Sisemund from Bishop Gherard II (formerly levita) in 993162, and the Montemagno branch of the same family had built a castle there by the 1070s. Rangerio, though not a Tuscan native, certainly knew from other people and sources that the lords of Mammoli-Montemagno had once been part of an episcopal clientele who possessed leases and beneices of church property. Writing a generation earlier, critics like Humbert of Silva Candida and Peter Damian had already witnessed the implications of these emerging arrangements. Although tithes speciically were not part of Rodiland’s acquisition in Mammoli, Rangerio did in fact link the leasing of tithes by his protagonists’ predecessors to the growing militancy of the laity and cathedral canons. In another part of the Vita Anselmi, Pope Alexander II confesses his administrative laxity to the younger Anselm and bemoans the corruption of leasing church property, especially tithes: ‘I was a miserable wretch, and seized with love for the see of Rome, I took tithes and gave them to knights [militibus]; For a price, I took estates [curtes] and issued livelli’.163 As noted earlier, Alexander in fact did not grant as many livelli as his predecessors once had and renewed (as he himself ordered) a select few, and not to anyone identiied as a miles as far as we know. These examples illustrate the degree to which condemnations of leasing or granting away church property was connected not to the actual circumstances at the time it was leased, but perceptions generated as much as a century later by the social or military pre-eminence of families whose ancestors had been recipients of large livelli, mostly in the tenth century, that included pievi and their tithes. Social power had fundamentally diferent valences and bases in 161

162

163

Rangerio of Lucca, Vita metrica Anselmi, ed. Ernst Sackur, Bernhard Schmeidler and Gerhard Schwartz, MGH SS XXX, pt. 2 (Berlin, 1929), vv. 4447–58: ‘Pontiices primo contendere, mox ubi trita/ fronte pudor cessit, desiliere gradu./Succutiunt alias alii thalamosque suorum/fedant, ast aliis plus sua pacta placent./Hoc ita testatur castellum Mammola, multae/preterea villae, praedia multa nimis./Hic furor errorem geminat, solvitque timorem/subiectis gradibus pontiicale malum./ Hinc sua cuique domus, rerum comunio nulla;/ atque ita privatus omnia solvit amor;/ dum non est, qui corripiat, quia vita magistri/ si non conveniat, spe sine verba facit’. Quoted also by Savigni, Episcopato e società, p. 110. AAL, Fondo diplomatico, *L 94, cited in Amleto Spicciani, ‘Un enigmatico documento Lucchese’, in Società, Istituzioni, Spiritualià. Studi in onore di Cinzio Violante (Spoleto, 1994), pp. 877–912 at p. 883. Rangerio, Vita metrica Anselmi, vv. 401–3: ‘Cum miser et captus romanae sedis amore/Distraxi decimas militibusque dedi,/ Distraxi praetio curtes fecique libellos…’

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Diabolic contracts the tenth century from those in the later eleventh century that likewise fundamentally altered the implications of lay-episcopal relations. Conclusions The later ninth and tenth centuries in Lucca had hardly been a time of political anarchy or disorder, but rather one of the stable maintenance of social relationships among the episcopal church and a fairly narrow group of elite families in the city and scattered around the countryside. Towards the end of the tenth century, however, two main factors complicated this arrangement: the emergence of the cathedral chapter as a newly inluential institution under imperial patronage, and the weakness of marquisate power at the local level until the later eleventh century under Beatrice and Mathilda of Canossa. Rural elites had been able to supplement their own landholdings with property and rights leased from the bishops of Lucca and, in some, but not all, cases, turn this into efective territorial lordship.164 Tithes played a key role in this process, not because they were the sole basis for creating power and lordship, but because possessing them plugged one into important currents of power and prestige within Lucca’s urban and rural hierarchy and provided a major source of income that could be used to acquire other assets. It grounded family interests in the social and economic rhythms of local communities, not only with villagers and tenants, but also with the pieval priests, who served as important connections to the city, the chapter, and the bishops. It also seems to have allowed certain individuals to attract the attention of the cathedral chapter as potential leasers and recipients of pious donations. After the eleventh century, tithes ceased to possess the symbolic character that made them such a potent element of episcopal lordship earlier in the diocese of Lucca. While there is no single explanation for this, it likely had much to do with the growth of the urban commune as the dominant political and social force in the region after the eleventh century, eclipsing both the episcopacy and the margravate as public authorities.165 By the thirteenth century, many rural communes in the diocese of Lucca either usurped or leased episcopal tithe rights in the pievi within their territories, acting in many ways like the rural aristocracy of the tenth and eleventh centuries.166 In 1122, Calixtus II granted the cathedral chapter exclusive right to elect the city’s bishop, deinitively 164 165 166

Wickham, ‘Economia e società’, p. 392. Compare too Wickham, The Mountains and the City, p. 128. Savigni, Episcopato e società, pp. 85–8. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 58–60. See too the useful illustrations of bishops leasing tithes and pievi to communes on pp. 19–20.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire breaking the link between an independent rural lordship and the status of the episcopacy.167 Faced with the ascendancy of a cathedral chapter only nominally under his control, Teudgrim of Lucca gambled the prestige and power of the episcopacy on an unprecedented display of largesse directed towards key elements among the regional aristocracy. Using leases of tithe rights, the most visible and socially important component of the church’s wealth, Teudgrim sought to establish or reinforce existing connections with families in areas of the diocese where the chapter’s lordship was concentrated.Teudgrim granted livelli for many kinds of property, but the leases of parishes and their tithes in particular signalled the creation of important social ties between Teudgrim and select recipients who already possessed key lordships throughout the diocese, particularly south of the Arno around San Miniato and in the Serchio plain and Versilia. Bishops had always faced the danger that beneices or leases of church property could lead to their allodialization or absorption into networks of private lordship, yet they had to balance that risk with the imperative of using such wealth as a way of staking a claim in the social economy of the region and efectively administering their assets. Perhaps it was because granting laymen livelli required a kind of leap of faith that they so efectively symbolized those important social relationships. The bishop or cathedral canons trusted that the recipient would not only pay the rent but also not permanently alienate the property. In sum, the current situation demanded that – or perhaps presented an opportunity for – Teudgrim to demonstrate continued relevance as a power broker and inluential presence in the community. While it may be tempting to consider that Teudgrim and his immediate predecessors were simply cowed into liquidating the diocesan patrimony,168 it is also possible to view his policy in another light: Teudgrim attempted to make a stand as the most prominent igure in the region where a new royal power was growing and forging a strong relationship with the cathedral chapter and judiciary. He had to prove himself a lord worthy of such largesse and so many friends. To be sure, however, the line between social pressure and political necessity is perhaps so blurred as to be irrelevant at times. Given his close familial and institutional connections to many of the people who received his leases, as well as their strategic distribution throughout the diocese, I suggest that Teudgrim may not have been the weak and corrupt prelate history has portrayed him as. Perhaps he was foolish to 167 168

Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 72. Compare Ranallo, ‘Bishops of Lucca’, p. 733: ‘A powerful group of interests had formed which Teudgrimo could not resist. These men did not allow the new bishop time to assert himself.

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Diabolic contracts think that such leases were ultimately in the best interests of the diocese, but, like King Berengar I, felt compelled to behave in a way that his culture and tradition told him was appropriate under the circumstances for a Lucchese bishop. The consequences of actions like this would greatly disturb later reformers who witnessed a profound correlation between the possession of ecclesiastical property and lay territorial power that deied traditional conventions of oice holding and imperial vassalage. It was not a problem that could be rectiied, as in the Carolingian period, through pious appeals to the king to restrain his oicers or vassals. Tithe rights did not evolve into territorial lordships, but they did seem to signal the emergence of certain family groups who rose to prominence as territorial lords by receiving leases from the bishop. This was most pronounced in Milan, with its capitanei and their valvassores who held pievi as iefs, but its parallels are well documented in Lucca as well. It is perhaps also no coincidence that those places where the episcopacy continued to have the most developed landed lordship and castles in the later eleventh and twelfth centuries – the Valdera, Vaccoli, San Miniato, the lower Garfagnana, and the Serchio plain – were those where it had irst established ties with key families using nearby pieval property and tithe rights or had attempted to counterbalance the impact of the cathedral chapter. In contrast to their counterparts in other parts of Italy or the empire, particularly north of the Alps, the Lucchese bishops did not seem particularly intent on recovering tithes.169 At the most, they wished to ensure that baptismal churches retained at least a quarter of the pievan tithe, the so-called quartese.170 While the quartese appears to be a nod to the old rule of quadriparition, the bishops of Lucca in any case did not insist on one-quarter of the tithe revenue for themselves.171 Recovering, or at least accounting for, tithes was a more urgent project elsewhere in Italy, however. In the mid-twelfth century, Archbishop Siro of Genoa, for example, drew up an inventory of his diocese’s parishes and tithes which showed that a majority of the pievan tithes were in the hands of laymen and a quarter remained in the hands of the local clergy.172 Tithes in the hands of laymen, as we have seen, could be viewed as a problem or not depending on the situation. As long as the bishop could appear in control of who held what tithe, it was not as noxious an issue as critics like Damian or Humbert of Silva Candida made it out to be. What one did not want was the perception that the power of laymen had come at the expense 169 171 172

Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 19. 170 Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, p. 135. For a case of a bishop in Genoa claiming the ‘bishop’s quarter’ of the tithe, see Ibid., p. 136. Ibid., p. 134.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of the church. While Lucca’s bishops remained, as they were in the tenth century, closely connected to the families and groups who held church property, the dissonance of church property in lay hands remained fairly muted. As that dynamic came to an end in the mid-eleventh century and new forms of territorial lordship emerged in the diocese, those oncemuted dissonances could no longer be ignored.

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Chapter 5

PIETY, P OWER , AND MEMORY: BISHO P S AN D TITHES I N THE DIOCESE OF SALZBUR G

The earliest biography of Archbishop Gebhard of Salzburg (1060–88) was composed at Admont, a monastery in Styria he founded in 1074 on the model of the Hirsauer reform.1 The vita opens with a short verse summing up Gebhard’s most important achievements: Gebhard, nobly born of the Swabians/ was a papal legate in these lands/ and archchaplain of the realm./ And after this received the episcopacy of Salzburg too./ He was irst to compel the Slavic people under his authority/ or living in his diocese, to pay the just tithe.2

This early vita is a brief account which mentions only several major episodes from the bishop’s career, in particular the foundations of Admont and Gurk, his expulsion from his see for refusing to consent to Henry’s deposition of Gregory VII, his exile in Regensburg, Swabia, and Saxony, and inally his return to Salzburg followed by his death and burial in Admont in 1088. Gebhard gave to Admont ‘many estates, in particular those which during his episcopacy had come under the control of the church of Salzburg through various commutations and agreements. He gave to [Admont] many tithes acquired through his exactions’.3 A second vita from the later twelfth century was also written in Admont,4 but edits 1

2

3

4

Vita Gebhardi archiepiscopi Salisburgensis, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, MGH SS XI, pp. 25–7; Lhotsky, Quellenkunde, pp. 214–15. The manuscript is Admont, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 497, f . 104v-106r. As Wattenbach noted in his edition, the same codex contains the Constitutiones Cluniacensis commissioned by abbot William of Hirsau, whence Gebhard recruited Admont’s irst monks. Vita Gebhardi, c. 1 (‘Notitcia eiusdem archyepiscopi Gebehardi’): ‘Nobiliter natus fuit ex Suevis Gebehardus./Legatus papae fuit his in inibus ille,/Archycapellanum sibi fecerat hunc quoque regnum./Salzpurhc pontiicem sibi post suscepit eundem./Hic primus decimas constrinxit reddere iustas/ Sclavorum gentem sub se rectore manentem/ vel diocese sua habitantem’. Vita Gebhardi, c. 1, pp. 25–6.: ‘Ad quorum stipendia et vestes vel etiam ad quorumcumque advenientium egenorum sustentationes donavit predia et optulit, maxime illa quae sui episcopatus tempore in ius ecclesiae Iuvavensis cui prefuit ex diversis communtationibus et complacitationibus accesserunt. Dedit ad haec decimas complures suis exactionibus acquisitas’. Vita Gebhardi et successorum eius, ed.Wilhelm Wattenbach, MGH SS XI, pp. 34–40.The text is found in Admont, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. 475 (saec. XIII), f. 1r-30r.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire down some parts while illing in others with yet more detail. In the preface, the author claims to base his account on ‘documents and the word of truthful older persons’,5 a common trope in medieval historiography. His irst section consists of more information about Gebhard’s early career in the royal court chapel, his ordination, and service as archchaplain and papal legate.6 The second section is devoted to the foundation of Admont as told in the earlier life, but provides detailed description of the gifts it received from Gebhard, local nobles, and the king. Lifting the brief allusion to Slavic tithes from the preface of the earlier life, the twelfthcentury author states that it was in fact these tithes which Gebhard gave to Admont, along with numerous other gifts.7 As with Landulf Senior’s account of Milan archbishop Landulf ’s ire sale of ecclesiastical property to the local gentry, the Admont biographies of Gebhard remember institutional history selectively within a story about the loss and recovery of tithes. As the authors remembered it, tithes which Admont collected in Styria and Carinthia had once belonged to Slavs who, as was the case in many frontier regions of the empire, paid a reduced ecclesiastical tithe in order to facilitate conversion and reduce conlicts.8 Indeed, the story does not seem intent on making Gebhard a saint or promoting a cult, but in the mould of so much episcopal biography of the period, portrays him as a pious administrator and benefactor. Apart from these two texts, however, we have no clear evidence that Gebhard – as opposed to his predecessor Baldwin – ever set out to reform the custom of the Slavic tithe. He did, however, make several landmark agreements with the regional nobility to recover tithes that had either long since passed out of episcopal control or were not being properly paid to the church in Salzburg; these may have involved claims to the Slavic tithe by certain parties.The silences on this angle in both the biographies and the surviving charter material are frustrating, but it is in these spaces that we might begin to explore some of the issues surrounding the problem of reform in the diocese of Salzburg in the eleventh century and the transformation of the bishop’s position in the social landscape of the diocese from the tenth through the eleventh centuries.

5

6 7

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Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, Praefatio, p. 35. ‘Nos tamen quae vel ex membranis vel ex veracium seniorum dictis potuimus colligere in unum compliavimus, dilectione magis tanti pastoris quam scientiae merito animate …’. Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, c. 1, p. 35. Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, c. 2, p. 36.‘Ad haec complures decimas suis exactionibus acquisitas dedit, quia gens Sclavonica in eius episcopii terminis posita ante ipsius tempora aut nullas aut paucissimas reddere consuevit’. Walter Steinböck, Erzbischof Gebhard von Salzburg (1060–1088). Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte Salzburgs im Investiturstreit (Salzburg, Geyer, 1972), pp. 57–8.

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Piety, power, and memory Rather than focusing on whether or not Gebhard really exacted the full tithe from Slavs or from those holding property where the tithe was assessed this way, we should focus on how tithes and their administration were central to the portrayal of a good bishop and how that portrayal changed over time. We can glimpse Gebhard’s life and his tithes only in a series of highly stylized snapshots gleaned from his biography, his own writings, and documents produced in the context of doing business with him. Even the six charters which record tithe restitution agreements he made with the regional nobility are tendentious in the way they preserve only one side of those agreements and may even silence what had gone on before and after.9 If Gebhard’s tithe acquisitions had in fact involved the Slavic tithe, those preserving the documents did not mention it. tithe s and parish e s : b etwe e n memory and admi nistration in th e sal zburg archive s The culture of bureaucracy, law, and institutions north of the Alps, even in the context of an episcopate as signiicant as Salzburg’s, contrasts sharply with that in Lucca, as do practices of administering local churches and their resources. Salzburg was not a centre of public administration like Lucca and thus lacked the extensive administrative infrastructure of the towns of Lombardy and Tuscany. Nonetheless, the written word was still key in expressing and maintaining social relationships. There is a signiicant documentary record at Salzburg going back to the late eighth century, but it was not until the 920s that the archbishops of Salzburg began systematically copying records of gifts, exchanges, and other conveyances with lay and clerical patrons in their diocese into codices that modern scholars have called ‘tradition books’.10 While the notices recorded in the Traditionsbücher were not technically dispositive documents in the same way the Lucchese livelli were, for example, they nonetheless carried signiicant weight for both parties involved in a donation or exchange. As Heinrich Fichtenau noted, it was not uncommon for tradition notices to ind their way into necrologies or memorial books, illustrating the close connection between written instruments, liturgy, and property in the 9

10

SUB, II, ed. Wilhelm Hauthaler and Franz Martin (Salzburg: Gesellschaft für Salzburger Landeskunde, 1916), nrs. 94–9. Hauthaler,‘Die Salzburgischen Traditionscodices (Introduction, n. 97);The texts are printed in SUB, I, pp. 63–95. A diplomatic analysis of the tithe agreements is ofered by Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, pp. 98–106; See too Oswald Redlich, ‘Über bayerische Traditionsbücher und Traditionen’, MIÖG 4 (1884), 1–87.Traditionsbücher are extant for archbishops Odalbert (923–35), Frederick (958–91), Hartwig (991–1023), Thietmar (1025–41), and Baldwin (1041–60). An important new study in the interpretation and critique of this genre of texts, revising in particular the work of Redlich on the tradition books of Brixen, is Albertoni, Die Herrschaft des Bischofs, esp. pp. 40–3.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire maintenance of social memory.11 In the second place, the Traditionsbücher served as administrative records that allowed the church to keep track of what it owned and what it had passed along to others in a format that provided a better conspectus than a tressoir of separate charters.12 The earliest of the tenth-century Traditionsbücher, the Codex Odalberti, appears to have been assembled from collections of pre-existing charters or notitiae, but in later books, beginning with later portions of the Codex Fridarici, the entries appear to have been entered individually, somewhat in the fashion of a register.13 Whether this indicates that the practice of preparing an individual charter for each transaction had fallen into disuse cannot be determined for certain. It would seem that despite the subtle changes in the form of the entries in the later Traditionsbücher that, in general, people still expected to generate a formal charter for such transactions. The earliest sealed episcopal charter dates to the reign of Frederick and all of the surviving tithe agreements negotiated by Gebhard survive in originals maintained by private institutions, but not recorded in an episcopal Traditionsbuch.14 Interesting, the seal is preserved attached to a later, eleventh-century forgery related to Gebhard’s tithe agreements.15 The place of the bishop, and the reasons for remembering certain transactions, appear to change over the decades, however. Several of the codices are furnished with brief prefaces that relect shifting attitudes towards the church’s relationship with the lay community. The preface to the codex of Archbishop Odalbert (923–35) states that he collected all the charters recording gifts to, and exchanges with, the church in order that he might show how he ‘augmented and improved the house of God’.16 Odalbert clearly viewed the numerous exchanges he engaged in as being in the church’s favour and demonstrating the loyalty of lay patrons and relatives, many of whom were also remembered in the church’s liturgical books and necrologies from the period. The tradition 11 12 13 14

15

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Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, pp. 82–4. Ibid., p. 84. Ibid., pp. 104–5. See too Hauthaller’s remarks in the edition, p. 166. E. Richter, ‘Die ältesten Siegel der Salzburger Erzbischöfe’, Mitteilungen der k. k. Zentralkomission für Erforschung und Erhaltung der Kunst- und historischen Denkmale 8 (1897), pp. 121–3. Oswald Redlich, ‘Über einige kärnterisch- salzburgische Privaturkunden des 11. und 12. Jahrhunderts’, MIÖG 5 (1884), pp. 353–65, at pp. 354–8. Compare SUB, II, nr. 47 and see further, p. 203. Codex Odalberti, ‘Vorrede’, SUB, I, 63: ‘… adsectus domorum dei res sibi divinitus collates emeliorare studuit et augere commutando et complacitando, consultui quoque idelium suorum tam clericorum quam laicorum assentiens, loca ubique domibus dei inoportuna sive concambio sive conplacatione superadditis in mensura teritoriis, ut iam dictum est, augmenta proprius [c]onposuit et in unum libellum precapitulatum omnia peracta cartulis adimata testium iussit scribendo colligere et collecta cpitulis prenotare, ne uniuscuisque traditio inquirendo vacillet’.

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Piety, power, and memory book of Archbishop Thietmar II (1025–41) from around a century later is prefaced by a mild admonitory statement about the need to remind the actores and their hereditari successores, who, either by ‘error or ill-will’ (tam errore quam malivolentia) attempt to rescind or diminish their gifts.17 The preface of the traditions of Archbishop Baldwin of Salzburg (1048–60), however, states in a lorid and furious preface that recording pious donations was necessary because of the laymen who, more luporum, stalk the church, waiting to despoil its property.18 Only by great exertion (maximo sudore) is the church able to retrieve these goods from the ‘lupine maw’ (de fauce lupina) of their alienators. This striking, but hardly peculiar, sharpening of episcopal rhetoric about the possession of churches parallels the evolution of attitudes in Italy as well, but on a somewhat diferent timeline. Bishops of Lucca were registering concerns with lay alienations as early as the mid-ninth century, and the archbishops of Mainz grappled with the problem of monastic lordship from around the same period as well. As we saw in the case of Lucca, too, the dissolution of the great ecclesiastical domains of the ninth and tenth centuries and the image of a church reeling from alienations and fragmented property has preoccupied economic and social historians for many decades.19 In 1961 David Herlihy showed that ecclesiastical property ownership appears to have peaked in the mid-to-late ninth century before declining modestly – save for a brief uptick in the 1070s and 1080s – over the course of the eleventh and twelfth centuries.20 Herlihy argued that the gradual secularization of church lands by laymen was the primary culprit – the holders of tenures or leases of church land began treating their holdings as their own heritable property, eventually depriving the church of its title.21 Economic historian Carlo M. Cipolla noted a similar pattern in his 1947 study of the same problem in the pages of Annales, though he argued that the extent of alienation or secularization was actually less pronounced in Italy than in the rest of Europe.22 In one of the few studies anywhere to consider episcopal, rather than mostly 17 18 19

20

21 22

Codex Thietmari, ‘Vorrede’, SUB, I, p. 211. Codex Balduuini, ‘Vorrede’, SUB, I, p. 230. Werner Rösener, ‘Zur Erforschung der frühmittelalterlichen Grundherrschaft’, in Strukturen der Grundherrschaft im früheren Mittelalter, ed. Werner Rösener, VMPIG (Göttingen, Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1989), pp. 9–28; Emile Lesne, Histoire de la propriété ecclésiastique en France, vol. 1 (Lille and Paris, R. Girard and H. Champion, 1910–43), pp. 70 and following. David Herlihy, ‘Church Property on the European Continent’, Speculum 36:1 (1961), pp. 81–105. Herlihy didn’t actually quantify the amount of property mentioned in the charters, but rather calculated how often the boundary description of a particular parcel names a saint or ecclesiastical institution, as opposed to the crown or other layman, as a contiguous landholder. Herlihy, ‘Church Property’, p. 93. Carlo Cipolla, ‘Une crise ignorée. Comment s’est perdue la propriété ecclésiastique dans l’Italie du Nord entre le XIe et XVIe siècle’? Annales E.S.C. 2 (1947), pp. 317–27.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire monastic, domains, Austrian church historian Arnold Pöschl described the tenth and early eleventh centuries as a period of dissolution and discontinuity in ecclesiastical land tenure, but laid the blame as much on political crises, such as the Viking, Saracen, and Magyar invasions of the period, as upon the alienations of grasping laymen.23 Periods of instability and inconsistencies in episcopal rule, observed Pöschl, dramatically hobbled the church’s ability to manage its land and opened the door for lay elites to exploit such vulnerabilities. This model of ecclesiastical property alienation, if now largely outmoded, it nicely with the conventional interpretation of the eleventhcentury reform movement which sought to extricate the church from the pernicious accretions of lay inluence that had built up over the previous century.24 It also corresponds to a model of eleventh-century social transformation popularized in Duby’s work wherein laymen around the turn of the millennium began to change their property holding habits with a view towards preserving family lands, often dominated by a castle, in the hands of the eldest male.25 The older theory that the whole controversy stemmed from a clash of opposing concepts of property in the Germanic and Roman legal traditions is no longer maintained, but the basic problem continues to be presented as a quest by the church to regain land and rights illicitly usurped by laymen.26 As Susan Wood, among others, has observed, bishops from the very beginning of our source record were conirmed in their control of diocesan property, but can also be seen building, dedicating, gifting, and leasing churches.27 The examination of the narrower contexts of the key sources themselves seems to problematize these generalizations signiicantly, however. As with Landulf Senior’s description of alienations in Milan in the tenth century, perceptions of property and rights in the eleventh century 23

24

25

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Arnold Pöschl, Bischofsgut und mensa episcopalis: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des kirchlichen Vermögensrechts, 2 vols. (Bonn, Hanstein, 1908–12), II, pp. 6–7. On reassessing the impact of Viking, Muslim, and Magyar incursions in Europe in the tenth century, see the discussion by Matthew Innes, ‘Review Article: Franks and Slavs c. 700–1000:The Problem of European Expansion before the Millennium’, EME 6:2 (2003), pp. 201–16, at pp. 214–15. Robert L. Benson, The Bishop-Elect. A Study in Medieval Ecclesiastical Oice (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1968), pp. 207–22; Augustin Fliche, La formation des idées grégoriennes, vol. 1 of La réforme grégorienne, Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, Etudes et documents, 6, 9 (Paris, E. Champion, 1924). Georges Duby, The Knight, the Lady and the Priest:The Making of Modern Marriage in Medieval France (New York, Pantheon Books, 1983), pp. 99–106. Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 851–82; Ute-Renate Blumenthal, The Investiture Controversy: Church and Monarchy from the Ninth to the Twelfth Century (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988), pp. 4–6; The classic treatment of the topic, now superseded by Wood, was Ulrich Stutz, Geschichte des kirchlichen Beneizialwesens von seinen Anfängen bis auf die Zeit Alexanders III. (Berlin, Müller Verlag, 1895). Wood, Proprietary Church, pp. 689–95.

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Piety, power, and memory shaded how writers interpreted the intentions of actors in the tenth. Complaints about the alienation of property or tithes and the impoverishment of the church cannot be viewed solely in economic terms, but as part of a larger perceptual shift in the understanding of the relationship between economics – the control of landed resources – and an idea of ecclesiastical and social order. Reform was also fundamentally a historical argument, a larger shift in perception of the relationship between the past, the present, and the future. As Humbert of Silva Candida phrased it, the church’s property stood as a memorial to the dead who bequeathed it, as well as an endowment for sustaining the clergy into the future. The maintenance and reform of church property was also the proper cultivation of history and memory, as the authors of the Admont Vita Gebhardi well understood.28 The subject of tithing and tithe disputes under Gebhard has received frequent attention in Austrian area studies.29 Building on these local treatments, more general overviews of Austrian church and legal history have looked at the inter-connections between the various changes in the tithe regime in the eleventh and twelfth centuries and attempted to explain them in the context of eleventh-century reform movements.30 Interested in consolidating church inances on the local level and bringing practice in line with canonical norms, bishops like Pilgrim I of Passau (971–91), and particularly Gebhard of Salzburg, supposedly struck deals with the regional nobility that regularized the episcopal church’s income while ensuring maintenance of more remote parishes by loyal laymen. The assumption here is that eleventh-century reform movements proceeded at the instigation of bishops – in concert with the papacy – while the laity remained a largely passive interest group. As I have discussed in previous chapters, this approach is oversimpliied. Furthermore, there has not been any formal attempt to study these tithe agreements individually in their local contexts or in the way they are preserved and transmitted. Nor has any attempt been made to problematize the tithe 28

29

30

Patrick J. Geary, ‘Living with Conlicts in a Stateless France: A Typology of Conlict Management Mechanisms, 1050–1200’, in Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1994), pp. 125–60, at pp. 81–105; Gerhard Dilcher, ‘Zeitbewusstsein und Geschichtlichkeit’, p. 352. I list here the most important contributions: Plöchl, Das kirchliche Zehentwesen in Niederösterreich (cited in Chapter 1); Ernst Klebel, ‘Zehnte und Zehntprobleme im bayrisch-österreichischen Rechtsgebiet’, ZRG, k. A. 27 (1938), pp. 234–61; Ferdinand Tremel, ‘Das Zehntwesen in Steiermark und Kärnten von den Anfängen bis ins 15. Jahrhundert’, Zeitschrift des historischen Vereins für Steiermark 33 (1939), pp. 5–51; Dominikus Lindner, ‘Vom mittelalterlichen Zehntwesen in der Salzburger Kirchenprovinz,’ ZRG, k. A. 46 (1960), pp. 277–302. A brief remark on spelling: Austrian German generally retains a somewhat older orthography in writing the word Zehent, while the Germans have dropped the second e, leaving Zehnt. Compare Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 294–6; Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, pp. 235–7.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire agreements – and tithe reform more generally – in relationship to the hagiographic sources which tout their episcopal subjects as great reformers. This presents us here with an opportunity to go over this evidence with the new questions in mind about the negotiation of power and the political and economic signiicance of tithing. Apart from the well-known dossiers of Salzburg’s property compiled under Archbishop Arn in the later eighth century (the Notitia Arnonis and Breves Notitiae),31 a later-ninth century formulary from Salzburg gives evidence of an episcopal chancery that produced charters and letters for the archdiocese.32 This collection, transmitted in Munich, Clm 4650 (saec. IXmed-ex), is really a compilation of several diferent Frankish formularies, including that of Marculf, which Monumentist Karl Zeumer separated out and published as independent texts.33 One particular group of apparent Bavarian provenance, the Forumulae Salzburgenses, contains a document that mentions the monasteries of St. Peter and St. Rupert and includes a number of excerpts from the letters of Alcuin as well, who was known to have corresponded frequently with Archbishop Arn.34 Another of the Formulae Salzburgenses suggests land or other assets held, or at least administered, by laymen.35 It asks an unnamed count to ‘conduct himself faithfully’ (ideliter agatis) regarding the church’s property (or afairs – res) and to see that a certain ‘Jewish or Slavic’ doctor is conveyed back to the bishop along with the bearer of the message. In return, the bishop promises to perform a servitium for the count – undecumque nobis precipiatis. The formula is one of a group of three models which appear together in the manuscript for various types of administrative letters from an archbishop to colleagues or vassals.36 The precise origins of the manuscript cannot be determined with certainty, however.37 Harry Bresslau suggested that it – or its exemplar – descended from Arn’s own library that he brought with him to Bavaria from St. Amand.38 Even if some of the texts, particularly the Alcuin material, were available in Salzburg 31 32 33 34

35

36 37

38

See Chapter 3, pp. 103–138. MGH Form. I, ed. Zeumer, pp. 438–55. Rio, Legal Practice, pp. 105–7. See Bischof, Katalog, II, nr. 2981. Rio, Legal Practice, p. 106. The letter of Alcuin to Arn about compelling the payment of tithes among the Slavs is included here as well, fols. 72–4. Form. Salzburgenses, nr. 38, ed. Zeumer, p. 448. See too Sonnlechner, ‘Salzburg als Netzknoten’, pp. 214–16. Form. Salzburgenses, ed. Zeumer, nrs. 37–9. The manuscript came to the Bavarian State Library via Benedictbeuren, where it had been since the ifteenth century. How Benedictbeuren acquired it is not known. See Joseph Hemmerle, Das Bistum Augsburg 1: Die Benediktinerabtei Benedictbeuren, Germania Sacra, n.s., 28 (Berlin, De Gruyter, 1991), p. 67. Harry Bresslau, Handbuch der Urkundenlehre 2 vols. (Leipzig, Veit & Co., 1912–31) II, p. 237. But compare Rio, Legal Practice, p. 106.

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Piety, power, and memory around the turn of the ninth century, a more likely candidate for having actually brought together the various texts, particularly the documents in the Formulae Salzburgenses, nrs. 1–56, might be someone like Archbishop Liutpram (836–59), an important igure in the kingdom of Louis the German whose activities on the Slavic frontier have been noted earlier and who displayed a keen interest in grounding Salzburg’s interests in written legal form.39 Liutpram’s (possible) formulary book did not contain – aside from the letter of Alcuin to Arn – any explicit references to tithes or baptismal churches. As described earlier, the tithe regime in Salzburg was irst formalized under Archbishop Arn at the turn of the ninth century.40 By the end of the tenth century, the archbishops of Salzburg had also successfully brought most of the region’s monasteries under their direct control or substantially limited the independence of proprietary houses.41 The archbishops likewise controlled many ecclesiae parrochiales, such as the several dozen listed in the Notitia Arnonis, principally in the Salzburg- and Chiemgaue.42 The Notitia do not mention tithes, but rather the number of mansi belonging to each church, probably because at the time of the brief ’s composition, Archbishop Arn had been most concerned to record those pieces of property which had originated from formal ducal grants or beneices – the ecclesiae parrochiales mentioned here ‘in beneicium pertinent’, meaning that they, along with the mansi attached to them, were once Agilolinger patrimony. There remained, however, numerous chapels and churches in private hands that the bishop was unable to directly administer, but which could often be acquired – along with their tithes – and then let out again in return for some favour or other piece of real estate. It seems that this sort of administrative environment grew particularly rich in the early tenth century as political institutions and noble families in Bavaria struggled to right themselves following the devastating defeat

39

40 41 42

See Chapter 3, pp. 103–138 and Goldberg, Struggle for Empire, 78–81. Docs. 1–56 of the Form. Salzburg. are unique to Munich, Clm 4650, while the other formulary and epistolary material can be found in a number of other contemporary manuscripts (as noted by Rio). For a possible attribution to Liutpram, compare Sonnlechner, ‘Salzburg als Netzknoten’, pp. 214–15. On Liutpram’s solicitation of royal diplomas and other communications, see Brigitte Merta, ‘Salzburg und die Karolinger im Spiegel der Königsurkunden’, in Erzbischof Arn von Salzburg, ed. Meta Niederkorn-Bruck and Anton Scharer, Veröfentlichungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung (Munich, Oldenbourg, 2004), pp. 56–80. See Chapter 1, pp. 34–61. Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, p. 220. Notitia Arnonis, 6.26–8, ed. Losek, 80. See too Wolfram, Conversio, 345–6. The later Breves Notitiae refers to another eight or so churches in various places, in addition to those in the Notitia, but does not transmit the whole dossier itself.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of the German army against the Magyars at Pressburg (Bratislava) in 907.43 Following the battle, Magyar warriors and settlers pushed deep into Bavarian territory and Salzburg forfeited many of its possessions in the Carinthian marches and Slavic mission areas along the lower Mur and Drau Rivers.44 Following the battle, in which the Bavarian duke Liutpold was killed along with much of the Bavarian high nobility, including the Salzburg archbishop Thietmar I, Liutpold’s son, Arnulf , claimed the ducal title and set about consolidating his control over the region. He attempted to operate largely free of royal interference and several times sought refuge among the Magyars when Conrad I sent armies to discipline the rogue duke. As was often the case in these situations, Arnulf found it convenient to avail himself of church properties in order to make gifts and beneices to his supporters.45 This may partly explain the lack of monasteries with prominent economic proiles in Bavaria in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Monastic accounts – many from the twelfth century or later – allege massive coniscations, but the extent to which Arnulf encroached upon episcopal domains is not as clear.46 A diploma of Henry I for Freising in 931 restored to the church there some properties in the Vintschgau (Val Venosta in Südtirol, near Meran) which may have been among those alienated by Arnulf and his brother.47 In 916, the Synod of Hohenaltheim, which drew bishops primarily from Swabia and Bavaria and focused on the integrity of the episcopate, ordered Arnulf and his brother, Berthold, to appear at a synod later that year in Regensburg to make an account of certain unspeciied misdeeds for which they needed to do penance.48 While Arnulf ’s abuse of church property was no doubt among the charges levied against him, the bishops appeared more concerned with the issue of rebellion and the duke’s continued resistance to Conrad I.49 In 921, Arnulf inally reached an accommodation with the Saxon king Henry I which granted him and his duchy a high degree of independence in return for his friendship (amicitia).50 The creation of what amounted to a largely autonomous Bavarian sub-kingdom under Arnulf had long-term efects on the relationship between the archdiocese of Salzburg and the German court.51 According 43 45 47 48 49 51

Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, pp. 196–9. 44 Ibid., p. 196. Reindel, Die bayerischen Liutpoldinger, pp. 89–92. 46 Ibid., pp. 80–1. MGH DD Heinrich I, nr. 28, 64. Synod of Hohenaltheim, c. 34, MGH Concilia VI, 1, p. 37. Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, p. 198. 50 Reindel, Die bayerischen Liutpoldinger, p. 129. A twelfth-century copy of the Greater Salzburg Annals (ed. Harry Bresslau, MGH SS XXX, pt. 2 (Leipzig, Anton Hiersemann, 1934), p. 742 claims that in 919, the same year Henry I was elected king, Arnulf was elected ruler of the ‘regnum Teutonicorum’. A great deal of ink has been spilled over

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Piety, power, and memory to Thietmar of Merseburg (as well as Liutprand of Cremona), Arnulf retained ‘the unique right to distribute all the bishoprics in his territories on his own initiative’.52 Until the mid-eleventh century, appointments to the see of Salzburg remained – under the Bavarian dukes – in the hands of the regional nobility, divided mostly among two broad kindreds, the Sighardinger counts of the Salzburg- and Chiemgaue, and the Aribonids, descendants of Count Aribo who ruled the eastern Danubian march and the Traungau of and on from 876 to 907.53 This meant that power in the archdiocese had to be negotiated among the bishop, clergy, and nobility with relatively little interference on the part of the king, at least until the Ottonians began asserting greater inluence over the eastern marches in the later tenth century.54 The duke instead played a key role in mediating the various interest groups in the region and facilitated donations and exchanges between families and the archdiocese. During this time, property and churches changed hands frequently, most often in the form of settlements, or complacitationes, recorded in the episcopal Traditionsbücher.55 These transactions show how church property, including dependents, tithes, and other appurtenances, served as an important form of social currency which allowed bishops to receive prominent donations while acknowledging key members of the nobility, including members of their own retinues and families, as well as the duke, as key members of the diocesan community by investing them with churches and other signs of familiarity and friendship with the bishop. In function, if not form, they were quite similar to the livelli granted by the bishops of Lucca, though the relationship between the grantor and recipient is couched more clearly in terms of lord and vassal – terms that denote a relationship of idelity and friendship rather than a formal feudal hierarchy.56 Most of these arrangements ceded property to laymen for at most two generations, usually stipulating that a son or daughter, or other named heir, would be permitted to assume ownership until their deaths, upon

52

53

54 55 56

the signiicance of this oblique entry, with some historians suggesting it is a later interpolation. See Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages, pp. 138–40. Thietmar, Chronicon, I.26, ed. Robert Holzmann, MGH SRG, n.s. vol. 9 (Berlin,Weidmann, 1935), pp. 33–4; Liutprand, Antapodosis, II.23, ed. Joseph Becker, MGH SRG, vol. 41 (Hannover and Leipzig, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1915), pp. 48–9. See too Bührer-Thierry, Evêques et pouvoir, pp. 157–8. For the genealogies of each archbishop, see Dopsch, ‘Besetzung des Erzbistums Salzburg im 10. und 11. Jahrhundert’, MGSLk 110–111 (1970–1), pp. 125–51. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 84. Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, pp. 94, 104–5. Susan Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reinterpreted (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1994), pp. 403–6.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire which time it would revert back to the church. Churches and tithes changed hands frequently as bishops granted and exchanged them for the services and property of regional lords, but those rights inevitably fragmented among multiple interest groups. As both the church and lay families in the eleventh century became more conscious of maintaining close control of property and building territorial lordships, the breezy traic in property that prevailed in the tenth century was no longer tenable. The Codex Odalberti contains records of over 100 transactions and provides a detailed window onto the social landscape of early tenthcentury Bavaria and how the contours of that landscape were formed using church oices and property.57 As in Lucca, prominent laymen held portions of parishes and tithes in beneice from the bishop, placing themselves in the bishop’s service in some cases, but in a way that seems to have played an important part in the construction of their own status and identity. In 925, for example, a certain noble man, Reginhard, and his wife, Swanhild, ceded a property complex in the Leobental (in Styria) to the archbishop in return for keeping a beneice he currently held in the Mürztal (also Styria) as private property, ‘along with any tithes, churches, farms and dependents and everything else justly pertaining to those places’.58 The document provided that Reginhard’s wife and son would inherit this property, but after the death of their son, it would revert back to St. Peter. We know from other transactions in Odalbert’s records that Reginhard considered himself a vassal of the archbishop and served as the archiepiscopal advocate on at least two other occasions.59 He was no minor dependent, either; in the 925 exchange, he appears with no fewer than thirty-three witnesses, including four named as counts and appears himself as a witness in some thirty (nearly one-third) of the documents recorded in Odalbert’s Traditionsbuch. Reginhard served the bishop as advocate and a vassal (probably indicating that he could perform military functions if called upon) and in such a position, could hold tithes and churches – prestige possessions for the bishop’s closest allies and friends. Two years later, Odalbert granted a chorbishop named Kotabert life-long title to property in the same area on the Mürz, along with a number of other nearby locations, in return for a substantial donation.60 Another important igure in the Odalbert documents is the noble Rafolt, a ministerialis61 who appears in the witness lists of nearly two-thirds of the archbishop’s traditions and in 928 received from the archbishop a 57 58 59 60 61

See the overview table of transactions in SUB, I, pp. 57–62. Codex Odalberti, nr. 8, SUB, I, pp. 75. Compare Codex Odalberti, nr. 26, SUB, I, p. 90, as well as the comments for nr. 8. Codex Odalberti, nr. 2, SUB, I, pp. 68–9. Codex Odalberti, nr. 82, SUB, I, p. 143.

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Piety, power, and memory property complex in Haling (Chiemgau) for his wife and son, along with its churches and curtes.62 Odalbert’s successor, Frederick, did something similar for his vassus, Count Aribo I, in 976, who, in a renewal of an arrangement his father, Count Chadaloh, had enjoyed, received an ecclesia decimata in Beuern (Chiemgau), with all its appurtenances and tithes, in exchange for a farm (huoba) in the Innstal.63 Aribo also agreed to provide the bishop with a servitium called ‘Hengstfütter’, or horse fodder. Odalbert, a member of the Aribonid kindred, has the distinction of having been the only (known) married individual raised to the archiepiscopal dignity in the German kingdom.64 Sometime after his appointment, his wife, Rihni – a relative, possibly niece, of Duke Arnulf – took the veil and entered a convent, but continued to exchange and receive property from her erstwhile husband. In 924, Rhini – identiied as a femina nobilis and in the presence of two ducal missi – ceded a church and its property belonging to her in a place called Sewa (possibly Seeon or Soyen, near Gars) to Odalbert in exchange for life-long title to the cell and church in Gars and curtes in eighteen other places, mostly in the Salzburggau and western Bavaria between the Inn and Salzach.65 The archdiocese retained one-third of the tithe to nine of the churches. The agreement appears to have been renewed in 927 at the request of Duke Arnulf, but with terms somewhat more favourable to the episcopal see; Rhini ceded several more properties to the archdiocese in addition to those named in the irst exchange.66 Heinz Dopsch, following Kurt Reindel and others, has suggested that this exchange with Rhini was exacted from Odalbert because he had been elected without Arnulf ’s approval; this exchange, unlike most of the others, reads like a ducal diploma, with Arnulf ’s intitulatio rather than the bishop’s.67 In passing this large amount of property to the family, Odalbert supposedly reconciled with the duke. As Geneviève Bührer-Thierry has observed, however, Odalbert’s separation from Rhini was a complicated afair that would have had important ramiications for the social standing and economic situation of the two families involved.68 If Odalbert’s election were to have broad support 62

63 64 65 66 67

68

Codex Odalberti, nr. 7, SUB, I, p. 74. This exchange is recorded in nr. 71 as well, which speciically mentions tithes as one of the church’s appurtenances. It is also worth noting that in the early tenth century, ‘ministerialis’ had not yet acquired its later meaning as an unfree retainer and in the Codex Odalrici still clearly designates a free (and noble) member of the archbishop’s circle of vassals and allies. Codex Fridarici, nr. 15, SUB, I, p. 180. Dopsch, ‘Der bayrische Adel, p. 129. Codex Odalberti, nr. 44a, SUB, I, p. 106–7. Codex Odalberti, nr. 44b, SUB, I, pp. 107–8. Dopsch,‘Besetzung des Erzbistums Salzburg’, p. 129. Compare Reindel, Die bayerischen Liutpoldinger, nr. 137., pp. 125–51. Bührer-Thierry, Evêques et pouvoir, p. 159; Bührer-Thierry, ‘Femmes donatrices, femmes bénéiciaires: les échanges entre époux en Bavière du VIIIe au Xe siècle’, in Dots et douaires dans le haut

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire among the Bavarian elites, it was inevitable that property would have to be redistributed in this way and it appears that Duke Arnulf was advocating more for the interests of his extended family and their proprietary interests than extorting the church of Salzburg over Odalbert’s election. On the other side of the equation, numerous other nobles, including Odalbert and Rhini’s children, passed back to the archdiocese property which they had received from Duke Arnulf, or later, his brother Berthold. Some of this may have been an attempt to piously repatriate property which Arnulf himself had coniscated from the church, but seems more likely to be a sign of the way the local nobility could use a windfall of ducal generosity to create relationships with St. Peter and the archbishop. The property the aforementioned Rafolt passed along to Odalbert in his 928 exchange originated from a traditio from Duke Arnulf. Just a little earlier, a nobleman named Weriant and his wife, Adalswind, exchanged a locus in the Styrian Ennstal with Odalbert which they had ‘received from dukes Arnulf and Berthold’ for the curtis of Friesach in Carinthia, including the churches and tithes there.69 In 930, Odalbert’s own son, Thietmar (Diotmar in the texts), passed ducal property near Altötting to the archdiocese in return for a number of properties, including tithes and churches, in the same area.70 These kinds of broad, lateral interactions in which churches and tithes could be passed along to laymen and relatives took shape in other Bavarian dioceses around the same time. In Passau, for example, a certain noble Dietrich presented Bishop Adalbert (947–70) with property in Sandbach and Iggensbach in exchange for whatever property the church of St. Stephen (Passau’s patron) possessed in several other places in Upper Austria, including a basilica in Heining ‘cum decimis et agris et cum omnibus illuc pertinentibus’, which he would be able to pass on to his wife and daughter.71 The witness list includes twenty names which appear throughout Passau’s tenth-century documentation. It is likely that this same Dietrich, along with several of the individuals named in his witness list, were among the signatories to an agreement with Pilgrim (985–91) made during a synod in Lorch (Enns-Lorch) wherein the local nobility agreed to recognize the bishop’s right to his share of the tithes which had been paid in the churches ‘in the province between the Enns and mons Comagenus (Tulln)’ prior to the time of the ‘barbarian devastation’

69 70 71

Moyen Âge, ed. Laurent Feller François Bourgard, Régine Le Jan, Collection de l’École française de Rome (Rome, Ecole française de Rome, 2002), pp. 329–51, at pp. 340–6. Codex Odalberti, nr. 57, SUB, I, p. 118. Codex Odalberti, nr. 80, SUB, I, p. 141. Traditionen des Hochstifts Passau, ed. Max Heuwieser, QEBG, n.F. , vol. 6 (Munich,Verlag der Kommission für bayerische Landesgeschichte, 1930), nr. 91, p. 78.

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Piety, power, and memory (i.e. the Magyar invasions).72 This agreement would seem to conirm Pöschl’s view that the Magyar invasions in German lands had substantially eroded episcopal control over their churches.73 Yet in the context of the broader tradition of how church property was used at this time, the issue is not so clear. At another synod in Mistelbach, held at, or near, the same time as the one in Lorch, Pilgrim and the nobles agreed to make sure that the people brought their tithes to their appropriate ecclesia baptismalis.74 While the Magyar invasions certainly could have caused disruptions in episcopal administration, the Hungarian presence along the Danube was marked far more by accommodation and continuity than the devastation implied in the later tenth-century synodal protocols.75 This was hardly a major loss or disruption for the diocese and, if the agreements in these synods were observed as promised, by the end of the tenth century, the bishops of Passau had at least as much say over church tithes in their diocese as Willigis of Mainz did over ones in churches like that in Mörschbach. Moreover, even after Pilgrim’s synods, the traic in tithe beneices persisted in Passau. A nobleman named Wichart gave Bishop Berengar (1013–45) a piece of property in Roschanaswanch in exchange for a property in Perg (? Perga) which at that time a knight (miles) of the bishop held in beneice, along with a church and its tithe rights (decimatio).76 The same bishop – ‘in the presence of all his knights’ in Münzkirchen – gave another noble, Fritilo, the decima popularis and two mancipia in Erlach for some property in Waltersdorf.77 Both these places are in northeastern Styria (between Graz and Wiener Neustadt) where we are not surprised to see among the witnesses Hartwig, count palatine of Bavaria and count in Carinthia, along with his successor, Oci, who later founded the Carinthian monastery Ossiach, and Hartwig’s son-inlaw, Aribo. On the surface, not much here appears to have changed, save for the increasing mention of miles episcopi. This may not be insigniicant, as we see later. John B. Freed has documented an important development in the bishop’s social relationships as relected in the Salzburg Traditionsbücher that we can also see in the militarization of the bishop’s retinue in early eleventh-century Passau. While early bishops like Odalbert and his successor, Frederick (958–91), made exchanges with highly placed clerics or members of the upper nobility, by the eleventh century, the circle of people with whom the bishop interacted in these traditions had 72 73 75 76

Traditionen Passaus, pp. nr. 93, pp. 80–1. Pöschl, Bischofsgut, II, p. 70. 74 Traditionen Passaus, 93b, p. 82. Brunner, ‘Der österreichische Donauraum’, pp. 56–7. Traditionen Passaus, nr. 104, p. 88. 77 Traditionen Passaus, nr. 107, p. 89.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire changed.78 Instead of lay and ecclesiastical elites, more and more of the bishop’s exchanges are with dependents (servi or ministeriales) of the cathedral church – the archiepiscopal familia. Moreover, the number of witnesses in the documents contracts considerably over the course of the tenth and early eleventh centuries, possibly a sign of a narrowing sense of kinship and inter-dependence among the elites.79 Likewise, Heinrich Fichtenau noted that over time, the use of the complacitatio, the dominant transaction witnessed in the Codex Odalberti, gradually gave way to the simple exchange, or commutatio, in which property was granted without the explicit expectation of receiving it back.80 This suggests that over time, the archbishops’ sphere of inluence had contracted and that the cathedral was no longer able to draw upon a large circle of vassals and other allies as it once did. Instead, bishops focused on cultivating a narrower clientele of dependents whom they could control more closely, opting for a more vertical, rather than horizontal, orientation of their power relationships. Instead of contending with the limits of geography and the power of monasteries, as the archbishops of Mainz did, their colleagues in Salzburg seemed more limited by the gradual transformation of noble power and the need to promote a more tightly integrated – and well-armed – familia. This process seems less pronounced among the Passau traditions, however, where noble donations persisted through the mid-eleventh century, but more often than not included people – servants, knights, or serfs – rather than land.81 The eleventh-century episcopal traditiones, particularly those of Thietmar and Baldwin, are noticeably smaller in scale than earlier ones such as those seen in Odalbert’s codex. One of the last great exchanges between the archdiocese and a noble layman is recorded in the Codex Tietmari (1025–41).The count palatine Hartwig, the son of Aribo I, made a concambium non incommodum in which he granted a predium on the Laßnitz River in eastern Styria to the archbishop in return for receiving the tithe rights ‘which that same count Hartwig owes from those predia in Strassgang (near Graz) to the holy church’ as heritable property in perpetuity.82 The Codex Balduuini (1041–60) contains a handful of transactions with noble laymen involving relatively small properties compared to those we have seen from the tenth century.83 Two of these, involving two 78

79 80 81 82 83

John B. Freed,‘The Formation of the Salzburg Ministerialage in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries: An Example of Upward Social Mobility in the Early Middle Ages’, Viator 9 (1978), pp. 67–102. Freed, ‘Formation of the Salzburg Ministerialage’, pp. 81–2, 67–102. Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, p. 104. Traditionen Passaus, nrs. 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 105, 106, 108, 113, 114, 115, 120. Codex Tietmari, nr. 3, SUB, I, p. 213. Codex Balduuini, nrs. 3, 4, 11, 12, 22, 25.

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Piety, power, and memory vires nobiles named Walfrit and Eppo who cannot be further identiied but were probably related, represent the irst surviving instances of tithes and tithe rights being passed back to the bishop, or ‘redeemed’, rather than the other way around. Walfrit, a vir nobilis from Carinthia, gives a predium in a place called Chapella, near Sulb in southern Styria, to Archbishop Baldwin, thereby ‘redeeming for himself and posterity’ the ‘just tithe’ (iusta decima) on properties in Kraubat and Reun (both also in Styria), as well as from a vineyard in Hengsberg (near Wildon, lower Styria). The noble Eppo, also called a Carinthian in the document, redeems the tithe on his properties in Friesach, Algeristeti (location uncertain), and Peggau by giving the archbishop a property in Kappel, near Sulb. The implications of these early tithe agreements will be discussed in greater detail later, but do illustrate yet another aspect of the changing structure of social relationships between the bishop and regional nobility. Tithes were no longer a prestige beneice freely granted by the bishops to their closest circle of vassals, but a prerogative now jealously guarded by the bishops. Eppo and Walfrit did not yet have toponyms attached to their names as the nobility of the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries did, but Baldwin’s documents do place them in a territorial context – an early, if subtle, indicator of an important shift taking place in the social landscape of the diocese. We can gain another perspective on this same phenomenon by looking at the path taken by a church property and its tithe over time. The church of Erlstätt, just west of Traunstein near the Chiemsee, is listed among Salzburg’s ecclesiae parrochiales cum territorio in the Notitia Arnonis.84 In 927, a nobilis vir named Gerhoch (Kerhoh) and his wife Alarun approached Archbishop Odalbert about an exchange (commutatio) in which they ceded eight properties in the Chiemgau to Salzburg in return for Holzhausen (near Ötting) and Erlstätt, which at the time were held in beneice (from the bishop, presumeably) by a certain Heriger.85 The exchange, ‘for the augmentation of the church committed to us’, as the prefatory formula put it, granted the churches and their appurtenances to Gerhoch as heritable property in perpetuity. At some point, however, it appears that Erlstätt, or a portion thereof, passed in beneice to a nobleman named Zwentibold, who, along with his father, gave four farms and some dependents to Odalbert in exchange for life-long property rights to their holdings, including ‘estates, buildings, tithes, and dependents of both sexes and of all ages’.86 We do not hear about Erlstätt again until the 84 86

Notitia Arnonis, 6.26, ed. Losek, p. 80. 85 Codex Odalberti, nr. 46, SUB, II, p. 110. Codex Odalberti, nr. 88, SUB, II, p. 151. Zwentibold and his father, Dietrich, held other properties in the Chiemgau from Count Gerhoch. See, for example Codex Odalberti, nr. 94.Thus it is reasonable to assume that he had received Erlstätt in this manner as well.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire early eleventh century, when a cleric named Plidolf donated his property there to Archbishop Hartwig in exchange for some other property in Upper Bavaria, including two iugera of meadow.87 At least part of Erlstätt’s endowment remained in the church’s hands – as far as we can tell – up to the twelfth century when the Traditionsbuch of St. Peter’s in Salzburg lists it among the properties in the Chiemgau from which it collected tithes.88 But by this time, Erlstätt’s tithe rights had been divorced from the church there, which was probably held by someone else, while one curtis owed a tithe to the brothers of St. Peter. Tracing the fate of the parish of Erlstätt seems to encapsulate the story of the fragmentation and dispersal of church property over the tenth and eleventh centuries. Erlstätt began as a church with a substantial property endowment granted by the Bavarian dukes to the church of Salzburg, but was gradually broken up through various grants and exchanges until the twelfth century, when St. Peter’s monastery retained only the tithe rights to a single estate there. On the other hand, it is also a story of important continuities:The church in Salzburg, either the bishop or St. Peter’s, never entirely lost control of Erlstätt and the tithes from its property continued to be an important part of the monastery’s endowment in the twelfth century.What changed were the social valences of Erlstätt’s property and its tithes, once a kind of commodity used to lubricate social relationships between Salzburg and the nobility of the Chiemgau, but which was merely part of a monastic endowment by the twelfth century. This was less the result of a major reform as of a shift in the social constitution of the region. By the time property complexes like that in the parish of Erlstätt began to fragment, the archbishops themselves were less likely to be drawn from the regional Bavarian nobility. The origins of Archbishop Thietmar are obscure, but his two successors, Baldwin and Gebhard I, were likely of Flemish and Swabian origin, respectively, and came to their positions via the imperial chancery and royal appointment. Thietmar’s Traditionsbuch is the irst to contain a preface which suggests that some of the earlier exchanges and conveyances made under his predecessors were now being either ‘rescinded or diminished’ (rescindi ac minui) and that records of such transactions needed to be preserved lest someone act against them at a later time.89 As noted at the beginning of the chapter, the preface to Baldwin’s codex is as ferocious as it is bleak about the situation of ecclesiastical property. Baldwin’s codex might also have been describing attempts by laymen to repossess property ceded to the cathedral church 87 88 89

Codex Hartwici, nr. 18, SUB, II, p. 199. Traditionsbuch St. Peter, nr. 147, SUB, II, p. 322. Cod.Thietmari, ‘Vorrede’, SUB, I, p. 211.

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Piety, power, and memory by earlier relatives. We know from the Notitia Arnonis, as well as from other sources like the Traditionsbuch of Freising, that this type of contestation was quite common in the ninth century.90 Unfortunately, we have no direct evidence – other than the rhetoric of the prefaces in the last two Traditionsbücher – of this occurring in the mid-eleventh century. The traditions of Passau give no indication of a similar crisis afoot, either. Far from facing usurpations or reclamations by laymen, bishops in the mid-eleventh century were confronted with a situation wherein their predecessors had intentionally and, most of all, lawfully, placed numerous churches and tithes – the one form of income associated most acutely with episcopal power – in the hands of laymen in return for land, people, and other resources deemed necessary to the proper administration of the diocese. Gebhard I of Salzburg and the redemption of tithes Baldwin was the last eleventh-century Salzburg prelate to compile a Traditionsbuch. The records of his successor, Gebhard, survive mostly in later copies or original charters scattered among Styrian and Carinthian monastic archives.91 The reasons for this are diicult to know for sure, but his deposition and exile during the Investiture Controversy certainly would have impeded the normal functioning of an episcopal chancery. This is the case regarding a series of six closely related documents which record Gebhard’s acquisition of tithes from individual laymen in return for property or granting of parochial rights (baptism, burial, preaching) to certain churches under their control. While the same kind of transaction does not take place across all of the documents, they are products in some way of an agreement between two parties on how certain resources and property should change hands. The language of the charters is not always consistent, but revolves most frequently around verbs like redimere (redeem) and concambiare (exchange) to describe what is being done. Six charters in the group represent four individuals, Markwart, Ernust, Hartnid, and Aribo, and two monastic foundations, Ossiach and Göss. Written on small parchments, the documents vary in length and with respect to the amount and nature of property involved and the details of the exchange or redemption, but follow the same basic form.They are essentially notitia, making public either the redemption of all just tithes in exchange for certain property (along the lines of what Baldwin had done), or, in other cases, the transfer of tithe rights to the bishop in exchange for his conceding certain proprietary and ecclesiastical rights to a layman. 90

Brown, Unjust Seizure, pp. 83–5.

91

SUB, II, pp. 160–81.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire They each begin with a brief notiication clause (notum sit omnibus …) and quickly move on to the disposition and end with a prohibition clause against future archbishops altering the terms of the agreement, followed by a witness list. None of the charters is dated, so it is diicult to establish a strict chronology for the tithe agreements; the irst appears to have been with Abbot William of Ossiach.The deal had to have been made prior to 1065 when William, formerly a monk of Niederaltaich, was made bishop of nearby Treviso, north of Venice.92 Thus the remainder had to have been enacted prior to Gebhard’s expulsion from Salzburg in 1077 during the War of Investiture. Heinrich Fichtenau also observed that the structure and language of the documents are reminiscent of Gerichtsurkunden, or placita, which typically recorded the settlement of disputes.93 In this sense, they are something of a revival of the tenth-century complacitationes which Odalbert used so frequently to shule church property among his lay peers and which took the form of a kind of settlement or agreement. Indeed, the narratio of what may be the earliest, and most idiosyncratic, of these charters from the monastery Ossiach explains that: While Gebhard was occupying the cathedra of the church of Salzburg, an inquiry [inquisitio] was made by him everywhere concerning the tithes of counts and princes, nobles and non-nobles in his bishopric so that willing or not, all would redeem [them] with their property [predium suum] or relinquish [them] by right of the bishop.94

The context of these documents within an agreement-making process must be given some consideration.The Ossiach charter suggests with the phrase volentes nolentesque that Gebhard’s inquisitio into tithes in his diocese might have been more of an inquest than an inquiry that resulted in some wrangling. The formula is not used elsewhere in the other charters, however, making it an isolated example in any case. Whether or not there was an actual dispute or any kind of public hearings underlying these cases cannot really be established for certain. There is no reason to doubt, however, that Gebhard made it known in some oicial way that he wished to consolidate tithes within his diocese and called upon his constituents to either recognize his episcopal rights and submit them, or at least redeem them with the equivalent in property, essentially reversing the kind of exchanges made by the bishops of the tenth century. In any 92

93 94

Annales Altahensis maior, s.a. 1065, ed. Wilhelm von Giesebrecht and Edmund von Oefele, MGH SS XX (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1867) p. 71 = MDC, III, nr. 369, p. 147. Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, p. 151. SUB, II, nr. 94, p. 161: ‘Residente Iuuanensis ecclesiae kathedram Gebhardo achiepiscopo inquisitio ab eo facta est universaliter ubique de decimis super comites et principes, nobiles, ignobiles sui episcopatus qua cuncti volentes nolentesque vel predio suo redimerant sive episcopi iure reliquerant’.

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Piety, power, and memory case, the laymen who did respond to his announcement may have even been able to use his inquiry on tithes to bring the issue of their rights in local proprietary churches to the table. The Ossiach charter claims that Abbot William, ‘with the counsel of the monks and lay allies [ideles] of the monastery’, went to Gebhard with his advocate and ofered to redeem their tithes for ten massarici, a type of estate worked by dependent tenants.95 The charter, now extant only in an eighteenth-century copy of a presumed medieval original, was sealed by the archbishop and appears to be an outlier in terms of its diplomatic form and the group of individuals listed as witnesses – none of whom appear in any subsequent agreements. Far from being a broad response to an episcopal reform programme, Gebhard’s tithe redemptions seem to have focused on a fairly circumscribed group of nobles in the Styrian and Carinthian marches. This suggests a political agenda as much as one concerned with reform and administration (Figure 5.1). At the centre of Gebhard’s tithe redemption programme was Markwart of Eppenstein, the son of the former duke of Carinthia, Adalbero, and his wife, Liutpirc. Markwart and his family agreed to hand over to Gebhard ‘tithes from all of his estates [praedia] which they [had] in the diocese of Salzburg’.96 However, in the march – presumably one is speaking about the Carinthian March (today SW Styria) where the Eppensteiner family holdings were concentrated – he relinquished tithes only from a certain type of estate owned by him or his vassals, namely the Stadelhöfe (curtis stabularis).97 Then the document proceeds to outline exchanges related to speciic churches. In exchange for keeping the entire tithe belonging to a church in Alenztal (NW Leoben, Styria) and one-third of the tithe to a number of churches scattered throughout Carinthia and Styria, Markwart turned over a piece of property in Oterniz (near Leibnitz, southern Styria) and his share in a chapel in the castle Heingist (possibly near Hengstberg between Graz and Leibnitz, Styria). Markwart then requested from Gebhard certain legal rights for these churches. The priests at the church in Alenz apparently already possessed some parochial rights (bannum ministranti) and Markwart wanted this right extended to the churches in Biber, 95

96 97

SUB, II, nr. 94, 160f. Compare Niermeyer, Lexicon, s.v. massaricius, 659. William’s witnesses include Anzo, Iaghne, Hiltigoz, Rapot, Mazil Otto, Wolfold, Thiemo, Erpret, Wozo, and Udalricus. SUB, II, nr. 95, 162: ‘… de omnibus prediis suis que in episcopio Iuuavensi habuerant … ’. Again, Hauthaler’s apparatus, which implies that the Stadelhöfe represent all of Markwart’s possessions in the diocese, is misleading: ‘… decimas in manus archiepiscopi Gephardi legitime tradiderunt, in marcha autem non integre, sed tantum de suis et clientum suorum curtibus stabulariis quas vulgo stadelhof dicimus…’. On the Stadelhöfe, compare Niermeyer, Lexicon, s.v. ‘stabularius’, p. 986, where the word, when used with curtis, is deined as a ‘dairy farm’, but cites only the document in question here. It appears to have been an estate where animals, probably oxen or horses, were bred and stabled.

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Figure 5.1 The Eppensteiner c.950–1122.

Piety, power, and memory Adriach, Molzbichl, and Graslab as well, and, in addition, stipulated the boundaries of their respective ‘parochial’ jurisdictions.98 For the remaining six churches, he acquired speciically only baptismal and burial rights. Markwart’s agreement with Gebhard thus created a two-tiered (though not necessarily hierarchical) system of churches, one group where people in a given area were to attend mass and another where they participated in other sacraments, namely baptism and burial.99 In the third charter, a nobleman named Ernst (probably the Hernûst from among Markwart’s witnesses) gave Gebhard all tithes on his property in the diocese of Salzburg along with one-third of a church of St. Lawrence near Friesach and several farms.100 In return, Gebhard conferred the right to one-third of the tithe as well as baptismal and burial rights upon Ernst’s church in Zeltschach (just north of Friesach).101 A certain Hartnid appears in the next tithe agreement, trading tithes on all his property in the diocese, along with a St. Lawrence church (St. Lorenz bei Knittelfeld, Styria) and its tithe in return for the whole tithe, baptismal, and burial rights to the nearby church in Feistritz (directly across the Mur from St. Lorenz).102 It is likely that this Hartnid is identical to the advocate of the convent Göss (Styria) mentioned in the tithe agreement between Abbess Richardis and Gebhard.103 Based on the similar witness lists, this agreement may have been drawn up around the same time as Hartnid’s. Richardis and Hartnid turned over the tithe from all the estates owned by the convent to the archbishop and his advocate, along with one-half of the church of St. Martin in Sörg (near St. Veit, Carinthia), one-half of that same church’s private endowment (dos), and other several estates located in the Carinthian march. In return for half the church in Sörg and the properties listed, the abbess received back from the bishop all the tithes she had transferred to him.104 98

99

100

101 102

103 104

In the eleventh century, it would be anachronistic to talk about ‘parishes’ in the full sense of the term. See Haider, ‘Niederkirchenwesen’, p. 381, and LMA, vol. 4, s.v. ‘Pfarrei, Pfarrorganization’, cols. 2021 and following. Markwart was an important igure in Styria and Carinthia and accordingly, his agreement is witnessed by a somewhat larger group than that of William of Ossiach: Fridar îch, Marchuuart, Liûttold, Perhtolt, Meginhart, Heriman, Engilpreht, Ôtto, Anzo,Volfram, Hernûst, Hartnit, Otto, Eppo, Ârpo, Crimolt, Ratpoto, Pezili, and Heinrich. SUB, II, nr. 96, pp. 163–4. The farms (mansi) are at Winklern (E Friesach), Lessach (between St. Veit and Friesach, Carinthia), and a meadow in Verlosnitz (near Althofen, between. St. Veit and Friesach). The witness group is: Hartnit, Anzo,Wolfram, Hartnit, Aribo,Wolfkanc, Eppo, Rodolf, and Isingrim. SUB, II, nr. 97, p.164.The witness group in this agreement seems to be a cross-section of the previous two: Anzo, Hartnît, Marhuuart, Hartnît, Pabo, Irmfrit, Marhuuart, Ruûtger, Dietpolt, and Aribo. SUB, II, nr. 98, pp. 165–6. Ibid.: ‘Et cum dimidia parte prenominate ecclesiae et dotis eiusdem ecclesie et cum prediis et hobis prenominatis redimebat et concambiebat legitime ad monasterium sancte Marie sanctique

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire The last tithe agreement is between Gebhard and the nobleman Aribo, who had himself been witness to all the previous agreements, except Ossiach’s.The charter is a rather brief notice and states that Aribo and his wife, Liutkard, gave the ‘iusta decimatione’ on their property in Salzburg over to the archbishop, along with a farm (mansus) in a place called Chersdorf (location uncertain, near Millstatt, Carinthia). The farm, reads the charter, is in exchange for one-third of the tithe on four churches, one to St. Paul, a second to St. Walpurgis, and two in Millstatt, where Aribo also received rights for burial and baptism for the parishioners who worked on the farm in Chersdorf.105 Unlike Baldwin’s tithe agreements, however, the authors and preservers of these notices are the private institutions and individuals involved. In what manner, or by whom, they were actually written down is not clear, but four of the six documents are sealed diploma and all but one can be shown to have been preserved as original charters.106 The episcopal seal and the sanctio or Bannformel at the end of these documents guaranteed their authenticity and legal eicacy.107 The charter of William of Ossiach evidently had a seal appended to it, as we read in the inal line before the subscriptio: ‘…archiepiscopus sigillo suo irmavit et sub veris testibus corroboravit’. The same is true of the charter produced for Göss, although the seal is that of the twelfth-century abbess Adelheid, not that of Gebhard. The surviving Göss charter is actually a copy produced in the context of a later dispute between the convent and the cathedral chapter at Gurk over

105

106

107

Andree sibi commissum dcimationem ex toto quam in manum archiepiscopi Gebhardi tradidit id est recognoverat… ’. In addition, the convent receives baptismal and burial rights for its own convent chapel as well as the one in Sörg. Like several of the other tithe agreements, it contains a sanctio clause which prohibits any changes or infringements to the conditions by any future bishops and includes a relatively lengthy witness list: Harnit, Marchort (in majuscule), Pabo, Hartman, Irmfrit, Marchart, Dietpolt, Ruotker, Anzo, Aribo, Engilrich, Reginpreht, Richer, Wernhart, Meinhalm, Rudeger, Wichart, Gundacher, Rupreht, Haibarn, and Eberolf. The witnesses include Engilprecht, Wernherus, Eberhardus, Marhewardus, Aribo, and Dietmarus et alii quam plures. SUB, II, nrs. 94 (Ossiach), 96 (Ernust), 97 (Hartnid), were evidently sealed with Gebhard’s episcopal seal, although only fragments remain today. Nr. 98 (Göss) is a twelfth-century copy of the eleventh-century original and sealed with the seal of the contemporary abbess, however the original (lost) seal probably belonged to Gebhard. Nrs. 95 (Markwart) and 99 (Aribo) were not sealed, but Markwart’s document was preserved in the original diploma in the Stiftsarchiv St.Lamprecht in Styria. Aribo’s document could only be traced as far back as a manuscript leaf at the abbey Millstatt. Why copies of these charters were not preserved in Salzburg in some form is not clear. Perhaps Gebhard was not able to organize or transcribe his archive before having to lee and his collection of documents was subsequently lost. An alternative explanation is that the ecclesiastical institutions involved, more so than the bishop, believed keeping a permanent written record of the arrangements they had made was of vital importance. Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, p. 150, argues that they were important enough to have been recorded in the episcopal archives, but there is no real evidence either way. Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, p. 151.

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Piety, power, and memory the church of St. Martin in Sörg.108 It also appears that someone related to the church in Glantschach near St.Veit in Carinthia used an old sealed charter from the reign of Archbishop Frederick and King Arnulf to confect a pseudo-tithe agreement allegedly dated to the tenth century.109 It states that the nobleman Tessina (also called Ratpoto) received episcopal dedication for the church he built in Glantschach in return for rendering the recta decimatio from several listed properties. In addition, Tessina/ Ratpoto pledged two huobae in return for one-third of the church’s tithe and burial and baptismal rights, as the other exchanges with Gebhard stipulated.The Glantschach forgery, along with the charters of Markwart and Hartnid, end with a variation of the same formula that ‘nullus succedentium episcoporum hoc pactum mutare aut infringere potestatem habeat’, however, only Hartnid’s includes Gebhard’s seal, now mostly gone. Ernst’s document also contains a seal, but no sanctio formula, and Aribo’s contains neither, although it may have been truncated somewhat in a hasty, early modern copy. Clearly, the Glantschach forger, aware that the tithe agreements displayed prominent episcopal seals, turned up an early one from the time of Frederick and attached it, not taking the time to remove the original document’s sealing formula: ‘Signum domni Arnoli piissimi regis’! The forger also sensed a need to give what Gebhard was doing a semblance of historical precedence, even though they were technically in line with the sorts of complacitationes executed by his predecessors – in exchange for one kind of favour (tithes), they received another from the bishop (parochial rights for their private churches). Such formulae and sealing practices imitate aspects of papal and royal charters of the time.110 Indeed, they represent, as Peter Johanek put it, a ‘higher intensity’ way of preserving future rights than simple ‘notitia’ as one might ind in a Traditionsbuch. It seems likely that the documents, particularly those with the episcopal seal, had to have been produced in, or with the cooperation of, the episcopal chancery on behalf of the lay individuals or their churches who preserved them. But if it can be assumed that the recipient of a privilege or right was generally responsible for 108

109 110

On this later dispute and the role of the tithe agreement, see Redlich, ‘Ueber einige kärntnerisch-salzburgische Privaturkunden’, pp. 358–61.The dispute, presided over by Archbishop Conrad III in 1178, is preserved in a Salzburg document, UB Steiermark, I, nr. 593, p. 558 and states that the archbishop received the document from the abbess, but after a group of clerics examined it and heard testimony from Gurk’s witnesses, they declared it to be a forgery: ‘[sc. clerici] qui diligenti examinatione illud perscrutantes et falsitatem eius deprehendentes palam nobis prodiderunt’. Redlich, ibid, 359, suggests that the nuns of Göss lost their case because the current abbess, Adelheid, had aixed her own seal to the copy, rather than Richardis’, or, better yet, the archbishop’s. MDC, I, nr. 7, pp. 46-7. Compare Fräss-Ehrfeld, Geschichte Kärntens, p. 128. Fichtenau, Urkundenwesen, pp. 150–1. See too Johanek, ‘Zur rechtlichen Funktion’, pp. 153–5.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire keeping a written record of that privilege,111 the survival of this series of private, sealed documents might suggest that this group of people viewed themselves as having received special rights from Gebhard, as opposed to having simply redeemed their tithes in an efort overseen by Gebhard. The rights being preserved in the charters are not Gebhard’s tithe rights, but rather those of the local churches and their lay patrons. Markwart’s charter, for example, survives in the archive of St. Lamprecht in Styria, a family foundation of the Eppensteiner.112 Hartnid’s charter is the only one to exist in both the original and in a later copy in the twelfthcentury Traditionsbuch of the Salzburg cathedral chapter. The original version of Hartnid’s charter is in Graz, where it came after being kept at the parish church of St. Martin in Feistritz an der Mur, which his son, Adalram of Waldeck, later expanded into a collegiate church and donated to Salzburg in 1140.113 This explains why a copy of this document alone made its way into the Salzburg books. Ossiach’s sealed charter was at that foundation until it disappeared sometime in the eighteenth century.114 Ernst’s charter is in the Kärntner Landesarchiv in Klagenfurt today, as is the twelfth-century copy of the agreement for Göss. Aribo’s charter was once preserved in a manuscript from his family monastery Millstatt, which he founded with his brother, Boto, but is now extant in Klagenfurt as a copy probably made when the house was closed following the ban of the Jesuit order in Austria in 1773. Aribo’s charter mentions two churches at Millstatt, but it is not clear which of these two churches, if either, later became the monastery. Episcopal seals in the eleventh century were not uncommon, and the earliest Salzburg seals date to the episcopacy of Frederick (958–91).115 Harry Bresslau noted long ago in his classic handbook of diplomatic that episcopal sealings were frequently associated with conferring the ban (bannum), or formal assertion of legitimate authority to put the charter’s contents into force.116 The tithe redemption charters with seals do not contain a formal clause mentioning the ban as found in other 111

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115 116

Oswald Redlich,‘Die Privaturkunden des Mittelalters’, in Urkundenlehre, pt. 3, ed.Wilhelm Erben, Ludwig Schmitz-Kallenberg, Oswald Redlich (Munich and Berlin, 1909), pp. 125, 137. Benedikt Plank, Geschichte der Abtei St. Lambrecht: Festschrift zur 900. Wiederkehr des Todes des Gründers Markward von Eppenstein, 1076–1976 (St. Lambrecht, Stift St. Lambrecht, 1978). I thank the staf at the Steirmärkisches Landesarchiv in Graz for helping me locate the original, and Father Benedikt Planck, OSB of St. Lamprecht, for kindly allowing me to view it. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 249. Ilse Bodo,‘Geschichte des Benediktinerstiftes Ossiach’, unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, University of Vienna, 1967. Richter, ‘Älteste Siegel’, p. 121–3; Bresslau, Handbuch, I, pp. 526–31. Bresslau, Handbuch, I, p. 534.

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Piety, power, and memory contemporary documents, but do feature an analogous clause forbidding any future bishop from altering the terms of the pact.117 As is clear from the appended witness lists, the seal alone was probably not presumed to be the sole means of authentication, but rather an airmation of the charter’s legitimacy in addition to the eyewitnesses. Brigitte BedosRezak has recently observed that the growing practice of sealing private documents in Western Europe in the eleventh century also signalled an important change in the conceptualization of lordship and the beginning of an idea of trans-personal authority among lay and ecclesiastical lords.118 The seal enabled an individual to concretize their authority in an image and have that image serve as a stand-in for their personal presence and power.119 While Gebhard was not the irst Salzburg archbishop to use a seal, he was the irst to use it in this way on a group of closely related documents and in the context of these collective agreements.120 Salzburg appears to have been somewhat precocious in its use of seals compared to other sees in southern Germany, but not by much.121 Later forgeries frequently inject confusion into the transmission of early seals, but there is good evidence that Ulrich of Augsburg had a seal, and there are extant (genuine) seals for Bishops Heribert of Eichstätt (1022–42) and Eberhard of Bamberg (1001–40), in addition to Gebhard’s contemporary, Adalbero of Würzburg, who apparently used a lead bull.122 The charters represented not just formal agreements, but a process of bringing people to recognize episcopal authority in a region where comital families like the Eppensteiner had built up a considerable base of independent power and where Gebhard needed a concrete and visible way of asserting the inluence of his oice. 117

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The formula reads: ‘… ut nullus succedentium episcoproum hoc pactum mutare aut infringere potestatem habeat…’. Bresslau, Handbuch, I, 536 points out that while a clause mentioning the sealing was common, there are a number of examples where the seal appears with no special mention. Brigitte Miriam Bedos-Rezak, ‘Medieval Identity: A Sign and a Concept’, American Historical Review 105:5 (2000), pp. 1489–1533. Compare too Peter Weiss, Frühe Siegelurkunden in Schwaben (10.-12. Jahrhundert), Elementa diplomatica, 6 (Marburg, Institut für historische Hilfswissenschaften, 1997), esp. pp. 87–90. Bedos-Rezak, ‘Sign and Concept’, p. 1532. Compare Paul Hyams, ‘The Charter as a Source for the Early Common Law’, Journal of Legal History 12:3 (1991), pp. 173–89, esp. p. 174: ‘I would suggest that we understand each charter as recording the reconcilliation of many forces into convencio, a private agreement between more or less willing partners’. Robert Steiner, Die Entwicklung der bayerischen Bischofssiegel von der Frühzeit bis zum einsetzen des spitzovalen Throntyps, QEBG., vol. 40, nr. 1 (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1998); Weiss, Frühe Siegelurkunden, pp. 9–75. For Augsburg, see Steiner, Bayerische Bischofssiegel, pp. 120–2 and Weiss, Frühe Siegelurkunden, pp, 9–24; for Eichstätt, Steiner, Bayerische Bischofssiegel, pp. 145–56; for Bamberg, Steiner, Bayerische Bischofssiegel, p. 163; for Würzburg, Steiner, Bayerische Bischofssiegel, pp. 225–6.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire ge b hard as a re f orme r If Gebhard had only succeeded in acquiring those tithe rights he could extract from the regional aristocracy through negotiated agreements, his achievement was not inconsiderable given his status as an outsider. Gebhard was not a native Salzburger or even a Bavarian. The Admont tradition claimed he was Swabian by birth.123 We know nothing further about his family, other than the names of his parents, or if he was related to the Salian house in any way.124 As a young man, however, he rose quickly through the ranks of leading clerics active at the emperor’s court who served as spiritual advisors, document writers, and clerks – the Hofkapelle.125 Gebhard was probably being groomed for his position in Salzburg as early as 1055 when he was ordained as a priest by Baldwin himself.126 Following this promotion, he served as court chaplain under Henry III and succeeded Liupold of Mainz as the imperial cancellarius for Germany from 1058 to 1059.127 Empress Agnes saw to it that her son Henry IV sent Gebhard to Salzburg in 1060 to succeed Baldwin, who had also been appointed with her intervention. Agnes’s patronage was also responsible for the episcopal appointments of several close friends of Gebhard from his days with the royal court, namely Altmann of Passau and Adalbero of Würzburg. Adalbero, the last male heir of the counts of Wels-Lambach in Upper Austria, ordained Gebhard as bishop on July 21, 1060 at a royal assembly in Eschwege in Thuringia.128 Gebhard was thoroughly immersed in the high ecclesiastical and imperial politics of his day and surely knew key igures like Liutpold of Mainz and Burchard I of Halberstadt, who were important advisors at the royal court and, as shown in the following chapter, were among the irst bishops to attempt the reclamation of tithes in their dioceses, particularly from monastic foundations. Adalbero of Würzburg, too, had made a brief attempt to reassert authority over Fulda’s parishes in his diocese, probably with a view towards laying claim to some of their 123

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125 126 127

128

Vita Gebhardi, c. 1, p. 25: ‘Nobiliter natus fuit ex Suevis… ’. Compare Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, c. 1, p. 35. ‘Gloriosus igitur Gebehardus alto Suevorum stemmate, patre Chadoldo, matre Azala, progenitus… ’. His sister, Dietberga, was apparently married to the nobleman Wernher, the founder of the abbey Reichersberg. Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, p. 232. Fleckenstein, Hofkapelle, II, p. 259–61. Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, c. 1, p. 35. Ibid. ‘Quo post pucos annos rebus humanis exempto, et Heinrico IV ilio prioris in sceptra regni succedente, Gebehardus item primus inter primos palacii habebatur’. See too Fleckenstein, Hofkapelle, II, p. 259. Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, c.1, p. 35. On Agnes’s role in episcopal politics at this time, see Marie Luise Bulst-Thiele, Die Kaisarin Agnes (Leipzig and Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1933), pp. 38–50.

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Piety, power, and memory tithes, before being rebufed by the Pope.129 None of these connections is explicit, but it is nonetheless clear that Gebhard came to Salzburg as the product of an intellectual and political milieu at the court chapel which produced activist bishops dedicated to ordering their pastoral and political authority within their dioceses and encouraging reformed monasticism. Adalbero of Würzburg founded the abbey of Lambach on some of his family’s property in the Traungau and placed a reformist abbot at its head.130 When Gebhard established Admont in 1074, he settled monks from St. Peter’s in Salzburg there and named St. Blasien as one of its patrons.131 This may have been a tribute to his native Swabia, but it was more likely a statement of his commitment to monastic reform; St. Blasien in the Black Forest was a daughter house of Hirsau, one of the most inluential neo-Cluniac reform houses.132 The earlier Gorze reform had already spread to St. Peter’s in Salzburg in the late tenth century under the inluence of Wolfram of Regensburg,133 but it is not clear to what extent that resonated with St. Peter’s or Admont’s monks in the eleventh century. Early in his career as archbishop, Gebhard remained close to Agnes and Henry IV and accompanied a royal embassy to Constantinople in 1062, the same year he received his pallium, the vestimental scarf signifying archepiscopal authority, from anti-Pope Honorius.134 In August of 1062, shortly after his return from Constantinople, Gebhard obtained a conirmation of royal protection from Henry IV for all Salzburg’s possessions.135 His later abandonment of the king after 1076 opened up the way for imperial partisans to alienate much of Salzburg’s patrimony and drive him from the city. Gebhard’s reasons for deciding to cut most of the ties that had sustained him up to that point and for joining the Gregorian party are not entirely clear, but his convictions were. A long letter addressed to Hermann of Metz reveals a saddened and troubled man who had probably hoped for a quick and reasoned settlement to the conlict between Henry and Gregory and who blamed many of his fellow bishops for prolonging the strife by refusing to shun 129 130 131

132 133 134

135

See Chapter 6, pp. 215–55. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 272. Vita Gebhardi et success. eius, c. 2, p. 36: ‘Anno ergo incarnationis Domini 1074, ordinationis autem suae 15, in honore sanctae Dei genitricis Marie sanctique Blasii epicopi et martyris monaterium in valle Admuntensi construxit… ’. Jestice, Wayward Monks, pp. 249–50. See too Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 269–70. Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, pp. 238–9. Honorius was appointed by Henry IV, in cooperation with the Roman aristocracy, to contest the election of the reform candidate Alexander II. However, compare the late twelfth-century Vita Gebhardi et succes. eius, c.1, p. 35 where it claims that Alexander ordained Gebhard. MGH DD Heinrich IV, nr. 90. Compare Dopsch, Geschichte Salzburgs, p. 235.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the excommunicated king and forcing him to end the ighting.136 The fact that the king in particular was pursuing his claims through violent actions that louted traditional ecclesiastical institutions such as councils designed to settle conlict was particularly disturbing to Gebhard.137 One senses in Gebhard a solid, conservative nobleman who, like his Saxon and Thuringian counterparts, was easily ofended by the actions of a young king who snubbed his spiritual superiors and did not respect the traditions and institutions that preserved order in the realm. He landed on the side of the Gregorians more through his opposition to the king than through his approval of their reform ideas. Even if he admired what was being done in places like Hirsau or St. Blasien, he was certainly no radical and we have seen how he valued his near complete authority over foundations like Gurk and Admont more than he did principles of canon law or Reform – with a capital R. Gebhard focused on the techniques of expanding his lordship in the diocese and recognized the fundamental importance of the tithe. The signiicance of the tithe agreements is more evident when we consider some important relationships among the individuals represented in the charters. When one considers the names of the actors or witnesses in the tithe agreements, it becomes clear that they represented not six isolated individuals, but a group with some fairly close kinship relations who controlled large complexes of property and churches in Carinthia and southern Styria. While we cannot say that they were acting only on the basis of familial or kin interest, the evidence we have in these documents is illustrative of a community of property and lordship in and around Carinthia with whom Gebhard had to collectively negotiate. Gebhard acquired the tithes he needed to support his diocese and endow his personal projects like Admont. He formalized the organization of a large network of churches under the auspices of a local nobility who for their part received oicial episcopal sanction of burial, parish, preaching, and baptismal rights for those churches. In other churches, Gebhard and his lay counterparts shared control of the church or its tithe revenue. Markwart and Aribo were scions of two major families, the Eppensteiner and the so-called Aribonids, who dominated the politics of the Austrian marches throughout the tenth and eleventh centuries.138 Both Markwart 136

137 138

Gebhard, Epistola ad Herimannum Metensem, ed. and trans. Irene Schmale-Ott, in Quellen zum Investiturstreit, pt. 2, AQ, vol. XIIb (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1984), p. 127. Gebhard, Epistola, ed. Schmale-Ott, p. 135. The major work on the Aribonids is a still-unpublished Institutsarbeit by Heinz Dopsch, Die Aribonen: Ein führender Adelsgeschlecht in Bayern und Kärnten im Hochmittelalter (Diss., Institut für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Vienna, 1964). However, most of Dopsch’s research from this paper is transmitted throughout his many articles and books.

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Piety, power, and memory and Aribo were also distantly related to the family who founded Ossiach in 1024, a Carinthian Gewaltbote139 named Oci. In 1028, Ossiach came under the control of Oci’s son, Poppo, patriarch of Aquileia from 1019 to 1041. At the time of the tithe agreements, the advocate of Ossiach was Poppo’s nephew, or possibly grandnephew, Otto. However, the advocate for the patriarchate of Aquileia in Carinthia at the time was none other than Markwart!140 A more tenuous connection between Ossiach and the other parties in the tithe agreements is through a certain Hartwig, whom Oci succeeded as Gewaltbote in Carinthia sometime before 965. Hartwig’s daughter,Adala, married a local nobleman named Aribo, who later became count-palatine of Bavaria and was the grandfather of the Aribo in the tithe agreements. Hartwig’s son of the same name served as archbishop of Salzburg from 991 to 1013. Count Aribo’s son, also named Aribo, took up a clerical career and eventually served as archbishop of Mainz between 1021 and 1031. However, around 1020, he also founded the convent of Göss with his mother Adala, which retained close ties to his family even after it became an imperial monastery upon Aribo’s ascension to the archepiscopacy in Mainz.141 The relationship of the Gösser advocate Hartnid to the Aribonids is unclear, and he may have actually been either a relation or close ally of the Eppensteiner, since he does not appear in Aribo’s charter, but does turn up with Markwart and Ernst (Markwart’s uncle) in their own documents. The property with which Aribo endowed Göss had been in the family since at least the time of Louis the Child, and in addition he supplied it with large holdings throughout Carinthia that later became the subject of the tithe agreement under Abbess Richardis.142 The Eppensteiner can be traced (tentatively) back to a Bavarian count in the 920s named Markwart who was close to the circle of nobility around Archbishop Odalbert.143 This Markwart was probably the same as 139

140

141 142 143

The Gewaltbote (sometimes also called the Königsbote) was an oicer appointed by the king to oversee royal estates in a region. We know that Markwart was an advocate beginning in the early 1060s when he appears in the notice for a tithe exchange between Altwin of Brixen and the patriarch Rabinger. See MDC, III, nr. 336 = Klaar, Eppensteiner, nr. 46. as well as Friedrich Hausmann, ‘Carinziani e Stiriani in Friuli’, in Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studio: ‘Il Friuli dagli Ottoni agli Hohenstaufen’, 4.-8. dicembre 1983, ed. Giuseppe Fornasir (Udine, Deputazione di storia patria per il Friuli, Commune di Udine, 1984), 547–96. Dopsch, Aribonen, pp. 8–10. Compare Störmer, Früher Adel, I, p. 249. Compare MGH DD Ludwig das Kind, nr. 31. Compare for example MDC, III, nr. 90, (May 927) Markwart (Marhuuart) witnesses the renewal of an exchange between Weriant and his wife, Adalswind, and the dukes Arnulf (of Bavaria) and Berthold (of Carinthia) of property in Styria and Carinthia (including a church and its tithes in Friesach!). Arbeo and Hartuuih are among other witnesses; MDC, III, nr. 93, (March 30, 930) Marhuuart receives several properties in Styria from Archbishop Odalbert which had previously been granted to the latter’s relative Hartwig, Salzburg’s advocate, and then Duke Berthold. This

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the Markwart involved in Pilgrim of Passau’s tithe agreements, but this cannot be ascertained for certain. The eleventh-century Markwart was the son of Adalbero, duke of Carinthia until 1035 when he was deposed and exiled on charges of treason by Emperor Conrad II at an assembly held in Bamberg.144 Adalbero apparently believed that his predicament was the fault of Count William of Sanntal and later murdered him.145 Conrad II’s younger nephew, also called Conrad, was supposed to take Adalbero’s place as duke, but evidently never made his presence felt and the Eppensteiner family was able to retain most of its power.146 Duke Adalbero died a fugitive in 1039 in the castle Ebersberg in Bavaria, which belonged to his wife’s family, and he was buried at the monastery Giesenfeld, where his two sons, Adalbero and Markwart, donated property in his memory.147 The elder Adalbero also had two brothers named Eberhard (sometimes called Eppo) and Ernst, whom we meet in one of the tithe agreements. Eberhard was related to the Aribonids through his wife, Richardis, who bore the same name as the abbess of Göss, and was undoubtedly also related to the Aribonids. Eberhard and Richardis’s son was called Friedrich, and he appears as the irst witness in his cousin Markwart’s charter.148 Aribo, like his grandfather, was count-palatine of Bavaria until 1053, when he lost his oice supporting the rebellion of Duke Conrad of Bavaria against Henry III.149 The counts of Rott andVohburg replaced the Aribonids as counts-palatine, but they were closely related to a branch of the Aribonids in and around Freising.Thus by the middle of the eleventh

144

145 146 147

148

149

Markwart may have been the father of the Markwart who appears as a witness to the synods of Pilgrim of Passau towards the end of the tenth century. A brief mention of Adalbero’s deposition is in Wipo, Gesta Chuonradi, c. 5, ed. Bresslau, p. 26, but a more thorough account is given in a letter from a certain cleric of Worms to his bishop shortly after the meeting recounting how the emperor was stunned into silence and collapsed in front of his men after learning that his son, Henry (then duke of Bavaria) had made an alliance with Adalbero and refused to consent to his deposition. See MDC, III, nr. 237. After coming around and pleading with his son, Conrad obtained Henry’s consent to the decision. Annales Hildesheimensis, MGH SS III, s.a. 1036, p. 100. Fräss-Ehrfeld, Geschichte Kärntens, pp. 136–7. Compare Annales Hildesheimensis MGH SS III, s.a. 1036, p. 100 and MDC, III, nrs. 253 and 256. The younger Adalbero later went on to become bishop of Bamberg (1053–7) under Henry III. Friedrich and his wife, Christina, are memorialized in the necrology of St. Peter’s in Salzburg, ed. S. Herzberg-Fränkel, MGH Necr. II, 82, 2, under the category fratres de foris laici. In a 1058 donation of a chapel to Salzburg, Friedrich remembers his relationship with previous archbishops of Salzburg, namely Hartwig (991–1023), to whom he considered himself ‘secundam carnem cognatus’. Compare MDC, III, nr. 321, p. 130. Friedrich’s grandfather on his mother’s side, also named Friedrich, was a principal witness to the foundation of St. George in Längsee (Carinthia) by Wichbirg, the sister of Archbishop Hartwig, MDC, III, nr. 204. On this branch of the Eppensteiner family, see Camillo Trotter, ‘Zur Abstammung Friedrichs, des angeblichen Stammvaters der kärnterischen Grafen von Ortenburg’, MIÖG 31 (1910), pp. 611–16. Störmer, Früher Adel, II, 422; Dopsch, Aribonen, pp. 137–8.

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Piety, power, and memory century, the last of Aribo I’s descendants were removed from their oicial posts in Bavaria, but they remained strong in the territory where their grandfather had been Gewaltbote, participating in the tithe agreements and later founding the monastery Millstatt where one of the parchments was preserved. Their close association with the Eppensteiner here may relect a re-ordering of the kin group’s identity within the larger political dynamic in Carinthia clearly dominated by Markwart and his family. tith e s, bi shops, community, and fami ly: s ome conc lusions The fact that broad, if tentative, familial relationships can be leshed out of the tithe agreements does not necessarily constitute an explanatory model for their individual actions. They seem to be united by virtue of their inluence over a number of key ecclesiastical foundations as much as through various kinship ties. Given that the status of tithes here is negotiated in relation to ecclesiastical foundations as much as individuals, this is perhaps the lens through which we should understand the situation. I suggest that there are two possibilities for why these tithe agreements ended up crystallized within the network of kin and property holding as they did. One is that Gebhard, as an outsider, sought out igures like Markwart and Aribo with whom he had to establish good working relations in order to ensure some regularity of church life in his diocese. Unlike Pilgrim of Passau, Gebhard himself was not a member of the local aristocracy. In order to insert himself into diocesan politics, he needed a way to establish relationships with the important lay land and church owners in the region, and brokering a deal over tithes may have been the most efective means of achieving this. Thus when he needed additional support for his foundation in Admont, Gebhard could count on people like the nobleman Anzo, who had been among the witnesses in ive of the six tithe agreements. A second possibility is that if Gebhard had originally set out on his own to reorganize the tithe regime in his diocese, members of this kin group were the ones who met him halfway and saw the advantages of coming to terms with the bishop, particularly if they could themselves consolidate control over their proprietary foundations. Tithes, as we have seen repeatedly, were viewed as a communal asset, and as many members of that community as possible came together to support, witness, and preserve the agreements. In this case the community who had authority over most of the churches and tithes happened to be largely related, and it would simply not have made sense for one of them to pursue a deal with Gebhard on his own. 211

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Gebhard’s tithe agreements may have been one of the last instances of a Salzburg archbishop exchanging property with a group of noble laymen rather than the episcopal familia, dependent clerics, and ministerials who had populated the Traditionsbücher of his recent predecessors. Gebhard did use these groups in other contexts, however. We have already seen how, when he founded Admont, Gebhard requested donations from his ideles, both noble and ministerial, in order to endow the new monastery.150 A group of Gebhard’s ministerials appears for the irst time as witnesses in an exchange between two men of some property which is then given to Gebhard so he can donate it to Admont.151 But if Gebhard was the clever politician portrayed here, he may have sensed that his power base would have to be broader if he were to be an efective prelate. One way of asserting episcopal authority, as he must have known well, would have been to challenge the customary practices of tithe possession. This may or may not have involved the Slavic tithe, but it did open a door for him to make some far-reaching changes in his diocese with the help of Markwart, Aribo, and their families. Gebhard could formalize the status of ecclesiastical institutions in remote regions of upper Styria and Carinthia while guaranteeing himself tithe revenue with which to fund his special projects. Thus his episcopal prerogatives regarding the tithe were recognized while helping to erect a formal ecclesiastical presence in the area to serve the people there. For their part, the institutions under Markwart and his relatives’ inluence took great care to preserve a record of the agreements as a way of protecting those rights in the future. Given his lack of political and familial roots in the region, such compromises were clearly the best, and perhaps only, way for Gebhard to administer parts of the diocese where his personal lordship was not absolute. The foundations of the bishopric of Gurk and the monastery Admont, both closely tied to Gebhard’s personal lordship, were clearer expressions of the possibilities of his authority. Here he could exercise close control over property and tithes and use his circle of ministerial retainers to consolidate resources, as indeed his immediate predecessors had done in many instances. Elsewhere, as the tithe agreements show, he had to make concessions and in efect to share power over churches with local laymen. The group centred around the families of Counts Markwart and Aribo were proactive in seeking the development of ecclesiastical institutions in the diocese. They retained considerable control on the local level, but the tithes in particular were ceded to Gebhard and the lordship over 150 151

Vita Gebhardi et succ. eius, c. 2, p. 36. SUB, II, nr. 105a-b, pp. 174–5. The document is undated, but must fall between 1074 and 1088.

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Piety, power, and memory other churches shared in some way. If the group represented in the tithe agreements felt any sense of kinship outside the context of negotiating the status of their tithes, it was a type of self-conception fading rapidly in this period. Following the Investiture Controversy, ministerial retainers and patrilineal families, centred more strongly on their fortiications, became the norm. The Aribonids died out with Aribo around 1104 and the last Eppensteiner, Duke Henry III, died in 1122. In one sense, this is simply genealogical bad luck. But it also is symptomatic of the failure of the more difuse kin groups to hold on to their power bases, which were transmitted through oice holding and alliances with other important oiceholders like kings, dukes, bishops, and counts palatine. The Styrian Otakare, who in another age might have counted themselves among the Eppensteiner-Aribonid group, went on from their castle in Steyr to dominate the Traungau and Styria until the end of the twelfth century through a straight patrilineal descent.152 Dopsch makes the cogent argument that the Styrian Otakars were not directly related to the older Aribonids descended from Aribo I, the count palatine in the east.153 However, they had inherited the Carinthian march from the counts of Wels-Lambach, who had held it from the time of Duke Adalbero’s deposition in 1034 and in the twelfth century acquired the advocacy not over, as Dopsch observes to bolster his point, Aribonid foundations like Seeon or Millstatt, but (as Dopsch does not point out) Eppensteiner houses like St. Lamprecht. Since we know Otakar I was probably married to Count Markwart’s sister, the Otakare were technically related to the broader group represented by Markwart and moved in on much of the property vacated when the line died out.154 As in Lucca, the difusion and dispersal of ecclesiastical property, particularly tithes, in the tenth century was not so clearly the simple product of a feudalization brought about through a larger economic or political crisis; it was cumulatively a series of small adjustments to gradual changes in the relationships between families, institutions, and royal government. The reign of Duke Arnulf, along with the Magyar invasions, were certainly troubled times, but not ones that fundamentally altered the place of the church in the broader society. Bishop Odalbert and those he exchanged churches, tithes, and other property with – whether as beneices or outright grants of heritable property – could still think 152

153 154

See Heinz Dopsch, ‘Die steierischen Otakare’, in Das Werden der Steiermark, ed. Gerhard Pferschy (Graz,Vienna and Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, 1980), pp. 75–139. Dopsch, ‘Die steierischen Otakare’, pp. 86–90. Compare Genealogia Marchionum de Stire, ed. W. Wattenbach, MGH SS XXIV (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1879), p. 72, which claims that Otakar’s son, Leopold the Strong, was in fact named the heir of Duke Henry of Eppenstein.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of their transaction as ‘augmenting the church’. More substantial change seems to have come about in the early eleventh century, however, as the archbishops of Salzburg found that their social capital had begun to ebb and they turned increasingly towards cultivating relations of lordship based more on hierarchical authority than bilateral attempts to augment the church through exchange and reciprocity. Scribes in Baldwin’s chancery, by contrast, saw the recording of property transactions as a last-ditch efort to prevent the total collapse of the church’s patrimony, though what really seemed to have collapsed was the ability of the church to rally a base of aristocratic patrons as the earlier archbishops had. For Gebhard, the foundation of new institutions, such as Admont and Gurk, were part of this process and the reclamation of dues like tithes more pertinent even than exerting control over proprietary churches. Indeed, if there is anything extraordinary about the Salzburg tithe agreements, it is that they so expressly concede the spiritualia of churches to laymen. Perhaps, then, attempts like that of the Glantschach forger to give such arrangements the appearance of a lengthy pedigree or that the author of the Vita Gebhardi to gloss them as a reform of the Slavic tithe are more understandable.

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Chapter 6

T HE STRUGGLE F OR T ITHES IN AN AGE OF TR ANS ITI ON

This chapter concerns itself primarily with a series of events in the tumultuous decade of the 1070s in the centre of the German empire, in particular the struggle between Archbishop Siegfried I of Mainz and the monasteries of Fulda and Hersfeld for control of tithes in the province of Thuringia. Like the agreements between Gebhard of Salzburg and the Styrian-Carinthian aristocracy, a close case study of the bishop’s activities in one area of his diocese has the potential to reveal a great deal about changes in a number of underlying social structures. One of the key insights produced in scholarship on disputing and conlict resolution over the past three decades is that conlict in medieval society was not always a rupture in an otherwise normal continuity of social relations, but a way of continually negotiating and restructuring those relations.1 It is important to recognize, however, that tithe disputes cannot always be neatly divided into peaceful, negotiated settlements and protracted conlicts. The two usually went together in one way or another. However, looking at agreement making and conlict in two separate but parallel registers brings some important issues into sharper relief. In this chapter, I shall look at processes of agreement and settlement in the restoration of episcopal tithe rights to understand the principles and the norms that went into resolving conlict and bringing parties together and what these tell us about changes in the relationship between royal authority, bishops, monks, and lay society over time. A reassessment of the role played by tithes in this process not only illuminates the richer meanings of

This chapter is a slightly revised version of my article ‘Driving the Chariot of the Lord: Siegfried of Mainz and Episcopal Power in an Age of Transition’, in The Bishop Re-Formed: Studies in Episcopal Culture and Power in the Central Middle Ages, ed. John Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones (Aldershot, UK and Burlington,VT, Ashgate, 2007), pp. 159–86. 1 Warren C. Brown and Piotr Górecki, ‘What Conlict Means: The Making of Medieval Conlict Studies in the United States, 1970–2000’, in Conlict in Medieval Europe, pp. 5–9, 1–35.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire submitting the tithe that I have demonstrated, but underscores the need to begin rethinking this period of German history along the lines that scholars like Reuter and Weinfurter have recently suggested. The reform of the church in the second half of the eleventh century was as much a reform of historical memory as it was a reorientation of legal norms used to regulate the relationship between clergy, monks, and lay society. Indeed, they were two sides of the same coin. As the exclusive possession of property became a more important marker of authority and lordship during the Salian era, the question of tithes once again moved to the centre of diocesan politics and episcopal identity and became a key vector through which the bishop asserted his authority. But more than just an attempt to recover possession of an important resource, the struggle for tithes was simultaneously an attempt to reshape the way the bishop understood his place in the diocese in historical terms.The era of reform in the German kingdom was, as eminent historian Gerd Tellenbach phrased it many decades ago, indeed a ‘struggle for right order in the world’, but one that unfolded in many local contexts before eventually inding expression in the writings of the great contemporary theologians or dictates of reform popes. rememb e ring mainz : e piscopal p olitics and re f orm, 10 0 0– 6 0 The diocese of Mainz in the second third of the eleventh century was an ecclesiastical province in dire need of re-imagining and re-deining itself.2 Following its heyday in the Ottonian period under bishops like Willigis (975–1011), Mainz’s status as the primary ecclesiastical see in Germany had sufered a number of setbacks. These included losing an ugly, multi-year dispute with the bishops of Hildesheim over the jurisdiction of the nunnery of Gandersheim, as well as Conrad II’s decision to withhold Mainz’s traditional coronation privilege for the young Henry III in 1028.3 The appointment of the monk Bardo as archbishop in 1031 appeared to underscore a slow but inevitable decline in the diocese’s 2

3

On Mainz generally in this period, see Falck, Mainz im frühen und hohen Mittelalter, (cited in Chapter. 3); Karl Heinemeyer,‘Erzbischof Liutpold von Mainz: Pontifex antique discipline 1051–1059’, in Geschichte und ihre Quellen. Festschrift für Friedrich Hausmann zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. Reinhard Härtel (Graz, Akademische Druck- und Verlaganstalt, 1987), pp. 59–76. See, too, the contribution by Ernst-Dieter Hehl, ‘Zwischen Anspruch und Verlust (1011–60)’, in Handbuch der Mainzer Kirchengeschichte, vol. 1, pt. 1, pp. 257–80. Ernst-Dieter Hehl,‘Willigis von Mainz: PäpstlicherVikar, Metropolit und Reichspolitiker’, in Bischof Burchard von Worms, 1000–1025, ed. Wilfried Hartmann, Quellen und Abhandlungen zur mittelrheinischen Kirchengeschichte, vol. 100 (Mainz, Gesellschaft für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte, 2000), pp. 51–77; Wolfram, Conrad II, pp. 47–50; 141.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition political fortunes. The fact that neither Archbishop Bardo nor his successor Liutpold appear as intermediaries in royal charters suggests that the bishops of Mainz were indeed less active in royal afairs during the reign of Henry III.4 This is only one measure of signiicance, however, that should not prejudice our overall assessment of a particular bishop’s career. Bardo had been a monk of Fulda and later abbot of Werden and Hersfeld before receiving his appointment to Mainz. He possibly owed his promotion to Empress Gisela, Conrad II’s wife, to whom some sources report he was related.5 He received the archiepiscopal pallium from Pope John XIX in 1032, although the privilege did not include the title of papal vicar in Germany, last granted to Archbishop Frederick (937–9) during the reign of Otto I.6 Bardo supervised the completion and dedication of a new cathedral in Mainz in 1036 and consolidated the diocese’s control over its tithe rights in the province of Hessen.7 Finally, he was able to win back a small but signiicant concession for Mainz in 1043: He crowned Henry III’s new wife, the Poitevin princess Agnes, in his new cathedral despite the fact that Conrad II had made a point of shifting many of Mainz’s previous honours and obligations to Cologne.8 The Annalista Saxo even reports that in the early 1040s, Bardo participated directly in military campaigns along the Bohemian frontier, leading an army contingent alongside the Thuringian margrave Ekkehard of Meissen.9 To be sure, these are not the activities of an introverted and inefectual monk. As Josef Semmler has pointed out, the dedication of a new cathedral was a signiicant event, bringing the cathedral clergy once again under a single roof, expanding the cathedral school, and attracting further donations for the church.10 4 5

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8 9

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Wolfram, Conrad II, pp. 260–4. Johann Friedrich Böhmer and Cornelius Will, eds., Regesta archiepiscoporum Maguntinensium. Regesten zur Geschichte der Mainzer Erzbischöfe von Bonifatius bis Uriel von Gemmingen, 742?-1514 (Innsbruck, Wagner, 1877), nr. 165 (henceforward cited as Regesten Mainz). Papsturkunden 896–1046, 2 vols., ed. Harald Zimmerman (Vienna, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1984), II, nr. 595. See, too, Regesten Mainz, nr. 167. MUB, I, nr. 282, pp. 177–8. See also Josef Semmler, ‘Askese und Aussenwirkung’, in Handbuch der Mainzer Kirchengeschichte, vol. 1, pt. 2, ed. Friedhelm Jürgensmeier, (Würzburg, Echter, 2000), p. 610, and Staab, ‘Mainzer Kirche’, p. 52. Regesten Mainz, nr. 172. Annalista Saxo, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS VI (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1844), p. 684; Ernst Steindorf , Jahrbücher des deutschen Reiches unter Heinrich III, 2 vols. (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1963), I, pp. 91–2.The agreement over the tithes of Kaufungen, which Henry witnessed along with a number of high nobles and churchmen, appears to have been undertaken in the process of gathering support, men, and arms for the Bohemian campaign. See Semmler, ‘Askese und Aussenwirkung’, p. 610, with references to the pertinent sources. The reconstruction of the cathedral also signaled the reestablishment of a communal life for the cathedral clergy. See Staab, ‘Reform and Reformgruppen’, p. 137. Compare however,Wolfram, Conrad

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Bardo’s successor, Liutpold (1051–9), built upon his predecessor’s achievements and further asserted the archbishop’s position within his own diocese as well as within the structures of imperial government. The consolidation of episcopal rights within the diocese is particularly signiicant, even if such details typically fall beneath the radar screen in larger surveys. Small-scale collegiate church reforms, building dedications, conirmation of aristocratic donations, and tithe agreements are perhaps hum-drum details of routine episcopal administration, but the documents that record these events are witnesses to the bishop’s interaction with local communities of clergy and the laity.They are also often equally important indications of the direction and character of episcopal policy and self-perception as royal and papal immunities or other more impressive sources. Liutpold came from the ranks of the secular clergy; prior to his elevation, he was the provost of the cathedral at Bamberg, the leading cathedral school and intellectual centre in Germany in the mid-eleventh century.11 Like Bardo, he received the archiepiscopal pallium from Leo IX shortly after his elevation.12 Liutpold used diocesan resources to found several churches and to establish a stronger presence for the church in Hessen and Thuringia. In 1055 he founded a collegiate church at Nörten, near Hannover, dedicated to Mary and the apostle Peter.13 He richly endowed it with revenues, tithes, and properties in the region from the episcopal mensa, or the bishop’s personal endowment. Liutpold’s other foundations include the eponymous convent of Lippoldsberg, near Fritzlar, as well as the church of St. Jakob just outside the city walls of Mainz, for which Henry IV also provided a substantial endowment.14 Lampert of Hersfeld even called this church a monimentum to the late bishop for using his own funds to establish the monastery.15 As Lampert’s remark suggests, foundations such as these were not merely acts of individual piety, but attempts to create a legacy and site of memory. Lippoldsberg, for example, was also an important waypoint on the road between Mainz and Thuringia – via

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II, p. 256, who is somewhat less charitable, pointing out that Bardo did not restore the marvelous frescoes that had adorned Willigis’s cathedral. Ferdinand Geldner,‘Das Hochstift Bamberg in der Reichspolitik von Kaiser Heinrich II. bis Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa’, Historisches Jahrbuch 83 (1963), pp. 28–42; Marie Luise Bulst-Thiele, Kaiserin Agnes (Hildesheim, Gerstenberg, 1972), pp. 45–7; Claudia Märtl, ‘Die Bamberger Schulen–ein Bildungszentrum des Salierreichs’, in Die Salier und das Reich, ed. Stefan Weinfurter (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1991), III, 327–45. MUB, I, nr. 293, pp. 183–5 = Jafé, Regesta pontiicum, nr. 4281, p. 543. The privilege restores the function of papal legate to the Mainz bishop, but only under circumstances in which the arrival of a legate from Rome was expected or ‘as required by necessity’ (tanta necessitas urget). MUB, I, nr. 296, pp. 185–7; Heinemeyer, ‘Liutpold von Mainz’, p. 74. MGH DD Heinrich IV, Teil I, nr. 121, p. 160. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1059, ed. Holder-Egger, p. 77.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition Heiligenstadt and Erfurt, two other important ecclesiastical centres for the diocese.16 While founding new churches was always an attribute of a good bishop, the eleventh century saw a marked increase not only in the actual building of new churches and cathedrals, particularly in Germany and Italy, but of the attention paid to such activity in hagiographical literature.17 This is a kind of reform, but a reform of historical consciousness as much as of ecclesiastical institutions. A later charter from the pontiicate of Siegfried notes that shortly before his death, Liutpold transferred the church of St. Nikomedes, one of Mainz’s oldest foundations, to the monastery of St. Jakob. In this way, Liutpold linked the present with the past, joining a new monastery to one of Mainz’s foundational Christian institutions.18 Liutpold also continued the policy, initiated under Bardo, of reclaiming tithes in the diocese which had passed out of the bishop’s control over time and into the hands of private individuals or institutions, or which were no longer being paid in their full amount. The bishops of Mainz faced a serious quandary in this area, however. Large tracts of property, particularly in Hessen and Thuringia, as well as many of the local churches within the diocese that collected tithes from the farmers and landowners, belonged to the abbeys of Hersfeld and Fulda and were thus excluded from episcopal jurisdiction on the basis of their papal and royal immunity privileges.19 As late as 1049, Adalbero of Würzburg’s attempt to challenge Fulda’s control of its churches within his diocese was rebufed by Pope Leo IX and Henry III.20 Liutpold, however, remained undeterred and actively challenged both monasteries over their possession of certain tithes in Thuringia.21 Despite the abbots’ claim that their properties in Thuringia were exempted from such taxation, the matter was settled through an exchange of property that served to compensate the bishop 16

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19 20

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See art. ‘Lippoldsberg’, in Die benediktinischen Mönchs- und Nonnenkloster in Hessen, Germania Benedictina, vol. 7, ed. Friedhelm Jürgensmeier (St. Ottilien, EOS Verlag, 2004), pp. 741–67, at pp. 741–2. Tilman-Struve, ‘Die Wende des 11. Jahrhunderts. Symptome eines Epochenwandels im Spiegel der Geschichtsschreibung’, Historisches Jahrbuch 112 (1992), pp. 324–65. MUB, I, nr. 327, pp. 217–18. The charter establishes the rights of peasants in several villages owned by St. Nikomedes, now under St. Jakob’s control, vis-à-vis the church’s advocates alleged to have abused their power. See Chapter 3, pp. 107-109. Alfred Wendehorst, ‘Fulda und Würzburg: Tausend Jahre Konfrontation’, in Fulda im Alten Reich, ed. Berthold Jäger, Veröfentlichung des Fuldaer Geschichtsverein, 59 (Fulda, Parzeller, 1996), pp. 153–68. Details of Liutpold’s tithe campaign are related chiely in remnants of a now-lost historical brief by Lampert of Hersfeld called the Libellus de institutione Hersfeldensis. Portions relating to the tithe dispute were excerpted in the ifteenth-century German chronicle of Wigand of Gerstenberg and reproduced by Holder-Egger in his edition of Lampert’s Opera; see Lamperti monachi Hersfeldensis Opera, p. 352, in the apparatus.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire for the lost revenue.22 In a similar fashion, following an inquest (inquisitio) on the matter sometime before Henry III’s death in 1056, Liutpold prevailed upon the king to compensate the diocese for tithes owed from royal domains in Thuringia. The inal terms of the agreement were evidently not fuliled, however, and in 1059 Liutpold received a reimbursement from Henry IV in the form of 120 estates in Hessen,Thuringia, and Franconia.23 As Karl Heinemeyer noted, some thirty of the listed properties were close to either Lippoldsberg or Nörten, supporting Liutpold’s earlier consolidation of episcopal interests in northern Hessen.24 As will become clearer when we examine the continuation of this efort under Siegfried, the reclamation of tithe rights had simultaneous inancial, political, and pastoral aims. The right to receive and administer the ecclesiastical tithe ranked among the most important prerogatives of a medieval bishop.Thus, making an inquiry or inquest – as at least one of Gebhard’s tithe agreements put it – about tithes was not a simple audit of diocesan inances, but was fundamentally part of the obligations of pastoral care and a claim staked to episcopal authority in a region. The term appears to be borrowed from early medieval capitularies and royal diplomas, where it appeared frequently to denote an inquest or investigation by royal judges.25 The inquest for tithes was not a one-time event, but an ongoing process – during a bishop’s own tenure and from bishop to bishop – of negotiating the bishop’s power among local communities and institutions. In a narrow sense, tithes were an economic resource and a possession, but like property more generally, their possession was also part of an infrastructure of memory, continuity, and authority. At a time when the see of Mainz needed to create new, more permanent markers of its centrality in the German realm, recouping diocesan tithes or receiving properties in compensation for recognized rights served to enhance and enlarge the episcopal patrimony while also serving as a visible reminder throughout the diocese of the overlordship of the bishop. Liutpold’s agreement not only focused attention on the Mainz bishops’ rights to tithes in Thuringia, but also strengthened the diocese’s position 22

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Ibid. It is possible that a charter preserved in Hersfeld and dated to 1057 was part of this agreement, although it deals with churches and properties outside Thuringia: See UB Hersfeld, nr. 102. In it, Liutpold agrees to accept compensation in return for withdrawing his claims to the tithes of four churches held by Hersfeld near the Main River, in addition to other unspeciied tithes in regione Francorum, that is, in Franconia. For further details, see Hölk, Zehnten und Zehntkämpfe, pp. 39–45. MUB, I, nrs. 301–2, pp. 192–4. The original agreement with Henry III does not survive, but the background story is related in the two later conirmations of it dating to the regency of Henry IV in 1059. See, too, Heinemeyer, ‘Liutpold von Mainz’, p. 75. Heinemeyer, ‘Liutpold von Mainz’, p. 75. Compare Dictionnaire de droit canonique, vol. 5, cols. 1418–26 and Niermeyer, Lexikon, s.v. ‘inquisitio’, esp. deinitions 1–3.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition around the bishops’ new churches. The bishops of Mainz, it should be noted, were not the only ones interested in asserting their rights in this regard at the same time. Lampert of Hersfeld also recalled how Bishop Burchard I of Halberstadt attempted to revive his diocese’s old claims to Hersfeld’s tithes in the Hochseegau area of lower Saxony around 1056, but was unsuccessful thanks to divine intervention on behalf of the monks.26 Benno II of Osnabrück as well, his biographer tells us, vigorously pursued the monasteries of Corvey and Herford over diocesan tithe rights despite the ongoing wars and disasters plaguing the empire in the 1070s.27 This was in fact a re-writing and re-assertion of history as reform – quite literally in the case of Benno, whose chancery produced a spectacular series of forged royal and papal privileges in support of their case that constituted nothing more than the complete re-imagining of the history of the diocese of Osnabrück.28 Like church buildings and hagiographical traditions, tithe rights were sites of memory and power which could be erected, changed, enlarged, and manipulated in the service of episcopal interest. si eg f rie d’s backg round and early care e r We know next to nothing about Siegfried’s educational or career background prior to his appearance in the sources as the new abbot of Fulda.29 We do know, however, that he was a scion of the comital family who controlled the region north of Mainz, known as the Königssundergau, and whose descendants were known as the counts of Eppstein, after a fortress they later built in that same area. Siegfried’s elder brother, Udalrich, succeeded their father, also named Siegfried, as the count of Königssundergau, and served as an advocate of the diocesan church of Mainz between 1052 and 1074. Another brother, Reginhard, was comes civitatis – the chief military and judicial oicer – of Mainz in the 1060s, and may have also served as Fulda’s advocate earlier in the 1050s during his brother’s abbacy. Another relative, Hartwin, appears as provost of the important church of St. Viktor, just outside the walls of Mainz, in the

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Hölk, Zehnten und Zehntkämpfe, pp. 79–81. See too Konrad Lübeck, ‘Die Zehntstreitigkeiten zwischen Hersfeld und Halberstadt’, AKKR 122 (1942–3), pp. 296–323. Vita Bennonis, ed. Kallfelz, cc. 16–17, pp. 402–10. These forgeries have been the subject of an intensive and lengthy formal study, in two parts, by Kurt-Ulrich Jäschke, ‘Zu Quellen und Geschichte des Osnabrücker Zehntstreits’, as noted in Chapter 2. Mechthild Sandmann, ‘Die Folge der Äbte’, in Das Klostergemeinschaft von Fulda, ed. Karl Schmid, with Gerd Althof, et al., Münster Mittelalter-Schriften 8/1 (Munich, W. Fink, 1978), I, pp. 178– 204, at p. 198.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire early 1070s.30 This was a prominent family and one well connected in the city of Mainz and its environs. The family’s leading position in the city and its prominence in the surrounding region probably had more to do with Siegfried’s appointment than any purported favour with Empress Agnes, although this certainly may have played a role as well. The family of the counts of Eppstein continued to dominate the Mainz episcopacy well into the thirteenth century. According to the Annals of Ottobeuron, Siegfried left Fulda on Christmas Day in 1059 and was invested at a royal assembly in Mainz on Epiphany, 6 January 1060. Those present included Pope Nicholas II and his legate, Bishop Anselm I of Lucca, who would soon become Pope Alexander II in a bitterly contested election.31 Unlike most of his predecessors, Siegfried did not step into his position merely as a beneiciary of imperial patronage, or even as a powerful ex-abbot, but as a member of the local elite whose siblings already occupied key positions of power in and around the city of Mainz. They provided the bishop with a sphere of political support in the city itself and around the Main-Rhine region more broadly.32 As we shall see, however, this background proved less useful when it came to projecting inluence in other parts of his diocese, particularly Thuringia, where both the nobility and regional monasteries expected to enjoy a certain degree of independence from diocesan interference. Siegfried faced several major issues as soon as he stepped into his new position. The irst was the question of Henry IV’s regency and the continued dominance of the archbishop of Cologne in imperial afairs. The second was the increasingly chilly relationship between the papacy and independent-minded metropolitan sees like that of Mainz. Although politically secure in Mainz and the Main-Rhine region, Siegfried remained something of an outsider in imperial politics of the 1060s, particularly during the contentious regency of young Henry IV.33 Empress Agnes had served as co-ruler with her son since Henry III’s death in 1056, but in 1062, Anno of Cologne seized the regency in the famous coup of Kaiserswerth and Agnes was obliged to cede power to the archbishop.34 Although the details are sketchy, it appears that Siegfried had been part of a conspiracy of sorts in 1062 to relieve Anno of the regency and reassert 30

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Heinz F. Friederichs, ‘Zur Herkunft der Herren von Eppstein’, Hessische Familienkunde 8:1 (1966), pp. 1–16. For Hartwin, see MUB, I, nr. 334, p. 229. Annales Ottenburani, s.a. 1060, ed. G. H. Pertz, MGH SS V, p. 6. Alois Gerlich, ‘Der Aufbau der Mainzer Herrschaft im Rheingau im Hochmittelalter’, Nassauische Annalen 96 (1985), pp. 9–28. On the regency, see Robinson, Henry IV, pp. 20–62. Regesta Imperii, Heinrich IV (Salisches Haus III, 2, pt. 1), nr. 252, pp.103–4.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition Mainz’s position as the primatial church in Germany.A letter in the Codex Udalrici survives wherein Gunther of Bamberg congratulates Anno on having defused the plot to sideline him and suggests that those behind it were none other than Siegfried and the Saxon margrave Dedi of Lausitz, a relative of King Henry.35 Tuomas Heikkilä suspects that Siegfried may have been hoping to stage some sort of coup at the royal Pentecost celebrations in Goslar in 1063, along with his successor at Fulda, Widerad, whom Lampert of Hersfeld notes was also relative of Siegfried.36 Far from recognizing Siegfried as the irst primate in Germany, the festival dissolved into a bitter brawl between Widerad’s knights and those of the Hildesheim bishop Hezilo, a close ally of Anno. The damage and deaths that followed resulted in a legal judgement against Fulda that dealt a crushing blow to the monastery’s wealth and prestige.37 Siegfried’s complicity in the disaster may explain many of the diiculties he encountered over the course of his pontiicate. Chastened by the disaster at Goslar, Siegfried attempted to be more of a ‘team player’ from 1063 onwards, compliantly supporting Anno’s regency and later urging the ouster of Adalbert of Bremen as Henry’s counsellor in 1066.38 In 1064, Siegfried notiied Alexander II that he intended to join Gunther of Bamberg and a number of other German and Lothringian bishops on a major pilgrimage to Jerusalem.39 In the letter, he writes that he wished to undertake the journey pro remedio delictorum et desiderio supernorum sanctam adire Ierosolimam. This may be pious rhetoric, but it might well refer to Siegfried’s attempt to reconcile with Gunther, Anno, and his circle of allies and make some recompense for the aborted coup. re f orm move me nt on th e local leve l: colle g i ate churche s and monaste rie s Because Siegfried eventually joined the opposition to Henry IV, he is usually included in the column of pro-Gregorian bishops during the 35

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Codex Udalrici, nr. 23, in Monumenta Bambergensia, Biblioteca Rerum Germanicarum, vol. 6, ed. Phillip Jafé (Berlin,Weidmann, 1869), p. 47: ‘Et nostro et totius regni nomine gratulor vobis, quod, perditis emulorum consiliis tam mature vos occurrisse, tam prudenter ea dissipasse, ex litteris vestris cognovi.Verumtamen, dum singula mecum etiam atque etiam retracto, solidum sincerumque gaudium vix audio concipere. Suspectum quippe mihi est, quo de marchione D. et de archiepiscopo Moguntino, qui se velut caput conuriationis efert, nichil scripsistis’. Thuomas Heikkilä, Das Kloster Fulda und der Goslarer Rangstreit, Annales Academiae Scientiarum Fennicae, Ser. Humaniora, 298 (Helsinki, Academia Scientarum Fennica, 1998), pp. 138–44. Heikkilä, Rangstreit, pp. 156–63. Robinson, Henry IV, pp. 59–60. Codex Udalrici, nr. 28, pp. 54–6. On the ill-fated 1064–5 pilgrimage to Jerusalem, see Die Regesten der Bischöfe und des Domkapitels von Bamberg, ed. Erich von Guttenberg (Würzburg, F. Schöningh, 1963), nr. 361, pp. 178–9.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Investiture Controversy. Siegfried, like Liutpold before him, had embarked on a restructuring of church discipline and administration in his diocese long before the papal reform edicts of the 1070s and 1080s reached their stride. The diference was that Siegfried’s reforms, like Liutpold’s, tied the churches and parishes within the diocese more closely to the bishop. Siegfried’s attempts to regulate disputes among his sufragen bishops, this time in his authority as metropolitan, likewise strengthened his own position at the expense of the papacy, which very much wanted to place itself at the top of a hierarchical pyramid and had grown deeply suspicious of the German episcopacy’s independent streak. In uncertain times, heroic monks and canons served as anchors of reassuring stability whose holiness shed its beneits on surrounding communities and especially their patrons. Establishing reformed monastic houses and collegiate churches not only sent a signal to the public in the diocese that their bishops were serious about creating communities of collective righteousness that beneited all Christians, but it also allowed landed and human resources to be organized in a way favourable to episcopal administration. Shortly after his appointment, Siegfried reorganized the church of St. Peter in Erfurt as a monastery.40 His attention to Erfurt in this case is not surprising; the town was a critically important centre of Mainz’s economic and spiritual jurisdiction in remote Thuringia.41 It had long been a major market town and served as the site of an important mint operating under the authority of the archbishops of Mainz.42 Turning the local church of St. Peter into a monastery placed a congregation of monks loyal to the bishop in a politically and economically critical area. In other places, he supported monasteries established by his predecessors, providing them with new buildings or enlarging their patrimonies with land and tithes. A later twelfth-century chronicle from the convent of Lippoldsberg also notes in a brief encomium for Siegfried, for example, that he replaced the small wooden church left by Bishop Liutpold with a larger stone building and guaranteed the nuns additional properties and tithe rights in the area.43 Siegfried also helped introduce a unique brand of reformed monasticism in Thuringia when he joined Anno of Cologne in converting 40

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Regesten Mainz, nr. 181. However, see Büttner, ‘Mainz und Klosterreform’, p. 48, who argues for a later date around 1080. Günther Christ, ‘Territoriale Entwicklung in Erfurt und im thüringischen Raum’, in Handbuch der Mainzer Kirchengeschichte, II, pp. 395–6. Bernd Kluge, Deutsche Münzgeschichte von der späteren Karolingerzeit bis zum Ende der Salier (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1991), pp. 43–5; 275. Chronicon Lippoldesbergense, ed. Wilhelm Arndt, MGH SS XX (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1868), pp. 546–58, at pp. 547–8.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition the canonry at Saalfeld into a Benedictine monastery in 1071 under the patronage of Peter and Paul.44 Anno settled monks from his own reform monastery of Siegburg in Saalfeld, where, Lampert of Hersfeld reports, they quickly gained a formidable reputation throughout the region for the strictness and holiness of their lifestyle. Unfortunately, when Lampert himself paid a visit to Siegburg and Saalfeld, he claims to have been decidedly unimpressed by the routine he witnessed in both houses.45 Although Siegburg’s monks came originally from the Cluniac abbey of Fruttuaria in Lombardy, Anno and Siegfried had their own vision of monastic reform and its relationship to the episcopacy.46 Far from being completely deracinated from all episcopal and lay control, the monks of Saalfeld were placed under the supervision of Archbishop Siegfried and given authority to preach and establish parish churches in the area, which, in the words of the foundation charter, was only then in the process of being Christianized.47 They were, however, expressly granted the right of free abbatial elections and did not have to provide servitium to the bishop as did some of the other churches discussed previously. The connection to Cluny in this process was not entirely coincidental, however. Siegfried demonstrated an abiding, if eclectic, interest in Cluniac reformed monasticism throughout his episcopacy, including his brief abdication in 1072 when he led to Cluny and attempted to become a monk there. In 1081, Siegfried also reformed the hilltop collegiate church in Hasungen, which for several decades had been a popular pilgrimage spot dedicated as a Benedictine-Cluniac monastery to the early eleventh-century eremitic monk Haimerad.48 The surviving copy of the foundation charter talks about Cluniac reform not in terms of 44 45 46

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MUB, I, nr. 331, 223–6.; Büttner, ‘Das Erzstift Mainz und die Klosterreform’, 38–9. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1071, pp. 132–3. Josef Semmler,‘Die Klosterreform von Siegburg (11. und 12. Jahrhundert)’, in Germania Benedictina, vol. I, Die Reformverbände und Kongregationen der Benediktiner im deutschen Sprachraum, ed. Ulrich Faust and Franz Quarthal (St. Ottilien, EOS Verlag, 1999), pp. 141–51, esp. pp. 144–5. MUB, I, nr. 331, p. 224: ‘Igitur gentem terre huius rudem et divini germinis incultam [reperi; monsterium] primo ritu canonicis huiusmodi ad me Coloniam [transvectis], vitam monasticam et monasterium in pago ultra Salam, qui dicitur Salavelt, de novo institui et construxi abbatem eisdem monarchic preiciens secundum regulam sancti Benedicti viventibus, ut errore gentilitatis eliminato [gentum huius terre ad] idem inducerent sancta trinitatis’. The original charter has been lost, but Stimming makes an efort to reconstruct its main points based on surviving copies and a twelfth-century papal conirmation that preserved much of the original. Elements of it, particularly the listing of properties and privileges retained by the monks in the portion dictated by Siegfried, are idiosyncratic and ought to be treated with caution. On the Siegburg reform generally, see Semmler, ‘Die Klosterreform von Siegburg’. MUB, I, nr. 358, pp. 253–8. The foundation charter is a forgery, but the basic historic narrative it contains is not in doubt. The forgeries stem from twelfth-century eforts to secure certain properties. See Walter Heinemeyer, ‘Die Urkundenfälschungen des Klosters Hasungen’, Archiv für Diplomatik 4 (1958), pp. 226–63. See, too, ‘Hasungen’, in Germania Benedictina, vol. 7 (Hessen), pp. 535–9. On the cult of Haimerad, see Jestice, Wayward Monks, pp. 146–51.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire ecclesiastical liberty or the severing of all external lay and episcopal ties to the church, but as a kind of vita perfectior, ‘in which voluntary poverty and contempt for the world presides, and in which charity reigns with obedience and humility’.49 This was, as (Hasungen’s future abbot) Lampert wryly noted in the account of his visitation to Saalfeld, precisely the image that the monks wished to cultivate in the public imagination and the reason they played such a signiicant role for Siegfried during his episcopacy. Siegfried’s vision of the well-ordered diocese often involved collaborations with the local aristocracy in reforming the clergy in private churches and integrating them into the diocesan tithe and pastoral care regime.50 In 1063, he granted tithes in more than a dozen nearby villages to a collegiate church in Sulza in Thuringia, which had been founded by Frederick, the count-palatinate of Saxony, and his wife, Hedwig.51 In return, Frederick and the community at Sulza agreed to supply the bishop’s itinerant court with food and clothing.That same year, according to Lampert of Hersfeld, the margrave Otto of Weimar agreed to pay tithes on his estates in Thuringia and persuaded the other lords in Thuringia to do the same.52 A copy of a charter from the early 1080s suggests that Otto’s tithe agreement with Siegfried followed the dedication of the altar in the church of St. Pancratius in Orlamünde in a manner very much similar to Sulza.53 Siegfried dedicated the church for Otto and his wife, Adelheid, and conirmed for it the tithes from a number of surrounding villages. In return, Otto agreed, as did Frederick, that the church should supply the bishop or his itinerant court with provisions as needed. There is no mention of the personal tithe issue, but all the evidence seems to point to the fact that Siegfried and Otto did come to some kind of agreement around this time. Shortly before his death in 1084, Siegfried issued a conirmation for the church in Orlamünde, remembering in it that the late Otto and his wife were ‘the irst in Thuringia’ to agree to pay the lawful tithe to God’s church.54 49

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MUB, I, nr. 358, p. 257: ‘… in quo cum mundi huius contemptu voluntaria paupertas principatur, in quo cum humilitate et oboedientia caritas dominatur’. Like Saalfeld, Hasungen was guaranteed free abbatial elections and exemption from episcopal and secular servitium. Büttner, ‘Mainz und Klosterreform’, pp. 37–9. On reassessing the important role played by the nobility in church reform during this period, see the seminal article by John Howe,‘The Nobility’s Reform of the Medieval Church’, American Historical Review 93:2 (1988), pp. 317–39. MUB, I, nr. 306, pp. 195–6. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1062(?), pp. 79, 104. MUB, I, nr. 365, pp. 265–6. The notice survives in a partial copy made in the cartulary of Bishop Conrad of Orlamünde in 1194, but the original date remains conjectural. It seems that because the text speaks in the past tense, that we can assume that it was a conirmation or reissuing of an agreement made sometime prior to Otto’s death in 1067. Lampert places the date of Otto’s tithe concessions around 1062,

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition In 1074, in the midst of the Saxon rebellion against Henry IV and his own severe diiculties in raising tithes from the monasteries and lords of Thuringia, Siegfried again dedicated an aristocratic foundation, this time in Ravengiersburg (in the Hunsrück between Mainz and Trier), for Count Berthold and his wife, Hedwig, whom the charter tells us was a relative (consanguinea) of Siegfried.55 As earlier, he also conirmed for it property donated by the count, in particular tithes.The charter states that that foundation was from that point forward to be a collegiate church and that the couple agreed to subsequently donate it to St. Martin of Mainz, that is, the episcopal church, along with all its appurtenances. Berthold is then declared a knight (miles) of the bishop who will serve as advocate of the new monastery.56 As Cinzio Violante observed, reforming clerical life in otherwise independent or loosely organized rural churches was part of a process creating more distinct and concrete boundaries of authority among individuals and institutions, and was pursued with particular alacrity by bishops as well as reformist popes like Alexander II.57 However, bringing local clergy under a common life also brought the church’s property and resources under closer episcopal supervision and served to enhance the role and stature of the bishop in local ecclesiastical afairs. As secular lordship began to focus more on territorial and hierarchical structures in a region, bishops, too, sought ways of translating episcopal power into more clearly articulated and organized forms of control over churches, land, and people.58 We see evidence of this not only in the growing prominence of armed militias and knights in the service of bishops, but in the way bishops sought to create more formally deined spaces of control. Reformed monks and Augustinian canons were an important component in the construction of episcopal power, particularly in a diocese like Mainz where the bishops did not exercise direct secular, or comital, lordship over large areas.59 In the cases of Sulza and Orlamünde, the beneits

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but might not be entirely precise. Since Siegfried’s agreement with Otto is so similar to that made with the count palatinate Frederick, they may have been part of the same reform campaign of the early 1060s in which Siegfried convinced regional nobles to allow their churches to be conirmed by the bishop and receive tithes. Büttner, ‘Mainz und Klosterreform’, p. 45. See too MUB, I, nr. 341, 236–7. This Hedwig is not related to Hedwig, the wife of Count Frederick. Ibid., p. 237: ‘Bertoldus etiam comes miles noster efectus est, quem rogatu canonicorum eiusdem loci advocatum substitutimus’; Gerlich, ‘Aufbau der Mainzer Herrschaft’, pp. 13–15. See the further discussion below, pp. 235-6. Cinzio Violante,‘La vita commune del clero’, in Studi sulla christianità medioevale: società, istitutioni, spiritualità, ed. Piero Zerbi (Milan,Vita e Pensiero, 1972), pp. 111–26. On the social appeal of a communal lifestyle for the secular clergy in particular, see Staab, ‘Reform und Reformgruppen’, pp. 122–3. Wolfgang Metz, ‘Wesen und Struktur des Adels Althessens’, in Die Salier und das Reich, III, pp.331–66. Karl Heinemeyer, ‘Territorium ohne Dynastie’, pp. 8–9.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire of reorganizing these churches and placing them on a irm economic footing are clear: Clerical life and discipline were regularized and the bishop’s ability to exercise his authority and justice through an itinerant court better secured. In Saalfeld, the monks were to play a leading role in establishing parochial institutions in a frontier area and organizing religious life – a function that older abbeys like Fulda had once performed under the Carolingians. In Ravengiersburg, an important church was incorporated into the diocese along with the resources and services of Siegfried’s family in the Hunsrück. As is evident in Siegfried’s local collegiate church and monastic reforms, concomitant reform of the tithe system was part and parcel of ending the old practices of private patronage and supervision of churches and renewing episcopal authority.60 Churches and clergy that supported themselves with tithes paid by local farmers and landowners, as guaranteed by episcopal writ, efectively belonged to the diocesan regime, and their resources could be placed at the bishop’s disposal more efectively than if they came from the largesse of lay patrons or monasteries. Certain laymen, like Counts Frederick and Otto, were willing, as acts of piety, voluntarily to submit their churches and tithes to the bishop. Others, like Berthold of Ravengiersburg, entered into a military alliance with the bishop and gained new legitimacy as the new advocate of his formerly private church. As Siegfried learned when he confronted the issue in Thuringia, however, shifting the tithe and tax regime in a particular area opened the door to a wide range of conlicts over lordship and power. His attempts to force Hersfeld and Fulda to pay tithes from property and churches under their control was only marginally successful and resulted in a drawn-out conlict over a several-year period that included episodes of outright warfare.61 monastic lordship s in the di oc e se of main z: he r sf e l d and f ul da The two most powerful institutions competing with Mainz not only for land, men, and resources, but spiritual prestige, were the monasteries of Fulda and Hersfeld. Both monasteries were founded in the eighth century 60

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Compare however, Staab, ‘Reform und Reformgruppen’, at p. 143, where he states that Siegfried’s reforms do not relect much concern for pastoral care. I think the attention to tithes, which Staab generally does not mention, suggests otherwise, ensuring a permanent income stream for the church and placing previously rather fungible revenue under episcopal supervision. See, for example, Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1069, pp. 107–8.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition by St. Boniface and his disciple, Lull, respectively.62 Over the course of the ninth century, these foundations rapidly grew to become two of the more signiicant monastic institutions north of the Alps in terms of their wealth and the number of monks attached to them.63 Their presence in Saxony and Thuringia in the eighth century in particular played a key role in the consolidation of Frankish rule on the eastern margins of the Carolingian empire. In contrast to Lucca and Salzburg, monastic institutions were a signiicant factor to consider in the administration of the diocese of Mainz, particularly when it came to tithes. Both monasteries controlled territories and churches that constituted important spheres of economic and social authority throughout central Germany and, as discussed further later in the chapter, enjoyed substantial immunity from episcopal inluence. Thus when the bishops of Mainz, as well as the bishops of nearby sees such as Würzburg and Halberstadt, wished to demonstrate or push the limits of their status and authority, it was most often through challenging the scope or nature of the monastery’s possession of tithes and baptismal churches. At the same time, however, this brought bishops into potential conlict with the monastery’s powerful lay patrons.Thus tithes in Mainz, and throughout regions of Germany along the old Saxon and Thuringian marches, though by no means monopolized by Fulda and Hersfeld alone, were critical sites of power negotiation within the diocese, particularly from the mid-eleventh century onwards. Studies over the past several decades by scholars like Werner Rösener, Hans-Peter Wehlt, John W. Bernhardt, and Ulrich Weidinger have elucidated the shape and structure of Fulda and Hersfeld’s property domains 62

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On the history of Fulda, see now Ulrich Hussong, ‘Die Reichsabtei Fulda im frühen und hohen Mittelalter’, in Fulda in seiner Geschichte: Landschaft, Reichsabtei, Stadt, ed. Walter Heinemeyer and Berthold Jäger, Veröfentlichung der Historischen Kommission für Hessenn, 57 (Marburg, N.G. Elwert, 1995), pp. 89–179, which replaces the older survey by Edmund Stengel, Die Reichsabtei Fulda in der deutschen Geschichte (Weimar, Böhlau Verlag, 1948). For Hersfeld’s history, there are two key, albeit dated, works: Philip Hafner, Die Reichsabtei Hersfeld bis zur Mitte des 13. Jahrhunderts (Hersfeld, Hersfelder Geschichtsverein, 1889, repr. 1936) and the much more technical investigation of the abbey’s territorial constitution by Elizabeth Ziegler, Das Territorium der Reichsabtei Hersfeld von seinen Anfängen bis 1821 (Marburg, N.G. Elwert, 1939). See too the articles on both abbeys in vol. 7 of Germania Benedictina, pp. 213–434, 589–629. For Fulda in particular, see Dieter Guenich, ‘Die Personelle Entwicklung der Klostergemeinschaft von Fulda bis zum Jahr 1000’, in Das Kloster Fulda in der Welt der Karolinger und Ottonen, ed. Gangolf Schrimpf, Fuldaer Studien, vol. 7 (Frankfurt, Josef Knecht, 1996), pp. 163–76. The Vita Gregorii abbatis Traictensis (ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH SS XV, pp. 63–79, at p. 72) notes that around 780, Fulda and her satellite churches supported some 360 monks, cited in Janneke Raaijmakers, ‘Memory and identity: the Annales Necrologici of Fulda’, in Texts and Identities in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Rob Meens, Richard Corradini, Christina Pössel, and and Philip Shaw (Vienna, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006), pp. 312–13, at n. 57. Hersfeld was considerably smaller, supporting perhaps half the number of monks as Fulda. See ‘Hersfeld’, Germania Benedictina,VII, p. 590.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire in far greater detail than possible or needed here.64 Wehlt and Bernhard have both underscored how the monasteries’ situation along critical transportation and trade routes in central Germany made them ideal points of spiritual, logistical, and material support in the itinerant system of royal government under the Ottonians and Salians.65 Weidinger, and more recently, Rösener, have shown that over the course of the tenth and eleventh centuries, Fulda efectively consolidated its property holdings around Hessen, Thuringia, and east Franconia and developed more eicient forms of agricultural exploitation.66 Hersfeld’s possessions likewise were scattered widely in eastern Saxony, Hessen, and especially Thuringia.67 Beginning during the reign of Henry II, however, the abbey was able to acquire jurisdictional rights to its east along the Werra River in a region known as the Breitungen march, which allowed it to begin consolidating control over previously fragmented properties and landed assets in eastern Hessen and Thuringia.68 Hersfeld received a privilege of exemption from Pope John XIII in 968 (with Otto I as intermediary) which gave the abbey a similar status to Fulda, freeing it from all episcopal jurisdiction save for the Roman see.69 Although the great period of lay patronage had passed for both monasteries, the early eleventh century represented a period of important change, particularly as their respective abbots turned attention to consolidating property holdings and establishing jurisdictional rights in areas where it could bolster or further support proprietary rights in estates and tithe churches. structure s of secular lordship The province of Thuringia lay on the eastern edge of the archbishopric of Mainz.Thuringia was, to borrow Benedict Anderson’s term, an imagined community of those who considered themselves Thuringians, but could 64

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Werner Rösener, ‘Die Grundherrschaft des Klosters Fulda in Karolingischer und Ottonischer Zeit’, in Das Kloster Fulda in der Welt der Karolinger und Ottonen, pp. 209–24; Bernhardt, Itinerant Kingship (as cited in Chapter 2); Hans-Peter Wehlt, Reichsabtei und König – Dargestellt Am Beispiel der Abtei Lorsch mit Ausblicken auf Hersfeld, Stablo, und Fulda (Göttingen,Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970); Ulrich Weidinger, Untersuchungen zur Wirtschaftsstruktur des Klosters Fulda in der Karolingerzeit, MGM 36 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1991). Wehlt, Reichsabtei und König, p. 250 observes that while the importance of Hersfeld and Lorsch, for the royal itinerary seems to have dropped of in the early twelfth century, Fulda was visited regularly by German monarchs and princes well into the thirteenth century. Compare the summary by Rösener, ‘Grundherrschaft Fuldas’, p. 221. Ziegler, Das Territorium der Reichsabtei Hersfeld, pp. 2–4. Ibid., pp. 10–11. The donation of jurisdictional rights in the vast forest region along the Werra River by Henry II in 1003 and again in 1016 were crucial. Compare MGH DD Heinrich II, nrs. 51, 350. UB Hersfeld, nr. 56.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition also be described in terms of a territory with recognizable boundaries.70 In the eleventh century,Thuringia encompassed the broad plain between the Thuringian Forest and the Harz mountains drained by the Helme, Unstrut, and Saale Rivers. To the north, beyond the Harz, lay Saxony; to the east, as far as the Elbe River, lay the Saxon Eastmark (Ostmark) and the Thuringian march; to the south, beyond the Thuringian Forest and Fichte mountains lay Franconia; to the west, the River Werra between the Eichsfeld and Grabfeld formed the boundary with Hessen. While numerous ecclesiastical and secular princes may have ruled in Thuringia, between the beginning of the tenth and mid-twelfth century, no individual ruled over it.Thuringia, like its neighbours Hessen and Franconia, was not a designated duchy within the empire of the high Middle Ages. But its inhabitants, at least at the higher social levels, thought of themselves as Thuringians with a history and discrete political rights within the constitution of the realm.71 Thuringia had once been an independent kingdom absorbed over time, through political attrition more than anything, into the Frankish realm from the time of Clovis’s son, Theuderic. Theuderic attacked and defeated the Thuringian king Herminafred and his grandnephew, Dagobert, made Thuringia a ducatus, placing Frankish families in leading positions throughout the region. Thuringia was not easily paciied, however, and it remained even in Charlemagne’s time a hotbed of agitation and resistance against Frankish overlordship.72 One step that Charlemagne took to pacify the Thuringians while keeping them under nominal rule was to have their oral legal traditions codiied (at a royal assembly in 803). Mathias Werner has observed that the transmission and use of this Thuringian Law after the ninth century is exceedingly diicult to detect, however.73 Only beginning in the twelfth century do references to an ius or consuetudo Thuringiorum begin to appear. Following the ascension of the Saxon prince Henry the Fowler to the throne in 919, Thuringia would have no more dukes. The province, with its eastern frontier reorganized as a complex of margravates, became ground zero for the consolidation of Ottonian power in central Germany. A number of comital families enjoyed the favour of the Ottonians and 70

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Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (New York, Verso, 1991). See too Verena Epp, ‘Zur kategorien des Raumes infrühmittelalterlichen Rechtstexten’, in Raum und Raumvorstellungen im Mittelalter, ed. Jan A. Aertsen and Andreas Speer, Miscellenea Medievalia, 25 (Berlin and New York, De Gruyter, 1998), pp. 575–90 at p. 588. See ‘Thuringia’ in LMA, vol. 8, cols. 747–57. See too. Mathias Werner, ‘Die Anfänge eines Landesbewußtseins in Thrüringen’, in Aspekte thüringisch-hessischer Geschichte, ed. Michael Gockel (Marburg, N.G. Elwert, 1992), pp. 81–137. Brunner, Oppositionelle Gruppen, pp. 48–53; Schlesinger, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft, pp. 46–7. Werner, ‘Landesbewusstsein’, p. 92.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire came to dominate the political landscape in Thuringia for much of the tenth and eleventh centuries. Just as the Carolingians had moved Frankish families into key positions of power in the areas they conquered, so did the Ottonians place members of old Saxon and Frankish-Saxon kindreds in Hessen and Thuringia.They controlled their own allodial lands as well as royal and ecclesiastical beneices.74 From these property complexes, they ostensibly owed tithes, but, as the bishops of Mainz would allege, failed to pay them fully. The new marches created around the bishoprics of Merseburg and Meißen were particularly important as defensive frontiers and zones of interaction and trade between the Slavic east and the German kingdom. The city of Merseburg and the Hassegau were controlled for three generations by a family with the leading name of Siegfried, the last of whom died in 1038.75 The region around Weimar in central Thuringia was held by the descendants of a Count William, who probably obtained the county after Henry I eliminated the previous count, Burchard.76 Thietmar of Merseburg described Count William as ‘the most powerful of the Thuringians at that time’ (Thuringiorum tunc potentissimus), and described how he mustered the support of the Thuringians for the election of Henry II.77 William’s family remained counts of Weimar until the death of Otto, his grandson, in 1067, whereupon the county was handed to Egbert, a cousin of Henry IV. Further to the west, in the Gemaramark, near the royal pfalz of Eschwege and in eastern Hessen, a count named Wigger appeared in the later tenth century in several key property transactions with Fulda and Mainz.78 Wigger’s son, Rugger, donated property in this area to Fulda in 102579 and his grandson, Rugger II, appears to have been the advocate of Fulda for some time in the 1070s. He may have also been the same man as the Count Rudiger who, Lampert of Hersfeld tells us, led the Thuringian contingent in its rebellion with the Saxons against Henry IV in 1070.80

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Schlesinger, Landesherrschaft, p. 189. Merseburg’s most famous bishop, Thietmar, was a scion of this family. The Siegfrider were called comites Merseburgensis by Thietmar. See e.g. Chronicon, II, 2; 15; IV, 19; 22–5; Patze, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft, p. 97; Karl-August Eckhardt, Eschwege als Brennpunkt thüringisch-hessischer Geschichte (Marburg and Witzenhausen, Trautvetter & Fischer, 1964), pp. 98–100. Patze, Landesherrschaft, p. 101. Thietmar, Chronicon,V, 9, p. 236. Patze, Landesherrschaft, p. 98. Marianus Scottus, Chronicon, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS V, p. 555 records that Wigger donated the church in Dorla to Mainz which later became the centre of an important archdiaconate. See Wolfgang Metz, ‘Die “Grafen Wigger” und die Grafen von Bilstein’, Blätter für deutsche Landesgeschichte, 118 (1982), pp. 253–60; Eckhardt, Eschwege, p. 52. CDF, ed. Dronke, nr. 740. Lampert, Annales, s.v. 1070, p. 116.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition A third key pole of comital power in Thuringia was the march of Meißen, which encompassed a vast area between the Saale and Elbe Rivers between Merseburg and Meißen. A family with the leading name Ekkehard, subsequently called the Ekkehardinger, possessed the margravate from the mid-tenth century onwards.81 Ekkehard’s grandson, Ekkehard II, held the march of Meißen until his death in 1046, at which time Henry III invoked his royal rights and reclaimed his lands, some of which he divided between the Saxon margrave Dedi and William of Weimar.82 Most of these families remained in power for no more than four generations, however. Much like the Eppensteiner in Styria, they survived several generations to build successful lordships within the old marches and Gaue, but did not survive the eleventh century by much. The counts of Weimar died out with William’s brother and heir, Otto, in 1067; the Ekkehardinger in 1046; the descendants of Count Wigger survived at least through the mid-twelfth century with Rugger III, who founded the Premonstratensian house of Gernrode. Hence there was a power vacuum in eastern Thuringia in particular illed in the later part of the eleventh century not only by the bishops and great ecclesiastical foundations, but particularly by the king and lesser comital families, like the counts of Rieneck, or the Ludowinger. When Otto of Weimar died in 1067, for example, Henry IV gave the march to his cousin, Egbert, the count of Braunschweig.83 For a new generation of regional aristocrats, association with one of the great ecclesiastical foundations – monastic, episcopal, or both – was a sine qua non of building successful lordships. Many in the Thuringian aristocracy of the later Middle Ages could trace their roots to their ancestors’ service under Mainz or Fulda. The Ludowinger, for example, were a Rhenish family who attached itself to the bishops of Mainz and forged a series of successful lordships in western Thuringia in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries, eventually rising to the position of landgraves. The Reinhardsbrunn Chronicle, the house history of the Ludowinger from 81

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Patze, Landesherrschaft, pp. 107–9. On the Ekkehardinger in the early eleventh century, see Thietmar, Chronicon, IV, 39 and V, 7. Patze, Landesherrschaft, p. 114. See too MGH DD Heinrich III, nrs. 116, 117, 119, 157–8 and Annales Altahensis maior., pp. 41–2. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1067, p. 104. By Christmas, however, Egbert fell ill and just before he died, bequeathed the march to his young son, also called Egbert, whom he had with Irmingard, the widow of the late Franconian duke Otto of Schweinfurt. Lampert claims he then attempted to repudiate Irmingard and marry Adela, Otto’s widow. He died before this could happen, however, and Adela married the margrave Dedi instead. As a teenager, Egbert allied himself with the Saxons in opposing Henry IV, but when he tried to instigate a rebellion again in 1086, a ducal court convicted him of treason and stripped him of his oice and lands and he was later murdered by imperial partisans. See Patze, Landesherrschaft, pp.185–6.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire the fourteenth century, records that Hugo, the brother of Ludwig the Bearded – the family’s founding ancestor – was a count in the Rheingau in the early eleventh century and was so rich ‘that he wished to serve no person of either sex unless it were the princes of Fulda or Mainz’.84 We know from this, as well as more contemporary evidence, that Ludwig the Bearded later came into possession of the Mainz beneices which had belonged to his uncle and was buried in the church of St. Alban’s. The situation appeared not unlike that of the Bavarian duke Welf IV, whom the twelfth-century Historia Welforum says became the vassal of prominent bishops and abbots in return for land which he could pass on to his armed followers.85 Thus, regardless of their origins in Saxony or elsewhere, the families who acquired oices or land in Thuringia formed a core aristocracy that thought of itself in territorial and ethnic terms as Thuringians. They forged spheres of lordly inluence for themselves by patronizing religious foundations, establishing churches, and exerting their inluence as advocates, judges, and witnesses to important regional proceedings. To be sure, it is possible to depict the Thuringians as good stewards of their churches and tithes and to suggest that their motives could have been as pious as they were self-interested. In 1062, for example, Count Reginbodo, brother of Sigibodo, the comes urbis of Mainz, gave Fulda a church in Rossdorf, along with its tithe rights (decimatio) and four estates attached to it.86 As long as the two brothers were alive, he stated, they had given a third of the decima popularis from those four farms to the clergy of the church in Rossdorf. Reginbodo’s charter explicitly states that this arrangement was not to change, and probably with good reason. The monasteries were probably often guilty of directing tithe revenue to their own projects – charitable or otherwise – and may have neglected local churches. Laymen too could take the appropriate disposal of tithes seriously. Hence Reginbodo stated that ‘if the abbot or anyone else should seek to remove [these tithes] from the use of the brethren, let them render account to God, and my next of kin shall have the power to receive back that which was given’. 84

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Chronica Reinhardsbrunnensis, ed. O. Holder-Egger, MGH SS XXX, pt1 (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1896), p. 517. Ludwig the Bearded’s son, Ludwig the Springer, founded the monastery Reinhardsbrunn near Friedrichsroda in western Thuringia in 1085 and settled it with monks from Hirsau. The chronicle was composed in the mid-fourteenth century using oral and written traditions dating back to the eleventh century. See Helmut Assing, Brandenburg, Anhalt und Thüringen im Mittelalter. Askanier und Ludowinger beim Aufbau fürstlicher Territorialherrschaften (Cologne, Böhlau Verlag, 1997), p. 247 and following. MGH SS XXI, ed. O. Holder-Egger (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1903), pp. 462–63, cited in Leyser, ‘German Aristocracy’, p. 47. CDF, ed. Dronke, nr. 762. Rossdorf lay in the Breitungenmark between Geisa and the Werra.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition Later familial memories (such as that of the Ludowinger), as well as Lampert’s chronicle, reveal that Mainz beneices and lands – including tithes – were held by the Thuringian aristocracy well into the eleventh century and formed the backbone of Mainz’s military retinue in the post-Ottonian period.87 Alois Gerlich has noted that in the early eleventh century, Mainz seemed to be intensifying its lordship in places like the Rheingau, with more extensive immunity privileges and more of the regional nobility attempting to enter the bishop’s service.88 Since Mainz controlled considerable resources in and around the town of Bingen, we can assume that the local aristocracy beneited from grants of these assets in a similar way as the Thuringians. As Siegfried’s negotiations with Otto of Weimar seem to suggest however, by the mid-eleventh century, few of the landowners in Thuringia paid tithes or recognized the archbishop’s right to these payments, claiming a long-standing – if unclearly grounded – privilege of tithe exemption.89 Prior to about 1050, however, no Mainz bishop had sensed that this was a major problem, either. Indeed, the ability to enfeof laymen, particularly ighting men, with ecclesiastical property made the archbishops the heavy political actors they were and, as Gerlich has suggested, this process may have accelerated in the early decades of the eleventh century as the regional nobility sought to stabilize their fortunes under the new Salian kings.90 The story of the chapel in Ravengiersburg, mentioned earlier, illustrates well how the bishops of Mainz interacted with a more select group of local nobility to administer churches and tithes. In 1072, right around the time he struggled to claim tithes in Thuringia, Siegfried I had conirmed the liberty (libertas) and private ownership (proprium ius) of the chapel in Ravengiersburg belonging to Count Berthold and his wife, Hedwig.91 In withdrawing the church from the tithe boundaries of its mother church,92 Berthold ofered several properties in exchange to Countess Cunigunda, the widow of count Emicho,93 and her coheirs Arnolf and Bertram, and established a new tithe boundary for it. Cunigunda probably controlled the mother church to which Berthold 87

88 89

90 91 92

93

Ludwig Falck, ‘Mainzer Ministerialität’, in Ministerialität im Pfälzer Raum, ed. Friedrich Ludwig Wagner (Speyer, Pfälzische Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Wissenschaft, 1975), pp. 44–59. Gerlich, ‘Aufbau der Mainzer Herrschaft’, pp. 14–15. Heinrich Felix Schmid, ‘Der Gegenstand des Zehntstreites zwischen Mainz und den Thuringern im 11. Jahrhundert und die Anfänge der decima constituta in ihrer kolonisationsgeschichtlichen Bedeutung’, ZRG g. A. 43 (1922), pp. 267–300. Gerlich, ‘Aufbau der Mainzer Herrschaft’, p. 14; Falck, Mainz, p. 77. MUB, I, nr. 333, pp. 228–9. Simply called an altera mater aecclesia. The charter’s Latin is somewhat unwieldy, but it appears that Cunigunda’s mother church had been consecrated by Udo of Trier. Whether this was the same Count Emicho named in Erkanbald’s charter above is not known, but quite possible.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire and Hedwig’s chapel belonged and thus needed to be compensated for consenting to the new arrangement. This was a key provision; in his privilege for the inhabitants of Steinheim, Siegfried had explicitly forbade any dimuition of the tithes owed to the mother church in Eltville to which the chapel was attached.94 Two years later, Siegfried again gave Berthold and Hedwig a charter recognizing Ravengiersburg’s rededication as a canonry under the patronage of St. Christopher.95 Berthold endowed Ravengiersburg with numerous properties and tithes in both the Rhine- and Wormsgaue and then gave the foundation to the church of St. Martin in Mainz. The charter then states that ‘count Berthold then became our knight [miles]’ and, at the behest of the canons, was appointed advocate of the church and several properties in the Rheingau which were to revert to the canons after his death.96 Siegfried himself endowed the church with additional goods from the episcopal mensa in the Rheingau, Mainz, and Hessen ‘for the redemption of our soul and that of count Berthold and his wife and all of our predecessors and successors’. The interactions between Siegfried and the founders of Ravengiersburg are illustrative of the kinds of important social relationships forged through the dynamic of lay piety and the institutional legitimacy conferred by bishops. Such relationships were certainly predicated upon property and kinship ties at some level. It is unfortunately not possible to know for certain how the persons who served as witnesses to these acts were related either to each other, to Siegfried, or to Berthold and Hedwig. The charters do state on both occasions, however, that Countess Hedwig was a relative (consanguinea) of Archbishop Siegfried. How prominently Siegfried’s connection with Hedwig igured in the bishop’s approval of her husband’s interest in the church at Ravengiersburg is unclear, but it was certainly not unimportant. The connections to be made among the names are as tempting as they are ultimately elusive. We see as well among the witnesses two Ruggers, a leading name among the counts of Bilstein from western Thuringia, as well as a Count Ludwig who may have been related in some way to either the counts of Rieneck or the early Ludowinger kindred that married into the Rieneck family and 94

95

96

MUB, I, nr. 332 (as n. 68): ‘Et hec licencia ius, quod matri debet ecclesie, que est in Altavilla, nec in sinodo nec in decima ullo modo impediat’. MUB, I, nr. 341, p. 236. The cult of St. Christopher was popularized in Germany during the tenth century after the cathedral of Cologne acquired his relics from Rome. Compare Falck, Mainz, p. 45. MUB, I, p. 237. ‘Bertholdus etiam comes miles noster efectus est, quem rogatu canonicorum eiudem loci advocatum substituimus et de bonis, que ecclesie nostre mancipaverant, quedam que supter [sic] notata sunt, sibi et dilecte coniugi eius in beneicium dedimus, que tamen post obitum eorum ad utilitatem canonicorum redirent’.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition parlayed the connection into a major territorial lordship in Thuringia in the later twelfth century.97 Compared with the Rheingau and Mainfranken, the archbishop’s personal and proprietary connections in Thuringia were less intensive. The archdiaconates at Dorla, Heiligenstadt, and especially Erfurt were key, but surrounded by powerful comital jurisdictions and the formidable property complexes controlled by Fulda and Hersfeld; direct episcopal control was limited at best. Still, it appears that the bishop did have access to certain tithes and, as the need arose, used them to acquire other resources and to create ties to the local aristocracy. Mainz had lost much of its land and estates in Thuringia in the early part of the tenth century as a result of the feud between the Saxon duke Henry the Fowler and the Thuringian count Burchard. Bishop Hatto I was a partisan of Burchard and the Conradiner against the Saxons. Widukind of Corvey tells us that Henry was outraged by the alliance and occupied Thuringia, thus depriving Hatto of most of his property in the region.98 Even if on a smaller scale than elsewhere in the diocese, we nonetheless see a similar type of interaction with the local nobility in Thuringia and the use of churches and tithes to forge personal and economic ties. In 1063 Siegfried conirmed tithe rights in Sulza and twelve surrounding villae to the collegiate monastery there,99 which had been founded by Friedrich, the count-palatine of Saxony and his wife, Hedwig (no relation to the previous Hedwig). In return for this privilege, Friedrich promised Siegfried and his missus a yearly payment of bread, pork, beer, and other foodstufs in addition to any further servitium required.100 This was the type of service from which the bishop of Mainz had immunized Hersfeld in 845. The men who served as armed retainers within the familia were a signiicant factor in the exercise of lordly power from the early eleventh century onwards.101 Both ecclesiastical institutions, as well as the kings themselves, assembled well-armed retinues of ighting men, supporting them through small land grants, or other privileges such as tithe or rent collection. This special group within the familia, later called ministeriales, would come to play a fundamental role in the creation of territorial lordships and a new ascendant aristocracy in the twelfth and thirteenth 97 98

99 100 101

Patze, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft, pp. 98–9 and Falck, Mainz, pp. 131–2. Patze, Landesherrschaft, pp. 66–7. and Widukind of Corvey, Rerum Gestarum Saxonum Lib. III, I, 22, ed. Georg Waitz and Karl Kehr, MGH SRG, vol. 60 (Hannover and Leipzig, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1904), pp. 32–5. Bad Sulza between Jena and Naumberg on the Saale in central Thuringia. MUB, I, nr. 306, p. 195. Compare Wolfgang Metz, ‘Wesen und Struktur des Adels Althessens’, in Die Salier und das Reich, I, pp. 331–66 at pp. 362–3.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire centuries.102 As we saw in the case of Salzburg, ministerials were also a growing presence in the early eleventh century in Bavaria as interactions between the archbishop and the regional aristocracy waned. In the eleventh century, the shape of the ministerialage as a class or order (ordo ministerialis as it would later become) was still inchoate and not yet describable with the terms of a formal, legal language.103 Men calling themselves miles in the early part of the eleventh century appear to have been like Count Berthold – free men, even nobles, who used their military capability to enter into special social relationships with bishops and monasteries. As noted in the previous chapter, John Freed has observed the growth of this trend in the diocese of Salzburg beginning as early as the mid-tenth century.104 The situation of knights in the diocese of Mainz in the eleventh century is particularly important if we want to understand some of the central issues underlying the tithes disputes that arose at the time. The Thuringian tithe dispute between Mainz, Hersfeld, and Fulda appears to have turned, at least in part, on the way in which knights had been enfeofed with tithe rights by the monasteries. In 1069, Siegfried I disputed with Widerad of Fulda over tithes owed by the servi and coloni of the monastery.105 The abbot, as might be expected, appealed to the pertinent papal and royal privileges, but being pressed relentlessly by the bishop, the two sides met before King Henry IV in an assembly of bishops and nobles at Mühlhausen (western Thuringia) in what appears to have been an ad hoc synod, ‘so that the greater authority of justice might be observed’. The assembly questioned both sides about their arguments and then imposed an agreement ‘so that a irm and perpetual peace and concord between them and their successors and each familia might be conirmed’.106 While we are told that the dispute arose originally around the tithes of Fulda’s servi and coloni, the inal settlement makes a striking departure from this issue. It states that ‘tithes should be paid from the beneices of the knights (milites) of the abbot in Thuringia, but from 102

103

104 105 106

Two fundamental treatments, which approach the topic from somewhat diferent directions, are Benjamin Arnold, German Knighthood 1050–1300 (Oxford, 1985) and Karl Bosl, Die Reichsministerialität der Salier und Staufer, SMGH, 10, 1–2 (Stuttgart, Anton Hiersemann, 1950–1), the latter of which focuses exclusively on the role of royal ministerial knights. A good analytic overview of both ecclesiastical and secular knighthood, however, is Thomas Zotz, ‘Die Formierung der Ministerialität’, in Die Salier und das Reich, III, pp. 3–50. The earliest formal law governing the rights and obligations of ministerial knights is the socalled Bamberger Dienstrecht (Iustitia ministerialium Babenbergensis) from 1060–3, ed. Philipp Jafé, Monumenta Bambergensia, nr. 25. See Zotz, ‘Ministerialität’, pp. 30–1. Freed, ‘The Formation of the Salzburg Ministerialage’, p. 80. MUB, I, nr. 321. ‘… ut irma perpetuaque pax et concordi inter ipsos ipsorumque successores et utramque familiam conirmaretur’.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition those tithes, the archbishop is to compensate the knights for the portion of the tithe that they had previously owed’.107 In other words, the abbot of Fulda had to pay tithes to the archbishop on behalf of the knights, but the archbishop would make sure that the knights did not personally suffer inancially for the agreement; what was important was that the archbishop’s rights were recognized. Everybody owed their tithes and little by little, Siegfried was chipping away at the scope of Fulda’s privilege, which the abbot was trying to interpret as broadly as possible. The abbot won the right to keep all other tithes from the abbey’s property and a promise from the archbishop not to require any further exactions from three speciied areas in northern Hessen as a sign of his commitment. As we saw in the ninth-century case between Freising and Chiemsee, a dispute is not always about what one party or the other stated on the surface, however. One way of reconciling the apparent dissonance between the nature of the initial dispute and how it was settled may be to suggest that although Siegfried instigated a dispute over Fulda’s serfs, he had really hoped to force a concession from the knights instead, striking much more forcefully at a key component of the monastery’s power and prestige. The synod’s decision would have had a direct impact upon the afairs of a man like Roho, a miles nobilis who in 1049 gave Abbot Egbert of Fulda a number of properties in Thuringia in a reverse precarial grant in which he promised to continue serving as the monastery’s advocate in those places.108 A year earlier in 1048, another nobleman, Werenhard, ofered Fulda property in central Thuringia near Erfurt in exchange for a beneice then held by a widow named Acela, whom the abbot would compensate with a yearly payment of eight pounds (talenta).109 For this beneice, Werenhard agreed to serve among the abbey’s milites and outit six ighting units (scuti) in future expeditions.110 107

108 109

110

‘Igitur decretum est, ut ex beneiciis militum abbatis in Thuringia decime archiepiscopo, eisdem autem militibus ex ipsis decimis tanta pars ab archiepiscopo rependatur, quanta prius eis ex debito decimationis persolvebatur’. CDF, ed. Dronke, nr. 751, pp. 360–1. CDF, ed. Dronke, nr. 749, pp. 358–9: ‘Complacuit quoque ei ut pro eodem beneicio singuilis annis sicut et alii milites serviret abbati et in expeditionibus cum sex scutis militaret’. An appended notice to this transaction explains that when Acela died at some point during the abbacy of Widerad, Wernhard demanded some of her other property in beneice. The abbot resisted the knight’s claims and instead ofered him two other hubae and an exemption from what he owed the monastery for a recent Italian expedition in order to get him to settle the claim. Royal monasteries since the Carolingian period had owed military service to the crown, or sometimes a compensatory fee for such service. Since monks themselves were unable to take up arms, the monasteries secured the services of lay ighters to go on their behalf. See Rösener, ‘Grundherrschaft Fuldas’, p. 223, with reference to Wolfgang Metz, Das Servitium regis. Zur Erforschung der wirschaftlichen Grundlagen des hochmittelalterlichen deutschen Königtums (Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978).

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire So what, if anything, did the archbishop achieve at Mühlhausen? If the knights holding beneices from Fulda were liable for tithes in these kinds of ixed amounts, and the bishop was demanding a full tenth, it appears that he then promised to discount their tithe obligation by an amount equal to the ixed amount they currently paid. But speculating over the technicalities is not really the point here. The document preserving the agreement appears to be a concept, or unsealed draft, of a privilege setting forth the terms of the settlement.111 The fact that the Fulda monks preserved only a draft of the agreement might suggest that while some terms were initially agreed upon at Mühlhausen, either the king or, more likely, the archbishop, later had second thoughts about formalizing it. A single charter, sealed or not, does not a tithe agreement make; it only suggests something about the process and nature of the way such conlicts were mediated, if only temporarily. What it may represent is a carefully crafted compromise couched in the language of a notitia, reminiscent of the agreements between Freising and Tegernsee examined in Chapter 2. It states that Siegfried initially asserted a right to the tithes of all the inhabitants of Thuringia, including the servi and coloni of St. Boniface.112 This claim was evidently unsuccessful, possibly on the force of Fulda’s privilege from Louis the German; but knowing the importance of the military beneices, Siegfried may have sought a way around this and thus shifted the terms of the debate. In the end he met with a limited victory: recognition of a portion of the tithes. The language of the notice makes it clear, however, that the knights would still technically pay their tithes – only the bishop would reimburse them for the diference. The language of ‘recognition’ one encounters in Bardo’s tithe agreements with Kaufungen is not explicit here, but I believe the same dynamic of conlict resolution was at work. In addition to the king, Henry IV, witnesses included the most important bishops and nobles of the region: Anno of Cologne; Burchard II of 111

112

Original is in the Fulda collection of the Hessisches Staatsarchiv, Marburg. See the comments of Stimming, MUB, I, p. 209. Concept drafts are discussed by Bresslau, Handbuch, I, pp. 739–62. On the processes by which medieval charters were produced, see now La Diplomatique Médiévale, ed. O. Guyotjeannin et al., L’atelier du Mediéviste 2 (Turnhout, Brepols, 1993), pp. 230–45. A copy in the Codex Eberhardi (CDF, nr. 764, 370-1f.) is interpolated in several points with clauses emphasizing the rights of the monastery in its papal and royal privileges. Neither Dobenecker nor Ausfeld were apparently aware of the original archival copy and believed that the rather complex and contradictory nature of the document was the result of poor copying or forgery by Eberhard. See Ausfeld, Zehntstreit, p. 44 and Regesta diplomatica necnon epistolaria historiae Thuringiae, vol. 1, ed. Otto Dobenecker (Jena, G. Fischer, 1896), nr. 875, p. 182: ‘Auch diese Urkunde scheint von Eberhard überarbeitet res interpoliert zu sein, wie aus den Widersprüchen der Urkunde geschlossen werden muss’. MUB, I, p. 209: ‘Nam cum predicte sedis archiepiscopus sicut de ceteris intra parrochiam suam habitantibus ita et e servis et colonis s. Bonifatii decimas sibi vendicaret…’.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition Halberstadt; Eppo of Zeitz; Benno of Osnabrück; Pibo (chancellor, later bishop of Toul); two people named Hiltibolt and Burchart; Duke Otto of Bavaria; the margrave Dedi I (count of the Ostmark) and his son, Dedi II; two counts, Bernhart, Dammo, and four others, Erkenbert; Adalbert (of Ballenstedt); Bobbo (i.e. Poppo of Henneberg); Dietrich (of Katlenburg); and Frederick (count palatine of Saxony).113 It represented an interesting political constellation. Dedi I, margrave of the Saxon Ostmark, or the Niederlausitz, rebelled against Henry IV just a few months after the assembly at Mühlhausen.114 According to the Annals of Niederaltaich, he was joined by his son-in-law, Adalbert of Ballenstedt.115 Lampert of Hersfeld likewise tells us that when the Saxons and Thuringians began conspiring in the summer of 1073 to rebel against the king, their leaders included – among others – Bishop Burchard of Halberstadt, Otto of Bavaria, the margrave Dedi, count palatine Frederick, and Count Adalbert.116 Opposed to the king, they certainly had little interest in doing favours for one of his closest ecclesiastical allies or in paying tithes on their properties in Thuringia. It is certainly not surprising that the agreement was largely favourable to Fulda, not necessarily because those present at Mühlhausen were supporters of the abbey, or because they had no interest in church reform, but because the bishop’s claims represented an unprecedented expansion of his power in the region. For Siegfried, this was not the inal word. Late in 1069, the archbishop used a privilege for St. Peter’s in Mainz to claim that he had ‘more fully and perfectly acquired the tithe in Thuringia, for which my predecessors, particularly Liutpold of blessed memory in Christ, had laboured nearly to the point of bloodshed’.117 He guaranteed the provost’s authority to continue collecting tithes from those areas in Thuringia where St. Peter’s had rights to do so. Despite his ability to generate a privilege, however, Siegfried’s assertion that he ‘more perfectly’ acquired the ‘just 113

114

115 116 117

On the toponyms and possible identities, see Regesta Thuringiae, nr. 874, p. 182 and Patze, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft, p. 183. Eberhard’s copy adds episcopi after the names Hiltibolt and Burchard, and comes to the last four names in the list, and added after the king’s name: ‘qui et testis et iudex et mediator erat’. Compare CDF, ed. Dronke, p. 371. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1069, 106–7. Compare too Heinrich Meyer von Knonau, Jahrbücher des deutshcen Reiches unter Heinrich IV und Heinrich V, 5 vols. (Berlin, Duncker & Humblot, 1890), I, pp. 617–20, esp. n. 24. Annales Altahensis maior, s.a. 1069; Meyer von Knonau, Jahrbücher, I, pp. 619–20. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1073, p. 149. MUB, I, nr. 323, p. 212. Siegfried explains this in the charter’s narratio:‘unde ego Sigefridus dei gratia Magunt. sedis archiepiscopus notum facio omnibus tam futuris quam presentibus, quomodo decimationem illam super Thuringiam, pro qua antecessores mei maximeque proximus predecessor meus beate in Christo memorie Luidbaldus pene usque ad sanguinem certando laboravit, plenius et perfectius acquisivi et ecclesiis dei earumque sercitoribus eandem canonica auctoritate distribuendam esse decrevi’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire and full’ tithes in Thuringia was ephemeral at best. The corroborating lay witnesses appear to be drawn from a circle of nobles around the urban prefect, a man named Gebeni.118 The identiication of these witnesses remains conjectural. Gebeni appears once more in a 1083 charter for St. Alban’s, along with the advocate Ludwig, whom we know to be Ludwig the Bearded.119 Count Wigger was possibly related to the counts of Bilstein, as noted earlier. Virtually the same group – minus Count Wigger – appears in an important privilege Siegfried produced in 1070 for a basilica of St. Nikomedes belonging to the monastery St. Jakob’s in Mainz.120 In establishing the rights of the church of St. Nikomedes and its advocates, the charter speaks frequently of earlier agreements, and especially the consilio idelium nostrorum, in constituting the agreement.121 It seems clear that Ludwig, Huc, Heinrich, Udalrich, Rudolf, and others – while not positively identiiable – represented a core group of Siegfried’s aristocratic supporters whose power base lay more in and around Mainz than in Thuringia. Thus the privilege for St. Peter’s guaranteeing them tithe rights in Thuringia may have been more an attempt to create a collective memory and focal point for his claims, and indeed his power and prestige, among his churches and supporters than an actual relection of a concrete achievement. re form i ng the tithe and reme mb e ring e piscopal authority in e leve nth-ce ntury mainz The bishops of Mainz had attempted periodically to settle the problem of tithes in Thuringia going back as far as the ninth century, particularly with respect to lands and churches owned by Fulda or Hersfeld. In the eleventh century, Bardo worked to secure Mainz’s tithe rights in Hessen where, as shown earlier, he faced resistance from groups like the familia of Metz who had interests in the tithes of Kaufungen. Franz Staab argued that Bardo’s eforts to reenergize the bishop’s claim to tithes in his diocese stemmed from his sensibilities as a monk and conviction that only those charged with the care of souls should possess tithes.122 Bardo did, however, 118

119 121

122

These are given as Gebeni, praefectus urbis, along with Counts Heinrich, Sigfrid, Wigger, Rudolf, Ludwig (advocatus), Eberhard, Udalrich (advocatus), Adelhun (advocatus), Huc, Adelbraht (advocatus), Ludwig, Gerhard, and Eberhardus (vicedomnus). MUB, I, nr. 364, p. 264. 120 MUB, I, nr. 327, p. 217. Ibid., pp. 217–18: ‘Unde nos sub presentia Herveldensis abbatis Ruthardi, qui tunc temporis rector extitit predicti monasterii, cum fratribus suis et sub presentia idelium nostrorum diligenter omnem causam discutientes illisque ius suum temporibus venerabilis domni Bardonis archiepiscopi restitutum rursus infringi audientes bonum duximus cum consilio predicti abbatis et idelium nostrorum et nostro edicto scriptisque nostris necnon sigilli impressione ius suum eis irmum et ratum reddere’. Staab, ‘Mainzer Kirche’, p. 52.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition accept property in lieu of the tithes, suggesting that either he was concerned simply to draw more landed resources under Mainz’s control, or compelled to work out a compromise given the local power exerted by the familia of Metz.The bishop of Mainz as a party to the dispute received only what he could negotiate and what he could negotiate depended entirely on the pressure he could bring to bear upon his opponents. Economically, the see of Mainz seemed to be on solid ground; the campaign to recover tithes in Thuringia, like Gebhard’s tithe reclamations and Teugrim of Lucca’s livelli, cannot thus be viewed simply as a inancial operation. There may have been important political and ideological reasons, however, for the bishops to begin asserting rights which their predecessors had been content to overlook, or unable to challenge, for some time. As we saw previously, Fulda and Hersfeld’s political position on the regional level was in decline. Did the bishops of Mainz see an opportunity to expand their own power at the expense of the two monasteries? Siegfried realized early on that public forums like the council at Mühlhausen were not always the most auspicious venues for reaching his inal destination. While negotiating, and occasionally feuding, with the Thuringian aristocracy and the two monasteries, Siegfried attempted to enlist the aid of the papacy in a series of letters sent to Rome. Given that Fulda and Hersfeld both fell under papal protection, it was a risky venture, particularly during a time when monastic institutions were guarding their privileges more jealously than ever and the papacy was glad to support them.123 The tithe issue was not pushed to the forefront of the correspondences but usually tucked into the back after a discussion of other, ostensibly more pressing, issues. In his letters, Siegfried talked about the Thuringians in terms of rebellio, the same word used by other writers to describe Henry’s resistance to Gregory VII and which, in theology, had long expressed the struggle of spirit against the lesh.124 The word implied a fundamental, unlawful resistance to legitimate authority, either spiritual or earthly. Siegfried thus cast his opponents as morally perverse – a sentiment which, if we follow Hanna Vollrath, relected not simply rhetoric, but an actual perception of the conlict as a justiied struggle against a type of inherent criminality.125

123 124

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Tellenbach, Church in Western Europe, pp. 177–8. Compare Berthold of Reichenau, Annales, s.a. 1076, MGH SRG. n.s., vol. 14, ed. Ian S. Robinson (Hannover, Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2003), pp. 241–2: ‘Apud Trajectum rex pascha egit, collectis undecumque illuc non parvis suae rebellionis et inoboedientae complicibus’. Hanna Vollrath, ‘Konliktwahrnehmung und Konliktdarstellung in erzählenden Quellen des 11. Jahrhunderts’, in Die Salier und das Reich, III, pp. 279–96.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire Towards the end of 1066, Siegfried sent several letters to Rome asking the Pope’s assistance in a number of matters, including the Thuringian tithes.126 In two letters to Pope Alexander II and the cardinal Hildebrand (the future Gregory VII) respectively, he raised the problem of the Thuringian tithes and asked the Pope to authorize a synod in order to end the dispute. Siegfried characterized the Thuringians as rebels (rebelles) and the letter implies that he may have previously brought the matter to the pontif ’s attention.127 He wanted the Pope to send legates, or at least a written statement, supporting his case.The same request is made nearly verbatim in the letter to Hildebrand.128 Siegfried had hoped to convene the synod sometime after Easter 1067, but nothing apparently came of this plan. Indeed, early in 1067, Siegfried wrote back to Rome that he had not received any reply from the Pope – ‘quod vehementer miramur’.129 There is an excerpt from a letter from Alexander to Siegfried from around 1065 preserved in the early twelfth-century Collectio Britannica, however, in which the Pope advises Siegfried that ‘whoever does not give tithes yearly of his possessions to God and his priests, which they swore to do at the time of their baptism’, does not deserve to be called Christian.130 It is not clear precisely to what issue of tithe refusal the pontif is responding, but it appears that this may be a response to Siegfried’s earlier query which ended up in the papal registers at the time, but which may have never made it to Mainz. Sometime prior to the synod of Erfurt in October 1073, Siegfried sent another letter to the newly elected Pope Gregory VII requesting aid against the Thuringians.131 He congratulated Gregory on his election, complained that the case of Bishop Gebhard (also called Jerome) 126

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Cf. MUB, I, nr. 315, pp. 202–3. = Codex Udalrici, nr. 32, 60–1.; MUB, I, nr. 316 = Codex Udalrici, nr. 33, pp. 63–4; MUB, I, nr. 317, p. 205 = Codex Udalrici, nr. 31, pp. 58–9. See too Meyer v. Knonau, Jahrbücher, I, pp. 564–8. and n. 30. MUB, I, nr. 315, p. 203. ‘Preterea adhuc antiquam nostram super rebellibus Thuringis conquestionem ad noticiam almae sedis vestrae referimus; obnixe rogantes, ut armata manu gladio spiritus sancti usque ad expugnationem eorum nobis dexteram feratis auxilii. Suggerimus quoque sanctitati vestre, quod synodum super his post pascha celebrare decrevimus. Ad quam de latere vestro legatos mitti postulamus, qui auctoritate vestra et ipsi synodo praesint, et haec, quae de Thuringis agimus, canonice terminent, et si qua alia corrigenda occurrerint’. MUB, I, nr. 316, p. 205. Siegfried asks if Hildebrand might intervene on his behalf with the Pope and encourage him to support the synod: ‘Rogamus autem dulcddinem vestrae caritatis, ut per vos legationi nostrae, quam nunc ad sacram sedem apostolicam dirigimus, aditus pateat et de his, que postulamus, vestra ope efectum obineat, scilicet ut ad synodum quam super rebellibus Thuringis pro decimationibus decrevimus celebrare, domnus apostolicus de latere suo dignetur mittere… ’. MUB, I, nr. 317, p. 205. An edition of the collection, London, British Library, Add. 8873, is in Pius Ewald, ‘Die Papstbriefe der Brittischen Sammlung’, Neues Archiv 5 (1880–1), pp. 275–414 and 505–96. See Ewald, Collectio, nr. 35, at p. 335, which dates the letter to around 1065. See too Schmidt, Alexander II, pp. 224–7. MUB, I, nr. 335, p. 230 = Codex Udalrici, nr. 40, p. 84.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition of Prague had been brought up before Alexander II without his knowledge, and once again asked for help against the ‘invenerata obduratio’ of the Thuringians. These two main themes of Siegfried’s letter neatly express his theory of episcopal rule and authority and show how they informed his approach to the Thuringian afair. Gebhard of Prague had been involved in a lengthy dispute with his brother, Duke Vratislav, and Bishop John of Olmütz, which Alexander II had attempted to mediate through a papal legate. Although Prague was technically a sufragen bishopric of Regensburg, Siegfried still claimed jurisdiction in the afair as the supreme metropolitan in all Germany.132 Siegfried complained that papal intervention in Gebhard’s case threatened to undermine the authority and honour of the episcopacy itself because it is the duty of bishops to appoint and depose other bishops within the framework of canon law. Siegfried cautioned that the maintenance of church discipline is particularly important in recently Christianized regions like Bohemia, where the people could easily revert to paganism if they see dissension in the ranks of their Christian pastors.133 The problem with Gebhard of Prague elides easily into that of the Thuringian tithe, which, by 1073, according to both Lampert and Siegfried, had become increasingly violent. He claims further in his letter that the Thuringians had resisted the Holy Spirit, along with its ‘most just laws’ by refusing to submit the tithe, and when admonished to ‘obey omnipotent God, they rally the armed hands of the common people against me and my [people]’.134 He calls the Thuringians’ obstinacy a ‘wicked and insolent crime with respect to church discipline’, and urges the Pope, as head of the church, to bring the members of the body into line, so that ‘the contumacious and rebellious servant Thuringia might know that the empress Rome yet lives and rules in the key-bearing hand of Peter’!135 Siegfried hoped to use the Pope and Rome’s pre-eminence to bolster his own authority, not the other way around. If Gregory sensed this, 132 133

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Tellenbach, Church in Western Europe, pp. 201–2 and Meyer v. Knonau, Jahrbücher, pp. 302–3. Cf. however, MUB, I, nr. 337, pp. 232–3. = Das Register Gregors VII, vol. 1, ed. Caspar, nr. 60, pp. 87–8 where Gregory replies with a sharp rebuke to Siegfried against his intervention in the matter. ‘Pro inveterata autem thuringorum obdurtione novam vobis facio conquestionem. Qui sicut semper sic etiam adhuc spiritui sancto eiusque iustissimis restitunt legibus, redituum suorum negando decimationem usque adeo, ut, dum monerem eos,ut omnipotenti deo obedirent, ipsi e contra armata manu promiscuae plebis me et meos obsiderent. Et nisi dominus omnipotenti manu liberavisset, forsitan crudelitas eorum usque ad internicionem in no desevisset’. ‘Unde rogo sanctam paternitatem vestram, ut contra tam nefarium tamque solitum facinus respectu ecclesiasticae disciplinae quasi caput membris compaciendo succurratis et contra inimicos dei gladium sancti spiritus arripiatis, quatinus sentiat contumax et rebellis serva Thuringia, quod adhuc in clavigera manu Petri vivit et regnat imperatrix Roma’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire it could explain why he (like Alexander II before him) so decisively ignored Siegfried’s pleas.136 In the face of a more activist papacy trying to legitimate its position at the top of a legal hierarchy, Siegfried still believed in his prerogatives as a metropolitan. His struggle for tithes was not in obeisance to Rome, but in devotion to his own profound sense of his duties and the heritage of authority to which his diocese was heir. In the dating clause of his 1069 privilege for St. Peter’s, which we examined earlier, Siegfried signs Sigefrido archipresule currum Dei aurigante, a phrase lifted from Psalm 67:18, which opens in the second verse with ‘Exurgat Deus et dissipentur inimici eius et fugiunt qui oderunt eum a facie eius’.137 Augustine had observed in this passage that ‘the vast number of saints and believers, who by bearing God become in a manner the chariot of God, he hath signiied under this name. By abiding in and guiding this, He conducteth it, as thought it were His chariot, unto the end, as if unto some appointed place’.138 Siegfried’s destination, with or without papal support, was the fullness of his authority over tithes in Thuringia. His power, however, even as the pilot of God’s own chariot – the church – was circumscribed by the interests of the Saxon and Thuringian aristocracy and their monastic supporters. The reactions, not only of the Thuringians, but also of Fulda and Hersfeld, to the new episcopal posture of Mainz’s bishops suggest that this is how they interpreted Siegfried’s motives.They too turned to hagiography and historiography as a tool for legitimating their tithe rights. Lampert of Hersfeld and his work, particularly the Annales, but also the Libelli de institutione Hersfeldensis and the Vita Sancti Lulli, are outstanding examples of how an author articulated a position on an issue by sifting the past for memories of authoritative anchors in which to situate present claims.139 Scholars in the nineteenth century, beginning with 136

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Ian Robinson has observed that the Gregorian programme cultivated the centrality of the episcopacy and demanded obedience to bishops, but only insofar as that obedience was then channelled up to the papacy as a inal court of arbitration and authority in questions of law and doctrine. Gregory had little patience with bishops who did not toe this line. See ‘“Periculosus Homo”: Pope Gregory VII and Episcopal Authority’, Viator 9 (1978), pp. 103–31, esp. pp. 107; 122–5. Psalm 67:2. Compare Staab, ‘Würzel des Zehntprivilegs’, p. 38, n. 57. Siegfried used the same formula in the privilege of Berthold and Hedwig, MUB, I, nr. 341. Augustine, Ennarationes in Psalmos, LXVII, 24, ed. Dekkers and Fraipont, p. 887: ‘Ingentem itaque multitudinem sanctorum atque idelium, qui portando Deum iunt quodammodo currus Dei, signiicavit hoc nomine. Hanc immanendo et regendo perducit in inem tanquam currum suum velut in locum aliquem destinatum… ’. Translation is from NPNF, ser. 1,VIII, p. 293. On historical memory and the uses of the past, see in addition to Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance, James Fentress and Chris Wickham, Social Memory (Oxford, Blackwell, 1992), esp. chapter 4, as well as Hans-Werner Goetz, Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbewusstsein im hohen Mittelalter (Berlin, Akademie Verlag, 1999), pp. 281–7.Tilman Struve’s study of Lampert is the most recent and comprehensive work on the author to date: ‘Lampert von Hersfeld: Persönlichkeit und Weltbild eines

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition Ranke, blasted Lampert as utterly unglaubwürdig for his glaring biases and tendentious narrative, particularly against Henry IV, cautioning students not to be seduced by the apparent authority of his language and attention to detail.140 I suggest here, however, that those biases represent the critical ilters in Lampert’s world which determined his own reality and which we can turn back on his texts to understand the internal logic and dimensions of the author’s historical imagination. We should take them seriously as a way to understand better one contemporary’s attempt to come to terms with an important conlict. Lampert’s institutional memory glosses over the complexities of monastic and episcopal claims to tithes in the early Middle Ages and instead presents tithe disputes as a tale of the bishops’ power and arrogance arrayed against the noble traditions preserved by the monks.141 The distinction of the old canons between monastic possession and episcopal oversight or disposal were collapsed within a narrative about power and manipulation. The story of Burchard I of Halberstadt’s dispute with Hersfeld over its tithes in Hassegau and Friesenfeld is evocative of the moral critique which Lampert brings to bear on narratives of conlict and dispute, though it probably relects more his attitude towards Siegfried than his memory of Burchard I, who lived nearly twenty years before Lampert was writing. While perhaps no less persistent than Liutpold of Mainz in pursuing his tithe rights, Burchard was less successful. In 1059, Lampert describes Bishop Burchard’s move against tithes possessed by Hersfeld in his diocese. Hersfeld’s abbot Meginher, whom Lampert had followed as a monk, was old and ailing. He sent a message to Burchard saying that he no longer had the strength to resist the bishop’s claims to the monastery’s tithes in Saxony, but added ‘God, however, will not lack the means to defend equity’.142 To be sure, only a few days after the

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Geschichtsschreibers am Beginn des Investiturstreits,Teil A’, Hessisches Jahrbuch für Landesgeschichte 19 (1969), pp. 1–123; and ‘Teil B’, Hessisches Jahrbuch für Landesgeschichte 20 (1970), pp. 32–142. Still important is the discussion in Wattenbach-Holtzmann, Deutschlands Geschichtsquellen, II, pp. 456–73, and Richard Freyh, ‘Lampert von Hersfeld’, in Die Deutsche Literatur des Mittelalters: Verfasserlexicon, ed. Wolfgang Stammler and Karl Langosch, 5 vols. (New York and Berlin, De Gruyter, 1933–53), V., cols. 583–92. On the transmission of Lampert, see Johannes Haller, ‘Die Überlieferung der Annalen Lamperts von Hersfeld’, in Wirtschaft und Kultur, Festschrift Alfons Dospch (Baden bei Wien and Leipzig, 1939; repr. Frankfurt, 1966), pp. 410–23. Compare Leopold von Ranke, ‘Die Annalen des Lambertus von Hersfeld’, in Rankes Sämtliche Werke, vol. 51 (Leipzig, Duncker & Humblot, 1888), pp. 131–49 and Oswald Holder-Egger, ‘Studien zu Lampert von Hersfeld’, esp. pp. 203–6. HannaVollrath has observed that this understanding of conlict as a clash of opposing moral attributes was typical in eleventh century accounts. See ‘Konliktwahrnehmung und Konliktdarstellung in erzählenden Quellen des 11. Jahrhunderts’, as cited earlier, n. 125. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1059, p. 75–6: ‘brevi antequam vita excederet, mandavit ei per Fridericum palatinum comitem: se [viz. Burchardum] quidem tamquam viribus imparem cause cadere, Deo tamen vires ad tuendam equitatem non defuturas esse’.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire death of the abbot, Burchard was about to mount his horse to leave for a regional synod where he planned press his case against Hersfeld when ‘he was struck down with the rod of divine punishment’.143 Carried back to his chamber by attendants, he gathered his priests around him, ordered them to restore all Hersfeld’s tithes, and made them swear not to disturb the monastery any longer over the matter, lest they sufer a fate similar to his. While Hersfeld relied on divine intervention to protect its tithes, Fulda could appeal to more worldly measures, but ones whose correct interpretation and legitimacy relied on their being remembered in an appropriate context. In 1062, Otloh of St. Emmeram in Regensburg, one of the most prominent writers of the period, found himself on the bad side of the city’s bishop and was obliged to leave his monastery for a time. He found hospitality at Fulda between 1062 and 1064, where he earned his keep for a time rewriting the biography of St. Boniface.144 Otloh’s Life of Boniface is not so much a revision as it is a new and creative assemblage of details from Willibald’s vita interspersed with letters and charters documenting the legacy of papal and royal patronage made possible by Boniface’s virtus.145 First and foremost among these are the privileges ensuring Fulda’s episcopal exemptions and tithe rights. In his preface, he admonishes those who have alienated Fulda’s patrimony, in particular its right to certain tithes, by invoking the image and power of Boniface as the church’s [the monastery’s] patron and protector.146 ‘Why, therefore’, he asks: could St. Boniface, upon whom God conferred such power throughout Germany, so that, wherever he wished he might found monasteries and churches, establish episcopal seats and divide parishes among them, not give tithes and possessions to whatever place he speciically chose for himself? Was not St. Boniface able, through such authority, to bequeath the same to monks and the poor tithes which modern bishops have been accustomed to give to knights and other laymen?147

Sometime between the appearance of Otloh’s Life of Boniface in the mid1060s and the Synod of Erfurt in 1073, Lampert took up his own pen to 143

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Lampert, Annales, p. 76. ‘Nam post dormitionem abbatis pauci dies intercesserant, et ecce episcopus, cum predictae rei gratia sinodum indixisset et admoto iam equo illuc properare vellet, repente divina animadversione ictus corruit… ’. Wattenbach-Holzmann, Geschichtsquellen, I, §26, pp. 264–76. See too Hedwig Röcklein, ‘Otloh v. St. Emmeram’, LMA, vol. 5, cols. 1559–60. My understanding of this has been enhanced greatly in discussions with Dr. Ray Lavoie (Campbell Hall School, Los Angeles) about the character of Otloh’s work, particularly his hagiography. Otloh, Prologus, p. 114. Ibid., p. 116. ‘Cur igitur sanctus Bonifacius, cui Deus tantam in omni Germania potestatem contulit, ut, quovis vellet, ecclesias cenobiaque fudaret, sedes episcopales statueret parrochiasque

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition commemorate Hersfeld’s founder and patron, Lull.While Otloh explored the antiquity of Fulda’s privileges and the authority of St. Boniface in securing a patrimony for the abbey, Lampert claims to show how close Lull had been to Charlemagne and underscores the Frankish king’s special relationship with Lull’s church and the privileges he granted it.148 When Hersfeld had become wealthy, Lull placed it under Charlemagne’s protection and the king issued a privilege ‘ordering that no one by any private name or [by] the pretense of public oice shall have any power over that place – no king, bishop, or any other eminent igure in the realm shall ever usurp any of the rights of that place’.149 Copies of Charlemagne’s original 775 privilege still exist, and the original was certainly in Hersfeld at the time of Lampert’s writing.150 Lampert’s version embellished the original somewhat; Charlemagne’s immunity privilege contained only the standard formula restricting the powers of bishops and public judges over the monastery.151 However, Lampert’s version soon eclipsed even an original privilege in legal authority and as early as 1112, King Henry V gave Hersfeld a conirmation of all its property and privileges using the summary found in Vita Lulli as its basis.152

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earum divideret, non cuilebet loco, quem sibi specialiter elegit, possessiones et decimas aliquas donare potuit? Nonne per eandem auctoritatem, qua moderni pontiices militibus aliisque secularibus hominibus decimas dare solent, sanctus Bonifatius monachis vel pauperibus erogare easdem potuit’. See also pp. 113–14. Compare Vita Lulli, c. 14, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, Lamperti monachi opera, p. 327. Lampert gives a short sketch of Charles’s early reign, partitioning the kingdom with his brother Carloman, Carloman’s eventual abdication, and Charles’s rise to be sole ruler of the Franks. He observes: ‘Thus Charles became the sole ruler, very skilled in matters of war, and most eicacious in everything he put his mind to. Truly, if I had met a writer of history like Titus Livy or Crispus Sallust, I tell you by the sacred faith, that he would have equalled the glory of either Julius or Augustus Caesar or any other most illustrious Roman emperor in the arts of war as well as peace. There exists a biography for him, but for the dignity of such things it is too short and narrowly described’. Holder-Egger assumes he refers to Einhard’s Vita Karoli, but it is hard to imagine Lampert brushing of Einhard’s highly classicizing treatment of Charlemagne; he was probably thinking of Notker of St. Gall, whose biography of Charlemagne has a much less elevated tone. Vita Lulli, c. 19, p. 332: ‘Ad impetrandam quoque rebus pacem regale postulat edictum. Tum rex, cunctis principbus in sententiam eius e vestigio abuentibus, legem tulit ratamque fore in perpetuum iussit, ne quis dienceepts priato nomine, ne quis publicae dignitatis optentu vim aliquam loco illi faceret; non rex, non episcopus, non aliqua eminens in regno persona ibi quidquam iuris sibi usurparet… ’. UB Hersfeld, nr. 5/6, pp. 9–11.The privilege survives in two certiied late medieval copies (vidimus). On Charlemagne’s itinerary in 775, including the granting of this privilege, see McKitterick, Charlemagne, pp. 189–94. UB Hersfeld, nr. 5/6, p. 10: ‘Expetivit nobis predictus pontifex, ut nullus archdiaconus aut missus episcoporum Mogonciae, Austriae, Toringiae ipsum monastirium nec abbatem qui ibidem institutus fuerit, per preceptum et iussionem regum episcopus aut archidiaconus in rebus eorum mansionaticus preparandum ne faciendum neque comis neque iudex publicus neque missi nostri discurrentis in vilabus eorum… ’. Struve, ‘Lampert von Hersfeld’, Teil B, p. 49.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire In this way, institutional memories formed the basis of a textual tradition which, mutatis mutandis, helped establish new institutional memories. The complex origins of Fulda’s and Hersfeld’s tithe rights in the eighth and ninth centuries no longer served to deine those interests in the eleventh. Both Lampert and Otloh were obliged to sift and reshape the archival material at their disposal to make it relevant in a new age. Otloh, for example, copied the forged Fulda privilege with its interpolations about the decimas idelium, but takes the added step of glossing the charter with an explanation of how so great a man as Boniface certainly was within his rights to grant tithes to his monasteries the same way bishops could grant them to laymen. It was an image that would have only made sense in a mid-eleventh century context when tithes had come to signify a new kind of power. If bishops could make certain knights powerful by granting them tithes, then that must have been how Fulda had acquired its tithes – and from the greatest bishop of them all, namely Boniface. The problem was that bishops brought a very similar perspective to bear upon their rights: that all tithes had originally belonged to them and that monasteries over time had usurped these rights – or enjoyed only a temporary reprieve from paying them – and they fought only to regain what was rightfully owed them. th e thuring ian tithe disp ute, 10 69–74 Lampert of Hersfeld locates the origins of the Thuringian tithe dispute in an attempt by Siegfried of Mainz to compel a member of the Thuringian nobility to pay tithes. Not long after Siegfried’s investiture, the Thuringian margrave, William of Weimar, died and his brother Otto succeeded him.The margrave of Thuringia, who controlled a sizable territory between the Saale and Elbe Rivers, also held Thuringian lands in beneice from the archbishop of Mainz. Before Siegfried would allow Otto to take possession of these beneices, Lampert reports, he made him promise to pay tithes on his property in Thuringia and force the other Thuringians to the same.153 This, writes Lampert, ‘was the seed-bed of so many misfortunes’, because the Thuringians then hated everything Otto did, claiming ‘they would rather die than abandon the rights of their forefathers’.154 Lampert records that Otto died in 1067, ‘much to the 153

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Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1062, p. 79: ‘Sed in beneicia Mogontini episcopatus aliter optinere non potuit, nisi promitteret decimas se de suis in Thuringia possessionibus daturum et caeteros Thuringos, ut idem facerent, coacturum’. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1062, p. 79: ‘Quae res multorum malorum seminarium fuit, detestantibus omnibus Thuringis factum eius et asserentibus mori se malle quam patrum suorum legittima amittere’.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition glee of the Thuringians, because he had been the irst of the Thuringian leaders to agree to pay tithes on his possessions in Thuringia, and in doing so foisted the greatest calamity upon his people’.155 Siegfried may have had the expectation that Otto’s power and inluence could win his compatriots over to the side of piety in this case. Part of the problem may have been that Siegfried’s individual agreement with Otto violated the Thuringians’ sense of collective rights and obligations. While the three main comital families mentioned earlier do not appear to have been related at any meaningful level, they and their followers, along with the general population under them, did consider themselves bound by their identity as Thuringians. Sometime before 1070, Lampert states that they had in fact made a common defence and peacekeeping pact wherein they swore to let no robber or thief go unpunished.156 Otto probably did pay tithes to Mainz in the end and duly received his beneices, but, if the events of 1073–4 are any indication, he was not able to impress upon any of the other Thuringian magnates or the two monasteries the need to do the same.157 In 1069, after the agreement reached at Mühlhausen, Lampert alleges that Siegfried used the crisis of the margrave Dedi’s rebellion as an opportunity to pursue tithes in Thuringia, ‘extorting by right of war what he could not obtain by ecclesiastical right or civil law’.158 Thus the Thuringians responded by taking up a feud against Siegfried, attacking his soldiers, and even shouting insults to his face.159 Perhaps we now know why the concept of the Mühlhausen agreement remained unratiied at Fulda. The king had ostensibly agreed to help Siegfried force the Thuringians to pay tithes, says Lampert, but did this only to avoid alienating the bishop and did not really intend to carry out his threat.160 In 1073 and again in 1074 – amid a violent uprising against Henry IV in Saxony and Thuringia – Siegfried held at least two major synods 155

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Lampert, Annales., s.a. 1067, p. 104; ‘Otto marchio Thuringorum obiit, gaudentibus admodum in morte eius omnibus Thuringis eo quo ipse primus ex principibus Thuringorum, ut predictum est, decimas ex suis in Thuringia possessionibus dare consensisset et per hoc clamitatem maximam genti suae invexisse videretur’. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1069, pp. 107–8; s.a. 1070, p. 116: ‘… iam pridem se sacramento obstrictos obligatosque fuisse, ut raptores et predatores inultos non sineret’. In 1084, Siegfried ceded to an episcopal church in Orlamünde tithes he had received from Otto and his wife, Adelheid, calling them ‘the irst in Thuringia who recognized the rights of myself, God, and St. Martin to the tithe for the salvation of their souls and those of their parents’. (‘qui primi in Thuringia pro remedio anime sue et pro salute animarum omnium parentum suorum deo et sancto Martino michique archiepiscopo censum dei, id est omnium frugum pecorumque decimam recognoverunt’.) MUB, I, nr. 365, p. 265. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1069, p. 107: ‘Quodsi episcopus ad eos rem divinam non divinis, se humanis armis expugnatum veniret et decimas iure belli sibi extorquere vellet, quas nec iure ecclesiastico nec lege forensi potuisset’. Ibid., p. 108. Ibid.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire in which he attempted to compel the Thuringians, along with the two monasteries, to recognize his rights to tithes from their churches and property.161 The synod in March 1073, held in the episcopal stronghold of Erfurt before Henry IV and a number of Mainz and Cologne’s sufragan bishops, was only marginally successful from Siegfried’s perspective, largely because his ability to enforce the agreements was obviated by the Saxon War. Lampert of Hersfeld transmits a detailed account of the proceedings, including Siegfried’s oration to the assembly justifying his claims. Even if we accept the words as Lampert’s and not literally Siegfried’s, they nonetheless relect a strong sense of reform as an idea of history unfolding in a preconceived direction. Responding to the argument that no bishops of Mainz before Liutpold had infringed upon the rights of either monastery regarding their tithes, Siegfried states that: his predecessors, using their best judgement, had been moderate in their day towards the church of God, and had given those still new to the faith milk to drink rather than solid food, indulging many things with wise dispensation which, with the progress of time, and when they had grown stronger in their faith, would be eliminated through the eforts of their successors.162

Tithe reform entailed recognizing that a new stage in the Christian history of the region had been reached that efectively invalidated received tradition. Given Siegfried’s view of the tithe afair as one of a long-term and often violent process fought by him and his predecessors, it seems likely that Lampert’s account captures at least some aspect of Siegfried’s argumentation at the synod. Of course Lampert and Siegfried’s memories are both selective reconstructions. There had been conlicts between the bishops of Mainz and the two monasteries over tithes going back to the ninth century,163 but which had been selectively remembered in the current revision of history proposed by each side. The monasteries – and, indeed, the Thuringians – envisaged their privileges as an unbroken protective umbrella over their possessions which extended back to their founding, while Siegfried saw the past in terms of an ongoing struggle to have the bishops’ rights recognized, at irst indulgently and now with greater strictness. Eventually, Siegfried and the synod obliged the abbots 161 162

163

On the Synod of Erfurt, see Eldevik, ‘Episcopal Lordship’, pp. 53–4. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1073, pp. 142–3: ‘… id atroci responso archiepiscopus repulit, scilicet predecessores suos sua aetate pro suo arbitratu aecclesiae Dei moderatos fuisse, eosque rudibus in ide auditoribus et pene adhuc neophitis lac potum dedisse, non escam, et sapienti dispensatione multa indulsisse, quae processu temporis, dum in ide convaluissent, sucessorum suorum industria resecari vellent’. Giving milk to the uninitiated and solid food to the spiritually mature is an allusion to Hebrews 5:12, as well as 1 Corinthians 3:2. Konrad Lübeck, ‘Zehntrechte und Zehntkämpfe des Klosters Fulda’, AKKR 118 (1938), pp. 116–64.

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition to accept a compromise dividing the tithe revenue between themselves and the bishop. The Thuringians, seeing that the issue was not going to be resolved in their favour, capitulated shortly afterward and agreed to submit their tithes as well. In October of the following year, however, after an uneasy truce between Henry IV and the rebellious lords had been reached at Gerstungen, Siegfried held another synod at Erfurt where he announced to his clergy that he would be implementing new rules on clerical celibacy. He demanded that priests leave their wives and concubines or resign their oice.164 According to Lampert, he then reopened the debate on the Thuringian tithes, which were still not being submitted, and the attending lords and knights nearly killed him and drove him from the church.165 This is the last we hear of the tithe dispute under Siegfried, although he still attempted to excommunicate those who had disrupted the synod.166 conc lusions : th e legacy of tithe disp ute s in me dieval ge rmany For Lampert of Hersfeld, and even for Siegfried to an extent, who described the Thuringians in his letters to the Pope as ‘rebelli’ resisting his just authority and the law, the struggle for the Thuringian tithe was clearly a political one. Even if the synod of Erfurt in 1073 may be viewed as a culmination of sorts in the story of the conlict between the archbishops of Mainz and their monastic and lay peers in Thuringia, the foregoing has shown that it was really just another episode in a story that stretched back to the ninth century and included other conlicts such as that between Fulda and the bishops of Würzburg or that between Hersfeld and Halberstadt. Episcopal lordship was a type of power, like all other, that found expression in the degree to which its holder could carry out what he viewed as the obligations and prerogatives of the position. Certain circumstances in the social environment of the diocese made this more feasible at some times than at others. The story of tithes in the early and mid-eleventh century in the diocese of Mainz ofers a glimpse of the new ways to exercise power coming 164

165 166

Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1074, pp. 200–1. Siegfried here appears to have pre-empted the oicial pronouncement of these reforms by Gregory VII in a series of letters to the German episcopate in March 1075. See Register Gregors VII, II, ed. Caspar, nrs. 66–8, pp. 221–6. Either Siegfried had actually anticipated the papal policy by some months, or (more likely) Lampert intentionally conlated the tithe and the celibacy topics as a way of underscoring Siegfried’s irrational disregard for custom and traditional law. Lampert, Annales, s.a. 1074, pp. 200–1. Regesten Mainz, nr. 203.

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Episcopal power and ecclesiastical reform in the German Empire to the fore under the later Ottonian and Salian kings. Monastic reforms imposed by Henry II may have reinforced ties between key monasteries and the crown, but simultaneously deracinated them from many of the higher-level social relationships that had provided political stability and security. Into this vacuum lowed new types of power arrangements, particularly the growth of lower-level relationships among the familiae whose competition for resources and power led to increased conlict. It is far more diicult to detect the origins of these changes than it is to observe them as they emerge in the sources. Bishops found that they could insert themselves into this situation and expand their own sphere of inluence by laying claim to tithes – perhaps the most critical symbol of episcopal authority. The tithes held in Thuringia by the regional aristocracy and Fulda and Hersfeld represented a key prize in their efort to build a political identity around their see’s primacy in the German kingdom. The Thuringians’ tithe rights were based on a perception of ancestral rights theoretically just as defensible as the privileges and immunities of the two monasteries. What mattered was the political and social dynamics in which those rights could be challenged and upheld. One function served by the literature of the period was to create a basis of knowledge and memory for the legitimacy of those rights. Lampert’s histories, both the Annals and the Libelli, articulated an institutional memory for Hersfeld, just as Otloh’s Vita Sancti Bonifacii attempted the same for Fulda. Ultimately, however, the ideology of law and privilege had to be defended on the ground through hard political negotiations. Liutpold and Bardo advanced the interests of the diocese of Mainz by striking compromises over tithes that required a recognition of their episcopal rights, but that in the end allowed the monasteries to retain control of their tithes. Siegfried was more ambitious, yet sufered more serious setbacks for his eforts. His unwillingness to concede to a normative partition of tithes was interpreted as a profound violation of legal decorum. In Lampert’s view, Siegfried’s pursuit of tithes was made outside the proper channels of legal procedure and thus deserved to be resisted. What we can take away from this is a striking view of the underside of regional politics in eleventh-century Germany. Bardo, Siegfried, and Adalbero of Würzburg have typically been cast as reformers without really coming to an understanding of what that entailed. On the eve of the outbreak of hostilities between Henry IV and Gregory VII that sent shockwaves across the whole kingdom, and indeed, all of Europe, Germany was already in the throes of a serious debate about the limits of episcopal authority and lordship and the growth of a new kind of power no longer linked to collective associations among a narrow clique of the 254

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The Struggle for tithes in an age of transition high nobility. To be sure, the political self-consciousness of the Saxons and Thuringians was heightened in response to perceived threats from royal and episcopal power, but their sense of that threat was that it did not conform to older traditions of rule through consensus. Henry IV’s kingship, following that of his father, was increasingly uncoupled from the norms of behavior that had prevailed for the previous century.167 These changes irst register in the use of tithes among leading bishops and monasteries in supporting dependent retinues and armed retainers and culminate in violent contests like the Thuringian tithe dispute in which a bishop attempted to disrupt a critical conduit of economic and symbolic power among the ecclesiastical and lay communities in his diocese. 167

Leyser, ‘Crisis of Medieval Germany’, 46–8.

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C ONCL USION

The irst goal of this study has been to demonstrate the key role played by tithes in constructing social relationships on the diocesan level in the early Middle Ages.The tithe’s importance as an economic and legal institution in the medieval West has been well studied in the past, yet its social signiicance remained underappreciated.While other forms of gift giving and property donation could forge political and social relationships, the tithe was a unique symbol of episcopal power and an important instrument for deining the bishop’s authority. In the early church, the tithe was a sign of the individual and the community’s relationship with God, as mediated by the bishops and the clergy. During the Carolingian period, tithes became compulsory for all Christians and were embedded within the territorial complex of early parishes in the countryside. This accelerated their commodiication. Tithes were no longer just pious donations, but quantiiable units that could be sold, granted as beneices, or leased ad tempus. Although canon law throughout the West consistently forbade permanent alienation of church property, including tithes, temporary leases or grants were common and became an important means by which bishops created alliances and friendships. While economic motivations certainly lay behind some sales, gifts, and exchanges of tithe revenue, such arrangements were simultaneously predicated on the idea that the circulation of tithes among the bishops and members of the diocesan community created important ties of friendship and bolstered the position of the bishop. Around the middle decade of the eleventh century, however, this attitude underwent a profound change. Clerical writings accused laymen of stealing and alienating the ‘patrimony of the poor’. Reformers railed against corrupt bishops who used tithes for political gain rather than charity, and bishops began an often arduous process of reclaiming and reassembling the scattered remains of the diocesan tithe. A second goal has been to understand how reform of the tithe regime in the later eleventh century attempted to deine a new relationship 256

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Conclusion between the world and the church, particularly its property and other economic resources. As Kathleen Cushing has observed, reform ‘was about setting boundaries, both for and between diferent parts of society’.1 One of the main features of these reforms, the desire to reassemble and consolidate control over tithes, was a response to new conceptions of power, property, and territoriality that bishops came to believe threatened the church with fragmentation and chaos.2 That response originated initially not within papal circles, but among bishops, monks, and cathedral canons in the early-to-mid-eleventh century who sought to redeine their authority by asserting more exclusive control over the ecclesiastical tithe and other church property. Using conlict over tithes as our critical lens, I have brought these insights into sharper relief and underscored the extent to which thinking about property, identity, and boundaries is crucial to understanding why the tenth and eleventh centuries were such a signiicant era in the history of Europe in the Middle Ages. At the same time, this research has underscored the fact that any narrative like this resists easy generalizations over time and space, much as do the older ones about feudalism or the ‘Gregorian reform movement’. My observations here should not be applied to other areas of the continent or Britain without signiicant adjustment or qualiication. Such caution is warranted not only on the basis of important distinctions like the king’s ability to control episcopal appointments, but on the variation in social and political conditions within the empire itself. Just as the emergence of new forms of lordship east of the Rhine do not readily correspond to the feudal mutation narrative applied in parts of France, neither does any kind of uniied picture about social change emerge from the imperial lands as a whole. At the same time, all of this has continued to complicate our picture of the bishop as a igure within the medieval empire. Recent scholarship on bishops in the empire has generally moved beyond the traditional framework of the imperial church system and focused on examining the bishop in more discrete contexts.3 In pursuing a similar tack, what I have noted is that while we should not talk about a coherent policy of episcopal appointments and royal governance of the great churches of the empire, in discrete instances, royal involvement in placing bishops in sees previously accustomed to having a local son in that position did afect the nature of episcopal activities within the diocese and the way that prelate exercised his authority. As this intensiied from the mid-eleventh century onwards, it spurred the 1

2

Kathleen Cushing, Reform and the Papacy in the Eleventh Century (Manchester, Manchester University Press, 2005), p. 36. North, ‘Fragmentation’, p. 128. 3 See Introduction, pp. 5-7.

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Conclusion growth of more territorialized conceptions of power and a shift away from the kinds of multilateral, horizontal relationships that had deined the episcopal church and its tithe regime in the early Middle Ages. To be sure, external episcopal appointments were not the primary engine of change; after all, Siegfried of Mainz was very much a local igure when he became archbishop. But the prevalence of ‘outsider’ bishops in places like Lucca and Salzburg at a time when older aristocratic lineages were dying out or actively reconiguring themselves around new centres of power certainly did accelerate change. Championing the church’s newfound rights were reformers who at the same time denigrated earlier administrative practices and forms of social relationship building in their polemics and historiography. While arguing for reform, they simultaneously invented the past to which they claimed to respond. Carolingian scholars like Rosamond McKitterick have underscored the extent to which ninth-century Frankish chronicles and annals invented a past that legitimated Carolingian claims to power while simultaneously efacing Merovingian contributions.4 A similar, yet still underappreciated, process was very much at work in the texts of eleventh-century chroniclers like Lampert of Hersfeld, the authors of the vitae of Gebhard of Salzburg, or theologians like Peter Damian. The transformation of episcopal and other lordly power in the eleventh-century empire was not the result of a collapse in public order – at least the kind of order imagined in the context of the debates over feudal mutation in Francia and the western Mediterranean.5 Even in northern Italy, where the disappearance of the state in the early tenth century has been more conidently asserted, attributing changes in episcopal administration and in patterns of leasing and landholding in Lucca to a collapse of public order does not seem to have much explanatory value.What disappeared, and only at the very end of the eleventh century, were certain judicial institutions like the royal placitum, which passed into the hands of the commune and the rural signoria.6 By that time, the changes wrought by the alienation of episcopal tithes and the growth of a local aristocracy in the countryside had been well underway for decades. If the rise of the commune and the gradual disappearance of the old judicial venues accompanied a period of political conlict and disorder, it had much more to do with the papal-imperial conlicts of the 1080s and the 1090s than with any inherent disorder in Lucchese afairs. North of the Alps, on 4 5 6

McKitterick, History and Memory in the Carolingian World, esp. chapter 4. Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages, pp. 208–20, esp. 230. Chris Wickham, Courts and Conlict in Twelfth Century Tuscany (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 20–1.

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Conclusion the other hand, oice holding, whose legitimacy depended very much on royal prerogative, did matter, and what crystallized over the course of the eleventh century was a heightened sensitivity to the prerogatives of oice, the territorial dimensions of power, and ideas about property that were less tolerant of shifting, overlapping claims of ownership. For bishops, it was about fostering a sense of coherence and unity in the diocese at a time when other individuals and institutions – whether monasteries or cathedral chapters – were staking out jurisdictions and unifying their own spheres of inluence. These tensions and dissonances between old and new ideas about piety and property produced the discourses of criticism we have seen in writers like Humbert of Silva Candida, Peter Damian, and the author of the preface to Baldwin’s Traditionsbuch; the ideology of ‘sharing’ in church property, as David Ganz has described it, that had prevailed since the Carolingian period was coming to an end.7 What replaced it was not something inherently more chaotic or violent than what had existed previously, however. There was no ‘crisis of idelity’ in the German empire, as Thomas N. Bisson has alleged occurred in Frankish lands in the tenth century – where allegiance to public order fell away and private lordships, based on tenuous oaths and opaque loyalties, proliferated in their place.8 But one can concur with Bisson that even as the notion of public order – strained as it was – survived the second half of the eleventh century relatively intact, ‘new customs and lordships intruded, old titles lost meaning, and multiplied retinues and castles transformed the experience of power’.9 In such an environment, bishops perhaps provided the surest anchor around which to orient new ties of idelity, particularly for lower-level nobles and knights seeking to rise in the service of great lords. For other, more established igures, like the Eppensteiner Markwart and his relatives, ofering tithes to Bishop Gebhard in return for recognition of their private churches may have functioned in a similar way by legitimating their lordship in village and estate communities while creating and sustaining a special relationship with the prelate. In this way, they pursued – ultimately less successfully – a similar kind of engagement with the episcopacy as the lords of Porcari in Lucca. By irst half of the twelfth century, we can see this diferent kind of episcopal power at work, one that bishops like Siegfried and others may have helped bring into shape with their tithe conlicts. In the 1120s, Archbishop Adalbert I of Mainz (1110–37) had accumulated or built a 7 8 9

Ganz, ‘The Ideology of Sharing,’ as cited in Chapter 2. Bisson, Crisis of the Twelfth Century, p. 50. Compare too pp. 213–29. Ibid., p. 229.

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Conclusion number of castles throughout Hessen and Thuringia that formed the basis of a new lordship that increasingly came into conlict with the landgrave, the Ludowinger Henry Raspe.10 Accordingly, when the inhabitants of the Duderstadter mark, a stronghold of the landgrave east of Göttingen, resisted paying their tithes, he promptly dispatched a cohort of ministerial knights who summarily executed a number of the inhabitants and led others into captivity.11 The rebels responded by besieging the bishop in his residence at Erfurt, but he was apparently forewarned and escaped before he could be trapped. We do not know precisely how the incident was resolved; the bishops of Mainz do not appear to have had trouble with tithes outside Thuringia where tithes continued, as they had in Lampert’s day, to be viewed through the lens of communal rights. The Annales S. Petri Antiqui, a twelfth-century annalistic compilation from St. Peter’s in Erfurt, transmits selections of Lampert’s Annals on the Thuringian tithe disputes as well as an account of the conlict over the Duderstadt tithes, thereby shaping a historical memory about the Thuringians and the archbishops of Mainz through the lens of the tithe dispute.12 Gebhard of Salzburg negotiated settlement that conceded some local church control to a group of nobles in exchange for their paying the ‘canonical’ tithe – the full tenth, directed to the bishop. As we saw previously, however, the distinction between a programmatic reform and a series of agreements designed to reorient the church’s relationship with a speciic aristocratic kin group in the Styrian and Carinthian marches is perhaps not as clear as we might like it to be. Whether or not this followed a more protracted conlict is likewise uncertain, but at least until the outbreak of unrest and political chaos in the later decades of the eleventh century, it appeared to satisfy both parties. In 1122, at precisely the same time as the uprising against Adalbert of Mainz, Conrad I of Salzburg (1106–47) was able to return to his see after a long absence and institute a long-anticipated series of reforms, particularly of the cathedral clergy.13 He continued an ambitious castle-building programme begun 10

11

12

13

Heinrich Büttner, ‘Erzbischof Adalbert von Mainz: die Kurie und das Reich in den Jahren 1118 bis 1122’, in Investiturstreit und Reichsverfassung, ed. Josef Fleckenstein (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1973), pp. 396. Compare MUB, I, nr. 616. Regesta Mainz, Adalbert I, nr. 300. See too Patze, Entstehung der Landesherrschaft, pp. 395–410. Annales Pegaviensis, s.a. 1122, p. 254. I misidentiied this location in ‘Ecclesiastical Lordship and the Politics of Submitting Tithes’, p. 55. Annales S. Petri Antiqui, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, Monumenta Erphesfurtensia saec. XII, XIII, XIV, MGH SRG, vol. 42 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1899), pp. 8–16. Birgit Wiedl, ‘Konrad I. von Abenberg (1106–1147)’, in Lebensbilder Salzburger Erzbischöfe, pp. 63–82; Stefan Weinfurter, Salzburger Bistumsreform und Bischofspolitik im 12. Jahrhundert: der Erzbischof Konrad I (1106–1147) und die Regularkanoniker (Cologne and Vienna, Böhlau Verlag, 1975).

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Conclusion under Gebhard while restoring and dedicating new churches throughout the diocese.14 Another order of business was to secure the return of diocesan property in Friuli and Carinthia that had fallen under the control of Duke Henry III of Eppenstein, Markwart’s son.15 The Eppensteiner had remained staunch supporters of Henry IV during the Wars of Investiture and greatly expanded their inluence in the marcher regions at Salzburg’s expense. Markwart’s other son, Ulrich (1086–1121), was patriarch of Aquileia and no doubt also supportive of his brother’s eforts to secure the family’s power in Friuli. After Conrad sent a thousand-man army into Carinthia, the duke inally relented and submitted to a humiliating surrender in order to have the bishop’s ban of excommunication lifted. He died shortly afterwards, childless, bringing the Eppensteiner dynasty to an end, and the duchy of Carinthia passed to another Bavarian house, the Spanheimer.16 One of the things Henry had evidently done to merit excommunication was to refuse to pay tithes from his estates.17 The author of Conrad’s vita does not mention this particular angle of the story, but notes: Speaking of tithes, it is said that before archbishop Conrad, hardly anyone in the diocese bothered to pay their tithes, but with industriousness and great efort he forced them to be paid, although he was unable by any means to prohibit them from being held in beneice by laymen. This abuse had grown so entrenched that it could not be uprooted but through divine power, for whom nothing is impossible, for neither apostolic mandates nor the most strenuous perseverance of bishops can possibly eliminate it.18

The last sentence certainly echoes Humbert of Silva Candida’s phrasing on the alienation of tithes in the Libri tres contra simoniacos, though I cannot argue for a direct borrowing.19 The image the text paints appears to be much more like the situation faced by the two Bishop Anselms of 14

15

16 17

18

19

Heinz Dopsch, ‘Burgenbau und Burgenpolitik des Erzstiftes Salzburg im Mittelalter’, in Die Burgen im Deutschen Sprachraum,Vorträge und Forschungen, 19, ed. Hans Patze (Sigmaringen, Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1976), pp. 381–417, at p. 392. Compare Vita Chuonradi archiepiscopi, cc. 19–21, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, MGH SS XI, pp. 74–5. Vita Chuonradi archiepiscopi, c. 15, pp. 71–2. On the later Eppensteiner and the Istrian march, see Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, pp. 336–8. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken, p. 338. Klaar, Herrschaft der Eppensteiner, nr. 99, p. 71 = UB Steiermark I, nr. 123b. Mention of the tithe dispute comes from a charter in the now-lost Admont Traditionsbuch. The document is also the earliest known witness for the toponym de Eppenstein. Vita Chuonradi archiepiscopi, c. 21, p. 75: ‘Et quia decimarum mentionem fecimus, dicendum quod ante archiepiscopum Chuonradum vix aliquae decimae dari solebant per totum episcopatum; set eas dari labore ingenti et industria coegit, quamvis eas in beneicio possideri a laicis nulla ratione prohibere valuerit. Haec enim abusio tam irma radice convaluit, ut nisi divina potentia, cui nichil est impossibile, sublata fuerit, nec apostolico mandato nec episcoporum strunnuosissima pertinacia auferri posse credatur’. Compare Chapter 4, p. 139.

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Conclusion Lucca; though they fervently wished to keep tithes from being possessed by laymen, they could not overcome the inertia of existing arrangements. Despite such setbacks, Conrad endeavoured to set a good example for paying tithes himself when he established ‘pax et amicitia’ with Pilgrim of Ortenburg, the new patriarch of Aquileia (1130-61), by agreeing to pay tithes on Salzburg’s property in that diocese.20 Indeed, when those present saw what the archbishop had done, they too piously pledged to pay their tithes to the patriarch. Tithes in Salzburg still clearly retained their role as a catalyst of social and political relationships, but they carried an additional danger in the twelfth century that they might not have earlier: Beneices and landed resources were increasingly used to outit armed retinues, the sine qua non of a new kind of lordship on the rise since the mid-eleventh century. Gerhoh of Reichersberg, the provost of the Bavarian canonry founded by Gebhard’s own sister and brother-in-law and appointed by Conrad I, railed against bishops who used their canonical quarter of the church’s tithes to subsidize retinues of knights instead of supporting the care of the poor.21 The brief notice in the Admont Traditionsbuch that mentions Duke Henry of Eppenstein’s refusal to pay tithes explains that Conrad immediately turned any recouped revenue over to the monks of Admont (as had Gebhard) ‘so that he would not be forced to give it in beneice to laymen’.22 In Lucca, by contrast, the bishop’s loss of pieval tithes to institutional and private lords seems to have been fairly complete by the mid-eleventh century, despite the eforts of the two Anselms to rectify the situation.23 As Rafaele Savigni has observed, and as I have tried to outline in Chapter 5, the leasing of tithes in the tenth and eleventh centuries created a class of episcopal ideles who continued, like the capitanei of Milan, to be important for the bishops well into the twelfth century.24 While bishops continued on occasion to lease and transfer tithe rights into the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the basis of their power shifted substantially in this period, and the tithe no longer held the central place that it once did 20

21

22

23 24

Vita Chuonradi, c. 21, pp. 75–6: ‘… cum in festo pentecoste Pilgrimum patriarcham honoris pariter et fraternae caritatis gratia vocasset, quasi pro munere de omnibus possessionibus suis quas in patriarchatu habebat, ultro decimam dedit et privilegio conirmavit, et pacem atque amiciciam inter se et illum perpetuam constituit… ’. Gerhoh of Reichersberg, Opusculum de ediicio Dei, passim, esp. c. 17, ed. Ernst Sackur, MGH LdL III (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1897), p. 149. He reserves special criticism for the bishops of Mainz, a thinly veiled reference to Adalbert. Klaar, Herrschaft der Eppensteiner, nr. 99: ‘Quas statim ipse archiepiscopus Admuntensi cenobio tradidit, ne secularibus illas in beneicium cedere cogeretur’. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 19–20. Savigni, Episcopato et società, p. 186. See too the irst mention of a capitaneus episcopi in the Lucchese documents, p. 187, n. 26.

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Conclusion in the construction of episcopal power.25 The bishop still commanded a clientele of ideles, but the tithes of the church of Lucca were largely dispersed among monastic institutions, rural communes, and the cathedral chapter.26 In the meantime,symbols of landed power such as castles and territorial legal jurisdictions had become more signiicant, just as they had north of the Alps.27 The evolution of rural communes took place in dynamic relationship with, and were indeed a product of, the shifting dimensions of episcopal power.28 As in Salzburg, the reforming bishops in Lucca were non-Tuscans and sufered politically at the hands of the imperial party in the 1070s and the 1080s.29 The community around the castello of Moriano, for example, was an important episcopal possession going back at least to the tenth century, but already in the twelfth century it was asserting its independence. A document from the second decade of the twelfth century, during the reign of Bishop Rodolfo, lists ifty seven individuals holding iefs from the bishop in Moriano.30 These iftyseven ief holders represented approximately one-ifth of the inhabitants of the area, so it is not clear if they were among the nearly 300 people who, in 1121, the bishop forced to swear that they would not ‘participate in any sort of compagniam against the honour of blessed Martin or the bishop of Lucca’.31 There were several pieve within the commune, but as Wickham has noted, no one single church served as the organizational seed of the commune.32 Yet the special relationship between the community and the bishop is what, ultimately, made the commune possible, even if it constituted only a relatively small number of individuals who came together within it. To the south on the Arno, and around the same time, the castello and village of Santa Maria a Monte, another episcopal holding, also developed into an important commune, particularly since it also lay at the conluence of Pisan, Florentine, and Sienese ambitions around the Arno and Valdera.33 25

26 27 28 29 30

31

32 33

As Wickham notes in Community and Clientele, p. 83, in the wake of Alexander II/Anselm I’s decree forbidding the further leasing of pieval tithes, later leases tended to be to non-aristocratic parties. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 29. See too Savigni, Episcopato e società, pp. 204–5. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 27–9. On castles, see esp. Savigni, Episcopato e società, pp. 207–15. Wickham, Community and Clientele, ch. 7; Osheim, An Italian Lordship, pp. 22–9. Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 27. AAL. A99. As Chris Wickham observes, ‘feudum’ in this text probably refers to holders of episcopal livelli, though most seem to be of fairly middling background and collected rents, or portions of rents, from people who actually worked the land. See Community and Clientele, p. 84. Liber privilegorum episcopatus, cited in Savigni, Episcopato e società, pp. 222–3. See too Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 59. Wickham, Community and Clientele, p. 66. Florentine chronicler Giovanni Villani mentions that the Sienese and Pisans fought a pitched battle at S. Maria a Monte in 1222. See Nuova chronica, vol. 1, ed. Giussepe Porta (Parma, Fondazione Pietro Bembo, 1991) VI, §§2–4.

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Conclusion In the late twelfth century, the podestà of Santa Maria a Monte swore a similar oath as the people of Moriano had earlier, to remain loyal and defend the community on behalf of the bishop.34 These sorts of structured legal relationships, or those found between groups like the bishop and the lords of Montemagno, had not replaced the sorts of less formal relations of friendship and idelity characterized by the granting of livelli, but merely situated them within a more concrete vocabulary. The fact that we view this in such teleological terms testiies to the success of later eleventh- and twelfth-century notaries and historiographers in drawing a sharp caesura between the contours of ecclesiastical jurisdiction before and after about 1050. Feudal language repaired the anxieties over fragmentation and loss of control that had come to characterize social relations mediated by lands, tithes, and other rights held of the church. As the author of the Vita Chuonradi acknowledged, Archbishop Conrad may not have been able to uproot the practice of granting tithes in beneicium to laymen, but at least he had a word for it; the authors of the preface to the Traditionsbuch of Baldwin could only talk of vicious alienations and theft. In leases of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in the Lucchese, grants of tithes to laymen were almost always couched in terms of a beneicium or a feudo.35 The new canon law compilations of the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries relected these changes as well. They drew on a wide range of sources, including the famously pro-episcopal Pseudo-Isidorian decretals, to argue for the inalienability of church property.36 But how could one simultaneously argue for exclusive episcopal control of tithes and also limit his ability to use them as he saw it, including enfeoing laymen with them? Gratian’s Concordance of Discordant Canons, often called the Decretum, provided concrete case studies in applying canon law and emphasized the use of papal decretals as authoritative legal pronouncements.37 As a teacher, Gratian no doubt drew upon the types of cases and problems supplied, if not from actual incidents known to the author, then from ictional ones that appeared plausible and useful for illustrating important points of contention in the sources.38 Gratian dedicated four causae in the second part of the Decretum to situations involving the contested possession of churches and tithes.39 In all of these, he emphasized 34 36

37 38

39

Osheim, An Italian Lordship, p. 63. 35 Savigni, Episcopato e società, p. 204. Ian S. Robinson, ‘Reform and the Church, 1073–1122’, in NCMH, vol. IV, 1, ed. David Luscombe and Jonathan Riley-Smith (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 268–334, at p. 312; Fuhrmann, Einluss und Verbreitung, I, pp 141–50. Erwin Melichar, ‘Der Zehnt als Kirchensteuer bei Gratian’, Studia Gratiani 2 (1954), pp. 389–407. Anders Winroth, The Making of Gratian’s Decretum (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 7–8. Boyd, Tithes and Parishes, pp. 139–40. See Corpus iuris canonici, ed. Emil Friedberg (Leipzig, B. Tauschnitz, 1879, repr. Graz, 1955), causae X, XIII, XVI, and XXV.

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Conclusion the critical principle of episcopal potestas over church property, but also delimited the scope of that potestas by interpreting it as the power to improve and protect an asset, not alienate it.40 Erwin Melichar characterized this distinction as one between forms of exchange predicated upon ‘private’ relationships versus a ‘public’ kind of taxation.41 In a sense, however, this gets it the wrong way around. In the tenth century, the tithe as both a gift to the church and an asset to be granted by the bishop, was perceived as a public good to be used for the beneit of the parish as well as the bishop’s larger interests in creating ties with the regional aristocracy. The ‘feudalized’ tithe, although now ensconced in a more formalized legal framework, was reduced to a private grant from the bishop to a favoured vassal – on very limited terms. The language of idelity, insofar as it was used by learned scribes, was perhaps more public, but the function of the tithe had efectively become more narrowly construed, as had many other forms of lordship by the twelfth century.42 Gratian’s view of the tithe considers it a divinely ordained income stream for the church that must be administered within a carefully articulated hierarchy that resists its fragmentation or permanent alienation. Earlier collections that inluenced Gratian tried to square the same circle. The canon law collection of Anselm II of Lucca, whose uncle, Anselm I, had struggled to limit the leasing of church lands, was a highly inluential treatment of the problem and strenuously emphasized the inviolability of the church’s lands and rights.43 If we recall, however, it was precisely through the process of exchange and alienation of church property that someone like Odalbert of Salzburg could believe he was ‘improving and augmenting’ the church! No doubt Teudgrim of Lucca envisaged himself doing something similar and even the two Anselms as they found themselves engaged in the occasional renewal of livelli to lay parties. If a comparative view such as the one ofered here can ofer a broad sense of changes in the imperial lands of the eleventh century, they can also underscore important diferences. The diferent trajectories of dioceses north and south of the Alps and the role of urban communalism is perhaps the most signiicant point of contrast. Bishops in Mainz and Salzburg did not, to be sure, lack literate administrative institutions, but 40

41 42 43

E.g. Decretum, II, C. X, q. 2, ed. Friedberg, col. 617. In q. 2, c. 1, however, he does ofer one exception: ‘Quod si necessitas conpulerit, up pro ecclesiae necessitate aut utilitate vel in usufructu, vel indirecta venditione aliquid distrahatur, apud duos vel tres convprovinciales ut vincinos episcopos causa, que necesse sit vendendi primitus conprobetur, ut, habita discussione sacerdotali, eorum subscriptione que facta fuerit venditio vel transactio roboretur’. For all practical purposes, this makes the conveyance of church property prohibitively diicult. Melichar, ‘Kirchensteuer’, pp. 394–5. Bisson, Crisis of the Twelfth Century, pp. 226–8; Weinfurter, The Salian Century, pp. 179–80. Cushing, Papacy and Law, p. 137–9.

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Conclusion they also efectively dominated the governance of those towns to a far greater extent than the bishops of Lucca could ever have hoped to govern theirs. The politics of tithing sheds particular light on the changing structure of the landholding elites and their relationships with the episcopate. The Middle Rhine and Thuringia seemed to be the site of some of the most social churning, with lesser counts and knights seeking to build new kinds of relationships with the religious institutions in the region. Patronage of the great abbeys was on the wane, while ministerial knights and other lords sought to serve the archbishop. The lords of Thuringia and Saxony, however, who bitterly resisted submitting tithes to Mainz, also pitted themselves against Henry IV and his attempts to reassert royal power in those regions – conlating, as relected in Lampert’s accounts, royal and episcopal interests. All parties were eager advocates for reform monasticism, which promised to maintain more clearly than previous institutions the delineations between the sacred and the profane, particularly with regard to tithes and other property. The connection to reform monasticism and social change comes into sharper focus in Bavaria as well. Gebhard’s tithe agreements went hand in hand with his establishment of Admont and, as we have seen, one of Admont’s principle functions seems to have been to serve as a repository for some of the tithes Gebhard recouped in his agreements with the Styrians. It also served as a repository for preserving memory of Gebhard’s reforming activities in Salzburg. If this study leaves open some questions that could be pursued proitably in the future, it is the connection between reform monasticism and new lordship in the German lands in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. This is something Hans Hummer examined in his recent study of Weissembourg, for example.44 The story told both here and in Hummer’s Alsace is about families seeking to develop new bases of power. As in Alsace and elsewhere in Germany, castles and monasteries and new lordships were not built upon usurped royal or public rights. Indeed, it was often the king’s building of castles on what were perceived to be private jurisdictions that led to much of the political strife in central Germany in the 1070s.45 Reformed monasteries were key for bishops in the German empire as well – and one way bishops could secure the future for these new centres of power was by reorienting the tithe system in their dioceses and rewiring it towards favoured foundations. Bishops in places like Lucca could not manoeuvre in quite the same way, but instead found ways to construct new lordships and jurisdictions in the countryside. 44 45

Hummer, Politics and Power, Conclusion, esp. pp. 256–8. Weinfurter, Salian Century, pp. 134–7.

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Conclusion The Lucchese elites of the late eleventh century sought out castles and cortes as places to exercise justice and collect dues, and bishops followed suit, though tithes played an increasingly limited role in this new sociopolitical coniguration. In the end, this book has airmed a fundamental observation made by John Howe in his beautiful study of a local saint’s cult in central Italy, namely that ‘studies of ecclesiastical reform must be grounded in social history’.46 In Tuscany and the other German lands examined here, the narrative of that social history does not elide with the story of a feudal revolution, but with a story about profound changes in the perception and exercise of lordship. That lordship was not chaotic, violent, or anarchic, but expressed itself through more vertically oriented structures and actions, from castle building to more concisely deining the notion of property possession and the unity of one’s domains. Bishops, clerics, and monks participated in and propelled this reorientation of power using a variety of tools at their disposal, from the reform of tithes to writing histories that remembered earlier practices in ways that gave new ones more legitimacy. Understanding reform in its social contexts over time renders its impact somewhat more contingent and unclear. The world of the bishop around the year 1000 as described by Timothy Reuter was not a long-lived one – at least in the German empire. By 1150, episcopal power, despite attempts to integrate control within the diocese, was in fact more difuse and fragmented – even as it came to be more sharply deined and exercised at discrete moments and places through fortiications, armed retinues and the reined axioms of reformed canon law. 46

John Howe, Church Reform and Social Change in Eleventh-Century Italy: Dominic of Sora and his Patrons (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), p. 162.

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I NDEX

Adalbero II of Eppenstein, duke of Carinthia, 199, 210 Adalbero, bishop of Bamberg, 121, 210 Adalbero, bishop of Würzburg, 206, 219 Adalbert I, archbishop of Mainz, 259 Adalbert of Ballenstedt, Saxon count, 241 opposition to Henry IV, 241 Adalbert, bishop of Passau, 192 Adalbert, margrave of Tuscany, 100, 135 Adalongus, bishop of Lucca, 159 Adalpaldo, Lucchese priest, 164 Adela, wife of Aribo I, 124 Adelheid, wife of Otto I, 135, 145 Admonitio Generalis, 76, 78 Admont, monastery in Styria, 179, 180, 185, 206, 207, 208, 211, 212, 214, 261, 262, 266 Agnes, German empress, 206, 207, 217, 222 Albertoni, Giuseppe, historian, 6 Alcuin of York, Anglo-Saxon scholar views on tithes, 51–3 Alexander II, pope, 137, 168, 174, 244 Althof , Gerd, historian, 81, 144 Altmann, bishop of Passau, 206 Altötting, monastery, 192 Ambrose, saint on tithing, 43 amicitia, 80, 81, 188, 189, 262 Anderson, Benedict, historian, 230 Angenendt, Arnold, historian, 104 Annales S. Petri Antiqui, 260 Anno II, archbishop of Cologne, 224, 240 Ansegis, abbot of St. Wandrille, 68, 69, 87, 100 Anselm I, bishop of Lucca, 137, 167, 168. See also Alexander II, pope Anselm II, bishop of Lucca, 137, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173 canon law collection of, 265 vita of, 173, 174 Appadurai, Arjun, sociologist, 14, 154

Aquileia, patriarchate, 209 Arbeo, bishop of Freising, 91, 120 Arduin of Ivrea, king of Italy, 28, 145 Arezzo, 18, 136, 146 cathedral of S. Donato, 18, 152 Aribert, archbishop of Milan, 141 Aribo I, count palatine in the east, 124, 191 Aribo II, count palatine in Bavaria, 209, 210 Aribo III, Styrian noble, 204, 208, 213 tithe agreement with Gebhard I, 202 Aribo, archbishop of Mainz, 112, 209 Aribo, margrave in the east, ancestor of the Aribonids, 122 Aribonids, comital dynasty, 124, 126, 189, 191, 208, 213 aristocracy, 258 in Italy, 146 in the Middle Rhine, 235 in Saxony and Thuringia, 232, 233, 234, 266 Arn, archbishop of Salzburg, 52, 88, 92, 94, 186 Arnold von Selenhofen, archbishop of Mainz, 114 Arnulf of Carinthia, East Frankish king, 98, 121, 122, 203 Arnulf of Milan, chronicler, 142 Arnulf the Bad, duke of Bavaria, 122, 188–9, 191, 213 secularizations under, 125, 188 Aschafenburg, 109 Auderam, Lucchese archdeacon, 161, 165 Augustine, saint sermons attributed to, 46 on tithing, 43 Austria historiography, 20 Baldwin, archbishop of Salzburg, 127, 183, 206 Bamberg, 99, 104, 121, 210

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Index baptismal churches, 23, 68–71, 92 in the Bavarian marches, 116, 193 in Carolingian period, 23 and episcopal itineraries, 69 as established in Carolingian law, 68 lay possession of, 149 monastic possession of, 229 as recipients of tithes, 74 tithe boundaries, 72–3, 75, 235 baptismal churches, in Lucca. See pievi Bardo, archbishop of Mainz, 108, 110, 112, 113, 216, 217, 218, 240, 242 Barthélemy, Dominique, historian, 3 Barton, Richard, historian, 4 Baugulf, abbot of Fulda, 85 Bavaria, 21, 23, 24, 44, 50, 53, 72, 74, 88, 94, 95, 103, 113, 115, 116, 118, 122, 126, 130, 186, 187, 188, 190, 193, 196, 209, 238, 266 under the Liutpoldinger, 122 Beatrice of Canossa, mother of Mathilda, 169 Bedos-Rezak, Brigitte, historian, 205 Belisarius, Lucchese priest, 149 Benedict I, bishop of Lucca, 170 Benedictus Levita, capitulary editor, 69, 77, 86, 87, 100 Benno II, bishop of Osnabrück, 88, 241 tithe dispute with Corvey and Herford, 221 vita of, 56 Berengar I, king of Italy, 145, 147 Berengar, bishop of Passau, 193 Bergkirchen, baptismal church near Freising, 70 Berkhofer, Robert, historian, 4 Bernhardt, John W., historian, 229 Berno, bishop of Mâcon, 82 Bernwulf, bishop of Würzburg, 85 Berschin, Walter, philologist, 57, 58 Bertha, wife of margrave Adalbert, 135 Berthold, count and advocate of Ravengiersburg, 227, 228 Berthold, duke of Carinthia, 127 Bigott, Boris, historian, 8 Bilstein, counts of. See Rugger Bingen, town on the Rhine, 105, 109, 111, 235 Bisson, Thomas N., historian, 4, 259 Bleidenstadt, monastery, 108 Bohemia, 245 Boniface I, Frankish count in Tuscany, 133 Boniface of Canossa, margrave of Tuscany, 136, 169 Boniface, Anglo-Saxon missionary and reformer, 44, 106, 108, 229, 248 reorganization of Bavarian church, 117 on tithing, 63 vita of, 56, 248–9 Bonizio, Milanese knight, father of archbishop Landulf, 141

Bourdieu, Pierre, sociologist. See capital, symbolic Bowlus, Charles, historian, 122 Boyd, Catherine, historian, 72, 140 Bresslau, Harry, historian, 204 Breves Notitiae, 119, 186 Brown, Peter, historian, 55 Brown, Warren, historian, 23, 91 Brunhofer, Ursula, historian, 28, 147 Bruno, archbishop of Cologne vita of, 96 Buc, Philippe, historian, 13 Bührer-Thierry, Geneviève, historian, 191 Büraburg, early episcopal, 109 Burchard I, bishop of Halberstadt, 206 and tithe dispute with Hersfeld, 247 Burchard II, bishop of Halberstadt, 241 opposition to Henry IV, 241 Burchard of Worms, bishop and canon law compiler, 9, 100 Decretum, 57 Burchard of Würzburg, bishop, 47 Burchard, bishop of Worms Decretum, 101 Burchard, Thuringian count, 237 Cadolingi, comital family, 156 Caesarius of Arles, bishop, 45, 61 sermons on tithing, 45–6, 47, 77 Calixtus II, pope, 170, 175 canon law, 9, 15, 60, 264. See also Benedictus Levita; Burchard of Worms; Gratian; Pseudo-Isidorian decretals; Regino of Prüm; individual councils and synods applied in tithe disputes, 90, 94 and Carolingian reform, 72 and church property, 38 and episcopal visitations, 57 Irish, 48 and proprietary churches, 124 in twelfth century, 264 Canossa, fortress, 136, 167 Capannoli, corte in the Val d’Era, 130, 158, 161, 171 capital, symbolic, 15, 155 capitanei, 143, 155, 167, 177, 262 and ecclesiastical beneices, 147 capitularies ad Salz (803/04), 69, 78 Capitulatio de partibus Saxoniae, 51 de Villis, 77 Ecclesiastica (810/813?), 69, 87 for the Missi, 83 Heristal (779), 65–7, 72, 87 last of, 146 Mantuanum Secundum (813), 71 Olonna (825), 71

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Index capitularies, episcopal, 76, 77, 78, 79 Carinthia, duchy, 123, 126, 127, 210, 212, 261 dukes of, 123 Carinthia, march of (to 976), 122 Carolingians, 60, 94, 103, 118, 128, 232, 256 efectiveness at governing, 23 empire as a state, 10, 21–2 legacy in Italy, 148 and tithe legislation, 64 casa massarica, 161 castellans. See knights castles, 137, 154, 155, 165, 168, 171, 172, 177, 259, 260, 263, 266 Cerbaie, area SE of Lucca, 152 Chadaloh, count in the Chiemgau, 191 chancery episcopal, 221 royal, 127, 146, 196 Charlemagne, Frankish emperor, 38, 52, 65, 66, 89, 91, 118, 249 creation of new bishoprics, 104 grants of tithes, 38 Chiemgau, district in Bavaria, 119, 191, 195, 196 Chiemsee, monastery, 89 conlict with Freising, 90 chorbishops, 109, 118, 120, 124 Chrodegang, bishop of Metz, 82 Chunerad, brother of Sisemund of Montemagno, 161 Chunimund, father of Rodiland, Lucchese aristocrat, 157 Cipolla, Carlo M., historian, 183 Cluny, monastery, 82, 225 Codex Eberhardi, Fulda cartulary, 75 Cofridus, judge in Lucca, 165 Colle Mancoli, property in Valdottavo, 164 Collectio Dionysio-Hadriana, 76 Colliclo, area near Pescia(?), 165 coloni (dependent peasants) and tithes, 36, 37, 38, 46, 61, 238, 240 colonization, 121 Columbanus, Irish missionary, 83, 84 complacitationes, 189, 198, 203 conirmation, episcopal for lay donations, 218, 226 conirmation, royal for Fulda, 85 for Hersfeld, 249 for Mantua, 100 for Salzburg, 88, 207 Conrad (Chunerad), bishop of Lucca, 112, 161 Conrad I, archbishop of Salzburg, 260, 262 vita of, 261, 264 Conrad I, German king, 98, 188

Conrad II, German emperor, 53, 112, 141, 167, 210, 216 grants of tithes, 38 and the valvassores of Milan, 141 Conrad the Younger, duke of Carinthia, 210 Conrad, bishop of Lucca, 150 Conradiner, Franconian dynasty, 237 Constable, Giles,historian, 83 Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum, 88, 121, 124 Corvaia, village near Versilia (Viareggio), 166 Corvaresi, prominent family in Marlia, 166 Corvey, monastery, 221 Costambeys, Marios, historian, 4 Coterozzo, fortress near Vaccoli, 166 councils Châlons-sur-Saône (813), 48 Council of Aachen (816), 63 Council of Châlons (813), 69 Council of Châlons i(813), 81 Council of Duisberg (929), 98 Council of Hohenaltheim (916), 98 Council of Mâcon (585), 45, 48, 62 Council of Mainz (813), 87 Council of Mainz (847), 74 Council of Pavia (845–50), 74 Council of Toledo (Third), 87 Council of Tours (567), 45 Council of Tribur (1036), 53 Council of Verneuil (755), 84 Council of Worms (829), 80, 87 in Reisbach, Freising and Salzburg (800), 89 Synod of Ascheim (756), 62, 89 Synod of Augsburg (952), 99 Synod of Erfurt (1073). See Erfurt, Synod of Synod of Hohenaltheim (916), 188 Synod of Ingelheim (948), 98 Synod of Lorch, 192 Synod of Mistelbach, 193 Synod of Tribur (895), 98 Synod of Trosly (909), 74 Cozroh, canon of Freising, 89, 90, 91 Crespina, village, 159 Cunigunda, countess in the Hunsrück, 235 Cunimundinghi, Lucchese family, 164 Cuniperga, wife of deacon Gherard, 163 Cushing, Kathleen, historian, 257 De Institutione Laicali. See Jonas of Orléans, bishop de Jong, Mayake, historian, 8 Decretum of Gratian. See Gratian Dedi I, Saxon margrave, 223, 233, 241, 251 opposition to Henry IV, 241 Dedi II, Saxon margrave, 241 Depreux, Philippe, historian, 23

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Index Deutinger, Roman,historian, 75 Diecimo, village, 171 Disibodenberg, monastery, 109 Dodico, count, 112 dominium. See lordship Donnuccio, major Lucchese lease holder, 158–9 Dopsch, Heinz, historian, 213 Dorla, village in Thuringia, 109, 232, 237 Duby, Georges, historian, 3, 184 Edict of Rotharius, 72 Egbert, abbot of Fulda, 239 Egbert, count of Braunschweig, 233 Egbert, count of Weimar, 232 Egbert, Saxon margrave, 233 Ekkehard II, margrave of Meißen, 233 Ekkehardinger, comital dynasty, 233 Elemperto, bishop of Arezzo, 136 Elici, area near Massarosa, 163, 164 Eligius of Rouen, saint vita of, 55 Eltville, village north of Mainz, 236 empire, German as a historiographical problem, 19 and regional history, 24 Eppensteiner, comital dynasty, 123, 204, 205, 208, 209, 259 supporters of Henry IV, 261 Eppo, bishop of Zeitz, 241 Eppo, Carinthian noble tithe agreement with Baldwin of Salzburg, 195 Eppstein, counts of, family of Siegfried I of Mainz, 221 Erfurt, 2, 109, 110, 219, 224, 237, 239, 260 Synod of (1073), 1, 244, 248, 252, 253 Synod of (1074), 253 Eriteo, advocate of S. Martino, 151 Erkambert, bishop of Freising, 70 Erkanbald, archbishop of Mainz, 108 Erkanbald, Burggraf of Mainz, 113 Erlstätt, church near Traunstein, Bavaria, 195, 196 Ernst, Styrian noble, 204 tithe agreement with Gebhard I, 201 Eschwege, royal estate, 232 estates, royal as centers of power, 110 exemption privileges for Hersfeld, 249 Fulda’s forged, 83, 84, 85, 250 monastic, 83, 85, 109, 219, 230, 240, 248 familia, 238, 254 episcopal, 194, 212, 237 monastic, 110, 243

Fanning, Stephen, historian, 6 Farofolo, son of Farfolo, lord of San Miniato, 159 Feistritz, village in Styria, 201 feudal mutation. See feudal revolution feudal revolution, 5, 10, 258, 259 outside France, 257 feudalism, 8, 141, 172, 257 and the church, 138, 147, 151 language of, 173, 264 Fichtenau, Heinrich, historian, 181, 198 ideles, 74, 199, 212, 262, 263 idelitas, 26, 131, 137, 138, 145, 154, 173, 189, 259, 264, 265 Fleckenstein, Josef, historian, 7 Florence, 146, 154 Forcheim, 108 forgery Fulda’s papal privilege. See exemption privileges Le Mans, 85 Osnabrück, 88, 221 Pseudo-Isidore. See Pseudo-Isidorian decretals of tithe agreements, 182, 203 formularies Formulae Marculi, 186 Formulae Salzburgenses, 186, 187 Fraolmo, viscount of Lucca, 161, 165, 166 Frederick I, archbishop of Salzburg, 125, 127, 191, 203, 204 Frederick, archbishop of Mainz, 96, 112, 217 Frederick, count palatine in Saxony, 226, 237 opposition to Henry IV, 241 Fredianus, saint. See Lucca: S. Frediano Freed, John B., historian, 193 Freising, 117, 120 possessions in Carinthia, 120 Friesach, town in Styria, 121, 192, 195, 201 frontiers. See marches Fulda, monastery, 1, 83, 84, 107, 215, 228, 239, 246, 248 early tithe disputes, 85 economy of, 110, 229, 230 foundation of, 228 sources for, 31 territorial power of, 237 tithe dispute with Siegfried I of Mainz, 253 Garfagnana valley, 26, 38, 127, 129, 132, 135, 157, 161, 164, 166, 171, 177 Geary, Patrick J., historian, 16 Gebeni, urban prefect of Mainz, 242 Gebhard I, archbishop of Salzburg, 33, 127, 259. See also Chapter 5, passim

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Index early career, 206 later vita of, 179 letter to Hermann of Metz, 207 opposition to Henry IV, 207 and tithe agreements, 197–208, 260, 266 vita of, 179, 185, 258 Gebhard, bishop of Prague, 245 Gelasius I, pope, 44. See also tithe, quadripartition of Gerbald, bishop of Liège, 78, 82 Gerhoh of Reichersberg, monastic author, 262 Gerlich, Alois, historian, 235 Gernrode, Saxon monastery, 233 Gerold, bishop of Mainz, 106 Gerstungen, peace of, 253 Gewilib, bishop of Mainz, 106 Gherard d. Morecto, advocate of Lucca, 166, 168 Gherard I, bishop of Lucca, 151 Gherard, brother of Sisemund, 161 Gherard, deacon, later bishop of Lucca, 158–9, 174 Gherardeschi, comital dynasty, 136, 171 Ghiselfrid, brother of Peter II of Lucca, 152 Giandrea, Mary Frances, historian, 12 Giovanni, son of Rodiland, 157, 158 Giovanni, son of vicedominus Ostrifuso, 165 Gisela, German empress, 217 Glantschach, church in Carinthia, 203, 214 Gorze, monastery, 207 Goslar, royal palace, 223 Göss, convent in Styria, 197, 201, 202, 203, 204, 209 Gottfried, archbishop of Milan, 141 Gratian, canonist, 170, 264 on tithes, 264–5 Gregory of Tours, bishop, 54 Grimaldo, priest of S. Christina in Massa Pisana, 161 Guidi, comital family, 156 Guido, bishop of Lucca, 159, 164 Guido, brother of bishop Teudgrim of Lucca, 160 Gunther, archbishop of Salzburg, 127 Gunther, bishop of Bamberg, 223 Gunther, count of the Chiemgau, 124 Gurk, monastery and bishopric, 126, 179, 202, 208, 212, 214 hagiography revisions in the eleventh century, 56 Hartnid, advocate of Göss, 201, 204, 209 tithe agreement with Gebhard I, 201 Hartwig, archbishop of Salzburg, 124, 126, 196, 209

Hartwig, count palatine in Bavaria, son of Aribo I, 193, 194 Hartwig, Gewaltbote and count palatine in the east, 123 Hartwig, Gewaltbote in Carinthia, 209 Hassegau, district in eastern Saxony, 232, 247 Hasungen, monastery in Hessen, 225 Hatto I, archbishop of Mainz, 100, 108, 111, 112, 237 Hatto, abbot of Fulda, 85 Hatto, bishop of Freising, 70, 91, 93, 94 dispute with Tegernsee and Chiemsee 91 Havelberg, 99 Hedwig, wife of Berthold of Ravengiersburg, 227, 235, 236 Heiligenstadt, village in Thuringia, 219, 237 Heining, village near Passau, 192 Hemma of Gurk, countess, 126 Hen,Yitzhak, historian, 47, 51 Henry I, duke of Bavaria, 127 Henry I, German king, 188, 231, 237 Henry II (‘the Quarrelsome’), duke of Bavaria, 123 Henry II, German emperor, 60, 104, 121, 127, 230, 232, 254 Henry III, duke of Carinthia, 127 Henry III, German emperor, 167, 206, 210, 216, 217, 219, 222, 233 Henry IV, duke of Bavaria. See Henry II, German emperor Henry IV, German emperor, 1, 11, 17, 88, 113, 137, 143, 168, 169, 206, 207, 218, 220, 222, 223, 227, 233, 238, 240, 241, 247, 251, 252, 253, 255, 261, 266 Henry of Eppenstein, duke of Carinthia, 213, 261, 262 Henry Raspe, landgrave of Thuringia, 260 Henry V, German emperor, 249 Herard, bishop of Tours, 79 Herford, convent, 221 Herlihy, David, historian, 6, 26, 183 Herold, archbishop of Salzburg, 127 Herrenchiemsee, collegiate church, 125 Hersfeld, monastery, 1, 38, 108, 215, 228, 246, 249 economy of, 229, 230 foundation of, 228 sources for, 31 territorial power of, 237 tithe dispute with Halberstadt, 248 tithe dispute with Siegfried I of Mainz, 253 Hezilo, bishop of Hildesheim and the riot at Goslar, 223 Hildebrand, judge in Lucca, 165 Hincmar, archbishop of Rheims, 81

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Index Hirsau, monastery, 207 Hofkapelle. See royal chapel Howe, John, historian, 267 Hrabanus Maurus, abbot of Fulda, archbishop of Mainz, 78, 85, 108 Hugh of Provence, king of Italy, 100, 135, 145, 152 Hugo, count in Marlia, 166 Hugo, king of Italy, 135 Hugo, margrave of Tuscany, 146, 161 Humbert of Silva Candida, reformer, 139, 147, 261 Hummer, Hans, historian, 4, 266 Ildebrand, lord of Montemagno, 172 Ildebrando da Maona, lord of Montecatini, 171, 173 immunity privileges, 135 for canons, 135 episcopal, 147, 235 for Fulda, 239 monastic, 16, 83, 134, 229, 237 and power, 85 royal, 99, 100, 111, 134 imperial church system, 9, 99, 111, 126–7, 147, 257 changes in eleventh century, 95 incastellamento, 26, 156 Inghifrid, brother of Rodiland, 158 Innes, Matthew, historian, 4, 22, 107 Innichen, monastery, 120 inquests, episcopal regarding tithes, 198, 220 inquests, public. See placitum inquisitio. See inquests Investiture Controversy, 31, 137, 141, 143, 168, 197, 213, 224 Italy historiography, 20 Jeremiah, bishop of Lucca, 148, 149, 150 Jerome, saint on tithing, 43, 44 John II, bishop of Lucca, 166, 167, 168, 173 John XIII, pope, 230 Jonas of Orléans, bishop De Institutione Laicali, 79–80 Jonas of Orléans, bishop, 79 Jones, Anna Trumbore, historian, 6 Julianus Pomerius, monastic author, 63 Kaiser, Reinhold, historian, 36 Kaiserswerth, coup at, 222 Kaufungen, convent, 240 tithes belonging to, 110 Keller, Hagen, historian, 26

knights, 141, 173, 174, 193, 223, 227, 236, 238, 259, 266. See also lordship; milites; ministerials as a class, 4, 173 in Milan, 142 and tithes, 238, 239 Königssundergau, district in Hessen, 221 Kotabert, Salzburg chorbishop, 190 Kuchenbuch, Ludolf, historian, 14 Lambach, monastery in Upper Austria, 207 Lambert of Spoleto, king of Italy, 140, 145, 153 Lampert of Hersfeld, chronicler, 1, 31, 218, 225, 241, 246, 250, 252, 253, 258 Lampertus, son of vicedominus Ostrifuso, 165 land lordship. See lordship, territorial Landesgeschichte, 7, 24–5, 27 landscape, 27 Landulf Senior, Milanese chronicler, 141, 142, 143, 180, 184 Landulf, archbishop of Milan (claimant), 142, 143 Landulf, son of the castellan Bonizio, 142 Laviano, area on the Arno (uncertain), 160 Rodiland, father of Giovanni, 157 leasing. See livelli Leo IX, pope, 218, 219 Leo, judge in Lucca, 163, 167, 169 Leyser, Karl, 12 Libri Feudorum, legal treatise, 147, 155 Libri tres contra simoniacos. See Humbert of Silva Candida Licetro, castle in Montemagno, 172 Lippoldsberg, convent in Hessen, 218, 220, 224 Liudolf, brother of Otto I, rebel, 112, 127 Liutpold (Leopold) of Babenberg, margrave in the east, 121 Liutpold, archbishop of Mainz, 111, 206, 217, 218, 219, 247 Liutpold, margrave of Carinthia, count of the Donaugau, 122, 188 Liutpoldinger, Bavarian dynasty, 95, 122–3 Liutpram, archbishop of Salzburg, 125, 187 livelli attempts to restrict, 168 as beneices, 141, 151, 152, 153, 155 and episcopal politics, 131–2, 133, 136, 141, 148, 150, 151, 153, 173 historical background, 130 in Pisa, 136 rent collected from, 153 and social networks, 145, 157, 158, 168 and tithe rights, 139, 176 as a tool of social power, 154, 164, 264 Lombards, 128 Lombardy, 21, 97, 126

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Index Lorch, (Enns), town in Upper Austria, 54, 103, 114, 120, 192 lords of Montemagno, 264 lordship, 13, 165, 170, 228, 265 episcopal, 14, 97, 208, 253, 254, 256 and knights (castellans), 8, 12 territorial, 24, 172, 175, 178, 227, 230, 237, 258, 263 Lothar I, Frankish emperor, 71 Lothar II, king of Italy, 135, 152 Louis II, king of Italy, 145, 148 Louis the Child, East Frankish king, 7, 126 Louis the German, East Frankish king, 119, 124, 187 Louis the Pious, Frankish emperor, 8, 64, 73, 95, 119 Lucca archives, 144 cathedral chapter, 100, 133, 134, 135, 146, 163, 164, 165, 168, 172, 175, 177 coin mint, 154 early history, 127–9 economy, 129, 154 judicial/notarial class, 134, 144, 169 sources for, 31 urban churches cathedral of S. Martino, 132, 133, 135, 151, 159, 164, 166, 168 S. Angelo, 160 S. Donato, 132, 134 S. Frediano, 132, 133 S. Gervasio, 149, 150 S. Pietro Maggiore, 160 S. Ponziano, 169 S. Ponziano, 134 S. Reparata, 132 S. Tomasso, 168 S.Vincenzo, 132 and the Tuscan margraves, 146, 169 urban commune, 137, 175 Ludowinger, comital dynasty, 233, 236 Ludwig the Bearded, ancestor of the Ludowinger, 234, 242 Lull, archbishop of Mainz, 62, 108, 229 vita of, 249 Magdeburg, 99, 104 Magyars, 18, 122, 152, 184, 188 invasions, 97, 116, 193, 213 Mailloux, Anne, historian, 133 Mainz archdiaconates, 109 Burggraf, 112 early history, 105–9 economy of, 111, 243 urban churches and monasteries

Altenmünster, 107 cathedral of St. Martin, 106, 111, 112, 217, 227, 236 St. Alban, 106, 111, 234, 242 St. Jakob, 114, 218, 219, 242 St. Lambert, 107 St. Mary, 109 St. Nikomedes, 106, 219, 242 St. Peter, 109, 241, 246 St. Stephen, 109 mallus, 89 Mammoli, area north of Lucca, 172, 173, 174 Mann, Michael, sociologist, 14 manorialism, 110, 129 marches, 208, 229, 260 Carinthian, 199 in the east (Bavarian), 119, 121, 123, 126 in the east (Saxon), 231, 232, 233, 241 Maria-Wörth, church in Carinthia, 121 Markwart of Eppenstein, margrave, 208, 209, 210 tithe agreement with Gebhard I, 197–208 Markwart, margrave, ancestor of the Eppensteiner, 123, 209 Marlia, area north of Lucca, 157, 166 Massa Macinaia, area near Lucca, 135, 160, 161, 164 Massarosa, area west of Lucca, 135, 160, 163, 165 Mathilda of Canossa, margravine of Tuscany, 137, 169, 171, 172, 175 McKitterick, Rosamond historian, 258 Meginher, abbot of Hersfeld and tithe dispute with Halberstadt, 247 Melchizidek, Old Testament king, 40, 43, 64 Melichar, Erwin, historian, 265 memory archival, 145, 242, 250 aristocratic, 235 and church property, 174, 185, 220 and historiography, 216, 246, 247, 260 institutional, 88, 250, 254, 266 and place, 103, 218 and reform, 19, 267 social, 83, 182 mensa episcopalis, 160 Merseburg, 232 Methodius, saint and missionary, 120, 122 Metz, 110 Middle Rhine, region, 44, 75, 105, 107, 110, 119, 124, 126, 266 rural settlements, 110–11 Milan, 147, 154, 177, 184 miles. See knights milites, 141, 143, 238, 239. See also knights Millstatt, monastery in Carinthia, 202, 204, 211, 213

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Index ministerials, 194, 212, 238, 260, 266. See also knights political power of, 237 Mishnah, 41 missi, 80, 85, 149, 160, 191 under the Carolingians, 22 monasticism and reform, 207, 225, 266 Monte Pisano, 129, 132 Montecatini, castle in the Valdinievole, 171 Montemagno, lords of, 161, 171, 172, 174 Moravia, 120, 122 Moriano, area north of Lucca, 171, 263, 264 Mühlhausen, assembly at, 238, 240, 241, 251 Niederaltaich, monastery polyptic of, 116 Nörten, church near Hannover, 218, 220 North, William, historian, 18 Notitia Arnonis, 88, 89, 119, 186, 187, 195, 197 Oci, count palatine, founder of Ossiach, 193 Oci, Gewaltbote in Carinthia, 209 Odalbert, archbishop of Salzburg, 182, 188–9, 193, 194, 195, 198, 209, 213, 265 family of, 192 Odilo, duke of Bavaria, 116, 117 Orlamünde, village in Thuringia, 227 Osnabrück. See Benno II, bishop of Ossiach, monastery in Carinthia, 58, 193, 197, 198, 199, 202, 204, 209 Ostmark. See marches Ostrifuso, episcopal vicedominus in Lucca, 165 Otakare, comital dynasty, 213 Otgar, arcbhishop of Mainz, 87 Otloh of St. Emmeram, hagiographer, 248 and revision of the Vita Bonifatii, 248 Otting. See Alotting Otto I, German emperor, 104, 123, 127, 135, 145 Otto II, German emperor, 111, 123, 127, 142, 143 Otto III, German emperor, 127, 134 Otto of Northeim, duke of Bavaria, 241 opposition to Henry IV, 241 Otto, count of Weimar, 232, 233, 235, 250, 251 tithe agreement with Siegied I, 226, 250 Ottonians, 7, 11, 60, 97, 231, 232, 254. See also individual monarchs in Italy, 100, 133, 134 new episcopal foundations, 99 rebellion against, 123, 127 Paderborn, 112 pallium, 207, 217, 218 Pannonia, 122, 124 Pascal II, pope, 170 Paschasius Radbertus, monastic author, 86

Passau, 38, 47, 88, 103, 117, 120, 123, 185, 192, 193, 197 Patzold, Stefen, historian, 8 Pauler, Roland, historian, 8 penitentials, 48, 49 of Burchard of Worms. See Burchard of Worms Irish, 49 Lorcher Beichte, 50 Penitential of Merseburg, 49 Penitential of St. Hubert, 49 Penitential of Theodore, 49 Reichenauer Beichte, 50 Pescia, village, 129, 161, 165, 166 Peter Damian, reformer, 140, 147, 174, 258, 259 Peter II, bishop of Lucca, 135, 151, 165 Peter, anti-bishop in Lucca, 168 Peter, bishop of Arezzo, 152 Pibo, bishop of Toul, 241 Pietro, priest of S. Lorenzo in Vajano, 150 pievi, 68, 71. See also Chapter 4, passim alienation of, 139–40, 170 Camaiore, near Versilia, 161, 168 disputes over, 149 Loppia, in the Garfagnana, 157 reclamation of, 171 S. Ambrogio, in Elici, 163 S. Christina, in Massa Pisana, 160 S. Christina, in Massa Pisana, 161 S. Christina, in Massa Pisana, 165 S. Genesio, in Vico Vallari, 168 S. Gervasio, near San Miniato, 159, 160, 164 S. Hippolyte, in Aniano in the Garfagnana, 152 S. Lorenzo, in Vaccoli, 158, 160 S. Lorenzo, in Vajano, 150 S. Maria di Atriana, in Valtriano, near Pisa, 159 S. Maria di Quarratiana, in Corazzano, 159 S. Maria, in Pescia, 161 S. Pancrazio, in Marlia, 157, 158, 161, 163, 164 S. Paolo, in Turinghi, 164 S. Regulo, in Gualdo (dioc. Livorno), 129 S. Stefano, in Villora, 161 SS. Stefano and Cristofero (dioc. Livorno), 136 sub-leasing of, 150, 152 Pilgrim I, archbishop of Salzburg, 126 Pilgrim I, bishop of Passau, 185, 192 Pilgrim of Ortenburg, patriarch of Aquileia, 262 pilgrimage, of the bishops (1064), 223 Pippin III, Frankish king, 62 Pisa, 136 placitum, 70, 140, 146, 149, 151, 161, 166, 169, 172, 198, 258

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Index Poppo, bishop of Trier, 121 Poppo, duke of Thuringia, 108 Poppo, patriarch of Aquileia, 209 Populonia, 158 Porcari, area east of Lucca, 158, 159, 166, 167, 173, 259 Pöschl, Arnold, historian, 184 power, 13, 14, 22, 228 episcopal, 96, 107, 111, 112, 135, 147, 220, 227, 258, 263 royal, 148 precaria, 36, 130, 239 Pressburg, battle of, 122, 188 Priwina, Moravian prince, 124 property changing perceptions of, 259 concepts of, 216 of the church, 143, 183 as beneice, 235 exchanges of, 189–92 proprietary church, 124 in Bavaria, 124–5 in Italy, 140 in the Middle Rhine, 234 in Thuringia, 226 in Tuscany, 130 legal theory, 184 monastic, 219 parochial rights for, 199, 202, 203, 212 and partition of tithes, 44 Pseudo-Isidorian decretals, 86, 100 treatment of church property in, 86 quartese, partition of tithes, 177

Reginbodo, brother of count Sigibodo of Mainz, 234 Reginhard, Bavarian noble and advocate of Salzburg, 190 Reginhard, brother of Siegfried I of Mainz, 221 Regino of Prüm, chronicler and canon law compiler, 77, 98, 100 Reuter, Timothy, historian, 6, 12, 96, 267 Reynolds, Susan, historian, 27 Rheingau, district in the Middle Rhine, 234, 235, 236 Richardis, abbess of Göss, 209 Riculf, archbishop of Mainz, 85, 108 Rieneck, counts of. See Ludowinger Rihni, wife of archbishop Odalbert of Salzburg, 191 ritual, 11, 13 Rodiland, episcopal vassal in the Val d’Era, 130 Rodiland, father of Giovanni, lease holder in Marlia, 163 Rodiland, memorialized in donation by Adalpaldo, 164 Rodiland, son of Sisemund, landowner in Vaccoli, 166, 174 Rofredus, Lucchese archdeacon, 165 Romano-Germanic Pontiical, 111 Rösener, Werner, historian, 229 Rosenwein, Barbara, historian, 83, 147 Rossdorf, church in Hessen, 234 royal chapel, 111, 127, 206, 207 Rugger (Rudiger) II, advocate of Fulda, 232 Rugger III, founder of Gernrode, 233 Rugger, son of Wigger, 232 Rupert, abbot and bishop of Salzburg, 116

Rafolt, Salzburg ministerial, 190, 192 Rangerio, bishop of Lucca, 170, 172, 173, 174 Rather of Verona, bishop, 60 Ravengiersburg, church in the Hunsrück, 227, 228, 235, 236 rebellion resistance to tithes as, 243 of Saxons and Thuringians, 1, 232, 241, 251, 255 reform, 185, 257 and church property, 17, 139, 168, 177, 184, 196, 268 Gregorian, 8, 208, 253, 256, 257 and historical consciousness, 252–3 in the eleventh century, 17 of lower churches, 227 monastic. See monasticism social contexts of, 267 under Carolingians, 56–60, 72–3 Regensburg, 117 Reggio, 158

S. Donato, church in Longoria (Arezzo), 153 S. Maria a Monte, village SE of Lucca, 129, 152, 263 S. Salvatore, church in Valdottavo, 164 S. Salvatore, monastery in Sesto, 134 Saalfeld, monastery, 225, 226, 228 Salians, 11, 123, 254. See also individual monarchs and Italian politics, 167 Salzburg confraternity book of St. Peter’s, 117 early history, 20, 103, 114–20 episcopal chancery, 186, 197, 203, 214 monastery of St. Peter, 31, 116, 125, 196, 207 San Miniato, lords of, 159 San Miniato, village SE of Lucca, 129, 160, 168, 176, 177 Santifaller, Leo, historian, 7 Saxon War. See rebellion Saxony, 24, 51 tithe imposed in, 51

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Index Schmid, Karl, historian, 3 Schwarzmaier, Hansmartin, historian, 157, 160, 169 seals, 202–3 episcopal, 205 and identity, 204–5 Segromigno, village NE of Lucca, 164 Semmler, Josef, historian, 217 Serchio, river, 129, 158, 171, 176, 177 Sergi, Giuseppe, historian, 146 servi (dependent peasants) and tithes, 37, 46, 70, 194, 238, 240 servitium, 69, 70, 191, 225, 226, 230, 237 episcopal, 69, 70 royal, 65 Sesto, in the Garfagnana, 164 Severinus, saint and missionary, 54, 114 vita of, 54 Sidonius, bishop of Mainz, 105 Siegburg, monastery, 225 Siegfried I, archbishop of Mainz, 1, 108, 112, 113, 215, 219, 220, 222, 224, 225, 226, 227, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246, 247, 250, 251, 252, 253, 258, 259 early career, 221–3 opposition to Henry IV, 223 tithe agreement with Otto of Weimar, 250 tithe dispute with Fulda and Hersfeld, 251 tithe dispute with Thuringians, 251 Siegfried, brother of Rodiland, 158 Siegfried, east Saxon count, 232 Sighardinger, comital dynasty, 124, 126, 127, 189 Sigibodo, urban count of Mainz, 234 Sirico, son of Donnuccio, 166 Siro, bishop of Genoa, 177 Sisemund, landowner in Vaccoli, 166 Sisemund, lord of Montemagno, 161 Sisemund, son of Chunerad, 161 Slavs, 51, 52, 53, 115, 118, 180, 181 Sonnlechner, Christoph, historian, 23 Sorbano, area W of Lucca, 164 Spanheimer, comital dynasty, 261 St. Blasien, monastery, 207 St. Lamprecht, Eppensteiner family monastery, 121, 204, 213 St. Martin, church in Feistritz, 204 St. Pancratius, church in Orlamünde, 226 St. Peter, church in Erfurt, 224 St. Peter, church on the Jechaberg, 109 St. Peter-im-Holz, church in Carinthia, 118, 121 Staab, Franz, historian, 242 state. See Carolingians Sts. Peter and Alexander, church. See Aschafenburg

Styria, region, 121, 126, 179, 193, 208, 212, 213 Suchan, Monika, historian, 8, 9 Sulza, collegiate church in Thuringia, 226, 227, 237 Sunderold, archbishop of Mainz, 108 synods. See councils Tassilo, duke of Bavaria, 62, 91, 92, 118 Tassilo, priest of S. Hippolyte, 152 Tegernsee, monastery, 89 conlict with Freising, 92 Tellenbach, Gerd, historian, 216 Teodald, bishop of Arezzo, 136 Teudgrim, bishop of Lucca, 143, 265. See Chapter 4, passim family of, 160 Teudgrim, son of Farofalo, lord of San Miniato, 159, 160 Theodo, duke of Bavaria, 117 Theodulf, bishop of Orléans, 77 Theuerkauf, Gerhard, historian, 101 Thietmar I, archbishop of Salzburg, 188 Thietmar II, archbishop of Salzburg, 127, 183 Thietmar of Merseburg, chronicler, 232 Thuringia, province, 266 as a duchy, 231 early history, 232 geography of, 231 law, 231 Mainz possessions in, 237 opposition to tithe reform, 251 peace agreement, 251 tithe alienation to laymen, 174, 177, 195, 197, 235, 256, 258 as beneice, 190, 193, 238, 264 and church fathers, 44 as a commodity, 15, 175 in the early church, 43 and hagiography, 54–61 imposed on recent converts. See tithe, Slavic and kinship ties, 211 monastic, 83–9 in New Testament, 41 in Old Testament, 39–41 in the penitential tradition, 48–50 and power, 16, 47, 53, 145, 175, 229 problems collecting, 71, 79–82, 99, 137, 153, 219, 235, 260 quadripartition of, 44, 73, 89, 93, 177 recovering possession of, 31, 177, 180, 216, 219, 243. See also tithe agreements resistance to. See tithe, problems collecting as secular tax, 35–9

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Index and social networks, 189 Slavic, 53, 180, 181, 212, 214 tithe agreements, 182, 185, 192, 194, 195, 198, 201, 202, 203, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 218, 219, 220, 226, 240, 254, 260, 266 tithe disputes, 257 in Freising, 94 Thuringian, 2, 17, 215, 238, 253, 260 tithe rights, 16, 31, 38, 76, 84, 93, 105, 109, 115, 141, 144, 145, 154, 155, 157, 158, 160, 175, 176, 177, 193, 194, 195, 197, 203, 204, 215, 217, 220, 221, 224, 234, 237, 238, 242, 247, 248, 250, 262 defended in historical writing, 246 and social networks, 208 toponymics (as family names), 156 Toubert, Pierre, historian, 25 Traditionsbücher, 30, 33, 127, 181, 182, 189, 193, 197, 212 of Admont, 261, 262 Codex Balduuini, 183, 194, 196, 197 Codex Fridarici, 182 Codex Odalberti, 182, 190, 194 Codex Thietmari, 183, 196 of Freising, 197 of Passau, 197 of Säben-Brixen, 6 of St. Peter’s in Salzburg, 196 Traungau, district in Bavaria, 122, 189, 207, 213 Turinghi, area W of Lucca, 164 Tuscany, 19, 21, 26, 33 duchy, 128 regional aristocracy, 146, 155 rural communes, 175, 263 Tyrol, 6 Uberto, judge in Lucca, 169, 172 Udalrich, brother of Siegfried I of Mainz, 221 Ulrich of Augsburg, bishop, 56, 96, 205 vita of, 56–60, 96 Ulrich of Eppenstein, patriarch of Aquileia, 261 Vaccoli, village S of Lucca, 132, 158, 160, 161, 166, 167, 177 Val d’Era, 129, 130, 158, 177 Valdinievole, 38, 129, 135, 163, 166, 168, 171 Valdottavo, village, 164 valvassores, 141, 143, 177 Venantius Fortunatus, poet, 55

Verfassungsgeschichte, 25 Versilia (Viareggio), 135, 161, 165, 166, 176 Via Francigena, 128, 152 Vicopelago, area S of Lucca, 165 Villach, town, 121 Villora (Villa), village SE of Lucca, 161 Violante, Cinzio, historian, 165, 227 violence, feudal, 4, 5, 98, 173 Virgil, bishop of Salzburg, 117, 118, 124 Vita Sancti Lulli. See Lull, archbishop of Mainz Vita Uodalrici. See Ulrich of Augsburg Walaram, Frankish magnate, 108 Walfrit, Carinthian noble tithe agreement with Baldwin of Salzburg, 195 Wehlt, Hans-Peter, historian, 229 Weidinger, Ulrich, historian, 229 Weimar, town in Thuringia, 232 counts of, 233 Weinfurter, Stefan, historian, 101 Welf IV, duke of Bavaria, 234 Wels-Lambach, comital dynasty, 206, 213 Werenhard, Thuringian noble, 239 White, Hayden, historian, 29 Wickham, Chris, historian, 26, 133, 150, 165 Widera, Erica, historian, 99, 101 Widerad, abbot of Fulda, 223, 238 Widukind of Corvey, chronicler, 237 Wigger, Hessian count, 232, 242 Willelmo, lease recipient in Corazzano, 159, 160 Willeram, son of Isimbald, 164 William of Sanntal, count, 126 William, abbot of Ossiach, 198, 199, 202 William, ancestor of the counts of Weimar, 232 William, archbishop of Mainz, 112 William, count of Weimar, 233, 250 William, margrave of Sanntal, husband of Hemma of Gurk, 210 Willigis, archbishop of Mainz, 75, 109, 111, 112, 193, 216 Wolfgang, bishop of Regensburg and monastic reform, 125 Wolfram, bishop of Regensburg, 207 Wood, Susan, historian, 77, 83, 184 Zeckiel-Eckes, Klaus, historian, 86 Zenobio, bishop of Pisa, 136

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