Journal of Medieval Military History. Volume XVIII [18] 1783275294, 9781783275298, 9781787449152

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JOURNAL OF

Medieval Military History Volume XVIII

JOURNAL OF MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY

Editors Clifford J. Rogers Kelly DeVries John France ISSN 1477–545X

The Journal, an annual publication of De re militari: The Society for Medieval Military History, covers medieval warfare in the broadest possible terms, both chronologically and thematically. It aims to encompass topics ranging from traditional studies of the strategic and tactical conduct of war, to explorations of the martial aspects of chivalric culture and mentalité, examinations of the development of military technology, and prosopographical treatments of the composition of medieval armies. Editions of previously unpublished documents of significance to the field are included. The Journal also seeks to foster debate on key disputed aspects of medieval military history. The editors welcome submissions to the Journal, which should be formatted in accordance with the style-sheet provided on De re militari’s website (www.deremilitari.org), and sent electronically to the editor specified there.

JOURNAL OF

Medieval Military History Volume XVIII

Edited by JOHN FRANCE KELLY DeVRIES CLIFFORD J. ROGERS

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Contributors 2020 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner First published 2020 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge 978-1-78327-529-8 hardback 978-1-78744-915-2 ePDF The Boydell Press is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620–2731, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library The publisher has no responsibility for the continued existence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate This publication is printed on acid-free paper

Cover image: Coll. Bibliothèques municipales de Chambéry, MS13, fo. 105r (circa 1170–1190). The Italian artist who illuminated this copy of Gratian’s Decretum beautifully captured the deadly seriousness of medieval warfare - for townsmen as well as knights. Image used by generous permission of the Bibliothèques municipales de Chambéry

Contents

List of Illustrations 1. The Eastern Campaigns of King Henry II of Germany, 1003–17 David S. Bachrach 2. Peace, Popular Empowerment and the First Crusade Jason MacLeod

1 37

3. The Transformation of Naval Warfare in Scandinavia during the Twelfth 81 Century Beñat Elortza Larrea 4. Auxiliary Peoples and Military Reform on Hungary’s Western Frontier 99 in the Thirteenth Century Sarolta Tatár 5. What Types of Sources Did Medieval Chroniclers Use to Narrate Battles? 117 (England and France, Twelfth to Fifteenth Centuries) Pierre Courroux 6. Experimental Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding David Jones

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7. Four Misunderstood Gunpowder Recipes of the Fourteenth Century Clifford J. Rogers

173

8. The Earliest Middle English Recipes for Gunpowder Trevor Russell Smith

183

9. Horses and Horsemen in Fifteenth-Century Siege Warfare, with Particular 193 Reference to the Later Hundred Years War Michael John Harbinson

vi Contents

10. Supplying the Army: The Siege of Pisa, 1499 Fabrizio Ansani

245

List of Contributors

283

List of Illustrations

1. The Eastern Campaigns of King Henry II of Germany, 1003–17 Figure 1.1 The Eastern Campaign. Region under Henry II of Germany Figure 1.2 The Ottonian Genealogy

3 5

4. Auxiliary Peoples and Military Reform on Hungary’s Western Frontier in the Thirteenth Century Figure 4.1 Campaign of Albert I of Austria, 1288–89. 100 6. Experimental Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding Figure 6.1 The Martyrdom of Saint Edmund, illustrated St. Albans 153 c. 1246–60 Figure 6.2 LM Type 7 Arrowhead (author’s collection) 154 Figure 6.3 LM Type 16 Arrowhead (author’s collection) 155 Figure 6.4 Reproduction Mail 158 Figure 6.5 The 9.5 mm Bodkin (upper) and 7.5 mm Bodkin (lower) 161 Figure 6.6 Reproduction LM Type 5 Arrowhead 161 Figure 6.7 Reproduction LM Type 1 Arrowhead 161 Figure 6.8 Mail Rings Damaged by Arrows 166 Table 6.1 Dimensions of Fourteenth-Century Mail Items and the Modern 146 Reproduction Table 6.2 Arrows Used in the Experimental Studies 159 Table 6.3 Skin to Organ Distances (From Connor, Bleetman and Duddy) 163 Table 6.4 Penetration of Arrows Shot from 64lb Yew Bow against 167 Materials without Mail Table 6.5 Results of Ten Shots for each Mail, Padding and Arrowhead 168 Combination 7. Four Misunderstood Gunpowder Recipes of the Fourteenth Century Figure 7.1 Excerpt from the Breviarium Bartholomei, Pembroke College, 172 Oxford, MS 2, fo. 297, reproduced by permission of the Master and Fellows of Pembroke College.

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Illustrations

10. Supplying the Army: The Siege of Pisa, 1499 Figure 10.1 The Siege of Pisa, 1499

266

The editors, contributors and publisher are grateful to all the institutions and persons listed for permission to reproduce the materials in which they hold copyright. Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders; apologies are offered for any omission, and the publisher will be pleased to add any necessary acknowledgement in subsequent editions.

1 The Eastern Campaigns of King Henry II of Germany, 1003–17 David S. Bachrach

Over the past forty years, the military history of pre-Crusade Europe has benefited from considerable scholarly attention, with the notable exception of the kingdom of Germany. This lacuna is due, in large part, to Germany’s own modern history and a tradition of hostility to the study of military matters in the aftermath of the Second World War. As a consequence of the neglect of this topic, the more general histories of medieval Germany tend to rely on outmoded generalizations regarding the conduct of war, which have been substantially refined or even abandoned for other regions of Europe. This study, therefore, is intended to help illuminate the nature of warfare in early eleventh-century Germany through an examination of the lengthy military conflict between the German ruler, King Henry II (1002– 24) and Duke Boleslav Chrobry of Poland (992–1025). In the context of examining the series of military campaigns undertaken by Henry II in the period from 1004 to 1017, this essay considers the interplay of politics, military organization, logistics, strategy, and tactics with the pursuit of long-term objectives. In comparison to the West, the military history of the German kingdom in the period before c.1150 has received very little attention from scholars since the publications of Hans Delbrück, and this is particularly true of the history of individual campaigns.1 As a consequence, the rather dire image of an era bereft of even minimal elements of military science in the German kingdom, postulated 1

Two notable exceptions to the otherwise spare historiographical tradition are the articles by Leopold Auer, “Die Schlacht bei Mailberg am 12. Mai 1082,” Militärhistorische Schriftenreihe 31 (1975), 1–31; and John Gillingham, “An Age of Expansion, c.1020–1204,” in Medieval Warfare: A History, ed. Maurice Keen (Oxford, 1999), pp. 59–88. Several of the major battles of the Saxon wars also were outlined by Hans Delbrück, Geschichte der Kriegskunst in Rahmen der politischen Geschichte, vol. 3, third edition (Berlin, 1923, originally published 1907), trans. by Walter J. Renfroe as History of the Art of War, Volume III: Medieval Warfare (Lincoln, 1982, repr. 1990), pp.  131–45. For the general state of German military history during the Ottonian and Salian dynasties during the tenth, eleventh, and early twelfth century, see David S. Bachrach, Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany (Woodbridge, 2012); idem, “Feudalism, Romanticism, and Source Criticism: Writing the Military

2

David S. Bachrach

by Delbrück, has remained largely unchallenged in current scholarship.2 In an effort to fill this lacuna, the present study focuses on the eastern campaigns of King Henry II of Germany (1002–24) against the Polish duke Boleslav Chrobry (992–1025). These campaigns provide a highly illuminating case study for the ways in which an early medieval ruler pursued long-term military objectives while attempting to overcome a range of challenges that included establishing sound logistics, mobilizing and transporting large armies over considerable distances, and maintaining tactical and operational security, as well as addressing competing political and military priorities both within and beyond the frontiers of Germany. The German kingdom under Henry II was the most powerful realm in early eleventh-century Europe, with enormous human, material, and economic resources, a strong ruler, and well-developed institutions for the conduct of war.3 The Polish realm under Boleslav Chrobry, by contrast, was created by his father Miesco only half a century earlier, and its resources and institutions were inferior in every way to those of its powerful western neighbor.4 However, the wars between Henry II and Boleslav Chrobry were not a one-sided affair, and the German ruler suffered significant setbacks, ultimately failing to achieve his maximalist objectives. One important reason for the relative success of the Polish ruler in this unequal contest was the proximity of the military theater to his own center of power near the Oder River in the fortress towns of Wrocław (German Breslau),5 Poznan, and Gniezno. [See Figure 1.1.] Most of the fighting between the two

2

3

4

5

History of Salian Germany,” Journal of Medieval Military History 15 (2015), 1–25; and idem, “Milites and Warfare in Pre-Crusade Germany,” War in History 23.3 (2015), 298–343. See, for example, the approval of the dismal picture painted by Hans Delbrück in Gordon A. Craig, “Delbrück: The Military Historian,” in The Makers of Modern Strategy from Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age, ed. Peter Paret, Gordon A. Craig, and Felix Gilbert (Princeton, 1986), pp. 326–53, at p. 331. In general, however, military matters, with a few exceptions, are simply ignored in the German kingdom, and this is particularly true of campaign history. For the military institutions of the German kingdom inherited by Henry II in 1002, see Bachrach, Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany, passim. Regarding Henry II’s strengths as a king, see the discussion by Stefan Weinfurter, “Die Zentralisierung der Herrschaftsgewalt im Reich durch Kaiser Heinrich II”, Historisches Jahrbuch 106.2 (1986), 241–97. With respect to the foundation of the Polish state by Miesco see the discussion by Zofia Kurnatowska, “The Organization of the Polish State – Possible Interpretations of Archaeological Sources”, Quaestiones Medii Aevi Novae 1 (1996), 5–24; Knut Görich, “Eine Wende im Osten: Heinrich II. und Boleslav Chrobry”, in Otto III.- Heinrich II. Eine Wende?, ed. Bernd Schneidmüller and Stefan Weinfurter (Sigmaringen, 1997), 95–168; Andrzej Pleszczynski, “Poland as an Ally of the Holy Ottonian Empire”, in Europe Around the Year 1000, ed. Przemyslaw Urbanczyk (Warsaw, 2001), pp.  409–25; Paul M. Barford, “New Directions in Polish Early Medieval Archaeology”, Journal of the British Archaeology Association 156 (2003), 1–26, particularly pp. 11–15. Throughout the essay, I will use the name of the place that is used currently in the country where this place is located, e.g. Wrocław, which is located in modern Poland. In those cases where this place is commonly known by another name in German this additional form will be provided the first time this place appears in the text, e.g. Breslau, which is the German name for Wrocław.

Figure 1.1 

The Eastern Campaign. Region under Henry II of Germany.

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David S. Bachrach

sides took place in Lusatia, which is the region between the Bobr (German Bober) and Kwisa Rivers in Poland, the Elbe River in the modern German states of Saxony and Brandenburg, and the northern part of the Czech Republic. Upper or Southern Lusatia is marked by hilly terrain, including the Lusatian mountains. This district was separated from Lower or Northern Lusatia in the early eleventh century by the Grenzwall, a region of very dense forest. Apart from sieges and raids in Lusatia, fighting between the armies of Henry II and Boleslav Chrobry largely was limited to the Elbe and Oder river valleys, with just brief raids either west or east by Polish and German forces, respectively. In contrast to Boleslav Chrobry, who could devote almost all of his attention to fighting against the German kingdom, Henry II had to manage affairs in a vastly larger kingdom with military challenges to the south in Italy, to the west in Lotharingia, and to the northwest in Flanders and Frisia. King Henry rarely had the breathing space to devote his attention solely to affairs on the eastern frontier. Even when he could do so, conflicts within Germany rarely allowed Henry an opportunity to fulfill his campaign objectives. Ultimately, the German ruler’s inability to focus on any one problem for sufficient time meant that he never solved any problem permanently. Henry II’s Eastern Campaigns in Historical and Historiographical Perspective Over the course of three decades and dozens of military operations in the period from the 920s to the 950s, King Henry I of Germany (919–36) and his son Otto I (936–73) conquered the entire region between the Saale river valley and the Oder River, including Upper and Lower Lusatia, and the entire Polabian region between the Elbe and Oder rivers, most of which was inhabited by non-Christian Slavic tribes.6 In 983, however, a great uprising among the pagan Slavs uprooted many of these German-Christian settlements, destroyed the churches, and drove the German royal power back west of the Elbe frontier.7 This was a very difficult period for the German monarchy. King Otto II (973–83) died just after the Slavic uprising, and his heir, Otto III (983–1002), was only three years old. Moreover, the next two years saw an effort by the 6

7

Christian Lübke, “Die Ausdehnung ottonischer Herrschaft über die slawische Bevölkerung zwischen Elbe/Saale und Oder”, in Otto der Grosse, Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Matthias Puhle, vol. 1 (Mainz, 2001), pp.  65–74; and Bachrach, Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany, pp. 59–60. On the impact of the revolt of 983 see, for example, Wolfgang Fritze, “Der slawische Aufstand von 983 – eine Schicksalwende in der Geschichte Mitteleuropas”, Festschrift der Landeschichtlichen Vereinigung für die Mark Brandenburg zu ihrem hundredjährigen Bestehen 1884– 1984, ed. Eckhard Henning and Werner Vogel (Berlin, 1984), pp.  9–55; Joachim Herrmann, “Der Lutizenaufstand 983. Zu den geschichtlichen Voraussetzungen und den historischen Wirkungen”, Zeitschrift für Archäologie 18 (1984), 9–17; Lorenz Weinrich, “Der Slawenaufstand von 983 in der Darstellung des Bischofs Thietmar von Merseburg”, Historiographia Mediaevalis: Studien zur Geschichtsschreibung und Quellenkunde des Mittelalters, Festschrift für Franz-Josef Schmale zum 65. Geburt (Darmstadt, 1988), pp. 77–87.



The Eastern Campaigns of King Henry II of Germany

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Henry I (876–936) King 919 + 1 Hatheburg (?) 2 Mathilda (877–968)

(1)Thankmar (908–38)

(2) Gerberga (913–84) + 1 Gislbert, Duke of Lotharingia 2 King Louis IV of West Francia 936–54

(2) Otto I (912–73) King 936 + 1 Edith (910–46) 2 Adelheid (931-99)

(2) King Lothair IV 954–86

William (illegitimate) AB Mainz 955–68

(1) Liudolf (1) Liutgard (930–57) (died 953) Duke of Swabia 948–54

Sophie (975–1039)

Mathilda (979–1025)

Henry (951–95) Duke of Bavaria 955–78 985–95

Hugh Capet King of West Francia 987–96

(2) Otto II (955–83) + Theophanu (960–91)

Otto (980–1002)

Henry II (972–1024)

Siegfried Count of Luxemburg (died 998)

Henry (951–95) Duke of Bavaria 955–78, 985–95

Henry II

Adelheid (977–1044)

(2) Mathilda (955–99)

(2) Henry (919–55) + Judith of Bavaria

(2) Hedwig (915–69) + Duke Hugh of Francia

+

Cunigunda

Henry, Duke of Bavaria (1004–06)

Dietrich BP of Metz (1006– 1047)

Adalbero AB of Trier (1008)

Liutgard + Arnulf Count of Holland

Figure 1.2  The Ottonian Genealogy

(2) Brun (925–65) AB Cologne Duke of Lotharingia 953–65

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David S. Bachrach

young ruler’s cousin, Duke Henry the Quarrelsome of Bavaria, to seize the throne, and an invasion of the western duchy of Lotharingia by the West Frankish king Lothair IV (954–86). It was not until the early 990s that the German ruler was able to provide sufficient support to local Saxon magnates to re-establish the Elbe as the frontier and to make some efforts to push eastwards into territory held before 983. During this period of recovery, Otto III’s government developed a close alliance with the Polish duke Miesco (c.960–92) and then the latter’s son Boleslav Chrobry against their common pagan enemy in Polabia as well as against the dukes of Bohemia. Boleslav provided Otto III with important military aid, 8 and Otto helped the Polish ruler to develop an ecclesiastical hierarchy that was independent of the archbishopric of Magdeburg in the German kingdom.9 This close relationship served both of their interests quite well. Boleslav Chrobry used the prestige from these ecclesiastical and diplomatic successes to strengthen the ducal office within the newly established Polish polity. For his part, Otto III was able to draw upon Polish support in re-establishing direct military control over Upper Lusatia, and also in driving back the pagan Slavic confederation, called the Liutizi, from the Elbe river valley.10 The death of Otto III in Italy in 1002, however, brought an end to this alliance and the beginning of a military conflict spanning almost 15 years. Despite the intriguing nature of the German–Polish wars of the early eleventh century, and the significant body of source materials available for their investigation, this conflict has benefited from remarkably little historical scholarship. The only study that deals extensively with the conflict between Henry II and Boleslav Chrobry is a short book published in 1868 by Heinrich von Zeissberg. He situated the German–Polish wars within a broader context of the emergence of the Polish state and Boleslav’s efforts to enlarge his territories to the west in Bohemia, Lusatia, and the Elbe river valley.11 Overall, von Zeissberg follows 8

9

10

11

See the discussion by Görich, “Eine Wende im Osten”, pp. 99–105; and Pleszczynski, “Poland as an Ally of the Holy Ottonian Empire”, pp. 415–16. The aid provided by Boleslav Chrobry to Otto III is discussed by the author of the Annals of Hildesheim, ed. Georg Pertz, MGH Scriptores 3 (Hanover, 1849), anno 986; and Bishop Thietmar of Merseburg in his Chronicon, 4.46 and 4.9. The newest edition of this work is now Thietmar von Merseburg, Chronik, ed. and trans. Werner Trillmich, 8th edition (Darmstadt 2002). All citations to the Latin text of Thietmar are to this Trillmich edition. The English translation is Ottonian Germany: The Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg, trans. and annotated by David Warner (Manchester, 2001). See, for example, Johannes Fried, “Der Heilige Adalbert und Gnesen”, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte 50 (1998), 41–70; and Slawomir Gawlas, “Der heilige Adalbert als Landespatron und die frühe Nationenbildung bei den Polen”, in Polen und Deutschland vor 1000 Jahren: Die Berliner Tagung über den “Akt von Gensen”, ed. Michael Borgolte (Berlin, 2002), pp. 193–233. Regarding the emergence of the Liutizi confederation in the period after 983, see the discussion by Christian Lübke, “The Polabian Alternative: Paganism Between Christian Kingdoms,” in Europe Around the Year 1000, ed. P. Urbanczyk (Warsaw, 2001), pp. 379–89. Heinrich von Zeissberg, Die Kriege Kaiser Heinrichs II. mit Herzog Boleslaw I. von Polen in Sitzungsberichte. Akademie der Wissenschaften in Wien, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 57



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the narrative provided by the main source for this war, Bishop Thietmar of Merseburg, whose Chronicon offers the eyewitness perspective of a leading participant in Henry II’s campaigns. Subsequent to von Zeissberg’s book, research on this conflict has been limited to archaeological studies of various of the road networks and fortifications that played roles in the campaigns conducted by Henry II and Boleslav Chrobry. The most wide-reaching of these was published by the archaeologist Werner Coblenz in 1963, who considered the state of the question regarding excavations in Lusatia during Boleslav Chrobry’s efforts to capture this region.12 Studies of individual fortifications and roads have been ongoing for the past six decades and they vastly expand the material understanding of the man-made military topography of the regions contested by the Polish and German rulers.13 The following study draws upon the archaeological and documentary record, including the charters of Henry II, to reconstruct both the individual expeditions undertaken by Henry II and his commanders, and the political contexts in which they were conducted. Origin of the Conflict The series of military campaigns fought between the Polish ruler Boleslav Chrobry (992–1025) and King Henry II of Germany (1002–24) began in the context of the disputed succession to King Otto III of Germany (983–1002), following the latter’s death in Italy in January 1002. There were three contenders for the German throne in 1002: the future King Henry II, who at the time was duke of Bavaria; Duke Hermann III of Swabia (997–1003); and Margrave Ekkehard of Meißen (985–1002). Henry, who had been with Otto III in Italy, was the scion of a collateral branch of the Ottonian family. He had the support of the Bavarian nobility, as well as important leaders in both the Rhineland and in Saxony, and not least of the Ottonian abbesses Sophia of Gandersheim and Adelheid of Quedlinburg, the daughters of Emperor Otto II.14 Ekkehard’s position as margrave of Meißen gave him a powerful military position along the eastern frontier, but he was not favored by most of the ecclesiastical and secular leadership in Saxony.15 He was assassinated on 30 April,

12

13

14 15

(1868), 265–432. Bruno Scherff, Studien zum Heer der Ottonen und der ersten Salier (919–1056) (Bonn, 1985), pp. 210–15 also provides a brief discussion of these campaigns, although his focus is more on political relations within Germany than on the conduct of war. Werner Coblenz, “Boleslav Chrobry in Sachsen und die archäologische Quellen,” Slavia Antiqua 10 (1963), 249–85. A similar study by Joachim Huth, “Die Burgwarde der Oberlausitz,” Letopis B 28.2 (1981), 132–61, synthesized the results of excavations of fortifications developed by Henry I and Otto I in Upper Lusatia in the period before 1073. Many of these studies are cited in David S. Bachrach, “Restructuring the Eastern Frontier: Henry I of Germany 924–936,” Journal of Military History 78.1 (2014), 9–35, and others are cited below. For Henry’s Saxon support and opposition to Margrave Ekkehard, see Thietmar, Chronicon, 4.52. Ibid.

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although not by Duke Henry of Bavaria, as he was trying to win support by meeting with several Saxon magnates at the royal estate of Pöhlde.16 For his part, Hermann had the support of much of the Swabian leadership, and sought for several months to maintain his royal candidacy. However, Duke Henry’s evident military superiority finally convinced Hermann to give up his claims.17 As the German succession crisis unfolded during the spring and summer of 1002, Boleslav Chrobry pursued his long-planned goals of pushing his rule west and south into the region of Lusatia and the duchy of Bohemia.18 In the immediate aftermath of Ekkehard’s assassination, Boleslav Chrobry invaded Upper Lusatia and captured the strategically important fortification at Bautzen on the Spree River.19 Bautzen, which is located approximately 70 kilometers east of the Elbe River, controls the entrance to the mountainous Lusatian region, and sits astride a main trade route, called the Via Regia or Hohenstraße.20 This road originates in Frankfurt on the Main and passes through Leipzig, Strehla on the Elbe, Bautzen, the fortified center at Biesnitz (modern Görlitz), and then on to Wrocław (German Breslau) on the Oder.21 During this same operation Boleslav also tried, in vain, to capture the strongholds of Strehla and Meißen in the march of Meißen, which protected important crossings over the Elbe River. Early in 1003, Boleslav Chrobry then set in motion a plan to conquer Bohemia. He intervened in the conflict among the three brothers vying for the ducal seat: Boleslav III, Jaromir, and Ulrich. These three were his younger cousins, as their father, Boleslav II, was the brother of Boleslav Chrobry’s mother Dobrawa. The Polish ruler entered the fray on the side of his like-named cousin and 16 17

18 19 20

21

Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.5 and 5.6 for the assassination. Thietmar, Chronicon, discusses the action at 5.3, 12, Hermann’s decision to give up his claims at 5.20, and his reconciliation with Henry at 5.27. Also see of Bishop Adalbold of Utrecht’s Vita of King Henry II in Markus Schütz, “Adalbold von Utrecht: Übersetzung und Einleitung,” Bericht des historischen Vereins für die Pflege der Geschichte des ehemaligen Fürstbistums Bamberg 135 (1999), ch. 7 and ch. 13. For the reconciliation with Hermann and the restitution made to the bishopric of Straßburg for the losses it suffered at Hermann’s hands during the struggle with Henry II, see Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. Harry Bresslau, Robert Holtzmann, and Hermann Reincke-Bloch (Hanover, 1900–03), Henry II, nr. 34, issued on 15 January 1003. Also see the discussion by Stefan Weinfurter, “Konfliktverhalten und Individualität des Herrschers am Beispiel Kaiser Heinrichs II. (1002–1024),” in Rechtsverständnis und Konfliktbewältigung. Gerichtliche und außergerichtlichen Strategien im Mittelalter, ed. Stefan Esders (Cologne, 2007), pp. 291–311. Regarding Boleslav’s political and military aims, see Görich, “Eine Wende im Osten,” pp. 104–15. Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.9–5.10. Regarding the route of the vita regia, see Joachim Herrmann, “Herausbildung und Dynamik der Germanisch-Slawischen Siedlungsgrenze in Mitteleuropa,” Die Bayern und ihre Nachbarn: Berichte des Symposions der Kommission für Frühmittelalterforschung (Vienna, 1985), pp.  269–80, at p. 269; Bernd W. Bahn, “Zscheiplitz im Netz alter Straßen,” Burgen und Schlösser in Sachsen-Anhalt 1 (1999), 204–18, at pp. 204–05; and Klaus Karl, “Zwischen Strehla und Dahlen –Das Schicksal einer alten Straße,” Mitteilungen des Landesvereins sächsicher Heimatschutz 1 (2007), 35–45. Herrmann, “Herausbildung,” p. 269.



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drove Jaromir and Ulrich into exile in Germany. Subsequently, the Polish ruler took advantage of the discord caused by Boleslav III’s treatment of his political enemies in Bohemia, and again intervened directly in Bohemia. Boleslav Chrobry captured his cousin, and led a Polish army into Prague.22 Boleslav Chrobry subsequently positioned Polish garrisons in strategic fortifications in Bohemia, such as Žatec (German Saaz) on the Eger river, located 70 kilometers northwest of Prague; Prerov, located 220 kilometers southeast of Prague; and Budec, located just 15 kilometers northwest of Prague.23 By this point, Henry II had been acknowledged as ruler throughout the German kingdom and sought to make an arrangement with Boleslav Chrobry regarding the March of Meißen as well as the Upper Lusatian region to its east.24 The Polish ruler, however, wished to retain a free hand to undertake further conquests west of the Elbe River. In order to keep the now-king Henry occupied, Boleslav provided military support to Margrave Henry of Schweinfurt who was rebelling against the German ruler in eastern Franconia.25 King Henry began operations against the group of fortifications held by the margrave in early August 1003, with men mobilized from Lotharingia, Franconia, and Bavaria.26 The king captured all of the margrave’s fortifications, including Henry of Schweinfurt’s stronghold at Ammerthal, the garrison of which included a substantial number of Polish troops.27 King Henry brought the rebellion to an end by early September 1003 and withdrew to the town of Bamberg, located in eastern Franconia.28 Notwithstanding King Henry II’s ultimate military success against Henry of Schweinfurt, Boleslav Chrobry’s policy of aiding the rebellious margrave did keep the German ruler occupied throughout the summer of 1003. It was during this period, according to Thietmar of Merseburg, that Boleslav tried once more to capture the fortresses at Meißen and Strehla.29 In addition, Boleslav sent forces across the Elbe to assault the fortification at Mügeln, located some 20 kilometers south-southwest of Strehla.30 This fortification was part of the network of strongholds utilized by King Henry I of Germany (919–36) to establish a buffer in the Saale–Elbe River basins against Hungarian attacks on

22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30

See Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.29 and 5.30. For the Polish garrison at Saaz, see Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.11. For the strongholds at Prerov and Budec, see the discussion by Cenek Stana, “Prerov – eine Burg des Boleslav Chrobry in Mähren,” in Frühmittelalterliche Burgenbau in Mittel und Osteuropa, ed. Joachim Henning and Alexander T. Ruttkay (Bonn, 1998), pp. 49–69; and Andrea Bartoskova, “Zur Stellung von Budec in der Struktur der böhmischen frühmittelalterlichen Burgwälle,” ibid., pp. 321–27. Henry II’s effort to negotiate with Boleslav is commented on independently by Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.31; and Adalbold, Vita Heinrici, c. 22. Adalbold, Vita Heinrici, ch. 25–28 and Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.33–36 and 5.38. Adalbold, Vita Heinrici, ch. 25. Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.34. Henry issued a charter at Bamberg on 9 September 1002. See Henry II, nr. 54. Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.36. Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.37.

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Thuringia and Saxony.31 Ultimately, the attack on the Elbe and trans-Elbe fortifications achieved no permanent results. However, Boleslav Chrobry’s forces did plunder the region around Meißen and, according to Thietmar, took thousands of prisoners, whom they carried back to Poland.32 King Henry likely received word of Boleslav’s invasion of the march of Meißen and attacks across the Elbe in the summer or 1002 while at Bamberg in eastern Franconia. Rather than take immediate action, however, Henry dismissed his forces and spent the next several months hunting in the royal hunting grounds in the Spessart hills of Franconia, and then further southwest in the Vosges.33 In the late autumn of 1003, Henry announced he would undertake a winter campaign against the Poles, as he made his way first to Regensburg in Bavaria, and then northwards to the royal estate of Pöhlde in Saxony, where he celebrated Christmas.34 The German ruler prepared for the campaign at Merseburg, and advanced as far as Wahren, located in the valley of the White Elster River, where he issued a charter on 8 February 1004. However, according to Thietmar, Henry had to cancel military operations due to a heavy snowfall and subsequent warm temperatures that made the roads impassable, with the implication that they essentially turned into bogs.35 The Campaign of 1004 Henry II had to postpone operations against Boleslav again when word reached him that Margrave Arduin of Ivrea (990–1015) had rejected Henry’s claim to rule in Northern Italy and proclaimed himself to be the ruler in Lombardy. In response, Henry mobilized an army with forces from Lotharingia, Swabia and Franconia, and advanced into Northern Italy through the Brenner Pass.36 In a rapid campaign, Henry dislodged Arduin from Verona, and then captured Pavia, before returning to Germany in the early summer of 1004, reaching the Rhenish fortress city of Mainz by late June.37 31 32 33 34 35 36

37

See the discussion of this network of fortifications by Bachrach, “Restructuring the Eastern Frontier” p. 535. Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.37. See Thietmar 5.38 and Henry II, nr. 57. See Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.38 and Henry II, nr. 59 and nr. 60. For Henry’s stop at Wahren see Henry II, nr. 61. For the weather conditions, see Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.2. See Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.4; and for the most detailed treatment of the Henry II’s Italian campaign see Adalbold, Vita Heinrici,ch. 34. For Henry II’s development of resources to support the movement of armies over the Brenner Pass, see Wilhelm Störmer, “Die Brennerroute und deren Sicherung im Kalkul der Mittelalterlichen Kaiserpolitik,” in Alpenübergänge vor 1850: Landkarten, Straßen, Verkehr, ed. Uta Lindgren (Munich, 1987), pp. 156–62; and idem, “Alpenübergänge von Bayern nach Italien: Transitprobleme zwischen Spätantike und Hochmittelalter,” in Bayern und Italien: Politik, Kultur, Kommunikation (8–15. Jahrhundert): Festschrift für Kurt Reindel zum 75. Geburtstag, ed. Heinz Dopsch, Stephan Freund, Alois Schmid (Munich, 2001), pp. 37–54. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.6 for the capture of Pavia, Henry II, nr. 80 for Henry’s presence at Mainz on 1 July 1004.



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From Mainz, the German king headed northward into Saxony, arriving at Magdeburg on the Elbe on 1 August 1004, covering a distance of some 400 kilometers in a month.38 According to Thietmar, Henry II then ordered the mobilization of military forces to take place in mid-August at Merseburg.39 As will become clear, this likely referred to the Saxon forces, whom the king led directly on campaign. As he made preparations to head east, Henry II was well aware that Boleslav Chrobry had good sources of information within the German royal court.40 In order to mislead the Polish leader about the objectives for the summer campaign in 1004, Henry mobilized ships at two sites along the Elbe River called Boritz and Neußen.41 The first of these is about 90 kilometers east-southeast of Merseburg and the latter is 80 kilometers east-northeast of Merseburg. According to Thietmar of Merseburg, Henry hoped to convince Boleslav that he was intending an invasion of Poland.42 Instead of marching east from Merseburg to either of the two Elbe crossings, however, Henry directed his army south along the valley of the Saale River and through the Erzgebirge, a range of mountains on the northern frontier of Bohemia.43 The German king’s objective was to drive Polish forces out of Bohemia and thereby relieve the threat that they posed both to Bavaria to the southwest and to Thuringia to the northwest. Henry II’s army was accompanied by Jaromir, the younger brother of Duke Boleslav III of Bohemia, whose presence, according to Thietmar, was intended to convince the Bohemians to abandon Boleslav Chrobry.44 Thietmar, who is our major source for this campaign, states that after some initial success in Bohemia, including the surrender of an unnamed fortification, the German king called a halt, as he was waiting for the arrival of Bavarian troops.45 The normal line of march for Bavarian forces entering northern Bohemia was from Regensburg through Cham and then Domažlice (German Taus) to Plzeň (German Pilsen), a distance of approximately 120 kilometers. 38 39 40

41

42 43

44 45

See Henry II, nr. 81 and 82. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.10 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.10. Thietmar specifically comments that Henry kept his true plans secret so that anyone who only feigned allegiance would not be able to reveal them to the enemy. On this point, see the discussion by Stephan Freund, “Kommunikation in der Herrschaft Heinrichs II. Praktische Kommunikation und symbolische Kommunikation,” Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte 66 (2003), 1–32, at pp. 11–13. For the identification of Nisan as Neußen, see the discussion by André Thieme, “Nisan oder Neußen. Bemerkungen zu Thietmar VI.10 über den Feldzug König Heinrichs II. nach Böhmen im Jahre 1004,” Neues Archiv für sächsische Geschichte 76 (2005), 211–19. Ibid. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.10, says that Henry II’s army faced some opposition from Boleslav Chrobry’s troops in a forest called Miriquidui, which generally is considered to be a place in the Erzgebirge. See, for example, Martin Eggers, “Mykvior,” in Realexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde, vol. 20, ed. Heinrich Beck, Dieter Geuenich and Heiko Steuer (Berlin, 2001), pp. 460–61. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.11. Ibid.

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From Plzeň, the army could either head northeast toward Lusatia or eastnortheast toward Prague.46 Thietmar does not state where Henry’s forces met the Bavarians, but does note that while the German king waited, the Bohemian population of the town of Žatec massacred the Polish garrison and admitted Henry’s troops within the walls.47 While he was waiting for the Bavarians, Henry dispatched Jaromir with a picked force to head to Prague, where Boleslav Chrobry was ensconced. Rather than waiting for Jaromir to arrive, Boleslav fled back to his own lands, leaving his younger cousin to reclaim the Bohemian ducal throne.48 Henry II finally arrived in Prague in the first week of September, after the Bavarian forces had joined him. Among the Bavarians was a contingent led by Bishop Gottschalk of Freising (994–1005), who led the celebration of the birth of the Virgin Mary on her feast day, 8 September 1004.49 After settling matters in Prague, Thietmar reports that Henry sent the Bavarians back home and then led a joint force of German troops and Bohemians, under the command of Jaromir, against the fortress of Bautzen.50 The route from Prague to Bautzen is just 130 kilometers due north as the crow flies. However, as Thietmar emphasizes, this march was “unspeakably difficult,” passing through the mountain range in the area known as Saxon and Bohemian Switzerland, which today is divided into German and Czech national parks.51 Once the combined German–Bohemian army arrived at Bautzen, Henry II invested the fortress in a close siege. The fortress itself was of the typical German style, with an inner stronghold and an outer bailey, which enclosed a church and possibly a settlement as well. The front wall of the internal citadel, which has been excavated, had a length of 100 meters. However, the remainder of the citadel and the outer wall of the bailey have not been excavated.52 Thietmar reports that there were very heavy casualties on both sides during the siege, and many German troops were killed by archers and siege engines deployed on Bautzen’s walls.53 Moreover, the fighting was not limited to the walls of Bautzen itself, but also extended to the banks of the river Spree where a well-known German soldier named Tommo was 46

47 48 49 50 51 52

53

See the discussion of this route by David S. Bachrach, “Henry I of Germany’s 929 Military Campaign in Archaeological Perspective,” Early Medieval Europe 21.3 (2013), 307–37, at p. 329. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.11. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.12. Ibid., 6.13. Ibid., 6.14–15. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.14, “per ineffabilem itineris difficultatem adiens.” See the discussion by Coblenz, “Boleslav Chrobry in Sachsen,” 249–85; and Gerhard Billig, “Civitas Budusin 1002: Notwendige Bemerkungen zu neueren Veröffentlichungen zu Bautzen und der Ortenburg aus landesgeschichtlicher und methodischer Sicht,” Burgenforschung aus Sachsen 17 (2004), 81–97. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.14–15.



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killed.54 Ultimately, Boleslav Chrobry sent an emissary to Henry II offering to surrender the fortress at Bautzen in return for the freedom of the garrison. The king agreed to this exchange, and then provided a new garrison for the stronghold, as well as reinforcements for other garrisons across the eastern marches, in what Thietmar calls the customary manner.55 It is in the context of the return march from Bautzen to Magdeburg that Thietmar comments that Henry’s army was now thoroughly exhausted by the march and the lack of food.56 If we consider the entire campaign up to the arrival in Bautzen, the army marched, beginning in mid-August, from Merseburg to Žatec, a distance of 160 kilometers through the mountains of the Erzgebirge, and then a further 70 kilometers to Prague, which Henry reached no later than 8 September. This is total of 230 kilometers over the course of 24 days, but with a lengthy halt while Henry awaited the arrival of the Bavarians. This was hardly a bruising pace, especially because there was a regular road from Žatec to Prague, and the Germans did not have to do any fighting along the way. By contrast, the march of 130 kilometers from Prague to Bautzen through the Saxon and Bohemian Swiss mountain range, with no road system for wagons or carts, and no options for obtaining supplies along the route, almost certainly was, as Thietmar stated, very difficult. It seems unlikely that the army would have been able to travel more than 10–15 kilometers per day through this mountainous terrain. Thietmar does not say how long Henry’s army invested Bautzen, but there are two secure dates that can be used to give an idea of how long he might have remained there. The first of these is 8 September, when the German king celebrated the birth of the Virgin Mary at Prague. The second date is Henry’s issuing of a charter at Magdeburg on 9 October 1004.57 It is 220 kilometers as the crow flies between Bautzen and Magdeburg, however, Henry’s route from Bautzen likely took him first to Meißen and then a march along the Elbe to Magdeburg, a distance of 275 kilometers. If Henry’s forces marched 30 kilometers per day, they could have reached Magdeburg in nine days. However, it is likely that they went more slowly than this because Thietmar reports, as noted above, that the king stopped at a number of fortifications along the route to deploy additional men to their garrisons. At a more moderate pace of 20 kilometers per day for the exhausted army, Henry would have required fourteen days to reach Magdeburg from Bautzen. Taken together, the march from Prague to Bautzen, and from Bautzen to Magdeburg likely required between 24 and 28 days, leaving just 3–7 days for the siege of Bautzen. As one can see from this brief analysis, Thietmar’s 54 55 56 57

Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.15. The death of Tommo is also recorded by the author of the Annals of Quedlinburg, ed. G. H. Pertz, MGH Scriptores 3 (Hannover, 1839), anno 1004, p. 79. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.15, “et marchiones regni sui, ubicumque opus habebant, solitis adminiculis adiuvit.” Ibid., “Post haec rex cum exercitu itinere ac inedia iam defatigato domum rediit.” Henry II, nr. 84.

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description of the army as exhausted is quite reasonable in the context of three to four weeks of marching punctuated by a bloody and difficult siege. But what conclusions should be drawn from his statement that the army also was worn down by hunger? Despite the lack of viable roads on the mountainous route between Prague and Bautzen, it is likely that the men could have carried “iron rations” to sustain themselves for 10–14 days without great difficulty. This would have required each man to carry a pack of 20–30 kilograms of dried meat and biscuit for his own use.58 Although Thietmar makes no mention of them, pack animals also could have traversed the same difficult ground as the German and Bohemian troops. Given the military support provided by the newly installed Bohemian duke Jaromir for the Bautzen operation, there is every reason to believe that the storehouses of Prague and its environs were also available to Jaromir’s patron, King Henry II. Once Henry’s army came out of the mountains and invested Bautzen, his forces could have been supplied by the fortress at Dresden on the Elbe, about 50 kilometers to the west. In sum, although Henry’s men may not have enjoyed the food that they had available, it is likely that they were not going hungry. Indeed, their success in undertaking the arduous march from Prague and then forcing the surrender of the major fortress of Bautzen is a testament to their military capacity over these weeks. Campaign of 1005 After the successful military operations in the summer of 1004, during which Henry II deprived Boleslav Chrobry of the latter’s gains in both Bohemia and Upper Lusatia, he spent much of the autumn and winter in Saxony traveling among the fortresses at Magdeburg, Merseburg, Allstedt, and Dornburg where he celebrated Christmas.59 From Dornburg, Henry went to Tiel, on the Waal River, a distance of 440 kilometers, where he arrived sometime before Quadragesima Sunday, which fell on 15 February 1005.60 The purpose of this trip was to prepare a naval campaign against the Frisians, which took place in March.61 Following the conclusion of this operation, Henry II was at Aachen by 1 April to celebrate Easter.62 It was likely during this Easter court that Henry II announced his plans for another campaign against Boleslav Chrobry. According to Thietmar, at the royal palace the king proclaimed a campaign to Poland and commanded the mobiliza-

58

59 60 61 62

On the carrying of iron rations, see the discussion by Bernard S. Bachrach, “The Crusader March from Dorylaion to Herakleia, 4 July–ca. 2 September 1097,” in Shipping, Trade, and Crusade in the Medieval Mediterranean: Studies in Honour of John Pryor, ed. Ruthy Gertwagen and Elizabeth Jeffreys (Farnham, 2012), pp. 231–54, at p. 235. See Henry II, nr. 88, 89, 91, 92. Annals of Hildesheim, anno 1005. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.19. Annals of Hildesheim, anno 1005; and Henry II, nr. 93.



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tion of forces throughout every comital district within the realm, to assemble at Leitzkau, 25 kilometers southeast of Magdeburg.63 Thietmar’s emphasis on the proclamation going out to each county within the German kingdom points to the mobilization of expeditionary levies for this campaign, who were organized by county in the traditional Carolingian manner, and led by the count.64 The announcement of the campaign in early April allowed four and half months for men to prepare to mobilize and join the king for the scheduled departure date of 16 August. From Leitzkau, according to Thietmar, Henry II’s army headed toward a place called Dobrilugk (modern Doberlug-Kirchhain) in Upper Lusatia.65 The army likely followed a route that passed through the strongholds of Zerbst and then along the course of the Elbe River to the fortification at Torgau, before heading east into the upper Lusatian region, covering a distance of approximately 140 kilometers. At Doberlug-Kirchhain, Henry’s army was joined by contingents led by Duke Henry of Bavaria and Duke Jaromir of Bohemia.66 These two contingents likely followed the course of the Elbe River to Meißen and from there marched north to Doberlug-Kirchain, a total distance of about 190 kilometers from either Prague or Plzeň. After the two columns of Henry II’s invasion force had joined together, he headed northeast toward the region that Thietmar calls Neiß, likely located between the lower course of the Neisse River where it parallels the Spree River. Henry II’s army camped along the Neisse, probably in the neighborhood of Peitz in the modern district of Spree-Neiße.67 It is approximately 65 kilometers from Doberlug-Kirchhain to Peitz, or normally a two- to three-day march. Thietmar, however, emphasizes that the guides for the army, seeking to keep Henry’s troops from ravaging their own lands, led them through difficult and swampy terrain.68 The most direct route from Doberlug-Kirchhain does lead through the waterlogged district now organized as Tannenbusch und Teichlandschaft Groß Mehßow national park. So Thietmar almost certainly was correct that the march was difficult, particularly if the army was accompanied by supply wagons. However, it must remain an open question whether treachery was involved in the choice of the route or whether this was, in fact, the most direct path. According to Thietmar, while the army was encamped along the Neisse 63

64

65 66 67 68

Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.19, “Iussit etiam in palatio et in omnibus regni suimet comitatibus expeditionem ad Poleniam conventumque ad Liecza per bannum fieri.” On the role of Leitzkau as a starting point for German expeditions dating back to 995, see the discussion by Paul Grimm, Handbuch vor-und frühgeschichtlicher Wall-und Wehranlagen Teil I: Die vor- und frühgeschichtlichen Burgwälle der Bezirke Halle und Magdeburg (Berlin, 1958), p. 49. See the discussion of the county-based levy organization during Henry II’s reign by David S. Bachrach, “Civilians and Militia in Ottonian Germany: Warfare in an Era of Small Professional Armies,” in Civilians and Warfare in World History, ed. Nicola Foote and Nadya Williams (London, 2017), pp. 110–31. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.22. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.22. Ibid. Ibid.

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River, a man named Thiedbern, a member of the military household of Bishop Arnulf of Halberstadt (996–1023), identified the presence of Polish forces in the area. Rather than reporting this information to his superiors, however, Thiedbern gathered together some men and sought to attack the Poles on his own in order, as Thietmar indicates, to gain the greatest praise for himself. Unfortunately for Thiedbern, he and his companions were ambushed by the Polish troops, and killed. Their date of death was recorded in the book of the dead (Necrology) from Merseburg as 7 September.69 This detail gives us a terminus post quem for the arrival of Henry II’s army in the region of Neiß and permits the conclusion that between its departure from Leitzkau on 16 August and arrival at the Neisse River, his troops marched some 200 kilometers in no more than three weeks, averaging approximately 10 kilometers per day for this entire period. After the ambush of Thiedbern’s group, Henry’s army was joined by a force of Liutizi, pagan Slavs who inhabited the region between the lower course of the Oder and the lower course of the Elbe.70 King Henry had first made overtures to the Liutizi in the spring of 1003 when it became clear that Boleslav Chrobry intended to undermine German interests in both Bohemia and Lusatia.71 The German ruler also evidently made arrangements with the Liutizi in the spring of 1005 to join him for a campaign that was intended to cross over the Oder River into Bolelav’s Polish lands. The march south for the Liutizi through the modern German states of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern and Brandenburg likely covered 200–300 kilometers, with a starting point some 200 kilometers northeast of the staging area for Henry II’s army at Leitzkau. The ability of the armies to join together for military operations, therefore, suggests a great deal of advanced planning as well as a good understanding of the distances involved for the two elements of the army to come together in a pincer. Henry II’s army, which now included contingents from Bavaria, Bohemia, and the Liutizi, along with his original force mobilized at Leitzkau, now advanced approximately 50 kilometers east-northeast to the Oder River, and established its camp along a tributary, the Bobr. Thietmar explains that Boleslav Chrobry was waiting on the far side of the Oder River at Krosno Odrzanskie (German Krossen) with a large army (exercitus grandus), in the hope of keeping Henry II from crossing.72 According to Thietmar, the German king ordered his men to build both boats and bridges to force a crossing. This task occupied them for a week. In the meantime, scouts, whom the king had dispatched to reconnoiter the banks of the Oder, discovered a ford. In the early hours of the eighth day of the confrontation , Henry dispatched a 69

70 71 72

Die Totenbücher von Merseburg, Magdeburg und Lüneburg, ed. G. Althoff and J. Wollasch, MGH Libri Memoriales et Necrologia n. s. 2 (MGH, Hanover, 1983), 7 September, folio 5v, p. 12. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.22. Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.31; and Adalbold, Vita Heinrici, ch. 22. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.26.



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substantial number of men to cross the ford and secure a bridgehead on the other side of the Oder.73 After receiving word from his own scouts that Germans had forced a crossing, Boleslav Chrobry abandoned his camp and swiftly withdrew, leaving the opposite bank free for Henry to cross with his forces. Thietmar, who was exceptionally hostile to the Liutizi because they were pagans, sought to blame them for the failure to catch Boleslav’s troops in a pincer. He claimed that if Henry had not waited for the slowly moving Liutizi, the German troops could have caught the Poles while they were still sleeping in their tents.74 Nevertheless, Thietmar makes clear that once Henry’s army was across the river and thanksgiving prayers had been offered to God, they undertook a close pursuit of the Polish army.75 From Krosno Odrzanskie Henry’s army advanced 60 kilometers northeast to Miedzyrecz (German Meseritz), which was home to a large monastery.76 Perhaps in an effort to temper his earlier criticism of King Henry for enlisting the support of pagans, the bishop of Merseburg emphasized that the German ruler took strong measures to ensure that his men did no damage to the monastery or to the property of the monks.77 Instead, Henry ordered the army to celebrate the feast of the Theban Legion, on 22 September. Taking into account the need to wait for the arrival of the Liutizi after the ambush of Thiedbern, noted above, which took place on 7 September, and the week-long wait at Krosno Odrzanskie while building bridges and boats, it would appear that the army’s marching pace from the “region of Neiß” to Miedyrecz increased substantially over what it had been in the initial period of the campaign. The army covered approximately 110 kilometers in a maximum of eight days, averaging about 14 kilometers per day. Of course, if the army departed from the Neisse River after 7 September, then the average rate of march would be higher. From Miedzyrecz, Henry led his army in pursuit of Boleslav Chrobry all the way to the important Polish town of Poznan, 80 kilometers to the east. According to Thietmar, Boleslav did not dare to stop at any of the fortifications along the route because the German army was in such close pursuit. However, the bishop also adds that the Polish troops destroyed everything along their route, presumably to deny it to the pursuing army. Once Henry II’s army arrived at Poznan, according to Thietmar, the men dispersed into the countryside to collect supplies. This turned out to be an illadvised decision because Polish forces successfully ambushed a number of these foraging parties and inflicted significant losses on them.78 The need to forage for 73 74 75 76 77 78

Ibid. Thietmar says that Henry dispatched six legiones. Ibid. Ibid. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.27. Ibid. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.27.

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supplies at this point in the campaign suggests that Henry II’s army was suffering from shortages. This interpretation is also suggested by the German king’s decision to accept terms at this point in the campaign, rather than advancing still further into Boleslav’s territory and destroying Poznan as well as Gniezno, another important Polish town, just 50 kilometers to the northeast. Instead, according to Thietmar, when Boleslav asked to discuss peace terms Henry II immediately agreed. After a brief negotiation led by Archbishop Tagino of Magdeburg (1004– 12), a peace agreement was made and Henry’s army departed. Thietmar does not specify the terms of the agreement, but based upon events in later years, it would appear that Boleslav conceded any claims that he had in both Upper and Lower Lusatia, and agreed to the establishment of German garrisons in both regions.79 Following the peace agreement between Henry and Boleslav, Thietmar asserts that: “our men then happily returned because they had endured an enormous effort marked by the length of their journey, great hunger, and the harshness of battle.”80 As in the case of the campaign the previous year, Thietmar again commented upon both the difficulty of the journey taken by the German army and their allies, and also the logistical difficulties that they faced. The army had marched 400 or more kilometers to Poznan since 16 August, depending upon their starting point, much of it through enemy territory. They now faced a march home of some 360 kilometers to Magdeburg, 300 kilometers to Prague, or 340 kilometers to Regensburg. Consequently, Thietmar’s statement about the weariness of the men, certainly seems once more to reflect their experience. When we turn to the question of logistical problems faced by Henry II’s army, Thietmar’s observation that foraging parties went out near Poznan does suggest a lack of supplies. In addition, Henry II’s decision to accept terms from Boleslav Chrobry rather than pressing on to capture Poznan and Gneizno, also suggests that supply had become a major problem. The major mobilization of military forces from across the German kingdom, as well as the Bohemians and the Liutizi, simply to halt outside the walls of Poznan requires an explanation. A determination by King Henry that it would be imprudent to pursue the campaign further with inadequate supplies would explain the decision to make a peace agreement at this point with Boleslav Chrobry. However, the fact that Thietmar gives no indication of supply problems along the return march does suggest that the army maintained sufficient provisions at least to make it back to the Elbe frontier without great difficulty. The Crisis of 1007 and Campaign of 1010 Despite the peace agreement between King Henry and Boleslav Chrobry in the summer of 1005, the relationship between the two sides remained tense. According to the author of the Annals of Quedlinburg, Henry II, remembering 79 80

See the discussion by Coblenz, “Boleslav Chrobry in Sachsen,” p. 252. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.27, “Laeti tunc revertuntur nostri quia itineris longitudine et nimia fame cum intermixta belli asperitate magnum sufferebant laborem.”



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the losses that he had suffered on the way to Poznan, decided in early April 1007 to renew the conflict and sent messengers to Boleslav to tell him to prepare for war.81 But, the author added, because Henry received a rumor (fama) about potential danger posed by Count Baldwin of Flanders, the German king was not able to act.82 In fact, however, Baldwin had captured the royal fortress of Valenciennes in Lotharingia the year before, and Henry II had tried and failed to recapture it in September 1006.83 In April of 1007, Henry was already planning a military campaign against Ghent, Baldwin’s main seat, which took place in July 1007.84 It is therefore very unlikely that Henry would purposely provoke a war against Boleslav, when he was already occupied in the west. The more likely explanation for the outbreak of the war comes from Thietmar of Merseburg. He states that both Duke Jaromir of Bohemia and the Liutizi confederation sent representatives to King Henry while he was celebrating Easter at Regensburg and explained that Boleslav Chrobry was attempting to create a grand alliance against the German ruler by co-opting them to join the Polish side.85 Jaromir and the Liutizi also insisted, according to Thietmar, that unless Henry formally renounced his peace agreement with Boleslav, they would no longer be able to maintain their loyal service to him.86 In short, it seems clear that both the Liutizi and the Bohemian duke wanted to have a free hand to deal with provocations by the Polish ruler without worrying about being accused of violating the peace agreement made by King Henry. In response to these reports, Henry dispatched Count Hermann, the son of Margrave Ekkehard I of Meißen and Boleslav Chrobry’s son-in-law, to go to the Polish court and announce to Boleslav that their peace agreement was at an end.87 At the same time, Henry sent word to Archbishop Tagino of Magdeburg (1004–12), whom he had placed in overall command of the Elbe frontier, about what had happened and to warn him to be ready for attacks by the Poles.88 The warning, it turns out, was timely because Boleslav Chrobry initiated a series of strikes against German fortifications along the middle stretch of the Elbe as well as in Upper Lusatia. According to Thietmar, Boleslav’s forces looted and burned the district around the fortification of Möckern, located just 22 kilometers east

81 82 83

84 85 86 87 88

Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1007, “simul etiam recenti suorum caede corde tenus tactus, mittit legatos ad Bolizlavonem, bellum se sitire.” Ibid. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.29; and Gesta episcoporum Cameracensium, ed. L. C. Bethmann MGH SS 7 (Hanover, 1846), with the English translation Deeds of the Bishops of Cambrai; Translation and Commentary, ed. and tr. Bernard S. Bachrach, David S. Bachrach, and Michael Leese (London, 2017), 1.33. For this campaign, see Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.29; and Deeds of the Bishops of Cambrai, 1.115. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.33. Ibid. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.33. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.33 notes that Tagino was well aware of all of the impending attacks by Boleslav Chrobry but did not take sufficient precautions, i.e. “Horum primicerius fuit Thagino episcopus, qui hec presciens non bene caute res agebat.”

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of Magdeburg.89 Polish troops then attacked the region around the fortification of Zerbst, 20 kilometers south-southeast of Möckern, and carried off a substantial number of captives.90 In his discussion of these events, Thietmar emphasizes that Archbishop Tagino had advanced warning of the Polish attack, but did not make sufficient preparations to protect the fortress districts beyond the Elbe or to mobilize sufficient military forces to face the Poles in battle. The archbishop did lead a pursuit of the Poles up to Jüterbog, 100 kilometers southeast of Magdeburg, but then withdrew after deciding that he had insufficient forces to continue the campaign.91 Overall, Tagino had not prepared adequately to deter Boleslav from undertaking raids in force, or to face him in battle. For his part, Boleslav followed up the raids against the Magdeburg region, which appear to have been a feint, with concerted assaults on several German fortifications in both Upper and Lower Lusatia. He began by capturing strongholds at Lausitz, located on the Black Elster River 25 kilometers southeast of the Elbe crossing point at Torgau, and Zary (German Sorau), located 150 kilometers east of the Elbe. He also occupied the region of Selpuli, which is the northern part of Lower Lusatia, which is located between the Neisse and Spree Rivers.92 As suggested above, it is likely that Henry II had acquired both Selpuli and Zary in Lower Lusatia in the context of the peace agreement reached in 1005, because German control up to 1005 had extended only as far as Upper Lusatia. After recovering control over the more northerly regions of Lower Lusatia, Boleslav then turned his attention to the fortress at Bautzen, which Henry II had recaptured from the Poles in 1004. After a two-week siege, the garrison surrendered on condition that they would be allowed to return home. Thietmar, in his description of the loss of Bautzen, emphasizes that Count Hermann, who had provided the garrison for this fortification, was not able to persuade the other military commanders in the district to provide troops to relieve Boleslav’s siege.93 Although Thietmar does not say so directly, the clear implication of his observation is that the military command of the eastern frontier was in disarray and that Archbishop Tagino was unable to carry out his duties effectively.94 Henry II was not able to respond immediately to Boleslav Chrobry’s reconquest of Lower and Upper Lusatia and his raids in the Magdeburg district. The 89

90 91 92 93 94

For the German fortification built over Slavic foundations at Möckern, see Corpus archäologischer Quellen zur Frühgeschichte auf dem Gebiet der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik (7. bis 12. Jahrhundert), ed. Joachim Hermann and Peter Donat (Berlin, 1973), p. 370. The fortress district centered on Möckern also is treated in Die Urkudnen Otto des II. und Otto des III., ed. Theodor Sickel (Hanover, 1888-1893), here Otto III, nr. 106. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.33. The fortification at Zerbst is discussed in Corpus archäologischer Quellen zur Frühgeschichte, 384. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.33. Thietmar, Chronicon. 6.34. Ibid. Thietmar owed his election as bishop of Merseburg to Tagino and was unwilling to criticize the archbishop too severely. See Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.38.



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German king was engaged in the summer of 1007 in a military operation against Count Baldwin of Flanders. This highly successful campaign led the capture of Baldwin’s main seat at Ghent and caused the count of Flanders to surrender to Henry II.95 After this success, however, King Henry became bogged down for the next two years in internal conflicts in Germany, including rebellions by three of his brothers-in-law. In the summer of 1008, Henry II was compelled to besiege the city of Trier in order to compel the surrender of his brother-in-law Adalbero, whose election as archbishop of Trier the king had rejected.96 King Henry put down the revolt in Trier in early September and remained there for much of the autumn.97 Henry spent Christmas at the royal palace at Pöhlde, in Saxony, so that he could begin preparations for a counterstrike against Boleslav Chrobry, but political events in Germany once more intervened.98 Duke Henry of Bavaria, another of King Henry’s brothers-in-law, tried to stir up a rebellion against the German ruler in the south of the kingdom. As a consequence, rather than dealing with Boleslav, King Henry found it necessary to travel to Regensburg and summon an assembly of the leading men in the duchy to reorganize affairs and depose the duke.99 After dealing with the emergency in Regensburg, Henry hurried northward again to Saxony to deal with troubles among his military commanders along the Elbe frontier.100 Rather than defending the Elbe frontier against Boleslav, the counts and margraves were fighting among themselves. In particular, Gunzelin, the margrave of Meißen, was engaged in an ongoing dispute with his nephews: Count Hermann, whose forces surrendered Bautzen in 1007, and Hermann’s brother Ekkehard.101 The two sides caused extraordinary damage, including burning down several fortifications. The disruption that this infighting caused was so severe that King Henry ordered an assembly be held at Merseburg, held an inquest regarding the fighting, and issued a judgment along with his leading men in the region against Gunzelin, who was deprived of his office as margrave.102 While at Merseburg, however, the king received word of the rebellion of yet another of his brothers-in-law, Bishop Dietrich II of Metz (1005–46).103 Henry mobilized a substantial army, including contingents of Liutizi, to undertake a

Deeds of the Bishops of Cambrai, 1.115. The conflict between Henry II and his brother in law Adalbero received considerable contemporary attention. See Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.35; Annals of Hildesheim, anno 1007; Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1007; and Gesta Treverorum, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH Scriptores 8 (Hanover, 1848), c. 30. 97 Henry II, nrs. 186 and 187. 98 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.38 for the celebration of Christmas at Pöhlde. 99 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.41; and H. Breslau et al. (eds),MGH Diplomata regnum et imperatorum Germaniae 3: Henrici II et Arduini Diplomata (Berlin, 1957), 192 and 193. 100 Henry II, 194, 196, 198, 199 and Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.54. 101 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.53. 102 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.54. 103 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.51. 95

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lengthy siege of Metz, but was unable to capture the city.104 Ultimately, Henry came to a negotiated settlement with his brothers-in-law, and again gained peace in the winter of 1009. After finally settling affairs within the German kingdom, Henry once more began planning for a military campaign against Boleslav Chrobry. The starting point for the campaign was set at Belgern, on the River Elbe, located just south of Torgau.105 The army, which included a Bohemian contingent under Duke Jaromir, marched 50 kilometers northeast from Belgern to Gehren, which is today part of the town of Heideblick at the edge of the Upper Lusatian region.106 However, while encamped at Gehren, both Henry II and Archbishop Tagino, along with a large part of the army, became ill.107 Instead of completely halting the campaign, however, a force under the command of Bishops Arnulf of Halberstadt and Meinwerk of Paderborn (1009–36), Margrave Gero of the Saxon East March, Count Hermann, and Duke Jaromir undertook a raid in strength against Boleslav’s lands in the region of Diadesi and Silesia.108 According to Thietmar, the combined German–Bohemian army advanced all the way to Głogów (German Glogau), which is located in Silesia 170 kilometers to the east of Belgern. The campaign was focused on inflicting widespread destruction rather than on recapturing strongholds taken by Boleslav in 1007. In his discussion of the operations, Thietmar puts a speech into the mouth of Boleslav Chrobry, who ostensibly looked down from the walls of Głogów at the German and Bohemian troops. In this speech, the Polish ruler rejected the request from his men to fight a battle in the field. Boleslav is presented as claiming that even if he were victorious, Henry II would be able to raise another army, while his own resources were much more limited.109 Obviously, Thietmar could not have had any access to Boleslav’s conversation, but this statement of the relative strength of the two sides is accurate. See the discussion by Alpert of Metz, On the Variety of our Times, 1.5. The best edition of this text is Alpertus van Metz: Gebeurtenissen van deze tijd en Een fragment over bisccop Diederik I van Metz, ed. Hans van Rij (Amsterdam, 1980). See also the translation of this text in Warfare and Politics in Medieval Germany, c.1000: On the Variety of our Times by Alpert of Metz, translation and commentary by David S. Bachrach (Toronto, 2012). Also see ‘Miracula Sancti Pirminii Hornbacensia. Des heiligen Pirmins Wunder von Hornbach,” ed. Kurt Schöndorf and Ernst Wenzel, Archiv für mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte 60 (2008), 273–91, at p. 288, and the discussion of this text by Franz Maier, “Der heilige Pirmin und seine Memoria in der Pfalz,” in Pilgerheilige und ihre Memoria, ed. Klaus Herbers and Peter Rückert (Tübingen, 2012), pp. 145–64, at pp. 150–51. For the lack of success on his campaign, see the comment by the author of the Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1009, that Henry II “rediit sine pace in Saxoniam.” 105 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.56. 106 Ibid. 107 For this campaign, see Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1010; Annales Altahenses Maiores, ed. E. L. B. von Oefele Scriptores Separatim editi 4 (Hanover, 1890), anno 1010; and Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.56. 108 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.57. 109 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.58. 104



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Overall, this campaign was to have little effect on the balance of power between the two sides. In the absence of King Henry, no effort was made to undertake any sieges, even of the fortress of Bautzen, despite the return home of the German and Bohemian forces through Upper Lusatia.110 It is notable, however, that Thietmar does not mention any difficulties of supply for the army, suggesting that the decision to focus on raiding and not sieges was not based upon logistical problems. The Campaign of 1012 Following the raid of the summer of 1010, Henry II took a defensive stance on the eastern frontier, distracted by events in the west where his brothers-in-law were once again fomenting political discord.111 The German ruler’s main action along the eastern frontier was to command the restoration of the fortification at Lebusa, which originally had been captured by King Henry I (919–36) in the course of his military operations along the Elbe in 929.112 The location of Lebusa was long a subject of dispute among archaeologists and historians.113 Recent excavations, however, have permitted its identification at Löbsal, located just ten kilometers north of Meißen on the east bank of the River Elbe.114 In his description of Lebusa, Thietmar observes that the stronghold had an inner citadel and an outer bailey.115 In addition, he notes that just to the north of Lebusa was another massive fortified structure, whose construction he ascribed to Julius Caesar and which he claimed could hold more than 10,000 men.116 In excavations undertaken at Löbsal by Ralf Gebuhr, the archaeological team uncovered not only an early eleventh-century fortification that matches the description given by Thietmar, but also the largest Bronze Age fortified site that has ever been excavated. This is almost certainly the place identified by Thietmar as a Roman fortress.117 110 111

112 113

114 115 116 117

Ibid. This campaign is reported by a number of contemporary sources. See Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.52; Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1011; and Chronicon Suevium universale, ed. H. Bresslau, MGH Scriptores 13 (Hanover, 1881), anno 1011. Thietmar, Chronicon, 1.16 and the discussion of this campaign by Bachrach, “Restructuring the Eastern Frontier,” pp. 9–35. See, for example, Rudolf Lehmann, “Zur Geschichte der Verkehrsstraßen in der Niederlausitz bis zum Ausgang des 18. Jahrhunderts,” Jahrbuch für brandenburgische Geschichte 25 (1974), 49–93, at p. 51; and Ralf Gebuhr, “Liubusua-Löbsal. Ein bemerkenswerter Ort früher Geschichte der Mark Meißen lag im Großenhainer Land?” Heimatkalendar für die großenhainer Pflege 11 (2007), 56–60, at p. 56. Also see the useful discussion by Joachim Henning, “Neue Burgen im Osten: Handlungsorte und Ereignisgeschichte der Polenzüge Heinrichs II. im archäologischen und dendrochronologischen Befund,” in Aufbruch ins zweite Jahrtausend: Innovation und Kontinuität in der Mitte des Mittelalters, ed. Achim Hubel and Bernd Schneidmüller (Ostfildern, 2004), pp. 151–81, at pp. 159–63. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.59 and 6.80. Ibid., 6.80. Ibid., 6.59. Gebuhr, “Liubusua-Löbsal,” pp. 56–57.

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After settling matters in the west for the time being, Henry II came to Magdeburg in the late spring of 1012 to deal with the death of Archbishop Tagino, and speak with his military commanders about the state of their operations against Boleslav Chrobry.118 At this meeting, Henry chose Walthard, the cathedral provost at Magdeburg, as the new archbishop and gave him overall authority for military operations against the Polish ruler.119 Up to this point, Walthard had played a significant role as Archbishop Tagino’s advisor on political matters and participated in the political and military decisions regarding the prelate’s Polish policy.120 As a consequence he was a good choice for Henry II, who sought some continuity in the leadership on this dangerous frontier. Thietmar, who was present at this meeting, observed, however, that despite wanting to take the offensive against Boleslav Chrobry, King Henry informed his eastern commanders that he would not be present because of the need to settle matters with all of his brothers-in-law.121 Ultimately, Henry would find it necessary once again to lay siege to the fortress city of Metz.122 In addition to lacking the direct leadership of the king, the eastern commanders would also be without any support from Bohemia for the summer’s campaign against Boleslav. Ulrich, the younger brother of Duke Jaromir, had usurped the ducal seat in April 1012, leaving the political situation there unsettled, and without any possibility of obtaining military aid from the Bohemians.123 Despite these significant challenges, Archbishop Walthard and his fellow eastern magnates followed the plan established in the meeting with the king at Magdeburg. The German forces, including a contingent led by Thietmar of Merseburg, mobilized on 24 July at Schrenz, which is located halfway between Halle on the River Saale and the fortification at Zörbig, the latter of which provided a crossing over the River Fuhne.124 The choice of Schrenz rather than a location along the Elbe, as in previous campaigns, as the site for the initial mobilization permits the inference that many of the contingents summoned for this campaign were from Thuringia, as well as the Harz region of Saxony. From Schrenz, the army marched east for 80 kilometers to Belgern on the Elbe. However, once there the military commanders decided against advancing beyond the Elbe frontier, according to Thietmar, but rather chose to strengthen

Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.67, “cum presentibus suis principibus, qualiter Bolizlavus ab hiis invaderetur, tractavit.” 119 Ibid., “Hoc omne archiepiscopo noviter instituto … commendavit.” 120 See Thietmar, Chronicon, 5.44, and 6.56. 121 Ibid. 122 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.74; Deeds of the Bishops of Cambrai, 3.3; and Annales Altahenses Maiores, anno 1012. 123 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.71. 124 Regarding the fortification at Zörbig and its role in the defense of the region between the Saale and Elbe rivers, see Berthold Schmidt and Waldemar Nitzschke, “Untersuchungen in slawischen Burgen zwischen Saale und Fläming,” Ausgrabungen und Funde 20 (1975), 43–51, at p. 48. 118



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the defenses of the marches with the best possible garrisons.125 As a consequence, the German campaign ended on the first day of August with a decision to remain in a defensive posture. Two weeks later, Archbishop Walthard died, leaving the eastern frontier without an overall commander.126 At this point Boleslav Chrobry went on the offensive and placed the newly constructed fortification at Lebusa under siege. According to Thietmar, Boleslav chose to act only after learning about Archbishop Walthard’s death, once again suggesting that the Polish leader had good sources of information within the German military hierarchy.127 Thietmar, whose own men had participated in the building of Lebusa, comments that it would have required 3,000 men to provide this place with an adequate defense, but that no more than 1,000 were present when Boleslav attacked on 20 August. A further problem for the Germans was that Lebusa was on the eastern bank of the Elbe and that the river was running high, meaning that reinforcements could not be brought in. According to Thietmar, both sides suffered heavy casualties in the assault by Boleslav’s men, and his contention is supported by the large number of German dead recorded in the Book of the Dead for Merseburg.128 Thietmar also reports that Boleslav suffered at least 500 killed in the assault as well.129 Thietmar, unlike many medieval chroniclers, was very careful in his use of numbers, and so the casualty report for the battle at Lebusa likely provides an accurate assessment of the losses there. 130 Queen Cunigunda, Henry II’s wife, was at Merseburg at this time, and once she received word of the loss of Lebusa, she immediately ordered the mobilization of local military forces throughout the region.131 According to Thietmar, who was hosting the queen in his episcopal seat, these local forces were commanded to take up positions along the River Mulde and have everything in readiness for the arrival of Henry II from the west.132 The Mulde river valley is located between the Saale and the Elbe, and boasted a network of German fortifications that dated back to the early tenth century.133 The queen’s decision to mobilize forces along this river suggests that she believed it would not be possible to face Boleslav Chrobry in the field until the arrival of Henry II with additional troops from the west. In light of the earlier decision by the eastern military Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.69, “Tunc visum est principibus non esse bonum perfici iter nostrum, sed optimis marcham firmari presidiis.” 126 Ibid. 127 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.80. 128 Die Totenbücher von Merseburg, Magdeburg und Lüneburg, fol. 5r, p. 11 records that many fighting men were annihilated (multi peremientes [sic]) at Lebusa. 129 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.80. 130 See the discussion of this point by David S. Bachrach, “The Military Organization of Ottonian Germany, c.900–1018: The Views of Bishop Thietmar of Merseburg,” Journal of Military History 72 (2008), 1061–88, at p. 1085 n. 105. 131 Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.81. 132 Ibid., “Omnes nos comprovinciales iuxta Mildam seder et ad aventum regis haec omnia providere ab ea iussi sumus.” 133 See the discussion by Bachrach, “Restructuring the Eastern Frontier,” pp. 9–35. 125

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commanders to reinforce all of the garrisons along the Elbe, Queen Cunigunda may well have considered that those fortifications could be held for some time. Ultimately, Boleslav did not press his advantage, and the fighting came to an end following the capture of Lebusa. In early January 1013 Boleslav asked for a truce, and dispatched his son Miesco to discuss a peace agreement with Henry II at Magdeburg.134 In May 1013, Boleslav Chrobry himself came to Werla where he formally made peace with King Henry II. According to the terms of this agreement, Boleslav promised fidelity to the German king and in return received permission to govern Upper Lusatia, including the fortress of Bautzen.135 During this assembly, the German ruler also received Ulrich as the new duke of Bohemia and accepted his seizure of power as a fait accompli.136 Campaign of 1015 In 1013, both Henry II and Boleslav Chrobry had an interest in quiet along their frontier. Henry was planning a campaign to Italy to be crowned emperor and Boleslav sought to intervene in Russia, with the result that both wanted to free themselves from expensive and time-consuming actions along the Elbe.137 According to Thietmar, Boleslav even promised to provide troops for the German ruler’s Italian expedition, which he had done previously for Emperor Otto III. However, in this case he reneged on his commitment.138 By early 1015, however, Henry II again decided that it was in his interest to renew the conflict with the Polish ruler. According to the author of the Annals of Quedlinburg, Henry sent messengers to Boleslav Chrobry insisting that the latter return the lands that he had captured in previous years. Then, having received an arrogant response, Henry mobilized thousands of troops for the campaign.139 Thietmar does not explain the genesis of this campaign, but makes clear that Henry II intended to attack Boleslav Chrobry from three directions simultaneously, with three independently operating columns. The first of these columns was under Henry II’s direct command. After mobilizing at Magdeburg, Henry departed from this city on 8 July. From Magdeburg, the army marched 100 kilometers southeast to Schlenzfurt, located near the modern German town of Dommitzsch on the Elbe. Thietmar comments that the royal army acted in a particularly undisciplined manner here and did considerable damage to the local inhabitants as well as to the holdings of

134 135 136 137 138 139

Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.89–90; and Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1013. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.91 and Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1013. Also see the discussion by Coblenz, “Boleslav Chrobry in Sachsen,” p. 252. Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1013. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.91–92; Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1014. Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.91. Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1015, “Ad haec imperator merito indignatus, bella parat, fortiaque virorum milia vocat in arma, cum quibus haud mora Polonie attigit fines.”



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Margrave Gero of the Saxon East March.140 From Schlenzfurt, Henry II’s column headed 60 kilometers northeast into Lower Lusatia and faced Polish forces that emerged from the fortification at Zützen.141 After winning a battle here, the German forces continued eastward 100 kilometers to Krosno Odrzanskie on the River Oder, where they were confronted by an army under the command of Miesco, Boleslav Chrobry’s son.142 After covering a distance of 260 kilometers in just over three weeks, Henry II’s army crossed the River Oder in the teeth of Polish resistance and drove Miesco’s troops from the opposite bank. According to Thietmar, the Poles lost at least 600 men and Henry’s troops captured a large quantity of booty in this battle.143 Although Thietmar does not mention it, the fact that Henry had already campaigned in this region a decade earlier and had discovered a ford over the Oder near Krosno Odrzanskie when facing Boleslav Chrobry likely meant that he had prepared for a variety of contingencies if another Polish army attempted to block him from crossing the river. At the same time that the king’s army was driving toward the middle region of the Oder, Duke Bernhard II of Saxony (1011–59), leading a large force of Saxon troops as well as a group of Liutizi, tried to cross the lower course of the River Oder.144 Duke Bernhard’s column was opposed directly by Boleslav Chrobry who, according to Thietmar, commanded a large force of mounted troops and patrolled up and down the river so that the Saxons and Liutizi could not effect a crossing in their boats. In order get around Boleslav’s troops, Bernhard’s men put up the sails on their craft and travelled for a full day without stopping, thereby outrunning the Polish forces on the opposite bank. Bernhard then ordered his men to burn down everything in the vicinity. However, Thietmar emphasizes that Bernhard was not able to fulfill his part of the plan to join with King Henry’s troops, and so withdrew instead back into Saxon territory,145 sending messengers to the king to let him know what had happened and why he was not following through on his orders. However, he sent these messengers on foot and, according to Thietmar, they consequently they did not reach the king with their news.146 Meanwhile, the third column, this one composed of Bohemians and Bavarians under the leadership of Duke Ulrich of Bohemia, which also was supposed to

140 141 142 143 144 145 146

Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.16. Ibid. Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.17. Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.18, “Eorum autem, qui ex parte hostile oppecierunt, non minor erat numerus quam sexcenti, nostris predam ineffabilem relinquentes.” Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.17. Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.19. Ibid., “Dux vero Bernhardus cum suis imperatori ad auxilium, sicut ei prius iussum est, venire cum nequivisset per pedites clam missos ei eventum rei et necessitate inobedientiae indicens …” Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.20 emphasized that Henry did not have news from the other columns after he crossed the Oder and had to operate with extreme caution, i.e. ‘Sed antequam haec omnia cesar comperiret, multum sollicitus.”

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join with Henry II, failed as well to fulfill its orders.147 Thietmar states that this failure was due to many causes (multae causae) but does not name any of them.148 However, he gives a hint regarding the reason for Ulrich’s failure by observing that the Bohemian duke assaulted the fortress at Biesnitz, located next to the modern town of Görlitz, where he captured 1,000 men as well as a larger number of women and children.149 The archaeological excavation of the fortification at Biesnitz has revealed a very substantial double fortress, with a smaller citadel enclosing some 3,000 square meters and the larger bailey wall enclosing approximately 10,000 square meters. Overall, the outer walls of this stronghold measured some 500 meters, and the walls were 8–10 meters wide. For the most part, the walls were constructed of ashlar blocks with two facing stone walls that were filled with rubble and loam. This fill was supported further by an internal wooden structure.150 The fortress at Biesnitz, located approximately 80 kilometers northeast of Prague, provided Boleslav Chrobry with a very useful base of operations for campaigns against Bohemia. Its capture by Duke Ulrich therefore served to eliminate this potential threat from his Polish neighbor. The fact that German columns under Henry II and Duke Bernhard of Saxony were keeping the Poles focused on their defenses along the Oder gave Ulrich a free hand at Biesnitz. Based upon the events of the campaign as described by Thietmar, it would appear that the Bohemian duke determined that his interests lay more in destroying Biesnitz than in leading his army further east to the Oder, while leaving the Polish garrison at his rear. Without the support of the northern or southern columns, Henry II decided that further operations east of the Oder would not be prudent and began to retreat toward the Elbe frontier. However, rather than retracing his steps westward, Henry II instead led his army southwest through the region of Diadesi toward Bautzen and Biesnitz, where the Bohemian force under Ulrich was operating.151 This decision by Henry suggests that he had word from the Bohemian duke about the latter’s operations in Upper Lusatia. The district of Diadesi was marked by very difficult terrain with dense woods and extensive marshes, with only a narrow track for the army to follow.152 Indeed, Thietmar observes that in order pass through this marshy area, Henry Thietmar, Chronicon, 6.19. Ibid. 149 Ibid. 150 For a detailed discussion of the fortress, see Jaspar von Richthofen, “Die Landeskrone bei Görlitz – eine bedeutende slawische Befestigung in der östlichen Oberlausitz,” Arbeits-und Forschungsberichte zur sächsische Bodendenkmalpflege 45 (2003), 263–300. 151 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.20. For the location of Diadesi east of Upper Lusatia and south of the Oder, see the discussion by Victor von Keltsch in ‘Der bairische Geograph,” Altpreußische Monatsschrift 23 (1886), 505–60, at p. 556. 152 Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1015, “Illi ut erant ignari viarum, per silvam quandam tendunt ad locum, qui vix tantae multitudinis capax, undique interfluente palude et frondium cingente corona.” 147 148



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II’s forces had to build temporary wooden causeways.153 Boleslav Chrobry, who had returned to the middle Oder while King Henry delayed there, decided to try to attack the German forces while they moved along this path.154 In his description of the events during this withdrawal of the German army, Thietmar makes clear that Henry II was well aware of the danger posed by the terrain, and left a strong rear-guard to protect his forces as the army advanced out of the swamp. This prudent decision saved the German army from destruction, but the rearguard suffered very heavy losses. The dead included two counts as well as more than 200 soldiers, with others captured by the Poles. Many others, including two of the commanders of the rear-guard, were wounded during the fighting but managed to escape.155 The men in the rear-guard were recorded subsequently in the Merseburg Book of the Dead as having fallen on the 1 September, some eight weeks after the campaign had begun.156 After the defeat in the swamp of Diadesi, King Henry withdrew to the Elbe fortification at Strehla and then on to Merseburg. He was pursued by a Polish army under the command of Miesco, which reached the Elbe at Meißen on 13 September after marching approximately 125 kilometers southwest of the battle against Henry II’s rearguard.157 With part of his army, Miesco assaulted the walls of Meißen and took the outer bailey, but failed to capture the citadel. Another part of the Polish force raided the region between the Elbe and Mulde rivers up to the River Jahna, a left tributary of the Elbe that flows into the larger stream at Riesa.158 Ultimately, Miesco gave up his assault and withdrew, largely unscathed, to his father’s realm. Within the next several weeks, King Henry commanded a number of bishops, including Thietmar, and several counts to mobilize work contingents to restore the fortifications of Meißen’s outer bailey, which was completed before the end of October.159 Taken as a whole, Henry II planned an audacious campaign in the summer of 1015 only to see it grind to a halt as the three separate columns could not coordinate effectively with each other. Thietmar, our main source for this campaign, does not explain the reason for the failure of Duke Bernhard to head up the River Oder to join with the king and his choice instead to withdraw westwards into Saxony. Given that the Saxon duke had forced a crossing of the Elbe and was supported by a flotilla of river boats, his failure to carry out the king’s plan is striking. By contrast, Thietmar hints at Duke Ulrich’s ulterior motives when describing the sack of the fortification at Biesnitz. Ultimately, Henry II’s victory over Miesco at Krosno Odrzanskie was wasted, and the German army suffered

153 154 155 156 157 158 159

Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.20, “omnis pene exercitus factis in precedenti nocte pontibus paludem transcenderet praiecentem detinetur.” Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.20. Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1015; and Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.20. Die Totenbücher von Merseburg, Magdeburg und Lüneburg, 1 September, folio 5r, p. 11. Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.23. Ibid. Ibid.

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heavy casualties during its withdrawal. Notably, however, Thietmar does not comment on any logistical problems for any of the three columns mobilized by the German king, suggesting that he had learned from the deficiencies in earlier campaigns. The Campaign of 1017 Henry II again went on the defensive on the eastern frontier in the summer of 1016, and focused his attention instead on securing his succession to the Burgundian throne, held by his uncle King Rudolf III (993–1032).160 Rather than turning to the archbishop of Magdeburg to take command in his absence, on this occasion the German ruler placed his wife Cunigunda in charge of the eastern defenses. According to Thietmar, whose city at Merseburg was a frequent base of operations for Cunigunda, while Henry II was in Burgundy, “the aforementioned empress devised the defense of our fatherland in our provinces along with our leading men.”161 Boleslav, for his part, did not take advantage of the absence of the German king in Burgundy and instead, according to Thietmar, strengthened his own defenses. In early 1017, Henry II came to Merseburg to deal with political conflicts among his ecclesiastical and secular office holders.162 While the king was addressing these problems, a legation of bishops and counts sought an audience with Boleslav Chrobry to work out a renewed peace agreement, but the Polish ruler refused to meet with them. Thietmar describes the prelates and counts as then angrily demanding that the king organize a campaign against the Polish ruler, which he agreed to do. However, Henry II also emphasized that any campaign planning would have to wait until his military commanders succeeded in identifying those individuals who had been passing information to Boleslav.163 Following this initial assembly in Merseburg, Henry II then summoned his military commanders to the royal estate at Goslar in March of 1017 to plan the campaign for that summer.164 Despite Henry II’s efforts to eliminate Boleslav’s spies, it is clear that the Polish ruler continued to obtain good intelligence about the military plan that had been developed at Goslar, including the disposition of the king’s forces for the campaign. Taking advantage of this information, Boleslav chose not to allow Henry II to make the first move, and dispatched a column of troops to intercept the Bavarian forces that the German ruler had mobilized. Thietmar, who regularly was critical of the Bavarians, comments that Moravian troops sent Alpert of Metz, On the Variety of Our Times, 2.13–2.14; Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.27–29. Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.29, “interim imperatrix in nostris commorata provinciis defensionem patriae cum nostris principibus meditatur.” 162 DH II, nr. 361; Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.51. 163 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.52. 164 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.54 and Henry II’s presence at Goslar is confirmed by a charter he issued there on 26 March. See DH II, nr. 362. 160 161



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by Boleslav were able to surround and slaughter a large force of soldiers from Bavaria because the latter were careless (incauta).165 The attack on the Bavarian troops likely was part of the raid in strength made by Miesco, Boleslav’s son, into Bohemia.166 The loss of these Bavarian troops, however, did not delay the start of the campaign, and Henry II along with his wife Cunigunda joined the army at Leitzkau, near Magdeburg, to await some late-arriving contingents.167 A charter issued by Henry II at Leitzkau on 11 July on behalf of Bishop Meinwerk of Paderborn includes a long list of those who were present and intervened on Meinwerk’s behalf, thereby giving a sense of the large size of the army that the king had mobilized for this campaign. These magnates included the archbishops of Mainz, Trier, Magdeburg, and Bremen, the bishops of Halberstadt, Bamberg, Minden, and Merseburg, as well as Duke Bernard of Saxony, and two counts.168 As is clear from this list, these forces were drawn from much of the German kingdom, including Saxony, the Rhineland and eastern Franconia. Even as he mobilized his army, Henry II still sought to arrange a meeting with Boleslav Chrobry and sent his brother-in-law Henry, the former duke of Bavaria, to meet with the Polish leader. But when these discussions came to nothing, Henry advanced with his German forces, accompanied by a large contingent of Liutizi as well as Bohemian troops led by Duke Ulrich.169 In this campaign, as contrasted with operations in 1015, Henry II massed his forces first at Leitzkau before taking the war into Polish territory rather than trying to have separate columns rendezvous in Boleslav’s territory. This suggests that Henry had learned from the failures of that earlier expedition. Thietmar does not provide a date for the departure of Henry II’s army, but does note that while the negotiations were taking place with Boleslav a fire took place on 21 July in Magdeburg, suggesting this as a terminus post quem. From Leitzkau, Henry II led his army 280 kilometers to the east to the Polish fortress at Głogów on the Oder.170 Although Thietmar does not provide detailed information about the course of this march, it is likely that Henry II’s army passed along the well-developed merchant route that led through Jüterbog and then the valley of the Spree near the modern Polish town of Zary in Lower Lusatia.171 Thietmar, who was present on the campaign, emphasizes that Henry II’s forces destroyed everything along their line of march, making clear that he intended Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.57. Thietmar made the same claim about Bavarian soldiers who were killed in battle against Bohemian troops during the reign of Otto III. See Thietmar, Chronicon, 3.7 and the discussion by Bachrach, “Military Organization of Ottonian Germany,” p. 1080. 166 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.59. 167 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.57; and for Henry II’s presence at Leitzkau on 10 July, see DH II, nr. 370. 168 DH II nr. 371. 169 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.59. 170 Ibid. 171 With regard to this route, see Gerhard Billig and Gerd Böttcher, “Burgen und Burgbezirke im Erzstift Magdeburg vom 10. bis zum 12. Jh.,” Magdeburger Blätter (1984), 24–38, here 24. 165

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this campaign to inflict the maximum possible punishment on Boleslav Chrobry and his followers. Boleslav was waiting at Głogów with the greater part of his army. According to Thietmar, the Polish leader sought to lure Henry II into a battle in which the German, Bohemian, and Liutizi forces would have had to advance against Boleslav’s well-positioned men under a hail of arrows from the very numerous Polish archers.172 The German ruler, however, refused the battle and instead decided to lay siege to the fortress at Głogów. Before doing so, however, Henry sought to lure Boleslav’s army away from this stronghold by dispatching a large contingent of troops to attack the fortification at Niemcza, located 120 kilometers south-southeast of Głogów. Thietmar emphasizes that Henry was able to do this because his army was quite powerful (exercitus validus).173 Indeed, Thietmar’s use of validus here may well be an understatement; Henry’s decision to divide his forces in the face of the enemy’s main army strongly suggests that he was confident that either one of his columns was sufficiently strong to face the Polish leader in battle. Henry II’s decision to send troops toward Niemcza succeeded in drawing off Boleslav’s main army. So, three days after dispatching this column, Henry II set about establishing a systematic siege of Głogów, and ordered the construction of fortified camps all around the fortress for the purpose of keeping reinforcements from reaching the garrison.174 Unfortunately, as Thietmar reports, the execution of this plan did not match its conception and during the night a large number of Polish troops managed to sneak through the siege lines and enter Głogów. Following this failure, Henry II ordered the construction of numerous siege engines (omnigenorum species instrumentorum).175 After being fooled by the feint toward Niemcza, Boleslav Chrobry sought to distract Henry II from his siege of Głogów by sending troops into both Bohemia and Upper Lusatia.176 Moravian forces loyal to Boleslav undertook a raid into Bohemia and, according to Thietmar, captured a fortification and took a great deal of plunder as well as many captives. However, during their withdrawal, the Moravians were caught by Margrave Henry of the Bavarian East March (994–1018) and defeated in battle. Thietmar gives the Moravian casualties as 1,000 dead.177 Boleslav’s own Polish troops undertook an assault on the fortification of Belgern, located approximately 10 kilometers east of Bautzen, on 15 August. However, this attack failed. A subsequent siege of the fortification also failed to bring about its surrender.178 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.59. Ibid. 174 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.60, “Imperator autem post tres dies ad eandem cum exercitu valido, castris eandem undiquessecus circumdari iubet, sperans sic omnem hosti suo claudere accessum.” 175 Ibid. 176 Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.61. 177 Ibid. 178 Ibid. 172 173



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Neither of these operations succeeded in distracting the German king, and Thietmar reports that Henry II’s army sustained its siege for three weeks while constructing engines. After their completion, King Henry ordered a general assault on the walls of Głogów. However, as the engines were moved into position, Thietmar reports that the Polish garrison managed to destroy them all with fire cast down from the ramparts.179 Thietmar’s description permits the inference that the garrison had both artillery on the walls and the technology for casting fiery projectiles.180 Undeterred by the loss of his engines, Henry II dispatched Duke Ulrich and the Bohemians in an assault on the walls, which failed to carry the ramparts. A second attack, this time by the Liutizi, also failed. Henry then decided not to use his German troops in an attack on the walls, and gave up the siege.181 Thietmar comments that Henry was worried about the state of his army, which was worn down, and decided to withdraw towards Bohemia. It is notable, that once again Thietmar does not comment on a lack of supplies causing any trouble for Henry II’s army indicating that the failure of the campaign as a whole was not due to logistical problems. Instead, he emphasizes the lack of coordination among Henry II’s forces, and particularly the difficulties posed by relying on pagan troops.182 The final act in the campaign of 1017 was a counterstroke by Boleslav Chrobry, who took advantage of Henry II’s march south into Bohemia after giving up the siege of Głogów to launch his own raid in force across the Elbe. Thietmar emphasizes that the Polish forces operated widely between the Elbe and Mulde rivers, causing significant damage and taking more than 1,000 prisoners. In Thietmar’s view, the cause of the ignoble defeat at Głogów and the subsequent suffering imposed by Boleslav’s raid was the sins of his side, which can be understood as a clear reference to Henry II’s decision to employ the Liutizi against fellow Christians.183 The campaign of 1017 was to be the last of Henry II’s Polish wars. In November of that year, the two sides agreed to a prisoner exchange and also to a meeting of representatives from both sides to determine a peace settlement.184 In January 1018, Henry II dispatched a delegation, including Archbishop Gero of Magdeburg, Bishop Arnulf of Halberstadt, and Margrave Hermann of Meißen, 179

180 181 182 183

184

Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.63, “Interea perfectis omnibus instrumentis, cum iam ibi tres sederet ebdomadas, cesar ad urbem pugnare iussit et haec omnia iniecto a propugnaculis igne celeriter ardere vidit.” Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 7.64. Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.64, “Fact est haec expedicio ad perniciem hostis; sed crimine nostro multum lesit victoribus nostris.” The author of the Annals of Quedlinburg, anno 1017, was more succinct, stating “the emperor again campaigned against Boleslav, but because of difficulties of a great illness and death among his people, he returned to the fatherland without any military success.” Thietmar, Chronicon, 7.65.

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to the fortress at Bautzen to work out a peace agreement with Boleslav. Thietmar sadly commented that the peace was not as it should have been, but rather what was then possible.185 Conclusion The observation placed in Boleslav Chrobry’s mouth by Thietmar of Merseburg in the context of the campaign of 1010, namely that even were he to defeat the army marching by Głogów Henry II would just raise another one, but that he had finite resources, was a correct assessment of the balance of resources between the two sides. Ultimately, however, after six campaigns in the period from 1004 to 1017, Henry II was not able to achieve his maximalist goals. This is not to say that the German ruler had no success. The peace agreement of 1018 left Bohemia a dependency of Germany and not of Boleslav Chrobry, and the march of Meißen along the middle Elbe remained firmly under German control. However, Henry was forced to concede both Upper and Lower Lusatia to Boleslav, despite having obtained both from the Polish duke as a result of the peace agreement at the conclusion of the 1005 campaign. In addition, Henry was not able to inflict significant damage on the central points of Boleslav’s realm at Wrocław, Poznan, and Gniezno. The reasons for Henry II’s comparative lack of success in his eastern wars, despite pouring considerable effort and resources into them, are both strategic and tactical. The period of greatest success came in 1004–05 when the German king launched successive summer campaigns against Boleslav, seizing first Bohemia and Upper Lusatia from his grasp, and then driving all the way to Poznan and imposing a peace agreement that cost the Polish ruler Lower Lusatia as well. As discussed above, the decision not advance to Poznan itself, likely was due to a failure of logistics. By contrast, Henry II’s failure to maintain pressure on Boleslav and to reinforce his positions in Lusatia in the period after 1005 was the result of competing priorities that compelled the German ruler to devote the period up to 1010 to resolving political and military problems in the west. As suggested in the discussion of the campaigns of 1010, 1015, and 1017, Henry II was able to resolve the logistical problems involved in campaigning in Lusatia and Silesia, but could not escape the competing obligations of maintaining an empire with interests in Italy, Burgundy, Flanders, and Frisia. As a consequence, the German ruler was compelled to leave matters in the east in the hands of a succession of military commanders who, with the exception of Queen Cunigunda, were incapable of dealing with Boleslav Chrobry. In considering the individual military campaigns, it is clear that Henry II possessed considerable tactical and strategic insight. Particularly notable are his deft use of multiple columns in pincer movements in a manner reminiscent of Charlemagne’s campaigns against the Avars. Similarly, Henry II’s diplomatic 185

Thietmar, Chronicon, 8.1, “Hnon ut decuit, sed sicut tunc fieri potuit.”



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skill in developing a relationship with the Liutizi paid significant dividends in obtaining large military forces against both his Polish adversary and for use in the west, despite the carping of churchmen such as Thietmar. Ultimately, however, the individual commanders upon whom Henry relied were not up to the task of executing the plans that he established, leading to considerable wasted effort. Henry’s armies, were well equipped with men, whom today we would call combat engineers, who were able to construct bridges, boats, and siege equipment. In addition, as the various military summons issued by Henry II make clear, the armies that he commanded in the early eleventh century were composed of the same matrix of forces as those of his predecessors Henry I and Otto I. These included the royal military household, the military households of magnates, militia levies raised at the county level and led by their counts and, finally, allied or mercenary troops. It is clear that the military institutions of the German kingdom remained effective, even if the deployment of forces along the eastern frontier often led to sub-optimal results.

2 Peace, Popular Empowerment and the First Crusade Jason MacLeod

Despite the ongoing debate among scholars as to the strength of the causal relationship between eleventh-century popular movements and the launching of the crusades, there has been virtually no consideration of how these trends may have impacted military success during the expeditions themselves. This work establishes a foundation for that research by investigating two areas. First, it examines the Peace of God, free canonical elections, and the communes through the lens of popular involvement, demonstrating how each built upon the former to increase empowerment among the French and Italian people during the eleventh-century. Second, by investigating three populist aspects of the First Crusade, the article assesses how those developments affected military success abroad. Those aspects include: consultative leadership and interclass cooperation; proactive popular assemblies; and the reactive populace’s role in conflict resolution. Building on the scholarship of France, Ott, Landes, Kostick and Koziol, the article employs contextual and linguistic scrutiny of key passages to establish connections between the movements back in Europe and to populist trends noted in the crusade chronicles. In considering the causal factors which inspired thousands of Europeans to embark upon the First Crusade, historians have long pointed towards a string of empowering popular movements unique to the eleventh century.1 The peace, communal and reform movements have been seen as paving the road to Clermont. Far less often, however, have either medieval or military historians examined how the eleventh-century wave of popular empowerment played out during the First Crusade itself.2 1

2

See Frederick S. Paxton, “History, Historians and the Peace of God,” in The Peace of God: Social Violence and Religious Response in France around the Year 1000, ed. Thomas Head and Richard Landes (Ithaca, 1992), pp. 21–40, for a detailed look at the historiography of the Peace and related movements. Perhaps the fullest treatment – specifically concerning popular empowerment throughout the First Crusade – may be found in Christopher Tyerman,“‘Principes et Populus’: Civil Society and the First Crusade,” in The Practice of Crusading: Image and Action from the Eleventh to the Sixteenth Centuries, ed. Christopher Tyerman (Farnham, 2013), pp. 1–23. This article thoroughly covers many of the episodes discussed herein, focusing mainly on the phenomenon of

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In order to examine this relationship adequately, it is first necessary to investigate the string of religious and political evolutions chronologically: the Peace of God, the Gregorian Reformation, and finally the commune movement. These movements increased political awareness and capability throughout the lower social orders, and taught the populus3 to enforce conflict resolution upon their social betters. Having analyzed the events of the pre-crusade era, I shall return to the expedition to examine how Europe’s masses turned their century of domestic empowerment into foreign military success. Peering through an assortment of chronicler lenses, I shall look at four questions. First, how did the voluntary tapping of popular will manifest itself through leader selection processes on crusade? Second, how did eleventh-century experiences enable consultative leadership by the princely council? Third, how did the proactive assemblies, in cooperation with the princes, channel popular will into success on crusade? Finally, how did reactive popular resolve facilitate conflict resolution among the princes to allow progress? Our investigation begins, however, in a place and time distant from the stunning victory of 1099 at Jerusalem: turn-of-themillennium France. The Peace of God (Pax Dei) Arguably, the first stirring of popular empowerment throughout Western Europe was the Peace of God movement, dated approximately 989–1038.4 For decades, scholars have debated its causality behind everything from the crusades to the entire Western liberal tradition. Jean Flori, for one, argues it was a crucial preparatory step for the Church to moralize – and sometimes

3

4

empowerment as it played out on the expedition. My research here, while discussing many of the same incidents and reaching many similar conclusions to Tyerman’s, is more causal in approach, focused on tracing these developments back to the Peace, commune movements, and free canonical elections occurring back in Europe, and attempting to establish links. Throughout, I shall use the general term of populus in referring to the lower echelons of European society back home as well as on crusade. It is beyond the scope of this work to delve into categorizing the various grades of those lower orders more specifically than this. For our purposes, the grouping of the populus roughly equates to those crusaders variously labeled coloni, vulgus, plebs, pauperes or rustici by different chroniclers. During the crusade, often it makes sense to consider some knights also as part of the populus. Specifically, I refer to those, at times referred to as either pedites or milites by the chroniclers, who through poverty or lack of horses are more appropriately included under this nomenclature. When I am discussing these distinctly, I shall mention them by these terms. For an extensive investigation into terminology for the populus of the First Crusade, see Conor Kostick, The Social Structure of the First Crusade (Boston, 2008), pp. 95–158. These dates are certainly relative and very flexible. The earliest peace council for which records survive is Charroux, 989, making that an oft-provided start date. The Peace League of Bourges, 1038, is sometimes regarded as the climactic finale to the movement proper. Many scholars, however, have provided other events and dates as more appropriate bookends to the movement. For more on the general dating of the Peace of God, see the editors’ arguments in “Introduction” in Landes, Peace of God, pp. 4–7.



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organize – militant enforcement of peace.5 However, other scholars, such as Marcus Bull, have downplayed its relationship to the crusades, noting its more limited temporal and geographic scope. Given the chronological gap separating its traditional end from the Council of Clermont, he questions both how its memory and prescriptions could persist across the two generations of this span and why the French districts where initial crusade enthusiasm was strongest had no Peace tradition.6 On the surface, Bull’s arguments seem reasonable. Yet other scholars, such as R. I. Moore, Thomas Head and Richard Landes, have recognized the interconnected nature of eleventh-century movements in both time and landscape: …the Peace of God introduced the populus as an actor on the stage of European history and helped teach that group how to organize itself… the great revolutionary movements of the late eleventh century – the Gregorian reform, the communes, and the crusades – all shared elements in common, foremost among them was the active role of the populus, a role first played in the Peace movement.7

Given the scholarly controversy, I should like briefly to clarify that this study is less concerned with the crusaders’ motivations than with how eleventh-century movements set the generations preceding 1095 on the path toward empowerment. This popular awakening became, as I will demonstrate, a powerful force first in Europe and subsequently on crusade. For many French people, attending the early Peace councils would have been their first taste of any political voice. While scholars have argued that openfield assemblies and collective oaths using relics were already long-standing traditions of the Frankish peasantry, which may have re-emerged during this period,8 converting these social assemblies into a political tool for peace was a novel innovation by the Church. Although the lower classes were neither always present, nor even the primary focus at Peace councils, the chroniclers still often noted their significant (if inconsistent) impact. Letaldus of Micy, for example, highlights their presence at the movement’s earliest stage: “I think that this council was held at the monastery of Charroux [989] and that a great crowd of many people gathered there from the Poitou, the Limousin, and neighboring 5 6

7

8

Jean Flori, “De la paix de Dieu à la croisade? Un réexamen,” Crusades 2 (2003), 6, 23. Marcus Bull, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade (New York, 1993), p. 69; for full discussion see pp. 21–69. It should also be noted here that Bull doesn’t necessarily downplay the importance of the Peace in general, or even in connection to other phenomena to which I am attempting to link it, but specifically questions its importance in relation to the First Crusade. Richard Landes, “Between Aristocracy and Heresy: Popular Participation in the Limousin Peace of God, 994–1033,” in The Peace of God, p. 18; R. I. Moore, “Family, Community and Cult on the Eve of the Gregorian Reform,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 30 (1980), 49–69. Christian Lauranson-Rosaz, “Peace from the Mountains: The Auvergnat Origins of the Peace of God,” in Head, Peace of God, p. 133; R. I. Moore, “Postscript: The Peace of God and the Social Revolution,” in Peace of God, p. 321.

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regions.”9 Rodulfus Glaber, writing 44 years later, describes a similar scenario: “…It was then [1033] that bishops and abbots and other men of Aquitaine faithful to holy religion first summoned great councils of the whole people… when the people heard this, the great, middling, and poor came rejoicing…”10 While the presence of the common people often received only cursory mention, their attendance undoubtedly added awe through numerical weight to the real stars of the show: the living churchmen and dead saints. Throughout the history of the Peace, four components, in varying combinations, were used to coerce noble attendees: legal and theological arguments applied via clerical rhetoric; divine presence channeled through relics; guilt and/or intimidation provided by crowd presence; and finally, oath-taking. As the Peace entered its third generation, however, the chronicles imply that the nobles were not the only ones listening – and learning – at these councils. At Limoges cathedral on August 3, 1029, a popular assembly strangely found itself in judgement between two clerical rivals concerning St Martial’s apostolic credentials. Ademar de Chabannes, the losing contender, chronicled both his uneasiness at the crowd’s presence and distaste for the “barbaric” speech of his opponent, Benedict of Chiusa: [speaking to Benedict]… the size of this great crowd within this place threatens us and an uprising of the people threatens our disputation. Return to us tomorrow and I will present the evidence of the books before you… [now relenting to the debate] …for I, speaking Latin, compelled him – preferring certain barbarous expressions – to speak Latin and patiently shielded the listeners from his deceiving.11

An extensive Biblical and theological debate thereafter ensues, encompassing many diverse topics from ancient Israel to the emperor Nero, with the crowd eagerly participating as both spectators and jurors.12 “In this strange story,”

9

10

11

12

As translated by Thomas Head in The Peace of God, p. 329. “Hoc igitur concilium in caenobio Karrofensi cogi fuit destinatum, factusque est ibi grandis ex pago Pictavo et Lemovicino, et adjacentibus regionibus multorum concursus populorum.” Letaldus of Micy, Delatio Corpus S. Juniani in Synodem Karoffensem. PL 137, p. 823. As translated by John France and Paul Reynolds. ‘…Tunc ergo primitus cepere in Aquitanie partibus ab episcopis et abbatis, ceterisque viris sacre religionis devotis, ex universa plebe coadnuari conciliorum coventus…Quod etiam tota multitude universe plebis audiens, letanter adiere maximi, mediocres et minimi, parati cuncti obedire quicquid preceptum fuisset a pastoribus ecclesie…” Rodulfus Glaber, Historiarum libri quinque, ed. and trans. John France and Paul Reynolds (Oxford, 1989), p. 194. All translations from here forward, unless otherwise noted, are by the author. “Episcopus, inquit, vult intrare ad missam, quam volo audire; insuper et nimia densitas multae turbae in hoc loco imminet nobis, et magnus tumultus populi infestus est disputantibus nobis. Attende nos usque in crastinum, et librorum tibi testimonia coram exhibebo… Nam ego Lalialiter loquens, Latialiter ipsum compellebam loqui, et barbare quasdam dictiones proferentem dissimulans, patienter celabam circumstantibus.” Ademar de Chabannes, Historiarum libri tres, PL 141:9–80 (Paris, 1880), p. 93; also see Landes, “Between Aristocracy and Heresy,” notes 144–45, p. 215. Ademar de Chabannes, Historiarum libri tres, pp. 93–107.



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Landes notes, “we find an early eleventh-century crowd behaving in ways historians rarely consider when thinking about the “silent majority”: actively listening, rejecting claims, choosing (changing) sides.”13 This text raises two questions: how much of this debate was in Latin and what could the crowd truly understand? Although Ademar claims he forced Benedict into using more proper Latin, whether this was completely successful is both unclear and unlikely. Given the changing crowd sentiments, reading the entire discourse implies the debate was generally intelligible to the audience either through simplified Latin or perhaps enough vernacular to keep them abreast of its progress. Did the crowd fully grasp the myriad of Biblical references and theological darts? Unlikely. Yet, they knew enough to change sentiments and ally with the stranger in their midst over the local Ademar. Furthermore, the episode (occurring about forty years into the Peace) arguably reveals crowds accustomed to their role as (for lack of a better term) “cheering sections” and even “moral juries” working at the clergy’s behest. Additionally, taking into account Ademar’s fear and Benedict’s embrace of the crowd, both men apparently understood two things about the audience. First, it was not entirely an ignorant mob. Second, even if they harbored doubts concerning its “scholarly” merits, their initial fear yet ultimate willingness to submit to its judgement together shows their recognition that, if nothing else, this vulgus fully perceived its own power. At Bourges in 1038, Archbishop Aimon de Bourbon took popular participation in the Peace to a new level: he established a militia to enforce it. This included both milites and elements of the vulgus. Andrew of Fleury, our main source here and clearly not impressed by an armed peasantry under clerical leaders, derisively describes the intermingled orders during the militia’s ultimate defeat: They decided that some foot soldiers should be mounted on various animals and mixed into the cohorts of mounted warriors [milites] so that they would be judged mounted warriors by their opponents, more because of the appearance of their being mounted than because of the setting of their weapons. Without delay up to two thousand of the plebian rabble were mounted on asses and arrayed as knights [equestri] among the order of knights.14

Despite their eventual defeat and Andrew’s disapproval of (arguably) a double violation of the three orders ideology, a line had clearly been crossed. Flori 13 14

Landes, “Between Aristocracy and Heresy,” p. 216. As translated by Thomas Head in Peace of God, p. 339: “…id consilii capiunt ut pedites, ascensis quibuscumque animalibus, mediis militum se miscerent cohortibus, ut tam ex figurate specie equitandi quam ex opposition armorum milites arbitrarentur ab illis. Nec mora, ad duo milliae plebiae multitudinis, ascensis asinis, medio equitum ordine partiuntur equestri.” Andrew of Fleury, Miracula Sancti Benedicti, 5.2–4, ed. Eugene de Certain in Les miracles de SatinBenoit écrits par Adrevald, Aimoin, André, Raoul Tortaire et Hugues de Sainte Marie, moines de Fleury (Paris, 1858), p. 196.

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contends here that “we are at the edge of just and sacred war.”15 Bernard Bachrach argues it represented the reintroduction of common freemen into the military system of Aquitaine.16 Contrast this episode with an attempt in 1023, by the bishops of Soissons and Beauvais, to establish a peace militia. On this earlier occasion the pair was harshly rebuked by Gerard of Cambrai and the enterprise apparently came to naught.17 It may be premature to identify a trend toward a more militarized peasantry using a paltry two examples. Yet the fact that we have five clergymen (Aimon, Andrew, Gerard and the bishops of Soissons and Beauvais) debating through words and deeds the propriety of arming the populus at all, points towards a growing recognition of the empowerment of the people. Yet, scholars have split over the continuing centrality of the populus as the Peace era transitioned to the Truce of God. Lauranson-Rosaz, for one, argues despite the secondary role that crowds and relics were playing by mid century, the earlier élan nevertheless remained in the popular imagination, enthusiastically re-emerging during the crusades.18 Yet even this analysis is relatively dismissive, not only of the contemporary commune movement, but even of later instances of Peace activity itself. Although not considered part of the Peace of God proper, events post1038 nevertheless point toward both a more militarized enforcement of peace and ecclesiastical mobilization of the populus to support it.19 We may look, for example, at the 1060 tour of Saint Ursmer’s body by the monks of Lobbes.20 Here a troop of charismatic monks travel throughout Flanders utilizing the time-trusted tools of preaching, relics, oaths and crowds to end feuds. In describing their methodology, Geoffrey Koziol notes how the brothers masterfully manipulated feuding parties into situations where accepting peace led to crowd praise – and rejecting it to popular shame. He emphasizes, however, that despite the monks’ vital enabling role, the true driving force is the sentiments of the masses.21 Yet peace-focused gatherings also persisted, including the assemblies at Bruges in 1070 and 1096. While a formal “peace” was not declared at either, all the elements of the earlier councils were still present: monks, nobility, relics and, of course, enthusiastic crowds joyous in the

15 16 17 18 19 20

21

Flori, “De la paix de Dieu,” p. 18. Bernard Bachrach, “The Northern Origins of the Peace Movement at Le Puy in 975,” Historical Reflections / Réflexions Historiques 14 (1987), p. 417. For further discussion see Otto Oexhle, “Peace Through Conspiracy,” in Ordering Medieval Society, ed. Benjamin Jussen and trans. Pamela Selwyn (Philadelphia, 2001), p. 474. Lauranson-Rosaz, “Peace from the Mountains,” p. 132. For more on the siege of Bréval, as well as further discussion regarding later episodes of militarized peace, see Geoffrey Koziol, The Peace of God (Leeds, 2018), pp. 106–07. See Geoffrey Koziol, “Monks, Feuds, and the Making of Peace in Eleventh-Century Flanders,” in Peace of God, pp.  239–58, and Jehangir Yezdi Malegam, The Sleep of Behemoth, (Ithaca, 2013), pp. 42–53. Koziol, “Monks, Feuds, and the Making of Peace,” pp. 245, 249.



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aristocratic reconciliation.22 Contemporary descriptions of these three episodes run as follows: Thence, having entered joyously into the church with the holy body in order that we might seek absolution and mercy from God for the souls of the dead, for whom these things are done, they began [to sing] together the hymn Te Deum Laudamus; and when we chanted with the sound of the bells, both of the sexes praised God in the ancestral fashion.23 Where, as soon as [Count Baldwin] with much labor arrived, since that place was not able to contain all people without great difficulty, as it was where many thousands of the people had congregated, and he established a unanimous council, so that they might set up tents outdoors next to the town, and thereupon seeing the bodies of the saints, they persevered even more cheerfully in the service of God. The people, moreover, everywhere in large numbers hastened to the bodies of the saints and, with their offerings and prayers, asked that God might be reconciled to themselves through much approbation of the saints.24 And when a great multitude of both sexes had congregated there, while the priest preached a sermon to the people, God deemed worthy to pacify through the blessed Donatian those feuds that had arisen by the corruptor of souls shortly before (which never had been able to be reconciled by gold or silver) with the Holy Spirit calming the souls of all, so that, with every chain of discord broken and the instruments of animosity blunted, all unanimously might enter upon pacts of peace.25

Given all the similarities noted, these later “informal” peace councils hint that over 100 years after Charroux, the French clergy were still coordinating the peace tetrad to bend recalcitrant nobles to their will; and the populus was still showing up in enthusiastic droves when those calls came. 22 23

24

25

Koziol, “Monks, Feuds, and the Making of Peace,” p. 256. “Deinde cum sancto introgressi laetanter ecclesiam, ut animabus defunctorum, pro quibus haec fiebant, peteremus a Deo absolutionem et misericordiam, ipsi pariter inceperunt hymnum Te Deum laudamus; et decantantibus nobis cum sonitu campanarum, patrio more laudabat Deum uterque sexus.” Miracula Sancti Ursmari, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH 15/2:837–42. (Hanover, 1888), p. 840. “Quo simulac cum multo sudore perventum est, quoniam omnes absque magna difficultate locus ille capere non potereat, utpote ubi tot populorum milia confluxerant, omnibus unum animo sedit consilium, quatinus foris iuxta oppidum tentoria figerent, ibique sanctorum corpora observantes liberius Dei servitio insisterent. Populi autem undique catervatim ad corpora sanctorum festinant oblationibusque suis et orationibus per tot suffragia sanctorum Deum sibi placari postulant.” Gervais of Reims, Libro Miraculorum S. Donatiani, ed. Oswald HolderEgger, MGH 15/2:837–42 (Hanover, 1888), p. 857. “Ibique utriusque sexus magna multitudine congregata, sacerdote ad populum sermonem perorante, inimicitias a corruptore spirituum ante modico tempore excitatas, quae nunquam auro vel argento in amicitiam redigi poterant, Spiritu sancto animos omnium sedante, per beatum Donatianum Deus pacare dignatus est, ita ut, diruptis omnibus discordiae vinculis et obtusis odii stimulis, cuncti unanimes inirent federa pacis.” Gervais of Reims, Libro Miraculorum S. Donatiani, p. 858.

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In perhaps an even more notable example, Orderic Vitalis relates how priests and abbots led contingents of militarized parishioners into battle during the 1094 siege of Bréval.26 His rather pointed remark, that not only did presbyteri lead out their parochianis, but also abbates their hominibus, suggests some sort of ecclesiastical coordination of a peace militia. Also notable is that Orderic relates this rather odd occurrence without moral commentary, one way or the other. Unlike the scandalized distaste in Andrew of Fleury’s description of Bourges, Orderic passes over these events rather matter-of-factly, hinting such activity may have become more normalized by this period.27 In summary, the sources demonstrate that throughout the eleventh century the French clergy sometimes employed the populus as one component of a fourpart methodology to restrain aristocratic violence. Early to mid-century spikes in popular participation (i.e. Bourges or the Limoges debate) demonstrate how – over the course of about 60 years or roughly three generations – passivity had given way to a more active role. The implication (despite Bull’s chronological skepticism) is that empowerment was not a flash in the pan. This phenomenon was a building momentum spanning generations and continuing to influence events in later eleventh-century France (i.e., Saint Ursmers’ relic tour, Bréval and the councils of Bruges). The populus itself was learning the clerical tactics used to facilitate conflict resolution. The application of such methodology (often without clerical “supervision”) during first the commune movement and ultimately the First Crusade reveals that these “wondrous” lessons could be passed down to succeeding generations through public sermons or simply word of mouth. This made it possible for the Gregorian reform to build upon the lessons of the Pax Dei. The Gregorian Reform and Free Canonical Elections A pillar of eleventh-century reform was the unshackling of ecclesiastical elections and investiture from the lay nobility. While the method of choosing diocesan bishops was a relatively democratic process during the early church, one consequence of Constantine’s Edict of Milan was a steady increase of secular interference in these elections. Certainly by 1000, popular electoral influence was typically limited to the formality of acclaiming preselected secular appointees; even this right had disappeared in many places. The free canonical election had become virtually extinct. As the middle of the century approached, however, many reform-minded popes and bishops began to push for reinstating popular elections. The underlying 26

27

‘Illuc presbyteri cum parochianis suis vexilla tulerunt, et abbates cum hominibus suis coacti convenerunt.” Orderic Vitalis, Historia Ecclesiasticae, ed. and trans. Marjorie Chibnall, 6 vols. (Oxford, 1969–80), 4:288. Although Orderic was writing decades later (after the First Crusade and its aftermath had, of course, increased normalization of such activities) so the event may not have struck him as drastically peculiar.



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motivation, of course, was a combination of factors. Perhaps some optimistic ecclesiastics, impressed with the popular enthusiasm of the Peace movement, genuinely wished to return “power to the people” and produce clerics more in tune with their flocks’ needs; recall Benedict’s willingness to submit to popular judgement at Limoges. Or, on a broader scale, take Pope Gregory VII, who John Ott notes “was not afraid to mobilize public sentiment against bishops he considered adversarial or uncooperative” and “regularly absolved parishioners from their oaths of obedience to their bishops…”28 There are also, of course, numerous examples of extreme clerical distaste for the populus (and nobility) stepping out of their preordained roles. It would be naïve to assume any blind clerical trust in the judgement of the masses; even the most populist-minded undoubtedly tempered their faith with varying degrees of reservation and ulterior motives. Ultimately, these factors notwithstanding, we can safely argue that a portion of eleventh-century clergy believed the populus had matured adequately to participate in ecclesiastical decision making at some level. Maureen Miller argues that not only compromised fidelity but substandard candidates and poor training also plagued clerical quality.29 Ott further notes an increase in public scrutiny (from lay and lower religious personnel) concerning their bishops’ moral failings and disquieting association with seigneurial violence in tenth- and eleventh-century Francia, Burgundy, and Lotharingia.30 As the populus was more often placed in the midst of the other orders’ disputes at Peace councils, they naturally began critiquing the contenders; the bridge from choosing between them to having a voice in choosing them, is not terribly long – as Miller and Ott hint.31 Thus, I have looked at three questions: how frequent were elections; how truly free were they; and what procedures characterized them? The evidence regarding all three questions, unfortunately, is scarce. As John Ott notes: On the subject of “free” elections: the existing evidence is really quite mixed on this point, and “free” is a bit of a loaded term. Virtually every episcopal election involved a contest between factions within cathedral chapters and some degree of external influence. The internal factions were often familial or oriented for or against the papal reform agenda, or both; external actors generally included local, regional, or “royal” secular authority. These secular authorities would take an indirect role by influencing members of the cathedral chapter or, in the case of the French kings, by insisting that the bishop-elect be approved by him before his consecration and even come to the king

28 29 30 31

John S. Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community in Northwestern Europe, c.1050–1150 (Cambridge, 2015), p. 13. Maureen C. Miller, Power and the Holy in the Age of the Investiture Conflict: A Brief History with Documents (Bedford, 2005), p. 12. Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, pp. 13, 70. Taking a more cynical perspective, however, naturally there were “reformers” who simply wanted to wrest the power of selection from the secular authorities, by any means necessary, in pursuit of their own interests.

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personally to receive his regalia. By 1100, the trend was increasingly toward “freer” (i.e., free from direct secular intervention) elections.32

Other scholars have also noted the increasingly free character of elections throughout the century. Anna Jones, for example, relates how, “steadily pressured by Rome, these simoniacs, fornicators, and old guard stonewallers slowly yielded place to canonically-elected, reform-minded bishops.”33 Miller, strongly echoing Ott, argues that canonical or “free” elections – if not always entirely democratic – certainly occurred more frequently in the wake of the Investiture Conflict.34 Interference or factionalism notwithstanding, the texts do reveal a shifting momentum of the process throughout the century. Ivo of Chartres and Gerard II of Cambrai, for example, were elected by the local clergy and parishioners initially, with approval by the pope and king, respectively, as only a finalizing formality.35 Even historical descriptions shift, too. The first account of St Ulrich’s selection as bishop of Augsburg, written circa 983–93, describes an electoral process driven by King Henry, with no mention of popular involvement whatsoever. The second, penned about forty years later, describes the clergy and people electing him in accord; the king merely formalizes their choice.36 As the century progressed, the sources speak not only of popular elections, but of the populus enforcing its choices by threatening, or employing, violence. Take, for example, Lietbert’s 1051 election (abduction is more precise) to the bishopric of Cambrai: So, it was agreed unanimously, since the church at Cambrai was about to elect him with equal consensus, to advance Master Lietbert into the episcopal office. And so the clergy and people, with all their effort, sought out the pastor whom they felt to be the pious guardian against their enemies. But although he refused and at the same time wisely set forth the various hazards of human frailty, the lofty man was seized, dragged and raised to the pontifical throne and acclaimed by all as worthy according to his merit.37

32 33

34 35 36 37

John S. Ott, personal communication to author, April 20, 2017. Also see his discussion of the same in Bishops, Authority and Community, pp. 45–47. Anna T. Jones and John S. Ott, “Introduction: The Bishop Reformed,” in The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages (Church, Faith and Culture in the Medieval West), ed. Anna T. Jones and John S. Ott (New York, 2016), p. 13. Miller, Power and the Holy, pp. 141–42. Uta-Renate Blumenthal, The Investiture Controversy: Church and Monarchy from the Ninth to the Twelfth Century (Philadelphia, 1988), pp. 161, 163. Miller, Power and the Holy, pp. 60–61. “…convenit in unum Cameracensis ecclesia pari consensu electura domnum Lietbertum provehi ad pontificatus honorem. Hunc itaque clerus et populus totis nisibus expetunt pastorem, quem pium senserant contra hostes protectorem…Sed eo contradicente, simul humanae fragilitatis multimoda discrimina sapienter opponente, capitur, trahitur, pontificali throno sublimis exaltatur, dignus pro meritis ab omnibus acclamatur.” Raoul of Saint-Sépulcre, Vita Lietberti episcopi Cameracensis, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores [hereafter MGH SS] 30/2 (Leipzig, 1934), p. 846.



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In this instance around mid-century, we see a populace so enthused by its choice that it will not take the selectee’s no for an answer. The matter-of-fact description of the consensus, in addition to the people’s determined commitment during the election (and again later when it is challenged), implies this was no amateur electorate; it hints the parishioners of Cambrai were accustomed to having their way. By century’s end, stories of popular displeasure over the elections or actions of their bishops became more frequent. The death of the bishop of Cambrai in 1092, for example, led to violent factionalism, a contested election and ultimately outside interference. The anonymous, but patriotic, author of the Chronicon Sancti Andreae doesn’t mince words here; he labels Urban II’s candidate as iniuste (unjust) and subintroducto (illegally offered) while lamenting the resultant destruction wrought upon Cambrai: Then Manasses, standing up in the middle [of the Council of Clermont], made a complaint about Master Walcher, and then unjustly offered his own illegal candidacy… With the opinions presented, Manasses was substituted as bishop in the seat of Walcher... Our home, Cambrai, was entirely devastated and the city left nearly desolate.38

Expectations also increased that chosen bishops should act in accordance with the voters’ wishes, once emplaced. Consider the burning of Ramihrdus as a heretic at Cambrai in 1077. When the bishop, Gerard II, put this priest on trial for potential heresy he was branded a heresiarch, while his preaching itself was found orthodox. Although Gerard hesitated to press the matter further, a mob (of unclear composition) took matters into its own hands: All were enraged by these words and declared that he should be considered a heresiarch; there the matter was left. However, some of the bishop’s attendants and a number of other persons took the man away and thrust him into a hut. Putting a torch to the hut, they burned him, unresisting….39

Yet, Guibert of Nogent – prolific French chronicler, churchman and tireless critic of the populus overstepping its default role – perhaps offers the clearest example of impatient parishioners doing their bishop’s job for him. His description of another heretical burning at Soissons runs thus: 38

39

“Tunc Manasses stans in medio clamorem fecit de domno Walchero, election suae iniuste subintroducto… Data sententia, Manasses in ipsa sede Walcheri ut episcopus substituitur… Cameracensis patria omnino devastata et civitas pene fuerit desolata, quamvis sint stupenda, preterimus, qui iam amplius haec rememorari superfluum esse et inutile ducimus.” Chronicon S. Andreae castri Cameracesii, ed. Ludowico Bethmann, MGH SS 7 (Hanover, 1846), p. 544. For further details see Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, pp. 228–29. As translated by W. L. Wakefield and A. P. Evans in Heresies of the High Middle Ages (New York, 1969), p. 96. “Hiis verbis omnes in ira commoti, pro hereisarcha eum indicant haberi; et ita dicessum est. Quidam vero de ministris episcopi et alii multi deducentes eum in quoddam tugurium inducunt, et non reluctantem… admoto igne cum tugurio combusserunt.” Chronicon S. Andrae, p. 540. For more on the incident, see Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, pp. 93–94.

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But in the meantime, the faithful people, fearing the weakness of the clergy, ran to the prison, forced it open, and burned the heretics on a large pyre they had lit outside the city… thus, the people of God, fearing the spread of this cancer, took the matter of justice into their zealous own hands.40

While modern sensibilities may quickly judge any crowd seizing two men and burning them alive to be a “mob,” if we place ourselves in the medieval mindset, and consider Guibert’s typical bias against the masses, this incident deserves closer scrutiny given his uncharacteristically light treatment of their actions.41 This, as well as the phrase clericalem verens mollitiem, shows the participants were not a mindless mob acting on a whim; they had expectations of their bishop as a bulwark against heresy. Guibert’s almost admiring description of their zeal and initiative may hint that they were intently following proceedings up to this point, only acting with hasty violence once they felt their bishop ultimately would not. Ott succinctly sum up the evolution of the populus through the eleventh-century: “The crowd exercised its voice with growing force and effect in political and religious affairs.”42 Let us now turn to their participation in matters more temporal: the French and Italian commune movement. The Commune Movement The rise of French and Italian communes, although contemporary phenomena of the late eleventh century, originated from circumstances unique to their respective regions. The French movement, while intrinsically secular, nevertheless relied upon populations influenced by the earlier Peace and Gregorian Reform. 40

41

42

As translated by R. I. Moore in The War On Heresy: Faith and Power in Medieval Europe (London, 2012), p. 93. “Sed fidelis interim populus clericalem verens mollitiem concurrit ad ergastulum, rapit, et subject eis extra urbem igne partier concremavit. Quorum ne propagaretur carcinus, justum erga eos zelum habuit Dei populus.” Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. E. R. Labande (Paris, 1981), p. 432. For more on the incident, see Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, pp. 102–04. Examples of Guibert’s disdain for the lower orders can be seen in his treatment of the establishment / activities of the Laon communards (see Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, pp. 165–68); his scornful description of gullible peasants fawning over Peter the Hermit (see Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, ed. Robert Burchard Constantijn Huygens, Corpus Christianorum, Continuato Mediaeualis, 127A [Turnhout, 1996)], p. 117); his narration concerning the pilgrim woman following a “divine” goose on crusade and her subsequent fate, Dei gesta per Francos, p. 5. Kostick provides succinct in-depth analysis of Guibert’s outlook on the lower orders, in particular his usage of terms like vulgus and turba in The Social Structure, pp. 74–84. Another insightful discussion of Guibert’s aristocratic bias is provided in footnote n. 68, Monk’s Confession: The Memoirs of Guibert of Nogent, ed. and trans. Paul J. Archambault (University Park, 1996), pp. 146–47. Archambault here notes how Guibert, in discussing the commune of Laon and the violence associated with it, both condemns the populist revolt as greedy and insatiable and then praises its peacemaking efforts a bit later in the text. He seems to conclude that Guibert’s criticism tends to focus on violence and attacks upon church property, rather any general disapproval of a commune in theory. Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, p. 95.



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In Italy, by contrast, reform notwithstanding, communes represent a kind of continuity from urban antiquity which, having never fully disappeared in the northern peninsula, was reinvigorated as means of establishing peace within the power vacuum of the Investiture Controversy. Yet in both regions, citizens used the communal oath to force conflict resolution on feuding parties, be they ecclesiastical or aristocratic. Albert Vermeesch, in his groundbreaking 1966 work, argues that the communes must have been inspired by the other initiatives of the time and “fit into the general context of the peace movement.”43 Other scholars have further recognized peace as the goal of both; one by secular and the other non-secular means.44 Jahengar Malegam shows that unlike the celestial, sacramental nature of ecclesiastical oaths that bound those attending Peace assemblies, communal vows were temporal and political; unsurprisingly, they were often derided by the Church and its historians as seditious and devil-spawned.45 In northern Italy, empowered by ecclesiastical reform and afforded political breathing space courtesy of the Investiture Controversy, communes began springing up during the last quarter of the century, too. While Italian communes (like those in France) often originated in response to feuds, they were also inspired and intermixed with the ideals of Roman antiquity. Phillip Johnson argues that the twelfth-century radical cleric Arnold of Brescia viewed the movement as a sort of rebirth of urban liberty tied into contemporary church reform. Arnold believed the rising wave of self-determination was a rejection of the traditional model of divided authority (spiritual and temporal). He believed that the people – not kings and popes – held God-granted power and were now coming to recognize it as the logical and appropriate consequence of Church reform.46 Thus, in Arnold’s view, liberty is not only rising at the physical crossroads between Rome and Germany – but at the forgotten spiritual crossroads of its rightful wellspring; not popes nor emperors but instead, the people themselves. Philip Jones succinctly establishes this link as well, arguing that Italian communes were foremost institutions of peace and relief from seigneurial abuses. Thus, they arose from circumstances similar to those underlying the French Peace and communal movements. Yet in Italy the Investiture vacuum, increased urbanization, and closer links to the Roman republican past facilitated a wider degree of popular enfranchisement and accelerated communal development.47 43

44 45 46 47

‘Il semble normal sinon evident qu’elle n’a pu chercher son inspiration que dans les initiatives de l’époque et qu’elle s’insère dans le contexte général du mouvement la paix.” Albert Vermeesch, Essai sur les origines et la signification de la commune dans le nord de la France (XIe et XIIe siècles) (Heule, 1966), pp. 175. Also see Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, discussion in note 176, p. 121. See Oexhle, “Peace Through Conspiracy,” p. 288 and Vermeesch, Essai sur les origines, pp. 175–76. Malegam, Sleep of Behemoth, pp. 233–34. Phillip D. Johnson, Arnold of Brescia, Apostle of Liberty in Twelfth-Century Europe (Eugene, OR, 2016), pp. 54–55. Philip Jones, The Italian City-State: From Commune to Signoria (Oxford, 1997), pp. 30, 120, 148.

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We should look now at some events surrounding the early communal establishments: Le Mans (1070, earliest in France) and Cambrai (1077). In each case, at least two bishops reigning immediately prior to founding had been elected by the populace and clergy.48 Furthermore, in each case, following the establishment, the citizens for a time closed the city gates against their current bishops. This demonstrates that, for at least a generation, the populus of both had come to expect a say in the ecclesiastical leadership of their city; when they felt this authority could no longer protect them, they took political matters into their own hands. After establishing autonomy, the citizens of Le Mans brought the warlike tendencies of the local aristocracy to heel, using forced oaths: They began to discuss how they might resist his evil undertakings and avoid suffering unjust oppression from [Gaufried] or any other man. And they made a conspiracy, which they called a commune, all binding themselves to each other by oaths as equals and they began to force the said Gaufried and the other proceres of the region, against their will, to join their conspiracy by an oath…49

Here we see a urban French population rejecting its own chosen sacred instrument of peace and order (the bishop) and replacing him by the collective’s secularderived authority, which is subsequently applied against a hostile aristocracy to facilitate conflict resolution. Malegam also sees a transfer of power inherent in the movement, arguing that bishops, whom the populace had turned to during spiritual and military crisis, now faced direct competition from the communes. Bishops in communal dioceses often had two choices to remain relevant: repress the popular uprising through military force or enter the commune’s political leadership themselves.50 Turning back to Italy, as the Investiture crisis deepened, the buffer zone (situated between the Papal States and the German Empire) offered ample opportunity to civically minded patriots who preferred the control of neither master. It was the Controversy, according to Philip Jones, that removed the final roadblock to Italian urban liberty: “Formal and full self-government, the final crucial transition from ‘liberties’ to ‘liberty,’ civitas to commune, was 48

49

50

As regards Le Mans, Bishop Wulgrin (1055–64): “Ut autem audivit Gaufridus comes quod vere regnum alterius ecclesiae praesul Gervasius suscepisset, congregavit populum terrae suae et omnem clerum, ut Cenomanensi ecclesiae eligerent episcopum. Illis vero in unum congregates, Wulgrinum, monachum et abbatem, virum prudentem et bonum aedificatorem [elegerunt].” And Bishop Arnald (1065–81): “…clerus et populus Cenomannensis ipsum in episcopum elegerunt.” Actus pontificum Cenomannis in urbe Degentium, ed. Gustave Busson and Ambroise Ledru, Archives historiques du Maine 2 (Le Mans, 1901), pp.  373, 375. Regarding the bishops of Cambrai, we have already discussed the elections of Lietbert and Gerard II; supra pp. 46–47. As translated by Otto Oexhle in “Peace Through Conspiracy,” p. 303. “… inierunt qualiter ejus pravis conatibus obsisterent, nec se ab eo vel quolibet alio injuste opprimi paterentur. Facta itaque conspiratione, quam Communionem vocabant, sese omnes partier sacramentis astringunt, et ipsum Gaudfridum et ceteros ejusdem regionis proceres, quamvis invitos, sacrementis sue conspirationis obligari compellunt.” Actus pontificum Cenomannis, pp. 377–78. Malegam, Sleep of Behemoth, pp. 242–43.



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the work of the later eleventh century, more precisely the critical years from 1075–1122 of imperial–papal schism…”51 Even decades after the Controversy ended, its enabling effect upon municipal enfranchisement was still obvious to Otto of Freising as he traversed the region: In the governing of their cities also, and in the conduct of public affairs, they still imitate the wisdom of the ancient Romans… The long-continued absence of their rulers beyond the Alps has further contributed to this end… for although they boast of living under law, they do not obey the law. They rarely or never receive their ruler with respect… they do not obey the decrees he issues by virtue of his legal power, unless they are made to feel his authority by the presence of his great army.52

While the long-term inspirations and large-scale considerations which underpinned French and Italian communal development differed, the immediate circumstances of their creation were usually more similar than not: they represented a means of popular facilitation of conflict resolution. Take, for instance, this narrative of the establishment of the Piacenza commune in 1090: the tearful knights, moved by charity and piety, realizing their own wickedness and insanity, weeping and lamenting said aloud: Peace! Peace! Likewise, the people striking and beating their chests with their fists, recognizing their own wickedness and foolishness, called out in a loud voice: Peace, Peace!... and the soldiers exiting the city, going toward the people with lamenting and beating [of chests], each seized one another to exchange kisses… And, thus entering into the city, there was concord and peace among them throughout the entire city and district of Piacenza.53

Similarly, at the establishment of the commune of Milan in 1095 “the nobles and people took up the Cross, in devotion to the calling of the Church. Feuds were put aside; and a wondrous peace was made through the streets

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53

Jones, Italian City-State, p. 134. As translated by Charles C. Mierow in The Deeds of Frederick Barbarossa (New York, 1953), pp. 127–28. “In civitatum quoque dispositione ac rei publicae conservatione antiquorum adhuc Romanorum imitantur sollertiam… iuvantur ad hoc… principum in Transalpinis manere assuetorum absentia… cum legibus se vivere glorientur, legibus non obsecuntur. Nam principem… vix aut numquam reverenter suscipiunt vel ea quae secundum legum integritatem sancciverit obedienter excipiunt, nisi eius multi militis astipulatione coacti sentiant auctoritatem.” Otto of Freising, Ottonis et Rahewini gesta Friderici I. imperatoris, ed. Georg Waitz, MGH SS 46 (Hanover, 1912), pp. 116–17. “…milites comoti misericordia et pietate, cognoscentes nequitiam et dementiam eorum, gementes et plorantes et lacrimabili voce dicentes: Pax, pax! Similiter populares plagentes et pectora eorum manibus percucientes, cognoscentes nequitiam et stultitiam eorum, alta voce dicebant: Pax, pax!... Et exientes milities de civitate, euntes versus populum plagendo et gemendo, inter se ad invicem cepit alter alium osculari… et sic intrantes in civitatem, concordia et pax voce fuit inter eos per universam civitatem et destrictum Placiente.” Iohannis Codagnelli, Annales Placentini Guelfi, ed. Georgius Heinricus Pertz, MGH SS 18 (Hanover, 1883), pp. 411–12.

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which endured for many years.”54 In Italian chronicles we often see a stronger emphasis on collaboration and how milites and populus become one citizen body, and they are often portrayed as equals; unlike at Cambrai and Le Mans, oaths are exchanged rather than extracted at Piacenza and Milan.55 Kiril Petkov argues that a common desire for peace led to inter-class cooperation in early Italian communes with common gestures; often as simple as a kiss. He relates how urban factions, once having established city-wide peace, created personal investment through the liability of oaths of self-obligation and then worked out functioning mechanisms of government through civic representation. Through this process, urban citizens essentially “created a commonwealth ex nihilo.”56 We must also remember how symbolic kisses and embraces seal peacemaking in Italy as opposed to less personal swearing of secret oaths that often underpins the French communes. While this may relate to cultural differences, these examples imply that the Italian sources are less hostile regarding interclass collusion than their French counterparts. One reason for this may be that our French sources were often writing contemporaneously and their lives were often more directly impacted in negative ways by the communards,57 while the Italian sources here are two centuries distant and seemingly a bit nostalgic. Nonetheless, the Italian chroniclers reflected a tradition which idealized its Roman republican heritage: a heritage which the communal movement seemed to echo. Yet how close to the res publica were these cities? First, the actual character of communal liberty varied greatly between cities and regions. While some cities enjoyed almost complete autonomy and/or relatively republican governance, others rapidly devolved into closed aristocratic oligarchies. Taking Venice, Genoa, or Pisa as examples, the communal establishment and nobility were virtually synonymous; popular involvement was minimal, eventually amounting to little more than ceremonial acclamation of the oligarchy’s decisions.58 Yet many communes enjoyed a far greater vertical distribution of power,and socially composite citizen bodies where milites, and pedites, nobles and commoners, could meet on more egalitarian terms to debate, acclaim and even (during what Jones describes as a “brief pre-consular period”) formulate major decisions.59 Note how this spectrum of communal popular involvement, ranging from actual voting to symbolic group acclama54

55

56 57 58 59

“…ad devotionem provocati Ecclesiae, assumerserunt Crucem Nobiles partier, & Populares. Injuriae sunt relaxatae; per vias & mirabilis pax facta est, quae pluribus annis duravit.” Galvano Fiammo, Manipulus Florum, RIS 11:627. It should be noted that this arguably stems in part from nostalgic Italian chroniclers drawing parallels between contemporary events and the discord of the orders in the early Roman republic. Kiril Petkov, The Kiss of Peace: Ritual, Self, and Society in the High and Late Medieval West (Boston, 2003), p. 280. For example, Guibert de Nogent chronicling the early twelfth-century violence in Laon: Autobiographie, pp. 165–68. Jones, Italian City-State, p. 145. Jones, Italian City-State, p. 145.



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tion, strongly reflects the trends observed in contemporary canonical election processes, reflecting a shift in empowerment representative of the era in general. Johnson, in describing the commune of Rome (mid twelfth century) argues radical reformers like Arnold thought the movement a necessary overturning of the alliance between church and state: an unhealthy, unnatural “band-aid” solution to post-Roman chaos whose time – if it had one – had certainly passed. Now was the time to restore the ancient and secular res publica.60 The severity of later papal–imperial efforts to crush both Arnold and the Eternal City commune are emblematic of how truly dangerous the movement would become to existing power structures – especially when it reached the symbolic epicenter of power itself, Rome. In terms of acquiring a limited political voice and training in facilitation of conflict resolution, communes represent the climax of our pre-crusade investigation of empowerment. Let us now look at how the French and Italian masses who took up the cross applied the lessons of home to the war abroad. The Choosing of Leaders on Crusade During the expedition, individual leadership proved to be the least effective and least commonly used method; nevertheless, both the attempts to establish it and the willingness to follow it demonstrate one significant aspect of popular empowerment. In discussing individual leadership, we must first consider the spiritual guide for the expedition, a position originally created at Clermont. The sole candidate proposed was, unsurprisingly, nominated by Urban. Nevertheless, Adhemar of Le Puy’s confirmation was debated rationally in assembly and acclaimed, ultimately, by all present. Robert the Monk, abbot of St Remi and writer of the crusade’s most widely circulated chronicle, here provides his version of the process: So all the lay returned home, whilst on the following day Pope Urban convened the College of Bishops. Once they were in session he sought their views on whom he should put at the head of such a large number of prospective pilgrims… all unanimously chose the Bishop [Adhemar] of Le Puy …with the blessing of the Pope and the whole Council.61

Adhemar’s appointment proved highly successful; the constancy of his spiritual strength and guidance was undoubtedly a key factor during some of the expedition’s most dire moments. Unfortunately for his compatriots, he died two-thirds of the way through the crusade, and his position was never effectively refilled 60 61

Johnson, Arnold of Brescia, p. 112. As translated by Carol Sweetenham, History of the First Crusade: Historia Iherosolimitana. (London, 2005), p. 82–83. “Ad sua itaque reversus est unusquisque laicorum; et Urbanus papa in crastinum residere fecit conventum Episcoporum. Quibus residentibus, accepit consilium quem praeposuisset tante multitudini peregrinari cupientium… Universi vero elegerunt Podiensem episcopum… cum benedictione domini pape ac totius concilii…” Robert the Monk, Historia Iherosolimitana, ed. D. Kempf and M. G. Bull (Woodbridge, 2013), p. 8.

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due to infighting over potential candidates, investiture authority and the question of Antioch’s possession: a microcosm of sorts on crusade of the inconsistency and factionalism inherent to canonical elections back in Europe. Caution, of course, must be exercised when reading any particular account, for each chronicler had his own subliminal biases, individual agendas and imperfect memories. Robert, for example, states the assembly praeposuisset their own candidates and then elegerunt one man; an uncritical assessment of his version alone might lead us to think that Adhemar was chosen in a completely open forum akin to a modern American electoral caucus. Some chroniclers, however, don’t mention any involvement by the assembly. Guibert, for example, simply states “…to the Bishop of Le Puy he [Urban] entrusted leadership over the expedition.”62 Given Guibert’s typical scornful disposition towards the populus, however, it is not likely he would have highlighted their role. Likely, the truth lies somewhere in between. Nevertheless, given that all our chroniclers present the tone of the overall council as an open exchange of ideas, with Urban as the ringmaster, the evidence implies that while he certainly preselected Adhemar, there was at least some level of popular discussion regarding the matter. Urban himself, in fact, only briefly mentions Adhemar’s election once, while writing to supporters in Flanders in December 1095; he uses the term constituimus (we have appointed) in reference to the selection. The pope is, of course, using the “royal we,” not only here but throughout the entire letter; as such, it would be unwise to read too much into his words in this incidental mention in a rather brief letter, one way or the other.63 Yet in a similarly themed epistle to his supporters in Bologna, Urban does go out of his way to highlight the collective authority at Clermont behind the crusade indulgence, if not Adhemar’s appointment. He promises that sins will be forgiven “…as much by our [the pope’s] authority as by that of nearly all the archbishops and bishops of Gaul…”64 Given the shakiness of Urban’s support in Bologna (due to the ongoing struggle with anti-pope Clement III) it can be argued that he naturally wished to stress the conciliar authority backing the crusade to prevent questions of his legitimacy from impacting recruitment. Whatever his motivation, Urban himself is nevertheless here recognizing the collective, representative and legitimate nature of a major component of his crusade agenda. There is no reason to believe that if he wanted this component to be viewed as collective, he wouldn’t want Adhemar’s elevation to be seen in a similar light. As regards leadership, the successful choice of Adhemar was certainly never replicated on the secular side. Oddly enough, at least two of the chroniclers (and 62

63 64

As translated by Robert Levine, The Deeds of God through the Franks (Middlesex, 2008), p. 41. “…Podiensis urbis episcopo…curam super eadem expiditione regenda contulit…” Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, p. 117. For the full text of Urban’s letter to the Flemish, see: H. Hagenmeyer, Die Kreuzzugsbriefe aus den Jahren 1088–1100 (Innsbruck, 1902), p. 136. “…tam nostra quam omnium paene archiepiscoporum et episcoporum qui in Gallis… auctoritate…” Hagenmeyer, Die Kreuzzugsbriefe, p. 137.



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his own letter home) state that Stephen of Blois – one of the princes highest in birth yet poorest in experience and, as events proved, endurance – was chosen as overall commander.65 Despite the conflicting reports, France believes this event did occur, but given the limited textual evidence, he admits that the nature of his authority may be impossible to pin down.66 Stephen, in any case, deserted the crusade soon thereafter. Nonetheless, a brief examination of the election will provide valuable context to our remaining investigation. The conflicting reports about Stephen’s election each list different processes and/or groups of voters by which he was named commander. Guibert claims “the entire holy army… made him general and governor for themselves.”67 The Gesta Francorum, by contrast, says it was “all our leaders” who had elected him commander-in-chief.68 Finally, Stephen himself claims: “For all our princes, with the common consent of the whole army, against my own wishes, have made me up to the present time the leader, chief and director of their whole expedition.”69 Not unlike Adhemar’s elevation, we see conflicting selectors: Guibert claims the entire expedition, tota illa sancta militia, picked him, while the Anonymous claims that only the princely council, omnes nostri maiores, chose. Again, the truth likely lies somewhere in between; Stephen’s own claim – that the princes chose him with the concilium of all – seems to make the most sense. Whether concilium here is best translated as “advice” (i.e., the princes consulted the army prior to making a decision) or “consent / acclaim” (the army simply ratified the princes’ decision after the fact) makes a significant difference – but is, unfortunately, difficult to guess. As an epilogue to our discussion of individual leadership, we should examine the elevation of Godfrey at the end of the expedition. As usual, the chroniclers offer conflicting versions regarding the manner of his selection. We do, however, have a few scattered clues that, taken together, offer a rough narrative. As regards the length of the selection process, using the date of Godfrey’s elevation (Friday, July 22) and the date the process began (Sunday, July 17), we are able to determine the election took about five days.70 It was certainly no openand-shut or fixed election; we know from Albert of Aachen, German chronicler 65 66 67 68

69

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According to John France’s best guess, in the spring of 1098. For more, see John France, Victory in the East: A Military History of the First Crusade (Cambridge, 1999), p. 255. France, Victory in the East, p. 255. “…eum tota illa sancta militia…dictatorem sibi ac magistrum effecerit.” Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, p. 132. As translated by Rosalind Hill. “Imprudens… Stephanus Carnotensis comes quem omnes nostri maiores elegerant ut esset ductor nostrorum…” Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolyminatorum, ed. and trans. Rosalind Hill (London, 1962), p. 63. As translated by Dana C. Munro, “Letters of the Crusaders Written from the Holy Land,” in Translations and Reprints from the Original Sources of European History, 1.4 (Philadelphia, 1897), p. 5. “Nam cuncti principes nostri, communi consilio totius exercitus, me dominum suum atque omnium suorum actuum provisorem atque gubernatorem, etiam me nolente, usque ad tempus constituerunt.” Hagenmeyer, Die Kreuzzugsbriefe, p. 149. Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, ed. and trans. Susan B. Edgington (New York, 2007), pp. 220–21, note 48.

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and ironically the source friendliest to Godfrey, that the title was first offered to Raymond of Toulouse (and possibly others) before Godfrey reluctantly accepted it.71 Thus we have a situation, unlike Clermont, where at least two candidates were put up for election without a pre-determined one easily coming out on top. How involved was the general assembly of crusaders in the election? Raymond of Aguilers, a chaplain and first-hand chronicler offering the Provençal viewpoint, relates how the question of even electing a king at all was first proposed in June 1099, prior to the city’s capture. Exactly who is directing this meeting, however, is unclear; in the Hills’ translation they simply follow Raymond’s language (habuimus) with “we” and “assembly.” The manner in which he speaks of the princes’ arguments among themselves (quia principes male inter se) and then discusses the clergy’s opposition to electing a king at all (quibus ab episcopis et a clero responsum est) implies that the gathering was some mixture of the populus and clergy, perhaps (though unlikely) without any princely involvement. In any case, when the city finally fell, according to Raymond, the princes themselves heeded the “assembly’s” earlier advice and elected a king.72 Robert the Monk gives a more detailed view of the procedure, giving it a more democratic cast: “Godfrey is elected king by all…Duke Godfrey was chosen by unanimous agreement of all in a clear vote and with general agreement [all emphasis added]…”73 Robert – using three separate sets of descriptive verbiage – emphasizes the fact that Godfrey’s election was a process involving all the crusaders, democratic in nature and universal in approval.74 Fulcher of Chartres, chaplain in Baldwin’s army and first-hand chronicler, echoes a similar outlook in his own words: “…all the people of the Lord’s army chose [him] prince of the kingdom…”75 Finally, the Anonymous hints toward a more popular election, too: “They chose duke Godfrey as [the city’s] ruler…”76 Taken together, this evidence allows us to conclude several things about this election. First, if Raymond of Aguilers is to be believed, some combination of the people and clergy (and possibly princes?) met and proposed a future regal election. Second, when it occurred, it took about five days to actually choose, which means there was substantial debate; whether this was among the princes only, or open to the clergy and people, is unclear (although Raymond of Aguilers hints towards a princes-only closed-door meeting). Finally, despite conflicting accounts, Godfrey’s elevation seems to have been a joint endeavor. Most likely, 71 72 73 74 75

76

Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, p. 231. Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, RHC Occ. 3, p. 121. As translated by Carol Sweetenham, p. 202. “…communi igitur decreto omnium, pari voto generalique assensu, dux Godefridus eligitur…” Robert the Monk, Historia Iherosolimitana, p. 101. We must, of course, also attribute some of Robert’s enthusiastically democratic description to making the most of an opportunity to legitimize Godfrey / Baldwin’s claims to the throne. As translated by Frances Rita Ryan in A History of the Expedition to Jerusalem, 1095–1127 (Knoxville, 1969), p. 124. “…regni principem omnis populus dominici exercitus… elegit …” Fulcher of Chartres, Historia Hierosolymitana, ed. H. Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913), p. 308. As translated by Rosalind Hill. “…elegerunt ducem Godefridum principem civitatis…” Gesta Franocrum, p. 93.



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as Albert reports, he was chosen following debate and voting amongst the princes – then presented to the masses for acclamation. As Simon John argues, beginning with the departure from Arqa in May 1099, it was Godfrey who began to act more in accordance with the will of the populus; therefore, not only did popular misbehavior all but vanish after his coming to the forefront, but he was eventually elected ruler, too.77 Whether or not an actual voice or hand “vote” was taken, the will of the people was clearly channeled into his appointment. In the cases of these three leaders, can links be drawn between changes back in Europe and the manner of leader selection during the First Crusade? Taking Adhemar first, while it is impossible to determine Urban’s motivations for staging an open forum on the matter, let us consider what might have factored in. The commune movement was rapidly gaining traction in both Italy and France; during his papacy alone, social upheavals had recently driven the citizens of Piacenza (where he had recently hosted a council) and seemingly Pisa too78 into the fold; Milan was moving in that direction, too. Urban certainly understood the growing popular power and how Gregory’s (and his own) reform policies had encouraged it. As noted above, he had to deal with Manasses and the volatile Cambrai electorate during the council itself, so the factionalism of contemporary canonical elections was undoubtedly on his radar. To place this into perspective, we should look for a moment how the entourage of Manasses might have reacted, having come there over a disputed diocesan election, if now this new and unparalleled position were to be simply “appointed” without popular input. Thus, Urban wisely understood that arbitrarily imposing a spiritual leader upon this expedition might have made sense a century earlier but, given recent history, ignoring the populus could be not only damaging to morale, but even disastrous. As such, he presented the candidate and gave the assembly its say. Regarding the secular elevations of Stephen and Godfrey, we may consider two things. First, many crusaders who voted for or acclaimed these individuals had likely participated in canonical elections back in Europe and possibly during the expedition; the crusade occurred at virtually the apex of the free canonical election movement. Some had even possibly been present at Clermont and had themselves acclaimed Adhemar; why should these occasions differ? Others would have originated from communes like Cambrai, Le Mans, Piacenza or their environs where they had had a real taste of political power. Given the wide variances of experiences and the hodgepodge nature of the expedition, these pockets of political awareness might have been diluted in the bigger picture, save for the tribalism present throughout the crusade. As such, the political energy and zeal formerly spent on a particular episcopal candidate or some communal faction back home could now be channeled into advocating for one’s princely leader. While the actual elections of Stephen and Godfrey were, arguably, of minimal consequence themselves, these types of events certainly 77 78

Simon John, Godfrey of Bouillon: Duke of Lower Lotharingia, Ruler of Latin Jerusalem, c.1060–1100 (New York, 2018), p. 186. See Oexhle, “Peace Through Conspiracy,” p. 301.

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offered morale-improving outlets for the populus (which was, in virtually every aspect, at the mercy of the crusade) to get its voice heard. During the crusade, the election of bishops came up, too. Riley-Smith notes how in choosing Albara’s, in October 1098, the absence of the princely council (aside from Raymond) allowed the ordinary crusaders to successfully demand an open canonical election. Despite the count’s objections, the election and popular acclamation went forward, and his candidate entered office under the influence of reform ideas. Yet such egalitarian procedures were not always employed; later, when filling the bishopric of Ramla-Lydda, the full weight of the council enabled the princes to circumvent the electoral process and install their own candidate.79 As he states, the crusaders were the product of the Gregorian Reformation era; those from districts where canonical elections had become commonplace (northern France) were probably the loudest voices demanding them on crusade, too. Yet, the resistance of Raymond – as well as Riley-Smith’s implication that the bishop of Ramie-Lydda wasn’t so democratically elected – well demonstrates the unevenness of the reform movement and the continued aristocratic resistance to excessive popular power both back in Europe and on crusade. Robert the Monk, in discussing the dual elections of Godfrey and Arnulf at Jerusalem, inadvertently draws another parallel between the concepts: “It was also appropriate that having properly elected a proper temporal ruler, they should choose a spiritual leader in the same way. So, they elected a cleric called Arnulf who was well versed in divine and human law.”80 Robert’s use of pari modo (in the same way) here implies a certain interchangeability of process and concept between canonical voting and secular elections; the fact he also notes Arnulf’s dual capabilities in divina et humana lege (human and divine law) subtly emphasizes the overlapping nature of the two duties themselves. Second, given the fact both were elected fairly late into the crusade, it is safe to link the people’s involvement with their selection to the fact they had been voting and debating in small committees and mass gatherings throughout the expedition up to the time of these elections, which brings us to our next investigation: consultative leadership. Consultative Leadership and Interclass Cooperation on Crusade The princes, dominant in terms of wealth, position, social prestige and control of the common fund, were of course the natural leaders of the expedition; their cooperation was the glue which held the very diverse elements of the crusade 79 80

Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusade and The Idea of Crusading (New York, 2003), p. 87; Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 266. As translated by Carol Sweetenham, p. 203. “Congruum quoque deinceps erat, ut qui sibi gubernatorem corporum decenter et decentem elegerant, rectorem animarum pari modo proponerent Elegerunt itaque quendam clericum, nomine Arnulfum, divina et humana lege bene eruditum.” Robert the Monk, Historia Iherosolimitana, p. 101.



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together at the top.81 In essence, the council was a representative body, with each prince taking his own contingents’ interests into account while simultaneously acting on behalf of the whole. Yet, it did not act in a vacuum; the princes are often mentioned consulting their retinues, seeking clerical advice or putting matters to the general assembly for debate. The Gesta Francorum for example, is rife with examples of the princes “taking counsel with their men”: for example, a passage describing Raymond and Bohemond’s planning process for the defense of newly-won Antioch: Then Bohemond took counsel with his men as to how he could garrison and victual the citadel on top of the mountain. Likewise the count of St Gilles took counsel with his men as to how he could garrison and victual the palace of Yaghi Siyan the amir, and the tower which is over the Bridge Gate (which lies on the side of the city nearest to St Simeon’s Port) ...82

Here is an ideal example of how two key leaders, emerging after an important decision had been made in council, consulted suis hominibus as to the best way to execute it. Another such example, descriptively exemplifying a prince’s confidence in his retinue, is found when the Anonymous describes Raymond’s decision to reject homage to Alexius: “Therefore the count took the advice of his friends and swore that he would respect the life and honor of Alexius… ”83 Raymond of Aguilers, in virtually identical words, also notes Count Raymond’s consulting of his retinue with “Consilio itaque accepto a suis…”84 Conor Kostick has assembled an in-depth list of such occasions, but largely emphasizes the standard hierarchical nature of such council-based leadership; thus it should be understood as an advisory relationship rather than a shared command structure. Yet he also argues that the general assemblies – involved in decision making for the entire crusade – were, by contrast, an atmosphere which implied equality of authority amongst the participants.85 While I agree with Kostick’s analysis here, it also must be pointed out that the hierarchical model was only part of the equation on crusade, as we will examine shortly. Tyerman also comes to similar conclusions, highlighting the advisory/consultative role of assemblies while cautioning not to read too much “proto-democracy” into the words of more populus-cheering chroniclers like Raymond of 81 82

83

84 85

France, Victory in the East, pp. 40–41. As translated by Rosalind Hill. “Tunc accepit Bohemondus consilium cum suis hominibus, quomodo muniret castrum de alta montenea, hominibus et victu. Similiter comes Sancti Egidii accepit consilium cum suis, quomodo muniret palatium Cassiani ammiralii et turrim quae est super portam pontis qui est ex parte portus Sancti Symeonis…” Gesta Franocrum, p. 76. As translated by Rosalind Hill. “Igitur comes accepto consilio a suis, Alexio viam et honorem iuravit…” Gesta Franocrum, p. 13. I don’t agree with Hill’s translation of this line as “friends” (instead of “men”) because this implies he is consulting with his peers – who in fact had all sworn fealty – rather than the subordinates within his retinue, which makes more sense contextually. Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 238. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 256.

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Aguilers.86 It has also been suggested by some scholars – Timo Kirschberger most prominently – that several chroniclers had a propensity to emphasize the solidarity of the crusader masses, such biases resulting from ethnic/regional (Jerusalem/Antioch) influence, dynastic loyalty or attempts to further ennoble the expedition by focusing upon divinely-inspired unity.87 Although we must carefully take account of each author’s peculiar circumstances, many aspects vital to our current study are largely unaffected by such considerations, due to their universality throughout the chronicles. All of the narratives, for example, clearly demonstrate a rift between the princes producing a unifying effect upon the masses during the period of greatest popular activity (winter of 1098–99). Furthermore, there are sufficient examples of popular activity found correspondingly (or even uniquely) in Kirschberger’s less-populist “Antiochene” sources to negate any blanket theories that more populist-friendly “Jerusalemite” chroniclers created empowerment through hyperbole.88 Given the propensity of the chroniclers to use relatively vague Latin terms like suis hominibus or even just suis it is difficult to gauge how deep, vertically, this advisory relationship went down the chain. Undoubtedly, for routine advice, the princes would have consulted fellow senior-noble advisors – not large assemblies of their men. Yet, given the availability of more traditionally aristocratic terms like milites, optimates, maiores or potentes (as but a few examples) I am inclined to think that the presence of such vague words may refer to larger, more varied groups of their followers.89 This argument, combined with the proclivity of the crusaders to form popular assemblies, implies that the princes probably held advisory committees (or perhaps even small assemblies as sounding boards) prior to or following their own decisions in the council.90 Despite the consistent military success enjoyed throughout so many sieges and battles, it is nonetheless difficult to imagine that the pedites and populus of the crusade so rapidly crossed the trifunctional boundaries and earned the trust of the princes and their immediate underlings overnight. Some of the events 86 87

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Tyerman, “‘Principes et Populus,’” p. 3. For a comprehensive treatment of such consultative occasions detailed in the chronicles, see pp. 9–10. See chapter 6 of Timo Kirschberger, Erster Kreuzzug und Ethnogenese: In novam formam commutatus – Ethnogenetische Prozesse im Fürstentum Antiochia und im Königreich Jerusalem (Göttingen, 2015), pp. 175–266. As examples of popular empowerment – found uniquely in the Antiochene sources – one might consider Peter Tudebode’s version of Stephen of Valence’s dream (see p. 54) or Ralph of Caen’s relating of the golden savior image debate (see p. 41). John France disagrees here, arguing these terms likely only referred to more senior members of their retinue. I feel that given the rise of communes and guilds, back in Europe, senior members with such leadership experience may have found inclusion in such consultative decision making. Also, for a fuller look at the vast terminology used regarding the princes and other noble elements, see Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 213–42. Riley-Smith agrees too that the princes would have regularly sought the advice of leading followers in petty councils and occasionally that of the whole host in general ones. See The First Crusade, p. 86–87.



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of the previous century may have helped the populus adapt more successfully to the new roles the crusade forced upon them. First, we know from the later stages of the Peace movement that bishops were militarizing the populus for peace maintenance in at least two regions (Bourges and Beaudry/Soissons) and potentially others as well (e.g., Bréval). Unfortunately, given the chroniclers’ hostility regarding these events, it is difficult to gauge the extent of this phenomenon. Nevertheless, given the willingness of cives to fight so boldly on behalf of communes like Le Mans and Cambrai, barely two generations later, I would argue there is more to the rearming of the French lower classes by the middle of the century than the extant sources reveal, especially in former hotbeds of the militant Peace movement or emerging communal districts. In any case, the factional fighting and communal warfare we do know of likely provided segments of non-milites with military experience that would ease their transition into the hard fighting to come on crusade; the only real question is to what degree. Perhaps even more valuable than the military training, however, was the interclass cooperation that the Peace and communal movements provided. Although we have already examined how the milites and populus fought side by side, as at Bourges or Bréval, such military cooperation would have been necessary in the urban communes as well. The foundation of the communal institutions were oaths of loyalty and defense which the members mutually pledged to one another; we do not frequently read of communal oaths being differentiated by class – as in the oaths of fealty common in contemporary hierarchical relationships. Philip Jones succinctly describes this cooperative phenomenon as it occurred throughout Italy where more conuiratio-friendly91 chroniclers tend to emphasize the harmonious nature of the communal bonds: …communes seem in general to have resulted from compromise, a “reallocation” or “resettlement” of power, largely pacific, within a single social order… with revealing reticence [Italian sources] refer in general to action, not by groups or corporations (least of all by guilds), but by whole communities: cives, homines, cunctus, or universus populus…92

In other words, the men – nobiles, milites, populus – from strong communal districts would have departed on crusade with more experience setting aside class differences to achieve a common goal. Examples of close partnership, such as the informal alliance of the pauperes and milites at Ma’arrat, beg the question: were such occasions temporary alliances of convenience – forged solely under the duress of circumstances – or had enough of these men interacted in 91

92

Communal oaths were often described with the Latin term conuiratio, which can be variously translated as alliance, oath-agreement or, as often-hostile chroniclers intended, a nefarious conspiracy. Jones, Italian City-State, p. 141.

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peace and communal activities back home to collude easily on crusade when the need arose?93 Consider for a moment the composition of the armies which engaged in this particular “cross-class” mutiny. First, Raymond’s Provençal army contained large sections from the duchy of Aquitaine,94 the French district with the longest and most sustained Peace tradition. The men in his army, even if the Peace movement proper had faded, were the grandchildren of the generations who attended those great councils earlier in the century. Undoubtedly, taking into account the movement’s long duration there, long-term effects had taken root among the succeeding generations of milites and the populus. Godfrey, and many other Lotharingian nobles, had participated in the 1082 Peace assembly at Liège, which had inspired other local dioceses such as Cologne to follow suit.95 Thus the German contingent also contained personnel directly familiar with the Peace. Each army likely contained Italian contingents, too. Raymond’s route east traveled directly through Lombardy; Bohemond’s, of course, came from southern Italy. Liberty-minded cives of Italian communes like Pisa, Piacenza, Lucca and Milan (if they hadn’t joined the northern French contingent during its Italian sojourn) were likely embedded within these forces. Unfortunately, given the lack of crusade narratives by northern Italians, it is difficult to guess the size and placement of these contingents; yet, clues hint that their participation was not negligible. In his letter to the Bolognese, Urban himself relates how “… we have heard that many of you have seized the desire to go on to Jerusalem, which you should know is most pleasing to us.”96 The assistance of fleets from both Genoa and Pisa – the latter as large as 120 ships led by its archbishop, no less – speaks to wide support in those cities, too.97 The extant letter from people of Lucca to the Christian world, praising the crusading exploits of a certain local hero Bruno, implies a civic pride and dedication to the cause which could hardly have been limited to the single citizen it praises.98 The cumulative effect of enough empowered individuals in the right places could certainly facilitate cooperative resistance. Finally, the necessity of distributing the council’s orders to the crusader masses would not have been quite so simple as back in Europe. The great princes could obviously depend on preexisting social hierarchies to direct the lower nobiles / milites who fell within 93 94 95 96 97

98

See pp. 71–72, below, for more on the events at Ma’arrat. Thomas Asbridge, The First Crusade: A New History (New York, 2004), p. 94. See Simon’s detailed discussion concerning Godfrey’s reform roots and his relationship to the Peace of Liège, in Godfrey of Bouillon, pp. 66–67. “…nonnullos vestros in Hierusalem eundi desiderium concepisse audivimus, quod nobis plurimum complacere noveritis.” Hagenmeyer, Die Kreuzzugsbriefe, p. 137. For more see Christopher J. Marshall, “The Crusading Motivation of the Italian City Republics in the Latin East, 1096–1104,” in The Experience of Crusading 1: Western Approaches, ed. by Marcus Bull and Norman Housley (Cambridge, 2003), pp. 60–79. Hagenmeyer, Die Kreuzzugsbriefe, pp. 166–67. For further information on Italian participation in the crusade in general, see Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders (Cambridge, 1997).



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their sphere back home. Yet this hierarchy didn’t apply to everyone; Kostick notes that, even as late as 1098, many pauperes had marched for over two years independent of any explicitly lordship-style command.99 These transient contingents of the populus – who loosely attached themselves to one prince or another, due to ethnic or linguistic commonalities, or were at the “right place, right time” to be picked up by a particular army – presented a more complex problem. Obviously, some form of “middle management” would have been required for both their logistical maintenance and operational command. In the former case, apart from the occasional booty available, or princely charity, the sources typically point to clerical oversight and care for the spiritual and physical welfare of the crusader masses. Usually Adhemar of Le Puy and, following his death, sometimes Peter the Hermit, are identified as ultimately responsible.100 Militarily, the sources are vague; exactly who supervised the unaffiliated pedites and pauperes (among others) of the populus in a military capacity is difficult to pin down. The sources, of course, mention dozens of lesser nobiles who likely filled such roles on various occasions; yet even this is a guess. Overall, they are silent on how exactly orders trickled down from the princely council to these individuals. While it is not within the scope of this work to answer this largely-untouchedby-scholars question, it is my hope to offer one potential piece to the puzzle. Consider first the phenomenon of the Tafurs, a group extremely poor unarmed crusaders described by Guibert.101 France has argued dismounted knights would have augmented and stiffened quasi-autonomous bands like these and thereby created formidable infantry units within the greater crusade.102 Kostick echoes this too, stating that this exemplified how a large body of the unaffiliated poor could organize itself into a noteworthy part of the expedition.103 Given these conclusions, that even the poorest crusaders had the ability to organize and select a leader for themselves, the question is raised: what of the other innumerable populus who were perhaps less impoverished yet equally unaffiliated? Kostick argues that other such groups seem to have existed, as exemplified in this passage from Albert of Aachen: 99 100 101

102 103

Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 135. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 268. There has been some scholarly debate on whether the Tafurs were an actual historical, distinctive group present on the crusade. Given the fact they are mentioned in detail only by the unhistorical Chanson d’Antioche and only in passing by Guibert de Nogent, there is certainly room for doubt. I tend to agree with Conor Kostick and Norman Daniel, who argue for their existence with extensive layers of myth added to their legend. Yet, even if they are merely an allegory representing that which shocked the chroniclers most about the pauperes, the fact that such attributes (electing a leader, rejecting princely authority, maintaining an autonomous group identity outside the traditional hierarchies) could be reasonably assigned to the poorest, most vulgar elements is demonstrative of just how empowered the masses had likely become at all levels. For more on the authenticity and role of the Tafurs, see: Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 83, and Norman Daniel, The Arabs and Medieval Europe (London, 1979), p. 133. France, Victory in the East, p. 287. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 116.

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So, with this very serious scarcity afflicting the people of the living God, many wandered to and fro, taking themselves away into all the regions of Antioch to look for food, three hundred or two hundred acting together for defense against Turkish attacks and for fair division of all things they managed to find or capture.104

Albert here alludes to informal bands forming for sustenance and defense, with no mention of clerical or noble oversight. Its stands to reason that many of the populus – particularly those from districts with strong peace, reform or commune traditions – had sufficient independent zeal and adequate political experience to organize and choose their own leaders. Unlike the eccentric Tafurs’ ‘king,’ (a former knight), such leaders probably affiliated themselves to particular nobles as necessity required. The frequency with which pre-crusade French, German and Italian cities expelled bishops, factionalized over elections and challenged hierarchical authority, both secular and sacred, hints that urbanized crusaders would not just blindly follow clerical leadership imposed upon them en masse: least of all the repeatedly fallen-from-grace Peter the Hermit. While the inordinate savagery of the Tafurs obviously caught the chroniclers’ attentions, it is likely the latter would not have found obscure ground- to mid-level popular leadership a topic worthy of their literary attention. This is not unfamiliar even in modern popular culture; how often have movies, television or popular histories focused upon the modern equivalent – noncommissioned officers (NCOs) – as compared with officers? Nevertheless, when it came to mass movements of the people, the narratives are far more generous in their content; let us now move on to those popular assemblies. The Proactive Popular Assemblies We have already discussed the presence of advisory committees and localized gatherings within the princes’ own contingents, but it was the mass crusader assemblies that most drew the attention of chroniclers.105 The presence of that voice, throughout the expedition, is usually painted by the chroniclers in two distinct shades: proactive and deliberative, or reactionary and disruptive. Whatever the character of their conduct, when the populus of the crusade acted en masse, it was flexing its will either to force action by the council or to facilitate conflict resolution within it. When acting in a proactive capacity, the assemblies are described as serving multiple roles in a complimentary relationship with the princely council, one of 104

105

As translated by Susan B. Edgington. “Sic itaque gravissima penuria cogente populum Dei vivi, plurimi vagabantur, se subtrahentes in omnem regionem Antiochiead querendas escas, trecenti aut ducenti conspirati ad defensionem contra Turcorum assultus, et ad equam divisionem omnium rerum quas reperire aut rapere possent.” Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, pp. 220–21. It should be noted at this juncture that the chroniclers tend to focus upon the unity of purpose among the crusaders and soften fault lines, too.



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which typically moves the expedition forward in some positive fashion. Perhaps the most noteworthy of those roles was deliberating and deciding upon matters of extraordinary importance to all: those of religious significance. The chroniclers seem to hint that some matters were of such spiritual weight that they might only be settled through the collective voice of thousands; only thus could God’s will truly be interpreted. Recall earlier how it was the assembly that proposed the idea of electing a king for God’s most sacred city well before the event even occurred. Raymond of Aguilers provides another significant example with the spiritual procession around Jerusalem preceding its siege: Following this report… these confidants called a general assembly and spoke as follows… [the prophetic dream and methodology for a procession are hereafter discussed in detail] …the above instruction met with general approval, and an order went out that on the sixth day of the week clergymen with crosses and relics of saints should lead a procession with knights and the able-bodied men following, blowing trumpets, brandishing arms, and marching barefooted.106

From our modern perspective, it is all too easy to gloss over the contemporary importance of such a debate. After three years the crusaders, having finally reached the holiest city in the world, are going to set the spiritual tone for a besieging challenge that, at that juncture, must have appeared all but insurmountable. They are now, in addition, risking God’s wrath by mimicking the ancient Hebrews’ similar procession from scripture, based upon the purported prophetic dreams of one humble priest. Again, we in our modern sensibilities may raise an eyebrow, but to an eleventh-century crusader at the doors of Jerusalem itself, a proposal of such spiritual weight was likely too important to be decided by a council of six or seven mere mortal princes. Tyerman also notes the apparent inadequacy of the princely council’s political resources on some occasions of spiritual import, where only the voice of the masses (acting as a conduit of God’s will) could provide the gravitas necessitated by the moment.107 In yet another instance regarding weighty spiritual matters, Ralph of Caen, a well-educated yet fanciful chronicler who wrote the decidedly pro-Norman Gesta Tancredi, relates how an assembly is convened to correct – in the eyes of God – that which he unapologetically labels the “fraud” of the “holy lance” that Peter Bartholomew claimed to have found buried in the Church of St Peter in Antioch, guided by a vision of St Andrew:

As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem (Philadelphia, 1968), pp. 122–23. “Quumque haec dixisset…coadunaverunt concilium de principibus et de omni populo et dixerunt…Placuerunt haec verba principibus et omni populo et ideo publice jussum est, ut in sexta feria quae in proximo erat, clerici praepararent se ad processionem cum crucibus et sanctorum reliquiis; et milites atque omnes viri fortes sequerentur eo cum tubis et vexillis, atque armati nudi pedibus incederent.” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, pp. 296–97. 107 Tyerman, “‘Principes et Populus’,” pp. 18–19. 106

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After the author of this fraud, Peter, suffered the punishment which he deserved, a new assembly was convened in order to provide a new source of consolation for the army following the discovery of the fraud. The people proposed that an image of the savior be molded from the purest gold… Arnulf was the instigator of this exhortation and he turned his listeners in whatever direction he desired. The bishop of Marturana, who was not much better educated than the common folk and hardly well read, stood by his side in order to extend his right hand over the people in blessing once the sermon was over.108

Again, we see a matter that, if improperly handled, might (in the eyes of fervent crusaders) elicit the wrath of God; especially those believing, like Ralph, that the lance is a fraud and that divine favor must be regained before it is too late. The universal and proletarian nature of these assemblies is often alluded to (likely unintentionally here though) by textual clues. Ralph’s description of the people’s easy persuasion by Arnulf (auditors suos, quocumque volebat, inclinabat) and contempt for the bishop of Marturana’s education (homo paulo rudibus eruditior, et pene sine litteris litteratus) certainly hints these assemblies were not limited by rank or social class. Nevertheless, it should come as no surprise that the populus could be called upon to provide a form of spiritual judgement or approval in such matters. Events like Peter Bartholomew’s ordeal by fire, or the debate between Arnulf and the bishop Marturana, recall the episode at Limoges cathedral. Again we see clerics defending their positions before large audiences. Just like at Limoges or Clermont, the crowd seems to understand the proceedings sufficiently to be inclinabat by Arnulf, even if the chroniclers are a bit skeptical of their capability. Yet, considering their experiences, such as participation in canonical elections or witnessing heresy trials, enough of this populace was sufficiently well-versed to participate actively in such debates. Regarding this event, Tyerman sees it as particularly demonstrative of the chroniclers’ (namely, Raymond of Aguilers’ and Ralph of Caen’s) recognition that the role of the populus in the religious – and, arguably, political – internal organization of the crusade was vital.109 Moving on to the case of the lance itself, Albert of Aachen as well as William of Tyre – the famous, if not always dependable, crusade chronicler writing decades later in the kingdom of Jerusalem – each described how the people had been hesitating back and forth and were split over the authenticity of the lance As translated by Bernard S. Bachrach and David S. Bachrach, The “Gesta Tancredi” of Ralph of Caen: A History of the Normans on the First Crusade (Hampton, 2005), p. 127. “Postquam fraudis commentor Petrus, quam meruit, penam luit, denuo fit conventus, ut elapso cassatae inventionis gaudio, novum succedat solacium. Imago Salvatoris auro ex purissimo effigianda proponitur populo… Hujus igitur exhortationis Arnulfus predicator ipse auditores suos, quocumque volebat, inclinabat. Marthranensis autem episcopus, homo paulo rudibus eruditior et pene sine litteris litteratus, prope astabat ut, expleto sermone, benedictionis insigne super populum dextram extenderet.” Ralph of Caen, Gesta Tancredi, ed. by Edoardo D’Angelo, Corpus Christianorum, Continuato Mediaeualis, 231 (Turnhout, 2011), p. 93. 109 Tyerman, “‘Principes et Populus’,” p. 20. 108



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for a long time.110 Guibert de Nogent takes this idea even further by implicating the plebeculae, a decidedly proletarian term, as the indicting body for Peter. Many people from the lower ranks began to grumble, and, by relentlessly lying, they corrupted those who had believed truly and venerated the lance. They demanded proof of the discovery; they asked that the discovery be tested by divine judgement. The man was compelled to pledge his word to those who were in doubt; he was compelled to offer what they forced from him, merely to deal with their lack of faith.111

Although Guibert seldom misses any opportunity to pour scorn upon the lower classes, there is enough evidence throughout the other narratives to confirm the people’s important role in bringing Bartholomew to judgement (in conjunction with Arnulf and some combination of princes). We must consider the connotations in the verbs he uses here: corrumpunt, compellitur and extorquentur. Guibert was certainly aware, when he wrote the Gesta Dei per Francos, of the religious and political turbulence at Cambrai, such as the Ramihrdus burning and expulsions of various bishops. As with these examples (and, later, in describing events at Laon), his propensity to vividly describe those activities of the populus that he feels inappropriate reveals just how politically active and spiritually involved in affairs they truly were. The crusaders from many French dioceses, following two or three generations of involvement in clerical politics, had become accustomed to their role as enforcers of ecclesiastical honesty and sometimes even doctrinal purity. Clerics who deviated from expectations often fell from grace (Adhemar de Chabannes, Manasses, Peter the Hermit, the bishop of Marturana) while others (Ramihrdus, Peter Bartholomew), under the right circumstances, might pay the ultimate price for their perceived missteps at the hands of the populus. Certainly, if popular assemblies were only held regarding spiritual matters, it might appear that the princes were basically condescending to let the people handle these most “vital” affairs while they themselves conveniently handled the “lesser” concerns of military strategy. This, however, is by no means the case; the assemblies handled affairs of a secular, strategic nature too – although usually in a more supervised, cooperative manner. Consider, for example, the debates over the rights to Antioch. Both before and after its capture, the chroniclers provide striking evidence of a popular role in this ever-divisive controversy among the crusaders. 110

111

William of Tyre, Chronicon, ed. Robert Burchard Constantijn Huygens, Corpus Christianorum, Continuato Mediaeualis, 63 (Turnhout, 1986), p. 366; Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, p. 378. As translated by Robert Levine, The Deeds of God through the Franks, pp.  110–11. “Incipit itaque enormis plebeculæ passim mussi tare frequentia; et eos qui crediderant, et venerari delegerant, verborum suorum sedulo corrumpunt fallacia. Rei repertæ probationes exigunt; repertorem judiciis divinis addicunt. Compellitur ut dubiis vir ille fidem reddat; quæ extorquentur ab ipso, cogitur, solius causa eorum curandæ infidelitatis, ut subeat.” Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, p. 262. Also see Kostick, The Social Structure, pp. 145–46, for further discussion of the Bartholomew ordeal.

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Ralph of Caen details how Bohemond, on the night preceding the final assault, addresses a limited popular assembly, of rather ambiguous composition, and manages to extract oaths confirming his plan for the city’s post-capture sovereignty; a swearing which proceeds according to rank order. Ralph also relates how Bohemond analogizes the necessity of rewarding Antioch’s future conqueror to a less-than-selfless young David, who only fought Goliath after the king promised his daughter in marriage.112 Whether Bohemond’s long oration was actually spoken – or was simply a series of justifications Ralph later felt appropriate to put into his mouth – some parallels are readily visible here. First, as, Tyerman argues, despite Ralph’s rather fanciful narration, he is nonetheless attempting to present a consensual, representative and almost constitutional process at work: one strikingly similar to the oath-swearing ceremonies so pivotal to commune establishment back in Europe.113 Second, the Gesta Tancredi presents Bohemond attempting to sway an assembly using biblical references and emotional appeals, hinting that only the crowd’s intercession might preserve peace among the princes: “It would be better that this city fall as a prize to one… than the lack of this prize weaken our strength…”114 While Tyerman examined the episode through the lens of a commune, I contend it also represents a sort of modified peace council where, oddly enough, it is Bohemond acting in the role of clerical peace keeper (with Adhemar’s collusion?) using theological arguments, oration to a popular assembly, and extracting oaths all in the name of preserving what he viewed to be (soon enough) his property. Ralph’s rather matter-of-fact reporting here hints that his audience back home might not have found such a forum unusual. Later, when the envoys of the Emperor Alexius arrive in camp demanding the return of Antioch, another assembly (again of ambiguous, but apparently broader, composition) considers the matter. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the crusader masses split along fault lines corresponding to their respective princes’ opinions. Nevertheless, logical arguments are presented by the people on the opposing sides, as related by Raymond of Aguilers: Many, among whom was the Count of Saint-Gilles, argued: Let us delay our march for the arrival of Alexius… In contradiction, others argued, “The Emperor has always harmed, deceived, and connived against us… Let us renew our march to Jerusalem… The majority of people agreed with the latter view, but their wishes and the counsel of the princes encountered difficulties.115 112 113 114 115

See Ralph of Caen, Gesta Tancredi, p. 61. Tyerman, “‘Principes et Populus’,” p. 15. As Translated by Bernard S. Bachrach and David S. Bachrach, p. 90. “…melius ipsa civitas illi contingat merces…quam premii expes virtus torpeat...” Ralph of Caen, Gesta Tancredi, p. 61. As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, p. 106. “Dicebant ob ea multi, in quibus comes erat: Exspectemus imperatorem… At vero alii dicebant econtra: Semper nocuit nobis imperator, semper mentitus est, semper adversum nos cogitavit… itineris nos retrahat… Laudavit populus maxime hanc sententiam. Sed… propertea consilia principum et populi vota impediebant.” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 286.



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These events, as narrated by Raymond, demonstrate several interesting points. First, the true power of the people – despite the fact they are, ironically, following their respective princes – is manifestly evident as they seemingly take on a rather major strategic decision from the council. Raymond’s choice of marginalizing diction, regarding the Count of Saint-Gilles (multi in quibus comes erat) underscores the fact that the princes may be nominally in charge, but the true power lies with the masses. Second, Raymond hints that he approves of the mixed system governing the crusade (consilia principum et populi vota) but laments that man’s weakness (exemplified by one prince’s bribery and some people’s acceptance of it) impediebant that good process. Although the chronicler surely has some bias coloring his opinion here, his attempt to present both sides fairly116 gives increased credibility to his overall sentiments. During an earlier mass assembly, at Nicaea, Albert of Aachen relates another instance of collective cooperation: the people great and small were called together and it was announced by general agreement that countless numbers of common people, mounted and on foot, would be sent to the port of Civitot. There were ships… which they would be able to bring across on dry land all the way to the lake of Nicaea from the sea… and placed on the shoulders and necks of the men and horses.117

Not only is a mass assembly summoned, but the plan only moves forward after decretum est communi consilio. The interesting dynamic in play here is that for some decisions, especially one involving the labor of thousands, both the people’s input and consent is sought by the council.118 The fact that the princes seek approval from the mass of crusaders – so early in the expedition – implies an awareness that the populus possessed a sense of empowered entitlement. They were certainly aware of the commune movement back in France. Robert of Normandy, in fact, had both recent and personal experience with the popular activism at Cambrai (1092) and Bréval (1094). Godfrey had himself participated in the Peace assembly at Liège. The princes, not unlike the wily Urban II at Clermont, perceptively recognized the new popular energy, wisely harnessed it and then skilfully manipulated it.119 In essence, they simultaneously indulged popular entitlement while ultimately achieving their desired ends.

116 117

118 119

For the entire argument from both sides, see Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 286. As translated by Susan B. Edgington. “Unde magnis et parvis in unum vocatis decretum est communi consilio, ut ad portum Civitot innumererabiles copie equestris et pedestris vulgi mitterentur, qui naves a mari… per siccum iter… humero et collo hominum et equorum impostis, usque ad lacum Nicee perducere valerent.” Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, pp. 115–17. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 113. Tyerman, for example, attributes such popular manipulation, in particular, to Godfrey. See “‘Principes et Populus’,” p. 20.

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Jason MacLeod The Reactive Populus and Conflict Resolution

More frequently, however, mass assemblies and popular initiative were reactive in nature. When the populus acted on these occasions, they were typically attempting to facilitate conflict resolution among the princes and/or recommence movement. Several times throughout the expedition, failures by the council forced the people to act. The list compiled by Riley-Smith indicates that the apex of popular angst and action occurred in the winter of 1098–99, highlights of which include: the threat to elect a knight as leader (mid-November); a popular coercing of Raymond and Robert of Flanders to lead an expedition to Ma’arrat (23 November); further coercing of Raymond by the people to lead the crusade south, which leads him to summon the conference at Rui (11–12 December); with that conference deadlocked, the people pulling down the walls Ma’arrat (c.5 January); finally the remaining crusaders at Antioch pressuring Godfrey, Bohemond and Robert of Flanders into convening an assembly and setting a date for the final march to Jerusalem (2 February).120 The primary friction point between the princely council and people is momentum. When the expedition unnecessarily bogs down (due typically to either princely greed or extraneous military adventures) the unceasingly hungry crusaders, especially the most religiously zealous, become restless. While most probably understood the need for temporary delays due to rest, forage or military necessity, it was the stagnating pauses resulting from stubborn princely pride that ultimately touched off major popular revolts. In November 1098, the incendiary mix of the aforesaid elements required but a spark to ignite a full popular mutiny, as Raymond of Aguilers here describes: The people, upon observing this princely fiasco, began to suggest first privately and later publicly: “It is obvious that our leaders because of cowardice or because of the oath to Alexius do not wish to lead us to Jerusalem; therefore, why can’t we select a brave knight in whose loyal service we can be secure?”121

It might be argued that the people’s calling to eligamus de militibus aliquem fortem was simply a threat to transfer their loyalties to a better leader, nothing more. While this is certainly a reasonable view, I believe there is something much deeper going on here. By this period of the expedition, the winter of 1098–1099, the people had been at war for two years and had grown used to having their voices heard. Not only had they participated in numerous assemblies (both great and small) but they had become accustomed to having a voice in their leadership, too. Some 120 121

Riley-Smith, The First Crusade, p. 89–90. As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, p. 75. “Haec autem quum populus vidisset, coepit dicere quisque ad socium suum et ad vicinum, deinde palam omnibus: Quoniam principes, vel propter timorem vel propter juramenta quae impoeratori fecerunt, nos in Iherusalem ducere nolunt, eligamus de militibus aliquem fortem, cui fideliter seriviendo et tuti esse possimus…” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 267.



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of these crusaders and their bishops, now threatening to elect a new leader, might have been at Clermont and participated in the discussion concerning Adhemar’s elevation. Many would have taken part in the acclamation and/or election of Stephen of Blois. Some crusaders probably viewed changing leaders as nothing more than acquiring a new lord; yet some must have developed a broader outlook, by this point, concerning their rights. Rights to not only advise their leaders – but to question and change them out when needed, just as many had certainly done back in Europe, electing or deposing bishops or switching out older governments for communal models. For crusaders who had become accustomed to some voice in their affairs, the delays after Antioch much have been frustrating, with their powerlessness being continually underscored by princely bickering over grandiose spoils while they themselves starved. The rash of popular activities and misconduct during this period is hardly surprising. Consider, finally, how the alliance of common crusaders and clergy arguably saved the First Crusade, on numerous occasions, by facilitating conflict resolution among the antagonistic princes. On several occasions, the people voted with their feet: they simply left. As the animosity between Bohemond and Raymond continued to fester in February 1099, Albert of Aachen relates how: Many withdrew from Duke Godfrey, Robert of Flanders and Bohemond... At last, these three princes, realizing that already the people were growing weary and gradually slipping away, forbade anyone else to sail for home, and they placed a guard everywhere in the seaports. They decided to hold a meeting and discussion about this complaint from the people on the Purification of St Mary. Therefore, having assembled together and held a discussion there in Antioch, all of them great and small, decided that on the first of March they would come together again in Latakia… and they would put off no longer making the journey to Jerusalem.122

These pilgrims were making the conscious decision to reject both their crusader vow and any other secular obligations which might apply, in protest of the princes’ actions. Putting aside so many sacred and secular oaths was no trivial matter; yet, I will argue that this was a learned behavior for which the oathbreaking precedents had been well established during the age of the Investiture Controversy. Take for instance the following from a 1081 letter from Pope Gregory VII to Bishop Hermann of Metz where he outlines his thoughts on justified oath-breaking:

122

As translated by Susan B. Edgington. “…et subtraxerunt se multi de populo ducis Godefridi, Roberti Flandriensis, Boemund… Tandem predicti principes, cognoscentes quoniam jam populus tedio affectus paulatim dilaberetur, ne ultra aliquis navigio pararet reditum interdixerunt, undique in portibus maris custodiam ponentes. Conventum vero et colloquium super hac populi querela in purificatione sancte Marie habere decreverunt. Collatis itaque in unum et colloquio habito ibidem infra Antiocham, decretum est ab omnibus magnis et parvis, ut in kalendis Martii Laodiciam… minime ultra different viam insistere in Iherusalem.” Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, pp. 372–73.

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“This the Holy Church often does, with full authority… absolve soldiers from the bonds of an oath which was made to bishops who, by apostolic authority of the pope, have been deposed.”123

These crusaders, living during the height of the Investiture Controversy, were undoubtedly familiar with the frequent orders by pope or emperor to renounce their vows to either one, the other, or the local bishop, as the situation dictated. 124 Undoubtedly, zealous crusaders departing in this manner were ethically torn over the spiritual dangers implicit in breaking these kinds of vows. In seeking spiritual justification for themselves, they could take solace knowing that the princes, led astray through pride and avarice, had broken their vows to lead the expedition to Jerusalem. It is easy to see how earlier oath-breaking orders from Urban II, Gregory VII or Henry IV (not to mention the current anti-pope Clement III), having trickled down to them at one point or another, probably offered some justification and peace of mind. Yet not all crusaders left so quietly. Others decided to force conflict resolution upon the princes. The most infamous example of this occurred at Ma’arrat, as Raymond of Aguilers relates: Let us put an end to further strife here, and for the sake of tranquility among the leaders and peace of mind for Raymond who worries over its loss, come and let us tear down its walls. Thereupon, even the sick and weak, arising from their beds and hobbling along on sticks, came all the way to the walls… At this time Raymond, upon his return from Ma’arratt-an Nu’man, was highly incensed with his followers: however, he recognized God’s fine hand and ordered the foundations of the walls to be undermined when he learned that neither threats nor force on the part of the Bishop of Albara and other leaders could dissuade the mob from its purpose.125

Thus, an alliance of milites and populus engages in malicious destruction so that fiet pax inter principes. Peace through destruction or confiscation of property was not a novel concept introduced on the crusade: on the eve of Clermont, peace legislation in parts of France had formalized this methodology. At Soissons (1093) and Saint-Omer (1094), for example, statutes put buildings – even ecclesiastical property – outside the protection of the church (extra pacem 123

124 125

“Quod etiam ex frequenti auctoritate sepe agit sancta ecclesia… milites absolvit a vinculo Iuramenti quod factum est episcopalis, qui apostolica auctoritate a pontificali gradu deponuntur.” Gregory VII, Epistolae, MGH Epp Sel. 2.2.8 ed. Erich Caspar (Berlin, 1920), p. 554. For more, see Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, p. 23. As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, pp. 81–82. “Sed venite, et diruamus muros ejus, et fiet pax inter principes, et a comiti securitas ne perdat eam. Surgentes itaque debiles et intirmi de cubi libus suis, innixi baculis, ad muros usque perveniebant… Interea comes, a colloquio principum reversus Marram, graviter irascebatur rosa de destructione muri contra populum. Quumque expositum esset ei quod neque episcopus neque alii principes sui possent amovere minis vel verberibus populum a murorum destructione, intellexit illico divinum esse; et ut funditus murum diruerent præcepi.” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, pp. 271–72.



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nostrum) if they were misappropriated by peace-breakers.126 Ott, furthermore, notes how French communal laws, in lieu of ecclesiastical excommunications under the Truce of God, also proscribed the property of guilty parties who broke the peace. 127 The communal army of Le Mans demonstrated as much by “irrationally advancing against nearby castles even during the 40 holy days (Lent) and moreover during the Lord’s Passion.”128 The practice of establishing peace through violence and destruction, often putting aside religious proprieties, had become a hallmark of both the French Peace and communal movements during the latter half of the eleventh century; the crusaders at Ma’arrat, in order to establish peace among the princes, were no different. Considering both the mutinous threat of electing a new leader and the wanton destruction of their princes’ prize, the events at Ma’arrat were, arguably, the apex of popular empowerment during the crusade. Yet, soon thereafter, as Godfrey resumed the march south, popular angst and mutinous behavior rapidly dropped off. If one were to make the argument that the unusually high religious fervor was a major causal factor behind the empowered masses on crusade, the sudden decline at this juncture presents a strong counter-argument. While popular activism correlates strongly to increased conflict with and within the princely council, it sharply declines as Jerusalem itself – focal point of the crusade’s devotionally-charged atmosphere – actually approaches. Yet, malicious behavior was not always the answer to princely feuds; the crusaders often defaulted to that tetrad of peace facilitation which had become prevalent throughout the previous century. On crusade, however, the manifestation of holy presence through the corporeal form of relics seemed to be enhanced or substituted entirely by visions. Perhaps these visions filled a void created by a lack of relics traveling in the army that those less-divine components of preaching and crowd presence simply could not fill on their own. While the “holy lance” may seem the obvious answer (and often was) it alone could not fulfill this requirement for two reasons. First, it was only discovered almost two years into the expedition, so a substitute would have already been put in place. Second, unlike most relics the sources speak of at peace councils back home, there was always a degree of controversy and suspicion over the lance; as such, after the initial enthusiasm upon its discovery, it often contributed to feuding rather than ending it. So I argue that the crusaders found an innovative, consistent and, more importantly, precise instrument by which to channel the true power of God: holy visions. In addition to their obvious spiritual content and instructions, historians have recognized the practical aspects of crusader visionaries as being conduits of both popular needs and angst over feuding. John France, for example, theorizes that the visions of Peter Bartholomew were simply an articulation of the imperatives of the lesser 126 127 128

For more, see Koziol, The Peace of God, p. 95 and Vermeesch, Essai sur les origines, pp. 60–66. Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community, p. 107. “…castra quoque vicina diebus sancte Quadragisime; immo Dominice Passionis tempore, irracionabiliter succendentes.” Actus pontificum Cenomannis, p. 378.

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people and perhaps many poorer knights, too. By channeling such economic and religious needs, cloaked in the sacred armor of holy visions, Bartholomew and the Provençal clergy could more effectively apply pressure to the council.129 Kostick agrees that these dire circumstances seemed to produce more visionaries, at least two of whom were explicitly associated with the pauperes.130 There always seems to be at least one active visionary on the crusade; no sooner does Peter Bartholomew die, for example, than Stephen of Valence and Peter Desiderius reappear on the scene.131 France and Kostick also argue for a strong correlation among these Provençal visionaries, the needs of the pauperes and the lance. Bartholomew, in particular, is enabled to play a more significant role due to his possession of a relic symbolizing both crusader unity and God’s power.132 So strong is the correlation between the visions and this relic (for a time) that sometimes the chroniclers either confuse or just combine their effects, a prime example being Robert the Monk’s attributing the June, 1098 princely oaths at Antioch to the power of the lance rather than Stephen’s visions.133 Walter Porges argues that although Adhemar of Le Puy was skeptical of the lance, he downplayed that until the Kerbogah crisis passed; thus, during a brief period in June, 1098 we see a kind of equivalency of power shared between the lance and visions.134 As such, in conjunction with preaching, oaths, and popular pressure, the fourth staple of Peace enforcement on crusade will be visions, sometimes enhanced by the relic of the lance. Let us look at a few examples of how this modified peace tetrad was used on crusade, beginning with the siege by Kerbogah. Although we don’t yet see a feud of self-interest among the princes, we instead have a perceived feud of selfpreservation between each prince and himself; Kostick sees the conflict here as a division between the principes and minores of the crusade.135 In any case, rumors circulate amongst the masses that some or all of the princes are going to abandon them to their fate and, to resolve the crisis, each of the aforesaid components appears on the scene to save the day in one form or another. First, Stephen’s report of visions, from no less than St Andrew, fulfills the requirement of divine intervention by transmitting orders to hold fast. Or, if we are to believe Robert the Monk’s version, the lance provides this aspect. Second, the voice and discontent of the people is clearly conveyed to the princes by voting with their feet, such that the mass of desertions forces Bohemond and Adhemar to close Antioch’s gates.136 The people’s voice is also heard through Stephen’s vision 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136

France, Victory in the East, p. 18. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 120. France, Victory in the East, p. 332. John France, “Two Types of Vision on the First Crusade: Stephen of Valence and Peter Bartholomew,” Crusades 5 (2006), p. 12; Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 97. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 125; Robert the Monk, Historia Iherosolimitana, p. 69. Walter Porges, “The Clergy, the Poor, and the Non-combatants on the First Crusade,” Speculum 21 (1946), p. 17. Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 81. Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 256.



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where the popular angst is most clearly evident in Peter Tudebode’s version of his speech. This chronicler, himself a participant who served as a priest in the Provençal army, puts a mandate for almsgiving, as well as action, into Christ’s set of instructions.137 Third, Adhemar of Le Puy (verifying Stephen’s visions through oath and publicly postponing his private skepticism of Peter) takes the opportunity of such visions and/or discovery of the lance, in combination with obvious popular discontent, to pressure the princes into an oath to carry on. The council’s submission – not unlike such episodes back in Europe – results in popular rejoicing and the maintenance of the army at its darkest hour.138 Perhaps none of the reconciliations on crusade, however, so recall the great peace councils as those assemblies of early November 1098 at Antioch’s Cathedral of St Peter. Here various elements unite to quell the growing rift between Bohemond and Raymond, while also trying to restore momentum towards Jerusalem. Divine intervention, on this occasion, manifests itself in two ways. First, as in our earlier example, the meeting is preceded by another of Peter Bartholomew’s visions. Although it occurred a few weeks beforehand, John France points out this vision nevertheless takes places in the context of the November 1 conference concerning the resumption of the march to Jerusalem.139 This vision is a personal message for Raymond of Toulouse containing not only instructions to continue toward Jerusalem but, more strikingly, a chastisement for disposing of the saint’s own relics: “But you cared little for my relics after you found them; one you allowed to be stolen, the other you shamefully discarded… The Lord orders you not to dilly-dally because he will aid you after the capture of Jerusalem…”140 Thus at least one reason behind the continued visions is, arguably, the absence of relics for which St Andrew blames Raymond. In the second aspect of divine intervention, however, actual relics do play a part, albeit only in Raymond’s reminder to his fellow princes of their oaths at Constantinople: “But the count and others spoke in opposition: ‘We swore upon the Cross of the Lord, the crown of thorns, and many holy relics that we would not hold without the consent of the Emperor any city or castle in his dominion.’”141 The fact that in the absence of actual relics the princes have to be reminded of a former oath

137 138 139 140

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Peter Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano Itinere, ed. J. H. Hill and L. L. Hill (Paris: 1977), p. 100; also see Kostick, The Social Structure, p. 100. Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 256; Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, p. 221. France, Victory in the East, p. 310. As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, p. 71–72. “…et tu quum eos invenisses, negligenter habuisti: alteram passus es tibi subripi; alterum ibi indigne dimisisti… mandat tibi Dominus ne diutius moram facias, quia prius Iheruslaem capta fuerit, succursum nullum habebis.” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, pp. 265–66. As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, pp. 74–75. “At comes, et alii econtra dicebant: Imperatori juravimus super dominicam crucem, et spineam coronam, et super multa alia sancta, qui nec civitatem, nec castellum de omnibus pertinentibus ad imperium ejus retineremus sine ejus voluntate.” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 267.

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upon others, truly underscores how important this divine component was to the peacemaking process. As for the popular component, there are again two aspects. The vision of Peter Bartholomew, arguing for a continuation of the march, can undoubtedly be linked to the growing discontent of the people as the expedition had ground to a halt at Antioch. Apart from this sacred channeling of their anger, their actual voice is no less impactful during this episode: they threaten to elect their own leader. With the vital elements of divine presence and popular discontent present, the clergy coordinates the peace, as expressed by Guibert’s rather detailed treatment: Meanwhile, the bishops, who were trying to bring the disagreement to an end, summoned duke Godfrey, the counts of Flanders and Normandy, and other leaders, listened to what each had to say… Bohemund immediately agreed to the count’s proposal, and they put aside their quarrel, placed their right hands in the hands of the bishops as a sign of good faith, and swore solemnly…142

Although Guibert (unsurprisingly) assigns the prime role to the clergy, Raymond of Aguilers (again, unsurprisingly) paints Raymond as the peacemaker. In his retelling, it is the count who receives the visionary instructions and reminds his fellow princes of their former relic-oaths, and performs the preaching role of the clergy; somewhat ironically, however, Guibert states Raymond is the one to first acquiesce for the greater good.143 In any case, all of the narratives in the Gesta Francorum tradition identify the bishops as peacemakers, so we can be certain they played an important role here. Finally, of course, we see the swearing of oaths to complete the peace pact; an agreement Raymond labels with the somewhat paradoxical discordem pacem.144 The feud, of course, did not end that November; events once again came to a head during December, as related by Raymond of Aguilers: In the turmoil knights and the people asked when it would please the princes to begin the journey… At last, the Bishop of Albara and some nobles met with the poor people and called upon Raymond for help. When the Bishop ended his sermon, the knights and all the people knelt before the Count, the recipient of the Holy Lance, and tearfully beseeched him to make himself leader and lord of the army.145 142

143 144 145

As translated by Robert Levine, The Deeds of God through the Franks, pp.  104–05. “Interea pontifices, qui altercationi dirimendæ institerant, cum Godefrido duce, Flandrensi atque Northmannico comitibus advocatis ceterisque senibus additis, seorsum oratione cujusque audita… Nec mora Boemundus et ipse hujusmodi dictis assensit. Ambo igitur, omni iam lite submota, dextras, fide media episcoporum in manibus prebent, constantissime asseverantes…” Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, pp. 248–49. Guibert of Nogent, Dei gesta per Francos, p. 249. Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 268. As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, pp.  79–80. “Interea de itinere milites et populus quærere coeperunt quando placeret principibus ut inciperetur… Tandem convenerunt episcopus Albariensis et quidam nobiles cum populo pauperum, et comitem evocaverunt.



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First, note how Raymond places together the milites and populus as victims of the count’s pride here; perhaps he is implying that a blurring of lines between the battle-hardened poor crusaders and lower-ranking knights has created one united popular front. Again we also see the clergy manipulating a prince using a combination of guilt (cum multis lacrymis) and rhetoric (praedicationem). During this peace accord, despite a lack of visions the lance does play a prominent part. After reminding the count that he has been divinely chosen to carry the relic, yet is not proving worthy, they offer to take it from him and resume the journey on their own.146 Although this attempt to reconcile the leaders fails, “…the tears of the poor prevailed, and Raymond set the departure date for the fifteenth day…”147 Thus, despite the feud’s continuation, Raymond himself (temporarily) bends his will in response to another successful application of the peace tetrad. While most of the chroniclers describe the procession around Jerusalem which preceded its siege, only Albert of Aachen148 describes a reconciliation between Raymond and Tancred that occurred on the Mount of Olives, at the conclusion of this Jericho-like march: There in that same place on the Mount, Peter the Hermit and Arnulf of Chocques, a castle in Flanders, a cleric of great knowledge and eloquence, preached a sermon to the people and laid to rest the very great discord which had grown up among the pilgrims from different causes. Indeed, since both princes felt remorseful after the spiritual admonition, Count Raymond and Tancred soothed with harmonious love the dissension which had long prevailed between them…When these two were reconciled, moreover, and brought back to friendship with many of their Christian brothers…149

Here we see two of the clergy applying their familiar weapons of eloquent rhetoric and guilt to produce a peace compact. Meanwhile the populus not only watches, fresh from their procession, but is caught up in the moment as well, and many resolve their own differences because of the peace accord. During this Quumque episcopus praedicationem suam complesset procubuerunt milites et omnis populus ante comitem; et cum multis lacrymis deprecabantur eum ut ipse, cui Dominus lanceam suam contulerat, ductor et dominus exercitus ejusdem fieret…” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 270. 146 Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 270–71. 147 As translated by John H. Hill and Laurita L. Hill, p. 80. “Vincitur comes lacrymis pauperum, et diem quintum decimum ad iter nominavit.” Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum, p. 270. 148 Raymond of Aguilers mentions a reconciliation of the populus, but does not mention the princes by name. See Raymond of Aguiler, Historia Francorum, p. 297. 149 As translated by Susan B. Edgington. “Illic, in eodem loco montis Petrus Heremita et Arnolfus de Zokes castello Flandrie, clericus magnae scientie et facundie ad populum sermonem facientes, plurimam discordiam que inter Peregrinos de diversis causis excreverat extinxerunt. Dissensionem vero que inter comitem Reimundum et Tancradum diu invaluit… ex ammonitione spirituali utrisque principibus compunctis, concordi amore placaverunt. Placatis autem his et in concordiam cum aliis multis Christianis confratibus reductis…” Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, pp. 413–15.

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episode the divine presence is present in several forms. Not only does Albert mention that the clerics are carrying relics of the saints during the procession,150 but the entire episode is taking place on, arguably, the largest relic in the world: the Mount of Olives.151 The related procession, furthermore, was the result of yet another vision, this time by Peter Desiderius. As such the spiritual power of the moment cannot be overstated. Although Albert does not specifically mention oath-taking, instead simply stating they were concordi amore placaverunt (soothed with harmonious love), it is difficult to imagine that an oath or informal pact of some kind did not actually occur to resolve such a serious rift among these senior princes and their retinues.152 Conclusion The empowerment that developed through several generations of eleventhcentury Europe was successfully employed by the final one during the First Crusade. We have witnessed how the populus entered the Peace movement as a passive cheering section for the clergy, yet emerged by mid-century as an active player on the European stage. While the Peace proper seemingly lost momentum during the latter half of that century, it nevertheless influenced the commune movement while itself re-emerging somewhat consistently, if less formally, throughout late-century France. Later, on crusade, an alliance of the clergy and populus (and often milites, too) manifested itself when circumstances necessitated. This alliance applied a similar tetrad of peace – enhanced by visionary guidance – to save the First Crusade at crucial points of princely disunity or indecision. While these methods were extremely successful at critical junctures (Antioch, June 1098 and Jerusalem, June 1099) they sometimes proved temporarily effective, yet ultimately ephemeral, at less militarily drastic moments (Antioch, November 1098 and Albara, December 1098). Nevertheless, their continued application, particularly during the winter of 1098/1099, proved to be the crusaders’ most consistent tool for peace and most effective method of conflict resolution. The eleventh-century reform phenomenon of free canonical elections, albeit inconsistent in both application and documentation, nevertheless proved influential enough to empower segments of the French and Italian populus in a variety of ways. As electorates like that of Cambrai became accustomed to choosing their bishops, increased popular demands upon ecclesiastical officials likewise grew steadily. When expectations were not met, an increasingly emboldened populace learned to take matters into its own hands. From the princely council to Urban himself, leaders showed themselves to be keenly aware of this increasing 150 151 152

It is unclear which relics these are. Perhaps those of St Andrew, or some picked up near Jerusalem? Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, p. 414. Ralph of Caen provides a detailed description of the animosity between both the princes and their followers. See Gesta Tancredi, pp. 84–85.



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popular entitlement to power, and how to harness it. In order to build unity and a sense of inclusion among crusaders, they sought to give the people a voice in choosing their leaders during the expedition. The popular role in acclaiming Adhemar bound common crusaders more tightly to the army’s spiritual legate, whose leadership proved highly effective. Other occasions, such as the elevation of Stephen of Blois, though ephemeral in military effect were crucial in terms of fostering morale through inclusion. Finally, attempts to curtail the popular voice, such as Raymond’s misstep during the bishop of Albara’s election, proved vital reminders to the princely council to keep a finger on the popular pulse. We have further observed how empowerment, spreading throughout France and northern Italy, manifested itself most abrasively in commune formation. Such evolutions in popular power varied widely on a spectrum ranging from true power sharing (voting and office holding) to often condescending aristocratic gestures of inclusion (group acclamation). Just as such manifestations of power were spread unevenly across France and Italy – in terms of both geography and character – so popular empowerment on crusade proved uneven in both application and manner. We see such a spectrum evident when considering how sometimes the princely council and populus worked together in a proactive, cooperative manner (assembly at Nicaea) while elsewhere popular angst manifested itself through reactive belligerence (revolt at Ma’arrat). Having briefly examined how these evolutions influenced the First Crusade, additional questions remain. Did the eleventh-century movements continue to influence future crusades, or did dominating royal presence thereafter negate their effects? What factor did popular empowerment play in other contemporary wars? Yet, inevitably, even addressing such ancillary concerns, we are drawn back to the question that has perplexed historians for hundreds of years: were the popular movements of the eleventh century the birthplace of the modern West – or just a series of interesting anomalies in the depths of Petrarch’s long medieval night?

3 The Transformation of Naval Warfare in Scandinavia during the Twelfth Century Beñat Elortza Larrea

Following their conversion to Christianity and the subsequent expansion of the royal administrative apparatus, the Scandinavian realms of Denmark, Norway and Sweden oversaw significant and long-lasting changes to their political, social and economic structures; their military institutions were, of course, no exception. Due to the central role that seas, coastlines and waterways had in the region, naval warfare was particularly important in Scandinavia. One of the quintessential military institutions was the leiðangr, or the naval levies, which had played a central role during the military campaigns of the Viking Age. This article will analyze the transformation of naval warfare in twelfth-century Scandinavia from a holistic, comparative perspective. To this end, several complementary aspects of contemporaneous naval warfare will be explored, such as the aristocratization of the military institutions, the emergence of new types of large warships, and tactical innovations that radically changed the way war at sea was waged in high medieval Scandinavia. The Scandinavian realms underwent considerable changes to their political institutions, social structures and economic exploitation models during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and the military institutions are no exception. The relatively decentralized military model of the Viking Age, which relied on peasant levies for large expeditions, was gradually replaced by smaller aristocratic fleets that in turn used the increasingly larger income of the aristocratic strata in order to build much larger warships. These considerable changes in military organization and shipbuilding, therefore, changed naval warfare in Scandinavia to a substantial degree. The transformation of naval warfare during the twelfth century has never been considered from a holistic point of view. For example, in order to understand the changes in tactics, both the changes in the military institutions and the emergence of new types of warships should be taken into account. These three aspects of warfare – military organization, shipbuilding innovations and tactical approaches – can be discerned from a number of written and material sources. While the legal codes of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries have often been used when researching the changes in the military institutions, primary material

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that describes both shipbuilding and tactics has rarely been taken into account. This article will make notable use of three written sources that are near-contemporaneous to the changes under discussion. The sources in question are Gesta Danorum,1 a Danish chronicle describing the lives of Danish kings between the tenth and twelfth centuries; Sverris saga,2 a Norwegian saga describing the life and deeds of Sverre Sigurdsson, king of Norway between 1184 and 1202; and Henrici Chronicon Livoniae,3 a chronicle describing the early crusading campaigns in the Baltic from a German perspective. The main strength of these sources is the length and detail in which they describe different campaigns, instances of shipbuilding and specific battles; all three sources were compiled either by individuals with military experience who accompanied magnates during campaigns, or by men of aristocratic extraction who had access to eyewitnesses of the events described in the sources. Other written sources, such as the provincial laws found throughout Scandinavia, provide us with further details regarding the functioning of the naval levies – traditionally, the main source of manpower for the Scandinavian aristocracy – as well as specifics concerning the outfitting of warships, or the different types of equipment that each social class was expected to own and maintain. Archaeological sources are particularly scarce, but a small number 1

2

3

Gesta Danorum was written by Saxo Grammaticus, a canon of the cathedral of Lund and secretary to Absalon, archbishop of Lund and prelate for the Danish ecclesiastical province. The work was composed between the late 1180s and c.1208. While the author has a clearly biased view of the civil war period, as the work was in all likelihood commissioned by Absalon himself, he does provide extensive detail on the campaigning that took place between c.1130 and 1185, some of which he had probably witnessed. He must also have had access to veterans of earlier campaigns. Some of the most brilliant exploits of Valdemar I and Knut VI must be, therefore, embellished, but it is unlikely that the typologies of ships or descriptions of battles are largely fictional. Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum. The History of the Danes, 2 vols. ed. Karsten Friis-Jensen, tr. Peter Fisher (Oxford, 2015), 1: xxix–xlvi. Sverris saga was likewise composed during the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, and it covers Sverre’s entire reign, up to his death in 1202. Part of the authorship of the saga has been attributed to Icelandic abbot Karl Jónsson, who accompanied Sverre during his campaigns. The piece is unabashedly propagandistic, and aims to justify Sverre’s right to the Norwegian throne, and therefore contains long, elaborate speeches by the king on justice, religion and governance; the descriptions of campaigns and battles, however, are extremely detailed and most likely accurate. Karl Jónsson, Sverris saga, eds. Jónas Kristjánsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson (Reykjavik, 2007), pp.  xxii–xxxvi. Throughout this article the translations from this saga are from J. Sephton, tr., The Saga of King Sverri of Norway (Sverrissaga) (London, 1899), except as otherwise noted. Henrici Chronicon Livoniae, or the Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, was written by the Northern German priest Henry – or Heinrich – who was part of the German evangelization effort in Livonia from 1205 onwards. He wrote his chronicle sometime between 1224 and 1226, and lived through many of the episodes he mentions in his text. It is clear that Henry was well acquainted with military affairs, as his descriptions of sieges and battles suggest. The depiction of the customs and actions of the local Baltic peoples might be unreliable from the hands of a proselytizing priest, but the examples of campaigns and ship typologies that I have chosen from the text are unlikely to be problematic. Henricus Lettus, The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, ed. James A. Brundage (1961, repr. New York, 2003), pp. xxv–xxxi.



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of shipwrecks found along the Norwegian coast and in the Baltic can be rather illuminating when connecting the new ship types mentioned in the written material to real-life examples. This chapter will highlight the most prominent features of the high medieval military transformation in Scandinavia by providing an overview of the changes that took place in naval warfare, which provides us with more numerous examples than its land-based counterpart. These developments will be outlined in three sections: the changes in organizational structure undertaken by the leiðangr, or naval levies; new ship design and shipbuilding techniques; and developments in fleet formation and battle tactics during campaigns. The Military Institutions during the Civil War Period Viking-Age Scandinavian forces were composed of two distinct entities: the professional retainers of the magnates, whom the sources identify as lið or hirð, and the peasant-based naval levies, known as leiðangr in Old Norse.4 The origins of the naval levies are unclear and have been the subject of considerable discussion, but it can safely be assumed that such institutions existed in Denmark, Norway and Sweden by the late tenth or early eleventh centuries. The peasantry was required collectively to build and maintain ships, and man them during campaigns. It is likely that the original duty of the leiðangr was to act as a defensive institution, but evidence shows that it was consistently used as an offensive tool during several large campaigns, such as Harald III’s invasion of England in 1066, or Knut the Saint’s abortive expedition, also against England, in 1086.5 Evidence suggests that, until the mid-to-late eleventh century, the leiðangr was controlled by the aristocrats who led the regional assemblies, which needed to be persuaded in order to employ these levies for offensive expeditions.6 Any change in the status quo of the levies was often seen as threat; the rebellion that led to Knut the Saint’s death, for instance, was triggered by the king’s attempt to establish fines against those who failed to report for duty when the naval levies were mustered.7 It was near-impossible for kings to bring the leiðangr 4

5

6 7

By the mid-twelfth century, the relatively homogeneous Old Norse language showed clear signs of regional fragmentation. The name of the naval levies was still leiðangr in West Old Norse, used in Norway and Iceland; the Old Danish equivalent, however, was lething, while in Old Swedish the institution was known as leþunger. Heimskringla mentions that Harald III called half of the naval levy when he sailed to the British Isles, while Gesta Danorum’s description of Knut the Great’s downfall provides a detailed explanation of the mustering of the entire lething before the expedition. Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla. Nóregs Konunga Sǫgur [The Norwegian Kings’ Sagas]: The Saga of Harald Sigurtharson, cap. 79, ed. Finnur Jónsson (Copenhagen, 1911), p. 500; Gesta Danorum, caps. 11.13.2–11.14.3, ed. Friis-Jensen, tr. Fisher, pp. 840–49. Niels Lund, “The Armies of Swein Forkbeard and Cnut: leding or lið?,” Anglo-Saxon England 15 (1986), p. 114. Gesta Danorum, cap. 11.14.2, ed. Friis-Jensen, tr. Fisher, pp. 848–49.

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under effective control, and therefore the reliance on the aristocracy’s retinues for offensive purposes was high. Throughout the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries, few large expeditions were organized, and the majority of campaigns relied on smaller, aristocratic forces as the source of manpower. The main departure point from this situation was the outbreak of the civil war period, which shook the Scandinavian realms between c.1130 and the mid-thirteenth century. The traditional power-sharing agreements typical of the Viking Age, where a deceased ruler’s sons could successively ascend the throne or even agree on co-rulership, were undermined by the introduction of primogenital succession, which was prevalent in western Europe at this time. In Denmark, five sons of Sven Estridsen (d. 1076) had successively ruled the country until 1134, when a rebellion led by Erik II, the nephew of the ruling king, Niels, deposed the sitting king, who died shortly after. The grandsons of the late Sven Estridsen attempted to grab the throne shortly thereafter, sparking a near-continuous conflict that lasted until 1157.8 In Norway, the balance of power was upset when the Hiberno-Norse chieftain Harald Gille claimed ancestry from Magnus Barelegs, famous for his Irish campaigns, and demanded to be crowned king. A power-sharing agreement was brokered between him and Magnus IV, but tensions between the kings ran high and war broke out in 1134.9 The Norwegian civil wars flared up regularly until 1240, when the last claimant to the throne, Skule Bårdsson, was defeated and killed in Oslo.10 The civil war period in Sweden started in 1156 when, after the murder of Sverker I, three dynasties laid claim to the throne; the houses of Sverker, Erik, and – to a smaller extent – Knytling.11 The conflict was eventually settled when the houses of Sverker and Erik were united through marriage to the powerful aristocratic house of Bjälbo, which led to the accession of Valdemar, the first Swedish king belonging to the Bjälbo dynasty.12 Even though military expeditions against external and internal enemies had been relatively common before the civil wars, the period of internecine conflict led, among other things, to the breakdown of kinship ties and to extensive periods of internal violence. Political crises during the Viking Age had often been settled through negotiation and compromise, such as power-sharing agreements, but the civil war period introduced unprecedented levels of mortality among aristocrats and claimants. Large leiðangr armies were rarely mobilized during the civil war period, probably due to both the political fragmentation of the Scandinavian realms and the reluctance of the peasantry to take part in the internal struggles. This shortage of manpower led to the reform of the leiðangr, and to the creation 8 9 10 11 12

Erik Arup, Danmarks historie I til 1282 [Danish History I to 1282] (Copenhagen, 1925), p. 212. Ole Georg Moseng, Erik Opsahl, Gunnar I. Pettersen and Erling Sandmo, Norsk historie 750–1537 [Norwegian History 750–1537], 2nd edn (1999, repr. Oslo, 2007), p. 116. Sverre Bagge, From Viking Stronghold to Christian Kingdom: State Formation in Norway, c.900–1350 (Copenhagen, 2010), pp. 57–58. Philip Line, Kingship and State Formation in Sweden 1130–1290 (Leiden, 2007), p. 96. Ibid., pp. 115–25.



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of a tax-exempt aristocratic elite that was contractually bound to provide armed service to the Crown. The changes in military organization are particularly clear in Denmark. After the end of the civil wars, the new Valdemarian dynasty was in a strong position, and Valdemar I used this to his advantage. In 1168/69, the Danish lething was substantially reformed; a rotational defensive levy was introduced, where a quarter of the lething would be mobilized each summer, while the other three quarters paid a monetary contribution instead.13 The aristocracy, or hærræ mæn, were exempt from taxation as long as they provided military assistance to the king whenever it was required; if a member of the warrior elite neglected to carry out these duties, he was demoted and included in the lething forces.14 This same shift is not as clear in Norway. It seems that, by the mid-twelfth century, a yearly payment to the Crown was included in the leiðangr summons, as Magnus V requested past leiðangr dues from the peasantry of the Trondheim fjord in 1182.15 There is no Norwegian legislation that outlines the duties of a tax-exempt aristocracy, but the composition of the royal hirð – which doubled as the royal court and the retinue – was well-defined by the mid-thirteenth century; The Book of the Hird – Hirðskrá in Old Norse – also included the minimum military equipment that the members of the hirð had to own, which suggests that the military obligations of the aristocracy must have been clear-cut by the time the book was written down.16 The transformation of military organization is particularly problematic in Sweden given the scarcity of written sources, as the oldest charters and sagas that make direct reference to military duties were recorded in the late thirteenth century. Moreover, Sweden was composed of two distinct polities, Götaland in the south-west and Svealand in the north-east, which had considerably different economic structures during the twelfth century.17 Götaland had adopted the manorial system during the twelfth century, and therefore the aristocracy was

13

14

15 16

17

This reform is succinctly referenced in Gesta Danorum, and the mid-thirteenth century Scanian Law provides a detailed overview of this system. Gesta Danorum, cap. 14.39.49, ed. FriisJensen, tr. Fisher, pp. 1312–13; Danmarks gamle Landskabslove med Kirkelovene [Denmark’s old regional laws with the canon laws], 1.1, eds. Johannes Brøndum-Nielsen and Johannes Aakjær (Copenhagen, 1933), pp. 817–18. Niels Lund, “If They Neglect Military Service, They Shall Emend to the King. The Scutage in Danish Charters and Laws,” in Maritime Warfare in Northern Europe. Technology, Organisation, Logistics and Administration 500 BC–1500 AD, eds Anne Nørgård Jørgensen, John Pind, Lars Jørgensen and Birthe Clausen (Copenhagen, 2002), pp. 272–75. Sverris saga, cap. 69, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 108–09. See Steinar Imsen, Hirðskrá: Hirdloven til Norges konge og hans håndgangne menn [Hirðskrá: The law of the hird of the Norwegian king and his sworn men] (Oslo, 2000); The King’s Mirror (Speculum Regale – Konungs Skuggsjá), tr. Laurence Marcellus Larson (New York, 1917). Thomas Lindkvist and Kurt Ågren, Sveriges medeltid [Sweden’s Middle Ages] (Uppsala, 1985), pp.  10–1; Thomas Lindkvist, “Social and Political Power in Sweden, 1000–1300: Predatory Incursions, Royal Taxation and the Formation of a Feudal State,” in Social Approaches to Viking Studies, ed. Ross Samson (Glasgow, 1991), pp. 138–40.

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able to rely on its landed estates for income.18 Svealand, on the other hand, seems to have favored predatory incursions as the main source of income until the mid-thirteenth century; taxation derived from military duties was introduced in the region after the battle of Sparrsätra in 1247, or even as late as the 1280s.19 Since Svealand had a much stronger naval tradition than Götaland – only small tracts of the latter are known to have naval defense institutions – it can be safely argued that the Swedish leþunger as a whole was not as centralized as its Danish and Norwegian counterparts during the twelfth century. During the mid-twelfth century, the office of jarl of the Svear and Götar (dux sveorum et guttorum in Latin) was instituted. The full responsibilities of the jarl are unclear, but it seems that he assisted the king with governance, and also acted as military commander for large seaborne expeditions.20 Birger Brosa, the founding member of the royal house of Bjälbo, served as jarl between 1174 and 1202, and it is likely that some degree of centralization took place during his leadership. Guta Saga, an appendix of thirteenth-century Gotlandic legal text Guta Lag, mentions that the peasantry of Gotland was expected to pay compensation for neglect if they failed to provide armed service.21 Since Gotland was a tributary polity of Sweden at the time, it is likely that areas of Götaland under more direct royal control were also subjected to similar conditions; the Annals of Sigtuna, however, explicitly mention that compensation for neglect was only introduced in Svealand after the Folkung defeat at the battle of Sparrsätra in 1247.22 The establishment of a de iure tax-exempt military aristocracy only took place in the late thirteenth century, when the Alsnö statutes were written in 1280, during Magnus III’s reign.23 It is likely, nevertheless, that the Swedish leþunger underwent de facto the same processes of aristocratization and centralization as in Norway. The creation of a royal official, the Jarl, whose responsibilities included the leadership of the leþunger suggests this shift. 18

19

20

21 22 23

Clas Tollin, “Demesne Farms and Parish Formation in Western Östergötland: A Special Study of Church Catchment Areas and Ownership Structures when Alvastra Abbey was founded,” in Settlement and Lordship in Viking and Early Medieval Scandinavia, eds. Bjørn Poulsen and Søren Michael Sindbæk (Turnhout, 2011), pp. 171–74. Line, Kingship and State Formation in Sweden, pp.  253–54; Thomas Lindkvist, “Husabyar, Administration and Taxation in Medieval Sweden,” in Husebyer – Status Quo, Open Questions and Perspectives, eds. Lisbeth Eilersgaard Christensen, Thorsten Lemm and Anne Pedersen (Copenhagen, 2016), p. 144. Line, Kingship and State Formation in Sweden, pp. 177–83; Thomas Lindkvist, “The Ledung and the Continuity of Warfare from the Viking Age to the Middle Ages: The Example of Sweden,” in The Viking Age: Ireland and the West, Papers from the Proceedings of the Fifteenth Viking Congress, Cork, 18–27 August 2005, eds. John Sheehan and Donnchadh Ó Corráin (Dublin, 2010), pp. 231–32. Guta Lag and Guta Saga. The Law and History of the Gotlanders, ed. Christine Peel (Abingdon, 2015), pp. 266–69, 281. Lindkvist, “The Ledung and the Continuity of Warfare,” p. 231. Line, Kingship and State Formation in Sweden, p. 258; Svenskt Diplomatarium, volume 1, ed. Johan Gustaf Liljegren (Stockholm, 1829), p. 653.



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The continued existence of large plundering expeditions eastwards during the second half of the twelfth century, however, does indicate that this process of centralization of the military apparatus was more marked in certain parts of Sweden, in all likelihood in Götaland and Gotland. The Svear were both on the giving and receiving ends of large seaborne campaigns during the period from 1140 to 1180, and therefore their more archaic understanding of military service must have only been changed after the aforementioned failure of the Folkung rebellion in 1247.24 Shipbuilding The increased economic power of the Crown and the aristocracy is reflected in the changing types of warships being built during the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. While the traditional Scandinavian longships would still be employed by the waning naval levies, the aristocracy seems to have favored the construction of much larger warships, similar to the Baltic cog that would become prevalent in the region from the mid-to-late thirteenth century onwards. In Denmark, Gesta Danorum describes the use of large warships by the aristocracy from the reform of the lething onwards. In 1184, the Pomeranian Wends organized an invasion fleet to retake Rügen, which had been conquered by the Danes in 1168. Archbishop Absalon hastily mustered all available ships from the Danish archipelago in order to face the Wends. Gesta Danorum mentions that every type of vessel was conscripted: Associating smaller with larger craft, transport vessels with raiders, he even further allowed the habit of commandeering ships from ordinary folk and nobles without distinction.25

This excerpt suggests that both the longship (navis piratica or liburna) and the merchant vessel (navis oneraria) were used as warships by this period. Furthermore, when the Danish fleet intercepted the Wendish forces at Greifswald Bay, the would-be invaders formed their battle-lines in such a way that the food transports were placed in the front of the formation. According to Saxo:

24

25

Several Novgorodian merchant ships were attacked by a large Svear fleet in 1142; in 1164, another large Swedish force attacked the Karelian stronghold of Ladoga. In 1187, however, the town of Sigtuna, see of the eponymous diocese, was pillaged and burnt by a combined Novgorodian-Karelian fleet, The Chronicle of Novgorod 1016–1471, tr. Robert Mitchell and Nevill Forbes (London, 1914), pp. 17, 24; Johannes Mesenius, Scondia Illustrata, Seu Chronologia de rebus Sueciæ Potissimum: Deindè Regnorum eitam adjacentum, in quantium illius conducit cognitioni; Tam Ecclesiasticis quàm Politicis, ab anno Christi MCL. ad MCCCXX gestis, Tomus II (Stockholm, 1610), p. 13. “Minores rates maioribus, onerarias piraticis sociauit plebique denum ac nobilitati promiscuum corripendarum nauium usum concessit.” Gesta Danorum, cap. 16.4.5, ed. Friis-Jensen, tr. Fisher, pp. 1508–09.

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The remainder of his (Bugislav’s) fleet he stationed as if in line of battle with anchors cast; between these and the mainland he moved the food transports, which were somewhat more impressive-looking than the raiding vessels; that was because he wanted to simulate the appearance of an armed multitude with a display of useless hulls. This façade caused Sune to imagine Bugislav had been lent German reinforcements.26

Since the Danes had adopted several European innovations from the outbreak of the civil war period onward – such as heavy cavalry, stone-built donjons and curtain walls – it is likely that the type of German warship that Bugislav had aimed to emulate would have been well-known in Denmark too. Further passages from Gesta Danorum reinforce this idea. During a preconquest expedition against the island of Rügen, Valdemar I (r. 1146/115727– 1182) is mentioned as having approached the mouth of a river on board his flagship. This vessel, however, was deemed to be unable to sail upstream due to its deep draught, and the king boarded a smaller raiding vessel in order to continue his journey. It is almost unthinkable that a leading Scandinavian aristocrat or a king would embark on an expedition on board a nonmilitary vessel, and therefore the large ship described must be a warship. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, moreover, contains mentions of Danish fleets taking part in Crusading in the eastern Baltic during the early thirteenth century, and one of these descriptions reinforces the idea that large warships were used. In 1221, an army of Oeselians besieging the Danes at Reval – modern Tallinn – saw four cogs approaching the besieged city and fled, fearful that the Danish king had arrived to reinforce the garrison.28 A fleet large enough to trigger such a rout must have been composed of more than four cogs, which suggests that the cogs were merely the largest ships approaching Reval, and possibly the personal vessels of the aristocrats that led the force.29 By 1224, Danish sources explicitly mention the existence of cogs. When Valdemar II and his son were arrested following a revolt, the condition for their release was that the Danish royals must launch a crusade against the Holy Land. There was a requirement regarding the forces that had to be mustered for the occasion:

26 27

28 29

Gesta Danorum, cap. 16.5.3, ed. Friis-Jensen, tr. Fisher, pp. 1514–15. While Valdemar was first recognized as king in 1146, the title was contested between three claimants, and he did not consolidate his position until 1157, when he became the sole king of Denmark. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, cap. 24.7, tr. Brundage, p. 196. Every time the Danish king is mentioned in Heinrici Chronicon Livoniae, he approaches the coast with a large force accompanying him. It is rather likely, therefore, that any fleet that could be identified as the Danish king’s force must have been likewise considerably large. The previous expedition launched by Denmark had culminated at the battle of Lyndanisse in 1219; during this expedition, Valdemar II “rose up with a great army” and sailed to Estonia (“Surrexit eciam rex Dacie cum exercitu magno.”) The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, cap. 23.2, tr. Brundage, p. 173.



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Our lord the king promises that he will take the cross in order to go to the Holy Land and will leave his realm in the coming month of August for two years, and will bring with him a hundred ships, including cogs and longships.30

The remains of two twelfth-century shipwrecks shed some light on the possible form of these ships. These two wrecks are the Kollerup and Kolding cogs; the former has been dated to the mid-twelfth century, while the latter had its timbers felled around 1190.31 Both ships were carvel-built – as opposed to the traditional Nordic clinker-built vessels – and had a flat bottom. The cog, in all likelihood, originated in Frisia around the tenth century; while it lacked the seaworthiness of the Scandinavian clinker-built vessels, it was probably used by the Danes to sail the shallow inland waters across the Limfjord into the Baltic.32 The Kollerup and Kolding cogs had larger tonnage than their Scandinavian cargo counterparts, were not particularly high-sided or wide, and therefore should be considered as specialized cargo ships rather than warships.33 The length of both ships is under 20 meters, which made them rather short when compared to the largest personnel carriers used in Scandinavia during the eleventh century, whose overall length sometimes exceeded 30 meters.34 The Norwegian material includes both written texts and archaeological remains. Sverris saga, which presents an in-depth description of Sverre Sigurdsson’s reign (r. 1177/118435–1202), contains several descriptions of both shipbuilding and naval battles. The saga mentions the construction of large warships several times, and the importance of high-sided warships is underlined throughout the text. Since there are no known instances when heavy cavalry was employed in twelfth-century Norway, the military innovation had happened in shipbuilding, which was particularly relevant due to the multitude of significant naval engagements that took place during the civil war period. Chapters 73 and 80 from Sverris saga describe the Birkebeiner’s undertaking

30

31

32

33 34 35

“Dominus rex promisit quod accipiet crucem iturus in subsidium terre sancte et egredietur de regno suo a mense augusto proximo uenturo post duos annos, et ibit ducens secum centum naues cockonibus et sneccis computatis.” Diplomatarium Danicum series 1 vol. 6, ed. Niels Skyum-Nielsen (Copenhagen, 1979), 1:6:16. Jan Bill, “Scandinavian Warships and Naval Power in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries,” in War at Sea in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, eds. John B. Hattendorf and Richard W. Unger (Woodbridge, 2003), pp. 41–42; Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, “Cog-Kogge-Kaag: Træk af en frisisk skibtypes historie” [Cog-Kogge-Kaag: Features of a Frisian ship type’s history], in Handels- og Søfartmuseet på Kronborg, Årbog 1965 (1965), pp. 116–20, 129. Fred Hocker, “Cogge en Coggeschip: Late Trends in Cog Development,” in Bouwtraditie en Scheepstype [Building tradition and ship types], ed. Reinder Reinders (Groningen, 1991), p. 25; Crumlin-Pedersen, “Cog,” p. 116. Bill, “Scandinavian Warships,” pp. 41–42. See Morten Ravn, Viking-Age War Fleets. Shipbuilding, Resource Management and Maritime Warfare in 11th-Century Denmark (Roskilde, 2016), pp. 14–16. Sverre launched his bid for kingship in 1177, but was recognized as king after the preceding ruler, Magnus V Erlingsson, was killed by Sverre’s Birkebeiner forces at Fimreite in 1184.

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to build a fleet composed predominantly of large ships, including the Mariusud, Sverre’s personal warship: This winter, too, he began to build a ship in Trondham, a much larger vessel than others then in the land. It contained thirty-three [benches] for rowers, and there was room for more. It was called the Mariusud.36 When he (King Sverre) saw the work (on the ship) he said, “This ship is much less spacious than I wish to see; it must be cut in two and a length of twelve ells37 laid in the keel … It is my firm opinion that there are not many here who have seen a long-ship afloat on the water so large as this one.” … The Mariusud was not a graceful ship; the prow and the stern being short in comparison with the middle; this was chiefly because of the part that had been added … During the winter the King caused several long-ships to be built, and others to be repaired. The Hialp, Thorolf Rympil’s ship, was now built; it had twenty-six [benches] for rowers. Also the Vidsia, which in the number of [benches] was almost as large; this ship was commanded by Ulf of Laufness.38

The Mariusud was built in Trondheim during the winter of 1182 as a thirtythree bencher. The text does not mention further dimensions of the king’s flagship, but it must have been of considerable draught and rather high-sided, as it made very wide turns when maneuvering and was difficult to board.39 Its very numerous crew – 280 or 320 men40 – further suggests that its beam, as well as its length, must have been considerable. Later during his reign, Sverre continued to build large warships; during the winter of 1199 in Bergen, the Birkebeiner fitted out their fleet. As Sverris saga recounts:

36

37 38

39

40

“Ok þann vetr lét hann reisa skip í bœnum. Var þat miklu meira en þau skip ǫnnur er þá váru í landi. Þat var tvau rúm ok þrír tigir ok mikit í sér. Þetta skip var kallat Máríusúð.” Sverris saga, cap. 73, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, p. 113, trans. Sephton, p. 92. Sephton trans. slightly modified. Around five meters, or fifteen feet. “En er hann sá smíðina þá mælti hann: Þetta skip er miklu minna efnat en svá sem ek vil at sé. Nú skal hǫgga í sundr skipit ok leggja í kjǫl tólf álna langan … Nú þykki mér þat líkast at eigi myni hér vera þeir menn margir er sét hafi fyrr jafnmikit langskip á vatni fljóta sem þetta er … Máríusúðin var ekki fagrt skip, allt minna til skutanna en um mitt, ok voldi því mest þat er aukat hafði verit … Sverrir konungr lét vera um vetrinn nǫkkur langskip, en endrbœta sum ok búa ǫll sem bezt. Þá var gǫr Hjálpin er Þórólfr rympill hafði; ok var sex rúm ok tuttugu. Þá var ok gǫr Viðsjáin er Ulfr af Lautnesi hafði ok enn því næst mikil.” Sverris saga, cap. 80, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 123–24, tr. Sephton, pp. 100–01. Sephton trans. slightly modified. During the battle of Fimreite, the Mariusud attempted to maneuver before both sides clashed, but its hull proved too unwieldy and was caught mid-maneuver by Magnus Erlingsson’s ships. Sverris saga, cap. 91, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 141–42. The Scandinavian hundred (Old Norse: hundrað) can be used to describe either 100 or 120; the latter is known as the long hundred. The reference from Sverris saga, therefore (“tvau hundruð manna ok átta tigir”), could make reference either to 280 or 320 men. Geir T. Zoëga, A Concise Dictionary of Old Icelandic (Oxford, 1910), p. 215; Sverris saga, cap. 81, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, p. 124.



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(A)fter Easter eight were finished – six on the Eyra, all large; and two in the Kings-court and the Bishops-court41 … All these ships were built high in the bulwarks, considering the number of their [benches]. King Sverri also caused some merchant vessels to be cut in two, that their keels might be lengthened, and they might have oars end to end.42

Moreover, Norway also contains an invaluable piece of evidence: the remains of the “Big Ship from Bryggen,” a twelfth-century ship found in Bergen harbor. Dated to the winter of 1187–88, the dimensions of the “Big Ship” are consistent with the information presented by Sverris saga. Its minimum length has been calculated to have been around 30 meters; its beam about 9–10 meters, while the ship’s freeboard would have been of between 1.4 meters (when fully laden) and 2.2 meters (when empty) amidships.43 These dimensions are clearly very different from those of eleventh-century raiding vessels such as the Hedeby 1 and Skuldelev 2 types from Denmark. Whilst the overall length of the ships is similar, the freeboard, draught and beam are much larger, and the ships would have had the capacity to carry a much larger crew as well as being more impervious to boarding.44 The Big Ship was also capable of carrying considerable tonnage, around 120 tons, which dwarfs the capacity of eleventh-century specialized cargo ships, such as the Skuldelev 1, which could carry a total of about 25 tons.45 While the Big Ship has been classified as a merchant vessel, its existence proves that extremely large clinker-built ships were being produced in Scandinavia – particularly Norway – during the late twelfth century. Moreover, since the largest warships were often compared to cargo vessels, it could be safely assumed that the dimensions of the Big Ship were similar to the large warships mentioned in Sverris saga. The sources concerning Sweden are rather meagre, but circumstantial evidence suggests that similar developments must have occurred in the Swedish realm. While Denmark focused its military efforts in Pomerania and Estonia, and Norway fought long internecine wars along its Atlantic coastline, the 41 42

43

44

45

These make reference to the royal and episcopal estates (garðar) that the king and the bishop had in Bergen, which included the magnates’ own private shipyards. “Eftir páska váru reist átta skip, sex út á Eyrum ok ǫll stór, í konungsgarði ok í biskupsgarði … Ǫll váru þessi skip borðmikill at því sem þau váru róin til. Sverrir konungr lét ok taka byrðinga nǫkkura ok hǫggva í sundr ok auka at kili ok róa at endilǫngum borðum.” Sverris saga, cap. 154, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, p. 235, tr. Sephton, p. 194. Sephton trans. slightly modified. Jan Bill, “Castles at Sea. The Warship of the High Middle Ages,” in Maritime Warfare in Northern Europe. Technology, Organisation, Logistics and Administration 500 BC–1500 AD, eds. Anne Nørgård Jørgensen, John Pind, Lars Jørgensen and Birthe Clausen (Copenhagen, 2002), pp. 51–52. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, “Splendour versus Duty. 11th-Century Warships in the Light of History and Archaeology,” in Maritime Warfare in Northern Europe. Technology, Organisation, Logistics and Administration 500 BC–1500 AD, eds. Anne Nørgård Jørgensen, John Pind, Lars Jørgensen and Birthe Clausen (Copenhagen, 2002), p. 260. Anton Englert, “The Dating and Origin of the “Big Ship” from Bergen,” in The Bryggen Papers. Supplementary Series No. 7 Ships and Commodities (Bergen, 2001), p. 46.

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Swedes launched several naval expeditions against the Karelians, Novgorodians and Baltic pagans throughout the second half of the twelfth century. In 1142, a Swedish fleet led by a prince – knyaz – attacked and captured three Novgorodian merchant ships.46 In 1197, a combined German–Swedish fleet arrived in Estonia and compelled the conversion of the local population; the Swedes, moreover, forced the Estonians to pay tribute before leaving. That the Swedes were militarily active in the Baltic during this period, often cooperating with other Christian forces when on campaign, suggests that their naval and land-based tactics would have been compatible with those used by Germans and Danes, who normally employed cogs in combat.47 Moreover, heavy cavalry tactics had been introduced in Sweden by the early thirteenth century48 – during the battles of Lena in 1208 and Gestilren in 1210 – and naval innovations must have been known in the same timeframe. While it is clear that large clinker-built warships were used along Norway’s Atlantic coastline, there is only limited evidence regarding their Danish and Swedish counterparts. The sources mention cogs, but it is unclear if this designation was limited to flat-bottomed, carvel-built ships such as the Kollerup and Kolding cogs mentioned above. Jan Bill has suggested that cog building was not well known in Denmark as late as the fourteenth century, and it seems unlikely that the ruling elite of an aristocracy would sail in foreign-built ships, especially when Scandinavians were capable of building extremely large and high-sided clinker vessels, as the Bergen find shows.49 It is possible, therefore, that while new wide, high-sided warships were being produced along Scandinavia’s Baltic shorelines, these were clinker-built vessels, not cogs, and an evolution of native shipbuilding tradition. These warships could have been – and probably were – equipped with wooden castles fore and aft and at the mastheads too; the thirteenth-century collection of kings’ sagas Heimskringla recounts a battle in Norway in 1159, and mentions that the two Baltic merchantmen used in combat had castles fore and aft, as well as a fortified crow’s nest.50 Moreover, the seal of Dunwich, from the late twelfth century, shows a ship equipped with fore-and-aft castles.51 It is likely that the Scandinavians also knew of such designs, considering their wide knowledge of both Baltic and Atlantic seafaring, and these designs would have been easy to emulate in new, wide-beamed warships. It is conceivable that some Scandinavian vessels looked visually similar to the German cogs, and were therefore 46 47 48

49 50 51

The Chronicle of Novgorod 1016–1471, tr. Mitchell and Forbes, p. 17. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, for instance, mentions a joint German-Swedish expedition in Estonia in 1195. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, cap. 1.13, tr. Brundage, p. 30. Heavy cavalry could have been introduced in Sweden maybe even as early as the 1160s. See Beñat Elortza Larrea, “A Comparative Analysis of the Transformation of the Scandinavian Military Apparatus from a European Perspective, c.1035–1202” (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Aberdeen, 2017), pp. 162–63. Bill, “Scandinavian Warships,” p. 43. Heimskringla: The Saga of Hákon the Broadshouldered, cap. 5, ed. Jónsson, pp. 598–99. Bill, “Castles at Sea,” p. 50.



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described as such by Henry of Livonia. One important visual difference would be that these new ships did not lower their masts before engaging in battle – a common trait of the Scandinavian longships of the Viking Age – since crow’s nests were manned during combat. One of the main reasons for this phenomenon could be the wider beam of the new warships, where the mast did not limit the movement of the crew and the yard did not protrude as much from the sides of the ships. It is highly probable, nevertheless, that the largest Danish and Swedish ships were considerably different from their Norwegian counterparts; the largest Norwegian ships are mentioned as having been oared, while there are no such descriptions of large oared warships in the Baltic. Moreover, Scandinavian ships in the Baltic are often compared to cogs, which were not oared and relied solely on sails. The Norwegian aristocracy, therefore, would have built extremely large and high-sided, yet oared, personnel carriers designed for naval warfare, while Danish and Swedish warships were probably designed to maximize cargo capacity, not to maneuver in combat. Their defensive capabilities would have nevertheless been considerable. Fleet Composition and Battle Tactics The battle tactics described in the sources highlight clear western-European influences on equipment, weaponry and tactics. The changes in military organization, as well as the developments in shipbuilding highlighted in the preceding sections, also led to a shift in the tactical mindset. Smaller, more specialized fleets would become increasingly important as the leiðangr personnel carriers lost their efficiency when fighting aristocrats’ high-sided ships. The size and composition of the fleets used during the second half of the twelfth century differs significantly from the forces of the pre-civil wars period. Many of the naval expeditions undertaken by Scandinavians – either against each other or against overseas objectives – numbered ships in their hundreds. Erik II of Denmark attempted an invasion of Norway in 1137; Heimskringla mentions that six “hundred” (600 or 720) ships were used in the invasion, while the late twelfth-century chronicle Fagrskinna gives a more conservative figure of two hundred (200/240) ships.52 During the Dano-Norwegian wars of the late eleventh century, the size of fleets was similar; in 1062, at the battle of Niså, a weakened Harald Sigurdsson fielded a hundred and fifty (150/180) ships, while Sven Estridsen faced him with three hundred (300/360) vessels.53 After the outbreak of hostilities during the civil wars, however, the numbers dropped drastically. The battle of Holmengrå in 1139 saw the total involvement of fifty ships, twenty of these supporting the Gille faction and thirty backing the Hardrada-dynasty king 52

53

Heimskringla: The Saga of the Sons of Harald, cap. 3, ed. Jónsson, p. 572; Fagrskinna, a Catalogue of the Kings of Norway. A Translation with Introduction and Notes, cap. 87, tr. Alison Finlay (Leiden/Boston, 2004), p. 255. Heimskringla: The Saga of Harald Sigurtharson, cap. 61, ed. Jónsson, pp. 485–86.

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Magnus the Blind.54 The decisive naval battles of the Norwegian civil wars, such as Fimreite in 1184 and Florvåg in 1194, involved just forty and thirty-five ships, respectively.55 Danish fleets seem to have been larger, but these were organized to launch conquering expeditions in Pomerania and Estonia. The campaigns in Pomerania were mostly land-based, with ships being mainly used to transport the army; The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia and Gesta Danorum mention that large warships – in Henry’s chronicle, cogs – were used during these campaigns, and therefore the nobility could have also used this type of warship when fighting smaller engagements.56 Since there are no extant Swedish sources, it is impossible to know the exact size and composition of their fleets, but large forces were sometimes gathered for expeditions, such as the “crusade” against Finland in the 1150s57 or the aforementioned attack against Novgorodian forces in 1142, where the Swedish fleet was composed of sixty ships according to the Slavic source.58 These increasingly smaller fleets also carried a greater number of men on board. Sverris saga mentions both the number of ships and of combatants. The largest longships of the eleventh century have been estimated as carrying a crew of around 70–80 men, with smaller ships such as the Skuldelev 5 being manned by approximately 30 people.59 The account of the battle of Fimreite suggests that as many as three men per oar were allocated to the larger warships; the Skuldelev 2, with sixty oars, carried eighty men at most, and therefore 1.3 men per oar. A thirty bencher following the descriptions of Sverris saga, on the other hand, would carry as many as 180 men on board – over twice the number of an eleventh-century magnate longship. During the battle of Florvåg in 1194, the Island-Beards – Orcadian magnates supporting Sigurd Magnusson’s claim to the throne – fielded fourteen ships with two thousand men on board.60 These 54

55 56 57

58 59 60

All three Old Norse sources that mention this battle – Morkinskinna, Fagrskinna and Heimskringla – provide the same numbers: Sigurd and Inge Haraldsson sailed to battle with twenty Norwegian ships, while Magnus the Blind and Sigurd Slembe met them with twelve Norwegian and eighteen Danish ships. Heimskringla: The Saga of the Sons of Harald, cap. 10, ed. Jónsson, pp. 577–78; Morkinskinna. The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), cap. 92, trs. Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade (Ithaca/London, 2000), pp. 382–83; Fagrskinna, cap. 99, tr. Finlay, p. 269. Sverris saga, caps 86–88, 120, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 132–38, 181–86. See Gesta Danorum, cap. 16, ed. Friis-Jensen, tr. Fisher, pp. 1494–536; The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, caps. 19.2–19.11, tr. Brundage, pp. 142–55. The First Finnish Crusade has been hotly debated, and it seems to have consisted of large plundering expeditions launched against Western Finland during the 1150s, and not a crusade. Its crusade status probably derived from the death and posterior canonization of bishop Henry of Uppsala, who possibly died during this campaign. The Chronicle of Novgorod 1016–1471, tr. Mitchell and Forbes, p. 17. Crumlin-Pedersen, “Splendour versus Duty,” pp. 262–67. Sverris saga, cap. 120, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 181–86. Such figures, for the civil war period, should be deemed to be relatively accurate for several reasons. The smaller forces portrayed in these sources seem to be consistent with the size of the kings’ and magnates’ retinues mentioned in contemporary political treatises and legislation. The detailed description of shipbuilding by the elites, moreover, contains information on the ships’ crews. The size and crew of levy ships is mentioned in the provincial laws (where the



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numbers average almost 143 men per ship, an unlikely number if the Orcadians were using narrow longships. During the prelude to the battle of Strindfjord, Sverre’s own warship, the Hugro, had four men pulling at each oar when trying to overtake the Bagler force.61 According to the source, this ship must have been at least a twenty-five bencher, and therefore it carried at least two hundred men on board. As the size of fleets and the types of the warships changed, the tactics used by Scandinavian naval forces changed too. The most common tactical choice during the Viking Age and the eleventh century seems to have been the creation of large floating platforms by tying ships together, thus creating two battle-lines that met frontally at sea.62 According to Sverris saga, Sverre decided not to tie his ships during the three large naval battles of his time, the aforementioned engagements at Fimreite and Florvåg, as well as the battle of Strindfjord in 1199.63 Sverre called the creation of floating platforms by tying ships together an old tradition, and favored the use of warships as individual actors instead; this shift in tactics could not have happened unless the dimensions of the new warships were considerably larger than that of their earlier counterparts, as eleventhcentury longships lacked the high-sided bulwarks and large crews necessary to make them heavily fortified, tactically independent fighting vessels.64 Most ships, moreover, were also fitted with temporary bulwarks in order to make the sides of the vessels higher and therefore harder to board. Large warships could easily fend off attacks from smaller craft, as several passages from Sverris saga suggest. The Mariusud in Fimreite, for example, fended off the attacks of thirteen Heklung ships that accosted along its larboard side, while the remaining Birkebeiner ships approached the other ships of the Heklung fleet, which were

61 62

63 64

amount and dimensions of each county’s expected contribution is codified). The low numbers given by the chroniclers are also encouraging. For earlier periods, the sources mention hundreds of ships for each fleet (which, as far as the provincial laws are concerned, could be realistic numbers), but the battles of the civil war period contain low, specific numbers – the battle of Fimreite, for instance, only involved 40 ships (26 against 14) in total, some of which are individually named. The fact that several of these authors were direct eyewitnesses to many of the events described in the sources suggests a higher degree of accuracy too, as does the fact that the works were commissioned by rulers to be read out to their retinues; in accordance with Scandinavian oral tradition, the public would have expected some embellishment such as speeches or acts of valour, but overestimation of enemy numbers (particularly when these enemies were often friends and family members of those listening to the saga) would have been frowned upon and poorly received. Sverris saga, cap. 158, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, p. 242. For instance, two of the largest naval engagements fought in eleventh-century Scandinavia, the battles of Nesjar in 1016 and Niså in 1062, explicitly mention the tying together of the fleet as a preliminary preparation. Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, caps. 48–49, ed. Jónsson, pp. 209–10; Heimskringla: The Saga of Harald Sigurtharson, cap. 61, ed. Jónsson, pp. 485–86. Sverris saga, caps. 88, 120 and 159, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp.  135–38, 182–86, 242–46. Sverris saga, cap. 88, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 135–38.

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tied together and immobile, and overpowered them one by one.65 Sverre often used the tactical advantage of rowing his ships separately. At Strindfjord, Birkebeiner ships, rowing separately, surrounded a number of tied Bagler ships and pelted them with projectiles in order to decimate the crew, and only after having weakened the Bagler forces did the Birkebeiner board the enemy ships.66 The tactical advantages that high-sided cogs could offer are also highlighted in The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia. In 1215, the Livonian Brothers of the Sword managed to close off access to the Dvina River by placing one heavily fortified cog manned by fifty armored crossbowmen in the river mouth; this single cog seems to have discouraged a large Estonian fleet from approaching Riga’s harbor.67 Earlier in 1215, the chronicle mentions that a crusading force of nine cogs was not even approached by a much larger Estonian fleet, and that the crusaders managed to kill a number of these Estonians with their crossbows.68 Sverris saga also mentions the use of crossbows, both during sieges and naval battles; at Strindfjord, for instance, the author recounts that Sverre and another leading nobleman, Philippus, spent the entirety of the battle shooting their crossbows against the Bagler ships.69 Other types of ranged weaponry were also used during naval battles; The King’s Mirror, a Norwegian princely mirror from the mid-thirteenth century, instructs the reader to stock the ships with heavy and light javelins, but also warns against using spears as ranged weapons, thus suggesting that the use of both specialized javelins and polearms as ranged weaponry was still widespread when the text was composed.70 Other sources, such as Heimskringla and Sverris saga, also mention the “storm” of missiles that preceded boarding during naval battles.71 Aside from javelins and spears, ships also carried plenty of stones that were hurled against the opposing ships both from the deck and the fortified crow’s nest. Tactics at sea, therefore, changed considerably during the twelfth century; smaller, more professional fleets met each other at sea, and instead of approaching each other in wide floating platforms, the heavier, high-sided ships started to prove advantageous individually. What Jan Bill described as “castles at sea” became increasingly the reality: heavier ships with large crews dominated naval warfare in Scandinavia during this period, using a number of innovations of European origins, such as crossbows, to their advantage.

65 66 67 68 69 70 71

Sverris saga, caps. 91–93, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 141–45. Sverris saga, cap. 159, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 242–46. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, cap. 19.11, tr. Brundage, pp. 154–55. The Chronicle of Henry of Livonia, cap. 19.5, tr. Brundage, pp. 146–50. Sverris saga, cap. 159, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, p. 244. The King’s Mirror, tr. Larson, pp. 59–60. E.g. Sverris saga, cap. 148, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp.  222–26; Heimskringla: The Saga of the Sons of Harald, cap. 4, ed. Jónsson, p. 573; Fagrskinna, cap. 106, tr. Finlay, pp. 278–79.



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Conclusions Scandinavia presents itself as an ideal case-study as part of the European periphery during the high medieval period. Some European traits of warfare were not well known or were only partially implemented in Scandinavia. The use of heavy cavalry, for instance, was introduced to Denmark in the second half of the twelfth century, and although its use was widespread by the end of the century, Danish heavy cavalrymen were no match for their German counterparts, as the resounding defeat at the battle of Bornhöved in 1227 proves. Heavy horsemen gained importance even later in Sweden – sometime during the first half of the thirteenth century – and their use both within Sweden and in foreign campaigns, such as in Finland, was limited. The equipment and tactics of the cavalryman were also known in Norway, probably from the late twelfth century onwards, but there are no known instances of their use during pitched battles. The use of castles is similar; Denmark developed a wide network of castles after the end of the civil wars in 1157, but there are no known sieges during the high medieval period. Castles were first built in Norway and Sweden during the late twelfth century, and expanded during the thirteenth, but they were rare and only built in larger, strategically important towns. Moreover, all twelfth-century sieges involving a castle in Norway were promptly solved either through negotiated surrender or through quick assaults of the fortress, with no known instances of long sieges.72 There are clear influences of Europeanization, however, as far as military organization and naval warfare are concerned. The introduction of a privileged, warring aristocracy akin to the bellatores presented by Gerard of Florennes can be clearly discerned in the reforms of the Scandinavian naval levies during the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries. While the use of mercenaries, rampant in Western Europe during this period, was extremely rare in Scandinavia, the formation of smaller armies composed of a nucleus of members of the warring class and their retinues became increasingly common. The naval levies, although not completely abandoned, were seldom employed in their entirety and became a mechanism for local defense, taxation and, occasionally, as manpower for large offensive expeditions. The aristocracy’s new economic and social status led to the building of extremely large warships that were also excellent examples of European influence in Scandinavia. The adoption of the Frisian cog as a warship by the Baltic Scandinavians – as well as the German crusaders – is one of the clearest examples. It should also be taken into account that these innovations were adopted by Scandinavians piecemeal, with specific aspects of European military organization and

72

The only lengthy siege in Norway took place at the Rock of Tønsberg in 1201. Nevertheless, the impregnable nature of the position was due to natural features, as no castle was built in this location until the mid-thirteenth century. Sverris saga, caps. 108, 137 and 171, eds Kristjánsson and Guðjónsson, pp. 165–67, 205–07, 267–68.

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warfare being imported to the periphery in order to improve particular aspects of the Scandinavian martial culture. This process, therefore, should not be understood as one of homogenization and inclusion of Scandinavia into the wider European sphere, but more of a rapprochement. The increasing ties that the Scandinavian realms had with Latin Christianity are undeniable, and many of the processes highlighted above were clearly imported from Europe, but the Scandinavian ruling elites often chose which aspects to import, and maintained a legal, political and military culture that consciously asserted itself as clearly distinct. The transformation of naval warfare as a whole envisages this entire process; Western European organizational, material and tactical aspects were assimilated into the Scandinavian military ethos, but these changes took place through the active agency of the local aristocracy rather than through a boundless importation of Western European thought.

4 Auxiliary Peoples and Military Reform on Hungary’s Western Frontier in the Thirteenth Century Sarolta Tatár

From 1283 to 1289, Duke Albert I of Habsburg was involved in several campaigns against the Kőszegi family in western Transdunabia. During these, he encountered Hungarian troops who still fought with the traditional tactics of steppe mounted archers. This article examines these campaigns to identify these Hungarian soldiers as, most likely, the descendants of Pechenegs who had settled in the region in earlier generations. Contemporary sources reveal both the strengths and the limitations of such troops, who posed serious problems for Duke Albert but could not ultimately block the success of his siege-oriented strategy in an area that had, since the time of the Mongol invasions, seen the widespread introduction of modern fortifications. The ancient empires of the Middle East, the Greeks and Byzantines, the Romans and the Germanic states of the Middle Ages all encountered the Oriental strategy of nomad peoples with surprise. Many authors describe the fundamental difference between the Western and the Eastern armies as heavy shock cavalry versus light cavalry employing the famous stratagem of the feigned retreat, which involved the light cavalry falling back to lure the enemy into disorder, then turning to attack the surprised enemy. Their mounted archers employed a special tactic requiring years of training, when they leaned back in the saddle and shot their arrows at pursuing enemies, sometimes employing this tactic while circling around the enemy. This was one of their more unusual and feared tactics, but more broadly the victories of the nomads rested on more complicated military tactics and excellent leadership. Moreover, the warfare of the nomadic peoples was not monolithic: it had not only common features but also ethnic and historic differences over the course of centuries.1 One tactical commonality was the 1

Cf. E. V. Cernenko, The Scythians 700–300 BC, Osprey Men-at-Arms 137 (Oxford, 1983); János B. Szabó, “A sztyeppei hadviselés és a honfoglalók” [Warfare on the Steppe and the Land-taking Hungarians], Rubicon 26 (2016/7), 4–11 on the complex military organization of the Hungarians. Sources and descriptions about the Hungarians’ warfare: Leo VI, Taktika, Chapters XIV/42; XVIII/43, 45, 49–76 in Ferenc Albin Gombos, ed., Catalogus fontium historiae Hungaricae, vols. 1–4 (Budapest, 1937–38, repr. 2005–11) [hereafter abbreviated CFHH],

Figure 4.1  Campaign of Albert I of Austria, 1288-89.



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specially trained horses of the nomads.2 When they first arrived in the Danube basin, the Hungarians used their traditional military tactics, but later they also had to learn how to use the enemy’s weapons and warfare as a part of their Western enculturation. However, for several centuries there was no shortage of soldiers who were capable of nomad military tactics because Oriental tribal groups kept arriving into the country. After the “Land-taking” of the seven Hungarian tribes and the three so-called Kabar tribes (i.e. groups of Turkic and most probably Iranian origin, who joined the Hungarians) at the end of the ninth century, several tribal fragments of Eastern nomadic origin3 settled in Hungary from the tenth century onwards: 1.

2

3 4 5

6

The Turkic-speaking Pechenegs, who according to oral tradition recorded by Anonymous (the author of the Gesta Hungarorum)4 first appeared in the reign of suzerain Taksony (c.950) under leadership of their chief Thonuzoba and his son Urkund.5 There are many persons and places called by their ethnonym (Besenyő) in Hungary, therefore we may assume that this was the most numerous migrant population6 before the Mongol invasion (1242).

2:1414–22, no. 3422; Latin transl. pp. 1432, 1437–39; cf. Gyula Moravcsik, “La tactique de Léon le Sage comme source historique hongroise,” Acta historica Academiae Scientiarum Hungariae 1 (1952), 161–84; Regino, Chronicon, in CFHH, 3:2039 no. 4372; Liudprand of Cremona, Antapodosis, seu rerum per Europam gestarum, in CFHH, 2:1470 no. 3527; Ekkehard IV, Casus Sancti Galli, in CFHH, 1:449–52 no. 1032. For the Hungarian translation of the texts see A honfoglalás korának írott forrásai [hereafter abbreviated HKÍF] [Written Sources about the Landtaking Period], Szegedi Középkortörténeti Könytár [Library of the Medieval History of Szeged], ed. Gyula Kristó (Szeged, 1995), pp. 102, 103–09, 198, 215, 247–53. László Bartosiewicz, “Gondolatok a ‘lovas nomád’ hagyományról” [Some thoughts on the ‘mounted nomad’ tradition], in Csontvázak a szekrényből. Válogatott tanulmányok a Magyar Archaeozoológusok Visegrádi Találkozóinak anyagából 2002–2009 [Skeletons from the Cupboard. Some Papers presented on the Meeting of the Hungarian Archaeozoologs in Visegrád, 2002–09], ed. László Bartosiewicz, Erika Gál, and István Kováts (Budapest, 2009), pp. 73–82. Ethnic groups which were not important as auxiliary troops, e.g. the Bulgars, are not mentioned here. Anonymus Belae regis notarius, “Gesta Hungarorum,” §. 57, in CFHH, 1:255–6 no. 540. Lajos Ligeti, A magyar nyelv török kapcsolatai a honfoglalás előtt és az Árpád-korban [The Turkic Connections of the Hungarian Language before the Landtaking and during the Arpadian Age] (Budapest, 1986), p. 385, and Árpád Nagy, “Eger környéki és Tisza-vidéki besenyő települések a X-XI. században” [Pecheneg Settlements near Eger and the Tisza Region in the 10th–11th centuries], Egri Múzeum Évkönyve (1969), 131–33. For a map of their settlements in Hungary, see András Pálóczi Horváth, “Nomád népek a kelet-európai steppén és a középkori Magyarországon” [Nomad Peoples on the Eastern European Steppe and in Medieval Hungary], in Zúduló sasok: Új honfoglalók besenyők, kunok, jászok – a középkori Alföldön és a Mezőföldön [Eagles Flying Low: New Landtakers – Pechenegs, Cumans and Jazygs on the Medieval Hungarian Great Plain and the Mezőföld Region], ed. Péter Havassy, Sándorné Boldog et al. (Gyula, 1996), p. 15. Although the sources do not give exact and reliable numbers for the Pechenegs, they were doubtless a large population on the steppe: see István Zimonyi, Muszlim források a honfoglalás előtti magyarokról. A Ĝayhānī-hagyomány magyar fejezete [Muslim Sources on the Magyars before the Landtaking. The Hungarian Chapter of the Ĝayhānī Tradition], Magyar Őstörténeti Könyvtár 22 [Library of Early Hungarian History 22] (Budapest, 2005), p. 86.

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2.

The Turkic-speaking Oguz/Uz in the second half of the eleventh century. Settlements called Uz, Uzdi, or Ózd probably belonged to them. The settlement of Türkös, the rivulet Uz, its valley, and the pass all called Uz are to be found characteristically close to the south-eastern border of historical Hungary in Transylvania, a typical guard position in this threatened corner of the kingdom.7

3.

Tatars and Tatrans, whose language is a matter of some debate (Mongolian or Turkic).8 Persons called Tatar and place-names derived from this ethnonym are frequently mentioned in chronicles and documents from the twelfth century onwards. They often occur in Transylvania in the same region as the Uz, which indicates that they were frontier guards as well. On the other hand, the so-called nyögér guards of King Ladislaus IV (“the Cuman”: in Hungarian, Kun László) were probably an ethnically mixed group, mercenaries of Oriental origin, not exactly ethnic Tatars, although their name nyögér is a Mongolian borrowing into the Hungarian language, meaning a member of the royal entourage.9 Such an administrative term could easily come into the Hungarian language together with a military unit, after the aristocracy of Mongolian origin subjugated the Pecheneg, Oguz, Cuman and other peoples on the Pontic steppes and re-organized them as the population in the new Khanate.

4.

The first Cuman group arrived in Hungary in 1239, under leadership of their chief Kötöny. Later other groups, fragments of six tribes from the Pontic steppe, were settled on the Great Hungarian Plain.10

5.

In their midst was a tribal fragment of Iranian origin, called Jász (pronounced Yas).11

Such immigrant groups often served as auxiliary forces in the army of the recipient state, a well-known solution and method of integration throughout Eurasia, from China to the Atlantic.12 Several of these tribal fragments were incorporated into the Hungarian royal army, and were expected to fight according to nomad tactics.13 Exactly how this happened is a matter of debate. We know from Latin 7

8

9 10 11

12 13

Maria Magdolna Tatár, “The First Tatars in Europe,” in Altaica Budapestinensia. MMII. The Proceedings of the 45th Permanent International Altaistic Conference (PIAC). Budapest, Hungary, June 23rd–28th, 2002, ed. Alice Sárközi and Attila Rákos (Budapest, 2003), pp. 336–39. Tatár, “The First Tatars,” pp.  332 and ff., and László Rásonyi and Imre Baski, Onomasticon Turcicum. Turkic Personal Names, vols. I–II, Uralic and Altaic Series 172/1–2 vols. (Bloomington, 2007), 172/2:718–19. Tatár, “The First Tatars,” pp. 334–35, 346. Korai magyar történeti lexikon (9–14. század) [hereafter KMTL] [Lexicon of Early Hungarian History, 9th–14th cents.], ed. Gyula Kristó, Pál Engel, Ferenc Makk (Budapest, 1994), pp. 383–84. György Györffy, A magyarság keleti elemei [The Eastern Elements of the Hungarians] (Budapest, 1990), pp. 303–11. See map of Cuman and Yas settlements in Pálóczi Horváth, “Nomád népek,” p. 26. See Zimonyi, Muszlim források, p. 90. About these tactics see Johannes Gießauf, “A lovasnomád fegyverzet és harcmodor az ellenfelek beszámolóinak tükrében” [The Weaponry and Strategy of Mounted Nomads in Light



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documents that the military service of Cumans was pervasive and organized.14 But we also suspect that not all Pechenegs were warriors, though often only their distant memory appears in documents, without much information about the old settlers of a village. Therefore it is difficult to determine their original functions.15 Another matter of debate is how nomadic tactics and warriors were incorporated into the Hungarian royal army. Western sources indicate that ordinary Hungarian warriors were also light cavalry, even as late as in the fourteenth century. There seems to have been some survival of the original warrior traditions of the nomadic Hungarians of the tenth century. Yet Hungarian nobles were also recorded as having fought in knightly armor and also in the Western knightly orders such as the Templars, Hospitallers16 and Teutonic Knights, all of whom were present in Hungary.17 But when did Hungarian nobles begin to fight like knights? This turn of events is often attributed to the conscious military reform applied by Béla IV (r. 1235–70) after the Mongol invasion, which involved the building of Western-type stone fortifications and the raising of the numbers of warriors in full metal armor in the army. However, weapons of Western origin were found in Hungarian graves dating from as early as the tenth century. To what extent the introduction of knightly arms and armor also involved knightly rituals and initiation is unknown. Probably the full effect of chivalric culture was not introduced in Hungary until the Angevin and Luxemburg dynasties came to power (starting in 1308).18 In any case, sources describe Hungarian soldiers with armor and weapons of the Western type in the first battle against the Mongols (Muhi, 11 April 1241), a fact which was the cause of many casualties among them, since the heavy Western armor dragged the Hungarians and their King Louis II down into the marshes, where they drowned. This was not limited to the Templar knights, who had excellent armor and heavy weapons of Western type and who all lost their lives in the battle against the numerically superior Mongols.19 Many commoners and notables, including bishops, also died in the

14 15

16 17 18

19

of Adversary Sources], in Fegyveres nomádok, nomád fegyverek [Armed Nomads, Nomadic Weapons], Magyar Őstörténeti Könyvtár 21 [Library of Early Hungarian History 21], (Budapest, 2004), pp. 26–37. Pálóczi Horváth, “Nomád népek.” Sarolta Tatár, “A Pecheneg Legend of Origin from Hungary,” in Sources of Mythology. Ancient and Contemporary Myths. Proceedings of the 7th Annual Conference on Comparative Mythology, 15th–17th May 2013, Tübingen, ed. Klaus Antoni and David Weiss (Vienna, 2014), pp. 317–36. József Dénes, “A vasvári ispáni vár helye” [The Location of the Fortress of the Comitatus of Vasvár], Vasi Szemle 45 (1991) p. 363. Zsolt Hunyadi, The Hospitallers in the Medieval Kingdom of Hungary. c.1150–1387 (Budapest, 2010). The exact nature of tradition and reform, and the interaction between the various segments of the royal army has been debated for 200 years. See János B. Szabó, A honfoglalóktól a huszárokig - A középkori magyar könnyűlovasságról [From the Hungarian Landtakers to the Hussars – The Medieval Hungarian Cavalry], (Budapest, 2010). “... magister vero Templarius cum tota acie Latinorum occubuit...” Thomas Spalatensis archi-

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lakes and marshlands into which the Mongols had driven them, as reported by Magister Rogerius and Thomas Spalatensis.20 The Mongols had already used the same method on 15 March 1241, during a combat near Pest, when their vanguard lured Ugrin (Ugolin), the bellicose archbishop of Kalocsa, into a marshland, which he and his soldiers could not traverse due to their heavy arms.21 The sixteenth-century poet János Temesvári explained the same event even more clearly: the Mongols easily waded out because they had light arms, but the Hungarians had heavy armor and therefore could not wade out of the marshland.22 The same sources also describe the Mongols using the wellknown nomad stratagem of the feigned retreat, setting traps for the Hungarians again and again, and also emphasize how the Mongol archers caused turmoil and many casualties among the Hungarians: the same tactics that the Pechenegs and Székelys, as part of the Hungarian army, had employed against the invading German army in 1116. Obviously, Western weapons were in use before the Mongol invasion and the subsequent military reform. Heavy armor and weapons of Western type and the stratagem of building a closed and narrow camp turned out to be not only useless but the cause of a tragic defeat in battle against the light Mongol cavalry of Oriental style. In the rest of this article, I intend to extrapolate on a detail of this development of the art of war and participate in the discussion about latethirteenth-century military reform.

20

21

22

diaconus, Historia Salonitanorum, in CFHH, 3:2235 no. 4781. See Tatárjárás, and Rogerius magister, “Carmen miserabile,” in CFHH, 3:4470, nos. 2077, 30, translated as Master Roger, “Epistle to the Sorrowful Lament upon the Destruction of the Kingdom of Hungary by the Tatars,” in Martyn Rady and László Veszprémy, “Anonymus and Master Roger: Gesta Hungarorum: Anonymi Bele Regis Notarii / the Deeds of the Hungarians: Anonymus, Notary of King Bela.”, in Anonymous and Master Roger: Anonymus, Notary of King Bela: The Deeds of the Hungarians; Master Roger’s Epistle to the Sorrowful Lament Upon the Destruction of the Kingdom of Hungary by the Tatars, Central European Medieval Texts V, trans., annotated, ed. János Bak, Martyn Rady, and László Veszprémy (Budapest, 2010). “De numero vero laicorum maiorum et minorum, qui suffocati fuerunt paludibus et aquis...”: Rogerius magister, “Carmen miserabile,” in CFHH, 3:2077 nos. 4470, 30; Master Roger, Lament §30. See also Thomas Spalatensis Historia, in CFHH, 3:2236 no. 4781: “Tunc miserabilis multitudo, quam nondum devoraverat gladius Tartarorum, ad quamdam paludem venire compulsa, non est permissa diversam ingredi viam. Sed urgentibus Tartaris in eam ingressa est pars maxima Hungarorum, ibique ab aqua et luto pene omnes absorpti sunt et extincti.” Magister Rogerius, “Carmen,” in CFHH, 3:2073 nos. 4470, 21: “Hoc archiepiscopus non advertens, cum proximus illis esset, festinus intravit, et cum esset cum suis armorum pondere pressus, transire vel retrocedere nequierunt.” “Tatárok könnyen ott általgázolának,/ Mert könnyű fegyverben mindnyájan valának,/ De kik fegyveresek magyarok valának,/ Érsekestől sárból ki nem mászhatának,” Temesvári János deák, “A Béla királyról, mint jöttenek be a tatárok és elpusztították mind egész Magyarországot” [About King Béla, How the Tatars Arrived and Destroyed all Hungary] in Tatárjárás, p. 233.



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Pechenegs in Transdanubia The title of this article refers to the later thirteenth century, when the military reform was already in progress after the Mongol invasion. We cannot solve every problem connected with this subject in this article, so we will focus on one detail, that of continued Pecheneg activity along Hungary’s western frontier after the military reform, with emphasis on Count Albert of Habsburg’s war against the Kőszegi family from 1285–90, which also involved King Ladislaus of Hungary and Rudolf, King of the Germans, both on Albert’s side. The Pechenegs were settled in Transdanubia at an unknown date after 950 (but no later than about 1200), and probably arrived in several waves of immigration. A Latin document from 1224 issued by the Palatine confirms the Pechenegs in Árpás as military personnel and determines their economic obligations.23 The Pechenegs in Fejér County had their own comitatus with some degree of autonomy.24 These documents indicate that the Pechenegs of Transdanubia and the rest of Hungary had a different legal status depending on whose lands they lived on and what privileges were granted by the court to that particular group, based on their service to the throne or the church. Latin documents had been issued in Hungary since the institution of the Christian kingdom by Saint Stephen I in the year 1000, but their number rose significantly around 1200, after the structure of the royal administration was sufficiently developed across the land, so that the co-dependent administration of king, queen and two archbishoprics encompassed the whole kingdom and a growing social structure made the settling of legal cases in written form more necessary. Examination of Latin documents mentioning the Pechenegs in Transdanubia indicates that the Pecheneg comitatus existed until the end of the fourteenth century,25 but in most other places the Pechenegs were disappearing rapidly. In the overwhelming majority of documents the Pechenegs are mentioned only as the former inhabitants of a land that the king has chosen to give away. Most of these documents date from after the Mongol invasion, suggesting significant changes. The other major source for Pecheneg history is local place names, created either from the Pecheneg name, or their tribal names, or personal names known to have been used by Pechenegs. From these place names, we know that Pechenegs were once present in these areas in significantly larger numbers than the later documents indicate. Chronicles and other sources mention the Pechenegs as auxiliary troops in Hungarian campaigns abroad several times.26 23

24

25 26

Sarolta Tatár, “Az árpási besenyők gazdasági viszonyai” [The Economic Conditions of the Pechenegs of Árpás] in Adalékok az adózás történetéhez [Notes on the History of Taxation] TITE Könyvek 4 [Books of the Historical Society 4] (Budapest, 2014), pp. 65–79. Sarolta Tatár “A Rábaközi besenyő ispánság szervezete és fennállása” [The Organization and duration of the Pecheneg Comitatus of Rábaköz] in Utak és kereszteződések. Ünnepi tanulmányok M. Kiss Sándor tiszteletére [Roads and Crossroads. In Honor of Sándor M. Kiss], ed. Frigyes Kahler and Barbara Bank (Budapest, 2013), pp. 33–42. Tatár, “A Rábaközi.” Györffy, A magyarság, pp. 123–69.

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By 1285, the members of the Kőszegi family had set themselves up as the main feudal lords in the western regions of Transdanubia, where they were a continual thorn in the side of the Hungarian king, Ladislaus IV, the German king, Rudolf I (of Habsburg), and Rudolf’s eldest son, the duke of Austria and Styria, Albert I of Habsburg. The Kőszegis owned several castles in this territory. The Kőszegi family had originated from the Héder kindred, of German origin, and had climbed to the top by controlling most castles within their kindred group, and being some of the biggest landowners among the barons.27 Their belligerent provocations would cause Albert (who had just gained full control over his two duchies in 1283) to attack western Hungary.28 The Austrians and Styrians living by the frontier told Albert that Hungarians should not be engaged as if they were French knights: rather, one must adapt to their strategy of occasionally attacking and sometimes fleeing. In 1283, a campaign took place pitting the Austrians against Turkic auxiliary peoples, leading to a combat that did not happen according to the rules of chivalry. Rather, the Hungarians shot their arrows then retreated, always turning around to harass the enemy. When Albert’s army thrust forward, the Hungarians avoided battle with him. The Austrians sent an envoy to ask the Hungarians to stop shooting and face battle like men, but the envoy was shot down too (Hungarian humor is a very old thing). Albert’s army was forced to surrender after hours of this, and the army of the Kőszegis took the soldiers’ possessions. Albert and Iván Kőszegi made peace.29 (The battle in question happened at an unknown location at an unknown date). 27

28 29

József Dénes, “Az Árpád-kori kisvárak kérdései. Vas, Sopron és Moson megye várai” [Questions Concerning the Minor Fortifications of the Árpádian Age. The Castles of Vas, Sopron and Moson Counties], Vasi Szemle 54 (2000), p. 59. Anonymous, “Chronicon Salisburgense,” in CFHH, 1:682 no. 1490. Ottokar von Steier, “Oesterreichische Reimchronik,” in CFHH, 3:1829–41, no. 4146. On Hungarian archers charging with “Cumanian” battle cries: nu begunden zou gahen die Unger allenthalben. se schriren als Valben [=Cumanian] und kamen rehte als si flugen. ire bogen si zugen und begunden die nutzen. (1833) es wurde da mit in gestriten nah den schwaebischen siten  sie Tiutschen wurden umbezogen vor und hinden hin und her, do si alsus wurden beschutt do wart der Tiutschen schade groz (1833–34) mit der botschaft ein schutze  zou graf Yban wart gesant.... wand er wart erschozzen. (1834) so getan unere daz man daz schiezen lieze ez wart unritterlich. (1835)



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At the end of 1286, however, Ladislaus IV also started a new war against the Kőszegi family, and took Ivan’s most important fortress, Kőszeg. One of Ivan’s contingents crossed the Danube and took Pozsony, which the king took back at the beginning of 1287. But by spring, the king had been defeated in a battle along the banks of the river Zsitva, by the sons of Henrik of Kőszegi and Roland of the Borsa kindred. Ladislaus IV called on the help of Albert, who besieged Pozsony, and kept it until 1291. In 1288, active warfare between Albert and Iván Kőszegi resumed, with Albert undertaking a sort of quick hit-and-run incursion. The next spring (1289), Albert conducted a more methodical invasion, which will be discussed in some detail below. He besieged Nagymarton then took Majád, Sopron, Nyék, Kabold, Lánzsér, Rohonc, Szalónak, Pinkafő, Németújvár, and Óvár by Moson.30 Ladislaus IV refused to help his Kőszegi vassals. Albert moved to take the Kőszegi family seat of Kőszeg by autumn, and conquered that too. After a pause in the action, Albert returned towards the end of the year and took the fortress of Szentvid.31 Albert`s campaigns did not result in any lasting conquest of Hungarian territory. He seems to have pulled back with his army each time and returned most or all of his conquests to the Hungarian king after each campaign. This means that Albert and Ladislaus IV were collaborating with each other, since they must have considered the Kőszegi warlords as a common enemy. Ladislaus IV was a weak king, who could not have dismantled the Kőszegi autonomous region by himself. So he gave Albert I free access to those parts of his kingdom, and Albert took out the enemy for him. He possibly had to pay Albert I something in return, although Albert I benefited from demolishing the Kőszegi’s power too. Nomad Tactics Used Against the Austrians The event we will concentrate on is Albert’s defeat by Ivan’s mounted archers in 1285, as described by Ottokar von Steier (which is also briefly mentioned in the Chronicon Salisburgense).32 I will analyze this combat in light of the subsequent fighting in 1288–89. Ottokar von Steier does not mention where this battle between Western knights and Kőszegi’s horse archers took place. Only their tactics are recorded, and they are unmistakably nomadic. The tactic of shoot-and-run, then the act of turning back to unexpectedly encircle the pursuing army, was described multiple times in connection with steppe peoples as disparate as the Huns, Avars, Hungarians and Mongols. A Muslim source33 describes a battle taking place in 932 involving the Pechenegs 30 31 32 33

“Continuatio Vindobonensis,” in CFHH, 1:787–88 no. 1792. Gyula Kristó, Az Árpád-kor háborúi (Budapest 1986), p. 150. von Steier, “Reimschronik” in CFHH, 3:1829–41 no. 4146, Anonymous, “Chronicon” in CFHH, 1:682 no. 1490. al-Masudi, “Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems,” [Relevant passages only in Hungarian] in A magyarok elődeiről és a honfoglalásról. Kortársak és krónikások híradásai [Reports of Contemporaries and Chronicles about the Ancestors of the Magyars and the Peoples of

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and Hungarians.34 This was during the Hungarian campaign against Byzantium, a pillaging raid of the same kind as campaigns undertaken against Western Europe in the same period. Byzantine and Muslim sources referred to Hungarians as Turks.35 In 932 the Hungarians besieged a Byzantine “city” that was located in the Bulgarian territories and which had an unsolved name spelled W.l.n.d.r. in Arabic. Hearing this, the Emperor Romanos Lekapenos I sent a large army to relieve it, including many Christian Arabs fighting with spears. Seeing this large enemy, the Pecheneg “king” (baḡanag) asked to be given command of the Hungarians’ battle tactics during the upcoming confrontation. The next day, he took his mounted archers and placed them on both sides of the Hungarian army, 1,000 men on each side. Then the Pechenegs began rotating around the Byzantines, firing arrows, until the Byzantines lunged forward into the main Hungarian army, which did not budge, sending the Byzantines fleeing. What we see here is a version of the mobile tactics of the nomads that combines the tactic of moving riders firing arrows and another type of tactic, which involves an army not giving way to an attacking force. The nomad shootand-move tactic is here used by the Pechenegs. It is also apparent that the Muslim author has somewhat misunderstood the role of the Pecheneg “king”: far from being the commander, he is only in charge of the auxiliary forces. Both a Hungarian–Pecheneg alliance and Pecheneg auxiliary forces under Hungarian leadership are plausible at this period, when the Hungarian ruler, Zolta, arranged for the marriage of his son Taksony, the next ruler, to a lady of Pecheneg origin (i.e. an alliance) and settled Pecheneg groups as border guards close to Austria: this took place before 950, according to the Gesta Hungarorum.36 The Pecheneg settlements meant immigrant subjects in military service. If the Pechenegs participated in this campaign in that role, then this fact proves that their groups had already settled in Hungary before 932.

34

35

36

the Steppe] [hereafter MEH], ed. György Györffy (Budapest, 1958), transl. Károly Czeglédy, pp. 64–67, and Mihály Kmoskó, Mohamedán írók a sztyeppe népeiről, Földrajzi irodalom vol. I/2 [Muslim Sources on Steppe Nomadism, Geographic Literature I/2], Magyar Őstörténeti Könyvtár 13 [Library of Early Hungarian History 13] (Budapest, 2000), pp.  144–45. Also see Zimonyi, Muszlim források, p. 181. There are four peoples mentioned in the source: b.ĝ.n.y, baĝgird, b.ĝ.nāk and nūk.r.da. However, b.ĝ.n.y and b.ĝ.nāk are both variants of the name of the Pechenegs, and baĝgird (Bashkird) and nūk.r.da (Onogundur) both mean the Hungarians. Al-Masudi used an Arabian and a Persian source, hence the misunderstanding. See Peter B. Golden, “The People Nūkarda,” Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 1 (1975), pp. 21–35. It was assumed earlier that this is one of the few written indications we have that some Hungarians stayed behind after the main body of the people moved into the Carpathian Basin in 895–6: cf. MEH, pp.  64–67 (transl. K. Czeglédy) and Kmoskó Mohamedán, pp.  144–45. Also see Zimonyi, Muszlim források, p. 181. However, the name of the Greek city where the combatants met was misspelled in the source as W.l.n.d.r. This means the Bulgarians, who were subjects of the Greeks (HKÍF, p. 53, no. 132). Anonymous, § 57 in CFHH, 1:255–6 no. 540; Tatár, “Pecheneg Legend”, pp. 317–36.



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Identifying Nomad Auxiliary Troops Used Against Albert I The question is: in Ottokar von Steier’s description of Albert’s defeat, what was the ethnicity of the troops using nomad tactics? He does not name them. The various ethnic groups of Hungary float together as “Hungarians” in Western sources. So we must look at the tactics used by Hungarian soldiers at the time to determine it. This is where the question gets complicated: Hungarian tactics are usually described in a universal manner in the sources of foreign enemies, who had difficulty distinguishing between the various ethnicities among the subjects of the Hungarian kings. B. Szabó has sifted through all the significant sources concerning battles involving medieval Hungarians and argues that the medieval Hungarian royal army retained many nomad traditions, particularly the use of light cavalry archers. He also believes that as the Hungarian kings received the service of immigrant knights from Western Europe and were generally exposed to foreign tactics, the Hungarian army’s mastery of nomad tactics declined. The Hungarian army, which had previously applied only nomad military methods, became mixed in composition, with many segments fighting according to various non-nomadic traditions. The backbone of the army remained the Hungarian county soldiers until the reform after 1241.37 They were drafted from subjects of various legal status and profession, who were listed as soldier families in the counties and many of these soldiers were badly trained. The ultimate composition of the Hungarian army varied from king to king and even from event to event. What seems definite is that even as late as the thirteenth century, Hungarian kings welcomed the service of warriors of nomadic origins such as the Cumans and nyögérs, because they added a type of military might and knowledge that, inside Hungary, had paled over the centuries. They seem to have been the most disciplined practitioners of nomadic shoot-and-run tactics.38 Ottokar von Steier makes an interesting comment about Ivan Kőszegi’s horse archers: that “they shouted like the Cumans.” That is, they had battle cries that reminded the Germans of nomad behavior. However, he does not write that they were actual Cumans.39 No Cumans were ever settled so close to Hungary’s western borders. By creating maps that incorporate the villages of Hungarian guardsmen, Pechenegs, and other military service peoples it becomes clear that the dominant auxiliary people of Eastern origin by the western frontier were the Pechenegs, even if we take into account that most of their villages may never have been recorded in the sources. Though much of their population was disappearing from the sources by 1288, there were still a substantial number of them, if indications of Pecheneg landlordship in some villages can be believed. Thus, the Pechenegs had completely disappeared from Barátfalu, Monóudvar and Féltorony in Moson 37 38 39

Szabó, “A honfoglalóktól.” Györffy, A magyarság. von Steier, “Reimchronik,” in CFHH, 3:1829–41 no. 4146.

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County, which was given away by the king to the monastery of Heiligenkreuz in 1203.40 In Vas County, we find approximately fifteen place names that can be connected to the Pechenegs. Most of these are straightforward, since they are village names made from variations of the Pecheneg ethnonym (Besenyő). One village record mentions a landowner called Emmerich the son of Peter the Pecheneg in 1324. Györffy believes that there cannot have been a major Pecheneg population in this village anymore; if there were, he implies, then “the Pecheneg” would not be a useful identifier. 41 I disagree with this judgment: there are many examples from the Pecheneg Comitatus in Fejér County of nicknames and family names made from Pecheneg-language names, without the Comitatus going defunct until well into the fifteenth century.42 Maybe Peter the Pecheneg lived in a mixed-population village: perhaps there were two or three landowners named Peter, of whom only one was a Pecheneg. I conclude that the archer horsemen of Ivan Kőszegi must have been Pechenegs. The Strategy of Albert I Since the military route taken by Albert I in 1288–89 led through and towards the most important holdings of the Kőszegi family, namely in Vas County, we will examine Albert’s strategy and compare it with our map of military villages. Albert’s route is preserved in the continuation of the Annales Vindobonensis (1267–1302): Primo videlicet Mertinsdorf, Chervellenpurch, Rorpach, Paungarten, Walbramstorf, Sant Margareten, Oedempurch, Nekendorf, Chobolstorf, Landeser, Traizzendorf, Rekniez, Stainperge, Pilgreimstorf, Wilamstorf, Pinkevelde, Petersschachen, Alberndorf, Stegraifepach, Drei veste daz drin warten, Niclas tuern, Sleunz, Pertholsdorf, Rumpolsdorf, Neubaden, Wergestorf, Barmdorf, Wardeschirchen, Zu den Sihuzen, Zuchan ochsen, Awet, Yseneinpurch.43

In translation (with modern placenames): First of all Nagymarton, Oroszvár, Fraknónádasd, Kismarton, Borbolya, Szentmargitbánya (Majád), Sopron, Sopronnyék, Kabold, Lánzsér, Vámosderecske, Rohonc, Répcekőhalom, Pörgölény, Villámos, Pinkafő, Peterschachen, Alber/Olberndorf, Szentelek, Németújvár, Szalónak, Pertholsdorf, Rumpód/Bándolt, Bándolt, Velege, Pözsöny, Hovárdost, Németlövő, Csejke, Pinkaóvár, Vasvár.

40 41 42

43

Györffy, A magyarság, p. 124. Györffy, A magyarság, p. 129. Gábor Hatházi, “Besenyők és kunok a Mezőföldön” [Pechenegs and Cumans in the Mezőföld Region], in Zúduló sasok: Új honfoglalók – besenyők, kunok, jászok a középkori Alföldön és a Mezőföldön, [Eagles Flying Low: New Landtakers – Pechenegs, Cumans and Jazygs on the Medieval Hungarian Great Plain and the Mezőföld Region], eds. Péter Havassy et al. (Gyula, 1996), pp. 39–56. CFHH, 1:787–88



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Nagymarton, Borbolya and Frakónádasd are located on the road from Wiener Neustadt to Sopron.44 Kismarton and Majád are on the road45 that connects the main road of Wiener Neustadt and Sopron and Sopron and Szombathely (a minor village in Sopron County, not to be confused with the city).46 Sopronnyék (Neckenmarkt) is on the road that connects Sopron with Kőszeg.47 Of these settlements, Peterschachen cannot be identified anymore, and Pözsöny could not be located on a map. Kabold lies on the road that branches off from the main road connecting Sopron and Kőszeg, leading through Zsidány, Szentmárton, Veperd and Kabold towards Wiender Neustadt, passing by the fortress of Fraknó.48 Oroszvár lies on the road from Hainburg to Óvár in Moson.49 Lánzsér is on the parallel road to the south that led from Kőszeg and Léka, then Bunya, Vámosderecske and Lánzsér towards Wiender Neustadt.50 Rohonc lies on the road from Sopron to Graz, that branched off the road from Szombathely-Pettau, leading through Rohonc and Hidegkút to Fürstenfeld.51 Répcekőhalom lay by the road that led from Szombathely to Wiender Neustadt, which branched off from the road from Szombathely-Sopron and joined the road from Léka-Wiender Neustadt by Derecske.52 The road of Pörgölény/Pergelény branched off the road from Kőszeg to Léka, and led to Austria.53 Villámos is in the vicinity of Felsőlövő and lies between two roads, the one leading from Szombathely through Vörösvár to Pinkafő to Hockart,54 and the other leading from Kőszeg through Rohonc and Szalónak to Aschau.55 Pinkafő lies at the end of the first road. Szentelek and Olberndorf lie a little to the side of the road-system, south of the road that leads from Csajta to Vasvörösvár, Felsőőr and Pinkafő to Austria.56 Németújvár lies on the road which led from Körmend to Fürstenfeld, going through Hidegkút.57 Perchtolsdorf is south of Vienna. Rumpód/Bándolt is on the road from Rohonc and Szalónak, through Tohony.58 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Lajos Gláser, “A Dunántúl középkori úthálózata” [Medieval roads in Transdanubia] Századok 63–64 (1929–30), map and p. 148. Ibid., p. 160, nr. 37. Ibid., p. 160, nr. 36. Ibid., map. Ibid., p. 158, nr. 29. Ibid., map. Ibid., p. 158, nr. 27. Ibid., p. 161, nr. 41. Ibid., p. 163, nr. 50. Ibid., p. 158, nr. 27. Ibid., p. 164, nr. 53. Ibid., p. 163, nr. 51. Ibid., p. 164, nr. 53. Ibid., p. 281, nr. 179. Ibid., p. 163, nr. 51.

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Velege is a little south of the same road. Hovárdos lies somewhere on the medieval road between Németújvár and Rohonc. Pinkaóvár is also on this road.59 Németlövő and Csejke lie on the road that leads from Szombathely to Rábort.60 Vasvár is the old county seat that lies at the crossroad of multiple roads. Based on this record, we can reconstruct the route: it becomes apparent that Albert divided his attacking army into two contingents that moved simultaneously. The two contingents were meant to disable the two main defenses that the Hungarian kingdom had in the northwest: the fortresses of Sopron and Óvár near Moson. The first contingent came through Hainburg, taking the minor fortification of Oroszvár, which was a preliminary fortress to Óvár, but then made the surprising move of not advancing against Óvár to the south, but rather taking the route north of Lake Fertő/Neusiedler See to join the other contingent, with their route coming close to Szombathely and Kismarton instead. The main contingent took the route from Vienna through Perchtolsdorf, then Wiener Neustadt, Nagymarton and Sopron, where the two armies must have met. Then, the unified army filed into Vas County, where most frontier fortifications lay. Albert followed the main road that led from Sopron to Vasvár, and took detours to attack fortifications by side-roads, conquering villages and minor defenses along the way. He took such major castles as Kabold, Veperd, Lánzsér, Léka, Pinkafő, Óvár, Németújvár and finally Vasvár, the county seat. The map gives a simplified image of this route, omitting the long marches that must have been spent on the main road and going back and forth on the side roads. Pecheneg Settlements along the Route The route of the army came close to the Pecheneg settlements of Lajtakáta and Királyudvar in Moson County, and Pecsenyéd in Sopron County lay close to where the main army entered the country by Wiener Neustadt. Then no more Pecheneg settlements were touched upon until the unified army attacked Vasvár County. The road that the unified army next followed from Kőszeg to Vasvár is lined with several Pecheneg villages, most of them located not directly on the road, but not far from it. Pese, Besenyő and Besenyőmajor are all located beneath Kőszeg; all have names derived from the Pecheneg ethnonym. Then there are no Pecheneg settlements for many kilometers, until Vasvár is approached. South of Vasvár lie Oszka and Thomayfelde.61 On the side roads leading to the minor fortresses that Albert intended to take, we find several more Pecheneg settlements: for example, on the road to 59 60 61

Ibid., p. 161, nr. 41. Ibid., p. 165, nr. 54. The Tomaj kindred descended from Tonuzoba, the Pecheneg chieftain who settled in Hungary during the reign of Zolta, or latest Taksony, see Anonymous, Gesta, CFHH, 1:255–56 no. 540.



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Pinkafő fortress lies Tolmácsvölgye, with Tolmács being taken from the name of a Pecheneg tribe. In the vicinty of the road from Rohonc to Németújvár fortresses lie Tobojhegy, Beled and Tolmácsárka. Beled was a common name in the Osli clan, which is believed to have been descended from the Pechenegs, and which had property in Sopron.62 The toponym Toboj has recently been suggested to be of Turkic origin, and since Pechenegs were the only Turkic population living in this region, it is believed to be of Pecheneg origin.63 There is another Toboj on the road from Németújvár to Körmend, and from there, Vasvár may be approached. There are several more Pecheneg settlements located in Vasvár County, but I have elected to ignore them when assessing this campaign, because they are either too far away or because they lie by side roads. When assessing the importance of this campaign, we must bear in mind that we have almost no sources describing the life and status of Pechenegs in Vasvár County. We have no means of learning which Pecheneg villages owed loyalty to the Kőszegi family, but we may deduce that the Pecheneg villages closest to Kőszegi property and their castles were among them. We do not know how long most of these villages were inhabitated by Pechenegs nor when they forgot their original language. Moreover, our principal source, Ottokar von Steier, does not say exactly where the battle between Austrians and Pechenegs took place. It may have been either in Moson, Sopron or Vasvár County. Assessing Battle Tactics on Albert I’s Campaign When comparing the success of various military methods in this campaign, the following is evident: Albert I’s Western-type warriors were unprepared for Pecheneg nomad tactics. They lost the battle in 1285. But on the other hand, the Pechenegs were unable to stop the progress of the campaign through Western Transdanubia. Albert’s specific military goal in 1288–89 was evidently not to engage Hungarian forces in open combat, nor to gain lasting territorial control of the area he invaded. His goal seems to have been to take, and possibly pull down sections of, the fortifications which gave the Kőszegi family a foundation for their power. It was these fortresses that allowed the Kőszegi family to defy both Albert and the Hungarian king, giving the Kőszegis ample opportunity to keep their private armies safe, and providing a safe haven to retreat to. This strategy must have been based on an agreement with the Hungarian king, since he did not move to evict Albert. Instead, he tolerated his military presence in Hungarian territory, and Albert moved his forces out of this foreign country immediately after he had accomplished his goal. Once Albert entered a siege situation, the strategic advantage fell immediately 62 63

Tatár, “Pecheneg Legend,” pp. 11–33. Gábor Kiss, Endre Tóth, and Balázs Zágorhidi Czigány, Savaria – Szombarhely története. A város alapításától 1526-ig [History of Savaria – Szombathely from the Beginning until 1526] (Szombathely, 1998), p. 118.

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to him. Though we do not have any descriptions of Albert’s sieges against the Kőszegi family, he seems to have taken every fortress he intended to, as his conquests lie like beads on strings along the main path and its side roads. These fortifications may have been defended by Pecheneg auxiliary forces as well, but the main garrison forces were almost certainly composed of ethnic Hungarians. It has been recently suggested that the royal fortress of Szombathely was defended by (partly) Pecheneg troops, based on placenames of possibly Turkic origin in its vicinity. Szombathely must originally have been built as a royal fortress, and the Pechenegs were most likely settled down in its vicinity in the tenth to eleventh centuries.64 This indicates an early, if not original, Pecheneg presence. It would be beneficial for Hungarian archaeologists to reassess our knowledge of these fortresses and what can be deduced about their age and periodization based on modern research data. For now, it is sufficient to note that the accentuation of fortification as a frontier defense, and the private ownership of many fortresses, began in Hungary after the Mongol invasion in 1241–42, barely forty-six years before Albert’s campaign. So in 1288, the Hungarian nation had already renovated many older fortifications and were building an ever-growing number of new ones. Many of these fortresses had not been tested in strong sieges yet. Hungarian troops may still have been adjusting to the problems of fortress siege and defence, as many new troops had to be trained and maintained for the manning of new, private fortifications. For all the Kőszegi family’s apparent military might, based on their Pecheneg and Hungarian troops, and their large number of fortresses and castles, their defense fell short when it came to Albert’s experienced siege engineers and Western-type troops. The Pechenegs were only effective foes when they met the Austrians on flat ground, and their inability to halt the decisive victory of foreign troops (as evidenced by Albert’s conquest of many fortresses in 1289) indicates that while they maintained their nomadic strategic and tactical traditions, their numbers were no longer sufficient to play a decisive role in military action. The Kőszegi family may still have won a battle or two, but they lost the war. Conclusion Ottokar von Steier’s description of a battle between Western knights and foreign troops fighting using a foreign tactic with a strange battlecry may be the last recorded evidence we have of Pecheneg social organization in this region. The introduction of modern fortification systems reduced the effectiveness of the nomads’ traditional strategies and tactics. This influenced the introduction of new siege engines, new types of troops, new training, and new weaponry and armor. 64

Ibid.



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The full extent of this military reform cannot be summarized here. But this campaign by Albert demonstrates what social and military developments were making the Pechenegs’ traditional tactics obsolete, and this eventually led to the dismantling of their social organization. They were destined to be assimilated by the majority of ethnic Hungarians.

5 What Types of Sources Did Medieval Chroniclers Use to Narrate Battles? (England and France, Twelfth to Fifteenth Centuries) Pierre Courroux

Battles are milestones of human history. For the Middle Ages, much more so than for any subsequent period, we rely heavily on the accounts of contemporary historians, as we rarely have many archival records. However, as medieval historians were mainly clerics, they were often misinformed. Even a chronicler fond of chivalric prowess such as Froissart never went to a battlefield himself, and this was the case with many chroniclers. Thus, my aim is to answer a simple question: what types of sources did medieval chroniclers use in order to tell what happened in battles? I shall also offer a classification of these sources and an assessment of their accuracy and significance. First, I will consider the case of testimonies provided by warriors directly involved in combat. The role of the heralds of arms, so often quoted by the chroniclers, will also be studied. Then, I will turn to the use of archival documents, such as letters from kings and generals, and also other types of sources. Finally, I will consider the case of warrior-chroniclers, such as Villehardouin. Their use of personal memories does not necessarily mean that their narratives are more accurate. Like many others, they used many commonplaces and often narrated what should have happened in battles rather than what actually happened. As deceptively simple as the title of this paper may seem, wide-ranging reflections on the provenance of the information used or contained in chronicles1 should not be limited to student handbooks. Actually, providing a simple list of sources used for battle narratives proves quite challenging, as each source raises many questions: how was it collected, used, reworked? Why were other documents ignored? Rather than merely providing an enumeration or classification of 1

Many thanks to Dr. C. Bratu who kindly corrected my English and helped me with suggestions for this article. For practical reasons, we call here a chronicler any medieval historian, and a chronicle any kind of long narrative with a historical purpose produced in the Middle Ages. For a reflection on the relevance of these terms, see Pierre Courroux, L’écriture de l’histoire dans les chroniques françaises (XIIe-XVe s.) (Paris, 2016), pp. 72–89.

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sources, this paper aims to provide a reflection on the art of medieval historians and on the relative trustworthiness of their works. To answer the question posed in the title, a comprehensive study of sources used in chronicles is indeed impossible. In spite of structural continuities, the four centuries I intend to explore show many evolutions in historical writing. Besides, each chronicle has its own sources and patterns that have to be analyzed carefully. There was no actual historical school in the Middle Ages, nor was there a specific type of education expected of all chroniclers. However, the use of auctoritates, the mechanisms of copying and a common cultural background produced some global trends in medieval history-writing. It is these specific features that I wish to survey here (by comparing them to those of modern history-writing), for they can provide insights that one cannot find in studies focusing on individual texts. Nevertheless, in order to provide a clear focus for this study, I will analyze pitched battles – excluding sieges, sea battles, and very small skirmishes. I will also focus on original accounts, leaving aside the countless battle narratives that are essentially rewritings of other chronicles. Medieval battle narratives present many recurring problems already highlighted by the historians who have tried to reconstruct what really happened in several famous battles.2 Andrew Ayton and Philip Preston, in their book on the battle of Crécy, noted that “[a] common problem with medieval sources is their failure to provide much topographical detail about precisely where battles were actually fought.”3 But this is only one of the many deficiencies of chronicles, from a modern historian’s point of view. Medieval historians focus on individual incidents rather than on the wider tactical aspects of the battle;4 they give unrealistic numbers of troops and casualties, and above all, they are not very eager to mention their sources. Through a study of the different kind of sources, I will show that the nature of the sources used by medieval historians can explain the shape and interests of their narratives. Eyewitness Historians (and Those Long Considered as Such) In ancient times, the eyewitness was often considered as the only genuine historian, the others being mostly compilers. The very etymology of the word “historian” is derived from the Greek word for witness, histôr, and from two related verbs, idein (to see) and (w)oida (to know). The historian was the one who knew because he saw. This definition was still in use during the Middle Ages, and can be found for example in the Etymologies of Isidore of Seville:

2 3

4

See for example the contradictory chronicle accounts discussed by Anne Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations (Woodbridge, 2009). Andrew Ayton and Philip Preston, The Battle of Crécy, 1346 (Woodbridge, 2005), p. 141. This topographical problem has been recently studied for the same battle by Michael Livingston and Kelly De Vries (eds), The Battle of Crécy: A Casebook (Liverpool, 2015). Ibid., p. 287.



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Furthermore, following the Greek language, it is called historia, ἀπό τοῦ ἱστορεεῖν, which means according to vision (videre) or knowledge (cognoscere). Among the ancients, indeed, only those who were present and saw what needed to be written could write history, as one understands better what occurs through one’s own eyes rather than what one gathers from hearsay.5

The value of eyewitness testimony is also mentioned in the Bible, for example in the gospel of John: “The man who saw it has given testimony, and his testimony is true. He knows that he tells the truth, and he testifies so that you also may believe.”6 This may explain why, on the medieval scale of values, ocular testimony was considered the most authoritative. It is therefore not surprising that many medieval chroniclers insisted on their presence at the events they narrated. However, I would like to stress that modern historians should be very careful about calling any chronicler who claims he “was there” an eyewitness and considering his account as first-hand testimony.7 “False” Eyewitnesses Contemporaneity with the events and geographical proximity are indeed not sufficient to grant a chronicler automatic eyewitness status, especially when it comes to matters of war. For the longest time, most chroniclers were clerics and most of them had never been on a battlefield – including those writers most keen on warfare, such as Jean Froissart.8 It is true that some clerics travelled alongside armies but in my subsequent analysis of three accounts of famous battles, I would like to show that the historian’s eyewitness status is often to be questioned. The first example is Ambroise, who recounts the wars of Richard the Lionheart in the Holy Land between 1190 and 1192 in his Estoire de la Guerre Sainte (c.1195). As Marianne Ailes has convincingly argued,9 he was probably a court cleric who travelled alongside the king of England during the third crusade. His renown is due not only to his literary talent, but also to his status of eyewitness to the crusade.10 One might add that he was an honest and reliable eyewitness, 5

6 7

8 9

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Isidore of Seville, Etymologiarum sive originum libri XX, ed. W. M. Lindsay, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1911), I:41: “Dicta autem Graece historia APO TOU ISTOREIN, id est a videre vel cognoscere. Apud veteres enim nemo conscribebat historiam, nisi is qui interfuisset, et ea quae conscribenda essent vidisset. Melius enim oculis quae fiunt deprehendimus, quam quae auditione colligimus.” John, 19.35. Marcus Bull directly addresses the nature of “eyewitness” testimony in Eyewitness and Crusade Narrative. Perception and Narration in Accounts of the Second, Third and Fourth Crusades (Woodbridge, 2018), but his study came to my attention too late to be taken into account in this article. Philippe Contamine, “Froissart: art militaire, pratique et conception de la guerre,” in Froissart: Historian, ed. J. J. N. Palmer (Woodbridge, 1981), pp. 133–35. Ambroise, The History of the Holy War: Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, 2 vols. ed. M. Ailes and M. Barber (Woodbridge, 2003), 2:1–2. Gaston Paris thought he was a jongleur, as he is far from moralizing on war, as did other clerics of his time. Ibid., 1:12–13.

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as he mentions exactly when he was involved in a battle or attended a meeting, and also acknowledges his absence from the relatively few narrated events that he did not witness in person. In the latter case, he clearly reveals his sources, that are sometimes quite surprising. Such is the case with the narrative of the siege of Acre, which is based on several written sources, although Ambroise might have heard oral accounts of this topic: So Ambroise would tell and instruct those who wish to learn how it came about that the city of Acre was besieged. He did not see any of this; I know only what I have read. Now you will hear what men took part and how bold was the undertaking.11

However, there is an element of rhetoric in Ambroise’s statement, and his honesty is not tantamount to transparency on his narrative choices. When he recounts the battle of Hattin, he says that he cannot name those who fought or died there, as he was not present,12 but farther along, when narrating another battle that he missed, he gives the number of casualties for both sides, without mentioning his source.13 Similarly, Ambroise’s mentioning his presence at a battle does not mean that he actually saw what happened during the fight. A good example is Richard’s landing in Cyprus and his battle on the sea shore against the army of Isaac Komnenos.14 There is no doubt that Ambroise was there, as he travelled on one of the royal ships. From the ship, he could indeed hear the shouting of the enemies and the sounds of the battle, which he mentions on several occasions. Nevertheless, with his own eyes, he could barely see an indistinct chaos of soldiers. He was able to get a sense of the atmosphere of the battle, but could not understand any clear tactical movements, not to mention the individual deeds or actual mood of the soldiers. The day after the battle, he disembarked but was still not with the warriors who were fighting in the interior and chasing Isaac. Although he does not mention specifically that he stayed behind, one can deduce that from an anecdote he recounts and which suggests that he was farther than half a league away from the battle: “Our men were giving chase and yelling; such noise and such shouting there was (so said those who heard it) that the emperor in his tent, more than half a league away, heard them.”15

11

12

13 14 15

Ibid., vv. 2397–404. “Si velt Ambroises faire entendre / E saveir a cels qui a aprendre / Le voldront, par com faite emprise / La citié de Acre fud assise. / Kar il n’en aveit rien veü / Fors tant come jo en ai leu. / Ore si orez quels genz l’asistrent / E quel hardement il enpristrent.” (Trans. ibid., 2:66.) Ibid., vv. 2550–52: “Ge ne sai qui l’autre feri, / Qui eschapa ne qui peri - / Ge ne fui pas a la bataille -”; “I do not know who struck whom, who escaped and who perished. I was not present at the battle.” (transl. ibid., 3:68) Ibid., vv. 3468 and 3481. Ibid., vv. 1436–697. Ibid., vv. 1589–94. “Cil chacerent e cil huerent / E tel noise e tel cri [i] firent – / Ço conterent cil qui l’oïrent – / Que l’emper[er]es de sa tente / Les oï - a la meie entente - / De plus demi liwe de terre” (transl. ibid., 3:53)



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In many cases,16 Ambroise seems to be the sort of eyewitness that actually stayed put in the camp during the battle, hearing the battle’s roar at best. He is not the only cleric who shared this fate. The anonymous English author of the Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta regis Ricardi, who also recounts the third crusade, explains that: We proclaim to you what we have seen. Our pen recorded noteworthy events while the memory of them was still fresh. Perhaps the discerning audience may demand a more cultured literary style; but they should realise that we wrote this while we were in the military camp, where the battle’s roar does not allow leisure for peaceful thought.17

The two chroniclers stayed in their camps during the battle, which means that, aside from the times when the Saracens directly attacked the camps, they actually took no part in the fights they relate. They were therefore dependent on the testimonies of soldiers. They had fresh news from them and sometimes mentioned the name of one of their informants,18 but this does not qualify them as eyewitnesses. A second interesting case is Guillaume le Breton’s account of the battle of Bouvines, which pitted the French army against a coalition of Germans, Englishmen, and Flemings in 1214. The chronicler is also a court cleric, who recounted the life of King Philip II of France in his Gesta Phillipi Augusti, written in 1224. Chaplain to the king, he accompanied him in battle, and also wrote a long epic poem on this subject, called the Philippide.19 His accounts of the battle were held in high esteem amongst French chroniclers after his death, as he was considered the best eyewitness of the battle. His narrative was thus incorporated into one of the most authoritative histories of the Late Middle Ages, the Grandes chroniques de France. However, curiously, even the

16

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But possibly not always. During the siege of Acre, he might have had time enough to witness the many battles around the town from the top of the walls. On this episode, see J. Hosler, The Siege of Acre, 1189–1191. Saladin, Richard the Lionheart, and the Battle That Decided the Third Crusade (New Haven, 2018). Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, in Chronicles and Memorials of the Reign of Richard I, vol. 1, ed. W. Stubbs (London, 1864), p. 4. “Quod vidimus testamur, et res gestas, adhuc calente memoria, stilo duximus designandas. At si cultiorem dicendi formam deliciosus exposcit auditor, noverit nos in castris fuisse cum scripsimus; et bellicose strepitus tranquillae meditationis otium non admisisse” (transl. Helen Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi [Aldershot, 1997], p. 22). Ambroise, The History of the Holy War, vv. 9998–10002: “Baudoïns el cheval monta, / Si qu’il meïmes reconta, / Qu’a mult petit[e] demuree / Vit celui la teste copee / Ki son cheval li ot presté.” ; “Baldwin mounted his horse and he himself related that a little later he saw the man who had lent him the horse being beheaded.” (transl. ibid., p. 166). Guillaume Le Breton, Gesta Philippe Augusti et Philippide, in Œuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, 2 vols. ed. H. F. Delaborde (Paris, 1882–85). On the importance and limits of Guillaume Le Breton’s works to understanding Bouvines, see the recent book by D. Barthélemy, La bataille de Bouvines. Histoires et légendes (Paris, 2018), especially pp. 75–87.

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Grandes chroniques did not hide the fact that during the battle, the author had stayed with the rearguard, praying for victory and weeping: At that time, the chaplain who writes this history was behind the king with other clerics who began to sing and psalmody aloud as soon as they heard the sound of trumpets (…); they did so to the best of their ability for tears and sobs made it very difficult for them to carry on.20

However, he gives many details on what happened during the first charge of the French army, although this happened far away from the King’s regiment, at the very edges of the army. The author did not see this with his own eyes; in fact, he gathered this information from a report made by the “hero” of his narrative, brother Guerin, a fighting cleric who lead and rallied the French soldiers during difficult situations.21 Even the detailed report of brother Guerin cannot explain all the details given by the chronicler: the nature of wounds endured by many knights, their behaviour during individual fights, and so on. Le Breton’s chronicle owes much to countless minor reports gathered by hearsay after the battle22 from various warriors, and also to the historian’s imagination. At any rate, his testimony was the last source of information for his narrative. I would now like to discuss one last case of a cleric who allegedly saw battle with his own eyes: the anonymous author of the Gesta Henrici Quinti, who narrates the battle of Agincourt from the English perspective. His narrative is extremely valuable for modern historians, as he wrote the first account of that battle, in 1417.23 We know he was a priest attached to the royal household, which followed Henry V throughout his campaign in 1415. On the very day of the battle, he confesses that during the fight, he was astride a horse, among the baggage at the rear of the army, probably among the priests who prayed for victory. Therefore, he could only witness directly the attack on the baggage led by Clignet de Brabant, which was a peripheral element of the battle and had no decisive consequence on its outcome. Indeed, one can wonder if even an eyewitness placed in an ideal position could have gathered more than confused information, given the size of the battlefield and its nature (involving combat in the woods). From the rear, the priest chronicler could only get a sense of the atmosphere and examine the aftermath of the battle. In order to obtain more 20

21 22

23

Les grandes chroniques de France, 10 vols. ed. Jules Viard (Paris, 1920–53), 6: 335. “En cele heure et en ce point estoit darriers le roi ses chapelains qui escrist ceste estoire, et uns clers qui tôt maintenant que il oïrent les sons des trompes il commencierent à chanter et à verseillier à haute voiz ce siaume (…). au mieuz que il porent, car les lermes et li sanglout les empeechoient durement.” This excerpt is based upon Guillaume Le Breton, Gesta Philippe Augusti, §185. Les grandes chroniques, 6:335–37. See for example ibid., p. 341: “Et come cil tesmoignerent, puisque ce virent, il fu là en si grant péril de mort que il fu feruz de xii lances en un meisme moment”; “And as those who saw it witnessed, he was in great danger of death and was hit by twelve spears simultaneously.” On his work, see Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations, pp. 22–40.



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relevant data, he probably gathered information from soldiers and leaders, if indeed he was already planning to write a chronicle and to use the notes to that effect.24 As we have noted earlier, the few clerics who were on the battlefield were often court clerics with close ties to the king, but they seldom did anything other than stay behind the front line and pray. Therefore, their status as eyewitness is very questionable. Still, one should not generalize, as all clerics were not “false” eyewitnesses. In some rare cases, it is obvious that they actually saw the very heart of the fight, although we do not always know under what circumstances. Such was the case with Jordan Fantosme during the battle of Alnwick in 1174. Although for all the other battles narrated in his chronicle he is rather vague, he suddenly gives a very detailed account of this one. To explain this different tone, he writes, “I tell no fanciful tale like those who know from hearsay, but as one who was there, for I saw it all myself.”25 Further, on the capture of the Scottish king during the battle, he adds again, “this I saw with my own two eyes,”26 although we do not know why he was present in the midst of the fight. It should also be emphasized that although clerical chroniclers seldom witnessed battles, this does not mean that they could not understand their complexities. Even monks had many ties with the warrior caste that allowed them to understand warfare very well.27 The True Eyewitnesses Let us now turn our attention to true eyewitnesses – those who were actually involved in combat. In this category we find only a handful of knights or other warrior-chroniclers (some of them are famous: Villehardouin, Joinville, Thomas Gray). Their undoubted eyewitness status does not mean that their narratives are more detailed. Even their level of informedness is rarely satisfactory from the point of view of modern historians. This is particularly true for ordinary soldiers, but also for generals. To understand the precise implications of a military engagement, modern historians examine the testimonies of the maximum number of witnesses, direct or indirect, as they know that even a well-informed general (for example Napoleon giving his account of Waterloo) cannot grasp everything that happens on the battlefield. Moreover, medieval generals were seldom well informed compared to their modern counterparts. Leaving aside the question of their actual knowledge of their own troops, they were unlikely to know in detail the enemy’s strength and organization, especially when they fought in foreign lands (during the crusades, for example). Besides, a war leader who wrote history would often exaggerate his victories and minimize his mistakes. Let us add that 24 25 26 27

Ibid., p. 17. Jordan Fantosme, Chronicle, ed., and transl. R. C. Johnston (Oxford, 1987), vv. 1768–69: “Jo ne cunt mie fable cum cil qui ad oï, / Mes cum celui qu’I fud, e jo meismes le vi.” Ibid., v. 1804: “a mes dous oilz le vi.” Maurice Keen, Chivalry (New Haven, 1984), p. 32.

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all medieval chroniclers, including warriors, wrote according to the literary patterns of their time, emphasising individual behaviour and feats. A good example of this can be found in the chronicle of Geoffroy de Villehardouin. This knight from Champagne was one of the main generals of the fourth crusade who wrote down his memories of this episode soon after the events. However, he gives only few details on pitched battles, although he was very much involved in combat. For the battle of Modon, for example, he just states that the crusaders left aside their luggage and “menues gens” before the battle, while the battle itself is said to have happened according to God’s wishes for the crusaders’ victory. He also highlights the rich loot after the battle.28 With such basic details, one can hardly reconstruct what happened. In one case only does the chronicler give more details about the unfolding of the battle, and that is for the battle of Adrianopole in 1205 – a turning point in the crusade.29 However, although he was admittedly there, he confesses that he stayed behind the front line, far away from combat, when Baldwin, the new emperor of Constantinople, was captured. Yet he recounts how Baldwin fought bravely and records the very words of count Louis, who refused to leave the emperor alone. For his only detailed account of a battle, we must assume that Villehardouin used the indirect testimonies of those who were there.30 If a general gives unsatisfying information, what about the soldiers, lost in the midst of chaos? Can their status as eyewitness of the battle bring original information to their narrative? If their testimony is their sole source of information, the answer is most often negative. Guillaume de La Penne, a Breton mercenary who fought for the Pope in Italy in the War of the Eight Saints, between 1377 and 1378, wrote in 1390 a Roman de Sylvestre Budes, in which he narrates the deeds of his company’s leader.31 He had apparently not planned to write this verse chronicle, busy as he was fighting, and therefore took no notes and wrote based merely on his recollection of the events. His account of the events is indeed not totally wrong, but it wavers between his vague memories as a soldier, his admiration toward his captain who cannot suffer any defeat nor make any wrong choice, and a good amount of imagination. This imprecise narrative is indeed very interesting for the history of mercenary soldiers but brings nothing to the historian who would attempt to understand the actual progress of the battles mentioned. The mercenary chronicler is even wrong about the number of soldiers in his own company.32 Although written by an 28 29 30 31 32

Villehardouin, La conquête de Constantinople, ed. and transl. E. Faral, 2 vols. (Paris, 1972, 3rd edn), §328–29. Ibid., §354–63. Ibid., §360: “et bien tesmoignent cil qui la furent”: “And those who were there certify this.” Angers, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 514. I am currently working on an edition of this chronicle with A. Jamme. Angers, Bibliothèque Municipale, ms. 514, v. 513, mentions 400 “lances” under Bude’s command. However, the archives of Sienna and of the Vatican contradict this number (Léon Mirot, “Sylvestre Budes et les Bretons en Italie,” in Bibliothèque de l’école des chartes 58 (1897) 579–61, here p. 614.



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eyewitness, the Roman de Sylvestre Budes is less valuable than the narratives of some Italian contemporaries who did not participate in combat but inquired in depth about these events. Guillaume de La Penne was facing a big dilemma, which is that of all eyewitnesses of battles. The dilemma is highlighted in a famous French novel of the nineteenth century, Stendhal’s Charterhouse of Parma. The hero, Fabrice Del Dongo, is a member of the French army at Waterloo. However, his experience of the battle is a far cry from the highly detailed narratives of the battle that are given in history books.33 His battle is a blend of noise, gory details, fear, smoke and excitement. He clearly does not understand what is happening during the battle. Although Del Dongo’s description might be a little exaggerated, let us remember that Stendhal was a realistic author who wished, in his own words, to carry a mirror along the road in order to capture the true details of life. The memories of a warrior in the midst of the fight could not generate a logical and complete narrative of a battle. An honest eyewitness could only be another Del Dongo, recollecting the chaos of his own experience. Modern historians are well aware of these limitations, and much has been written on the degree of trustworthiness of eyewitness testimonies. Medieval chroniclers were aware of this problem as well.34 At the beginning of his account of the battle of Crécy, Gilles le Muisit warns his readers: Those who fight cannot consider anything happening away from them, nor are they able to judge well even what is happening to them (…). But I will write only those things that I have heard from certain trustworthy persons – without entirely confirming their version of the events – in order to satisfy the minds of future readers.35

Yet despite these warnings, many modern historians place too much trust in medieval chroniclers, who are often considered faithful “reporters” of what they saw.36 An otherwise excellent and erudite edition of the Scalacronica considers that its author, Thomas Gray, faithfully relays a speech pronounced before the battle of Dupplin Moor in 1332: “Not only does this read like an eyewitness report, but it includes details recorded by no other sources, notably Beaumont’s pre-fight speech – and, unlike some medieval chroniclers, Gray

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36

Stendahl, The Charterhouse of Parma (London, 2006), Part I, chapter 3. The ancient historians had already raised the problem. On the medieval attitude towards eyewitnesses, see Marcus Bull, “Eyewitness and Crusade Narrative: Perception and Narration in Accounts of the Second, Third and Fourth Crusades,” The Medieval Chronicle (2018), 1–22. Gilles Le Muisit, Chronique et Annales, ed. H. Lemaître (Paris, 1905), pp.  160–61. “(...) non potest quispiam considerare undique confligentes, neque bene de hiis que ibidem eveniunt judicare, (...) sed ea que audivi a quibusdam fide dignis personis proposui hic intellectui futurorum satisfacere, sic esse tamen totaliter non affirmans.” (transl. in Ayton and Preston, The Battle of Crécy. 1346, p. 291) See among others Denis Lalande, “Un grand reporter médiéval dans le Midi  : Froissart en Béarn,” Midi 2 (1987), 39–47.

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does not appear to have been given to inventing speeches for his characters.”37 Yet this is hardly possible, as Thomas Gray wrote his chronicle between 1356 and 1363, more than two decades after the battle! Let us add that he could not have used any personal notes on the event, as he had not planned to write a historical work at this date. Impressive as the speech may have been and no matter how accurate the author’s recollections, reconstructing a discourse after such a long time is an impossible task without a huge amount of imagination. For instance, when he purports to render the content of the deadly dispute between Robert Bruce and John Comyn in 1306, Thomas Gray did not hesitate to use his imagination. In order to counter the effects of the “Del Dongo syndrome,” an eyewitness chronicler could fill the memory gaps with literary patterns and topoi, thus telling us how the battle ought to have been fought rather how it actually unfolded.38 But he could also use other sources, direct or indirect, to reconstruct the battle based on enquiry, thus acting as a historian and not as a direct witness. This is the case with all the eyewitnesses of the battle of Agincourt, except the anonymous author of the Gesta Henrici Quinti. John Hardyng adduces no personal information at all in his narrative and barely reproduces other accounts. Two other historians, Jean de Wavrin and Jean Le Fèvre de Saint-Rémy, made extensive use of Enguerrand de Monstrelet’s work to recount the battle, although he was not an eyewitness.39 Their own memories only provide minor additions, mainly because both of them were young men in 1415 and started writing their works at least thirty years after the events, without any notes. Any historian should therefore be cautious before drawing any rash conclusions about the difference between direct and indirect testimonies. Indirect Testimonies The indirect testimonies used by chroniclers vary widely in terms of nature and content. I would like to focus here on several significant cases. Songs and Rumors Rumor was, according to Virgil, “a winged monster of huge growth and speed,”40 and even though medieval historians were aware of the dangers of using it, they listened to its whispers. Some of them warned their readers of the dubious provenance of their information, while others used it without qualms, as they lacked other sources or because it fitted their purpose well. This range of uses is well exemplified in the French chronicles after the battle of Agincourt. The army was led by the main Armagnac leaders, and Burgundian supporters soon 37 38 39 40

Thomas Gray, Scalacronica, 1272-1363, ed. A. King (Woodbridge, 2005), p. xxxv (the speech is p. 109). Chris Given Wilson, The Writing of History in Medieval England Chronicles (London, 2004), pp. 2–3. Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations, pp. 15–16. Vergil, Aeneid, IV, 174.



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told many stories about the Armagnacs’ treason and overconfidence, identified as the cause of the defeat. Quite neutral in the civil war opposing Armagnacs and Burgundians, Michel Pintoin, a monk at Saint-Denis, recounts such rumors, but he distances himself from them. He clearly says that some thought that the constable of France had betrayed his country and promised victory to Henry V, but immediately after this, he adds that trustworthy men told him these public accusations were unfounded.41 However, the anonymous author of the Chronique de Ruisseauville had a clear Burgundian bias. He narrates that the admiral and the constable of France dined every evening with the king of England before battle, and rumor had it that the constable, Charles d’Albret, had been slain by his own soldiers at the beginning of the fight when they found out about his treason.42 Even a famous author such as Thomas Walsingham willingly used popular stories about the same battle of Agincourt, using rhetorical effects from Latin epic poems to enhance their effect.43 While rumors lasted but a short time, the memory of battles lingered in songs and short poems for years. They were composed shortly afterwards, mostly to commemorate the event for the victorious side (the English had songs to commemorate Agincourt), or to complain about its consequences for the defeated (the French wrote a few complaints after the battle of Poitiers).44 However, such pieces were not commonly written by soldiers and their main content was not historical, therefore one seldom finds interesting details on what happened. Nevertheless, some chroniclers considered they were testimonies worth citing, as did Monstrelet when he recounts the battle of Agincourt and inserts in his chronicle the only French complaint written in the aftermath.45 There are however a few poems giving unique factual information on battles. Among them is Comment monseigneur le duc Jehan de Bourgongne leva le siege de Trec ou les Liegeois avoient assegiet Jehan de Baviere, a 124-verse poem narrating the battle of Othée between John the Fearless and the town of Liege in 1408.46 The poem probably draws on information from a letter sent by the victorious duke of Burgundy in which he narrates the battle in detail. Another poem written about the same battle contains an interesting

41

42 43 44

45

46

Religieux de Saint-Denis, Chronique, ed. L.-F. Bellaguet, 6 vols. (Paris, 1839–52), 5 : 534: “Sic vir illustris genere publice criminabatur, esto quorumdam fide dignorum relatu didicerim sine causa, asserencium quod verba talia proferebat, vires hostium parvipendens.” Chronique dite de Ruisseauville, ed. M. Talliar in Archives historiques et litteraires du Nord de la France et du Midi de la Belgique, 4 (Valenciennes, 1834), p. 137 and 141. Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations, p. 49. See for example Rossel Hope Robbins (ed.), Historical Poems of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries (New York, 1959), passim, and A. Le Roux de Lincy (ed.), Chants historiques et populaires du temps de Charles VII et de Louis XI (Paris, 1857), passim. Enguerrand de Monstrelet, La Chronique d’Enguerran de Monstrelet, ed. L. Douët d’Arcq, 6 vols (Paris, 1857–62), 3:123, translated in Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations, pp. 354–55. It is found in Le Roux de Lincy (ed.), Chants historiques et populaires du temps de Charles VII et de Louis XI, pp. 11–15.

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account: the Bataille du Liège.47 Less than three months after the battle, John the Fearless paid one of his apprentice heralds (poursuivant d’armes), Jaquet de La Ruelle, for writing this poem. This 500 octosyllabic-verse text can actually be considered a blend between a genuine verse-chronicle and a herald’s report.48 The author provides a long list of names of the knights who were involved in combat and mentions those who were dubbed that very day, but his account of the battle is unclear and very commonplace (he mentions the clash of arms, knightly courage, etc.). Only once does he mention the maneuver of a group of knights who attacked the enemy from the rear. It is obvious that even the best contemporary poem could not be a satisfactory source for chroniclers. Heralds The case of the heralds is quite different. The figure emerges during the thirteenth century, but their golden age begins in the second half of the fourteenth century and lasts until the second half of the next century.49 Andrew Ayton highlighted the fact that they were “professional spectators of medieval battles,”50 and this was indeed a view shared by most of their contemporaries, including chroniclers. Froissart mentions them as his first source of information in his various prologues, while Monstrelet presents them as bound by their office to be “fair and conscientious investigators, properly instructed and truthful tellers.”51 Many other historians claim to owe their information to heralds’ reports. Their task was seen as important enough to be considered as an office (they are called officers of arms).52 One of their tasks was indeed to bear witness to the high deeds of individuals in battles, and also to estimate the casualties among the nobles. However, modern historians have had a difficult time with regard to the precise nature of their reports because, as far as I know, no battle account by a medieval herald has been preserved (if indeed such reports were not by their very nature oral ones). Fortunately, many chronicles 47

48

49 50 51

52

On this poem, see Alain Marchandisse and Bertrand Schnerb, “La bataille du Liège,” in Écrire la guerre, écrire la paix, ed. S. Mazauric (Paris, 2013), pp. 29–41. An unsatisfying edition of it is found in G. Aubrée, Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire de France et de Bourgogne (Paris, 1729), pp. 373–77. Marchandisse and Schnerb, “La bataille du Liège,” p. 36: “son poème est à la production littéraire ce qu’un ‘rôle d’armes occasionnel’ où sont réunies les armoiries de tous les participants à un fait d’armes, est à la production héraldique.” Walter Paravicini, “Le héraut d’armes: ce que nous savons et ce que nous ne savons pas,” Revue du Nord (2006), pp. 465–90. Ayton and Preston, The Battle of Crécy. 1346, p. 292. Enguerrand de Monstrelet, La Chronique,1  :3–4: “je me suis informé des premiers poins d’icellui livre jusques aux derreniers, (…) aux roys-d’armes, héraulx et poursuivans de plusieurs seigneurs et pays, qui de leur droit et office doivent de ce estre justes et diligens enquéreurs, bien instruis et vrais relateurs.” Philippe Contamine, “Office d’armes et noblesse dans la France de la fin du Moyen Age,” Bulletin de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France, 1994 (1996), pp. 310–22. A royal herald was appointed in France in 1407.



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mention them and this allows us to get an insight into their possible content. Besides, some heralds did write chronicles, such as Chandos Herald in the fourteenth century and Berry Herald a century later. Yet their works were written years after the events, and their nature is no different from other contemporary chronicles. The story of the battle of Najera, which Chandos Herald narrates at length (as he was present), is a rhymed literary text, not a dry account of the feats of arms and of the casualties, as one would expect from a herald. We have already mentioned that Jean le Fèvre, who served as a herald during the battle of Agincourt, copies verbatim most of Monstrelet’s account of the battle, with a few personal details added that owe little to his position as a herald. It is clear, however, that before battle heralds had to know the names of the nobles fighting in their own army, and the largest possible number of important names from the opposing army. In the midst of the battle, they directly witnessed individual knightly exploits. Of course, they could not see everything and they must have been quite busy after the battle inquiring about who fought whom, what the lords did, and so on. Chroniclers very much enjoyed such details but the aftermath of battle was probably very busy for heralds, as they also had to count the prisoners and the dead, at least for their own side. Recounting the aftermath of the battle of Brossinière, in 1423, Guillaume Cousinot explains that the soldiers were buried by the lady of the place where the battle occurred, and he adds: And the herald Alençon was there, who reported the number of the dead: 200 to 300 were killed during the rout. And many were made prisoners, including the aforesaid Lord de la Pole, Thomas Aubourg, and sir Thomas Clifton, and all were killed or taken except no more than 120 men who escaped. And there knights were made, among them sir André de Laval [a list follows].53

As we can see, the report of the herald Alençon details the names of the knights dubbed and of the nobles deceased, even among the enemies. The number of casualties was sometimes the only element of the herald’s report preserved in a chronicle. That is the case with Guillaume Gruel’s account of the battle of Patay in 1429, for which he just mentions the French victory without giving any details except that “around 2,200 men were killed there, as said the heralds and poursuivants.”54 53

54

Guillaume Cousinot, Chronique de la Pucelle, in Chronique de la Pucelle ou Chronique de Cousinot, ed. M. Vallet de Viriville (Genève, 1976, 1st edn 1859), pp. 87–204, here pp. 217–18: “Et y estoit present Alençon le Herault qui rapporta le nombre des morts: et y en eut de tuez a la chasse de deux a trois cent. Et si y eut plusieurs prisonniers, et entre les autres le susdit seigneur de la Poule, Thomas Aubourg, et messier Thomas Clisseton, et n’en eschappe pas six vingt, que tous ne fussent mors ou prins. Et y eut la des chevaliers faits et entre les autres Messire André de Laval (…).” Guillaume Gruel, Chronique d’Arthur de Richemont Connétable de France, Duc de Bretagne, Société de l’histoire de France, ed. A. le Vavasseur (Paris, 1890), p. 73: “Si furent tuez la bien XXIIc, ainsi que disoient les heraultz et poursuivans.”

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However, if the names of the great lords were mentioned by heralds, it was not always the case with minor knights and esquires, whereas the casualties among the non-nobles were just a round number, when they were not entirely missing. This is apparent in a chronicle such as the one in ms. College of Arms M9,55 which contains many lists of casualties, probably gathered directly or indirectly from heralds’ reports. Regarding the French casualties after the battle of Verneuil (1424), the author of the text gives a long list of noble names (some erroneous) and then adds: “And many other French and Scots, up to 9,000 men or so, according to a head count made by Montjoye, king of arms of the said adversaries. (...) And for the English side, no men died whose name is worth mentioning.”56 We do not know if such unlikely figures were in the actual report of the herald and it is even possible that the reference to heralds was in this case no more than a literary topos, but it is clear that no one expected to find a detailed count of the deceased non-nobles in the heralds’ reports. A blanket questioning of the accuracy of the numbers provided in heralds’ reports is beyond the scope of this article.57 However, it is worth pondering how heralds came up with their figures. The main clue found in the chronicles is the heralds’ connection with the priests during the burial. For the battle of Brossinière in 1423, the report of the herald Alençon was the source for several chroniclers, including Guillaume Cousinot, Perceval de Cagny and the author of the Geste des nobles Françoys.58 The latter gives a very precise amount for the English casualties after this battle: “and the English were defeated on Bourgon’s heath; on the battlefield their dead were reckoned to be 933 English born in England, who were all put in a pit.”59 This clearly suggests that a headcount of the dead was performed after battles. Were the heralds in charge of this? It is safe to assume that they mostly cared about the nobles that they could recognize thanks to their coat of arms, as evidenced in the Chronique de Ruisseauville. The anonymous historian explains that after the battle of Agincourt, heralds counted 1,600 or 1,800 among the dead who had coat of arms, while the bishop of Thérouanne, who supervised the burial 55

56

57 58 59

London, ms. College of Arms M9, f. 31–66v. The text has been studied by Anne Curry, “Representing War and Conquest, 1415–29: The Evidence of College of Arms Manuscript M9,” in Representing War and Violence, 1250–1600, ed. J. Bellis and L. Slater (Woodbridge, 2016), pp. 139–58. I kindly thank Prof. Curry for her transcription of this chronicle. London, ms. College of Arms M9 f. 55r: “Et pluseurs autres tant francois comme escossoys jusques au nombre de neuf mil hommes ou environ par compte fait par montjoye Roy darmes pour la partie desdiz adversaires (…). Et pour la partie des anglois ny mourut aucun homme de nom dont Il soit a faire mencion.” I have already undertaken this study: see Pierre Courroux, “Remarks on the Use of Numbers During Battles in Medieval Chronicles,” The Medieval Chronicle, forthcoming. See Perceval de Cagny, Chroniques de Perceval de Cagny, ed. H. Moranvillé (Paris, 1902), pp. vi-vii and 129–30. Geste des nobles Françoys, in Chronique de la Pucelle ou Chronique de Cousinot, ed. Vallet de Viriville, p. 193: “(…) et furent Anglois desconfiz ès landes de Bourgon; dont sur le champ fut l’occision nombrée à neuf cent trente trois Anglois natifs d’Angleterre, qui tous furent mis en une fosse.”



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of the other dead in five mass graves, forbade all undertakers to give numbers, so that no one would know them.60 At best, heralds could sometimes use the reports of those who were in charge of mass burials to get approximate numbers of the overall casualties. While narrating the battle of Formigny in 1450, Berry Herald provides an estimate of the size of both armies, but this is not necessarily a personal calculation, as he owes the number of French to the marshals.61 At the end of the fight, he mentions that 14 pits were made for the dead, and provides the following figures in terms of casualties: “and, according to the report of the heralds who were there, of the priests and good men who buried them, 3,774 [Englishmen] were killed.”62 If ever a headcount was performed by priests and heralds, its results are highly suspicious, as the same author claims that they counted only 5 or 6 French casualties in that battle! Furthermore, the number of 3,774 dead Englishmen is only found in one manuscript. The variants give an interesting insight into the accuracy of such headcounts, if indeed they were performed at all.63 Most of these variants can be explained as misreadings, and one is a simplification, but doubts subsist as to which number represents the original estimate. Moreover, there is no guarantee that the oldest estimate was accurate. As we can see, some heralds tried to give very accurate numbers in their reports, even for the non-nobles, while some were only concerned with the lords, for whom they gave a precise headcount whenever possible (the heralds of Agincourt calculated only between 1600 and 1800 dead according to the Chronique de Ruisseauville). Let us also point out that a herald could do a thorough headcount after a victory, but may have had to flee with his lord after a defeat. This probably explains why Guillaume Cousinot provided the number of casualties only for Brossinière, a French victory, but not for the French defeats at Cravant and Verneuil. Heralds could also be captured. In a rhymed mortuary roll written three days after the battle of Crécy, the herald Colins de Beaumont mocks the accuracy of two other heralds’ reports. They had been captured during the battle and had not seen important parts of the fight.64

60 61

62

63 64

Chronique dite de Ruisseauville, ed. Talliar, pp. 143–44. The same number is found in the letter of Admiral Coëtivy, written four days after the battle, published in Dom Morice, Mémoires pour servir de preuves à l’histoire ecclésiastique et civile de Bretagne, vol. 2 (Paris, 1744), col. 1521. “et ilz furent tuez, par le rapport des heraulx qui la estoient, des prestres et des bonnes gens qui les enterrerent, IIIm VIIc LX et XIIII.” Gilles le Bouvier, Les Chroniques du roi Charles VII, ed. H. Courteault, L. Celier and M.-A. Jullien de Pommerol (Paris, 1979), p. 337. A similar mention of such precise numbers linked with a count during the burial is found for example in Cousinot, Geste des nobles Françoys, p. 193, for the battle of Brossinière, in 1423. The author counts 933 English dead “who were put in a grave.” Ibid., p. 337: 6 manuscripts list 4,374 dead, 4 manuscripts 4,774, 1 manuscript 4,700 and another 4,763. Colins de Beaumont, On the Crécy Dead, adapt. and transl. E. Strakhov in Livingston and De Vries, The Battle of Crécy, pp. 26–50 and 340–42.

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The chroniclers often incorporated in their works the recollections of those who had been involved in combat. As soldiers were not “professional spectators”, unlike the heralds, they seldom wrote anything down about the events they witnessed, and they had to try and recollect those events. Although the memory of medieval people was probably better trained than our modern memory, it was far from infallible – aside from the inherent problems related to the eyewitness status that we have already observed. The chroniclers’ patrons were often the first to be asked for information. We know for instance of an exceptional document which constitutes an excellent insight into a chronicler’s enquiry: Perrinet Dupin’s survey, sent in the 1470s to his masters in order to write the life of Amédée VIII, count, then duke, of Savoy from 1391 to 1440.65 The historian lacked material for his chronicle and hoped that the memories of the family or of servants who had fought alongside the late duke might help him. In this respect, his questions related to battles and wars are very interesting. Among other queries, he asks if there was a war between Savoy and the duke of Bourbon in 1400 for the inheritance of the barony of Beaujeu: And if there was a war, he asks the names of the marshals, captains and leaders; if sieges, assaults or skirmishes took place, or a meeting on the battlefield, the name of the standard bearer of Savoy; and if there were skirmishes and battles, he asks the names of the knights who were dubbed and the names of those who behaved boldly, and if any prisoners were made, from either side.66

Further, regarding a war against the Marquis of Saluces, Perrinet Dupin wonders: If the count of Savoy (…) attacked or waged battle against the marquis, who were the leaders and champions of the army of Savoy? What were the names of the princes, barons and worthy cadets who went with the count (…)? How many deployed banners could there be in the army, and if a fight occurred, who were those who did the highest feats of arms?67

65 66

67

Daniel Chaubet, “Une enquête historique en Savoie au XVe siècle,” Journal des savants 1–2 (1984), 93–125. Ibid., p. 108, question 10: “(...) et se guerre y eu, il demande savoir les noms des mareschaulx, cappitennes et conducteurs de la guerre, s’il y eu point de siege mis, assault ne excarmuche faicte, ne de rencontre sur les champs, le nom de cellui qui portoit la grant anseigne de Savoye ; et se assault et rencontre y eu, il demande se nulz chevaliers y furent faiz, aussi les noms de ceulx qui se monstrerent vaillans, et s’il y eu gayres gens ne prisonniers pris, tant d’une part comme d’autre.” Ibid., p. 108, question 11: “(...) se le conte de Savoye (…), donna audit marquis assault ne meslee, qui furent les conducteurs et champyons de l’armee de Savoye, les noms des princes, barons et cadez de pris qui le conte acompagnoyent (…), quantes pannons estendars et banieres desployees pot avoir en celle harmee, et se coups y furent donnés, qui furent ceulx qui orent nom de plus haultes harmes fayte.”



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Similar questions are repeated for other conflicts.68 The chronicler is always interested in the names of the commanders, of those who accomplished remarkable feats of arms (mostly/especially? if they led to a dubbing), as well as the number of banners, the location and outcome of the battles, and the names of the deceased or captured nobles. Rather than a particular inclination of Dupin for such details, similar questions were probably those of the majority of the chroniclers of his time. This is exactly the kind of information included in the heralds’ reports, which explains why the latter were favored by historians. More personal information could indeed be gathered but it was less likely to be remembered, especially if the events were quite far in the past. Jean Cabaret d’Orville, in his biography of Duke Louis II of Bourbon, confessed that he did not know much about the battles he narrated. “Therefore,” he explains, “I would have accomplished little in this book if the valiant knight who was involved in combat had not helped me in this task.”69 The knight was Jean de Châteaumorand – he carried the duke’s banner in battle and was a very good witness. Yet he was 75 years old when he recounted events that had occurred decades ago and some that he had not witnessed personally. It is not surprising, therefore, that modern historians have identified a good number of factual mistakes in the chronicle. Similarly, one should not expect too many original details from Guillaume Gruel’s account of the battle of Agincourt, although he used the memories of the count of Richemont, who was captured there. He recounts how, during a journey in 1436, his master stopped on the battlefield of Agincourt, and told them his memories of the battle – mainly topographical in nature: “Then he came to Agincourt and told to all who were present how the battle had occurred, and he showed where he had been with his banner, and all the great lords, and where were the king of England had dwelt.”70 The lord was trying to remember precise details twenty-one years after the actual battle, and his biographer wrote after his death, in the 1460s, with only dim memories of the battlefield and of Richemont’s words. When writing his account of Agincourt, he was probably more influenced by the written accounts of the battle circulating at the time. In his Scalacronica (1356–63), Thomas Gray is said to have blended his own memories of battle, as he was constable of Northumbria, with those of his father, both being important military leaders. However, the chronicle excerpt on the years 1340–56 – the very period in which the author himself fought important in battles such as Neville’s Cross in 1346 and was captured – is lost.71 The only important battle which the author narrates according to his own memories is that 68 69

70

71

Ibid., pp. 110, 113, 119–20. Jean Cabaret d’Orville, Chronique du bon duc Loys de Bourbon, ed. A.-M. Chazaud (Paris, 1876), p. 2: “Si eusse bien pou prouffité en cest volume, si le vaillant chevalier ne m’eust aidié en celle besongne, qui les fais de bataille avoit fréquentés.” Gruel, Chronique d’Arthur de Richemont, p. 126: “Et puis s’en vint par Agincourt et devisa à ceulx qui là estoient comme la bataille avoit esté, et leur monstra en quel endroit il estoit et sa banniere et tous les grans seigneurs, et où estoient leurs bannieres, et où le Roy d’Angleterre estoit logié.” Thomas Gray, Scalacronica, pp. xxxvi–xl.

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of Dupplin Moor, but even his presence there is an assumption not confirmed by any document.72 For the years prior to 1340, the amount of original information gathered from his father’s memories is not as aubstantial as one might expect, as he mainly follows the Historia Aurea of John of Tynemouth and other English or Scottish chronicles.73 This might be explained by the fact that his father had died in 1344, and Thomas Gray had not started writing his book yet. Therefore, he used only remote memories from the most prominent family anecdotes. Although these include interesting details on several skirmishes, such as his father’s experience in the company of the sheriff of Clydesdale in 1297 when the latter was killed by William Wallace,74 the author lacks original information concerning the main pitched battles of that time. The Scalacronica gives a terse description of the battle of Falkirk in 1298, with a wrong date for the event; moreover, the chronicler confesses that his father was actually captured by a Scottish spearman the day before the battle of Bannockburn in 1314.75 Even if a chronicler had fresh testimonies concerning a battle, it was obviously hard for him to know what exactly happened, and many prologues contain complaints about the differences between the versions of either side, and even about different versions amongst the soldiers fighting in the same army.76 To address this problem, most chroniclers had to use what Froissart calls ymaginacion, which can be translated as “projection, consideration, examination.”77 By using his “imagination,” a chronicler, like any historian at any time in history, reconstructs a coherent narrative from the chaos of testimonies.78 When presenting his sources for the battle of Crécy, Froissart uses the verb ymaginer three times: No man, had he even been present at the event on that day, could possibly consider or conceive (ymaginer) all the developments as they unfolded; if ever one knew things he could not imagine (imaginer) the truth, especially on the French side, such was the disarray and disorder in their regiments. And what I know of it, I learned it mostly through the English who fathomed (imaginerent) it, and also thanks to the men of monseigneur Jehan de Hainault who stayed alongside the king of France.79

72

73 74 75 76 77 78 79

Ibid., p. lii. The battles that took place in France are told in a flashback from the years 1358 and 1359. For these battles, he seems to rely on the testimony of fellow soldiers that fought there... many years earlier. Ibid., pp. xliv–xlviii. Ibid., p. 41. Ibid., p. 75. See for example Enguerrand de Monstrelet, La Chronique, 1:3. Lucien Foulet, “Études sur le vocabulaire abstrait de Froissart: imaginer,” Romania 68 (1944– 45), pp. 257–72. There are many studies on the topic. The most interesting in this perspective is probably Paul Veyne, Writing History: Essay on Epistemology (Oxford, 1984). Froissart, Chroniques, 15 vols. ed. S. Luce, G. Raynaud, L. and A. Mirot (Paris, 1869–1975), 3:174: “Il n’est nulz homs, tant fust presens a celle journée ne euist loisir d’aviser et ymaginer toute la besongne ensi que elle ala, qui en seuist ne peuist imaginer le verité, especialment de le partie des François, tant y eut povre arroy et ordenance en leurs conrois. Et ce que j’en



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Most of the chroniclers did not reveal the process of ymaginacion to their readers; they had to present a coherent narrative of a battle, refusing to explain their choices. However, they often stress their comparison of testimonies, as does Jean le Bel for the same battle of Crécy: I’ve described this as accurately as I can, following the account given to me from his own lips by my lord and friend Sir John of Hainault (…) and ten or twelve knights and companions of his household; they’d been in the press with the noble and valiant king of Bohemia and had their horses killed beneath them. From the other side I’ve heard similar accounts from several English and German knights who were there.80

However, some chroniclers, like Froissart, went further, and decided to let the reader decide which version was the best. In the third book of his Chroniques, the famous chronicler actually gave two accounts of the battle of Aljubarrota, which opposed the Spaniards and the Portuguese in 1385. The first is said to stem from his Castilian and Bearnese informants, while the second is attributed to the Portuguese João Pacheco.81 Is there a clearer way for a chronicler to distance himself from indirect testimonies? Archival Documents Medieval chroniclers are not well known for their use of archival documents; however, it would be unfair to assert that they have never used any. I will now focus on their use of official letters narrating battles and of lists of casualties. Letters of Warriors, Princes and Generals A few medieval letters written after a battle have been preserved. Seldom preserved earlier than the twelfth century,82 such documents are more common in the late Middle Ages. Princes often sent letters to their relatives to give them news, almost exclusively after victories (letters written after a disaster might have been sent but were less likely to be kept by later archivists). Princes willingly let the historians read these letters, and sometimes even made copies of them, as they were their own narrative of the battle (or their father’s or brother’s, etc.), expressing their own views on the conflict and therefore hiding unwelcome facts.83 Although he worked without any commission from the duke of Burgundy,

80 81 82 83

sçai, je le seuch le plus par les Englès qui imaginèrent bien leur couvenant, et ossi par les gens monsigneur Jehan de Haynau qui fu toutdis dalés le roy de France.” Jean le Bel, Vrayes Chroniques, chap. LXXII, transl. N. Bryant, The True Chronicles of Jean le Bel, 1290–1360 (Woodbridge, 2011), p. 181. Jean Froissart, Chroniques, livre III. Le manuscrit de Saint-Vincent de Besançon, Bibliothèque municipale, ms. 865. Tome I, ed. P. F. Ainsworth (Geneva, 2007), pp. 255 sqq. and 401 sqq. But sometimes very precious. For the battle of Tusculum (1167) the letter written by Rainer of Dassel, a German prelate, gives important information on the battle. In another area than France and England, the letter sent by Frederick II to the German princes after the battle of Cortenuova (1237) clearly shows that such letters were used to spread official “propaganda” on the battle.

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Enguerrand de Monstrelet had access to the letter written by John the Fearless to his brother Antoine of Brabant two days after the battle of Othée in 1408. In it, the prince discussed the military operations at length.84 Indeed, the letter itself or copies of it circulated at the court of Burgundy, and other contemporary chroniclers used it as well.85 With the growing politicization of the urban communities in the Late Middle Ages, the letters written by princes to the inhabitants of important towns became very common, and concerned many topics of political life, as well as the outcome of military operations. A victorious prince could also write to the magnates of the kingdom. After his victory at Agincourt, Henry V sent envoys to London and Bordeaux to announce his victory. A letter kept in a register of the city of Salisbury might contain a copy of the king’s newsletter which circulated in England in the weeks following the battle. It contains the names of important nobles who died or were made prisoners, the size of both sides’ armies and several elements on the context of the battle.86 This letter, and others, are part of a royal discourse, and they do not say everything about a battle; however, the prestige associated with the author of these letters made them first-choice sources for chroniclers. Ecclesiastical chroniclers who had no easy access to eyewitness testimonies had to rely heavily on such newsletters, whether royal or not. A problem, however, is that some of these letters that enjoyed a wide circulation have a dubious origin. An example is the so-called letter of the duke of Bedford to John of Luxemburg from August 19, 1424, two days after the battle of Verneuil, found verbatim in the Chronique des cordeliers after the narrative of the battle itself.87 The letter contains details on how the battle unfolded, its date and time, and how many soldiers were in the French army. Interestingly enough, the duke provides a very precise number of casualties amongst his enemies: 7,262. This number was probably made by a simple addition of 262 identified nobles and a rough (and obviously exaggerated) estimation of 7,000 other casualties. Then, Bedford gives the names of many French nobles who died there but counts only casualties among his knights, and “very few archers.” The tone of this letter is very peculiar compared to other similar letters (such as the letter written by John the Fearless that we mentioned earlier in the context of the battle of Othée). Also, the presence of a comprehensive list of French (but not English) casualties is surprising in this document penned by the English general. This is rather the tone of a herald’s report, but is it really such a document? This is doubtful, as Jean de Wavrin, who was present at this battle, says

84 85 86 87

Edited in U. Plancher, Histoire générale et particulière de Bourgogne, vol. 3 (Dijon, 1748), pp. cclxi–cclxii. Marchandisse and Schnerb, “La bataille du Liège,” p. 33. Wiltshire County Record Office, Trowbridge, Salisbury Ledger book A (G23/1/1), f. 55; edited and discussed in Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations, pp. 262–65. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, ms. fr. 23018, ff. 449v–451v. Only the beginning of this chronicle, to 1422, has been edited by Douët d’Arcq as an appendix to the sixth volume of Enguerrand de Monstrelet’s Chronique.



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that the heralds counted more than 6,000 French and Scottish, as well as 1,600 English casualties at Verneuil.88 The forgery, if it is indeed one, is not attributable to the chronicler himself, as he uses other heralds’ reports to provide his own list of casualties before mentioning this letter. In that case, who authored it? Probably someone who used discordant reports from other heralds than those mentioned by Wavrin, and who merged them into a false letter from the English general in order to give his document more prestige. The actual princes’ letters often gave but few details. At least four letters were written by witnesses of the battle of Crécy in the days following the fight. They were “highly influential with those in England who wrote about the battle during the mid to late fourteenth century.”89 But of all these letters, the one written by Edward III himself is by far the least interesting from a factual point of view, although it is true that no other letter gives a thorough description of the battle. Princely or not, most letters are long on battle preparations, casualties and God’s help to their cause, but disappointingly short on what actually happened during the battle. No eyewitness ever wrote a chronicle about the other great battle fought the same year as Crécy – the battle of Neville’s Cross. Therefore, chroniclers had to rely on other testimonies, such as letters. Among those that still exist, the one sent by prior John Fossor to the bishop of Durham is of very poor quality. Its only mention of the fight, except the capture of David, king of the Scots, is as follows: “Both sides fought strenuously, bitterly and very fiercely.”90 And indeed, God gave victory to the English. There are however some exceptions: the letter written by Thomas Sampson on the same battle is a genuine and detailed report of the battle, giving enough details for a historian to know what happened there.91 The overall impression is that French chroniclers tend to use mainly heralds’ reports, completed by other indirect testimonies, to narrate battles. English chroniclers seem instead to have been fond of letters, which they used quite frequently, probably because they were farther away from the actual battles of the Hundred Years War,92 but it might also be because monastic historical writing was more active in England than in France. Indeed, there are many

88 89

90 91 92

Jean de Wavrin, Recueil des croniques et anchiennes istories de la Grant Bretaigne, à présent nommé Engleterre, 5 vols. ed. W. and E. Hardy (London, 1864–91), 3:116. Ayton and Preston, The Battle of Crécy, 1346, p. 295. On these letters, see ibid., pp. 292–314. Chroniclers such as Geoffrey Le Baker also used the Acta bellicosa, a diary of the campaign written by a member of Edward III’s army, but to what extent remains a matter of debate, as the part concerning the battle is lost. Michael Prestwich and David Rollason, eds., The Battle of Neville’s Cross (Stamford, 1998), pp. 132–33. Ibid., pp. 134–37. Some letters were read in churches to inform and ask for prayers. On the use and diffusion of those letters in England, see Trevor Russell Smith, “Willing Body, Willing Mind. NonCombatant Culpability According to English Combatant Writers, 1327–77,” in, Killing and Being Killed: Bodies in Battle. Perspectives on Fighters in the Middle Ages, ed. J. Rogge (Bielefeld, 2017), pp. 79–107, especially pp. 80–81.

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exceptions to this trend, but the list of English chroniclers who simply copy verbatim letters to recount the battles is long, from Thomas Gray’s account of the campaign of Poitiers,93 to the Anonymous of Canterbury and the Anonimalle Chronicle written in York, who use the same letters, suggesting that copies of the letters circulated widely from the south to the north of the kingdom.94 Let us add that although no list of casualties was found in the original letters, such as that sent by the Black Prince to his wife after the battle of Nájera, some were added to the copies of the letters – we do not know by whom.95 Lists of Casualties As we have already mentioned, English chroniclers were often fond of short battle narratives which included lists of names of high-ranking men-at-arms and casualties. Rolls containing those lists can be found for many important military operations, battles or sieges (e.g. the Roll of Caerlaverock). This is also true for some French chroniclers, especially in the fifteenth century. Wavrin, Monstrelet, and the anonymous author of the Chronique des cordeliers used and copied such lists. In fact, many lists of casualties that we know of are only found in the chronicles that made use of them. For the battle of Agincourt, there are four such lists that we know of and that provide between 38 (in the Prose Brut) and 273 names (in Monstrelet’s Chronicle). The work of the latter is still the most complete list that we have for French casualties during this battle. Lists of combatants also existed, and the Agincourt Roll, now lost, gave the names of 770 English soldiers and mentions 2496 archers from the English army, which is still but a part of the total number of soldiers involved in that campaign.96 Lists of casualties were not official documents produced by kings, and they have no connection whatsoever to administrative documents made for financial compensation. As we have mentioned, heralds had the duty of compiling lists of the important deceased and captured combatants after a battle and one must therefore assume that the lists that circulated stemmed from their work, whether oral or written. As we will see, the accuracy of these documents is often questionable, and lists seldom coincide for the same battle. This might be due to different heralds reporting on the same battle, or to misreadings of the proper names when copies were produced. Yet most frequently, it was due to the pure and simple addition of names because the copyist had knowledge about knights

93 94

95 96

Thomas Gray, Scalacronica, pp. xlviii–xlix. The chronicler only adds minor details on William Douglas’ involvement. The Anonimalle Chronicle, 1333 to 1384, ed. V. H. Galbraith (Manchester, 1927), p. xxxv. The chronicler very often uses letters to present the battles (Crécy, Najera, Auray), even if most of these letters are inserted in the text without any mark showing its epistolary nature. By mistake, the author even inserts twice the narrative of the battle of Auray, in 1364 and 1374, changing only a few words of the text of his source (pp. 50–51 and 78–79). Ibid., p. 171. On these lists, see the website , and Curry, The Battle of Agincourt: Sources and Interpretations.



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from his own region,97 for instance, or because he wished to give more weight and prestige to a victory. This becomes clear when living individuals who had not been involved in combat are counted as dead in some lists. One can find countless mistakes in the many lists contained in the chronicle of the ms. College of Arms M9.98 The authors of the chronicle, written in the 1450s, were Hanson, Luket Nantron and William Worcester, and they also probably translated a part of the Acta Henrici Quinti by Peter Basset for the beginning of their work. It gathers nofewer than 463 French names and 198 English ones, and these lists constitute a clear “rhetorical and stylistic device.”99 But the mistaken names provided raise many questions.100 Indeed, for the battle of Agincourt, the list of casualties includes the duke of Bavaria, the counts of Vertus, Namur, Hainault, Astarac and Foix, who were not even present. The duke of Cleves was not on the battlefield either, not to mention the fact that the county of Cleves only became a duchy in 1417. Among the fourteen counts and dukes named as dead or captive, seven are erroneous.101 These made-up details are also found in the case of the lesser lords.102 Similar mistakes were committed for the battle of Cravant, as none of the four allegedly deceased French nobles (the counts of Comminges, Ventadour, Astarac and Tonerre) actually died. The chronicler even contradicts himself, as two of them take part in another battle the following year!103 Even the English names listed in connection with Norman garrisons are found to be partly wrong.104 Although two of the authors of this composite chronicle (Hanson and Peter Basset) were actually involved in the French wars in the 1420s, it seems highly unlikely that they simply copied heralds’ reports. Although the heralds’ estimations were often inaccurate for ordinary soldiers, one would assume that they would commit no such mistakes for counts and dukes. If ever the chroniclers had such lists,105 it could only be in The anonymous chronicler of the Chronique des quatre premiers Valois, ed. S. Luce (Paris, 1862), who was from Rouen, knows particularly well the names of the Norman knights involved in major battles, but is poorly informed on other soldiers. He might have been able to consult regional lists for the raising of troops. 98 See note 52. 99 Curry, “Representing War and Conquest,” pp.  139–58 and especially p. 145: “The lists represent a deliberate rhetorical and stylistic device – a way of ‘representing’ information to give it elevated status. The actions of Fastolf and his fellow warriors are cast within a formal record, a roll of honour. That also explains the emphasis on the identity of the enemy as well as on comrades in arms, and the fact that the lists include all ranks of soldiers from the greatest nobles to the humblest, but none the less valiant, soldier.” 100 Not to mention the global figures of soldiers: 50,000 persons to prevent Henry V from crossing the Somme (London, ms. College of Arms M9, f. 32v); 150,000 at Agincourt for the French (f. 33r)! 101 London, ms. College of Arms M9, f. 33. 102 The Lord of Parthenay, allegedly dead, was not at the battle. 103 Ibid., ff. 48r–49r and 52r. 104 Curry, “Representing War and Conquest,” p. 147. 105 Ibid., p. 146, suggests that some names might come from heralds, such as the list of knights created by Henry V at Pont-Sainte-Maxence 97

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heavily modified copies, with many interpolations and additions that owed much to hearsay or imagination. In such cases, one can hardly distinguish between the work of the chroniclers themselves and that of unknown copyists. Conclusion As we have seen, chroniclers used a wide array of sources in order to narrate what happened during battles. However, in spite of the variety of direct and indirect testimonies, it is obvious that these were assessed or accepted based on the standards of the time: there is a clear interest in the names of the nobles involved in a battle, their deeds and victims, but there is a noticeably lower degree of accuracy when it comes to commoners or the overall battle tactics. Chroniclers never complain about the nature of the facts they have gathered from the testimonies. The heralds’ reports, with their lists of noble names and deeds, and probably quick insights into the course of the battle, seem to contain everything a medieval chronicler was interested in. As we have seen, even the letters written by generals were often focused on similar content. This was not a problem for chroniclers: they were much more worried about the potential variance among eyewitnesses regarding these very names and deeds, and they compared testimonies as much as they could in order to produce a narrative that they considered unbiased. Did other sources with different information actually exist in the Middle Ages? So far, we have not mentioned administrative documents. It is true that the accounts of war treasurers or musters could not really tell what happened in battle. They could at least give accurate numbers of the men-at-arms. However, even the few chroniclers that had access to such documents did not consider them useful for historical writing. One of the co-authors of the chronicle of the ms. College of Arms M9, William Worcester, had gathered many archival documents on the French wars. No doubt these could have helped him with names of soldiers in the many lists he provides. However, there is no evidence that he ever used them.106 Very seldom did chroniclers use administrative documents to get information about a war. Berry Herald does so, but only for a campaign that had happened too long ago for him to get any heralds’ reports.107 When he has the choice, he uses always the latter. In our discussion of chronicle sources, we have deliberately left out their imagination. However, it was probably their main source of inspiration, even for battles that were not copied from other chroniclers. Admittedly, historical imagination had no free rein, as medieval thought was deeply typological.108 Historians used templates to direct their creativity, as every battle had to be, to

106 107 108

Ibid., p. 146. This of Courbefy in 1404: see Courroux, “Remarks on the Use of Numbers During Battles in Medieval Chronicles,” The Medieval Chronicle, forthcoming. Courroux, L’écriture de l’histoire, pp. 825–34.



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a certain extent, an ideal battle providing moral lessons on the behavior of men. As Prof. Given-Wilson notes, Underlying any wish to give a strict account of what happened there (in the factual sense), chroniclers had a deeper and more compelling desire, to reveal universal (or moral) truths, not just about a battle, but about battles: about the proper way in which battles ought to be approached and conducted, about the ways in which disaster could be avoided or victory achieved.109

Nothing is more similar to a great medieval battle than another contemporary battle, and this is due both to the nature of the testimonies used by chroniclers and to their typological imagination. However, this could be the topic of another study.110

109 110

Given Wilson, The Writing of History, pp. 2–3. I am currently working as a Newton International Fellow at the University of Southampton on a two-year project on the use of patterns in the portrayal of medieval battles, and I will study the question in a forthcoming book.

6 Experimental Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding David Jones

Arrows with reproduction medieval heads were shot against multiple layers of woven linen, woven cotton, cotton wadding, woollen felt, and leather. The best protection against bodkin arrowheads was given by woven linen in combination with cotton wadding, but without mail these materials did not give significant protection against arrowheads with sharp-edged blades. Reproduction mail armor was made from mild steel, with alternating rows of solid and riveted rings. Mail alone, without a padded undergarment, did not give adequate protection against arrows shot from bows of moderate strength. Penetration to a potentially lethal depth occurred at almost every shot. The probability and depth of penetration was greatly reduced when the mail was placed over an undergarment consisting of layers of linen, or linen with cotton wadding. It was concluded that mail in combination with a garment meeting an early fourteenth-century specification for gambesons would greatly reduce, but not eliminate, the risk of fatal injury from arrows. Mail with a padded garment (the “gambeson” or “aketon”) formed the principal armor defense for European men-at-arms until about 1325, when plate proliferated and mail was progressively relegated to protecting only those areas where flexibility was needed.1 Some writers regard the terms “gambeson” and “aketon” as synonymous, but Ralph Moffat argues that they were distinctly different garments. In his view the gambeson was a padded and quilted jacket that could be worn as an independent defense or over other armor, whereas the aketon, also padded and quilted, was worn under mail and was not intended as an exterior garment.2 Little systematic experimental research into the effectiveness of arrows against mail has been published, and padding has often been included as an afterthought or omitted entirely. When it has been given its fair share of the

1 2

Thom Richardson, “Armour in England, 1325–99,” Journal of Medieval History 37 (2011), 304–20. Ralph Moffat, “Gambeson” and “Aketon” in Encyclopedia of Medieval Dress and Textiles [online], G. Owen-Crocker, E. Coatsworth, and M. Hayward, eds, (Leiden, 2012).

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researchers’ attention, it has been concluded that it is at least as important as the mail in determining protection against arrows.3 The aim of the experimental work described here was to investigate the role of the gambeson or aketon in protecting against arrows, focusing on the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries before the widespread adoption of plate armor. The principal objectives were to: Identify which of the padding materials available in thirteenth-century Europe gave the best protection against arrows shot from a longbow; Assess the level of protection given by mail armor when combined with the bestperforming materials, in thicknesses that permitted adequate flexibility; Determine the thickness and areal density of the mail and padding combination that would be needed to prevent arrows reaching a potentially lethal depth of penetration, and to estimate whether this thickness would be wearable under battlefield conditions.

The scope was confined to variation of the arrowhead and the type and thickness of padding materials used in combination with mail, and to bows of about 70 lb (312 N) draw-weight. Historical and Archaeological Background Mail Archeologically dated mail is known from the eleventh and earlier centuries, principally from grave goods.4 There are very few, perhaps no, surviving examples of mail which can be securely dated to the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, despite historical and iconographic evidence showing that it was in very widespread use. There are very few mail shirts datable to the fourteenth century5 and the majority of surviving European mail is of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.6 In the absence of thirteenth-century examples, fourteenth-century mail is taken as a model in this study. European mail was almost always of the “four in one” pattern, in which each ring passed through four others, with the rings closed by rivets.7 Very occasionally a “six in one” pattern was used, in which each ring passed through 3

4

5 6 7

Russ Mitchell, “Archery versus Mail: Experimental Archaeology and the Value of Context,” Journal of Medieval Military History 4 (2006), 19–28; David Jones, “Arrows against Mail Armour,” Journal of the Society of Archer Antiquaries 57 (2014), 62–70. Vegard Vike, “Ring Weave: A Metallographic Analysis of Ring Mail Material at the Oldsaksamlingen in Oslo.” Unpublished thesis, University of Oslo (2000). Available at: http://folk.uio. no/vegardav/brynje/Ring_Weave_Vegard_Vike_2000_(translated_Ny_Björn_Gustafsson).pdf Richardson, “Armour in England 1325–99,” p. 309. Royal Armouries Collections website, available at: https://collections.royalarmouries.org/#/ objects?search=mail+&sort=relevance (Accessed 23 Sep 2018) E. Martin Burgess, “The Mail-Maker’s Technique,” The Antiquaries Journal 33 (1953), 48–55.



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six others.8 Mail could be made with all of the rings riveted, or more often with alternating rows of solid and riveted rings. In the latter case each riveted ring passed through four solid rings and vice versa. From the fourteenth century onwards the wedge rivet was usual; this is a small triangle of thin sheet-iron passing through a slit punched through the overlapping ends. The rivet was closed with pliers having a flat lower jaw and a dimple in the upper jaw, giving a smooth underside and raised rivet heads on the upper side of the mail. Because of the lack of securely dated thirteenth-century specimens the date of introduction of the wedge rivet is unknown, but since it was the most common fixing by the mid-1300s it is likely that it was also known in the preceding century. Fourteenth-century English documents record mail made from steel and show that it was more expensive and very much less common than mail of iron.9 Riveted rings were made from drawn wire, with round, D10, or flattened section. Solid rings were welded11 or punched from sheet12, giving an approximately rectangular section which could be of more substantial gauge than the riveted rings linking them. Details of the ring dimensions of six fourteenth-century mail garments in UK museums are given in Table 1. The data were obtained from museum websites and personal communications from museum staff. Four of the garments have rings ranging from 7.2 to 8.7 mm internal diameter. Measurements of the ring diameters of the other two specimens are not available. Although these fourteenth-century examples do not differ greatly in diameter much wider variation is shown in fifteenth- and sixteenth-century mail, with some in the Royal Armouries collection as small as 4.7  mm internal diameter.13 The fourteenthcentury mail items show substantial differences in the gauge of the wire rings, ranging from 0.5 to 1.36 mm in thickness. Gambesons and Aketons Medieval descriptions of non-metallic armor materials frequently mention linen, leather, cotton and silk. Linen fabrics have been produced in Europe for millennia. Cotton cloth has been produced in India since ancient times, and was traded into Roman and early medieval Europe as an expensive luxury fabric. Cotton-growing spread westward during the early medieval period into Muslimcontrolled lands, including Spain. By the early thirteenth century there was a 8

9 10 11 12 13

British Museum. Mail Collar or Standard [online]. Available at: http://www.britishmuseum. org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details.aspx?objectId=36126&partId=1&searc hText=mail+collar&page=1 (Accessed 23 Sep 2018) Richardson, “Armour in England 1325–99,” p. 309. William Reid and E. Martin, “A Habergon of Westwale,” The Antiquaries Journal 40 (1960), 46–57. Cyril Stanley Smith, “Methods of Making Chain Mail (14th to 18th Centuries): A Metallographic Note,” Technology and Culture 1 (1959), 60–67. E. M. Burgess, “A Mail Shirt from the Hearst Collection,” The Antiquaries Journal 38 (1958), 197–205. Thom Richardson, Royal Armouries (personal communication [email], 2014).

20

19

18

17

16

15

14

8.1

8.30

8.3

0.8

1.5

2.0 1.8

1.67

1.3

0.7 0.8

0.92

0.5

0.8

1.2

2.0

8.5

1.36

2.0

8.7

1.8

Solid Rings

8.0

7.93

8.3

8.3

2.1

1.85

1.3

1.8

2.18

Thickness of Internal Width of wire wire (mm) diameter (mm) (mm) 0.85 7.2 2.1

All rings riveted

Comments

Speakman 20

Royal Armouries website18 British Museum website19

References Royal Armouries website14 Royal Armouries website15 Royal Armouries website16 Royal Armouries website17

0.9 The riveted rings are made of flattened wire. Dimensions show the range of widths and thicknesses.

All rings riveted. Dimensions are of rings in upper arm and forearm. 0.8 Neck defense for a horse. 0.5 6 in 1 weave at the neck, 4 in 1 lower in the collar. Dimensions are of rings in lower collar. 0.87

1.3

Thickness of wire (mm) 0.87

Table 6.1  Dimensions of Fourteenth-Century Mail Items and the Modern Reproduction

https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-object-21304.html (Accessed 8 Jun 2019) https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-object-1198.html (Accessed 8 Jun 2019) https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-object-1199.html (Accessed 8 Jun 2019) https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-object-1265.html (Accessed 8 Jun 2019) https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-object-54809.html (Accessed 8 Jun 2019) www.britishmuseum.org/research/collection_online/collection_object_details/collection_image_gallery.aspx?assetId=140789001&objectId=36126&pa rtId=1 (Accessed 23 Sep 2018) Naomi Speakman, British Museum (personal communication [Email] June 2018).

Modern reproduction.

Mean of 14th C specimens

Crinet, Italian, RA VI.655 B, – 14th C. Mail Collar, British Museum 1856.0701.224 English? – mid 14th C.

Mail item Coif, European, RA III.28, – mid 14th C. Shirt, German, RA III.1279, – mid 14th C. Aventail, German, RA III. 1280 – mid 14th C. Sleeve, German, RA III.18, – Late 14th C.

Riveted rings

Internal Width of wire diameter (mm) (mm) 7.7 1.41



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thriving industry in northern Italy, where cotton was imported and processed into fabrics and wadding which were then exported all over Europe. As a result of this trade cotton became one of the cheapest fabrics in thirteenth-century Europe, rather than the expensive luxury that it had been in earlier times.21 There are no known surviving examples of medieval gambesons or aketons, and in their absence much of our information on medieval soft armor derives from regulations for craft guilds. The 1296 Ordonnances des métiers de Paris22 regulate that: Premierement, que nus ne puisse fere cote ne gamboison de tele, dont l’envers et l’endroit ne soit de tele noeve, et dedenz de coton et de plois de toiles… Firstly, that none may make coat or gambeson of linen unless the inner side and outside be of new cloth and within of cotton and folds of linen…

This source also regulates that the stuffing of gambesons may be of silk. The 1311 Paris Ordonnances23 give instructions on the quantity cotton that is to be used: Item, que nuls doresenavant ne puisse fere cote gamboisée ou il n’ait trois livres de coton tout net… Item, that henceforth none may make gambesoned coat unless it be of three pounds of completely new cotton…

The Paris pound was equal to 0.49 kg. If it is assumed that the gambeson covered only the torso then the surface area would be of the order of 0.7  m2, resulting in an areal density of cotton of approximately 2.1  kg∙m-2. If the gambeson also covered the arms and thighs then the areal density of cotton would be correspondingly less. Articles of the Linen Armourers of London, dated 1322, regulate that: Aketoun e Gambezoun couertz de sandal’ ou de drap de seye & soient estoffez de noueille teille de Cotoun & de Cadaz e de veils sendal’ & nyent ou autre manere les blaunches Aketouns soient estoffes de veille teille & de Cotoun & de Nouele teille dedenz & dehors …24

21 22

23 24

Maureen Fennell Mazzaoui, “The Cotton Industry of Northern Italy in the Late Middle Ages: 1150–1450,” The Journal of Economic History 32 (1972), 262–86. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, fonds français MS 24069, fol. 15r & MS 1179, fol. 2r, as printed in René de Lespinasse, Les métiers et corporations de la ville de Paris XIXe–XVIIIe siècles, 2 vols (Paris, 1886–97), 2:317–18. Ibid., p. 319. London Metropolitan Archives, Letter-Book E, fols. 133r–33v. Articles of the Linen Armourers of London, 26 January 1322.

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Aketon and gambeson covered with sendal or silk cloth ought to be stuffed with new linen, cotton, cotton wool and old sendal and in no other manner. White aketons ought to be stuffed with old linen, cotton and new linen inside and out.

“Sendal” (variously spelled) originally referred to a tabby-woven silk cloth. It was the least expensive and most common silk cloth in the Middle Ages, known in Europe since Carolingian times. During the fourteenth century the word was also applied to fine linen materials.25 These regulations show that late thirteenth- or early fourteenth-century gambesons and aketons consisted of inner and outer fabric layers of silk or linen, stuffed with silk, linen and cotton. Bows and Arrows Archaeological remains of bows from the twelfth or thirteenth centuries are very scarce, and were discovered too late to inform the nineteenth-century military historians who did much to shape opinions on the length, strength and effectiveness of English bows of the High Middle Ages. Largely on the evidence of medieval illustrations, Charles Oman concluded that the longbow was distinct from the short-bow. On the basis of its apparent neglect in favor of the crossbow during the early thirteenth century, Oman further concluded that the short-bow was weak and militarily ineffective. He wrote: It is not until the last quarter of the thirteenth century that we find the long-bow taking up its position as the national weapon of England … It is, therefore, rational to conclude that the weapon superseded by the arbalest was merely the old short-bow which had been in constant use since Saxon times.26

The view that bows increased in length and strength during the later thirteenth century was expanded by John Morris, who believed that Edward I directly encouraged the development, both before and after his ascent to the throne.27 He wrote: I believe that Edward was making some effort to create an efficient bow-armed English infantry, at least from 1265 onwards, if not earlier… A hundred picked men of Macclesfield were purely archers unmixed with foot spearmen, they served from first to nearly the last day of the [Welsh] war whereas the other infantry came up in relays for short periods, they earned an extraordinary wage of 3d a day and came from the king’s own lands. It is not too much to see the personal interest of Edward towards the improvement of archery. 28

25 26 27 28

University of Manchester Lexis of Cloth and Clothing website: http://lexissearch.arts. manchester.ac.uk/entry.aspx?id=4244 (Accessed 23 Sep 2018) C. W. C. Oman, The Art of War in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1885), p. 97. J. E. Morris, The Welsh Wars of Edward I (Oxford, 1901). Morris, Welsh Wars, pp. 33–34.



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Presumably on the evidence of medieval illustrations, Morris was convinced that the short bow was invariably drawn to the chest and that this was a cause of its weakness. He wrote: The bow of Edward I was probably at first not much more powerful than the short bow of Hastings and Northallerton, but it was a longbow because it could be improved up to the standard of Crecy and Poitiers, whereas a short bow, drawn to the chest, does not permit of improvement.29

In fact there is no necessity for short bows to be drawn to the chest. The maximum safe draw length might be less than for a longer bow, but there is no need shift the drawing hand lower. Although Morris acknowledged that a strong bow was useless without an equally strong archer, the main tone of his argument is of technological development. He did not address the question of how or why Englishmen found the additional strength to shoot these bows of supposedly ever-increasing power. The thesis of Oman and Morris that the longbow replaced a shorter, weaker and distinctly different bow held wide acceptance for about a hundred years. It was challenged by Mathew Strickland, who used the phrase “the myth of the shortbow.” Strickland argued for continuity of the basic form of bows in Western Europe throughout the Middle Ages, citing archaeological evidence of bows found in Denmark and Schleswig-Holstein dated to 200–400 AD, a tenthcentury Viking bow from Ballinderry, Ireland, and bows from the Mary Rose (1545). The bows cited by Strickland ranged in length from 1.68  m to 1.98  m (66 to 78 inches). Strickland dismissed the iconographic evidence of short medieval bows as being due to artistic incompetence or stylization. Illustrations of the draw to the chest were dismissed as an artistic device to avoid obscuring the archer’s face by the drawing-hand.30 The tenth-century Ballinderry yew bow is now 1.85 m in length, but was probably originally about 1.9 m (75 inches) long.31 By comparison with a modern yew longbow of closely similar length and thickness, its original draw-weight has been estimated at about 100  lb (445  N).32 It was certainly a long, strong bow, like the Mary Rose specimens. Similar long, strong bows were excavated from the tenth-century Danish settlement at Hedeby (now in Germany).33 But Strickland’s argument for continuity of form and effectiveness rests on interpolation from the tenth century to the Mary Rose some 600 years later. This does not preclude the possibility of a shorter weapon during the intervening period. 29 30 31 32 33

Morris, Welsh Wars, p. 100. Mathew Strickland and Robert Hardy, From Hastings to the Mary Rose: the Great Warbow (Stroud, 2005), pp. 32–48. Andrew Halpin, “Military Archery in Medieval Ireland: Archaeology and History,” Papers of the ‘Medieval Europe Brugge 1997’ Conference, Volume 11, pp. 51–60. Jones, “Arrows against Linen and Leather Armour,”, 74–81, here p. 77. H. Paulsen, “Pfeil und Bogen in Haithabu,” in Berichte über Ausgrabubgen in Haithabu 33: das archäologische Fundmaterial VI. Neumünster (Neumünster, 1999), 93–143.

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A complete short yew bow, dating from the early to mid-thirteenth century, was recovered during excavations of the Anglo-Irish settlement at Waterford. It is 1.25 m (49 inches) long overall and 1.14 m (45 inches) between the string nocks. It has deflexed terminals extending 72 mm beyond the upper and 43 mm beyond the lower nocks. In addition to the complete bow, fragments of six others were found. Andrew Halpin wrote: The arrowheads found with the bows are as strongly military in nature as the Dublin arrowheads, so it is impossible to argue that these bows were for hunting and that longer bows were used for war. These are military bows and, what is more, most of them seem to be Anglo-Norman.34

Michael Leach discussed the close similarity of the Waterford bow to twelfthcentury Anglo-Norman illustrations, which often show deflexed terminals.35 A replica of the Waterford bow was made and shot by Jeremy Spencer. It had a drawweight of 60 lb (267 N) and shot an arrow with a London Museum Type 7 bodkin head a distance of 189 yards (173 m).36 For comparison, a replica of a 129 lb Mary Rose yew bow shot a replica Mary Rose arrow 252 yards (230  m).37 This result shows that short wooden bows of comparatively low draw-weight might still be capable of quite respectable range. Archaeological investigations were conducted in 2002–03 at Pineuilh, Gironde, France, in a former arm of the Dordogne that had become marshland. The waterlogged ground preserved, in excellent condition, a number of wooden objects dating from 977 to 1060. One of these was a complete bow made of elm, 1.25 m long overall, exactly the same length as the Waterford bow. It is straight-limbed, without shaped and deflexed terminals, but otherwise very similar to the Waterford bow.38 Court records, in Latin, of English medieval inquests into murders and accidental deaths often give details of the weapons involved, with the length of bows and arrows recorded in terms of the “ulna.” The earliest known record of bowlength dates from 1298. Some authors translate “ulna” as “ell” (the English ell was 45 inches, 1.143 m), but Michael Leach argues that the correct translation is “yard” (36 inches, 0.9144 m). The 1298 record states longitudinis arcus unius ulne et dimidie which Leach translates as “the length of the bow was one yard and a half” (i.e. 54 inches, 1.37 m). A translation made in the 1920s had given ulna as “ell,” which would have implied a bow length of 67.5 inches (1.71 m).39 34 35 36 37 38 39

Halpin, “Military Archery in Medieval Ireland,” pp. 52–57. Michael Leach, “The Norman Short Bow,” Journal of the Society of Archer Antiquaries 52 (2009), 82–90. Jeremy Spencer, “A Short War-Bow Examined,” Journal of the Society of Archer Antiquaries 60 (2017), 100–102. Alistair Aston and Jeremy Spencer, “The Deane Brother’s ‘Mary Rose’ Bow, a Longbow of Wych Elm?” Journal of the Society of Archer Antiquaries 58 (2015), 59–74, here p. 70. Valérie Serdon, Armes du diable: Arcs et arbalètes au moyen âge (Rennes, 2003), pp. 157, 159. Michael Leach, “The Skeftinton Case of 1298: a Reassessment of the First Recorded Details of an English Bow and Arrow,” Journal of the Society of Archer Antiquaries 53 (2010), 81–83.



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Richard Wadge also translates “ulna” as “yard” in his study of documentary evidence for bows and arrows in Medieval England.40 Records of the inquest into the death of Robert de Esnyngton in 1314 are of particular interest because the details of different weapons show that both long and short bows coexisted in early fourteenth-century England. The lengths of two of the bows are recorded: one was two ulna and the other one and a half ulna. Some arrows were recorded as one ulna and some as three quarters of an ulna in length.41 This court record supports the argument that “ulna” should be translated as “yard.” A bow two ells in length (90 inches, 2.29 m) would be a very long and clumsy weapon, much longer than any recovered from the Mary Rose, whereas two yards (72 inches, 1.83 m) is much more manageable. The thesis of Oman and Morris that English bows became longer, stronger and militarily much more effective in the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries still has its champions, notably Clifford Rogers. He suggests that transition to a longer, more powerful weapon may have been more sudden and somewhat later than envisaged by Morris, perhaps occurring in the reign of Edward II rather than Edward I. Rogers considers the “fully developed longbow” to have been a very powerful weapon, over 100 lb (445 N) in draw-weight, capable of penetrating mail and plate armor and inflicting deep, lethal wounds. 42 The development of the longbow into a powerful weapon is often discussed as a technical matter, but the human side is of no less importance. A strong bow can be made in a few days but it takes years to make a strong archer. If they set themselves the goal of strong shooting, most men in modern times can reach 70 or 80 lb, and some can reach 100 lb, with one or two years of practice.43 Bows of such strength are sufficient to kill even very large animals, such as the bear,44 and would be adequate for hunting. Progressing much beyond about 100  lb requires, for most men, very hard sustained training.45 So hard is it that the first estimates of 150 lb and more for the draw-weights of the Mary Rose bows were greeted with frank disbelief. The possibility of such draw-weights was accepted only when replica bows were made and a few men trained themselves to shoot them.46 The question of why medieval Englishmen would undertake this arduous training is perhaps answered by the increasing use of professional soldiers rather than reliance on the feudal levy. Edward’s one hundred picked men of Macclesfield earned a steady 3d a day, rather than the unreliable 2d a day that they might have earned as casual day-labourers. Many boys and young men 40 41 42 43

44 45 46

Richard Wadge, Archery in Medieval England (Stroud, 2012), pp. 175–207. Wadge, Archery in Medieval England, p. 178. Clifford J. Rogers, “The Development of the Longbow in Late Medieval England and ‘Technological Determinism,’” Journal of Medieval History 37 (2011), 321–41. George Agar Hansard, The Book of Archery (London, 1840), p. 368; Saxton Pope, Hunting with the Bow and Arrow (New York, 1923); author’s experience and communication with other archers. Pope, Hunting with the Bow and Arrow, chapter XII. Personal communications from warbow archers. Strickland and Hardy, The Great Warbow, pp. 15–20.

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might have regarded learning to shoot powerful bows as a sound investment, with the hope of good pay, loot and adventure if selected for service. The opinion of Oman, Morris and Rogers that the later medieval longbow was a very powerful and effective weapon, capable of killing armoured men, has been challenged by Kelly DeVries.47 The supporting experimental evidence cited by DeVries is that of Peter Jones, who studied the impact of bodkinpointed arrows shot from a yew longbow of 70 lb (312 N) draw-weight. The targets were sheets of wrought iron in thicknesses of 1, 2 and 3  mm. Only the 1  mm plate could be penetrated deeply enough to cause a debilitating wound, and then only at an obliquity of 20 degrees or less. Peter Jones did not study the effect of arrows against mail armor. He concluded that the weapon system would have been capable of piercing fourteenth- or fifteenth-century leg armor, but not the thicker sheet used for helmets and breastplates. He suggested that at the battle of Agincourt there might have been many disabling wounds but few fatalities caused by arrow shot.48 In 1992, when the experimental results were published, 70  lb was regarded as a strong bow and the conclusion seemed reasonable. It is now known that sixteenth-century bows (and by inference those of the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries) could be more than twice that strength. By the mid-thirteenth century some English illustrations show weapons that closely resemble what we would now refer to as “longbows” 49 (see Figure 6.1), although representations of shorter bows also continue well into the fourteenth century. The bow shown in Figure 6.1 appears to be almost the height of the archer. The lower limb terminates in a darker color, presumably a representation of a horn nock. Although the termination of the upper limb is not distinctly colored, it has a forward flick in the same manner as the traditional upper horn of longbows. The archer has a contorted posture, with a dropped bow arm and high drawing-arm elbow. It is not possible to draw a bow of significant strength in this posture; I attempted it with the bow used in this experimental study but could not stir the string more than a few inches. An archer can exert maximum strength when the bow hand, drawing hand and the drawing-arm elbow form an approximately straight line. I believe it likely that the artist showed this outof-line posture as a stratagem to fit the entire bow within the picture space. A similar reluctance to truncate the upper limb of the bow might lie behind some medieval depictions of short bows.

47 48 49

Kelly DeVries, “Catapults are not Atomic Bombs: Towards a Redefinition of ‘Effectiveness’ in Premodern Military Technology,” War in History 4 (1997), 454–70. Peter N. Jones, “The Metallography and relative Effectiveness of Arrowheads and Armor during the Middle Ages,” Materials Characterization 29 (1992), 111–17. British Library website (Accessed 23 Sep 2018). http://www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/recor.asp?MSID=8793&CollID=16&NStart=20206



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Figure 6.1  The Martyrdom of Saint Edmund, illustrated St Albans c.1246–60

In contrast to bows, there are many thousand surviving medieval arrowheads in a great variety of shapes and sizes, although few of them were recovered from dateable contexts. Ward Perkins of the London Museum published an arrowhead typology in 1940 that is still in use today.50 Oliver Jessop proposed a new typology, focusing on archeologically recovered arrowheads of the British Isles51; Valérie Serdon did the same for France52 and Andrew Halpin for Ireland.53 Despite the range of forms, most arrowheads recovered from military contexts fall into two broad classes: spikes (bodkin points) or blades with cutting edges. A common arrowhead of the thirteenth and earlier centuries is the London Museum (LM) Type 7, which has a conical socket and a spike of square or rhomboidal section. Figure 6.2 shows an LM Type 7 “needle bodkin” that was dredged from the Thames between Southwark Bridge and Billingsgate. Some bodkin points have a distinct neck and shoulder at the junction between the spike and the socket (see Figure 6.5), rather than the smooth transition 50 51 52 53

J. B. Ward Perkins, London Museum Catalogues No. 7: Medieval Catalogue (London, 1940), pp. 65–73. Oliver Jessop, “A New Artefact Typology for the Study of Medieval Arrowheads,” Medieval Archaeology 40 (1997), 192–205. Serdon, Armes du diable, pp. 87–145. Andrew Halpin, Weapons and Warfare in Viking and Medieval Dublin (Dublin, 2008), pp. 75–130.

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shown in Figure 6.2. The London Museum classification does not distinguish between the two types, but Jessop terms them M7 for the type shown in Figure 6.2 and M8 for the type shown in Figure 6.5. Most bodkin points are no more than about 100 mm in overall length, but a few specimens up to about 190 mm have been found.54, 55 The Type 7 bodkin is by far the most common medieval projectile head found in Dublin, with 273 definite examples.56 Arrowheads with cutting edges are classified in the Ward Perkins system according to the shape and size of the head. The smaller arrowheads with barbed blades are classified as Type  13 if the greatest width is across the tips of the barbs, and as Type 16 if the blade curves so that the widest part is forward of the barb tips. Figure 6.3 shows a Type 16 head, also dredged from the Thames between Southwark Bridge and Billingsgate. The LM Type 1 has a shouldered head (see Figure 6.7), LM Types 2 and 3 have large and small triangular heads and LM Type 5 has a leaf-shaped head (see Figure 6.6). The external diameter of the arrowhead socket indicates the approximate diameter of the shaft, which in turn gives some guidance on the strength of the

Figure 6.2  LM Type 7 Arrowhead (author’s collection)

54 55 56

Ross Sampson, “Finds from Urquhart Castle in the National Museum, Edinburgh,” Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 112 (1982), 465–76, Fig. 2 p. 468. Iain MacIvor, Dennis Gallagher et al., “Excavations at Caerlaverock Castle, 1955–66,” Archaeological Journal 156 (1999), 143–245, Illus. 36, no. 105, p. 212. Halpin, Weapons and Warfare in Viking and Medieval Dublin, p. 124.



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Figure 6.3  LM Type 16 Arrowhead (author’s collection)

bow that it would be suitable for. The tip of the shaft is tapered to a cone which may have a distinct shoulder, so that it fits into the socket with the exterior approximately flush with the arrow shaft (see Figures 6.5, 6.6 and 6.7). All of the arrows recovered from the Mary Rose (sunk 1545) were made in this way.57 The shoulder gives an additional stop which helps prevent the head being forced back onto the shaft when the arrow strikes a hard object. An arrow shaft must have sufficient stiffness to avoid excessive buckling when it is shot. The longer the arrow and the stronger the bow, the greater is the required thickness. For a 28-inch (0.71 m) arrow shaft of ash (Fraxinus sp.) a diameter of 3/8 inch (9.5  mm) is suitable for bows of about 60 to 100  lb draw-weight (267–445  N).58 Present-day warbow archers, shooting bows up to 160  lb draw-weight (713  N), often use shafts of ½ inch (12.7  mm) diameter at the head, tapering to 3/8 inch (9.5  mm) at the nock.59 Most of the arrow shafts recovered from the Mary Rose are of 12–13 mm diameter at the tip end60, which is consistent with the estimated draw-weights of over 100  lb for most

57 58 59 60

Alexzandra Hildred et al., “Arrows” in Weapons of Warre, vol. 2, ed. Alexzandra Hildred (Portsmouth, 2011), pp 680–82. Author’s experience of making and shooting arrows. Jeremy Spencer, “The `Lyverye Arrowe’ – an Archetypical Military Arrow of the Mary Rose,” Journal of the Society of Archer-Antiquaries 59 (2016), 88–95. Hildred, Weapons of Warre, Table 8.49, p. 682.

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of the bows.61 In comparison with fifteenth- and sixteenth-century arrowheads, thirteenth-century military examples tend to be smaller in socket diameter. The implication of this observation with regard to the strength of bows has been discussed by Wadge.62 The Dublin arrowheads are all military in character and the majority (80%) from the period 1170–1300 have external socket diameters in the range 8–10  mm.63 Throughout this period Dublin was under Anglo-Norman and English occupation, so this may be taken as representative of English military archery of the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Excavations at Urquhart Castle on the shore of Loch Ness yielded a corroded mass of some 140 arrowheads, all of LM Type 13 and all aligned in the same direction, indicating that the find is the remains of a bundle of complete arrows rather than a stock of arrowheads. The external socket diameters appear to be approximately 9  mm.64 One hundred and forty arrows would be an excessive number for even the most enthusiastic of hunters. Contemporary evidence from artistic portrayals and documents indicate that hunters typically carried three or so arrows, and that individuals rarely had more than a dozen barbed arrows in their possession.65 The find is therefore almost certainly military. Urquhart Castle changed hands four times during the Scottish campaigns of Edward I; although the find was not dated stratigraphically there is therefore a strong likelihood that it is of the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century. In contrast, finds at Urquhart66 and Salisbury67 of a fifteenth-century type (Jessop M2) have external socket diameters of 12 mm. Excavations in the moat of Caerlaverock Castle, Dumfries, yielded 13 arrowheads. The external socket diameters of the best-preserved specimens are in the range 8 to 10  mm.68 Dendrochronological dating suggests 1277 as the year of construction of the first bridge over the moat, and presumably also the first works of the castle. It was captured by Edward’s forces in 1300; it is likely that the arrowheads date from this engagement. One of the arrowheads, of LM Type 7 (needle bodkin), still had a 160 mm length of arrow shaft in the 10 mm diameter socket. The shaft, apparently of yew, is described as “flattened by pressure.” The illustration indicates a diameter of approximately 9 mm close to the iron socket, where distortion may have been least.69 The moat of Caerlaverock Castle also yielded a 190 mm length of the tapered nock end of an arrow shaft in ash.70 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70

Hildred, Weapons of Warre, Table 8.27, p. 616. Wadge, Archery in Medieval England, p. 203. Halpin, Weapons and Warfare in Viking and Medieval Dublin, p. 173. Sampson, “Finds from Urquhart Castle,” p. 468, Fig. 2, No. 10. Wadge, Archery in Medieval England, pp. 175–207. Sampson, “Finds from Urquhart Castle,” p. 468, fig. 2, no. 14. Alan Borg, “Arms and Armour,” in Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum Medieval Catalogue Part 1, Peter and Eleanor Saunders, eds., (Salisbury, 1991), fig. 23, no. 89, p. 87. MacIvor and Gallagher, “Excavations at Caerlaverock Castle,” illus. 36, p. 212. Ibid., illus. 36, no. 105, pp. 212–13. Ibid., pp. 231–32.



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Taken together the available evidence from arrowhead diameters suggests that thirteenth-century English military bows were, in the main, less powerful than those of the following three centuries, perhaps in the range 60 to 100 lb. This corresponds well with the draw-weights that men can command with regular but not excessive practice, supporting the concept that most thirteenth-century military archers were not full-time professionals. This is not to suggest that there were no strong bows of well over 100  lb in the thirteenth century, but that they would have been exceptional rather than the generality. David Starley’s metallographic analysis of two LM Type 7 heads showed that one was of low-carbon iron and one of unhardened steel. Analysis of five LM Type 16 heads showed that one was of iron, three were of composite construction with iron sockets and hardened steel blades, and one was of uncertain structure.71 Peter Jones gives the metallographic analysis of a long bodkin arrowhead, similar in profile to the 7.5  mm bodkin arrowhead used in this experimental study. The socket was 10  mm in external diameter, with a maximum blade width of approximately 6  mm and blade length of 85  mm. The socket was of low carbon iron and the blade of 0.35% carbon steel was of a remarkably fine grain size, less than 10 μm. The arrowhead appeared to have been made by pack carburizing one end followed by working the blade through the reaction zone to give the fine grain size.72 In Valérie Serdon’s typology the socketed leaf-shaped arrowhead (pointe de fleche foliacée) is classified as Type A. This corresponds with the LM Type 5 (Figure 6.6). Metallographic analysis of five Type A arrowheads from the period 1200–1300 found at Château Rougemont, eastern France, showed that two were of low-carbon iron with slag inclusions and three were of steel. A sixth Type A arrowhead, from the period 1300–75, was of fairly pure iron.73 In addition to the evidence from metallographic analysis, contemporary court records show that both iron and steel were used in thirteenth-century arrowheads. On 25 March 1297 Simon of Skeftington was shot and killed by an arrow which had a head of iron and steel (caput fuit de ferro et acerro), two inches wide and three inches long.74 The 1298 court record incidentally describes the effect of archery against an unarmored man: Simon’s wound on his left side was three inches long, two inches wide and six inches deep, causing instant death.75

71 72 73 74 75

David Starley, “What’s the Point? A Metallurgical Insight into Medieval Arrowheads,” in De Re Metallica: the Uses of Metal in the Middle Ages, ed. Robert Bork (Aldershot, 2005), 207–18. Jones, “Metallography,” 111–17, here pp. 112–13. Serdon, Armes du diable, p. 116 and pp. 136–37. Leach, “The Skeftington Case of 1298”. F. Cottrill, “A Medieval Description of a Bow and Arrow,” The Antiquaries Journal 23 (1943), pp.54–55.

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Reproduction Mail A 0.2×0.2 m square of mail was made by the author from commercially available mild steel rings manufactured in India, with alternating rows of solid and wedge-riveted rings. The solid rings were punched from sheet, and the riveted rings were formed from 1.22 mm diameter wire and then flattened. The extent of flattening differed slightly, resulting in wire 0.7 to 0.8 mm thick, with corresponding width of 2.0 to 1.8  mm. The solid rings of the modern reproduction correspond very closely with the mean dimensions of the fourteenth-century specimens (see Table 6-1). The riveted rings in the reproduction are a little broader and thinner than the fourteenth-century mean, but are both broader and thicker than the lightest gauge of the medieval examples (the collar). The thickness of the reproduction riveted rings is very close to that of the fourteenthcentury sleeve and the crinet (neck defense for a horse). The modern reproduction mail is in mild steel, whereas medieval examples were of iron which had some slag inclusions. Alan Williams states: “Compared with modern (virtually slag-free) material the presence of 1% or 2% slag would have reduced the fracture toughness by anything up to a quarter.”76 It therefore seems reasonable to suppose that the modern reproduction is within the range of medieval mail with regard to its ability to withstand arrow shot. All rings were carefully examined and only those where the overlap and slit were well formed were used. About one third of the rings were discarded because of imperfections. The rivet was first set with a pair of pliers having an oval hole in the face of one jaw and a flat face on the other jaw. The pointed end of the rivet was then domed over with a second pair of pliers having a dimple in one jaw. The rivet was inspected and, if unsatisfactory, the ring was cut out and the operation repeated. The areal density of the mail was 7.95 kg·m-2 when stretched out.

Figure 6.4  Reproduction Mail 76

Alan Williams, The Knight and the Blast Furnace: A History of the Metallurgy of Armour in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period (Leiden, 2003), p. 932.



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Garment Materials The standard woven fabric used in these tests was medium-weight unbleached upholstery linen, of plain weave and 11 threads per cm in both warp and weft. The nominal weight was 12 oz. per square yard. The actual weight was measured at 13 oz. per square yard (0.44 kg·m-2). Woven cotton canvas, also of a nominal 12 oz. per square yard, was measured at 12.6 oz. per square yard (0.42 kg·m-2). It was of plain weave and 12 threads per cm in warp and weft. Cotton wadding (batting) was 100% cotton, felted by needling. Some modern cotton waddings contain latex; these were deliberately avoided. The areal density of a single layer was 0.22 kg·m-2. Woollen felt (100% wool) was of 0.8 kg·m-2 areal density. Vegetable-tanned soling leather (butt leather) was 6  mm thick and of 6.3 kg·m-2 areal density. It is the thickest and toughest bovine leather that is available today, except for some specialist leathers made by tanning processes that were unknown in the Middle Ages. For reasons of economy, silk was not tested. The same consideration probably influenced all but the wealthiest of medieval soldiers. Reproduction Arrowheads

Weight of complete arrow – grams

Weight of head – grams

Socket external diameter – mm

Thickness of blade78 – mm

Width of blade – mm

Entry77 – mm

Length – mm

Arrowhead

Alloy

All of the arrowheads used in this study were hand forged by Hector Cole. Three different arrows were used in tests against mail and padding combinations, and an additional arrow in tests against gambeson materials alone. The weights and dimensions of the arrowheads and complete arrows are summarized in Table 2.

Bodkin (Fig 6.5, upper)

0.6% C steel

93

57

9.5

7.8

9.9

19.0

55.4

Bodkin (Fig 6.5, lower)

Mild steel

95

65

7.5

6.3

9.9

13.3

49.3

Type 5 (Fig. 6.6)

0.6% C steel

78

35

15

4.2

9.9

16.0

50.8

Type 1 (Fig. 6.7)

Mild steel

80

38

21

2.8

9.5

13.0

50.4

Table 6.2  Arrows Used in the Experimental Studies 77 78

“Entry” means the distance from the tip to widest part of the blade. Thickness measured at widest part of the blade.

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The first two arrowheads are referred to as the “9.5 mm bodkin” and the “7.5 mm bodkin” respectively. The 9.5 mm bodkin blade would not fit completely through a mail ring without breaking it. The 7.5  mm bodkin blade would fit through a single ring without breaking or distorting it, but not through the woven mail. The LM Type 5 head (Figure 6.6) was used rather than a Type 13 or 16 because the lack of barbs made extraction of the arrow from the test piece easier. Except for the lack of barbs, the reproduction Type 5 is very similar in size and profile to the Type 16 shown in Figure 3. Both arrowheads have curved blades of 15  mm width and 35  mm from the tip to the widest part. Starley’s metallographic analysis showed that the medieval Type 16 was made with hard steel blades. The reproduction Type 5, in 0.6% carbon steel, might therefore be expected to give a good approximation to the penetrative performance of a Type 16. The blade of the LM Type 1 arrowhead was broader and thinner than the Type 5 and it could be whetted to a sharper edge, despite being made in mild rather than hard steel. The arrowheads were mounted on 3/8-inch (9.5  mm) shafts of ash, 28 inches (0.71  m) from the base of the nock to the base of the socket. The Type 5 and Type 1 heads were frequently re-sharpened during the tests. If any reader is contemplating experiments with weapons against fabric armors, then I cannot overemphasize the importance of sharpness of the edge in securing penetration. Bows Two different self-yew longbows were used, both made from single staves rather than spliced billets. One was of English yew (Taxus baccata), 71 inches (1.80  m) between the nocks and of 64  lb draw-weight at 27 inches (285  N at 0.69  m). The other was of Pacific yew (Taxus brevifolia), 75 inches (1.9  m) between the nocks and 72  lb (321  N) at 27 inches. The draw-weights were measured, rather than relying on the maker’s marking. Arrow speeds were measured with a “Chrony” optical chronograph. The 72-lb bow shot an arrow weighing 60.3 g at 35.0 m·s-1 (36.9 J kinetic energy) and an arrow weighing 52.7  g at 36.7  m·s-1 (35.5 J kinetic energy). The 64-lb bow shot an arrow weighing 52.6 g at 34.1 m·s-1 (30.6 J kinetic energy). For the reasons discussed earlier, I consider it likely that these bows were within the strength range of thirteenth-century military weapons. Test Methods Swatches of the test materials were made up into 0.21  m squares. Layers of linen and cotton wadding were tack-stitched together at 50 mm intervals to form quilts. The test swatches were pinned to a target boss made of polyurethane foam, and shots were made from a distance of 10 m (11 yards). The distances of penetration into the foam boss were recorded, to the nearest millimeter, from the back of the material swatch to the tip of the arrowhead. Preliminary tests were made on materials without mail, using the 9.5 mm bodkin and the 64-lb bow as standard, to identify which materials gave the best protection.



Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding

Figure 6.5  The 9.5 mm Bodkin (upper) and 7.5 mm Bodkin (lower)

Figure 6.6  Reproduction LM Type 5 Arrowhead

Figure 6.7  Reproduction LM Type 1 Arrowhead

161

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Further tests were then conducted with mail over the best-performing materials in a range of thicknesses, using the 9.5  mm bodkin, the 7.5  mm bodkin and the Type 5 (leaf-shaped) arrowheads. Both the 64-lb and 72-lb bows were used in the tests against mail. A note was made of the type of damage to the mail rings. After no more than six shots the mail was carefully inspected and all damaged rings were cut out and replaced, maintaining the original pattern of alternating rows of solid and riveted rings. To replace a damaged solid ring it was also necessary to replace the four surrounding riveted rings. All of the shots were made normal to the surface of the target. In the case of bodkin-tipped arrows shot against sheet iron, oblique impact is known to cause marked reduction in penetration.79 However, this is not the case when arrows are shot against a target of leather over multiple layers of woven linen. Experimental tests showed that impact at 45 degrees and zero degrees resulted in the same mean depth of penetration; the arrow swung round on impact and entered at much less than 45 degrees obliquity.80 I am not aware of any published experiments that have explored the effect of oblique impact of arrows on mail armor. Armor Defeat Criteria Before detailing the results of the tests, it is appropriate to consider what would constitute “defeat” of the armor. The criterion would depend upon whether one takes the attacker’s point of view (the “Red criterion”) or the defender’s (the “Blue criterion”). An appropriate Red criterion might be that the armor should be penetrated to the extent that death or disabling injury would probably result from a well-placed shot. An appropriate Blue criterion might be that the armor should never be penetrated to a depth that could cause serious injury. The UK Home Office and the US National Institute of Justice (NIJ) collaborated to establish a scientific basis for standards for stab-resistant body armor, which is probably the nearest modern equivalent to the medieval gambeson. Axial Computer Tomography (CT) scans were examined to determine organ to skin distances in subjects aged between 20 and 40 years, with results that are summarized in Table 3.81 As a result of these and other studies the current UK Home Office Body Armour Standard requires that no penetrations greater than 9.0 mm are permitted for a blade impacting at 33 J kinetic energy.82 The corresponding US NIJ standard requires that no penetrations greater than 7 mm are permitted for a blade impacting at 33 J kinetic energy.83 These standards may be 79 80 81

82 83

Jones, “Metallography,” p. 116. Jones, “Arrows Against Linen and Leather Armour,”, 74–81, here p. 80. S. E. J. Connor, A. Bleetman and M. J. Duddy, “Safety Standards for Stab-Resistant Body Armour: a Computer Tomographic Assessment of Organ to Skin Distances,” Injury: International Journal of the Care of the Injured 29 (1998), 297–99. T. Payne, S. O’Rourke and C. Malbon, Body Armour Standard (2017). CAST Publication number: 012/17 (UK Home Office publication) David G. Boyd, Stab Resistance of Personal Body Armor, NIJ Standard 0115.00, U.S. Department of Justice (2000).



Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding

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regarded as “Blue” criteria. A “Red” criterion might be that penetration should be at least 40  mm, at which depth the lungs, heart, liver, spleen, kidneys and femoral arteries of a median subject would all be vulnerable. Organ

Number of subjects

Lungs Pericardium Liver Spleen Kidney Thoracic aorta Abdominal aorta Femoral artery

Median 56 57 46 40 46 28 15 11

Skin to organ distances (mm) Maximum Minimum 21 48 30 45 18 36 22 36 35 79 64 93 89 102 17 25

10 15 9 12 19 31 65 13

Table 6.3  Skin to Organ Distances (From Connor, Bleetman and Duddy)

Results Padding Materials Only The results of the tests against materials are shown in Table 4. With the exception of soling leather, initial comparative tests were conducted with layers totalling approximately 3  kg·m2 areal density. With seven or eight layers of linen, or two of linen plus ten of cotton wadding, the blade of the 9.5  mm bodkin head always passed through the layers but further penetration was prevented by the tapered socket. This resulted in a consistent depth of penetration with a low standard deviation. The Type 5 head penetrated much more deeply than the bodkin through eight layers of linen; the sharp edges cut a slit though which the socket and arrow shaft passed with little friction. Woven cotton was clearly inferior to linen of similar weight and weave. Close inspection showed that the tapered socket of the 9.5  mm bodkin snapped the cotton threads, allowing deeper penetration. Woollen felt gave the least protection against the 9.5  mm bodkin, being penetrated past the socket in every case. A single layer of soling leather showed the least penetration, but at 6.3 kg·m-2 it was of approximately twice the areal density of the other material swatches. Ten layers of cotton wadding had a total areal density of 2.2  kg·m-2, corresponding very closely with the estimate of approximately 2.1  kg∙m-2 that would be required by the Ordonnances des Métiers de Paris. The swatch with ten layers of wadding and two of linen had a thickness of approximately 15 mm under the stitches and 25  mm elsewhere. My subjective opinion, based on handling the swatches, is that adding more cotton wadding would have resulted in an impractically bulky garment. Therefore, to test material swatches giving greater protection, additional layers of linen rather than cotton were added. The thickest swatch that was tested had eleven layers of linen and ten of cotton wadding,

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arranged in alternating layers. This gave some protection against the 9.5  mm bodkin even without mail, with a mean penetration of 4.9 mm and a maximum of 14 mm. Four out of ten shots failed to penetrate the final layer of linen. Although this linen and cotton combination protected against the bodkin without mail, it was penetrated at every shot by the Type 5 head, to a mean depth of 42.5 mm, and completely defeated by the Type 1 to a mean depth of 110.2 mm. When sewing the swatch of alternating linen and cotton wadding it was very difficult to push the needle through the layers. Examination under 10× magnification showed that the fine cotton fibers were forced into the weave of the linen, effectively wedging the needle into the weave. Presumably a similar mechanism operated with the bodkin point, whereas sharp-edged arrowhead blades sliced through both cotton and linen. In the light of the results on penetration of gambeson materials, further tests were conducted with mail over linen, linen with cotton wadding, and leather. Tests with woven cotton and woollen felt were discontinued. Mail with Underlying Padding The results for arrows shot against mail with underlying padding showed much greater variance than for the padding materials alone. The results in Table 5 therefore show the numbers of shots that penetrated beyond specific depths. Any penetrations ≥10 mm imply that the armor combination failed the Blue criterion for protection, while penetrations ≥40 mm would satisfy the Red criterion for a hit very likely to cause serious injury. Much of the variance between results for apparently identical shots arises from the heterogeneity of mail. The tip of the incoming arrow might first pass through a solid ring, a riveted ring, or through two overlapping rings (a “tworinger”). With the bodkin point it was usually possible to identify whether the shot had first centred a solid or riveted ring, or was a two-ringer. Usually, but not invariably, penetration was greater if the shot centred a riveted ring and was least for a two-ringer. As the bodkin entered a ring it competed for space with the four adjoining rings that also passed through it. Penetration depended on how the rings arranged themselves under the impact. The four-sided bodkin divided the interior of the ring onto four segments; penetration was usually greatest when each segment contained one adjoining ring. When two or three adjoining rings were in one segment then the bodkin jammed in the ring (unless it broke it), with consequently reduced penetration. With the Type 5 head the rings were usually damaged to the extent that it was not possible to conduct this post-shot analysis. The first two series of ten shots shown in Table 5 were against mail over two layers of linen, intended to simulate ordinary clothing rather than an aketon. The 9.5  mm bodkin and 72-lb bow defeated the mail at every shot, with all penetrations exceeding 40 mm and the maximum reaching 85 mm. Even when the bodkin centred a solid ring and failed to break it, the tip still reached a potentially lethal depth of penetration. At almost every shot some failures of rivets occurred, with the rivet pulled through the rivet hole. When a solid ring had been struck failures very often occurred in the surrounding riveted rings.



Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding

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On one occasion in the series of ten shots a solid ring was completely broken by the bodkin, resulting in 66 mm penetration. The Type 5 head was extremely destructive to mail. In the series of ten shots there were seven instances of solid rings being entirely cut through and seven instances of riveted rings being cut though or broken, with many rivet failures in the surrounding rings. Often the Type 5 head cut completely through one side of a solid ring and made a deep nick diametrically opposite, with the ring opening out as if on a hinge. This is shown in Figure 6.8, together with other typical damage inflicted on the rings by arrows. The modern reproduction mail has an abrupt transition between the overlap and main portions of the riveted rings, whereas in surviving medieval examples it is usually more gradual. Of the seven breakages of riveted rings in this series of ten shots only two were at the start of the overlap. The abrupt transition from the main to overlap portions does not, therefore, appear to have caused undue weakness at this point. The first nine shots with the Type 5 head all penetrated the mail and two layers of linen, to a minimum depth of 64 mm and maximum of 111 mm. The tenth shot in the series bounced back off the mail. An eleventh shot (not included in the table of results) penetrated to a depth of 118 mm. Tests were made with progressively more layers of padding. In my subjective opinion, based on handling and flexing the materials, about eight layers of this linen are the most that could be worn on the arms, legs and wherever flexibility is required. Tests with the 72-lb and 64-lb bows shooting the 9.5 mm bodkin arrow at mail over eight layers of linen gave paradoxical results. With the 72-pounder seven out of ten shots exceeded 20 mm penetration and none exceeded 40 mm, whereas with the 64-pounder all ten shots exceeded 20  mm and two exceeded 40  mm. The explanation of this paradox lies in a statistical anomaly. With the 72-pounder there was an abnormally high number (three) of “two-ring” shots, all of which failed to exceed 20 mm, six instances of a solid ring being centred and only one of a riveted ring being centred. In contrast, no “two ringers” occurred with the 64-pounder and there were four instances of a riveted ring being centred, with consequently deeper average penetration. With the Type 5 (leaf-shaped) arrowhead and 64-lb bow there were no penetrations ≥10 mm of mail over eight layers of linen. In one instance the tip of the arrow remained lodged in the mail and in the other nine the arrow bounced back. However, the combination failed when the same arrow was shot from the 72-pounder, which achieved three penetrations in ten shots, all exceeding 40 mm. These results serve to emphasize that any conclusions regarding the efficacy of mail should be based on a number of replicate tests. One-off tests might give a very misleading picture. To determine how much linen was required to prevent significant penetration by the 9.5  mm bodkin shot from the 64-lb bow, the number of layers was progressively increased until a series of ten shots was achieved with no penetrations ≥10 mm. This required 22 layers of linen under the mail, giving a total areal density of 17.6 kg·m-2 for the armor combination. The 22 layers were 15 mm thick under compression.

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Two layers of linen and ten of cotton wadding met the 1311 Ordonnances des Métiers de Paris specification for the cotton content of gambesons. When combined with mail it gave somewhat better protection against the bodkin than mail with eight layers of linen, despite being of slightly lower areal density. Only three out of ten shots penetrated ≥10 mm with the 72-pounder and 9.5 mm bodkin, compared with all ten for eight layers of linen. The 7.5  mm bodkin achieved more and deeper penetrations, with nine ≥10  mm and two ≥40  mm. The one shot with the 7.5 mm bodkin that failed to penetrate bounced back from the mail. The tip was curled, indicating that it had struck the flattened portion of a ring rather than the space between rings. The results of ten shots with the Type 5 head against mail, two layers of linen and ten of cotton wadding were identical with those for mail with eight layers of linen: three penetrations all exceeding 40 mm and one exceeding 60 mm. This was a consistent pattern of results for the Type 5 head: either it penetrated deeply, exceeding 40 mm, or not at all. The number of layers of linen was increased until a series of ten shots with no penetrations ≥10 mm was achieved with the 9.5 mm bodkin (i.e. passing the Blue criterion). This required eleven layers of linen in addition to the ten of cotton wadding, arranged in alternating layers, giving a swatch that was 15  mm thick under compression and 30 mm thick where not compressed by stitches. With the 64-pounder there were no instances of the final layer of linen being penetrated, but with the 72-pounder there were seven penetrations, all less than 10  mm. Although the combination of mail with eleven layers of linen and ten of cotton wadding passed the Blue criterion with the 9.5 mm bodkin, it failed against the 7.5 mm bodkin, with six out of ten shots ≥10 mm and two ≥20 mm penetration. In addition to the results shown in Table 5, six shots were made with the 9.5 mm bodkin and the 64-pounder at mail over two layers of soling leather. The areal density of this combination was 20.5 kg·m-2. Five out of the six shots exceeded 9 mm penetration. Since the protection was less than that given by mail with 22 layers of linen at 17.6 kg·m-2, tests with leather were discontinued.

Figure 6.8  Mail Rings Damaged by Arrows

3.5 3.4

3.2

6.3

3.0

8 linen 8 cotton canvas

4 woollen felt

1 soling leather

10 cotton wadding+ 2 linen 10 cotton wadding+ 11 linen 10 cotton wadding+ 11 linen 10 cotton wadding+ 11 linen Type 1

Arrowhead Bodkin 9.5 mm (Fig. 5) Type 5 (Fig. 6) Type 1 (Fig. 7) Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 9.5 mm Type 5 Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 9.5 mm Type 5 6

6

10

110.2

42.5

4.9

67.2

64.7

6 6

94.8

104.2 81.7

69.7

Mean 139.3 139.0 143.75 76.8

6

6 7

6

Number of shots 6 6 4 6

116

50

14

70

70

105

110 90

72

Max. 143 144 149 79

64

50

91

100 74

66

Min. 136 133 140 73

104

0 (4 out of 10 shots) 33

Penetration (mm)

Table 6.4  Penetration of Arrows Shot from 64-lb Yew Bow against Materials without Mail

7.0

7.0

7.0

3.5

8 linen

Test Materials None None None 7 linen

Total Areal Density (kg·m-2) 0 0 0 3.1

4.5

5.3

4.8

2.5

7.0

5.2

3.5 5.6

2.3

Standard Deviation mm 2.5 3.7 3.4 2.0

2 linen+ 10 cotton wadding 2 linen+ 10 cotton wadding 2 linen+ 10 cotton wadding 11 linen + 10 cotton wadding 11 linen + 10 cotton wadding 11 linen + 10 cotton wadding

8 linen 22 linen

8 linen 8 linen

2 linen 8 linen

Armor: Mail + 2 linen

72

72

72

72

64

11.0

11.0

15.0

15.0

15.0

Bodkin 9.5 mm

Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 7.5 mm

Type 5

Arrow Bodkin 9.5 mm Type 5 Bodkin 9.5 mm Type 5 Bodkin 9.5 mm Type 5 Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 9.5 mm Bodkin 7.5 mm

0

6

7

3

9

4

3

1

10

3

10

9

10

>0

0

6

0

3

9

3

0

0

10

3

10

9

10

≥10

0

2

0

3

8

3

0

0

10

3

7

9

10

≥20

0

0

0

3

2

0

0

0

2

3

0

9

10

≥40

0

0

0

1

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

9

4

≥60

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

4

3

≥80

Number of shots (out of ten) achieving penetration (mm) of:

Table 6.5  Results of Ten Shots for each Mail, Padding and Arrowhead Combination

72

64

17.6

11.0

64

64

11.5

11.5

72

72

11.5

11.5

72

72

8.8

8.8

Bow (lb)

Total Areal Density (kg·m-2)

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

2

0

≥100



Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding

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Discussion The following discussion and conclusions refer to mail of the ring diameter and gauge that was used in this study and to arrows shot at close range from bows of about 70 lb draw-weight. It is possible to make both stronger bows and stronger mail, but that would be the subject of another study. Mail alone, without sufficient padding, gave wholly inadequate protection against arrows. With both the bodkin and the Type 5 head, mail over two layers of linen was penetrated to a potentially lethal depth at almost every shot. The bodkin head was capable of reaching lethal depths of penetration without breaking a ring, and the Type 5 head was capable of cutting through both solid and riveted rings. Thus, this finding would remain valid even if it were possible to make a perfect riveted joint with no loss of strength. The gambeson alone, without mail, gave some protection against arrows of the bodkin type, but was completely defeated by sharp-edged arrowheads of Type 5 and especially Type 1. Only a combination of mail and padding gave comprehensive protection against arrows of different types. The probability of deep penetration (≥40  mm) was much reduced but not eliminated by the use of about 3  kg·m-2 of padding materials under the mail, either linen or linen combined with cotton wadding. In my subjective opinion this is about the most that could be worn on the limbs and any other areas requiring flexibility, such as the neck and lower part of the face under the voussoir. It is therefore likely that the arms and legs would remain vulnerable, but that the probability and severity of wounds would be reduced by the mail and gambeson or aketon. For the 9.5 mm bodkin, to prevent any penetration exceeding 9 mm would require about 10 kg·m2 of linen or 7 kg·m2 of linen with cotton wadding in addition to the mail. These layers would be bulky, a minimum of 15 mm and perhaps 30 mm thick where not compressed by stitches. This might make a garment that was pleasantly warm in severely cold weather but intolerable in hot weather or during hard physical exercise. The total areal density of the mail and padded garment would be about 15 to 18  kg·m-2; this is comparable with 2  mm thick steel plate (15.7 kg·m-2). If it assumed that 0.7 m2 of the torso were covered with mail and padding at 15 kg·m-2 and a further 1  m2 of the limbs at 11.5 kg·m-2 then the total weight of mail and padding would be 22 kg. With the slender 7.5 mm bodkin, the combination of mail over eleven layers of linen and ten of cotton wadding failed the Blue criterion of no penetration ≥10  mm on six out of ten shots, but no shots reached 40  mm. Although this mail and aketon combination would not provide complete protection, it would reduce the width of any wound to a few millimeters and the depth to one or two centimeters or so. Comparison with the horrific wound inflicted on the unarmored and unfortunate Simon of Skeftington shows that mail with aketon, while not guaranteeing complete protection, was well worth having. From the attacker’s point of view, archery might be worthwhile even if it rarely inflicted fatal wounds on men-at-arms. The mere threat would force

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opponents into donning armor whenever they were within bowshot, with consequent weight, thermal load and degradation of performance. Experiments have shown that walking and running in armour can double the energetic cost of locomotion. For subjects wearing reproduction plate armour based on fifteenth-century designs, the energetic cost of walking was 2.1–2.3 times higher and the cost of running was 1.9 times higher than when unloaded. The complete ensembles of armour, arming coat and helmet averaged 35  kg in weight.84 In the case of mail with thickly padded gambeson or aketon, insulation would hinder cooling by conduction and sweat evaporation, thus adding the risk of hyperthermia to exhaustion. King Richard I of England ignored the threat from a lone crossbowman during a minor siege, did not don armor and paid with his life.85 Any unarmored men and horses would be highly vulnerable. The finding of this study that arrows of 37 J kinetic energy might, in some circumstances, defeat mail is in stark contrast to the conclusion of Alan Williams, who wrote: An arrowhead, on the other hand, would only [sic] need to deliver 120 J to pierce the mail and the padding beneath. An archer would find this difficult, but an exceptional archer, or one armed with a crossbow, could defeat the mail.86

It is therefore appropriate to consider the experimental methods and results that led to that conclusion. Firstly, they were not based on shooting reproductions of medieval arrows at mail. They were based on dropping tests with penetrators. Details of the ring diameter and gauge of the mail are not given. The padding under the mail was woven linen, of 9.1  kg·m-2 total areal density87. No explanation is given as to why this quantity of linen was selected. No illustrations of the penetrators are provided, but there is reference to “a simulated bodkin arrowhead (18 degree point).”88 Since only one angle is given, this might imply that it was a simple conical point. Tests with real arrows show that even a 10 degree conical point is a very poor penetrator of linen.89 An 18 degree point is a blunt instrument and cannot be considered to simulate a bodkin arrowhead of the thirteenth or earlier centuries. For comparison, the medieval bodkin shown in Figure 6.2 has a mean taper of 5 degrees over the length of the blade. Williams needed a lot of kinetic energy to pierce both mail and padding,

84

85 86 87 88 89

Graham N. Askew, Frederico Formenti and Alberto E. Minetti, “Limitations Imposed by Wearing Armour on Medieval Soldiers’ Locomotor Performance,” Proceedings of the Royal Society B 279 (2011), 640–44. Frank McLynn, Lionheart and Lackland: King Richard, King John and the Wars of Conquest (London, 2007), p. 274. Williams, The Knight and the Blast Furnace, p. 946. Williams, The Knight and the Blast Furnace, Appendix 9, p. 943. Williams, The Knight and the Blast Furnace, Appendix 8, p. 942. Jones, “Arrows Against Linen and Leather Armour,” p. 79.



Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding

171

but that does not imply that the same energy would be needed for an arrow that was designed for the job. On the evidence of thirteenth-century illustrations, mail armor was not expected to confer invulnerability to arrow shot. The Maciejowski Bible of circa 1250, for example, shows figures wearing mail pierced by arrows. One figure (representing Saul being stripped of his armor) appears to be wearing a simple tunic under the mail, rather than thick padding.90 Conclusions Mail without a padded gambeson or aketon does not give adequate protection against arrows shot at close range from a bow of moderate strength. Penetration to a potentially lethal depth would be expected at almost every shot. This conclusion is not contingent on there being any weakness in the riveted joints. In the absence of mail, a thickly padded gambeson would give some protection against arrows of the long bodkin type, but would be completely defeated by broader-bladed arrows with sharp cutting edges. Only a combination of mail and padded garment would give comprehensive protection against arrows of different types. Of the material swatches that were tested, the most effective was woven linen with cotton wadding arranged in alternating layers. This experimental result accords well with medieval descriptions of aketons and gambesons made of folds of linen stuffed with cotton. Mail in combination with a garment meeting the 1311 Paris specification for weight of cotton in gambesons would greatly reduce, but not eliminate, the risk of fatal injury from arrows. There is wide variance in results for apparently identical shots against mail and padded undergarment, especially with the Type 5 arrowhead. One shot might bounce off, and the next reach a potentially lethal depth of penetration. Any conclusions regarding the protection given by mail should therefore be based on a number of replicate tests. The degree of protection given by mail over aketon is determined very largely by the thickness of the padding. If further progress is to be made in understanding how well the ensemble protected against arrows (or any other medieval weapon) then further research is needed to quantify this thickness in an objective manner. One approach might be to conduct physiological trials with subjects wearing mail and aketon or gambeson, under different climatic conditions and during different activities, to determine the maximum tolerable thickness for the torso and limbs.

90

Morgan Library MS M.638, fo. 35r, visible at: https://www.themorgan.org/collection/crusaderbible/69.

Figure 7.1  Detail from the Breviarium Bartholomei, Pembroke College, Oxford, MS 2, fo. 297, reproduced by permission of the Master and Fellows of Pembroke College.

7 Four Misunderstood Gunpowder Recipes of the Fourteenth Century* Clifford J. Rogers

There are only a few known gunpowder recipes securely datable to fourteenth-century Europe. All of them have been published, but most of the texts have been misread, misprinted, or misunderstood. This article offers a corrected transcription and translation of the group of three recipes in the Breviarium Bartholomei of John of Mirfield (c.1380–95), and sets it in the context of other late-fourteenth to early-fifteenth century recipes. Few technological innovations have been as momentous as the development of gunpowder. Gunpowder was the first major harnessing of chemical energy by humans since the mastery of fire, and the development of gunpowder artillery has been commonly used since the eighteenth century as the original and archetypical example of a “military revolution.”1 Whether cannon actually did “revolutionize” warfare is a debated subject, but most of those who argue that it did do so date the Artillery Revolution to some time in the first half of the fifteenth century.2 By then, however, gunpowder artillery had been in use for around a century. Our sources allow us a reasonably good understanding of the development of guns during the fifteenth century, but our information about the

* 1 2

My thanks to Trevor Russell Smith and Kelly DeVries for reading a draft of this article and providing helpful suggestions. Clifford J. Rogers, “The Idea of Military Revolutions in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Texts,” Revista de História das Ideias 30 (2009), 395–415. Clifford J. Rogers, “The Military Revolutions of the Hundred Years’ War,” The Journal of Military History, 57 (1993), 241–78, reprinted with revisions in C. J. Rogers, ed. The Military Revolution Debate (Boulder, 1995); Clifford J. Rogers, “The Artillery and Artillery Fortress Revolutions Revisited,” in Nicolas Prouteau, Emmanuel de Crouy-Chanel and Nicolas Faucherre, eds., Artillerie et Fortification, 1200–1600 (Rennes, 2011), 75–80. See also Alain Salamagne, “L’attaque des places-fortes au XVe siècle à travers l’exemple des guerres angloet franco-bourguignonnes,” Revue historique 289 (1993), pp.  92–95. For arguments that the development of gunpowder artillery did not involve a “revolution,” see Kelly DeVries, “The Impact of Gunpowder Weaponry on Siege Warfare in the Hundred Years War,” in Ivy Corfis and Michael Wolfe, eds., The Medieval City under Siege (Woodbridge, 1995), and idem, “Catapults are not Atomic Bombs: Towards a Redefinition of ‘Effectiveness’ in Premodern Military Technology,” War in History 4 (1997), pp. 469–70.

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fourteenth century (especially in the first fifty years, from c.1326 to c.1375) is relatively thin.3 The same is true of the development of gunpowder.4 All gunpowder includes a mix of saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal. Nineteenth-century gunpowder was typically mixed with ratios of around 75:10:15 (in that order), i.e. with a saltpeter:sulfur ratio of 7.5:1 and a saltpeter content of 75%.5 Several early fifteenth-century recipes come fairly close to that mix, though some have significantly more sulfur content. A recipe from Montauban of the turn of the fifteenth century calls for 22:4:5 (71%/13%/16%).6 One of the two Frankfurter Büchsenmeisterblätter recipes (c.1400) gives a ratio 5:1:1 (71%/14%/14%).7 The 1405 manuscript of Bellifortis includes a 4:1:0.5 (73%/18%/9%) mix; the Büchsenmeisterbuch (composed at an uncertain date before 1411, probably around 1400) recommends the same mixture with small additions of salarmoniac (ammonium chloride) and salpracticum (a mix of saltpeter and salarmoniac), or 3.5:1:0.5 (70%/20%/10%) without those extra ingredients.8 Abundant evidence shows 3

4

5

6

7

8

Clifford J. Rogers, “Gunpowder Artillery in Europe, 1326–1500: Innovation and Impact,” in Robert S. Ehlers, Jr.; Sarah K. Douglas; and Daniel P. M. Curzon, eds., Technology, Violence and War. Essays in Honor of John F. Guilmartin, Jr. (Leiden, 2019), pp. 39–71; Robert Douglas Smith and Kelly DeVries, The Artillery of the Dukes of Burgundy, 1363–1477 (Woodbridge, 2005); Bert S. Hall, Weapons and Warfare in Renaissance Europe (Baltimore, 1997). For the history of gunpowder in general, J. R. Partington’s A History of Greek Fire and Gunpowder (1960, new edn. Baltimore, 1999) remains very useful, but should be supplemented with Robert Douglas Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder (Nykøbing Falster, 2010); Hall, Weapons and Warfare; and Barbara J. Buchanan, Gunpowder: The History of an International Technology (Bath, 1996). Partington, History, pp. 326–27. In recent decades some scholars (led by Gerhard Kramer) have argued that early European gunpowder was not made with actual saltpeter, potassium nitrate (KNO3), but rather with calcium nitrates. That idea was mistaken. See Wilfried Tittmann, Ferdinand Nibler and Wolfgang John, “Salpeter und Salpetergewinnung im Übergang vom Mittelalter zur Neuzeit,” online resource published 2011; revised version 15 October 2017; online at: http://www.ruhr-uni-bochum.de/technikhist/tittmann/4%20Salpeter.pdf, Accessed 21 June 2019; Geoff Smith, “Saltpetre in Medieval Gunpowder; Calcium or Potassium Nitrate,” Journal of the Arms and Armour Society: prepublication version published online at https://www.academia. edu/10603252/Calcium_Gunpowder; accessed 11/21/19; idem, “Medieval Gunpowder Chemistry: A Commentary on the Firework Book,” Icon 21 (2015), 147–66. M. Devals, “Document du XVe siècle sur la fabrication de poudre à canon,” Bulletin des comités historiques: Histoire, sciences, lettres 2 (1850), p. 222. Devals concludes, by its handwriting and its position in the register immediately after an act of 1397, that it “evidently belongs to the first years of the fifteenth century.” Its proportions are similar to the delivery of ingredients to Henry IV’s army in Wales in 1405: 2,000 pounds of saltpeter, 400 of sulfur, and one quarter (8 bushels) of charcoal. TNA, PSO 1/2, no. 76; my thanks to Trevor Russell Smith for drawing my attention to the document and to Paul Dryburgh for a photograph. The other is 4:1:1 (67%/17%/17%). Bernard Rathgen, Das Geschütz im Mittelalter (Berlin, 1928), pp. 109–10; Wilhelm Hassenstein, Das Feuerwerkbuch von 1420. 600 Jahre Deutsche Pulverwaffen und Büchsenmeisterei (Munich, 1941), pp.  114–15; Volker Schmidtchen, Bombarden, Befestigungen, Büchsenmeister (Düsseldorf, 1977), p. 116. Conrad Kyeser, Conrad Kyeser aus Eichstätt Bellifortis, ed. Götz Quarg, 2 vols. (Düsseldorf, 1967), 2:76; Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Handschrift Sammlung, MS CPV 3069 (dated 1411), fos. 2, 4. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, MS CGM 600 (here fos. 1v, 3), has



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a shift towards – or back towards – somewhat lower saltpeter content in later fifteenth-century recipes, including those edited by Trevor Russell Smith in the following article in this volume of the Journal of Medieval Military History.9 Those Middle English recipes have saltpeter contents of 52.5% (or 57.1%, not including added camphor and red amber), 62.5%, and 66.7%. This matches the earliest dated copies of the Feuerwerkbuch (1429 and 1432), which call for 57.1%, 62.5%, and 66.7% saltpeter for common, better, and still-better powder.10 The reduced saltpeter content may have been a change meant to reduce the risk of bursting guns. That risk had been elevated by the introduction of wet-mixing (by 1411), which made gunpowder substantially more powerful.11

9 10

11

the same text as 3069; it used to be generally believed to be older than the Vienna manuscript and was not uncommonly dated to the fourteenth century. There was, however, no clear reason for that and, on the contrary, the combination of watermark evidence and the Bastarda hand employed indicates it was written after 1405. Bert S. Hall, The Technological Illustrations of the So-called “Anonymous of the Hussite Wars.” Codex Latinus Monacensis 197, Part 1 (Wiesbaden, 1979), p. 21, 21n; Karin Schneider and Erich Petzet, Die deutschen Handscriften der Bayerischen Staatsbibliothek München (Wiesbaden, 1978), p. 227. CPV 3069 is unlikely to be a copy of CGM 600; one hint in that direction is that the drawing of a springald on fo. 22v of CPV 3069 seems to reflect a better understanding of the mechanism than the corresponding drawing in CMG 600 fo. 18v, at the hooks or nuts holding back the string. Other cases in which the artist of CGM 600 seems to show somewhat less understanding than the artist of 3069 (aside from lesser artistic skill) include 3069 9v vs. 600 5v [wedge shapes]; 21v vs. 13v [caltrops]; and possibly 21r vs. 21r [inclusion of winch or pulley wheel]. More generally, as Leng says, “Dass jedoch die sehr groben Zeichnungen des cgm 600 den oftmals präziseren des Cod. 3069 zugrunde liegen, is unwahrscheinlich.” Ranier Leng, ed. Anleitung Schieβpulver zu bereiten, Büchsen zu laden und zu beschieβen (Wiesbaden, 2000), p. 23. On the other hand, there are four folios of 3069 (3r, 3v, 5r, 5v) not included in 600, and the scribe of 3069 noted that his book was a copy of another book. The very short barrels of the guns in both manuscripts – shorter than in the 1405 manuscript of Bellifortis – also suggest a date of composition earlier than 1405. We can therefore conclude that both manuscripts are copies of a work originally composed no later than 1405. Leng concludes that the clothing styles shown in CGM600 suggest a date shortly before 1400. Leng, Anleitung, pp. 23–24. I do not consider the evidence of clothing sufficiently precise for that dating, so I would simply date the composition of the original Buchsenmeisterbüch as c.1400. In any case, note that the Büchsenmeisterbuch recipes have often been misread (even by Leng, the editor of CGM 600 and the leading authority on these manuscripts); the horizontal stroke through a j makes it ½ instead of 1. Hence the first recipe calls for ½ pound of charcoal (not 1) and the second for 3 ½ pounds of saltpeter (not 4). See Adriano Cappelli, Dizionario di abbreviature Latine ed Italiane (Milan, 1929, repr. 1990), p. 415 (under: dimidium; 1 ½; 2 ½); Leng, Anleitung, pp. 73, 79, 40. Trevor Russell Smith, “The Earliest Middle English Recipes for Gunpowder,” infra, pp. 183–92. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek: MS CGM 4902, fo. 9v; Hassenstein, Feuerwerkbuch, p. 61; Gerhard W. Kramer, ed., The Fireworkbook: Gunpowder in Medieval Germany, tr. Klaus Leibnitz (London, 2001), pp. 35–36. The various manuscripts of the Feuerwerkbuch (text composed probably between 1411 and 1429) show a clear understanding that – at least up to a point – higher saltpeter content made the powder stronger. This is clear in the incomplete manuscript dated 1429 and all subsequent ones. See MS CGM 4902, fo. 9v; Hassenstein, Feuerwerkbuch, p. 61; Kramer, Fireworkbook, pp. 35–36. In a passage not found in most Feuerwerkbücher, the Royal Armouries manuscript (MS I-34, fos. xxxvii – xxxvii r.) says that increasing saltpeter past a ratio of 6.5:2:1 “would not be good.” See also Rogers, “Military Revolutions,” p. 73.

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In contrast to the numerous fifteenth-century manuscripts that provide instructions for manufacturing gunpowder, fourteenth-century texts are quite rare. In fact, not counting the recipes for “flying fire” or “the crack” that predate the earliest evidence for guns in Europe (and so should not be considered recipes for gunpowder proper)12 there are only a half-dozen complete recipes datable with any confidence to the fourteenth century.13 Of those few, moreover, only two have so far been correctly printed and interpreted, and one of those two may not actually have been used for medieval cannon: the recipe recorded by the medical writer John Arderne in England in c.1360–77. It is stated to be “useful for throwing pellets of iron, lead or brass with an instrument called a gonne.” It is, however, titled “fewe volant” and its core content, like its title, is in fact a wordfor-word translation of “Marcus Graecus”’ c.1300 recipe for flying fire.14 Its 6:1 saltpeter:sulfur ratio is significantly out of line with only two known earlier recipes certainly meant for use in guns (1336 and 1338–c.1350[?]), which called for mixes of 2:1:1 and 2:1:2, respectively,15 and also with all recorded stocks or purchases of ingredients for making cannon powder up to that time.16 All such documents, like the earliest recipes, reflect much lower proportions of saltpeter relative to sulfur: for example, 2:1 in 1338; 1.05:1 in 1343; 1.5:1 in 12

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Partington, History, pp. 48–49 (Marcus Graecus); Sir Francis Palgrave, Truths and Fictions of the Middle Ages. The Merchant and the Friar (London, 1837), pp.  xxx–xxxiv; Report of the Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts, Issue 12, Part 9 (London, 1891), pp. 121–22. Palgrave says the handwriting belongs to the period around 1307, but the text probably is from closer to 1327, when (according to Barbour’s The Bruce) the English first used “crakkis” of war in Scotland. Partington, History, p. 324, lists a 4:1:1 recipe from 1350, but his endnote shows that this is a reference to CGM 600, a manuscript that is actually from the fifteenth century, copying a lost original that may or may not have dated to the fourteenth century (see above, note 9), and also lists the same composition at Rothenburg in 1377 (which is discussed immediately below in this article) and from Nürnberg in 1382. However, the 1382 reference is actually to purchase records rather than a recipe, is actually a 6:1 purchase ratio (not 4:1 as shown in Partington, p. 324) and, even as an implied recipe, it is incomplete, not including the charcoal. Bernhard Rathgen, Pulver und Salpeter vor 1450 – Schiesspulver, Kunstsalpeter, Pulvermühlen im frühen Mittelalter (Munich, 1926), pp. 14, 18. This has been published many times, but apparently always copying the initial printing of the text, since the first word is always given as “pernez” rather than the more likely “prenez.” The earliest version I have found is in Albert Way, ed., Promptorium parvulorum sive clericorum, lexicon Anglo-Latinum princeps, auctore fratre Galfrio Grammatico dicto (London, 1843), p. 220n. For the comparison to Marcus Graecus, see Partington, History, pp. 48–49, 323. The earliest recipe (1336), from Friuli, was brought to my attention by Fabrizio Ansani while this article was in copyediting stage, too late to address it properly here. I therefore plan to address it, along with the German recipe in Munich, BSB, MS Clm 4350, fo. 31v and another little-known Italian text, in a future note. Early-artillery expert Kay Smith, a leading participant in the Medieval Gunpowder Research Group (aka the Ho Group) and author (as Robert Douglas Smith) of Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, also believes that a saltpeter:sulfur ratio of approximately 3:1 was the norm “from earliest times till the later fifteenth century”: Kay Smith, “The Development of Guns and Gunpowder in Medieval Europe,” in The Rise of the Gun, special edition of Medieval Warfare (2019), p. 22 (and see also p. 16); note Smith is giving the ratio in the order saltpeter:charcoal:sulfur rather than saltpeter:sulfur:charcoal.



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1345; 2.5:1 in 1360; and 2.75:1 in England in 1373–75.17 The same goes for most purchases in the following six decades, though there are occasional indications of ratios around 6:1.18 An incomplete Occitan recipe from 1388 also calls for a saltpeter:sulfur ratio similar to the last-two mentioned purchase records, at 2.67:1.19 Thus, it remains unclear whether Arderne’s recipe – which is really “Marcus Graecus’s” recipe – was actually used in cannon or not. By contrast, the next known recipe, from the archives of Rothenburg ob der Tauber and apparently dating to the 1370s or 1380s, was clearly the work of someone who was familiar with the actual use of guns, and was probably an actual Büchsenmeister (master gunner). It has been printed several times, but never correctly interpreted. Usually it is described as calling for a 4:1:1 (66.7%/16.7%/16.7%) mix.20 However, it actually calls for a mix of 16:1:4 (76.2%/4.8%/19.0%): Take one pound of that same [purified]21 saltpeter and take a quarter-pound of willow charcoal and take two Lot [= take one ounce] of sulfur and moisten it a bit and stamp it all together so finely that the sulfur can no longer be visibly distinguished, and then dry it.22 17

18 19

20

21

22

Napoléon III and I. Favé, Études sur le passé et l’avenir de l’artillerie, 6 vols. (Paris, 1846–71), 3:73; Alexandre Hermand, “Notice sur le château de Rihoult,” Mémoires de la société des antiquaires de la Morinie, 5 (1839–40), p. 277; L. Lacabane, “De la poudre à canon et de son introduction en France,” Bibliothèque de l’école des chartes, 2e sér., I (1844), p. 43; Favé, Études, 3:93; T. F. Tout, “Firearms in England in the Fourteenth Century,” English Historical Review 26 (1911), p. 694 (cxx iiij iiij lb. [printed sic; doubtless an error for c iiijxx iiij] pulueris pro gunnes prouenientis de c xxxv lb. salis petri et xlix lb. sulphuris viui.). I hope to publish a separate article on this subject in the future. It called for 400 pounds of saltpeter and 150 of sulfur (2.67:1), along with 12 pounds each of camphor and red arsenic and 40 pounds of mercury; the quantity of charcoal is not specified. Archives historiques du département de la Gironde, vol. 12 (Paris, 1870), pp. 279–80. Rathgen, Geschütz, pp. 102–03; Partington, History, 324 (table); Medieval Gunpowder Research Group, “The Ho Experiments. Report Number 1: The Firing Trials,” (Nykøbring Falster, 2002), 2; Klaus Leibnitz, “Büchsenmeisterei, das ist die Kunst, richtig Schiesspulver herzustellen...” Waffen und Kostümkunde 44 (2002), p. 142. Somehow Tom Gregorie Tullock read it as 58.2%/23.6%/18.2%: The Rise and Progress of the British Explosives Industry (London, 1909), p. 26. The recipe begins as follows: “One should take saltpeter and put it in an iron ladle and set it over a fire and bake it and heat it until it glows like an iron, being careful that no glowing charcoal gets mixed in. And throw in a scant quarter-pound of sulfur per pound of saltpeter and pour it into a basin.” As Partington notes, this was a purification step also recommended by Vannoccio Biringuccio and Georg Agricola in the sixteenth century: the sulfur would burn away along with certain impurities and crystalize the pure saltpeter, separating it from other minerals. It would not form a compound or mixture with the saltpeter, as Rathgen seems to have thought; the fourteenth-century author of the recipe was not writing imprecisely when he described the next step as starting with a pound of saltpeter rather than a pound of a sulfur-saltpeter mix. See Partington, History, pp.  324 and 315–16; compare Rathgen, Geschütz, pp.  102–05. Partington, however, seems to have thought there was an additional, different Rothenburg recipe of the same time that was a 4:1:1 ratio, which he lists in his table of compositions (p. 324). “Man...sol dez selben [purified] salpeterz ein phunt nemen und sol nemen ein vierdung eins phundez lindein kolen und sol nemen zwey lot schwefelz un sol daz ein wenig feu[c]hten und sol ez under einander stozzen alz klein daz man den swefel niht gesehen moge sunder. Und sol

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This is an extraordinarily high saltpeter:sulfur ratio even compared to the “Marcus Graecus” formula, and in that respect quite out of line with any other known composition from the Middle Ages (based on either recipes or purchases). Nonetheless, it would still have been very effective. In fact, extensive éprouvette testing at the French Royal Factory at Essone in 1756 demonstrated that when starting with a 16:4 saltpeter:charcoal ratio, this low proportion of sulfur is exactly the amount that proved more powerful than any other.23 The remaining three complete gunpowder recipes almost certainly from the fourteenth century are part of a set provided in a single text: the Breviarium Bartholomei, which was composed by the English medical writer and military surgeon John of Mirfield no earlier than 1380 and probably no later than 1395.24 [See Figure 1.] The chapter describing how to make “powder for that warlike – or rather devilish – instrument that is called in the vernacular a ‘gunne’” was published in 1936. While its rubric, with its reference to the diabolical character of the explosive, has often been commented on, no attention has been paid by historians of gunpowder to the actual recipes. The reason, presumably, is that these texts – as they have been edited and translated – could not be considered genuine recipes for gunpowder at all. Each of the three (as printed) calls for a saltpeter:sulfur:charcoal ratio of somewhere around 1:6:1. That would simply not work as an explosive propellant, because the proportion of saltpeter is far too low – 13%, whereas the practical minimum seems to be around 40%.25 Fortunately for those interested in the history of the development of gunpowder, however, Mirfield’s recipes are legitimate. The text is difficult due to its heavily abbreviated form, and the previous editors of this excerpt from the Breviarium Bartholomei made two simple mistakes that turned Mirfield’s text into nonsense. First, they mistook the abbreviation “vi” (for vivum; “live,”

23

24

25

ez danne derren und sol daz pulver denne tun in ein stein bühschen...” The further details of the loading show this was not a mere laboratory recipe. Dr. Kerler, “Anweisung zum Pulvermachen aus dem 14. Jahrhundert,” Anzeiger für Kunder der deutschen Vorzeit, neue Folge 13 (1866), p. 246. See also Gustav Köhler, Die Entwickelung des Kriegswesens und der Kriegführung in der Ritterzeit, 3 vols. in 5 (Breslau, 1886–87), vol. 3, pt. 1, pp. 254n. Even if (as Rathgen, Geschütz, pp. 102–05, implies) when the author says “dez selben salpeterz” he actually means a sulfur-saltpeter compound created in the previous step (which is unlikely because the hot saltpeter would probably burn away rather than mix with the sulfur), he is clearly saying to take one pound of that (which would be 4/5 saltpeter + 1/5 sulfur) then mix with 4 ounces charcoal and 1 ounce additional sulfur, which would make an 0.8:0.265:0.25 (61%/20%/19%) mix, not a 4:1:1 (66.7%/16.7%/16.7%) mix. A. Aikin and C. R. Aikin, A Dictionary of Chemistry and Mineralogy, vol. 1 (London, 1807), p. 545; the very most effective mix texted, which achieved a rating of 17 vs. the 15 of the 16:1:4 mix, was a quite similar composition of 16:1:3. This makes it practically certain that my reading of the text (discussed in the previous note) must be correct. Percival Horton-Smith Hartley and Harold Richard Aldridge, Johannes de Mirfield of St Bartholomew’s Smithfield. His Life and Works (Cambridge, 1936), pp.  25, 38. My thanks to Trevor Russell Smith for bringing this text to my attention. A 40%/30%/30% mix was at one time used for mining in France, but no medieval recipe after the earliest (40%/20%/40%: above, note 16) calls for much less than 50% saltpeter.



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a type of purified sulfur) for the Roman numeral “vj” (six). Second, they read “pond’” as meaning a pound’s weight (though that would normally have been “lb.,” libra), whereas it is actually for pondus, “weight.” Thus, for example, “acc’ sulfur vi. po[n]d’ x. d’.,” which actually meant “take live sulfur, weight 10 pennyweights” was translated as “take...six pounds and 10 pennyweights of sulfur” – 145 times more than intended.26 The texts and a more correct translation are as follows:27

26 27

Pulv[is] p[ro] i[n]strumento illo bellico sive diabolico q[uo]d vulgaliter d[icitu]r gu[n]ne. 12o.

Powder for the warlike – or rather devilish – instrument that in the vernacular is called a gunne. 12th [recipe.]

Acc[ipe] salpetr[e] pond[us] xx. d. redige in pul[verem] subtile[m]. It[em] acc[ipe] sulfur vi[vum] po[n]d[us] x. d. It[em] acc[ipe] salice[m] et co[m]bure et cu[m] b[e]n[e] fu[er]it ignita claude in olla v[e]l i[n] alio vase ne fum[u]s possit exire et i[bi] p[er]mittat[ur] usque fu[er]it exti[n]ct[us] ignis p[er] se. Accipe de ill[is] carbo[n]ib[us] po[n]d[us] xij. d. et fac inde pulv[er]e[m].Et misce ista tria p[re]d[i]c[t]a. Et tu[n]c h[ab]es pulv[er]e[m] [con]venie[n]te[m] ad h[oc] op[us] et ad multa alia.

Take saltpeter, weight 20 pennyweights; reduce into fine powder. Next take live sulfur, weight 10 pennyweights. Next take willow-wood and set it alight, and when it has well caught fire, close it in a pot or other container so that no smoke can escape, and allow it to burn there until it extinguishes itself. Of this charcoal, take the weight of 12 pennies and then make it into powder. And mix these three aforesaid [ingredients]. And then you have a powder suitable for that use and many others.

V[e]l sic s[ecundum] quosda[m] d[ebet] p[ro]porcionari. R[ecipe] sal[is] petr[e] pond[us] xvi. d. et ob[olus] sulfur[um] vi[vum] po[n]d[us] xiij. d. et ob[olus]. De carbonib[us] salic[is] v[e]l s[ar]mentor[um] vitis po[n]d[us] iiij. d. et ob[olus]. miscea[n]t[ur] et ut[er]e ad p[re]d[i]c[t]a.

Or according to some, the proportions for the recipe should be thus: saltpeter, 16 ½ pennyweights; live sulfur 13 ½ pennyweights. Of charcoal of willow or grapevine, 4 ½ pennyweights. Mix and use as said above.

Vel sic. Acc[ipe] sal[is] pet[re] pond[us] xix. d. et ob[olus] sulfur[um] vi[vum] pond[us] xj. d. et ob[olus] carbonu[m] salic[is] pond[us] vij. d. et ob[olus].

Or thus. Take 19 ½ pennyweights saltpeter, 11 ½ pennyweights live sulfur, and 7 ½ pennyweights willow charcoal.

There are 240 pennies to the pound, so 6 pounds plus 10 pennyweights is 1450 pennyweights. Edited from Pembroke College, Oxford, MS 2, fo. 297. My thanks to Laura Cracknell for her assistance with the manuscript, and to the Master and Fellows of Pembroke College for permission to reproduce the image accompanying this study (Figure 1). The three separate recipes, shown here in separate table cells, are in the manuscript separated by colored paragraph marks.

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That is: 47.6%/23.8%/28.6% of saltpeter/sulfur/charcoal for the first, 47.8%/ 39.1%/13% for the second; 50.6%/29.9%/19.5% for the third. As already noted, purchase records for gunpowder ingredients up to Mirfield’s time reflect saltpeter:sulfur ratios ranging from 1.05:1 to 2.75:1 – quite a bit lower than the 4:1 of several fifteenth-century recipes, much less the 6:1 ratio of Marcus Graecus’ “flying fire” (and Arderne’s powder). Mirfield’s recipes likewise call for low saltpeter:sulfur ratios of 2:1, 1.22:1, and 1.7:1. This is important, because it validates the idea that most of those purchases did represent intended recipes. That was already very likely for the purchases taken collectively, despite their low saltpeter ratio compared to modern gunpowder, since they are so consistent in that regard. In any individual case, however, there is the chance that a purchase was made to round out a stock already on hand. In particular, the purchase of 2 5/8 pounds saltpeter and 2 ½ pounds of sulfur (1.05:1) might be considered to be doubtful as an intended mix – despite the implication of the purchase record that it was just that – were it not for the comparable 1.22:1 Mirfield recipe.28 The comparison to the purchase records in turn enables us to be confident that Mirfield’s recipes are real, practical ones suitable for the guns of his time. Although the total proportions of saltpeter in the recipes are quite low (47.6%, 47.8%, and 50.6%), they are still reasonable amounts: not far from the 52.5% saltpeter in the fyne colofer powder in the fifteenth-century Middle English texts edited by Smith in the next article in this volume of the JMMH, or the 50% in a 1546 German recipe for powder for large guns.29 Limited testing at the Middelaldercentret in Denmark confirmed that powder mixes with just 41% or 50% saltpeter could work, though they produced significantly lower muzzle velocities than higher-saltpeter recipes.30 The other most important implication of the Mirfield recipes is that midfourteenth-century English gunners (or alchemists, or both) were very much engaged in careful and precise experimentation, seeking to maximize the effectiveness of their powders. It is difficult to imagine any other scenario that would have produced the variations between the three recipes, especially with the use of odd numbers in the proportions (rather than simpler ratios such as 4:1:1 in most German recipes), and most of all the refinement to half-pennyweight gradations. Using 16.5 rather than a round 16 pennyweights in the second recipe, for example, raises the proportion of saltpeter only 0.7%, from 47.1% to 47.8%. Such precision strongly implies careful incremental testing using the smallest practical steps.31 Lastly, these Mirfield recipes offer hints regarding both the extent and the 28 29 30 31

Hermand, “Notice,” p. 277. T. R. Smith, infra, p. 191; Partington, History, p. 325. Robert Smith, Rewriting, 63; Medieval Gunpowder Research Group, “Report Number 1: The Firing Trials,” pp. 5, 10–11. The 16.5/13.5/4.5 recipe does, admittedly, reduce to 11:9:3. But those numbers still imply a greater degree of tinkering than would, say, 12:9:3 [=4:3:1], and in any case the other Mirfield recipes do not reduce comparably.



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limits of the international exchange of ideas about gunpowder during the Late Middle Ages. On the one hand, they show no sign of relationships with the German recipes belonging to the Büchenmesiterbuch-Feuerwerkbuch family, which all without exception have higher-to-much-higher saltpeter:sulfur ratios, and more regular proportions. (The later English recipes edited by T. R. Smith, by contrast, are close to the fifteenth-century German texts, as he notes.) On the other hand, the second Mirfield recipe almost certainly is connected somehow to Conrad Kyeser’s 1405 Bellifortis, which includes a recipe for “ignis tonitrus” that, like it, starts with 16.5 pennyweights of saltpeter, and like it mentions grapevine charcoal as a suitable alternative for the far more commonly specified willow charcoal. Kyeser’s recipes were also known far afield from his native Germany; this one, for example, was copied in Spain in the early fifteenth century.32 There is no way to know whether Mirfield’s recipe was influenced by earlier experimentation in Germany, or Kyeser drew on the work of gunners in England – but either way we have a striking exemplification of the transnational transfer of information about military technology at the turn of the fifteenth century. Despite the sharing and diffusion of knowledge that was clearly widespread, the evidence strongly suggests that there continued to be a remarkable level of independent experimentation into the early fifteenth century, leading to continued wide variation in practice. This can be discerned by considering another set of three recipes that may be contemporaneous with Mirfield’s, though my best guess would be that they are from the first years of the fifteenth century. These are given as a set, under the header “Pulveres pixidum,” after a Marcus Graecus text in a Hausbuch in the collection of the Germanisches Nationalmuseum.33 This set gives a ratio of 2:1:1 (50%/25%/25%) for “common 32

33

S. J. von Romocki, Geschichte der Sprengstoffe, vol. 1 (Hannover, 1895), p. 152; Serafín Maria de Soto Y Abbach, conde de Clonard, História orgánica de las armas de infantería y caballería españoles, vol. 1 (Madrid, 1859), p. 92n (not identified as from Bellifortis). Nürnberg, Germanischen Nationalmuseum, Handschrift 3227a, fo. 6r, in a Hausbuch compilation that is usually said to have been compiled by Hans or Hanko Döbringer starting around 1389, since it includes a 105-year liturgical calendar that begins in 1389/90 (fo. 83v). The manuscript folio can be viewed online at http://dlib.gnm.de/item/Hs3227a/17/jpg/2000; the text has recently been edited and commented on in Trude Ehlert and Ranier Leng, “Frühe Koch- und Pulverrezepte au der Nürnberger Handschrift GNM 3777a (um 1389),” in Dominik Groβ and Monika Reiniger, eds., Medizin in Geschichte, Philologie und Ethnologie. Festschrift für Gundolf Keil (Würzburg, 2003), pp.  305, 308. Ehlert and Leng concur with Lotte Kurras’ dating of the manuscript as “um 1389.” (ibid., p. 292.) The calendar does strongly imply that that part of the manuscript is from no earlier than 1389. However, it could well be from later: knowing dates of Easter, etc., can be useful for looking back at records as well as for planning forward. Moreover, even if compilation of the collection did begin before 1389, the gunpowder recipes could be significantly later. It is difficult to date handwriting with any precision, but the Bastarda script at fo. 6r. appears to me to date to the fifteenth century, and to have been inserted at a later time on a blank page between two sections. (Note that this folio does not have the same triangular paragraph markers in the left margin as the prior and subsequent sections.) The early cataloger who added a title to the manuscript before fo. 1 dated it, probably by the handwriting, as “um 1400.” The tabular style of the manuscript’s calendar first comes into use

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powder”; 4:1:1 (66.7%/16.7%/16.7%) for more powerful powder; and 9:5:2 (56.3%/31.3%/13.5%) for a third (uncharacterized) powder. These put the Hausbuch recipes in the tradition of the Buchsenmeisterblätter and Feuerwerkbucher, which produced greater standardization around more simply-proportioned mixes starting around 1405–10, especially on the Continent.

in the fifteenth century. (Ehlert and Leng, “Frühe Koch- und Pulverrezepte,” p. 291.) Finally, it may be taken into consideration that the 4:1:1 ratio in the second of these recipes is also found in Kyeser’s Bellifortis, which is securely dated to the early fifteenth rather than the fourteenth century, and which also shares with these texts the terminology “pulvis [sic] pyxidum.” The same terminology (“pixidi pulveres”) is used in an English supply document of 1405, which suggests a formulation of 5:1 saltpeter:sulfur. TNA, PSO 1/2, no. 76. In other words, the higher ratios of saltpeter and the reference to “pixidi” are characteristic of the early fifteenth rather than the late fourteenth century.

8 The Earliest Middle English Recipes for Gunpowder* Trevor Russell Smith

This article offers a study and edition of a collection of Middle English recipes for gunpowder from the early fifteenth century in London, Society of Antiquaries, MS 101. These are entirely unknown outside of their descriptions in a few works listing the texts in the manuscript and studies of the manuscript itself. These four distinct recipes are the earliest in Middle English and also include the earliest mention of gunpowder corning in England (the earliest in Europe is from Germany in 1411), which made the resulting product more reliable (especially against spoilage) and more powerful. It is difficult to have a solid understanding of the early development of gunpowder and gunpowder weaponry in medieval Europe due to poor evidence. It probably first travelled from China via Arabic sources in Spain or Byzantium.1 According to written evidence, the earliest certain mention of gunpowder weapons in Europe was probably in 1327.2 The earliest visual evidence are two similar illuminations from 1326–27 in English manuscripts.3 However, the earliest surviving examples of gunpowder weapons themselves are from the late fourteenth century, as most *

1

2

3

I owe thanks to Axel Müller for his generous advice, comments, and for the material that he shared with me while I prepared this article. This work was supported by a Postdoctoral Fellowship in the Arts and Humanities Research Institute, University of Leeds. Joseph Needham, “Military Technology: The Gunpowder Epic,” in Science and Civilisation in China, ed. Joseph Needham, 7 vols. (Cambridge, England, 1954–2004), 5/7:568–79; Robert Douglas Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder (Nykøbing Falster, 2010), pp. 88–90. Angelo Angelucci, Delle artiglierie da fuoco italiane: Memorie storiche con documenti inediti (Torino, 1862), pp.  16–17 n. 2. However, the “espignols” mentioned in a poem written shortly after the 1324 siege of Metz have also been interpreted as a type of small cannon: La Guerre de Metz en 1324, poème du xive siècle, ed. Ernest de Bouteiller (Paris, 1875), pp. 144, 162, 164, 170, 200. See also R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, pp. 90, 92; Kelly DeVries and Robert Douglas Smith, Medieval Military Technology, 2nd ed. (Toronto, 2012), p. 138. Oxford, Christ Church, MS 92, fol. 70v; London, British Library, MS Add. 47680, fol. 44v. See also Pamela Porter, “The Ways of War in Medieval Manuscript Illumination: Tracing and Assessing the Evidence,” in Armies, Chivalry and Warfare in Medieval Britain and France: Proceedings of the 1995 Harlaxton Symposium, ed. Matthew Strickland (Stamford, 1998), pp. 100–14 (here 112–14); Kelly DeVries, “A Reassessment of the Gun Illustrated in the Walter de Milemete and Pseudo-Aristotle Manuscripts,” Journal of the Ordnance Society 15 (2003), 5–17. No further images are found until the fifteenth century: R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, p. 93.

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early gunpowder weapons were melted down for reuse after they became obsolete.4 In this article I offer a discussion and edition of a mostly unknown collection of Middle English recipes for gunpowder from the first half of the fifteenth century. Despite the clear evidence for gunpowder weapons, we have only vague ideas of the composition of gunpowder in England prior to 1376. The English Franciscan Roger Bacon (c.1214–92) discussed what appears to be gunpowder in several of his works.5 In his De secretis operibus artis et naturae et de nullitate magiae (c.1258–65) he gives a partial recipe for gunpowder, but where one would expect the ingredients and their measures there are instead a series of letters that do not form words.6 Scholars have variously interpreted these to form a cipher listing the ingredients. These interpretations, however, are not entirely convincing, especially since the letters vary amongst the manuscripts and may simply be indecipherable nonsense masquerading as secret wisdom, even if Bacon did actually know the formula for gunpowder at this time.7 Later, in his Opus tertium (1266–68), Bacon describes gunpowder, but only lists the ingredients and does not specify their proportions or any other steps in its composition.8 He elsewhere describes how gunpowder could frighten people by its loud noise or bright flash, as a novelty, but not as a military weapon. The Liber ignium ad comburendos hostes (c.1300), sometimes ascribed to Marcus Graecus, but actually a compilation of several writers who were probably Spanish and drew on Arabic writings, offers a variety of recipes for incendiary devices, with three in particular that are similar to gunpowder.9 These are made up of the three main components of early gunpowder: saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal.10 However, they are described as being used more as fireworks than in any military sense, in a fashion similar to Bacon’s. These recipes are 4

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7 8 9

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Robert Douglas Smith, “Artillery and the Hundred Years War: Myth and Interpretation,” in Arms, Armies and Fortifications in the Hundred Years War, ed. Anne Curry and Michael Hughes (Woodbridge, 1994), pp. 151–60 (here 159 n. 27). James R. Partington, A History of Greek Fire and Gunpowder (Cambridge, England, 1960), pp. 64–81; Henry W. L. Hime, “Roger Bacon and Gunpowder,” in Roger Bacon: Essays on the Occasion of the Commemoration of the Seventh Centenary of his Birth, ed. Andrew G. Little (Oxford, 1914), pp. 321–35; Lynn Thorndike, “Roger Bacon and Gunpowder,” Science 42 (1915), 799–800. Roger Bacon, “Epistola de secretis operibus artis et naturae, et de nullitate magiae,” in Opera quaedam hactenus inedita, ed. John S. Brewer, Rolls Series 15 (London, 1859), pp. 523–51 (here ch. 11, pp. 550–51). On shorthand and hiding knowledge in such formulae see Eric J. Holmyard, Alchemy (Harmondsworth, 1957), pp. 153–64. Roger Bacon, Part of the “Opus tertium,” Including a Fragment Now Printed for the First Time, ed. Andrew G. Little, British Society of Franciscan Studies 4 (Aberdeen, 1912), p. 51. Not properly edited. See also Partington, History of Greek Fire, pp.  42–63 (relevant sections edited here, and §13, 32, and 33 in particular are similar to gunpowder); also see pp. 81–87 (on Albertus Magnus’ De mirabilibus mundi, which repeats the Liber’s gunpowder recipes). On the composition and manufacture of early gunpowder see R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, pp. 14–54. See also Robert A. Howard, “Realities and Perceptions in the Evolution of Black Powder Making,” in Gunpowder, Explosives and the State: A Technological History, ed. Brenda J. Buchanan (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 21–41.



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similar to others in the period, but the exact relationship of all these has not yet been satisfactorily worked out.11 It is not until the second half of the fourteenth century that we have the first surviving clear instruction for making military gunpowder. The English surgeon John Arderne of Newark (c.1307–77), more famous today for his medical treatises, wrote a brief recipe for gunpowder in Anglo-Norman (6:1:2 parts saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal), the first half of which is translated from the Liber.12 Arderne clearly recognized the military potential of at least one of the Liber’s recipes, but for its second half he substitutes his own instructions and explicitly states that it was intended for military use, to be used with all types of guns and projectiles. The English ecclesiastic and medical writer John Mirfield (d.  1407) includes a Latin recipe for gunpowder in his Breviarium Bartholomei, which he wrote towards the end of his life.13 He also includes two further variant proportions of ingredients for the same type of gunpowder, for the previously outlined instructions, which he claims are advocated by other people. However, all three sets of ingredient proportions are completely different from those in contemporary recipes, and so it is unclear how realistic Mirfield’s recipes actually are. These and later recipes appear to be genuine attempts to convey useful, practical knowledge, unlike the vaguer sorts of popular military manuals, such as Vegetius’ Epitoma rei militaris (c.383–450), that deal mostly in generalities.14 Additionally, English ordnance records from the late fourteenth century and onwards sometimes detail the components of gunpowder, which was typically delivered in separate parts to be assembled on site, but none of them are complete or offer instructions.15 The recipes found in London, Society of Antiquaries, MS 101 are the earliest gunpowder recipes in Middle English, and also the earliest collection of multiple 11 12

13

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For example, Conrad Kyeser’s Bellifortis (1402–05) includes the Liber: Partington, History of Greek Fire, pp. 146–52, 178–79. John Hewitt, Ancient Armour and Weapons in Europe, from the Iron Period of the Northern Nations to the End of the Seventeenth Century, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1855–60), 2:292–93 (recipe transcribed here, possibly incompletely). See also Partington, History of Greek Fire, pp. 323–24, 338. It should be noted that this recipe might have been written later and misattributed to Arderne, as there is little to suggest that it is his, except that it is found bound with his medical writings. In the widely-cited edition the three sets of ingredient proportions, rounded up to the nearest hundredth, are 1.03:5.75:1, 1.05:5.94:1, and 1.05:5.86:1 parts saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal: John Mirfield, “Breviarium Bartholomei,” in Life and Works, ed. Percival Horton-Smith Hartley and Harold Richard Aldridge (Cambridge, England, 1936), pp. 35–95 (here 90). Compare these with those in Clifford J. Rogers, ‘Four Misunderstood Gunpowder Recipes of the Fourteenth Century’ also in this volume of Journal of Medieval Military History. Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus, Epitoma rei militaris, ed. Michael D. Reeve (Oxford, 2004); Trevor Russell Smith, “National Identity, Propaganda, and the Ethics of War in English Historical Literature, 1327–77” (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Leeds, 2017), pp. 28–33. See also Christopher Allmand, The ‘De re militari’ of Vegetius: The Reception, Transmission and Legacy of a Roman Text in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, England, 2011). Kelly DeVries, “Gunpowder and Early Gunpowder Weapons,” in Gunpowder: The History of an International Technology, ed. Brenda J. Buchanan (Bath, 1996), pp.  121–35 (here 125–29, 133–35); Thom Richardson, “The Medieval Inventories of the Tower Armouries, 1320–1410” (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of York, 2012), p. 266.

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recipes for several types of military gunpowder in England, but have so far remained almost entirely unknown.16 In 1841 the first part of this set of recipes (nos. 1 and 2 below) were edited, but with many obvious errors.17 This partial edition ignores the other recipes in the manuscript without comment, perhaps because the other recipes are described as various sorts of “culverin powder,” employing the rare and peculiar term colofre (variously spelled).18 In 1969 Ker, in his rather terse catalogue of manuscripts in the Society of Antiquaries, mentions the recipe for gunpowder (treating nos. 1 and 2 together as one) but is careless in listing the contents of the manuscript and what folios they are on.19 In 1990 Mura, in her Ph.D. dissertation on this manuscript, describes these recipes as “gun powder and colorful powder,” and considers them no further than that.20 In 1998 Reiser was aware only of the partial edition by Wright and Halliwell and described it as a recipe “for gunpowder” with no further comment.21 In 2000 a proper catalogue of the Society of Antiquaries manuscripts was produced, but it only considers the texts so far as they were described by Mura and lists folios 74r–76v as containing “recipes for wine, gunpowder, etc.,” as if they were all a cohesive unit of texts.22 Despite these several mentions in catalogues and an imperfect, yet widely available edition, I have found no references to these recipes for gunpowder in any of the many studies of early firepower. These recipes are only known in the single copy written in a hand of the first half of the fifteenth century, datable on paleographic grounds. The manuscript includes varied texts written in a number of hands, but it is not a compilation of pamphlets, as is sometimes the case with miscellanies like this.23 Mura argues that the entire volume was compiled for and owned by Thomas Wardon of Warton Hall in Westmorland.24 Surviving evidence is very much incomplete, 16

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18 19 20 21

22 23 24

For the state of knowledge of this manuscript see Karen E. Mura, “Thomas Wardon’s Book: A Study of a Fifteenth-Century Manuscript, Text, and Reader (Society of Antiquaries of London, MS 101)” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Wisconsin–Madison, 1990), pp.  6–7; Pamela J. Willetts, Catalogue of Manuscripts in the Society of Antiquaries of London (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 46–47. Another Middle English recipe for gunpowder does not come until 1492, in two records for delivery of ordnance: Kew, The National Archives, E 36/15, mm. 23, 29. “Receipt for Making Gunpowder,” in Reliquiae antiquae: Scraps from Ancient Manuscripts Illustrating Chiefly Early English Literature and the English Language, ed. Thomas Wright and James Orchard Halliwell, 2 vols. (London, 1841–43), 1:14–15. Indeed, Mura implies that she does not think these other recipes are for gunpowder: Mura, “Thomas Wardon’s Book,” p. 159. On colofre’s meaning see below. Neil R. Ker et al., Medieval Manuscripts in British Libraries, 5 vols. (Oxford, 1969–2002), 1:305–06. Mura, “Thomas Wardon’s Book,” p. 159. George R. Reiser, “Works of Science and Information,” in A Manual of the Writings in Middle English, 1050–1500, ed. Burke J. Severs, Albert E. Hartung, and Peter G. Beidler, 11 vols so far (New Haven, 1967–), 10:3593–952 (here 3685, 3898). Willetts, Catalogue of Manuscripts in the Society of Antiquaries, p. 46. Indeed, fols. 74–75 were not originally bound before fol. 76. For information on the manuscript, generally, see note 16 above. Mura, “Thomas Wardon’s Book,” pp. 7–14; Karen E. Mura, “Thomas Wardon: A Mid-FifteenthCentury Reader, 1448–62,” Fifteenth-Century Studies 22 (1996), 42–54 (here 52–53 n. 6).



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but genealogical records suggest that Wardon was born at some point before 1416 and died in 1462 or later, as this is the last year with an entry connected to him in the manuscript. The earliest obviously datable work in the manuscript that relates to Wardon is from 1448, and so we can only be certain of his ownership of the volume for 1448–62.25 Mura argues that several sections of the manuscript, including the gunpowder recipes, were written by Wardon himself from this earliest date, 1448, and later. Although the manuscript was reordered in the sixteenth century into its present confused state, it originally opened with the current folios 76–101, with the gunpowder recipes, on the current folio 76, at the very beginning of the volume. The first date written in the manuscript, in its original form, is a reference to 1449 on folio 91v. Since the manuscript appears to have been filled from beginning to end and not haphazardly, it follows that these earlier folios, including the gunpowder recipes, were written before this time. Nothing suggests that the texts written in the more than one dozen leaves prior were all written in 1448 or after, as Mura suggests. This does not preclude Wardon from having copied the recipes into the manuscript himself, although if this were the case then he likely acquired the volume much earlier than 1448. These gunpowder recipes are separated into paragraphs, with the first two together, and are sometimes described with titles. They are not all grouped together and between some of them there are seemingly unrelated recipes. Folio 76r has recipes no. 1 and 2, instructions on how “to make wynche corde for a double wyndase,” and then recipe no. 3. Folio 76v has a recipe “for safron” that has instructions similar to those for saltpeter (the title for which is written in red/orange crayon in a later hand, similar to that of the manuscript collector Matthew Parker, 1504–75, found in many of his former manuscripts in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge), recipe no. 4, and then a recipe for “a medycyn provud for þe siatica.”26 It seems, generally, that the more bizarre the recipe and its ingredients the more valuable it was to readers and potential book owners. The second and third additional recipes are therefore sensible additions, as they were of great value, but it is unclear why one would include some instructions for rope (is this really as specialized a skill as gunpowder composition?), unless, through its use of crossbow twine, it was meant to establish military credentials. There are many writings included in the manuscript that are instructional in nature, such as recipes for wine (folios 74r–75v), miscellaneous recipes (91v–92v), and writings on trees (81r–86v, 86v–97v), on herbs (88r–90v), and on medical subjects (1r–2v, 77v, 78r–80v, 91r, 93r–96v, 96v, 97r). There are also the semi-instructional writings of prophecies (68r–71r, 71v–73r) and the Pseudo-Aristotle’s Secreta secretorum (4r–29r).27 There is also a short chron25 26

27

Mura, “Thomas Wardon’s Book,” pp. 9–10; Mura, “Thomas Wardon: A Reader,” pp. 43, 48. On saltpeter production see Bert S. Hall, Weapons and Warfare in Renaissance Europe: Gunpowder, Technology, and Tactics (Baltimore, 1997), pp.  74–79, 245–46; R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, pp. 21–44. See T. R. Smith, “National Identity, Propaganda, and War,” pp.  37–50 (and sources cited); Charles B. Schmitt and Dilwyn Knox, Pseudo-Aristoteles latinus: A Guide to Latin Works

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icle, normally titled Cronica bona et compendiosa and covering the history of Britain from Noah to Richard II’s coronation, but which here begins imperfectly at the second chapter (44r–49v).28 The manuscript is not organized in any sensible manner, but has its various contents strewn about in a haphazard fashion.29 While there are some common themes amongst some of these texts, there does not seem to have been a coherent plan for the manuscript’s contents.30 These gunpowder recipes are almost certainly copied from earlier witnesses, which have either been lost or have yet to be identified. They are different from recipes by the three earlier English writers, Bacon, Arderne, and Mirfield, as discussed above. Although they are all written in what appears to be the same hand, the ink varies between them. There is also some repetition in the labels given to the four types of gunpowder described. If the scribe had planned on copying down several different gunpowder recipes one would have expected him to group them thematically, not separated by unrelated recipes. This all suggests that the recipes were copied down from different sources at different times by the same scribe, who, for whatever reason, when first writing in this manuscript took an interest in gunpowder. These recipes might have been bought from different people selling secretive wisdom, which Partington suggests is the reason behind the peculiarly disorganized structure of many medieval recipe collections.31 In this collection there are four recipes for different types of military gunpowder. They are written in Middle English and help to understand terminology better. Each of them offers clear instructions for making these various types of gunpowder. However, as we do not know how pure the ingredients were that they were working with it would be difficult, if not impossible, to infer their intended uses or results.32 Unlike the other early recipes for military gunpowder from England, but like German texts starting in the late fourteenth century, these recipes offer multiple combinations for distinctly different types of gunpowder. There are some similarities in terminology and steps in the four recipes, but they are all distinct from each other.33

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Falsely Attributed to Aristotle before 1500 (London, 1985), pp. 54–75. It should also be noted that one of the two earliest illustrations of a gunpowder weapon is in another copy of PseudoAristotle’s Secreta secretorum, in the second MS cited in note 3 above. None of the other witnesses begins at this point. There is almost nothing written about this widelyread and influential chronicle, but for a description of the text in this manuscript see Mura, and for a complete list of manuscripts, with the exception of this one, see Smith: Mura, “Thomas Wardon’s Book,” pp. 104–10; T. R. Smith, “National Identity, Propaganda, and War,” p. 205 n. 2. There are many other miscellaneous texts that, for the sake of brevity, I do not list here. For a discussion of the manuscript contents see Mura, “Thomas Wardon: A Reader.” Partington, History of Greek Fire, p. 58. DeVries and R. D. Smith, Medieval Mililtary Technology, p. 152: “modern analysis has shown that its composition is not the only important factor in the way that gunpowder behaves. The purity of the ingredients, the size of the grains of gunpowder used, and, especially, the degree to which the gunpowder was compacted within the gun barrel prior to firing are all equally as important.” See also R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, pp. 55–76. It is, of course, beyond the scope of this article to test these recipes and see how effective (if at all) each of them might be.



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The first part of recipe no. 1 is for “good” gunpowder, although it is unclear what “normal” gunpowder might be for this writer, or even if there was a lesser grade.34 In the same paragraph, without a break, there is also no. 2, a recipe for “fine culverin” gunpowder. The other two recipes, nos 3 and 4, are for “fine culverin” and “culverin” gunpowder. Although Mura reads colofre as “colorful,” the term is actually derived from the continental French couleuvre, meaning “serpent,” but also “culverin” in the second quarter of the fifteenth century and onwards. At this time the “culverin” was a smaller gunpowder artillery piece that was typically directed against enemy combatants instead of fortifications. The sort of distinction between varieties for cannons and culverins, as found in these four recipes, was not uncommon.35 These mentions of the culverin are notably early for English writings. Recipe no. 4 appears to be an early example of instructions for corned gunpowder, which made the resulting product more reliable (especially against spoilage) and more powerful, and is the earliest example in England that I am aware of.36 In the end it is not entirely clear why there are different ingredients for gunpowder in this collection. Were they meant to have different strengths?37 work better with different types of artillery?38 cast different types of projectiles? work in different weather? or was there just a general sense that things needed to be bettered? A comparison of this collection of recipes with those in the famous and widely copied German Feuerwerkbuch, written in great detail (c.1420, perhaps based on material as early as c.1375–85) reveals similarities in some of the basic concepts.39 Likewise, recipe no. 1 shares its proportions of 4:1:1 parts saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal with some of the early German sources.40 Recipe 34 35 36

37 38 39

40

It may be that by the time of writing that the recipe for “normal” gunpowder was well known and did not need to be added to this collection. Hall, Weapons and Warfare, p. 121. Hall states that the earliest mention of something approaching corning is in a German text from 1411, and DeVries argues that corning had little impact on the efficacy of early gunpowder: Bert S. Hall, “The Corning of Gunpowder and the Development of Firearms in the Renaissance,” in Gunpowder: The History of an International Technology, ed. Brenda J. Buchanan (Bath, 1996), pp. 87–120 (at 89, 111–12 n. 4); Hall, Weapons and Warfare, pp. 69–74, 244–45; DeVries, “Gunpowder and Early Gunpowder Weapons.” See also R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, pp. 65–69, 98, 99, 112. The Feuerwerkbuch’s different types of gunpowder are explicitly stated to have different strengths. See below. There is evidence for this by the mid-fifteenth century: DeVries, “Gunpowder and Early Gunpowder Weapons,” pp. 127, 134. Gerhard W. Kramer, Berthold Schwarz: Chemie und Waffentechnik im 15. Jahrhundert (München, 1995) includes the edited text. See also Partington, History of Greek Fire, pp. 152–58, 179–80; Gerhard W. Kramer, “Das Feuerwerkbuch: Its Importance in the Early History of Black Powder,” in Gunpowder: The History of an International Technology, ed. Brenda J. Buchanan (Bath, 1996), pp. 45–56; “The Firework Book: Gunpowder in Medieval Germany,” ed. Kramer, trans. Klaus Leibuitz, Journal of the Arms & Armour Society 17 (2001), 9–88 (commentary and English trans.); R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, pp. 95–103. Partington, History of Greek Fire, pp.  324–25, nos. 6 (c.1350), 7 (Rothenburg, 1377–80), 8 (Nürnberg, 1382).

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no. 3 has 4:2:1 (and also .5 camphor and .125 “red amber”) and recipe no. 4 has 5:2:1, neither of which bear any similarity to the ingredients in recipes listed by Partington, although no. 3’s ratio is also found in the Feuerwerkbuch, but without the additional ingredients.41 If some of these recipes are indeed drawn from German exemplars then this would be proof for very early transmission of specialized information between these regions. However, a detailed comparison of these sources must await further investigation. It should be noted that there are likely additional so-far-undiscussed and unknown recipes for gunpowder, as they are typically brief and written in sections with many other miscellaneous recipes.42 They are often lumped together by cataloguers under various headings, such as “craft recipes,” so that in the end they rarely appear in manuscript descriptions.43 Scholars of firepower, such as Partington, tend to focus on the more famous recipes, such as the earliest (Bacon’s) or greatly elaborated ones (the Feuerwerkbuch’s), and have certainly overlooked many further recipes.44 This is understandable, given the poor information available to scholars who might attempt to search for recipes in manuscripts, not to mention the almost complete lack of editions, critical or otherwise, for these texts.45 Even the best of resources for manuscripts and scientific writings are of little help. Ker’s otherwise excellent resource on manuscripts held in the libraries of Britain lumps all incendiary recipes under the heading of “Alchemy” in his index and Thorndike and Kibre, in their standard resource on scientific writings, offer no useful index headings at all.46 One hopes, perhaps against hope, that further critical editions of these largely overlooked recipes will be produced to allow further, properly contextualized study of early firepower in England.

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Recipe no. 2 does not list ingredient proportions. Partington, History of Greek Fire, pp. 324–25, 338. See for example the many miscellaneous writings, with an apparent focus on medical themes, in the earliest copy of Geoffrey le Baker’s Chronicle, somewhat described by Thompson: Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodley 761 (SC 2535); Geoffrey le Baker, Chronicon, ed. Edward Maunde Thompson (Oxford, 1889), pp. xii–xvi. For example, Reiser groups several recipes together in his main text under the heading “miscellaneous recipes,” which he describes as “prose; independent recipes and selections from compilations that have attracted the attention of modern anthologists wishing to illustrate aspects of practical life in later medieval England,” but only lists the texts themselves in his bibliography, and Jones puts recipes for gunpowder under “craft recipes” so that the contents of these sections is unknown: Reiser, “Works of Science,” pp. 3685, 3898; M. Claire Jones, “Vernacular Literacy in Late-Medieval England: The Example of East Anglian Medical Manuscripts” (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Glasgow, 2000), pp. 133, 323–24. For example, Smith appears to be unaware of the second and third English recipes, by Arderne and Mirfield, in his discussion of early gunpowder composition: R. D. Smith, Rewriting the History of Gunpowder, p. 95. This is a problem for shorter texts in most genres, such as prophecies, which have only recently been listed: Lesley A. Coote, Prophecy and Public Affairs in Later Medieval England (York, 2000), pp. 239–80 (for prophecies of England only). Ker et al., Medieval Manuscripts, 5:30; Lynn Thorndike and Pearl Kibre, A Catalogue of Incipits of Mediaeval Scientific Writings in Latin, rev. ed. (London, 1963).



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London, Society of Antiquaries, MS 101, fols. 76r–76v (originally fols. 1r–1v, s. xv1) I standardize letter forms i/j and u/v, capitalization, and punctuation, and I silently expand abbreviations, but leave thorns and yoghs (þ and ȝ) unchanged. Recipes no. 1–2 are on fol. 76r and 3–4 are on 76v. 1. To Make Goode Gonepoudre: Take þe poudre of .ii. unce47 of salpetre, and half an unce of brymstone48, and half an unce of lyndecole, and temper togeder49 in a mortar wit50 rede vynegre. And make it thyk os51 past til þe tyme þat ye se neythere52 salpetre ne brymstone. And drye it en þe fyre, in an erthe pane53 wit54 soft fyre55, and when it is wele dryed grynde it in a mortor56 til it be smalle poudre. And than sarse it thorow57 a sarse, et cetera. 2. And if ye wil have fyne colofre poudre sethe fyrst yor58 salpetre, and fyne it wele, and do os59 it is said afore. 3. To make fyne colofer poudre take .ii. librae of salpetre, .i. libra of brymstone, half a libra of coles, a qarter of a libra of caumfere60, & the fourthe part of a qarter of a libra of red ambere61 & stampe it and sarse it and menge it wele togedure, and it is poudre fore maistrie.

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

56 57 58 59 60

61

unces Wright and Halliwell. brymston Wright and Halliwell. togidur Wright and Halliwell. with Wright and Halliwell. as Wright and Halliwell. neyther Wright and Halliwell. pan Wright and Halliwell. with Wright and Halliwell. Working in close proximity to a fire, even if “gentle,” with these highly flammable ingredients is incredibly dangerous. The mixtures were typically dried in the sun to avoid fiery disasters, as recipe no. 4 instructs. morter Wright and Halliwell. throow Wright and Halliwell. your Wright and Halliwell. as Wright and Halliwell. Sources typically indicate that camphor was meant to increase the power of the mixture, such as several recipes in the Feuerwerkbuch and Whitehorne’s adaptation of Niccolò Machiavelli’s Dell’arte della guerra: Peter Whitehorne, Certain Waies for the Orderyng of Souldiers in Battelray (London, 1560), fol. 28v: “some moist it with vineger, and some, for to make it more stronger, with camphored aqua vitae,” but shortly thereafter, “I doubt whether viniger or aqua vitae causeth the gunpoulder to be any better.” On the other hand, modern tests indicate that camphor had little to no effect on strength and might have instead been meant to add a smell to the gunpowder so that people in the field could easily distinguish it from other types of gunpowder that were at hand, per personal correspondence with Axel Müller. This might be red amber or red ambergris, both of which appear to have been so rare that they would have been semi-mythical, priceless ingredients. This is possibly meant to give the

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4. Colofur Poudre: Talke .ii. unce of salpeter & a half, & .i. unce of brymstone, and half a unce of cole, and thenne melle hit togedure and tempar it wit vynegere. And thenn make hit of smale ballys & ley them in a basyn to thei be dry ageyn þe sonne, & then breke themm smale and sarse hit thorghe a sarse, et cetera.

Translation 1. To Make Good Gunpowder: Take the powder of two ounces of saltpeter, half an ounce of sulfur, and half an ounce of lime tree coal and temper together in a mortar with red vinegar. Make it as thick as paste until you see neither saltpeter nor sulfur in it. Then dry it in the fire, in an earthen pan over a gentle fire,55 and when it is well dried grind it in a mortar until it is fine powder. Then sift it through a sieve, and so on. 2. If you want to have fine culverin powder first boil your saltpeter, refine it well, and do as it is said above. 3. To make fine culverin powder take two pounds of saltpeter, one pound of sulfur, half a pound of coal, a quarter pound of camphor,60 and a fourth of a quarter pound of red amber61 and stamp it, sift it, and mix it well together, and then it is a powder for superior strength. 4. Culverin Powder: Take two and a half ounces of saltpeter, an ounce of sulfur, and half an ounce of coal and then mill it together and temper it with vinegar. Then shape it into small balls and lay them in a basin until they are dried from the sun, and then break them into small pieces and sift them through a sieve, and so on.

resulting product more value and power in a magical sort of sense. This could also simply be meant to distinguish “normal” amber from the green variety.

9 Horses and Horsemen in Fifteenth-Century Siege Warfare, with Particular Reference to the Later Hundred Years War* Michael John Harbinson

It is widely accepted that siege warfare formed a significant part of medieval conflict, and one in which cavalry played only a minor role. This article argues that horsemen were in fact essential to the prosecution of a successful siege, and crucial for an effective defense. Cavalry could prevent an army from setting up a siege but also ward against that threat. Once a siege began the horsemen of both sides contested the struggle for supply, both in the vicinity of the siege, and also on its periphery. Cavalry was the most dangerous arm for a sally, but also the key to a successful response, and a vital component of a relieving force. Cavalry dominated the numerous skirmish actions that took place around a siege and was also the arm of pursuit, an army retreating from a failed investment being highly vulnerable to horsemen. Horses drove mills, carried provisions, pulled the artillery, and were present at sieges in considerable numbers, making them instrumental in the spread of disease due to the large amounts of waste they produced. However, their role in the transmission of bacillary dysentery, the great scourge of medieval siege warfare, was probably other than by water-borne infection. War horses were valuable animals and siege warfare offered opportunities for their capture, while its privations caused the animals great distress, not least because they required considerable maintenance. In good condition horses contended with the enemy and secured supplies but, if provisions failed, their excessive needs rapidly made them weak and ineffective, with drastic consequences both for themselves and their human counterparts. An analysis of several sieges during the later Hundred Years War examines these issues and considers whether the English were compromised by the number and quality of their mounted men-at-arms.

*

I would like to thank Clifford J. Rogers for his generosity and kindness in granting access to his forthcoming article, “The Role of Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” due to appear in the Journal of Military History, which has proved invaluable, and for his helpful comments on this paper and my previous efforts in JMMH 17. The author is also deeply grateful to Dr. John Stevenson of Worcester College, Oxford, and Dr. Peter Watson for their suggestions and support.

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Horses were an essential but vulnerable component of a late medieval army, requiring a complex balanced diet and considerable maintenance. Some historians consider that mounted combat “had, at best, a minor role to play in siege warfare,” and question why “large numbers of expensive, highly trained, but very fragile war horses” were brought to sieges when they had to be “watered, fed and guarded while waiting for the unlikely chance that they might be used.”1 Siege warfare was certainly detrimental to horses as it was here that great military maxim of the middle ages, “hunger is more savage than the sword” achieved its apotheosis.2 Horses of all varieties, from coursers to mules, were integral to the contest for supply, the “race to starvation,” where they could either facilitate success or precipitate disaster.3 Despite performing different roles, the animals were all dependent upon one another and had a symbiotic relationship with the welfare of their human companions. The large numbers of horses needed for a medieval army to function placed limits on its size, and their requirements, particularly at sieges, far outstripped those of humans.4 However, as J. F. Verbruggen has noted, siege warfare was not just the task of foot soldiers. Horsemen were far more useful in effecting a blockade as they could quickly close the approaches, and better protect the foragers and besiegers, while the defender’s mounted troops, both from within and without the siege lines, tried to prevent this happening.5 Cavalry was, therefore, an essential component of both a besieging army and a relief force, but also surprisingly crucial to an effective defense. This was particularly important as most sieges were not closed, creating a fluid force field in which cavalry was the principal arm. Vale has argued that heavy cavalry could dominate the fifteenth-century battlefield, but its role in siege warfare was equally important.6 On the periphery of a siege, horsemen could harass foragers, intercept supplies and shadow and attack relief columns. While in fast mobile groups, cavalry could sometimes surprise and capture enemy strongholds, obviating the need for a formal siege. Siege warfare also offered an opportunity for both sides

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3 4

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Bernard S. Bachrach, “Medieval Siege Warfare: A Reconnaissance,” The Journal of Military History 58 (1994), 119–33. Michael Prestwich, Armies and Warfare in the Middle Ages, The English Experience (London, 1996), p. 284: “cavalry was of little use in a siege.” Vegetius Renatus Flavius, Epitoma rei militaris, ed. Charles Lang (Oxford, 2004), 3:3: “et ferro saevior fames est.” Vegetius: Epitome of Military Science, trans. N. P. Milner (Liverpool, 1993), p. 65; Christine de Pizan, The Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, ed. Summer Willard, trans. Charity Cannon Willard (Philadelphia, 1999), p. 40 Clifford J. Rogers, “The Role of Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” forthcoming article in the Journal of Military History (referenced by kind permission of the author), typescript, p. 18. Bert S. Hall, “The Changing Face of Siege Warfare: Technology and Tactics in Transition,” in Ivy A. Corfis and Michael Wolfe, eds., The Medieval City Under Siege (Woodbridge, 1999), pp. 265–67. J. F. Verbruggen, “The Role of the Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” Journal of Medieval Military History 3 (2005), pp. 64–65. Malcolm Vale, War and Chivalry (London, 1981), pp. 127–28. Many pitched battles of the time were fought by “cavalry forces sent to relieve a besieged place.”



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to gain “spoil in horse and harness,” and enhance their own mounted arm, while degrading that of their opponents.7 Care and Nutrition of Horses The effectiveness of cavalry was “always dependent on the condition of its horses,” and considerable effort was required to ensure that they remained battle-worthy.8 Regular exercise, grooming, stable hygiene, and adherence to a correct dietary regime with access to plenty of fresh water were essential for the animals to remain in good health.9 The exigencies of siege warfare made adequate maintenance difficult and much depended upon the availability of fodder. Frederick the Great divided forage into dry and wet, with the former consisting of oats, barley and hay.10 Mouldy oats rendered horses unfit for a campaign and contamination with ergot alkaloids caused ergotism, a fungal disease prevalent during the Middle Ages, that resulted in poor performance, convulsions and even death. An army dependent upon dry forage could rarely venture far from its magazines due to the inordinate amount of transport required. Lengthy baggage trains were vulnerable to attack and made it difficult for the army to be used offensively unless forage was transported by water. Consequently, to a greater or lesser extent most medieval armies were forced to live off the land.11 Wet forage consisted of grass and although horses can subsist upon grass alone, grain was wanted in varying proportions depending upon the amount of work the horse was required to perform. Summer grass made a horse fat and unfit for service and 2.7 kg of oats per day were required for every half day of work. Working horses need to be fed three times a day, with at least an hour to eat each meal. “Good hay hath no fellow,” but dusty hay will make horses broken winded, while excess clover will cause diarrhoea.12 In the medieval west, horses required “on average, more than 25lbs (11.3kgs) of feed per day,” half of 7

8 9

10 11 12

The Lays of Marie de France, ed. and trans. Eugene Mason, Everyman’s Library (London, 1966), p. 36: Eliduc and forty horsemen sally from the city and ambush the besiegers, returning with so much booty, horses and prisoners that the gates are closed against them in the belief that they are the foe. Louis Edward Nolan, Cavalry, Its History and Tactics (1853; repr. Yardley, Pennsylvania, 2007), p. 36. Bernard S. Bachrach, “Animals and Warfare in Early Medieval Europe,” in Bernard S. Bachrach, Armies and Politics in the Early Medieval West (Brookfield, 1993), 707–51 and Bernard S. Bachrach, “Caballus et Caballarius in Medieval Warfare,” in The Study of Chivalry: Resources and Approaches, Howell Chickering and Thomas H. Seiler eds., Medieval Institute Publications (Kalamazoo, 1998), 173–211, give extensive details on the needs of horses and their impact on combat effectiveness. Frederick the Great on The Art of War, ed. and trans. Jay Luvaas (New York, 1999), pp. 111–13. Michael Prestwich, A Short History of The Hundred Years War (London, 2018), pp. 108–10. John Seymour, The Complete Book of Self-Sufficiency, Corgi Edition (London, 1978), p. 42, on the needs of the working horse. Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 4.1.33: “good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.”

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grain and half of hay or grass, to be fit for combat. If grass was substituted for all the hay then 40 lbs of green grass would be needed, in addition to the grain ration.13 In their natural habitat, horses, as grazing animals, move and feed at the same time, spending up to sixteen hours per day eating large quantities of low energy food. Grazing green grass requires 20–30 minutes per pound, making it difficult for a horse to obtain a significant part of its diet from grazing, if an army had to keep moving.14 Overfeeding with oats was dangerous, leading to renal damage with the passage of blood in the urine.15 Stabling and feeding with grain for long periods makes horses susceptible to digestive problems, so that stress, lack of water, poor quality food or a change of feeding regime might easily provoke a dangerous colic.16 Horses need large quantities of cool fresh water, up to 4 gallons per day, rising to 8–12 gallons in warm weather. In hot weather, water was more crucial than fodder. Watering prior to battle was essential, and best done the previous night, so that units would not be left behind.17 Too little water could lead to dehydration, but too much followed by exertion caused fatal colic.18 Watering took a great deal of time and horses were easier to supervise if brought to water in small groups, which avoided chaos and ensured that each animal got sufficient to drink. Ramps were needed if a river had high banks, and if these were unavailable leather buckets were used.19 Watering in winter months when supplies might be frozen was particularly difficult. During a siege, horses at pasture and those being watered required a strong mounted guard.20 Siege warfare placed further demands upon the horses, who had to be ridden and exercised regularly for 2 hours per day and brought gradually into peak condition for combat. A horse that was to engage in battle “could not be ridden much more than 20 miles on that same day” without reducing its effectiveness. Transport horses could manage greater distances, but any horse ridden for 45 miles or more “would become useless.”21 Long marches were as deleterious as

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Bachrach, “Caballus et Caballarius,” pp. 179–80. Large amounts of green grass were required because of its high water content. Ibid. Seymour, Self-Sufficiency, p. 42: “hay will never hurt him, but grain will.” Horses cannot vomit toxins. Blue Cross, “Horse Colic:Prevention and Management,” https:// www.bluecross.org.uk (accessed 9.9.18). Bachrach “Caballus et Caballarius,” p. 180. Maurice’s Strategikon, ed. and trans. George T. Dennis (Philadelphia, 1984), p. 67. Ann Hyland, The Medieval Warhorse: From Byzantium to The Crusades (Stroud, 1994), p. 33. Karen R. Dixon and Pat Southern, The Roman Cavalry, From the First to Third Century AD (New York, 1992), p. 207. Olivier de la Marche, Mémoires, ed. H. Beaune and J. D’Arbaumont, 4 vols. (Paris, 1884), 2:19: “fut ordonné que gens d’armes garderoient l’abruvoir à l’heure d’abruver les chevaulx.” Bachrach “Caballus et Caballarius,” p. 183. The Crowland Chronicle Continuations 1459– 1486, ed. Nicholas Pronay and John Cox (London, 1986), pp. 172–73: the “cursores equestres” messaging system used by Richard III and Edward IV, had “one mounted courier to every 20 miles.”



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poor forage.22 The Livre des Trahisons suggests that the poor performance of the French cavalry at Agincourt (1415) may partly have been due to the horses being jaded. They arrived through the night “en desroy et à tue-cheval” so that their owners would not miss the battle and were unwisely fed until the very last moment.23 In 1422 mounted Picards left the siege of Airaines to intercept the French relief force at Pierrepont. After some skirmishing the French retreated but the Picards were unable to pursue because their horses, having been ridden hard, were exhausted, while those of the Armignacs were fresh and rested.24 Clearly horses, especially those used for battle, required a carefully balanced diet, access to fresh water and considerable maintenance, something difficult to sustain during a siege. They were, however, seldom far from danger. At the siege of Calais (1436), the duke of Burgundy, while riding with his attendants, lost a trumpeter and three horses to a cannon shot from the town.25 At the siege of Luxembourg (1443), many horses perished when the town was fired, while others were reduced to a parlous state on a diet of wood shavings, having eaten their mangers. While at Neuss (1474), the horses were fired upon while they were being watered, “portoient grant préjudice à l’ost.”26 At the second siege of Naples (1495), lacking sufficient fodder, the besieged drove their less useful horses between the lines where they were shot down by the artillery when the Neapolitans tried to capture them.27 Sometimes when a town was about to fall the horses were deliberately hobbled, as at Vomacourt (1476), to prevent their use by the enemy; a practice outlawed in articles of surrender.28 Moreover, in desperate circumstances, a starving garrison might eat its horses, but this was 22

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Nolan, Cavalry, p. 155: “it was no uncommon occurrence to see cavalry arrive on the field quite crippled, having lost half their numbers before a shot had been fired, the remaining horses being in such wretched condition as to be totally unfit for active service. Distressed at the start, (they) … died off by thousands.” Le Livre des Trahisons de France, in Chroniques relative à l’histoire de la Belgique sous la domination des ducs de Bourgogne, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove, 3 vols. (Brussels, 1873), 2:129. James Hamilton Wylie and William Templeton Waugh, The Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3 vols. (Cambridge, 1914–29), 2:200 and 2:200, n. 10. The Cordeliers’ Chronicle in La chronique d’Enguerran de Monstrelet, ed. L. Douet d’Arcq, Société de l’histoire de France, 6 vols. (Paris, 1857–62), 6:314. At Chalgrove Field (1643) part of the Royalist horse could not charge, being “overtyred with several daies hard and long duty,” His Highness Prince Rupert’s Beating Up the Rebels Quarters At Post-Come & Chinner In Oxfordshire, And His Victory in Chalgrove Field on Sunday Morning June 18. 1643 (Oxford, 1643), p. 10. Bagot’s hussars cut an unpromising figure on the road to Culloden (1746): urged to gallop, “the poor beasts immediately fell into a pace more suitable to their age and infirmities,” Stuart Reid, Like Hungry Wolves, Culloden Moor 16 April 1746 (London, 1994), p. 73. Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:245. De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:45–46. Chroniques de Jean Molinet ed. J. A. Buchon, 5 vols. (Paris, 1827), 1:37. Simon Pepper, “Castles and Cannon in the Naples Campaign of 1494–95,” in David Abulafia, ed. The French Descent into Renaissance Italy 1494–95, Antecedents and Effects (Aldershot, 1995), p. 283, n. 70. Molinet, Chroniques , 1:197: “ils coupèrent pareillement leurs jambes.” Thomas Rymer, ed. Foedera, Conventiones, Litterae, 10 vols. (London, 1739–45), 9:664.

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very much a last resort and usually associated with the breakdown of order and the onset of disease.29 During the Hundred Years War the French appear to have been devoted to the care of their horses, with frequent offerings made to St Eloi, the patron saint of horses, by commoners and nobles alike.30 The high cost and effort required to train war horses usually meant that they were well treated.31 Charles VII was extremely fond of horses, an interest inherited from his parents.32 The “Extraits des Comptes Royaux” for 1419–20 document the purchase of equine medicaments and numerous expensive horses, many of which, as dauphin, he gave as presents to his friends.33 In September 1419 when travelling with his entourage from Montereau to Bourges, the horses’ legs were washed with wine and smeared with honey at each stage of the journey to prevent minor leg wounds becoming infected.34 The practice gave rise to the familiar saying that poor wine “wasn’t fit to wash the horses’ feet.”35 Horses needed shelter during inclement weather, “for one cold or rainie night might ruine the cavallrie.”36 However, concern for the horses could have unfortunate results. In the winter of 1439, during the siege of Avranches, French men-at-arms were deployed opposite the English, across a small stream. Despite orders to the contrary, “tout le monde” returned to the surrounding villages to stable their horses at night: “car vous scavés,” wrote Guillaume Gruel, “que les Françoys plaingnent moult leurs chevaulx.” In their absence, the English discovered a ford, entered the town and attacked the French camp, causing the siege to be abandoned.37

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Horses were eaten at Berwick (1315), where the mounted men were fed before the infantry, Stirling (1299), Rochester (1088), Harfleur (1416), Rouen (1418), Melun (1420), Montaguillion (1423), Cravant (1423), Neuss (1474), and Novara (1495). Richard Vaughan, Charles the Bold, The Last Valois Duke of Burgundy (1973, repr. Woodbridge, 2002), pp. 328–29: at Neuss, however, there was remarkable organization. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, including Charles, duke of Orleans and John, duke of Berry 2:411 and 2:411, n. 1 Bachrach, “Caballus et Caballarius,” p. 183. Chronique de Jean Raoulet, in Jean Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, roi de France, 3 vols. (Paris, 1858), 3:146, n. 3. “Extraits des Comptes Royaux” in Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 3:300–01. “Dealing with leg wounds,” in Horse & Hound, 27 October 2000, http://www.horseandhound. co.uk/horse-care/vet-advice/dealing-with-leg-wounds-39778. (accessed 9.9.18): leg wounds were dangerous because with no underlying muscle between the hock and knee, infection could spread rapidly to the tendons and joints. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 3:300–01; 3:304: “on n’en laveroit pas les pieds des chevaux.” John Cruso, Militarie Instructions for the Cavallrie (1632, repr. Amsterdam, 1968), p.65: “nothing hurting a horse sooner then cold or wet.” Guillaume Gruel, Chronique d’Arthur de Richemont, Connétable de France, Duc de Bretagne, Société de l’histoire de France ed. Achille le Vavasseur (Paris, 1890), p. 156. E. Cosneau, Le Connétable de Richemont, Artur de Bretagne 1393–1458 (Paris, 1886), pp. 300–01, blames indiscipline and poor organization for the French defeat.



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The Besiegers and Their Horses Bachrach has questioned whether the presence of expensive and fragile war horses served any useful purpose during a siege, considering their role, at best, a minor one, dealing with logistics, protecting communications and breaking the monotony of a siege by engaging in jousts with the enemy.38 However, contemporary commentators saw protecting supply and communications as crucial and emphasized that the greatest danger for any assailant was to be surprised by a relieving force.39 At the siege of Caerlaverock (1300), Edward I’s army contained 3,000 well equipped men-at-arms, mounted on “powerful and costly chargers so that the army might not be taken by surprise.”40 Mounted men-at-arms guarded the approach of the besieging columns, including the baggage, the prisoners and the artillery train, while covering the rear.41 The cavalry remained mounted while the army was lodged, until fortifications were established, and when a camp was struck.42 Le Jouvencel advised strong scouting parties, recommending that some horsemen should always remain mounted “pour rebouter leurs escarmoucheurs,” to prevent them assessing the army’s dispositions. At night the camp should be well guarded with both horse and foot, as at the siege of Compiègne (1430).43 In siege warfare horsemen were indispensable, as most medieval sieges were open rather than closed. The relatively small size of fifteenth-century armies made it difficult to effect a complete circumvallation of larger towns: at Orléans (1429), the English covered only two-thirds of the walled section.44 Also, the number of effectives at a siege was only a proportion of those present, as men were required to guard the artillery, attend to provisions and look after the horses. Le Jouvencel mentions that 2,000 horses of the “gens d’armes” required 500 men “pour les garder.”45 Sieges were expensive, and the enormous costs had a bearing on the numbers involved.46 The geographical location of most 38 39

40 41 42

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Bernard S. Bachrach, “Medieval Siege Warfare,” pp.  119–33. Bachrach, “Caballus et Caballarius,” p. 184. Philippe Contamine, “The War Literature of the Late Middle Ages: The Treatises of Robert de Balsac and Béraud Stuart, lord of Aubigny,” in C. T. Allmand ed., War, Literature and Politics in The Late Middle Ages (Liverpool, 1976), p. 120. Nicholas Harris Nicolas, ed., The Siege of Carlaverock in the XXXIII Edward I. A.D. MCCC. (London, 1828), pp. 3–4: “Mais sur les gra’s chevaus de pris/ Por ceo q’il ne feussent surprise.” Jean de Bueil, Le Jouvencel, ed. C. Favre and L. Lecestre, 2 vols. (Paris, 1887–89), 1:73. F. L. Taylor, The Art of War in Italy 1494–1529 (1921; repr. Westport, 1973), p. 67. Thomas Audley and the Tudor “Arte of Warre,” ed. Jonathan Davies (Farnham, 2002), p. 22: “no man dismount from his horse until such tyme as all the footemen be quietlie lodged.” Clifford J. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives Through History: The Middle Ages (Westport, CT, 2007), p. 83. Le Jouvencel, 2:34; 1:188. Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:101: “et ordonnèrent leur guet pour la nuit tant de cheval comme de pied.” Jean de Waurin, Recueil des croniques et anchiennes istories de la Grant Bretaigne, ed. W. Hardy and E. L. C. P. Hardy, 5 vols. Rolls Series (London, 1864–91), 3:379. Kelly DeVries, Joan of Arc, A Military Leader (Stroud, 1999), pp. 59–60. Le Jouvencel, 1:150. Alain Salamagne, “L’attaque des places-fortes au XV siècle à travers l’exemple des guerres Anglo et Franco-Bourguignonnes,” in Revue historique, 585 (1993), pp. 73–74.

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towns was also problematic, as many were situated on rivers, which split them into segments. Thus, a siege was inevitably divided into sections, which could not easily support one another. At Orléans (1429), the Loire cut the siege into two unequal parts, while at Montargis (1427), the rivers Loing, Ouanne, and Vernisson divided the siege into three.47 At Saint-James-de-Beuvron (1426), a lake separated the besieging force.48 Horsemen provided a rapid and important link between the disparate parts and bridges were often constructed, as with those across the Seine at the sieges of Rouen (1418–19) and Paris (1465), to ensure that cavalry could pass freely in readiness for action.49 Bridges were important to both sides and a focus for fierce fighting, as at Compiègne over the Oise, and the pont de l’Espierre at Oudenaarde (1452). When bridges were destroyed, as at Lokeren (1452), horsemen could come to grief.50 Mounted troops were crucial to the battle for supply but were also needed to ensure that the surrounding countryside was rapidly subdued before the main siege could begin. This was usually done by adopting a circuitous approach to knock out the supporting towns before settling down to the main siege, as when the English besieged Caen, Rouen and Orléans.51 Horsemen played a prominent role in these operations, with destructive rides involving pillaging, burning and displacement.52 While footmen moved slowly in enemy territory, horsemen could strike rapidly and with surprise before their victims could secure their possessions. Mounted troops were able to swing out of the line of advance and return without impeding the movement forward. As Clifford Rogers has pointed out, when it came to devastation, cavalry could advance 50% faster than infantry while inflicting 123% more damage.53 Failure to conquer “les places d’environ” risked being “tousjours en armes,” fighting on two fronts, 47 48 49

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Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 3:217; 3:251. M. A. Vallet de Viriville, Histore de Charles VII, roi de France et de son époque 1403–1461, 3 vols. (Paris, 1863), 2:17. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 128. Chronique de la Pucelle ou Chronique de Cousinot ed. M. A. Vallet de Viriville (repr. Geneva, 1976), p. 240. Cosneau, Le connétable de Richemont, p. 119. John Page, “Poem on the Siege of Rouen,” in The Historical Collections of a Citizen of London in the Fifteenth Century, ed. James Gairdner, Camden Society (London, 1876), p. 10: “As nye the cheyne a brygge he made/ To serve for man and hors i-lade/ Thenn every man myght to othyr fare/ In hasty tyme yf need were.” The First English Life of King Henry the Fifth, ed. Charles Lethbridge Kingsford (Oxford, 1911), p. 124: the bridge gave “free passage on foote and on horse and carriage betwixt both the hoasts.” Philippe de Commynes, Mémoires, ed. L. M. Emille Dupont, Société de l’histoire de France, 3 vols. (Paris, 1840–47), 1:80: the Burgundian bridge was wide enough to allow the passage of three men-at-arms, “la lance sur la cuisse,” i.e. ready for combat. Georges Chastellain, Oeuvres, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove, 8 vols. (Brussels, 1863–66), 2:255: when the bridge of the river Durme was broken down, the Burgundians tried to cross but their horses floundered on the muddy banks and had to be abandoned. M. Boucher de Molandon and Adalbert de Beaucorps, L’Armée Anglaise vaincue par Jeanne d’Arc sous les murs d’Orléans (Orléans and Paris, 1892), pp. 63–64. Charles VII used the same tactic at Caen in 1450. Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 2:182: “harmful actions, which men-at-arms were accustomed to perform.” 3:138. Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” pp. 12–14.



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constant harassment from mounted troops, and having to send out powerful cavalry escorts to protect the foragers and supply convoys. Conversely, the morale of the besieged was raised, knowing that they could easily be supplied and reinforced.54 At the Burgundian siege of Paris (1465), it was impossible to invest the city, and the garrison persistently targeted the foragers, who, obliged to forage at a distance, required “beacoup de gens à les garder.”55 Foraging inevitably involved dispersal and necessitated a strong mounted guard, as the participants were highly vulnerable to hostile cavalry. At Neuss (1474–5), the Burgundians required the protection of 300 lances to forage near the enemy, demonstrating the need for increased cavalry cover when operating against an opponent with mounted strength.56 Protecting the foragers required experience; charging their attackers could disorganize the guardians and hazard the whole enterprise. It was simply better to cover the retreat even if some men were lost.57 At Beauvais (1472) Charles the Bold failed to use his cavalry to block the Paris road, an error which allowed the town to be repeatedly reinforced with mounted troops.58 While at Nancy (1476–77), failure to reduce the surrounding towns enabled their garrisons to act aggressively against his communications, starving his troops, unnecessarily prolonging the siege, and giving time for the Swiss to mobilize.59 Convoys carrying supplies or money to pay the troops required strong mounted escorts if they had to negotiate territory no longer under their control. Hence the substantial escort required to take supplies from Rouen to Dieppe.  in 1442, and the request for as many mounted troops as possible to guard the money brought to pay the Burgundian troops at Nancy.60 Sometimes an advanced mounted party could expedite the successful conclusion of a siege, as when the duke of Clarence “roode forthe to Cane” with 1,000 picked men, preventing the destruction of the suburbs, which then provided cover for the subsequent English attack.61 In 1472, a Burgundian cavalry force, riding ahead of the main army, entered Nesle, slaughtering the inhabitants.62 In 1515, elite French men-at-arms well in advance of their main army took the town of Villafranca, capturing Prospero Colonna, the Papal commander. Care was taken to rest the horses before the final part of the enterprise.63 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

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Le Jouvencel, 2:43–4. Commynes, Mémoires, 1:74. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, p. 324. Molinet, Chroniques, 1:56: “mieux deux hommes prins, que quatre mille en grand peril.” Vaughan, Charles the Bold, p. 79. Commynes, Mémoires,1:285. Anne Curry, “The Organisation of Field Armies in Lancastrian Normandy,” in Armies, Chivalry and Warfare in Medieval Britain and France, ed. Matthew Strickland, Harlaxton Medieval Studies vol.7 (Stamford, 1998), p. 227. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, p. 423. “William Gregory’s Chronicle,” in James Gairdner, ed. The Historical Collections of a Citizen of London in the Fifteenth Century, Camden Society (London, 1876), p. 115. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:57. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, pp. 77–78. The Loyal Serviteur, History of Bayard, The Good Chevalier Sans Peur et Sans Reproche, trans. Loredan Larchey (London, 1883), pp. 372–77.

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Le Jouvencel advised that mounted men-at-arms should remain ready to cover an assault, prevent enemy interference, and to deal with those attempting to escape, as at Brescia (1512) where French cavalry guarded the main gate.64 While at Atella (1495), Gonsalvo de Cordova used part of his small cavalry force to prevent a sortie from the town, while the rest, together with the infantry, attacked and destroyed the outlying flour mills, forcing the French to capitulate.65 Cavalry allowed towns to be taken by surprise with a combined assault of horse and foot. At Marchenoir (1427), dismounted men-at-arms were concealed in the spoil heaps near the town gates during the night. Then, at dawn when the gates were opened, La Hire charged with three hundred “hommes de cheval,” each having a footman mounted upon his crupper. The horses broke down the barriers with their breasts, while a further body of cavalry acted as a reserve, protected the assault and rounded up fugitives.66 Aware of the havoc that could be caused by an incursion of enemy horsemen, the defenders placed chains and carts across the streets. At Soissons (1414), Enguerrand de Bournouville was captured when his horse remained suspended after failing to clear a chain.67 While at Otranto (1481), the Turks covered the breaches with 2,000 stakes linked by chains to prevent cavalry breaking into the city. Siege camps were often protected with chains in a similar manner.68 Street barricades provided cover for hand-gunners and missile troops, while at Naples (1495) barrels half filled with stones were rolled down the alleyways to frighten the French horses.69 Mounted men-at-arms supported the outriders or coureurs; protected the foragers; prevented incursions from defenders overrunning the siege lines; and were on hand to deal with a relieving army. Having a mounted reserve was “une des principalles subtillitez de la guerre.”70 At Rouen (1419), John Cornwall with 600 mounted men scattered “une assemblée très grande pour aller courre sur le siège des Englès.”71 At Neuss a mounted reserve arrived just in time to repel a cavalry sortie which had caused panic in the Burgundian gun-line.72 The 64 65 66

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69 70 71

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Ibid., p. 287. Le Jouvencel, 2:43. Chronique de Mathieu D’Escouchy, ed. G. Du Fresne de Beaucourt, 3 vols. Société de l’histoire de France (Paris, 1843), 1:215. William H. Prescott, History of The Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, 2 vols. (London, 1841) 2:56–57. Le Jouvencel, 1:XIII–XIV; 1:130, n. 1; 2:271–72: Escallon is considered to be Marchenoir. Many episodes in Le Jouvencel mirror real events but with the names of places and persons changed, as is made clear in the introduction and in Tringant’s commentary. Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:8 and 4:50–51, where a horse is strong enough to break through a chain, although his rider is unhorsed. Michael Mallet, “Siegecraft in Late Fifteenth-Century Italy,” in Corfis and Wolfe, Medieval City, p. 253. Le Jouvencel, 2:39: the chains had to be strong enough to resist the blows of swords and axes. Pepper, “Castles and Cannon,” p. 288, n. 66. Le Jouvencel, 1:73 Mémoires de Pierre de Fenin, ed. M. Dupont, Société de l’histoire de France (Paris, 1837), p. 105. Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 2:258–59. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:131; 131, n. 2. Molinet, Chroniques,1:108.



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besiegers also used their cavalry to devastate the countryside; intercept convoys with provisions intended for the besieged; protect their own supply routes; and block or render impassable the approach roads to a relieving army. At Novara (1495), the besiegers were reinforced by 1,000 German cavalry, who prevented any re-provisioning of the town, with the French losing 60 men-at-arms during one failed attempt.73 Often the fear of enemy coureurs was enough to keep merchants away from the army, which not only deprived the troops of bread, but dramatically raised its price, exacerbating starvation.74 As Le Jouvencel recognized, cavalry superiority was crucial in the contest for supply, as it was impossible to forage successfully without the protection of a strong mounted force: King Amydas had more horsemen than his enemies so that they were unable to obtain provisions while he could protect both his own men and merchants, who would not have been able, nor have dared to encounter the enemy horsemen. Thus, for these reasons, the king’s enemies could not harm him.75

During the latter stages of the Hundred Years War, the French used their cavalry superiority to great advantage. They refused to engage in open battle but used their mounted troops to operate a policy of scorched earth, denial of provision, and constant harassment, which frustrated English attempts to relieve their besieged strongholds. The strategy allowed the French to triumph in what Clausewitz called “missing battles.”76 At Meaux (1439), where the English held the fortified area known as the Market, Arthur de Richemont, the French constable, aware of his cavalry’s crucial role in these operations, refused to commit them to a general engagement.77 While at Pontoise (1441), an English grand sally was so forcefully repulsed by a combination of French horse and foot that the besieged did not try again. Although the English resupplied their garrisons at Mieux and Pontoise, they could neither bring the French to battle nor find enough provision to enable them to remain and contest the siege. The towns fell when Talbot and the duke of York were forced to return to Rouen lacking both fodder and provision.78 York’s men, returning from Pontoise were so worn with hunger, and their horses so emaciated, that their distressed condition became proverbial.79 73 74 75 76

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Commynes, Mémoires, 2:506–09. Jean, Seigneur de Haynin et de Louvegnies, Mémoires 1465–1477, ed. R. Chalons, 2 vols. (Mons, 1842), 2:168–69. Le Jouvencel, 2:232. Cited in Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” p. 21. Thomas Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, ed. C. Samaran, 2 vols. (Paris, 1933, 1944), 1:264–65: wisely avoiding the English attacks, the French remained in their fortifications. A. J. Pollard, John Talbot and The War in France 1427–1453 (London, 1983), pp. 55–59. Cosneau, Le Connétable de Richemont, p. 294. Philippe Contamine, Guerre, état et société à la fin du moyen age: Etudes sur les armées des rois de France, 1337–1494 (Paris, 1972), p. 263, notes the high proportion of French mounted troops at the siege. Gruel, Chronique d’Arthur de Richemont, p. 154: “et n’avoient plus nulz vivres, et leur convint s’en aller vers Normandie.” Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, 1:264. Ibid., 1:266.

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A besieging army also required large numbers of draft horses to transport provisions, fodder, tents, siege equipment, armour, horse bards, lances, and other weapons, as well as the extensive baggage of the nobility.80 Two-wheeled horse-drawn carts had a capacity of a 1,000 lb load, enough for a day’s ration for 40 horses, while pack or sumpter horses carried loads of 200 lbs, extending a contingent’s range to about 10 days.81 Draft horses were also useful during a siege and at Paris (1429) they brought carts loaded with fascines to fill the city’s ditches in preparation for the assault.82 During the fifteenth century the number of horses required at a siege increased dramatically, as many more were needed to pull the artillery, not only the guns but the numerous carts that accompanied them laden with ancillary equipment, powder and shot. For the Burgundian siege of Calais (1436) the larger guns required between 20–50 horses each, in addition to those needed to pull the rest of the extensive artillery train.83 In 1431 transporting the barrel alone of the Teutonic knights’ great bombard necessitated 24 horses as well as 30 carts for powder and ammunition. The artillery train of Charles the Bold required 2,000 carts for 300 “bouches à fer,” without taking smaller weapons into account. Poor roads made travel painfully slow, and almost impossible in winter. In 1409 the large bombard of Auxonne, pulled by 32 oxen and 31 horses, could scarcely manage a league per day.84 Oxen were often used because they did not require grain, but were much slower than horses or mules, managing only 10 miles per day compared with the 25 miles per day of horse-drawn carts.85 Once sited, guns drawn by oxen were difficult to reposition, and could be at a disadvantage from lighter pieces, as the Scots discovered at Flodden (1513). Horses, however, conferred a surprising mobility on the more innovative part of Charles VIII’s artillery train, collected for the invasion of Italy (1494–95). The French had many smaller quick-firing bronze cannon that propelled iron shot, and were far more accurate than the large stones of the more unwieldy weapons. Cast with trunnions on wheeled carriages and drawn by teams of 11–25 horses, they combined mobility with rapid fire-power, and could quickly bring a siege to a close. Each pair of horses was controlled by a rider in the manner of nineteenth century field artillery, allowing the guns to keep pace with the marching cavalry. 80 81

82 83 84 85

David Potter, Renaissance France at War: Armies, Culture and Society, c.1480–1560. (Woodbridge, 2008), p. 79. Bachrach “Caballus et Caballarius,” pp. 181–82. Bachrach, “Animals and Warfare,” p. 723. The range would decrease if both a cavalry and sumpter horse were fed from the same load. Pack horses could supply quite large units and their mobility was useful when foraging at a distance. Chroniques de Jean Froissart in Collection des chroniques nationales Françaises du treizième au seizième siècle, ed. J. A. Buchon, 15 vols. (Paris, 1824), 7:150–52: Thomas Trivet’s expedition into Spain consisted of 700 lances and 1,200 archers supplied by sumpter horses. Journal d’un Bourgeois de Paris 1405–1449. ed. Alexandre Tuetey (Paris, 1881), p. 245. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:242. Robert T. Douglas Smith and Kelly DeVries, The Artillery of the Dukes of Burgundy 1363–1477 (Woodbridge, 2005), pp. 111–13. Salamagne, “L’attaque des places-fortes,” pp. 73–74. Bachrach,” Animals and Warfare,” pp. 717–19.



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The guns were kept loaded on the march, so that they could be immediately deployed for action, and were used in the field as well as in siege warfare.86 The Italians, accustomed to large artillery pieces drawn by innumerable oxen and man-power, were completely over-awed.87 When a siege was unsuccessful, breaking away without losing the artillery was a difficult exercise, as the besiegers usually departed in haste. Limbering up guns and carts delayed the retreat, warning the defenders of an imminent departure, which inevitably provoked a major sortie. More often the draft horses had perished or were too weak to assist. Guns were either buried, as at Villeneuvre-sur-Yonne (1421) and at Naples (1494), or simply abandoned, as at Saint-James-de-Beuvron (1425), Mondoubleau (1427), Montargis (1427), Orléans (1429), Compiègne (1430), Saint-Célerin (1431), “moult hastivement” at Lagny (1431), and at Oudenaarde (1452).88 When the Burgundians raised the siege of Calais (1436), some guns were buried, while attempts were made to withdraw the others but there were neither enough carts nor horses to pull them.89 A few, drawn by hand, reached Gravelines, but others were overtaken in the pursuit and “with strength of men and horses” brought by the English to the castle of Guines.90 In 1472, lack of artillery horses slowed down the French retreat to Asti, and, in 1544, when the English hastily lifted the siege of Montreuil, only enough horses remained for the guns: everything else was abandoned, including the sick and wounded.91 The sick were abandoned together with provisions and artillery at Orléans (1429), and, as in John of Lancaster’s retreat (1373), men-atarms without horses soon discarded their arms and armor.92 The lack or loss of horses not only reduced the ability of a besieging force to bring a siege to a successful conclusion, but also compromised its ability to effect an orderly withdrawal. Moreover, unless the horses received adequate care, there could be other serious problems.93 86 87 88

89 90 91 92 93

Pepper, “Castles and Cannon,” pp. 263–64; 264, n. 2, 3. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 75: in 1472, the Milanese required 1,044 oxen to pull just 16 guns including their powder and shot. Villeneuvre-sur-Yonne: Livre de Trahisons, p.162; Naples: Pepper, “Castles and Cannon,” p. 288; Saint-James-de-Beuvron: Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 240; Montargis: Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:55; Orléans: Paul Charpentier and Charles Cuissard, eds. Journal du Siège d’Orléans 1428–1420 (Orléans, 1896), p. 90; Compiègne: Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 3:389–90; Saint-Célerin: Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:141; Lagny: Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:146; Oudenaarde: Richard Vaughan, Philip the Good, The Apogee of Burgundy (Woodbridge, 2002), p. 320. Friedrich W. D. Brie, ed. The Brut or The Chronicles of England (London, 1908), in 2 pts., 2:581. Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:247. The Brut, 2:582. Commynes, Mémoires, 2:497. Gilbert John Millar, Tudor Mercenaries and Auxiliaries, 1485– 1547 (Charlottesville, 1980), p. 87. Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 291. Prestwich, The Hundred Years War, p. 109. Carroll Gillmor, “The 791 Equine Epidemic and its Impact on Charlemagne’s Army,” Journal of Medieval Military History 3 (2005), pp. 23–45: not only was it difficult for an army to function without horses, but human lives depended on the good health of the animals.

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In siege warfare, horsemen were essential to the overall health of an army and were the principal instrument of Vegetian strategy, which was to obtain sufficient supply for oneself and destroy the enemy by famine.95 Well-mounted and in good numbers, they could contest the enemy’s hold on the countryside and secure enough provisions to maintain the welfare of the troops engaged in the siege. However, if provender could not be obtained, the horses, due to their finely balanced needs, were the first to suffer, becoming too weak to forage, dispute ground with the enemy, or move carts and guns. Inability to forage led to famine, which decreased the vigor and morale of the fighting troops and rendered grooms incapable of looking after their charges.96 The side whose horses remained in the better condition usually controlled the outcome of a siege. The potential for disease within a siege camp, where large numbers of men and horses were collected together, resided not so much with “human beings, but on the beasts of burden needed to serve their needs.”97 Bert Hall has compared a besieging army to a medium-sized late-medieval city, having “to supply its needs and remove its wastes.”98 His hypothetical model suggests that it would be necessary to dispose of 50,000 kgs. of solid horse waste and 50,000 liters of equine urine daily, which, together with dead animals, needed to be carted away and carefully buried, as failures in sanitation “tell far more quickly” than defects in matters of supply.99 Troops, enfeebled by famine, would be unable to deal with the decomposing bodies of horses or their copious faecal material, which might rapidly pollute the water course or cause other problems.100 Horses, thereLydgate’s “Horse, Goose and Sheep,” in H. Breymann and J. Shick, Munchener Beitrage zue Romanischen und Englischen Philologie (Leipzig, 1900), pp. 48–75 and p. 58 v.30, l. 204. John Lydgate (c.1370– c.1451) was with Bedford in France. 95 John Gillingham, “William the Bastard at War,” in Matthew Strickland ed. Anglo-Norman Warfare (Woodbridge, 1992) pp. 143–60 and p. 151, n. 52: “ut tibi sufficiat victus, hostes frangat inopia.” Clifford J. Rogers, “The Vegetian ‘Science of Warfare’ in the Middle Ages,” Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 1–19. Stephen Morillo, “Battle Seeking: The Contexts and Limits of Vegetian Strategy,” ibid., 21–41. 96 Gruel, Chronique d’Arthur de Richemont, p. 177: At the siege of Dax, English archers, “les plus orgueilleuses gens que l’en peut trouver,” when pressed by hunger surrendered their positions without resistance. Bachrach “Caballus et Caballarius,” p. 182. Hall, “Siege Warfare,” p. 266: poor stable hygiene allowed the ammoniacal compounds in urine to accumulate, leading to “debilitating foot disease.” 97 Ibid., pp. 265–67. 98 Ibid. 99 Ibid., based on a horse producing an average of 20 kg of manure and an average of 20 litres of urine per day. Bachrach, “Caballus et Caballarius,” p. 182 makes similar observations. 100 The Scottish Government: Prevention of Environmental Pollution From Agricultural Activity: the Disposal of Carcasses, https://www.gov.scot/Publications/2005/03/20613/51376. (accessed 9.9.18). At least a meter covering of soil is necessary to prevent unearthing by dogs and foxes.

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fore, presented a paradox for the besiegers. Significant numbers were required to win the contest for supply, which, in turn, augmented the need for forage, and if this was not forthcoming, unattended and dying horses dramatically increased the risk of disease. Medieval armies recognized the importance of sanitation. The camp had to be kept clean, and situated near good pasturage, shade, and running water. Frequent changes of location were advised, which proved difficult during a siege.101 Arnold of Villanova advised that sanitation pits should be dug outside the lines as well as trenches where animal waste and bodies could be thrown, to be covered with earth when half full.102 Defensive ditches also served as latrines, and ordinances compelled the men “to berye their careyn and bowelles … within earth,” to prevent disease.103 However, enforcing hygiene regulations was impossible when discipline was challenged by famine. A medieval army of men and horses which remained in one place for any length of time would sooner or later run into trouble. At Harfleur (1415) around 15,000 men and more than 25,000 horses were concentrated within a relatively small area for a considerable time.104 The large number of horses collected together predisposed them to murrain and sickness, and supply was a problem from the start.105 Provisions had only been organized for three months, and, as the siege lengthened and more men were added, famine took hold.106 Stores were rendered inedible by the humid air, emanating from the coastal marshes, and strong French cavalry forces led by Clignet de Brabant, “très diligamment gardèrent le pays.”107 Using textbook Vegetian tactics, the French horse denied the English provisions and prevented them from securing other towns within the region.108 Once English cavalry lost the battle for supply, The burial should not be closer than 250 meters to any drinking water, nor less than 50 meters from any water course. Burials should not take place in areas prone to flooding. 50% of fluids leak out from the carcass in the first week. 101 Christine de Pizan, Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, pp. 39–40. 102 Piers D. Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades: Warfare, Wounds and the Medieval Surgeon (Cambridge, 2004), pp.  56–7. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 120, where a knight falls into a latrine trench. Ambroise, History of the Holy War, trans. Marianne Ailes (Woodbridge, 2003), pp. 82–83: a knight performing his natural functions on the edge of a defensive ditch is attacked by a horseman. 103 Sir Harris Nicolas, The History of the Battle of Agincourt (1832; repr. London, 1970), “Ordinances of the earl of Shrewsbury at His Sieges in Maine,” appendix no. VIII, p. 42. C. G. Cruickshank, Army Royal, Henry VIII’s Invasion of France 1513 (Oxford, 1969), p. 51 for the disciplinary code of the 1513 expedition. 104 Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 2:186, n. 2. Juliet Barker, Agincourt, the King, the Campaign, the Battle (London, 2005), p. 189. 105 Nolan, Cavalry, p. 155. 106 A problem recognized by Christine de Pizan, Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, p. 40. 107 Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 2:183: “toutes gastees de lair de la mer.” Chronique de Jean le Fèvre, Seigneur de Saint-Rémy ed. François Morand, Société de l’histoire de France, 2 vols. (Paris, 1876–81), 1:226. 108 Vegetius, Epitoma rei militaris, 3:3: “quae ex aliis urbibus petenda sunt interclusis itineribus denegantur.”

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the situation in their camp began to deteriorate.109 Famine was the harbinger of disease, particularly dysentery, the deadly “mal de flux de ventre,” “more fatal to armies than powder and shot.”110 Henry’s army was forced to eat unsuitable food, spoiled stores and unripe fruit, damaging the intestinal immune system, inducing starvation diarrhoea, and predisposing the body to infection. As Elis Gruffudd noted: bitter bread, fly-blown meat spoiled by the air, and mouldy butter were “an abomination to weak bowels.”111 Having examined the extant sick lists for Harfleur, Anne Curry concludes that only 35 men died of the disease, a figure inconsistent with the known mortality of bacillary dysentery, which in a pre-antibiotic age could range from 15–20% of those affected.112 Obliged to search for an alternative disease, Curry considers that amoebic dysentery was responsible for the outbreak of illness during the siege. However, amoebic dysentery, caused by the parasite Entamoeba Histolytica, is seldom responsible for epidemics in temperate climes and most cases are asymptomatic.113 Water polluted with infected faeces is the commonest cause of amoebic dysentery but, at Harfleur, few would drink from the Lazarde. Water was recognized as hazardous in medieval times, and most people drank wine or ale, much of the latter being home-brewed.114 The principal beverages of the army, wine and beer, were continuously brought across the channel and transported by horses to the camp.115 The claim made by Lydgate’s horse that transporting ale and its ingredients was one of the major benefits provided by

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Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 2:183. William Osler, The Principles and Practice of Medicine (New York, 1892), p. 130. Alex de Waal, Mass Starvation. The History and Future of Famine (Cambridge, 2018), p. 49: death from “outright starvation was relatively rare,” most people died from superimposed infection. Cited in Cruickshank, Army Royal, p. 55. Anne Curry, Agincourt, A New History (Stroud, 2005), p. 85. Clifford J. Rogers, “The Battle of Agincourt,” in The Hundred Years War (Part II), Different Vistas, ed. L. J. Andrew Villalon and Donald J. Kagay (Leiden, 2008), pp. 114–17, p. 116, n. 266: suggests the problem lies with the lists and notes that bacillary dysentery had a 20–25% mortality rate in wartime conditions. E. H. R. Harries and M. Mitman, Clinical Practice in Infectious Diseases, 3rd edn (Edinburgh, 1947), pp. 436–50 note a 10% mortality rate in UK mental institutions in the late 1930s. I have used this volume because of its detailed clinical descriptions and the authors’ war time experience. Vincent J. Cirillo, “More Fatal Than Powder and Shot: Dysentery in The US Army During the Mexican War of 1846–48,” in Perspectives in Biology and Medicine, vol. 52 no. 3 (Baltimore, 2009), 400–13, gives an 18–22% mortality rate among some American units, with 88% of all war deaths due to dysentery. The 1967–71 bacillary dysentery epidemics in Central America carried a mortality rate of around 15%. Harries and Mitman, Infectious Diseases, pp.  436–50: amoebic dysentery is usually confined to tropical or sub-tropical areas, having an insidious onset and a longer incubation period than bacillary dysentery. The cysts of the parasite survive in water and on food in damp conditions. Ian Mortimer, The Time Traveler’s Guide to Medieval England (London, 2009), p. 174, water butts were relatively safe. The brewing of ale was largely the responsibility of women, who sold their excess production. Ian S. Hornsey, A History of Brewing and Beer (Cambridge, 2003), p. 293: in Exeter (1365–93), 75% of all households brewed and sold ale. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 2:40; 2:64: 600 casks of wine were also requested from Bordeaux. Barker, Agincourt, p. 212.



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his species was not an idle assertion. A large proportion of daily calories were consumed in liquid form, and as horses were vital for haulage, they assisted in preventing water-borne infection.116 Moreover, unlike other provisions, beer could be kept for a long time, up to five or six months if “stored in good casks.”117 Good ale was important to English troops, and the prospect of being without beer caused a mutiny in 1512, and was partly responsible for the loss of Calais in 1558.118 Indeed, it was only on the march to Calais that the troops resorted to water, when wine was “reserved for the leaders and men of the better sort.”119 A water-borne infection, therefore, seems an unlikely source of the sickness that afflicted Henry’s army at Harfleur, and, as at Arras (1413), bacillary dysentery was a more probable cause.120 Bacillary dysentery, caused by the shigella group of bacteria, is transmitted via the faeco-oral route through food contaminated with infected human excreta. Water-borne epidemics of bacillary dysentery are rare, and flies are a crucial vector in the spread of the disease, with most epidemics occurring between May and October.121 Troops, weakened by hunger, would be unable to care for the horses, whose waste and decomposing bodies would engender a plague of flies. Heavy rains or a humid atmosphere towards the end of a warm summer can cause a dramatic increase in fly production as their larvae are highly dependent upon damp conditions. A fly-borne epidemic might explain why the illness at Harfleur did not discriminate in favor of the upper classes, whose better diet and wine consumption might otherwise have protected them.122 At the siege of Rochester (1088), the garrison capitulated following a deadly epidemic of bacillary dysentery caused by a plague of flies, which “grievously annoyed the besieged,” settling on their food and in their mouths and nostrils. “Innumerable flies” were engendered in the dung and corpses of

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Lydgate’s “Horse, Goose and Sheep,” p. 55, v.21 lines 141–42. F. W. Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond (Cambridge, 1897), pp. 439–40: “multum biberunt de cerevisia Anglicana,” a third of the sown land in England was devoted “to the provision of drink.” Cruickshank, Army Royal, p. 56. Ibid., on English troops’ preference for beer over wine. A. F. Pollard, Tudor Tracts, 1532–1588 (London, 1903), p. 313: opening the sluices to the sea, a measure which saved the town in 1436, was dismissed during the siege of 1558 as the influx of salt water was considered detrimental to “the brewing of the beer.” Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 2:41; 2:114. Harries and Mitman, Infectious Diseases, p. 443: contaminated shell fish might suggest enteric fever, difficult to distinguish from dysentery in the field. In wartime conditions dysentery and typhoid can occur together. Harries and Mitman, Infectious Diseases, pp.  436–50: flies carry the organisms on their feet and in their digestive tract and defecate as they feed, contaminating any food upon which they alight. Dani Cohen, Manfred Green, Colin Block, et al. “Reduction of Transmission of Shigellosis by Control of Houseflies (Musca Domestica),” The Lancet 337 (1991), 993–97. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, pp. 94–95, on the protective effects of wine. Cohen, Green, Block, et al., “Transmission of Shigellosis,” p. 993: as few as ten bacteria are required to cause shigellosis, “which readily enables direct person-to-person transmission of the infection whenever hygiene is compromised.”

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horses and men, a situation which also occurred in the dysentery epidemic of the US-Mexican War (1846–48).123 At the siege of Montreuil (1544), famine was again followed by disease, with horses having a prominent role. At Harfleur (1415), the English cavalry were unable to contest the countryside with the French, while at Montreuil, the mercenary horse refused to forage. The draft horses became too weak to pull the artillery and “the carrion of the mares and horses that died among the host were left to rot on the ground for want of anyone to bury them as the discipline of the host demands.” Consequently, “a great pestilence,” probably fly-borne dysentery, fell “among the soldiers.”124 Flooded roads hindered supply, beer ran out, and famine, neglect and dysentery soon took their toll. The duke of Norfolk reported horses dying and men falling sick “in great number,” and constantly prayed for “horsemen of a better sort,” blaming count Buren’s cavalry, who, too weak or unwilling to forage, lost 700 hundred men to dysentery, with 20–80 dying each night.125 The symptoms of dysentery (malaise, abdominal pain and diarrhoea with 10–40 stools a day, eventually consisting solely of blood and mucus) made it impossible either to care for the horses, ride or fight. The inevitable fouling of the ground provided a further focus for flies. Fly-borne dysentery has continued to plague armies in more recent times, incapacitating a US division in 1942, while aiding the allied victory at El Alamein in the same year.126 The prevalence of dysentery in more modern conflicts, and the losses inflicted by the disease at Montreuil, support the argument for a similarly high casualty rate at Harfleur. Thus, if half of Henry V’s army of 15,000 was affected by dysentery, assuming a mortality rate of 20%, there would be 1,500 deaths, the figure given Augustus le Prevost, ed. Orderici Vitalis, Historiae Ecclesiasticae, 6 vols. Société de l’histoire de France (Paris, 1845), 3:273–74: “innumerabiles, ergo, muscae hominum et equorum coeno nascebantur.” Regarding the US-Mexican War, Cirillo, “Powder and Shot,” p. 407, notes the “exponential increase in the housefly population which bred in the ubiquitous horse manure and exposed human excreta.” 124 Elis Gruffydd, cited in Cruickshank, Army Royal, p. 52. 125 J. S. Brewer, James Gairdner, and R. H. Brodie, eds. Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, of the Reign of Henry VIII, 1507–47, 21 vols. in 33 pts. (London 1862–1932), 19, pt. 2:111; 2:133; 2:127; 2:138. 126 Dwight M. Kuhns, Theodore G. Anderson, “A Fly-borne Bacillary Dysentery Epidemic in a Large Military Organisation,” American Journal of Public Health (1944), 750–55. As at Harfleur, the disease began in August, two weeks after the troops had been under canvas. No flies were present when the soldiers first arrived, but numbers peaked with the incidence of the disease in mid-September before declining with the onset of cooler weather. Dysentery ceased immediately in one unit upon its transfer to a different location, supporting Henry V’s decision to march to Calais. H. S. Gear, “Hygiene Aspects of The El Alamein Victory 1942,” British Medical Journal (1944), 383–87: 40–50% of Axis troops were afflicted with the disease; their fortresses and camps were “a huge fly farm,” and in “an indescribably filthy condition.” Kenneth C. Hyams, August L. Bourgeois, Bruce R. Merrell, et al. “Diarrheal Disease During Operation Desert Shield,” New England Journal of Medicine 325 (1991), 1423–28: the prevalence of diarrhoea in US units ranged from 36–81% with shigella the predominant organism. 123



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by the Tudor chronicler Hall, and one comparable with the fatalities of the Loire campaign and at the sieges Melun and Meaux.127 Famine dramatically increases the virulence and mortality of disease, highlighting the vulnerability of those engaged in a medieval siege to dysentery and underlining the crucial role of horses in either sustaining or undermining the health of the army. The epidemic at Harfleur forced Henry to change his strategy with unfortunate consequences for the army’s horses. The tenuous hold on Harfleur eventually resulted in the remaining animals being eaten, while the march to Calais was also ruinous. The men were ordered to take eight days’ worth of provisions for the journey, to be carried on pack horses. The carts were left behind, ostensibly to expedite progress, but there was probably a lack of healthy horses to pull them.128 Further supply was unlikely, and, with little time to graze if the army was to keep moving, the outlook for the 12,000 or more horses was bleak.129 The French continued to use their mounted troops to lay waste the countryside in advance of Henry’s progress, skilfully attacking isolated units and dispersed foraging parties.130 A continuation of these tactics might have broken Henry’s army without the need for a general engagement.131 Lacking fodder, the horses began to die and Henry lost twenty of his own horses on the march and 135 during the whole campaign.132 Surprisingly, some retinues returned to Calais with more horses than men, but if the king’s horses were dying on the journey, the overall condition of the English mounts cannot have been good, and hostile cavalry incursions became difficult to repel without archers.133 After the victory at Agincourt, with a depleted cavalry arm, the English were unable to capitalize Edward Hall, The History of England, During the Reign of Henry the Fourth and the Succeeding Monarchs to the End of the Reign of Henry the Eighth (1548, repr. London, 1809), p. 63: “the flux and other fevers, which sore vexed and brought to death above xv.C. persons.” Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:85: “en mourut bien deux mille ou plus.” Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:329; 3:331, n. 1, cite 1,400 casualties to famine and disease in the perambulations around the Loire and 3:341 consider that Henry lost 16% of a much smaller force at Meaux in the two months before Christmas. The French chroniclers suggest higher figures: Chronique du Religieux de Saint-Denys, le règne de Charles VI, trans. M. L. Bellaguet, Collection de documents inédits sur l’histoire de France, 6 vols. (Paris, 1839–52), 6:449; Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 3:248. Jonathan Sumption, The Hundred Years War, 4 vols. (London, 2015), 4:440, gives Monstrelet’s figure of 2,000 deaths for Harfleur, and (4:709) suggests that Henry lost a third of his strength, 1,700 men, to dysentery and battle injuries at Melun. Barker, Agincourt, p. 215 considers that Henry lost 10–20% of his army to dysentery at Harfleur, “something in the region of 1,200–2,400 men.” 128 Thomae de Elmham, Vita et Gesta Henrici Quinti, ed. T Hearne (Oxford, 1727), p. 51. 129 Barker, Agincourt, p. 228. 130 Gesta Henrici Quinti. The Deeds of Henry the Fifth, ed. and trans., Frank Taylor and John K. Roskill (Oxford, 1975), p. 66. Chron. Saint-Denys, le règne de Charles VI, 5:551: Picards routed a force of 300 men, sent from Calais to meet Henry and the French captains “avaient en plusieurs rencontres surpris les enemies dispersés çà et là pour fourrager, et leur avaient tué et blessé beaucoup de monde.” 131 Chron. Saint-Denys, le règne de Charles VI, 5:551. 132 Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth 2:186 and 2:186 n. 2: “in partibus Picardie cum rege.” 133 Ibid., 2:406, n. 28; 2:186, n. 2. Barker, Agincourt, p. 228. 127

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upon their success. It was impossible to secure the enemy’s horses, and most of the army travelled to Calais on foot, a journey which lasted three days.134 The role of mounted forces in securing supply proved essential in the next campaign. Realizing that famine and dysentery had brought his army close to collapse, Henry V determined that the situation should not be repeated at the siege of Rouen (1418–19). He ensured that the Seine remained navigable to English ships so that victuals from England could be “conveyed to the hoast,” particularly wine and beer.135 The king also “ordained a market of all things requisite to be holden,” and “armed horsemen” ensured the safety of merchants and others, who brought fodder and provisions from the surrounding countryside.136 Henry took personal control of the foraging expeditions, and although isolated parties were attacked by Dauphinist horse, most convoys got through. Fifteen hundred Irish kerns, expert foragers, were recruited under Thomas Butler to ensure that the search for provisions extended far and wide. Page considered the Irish “welle-come unto oure lege,” as their small hardy horses required little maintenance.137 In this way the health of the army and its horses was maintained, while those within Rouen were afflicted with famine and dysentery. When a French relief force made a surprise attack on the siege lines, it was the good condition of the defenders’ horses that enabled the survivors to escape and raise the alarm.138 Henry, however, was unable to lay the specter of dysentery from his final expedition to France, which began in May 1421 with 900 men-at-arms and 3,300 archers, most of whom were mounted. Despite the number of horsemen, the English could not prevent hostile cavalry from interfering with their supplies and were unable to force a decisive encounter. Beaugency was besieged, but the castle held out, and again “la famine totalle,” followed by “une merveilleuse pestilence de flux de ventre” afflicted the English army.139 The English followed the dauphin to Orléans but, unable to take the city, were compelled to withdraw. Retreat increased the virulence of dysentery as disordered units could not be supervised.140 Dead and dying men, together with their horses, littered the fields and roads to be finished off by the local peasantry. Several minor siege operations followed, but the perambulations about the Loire failed to bring the French to battle, while their horsemen continually harassed the English, denying 134 135 136 137 138 139

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Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:112: “les trois pars à pié.” Richard Ager Newhall, The English Conquest of Normandy 1416–1424, a Study in Fifteenth Century Warfare (London, 1924), pp. 256–57. Kingsford, First Life, p. 125. Ibid., p. 127. Page, “Siege of Rouen,” p. 12. Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 2:258: “aulcuns quy par bons chevaux se saulverent.” Chronique de Jean le Fèvre, Seigneur de Saint-Rémy ed. François Morand, Société de l’histoire de France, 2 vols. (Paris, 1876–81), 2:39. Jean Juvenal des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, roy de France ed. Theodore Godfroy (1614, repr.1841, Paris), p. 570. Gear, “Hygiene and El Alamein,” p. 383: moving back led to decreased supervision and with “no time to establish control of camping sites… sanitary discipline relaxed, and much ground became badly fouled.”



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them provisions.141 Dysentery and famine claimed the lives of more than 1,400 Englishmen, and, as in John of Lancaster’s chevauchée of 1373, a considerable number of horses.142 Undeterred, Henry besieged Meaux (1421–22). However, when heavy rain caused the Marne to burst its banks the English siege lines were inundated, and the horses sent away to escape the rising waters.143 Without horsemen foraging was impossible, and when the floods subsided Dauphinist cavalry blocked the roads, preventing provisions from reaching the English army. Famine and flooded latrines precipitated a further epidemic of dysentery, which again did not spare the nobles.144 Great numbers of sick were sent back to England, but few returned.145 Henry himself became ill, later dying from complications of the disease.146 Thus, the effective use of cavalry in a scorched earth strategy removed the greatest threat to the kingdom of France without the risk of a major engagement. Meaux demonstrates the need for besiegers to retain a well-mounted body of men-at-arms and underlines the fatal effects of allowing enemy horsemen to operate unopposed on the fringes of the siege lines. Horses were, despite their complex needs which made them prone to illness, essential to the effectiveness of a besieging army; and, in their absence, it was difficult for a siege to be maintained. The loss of horses was inextricably linked with famine and disease, particularly dysentery, which caused the dissolution of the French army at Arras (1414), and dramatically increased the desertion rate at Harfleur (1415), Meaux (1421), and Melun (1420). The Besieged and Their Horses It was essential that the besieged had their own mounted troops to forage and secure supplies before the blockade was complete so that their horses could remain in good condition to harass the enemy and provide a vigorous defense. Horsemen shadowed the approaching columns of besiegers and devastated the surrounding countryside before retreating into the town themselves.147 Such Kingsford, First Life, pp. 174–75: “nor no enemie aboade his comminge.” Ibid., p. 175: “manie of them, as well, of men as of horses, perished for hunger.” Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:329; 3:331, n. 1. Chron. Saint-Denys, le règne de Charles VI, 6:464–65: “it is said that nearly 3,000 of them died in this deplorable fashion.” Prestwich, The Hundred Years War, p. 109: In the great chevauchée of 1373, John of Lancaster, unable to live off the land, lost a third of his men to dysentery, two thirds of his carts, and around 24,000 horses by the time he reached Bordeaux. 143 Elmham, Vita & Gesta, p. 318: “nunc Angli equos suos in remotas partes miserant.” 144 Chron. Saint-Denys, le règne de Charles VI: 6:449. 145 Thomas Walsingham, Historia Anglicana, 1272–1422, ed. H. T. Riley, 2 vols. (London, 1864), 2:340. 146 Ibid., 2:43: “interim incidit in febrem acutam cum dysenteria vehementi.” Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, 1:78: the king developed dropsy, probably due to renal or cardiac complications. 147 Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 114. 141

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tactics might prolong a siege until relief arrived; cause famine and disease among the besiegers; dramatically increase the enemy’s financial burden; and even lead to a siege being abandoned.148 Failure to strip the surrounding countryside at Novara (1495) cost the French the town, for, as Commynes noted: “if they had been so prudent as to have brought in all the corn and provisions about the town upon their first coming …the enemy would have been obliged to have abandoned the siege.”149 Defenders realized that without fodder, the besiegers could not maintain a strong mounted presence in the immediate vicinity, which not only reduced the number of enemy troops at the siege, but also gave their own horsemen the advantage. The application of these tactics in winter, which was particularly ruinous to cavalry, often caused a siege to fail. In January 1421, the Dauphinists captured Villeneuvre-sur-Yonne, an important stronghold on the route to Paris. L’Isle Adam attempted to recapture the town in February but was too weak to press the siege successfully. The Burgundians had no means of countering the Dauphinist cavalry, which intercepted their supplies, as their own horses had been sent away for lack of fodder. When a French relief force approached under the viscount of Narbonne, the Burgundians buried their artillery and retreated on foot. Narbonne pressed on to besiege the nearest Burgundian stronghold at Joigny but was also forced to retreat since “he could get nothing for his horses to eat in the snow-covered country.”150 The operations around Villeneuvre-surYonne and Joigny demonstrate that it was almost impossible to engage in a siege without horses. At Meaux (1421–22), the English were forced to send away their cavalry when the Marne burst its banks, which allowed Dauphinist horse to control the supply lines.151 Again, at Louviers (1431), the English had to detach archers and varlets to guard their horses, who were moved elsewhere because of a complete absence of fodder. This resulted in the prolongation of the siege and an acrimonious dispute over pay as the treasury considered those detailed to look after the horses were no longer present at the investment.152 When winter descended on the Burgundians besieging Neuss, the poorer soldiers lost their horses for want of forage, while the coursers of nobles were sent to nearby towns, but only “à grant coust et despens.”153 Capturing a town, however, did not immediately resolve the problems of supply, and at Harfleur (1416) the erstwhile besiegers were soon themselves besieged. Supply from England remained inadequate and the town had to try

Ibid., p. 128: a large sally might inflict “a piecemeal defeat” upon the attackers “and break the siege entirely.” 149 Commynes, Mémoires, 2:499; 2:252. Trans. Andrew R. Scobie, The Memoirs of Philip de Commines, 2 vols. (London, 1879), 2:243. 150 Livres des Trahisons, p. 163. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:294–95. 151 Ibid., 3:340. 152 Richard Ager Newhall, Muster and Review, A Problem of English Administration 1420–1440 (Cambridge, MA, 1940), pp. 142–43. 153 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:58. 148



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to survive by plunder.154 As little remained in the surrounding countryside, the English were obliged to raid deep into enemy territory, incurring substantial risk. Any excursion into hostile territory for provender was dependent upon horses. The greater the distance to be travelled, the more horses would be needed and the larger the mounted escort required. If the expedition returned empty-handed, the horses would have been exhausted without reward. A party led by Sir John Fastolf approached within six miles of Rouen, taking 500 prisoners, but could not retain them when counter-attacked. In March 1416, the earl of Dorset, the captain of Harfleur, with more than 1,500 men raided as far as Ouainville but was intercepted and defeated at Valmont by a French cavalry force under the count of Armagnac. The survivors lost all their horses and provisions in this foolhardy adventure, which almost cost the English the town, now “besieged by land and sea.”155 Famine was followed by the return of disease and the remaining horses were killed and eaten.156 Without cavalry those foraging on foot could not be protected and reconnaissance was severely compromised. Dorset made desperate pleas to the Council in England stating that unless he could be immediately reinforced with horses and provisions, he would have to evacuate the town due to “the great number of horses, which have perished here.”157 Even after the French naval blockade was broken, the town remained entirely dependent on supplies from England until December 1419.158 Harfleur demonstrated that it was difficult to hold a town close to enemy territory without horsemen. Cavalry as Part of an Aggressive Defense Horsemen were a vital part of the defense of a besieged town and could exploit their opponent’s weaknesses by embarking upon unexpected sorties. Rapid mounted actions could inflict significant casualties, take prisoners, capture or destroy supplies, burn lodgings, slight siege works, and disrupt the enemy’s preparations before a meaningful response could be organized. Infantry could also engage in sallies, but their less rapid movement meant less time with the benefit of surprise and less ability to do damage per minute.159 Vigorously attacking the besiegers and giving them “no respite, especially at the commencement of the investment,” might prevent the siege lines from 154 155

156 157 158 159

Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 2:322. The Chronicle of John Strecche for the Reign of Henry the Fifth (1414–1422), ed. Frank Taylor (Manchester, 1932), p. 157. Bachrach, “Animals and Warfare,” p. 722: “Foraging in enemy territory must be regarded as having been a dangerous and foolish strategy that could often result in the destruction of the foragers.” Fastolf and Dorset were more than 50 miles from their base. Strecche, Chronicle, p. 158: “quod inclusi, pre nimia fame equos suos comederunt.” Sir Harris Nicolas, ed. Proceedings and Ordinances of the Privy Council of England, 22 vols. (London, 1834) 2:196–97: “la grande perde des chivalx qui icy ont este perduz.” Newhall, English Conquest, pp.  255–56: the conquest of Upper Normandy finally allowed provisioning from the wider countryside. Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” pp. 12–14.

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closing and was considered a “means of safety.”160 Such actions lowered enemy morale and capitalized on the freshness of the defenders’ horses before those of the besiegers had recuperated, or after time and the difficult conditions of a siege had caused them to deteriorate. Mounted sorties were usually made from several gates at once to surprise and confuse the besiegers, making response difficult as the attackers would enjoy a temporary local numerical superiority.161 At Rouen (1418), Page noted that the French “yssuyde owte many fulle kene/ On horsbackys with hyr harneys fulle schene,” not just “in one party,” but “at ij gatys, or iij, or alle/ Sodynly they dyd owte falle.”162 Sallies from a hidden postern, especially when the besiegers were eating or otherwise relaxing, were particularly effective.163 It was not easy to assess the strength of these sudden incursions, which were difficult to counter as the retreat was covered by the artillery, handguns, and crossbows of those on the walls.164 The defenders also tried to lure their pursuers onto “horse-breakers” and caltrops that had been set near the gates.165 At Rouen, once the circumvallation of the city was complete, the French defenders were unable to use their cavalry for sorties, although these continued on foot.166 However, on many other occasions, an aggressive defence by mounted troops prevented the lines from closing in the first place or led to a siege being abandoned, as at Arras (1414), Orléans (1429), Compiègne (1430), Chavensy (1436), Calais (1436), Beauvais (1472), Vesou (1477) and La Laye (1492). The Siege of Arras (1414) The siege of Arras demonstrates how a well-organized defense supported by cavalry could, in conjunction with a concerted policy of denying supplies to the enemy, lead to the dissolution of the besieging army. Influenced by the Armagnacs, Charles VI, at the head of a royal army, determined to take decisive action against the Burgundians. Responding to the crisis John the Fearless demonstrated considerable military skill. Abandoning the Burgundian garrisons E. Viollet-Le-Duc, Annals of a Fortress, Twenty-Two Centuries of Siege Warfare (1874, repr., Barton-under-Needwood, 2000), p. 118. 161 Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 128. 162 Page, “Siege of Rouen,” pp.  3, 14. The Brut, 2:387–390: “they come never out at one gate alone.” 163 Le Jouvencel, 2:54. 164 Page, “Siege of Rouen,” p. 15: “For moche of the drede come fro the walle;/ For schot of goone and quarelle bothe/ Sawe I nevyr gretter wothe.” 165 Page, “Siege of Rouen,” p. 5: the long vegetation was “thycke of caltrappys,” also known as tribuli or chausse trappes. At Orléans and Beauvais, women brought them to the ramparts where they were cast down by the defenders. Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 291: Joan of Arc stood on one at Orléans. 166 Page, “Siege of Rouen,” p. 15: “Then they yssuyd owte ofte on fote, / For in horse-backe was noo boote.” A deep ditch and parapet furnished with thorn bushes and sharp stakes, “interdisant le passage à la cavalerie,” Léon Puiseux, Siège et prise de Rouen par les Anglais (1418–1419) (1867, repr. Paris, 2015), p. 106. 160



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at Compiègne and Soissons, he concentrated all his efforts on defending Arras: “the shield, the wall and the defence of Western Flanders.”167 The fortifications were improved, artillery mounted on the walls, and the suburbs ruthlessly destroyed to provide a clear field of fire. Women and children were evacuated to the other Burgundian strongholds and provisions collected to last for at least four months. Philippe  de Beauffort was appointed captain of the town, which was garrisoned with 600 experienced men-at-arms and many archers, including a large English contingent. The king’s troops, who were far more numerous, camped before the town, but were immediately subject to frequent and vigorous sorties on horseback from the Ronville gate: “tous à cheval, et attaquérent vivement.”168 These incursions cost the French many men with more than 240 taken prisoner. The Burgundians made innumerable impromptu mounted attacks throughout the siege, sometimes from several gates within the hour. Towards the end, when most of their horses were lost, less effective sallies continued on foot.169 The nearby castle of Bellemotte remained in Burgundian hands and their mounted men-at-arms intervened on numerous occasions to assist their countrymen, disordering the French whenever they tried to counter-attack. The success of the mounted sorties was largely due to the exceptional speed of the Burgundian horses, who easily out-distanced those of the French, bringing their riders, even when worsted, to safety because, being in better condition, they were impossible to pursue. The artillery on the walls, which included numerous “nouveaux canons à main” sited to fire at different levels, together with bodies of archers, who ventured outside the gates, covered the retreat.170 A crucial element in the successful defence of Arras was that the Burgundians held the countryside. Cavalry from Douai, Lens and other places attacked the royal foraging parties causing considerable harm. No matter how far the French ranged in search of provisions, they were harassed and defeated by Burgundian horsemen under the leadership of Philippe and Hector de Saveuses. Deprived of fodder and provisions the royal camp was afflicted with famine and soon, “leurs chevaulx mouroient de fain partout.”171 Dysentery followed, with an estimate of 11,000 men dying from the flux.172 The royal troops, who struggled back to Paris, were so ill that many only returned home to die. When rumours spread of an imminent English invasion, the French made overtures for peace.173

Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 1:397. Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:24: the sallies continued day in and day out. Achmet D’Héricourt, Les sièges d’Arras, histoire de les expéditions militaires (Arras, 1844), pp. 39–62. 169 Ibid., p. 48. 170 Chron. Saint-Denys, le règne de Charles VI, 5:375. This may have been the first time that hand guns were used in such numbers. 171 Journal d’un Bourgeois, p. 55. 172 Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:32. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 1:398. Le Fèvre, Chronique, 1:182. 173 Journal d’un Bourgeois, p. 56. 167 168

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Despite being reinforced by garrison troops and “faulx Françoys,” the English lacked the manpower to surround the city, partly because of its location on the Loire but also due to the necessity of reducing and garrisoning surrounding strongholds. Salisbury was obliged to capture forty castles and fortified churches, leaving troops at Jargeau, Meung, and Baugency, before moving on to the city itself. Consequently, the siege began with relatively few men and was initially confined to the left bank.174 The inability to effect a closed siege greatly facilitated a mounted defence because once a blockade was complete, as at Rouen, cavalry became less effective.175 When a complete circumvallation was not possible, the besiegers resorted to the construction of bastilles, large wooden and earthen structures, each garrisoned with 300–500 men and well furnished with artillery.176 More expansive structures, like the English bastille at Dieppe, could hold a greater number of troops.177 Bastilles were positioned opposite gates and bridges where they could flank sorties and interfere with foraging and supply, and were used both offensively and defensively. They were often situated overlooking a town, so that they could fire at vital structures such as bridges and mills.178 At Orléans, when English guns destroyed the mills along the Loire, the inhabitants constructed others within the town, which were driven by horses and better protected.179 Bastilles, which Basin calls castella (small fortresses), were used by all sides during the Hundred Years War and generally served the same function as Molandon and Beaucorps, L’Armée Anglaise, p. 69. Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 3:251: as the siege was not closed, the besieged could largely come and go as they pleased. 176 Waurin, Chartier, and Monstrelet, refer to these structures as bastilles, as does Jean de Bueil, who was present at Orléans, Le Jouvencel, 2:44. The Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 265 lists thirteen English bastilles (bastides). The contemporary Journal du siège d’Orléans, Charpentier and Cuissard, pp. 20–22, p. 30, p. 55, pp. 80–84 frequently refers to the English fortifications as bastilles, but also mentions boulevards (bouleverts), as do the other writers. Boulevards were smaller, low defensive earthworks which could be quickly thrown up to protect gates, bridges, or vulnerable parts of the wall. They absorbed the impact of shot and contained their own artillery and were used by the French to defend Orléans. More substantial structures, furnished with wood, could be set on fire: Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 263. At Orléans, the English also used boulevards to protect their positions: Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du siège d’Orléans, pp. 24, 60. Boulevards were sometimes used offensively to bring besiegers within range of their guns, as at Paris (1465): Vale, War and Chivalry, p. 133, pp. 142–43. Molandon and Beaucorps, L’Armée Anglaise, pp. 152–53, suggest that the difference between a boulevard and a bastille was that the latter was furnished with a reduit. DeVries, Joan of Arc, pp. 58, 60–62, 80–86 gives extensive information on boulevards, preferring to use the term for all the English fortifications at Orléans. However, for the purposes of this article the term “bastille” is defined following the usage of Jean de Bueil. 177 Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, 1:287. Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 4:233: the Burgundian bastille at Le Crotoy had a garrison of 800–1,000 troops. 178 The Brut, 2:578. Monstrelet, La chronique, V: 250: “feroit une bastille sur une montaigne qui estoit assés près de la ville.” 179 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 5. 174 175



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the earlier Anglo-Norman counter-castle.180 However, the great advantage of bastilles was that they allowed a siege to be prosecuted with fewer troops, which was why they were favored by the English.181 Bastilles close to enemy positions were subject to frequent attacks, so that their occupants were constantly on the alert, deprived of sleep, and fearful of being isolated.182 The English built several large bastilles at Orléans, which they tried to connect with trenches, in addition to numerous smaller structures, with a remarkable total of twenty-two in all.183 Yet, despite this, the siege lines remained porous, allowing the passage of large numbers of mounted troops, pack horses laden with provisions, livestock, and sometimes infantry.184 More than fourteen hundred combatants, plus artillery sallied out of Orléans to join Clermont at Rouvray (1429). After the French defeat, La Hire and the cavalry covered the retreat, shepherding the fugitives back into the city, preventing any attack by the English from their bastilles.185 Similarly, when the Bastard of Orléans and the Pucelle entered the city with artillery and supplies from Blois, the English, despite their greater numbers, failed to engage and sat tight within their bastilles.186 Occasionally, they fired their cannon on the returning mounted troops, who mostly “entered safe and sound,” but the lack of interference seems surprising. English inertia has been attributed to a desire not to fatigue their troops or engage in detail, but the main problem was lack of cavalry.187 At Orléans, the English had few horsemen, “avoient peu de chevaulx,” because, having decided to prosecute the siege on foot, they had not thought them necessary. Furthermore, as the experienced soldier Jean de Bueil observed, the great weakness of bastilles was that they could not hold horses: “en bastilles on ne peut tenir chevaulx.”188 Consequently, they could only hinder rather than prevent movement into and out of a besieged place.189 Since the French supports were mostly mounted, it was both difficult and dangerous to attack them on foot. Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, 1:118. Stephen Morillo, Warfare Under the Anglo-Norman Kings 1066–1135 (Woodbridge, 1994), pp. 136–37. 182 Monstrelet, La chronique, 4:410–17, at Compiègne, those in the bastilles had to be reassured that they would be supported. 183 Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 3:272. Siméon Luce, ed. Chronique du Mont-Saint-Michel 1343–1468, 2 vols. (Paris, 1879), 1:30. Monstrelet, La chronique, 4:319: suggests there were sixty. 184 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, pp. 67–68, p. 75. 185 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 44. 186 Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 287: “les Anglois n’osèrent yssir de leurs bastides.” Le Jouvencel, 1:xxiv. Craig Taylor, ed. and trans. Joan of Arc, La Pucelle (Manchester, 2006), p. 313. 187 Molandon and Beaucorps, L’Armée Anglaise, pp. 156–57. 188 Le Jouvencel, 1:109 n.1: the siege of Crathor mirrors events which occurred at the sieges of Orléans and Lagny. 1:211–14 deals with the departure of the English from Orléans and their pursuit towards Meung-sur-Loire. See particularly: 1:211–12; 1:212, n. 1; 1:214, n. 2. and 2:44 for bastilles. 189 Le Jouvencel, 2:44. Bernard S. Bachrach and David S. Bachrach, Warfare in Medieval Europe c.400–1453 (London, 2017), p. 243: such fortifications increased the need for mounted troops. 180 181

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Similarly, after Rouvray, “the English did not pursue because the greater part were on foot.”190 The fugitives who sought refuge in Orléans after the battle were unmolested because “lesdits Anglois estoint à pié en leurs bastilles,” and there was open space between the siege lines and the town.191 The absence of a readily available cavalry arm was a significant handicap for the besiegers, who remained immobilized in their bastilles, which were expensive to construct, required 5,200 men for their defense, and being replete with artillery, could not easily be abandoned. The major disadvantage of English tactics lay in their defensive nature, and bastilles exacerbated the problem. De Bueil, who fought at Orléans and Patay, understood the value of cavalry. He was highly critical of bastilles, arguing that they could nether support one another, nor hold horsemen.192 Single bastilles were particularly vulnerable as those within felt isolated and had no personal interests to defend, unlike the besieged within a town, who fought for their families and fellow citizens. Consequently, they were less willing to offer strong resistance, particularly as bastilles were less likely to be relieved in comparison with a city or town where more honor and profit was to be gained.193 Nervousness upon the approach of the enemy led to unpredictable behavior. The Burgundians constructed a large bastille at Le Crotoy (1437) but mutinied, fired the structure, and fled when the English appeared.194 The English twice constructed bastilles at Ardevon near Mont-Saint-Michel, but on both occasions the structures were evacuated and burnt upon the approach of a French force.195 In 1423, daily skirmishes took place between the besieged in the Mont and those from the bastille at Ardevon. Meanwhile, the baron de Coulonces, with a mounted force, covered the ten leagues from Mayenne-laJuhais to Ardevon, before resting the horses. Then, seeing the French skirmishers pushed back almost to the Mont, he placed his horsemen between the English and their bastille.196 With their retreat blocked and without cavalry support the English lost around 240 men, and their captain Nicolas Burdett was captured. The essentially defensive nature of bastilles and the lack of an immediately available cavalry force meant that they could be isolated in turn and successfully assaulted by a combination of horse and foot. Bastilles were erected at Montargis, Ardevon, Orléans, Compiègne, Calais and Dieppe, and in every case their destruction led to the siege being raised, consequent upon the problems emphasized by de Bueil.197 As the fifteenth century progressed, the preponderCharpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, pp. 43–44: “car les Angloys ne les chassèrent pas, obstant ce que la plus part d’eulx estoient à piet.” 191 Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:63. 192 Le Jouvencel, 2:44. 193 Ibid. 194 Waurin, Recueil des chroniques, 4:229–41. 195 Chronique du Mont-Saint-Michel, 1:26–27; 1:35. 196 Chronique de la Pucelle, pp. 219–20. 197 Le Jouvencel, 2:44: “encores en France de ces derrenières guerres les ay-je vu prendre et desconfire devant Orleans, devant Compiègne, devant Dieppe, et devant le Mont Saint-Michel.” 190



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ance of archers in English armies meant that their cavalry struggled to compete with their French counterparts. The gap widened as the French horse improved in quality and experience while the numbers of English men-at-arms diminished. Although mounted archers could perform escort duties and other roles, in meeting engagements they lacked “the necessary survivability in the face of enemy men-at-arms.”198 Insufficient numbers of mounted men-at-arms limited the scope of English armies, both in defence of a town, or when attempting to relieve a besieged fortress. However, to return to Orléans, despite the bastilles the French made numerous sallies on horseback, although horses were lost in the skirmishes that followed.199 Horsemen left the town and surprised the English in their lodgings near Fleury, returning with provisions, horses, and prisoners. Nocturnal sorties, deep into the Loire valley, also caught the English off-guard.200 As further bastilles were erected securing provisions became more difficult, but a steady stream of pack horses brought supplies into the city, mostly from Châteaudun, the only remaining French stronghold on the Loire apart from Blois. Horses, usually six or more at a time, brought ammunition and supplies, including butter, cheeses, herrings and corn.201 If the small convoys were threatened, “la cloche du beffroy sonna,” and citizens and mounted troops issued forth to bring them to safety. The arrival of the Pucelle was a phenomenon. She could ride a war horse and handle a lance, and immediately engaged in a mounted reconnaissance of all the English positions, assessing their troop numbers and weak points.202 The demolition of the suburbs had created a protective space around the town where French cavalry could operate, and from where Joan could view which of the western bastilles merited attack.203 The Pucelle used cavalry, both to screen the departure of Dunois and Jean d’Aulon, who left the city to gather more men-atarms, and to secure their safe return.204 Joan also used horsemen to disperse the English attacks and a combination of horse and foot to isolate and assault the bastilles. During one episode when the French were forced to withdraw, the English rushed from the fortress of the Augustins to attack them but Joan and La Hire, with a small mounted force, charged the English with couched lances, forcing them to retreat in disorder.205 When the Pucelle and the Bastard of Orléans assaulted and destroyed the bastille of Saint Loup, the English from the fortification at Saint Pouair tried to assist their comrades. However, the sounding of “la cloche du beffroy,” again alerted those within the city, who Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” p. 17. Chronique de la Pucelle. p. 266. 200 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, pp. 68, 71–72. 201 Ibid. 202 Ibid., p. 80: “la pucelle estant à cheval, et alla sur les champs visiter les bastilles et ost des Angloys.” 203 Molandon and Beaucorps, L’Armée Anglaise, p. 75: “Jeanne d’Arc s’y promener à cheval librement.” 204 Taylor, Pucelle, p. 341. 205 Ibid., pp. 341–44. 198

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sallied out on horse and foot to prevent the intervention.206 Finally, when the English lifted the siege, 120 lances from the garrison attacked the departing columns, “escarmoucher tousjours à leurs doz,” securing most of the artillery.207 The French now capitalized on their success, and having seized Jargeau, Beaugency and Meung, inflicted a catastrophic defeat upon the English with their cavalry at Patay (1429). Compiègne (1430) Similar tactics were used during the Anglo-Burgundian siege of Compiègne. The Pucelle and Poton de Xaintrailles made a dawn sortie on Pont L’Evêque, part of the besiegers’ supply chain, which forced the English to strengthen the position, although their supports were subsequently ambushed. In a further surprise attack, Joan stayed too long to cover the retreat and was unhorsed and captured. Despite this significant blow, sallies, both on horse and foot, continued to grieve the besiegers, with “pluiseurs des asségans mors et navrés.”208 The Burgundians constructed a bridge over the Oise, which allowed the passage of horsemen and the fierce skirmishing which followed led to the building of a further “grande et forte bastille.”209 A further structure, holding 300 men was erected facing the Pierrefonds gate, making it difficult for provisions to enter the town, whose fall was considered imminent.210 However, when the Marshal de Boussac finally arrived with a French relief force, the besiegers were faced with the dilemma of whether to face him in the open field, exposing their bastilles with depleted garrisons to attacks from the town, or to remain within their fortifications and offer mutual aid. Deciding upon the latter, they sent away all their horses to the fortified abbeys of Royaulieu and Venette, as they could not be held within the bastilles. However, by remaining on foot, the Anglo-Burgundians allowed the initiative to pass to the French, who, being mounted, could not be attacked: “ilz estoient a pie et les Francois a cheval.” The garrison of the grand bastille had been promised support, but French cavalry prevented all succour from those on foot.211 206 Charpentier

and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, pp. 81–82. Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 289: “tous les chefs de guerre, atout leurs puissance,” issued from the city, arriving “rapidement,” forcing the English to abandon their comrades in the Saint Loup bastille. The rapid response of “gens de guerre et citoyens,” “atout leurs puissance” suggests the presence of horsemen. 207 Le Jouvencel, 1:212–14; 1:214, n. 2. Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 90: “aucuns de la garnison de la cité les poursuivirent et se frappèrent sur la queue de leur armée… gangnèrent sur eulx grosses bombardes… et autre artillerie.” Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:79: La Hire and Ambrois de Loré led the pursuit “avec cent ou six vingtz lances.” 208 Monstrelet, La chronique, 4:390–91. 209 Ibid., 4:401. 210 Ibid., 4:403. 211 Ibid., 4:410–17: those in the larger bastilles had to be reassured that they would be supported. Waurin, Recueil des chroniques, 3:377, on the horses being sent away; 3:381–84 on the inability of John of Luxembourg to bring aid to the “grant bastille.”



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The relief force used their mounted mobility to support attacks by the besieged on the other fortifications, which were isolated and captured in turn by a combination of horse and foot. In desperation, the English and Burgundians arrayed their men before the town, hoping that the French, being out of provisions, would accept battle, but their troops melted away in droves, forcing the commanders to authorize a retreat. A final sally from Compiègne turned the disorderly withdrawal into a rout. All the artillery was left behind, and having refreshed themselves with captured provisions, the French launched a devastating mounted counter-attack into Anglo-Burgundian territory.212 Sieges were costly affairs and the frequent sallies “de pied et de cheval,” forced the Burgundians to increase their expenditure on guns and fortifications. Following the defeat, Philip of Burgundy complained to Henry VI, demanding immediate payment of the arrears owed to his troops and well as recompense for his increased expenditure on artillery. Cost-cutting was blamed for “want of men” to surround the town, but the real problem was failure to appreciate the importance of cavalry.213 The Burgundian Siege of Calais (1436) As at Arras and Orléans everyone knew that a siege was coming, and the town was well prepared. Edmund Beaufort, earl of Mortain, and Lord Camoys with three thousand men, both “speres and archers,” were diverted from an expedition to France to reinforce the town, until a more substantial relief force could be assembled under the duke of Gloucester.214 The English used their lance-armed cavalry to good effect, making frequent sorties both on horse and foot, which led to fierce skirmishing. In addition, mounted strength enabled the earl of Mortain to make several chevauchées into Burgundian territory, raiding as far as Boulogne, where he burnt the suburbs, and returned with a large haul of cattle and prisoners. On a further “journay” into west Flanders, he “ryfelt and spoilet that cuntre,” brushed aside a sortie from Gravelines, by-passed the town, and crossed the sands at low tide to return to Calais with his prisoners, booty and a huge “prey of bestes” without losing a single man. There was now such an abundance of cattle within the town that hunger was not an issue.215 The skirmish at Gravelines cost the Burgundians more than four hundred casualties and for his daring exploits Beaufort received the Order of the Garter. Horsemen were the key to these swift pre-emptive strikes, which were designed to draw 212

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Waurin, Recueil des chroniques, 3:390: “issirent a grant puissance de la ville, chevaulchant a estandart desploye… sur les marches que avoient tenu les annemis.” Smith and DeVries, Artillery of the Dukes of Burgundy, pp. 102–04 discusses the reasons for the Burgundian withdrawal. Letters and Papers Illustrative of the Wars of the English in France during the Reign of Henry the Sixth, King of England, ed. Joseph Stevenson, 2 vols. in 3 parts (London, 1861–64), 2 pt. 1:156–68. Michael Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, p. 299, on the cost of siege operations. The Brut, 2:574. Ibid., 2:575. Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare” pp. 12–14.

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men away from the investment. The fear of mounted attacks produced panic in Flemish coastal towns, whose artillery had been sent away to support the siege, causing troops to be raised to prevent further incursions.216 Strong leadership, daring tactics and the effective use of cavalry gave the English a huge psychological advantage over their opponents, causing them to hesitate even when they had the upper hand. Lord Camoys and Sir William Ashton, with both horse and foot from the Calais garrison, made a three day “iournay” towards Ardres and “ryfelt all the cuntre about the said toun.” On their return they were ambushed by four thousand Picard “speris on horsbake,” near the castle of Ballingham. The English column had become dispersed when the men gave chase to several hares. The Picards seized the moment, and charged with their lances in roulement perpétuel, riding “thrughe oure meyny, in and out again, and smote doun many fotemen and then, many of oure horsemen, seying this, fledde to the Castell of Balyngham.”217 The English captains, however, kept their nerve and held the field, allowing those who were scattered, both horse and foot, to rally upon the standards. The Burgundians were now themselves dispersed, their horses blown, having “chevaulchèrent à long train.”218 Surprised at seeing the fugitives rally, they halted to await reinforcements. The hesitation proved fatal, as the English, sensing that the enemy was afraid to follow up, quickly reorganized, and with a well-conducted cavalry charge, put the Burgundians to flight. The fugitives were pursued at full gallop to the gates of Ardres, where more than a hundred were killed or made prisoner. The English then regrouped and returned with their captives to Calais.219 The English continued to use their cavalry with great skill. Observing that the men of Bruges frequently skirmished right up to the Bulleyngate with pavises and crossbows, “they of the toune ordeynt speres on horsebakke prevely in the Boulougne bulwark, so that they were not seyn.” The footmen skirmished with the Flemings as usual and when the right moment came the cavalry charged. The Flemings tried to fall back to their lines but were run down by the horsemen and slain. Panic spread throughout the enemy camp, and a general flight ensued, as the Flemings “wend that al the worlde had comyn on hem.” The English, however, did not exploit their success, having been given strict orders not to pursue more than a gunshot from the town walls until the arrival of the duke of Gloucester with his reinforcements.220 During the siege, the Burgundians erected a strong bastille on a hill overlooking Calais, so that they could fire into the town with their artillery. Realizing that the fort compromised further operations, the English launched an immediate assault. They were, however, driven back after fierce fighting, as the Burgundians David Grummitt, The Calais Garrison, War and Military Service in England, 1436–1558 (Woodbridge, 2008), p. 25. 217 The Brut, 2:575–76. 218 Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:236. 219 Ibid. 220 The Brut, 2:580. 216



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fed in a continuous stream of reinforcements to assist the garrison. Once again, the English used their cavalry to great effect. A further excursion was organized with both horse and foot, but this time the horsemen were posted between the bastille and the Burgundian lines, preventing aid from reaching the garrison. Duke Philip tried desperately to intervene, but his supports were vigorously repulsed. The bastille fell with 400 hundred Flemings slain or taken prisoner.221 The loss of this outpost increased the discontent within the Burgundian army, and when the Burgundian fleet failed to materialize and rumors spread of Gloucester’s landing, the Flemings left for home and the siege was abandoned. Mounted sallies from Guines and Calais harassed the retreat capturing much of the artillery.222 When Humphrey of Gloucester finally arrived at Calais on 2 August, with both horse and foot, he embarked upon a damaging chevauchée deep into Flanders, sowing the seeds of revolt, which kept the Burgundians occupied for several years until a truce with England was concluded.223 When coastal towns were besieged, control of the surrounding waters was crucial, as at Calais when mounted reinforcements and supplies were brought in by sea, circumventing the more dangerous overland route. At Bayonne (1451), Charles VII never wanted for man or horse, as those of Biscayne used their ships to prevent the besieged from escaping and to bring in fodder and reinforcements by sea.224 Determinants of Success in Mounted Sorties Knowledge of an impending siege gave time for the defenders to gather supplies, pack the town with elite troops, and appoint an experienced commander. At Arras and Orléans, the towns were garrisoned with “gens esleuz, excercitez en armes.”225 Cavalry were clearly important for the besieged, and at Rouen 330 lances and as many archers were sent from Paris, making it unlikely that the town could be taken by storm 226 At Harfleur (1415), 500 horsemen were brought together in an attempt to lure the English into an ambush, but the plan miscarried when they revealed themselves too soon.227 Mounted sorties are not mentioned at Caen (1417), possibly because there were insufficient French men-at-arms to warrant the risk.228 However, at Orléans, the French, on occasions, may have Ibid: “horsemen and fotemen Issuyd out soddenly,” Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:250–53. The Brut, 2:582: “They of the Castel yssued out, both on horsbak and on foote.” 223 Smith and DeVries, Artillery of the Dukes of Burgundy, pp. 113–16 on the lifting of the siege. Desmond Seward, The Hundred Years War, The English in France 1337–1453 (London, 1978), p. 236. 224 Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:319. 225 Waurin, Recueil des croniques 3:244. 226 Newhall, English Conquest, p. 104. Hall, “Siege Warfare,” p. 262: Vauban was later to suggest 360 as an appropriate number for the defenders. 227 Le Fèvre, Chronique, 1:230. 228 Des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, p. 535: Although receiving payment for 400 combatants, the Seigneur de Montenai had less than 200. 221

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harbored more than 1,500 horsemen due to the porous nature of the siege lines and the arrival of fugitives from Rouvray.229 At Paris (1465), the French had 2,500 men-at-arms, who were better equipped and more disciplined than those of the Burgundians.230 At the siege of Neuss (1474), the town held 1,800 elite cavalry commanded by the Landgrave of Hesse, whose meticulous preparations ensured its salvation.231 The horses needed to remain in good condition, and every effort was made to maintain their welfare, either from captured stores or the straw from beds and roofs when fodder ran short. At Arras it was the good condition of the Burgundian horses that enabled them to achieve surprise and out-distance their pursuers. An aggressive defence needed to begin immediately while the horses were fresh, with sallies from several gates at once to confuse the defenders, gain a local numerical superiority, and demoralize the enemy. At Calais, frequent mounted sorties undermined Burgundian morale, leading to heightened anxiety and repeated alarms within their camp.232 Cavalry imparted speed to such assaults, making their strength difficult to determine, and at La Laye (1492) the siege disintegrated when the besiegers panicked, believing that “toute la puissance de la ville fut issue sur leurs gens.”233 When the French besieged Vesou (1477), Guillaume de Vauldrey, the Burgundian captain, secretly placed small numbers of men near the enemy lodgings at night, then sallied from the town at dawn with both horse and foot, trumpets blaring. The French, believing they were attacked in overwhelming numbers, fled in disarray.234 A mounted capacity enabled the besieged and their allies to strike at a considerable distance, either to draw troops away from the siege, as at Calais, or to intercept enemy supports. In 1435, French cavalry travelled 36 miles, mostly at night to avoid detection, to surprise and destroy an English contingent of 800 men at Etrépagny, which was on its way to reinforce the siege of Saint-Denis.235 The combination of horse and foot was particularly difficult to counter. If the footman was attacked the mounted man would intervene, while if the latter was engaged, the man on foot could knock down the opponent’s horse.236 In retreat it was vital for the different elements to cover one another to prevent a crush at the sallyports, as happened at Harfleur in 1415. At Meaux, the besieged made breaches in their own walls to allow better passage.237 At Beauvais (1472), the French garrison was reinforced by several mounted units, who were dismayed to find that all the Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 38, this is the number that set out from Orléans to Rouvray, where the French troops were mostly mounted. 230 Commynes, Mémoires, 1:75–76. 231 Ibid., 1:313. Vaughan, Charles the Bold, pp. 328–29. 232 Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:248–49: The Flemings ran to arms at the slightest noise, much to the dismay of the duke. 233 Molinet, Chroniques, 4:266–68. 234 Ibid., 2:11–12. 235 Le Jouvencel, 1:105–10; 1:109, n. 2; 2:289–90, Commentaire XXV. 236 Nolan, Cavalry, p. 174. 237 Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:83. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:348. 229



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gates facing the enemy had been bricked up. Nevertheless, Jean de Salezard led a dawn raid on the Burgundian camp with a force that included sixteen mounted men-at-arms, who issued from the Paris gate, the only one suitable for horses. The sortie achieved great success: 200 Burgundians were killed; their tents burnt, their gunners slain, and their artillery damaged or captured. Unfortunately, the retreat became disordered as the parties failed to wait for each other. Those on horseback had to travel the length of the wall to return via the Paris gate and several men were lost. Despite these problems, sorties continued “tant à pied qu’à cheval.”238 Women often played an active role in aiding the defense. At Norham (1322), they brought the horses out ready for the pursuit and at Beauvais immediately took charge of the mounts of the reinforcements, allowing their men-at-arms to go straight to the fighting on the ramparts.239 Mounted support from an adjacent stronghold was crucial to success. At Arras, cavalry from the castle of Bellemotte intervened several times to assist their colleagues. While Orléans received a continual stream of mounted reinforcements and supplies from Châteaudun, whose troops captured a convoy carrying payment to the besiegers.240 Beauvais received mounted contingents, artillery and supplies from Paris and Rouen, while Neuss received help from Cologne. A similar arrangement between Rouen and Pont de l’Arche might have altered the course of the Hundred Years War, but although a treaty of mutual aid was signed on 5 June 1418, it was not fulfilled.241 It was important for sorties to have a particular purpose, so that the courage of the troops and the strength of their horses should not be dissipated in “useless enterprises.” Vauban suggested that they should not be committed unless the retreat could be covered by supporting fire, as it was at Arras, Calais, and Beauvais by the artillery on the walls.242 Swift, targeted strikes were, therefore, possible, with the cavalry isolating an objective, which was then captured or destroyed by those on foot before a response could be organized. Hence the destruction of the bastilles at Orléans, Compiègne, and Calais. Sallying against an enemy drawn up for battle was pointless, unless part of a diversionary attack, as when the assault on the Saint-Loup bastion covered the entry into Orléans of the provisions and artillery, which the Pucelle had brought to Checy.243 M. Dupont-White, Le Siège de Beauvais 1472 (Beauvais, 1848), pp. 1–55. “Discours du siège de Beauvais par Charles duc de Bourgongne en l’an 1472,” in Archives curieuses de l’histoire de France, ed. M. L. Cimber, série 1, vol. 1 (Paris, 1854), 113–35 and pp. 128–29. Commynes, Mémoires,1:289. 239 J. E. Morris, “Mounted Infantry in Medieval Warfare,” Transactions of The Royal Historical Society, vol. 8 (Cambridge, 1914), p. 86. “Discours du siège de Beauvais,” p. 117. 240 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 67. 241 Newhall, English Conquest, p. 102. 242 Cited in Christopher Duffy, The Fortress in the Age of Vauban and Frederick the Great 1660– 1789 (London, 1985), p. 81. 243 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 75: “saillirent à grant puissance, et alèrent courir et escarmouscher,” suggests the presence of cavalry. 238

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Mounted sorties at night or in the hours before dawn were particularly effective as the enemy could never be certain whether they heralded a major attack. Thomas Audley stressed that a captain should constantly “greve his ennemyes in the night by sodeyne alarmes.”244 Horses have excellent night vision and under a partial moon or bright stars can see as well as in daylight.245 Sorties of both horse and foot were made “au cler de lune,” as at Sainte-Suzanne (1432) where a hundred Englishmen were slain, and at Beauvais (1472) in the hours before dawn, where the horses got entangled in the tent ropes.246 At Neuss sallies “en divers quartiers,” continued both night and day, allowing the town to be re-provisioned with gunpowder.247 At Beauvais, repeated sallies and the continual harassment from neighbouring garrisons affected Burgundian supply, precipitating famine and disease, leading to the raising of the siege.248 Mounted sorties against besiegers in the process of departing were particularly damaging and could turn a withdrawal into a rout so that artillery, horses, provisions and the wounded were abandoned. At Oudenaarde “plusieurs vaillans nobles hommes montèrent à cheval, et isserent hors de la ville… aller après iceux Gantois.”249 Fear of such an attack could be equally devastating and at Arras, as the siege was lifted, the lodgings were fired in panic, leading to the deaths of 500 French sick and wounded. At Crotoy, Orléans, Compiègne, Calais, and Oudenaarde a mounted sortie against the departing army precipitated its disintegration and paved the way for a major riposte by the relieving force with cavalry carrying destruction deep into enemy territory, as with the Burgundian invasion of the Pays de Waas (1452), which followed Oudenaarde.250 Skirmishing “Nor noman sothly dare put himself in presse withouten horse.”251

Skirmishing was an essential part of siege warfare and one in which horsemen were a key element. Ronald Braasch’s survey of the Hundred Years War suggests that 42% of skirmishes were related to sieges.252 In irregular engagements and attacks on dispersed foragers, it was difficult for infantry to maintain close formaAudley, Arte of Warre, p. 24. Christine Barakat, “Equus,” January 2002 https://equusmagazine.com/management/nightvision_ 091003–8169, (accessed 15.7.19) 246 Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII 1:161. Commynes, Mémoires, 1:289. 247 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:60–62. 248 Dupont-White, Le Siège de Beauvais, p. 35. 249 Chastellain, Oeuvres, 2:248. 250 Vaughan, Philip the Good, p. 321. 251 Lydgate’s “Horse, Goose and Sheep,” p. 103. 252 Ronald W. Braasch III, “The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years War, 1337–1453,” Journal of Medieval Military History 16 (2018), 123–57. Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” pp. 22–23. 244 245



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tion, their only defense against cavalry. As foragers required protection from their own horsemen, it was usually the side with cavalry superiority that dominated these actions. Horses were well adapted to skirmishing, as the constant wheeling and turning movements were a “thing that naturallie horses doo love.”253 Training made horses “more apt and disposed to the shorte turns,” and serpent-like motions appropriate for attack and defence and the avoidance of “small shot.” Being mounted was a considerable advantage, since it was easier to attack and retire, allowing skirmishing in a “bonne manière,” as the Burgundians noted at the siege of Oudenaarde (1452): “we are on horseback and the Gantois, being on foot, cannot harm us, while we can cause them considerable distress.”254 The French mastered the art, preferring to skirmish with the English rather than engage in full-scale battle, especially when their opponents were wellentrenched with stakes or desperate for supply, as at Meaux and Pontoise.255 At the siege of Lagny (1432), the French skirmished “tant à pié que à cheval,” rather than attack the English behind their fortifications. Proximity to the town allowed the French to rotate their troops, while the English, being mostly on foot, were exhausted by their armor and succumbed to heat-stroke.256 Braasch considers that the French did not perform well in skirmish warfare compared with their opponents. However, his reliance on Monstrelet and d’Eschouchy for the later Hundred Years War significantly underestimates the role played by French cavalry in harassing and denying provender to Henry V; in the operations of Ambroise de Loré, the Bastard of Orléans and other “fléaux des Anglais”; and in numerous other engagements.257 Indiscipline and inexperience were responsible for early French failings, particularly in mounted attacks against English units backed by a hedge.258 French cavalry, however, destroyed English troops caught in the open, as with Venables’ command in 1434, either by surprising them, as at Ambriers (1427), attacking them from two Sir Thomas Bedingfield, The Art of Riding According to Claudio Corte (London, 1584) cited in R. H. C. Davis, The Medieval Warhorse (London, 1989), pp. 114–15. 254 Chastellain, Oeuvres, 2:242. 255 Chronique de La Pucelle, p. 211: “en place advantaigeuse, ayans mis paulx devant eulx.” Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, 1:265. Audley, Arte of Warre, p. 24: a captain should “no wise… hazard the Battell upon such desperate men,” i.e. those lacking provisions or pay, but should seek “daylie to diminishe them by skirmishes.” Pollard, John Talbot and The War in France, pp. 55–59. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:22–25. 256 Ibid., 1:144–45: “presque tous estoient à pié.” Juliet Barker, Conquest, The English Kingdom of France (London, 2009), pp. 185–86. 257 Braasch, “The Skirmish,” pp. 129–30. 258 Basin, Histoire, 1:38, attributes these problems to the long peace. Des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, p. 548: the French, “n’estoient pas encores bien experts en la guerre.” Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:31: the attacks against William Kirkeby (1422), and William Hodenhal (1427) were made “sans ordre” and “sans metre pié a terre,” by those, who according to Des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, p. 547: “n’avoient guieres veu du faict de guerre.” The French were more successful in these situations when they dismounted part of their force, as at Argentin (1432), Laigny-sur-Marne (1430), and Fresnay-le-Viconte (1432), Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:120–22; 1:148; 1:163–64. 253

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sides (Bernay, 1422) or, like Amador de Vignolles at Bourg-le-Roi, striking their rear before they could form.259 There is also the problem of what constitutes a successful skirmish, particularly when events are taken from a single source. Battles and sieges often consist of a series of skirmishes, with considerable ebb and flow. Following d’Escouchy, Braasch documents the skirmish over the coullevrines at Formigny (1450) as an English success, even though the battle was a decisive French victory. Blondel, however, says the guns were recaptured by the French in a mounted counter-attack. Similarly, at the sieges of Le Mans (1424), SainteSuzanne (1424), and Pontorson (1427), omitted from Braasch’s list, although the French eventually capitulated, numerous large skirmishes “portèrent grand dommage aux Anglois.”260 At Pontorson, where the siege was not closed and cavalry could operate freely, “les Anglais perdirent beaucoup de monde,” in “moult grandes escarmouches.”261 Working with such a narrow database, Braasch credits the French with only eight skirmish victories between 1416 and 1434, whereas an examination of other writers for the same period suggests that the French were successful on, at least, a further twenty-six occasions.262 As the war progressed, the French used their cavalry superiority and skills in mounted warfare to dominate the English Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:240. Robert Charles, L’Invasion anglaise dans le Maine de 1417 à 1428, ed. Louis Froger (Mamers, 1889), pp. 38, 60, 63. 260 Robert Blondel, “De reductione Normanniae,” in Joseph Stevenson, ed. Narratives of the Expulsion of the English from Normandy (London, 1863), pp. 172–73. Chronique de La Pucelle, pp. 227–28, p. 253. 261 Ibid.; Cosneau, Le Connétable de Richemont, p. 136 262 Braasch, “The Skirmish,” pp. 152–54. Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:73 and 73, n. 1 document the destruction of Gilbert Talbot’s force on the Vire 1418. The Chronique de la Pucelle, pp. 212–339, Des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, pp. 547–48, and Charles, L’Invasion Anglais, pp. 6–75, give additional French successes. These include: the retaking of Beaumontle-Vicomte (1418); Ambrose de Loré’s victory at Hayes (1419), where 300 English were slain; the defeat of William de Bours; Sées; Mieuxcé; the raising of the sieges of Saint Martinle-Gaillard and Montpillouet; the expedition from Le Mans by the Sires de Montenay and De Fontaines (1420); Bernay (1422); Moulins-la-Marche (1422); Neuvillalais; Pierre le Porc’s ambush of Salisbury (1425); the attack on Salisbury by Poton and “les bonnes gens d’Orléans,” with “moult grandes escarmouches,” forcing his return to Meung; similar attacks on William de la Pole in a “grande escarmouche, où les Anglois furent boutez”; de Coulonces’ victory at MontSaint-Michel (1425); Ferté-Bernard; Ramefort, following a “dure et grand escarmouche”; Malicorne; Ambriers (the defeat of Henri Branche); Marchenoir (Le Jouvencel, 2:272); Lude (1427), where an English sally on horseback is repulsed, with a further success between Beaufort and Lude (Le Jouvencel, 2:274); the siege of Troyes 1429 where after “dure et aspre escarmouche,” the English are forced back into the town; Amador de Vignolles’ victory at Bourg-le-Roi; the repulse at Langy (1429), where after three days and nights of “grandes et fortes escarmouches,” the English retire; and Bedford’s failure to take Langy in 1432, a victory which Braasch (Skirmishes, p. 154) mistakenly credits to the Burgundians. Also, Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII,1:16; 1:31–37; 1:38–39, 1:44, 1:52; 1:103–05, suggests that Mont Epiloy was a draw; 1:110, for the repulse of the English at Saint-Celérin in 1429, and 1:138–39 for the victory at Vivoin, which caused Willoughby to raise siege of Saint-Célerin in 1432; also 1:161–64 for the two victories near Fresnay-le-Viconte in 1432. 259



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in the battle for supply and in skirmish actions, both essential components of siege warfare. As J. F. Verbruggen has noted, it was largely through the deployment of their cavalry that the French finally “drove the English from France.”263 Skirmishing was also used to “daylie diminishe” the enemy and, as at Orléans, was a major cause of equine fatalities.264 In three months of fighting around Liège (1489), Ferry de Nonnelles reduced the French ordonnance cavalry by “six à sept cents chevaulx,” with minimal loss to his own, smaller, mounted force.265 Audley cautioned against “vayne skymishes,” which have seen “many good souldiers cast awaie,” and advised that mounted men-at-arms should keep together.266 Skirmishing was popular with nobles, as it gave them the opportunity to break a lance and demonstrate their prowess in front of their peers. The Pucelle constantly skirmished on horseback, an activity in which she excelled, but one which eventually led to her capture.267 Ambushes and feigned retreats were in essence “wittie skirmishes” designed to draw enemies from their fortifications and capture their leaders.268 This was done by presenting the besieged with a tempting target, such as driving cattle past the walls or engaging the enemy in mounted combat and then luring them into an ambush. Firing the faubergs (suburbs) or capturing horses and beasts outside the walls usually guaranteed a response from the irate inhabitants. Such actions were useful when there was insufficient strength to prosecute a formal siege and could “lead to the capture of the fortification.”269 Le Jouvencel’s description of the attack on Escallon/Marchenoir shows how this was done. The journey was made at night through woods and wasteland to avoid detection by enemy foragers, arriving before the town at day-break when the gates would open. Horsemen acted as the strike force in these enterprises, but also provided a mounted reserve to round up stragglers, exploit success, prevent interference or cover the retreat.270 Sometimes little provocation was required for events to escalate to disastrous proportions, as when a small French cavalry force annihilated a large disorderly excursion from Bordeaux, in what became known as “La Male Journade” (1450).271

Verbruggen, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” pp. 69–70: with some help from their artillery. Arte of Warre, p. 24. Andrew Ayton, Knights and Warhorses: Military Service and The English Aristocracy Under Edward III (Woodbridge, 1994), p. 72. Chronique de la Pucelle, p. 266. 265 Molinet, Chroniques, 4:82–83. 266 Audley, Arte of Warre, p. 24. 267 Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:75–76: “ladite Jehanne alloit tousjours à l’escarmouche armée de son harnois… et montoit sur son courssier toute armée aussy tost que chevallier qui fust en la cour du roy.” 268 Audley, Arte of Warre, p. 24. 269 Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, pp. 241, 249. 270 Le Jouvencel, 2:14–20. 271 Henry Ribadieu, Histoire de la conquète de la Guyenne par les Français (Bordeaux, 1866), pp. 176–80. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:246–47. 263

264 Audley,

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It was important for a relieving force to have a strong mounted contingent, for although horse and foot were advised to lodge in one siege camp, the need to surround a town or cover its different approaches inevitably left the besiegers prone to dispersal.272 The superior mobility of horsemen also offered the opportunity to surprise unwary elements of the enemy on the march. In 1422, the vicomte de Narbonne and Ambroise de Loré, having set out with a small force to relieve the siege at Dangu, caught 500 men from the garrison of Bernay in the open. The English closed ranks, but, charged in both front and rear, most were killed or captured.273 Similarly, on the approach to Sainte-Suzanne, de Loré caught Henry Branche and about 200 horsemen off guard at Ambrières.274 At Montargis (1426), the English were distributed in three siege camps which, although connected by a series of bridges, could not easily support each other. The French relief force had initially intended only to resupply the garrison, but seeing that they possessed the element of surprise, used their cavalry to good effect. Having communicated with the besieged, the French attacked each of the camps in turn from both sides, “à pié et à cheval.”275 The defenders also raised the water level so that the river covered the bridges, making escape difficult. Warwick, having lost more than a thousand men and all his horses, retreated on foot during the night, raising the siege.276 It was equally important that the relieving army did not also become dispersed. When attempting to relieve Saint-Célerin (1434), the French encamped in the villages of Beaumont-le-Vicomte and Vivoin, on different sides of the river Sarthe connected only by a single bridge. Despite posting a strong guard of horse and foot, the French were surprised in a dawn attack at Vivoin by part of the besieging army.277 However, the sire de Loré managed to keep the English at bay, while reinforcements, “tout le monde à cheval,” filed across the bridge. Then in a spectacular cavalry charge with 80–100 lances the French shattered the much larger but disorganized English contingent. Matthew Gough was captured and the siege of Saint-Célerin raised.278 Vivoin demonstrates that the mobility of cavalry could save the day, providing an example of how a much smaller force might lift a siege without a full-blown assault.279 Le Jouvencel also includes in this category: attacking the besieged at dawn; luring them into an ambush; catching the enemy off guard; destroying a detachment (Vivoin); capturing or spiking the artillery; re-provisioning the garrison with supplies and fresh troops, Audley, Arte of Warre, p. 22. Charles, L’Invasion anglaise, p. 38. 274 Ibid., p. 60. Chronique de la Pucelle, pp. 248–49. 275 Waurin, Recueil de croniques, 3:216–21. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:54–56. 276 Waurin, Recueil de croniques, 3:220: “la pluspart estoit de pie”; 3:221: Bedford was deeply upset by the loss of life. 277 Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:101. 278 Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:138–39; Barker, Conquest, pp. 184–85. 279 Le Jouvencel, 1:142–46. 272 273



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while removing the sick and wounded; denying the enemy supplies; preventing them from foraging; and gaining information about reinforcements and their fighting capabilities.280 All these activities required horsemen. Besieging armies were at their most vulnerable when relaxed by success. After the fall of the “moustier” at Saint-Denis in Anjou (1441), the English were caught while mounting up, losing most of their horses.281 The point is emphasized by Le Jouvencel, who stresses the need for experience and nerve. At Vivoin, as wounded comrades fled past, crying that the enemy was too numerous, and all was lost, he realized this was the time to strike. Success had disorganized the English: some remained mounted, others were loading their horses with weapons and booty, or had dismounted to take prisoners. A hundred captains could not bring them to order. French cavalry shattered and divided the English at the first onset, and then concentrated on the better armed, causing the rest to flee.282 When the English besieged Harfleur in 1440, the French relief force demonstrated how cavalry should be used. They approached the city with 4,000 elite troops by a circuitous route to disguise their intentions. Then, the count d’Eu with a hundred of the best horsemen made a reconnaissance in force, and, warding off enemy skirmishers, decided to attack the English from both sides.283 The Picards were to advance on foot, while La Hire and the other captains, as recommended by Le Jouvencel, remained mounted in support. Archers repelled the first assault, but when the English tried to follow up, they were repulsed by the French horsemen, while the besieged launched a sally at the same time.284 A continuation of these tactics would have brought success, but out-numbered and without food for themselves or their horses, as the English had previously devastated the surrounding countryside, the French were obliged to retreat.285 Operating in devastated areas caused problems for a relieving army, with parts of France so desolate that it was difficult to support large numbers of horsemen. Following their experience at Harfleur, the French adjusted the number of their cavalry detailed for the relief of Dieppe (1443).286 Talbot had established a large bastille overlooking the town but was unable to prevent its re-supply by the French. The morale of the bastille’s garrison was poor, its strength had been reduced to 500 men, and the duke of Somerset had failed to offer support. It was captured by the French in a combined assault of horse and foot, while those who had continued to provision the English were slain.287 Ibid., 1:142–46: the description of the action at Vivoin is almost identical to that of Chartier. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:20. 282 Le Jouvencel, 1:142–46. 283 Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:421: “à tout cent combatans, gens d’eslitte, montés sur fleurs de chevaux, et y eut entre ycelles parties très grandes escarmuches.” 284 Ibid., 5:422: “ilz furent tantost reboutés par ceulx de cheval, et en y eut de quarante à cinquante mors.” 285 Ibid., 5:418–24. 286 Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, 1:251; 1:285–89. 287 Ibid., 1:286–87. 280 281

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The multiplicity of fortified places in France caused problems for the English, underlining an important principle of Vegetian strategy, “the centrality of fortifications to the defense of territory,” and reinforcing the importance of the logistical battle in which cavalry was paramount.288 When smaller castles were ignored, their horsemen interfered in other sieges: attacking foragers, pay convoys, isolated detachments, and even recapturing enemy towns by coup de main.289 Their mounted troops also re-enforced the besieged, as happened repeatedly at Beauvais (1472) and at Orléans (1429), where Florent d’Illiers entered the city with 400 combatants from Châteaudun.290 Reducing these places took time and necessitated the provision of a garrison, dissipating the strength of the main army. Hence the siege of Orléans began with relatively few men. An alternative was to destroy the smaller strongholds; but, given the opportunity, the French rebuilt them and recommenced mounted operations, as when the lord of Longueval retook Aumale (1429), and stuffed it full of men and provisions. The occupation and refortification of Louviers by the French in 1440 effectively cut the English supply lines between Rouen and Pontoise.291 Although the French lost huge swathes of territory following Henry V’s invasion, the further eastwards he advanced, the more tenuous his hold on the earlier conquests became.292 Local nobles, such as the baron de Coulonces and Ambroise de Loré, used their strongholds as bases from which to seek out the invaders with small, mobile, cohesive groups of horsemen, who could make “sudden attacks and equally swift retreats.”293 The French became adept at using their horsemen to arrive unexpectedly and suddenly attack those engaged in a siege, as with the dawn raid at Sées. In 1419, Ambroise de Loré and the lord of Gamaches attacked the English at sunrise while they were besieging Saint Martin-le-Gaillard, “porterent dommage largement,” with “plusieurs morts et pris.”294 Together with Pierre de Fontaines, de Loré recovered twelve to fourteen fortresses, including Avranches, Pontorson, Beaumont-le-Vicomte, Fresnay-le-Vicomte, and Sarthe.295 Despite the disaster at Agincourt, French cavalry performed well, enforcing the blockade of Harfleur, harassing Henry’s movements around the Loire, interfering with his supplies at Meaux, and overcoming the English in two Morillo, “Battle Seeking,” p. 23. Molandon and Beaucorps, L’armée Anglaise, pp. 63–64: “elles pillerent les convois d’argent et de vivres.” 290 Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du Siège, p. 73. 291 Waurin, Recueil de croniques, 3:333. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:7. Pollard, John Talbot and The War in France, pp. 53, 57, n. 51, 59. 292 Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:180. 293 Charles, L’Invasion Anglaise, p. 66. Gillingham, “William the Bastard at War,” p. 156. 294 Wylie and Waugh, Reign of Henry the Fifth, 3:73 and 73 n. 1. Des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI p. 548. Monstrelet, La chronique, 3:335–36. 295 Des Ursins, Histoire de Charles VI, p. 547: “lesdits Messeigneurs de Fontaines et de Loré portoient et faisoient des grands dommages aux Anglois.” Chronique du Mont-Saint-Michel, 1:22. Newhall, English Conquest, p. 97 and p. 97 n. 21. 288

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major battles and countless smaller actions. Both major defeats suffered by the English at the hands of Dauphinist horse were consequent upon the need to take risks to counter the French strategy of hovering on the siege lines, controlling the “foraging nimbus,” and avoiding battle.296 At Valmont (1416), the English were compelled to seek supplies deep within enemy territory; while, at Baugé (1421), the duke of Clarence, searching for his opponents “de nuyt, que de jour,” engaged in battle with “hasty negligence,” hoping to prevent their escape.297 In 1431 Ambroise de Loré launched a daring mounted raid from Saint-Célérin, covering fifty-five miles without being detected, to attack the Michaelmas fair at Caen, gaining a huge haul of booty, horses and rich prisoners.298 Again in 1433 the French, using Beauvais as a base, launched sudden cavalry raids under veteran captains along the Somme frontier. Three hundred Armagnacs suddenly appeared at dawn in front of St-Valery and took the town by escalade. Haplincourt and Monchaux were also captured and although the French could not always hold on to their conquests, their raids made with a “combination of French cavalry dash and a timely revolt of the local populace” caused great concern.299 At Rue (1435), three hundred elite French men-at-arms crossed the Somme at night and then dismounted to scale the walls. The town, reinforced and re-provisioned, was then used as a base to devastate surrounding areas “by sword and fire.” In October the same year, experienced French troops suddenly appeared before Dieppe, and took the town with a nocturnal escalade; it was never to return to English hands.300 Consequent upon such cavalry actions, after 1435 the English “lost control of the timetable for war.”301 Horses as Spoils of War “Great was the spoil in horse and harness, and marvelous was the wealth they gained in gold and ransom.” 302

Horses were valuable and prized possessions and could be used in lieu of payment, or as part of a ransom demand. A good war horse, which suffered 296 Rogers,

“Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” p. 31: the “foraging nimbus” surrounded an army on chevauchée, or an army conducting a major siege. 297 Chastellain, Oeuvres, 1:223–24. 298 Barker, Conquest, p. 184. 299 Reginald Brill, “The English Preparations Before the Treaty of Arras: A New Interpretation of Sir John Fastolf’s ‘Report’ September 1435,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 7 (1970), p. 224. 300 Monstrelet, La chronique, 5:117–18; 5:200. Malcom Vale, “The War in Aquitaine,” in Anne Curry and Michael Hughes, eds. Arms, Armies and Fortifications in the Hundred Years War (Woodbridge, 1994), p. 76, documents a similar strategy of capturing a fortress and making it a secure base to raid and interdict supply. 301 Curry, “Organisation of Field Armies,” p. 211. 302 Mason, Lays of Marie de France, p. 36.

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wounds on behalf of its master, and brought him out of danger, was an indispensable asset.303 Notables were often saved by the fleetness of their horses, as with James Harcourt at the siege of Rouen (1419).304 At the siege of Beauvais (1472), Salezard’s horse, mortally wounded by pike thrusts, still carried its rider back into the town.305 The most spectacular escape occurred at Anthon (1430), when the horse of the Prince of Orange brought its fully armored and wounded rider to safety across the fast-flowing Rhône.306 Such horses were beyond price and siege warfare provided an excellent opportunity to capture the best of the enemy’s mounts, lowering his morale and reducing his ability to fight. There was also a strong financial incentive, as selling captured horses was an important means by which poorer men-at-arms might increase their wealth.307 On occasions, the besiegers really hit luck, as at Villafranca (1515), where the French discovered a treasure-trove of 700 horses, of whom 400 were either “coursers or horses of Spain.”308 David de Goy was captured riding a magnificent and costly war horse belonging to the seigneur de L’Isle Adam, while returning to the siege at Villeneuvre (1421), along with some merchants, bringing much-needed supplies to the Burgundian army. A despondent L’Isle Adam was forced to endure the loss of his friend, all the provisions he had purchased, and the mortifying spectacle of an Armagnac riding his prized stallion like a swallow.309 Shortly afterwards, through lack of horses and provisions, the siege was raised. Sometimes the besieged attempted to save their horses, as at Saint-Germain, where the Armagnac captain sent away his four best coursers before the town fell, using them later to pay his ransom.310 When a town surrendered by composition, the garrison was usually free to leave, but whether they could take their horses depended upon the goodwill of their captors, which was usually determined by the length and difficulty of the siege. When Ambroise de Loré, a persistent thorn in the English side, surrendered Saint-Suzanne in 1425, all his horses were confiscated. Horses figure prominently in the articles of capitulation of many towns, particularly at Rouen (1419), where it seems remarkable that the English thought any remained alive, Lydgate’s “Horse, Goose and Sheep,” pp. 41–42: “Hors, in cronycles who so loke ariht/ Have be salvacioun to many a wothi Knight.” Chronique de Jean Raoulet, p. 146. 304 Mémoires de Pierre de Fenin, p. 105: “Jaques de Harecourt se sauva par bon cheval.” 305 Dupont-White, Siège de Beauvais, p. 33. 306 Philippe Gaillard, La Bataille d’Anthon 11 Juin 1430 (Annecy-le-Vieux, 1998), pp. 51–54: When the horse reached the opposite bank, the prince dismounted, went down on his knees, and kissed its feet. The animal became a household pet and was never ridden again. 307 Le Jouvencel, 1:34, for the enterprise at Verset; 1:61; 1:150. Berry Herault, Le recouvrement de Normendie, in Narratives of the Expulsion of the English from Normandy, M.CCCC.XLIX.–M. CCCC.L, ed. Joseph Stevenson (London, 1863), p. 371: the process was encouraged in the French ordonances. 308 Larchey, History of Bayard, p. 378. 309 Livre de Trahisons, pp. 161–63. 310 Ibid., p. 155. 303



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considering the privation within the city.311 During the reconquest of Normandy, it was the turn of the English to be expelled. Most departed “leurs corps et leurs biens saufz,” a stipulation which may not have included horses, as the animals are often mentioned separately.312 The dispersal of demoralized inhabitants and their horses to other towns placed an additional strain on their logistics and undermined their resolve. Pride and honor played a part, as at La Réole (1324), when the French bought horses from the English to avoid the humiliation of walking before their captors, and when La Hire rode out in full mounted panoply to surrender Crépy-en-Laonnais (1420).313 At Bayeux (1450), “pour l’honneur de gentillese,” the French provided horses for the ladies to ride and carts for the other women. However, only on condition that the English went to Cherbourg and not Caen, the next French objective.314 Mounted sorties either by the besieged or a relieving force could also result in a considerable haul of the opponent’s mounts; for example, the sally at Vesou (1477) bagged “cent chevaux de cent escus la pièce.”315 The besieged replaced their own equine losses with captured horses which, in dire circumstances, could act as a source of food, as might those killed in the fighting.316 At Arras and Orléans, those within the city gained “mout de prisonniers et de chevaux” during their mounted excursions.317 Chartier gives numerous examples of French success in these encounters: “plusieurs chevaulx et harnoiz gaignez sur iceulx Anglois,” “fut prins ung cappitaine Angloiz et y ot gaigné de cent à six vingtz chevaulx,” “et perdirent iceulx Angloiz la plus grant partie de leurs chevaulx.”318 There is, however, no mention of the English capturing their opponents’ horses in similar actions, which, even accounting for the author’s partiality, reflects upon the poorer quality of their cavalry. One of the best times to capture the enemy horses was when they were in the process of raising a siege. Fearful of attacks from the town, the besiegers usually left in haste, presenting an inviting target. When the siege of Saint311

312

313 314 315 316 317 318

Thomas Dufus Hardy ed., Rotuli Normanniae 2 vols. (London, 1835), 1:291–92. Perhaps, at Rouen, the garrison’s horses were still in reasonable condition, hence their initial reluctance to surrender. Rymer, Foedera, 9:664, states that horses were no longer to be eaten or harmed: “Omnes et singuli Equi.., quod nullo modo fiat combustio, occultatio, deterioratio, consumption sive distraction equorum.” Ayton, Knights and Warhorses, p. 67, considers equi usually referred to warhorses. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:202–04; 2:212–13; 2:267. Berry Herault, “Le Recouvrement,” pp. 256, 271, 275, 276, 279, 285. Horses are mentioned separately in Berry Herault, “le Recouvrement,” pp. 269, 267. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:242; 2:273; 2:286. Robert W. Jones, Bloodied Banners: Martial Display on the Medieval Battlefield (Woodbridge, 2010), p. 142. Livre de Trahisons, pp. 150–51. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:204–11. Molinet, Chroniques, 2:12. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 128: at Ancona, the besieged dragged horses killed in the fighting back into the town. Pierre de Fenin, Mémoires, p. 46. Charpentier and Cuissard, Journal du siège, p. 72. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 1:56; 1:161; 2:20; 3:76. The English lost all their horses at Valmont and Montargis.

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Célerin (1432) was lifted, the disorderly withdrawal provoked a strong sortie led by Jehan Armenge, which turned the retreat into a rout. The English sustained heavy loss, including all their artillery, while the victorious French “gaignèrent plussieurs chevaulx et autres biens.”319 Similarly at Lagny, Bedford lifted the siege “moult hastivement” to counter a French movement towards Paris. As the English departed “en très grant désarroy,” the garrison made a sally, “et prindrent plussieurs Angloiz et gaignèrent plussieurs chevaulx et autres biens.”320 These achievements would be impossible without the besieged retaining a strong body of cavalry. Conclusion “Withouten hors-spere, swerde, nor shield, Might litill availe for to hold a feld.”321

Horses were an essential component of siege warfare, but their complex needs predisposed them to considerable suffering, with the Burgundians losing 12,000 horses at the siege of Neuss.322 Horses had diverse but interdependent roles, and maintained a complex relationship with their human counterparts, particularly in relation to famine and disease. Draft horses transported wine and beer, which were essential in mitigating against water-borne infection. They also carried weapons, provisions and equipment, as well as forage and bards for the war horses. At Orléans, Compiègne, and Neuss, horses kept the flour mills going within the town, staving off famine when those along the river had been destroyed.323 Horses pulled the guns to a siege transporting both powder and shot, and, as the fifteenth century progressed, facilitated the rapid deployment of lighter artillery, which could quickly bring a siege to a close. When a siege was lifted, if the horses were lost, artillery, provisions and the sick would be abandoned, and men-at-arms without mounts would rapidly discard their armor and weapons. Horses were pivotal to the contest for supply as dearth led to famine, with the animals, due to their excessive needs, being the first to succumb. At Harfleur (1415) and other sieges, the waste of numerous horses, together with their decomposing bodies provided the nidus for a devastating epidemic of fly-borne bacillary dysentery. Famine increased the virulence and mortality of the disease, prompting desertion on a substantial scale. The health and condition of the horses was, therefore, crucial in determining whether a siege would prosper or fail. Horsemen were a key factor in the battle for provision, the “race to starvaIbid., 1:141. Ibid., 1:146. 321 Lydgate’s “Horse, Goose and Sheep,” p. 51, v.10 ll.69–70. Verbruggen, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” pp. 57–58, on the advantages of being mounted. 322 Vaughan, Charles the Bold, p. 345. 323 Molinet, Chroniques, 1:31. 319

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tion,” probably the most decisive factor in medieval siege warfare.324 During the later Hundred Years War, the French used their cavalry to interdict the enemy’s supply chain, enabling them to win “missing battles,” and forcing their opponents to take risks to counter the strategy. Powerful mounted escorts were required if the besieged were obliged to forage deep within hostile territory, where they might exhaust their horses without reward, or, as at Valmont, court disaster. During Henry V’s campaigns, French cavalry continually harassed the English both on the march and on the periphery of their siege lines, controlling “the foraging nimbus,” and, by avoiding battle and denying provender, engaged in bacterial warfare. Dysentery altered the focus of Henry V’s first campaign, with unfortunate consequences for the army’s horses, and eventually took the life of the king himself. Heavy cavalry played a crucial role in siege warfare, for the besiegers, the besieged, and for any relieving force. As part of the defending garrison, they could either: prolong a siege until relief arrived, or disease ravaged their opponents; increase its costs; or force its abandonment, turning a withdrawal into a rout. An aggressive defense by the besieged with mounted sorties day and night gained surprise, temporary numerical superiority, exploited defensive weaknesses, and replaced lost mounts. Prisoners and supplies were captured; siege works and artillery damaged; and opponents exhausted and demoralized. Sudden mounted incursions, especially at dawn, caused panic and flight as their numbers were difficult to determine. Sallies by mutually supporting groups of elite horse and foot could isolate and eliminate defined objectives, especially bastilles, while defensive fire from the artillery on the walls usually ensured a safe return. Exposing defensive frailties ramped up the cost of the siege by compelling the besiegers to build further expensive fortifications, summon more troops, and increase their pay so that they could afford the inflated prices of scarce victuals.325 The role of cavalry in protecting pay convoys and capturing those of the enemy had, therefore, an additional importance, as loss of wages depressed morale and exacerbated famine. For the besieged, mounted support from nearby friendly strongholds, as at Arras, Orléans, Beauvais, Neuss and in the case of Calais, England, was crucial. In the fifteenth century, fortified localities ensured their security with an elaborate and extensive array of artillery, but cavalry remained a vital component of the defence, it being doubtful, as at Harfleur (1416), whether a town could be held without horsemen.326 At Naples (1495), the French surrendered when all their horses were lost.327 At Calais (1436), the indecisive performance of the

Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” p. 17. Curry, “Organisation of Field Armies,” p. 227. The “recurrent demand for supplies” alienated the local population as at Dieppe, and the arrival of more troops increased the risk of disease. 326 Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages, trans. Michael Jones (Oxford, 1984), p. 202. 327 Commynes, Mémoires, 2:504. 324 325

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Burgundian artillery has been considered instrumental in the lifting of the siege, but the vigor and ingenuity of the English cavalry was equally important.328 The cavalry of the besiegers guarded the camp, its fortifications and artillery, and protected the merchants and foragers with their carts and pack horses, returning with supplies. They covered the assaults, prevented the besieged from escaping, and countered incursions from both within and without the siege lines, as at Rouen (1419), Alençon (1421), Pontoise (1444) and Brescia (1512). Fastmoving groups of horsemen preceding the main besieging force might capture important positions or even the town itself, as at Caen (1419) and Villafranca (1515). Cavalry also gave the besieging army maneuverability, allowing it to rapidly reduce nearby towns, engage in devastation, and control areas adjacent to the main siege. Devastation was used by both sides, either to prevent the besieged and any relief force from securing supplies, or to close the surrounding countryside against a besieging army, forcing its soldiers to send away their horses, which gave the besieged and their allies cavalry superiority, as at Villeneuvre-sur-Yonne. While infantry was only suitable for short-range operations of devastation, cavalry could strike rapidly and with surprise, inflicting considerably more damage before a response could be organized.329 A relief force needed a strong mounted contingent to perform much the same functions: to prevent the besiegers from foraging and obtaining supplies, to surprise dispersed enemy units, to gain information by a reconnaissance in force, and to support the foot during attacks upon the siege lines, as at Harfleur (1444). Cavalry were at their most effective when the enemy was dispersed, and as foraging inevitably involved dispersal, mounted men-at-arms played a key role. Foragers needed the protection of their own horsemen, so the side with cavalry superiority, or whose horses were in better condition, would usually prevail. Mounted infantry could not match men-at-arms in these circumstances and only a negligent commander would send out foragers without a strong escort of heavy cavalry.330 Skirmishing also involved dispersal as it was difficult for infantry to form a close defense against cavalry in such fluid situations. Horses were naturally adapted to skirmishing with the French becoming highly skilled in this form of warfare. Skirmishing, as with the contest for provision, was a vital part of siege warfare and one in which cavalry were dominant. Therefore, as Clifford Rogers has argued: “cavalry becomes at least a key, if not the key, to the ability to successfully conduct a major siege.” 331 Cavalry gained in importance in fifteenth century siege warfare because the geographical location of many towns, relative to the size of attacking armies, made it difficult for siege lines to be closed. It was, therefore, inevitable that the besiegers Kelly DeVries, “The Walls Come Tumbling Down: The Campaigns of Philippe the Good and The Myth of Fortification Vulnerability to Early Gunpowder Weapons,” in Villalon and Kagay, The Hundred Years War: A Wider Focus, (Leiden, 2005), p. 437. 329 Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” pp. 15–16. 330 Ibid., p. 17. 331 Ibid., p. 21. 328



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would also become subject to dispersal. The problem was compounded by the necessity of reducing adjacent strongholds before embarking upon the main siege, leading to further dilution of force. At Montargis and Orléans, siege operations were conducted in several different sectors, with tenuous connections between them. The attackers could not be strong everywhere and the besieged and relieving army used reconnaissance in force, a further key function of cavalry in siege warfare, to communicate, probe for weak spots, organize joint operations, and isolate and attack different sectors in turn. Aware of these problems, the besiegers kept a mounted guard day and night, sometimes engaging in pre-emptive strikes upon the relieving army, but the distance from their own lines either tired the horses, as at Pierrepont, or made them vulnerable to counter-attack, as at Vivoin. Capturing the opponent’s horses was an important aspect of siege warfare; it was not only a lucrative exercise but also degraded the enemy’s fighting capacity and morale. Success was usually indicative of cavalry superiority. Although the French lost horses in surprise attacks at Le Mans, near Rouen in 1436, and following the capture of Poton de Xantrailles, such incidents became increasingly rare. Chartier never mentions the capture of horses by the English, although the innumerable successes of the French are well documented. Even allowing for partisanship, there is a marked impression that the French were far more adept at capturing horses during a siege or victory in the field than their English opponents.332 Calais (1436) was the high-water mark for the effective use of cavalry by the English in the siege warfare of the Hundred Years War. The rescue force was one of the strongest contingents of men-at-arms shipped to France apart from “the coronation expedition” of 1430. They arrived by sea, avoiding the hazards of an over-land journey, to support a garrison that already held a high proportion of elite troops.333 However, during the later sieges of the conflict, mounted sorties by the English were few and far between and seldom successful. At Lude (1427) a mounted sortie was promptly rebuffed by Gervaise Nardereau and at Pontoise (1441) “une grant sallie à pié et à cheval” was so vigorously repulsed that no further sorties were made.334 At Rouen (1449), the English made “fort grandes et furieuses saillies,” but the only horseman mentioned is French.335 Further sorties were repulsed at Troyes, Bergerac and Falaise, but again cavalry are not mentioned.336 Curry has argued that the increasing prevalence of archers in English armies did not necessarily mean that they were second best and that “if sieges or their raising were the predominant military need, then archers could prove just as See notes 317–20 above. Adrian R. Bell, Anne Curry, Andy King, and David Simpkin, The Soldier in Later Medieval England (Oxford, 2013), p. 99. 334 Le Jouvencel, 1:xvi; 2:274. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:21. James H. Ramsay, Lancaster and York, 2vols. (Oxford, 1892), 2:36. 335 Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:138. 336 Chronique de La Pucelle, p. 315. Berry Herault, “le Recouvrement,” p. 256. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:224. 332 333

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useful as men-at-arms.”337 However, this was very much to the detriment of an effective mounted arm which, as we have seen, was an essential element of siege warfare. Moreover, garrisons were intended to operate as part of a network of fortresses, and cavalry, despite their higher cost, could operate twice as far from their base as infantry.338 While French nobles spent vast sums, competing to buy the very best horses to ensure their chances of being chosen for the elite gendarmerie, the English seemed content to increase the number of cheaper foot men-at-arms, which were rotated between the garrisons, to release mounted troops for the field.339 Even then quotas could not be filled, and archers were regularly substituted either because garrisons did not hold the requisite number of mounted men-at-arms or were reluctant to let them go for security reasons. Units often failed to turn up due to inclement weather, desertion, or because they lost their horses on route.340 Others failed to arrive on time, understandable if not everyone was mounted.341 Financial difficulties and the poorer quality of the armies sent from England compounded the problem.342 Insufficient men-at-arms and lack of cavalry made the English heavily reliant upon bastilles in siege warfare, which paradoxically could not easily support one another nor be resupplied without horsemen and were vulnerable to isolation and assault by combined units of enemy troops. Those within bastilles faced the problem of whether to confront a relieving force in the field, leaving undermanned fortifications vulnerable to attack from the besieged, or to stay put, handing the initiative to the enemy. Le Jouvencel repeatedly stressed the advantage of cavalry superiority at the siege of Orléans: the English, lodged in different sectors, could not easily aid one another, and compared to the French were “not as strong in horsemen as you are, and you are situated between them and their territory.” While the French: are more numerous in horsemen than them and will therefore always be ahead of them in obtaining supplies, and in preventing them from doing so. You hold the surrounding countryside and therefore will always be better supplied than them.343

Anne Curry, “English Armies in the Fifteenth Century,” in Anne Curry and Michael Hughes, eds. Arms, Armies and Fortifications in the Hundred Years War (Woodbridge, 1994), p. 46. 338 Rogers, “Cavalry in Medieval Warfare,” p. 15. 339 De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:60. Bell, Curry, King, and Simpkin, The Soldier in Later Medieval England, pp. 106–07. 340 Curry, “Organisation of Field Armies,” 207–31. Archers were substituted for men-at-arms in a ratio of 3:1; p. 230: military planners could never be too sure whether the troops they had summoned would turn up. Newhall, Muster and Review, p. 147. 341 Curry, “Organisation of Field Armies,” 207–31. 342 Curry, “English Armies in the Fifteenth Century,” pp.  45–46: “under Henry VI few armies exceeded 2,000 men.” Ramsay, Lancaster and York, 2:42: Only two hundred of the 2,500 men mustered in 1442 for the duke of York’s expedition were men-at-arms and just three hundred of the archers were mounted. For a summary of the financial difficulties: Gerald Harriss, Shaping the Nation, England 1360–1461 (Oxford, 2005), pp. 581–87. David Grummitt, The Wars of the Roses (London, 2013), p. 21. 343 Le Jouvencel,1:170; 1:182–83; 1;197. The siege of Crathor is essentially that of Orléans, see 2:163, n. 2; 2:276, n. 2 and 2: 282 for Tringant’s commentary. 337



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Indeed, English control of the surrounding countryside had been problematic since the siege of Harfleur (1415), not simply through lack of mounted men-at-arms, but more worryingly because it was generally believed they were no match for the French on horseback: “et que communément les Anglois ne peuvent tenir route à cheval contre les François.”344 At Baugé, despite consisting of “tous ses meilleurs hommes” and “la fleur de la chevalerie,” the English horse achieved “ful litil or nowht,” while Sir John Fastolf’s report of 1435 continued to express concerns about French cavalry.345 Bedford’s horsemen were regarded as less capable and “adextres à cheval” than their opponents.346 Thus, as the war progressed it became more difficult for the English either to defend or bring relief to their besieged strongholds without an effective cavalry force. Le Jouvencel criticized the duke of Somerset for remaining within Rouen and failing to offer battle, which, even in defeat, would have proved a more honorable course. However, better horsemen gave the French the initiative, allowing them to reduce the neighboring towns and dominate the surrounding countryside. Inferior in cavalry, the English could neither gain supply, harm their opponents, nor counter a revitalized French artillery, while the pre-eminence of French mounted troops enabled them to strike from a distance and appear unexpectedly before any town of their choosing.347 Lack of horsemen made it difficult to exploit victory, hold on to booty, provisions, prisoners, or the wounded. At Pierrepont (1422), English archers captured numerous French men-at-arms, but were unable to hold on to them without cavalry.348 With the longbow less effective against better armor and barded horses and without an adequate number of supporting men-at-arms, the English were vulnerable. As Bayard remarked, with cavalry superiority it was always possible to retire when attacking those on foot if they were not broken at the first onset.349 The reason why cavalry with their fragile and costly war horses were present at a siege was not simply in the hope of breaking a lance in some chivalrous encounter, but because, despite their inordinate consumption of fodder, they were essential. Lack of heavy cavalry compromised success in siege warfare and, for the English, became a problem, which extended into Tudor armies. They remained conditioned to fighting on foot, a stratagem that

Chastellain, Oeuvres, 1:223. Monstrelet, La chronique, 4:38. Lydgate’s “Horse, Goose and Sheep,” p. 59, v.34, l.238. Letters and Papers, ed. Stevenson, 2, pt. 2:584: “if, the enemys wolde yeve bataile, it shulde not lie in there powere to fighte on horsebak.” 346 Le Jouvencel, 2:232; 2:298, Tringant’s commentary: The duke d’Ath is considered to represent Bedford. Also 1:lxix, n. 2. 347 Ibid., 2:147–48; 2:232: “ne marcher jusques à l’artillerie, sans ester desconfiz.” 348 Cordeliers’ Chronicle, p. 314: each archer had captured two men-at-arms. Buchon, Chroniques de Jean Froissart, 5:152–57: Following the skirmish on foot at the bridge of Lussac, the victorious French, fatigued and encumbered with wounded, were unable to locate their varlets who held the horses, and were forced to surrender to their prisoners, as hostile cavalry approached. 349 Cruickshank, Army Royal, p. 39. 344 345

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ultimately lost France.350 It is, therefore, not surprising that contemporaries attributed the first and most important reason for final victory in the Hundred Years War to the superior quality of the French mounted men-at-arms, their leaders, and equipment.351

350 351

Millar, Tudor Mercenaries, pp.  23, 173, mercenary horse were expensive and failed to win a single battle. Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, 2:235: “premièrement…ses gens d’armes que c’est belle chose.” Berry Herault, “le Recouvrement,” pp. 370–72.

10 Supplying the Army: The Siege of Pisa, 1499 Fabrizio Ansani

This essay will describe the first major operation launched by an Italian army against a heavily fortified city after the assimilation of the Frenchstyle artillery into the warfare of the Peninsula. The paper will examine, in particular, the preparations for this “marvellous enterprise,” stressing the difficulties with the procurement of munitions during the early stages of employment of the new guns. Based on state accounts and local chronicles, the article demonstrates that, from the last years of the fifteenth century onwards, the issue of military supply compelled Italian regional states to develop the manufacture of ordnance, shot, and powder, facing a “revolutionary challenge” in terms of management, commerce, and production. By September 1498, the soldiers of Florence were coming close to ending the Pisan rebellion, after three long years of wearing campaigns and diplomatic stalemates.1 As a result of an all-out offensive, the army had eventually occupied a large area of the enemy countryside, seizing the towns of Buti, Calci, Vico, and Ripafratta. Only the city of Cascina did not surrender to the captain-general, Paolo Vitelli, whose mastery of siege artillery was a significant determinant of this successful, brisk operation.2 Once again, however, a decisive victory was hampered by an external intervention. The Venetian invasion of the mountain region of Casentino, in October 1498, diverted Florentine attention from the reconquest of Pisa.3 The menace of a heavy defeat represented a serious problem for the troubled Republic, now compelled to fight on two fronts, “with a daily expenditure of one thousand and fifty hundred florins.”4 Only after five months of stalemate did the opponents, encouraged by Ludovico Sforza, enter into negotiations.5 They were 1 2 3 4 5

A brief résumé of this war is in Piero Pieri, Il Rinascimento e la crisi militare italiana (Turin, 1970), pp. 368–77. Fabrizio Ansani, “Supplying the Army. 1498. The Florentine Campaign in the Pisan Countryside,” The Journal of Medieval Military History 17 (2019), pp. 223–30. Biagio Buonaccorsi, Diario (Florence, 1568), pp. 16–19. Piero Parenti, Storia fiorentina, ed. Andrea Matucci, 2 vols. (Florence, 2005), 2:217. Domenico Malipiero, “Annali veneti,” Archivio Storico Italiano 7, no. 1 (1843), p. 530; Buonaccorsi, Diario, p. 17; Luca Landucci, Diario fiorentino, ed. Iodoco del Badia (Florence, 1969),

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both wearied by “the draining of wells full of ducats” and “the bargaining, the extortion” of their mercenaries.6 In the first days of April 1499, however, the two peace agreements proposed by the duke of Ferrara, Ercole d’Este, dissatisfied each one of the three contenders. Pisans protested firmly against the numerous, important concessions to Florentines, such as the cession of public incomes, the relinquishment of city fortresses, and the appointment of foreign criminal judges. Considering the pact as the beginning of the end of the “popular freedom,” they said they would prefer to abandon the city, or to die bravely, defending the walls against their “bloodthirsty” enemy, rather than “live under Florentine custody.”7 Venetian senators, on the other hand, accused d’Este of treason, blaming him for dooming their allies to “slavery,” and charging him with nullifying the results of years of fights, efforts, and expenses.8 Last but not least, Florentines found the pacts “insulting and disgraceful,” since they would take control over their rebels “in name only.”9 Notwithstanding the common dissatisfaction, the accords were ratified on 8 April, stipulating the cessation of hostilities between the three states from 25 April onwards. The contingents of the Most Serene Republic, in particular, had to leave Tuscany, abandoning both the valley of Casentino and the countryside of Pisa. From this point of view, the resistance of Florence against Venice was a remarkable achievement, considering that the “fifth power of Italy” had stopped the most powerful army of the Peninsula. This accomplishment, however, was certainly not as great a military success as it could have been. During the winter war of 1498–99, the Florentine companies had had several chances to trounce the foreign invaders. But what would seemingly have been an easy and decisive attack on the enemies barricaded and isolated in the town of Bibbiena was avoided by the captain-general, Paolo Vitelli.10 Because of his strange hesitation, the commander was supposed to be either inadequate as a

6

7 8 9 10

pp.  192–93; Giovanni Cambi, “Istorie,” in Delizie degli eruditi toscani, ed. Ildefonso di San Luigi, 24 vols. (Florence, 1785), 21:137; Francesco Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, eds. Piero and Luigi Guicciardini (Florence, 1859), pp. 194–95. Archivo di Stato di Firenze [hereafter ASF], Consulte e pratiche, 64, ff. 184r–185v; Piero Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, eds. Giuliana Berti, Michele Luzzati, and Ezio Tongiorgi (Pisa, 1982), p. 70; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:252. For the economic situation in the lagoon, see: Malipiero, “Annali veneti,” pp.  527–28 and 535; Girolamo Priuli, “Diari,” ed. Arturo Segre, in Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, XXIV, 3., ed. Giosuè Carducci and Vittorio Fiorini (Città di Castello, 1912), pp. 103, 109, 113, and 117. Archivo di Stato di Pisa [hereafter ASPI], Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 199rv. Malipiero, “Annali veneti,” pp. 537–38; Priuli, “Diari,” p. 116; Marino Sanudo, Diari, II., ed. Guglielmo Berchet (Venice, 1879), pp. 589–90. Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp. 200–01; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:252–54. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 69r, 70v, 72r, 73r, 75r, 81r, 82v and 90r. For the effectiveness of these new weapons in breaching the wall of small towns, see Ansani, “Supplying the Army. 1498,” pp. 225, 227; Id., “‘This French Artillery is Very Good and Very Effective.’ Hypotheses on the Diffusion of a New Military Technology in Renaissance Italy,” Journal of Military History 83, no. 2 (2019).



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leader or greedy for more money, which he could gain by prolonging the war.11 Bartolomeo Cerretani, Giovanni Cambi, and Piero Vaglienti reported that he was manipulated into inaction by a group of “evil citizens.”12 In any case, his stalling tactics resulted only in a partial disruption of the enemy’s supplies, and in a futile offensive.13 The people of the capital could not stand this disheartening idleness. According to common belief, the entire campaign had been only “a continual succession of frauds” committed by Florence’s mercenary soldiers.14 Four thousand infantrymen and three thousand cavalrymen had given the impression of “not caring at all about our success,” while the most significant assaults were carried out by peasants and lumberjacks, led by the bellicose abbot of the monastery of Camaldoli, Basilio Nardi.15 Other political scandals were created by the “presumptuous” and “imprudent” commissioners-general, through the reckless concessions of safe conduct to public enemies, such as Piero de’ Medici and Guidubaldo da Montefeltro.16 These blunders and these delays were mostly due to the extreme fragmentation of Florentine society. Despite the death of the “holy prophet” Girolamo Savonarola, the deep divisions within political factions were not healed. The influential “sect” of the frateschi was still in power, supporting the idea of a popular state and furthering the cause of the king of France. The party of the arrabbiati, on the other hand, was backed by the duke of Milan, and attempted to impose an oligarchic rule.17 In this situation, the external conflict was perceived as an opportunity for annihilating the internal opposition, for subjugating the people, or for overthrowing the institutions. Unsurprisingly, even the “slowness” of war was attributed to the disagreements between the two factions, a friction embodied even in the military hierarchy.18 The ongoing rivalry for the command of the army between the captain-general, Paolo Vitelli, and the governor-general, Rinuccio da Marciano, represented a “pernicious disunity” within the encampment, and the frequent renewal of condotte of both these mercenaries, along with the consequent surge in the

11 12

13

14 15 16

17 18

Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:209, 219, and 241. Cambi, “Istorie,” 21:137 and 139; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp. 191–92; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 62; Bartolomeo Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, ed. Giuliana Berti (Florence, 1994), p. 259. Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 259; Jacopo Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, ed. Lelio Arbib (Florence, 1842)p. 186; Bartolomeo Masi, Ricordanze, ed. Giuseppe Corazzini (Florence, 1906), pp. 40–41. Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 261. Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 187; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:227; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 191; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 66. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:212 and 233; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 192; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 67; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 192; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 187. Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 66; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:210 and 221. Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 192; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:211 and 219.

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number of their men-at-arms, “raised the expenses so much that the city could not bear the whole cost of its troops.”19 Further problems were caused by different economic factors. The high interest rates on forced loans, for example, made several magnates “exploiters of their community and destroyers of their motherland,” that is, profiteers.20 Privileged tax dodgers, moreover, were censured for their friendship with state collectors.21 Even the powerful ten officers responsible for warfare, the Dieci di Balìa, were publicly criticized for embezzling in the private interest of their relatives and friends.22 The arrabbiati members of the magistracy were accused of squandering “sixty thousand ducats” on the haphazard appointment of too many commissioners, but the opposing factions inside the city did not restrict themselves to rebuking these “thefts.” 23 Displaying defamatory writings in the busiest crossroads of the capital, the frateschi incited the citizens to kill political adversaries and to set fire to their houses.24 The common people soon appropriated this “intense hatred.” In May, there was a popular protest against the “spendthrift Dieci,” opposing the re-election of the ten officers, who were thought to be the “major cause of wars and debts.”25 At the same time, the population agitated against a general, oligarchic reform of public positions, planned by the aristocratic, “malicious” leaders of both parties. Everyone lamented that “neither authority nor wealth are within our reach.”26 Thus, the “resentful citizens” mounted a stiff resistance in the general city council, and “decided not to approve further taxation, considering how wickedly money was wasted.” Laws were not promulgated, and magistrates were not voted in.27 Within a month, persistent obstructionism had major repercussions on Florentine domestic affairs. On 31 May a new, sweeping electoral reform abolished nominations and introduced appointments by lot, broadening access 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27

Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp. 197–99; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:209 and 239. Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 61. For the connection between the growth of public debt and the stabilization of political dependences in Renaissance Florence, see Louis Marks, “The Financial Oligarchy in Florence under Lorenzo,” in Italian Renaissance Studies, ed. Ernest Jacob (New York, 1960), pp. 123–47; Alison Brown, “Public and private interest. Lorenzo, the Monte and the Seventeen Reformers,” in Lorenzo de’ Medici. Studi, ed. Gian Carlo Garfagnini (Florence, 1992), pp. 103–38; Anthony Molho, “Debiti pubblici ed interessi privati nella Firenze tardomedievale,” in La Toscana al tempo di Lorenzo il Magnifico Politica, economia, cultura, arte (Pisa, 1996), 825–38 and 850–54; Lauro Martines, “Forced Loans. Political and Social Strain in Quattrocento Florence,” The Journal of Modern History 60, no. 2 (1988), pp. 300–11. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:208. Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 202; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 259. Well testified by the sources, these perks amounted to thirty-seven thousand florins. See ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 38v–39v. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:212–13. Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, pp.  188–89; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp.  201–03; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:258. Filippo de’ Nerli, Commentari dei fatti civili occorsi dentro la città di Firenze, ed. Colombo Coen (Trieste, 1859), pp. 134–35; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:240 and 243–44. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:240; Nerli, Commentari, p. 135; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 67.



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to government.28 But crucially, on 3 June, when the term of the Dieci expired, no new commissioners took their place, leaving the Republic without a proper military ministry.29 Nevertheless, a new offensive against the rebels was close to being launched. Despite offers and promises, the Pisans had persistently refused to obey the conventions between their former Venetian protectors and their previous Florentine lords.30 The government consulted repeatedly about the opportunity to attack, since “the rebels are defenseless.” They are alone, and yet they are pertinacious, waiting for external support, and relying upon our weakness and our disagreement […]. Even though they are desperate, they don’t lose heart. Therefore, we couldn’t, we shouldn’t believe that they will voluntarily fall under our yoke […]. For these reasons, the force of arms is the sole means for reclaiming Pisa. A military intervention is necessary.31

The citizens argued that a simple demonstration could have sufficed to get the rebels back to the negotiating table. They agreed on pillaging the Pisan countryside, “for the moment. Next, we will figure out what to do,” according to “opportunity and utility.”32 On 7 June, the commissioner-general briefed the Anziani of Pisa that the truce had expired, and that the peace agreement was definitively invalidated.33 In the same days, the Signoria took on the responsibility for organizing and directing these initial operations. The prior Dieci were invited to cooperate informally with the officials in the planning of the offensive. And yet each of the city factions, as usual, “intended to end this long-lasting war for its own benefit.”34 Return to the Pisan Countryside Before leaving, the Dieci di Balìa had to handle the deteriorated relationship with their captain-general. Paolo Vitelli was in fact insisting on several “disagreeable” conditions in order to lead the new campaign. In the first days of May, the city’s officials had already debated over a higher premium for his service, and a separate contract for his brother Vitellozzo. During the following

28 29

30 31 32 33 34

Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp. 203–04; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:263–64; Nerli, Commentari, p. 136. Giorgio Cadoni, Lotte politiche e riforme istituzionali a Firenze tra il 1494 e il 1502 (Rome, 1999), pp.  113–44; Guidubaldo Guidi, Lotte, pensiero e istituzioni politiche nella Repubblica Fiorentina dal 1494 al 1512, II. Gli istituti sovrani e di governo (Florence, 1992), pp. 791–92. Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:266; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 261. Bivlioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze [hereafter BNCF], Carte Machiavelli, 1, e. 75, f. 1rv. ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 17r–18v and 29rv; ASF, Acquisti e doni, 1, e. 3, f. 1r; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 196. ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 238r; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 31, f. 790r. Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 203; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:259 and 266.

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weeks, the commander requested also the cancellation of a personal debt, which amounted to sixteen thousand golden florins, and an advance of ten thousand ducats. And also his brother Giulio, the bishop of Città di Castello, made the most of these negotiations, demanding several ecclesiastical benefices in the diocese of Anghiari. Republican envoys, in the end, had to grant the captaingeneral permission to keep any captured artillery, the addition of sixty knights to his condotta, and the payment of twelve thousand florins.35 The sudden elevation of the captain, however, greatly annoyed the governor. The quarrel between the two commanders intensified. Paolo Vitelli expected his subordinate to render an “unquestioning obedience,” in accordance with his contractual obligations. Rinuccio da Marciano showed a total disregard for this “inappropriate” agreement. On the contrary, he refused “to obey to such a soldier,” insisting on taking orders only from the state commissioners. He even refused to participate in the expedition unless the Signori protected the prerogatives of his rank, which included the position of his pavilion, his signature on joint announcements, and other minor privileges.36 In Florence, “this contention sparked off a major, further dispute between the advocates of both condottieri.” The Signori investigated several possibilities for resolving the controversy, including the transfer of the governor to the valley of Serchio, between Lucca and Pisa. Eventually, the officers appointed an emissary to the count, trying to mediate the differences and to placate the commanders, “because their disunity ruins the city,” and “this competition is reckless.”37 Surprisingly, the pacification was as swift as effective. Bernardo Nasi persuaded Rinuccio da Marciano into joining up with Paolo Vitelli, “without imposing any condition.” Since then, “the two vied only for pleasing each other.”38 Once this problem was solved, other concerns were raised about the preparations for the campaign. According to the condottieri, the success of the plundering expedition would depend upon the recruitment of two thousand infantrymen and the employment of a sufficient number of pioneers. These troops would have been useful for repelling any enemy counter-attack, permitting the army to move nimbly all over the Pisan plain.39 In order to finance the expedition, the Signori claimed one hundred thousand florins from the city councils.40 On 10 June, the captain arrived in Pontedera. Three days later, the governor 35

36 37

38 39 40

ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 9r–10r and 16r; Nerli, Commentari, p. 136; Giuseppe Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” Bollettino della Regia Deputazione di Storia patria per l’Umbria 21 (1915), pp. 112–16. ASF, Lettere varie, 6, ff. 139rv and 155r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:266–67; Nerli, Commentari, p. 136; Buonaccorsi, Diario, p. 23. ASF, Acquisti e doni,r 1, e. 3, ff. 1r–2v; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 10rv; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 125–26. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 14r, 15v, and 17r; ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 139rv. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 7rv; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 114 and 127–28. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 10v; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75.



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followed on. Their companies encamped in the village of Fornacette, near the enemy stronghold of Cascina.41 Several small bands of soldiers started immediately to cut grain and to burn barns, “so that not a single stalk was left for our enemies.”42 Despite the absence of pioneers and the lack of infantrymen, the mercenaries devastated the country “as far as the gates of Pisa.” On 16 June, the army occupied the village of Settimo and the abbey of San Savino, barring the road to Cascina.43 The “obstinacy” of their adversaries had in fact convinced the Signori to escalate the war. On 14 June, the officers decided to deliver on undertaking the siege of Cascina, “which we have recently promised to our people for raising funds for this campaign.”44 The captain agreed with this decision, emphasizing the possibility of recapturing the city and to gaining control of the entire Pisan countryside with relative ease. Once again, he demanded a large number of reinforcements and a consistent supply of munitions, that is, ordnance, powder, and shot. Above all, he complained to Florence’s rulers about “begging for money,” because “we endure more to be paid, than to defeat our foes.”45 On 17 June, seven falcons, one culverin, three cannons, and two bombards were shipped to the encampment through the fluvial port of Signa. More than three hundred barrels of powder were also consigned to the gunners, along with five hundred iron and four hundred lead projectiles. The Signori guaranteed that “ammunition will not lack.”46 In the meantime, they provided also thousands of florins for six hundred heavy cavalry, seven hundred light horsemen, three thousand conscripted and professional infantrymen, and two thousand pioneers.47 The opposing Pisan forces amounted only to sixty dismounted crossbowmen, two hundred and forty infantrymen, and seven hundred townspeople. To complicate matters further, some soldiers were deserting, “tempted by the good money of our enemies.”48 The Pisan commissioner carped at the Anziani about the lack of reinforcements, demanding “men, men, men, good men, brave men.” However, the defenders were scared away by the “widespread rumor” of the enemy’s intention to employ “French customs”: that is, an immediate bombard41 42

43 44 45

46 47 48

Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 123 and 127. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 15r and 20r; ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 139v; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 249r and 250r; Buonaccorsi, Diario, p. 23; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 196; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:268; Giovanni Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” Archivio Storico Italiano 6, no. 2 (1845), p. 340. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 20r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:268; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 340; Ser Perizolo, “Ricordi,” Archivio Storico Italiano 6, no. 2 (1845), p. 394. BNCF, Carte Machiavelli, 1, e. 71, ff. 1r–2v; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:268 and 270. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 14v and 18r; ASF, Lettere varie, 6, ff. 141v and 147r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:268; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 133. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 20v; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 197; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75. Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:268. ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 248v, 250r, and 251rv.

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ment and a merciless assault – the same tactics followed victoriously by Paolo Vitelli during the preceding conquest of Buti, Vico, and Librafratta.49 These predictions were soon confirmed. On 21 June, the Florentine army reached Cascina. The commissioners offered easy terms of surrender, but the rebels did not hoist any white flag, attempting instead a surprise sortie.50 Therefore, the captain quickly positioned the first batteries, in order to shield pioneers during the construction of shelters and the excavation of trenches. On the following day, the cannons were positioned too, though the absence of carpenters delayed the placement of heavy bombards.51 The heavy rain and the Pisans’ counter-fire hampered the offensive. Nonetheless, on 25 June, in the early morning, “more than twenty-five heavy guns” opened fire on the town, knocking down about thirty meters of ramparts by the end of the day.52 After “twenty-six hours” of uninterrupted bombardment, the garrison capitulated.53 On 26 June, the Signori could finally rejoice at this “sudden” victory, “and all of our subjects are astonished and impressed.” The conquest of Pisa “is reckoned to be easier by now.”54 Numerous captives were taken to the prisons of Florence, including the commissioners and the castellan of the rebels.55 Only their commander, Rinieri della Sassetta, remained in the encampment. Despite the surveillance of the men-at-arms of both the captain and the governor, he managed to get away, “frightened of a capital sentence or a life imprisonment,” that is, “inappropriate punishment for a soldier.”56 The people protested at this “further deceit,” considering the rank and the fault of the convict, a former subject of the Republic, charged with being a “public enemy, traitor to the state.” The government could only lie about this unexpected situation, “declaring that Rinieri had been intentionally released, in order that he could favor our operations.”57 In any case, for this escape, the captain was widely blamed, once again.58

49 50 51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58

ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 32, f. 12r. See also Ansani, Supplying the army. 1498. Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 196; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:270. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 26v–27r; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 134–35 and 137. ASF, Lettere varie, 9, f. 3r; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 254v and 255r. Biagio Bonaccorsi, Diario, (Florence, 1568), p. 23; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:270; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 261; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 196; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 204; Filippo Rinuccini, Alamanno Rinuccini and Neri Rinuccini, Ricordi storici, ed. Giuseppe Aiazzi (Florence, 1840), p. 162; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 340. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 31r. Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 197; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:270; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 340. ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 256v. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:270–71; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76. Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp.  204–05; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 261; Buonaccorsi, Diario, pp. 23–24.



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Summer Workers By the end of June, the Signori advised the commissioners to take full advantage of the temporary disbandment of the enemy army, a perfect opportunity for occupying the surroundings of Pisa.59 Without hindrance, the soldiers encamped near Riglione, halfway between Cascina and Pisa. The observation tower of Foce, not far from the mouth of the Arno, was captured shortly afterwards. Almost encircled, the Pisans abandoned their only remaining post in the countryside, burning the fortified terreplein of Stagno to the ground.60 In the meantime, following the advice of his astrologer, the captain fixed the time for the opening of the siege of Pisa as the first days of August.61 So, the preparations commenced immediately “according to the stars.” In early July, the officers questioned the commander on the requirements for the enterprise, “from the most insignificant to the most important one.”62 The Signori recognized that a “large quantity of capital” was the sole means for winning.63 However, they were particularly doubtful about the “ordinary and extraordinary” expenditures, considering that the Republic had exhausted its purse, and that the people had been “squeezed dry.” Forty thousand florins of ready cash were spontaneously furnished by a group of magnates, even though the government refused to pay any interest on their loan.64 Having raised money, the Signori had to satisfy several other requests made by their “rude and greedy” captain-general. His salary, for example, had to be paid in golden currency. The company of his brother Vitellozzo had to be increased by twenty-five men-at-arms. His friends had to be hired and pleased. His debts had to be paid off.65 Despite the “unfairness” of these claims and the disappointment of the citizens, “everything was granted.”66 As usual, the condottiero “required also large procurement of weapons and a large recruitment of soldiers, in order to be at an advantage over the enemy, at the cost of unbearable disbursements.”67 Munitions, men, and funds had to be provided by 28 July, otherwise “we won’t advance for any reason.”68 The state envoys repeatedly consulted him about the numbers of combatants and 59 60

61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68

ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 31rv. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 34r and 37r; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 258v–259r; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 261; Bonaccorsi, Diario, p. 24; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 341. Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 143–44. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 35v. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 38v. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 33v, 36v, and 38r; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 58r–68r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:275. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, ff. 86v–87r; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 41r–46v and 67r–69r; ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 181rv. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:276. Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 211. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 46v–47r; ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 177r.

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supplies.69 He demanded at least eight thousand infantrymen and one thousand pioneers.70 Above all, he assessed the quantity of gunpowder needed at fifty tonnes, more or less.71 In Florence, the production of the propellant was still entrusted to Piero di Zanobi and Jacopo di Corso, as it had been the previous year. A new contract with the Dieci di Balìa was signed in February, for a monthly commission for four and a half tonnes of material. The monthly salary was fixed as six golden florins for the two masters, and two florins each for their three assistants. The officers, moreover, lent public facilities to the artisans, that is, the two workshops of the capital sited near the Porta San Niccolò and the Ponte alle Grazie.72 During the summer, the Signori reached similar agreements with their habitual private suppliers. The apothecaries Giovanni Barducci and Giovanni Formiconi were to receive a payment of forty-five florins for every three hundred and thirty kilograms of powder.73 The problem with the procurement of the primary raw material that had plagued the Republic in 1498, however, was not solved. One year later, the shortage of saltpeter occurred again. The contemporaneous preparations for war in Venice and in Milan made the nitrate scarcer than usual on the Italian market. Only a few foreign dealers could offer their goods to the Signoria, and even Florentine merchants, as Filippo del Vigna and Piero Berti, could dispatch only a modest quantity of the substance.74 The officers, therefore, had to track saltpeter down elsewhere. A first request was sent to the government of Lucca, on 12 July. The Signori sought about ten tonnes of nitrate, relying on the “common desire of peace and quiet.” The Anziani declined the proposal, affirming that they could not remove anything from the public arsenals without the consent of the city council, and recognizing “how dangerous is, in the present times, to face a shortage of saltpeter.”75 A private local dealer, however, sold five tonnes of material to a Florentine agent, earning six hundred and eighty golden florins.76 On 26 July, another letter was sent to Gian Luigi Fieschi, one of the principal politicians of Genoa. The Signori explained that, “considering the stubbornness 69 70

71 72

73 74 75 76

ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 34v–35r. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 41r, 42r, 45r, 46v, and 47v; ASF, Miscellanea repubblicana, 5, e. 166, f. 1r; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 144–45. ASF, Miscellanea repubblicana, 5, e. 166, f. 1r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Deliberazioni, condotte e stanziamenti, 46, ff. 12r and 52v. See also Fabrizio Ansani, “Tra necessità bellica ed innovazione tecnologica. La formazione dei maestri di polvere fiorentini nel Quattrocento,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Italie et Méditerranée modernes et contemporaines 131 no. 2 (2019); Idem, “Supplying the Army. 1498,” pp. 217–18. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 151v–152r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 74r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 141r; 163v, and 179r. ASF, Signori, Missive prima cancelleria, 51, f. 134rv; Archivo di Stato di Lucca [hereafter ASLU], Anziani al tempo della libertà, 537, ff. 203r and 204v. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 31r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 154r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 35r; ASLU, Colloqui, 3, f. 557.



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of our rebels, and pondering the possibility of a lengthy siege, we might have need of a great deal of gunpowder.”77 A Florentine engineer, Filippo di Giovanni, reached the Ligurian port to conduct the negotiations. At long last, another private seller, David Lomellino, shipped four tonnes of the product to Livorno, getting six hundred golden florins.78 The Florentine emissary in Romagna, Niccolò Machiavelli, found out that the six tonnes of powder kept in the warehouses of Castrocaro “exploded two years ago, ruining the whole castle.”79 The envoy asked Caterina Sforza for four tonnes of propellant, “offering to borrow or to buy them.” The lady of Forlì “replied that she has been lacking powder,” but she offered half of a load of saltpeter recently stored in the docks of Pesaro. The owner, Leonardo Strozzi, contracted to provide instead his entire stock, that is, six tonnes, priced seven hundred and fifty golden florins. 80 The Signori tried also to acquire one ton of the mineral from the Balìa of Siena, but obtained only three hundred kilograms.81 The marquis of Massa, Alberico Malaspina, was deaf to the Florentine request.82 Enduring several refusals, and in spite of a general reluctance, the officers managed to collect about fifteen tonnes of saltpeter between the last weeks of June and the first days of August, all of which was handed over to their artisans. Giovanni Formiconi manufactured two tonnes of gunpowder. An elderly Stagio Barducci could only craft one hundred kilograms.83 Despite the absence of his partner, transferred to Livorno, Piero di Zanobi alone produced twenty-one tonnes of powder, working all night long, and even during festivities.84 The master accomplished a great deal in a little time, and the output was undoubtedly high, compared to the preceding years.85 Nevertheless, it failed to meet the expectations of the captain-general.86 For this reason, the Signori had to “empty out all of our fortresses, which are the core of our dominion.”87 The castellans of Arezzo, Borgo San Sepolcro, Volterra, and Castrocaro were ordered to deliver most of the gunpowder at their disposal. A similar instruction was given to officers of smaller towns, such 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

86 87

ASF, Signori, Missive prima cancelleria, 51, ff. 135v–136r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, ff. 45v and 74v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 188r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 64r. ASF, Signori, Responsive, 12, f. 135r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 180v; ASF, Signori, Responsive, 12, ff. 120r and 141r; BNCF, Carte Machiavellir, 2, e. 87, f. 1r; BNCF, Carte Machiavellir, 2, e. 88, f. 1rv. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 35r and 38r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 193v; ASF, Signori, Missive prima cancelleria, 51, f. 142rv. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 51r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 192v and 194r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 27v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 194v and 226r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 50v. In 1495, for example, four masters had produced a similar quantity of explosive over a period of six months. See Fabrizio Ansani, “Craftsmen, Artillery, and War Production in Renaissance Florence,” Vulcan 4 (2016), p. 6. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 226r. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 70v.

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as Poppi, Dovadola, and San Gimignano. The explosive was also sought for through the Valdarno. Even Vico Pisano, Cascina, Monte Carlo, and other posts near the enemy were completely cleared of it.88 One shipment after another, more than six tonnes of propellant were gradually brought in to the encampment from the whole Florentine territory.89 In the first week of August, the Signori estimated the amount of the alreadydispatched powder at thirty tonnes. By the end of the month, they conceded that “all of our reserves are depleted.”90 Nearly eight hundred barrels of powder were loaded onto barges, and transported by the Arno from the arsenals of Florence to the encampment in Pontedera, along with hundreds of spears and thousands of arrows, lots of firearms and plenty of shot. Other tools, such as ropes and nails, shovels and hoes, were occasionally moved by land, often going through the river port of Signa.91 This continuous movement of weapons between the city and the camp caused a certain “confusion” about their management. In order to avoid this disorder, the Signori appointed a particular commissioner “to receive materiel, to count up how many munitions come in, and to inform us about the needs of the encampment,” day by day.92 On 13 July, Domenico Federighi took charge of the magazines of Pontedera, organizing the distribution and the allotment of the equipment.93 The commissioners-general were invited to contact him frequently to obtain “timely and sufficient supplies.”94 Moreover, the direction of the warehouse of Cascina was assigned to Michele Compagni, one of the two watchmen of the arsenals of the capital. His colleague, Gaspare Pasquini, remained in Florence, helping the officers in bargaining with craftsmen, in buying goods, and in consigning armaments. Antonio da Verrazzano, a former “sub-overseer” of the Dieci di Balìa, was entrusted with the accountancy of the whole procurement process.95 Antonio da’ Certaldo was tasked with the conveyance of the ordnance.96 Surprisingly, the inventiveness of this carter would prove fundamental to solving the issue of the insufficient supply of cannonballs. On 23 July, the captain-general and the governor-general wrote a heartfelt letter to their secretaries, expressing their “listlessness” and their “dissatisfaction.” In order to emphasize the importance of the complaints, the two condottieri signed the missive “with our own hands.” 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96

ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 166v, 176v, 177v, 186r, 187r, and 217v; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 50v–51r, 61v–62r, and 67r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 215v–216v. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 68v and 88r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 135r, 146v, 147r, and 198v. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 41v. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, ff. 20r, 28rv, and 82rv. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 47r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, ff. 26r, 27r, and 42v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 129r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 55v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Deliberazioni, condotte e stanziamenti, 46, f. 21v.



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Antonio da Certaldo has informed us that only five hundred iron cannonballs are available for the enterprise, between the ones remaining after the conquest of Cascina, the projectiles recovered under its ramparts, and the missiles purchased in Ferrara. This news was like a stab wound to our heart, because this ammunition is the most important, most indispensable requisite for this great siege, and nothing can be done without it. In desperation, we have found a very good remedy to this shortage. Antonio, in fact, has told us that a large quantity of copper and bronze is stored in the public and private warehouses of the capital, hence cannonballs can be cast in these two metals. Our excellent Signori ought to collect this material and make shot from it. Each round must be suitable for our heavy guns, weighing from fifteen to seventeen kilograms. We assure their lordships that we will not besiege Pisa if they do not guarantee an adequate supply of cannonballs, because our foes are strengthening their defenses, and our artillery is the sole means of subduing the rebels. If their lordship do not make this provision, they will end up disappointed and frustrated. So they should spare no expense and no efforts in pursuing this immortal glory, raising to fame among the other Italian powers. We consider the fortune of this state, of this siege, and of the two of us to depend on this procurement.97

The Signori considered this solution to be “very effective,” and replied to their commissioners that “our captain will want for nothing.”98 Thus, five gunmakers, three bellfounders, and two mint workers were hurried into manufacturing the bronze munitions, trying to meet the set deadline.99 The officials coped with improvisation. In a couple of days, they prepared the reverberatory furnace of each master. Francesco Telli, Lorenzo Cavaloro, Ludovico di Guglielmo, Bonaccorso Ghiberti, Giovanni Antonio Moro, Jacopo Pintegli, Giuliano d’Andrea, Jacopo del Mazza, and Damiano di Giovanni were also provided with charcoal and timber. A large amount of metal was collected from the arsenals of the capital. Five tonnes of copper, two tonnes of tin, and one and a half tons of brass were acquired from the Strozzi bank. Two tonnes of used copper arrived from the castle of Firenzuola, even if they were “fused with earth and bricks.”100 Several “rotten weapons,” such as damaged falcons and broken handguns, were handed over to Bonaccorso Ghiberti. In his account books, the craftsman complained about this “useless, unworthy waste,” underlining the poor quality of the metal, and wondering at the large quantity of unusable material. In the presence of the Signoria, the artisan initially refused to obey the command of the government, but his attitude was mitigated by the

ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 168r. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 52r and 53v. 99 ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 86r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 172r–174v and 196r–197v. 100 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 168v, 169v, and 170r. 97 98

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promise of a larger payment.101 A similar assurance had to be given to the other founders.102 In a short time, the castings were ready to start. The Signori expected “nearly eighty shot per day” of their masters.103 Between 29 July and 2 August, three hundred cast bronze cannonballs were dispatched to Cascina.104 Within two weeks, Florentine masters crafted six hundred and eighty-nine items, consuming seven thousand kilograms of copper, three and a half tonnes of brass, and one thousand kilograms of tin. The cost of these “overpriced” missiles amounted to three hundred and fifty golden florins, excluding the expense and the consumption of raw materials, which amounted to one thousand and five hundred florins, more or less.105 A few florins were also paid to Andrea di Pasquino and Paolo Soglianni. The Signoria commissioned these goldsmiths to engrave a message on four gilded projectiles, with the intention of deriding and demoralizing the besieged rebels.106 This cannonball does not bring hopes of our clemency. The virtues of our captain have not intimidated you into surrendering, until now, but you will suffer an ordeal sooner rather than later.107

According to chroniclers, the Pisans offered contemptuous answers to these words of warning: Beg for forgiveness, sinners. We are devoutly fighting for our motherland. So far the incapacity of your captain is giving us freedom, rather than holding us in captivity.108

Before producing the bronze missiles, the Signori had tried their best to obtain a sufficient number of iron projectiles, continuing with the previous attempts of the Dieci di Balìa at incentivizing the production of cast metal. After the problematic stockpiling of the previous campaign, the officers had in ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 170v, 195v, and 212v; Archivio Storico dell’Istituto degli Innocenti [hereafter AOI], Debitori e creditori di Bonaccorso di Vettorio di Lorenzo Ghiberti, 13229, ff. 50v–51r; AOI, Ricordanze di Bonaccorso di Vettorio di Lorenzo Ghiberti, 13230, ff. 33v–35r. See also Fabrizio Ansani, “The Life of a Renaissance Gunmaker. Bonaccorso Ghiberti and the Development of Florentine Artillery in the Late Fifteenth Century,” Technology and Culture 58, no. 3 (2017), pp. 774–75. 102 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 172r–174v. 103 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 53v. 104 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 177r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 61v and 63v; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:280; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” Archivio Storico Italiano 6, no. 2 (1845), p. 367. 105 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 171v and 173r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 122v. By comparison, an iron cannonball cost 150 florins. 106 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 179v; AOI, Debitori e creditori di Bonaccorso di Vettorio di Lorenzo Ghiberti, 13229, f. 50v. 107 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 18, f. 190v. 108 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 367. 101



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fact hired three masters especially “for manufacturing iron cannonballs.” Their workshop was opened, during the month of December 1498, in the surroundings of Pistoia.109 In February 1499, Giovanni from Chieri, Anton from the Holy Roman Empire, and Lancillotto from Pistoia produced forty-five “heavy” shot for cannons and four “small” missiles for culverins.110 The captain approved these shots as “very useful.” In June, he told his chancellor to solicit their manufacture, “so that missiles won’t be in short supply.”111 A general dearth of raw materials, however, would have affected this industry very soon. Iron mines were scarce in Florentine territory.112 Thus, for “keeping their promise” to supply the army, the officers were compelled to recycle second-hand metal. Rusty weathervanes and old rods were bought in Florence, Arezzo, Cortona, Pontedera, Vico, and Cascina.113 On 26 July, seven tonnes of this “scrap iron” arrived in Pistoia, but the poor quality of the metal hampered the production, causing “a few difficulties” to the furnace.114 The Signori had even to send two of their gunmakers to help repair the foundry.115 Nevertheless, from July to August, this team of founders could manufacture only one hundred and sixty-three projectiles, weighing two and a half tonnes.116 On 16 July, six tonnes of “scrap” were transported to Colle Val d’Elsa. Here, on behalf of the Republic, Ludovico Buonaccorsi rented and improved an entire ironwork for the purpose, ordering the construction of adequate furnaces and reliable bellows, and purchasing the fuel for the flames in Siena.117 The master Simone from Romena directed the castings, along with two charcoal burners and two other assistants. From July to September, they crafted three hundred and ninety-four shot of various sorts, weighing a total of four and a half tonnes.118 The Signori tried even diplomacy to amass the material. On 7 July, the ambassador in Venice, Giovanni Battista Ridolfi, requested an official license to acquire iron cannonballs in Brescia. The former competitors denied the aid,

109 110 111 112

113 114 115 116 117

118

ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 23, f. 542r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Deliberazioni, condotte e stanziamenti, 46, ff. 12v–13r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 29r, 41r, 67v, and 110r. Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 137. Mario Borracelli, “Siderurgia e imprenditori senesi nel Quattrocento fino all’epoca di Lorenzo il Magnifico,” in La Toscana al tempo di Lorenzo il Magnifico. Politica, economia, cultura, arte (Pisa, 1996), pp. 1218–20. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 169r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 43v; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, f. 61r. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 47v. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 18, f. 4v; AOI, Debitori e creditori di Bonaccorso di Vettorio di Lorenzo Ghiberti, 13229, f. 26r. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 199r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, ff. 27r and 32r; ASF, Dieci di Balìa, Entrata e uscita, 26, f. 320v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 166v and 174v; ASF, Signori, Missive prima cancelleria, 51, f. 135r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, ff. 22r, 32r, 37v, and 42v; ASF, Dieci di Balìa, Entrata e uscita, 26, f. 321r.

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because the Senate was “in want of projectiles.”119 On 14 July, another letter was sent to Giovanni Gonzaga, brother of the marquis of Mantua, requesting the concession of a number of missiles.120 Nevertheless, only the duke of Ferrara, Ercole d’Este, decided to lend two hundred shot.121 Among other things, the officers resorted to licit and illegal markets. The right-hand man of the appointees, Baldo from Careggi, succeeded in smuggling about a hundred shot out of the Venetian territory.122 The agent in Lucca, Francesco Spina, bought four hundred and sixty-five cast cannonballs and eighty-eight forged rounds for about four hundred golden florins. The seller was Benedetto Buonvisi, one of the most influential supporters of the Florentine cause in that city.123 Finally, the officers collected 1,600 iron shot, while one thousand stone missiles were sculpted by Simone del Pollaiuolo in the quarry of the Golfolina. Most of the latter were specially made for the bombards, weighing about sixty or seventy kilograms. Costing about fifteen soldi, they were ten times cheaper than the iron cannonballs, which were usually priced at one hundred and fifty soldi.124 Furthermore, the gunpowder makers prepared numerous incendiary projectiles. Jacopo di Corso provided two hundred and forty firebombs.125 The two hundred and eighty shells crafted by Piero di Zanobi contained an incendiary mixture of camphor, alcohol, pitch, varnish, turpentine, and gunpowder.126 These significant quantities of shot and powder had to suit a large number of guns. As usual, the captain wanted to rely on his artillery to hammer his enemies, and considered that its use on a vast scale was “the right way” to break down the shelters and to wear down the morale of the rebels. The commander, therefore, desired for his army to “abound with artillery, so that our bombardments cannot be stopped by any nuisance, by any breakdown.”127 Already in June, he had repeatedly requested the cannon left in Casentino after the winter war, still blocked by impassable mountain roads. The guns arrived in Florence a month later, and were immediately transported to the encampment by river.128 ASF, Signori, Legazioni e commissarie, 24, ff. 28v–29r. See also Sanudo, Diari, II., 896. ASF, Signori, Missive prima cancelleria, 51, f. 134v. 121 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 164r; ASF, Signori, Missive prima cancelleria, 51, ff. 133r and 134v. 122 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 175r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 55r. 123 ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 21r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 26, f. 320r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 35v and 64r. 124 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 192r. 125 ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 22r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 168v and 191v. 126 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 191r. 127 ASF, Lettere varie, 6, ff. 147r and 149v; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 266v. See also Ansani, “Supplying the Army. 1498,” pp. 214–15. 128 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 23rv, 25rv, and 43r; ASF, Lettere varie, 6, ff. 111r and 149v; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 197. 119

120



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In any case, the Signori were not late in forwarding other artillery from the city magazines. The commissioners were also allowed to shift several guns from Empoli and Pontedera.129 From Livorno came the “miraculous” basilisk, a giant weapon of two pieces, seven meters long, loaded with thirty kilograms of metal.130 Despite these additional weapons, Paolo Vitelli was not satisfied. He demanded ten more brand new cannons, but the Signori alleged several difficulties with their production.131 The captain then insisted on casting three or four guns at least.132 Finally, the officers had to grant one culverin and one cannon, which were cast by Ludovico di Guglielmo and Lorenzo Cavaloro.133 Thus, over the course of July, the Signori gathered together a “beautiful ordnance,” pressing into service both up-to-date French-style guns and traditional Italian weapons. The former amounted to forty or fifty units, “between culverins and cannons, all mounted on carriages.” The latter were two heavy and three small bombards, along with several mortars. The remaining pieces were mainly falcons and spingards.134 For protecting his irreplaceable artillery from enemy missiles, the captain decided to replace weak wooden mantlets with more-resistant wicker gabions, filled with rocks and earth.135 Additional defenses were made with double wool mattresses and with bundles of branches.136 To erect and repair these shelters, the Signori took on lots of carpenters and sappers.137 Other masters were responsible for the carriages, the trestles, and the beds of the guns.138 The Signori worked hard to fulfill the captain’s demands promptly. They had in fact to keep the momentum, “well aware of the hazards of losing time.”139 Therefore, the most part of the materiel was transported to the encampment within the specified term. On 28 July, the infantry companies arrived too. The camp would have been then populated by “about fifteen thousand men, between infantry and cavalry.” According to a Pisan observer, “the enemy has on their payroll six hundred men-at-arms, five hundred mounted crossbowmen, eight 129 130 131 132 133 134

135 136 137 138 139

ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 20v and 39v. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 64r; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 265r and 274r; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 85; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 345. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 41v. ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 170r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 30r; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, f. 156v; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 20v. Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 262; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 341; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp.  365 and 376. The larger bombards fired stones of sixty kilograms. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:280; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 365. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 78v, 80r, and 88r; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 343; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 377. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 31r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 45r and 48r. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 21v; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 22v and 48r. ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 38v.

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thousand foot soldiers, four thousands conscript militiamen, three thousand pioneers, and one hundred and fifty gunners.”140 Florentine chroniclers reported about ten thousand infantrymen and one thousand heavy cavalrymen, excluding skilled and forced laborers.141 The nourishment of this populous “mobile city” represented another challenging issue for the government. According to the commissioners-general, the subjects of the nearby villages were in fact unable to prepare a meal for this multitude of combatants. Consequently, the appointees had to buy bread and wine further away, in Empoli, in Castel Fiorentino, in Colle Val d’Elsa, in Signa, and even in Volterra and in Pistoia. Peasants and vendors were also expected to organize a daily market in the camp, “always assuming that they can earn their living and that they are well treated.” In addition, the city officials responsible for the provision of grain, the Ufficiali della Grascia, guaranteed continuous distribution of bread among the tents. On 31 July, on the eve of the assault, the bakers of the capital cooked more than fifteen thousand loaves just to support their army.142 Haste and Ingenuity. The Fortification of Pisa At that time, the “extensive preparations” of the Republic had undoubtedly alarmed all the neighboring states. The government of Lucca, in particular, was worrying over reckoning and retaliation, due to its long-lasting duplicity in assisting the Pisans and deceiving the Florentines.143 The widespread rumors of an imminent invasion prompted the government to fortify the capital, purchasing munitions, recruiting infantrymen, and hiring engineers. Troops were ordered to defend the towns of Viareggio, Mutrone, and Pietrasanta. Moreover, aid and advice were asked from the lord of Bologna, the marquis of Mantua, and the duke of Ferrara. Three ambassadors were also sent to Paolo Vitelli, “for mitigating every severe intention.”144 The captain, however, had already promised to restore Pietrasanta to his Florentine masters, “within eight days from the fall of Pisa.”145 Of course, the Pisans were worried too, and not only because of the external threat. Since the departure of the Venetian garrison, in fact, they had experienced several financial difficulties. The usual trade with Lucca and Genoa had been 140 141 142

143

144 145

Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 341; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 365. Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 262; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:279. ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 28v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrata e uscita, 30, ff. 206v–209r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 44r, 51r, 59v, and 62r; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 150–51. Renzo Sabbatini, “Interessi economici e ragioni diplomatiche. La Repubblica di Lucca tra Francia e Impero ‘in tante revolutioni delle cose di Italia,’” in Diplomazie. Linguaggi, negoziati e ambasciatori fra quindicesimo e sedicesimo secolo, eds. Eleonora Plebani, Elena Valeri, Paola Volpini (Milan, 2017), pp. 165–87. ASLU, Colloqui, 3, ff. 561–62 and 579–84. ASF, Miscellanea repubblicana, 5, e. 166, f. 1v.



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hindered by the plague raging throughout the spring. Heavy winter rains had flooded the countryside, making the summer harvest poor. The surviving grain had been cut and burnt during the enemy’s pillaging expedition.146 Poverty and famine had weakened the unity among the citizenry. Moreover, the refusal of the peace agreement had deepened the split, stinging the people into mistrust and dissension.147 Peasants and artisans desired to return to the Florentine dominion to get back peace and prosperity. The majority of the ruling magnates, on the other hand, firmly rejected the accord, because “they were sixty or seventy thousand ducats in debt with Florentine merchants” and also “worried about the vengeance” that they might suffer.148 In April, these oligarchs had suggested three alternatives to the Venetian Senate. First of all, they proposed to sell the whole “real estate” of the city to the Florentines within the space of two months, fixing the prices of houses, fortifications, palaces, and workshops. They also considered the possibility of presenting the Most Serene Republic with “our city, our countryside, our fortresses, our children, our women, our wealth.” Lastly, they even offered to leave the city, requesting to be transported to an overseas possession, such as Cyprus or Crete.149 A month later, the Pisan Anziani appointed ambassadors to all the states of the Peninsula, pressing for money, food, and troops. The diplomats reached the duke of Ferrara and the king of Naples. They reminded the rulers of Siena and Lucca that “Florentines wish to conquer all of Tuscany.” The envoys had recourse even to the “divine court” through the pope. And a letter was sent to the emperor too, pleading “for motherland, for freedom.”150 This “confidence in our powerful allies,” however, was soon undermined by numerous rebuffs. In Venice, the messengers were not admitted to the public audiences. His Holiness was hesitant to bless the rebellion. The Sienese government flattered the emissary, promising everything, but offering nothing.151 Even the citizens of Lucca refused the requests, averting “a possible Florentine reprisal,” on the advice of Ludovico Sforza.152 Sforza, the duke of Milan, was in fact the mastermind behind several rejections, forbidding the Genoese, the Lucchese, and the Sienese from assisting the rebels. He insisted, instead, on their surrendering, “for the good, the peace, and the union of Italy.”153 In late June, the Pisans appealed to il Moro, asking him to help find a new compromise, but the negotiations failed when he sided ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 192rv; ASLU, Anziani al tempo della libertà, 136, f. 677. 147 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 20v–21r. 148 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 20v–21r, 25v, 43v, and 44v; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:242 and 270; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 77. 149 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 201v–202r. 150 Ibid., ff. 206r–214v, 234v, 231v–233r. 151 Ibid., ff. 241rv, 266rv, and 268v–269r. 152 ASLU, Colloqui, 3, ff. 558–60. 153 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 222v–223r and 262v–263r. 146

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openly with their foes. The masses blamed him for this “waste of time,” for his “about-face,” but the “Italian dragon” was at that time in desperate need of Florentine reinforcements for repelling the imminent French and Venetian invasion of Lombardy.154 Considering their diplomatic isolation, the rebels could only do their best to put up an effective defense. In order to “afford necessities” and raise revenues, the Anziani began to gather all the silver goods from ecclesiastical and public buildings, auctioning them in the markets of Lucca.155 A taxation “on every single inhabitant” was also imposed, and money was collected especially for the “salaries of our soldiers.” The contribution was compulsory, and people paid from one to five ducats to avoid being imprisoned.156 On 22 July, the Anziani designated six commissioners-general “to supply and fortify the city,” along with a Venetian engineer, Sebastiano from Monselice.157 In order to allow a clear shot for artillery, they decided to level houses, churches, vineyards, and copses all around the city. The suburbs of San Marco, San Giovanni, and San Bernardo were burned and abandoned. The height of gates and towers was lowered,158 and, a new ravelin was built near the Porta Calcesana, for preventing an assault from the northwest. In the southern perimeter, the bastion and a new ravelin of Stampace were fortified with several casemates.159 Similar structures were walled up in the surroundings of the fortress of the Cittadella Vecchia, which guarded the downstream areas of the river. The imposing Cittadella Nuova protected the opposite western bank. The Pisans relied heavily on their massive walls, two and a half meters thick, and eleven meters high. For containing the “fury” of foes, however, it was deemed necessary to erect an additional barrier six meters behind the ramparts. In the first days of the siege, men and women worked promptly and intensely at this terreplein, “five hundred meters long, nine meters thick, and four meters high.” Two large, deep ditches were dug alongside it, and numerous “barrels and baskets, full of earth,” were put in front of the terreplein for deflecting the blows of artillery.160 As for munitions, the rebels had at their disposal a certain number of “mad culverins,” that is, “beautiful and furious things” copied from the new French models. One of these firearms, “il Bufalo,” was “so huge and so good that it can fire twenty kilograms of iron with great accuracy.”161 Several cannons and ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 239r, 251rv and 252rv; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 23r–26r and 37r–46v; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:269 and 273. 155 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 18, ff. 8v and 14rv. 156 Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 339. 157 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 18, f. 16v; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 364. 158 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 261r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 15r; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” pp. 340–41; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:269. 159 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 364–65. 160 Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 342; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 366–67. 161 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 42, ff. XXXVIIIIv and CLIIIIv; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 80, f. 4r; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 307. 154



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“lots of falcons” were also available for gunners.162 Many other traditional iron guns, such as bombards and spingards, were stored in the city arsenals too.163 A significant reserve of saltpeter and gunpowder had been left in the two citadels by the Venetian garrison. The nitrate was also bought in Lucca, in Genoa, and in Palermo, and refined in the mills of the Cittadela Vecchia.164 Iron projectiles were ordered from the mine of Fornovolasco, in the nearby region of Garfagnana, over the preceding months.165 Stone ammunition was probably sculpted from the ruins of leveled houses and lowered towers. Three tonnes of lead, moreover, were extracted from the dismantled roofing of the city baptistery.166 Incendiary missiles were crafted from pots and flasks.167 The arrows of crossbowmen were poisoned, breaking with the conventions of “good war.”168 So, “twenty-four men-at-arms, one hundred and fifty mounted crossbowmen, five hundred infantrymen, one thousand citizens, and two thousand peasants,” commanded by Gurlino from Ravenna and Rinieri della Sassetta, were ready to fight, waiting for the last showdown.169 Testing the Artillery On 31 July, the Florentine troops were ready to operate. On that day, a small contingent seized the solitary tower of Asciano, securing the nearby coastal swamps. The captain punished the strong resistance of the garrison with his habitual brutality. Five prisoners had both hands amputated, and their eyes were put out without mercy.170 It was the last warning for the rebels. At sunset, the army finally moved in the direction of Pisa.171 In the gloom, the camp was positioned in front of the south-eastern walls of the city, “regarded as the weakest part of the enemy fortifications.” The tents were pitched in a large area “between the monastery of San Donnino and the church of San Giovanni al Gatano.” [See Figure 10.1] Paolo Vitelli ordered all Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 370 and 374. ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 77, ff. 33r and 34v. 164 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 31, f. 759r; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 32, ff. 5r, 7r, and 62r. See also Sanudo, Diari, II., p. 68. 165 Archivo di Stato di Modena, Archivio segreto estense, Cancelleria, Archivio per materie, Miniere e ferriere, 4. 166 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 18, ff. 37v–38r. 167 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 371. 168 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 62v; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 198; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 156. For the “good” practices of war in Renaissance Italy, see Michael Mallett, Mercenaries and their Masters. Warfare in Renaissance Italy (London, 1974), pp. 200–06. 169 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 364 and 366. 170 Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 198; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 78; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 341. 171 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 60v; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 198; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 156. 162 163

Figure 10.1  The Siege of Pisa, 1499



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the cannon to aim directly at the rampart between the bulwark of Stampace and the church of Sant’Antonio. In a single day, the weapons wiped out twentyfive meters of stone wall, and another seventy meters were pierced, and were expected to collapse under the blows of bombards.172 The Florentine gunners “fired about two hundred shot per hour against the wall and into the city. The entire world seemed to be getting destroyed.”173 Witnesses counted “from six hundred and fifty-three to seven hundred and fifty-five shots.”174 In the evening, the captain rearranged the batteries. The cannons were placed near the edge of the external ditch, “fifteen meters away from the ramparts.” The bombards and the basilisk were planted at their back.175 On 2 August, the guns were pointed at three different spots, thirty meters distant from each other. The bombardment went on “without intermission.” The captain reported that another opening, seven meters wide, was made near the tower of Stampace. However, he solicited “powder and shot, powder and shot, powder and shot, powder and shot, and shot and powder,” because “the victory, or the defeat, depend on these two things.”176 The condottiero addressed this concern in several missives. On 4 August, he recognized the consumption of one hundred barrels of propellant per day, bemoaning the fact that “half of the ordnance is used intermittently.” On 5 August, he signaled his discontent with the distributor of munitions, and over the “disorder” of his shipments. On 12 August, he noted that “due to the shortage of explosive, only six heavy guns out of forty have fired in the last five days.” Thus, he had to repeat that, without an opportune procurement, “every expense is vain.”177 The Signori were mindful that “ammunition could lack in proportion to its use, turning a promising glory into a manifest infamy.” Nevertheless, they “judge this shortage to be premature. If so, we cannot remedy this problem, because a new gathering of saltpeter will take a long time.”178 The officers had even admitted that “it is impossible to arrange all of these materials, during a campaign.” Any Italian power would not be able to provide a sufficient quantity of ammunition, if too many guns had to be employed for such a long time. Everyone could easily understand this issue […]. We are trying our best to solve this problem, but money alone cannot remedy it, due to the complexity of the manufacture of both shot and powder.179 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 62v; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 262; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:280; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 341; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 365; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 156. 173 Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 341. 174 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 367. 175 Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 156. 176 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 63r; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 157. 177 Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 157–60 and 162–63. 178 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 68v. 179 Ibid., f. 65r. 172

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The only way of getting around this dearth was a decisive, sudden assault. After a week, the rulers seemed to be already disappointed at the “lengthy delays” of the expedition.180 But Paolo Vitelli did not share their pessimistic appraisal of the situation. If someone says that this siege is dragging on, I tell him that, in recent years, no expedition has been as demanding as this one. These excellent masters and these magnificent citizens, accustomed to fighting wars, can perhaps remember that castles and hovels used to resist the powerful armies of every Italian state for months. Now, instead, we are besieging Pisa, and I can affirm that the operations are on track, regardless of robust ramparts, many ditches, sturdy shelters, innumerable guns, and obstinate defenders.181

He was only lamenting that “the enemy are fully equipped with munitions, while we are running out of everything. The rebels can attack us, at this very moment, with their counter-fire.”182 And the Pisans, in fact, had already started to harass Florentines with their guns. Several gunports were chiseled into the base of the walls, so that “a cannon and a culverin could intimidate their troops, killing and wounding their men.” Other gunports were realized in the Cittadella Vecchia, allowing the rebels to open fire on the left flank of their foes. Located “by its smoke,” the Florentine artillery was repeatedly forced to draw back and to stop firing.183 Along with the powder, therefore, saltpeter was for the Pisans the “salvation of the city.”184 It had been generously, privately supplied by several Lucchese magnates, along with troops and money. By mid-August, a large part of their fellow citizens was firmly inclined towards the Pisans, a support backed by the secret state council.185 The Florentines noticed this frantic activity, but could not prevent the arrival of both reinforcements and materiel from the valley of Serchio.186 The assailants, however, were not giving up. Notwithstanding “the sturdiness of the ramparts, the artillery has razed them in four different places.”187 About two hundred meters of walls had been destroyed in a week.188 On 8 August, the captain ordered his guns to demolish the crumbling tower of Stampace, and to raze its ravelin the ground. In the following day, the fire was concentrated on Ibid., ff. 63v–65v. Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 167. 182 Ibid., pp. 157–58. 183 Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 368–70. 184 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 32, f. 62rv. 185 ASLU, Colloqui, 3, ff. 598–600 and 602. 186 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 74rv and 85r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:285; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, pp. 78–79; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, pp. 198–99. 187 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, ff. 268v–269r. 188 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 64v; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 78; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 374. 180 181



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the eastern ravelin of the Cittadella Vecchia, in order to halt the enemy barrage. Moreover, by feinting two assaults on the breaches, Paolo Vitelli studied and tested the defenses of the rebels.189 On 10 August, at dawn, the Florentine infantry launched a general attack on the bulwark. This “cruel battle” lasted about three hours. The Pisans even threw incendiary missiles, and their artillery “wounded lots of our soldiers,” but the troops succeeded in scaling the ruins and raising the lily flag on the collapsed tower. Some managed to venture into the city. At that very moment, the infantry columns could have assaulted the rear terreplein, but, inexplicably, “Vitellozzo did not want to strike again.” Paolo assented to the decision of his brother, ordering the retreat, and “wasting the chance of seizing the city.”190 Besides, the Pisans were extremely afraid, and “our citizens and our rustics were dismayed at this assault. All of them forsook the shelters.” The southern quarter of the city was quickly abandoned. Numerous inhabitants fled to Lucca, and many others were ready to escape. So, “monitoring these movements, the Anziani appointed four ambassadors to negotiate with the enemy.”191 On 11 August, the Florentine commissioners-general granted a safe-conduct to these envoys, informing the Signoria of this turnaround. The commanders suggested agreeing to their proposal “with no ifs or buts.” In Florence, the rulers debated whether or not this accord could be signed, and the city assembly resolved to insist on an unconditional submission. After a long wait, however, “nobody from the Pisan side came into the encampment” to continue negotiations.192 The Signori were bitterly discontented with this “trick,” assuming it to be an “expedient for gaining time.” Above all, they could not “understand why the infantry has still not assaulted the terreplein.” The officers again admonished the commissioners to take action, because “the more you delay, the more you have problems.” The condottieri were pushed to bring “this enterprise to a conclusion,” avoiding “hesitation,” and taking advantage of the “will of our soldiers, who desire to fight and to die with honor.” In particular, the mercenaries “should care about their reputation, by now. They ought not to mind about the death of one hundred men.”193 To complicate matters further, revenues were becoming more difficult to collect. Sixty-four thousand ducats had been already spent, and “the strongboxes are ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 69v and 70v; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 370; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 342; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 161–62. 190 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 70v–71r; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 207; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 79; Masi, Ricordanze, pp. 44–45; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:282; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, pp. 196–97; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 263; Buonaccorsi, Diario, p. 24; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 370; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 163. 191 Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” pp. 342–43; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 207; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 263; Masi, Ricordanze, pp. 44. 192 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 71r–73r; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 74v–77v; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:282–84; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, pp. 79–80. 193 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 71v–72v. 189

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empty.”194 The citizens were “prostrated and discouraged, observing these slow, lukewarm proceedings.” All the public councils were in turmoil. People blamed rulers, commanders, and ministers. The Signori were worried about “the responsibility for having impoverished, for having assassinated our subjects in vain, for the purpose of equipping our army.”195 To escape this charge, they instructed the commissioners to determine a date for the battle and to circulate the rumors about a probable sack of Pisa, inducing warriors to stay in the encampment.196 The first deadline of 18 August approached and passed, in spite of all the preparations. The term was extended to 20 August, and then set for 22 August. The captain, however, postponed the encounter again, now demanding the wages of his companies, now requiring hundreds of conscripted reinforcements.197 Finally, he decided to attack on 25 August, “once the walls are leveled further.”198 In the meantime, in fact, the captain had directed his gunners to wipe out “more of the ramparts, so that soldiers could attack safely. He preferred to avoid a slaughter.” Above all, he was alerted to the possibility that “falcons and spingards will massacre the Florentines, if they have the presumption to storm the terreplein.” The army needed to gain an easier access to the earthwork. Several stonecutters were asked to splinter the walls manually, trying to drop the debris into the internal moat, but their attempt was unsuccessful.199 Carpenters and pioneers had instead buttressed the ruins of Stampace. Several heavy guns were positioned in this new, four-storey casemate, with the intention of bombarding the Cittadella Vecchia and the Porta a Mare. The latter, in particular, was the main aim of the operation. Through this entrance, in fact, the army would have easily penetrated the city, getting round the inner ditch. The rebels responded promptly by fortifying the gate, and by building their own emplacement near the church of Sant’Antonio. Once again, they were trying to interfere with the enemy cannonade.200 From 19 August, “two cannons, two culverins, two falcons, and two spingards” fired continuously on the Porta, while mortars hit the city randomly. The basilisk and one of the bombards were aimed at the terreplein.201 On 25 August, Ibid., f. 68r. Ibid., ff. 76r–80r. 196 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 76r and 78r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:287; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 199. 197 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 79r, 81r, 84v, and 85rv. 198 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 84v–85r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:285; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 81. 199 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 75v; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 208; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 374; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 170. 200 Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 343; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 372–73; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 166. 201 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 376; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 170 and 177. 194 195



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four other heavy pieces were “unexpectedly” placed on the wreckage of the ravelin, “a marvelous, hard effort, considering that this earthwork was ten meters high.” So, “making an awful din and giving an unbelievable fright,” the guns pounded the shelters of the rebels.202 Nothing much else happened, all the rest of that day. In Florence, the population was waiting to hear from the commissioners by the hour, “even if no one doubted that our soldiers had conquered at least the southern half of Pisa.” In the evening, the main square was crowded with “perplexed” individuals. But that night a messenger brought news that the attack had been called off, “since the encampment was in complete disorder.”203 Nobody has believed that this army was in such a mess, and nobody has acted to fix this problem. They have only insisted on the battle. However, making our preparations, we have found out that only one thousand infantrymen remained in the camp, all dissatisfied with deferred payments. Along with the governor, I have talked to the commissioners, explaining that the soldiers will leave tomorrow, if they do not get their salary today […]. Moreover, we have requested two thousand other foot soldiers, but these reinforcements have to arrive here within eight days. If our lords satisfy our demands, we will continue fighting, hoping for victory. Otherwise, the artillery will be lost, to the detriment of this Republic. We are sorry, but these are our excuses. We are sure that the Signori will blame us, but they will be undoubtedly wrong.204

“I Came, I Saw, I Cheated,” Like the Tercet Says. The captain’s letter shocked the Signori. The officials were utterly astonished and could not believe this “threat of a manifest ruin, after coming close to an indubitable victory.”205 Nevertheless, they were assured that only 1,500 infantrymen had remained in the encampment. The soldiers, “after spending weeks in idleness,” had been decimated by the “marshy air” of the Pisan countryside. Paolo Vitelli and Rinuccio da Marciano fell ill too, and the malarial fevers had taken the lives of four commissioners-general.206 Apart from the epidemic, combatants were deserting due to the delays of payments. Several companies had refused to be involved in the operations without receiving their salary first. According to the appointees, men were already clamoring, and the captain was indignant at the “sinister behavior” of Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 376–77. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:290, Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 81. 204 Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 178. 205 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 86r. 206 ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, f. 92r; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp. 207–08; Bonaccorsi, Diario, p. 24; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 200; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, pp. 81–82; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:290–91; Nerli, Commentari, p. 136; Masi, Ricordanze, p. 44; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 379–80; Ser Perizolo, “Ricordi,” p. 394. 202 203

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the Signori, at their decision to skimp on this money, “saving a few thousand coins, after having spent a million and a half florins.” His fellows “did not deserve such treatment.”207 In a long missive sent to his secretary, he expressed frustration over the shortage of gunpowder, the late supplies, and the absence of soldiers, pioneers, and stonecutters. But, “yes, my lords are right in stoning me to death, because this is the usual reward for loyalty and devotion.”208 Both sides were accusing each other of acting in bad faith. During the general city council, the chancellor of the Signoria, Marcello Adriani, listed all the provisions made since the conquest of Cascina, demonstrating the efforts of the government and the faults of the commander. Besides, “everybody was surprised,” and “no one can explain the whys and the wherefores of the situation.” The masses, “despairing and fatigued, shouted at aristocrats and condottieri,” who were accused of fabricating reports about the war.209 However, “difficulties emphasize virtues,” and the majority of the citizens was not disheartened at all. In the last week of August, in order to prevent the rout of the army and the loss of the ordnance, merchants and magnates funded more than seventeen thousand florins. The Signori ordered the mobilization of conscript militiamen (comandati) and the mustering of professional infantrymen (provvigionati). Moreover, the rulers compelled the captain to continue the siege, “averting ignominy” and “earning reputation.”210 The commander disagreed, and unwillingly conceived a new plan, “only to obey an order.” According to this scheme, the army would attack the north-western quarter of the city, hindering exchanges of goods and troops between Lucca and Pisa. Nonetheless, he was conscious that his extra demands for artillery, powder, and shot could hardly be satisfied twice.211 In any case, a prompt disbursement of cash to the soldiers allowed the army to defend the encampment, maintaining the position in the ruins of Stampace, “which could be called Stamped, by now, because of the innumerable artillery hits it had suffered.” The bombardments were still continuing from both sides. The Pisans had even aimed their Bufalo at the enemy casemate, with satisfactory results. Their gunners damaged cannon, destroyed wool shelters, and cracked

ASF, Lettere varie, 6, f. 190r; ASF, Miscellanea repubblicana, 3, e. 98, f. 117r; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 174–77, 178–79 and 188–89. 208 Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 179–82. 209 ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 85r–89v; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 263; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:290–93; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 200. 210 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 86v–87r; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 85r–94v, 96v–102v, and 109v–111r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:291–92; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 85; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 193. 211 Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” pp. 191–92. 207



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beams, forcing the garrison to seek shelter from the return fire. On 28 August, the post was attacked as well, but the skirmish was not decisive.212 A more dangerous raid was carried out on the Florentine rear on 31 August. During a sortie, the rebels’ mounted crossbowmen captured an entire convoy near Cascina, depriving their adversaries of bread and wine, and affecting immediately the price of food. Similar ambushes multiplied in the following days. On 4 September, Pisan light cavalry managed to ride right up to the Florentine encampment, quite undisturbed. Commissioners noticed that the “Pisans are cockier than ever.” The Florentines, on the contrary, “had an abundance of nothing, except fear and hunger.”213 These hazardous circumstances led the captain and the governor to arrange a retreat. The Signori “felt offended” by this decision, considering “all the past procurement and all the future provisions.” They expected the commissioners to wait for reinforcements, money, and supply, “to the glory of the city.” The officials differed, above all, “about abandoning Stampace, because we have spent seventy thousand florins on putting a foot in Pisa, and we do not want to raise it without necessity.” The condottieri, however, were not open to suggestion. In spite of the severe reprimand, they would not change their minds, judging the aid “to be too late.”214 On 7 September, “the Bufalo chased away the Vitelli.”215 The army started to move backwards, marching along the river, and reaching the village of Vettola, two miles away from Pisa.216 While departing, the “terrified” Florentines “left a huge quantity of munitions behind, that is, ladders, shot, carts, timber, tools, light guns, and even a culverin.”217 Only part of the artillery could be safely transported to Cascina by land. The heaviest guns, instead, were hastily dismantled and shipped to Livorno. On the journey, however, a violent storm hit four overloaded boats, sinking them near the mouth of the Arno. Sailors and soldiers tried to hide the pieces under the sand, but the Pisans recovered them after a couple of days. The two bombards and the “famous” basilisk made a triumphal entrance in Pisa, along with iron cannonballs, pavises, spears, “so that our rebels can now attack our army with our own weapons.”218 The Signori commented Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 377, 378, and 381; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 344. 213 Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 82; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:293 and 297; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 378–81; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 344; Nicasi, “La famiglia Vitelli di Città di Castello e la Repubblica Fiorentina fino al 1504,” p. 189. 214 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 93v–94v and 98r; ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 106r–111r. 215 For the occasion, Pisan chroniclers made a pun on the family name of the captain, which literally meant “calves.” 216 Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 379; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 344. 217 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, f. 274r; Bonaccorsi, Diario, p. 24; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” p. 345; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 380. 218 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 102r; ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, f. 274r; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 201; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 263; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi 212

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laconically that “this expedition has been dogged by great misfortune.” And, by some unlucky chance, even the Torre di Foce was lost, sold to Pisans by a disloyal guard.219 On 13 September, Florentine troops withdrew further, halting in San Savino. Over the next few days, the camp was definitively placed between Settimo and Cascina, and the ordnance shifted to Pontedera.220 So, “in this way ended this expedition, even though we had relied on a potent force and a valorous captain, even though the rebels had been desperate and alone.”221 A chronicler remarked that “Pisa was the tomb of the wealth, the honor, and the life of our Florentines, on account of the traitorous captain.”222 Two weeks after this disastrous retreat, the Signoria secretly ordered the arrest of Paolo Vitelli. The officials had in fact received several confirmations of his “infamy,” reported even by the governor-general.223 On 28 September, the “traitor” was arrested, and his correspondence impounded. Taken to Florence, the commander was immediately brought to trial. He was tortured in an attempt to extract a confession, but he denied all the allegations.224 His opponents proposed capital punishment to “recover our lost honor.” His former supporters remained silent. The crowd shouted “hang him, hang him.”225 Eventually, a council of citizens reaffirmed his disobedience, his “contempt,” and his “murders.”226 On 1 October, the Signoria, the Collegi, and Otto di Guardia found him guilty of treason and rebellion against the Republic.227 He was charged with deliberately losing the siege, with retreating without the consent of the commissionersgeneral, and with losing part of the state artillery. Moreover, he was prosecuted for trying to seize Cascina and Vico, in order to blackmail his masters, imposing on them a new contract and an unfair payment. Also the past accusations of idleness, incompetence, and disloyalty, made during the war in Casentino, were neither forgotten nor forgiven.228 tempi, pp.  85–87; Bonaccorsi, Diario, p. 24; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:297; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 381; Portoveneri, “Memoriale,” pp. 344, 348, and 349. 219 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 102r; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:297; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 87. 220 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 102r and 103r; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” pp. 381–82. 221 Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 208. 222 Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:299. 223 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 110v–111r and 112r. 224 Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, pp.  264–65; Bonaccorsi, Diario, p. 25; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, pp.  88 and 90; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp.  209–10; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, p. 202; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:302–03; Nerli, Commentari, p. 137; Rinuccini, Ricordi storici, p. 144. 225 Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:303–305; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 210. 226 ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, ff. 114v–117v and 154r–156r. 227 ASF, Signori e collegi, Deliberazioni in forza di ordinaria autorità, 101, f. 89rv. 228 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 112r; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, pp. 200 and 204; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:303.



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Thus it was that Paolo Vitelli was summarily beheaded on the roof of the public palace, in front of an expectant, joyful crowd.229 In the following days, the head of his infantrymen, Cherubino from Borgo a San Sepolcro, received a death sentence too. His chancellor, Cerbone Cerboni, was imprisoned. Both of them admitted that the captain had signed an agreement with the pope to give Pisa to Cesare Borgia, and Florence to Piero de’ Medici. According to their version, the captain had planned also to take control of Cortona and Borgo San Sepolcro, expanding his state and his power.230 In the capital, however, public opinion was divided. Piero Parenti wrote that, “without confessing, the captain had saved our rulers from their faults,” and Piero Vaglienti noticed that several oligarchs had a part in his plot. Other compromising ties were underlined by Filippo de’ Nerli and Giovanni Cambi.231 Jacopo Nardi, Luca Landucci, and Bartolomeo Cerretani also accused the captain of being in collusion with the duke of Milan, deceiving Florentines again and again.232 Only Francesco Guicciardini tried to defend the former commander, but the “convincing evidence” of his innocence was a questionable matter of honor and reputation. The justification for the retreat after the capture of Stampace could easily have been interpreted as an incapacity to take an advantageous opportunity.233 If the defeated were not sure about his guilt, the victors would certainly have testified that the enemy leader had remained loyal to Florence. Pisans commented that he was “a victim of the rage of our adversaries.” His failure was not the result of treachery, but “of our unexpected success.”234 Conclusions Apart from his “rotten and greedy” behavior, Paolo Vitelli was in truth not the only one responsible for Florence’s resounding defeat. According to a commissioner-general, “several individuals wished the captain to fail, desiring only harm and disorder.”235 The divisions of the Florentine society into rival factions had undeniably slowed down the collection of money, and consequently the Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 202; Masi, Ricordanze, pp. 45–46; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, pp. 264–65; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 90; Cambi, “Istorie,” 21:144; Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, p. 210; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:305; Rinuccini, Ricordi storici, p. 144. 230 Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, pp.  90–91; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:306–07; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 203; Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, pp. 204 and 206; Cambi, “Istorie,” 21:144. 231 Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:303 and 306; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, pp. 81–82 and 85–86; Nerli, Commentari, pp. 137–38 232 Nardi, Istorie della città di Firenze, pp. 198–200; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 202; Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 265. 233 Guicciardini, Storia fiorentina, pp. 211–14. 234 ASPI, Comune di Pisa, Divisione C, 25, f. 276r; Anonymous, “La guerra del Millecinquecento,” p. 382; Ser Perizolo, “Ricordi,” p. 394. 235 ASF, Consulte e pratiche, 65, f. 93v. 229

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procurement of ammunition. Above all, the political maneuvers of the magnates and the long delays in war had fueled the suspicions of ordinary citizens. Disorders in the encampment were considered expedients for subversive activities, and the rout was even thought to be an “achievement” of the oligarchs. In fact, “they cannot tolerate a victory of the people,” won without the misuse and the misconduct of the compromised Dieci di Balìa.236 The Signori, for their part, did not accept the intrusion of aristocrats into military affairs. On the contrary, they supported the popular request to control expenses, to reduce an intolerable squandering of the tax revenues, and to prevent the further enrichment of the wealthy.237 Officials continually reminded the commissioners of their financial straits, of the necessity to eke funds out.238 And yet the Republic invested the immense sum of two hundred thousand florins in the summer months.239 During the siege, forty thousand golden florins were disbursed just for the soldiers’ wages.240 From 1 July to 31 August, the overall cost of materiel amounted to more than four thousand golden florins, but these expenditures were not sufficient “to remedy for the shortage of missiles and gunpowder, the manufacture of which depends upon several factors.”241 The high consumption of gunpowder and the lack of sufficient metal shot were probably another crucial aspect of the failure of the enterprise. Overconfident in his ordnance, the captain repeatedly raised this subject, but the Florentine Republic did not have the capacity to manage artillery warfare on such a large scale, and for such a long time. In the preceding campaign, the garrisons of Buti, Vico, and Ripafratta had surrendered after a few hours. One year later, the defenders of Cascina had yielded in almost the same way. But the assault on a larger city, and the destruction of a thicker rampart, needed days of prolonged, incessant battery. Florence’s officials were not prepared for this eventuality. Powder was constantly in short supply, and in consequence artillery fire was frequently intermittent. More than fifty tonnes of gunpowder went up in smoke during the four-week siege. The gunners consumed about fifteen tonnes of explosive more than in the preceding year, and yet that was not enough.242 The Florentine masters worked incessantly through the whole summer, but they could not rely on a sufficient quantity of saltpeter for crafting the mixture. The purchases of the raw material were in fact discontinuous, and the state did not own any nitrates Nerli, Commentari, p. 138; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:284, 286, and 290. Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:273, 275, and 281. 238 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 33v and 38v. 239 Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:261 and 292; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 75. 240 Cerretani, Storia fiorentina, p. 262; Parenti, Storia fiorentina, 2:275; Landucci, Diario fiorentino, p. 198. 241 ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 33v; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 65v. 242 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Entrate e uscite, 30, ff. 215v–216r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 122r; Bonaccorsi, Diario, p. 24; Vaglienti, Storia dei suoi tempi, p. 76. See also Ansani, “Supplying the Army. 1498.” 236 237



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on its territory.243 Not until first years of the sixteenth century would two public factories open in Arezzo and in Castrocaro, both entrusted to local masters.244 The logistic issue was worsened by the malfunction of the ironworks of Colle Val d’Elsa and Pistoia. The poor quality of metal, the partial incompetence of the workers, and the technological backwardness of furnaces determined an overall low production of missiles.245 According to officers and commanders, any shortage could have created “a serious risk of defeat.”246 When the army ran out even of bronze projectiles, the chance of victory decreased significantly. Without hundreds of cast cannonballs, in fact, an effective saturation bombardment was impossible to carry out.247 At the beginning of the sixteenth century, in order to solve these problems, the Republic would hire several Alpine masters, following the contemporary example of the duke of Ferrara.248 The furnace of Colle continued to function in the following years without interruption.249 Another workshop was built in Florence, in the foundry of the Sapienza. Here, several bellows, moved by an “ingenious device,” allowed the production of hollow shells for incendiary missiles.250 In less than a decade, the Republic no longer suffered a shortage of missiles. According to contemporary registers, thousands and thousands of iron shot were fabricated in the dominion at that time.251 The bronze projectiles, by contrast, were never used again. The remaining seventy-four units were recycled into new cannons.252 Those left under the Pisan walls were sold as precious souvenirs in Lucca.253 With regard to ordnance, a third reason behind the Florentine defeat was the unexpected “aggressive defense” adopted by the rebels.254 The use of new cannons and “mad culverins” to shield a besieged post was in fact unprecedented in the Peninsula. Compared with traditional spingards, these weapons could ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 145v. ASF, Dieci di balìa, Munizioni, 9, f. 168v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Munizioni, 10, f. 20v; ASF, Dieci di balìa, Debitori e creditori, 28, f. 40v. 245 Philippe Contamine, “Les industries de guerre dans la France de la Renaissance. L’exemple de l’artillerie,” Revue historique 221, no. 2 (1984), pp.  258–62; Manlio Calegari, “La mano sul cannone,” in Pratiche e linguaggi. Contributi a una storia della cultura tecnica e scientifica, ed. Luciana Gatti (Pisa, 2005), pp. 65–66; Fabrizio Ansani, “Geografie della guerra nella Toscana del Rinascimento. Produzione di armi e circolazione dei pratici,” Archivio storico italiano 651 (2017), pp. 100–01. 246 ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, ff. 61r, 63v, and 65rv. 247 Philippe Contamine, “L’artillerie royale française à la veille des guerres d’Italie,” Annales de Bretagne 71, no. 2 (1964), pp. 246–49. 248 ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 17, f. 237v; ASF, Signori e collegi, Condotte e stanziamenti, 18, f. 125r; ASF, Signori, Missive seconda cancelleria, 21, f. 71r. 249 ASF, Otto di pratica, Munizioni, 2, f. 43v. 250 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Munizioni, 10, ff. 41r e 66v. 251 Ibid., ff. 67v, 76v–77r, 87v, 93r, 166r, 174v, and 187rv. 252 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Munizioni, 8, ff. 188v–89r. 253 ASLU, Offizio sopra l’entrate, 2, ff. 48r, 55rv, and 63r. 254 John Lynn, “The Tracé Italienne and the Growth of Armies: the French Case,” The Journal of Military History 55, no. 3 (1991), p. 301; Mallett, Mercenaries and their Masters, pp. 164–65. 243

244

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inflict an extensive damage among the enemy lines, wreaking havoc on soldiers and commanders, and, above all, impairing the effectiveness of the attackers’ ordnance. The continuous counter-fire from the city had effectively hindered the attacks, contributing to slow down the entire operation. Thus, though it had been planned to be rapid, the offensive lasted longer than expected, until the assailants retreated, decimated by malaria and weakened by desertions. The first serious test of the French-style ordnance highlighted strengths and weaknesses of the armament in the Italian context. Undoubtedly, rulers and commanders were enthusiastic regarding the potentialities of cannon, which offered a workable solution to the problem of mobility of the traditional, cumbersome bombards. Today the moderns proceed more intelligently and with greater reason, because experiments have enlightened them. They have moderated the superfluous and strengthened the weaknesses, abandoning the unwieldy and awkward bombards that threw heavy stone shot with a huge consumption of powder, guns that needed both a high expenditure on pioneers and a large number of working animals. Today craftsmen manufacture cannon that are easier to handle and to shift, due to their lightness. These weapons shoot iron cannonballs, smaller than the stone projectiles of bombards, but with a greater effects on targets, since they are made of a harder material and they are fired more frequently.255

Not surprisingly, the new technology spread rapidly, favored by the incomparable expertise of the Italian “masters of artillery.”256 In 1495, these “rather diabolical than human instruments” were already crafted in Ferrara and in Siena, and also in Florence. In 1496, the production of transalpine-style weaponry started in the great arsenal of Venice. In 1499, Neapolitan and Milanese inventories listed dozens of cannons, culverins, and falcons. In 1500, the gonfalonier of the Church lined up numerous new guns.257 At the beginning of the sixteenth century, all the states of the Peninsula possessed this new artillery. Competitors quickly imitated innovators. Even minor countries and potent baronies could afford the novelty. Pisa, Genoa, and Lucca, for example, defended their insecure borders with gunfire. In the Papal States, the military nobility used culverins and falcons during its private wars. Nevertheless, these local powers did not incur enormous expenditures for manufacturing their novel ordnance. Apparently, five cannons cost the same as an average giant bombard, including both the price of metals and the salary of the gunmakers.258 In general, authorities invested less than fifteen per cent of their military budget on the purchase of munitions, even in when preparing full-scale Vannoccio Biringuccio, Pirotechnia (Venice, 1558), fol. 79rv. Fabrizio Ansani, “‘Per infinite sperientie.’ I maestri dell’artiglieria nell’Italia del Quattrocento,” Reti Medievali Rivista 18, no. 2 (2017), 179–82. 257 Idem, “‘This French Artillery is Very Good and Very Effective,’” pp. 369–72 258 Idem, “The Life of a Renaissance Gunmaker,” pp. 758 and 787. 255

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operations.259 Only major states, however, had the economic and technical resources to maintain a full stock of replacement equipment, guaranteeing adequate supplies of shot, saltpeter, and gunpowder. Indeed, the task was daunting. The production of sufficient quantities of propellant required a partial mechanization of the process and the construction of appropriate facilities.260 The scarcity of blast furnaces hindered the fabrication of iron cannonballs, in spite of the efforts of rulers and entrepreneurs.261 Venice and Milan had to import nitrate continually from Apulia, depending on the relationships with Naples.262 But, “without an effective logistical system, new technologies might be of little consequence in campaigns.”263 In Florence, the complex procurement of munitions compelled the Republic to develop and boost the whole manufacture of firearms, facing a “revolutionary challenge” in terms of administration, credit, and production. Authorities needed to arrange timely provisions for their troops, reorganizing and centralizing the whole commodity chain, from the exploitation of natural resources to the distribution of weapons. Officers could not have improvised haphazard solutions to maintain and to deploy the new technology in an adequate manner. Rather, they had to combine appropriately the “government of artillery” with the “governance of production.”264 So, were these new guns innovatory, or not? Did their appearance on the Italian battlefields contribute to the advancement of the so-called “artillery revolution” and to the development of Renaissance warfare?265 Of course, the rapid diffusion of this technology represented “a brusque or abrupt change.”266 From 1494 onwards, old Italian castles were defenseless against saturation bombardments, and the “insignificant hovels” no longer “opposed resistance, slackening operations” and making commanders furious.267 More importantly, the cannons Idem, “Supplying the Army. 1498,” pp. 212–20. “Tra necessità bellica ed innovazione tecnologica.” 261 Enzo Baraldi, “Una nuova età del ferro: macchine e processi della siderurgia,” in Il rinascimento italiano e l’Europa. Produzioni e tecniche, ed. Philippe Braunstein and Luca Molà (Treviso, 2007), pp.  208–16; Enzo Baraldi and Manlio Calegari, “Pratica e diffusione della siderurgia ‘indiretta’ in area italiana,” in La siderurgie alpine en Italie, ed. Philippe Braunstein (Rome, 2001), p. 102. 262 Silvia Bianchessi, “Cavalli, armi e salnitro fra Milano e Napoli nel secondo Quattrocento,” Nuova rivista storica 82 (1998), pp.  572–82; John Hale and Michael Mallett, The Military Organization of a Renaissance State. Venice, c.1400 to 1617 (Cambridge, 1984), p. 399. 263 Frank Tallett and David Trim, “‘Then was Then and Now is Now.’ An Overview of Change and Continuity in Late-Medieval and Early-Modern Warfare,” in European Warfare, 1350–1750, ed. Frank Tallett and David Trim (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 23–26. 264 Walter Panciera, Il governo delle artiglierie. Tecnologia bellica e istituzioni veneziane nel secondo Cinquecento (Milan, 2005), pp. 213–16. 265 Clifford Rogers, “The Military Revolutions of the Hundred Years War,” Journal of Military History 57, no. 2 (1993), pp. 272–78. 266 David Landes, “The Fable of the Dead Horse, or, the Industrial Revolution Revisited,” in The British Industrial Revolution. An Economic Perspective, ed. Joel Mokyr (Boulder, 1999), p. 129. 267 ASF, Dieci di balìa, Responsive, 33, fols. 470r and 493r 259

260 Idem.,

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reduced the length of the sieges of remote posts and small cities.268 Contemporary chroniclers noticed that many fortifications were easily captured “because the besiegers carried several cannons with them.” Sometimes, the defenders surrendered “as soon as they saw the cannons,” terrified at firearms which “could even destroy adamantine walls.”269 When compared with the customary, awkward bombards, the performance of the French-style ordnance was undoubtedly impressive. Bombards were moved from place to place very slowly, and with great difficulty, and for the same reason were very unhandy when placed against the walls of a town. The intervals between the firings were so long, that a great deal of time was lost, and little progress was made in comparison to what we see in our days […]. But now the French brought a much handier engine, made of bronze, called cannon, which they charged with heavy iron balls, smaller without comparison than those of stone made use of heretofore, and drove them on carriages with horses, not with oxen, as was the custom in Italy. And they were attended with such clever men, and on such instruments appointed for that purpose, that they almost ever kept pace with the army. They were planted against the walls of a town with such speed, the space between the shots was so little, and the balls flew so quick, and were impelled with such force, that as much execution was done in a few hours, as formerly, in Italy, in the like number of days.270

Against determined defenders and resolute attackers, however, cannons did not prove themselves to be such astonishing “war-winning weapons.”271 On the contrary, “despite Francesco Guicciardini’s elegantly phrased opinion, French artillery technique was not invincible.”272 In 1499, cannons did not save the duchy of Milan from losing its independence. In 1500, Pisa withstood a second saturation bombardment, carried out by Gallic troops. In the same year, in Forlì, Caterina Sforza repelled the assault of Cesare Borgia for four weeks, showing calmness and bravery under enemy fire. In 1501, the siege of Piombino lasted for three months, while the “loyal inhabitants” of Faenza resisted the attack of the papal army for five and a half months. The possibility of counter-attacking the invaders with the new ordnance did not spare the Neapolitan kingdom its definitive collapse, in 1502. And in 1494, the Aragonese sovereigns were abandoned by their allies and betrayed by their subjects, rather than defeated

Clifford Rogers, “The Artillery and Artillery Fortress Revolutions Revisited,” in Artillerie et Fortification, 1200–1600, ed. Nicolas Prouteau, Emmanuel de Crouy-Chanel and Nicolas Faucherre (Rennes, 2011), pp. 75–80. 269 Sigismondo de’ Conti, Storie dei suoi tempi dal 1475 al 1510, ed. Giacomo Racioppi (Florence, 1883), 1:173–78. 270 Francesco Guicciardini, The History of Italy (London, 1754), 1:147–49. 271 George Raudzens, “War-Winning weapons. The Measurement of Technological Determinism in Military History,” The Journal of Military History 54, no. 4 (1990), pp. 407–10; Kelly DeVries, “Catapults are not Atomic Bombs. Towards a Redefinition of ‘Effectiveness’ in Premodern Military Technology,” War in History 4, no. 4 (1997), pp. 464–70. 272 Bert Hall, Weapons and Warfare in Renaissance Europe (Baltimore and London, 1997), p. 161. 268



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by the infamous guns of the French king.273 Last but not least, the superior artillery train of the foreign invaders did not help Bérault Stuart and Gilbert de Bourbonto prevail over the rising forces of Ferrandino. Nor were the annual campaigns shortened because of the employment of the new artillery. Contrary to the customs of Renaissance Italy, “wars continued even into winters, at the present time.”274 All in all, it appears that the cannons were revolutionizing “the conduct but not the outcome” of conflicts.275 So, the “tilt created by successful siege artillery was quite short-lived, as is usual with tilts.”276 By the end of the fifteenth century, victories and defeats were still determined by political problems, economic factors, and diplomatic issues, more than by innovative technologies.

Simon Pepper, “Castles and Cannons in Naples Campaign,” in The French Descent into Renaissance Italy. Antecedents and Effects, ed. David Abulafia (Aldershot, 1995), p. 291. 274 Niccolò Machiavelli, Dell’arte della guerra (Rome, 2011), b. 6, p. 223; Aldo Settia, Rapine, assedi, battaglie. La guerra nel Medioevo (Rome and Bari, 2004), pp. 211–37. 275 Mallett, Mercenaries and their Masters, p. 163. 276 Hall, Weapons and Warfare, p. 161. 273

Contributors

Fabrizio Ansani is a fellow of the Istituto Italiano per gli Studi Storici. He was awarded a Ph.D. in Early Modern History from the University of Padova in 2018. His interests range over all the aspects of Italian Renaissance wars, from the creation of permanent military offices to developments in weapons production, from the recruitment of standing armies to the contemporary narrations of conflicts. He has focused, in particular, on the implications of warfare for the politics, the economy, and the society of fifteenth-century Florence. David S. Bachrach, professor of medieval history at the University of New Hampshire, is a specialist in the military and administrative history of the medieval kingdoms of Germany and England. His publications include Religion and the Conduct of War c.300–c.1215 (2003), Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany (2012), and Warfare in Medieval Europe c.400–c.1453 (2017), co-authored with Bernard S. Bachrach. Pierre Courroux earned his Ph.D. in Medieval History from the University of Poitiers in 2013. His research mainly focuses on the French medieval chroniclers and the way they use their literary skills to produce truth and mimesis in their narrative. He led a project as a Newton International Fellow of the British Academy at the University of Southampton, on the topoi used in the portrayal of battles in French and English chronicles (twelfth to fiftheenth centuries). He is now post-doctoral researcher at the University of Pau, in France, where he also works on Medieval Gascony in the Late Middle Ages. Beñat Elortza Larrea is a Bernadotte postdoctoral fellow at the Department of Historical Studies of the University of Gothenburg. He received a Ph.D. in History from the University of Aberdeen in 2018. His doctoral thesis analyzed the processes of polity consolidation and military transformation in Scandinavia between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries, with a particular emphasis on the “Europeanization” of royal and aristocratic institutions. His main research interests include kingship and governance in the high medieval period, Scandinavian legal history, and naval warfare. Michael John Harbinson is a retired general medical practitioner with a lifelong interest in medieval military history. This is his second article for The Journal of Medieval Military History, his first having been awarded the Gillingham Prize.

284 Contributors

David Jones entered the University of Sheffield in 1969, where he studied physics and chemistry in the lecture halls and archery on the sports field. After graduating in 1972 with a B.Sc. he joined the United Kingdom’s Ministry of Defence. He remained there for the next forty-four years, researching into defense against modern weaponry and gaining a Ph.D. in the process. Since retirement in 2016 his research has been confined to medieval weapons and defensive systems. Jason MacLeod is a doctoral candidate in European History at Boston University. He has previously taught history at New England College and Park University, and has completed twenty years of military service in the US Marine Corps. His research focus is the democratic and populist aspects of eleventh/twelfth century movements in Europe, such as the Peace of God, the rise of Italian and French communes, free canonical elections, and the First Crusade. Clifford J. Rogers is a professor of history at the United States Military Academy (West Point), a co-editor of The Journal of Medieval Military History, and senior editor of The West Point History of Warfare, a seventy-one-chapter digital interactive textbook. His numerous publications on medieval warfare include two books honored with De Re Militari’s Verbruggen Prize: War Cruel and Sharp. English Strategy under Edward III, 1327–1360, and Soldiers’ Lives through History: The Middle Ages. Trevor Russell Smith is a postdoctoral fellow at the Arts and Humanities Research Institute at the University of Leeds, with research interests in ideas of conflict in, and the manuscript traditions of, the historical literature of late medieval England. He has published several articles in these areas. His edition of Knyghthode and Bataile, a Middle English verse adaptation of Vegetius’ Epitoma rei militaris, is forthcoming. Sarolta Tatár has MAs in History, Art History and Philosophy from the Pazmany Peter Catholic University of Hungary. She currently works for the Nordic Bible Museum in Oslo. Her research subject is medieval migrations and social history, with interests spanning multicultural exchanges, social integration, war and conquest and social order, and art and religion. Her special focus is on Central Europe and the Kingdom of Hungary and contacts between Europe and Asia.

Journal of Medieval Military History 1477–545X Volume I 1 The Vegetian ‘Science of Warfare’ in the Middle Ages – Clifford J. Rogers 2 Battle Seeking: The Contexts and Limits of Vegetian Strategy – Stephen F. Morillo 3 Italia – Bavaria – Avaria: The Grand Strategy behind Charlemagne’s Renovatio Imperii in the West – Charles R. Bowlus 4 The Composition and Raising of the Armies of Charlemagne – John France 5 Some Observations on the Role of the Byzantine Navy in the Success of the First Crusade – Bernard S. Bachrach 6 Besieging Bedford: Military Logistics in 1224 – Emilie M. Amt 7 ‘To aid the Custodian and Council’: Edmund of Langley and the Defense of the Realm, June–July 1399 – Douglas Biggs 8 Flemish Urban Militias Against the French Cavalry Armies in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries – J.F. Verbruggen (translated by Kelly DeVries)

Volume II 1 The Use of Chronicles in Recreating Medieval Military History – Kelly DeVries 2 Military Service in the County of Flanders – J.F. Verbruggen (translated by Kelly DeVries) 3 Prince into Mercenary: Count Armengol VI of Urgel, 1102–54 – Bernard F. Reilly 4 Henry II’s Military Campaigns in Wales, 1157–65 – John Hosler 5 Origins of the Crossbow Industry in England – David S. Bachrach 6 The Bergerac Campaign (1345) and the Generalship of Henry of Lancaster – Clifford J. Rogers 7 A Shattered Circle: Eastern Spanish Fortifications and Their Repair during the ‘Calamitous Fourteenth Century’ – Donald Kagay 8 The Militia of Malta – Theresa M. Vann 9 ‘Up with Orthodoxy’: In Defense of Vegetian Warfare – John B. Gillingham 10 100,000 Crossbow Bolts for the Crusading King of Aragon – Robert Burns



Previous Volumes

Volume III 1 A Lying Legacy? A Preliminary Discussion of Images of Antiquity and Altered Reality in Medieval Military History – Richard Abels and Stephen F. Morillo 2 War and Sanctity: Saints’ Lives as Sources for Early Medieval Warfare – John France 3 The 791 Equine Epidemic and its Impact on Charlemagne’s Army – Carroll Gillmor 4 The Role of the Cavalry in Medieval Warfare – J.F. Verbruggen 5 Sichelgaita of Salerno: Amazon or Trophy Wife? – Valerie Eads 6 Castilian Military Reform under the Reign of Alfonso XI (1312–50) – Nicolas Agrait 7 Sir Thomas Dagworth in Brittany, 1346–47: Restellou and La Roche Derrien – Clifford J. Rogers 8 Ferrante d’Este’s Letters as a Source for Military History – Sergio Mantovani 9 Provisions for the Ostend Militia on the Defense, August 1436 – Kelly DeVries

Volume IV 1 The Sword of Justice: War and State Formation in Comparative Perspective – Stephen F. Morillo 2 Archery versus Mail: Experimental Archaeology and the Value of Historical Context – Russ Mitchell 3 ‘Cowardice’ and Duty in Anglo-Saxon England – Richard Abels 4 Cowardice and Fear Management: The 1173–74 Conflict as a Case Study – Steven Isaac 5 Expecting Cowardice: Medieval Battle Tactics Reconsidered – Stephen F. Morillo 6 Naval Tactics at the Battle of Zierikzee (1304) in the Light of Mediterranean Praxis – William Sayers 7 The Military Role of the Magistrates in Holland during the Guelders War – James P. Ward 8 Women in Medieval Armies – J.F. Verbruggen 9 Verbruggen’s ‘Cavalry’ and the Lyon-Thesis – Bernard S. Bachrach 10 Dogs of War in Thirteenth-Century Valencian Garrisons – Robert I. Burns

Volume V 1 Literature as Essential Evidence for Understanding Chivalry – Richard W. Kaeuper 2 The Battle of Hattin: A Chronicle of a Defeat Foretold? – Michael Ehrlich 3 Hybrid or Counterpoise? A Study of Transitional Trebuchets – Michael Basista 4 The Struggle between the Nicaean Empire and the Bulgarian State (1254–56): towards a Revival of Byzantine Military Tactics under Theodore II Laskaris – Nicholas S. Kanellopoulos and Joanne K. Lekea 5 A ‘Clock-and-Bow’ Story: Late Medieval Technology from Monastic Evidence – Mark Dupuy



Previous Volumes

6 The Strength of Lancastrian Loyalism during the Readeption: Gentry Participation at the Battle of Tewkesbury – Malcolm Mercer 7 Soldiers and Gentlemen: The Rise of the Duel in Renaissance Italy – Stephen Hughes 8 ‘A Lying Legacy’ Revisited: The Abels-Morillo Defense of Discontinuity – Bernard S. Bachrach

Volume VI 1 Cultural Representation and the Practice of War in the Middle Ages – Richard Abels 2 The Brevium Exempla as a Source for Carolingian Warhorses – Carroll Gillmor 3 Infantry and Cavalry in Lombardy (11th–12th Centuries) – Aldo Settia 4 Unintended Consumption: The Interruption of the Fourth Crusade at Venice and its Consequences – Greg Bell 5 Light Cavalry, Heavy Cavalry, Horse Archers, Oh My! What Abstract Definitions Don’t Tell Us About 1205 Adrianople – Russ Mitchell 6 War, Financing in the Late-Medieval Crown of Aragon – Donald Kagay 7 National Reconciliation in France at the end of the Hundred Years War – Christopher Allmand

Volume VII 1 The Military Role of the Order of the Garter – Richard W. Barber 2 The Itineraries of the Black Prince’s Chevauchées of 1355 and 1356: Observations and Interpretations – Peter Hoskins 3 The Chevauchée of John Chandos and Robert Knolles: Early March to Early June, 1369 – Nicolas Savy 4 ‘A Voyage, or Rather an Expedition, to Portugal’: Edmund of Langley’s Journey to Iberia, June/July 1381 – Douglas Biggs 5 The Battle of Aljubarrota (1385): A Reassessment – João Gouveia Monteiro 6 ‘Military’ Knighthood in the Lancastrian Era: the Case of Sir John Montgomery – Gilbert Bogner 7 Medieval Romances and Military History: Marching Orders in Jean de Bueil’s Le Jouvencel introduit aux armes – Matthieu Chan Tsin 8 Arms and the Art of War: The Ghentenaar and Brugeois Militia in 1477–79 – J. F. Verbruggen 9 Accounting for Service at War: the Case of Sir James Audley of Heighley – Nicholas Gribit 10 The Black Prince in Gascony and France (1355–56), According to MS 78 of Corpus Christi College, Oxford – Clifford J. Rogers

Volume VIII



Previous Volumes

1 People against Mercenaries: the Capuchins in Southern Gaul – John France 2 The Last Italian Expedition of Henry IV: Re-reading the Vita Mathildis of Donizone of Canossa – Valerie Eads 3 Jaime I of Aragon: Child and Master of the Spanish Reconquest – Donald Kagay 4 Numbers in Mongol Warfare – Carl Sverdrup 5 Battlefield Medicine in Wolfram’s Parzival – Jolyon T. Hughes 6 Battle-Seeking, Battle-Avoiding or Perhaps Just Battle-Willing? Applying the Gillingham Paradigm to Enrique II of Castile – Andrew Villalon 7 Outrance and Plaisance – Will McLean 8 Guns and Goddams: Was there a Military Revolution in Lancastrian Normandy 1415–50? – Anne Curry 9 The Name of the Siege Engine Trebuchet: Etymology and History in Medieval France and Britain – William Sayers

Volume IX 1 The French Offensives of 1404–07 against Anglo-Gascon Aquitaine – Guilhem Pépin 2 The King’s Welshmen: Welsh Involvement in the Expeditionary Army of 1415 – Adam Chapman 3 Gunners, Aides and Archers: The Personnel of the English Ordnance Companies in Normandy in the Fifteenth Century – Andy King 4 Defense, Honor and Community: the Military and Social Bonds of the Dukes of Burgundy and the Flemish Shooting Guilds – Laura Crombie 5 The Battle of Edgecote or Banbury (1469) through the Eyes of Contemporary Welsh Poets – Barry Lewis 6 Descriptions of Battles in Fifteenth-Century Urban Chronicles: a Comparison of the Siege of London in May 1471 and the Battle of Grandson, 2 March 1476 – Andreas Remy 7 Urban Espionage and Counterespionage during the Burgundian Wars (1468–77) – Bastian Walter 8 Urban Militias, Nobles and Mercenaries: The Organization of the Antwerp Army in the Flemish-Brabantine Revolt of the 1480s – Frederik Buylaert, Jan Van Camp and Bert Verwerft 9 Military Equipment in the Town of Southampton During the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries – Randall Moffett



Previous Volumes

Volume X 1 The Careers of Justinian’s Generals – David Parnell 2 Early Saxon Frontier Warfare: Henry I, Otto I, and Carolingian Military Institutions – David S. Bachrach and Bernard S. Bachrach 3 War in The Lay of the Cid – Francisco Garcia Fitz 4 The Battle of Salado (1340) Revisited – Nicolas Agrait 5 Chivalry and Military Biography in the Later Middle Ages: The Chronicle of the Good Duke Louis of Bourbon – Steven Muhlberger 6 The Ottoman-Hungarian Campaigns of 1442 – John Jefferson 7 Security and Insecurity, Spies and Informers in Holland during the Guelders War (1506–15) – James P. Ward 8 Edward I’s Wars in the Chronicle of Hagnaby Priory – Michael Prestwich

Volume XI 1 Military Games and the Training of the Infantry – Aldo A. Settia 2 The Battle of Civitate: A Plausible Account – Charles D. Stanton 3 The Square ‘Fighting March’ of the Crusaders at the Battle of Ascalon (1099) – Georgios Theotokis 4 How the Crusades Could Have Been Won: King Baldwin II of Jerusalem’s Campaigns against Aleppo (1124–25) and Damascus (1129) – T. S. Asbridge 5 Saint Catherine’s Day Miracle – the Battle of Montgisard – Michael Ehrlich 6 The Military Effectiveness of Alan Mercenaries in Byzantium, 1301–06 – Scott Jesse and Anatoly Isaenko 7 Winning and Recalling Honor in Spain: Pro-English Poetry in Celebration of the Battle of Nájera (1367) – Donald J. Kagay and L. J. Andrew Villalon 8 The Wars and the Army of the Duke of Cephalonia Carlo I Tocco (c.1375–1429) – Savvas Kyriakidis 9 Sir John Radcliffe, K. G. (d. 1441): Miles Famossissimus – A. Compton Reeves 10 Defense Schemes of Southampton in the Late Medieval Period, 1300–1500 – Randall Moffett 11 French and English Acceptance of Medieval Gunpowder Weaponry – Kelly DeVries

Volume XII 1 Some Observations Regarding Barbarian Military Demography: Geiseric’s Census of 429 and Its Implications – Bernard S. Bachrach 2 War Words and Battle Spears: The kesja and kesjulag in Old Norse Literature – K. James McMullen 3 The Political and Military Agency of Ecclesiastical Leaders in Anglo-Norman England: 1066–1154 – Craig M. Nakashian



Previous Volumes

4 Couched Lance and Mounted Shock Combat in the East: The Georgian Experience – Mamuka Tsurtsumia 5 The Battle of Arsur: A Short-Lived Victory – Michael Ehrlich 6 Prelude to Kephissos (1311): An Analysis of the Battle of Apros (1305) – Nikolaos S. Kanellopoulos and Ioanna K. Lekea 7 Horse Restoration (Restaurum Equorum) in the Army of Henry of Grosmont, 1345: A 8 Benefit of Military Service in the Hundred Years’ War – Nicholas A. Gribit 9 The Indenture between Edward III and the Black Prince for the Prince’s Expedition to Gascony, 10 July 1355 – Mollie M. Madden 10 Investigating the Socio-Economic Origins of English Archers in the Second Half of the Fourteenth Century – Gary Baker 11 War and the Great Schism: Military Factors Determining Allegiances in Iberia – L.J. Andrew Villalon

Volume XIII 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Feudalism, Romanticism, and Source Criticism: Writing the Military History of Salian Germany – David S. Bachrach When the Lamb Attacked the Lion: A Danish Attack on England in 1138? – Thomas K. Heebøll-Holm Development of Prefabricated Artillery during the Crusades – Michael S. Fulton Some Notes on Ayyubid and Mamluk Military Terms – Rabei G. Khamisy Helgastaðir, 1220: A Battle of No Significance? – Oren Falk Por la guarda de la mar: Castile and the Struggle for the Sea in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries – Nicolás Agrait The Battle of Hyddgen, 1401: Owain Glyndwr’s Victory Reconsidered – Michael Livingston The Provision of Artillery for the 1428 Expedition to France – Dan Spencer 1471: The Year of Three Battles and English Gunpowder Artillery – Devin Fields “Cardinal Sins” and “Cardinal Virtues” of “El Tercer Rey,” Pedro González de Mendoza: The Many Faces of a Warrior Churchman in Late Medieval Europe – L. J. Andrew Villalon Late Medieval Divergences: Comparative Perspectives on Early Gunpowder Warfare in Europe and China – Tonio Andrade

Volume XIV 1 Anglo-Norman Artillery in Narrative Histories, from the Reign of William I to the Minority of Henry III – Michael S. Fulton 2 Imperial Policy and Military Practice in the Plantagenet Dominions, c.1337–c.1453 – David Green 3 The Parliament of the Crown of Aragon as Military Financier in the War of the Two Pedros – Donald J. Kagay



Previous Volumes

4 Chasing the Chimera in Spain: Edmund of Langley in Iberia, 1381/82 – Douglas Biggs 5 Note: A Medieval City under Threat Turns Its Coat, While Hedging Its Bets – Burgos Faces an Invasion in Spring, 1366 – L. J. Andrew Villalon 6 Medieval European Mercenaries in North Africa: The Value of Difference – Michael Lower 7 Medieval Irregular Warfare, c.1000–1300 – John France 8 Muslim Responses to Western Intervention: A Comparative Study of the Crusades and Post-2003 Iraq – Alex Mallett 9 “New Wars” and Medieval Warfare: Some Terminological Considerations – Jochen G. Schenk 10 Friend or Foe? The Catalan Company as Proxy Actors in the Aegean and Asia Minor Vacuum – Mike Carr

Volume XV 1 Later Roman Grand Strategy: The Fortification of the Urbes of Gaul – Bernard S. Bachrach 2 In Search of Equilibrium: Byzantium and the Northern Barbarians, 400–800 – Leif Inge Ree Petersen 3 Evolving English Strategies during the Viking Wars – Richard Abels 4 Norman Conquests: A Strategy for World Domination? – Matthew Bennett 5 The Papacy and the Political Consolidation of the Catalan Counties, c.1060–1100: A Case Study in Political Strategy – Luis García-Guijarro Ramos 6 Alfonso VII of León-Castile in Face of the Reformulation of Power in Al-Andalus (1145–57): An Essay on Strategic Logic – Manuel Rojas Gabriel 7 The Treaties between the Kings of León and the Almohads within the Leonese Expansion Strategy (1157–1230) – Maria Dolores García Oliva 8 A Strategy of Total War? Henry of Livonia and the Conquest of Estonia (1208–27) – John Gillingham 9 The English Long Bow, War and Administration – John France

Volume XVI 1 In the Field with Charlemagne, 791 – Carl Hammer 2 The Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army, or How Far May One Argue from Silence? – Walter Goffart 3 Baybars’ Strategy of War against the Franks – Rabei G. Khamisy 4 Food, Famine and Edward II’s Military Failures – Ilana Krug 5 The Impacts of Warfare on Woodland Exploitation in Late Medieval Normandy (1364–80): Royal Forests as Military Assets during the Hundred Years’ War – Danny Lake-Giguère 6 Exercises in Arms: the Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-at-Arms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries – Pierre Gaite



Previous Volumes

7 The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years’ War: 1337–1453 – Ronald W. Braasch 8 Yron & Stele: Chivalric Ethos, Martial Pedagogy, Equipment, and Combat Technique in the Early Fourteenth Century Middle English Version of Guy of Warwick – Brian R. Price 9 Reframing the Conversation on Medieval Military Strategy – John Hosler

Volume XVII 1 Baktash the Forgotten: The Battle of Tell Bashir (1108) and the Saljuq Civil Wars – Drew Bolinger 2 The External Fortifications of ‘Atlit Castle, the Only Unconquered Crusader Stronghold in the Holy Land – Ehud Galili and Avraham Ronen 3 Holy Warriors, Worldly War: Military Religious Orders and Secular Conflict – Helen J. Nicholson 4 Elionor of Sicily: A Mediterranean Queen’s Two Lives of Family, Administration, Diplomacy, and War – Donald J. Kagay 5 Wives, Mistresses, Lovers, and Daughters: The Fortunes of War for Royal Women in Late Fourteenth Century Castile. OR: A Gender Limitation on Writing History from Chronicles – L. J. Andrew Villalon 6 The Lance in the Fifteenth Century: How French Cavalry Overcame the English Defensive System in the Latter Part of the Hundred Years War – Michael Harbinson 7 Supplying the Army, 1498: The Florentine Campaign in the Pisan Countryside – Fabrizio Ansani 8 Fencing, Martial Sport, and Urban Culture in Early Modern Germany: The Case of Strasbourg – Ken Mondschein and Oliver Dupuis 9 Note: An Army on the March and in Camp – Guillaume Guiart’s Branche de royans lingnages – Michael Livingston