Interpreting MS Digby 86: A Trilingual Book from Thirteenth-Century Worcestershire (Manuscript Culture in the British Isles, 9) 1903153905, 9781903153901

Citation preview

E

SUSANNA FEIN is Professor of English at Kent State University. CONTRIBUTORS : Maureen Boulton, Neil Cartlidge, Marilyn Corrie,

Susanna Fein, Marjorie Harrington, John Hines, Jennifer Jahner, Melissa Julian-Jones, Jenni Nuttall, David Raybin, Delbert Russell, J.D. Sargan, Sheri Smith. Cover image: Portrait of scribe-owner, labelled ‘scripsi librum in anno et iii mensibus’, below list of the names of English kings (Ine to Edward I). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 205v. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

SUSANNA FEIN (ed.)

xtravagantly heterogeneous in its contents, Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86 is an utterly singular production. On its last folio, the scribe signs off with a self-portrait – a cartoonishlydrawn male head wearing a close-fitted hood – and an inscription: ‘scripsi librum in anno et iii mensibus’ (I wrote the book in a year and three months). His fifteen months’ labour resulted in one of the most important miscellanies to survive from medieval England: a trilingual marvel of a compilation, with quirky combinations of content that range from religion, to science, to literature of a decidedly secular cast. It holds medical recipes, charms, prayers, prognostications, magic tricks, pious doctrine, a liturgical calendar, religious songs, lively debates, poetry on love and death, proverbs, fables, fabliaux, scurrilous games, and gender-based diatribes. That Digby is from the thirteenth century adds to its appeal, for English literary remnants from before 1300 are all too rare. Scholars on both sides of the vernacular divide, French and English, are deeply intrigued by it. Many of its texts are found nowhere else: for example, the French Arthurian Lay of the Horn, the English fabliau Dame Sirith and the beast fable Fox and Wolf, and the French Strife between Two Ladies (a candid debate on feminine politics). The interpretations offered in this volume, of its contents, presentation, and ownership, show that there is much to discover in Digby’s lively record of the social and spiritual pastimes of a bookowning gentry family.

INTERPRETING MS DIGBY 86

MANUSCRIPT CULTURE IN THE BRITISH ISLES

INTERPRETING MS DIGBY 86

YORK MEDIEVAL PRESS

An imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge IP12 3DF (GB) and 668 Mt Hope Ave, Rochester NY 14620–2731 (US)

A Trilingual Book from Thirteenth-century Worcestershire YORK MEDIEVAL PRESS

Edited by

SUSANNA FEIN

Interpreting MS Digby 86

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YORK MEDIEVA L PR ES S York Medieval Press is published by the University of York’s Centre for Medieval Studies in association with Boydell & Brewer Limited. Our objective is the promotion of innovative scholarship and fresh criticism on medieval culture. We have a special commitment to interdisciplinary study, in line with the Centre’s belief that the future of Medieval Studies lies in those areas in which its major constituent disciplines at once inform and challenge each other. Editorial B oard (2019) Professor Peter Biller (Dept of History): General Editor Professor T. Ayers (Dept of History of Art) Dr Henry Bainton: Private scholar Dr J. W. Binns: Honorary Fellow, Centre for Medieval Studies Dr K. P. Clarke (Dept of English and Related Literature) Dr K. F. Giles (Dept of Archaeology) Dr Holly James-Maddocks (Dept of English and Related Literature) Dr Harry Munt (Dept of History) Professor W. Mark Ormrod, Emeritus (Dept of History) Professor Sarah Rees Jones (Dept of History): Director, Centre for Medieval Studies Dr L. J. Sackville (Dept of History) Dr Hanna Vorholt (Dept of History of Art) Professor J. G. Wogan-Browne (English Faculty, Fordham University) Consultant on Manuscript Publications Professor Linne Mooney, Emerita (Dept of English and Related Literature)

All enquiries of an editorial kind, including suggestions for monographs and essay collections, should be addressed to: The Academic Editor, York Medieval Press, Department of History, University of York, Heslington, York, YO10 5DD (E-mail: [email protected]) Other volumes in the Manuscript Culture in the British Isles series are listed at the back of this volume. Details of other York Medieval Press volumes are available from Boydell & Brewer Ltd.

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Interpreting MS Digby 86 A Trilingual Book from Thirteenth-Century Worcestershire

Edited by Susanna Fein

YORK MEDI EVAL PR ES S

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© Contributors 2019 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 2019 A York Medieval Press publication in association with The Boydell Press 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 and with the Centre for Medieval Studies, University of York ISBN 978-1-903153-90-1 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

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Contents

List of Illustrations vii List of Contributors x Acknowledgements xi Abbreviations xii Digital Facsimiles of Frequently Cited Manuscripts xiv The Contents of Oxford, Bodleian Library, Digby 86 xv Note on the Presentation of MS Digby 86 Texts xix Introduction 1 Susanna Fein   1 Fellow Travellers with Saint Nicholas Delbert Russell   2 Anglo-Norman Religious Instruction in MS Digby 86: Echoes of Lateran IV Maureen Boulton   3 Latin and Vernacular Prayers in MS Digby 86 Sheri Smith

10

25 42

  4 Science, Medicine, Prognostication: MS Digby 86 as a Household Almanac 55 Marjorie Harrington   5 Literary Therapeutics: Experimental Knowledge in MS Digby 86 Jennifer Jahner   6 Petrus Alfonsi, the Disciplina clericalis and Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour of MS Digby 86 David Raybin

73

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  7 Misogyny in MS Digby 86 Marilyn Corrie

113

  8 Gender Trouble? Fabliau and Debate in MS Digby 86 Neil Cartlidge

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  9

162

The Middle English Poetry of MS Digby 86 Susanna Fein v

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vi Contents 10

MS Digby 86 and Thirteenth-Century Scribal Poetics Jenni Nuttall

197

11

The Scarlet Letter: Experimentation, Design and Copying Practice in the Coloured Capitals of MS Digby 86 J. D. Sargan

219

12

Below Malvern: MS Digby 86, the Grimhills and the Underhills in their Regional and Social Context John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones

255

Bibliography 274 Index of Manuscripts Cited 293 General Index 297

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Illustrations

Boulton, Anglo-Norman Religious Instruction in MS Digby 86: Echoes of Lateran IV Fig. 1 Opening of Distinctio peccatorum. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 1r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

30

Smith, Latin and Vernacular Prayers in MS Digby 86 Fig. 1 Trilingual prayer sequence. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 206r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

52

Harrington, Science, Medicine, Prognostication: MS Digby 86 as a Household Almanac Fig. 1 Trilingual medical recipes added by a late fourteenth- or fifteenthcentury hand, on a leaf inserted as an addition to The Letter of Hippocrates. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 16r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

69

Raybin, Petrus Alfonsi, the Disciplina clericalis and Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour of MS Digby 86 Fig. 1 Opening folio of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 74v. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

97

Corrie, Misogyny in MS Digby 86 Fig. 1 Head of a woman (‘femina’), below text of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 80r, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 2 Head of a man (‘homo’), below text of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 79v, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

114

114

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viii Illustrations Fig. 3 Another head of a woman, below text of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 82v, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 4 Hand pointing to ‘Voustre amie’ in text of La vie de un vallet amerous. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 114rb, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 5 Doodle below text of La Bonté des femmes. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 103rb, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

115 123 125

Fein, The Middle English Poetry of MS Digby 86 Fig. 1 Opening folio of Dame Siriz. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 165r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

168

Nuttall, MS Digby 86 and Thirteenth-Century Scribal Poetics Fig. 1 Red-ink tie-lines mark the four-line units of Ragemon le bon. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 162rb (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 2 Short red-ink wiggles mark the end of each ten-line stanza of the English poem On the Vanity of This World. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 164rb (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 3 Punctus marking the end of each thirteen-line stanza of the Latin poem Fides hodie sopitur. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 164va (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 4 Red-ink tie-lines marking the couplet ending of the Debate between the Body and the Soul and a marginal manicule marking the beginning of Doomsday (with tie-lines marking its four-line stanzas). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 197v. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

201 205 206

210

Sargan, The Scarlet Letter: Experimentation, Design and Copying Practice in the Coloured Capitals of MS Digby 86 Fig. 1 Types 1, 2 and 3 allographs for coloured initial As in MS Digby 86. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. Fig. 2 Ambiguous allograph for initial A in Cambridge, TCC, MS R.4.26, fol. 20r. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. Fig. 3 A Type 4 initial A in Oxford, BodL, MS Ashmole 43, fol. 165r. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. Fig. 4 A-3b initial in Oxford, BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108, fol. 128v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan.

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222 226 227 231

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Illustrations Fig. 5 Spiral infilling in initial P, MS Digby 86, fol. 17v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. Fig. 6 Open loop flourishes in initial D (without bipartite design), MS Digby 86, fol. 192v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. Fig. 7 Profile and flourishes in initial F, MS Digby 86, fol. 197v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan.

ix

233 233 234

Hines and Julian-Jones, Below Malvern: MS Digby 86, the Grimhills and the Underhills in their Regional and Social Context Fig. 1 The area of the parishes of Pendock and Berrow (Worcestershire), showing key sites referred to in the text. The more detailed plan of the dispersed but relatively dense medieval settlement in Pendock and the associated field-boundaries is after Dyer, ‘Dispersed Settlements’. Fig. 2 South western Worcestershire and adjacent areas, showing key sites and features referred to in the text. Fig. 3 Heraldic shields of the de Vesci, Beaumont and FitzJohn families. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 68r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

257 258 266

The editor, 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.

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Contributors

Maureen Boulton

University of Notre Dame

Neil Cartlidge

University of Durham

Marilyn Corrie

University College London

Susanna Fein

Kent State University

Marjorie Harrington

Western Michigan University

John Hines

Cardiff University

Jennifer Jahner

California Institute of Technology

Melissa Julian-Jones

Cardiff University

Jenni Nuttall

St Edmund Hall, University of Oxford

David Raybin

Eastern Illinois University

Delbert Russell

University of Waterloo

J. D. Sargan

University of Toronto

Sheri Smith

Heinrich Heine Universität, Düsseldorf

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Acknowledgements

My sincere thanks are owed to the contributors of this volume – Maureen Boulton, Neil Cartlidge, Marilyn Corrie, John Hines, Marjorie Harrington, Jennier Jahner, Melissa Julian-Jones, Jenni Nuttall, David Raybin, Delbert Russell, J. D. Sargan and Sheri Smith – who collectively have produced a much fuller and more accurate critical portrait of Digby 86 than was ever likely to be made by the efforts of any single scholar. I have learned from each one of them, and I deeply appreciate their dedication to their disciplines of learning and the generous gift of their expertise. Many others have offered advice, moral support or inspiration for this project, and I especially wish to thank Keith Busby, Seamus Dwyer, Gabriel Ford, Tony Hunt, Anna Siebach-Larson, Serina Patterson, Derek Pearsall, Alexandra Reider, Carter Revard, Christopher Michael Roman, Carla María Thomas and Jocelyn Wogan-Browne. Deep gratitude also goes to the Bodleian Library, especially to Dr Martin Kauffmann, Head of Early and Rare Collections and Tolkien Curator of Medieval Manuscripts, who kindly arranged for me to view Digby 86 in Oxford; and to the Digital Bodleian for issuing the open-access online facsimile just as this book was coming into existence. I am exceptionally fortunate to be able to depend on, at every turn, the talents of two peerless editors – Peter Biller of York Medieval Press and Caroline Palmer of Boydell and Brewer – and also on the smooth Boydell and Brewer editorial team that operates flawlessly in the background, in particular Rob Kinsey, Nicholas Bingham, Rohais Landon and Rebecca Cribb. For this project Kent State University granted me invaluable research support through the English Department, chaired by Dr Robert Trogdon, and through the Office of Research and Sponsored Programs, directed by University Vice President Dr Paul E. DiCorleto.

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Abbreviations

AND

W. Rothwell et al., Anglo-Norman Dictionary, 2nd edn (London, 2005) (http://www.anglo-norman.net) ANTS Anglo-Norman Text Society ANTS PTS Anglo-Norman Text Society, Plain Texts Series Archiv Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen BAV Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana BCM Berkeley Castle Muniments BL British Library BLDM The British Library Digitised Manuscripts (www.bl.uk/ manuscripts) BnF Bibliothèque nationale de France BodL Bodleian Library CCC Corpus Christi College CUL Cambridge University Library Dean R. J. Dean, with M. Boulton, Anglo-Norman Literature. A Guide to Texts and Manuscripts (London, 1999) Digital.Bodleian Digital.Bodleian (https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/ shelfmarks.html) DIMEV L. R. Mooney et al., The DIMEV: An Open-Access, Digital Edition of the Index of Middle English Verse (www.dimev.net) DMLBS Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources (www.dmlbs.ox.ac.uk) EETS ES Early English Society, Extra Series EETS OS Early English Society, Original Series EETS SS Early English Society, Supplementary Series f. fr. fonds français FRETS OPS French of England Translation Series, Occasional Publications Series Harley 2253, ed. Fein The Complete Harley 2253 Manuscript, ed. and trans. S. Fein, with D. Raybin and J. Ziolkowski, 3 vols. (Kalamazoo, MI, 2014–15) xii

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Abbreviations

xiii

Petri Alfonsi Disciplina Clericalis, ed. A. Hilka and W. Söderhjelm, 3 vols. (Helsinki, 1911–2) LAEME A Linguistic Atlas of Early Middle English, 1150–1325, compiled M. Laing, Version 3.2 (Edinburgh, 2013) (http://www.lel.ed.ac.uk/ihd/laeme2/laeme2.html) MED H. Jurath, S. H. Kuhn et al., Middle English Dictionary (Ann Arbor, MI, 1954–2001) (https://quod.lib.umich. edu/m/med/) MSS WMidl W. Scase et al., Manuscripts of the West Midlands: A Catalogue of Vernacular Manuscript Books of the English West Midlands, c. 1300–c. 1475 (Birmingham, 2006) (https://www.dhi.ac.uk/mwm/) NIMEV J. Boffey and A. S. G. Edwards, A New Index of Middle English Verse (London, 2004) NLS National Library of Scotland ODNB Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004) (http://www.oxforddnb.com) Sawyer P. Sawyer, Anglo-Saxon Charters: An Annotated List and Bibliography, Royal Historical Society (London, 1968), at ‘The Electronic Sawyer’ (http://www.esawyer.org.uk) TCC Trinity College Cambridge Tschann and Parkes Facsimile of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86, intro. J. Tschann and M. B. Parkes, EETS SS 16 (Oxford, 1996) H/S

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Digital Facsimiles of Frequently Cited Manuscripts

Auchinleck manuscript Edinburgh, NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1 (viewable at http://auchinleck.nls.uk) Cotton Caligula A IX London, BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX (viewable at BLDM, s.v. ‘Cotton Caligula MS A IX’) Digby 86 Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 (viewable at Digital. Bodleian, s.v. ‘MS. Digby 86’) Harley 978 London, BL, MS Harley 978 (viewable at BLDM, s.v. ‘Harley MS 978’) Harley 2253 London, BL, MS Harley 2253 (viewable at BLDM, s.v. ‘Harley MS 2253’) Laud Misc. 108 Oxford, BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108 (viewable at Digital. Bodleian, s.v. ‘MS. Laud Misc. 108’) Paris 837 Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 837 (viewable at http://gallica.bnf.fr/ ark:/12148/btv1b9009629n?rk=42918;4) TCC, B.14.39 Cambridge, TCC, MS B.14.39 (viewable at http:// trin-sites-pub.trin.cam.ac.uk/james/viewpage. php?index=1708)

xiv

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The Contents of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 861

Collection 1 (fols. 1–65r) 1.–6. Fr prose articles of faith (fols. 1r–8v) 1. Distinctio peccatorum (The Seven Deadly Sins) (fols. 1r–4v)2 2. On Confession (fols. 4v–5r) 3. The Ten Commandments (fols. 5r–6r) 4. The Twelve Articles of the Faith (fol. 6r–v) 5. The Seven Sacraments (fols. 6v–7r) 6. The Form of Confession (fols. 7r–8v) 7. Fr prose The Letter of Hippocrates (fols. 8v–15v, 17r–21r) 8. Fr prose The Letter of Prester John (fols. 21r–26v) 9.–16. Fr and Lat prose prayers, charms, recipes, prognostications (fols. 26v–48r) 9. i.–vii. Fr and Lat prayers (fols. 26v–28r) 10. i.–xxxvii. Fr and Lat charms and prognostications (fols. 28r–33v) [quire missing] 11. i.–xvii. Lat prose Experimenta and recipes (fol. 34r) 12. Lat prose Somniale Danielis (dream interpretation) (fols. 34v–40r) 13. Fr prose Les singnes del jour de nouel (prognostications according to day of week on which Christmas falls) (fols. 40r–41r) 14. Fr prose Soungnarie Daniel (prognostications of lucky and unlucky days according to the moon) (fols. 41r–46r) 15. i.–xxii. Lat prose Experimencia bona et optima and recipes (fols. 46r–48r) 16. Fr prose Pur sounge esprover (instructions for knowing the truth of a dream) (fol. 48r) 17. Lat prose Quindecim singna dierum iudicii (Fifteen Signs of Doomsday) (fol. 48r–v) Item numbers correspond to Tschann and Parkes, Facsimile, pp. xii–xxxvi. The Digby scribe is the sole copyist aside from quires holding art. 27 and the additions itemised at the end of this list. Quire signatures confirm that the book is in its intended order, but it was created in stages: Collections 1 and 2 were originally separate; an annex was added to Collection 2; a bridge was added to join the two collections. On this process, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xlvii. 2 The categorisation of a section on fols. 3r–4v is uncertain. M. Boulton describes The Seven Deadly Sins (art. 1) as having two parts, with the second part beginning on fol. 3r. Alternatively, Russell reads On Confession (art. 2) as having three parts, with the first part beginning on fol. 3r. See their chapters in this volume. 1

xv

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xvi

The Contents of MS Digby 86

18. i.–ii. Lat prose prayers Saunta maria mater (attributed to Saint Edmund of Abingdon) and Deus qui scauntum cruci ascendisti (fol. 48v) [leaf missing] 19. Fr prose Le Medicinal des oiseaus (treatise on falconry) (fols. 49r–62r) 20. Lat prose Psalms 119–33 (Fifteen Gradual Psalms) with collects following Psalms 123, 128, 133 (fols. 62v–65r) Bridge between Collections 1 and 2 (fols. 65v–112) 21. Lat prose Psalms 6, 31, 37, 50, 101, 129, 142 (Seven Penitential Psalms) with antiphon (fols. 65r–67v) 22. Fr verse Seint Esperit a nous venez (translation of Veni Creator Spiritus with Latin headings) (fols. 67va–68rb) 23. Fr prose Les Dolerous Jours del an (list of unlucky days; compare art. *91) (fol. 68r) 24. Le Abite de augrim (list of arabic numerals 1–10) (fols. 67v, 68r) 25. Lat prose Calendar of feast days (fols. 68v–74r) 26. Lat prose Post primam lunam epiphanie computa decem dies (instructions for calculating movable feasts) (fol. 74v) 27. i.–xxvi. Fr verse Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (extract of French translation of Peter Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis) (Scribes A and B) (fols. 74va–97vb)3 28. Fr verse Raoul de Houdenc, Le Songe d’Enfer (Dream of Hell) (fols. 97vb–102rb) 29. Fr verse La Bonté des femmes (The Lad Who Sided with Damsels and Ladies) (fols. 102va–103va) (unique) 30. Fr verse Huon de Saint-Quentin, La Complainte de Jerusalem (satire against pope) (fols. 103va–105ra) 31. Fr verse Robert Biket, Le Lai du cor (Lay of the Horn) (fols. 105ra–109va) (unique) 32. Fr verse Le Fablel del gelous (The Little Fable of the Jealous Man) (fols. 109va–110ra) (unique) 33. Fr verse Thibaut d’Amiens, La Prière Nostre Dame (The Sinner Who Repented) (fols. 110ra–111rb) 34. Fr verse Richard, La Besturné (Turned Upside-Down, a comic monologue of contradictions) (fols. 111rb–112vb) Collection 2 (fols. 113–163) 35. Fr verse Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin (The Four Wishes of Saint Martin) (fol. 113ra–vb) 36. Fr verse Le Blasme des femmes (The Blame of Women) (extract) (fols. 113vb–114ra) 37. Fr verse Le Chastie-musart (The Fool’s Reproof) (extract) (fol. 114ra) 38. Fr verse Le Vie de un vallet amerous (The Life of a Lusty Lad) (fols. 114rb– 116vb) (unique) 39. Fr verse Les Quatre Files Deu (The Four Daughters of God) (extract from Robert Grosseteste, Le Chasteau d’amour) (fols. 116vb–118vb) Tschann and Parkes identify twenty-five tales in the Digby extract, but there are twenty-six; see David Raybin’s chapter in this volume (Appendix 1, pp. 104–5).

3

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The Contents of MS Digby 86

xvii

40. Eng verse The Harrowing of Hell (fols. 119ra–120vb) 41. Eng verse Fifteen Tokens of Doomsday (fols. 120vb–122va) 42. Eng verse The Life of Saint Eustace (fols. 122va–125vb) 43. Eng verse The Sayings of Saint Bernard (fols. 125vb–126va) 44. Eng verse Ubi Sunt (fols. 126va–127ra) 45. Eng verse Stand Well Mother under Rood (fol. 127ra–va) 46. Eng verse The Saws of Saint Bede (fols. 127va–130rb) 47. Eng verse Our Lady Psalter (fols. 130rb–132rb) 48. Eng verse The Eleven Pains of Hell (fols. 132rb–134va) 48a. Eng verse Sweet Jesus King of Bliss (fol. 134va) 49. Eng verse Maximian (fols. 134va–136vb) 50. Eng verse The Thrush and the Nightingale (fols. 136vb–138rb) 51. Eng verse The Fox and the Wolf (fols. 138rb–140rb) (unique) 52. Eng verse Hending (proverbs ascribed to ‘Hending’) (fols. 140va–143ra) 53. Fr verse Les Proverbes del Vilain (proverbs ascribed to ‘Vilain’) (fols. 143rb–149vb) 54. Fr verse Wace, Les Miracles de seint Nicholas (The Miracles of Saint Nicholas) (fols. 150ra–161ra) 55. i.–iii. Lat prose prayers to the Virgin (fol. 161ra–162rb) 56. Fr verse Ragemon le bon (fortune-telling game) (fols. 162rb–163vb) 57. Eng verse On the Vanity of This World (fols. 163vb–164rb) 58. Lat verse Fides hodie sopitur (On the Truth of This World) (fol. 164va–b) 59. Eng verse Dame Sirith (fols. 165ra–168rb) 60. Eng verse The Names of a Hare (fol. 168rb–vb) Annex to Collection 2 (fols. 169–201) 61. Fr verse Herman de Valenciennes, Assumption de Nostre Dame (often transmitted as the final part of his Roman de Dieu et de sa mere) (fols. 169r–177r) 62. Fr verse Le Doctrinal Sauvage (treatise on courtesy ascribed to ‘Sauvage’) (fols. 177r–182v) 63. Fr verse Guischart de Beauliu, Le Romaunz de temtacioun de secle (Worldly Temptation) (fols. 182v–186v) 64. i.–iii. Fr prose prayers to the Virgin’s Joys (fols. 186v–190r) 65. Fr verse De Deus Chevalers torz ke plederent a Roume (Two Twisted Knights, a comic monologue of contradictions) (fols. 190v–191r) 66. Fr verse prayer Douce sire Jesu Crist (fols. 191r–192v) 67. Fr verse L’Estrif de deus dames (The Strife between Two Ladies) (fols. 192v–195v) 68. Eng verse The Debate between the Body and the Soul (fols. 195v–197v) 68a. Eng verse Doomsday (fols. 197v–198r) 68b. Eng verse Death (fols. 198r–200r) 69. Eng verse What Love Is Like (fol. 200v) 70. Fr verse prayer Chaunçoun de Noustre Seingnour (fol. 200v) 71. Fr verse prayer Beaus sire Jesu Crist (ascribed to Saint Edmund of Abingdon) (fol. 200v)

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The Contents of MS Digby 86

72. Lat verse Sanguinevs multum apetit quia calidus (The Four Humours) (fol. 201r) 73. Fr/Eng proverb Welcome ki ke bringe ki ne bring fare wel (fol. 201r) 74. Lat prose Intus quis (proverb matched to art. 73) (fol. 201r) 75. Lat verse Femina res ficta res subdala res maledicta (The Evils of Women) (fol. 201r) 76. Lat verse Wita quid hominis nisi res vallata ruinis (fol. 201r–v) 77. Lat verse Nexus ouem binam per spinam duxit equinam (fol. 201v) 78. Lat verse Cum fueris rome romano viuite more (fol. 201v) 79. Lat verse Fert scabiosa pilos verbena non habet illos (medical verse) (fol. 201v) 80. Lat prose Audite mangnantes et omnes populi (lacks end) (fol. 201v) 81. i.–ix. Lat prose prayers and devotions (fols. 202r–205v) Additions made by Digby scribe: *82. Fr prose additions to art. 7 (fols. 8v–21r) *83. Fr and Lat prose additions to art. 10 (fols. 28r–33v) *84. Fr prose additions to art. 14 (fols. 41r–46r) *85. Lat prose addition to art. 18 (fol. 48v) *86. Fr prose addition to art. 19 (fols. 49r–62r) *87. Lat prose addition to art. 20 (fol. 64r) *88. Lat prose addition (memorandum listing specific masses) (fol. 66v–66r) *89. Fr prose additions to art. 25 (to Calendar feast days; lunary information relating to medicine) (fols. 68v–74r) *90. Lat verse prayer Maria stella maris (ascribed to John of Hoveden) (fol. 118vb) *91. Fr verse Les Dolerous Jours del an (list of unlucky days; compare art. 23) (fol. 168v) *92. Fr prose list of the kings of England (fol. 205v) *93. Eng verse prayer In Þine Honden Louerd Mine (fol. 206ra) *94. Lat verse levation prayer Aue caro Cristi cara (fol. 206ra–207rb) *95. Fr verse prayer Presciouse dame seinte Marie (fols. 206ra–207rb) *96. Lat prose Merita visionis corporis Christi (Merits of the Mass) (accompanies art. *94) (fol. 206r) *97. Fr prose Ki veut verray ami elire (The Qualities of a Friend) (fol. 207va–b) Additions made by other fourteenth-century scribes: *98. Lat prose additions to art. 12 (fols. 34v–40r) *99. Lat prose additions (obits) to art. 25 (fols. 68v–74r) *100. Middle English glosses of Fr words (fols. 11r, 15r–v, 20r) *101. Trilingual prose addition to art. 7 (fol. 16r)

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Note on the Presentation of MS Digby 86 Texts

Throughout this volume transcriptions from Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 are made by direct reference to the manuscript in Oxford or by reference to one of the two high-quality facsimiles: • In digital form, Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 (viewable at Digital.Bodleian, s.v. ‘MS. Digby 86’); • In print, Facsimile of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86, intro. J. Tschann and M. B. Parkes, EETS SS 16 (Oxford, 1996). Texts in Digby’s three languages are transcribed as they appear in the manuscript, that is, with no punctuation other than the scribes’ use of punctus; and with reproduction of the scribes’ capitalisation and line breaks. Abbreviations are expanded with italic letters inserted to indicate the expansions. In Latin, ampersand is expanded to et (as in Tschann and Parkes). In French, ampersand is expanded to e according to the Digby scribe’s demonstrated usage (but note that Tschann and Parkes expand it to et). In English, ampersand is not used by the Digby scribe. Transcription styles differ by language because current editorial standards encourage some intervention with French texts in order to ease comprehension. For all texts in Latin or English, the manuscript’s orthography is faithfully reproduced. In French, however, modern apostrophes are inserted, and the orthography is adjusted to present the distinction of c/ç, i/j, u/v. Acute accents on final tonic -e are editorially added. Moreover, in abbreviating French qui and que, the Digby scribe uses q with a superscript i indiscriminately; this abbreviation is expanded to the form best suited to the syntax. In all languages, modern word spacing is observed. Unless otherwise specified, modern English translations of material cited from Digby 86 and other medieval sources are by the authors of the individual chapters in this volume.

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T

he scribe of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 sometimes expressed himself in pictures as well as in whatever French, English and Latin works he selected for new combinations and purposes in his idiosyncratic making of a household book. The result of his overall effort across 207 folios is a medieval manuscript utterly singular in its ‘extravagantly heterogeneous’ nature.1 In it, his occasional drawings are frequently labelled with tags, almost as if they are designed for pedagogy in reading Latin: ‘femina’ (woman) beside a woman’s head with free-flowing locks (fol. 80r), ‘homo’ (man) beside a man’s head in a pointed hood (fol. 79v), ‘bibo’ (I drink) beside a similarly hooded man sipping from a goblet (fol. 34v), ‘ipocras’ (Hippocrates) beside the head of a bearded man of wise countenance (fol. 8v) – this last example being an author-portrait designed to accompany the medical treatise Letter of Hippocrates.2 In the bottom margin of fol. 205v, the last folio of the scribe’s original book,3 the scribe signs off his large production with a self-portrait, another cartoonishly sketched head, now in a close-fitted hood, with a manicule pointing at this head as if to say ‘look, it’s me’, and with an inscription: ‘scripsi librum in anno et iii mensibus’ (I wrote the book in a year and three months).4 According to one scholar, this inscription ‘surely’ displays ‘an amateur’s expression of pride in having completed a long and arduous task which would doubtless have been accomplished much

J. Frankis, ‘The Social Context of Vernacular Writing in Thirteenth Century England: The Evidence of the Manuscripts’, in Thirteenth Century England I: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1985, ed. P. R. Coss and S. D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 175–84 (p. 183). 2 On the drawings in Digby 86, see either of the two facsimiles: (colour digital) Digital. Bodleian, s.v. ‘MS. Digby 86’, at https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/shelfmarks.html; (blackand-white print) Tschann and Parkes. The sketches are itemised in Tschann and Parkes, pp. xlix–l. 3 The scribe later added two singletons to append prayers and notes on the Mass and on friendship (fols. 206, 207); Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxv–xxxvi. The original book was larger than what survives. On Digby 86’s lost quires, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xlvii; and J. Hines, Voices in the Past: English Literature and Archaeology (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 73–7. 4 Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxvii. The sketch, they note, is ‘probably intended to represent the scribe-owner himself ’ (p. l). 1

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more quickly by a professional’.5 This statement typifies how the Digby scribe has been viewed as something of an amateur at scrivening even though his hand bears likeness to that of other scribes from the period.6 By all indications, however, what was most new for him was the activity of making an anthology, and in many of matters of codicology and design his novice skills show. And yet the final product is one of the most important miscellanies to survive from medieval England – a trilingual marvel of a compilation, with quirky combinations of content that range from religion, to science, to literature of a decidedly secular cast. There are medical recipes, charms, prayers, prognostications, magic tricks, pious doctrine, a liturgical calendar, religious songs, lively debates, poetry on love and death, proverbs, beast fables, fabliaux, scurrilous games, gender-based diatribes and perhaps even a household drama or two, all executed by making arranged distinctions of prose, short-line verse and long-line verse, and also by creating sequences by language (Latin, French or English) while exhibiting a fluent multiligualism not averse to cross-lingual pairings. That Digby is from the thirteenth century adds to its appeal, for Middle English literary remnants from before 1300 are all too rare. Scholars on both sides of the vernacular divide have been deeply intrigued by it. French literary scholar Keith Busby declares Digby 86 to be ‘at the heart of the period’s English literary enterprise’, and situates it in the larger world of francophone manuscripts spread across Europe, noting that ‘any notion of the West Midlands/Welsh Marshes area as culturally isolated … is belied by some of the “classic” French texts included in … Digby 86’.7 Meanwhile, the English literary scholar Carleton Brown declares Digby’s English lyrics to constitute ‘altogether the most important’ collection from the late thirteenth century.8 Digby 86 earns its honours by the range and importance of its texts, especially its most memorable items not found elsewhere: above all, the Lay of the Horn by Robert Biket, a French comic tale about a chastity test at Arthur’s court, with strong hints of fabliau; Dame Sirith, the only fabliau in English before the Canterbury Tales; and The Fox and the Wolf, which is likewise the only beast fable in English before Chaucer. Added to these famous texts, there are others found nowhere else and deserving of more recognition: for example, the English lyric What Love Is Like (a K. Busby, Codex and Context: Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manuscript, 2 vols., Faux Titre: Etudes de langue et littérature françaises publiées 221 (Amsterdam, 2002), II, 511. See too C. Brown: ‘The hand … shows distinctive characteristics, the most peculiar being its employment of the beaver-tailed capital S, heavily shaded in red. Clearly it is not the hand of a professional scribe’ (English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. C. Brown (Oxford, 1932), p. xxxii). On the scribe’s handwriting, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii– xli (and p. xlix on the ‘Mumpsimus’ form of capital S). 6 Tschann and Parkes, p. xxxix. 7 K. Busby, ‘Le Contexte manuscrit du Songe d’Enfer de Raoul de Houdenc’, in Le Recueil au moyen âge. Le moyen âge central, ed. Y. Foehr-Janssens and O. Collet (Turnhout, 2010), pp. 47–61 (p. 59: ‘au cœur de l’entreprise littéraire anglaise de l’époche’); and K. Busby, ‘Multilingualism, the Harley Scribe, and Johannes Jacobi’, in Insular Books: Vernacular Miscellanies in Late Medieval Britain, ed. M. Connolly and R. Radulescu (Oxford, 2015), pp. 49–60 (pp. 59–60). 8 English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, p. xxviii. 5

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secular love song pre-dating the Harley lyrics) and the French Strife between Two Ladies (two very candid women in debate, expressing a feminine sexual politics comparable to what is expounded in Harley 2253’s Gilote and Johane and Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Prologue).9 In addition, many Digby texts represent first appearances in the surviving record, and these ought to be accorded special heed: the English Thrush and the Nightingale, the English Harrowing of Hell, the English stanzaic Life of Saint Eustace, the French Proverbes del Vilain, for example. To what degree do any these works represent innovative literary trends being invented and/or cultivated in the Digby scribe’s immediate milieu? At the core of Digby 86 are the French or Anglo-French ‘classics’ referred to by Busby: Wace’s Les Miracles de seint Nicholas, Herman de Valenciennes’s Assumption de Nostre Dame, Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (a verse rendering of Petrus Alfonsi’s Latin prose Disciplina clericalis), Raoul de Houdenc’s Le Songe d’Enfer, Guischart de Beauliu’s Romaunz de temtacioun de secle, Les Quatre Files Deu extracted from Robert Grosseteste’s Le Chasteau d’amour and Huon de Saint-Quentin’s La Complainte de Jerusalem, to name some of the most notable examples. Alongside these respected authors are also many texts with specious ascriptions meant to validate claims that they bear reliable authority and counsel: The Sayings of Saint Bernard, The Saws of Saint Bede, Hending (a set of proverbs), The Letter of Hippocrates, The Letter of Prester John, the Somniale Danielis (a dreambook) and the Soungnarie Daniel (a lunary). And in highlighting these texts, one cannot disregard the prime space given, within Digby’s framing quires i–ix and xxvi–xxvii, to prose matters of church doctrine, science and medicine. A remarkable fact about MS Digby 86 is that its fifteen-months-and-more moment of production has a known provenance within a cluster of identifiable, related families – the Grimhills, the Underhills, the Pendocks – within a narrow place and time: south western Worcestershire, c. 1281–3. Based on evidence in the manuscript (rubrics, obits, a will, signed pen-trials, marginalia), scholars confidently conflate its maker’s three roles: Digby scribe, Digby compiler and first Digby owner/user. To judge from historical data, that person is likely to have been Richard de Grimhill II, a member of the lower gentry. As Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes assert in the introduction to the 1996 print facsimile of Digby 86, Grimhill is ‘a strong candidate for collecting the texts … and copying the manuscript for his own use’.10 It seems likely that the household book eventually became the possession of his daughter Amice, the wife of Simon de Underhill. On Gilote and Johane in London, BL, MS Harley 2253, see Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 156–73, 408–10 (art. 37); and C. Revard, ‘The Wife of Bath’s Grandmother: or How Gilote Showed Her Friend Johane That the Wages of Sin Is Worldly Pleasure, and How Both Then Preached This Gospel throughout England and Ireland’, Chaucer Review 39 (2004), 117–36. 10 See Tschann and Parkes, pp. lvi– lx (p. lvii). See also B. D. H. Miller, ‘The Early History of Bodleian MS Digby 86’, Annuale Medievale 4 (1963), 23–56. In scribal nomenclature (as used by Miller and by Tschann and Parkes), the primary maker of Digby 86 is termed ‘Scribe A’. In the chapters of this volume, he is typically called the ‘Digby scribe’ or the ‘Digby compiler’. The chapters by J. D. Sargan and by John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones mention his likely identification as Richard de Grimhill II. 9

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But this identification does not fully answer all the questions we might ask about the scribe of MS Digby 86, that is, questions on a host of matters, which the contributors to this volume address from many angles. For example, we would like to know his motives for compiling such a varied collection. What exactly were his concerns, and how far do the contents reflect his own biases and tastes? And is it true that the scribe was a layman, as Grimhill was, or might Grimhill have been the scribe’s patron instead? Could the scribe have been an anonymous secular clerk who worked for the household? In an influential essay (that pre-dates the facsimile), John Frankis asserts that some Digby articles – ‘the notes for the confessional, the psalms and prayers in Latin and especially the professional-looking calendar, also in Latin,’ – look like ‘items for the practising cleric’. His proposal is that the scribe was a ‘domestic chaplain of one of the Worcestershire families named in the marginal inscriptions’.11 Moreover, if the scribe was Grimhill himself, then, as John Hines points out, it is somewhat unsettling to think that a father of three daughters in their teens and early twenties would have included (and even augmented) so many texts with salacious or misogynist content.12 At the same time, there is little doubt that a good part of Digby 86’s function was to enhance sociability among family members and even among a neighbourly community, that is, to be a resource not only for moral edification and mental improvement, but also (with, for example, its fortune-telling game Ragemon le bon) for fun events and convivial pastimes. Its contents were compiled with an audience of men and women in mind, and perhaps an ideal audience for the collection’s broad range would be young people of Grimhill’s daughters’ age range. In attempting to characterise Digby 86, one may be tempted to transfer characteristics of the texts onto the scribe himself. Considering the book’s proverbial and didactic nature, Andrew Taylor, on the one hand, proposes that we conceptualise him as Pandarus with his ‘inexhaustible store of potted wisdom’, because Digby is ‘the kind of book Pandarus’s real-life counterparts might have used to assemble such a store’.13 Marilyn Corrie, on the other hand, viewing the virulent misogyny in many of its French works and in Dame Sirith, proposes that we imagine him as being like clerk Jankyn, the Wife of Bath’s fifth husband, who reads from his book of ‘wikked wyves’.14 Such colourful characterisations help to crystallise several of Digby’s main concerns. To get at the big picture, Delbert Russell compares Digby to a kaleidoscope: ‘View any one of these texts from a new angle, and startling new patterns emerge in the manuscript as a whole.’15 Many have stressed that the book’s underlying function is utility. Thorlac Turville-Petre observes that Digby’s texts are ‘equally practical and dictated by the needs of family life’, and he credits it with

Frankis, ‘The Social Context’, p. 183. Hines, Voices in the Past, p. 74. 13 A. Taylor, ‘The Chivalric Miscellany: Classifying John Paston’s “Grete Booke”’, in Insular Books, ed. Connolly and Radulescu, pp. 143–56 (p. 152). 14 See Marilyn Corrie’s chapter in this volume. 15 See Delbert Russell’s chapter in this volume (p. 24). 11 12

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giving us ‘a real insight into the cultured and social life of an English gentry family’.16 Hines reminds us to set Digby within the aims of an ordered life of material comfort, and he likens the ‘collection and anthologizing of literary texts in Digby 86’ to ‘the general, endless, accumulation and re-ordering of material culture in these households’: it functioned as a repository of ‘texts with diverse functions that were there if you needed them’.17 Consequently, in seeking to know more about this mercurial manuscript, the essays in this collection look at Digby 86 from many angles, adopt different viewpoints and come to varying conclusions. At the same time, there come to be certain commonalities in how each contributing scholar accords in understanding the scribe’s much-on-display anthologising tendencies, the extraordinary range of texts put into conversation in Digby and the sense of free experimentation that colours this engaging book. The essays start off as Digby itself begins, in religious French texts. The chapters by Delbert Russell and Maureen Boulton are complementary in this regard but develop different perspectives. Russell looks at what the Digby scribe chose to accompany Digby’s oldest French text, Wace’s Miracles de seint Nicholas (c. 1150), noting how ‘the compassion exercised by Nicholas for all people’ may comment on how the Digby scribe seems ‘to accept equally behaviour that ranges from crassly obscene to divinely sublime’ (p. 19). Russell ekes out subtle narratorial comments that portray the scribe himself as ‘a sympathetic secular cleric fully immersed in medieval life’ (p. 24). Boulton then gives special attention to Digby’s opening French prose articles of faith, which remain inedited, relating them to reforms enacted after the Fourth Lateran Council and seeing in them ‘a completely up-todate restatement of the essential beliefs of the Church, one that reflects its current thinking yet is adapted to someone ministering to lay people’ (p. 34). Her examination of French Digby texts also includes religious authors who compose in modes of romance or epic (such as Herman de Valenciennes and Raoul de Houdenc), while Russell’s examination of Wace and a host of French authors leads him to one of Boulton’s key texts, the Distinctio peccatorum, and its similarities to the Manuel des Péchés. What emerges from their work is how very current is the religious sensibility of the Digby scribe, and how very encompassing of various modes used to preach morality and doctrine to Anglo-French lay people in the thirteenth century. Sheri Smith’s chapter advances further the project to know Digby’s religious prose matter with more refinement. She focuses on the numerous prayers and prayer sequences, mainly in French or Latin. Although individual English lyrics embed prayers in stanzas, stand-alone prayers in English are virtually nonexistent. One English prayer does appear intriguingly, however, in a grouping copied on one of the appended singletons (fol. 206r), the book’s ‘only trilingual collection of prayers’ (p. 51). Smith notes the scribe’s impetus for cohesive arrangements in how prayers are sequenced (especially French prayers) in order to encourage ‘contemplative movement through a series of reflections’ (p. 52). Her chapter elucidates Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, pp. 65, 56. Hines, Voices in the Past, pp. 102–3.

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many of the under-edited prose texts that occupy the early and late quires of Digby 86, and it bridges the work of Russell and Boulton on the French religious contents and the next two chapters on the French and Latin prose texts of practical application. Going beyond doctrine and prayers, Marjorie Harrington and Jennifer Jahner bring to light many more of the presently rather arcane prose texts – those of medicine and science. The Letter of Hippocrates and The Letter of Prester John appear after the opening articles of the faith, and they, in turn, are followed by prognostications (by dream, by day or by moon), many Latin experimenta and many charms, occasionally juxtaposed with the prayer sequences discussed by Smith. Calling Digby 86 a ‘household almanac’, Harrington notes how in it ‘there is no sense that the astrological and divinatory texts stand in opposition to the prayers and devotions, or that medical and magical remedies could not coexist’ (p. 57). Texts that expound such knowledge promise to ‘make the hidden marvels of the universe accessible to the reader’ (p. 67). Harrington appends to her chapter a valuable transcription/translation of the trilingual medical recipes on fol. 16r (a leaf inserted into Digby 86 by a later user). Deepening the study of scientific exploration in Digby 86 and connecting it to bookmaking, Jahner explains how experimenta ‘encapsulated in miniature the multifarious powers of the household book, as it promised to guide the spirit, heal the body, educate the mind, and entertain and impress one’s family, friends, and neighbors’ (p. 75). Moreover, this Digby matter brings to the fore a ‘voguish interest’, propounded by Roger Bacon, in ‘the superiority of experiential knowledge over theoretical reasoning’ (p. 76). Such deep lore was often traceable to Arabic sources, as in the Secretum secretorum. It is therefore important that we perceive how the experimenta represent, for the Digby reader, something ‘new’, fashionable and intellectually exciting. Their appeal goes well beyond trivial curiosities for the ‘unserious, of the type “Many things you can do with an egg” (e.g. make it jump over a spear)’.18 Thinking about exotic sources and wonders, as described in The Letter of Prester John, prepares us to ponder the Digby scribe’s inclusion of a French version of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis, the text given the greatest amount of parchment space. A mystery surrounds why the bulk of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (two full quires) was copied by a different scribe – Scribe B – while it was the Digby scribe who copied its opening and its close, and thus orchestrated its inclusion.19 David Raybin’s chapter provides the first detailed examination of what effect the presence of the French Digby Disciplina has on Digby as a whole, and how Le Romaunz differs from its Latin prose source and its more immediate French verse model. The inclusion of Alfonsi, quintessentially an Other – born a Jew in Islamic Spain, converted to Christianity, the author of serious works in theology, science and literature that cite Arabic sources – reveals more exotica being provided beside the book’s stylish Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, p. 58. On Scribe B’s labour (fols. 81–96), see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii–xxxix. Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour is the Digby scribe’s title for the text, elsewhere known as Le Chastoiement d’un pere a son fils.

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experimenta. Yet meaningful changes have been wrought: the Digby text represents ‘the transformation of Alfonsi’s Arab-infused generic hybrid into a mildly Christianised Anglo-French story collection’, with the stories being domesticated ‘in the manner of a northwest European conduct text’ (p. 102). Raybin’s chapter offers three important appendices: an outline of the contents of Le Romaunz (noting one more story than Tschann and Parkes detected) and transcription/translations of the Romaunz stories that are analogues to Digby’s most famous English texts, The Fox and the Wolf and Dame Sirith. The appearance of Le Romaunz on fols. 74va–97vb opens the manuscript’s long foray into verse texts, mostly in French, but also with three runs in English. The next three chapters, by Marilyn Corrie, Neil Cartlidge and myself, delve into themes, generic styles and ethical preoccupations to be found in Digby’s massive amount of vernacular verse, which flows on until fol. 201r. In addressing specifically the fraught subject of gender relations in the texts of Digby 86, the analyses by Corrie and Cartlidge stress attitudes to be found especially in the French secular texts, yet neither scholar ignores Latin or English, especially those two prime instances: Dame Sirith and The Thrush and the Nightingale. Corrie squarely asks the knotty question of how the Digby scribe chose to represent women. She begins pictorially with the sketch of ‘femina’ appearing in a lower margin, then moves on to stories in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour, where ‘wariness of women was a stance that a father encouraged his son to adopt’, and then to the Latin Femina res ficta res subdala res maledicta, where ‘distrust of woman is something that the poem asks anyone reading it to share’ (p. 117). Observing the slanderous repetitions and the scribe’s direct augmentation of a fabliau with more defamation, Corrie suggests that this Jankyn-like compiler ‘was inspired to add to the expressions of misogyny’ (p. 128). Cartlidge agrees that the scribe was ‘consciously interested in gender conflict as a literary theme’ (p. 130), but he sees the topic as delicately participating in larger structures of debate and controversy. For example, The Strife between Two Ladies develops into ‘a debate about the value and meaning of “courtliness”, whether as an ideology or as a life choice’ (p. 148). Ultimately, he argues, ‘the shared insistence on the inevitability of gendered antagonism is in the service of a determined playfulness, with gendered experiences and gendered perspectives being mined, in effect, as a source of sociability’ (p. 161). Both of these studies draw much-needed attention to Digby’s most provocative works – many in obscure editions, most still untranslated – works that ought to be more recognised by medievalists who work on gender issues. My own study of the English verse sequences in Digby 86 comes next, bridging the examinations by Corrie and Cartlidge of a vast sweep of French literature (alongside Latin and English texts that also assess ‘woman’), to the next chapter by Jenni Nuttall on ‘scribal poetics’. Corrie and Cartlidge show how a dominant thematic thread was played out largely in French, the idiom in which it must have been felt to be most naturally suited, and yet also how it bled into English texts not known before Digby. My analysis reveals what may be discovered and recovered when the English poems are examined on their own, as a medieval anthology of English lyrics. It is a pity that the English Digby poems have not been published in

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one place as a set, when it is clear that the scribe himself grouped them by language. Along with a list of Digby’s English contents, I give an appendix of the manuscripts most aligned in their English content with Digby; heading the list are the earlier Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II) and the later London, BL, MS Harley 2253. I also append transcription/translations of The Fox and the Wolf and Dame Sirith, to allow direct comparison of them to their Digby analogues in Anglo-Norman (given in Raybin’s appendices). The Digby English series reveals the peculiar kinds of creative novelties wrought by the scribe upon texts he gathered. Such revisionary activity was clearly part of how the Digby scribe viewed his labour. My findings align with others reported in this volume, drawing towards a consensus that MS Digby 86 is a site of innovation and experimentation on many fronts. In this vein, the chapters by Jenni Nuttall and J. D. Sargan lead us to consider the scribe’s creative, unconventional methods in physical, codicological matters of mise en texte, mise en page and forms of decoration. Both essays take a broad view of manuscript culture in England in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and in both there is an array of evidence gathered from a large sampling of early books. In this, these chapters augment some of the preceding studies that situated Digby 86 among similar manuscripts, such as Cartlidge’s extended comparisons of Digby to Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 837 (an important miscellany preserving French lais and fabliaux) and to the other insular trilingual manuscript most like it, Harley 2253. Nuttall’s particular focus is on how the Digby scribe displays an ‘enthusiasm for conspicuous verse-form and rhyme’ (p. 197) by his careful application of graphic red-ink tie-lines. She performs a thorough taxonomy of the Digby scribe’s varied methods for punctuating verse, with a close comparison to other scribes who worked in this period of flux and experimentation. Her study defines ‘a flourishing thirteenth-century bilingual poetics’ that valued how verse was to be displayed on the page (p. 198). Sargan looks at the scribe’s workmanship from another angle: his making of coloured display letters. In mastering bookcraft, Sargan argues, the Digby scribe’s ‘reflective practice reveals an aspiration to craftsmanship’ (p. 228), and although his styles are unusual and not always well executed, they do ‘seem to respond to conventions for decorating more luxurious manuscripts’ and are ‘based on creative improvisation’ (pp. 236, 239). In addition, Sargan provides an engrossing case study of the scribe’s decorative forms of capital A, with figures and an appendix that charts the distribution of this letter-form in manuscripts from throughout the West Midlands. The final chapter in this volume, written by John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones, combines historical and archaeological data with Network Theory to build a vivid profile of the social and political milieu in which Digby 86 was produced. Starting from the premise that the principal scribe and compiler was Richard de Grimhill (d. 1307/8), Hines and Julian-Jones detail ‘a resourceful, multiply connected group of households at the lower gentry and upper yeomanry levels’ operating in and around Grimhill/Greenhill and Pendock, Worcestershire, in the thirteenth century (p. 273). The analysis tellingly reveals how the region’s socioeconomic interdependencies would have also impacted the Grimhills and the Underhills in terms of ‘information and storytelling’, as well as in their other social relations (p. 268). Hines

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and Julian-Jones also provide a strong explanation for the scribe’s choice of baronial shields drawn in the lower margin of fol. 68r – shields representing the de Vesci, Beaumont and FitzJohn families: very likely, they memorialise a regional sense of the aristocratic, familial losses suffered in the Second Barons’ War. As the essays in this volume show, there is much about Digby 86 still ripe for recovery and new discovery. Much about its broad range of contents, conditions of production, principal scribe and elements of design remain to be further deciphered. What matters in advancing that process is that scholars from different disciplines – history, literature, French studies, English studies, Latin studies, art history, music, archaeology, codicology – speak to one another in a gathered setting like this volume. Too often case studies of individual medieval books become articles published singularly over long intervals of time in isolated ways. Studies of miscellanies thus become themselves miscellaneous.20 With Digby 86, however, the situation is pressing. We need to initiate a concentrated push to see all its texts edited, translated, well explained and well contextualised. Much of its contents’ social nuance and original tonalities can, of course, no longer be captured. Julia Boffey writes expressively of the gap left when all we have of a text is its written presence without the original settings of events and people: surviving written copies of medieval texts may inscribe only a fraction of the meaning that certain works had for their earliest audiences. Responses like laughter, intakes of breath or knowing glances are unlikely to be recorded for posterity in written form. These are aspects of meaning that cannot possibly be concretized and at a chronological distance can only be matters of speculation.21

With Digby 86, one of the most important insular trilingual miscellanies to survive, with so rich and varied a set of contents, one would truly like to know about the moment that first introduced the Lay of the Horn to a gathered audience, or that first set Dame Sirith in performance (if indeed it was performed), or about the manner in which tricks with an egg were executed and provoked delight, or the responses that occurred when the teasingly scandalous fortunes of the game Ragemon le bon were distributed and read among men and women, whether among family members or in situations of youthful flirtation. These bits of thirteenthcentury human response cannot ever be replayed, but the texts that prompted them remain behind to give us substantial hints about the nature of gentry life in a bookusing household.

As M. Connolly memorably notes: ‘Ironically most scholarship on miscellanies has itself been published through the miscellany format of the modern essay collection’ (‘The Whole Book and the Whole Picture: Editions and Facsimiles of Medieval Miscellanies and Their Influence’, in Insular Books, ed. Connolly and Radulescu, pp. 281–99 (p. 294)). 21 J. Boffey, ‘From Manuscript to Modern Text’, in A Companion to Medieval English Literature and Culture c.1350–c.1500, ed. P. Brown (Oxford, 2007), pp. 107–22 (p. 113). 20

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chapter one

FELLOW TRAVELLERS WITH SAINT NICHOLAS Delbert Russell

W

ithin the small corpus of bilingual and trilingual manuscripts compiled in England in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, Oxford, BodL, Digby 86 remains one of the most puzzling for modern sensibilities. John Frankis’s 1985 study outlines the manuscript’s juxtaposition of high and low styles, prose and poetry, its subject matter being both devotional and scurrilous, lyrical and scientifically technical, along with the pragmatically useful (a calendar for religious use) and the speculative (prognostications, charms, dream interpretation).1 Calling Digby 86’s contents ‘eccentric’ and ‘extravagantly heterogeneous’, Frankis deduces that it was addressed to an audience who sought both religious instruction and entertainment, in a society that included both secular clergy and the laity, and which was ‘somewhat naïve and even coarse in taste, rustic rather than urban’. He argues that ‘Digby 86, more than any other manuscript of the period, gives us an insight into what one might loosely call the upper middle class of thirteenth-century rural England’.2 Frankis’s broad overview of Digby 86 is persuasive, yet for me several questions persistently remain. How are we to read these widely different texts? What additional inferences can be made regarding the scribe/compiler’s purpose in creating this book? What do the contents imply about the social and literary milieu of its audience? Are there distinctive linguistic features of scribal usage in French? Roughly half of the contents in the 207 folios of Digby 86 are in French, but only two works explicitly mention the use of French. These are Les Miracles de seint Nicholas by Wace (art. 54; fols. 150ra–161ra, datable to the mid-twelfth century) and Le Romaunz de temtacioun de secle by Guischart de Beauliu (art. 63; fols. 182v–186v, datable to the end of the twelfth century).3 The prologues to both texts end with the J. Frankis, ‘The Social Context of Vernacular Writing in Thirteenth Century England: The Evidence of the Manuscripts’, in Thirteenth Century England I: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1985, ed. P. R. Cross and S. D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 175–84. 2 Ibid., p. 184. 3 Article numbers are from Tschann and Parkes, pp. xii–xxxvi. For Les Miracles de seint Nicholas (Dean 537.1), see La Vie de saint Nicholas par Wace, ed. E. Ronsjö, Études romanes de Lund 5 (Lund, 1942); and Wace, The Hagiographical Works: The Conception Nostre Dame and the Lives of St Margaret and St Nicholas, trans. J. Blacker, G. Burgess and A. 1

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topos of translatio studii in which French transmits some value previously available only in Latin.4 Guischart’s anxiety is about the textual authority of French – ‘Let the non-Latinate be assured that my tale is guaranteed by the best ecclesiastical authorities’ (‘Cil ki ne sount gramaires ne soient pas dotaunz / De ceo ki jeo dirai asez en ai garaunz / Les meus de seinte eglise e les plus vaillaunz’ (fols. 182v–183r; lines 8–10)) – while Wace more directly states that he is writing in French: ‘I wish to say in French a little of what the Latin tells us [of Nicholas], so that lay people who do not understand Latin may learn it’ (‘En romaunz veil dire un petit / De ceo ki li latins nous dit / Ki li lai le puissent aprendre / Qui ne sevent latin entendre’ (fol. 150rb; lines 39–44)). In both cases, however, a translatio studii justification must surely have seemed redundant to the compiler of Digby 86, since the trilingual contents of the manuscript demonstrate that the Digby scribe, and presumably his audience (his own household, or that of his patron?), confidently and capably used all three languages, French, English and Latin.5 Despite this functional trilingualism, critics have pointed out that details in Digby 86’s layout, as well as the predominance of French in the contents (50 per cent French, 25 per cent Latin, 25 per cent English) suggest that French was the preferred language of the scribe, the assumed owner-compiler of Digby 86. The fact that sixteen of the twenty-two English texts copied in Digby 86 are introduced by a French rubric further demonstrates the Digby scribe’s preference for French. Nonetheless the scribe moves seamlessly from rubrics in French, and occasionally in Latin, to the body of the English texts, and only one rubric explicitly mentions the language of the text to follow – in this case English, although expressed in French: ‘Les nouns de un leure en engleis’ (the names for the hare in English) (art. 60; fol. 168r–v). Although French may be the Digby scribe’s default language, switching to either English or Latin seems to be unproblematic and unworthy of comment. Earlier studies have also noted that the scribe’s unconscious reflexive spellings show French influence when he writes both English and Latin. In their listing of rubrics and incipits, Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes note, for example, that they have not corrected the frequent scribal use in Latin texts of sauntus (for sanctus), or of -ngn- for -gn- (e.g., singnificat, art. 12).6 Further examples abound, for

Ogden (Leiden, 2013), pp. 235–353 (with facing-page translation of Ronsjö’s critical text). For Romaunz de temtacioun de secle (Dean 597), see Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86 in Bibliotheca Bodleiana asservatum, ed. E. Stengel (Halle, 1871), pp. 72–80; and Le Sermon de Guischart de Beauliu, ed. A. Gabrielson (Uppsala, 1909). Digby 86’s version of Romaunz de temtacioun has only the first 264 of the 1,923 lines in Gabrielson’s edition. 4 See Vernacular Literary Theory from the French of Medieval England, ed. J. Wogan-Browne, T. Fenster and D. Russell (Cambridge, 2016), pp. 252–5, for an analysis of Wace’s prologue. On Guischart, see M. D. Legge, Anglo-Norman Literature (Oxford, 1963), pp. 134–8. 5 ‘Digby scribe’ refers to the scribe designated as ‘Scribe A’ in Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii–xli. 6 See Tschann and Parkes, p. xii; and J. Scahill, ‘Trilingualism in Early Middle English Miscellanies: Languages and Literature’, Yearbook of English Studies 33 (2003), 18–32 (p. 24), who notes that the Digby scribe’s Latin suggests ‘French habits of pronunciation or spelling’.

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example, Omnioun for Omnium (fol. 27v), haboundare for abundare (fol. 34r) and Vbi sount qui ante nos fuerount (fol. 126va). With respect to the scribe’s spelling of English, Margaret Laing and Neil Cartlidge state that it shows French influence, unusual in early Middle English.7 Laing cites the use of ou for OE long [u:] (which became common only in fourteenth-century Middle English), along with the more unusual use of ou (and occasionally o) for OE short [u], in addition to the use of unhistorical word-initial h-. Laing concludes that the Digby scribe’s English, despite some anomalies, fits well into the south west Midlands. If the Digby scribe’s English places him in the south west Midlands, and both his English and Latin show French influence in spelling, does his Anglo-Norman also have distinctive features? This issue is raised in passing by Laing, who comments in a footnote that ‘a full analysis of the language of the French texts in Digby 86 would almost certainly prove rewarding’.8 While a systematic review is beyond the scope of this chapter, our sampling of the data available in Digby 86 provides new details on the Digby scribe’s scribal practice in French. As with all the contents of Digby 86, in English, Latin or French, we can safely assume that the Digby scribe was not the original author, although we cannot preclude scribal intervention in editing his exemplar or in recombining original texts in new compilations, as Marilyn Corrie has shown.9 One possible exception is the rubrics themselves, since some may have been composed (not just copied) by the scribe (and in the title ‘Les miracles de seint nicholas’ this seems to be the case, since this rubric is not found in any other extant copy). The linguistic evidence from the rubrics, although slight, does show certain spellings that can be seen as typical of the scribe’s usage. His use of au for /a/ before a nasal consonant is a well-known trait of thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Anglo-Norman; the substitution of aun for an in tonic syllables was common from about 1250, and later expanded into pretonic, then final syllables.10 Examples appear in the rubrics: romaunz (art. 27, etc.) or chaunçun (art. 57); and his use of au for a extends to a before s: chaustia = chastia (art. 20).11 The Digby scribe’s use of ou (as opposed to earlier u or o) before a nasal, also well attested in Anglo-Norman from the late thirteenth century, is modelled on the M. Laing, ‘The Linguistic Stratification of the Middle English Texts of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 101 (2000), 523–69 (pp. 543–4), cites long OE [u:]: (h)ous ‘us’, (h)oure ‘our’ and short OE [u]: (h)oun ‘un-, (h)ounde- ‘under-’. N. Cartlidge, ‘The Linguistic Evidence for the Provenance of The Owl and the Nightingale’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 99 (1998), 249–68 (n. 52), cites examples of inorganic hfrom Digby 86 in English and French. 8 Laing, ‘The Linguistic Stratification’, p. 543 n. 32. 9 See M. Corrie, ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49. 10 See I. Short, Manual of Anglo-Norman, ANTS OPS 8, 2nd edn (Oxford, 2013), §1.6. See also M. K. Pope, From Latin to Modern French with Especial Consideration of Anglo-Norman, 2nd edn (1952; repr. Manchester, 1973), §1152–§1153. 11 Unless otherwise specified, modern English translations of quoted material are my own. 7

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substitution of aun for an: for example, chaunçoun (rubrics for arts. 37, 45, 70, but chaunçun rubric for art. 57), or noun = nun/nom (rubric for arts. 42, 60), roume = rome (rubric for art. 3), sounge (= songe, or sunge, rubric for art. 16), soungnarie (= songerie, rubric for art. 14), sount = sunt (rubric for art. 1).12 The Digby scribe also extends this substitution of ou for o in hiatus (nouel = noël, rubric for art. 13, versus standard noel in the first line of the text) and ou for o before s in noustre (rubric for arts. 45, 47, 64i, 70, *95), along with standard nostre (rubric for arts. 37, 61, 66). In later Anglo-Norman ou tended to replace both o and u.13 At the time when the scribe was copying Digby 86, however, the use of ou for o in nostre, vostre, and the spelling ou for o or u in the reflexes of Latin homo (houm(e), oum/oun = hom, home, humme) are both unusual. For this reason we have arbitrarily chosen these common words as markers of the Digby scribe’s language. The results from the sample texts given below support the view that the scribe tends to ‘translate’ the French of his exemplars, substituting his idiosyncratic forms with -ou- for older forms that he recognises as valid but does not customarily use. In the courtly Arthurian love narrative of Robert Biket’s Lai du cor (art. 31; fols. 105ra–109va),14 for example, it would seem that the exemplar had vostre, and, in the seven examples of this word in the text, the Digby scribe three times inserts his own version voustre, with mixed forms often copied in close proximity: ‘E tout voustre barné’ (line 123, fol. 106ra), ‘voustre oraille’ (line 195, fol. 106va), ‘Sire vostre merci’ (line 484, fol. 108vb), ‘Trestout vostre vivaunt / Le eiez e voustre enfaunt / E pur vostre mulier’ (lines 567–9, fol. 109rb), ‘Sire vostre merci’ (line 574, fol. 109rb). There are eleven examples of (h)oum(e), all with ou, as opposed to o, or u only. Whereas Le Lai du cor narrates a game-like test of marital fidelity at Arthur’s court, Ragemon le bon (art. 56; fols. 162rb–163vb)15 is literally a society game in which players choose at random one quatrain to read aloud (which will be taken as a description of their character or fortune). Chance alone determines whether their choice is a negative or a positive portrayal of sexual and social behaviour, either male or female. In Ragemon, voustre is found three times (lines 16, 94, 150), as opposed to eight examples of vostre (lines 13, 21, 36, 85, 109, 114, 173, 195) – and there are many examples of ou used for both o and u: mensounge 19, mettrount 28, serount 35, volounters 47, 140 and only one example each of houme 61 and prodomne 57. In contrast to the alternately positive and pejorative descriptions of character in Ragemon, in Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin (art. 35; fols. 113ra–114rb)16 and Short, Manual, §6.7. Pope, From Latin to Modern French, §1225, §1220. 14 Line numbers are from The Anglo-Norman Text of Le Lai du cor, ed. C. T. Erickson, ANTS 24 (Oxford, 1973). The rubric ‘Le Lai du corn’ in Digby 86 preserves the etymological final dental consonant of corn, long since dropped in pronunciation. 15 Un Jeu de société du moyen âge: Ragemon le Bon, inspirateur d’un sermon en vers, ed. A. Långfors, Annales Academiae Scientiarium Fennicae, Ser. B, vol. 15, no. 2 (Helsinki, 1920), pp. 1–32. See also S. Patterson, ‘Sexy, Naughty, and Lucky in Love: Playing Ragemon le Bon in English Gentry Households’, in Games and Gaming in Medieval Literature, ed. S. Patterson (New York, 2015), pp. 79–102. 16 I use the title and line numbers from the most recent edition: Eighteen Anglo-Norman 12 13

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La Vie de un vallet amerous (art. 38; fols. 114rb–116vb) the tone is decidedly more uniformly misogynistic. Both items contain only the Digby scribe’s voustre form (lines 21, 39, 103 in art. 35; lines 31, 89, 93 in art. 38), with no examples of vostre. In the other manuscript copies of Les Quatre Souhais, the only form is vostre.17 Ian Short and Roy Pearcy argue that this Anglo-Norman version of the fabliau is not a ‘degraded’ version of a Continental exemplar but instead a coherent Anglo-Norman piece.18 This view is supported by Corrie who calls it an ‘innovatory’ composite item, in which the Digby scribe adapted excerpts from Le Blasme des femmes and Le Chastie-musart as extensions to the misogynistic debate between the sexes in Les Quatre Souhais.19 La Vie de un vallet amerous is even more bleakly misogynistic than Les Quatre Souhais since it lacks the latter’s bathetic humour. The first-person narrator’s initial obsessive lust (explicitly expressed, and satisfied at length) is followed by a vigorous denigration of the physical qualities of the former object of his desire (now compared to the odours of a latrine). His next conquest is similarly won and used, then rejected because of her ‘leydure’ (ugliness) and her ‘mauveise faiture’ (ungainliness) (lines 123–4, fol. 115ra), with the declaration that he will henceforth seduce only small, young girls (‘pucele, / Ou garcete ou damaisele’ (lines 189–90, fol. 115va)). In a moment of false self-awareness, the narrator declares his true nature is such that as long as he lives he will always try to seduce any woman he meets: ‘Jeo suy jolifs / Ni leray taunt cum suy vifs / Pur dauner / Nule file au chevaler / Ne de serjaunt / Ne de vilein’ (I am lusty, and as long as I live I will not stop wooing any girl, be she daughter of a knight, an official or a peasant) (lines 206–11, fol. 115vb).20 If his lover becomes pregnant, he will banish her. If ever he becomes a powerful man, he will forbid all children from his presence – he cannot stand their crying and their mangy appearance, and their presence makes women quarrelsome and demanding of their sexual partners. If only he could find a woman who is barren (‘Qui soyt barayne’ (line 308, fol. 116va)), unable to bear children, he would love and cherish her always. He would even marry her! In fact, he prays that ‘God grant that his wife’, when he finds her, ‘may be demure, noble, courtly, beautiful, and praised among men’ (‘Qu’il me doint espouse coy / E debonere / Acemee de face clere / E ben amee / De toute gent soyt e preisee / Par entre nous’ (lines 326–31, fol. 116va–b)). The narrator’s sudden reversal to piety at the end of this piece is unexpected:

Fabliaux, ed. I. Short and R. Pearcy, ANTS PTS 14 (London, 2000), pp. 33–5, 38–9. Like Short and Pearcy, I treat this as a single text (art. 35), as opposed to Tschann and Parkes, who treat it as three separate texts (arts. 35–37). 17 See Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin, in Nouveau recueil complet des fabliaux, ed. W. Noomen and N. van den Boogaard (Assen, 1988), IV, 189–216, 403–11. 18 Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, ed. Short and Pearcy, pp. 1–5. 19 Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, p. 241. 20 The word jolifs usually means ‘gay, happy’, but a secondary meaning is ‘lusty, lascivious’ – and the first line of the poem is the single word jolifté (lasciviousness), the determining factor of his character and actions.

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Jeo pri seint Johan E seint tomas e seint auban Que moun message A deu portent que damage N’en aye mes E que de mes pecchés relés Aver puyse e des maufés Devaunt ma mort estre confés E repentaunt E pus en joye toudis avaunt. Amen (lines 335–44, fol. 116vb) (I pray that St John and St Thomas and St Auban carry my message to God, so that I suffer no more harm, and may be free from my sins and from devils, and be shriven and repentant before my death, and have everlasting joy. Amen)

Among the items from other genres, the Digby scribe’s copy of the wellknown Songe d’Enfer by Raoul de Houdenc (art. 28; fols. 97vb–102rb),21 a satirical description of a dream vision by a first-person narrator to the allegorical denizens of hell, offers many examples of the graphies oun and aun, for example, ‘En un sounge soungaunt m’avint / Talent’ (Dreaming in a dream I had the desire) (lines 4–5, fol. 97vb), but there is only one instance of the word noustre (line 88). Perhaps not surprisingly, the pragmatic, nonliterary texts such as the medical pieces in Digby 86 offer more examples of our two main target words voustre/ noustre and houm(e). For example, The Letter of Hippocrates (art. 7; fols. 8v–15v, 17r–21r) has both traditional vostre (fols. 11r, 14v) and the Digby scribe’s variant voustre (fols. 12v, 15r),22 and there are many examples of houme/oum/houm in the rubrics alone.23 Le Medicinal des oiseus (art. 19; fols. 49r–62r) has multiple examples of voustre since many of the recipes begin with ‘Si voustre oysel ad …’ (If your bird has …) and the mention of a particular ailment or condition. The rubrics printed in Tschann and Parkes show limited examples, but the complete text of the Medicinal, recently edited by Tony Hunt, shows that voustre is the predominant form for the Digby scribe, with fifty-seven examples of voustre versus seven examples of vostre.24 The two remaining Anglo-Norman treatises edited in this volume use only the standard forms vostre and nostre.25 The Songe d’Enfer of Raoul de Houdenc, ed. M. T. Mihm (Tübingen, 1984). See also Popular Medicine in Thirteenth-Century England: Introduction and Texts, ed. T. Hunt (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 140–1, for excerpts from Digby 86, and pp. 100–41, on the Letter of Hippocrates in general. Hunt edits the receipts from other manuscript copies (the standard form vostre alone is used in London, BL, MS Harley 978, pp. 107–8). 23 Printed in Tschann and Parkes, pp. xiii–xiv. 24 Tschann and Parkes, pp. xix–xx; and ‘The Medicinal des oiseus’, in Three Anglo-Norman Treatises on Falconry, ed. T. Hunt, Medium Ævum Monographs, n.s. 26 (Oxford, 2009), pp. 83–144. 25 See Three Anglo-Norman Treatises, ed. Hunt, pp. 20, 21, 25, 44 (five examples of vostre, one of nostre). 21 22

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The evidence of stylistic markers is not straightforward, however. In the earliest French text copied by the Digby scribe, Les Miracles de seint Nicholas, he uses only standard nostre, vostre (lines 301, 306, 1219, 1281, 1347, 1557), despite his typical late thirteenth-century use of the digraph ou in many words (ount = ont, lines 1, 2; moustrer = mustrer, line 3; soun = sun/son, line 6; etc.). He retains a number of archaic spellings, the most frequent being final -t in preterite 3 verb forms in the first conjugation (e.g., trovat : donat, lines 153–4, etc.). The use of -d rather than -t is more unusual; for example, at lines 1098–104, we find entrad, portad, herbergad, estraunglad, detrenchad. At lines 763–8, in preterite 3 forms and past participles, there is a mixture of no final consonant, or final -t or -d, in first conjugation verbs, and final -d in third conjugation verbs: Quant il al jurer s’aprisma Al judeu al poing le livra Pud jurad (= jura) ki il lui ad rendud (= rendu) Quantke il lui ad dud (= deu/du) Aprés ceo requist soun bastoun Si s’en turnad (= turna) vers sa maison (lines 763–8, fol. 150va–b)

Unhistorical final -z is sometimes used to mark tonic final -e: charitez : humilitez, lines 199–200 (= charité, humilité); or -és (liez : jugez, lines 521–2 = liés, jugés). Final -z sometimes seems to be used for final -t: ‘Li moustraz (= mustrat/mustra) ki il l’amat’ (line 1375, fol. 160rb); and ‘En deu creiez (= creeit) e reconut’ (line 1543, fol. 160vb). In all cases cited above, we can assume that both archaic and unhistorical final consonants have no phonetic value. To judge from this mixture of forms, the Digby scribe here tends not to ‘translate’ into his own idiolect, in contrast to the pattern observed in the other texts we have examined. In short, the Digby scribe is inclined to preserve the archaic spelling in Wace’s French text rather than to modernise it. But, given the eclecticism evident in the contents of Digby 86, what are the reasons for including the conservative mid-twelfth-century Miracles de seint Nicholas alongside contemporary satiric and scurrilous texts? And why add a second saint’s life in English? Since hagiography normally shows the secular and sacred worlds in contact (creating narratives in which a saint participates in both the earthly and heavenly realms), it may be that the Digby scribe sees these two hagiographical pieces as a bridge between the two thematic extremes of lecherous obscenities and devotional poems and prayers. In the English Life of Saint Eustace (art. 42; fols. 122va–125vb, c. 425 lines), the second saint’s legend chosen by the Digby scribe, the Roman general Placidas has a vision of the cross in the antlers of a deer he is hunting, and hears the voice of Christ calling him and his family to convert.26 A series of dramatic incidents follows, including separation from home and family, then a miraculous return and a family reunion before their martyrdom as Christians, burned in a bronze bull. The Digby scribe’s interest in hunting is evident in his inclusion of the treatise on the care of Altenglische Legenden, neue Folge mit Einleitung und Anmerkungen, ed. C. Horstmann (Heilbronn, 1881), pp. 211–19.

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falcons, Le Medicinal des oiseus (art. 19, mentioned above), and this interest may explain the choice of the legend of Eustace, patron saint of hunters. The legend was very popular, judging from the more than dozen French versions that circulated in England and France from the late twelfth century. Ælfric’s late-tenth-century English version is much longer than ‘Ewstas’ in Digby 86, and the slightly later English versions in the South English Legendary and the Vernon manuscript are also, like Digby 86’s version, relatively short.27 The availability of an English version to the compiler of Digby 86 should, no doubt, be seen in the context of the production and circulation in the south west Midlands of the Ancrene Wisse and associated texts in the first half of the thirteenth century.28 The emphasis in the Eustace legend is on the miraculous presence of the divine in the world of nature: Eustace exists primarily outside society, he is ‘hunted’ in the wild by the deer/Christ, and is chosen to be a martyr. There is little sense of daily earthly life; all is in the realm of inexplicable events and unknowable divine providence. In direct contrast, the world depicted in Les Miracles de seint Nicholas is unremittingly human, and the narrative emphasis is on the concrete quotidian details of life and human emotions in the secular world. Most of its 1,562 lines are devoted solely to miracles, with just thirty-eight lines used for the prologue and a further thirty-five lines dealing with Nicholas’s life proper. As critics have remarked, Wace’s prologue to Miracles invokes a society with people from all walks of life and of all abilities,29 and this society comes to life in the miracles involving kings and peasants, prisoners, pagans, Christians and Jews, sailors, merchants, the sick, rich people and the poor and needy, parents and children, mothers and infants, bishops and pilgrims, murderers and thieves. Although the prologue ends, as noted earlier, with a traditional statement of translatio studii, it is the concept that the diverse members of medieval society are all interdependent that is the central focus of the prologue. The statement that ‘Checuns ne poest pas tout saver / Ne tout oir ne tout veier’ (No one can know or see or hear everything) (lines 7–8, fol. 150ra) is a reminder that everyone depends on others to complement their own qualities. In fact this is a For the Anglo-Norman and French versions, see Dean 540–4; and Dictionnaire des lettres françaises: le Moyen Age, ed. G. Hasenohr and M. Zink, rev. edn (Paris, 1992), pp. 1336–7. For versions in English, see Ælfric’s Lives of the Saints, ed. W. W. Skeat, EETS OS 94, 114 (London, 1966), II, 190–218; The Early South-English Legendary: Or, Lives of the Saints. 1. Ms. Laud 108, in the Bodleian Library, ed. C. Horstmann, EETS OS 87 (London,1887; repr. New York, 1973), 393–402; and Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 57–8. For the Vernon manuscript (Oxford, BodL, MS Eng. poet. a. 1), see A Facsimile Edition of the Vernon Manuscript [electronic resource], ed. W. Scase (Oxford, 2011). 28 See Anchoritic Spirituality: Ancrene Wisse and Associated Works, ed. A. Savage and N. Watson (New York, 1991), pp. 7–32, for an introduction to Ancrene Wisse. See also J. Frankis, ‘Toward a Regional Context for Lawman’s Brut: Literary Activity in the Dioceses of Worcester and Hereford in the Twelfth Century’, in Laʒamon: Contexts, Language, and Interpretation, ed. R. Allen, L. Perry and J. Roberts (London, 2002), pp. 53–78. 29 See K. Uitti, ‘The Clerkly Narrator Figure in Old French Hagiography and Romance’, Medioevo Romanzo 2 (1975), 394–408 (pp. 400–1); and Wace: the Hagiographical Works, ed. Blacker et al., pp. 235–74 (pp. 254–5). 27

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social obligation, expressed by two unidentified biblical references – ‘Si doune deus diversement / Divers douns a diverse gent / Checuns deit moustrer sa bounté / De ceo ke deus li ad doné’ (In this manner God bestows his gifts in many ways, giving different abilities to different people. Each person must show the goodness of God through the use of his God-given talents) (lines 13–16, fol. 150ra); and ‘Qui petit seme petit prent / Qui alques fest e plus atent’ (He who sows little, reaps little, but he who has sown more may expect more) (lines 29–30, fol. 150ra).30 The narrator’s allusion to the biblical text would, I suspect, have been expanded silently by many of his audience, and the biblical text gives added authority to the narrator’s assertion that all members of society depend on each other.31 By making one subtle change to the prologue, however, the Digby scribe contrives to appropriate the authorship of the prologue to himself. He does this by first eliding the mention of Wace and his patron found in other manuscripts: Je sui Normanz s’ai a non Guace. Dit m’est et rové que jo face De seint Nicholas en romanz Qui fiz miracles bels et granz. (lines 35–38)32 (I am Norman, and my name is Wace. I was asked and requested to write in French about saint Nicholas, who did great and wonderful miracles.)

The Digby scribe asserts: ‘De seint nicolas ai pensé, / Un seint de graunt autorité’ (I thought of Saint Nicholas, a saint of great authority) (lines 31–2, fol. 150ra). The Digby scribe declares, as narrator, that the idea of societal interdependence has reminded him of the legend of St Nicholas, which he will now recount. Through this declaration the Digby scribe himself takes on the role of the patron who commissions the text. The diverse medieval society depicted by Wace in Les Miracles de seint Nicholas, and the compassion exercised by Nicholas for all people, could also be read as justifying the eclecticism of the texts found in Digby 86, since in his choice of Cf. Rom. 12.6–8: ‘The gifts we possess differ as they are allotted to us by God’s grace, and must be exercised accordingly: the gift of inspired utterance, for example, in proportion to a man’s faith; or the gift of administration in administration. A teacher should employ his gift in teaching, and one who has the gift of stirring speech should use it to stir his hearers. If you give to charity, give with all your heart; if you are a leader, exert yourself to lead; if you are helping others in distress, do it cheerfully.’ The second reference is 2 Cor. 9.6: ‘Remember: sparse sowing, sparse reaping; sow bountifully, and you will reap bountifully.’ 31 This theme is developed in the prologue as follows: ‘Li un sount lai li un lettré / E li un fol e li un sené / Li un petit li un graunt / Li un povre li un manaunt’ (Some are lay people, others are learned clerics; some are foolish, others wise; some are born of high estate, others of low; some are poor and others wealthy) (lines 9–12, fol. 150ra); ‘Qui meuz set meuz puet enseingner / E ki plus ad plus puet donner / Qui plus est forz plus deit porter / E ki plus ad plus puet aider’ (He who knows most can teach the most, and he who has the most must give the most; he who is strongest must carry the heaviest burden; he with the most must help the most) (lines 15–20, fol. 150ra). 32 La Vie de saint Nicholas, ed. Ronsjö, p. 114. 30

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material the Digby scribe seems to accept equally behaviour that ranges from crassly obscene to divinely sublime. The scribe seems to have an understanding of, and interest in, the human condition similar to that of St Nicholas, who repeatedly forgives and repairs damage caused by all manner of human foibles, from simple folly and stupidity, to murderous greed and violence. There are, of course, differences in emphasis. The first miracle effected by Nicholas addresses poverty and human sexuality: the three bags of gold provided to the desperate family by Nicholas will allow the three daughters of the man formerly rich but now impoverished to avoid turning to prostitution to survive. While this miracle only hints at the existence of human lust, lechery in its many forms is openly expressed in other Digby texts such as La Vie de un vallet amerous or Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin, where this aspect of humanity is openly acknowledged and directly expressed. The fact that prostitution is the first and only recourse thought of by the father and his daughters is not judged by Nicholas; he simply saves them from this fate. A similarly forgiving response by Nicholas, this time to murder, is presented in two other miracles. In the first, the narrator briefly states that three clerks were killed by their landlord, who hid their bodies and stole their possessions (lines 213–26, fol. 152vb). Nicholas confronts the landlord and asks for the clerks. The landlord confesses his crime, and Nicholas resuscitates the youths. This episode explains why clerks especially venerate the feast day of St Nicholas, reading and singing his legend, and reciting his miracles. In the second example, the murder is described in more detail (lines 1093–156, fol. 158rb–va). A wealthy merchant pilgrim, travelling with a large offering for Nicholas’s shrine, is murdered for his money by a greedy innkeeper. He strangles the merchant, dismembers his body, salting it as meat and storing it in a barrel, before returning to his bed as if nothing had happened. Through divine intervention, Nicholas learns of the crime and appears at the inn as a courtly and wealthy knight. He removes the limbs from the barrel and reassembles the body, which immediately comes back to life. The resuscitated merchant has no awareness that he had been murdered and, after talking with Nicholas, sleeps until the next day. The merchant then summons his host to take his leave. The murderer is amazed and confesses his actions in detail (lines 1138–42), praising the power of St Nicholas. The merchant remembers only that he was comforted by a ‘chevaler mout bel e gent’ (a handsome noble knight). Making their peace with each other, the innkeeper and the merchant set out together for St Nicholas’s shrine, where they pray for each other and their sins are forgiven. As can be seen in these examples, when the sinner confesses his sin (even murder), he is forgiven and order is restored, although Wace’s narrative does not stress the importance of confession, but rather the saint’s compassion for human weaknesses and misfortunes. At the time that the Digby scribe was compiling Digby 86, however, confession had become central to medieval religious life, after the Church’s decision at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 to require annual confession of every Christian. This practice led to a proliferation of Latin and vernacular texts in the thirteenth century dealing with the categories of sin and the techniques of

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confession. To what extent was the compiler of Digby 86 influenced by this groundswell of vernacular pastoral writing? One of the most widely circulating of these vernacular treatises is William of Waddington’s Manuel des Péchés, composed about 1260. Much of the appeal of the Manuel comes from the seventy narrative exempla incorporated in its presentation of pastoral doctrine. These exempla are tales of sinners and their actions, giving unexpectedly vivid accounts of medieval life.33 When Digby 86 is viewed in this context, it can be seen that the religious texts that frame the contents of Digby 86 do in fact have much in common with the Manuel des Péchés.34 Digby 86’s opening quire replicates in dense prose the same doctrinal material presented at greater length in verse in the Manuel. In the final quire of Digby 86, Latin prayers (arts. 81i–ix; fols. 202r–205v) effectively implement the doctrines (theory and practice of prayer) propounded in books 8 and 9 of the Manuel. Whereas the Manuel des Péchés integrates its narrative examples of good and bad behaviour into its presentation of the various doctrinal sections, Digby 86 instead separates the doctrine from the examples. Gathered together inside the doctrinal frame created by the opening and closing quires, the many independent texts used in Digby 86 show the vagaries of human behaviour without editorial comment. The following details of the Digby scribe’s first quire demonstrate the extent to which he mirrors the doctrinal concerns of the Manuel des Péchés. Digby 86’s opening prose treatises are: (1) The Seven Deadly Sins (fols. 1r–3r); (2) On Confession, in three parts: sins among the Seven Deadly Sins, sins against the Sacraments and sins of the Five Senses and the attendant circumstances (fols. 3r–5r); (3) The Ten Commandments (fols. 5r–6r); (4) The Twelve Articles of Faith (fol. 6r–v); (5) The Seven Sacraments (fols. 6v–7r); and (6) The Form of Confession (fols. 7r–8v).35 In On the many manuscripts of the Manuel des Péchés, see Dean 635. The standard study remains E. J. Arnould, Le Manuel des Péchés: étude de littérature religieuse anglo-normande (xiiime siècle) (Paris, 1940); the exempla are discussed pp. 107–84. The Manuel des Péchés remains without a modern edition (an edition by D. W. Russell is in progress for the Anglo-Norman Text Society). For more recent studies, see M. Sullivan, ‘The Original and Subsequent Audiences of the Manuel des Péchés and Its Middle English Descendants’, unpublished D.Phil. thesis, University of Oxford (Oxford, 1990), from which he published a series of articles: M. Sullivan, ‘The Author of the Manuel des Péchés’, Notes and Queries 38 (1991), 155–7; M. Sullivan, ‘Historical Notes on Some Readers of the Manuel des Péchés and Its Middle English Descendants’, Scriptorium 46 (1992), 84–6; M. Sullivan, ‘A Brief Textual History of the Manuel des Péchés’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 93 (1992), 337–46; and M. Sullivan, ‘Readers of the Manuel des Péchés’, Romania 113 (1992–95), 233–42. See also W. Busse, ‘On Some Manuscripts and Versions of the Anglo-Norman Manuel des Pechez’, in Bücher für die Wissenschaft: Bibliotheken zwischen Tradition und Fortschritt: Festschrift für Günter Gatterman zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. G. Kaiser, E. Niggemann and H. Finger (Munich, 1994), pp. 3–20; U. Schemmann, Confessional Literature and Lay Education: The Manuel dé Pechez as a Book of Good Conduct and Guide to Personal Religion, Studia humaniora 32 (Dusseldorf, 2000); and K. A. Murchison, ‘The Readers of the Manuel des péchés Revisited’, Philological Quarterly 95 (2016), 181–99. 34 See also Dean 644–78, for similar treatises on sins and confession, ranging from the Compileison to Repentance and Confession. 35 On these items, see also the chapter by Maureen Boulton in this volume. 33

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the Manuel these elements are presented in a slightly different order: (1) the Twelve Articles of Faith, (2) the Ten Commandments, (3) the Seven Deadly Sins, (4) the sins of Sacrilege against church property, (5) the Seven Sacraments, (7) Confession.36 The Manuel ends with (8) the Theory and Practice of Prayer and (9) Prayers to Christ and the Virgin. Digby 86’s treatise on the Seven Deadly Sins (pride, envy, anger, sloth, greed, gluttony, lechery) includes sub-sins for each one. A very similar version of this treatise is edited by Tony Hunt in ‘Cher Alme’: Texts of Anglo-Norman Piety, but the order of sub-sins varies in Digby 86, which is slightly longer, adding, for example, to the list of physical abuses the very specific ‘de ferir ordinez e mere ou houme de religioun’ (striking a cleric in holy orders, a nun or a monk) (fol. 1v).37 The treatise on confession beginning on fol. 3r has a series of questions, beginning with the phrase ‘si hounques’ (if ever), to be posed to the sinner with respect to each of the Seven Deadly Sins: e.g., for pride: ‘Si hounques mesprit vers deu a escient’ (If ever he knowingly sinned against God) (fol. 3r); or for gluttony: ‘Si il mangast ou beust devaunt oure par glotounie’ (If ever he ate or drank before mealtime out of gluttony) (fol. 4r); or for lechery: ‘Si il ounques feyt nul aulterie. ou nule fornikacioun od nule femme’ (If ever he committed any adultery or any fornication with any woman) (fol. 4r).38 The treatise on confession continues on fols. 4v–5r with a series of questions on sinning against the sacraments by deed or advice: Pus deyt demaunder si il ounques destourbast nul sacrement a fere par fest ou par counsail. ou meit peine de oscire enfaunt en la ventre sa mere. ou aprés ceo que l’enfaunt fu né. (fol. 4v) (Then he must ask if he ever prevented any sacrament from being performed, either by action or advice, or if he attempted to kill a child in the womb of its mother, or after the child was born.)

The sins noted include failure to properly baptise and confirm infants, negligence in making confession and penance, allowing unlawful marriages, improperly taking the Eucharist or ever having struck a cleric (and of what order) or having stolen from a church. Next is a series of questions on sins committed or forgotten, large or small, in thought or spoken words, and then on sins connected to the five senses. In all cases, the sinner must give the contributing, aggravating circumstances. Here the

The consensus view is that books 1–5 and 7 are indisputably part of the Manuel des Péchés, since they are mentioned in the prologue; see Arnould, Le Manuel des Péchés, pp. 400–2; and Sullivan, ‘Brief Textual History’. In some manuscripts the order of books 4 and 5 is reversed. 37 Hunt edits the version in Oxford, BodL, MS Rawlinson C 46; see ‘Seven Deadly Sins’, in ‘Cher Alme’: Texts of Anglo-Norman Piety, ed. T. Hunt, trans. J. Bliss, intro. H. Leyser, FRETS OP Series 1 (Tempe, AZ, 2010), pp. 277–85 (p. 280). 38 This text is not identified as a separate treatise in Tschann and Parkes, where it is listed as a subsection of art. 1 (p. xii). 36

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Anglo-Norman text riffs on the common Latin mnemonic series ‘quis; quid; ubi; quibus auxiliis; cur; quomodo; quando’,39 as can be seen in this excerpt: De quel age il feust quant il fist le pecché. quel ordre il aveyt. quant feze il fist soun pecché. en quel lu. en quel seysoun de l’an. e si il fust gentil houme. ou autre. e si il fust riches ou povre. Cum longement il demorast en cel pecché. pur quey il fist soun pecché. (fol. 5r) (What age he was when he committed the sin; which order he belonged to; how many times he committed the sin; in what place; in what season of the year; and whether he was a nobleman or of another status; whether he was rich or poor; how long he persisted in this sin; and why he did it.)40

The final doctrinal treatise in the first quire of Digby 86, the lengthy model Form of Confession (fols. 7r–8v), remains close to the concerns of the Manuel in that it deals with confession, but this is an applied programme rather than a theoretical treatment of the subject.41 Formulas for confession were common, with different This formula (translated in n. 40 below) was widespread in the thirteenth century; see Arnould, Le Manuel des Péchés, pp. 221–31 (pp. 229–31). Arnould notes (p. 224) that the Ancrene Wisse is the earliest vernacular text in England to discuss the techniques to be used by, and the qualities required of, the penitent for proper confession. See also Anchoritic Spirituality, trans. Savage and Watson, pp. 165–6, for the use of this in Ancrene Wisse, and p. 390, n. 27, on sources of the Latin mnemonic list. 40 This Latin mnemonic list, and a paragraph in Latin expanding the list, are inserted into the French text of the Manuel des Péchés, at the end of book 7, ‘On Confession’. The inserted Latin text is introduced in French: 39

Plus de confessiun ne diray / Kar ce suffist, sicum je crey; / Mes vers en Latin cy mettray, / Sicum des mestres apris les ay. / Le clerk, ke a vus les lira, / De buche espeandre les purra; / Plus pleynement les purra dire, / Ke je par rime ne pus escrivere. / Quis; quid; ubi; quibus auxiliis; cur; quomodo; quando. Aggravat ordo, locus, peccata; scientia; tempus; etas; condicio; numerus; mora; copia; causa; … Expositio primi versus: quis, ut dicantur circumstancie peccantis; … quando, id est quo tempore, quociens vel quanto tempo. (Cambridge, CUL, MS Mm. 6. 4, fol. 87v) (I will say no more on confession, for this is enough, I believe. But I will insert here some Latin verses which I have learned from the masters. The cleric who will read them to you will be able to expound their meaning orally. His words can explain them more fully than I can by writing them in verse. Who? what? where? with the help of whom? why? how? when? The seriousness of the sins are increased by the place, or rank [i.e., religious order, or social status]; one’s knowledge [or innocence]; the season; one’s age; social position; how many times, or frequency of the sin; how long one persists; the quantity; the reasons why; … Exposition of the first verse: who? so that the circumstances of the sinner may be said; … when? that is, at what time, how often and for what length of time.)

The development of this theme in French in Digby 86 is clearly based on this Latin mnemonic tradition. The same introductory French text and Latin expansion (with slight variation), found in the London, BL, MS Harley 273 copy of the Manuel des Péchés, is cited in F. J. Furnivall, ed., Roberd of Brunne’s Handlyng Synne (written A.D. 1303) with the French Treatise on Which it is Founded, Le Manuel des Pechez, Roxburghe Club (London, 1862), pp. 395–6. 41 This is one of three manuscripts of this text (Dean 659), and there are many other models (Dean 657–64).

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models aimed at particular types of penance, such as the confession of a young man in which the sins are personalised, showing youthful vanity in physical feats and prowess.42 Digby 86’s model confession is also similarly personalised by the small details that suggest that the penitent is a member of the secular clergy. For example, he admits to being gossipy, flippant and malicious in his dealings with men and women, and with members of the religious orders: Trop ay eu medisaunce. riaunce. escharnisaunce. detray ay bone gent. e ord[i]nez par malice. e maudist les almes qui sount alez el secle. (fol. 7v) (I have been too slanderous, scorning and mocking; I have betrayed good people and those in holy orders by my malice; and I have spoken ill of departed souls.)

or trop ay esté hastif de maudire e de medire. rebel e enrevre ay esté encountre moun soverain. e moun ordre. (fol. 7v) (I have been too hasty in condemning and speaking ill [of others]; I have been rebellious and unruly against my superior and my religious order.)

Whether the details relative to being a secular religious were added by the compiler of Digby 86 remains an open question.43 But by means of this personalised model confession, the compiler does create a literary persona of a secular cleric very similar to the one Frankis proposed as the likely compiler of Digby 86.44 It is improbable, however, that this persona directly reflects the life of the Digby scribe himself. Nonetheless, the opening gambit in The Form of Confession could reflect the Digby scribe’s feelings relative to the contents he has copied into Digby 86: jeo reconoys ici. a deu e a vous que jeo ay pensé de udivesses. e de enveïsures. e de ordes choses en eglise. e aillours en le servise deu. (fol. 7r) (I admit here, to God and you, that I have had thoughts of idleness, of merrymaking and of lasciviousness in church, and elsewhere in the service of God.)

or Fest ay sovent ceo que deu defendi; en eglise e aillours ay sa volounté e sen comaundement e sen cunsayl trespassé. fest ay trop sovent seculeres overaynes. (fol. 7v) (I have often done things forbidden by God; in church and elsewhere I have trespassed against his will, his commandments and his advice; I have too often been involved in worldly deeds.)

Early in The Form of Confession there is a litany of sins of excessive speech: ‘A Man’s Confession’, in ‘Cher Alme’, ed. Hunt, trans. Bliss, pp. 287–93 (Dean 658). Only a detailed comparison of the two other manuscript copies of this text (see Dean 659) will reveal whether the Digby scribe has significantly modified the Digby version to make it more pointedly relevant to a secular canon. 44 See Frankis, ‘The Social Context’, p. 183. 42 43

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Parlé ay. despurveuement, seculerement. desordement. ordement. lecherousement. dessl[e]aueement. orgulousement. irrousement. enveysément. joliffement. feintement. pur estre oy folement. trop hautement, trop baudement. trop hastivement. trop egrement. trop hardiement. trop ennuiousement. enfauntelement. maliciousement dedeyngnaument. e trop ay afermé paroles. e choses dount jeo ne fu[s] pas ben enseüré. mentu ay. a escient. e de gré trop sovent. (fol. 7r–v) (I have spoken too inadvertently, in too worldly a fashion, too immoderately, too vilely, lecherously, disloyally, proudly, angrily, jokingly, lasciviously, feignedly, in order to be understood wantonly. [I have spoken] too loudly, too jocularly, too hastily, too fiercely, too boldly, in too troublesome a fashion, too childishly, maliciously, disdainfully, and I have too often affirmed words and matters of which I know nothing. I have knowingly and willfully too often lied.)

Is it possible that this is to be taken as a confession in advance, and a request for absolution, for speech acts expressed in the texts that will follow in the manuscript? Is this another aspect of the literary persona of the Digby scribe created by the compiler of Digby 86, who through his choice of materials presents a sympathetic secular cleric fully immersed in medieval life? In conclusion, our discussion repeatedly refers to the Digby scribe as the one responsible for creating Digby 86, and makes inferences about the scribe based on his choice of texts. Through a subtle appropriation of the prologue to Les Miracles de seint Nicholas, the Digby scribe claims as his own Wace’s depiction of the saint as a fellow traveller with any member of medieval society he might encounter, wise or foolish, learned or lay, murderer or hapless victim. In this sense the scribe looks back fondly to the mid-twelfth-century views of Wace as expressed in Miracles, but Digby 86 as a compilation also shares many features with the widely circulating Manuel des Péchés and reflects social and religious concerns prevalent in the last half of the thirteenth century. Our attempts to understand the raison d’être of Digby 86 also remind us, however, that although we see the Digby scribe’s distinctive hand on the manuscript page, the medieval writer behind the compilation is always masked by the consciously constructed literary image of the scribal presence. And many parts of that image are yet to be explored, such as the obvious interest in science and medicine (as in arts. 7 and 19, which point to advanced knowledge in these fields), or the nature of the devotional pieces. In short, the complexity of Digby 86 is almost kaleidoscopic, showing that nothing in life or art is simple. View any one of these texts from a new angle, and startling new patterns emerge in the manuscript as a whole.

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chapter two

ANGLO-NORMAN RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION IN MS DIGBY 86: ECHOES OF LATERAN IV Maureen Boulton

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he volume preserved in Oxford, Bodleian Library, as MS Digby 86 contains an extremely important collection of insular texts in all three of the languages of medieval England. The contents of the codex are highly varied, including Latin psalms, prayers (in French and Latin), a French medical text, English lyrics, as well as (in both French and English) religious and secular instruction, religious and secular narrative, proverbs, fabliaux, charms and medical recipes. Most of the book, which has been dated to the last quarter of the thirteenth century, was copied by a scribe (Scribe A, the ‘Digby scribe’) who incorporated two quires (fols. 81r–96v) written by a second scribe (Scribe B).1 On the basis of obits added on fol. 71v and shields entered in the lower margin of fol. 68r, the volume is associated with Worcestershire.2 Because this trilingual anthology was largely copied by a single scribe, who also made additions after the main texts were completed, it is assumed that the Digby scribe made it for his own use, and scholars have speculated about the scribe-owner and the use of the book, mainly on the basis of the contents. It has been described as a personal book copied by a lawyer3 or a chaplain4 or, alternatively, as a commonplace book for family use.5

Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxvi–xxxviii, modify the traditional dating of 1272–82. Tschann and Parkes, pp. lvii–lix; B. D. H. Miller, ‘The Early History of Bodleian MS Digby 86’, Annuale Medievale 4 (1963), 23–56; T. Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: A Thirteenth-Century Commonplace Book in Its Social Context’, in Family and Dynasty in Late Medieval England, ed. R. Eales and S. Tyas (Donington, 2003), pp. 56–66; and M. Laing, ‘The Linguistic Stratification of the Middle English Texts of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Neuphilologische Mitteilungen 101 (2000), 523–69 (p. 524). See also the chapter by John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones in this volume. 3 Tschann and Parkes, pp. lviii–lix, n. 6. 4 T. Hunt, ‘Insular Trilingual Compilations’, in Codices Miscellanearum, ed. R. Jansen-Sieben and H. van Dijk, Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique 60 (Brussels, 1999), pp. 51–67 (p. 55): ‘a baronial chaplain who preserved material for his own use’. 5 Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, p. 56. 1 2

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Scholars have wrestled with the volume’s diversity of content, language and genre.6 Marilyn Corrie has argued convincingly that the Digby scribe organised his material by form (prose, short verse or long verse), reflected in the layout in long lines (fols. 1r–74v), double columns (74v–168v) or single columns (fols. 169r–201v).7 French items, of both Anglo-Norman and Continental origin, constitute nearly half of the codex.8 Religious texts in French occur in all three sections. The first eight leaves of the books contain a group of prose treatises on sin, the sacraments and confession; two poems in octosyllabic couplets – Raoul de Houdenc’s Songe d’Enfer (art. 28; fols. 97vb–102rb) and an extract from Robert Grosseteste’s Chasteau d’amour (art. 39; fols. 116vb–118vb) – are included in the second (bicolumnar) section, while the third (single-column) section contains Herman de Valenciennes’s Assumption de Nostre Dame (art. 61; fols. 169r–177v) and an extract from Guischart de Beauliu’s Romaunz de temtacioun de secle (art. 63; fols. 182v–186v), both written in the alexandrine laisses characteristic of the chanson de geste. In this chapter I will first examine the religious treatises in French prose that have been virtually neglected by scholars (arts. 1–6).9 I will show that this group of texts corresponds closely to the recommendations for the religious instruction of the laity outlined by synodal councils in thirteenth-century England as bishops tried to enact and enforce the reforms of the Fourth Lateran Council. In the final part of my chapter, I will trace the relationship between the opening treatises and the religious poems in the later parts of the manuscript.

The Fourth Lateran Council and its aftermath Several of the Fourth Lateran Council’s decrees influenced, directly or indirectly, the religious practice of the laity. After a restatement of the Creed (Canon 1), the decrees treat the appointment of preachers on the diocesan level (Canon 9) and the instruction of ordinands (Canon 27). The latter also notes the importance of the cura animarum (cure of souls).10 Canon 21, requiring annual communion and confession to one’s parish priest, affected the laity directly and created an opportunity for clerical instruction of lay people in the confessional. Tschann and Parkes, pp. xliii–xlv; and I. Delage-Béland, ‘Des “bibliothèques personelles”. Copie, compilation et matière du livre anglo-normand: l’exemple des manuscrits London, BL, Harley 2253 et Oxford, BL, Digby 86’, in Les Centres de production des manuscrits vernaculaires au Moyen Âge, ed. G. Giannini and F. Gingras (Paris, 2016), pp. 37–57. 7 M. Corrie, ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49 (pp. 237–8). Fol. 74v begins in long lines and continues in double columns; in the last few leaves (202r–207v) this organisation is abandoned. Corrie noted (p. 237) exceptions near the end of the first section. 8 Hunt, ‘Insular Trilingual Compilations’, p. 56. 9 The treatises on the Commandments and the Articles of Faith have recently been edited in De diz comandemenz en la lei. Le décalogue anglo-normand selon le manuscrit BL Cotton Nero A.III: texte, langue et traditions, ed. R. Wilhelm (Heidelberg, 2015), pp. 227–31; the editorial team did not recognise their texts as belonging to this group of treatises. 10 Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, ed. and trans. N. P. Tanner, 2 vols. (Washington DC, 1990), I, 227–71. 6

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The Council necessarily relied on local bishops to enact its legislation, and several English participants – Richard Poore (bishop of Salisbury), Stephen Langton (archbishop of Canterbury) and Alexander Stavensby (bishop of Coventry and Lichfield) among them – issued statutes that were inspired by, and sometimes even reprised, the Lateran decrees .11 Other bishops, like Robert Grosseteste (bishop of Lincoln, 1235–53) and his younger contemporary Walter de Cantilupe (bishop of Worcester, 1237–66), were also energetic reformers whose statutes echoed the concerns of their older colleagues. For example, Grosseteste’s statutes for Lincoln (1239?) often circulated with a penitential treatise,12 and Walter de Cantilupe referred in his statutes of 1240 to a (now lost) treatise on penance.13 Because of Digby 86’s association with Worcestershire, Cantilupe’s statutes are probably the most relevant to its texts.14 They include discussions of all seven sacraments and each of the deadly sins. Unsurprisingly in a document issued by a bishop to his priests, the discussion of the sacraments stresses their duties, and the treatment of sins denounces clerical infractions. Nevertheless, Cantilupe paid particular attention to priests’ responsibilities towards lay people. They are told to instruct parishioners in the formula for baptism so that they may administer the sacrament to their children in urgent cases, and also to urge parents to have children confirmed within two years of their birth. With regard to the sacrament of penance, there is a reminder of the obligation to confess one’s sins annually, but also an encouragement to do so more frequently, before the major ecclesiastical feasts. The Worcester statutes include further instructions for confessors, and it is here that the confessional becomes (at least implicitly) a site of instruction for the laity. Under this heading the priests of the diocese are enjoined to ensure that their parishioners master a certain minimum of religious knowledge, namely, the Ten Commandments (so that they may keep them), the Deadly Sins (to avoid them), the Sacraments (to observe them) and the doctrines in the Creed (for correct belief). The statutes further urge priests: Sciant etiam pariochianos suos instruere quomodo debbeant confiteri, necnon et eorum conscientias perscrutari.15 For Poore’s statutes (issued 1217–19), see Councils and Synods with Other Documents Relating to the English Church, II: A.D. 1205–1313, ed. F. M. Powicke and C. R. Cheney, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1964), I, 57–96; for the canons of Langton’s provincial Council, held at Oxford in 1222, see Councils and Synods, I, 100–25; for Stavensby’s statutes (1224–29), which include treatises on penance and the Deadly Sins, see Councils and Synods, I, 207–26. For a general consideration of the statutes, see C. R. Cheney, ‘Some Aspects of Diocesan Legislation in England during the Thirteenth Century’, in his Medieval Texts and Studies (Oxford, 1973), pp. 185–202. 12 For Grosseteste’s statutes, see Councils and Synods, ed. Powicke and Cheney, I, 265–78. For the treatise and its relation to the statutes, see F. A. C. Mantello and J. Goering, ‘Robert Grosseteste’s Quoniam Cogitatio, a Treatise on Confession’, Traditio 67 (2012), 341–84. 13 Cheney, ‘Some Aspects’, p. 191 and n. 2: ‘it may be the treatise Omnis etas found in Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodl. 828’. 14 Edited (with later additions) in Councils and Synods, ed. Powicke and Cheney, I, 294–325. 15 Councils and Synods, ed. Powicke and Cheney, I, 305. 11

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(May they also know how to instruct their parishioners in what manner they ought to confess and also how to examine their consciences thoroughly.)

Each of these items is the subject of a French treatise in Digby’s opening quire. Although the compiler of the manuscript was fluent in Latin, a French version of such instructional materials would have been invaluable to a cleric responsible for the cure of souls, providing him with the vernacular vocabulary necessary to instruct his parishioners.

Digby’s religious treatises Treatises on the Sins, the Commandments, the Articles of Faith and the Seven Sacraments occupy the first leaves of the manuscript, followed by a formula for confession.16 On the evidence of the quire signature on the current first page, this quire was the second gathering of the original manuscript, but it has introduced the beginning of the book at least since the sixteenth century, when a second set of signatures was added.17 The Digby scribe’s handling of these texts was not entirely confident. In the first treatise, The Seven Deadly Sins, six sins begin with a large initial, but on fol. 1v, the fourth sin, ‘Acidie’ (sloth) begins midline in the middle of the paragraph under ‘Blasfeme’ (blasphemy), which is not one of the major sins. His use of litterae nobiliores (either red or red and black) is also inconsistent, and bicolouration does not necessarily indicate the beginning of a new text.18 On fol. 5r, the list of The Ten Commandments opens with a red initial, but the rubric ‘Ci comencent les .x. comaundemens’ (Here begin the Ten Commandments) is inserted only at the end of this paragraph, before the detailed treatment of each one, and there is no pattern to the use of red or red-and-black initials. The Twelve Articles of Faith lacks a rubric and its introductory paragraph includes the first article (unmarked), while all the other articles begin with large initials (the third and sixth bicoloured) (fol. 6r-v). In the treatise The Seven Sacraments (fols. 6v-7r), the discussion of baptism begins midline, immediately after the list, and confirmation follows it, marked by a small coloured initial. The paragraphs on the Eucharist and penance, however, begin with large coloured initials. Such inconsistencies confirm the observation that ‘although he was an experienced scribe, [the compiler] was not accustomed to producing books’.19

Tschann and Parkes, pp. xii–xiii (arts. 1–6; fols. 1r–8v); a medical text (the Letter of Hippocrates) begins immediately after on fol. 8v. For other copies, see Dean 666. See Dean 659 for The Form of Confession (art. 6). 17 Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xlii. 18 Ibid., p. xlix. 19 Ibid., p. lvi. 16

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The Sins The treatise on the Sins, which falls into two parts, is well designed to facilitate a detailed examination of conscience.20 The first, rubricated ‘Distinctio peccatorum’ (The differentiation of sins) announces its organisation with a list of sins in an order slightly different from the classic Gregorian list (Fig. 1).21 In keeping with the rubric, each sin is defined, then divided into its various subheadings. Pride, for example, is defined: Orgoil fest houme estre de gros quer e hautein e despire ses premes e desirer hautesses e seignourie sour hautres e quant houme quide de nul ben que il eyt que ceo seyt de lui ou quant il quide que il eyt le ben de deu par sa deserte. ou quant il savaunte de aver ceo que il n’ad pas e quant il ad des autres saunz deserte e desire que il ne eust soverain ne per. (fol. 1r) (Pride makes a man resentful and arrogant, despise his neighbours and desire high rank and lordship over others. And when a man thinks of any good thing that he may have, or that may be his, or when he thinks that he deserves God’s goodness, or when he boasts of having what he does not own and when he has [the wealth] of others undeservedly and desires to have no sovereign or equal.)

Under this initial definition, which describes several ways of exhibiting the vice, appear thirteen related vices – hypocrisy, vainglory, disobedience, shame, strife, presumption, arrogance, slander, curiosity, haughtiness, contumacy, impatience and contempt – each of which is defined in turn.22 In addition to the distinctions and definitions, there are explanations of the ‘occasions of sin’, that is, the circumstances that might lead one to fall into sin. The Digby scribe seems to have reconceived his treatment of the sins midway, however, because the first three sins (pride, envy, anger) receive this treatment only at the end of the whole section, in a separate paragraph beginning ‘Houme ad orgoil’ (One has pride) (fol. 3r, top).23 Different types of pride – of heart, of speech or of action – organise the many actions that constitute this prevalent sin, ranging from boasting and insults, to showing off one’s prowess or wearing conspicuous clothing. For the As the text is unedited, I rely on my own transcriptions. Modern English translations of quoted material throughout this chapter are my own. 21 See M. W. Bloomfield, The Seven Deadly Sins. An Introduction to the History of a Religious Concept, with Special Reference to Medieval English Literature (East Lansing, MI, 1952; repr. 1967), p. 72: ‘superbia, ira, invidia, avaritia, acedia, gula, luxuria’. In Digby 86, the fourth and fifth sins are reversed. Digby’s order corresponds to that in the Worcester statutes (Councils and Synods, ed. Powicke and Cheney, I, 214–20), and is also found in the Mirour de Seinte Eglyse (St. Edmund of Abingdon’s Speculum Ecclesiae), ed. A. D. Wilshere, ANTS 40 (London, 1982), pp. 22–3. For similar treatises in Anglo-Norman, see T. Hunt, ‘Une Petite Sume de les Pechez Morteus (MS London BL Harley 4657)’, in Medieval French Textual Studies in Memory of T. B. W. Reid, ed. I. Short (London, 1984), pp. 65–98. 22 The lists of sins under each of the Seven Sins is more extensive than in the Mirour, which, for example, lists only seven types of pride, all also listed in Digby 86. 23 In Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 20, the explanatory paragraph follows the list of sins under each major vice. 20

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Fig. 1. Opening of Distinctio peccatorum. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 1r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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last four sins (sloth, avarice, gluttony, lust), this explanation follows immediately after the definitions. For example, to the fairly short (and somewhat surprising) list of the sins of lust – extravagant expenditure, lewdness, promiscuity, adultery and sacrilege – is added this explanation: Acheisouns de luxurie sount. udiuesse. beverie e nomement de beivres qui mout eschaufount. e regarder femmes e karoles e paroles gayes e juer ouekes eus en lues prives . e mout dalier od femmes de veines paroles. Luxurie de quer est penser de ordure e fole volounte aver. (fol. 2v) (The occasions of lechery are idleness, drinking and especially drinks which greatly stimulate; and looking at women and dancing and lewd words, and indulging in love-play with them in secluded places, and flirting with women of empty words. Lechery of the heart is thinking of filth and having foolish desire.)

In observations like these, the rather abstract distinctions among types of sins are brought into the realm of ordinary life, as the treatment of sin moves from the theoretical to the practical. The second part of the treatise, rubricated ‘Ci comencent les set morteus pecchés’ (Here begin the seven mortal sins) (fol. 3r), is an examination of conscience organised by the Deadly Sins, each marked with a rubric.24 In a series of hypothetical clauses, various situations are imagined in which one might sin. However, although each sentence begins with the conjunction ‘si’ (if), none contains a concluding clause. Under anger (‘De ira’), for example: Si il fust ounkes se corousat vers soun preme. Si il tensat a soun preme. ou li deit repretes. ou li meit sus blame. Si il haist soun prome ou meyt pouer de lu coroucer. Si il desirast la mort soen preme. ou sen damaje. Si il ounkes par fest. ou par counsail queit la mort soen preme. Si il mesdist ou osst volounters mesdire de soen preme derere luy. Si il mausdist soen prome e vousit qui ceo fust verité. Si il batist soen prome. (fol. 3v) (If he ever became angry with his neighbour; if he wrangled with his neighbour or insulted him or imputed blame to him; if he hated his neighbour or did his utmost to make him angry; if he desired his neighbour’s death or harm; if he ever, by deed or plotting, sought his neighbour’s death; if he lied or willingly listened to slander about his neighbour behind his back; if he cursed his neighbour and wished that it were the truth; if he attacked his neighbour.)

This review of the ways in which one may be guilty of anger includes a wide variety of circumstances, some less obvious than others, in order to provoke a penitent to examine his (or her) behaviour with a critical eye. The unexpressed conclusion to the series of hypothetical clauses is that these actions or desires must be confessed. In addition to the Seven Deadly Sins, there is an eighth paragraph that begins slightly differently: ‘Pus deyt demaunder si il ounques destourbast nul sacrement’ (Then he should ask if he has ever disrupted any sacrament) (fol. 4v, lower half), This section (fols. 3r–5r), omitted in Digby 20, may be a separate text.

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but thereafter it follows the same format as the preceding paragraphs. The subject of this passage is sacrilege, a grave offence, if not one of the classic seven. In addition to disrupting a sacrament, it includes killing a child (before or after its birth), allowing an infant to die unbaptised, raising a child in ignorance of the Creed and the Pater noster; neglecting a child’s confirmation or allowing a child to neglect confession, hindering a child’s penance, allowing an invalid marriage to occur, receiving communion in a state of sin, striking a cleric and taking anything belonging to the Church. Rather than constituting a new text, this section continues the discussion of the occasions of sin.25 The implicit conclusion of these eight long sentence-fragments is to be found in the next paragraph, beginning ‘A la confessioun espessiale’ (In the particular confession) (fol. 5r). This passage indicates in general terms what must be confessed: good deeds neglected, forgotten sins, foolish acts according to the senses, the circumstances of one’s sins (including one’s age and status, how often they were committed and how long one remained in a state of sin). The suggestion here is that a person who has considered possible infractions under the eight separate headings of the sins is now prepared to confess them. Strictly speaking, this paragraph is neither a formula for confession (which is provided on fols. 7r–8v) nor an explanation of the sacrament. It merely lists the factors that a good confessor is likely to probe. In this way, it concludes the examination of conscience, and offers a method for organising one’s offences in order to recall them to mind more easily. Digby’s opening treatise, with its detailed catalogue of sins, definitions and examples, would admirably meet Bishop Cantilupe’s encouragement to instruct lay people in the art of examining their consciences and preparing themselves for confession.

The Commandments Walter de Cantilupe exhorted his priests to expound the Commandments frequently to their parishioners, but did not specify exactly how this should be done. In contrast to most formulations of the Decalogue, which cast the various injunctions as imperatives, Digby 86’s second text states them in the third person.26 Like the previous one, this treatise falls into two parts, with an introductory paragraph listing the things forbidden by the Commandments, and a second part treating Tschann and Parkes, p. xii, identify this passage as a separate text (On Confession) (art. 2; fols. 4v–5r). Although it begins with a large (bicoloured) initial, there is no rubric. Rather than a separate text on confession, it continues the discussion of the Sins. 26 For a comparison of medieval French versions of the Commandments, see K.-A. Helou, ‘Le décalogue dans les Bibles françaises des XIIIe et XIVe siècles’, in De diz comandemenz en la lei. Le Décalogue anglo-normand selon le manuscrit BL Cotton Nero A.III: texte, langue et traditions, ed. R. Wilhelm, pp. 95–120. Mirour, ed. Wilshere, pp. 28–33, uses the imperative form but alters the organisation; the first three Commandments are grouped as pertaining to the Trinity, and the numbering begins again for the remaining seven (pertaining to love of oneself and one’s neighbour); in each case, the implications of the Commandment are defined in further statements. 25

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each Commandment in more detail. Both the introduction and the individual discussions are marked with large (four- or five-line) initials, some bicoloured, but (as elsewhere) the size of the initials is not related to the importance of the section introduced. After the list of prohibitions, the individual discussions begin with a positive statement of the Commandment, followed by the ways one may transgress against it.27 As an example, the introduction summarises the first Commandment as forbidding disbelief. This command is then restated as a requirement to have but a single God and to love him above all else. Thus, loving anything – family, lordship, worldly pleasure or any earthly thing – more than God transgresses that command. Referring to Phil. 3:19, with its assertion that ‘their belly is their god’, the text notes ‘Ceo est pur ceo que li glouz eyme plus soun ventre e sa glotounie qui deu ausi est des autres pecchés’ (This is because the glutton loves his belly and his gluttony more than God; it is thus with the other sins) (fol. 5r–v). In this way, the obligation of the Commandment is linked to the preceding discussion of the sins: persistence in sin is a form of disbelief in God.

The Articles of Faith Where the Worcester statutes ordain teaching all three Catholic creeds in the diocese,28 the third of Digby’s treatises provides only a list of essential doctrines that does not correspond to the Apostles’ Creed (traditionally divided into twelve articles).29 In fact, the text of the ‘douze articles’ seems to be a simplified version of the restatement of the Creed (Firmiter credimus) in the first canon of the Lateran decrees:30 Firmiter credimus et simpliciter confitemur, quod unus solus est verus Deus, aeternus et immensus, omnipotens, incommutabilis, incomprehensibilis et The Continental cleric Robert de Sorbon used a similar approach in his treatise on confession: F. N. M. Diekstra, ‘Robert de Sorbon’s Qui vult vere confiteri and Its French Versions (ca. 1260–74)’, Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 60 (1993), 215–72 (pp. 256–68). 28 Councils and Synods, ed. Powicke and Cheney, I, 304: ‘quod in psalmo qui dicitur Quicunque vult, et tam in maiori quam in minori simbolo continetur’ (what in the psalm is called Quicunque vult, and is contained in the greater, as well as in the lesser creed). 29 The London, BL, MS Cotton Nero A III version of this treatise is published in De diz comandemenz en la lei, ed. Wilhelm, pp. 230–1. On the Articles of Faith and the Sacraments, see M. Bürgel, V. Cassi, C. Dusio, M. Scuderi and E. Stefanelli, ‘I Dieci comandamenti, Gli Articoli di fede et i Sette sacramenti: un primo sondaggio sui “Testi Paralleli” nelle aree romanze’, in De diz comandemenz en la lei, pp. 121–91 (for the French and Anglo-Norman texts, see pp. 136–65). For other versions of the Creed in French, see E. Brayer and A.-M. Bouly de Lesdain, ‘Les Prières usuelles annexées aux anciennes traductions françaises des psautiers’, Bulletin. Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes 15 (1969), 69–120 (pp. 100–11). On the Creed, see H. Thurston, ‘Apostles’ Creed’, in The Catholic Encyclopedia, Vol. 1 (New York, 1907), pp. 629–32. 30 Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, ed. Tanner, I, 230–1. See Bürgel et al., ‘I Dieci comandamenti’, pp. 139–40, for a comparative table of Digby’s text and Firmiter. 27

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ineffabilis, Pater et Filius et Spiritus sanctus, tres quidem personae sed una essentia, substantia seu natura simplex omnino.31 (We firmly believe and simply confess that there is only one true God, eternal and immeasurable, almighty, unchangeable, incomprehensible and ineffable, substance or nature, Father and Son and Holy Spirit, three persons but one absolutely simple essence, substance or nature.)

Digby’s treatise also begins with the Trinity, but explicitly indicates its intended audience: Li premer article est la fey de la seint trinité. kar houme deyt fermement crere que li pere celestre. e li fiz e li seint esperit est en deu en treis persones. cest point soffist a la laye gent. simplement e crere si cum seint eglise creyt (fol. 6r) (The first article of the faith is of the Holy Trinity, for one must firmly believe that the heavenly Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit is in God in three persons. This point suffices for lay people, simply and to believe as Holy Church believes.)

Like Firmiter, this article asserts Catholic belief in the Trinity, but in ordinary language, as befits lay people, who are required only to accept the faith of the Church. The remainder of Digby’s articles are listed in the same general order as those in Firmiter, but there are differences of emphasis. The Lateran Creed’s single sentence ‘descendit ad inferos, resurrexit a mortuis et ascendit in coelum; sed descendit in anima, resurrexit in carne ascenditque pariter in utroque’ (he descended to the underworld, rose from the dead and ascended into heaven; he descended in the soul, rose in the flesh and ascended in both) is spread over four articles.32 Article five states (which Firmiter does not) that Christ’s body remained in the tomb for three days without its soul. The next two specify that Christ’s soul descended into hell and that he rose on the third day in both body and soul, and the eighth declares that his human body rose into heaven and that he is equal in divinity to his Father. The final paragraph of the Lateran Creed states that the Church is the only source of salvation before discussing three sacraments (Eucharist, baptism, penance). In simpler fashion, Digby declares: Li douzyme article est. la fey des sacremens. de seinte eglise kar checun cristien deyt crere que les sacremens de seinte eglise ount vertu de parfere la chose par qui est establiz. (fol. 6v) (The twelfth article is the faith in the sacraments of Holy Church, for every Christian must believe that the sacraments of Holy Church have the power to perfect the thing by which it is established.)

The Digby Twelve Articles of Faith are thus a completely up-to-date restatement of the essential beliefs of the Church, one that reflects its current thinking yet is adapted to the use of someone ministering to lay people. Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, ed. Tanner, I, 230. Ibid., I, 230.

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The Sacraments Where the Worcester statutes stress priests’ responsibilities for administering the Sacraments, Digby’s next treatise, which follows logically from the end of the previous one, underlines the role of lay people, and particularly their lapses. Like the earlier treatises, this one also begins with a list:33 Set sacremens sount. ceo est asaver bapteme. conffermement. eukariste. penaunce. ordre. mariage. enouingnement. (fol. 6v) (There are seven sacraments, that is, Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Penance, Holy Orders, Marriage, Extreme Unction.)

Only the first four Sacraments, however, receive an additional explanation – what it is, its effects, who may administer it, how often it may be received and (for the first three) how one may sin against them.34 The Worcester decrees state that lay people are to be taught how to administer baptism, and Digby’s discussion of the sacrament explains this in detail, noting that failing to baptise a child in danger of death is a grievous sin. The paragraph on the Eucharist states the obligation to receive the sacrament annually and stresses that not to believe that the consecrated host is the body of Christ is a serious sin. The treatment of penance mentions the three elements of the sacrament (contrition, confession, satisfaction), as well as the obligation of annual confession. Both of these explanations echo the formulations of the Lateran Council (Canons 1, 21) as well as Cantilupe’s decrees (Chapters 13, 31).

Confession formula Digby’s final religious text in this quire is a formula for confession, that is, a script for confessing one’s sins to a priest.35 Its ample collection of transgressions is written in the first person and organised under five headings – thought, word, deed, the senses, the sins. In contrast to the precise definitions of different offences in the first treatise, the penitent lists the sinful actions he (or she) has committed. Particularly numerous are verbal sins: speaking coarsely or lewdly, but also immoderately, proudly, angrily, hastily, violently or even merrily; and especially lying, swearing (falsely), cursing and mocking others. In all of this, there are flashes of psychological insight wherein the penitent admits to judging others more harshly than himself. The confession formula, though independent of four preceding treatises, supplies their logical conclusion. After a thorough examination of conscience considering possible offences according to the Sins, the Commandments, the Articles of Faith and the Sacraments, the penitent (whether the reader or someone instructed by The list of Sacraments (without commentary) is published in De diz comandemenz en la lei, ed. Wilhelm, p. 231. 34 MS Digby 20 has the complete text of this treatise. 35 This text is found independent of the treatises in two other manuscripts; see Dean 659. 33

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him) is well prepared to make the complete and honest confession scripted in the formula. As we have seen, the treatises and the formula in the first section of Digby 86 reflect the concerns expressed by thirteenth-century English bishops who were enacting the reforms mandated by the Fourth Lateran Council. Although they are presented in the form of an examination of conscience, the treatises cover the religious information – the Commandments, the Sins, the Sacraments and the Creed – that Walter de Cantilupe considered essential for the laity. They also note the responsibility of parents for the religious formation of their children: that they should ensure their baptism and confirmation (fol. 6v–7r) and foster their knowledge of the Creed (fol. 4v). As a group, the treatises announce the compiler’s religious concerns, which he combined with other, very different, interests in each of the manuscript’s three sections. In the remainder of this chapter, I will indicate briefly how the compiler included texts of varied genres that reinforce these concerns.

Other religious texts in Digby 86 The mise en page of Digby 86 changes on fol. 74v, when the long lines of prose are replaced by double columns of short verse. Most of the French texts in this section are short verse narratives of various genres. Two of them, Raoul de Houdenc’s Songe d’Enfer and an extract from Robert Grosseteste’s Chasteau d’amour, are of interest here because they rehearse themes introduced in the religious texts of the first section. Raoul’s poem is announced with a rubric – ‘Ci comence le romaunz de enfer le Sounge Rauf de hodenge de la voie denfer’ (Here begins the romance of hell, the dream of Ralph of Houdenc about the road of hell) (fol. 97vb) – which categorises the work as a romance, a dream and a journey.36 The Continental author was perhaps a nephew of Peter the Chanter.37 Digby’s copy of the Songe is largely complete. There are omissions that shorten some of the descriptions and many minor variants, but few of these are unique to Digby 86 and they do not alter the meaning of the text significantly.38 K. Busby, ‘Le Contexte manuscrit du Songe d’Enfer de Raoul de Houdenc’, in Le Recueil au moyen âge. Le moyen âge central, ed. Y. Foehr-Janssens and O. Collet (Turnhout, 2010), pp. 47–61. 37 The Songe occupies fols. 97vb–102rb; Tschann and Parkes, p. xxii (art. 28). In The Songe d’Enfer of Raoul de Houdenc, ed. M. T. Mihm (Tübingen, 1984), the editor records variants from all the manuscripts. On the author, see A. Fourrier, ‘Raoul de Houdenc: est-ce lui?’, in Mélanges de linguistique romane et de philologie médiévale offerts à M. Maurice Delbouille, ed. J. Renson, 2 vols. (Gembloux, 1964), II, 165–93, who proposes that Raoul came to Hodenc-en Bray near Beauvais and lived c. 1165–1320. Fourrier further suggests late 1214 or 1215 as the date of the poem. Mihm reviews the evidence and tentatively supports this conclusion (Songe, pp. 3–9). 38 Digby 86 holds 614 of the edition’s 678 lines; the omission of the final four lines (which restate the title and announce a companion piece of a trip to Paradise) adapts the poem to its context, which does not include the Voie de paradis. 36

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The Songe relates a dream in which the narrator decides (during Lent) to undertake a pilgrimage, but to hell rather than to a holy place. This parodic poem falls into two parts – the pilgrimage itself and a description of hell. The narrator’s travels are a map of vice, its sites populated by personifications of sins. He rides through the land of Disloyalty to arrive first at the city of Covetousness, and then at the court of Perjury before crossing the river of Gluttony. At Fornication, he comes to Castle Bordello, but the next day passes on to Murder city, Despair and Sudden Death, which lies next to Hell itself. In these various places, he lodges with Envy where he meets Deceit, Plunder and Avarice. Later, he encounters Stealing, Hypocrisy, Drunkenness and Larceny. Strikingly, all these vices are presented positively. Rather than attacking the pilgrim, they treat him with conspicuous courtesy. In the second half, Hell itself (though hot) is the site of a lavish banquet where the King asks the narrator to read from a book recording vices and foolish deeds in which he found ‘les vies des fols mestrels’ (the lives of foolish minstrels).39 The unexpectedly positive presentation of this infernal terrain has received a variety of interpretations. Some critics have noted the parodic aspects of the poem that mock courtly society and its literature, even as it exploits the latter intertextually.40 Others have interpreted the final scene as a mise en abîme of the Songe itself – that is, the tale of the foolish minstrel Raoul who nevertheless proclaims literature’s freedom from all constraint.41 More convincingly, Carine Giovénal has argued that the poem is a metaphor of interiorisation: Raoul’s Hell is not a geographical space but rather a spiritual location manifest in the behaviour and choices of each individual.42 Within the manuscript, the Songe’s allegorical sins recall and reinforce the treatment of the Deadly Sins in the first quire. The multiplicity of its sins and the absence of rigour in their presentation reflect the difference of genre. The Distinctio peccatorum, on the one hand, resembles a scholastic treatise, with its subject divided into sections and subsections, complete with definitions. The Songe, on the other hand, is a courtly entertainment with a fair measure of social critique. The apparent disorder of the narrator’s encounter with the sins is one of the more realistic features of his narrative, for life never unfolds like a treatise. Similarly, the ubiquity of sin in Raoul’s geography drives home the point of such lists of possible transgressions in treatises on the Sins and the Ten Commandments, where many ordinary The Songe d’Enfer, ed. Mihm, p. 86 (line 626). M. Burde, ‘Sweet Dreams: Parody, Satire, and Alimentary Allegory in Raoul de Houdenc’s Le Songe d’Enfer’, in ‘Por la soie amisté’: Essays in Honor of Norris J. Lacy, ed. K. Busby and C. M. Jones (Amsterdam, 2000), pp. 53–74. 41 F. Pomel, Les voies de l’au-delà et l’essor de l’allégorie au Moyen Âge (Paris, 2001), pp. 261–8; and H. Legros, ‘Le Songe d’Enfer de Raoul de Houdenc: l’allégorie au service d’une édification divertissante’, in Le sens caché: Usages de l’allégorie du Moyen Âge au XVIIe siècle, ed. F. Wild (Arras, 2013), pp. 15–37 (p. 37). 42 C. Giovénal, ‘Le Songe d’Enfer de Raoul de Houdenc: voie de l’au-delà ou chemin d’ici bas?’, Questes 22 (2011), 65–77 (pp. 75–7); and, in more detail, C. Giovénal, Le Chevalier et le pèlerin. Idéal, rire et réalité chez Raoul de Houdenc, XIIIe siècle (Aix-en-Provence, 2015), pp. 207–9. 39 40

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behaviours are revealed to be sinful. In this context, a variant reading found in the Digby 86 manuscript may be significant. In the final line of fol. 102rb, the Digby scribe chose the word romaunz (romance) to describe the poem, rather than the term fablel (fable) used in most other copies. The Songe d’Enfer does indeed review the varieties of sin enumerated at the beginning of the book, but it does so in romance form. The next religious poem in this section, separated from the Songe by a group of fabliaux, opens with the rubric ‘Des .iiii. files deu’ (On the Four Daughters of God, fol. 116vb). It is a passage from Grosseteste’s Chasteau d’amour, the allegory of a king and his sinful servant, whose fate is debated by Mercy, Truth, Justice and Peace.43 While Mercy and Peace intercede for the servant, Truth and Justice are adamant that his punishment is merited. Their debate is resolved by the intervention of the king’s son, who is moved by Mercy’s plea and offers: A verité l’acorderay Del serf prendray la vesture En verité e en dreiture: Soutendray le jugement Quantqe a dreyture apent E pes en tere feray crier E justisse e pes beiser (fol. 118va) (‘I will reconcile her [i.e. Mercy] to Truth. I will take on the clothing of the serf in truth and in righteousness. I will sustain the judgement [and] whatever befits righteousness; and I will cause Peace to be proclaimed on earth, and cause Justice and Peace to kiss.’)

Although the allegory is not explained here (as it is in the Chasteau), it refers recognisably to the doctrine of the Incarnation, by which the second person of the Trinity became man to secure the salvation of humankind. In the context of Digby’s opening treatises, the extract dramatises the first two articles of the faith: the essential unity of God and the divinity of Jesus Christ who is also human. The passage also stresses the dire predicament of humanity after Adam’s sin, requiring divine intervention to reconcile the opposing claims of Justice and Mercy. Tschann and Parkes, p. xxiv (art. 39). Le Chateau d’amour de Robert Grosseteste évèque de Lincoln, ed. J. Murray (Paris, 1918), lines 204–468. E. A. Mackie has produced a new edition, ‘Robert Grosseteste’s Chasteau d’amur. A Text in Context’, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Toronto (Toronto, 2002), using London, Lambeth Palace Library, MS 522 as a base with significant variants from all the extant manuscripts. For translations, see E. A. Mackie, ‘Robert Grosseteste’s Anglo-Norman Treatise on the Loss and Restoration of Creation, Commonly Known as Le Château d’Amour: An English Prose Translation’, in Robert Grosseteste and the Beginnings of a British Theological Tradition, ed. M. O’Carroll (Rome, 2003), pp. 151–79; and M. Boulton, Piety and Persecution in the French Texts of England (Tempe, AZ, 2013), pp. 61–89. For a survey of seven different French texts on the theme, see T. Hunt, ‘“The Four Daughters of God”: A Textual Contribution’, Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 48 (1981), 287–316.

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The codicological context of the passage, copied on fol. 114rb immediately after the misogynistic fabliau Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin44 (art. 35) and a second poem on the scabrous adventures of ‘un vallet amerous’ (an amorous young gentleman) (art. 38), is at first glance completely incongruous. Nevertheless, the latter ends with a prayer that the young man, despite his philandering, may confess his sins before his death and not suffer for them. Although this final (cynical) prayer, ending with ‘Amen’ (fol. 116vb), provides a transition of sorts, the contrast between the fabliaux and Les Quatre Files could scarcely be sharper. But that may indeed be the point: the elegant seriousness of the Daughters of God contradicts and counteracts the lascivious misogyny of the fabliaux. The third section of Digby 86 is laid out in a single column to accommodate lines of longer verse, mainly twelve-syllable alexandrines for the French texts. Like the other parts of the manuscript, this section comprises a diversity of genres and languages, including two religious poems – the L’Assumption de Notre Dame and the so-called ‘romaunz de temtacioun de secle’ (romance of the world’s temptation) (fol. 182v, rubric) – related to the themes of the first part.45 The section opens with the rubric ‘Ci comence la vie nostre dame’ (Here begins the life of Our Lady) (fol. 169r) above Herman de Valenciennes’s Assumption, a Continental poem in alexandrine laisses often transmitted as the final part of his Roman de Dieu et de sa mere.46 This late twelfth-century poem had a considerable circulation in England, where fully half of the surviving manuscripts were produced.47 Digby’s copy of the poem corresponds generally to the text of Ina Spiele’s edition (with fifty-six laisses), but omitted two laisses. The Digby scribe marks the different laisses with coloured initials (two or three lines in height), but, as elsewhere in the manuscript, reveals a certain clumsiness in his execution: he failed to mark the beginning of fifteen laisses and misplaced the initial in another (fol. 173v). Herman’s poem relates Mary’s death and funeral in epic form, but only alludes to the assumption itself, stating simply that she ‘Ne remist pas en ter einz fu al cel portee’ (She did not remain on earth but was carried to heaven) (fol. 176v). Mary’s behaviour during her last days gives a clear, if exceptional, example of a good death. The reunion of her body and soul in heaven anticipates the reward (the resurrection of the body) promised to all believers in the tenth article of the faith. In transcribing this text, the compiler included the final stanza of the poem, where the author names himself, begs absolution for his sins and prays for the welfare of all his This version includes appended extracts from two similar texts; Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxiii–xxiv (arts. 35–37). Corrie has argued that this composite text is typical of the Digby scribe’s treatment of his literary sources, and that he ‘enjoyed putting his own stamp on his collection of texts’ (‘The Compilation’, p. 243). 45 Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxix (arts. 61, 63). 46 Tschann and Parkes, p. xxix (art. 61; fols. 169r–177v). Li Romanz de Dieu et de sa mere d’Herman de Valenciennes, ed. I. Spiele (Leiden, 1975). See M. B. M. Boulton, Sacred Fictions of Medieval France: Narrative Theology in the Lives of Christ and the Virgin, 1150–1500 (Cambridge, 2015), pp. 83–109. 47 See Dean 485 for details of the Anglo-Norman copies. 44

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benefactors (including his parents) at the Last Judgement. This prayer, with its references to sin, forgiveness and judgement, is yet another reminder of the religious message of the opening texts of Digby 86. The last lines of the poem, in which the author prays for the salvation of all who copy the poem, or read it (or have it read to them), may have had an especial appeal for the Digby scribe: Cil ke le lisent e de tei fount oreisoun Cil ki cest escrit e touz ceus ki l’escriverount E ki lire nel sevent e lire le frount Touz seient herbigez la sus en ta meisoun. Amen. (fol. 177r) (Those who read it and pray to you, the one who wrote this down and all those who will write it, and who do not know how to read and have it read – may they all dwell above in your house. Amen.)

These lines, although composed nearly a century before the compilation of the Digby 86 manuscript, seem applicable not only to the compiler but also to those to whom he might have ministered. The second religious poem in this section, the first thirteen laisses of the sermon attributed to Guischart de Beauliu (fols. 182v–186v), is completely different in tone.48 Although its introductory stanza declares the poem ‘beus’ (beautiful) and ‘auvenaunz’ (pleasing) (line 2) and aimed at an unlearned audience, the narrator stresses the bad bargain made by those who cling to the world. Eleven of the next twelve stanzas assert that the world is fleeting, untrustworthy, wicked, wretched, treacherous or deceitful. The variations on the theme exploit the poem’s structure to reiterate the message – that those who succumb to the world’s allure lose everything – with varied emphases in different rhymes. In hammering home its point, Digby’s extract alludes to some themes in the treatises on the Sins, the Sacraments and the Articles of Faith. In the second laisse, for example, the author notes that he (like his audience) had renounced the devil in baptism. As for penance, it is too late to repent (as one inevitably will) once one is in hell, which is completely black and very deep. The eighth stanza reminds the listener that God came to earth to save everyone and that he summons us all to a great feast. This heavenly joy contrasts with the despair of hell, where alms, masses and prayers are useless. In a passage reminiscent of the tenth through twelfth articles of the faith, the narrator observes that pain or reward will be redoubled when the body is resurrected to join the soul after the Last Judgement. The eleventh stanza warns of sins (avarice, lying, pride, as well as sloth in the service of God) that put one in the devil’s power, while the twelfth asserts that anyone who thinks he will not die is not a Christian. The final The Digby scribe inserted a large initial in the middle of the first stanza, on fol. 183r. Le Sermon de Guischart de Beauliu, ed. A. Gabrielson (Uppsala, 1909), pp. 1–18, prints Digby 86’s text in full (lines 1–264 of the 1,923 lines of the edition); see pp. xx–xxiv for its characteristics. M. D. Legge, Anglo-Norman in the Cloisters (Edinburgh, 1950), pp. 31–5, localised the author to Bedfordshire. However, B. Hill, ‘The Twelfth-Century Conduct of Life, Formerly the Poema morale or A Morale Ode’, Leeds Studies in English 9 (1977), 97–144 (pp. 124–5), suggests that the name Guischart applies only to the scribe of London, BL, MS Harley 5388.

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lines are a prayer that we may be able to reign with God, who alone can save us. The sermon thus uses the spectre of judgement to remind the reader of the urgency of leading a good life. As we have seen, the neglected opening quire of the Digby 86 manuscript provides, in the form of a preparation for confession, most of the instructional material required to meet the basic needs of the laity as defined by the Fourth Lateran Council, and reiterated in various synodal statutes, including those for the diocese of Worcester, where the volume is localised. Far from unrelated to the rest of contents, the religious prose texts anticipate material in four religious poems in the manuscript’s later sections. In turn, these poems reinforce – and in two different narrative forms (romance and epic) – the lessons of the didactic texts. Keith Busby declared Digby 86 to be ‘at the heart of the epoch’s English literary enterprise’, and highlighted its role in transmitting French literary texts in England.49 Certainly, its French religious texts advanced the pastoral mission of the thirteenth-century English Church – in prose and in verse, in didactic treatises as well as in the forms of romance and epic.

Busby, ‘Le Contexte manuscrit’, p. 59 (‘au cœur de l’entreprise littéraire anglaise de l’époche’).

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chapter three

LATIN AND VERNACULAR PRAYERS IN MS DIGBY 86 Sheri Smith

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eligious texts intended either for devotional or instructive purposes represent a significant proportion of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 and contribute to its remarkable breadth, appearing in both prose and verse written in each of the manuscript’s three languages. The importance of these texts to the compiler is signalled by the eventual ordering of the quires, which placed a collection of pastoralia written in the French vernacular at the miscellany’s beginning, and by the compiler’s later inclusion of a variety of prayers distinctive in purpose from those originally gathered. A significant number of the prayers appear in the manuscript’s first section, described by Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes as ‘practical’ in its aims, alongside such texts as recipes, medicinal instructions and charms for protection and healing, strongly suggesting that these prayers are intended for use and expected to be efficacious.1 Throughout the manuscript, as in its first section, prayers appear most usually in clusters, or sequences. An examination of the key prayer sequences in Digby 86 demonstrates interesting differences in the compiler’s approach to Latin versus the French vernacular. The manuscript contains evidence of anthologising tendencies in the prayer collections. Some are arranged according to language, form and theme, while others allow for thematic development, encouraging contemplative movement through a series of reflections. Such deliberate arrangement of texts is most pronounced in the French prayer sequences, and it is in these sequences that the Digby scribe exercises the greatest creativity. In the miscellany’s current form, the major prayer sequences occur towards the beginning and end of the manuscript. Its prayers, with very few exceptions, appear in six distinct clusters, of which five are organised by language. The majority of the prayers are in Latin, twenty in total. French prayers account for eleven of the manuscript’s texts, and English only one. Besides these thirty-one prayers (one being a bilingual Latin/English translation), the miscellany contains a much greater number of ‘religious’ texts, both devotional and didactic. For the purpose of clarity, On the possibility that the first six quires might once have stood as a ‘self-contained unit or booklet’ of practical prose texts, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xi–lxii (p. xliii).

1

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I designate as ‘prayer’ those texts marked with the rubric ‘oracio’, or otherwise directly addressed to God, Jesus, Mary or one of the saints.2 Marilyn Corrie describes the organisation of the miscellany as divided into three parts according to form, the first part devoted to prose written in long lines (fols. 1r-74v), the second to verse written in short columns (fols. 74v–168v), the third to verse written in longer lines (fols. 169r–201v). Within these formal divisions, she demonstrates the scribal arrangement of texts into ‘linguistic blocks’.3 The first four prayer sequences conform to this linguistic and formal regimentation. The first sequence of prayers includes a mixture of French prose and verse, with two short Latin prayers appended to French texts (arts. 9i–vii; fols. 26v–28r). Although verse is included here, these texts are set out as prose, in keeping with neighbouring texts (arts. 9i, iii, vi). The second prayer sequence is in Latin prose (arts. 18i–ii, *85; fol. 48v); the third consists of three items in Latin verse, one with prayers in prose appended (arts. 55i–iii; fols. 161r–162r). The fourth prayer sequence is in French verse (arts. 64i–iii; fols. 186v–190r). Corrie notes that linguistic and formal distinctions break down after fol. 201v onwards.4 The fifth and sixth prayer sequences occur after this point, with the fifth in Latin prose (arts. 81i–ix; fols. 202r–205v) and the sixth a trilingual collection of verse prayers (arts. *93–*95; fols. 206ra–207rb).5 The following section discusses the Digby scribe’s anthologising strategies as evident in the Latin prayer sequences. The next section analyses the two French prayer sequences, considering in particular the compiler’s rearrangement of stanzas in ‘Aves’, for example, directly address Mary. Prayers also occur as parts of other texts, making such distinctions to some extent arbitrary. For instance, the lyric Chaunçoun de Noustre Seignour (art. 70; fol. 200v) is not marked at its beginning as a prayer, and it speaks about, rather than to, Jesus, except in line 17, where it briefly switches to direct address. The song also ends with an ‘Amen’, yet, on balance, while certainly ‘religious’, even ‘devotional’, this chanson does not sit comfortably within the oratio genre. On the distinction between oratio as a prayer service and oratio as a textual genre, see S. Boynton, ‘Prayer as Liturgical Performance in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Monastic Psalters’, Speculum 82 (2007), 896–931 (p. 902). 3 M. Corrie, ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49 (pp. 237–9). Corrie notes the inclusion of texts that could not be described as practical in the first half of the book, as well as the existence of medical, and therefore surely ‘practical’, items in its second half. Tschann and Parkes, pp. xliii–xliv, argue that codicological and palaeographical evidence points to the compiler having copied texts in linguistic and generic clusters as ‘exemplars came to hand’, simultaneously adding material to two discrete collections which were eventually bound together. J. Scahill, ‘Trilingualism in Early Middle English Miscellanies: Languages and Literature’, Yearbook of English Studies 33 (2003), 18–32, divides the manuscript into five sections: the first, ‘religious and practical pieces mostly in French’; the second, mostly secular poems in French; the third, English poems; the fourth, narrative, didactic and religious poems in each of the manuscript’s three languages; the final section, prayers, and practical and didactic texts in Latin (p. 24). 4 See Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, pp. 237–8. 5 In addition to these sequences, the manuscript contains a Latin prayer, Maria stella maris, added to fol. 118vb (art. *90), and two further French prayers, Douce sire Jesu Crist and Beaus sire Jesu Crist (arts. 66, 71; fols. 191r–192v, 200v, respectively). 2

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the French ‘Aves’. The final section examines the manuscript’s only trilingual prayer sequence and single English prayer.

The Latin prayer sequences: anthologising strategies The miscellany contains three sequences of Latin prayers and each of these demonstrates the compiler’s anthologising tendencies.6 While two of these collections were possibly copied from existent collections of prayers, the second prayer sequence displays the compiler’s method in selecting an appropriate location for material (arts. 18i–ii, *85; fol. 48v). Occupying the lower half of a folio, this group contains three items in Latin: ‘Saunta maria mater domini nostri’ (Holy Mary, mother of Our Lord), ‘Deus qui scauntam crucem ascendisti’ (God who ascended the holy cross) and a later addition by the Digby scribe that begins ‘Sistomus. Karistomus. Metaphoy’. Here the additional text has been squeezed into the available space below two prayers, extending fully into the outer margin. The addition of Sistomus is not an instance of the scribe placing a filler in otherwise unused space. All thirty-two ruled lines of fol. 48v had already been filled and, prior to the loss of the following leaf, the folio did not complete a quire.7 The compiler added ‘Sistomus’ below two Latin prose prayers. The first of this brief sequence, Saunta maria mater domini nostri, like a number of prayers in the miscellany, asks for protection from sin and the devil. The petitionary prayer pays particular attention to the senses and to the need to commend to Christ’s and to Mary’s keeping those parts of the body most likely to be complicit in committing sin: Saunta maria mater domini nostri iesu cristi in manus eiusdem filii tui et in tuas manus commendo hodie et in omni tempore animam meam. et visum meum. et sensum meum. et labia mea. et oculos meos. et manus meas et pedes meas. et totum corpus meum custodi me domine. (fol. 48v) (Holy Mary, mother of Our Lord Jesus Christ, into the hands of your son and into your hands I commend today and at all times my spirit. And my sight, my sense, my lips, my eyes, my hands, my feet and all my body; protect me, Lord.)8

The prayer continues by asking for protection from the devil and his temptations. Its commendation of the senses, acknowledgement of human vulnerability to Here I follow E. Dutton’s definition of an anthology as ‘a collection of texts which are present as separate works, but which are thematically connected and appear together by design’; an anthology, she writes, ‘could appear in a codex alongside other texts’ (Julian of Norwich: The Influence of Late-Medieval Devotional Compilations (Cambridge, 2009), p. 3). 7 The Digby scribe (generally considered to be also the compiler) is designated ‘Scribe A’ by Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii–xli. On Scribe A’s later additions to manuscript leaves containing texts with related themes, see Tschann and Parkes, p. xlv. On the loss of a leaf following fol. 48v, see p. xli. 8 Unless otherwise specified, modern English translations of quoted material throughout this chapter are my own. 6

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temptation and request for protection lead naturally to the second prayer, Deus qui scauntam crucem ascendisti, which asks Christ for liberation from sin, first acknowledging his power to forgive sinners through reference to his forgiveness of the thief who was crucified at his right hand.9 Although not listed as a prayer in the manuscript facsimile’s description and beginning with a mysterious, semi-magical invocation, Sistomus contains an addendum which not only labels the text as a prayer, but also advises that it is useful against thunder: ‘Ista oracio est bona pro tonitruo’. Sistomus draws a parallel between the power of God and the powerful storm from which the supplicant asks protection: Sistomus. Karistomus. Metaphoy. Homnipotens sempiterne deus parce metuentibus propiciare supplicantibus vt post noxios nubium ygnes et aeriarum viuus procellarum in materiam et gloriam tuo laudis transeat commotacio tempestatis. (fol. 48v) (Sistomus. Karistomus. Metaphoy. Almighty everlasting God, spare those who are afraid, be propitious towards those who supplicate, that after the cloud’s noxious fires and the living air of the storms, on the occasion and the glory of your praise, the agitation of the storm passes.)

This prayer first acknowledges and praises the power of God before asking that the dreadful storms might pass. The addition of a prayer ‘good against thunder’ at this precise location in the manuscript demonstrates the compiler’s thoughtful placement of texts not only by language and form, but also by thematic design. The three prayers evince a logical connection, a movement from contemplating sins with fearful consequences to considering and attempting to counteract other forces far greater than any human power to control. Similarly, the miscellany’s other collections of prayers in Latin prose demonstrate anthologising tendencies which go beyond linguistic categorisation. The fifth prayer sequence, a fairly heterogeneous mixture of texts (arts. 81i–ix; fols. 202r–205v), includes ‘Deus inestimabilis misericordie’ (Inestimable God of mercy), ‘Domine saunte et septiformis spiritus deus’ (O Lord, holy and sevenfold spirit of God), ‘Benedicta et celorum regina’ (O blessed queen of the heavens), ‘Gaude gloriosa’ (Rejoice, glorious one), ‘Domine deus omnipotens’ (Lord God Almighty), ‘Omnipotens deus misericors’ (Almighty God, merciful Father), ‘Deus propicius esto’ (God, be favourable) and ‘Dulcis et benigne domine iesu criste’ (Sweetest and benevolent Lord Jesus Christ).10 Prior to the Digby scribe’s addition of extra leaves after fol. 205, including three further prayers, among other texts, this prayer sequence

See Luke 23:32–43. Another prayer follows Gaude gloriosa, but substantial damage to folio 203 has left the prayer with partial lines, most containing phrases altogether typical of devotional prose and therefore not readily of use in identifying the text. That this is likely a single prayer rather than multiple devotions is supported by the single ‘Amen’ on the penultimate line of fol. 203v.

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would have represented the manuscript’s conclusion, however temporarily.11 While this collection of prayers is united by language and form, the prayers serve differing purposes and are addressed variously to God Almighty, Mary and Jesus, reinforcing the impression that this particular collection coheres purely by sharing language and genre only.12 Several of the prayers in this group focus on human weakness. The first prayer of the set, Deus inestimabilis misericordie, a lengthy confession, focuses on acknowledging the reader’s sinful nature and subsequent need for God’s mercy, while the prayers that follow plead for protection from evil, especially Domine saunte et septiformis spiritus deus, Domine deus omnipotens and Deus propicius esto. One of the folios is damaged, so it is no longer possible to read each of the texts in sequence, but the order of the prayers suggests a devotional movement that flows from an acknowledgement of sin, through praise, to a commendation of weak human nature to divine mercy and protection. An analysis of the third Latin prayer sequence, in verse, reveals a semi-liturgical configuration (arts. 55i–iii; fols. 161ra–162rb).13 This anthology includes ‘Salve virgo uirginum’ (Hail, virgin of virgins); ‘Gaude mundi gaudium’ (Rejoice, joy of the world) with ‘Deus qui beatam mariam uirginem In conceptu’ (God conceived in the blessed virgin Mary) and ‘Ave sancta maria gratia plena’ (Hail, holy Mary, full of grace) appended; and, finally, ‘Regina clemencie maria vocata’ (Queen of mercy named Mary). In Salve virgo uirginum, the reader, or user, of the prayer confesses to Mary, calling upon her love and her intercession with her son. The reader prays ‘Culpam meam confiteor’ (I confess my offence) before confessing to the sins of the five senses, acknowledging the role of the will in committing such sins. After the confession, the prayer continues by inviting the penitent reader to reflect affectively upon the life of Christ, calling to mind especially his sufferings, including the thorn of crowns, the side wound and his death on the cross. From this sorrowful acknowledgement of human failings and the pains of redemption, the sequence moves to joy. The second prayer in this section, Gaude The list of the kings of England that follows the Latin prayer sequence is a later addition (art. *92; fol. 205v). 12 While most of these prayers are suitable for private devotions, one prayer, Omnipotens Deus misericors, is marked in the left margin with the rubric ‘Oremus’, possibly indicating an intended usage in community (fol. 204r). The prayer also appears in a fourteenthcentury book of hours, Paris, BnF, NAL MS 592, fols. 35r–36v, where it is designated as a prayer to follow the elevation of the host, with the rubric: ‘Apres en loneur de ihesu crist et en demandant ce que mestier vous fait: vous direz ceste ensuigant oroison et la fist sainz anselmes’ (Afterwards, in honour of Jesus Christ and in asking whatever needs you have, say this following prayer, which was made by Saint Anselm) (viewable at www.gallica.bnf. fr/ark:/12148/btv1b10033268f (accessed 11 March 2018)). See also C. Leroquais, Les Livres d’heures manuscrits de la Bibliothèque nationale, 3 vols. (Paris, 1927) II, p. 261. 13 For comparison, see two similar prayer sequences in the thirteenth-century preacher’s handbook, London, BL, MS Harley 524, fols. 63v–64r, given the rubric ‘Sequencia De sancta maria’, as listed in H. Deeming, ‘French Devotional Texts in Thirteenth-Century Preachers’ Anthologies’, in Language and Culture in Medieval Britain: The French of England, c.1100–c.1500, ed. J. Wogan-Browne, with C. Collette, M. Kowaleski, L. Mooney, A. Putter and D. Trotter (York, 2009), pp. 254–65 (p. 257). 11

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mundi, invites the reader to reflect upon the five joys of Mary: the Annunciation, Nativity, Resurrection, Ascension and Assumption. The final prayer in the sequence, Regina clemencie maria vocata, offers praise to Mary through a series of extravagant comparisons drawing upon natural imagery before rehearsing a number of tenets of faith specifically concerning Christ’s resurrection and ascension. The user of this series of prayers thus moves from meditating on personal sins and Christ’s suffering and death, through contemplating Mary’s joys, to glorious praise, not of the Virgin, but of the Queen, resting finally with thoughts of Christ’s resurrection. Said together, these private devotions bear a resemblance to the semi-liturgical material found in books of hours, which became increasingly popular possessions from the thirteenth century onwards.14 The three Latin prayer sequences in Digby 86 show varying levels of integration achieved by engaging in different anthologising strategies. The compiler’s decision to add a prayer for protection from tempests in proximity to two related prayers achieves a unity of function. The Marian sequence and the more loosely organised set of prayers to be found in the manuscript’s final complete quire both demonstrate a unity of theme and even devotional development, but might have been copied as existent anthologies. By contrast, the vernacular French materials considered in the following section suggest a greater focus on thematic design and creative compilation.

The French prayer sequences: devotional lyrics and practical prayers Of the two French prayer sequences, the first resembles in its composition the final Latin prayer sequence. This anthology contains seven separate items, all but two of which are in French: ‘Ave jesu crist ki pur nous peccheours de cel decendistes’ (Hail, Jesus Christ, who for us sinners descended from heaven), ‘Quinque gaudia marie’ (The five joys of Mary), ‘Sire deu omnipotent’ (Lord God Almighty), ‘Gloriouse dame seinte marie ke le fiz deu portastes’ (Glorious lady, holy Mary, who bore the son of God), ‘Omnioun opifex’ (Creator of all) (in Latin) and ‘Douce dame seinte marie virgine gente’ (Sweet lady, holy Mary, noble virgin), to which is appended the Latin prose text, ‘Omnis virtus te decorat’ (All virtue adorns you) (arts. 9i–vii; fols. 26v–28r). These are a mixture of texts in verse and prose serving various functions and include a confession and affective prayer to the cross, prayers in praise of Mary and prayers for protection from unshriven death or, in other words, dying without benefit of sacramental confession.15 Digby 86 was compiled around the time that the first books of hours were beginning to be produced for lay ownership. The De Brailes Hours (London, BL, MS Addit. 49999), for instance, was produced c. 1240. The thirteenth-century preacher’s handbook, London, BL, MS Harley 524 also concludes one of its Marian sequences with Regina clemencie Maria vocata. See Deeming, ‘French Devotional Texts’, p. 257. 15 Like the Latin sequence near the miscellany’s end (see note 12), this sequence also includes an instruction implying a communal prayer (‘oremus’, fol. 27v). In the inner margin, next to the word ‘oremus’, the scribe has added the rubric ‘ora’, in recognition perhaps of its new function as a prayer for solitary use. 14

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The first prayer in this sequence, and therefore in the miscellany as a whole, Ave jesu crist ki pur nous peccheours de cel decendistes, is preceded by a short text explaining the prayer’s origin and making promises of effectiveness. This preface attributes the prayer to St Francis and encourages the reader to make the devotion a part of daily practice: Qui chescun jour les dirra jammes desconfes ne murra. Ne en mortel pecche ne charra ne mesaventure cel jour ne li avendra. (fol. 26v)16 (Whoever says them each day never shall be vanquished nor die. Neither will he fall in mortal sin, nor will misadventure come to him that day.)

Fear of unshriven death recurs in several of the prayers collected in this miscellany, and the prioritising of this prayer as the first inclusion suggests that the compiler might have viewed it as particularly important for this reason. The second prayer in the sequence, marked with the rubric ‘Quinque gaudia marie’, begins with a similar, more expansive, promise. After attributing the prayer to Bishop Maurice of Paris, the text continues:17 Qui chescun jour le dirra .v. feze ho bone devoscioun. en la onoraunce de nostre dame seinte marie. Il verra nostre dame .v. jours devant sa mort. E ja en morteu pecche ne murra. ne desconfes. Ne mesaventure cel jour ne li avendra. De feu. Ne de ewe. Ne de playe. Ne ja en ple ne chara. Si il eyt dreit en sun defens. e femme qui le dirra de enfaunt ne perira. (fol. 27r)18 D. L. Jeffrey and B. J. Levy, eds., The Anglo-Norman Lyric: An Anthology (Toronto, 1990), refer to this genre of text as a ‘prose rubric’ (p. 67). 17 Maurice de Sully, bishop of Paris (1160–96). See Tschann and Parkes, p. xv; and Dean 742, 747, 751, 772. For a version in London, BL, MS Harley 2253, see The Complete Harley 2253 Manuscript, ed. and trans. S. Fein, with D. Raybin and J. Ziolkowski, 3 vols. (Kalamazoo, MI, 2014–15), III, 274–75, 350–51 (art. 104). 18 A similar promise became attached by the fifteenth century to the prayer O Maria piissima. This prayer asks Mary to appear at the moment of death to protect the supplicant from diabolical influence over the destination of the soul. The prayer, which appears in the late twelfth- to early thirteenth-century Winchester Psalter (London, BL, MS Cotton Nero C IV), fol. 135r, later acquired a rubric promising the supplicant that Mary would ‘without doubt’ appear at the moment of death to anyone who had said the prayer that day. For this later version of O Maria piissima, from the Malling Abbey Hours (Oxford, BodL, MS Gough liturg. 9), fols. 233v–234r, with the attached rubric, see C. Scott-Stokes, ed., Women’s Books of Hours in Medieval England: Selected Texts Translated from Latin, AngloNorman French and Middle English (Cambridge, 2006), p. 104. L. S. Chardonnens and C. Drieshen, ‘A Middle English Version of Saint Ursula’s Prayer Instruction in Nijmegen Universiteitsbibliotheek, HS 194’, Studies in Philology 110 (2013), 714–30, have demonstrated the process by which a ‘prayer instruction’ that makes similar promises dependant on the prayer’s faithful use came to circulate independently, eventually attaching to otherwise unrelated prayers. Prayer rubrics for liturgical and private devotion fulfilled multiple functions, from stating what type of prayer followed, to giving instructions on how to perform the prayer – for example, with specific gestures (S. Boynton, ‘Prayer as Liturgical Performance’, p. 917). Deeming, ‘French Devotional Texts’, pp. 256–8, discusses examples of thirteenth-century rubrics and prayer instructions that interrupt the prayer text to indicate how it should be performed. 16

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(Whoever says this prayer each day five times with good devotion, in honour of Our Lady Saint Mary, will see Our Lady five days before his death. And he will never die in mortal sin, nor will he be vanquished. Nor will misadventure befall him that day. Neither from fire. Nor from water. Nor from injury. Never will he fall in battle, if it is said in his defence. And the woman who says it will not die from childbirth.)

Both of these prefaces promise that whoever prays the following prayer faithfully will see Mary and not die while in a state of mortal sin. Both promise protection from sudden, unexpected death, with the second, rather reassuringly, listing the many forms of death which the prayer will serve to prevent, as long as one remembers to say the prayer five times daily. The prayers that follow these instructions do not ask God for such benefits, and these promises differ dramatically from the Latin prayers for protection included in the miscellany, which are more often concerned with a generalised request that the speaker be preserved from evil. The next prayer in this section, Sire Deu omnipotent, is a profession of faith and confession and is followed by another two prayers to Mary, the second of which is Douce dame seinte Marie virgine gente (fols. 27v–28r). Both Sire Deu and Douce dame ask for the opportunity to confess before death. Saying both prayers, the reader would ask both God and Mary for the ability to make a final confession: to God, ‘me doignez hui sen e reisun. e devaunt la mort confesioun. e de mes pecches remissioun’ (Give me today wisdom and good sense, confession before death and remission for my sins) (fol. 27v), and to Mary, ‘ke vous me ja ne soffrez. de moun cheytif cors estre honi. ne saunz veray confessioun morir’ (That you never allow my wretched body to be shamed, nor me without true confession to die) (fol. 28r). Between the promises appended to the first two prayers and the requests made in many of the remaining prayers of this sequence, it becomes apparent that one possible reason underlying the organisation of material in this anthology might be that each of the texts emphasises the vital importance of confession, most especially the need to avoid dying in a state of mortal sin. While, as Corrie has shown, any organisational principle based on the practicality of texts seems unlikely, given the inclusion of The Letter of Prester John (art. 8) in the miscellany’s ‘practical’ section, it is nevertheless plausible that the compiler had functional reasons in mind when choosing to bind the quire containing these vernacular prayers in proximity to the manuscript’s French pastoralia, which include a form of confession and didactic materials on the deadly sins.19 The fourth prayer sequence is a mini-compilation containing three prayers in French verse: ‘Ave seinte marie mere al creatour’ (Hail, holy Mary, mother of the Creator), ‘Ma dame pour icele joie’ (My lady, for that joy), ‘Gloriouse reine heiez de moi merci’ (Glorious queen, have mercy on me) (arts. 64i–iii; fols. 186v–190r).20 In See especially arts. 1–6 (fols. 1r–8v), which are discussed in Maureen Boulton’s and Delbert Russell’s chapters in this volume. 20 I follow Dutton in the use of the term ‘compilation’ here: ‘In a compilation, extracts from a source or sources are woven together into a text which is presented as a single, distinct work’ (Julian of Norwich, p. 3). Whether these Marian verse prayers should be considered 19

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her discussion of the prevalence of ‘grafted’ texts in Digby 86, Corrie suggests that the compiler engaged in ‘innovatory’ rather than ‘conservative’ methods, creating composite texts from existent exemplars.21 She argues that the compiler seems to have been motivated to use rhyme as an organising principle in the rearrangement of stanzas between the three sections of Ave seinte Marie mere al creatour, which brings an impressive twenty lines together rhyming on the final syllable ‘our’.22 In rearranging stanzas, she writes, the compiler has created an incongruous effect by interrupting prayers to the saints with lines containing ‘Ave’, ‘disrupting the coherence of this part of the poem’.23 Yet it is possible to see the compilation and rearrangement of stanzas as demonstrating a liturgical coherence. The invocation of saints takes the form of a litany in this prayer, with saints Peter, Paul, Andrew, ‘Jake le bon’ (James the good), Thomas, James and Philip, Bartholomew and Matthew addressed in a series of eight stanzas before the interpolated four stanzas beginning with ‘Gloriouse reine mere al creatour’ (Glorious queen, mother of the Creator) (fols. 188r–189v). Following these stanzas, the litany continues, addressing saints Simon, Jude, Matthew, Barnabas, Stephen, Laurence, George, Nicholas and Thomas the Martyr in another series of eight stanzas. Thus the interpolated lines neatly divide the litany into two sections of eight stanzas, each of which addresses saints by name, operating perhaps as a contemplative pause. The prayer concludes with the invocation of all saints and martyrs and another stanza addressed to Mary beginning ‘Gloriouse reine heez de moi merci’ (Glorious queen, have mercy on me) (fol. 190r). By rearranging the stanzas of the three prayers from which the ‘Aves’ were compiled into a single devotion, the Digby scribe creates a composite text that further integrates the different elements of each prayer into a more coherent whole.24 Corrie argues that the compiler of Digby 86 evinces ‘a mischievous and gratuitous delight in playing around with texts’.25 By analysing the miscellany’s as three separate prayers or as a single text is not a settled matter; see Tschann and Parkes, p. xxx. C. Meier-Ewert argues that the continuity between the three and the existence of the full text of ‘Les aves noustre dame’ in a total of eight manuscripts, including Digby 86, makes any division into three separate texts contrary to evidence. She argues that the text existed as a single prayer of three parts before the compilation of Digby 86. See C. Meier-Ewert, ‘A Study and a Partial Edition of the Anglo-Norman Verse in the Bodleian Manuscript Digby 86’, unpublished D.Phil. thesis, Somerville College, Oxford (Oxford, 1971), pp. 48–58. For her stemma of the text, see p. 55. Following Tschann and Parkes’s subdivision of this item into three, just as the other prayer sequences are numbered as single items composed of multiple texts, I consider these as three separate prayers that have been joined at some point in their transmission, albeit prior to the compilation of Digby 86. 21 Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, p. 241. 22 Ibid., pp. 242–3, 249 n. 23 Ibid., p. 243. 24 The three prayers are not clearly demarcated from one another with rubrics or with an amen, demonstrating that the compiler of Digby 86 presents them as a single unit. The item begins with a single rubric: ‘Ci comencent les aves noustre dame’ (Here begin the ‘Aves’ of Our Lady) (fol. 186v). On the significance of the continuation of one text into another without demarcation by rubric in Digby 86, see Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, pp. 240–1. 25 Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, p. 244.

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prayer texts specifically, we can see, in the vernacular French prayer collections, a thematic and functional coherence greater than that of the otherwise similar Latin collections, as well as a drive to improve, both stylistically and liturgically, an existing composite text.26 Such creativity and liturgical sophistication is in diametric opposition to the evidence presented by the single English prayer included in the miscellany. In consideration of the manuscript’s trilingual nature, its compiler’s creativity in the French vernacular and the well-acknowledged significance of its English texts (many of which are religious or devotional), the next section explores the surprisingly limited use of the English vernacular for the purpose of prayer.

The trilingual additional prayer sequence and English as a devotional language In one final prayer sequence, the compiler brings together the miscellany’s only trilingual collection of prayers. Located on fols. 206ra –207rb, on two singleton leaves, the cluster consists of three prayers: In Þine Honden Louerd Mine, Aue caro Cristi cara (Hail, dear body of Christ) and Presciouse dame seinte Marie (Precious lady, holy Mary) (arts. *93–*95; Fig. 1). All are later additions by the Digby scribe.27 Despite the miscellany’s many religious, didactic and devotional texts written in English, In Þine Honden Louerd Mine is its only prayer in English. Extending to a mere four lines, and preceded by a Latin title of three lines, plus the word ‘Veritatis’, apparently originally forgotten and inserted into the upper margin as a correction, this single prayer in the English vernacular reads: // Veritatis In manus tuas domine conmendo spiritum // meum redemisti me domine deus In þine honden louerd mine Ich biteche soule mine Soþfast goed bidde .i. þe Þat mine sunen forȝef þou me. (fol. 206r)

The short English verse offers a near translation of the Vulgate text of Jesus’s last words from the cross.28 The second two lines, in pursuit of the rhyming pair, ‘þe’ and ‘me’, rearranges the Latin phrasing, bringing ‘domine deus veritatis’ to the beginning of the couplet as ‘soþfast goed’. A further, and potentially more interesting, change occurs with the tense of the verb in these lines, where the completed On French as a language of prayer and the thirteenth-century fashion for translating and composing devotional texts in French, see Deeming, ‘Thirteenth-Century Preachers’ Anthologies’, pp. 259–62. 27 Aue caro Cristi cara is a Latin prayer to be said during mass at the elevation of the consecrated host. Presciouse dame seinte Marie is a long prayer in French verse asking Mary’s intercession and protection. 28 ‘Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit. You redeemed me, Lord God.’ This prayer draws upon the account of Jesus’s final words in Luke 23:46. 26

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Fig. 1. Trilingual prayer sequence. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 206r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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action of redemption becomes the hoped-for future outcome of the current prayer, explicitly pronounced in the ‘bidde I þe’. With so many prayers in the manuscript demonstrating a concern with confession and protection from sin, this focus in the English prayer on a present need for forgiveness is consistent. This prayer might also represent, however, a relatively unpolished attempt to translate Latin Scripture into doctrinally sound English verse. Later English verse translations of ‘In manus tuas’ successfully preserve the verb’s perfect tense and the relationship between the commendation of the soul and the prior act of redemption.29 The process of vernacularisation, crucial to the Fourth Lateran Council and, later, Archbishop Pecham’s Constitutions – and already achieved here in French – is evident in these brief lines. This prayer, with its meditative focus on Christ’s commendation of his spirit to God in the moments before his death, is here translated into words that might be said or sung by lay people whose language of prayer is English. Yet this single prayer text is an outlier. Writing on the role of the English language in trilingual miscellanies of the thirteenth century, Scahill argues that some manuscripts show evidence of the need for English translations of Latin material, especially homiletic or didactic texts not easily translated spontaneously, noting that ‘the need for a particular language (English) outruns the competence and resources of the compilers; hence the creation of texts, and the juxtaposition (and perhaps creation) of translations’.30 He notes the local status of English and the availability of scribes competent in the language as preconditions for the production of Digby 86 and similar trilingual miscellanies, while describing French in Digby 86 as a ‘matrix’ language, due to its pre-eminence over both Latin and English.31 Although the Digby scribe clearly shows an interest in collecting English material, including devotional texts such as Stand Well Mother under Rood (art. 45; fols. 127ra–va), this interest does not seem to extend to collecting prayers in English. Such an absence suggests either a shortage of available texts, a lack of desire to pray in English or a limited ability to translate or otherwise create texts in the language. Anyone using the miscellany for its prayers would be able to praise Mary in Latin or in French, contemplate the sufferings of Jesus while asking for his mercy in Latin or in French, confess sins directly to God in Latin or in French and ask for Other English lyrics that translate this Latin prayer refer to the action of redemption as having been completed in the past. See, for example, DIMEV 2681, 2684, 3195 (NIMEV 1599, 1600, 1952). 30 Scahill, ‘Trilingualism’, p. 23. 31 Scahill, ‘Trilingualism’, p. 24, argues that Latin holds ‘figurehead’ status, while French’s pre-eminence is such that the Latin is written with French orthography. On the status of English in the West Midlands, see Scahill, pp. 31–2. Interestingly, relatively little evidence of code-switching is evident in the prayers: Latin prayers have Latin rubrics, and several of the French prayers have French rubrics. Any Latin rubrics given for French prayers are minimal, for instance, ‘Oracio ad sanctam mariam’, ‘Oracio ad deum’ and ‘Quinque gaudia marie’ (see arts. 9i–vi). Herbert Schendl, ‘Linguistic Aspects of Code-Switching in Medieval English Texts’, in Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain, ed. D. A. Trotter (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 77–92, describes the juxtaposition of Latin with English translation or paraphrase as a ‘very common pattern’ of bilingual code-switching (p. 80). 29

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his protection from evil and unshriven death in the same languages. If this devout reader wished to prepare for confession or be reassured that any number of fearful deaths would not occur without such confession, the language of choice here would be French only. English, by contrast, seems for the Digby 86 compiler to be reserved for literary purposes. Perhaps the late inclusion of the single English prayer represents a desire, at that point still unachieved, to develop a facility with creative compilation in a second vernacular language.

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chapter four

SCIENCE, MEDICINE, PROGNOSTICATION: MS DIGBY 86 AS A HOUSEHOLD ALMANAC Marjorie Harrington

A

mong the least studied of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86’s wide-ranging contents is a compendium of utilitarian texts on fols. 1r–65r.1 This section of the trilingual household miscellany is concerned simultaneously with care for the soul and for the body, containing psalms, prayers, catechetic material, experimenta, medical recipes and guides for predicting the future by one’s dreams or by the phases of the moon. Within this section, the scribe-compiler creates clusters of scientific, medical and prognosticatory material. Unlike the more literary sections of the manuscript, the scribe returns to these clusters to insert additional medical recipes and prognostications in the margins at several different points. Later hands also add to these texts, including an early fourteenth-century scribe who inserts marginal English translations of individual words in the medical recipes and scientific experiments. Towards the end of the fourteenth century, yet another scribe copies an eclectic collection of further medical recipes on a single unruled folio that was slipped inside and eventually bound into Digby 86 as folio 16. This sustained activity shows ongoing interest in Digby 86’s practical texts over the course of more than a century. Digby 86 is best characterised as a lay person’s miscellany or encyclopedia of information and entertainment and, as such, provides insight into the interests and concerns of a late medieval English gentry family.2 Dating from near the end of the thirteenth century,3 Digby 86 was copied almost entirely by a single scribe

See the facsimile edition: Tschann and Parkes. T. Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: A Thirteenth-Century Commonplace Book in Its Social Context’, in Family and Dynasty in Late Medieval England, ed. R. Eales and S. Tyas (Donington, 2003), pp. 56–66. 3 The dating of the manuscript is suggested by a list of the kings of England on fol. 205v, which concludes with ‘Edwardus filius .x’. The tenth regnal year of Edward I was 1283. B. D. H. Miller, ‘The Early History of Bodleian MS Digby 86’, Annuale Medievale 4 (1963), 23–56 (pp. 28–9). Tschann and Parkes note that other parts of the manuscript may well have been copied after the list of kings, but conclude that ‘the collection was copied, assembled and supplemented in the last quarter of the thirteenth and, perhaps, the earliest years of the fourteenth century’ (pp. xxxvi–xxxviii). 1 2

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(Scribe A), here referred to as the ‘Digby scribe’, who was apparently also its owner and compiler.4 Three obits in the Calendar (art. 25; fols. 68v–74r) link Scribe A to the Grimhill and Underhill families in south west Worcestershire,5 and Digby 86’s contents reflect the interests and concerns of that kind of minor gentry household. In its earliest form, Digby 86 was not a single book but two separate collections of unbound quires, a division reflected by two distinct sets of quire signatures.6 The characters of the two collections are highly individual. As Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes observe, the first collection (arts. 1–20; fols. 1r–65r) is largely concerned with practical matters, gathering together essential prayers, medical recipes and reference texts to produce a handbook for the care of the soul, body and household. The second collection (arts. 21–81; fols. 65v–205v) is both more literary and more miscellaneous, containing everything from bawdy fabliaux to lists of moral proverbs for the edification of children.7 All of Digby 86’s most recognisable texts – an array of Middle English poems that includes Dame Sirith, the earliest fabliau in English (art. 59; fols. 165ra–168rb); The Two quires, fols. 81r–96v, are in another hand (Scribe B). These folios consist of the middle section of a longer text, the Disciplina clericalis (fols. 74v–97v), which was begun and completed by the Digby scribe (Scribe A); see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii–xli. Folio 16, discussed below, is a late fourteenth-century addition. 5 The Digby scribe inserts the first obit, for Alexander de Grimehull. The latter two, in an early fourteenth-century hand, are of Simon Underhull and his wife, Amice. Amice has been identified as the daughter of Richard de Grimhill II. William de Underhill, the son of Simon and Amice, made pen-trials in the manuscript, including a mock will for Robert Pendock. The Digby scribe has been tentatively identified as Richard de Grimhill II, with the conclusion that, after his death in 1307 or 1308, the manuscript passed through his daughter Amice to the Underhill family. Miller furthermore examines the five shields of arms drawn in the lower margins of fols. 47r and 68r, finding links to three more families (the FitzJohns, the de Vescis and the Beaumonts) with estates in Worcestershire (‘The Early History’, 50–5). But see also M. Corrie, who compellingly argues that one of these shields should be attributed to the Bassingbourn family instead of the Beaumonts, on the basis of a reference to ‘Aubreie de Basincbourne’ at the conclusion of L’Estrif de deus dames (fol. 195v) (‘Further Information on the Origins of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 46 (1999), 430–3). See also the chapter in this volume by John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones. 6 The first eight surviving quires (fols. 1–64) have the signatures ii–v and vii–x. The following eighteen quires (fols. 65–205) are signed A–F and L–Y (including W, but not U or V). Two final singleton leaves (fols. 206r–207v) are appended to the end of the manuscript. The quires were kept unsewn and unbound for some time; soiling on the outer leaves of some quires and folds suggests that they were kept in a wallet or wrapper. Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xliv. 7 Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xliv. In contrast to the thematic division described by Tschann and Parkes, M. Corrie observes a formal distinction between the different sections of Digby 86. Fols. 1r–74r are ruled in long lines and contain prose texts; fols. 74v–168v consist of verse texts written in two columns; fols. 169r–201v contain more verse texts copied in a single column; and fols. 202r–207v are ‘jumbled’; she concludes, ‘before the brief “coda” to the manuscript, the texts in Digby 86 were assembled into not two but three sections, and that these sections were compiled according to considerations of form rather than content’ (‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49 (pp. 237–8)). 4

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Fox and the Wolf, the only surviving English beast fable before Chaucer (art. 51; fols. 138rb–140rb); and The Harrowing of Hell, a closet drama with multiple speaking parts (art. 40; fols. 119ra–120vb) – are found in the second, miscellaneous part of the manuscript. Unlike those Middle English poems, the ‘prose texts with practical application’ that make up the first part of the manuscript have been dismissed as ‘decidedly non-literary’ and largely ignored.8 Nevertheless, their compilation and subsequent reader engagement with them demonstrates that they were of substantial interest to the manuscript’s original audiences. The principle guiding the compilation of the first collection seems to have been usefulness. The Digby scribe brings together practical religious texts such as French prose translations of the articles of faith (arts. 1–6; fols. 1r–8v); Latin psalms, antiphons and collects (arts. 20–21; fols. 62v–67v); and prayers in both French and Latin (arts. 9i–vii, 18i–ii; fols. 26v–28r, 48v). Two sets of Latin experimenta (arts. 11i–xvii, 15i–xxii; fols. 34r, 46r–48r) consist of instructions for tasks like driving away mice from the barn or unwanted guests from the house, catching flies, writing with invisible ink, choosing the best piglet from a litter or making it appear like a river is flowing inside the house. A medical treatise, The Letter of Hippocrates, includes instructions for analysing a patient’s urine, a brief description of the four humours and an assortment of medical recipes (art. 7; fols. 8v–15v, 17r–21r). A set of charms likewise provides remedies for various ailments, but typically recommends prayers and powerful words instead of herbs and concoctions (art. 10; fols. 28r–33v). The most extensive group of texts in the first collection attempts to make predictions about the future: lists of lucky and unlucky days, dream interpretation guides and prognostications based on the phase of the moon or the day of the week on which Christmas falls. There is no sense that the astrological and divinatory texts stand in opposition to the prayers and devotions, or that medical and magical remedies could not coexist. Rather, the Digby scribe commingles them as a natural grouping of reference works.

Medicine and magic A central text in the ‘practical’ section of Digby 86 is The Letter of Hippocrates, one of the most important collections of medieval vernacular medical recipes.9 It begins These characterisations are from Tschann and Parkes, p. xliii, and Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, p. 236, respectively. 9 The text of The Letter of Hippocrates is copied continuously; folio 16 is a singleton that was slipped into the quire long after the remainder of the manuscript was produced and later bound into it (see below). For a list of manuscripts containing all or part of Letter (also referred to as the Lettre d’Hippocrate), see Dean 406–409. For a discussion of the AngloNorman textual tradition, see T. Hunt, Popular Medicine in Thirteenth-Century England: Introduction and Texts (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 100–6; and P. Kibre, Hippocrates Latinus: Reportorium of Hippocratic Writings in the Latin Middle Ages, rev. edn (New York, 1985), pp. 223–6. On the related Middle English texts, see M. T. Tavormina, ‘The Middle English Letter of Ipocras’, English Studies 88 (2007), 632–52; and G. R. Keiser, ‘Verse Introductions to Middle English Medical Treatises’, English Studies 84 (2003), 301–17. A text of Letter found in London, BL, MS Harley 978, a closely related near-contemporary of the Digby 8

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with a brief prologue, ‘Ici comence le livre ypocras ki il envead a cesar l’emperour’ (Here begins the letter of Hippocrates which he sent to Caesar the emperor), which establishes the authoritative tradition that the text draws on.10 A drawing in red ink in the bottom margin, of a man facing left, wearing an elaborate headdress, labelled ‘ipocras’ in Scribe A’s hand, further emphasises that claim to authority (fol. 8v). Two short prose treatises on the humours and uroscopy make up the next section of The Letter of Hippocrates. The segment on the humours assigns the qualities of heat, cold, dryness and moisture to the humours and explains how they manifest in the body (fol. 8v). The third segment, a text listing types of urine and the diagnosis or prognosis associated with them, follows without interruption (fols. 8v–9r).11 The final section, a collection of medical recipes, is by far the most substantial (fols. 9r–15v, 17r–21r). It has no explicit connection to the preceding sections on the humours and uroscopy, but their presence as a framing device demonstrates readers’ desire to know how the recipes fit into authoritative medical traditions and practices.12 The collection of medical recipes is expansive and the variation between manuscripts shows that the tradition was not fixed but grew by accretion. It is roughly organised into thematic groupings of remedies for ailments of the eyes, ears, skin, spleen, etc. Even within the Digby 86 copy of The Letter of Hippocrates, the Digby scribe inserts additional remedies in the margins, sometimes closely linked to the nearby recipes and sometimes apparently at random.13 For instance, a section on ‘le mal des oilz’ (ailments of the eyes) (fols. 9v–10r) has subsections on concerns like ‘oil lermaunt’ (watery eyes), ‘la maele e la teye’ (eyespots and cataracts), ‘oilz dolenz’ (painful eyes) or ‘pour aver clere veue’ (to have clear sight). In the bottom margin of fol. 9v, the Digby scribe inserts – writing with a black ink that contrasts strikingly with the brown ink he uses to copy the main text – an unusual method to preserve one’s eyesight: ‘Or le disesetime jour de marz del braz destre saunc amenusez e le utime jour del averil del braz senestre james veue des euz ne perdras’ (On the seventeenth day of March let blood from the right arm and on the eighth day of April from the left arm: you will never lose your eyesight). Another of the Digby scribe’s additions to the medical recipes does not have such a clear connection to the surrounding material. In the bottom margin of fol. 15v, among a series of remedies for women struggling in childbirth, is a recipe for a hot compress to alleviate a toothache.14 text, is published in Hunt, Popular Medicine, pp. 107–37, with selected recipes found only in Digby at pp. 140–1. 10 Modern English translations of quoted material throughout this chapter are my own. 11 Most manuscripts list six types of urine, but the Digby text contains only five. See Dean 406–441. 12 Tavormina, ‘The Middle English Letter of Ipocras’, p. 648. 13 The Digby scribe’s additions to Letter are found on fols. 9v, 15v, 19v, 20r and 20v–21r. 14 ‘Pur dolour de denz. prenez mousere une bone poingne si la fetes quire en vin … taunt ke le vin soyt anenti. Issi ke l’erbe soit ben moiste. puis metez de cel erbe si chaut cum vus le purez soffrir sur le mal. par desouz les levres e de hors a l’encountre si le liez. quant sera refreidi. si metez plus chaut. Si garrez ben’ (For toothache, take a good handful of

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A final sequence of three additions to the medical recipes by the Digby scribe consists of broadly applicable meta-remedies and experiments to ensure the efficacy of the other remedies. First, if jet, a gemstone used for various medicinal purposes, loses its virtue, then it can be restored by washing it in white wine and touching it to crystal.15 The remaining two marginal additions by the Digby scribe test the strength of a treacle (an all-purpose name for a liquid medicine) and of a balm, respectively. If a treacle is effective, a silk thread dipped in it and wrapped around a candle will extinguish the flame.16 The test for a balm involves putting a small sample on the point of a needle and dipping the needle into a cup of water; the balm should neither float on the surface of the water nor fall to the bottom of the cup, but cling to the needle.17 Although modern readers do not often think of magic and medicine in the same breath, medieval popular magic and medical remedies are closely linked in their utilitarian concerns. Most common late medieval charms act as preventative measures, designed, for example, to ‘inoculate against disease, keep demonic forces at bay, provide an antidote for curses and sorceries and protect animals, fields and travelers from natural and unnatural disasters’.18 A collection of French and Latin charms in Digby 86 provides a typical sampling of utilitarian popular magic underpinned by deep devotion (art. 10; fols. 28r–33v).19 Items in this collection are often (and apparently interchangeably) named in the rubrics ‘charme’ (charm), ‘mescine’ (remedy) or ‘oreisun’ (prayer). Another frequent construction names the purpose

mouse-ear [a herb] and cook it in wine … until the wine disappears, so the herb is very moist. Then place some of the herb, as hot as you can endure, on the pain, underneath the lips and then bind it around outside. When it becomes cold, then put on more hot. Then you will heal well). 15 ‘Si jeet eyt perdu sa vertu par ewe. fetes la laver en blaunc vin e puis la secchez e le touchez a cristal’ (‘If jet has lost its strength because of water, wash it in white wine and afterward dry it and touch it to crystal’) (fol. 20r, bottom margin). 16 ‘Pur triacle espruver. prenez un fil de seie. si le moillez dedenz le triacle e noiiez cel fil e evolupez entour une chaunddile de cire e fetes la enluminer e ele desteynderad quant ceo vendrad al fil’ (To put a treacle to the test. Take a silk thread, then moisten it in the treacle and submerge the thread and wrap it around a wax candle and light it and it will go out when it reaches the thread) (fol. 19v, bottom margin). 17 ‘Pur baume espruver. prenez une aguille si la touchez dedenz la fiole del baume e puis prenez ewe de fontaine clere en ben anap. e touchez le point del aguille en cel ewe e la goute demorad en lewe. si ele flote ren ne vaut ne si ele chet aval. Mes si ele se tent en pes donke est bone. e si ele se prent autre fez al aguille ke la puisez remettre en la fiole’ (To put a balm to the test. Take a needle and touch it within the vial of balm. And then take water from a clear fountain in a good goblet and touch the point of the needle in that water and the droplet will remain in the water. If it floats, it is no good, nor if it sinks to the bottom. But if it clings motionless, then it is good. And if a second time it holds onto the needle that you draw up, put it back in the vial) (fols. 20v–21r, bottom margin). 18 K. L. Jolly, ‘Medieval Magic: Definitions, Beliefs, Practices’, in Witchcraft and Magic in Europe: The Middle Ages, ed. B. Ankerloo and S. Clark (Philadelphia, 2002), pp. 1–72 (p. 43). 19 A selection of twelve French charms from this collection is printed in Hunt, Popular Medicine, pp. 83–6.

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of the charm and moves directly into a prayer: ‘Pur fevres. In nomine patris’ (For fevers. In the name of the Father), etc. (fol. 28v). The Digby 86 charms, like much late medieval popular magic, derive their apparent power from Christian prayers and references to biblical and apocryphal narratives. Charms often adopt the prayers and ritual language of institutionalised religion, repurposing its powerful words and symbols in essentially magical ways for personal use.20 By incorporating biblical passages, prayers and formulas, they take on the attributes of an orthodox religious act. As a rule, the familiar sacred words that make their way into charms are not treated as a scandalous or blasphemous misuse of sacred language, but presented with a pious attitude.21 In Digby 86, the Digby scribe signals the overall religious character of the charm collection by preceding it in the manuscript with two prayers rubricated ‘Oracio ad deum’ (fol. 27v) and ‘Oracio ad sanctam mariam’ (fol. 28r). Individual charms generally conclude with instructions to recite a prayer, often in sets of three. Several of the charms have narrative introductions, or historiolae, that describe a miracle or supernatural event. The charms use the historiolae as precedents, creating an analogy for the situation at hand and using it as the grounds for a claim to divine help.22 One charm, for example, refers to Job’s affliction with worms and subsequent healing, then calls on Jesus to heal a case of farcy, an infectious disease suffered by horses:23 Pur farcin dites ceste charme. Seint job verms out. quanz out. noef out. de noef a vit. de vit a set. de set a sis. de sis a cink. de cink a quatre. de quatre a treis. de treis a deus. de deus a un. de un a nul. Jhesu Crist si veraiment cum tu garises seint job de vermine. si veraiment gauris feraunt de farcin e dites trai feze. pater noster. si guarrad. (fol. 28r) (For farcy say this charm: Saint Job had worms. How many did he have? He had nine. From nine to eight, from eight to seven, from seven to six, from six to five, from five to four, from four to three, from three to two, from two to one, from one to none. Jesus Christ, just as you healed Saint Job from vermin, truly heal this grey horse from farcy. And say Pater noster three times. Thus it will heal.) On the role of religion in popular magic, see E. Peters, ‘The Medieval Church and State on Superstition, Magic and Witchcraft: From Augustine to the Sixteenth Century’, in Witchcraft and Magic in Europe: The Middle Ages, ed. B. Ankerloo and S. Clark (Philadelphia, 2002), pp. 173–245 (p. 230); S. Wilson, The Magical Universe: Everyday Ritual and Magic in Pre-Modern Europe (New York, 2000), pp. 460–505; L. T. Olsan, ‘Latin Charms of Medieval England: Verbal Healing in a Christian Oral Tradition’, Oral Tradition 7 (1992), 116–42 (pp. 129–33); and C. Rider, ‘Medical Magic and the Church in ThirteenthCentury England’, Social History of Medicine 24 (2011), 92–107. 21 See, e.g., D. C. Skemer, Binding Words: Textual Amulets in the Middle Ages (University Park, PA, 2006); and D. E. Gay, ‘On the Christianity of Incantations’, in Charms and Charming in Europe, ed. J. Roper (New York, 2004), pp. 32–46. 22 D. Frankfurter, ‘Narrating Power: The Theory and Practice of the Magical Historiola in Ritual Spells’, in Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, ed. M. Meyer and P. Mirecki (New York, 1995), pp. 457–76 (p. 461); and Skemer, Binding Words, pp. 83–4. 23 For a selection of related charms against farcy, see Hunt, Popular Medicine, p. 83. 20

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Concluding with the instruction to repeat a familiar Latin prayer seals the deal and confirms the efficacy of the method. The Digby scribe frequently includes both medical recipes and charms to treat the same diseases and conditions. Recurring concerns in both sections include reducing fevers, aiding in childbirth, healing sores and, above all, staunching blood. Typically, the remedies in The Letter of Hippocrates involve making potions and poultices out of plants, minerals and foodstuffs. A representative method for staunching blood from this text instructs, ‘Pur saunc estauncher. prenez foilles de audne. e triblez sis metez’ (to staunch blood, take alder leaves and crush them, then apply them).24 Comparable remedies from among the charms are more likely to prescribe prayers than poultices, such as this ‘oreisun’ to staunch blood: Nostre seignour fu pris. e en la croyz fu mis. longi[nu]s puis vint alur. e de sa launce li feri. saunc e ewe en issi tret. ses oilz leve e cler veit. pur la vertu ki deus .i. fist. conjur les veins. e le saunc. ki ne seine plus avaunt deu veray pere. pater noster .iii. fez le dirrez. (fol. 28r) (Our lord was taken and put on the cross. Longinus then went there and with his lance he struck him. Blood and water then shot forth. He lifted his eyes and saw clearly. Through the wonder that God carried out there, I call upon the veins and the blood to not bleed any longer, O God, true Father. Say Pater noster three times.)

The Digby scribe’s compilation of medical and magical methods to staunch blood suggests that he saw no apparent contradiction between them. It seems perfectly reasonable to him to invoke both the Longinus historiola and apply a topical medicine. Medical recipes work hand in hand with popular magic. As with The Letter of Hippocrates, the Digby scribe returns to the series of charms to add supplementary material in the margins. One such insertion, in the bottom margin of fol. 28v, is an instruction to let blood on certain days in order to prevent fevers – a remedy reminiscent of material found among the medical recipes.25 The surrounding material in the main text is a narrative charm against fevers that draws on a historiola in which God heals Peter from a fever. It describes how ‘Ante portam galilee jacebat petrus febric[it]ans’ (Peter lay in a fever outside the gate of Galilee) and when he complained to God about his ailment, ‘dominus manu sua tetigit. +. et statim sanus fiet. +.’ (the Lord touched him with his hand so that he immediately became whole) (fols. 28v–29r). Peter asks God to provide an angel to heal others

This recipe continues with the note that ‘Ceste mescine. estaunche goute festre. si | vous li metez od sel e od ortie’ (this remedy stops a festering sore if you apply it with salt and nettle’) (fol. 15r). 25 ‘Or en fin de may le quart jour ou le quint saunc amenusez de aundeus ses braz. james fevers n’averraz’ (Now, finally, on the fourth or fifth day of May let blood from both arms. You will never have fevers). Another marginal addition among the charms is a list of ‘Egyptian’ days on which it is unlucky to let blood or take medicine (fol. 33v). 24

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suffering from fevers, and the charm concludes with a prayer that can be said to that angel (‘+’ indicates the sign of the cross): +. angelus domini nostri ihesu cristi. +. liberet hunc famulum dei. +. Nomen. de febribus. +. siue cotidianis. +. siue biduanis. +. siue triduanis. +. siue quartanis. +. cristus vicit. +. cristus rengnat. +. cristus inperat. +. cristus famulum dei. +. redimat. +. de fabribus. +. et de omnibus malis defendat. +. per crucis hoc singnum fugerat procul omne malingnum. et per idem singnum saluetur quodam beningnum + (fol. 29r) (May the angel of our Lord Jesus Christ free this servant of God, [Name], from fevers, whether they be quotidian, biduan, tertian or quartan. Christ conquers, Christ reigns, Christ governs. May Christ redeem this servant of God from fevers and defend him from all kinds of evil. Through this sign of the cross, may every evil thing run far away and through this same sign, may every good thing be saved.)

The placement of the bloodletting preventative in the margin adjacent to this charm to heal fevers paints a very clear picture of a scribe who hoped that the members of the household would never again suffer from such things and who wanted to draw on all kinds of knowledge, both medical and magical, to ensure it.

Experimenta and prognostication A missing quire following fol. 33 means that the conclusion of the charms has been lost, along with the opening of the following text, a collection of experimenta (art. 11; fol. 34r). In the Middle Ages, experimenta meant information derived from experience, not scientific experiments in the modern sense. As a category, it encompasses the ‘medical, chemical, culinary, artistic, magical and necromantic’ and variety is the rule.26 The Latin experimenta on this folio offer instructions for a wide array of household tasks and party tricks, including ‘Ut apareat aliquibus quasi flumen sit in domibus’ (How to make it appear to people as if there is a river in a house); ‘Vt homines exeant a domo’ (How to make people leave your house); ‘Si vis eligere meliorem porcellum’ (If you want to choose a better piglet); ‘Ad muscas necandas’ (In order to kill flies); ‘Si vis facere aliqua mortua cantare’ (If you want to make a dead woman sing); ‘Si quis wlt aparere quasi sit lazarus’ (If someone wants to appear like Lazarus);27 and ‘Si quis wlt ne aliquis scribat super parcamenum emtum bonum’ (If someone wants another person not to write on his good purchased parchment).28 L. Thorndike, A History of Magic and Experimental Science, 8 vols. (New York, 1923–58), II, 802. On the term experimenta versus the Digby scribe’s ‘experimencia’, see Jennifer Jahner’s chapter in this volume (p. 73 n. 1). 27 This trick involves applying ‘pulvere tapsie’ (powdered thapsia, a plant that produces an irritating sap), so that the person becomes ‘grossus et inflatus’ (swollen and inflamed). Immediately following is a method for reversal ‘si quis wlt tumorem talem abicere’ (if someone wants to remove such a swelling). 28 The simple method to protect one’s high-quality parchment is to hide it under ‘parum de 26

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This eclectic grouping of experimenta ends without fanfare, with the observation that ‘Annetum facit hominem dormire per longum tempus’ (Anise makes a person sleep for a long time) – perhaps a sly nod towards the following text, the Somniale Danielis, a guide for how to interpret the meaning of dreams and predict the future according to them (art. 12; fols. 34v–40r). The Somniale Danielis was the most popular dreambook in the Middle Ages, with over 150 surviving manuscript copies.29 Its name derives from the Old Testament prophet Daniel, known for his role as an interpreter of dreams; like The Letter of Hippocrates, the attribution is an authorising gesture. Originally composed in Greek, it was translated into Latin in the seventh century and into various vernaculars in the later Middle Ages.30 Over two-thirds of the surviving copies of the Somniale, including the version in Digby 86, are in Latin.31 Examples of the Somniale tradition consist of an index of dreams and their interpretations, usually structured so that each entry begins with a keyword corresponding to the theme of the dream. These keywords were then ordered alphabetically, followed by a brief interpretation. This predictable structure lent itself to the addition, omission and elaboration of dreams and their interpretations, and allowed readers to interpret their own dreams without specialised training. A large initial introduces each section of the Digby 86 Somniale, making its alphabetical patterning easy to follow. Early Latin copies of the Somniale fall into two subgroups, a and b, but most late medieval copies are conflations of the a and b versions – the result of contamination by multiple exemplars. Unusually, the version of the Somniale preserved in Digby represents only the a version of the text, though at 514 dreams, it is much larger than any of the earlier a manuscripts.32 As a result, it seems likely that it was the Digby scribe himself who added and subdivided the dream symbols and their interpretations unique to the manuscript.33 Scattered among the dreams are simple red-ink line drawings in the margins, apparently inspired by the objects and actions that a dreamer might encounter. On fol. 34v, a person in profile holding a chalice to his lips is accompanied by the caption ‘bibo’ (I drink), perhaps a reference to the dream interpretation ‘Abscincium bibere: litem grauem significat’ (Drinking absinthe signifies a grave quarrel) on the same folio. Another drawing on the same page, a long rectangular box with a cross on the top surface, is labelled ‘toumba’ (tomb). There is no specific reference to graves or tombs on this folio, but the image might respond to the dream ‘A mortuo cepe ita quod non apareat’ (a similar one of [‘onionskin’? or ‘cheap’, borrowed from Middle English?] so that it doesn’t appear). 29 See Somniale Danielis: An Edition of a Medieval Latin Dream Interpretation Handbook, ed. L. T. Martin (Bern, 1981); and The Complete Medieval Dreambook: A Multilingual, Alphabetical Somnia Danielis Collation, ed. S. R. Fischer (Bern, 1982). 30 L. DiTommaso, The Book of Daniel and the Apocryphal Daniel Literature (Leiden, 2005), pp. 233–7. 31 Ibid., pp. 378–93. 32 Martin, Somniale Danielis, p. 32. 33 Ibid., pp. 5–6.

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aliquid accipere vel cum eo loqui ossencionem bonam significat’ (Taking something from a dead person or talking to one signifies a good showing) (fols. 34v–35r). A hand with the index and middle fingers extended in benediction reaches towards the large initial B of ‘Benediscere se videre vel deum rogare bonum vel gaudium significat’ (Seeing oneself blessing or asking God for something signifies something good or joy) that begins the set of keywords beginning with b (fol. 35r). Likewise, the first dream of the c sequence, ‘Celum ascendere honorem [significat]’ (Rising to heaven signifies honour), is marked by a drawing of ‘celum’ (heaven), depicted here as wavy parallel lines arranged in a triangle (fol. 35r).34 The stretch of prognosticatory material continues with Les singnes del jour de nouel, a set of predictions for the following year according to the day of the week on which Christmas falls (art. 13; fols. 40r–41r), immediately following the Somniale Danielis. A rubric identifies the text as ‘les singnes del jour de nouel’ (signs according to the day of Christmas). Each day of the week has a set of predictions associated with it, among them the character of the seasons (dry, wet, windy, etc.), the harvest (good or bad), growth or loss of crops and animals, births, deaths, political happenings, the result of sickness and the recovery of lost property or persons.35 After the Christmas predictions comes the Soungnarie Daniel (art. 14; fols. 41r–46r), another cyclical prognostication tool in French. This is a lunary, one of a wide variety of medieval prognostic genres that employ the aspects of the moon as a structural feature – in this case, the thirty days of the lunar synodic month from new moon to new moon.36 Lunaries can be subdivided into several genres that fall into two groups: collective lunaries, which contain predictions for a variety of occasions, and specific lunaries, which predict the outcome of one topic only. Specific lunaries deal with what actions should be undertaken on each day of the synodic month, the character and course of life of a child born on that day, appropriate times for bleeding, the predictive value of dreams or the course of and possible recovery from illness. Collective lunaries comprise all these topics plus

Other drawings in the margins of the Somniale Danielis include a building with a cross, unlabelled, but probably referring to ‘Eclesiam edificare vel intrare . nouum sacerdotem significat’ (Building or entering a church signifies a new priest) (fol. 36v). An indeterminate animal could potentially be the ‘hircum vel apram’ (wild goat or sow) that signifies ‘expectationem’ (something longed for) (fol. 37r). 35 See T. Hunt, ‘Les Pronostics en anglo-normand: Méthodes et documents’, in Moult Obscures Paroles: Études sur la prophétie médiévale, ed. R. Trachsler (Paris, 2007), pp. 29–50 (p. 39). 36 Other genres include zodiacal lunaries, which take into account the joint influence of the twelve signs of the zodiac and the moon, and the mansions of the moon, which are structured by the moon’s circuit through the stars as seen from earth. Here, I follow the nomenclature for the various lunar prognostic genres laid out in I. Taavitsainen, Middle English Lunaries: A Study of the Genre, Mémoires de la Société philologique de Helsinki 24 (Helsinki, 1988), pp. 37–9, 45–8. In addition to the Soungnarie Daniel, lunary information relating to diet and to administration of medical treatment has been added in the bottom margins throughout the Calendar (fols. 68v–74r). 34

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two that are never encountered in isolation in English manuscripts: the return of a fugitive and the recovery of stolen or lost property.37 The Digby 86 Soungnarie Daniel is a collective lunary. Acting as a visual cue for the beginning of the text, there is a drawing labelled ‘luna’ (moon) in the bottom margin of fol. 41r. Each entry in the lunary begins with a reference to biblical events – for example, that ‘la premere lune’ (the first day of the moon) is the day on which Adam was created.38 An agenda component reveals what kinds of actions are appropriate for each day of the moon, with topics ranging from trade, the education of children, travelling, marriage, agricultural matters and moving house. The birth component reveals the character, walk of life and career opportunities of a newborn child, sometimes distinguishing between boys and girls born on this day. A bloodletting component declares the result of bleeding and may mention the best hour for doing so, or the body parts from which one should be bled. The illness component reveals the outcome of an illness depending upon the day of the moon on which the illness started. The predictions range from death to life, with a whole range of discomforts or recovery scenarios in between. Finally, a psalm is named as appropriate to the day. Supplementing the lunary proper, the Digby scribe inserts additional commentary on the characteristics of certain perilous days of the lunar month in the bottom margins of fols. 42v–43r and 44v–45r. This material, attributed to ‘seynt bede’, explains that ‘En checun meys sunt .ii. jours en queus nule rens nest bon a comencer kar si vus rens comencez. ja a chef ne vendrez’ (In each month there are two days on which it is not good to begin anything, because if you begin anything you will never bring it to completion) (fol. 42v). Likewise, letting blood or taking medicine will prove fatal to man or beast on certain days of the month. Rounding out the calamitous predictions is the slightly absurd assurance that ‘si aucun en ceus .iii. jours de houwe manjuez. le quarauntime jour morraz’ (if anyone eats goose on these three days, he will die on the fortieth day) (fol. 45r). After the thirtieth day of the moon, the Digby scribe copies another batch of Latin experimenta (art. 15; fols. 46r–48r), with a rubric labelling them ‘bona et optima’ (good and best). Like the first group, this is a highly varied group of tips, party tricks and chemical experiments.39 The experimenta come in thematic groups likely copied from the same source. The first group is a set of varyingly practical scribal techniques. These begin with useful instructions for how to apply gold leaf or make metallic letters, then move to the frivolous – how to write so that the letters are only visible when heated, or so that they are invisible by day and visible by night, or only legible in a mirror (fol. 46r–v). There are two sets of tricks involving candles, comprising three ways to light a candle by focusing the sun’s rays onto lint Taavitsainen, Middle English Lunaries, pp. 98–101. See Hunt, ‘Les Pronostics en anglo-normand’, p. 39. 39 For parallels to some of the experimenta in Digby 86, see Thorndike’s discussion of the Eighty-Eight Natural Experiments of Rasis, the Book of Fires for Burning Enemies of Marcus Grecus, an anonymous work called The Secret of the Philosophers and various unnamed and anonymously authored collections of experimenta (A History, I, 784–99). 37 38

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or charred cloth (adjacent to a marginal drawing of the sun, fol. 46v), and then a sequence on how to light a candle from an image painted on a wall, how to light a thousand candles at once, how to make a candle burn underwater or make it go out instantly when lit (fol. 47v). A lengthy section deals with unusual things that can be done with eggs, including how to strike one with a stick without breaking it and how to make one go inside a glass bottle with a narrow opening, again without breaking it (fol. 47r). There are three separate methods to make water look and taste like wine (fol. 46v) and various ingenious ways to make inanimate objects seem alive with quicksilver (fol. 47r). Following the last of the experimenta is a text, Pur sounge esprover (art. 16; fol. 48r), that combines the pseudo-scientific confidence of the experimenta with the prognosticatory themes of the surrounding material. This text begins simply with a three-line red initial, the same level of decoration used to mark section breaks in the experimenta, making it appear at first no more than a subdivision of the preceding text, but a marginal rubric identifies it as a separate entry. Like the experimenta, Pur sounge esprover provides straightforward instructions that produce a wondrous result – or, in this case, semi-miraculous knowledge. It is a mantic alphabet, a form of bibliomancy that makes use of the random consultation of books to obtain a letter that forms the key to predicting future events.40 Mantic alphabets are often (as in Digby) found alongside other prognosticatory texts such as alphabetical dreambooks and lunaries.41 Pur sounge esprover begins with an introductory paragraph in French explaining its use. Like the Somniale Danielis, the prompt for its use is having had a dream, but, unlike that text, the subject of the dream is irrelevant: Pur sounge esprover: Si vous volez saver la verite de voustre sounge. Alez a mouster deuaunt le auter e aiunuilez e diez. miserere mei deus. e domine ne in furore. e pernez pus un sauter clos e overez cel sauter. e par la premeraine lettre de la ceneitre pagine poez saver la verite de vostre sounge. (fol. 48r) (To put a dream to the test: If you would like to know the truth of your dream, go to church before the altar and kneel and say ‘Miserere mei Deus’ and ‘Domine ne in furore’ and then take a closed psalter and open this psalter. And by the first letter on the left page you can know the truth of your dream.) The complete text of Pur sounge esprover is printed in Hunt, ‘Les Pronostics en anglonormand’, pp. 44–5; and in L. S. Chardonnens, ‘Two Newly Discovered Mantic Dream Alphabets in Medieval French’, Medium Ævum 80 (2011), 112–14. 41 L. S. Chardonnens, ‘Mantic Alphabets in Medieval Western Manuscripts and Early Printed Books’, Modern Philology 110 (2013), 340–66 (pp. 340–1); Chardonnens, ‘Newly Discovered’, p. 111. Mantic alphabets are occasionally attributed to the Old Testament patriarch Joseph and known as Somniale Ioseph, in imitation of the label Somniale Danielis for alphabetical dreambooks. Chardonnens observes that roughly a third of the surviving mantic alphabets contain an attribution to Joseph, and that this attribution is more common in manuscripts from southern Germany, western Austria, Switzerland and northern Italy, and less common in French and British manuscripts. L. S. Chardonnens, ‘“Thes byne the knoyng off dremys”: Mantic Alphabets in Late Medieval English’, Anglia 132 (2014), 473–505 (pp. 481–2). 40

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After the instructions to go to church, recite two psalms and open a psalter at random to receive a letter, Pur sounge esprover provides an alphabet key in Latin. Only once all of these steps have been carried out is the significance of the dream revealed. These range from ‘pecuniam vel potestatem’ (money or power) to ‘inanem litem’ (a foolish quarrel) or ‘fero occisionem vel mortem’ (slaughter by a wild animal or death). There are twenty-four possible interpretations: one for each letter of the alphabet (omitting j, u and w) and for the tironian et. Experimenta exploit the hidden properties of material objects in order to create marvellous effects, with examples in Digby 86 that range from more effective ways to gild illuminations to purely theatrical tricks like inserting an unbroken egg into a bottle. Prognostications offer a glimpse into the unknowable future through charting astrological phenomena and analysing dreams. In recognition of their similar nature, the Digby scribe brings these two genres together in Digby 86 in a section that promises to make the hidden marvels of the universe accessible to the reader.

Later readers After Digby 86 passed from the Digby scribe’s hands, its later owners (at least initially the Underhill family in south west Worcestershire) seem to have continued to use the manuscript in large part as a household book of medicine and science. This sustained usage re-emphasises the importance of Digby 86’s nonliterary contents. Two later readers, in particular, leave traces of their interest in the medical and scientific texts: an early fourteenth-century scribe who inserts interlinear glosses of French and Latin words and a late fourteenth- or early fifteenth-century scribe whose loose folio of medical recipes was bound into the middle of The Letter of Hippocrates. The first of these two users writes interlinear Middle English translations of scattered French words in The Letter of Hippocrates. The glossed words are often technical vocabulary, such as names of plants like ‘parele’, glossed ‘dokke’ (dock) (fol. 20r), or ‘sauz’, glossed ‘salwe’ (willow) (fol. 15v).42 Nonbotanical ingredients also occasionally receive the same treatment: ‘les ungles de la chevre’ (a she-goat’s hooves) is interpreted as ‘hoofe’ and ‘peiz’ (pitch) becomes ‘pich’ (fol. 15r). The names of diseases are intermittently translated, including ‘teine’ or ‘teingne’, a scaly skin disease, which is translated as ‘scalle’ (scab) in two separate places (fols. 15r, 20r). Another skin disease, ‘dertre’, is glossed as ‘dreye scalle’ (dry scab) (fol. 20r). The same early fourteenth-century scribe inserts a handful of interlinear translations of Latin words in the experimenta. The frequency of glossing is similar to that found in The Letter of Hippocrates, suggesting that this scribe was equally A few glosses translate more everyday words, making it difficult to discern the scribe’s level of fluency in French. A recipe ‘Pur fere blaunche face’ (To make your face white) (fol. 11r) instructs the user to apply a lotion made from pork and chicken fat, then rinse it off with thin oatmeal and ‘ewe tedue’ (lukewarm water). Above ‘tedue’, the later reader has written ‘leow’ (tepid). And in a remedy for a toothache, ‘petit orteil’ (little toe) is glossed as ‘luitel too’.

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comfortable reading French and Latin. Thus, for example, ‘lixiuum’ (lye) is glossed as ‘lyȝe’ and ‘ampullas’ (jars) as ‘pottes’ (fol. 47v). One fascinating experimentum, highlighted by a red-ink drawing of a rooster in the bottom margin, explains how to make that bird appear to sing while being roasted over the fire: Vt gallus cantet in veru et voluatur per se includatur argentum viuum in calamo bene ne exeat et ponatur per guttur ipsius e postea ponatur ad ingnem. Si idem calamus ponatur in ventre pissis qui ad ingnem assandus est saltabit ab ingne cum calor ad argentum viuum prouenerit. (fol. 47r–v) (So that a rooster will sing on the spit and turn. Let quicksilver be enclosed well in a pen so that it will not get out and place it in the rooster’s throat and afterward place it in the fire. If the same pen is placed in the stomach of a fish that is roasting at a fire it will leap from the fire through the heat that will have come from the quicksilver.)

This particular experimentum is unusually heavily glossed, suggesting a careful reader who may have actually attempted to carry it out. Thus, ‘veru’ (a roasting spit) is glossed here as ‘broche’, ‘voluatur’ (turn) as ‘turne’ and ‘calamo’ (reed pen) as ‘penne’. The method is based on alchemical principles, drawing on the properties attributed to mercury – living silver. By supplying roasting chickens or fish with quicksilver, the animals will regain life-like characteristics, singing and leaping.43 The latest and most substantial intervention in the practical Digby texts is a single leaf, folio 16, with an assortment of medical recipes in a late fourteenth-century hand, not originally part of the quire but slipped into The Letter of Hippocrates and later bound into the codex (see the Appendix for a transcription and translation). The folio is unruled, blotched and messy, with the remains of horizontal and vertical creases suggesting that it was originally folded into quarters and flattened as part of the binding process.44 The margins are almost nonexistent and several lines have lost their first few letters in the gutter. The recipes are copied on the recto only and a still-later hand (after the leaf was flattened and bound in) has sketched a horned figure playing a bagpipe on the verso. The recipes on fol. 16r do not repeat the material found in The Letter of Hippocrates, but they act as a supplement to it (Fig. 1). They are trilingual, beginning with an English remedy for a stitch, moving seamlessly mid-phrase to French in the second remedy and remaining in that language for the bulk of the remaining recipes. The final element, after the sequence of treatments for specific ailments, is a Latin charm to determine whether a sick person will die. After the user repeats a series of preliminary prayers, the charm promises that Christ will moisten the sick person’s feet if he is about to die – perhaps an oblique reference to the gospel

The same technique of heating a sealed object containing mercury was also employed to make a ring hop around the house ‘ad modum locuste’ (like a locust), as if it were alive (fol. 47r). 44 Tschann and Parkes, p. lvi. 43

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Fig. 1. Trilingual medical recipes added by a late fourteenth- or fifteenth-century hand, on a leaf inserted as an addition to The Letter of Hippocrates. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 16r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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account of the woman who anointed Jesus’s feet with oil shortly before his crucifixion, which he describes as a fitting token of his impending burial.45 The interlinear glossator of the medical recipes and experimenta and the later reader who inserted the leaf of additional recipes show that Digby 86 continued to be used as a practical household manual for over a hundred years after it was initially produced. They follow in the footsteps of the Digby scribe, whose manifest interest in the medical, scientific and prognosticatory texts is underscored by his habit of returning and adding new material to them. Overall, the multiple layers of scribal activity reveal that its original copyist and its subsequent owners turned to it as an encyclopedia or household almanac, adding to it and improving it as necessary. As Thorlac Turville-Petre argues, as an early example of a household manuscript Digby 86 provides ‘us the opportunity to peer a little way into the interests – literary, cultural, practical, all of them together – of a thirteenth-century gentry family’.46 By analysing its nonliterary texts, we gain a dynamic view of the continued interests of its readers over more than a century of use.

Luke 7:36–50, John 12:1–8. In the versions of this episode in Matthew and Mark, the woman anoints Jesus’s head instead of his feet. 46 Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, p. 65. 45

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Appendix The following text is a transcription and translation of the trilingual medical recipes on fol. 16r (a late fourteenth- or early fifteenth-century leaf inserted into Digby 86). Expanded abbreviations are italicised. Blotched or otherwise illegible letters are represented by asterisks. ffor a styche take þe sewt of a hors and þe iewse of þe rote of walworte and þe iiij part of þe halfe of a sel of hoyl d’olive and boyl þem wel to gedur and after ley hyt on wol and ley hyt as þe hymil ys and bynd vppon a cloȝs for le turtel de dens le cors prenez lez foylez de chene lange e la racyne de clote e boylez ben en furneyz sur menele e bevyz le matyn freyde e l’en seyre chaude Pur depesser boces bevez peluet cest a saver leinboong47 A vomyst esstencher prenez le jus de la mynt e la blaunc de l’oef e p*d** de noeze feryn d’orge e fetez emplastre e metez entor le gorgez e pur la meneysun de seuz l’umbyle Pur mamelez enflez qui sez ley malue en eus e pur le turblez offrez saym de porc e de ceo fetez emplastre Enkontre palezy oygnez le chef derere o arrogon m*rcey***n marcyeton a g**pe le mol** malade enseinent equo** donez ly dyacastoreum Pur potes f** yde e fetez emplastre an n** pylyol foyls de n** de *bl* pels un e metez apere e gy*** ius d’ache long pa**** e le jus d’ai[r]un Encountre fefur quarteyne donez mura o ew teve Pur palesy de lange de mayn de pe donez opopyra enyn ** ky s*yt quit sange ec**ore** Pur la seche touse e pur ardure pur vyse de pomoun donez dyapendeon matyn estyr decocteoun d’orge e de ysope encontre vomys sangland e tysyke dyapendeon e p[re]nez en la decocteon de draganes Pur fe[vre] ague dya p**nyz p**lapere donez ly co**pou od la decocteun de saxyfrage Pur jaunyce e pur fevre quarteyn donez t* tera saracenyca e pur dolur de chefe e pur aceyne de nuy[s]unce en ewe teve Pur royne e lepre gerologodun e de nuysunce oun kyler de cel a home ke ne put dormyr moylez drape enleinz du morel planteyn jubarbe le*n*e e popy e metyse seur le temples Pur le maryz prenez mawe moder worte e ermoyse ceo est mugwort e foyervoy de *** mellyz vii unces e des autre deus unces e fetez buller en e[we] e donez a boire e le seir teve e le matyn freide Pur berbeles longes faytz seygner de la veyne capytale ou metez la ventuse de rere le col e puis prenez jus d’aloygne e de perele e medlez od aloen e metez de fine sy vys sire vt infirmus morietur cum venens Possibly an error for ‘lange de boef ’, another name for mouse-ear hawkweed. Compare AND, s.v. boef; and MED, s.v. lange de bef.

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in loco vbi iaset stes ad hosteum et dicas ter pater noster deinde in nomine patris et cetera Antecedens veni sancte spiritus videas ergo quae primus moneat christus videlicet pedes vmet si caput morietur For a stitch, take the suet of a horse and the juice of the root of dwarf elder and a quarter part of half a container of olive oil and boil them well together and afterward place it on wool and place it as the hop plant is and bind it on with a cloth. For an abscess within the body, take the leaves of hound’s-tongue and the root of burdock and boil them well in an oven above the cross-piece and drink it cold in the morning and hot in the evening. To break down growths, drink mouse-ear, that is to say ox-tongue. To stop vomiting, take mint juice and an egg white and … of nuts and barley flour and make a plaster and place it around the neck, and for diarrhea, on the loins. For swollen breasts, those whose milk sours in them and for clots, offer pork fat and make a plaster with it. Against palsy anoint the head in back with Aragon48 … marciaton49 … healing sickness … give him diacastorium.50 For … and make a plaster … pennyroyal, leaves of … and place it openly and … juice of long celery, … and the juice of sharp herbs. Against quartan fever give myrrh with lukewarm water. For a palsy of the tongue, of the hand, or of the foot, give opopire51 … who … sheds blood …. For a dry cough and for inflammation, for a fault in the lungs, give diapenidion52 in the morning, being a decoction of barley and hyssop. Against bloody vomit and tuberculosis, diapenidion and put some dragonwort in the decoction. For ague … give him … with the decoction of saxifrage. For jaundice and for a quartan fever give … Saracen earth53 and for a headache and for any kind of ailment in lukewarm water. For mange and for leprosy, gerologodion54 and [for any kind] of ailment one spoonful of this. For a man who cannot sleep, moisten a linen cloth with nightshade, plantain, houseleek, … and poppy and place it on the temples. For the womb take mallow, motherwort and artemisia (which is mugwort) and feverfew. From … mix seven ounces and from the others two ounces and boil them in water and give it to drink lukewarm in the evening and cold in the morning. For large boils, bleed the cephalic vein, where you place the cuppingglass behind the neck and then take the juice of wormwood and dock and mix it with aloe and apply it. Finally, if you wish to know whether a sick person will die, when coming into the place where he lies, stand before the door and say three times ‘Our Father’ and afterward ‘In the name of the Father’ and so on. Going before him, say ‘Come, Holy Spirit’. Thus you will see immediately the things that Christ foretells: namely he moistens the feet if the head will die. A kind of unguent associated with the kingdom of Aragon. AND, s.v. Aragon (pharm.). An ointment for bones or joints. AND, s.v. marciaton. The smudged word preceding ‘marcyeton’ may be a first attempt to write the word, though it is not expuncted. 50 ‘A medicament prepared with beaver glands’. AND, s.v. diacastorium. 51 ‘A medical preparation or opiate that produces a fiery sensation’. AND, s.v. opopire. 52 ‘A medicament prepared with barley sugar for cough’. AND, s.v. diapenidion. 53 A powder used for medical purposes. DMLBS, s.v. Saracenicus (2d). 54 A purgative containing aloes. AND, s.v. ieralogodion. 48 49

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chapter five

LITERARY THERAPEUTICS: EXPERIMENTAL KNOWLEDGE IN MS DIGBY 86 Jennifer Jahner

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rom the classical period onward, the Latin term experimentum designated knowledge acquired through ‘experience’, whether by means of direct sense perception or through processes of trial and error.1 The remit of such experimental learning in late medieval England proved wide, encompassing the domains of artisanal practice and technological artifice, medical treatment and occult science. Within medicine, experimenta designated remedies proven effective through repeated use, while in esoteric literatures the category could apply to clever cautelae (tricks) intended to deceive the senses or unlock the hidden powers of nature.2 As early as Pliny’s Natural History, encyclopedic texts justified the inclusion of marvels and other unusual phenomena on the grounds that eyewitnesses (experti) had See DMLBS, s.v. experimentum, where the term denotes (1) testing, trial, demonstration, or proof; (2) experience vis-à-vis the senses or as a means of gaining knowledge; (3) knowledge, history or tradition; (4) a remedy or tried method; and (5) a magical device. The range of possible meanings holds for its vernacular cognates, esperiment (AngloNorman) and experiment (Middle English). The Digby scribe refers to his ‘experiments’ as experimencia in art. 15, fol. 46r, an attested but nonstandard term of reference for the genre. Throughout this essay, I use the standard terminology, experimentum/experimenta, over the scribal experimencia in order to better situate Digby 86 within the larger tradition. 2 The standard overview of the subject in the classical and medieval periods remains L. Thorndike, A History of Magic and Experimental Science, 8 vols. (New York, 1923–58), esp. vol. 2 for the period discussed in this chapter. See also W. Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature: Books of Secrets in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Princeton, NJ, 1994), esp. pp. 38–58; L. Daston and K. Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, 1150–1750 (New York, 1998), pp. 94–115; and S. Page, Magic in the Cloister: Pious Motives, Illicit Interests, and Occult Approaches to the Medieval Universe (University Park, PA, 2013). On experimenta within medical contexts, see J. Agrimi and C. Crisciani, ‘Per una ricerca su experimentumexperimenta: riflessione epistemologica e tradizione medica (secoli XIII–XV)’, in Presenza del lessico Greco e Latino nelle lingue contemporanee, ed. P. Janni and I. Mazzini (Macerata, 1990), pp. 9–49; M. McVaugh, ‘Two Montpellier Recipe Collections’, Manuscripta 20 (1976), 175–80; M. McVaugh, ‘The Experimenta of Arnald of Villanova’, Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 1 (1976), 107–18; and P. M. Jones, ‘Complexio and Experimentum: Tensions in Late Medieval Medical Practice’, in The Body in Balance: Humoral Medicines in Practice, ed. P. Horden and E. Hsu (New York, 2013), pp. 107–28. 1

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verified them ‘through experience’.3 Often used synonymously with secretum, as ‘secret’ information meant only for an initiated few, experimentum denoted less a discrete category of knowledge than a way of thinking about knowledge, its origins, dissemination and evidentiary status. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 indicates that experimenta also played a vital role in the history of medieval lay book production. The manuscript contains two sections of ‘experiments’ (arts. 11, 15; fols. 34r, 46r–48r), copied in quires v and vi by the primary scribe of the manuscript, generally accepted to be the compiler and first owner of the book.4 Written in Latin, with the occasional Middle English gloss or accidental translation (‘and’ for ‘et’, for instance), the experiments number about forty in total, with an unknown number from the first section lost due to a missing quire. The scribe introduces them in the second section as ‘experimencia bona et optima’, a designation that, by accident or design, conflates the two concepts at the heart of this essay: experientia, ‘experience’, and experimenta, ‘experiments’. These ‘tested experiences’ prove an eclectic assortment, ranging from instructions for getting people to leave one’s house, to methods for killing flies and cultivating bees, to recipes for making the ‘dead sing’ (‘facere aliqua mortua cantare’) or for helping someone ‘appear that he is Lazarus’ (‘aparere quod sit lazarus’) (fol. 34r). The second section contains recipes pertaining to book production, including instructions for writing in gold, copper or silver, or with invisible ink (fol. 46r), as well as how to light candles with the rays of the sun (fol. 46v), how to make water appear to be wine (fol. 46v) or how to make a rooster sing on a spit while turning itself (fol. 47r). As this brief survey suggests, the Digby 86 experimenta run the gamut from practical domestic tips to party entertainments to what might fairly be called magic tricks, such as submerging a candle in water without extinguishing its flame. Copied alongside other ‘efficacious’ kinds of texts – including charms, medical recipes, prognostication techniques and prayers – the experiments in Digby 86 would seem on first perusal to constitute novelty ephemera, copied as filler to the more substantive devotional and literary components of the manuscript.5 This chapter suggests, however, that experimenta can offer useful insight into the ongoing experiment that was vernacular household book production across the later Middle Ages. As a variety of knowledge at once privileged and popular, imaginative and arcane, experimenta encapsulated in miniature the multifarious powers

For an overview of Pliny’s use of the term experimentum, see Thorndike, A History, I, 53–7. See also Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, pp. 24–7. 4 For an overview of Scribe A’s hand and the evidence that he acted as the initial compiler of the manuscript, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii–xxxix. The second hand, Tschann and Parkes’s ‘Scribe B’, is responsible only for quires eleven and twelve. On the ownership of the manuscript and its use by the Grimhill and Underhill families, see B. D. H. Miller, ‘The Early History of Bodleian MS Digby 86’, Annuale Medievale 4 (1963), 26–56; Tschann and Parkes, pp. lvi–lx; and, on the initial compilation of the volume, M. Corrie, ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49. 5 On charms, prognostications and other predictive works in Digby 86, see Marjorie Harrington’s chapter in the present volume. 3

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of the household book, as it promised to guide the spirit, heal the body, educate the mind, and entertain and impress one’s family, friends and neighbours.6 The experimenta in Digby 86 suggest a voguish interest on the part of the compiler in a body of literature that straddled the boundaries of scholastic natural philosophy, practical artisanal manuals, medicine and magic. The work of discriminating between these fields proved an ongoing preoccupation of scholars across the thirteenth century, as a vastly expanded corpus of Aristotelian and Arabic scientific and medical texts made their way from the eastern Mediterranean to western Europe via translators working chiefly in Spain. Among the many texts to enter the Latin Western tradition via this route was the Kitāb sirr al-asrār, a tenth-century Arabic text known to its Latin readers as the Secretum secretorum.7 Purporting to be a letter sent by Aristotle to his pupil, Alexander the Great, it amassed an encyclopedic array of advice on royal and administrative conduct, regimens of health, remedies for illnesses and astrological and meteorological influences. Translated in its shorter form by John of Seville in the mid-twelfth century and in its longer form by Phillip of Tripoli in the thirteenth, it exerted a lasting and far-reaching influence across the later Middle Ages and early modern period, surviving in more than five hundred manuscripts in Latin and all of the major vernaculars.8 Its premise was as important to its legacy as its content: promising to divulge the secret workings of nature, it dramatised a closed circuit of intellectual transmission between learned philosophy (embodied in Aristotle) and lay nobility (embodied in Alexander). As its prefatory materials warned, the content of the Secretum secretorum did not belong to the indigni, but only to those whose virtue and discretion made them suitable for the revelation of divine arcana.9 As William Eamon notes, the ‘secrets’ of the Secretum secretorum were far from closely guarded, however much the text gestured to origins in Greek and Islamic hermeticism.10 Indeed, it proved especially popular among universitytrained clerics and, eventually, lay readers seeking the status that university learning imparted. The Secretum secretorum in this way exemplified a fundamental tension within the broader literature of ‘secrets’ and ‘experiments’ that flourished in the thirteenth century and beyond: namely, that the very privilege and esoterism that attached to these texts also drove their proliferation and dissemination. The I draw my working parameters for the household book from J. Boffey, ‘Bodleian Library, MS Arch. Selden. B. 24 and the Definitions of the “Household Book”’, in The Medieval English Book: Studies in Memory of Jeremy Griffiths, ed. A. S. G. Edwards, V. Gillespie and R. Hanna (London, 2000), pp. 125–34. 7 For an overview of the tradition and its English iterations, see Secretum secretorum: Nine English Versions, ed. M. A. Manzalaoui, EETS OS 276 (Oxford, 1977). See also S. J. Williams, The Secret of Secrets: The Scholarly Career of a Pseudo-Aristotelian Text in the Latin Middle Ages (Ann Arbor, MI, 2003); and Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, pp. 45–53. 8 See Secretum secretorum, ed. Manzalaoui, pp. ix–xxii, for translation of the short and long versions and discussion of surviving manuscripts. 9 Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, pp. 43–9. 10 Ibid. See also W. F. Ryan and C. B. Schmitt, eds., Pseudo-Aristotle: The Secret of Secrets. Sources and Influences (London, 1982). 6

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thirteenth century accordingly sees an explosion both of sanctioned Aristotelian natural philosophy – by Albertus Magnus and Roger Bacon, for instance – and of less licit pseudo-Aristotelian materials that promised to teach the manipulation and control of nature. For instance, a collection of pseudo-Albertine texts known as the Liber aggregationis, comprised of the Secreta (or Experimenta) Alberti, De mirabilibus mundi, and De secretis mulierum proved popular from the thirteenth century on by cataloguing the inner powers, or ‘virtues’, of various plants, animals and stones.11 Treatises that promised to convey the wisdom of Galen, Plato, King Solomon or the tenth-century physician āl-Rāzi also flourished. These deployed the same basic conceit of the Secretum secretorum, guaranteeing the validity of their contents by positing an eyewitness source, often positioned at great temporal and geographic remove from the reader.12 At the time of the compilation of Digby 86, then, the status of ‘experiential’ and ‘experimental’ learning as a pathway to a specialised knowledge of nature and its workings proved an active topic of debate. The first lesson of Aristotle’s Physics taught that knowledge of a thing must derive from knowledge of its causes and first principles, which could only be attained by starting with observation of what is ‘more known and certain to us’ (‘notioribus nobis … et certioribus’) and progressing to what is ‘more known and certain by nature’ (‘certiora naturae et notiora’).13 The power of observation as a means of accessing knowledge of primary causes thus loomed large in philosophical debates of the thirteenth century. In 1267, not long before the compilation of Digby 86, Roger Bacon would take a radical position on the superiority of experiential knowledge over theoretical reasoning, arguing in his Opus maius that only experience can fully verify what reason has intuited: For there are two modes of acquiring knowledge, namely, by reasoning [argumentum] and experience [experimentum]. Reasoning draws a conclusion For the Secreta Alberti and De mirabilibus mundi, see The Book of Secrets of Albertus Magnus, ed. M. R. Best and F. H. Brightman (Oxford, 1973). For discussion of the Liber aggregationis, see also Thorndike, A History, II, 720–45; Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, pp. 129–30; and I. Draelants and A. Sannino, ‘Albertinisme et hermétisme dans une anthologie en faveur de la magie, le Liber Aggregationis: prospective’, in Mélanges offerts a Hossam Elkhadem par ses amis et ses élèves, ed. F. Daelemans, J.-M. Duvosquel, R. J. Halleux and D. Juste (Brussels, 2007), pp. 223–55. 12 For examples, see Thorndike, A History, II, 751–70. On the status of eyewitness knowledge in the thirteenth-century Aristotelian tradition, see also J. B. Friedman, ‘Albert the Great’s Topoi of Direct Observation and His Debt to Thomas of Cantimpré’, in Pre-modern Encyclopaedic Texts: Proceedings of the Second COMERS Conference, Groningen 1–14 July 1996, ed. P. Binkley (Leiden, 1997), pp. 379–92. 13 Aristotle, Physics, trans. W. Moerbeke, Aristoteles Latinus Database (Turnhout, 2016), I.1.16–17; translation mine. For a complete English translation, see also The Complete Works of Aristotle, ed. J. Barnes, 2 vols. (Princeton, NJ, 1995), I, 315–446. For an overview of these debates, see Daston and Park, Wonders and Order of Nature, pp. 114–19; and for discussions of the influence of Aristotelian natural philosophy on late medieval literary craft, S. Kay, The Place of Thought: The Complexity of One in Late Medieval French Didactic Poetry (Philadelphia, 2007); and K. Robertson, Nature Speaks: Medieval Literature and Aristotelian Philosophy (Philadelphia, 2017). 11

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and makes us grant the conclusion, but does not make the conclusion certain, nor does it remove doubt so that the mind may rest on the intuition of truth [intuitu veritatis], unless the mind discovers [inveniat] it by the path of experience; since many have the arguments relating to what can be known, but because they lack experience they neglect the arguments, and neither avoid what is harmful nor follow what is good. For if a man who has never seen fire should prove by adequate reasoning that fire burns and injures things and destroys them, his mind would not be satisfied thereby … until he placed his hand or some combustible substance in the fire, so that he might prove by experience that which reasoning taught. But when he has had actual experience of combustion his mind is made certain and rests in the full light of truth. Therefore reasoning does not suffice, but experience does.14

Bacon does not suggest here that sensory experience can replace reason so much as complete it: the experience of seeing and feeling the consuming power of fire allows the witness to fully assent to what reasoned argument has already posited. In Bacon’s simple example of fire, reason and experience work in concert, with embodied sense perception verifying natural principle as it manifests in its natural form. Experimenta, however, also encompassed those marvellous or unexplained occurrences that seemed to defy nature’s laws, either by means of their own inner powers or by artificial means. This category posed a trickier philosophical problem, since it severed a principle of rational causation from the evidence of observable particulars.15 In the words of Pseudo-Albert’s De mirabilibus mundi, ‘certain things must be believed by only experience, without reason, for they be hid from men;

The translation is taken from R. Bacon, The Opus maius of Roger Bacon, trans. R. B. Burke, 2 vols. (Philadelphia, 1928), II, 583. For the Latin, see The ‘Opus majus’ of Roger Bacon, ed. J. H. Bridges, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1897–1900), here at II, 167–8: ‘Duo enim sunt modi cognoscendi, scilicet per argumentum et experimentum. Argumentum concludit et facit nos concedere conclusionem, sed non certificat neque removet dubitationem ut quiescat animus in intuitu veritatis, nisi eam inveniat via experientiae; quia multi habent argumenta ad scibilia, sed quia non habent experientiam, negligunt ea, nec vitant nociva nec persequuntur bona. Si enim aliquis homo qui nunquam vidit ignem probavit per argumenta sufficientia quod ignis comburit et laedit res et destruit, nunquam propter hoc quiesceret animus audientis … antequam poneret manum vel rem combustibilem ad ignem, ut per experientiam probaret quod argumetum edocebat. Sed assumpta experientia combustionis certificatur animus et quiescit in fulgore veritatis. Ergo argumentum non sufficit, sed experientia’. Bacon’s theory of scientia experimentalis has generated a huge bibliography. For starting points, see A. C. Crombie, Robert Grosseteste and Origins of Experimental Science, 1100–1700 (Oxford, 1953); J. Hackett, ed., Roger Bacon and the Sciences: Commemorative Essays (Leiden, 1997); J. Hackett, ‘Experience and Demonstration in Roger Bacon: A Critical Review of Some Modern Interpretations’, Experience and Demonstration: The Sciences of Nature in the 13th and 14th Centuries, ed. A. Fidora and M. Lutz-Bachmann (Berlin, 2006), pp. 41–58; and O. Simon, ‘Roger Bacon on Light, Truth, and Experimentum’, Vivarium 42 (2004), 151–80. 15 For an overview, see Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, pp. 94–129. On the cognitive apprehension of marvels in the Islamic and Christian traditions, see M. Karnes, ‘Marvels in the Medieval Imagination’, Speculum 90 (2015), 327–65. 14

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certain [things] are to be believed only by reason, because they lack senses’.16 Bacon was especially vexed by ‘charlatans’ who would pretend to wield occult power over nature by making naturally marvellous occurrences seem man-made or by deceiving observers through various artificial means. In the Opus maius, Bacon gives the example of an experiment in which one takes a year-old sapling that springs up near the roots of the hazel tree and splits it longitudinally, dividing its two halves between two people, who hold each part with equal firmness at a distance. After some minutes, observers will see the two portions of the twig bend towards each other until eventually they touch. ‘This is a very wonderful thing’ (‘hoc est valde admirabile’), Bacon affirms, before going on to disparage the magicians who perform this experiment using incantations, thus allowing witnesses to credit the power of their words over the power of nature itself.17 Insofar as a natural marvel such as this one reflects the wonder of God’s creation, it might be productively harnessed to the project of conversion, according to Bacon. Indeed, he argues, it is the experience of witnessing the marvel, rather than the rational arguments of the faith, that can best convert the unbeliever to Christianity: ‘not by arguments but by works’ (‘non argumentis sed operibus’) will non-Christians be convinced of a new paradigm of belief.18 The political and salvific potential of such marvellous occurrences makes their perversion all the more objectionable to Bacon. In his Epistola de secretis operibus artis et naturae, he rails against ‘books of magic’ attributed apocryphally to various ancient authorities: anyone who says ‘that Solomon or some other wise person composed this or that must be refuted, for books of this sort are undertaken not by the authority of the Church, nor by wise individuals, but by seducers who dupe the world’.19 The experimenta collected in Digby 86 belong to this more dubious world of deception and entertainment. Instructions for how to make a ‘ring jump through a house in the manner of a locust’ (‘anulus saltet per domum ad modum locuste’) (fol. 47r) or to make ‘water seem like wine to its drinkers’ (‘aqua vidiatur vinum bibentibus’) (fol. 46v) or to write letters that one is ‘not able to read during the day but at night’ (‘de die legi non potest set de nocte’) (fol. 46r) would seem a good distance from the rarified world of scholastic natural philosophy. But these The Book of Secrets, ed. Best and Brightman, p. 82. Discussed also in Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, p. 129. 17 Bacon, Opus maius, II.631–3 (trans. Burke, II, 630–1; ed. Bridges, II, 219). 18 Bacon, Opus maius, II. 631–3 (trans. Burke, II, 632; ed. Bridges, II, 220). On Bacon’s utilitarianism, see R. Bartlett, The Natural and the Supernatural in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 121–37; and Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature, pp. 51–2. 19 This letter has been edited as an appendix to R. Bacon, Fr. Rogeri Bacon Opera quædam hactenus inedita, ed. J. S. Brewer (London, 1859), 521–51 (p. 526): ‘Unde quicquid dicunt quod Salomon composuit hoc vel illud, aut alii sapientes, negandum est; quia non recipiuntur hujusmodi libri auctoritate ecclesiae, nec a sapientibus, sed a seductoribus, qui mundum decipiunt.’ For discussion of the Epistola, see also Daston and Park, Wonders and the Order of Nature, pp. 94–5. On Bacon’s larger ambivalence towards magic, marvels and other goads to ‘curiosity’, see P. Ingham, The Medieval New: Ambivalence in an Age of Innovation (Philadelphia, 2015), pp. 48–72. 16

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worlds indeed proved closer than a philosopher like Bacon might have liked, as he vigorously defended nature’s mysteries from misuse by tricksters, malefactors and purveyors of popular superstition.20 Digby 86 suggests that the literature of secrets carried particular appeal for audiences at the margins of elite intellectual culture: it promised a kind of minor dominion over nature, one that transformed the microcosm of the household into a space for ‘experimentation’ with the larger universe of marvellous phenomena. A variety of works contemporary with Digby 86 reflects this interest in manufacturing wonder on the domestic scale. In the Eighty-Eight Natural Experiments ascribed to āl-Rāzi, for instance, we find instructions for burning alcohol on the tip of a finger, cooking an egg in cold water (the secret is quicklime) and gathering fish together in the same spot in a river. The so-called Book of Fires by Marcus Grecus includes recipes related to those found in Digby 86, including how to paint an image on a wall that can light a candle, how to write letters that cannot be read until heated and how to make cooked meat appear raw.21 De mirabilibus mundi, ascribed to Albertus Magnus, similarly provides instructions for lighting fires that do not burn and making visions and illusions appear by preparing special wicks and lanterns.22 Perhaps the most ambitious and unusual of these works, however, is the Secretum philosophorum. Composed in England c. 1300, it purports to be an introductory treatise to the seven liberal arts. After a perfunctory preface explaining that the book contains ‘certain “secrets” that are considered by the vulgar to be impossible but according to philosophers [are] secret and necessary’ (‘quedam secreta que reputatione vulgari sunt impossibilia, apud philosophos secreta et necessaria’), the author proceeds according to the arrangement of the trivium and quadrivium, with headings for Grammar, Rhetoric, Dialectic, Arithmetic, Music, Geometry and Astronomy.23 But while the section on Grammar suggests that it will teach its reader As Eamon notes, a number of natural philosophical ‘secrets’ bore ‘striking resemblance to ordinary folk beliefs’ (Science and the Secrets of Nature, p. 55). 21 See Thorndike, A History, II, 784–7. Thorndike documents two surviving English manuscripts of the Eighty-Eight Natural Experiments and considerably more of the Book of Fires, all dating to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. On the use of such tricks for household entertainment purposes, see B. Roy, ‘The Household Encyclopedia as Magic Kit: Popular Interest in Pranks and Illusions’, Journal of Popular Culture 14 (1980), 60–9; and M. W. Adamson, ‘The Games Cooks Play: Non-Sense Recipes and Practical Jokes in Medieval Literature’, in Food in the Middle Ages: A Book of Essays, ed. M. W. Adamson (New York, 1995), pp. 177–95. 22 See The Secrets of Albert the Great, ed. Best and Brightman, pp. 102–10. 23 The Secretum philosophorum survives in twenty-five manuscripts, all of English provenance and dating to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It has never been edited in its entirety, although the first three sections have been edited in separate articles. For general discussion of the work, see B. Roy, ‘L’Illusion comme art libéral. Interprétation du Secretum philosophorum (XIIIe S.)’, in Masques et déguisements dans la littérature médiévale, ed. M.-L. Ollier (Montréal, 1988), pp. 75–81; and J. B. Friedman, ‘Safe Magic and Invisible Writing in the Secretum philosophorum’, in Conjuring Spirits: Texts and Traditions of Medieval Ritual Magic, ed. C. Fanger (University Park, PA, 2004), pp. 76–86. The first section, on 20

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‘to speak and write correctly’ (‘recte scibere et recte loqui’), it in fact delineates only the technical nature of this art with recipes for making colours, varnishes, pumice, tablets for writing and glue and other parchment treatments.24 The section on Rhetoric teaches techniques of veiling and revealing hidden meaning in language through riddling, while Dialectic instructs pupils ‘to distinguish true from false, or from the apparently true’ (‘discernere verum a falso vel ab apparenci vero’), by describing various deceptions organised according to the five senses.25 Certain of these recipes – such as making water look like wine or using mirrors to conjure various images – appear also in Digby 86, generally in a much-abbreviated form. The later sections on the quadrivium concern techniques of measurement, with the final section, on Astronomy, taking the form of an astrological treatise. Borrowing its curricular conceit from the schools, the Secretum philosophorum indeed appears to have appealed to those with some university background, its pleasure and humour arising from its clever subversion of disciplinary expectations. It also suggests a readership comfortable with multilingual literacy and the technical craft of writing. The section on Rhetoric, for instance, explains how to embed hidden messages based on homologies or translations across languages. As Andrew Galloway has discussed, the nonsense distich ‘Dives durus ego faciam gallina siligo / servisiam solam si mundus decipe barbam’ translates by the rules of riddling to ‘Richard Geffrey Henry Aleyn Simond Gilberd’: ‘dives durus; is ‘Richhard’; ‘ego faciam’ becomes in French ‘je ferrai’; a ‘gallina siligo’ is a ‘hen-rye’ (siligo being a kind of wheat flour); ‘servisiam solam’ is ‘ale-one’; ‘si mundus’ sounds like ‘Simond’; and ‘decipe barbam’ becomes ‘guile-beard’.26 Trilingual literacy in this way constitutes a basic requisite for composing and deciphering these kinds of linguistic puzzles. The world of knowledge encompassed by the Secretum philosophorum – at once diversionary, technical and popularly learned – likewise sheds light on the emergence of the trilingual household miscellany at roughly the same historical moment. With its interest in secreta, experimenta and other arcana, Digby 86 appears at the leading edge of a trend that would persist across the Middle Ages and reach its apogee in the early modern period, as lay readers commissioned and produced for themselves books that reflected their intellectual aspirations and Grammar, is edited and translated in M. Clarke, ‘Writing Recipes for Non-Specialists c. 1300: The Anglo-Latin Secretum philosophorum in Glasgow MS Hunterian 110’, in Sources and Serendipities: Testimonies of Artists’ Practice, ed. E. Hermens and J. H. Townsend (London, 2009), pp. 50–64. The passage cited here is from Clarke, p. 52, with adjustments to the translation. The section on Dialectic is discussed, edited and translated by R. Goulding, ‘Deceiving the Senses in the Thirteenth Century: Trickery and Illusion in the Secretum philosophorum’, in Magic and the Classical Tradition, ed. C. Burnett and W. F. Ryan (London, 2006), pp. 135–62. The discussion of Rhetoric is edited and discussed by A. Galloway, ‘The Rhetoric of Riddling in Late-Medieval England: The “Oxford” Riddles, the Secretum philosophorum, and the Riddles in Piers Plowman’, Speculum 70 (1995), 68–105. 24 See Clarke, ‘Writing Recipes for Non-Specialists’, pp. 53–62. 25 See Goulding, ‘Deceiving the Senses’, pp. 143, 152; translation his. 26 Galloway, ‘The Rhetoric of Riddling’, p. 75.

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organised their regimens of spiritual and bodily care. Experimenta of the sort found in Digby 86 occur in many of them. Late in the fifteenth century, for example, the household book known as The Tollemache Book of Secrets compiled a catalogue of similarly entertaining and useful bits of knowledge: among them, how to become invisible, how to sing well, how to make faded or invisible letters visible, how to hold fire in one’s hands and, most dramatically, how to escape from a shark.27 More proximate to the Digby 86 scribe, we find the scribe of London, BL, MS Harley 2253 copying in the final leaves of his book an excerpt from the Secreta Alberti concerning the virtues of heliotrope and celandine (fol. 137r).28 Heliotrope, the text informs us, proves especially useful in ensuring that ‘no one whatsoever will have power to utter anything but peaceful words’ (‘nullus contra ipsum poterit habere colloquium nisi verba pacifica’) and discovering thieves if placed under one’s head at night. Celandine, if combined ‘with the heart of a mole’ (‘cum corde talpe’) would help the bearer ‘overcome all enemies and arguments and will get rid of all lawsuits’ (‘deuinceret omnes hostes et omnes causas et lites remouebit’) – certainly a remedy of interest to a legal copyist like the Harley scribe.29 As Carter Revard has argued, the encyclopedia of herbal, animal and lapidary powers attributed to Albertus Magnus also supplied the metaphoric substrate of the lyric Annote and Johon, which the Harley scribe copies at the opening of the manuscript’s seventh quire (fols. 63r–v).30 Here, it is the female love interest who constitutes a form of secret knowledge. The poet attempts to elucidate her ‘cunde’ (line 15), punning on the Middle English ‘kinde’ (nature) and the term for female genitalia, through comparisons to stones and jewels (beryl, sapphire, jasper and garnet, for instance), plants (e.g. horse parsley, wild celery, anise, columbine, celandine and sage), birds (parrots, thrushes, larks, nightingale) and medicinal spices such as cumin, nutmeg, sugar, ginger, clove and pepper. Even her name, ‘Annote’, becomes a riddle for the reader: ‘Hire nome is in a note of the nyhtegale, / In an note is hire nome. Nempneth hit non? / Whose ryht redeth, roune to Johon’ (lines 28–30). Perhaps the most prominent form of experimentation in these multilingual household books, however, is experimentation with the art of bookmaking itself. As we have seen, the Secretum philosophorum positioned the materia of bookmaking prominently, as the foundational ‘grammar’ of its idiosyncratic course of study. The The Tollemache Book of Secrets: A Descriptive Index and Complete Facsimile with an Introduction and Transcriptions together with Catherine Tollemache’s Receipts of Pastery, etc., ed. J. Griffiths and A. S. G. Edwards (London, 2001). For discussion of this manuscript, see also Boffey, ‘Definitions of the “Household Book”’. 28 C. Revard discusses this entry, also copied in similar form in London, BL, MS Royal 12 c xii, in ‘“Annote and Johon,” MS. Harley 2253, and The Book of Secrets’, English Language Notes 36 (1999), 5–19. See also Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 288–9, 359–60 (art. 112). 29 The transcriptions and translations are from Revard, ‘“Annote and Johon”’, p. 7, with slight adjustments to the translation. On the scribe’s background as a copyist of legal conveyances, see C. Revard, ‘Scribe and Provenance’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript: The Scribes, Contents, and Social Contexts of British Library MS Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 2000), 21–109. 30 DIMEV 2324, NIMEV 1394; Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 120–3, 397–9 (art. 28). 27

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first items in The Tollemache Book of Secrets likewise begin with practical recipes for making book glue and repairing torn pages (fol. 2r), followed by instructions for making inks and colours, powder to erase letters and gummed wax (fol. 7v). In Harley 2253, a later scribe would insert, between a French Debate between Winter and Summer and The Life of Saint Ethelbert, recipes for making ‘cynople’ (red vermilion); tempering azure; making various hues of green and yellow; applying silverfoil; and hardening iron (fol. 52va–b). When we turn to Digby 86, we see, in turn, that quite a number of experimenta concern the book arts in some way. These include instructions for gilding (fol. 46r); for writing copper, silver or gold letters (fol. 46r); for writing letters only viewed with the application of heat (fol. 46r); and for writing letters that only appear correctly when viewed in a mirror (fol. 46v). Indeed, it might have been such an experiment, writing in ‘ordine transuerso’ (fol. 46v), that resulted in the striking backwards S that appears in the manuscript’s opening folio (fol. 1r).31 What I would suggest, then, is that household books like Digby 86 are not just repositories for experimenta. Rather, we might think of them as experimenta themselves – that is, as products of a form of technical knowledge, of secret knowledge, that emerges at the boundaries where domestic economies encounter and incorporate the ‘marvel’ of imported materials and expertise. In the late thirteenth century, multilingual household books were necessarily experimental and experiential exercises, with scribes both amateur and professional testing out new ways to copy literature for audiences newly equipped to enjoy it in their own homes. The processes of trial and error intrinsic to this endeavour prove quite visible in the case of Digby 86, where the Digby scribe clearly learned as he went. In the introduction to the facsimile edition, Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes surmise that the main compiler, ‘although he was an experienced scribe … was not accustomed to producing books’ and ‘appears to have learned from his experience as he went along’.32 This lack of experience shows in the varied size and quality of the handwriting, as well as the success with which the scribe estimated the folios required for the texts he intended to copy. Tschann and Parkes describe his hand, for instance, as a specimen of the ‘personal experiments in adapting Anglicana for use in books’ occurring in London civic contexts and elsewhere during the last quarter of the thirteenth century.33 The Digby scribe at times underestimated how much space he needed, resulting in radical abbreviations and crowded margins (compare fol. 149vb), and in other instances overestimated his space, necessitating single-line fillers (fol. 164rb–vb); he also regularly forgot to leave space for headers announcing new texts.34 The parchment similarly shows signs of experiments in preparation and repair, with numerous leaves patched and built up to accommodate

See J. D. Sargan’s chapter in this volume. Tschann and Parkes, p. lvi. 33 Ibid., p. xl and also n. 3. 34 Ibid., p. xlviii. 31 32

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uneven trimming (compare fols. 163 and 164).35 The ‘poor quality parchment’ in turn affected the consistency and formation of the handwriting itself.36 Experimentation with the process of making a book does not imply a haphazard approach to its organisation, however. As various interpreters have stressed, Digby 86 suggests a deliberate process of copying that remained attuned to consistencies of form (verse and prose), content (practical and literary), language (whether Latin, French or Middle English) and codicology (single- or double-column formatting).37 What experimentation does imply, I would argue, is attention both to the craft of book copying and to the efficacious potential of the book as an object: its ability to make other things happen, whether through prayer, medical remedy, magic trick or a dramatic skit such as Dame Sirith. In particular, experimenta can help us understand the organisational logic of the first part of the manuscript – the so-called ‘practical texts’ that comprise the initial folios. This designation comes from Tschann and Parkes, who argued that Digby 86 originated as two parallel collections, with the first nineteen items (arts. 1–19, fols. 1–62r) dedicated to texts broadly devotional and medical in content and the latter quires (presently numbered xv–xxvi and extending across fols. 113–205) devoted to more literary fare. Connecting these sections is what Tschann and Parkes call the ‘bridge section’ (fols. 65–112), containing the volume’s Calendar, a mix of prognosticatory texts and prayers and French poetry.38 As Marilyn Corrie has argued, this broad division into ‘practical’ and ‘literary’ content fails to account for such seemingly impractical texts as The Letter of Prester John (art. 8, fols. 21r–26v), copied in the first section, or the medically oriented verses preserved in the final leaves (compare fol. 201r).39 A more ‘absolute’ division between the manuscript’s sections, she suggests, rests on formal difference: the first part of the manuscript through fol. 74r is written as prose, ruled in a single column, while on fols. 74v–168v the items are copied as double-column verse.40 Like Tschann and Parkes, she sees the scribe as experimenting with the form and purpose of the book, although she attributes the idiosyncrasies of the volume less to scribal error and more to an expansive sense of scribal play: ‘The forms of some of the works in the miscellany, and some aspects of their ordering, suggest not just a fascination with minutiae and technicalities but also a mischievous, gratuitous delight in playing around with texts.’41 Ibid., p. xxxviii. Ibid., p. xli. 37 See ibid., pp. xlii–xlvii; Corrie, ‘The Compilation’; and S. Fein, ‘The Fillers of the Auchinleck Manuscript and the Literary Culture of the West Midlands’, in Makers and Users of Medieval Books: Essays in Honour of A. S. G. Edwards, ed. C. M. Meale and D. Pearsall (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 60–77. 38 See Tschann and Parkes, pp. xlii–xlvii. The Latin prose Fifteen Gradual Psalms and three collects (art. 20, fols. 62v–65r) comprises something of a ‘bridge’ to the ‘bridge section’, connecting the falconry treatise and the Seven Penitential Psalms (art. 21, fols. 65r–67v). 39 Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, p. 237. 40 Ibid., pp. 237–8. 41 Ibid., p. 244. 35 36

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I would suggest that the logic of experimentation encompasses both this notion of scribal error – of a copyist learning how to make a book by making the inevitable amateur mistakes – as well as of scribal play, of ‘fascination’ with the technical aspects of the craft and the power they afford to shape literary texts to individual whims and needs. If we turn more specifically to the sections of experimenta copied in the opening section of manuscript, we can see that their particular brand of performative knowledge also helps to draw the seemingly disparate array of ‘practical’ texts into a more coherent order. The collection begins, as Maureen Boulton discusses in this volume, with an important therapeutic hierarchy: first the ‘diagnosis’ of the soul through the enumeration of the Seven Deadly Sins (fols. 1r–4v), then the remedy for these sins through the Ten Commandments (fols. 5r–6v), the Twelve Articles of the Faith (fols. 6r–v), the Seven Sacraments (fols. 6v–7r) and the Form of Confession (fols. 7r–8v) – all ‘oral’ medicaments for the alleviation of sin. Having prescribed this regimen for the soul, the scribe then turns to the body, with a French medical text known as The Letter of Hippocrates (art. 7; fols. 8v–15v, 17v–21r).42 Purporting to be a letter sent from the famous physician to the Emperor Caesar, the text echoes the frame story of the Secretum secretorum by similarly promising, at least in its incipit, to unlock the secrets of an ancient philosophical authority. The text begins with a brief theoretical preface, enumerating the four humours and their attendant qualities of hot, cold, dry and moist, the balance of which constituted the complexio (complexion) of the individual patient.43 After providing a brief diagnostic account of urines, the treatise then proceeds a capite ad calcem, listing recipes for headaches and eye complaints, toothaches and stomach problems. Distinctively among the surviving manuscripts, the Digby scribe regularly includes English translations of plant names in the recipes: ‘hundestunge’ (fol. 11r), ‘letues et popi’ (fol. 14v) and ‘revensfot’ (fol. 18v) all make appearances.44 These local plants underscore the degree to which the recipes of The Letter of Hippocrates, for all their supposedly exotic origins, constitute a distinctively local collection, their primary ingredients of parsley, honey, mugwort, watercress and other similar items easily harvested from a home garden. The work encompasses in this way a tension animating late thirteenth-century medicine, as the textual and academic dominance of ‘theoretical medicine’, organised around humoural theory and more complex pharmacological treatments, overshadowed ‘practical medicine’ – those treatments determined effective through trial and error on patients. Physicians like the eminent Arnald of Villanova (d. 1311) termed his own practical remedies experimenta and published them separately from his more theoretically driven tracts.45 A vernacular text like The Letter of Hippocrates attempts to bridge these two worlds,

For an edition and discussion of this text, found also in London, BL, MS Harley 978, see Popular Medicine in Thirteenth-Century England: Introduction and Texts, ed. T. Hunt (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 100–41. 43 For further discussion of complexio, see Jones, ‘Complexio and Experimentum’. 44 Hunt lists these instances in Popular Medicine, p. 141. 45 See McVaugh, ‘The Experimenta of Arnald of Villanova’. 42

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marrying the prestige of the scholastic tradition with the utility of the experimental tradition. The epistolary form, as well as the promise of far-flung ‘secret’ knowledge, helps to explain the presence of the next item in Digby 86, The Letter of Prester John, here again copied in French. Another fanciful epistle, this twelfth-century concoction purports to come from the legendary Christian ruler of the kingdoms of the East, who describes a land replete with marvellous phenomena, both engineered and naturally occurring.46 This item serves as a crucial hinge between the two notions of ‘experimental’ practice in the first section of Digby 86, as it links the therapeutic regimes of prayer and home medicine with the exoticised world of marvels, charms and wonderous illusions. As Kim Phillips notes, The Letter of Prester John forms part of the manuscript’s larger ‘entertainment milieu’, along with the experimenta and literary texts.47 But it also serves to elevate the status of observational knowledge, however mythically constructed or distantly conveyed. Organised according to the repeated second-person imperative ‘sachez’ (know), The Letter of Prester John blurs the boundaries between what the audience must take on theoretical faith and what it can experience, or know, through embodied perception. It serves in this way as a book of secrets within the larger ‘secret’ economy of Digby 86, promising first-hand experience of a world of perfect wealth, security, faith and health. Its commodities – emeralds, rubies, balms and spices – comprise the kind of luxury medicaments notably absent from The Letter of Hippocrates. But its focus on these marvellous substances (herbs that conjure the devil, fountains that restore youth, materials that repel serpents and other pests) looks ahead, in turn, to the charms and experiments that follow in subsequent folios. As the Digby scribe copies charms to recite before being called in to testify in court, or words to inscribe and lay upon a woman’s body during childbirth, or prayers to alleviate the pain of a toothache, we see above all the power of the household book. On a daily basis, it puts to the test the efficacy of language when harnessed to the secrets of God’s created universe. The logic of experimentation leads us thus to consider the larger social world of Digby 86 – a world that encompasses those families inscribed on its pages, the Grimhills and the Underhills, as well as those women named in the debate poem L’Estrif de deus dames (art. 67; fols. 192v–195v), Aubrey de Bassingbourn and Ide de Beauchamp.48 Digby 86 reminds us that the household book might more properly be thought of as a ‘neighbourhood book’, its sociality extending well beyond the direct family unit to include all those relatives, friends, tenants and noble families For discussion and translation of the Latin versions of this text, see Prester John: The Legend and Its Sources, ed. and trans. K. Brewer (Farnham, 2015). 47 See K. Phillips, Before Orientalism: Asian Peoples and Cultures in European Travel Writing, 1245–1510 (Philadelphia, 2014), p. 47. 48 On the larger social milieu of the manuscript, see Miller, ‘The Early History’, and on the two women named in the final line of this poem, see M. Corrie, ‘Further Information on the Origins of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 46 (1999), 430–3; and N. Cartlidge, ‘Aubrey de Bassingbourn, Ida de Beauchamp, and the Context of the “Estif de deus dames” in Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 47 (2000), 411–14. 46

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within the ambit of the book’s makers and users. Experimenta served the purpose of entertaining this milieu by demonstrating the ‘cutting edge’ of natural philosophical enquiry, albeit in a form domesticated for home use. These experiments reveal, or create the illusion of revealing, what their practitioners felt to be the natural sympathies and antipathies of nature. In this sense, they are perhaps not as far removed as we might think from the debate poems that populate the manuscript’s later quires. These, too, seek to bring nature’s principles into relief, whether in the strife between two ‘dames’, or the fox and the wolf, or the thrush and the nightingale. Such works, too, might be considered experimenta in the broadest sense: as texts that found their validation and proof when performed by and for an audience of willing interpreters.

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PETRUS ALFONSI, THE DISCIPLINA CLERICALIS AND LE ROMAUNZ PERES AUNFOUR OF MS DIGBY 86 David Raybin

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e Romaunz Peres Aunfour coment il aprist et chaustia sun cher fiz belement is by far the longest item in Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86. Filling 23½ doublecolumned folios (art. 27; fols. 74va–97vb), its French verse couplets occupy about twice as much space as any of the volume’s three other substantial items: a medical treatise in French prose (13 folios: The Letter of Hippocrates, art. 7; fols. 8v–15v, 17r–21r), a treatise on falconry in French prose (13½ folios: Le Medicinal des oiseaus, art. 19; fols. 49r–62r) and a saint’s life in French verse (11½ folios: Wace’s Miracles de seint Nicholas, art. 54; fols. 150ra–161ra). The volume’s remaining items are mostly quite short, although a few occupy from five to eight folios. The decision to include this lengthy text in the manuscript reflects the considerable interest the writings of Petrus Alfonsi held for a late medieval Anglo-French audience. Its placement may also reflect the compiler’s particular interest in linking the diverse texts included in the manuscript, which range from religious, scientific and instructive texts, to secular material that includes comic tales, narratives of adventure and risqué verse. It is not surprising that the compiler of a miscellaneous manuscript would have been pleased to include some version of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis in his book. Derived from Arabic, Hebrew and other Eastern sources, the early twelfthcentury Disciplina clericalis is the first framed story collection known to have been composed in Western Europe. As an assemblage of maxims, proverbs, moralisations and tales, it was both tremendously influential and widely circulated: at least seventy-six complete and partial copies of the Latin text survive, alongside two French verse translations (surviving in fourteen manuscripts), portions in French prose (surviving in seven manuscripts dated thirteenth to fifteenth centuries) and versions in other languages.1 At least twenty-five Latin copies survive from the J. Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi and His Medieval Readers (Gainesville, FL, 1993), pp. 199–201, lists the manuscripts containing Latin versions. Sixty-three of these manuscripts are described in Petri Alfonsi Disciplina Clericalis, ed. A. Hilka and W. Söderhjelm, 3 vols.: I. Lateinischer text; II. Französischer prosatext; III. Französische versbearbeitungen (Helsinki, 1911–2),

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twelfth and thirteenth centuries and eight French copies (including Digby) survive from the last third of the thirteenth century.2 Judging from the contents of Digby 86, it seems possible that the more widely disseminated Latin Disciplina clericalis would not have suited the compiler’s linguistic preferences, and that he actively sought a French verse version. The Latin items selected for the manuscript comprise prayers and psalms, charms and prognostications, recipes and experimenta, dream interpretations and signs of Doomsday, a Calendar for feast days and a list of arabic numerals. There is very little Latin verse, all of it short and copied upon the manuscript’s later folios.3 Moreover, the Latin items include none of the stories or fables that are a distinguishing component of Alfonsi’s writing. In contrast, a version of Alfonsi’s book in Anglo-French verse was a perfect fit as an introduction to the collection of vernacular narrative poetry that fills a large portion of Digby 86. As it is situated in the manuscript, Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour serves to announce a transition from prose to poetry, and from spiritual and instructive texts to imaginative secular texts. The folios prior to Le Romaunz include no secular fiction and the only verse is a short French hymn.4 In contrast, Le Romaunz is immediately followed by twelve items in French verse, fourteen items in English verse and a series of shorter groupings of French and English verse. These vernacular items include romances, lais, fabliaux, obscenities, peasant proverbs and fortune-telling games, along with occasional spiritual items. It may have interested the Digby compiler that two Middle English texts he acquired – the fabliau Dame Sirith and the beast fable The Fox and the Wolf (the only extant English instances of their respective genres prior to Chaucer) – are adaptations of stories included in Le Romaunz (see Appendices 1–3).5 While his acquisition of these texts may have been by fortuitous coincidence, III, i–xxix (hereafter cited as ‘H/S’). Tolan describes thirteen others (pp. 201–4). Twelve surviving French copies are described in H/S, III, x–xi, xv–xvi; Tolan names two others (p. 250, n. 20). Gabriel Ford informs me that Latin copies continue to be discovered. 2 G. Ford, ‘The Untranslatable Disciplina clericalis: Three Translations’, postmedieval 8 (2017), 307–20, argues that recognising the text’s translation history is essential to reading the Disciplina clericalis well. 3 Digby 86’s Latin verse texts are: Maria stella maris (a Marian prayer) (art. *90; fol. 118vb); Fides hodie sopitur (On the Truth of This World) (art. 58; fol. 164va–b); Sanguinevs multum apetit quia calidus (The Four Humours) (art. 72; fol. 201r); and Aue caro Cristi cara (a levation prayer) (art. *94; fols. 206ra–207rb). 4 Seint Esperit a nous venez, a translation of Veni Creator Spiritus (Come Creator Spirit) (art. 22; fols. 67va–68rb). On the place of Le Romaunz in the physical construction of the manuscript, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xlvii, esp. xlv–xlvii. The Digby compiler (Scribe A) carefully placed Le Romaunz at the head of the verse items, tailoring the two-column layout to fit with the layout found in the two quires (xi–xii; fols. 81–96) previously filled by Scribe B; see Tschann and Parkes, p. xxxviii. The only item written in two columns prior to Le Romaunz is Seint Esperit; Tschann and Parkes hypothesise that its placement was determined (by backward calculation) in relation to the positioning of Le Romaunz (p. xlvi). 5 Appendices 2–3 provide transcriptions and translations of the Fox and Dame Sirith analogues in the Digby Romaunz (arts. 27xviii, 27xiii, respectively). They are compared to the English poems in Susanna Fein’s chapter in this volume, pp. 177–8, 185–6. Six tales from

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it might also be that their making derived directly from an enthusiasm for Alfonsi’s stories in the locale of the Digby compiler.6 In any event, it is possible that the Digby compiler’s acquisition of a French text that he calls Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour did not require special effort. The last third of the thirteenth century witnessed two independent translations of the Disciplina clericalis into Anglo-Norman verse: a longer A-version (c. 4,650 lines; sometimes referenced as Les Fables Pierre Alfons) and a shorter B-version (c. 3,650 lines; generally referenced as Le Chastoiement d’un pere a son fils), which, beyond their differences in length and translation, vary somewhat in their selections.7 Whether purposeful or serendipitous, the Digby compiler’s inclusion of the B-version Le Romaunz signals his interest in secular vernacular texts, and the manuscript’s as-yet-inedited text is a valuable witness to the circulation of Le Chastoiement in England more generally.8

Petrus Alfonsi: proto-Renaissance intellectual Petrus Alfonsi was an extraordinary individual: when one thinks of the people living in France and England in the Western European Middle Ages, he stands out as a proto-Renaissance intellectual and a quintessential Other. Moshe Sefaradi was raised and very well educated as a Hebrew-, Arabic- and Latin-literate Jew in Islamic Spain. We do not know when or exactly where he was born and died, the Digby Romaunz are in print; see Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, ed. I. Short and R. Pearcy, ANTS PTS 14 (London, 2000), pp. 9–15 (arts. 27ix, 27x, 27xi, 27xii, 27xiv, 27xvi); for the Dame Sirith analogue, see pp. 11–12. The Fox analogue has not been previously printed. On the relation of Dame Sirith to its source story in the Latin Disciplina and the French Digby version, see G. Ford, ‘“Wose is onwise”: Dame Sirith in Context’, Studies in Philology 114 (2017), 223–44. 6 R. F. Yeager, ‘Spanish Literary Influence in England: John Gower and Pedro Alfonso’, in John Gower in England and Iberia: Manuscripts, Influences, Reception, ed. A. Sáez-Hidalgo and R. F. Yeager (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 119–29, discusses evidence of Alfonso’s reception in England, most especially by Chaucer and Gower. 7 The Digby text of the B-version, which lacks a sequence of five tales that come halfway through, has approximately 3,030 lines. It is not clear how the 562-line skip relates to the activity of Digby Scribe B, who may have been copying from a faulty exemplar. The titles for the two translations are drawn from a projected electronic edition of the corpus of medieval French translations of the Disciplina clericalis: Étude et édition des traductions françaises médiévales de la ‘Disciplina clericalis’ de Pierre Alphonse, ed. Y. Foehr-Janssens, G. Eckard and O. Collet (Geneva, 2006). The website offers much essential information on the Anglo-French verse and prose translations of the Disciplina, including lists of contents and incipits for each of the French manuscripts, but as of May 2018 it includes no texts. It may be accessed at http://www.unige.ch/lettres/mela/recherche/disciplina/. The editors’ explanation for their use of the two titles may be found at the page: ‘V. Les traductions françaises’. A more accessible edition of the A-version is plagued by many inaccuracies: E. D. Montgomery, Le Chastoiement d’un père à son fils (Chapel Hill, NC, 1971). 8 In this chapter, ‘Disciplina clericalis’ refers to Petrus Alfonsi’s Latin book, ‘Le Chastoiement’ refers to the Anglo-Norman B-version translation and ‘Le Romaunz’ refers to the Digby 86 text. (The distinction between Le Chastoiement and Le Romaunz is sometimes insignificant.)

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who his parents were, whether he had children, even whether he married, but one important thing that we do know is that in June 1106, on the feast day of Saints Peter and Paul, this Jewish man was baptised in the cathedral city of Huesca in the kingdom of Aragon in northern (then Christian) Spain at a ceremony officiated by the archbishop Steven and sponsored by his new godfather, Alfonso I, ruler of the kingdom of Aragon and self-proclaimed Emperor of Spain, who ‘received [him] at the sacred font’.9 Alfonsi’s adopted name recognises the event by honouring the apostle Peter and the Aragonese sovereign. Alfonsi suggests that fellow Jews attributed his conversion to a desire for worldly power, perhaps in association with the Aragon court, but in the absence of other evidence the claim is hard to judge.10 He intimates that, prior to his conversion, he preached zealously in synagogues against theological adversaries, apparently as a highly respected scholar, but this autobiographical insistence on his high pre-Christian status may reflect similar Pauline or Augustinian accounts. External evidence indicates that at some time between 1106 and 1116 Alfonsi emigrated from Aragon to England, where he taught astronomy and possibly served as one of King Henry I’s private physicians.11 It is likely that he eventually moved from England to northern France, where he continued to teach.12 Whether Moshe Sefaradi authored any texts prior to his conversion is unknown, but the Christian Alfonsi was a multidisciplinary scholar whose eclectic interests led him to write pioneering works in three areas of thought: Theology. The Dialogi contra Iudaeos, a learned debate between Christian Peter and Jewish Moses (projections of the author’s Christian and Jewish selves),13 uses logic and science to examine the chief doctrines of Judaism and Islam (shown to be false) and of Christianity (proven to be true). The Dialogi would influence the subsequent efforts of Peter the Venerable, Joachim of Fiore, Peter Abelard, Vincent of Beauvais, Jacobus de Voragine, Robert Grosseteste (for the Dialogi’s scientific ideas) and many other theologians and writers. Science (three known works). The Tabulae astronomicae is Alfonsi’s Latin translation of the Arab cosmologist Muhammed ibn Musa al-Khwârizmi’s ninth-century astronomical tables, recalculated by Alfonsi for 1 October 1116. John Tolan, author of the sole English-language monograph devoted to Alfonsi’s cultural Petrus Alfonsi, Dialogue Against the Jews, trans. I. M. Resnick (Washington DC, 2006), p. 40. 10 See Alfonsi, Dialogue, trans. Resnick, p. 41; and Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi, p. 13. 11 Alfonsi is described as ‘Henrici primi regis anglorum medicus’ (physician to Henry I, king of the English) in a marginal comment in Cambridge, CUL, MS Ii. 6. 11, fol. 99r. 12 Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi, pp. 9–11, provides a useful summary of what little is known about Alfonsi. 13 Alfonsi states this directly: ‘To defend the arguments of the Christians, I have used the name that I now have as a Christian, whereas in the arguments of the adversary refuting them, I have used the name Moses, which I had before baptism’ (Alfonsi, Dialogue, trans. Resnick, p. 41). See also S. F. Kruger, The Spectral Jew: Conversion and Embodiment in Medieval Europe (Minneapolis, 2016), pp. 110–31, esp. 113. 9

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background, calls the Tabulae the ‘first complete description of planetary motions available in Latin’.14 De dracone, a treatise translated into Latin by Walcher, prior of Malvern, in the spring of 1120, offers Alfonsi’s thoughts on the Lunar Nodes and on how to predict lunar and solar eclipses; it provides evidence of Alfonsi’s activities and importance in England.15 The Epistola ad peripateticos provides Alfonsi’s claims to teach the art of astronomy to ‘those in all parts of France most diligently engaged in the teaching of knowledge’.16 Similar scientific questions are also treated extensively in the widely circulated Dialogi contra Iudaeos. Literature. The Disciplina clericalis, a collection of proverbs, castigations, fables, short verse, aphorisms and thirty-four stories, is the first book of its kind in the Christian West.17 The Disciplina would influence the authors of Western European exempla collections, wisdom literature, advice to princes and story collections (such as the Gesta Romanorum), along with preachers and numerous storytellers (including Jacques de Vitry in the early thirteenth century, Boccaccio and Chaucer in the fourteenth century, Rabelais in the sixteenth century and Cervantes in the seventeenth century).18 The extensive medieval circulation of Alfonsi’s literary and religious texts illustrates their early importance. The Latin Dialogi contra Iudaeos and its various adaptations and translations survive in at least seventy-nine complete and partial copies. Besides its over seventy-six extant Latin copies, the Disciplina clericalis survives in verse and prose translations in French, Gascon, Spanish, German and (in the fifteenth century) English.19 Bringing modern ideas and ways of thinking into an Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi, p. 55. The title Walcher gives to the work indicates his own role as translator: ‘Sententia Petri Ebrei, cognomento Anphus, de dracone, quam dominus Walcerus prior Malvernensis ecclesie in latinam transtulit linguam’ (The thoughts of Peter the Hebrew, whose last name is Alfonsi, on the Lunar Nodes, which Walcher prior of Malvern translated into the Latin language) (Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi, p. 61 (his translation)). Resnick proposes that the text ‘is perhaps best described as a reportatio of a conversation with Petrus Alfonsi, which Walcher “translated,” perhaps from the vernacular, into Latin’ (Alfonsi, Dialogue, trans. Resnick, p. 18, n. 39). 16 Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi, p. 66. The Epistola ad peripateticos survives in one Latin manuscript: London, BL, MS Arundel 270. On the attribution of the Tabulae astronomicae to Alfonsi, see ibid., p. 209. 17 On the structure of the Disciplina and its transformation of ‘the exemplum collection into a literary form for Christian Europe’, see G. Ford, ‘Framing, Parataxis, and the Poetics of Exemplarity in Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina Clericalis’, Medieval Encounters 21 (2015), 26-49 (p. 49). 18 G. Adams, ‘A Medieval Storybook: The Urban(e) Tales of Petrus Alfonsi’, Children’s Literature Association Quarterly 23 (1998), 7–12, posits that the Disciplina was intended as children’s literature. 19 A version of the French prose text has been edited in H/S, II. The Middle English text has been edited in H/S, I, 68–73; and in Peter Alphonse’s Disciplina clericalis (English Translation). From the Fifteenth Century Worcester Cathedral Manuscript F. 172, ed. W. H. Hulme, Western Reserve Studies 1.5 (1919).

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increasingly urban, wealthy and outward-looking culture, the immigrant Alfonsi was an essential figure in the literary, spiritual and scientific renaissance of twelfthcentury Western Europe. In characterising Alfonsi as Other, I think about what it must have been like to encounter this highly learned Hebrew-, Arabic- and Latin-speaking Jewish convert in England or France, and also what must it have been like for him to negotiate this world. As far as I know, there was quite literally no one else like him in twelfthcentury France and England. In this respect, another way of thinking about him would be as a ‘cosmopolitan’, that is, as a man whose learning, influences and influence traversed the boundaries of cultures, geographical spaces and languages. Gabriel Ford sees in Alfonsi a nascent ‘medieval globalism’ characterised by ‘cultural hybridity’.20 To say that Alfonsi was comfortable or uncomfortable in these various milieus is simply speculative – how can we possibly know? – but he was surely a presence, be it as authority or spectacle, in whatever community he arrived. It was not just any Spanish convert who could be engaged as scientific advisor; cross-cultural linguistic, literary and theological authority; and royal physician.

The moral purpose and Arabic tenor of the Disciplina clericalis As a verse translation (B-version) of Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis, Le Chastoiement draws its matter from the Latin prose text but with important differences that illuminate the role Le Romaunz plays in the Digby manuscript. The translator’s main alterations involve the elision of some tales: Le Chastoiement holds thirty of the Disciplina’s thirty-four tales; Digby’s Le Romaunz (drawn from Le Chastoiement) holds twenty-six (see Appendix 1). The author translates into French rhymed couplets, a reframing of the Latin work’s Arabic tenor and moral intent. To appreciate the modifications, it is useful to consider the purpose and tone of Alfonsi’s original text. As one might expect of a convert’s Latin treatise on scholarly clerical behaviour, Alfonsi’s announced goal in the Disciplina is the edification of his readers. God has endowed him, ‘although a sinner, with wide learning, and so that the light entrusted to [him] may not remain hidden under a bushel, inspired by the same Spirit [he has] been impelled to compose this book for the benefit of many’.21 The mix of self-praise G. Ford, ‘Why Not Read Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis in the British Literature Survey?’, in Jews in Medieval England: Teaching Representations of the Other, ed. M. A. Krummel and T. Pugh (New York, 2017), pp. 263–78 (p. 276). Ford continues: ‘This fluidity appears prominently throughout Disciplina clericalis in the tales of pilgrims, wandering court poets, merchants, and itinerant philosophers, as well as in the range of Islamic, Christian, Hebrew, and Greek authorities and cultural frameworks that Petrus cites. He translated into Latin texts from well outside of Christendom, sometimes ultimately from as far away as India or Persia.’ 21 The Scholar’s Guide: A Translation of the Twelfth-Century ‘Disciplina Clericalis’ of Pedro Alfonso, trans. J. R. Jones and J. E. Keller (Toronto, 1969), p. 33; translations of the Disciplina are taken from this text and cited by page number. ‘Quia igitur me licet peccatorem Deus multimoda vestire dignatus est sapientia, ne lucerna mihi credita sub modio tecta lateat,

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and divine compulsion as an explanation for why he writes is a standard topos; it is later replicated, for example, in the opening lines of the prologue to Marie de France’s Lais.22 Also unexceptional is Alfonsi’s explanation of how the human psyche requires that an author who hopes to hold his audience’s attention blend instruction with delight. As he puts it, the temperament of man is delicate; it must be instructed by being led, as it were, little by little, so that it will not become bored. I am mindful also of its hardness, which must to some extent be softened and sweetened, so that it may retain what it learns with greater facility, remembering that, as it is forgetful, it needs many things to help it remember what it tends to forget.23

Aside from these conventions, though, Alfonsi’s sources are distinctive and warrant attention. The Disciplina has been compiled, he writes, ‘in part from the parables and counsels of the philosophers, in part from the parables and counsels of the Arabs, from tales and poems, and finally, from animal and bird fables’.24 Looking afield for sources was common enough: the popular Vitas patrum collected tales of the desert fathers of northern Africa; in her Fables, Marie acknowledges Aesop, and she opens the Lais by explaining a decision to recount Breton tales as a departure from the common practice of translating from Latin.25 But Alfonsi’s attribution of Arabic sources is noteworthy and they pervade the collection. He may submit his book ‘for correction’ by God and ‘all those perfect in the Catholic faith’ (‘omnibus catholicae fidei perfectis corrigendum appono’),26 but he proceeds barely two sentences further on before citing Arabs on the fear and love of God: The philosopher Enoch (who in Arabic is called Edric) said to his son, ‘Let your concern be the fear of God, and wealth will come to you without toil’. … eodem spiritu instigante ad multorum utilitatem hunc librum componere admonitus sum’ (H/S, I, 1): The Latin text (taken from H/S, I) can be accessed at http://www.thelatinlibrary. com/alfonsi.disciplina.html 22 See Marie de France, Les Lais de Marie de France, ed. J. Rychner (Paris, 1971), p. 1 (lines 1–4). 23 The Scholar’s Guide, trans. Jones and Keller, p. 34; ‘Fragilem etiam hominis esse consideravi complexionem: quae ne taedium incurrat, quasi provehendo paucis et paucis instruenda est; duritiae cordis eius recordatus, ut facilius retineat, quodammodo necessario mollienda et dulcificanda est; quia et obliviosa est, multis indiget quae oblitorum faciant recordari’ (H/S, I, 1–2). 24 The Scholar’s Guide, trans. Jones and Keller, p. 34; ‘partim ex proverbiis philosophorum et suis castigationibus, partim ex proverbiis et castigationibus Arabicis et fabulis et versibus, partim ex animalium et volucrum similitudinibus’ (H/S, I, 2). 25 For two medieval French versions of the Vitas patrum, see Henri d’Arci’s Vitas patrum: A Thirteenth-Century Anglo-Norman Rimed Translation of the Verba seniorum, ed. B. A. O’Connor (Washington DC, 1949); and Vitas patrum, in Harley 2253, ed. Fein, I, 18–201, 425–42 (art. 1). On Marie, see Marie de France, Fables, ed. and trans. H. Spiegel (Toronto, 1987), p. 28 (line 17); and Marie de France, Les Lais, p. 2 (lines 28–42). Marie’s Fables are copied immediately after Le Chastoiement in Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 19152, an early fourteenth-century manuscript that also contains many fabliaux, romances and lais (for its contents, see https:// www.arlima.net/mss/france/paris/bibliotheque_nationale_de_france/francais/19152.html). 26 The Scholar’s Guide, trans. Jones and Keller, p. 34; H/S, I, 2.

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An Arabic poet said, ‘You disobey God; you pretend, nevertheless, to love Him, which is incredible, for if you truly loved Him, you would obey Him; for he who loves, obeys’.27

In the same vein, a fable that precedes the stories – ‘The Ant, the Cock and the Dog’ – is attributed to ‘Balaam, who is called Lucaman in Arabic’ (‘Balaam, qui lingua arabica vocatur Lucaman’) and the first story – ‘The Half Friend’ – opens ‘An Arab, on his deathbed, called his son’ (‘Arabs moriturus vocato filio suo dixit’).28 The Arab’s second, complementary story – ‘The Whole Friend’ – recounts the adventures of ‘two merchants, one in Egypt, and another in Baldach’ (‘quorum unus erat in Aegypto, alter Baldach’), that is, Baghdad.29 Phrases like ‘Someone asked a certain Arab’ (‘Quaesivit quidam a quodam Arabe’), ‘A certain Arab poet’ (‘Arabs: Quidam versificator’), ‘An Arab said to his father’ (‘Arabs ait patri’) and ‘for all the riches of the Arabs’ (‘pro divitiis Arabum’) dot the collection, both in the stories and in the conversations, aphorisms and proverbs that connect them.30 It thus does not feel out of place when a proverb asserts that camels have a more gentle nature than dogs, or when a king’s chamberlain is casually called a eunuch.31 A universal God – ‘Deu(s)’, ‘Dampnedeu(s)’ – accredited by speakers of various faiths, has a persistent presence in the book and Solomon is referenced in the same vein as Aristotle, whereas a distinctly Christian God – Father, Son and Holy Spirit (‘domino nostro Jhesu Christo, cui est honor et gloria cum Patre et Spiritu Sancto’)32 – appears only in opening and closing sentences that Alfonsi might easily have added to a pre-existing composition. The general tenor of the book is that, while its moral lessons are applicable to all believers, and most especially to its target Christian audience, the actual events and characters reflect the exotic world of Arabs and denizens of the East. The distance between Alfonsi’s expressed didactic purpose and his actual practice has occasioned critical debate among the relatively small group of Disciplina scholars, especially as regards the collection’s tone and its incorporation of a series of short, comic fabliaux. Joseph Ramon Jones and John Esten Keller, authors of the standard 1969 English translation of the Disciplina, contend that ‘Alfonso’s best stories come from books written in Arabic which purported to have a didactic purpose, yet which, if one examines them closely, peeling away the shell of moralisation, turn out to be primarily tales meant to amuse.’ The ‘lessons in the stories are there for those who wish to find them, but the stories themselves are obviously

Ibid., p. 35; ‘Enoch philosophus, qui lingua arabica cognominatur Edris, dixit filios uo: Timor Domini sit negotiatio tua, et veniet tibi lucrum sine labore. … Dixit Arabs in versu suo: Inobediens es Deo: simulas tamen te eum amare, et incredibile est; si enim vere amares, obedires ei. Nam qui amat, obedit’ (H/S, I, 2). 28 Ibid., p. 36; H/S, I, 3. 29 Ibid., p. 38; H/S, I, 4. 30 Ibid., pp. 42, 45, 47, 57; H/S, I, 7, 9, 9, 14. 31 Ibid., pp. 80, 81; H/S, I, 28, 29. 32 Ibid., p. 114; H/S, I, 46. 27

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what really count in the mind of the teller’.33 In contrast, Tolan insists that Alfonsi’s goal was ‘to compose a manual of moral education without reference to Christian truth’. For Tolan, though there is ‘no question’ that some of the ‘stories were meant to amuse and entertain, … this does not in any way subvert the didactic nature of the collection’, as was evident to ‘medieval readers [who] took these stories (and their didactic and moral pretensions) seriously’.34 There is something to be said for each perspective. Alfonsi tells good stories, and often they are amusing in the way that medieval exempla or misogynist accounts of how women trick their husbands can be. Moreover, the moral rationales Alfonsi provides when a pupil asks his teacher to tell more stories about ‘feminine tricks’ (‘illarum artibus’) are humorous in their variety: the stories were written ‘to correct women’s depraved customs’ (‘earum corrigendo mores’); the lessons may be applied ‘in public administration’ (‘publicae administrationis’); ‘the more I learn about their tricks, the sharper I become at protecting myself ’ (‘tanto magis ad mei custodiam exacuor’); ‘a long story … will fill my ears and will thus satisfy me’ (‘unum … longa verbositate meas repleat aures, et sic mihi sufficiet’); and, finally, they are being told ‘so I will be better able to guard my wife, if I ever marry’ (‘ut meliussciam si quam duxero illam custodire’).35 Were this the general tone of the book, Jones and Keller would have a strong case. But the five tales about sneaky women, which are collected in a group with only one short interruption, comprise fewer than a sixth of the book’s stories, and there is a lot more to Alfonsi’s volume than these stories alone. The Disciplina’s thirty-four stories include (with some overlap): two about friendship, four about birds and animals, two about minstrels, six about philosophers, three about clerics, seven about kings, six about dealing with thieves, the five about women’s trickery, three about smart or virtuous women, one about a lazy servant and a few exempla on proper and improper behaviour. Mixed in among the Ibid., pp. 18–19. Jones and Keller see the Disciplina as incorporating elements of the Eastern ‘literary philosophy of adab’, which ‘permitted the erudite to enjoy the most unerudite and unmoralistic tales and subject-matter under the guise of learned and didactic interest’ (pp. 19–20). 34 Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi, pp. 73, 81. While Tolan often supplies his own translations, for the Disciplina he uses Jones and Keller’s. It is not their linguistic competence he questions, but their interpretation. 35 The Scholar’s Guide, trans. Jones and Keller, pp. 57, 56, 57, 58, 59, 64; H/S, I, 14, 14, 14, 15, 16, 18. The pupil’s comments are contextualised by the teacher’s fear that he himself will be besmirched for writing stories about evil women: ‘I am afraid that unsophisticated people who read the poems that I have composed on the wiles of women, for their correction and for the instruction of you and others (when they see, for example, how some women, without their husbands’ knowledge, invite their lovers in, and embrace them, cover them with kisses, and satisfy with them the demands of their lascivious natures), may believe that the wickedness of women reflects on me’ (‘vereor ne si qui nostra simplici animo legentes carmina quae de mulierum artibusad earum correptionem et tuam et aliorum instructionem scribimus viderint, videlicet quomodo quaedam earum nescientibus viris suos advocent amasios et complectentes deosculentur advocatos et quae illarum expetat lascivia in ipsis expleant, earum nequitiam in nos redundare credant’) (Ibid., p. 55; H/S, I, 14). 33

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stories (in interpolations, introductions and asides) is an abundance of sage counsel: advice about the importance of fearing God and avoiding hypocrisy, heeding good and recognising bad advice, shunning buffoons, searching for wisdom and keeping silent when one is young. And wisdom is dispensed in other forms, too. As the book progresses, readers encounter a short fable, a series of aphorisms, definitions of true nobility, an admonishment against lying, the remarks of Socrates and other philosophers on lying women, brief praise of good women, Solomon’s thoughts about strangers and travelling, various philosophers’ comments on riches and kings, a warning about believing all that one reads, a conversation on table manners and proper behaviour at court, a statement about the perils of over-familiarity, a caution on the instability of worldly things, an admonition to prepare for the end of life, a brief ubi sunt, a second exhortation to fear God and a standard closing prayer. Much of the material is entertaining in the manner discussed by Jones and Keller, but it is hard not to join with Tolan in seeing instruction mixed with delight. In fact, both responses present reasonable attitudes towards the Disciplina, and perhaps that is the point: readers are empowered to respond to the instructive and entertaining aspects of the Disciplina in accord with their own interests. In the instance that concerns us here, the anonymous translator of Le Chastoiement felt free to compose an Anglo-Norman verse text that adjusts the tenor of Alfonsi’s Latin prose compilation of stories to fit an intimate conversation between a father and son. Beyond this, the Digby compiler’s placement of his text in the manuscript’s bridge between mostly Latin prose and Anglo-Norman verse suggests how the Le Chastoiement’s vernacular refashioning of the source-text fits with the compiler’s conception of the manuscript.

Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour in MS Digby 86 The Digby compiler opens his text of Le Chastoiement with a rubric penned in bright red ink that serves as a unique title found in no other manuscript: ‘Ci comence le romaunz Peres Aunfour coment il aprist e chaustia sun cher fiz. belement.’ (fol. 74va; see Fig. 1). The rubric is in part drawn from the first sentence of the poem, which, in accord with all other copies of Le Chastoiement, announces the poem’s subject: ‘Le pere sun fiz chastioyt / Sens e savoir lui apernoyt’ (The father instructed his son, teaching him knowledge and understanding; fol. 74va).36 What I will consider in the remainder of this chapter is how the tone and framing of the Digby text, as gestured to in the rubric and first sentence, create what is in many respects a new work. Even Quotations from Le Romaunz are drawn from the facsimile (Tschann and Parkes). Le Chastoiement has been edited in H/S, III, 79–138, but the many variants in wording and spelling cited in the textual notes of H/S are just a sampling: along with the occasional dropping or adding of lines and the elision of 562 lines in the middle of the Digby version (five tales and various other matter) noted in H/S, I found variant spellings in almost every line and many additional variant wordings. As the third volume of H/S is extremely difficult to access (the only US copy listed in WorldCat is at the Case Western University Library in Cleveland) and has line numbering different from that in Digby, I cite the text by manuscript folio. Translations are my own.

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Fig. 1. Opening folio of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 74v. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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though almost all the material in Le Romaunz is present in the Disciplina, and the stories and links occur in the same order, the effect is markedly different from that of Alfonsi’s Latin book. The rubric is not just a casual comment, but rather a thoughtful reader’s introduction to this particular text. The first noun, romaunz, is curious, as the word and its cognates appear nowhere in the text proper. The strict sense of the word is as a noun denoting ‘French’, ‘narrative in French’ or ‘vernacular’; in a similar vein, the verb roma(un)cer denotes ‘to translate into French’.37 Construing romaunz in conjunction with Peres Aunfour, a reader must stretch the usage, whether by intuiting of or by to suggest ‘The French narrative of/by Peres Aunfour’, by envisaging the ensuing text to contain the poetic qualities associated with the many dozens of medieval French romans in rhymed octosyllabic verse, or by understanding romaunz as an adjective and Peres Aunfour as a titular noun, thus ‘the French Peres Aunfour’. The overall effect is to announce the vernacular and narrative quality of a poem by one Peres Aunfour, a domesticated avatar of Petrus Alfonsi, who taught (‘aprist’) and instructed (‘chaustia’) not a clericus (member of the clergy, clerk, scholar, pupil) but his son. A reader may recognise ‘Aunfour’ – a name that appears nowhere else in the Anglo-Norman corpus – as the famous Spanish, Jewish-born-but-converted author of a twelfth-century Latin text, or a reader may simply see him as a parent teaching a child. Reading on, the adverb the compiler appends at the end of the rubric – belement – is similarly instructive. Once again, this is the text’s unique instance of a lexeme, but the word initiates a key motif, as the poet uses bel(e) frequently as adjective or adverb, and the adjective beau(s) appears over a hundred times as a marker of spoken intimacy modifying fils, pere or amis. Here, belement might best be translated as ‘gently’ or ‘engagingly’, establishing from the onset that the poem is intended not as stern pedagogy but as mild instruction. In practice, the framing artifice that a father is speaking to his son, whom he immediately names ‘Beau fiz’ (‘Dear son’; fol. 74va), will continue throughout the text – a sharp change from Alfonsi’s Latin, where dialogical speakers switch frequently and are only occasionally paternal. In line with this understanding of the rubric as anticipatory commentary, it is relevant that the entirety of Le Romaunz reads as a single poetic oeuvre in adept octosyllabic couplets, which are marked by additional, unique rubrics (inserted by the Digby compiler) that differentiate and name the individual tales narrated by the father. This presentation is a far cry from the Latin text that offers itself as a collection of often-didactic prose works drawn from diverse instructive genres. Alfonsi generally depicts a teacher in dialogue with a student and his links include runs of maxims and proverbs, often attributed to (usually unnamed) philosophers or teachers. With the emphasis in Le Romaunz placed so strongly on a parent/child conversation, the

AND, s.v. romanz, s. ‘French; narrative, account in French; language, vernacular’; s.v. romancer, v.a. ‘to translate into French’. See, for example, Marie de France’s comment in the Prologue to the Lais: ‘E de latin en romaunz traire’ (And translate from Latin to French), in Les Lais, ed. Rychner, p. 2 (line 30).

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‘Peres’ of the Digby compiler’s rubric comes across more as paternal father than as spiritual Peter. The warm relationship between a storytelling father and his curious son that infuses Le Romaunz is highlighted in a twenty-eight-line speech that is by far the longest of the thirty-five comments assigned to the son. In this passage, the boy discusses a father’s obligations towards his child. The father has likened the son’s pleading for additional stories to a king’s insistence that his storyteller keep reciting deep into the night. The son counters that a father’s role is quite different from that of a hired fableour:       Certes, beu pere Ne dois pas fere en teu manere Car il i a entre vus e moy Qu’il ne out entre lui e le roy Car vus me engenderastes, çeo croy Donc jeo demaund resons e loy Que vus bonement m’amendet Par tout ou fere le porret Ne me devez feire daunger Si vus me savez amender Le fablour ama le roy Mes vus devez plus amer moy Car il deservoit son manger Par son janglers e par chaunter Ceo me est vis ne li chaut mie Le quel qu’il deit sens ou folie Mes ke il teu chose conustast Ou li rois se delitast Vus devez aver par reisoun Vers moy un autre entencion Counter me devez par doctrine E par amour de discipline Quil bon me pusez entrodure E de bele cience in strure Vostre fiz su ceo dusez fere Mes qui jeo me vousise retrere Quant jeo i met tout ma entente Fetes donc que jeo me sente (fol. 84rb–va) (‘Indeed, dear father, you shouldn’t act that way. There’s between you and me what doesn’t exist between [the storyteller] and the king. Given that you engendered me, as I believe, what I ask is reasonable and proper, that you improve me kindly in all ways that you know how; you shouldn’t be standoffish if you know how to improve me. The storyteller loved the king, but you should love me more. For he earned his keep by his jests and his songs, so that, so it seems to me, it hardly matters whether what he said was sensible or foolish, as long as he told stories that the king enjoyed. But it’s proper that you have a

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different intention with respect to me: you should tell me stories for the sake of learning and love of teaching, so that you can introduce and instruct me in good learning. I’m your son, so you should keep going until I’m ready to stop. When I’m giving all my attention to it, you should act so that I feel it!’)

The speech is filled with first- and second-person pronouns (thirteen and seven, respectively) and second-person verbs (eleven, including six uses of devez or an equivalent), the very number emphasising the closeness of the relationship and the paternal obligations that it entails (‘vus me engenderastes’, ‘vus devez plus amer moy’, ‘Vus devez aver par reisoun / Vers moy un autre entencion’, ‘Vostre fiz su’). At the same time, the boy requests not amusement but instruction (‘Counter me devez par doctrine / E par amour de discipline’) and closes the speech by insisting on his own good behaviour (‘Quant jeo i met tout ma entente’). The father’s playful response to this reasoning attests to the warm familial intimacy that allows a child to talk so freely to a parent: ‘Volenters orray ta prïere / Gardez que jeo ben l’enploye / Que mon travail ne entre en voye!’ (‘I will obey your request willingly; but take care that I satisfy it, that my labour doesn’t go into the void’; fol. 84va). It is the father’s job to amuse and instruct, the boy’s responsibility to listen carefully and each plays his part. The motif that a father’s speech must actively engage his son’s interest if his instruction is to be effective is emphasised in parent/child exchanges throughout the poem. A sequence about a third of the way into the text illustrates the interaction especially well. When introducing the tale of a poet who overpowers a hunchback, the father specifies that it is a delightful story (‘Bon dedut est’; fol. 81va), and at tale’s end the son expresses his appreciation by saying how he would like to hear another entertaining tale, but only if that would please his father, with the verb plaisir (to please, satisfy) acting as the governing word: ‘Oncore me plerreit plus oïr / Si vus veneit a pleisir’ (‘It would please me to hear another, / If that would also please you’; fol. 82ra). The father responds with a cautionary tale about a scholar so attracted by ‘deduit’ (fol. 82rb) that he stops outside a tavern, is attracted by the singing, goes inside and joins in the ‘folie’ (fol. 82va); when the tavern is raided, the scholar, along with the other revellers, is arrested, tried and sentenced. The son immediately responds to the exemplum by acknowledging the scholar’s foolishness, only then adding how pleased he would be to hear more tales (‘Taunt me plerreit plus escouter’; fol. 82va). The satisfied father is now quite ready to tell a set of stories about how bad women are more dangerous than beasts: Biau fiz suez leon e dracoun Ours lupars escorpioun Mes mal femme ne suez mie Pur chose k’ele vus die (fol. 82va) (‘Dear son, chase after lions and dragons, bears, leopards and scorpions: but never chase after bad women, regardless of what they say to you.’)

At the same time, he tempers his acquiescence by insisting that the boy take seriously the message that underlies the stories and respond proactively:

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Petrus Alfonsi, the Disciplina clericalis and Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour 101 Priez deu mult devoutement Le glorious rei omnipotent Qu’il te defende de lor art E tu te garde de ta part (fols. 82va–b) (‘Pray devotedly to God, the glorious all-powerful king, that he protect you from their designs, and pay attention in your own right.’)

Take heed of the stories’ morals and act upon them. The possibility of hearing stories about wicked women is obviously tremendously attractive to a young man, but the son is savvy enough to couch his eagerness under the heading of a respectable desire for knowledge:    Mout me plerroit Oïr de femmes quoi ke soit Car plus les conoisteroi Le meuz garder me en purroy (fol. 82vb) (‘It would please me greatly to hear about women, however they may be, since when I understand them better, I’ll be better able to protect myself.’)

The ensuing sequence of five stories about women’s tricks and infidelities is punctuated by the son’s exclamations of delight: ‘de oïr ai talent mult grant’ (‘I have a great desire to hear’; fol. 83ra); ‘mout me pleit a escouter’ (‘it pleases me greatly to listen’; fol. 83va); ‘De femme ne lessez atant / Deduit i a’ (‘Don’t stop talking about women; there’s delight in this’; fol. 84ra); ‘Tes countes sount de teu manere / Cum plus en oy plus en voderoi / Jammes ennué ne serroi’ (‘The stories are such that the more I hear, the more I want of them; I’ll never be bored’; fol. 84ra).38 The comments stress that the boy’s pleasure in hearing the stories ensures that his father will receive the full attention he has insisted upon. One may recognise a play, here and throughout the tales of wicked women, on cunte as ‘story’/’vagina’. The word c(o)unte appears regularly in Le Romaunz in nonsexual contexts, but its use is especially frequent in this section. A related and particularly interesting example of this wordplay describes an old woman who arranges a seduction: ‘Mult est la veile cuintete’ (The old woman was very skilful/sexually aware; fol. 85ra). The poet’s punning use of the word cuintete is matched in the French rubric the Digby scribe composes for the manuscript’s scurrilous Middle English fabliau, ‘le fablel e la cointise de dame siriz’ (fol. 165ra; an adaptation of Alfonsi’s tale the scribe calls ‘De une vieille e de une lisette’ (fol. 84vb)), and anticipates Chaucer’s similar usage of ME queynte in Fragment I of the Canterbury Tales. On Chaucer’s punning on the word conning(e), see M. L. Dutton, ‘Chaucer’s Cunning: An Incarnational Pun and an Omission in the Middle English Dictionary’, Chaucer Review 53 (2018), 36–59, which provides helpful bibliographical references. In contrast, K. Busby notes that where the Chastoiement translator uses ‘cunte’ to categorise three tales about wives cheating on their husbands, the Fables Pierre Alfons translator uses ‘fablel’/’fableaus’, which would ‘seem to underline more strongly the relationship of the Disciplina’s exempla to the vernacular fabliaux’ (‘Beast Epic, Fable, and Fabliau: Le Chastoiement d’un père à son fils’, in Grant risee?: The Medieval Comic Presence/ La Présence comique médiévale: Essays in Memory of Brian J. Levy, ed. A. P. Tudor and A. Hindley (Turnhout, 2006), pp. 103–14 (p. 108)).

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A closely related change in the tenor of Le Romaunz involves the transformation of Alfonsi’s Arab-infused generic hybrid into a mildly Christianised Anglo-French story collection. The phoneme arab, so common in the Disciplina clericalis, appears once in Le Romaunz, at the opening of the first story: ‘Uns prudhum esteit en Arabie’ (There was, in Arabia, a worthy man; fol. 75va), but it is stripped from the rest of the poem.39 The result of this cultural appropriation is especially evident in Le Romaunz’s domestic discourse. In ten of the sixteen instances where Alfonsi specifies a father/son conversation (some extending over a group of stories or examples), either the father or the son is called arab, but the usage is entirely absent in Le Romaunz, where the father is simply pere and the son fiz. The Digby text also includes none of the Disciplina’s markers of Arabic culture, such as eunuchs, camels or pilgrimage to Mecca. Egypt is named as a place in two stories, once as the primary setting, but, as in the fifth-century Vitas patrum, it is a region not characterised as either Arabic or Muslim. On the contrary, in the story of an old woman who helps a Spaniard overcome a cheating Egyptian, what is called a pilgrimage to Mecca in the Disciplina clericalis is altered into a journey ‘En oresone’ (for prayer; fol. 87ra), and ‘rome’ (fol. 87rb) is named as the Spaniard’s destination. This particular change may be attributed directly to the Digby scribe, as all other versions of Le Chastoiement collated by Alfons Hilka and Werner Söderhjelm specify a journey ‘vers le Mec’ (to Mecca), variously spelled ‘Meque’, ‘Mehe’ or ‘Mech’ in different copies.40 The scribe either did not know or did not care that Egypt is not on the trade route between Spain and Rome. His focus is on domesticising the book and its many stories in the manner of a north west European conduct text. Important as it is to establishing this new narrative frame, the creation in Le Chastoiement of a localised family drama is only a part of the translator’s most significant act in refashioning Alfonsi’s text for a late thirteenth-century AngloFrench audience; the other part is his conversion of Latin prose into French narrative verse. Petrus Alfonsi wrote correct Latin, told many a good story, mixed genres effectively and created, from his stock of miscellaneous Eastern and Hebrew tales, thoughts and aphorisms, a book with a mildly exotic, Arabian-inflected textual ambiance. With this book, he announced to a literate Western European audience a new possibility for literary production: an extensive collection of learned and comic stories. This creation was an extraordinary accomplishment, the first work of its kind in Western Europe and a literary success whose influence would endure for centuries. The achievement of the unnamed author of Le Chastoiement was much smaller: the domestic adaptation of a text he had before his eyes. Still, we ought not underestimate the cultural import of this unknown writer’s success in transforming Latin prose esteemed by clerics and other educated readers into a fluid French verse that is as smooth and easy to read as any contemporary romance. As we look for serious meaning in medieval texts, it is easy to overlook the pleasure Tolan discusses ‘the removal of Arab and Muslim elements’ by the translator of Les Fables Pierre Alfons, but does not address the similar adaptation by the translator of Le Chastoiement (Petrus Alfonsi, pp. 135–6). 40 See H/S, III, 107, line 1682 and textual note. 39

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that comes with devouring good poetry. The penning of Le Chastoiement gave the Disciplina clericalis a renewed literary vibrancy. In the immediate context of Digby 86, the translator’s labours took on pivotal significance. When a person who has been reading through the opening 73½ single-columned, prose folios of the manuscript comes upon the text named by the compiler Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour, s/he is transported abruptly from what has been a mélange of grey-tinted spiritual and instructional works into the world of romaunz, into, that is, a run of 94½ double-columned folios that appeal to a contemporary taste for colourful and vibrant vernacular secular poetry. The rhymed octosyllabic couplets of Le Chastoiement may lack some of the intellectual depth and international appeal of Petrus Alfonsi’s seminal Latin book, but the French poet gave his readers a true page-turner, and the Digby compiler recognised in this innovative text an ideal vehicle for introducing the English and French narrative poetry that has made Digby 86 one of the most important literary manuscripts of pre-Chaucerian England.

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APPENDIX 1 Stories in the Disciplina clericalis and the Digby Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour This table collates the twenty-six stories and links that exist in MS Digby 86’s Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour to the stories of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis. This chart corrects Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxi–xxii, who omit the tale lacking a rubric (item 19). The Digby scribe’s rubrics are unique in the manuscript tradition of the Anglo-French verse Le Chastoiement d’un pere a son fils (of which Romaunz is a version). Although Le Chastoiement lacks a few tales found in the Disciplina, the order is identical. Roman numerals and English titles in the left column are from The Scholar’s Guide. A Translation of the Twelfth Century ‘Disciplina Clericalis’ of Pedro Alfonso, trans. J. R. Jones and J. E. Keller (Toronto, 1969). Petrus Alfonsi, Disciplina clericalis

I

Prologue The Half Friend

II

The Whole Friend

III

The Three Poets [first part] The Three Poets [second part]

IV

The Mule and the Fox

V

The Man and the Snake

VI

The Poet and the Hunchback

VII VIII IX

The Clergyman Who Entered the Drinkers’ House The Owl’s Voice1 The Grape Harvester

X

The Linen Sheet

XI

The Sword

XII

The King and His Story Teller

XIII

The Weeping Bitch

XIV

The Well

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Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (MS Digby 86, fols. 74va–97vb) Prologue (74va–75va) 1 The Half Friend (‘De un demi ami’, 75va–76vb) + link 2 The Good Whole Friend (‘De un bon ami enter’, 77ra–79ra) + link 3 The Wise Man and the Fool (‘De un sage houme e de .i. fol’, 79rb–80va) + link 4 The King and the Clerk (‘De un roi e de un clerc’, 80va–80vb) + link 5 The Fox and the Mule (‘De un gopil e de un mul’, 80vb–81ra) + link 6 The Man, the Snake, and the Fox (‘De un houme e de une serpente e de .i. gopil’, 81rb–va) + link 7 The King and the Poet (‘De un roy e de un versifiour’, 81va–82ra) + link 8 The Two Scholarly Clerks (‘De .ii. clercs escolers’, 82rb–82va) + link 9 The Worthy Man and His Bad Wife (‘De un prodoume e de sa male feme’, 82vb–83ra) + link 10 The Woman’s Trick with a Blanket (‘Del engin de femme del velous’, 83ra–b) + link 11 The Sword: Another Woman’s Trick (‘Del espee autre engin de femme’, 83va–b) + link 12 The King and the Storyteller (‘De un roy e de un fableour’, 84ra–b) + link 13 The Old Woman and the Dog (‘De une veille e de une lisette’, 84vb–85vb)2 14 The Trick of the Stone and the Well (‘De la gile de la pere el puiz’, 85vb–86vb) + link

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Petrus Alfonsi, Disciplina clericalis

Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (MS Digby 86, fols. 74va–97vb)

XV

The Ten Chests

XVI XVII XVIII XIX

XXI

The Barrels of Oil3 The Golden Serpent4 (a) The Path / (b) The Ford5 The Two City Dwellers and the Country Man6 Nedui, the King’s Tailor’s Apprentice7 The Two Jesters

15 The Worthy Woman of Good Cunning (‘De une prode femme bone cointise’, 87ra–88rb) + link

XXII

The Farmer and the Little Bird

XXIII XXIV

The Oxen Promised to the Wolf by the Villager, and the Fox’s Judgment The Thief and the Moonbeam

XXV

Marianus

XXVI

The Two Brothers and the King’s Expenditures Anecdotes of Maimundus the Slave Socrates (Diogenes) and the King The Royal Advisor’s Prudent Son* The Thief Who Wanted to Take Too Many Things

XX

XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV

The Shepherd and the Sly Merchant* The Philosopher Who Passed Through a Cemetery* Alexander’s Golden Tomb The Hermit Who Admonished His Soul

16 The Two Minstrels (‘De .ii. menestreus’, 88rb–va) + link 17 The Bird Who Taught a Peasant Three Signs (‘Del oisel ki aprist les .iii. sens au vilein’, 89ra–vb) + link 18 The Peasant, the Wolf, and the Fox (‘De un vilein e de .i. lou e de .i. gopil’, 89vb–90va)8 + link 19 The Thief and the Moonbeam (90vb–91rb, without rubric) + link 20 The King and Plato (‘De un roy e de platoun’, 91va–92ra) + link 21 The King of Foolish Generosity (‘De un roy fol large’, 92rb–vb) + link 22 Maimound the Bad Squire (‘De maimound mal esquier’, 94ra–95ra) + link 23 Socrates and King Alexander (‘De socrates e de roi alisaundre’, 95rb–96ra) + link 24 The World Compared to a Thief (‘Cumpareisoun del secle de .i. laroun’, 96rb–vb)

25 King Alexander and the Philosopher (‘Del roi alisaundre e de .i. philosofe’, 96vb–97rb) 26 The Philosopher and the Soul (‘De un philosofes e de l’alme’, 97rb–vb)

Omitted in Le Chastoiement. Analogue for the English fabliau Dame Sirith (Digby 86, art. 59); see Appendix 2. 3 Included in Le Chastoiement but omitted in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour. 4 Included in Le Chastoiement but omitted in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour. 5 Included in Le Chastoiement but omitted in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour. 6 Included in Le Chastoiement but omitted in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour. 7 Included in Le Chastoiement but omitted in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour. 8 Analogue for the English beast fable The Fox and the Wolf (Digby 86, art. 51); see Appendix 3. 1

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APPENDIX 2 Text and Translation of The Fox and the Wolf Analogue in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (MS Digby 86, art. 27xviii)1

De un vilein e de .i. lou e de .i. gopil

89vb] Ja dis dit li peres avint Que un vilein sa charue tint. Ly bofs ne voilent a dreit aler Si cum li vileins les vout mener 5 Li vileins fu mout irrous E dit mangé vus eust li lous Li lous fu pres si l’entendi Ceo c’il dist ne mist en obbly Quant li vileins desjoint ses boés 10 Li lou pensa c’il a sun oés2 Les vout aver sanz contredit Pur tant cum li vileins out dit 90ra] Al vileins dreitement ala Les boés qu’il menoit demanda 15 Ly vilein nes vout pas doner Ne li lous neles vout lesser Tant en parlerent nequedent Qu’il en soffrerent jugement Atant vint un gopils errant 20 Vers eus s’en tret meintenant Demanda lor dount parlasent E de quel afere estrivasent Ly vileins li ad ben reconu Coment li ert avenu 25 Ceo dit li gopils pur nent Averez vus autre jugement Le jugement vus dirray ben Si que ne mesprendray de ren Mes enceis voderay veer 30 Si jeo vus puse acorder Li vilein par soy apela E privement li demanda Si une geline li dorroit E de sa femme une autre averoit 35 Par cruoy il ben li aidast E del lou se deliverast



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The Peasant, the Wolf, and the Fox ‘Once’, said the father, ‘it happened That a peasant owned a plough-team. The oxen didn’t want to go exactly Where the peasant tried to lead them. The peasant was quite angry, And said: “May the wolf eat you!” The wolf was nearby and heard him, And he heeded what he had spoken. When the peasant unyoked his oxen, The wolf thought that, by rights, He ought to possess them, Given what the peasant had said. He went straight to the peasant, And laid claim to the oxen he led. The peasant didn’t want to lose them, Nor did the wolf want to release them; They debated long, until they agreed That they’d submit the matter to judgement. Then there came along a wandering fox Who quickly approached them; He asked them what was their dispute, What issue they were arguing about. The peasant explained to him What had happened. The fox said: “There’s no need For you to seek further judgement. I’ll render for you a fair judgement According to my understanding, But first I’d like to see If I can bring you to a resolution.” He called the peasant to him And asked him privately If he’d give him a hen, With another one from his wife, For which he’d happily help him, And free him from the wolf.

For the text of The Fox and the Wolf, see Susanna Fein’s chapter in this volume, pp. 178–84. 2 A sun oés (by rights) is a legal formula. 1

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Quant li vileins li out granté Ceo que li out demandé Un poy vers le lou s’en tourna 40 Privement od li parla Si jeo travaile dit il pur toy Le meuz me serray ceo croy Jeo ay od cel vilein parlé Qu’il me ad bonement granté 45 Un formage averia viaz 90rb] Ansi leé cum un talevaz Par cel covenant que de ces boés Ne chalangez rien a ton oés Li lous bonement li granta 50 E li gopilz aprés parla Aloums dit il jeo te meneray E la formage te mousteray Le lous deguerpi le vilein Le gopil sywy tout en vein 55 Le gopil aprés le amena Si que james ne revendra Le gopil s’en ala avaunt E li lous venoit siwaunt Taunt le amena taunt l’enloingna 60 Que li solails se rechoucha A un puiz sunt tout dreit venu Si cum li gopil le out purveu La lune mout tres clere luseit E le ewe del puiz cler esteit 65 Li gopil le lou apela Enz my le puiz li moustra Li forme de la lune pleine E dit que tant i out de peine Que en le puiz li covent entrer 70 Si del formage veut manger E dist li lous va tu avant E si le formage est si grant Que tu nel puises aporter Dont te doy jeo ben aider 75 En la puiz une corde pendoit Au ii ichees .ii. seaus avoit En teu manere le unt engingné Pur ewe trere a volunté 90va] Quant le un oef seaus avaloit 80 Ly autre contre mounz aloit Li gopil ad ben purveu Coment li lou ert deceu En un de seaus est entré

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When the peasant granted him What he asked for, He then turned to the wolf 40 And spoke to him in private. “If I work on your behalf ”, he said, “I’ll benefit too, I think. I’ve spoken with the peasant, And he’s generously agreed 45 To give you a cheese As broad as a large shield Provided that, concerning the oxen, You not challenge his rights.” The wolf freely agreed to this, 50 And the fox then spoke: “Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll lead And show you the cheese.” The wolf left the peasant behind And followed the fox, but in vain – 55 The fox then led him away So that he’d never return. The fox proceeded in front, And the wolf followed; So far did he lead him and take him 60 That the sun had set. They came straight to a well, Just as the fox had planned. The moon shone so very bright That the water glowed in the well. 65 The fox called to the wolf And showed him in the centre of the well The image of the full moon, And said that, however hard it’d be, He’d need to go into the well 70 If he wanted to eat the cheese. The wolf said to him: “You go first, And if the cheese is so big That you can’t carry it, Then I’ll have to help you.” 75 A rope hung over the well; At each end it had a bucket. It was devised in such a way As to draw water easily: When one was lowered, 80 The other rose up. The fox had plotted How the wolf would be trapped; He got into one of the buckets,

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108 En le puiz est suef avalé Ly lou reheite son corage E dit ben ten le furmage E li gopil li respondi Jeo nel puis remuer de ci Avale dit il si m’en aye 90 Ou tu ne mangeras mie Ly lou en le seel entra E dedenz le puiz avala E cum il aloit avalant Ly autre se venoit mountant 95 Ly gopil joious s’en ala E li lous en le puiz nea Ceo qu’il out pur ceo guerpy Dunt il quidoit estre seisy E si li avint mult malement 100 Qu’il perdi tout communement 85

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David Raybin And was gently lowered into the well. The wolf was glad in his heart, And said: “Good! Grab the cheese!” And the fox answered him: “I can’t move it from here! Come down”, he said, “and help me, 90 Or you’ll not eat a bit of it.” The wolf got into the bucket And went down into the well, And as he went down The other came rising up. 95 The fox went away joyfully, And the wolf drowned in the well. He lost what he’d had for a moment – What he thought he possessed – And thus it ended very badly for him, 100 And he lost everything.’ 85

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APPENDIX 3 Text and Translation of Dame Sirith Analogue in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (MS Digby 86, art. 27xiii)3 De une veille e de une lisette

84vb] Un prodoume ceo oy counter

Voloit en oresons aler Femme out bone e honouré E fu de chasteté prové 5 Li prodom la tenoit mult chere Car el ert de bone manere En sa bounté s’afia ben Ne la vout mescrere de ren Conue le out en teu mesure 10 Que de li garder ne avoit cure Car ben sout que son corage Ne li lerroit fere outrage Cil s’en ala, cele remist E de ben fere se entremist 15 Asez se contint chastement De foler ne out nul talent Un jour i vint un bacheler Qui auques ert de soy leser Mout l’egarda car mult ert bele 20 Gent out le cors e la mesele Sempres i torna sen corage Tout est entré en la rage Par message e par mandement Li fet entendre soen talent 25 Mout la requist mout la promist Mes cele nule garde ne prist Ne poet nule ren espleiter Por chose qu’il sout purchacer Quant ne pout le bachiler 30 Nule merci vers li trover Taunt devint mournes e mari 85ra] Qu’il est forment enmaladi E nepurquant il ad weue Sovent repeirer en la rue 35 Mout se delita en l’esgarder Quant el ne pout espleiter Mes par tout li faut son purpens Pur poy qu’il ne perde le sens

The Old Woman and the Dog



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‘As I’ve heard tell, a worthy man

Intended to go on pilgrimage. He had an upright and good wife Who was of proven chastity. The worthy man cherished her dearly For she was of good character. He trusted fully in her goodness And had no desire to doubt her in anything; She’d always behaved in such a way That he never worried about watching over her. He knew well that her temperament Wouldn’t ever allow her to be wanton. He went away. She remained And undertook to act virtuously. Thus she behaved chastely And had no interest in fooling around. One day a young man showed up Who was always acting wanton. He eyed her closely, for she was very beautiful: She had an attractive body and cheek. He instantly set his thoughts upon her And became mad with longing. Using messengers and summonses, He made known to her his desire,

Imploring her often, promising her much,

But she paid him no heed; He couldn’t get any Of the things he hoped to gain. When the young man couldn’t Find any mercy in her, He became so sad and distressed That he fell violently ill, Yet he sought her all the same. He often returned to her street, Delighting much in watching her, Even if he couldn’t obtain her. But he utterly failed in his goal, And he almost lost his mind.

For the text of Dame Sirith, see Susanna Fein’s chapter in this volume, pp. 186–96.

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Cum il s’en aloit si pleinant E des oils tendrement plorant Une veile ad encountree En guise de nonne velee Demanda lui privement Dount li venoit cel marement 45 Mes ne li osa pas geir Ne son corage descoverir Di tu fet ele biaus amis Tu n’est pas sages ceo m’est vis Cum plus longes celeras 50 Ta enfermeté plus tard garras Si jeo ta enfermeté savoy Jeo quid treben te garriroy E cil li reconoit en recoy Dont li et venu cel esfroy 55 Quant la veile ad entendu Dount si grant mal li est venu Dit lui ne te emmaiez de rien Jeo te conseileray mult bien Cele a son oustel repeira 60 E li juvencel s’en torna Pur qui cist counte comenca4 Mout ert la veile cointette Nori avoit une lisette Treis jours la fist juner 85rb] Que riens ne li lessa manger Au quart jour quant ele manja En moustard pain moilla La senevey mult fort esteit Ses oils fet lermer a espleit 70 E la veile s’en torna Qui la lise od li mena A la meson s’en torne droit Ou la prode femme manoit Que cel juvencel mult ama 75 Pur qui cist countes comenca Quant ele en la meson entra Li dame mult bel le apela Quida que n’i out treisoun Pur ceo que ert de religioun 80 Quant ele vit les oils de chen lermer Donc li comence a demander Dame fet ele pur quele ren

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As he went about, complaining, With tears streaming from his eyes, He met an old woman In the guise of a professed nun. She asked him discreetly What caused such sorrow, But he didn’t dare reveal it to her Nor disclose his thoughts. “Tell me,” she said, “dear friend. You’re not wise, that’s what I think, For the longer you hide

Your illness, the longer until you’re healed.

If I knew your illness, I’m certain I could cure you.” Then he answered her secretly Whence came his distress. 55 When the old woman heard Of the deep pain that’d come to him, She said: “Don’t worry about any of it! I’ll give you some very good advice.” She returned to her lodgings, 60 And the young man went on his way, About whom this tale began. The old woman is very cunning. She had raised a bitch, And she made it fast for three days; 65 She wouldn’t let it eat anything. When it ate on the fourth day, She soaked bread in mustard. The mustard was very strong, Causing its eyes to tear up plentifully. 70 And in the evening she went out, Leading the dog with her, Going straight to the house Where lived the worthy woman Whom the young man loved so much, 75 About whom this tale began. When she entered the house, The lady greeted her graciously. She imagined no treachery there Because she was of a religious order. 80 When she saw the dog’s eyes weep, She began to inquire: “Lady,” she said, “why do

Line 61 anticipates line 75, creates a triple rhyme and is likely an error. The edition of Short and Percy omits the line (Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, p. 12).

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Petrus Alfonsi, the Disciplina clericalis and Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour

Lerment si li oils de cel chen La veile comence a plorer 85 E tendrement a soupirer Dame dit la veile lessez Pur le amour deu nel demandez Si vus le encheison saviez Certes grant doel averiez 90 Ore a primes fu coveitouse La prode femme e anguisouse Que l’acheison li deït Dount cel marement li venist La veile n’ert pas esgarré 95 Toust ad la gile contrové Dit la veile mal enartee Ceste lise est de ma char nee 85va] Meschine ert bele e honoré N’out plus bele en la contree 100 Un bachiler la coveita E anguisousement le ama Mout la requist mout la pramist Mes ele del tout le countredist Cil en devint mourne e mari 105 Si que forment enmaladi Pur anguise l’esteut morir Ne pout par autre fin guenchir Mes dampnedeu ben le venga Que ma file en lise mua 110 Quant la prode femme le entent Au quer out grant marement De pour quide estre afolé E par cele encheison mué5 Dame dist ele que ferray 115 Certes si conseil n’en ay Jeo crem estre desjouglé E par cel encheison mué Uns est pur moy si mari Jeo crem que il soit enmaladi 120 Ceo dit la veile que avez fet Qui le avez mis en tel deshet Certes, s’il perde pur vus la vie Vus en serrez en fin honie Si jeo seuse la driuuerie 125 Que ma file fust honie einz

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The dog’s eyes weep so much?” The old woman began to cry And poignantly to sigh. “Lady,” said the old woman, “let be! For God’s love, don’t ask about it! If you knew the reason, You’d surely feel great pity.” The worthy woman is now In anguish with eagerness That she tell her the reason For such sorrow. The old woman is not deterred – She had devised the whole scam. Well-versed in evil, the old woman said: “This bitch was born of my flesh; She was an upright, beautiful maiden, None more beautiful in the country. A young man desired her And loved her in anguish; He implored her often, promised her much, But she denied him everything, So that he became sad, distressed, And violently ill. He died in anguish – He couldn’t avoid it by any means! But the Lord God avenged him well By turning my daughter into a bitch.” When the worthy woman heard this, She felt deep distress in her heart; She thought she’d go mad for fear, And for this reason be transformed. “Lady,” she said, “what shall I do? Indeed, if I don’t receive good advice, I’m afraid of being confounded And for this reason be transformed: There’s someone so distressed on my account, I fear he’ll fall ill.” The old woman said: “What have you done That you’ve caused him such suffering? Certainly, should he lose his life on your account, You’ll be ruined in the end – I know something about love affairs Because my daugher was previously ruined.

Line 113 anticipates line 117 and is likely an error. Short and Percy substitute ‘Pur celui qui l’aveit amé’ (On account of the one who loved her), which appears in other manuscripts of Le Chastoiement (Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, p. 12).

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Entre le bachiler e ly Certes, nul de eus ne fust honi Quant la bone femme le entent Merci li crie bonement 130 Dame car me consilez 85vb] Pur le amour deu si vus savez Cele respont simplement Jeo volunters e bonement Par icel encheisoun 135 Que deu me face verray pardoun Si li plest de mes pecchés De les noveus e de les veus E le autre le mercie asez Cele le bacheler manda 140 Privement les asembla Taunt fist la veile mal artouse Que puteine fist la bone espouse Ne se travaila pas en vein Quant de prode femme fist putein

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As regards the young man and him, Certainly, neither should’ve been lost.” When the good woman heard this, She cried out, “Thank you kindly. 130 Lady, advise me now, For God’s love, if you know what to do!” That other answered simply: “I will, willingly and quickly. May it be for this reason 135 That God grant me true pardon, Should it please him, for my sins, Both the new and the old.” The other thanked her greatly. This one sent for the young man, 140 And brought them together in private. The evil, wily woman thus arranged To make a whore of a good wife. She didn’t work in vain When from a worthy woman she created a whore.’

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chapter seven

MISOGYNY IN MS DIGBY 86 Marilyn Corrie

I

n the lower margin on the recto side of what is now folio 80 of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, the head of a woman has been drawn in profile and the word ‘femina’ (woman) written beside it (Fig. 1). The hand that wrote ‘femina’ here is the same as the one that has written almost all of the contents of Digby 86, and the woman’s head seems to have been drawn by him too, not least because it is in the same ink as its caption. The two columns of text on fol. 80r make no reference to any woman, and so the scribe’s drawing is not an illustration of anything that the page says. ‘Woman’ seems to have been on the Digby scribe’s mind for other reasons. Perhaps she was there already – but a large amount of the material that the scribe copied later in his manuscript encouraged him to think of her. It also encouraged him to think negatively of her. This may have been why ‘femina’ is depicted in his drawing with long, loose, flowing hair. Although the scribe may have thought of long hair simply as something that distinguished a woman from a man, in medieval iconography long, unbound hair often denotes rampant sexuality, which was frequently associated with women in the Middle Ages, and is associated with them in texts that the Digby scribe copied into his manuscript. It is worth noting that in the lower margin of the facing page in his book (fol. 79v), the scribe has drawn the head of a man (‘homo’) with his hair tightly bound in a headdress (Fig. 2).1 The material that the Digby scribe has copied above his drawing of ‘femina’ is from Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (a versified French translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis), in which a father tells his son a large number of cautionary tales.2 Several of these tales warn the son to beware of ‘femme’. One tells how when For an interesting discussion of the symbolism attached to the depiction of hair in the Middle Ages, see R. Milliken, Ambiguous Locks: An Iconology of Hair in Medieval Art and Literature (Jefferson, NC, 2012). 2 Art. 27 (fols. 74va–97vb) in the contents of Digby 86 listed in Tschann and Parkes, pp. xii–xxxvi. Originally written in Latin, Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis is known to have been translated into French three times, twice into verse and once into prose. For the two verse translations, see Petri Alfonsi ‘Disciplina clericalis’, ed. A. Hilka and W. Söderhjelm, III, Acta Societatis Scientiarum Fennicae 49.4 (Helsinki, 1922); the version represented by the Digby text is what Hilka and Söderhjelm call ‘Version B’, and is edited by them on pp. 79–163. For the prose translation, see volume II of Hilka and Söderhjelm’s edition, and for the original Latin text, see volume I. In having all of the tales in the work told by the father 1

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Fig. 1. Head of a woman (‘femina’), below text of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 80r, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

Fig. 2. Head of a man (‘homo’), below text of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 79v, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

a woman’s husband returned unexpectedly from his vineyard with an injured eye, she covered up his other eye so that her lover could escape. When the husband of another woman went on pilgrimage, he entrusted her to her mother so that she ‘would not do anything silly’ (‘ne foleast’; fol. 83ra). But the mother colluded in her daughter’s adultery and enabled the escape of her lover when the husband returned. Even a wife who was ‘bone e honouré’ (good and honoured) and ‘de chasteté prové’ to his son, the ‘Version B’ translation deviates from Petrus’s Latin, which ascribes different tales to different tellers – sometimes a father addressing his son, sometimes, alternatively, for example, masters addressing their pupils. Petrus’s work and its impact are discussed in J. Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi and His Medieval Readers (Gainesville, FL, 1993). See also David Raybin’s chapter in this volume.

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Misogyny in MS Digby 86

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Fig. 3. Another head of a woman, below text of Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (French verse translation of Petrus Alfonsi’s Disciplina clericalis). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 82v, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. (of proven chastity) committed adultery (fol. 84vb).3 A young man who was in love with her enlisted the services of an old woman, who fed a dog bread soaked in mustard, making it cry. She told the wife that the dog was actually her daughter, who had been metamorphosed by God because she had rejected a young man who loved her. This made ‘la bone espouse’ (the good wife) become ‘puteine’ (a whore). The son extrapolates from these tales that it would be necessary to watch closely a woman whom one wanted to guard successfully (‘Estreit la covendreit gaiter / Qui femme vodroit ben garder’; fol. 85vb). The Digby scribe’s drawing of ‘femina’ with its free-flowing hair complements the depiction of women in these tales. It is a larger version of another drawing of a woman’s head in the lower margin of fol. 82v (Fig. 3), which is where the tales about women in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour commence. Although the text on this page was written by a scribe other than the Digby scribe (it is part of only two quires in Digby 86 written by somebody other than the main scribe), it is the Digby scribe who seems to have drawn the head in the margin. It is in the same red ink as his other drawings in the manuscript – and as a rubric on the page, which is clearly in his hand.4 Misogyny – a mistrust of women or a dislike, even hatred, of them or prejudice against them – is a well-known constant of medieval writing. It is also, this chapter will suggest, a constant in Digby 86, expressed in each of the three languages – French, Latin and English – in which the material in the manuscript has been written. Much of the material with which this chapter deals either has not been published outside the printed and digital facsimiles of Digby 86 or, if it has, is not widely available to most readers. Much of the material has not been made available Quotations throughout this chapter are taken from the Digby versions of the texts to which I refer, transcribed directly from the manuscript. Modern English translations of quoted materials throughout this chapter are my own. 4 On Scribe A (here designated the ‘Digby scribe’) and Scribe B, see Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxviii–xli. 3

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to exclusively Anglophone readers. The aim of this chapter is not to say something new about how misogyny is expressed in the Middle Ages, but to show how Digby 86 contributes to this current in medieval writing. The chapter aims to expose some barely known material in which misogyny is voiced. It suggests also that the misogyny contained in the various texts that the manuscript incorporates (some of it particularly unsavoury) is a sentiment with which the main scribe of the book repeatedly engaged. Misogyny figures blatantly in a Latin poem that the main scribe has copied towards the end of his manuscript, on fol. 201r.5 The scribe has rubricated the piece with the observation ‘Hic sunt distincta mala feminarum’ (Here the evils of women are distinguished), but the poem addresses, rather, the subject of woman, an abstraction, rather than individual incarnations, of womanhood: Femina res ficta res subdala res maledicta. Femina ventosa res fallax res venenosa. Femina donabit tibi nil set cunta rogabit. Femina ridendo flendo fallit que canendo. Femina temtabit tua qualiter adnichilabit. Femina fraudabit te cum dicit adamabit. Femina tunc gaudet cum percipit omne quod audet. Femina multorum subdit claustra monacorum. Femina fons fellis quamuis det basia mellis. Plana licet pellis tamen est repleta procellis. Dulcius est melle carnem sentire puelle. Acrius est felle penam sentire gehenne. (Woman: false thing, sly thing, cursed thing. Woman: inconstant, deceitful thing, thing full of poison. Woman will give you nothing, but will ask for everything. Woman deceives by laughing, weeping and singing. Woman will tempt you and annihilate you in the same breath. Woman will cheat you when she says she will love you truly. Woman rejoices when she takes in everything that she hears. Woman sends many monks to their cloisters. Woman is a well of poison, although she gives kisses of honey. She has been given a transparent skin; however, she is full of storms. It is sweeter than honey to feel the flesh of a girl. It is more bitter than gall to feel the torment of hell.)

This is a text that supplies no evidence for the allegations about woman that it makes. It denies woman humanity, even life: she is a ‘thing’ (res). It reaffirms the deceitfulness by which women have been characterised much earlier in Digby 86 in the French translation of the Disciplina clericalis. But the alliteration with which it sporadically expresses its definition of woman gives it a more bitter tone than that Art. 75; fol. 201r. It has been published only in the Tschann and Parkes facsimile, and not in edited form.

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earlier text has. The placing of ‘femina’ at the beginning of each of the first nine lines of the poem makes the offensive that it mounts against woman seem relentless. If in the Disciplina wariness of women was a stance that a father encouraged his son to adopt, here distrust of woman is something that the poem asks anyone reading it to share: ‘Femina temtabit tua qualiter adnichilabit’, ‘Femina fraudabit te cum dicit adamabit’. As anyone reading the poem is almost certainly going to be a man – for one thing, the Latin in which it is written made it inaccessible to the vast majority of women in the Middle Ages – the ‘you’ that it invokes is a member of the same sex as its speaker. Misogyny here is passed from a man to other men, as it has been from a man to another man within the fiction of the Disciplina. Implicitly, a series of lines of verse that have been attached to a copy of the French fabliau Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin (The Four Wishes of Saint Martin) in Digby 86 does the same thing. The lines, most of them taken from a text known as Le Blasme des femmes (The Blame of Women), but some of them from another text, Le Chastie-musart (The Fool’s Chastisement), end with the speaker addressing anybody who would like to ‘take his pleasure’ of a woman (‘qui en vodereit ben joir’).6 The speaker advises any such man (‘il’) of what he should do: Jeo li loreie saunz mentir Qui il li donast poy a manjer E mal a veiter e a chaucer E batust menu e sovent Dounke freit femme soun talent. (fol. 114ra–b) (I would advise him earnestly that he give her little to eat and poor clothes and shoes, and that he beat her hard and often – then the woman would do what he wants her to do.) The lines from Le Chastie-musart interrupt the (larger) number of lines taken from Le Blasme des femmes, and are longer than the lines from this text. Tschann and Parkes list the copy of Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin and the lines extracted from Le Blasme des femmes and Le Chastie-musart as arts. 35–7; the composite text spans fols. 113ra–114rb. The beginning of Les Quatre Souhais is missing in Digby because of the loss of quires that (one can infer) included the opening of the text. For an edition of the composite Digby text, see, for example, the Nouveau Recueil complet des fabliaux, ed. W. Noomen and N. van den Boogaard, 10 vols. (Assen, 1983–98), IV, 189–216, which prints the other three surviving versions of the work as well, in parallel with the Digby text; Noomen and van den Boogaard then offer a critical edition of the fabliau. For an edition and modern English translation of Le Blasme des femmes, see Three Medieval Views of Women: La Contenance des fames, Le Bien des fames, Le Blasme des fames, ed. and trans. G. K. Fiero, W. Pfeffer and M. Allain (New Haven, CT, 1989), pp. 119–42. For another version, see Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 120-25, 320–21 (art. 77). One of the several copies of Le Chastie-musart that survive is printed in P. Meyer, ‘Le Chastie-musart d’après le ms. Harléien 4333’, Romania 15 (1886), 603–10. I discuss some of the idiosyncrasies of the Digby copies of texts, including Les Quatre Souhais, in ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49. For a recent discussion of Les Quatre Souhais, see S. Fein, ‘The “Thyng Wommen Loven Moost”: The Wife of Bath’s Fabliau Answer’, in Medieval Women and Their Objects: Essays in Honor of Carolyn P. Collette, ed. J. Adams and N. M. Bradbury (Ann Arbor, MI, 2017), pp. 15–38.

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The speaker communicates a fantasy of the last vestige of autonomy being suppressed in a woman – specifically a wife or, conceivably, a mistress – through sustained, extreme violence. Already dependent on her husband (if that is what he is) for food and clothing, the woman becomes entirely subservient to him sexually. Underlying these lines is a cliché of misogyny in the Middle Ages, shaped in the patristic period: that women like to display themselves in expensive clothes, in the hope of attracting lovers and to the detriment of their husbands’ financial wellbeing.7 The idea that women are recalcitrant towards their husbands, a trait of the sex that was initiated by Eve, also lurks beneath the subjugation of the desired woman’s will that the speaker presents as realisable through her beating. Previously, the lines have, once more, affirmed that woman should not be believed – ‘Ne est mie saie qui femme creyt’ (Anybody who believes a woman is not wise) – invoking what happened to ‘li sage Salamoun’ (the supposedly wise Solomon), to Samson, to the Emperor Constantine and to Hippocrates, ‘the good doctor’ (‘li bons mires’), at the hands of their respective wives (fol. 113vb). Women are evilly disposed (‘femmes sount de mal engin’); woman is evil in her character and her nature (‘Femme est de mal atret e de male nature’) – as proved by the fact that she has no time for somebody who loves her, but cherishes the man who treats her badly: ‘cil qui la fest vilenie e leidure’ (the man who subjects her to base and repulsive behaviour; fols. 113vb–114ra). This is an idea about woman that is given substance in Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, who loved her fifth husband Jankyn although he abused her verbally and physically. Jankyn, the best-known medieval exponent of misogyny, at least to readers of Middle English literature, is a figure to whom this chapter will return. In copying such material, the Digby scribe shows his interest in misogyny. But – if it was he who attached the lines from Le Blasme des femmes and Le Chastie-musart to the end of Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin – he also extended its expression. Les Quatre Souhais tells how a peasant is rewarded for his devotion to Saint Martin by being given four wishes by the saint. Despite his misgivings about doing so, he lets his wife make the first of the wishes and she asks that he be covered with ‘viz’ (pricks) – which duly happens. The peasant then wishes that his wife be covered with ‘couns’ (cunts), the wife that the genitalia on both her and her husband be removed – and then that ‘jeo eye moun coun / E vous heyez voustre peche’ (‘I have my cunt and you have your dick’) (fol. 113vb). The four wishes have been squandered in returning the genital situation of the couple to what it was before the peasant was granted the wishes by Saint Martin. The fabliau proves that women are as lascivious as they were said to be (by men) in the Middle Ages: the wife wants as many ‘viz’ as her husband’s body can accommodate.8 But the text also illustrates the stupidity and the vengefulness of peasants. The Digby copy of the fabliau ends by focusing on the opportunities that the peasant lost: The locus classicus of disparagement of women on account of their perceived love of fine clothes is Tertullian’s De cultu feminarum, written at the end of the second century or early in the third. Extracts from this work are translated into modern English in Woman Defamed and Woman Defended: An Anthology of Medieval Texts, ed. A. Blamires (Oxford, 1992), pp. 50–8. 8 For medieval and pre-medieval statements of women’s lasciviousness, see Woman Defamed and Woman Defended, ed. Blamires. 7

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Pur ceo vous di n’est mie fable Li vilein perdi par soun deable De estre riches touz jours mes Si il eust gardé ses suhés (fol. 113vb) (And so I say to you – I am not kidding – that through his devil the peasant forfeited eternal wealth, which he would have had if he had kept his wishes.)

‘Par soun deable’ here seems to refer to the peasant’s wife, who is thus identified as the agent of his blighted dreams; but the lines still blame the peasant for relinquishing control of the wishes to his wife.9 The lines that the Digby scribe, perhaps, attached to the end of the fabliau close down this point, turning the text into (another) illustration of how untrustworthy and evil women are. They need to be maltreated so that they can be brought into line with what a man wants to use them for: to satisfy his desire. The scribe – or whoever it was who attached the lines to the fabliau – has responded to the invitation to share the misogyny that other texts in Digby 86 present. Misogyny lurks in many texts in Digby 86 that do not disparage women (or woman) explicitly. A curious little versified French piece that the Digby scribe has rubricated as ‘Le fablel del gelous’ (The Little Fable of the Jealous Man) berates the generic jealous husband for his treatment of his wife.10 Jealous husbands keep their houses shut up; the jealous husband guards the entrance to his house once his wife has entered it. Jealous husbands hold their wives by their hips; ‘Gelous doit gisir en la merde!’ (The jealous man deserves to lie in shit!) (fol. 109vb). But while the poem condemns the jealous man, it is predicated on the fact that his wife is always on the brink of committing adultery. Every day, the text says, she is brought news of all sorts of men – ‘De clerc ou de prestre ou de moine / Ou de chevaler bel e jefne’ (Of clerk or of priest or of monk or of a handsome young knight) – and each of them has the intention of ‘getting her on her back’ (each ‘la veille geter enverse’) (fol. 109va). There is no suggestion that the ever-imminent adultery of a wife is what happens when her jealous husband treats her as he does: rather, one might infer, the fidelity of a wife is a fragile thing because she is a woman. Immediately preceding Le Fablel del gelous in Digby 86 is another French text, Le Lai du cor, which tells how a

Compare the moral with which Les Quatre Souhais ends in two of the other manuscripts in which it has been preserved (I quote here from the text in Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 837, as reproduced in Noomen and van den Boogaard’s edition): ‘Qui mieus croit sa fame que lui, / Souent l’en vient honte e anui!’ (Whoever believes his wife over himself often ends up with shame and trouble as a result!). What happened to the peasant, in other words, shows what a bad idea it is to let one’s wife rule one’s better judgement. Everybody knows what women are like, so you only have yourself to blame if you trust them. 10 Art. 32; fols. 109va–110ra. This poem, unique to Digby 86, has been printed only in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86 in Bibliotheca Bodleiana asservatum, ed. E. Stengel (Halle, 1871), pp. 28–30; and in C. Meier-Ewert, ‘A Study and a Partial Edition of the Anglo-Norman Verse in the Bodleian Manuscript Digby 86’, unpublished D.Phil. dissertation, Somerville College, Oxford (Oxford, 1971), pp. 219–20. 9

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horn made by ‘une fee’ (a fairy) was delivered to the Caerleon court of King Arthur.11 Only a knight whose wife had been faithful to him would be able to drink from the horn without its contents spilling themselves over him. The lai is said at its end to have been composed by Garadue, who was indeed able to drink from the horn cleanly, and whose wife, therefore, was proved loyal to him. But Garadue’s success comes only after a long sequence of knights have been doused in the contents of the horn after they have attempted to drink from it. Garadue’s wife is the exception that proves the rule that women are not faithful to their husbands. In one French text in Digby 86, the speaker tells of his obsession with finding love.12 This compulsion was such, he says, that he was unable to rest, night or day (‘ne poeye jour ne nuyt / Repos aver / Taunt pensay de amour aver’) (fol. 114rb). But his desire to find love does not mean that he loves women. Towards the end of the text, he defines his ideal woman as one who is barren; if he could find such a woman, he would love and cherish her, and she would be his companion for a long time. When women have children, after all, they become rebellious towards ‘lour ami’: Quant averount enfaunt de li Querrount meitrie Si lor semble que seinourie Deivent aver (fol. 116rb) (When they have his child, they will seek to be the boss; they get it into their heads that they have to be in charge.)

And so the speaker’s ideal woman is one who lacks the usual capacity of a woman to become pregnant. His love of a woman is dependent on this denial of a key marker of her womanhood. His commitment to her is contingent on this, too. Women’s biology puts men’s domination of them at risk. Earlier in the text, the speaker has conveyed advice that his brother, also his friend (‘moun frere qui fu mi drue’) (fol. 114rb), gave him: this is another text in which men discuss women with each other. In order to make a woman comply with what the speaker wants her to do, the brother says, he needs to rape her and then behave with tenderness towards her: Car jeo vous geur par ma face Ceo est la ren Qui plus toust fest femme ben Soun quer chaunger (fol. 114va) Art. 31; fols. 105ra–109va. This item is another text preserved only in Digby 86. After claiming that Garadue was responsible for the lai – ‘Seingnours cest lai trova / Garadue …’ (Sirs, Garadue composed this lai) – the text ascribes its contents to one ‘Robert Bikez’, ‘Qui mout par set d’abez’ (Who knows a lot about tricks) (fol. 109va). The authoritative edition of the work is by C. T. Erickson (The Anglo-Norman Text of Le Lai du cor, ANTS 24 (Oxford, 1973)). The text is discussed in, for example, M. J. Donovan, The Breton Lay: A Guide to Varieties (Notre Dame, IN, 1969). 12 The piece is known as La Vie de un vallet amerous (art. 38; fols. 114rb–116vb), which replicates the Digby scribe’s rubric at the beginning of the poem. Unique to the manuscript, it has been printed only in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 40–9; and in Meier-Ewert, ‘A Study and a Partial Edition’, pp. 228–37. 11

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(‘For I swear to you, honestly, that is the thing that makes a woman have a change of heart more quickly than anything else’.)

Through the voice of the speaker’s brother, what has been intimated by the lines from Le Blasme des femmes that the Digby scribe has copied immediately before this text is reaffirmed: women can, indeed should, be made submissive to men’s sexual desire through violence. The success that the brother promises the speaker through the sexual violence that he recommends also probably assumes the truth of the misogynistic cliché that women are really craving the sex that they say they do not want. This passage, unfortunately, is not the only place in Digby 86 where a man is advised to force himself on a woman who refuses his requests for ‘love’. The same recommendation is made in another French text that the scribe has copied later in the manuscript, Les Proverbes del Vilain – although here the fact that the advice is put in the mouth of a generic ‘Vilain’ (peasant) probably signals that it is to be regarded as base:13 Quant dame ne respount Que l’em prie e somount Que druerie otrie Fols est si il veit sei a eisse Si il vous ne la quaisse E face ceo ki il deit Asez otrie ki se taist. c.d.l.v.14 (fol. 144rb) (When a lady does not respond to one’s prayers and entreaties that she grant one her love, if he sees that he has the opportunity, the man who does not just track her down and do what he needs to do is mad. ‘Silence is as good as consent’ – that is what the peasant says.)

Much later in Digby 86, the scribe has copied a French dream-vision poem and debate, in which the narrator says that while he slept in an orchard he saw two women who defended their respective ways of life and criticised the lifestyle of the other woman.15 One woman, the narrator says, was ‘de sai fole’ (mad in her ways), ‘double’ (duplicitous) and ‘mout volage’ (very flighty); she was well and expensively dressed and she was serially unfaithful to her husband. The other woman was ‘sage’ (wise), with ‘le quer estable’ (a stable heart); her clothes were old and worn and she was loyal to her husband. If one woman is an incarnation of misogynistic stereotyping, then the other eludes that stereotyping. She wears dowdy clothes – not out of choice, however, but because these are what her husband allots her, just as Art. 53; fols. 143rb–149vb. The text is printed in ‘Li Proverbe au vilain’: Die Sprichwörter des gemeinen Mannes, ed. A. Tobler (Leipzig, 1895). See also E. Rattunde, ‘Li Proverbes au vilain’: Untersuchungen zur romanischen Spruchdichtung des Mittelalters (Heidelberg, 1966). 14 ‘c.d.l.v.’ stands for ‘ceo dist le vilain’, the refrain with which each stanza of the text concludes. 15 L’Estrif de deus dames (art. 67; fols. 192v–195v). The poem is printed (from the Continental manuscript in which it also survives) in Nouveau Recueil de contes, dits, fabliaux et autres pièces inédites des xiiie, xive et xve siècles, ed. A. Jubinal, 2 vols. (Paris, 1839, 1842), II, 73–82; and, from Digby 86, in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 84–93. 13

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the lines from Le Blasme des femmes recommended that a husband should. If she is faithful to her husband, it is, partly at least, because her lack of finery limits the ability to attract other men that women were said to cultivate ferociously. Finally, the ‘mad’ woman agrees to do what the ‘wise’ one has requested of her: that she be faithful to her husband and relinquish ‘fol amour’ (mad love). A woman who behaves madly, it seems, can be made to change her ways. The reason why the mad woman in the narrator’s dream decides to embark on a new way of life, however, is that she is worried about what other people are going to say about her when she is old. She does not resolve to behave ‘wisely’ from now on because she recognises that what she has been doing is morally wrong. And although only one ‘mad’ woman appears in the narrator’s dream, it is clear that she is representative of how many women behave. The poem ends by insinuating that there are many such women in the outside world. The narrator says that, in communicating what he witnessed in his dream, he hopes that ‘mad ladies’ will be persuaded to refrain from ‘madness’ (his account of his vision is ‘Pur foles dames fere de folie reprendre’). There are, it seems, plenty of mad ladies about – just as so many of the texts in Digby 86 have already alleged. The Digby scribe rubricated the penultimate piece that I have described here as ‘La vie de un vallet amerous’ (The Life of a Love-Obsessed Lad). To him, it was a poem about its narrator, one that he represents as that narrator’s biography. When the narrator’s brother evokes the scenario of the narrator’s holding his girlfriend in his arms (as a prelude to inflicting himself on her) – ‘Quant entre vos bras tendrez / Voustre amie / …’ – the Digby scribe has drawn a disembodied hand pointing to ‘Voustre amie’ (fol. 114rb) (Fig. 4), as if he is relishing the thought of such a situation, just as his ‘love-obsessed lad’ would, no doubt. At the end of the debate between the two women later in the manuscript (referred to by him in his rubric to this piece as ‘l’estrif de .ii. dames’), he related its contents to two women who actually existed, perhaps following his exemplar for his copy of the poem in doing so: ‘De Aubreie de Basincbourne e Ide de Beauchaunp fu fest’ (fol. 195v).16 Elsewhere in Digby 86 we might find further evidence (additional to that insinuated above) for the scribe’s interaction with the misogyny expressed in the texts that he copied. Just as in the piece that the Digby scribe called L’Estrif de deus dames the perspective of a ‘mad’ woman is juxtaposed with that of a ‘wise’ one, so in Digby 86 do texts in which the female sex is condemned coexist with material in which members of that sex are praised. In between the translation of the Disciplina clericalis and Le Lai du cor, Le Fablel del gelous, Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin (with its stridently misogynistic attachments) and La Bonté des femmes is an item, once again in French, in which the narrator expresses his support for women – all On the identity of these women, see M. Corrie, ‘Further Information on the Origins of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 46 (1999), 430–3; and N. Cartlidge, ‘Aubrey de Bassingbourn, Ida de Beauchamp, and the Context of the “Estrif de deus dames” in Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 47 (2000), 411–14. Cartlidge identifies the women with two individuals who were dead (in the case of Aubrey de Bassingbourn, long dead) by the time that the compilation of Digby 86 began, probably in the 1270s.

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Fig. 4. Hand pointing to ‘Voustre amie’ in text of La Vie de un vallet amerous. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 114rb, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. women.17 Women are, he says, ‘la chose ki plus me agree / La ren dount toute ma joie vent’ (the thing that gives me the most pleasure, what all my joy comes from) (fol. 102va); if he hears them blamed unjustly (‘a tort’), he feels intense pain. No happiness, joy or comfort ever comes to him from anywhere other than women and their love; women’s ‘bountez’ (the ‘good things’ about them) far outweigh what they do wrong (‘lor mesfesaunce’). Men who disparage women should be blamed and shamed; they are like bad, denatured birds that sully their own nest. Woman gives us more than man does; women give us flesh and blood. Woman suffers great pain for us; after women have given birth to us, they feed us – we would not have anything to eat or drink if it did not come from their breasts. Woman sustains man as the tree does leaf and apple – ‘Le arbre sur quele houme crust / Est feme e houme est la fruit’ (The tree on which man grew is woman, and man is the fruit) (fol. 103ra). God made a woman his mother, but he did not make a man his father. And so we should obey, honour and serve woman more than we should any man alive. Woman should have command (‘seingnourie’) over every living thing. Does a woman not have great power when she can call her Son him who has power over the whole Art. 29; fols. 102va–103va. Unique to Digby 86, its rubric is ‘De un vallet qui soutint dames e dammaiseles’. It is printed in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 22–6; and in Meier-Ewert, ‘A Study and a Partial Edition’, pp. 214–18. For a comparable poem, known as Le Bien des fames, see Three Medieval Views of Women, ed. and trans. Fiero et al., pp. 105–18; and Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 114-21, 319–20 (art. 76).

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world? Even if all people were great writers, and as wise as Solomon (him again) as well, and could live eternally, never could the good of woman be told, expressed, or written: ‘Ja en romaunz ne en latin / Ne seroit recounté ne dite / Bounté de femme ne escrite’ (fol. 103va). Even such apparently unqualified praise of women is, of course, not without misogyny. Women are as much a ‘thing’ here as is woman in the Latin poem about ‘femina’ in Digby 86 (art. 75). They are figured as a nest and as a tree; their purpose is to nurture the birds that the poem identifies with men, and to bring forth the ‘fruit’ that is man (‘houme’). The idea of honouring and serving woman, as Howard Bloch argued, is a substitute for engaging with real women.18 The poem’s evocation of the pain that women suffer in childbirth makes one think of the woman’s deed that, the author of Genesis claimed, inflicted such pain on women in the first place. (Charms in Digby 86 to assist and protect a woman who is giving birth perhaps do the same thing.)19 Although it is a commonplace of medieval writing in praise of womanhood (as we shall see), the idea that the Virgin Mary rationalises the celebration of all women is problematic: Mary was, after all, a truly exceptional woman. The narrator accepts that women commit ‘mesfesaunce’, even if, as he claims, the good things that they do are more numerous than their misdemeanours. This is a text in which the narrator’s voice is much more prominent than is the case in the explicitly antiwoman poems in Digby 86, in Latin and in French, that I have discussed above: our attention is directed towards him as much as it is towards women, whom he praises so extravagantly. Again, the Digby scribe identified this item as a text about the narrator, rather than about women: his rubric for it is ‘De un vallet qui soutint dames e dammaiseles’ (About a lad who took the side of (mature) ladies and young women). He also drew another of his doodles in the margin below one column of the text, on fol. 103rb (Fig. 5). What this is meant to represent is far from clear. Is it a baby drawing its sustenance, at an improbable distance, from a woman’s deformed breast? It is in the previous column that the poet has made his point about women’s breasts being the sole source of our sustenance. If this is what the drawing represents, the scribe has occluded women from it – all but a woman’s oddly conceived breast – and concentrated his attention, and that of anybody looking at the image, on the baby that is being fed. The idea that woman is, in fact, ‘good’ does not seem to have had an impact on the Digby scribe’s conception of her. Having not, as yet, discussed the texts in English in his manuscript, this chapter turns to them at this point. Probably the text for which the book is best known is Dame Sirith, usually labelled an English fabliau and preserved uniquely in Digby 86.20 Dame Sirith is a retelling, in English, See R. H. Bloch, Medieval Misogyny and the Invention of Western Romantic Love (Chicago, 1991). 19 See, in particular, arts. 7 and 10, respectively, the collection of medical material, in French, known as The Letter of Hippocrates, and a mishmash of charms and prognostications in French and Latin. The instructions ‘A femme qui travayle de enfaunt’ (For a woman who is in labour) begin on fol. 15v (in art. 7), while charms ‘pur enfaunter’ (to give birth) span fols. 29v–30r. On these items, see the chapter by Marjorie Harrington in this volume. 20 Art. 59; fols. 165ra–168rb. Dame Sirith has been printed many times; see, for example, Early 18

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Fig. 5. Doodle below text of La Bonté des femmes. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 103rb, lower margin (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. of the tale in the Disciplina clericalis in which even a ‘good’ wife ends up committing adultery, just like all other wives (according to medieval misogyny).21 The English text is in a mixture of rhyming couplets and tail-rhyme stanzas – stanzas rhyming aabccb – and after establishing itself as a third-person narrative, like the tale in the Disciplina on which it is based, the piece turns into a little drama, with its various characters speaking to each other without narrative interruption. In the Disciplina it was the behaviour of the wife that taught the son supposedly auditing the tale the lesson that he drew about women. In Dame Sirith, however, it is the woman who pretends that her weeping dog was once her daughter who appears to be identified as, and with, ‘femina’. When a different character begins speaking in the text, a letter has been placed just after the end of the initial line of speech: ‘C’, ‘V’, or ‘F’. The ‘C’ seems to stand for ‘clericus’: in Dame Sirith the ‘bacheler’ with whom the wife in the Disciplina commits adultery has been turned into the usual kind of young man with whom wives committed adultery in fabliaux, a clerk. The ‘V’ appears to denote ‘vxor’ (wife). The ‘F’, which appears next to Dame Sirith’s speeches, probably stands for ‘femina’. A ‘T’ beside the very first line of the text could be for ‘testator’, the narrator who claims to have heard, or witnessed, the story that he proceeds to tell, or it could stand for ‘trufator’, the ‘joker’ that the narrator of this text might be conceived to be (the concerned father who narrates the tale in the French version of the Disciplina clericalis in Digby 86 is not this). The Digby scribe might have copied these letters identifying the speakers in the piece from the exemplar from which he copied the rest of the text, but he may just as well have annotated the piece with them himself. ‘F’ in the Digby copy of Dame Sirith does more than just mark where its eponymous character begins her speeches. It takes the idea of what ‘femina’ is in a Middle English Verse and Prose, ed. J. A. W. Bennett and G. V. Smithers, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1968), pp. 77–95. The work has also been discussed frequently; some of the principal critical issues that it raises are considered in J. Hines, The Fabliau in English (London, 1993), esp. pp. 40–70. See also pp. 185–96 in this volume. 21 See David Raybin’s chapter in this volume, esp. Appendix 2.

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particularly nasty direction. ‘Femina’ here is a woman who deceives – as ever – but deceives a member of her own sex. It is the wife, whom the text names as Margery, who is Dame Sirith’s victim, the credulous dupe of her ingenious explanation of why her dog is crying (here the woman’s supposed daughter’s alleged transformation has supposedly been enacted by a clerk – just like Margery’s suitor (called Wilekin in the text) – rather than by God, as in the Disciplina version of the tale). Sirith tells the clerk to take whatever sexual pleasure he pleases of his lover. Her parting shot to Wilekin is to advise him, vulgarly and viciously,    loke þat þou hire tille And strek out hire þes God 3eue þe muchel kare Зeif that þou hire spare Þe wile þou mid hire bes (fol. 168rb) (‘Make sure that you plough her and stretch her thighs out! God give you great sorrow if you spare her while you are with her’.)

Sirith pretends to be God-fearing, but she has no qualms about calling on God to punish a man who shows his (married) lover any mercy in bed. The text ends with Sirith offering her immoral services to anybody else who is not having any success with his lover – in return for a financial reward such as Wilekin has given her for her assistance with Margery:    wose is onwis And for non pris Ne con geten his leuemon .I. shal for mi mede Garen him to spede For ful wel .i. con (fol. 168rb) (‘Whoever has no sense and cannot get his sweetheart for love or money, I shall ensure that he is successful if I get my reward, for I know how to very well.’)

The rubric that has been given to this text by the Digby scribe emphasises the cunning of, or perhaps the deceit worked by, the ‘femina’ that is Sirith: ‘Ci comence le fablel e la cointise de dame siriz’ (Here begin the tale and the cunning [or trick] of Dame Sirith). In another English text in Digby 86 – and another one that uses tail-rhyme stanzas – a misogynist sees the error of his ways.22 The Thrush and the Nightingale pitches a women-deploring male Thrush against a women-defending Nightingale that is a member of their own sex, a precursor of Chaucer’s Wife of Bath (and no doubt, like her, ventriloquised by a man). The Thrush claims that women deceive Art. 50; fols. 136vb–138rb. The poem is printed in, for example, Early Middle English Texts, ed. B. Dickins and R. M. Wilson, rev. edn (London, 1956), pp. 71–6; and Middle English Debate Poetry: A Critical Anthology, ed. J. W. Conlee (East Lansing, MI, 1991), pp. 237–48. It is translated and discussed in Woman Defamed and Woman Defended, ed. Blamires, pp. 224–8.

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every man who believes in them most (‘hy biswikeþ euchan mon / Þat mest bileueþ hem ouppon’) (fol. 136vb) – look at what happened to Alexander (the Great), Adam and Samson, for example (for once, Solomon is not invoked in this poem)! Very few women, unmarried or married, restrain themselves sexually: ‘Among on houndret ne beþ fiue, / Nouþer of maidnes ne of wive, / Þat holdeþ hem al clene’ (fol. 138rb). Like the speaker in the French text in Digby 86 that, for the scribe, was ‘De un vallet qui soutint dames e dammaiseles’, the Nightingale makes the point that ‘Þis world nere nout 3if wimen nere’ (fol. 137ra); they are also pleasing to men in various ways, not least because they give them physical pleasure – here too women are defended on the basis of their service to men. They heal man’s pain better than any physician in the world. In this debate poem the Nightingale puts forward the clinching argument that it was through ‘a maide meke and milde’ that this whole world was turned around (‘.I.wend’) – ‘Of hire sprong þat holi bern. / Þat boren wes in bedlehem’ (fol. 138ra). When the Thrush hears this, he admits that he was mad (‘woed’) to oppose the Nightingale and announces that he is going to flee ‘þis londe’ – ‘Ne rechi neuere weder .I. fle’ (‘I do not care where I fly to’) (fol. 138ra). In the pages of Digby 86, however, misogyny not only lingers: it might even be thought to have influenced how the copyist of the book represented ‘woman’. As a book, Digby 86 has frequently been compared with other manuscripts copied somewhere in the south west Midlands of England before the middle of the fourteenth century – manuscripts that, like it, contain an assortment of material, in three, or perhaps two, languages. Most of all, of course, Digby 86 has been compared with London, BL, MS Harley 2253, which was copied a few decades later than the Digby manuscript was, a little to the north, in Herefordshire.23 This chapter ends, however, by measuring Digby 86 against a fictional rather than a real book: the one owned by Jankyn, the Wife of Bath’s last husband (at the time of her Prologue), his ‘book of wikked wyves’. As another volume in which the evils of women are proclaimed, how does it compare with Digby 86? As regards their contents, the two books are, in fact, quite different. Jankyn’s book seems to contain nothing but misogynistic material; Digby 86 juxtaposes overtly misogynistic texts with material in which, ostensibly at least, women are defended. As this volume shows, Digby 86 also contains a very large amount of material that has nothing to do with the issue of women at all – texts to help with human and avian ailments, prayers, saints’ lives, items lamenting the state of the world, to give just a few examples (although there is just one example in Digby 86 of an English lyric in which the experience of ‘secular love’ is conveyed; Harley 2253, by contrast, contains many such lyrics).24 The material in Jankyn’s book appears to be all in Latin, as one might expect the reading material of an Oxford-educated ‘clerk’ to be. According to the Wife of Bath, the volume held, among other texts, the See, for example, M. Corrie, ‘Harley 2253, Digby 86, and the Circulation of Literature in Pre-Chaucerian England’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript: The Scribes, Contents, and Social Contexts of British Library MS Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 2000), pp. 427–43. 24 The English lyric on the subject of secular love in Digby 86 is art. 69 (fol. 200r). 23

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letter supposedly written by Valerius Maximus to his friend Ruffinus, advising him against marriage; Theophrastus’s Golden Book on Marriage (‘golden’ because no other text could make more clear what a bad idea marriage is); writing by Tertullian – perhaps his De cultu feminarum or parts of it; a misogynistic section of Scripture (‘the Parables of Salomon’ – chapters of Proverbs); and ‘Ovides Art’ – Ovid’s Ars amatoria (with which the piece in Digby 86 that the scribe identified as ‘La vie de un vallet amerous’ has significant correspondences).25 The texts in Digby 86, including the misogynistic material that it contains, as this chapter has demonstrated, are in Latin, French and English; they might also be said to be less ‘highbrow’ (even the Latin material) than the texts in Jankyn’s book. They show misogyny permeating the vernacular languages used in thirteenth-century England – misogynistic thinking was conveyed not only in the language that was the lingua franca of clerks. A large part of Jankyn’s book consists of narratives that exemplify just how wicked ‘wyves’ have been historically: the Wife of Bath says that Jankyn read to her about Eve, Samson’s ‘lemman’, Deianira (Hercules’s wife) and Xantippe (one of Socrates’s two wives), including others, telling her, remorselessly, what each woman did to her husband or her lover.26 Digby 86 includes, in its version of the Disciplina clericalis, narratives that relate the failings of (unnamed) women, but these narratives are a less substantial part of the book than the tales of ‘wikked wyves’ appear to be in Jankyn’s. In Digby 86, misogyny is rationalised less than it is in Jankyn’s book – however dubiously it is rationalised there. Nothing that the Wife of Bath says in the prologue to her tale in The Canterbury Tales suggests that Jankyn was the copyist of the material in his volume. The owner of Digby 86, it seems, was also the person who copied its contents and rubricated these too. The Digby scribe’s crude drawings in the margins of his book are just one of its features that suggest that he intended it for his own use, rather than to be read by other people. The contents of Jankyn’s book, which, according to his widow, he read obsessively ‘for his desport’, made him laugh, she recalls, ‘alwey ful faste’.27 The doodles in the margins of Digby 86 might lead us to think that the scribe and owner of that manuscript was certainly amused by its contents, including the misogynistic items among these. As well as reading to her the narratives that it contained, Jankyn, the Wife of Bath remembers, was inspired by his book to spout proverbs in which women were disparaged as much as they were in the contents of his book – proverbs that caused his wife, as a member of the sex denigrated by Jankyn, ‘wo’ and ‘pyne’.28 In the additions and annotations that the Digby scribe made to the texts in his manuscript, we might tentatively see evidence that he was inspired to add to the expressions of misogyny in those texts. There is no evidence, however, I use the text of the Wife of Bath’s Prologue in G. Chaucer, The Riverside Chaucer, gen. ed. L. D. Benson, 3rd edn (Boston, 1987), pp. 105–16. In the Prologue, III 671–80, the Wife lists some of the ‘bookes’ (that is, texts) bound together in Jankyn’s codex; they were, she says, ‘bounden in o volume’ (III 681). 26 Ibid., III 713–71. 27 Ibid., III 672. 28 Ibid., III 787. 25

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that the scribe and owner of Digby 86 ever communicated either the contents of his book or his reactions to them to anybody else. The Wife of Bath says that Jankyn’s obsessive reading of his book finally impelled her to rip three leaves from it, ‘right as he radde’.29 The losses of material that Digby 86 once contained are probably not the result of somebody else’s resentment towards it, what it said or the effect that it had on its owner.30 The Wife of Bath identifies misogyny as a trait of the generic ‘clerk’. ‘Trusteth wel’, she assures her audience, it is an impossible That any clerk wol speke good of wyves, But if it be of hooly seintes lyves, Ne of noon oother womman never the mo.31

Women who are saints, whose sexuality was suppressed or perhaps redirected towards God, are the only ones who can be approved by a clerk. ‘No womman of no clerk is preysed,’ the Wife confirms a little later.32 Jankyn, her husband, is a clerk who joins in the misogyny expressed also by the clerks who composed the texts in his book. The scribe of Digby 86 was probably a clerk of a very different kind from Chaucer’s Jankyn. The Digby scribe – whose alma mater, if it was anything so grand, is unknown – appears to have spent at least part of his life attached to a household, maybe households, in Worcestershire: this seems to be where he compiled and perhaps used his book. And yet we have little snippets of evidence in his manuscript that he participated in the misogyny that is such a prominent feature of that manuscript. ‘Who peyntede the leon, tel me who?’, the Wife of Bath famously asks in her prologue.33 The Digby scribe, it seems, did so as much as many of the men who composed the texts that he copied.

Ibid., III 791. For the loss of the beginning of Les Quatre Souhais and material that seems to have preceded this, see, for example, note 6 above. 31 Wife of Bath’s Prologue, III 688–91. 32 Ibid., III 706. 33 Ibid., III 692. 29

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GENDER TROUBLE?FABLIAU AND DEBATE IN MS DIGBY 86 Neil Cartlidge

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everal of the items in Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 provocatively insist on, or assume, the inevitability of conflict or competition between men and women, especially in the context of sexual and/or marital relationships. Within the composition of the manuscript as a whole, these texts weigh at least heavily enough to suggest that the Digby compiler-scribe was consciously interested in gender conflict as a literary theme. Some of these texts are explicitly presented as debates about gender or gendered experience, or else implicitly as contributions to such debates. Others are principally narratives, but narratives driven by the assumption that relationships between men and women are necessarily and universally mutually exploitative or antagonistic. Such narratives include The Four Wishes of Saint Martin (in French),1 Dame Sirith (in English)2 and the Lay of the Horn (in French).3 Digby 86 also contains two debate poems that focus specifically on gender and gendered perspectives: The Strife between Two Ladies (in French),4 which assesses the value (to women) of marital fidelity, and The Thrush and the Nightingale (in English),5 in which two birds play the part of advocates for and against women Art. 35; fol. 113ra–vb. Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, ed. I. Short and R. Pearcy, ANTS PTS 14 (London, 2000), pp. 33–5. The numbering of items from Digby 86 follows that of Tschann and Parkes, pp. xii–xxxvi. Quotatons from Digby 86 are taken directly from the manuscript and translations are mine except where otherwise indicated. 2 Art. 59; fols. 165ra–168rb. Early Middle English Verse and Prose, ed. J. A. W. Bennett and G. V. Smithers, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1968), pp. 77–95; The Trials and Joys of Marriage, ed. E. Salisbury (Kalamazoo, MI, 2002), pp. 29–52; and Old and Middle English, c.890–c.1400: An Anthology, ed. E. Treharne, 3rd edn (Oxford, 2010), pp. 223–34. 3 Art. 31; fols. 105ra–109va. The Anglo-Norman Text of Le Lai du cor, ed. C. T. Erickson, ANTS 24 (Oxford, 1973); and Mantel et Cor, deux lais du XIIe siècle, ed. P. Bennett (Exeter, 1975). 4 Art. 67; fols. 192v–195v. Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86 in Bibliotheca Bodleiana asservatum, ed. E. Stengel (Halle, 1871), pp. 84–93; and Nouveau Recueil de contes, dits, fabliaux et autres pièces inédites des xiiie, xive et xve siècles, ed. A. Jubinal, 2 vols. (Paris, 1839, 1842), I, 73–82. 5 Art. 50; fols. 136vb–138rb. Early Middle English Texts, ed. B. Dickins and R. M. Wilson (London, 1956), pp. 71–6; and Middle English Debate Poetry: A Critical Anthology, ed. J. W. Conlee (East Lansing, MI, 1991), pp. 237–48. 1

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in general. In addition, there are several texts that present accounts of gendered experience that are so conspicuously one-sided as to seem to be relying on, or even implicitly contributing to, an ongoing debate about the nature of the relationship between men and women. These include texts like The Little Fable of the Jealous Man,6 The Lad Who Sided with Ladies and Damsels7 and The Life of a Lusty Lad (all in French).8 In this chapter, I offer brief characterisations of each of these texts (some of which deserve to be much better known than they are), emphasising in particular their shared intertextuality – by which I mean the sheer complexity of the ways in which they seem to borrow from each other or from a shared set of sources. This intertextuality is sometimes so pronounced as to suggest that each of these texts, whatever its particular literary form, was imagined as a contribution to a wider tradition of literary ‘talk’ about gender. A question I particularly try to answer here is: what social function(s) would such texts have served? And, correspondingly, what kind of audience/readership should their association in Digby 86 be taken to imply? Although I think it significant that the Digby compiler chose to use a combination of narrative and debate as means of addressing the theme of gender, it should also be emphasised that both narrative and debate are prominent in the manuscript as a whole, and that their use is by no means confined to this particular theme. So, for example, Digby 86 also contains hagiographical narratives like Wace’s Miracles of Saint Nicholas (in French)9 and The Life of Saint Eustace (in English),10 as well as confrontational texts like The Debate between the Body and the Soul (in English),11 The Four Daughters of God (in French)12 and The Harrowing of Hell (in English).13 Art. 32; fols. 109va–110ra. Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 28–30. Art. 29; fols. 102va–103va. A. Långfors calls this text La Bonté des femmes (Les Incipits des poèmes français antérieurs au XIVe siècle: Répertoire bibiographique (1917; repr. New York, 1970), pp. 22–3). See Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. pp. 22–7; and C. Meier-Ewert, ‘A Study and a Partial Edition of the Anglo-Norman Verse in the Bodleian Manuscript Digby 86’, unpublished D.Phil. thesis, Somerville College, Oxford (Oxford, 1971), pp. 214–20. 8 Art. 38; fols. 114rb–116vb. Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 40–9. 9 Art. 54; fols. 150ra–161ra. La Vie de saint Nicholas par Wace, ed. E. Ronsjö, Études romanes de Lund 5 (Lund, 1942). 10 Art. 42; fols. 122va–125vb. Altenglische Legenden: Neue Folge, ed. C. Horstmann (Heilbronn, 1881), pp. 211–19. See also the non-stanzaic version in The Early South-English Legendary or Lives of Saints. 1. MS. Laud, 108, in the Bodleian Library, ed. C. Horstmann, EETS OS 87 (London, 1887; rpt New York, 1973), pp. 393–402; 11 Art. 68; fols. 195v–197v. Middle English Debate Poetry, ed. Conlee, pp. 10–17. 12 Art. 39; fols. 116vb–118vb (an extract from Robert Grosseteste’s Chasteau d’Amour). Le Chateau d’amour de Robert Grosseteste évèque de Lincoln, ed. J. Murray (Paris, 1918); and ‘Robert Grosseteste’s Anglo-Norman Treatise on the Loss and Restoration of Creation, Commonly Known as Le Château d’Amour: An English Prose Translation’, trans. E. A. Mackie, in Robert Grosseteste and the Beginnings of a British Theological Tradition, ed. M. O’Carroll (Rome, 2003), pp. 151–79. 13 Art. 40; fols. 119ra–120vb. The Middle-English Harrowing of Hell and Gospel of Nicodemus, ed. W. H. Hulme, EETS ES 100 (London, 1907). For discussion, see Ingrid Nelson, ‘The 6 7

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Nor is this overlap between narrative and debate unparallelled in extant books from this period. In this respect, Digby 86 invites comparison with several contemporary or near-contemporary manuscripts. For example, London, BL, MS Harley 2253, an English manuscript dating from the early 1340s, contains substantial amounts of narrative, including hagiography, romance and fabliau, but also several debate poems, debate-like poems or poems that together embody a formal contrast.14 Among them are some texts that Harley shares (in more or less differing versions) with Digby itself, such as The Debate between the Body and the Soul and The Harrowing of Hell. The depth of the differences of experience and perspective created by gender is also a prominently recurring theme in Harley, perhaps most obviously in this book’s four French-language fabliaux.15 However, as in Digby, this theme is reinforced by their juxtaposition with texts in which gendered experience and gendered perspectives are explicitly the subject of debate, including polemically one-sided texts like Against Marriage,16 The Song on Women17 and The Blame of Women (all in French)18 – from which, as it happens, Digby contains an extract19 – as well as formally dialogic poems like The Clerk and the Girl (in English)20 and Gilote and Johane (in French).21 Performance of Power in Medieval English Households: the Case of the Harrowing of Hell’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology 112 (2013) 48–69. 14 Its contents are edited in Harley 2253, ed. Fein. On Harley’s date, see C. Revard, ‘Scribe and Provenance’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript: The Scribes, Contents, and Social Contexts of British Library MS Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 2000), pp. 21–109 (pp. 64, 76). 15 Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 110–15, 150–63, 170–75, 204–19 (arts. 75a, 82, 84, 87); Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, ed. Short and Pearcy, pp. 15–18, 25–31; and C. Revard, ‘Four Fabliaux from London, British Library MS Harley 2253, Translated into English Verse’, Chaucer Review 40 (2005), 111–40. For a useful discussion, see B. Nolan, ‘Anthologizing Ribaldry: Five Anglo-Norman Fabliaux’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript, ed. Fein, pp. 289–327. 16 Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 162–71, 326–7 (art. 83). For the Latin source of this text, see Gawain on Marriage: The Textual Tradition of the De coninge non ducenda with Critical Edition and Translation, ed. A. G. Rigg (Toronto, 1986). 17 Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 114–21, 319 (art. 76). This text is unique to Harley but shares verses with The Virtues of Women; see Three Medieval Views of Women: La Contenance des fames, Le Bien des fames, Le Blasme des fames, ed. and trans. G. K. Fiero, W. Pfeffer and M. Allain (New Haven, CT, 1989), pp. 106–13. 18 Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 120–25, 320–1 (art. 77). The Song on Women and The Blame of Women are perhaps an example of the ‘pairing of opposites’ that C. Revard has suggested is one of Harley’s defining principles of compilation (‘Gilote et Johane: An Interlude in B. L. MS. Harley 2253’, Studies in Philology 79 (1982), 122–46 (pp. 130–1)). See also M. Dove, ‘Evading Textual Intimacy: The French Secular Verse’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript, ed. Fein, pp. 329–49 (p. 343). 19 Art. 36; fol. 113vb–114rb. The extract is attached to The Four Wishes, and is itself interrupted by Le Chastie-musart (art. 37; fol. 114ra). On the extant manuscripts of The Blame of Women, see Three Medieval Views of Women, ed. Fiero et al., pp. 12–13. 20 DIMEV 3592, NIMEV 2236; Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 276–77, 441–2 (art. 64). 21 Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 156–73, 408–10 (art. 37). See also C. Revard, ‘The Wife of Bath’s

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Narrative and debate are also extensively juxtaposed in the late thirteenthcentury book that is now Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 837.22 Still containing over 250 separate items in 362 folios, this is an enormously comprehensive collection of thirteenthcentury French, almost a complete library in parvo – indeed, it seems almost too comprehensive as to allow any discernible patterns in its selection of material. Yet in this manuscript, too, as in Digby and Harley, it is remarkable how often formal debates and dramatised confrontations are placed in close proximity with short narratives of one kind or another. Among the many debates/confrontations found in this manuscript are encounters between Carnival and Lent;23 Florence and Blancheflor, who are partisans, respectively, of Knights and Clerks;24 Dog and Ass;25 Arsehole and Cunt;26 Coin and Sheep;27 Body and Soul;28 and the jongleur Renart de Dammartin and his Horse.29 Paris also contains a version of the debate poem that appears in Digby under the title ‘l’estrif de .ii. dames’ (The Strife between Two Ladies)

Grandmother: Or, How Gilote Showed her Friend Johane that the Wages of Sin is Worldly Pleasure, and How Both Then Preached this Gospel throughout England and Ireland’, Chaucer Review 39 (2004) 117–36 (pp. 125–32), who argues that this text should be seen as ‘an interlude or mime-piece’ (p. 126). Marginal abbreviations are used in medieval debate poetry to assign speeches to particular speakers; they are not necessarily an indication of dramatic performance. 22 Fabliaux, dits et contes en vers français du XIIIe siècle: fac-similé du manuscript français 837 de la Bibliothèque nationale publié sur les auspices de l’Institut de France (Fondation Debrousse), ed. H. Omont (Paris, 1932), at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k63375561 (hereafter cited as ‘Omont’). For discussion of this manuscript, see O. Collet, ‘“Encore pert il bien aus tés quels li pos fu” (Le Jeu d’Adam, v. 11): le manuscrit BnF f. fr. 837 et le laboratoire poétique du XIIIe siècle’, in Mouvances et Jointures: Du manuscrit au texte médiéval, ed. M. Mikhaïlova (Paris, 2005), pp. 173–92. Here I develop some points made in N. Cartlidge, ‘Aubrey de Bassingbourn, Ida de Beauchamp and the Context of the “Estrif de deus dames” in Oxford, Bodleian Library MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 47 (2000), 411–14. 23 Art. VI. La bataille de Caresme et de Charnage, ed. G. Lozinski, Bibliothèque de l’École des hautes études. IVe section: Sciences historiques et philologiques 262 (Paris, 1933); and La battaglia di quaresima e carnevale, ed. M. Lecco, Pratiche: Biblioteca medievale 11 (Parma, 1990). For discussion of this poem and the wider cultural tradition to which it belongs, see N. Cartlidge, ‘‘The Battle of Shrovetide: Carnival against Lent as a Leitmotif in Late Medieval Culture’, Viator 35 (2004), 517–42. 24 Art. XI. Les Débats du clerc et du chevalier dans la littérature poétique de moyen âge, ed. C. Oulmont (Paris, 1911), pp. 122–42. 25 Art. LXXI. Fabliaux et contes des poètes françois des XI, XII, XIII, XIV et XVe siècles, tirés des meilleurs auteurs, publiés par Barbazan. Nouvelle édition, augmentée et revue sur la manuscrits de la Bibliothèque impériale, ed. D. M. Méon, 3 vols (Paris, 1808), 3: 55–60. 26 Art. IIIIxxXVI. Recueil général et complet des fabliaux des XIIIe et XIVe siècles, ed. A. de Montaiglon and G. Raynaud, 6 vols (Paris, 1872–90), II, 133–6. 27 Art. IXxxXVIII. Nouveau Recueil, ed. Jubinal, I, 264–72. 28 Art. CIX. La langue et la littérature françaises depuis le IXe siècle jusqu’au XIVe siècle. Textes et glossaire. Précédés d’une grammaire de l’ancien français, ed. K. Bartsch and A. Horning (Paris, 1887), cols. 547–54. 29 Art. IIeLIIII. Nouveau Recueil, ed. Jubinal, I, 23–7.

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– and indeed this is the only other surviving medieval copy of the poem.30 However, this is not the only text in Paris that focuses on gendered roles and gendered perspectives. Just as Harley directly juxtaposes The Song on Women and The Blame of Women, so too does Paris directly juxtapose The Blame of Women with a poem called The Good of Women.31 Among Paris’s narratives, meanwhile, are several texts that are generally classified as lais, including the Lay of the Ill-Fitting Coat,32 Lay of the Counsel,33 Lay of the Shadow34 and Lay of the Little Bird.35 Alongside these are no fewer than sixty-two texts now classified as fabliaux,36 including The Four Wishes of Saint Martin, which also appears in Digby; The Knight Who Made Vaginas Talk, which is also found in Harley; and Aubrée of Compiegne, which features an unscrupulous female go-between rather like the eponymous figure in Digby’s Dame Sirith.37 In this context, the very use of the term fabliau is itself symptomatic of the complexity of the interplay between narrative and debate, for several of the debate poems in Paris (as well as some of the narratives) explicitly introduce themselves as a ‘fabliaux’. So, for example, The Battle of Carnival and Lent begins with the poet’s declaration that ‘.j. fablel vueil renoueler’ and The Dog and the Ass likewise begins ‘vus vueil .i. fablel conmencier’.38 What this suggests is that, even though the word fabliau (a diminutive form of fable) is now conventionally used by modern scholars as a means of denoting texts defined by a significant reduction in the dignity of Art. IIeL. Arts. CV–CVI. Nouveau Recueil, ed. Jubinal, I, 83–8; and Three Medieval Views of Women, ed. Fiero et al., pp. 106–13. Paris’s Good of Women shares some verses with Harley’s Song on Women. 32 Art. VIII. Mantel et Cor, ed. Bennett; and Twenty-Four Lays from the French Middle Ages, trans. L. Brook and G. S. Burgess (Liverpool, 2016), pp. 109–20. Like the horn in Lay of the Horn, the ill-fitting coat is a means of detecting sexual infidelity. 33 Art. X. Le Lai du conseil, ed. and trans. B. E. Grigoriu, C. Peersman and J. Rider (Liverpool, 2013), https://www.academia.edu/2393967/Le_Lai_du_conseil (based on Paris 837); and Twenty-Four Lays, trans. Brook and Burgess (from Paris, BnF, nouv. acq. fr. MS 1104), pp. 257–68. 34 Art. XII. Le lay de l’ombre, ed. B. J. Levy and A. Hindley (Hull, 1977), repr. with trans. by A. P. Tudor (Liverpool, 2004), http://docplayer.fr/3654232-Jehan-renart-le-lai-de-l-ombre-translation-and-introduction-by-adrian-p-tudor-text-edited-by-alan-hindley-and-brian-j-levy. html; and Twenty-Four Lays, trans. Brook and Burgess, pp. 229–43. 35 Art. XIII. Le lai de l’oiselet: An Old French Poem of the Thirteenth Century, ed. L. D. Wolfgang, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 80:5 (Philadelphia, 1990); and Twenty-Four Lays, trans. Brook and Burgess, pp. 161–6. This is a version of a story that is also told in the Disciplina clericalis of Petrus Alfonsi (which appears in a French translation in Digby 86). It thus corresponds with Digby’s art. 27xvii (‘Del oisel ki aprist les. iii. sens au vilein’). 36 For this number, see The French Fabliau: B.N. MS. 837, ed. and trans. R. Eichmann and J. DuVal, 2 vols. (New York, 1984): ‘by far the largest representation per manuscript’ (I, xiv). 37 Art. XCII (= Digby art. 35, see note 1 above). Art. LI: Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, ed. Short and Pearcy, pp. 25–28; and Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III 204–19, 331–3 (art. 87). Art VII: Selected Fabliaux, ed. B. J. Levy and C. E. Pickford (Hull, 1978) pp. 28–49, 102–104; and The Fabliaux, trans. N. Dubin (New York, 2013), pp. 276–315. 38 Paris 837, fols. 21r, 168r; see Omont, pp. 41, 335. 30 31

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their subject matter,39 the diminutive seems to have served medieval writers rather as a means of emphasising the reduced formality of their presentation. In other words, it seems to be understood that such tales deserve the diminutive principally in the sense that they contribute to a discourse that is distinctively both casual and colloquial, like chat or gossip. In such contexts, the recounting of tales is implicitly a means of generating or responding to a culture of conversation; and so, correspondingly, texts that are principally embodiments of debate seem to have shared enough of this provocative informality with the texts that would now be classified as fabliaux to be seen as ‘fabliaux’ as well. However, there is another precedent for the intermixing of exemplary stories and dialogue that must surely have influenced the Digby compiler and this is the Disciplina clericalis of Petrus Alfonsi, a text that appears in a French translation (Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour) in the Digby manuscript itself.40 Taking up over twenty folios (about 10 per cent of the whole book), the Disciplina is Digby 86’s most substantial ‘single item’, though in fact it is not a single item at all but rather a collection of stories framed by an overarching dialogue between a father and a son. This framing dialogue means that each story is presented as a contribution to an ongoing conversation and its significance is then defined by the interlocutors’ sometimes sharply contrasting responses to it. The recurrent juxtaposition of narrative with debate in Digby 86 thus reflects perhaps a deliberate (if less consistent) attempt by its compiler to make the collection as a whole resemble its most substantial constituent text – and not just in being organised at all, but in the particular way that it is organised. Just as the Disciplina uses debate to contextualise narrative and narrative to substantiate debate, so too, intermittently, does the Digby manuscript as a whole. One of the central themes of the Disciplina, moreover, is the inevitability of conflict or competition between men and women, especially in the context of sexual and/or marital relationships. No fewer than five of its component tales are devoted to this topic (out of the twenty-six tales in the Digby version). Most of these are, accordingly, rather fabliau-like (in the modern, literary-critical sense of this term) and, indeed, one of them, ‘The Old Woman and the Dog’, is a direct analogue of what is generally seen as Digby’s own English-language fabliau, Dame Sirith.41 Much of the commentary on these tales offered by the Father and the See C. Baldick, The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms (Oxford, 1990): ‘a coarsely humorous short story in verse, dealing in a bluntly realistic manner with stock characters of the middle class involved in sexual intrigue or obscene pranks’ (p. 80); and S. Gaunt, Retelling the Tale: An Introduction to Old French Literature (London, 2001): ‘short comic narratives in octosyllabic rhyming couplets, usually involving a trickster and a dupe, sometimes of a scabrous sexual nature’ (p. 151). 40 Art. 27. See E. D. Montgomery, Le Chastoiement d’un père à son fils (Chapel Hill, NC, 1971); J. Tolan, Petrus Alfonsi and His Medieval Readers (Gainesville, 1993); G. Ford, ‘The Untranslatable Disciplina clericalis: Three Translations’, postmedieval 8 (2017), 307–20; and David Raybin’s chapter in this volume. 41 Art. 27xiii; fols.84vb–85vb. See Eighteen Anglo-Norman Fabliaux, ed. Short and Pearcy, pp. 11–12; and David Raybin’s chapter in this volume (esp. Appendix 2). The others of a fabliaux nature are arts. 27ix–xi, xiv. Art. 27xvii offers an analogue to Paris’s Lay of the Little Bird. On 39

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Son tends towards a debate between them and some of it echoes (or anticipates) the rather self-conscious emphasis on gender conflict found in the debate poems and the formally controversial texts elsewhere in Digby, Harley and Paris. So, for example, the Son interprets ‘The Trick of the Stone and the Well’ (art. 27xiv) as a warning that women’s deceits are so difficult to resist that it would be better for a man to forswear female company altogether:    nul ne porroit tant entendre Que gueres ben se poet defendre Tant ad en femme tricherie Cil est plus fous qui plus li fie (fol. 87ra) (There is no one so astute that he could ever protect himself, so great is feminine treachery: any man who still trusts them is all the more foolish.)

To this, his father replies that not all women are bad and that, when they are virtuous, there is no limit to their power to do good:    ne sunt mie totes males Einz i’ad mouz de leiales Quant femme veust torner a ben Ne la poet contrarier ren (fol. 87ra) (They are certainly not all bad: but rather, many of them are loyal. When a woman wishes to do good, there is nothing that can oppose her.)

And he appeals to the authority of King Solomon, who, he says, ‘grant biens en dist / En ses proverbes qu’il escrit’ (spoke much good of women in the proverbs he wrote; fol. 87ra).42 In effect, the Father and the Son here adopt the opposing postures characteristic of the protagonists in debates like The Thrush and the Nightingale, where the Thrush’s insistence on feminine deceitfulness (‘For hy biswikeþ euchan mon / That mest bileueþ hem ouppon’; fol. 136vb) is opposed by the Nightingale’s confidence in women’s capacity to remedy every kind of fault (‘Ne wes neuere bruche so strong. / Ibroke wiþ ri3te ne wiþ wrong. / Þat [wum]mon ne mi3te bete’; fol. 137ra).43 This disagreement between the Father and the Son might also be compared both with antifeminist poems like The Blame of Women – which declares, like the Son, that women are so cunning they can bring no man any good (‘Que femmes sount de mal engin / Nuls houmes ne purreit a chef trere / Trop ad Dame Sirith and Disciplina, see G. Ford, ‘“Wose is unwise”: Dame Sirith in Context’, Studies in Philology 114 (2017), 223–44. 42 This is perhaps an implicit reference to Proverbs 18:22: ‘He that hath found a good wife, hath found a good thing, and shall receive a pleasure from the Lord. He that driveth away a good wife, driveth away a good thing: but he that keepeth an adulteress, is foolish and wicked.’ 43 The emendation of mon to wummon is necessary for sense; it is supported by the only other extant manuscript of this poem (the Auchinleck manuscript), which reads wimen. It is surprising that Conlee does not make the emendation (Middle English Debate Poetry, p. 241).

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en feme mal afere’; fols. 113vb–114ra)44 – and with profeminist poems like The Lad Who Sided with Ladies and Damsels – which declares, like the Father, that women are the source of all goodness and joy in the world (‘Honoroum feme sour toute ren / Kar ja ni troveroum el ki ben / Beles e bones e douces sount / Ceo est toute la joie del mount’; fol. 103va). It is the precedent offered by the Disciplina clericalis that perhaps explains to some extent why Digby’s copy of The Four Wishes is supplemented by extracts from two different antifeminist poems, The Blame of Women (also found in Harley and Paris) and Le Chastie-musart (The Fool’s Reproof).45 These additions implicitly place the fabliau itself into a kind of imagined conversation about what such a tale might mean for an understanding of gender. In effect, their presence suggests that the tale is exemplary; it is like an exemplum told in order to illustrate or prove a certain point, generally as an element within a larger discourse (as is the case with the constituent tales in the Disciplina). Yet it is by no means inevitable that such a tale (absurd as it is) should be seen as having any kind of exemplary force at all. Indeed it would be particularly reductive, if not downright tendentious, to read it in the terms that the Digby compiler borrows from The Blame of Women: that is, as a demonstration of the principle that ‘whoever trusts his wife is not wise’ (‘Ne est mie saie que femme creyt’; fol. 113vb). As it happens, the Digby version of The Four Wishes lacks its beginning (due to a loss of quires between fols. 112 and 113),46 but to judge by other versions (such as the one in Paris), the missing lines would have explained how Saint Martin one day appears to the tale’s protagonist, a peasant from Normandy, and grants him four wishes – specifically warning him to use them prudently, since he will not be allowed to recall them (‘Mes garde toi au souhaidier / Tu n’i auras is recouurier’).47 In other words, although Saint Martin warns him not to be foolish, it is the peasant himself who chooses to read into the saint’s words a caution against the particular foolishness of women: Ben me membre de seint Martin. Que me dist que ben me gardasse Que teu chose souheydasse Que nous peust aver meyter. Jeo les veil touz suheyder Car femmes ount foles pensees Art. 36; fol. 113vb–114rb (extracts from The Blame of Women attached to The Four Wishes). Compare Paris 837, fol. 193rb:‘Que fame est de mauues engin / Nus hom n’en porroit a chief trere / Trop a en male fame a fere (Omont, p. 385). 45 Art. 37; fol. 114ra (inserted in The Blame of Women). See P. Meyer, ‘Le Chastie-musart d’après le ms. Harléien 4333’, Romania 15 (1886), 603–10; and F. R. Psaki, ‘The Traffic in Talk about Women: Cultural Traffic in Medieval Texts and Medieval Studies’, Journal of Romance Studies 4 (2004), 13–34. The Digby compiler may not be directly responsible for attaching extracts from two antifeminist poems to The Four Wishes; he could have inherited the arrangement from an exemplar. It may have appealed to him, however, precisely because of the juxtaposition of fabliau with controversial/controversialising texts. 46 See Tschann and Parkes, p. xliii. 47 Paris 837, fol. 189rb (Omont, p. 377). 44

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(I remember well that Saint Martin told me I should be careful to wish for something that can be useful to us. I want to make all the wishes, for women have foolish ideas; all they would wish for is rolls of hemp or wool or linen.)

And it is perhaps the clumsy provocation implicit in these lines that inspires the peasant’s wife to use the first wish (once she has cajoled it out of him) to provide herself not with anything so mundane (or so symbolic of a housewife’s domestic responsibilities) as a quantity of cloth – but with something that much more directly expresses her dissatisfaction with his masculinity. What she wishes for is an increase in her husband’s sexual potency, which she imagines (with comical literalness) might best be realised by asking Saint Martin to ‘load’ him with multiple penises, each one as big as a sausage (‘chargez de viz / Checun si gros cum un aundoyle’; fol. 113rb). As she explains, one penis is simply not enough (‘Un soul vit ne my avoyt mester.’; fol. 113va). Grotesquely deformed by this proliferation of penises, which, of course, the poet describes in cruelly abundant detail, the peasant retaliates by using the second wish to exact a kind of symmetrical revenge. The peasant asks Saint Martin to equip his wife with as many vaginas as he now has penises (‘A taunt des couns ne sent sur tay / Cum jeo ay viz de sus may’; fol. 113va) – and again the poet describes this profusion of sexual organs in lavish detail. However, the twist in the tale is that, in their panic at finding themselves in such a nightmarishly strange predicament, the peasant and his wife hastily wish for all of the penises and vaginas to disappear (‘Frere fest ele douz amy / Jeo veil que toust suheydez / Que jeo coun ne vous vit neiz’) – forgetting, of course, that in order for normality to be restored they still need one set of genitalia each. It is perhaps implicitly expected that anyone hearing or reading the tale for the first time shares in their panic to some extent – overwhelmed at least by the imaginative difficulty of visualising the situation that the poet describes with such uncomfortable fullness – to the extent that they too fail, at least momentarily, to notice the flaw in the couple’s wish to be relieved of all of their sexual equipment. The full implications of this oversight are made painfully clear in the poet’s triumphant description of their bewilderment and unhappiness at discovering the unexpected absence of their own coun and vit: Lors fu cele moust marie Quant soun coun ne trova mie E le prodoume fust coroucé Quant sun vit n’out aparile (fol. 113va) (Then she was very angry at not being able to find her cunt; and the husband was very annoyed when his prick failed to appear.)

In the end, of course, the couple have to use the fourth and final wish simply to restore the status quo ante, thereby wasting all four wishes in precisely the way that Saint Martin warned against. What the peasant and his wife are ultimately guilty of

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is sheer stupidity (as is so often the case with characters in medieval fabliaux); and the relentlessness of their mutual lack of respect for each other as representatives of their genders is merely a symptom or aspect of this stupidity. In other words, the tale is clearly not a demonstration of the folly of trusting women, but rather of the folly of insisting on rivalry with the opposite sex. From this perspective, it is deeply (and I think knowingly) ironic that the tale should be interpreted as a justification for misogyny, as the appending of antifeminist sentiments from The Blame of Women and Le Chastie-musart clearly suggests. Not only is the moralisation of the story found in Digby 86 pointedly at odds with the most obvious interpretation of the tale, it is also comically disproportionate to it in tone and register. In order to illustrate that the peasant is not the only man to have been deceived by women, Digby 86’s commentary on the tale (as taken from The Blame of Women) refers to such exalted figures as ‘the wise Solomon’ (‘li sage salamoun’) – who is also mentioned as an authority on the goodness/badness of women in the Disciplina clericalis, as we have seen; ‘the mighty Samson’ (‘samson fortin’); the Emperor Constantine – whose wife, we are told, ‘slept, in her folly, with a deformed dwarf ’ (‘ele se coucha par son folage / Au neym des lede figure’); and ‘the good doctor, Hippocrates, who knew a great deal about intelligence and learning’ (‘li bons mires ipocras / Qui taunt savoyt d’engins e d’ars’; fol. 113vb). For the peasant of Normandy to be placed in such distinguished company is obviously (and again, I think, knowingly) incongruous. Moreover, the very extravagance with which the tale identifies the peasant and his wife with their own sexual organs, multiplying and magnifying their visibility to a degree both uncomfortable to imagine and comically absurd, is surely an illustration in itself of the ridiculousness of seeing individuals as nothing more than manifestations or representations of their own sexual identity – as if men were merely vehicles for penises and women for vaginas.48 Such a view of the world might be characteristic of crude and foolish peasants, so the story insinuates, but it also pretends to believe that the audience it addresses must be in possession of sensibilities that are rather more refined. In short, Digby 86’s juxtaposition of The Four Wishes with the extracts from The Blame of Women and Le Chastie-musart provides the fabliau with a framing that makes it even more provocative than it was already. The Middle English fabliau Dame Sirith, which survives only here in Digby 86, is often characterised in terms of its uniqueness and exceptionality (‘the only extant Middle English fabliau by an author other than Chaucer’).49 However, as I hope that this chapter as a whole will show, Dame Sirith is anything but culturally isolated in Digby 86. In comparison with its analogue in the Disciplina clericalis, Dame Sirith itself is much more dialogic. It translates the action of the story into a series of set-piece confrontations between pairs of characters, much of which the Disciplina’s version simply narrates.50 So, for example, while the Disciplina version tells us how a Compare S. Fein, ‘The “Thyng Wommen Loven Moost”: The Wife of Bath’s Fabliau Answer’, in Medieval Women and Their Objects: Essays in Honor of Carolyn P. Collette, ed. J. Adams and N. M. Bradbury (Ann Arbor, MI, 2017), pp. 15–38, esp. pp. 19–22. 49 J. Hines, The Fabliau in English (London, 1993), p. 43. 50 Compare Hines: ‘Here we have what is clearly a well set-up series of dialogues: Wilekin 48

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young nobleman (‘un bacheler’) tried to ply his suit with a married lady by sending her a series of messages and letters (‘Par message e par mandement’), all of which she ignores (‘cele nule garde ne prist’; fol. 84vb), Dame Sirith replaces all this with an extended scene in which a merchant wife (Margery) is ineptly courted by a young clerk called Wilekin (‘Little Will’) (lines 19–148). Little Will bluntly proposes that, in her husband’s absence, he and Margery might embark on a secret sexual affair (‘Dame if it is þi wille / Boþ dernelike and stille / Ich wille þe loue’; lines 85–7, fol. 165va), to which Margery bluntly replies with the declaration that she has no wish to become a whore (‘Ich were ounseli if Ich lernede / To ben on hore’; lines 98–9, fol. 165va); and she goes on to insist that she is determined to be a loyal wife (‘ich am wif boþe god and trewe / Trewer womon ne mai no mon cnowe’; lines 121–2, fol. 165vb). In criticism on Dame Sirith, this tendency towards dialogue is often the preliminary to rather speculative discussions about the extent to which this text might be regarded as belonging to the history of medieval drama. There is no doubt that Dame Sirith has some features that suggest performance of one kind or another, as, for example, in line 279, when Dame Sirith turns abruptly, and indeed without any narrative preparation whatsoever, to tell her dog that she is going to make it eat pepper. (This is done in order to make it produce tears, so that she can use it to support the lie she tells Margery about how a clerk used magic to transform her daughter into this ‘weeping’ dog, by way of a punishment for her refusal to sleep with him.) However, it seems to me that a parallel explanation for the persistent reshaping of this tale as dialogue might be found in the various debates about gender found elsewhere in Digby 86 (and also in manuscripts like Harley 2253 and Paris 837). The dialogue scenes in Dame Sirith perhaps deliberately reflect the antagonisms characteristic of formal debate poems like The Strife between Two Ladies or Gilote and Johane. Each of them offers a confrontation between two particular identities and/or points of view (just as such debate poems tend to do), and it seems to be implicit in each case that the confrontation is in some sense representative (again in a way that reflects the assumptions of debate poetry). The rubric given to Dame Sirith (‘Ci comence le fablel e la cointise de dame siriz’; fol. 165r) foregrounds Dame Sirith’s ingenuity (her ‘cointise’), but the real provocativeness of the story lies in its suggestion not that women are capable of remarkable ingenuity, but that there is no wife so ‘god and trewe’ that she cannot be seduced or induced to betray her husband. This is also the moral drawn in Digby’s version of this story in the Disciplina, where it is specifically interpreted as an illustration of how difficult it is for a man to be entirely confident of his wife’s chastity. ‘Whoever wishes to take good care of his wife’, says the Son, ‘must watch her very strictly’ (‘Estreit la covendreit gaiter / Qui femme vodroit ben garder’), to which the Father ruefully replies that no amount of such watching is even worth a dime (‘nul geiter / Ne poreit valer un dener’; fol. 85vb). The fact that the agent of Margery’s downfall is herself a woman in no way diminishes the force of the tale’s insistence on the with Margery; Wilekin with Dame Sirith; Dame Sirith with Margery; only in the last stanzas do we get anything more complicated, with three characters present in the same scene’ (The Fabliau in English, p. 61). See also pp. 185–6 in this volume.

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inevitability of mutual exploitativeness in the relations between the genders. Indeed, it is striking that, in a detail found only in Dame Sirith (and not in the Disciplina), the realisation of Wilekin’s triumph over the ‘god and trewe’ Margery is celebrated not in his voice but in Dame Sirith’s:    loke þat þou hire tille   And strek out hire þes God 3eue þe muchel kare Зeif þat þou hire spare,   Þe wile þou mid hire bes (lines 440–4, fol. 168rb)

It is ultimately Dame Sirith, rather than Wilekin, who we see both revealing and revelling in the naked aggression of the masculine desire that Wilekin himself consistently prefers to euphemise as ‘loue’. Her imagining of Wilekin’s enjoyment of Margery is itself remarkably aggressive. She demands that he ‘plough’ her and ‘stretch out her thighs’, and she even threatens to curse the young clerk if he ‘spares’ Margery in any way. The sheer ferocity of this language suggests that Dame Sirith is taking a kind of vicarious revenge on Margery for the self-righteousness of her insistence on her own chastity – as if she were guilty of an offence against the very cynicism about sex that Dame Sirith herself represents. It certainly seems that Dame Sirith is able to manipulate the other characters so effectively because she accepts more completely than they do that relations between men and women are inevitably governed by exploitation, deceit and mutual distrust. Yet the old lady is not just a plot device allowing a confirmation of this bleak view of the world. The Middle English version of the fabliau also provides enough realistic detail to suggest that the cycle of cynicism does not begin (or end) with Dame Sirith herself. So, for example, when she admits to her fear of being arraigned as a procuress in the ecclesiastical court, she pointedly characterises this as a case of her being persecuted by precisely the same class of men to which Wilekin himself belongs: For al þe world ne woldi nout þat ich were to chapitre .i.brout   For none selke werkes Mi iugement were sone .i.giuen To ben wiþ shome somer driuen   Wiþ prestes and wiþ clarkes (lines 243–8, fol. 166vb)

The ‘chapitre’ here is implicitly a cabal of men who are disposed against a woman like Dame Sirith from the outset (‘Mi iugement were sone .i.giuen’). She says she expects them to have no hesitation in convicting her of aiding and abetting the very crimes that (to judge by Wilekin) are typically committed by ecclesiastics like themselves. From her own point of view, Dame Sirith thus inhabits a world in which women are inevitably victims of masculine hypocrisy. Her ingenuity (‘cointise’) is a remarkable illustration of how cleverly a woman might adapt to survive in such a world, but it is far from being the only factor that allows it to exist. The provocative assumption that no wife is so ‘god and trewe’ that her husband can be entirely confident of her chastity is also fundamental to the story ‘of the horn’

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that appears in Digby 86. This is not a text that is normally discussed in the context of fabliaux like The Four Wishes and Dame Sirith, in part because it is specifically labelled in the Digby manuscript as a ‘lai’ rather than a fabliau (‘Le lai du corn’; fol. 105ra) and in part because, unlike most fabliaux, it has a markedly courtly, aristocratic setting. In practice, this distinction is much less important than it might seem, since the effect of this particular ‘lai’ is to cut even the heroes of romance down to size by suggesting that, when it comes to sex, they share the same mundane anxieties and discontents as everyone else. The text tells us how King Arthur and his court were one day feasting at Caerleon when the king received a gift, a beautiful, magical horn with marvellous diagnostic powers: Que ja houme ni bevera Taunt soit sages ne fous Si il est cous ne gelous Ne ki nule femme heit Qui heit fol pense feit Vers autre ki a lui Ja li corns a celui Beivre ne soffira (fol. 106vb) (No one, however foolish, will manage to drink from it if he is cuckolded or jealous, or if he has a wife who has had lewd thoughts about someone other than himself. The horn will never permit such a man to drink.)51

This wonderful object, we are told, dates from the time of the Emperor Constantine (‘en le tens constentin’; fol. 105rb), which recalls the reference to the Emperor Constantine in the lines from The Blame of Women (attached in Digby to The Four Wishes). In the Lay, the immediate point of the reference is as marker of antiquity – the magical horn has existed ever since the age of the Roman emperors – but its general effect is nevertheless to suggest, just as The Blame of Women does, that the adulterousness of women is universal. The very loudness of the horn, which we are told could be heard from a league away (‘Aunceis vendreit uns houm / Une lue a peoun / Que teust lour oie’; fol. 105va) seems to be a measure of the vastness of feminine depravity and of the ultimate unignorability of the uncomfortable ‘truths’ it represents. And, sure enough, it turns out that none of the women at Arthur’s court is confident that her husband will be able to drink from the horn, to the general consternation of all concerned: ‘None of them was loyal enough that she did not lower her gaze’ (‘Ounke n’i out si leal / Que brounsat aval’; fol. 107ra). But the bar is surely being set unreasonably high here. It is hard to imagine how a wife could ever be so purely loyal to her husband as never even to think about another man, as Yvain subsequently points out:   ni est femme nee Qui soit espousee Translations of the Lay of the Horn are from Twenty-Four Lays, trans. Brook and Burgess, pp. 123–9.

51

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Que eyt pense folie Si ne esmerveille mie Si li corn espaundi (fol. 107rb) (There is no woman born, even if she is not married, who has not had some lewd thoughts. So I am not surprised if the horn spilled over.)

From this perspective, while the horn’s demonstration that no woman is ever completely chaste might seem like a confirmation of all of misogyny’s worst fears, it sets a standard that is simply unrealistic. All the horn really demonstrates is that it is hardly unusual for women to have thoughts that are not necessarily under their husbands’ control (or indeed their own). In the end, it is the very fact that the horn spills so often (indicating how normal it is for such a test to be failed) that Arthur ultimately finds reassuring. Indeed, he is so moved by the realisation that, in failing the test, he is just like everyone else, that he laughs out loud: Quant voit li rois Arthur Sour touz est espaunduz Hounkes puis n’out del ne ire Einz comenca a rire Graunt joie en demena (fol. 108va) (When King Arthur saw that it had spilt over everyone, he showed no more grief or anger, rather did he begin to laugh and he showed great joy because of it.)

Underlying this laughter is a rueful recognition that there are probably very few husbands who are such paragons as to deserve absolute loyalty from their wives. As if to argue that the horn’s standards of fidelity are not so unrealistic after all, the tale concludes with the introduction of just such a paragon, the worthy Caradoc. His wife is so loyal to him that she claims she would rather become a nun than take any other man ‘even if he were an emir’ (‘Si il estoit amiraunt’; fol. 109ra) and Caradoc is duly able to drink from the horn. However, he is clearly the exception that proves the rule here. His function in the poem is to salvage at least the ideal of absolute marital chastity (in thought as well as deed), even as Arthur’s laughter makes it clear that for most people such an ideal is scarcely attainable. The depiction of Arthur’s court in the Lay should probably be read as an idealised image of the kind of society in which the lay itself was designed to be read. This is, first of all, a mixed community, in which the numbers of men and women are balanced remarkably evenly:    trente mile chevaler I sitrent cel jour au manger E trente mile puceles Qui dames ki dammaiseles Ceo fust grant mervaille Checun out sa paraille Cil ki ne avoit espousé Manjoyt ovek sa tousé Sa serour ou sa amie (fol. 105ra)

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(Thirty thousand young knights were seated at dinner with thirty thousand young women, ladies and maidens; it was an extraordinary gathering. Each man had a companion. Those who had no wife ate with a female partner, their sister or beloved.)

Just as the challenge posed by the horn both implies and demands a mixed audience, so too, it could be argued, does the Lay itself. This is a text that seems designed to provoke much the same arguments among those who read or hear it as the horn itself manages to do in Arthur’s court. At the same time, the response of Arthur’s court to the arrival of the marvellous horn suggests that they see it essentially as a kind of game or entertainment: an elaborate diversion that all the members of the court (both men and women) can enjoy together, in much the way that the implied audience of the Lay also experience the lai together. The chaplain who first reads the rules of this particular game (i.e. the inscription engraved on the horn) reacts by bursting out laughing (‘Quant les vist si s’en rist’; fol. 106va), which suggests that what strikes him first is its potential for amusement. However, he later expresses doubt about how healthy this particular game will turn out to be, even suggesting that he would have advised against advertising it to the court (‘Si jeo here cru / Hui ne sereit lu’; fol. 106vb). It is certainly dangerous, as is made clear by the moment when Arthur seizes a knife in a murderous rage at being publicly shown up by the magical horn; but eventually even Arthur musters enough humility and tolerance to be able to treat it as a game and as a source even of laughter. The game of the horn is perhaps even symbolic of the challenges of ‘courtliness’ itself, since being able to negotiate the discords and divisions created by different experiences and identities is implicitly essential to any truly ‘courtly’ community. The Lay ultimately seems to assume that responsible adults ought to be able to talk about their anxieties and their prejudices and to do so with enough grace to make such talk entertaining. Conversation and debate are thus essential to this text’s understanding of what it is that makes King Arthur’s court so superlatively ‘courtly’. The function of the magical horn is not to show that mutual distrust between the genders is necessary, but to provide an occasion for just the kind of playful talk that might mitigate such distrust, or at least to help individuals deal with it (in the way that even King Arthur eventually does). Thus, although the Lay of the Horn is not a debate poem, it clearly depicts a society in which a willingness to engage publicly in debate, even about the most sensitive and intimate of concerns, is important to, and perhaps even definitional of, a truly civilised sensibility. And this, of course, is just the kind of society in which formal poetic debates like The Strife between Two Ladies or The Thrush and the Nightingale might well have found an appreciative audience. The Strife between Two Ladies has not appeared in a printed edition since 1871; it has never been translated into English; and it has so far attracted very little critical attention. However, it makes a number of strong claims to the attention of modern readers. What this poem presents is an extended consideration of the relative attractions and advantages – for women – of a life of matrimony as opposed to a life of promiscuity or free love. In other words, this is a text that pointedly adopts a feminine perspective, which, of course, does not mean that it must be

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the product of feminine authorship, or that it necessarily speaks for women in a way that medieval women in general would have wanted to be spoken for. But the determining criterion here is nevertheless what is good for women, rather than for men or for humanity in general. Of course, it could be argued that the very selfinterestedness that this evaluation implies is itself a slander against women; and also that the Ladies here allow their life experiences to be limited by their relationships with men to an extent that suggests a masculine rather than a feminine imagination. From this perspective, this poem might look like just another instance of the ventriloquism of female voices by a male writer, anticipating such performances as Jean de Meun’s La Vieille or Chaucer’s Wife of Bath. Yet it seems to me that the views expressed by its two protagonists are never so extreme or so unreasonable as to imply that their concerns are intrinsically invalid or absurd, or that they are being aggressively satirised. The debaters’ shared assumption that women’s experiences (in the Middle Ages at least) are necessarily shaped and limited by their marital and sexual status, and to a much greater extent than men’s have tended to be, is surely simply a recognition of reality. Indeed, the unfairness of this reality is something that the poem implicitly calls attention to. One of its central questions is exactly how women should deal with this: how, as individuals, they ought to decide between social conformity and the impulse to rebellion. In effect, one of the Ladies presents the case for dutiful compliance with the status quo, together with all the social and emotional advantages that deference to orthodoxy generally confers, while the other defiantly asserts the right of women to seek fulfilment however they choose, even despite the particular demands made on them by marriage. Both of the poem’s antagonists are types rather than individuals, in the sense that they each stand for a particular philosophy or attitude to life, but they are not caricatures and the cases they present are much more finely balanced and much more plausibly human than the formal structure of the debate might lead one to expect. The arguments the two Ladies offer are, in some cases, readily reversible, obviously self-serving or artificial, but they are never trivial or incredible and, as a whole, the debate effectively foregrounds problems and choices that would have been all too urgent for many medieval women. So, for example, it seems to be assumed from the outset of the debate that one of the negative consequences of marriage for women is the restrictions it places on their wardrobe: the Lady who remains loyal to her husband is obliged to wear only the clothes that he is able or willing to provide for her (‘Mi sire a soun pleisir me fraz robes fere’; line 51, fol. 193r), whereas the disloyal Lady (‘Cele ki double hestoit’; line 41, fol. 193r) can boast that she has robes and jewels worth a hundred marks (‘Jeo ay robes e jueaus dount l’em cent mars avereit’; line 107, fol. 194r). This is presumably because she is willing to accept gifts from her lovers.52 On the one hand, the loyal Lady seems prepared to put up with a situation that is implicitly unfair to I am assuming the frame of reference here is implicitly Ovidian: see, for example, Dipsas’s advice to women about how to extract gifts from their lovers in Amores, I.8 (P. Ovidi Nasonis: Amores, Medicamina Faciei Femineae, Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris, ed. E. J. Kenney (Oxford, 1961), pp. 19–22).

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her, in that she is obliged to accept the social consequences of decisions in relation to her clothing and appearance that are taken not by her but by her husband, just as he pleases (‘a soun pleisir’). On the other hand, the disloyal Lady seems no less dependent on masculine largesse, since the freedom that she claims – the freedom to wear ‘two changes of clothes every day’ (‘checun jour de deus robes muere’; line 83, fol. 193v) – is won only at the expense of trying to please several different men (rather than just one). Indeed, she acquires her fine clothes and jewels only by dint of paying costs of another kind: that is, in the form of damage to her social reputation. The loyal Lady even seems to suggest that the quality of a woman’s dress naturally correlates inversely with her degree of personal virtue: ‘I would rather be clean under an old dress than be dirty under a covering of silk’ (‘Souz une robe veille veil meus ki nette soie / Que jeo fuise soillez desouz in drap de soi’; lines 87–8, fols. 193v–194r). There is implicitly a double standard here in how this logic seems to apply only to women, not to men. Underlying it is the intrinsically chauvinistic assumption that women are necessarily more interested in, and/or more defined by, the quality of their clothes. Yet what is most striking here is not that the Ladies are prepared to accept such double standards, but that they are so determined to apply them to each other. They inhabit the same assumptions – damaging though they are to women in general – differing only in the nature of their response to them. In effect, one Lady says that if the price of social respectability is a threadbare robe, then that is a price she is prepared to pay. Conversely, the other Lady admits that if the price of good clothes is the allegation that her behaviour is wanton, then that too is a price she is prepared to pay. What neither doubts nor questions is that, for women, there is always a price to be paid. It might seem as if the dilemma that the Ladies define at this point is one that ought to be relatively easy to resolve, at least for medieval readers. In the context of a society generally defined by its conformity to the teachings of the medieval Church, we would surely expect the claims of morality and social respectability to trump the empty vainglory of fine clothes. Yet even the apparent antithesis between good clothes and good morals is given a rather provocative twist in the course of the debate, in such a way as to make it by no means entirely straightforward to side so confidently with the loyal Lady. When the disloyal Lady suggests that ‘beauty was never praised adequately by just a single voice’ (‘Ja n’ert beauté loe a dreit par une bouche’; line 67, fol. 193v), she raises the question of why a woman might want to be well dressed or look good in the first place.53 Who is a woman’s beauty for? The disloyal Lady’s argument is that in allowing herself to be dressed by and for just one man, the loyal Lady is effectively allowing herself to become his exclusive property, rather than employing and enjoying the beauty that is essentially and inherently her own. In other words, the disloyal Lady chooses to read the conservativeness of the loyal Lady’s wardrobe as a symbol of her subservience – her pusillanimous subservience – to her husband. Again, the sentiment is Ovidian: compare Ars Amatoria, III.397–8 (P. Ovidi Nasonis, ed. Kenney, p. 184): ‘quod latet, ignotum est; ignota nulli cupido: fructus abest, facies cum bona teste caret’.

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In comparison with this argument, the loyal Lady’s assertion that her beauty ought to be preserved exclusively for the ‘good people’ (‘bone gent’) and so, correspondingly, protected from besmirching contact with the masses (the ‘plusours’), seems to imply a rather fragile sense of moral and social superiority and one that (we might think) hardly serves her own interests: Si bone gent me veent, ma beauté ert loue Mes si plusours m’atouchoient jeo seroie ebouue En dame est malement sa beauté aloue Qui desert ki ele est de soun los delouue (lines 69–72, fol. 193v) (If good people look at me, my beauty will be praised, but if many touch me, I will be covered in mud. Beauty is misapportioned among women, when any of them deserves to be criticised on account of her reputation.)

To Western eyes – by which I mean prevailing public opinion in predominantly secular societies like the UK and the US – such determination to guard one’s appearance even to the point of embracing (relative) invisibility generally looks like a voluntary self-disempowerment. It seems to suggest that the moral culpability of the ‘plusours’ who look and touch is being transferred, unfairly and illogically, to the women who are the innocent objects of their (‘besmirching’) attention. But, of course, it is not necessarily the case that a woman who chooses not to put her ‘beauté’ conspicuously on display to the masses is suppressing her individuality or denying herself authority. Women wearing hijab in modern Western societies frequently do so in order to challenge the assumption that the equal visibility of women and men is essential to the promotion of individualism, and they typically believe that by wearing the headscarf they are ‘creating cultural space for the development of autonomous selves’.54 However, the problem with the loyal Lady’s willingness to accept limits on who gets to see (and, in this sense, ‘use’) her beauty is that it is entirely incompatible – not with modern Western assumptions about the ways in which gender equality ought to be expressed – but with the implicitly demonstrative values of medieval ‘courtliness’. ‘Courtly’ society is implicitly based upon an economy of honour: on the explicitly public display of certain kinds of excellence. It is therefore axiomatic for the disloyal Lady that a lady’s honour lives in the mouths of those socially pre-eminent people (‘li baroun e li counte’) who choose to talk about her: En noun de deu tu mens einz crest le los e mounte As dames dount parolent li baroun e li conte Bele la fest checuns e curteis en soun counte De touz la fest amer ceo ke li uns en counte (lines 73–6, fol. 193v) (By God, you’re lying: on the contrary, honour increases and mounts up for those women of whom barons and counts speak. Each of them makes her R. H. Williams and G. Vashi, ‘“Hijab” and American Muslim Women: Creating the Space for Autonomous Selves’, Sociology of Religion 68 (2007), 269–87 (pp. 275–6, 286). See also J. W. Scott, The Politics of the Veil (Princeton, NJ, 2007); and B. Winter, Hijab and the Republic: Uncovering the French Headscarf Debate (Syracuse, NY, 2008).

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beautiful and courteous in what he says about her: she is made admired by all, the one who is talked about.)

In effect, she puts the loyal Lady into a position in which she can only continue to argue her case at the expense of challenging the values of polite ‘courtly’ society – and, indeed, as the debate progresses, it increasingly develops into a debate about the value and meaning of ‘courtliness’, whether as an ideology or as a life choice. The two women each go on to try and define what ‘courtliness’ is, in such a way to appropriate it to their own point of view. In doing so, they ironically anticipate many of the moves made in the extended, and at times heated, controversy among nineteenth- and twentieth-century medievalists about the morality and significance of courtly love and, in particular, about whether or not amour courtois can be read as a secular idealisation of adulterous love that was consciously opposed to the medieval Church’s model of marriage. These days this controversy is much more muted than it was and the assumption seems to have developed that the contradiction between marriage and courtly love in medieval literature was always more apparent than real – that the very idea of ‘courtly love’ is a modern ‘myth’ (to use E. Talbot Donaldson’s term), a phantom concept coined in the heat of the late nineteenth-century romanticisation of the Middle Ages, with no real groundings in medieval culture itself.55 Donaldson even argued that ‘apart from [a] single appearance in Provençal, medieval writers do not speak of courtly love’;56 and this is an assertion that has since been frequently retailed.57 For me, there is no doubt that ‘courtly love’ posed no serious challenge to medieval marriage as a social reality; and I have also argued at length elsewhere that marriage in the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries was anything but the drab antithesis to ‘courtly love’ that scholars like Gaston Paris and C. S. Lewis took it to be, but rather an institution that was itself repeatedly and radically idealised in this period.58 However, this does not mean that the confrontation between the ideals of marriage and the ideals implicit in the language of ‘courtliness’ was not explicitly recognised, and indeed deliberately Courtly love was famously described by E. T. Donaldson as a ‘myth’ and as ‘a phantom cult of sexual immorality’ (‘The Myth of Courtly Love’, in E. T. Donaldson, Speaking of Chaucer (London, 1970), pp. 154–63 (p. 163)). Compare also F. X. Newman’s assertion that ‘courtly love’ is only ‘a term medievalists invented for themselves’ (‘Preface’, in The Meaning of Courtly Love, ed. F. X. Newman (Albany, NY, 1968), pp. v–x (p. x)), and D. W. Robertson Jr’s that ‘the study of courtly love … has nothing to do with the Middle Ages’ (‘The Concept of Courtly Love as an Impediment to the Understanding of Medieval Texts’, in The Meaning, ed. Newman, pp. 1–18 (p. 17)). 56 Donaldson, ‘Myth’, p. 155. 57 ‘Although love may be described as cortese in medieval Italian literature, and cortes’ amor occurs in the Provençal poetry of Peire d’Auvergne and the romance of Flamenca, the phrase ‘courtly love’ (amour courtois) is absent in English and Northern French’ (D. Burnley, Courtliness and Literature in Medieval England (Harlow, 1988), p. 150). Moreover, ‘the terms courtly love or amour courtois are almost never found in the medieval period’ (H. Phillips, ‘Love’, in A Companion to Chaucer, ed. P. Brown (Oxford, 2000), pp. 281–95 (p. 291)). 58 N. Cartlidge, Medieval Marriage: Literary Approaches 1100–1300 (Cambridge, 1997). 55

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dramatised, in medieval literature. In fact, this confrontation in medieval culture was perhaps all the more profound precisely because of the intensity of the idealisation to which both marital and nonmarital love were subjected in medieval culture. As to the idea that ‘medieval writers do not speak of courtly love’, this is simply wrong, as Joan Ferrante showed as long ago as 1980.59 Although it does not seem to have been pointed out before, Strife happens to provide an exceptionally clear example of the use of the phrase ‘courtly love’ in medieval culture, and does so in such a way as to indicate that the term was highly contested even within the Middle Ages: Pur ceo di jeo ki femme ne post aver greinnour Derai ke tenir sai del tout a soun seingnour Mes quant ele ad lez lui soun courteis ameour Meuz en poest counsentir feble meinteneour (lines 53–6, fol. 193r–v) ([Disloyal Lady:] That’s why I say that a woman cannot submit to a worse injustice, than to keep herself exclusively for her husband – but when she possesses her courtly lover as well as him, then she can better cope with such a feeble protector.)

For the disloyal Lady, ‘courteis ameour’ is clearly in pointed contrast to ‘feble meinteneour’ and there is no doubt that her use of the term suggests approbration. For the loyal Lady, by contrast, ‘courteis ameour’ is merely a euphemism for an adulterous lover, and an all-too-transparent one at that: Vostre soit vostre sen dame jeo n’en ai cure A honir moun seingnour ne mettrai jeeo la cure E vous averez asez mesestaunce e leidure Car ben la deit aver ki de soun gre l’endure (lines 57–60, fol. 193v) ([Loyal Lady:] Madame, whatever your opinion about it might be, I don’t care: I’ll never try to dishonour my husband; and you’ll bring on yourself plenty of shame and insult, since that’s what a woman will get for sure who stubbornly pursues her own gratification.)

For the one Lady, the ‘courtliness’ of the courtly lover represents freedom and fulfilment: for the other, it stands for an implicitly shameful betrayal of marriage – and it is precisely the point of the poem that these two points of view are not so easy to reconcile. The disloyal Lady’s subsequent suggestion that a woman’s beauty is only realised in her own sexual enjoyment – ’what is your white flesh worth … if you don’t allow J. M. Ferrante, ‘Cortes’ Amor in Medieval Texts’, Speculum 59 (1980), 686–95. In addition to the examples she cites, courtly lovers (‘cortois ameor’) are also invoked by name in the aube ‘Gaite de la tor’. See P. Bec, La lyrique française au Moyen Age (XIIe-XIIIe siècles): Contribution á une typologie des genres poétiques médiévaux, Publications du Centre d’Etudes Supérieures du Civilisation Médiévale de l’Université de Poitiers 6-7, 2 vols. (Paris, 1977), II, 27–30; and Anthologie de la poésie lyrique française des XIIe. et XIIIe. siècles, ed. J. Dufournet (Paris, 1989), pp. 42–47. The expression ‘cortoise amie’ is found in Beroul’s Tristan: see The Romance of Tristan by Beroul and Beroul II, ed. B. N. Sargent-Baur (Toronto, 2015), line 3762.

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it to be tasted, whether bitter or sweet?’ (‘Qui vaut ta blaunche char … / Quant tu ne les sentir si ele seit aspre o sueue’: lines 91–2, fol. 194r) – goes to the heart of her case, implying as it does that the loyal Lady’s determined adherence to her duties as a wife implicitly impoverishes her experience as a woman. Even if the limitedness of the loyal Lady’s wardrobe all too obviously serves as an image of the simple satisfactions of moral purity, the richness of the disloyal Lady’s wardrobe at the same time stands for the strength of some of the arguments that might be made for the rights of a woman (even a married woman) to live life as fully and as freely as possible, enjoying her youth however she likes while she has it. As the disloyal Lady herself points out, youth and beauty are, after all, resources that are regrettably finite: Or te tien bien, quar ja de toi bon fruit n’istra: Terre s’el n’est meue, ja bon ble n’i croistra. Par tens le pas de jai desoz l’ueil te nestra; Saches que ta biaute ta siute descroitra. (Paris, fol. 339ra)60 (Now go and get [sexual] satisfaction,61 since you’ll never produce any good fruit [otherwise]. If the soil isn’t turned, no good grain will ever grow there. In time the crow’s foot [lit: jay’s foot] under your eyes will appear; you can be sure that your looks will make your followers dwindle.)

The sentiment expressed in these lines might sound like a literary commonplace (and indeed it is probably directly inspired by Ovid),62 but it is not hard to imagine how medieval women reading or hearing this poem might have seen the choices it embodies as anything but abstract. For all the advantages of a strict adherence to the social and moral respectability conferred by marriage, not all marriages would have been happy ones and in a world without any readily available means of divorce, some spouses must inevitably have chafed against the yoke. From this perspective, the disloyal Lady’s angry insistence that she is not bound by ties of duty to a husband whom she cannot love is by no means simply an abstract argument. As she puts it, with brutal logic, ‘since I saw that my husband is lacking in every quality, I used my youth just like a debauchee, for nobody gets anything to drink who doesn’t have the wherewithal to satisfy themselves’ (‘Por ce que mon mari voi de toz biens laschier / J’ai use mon jouent tant comme homme lachier63 / Quar poi a de poissons, qui n’a dont aaschier’64; Paris, fol. 339ra).65 To the loyal Lady’s argument that love ought not to be divided (‘Kar l’amour ki seroit en senz pars departie / Covendreit petit estre la plus bele partie’; Digby, fol. 194r), she replies that there is no division of her love, since she has no more love for her husband than for a bedcover (‘Jeo These lines appear only in Paris 837 (Omont, p. 677). Compare AND, s.v. tenir: tenir bien, ‘to satisfy sexually’. 62 Compare Ars Amatoria, III.73–6, in P. Ovidi Nasonis, ed. Kenney. 63 MS la ch’; Jubinal reads l’a chier (Nouveau Recueil, II, 79). I take this to be a form of lecheor/ lechierre. 64 The manuscript has been damaged at this point. Jubinal reads taaschier (Nouveau Recueil, II, 79). 65 These lines appear only in Paris 837 (Omont, p. 677). 60 61

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n’aim pas moun mari de quer plus ki de coute’; Digby 86, fol. 194v). When the loyal Lady rhetorically asks how she can possibly bear to endure the sexual attentions of her husband (to which she is implicitly duty-bound), the disloyal Lady replies with a brutally stark account of the powers of endurance that an unhappy wife needs to acquire: Coment te countens dounke, quant [il] te tens en eise E il ad taunt de tai ki il t’acole e beise De tai fest ses bens coment ki il te despleise Coment si te deplet feins tu ki te pleise Jeo ne me entremettai ja de tew pleisaunce feindre Heinz sui cum l’image ki le peinture veut peindre Quant veust si poest sacher quant veut si poest enpeindre Ja de suour ki jeo heie ne veras fu esteindre (Digby, fol. 194v) ([Loyal Lady:] How do you contain yourself then, when he holds you as he pleases and he has so much of you that he embraces and kisses you? From you he gets his pleasures, however much he might annoy you. So how, if he does annoy you, do you pretend that he gives you pleasure? [Disloyal Lady:] I never concern myself with faking such pleasure: instead I’m just like the image that a painter tries to paint. Whenever he wants to, he can brandish his weapon; whenever he wants to, he can hammer away with it. You’d never manage to put out a fire with the sweat that I make.)

The husband the disloyal Lady despises is apparently unaware that he is subjecting her repeatedly to what she experiences (in effect) as marital rape, or is at least too brutish to care, while she is apparently so inured to such treatment that she barely bothers even to fake pleasure, taking pride only in her own indifference. It would be difficult to imagine a bleaker picture of disharmony between the genders. Strife nevertheless ends (officially) with a victory for marriage over adultery, with the disloyal Lady, moved by the prospect of advancing old age and the prospect of being seen as a ‘washed-up old whore’ (‘veille putein relessee’; Digby, fol. 195r), eventually agreeing to offer a formal renouncement of ‘foolish love’ (‘Fol amour guerperai’; Digby, fol. 195v). This resolution was perhaps a foregone conclusion, given the social realities of marriage in this period; and indeed the game is rather given away in the first few lines of the poem by the (implicitly) male narrator who claims to have overheard the debate. He tells us that (in his view) one of the Ladies was foolish and the other was wise (‘L’une esteit de sai fole e l’autre en esteit sage’; Digby, fol. 193r), and this bias is reflected in the rubric given to the poem in Paris 837 (‘De la fole e de la sage’; fol. 338rb).66 Yet the narrator’s assessment of the poem is not necessarily reliable or authoritative and indeed his language at this point is so obviously loaded as to underline (rather than obscure) the poem’s provocativeness. The overall experience of reading of it is certainly much more complex than the narrator’s own view would suggest. Ibid., p. 675.

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The ‘accord’ reached at end of Strife is marked by the arrival of a host of birds, whose function seems to be to provide it with a kind of ceremonious confirmation: A teu serement fere sount li oisel venu De toutes pars avolent li graunz e li menu Quant il eurent ensemble lour councile tenu De cel acordement sount joianz devenu (Digby, fol. 195v) (At the making of this oath the birds arrive. From all parts they fly, both great and small, and when they’ve assembled they hold their parliament together. That agreement has brought them much joy.)

This motif is recurrent in medieval debate poems,67 and it is perhaps largely explained by the metaphorical association between birdsong and the liturgy (so that the birds’ celebration of the agreement between the antagonist has something of the air of a consecration), but it also serves to explain, in turn, why it is that birds so often serve as antagonists within debate poetry.68 An example of this, of course, is the Middle English Thrush and the Nightingale, found only in Digby 86 and the Auchinleck manuscript.69 Just as the Digby rubric describes the debate between the two Ladies as an ‘estrif ’ (fol. 192va), so too is the debate between the Thrush and the Nightingale called a ‘strif ’ (line 7, fol. 136va). What is particularly at issue here, however, is whether women in general are ‘fole’ or ‘sage’ – and not, as in Strife, what arguments might be made for women choosing to be either ‘fole’ or ‘sage’. These are precisely, of course, the terms of antagonism implied by such pairings as The Song on Women with The Blame of Women in Harley 2253 and The Blame of Women with The Good of Women in Paris 837. As in all these texts, it is implicit in Thrush that both birds’ viewpoints are distinctively and exclusively masculine (despite the impartiality that their nonhuman status might otherwise suggest). In effect, it is women’s turn in this poem to be assessed for their own usefulness to the opposite sex. Even the Nightingale (who pretends to be women’s advocate here) suggests See, for example, the medieval Latin Wine-and-Water debate beginning ‘Cum tenerunt’, in The Latin Poems Commonly Ascribed to Walter Mapes, ed. T. Wright (London, 1841), pp. 87–92 (lines 159–62); The Owl and the Nightingale: Text and Translation, ed. N. Cartlidge (Exeter, 2001), p. 40 (lines 1656–64); and The Parliament of Fowls, in G. Chaucer, The Riverside Chaucer, gen. ed. L. D. Benson, 3rd edn (Boston, 1987), p. 394 (lines 693–5). 68 See, for example, Jean de Condé’s Messe des Oiseaux (La Messe des Oiseaux et le Dit des Jacobins et des Fremeneurs, ed. Jacques Ribard (Paris, 1970); and Chaucer’s Dream Poetry: Sources and Analogues, ed. and trans. B. A. Windeatt (Cambridge, 1982), pp. 104–19). See also E. E. Leach, Sung Birds: Music, Nature and Poetry in the Later Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 2007). 69 Other examples are The Owl and the Nightingale (ed. Cartlidge); John Clanvowe’s The Cuckoo and the Nightingale (Middle English Debate Poetry, ed. Conlee, pp. 249–77); The Merle and the Nightingale (ed. Conlee, pp. 278–85); and Chaucer’s Parliament of Fowls. For examples in French, see Florence et Blancheflor (Les Débats, ed. Oulmont, pp. 122–56; Chaucer’s Dream Poetry, trans. Windeatt, pp. 92–5); Blancheflour et Florence (ed. Oulmont, pp. 167–83; trans. Windeatt, pp. 96–9); and Melior et Ydoine (ed. Oulmont, pp. 183–96; trans. Windeatt, pp. 100–3). The Auchinleck manuscript is Edinburgh, NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1 (c. 1330–40). 67

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that it is their role ‘To hele monnes sore’ (line 153, fol. 137vb). Yet, as in Strife, one of the effects of the argument is to problematise the idea of ‘courtliness’. Whereas the Nightingale insists that ladies ‘beþ hende of corteisy’ (line 26, fol. 136vb), the Thrush’s interpretation of this ‘corteisy’ is rather more cynical. He says that ‘Hy willeþ for a luitel mede / Don a sunfoul derne dede’ (lines 64–5, fol. 137rb), which perhaps recalls the willingness of one of the Ladies in Strife to betray her husband in order to acquire wealth (‘pur aver cumquere’; Digby, fol. 194r). The Nightingale’s arguments for women’s sweetness and ‘curteisie’ constantly founder on the Thrush’s insistence that women’s outward beauty is only a camouflage for the wickedness of what goes on in their minds: Hy beþ feire and bri3t on hewe Here þout is fals and ountrewe (lines 40–41, fol. 137ra)

This emphasis on women’s thoughts recalls the terms of the challenge posed by the horn in the Lay of the Horn, a comparison that perhaps only underlines the paranoia implicit in the Thrush’s argument, since, as the Lay shows, it is hardly fair and indeed thoroughly unhealthy for men to feel aggrieved by the fact that women’s thoughts about them are not necessarily positive. As the confrontation between the two progresses, the Thrush in particular relies increasingly not on reasoned debate, but on references to particular narratives about women. Just as The Blame of Women cites Solomon, Samson, Constantine and Hippocrates as examples of men brought low by the deceits of women, so too does the Thrush cite Alexander, Adam, Gawain, Constantine and Samson. The reference to the Emperor Constantine is particularly striking in this context, since the story of how his wife ‘fedde a crupel in hire bour / And helede him wiþ covertour’ (lines 118–19; fol. 137va) is not especially widely attested, at least not in England; it could well be that the Old French Blame of Women found in Digby (and elsewhere) is the immediate source of this allusion in Thrush.70 Even Solomon has a certain presence in the debate. The Nightingale’s declaration that ‘Among a þousent leuedies itolde / Þer nis non wickede’ (lines 52–3, fol. 137ra) is a direct contradiction of the saying traditionally ascribed to the biblical king: ‘One man among a thousand I have found, a woman among them all I have not found’ (Ecclesiastes 7:29). In the end, the Nightingale trumps all of the Thrush’s examples by citing one that has far more authority than any of them – the story of Christ’s birth by the Virgin Mary: ‘Of hire sprong þat holi bern. / Þat boren wes in bedleham’ (lines 172–3, fol. 138ra). The Virgin is, of course, beyond reproach (‘Hoe ne weste of sunne ne of shame’, line 175, fol. 138ra), which leaves the Thrush with no option but to capitulate. Modern readers of the poem often express disappointment at its ending, which does admittedly look rather like a knockout on a technicality,71 but Compare The Blame of Women, op. cit.: ‘ele se coucha par son folage / Au neym des lede figure’ (fol. 113vb). Conlee cites Auberi le Bourguignon (Middle English Debate Poetry, p. 245). 71 E.g. M. Swanton, English Poetry before Chaucer (Exeter, 2002), p. 281: ‘the citation is inadequate on any logical grounds, since Mary is nothing if not atypical of women’. 70

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the entry of the Virgin into the debate is not a development that ought to surprise anyone reading Digby 86 as a whole, since she is a relatively prominent presence in it: for example, in The Sinner Who Repented, Stand Well Mother under Rood and Our Lady Psalter.72 Critics have generally been quite unkind to The Thrush and the Nightingale, in part because of the extent to which is overshadowed by The Owl and the Nightingale, a contemporary but much longer and more ambitious poem.73 Yet I think it relies on the same culture of ‘talk’ about gender – whether tale-telling or debate – that is described to some extent in the Disciplina clericalis and the Lay of the Horn and implied to some extent by the framing of The Four Wishes and Dame Sirith. In its way, it is no less provocative a text than Strife; indeed, it seems to me that Thrush clearly expresses an awareness of how provocative its material is. This consciousness emerges, for example, in its emphasis on slander (‘Hit is shome to blame leuedy’; line 25, fol. 136vb) and on the punishments that slander might incur (‘Þou lastest hem þou hauest wou’; line 107, fol. 137va). It also emerges in the suggestion at several points on the poem that – despite the narrator’s claim that this is a dispute he has overheard, presumably somewhere where the hazelnut grows and dews bring mist to the valleys (‘Þe note of hasel springeþ / Þe dewes darkneþ in the dale’; lines 3–4, fol. 136vb) – there are nevertheless ladies present as the birds speak. So, for example, when the Nightingale says that there are no wicked women where ‘hy sitteþ on rowe’ (line 54, fol. 137ra), this seems to mean ‘there where they are sitting in a row’ – in other words, as part of the poem’s own implied audience. Similarly, when the Nightingale says that women will imprison the Thrush if ever he comes into their land because of the slanders he has spoken (‘Come þou heuere in hire londe / Hy shulen don þe in prisoun stronge’; lines 127–8, fol. 137vb), this seems to be an appeal to the authority of the women in the room. This is a poem that pretends to make its audience part of the drama it describes. The Little Fable of the Jealous Man directly follows the Lay of the Horn in Digby 86. This juxtaposition is surely significant given the two texts’ shared interest in the theme of masculine jealousy; and, indeed, it could even be seen as a kind of implicit moralisation of the preceding tale. This text is not a narrative, so it is not a fabliau in the modern sense of this term despite its Digby title (‘Le fablel del gelous’; fol. 109va), but, as I have pointed out already, ‘fablel’ is used elsewhere of debate texts as well as narratives and it is perhaps best read as an indication of the spirit in which such a text was intended to be received. Jealous Man is not a debate text either, at least not formally, but it might nevertheless be imagined as a contribution to a conversation about the nature of the relations between men and women. Its theme, specifically, is the utter uselessness, to the world in general, of men who are uncontrollably jealous. Jealousy is seen here as a flaw that is not just distinctively masculine, but exclusive to married men. Such men might be in love, but they are not loved in return (‘Gelous aime n’en aime lui’; fol. 109vb). Of course, the principal Arts. 33, 45, 47. R. M. Wilson, Early Middle English Literature, 3rd edn (London, 1968), pp. 168–9 (repeated more briefly in Early Middle English Texts, ed. Dickins and Wilson, p. 171); D. Pearsall, Old English and Middle English Poetry, p. 98; and Conlee, Middle English Debate Poetry, p. 237).

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victims of such jealousy are the wives of such men and it is not hard to see how the point of view expressed in this text might appeal particularly to married women. In this respect, Jealous Man is a text that clearly assumes, and perhaps promotes, the inevitability of gender conflict (even if the implied gender of the narrator’s voice is actually rather hard to define). A woman who is assigned to a jealous man, we are told, needs to be particularly astute (‘Mout doit femme estre senee / Qui au gelous est assenee’; fol. 109vb). Indeed, she needs to be as wise as the famous philosopher Peter Abelard (‘plus saver de art / Que meitre peres abaelart’; fol. 109vb). Jealous Man might even be read as a conscious answer to the antifeminist arguments of the Thrush or of texts like The Blame of Women, which (like the Jealous Man himself) are obsessed with a fear of feminine deceitfulness. At the same time, while there are no doubt some men to whom such ‘jealous’ arguments might appeal, there are very few who would ever want to acknowledge that identity in public. This is a text that perhaps lives in the responses of a mixed audience of husbands and wives, in the knowing looks and glances it might be imagined to provoke. In this sense, it has something of the same teasing quality as the magical horn in the Lay of the Horn. It is implicit that unless this is a text that you can easily laugh along with, then you have probably failed the test. The text that the Digby scribe calls The Lad Who Sided with Ladies and Damsels (‘De un vallet qui soutint dames e dammaiseles’; fol. 102v) is essentially a defence of women and so, in effect, yet another answer to the arguments of the Thrush and antifeminist texts like The Blame of Women. Indeed, the narrator (the eponymous ‘Lad’) specifically says that he wants to be women’s ‘champion’ precisely because of the way so many men speak ill of them: Pur feme veil tendre mun gaunt Countre ceus ki les countralient E ki vers eus nul mal en dient Si veil devenir lour proveour (fol. 102va) (On women’s behalf, I want to throw down the gauntlet, against those who harass them and who have nothing good to say about them. In this way I wish to become their champion.)

Like the Nightingale in Thrush, the Lad is particularly outraged by the defamation of women by men, which he represents throughout the poem as a kind of scandal. His principal argument in favour of women is that everybody should be respectful of, and grateful to, women because there is nobody who does not owe the gift of birth to their mothers: Herbige sumes deenz lur flauncs Deens avoum char e saines Qui ke eust joie ki ke eust douçour La feme sente grant dolour (fol. 103ra) (We are given lodging inside their flanks; within them we’re given flesh and blood. Whether or not it brings them happiness or delight, women endure great pain.)

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Therefore, women are the tree on which men grow and men their ‘fruit’ (‘Le arbre sur quele houme crust / Est feme e houme est la fruit’ (fol. 103ra)). (This is not a particularly logical argument: it explains why men might find women useful and important, but not the other way around.) Perhaps predictably, this poem culminates with the same move that so decisively settles matters in Thrush, an allusion to the Virgin Mary: Nest pas dreit ki l’em defoulé Ceo ki damnedeu honouré De feme fesoit Deu sa mere Mes ne fesoit hounkes de hom sun pere (fol. 103rb) (It is not right to mistreat anyone who was honoured by God; God made his mother out of woman, but he did not make a father out of a man.)

In the final lines of the poem, King Solomon is evoked once again, this time as a measure of eloquence (though it is perhaps also implicit here that Solomon is the kind of man who would want to speak well of women, just as the Father suggests in the Disciplina clericalis). If every writer in the world were     si sages cum Salamons E puissent vivre touzjours saunz fin Ja en romanz e ne en latin Ne seroit recounte ne dite Bounte de femme ne escrite (fol. 103va) (As wise as Solomon and could live forever without end, never would he be able to recount or write the goodness of women, either in Romance or in Latin.)

One of the most striking aspects of this poem is its metaphorical comparisons with the behaviour of birds, which is certainly suggestive of the role played by the birds in Thrush, but even more so in Owl since, as it happens, the Lad recalls a proverb that is rather memorably (and characteristically) used by the Nightingale in that poem: Li vilain dist en reprover Cil oisel eit mal encumbrer Qui soille soun demeine ni (fol. 102vb) (The peasant has a saying: ‘Cursed be the bird that fouls its own nest.’)    men segget a uorbisne Dahet habbe þat ilke best Þat fuleþ his owe nest. (Owl, lines 98–100)74 (People have a saying: ‘Cursed be the animal that fouls its own nest.’)

The Lad then draws a comparison specifically to owls that is like a key moment in Owl. Those who defame women, he says, are just like owls, The Owl and the Nightingale, ed. Cartlidge, p. 4.

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Qui de touz oiseus est le plus vil E hue est naturement De touz oiseaus communement Ausi cum les oiseus sauvages Le huan huent en lor langages E ledement le escrient (fol. 102vb) (Who of all birds is the most vile, and who is heckled by all the birds together (according to nature), when all the wild birds heckle the owl in their own languages and fiercely shriek at him.) [Nightingale:] ‘Vorþi þu art loþ al fuel kunne, & alle ho þe driueþ honne, & þe bischricheþ & bigredet, & wel narewe þe biledet’. (Owl, lines 65–8) (That’s why you’re hated by all bird-kind; why they all drive you away, mobbing you closely with shrieks and cries.)

Both birds in Owl are feminine. Their views on women’s experiences of love and marriage occupy several hundred lines, so it is certainly a text that participates in the wider tradition of literary debate about gender to which I think so many of the Digby texts belong. The analogies between Lad and Owl are close enough in detail, especially in this context, as to suggest that one is an influence on the other or, at least, that both are products of the same kinds of imaginative processes and cultural assumptions. The Lad (‘vallet’) who wants to champion women is not the only Lad in Digby 86 who has strong opinions about the opposite sex. The ‘vallet’ who appears in The Life of a Lusty Lad clearly sees himself as the sexual predator Wilekin wishes to be, or as the ‘courteous ameour’ that the disloyal Lady wants to keep, or as the rival that the Jealous Man fears. This Lad makes very clear what his view of the world is and it is one in which women are nothing more than a resource to be exploited. In other words, he has no doubt that he is entirely within his rights to value women only for their usefulness to him. Yet, unlike the Thrush, the Nightingale or the two Ladies of Digby’s Strife, he makes no attempt even to pretend to occupy the moral high ground. The Lad does not attempt to suggest that his behaviour proves anything about the relative virtues of men and women and he seems to have no conscience whatsoever. And yet he still seems to expect us to find his frankness, his ‘fous sens’ (his foolish disposition; fol. 114rb) and his relentless appetite for pleasure, entirely charming. As a result, this poem reads like an unrepentant confession – up until its final lines at least, when the Lad actually expresses a wish ‘that before my death I might be confessed and repentant, and then in heaven forever after. Amen’ (‘Devaunt ma mort este confes / E repentaunt / E pus en joye toudis avaunt. Amen’; fol. 116vb). What the Lad has to tell us might also be described as a selfincriminating self-portrait, rather like those of the Pardoner and the Wife of Bath in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Indeed, it would probably not be far-fetched to describe

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him as kind of proto-anti-Wife of Bath, who (like her) sees himself as generously providing his audience with an account of his ‘experience’ of courtship – but who (again like her) turns out to be a creature of the opposite sex’s worst imaginings. The account of his life that he gives us begins with him seeking advice from a friend, whom he begs in the name of Saint Martin – the saint who gave the peasant the four wishes – to tell him about how to ‘court ladies’. The advice he gets is not (one would think) all that helpful: Quant entre vos bras tendrez Voustre amie Si luy priez par deu mercie Amie chere Oiez ore ma priere Vous hos jeo foutre E mun vit en toun coun boutre (fol. 114rb–va) (When you hold your beloved in your arms, for the love of God beseech her in this way: ‘Sweetheart, listen to my request: I want to fuck you, to thrust my prick in your cunt.’)

But he nevertheless puts it into action and it seems to work, but he later realises that the woman he has been pursuing is actually quite ugly and he curses himself for wasting so much time on her: Pur veir dire Sa leidure ne pus descrire Ne jeo n’el say Pur ceo tout tens m’enuiay Quant me purpens Que si folement moun tens En ay gausté (fol. 115rb) (To tell the truth, I cannot describe her ugliness: I do not know how. And therefore, I am constantly annoyed with myself, when I consider that I have so foolishly wasted my time.)

He vows that in the future he will give up large women and love only the ones who are ‘petite’. He then gives an account of how extremely ‘jolly’ he is, which is apparently demonstrated by his social egalitarianism, his indiscriminating interest in women of every class, whether she be the daughter of ‘a knight or a sergeant or of a peasant’ (‘file au chevaler, / Ne de serjaunt / Ne de vilein’; fol. 115vb). He then goes on to explain that it his practice to love a woman only until she gets pregnant, on the grounds that children are annoying. They keep crying, they have scabby skin and they make their mothers rebellious (‘rebel’) towards their lovers, to the point of seeking ‘mastery’ (‘meitrie’; fol. 116rb). This leads him to suggest that in future it might be better for him to concentrate his attention on widows. What he really wants, he says, is a woman who does not produce children. In the meantime, he will carry on ‘experimenting with damsels and with women who are pretty, until I

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have found such a woman as I have described’ (‘jeo assairay / En dammayseles / E en femmes qui soient beles / Que jeo eie trove / Tele cum ay devise’; fol. 116va). As this summary suggests, the Lad tends to define his ‘experience’ in terms of a series of choices between different kinds of women – fat versus petite, women of different classes, mothers and widows – as if the only limit to his choice were his own taste and convenience. In this respect, his confession resembles the distinctions between classes of people that are often found in debate poems: for example, chaste wives versus adulterous wives, as in Strife; married women versus maidens, as in Owl; or even knights versus clerks, as in texts like Florence et Blancheflor. In the end, nothing of any consequence is really debated within the poem, but it is interesting to imagine what discussion it might have prompted among its first audiences. It is hard to imagine a more inflammatory text. Throughout this chapter I have emphasised the way in which the texts I have discussed tend to imply – to rely on and in some cases to project – an engaged and responsive community, one defined by the presence of both men and women, by its aspirations to courtliness and by an interest in using literary texts as prompts for playful and entertaining ‘luf-talkyng’.75 But is there any evidence, beyond the interpretation of these texts themselves, that such a community existed? How can we be sure that Digby 86 was intended for audiences of this kind? The best evidence for this comes from one of the texts in the manuscript that is not really a literary text at all. This is Ragemon le bon,76 a kind of fortune-telling game consisting of a set of fifty four-line stanzas designed to be distributed at random.77 Each stanza contains a statement about the personality and/or the future of the person who is lucky/ unlucky enough to draw it. Some of them are complimentary or auspicious (a good result in this particular game), but many offer an account of the individual and his/ her future that is embarrassing or, in some cases, just plain insulting. They tend to focus on the individual’s relationship and/or reputation with the opposite sex; and many only make sense in relation to either a male recipient or a female one. They often imagine much the same relationships and project much the same anxieties as are dramatised in the other texts that I have discussed in this chapter: lusty lads and On this term (which comes from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, line 927), see T. L. Wright, ‘Luf-talkyng in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, in Approaches to Teaching Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. J. Chance and M. Y. Miller (New York, 1986), pp. 79–86; T. Honegger, ‘luf-talkyng and Middle English Romance’, in Towards a History of English as a History of Genres, ed. H.-J. Diller and M. Görlach (Heidelberg, 2001), pp. 161–84. 76 Art. 56; fols. 162rb–163vb. See Anecdota Literaria: A Collection of Short Poems in English, Latin, and French, Illustrative of the Literature and History of England in the Thirteenth Century, and More Especially of the Condition and Manners of the Different Classes of Society, ed. T. Wright (London, 1844), pp. 76–81. This text has recently been discussed by S. Patterson, in ‘Sexy, Naughty, and Lucky in Love: Playing Ragemon le Bon in English Gentry Households’, in Games and Gaming in Medieval Literature, ed. S. Patterson (New York, 2015), pp. 79–102. 77 Ragemon has an analogue in Paris 837: The Game of Chance (art. IXxxXIII, fols. 259vb– 260va). According to Patterson, they ‘share a number of phrases and themes’ (‘Sexy, Naughty, and Lucky in Love’, p. 86). 75

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lovers, jealous husbands and cuckolds, bawds and go-betweens, chaste wives and debauchees. So, for example, stanza 11 reads: Bele femme e pute averez Ja si ben ne vous garderez Enfaunz plusours averez Mes ja un soul ne engendrez (fol. 162va–b) (You will have a beautiful, whorish wife; no matter how carefully you guard her, you will have many children and father not one of them.)78

The recipient of such a fortune could expect to be laughed at, so one would assume, and no doubt his individual circumstances might have created particular ironies that would have enriched the players’ laughter. The game of fortune is implicitly a means of embarrassing its players by exposing ‘truths’ that they would rather conceal: Damaisele n’est par gas Qui te veit ne te conut pas Vous resemblez ben minote Si estes forte baudestrote (fol. 163vb) (Damsel, it’s no joke. Nobody who looks at you recognises you [for what you are]. You certainly resemble a gracious lady, but you’re a dreadful procuress.)

Ragemon is a text that is impossible to realise without a community: it has meaning only in terms of the reactions it might provoke in the context of a group that includes both men and women. It also shows is that such communities were, by definition, remarkably robust, willing to find entertainment in even such frankly undignified provocations as this one: Bele sere ne vous corouçez Si de vous dis mes volountez Sovent avez este fotue Cul descovert e jambe nue (fol. 163vb) (Sweet lady, don’t be angry if I tell you what I want: you’ve frequently been fucked, with your arse on show and your legs bare.)

The texts that I have discussed in this chapter are of interest in part because they show precisely how mobile and unpredictable medieval representations of gendered experience could be. It is not always easy to know how to assess their tone and purpose, if only because they often seem to be deliberately troublesome – designed, that is, to divide opinion and generate controversy. Modern approaches to medieval representations of gender antagonisms often labour under the preconception that Patterson completely misreads this stanza (misled, in part, by Wright’s unreliable text in Anecdota Literaria), translating ‘Lovely lady, embodying whoreishness, indeed you do not heed virtue; you will have plenty of children, but never produce a soul’ (‘Sexy, Naughty, and Lucky in Love’, p. 87). Her essay contains several fundamental mistranslations of this kind.

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medieval attitudes to gender were necessarily and inevitably much more deeply engraved, ritualised and less complex than our own. There were differences, of course, but these are not so much ideological as practical: in an era when contraceptive practices were much less effective than they are in most of the world today, heterosexual sex was much more closely linked to procreativity. This meant that the life choices of women were much more limited (since they were likely to spend a much higher proportion of their lives dealing with the physical and social impacts of pregnancy, childbirth and the (wet-)nursing of infants). At the same time, a culture of inheriting property and prerogative intensified masculine concerns about legitimacy. As a result of all this, when medieval literature depicts individual responses to the constraints and expectations of gender, what is at issue is not so much a competition for a fair share of sexual freedom or the assertion of rights in the face of limits imposed by politics or culture; rather, it is a matter of seeking reassurance and, if at all possible, amusement, in a shared recognition of the difficulties and indignities implicit in the experience of love, marriage and/or sex. Ultimately, the texts I have discussed here are not really in the business of enforcing or defining gender difference, creating ‘gender trouble’ in order to ‘construct’ or ‘deconstruct’ identities in any earnestly Butlerian way.79 Rather, the shared insistence on the inevitability of gendered antagonism is in the service of a determined playfulness, with gendered experiences and gendered perspectives being mined, in effect, as a source of sociability. From this perspective, the fabliau/debate texts that I have discussed in this chapter could all be seen as contributions to a social game not altogether remote in spirit or intention from games like Ragemon le bon.

J. Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York, 1990).

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chapter nine

THE MIDDLE ENGLISH POETRY OF MS DIGBY 86 Susanna Fein

B

y the accidents of piecemeal publication, the Middle English verse of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 has never been presented as a distinct body of poetry collected in a book by one compiler, nor has it, therefore, been recognised as an authentically medieval anthology in the English vernacular, c. 1280.1 That an anthologising impulse underlies the material preservation of English verse in Digby is undeniable, for the English portions of the book occur as blocks of continuous verse, first in double columns on fols. 119ra–143ra and fols. 163vb–168vb and then without columns on fols. 195v–200v. The bicolumnar sequence is headed by The Harrowing of Hell (art. 40); the single-column set begins with The Debate between the Body and the Soul (art. 68). These subjects are overtly paired in the somewhat later Harley and Auchinleck manuscripts (c. 1330–40)2 and they may be implicitly paired in Digby too: their physical separation may be mainly attributable to the For the full English contents of Digby 86, see the list in this chapter, where article numbers accord with Tschann and Parkes, pp. xii–xxxvi. Appendix 1 provides an index of manuscripts containing other versions of English Digby items. In designating manuscripts, I follow this key: Auchinleck = NLS, MS Advocates 19. 2. 1; Cotton = London, BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX; Harley = London, BL, MS Harley 2253; Jesus = Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II); Trinity = Cambridge, TCC, MS B.14.39; Vernon = Oxford, BodL, MS Eng. poet a. 1. 2 On this pairing, see S. Fein, ‘The Fillers of the Auchinleck; Manuscript and the Literary Culture of the West Midlands’, in Makers and Users of Medieval Books: Essays in Honour of A. S. G. Edwards, ed. C. M. Meale and D. Pearsall (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 60–77 (pp. 66–8). On correspondences among the important group of pre-1350 manuscripts, see esp. J. Frankis, ‘The Social Context of Vernacular Writing in Thirteenth Century England: The Evidence of the Manuscripts’, in Thirteenth Century England I: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1985, ed. P. R. Coss and S. D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 175–84; T. Hunt, ‘Insular Trilingual Compilations’, in Codices Miscellanearum, ed. R. Jansen-Sieben and H. van Dijk, Archives et Bibliothèques de Belgique 60 (Brussels, 1999), pp. 51–70 (pp. 68–70); M. Corrie, ‘Harley 2253, Digby 86, and the Circulation of Literature in Pre-Chaucerian England’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript: The Scribes, Contents, and Social Contexts of British Library MS Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 2000), pp. 427–43; J. Scahill, ‘Trilingualism in Early Middle English Miscellanies: Languages and Literature’, Yearbook of English Studies 33 (2003), 18–32; and E. Treharne, ‘The Vernaculars of Medieval England, 1170–1350’, in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval English Culture, ed. A. Galloway (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 117–36.

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scribe’s principle of organisation by metre (short line or long line) as he ruled and filled quires with verse texts.3 Neither Harrowing nor Body and Soul opens a quire, but when the Digby scribe commenced copying in English, in quires xv and xxv, respectively, it was these two eschatologically paired items that he inserted first. Christ harrowed hell that souls may be redeemed and individuals ought to therefore heed well (with dread and hope) what will happen when their souls will eventually part from their bodies. The Middle English poetry of Digby 86 covers a heterogeneous range of topics, religious to secular, from the most moral and frightening of warnings about hell-fire, to the most debased yet comic worldly ethics of guileful humans and animals in fabliau and fable. I offer here a summary assessment of the English corpus, not wishing to separate it from its trilingual setting so much as simply to establish its place as belonging to our growing understanding of the medieval English lyric sequence. MS Digby 86 holds status as one of the few rare and iconic miscellanies deemed worthy of facsimile treatment by the Early English Text Society and, among such manuscripts of Middle English, it is the only one harkening back to the thirteenth century – hence, it is precedent to the very important early fourteenth-century Harley and Auchinleck manuscripts and long precedent to the late fourteenth-century Gawain and Vernon manuscripts.4 A thorough treatment of this subject might logically lead to an edition of the Digby English corpus; as a prolegomenon to that, I offer here a brief look at the peripatetic publication history of the English contents, some observations about the Digby scribe’s literate and literary proclivities (on display in what he selected and how he paired and merged texts), and a complete list of the Digby manuscript’s English contents.5

As he did so, the Digby scribe also followed a second principle: the grouping of texts by language. The main English blocks (fols. 119ra–143ra, 195v–200v) are each preceded by sizeable blocks of French verse (arts. 27–39, fols. 74va–118vb, in short lines; arts. 61–6, fols. 169r–195v, in long lines). See M. Corrie, ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49 (p. 238). 4 The only parallel facsimile of thirteenth-century matter is limited to just one text: The Owl and the Nightingale Reproduced in Facsimile from the Surviving Manuscripts Jesus College Oxford 29 and British Museum Cotton Caligula A.ix, intro. N. R. Ker, EETS 251 (London, 1963). On how facsimiled manuscripts become iconic standard-bearers in manuscript studies, see M. Connolly, ‘The Whole Book and the Whole Picture: Editions and Facsimiles of Medieval Miscellanies and Their Influence’, in Insular Books: Vernacular Miscellanies in Late Medieval Britain, ed. M. Connolly and R. Radulescu (Oxford, 2015), pp. 281–99 (pp. 283–5, 291). 5 For an excellent analysis of Digby’s functions within a gentry household, see T. TurvillePetre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: A Thirteenth-Century Commonplace Book in Its Social Context’, in Family and Dynasty in Late Medieval England, ed. R. Eales and S. Tyas (Donington, 2003), pp. 56–66. See also J. Boffey, ‘Middle English Lyrics and Manuscripts’, in A Companion to the Middle Engish Lyric, ed. T. G. Duncan (Cambridge, 2005), pp. 1–18 (pp. 8–10); and J. Hines, Voices in the Past: English Literature and Archaeology (Cambridge, 2004) p. 94. An uneven treatment of Digby’s English contents appears in J. G. Lidaka, ‘Sacred and Secular Eloquence and the Middle English Poetical Works in Bodleian MS Digby 86’, Ephemerides Liturgicae 105 (1991), 330–59 (pp. 343–53). 3

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Publication history Publication and notice of the Digby English poems commenced early in the nineteenth century when What Love Is Like was published in John Josias Conybeare’s edition of The Romance of Octavian (1809), with credit given to Thomas Warton for bringing Digby 86 to the attention of English literary historians.6 Attention remained dormant, however, until 1844, when Thomas Wright published three items in Anecdota Literaria (On the Vanity of This World, Dame Sirith and What Love Is Like), and 1845, when Wright teamed with James Orchard Halliwell to publish five more in Reliquiæ Antiquæ (The Harrowing of Hell (an excerpt), The Thrush and the Nightingale, The Fox and the Wolf, Hending and The Names of a Hare).7 Later, in 1871, Edmund Stengel’s Latin-language description of Digby 86 included the texts of six more English items: Fifteen Tokens of Doomsday, Sweet Jesus King of Bliss, The Debate between the Body and the Soul, Doomsday, Death and In Þine Honden Louerd Mine.8 Seven more articles of a devotional or moral tenor were added to the published record in 1879–81, when Herman Varnhagen and Carl Horstmann edited individual items in various German-language venues: The Life of Saint Eustace, The Sayings of Saint Bernard, Stand Well Mother under Rood, The Saws of Saint Bede, Our Lady Psalter, The Eleven Pains of Hell and Maximian.9 Except for Harrowing, which lacked a full edition, the English poems of MS Digby 86 were therefore all in print by 1881. Still, no one evinced interest in them as a compiler’s collection of verse, c. 1280. None of the previous, diverse editions occurred under the auspices of the Early English Text Society and a cognate EETS volume from 1872 – Richard Morris’s An Old English Miscellany – printed thirteenth-century verse from neighbouring manuscripts (Cotton and Jesus) without supplying the Digby versions of four of them: The Saws of Saint Bede, The

The Romance of Octavian, ed. J. J. Conybeare (Oxford, 1809), pp. 58–59 (art. 69). Regarding the emergence of Digby English materials into print, the record given here, from intermittent nineteenth-century editions to twentieth-century anthologies, could be repeated for the Anglo-French matter in Digby. It should be noted, however, that a fair quantity of the French and Latin Digby texts remains inedited. 7 Anecdota Literaria: A Collection of Short Poems in English, Latin, and French, Illustrative of the Literature and History of England in the Thirteenth Century, ed. T. Wright (London, 1844) (arts. 57, 59, 69); and Reliquiæ Antiquæ: Scraps from Ancient Manuscripts Illustrating Chiefly Early English Literature and the English Language, ed. T. Wright and J. O. Halliwell, 2 vols. (London, 1845) (arts. 40, 51–2, 60). 8 Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86 in Bibliotheca Bodleiana asservatum, ed. E. Stengel (Halle, 1871) (arts. 41, 48a, 68, 68a, 68b). 9 ‘Nachträge zu den Legenden: II. Zu S Paul’s Vision von der Hülle, aus Ms. Digby 86’, ed. C. Horstmann, Archiv (1879), 403–6 (art. 48); ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. I–III.’, ed. H. Varnhagen, Anglia 2 (1879), 225–55 (art. 45); ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. IV. Zu den Sprüchen des heil. Bernhard’, ed. H. Varnhagen, Anglia 3 (1880), 59–66 (art. 43); ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. VI. Zu dem Klageliede Maximian’s’, ed. H. Varnhagen, Anglia 3 (1880), 275–84 (art. 49); and Altenglische Legenden, neue Folge mit Einleitung und Anmerkungen, ed. C. Horstmann (Heilbronn, 1881) (arts. 41, 46–7). 6

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Eleven Pains of Hell, Doomsday and Death.10 Three decades later, in 1901, a sequence of five Digby poems appeared in a back section of Frederick J. Furnivall’s Minor Poems of the Vernon Manuscript, Part II,11 with Ubi Sunt identified for the first time as a lyric set off as separate (with its own rubric) from The Sayings of Saint Bernard. Ubi Sunt now stands as one of Digby’s most frequently anthologised items. The publication of Digby’s English poems was made complete in 1907 when William Henry Hulme’s EETS volume, The Middle-English Harrowing of Hell and Gospel of Nicodemus (1907), presented the full text of the Digby Harrowing adjacent to its later versions from Harley and Auchinleck.12 A convenient point at which to conclude this quick summary is the mid-twentieth century, the era of the classic Clarendon anthologies of Middle English verse. In 1932, Carleton Brown, editor of English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, hailed Digby 86 as ‘the most important collection of lyrics in the last quarter of the century’, but when it came down to what he included in his anthology, he selected only six Digby items (out of a possible twenty-three), compared to twenty poems from the fourteenth-century Harley manuscript.13 The ultimate outcome of this uneven publication history has been the on-and-off (and mostly off) inclusion of individual Digby lyrics and narratives in anthologies and readers of Middle English verse. Only four poems have risen to a fair level of modern recognition: they are Dame Sirith, Ubi Sunt, The Thrush and the Nightingale and The Fox and the Wolf.14

The English Digby poems and their compiler The Digby scribe clearly liked to pair texts and graft texts and both of these creative proclivities are abundantly on display in the volume’s English corpus. Ligatures – some quite natural, some rather surprising – appear in how English texts are set beside French or Latin ones: • Hending, the English proverb collection that ends the first English block of texts (on fol. 143ra) is paired with the next text, the French Proverbs del Vilain (art. 53).15

An Old English Miscellany Containing a Bestiary, Kentish Sermons, Proverbs of Alfred, Religious Poems of the Thirteenth Century, ed. R. Morris, EETS OS 49 (London, 1872). 11 The Minor Poems of the Vernon MS., Part II, ed. F. J. Furnivall, EETS OS 117 (London, 1901), pp. 757–85. The sequence is: The Sayings of Saint Bernard, Ubi Sunt, Stand Well Mother under Rood, The Saws of Saint Bede and Our Lady Psalter (arts. 43–7). 12 The Middle-English Harrowing of Hell and Gospel of Nicodemus, ed. W. H. Hulme, EETS ES 100 (London, 1907). 13 English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. C. Brown (Oxford, 1932), p. xxviii. Brown’s selections are Ubi Sunt, Stand Well Mother under Rood, Sweet Jesus King of Bliss, Maximian, The Thrush and the Nightingale and What Love Is Like (arts. 44–5, 48a–50, 69). 14 On The Fox and the Wolf and Dame Sirith, see Appendices 2–3, respectively. 15 See Tschann and Parkes, p. xlv; and Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, pp. 60–1. 10

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• The English song On the Vanity of This World precedes the Latin Fides hodie sopitur (art. 58), with French and Latin rubrics that signal the pairing.16 • The English Debate of the Body and the Soul follows, with generic similarity but topical incongruity, a secular debate in French, L’Estrif de deus dames (art. 67).17 • The English What Love Is Like, a kind of incantation upon the word loue (‘Loue is sofft loue is swet loue is good sware’), precedes the French Chaunçoun de Noustre Seingnour (art. 70), which opens ‘Couuard est ki amer ne ose ki ne veut amer’ (Fainted-hearted is he who dares not love or doesn’t want to love).18 • The last vernacular item in Digby is a macaronic English-French proverb – ‘Welcome ki ke bringe ki ne bringe fare wel’ (Welcome is he who brings, farewell to he who won’t) – that precedes a Latin proverb matched to it (arts. 73–4).19 As if signing off in the vernacular (‘fare wel’), the scribe copies only Latin from this point onward. The final English bit found in Digby after this point was added by the scribe at a later date. Again, this instance displays a milieu of functional and casual, yet self-aware, trilingualism. The four-line English prayer In Þine Honden Louerd Mine is preceded by its familiar Latin model (‘In manus tuas’) and then succeeded by a prayer in French.20 Even though the rubrics (or ‘titles’) throughout Digby are generally given in French, elevating French to the status of ‘matrix language’ for most of the book, English is granted its own space and these crosslingual pairings never seem to relegate it a subordinate level. Instead, there is everywhere in Digby a show of the ‘multilingual effortlessness’ described by Elaine Treharne as characterising trilingual books of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century.21 Monolingual pairings also occur plentifully. Within the English blocks, the one most remarked upon has an arrestingly novel feel: the conjunction of The Thrush and the Nightingale with The Fox and the Wolf. By current standards, these poems exist in different categories: debate, beast fable. Yet both feature speaking animals and the compiler seems rather obviously to be noting this. Interestingly, these poems do not appear in the known record before Digby 86 and, unlike some other English Digby lyrics, such as Doomsday and Death, they may have seemed ‘new’ to a contemporary audience. The copying of Thrush into the later Auchinleck manuscript, a book commissioned in London for a patron, may support a notion ‘Chaunçun del secle’ (fol. 163vb) and ‘Hic demonstrat veritatem seculi isti’ (fol. 164v). The Latin song is the only non-English item in the 163vb–168vb block of English verse; the pairing mitigates any sense of linguistic intrusion. 17 On this French debate poem, see esp. the chapters by Delbert Russell and Neil Cartlidge in this volume. 18 See The Anglo-Norman Lyric: An Anthology, ed. and trans. D. L. Jeffrey and B. J. Levy (Toronto, 1990), pp. 268–71. 19 See Scahill, ‘Trilingualism’, p. 26. 20 See Sheri Smith’s chapter in this volume. 21 Treharne, ‘The Vernaculars’, p. 219. On French as Digby’s matrix language, see Scahill, ‘Trilingualism’, p. 24. 16

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that that poem (a light cousin to The Owl and the Nightingale) was regarded as a stylish import from the West Midlands, a longstanding site of serious prose- and verse-making in English that Auchinleck’s scribe 1 (whose dialect was of Worcester) evidently regarded well.22 Other poems that make notable first appearances in Digby are Harrowing and Dame Sirith, both marked by their performability (Fig. 1). By ‘first appearances’, I am not asserting that these poems were composed specifically for the Digby manuscript. We should be alert, though, to such possibilities and it must be noted, in particular, how both Fox and Dame Sirith have French-language analogues in Digby itself, suggesting how Digby served precisely the kind of literate social milieu that would have welcomed their invention.23 The pageant-like theatricality of Harrowing seems even more prominent in the Harley and Auchinleck copies of it and in each it is situated next to the back-and-forth recriminations between Body and Soul, rebutted stanza by stanza in the same manner as in Thrush.24 The Digby Thrush–Fox pairing seems, moreover, to indicate a general drift towards secular matter that developed as the first English block grew, and this drift seems to be resumed in the second block, where, after On the Vanity of This World (a song warning against worldliness), one finds Dame Sirith and The Names of a Hare. A similar drift occurs in the third, long-line block when the pessimistic Body and Soul–Doomsday–Death grouping concludes with What Love Is Like, ‘one of the earliest love poems in English’,25 but then the next item, the French Chaunçoun de Noustre Seingnour, converts the theme to love of Jesus. The Digby scribe’s proclivity for monolingual pairings takes a creative leap forward when he sets about stitching together metrically similar, same-language texts – an activity he is known for and very much on display in the English poems.26 In the French corpus, he does this most notoriously by tacking an extended ending onto a fabliau, Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin, building it from two borrowed texts (arts. 35–7). The new ending adds misogynistic diatribe to a comic work that, without it, would simply spoof human folly (specifically, peasant ignorance) through a wickedly funny joke about body parts.27 Typically, the scribe’s changes of this sort Fein, ‘The Fillers’, p. 74; and Turville Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, pp. 64–5. 23 For a comparison of The Fox and the Wolf and Dame Sirith to their Anglo-Norman analogues found in Digby 86, see Appendices 2–3. For the French tales themselves, see David Raybin’s chapter in this volume, pp. 106–12. All four tales are trickster tales, with the English versions being more developed and complex than the analogues. Projecting greater sophistication than the French stories, Fox and Dame Sirith share, between them, verbal alertness (significant wordplays, enhanced dialogues, nuanced social registers), subtle plot details and the comic spoofing of serious themes. 24 On the performability of many Digby texts, see Turville Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, pp. 59–63. 25 Ibid., p. 64. 26 On this habit, see Corrie, ‘The Compilation’, pp. 240–2. Scahill, too, refers to the compiler’s ‘generally interventionist approach’ (‘Trilingualism’, p. 26). 27 Arts. 35–7; fols. 113ra–114rb. See ‘Les .iiii. souhais saint Martin’, in Eighteen Anglo-Norman 22

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Fig. 1. Opening folio of Dame Sirith. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 165r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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alter the ending of a piece, that is, they turn it towards a new direction of thought – whether admonitory, prayerful or antifeminist, as in Les Quatre Souhais example. The following examples of English texts being carefully joined, or even thoughtfully divided, can all be plausibly credited to the Digby’s scribe’s editorial interventions: • The Debate of the Body and the Soul receives a new ending when the scribe attaches two other long-line poems to it: it segues – with no intervening rubrics – into the apocalyptic preaching of Doomsday and Death.28 Subtle signs of transition exist in a drawn hand that points at the opening line of Doomsday and an ‘amen’ denoting Doomsday’s close (fols. 197v–198r). The scribe also imports a line from Death (‘Wen þe latemeste dai deþ haueþ .i.brout’) into Doomsday, six lines from its ending, to sew the two works together. Death opens ‘Þench of þe latemeste dai hou we shulen fare’, and the borrowed line occurs in its authentic site, eight lines later, woven in as a kind of refrain.29 Given the physical indicators of textual intermingling, it seems likely that the Digby compiler was himself responsible for the novel reconfiguration of these poems. • Three stanzas of Sweet Jesus King of Bliss (a longer poem in Harley and elsewhere) are attached to the end of The Eleven Pains of Hell, in the manner of an alleviating prayer. The twelve lines taken from this separate lyric extend the ten-line prayer-ending of Eleven Pains, without any rubric or break: So wolle god þat we mote Hounderfongen heueriche bote Swete ihesu king of blisse Min herte loue min herte lisse Þou art swete mid .i.wisse Wo is him þat þe shall misse … (fol. 134va)30

This application of the lyric shows it being put to an actual use in the edification of devout readers or listeners. Apprehension of vividly imagined tortures in hell ends in hopeful petition and lyrical soothing. Fabliaux, ed. I. Short and R. Pearcy, ANTS PTS 14 (London, 2000), pp. 33–5. The borrowings are from Le Blasme des femmes (lines 111–36) and Le Chastie-musart (lines 136–66). On the effect of the new ending, see esp. the chapters by Marilyn Corrie and Neil Cartlidge in this volume. 28 R. Woolf, The English Religious Lyric in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1968), p. 97 n. 1. These lyrics appear earlier only in West Midland manuscripts, all of them in Trinity, and all except Body and Soul in Cotton and Jesus. Later, Body and Soul is copied in Harley, where it shares with Trinity a different eschatological ending, which may have been a separate add-on. 29 The only edition of the three poems is Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 93–101, where the lines are unnumbered. Compare Doomsday and Death in Cotton and Jesus, in An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 162–85. 30 The only edition that prints this joining is Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, p. 62, where the lines are unnumbered.

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• The Digby Sayings of Saint Bernard is the only version (of five) that sets the final ten stanzas off as a separate lyric, with its own rubric: ‘Vbi sount qui ante nos fuerount’ (fol. 126va).31 The degree of variation in versions of Sayings – where the final stanzas are typically different in number and order – suggests routine scribal intervention. The Digby variation is exceptionally artful because it pointedly singles out this affective elegy, with its energetic exhortation to brandish the Cross (‘Þou tak þe rode to þi staf ’) against the Devil, thereby pushing back against the unremitting sternness of Sayings with rebuttive agency. After invoking the Rood as a vigorous, hopeful beacon against eternal death, Ubi sunt ends in prayer to Mary (‘Mayden moder heuene quene’ (fol. 127ra)). These combined ideas form a natural bridge to the next item, Stand Well Mother under Rood.32 This last creative linkage may be explored further by adding to it another medium – music. It is worth noting that the two English items called songs by the scribe (‘chaunçoun’) – Stand Well Mother and Vanity – are indeed lyric compositions for which music has been preserved. It is impossible to fully restore the musical element of Digby 86, but it is worth remembering its existence whenever we can. Not only were some poetic pieces likely to have been performed (like Harrowing, Thrush and Dame Sirith) or played as games (like Ragemon le bon), it is also highly probable that several were sung. Because Digby texts are so often joined implicitly by the compiler, we may, in the instance of Sayings in its manuscript context, imagine a tripartite experience: sobering moralisms from the authoritative ‘Saint Bernard’, followed by the elegaic ubi sunt with its actively uplifting remedies, followed by the elegaic, dialogic hymn: Mary affectively mourning Jesus, who hangs on the Cross and lovingly responds. Vanity is also a song – as its rubric ‘Chaunçun del secle’ attests – and it is followed by the Latin Fides hodie sopitur on the same subject. Are their placement after the worldly game Ragemon deliberate and meaningful? And it is here that the short quire xxi4, holding the secular Dame Sirith and The Names of a Hare, was positioned next. To perpetually swing from being reminded of the false illusions of a fleeting world so as to feel the potent, impending realities of death, judgement and the afterlife, and then to return here and now to pastimes and games, entertainments and songs, is to begin to capture the essence and feel of the Digby literary experience, brewed multilingually, partaking both of francophone worldly sophistication and locally bred traditions of moral admonition. In Vanity, for example, there have been detected verbal borrowings from the twelfth-century Poema morale and Hending.33 It should be noted, though, that Auchinleck preserves Ubi sunt alone, without Sayings. See The Auchinleck Manuscript, ed. D. Burnley and A. Wiggins (Edinburgh, 2003), fol. 280ra, where it is titled The Sayings of Saint Bernard (http://auchinleck.nls.uk). 32 Auchinleck ends with a prayer to Christ. Harley omits the prayer and sets Stand Well elsewhere in the manuscript. 33 English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, p. 201; and Medieval English Songs, ed. Dobson and Harrison, p. 137. 31

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Still, in the ever-shifting world of Digby’s literary sections, generic expectations by language and mode may sometimes be turned inside-out. It is the French Chaunçoun de Noustre Seingnour that closes the Body and Soul–Doomsday–Death– What Love Is Like sequence. The altogether new element here (so far as we can detect ‘newness’) is in English, its presumed secularity quickly transmuted to divine love in French song. It is perhaps telling that, by rubric, this turn to a redemptive religious chanson after a block of long-line English poems parallels the short-line sequence ending with Stand Well Mother, the ‘Chaunçoun de noustre dame’. The English contents of Digby 86 do not really stand apart from the manuscript’s other contents, but to understand the whole book and its place in English literary history, we will need to accommodate these singular sequences of anglophone texts compiled for a multilingual Worcester household in the late thirteenth century. The challenge is undeniable because it is certainly true that manuscripts like Digby 86 ‘represent literariness and literacies in ways that can most fruitfully be appreciated as very different to our own’.34 The key seems to rest in recognising the basic functionality of the book – that is, in how Digby served in its time as ‘an unfussy repertoire of material for domestic use’35 – unfussy, yet planned with an anthologising mindset because sequenced uses were being imagined and concocted. In its many evident functions, ‘from the liturgical … to the devotional to the comic to the scurrilous’, it witnesses to what has been termed the ‘permeability of the “literary”’.36 Its basic purposes were to inculcate morals and edify without pretentions to high learning and, above all, to find social pleasures in common worship, convivial fun and risqué topics for debate, song and performance. As Thorlac Turville Petre sums it up, ‘What we call literature … is copied not as the work of a revered artist but as something that will bring the family together and provide matter for communal activity and discussion.’37 As we grow more familiar with Digby 86’s still-locked mysteries, we are likely to see better how it was that the compiler crafted available matter into entertainments and devotions that were new and fresh for his household audience.

The English corpus of MS Digby 86 quires xv , xvi , xvii , xviii8 (fols. 113–120, 121–132, 133–140, 141–148) (ruled in double columns) 40. The Harrowing of Hell, fol. 119ra–120vb.38 Incipit: Hou iesu crist herowede helle / Of hardegates ich will telle. Begins: Leue frend nou beþ stille. 256 lines, octosyllabic couplets. Two other manuscripts: Auchinleck; Harley. 8

8

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Treharne, ‘The Vernaculars’, p. 230. Boffey, ‘Middle English Lyrics’, p. 9. 36 Treharne, ‘The Vernaculars’, p. 231. 37 Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford. Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, p. 65. 38 DIMEV 3070, NIMEV 1850.5; printed from Digby (in part or whole) in four editions, e.g. Reliquiæ Antiquæ, ed. Wright and Halliwell, I, 253 (rubric and lines 1–24 only); and The Middle-English Harrowing of Hell, ed. Hulme, pp. 2–22 (all versions). See also Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein, II, 66–79, 379–81 (art. 21). 34 35

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41. Fifteen Tokens of Doomsday, fols. 120vb–122va.39 Incipit: Les xv singnes de domesdai. Begins: Fiftene toknen ich tellen may. 206 lines, octosyllabic couplets (incomplete because of tear on fol. 121). Six other manuscripts: Cambridge, TCC, MS B.11.24; London, BL, MS Cotton Caligula A II; New Haven, Yale Beinecke Library, MS 365; Oxford, BodL, MSS Addit. E 6, Ashmole 1416 and Tanner 407. 42. The Life of Saint Eustace, fols. 122va–125vb.40 Incipit: Ci comence la vie seint / Eustace qui out noun placidas. Begins: Alle þat louieþ godes lore. 71 six-line stanzas, aabccb. One other manuscript: Oxford, BodL, MS Ashmole 61. 43. The Sayings of Saint Bernard, fols. 125vb–126va.41 Incipit: Les diz de seint bernard. / comencent .i.ci tres beaus. Begins: Þe blessinge of heuene king. 21 six-line stanzas, aabccb. Four other manuscripts: Harley; Vernon; Oxford, BodL, MSS Addit. E 6 and Laud Misc. 108. 44. Ubi Sunt, fols. 126va–127ra.42 Incipit: Vbi sount qui ante fuerount. Begins: Uuere beþ þey biforen vs weren. 9 six-line stanzas, aabccb. Five other manuscripts: Auchinleck; Harley; Vernon; Oxford, BodL, MSS Addit. E 6 and Laud Misc. 108. 45. Stand Well Mother under Rood, fol. 127ra–va.43 Incipit: Chaunçoun de noustre dame. Begins: Stond wel moder ounder rode. 10 six-line stanzas, aabccb. Five other manuscripts: Harley; Cambridge, St John’s College, MS 111 (E.8); Dublin, TCD, MS 301; London, BL, MSS Royal 8 F II (1 stanza) and Royal 12 E I. 46. The Saws of Saint Bede, fols. 127va–130rb.44 Incipit: Her biginneþ þe sawe of DIMEV 3000, NIMEV 1823; printed in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 53–7. 40 DIMEV 374, NIMEV 211; printed in Altenglische Legenden, ed. Horstmann, pp. 211–19. For the Ashmole version, see Codex Ashmole 61: A Compilation of Popular Middle English Verse, ed. G. Shuffelton (Kalamazoo, MI, 2007), pp. 19–30. 41 DIMEV 5215 and 4564, NIMEV 3310; printed in ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. IV.’, ed. Varnhagen, pp. 59–66; and The Minor Poems, ed. Furnivall, pp. 757–61 (all versions except MS Addit. E 6). See also ‘“The Sayings of Saint Bernard” from MS Bodleian Additional E 6’, ed. J. B. Monda, Mediaeval Studies 32 (1970), 299–307; and Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 84–93, 316–7 (art. 74). All manuscripts except Digby attach stanzas from Ubi sunt (art. 44) to the end of this poem. 42 DIMEV 5215; printed as part of art. 43 in ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. IV.’, ed. Varnhagen, pp. 59–66. First printed separately in The Minor Poems, ed. Furnivall, pp. 761–3, this lyric is frequently reprinted in anthologies of Middle English verse, e.g. English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 85–7; Medieval English Lyrics, ed. T. Silverstein (London, 1971), pp. 30–2; and Middle English Lyrics, ed. M. S. Luria and R. L. Hoffman (New York, 1974), pp. 12–13. 43 DIMEV 5030, NIMEV 3211; printed from Digby six times, e.g. ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. I–III.’, ed. Varnhagen, pp. 253–4; The Minor Poems, ed. Furnivall, pp. 763–5; and English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 87–91. See also Medieval English Songs, ed. E. J. Dobson and F. Ll. Harrison (Cambridge, 1979), pp. 146–60, 254–5, 325–26 (a critical edition, with Latin model and music); and Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 264–9, 438–9 (art. 60). 44 DIMEV 2042 and 5698, NIMEV 1229 and 3607; printed from Digby twice: Altenglische Legenden, ed. Horstmann, pp. 211–19; and The Minor Poems, ed. Furnivall, pp. 765–76. See also An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 72–83 (Jesus: ‘Sinners Beware!’). 39

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/ Seint bede prest. Begins: Holi gost þi mi3tte. 62 six-line stanzas, aabccb. One other manuscript: Jesus. 47. Our Lady Psalter, fols. 130rb–132rb.45 Incipit: Coment le sauter noustre dame / fu primes cuntrone. Begins: Leuedi swete and milde. 42 six-line stanzas, aabccb. Two other manuscripts: Auchinleck; Oxford, BodL, Laud Lat. 93 (fragment). 48. The Eleven Pains of Hell, fols. 132rb–134va.46 Incipit: Les ounsse peines de enfer. Begins: Oiez seynours vne demaunde. 308 lines, octosyllabic couplets (opening six lines in French). One other manuscript: Jesus. 48a. Sweet Jesus King of Bliss (3 stanzas), fol. 134va.47 No incipit. Begins: Swete iesu king of blisse. 3 four-line monorhyming stanzas, aaaa4. Three other manuscripts, with others untraced: Harley; Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 355 (a); New Haven, Yale Beinecke Library, MS 492. 49. Maximian, fols. 134va–136vb.48 Incipit: Le regret de maximian. Begins: Herkneþ to mi ron. 23 twelve-line stanzas, aabccbddbeeb. One other manuscript: Harley. 50. The Thrush and the Nightingale, fols. 136vb–138rb.49 Incipit: Ci comence le cuntent par entre le / Mauuis e la russinole. Begins: Somer is comen wiþ loue to toune. 16 twelve-line stanzas, aabccbddbeeb (1st stanza is aabccbddeffe). One other manuscript: Auchinleck. 51. The Fox and the Wolf, fols. 138rb–140rb.50 Incipit: Of þe vox and of þe wolf. Begins: A vox gon out of þe wode go. 295 lines, octosyllabic couplets. No other manuscript. 52. Hending, fols. 140va–143ra.51 Incipit: Hending þe hende. Begins: Iesu crist al þis worldes red. Seven other manuscripts: Harley; Cambridge, CUL, MSS Addit. DIMEV 3030, NIMEV 1840; printed from Digby twice: Altenglische Legenden, ed. Horstmann, pp. 220–4; and The Minor Poems, ed. Furnivall, pp. 777–85. 46 DIMEV 6112, NIMEV 3828; printed in ‘Nachträge zu den Legenden: II.’, ed. Horstmann, pp. 403–6. See also An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 210–22 (Jesus). 47 DIMEV 5075, NIMEV 3236. This item follows art. 48 without a break, as if belonging to its concluding prayer. Its four printed editions include: Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 62–3; and English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 91–2. It corresponds with the first three stanzas of a Harley lyric; see Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 224–9, 431 (art. 50). 48 DIMEV 1769, NIMEV 1115; printed twice from Digby: ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. VI.’, ed. Varnhagen, pp. 275–84; and English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 92–100. See also Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 284–97, 444–6 (art. 68). 49 DIMEV 5052, NIMEV 3222; first printed from Digby in 1845, in Reliquiæ Antiquæ, ed. Wright and Halliwell, I, 241–5. It has been anthologised numerous times; see, e.g. English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, 101–7; and Middle English Debate Poetry: A Critical Anthology, ed. J. W. Conlee (East Lansing, MI, 1991), pp. 239–48. 50 DIMEV 46, NIMEV 35; see Appendix 2. First published in 1845 (Reliquiæ Antiquæ, ed. Wright and Halliwell, I, 272–8), this unique item is often found in anthologies, e.g. Early Middle English Texts, ed. B. Dickins and R. M. Wilson (London, 1956), pp. 62–70; and Early Middle English Verse and Prose, ed. J. A. W. Bennett and G. V. Smithers, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1968), pp. 65–76. 51 DIMEV 2800, NIMEV 1669; the Digby version was printed thrice in the nineteenthcentury, the earliest being Reliquiæ Antiquæ, ed. Wright and Halliwell, I, 109–16. For other versions, see ‘Die Sprachwörter Hending und die Prouerbis of Wysdom’, ed. G. Schleich, 45

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407 Art. 19 (h) and G. 1. 1; Cambridge, Gonville and Caius College, MS 351; Cambridge, St John’s College, MS 45 (B.23) (2 fragments); London, BL, MS Harley 3835 (2 couplets); London, Lambeth Palace Library, MS 78. ********* quire xx8 (fols. 157–164) (ruled in double columns) 57. On the Vanity of This World, fols. 163vb–164rb.52 Incipit: Chaunçun del secle. Begins: Uuorldes blisse ne last non þrowe. 6 ten-line stanzas, ababcccbcb. Two other manuscripts: London, BL, MSS Arundel 248; Oxford, BodL, MS Rawlinson G 18. ********* quire xxi4 (fols. 165–168) (ruled in double columns) 59. Dame Sirith, fols. 165ra–168rb.53 Incipit: Ci comence le fablel e la cointise de dame siriz. Begins: As I com bi an waie. 450 lines in a mix of six-line stanzas, aabccb and octosyllabic couplets. No other manuscript. 60. The Names of a Hare, fol. 168rb–vb.54 Incipit: Les nouns de un loure en engleis. Begins: Þe mon þat þe hare .i.met. No other manuscript. ********* quire xxv8 (fols. 193–200) (ruled in single column) 68. The Debate between the Body and the Soul, fols. 195v–197v.55 Incipit: Hic incipit carmen inter corpus et animam. Begins: Hon an þester stude .i. stod an luitel strif to here. 106 lines, 26 monorhyming quatrains + final couplet (marked by red marginal tie-lines). Two other manuscripts: Trinity; Harley. 68a. Doomsday (attached to art. 68), fols. 197v–198r.56 No incipit; a manicule points to the opening line. Begins: Uuen I þenke on domesdai wel sore mai me drede. Anglia 51 (1927), 220–78; 52 (1928), 350–61; and Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 220–37, 334–7 (art. 89). 52 DIMEV 6791, NIMEV 4223; printed in Anecdota Literaria, ed. T. Wright, pp. 90–1. See also English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 78–82 (from Arundel and Rawlinson); and Medieval English Songs, ed. Dobson and Harrison, pp. 136–42, 244, 299 (a critical edition, with music). Dobson and Harrison observe that ‘In poetic type (almost purely moralistic, and untouched by the newer style of personal and devotional religious poetry) the song is characteristic of the late twelfth century and the first half of the thirteenth’ (p. 137). 53 DIMEV 594, NIMEV 342; see Appendix 3. First printed in 1844 in Anecdota Literaria, ed. Wright, pp. 1–13. Numerous editions in anthologies have followed, e.g. Early Middle English Verse and Prose, ed. Bennett and Smithers, pp. 80–95. Compare, too, the curious fragment with similarities to Dame Sirith: ‘Damishel reste wel’ (DIMEV 1094, NIMEV 668), ed. Bennett and Smithers, pp. 197–200. 54 DIMEV 5389, NIMEV 3421. First printed in 1845 in Reliquiæ Antiquæ, ed. Wright and Halliwell, I, 133–4. See also ‘The Middle English Poem on the Names of a Hare’, ed. A. S. C. Ross, Proceedings of the Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society 3 (1935), 347–77. 55 DIMEV 2462, NIMEV 1461. First printed in 1872 in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 93–6 (combined with arts. 68a–b). See also Middle English Debate Poetry, ed. Conlee, pp. 10–17; Religiöse Dichtung im englischen Hochmittelalter: Untersuchung und Edition der Handschrift B.14.39 des Trinity College in Cambridge, ed. K. Reichl (Munich, 1973), pp. 345–65 (all versions); and Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 78–87, 381–2 (art. 22). 56 DIMEV 6339, NIMEV 3967. First printed in 1872 in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed.

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Ends: amen. 52 lines, 13 monorhyming quatrains (marked by red marginal tie-lines). Three other manuscripts: Cotton; Jesus; Trinity. 68b. Death, fol. 198r–200r (attached to arts. 68–68a), fols. 198r–200r.57 No incipit. Begins: Þench of þe latemeste dai hou we schulen fare. 67 lines, 16 monorhyming quatrains (with 1 five-line stanza) + final couplet (marked by red marginal tie-lines). Three other manuscripts: Cotton; Jesus; Trinity. 69. What Love Is Like, fol. 200v.58 Incipit: Ci comence la manere quele amour est pur assaier. Begins: Loue is sofft loue is swet loue is goed sware. 28 lines, in two-, three-, four- and five-line monorhyming laisses (marked by red marginal tie-lines). No other manuscript. ********* quire xxvi6–2 (fols. 201–205) (ruled in single column) 73. Welcome ki ke bringe ki ne bringe fare wel, fol. 201r.59 Macaronic (English/ French) proverb, 1 line. No other manuscript. ********* quire xxvii (2 singletons, fols. 206, 207) (ruled in double columns) *93. In Þine Honden Louerd Mine, fol. 206ra.60 2 couplets translating Latin prayer in rubric: In manus tuas domine conmendo spiritum meum redemisti me domine deus veritatis. No other manuscript.

Stengel, pp. 96–8. See also Religiöse Dichtung, ed. Reichl, pp. 408–14 (all versions); and An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 162–9 (Cotton and Jesus). 57 DIMEV 5640, NIMEV 3517. First printed in 1872 in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, pp. 98–101. See also Religiöse Dichtung, ed. Reichl, pp. 418–36 (all versions); and An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 168–85 (Cotton and Jesus). 58 DIMEV 3279, NIMEV 2009. Printed in The Romance of Octavian, ed. Conybeare, pp. 58–9; and also in Anecdota Literaria, ed. Wright, p. 96. It is occasionally printed in anthologies, e.g. in English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 107–8; and Medieval English Love-Lyrics, ed. T. Stemmler (Tübingen, 1970), pp. 8–9. For comment on it, see Hines, Voices in the Past, pp. 101–2. 59 This item is perhaps the rubric for art. 74: ‘Intus quis tu quis ego sum quid queris vt intrem / Fers aliquid non esto foras fero quid satis intra’ (Who’s within? Who are you? It is I. What do you want? To enter. Do you bring anything? No. Stay outside. I bring. What? Enough. Enter.) The Latin proverb, a dialogue, is open to different meanings according to how it is punctuated. Both proverbs may be meant to echo 2 John 1:10: ‘If any man come to you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into the house nor say to him, God speed you.’ 60 DIMEV 2637 (variants 2681, 2684, 3195); NIMEV 1571 (variants 1600, 1952). First printed in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86, ed. Stengel, p. 104.

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APPENDIX 1 Index of manuscripts sharing English verse items with MS Digby 86 Cambridge: CUL, MS Addit. 407 (Art. 19) (h) CUL, MS Gg. 1. 1 Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 355 (a) Gonville and Caius College, MS 351 St John’s College, MS 45 (B.23) St John’s College, MS 111 (E.8) TCC, B.11.24 TCC, B.14.39 (Trinity)

art. 52 art. 52 art. 48a art. 52 art. 52 art. 45 art. 41 arts. 68, 68a, 68b

Dublin: TCD, MS 301 art. 45 Edinburgh: NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1 (Auchinleck) arts. 40, 44, 47, 50 London: BL, MS Arundel 248 BL, MS Cotton Caligula A II BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX (Cotton) BL, MS Harley 2253 (Harley) BL, MS Harley 3835 BL, MS Royal 8 F II BL, MS Royal 12 E I Lambeth Palace Library, MS 78

art. 57 art. 41 arts. 68a, 68b arts. 40, 43, 44, 45, 48a, 49, 52, 68 art. 52 art. 45 art. 45 art. 52

New Haven, CT: Yale Beinecke Library, MS 365 Yale Beinecke Library, MS 492

art. 41 art. 48a

Oxford: BodL, MS Addit. E 6 (roll) BodL, MS Ashmole 61 BodL, MS Ashmole 1416 BodL, MS Eng. poet a. 1 (Vernon) BodL, MS Laud Lat. 93 BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108 BodL, MS Rawlinson G 18 BodL, MS Tanner 407 Jesus College, MS 29 (II) (Jesus)

arts. 41, 43, 44 art. 42 art. 41 art. 43, 44 art. 47 art. 43, 44 art. 57 art. 41 arts. 46, 48, 68a, 68b

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APPENDIX 2 Text and Translation of The Fox and the Wolf (MS Digby 86, art. 51) I present here a transcription of the Middle English The Fox and the Wolf with an accompanying translation in order to allow direct comparison to the AngloNorman ‘The Peasant, the Wolf, and the Fox’, which appears in Digby 86 in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour.1 The two tales are quite different in the trick played by a fox upon a wolf. In the Anglo-Norman story, the wolf enters a well in the hope of finding a large cheese (in actuality, the full moon reflected upon the water). In the English one, the fox acts out an elaborate ruse – hilariously parodic – of having died and gone to paradise, and then plays the role of priest so that the gullible wolf may be allowed to confess and join him in the well-pit’s ‘bliss’.2 In the Anglo-Norman tale, the wolf is left in the well to die, and seemingly deserves that fate. In the English tale, he escapes the pit only to be beaten, in purgatorial fashion, by friars wielding staffs, staves and stones. Different as they as, the tales are clearly related in how they set up the fox and the wolf as acquaintances and rivals, the fox being the wilier and therefore more sympathetic beast, the wolf the stupider and more gullible one. Both tales also use the same mechanical device (called a ginne in the English tale): a pulley that balances two buckets in a counter-movement of rise and fall. The ‘up-and-down’ element bears a strong philosophical valence in the English tale, where it evokes the agency of Fortune against the self-agency of one’s own desires and ingenuity (will and wit). The Fox and the Wolf begins with the fox marauding a chicken house, where a cock is too astute to venture ‘down’ from his perch. Soon afterwards, the fox himself hurtles down into the pit in a bucket without counterweight, duped by a ginne he did not understand and thus overcome by Fortune unless his wits can gain him an escape. His self-rescue comes when he can trick the wolf into voluntarily joining, and hence replacing, him. The physical fact that the wolf weighs more than the fox (lines 237–8) becomes a crucial detail – a smart calculation by the fox – as the two beasts pass each other (the fox going up, the wolf down) inside the pit. In both tales, the two beasts operate in a world inhabited by humans, with whom they interact but not as equals. In ‘The Peasant, the Wolf, and the Fox’, a peasant unwittingly summons the wolf when he curses his recalcitrant ox-team: ‘May the wolf eat you!’ In devilish fashion, the wolf shows up to collect his ‘due’. Called in to mediate and offer judgment, the fox shrewdly negotiates a reward of two hens from the human world and then pretends to have won a cheese for the wolf. The fox seems ready in this tale to benefit humans and rid the world of a hungry, wicked See David Raybin’s chapter in this volume, pp. 106–8. On other analogues to The Fox and the Wolf, esp. Le Roman de Renart, see Early Middle English Verse and Prose, ed. Bennett and Smithers, pp. 297–303. 2 In one of the tale’s funniest lines (line 167), the fox tells the ravenous wolf that there is an abundance of sheep and goats in the well-pit. The viewpoint is that of a carnivorous wolf or fox, but there is also an anthropocentric, spiritual allusion to the division of souls, saved or damned, at Doomsday. 1

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wolf, but only if he may gain his own nourishment from their cultivated farmlife. In The Fox and the Wolf, humans are, from the viewpoint of the beasts, an ever-hostile force likely to accost them with staffs and staves – a punishment likely deserved. The fox sneaks the theft and consumption of hens and then escapes, while the cock cries out for human revenge. It is the wolf, innocent of that crime and newly shriven, who ends up suffering no ‘forȝeuenesse’ from human blows (line 295). The Fox and the Wolf is composed in octosyllabic couplets. In the text below, double spacing is inserted editorially wherever a large, red-and-black initial opens a new block of text. 138rb] Of þe vox. and of þe wolf.



A fox came out of the woods,

A vox gon out of þe wode go

5

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20

25

Afingret so þat him wes wo He nes neuere in none wise Afingret erour half so swiþe He ne hoeld nouþer wey ne strete For him wes loþ men to mete Him were leuere meten one hen Þen half an oundred wimmen He strok swiþe oueral So þat he ofsei ane wal Wiþinne þe walle wes on hous The wox wes þider swiþe wous For he þohute his hounger aquenche Oþer mid mete oþer mid drunche Abouten he biheld wel ȝerne Þo eroust bigon þe vox to erne Al fort he come to one walle And som þerof wes afalle And wes þe wal oueral tobroke3 And on ȝat þer wes .i.loke At þe furmeste bruche þat he fond He lep in and ouer he wond Þo he wes inne smere he lou And þerof he hadde gome .i.nou For he com in wiþouten leue Boþen of haiward and of reue

On hous þer wes þe dore wes ope Hennen weren þerinne .i.crope Fiue þat makeþ anne flok 30 And mid hem sat on kok Þe kok him wes flowen on hey 138va] And two hennen him seten ney. Wox quod þe kok wat dest þou þare Go hom crist þe ȝeue kare

The Fox and the Wolf

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30

So hungry that he was in distress – He’d never in any way Been half so hungry. He held to no road or street Because he was loath to meet men; He’d rather meet one hen Than half a hundred women. He made his way quickly Until he saw a wall – Inside the wall was a house. The fox headed there directly, Thinking to ease his hunger Either with food or with drink. He looked around alertly; Then immediately the fox ran Till he reached the wall – Some of which had fallen And was completely broken – And the gate there was locked. At the first breach he found He leapt in, and over he went. Once he was in, he laughed heartily Because he was happy about that, For he’d entered without permission Of either hayward or reeve. A house therein had a door ajar; Hens had crept inside there – Five (which makes a flock) – And among them sat a cock. The cock was perched up high, And two hens sat near him. ‘Fox,’ said the cock, ‘what’re you doing here? Go home! Christ give you sorrow!

MS to breke.

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40

45

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55

60

Houre hennen þou dest ofte shome 35 Be stille ich hote a godes nome Quaþ þe wox sire chauntecler Þou fle adoun and com me ner I nabbe don her nout bote goed I have leten þine hennen blod 40 Hy weren seke ounder þe ribe. Þat hy ne miȝtte non lengour libe. Bote here heddre were .i.take. Þat .i. do for almes sake Ich haue hem leten eddre blod 45 And þe chauntecler hit wolde don goed Þou hauest þat ilke ounder þe splen Þou nestes neuere daies ten4 For þine lifdayes beþ al ago 50 Bote þou bi mine rede do .I.do þe lete blod ounder þe brest Oþer sone axe after þe prest. Go wei quod þe kok wo þe bigo Þou hauest don oure kunne wo 55 Go mid þan þat þou hauest nouþe Acoursed be þou of godes mouþe For were .i. adoun bi godes nome Ich miȝte ben siker of oþre shome Ac weste hit houre cellerer 60 Þat þou were .i.comen her He wolde sone after þe ȝonge Mid pikes and stones and staues stronge Alle þine bones he wolde tobreke Þene we weren wel awreke

138vb] He wes stille ne spak namore Ac he werþ aþurst wel sore Þe þurst him dede more wo Þen heuede raþer his hounger do Oueral he ede and sohvte 70 On auenture his wiit him brohute To one putte wes water inne Þat wes .i.maked mid grete ginne Tuo boketes þer he founde Þat oþer wende to þe grounde 75 Þat wen me shulde þat on opwinde Þat oþer wolde adoun winde He ne hounderstod nout of þe ginne

65

70

75

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You often do shame to our hens!’ ‘Be still, I say, in God’s name!’ Said the fox. ‘Sir Chauntecleer, Fly down and come close to me. I’ve done nothing but good here. I have let the blood of your hens – They were sick under their ribs, And mightn’t live any longer Unless their veins’ blood was taken, Which I did for charity’s sake. I have let blood from their veins, And, Chauntecleer, it’d do you good – You have the same illness under your spleen. You haven’t nested for ten days – Your life’s all over Unless you follow my counsel. Be bloodlet under your breast Or else call soon for the priest!’ ‘Go away,’ said the cock, ‘Woe to you! You’ve injured our kind! Go with what you’ve now got – Accursed be you, by God’s mouth! – For if I were down, in God’s name, I’d be certain to have further insult. If our cellarer knew about it – That you have come here – He’d soon chase after you With pikes, stones and strong staves; He’d break all your bones! Then we’d be well avenged.’ He was quiet and spoke no more, But he was extremely thirsty; Thirst caused him more distress Than his hunger had done before. He went and searched everywhere. By chance his wits brought him To a pit in which there was water, Which was designed very cleverly: He found there two buckets: One goes into the ground, So that when one winds upward, The other winds downward. He understood nothing about the device.

The fox insinuates that the cock’s libido and sex life are deficient. It is part of the fox’s character that he is a wife-stealer: in the chicken house, he claims to have ‘bloodlet’ the cock’s wives, and later the wolf asserts that the fox has cuckolded him. The English tale thus projects a bawdiness not found in the Anglo-Norman analogue.

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He nom þat boket and lep þerinne For he hopede .i.nou to drinke 80 Þis boket biginneþ to sinke To late þe vox wes biþout Þo he wes in þe ginne .i.brout .I.nou he gon him biþenche Ac hit ne halp mid none wrenche 85 Adoun he moste he wes þerinne .I.kaut he wes mid swikele ginne Hit miȝte haui ben wel his wille To lete þat boket hongi stille Wat mid serewe and mid drede 90 Al his þurst him ouerhede Al þus he com to þe grounde And water .i.nou þer he founde Þo he fond water ȝerne he dronk Him þoute þat water þere stonk 95 For hit wes toȝeines his wille Wo worþe quoþ þe vox lust and wille Þat ne con meþ to his mete 139ra] Ȝef ich neuede to muchel .i.ete Þis ilke shome neddi nouþe 100 Nedde lust .i.ben of mine mouþe Him is wo in euche londe Þat is þef mid his honde Ich am .i.kaut mid swikele ginne Oþer soum deuel me broute herinne 105 I was woned to ben wiis Ac nou of me .i.don hit hiis

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Þe vox wep and reuliche bigan Þer com a wolf gon after þan Out of þe depe wode bliue For he wes afingret swiþe Noþing he ne founde in al þe niȝte Wermide his honger aquenche miȝtte He com to þe putte þene vox .i.herde He him kneu wel bi his rerde For hit wes his neiȝebore And his gossip of children bore Adoun bi þe putte he sat Quod þe wolf wat may ben þat Þat ich in þe putte .i.here Hertou cristine oþer mi fere Say me soþ ne gabbe þou me nout Wo haueþ þe in þe putte .i.brout Þe vox hine .i.kneu wel for his kun And þo eroust kom wiit to him For he þoute mid soumme ginne

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He took the bucket and leapt into it For he hoped to get enough to drink. This bucket began to sink. Too late did the fox become aware That he’d been ensnared in a trap. He thoroughly considered the situation, But it couldn’t be fixed by any trick. Where he was, he had to go down – He was caught by an evil trick, Even though it’d been his will To have that bucket hang motionless. Thus, with sorrow and with dread, All his thirst disappeared. In that manner he reached the bottom, And he found plenty of water there – When he found water, he drank eagerly, But thought that the water stunk, For it was counter to his will. ‘Cursed be’, said the fox, ‘the greed and desire Of one lacking moderation in his food. If I hadn’t eaten too much, I wouldn’t be in this shameful spot now – If I hadn’t been greedy with my mouth! Woeful in all lands is the one Who’s a thief with his hand. I am caught in an evil trap, Or else some devil put me in here. I used to be clever, But now it’s all over for me.’ The fox began to weep pitifully. After this a wolf came walking Quickly out of the deep woods, For he was extremely hungry. He’d found nothing all night By which he might ease his hunger. He came to the pit, then heard the fox – He knew him well by his voice, For he was his neigbour, And his close friend since childhood. He sat down by the pit. The wolf said, ‘What may it be That I hear in the pit?’ Are you Christian or my friend? Tell me the truth; don’t lie to me. Who’s put you in the pit?’ The fox knew him as his kin, And straightaway an idea came to him, For he thought about how, by some trick,

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The Middle English Poetry of MS Digby 86 Himself houpbringe þene wolf þerinne Quod þe vox wo is nou þere Ich wene hit is sigrim þat ich here Þat is soþ þe wolf sede 130 Ac wat art þou so god þe rede

139rb] A quod þe vox ich wille þe telle On alpi word ich lie nelle Ich am reneuard þi frend And ȝif ich þine come heuede .i.wend 135 Ich hedde so .i.bede for þe Þat þou sholdest comen to me Mid þe quod þe wolf warto Wat shulde ich ine þe putte do Quod þe vox Þou art ounwiis 140 Her is þe blisse of paradiis Her ich mai euere wel fare Wiþouten pine wiþouten kare Her is mete her is drinke Her is blisse wiþouten swinke 145 Her nis hounger neuermo Ne non oþer kunnes wo Of alle gode her is .i.nou Mid þilke wordes þe volf lou Art þou ded so god þe rede 150 Oþer of þe worlde þe wolf sede Quod þe wolf wenne storue þou And wat dest þou þere nou Ne beþ nout ȝet þre daies ago Þat þou and þi wif also 155 And þine children smale and grete Alle togedere mid me hete Þat is soþ quod þe vox Gode þonk nou hit is þus Þat ihc am to criste vend 160 Not hit non of mine frend I nolde for al þe worldes goed Ben ine þe worlde þer ich hem fond Wat shuld ich ine þe worlde go 139va] Þer nis bote kare and wo 165 And liuie in fulþe and in sunne Ac her beþ ioies fele cunne Her beþ boþe shep and get Þe wolf haueþ hounger swiþe gret For he nedde ȝare .i.ete 170 And þo he herde speken of mete He wolde bleþeliche ben þare A quod þe wolf gode .i.fere Moni goed mel þou hauest me binome

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He might bring himself up, with the wolf inside. The fox said, ‘Who’s there now? I believe I hear Sigrim.’ ‘That’s true,’ the wolf said. ‘But who are you, by God’s counsel?’ ‘Ah,’ said the fox, ‘I’ll tell you. I won’t lie even a single word. I am Reynard your friend, And if I’d known of your coming I would have prayed for you That you might come to me.’ ‘To you?’ said the wolf. ‘Why?’ What would I do in the pit?’ Said the fox, ‘You’re unwise – Here is the bliss of paradise! Here I may exist happily forever Without pain, without care; Here is food; here is drink; Here is bliss without labour; Here is never any hunger, Nor any other sort of woe; Of all good, here is plenty.’ At these words, the wolf laughed. ‘Are you dead, by God’s counsel, Or in the world?’ the wolf asked. Said the wolf, ‘When did you die, And what are you doing there now? It’s not yet been three days Since you, and your wife too, And your children small and big, Ate with me all together.’ ‘That’s true,’ said the fox. ‘Thank God it’s now like this – That I’ve gone to Christ! None of my friends know about it. I wouldn’t, for all the world’s goods, Be in the world where I may find them. Why should I go about in the world, Where there’s nothing but care and woe, And live in filth and in sin? Instead, here there are many kinds of joy – Here there are both sheep and goats!’ The wolf was extremely hungry, For he hadn’t eaten in a long time, And when he heard food mentioned, He’d have happily been there. ‘Ah,’ said the wolf, ‘good friend, You’ve deprived me of many a good meal!

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Let me adoun to þe kome And al ich wole þe forȝeue Ȝe quod þe vox were þou .i.sriue And sunnen heuedest al forsake And to klene lif .i.take Ich wolde so bidde for þe Þat þou sholdest comen to me

To wom shuld ich þe wolfe seide Ben .i.knowe of mine misdede. Her nis noþing aliue Þat me kouþe her nou sriue 185 Þou hauest ben ofte min .i.fere Woltou nou mi srift .i.here And al mi liif .i. shal þe telle Nay quod þe vox .i. nelle Neltou quod þe wolf þin ore 190 Ich am afingret swiþe sore Ich wot toniȝt ich worþe ded Bote þou do me somne reed For cristes loue be mi prest Þe wolf bey adoun his brest 195 And gon to siken harde and stronge Woltou quod þe vox srift ounderfonge 139vb] Tel þine sunnen on and on Þat þer bileue neuer on Sone quod þe wolf wel .i.faie 200 Ich habbe ben qued al mi lifdaie Ich habbe widewene kors5 Þerfore ich fare þe wors A þousent shep ich habbe abiten And mo ȝef hy weren .i.writen 205 Ac hit me ofþinkeþ sore Maister shal .i. tellen more Ȝe quod þe vox al þou most sugge Oþer elleswer þou most abugge Gossip quod þe wolf forȝef hit me 210 Ich habbe ofte sehid qued bi þe Men seide þat þou on þine liue Misferdest mid mine wiue Ich þe aperseiuede one stounde And in bedde togedere ou founde 215 Ich wes ofte ou ful ney And in bedde togedere ou sey Ich wende also oþre doþ

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Allow me to come down to you, And I’ll forgive you for everything.’ ‘Yes,’ said the fox, ‘if you were shriven, And had forsaken sin, And adopted a pure life, I would thus pray for you That you might come to me.’

‘To whom should I’, said the wolf, ‘Make known my misdeeds? There’s no one alive here Who could now absolve me. 185 You’ve often been my companion – Would you now hear my shrift? I’ll tell you about my whole life.’ ‘No,’ said the fox, ‘I won’t.’ ‘Will you not’, said the wolf, ‘show your mercy? 190 I’m extremely hungry. I think that tonight I will die Unless you give me some counsel. For Christ’s love, be my priest!’ The wolf bowed down his breast 195 And began to sigh hard and deep. ‘Will you’, said the fox, ‘undergo shrift? Tell your sins one by one, So that not even one remains there?’ ‘Right now,’ said the wolf, ‘and gladly. 200 I’ve been evil all my life. I have the widow’s curse, And therefore fare the worse. I’ve bitten a thousand sheep, And more (if there’s a written record), 205 Which I sorely repent. Master, should I tell more?’ ‘Yes,’ said the fox, ‘you must tell all, Or else you’ll pay for it.’ ‘Good friend,’ said the wolf, ‘forgive me. 210 I’ve often talked about you wickedly. Men said that you, during your life, Misbehaved with my wife. I noticed you at one time And found you together in bed. 215 I was often quite near to you, And saw you in bed together. I supposed, as others do,

The ‘widewes kors’ is apparently an expression asserting that someone is predestined to be evil. A folkloric idea of a widow’s power to curse efficaciously may lurk in Dame Sirith as well.

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Þat ich .i.seie were soþ And þerfore þou were me loþ Gode gossip ne be þou nohut wroþ

Vuolf quod þe vox him þo Al þat þou hauest her bifore .i.do In þohut in speche and in dede In euche oþeres kunnes quede 225 Ich þe forȝeue at þisse nede Crist þe forȝelde þe wolf seide Nou ich am in clene liue Ne recche ich of childe ne of wiue Ac sei me wat .i. shal do 140ra] And ou ich may comen þe to. Do quod þe vox ich wille þe lere .I.siist þou a boket hongi þere Þere is a bruche of heuene blisse6 Lep þerinne mid .i.wisse 235 And þou shalt comen to me sone Quod the wolf þat is liȝt to done He lep in and way sumdel Þat weste þe vox ful wel Þe wolf gon sinke þe vox arise 240 Þo gon þe wolf sore agrise Þo he com amidde þe putte Þe wolfe þene vox opward mette. Gossip quod þe wolf wat nou Wat hauest þou .i.munt weder wolt þou 245 Weder ich wille þe vox sede. Ich wille oup so god me rede And nou go doun wiþ þi meel Þi biȝete worþ wel smal Ac ich am þerof glad and bliþe 250 Þat þou art nomen in clene liue Þi soule cnul ich wille do ringe And masse for þine soule singe Þe wrecche bineþe noþing ne vind Bote cold water and hounger him bind. 255 To colde gistninge he wes .i.bede Wroggen haueþ his dou .i.knede Þe wolf in þe putte stod Afingret so þat he ves wod .I.nou he cursede þat þider him broute.

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That what I saw was true, And therefore I loathed you – Good friend, don’t be angry.’

‘Wolf,’ then said the fox to him, ‘All that you’ve done before now, In thought, in speech and in deed, In every other kind of evil, 225 I forgive you at this time of need.’ ‘Christ reward you,’ the wolf said. ‘Now I am pure in life, And I care not about child or wife. But tell me what I ought to do, 230 And how I may come to you.’ ‘Do’, said the fox, ‘as I shall instruct you. Do you see a bucket hanging there? That’s an entrance to heaven’s bliss. Leap into it confidently, 235 And you’ll soon come to me.’ The wolf said, ‘That’s easily done!’ He leapt in and weighed a good bit – The fox knew that full well. The wolf began to sink, the fox to arise. 240 Then the wolf became deeply frightened – As he reached the middle of the pit, The wolf met the fox going upward. ‘Good friend,’ said the wolf, ‘what now?’ What do you intend? Where are you going?’ 245 ‘Wherever I want!’ the fox said. ‘I want to go up, by God’s counsel, And now you may go down to your meal. Your reward will be quite small, But I’m delighted and happy 250 That you’re taken in a pure state. For your soul I’ll ring the knell And sing Mass for your soul.’ The wretch found nothing below Other than cold water, and hunger seized him. 255 He was welcomed to a cold feast; Frogs have kneaded his dough. The wolf stood in the pit, So hungry that he was made mad, And thoroughly cursed what had put him there.

Compare line 21, where ‘bruche’ refers to the breach in the wall discovered by the fox, allowing him access to the chicken house. Here it denotes the bucket into which the gullible wolf leaps. The idea of entrance through a ‘breach’ suggests that survival requires risk and rule-breaking. Humorously, this breach conflates the pit below (a metaphorical hell) with an imagined heaven, which would exist above.

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Þe vox þerof luitel route Þe put him wes þe house ney Þer freren woneden swiþe sley 140rb] So þat hit com to þe time Þat hoe shulden arisen .ine 265 For to suggen here houssong O frere þer wes among Of here slep hem shulde awecche Wen hoe shulden þidere recche He seide ariseþ on. and on. 270 And komeþ to houssong heuereuchon. Þis ilke frere heyte ailmer He wes hoere maister curtiler He wes hofþurst swiþe stronge Riȝt amidward here houssonge 275 Alhone to þe putte he hede For he wende bete his nede He com to þe putte and drou And þe wolf wes heui .i.nou Þe frere mid al his maine tey 280 So longe þat he þene wolf .i.sey For he sei þene wolf þer sitte He gradde Þe deuel is in þe putte

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To þe putte. hy gounnen gon Alle mid pikes and staues and ston 285 Euch mon mid þat he hedde Wo wes him þat wepne nedde Hy comen to þe putte þene wolf opdrowe Þo hede þe wreche fomen .i.nowe Þat weren egre him to slete 290 Mid grete houndes and to bete Wel and wroþe he wes .i.swonge Mid staues and speres he wes .i.stounge Þe wox bicharde him mid iwisse For he ne fond nones kunnes blisse 295 Ne hof duntes forȝeuenesse. explicit

The fox cared little about that. The pit was near a house Where very shrewd friars dwelled. As the time came When they should arise To say their matins, There was one friar among them Who was to awaken them from sleep. When they needed to go there, He said, ‘Arise, one by one, And everyone come to matins.’ This friar’s name was Ailmer; He was their master gardener. He was overcome with thirst Right in the middle of matins. He went alone to the pit Because he thought to remedy his need. He came to the pit and drew, And the wolf was extremely heavy; The friar pulled with all his might Until finally he saw the wolf. When he saw the wolf sitting there, He cried, ‘The Devil’s in the pit!’ They all ran to the pit With pikes, staves and stones, Each man with whatever he had – Woe was he who didn’t have a weapon! They came to the pit, drew up the wolf. Then the wretch had numerous foes Eager to tear at him With big hounds, and to beat him – Fully and cruelly was he beaten; With staves and spears was he stabbed. The fox had certainly deceived him, For he found no sort of bliss at all, Nor any remission of blows. The end.

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APPENDIX 3 Text and Translation of Dame Sirith (MS Digby 86, art. 59) I present here a transcription of the Middle English Dame Sirith with an accompanying translation in order to allow direct comparison to the Anglo-Norman ‘The Old Woman and the Dog’, which appears in Digby 86 in Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour.1 In general, the plots agree closely. A young clerk attempts to seduce a young married woman while her husband is away. When she refuses to be his lover, stating her resolve to be a ‘true wife’, he turns to an old woman for help. The dejected clerk thus hopes, by means of the bawd, to gain his aim by either deception or sorcery. The old woman initially protests that she is a ‘holy woman’ (echoing somewhat the pious resistance of the young wife), but material gifts soon win her over and she then summons her prodigious power as a go-between with secret knowledge, which is termed cointise (sexual cunning) in the Dame Sirith incipit. The trick itself is simple: feed pepper and mustard to a dog, causing its eyes to water, and then invent the story of a wife metamorphosed because of her failure to show mercy to a clerk. The weeping dog is the transformed wife and, most pitifully, the old woman’s own shape-shifted daughter! The young wife is immediately frightened into granting the lovesick clerk her sexual favours. There are subtle differences in plot and structure, and broad differences in verbal texture, between these analogous tales. The Anglo-Norman story, on the one hand, focuses initially on the wife’s husband, that is, how he trusts her when he is away from home. His trust seems well-founded when, in response to the clerk’s initial visit, she stays resolutely true. Dame Sirith, on the other hand, opens with a focus on the clerk, saying little about the husband other than that he is away on business. Rather quickly, by line 25, Dame Sirith becomes a dialogue between Wilekin and Margery – a parlour drama absent in the other version. The double register of this conversation – Margery’s gracious courtesy, wishing to fulfil the clerk’s desires, heard against Wilekin’s illicit wants – lends a delicious social knowingness to the English scene, which is not found in the Anglo-Norman one. In the story-within-the-story told by the old woman to explain her weeping dog, ‘The Old Woman and the Dog’ relates that the young clerk died for grief because of the girl’s cold heart, and God then transformed her as a form of revenge – hence, the Deity adopts a questionable stance against matrimony. The English tale, however, more reasonably makes the clerk the conjurer who shape-shifts the poor wife (lines 353–4). Thus does the gullible Margery react in fear of a clerk’s supposed dark arts, duped by an old bawd’s deception and medicinally induced illusion. Yet the fictive world of Dame Sirith is not God-less; its English vernacular fabric bursts with oaths and blessings, which richly suggest that forces of good and evil are active in complicated, warring ways. While Dame Sirth and Wilekin triumph in actions that evoke humour, the narrator also declares them both to be morally wrong (lines See David Raybin’s chapter in this volume, pp. 109–12. For explanatory notes on the text of Dame Sirith, see Early Middle English Verse and Prose, ed. Bennett and Smithers, pp. 303–12; and The Trials and Joys of Marriage, ed. Eve Salisbury (Kalamazoo, MI, 2002), pp. 46–52.

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9, 352), while certain other passages allow an ambiguity of who wields the more power – Sirith or God – to hover over events (lines 403–8, 415–16). Unlike the Anglo-Norman tale, which exists within a story collection, Dame Sirith bears many signs of being designed for actual performance. The majority of its lines are direct speeches uttered by characters engaged in dialogue, first Wilekin with Margery, then Wilekin with Dame Sirith, then Dame Sirith with Margery and, finally, Dame Sirith’s bawdy instructions to Wilekin. The settings are balanced between two locales: Margery’s house, Dame Sirith’s, then Margery’s again. The poet sensitively attends to tone in each interaction, leading to a jolt when the polite register drops abruptly at the end (lines 439–44). Several artistic parallels develop between the scene of Wilekin’s unsuccessful wooing of Margery and the next one: his bargain struck with Dame Sirith, which actually becomes a marriage-like ‘trouþe pliȝtte’ (line 253). When Dame Sirith feeds the dog pepper and mustard (lines 279–84), nothing is present to signal that her speech is directed to the whelp, because, as a playscript, stage directions are absent from the English poem. In the corresponding scene in the analogue, the old woman’s operation is narrated in full (‘The Old Woman and the Dog’, lines 63–75). In this manner, the Dame Sirith poet has developed and enlarged many elements found in the inherited older tale. The Anglo-Norman story begins as something the father had once heard about. The Dame Sirith poet seizes upon the very idea of gossip, utilising a male narrator who heard about the clerk in love, who heard about the out-of-town husband; a friend hears later about the clerk’s grief and sends him to Sirith for relief. A tale essentially about an old woman gossip thus becomes a dialogic event based on gossip and report, largely among men who roam while a wife sits at home. Interestingly, the gendered roles reverse when Dame Sirith orders Wilekin to stay put in her house as she works her deception: while she roams to Margery’s house, he is to await her ‘homcome’ just as Margery must await her spouse (lines 108, 293). In the text given below, the Digby scribe’s large, red-and-black initials are indicated by boldface. Spacing and indentations are added editorially to indicate the poem’s metrical form: a combination of six-line stanzas (aabccb) and couplets. In the couplet sections, double spacing is added to indicate changes in speaker. The Digby scribe denotes many speaker-shifts by inserting letters in the right margin: T for ‘Testator’ (the narrator); C for ‘Clericus’ (the young clerk Wilekin); V for ‘Vxor’ (the young wife Margery); F for ‘Femina’ (the old woman Dame Sirith). Not all of the speaker-shifts are indicated by the scribe, and a few of the attributions are ambiguous. 165ra] Ci comence le fablel2 e la cointise   de dame siriz As .i. com bi an waie Hof on ich herde saie    Ful modi mon and proud

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Here begins the fable and cunning   of Dame Sirith As I came along a path, I heard news about    A lusty, proud man;

On the dialogic, colloquial meaning of fablel, see Neil Cartlidge’s chapter in this volume, pp. 134–5.

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The Middle English Poetry of MS Digby 86 Wis he wes of lore And gouþlich vnder gore    And cloþed in fair sroud

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To louien he bigon On wedded wimmon    Þerof he heuede wrong His herte hire wes alon Þat reste neuede he non    Þe loue wes so strong

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He wente him to þen inne Þer hoe wonede inne    Þat wes riche won And com into þen halle Þer hoe wes srud wiþ palle    And þus he bigon

God almiȝtten be herinne Welcome so ich euer bide wenne    Quod þis wif His hit þi wille com and site And wat is þi wille let me wite 30    Mi leue lif

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Bi houre louerd heuene king If .i. mai don ani þing    Þat þe is lef 165rb] Þou miȝtt finden me ful fre 35 Fol bleþeli willi don for þe    Wiþhouten gref

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He headed to the lodging In which she lived –    It was a grand house – And came into the hall Where she was arrayed in fine cloth,    And thus he began:

‘God Almighty be herein!’ ‘Be welcome, as I pray for joy,’    Said this wife. ‘As you like, come and sit, And whatever you’d like, let me know, 30    My dear life.

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Dame god þe forȝelde C Bote on þat þou me nout bimelde    Ne make þe wroþ Min hernde willi to þe bede Bote wraþþen þe for ani dede    Were me loþ

Nai .i.wis wilekin For noþing þat euer is min 45    Þau þou hit ȝirne Houncurteis ne willi be Ne con .i. nout on vilte    Ne nout .i. nelle lerne

He began to love A married woman –    For that, he was wrong; His heart was so wholly set on her That he never had any rest –    The love was so strong!

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He was wise of lore, Handsome in clothes,    And well-dressed.

He fervently pondered How he might get her 15    By any means. It happened one day That the husband departed    On business.

Wel ȝerne he him biþoute Hou he hire gete moute 15    In ani cunnes wise Þat befel on an day Þe louerd wend away    Hon his marchaundise 20

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By Our Lord heaven’s king, If I may do anything    That’s dear to you, You’ll find me very generous – Gladly will I serve you,    Without regret.’ ‘Lady, God reward you! So long as you not betray me    Nor be offended, I’ll tell you my errand; But to offend you by any act    I am loath.’

‘No, indeed, Wilekin – For anything that’s truly mine, 45    If you yearn for it, I won’t be discourteous; I don’t know wickedness,    Nor will I learn it.

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Þou mait saien al þine wille And .i. shal herknen and sitten stille    Þat þou haue told And if þat þou me tellest skil I shal don after þi wil    Þat be þou bold

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And þau þou saie me ani same Ne shal .i. þe nouiȝt blame    For þi sawe Nou ich haue wonne leue Ȝif þat .i. me shulde greue 60    Hit were hounlawe

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Certes dame þou seist as hende And .i. shal setten spel on ende    And tellen þe al Wat ich wolde and wi ich com Ne con ich saien non falsdom    Ne non .i. ne shal

You may speak all your desire, And I’ll listen and attend silently    To what you say. And if you ask what’s reasonable, I’ll act according to your desire –    Of that, rest assured.

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And if you ask what’s shameful, I won’t blame you    Despite your words. Now that I’ve granted permission, Should I become angry, 60    It’d be unlawful.’ C

165va] Ich habbe .i.loued þe moni ȝer Þau ich nabbe nout ben her    Mi loue to schowe 70 Wile þi louerd is in toune Ne mai no mon wiþ þe holden roune.    Wiþ no þewe Ȝurstendai ich herde saie As ich wende bi þe waie 75    Of oure sire Me tolde me þat he was gon To þe feire of botolfston    In lincolneschire 80

50

And for ich weste þat he ves houte Þarfore ich am igon aboute    To speken wiþ þe Him burþ to liken wel his lif Þat miȝtte welde secc a vif    In priuite

85

Dame if hit is þi wille Boþ dernelike and stille    Ich wille þe loue Þat woldi don for non þin[g]3 V Bi houre louerd heuene king 90    Þat ous is boue Ich habe mi louerd þat is mi spouse. Þat maiden broute me to house

65

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‘Truly, lady, you talk courteously, And I will speak to the purpose,    And tell you everything – What I desire, and why I came; I’m not able to speak any falsehood,    Nor will I tell any. I’ve loved you for many years, Although here I’ve been unable    To show my love – While your husband’s in town, No one can talk with you in private    With propriety.

Yesterday I heard news, As I came along a path, 75    About your husband – They told me that he’d gone To the Boston fair    In Lincolnshire. 80

And because I knew he was out, I’ve therefore come around    To speak with you; One has good cause to like his life Who might rule such a wife    In private!

85

Lady, if it’s your desire, Both secretly and privately,    I will love you.’ ‘I’ll not do that for anything! By Our Lord heaven’s king 90    Above us! I have my husband, my spouse Who brought me as a virgin to his house

MS þin.

3

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The Middle English Poetry of MS Digby 86    Mid menske .i.nou He loueþ me and ich him wel Oure loue is also trewe as stel    Wiþhouten wou

95

Þau he be from hom on his hernde Ich were ounseli if ich lernede    To ben on hore 165vb] Þat ne shal neuere be Þat .i. shal don selk falsete    On bedde ne on flore

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Neuermore his lifwile Thau he were on hondred mile 105    Biȝende rome For no þing ne shuldi take Mon on erþe to ben mi make    Ar his homcome 110

Dame dame torn þi mod C Þi curteisi was euer god    And ȝet shal be For þe louerd þat ous haueþ wrout Amend þi mod and torn þi þout4    And rew on me

We we oldest þou me a fol V So ich euer mote biden ȝol    Þou art ounwis Mi þout ne shalt þou newer wende Mi louerd is curteis mon and hende 120    And mon of pris

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And ich am wif boþe god and trewe Trewer womon ne mai no mon cnowe    Þen ich am. Þilke time ne shal neuer bitide Þat mon for wouing ne þoru prude    Shal do me scham Swete leumon merci Same ne vilani    Ne bede .i. þe non Bote derne loue .i. þe bede As mon þat wolde of loue spede    And fi[n]de5 won

With great honour. He loves me well, and I him; Our love’s as true as steel,    Without woe. Though he’s away on his errand, I’d be wicked if I learned    How to be a whore; That will never happen – That I’d ever be so false    On bed or on floor!

Never in his lifetime, Even if he were a hundred miles 105    Beyond Rome, Would I ever take, for anything, Any man on earth as my mate    Before his homecoming.’

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‘Ah, ah, do you consider me a fool? Just as I must await the Yuletide,    You are ill-informed – You’ll never change my resolve! My lord is a courteous man, and well-bred, 120    And a man of excellence.

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166ra] So bide ich euere mete oþer drinke V Her þou lesest al þi swinke

‘Lady, lady, change your heart! Your courtesy was always good,    And will be still – For the Lord who created us, Amend your heart, and change your mind,    And pity me!’

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And I’m a wife both good and true; No man may know a truer woman    Than I am. That time will never come When a man, by wooing or through pride,    Will bring me to shame.’ ‘Sweetheart, show mercy! Neither shame nor vilainy    Do I offer you, But instead I offer you private love, As one who wants to succeed in love    And find bliss.’ ‘As certainly as I eat or drink, Here you lose all your labour;

The tale’s oft-repeated idea of the wife ‘turning’ by changing her mind presages and mirrors Dame Sirith’s illusion of a shape-shifted wife. 5 MS fide. 4

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Þou miȝt gon hom leue broþer For wille ich þe loue ne non oþer Bote mi wedde houssebonde To tellen hit þe ne wille ich wonde Certes dame þat me forþinkeþ An wo is þe mon þa muchel swinkeþ And at þe laste leseþ his sped To maken menis his him ned Bi me .i. saie ful .i.wis Þat loue þe loue þat .i. shal mis An dame haue nou godne dai And þilke louerd þat al welde mai Leue þat þi þout so tourne Þat ihc for þe no leng ne mourne Drerimod he wente awai And þoute boþe niȝt and dai    Hire al for to wende A frend him radde for to fare And leuen al his muchele kare    To dame siriz þe hende

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Þider he wente him anon So suiþe so he miȝtte gon    No mon he ni mette Ful he wes of tene and treie Mid wordes milde and eke sleie 160    Faire he hire grette

Welcomen art þou leue sone And if ich mai oþer cone In eni wise for þe do I shal strengþen me þerto Forþi leue sone tel þou me Wat þou woldest .i. dude for þe

F

Bote leue nelde ful euele .i. fare I lede mi lif wiþ tene and kare

C

Dejected, he went away, And pondered both night and day    How to change her. A friend advised him to go And unburden all his great woe    To Dame Sirith the courteous.

‘God bless you, Dame Sirith! I’ve come to speak with you    About a very great need; If I may have your help, 165 You will have, as you’ll see,    A very rich reward.’

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Wiþ muchel hounsele ich lede mi lif And þat is for on suete wif    Þat heiȝtte margeri    Ich haue .i.loued hire moni dai And of hire loue hoe seiz me nai 180    Hider ich com forþi

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There he travelled straightaway As quickly as he might go;    He didn’t meet anyone. He was full of grief and sorrow. With words gentle and also cunning, 160    He greeted her graciously. C

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‘Certainly, lady, I’m sorry for that! Woe is the man who works strenuously And in the end loses his desired goal – He has need to utter his lamentations! Quite truly, I say this about myself, Loving the beloved whom I lack. So now, lady, good day, And may that Lord who rules all Grant that your mind so turn That I’ll no longer mourn on your account.’

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God þe .i.blessi dame siriz Ich am .i.com to speken þe wiz.    For ful muchele nede And ich mai haue help of þe 165 Þou shalt haue þat þou shalt se 166rb]    Ful riche mede

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You ought to go home, dear brother, For I won’t love you or any other, Except for my wedded husband – I don’t hesitate to tell you this!’

‘You are welcome, dear son; And if I may or am able To serve you in any way, I’ll strengthen myself for the task. Therefore, dear son, tell me What you’d like me to do for you.’ ‘O, dear granny, I’m doing very badly; I live my life in grief and care;

175

Very unhappily I live my life, And that’s on account of a sweet wife    Named Margery.    I have loved her for many days, And, regarding her love, she says no to me; 180    For that reason, I come here.

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The Middle English Poetry of MS Digby 86 Bote if hoe wende hire mod For serewe mon ich wakese wod    Oþer miselue quelle Ich heuede .i.þout miself to slo Forþen radde a frend me go    To þe mi sereue telle He saide me wiþhouten faille Þat þou me couþest helpe and uaile    And bringen me of wo Þoru þine crafftes and þine dedes And ich wile ȝeue þe riche mede    Wiþ þat hit be so

Benedicite be herinne F Her hauest þou sone mikel senne 195 Louerd for his suete nome Lete þe þerfore hauen no shome Þou seruest affter godes grome Wen þou seist on me silk blame 166va] For ich am old and sek and lame 200 Seknesse haueþ maked me ful tame Blesse þe blesse þe leue knaue Leste þou mesauenter haue For þis lesing þat is founden Oppon me þat am harde .i.bonden 205 Ich am on holi wimon On wicchecrafft nout .i. ne con Bote wiþ gode men almesdede Ilke dai mi lif .i. fede And bidde mi paternoster and mi crede 210 Þat goed hem helpe at hore nede Þat helpen me mi lif to lede And leue þat hem mote wel spede His lif and his soule worþe .i.shend. Þat þe to me þis hernde haueþ send. 215 And leue me to ben .i.wreken On him þis shome me haueþ speken.

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Leue nelde bilef al þis C Me þinkeþ þa þou art onwis Þe mon þat me to þe taute He weste þat þou hous couþest saute Help dame siriþ if þou maut To make me wiþ þe sueting saut. And ich wille geue þe gift ful stark. Moni a pound and moni a mark Warme pilche and warme shon Wiþ þat min hernde be wel don Of muchel godlec miȝt þou ȝelpe If hit be so þat þou me helpe

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‘Unless she changes her heart, I’ll certainly go mad for sorrow,    Or kill myself. I had thought about slaying myself, But then a friend advised me to go    Tell my sorrow to you. He said to me that, without fail, You could help and assist me    And alleviate my grief By means of your crafts and your acts, And I’ll give you a rich reward,    If it should prove to be so.’

‘Blessings be herein! In this, son, you commit much sin! 195 May the Lord, for His sweet name, Bring you no dishonour for this! You invite God’s anger When you cast such aspersions on me. For I am old and ill and lame – 200 Sickness has wholly subdued me. Bless yourself, bless yourself, dear boy! – Lest you have a misfortune On account of this lie invented About me, who am hard pressed! 205 I am a holy woman – I know nothing about witchcraft! Instead, through good men’s charity I sustain my life every day, And recite my paternoster and my creed 210 That God may help them in their need (Those who help me live my life), And let them to prosper well. May his life and his soul be confounded, Who has sent you to me on this errand 215 And let me to be avenged On whoever uttered this shame about me!’

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‘Dear granny, believe this; It seems to me you’re ill-informed. The man who directed me to you Knew that you could reconcile us. Help, Dame Sirith, if you may, Reconcile me with the sweet one, And I’ll give you a generous gift – Many pounds and many marks, A warm fur coat and warm shoes. Once my errand’s been accomplished, You may brag of many gifts, If it happens that you help me.’

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Liȝ me nout wilekin bi þi leute Is hit þin hernest þou tellest me Louest þou wel dame margeri

F

230

‘Don’t lie to me, Wilekin, by your faith, Is what you tell me your sincere desire? Do you love Dame Margery well?’

166vb] Ȝe nelde witerli Ich hire loue hit mot me spille Bote ich gete hire to mi wille



‘Yes, granny, indeed! I love her! I’ll have to die Unless I get her as I desire.’

235

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‘Know, good Wilekin, I pity your distress. May Our Lord send you help at once.

240

Wat god wilekin me reweþ þi scaþe F Houre louerd sende þe help raþe Weste hic hit miȝtte ben forholen Me wolde þunche wel solen    Þi wille for to fullen Make me siker wiþ word on honde Þat þou wolt helen and .i. wile fonde    If ich mai hire tellen

For all the world, I don’t want To be brought to ecclesiastical court 245    For any such deeds; Soon my sentence would be decreed – Shamefully to be driven on a mule –    By priests and by clerks.’

For al þe world ne woldi nout Þat ich were to chapitre .i.brout 245    For none selke werkes Mi iugement were sone .i.giuen To ben wiþ shome somer driuen    Wiþ prestes and wiþ clarkes 250

Iwis nelde ne woldi Þat þou heuedest uilani    Ne shame for mi goed Her .i. þe mi trouþe pliȝtte Ich shal helen bi mi miȝtte    Bi þe holi roed

255

Welcome wilekin hiderward Her hauest .i.maked a foreward    Þat þe mai ful wel like Þou maiȝt blesse þilke siþ For þou maiȝt make þe ful bliþ 260    Dar þou namore sike

C

F

To goder hele euer come þou hider For sone willi gange þider    And maken hire hounderstonde I shal kenne hire sulke a lore 167ra] Þat hoe shal louien þe mikel more    Þen ani mon in londe

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Al so haui godes griþ Wel hauest þou said dame siriþ And goder hele shal ben þin Haue her twenti shiling Þis ich ȝeue þe to meding    To buggen þe sep and swin

240

If I knew it might be entirely secret, It seems to me quite fitting    To fulfil your desire. Make me certain, by sworn oath, That you’ll keep it secret, and I’ll attempt    To persuade her.

250

‘Truly, granny, I don’t wish That you suffer rude humiliation    Or shame for my sake. Here I plight to you my troth: I’ll keep it secret, as I’m able,    By the Holy Cross!’

255

‘Be welcome, Wilekin! Come here! Here you’ve made an agreement    That you’ll like very well. You may bless this exact moment, For you’ll be made very happy – 260    You need sigh no more!

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Good fortune brought you here, For soon I shall go there    And make her understand; I’ll teach her such a lesson That she’ll love you far more    Than any man alive.’ ‘As I may have God’s peace, You’ve spoken well, Dame Sirith, And may good fortune be yours! Have here twenty shillings – I give you this as a reward    To buy sheep and swine.’

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So ich euere brouke hous oþer flet F Neren neuer pones beter biset 275    Þen þes shulen ben For .i. shal don a iuperti And a ferli maistri    Þat þou shalt ful wel sen 280

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Pepis nou shalt þou eten Þis mustart shal ben þi mete    And gar þin eien to rene I shal make a lesing Of þin heie renning    Ich wot wel wer and wenne

193

‘As I may enjoy house or floor, Pennies have never been better spent 275    Than these will be, For I’ll venture a cunning plan, And a marvellous deceit,    Which you’ll perceive quite well. 280

You will now eat peppers; This mustard will be your food,    And cause your eyes to run. I shall make a deception Of your eye-running –    I know well where and when.’

Wat nou const þou no god Me þinkeþ þat þou art wod Ȝeuest þo þe welpe mustard.

285

‘What? That’s no good! It seems to me you’re crazy! You’re giving mustard to the pup?’

Be stille boinard I shal mit þis ilke gin Gar hire loue to ben al þin Ne shal ich neuer haue reste ne ro. Til ich haue told hou þou shalt do Abid me her til min homcome

‘Be still, fool! By this very device, I shall 290 Cause her love be wholly yours, And I’ll not find any rest or peace Till I’ve explained what you ought to do. Wait for me here until my homecoming.’

Ȝus bi þe somer blome Heþen nulli ben binomen Til þou be aȝein comen

295

‘Yes, by summer’s bloom, I will not leave here Until you’ve come back.’

Dame siriþ bigon to go 167rb] As a wrecche þat is wo Þat hoe come hire to þen inne 300 Þer þis gode wif wes inne Þo hoe to þe dore com Swiþe reuliche hoe bigon Louerd hoe seiþ wo is holde wiues Þat in pouerte ledeþ ay liues 305 Not no mon so muchel of pine As poure wif þat falleþ in ansine Þat mai ilke mon bi me wite For mai .i. nouþer gange ne site Ded woldi ben ful fain 310 Hounger and þurst me haueþ nei slain Ich ne mai mine limes onwold For mikel hounger and þurst and cold Warto liueth selke a wrecche. Wi nul goed mi soule fecche

Dame Sirith began to walk Like a wretch full of misery, Till she came to the lodging 300 Where this good wife was. When she came to the door, She began to speak very pitifully: ‘Lord,’ she says, ‘woe are old wives Who live their lives in constant poverty! 305 No one knows as much suffering As a poor wife who’s sunk in appearance. So may all men observe by me, For I’m unable to walk or sit down – I would gladly be dead! 310 Hunger and thirst have nearly slain me. I cannot control my limbs, For such hunger and thirst and cold. Why does such a wretch live? Why won’t God fetch my soul?’

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Seli wif god þe hounbinde Todai wille .i. þe mete finde    For loue of goed Ich haue reuþe of þi wo

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‘Good woman, God give you relief! Today I’ll provide you food,    For love of God. I have pity for your sorrow,

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194 For euele .i.cloþed .i. se þe go 320    And euele .i.shoed

325

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For I see you are poorly dressed 320    And poorly shod.

Com herin ich wile þe fede

Come in here. I shall feed you.’

Goed almiȝtten do þe mede And þe louerd þat wes on rode .i.don And faste fourti daus to non And heuene and erþe haueþ to welde As þilke louerd þe forȝelde.

‘May God Almighty reward you – The Lord who hung on the cross, Fasted forty days till the ninth hour, And rules heaven and earth – May that Lord reward you!’

Haue her fles and eke bred And make þe glad hit is mi red And haue her þe coppe wiþ þe drinke Goed do þe mede for þi swinke

167va] Þenne spac þat holde wif Crist awarie hire lif Alas alas þat euer .i. liue Al þe sunne ich wolde forgiue 335 Þe mon þat smite of min heued Ich wolde mi lif me were bireued.

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Ich heuede a douter feir and fre Feiror ne miȝtte no mon se Hoe heuede a curteis hossebonde Freour mon miȝtte no mon fonde Mi douter louede him al to wel Forþi maki sori del Oppon a dai he was outwend And þarþoru wes mi douter shend He hede on ernde out of toune And com a modi clarc wiþ croune. To mi douter his loue beed And hoe nolde nout folewe his red He ne miȝtte his wille haue For noþing he miȝtte craue Þenne bigon þe clerc to wiche And shop mi douter til a biche Þis is mi douter þat ich ofspeke For del of hire min herte breke Loke hou hire heien greten On hire cheken þe teres meten Forþi dame were hit no wonder Þau min herte burste assunder A woseeuer is ȝong houssewif Ha loueþ ful luitel hire lif And eni clerc of loue hire bede

That old woman spoke then (Christ curse her life!), ‘Alas, alas, that I’m still alive! I’d forgive every sin Of anyone who’d cut off my head! I want my life taken from me!’ ‘Good woman, what ails you? Readily may I show compassion!’

Seli wif what eilleþ þe Bote eþe mai .i. sori be 340

‘Have here meat and also bread, And be comforted – it’s my bidding – And have here a cup with drink. May God reward you for your hardship.’

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‘I had a daughter fair and noble – A fairer one might no man see. She had a courteous husband – A nobler man might no man find. My daughter loved him all too well; For that reason, I lament dolefully. One day he had gone away, And by that means my daughter was ruined. He went on an errand out of town, And there came a lusty clerk with tonsure – He offered his love to my daughter, But she wouldn’t consent to his urging. He couldn’t have his will No matter how much he might crave it. Then the clerk began to conjure And shaped my daughter into a bitch. This is my daughter of whom I speak – For grief of her, my heart breaks! Look at how her eyes weep – Tears flow together on her cheeks! For that reason, lady, it’d be no wonder If my heart were to burst assunder! Ah, she who is a young housewife, Loves her life very little If, when any clerk makes her an offer of love,

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167vb] Bote hoe grante and lete him spede

167vb] She fails to agree and let him succeed!’

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A louerd crist wat mai þenne do Þis enderdai com a clarc me to And bed me loue on his manere And ich him nolde nout .i.here Ich trouue he wolle me forsape Hou troustu nelde ich moue ascape God almiȝtten be þin help Þat þou ne be nouþer bicche ne welp Leue dame if eni clerc Bedeþ þe þat loue werc Ich rede þat þou grante his bone And bicom his lefmon sone And if þat þou so ne dost A worse red þou ounderfost Louerd crist þat me is wo Þat þe clarc me hede fro    Ar he me heuede biwonne Me were leuere þen ani fe That he heuede enes leien bi me    And efftsones bigunne

385

Euermore nelde ich wille be þin Wiþ þat þou feche me willekin    Þe clarc of wam .i. telle Giftes willi geue þe Þat þou maiȝt euer þe betere be 390    Bi godes houne belle

395

Soþliche mi swete dame And if .i. mai wiþhoute blame    Fain ich wille ffonde And if ich mai wiþ him mete Bi eni wei oþer bi strete    Nout ne willi wonde

168ra] Haue god dai dame forþ willi go Allegate loke þat þou do so    As ich þe bad 400 Bote þat þou me wilekin bringe Ne mai neuer lawe ne singe    Ne be glad Iwis dame if .i. mai Ich wille bringen him ȝet todai 405    Bi mine miȝtte Hoe wente hire to hire inne Her hoe founde wilekinne    Bi houre driȝtte

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‘Ah, Lord Christ! What should I do then? The other day a clerk came to me, And offered me love in his manner, And I wouldn’t hear of it at all. I fear that he’ll shape-shift me! Do you know, granny, how I can escape?’ ‘God Almighty help you To not become a bitch or pup! Dear lady, if any clerk Begs you for that love-task, I advise that you grant his prayer, And soon become his lover, For if you don’t do so, You’ll receive a worse fate.’ ‘Lord Christ, I am sorry That the clerk departed from me    Before he’d won me! I would rather, for any cost, That he’d lain with me once    And immediately began.

385

Granny, I’ll be yours forever If you fetch Wilekin for me –    The clerk of whom I speak. I will give you gifts, That will always make you better, 390    By God’s own bell.’

395

‘Truly, my sweet lady, If I can without blame,    Gladly I will try; If I may meet with him On any path or street,    I won’t delay at all.



Good day, lady. I will go forth.’ ‘In every way see that you do    Just as I asked of you; 400 Unless you bring Wilekin to me, I might never again laugh or sing    Or be glad!’ ‘Indeed, lady, if I’m able, I will bring him sometime today, 405    By my power.’ She went to her lodging, Where she found Wilekin,    By Our Lord.

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Swete wilekin be þou nout dred. For of þin her[n]de6 ich haue wel sped. 410 Swiþe com forz þider wiþ me For hoe haueþ send affter þe Iwis nou maiȝt þou ben aboue. For þou hauest grantise of hire loue

‘Sweet Wilekin, don’t be concerned, For I’ve succeeded well in your errand. Quickly come forth there with me, For she has sent for you! Indeed, now you can be on top For you’ve been granted her love!’

415

‘May God reward you, dear granny, Who has control of heaven and earth!’

God þe forȝelde leue nelde. Þat heuene and erþe haueþ to welde. Þis modi mon bigon to gon Wiþ siriz to his leuemon    In þilke stounde Dame siriz bigon to telle And swor bi godes ouene belle    Hoe heuede him founde Dame so haue ich wilekin sout For nou haue ich him ibrout Welcome wilekin swete þing Þou art welcomore þen þe king

Wilekin þe swete Mi loue .i. þe bihete    To don al þine wille 168rb] Turnd ich haue mi þout For .i. ne wolde nout    Þat þou þe shuldest spille Dame so ich euere bide noen And ich am redi and .i.boen 435    To don al þat þou saie Nelde par ma fai Þou most gange awai    Wile ich and hoe shulen plaie 440

Goddot so .i. wille And loke þat þou hire tille    And strek out hire þes God ȝeue þe muchel kare Ȝeif þat þou hire spare    Þe wile þou mid hire bes

445

And wose is onwis And for non pris    Ne con geten his leuemon I shal for mi mede Garen him to spede 450    For ful wel .i. con.

420

425

430

This lusty man began to go With Sirith to his beloved    At that very moment. Dame Sirith began to explain And swore by God’s own bell    That she’d found him. ‘Lady, I’ve sought Wilekin so well That now I’ve brought him.’ ‘Be welcome, Wilekin, sweetheart – You’re more welcome than the king! Sweet Wilekin, I promise you my love –    Do all your desire! I’ve changed my mind, For I don’t want    You to kill yourself.’

‘Lady, as I may live to the ninth hour, I’m ready and equipped 435    To do everything you say. Granny, by my faith, You have to go away,    While I and she will play.’ 440

‘God knows, so I will – And look that you plow her,    And stretch out her thighs. May God give you much grief, Should you spare her    While you’re with her.

445

And whoever’s ill-informed, And cannot, for any price,    Obtain his beloved, I will, for my reward, Cause him to succeed, 450    For well I know how.’

MS herde.

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MS DIGBY 86 AND THIRTEENTH-CENTURY SCRIBAL POETICS* Jenni Nuttall

T

he main scribe’s enthusiasm for conspicuous verse-form and rhyme is noted throughout Marilyn Corrie’s doctoral study of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86.1 It may be manifested in his choice of text: La Besturné highlights rhyme and metre in its exuberant overturning of conventional expectations of versification, as does La Vie de un vallet amerous, while thirty-seven of the fifty lines of Les Deus Chevalers torz ke plederent a Roume end with the word tort (and the remaining lines end in words which assonate with tort).2 The Latin prayer Regina clemencie Maria vocata (art. 55iii) is structured by rhyme with groups of twenty or eighteen lines ending on the same disyllable. It perhaps also motivates some of the idiosyncratic rewritings and conflations that Corrie so meticulously identifies. The scribe adds a stanza from Le Vers de la mort to La Complainte de Jerusalem possibly because both share the same verse-form.3 Such attention to form is demonstrated not only in his choices and in his copying, but also in aspects of his mise en texte and mise en page.4 Quires xxii–xxvi are notable for the exuberance of his wavy red tie-lines extending into the margins. Introducing the manuscript’s facsimile, Judith Tschann and Malcolm

* I would very much like to thank Marjorie Harrington, J. D. Sargan and Daniel Wakelin for help and advice on the subject of this chapter. 1 M. Corrie, ‘A Study of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: Literature in ThirteenthCentury England’, unpublished D.Phil. dissertation, University of Oxford (Oxford, 1995). 2 Arts. 34, 38, and 65 in the contents of Digby 86 listed in Tschann and Parkes, pp. xii–xxxvi. For a recent edition of La Besturné, see P. Uhl, ‘La Besturné de Richard: édition critique des versions transmises par les manuscrits Digby 86 et Harley 978’, Estudios Románicos 19 (2010), 231–54. La Vie and Les Deus Chevalers are printed in Codicem manu scriptum Digby 86 in Bibliotheca Bodleiana asservatum, ed. E. Stengel (Halle, 1871), pp. 40–9, 82–3, respectively. 3 Art. 30; Corrie, ‘A Study’, pp. 34–5, 203. 4 K. Busby, Codex and Context: Reading Old French Verse Narrative in Manuscript, 2 vols., Faux Titre: Etudes de langue et littérature françaises publiées 221 (Amsterdam, 2002), identifies abbreviation, word-separation, and punctuation as elements of mise en texte, and all other elements of page layout as mise en page (I, 127).

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Parkes observe that the scribe ‘inserted braces to indicate the rhythmic structures of stanzas’, but go no further in explaining what forms are thus articulated.5 This chapter dwells at more length on the thought processes that lie behind the Digby scribe’s enthusiastic use of red tie-lines, as well as other types of scribal recognition of form, comparing the scribe’s behaviour with that of others both near and somewhat further afield.6 A clutch of West Midland manuscripts relatively close in time and geography share some of their contents with Digby 86 and offer a sample against which to assess his practice.7 The Trinity manuscript is a trilingual miscellany of religious texts copied c. 1255–60 by at least nine scribes whose English dialects place them in Herefordshire (though one was from Arras in France); it has been associated with the nearby Worcester Franciscans or with one of the Benedictine houses in the area.8 The Jesus manuscript (east Herefordshire, second half of the thirteenth century) and the Cotton manuscript (north west Worcester, second half of the thirteenth century) were perhaps both produced, along with their shared exemplar, at a religious institution with connections to the Premonstratensian abbey at Titchfield in Hampshire.9 Despite this potential origin, Neil Cartlidge reminds us that these manuscripts could both have been read ‘in a friary, in a convent, a cathedral chapter, a magnate’s court or the household of Tschann and Parkes, pp. lii–liii. On p. xliv, they note that ‘the stanza forms in verse texts have been indicated by braces’, but again this sidesteps any further detail. 6 This chapter is thus indebted to E. Solopova’s superb doctoral study of the presentation of poetry in Digby 86 and Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II): ‘Studies in Middle English Syllabic Verse before Chaucer’, unpublished D.Phil. dissertation, University of Oxford (Oxford, 1994). Some of her findings are summarised in a later article: E. Solopova, ‘Layout, Punctuation, and Stanza Patterns in the English Verse’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript: The Scribes, Contents, and Social Contexts of British Library MS Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 2000), pp. 377–90. 7 In designating manuscripts frequently mentioned in this chapter, I follow this key: Auchinleck = NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1; Cotton = London, BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX; Harley = London, BL, MS Harley 2253; Jesus = Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II); Laud = Oxford, BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108; Trinity = Cambridge, TCC, MS B.14.39. 8 Trinity has been the subject of detailed study: Religiöse Dichtung im englischen Hochmittelalter: Untersuchung und Edition der Handschrift B.14.39 des Trinity College in Cambridge, ed. K. Reichl (Munich, 1973). See also M. Harrington, ‘Bilingual Form: Paired Translations of Latin and Vernacular Poetry, c. 1250–1350’, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Notre Dame (Notre Dame, IN, 2017), pp. 32–93. Trinity may be viewed by digital facsimile at http://trin-sites-pub.trin.cam.ac.uk/james/viewpage.php?index=1708. On the broader context of these thirteenth-century miscellanies, see also J. Frankis, ‘The Social Context of Vernacular Writing in Thirteenth Century England: The Evidence of the Manuscripts’, in Thirteenth Century England I: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1985, ed. P. R. Coss and S. D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 175–84; and J. Scahill, ‘Trilingualism in Early Middle English Miscellanies: Languages and Literature’, Yearbook of English Studies 33 (2003), 18–32. 9 B. Hill, ‘The History of Jesus College, Oxford, MS 29’, Medium Ævum 32 (1963), 203–13; and N. Cartlidge, ‘The Composition and Social Context of MSS Jesus College Oxford 29 (II) and BL Cotton Caligula A. IX’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 250–69. Cotton may be viewed by digital facsimile at BLDM, s.v. ‘Cotton Caligula MS A IX’. 5

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a country gentleman’.10 Their mixed secular and religious content does not easily place them in the hands of any one type of reader or owner. Comparison will also be made with thirteenth-century French manuscripts that preserve Continental versions of some of Digby 86’s texts, such as Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 837 (Île-de-France, after 30 June 1278) and, looking a little forward in time, with early fourteenthcentury literary miscellanies such as that compiled by the Hereford Franciscan William Herebert before 1333 (London, BL, MS Addit. 46919).11 The Digby scribe’s exuberant tie-lines are one part of what has been called ‘scribal poetics’, alongside editing, rewriting, redaction and other kinds of decisions and interventions.12 Susanna Fein has recently emphasised the role of the literary scribe – a label that might well be applied to the Digby scribe – who exists in a category ‘between an author and a copyist’. Such a figure might ‘reshape and reorder content, create frameworks of incipits and explicits, insert annotations and glosses, translate dialects or metres, or introduce a system of ordinatio’.13 In all these processes, scribes are ‘literary critics of a hands-on sort’.14 Scribal signalling of verse-form – for example, by metrical punctuation, lineation, indentation, formats such as graphic tail-rhyme, the marking of stanzas by initials, rubrication, paraphs, horizontal lines or spacing, or the bracing or bracketing of rhymes or other structures and units – is in one sense unnecessary, as a poem’s metre and rhyme are built into its language. Nonetheless, despite its ultimate tautology, scribes acknowledge verse-form in their mise en texte and mise en page in order to organise and monitor their copying, to guide readers as to a poem’s form, to decorate their pages or to aid performance. Some of the decision-making that underpins such scribal attention to poetic form is extemporary and contingent – related, for example, to the layout of an exemplar or the need to stretch or compress text, or else prompted by the juxtaposition of texts in different forms. Whatever the reason, each individual decision about layout finds scribes evaluating and responding to the forms of the verse that they copied. The construction and organisation of Digby 86 are, in part, determined by the verse-form of the texts it brings together. Within the grouping of quires xv–xxvi (fols. 113–207), quires xxii–xxvi (fols. 169–192) comprise an annex, or ‘adjunct’ grouping, ‘maintained as a separate unit for reasons of convenience’.15 Unlike the quires ruled in double columns for short-line verse, this annex was ruled for verse Cartlidge, ‘Composition and Social Context’, p. 262. Paris 837 has been localised to Yonne (Busby, Codex and Context, II, 578, n. 243); it may be viewed by digital facsimile at http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b9009629n?rk=42918;4. On Herebert’s manuscript, see Harrington, ‘Bilingual Form’, pp. 94–146. 12 The term is used by R. Hanna, Pursuing History: Middle English Manuscripts and Their Texts (Stanford, 1996), p. 360. 13 S. Fein, ‘Literary Scribes: The Harley Scribe and Robert Thornton as Case Studies’, in Insular Books: Vernacular Manuscript Miscellanies in Late Medieval Britain, ed. M. Connolly and R. Radulescu, Proceedings of the British Academy 201 (Oxford, 2015), pp. 61–80 (p. 63). 14 D. Wakelin, Designing English: Early Literature on the Page (Oxford, 2018), p. 138; see also D. Wakelin, Scribal Correction and Literary Craft: English Manuscripts 1375–1510 (Cambridge, 2014). For Old French scribal poetics, see Busby, Codex and Context, I, 59–224. 15 Tschann and Parkes, p. xliv. 10 11

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with longer lines such as alexandrines and fourteeners. The Digby scribe recognised the need for two formats, and hence two layouts, to accommodate the variable verse-forms of texts he wished to copy. With just one exception, Ragemon le bon (art. 56; fols. 162rb–163vb), the bracing of verse lines into groups by wavy lines in the margin appears only in this annex section of long-line texts (Fig. 1). One might assume that the much tighter layout of double columns left insufficient space for bracing, but Ragemon is braced in groups of four lines despite its placement in the double-column section. As we might expect from a scribe trained in writing legal and administrative documents in cursive rather than in the texthand of monks and friars, the Digby scribe takes a minimalist approach to verse-form, imitating some, but by no means all, elements of the mise en page of more professionally produced literary manuscripts. Verse in couplets and in the six-line tail-rhyme stanza is lineated, with litterae notabiliores in a separate column, divided into verse paragraphs by larger initials. The scribe does not use punctuation at the end of each verse line. The same is true of poems written in more complex stanza forms. La Complainte de Jerusalem (art. 30; fols. 103va–105ra), composed in the twelve-line Hélinand stanza rhyming aabaabbbabba, has initials marking narrative units and, while some of these coincide with the beginning of a stanza, many stanzas go unmarked. The heads of the twelve-line tail-rhyme stanzas of Thibaut d’Amiens’s Prière Nostre Dame (art. 33; fols. 110ra–111rb) are not consistently signalled by the scribe, and neither are those of the Middle English Maximian (art. 49; fols. 134va–136vb). Rather than imitating those manuscripts that regularly identify stanzas by initials or paraphs, initials are employed only sporadically. Beyond the practice of lineation, the scribe generally lets rhyme and form speak for themselves without extra demarcation in the shortline, double-column quires. In one way, this practice might show that our scribe is less interested in form, but his choice not to mark each stanza might also demonstrate the kind of hands-on literary practice implicit in scribal poetics. The Thrush and the Nightingale (art. 50; fols. 136vb–138rb) is presented in some editions, via spacing between ‘stanzas’, as being in six-line tail-rhyme, probably because it begins with a unit rhyming aabccb where the b-rhyme is -ingez (springez/singez), followed by three more sharing the b-rhyme -ere (ifere/ihere/skere/ifere/chere/nere).16 Despite this lopsided start, the rest of the poem is composed in twelve-line tail-rhyme stanzas (aabccbddbeeb) This poem has appeared in different formats since its first modern edition. In Reliquiæ Antiquæ: Scraps from Ancient Manuscripts Illustrating Chiefly Early English Literature and the English Language, ed. T. Wright and J. O. Halliwell, 2 vols. (London, 1841–3), I, 241–5, the poem is printed in six-line stanzas, while Remains of the Early Popular Poetry of England, ed. W. C. Hazlitt, 4 vols. (London, 1864–6), I, 50–7, faithfully reproduces the manuscript layout, setting the first thirty-six lines in one unit followed by twelve-line stanzas. English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. C. Brown (Oxford, 1932), pp. 101–7, prints the poem in six-line stanzas, as does Early Middle English Texts, ed. B. Dickins and R. M. Wilson (London, 1956), pp. 71–6. J. W. Conlee, in his Middle English Debate Poetry: A Critical Anthology (East Lansing, MI, 1991) returns the poem to twelve-line stanzas (pp. 237–48).

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Fig. 1. Red-ink tie-lines mark the four-line units of Ragemon le bon. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 162rb (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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with the four b-lines grouping each dozen lines as a unit. As John W. Conlee notes, recognising that the author of this poem structures his birds’ turn-taking on the basis of the twelve-line stanza unit clarifies a potential confusion about which bird speaks lines 94–6.17 The Digby scribe marks the turn-taking of the birds by initials, the tallying of stanza and speech thus producing the effect of stanza-marking, yet the scribe’s handling of the beginning of the text shows that his primary intention is to mark the switch of speakers. A first-person narrator sets the springtime scene and summarises the position of each bird, for or against women. Editors have been divided as to whether lines 19–24 belong to the narrator, as a paraphrase of the Thrush’s speech, or whether they should be punctuated as direct speech. The end of the stanza in question reads as follows: Þe þrestelcok hem kepeþ ay, He seiþ bi ni3te and eke bi day    Þat hy beþ fendes i-fere: ‘For hy biswikeþ euchan mon Þat mest bileueþ hem ouppon.    Þey hy ben milde of chere, Hoe beth fikele and ffals to fonde, Hoe wercheþ wo in euchan londe;    Hit were betere þat hy nere.’ (lines 16–24)18

Given the poet’s use of the stanza as an organisational unit, it seems likely that he extends his summary of the Thrush’s speech via ‘slipping’ (that is, a drifting from indirect to direct speech, which is a feature of early Middle English narrative) so as to begin the Nightingale’s speech at the head of the next stanza (line 25). The Digby copyist opens the poem with a three-line initial and then seems to intend to mark turn-taking rather than individual stanzas per se, waiting cautiously until line 37 to place his next initial, where it marks the Thrush’s first proper turn (but not marking the Nightingale’s first speech at line 25). Editors who overrule the formal and scribal evidence in favour of splitting stanzas between speakers miss the poem’s commitment to formal equilibrium, each bird taking turns in full stanzas after the two-stanza opening frame. Only the Thrush’s misstep in claiming that there is hardly any maiden or wife who does not bring men to ruin breaks the deadlock: the Nightingale lectures him for a stanza on the sinless and shameless Virgin Mary (lines 169–80) and the Thrush neatly concedes defeat and vacates the scene in twelve corresponding lines (lines 181–92). The Digby scribe’s analysis of the poem’s structure and turn-taking is confirmed by the incomplete fragment of the same text (lines 1–98) in the later Auchinleck manuscript, which concurs in recognising the first twenty-four lines as a separately spoken frame by postponing the second initial (after the opening one) until line 25. It identifies the beginning of each bird’s turn with an initial and with rubrics For explanation of the various editorial decisions here, see Middle English Debate Poetry, ed. Conlee, p. 243 (note to lines 85–120). 18 Cited from Middle English Debate Poetry, ed. Conlee, p. 240. 17

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naming the speaker above each twelve-line unit. Both copyists therefore pay attention to narrative framing and turn-taking in their presentations of the poem.19 Like initials that aid private reading or prelection by subdividing a narrative into units and marking key moments or transitions, the marking of turns in a debate poem assists both performance and understanding. The absence of initials may acknowledge that a sequence of stanzas in a prologue should be treated as a coherent unit. It is not always the stanza that delimits a core unit because verseforms coexist with other structures in a text. Hending (art. 52; fols. 140va–143ra) is built, for example, from units composed of a tail-rhyme stanza rhyming aabccb, which outlines a piece of proverbial advice, a shorter and pithier proverb and a concluding refrain ‘Quod Hendyng’.20 The Digby scribe only sporadically uses initials to subdivide this text: here the repeating composite unit speaks for itself. Yet he changes his practice for the French text that follows, Les Proverbes del Vilain (art. 53; fols. 143rb–149vb), which is written in the same form as Hending. Here each composite unit is headed by an initial. What has changed is language rather than form and thus it seems likely that the scribe was influenced by the mise en page of his exemplar or other manuscripts he had seen. If one compares the mise en page of Les Proverbes in Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 17177 (fols. cclxxv–cclxxxi), where each group of lines (stanza, proverb, refrain) is headed by an initial, one sees a resemblance, as if the Digby scribe intended an (amateur) equivalent of the layout of more professionally produced manuscripts.21 Despite the gulf in expertise, the elements are the same, including variation between the full and abbreviated forms of ‘ce dit li vilains’ to fill out the last line of each unit. The Digby scribe’s response to verse-form in the short-line quires is thus sporadic, perhaps prompted by some element of his exemplar. Tschann and Parkes note that, although not used to making books, the Digby scribe ‘became aware of some of the conventions which he found in his exemplars, and he appears to have learned from his experience as he went along’.22 This is as true for his response to verse-form as it is for other elements of scribal activity. While he did not signal stanzas in the majority of the short-line sections, texts that demanded extra attention for reasons of performance or function prompted the scribe to acknowledge their form. Short red-ink wiggles to the right of the final line of each stanza demarcate the ten-line units of On the Vanity of This World On Thrush in Digby and Auchinleck, see also S. Fein, ‘The Fillers of the Auchinleck Manuscript and the Literary Culture of the West Midlands’, in Makers and Users of Medieval Books: Essays in Honour of A. S. G. Edwards, ed. C. M. Meale and D. Pearsall (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 60–77 (pp. 70–1). Auchinleck is viewable by digital facsimile (The Auchinleck Manuscript, ed. D. Burnley and A. Wiggins (Edinburgh, 2003), http:// auchinleck.nls.uk). 20 The Digby Hending is edited in ‘Zu mittelenglischen Gedichten. XI. Zu den sprichwörtern Hendings’, ed. H. Varnhagen, Anglia 4 (1881), 180–210 (pp. 191–200). For the Harley version, see Harley 2253, ed. Fein, III, 220–37, 334–7 (art. 89). 21 Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 17177 may be viewed by digital facsimile at http://gallica.bnf.fr/ ark:/12148/btv1b9061278x. 22 Tschann and Parkes, p. lvi. 19

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(‘Chaunçun del secle’, art. 57; fols. 163vb–164rb), rhyming ababcccdcd (Fig. 2) and, as Elizabeth Solopova notes, the Latin poem that comes next, Fides hodie sopitur (art. 58; fol. 164va–b), rhyming ababababbbaab, has a punctus marking the end of each thirteen-line stanza (Fig. 3).23 As Vanity’s rubric indicates, it is a ‘chaunçun’ (its music survives elsewhere) and Fides hodie sopitur is also perhaps a text for singing.24 The scribe does not plan for initials at the head of each poem’s stanzas, but tie-lines and punctuation become his in-process – or retrospective – acknowledgements of the performance units. The intricate stanza forms of early medieval songs are, as these examples show, often multiplex (that is, composed of different rather than repeating sub-units), anisometric, or asymmetrical in their verse-form – all features that would attract scribal attention. At the most careful end of the scale, we might note the symmetrical mise en page of the poem beginning ‘On leome is in þis world ilist’ in Trinity, a song on the resurrection in twelve ten-line stanzas rhyming ababccdccd.25 It is copied with six stanzas per page in two columns, with each stanza headed by a rubricated paraph. The scribe attends carefully to the shape of the stanza, with the first of each ccd trio of lines usually ending with a punctus elevatus (indicating that this is half of a longer unit) and the second of each ccd trio mostly ending with a punctus. This layout underscores the symmetries created by repeating stanza units and it also registers the tripartite nature of the stanza and the pair of ccd units. By no means are all of the short lyrics and songs of Trinity copied with these exact conventions, but, in most cases, the scribes of that manuscript employ some combination of paragraphing, paraphs, initials, rubricated letters or marks of punctuation to register their verse-form on the page.26 Solopova, ‘Studies in Middle English Syllabic Verse’, p. 34. An early editor titles it A Song on the Times; see Anecdota Literaria: A Collection of Short Poems in English, Latin, and French, Illustrative of the Literature and History of England in the Thirteenth Century, ed. T. Wright (London, 1844), p. 92. Chaunçun del secle is edited in Medieval English Songs, ed. E. J. Dobson and F. Ll. Harrison (London, 1979), pp. 136–42. 25 DIMEV 493, NIMEV 293; Trinity, fols. 32v–33r. See English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 34–7. 26 Jhesu Crist, le fiz Marie (fol. 24r; DIMEV 3193, NIMEV 1949, Dean 896) has each stanza paragraphed with verse punctuation, headed with a rubricated littera notabilior. The macaronic Seinte Mari, moder milde (fol. 24v; DIMEV 4708, NIMEV 2995) has each stanza paragraphed and headed with a red-ink initial, the Latin copied in red and the English in black, with some verse punctuation. For on þat is so feir ant brist (fol. 24v; DIMEV 4198, NIMEV 2645) is copied continuously with verse punctuation, the head of each stanza noted with a red-ink initial. Nu þis fules singet (fol. 81v; DIMEV 3806, NIMEV 2366) has each stanza paragraphed and headed with a rubricated littera notabilior (the third and fourth stanzas are copied as one paragraph with the start of the fourth stanza noted by rubrication). On hire is al mi lif ylong (fol. 81v; DIMEV 4370, NIMEV 2687) has each stanza paragraphed with verse punctuation, the first letter of each stanza rubricated. These poems are edited in Religiöse Dichtung, ed. Reichl, pp. 288–97, 468–75. For Seinte Marie, leuedi brist (fol. 25r, in aabaabccbccb tail-rhyme; DIMEV 4705, NIMEV 2992), see the discussion on p. 217 below. The mise en page of the two lyrics with bobs, Seinte Mari, moder milde and For on þat is so feir ant brist, is explored in K. Kerby-Fulton and A. W. Klein, ‘Rhymed Alliterative Verse in Mise en page Transition: Two Case Studies in English Poetic Hybridity’, 23 24

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Fig. 2. Short red-ink wiggles mark the end of each ten-line stanza of the English poem On the Vanity of This World. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 164rb (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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Fig. 3. Punctus marking the end of each thirteen-line stanza of the Latin poem Fides hodie sopitur. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 164va (detail). The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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At the more informal end of the spectrum are two songs in Cotton, one called Long Life by Richard Morris (five ten-line stanzas rhyming ababbaabbb) and the other called An Orison of Our Lady (five ten-line stanzas rhyming ababaababa).27 Both are lineated with the head of each stanza marked with an initial. In the first stanza of each, the scribe attempts an analysis of the relationship between syntax, syllable count and rhyme by means of the punctus elevatus (indicating that a unit is not yet complete) and the punctus (indicating the completion of a unit). This analysis produces subdivisions of ab ab baab bb for Long Life, corresponding to the form’s syllabic count 87 97 8888 74; and (more speculatively, given that some lines end with no punctuation at all) subdivisions of ab ab aab aba for Orison, corresponding to the syllabic count 77 87 887 874.28 Such analysis is admittedly tentative and short-lived and perhaps represents a failed rather than successful attempt to parse these forms, but it nonetheless briefly acknowledges the more intricate features of these syllable-counted songs with asymmetrical rhyme schemes. Scribal registering of verse-form, whether cursory or sustained, planned or in process, may thus be prompted by factors supplementary to form itself, such as musical performance or other kinds of actual or imagined functionality. Digby 86’s sole braced text in the double-column quires, Ragemon le bon, seems to owe its bracketing more to its intended purpose than to its verse-form per se. John Frankis describes the Digby scribe’s ‘dual function’ within the household: ‘to provide both spiritual guidance and also what one might call book-based entertainment’.29 Such book-based diversions likely required preparation. The scribe marks the start of each unit with an initial in red ink and joins together each line of its aabb quatrains with red wavy lines in groups of four. Judging by later bracing practice, we might expect these wavy lines to link lines sharing the same rhyme sound, but here they serve to identify isolable units rather than shared rhyme. Ragemon is a fortunetelling game where quatrains may have been copied onto individual pieces of parchment with strings attached, to be drawn by each player or, alternatively, to be chosen by pointing at a group of lines on the page.30 The Digby scribe’s braces might identify units for ease of separate copying or for players’ quick comprehension of which of the often smutty and scurrilous fortunes they had chosen. That the Digby scribe intends something functional or conventional by this bracing, rather than some merely idiosyncratic decoration, is confirmed by other versions of Ragemon. A Continental version, Le Jeu d’aventure, appears in Paris 837, divided up by initials in The Medieval Literary: Beyond Form, ed. R. J. Meyer-Lee and C. Sanok (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 87–118 (pp. 106–9). 27 DIMEV 3370, 4270; NIMEV 2070, 2687, respectively. See An Old English Miscellany Containing a Bestiary, Kentish Sermons, Proverbs of Alfred, Religious Poems of the Thirteenth Century, ed. R. Morris, EETS OS 49 (London, 1872), pp. 156–62. 28 These syllable counts are taken from the editions of these lyrics in Medieval English Songs, ed. Dobson and Harrison, pp. 122–30, pp. 130–6. 29 Frankis, ‘The Social Context’, p. 183. 30 Corrie, ‘A Study’, pp. 133–8. On these texts’ function as games, see S. Patterson, ‘Sexy, Naughty, and Lucky in Love: Playing Ragemon le bon in English Gentry Households’, in Games and Gaming in Medieval Literature, ed. S. Patterson (New York, 2015), pp. 79–102.

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into four-line units. This manuscript is usually viewed as a jongleur’s collection, or it may have been owned by a clerc or clericus vagans required to both entertain and educate.31 Trinity also preserves an adaptation of Ragemon (fols. 73r, 82v) wherein fortunes are redirected towards more virtuous subject matter. In that manuscript, each quatrain is preceded by a red paraph. All three manuscripts make use of paratextual features to divide the work into the four-line fortunes required by the game – even though, on the evidence of form alone, the verse would be interpreted as couplets.32 While there are thus some function-related impulses to brace Ragemon or to note songs’ stanza forms, the tie-lines in Digby’s long-line annex respond unambiguously to verse-form. The Digby scribe registers the grouping of lines that share rhyme or assonance in verse written in laisses, but he varies formats depending on the length of the unit. Verse composed in smaller laisses, namely Le Doctrinal Sauvage (art. 62; fols. 177r–182v), with up to fourteen lines in a laisse, has the lines of each laisse joined by wavy lines and, from fol. 177v onwards, some but not all of the beginnings of each laisse are noted by initials. Other insular copies of the Doctrinal use different mechanisms to mark the monorhyme groups. In London, BL, MS Harley 978 (produced c. 1250–75), the laisses are marked with paraphs (fols. 103r–104v), while in Jesus the laisses are headed with alternating blue and red initials (fols. 201r–207r).33 Verse written in longer laisses in Digby – namely, the final section of Herman de Valenciennes’s Assumption de Nostre Dame (art. 61; fols. 169r–177r) and the beginning of Guischart de Beauliu’s Le Romaunz de temtacioun de secle (art. 63; fols. 182v–186v) – is not braced. Instead, most, though not all (in the case of the Assumption), of the laisses are marked with initials. The Digby scribe puts an initial midway through the first laisse of Guischart’s sermon, but does not subdivide the other laisses in this extract. The paratext of the longer poems written in laisses is likely determined by practicality: the laisses of Guischart’s sermon sometimes run over two or three folios in Digby 86 and would be nigh impossible to link together with his characteristic wavy lines. The Digby scribe also deploys bracing not just for the variable number of lines in the shorter laisses of the Doctrinal, but also for monorhyming poems in smaller and generally regular units. L’Estrif de deus dames (art. 67; fols. 192v–195v), a dream vision in which a narrator hears a debate between one fickle and one loyal woman, is composed in monorhymed quatrains. The scribe joins the lines of each quatrain together with wavy tie-lines. For the debate section, he uses red-ink initials of varying sizes to head most of the four-line groups in addition to the bracing. As in The Thrush and the Nightingale, he acknowledges the dream-vision frame as distinct Busby, Codex and Context, I, 440, n. 116. Busby discusses this manuscript’s mix of fabliaux and other types of text, where comic material alternates with serious moral discourse (I, 439–43). 32 For the version of Ragemon in Trinity, see Un Jeu de société du moyen âge: Ragemon le Bon, inspirateur d’un sermon en vers, ed. A. Långfors, Annales Academiae Scientiarium Fennicae, Ser. B, vol. 15, no. 2 (Helsinki, 1920), pp. 1–32. 33 MS Harley 978 may be viewed by digital facsimile at BLDM, s.v. ‘Harley MS 978’.

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from the debate, leaving it without initials until line 41 and marking the return of the narrator’s voice at the end of the poem with a larger in-filled initial (fol. 195v), again omitting initials heading each stanza in this final section. Unlike the surviving Continental copy of the poem in Paris 837 (De la fole et de la sage, fols. 338r–339v), which marks quatrains with initials throughout the text, Digby 86’s combination of capitals and bracing allows both the ongoing marking of the verse-form and the separation of frame from debate. In the next three poems in English (often called The Debate between the Body and the Soul, Doomsday and Death), appearing in this manuscript as a single continuous text (art. 68; fols. 195v–200r), monorhyme quatrains are similarly braced, though the scribe does not use red-ink initials for individual quatrains (Fig. 4).34 Instead, he has large initials subdividing the texts into narrative units. As Corrie explains, it is likely that the scribe omitted the ending of Body and Soul to allow a smooth segue into Doomsday.35 The second and third poems are treated as one (by omitting the four-stanza prologue of Death found in two other manuscripts), although the ‘amen’ on fol. 198r at the end of Doomsday indicates that the scribe recognised a moment of closure here. The bracing in these monorhyme quatrain poems is done with care, taking account of anomalies the scribe encountered or created. He correctly braces his two-line segue at the top of fol. 197v, just as he does on fol. 199r, where his version lacks two lines of a quatrain that the other witnesses preserve.36 On fol. 198v, the Digby text has a five-line stanza conflating all of the lines of that quatrain preserved in the other witnesses, again correctly braced.37 We might wonder what motivates his preference for braces rather than larger initials to mark quatrains. As a glance at Paris 837 shows, providing decorated initials every four lines can look crammed on the page and must certainly have been labour-intensive. Digby’s tie-lines and small red-ink initials acknowledge four-line units in an efficient manner without overcrowding. Long-line monorhyme poems – whether composed in variable laisses or repeating monorhyme quatrains – are usually copied with one verse line per text line, giving a layout where a scribe can pay attention to both heads of units at the left-hand margin and groups of rhymes at the right-hand edge. Monorhyme quatrains attracted paratextual recognition of their form in the group of manuscripts under consideration, though not always consistently or for the same reason. In Trinity, the scribe who copies the start and finish of Body and Soul (fols. 29v–32r) does not mark the individual quatrains. The hand copying the middle of the text links each of the four verse lines (by brown-ink lines decorated with superimposed red wiggly lines) to Latin marginal notes that summarise the content of each quatrain (for example, the seven signs of Doomsday, DIMEV 2462, 6339, 5640; NIMEV 1461, 3967, 3517, respectively. For the longer versions of Doomsday and Death in Jesus and Cotton, see An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 162–85. For the Harley version of Body and Soul, see Harley 2253, ed. Fein, II, 78-87, 381–2 (art. 22). 35 Corrie, ‘A Study’, pp. 230–4. 36 Religiöse Dichtung, ed. Reichl, pp. 362, 429. 37 Ibid., p. 424. 34

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Fig. 4. Red-ink tie-lines marking the couplet ending of The Debate between the Body and the Soul and a marginal manicule marking the beginning of Doomsday (with tie-lines marking its four-line stanzas). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 197v. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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as enumerated by Soul). These braces are functional, allowing a user to quickly find a relevant stanza, and also formalist, drawing attention to the poem’s rhymes. They are reminiscent of other diagrammatic use of lines in this manuscript to organise knowledge. Elsewhere in Trinity the form of monorhyme quatrains is overtly registered. In Doomsday (fol. 43r–v, here copied separately from Body and Soul), each quatrain is acknowledged at its head by a rubricated paraph and at its end by a black horizontal line extending into the right margin and ending with a small red dot, as they are in Death (copied immediately afterward without any break; fols. 43v–45v). Monorhyme quatrains are the predominant form for longer English items in Trinity and they are generally copied with a mise en page that emphasises the verse-unit. The Life of St Margaret (fols. 20r–24r) has each four-line unit identified by the setting of the first letter (or sometimes first word) of each quatrain in a separate ruled column.38 A Ballad of the Twelfth Day (fol. 35r–v), lineated as monorhyme quatrains with internal rhyme, has the first letter of each quatrain rubricated.39 Louerd asse þu ard on god ever buten hende (fols. 36r–42r) has each quatrain headed by a red paraph.40 The copyists of these items utilise punctuation and other markers of textual subdivision to acknowledge the quatrain as a repeating unit. Long-line monorhyme verse in quatrains or in variable-length laisses are perhaps a less celebrated early Middle English form in comparison to couplets (whether short-line or septenary), tail-rhyme or the intricate stanza forms of songs and lyrics. English verse in monorhyme quatrains and laisses emerges in the middle of the thirteenth century when, in what Derek Pearsall calls the ‘new bilingual cultural tradition’, Anglo-Norman verse-forms were transferred over into English.41 What might look like inchoate artlessness or uncontrolled variation – that is, the lack of crossing rhyme in a unit made simply of four rhymes in a row, or stanzas that fluctuate in terms of the number of lines grouped together by rhyme – are in fact English counterparts to Anglo-Norman verse-forms. Both receive corresponding care and attention from scribes. In Jesus, the poem Hwon Holy Chireche Is vnder Uote, composed in long lines in short laisses (that is, in groups of four, six and rarely two lines), has the heads of each laisse marked with an initial.42 In the same manuscript, another poem, On Serving Christ, is written in the longer laisse form (that is, six lines in the shortest group and up to sixteen in the longest), the heads of each laisse are again marked with an initial.43 Even when copied continuously to fit into a double-column page format, monorhyme units could be signalled by other paratextual features. The copyist of Doomsday and Death in Cotton remained DIMEV 4249, NIMEV 2672. DIMEV 6686, NIMEV 4170. For detailed discussion and an edition of this text, see D. Speed, ‘A Ballad of Twelfth Day: Texts and Contexts’, in Text and Transmission in Medieval Europe, ed. C. Bishop (Newcastle, 2007), pp. 199–228. 40 DIMEV 3187, NIMEV 1946. 41 D. Pearsall, Old English and Middle English Poetry (London, 1977), p. 89. 42 DIMEV 6528, NIMEV 4085. See An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, p. 89. 43 DIMEV 6672, NIMEV 4163. See An Old English Miscellany, ed. Morris, pp. 90–2. 38 39

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wedded to his double-column format, copying Doomsday and Death continuously in one paragraph per quatrain, each paragraph headed with a red initial. He generally separates the verse lines by punctuation within these paragraphs and rubricates the first letter of each verse line of the quatrains. A close analogue to the Digby scribe’s treatment of verse written in long-line monorhyme can be found in William Herebert’s practice when copying AngloNorman verse in monorhyme quatrains and laisses in BL, MS Addit. 46919. Herebert designs a range of verse layouts, not only braced monorhyme, but also graphic tailrhyme.44 His mise en page for the Ave Maria paraphrase by his fellow Franciscan Nicholas de Bozon is particularly striking (fol. 50r–v).45 The first thirteen words of the Ave Maria (plus the words ‘Jesu’ and ‘Amen’) are copied in a column down the left-hand side of the page. After the first two stanzas, each individual word has four red lines radiating rightwards to a block formed from the first half-lines of a monorhymed quatrain, each half-line ending in a medial rhyme. Moving right across the page, we next have two pairs of crisscrossed red lines linking these four half-lines to the matching block of the second half-lines. The final word of each line of the quatrain is the corresponding word of the Ave Maria found on the left-hand side of the page or, in some cases, the word is played on at the beginning of the quatrain. Herebert’s layout of Bozon’s paraphrase creates a kind of whole-page bracing with the Ave Maria at both the left and right edges of the page, the poem’s semantic and formal unities mapped graphically across the folio. When copying monorhyme verse in long lines, Herebert adds wavy tie-lines in the right-hand margin, though these tie-lines are in the ink of the text rather than red ink, marking the heads of each group of lines with a pair of small oblique pen strokes indicating where a paraph might be added. This paratext is used by Herebert for the Chante pleure (fols. 56r–57v), capturing the poem’s variation in places between four and five lines in each group.46 His appetite for this kind of bracing appears limited in comparison with the Digby scribe’s enthusiasm, as the tie-lines are not always sustained throughout a text. The prayer to the Virgin that begins on fol. 59v is braced in groups of up to fifteen lines, but the tie-lines appear only on the first opening and stop at the head of fol. 60v.47 Curiously, the bracing is intermittent in Le Char d’orgueil by Bozon: the opening of fols. 67v–68r is braced, as is the final page, which starts mid-brace, as the open-sided tie-lines acknowledge.48 Herebert was born around 1270, with Hereford (where he was buried) likely to be his native convent.49 While he must have seen a great range of verse layout and On the early history of the scribal presentation of tail-rhyme, see R. Purdie, Anglicising Romance: Tail-Rhyme and Genre in Medieval English Literature (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 66–85. 45 Dean 822. 46 Dean 605; Oeuvres complètes de Rutebeuf, ed. A. Jubinal, 3 vols. (Paris, 1874), III, 91–9. 47 Dean 774. 48 Dean 687; Deux Poèmes de Nicholas Bozon: Le Char d’orgueil, La Lettre de l’empereur Orgueil, ed. J. Vising (Göteborg, 1919). 49 What we know of Herebert’s life and career is given in The Works of William Herebert, OFM, ed. S. R. Reimer (Toronto, 1987), pp. 1–6. 44

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verse paratext during his education and career in Paris and Oxford, it is intriguing that he reproduces rather closely the monorhyme tie-lines used a generation earlier by the Digby scribe in a similar locale. Such features are thus something more than individual practice. They represent traces of shared practices for verse presentation as well as shared understandings of verse-form – conventions that may have spread more widely. In the Laud manuscript, the debate poem Þe Disputisoun betwen þe Bodi and þe Soule (fols. 200v–203v), written in long-line monorhyme quatrains with medial and end-rhyme, has wavy tie-lines bracing the end-rhymes of the first quatrain only, with fine double oblique strokes marking the head of each stanza in the left-hand margin.50 The scribe uses the punctus elevatus following the medial rhyme in almost every line to indicate that there are two halves of a whole unit per line. This layout represents a conscious selection on the part of Scribe B because Laud’s Scribe A (c. 1300, localised to west Oxon), who copies the first two hundred folios of this manuscript, alternates between a one-column format for septenary couplets and a two-column format for six-line tail-rhyme in shorter lines. Although the top half of fol. 200v contains the last of Scribe A’s copying in the double-column format, Scribe B changes the format, mid-page, back to a single column, presenting the Disputisoun as long-line quatrains, noted first by the brief use of tie-lines and then by punctuation and marks for paraphs. The tie-lines here are a passing nod to the format used more extensively by the scribe of Digby 86 and, somewhat sporadically, by Herebert. Such conventions could lead to verse in other forms being presented graphically as akin to monorhyme quatrains. The lyric on Christ’s Passion on fol. 1v of London, BL, MS Egerton 613, beginning ‘Somer is comen and winter gon’, is a song written in a ten-line form, rhyming, with some variation, ababccbddb.51 It is lineated as monorhymed quatrains, each graphic line ending with a b-rhyme and the lines braced together with wavy lines. On the next folio, a second hand copies a macaronic song in praise of the Virgin, rhyming ababccdcd, in groups of four lines, again linked by wavy tie-lines, the ends of the graphic lines aligning b- and d-rhymes (and, in three of the five stanzas, these Latin rhyme-words share the same final vowel sound).52 Proving that any convention is only ever a DIMEV 605, NIMEV 351. This item is the first item copied by Scribe B, a late thirteenthcentury hand localised to the Isle of Ely (according to LAEME). For more information about this manuscript, see the essays in K. K. Bell and J. N. Couch, eds., The Texts and Contexts of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Laud Misc. 108: The Shaping of English Vernacular Narrative (Leiden, 2011). It may be viewed by digital facsimile at https://digital.bodleian. ox.ac.uk/inquire/p/79638f9b-4512-43d4-9b97-eead1a4a1aa9 51 DIMEV 5051, NIMEV 3221. This poem is inscribed by a hand that LAEME dates as 1225–75 and localises to south west Worcestershire/north Gloucestershire. See English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 108–11. MS Egerton 613 may be viewed by digital facsimile at BLDM, s.v. ‘Egerton MS 613’. 52 DIMEV 4198, NIMEV 2645. In a hand that LAEME dates to the same period (1225–75) and localises tentatively to south west Worcestershire. See Religiöse Dichtung, ed. Reichl, pp. 293–7. This poem also appears in Trinity, fol. 24v; see n. 26 for its layout in that manuscript. 50

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contingent possibility, a third hand next copies a prayer to the Virgin, composed in monorhyme septenary quatrains, continuously in prose lineation.53 In the case of the first two Egerton lyrics, it is not that either copyist mistakes or reinterprets one form for another (differing line-lengths make the lyrics’ song-forms apparent). Lineation in quatrains is a space-saving layout, one that avoids the need to copy verse in shorter heterometric lines in columns and presents the verse in a recognisable format that partly analyses its structure. Moreover, in the case of the first lyric, this layout aligns b-rhymes that would otherwise be isolated, lining them up at the right-hand edge of the page. The privileging of four-line units ending in a single rhyme – whether they be true monorhyme quatrains or some other form repackaged – also reflects a poetics that valued this particular form and sought to align end-rhyme on the page. Writing huitains (that is, octaves) in rime croisée (abababab) as monorhyme quatrains with medial rhyme, for example, offered a much more efficient use of space on pages not ruled for double columns. In Herebert’s manuscript, the Anglo-French Les Neuf Joies Nostre Dame (fols. 57v–59r, octosyllabics rhyming abababab) is copied as monorhyme quatrains with medial rhyme, braced with tie-lines plus double oblique strokes for paraphs on its first opening.54 Cambridge, CCC, MS 63, the first part of which contains the Neuf Joies (fol. 1r), was given to Christ Church, Canterbury, by Thomas Stoyl, a monk there between 1299 and 1333.55 The scribe does have a doublecolumn layout for this text, but he nonetheless copies the poem in monorhyme quatrains, each headed with alternating blue and red capitals. Continental copies of the Neuf Joies in narrower, two- or three-column layouts have it lineated as huitains, with each stanza headed with a decorated capital.56 These varying presentations fundamentally reflect different traditions of layout and book production, but also capture different approaches to rhyme on the page. While some Continental copyists preferred single columns of alternating or crossing rhyme (abababab), some insular copyists arrive at layouts that aligned rhymes on the page rather than alternating them. Short-line huitains rhyming abababab and long-line quatrains with medial and end-rhyme are, in the most basic of terms, approximately the same form, sounding broadly alike when read or sung, even if presented in two different ways on the page. Scribes thus faced a choice in how to present poems written in forms that could be analysed in this dual fashion. The Anglo-Norman Chaunçoun de Noustre Seingnour is composed in heptasyllable lines rhyming abababab, but is copied by the Digby scribe, Herebert and the scribe of Oxford, BodL, MS Douce 137 (end DIMEV 2341, NIMEV 1407 (same localisation and date). English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century, ed. Brown, pp. 111–13. 54 Dean 761; ‘Les Neuf Joies Nostre Dame: A Poem Attibuted to Rutebeuf ’, ed. T. F. Mustanoja, Annales Academiae Scientiarium Fennicae, ser. B, vol. 73, no. 4 (Helsinki, 1952). 55 Cambridge, CCC, MS 63 may be viewed by digital facsimile at https://parker.stanford.edu/ parker/catalog/zy353np1659 56 See, for example, Paris, BnF, f. fr. MSS 837, 1635, 12467, 12786, and Paris, BnF, Arsenal MS 3142. 53

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of the thirteenth century, with provenance linking it to the Benedictine abbey at Abingdon) in the long-line medial/end-rhyme format.57 In each of these examples, insular mise en page is adopted for French huitain verse. Solopova’s study of Digby, Jesus and Harley reveals their distinctive approach to rhyme pattern.58 These scribes almost always treated the ab unit (which we could see as either two short lines or one long line) as a single entity and copied it as a long line. In the case of the huitain/ quatrain verse, this produces rhymes that align vertically (groups of four medial rhymes and four end-rhymes) rather than crossing rhymes in columns (as occurs if abababab is copied as short lines). Conversely, they chose to present the aa couplet unit as two short lines rather than one long line. This method aligns rhymes vertically (aabbcc, etc.) rather than leaving each long line ending with a different rhyme (as occurs if couplets are copied with two verses per page line). In Jesus, for example, the Love Rune of Friar Thomas of Hales (fols. 187r–188v) is copied not in columns of short four-stress lines rhyming abababab, but in the long-line/medial-rhyme format, the head of each stanza marked with a coloured initial.59 It was not that the scribe of Jesus was averse to copying shorter metrical verse lines in a double-column format – he does so for the couplets of The Owl and the Nightingale – but that he preferred to align rather than alternate rhymes. Presenting the Love Rune in eight-line spaced stanzas in modern editions is entirely practical (leaving room for on-page glosses and affiliating it with later conventions of verse layout), but this layout obscures this poem’s connections (at least in the mind of its scribe) with verse in long-line monorhyme quatrains and, more broadly, with long-line couplets and short laisses. For other poems in Jesus in this dual format, the scribe makes the same choice.60 The scribe generally prefers to align rhymes rather than to have rhymes crossing on the page – hence his alternation between double- and single-column formats. We might contextualise the distinctive practice that Solopova identifies by reference to a number of early medieval experiments in verse layout that privileged aligned rhyme in some way. The much more well-known graphic tail-rhyme format, used in Jesus but not in Digby, which might superficially seem rather different, shares this desire to align rhyme. This layout, invented by insular scribes copying Anglo-Norman verse, appears around the end of the twelfth century and spreads to the copying of English poetry.61 Although it might be more efficient to copy tail-rhyme verse in columns, graphic tail-rhyme fills the page.62 Graphic tail-rhyme Dean 913; The Anglo-Norman Lyric: An Anthology, ed. and trans. D. L. Jeffrey and B. L. Levy (Toronto, 1990), pp. 268–71. 58 Solopova, ‘Studies in Middle English Syllabic Verse’, pp. 41–2. 59 DIMEV 106, NIMEV 66. See Moral Love Songs and Laments, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 1998), pp. 11–56. 60 See, for example, DIMEV 3019, the fragmentary DIMEV 3676 and DIMEV 5479 (NIMEV 1833, 2284.5, 3474, respectively). 61 Purdie, Anglicising Romance, pp. 71–2. 62 See, for example, the beautifully spaced and displayed six-line tail-rhyme of Sinners Beware in Jesus (fols. 175r–178v). DIMEV 5698, NIMEV 3607. 57

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thus aligns groups of rhyming lines, with the tail-line rhymes not being left isolated from each other, interspersed by pairs or trios of other rhymes, but aligned and sometimes bracketed, although spaced apart, in the right-hand column. As the invention of graphic tail-rhyme shows, thirteenth-century scribes were highly alert to the presentation of rhyme on the page. Writing in laisses produces sequences of assonances or rhymes that hold together what at first glance looks like the ragged, unjustified right edge of text created by verse-lineation. To heighten the lines’ appearance on the page, some French and Anglo-Norman scribes play what Geneviève Hasenohr calls ‘le jeu sur les lettres finales’ (the play of the final letters) to draw further attention to assonance/rhyme and to give the effect of right-hand justification.63 Hasenohr notes the fragment of the Chanson d’Antioche composed in alexandrine laisses, which has the final letter of each line in a vertical column on the right-hand edge of the page.64 A chanson de geste, Auberi le Bourguignon, written in laisses of monorhymed decasyllables, has, to the right of each verse line, a line extending to the margin and then the final letter of each line repeated in a column on the far right of the page.65 Some of the fragments of French narratives copied in England now brought together in Vatican, BAV, Palatini latini MS 1971 also experiment with layouts that highlight and align the right edge of the page.66 The copy of Floire et Blancheflor (fols. 85ra–90vb; octosyllabic couplets, copied at the beginning of the thirteenth century) plays a number of different games, extending some of the final letters of the verse line either by separating the final letter or by extending the final letter calligraphically – for example, by stretching out a letter n horizontally or by lengthening the horizontal stroke of a t. It also has alternating punctus elevatus and punctus at the end of each verse line aligned vertically in a separate space on the far right of each column of text. The copy of Amadas et Ydoine (fols. 61ra–68vb; octosyllabic couplets, copied at the beginning of the thirteenth century) tries out several variations of these layouts involving separate columns of final letters and line-ending punctuation, while the copy of the Chanson d’Aspremont (fols. 91r–98v; decasyllabic laisses, copied at the beginning of the thirteenth century) has an elegant, right-justified column of final letters far separated from the rest of the line. The scribal game of final letters was played both in narratives in laisses and in texts versified in couplets. It could also be attempted for stanzaic verse. A thirteenth-century copy of Hélinand’s Vers de la mort in Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 19531 G. Hasenohr, ‘Les chansons de geste’, in Mise en page et mise en texte du livre manuscript, ed. H.-J. Martin and J. Vezin (Paris, 1990), pp. 239–44 (p. 245). I am indebted to Hasenohr’s chapter for the examples in this paragraph: many of the manuscripts she cites are now available online as digitised copies. 64 See Busby, Codex and Context, II, 493. The manuscript is Laon, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 398 (beginning of the thirteenth century, ‘probably Norman’). See also Hasenohr’s Plate 155. 65 Busby, Codex and Context, II, 558. The manuscript is Vatican, BAV, Reginensi latini MS 1441 (first half of the thirteenth century, according to Busby, who suggests a Burgundian provenance, in keeping with the eponymous hero of the poem); it may be viewed by digital facsimile at https://digi.vatlib.it/view/MSS_Reg.lat.1441 66 Vatican, BAV, Palatini latini MS 1971 may be viewed by digital facsimile at https://digi. vatlib.it/view/MSS_Pal.lat.1971

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(fols. 158r–163r) playfully or confusedly adds tie-lines displacing verse-final letters to the right margin to some of the lines in the opening three stanzas of the text. One might also cite the experimental layouts of a copy of the Roman de Miserere by the Recluse of Molliens in Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 2199 created by a late thirteenthcentury scribe.67 On fols. 1r –52v of the Miserere, he marks the third, sixth, ninth and twelfth lines of each douzain (rhyming aabaabbbabba) by a virgule in a rightjustified column, but on fols. 53r–65v, he tries out a range of presentations. First he puts the final letter of every third line in a right-justified column, linked by pairs of diagonal lines. On fol. 53v, every third line has a decorative line extending to the final letter of the line, which is aligned in the right-hand margin. On the next folio he tries something yet more complex: first a column of final letters of the pairedrhyme lines, with the final letter of every third line to the right of that column, on some pages bracketed with straight lines. From there until the end of the text, the scribe tries out a mix of layouts featuring virgules and one or more columns of final letters offset to the right. These experimental layouts share with graphic tail-rhyme a desire to sort, align and link rhymes. Rhiannon Purdie cites the earliest copy of Beneit’s Vie de Thomas Becket (Cambridge, Gonville and Caius College, MS 123/60; late twelfth or early thirteenth century), which, for a short portion of the text, combines offset final letters (for the final letters of each couplet pair) and graphic tail-rhyme, indicating that these are related rather than separate developments.68 Returning to the group of West Midlands manuscripts under consideration here, a hymn on the five joys of the Virgin in twelve-line tail-rhyme, copied in Trinity (fol. 25r) in a doublecolumn format, has each third line marked with a horizontal line extending to the right – a simple addition that acknowledges and groups the rhymes.69 The wavy tie-lines used by the Digby scribe and by Herebert are likewise a relatively simple graphic response to rhyme, but they share with their more elaborate Continental comparators this impulse to attend to the ragged right edge of the verse page and to emphasise the repetition of sound. Alongside the textual, geographical and temporal connections of the manuscripts under consideration here, we can thus discern vestiges of a shared scribal poetics associated with the ‘localized literary culture that flourished in the South West Midlands of England’ whose traces Corrie finds in Harley, a miscellany compiled and copied by a legal scrivener and chaplain in Ludlow in the first half of the fourteenth century.70 Such regional activity drew on both its own vernacular inheritances and An example from this manuscript is Item 8 in Album de manuscripts français du XIIIe siècle: Mise en page et mise en texte, ed. M. Careri et al. (Rome, 2001). BnF, f. fr. MSS 19531 and 2199 may be viewed by digital facsimile at http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b90075251. image and http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b52506266b.r=bnf%202199?rk=64378;0, respectively. 68 Purdie, Anglicising Romance, pp. 73–4 (and see her Plate 1, p. 81). 69 DIMEV 4705, NIMEV 2992; Religiöse Dichtung, ed. Reichl, pp. 297–9. 70 M. Corrie, ‘Harley 2253, Digby 86, and the Circulation of Literature in Pre-Chaucerian England’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript, ed. Fein, pp. 427–43 (p. 441). For more detail on this scribe’s approach to poetic form, see Solopova, ‘Layout’, pp. 377–89. 67

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an ongoing engagement with insular and Continental French culture. Susanna Fein tracks this regional literary culture as some of its texts migrate to the lay, commercial, metropolitan and fully Anglophone context of Auchinleck (produced c. 1331–1340).71 As these regional texts and practices were disseminated over time and space, some scribal traditions were preserved, while others dissipated. Harley, as we have seen, shares its approach to ab and aa units with Digby and Jesus.72 Yet the Harley scribe presents Body and Soul in long lines without marking individual quatrains or bracing the end of the lines, indicating a loss of interest in these features of form. In contrast, tie-lines appear in Harley as a way to structure stanzas that combine monorhyme with bobs and refrains.73 Scribe 1 of Auchinleck chooses long lines for the monorhyme quatrains (with varying medial rhyme) of the Legend of Pope Gregory (fols. 1r–6v), but then copies Þe Disputisoun betwen þe Bodi and þe Soule (fols. 31vb–35ra stub) – which appears in Laud in long lines with its first stanza bracketed – as eight-line stanzas. The long-line quatrain layout now coexists with the huitain format. This scribe also copies verse in monorhyme long-line quatrains without medial rhyme as eight-line abcbdbeb stanzas, as he does for Seynt Mergrete and Seynt Katerine (fols. 16rb–21ra, 21ra–24vb, respectively). He not only tolerates crossing rather than aligned rhyme, as many thirteenth-century Continental manuscripts copied in two or three columns do, but he also presents this older form in such a way as to create lines that do not rhyme with any others, indicating that for him aligning or coupling rhyme on the page is no longer an imperative. Kathryn Kerby-Fulton and Andrew Klein have recently drawn attention to instances of what they call ‘mise en page transition’, offering several fourteenthcentury examples of ‘scribes [who] looked both backward toward their forebears for inspiration but also outward toward new multicultural influences as English poetry developed’.74 Their examples might lead us to consider other sorts of mise en page transition, both synchronic (a scribal poetics that can encompass both local convention and influences from further afield) and diachronic (the growth and loss of conventions over time). Digby 86’s conspicuous bracing of monorhyme offers another example of mise en page transition as being something more than mere idiosyncracy from this sometimes eccentric scribe. It was a response, in part, to local practice – both graphically and in terms of the prominence given to monorhyme – and it also witnesses to a flourishing thirteenth-century bilingual poetics that valued multiple and aligned rhyme being displayed and emphasised on the page. S. Fein, ‘The Fillers’, pp. 60–77. See also R. Hanna, ‘Reconsidering the Auchinleck Manuscript’, in New Directions in Later Medieval Manuscript Studies: Essays from the 1998 Harvard Conference, ed. D. Pearsall (York, 2000), pp. 91–102. 72 As Solopova shows, the Harley scribe ‘considered the difference between long and short lines as metrically significant and not just as a matter of convenient layout’ (‘Layout’, p. 381). 73 On the Harley scribe’s use of bobs and tie-lines, see K. Kerby-Fulton, ‘Middle English Poets and Manuscript Studies, 1300–1450’, in Opening Up Middle English Manuscripts: Literary and Visual Approaches, ed. K. Kerby-Fulton, M. Hilmo and L. Olson (Ithaca, NY, 2012), pp. 39–94 (pp. 45–55). Harley may be viewed by digital facsimile at BLDM, s.v. ‘Harley MS 2253’. 74 Kerby-Fulton and Klein, ‘Rhymed Alliterative Verse’, p. 87. 71

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chapter eleven

THE SCARLET LETTER: EXPERIMENTATION, DESIGN AND COPYING PRACTICE IN THE COLOURED CAPITALS OF MS DIGBY 86* J. D. Sargan

‘ et morteus pecches sount. Li premer est orgod. Le secound est envie’. (fol. 1r)

O

n the first opening of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 as it is currently bound, the first coloured capital is backwards.1 The initial S is drawn in the same ink as the text, with red infill and a flourish in the top corner. It has been drawn back-tofront, with the upper curve starting in the top left and the spine running diagonally right to left. The apparent error on this folio prompts several questions. How did such a reversal happen? What decorative practices or design considerations caused it? And, as a corollary of this, what does such an elementary mistake suggest about the competency, training, skills or objectives of the scribe? In attempting to answer these questions, it would be prudent first to confirm the identity of the person responsible for producing the initials and rubrication in Digby 86. Previous scholarship has suggested that the same person who decorated the manuscript was responsible for the majority of the writing – the scribe identified by Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes as Scribe A (termed here the ‘Digby scribe’).2 This ascription is probably correct; however, the evidence for it is rarely unpacked. In part, this evidence is material. The coloured capitals in Digby are usually filled in red or brown and sometimes a combination of the two. The same combination of red and brown inks is used in the marginal illustrations. By sight, it is possible to identify four different shades at various points in the manuscript: a pale brown, a dark brown, a watery orange-red and a thicker pink-red.3 In some sections, the This folio is reproduced as Fig.1 in Maureen Boulton’s chapter in this volume. B. D. H. Miller, ‘The Early History of Bodleian MS. Digby 86’, Annuale Medievale 4 (1963), 23–56 (pp. 25–7); M. Corrie, ‘A Study of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: Literature in Thirteenth-Century England’, unpublished D.Phil. dissertation, University of Oxford (Oxford, 1995), pp. 7, 18, 24; and Tschann and Parkes, pp. xlvii–l. 3 This is not to suggest that these three colours can be used to conclusively identify separate decorating stints across the manuscript. It may be that the scribe mixed similar shades of ink on multiple occasions. However, the presence of these different colours on the same page does indicate the presence of several layers of decorative additions added at different 1 2

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colour of the line work and brown capitals appears to be the same as the ink used for the text. Similarly, the shade of red used for the capitals sometimes matches that used for titles and other rubrication. For example, the A that begins the AngloNorman verse Life of Saint Nicholas seems to have been drawn in the same ink as the text’s title (‘Les miracles de seint nicholas’; fol. 150r), while initials several folios later seem to match the colour used to highlight the litterae notabiliores (fol. 152r). Palaeographic analysis suggests that the handwriting of these rubricated elements is the same leftward-sloping, late thirteenth-century anglicana of the main scribe.4 In addition, a number of the marginal drawings that feature red ink in the same shades as the initial work, such as those found alongside a Latin prose treatise on the interpretation of dreams, are associated with labels. In one case, a person with their lips to a cup is labelled ‘bibo’ (I drink), and next to that a coffin is labelled ‘toumba’ (tomb) (fol. 34v).5 These small samples of writing also appear to be the scribe’s hand.6 It seems likely, therefore, that the Digby scribe was also responsible for drawing the initials, sometimes close to the time of writing and sometimes while he was adding drawings and other rubricated elements – which he could also have done alongside his copying. Scholarship has typically characterised the scribe of Digby 86, possibly one Richard de Grimhill II, as lacking in skill or bookmaking experience.7 Tschann and Parkes suggest that the quality of this scribe’s work ‘indicate[s] that, although he was an experienced scribe, he was not accustomed to producing books’.8 Such assessments generally hinge on the apparently ad hoc, or unpractised, execution of the copying and presentation of the manuscript. Less attention has been paid to the decorative aspects of the work. Tschann and Parkes comment briefly that the scribe ‘employed red, or black and red, Capital and Lombard forms for initials (occasionally supplied with crude flourishings … or crude infilling …)’.9 Here, too, the scribe’s workmanship has been deemed rough: the materials at his disposal include only dark and red inks, rather than the more conventional red and blue, and his technique left more visible brushstrokes and made less use of fine lines than is found in other examples. The reversal of the first initial S is an unusual slip and not one repeated elsewhere in the volume, but the design of other initials is also curious. Particularly notable is the variety of forms he employs for coloured capital A. While it is not unusual for a scribe or limner to vary the form times. The coloured inks of Digby 86 may be viewed by digital facsimile at Digital.Bodleian, s.v. ‘MS. Digby 86’ (https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/shelfmarks.html). 4 Tschann and Parkes, p. xlix. For a detailed description of the hand, see Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 25–7; Corrie, ‘A Study’, pp. 19–24; and Tschann and Parkes, pp. xxxix–xli. 5 Both drawings are associated with a section beginning ‘Abscintium bibere’ (drinking wormwood). 6 Tschann and Parkes, p. li. 7 For the process that led to this identification, see Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 40–1, 55; Corrie, ‘A Study’, p. 10; and Tschann and Parkes, p. lvii. See further the chapter by John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones in this volume. 8 Tschann and Parkes, p. lvi. 9 Ibid., p. xlix (emphasis mine).

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of coloured capitals – especially for letters like A, for which multiple allographs were available – the Digby scribe’s practice is exceptionally wide-ranging. In usual practice, variation may prevent boredom, adding to the visual interest of the page for a projected reader and stimulating the producer’s imagination. However, it is the density of variation here that is unusual. Where other manuscripts may have four or even five forms of coloured capital A, the Digby scribe makes use of ten different variants, which appear regularly across the volume. If this scribe ‘learned from his experience as he went along’, then analysis of the construction, application and distribution of the various forms of the initial A suggests that learning his trade involved more than just absorbing material from his exemplars.10 Rather, the Digby scribe’s practice drew from and recast a number of parallel conventions in contemporary book production. The manner of this practice – which relies on experimentation and repetition – reveals the craftsmanship usually hidden in more conventional examples of scribal copying.

The Shape of A The coloured capital As employed by the Digby scribe are derived from three main allographs (Fig. 1). The most common of the forms he employs has two vertical strokes to the left of the crossbar, one of which drops below the baseline, while the other curves above it (Type 1). Another is square in aspect, with both verticals ending on the baseline and often closed off with a horizontal hairline stroke (Type 2). The third has a single trailing vertical stroke on the left side of the crossbar (Type 3). The scribe adapts these base allographs by varying the number and direction of their crossbars. He regularly uses one to three parallel horizontal crossbars and sometimes sets one or two of these at a forty-five degree angle. On three occasions, he uses two angled crossbars to form a cross in the centre of the initial. These adaptations made it possible for the Digby scribe to produce the ten distinct forms of the initial A shown in Table 1. Had the Digby scribe learned his copying practices as he went along, it would not be unreasonable to expect that, as Tschann and Parkes propose, he also learned his decorative practices from his exemplars. Were that the case, we might expect to observe one of two scenarios: either the scribe would have begun his decoration using obscure variants of his own design, which would fall into line with the more conventional forms found in his exemplars as he gained experience; or he would have expanded his repertoire as his project progressed and different design options presented themselves in the different exemplars he came into contact with. In order to test these possibilities, it might be helpful to look at the distribution of initial forms through the manuscript. Current scholarship suggests that, during its copying, Digby 86 was separated into two or three booklets – one of prose (quires i–vi) and the other(s) of verse (quires xv–xx) – which were later joined together with a bridging section when the scribe was satisfied with his arrangement.11 For a scribe Ibid., p. lvi. See pp. xv–xviii in this volume; Tschann and Parkes, pp. xliii–xlvii; and Corrie, ‘A Study’,

10 11

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Type 1

Type 2

Type 3

Fig. 1. Types 1, 2 and 3 allographs for coloured initial As in MS Digby 86. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. gathering allographs as he copied, therefore, we might expect to see relatively few forms of initial A in the opening quires of each booklet, with a gradual accrual of forms across the booklets. This is not necessarily what we find. The most common form of the A initial (A-1a) dominates throughout.12 Initially, a pattern may seem to emerge. Certainly, the five capitals As in what is now the first quire of the first booklet are all versions of the Type 1 initial (A-1a and A-1b). However, Type 2 and Type 3 variants both appear in the second quire of the booklet. So even if the booklets were decorated in the order they were written and these forms of initial were learned separately, then the variants still seem to have entered the scribe’s practice in rapid succession. In any case, if Tschann and Parkes are correct in their assessment that the first six quires of this booklet were largely written as a single scribal stint, then the position of variant initials is unlikely to be of significant help in reconstructing a timeline for the manuscript’s production.13 Meanwhile, the second booklet, which is likely to have been copied in parallel with the first, begins imperfectly. It is not clear how many of the four quires missing between quires xiv and xv belonged at the front of this booklet; it may be as many as three.14 As such, there is no way of determining whether the position of variants used by the Digby scribe are part of a developing pattern of use. Rather, the extant quires in the grouping feature eight of the ten available forms of A with no particular observable pattern. This is not to say that the scribe’s varied repertoire of As was not drawn from his exemplars before he set out to decorate the book. It is likely that the sources he used pp. 237–8. M. Corrie, ‘The Compilation of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Medium Ævum 66 (1997), 236–49, suggests that these booklets where then further organised into sections by language and layout (pp. 237–40). 12 For Digby 86’s distribution of coloured capital As by booklet and quire, see Appendix 1. 13 Tschann and Parkes, p. xliii. Here, either the books were also decorated in the same single period of work, or the decoration followed a different chronology from the writing, the evidence of which it is not possible to follow. 14 Ibid., p. xlii.

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TABLE 1 Forms of A in Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 Sigla

Example

Frequency

A-1a

fols. 1v, 2r, 5r, 10v, 14r, 17r, 19v, 21v, 34v, 47v, 50v, 102v, 122v, 130v, 132v, 136v, 138r, 139r, 147v, 153v, 165r, 176r, 176v, 201v

A-1b

fols. 2v, 7r, 62v, 206r

A-1c

fols. 135r, 150r

A-2a

fols. 10r, 15v, 34v, 101v, 128v, 134v

A-2b

fols. 50v, 131v, 134v, 149r, 149v, 160v

A-3a

fols. 15r, 148v, 186v, 187v

A-3b

fols. 11v, 13v, 26v, 120r, 125r

A-3c

fols. 14r, 20r, 108r

A-3d

fols. 63r, 139r

A-3e

fols. 22v, 129v, 143r

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for his texts would also provide a model for other aspects of the book’s appearance. However, it would only be possible to prove this connection irrefutably through a direct comparison of Digby 86 with its exemplars and, as yet, no exemplars have been established to facilitate such work. The next best thing may be to compare the design of coloured initials in Digby 86 to those found in other related manuscripts.15 The coloured capitals found among the group of twenty-one late thirteenth- and early fourteenth-century manuscripts – of which Digby is one – with established connections to the West Midlands demonstrate several points of continuity and difference (Appendix 2.A–B).16 These manuscripts make up ‘part of a continuum of literary book production’ drawn from a pool of commonly circulating material.17 Several of the manuscripts in this group share one or more texts with Digby 86. The Eleven Pains of Hell, for instance, is found in both Digby and Jesus, while The Sayings of Saint Bernard appears in the somewhat later manuscripts Harley, Laud and Auchinleck, as well as in the roll Oxford, BodL, MS Addit. E 6.18 Others might be connected by the languages of their compilation – many are trilingual volumes featuring texts in Latin, French and English – or by the scribes who worked on them.19 Despite a lack of direct relationships, therefore, we can identify many points In designating manuscripts frequently mentioned in this chapter, I follow this key: Auchinleck = NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1; Cotton = London, BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX; Jesus = Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II); Laud = Oxford, BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108; Trinity = Cambridge, TCC, MS B.14.39. 16 Among the fifty-one manuscripts surveyed for this study (Appendix 2.A–C), the greatest number of variants for the coloured capital A (aside from Digby 86) is five. In Appendix 2.A, I select manuscripts with connections to the West Midlands, as listed by O. da Rold, ‘Manuscript Production Before Chaucer: Some Preliminary Observations’, in Textual Cultures, Cultural Texts, 1000–2010, ed. O. da Rold and E. Treharne (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 43–58 (pp. 55–8), alongside additional manuscripts with literary connections to this group (Appendix 2.B) discussed (implicitly or explicitly) by M. Laing, ‘Anchor Texts and Literary Manuscripts in Early Middle English’, in Regionalism in Late Medieval Manuscripts and Texts: Essays Celebrating the Publication of A Linguistic Atlas of Late Mediaeval English, ed. F. Riddy (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 27–52; J. Frankis, ‘The Social Context of Vernacular Writing in Thirteenth Century England: The Evidence of the Manuscripts’, in Thirteenth Century England I: Proceedings of the Newcastle-upon-Tyne Conference 1985, ed. P. R. Coss and S. D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 175–84; J. Scahill, ‘Trilingualism in Early Middle English Miscellanies: Languages and Literature’, Yearbook of English Studies 33 (2003), 18–32 (esp. pp. 23–31); and S. Fein, ‘The Fillers of the Auchinleck Manuscript and the Literary Culture of the West Midlands’, in Makers and Users of Medieval Books: Essays in Honour of A. S. G. Edwards, ed. C. M. Meale and D. Pearsall (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 60–77. 17 Fein, ‘The Fillers’, pp. 61–2. Except for Jesus and Cotton, none of these manuscripts are thought to have shared exemplars. On those exceptions, see N. Cartlidge, ‘Imagining X: A Lost Early Vernacular Miscellany’, in Imagining the Book, ed. S. Kelly and J. J. Thompson (Turnhout, 2005), pp. 31–44. 18 DIMEV 6112, NIMEV 3828; and DIMEV 5215, NIMEV 3310; for more overlaps see Fein, ‘Fillers’, esp. pp. 74–7; and M. Corrie, ‘Harley 2253, Digby 86, and the Circulation of Literature in Pre-Chaucerian England’, in Studies in the Harley Manuscript: The Scribes, Contents, and Social Contexts of British Library MS Harley 2253, ed. S. Fein (Kalamazoo, MI, 2000), pp. 427–43 (pp. 428, 441–2). 19 These entries appear in bold in Appendix 2.A–B. See Scahill, ‘Trilingualism’, pp. 23–31; da 15

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of contact between the books in this group – points of contact that might lead us to expect some commonality in design and production practices. This West Midlands manuscript group does share several common forms of coloured capital A: the Type 3 variant appears to be typical.20 This allograph is shared by nineteen manuscripts including Digby. At times, it is the only form in use; at others, it is one of a number of different forms. In particular, A-3b, the doublebarred form of the Type 3 allograph, is the preferred form used in the slightly later Laud, the first part of which is notable for an early version of the South English Legendary, with the second part containing several English romances in a slightly later hand.21 Several other allographs used by the Digby scribe are also represented among the related West Midlands group. The single-barred Type 3 initial (A-3a) and the single- and double-barred versions of the box form (A-2a, A-2b) are also widespread. In some manuscripts, slippage occurs between these two variants and the distinction is not always clear-cut: the verticals on the boxed initial may sometimes be angled towards a point at the top of the letter and the closing stroke sporadically applied. In addition, even when the initial is closed by a horizontal stroke on the baseline, the left-hand vertical may be extended beyond this line. Many of the coloured capital As in Cambridge, TCC, MS R.4.26 do just this (Fig. 2).22 It appears that this selection of allographs makes up a spectrum of forms from which limners or copyists could draw when decorating a manuscript, with some users distinguishing more clearly between different allographs than others. However, the Digby scribe’s practice does not conform to such local conventions. He made use of these more common forms less regularly than did his geographically related counterparts: no single form of Type 2 or 3 initial is used more than six times, compared to twenty-four occurrences of form A-1a. Digby 86 also contains one allograph not typically found in its immediate milieu. The most common type of coloured capital A used by the scribe is extremely rare among the rest of the West Midlands group. While Digby 86 records twenty-nine instances of Type 1 As with a varying number of crossbars, it appears only eight times in the related manuscripts: instances of A-1a appear once in Trinity and four times in Jesus; while A-1b occurs three times in Cotton.23 Although these three collections contain similar vernacular poetic material, in no case do these initials Rold, ‘Manuscript Production’, pp. 50–2, 55–8; and J. D. Sargan, ‘Creative Reading: Using Books in the Vernacular Context of Early Anglo-Norman England’, unpublished D.Phil. dissertation, University of Oxford (Oxford, 2018), pp. 23–5. Harley 2253 and London, BL, MSS Royal 12 C XII and Harley 273 all include the work of an individual known as the ‘Harley scribe’. For recent work on the coloured initials in these manuscripts, see S. Fein, ‘The Harley Scribe’s Early Career: New Evidence of a Scribal Partnership in MS Harley 273’, Journal of the Early Book Society 19 (2016), 1–30. 20 See Appendix 2.A. 21 MSS WMidl, s.v. ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Laud Misc. 108’. See also K. K. Bell and J. N. Couch, eds., The Texts and Contexts of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Laud Misc. 108: The Shaping of English Vernacular Narrative (Leiden, 2011). 22 Such ambiguous forms are marked with an asterisk in Appendix 2. 23 Trinity, fol. 16r; Jesus, fols. 187r, 189r, 211r, 224v; and Cotton, fols. 206v, 219v, 239r.

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Fig. 2. Ambiguous allograph for initial A in Cambridge, TCC, MS R.4.26, fol. 20r. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. fall on texts shared with Digby 86. In the case of Trinity, the coloured capital begins a new section of De ordine creaturarum, an anonymous Latin prose treatise describing the universe.24 The texts in Jesus that begin with a Type 1 A may be more in keeping with the contents of Digby 86: Thomas of Hales’s Love Rune and The Proverbs of Alfred are thematically related to some of the didactic verse found among Digby’s poetic texts.25 The Digby scribe, however, makes much more dense use of this allograph, using it over a third more often than his next most common form of A (Type 3). Given how infrequently Type 1 A is found in other manuscripts, the Digby scribe seems likely to have come to this allograph by a different route – either in passing, through sustained study or as a product of his own invention – and selected it as his preferred form. Certainly, it seems unlikely that he lifted it directly from his exemplars, if he found it there at all. In addition, there is one form of coloured capital A found in many of the related manuscripts but not found in Digby. All four of the coloured capital As in Oxford, BodL, MS Ashmole 43, for instance, retain the apex and extended left-hand vertical of Type 3 initials, but have no crossbar (Fig. 3).26 This allograph (Type 4) appears in nine manuscripts of the West Midlands group, three of which fall among the smaller group of trilingual collections related by the form and genre of their contents.27 It is difficult to argue from absence what this may tell us about the Digby scribe’s practices. However, it seems likely, given the regularity with which this form of A is found among geographically related manuscripts, and especially those with comparable contents, that the Digby scribe had come across this variant in his exemplars or other books. Certainly, it appears to have been one of the forms that circulated within his wider milieu. If so, it is clear that the Digby scribe was not solely interested in expanding his repertoire with as many variants as possible. He Trinity, fol. 16r; for its contents, see MSS WMidl, s.v. ‘Cambridge, Trinity College, MS 323/324’. 25 Jesus, fols. 187r, 189r; for its contents, see B. Hill, ‘Oxford, Jesus College MS 29, Part II: Contents, Technical Matters, Compilation, and Its History to c. 1695’, Notes and Queries 50 (2003), 268–76 (pp. 269–70). 26 Ashmole 43, fols. 66r, 165r, 166v, 200r. 27 Cotton; Laud; Ashmole 43; Royal 12 C XII; Harley 273; London, BL, MS Harley 7322; London, BL, MSS Egerton 1993, 2891; and Oxford, CCC, MS 59. 24

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Fig. 3. A Type 4 initial A in Oxford, BodL, MS Ashmole 43, fol. 165r. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. purposefully excluded some designs. Perhaps he considered this allograph unclear, the lack of a crossbar leading to potential confusion. Perhaps it was simply a matter of aesthetic preference. In any case, for whatever reason, the Digby scribe did not make use of an allograph that was seemingly available to him. It is this selectivity – the decision to act against further proliferation rather than exponentially increase the variety of his initials – that suggests that the Digby scribe undertook a more complex process of learning than simply ‘picking it up as he went along’. Or, rather, that learning on the job entailed more than just copying the forms he found in his exemplars and eventually assimilating towards conventional practice. Comparison to a related group of manuscripts has shown that the Digby scribe does not seem to have borrowed directly from his exemplars. Were this the case, some variation would be expected, but an overarching alignment with the conventions of form and distribution in coloured capitals found in locally circulating manuscripts – especially in those containing similar material – would still be likely. Nor does his decorating practice allow us to identify a diachronic accumulation of variant forms. Rather, the Digby scribe seems to have engaged in actively mixing and selecting forms throughout the decoration of his book. It seems, then, that either this scribe was able to draw on a much wider knowledge of bookmaking than has previously been suggested – one that brought him into contact with letterform conventions not found in his exemplars – or he had enough confidence in his techniques to make creative adaptations to the forms he did find there. Or possibly both.

Mastering bookcraft ‘The craftsman’, sociologist Richard Sennett states, ‘represents the special human condition of being engaged.’28 A first impression of the technique used to produce the initial work in Digby 86 may suggest that the scribe was inexperienced in his craft: that he lacked both practice in deploying his skills and knowledge of the conventions of the form. It seems likely that, although he was trained as a scribe (perhaps for pragmatic purposes), he had no formal training in the decorative techniques associated with book production, and that the skills he did have he

R. Sennett, The Craftsman (New Haven, CT, 2008), p. 20.

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picked up as he went along.29 However, craftsmanship is not solely a measure of technical skill. Rather, mastery of a craft is found in the thoughtful deployment of those skills: ‘people with primitive levels of skill struggle more exclusively on getting things to work. At its higher reaches, technique is no longer a mechanical activity; people can feel fully and think deeply about what they are doing once they do it well.’30 Closer interrogation of the Digby scribe’s production practices reveals a craftsman whose work exposes the tension between those two positions. While his technique may be ‘primitive’ and suggest inexperience, his reflective practice reveals an aspiration to craftsmanship and a mastery of the conventions of his genre. Revisiting work and making changes to it requires thought, choice and effort; in other words, doing so demonstrates a scribe’s engagement in his work and in getting it right. It is this retrospective thought that Daniel Wakelin suggests, in his investigation of correction practices, reveals the craftsmanship behind the work of copying.31 The coloured capitals in Digby 86 show evidence of similar retrospection. Initials were not produced in a single sitting but in multiple phases, and revisited on several occasions to adapt and improve the work. Differences in the colour and texture of the inks used to draw and fill the initials – and its correlation with other aspects of the page, such as highlighting, slashing, titles and flourishes – show that these were added in multiple, often fairly short stints rather than in a single campaign. But on some occasions several overlapping shades of red are found on the same initial. In one quire, for instance, fine dark red penlines have been used to finish the tops and bottoms of initials, squaring off the uneven edges of the infill and adding a trailing serif where appropriate. In The Thrush and the Nightingale, a lighter red ink than that used on the body of the capitals seems to have been used to finish the tops of a capital I and two Þs (fol. 137r). On the second Þ, the ink underneath has been pushed aside by the tool used to apply the finished stroke. In making such alterations, or additions, the scribe may have intended to improve workmanship that he considered substandard after advancing his technical ability, or it may have always been his intention to return to these initials and complete the finer detail work. The delay between each phase of the work, therefore, need not have been very long. It is clear, however, that such work necessitated a change in ink – for whatever reason – and this practical consideration would have interrupted the flow of even a direct addition.32 In either case, here the scribe reflects upon his own practice.33 More than this, he consciously sought to improve on this On the scribe’s documentary training, see Tschann and Parkes, p. xlix; Corrie, ‘A Study’, p. 19; and M. B. Parkes, ‘The Literacy of the Laity’, reprinted in his Scribes, Scripts and Readers: Studies in the Communication, Presentation and Dissemination of Medieval Texts (London, 1991), pp. 275–97 (pp. 284–5). 30 Sennett, The Craftsman, p. 20. 31 D. Wakelin, Scribal Correction and Literary Craft: English Manuscripts 1375–1510 (Cambridge, 2014), p. 63. 32 For more on the implications of such momentary interruptions, see Wakelin, Scribal Correction, p. 64. 33 It is worth considering the possibility that this finishing of initials is the product of a later doodler. However, the similarity in ink colour to other aspects of the manuscript’s 29

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practice: to improve aspects of the initials that he saw as defective, or at least not perfected. This ability to revisit work, observe its deficiencies and take steps to correct or repair those flaws constitutes what Sennett calls a ‘fundamental category of craftsmanship’.34 As well as repairing initials he had already produced, at several points in the manuscript the Digby scribe modifies his technique for producing initials. Some initials in quire xxii exhibit visible lead underdrawing not easily distinguished elsewhere in the manuscript.35 In other cases, in an attempt to regulate the form of his initials, the scribe appears to have drafted them in pale brown or red ink before painting them (see fols. 149r, 150r). Such drafting work reveals that the scribe aspired to a particular aesthetic for the volume and reflected upon the best methods for achieving this. In other places, the production of initials seems to have been more ad hoc. The outline of a coloured capital E in an expanded French Letter of Hippocrates seems to have been drawn in the same ink as the text (fol. 14v). One shade of red has then been used to fill in the centre of the letter and another to extend the left-hand curve of the letter’s outline in a process reminiscent of the gradual widening of a letter undertaken by a child embarking on ‘bubblewriting’ for the first time. Perhaps these contrasting methods of production – one carefully planned, the other apparently spontaneous – reveal the progression of the scribe’s techniques as his skills develop: either moving from the insecure need to plan every detail of the work meticulously to a more confident freehand approach, or from the experimental methods of one learning to produce coloured capitals for the first time to a more detail-oriented, process-driven technique. In either case, the different processes the Digby scribe employs to construct his initials demonstrate his willingness to reflect upon, experiment with and change his practice in order to produce better – or faster – results. ‘Technique develops’, Sennett suggests, ‘by a dialectic between the correct way to do something and the willingness to experiment through error.’36 In this, the scribe is not dissimilar to the glass-blower described by Sennett who, in a quest to fashion a new shape of goblet, must unlearn her pre-existing habits and through repetition and experimentation develop a new technique.37 In these changes of practice we witness the Digby scribe undertaking what the writer and motorcycle mechanic Matthew Crawford calls the ‘iterated self-criticism, in light of some ideal that is never quite attained, whereby the craftsman advances his art’.38 layout, and the layering of production phases observable here, suggest that this is unlikely. Moreover, the distribution of such changes (sporadically) across the manuscript points to a consistency of purpose not usually associated with the interventions of later users, who may be less interested in the manuscript as an overall product. 34 Sennett, The Craftsman, p. 248. 35 See esp. the Q on fol. 172v, where an alternative tail position was drafted in lead and then erased. 36 Sennett, The Craftsman, p. 160. 37 Ibid., pp. 173–5. 38 M. Crawford, The Case for Working with Your Hands (London, 2009), p. 13.

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Experimentation as an avenue to improvement may be one explanation for the exceptional variety of coloured capital As in Digby 86. Rather than copy his capitals directly from his exemplars, the Digby scribe was willing to adapt the base allographs that he employed. Even the most stable form of A used in the manuscript (the allograph with the least variants) is drawn sometimes with one crossbar and sometimes with two. These forms are employed with almost equal frequency: of the nine Type 2 As, four feature a double crossbar and five a single one. More striking is the variation among Type 3 initials. Whereas most manuscripts with this allograph have either the single-barred A-3a form or the double-barred A-3b form – occasionally employing both – Digby 86 has five different styles, three of which are scribal ideographs not replicated elsewhere in the West Midlands group.39 These include three examples where the crossbar slopes at an angle of around forty-five degrees upward from left to right (fols. 14r, 20r, 108r), two where it slopes downward (fols. 63r, 139r) and three where two cross in the middle (fols. 22v, 129v, 143r). Nor did the Digby scribe subscribe to the conventional forms of variants that are used elsewhere. The weighting and position of the crossbars on the Digby scribe’s double-barred A, for instance, are different from those commonly employed by other scribes or limners. The coloured capital As in manuscripts like Laud feature a wide primary crossbar with a parallel hairline above or below it (Fig. 4). In all the examples in Digby 86, however, both crossbars are of equal width and spaced evenly between the baseline and the top of the initial. Often this means that each crossbar lines up with a line of text, perhaps allowing the scribe to use the ruling as a guide. The Digby scribe’s treatment of initials therefore – his interest in adaptations of, and experiments with, form – again reflect a type of craftsmanship. Although this scribe may not be a master craftsman of the sort recognisable by the quality of his technique or by his adherence to a conventional standard, his treatment of those conventions demonstrates at least the aspiration to mastery: an aspiration that finds its expression through experimentation.

Further experiments in convention A further survey of the thirty-one dated and datable manuscripts in the collections of the Bodleian Library that were produced in England between 1250 and 1350 may serve to reveal the scribe’s awareness of, and interaction with, other conventions in the decoration of books (Appendix 2.C). The survey reinforces the impression that the variation among the Digby scribe’s coloured capital As was exceptional and that direct models for several of the forms he employed are not to be found among English manuscripts of the period. Instead, it seems that the scribe’s initials, along with other decorative features of his book, represent his own experiments with reproducing and adapting conventions he found elsewhere.

For manuscripts including both A-3a and A-3b, see Laud; Harley; Auchinleck; and Oxford, CCC, MS 59.

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Fig. 4. A-3b initial in Oxford, BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108, fol. 128v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. Roughly a third of the coloured initials in Digby 86 are drawn in two colours.40 Most two-coloured programmes of initials in late thirteenth-century manuscripts are drawn in combinations of red and blue. However, for manuscripts made on a tighter budget or in situations of material scarcity, red and brown are not uncommon. These colours are found particularly often in books made by scribes for their own use. In a working notebook likely to have been compiled by one Walter Waldyng near Staunton in Gloucestershire, not far from where Digby 86 was made, red and brown is a standard combination.41 However, the combination of red, brown and white interlocking sections in some of the Digby scribe’s initials is also strongly reminiscent of the elaborate puzzle initials found in more luxurious books. At the beginning of a set of instructions to treat kidney pain, for instance, a zigzag line divides the red section of the initial P from a white interlocking section (fol. 19r). More strikingly, on the following folio, the red and brown sections of an A-3c, which begins a recipe for the treatment of scurf, are divided by a very narrow white line of blank parchment (fol. 20r). Initially, this white gap might be thought an accident born out of poor workmanship, but such gaps are typical of filigree puzzle initials in more technically accomplished productions and appear regularly in English manuscripts of the period.42 They can be found, for instance, in a set of law codes written soon after 1297, where initials at the start of each statute are

Eighty-two of the 233 initials in the first six quires (35 per cent). In some quires bipartite initials are used more densely than in others; in the six quires that make up the proposed bridging section (fols. 81r–96v), no bipartite initials are used. 41 Oxford, CCC, MS 59. See C. Brown, ‘A Thirteenth-Century Manuscript from Llanthony Priory’, Speculum 3 (1927), 587–95 (p. 588). For other examples of red and brown initial schemes, see Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 2; and Oxford, BodL, MS Addit. C 188. 42 For example, among the comparison manuscripts, see Egerton 1993, Harley 273 and Oxford, BodL, MS Bodley 464. For the development of puzzle initials and their move into English manuscripts, see P. Stirnemann, ‘Fils de la vierge. L’initiale à Filigranes Parisiennes: 1140–1314’, Revue de l’Art 90 (1990), 58–73 (p. 60); C. Johnston, ‘The Development of Penflourishing in Manuscripts Produced in England between 1180 and 1280’, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of London (London, 2014), pp. 59–60; and C. Johnston, ‘“In the custom of this country”: The Migration of Decorative Style in Thirteenth-Century Reading Abbey Manuscripts’, Reading Medieval Studies 14 (2016), 103–30 (p. 103). 40

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divided into interlocking red and blue sections, with ornate flourishes and infills.43 Such initials also make use of white (blank) parchment gaps between detailed interlocking patterns that showcase fine-line work and careful colouring. While these examples are certainly more technically accomplished than those produced by the Digby scribe, his combination of interlocking sections and gaps suggests that he may well have been inspired by the decoration of deluxe manuscripts. Occasionally, the scribe of Digby 86 also adds fine-line decoration to his initials. This decoration takes two main forms: red ink flourishes attached to the corners, or infilling of the white space at the centre of closed letterforms, such as D and O. As noted above, these flourishes have been considered ‘crude’. Such judgements rest on several observations rooted in the Digby scribe’s nonstandard practice. First, the lines employed for this decoration appear to have been made with a brush or thick nib, rather than the fine quill that characterises most ‘penline’ decoration. The thicker than usual lines may have been necessitated by the quality of the scribe’s materials: his ink is paintlike in appearance, more granular and raised further above the surface parchment than is usual. This is particularly true of the pinker shades of red. Finally, most of the flourishes and infills the scribe produced seem unfinished. In part, this is due to the unpractised appearance of his attempts, which are less smooth and flowing than those found in other manuscripts; but, in part, it is because the designs themselves are unconventional: they are not always joined to the initials they decorate and often ‘float’ within or around the letter instead. Nevertheless, the scribe’s decoration does relate to more conventional filigree designs. The majority of the infilling supplied by the scribe, for instance, is based around spiral forms (Fig. 5). Sometimes these interlock in opposing combinations, as in one coloured U at the beginning of an extract from Robert Grosseteste’s Chasteau d’amour (fol. 116v).44 Among the English manuscripts compared here, similar spiral forms dominate the design of penline infills before the fourteenth century, when floral and foliate forms take over.45 More common than infills in Digby 86 are flourishes. Sometimes these are attached directly to the horizontals, as in the case of a capital P that begins a section of L’Assumption de Nostre Dame; in other cases they ‘drop’ vertically from the lower corner, as on the S that begins the work (fol. 169r). Both the short curl and the extended version can be mapped onto some of the more basic elements found in contemporary penline flourishes. In fact, in her catalogue of flourishing components from the thirteenth century, Sonia Scott-Fleming suggests that ‘curled tip[s]’ like this accompany long flourishes so often that they are not worth listing as a separate feature.46 Often the curls in Digby 86 do not form a complete spiral; instead, BodL, MS Addit. C 188; for As, see fols. 5v, 8r, 42v, 44r, 45v, 54r, 66r, 66v, 68r, 68v, 70v. Spiral infills can also be found at fols. 8v, 17v, 126v, 135v, 160r. 45 A. I. Doyle, ‘Penwork Flourishing of Initials in England from c. 1380’, in Tributes to Kathleen L. Scott, English Medieval Manuscripts: Readers, Makers and Illuminators, ed. M. V. Hennessy (London, 2009), pp. 65–72 (pp. 65–7). 46 S. Scott-Fleming, The Analysis of Pen Flourishing in Thirteenth-Century Manuscripts (Leiden, 1989), p. 42 (see her component E). 43

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Fig. 5. Spiral infilling in initial P, MS Digby 86, fol. 17v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan.

Fig. 6. Open loop flourishes in initial D (without bipartite design), MS Digby 86, fol. 192v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. they stop short of the starting point in an open loop.47 In some cases, the finishing side of the loop is much shorter than the starting side, a feature Scott-Fleming uses to discount certain flourishes from her comparisons. However, in the case of Digby 86, such examples fall upon a continuum that ranges from slight open curves to almost joined circles. As such, other examples of the Digby scribe’s ‘open loop’ flourish, like the one on the bottom corner of a coloured capital D in the middle of a French copy of the Letter of Prester John (Fig. 6), compare closely to those Scott-Fleming identifies in English and French manuscripts of the period.48 The coloured capital F that begins a section of the text titled ‘Hic incipit carmen inter corpus et animam’ (fol. 197v) may represent the most comprehensive example of penline flourishing attempted by the Digby scribe (Fig. 7).49 Here the scribe combines several components, which branch off a single long flourish descending from the corner of the horizontal serif at the foot of the initial. The main long flourish is finished with an inverted open loop. Three further flourishes branch from the right side of this vertical at even intervals. Of these minor flourishes, the first has a curled tip; the second most closely resembles Scott-Fleming’s kinked flourish;50 and the third ends in a three-pronged fork, one tine of which is curled, while the other two finish in two further open loops. A closer inspection of the Resembling Scott-Fleming’s component A (The Analysis of Pen Flourishing, p. 29). Ibid., p. 30. 49 Similar combinations of flourishes are found on fols. 4v, 79v. 50 Scott-Fleming, The Analysis of Pen Flourishing, p. 50 (see her component K). 47 48

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Fig. 7. Profile and flourishes in initial F, MS Digby 86, fol. 197v. Drawing by J. D. Sargan. ways the coloured initials in Digby 86 are decorated, therefore, suggests that while his decorative techniques may be unusual and his deployment of them sporadic, the Digby scribe draws upon common components used in contemporary French and English manuscripts, employing them in experimental ways to embellish his coloured initials. Between the horizontals of this capital F, somebody has drawn in red ink a profile of a person wearing a hood. Two further coloured capital Fs also contain hooded profiles drawn in red (fols. 33v, 135v). Another face, this one without the details of hair or hood, appears in the initial C that begins a section of the French verse translation of the Disciplina clericalis (fol. 77v). Such faces play into a number of conventions for populating or inhabiting letterforms. In some manuscripts, linedrawn faces, usually produced by the scribe in the same inks as other aspects of the written page, are integrated into the decoration of capitals and other letterforms. In a cartulary from the 1350s, for example, profiles – often with distinct hats, hair or facial features – can be found among the embellishments on the exaggerated ascenders on the top line of many pages.51 In other cases, capitals – particularly round ones like O or C – may be transformed into faces through the addition of eyes, nose, a mouth and other details.52 In England such decoration has been associated with documents, in particular, but it is also found in cursive bookhands like that of the Digby scribe.53 With this in mind, it might not be thought unusual that Digby 86 should employ such decorations, given the likelihood that his personal anglicana hand was developed copying documents.54 However, the position of these profiles within the frame of major coloured capitals also aligns them with populated or historiated initials in other manuscripts. For example, Oxford, BodL, MS Wood Empt. 1, fol. 8r. In this corpus, the Italian section of a fourteenth-century composite manuscript containing English historical treatises begins with a Q turned into a bearded face: Oxford, BodL, MS Lat. Hist. d. 4, fol. 1r. 53 See, for example, Oxford, BodL, MS Bodley 712, fol. 140r (mid-fourteenth century), reproduced in M. B. Parkes, English Cursive Book Hands 1250–1500 (Oxford, 1969), pl. 7 (i). 54 Corrie, ‘A Study’, p. 19; and da Rold, ‘Manuscript Production’, p. 54. 51 52

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Few of these fall among the datable manuscripts that I have surveyed here. However, the A at the opening of Layamon’s Brut stands out as one such example.55 Historiated initials with characters and events often directly reflect upon the material they preface, providing a visual commentary on the text. In this case, a scribe, possibly aligned with Layamon himself, whom the adjacent prologue introduces, sits within the apex of the letter A, engrossed in his writing. Initials inhabited by more generic figures or faces are more ambiguous.56 None of the inhabited initials in Digby 86 fall at the start of a text; rather they seem to draw attention to particular sections of the work. Sometimes the profile in the initial may be prompted by the subject of the section; for instance, in a lyric on Doomsday, treated by the scribe as part of the debate between the body and the soul, the face drawn in initial F begins the line ‘From þat adam was iboren þat come domesdai’ (Fig. 7). In this case, the face may represent Adam. However, even this is speculative and, in other cases, the connection between image and text is less direct. The whole of Maximian is in first person, so why the scribe chose to include a profile in an initial halfway through the lament is unclear (fol. 135v). Nevertheless, these figures – along with several hands (either pointing or raised in gestures of benediction) that also decorate initials – are participating in a tradition of populating capitals that was established in illuminated books. Again, though, these faces might be considered somewhat quirky, in that they neither fully participate in the design of the initial (as penline decoration would) nor fill the blank space within it (as in an illuminated capital). Finally, in some places the Digby scribe has added drawings to the manuscript’s margins that together constitute a substantial decorative programme. Of the 414 pages in the manuscript, twenty-eight pages distributed over sixteen quires have some form of marginal illustration not contained within an initial. Many of these illustrations take the form of labelled images like the ones already described. There is, for example, in the lower margin of a French text for analysing dreams attributed to the prophet Daniel, a filled-in crescent labelled ‘luna’ (moon) (fol. 41r). More abstractly, a dark cross-hatched figure next to a coffin at the bottom of the Disciplina clericalis is labelled ‘mortuus’ (dead) (fol. 83v). It is possible that the Latin labels accompanying these drawings relate to some sort of language-learning exercise. What is clear is that the images seem to respond to the texts they accompany. Thus, the crescent moon is drawn beneath a section of text beginning, ‘La secounde lune …’ (The second moon …). Meanwhile, the verse that accompanies the dead figure – which appears alongside a second tomb, again labelled ‘tomba’ (tomb) – contains the lines ‘Qui vus le avez de mort garri’ (who you have protected from death; fol. 83vb). Their marginal positions might suggest that these drawings were little more than unplanned doodles. Even so, the images provide a visual overview of some themes that appear in the works they illustrate. In this respect, they play a role similar to many of the more extensive illustrative schemes found among Cotton, fol. 3r. For more on this distinction in English Romanesque initials see J. A. Thompson, ‘Reading in the Painted Letter: Human Heads in Twelfth-Century English Initials’ (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of St Andrews (St Andrews, 2000)), pp. 20–32.

55

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illuminated manuscripts of the period. In fact, such images might again provide some type of commentary or ‘pictorial gloss’ on the work.57 If the Latin labels used in Digby 86 are also taken into account, it might be said that the images provide the manuscript with a double gloss: one enacted both visually by illustration and then summarised again by a single Latin word. Here, then, the Digby scribe modifies the illustrative practice found in contemporary books or memorial practices used by contemporary readers, integrating Latin labels into those drawings he felt might need clarifying, perhaps in order to strengthen the gloss provided by the images.58 Other aspects of the Digby scribe’s drawings seem to respond to conventions for decorating more luxurious manuscripts. In decorated books, the addition of heraldic devices to borders, such as the one in the lower margin of a cartulary from Glastonbury, provided a way of personalising the manuscript for patrons or donors.59 The margins of Digby 86 have five such devices, at least three of which were drawn before the manuscript was completed (fols. 47r, 68r).60 These three larger shields have been tentatively identified as the arms of the Fitzjohn, de Vesci and Beaumont families, all of whom held lands in the area surrounding Redmarley and Pendock, and to whom the Digby scribe may have felt some particular allegiance.61 The other two shields, however, have not been connected to particular heraldic devices, and it may be that B. D. H. Miller is right in his suggestion that the scribe ‘amused himself by drawing such coats, real or imaginary, as it pleased him to draw’.62 He may have drawn these devices not because of the importance of the families they represent, but because he felt the presence of the device itself was important for the production of an aesthetically complete manuscript. Other images the scribe draws also seem to originate in common visual conventions associated with luxury manuscripts. Twice, a woman’s outward-looking face is drawn at the bottom of pages in Digby 86 (fols. 84r, 102v). These faces are drawn according to the same model and have many common features, including a downturned left eye, pupils added in dark ink and a curved line across the bottom of the S. Lewis, ‘Beyond the Frame: Marginal Figures and Historiated Initials in the Getty Apocalypse’, The J. Paul Getty Museum Journal 20 (1992), 53–76 (p. 56). Marginal images are used in a similar way in Oxford, CCC, MS 59. 58 For more on memorial practices like this, compare M. Carruthers, The Book of Memory, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2008), esp. pp. 273–81; and M. Carruthers, ‘“Thinking in Images”: the Spatial and Visual Requirements of Cognition and Recollection in Medieval Psychology’, in Signs and Symbols, ed. J. Cherry and A. Payne, Harlaxton Medieval Studies 18 (Donington, 2009), pp. 1–17. 59 MS Wood Empt. 1, fol. 71r. 60 The shields on fol. 68r were drawn before additional texts were written, their presence at the bottom of the page causing the scribe to complete his copying of the arabic numerals at the bottom of the previous page. See also Tschann and Parkes, p. xlvii. 61 Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 50–5. M. Corrie questions Miller’s omission of the Bassingbourn coat of arms from his identifications (‘Further Information on the Origins of Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86’, Notes and Queries 46 (1999), 430–3 (p. 432)). On the families’ local significations, see also the chapter by Hines and Julian-Jones in this volume. 62 Miller, ‘The Early History’, p. 55. 57

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chin. But such faces are found elsewhere too. Beneath an image of The Adoration of the Lamb in the deluxe Getty Apocalypse (dated to c. 1260), within a coloured capital P, is another face also with asymmetrical eyes, pink cheeks and wearing a headdress that hangs from the top corners of the triangular visage.63 The striking similarity between the images in these manuscripts, despite the differences in grade, suggests that in producing his illustrations the Digby scribe was not working exclusively from his own imagination. It is unlikely that either manuscript provided a direct model for the drawings in the other. Rather, it seems that – as with heraldic devices and other signs (like pointing hands in the margins) – this motif was part of a visual code shared by manuscript producers. The Digby scribe appears to have had enough familiarity with the conventional aspects of book design to incorporate these decorative practices into his own manuscript, though sometimes in unfamiliar ways. Just as with his coloured initials, in his decorative practices the scribe is interested in appropriating and experimenting with a range of visual conventions picked up from a wide range of contemporary manuscripts. This scribe was not an outsider to bookmaking, nor was he oblivious of the conventions and practices it entailed. Rather, his experimentation with common visual conventions – even in combination with his less-refined technique – reveals a scribe well versed in the decorative aspects of the page and willing to play with these in new and creative ways: if not a master craftsman, then at least someone whose thought processes might be considered craftsmanlike.

The scribe, the craftsman and the jazz musician Yet, claims of craftsmanship conflict with the Digby scribe’s lack of technical ability. If his varied coloured capitals – especially the ten forms he uses for the initial A – seem to suggest exposure to a wide range of models and his decorating practices show an understanding of the visual conventions of contemporary book production, his deployment of both these features suggests the work of someone not trained in either of these things. Though his approach may echo that of a master craftsman, his skill and his access to materials suggest no such thing: at best the scribe appears a keen amateur. Sennett, citing a commonly reported figure, suggests that ten thousand hours of practice are needed to master a craft.64 We might ask, though, when it comes to scribes, what constitutes practice? Certainly the hours scribes spent physically engaged in writing – mixing inks, honing letterforms and practising their execution of different scripts – are one aspect of this. However, the attainment of craftsmanship relies on the willingness to take the ‘tidiness’ of the intellectualised ‘ideal’ product and expose it to the messiness of practice: through her experiments in technique, ‘the probing craftsman does more than encounter mess; … she creates

Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS Ludwig III 1, fol. 9v; see Lewis, ‘Beyond the Frame’, p. 54, fig. I. 64 Sennett, Craftsman, p. 9. 63

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it as a means of understanding working procedures’.65 The decorative aspects of Digby 86 may be figured as part of this period of temporary messiness, in which the scribe takes his vision for the book and attempts – through variation and experimentation – to understand the skills and techniques needed to bring it into reality. Experimentation here is a specific form of messiness: one that is open to mistakes, but grounded in an understanding of expectations. Perhaps, in this case, ‘craft’ is too loose a category. Instead, we might compare this scribe’s mode of learning to that of a particular craft practitioner: the jazz musician.66 A crucial measure of a jazz musician’s skill is her capacity to improvise. Improvisation is a traditional aspect of jazz performance and, when done well, improvised sections appear to flow unthinkingly from the innate musicality of the performer. However, in order to fit within the confines of the form, such improvisation must subscribe to a number of generic conventions. Improvisation, in actuality, is grounded in a knowledge of rhythms, harmonies and progressions: musicians ‘create new music using models known and in some way agreed upon beforehand’.67 Developing the skill of improvisation, therefore, relies on deep and extended study of the limits of the conventions to which it subscribes. In particular, it relies on study by listening. So reading is also practice for writing. Exposure to the conventions of form, layout and content that govern the making of books provides the scribe with a framework on which to base his own practice. Reading widely and deeply leads to a deeper understanding of the form he is trying to achieve. Based on this experience, he might visualise his objectives, playing with the conventions he has learned to see the finished book in his mind’s eye. While a student of jazz might be able to learn the components and patterns found in jazz improvisation from books and tutors, learning to put these components together successfully in a sonically pleasing manner relies on the accumulated experience of listening to other musicians and developing an ‘inner ear’ for the combinations that work. As Patricia Shehan Campbell, an ethnomusicologist and pedagogue, suggests: ‘At the moment of improvisation, this backlog of sounds finds a place in expressive music making.’68 Just as the musician must listen to other pieces in order to hear the direction of their own improvisations, so the Digby scribe developed his conception of the manuscript through looking at other books. Increasingly, though, improvisation is not only the measure by which a jazz musician shows mastery over her craft, but also a stage in the acquisition of the craft itself. Children, in learning to speak, often experiment with rhythmic and

Ibid., p. 161. This idea finds its origins in a personal conversation with Daniel Wakelin, who has briefly spoken of the parallels between the two traditions on several occasions. 67 G. Solis, ‘Introduction’, in Musical Improvisation: Art, Education, and Society, ed. G. Solis and B. Nettl (Chicago, 2009), pp. 1–17 (p. 3). 68 P. S. Campbell, ‘Learning to Improvise Music, Improvising to Learn Music’, in Musical Improvisation: Art, Education, and Society, ed. G. Solis and B. Nettl (Chicago, 2009), pp. 119–42 (p. 119; see also p. 123). 65 66

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melodic patterning.69 In doing so, they learn to string a series of components together in order to mimic the sounds they hear around them and then to employ these components in the production of their own speech. Sonic experimentation can also be valuable to the learning of music. A musician who begins her training with improvisation integrates her extended theoretical study with her performance, unifying the two sides of her practice: learning ‘through experience’.70 Such students are both ‘learning to improvise’ and ‘improvising to learn’. Like the student of jazz, the Digby scribe’s decorative practices rely on the redeployment of components learned from his study of the work of other practitioners, but his experimental application of these forms is also a mode of learning. As part of his learning, improvisation integrated different aspects of his study – those of visual semiotics, conventions and technical methodologies – testing the boundaries of what was permissible in book production. For the Digby scribe, learning by doing was not simply a case of replicating models found in his exemplars, or of adding these models to a growing visual vocabulary; it was a process of active experimentation and improvisation that allowed him to visually test the conventions he was learning to work within. In this case, the scribe’s technical skill might also develop as part of, or alongside, this learning process, as he tests different methods – underdrawings, penline finishing – in an effort to find those that work. While it may still be construed as ‘crude’ (as early jazz was), therefore, the Digby scribe’s decorative practices reveal a complex, integrated learning practice based on creative improvisation. In doing so, they lead us to question the expectation that craftsmanship resides in the complete, the aesthetically pleasing or the technically skilled. As Sennett reminds us, ‘There is nothing inevitable about becoming skilled.’71 It may be that this scribe never mastered the art of penline flourishing. However, perhaps we can ascribe to him a sort of craftsmanship, one that resides in a messiness that reveals the craftsmanlike thinking of its creation. More broadly, we might consider the role of improvisation at the heart of technical manuscript decoration. Here, key components – capitals, flourishes, borders – are adapted, reformulated and deployed in varying combinations to create a page that is new and unique and yet subscribes (mostly) to the conventions of its milieu. Every page is fresh and different, while every page is recognisably part of a collective whole.* Ibid., pp. 130–1. Ibid., p. 135. 71 Sennett, The Craftsman, p. 9. 69

70

* This essay is dedicated to the memory of my mother. It was written, in part, in hospitals and hospices, and would not have come together without the patience and guidance of Susanna Fein. I am grateful to Jenni Nuttall, J. R. Mattison, and to many members of the Early Middle English Society for suggesting lines of enquiry and acting as sounding boards for the ideas discussed here, and to Daniel Wakelin for helpful comments. I thank Dr Martin Kauffmann, who allowed me to view MS Digby 86 in person. This research would not have been possible without the support of the Arts and Humanities Research Council of the UK.

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APPENDIX 1 Distribution of coloured capitals As in MS Digby 86 by booklet, quire and folio Booklet

1

Quire A-1a

A-1b

i

1v, 2r, 2v, 5r 7r

ii

10v, 14r, 17r

iii

19v, 21v

A-1c

A-2a

A-2b A-3a

10r, 15v

15r

bridge Scribe B bridge

14r 22v

26v

v

34v

vi

47v

vii

50v

viii

34v 50v 62v

63r

ix x xi xii xiii

102v

101v

xiv

108r

xv

2

11v, 13v

A-3d A-3e

20r

iv

1b

A-3b A-3c

120r

xvi

122v, 130v, 132v

xvii

136v, 138r, 139r

xviii

147v

xix

153v

128v 135r

131v

125r

134v

139r 148v

150r

149r

129v

143r

149r, 149v

xx single quire

xxi

165r

xxii

176r, 176v

xxiii 3/annex

xxiv

186v, 187v

xxv xxvi single

201v 206r

single

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5r, 100v

BL, MS Royal 12 G IV, s. xiii, with s. xv material

66r

A-1c

5r*, 10r* 10v*, 12r*, 14r*, 14v*, 15r x3*, 15v*, 17v*, 18r*, 29r*, 31v*, 35v*, 40v*, 51v*, 52r*, 62v*, 71v*, 73r*, 74r x2*, 75r x2*, 77v x2, 78v*, 86v*, 95v*, 110r*

56r*

A-2a

137r*

A-2b

26v, 59v, 106v, 110r

2r, 21r, 22v, 33r, 45r and as minor initial throughout

A-3a

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

A-4

1

Key: * marks an ambiguous form, usually one that features a box form (Type 2) on which the left-hand vertical is also extended. Italics marks a textually or thematically related manuscript also found in the geographically related group (Group A). Bold marks a multilingual compilation (Groups A and B). Anomalous designs of A (not otherwise listed) occur in: BL, MS Royal 17 A XXVII (I), fol. 46r; BL, MS Royal 12 G IV, fol. 134r; Oxford, CCC, MS 59, fols. 5r, 27r, 46v; BodL, MS Bodley 91, fol. 33r; BodL, MS Laud Misc. 750, fol. 2r; and BodL, MS Wood Empt. 1, fols. 1r, 149v, 185r. 2 As compiled from da Rold, ‘Manuscript Production’; M. Laing, ‘Anchor Texts and Literary Manuscripts’, pp. 27–52; Frankis, ‘Social Context’, pp. 175–84; and Fein, ‘Fillers’, pp. 60–77.

64r

A-1b

BL, MS Royal 89v 17 A XXVII (I), s. xiiiin

A-1a

A. West Midlands manuscripts, c. 1270–13502

APPENDIX 2 Distribution of As in comparison manuscripts1

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BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108, s. xiii/xiv 215v

211r, 215v, 224r, 227v, 231v

187r, 189r

A-3a

Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II), s. xiiiex 26v*

A-2b

62v

234r and as a minor initial throughout*

A-2a

16r

A-1c

TCC, MS B.14.39, s. xiiiex

A-1b

1r, 2r, 2v

A-1a

BL, MS Cotton Vitellius D III, s. xiiiex

BodL, MS Bodley 652, s. xiii2

A-3b

1av, 3r x2, 7v, 8v, 9r, 13v x2, 16v, 25v, 29r x2, 29v, 30ar, 88r, 128v, 131v, 138r, 144v, 147r, 158r, 160r, 174r, 175r, 204v, 210r, 212v, 213r, 214v, 219r, 222v

162r

40v, 54v, 60v

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

14v, 219v

A-4

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Oxford, CCC, MS 59, s. xivin

CUL, MS Dd. 6. 29, s. xiv, with s. xv material

BL, MS Harley 7322, s. xiv

TCC, MS R.4.26, s. xiv

BodL, MS Ashmole 43, s. xiii/xiv

A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

As minor initial throughout Kalendar

1v*, 12v*, 20r*, 21v*, 22r*, 25v*, 31r*, 34v* x2, 35r*, 53r, 59r, 65v*, 83v*, 92r*, 93r, 95v*, 96r*, 102v

A-2a

A-2b

27r, 28v, 104r

92v and as minor initial throughout

A-3a

46v

46r

62r, 157r

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

87r

196v

66r, 165r, 166v, 200r

A-4

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BL, MS Egerton 1993, s. xiv1

BL, MS Additional 46919, s. xiv1, initials filled only on fols. 107r–119v

BL, MS Egerton 2891, s. xivin

A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

A-2a

118r

A-2b 46r

17r

A-3b 4v, 39r, 48v, 82r, 96r, 135v*, 164r

A-3a

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

13v, 21r, 98v, 147r

1r, 48r, 54r, 57r, 75v, 83r, 94v, 119r, 134r, 134v x2, 166v x2, 177v, 191v

A-4

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20r, 48r, 210r* x2 and as a minor initial throughout

A-2b

49r, 53r, 54r

24v

A-2a

BL, MS Harley 2253, s. xiv1

A-1c

21v, 22r*, 22v*, 23r*, 23v, 36r, 81v

106r, 107r and as a minor initial at 16v, 18v*, 23r x2, 27v, 30v*, 56r, 61v, 64v

A-1b

BL, MS Royal 12 C XII, s. xiv1

BL, MS Harley 273, s. xiv1

A-1a

24r, 25r, 26r

199r and as a minor initial on 65r

A-3a

5v, 42r, 54v

13r, 62v x2, 63r x3, 63v x3, 64v x3, 65r x 2, 65v, 66r x3, 67v x3, 68r x2

15v, 45r, 70v*, 75v, 79r, 102r*, 103r, 106v, 122r, 204r, 206r, 207r, 209r x2, 211r*, 212r* x2

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

32r

14v, 15v, 42r, 47v x2, 59r, 60r, 64v, 88v, 89r, 90v, 92v, 94r, 100r, 100v, 102r, 209v x2, 212r

A-4

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Edinburgh, NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1 (Auchinleck manuscript), s. xivmed

BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX, s. xiii4

A-1a

206v, 219v, 239r

A-1b

A-1c

B. Manuscripts with related content, 1250–1350

Fragments: St Andrews University Library, MS PR 2065.A.15, 1v, 2r

36v, 37r, 53v, 54v, 55v, 56v, 61v, 80v, 81r, 83v, 84r, 121v, 124v, 125v, 139v, 142v, 198v, 262r, 264v, 280r, 280v, 289r, 299r, 301v, 307r, 307v, 309r, 310r

A-2a

16v, 21v, 118v, 23v, 28v, 199r 72r, 72v, 97r, 180r, 312r x3, 312v x2, 313v x3, 314r x2, 314v x3, 315r x2, 315v, 316r, 316v, 317r, 325r

31v, 34r, 38r, 54r, 56v, 57r, 61r, 66r, 66v, 67r, 85v, 87r, 91r, 101v, 129r, 174r, 180v, 182v, 189v, 192r, 224r, 260r, 278v x2, 280r, 280v, 287v, 302v, 306v x2, 307r, 307v, 308v 309r, 309v, 310r, 326v, 327r, 328r*, 328v, 329v, 330r, 330v, 331r x2, 331v, 332r, 332v, 333r

A-3b 196r, 196v, 197v, 199r, 223v

A-3a

224r, 246v x2, 247v x2, 248r, 248v

A-2b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

203v, 219v

A-4

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A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

A-2a

A-2b

A-3a

A-3b

A-3c A-3d

A-3e

3

7r, 7v, 8v, 10r, 11v, 12r, 13r, 16v x2, 22r, 23v, 24r, 26v, 28r, 32r, 42v, 44v, 45r, 47r, 51v, 52r, 57v, 67r, 71r, 71v, 78v, 79v, 83r, 87r x3, 88r, 99r, 103r, 105r x2, 105v, 106v, 107v, 109v, 110v, 112r, 116v, 121r, 121v, 122r, 123r x2, 123v, 125v x3, 126r, 126v x2, 127v, 128v, 130r x2, 130v, 136r, 137r, 143r, 143v x2, 145v, 146v, 147r, 149r, 152r, 153v x2, 154v, 156r, 156v

A-4

The Scarlet Letter

As found in A. G. Watson, Catalogue of Dated and Datable Manuscripts c. 435–1600 in Oxford Libraries, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1984).

As a minor As a minor MS Lat. initial Liturg. f. 26, initial throughout throughout c. 1255–60

MS Douce 180, c. 1254–72, unfilled gaps for initials throughout

MS Savile 22, c. 1250–2

C. English dated and datable manuscripts in the Bodleian Library, c. 1250–13503

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39v

2r, 15r

75r*

2r x3, 9r

137r

MS Bodley 91, c. 1264

MS Laud Misc. 750, c. 1265

MS Auct. D. 4. 13, 1276

MS Digby 2, 52r, 74r 1282

37r, 38r, 39r, 46v, 50v, 52r, 56v, 57r

A-2b

1v, 4v, 6r, 18r, 41v

A-2a

MS Douce 132, c. 1260–70

A-1c 18r x2

A-1b 18r x5

A-1a

MS Douce 137, c. 1260

12r

As minor initial throughout

15v x2, 18r

A-3a

25v

7r, 9v, 14r, 15v x2, 16r, 18r x3, 36v, 37v, 39v, 88v

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

13r

100v

7r, 15r, 17v, 22r, 24v, 30v, 35r, 62r

7r, 9v, 10r, 15v x2, 25v, 31v x2, 32r, 37r, 48v, 52v, 61v, 76r, 78r, 82r, 84v, 92v

A-4

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24v, 102v, 115v, 123v, 128v

1v, 5v, 11v x4, 18v, 31v, 37r, 37v, 39r, 40r, 45v

168v

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

37v, 40r, 52v, 59r

1v, 11r x5

38r

A-4

The Scarlet Letter

MS Rawlinson C 459, after 1300

46r, 88v, 96r, 103r, 107r, 112v

11v, 15v, 59r, 62v, 73r, 102v*, 103r

44r

14r, 26v, 40v, 66v, 90v, 116v, 129v, 139r, 155r, 165v, 175v

A-3a

95v

32r, 49r, 97r, 99v, 101r, 101v, 103r, 111v

19r

A-2b

MS Bodley 399, 1300

A-2a

5v, 8r, 42v, 44r, 45v, 54r, 66v, 68r, 68v, 70v

A-1c

66r

A-1b

MS Addit. C 188, after 1297

MS Rawlinson D 893, fols. 116r–117v, after 1297

MS Lat. Misc. d. 82, after 1293

MS Ashmole 399, c. 1292

MS Bodley 406, 1291

A-1a

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MS Lat. Hist. d. 4, c. 1313–16

MS Bodley 940, after 1310

Oxford, Trinity College, MS 85, fols. 14r–16v, 18r–96v, c. 1305–16

MS Bodley 655, 1302–3, unfilled gaps, fols. 265r–285v

58v

A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

A-2a 264r x2, 286v

A-2b

4v x3, 5r x2, 5v, 6v x2, 7r x2, 7v, 11v, 12r, 13r, 15r, 17r, 27v, 30r, 33v x2, 38v, 40v, 41v, 43v, 54v, 57v, 59r, 61r, 76r, 77r, 87v x4, 88r x9, 88v x2, 89r x2, 89v, 90r, 90v, 91r x6 and as a minor initial throughout

A-3a 171r*, 187r*, 205v, 210v, 219v, 235v*

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

4v, 5r x2, 5v, 6r x3, 6v x2, 8r, 10v, 12v x2, 14v, 15r x2, 19v, 21r, 22v, 24r, 30v, 35r, 44v, 76v x3, 87v x4, 88r x11, 88v x19, 89r x3, 89v x14, 90r x10, 90v x2, 91r x21 and as a minor initial throughout

135v

193r, 198v, 203v, 207v, 208v, 211r, 221r, 230r, 233v, 243v

A-4

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Oxford, Lady Margaret Hall, MS Borough 14, c. 1326

MS Douce 98, c. 1320 (unfilled gaps, fols. 75r–82v)

MS Bodley 464, c. 1318

A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

193v*

A-2a

A-3a

7v

190r

iiv 72v*, 80v*, 135v x2, 137r, 161v x2

A-2b

23r, 46v, 117v, 154r, 189r, 190v, 261v, 266r, 270r, 296v, 305v, 347v, 349v, 350v, 356r, 358v, 374v, 380v, 384r, 384v

1v, 133r

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

11v, 18v, 56v, 59v, 110v, 113r

iiv, 85r, 122v, 202v

A-4

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MS Bodley 685, 1339

MS e Musaeo 198, after 1333

MS Rawlinson C 666, after 1327

A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

As a minor initial throughout

A-2a

A-2b 105v, 112r*, 119r*

A-3a

5r, 6r, 7r, 8v, 13v, 18r, 21r, 21v, 22rx2, 22v x2, 23v, 24v x2, 25r x3, 26r, 26v, 27r, 28v, 29r, 29v, 40v, 50r, 50v x2, 56r, 62v, 72r, 72v, 106v, 121v, 129r, 143v, 146r, 150v, 178v, 182v, 183r, 183v, 185r, 194v, 203v, 212v, 230v, 238v x2

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

38v, 110v, 233r

22r, 25v

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MS Rawlinson C 454, c. 1342

MS Wood Empt. 1, betw. 1340 and 1344

A-1b

1r

A-1a

30r x2, 35v, 40r, 41v, 55r, 55v, 64v, 66v, 75v, 97r x2 (minor), 97v, 109r, 153v, 169r, 182v, 190v, 191r, 191v, 195v, 197r, 252r

A-1c

As a minor initial throughout Kalendar, 13r–18v

25v and as a minor initial throughout

A-2a

A-2b

155r, 160v, 169r

29v*

A-4 35r, 49r, 49v, 179v, 241r

A-3e

34r, 76r

A-3d

2r, 5v, 40r, 46v, 53r, 61r, 62r, 63v, 64v x2, 73r, 80v x2, 85r, 90v, 93v, 97r x3, 107r, 124r, 125v x2, 128v, 129r, 141r, 143v, 150r, 154r, 160v, 168r, 170r, 171v, 174v, 176v x2, 177r, 177v, 181r, 203v, 206v, 207v, 208v, 215r, 224r, 225r, 230v, 231r, 232r, 232v, 235v, 237r, 242r, 248r, 249v, 254v, 260r, 260v, 262v

A-3c

A-3b

A-3a

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MS Top. Devon d. 5, c. 1350

Oxford, Jesus College, MS 119, 1346 (Welsh)

MS Lyell 15, c. 1345–6

iir, 2r, 7r, 9v, 10r, 14v x2, 23v, 24r x2, 25r, 26r, 35r, 41v, 67v, 74r, 78r, 87r, 88v, 107r, 118v

A-1a

A-1b

A-1c

A-2a

A-2b

8r x2, 8v, 9r, 10r, 10v, 11r v2, 14v, 23v, 39r, 57r, 57v, 58v, 61v, 66r, 68r, 74r, 78r, 85v, 88v, 93v, 105r, 106r x2, 106v, 107r x3, 107v, 108r x2, 108v x8, 109r, 110r, 114r

12r x3*, 12v, 19v*, 20r*, 20v x2, 21r*, 21v x2, 22r x2, 22v x2, 24r, 24v, 57r*, 138v*, 141r

A-3a

A-3b

A-3c

A-3d

A-3e

A-4

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chapter twelve

BELOW MALVERN: MS DIGBY 86, THE GRIMHILLS AND THE UNDERHILLS IN THEIR REGIONAL AND SOCIAL CONTEXT John Hines and Melissa Julian-Jones

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he foundations for wide-ranging interest in and discussion of Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86 in relation to its context of production and early use were laid in the researches of Brian Miller, who assiduously collected and collated contemporary documentary records of individuals and families represented in marginalia and other entries within the manuscript.1 Publishing a facsimile of the manuscript for the Early English Text Society in 1996, Judith Tschann and Malcolm Parkes were able to bring out more of the complex and fascinating codicological process by which the manuscript was compiled.2 A number of subsequent studies have approached and applied these data from more literary – interpretative and critical – viewpoints,3 while Peter Coss has complementarily evaluated these insights from the point of view of a social historian’s interest in the culture of the gentry and, in this case, also the ‘sub-gentry’ of the late thirteenth and earlier fourteenth centuries.4 This chapter’s consideration of the societal context of the manuscript builds on all of these observations, using Network Theory to explore the sociopolitical networks of the area and considering the archaeological and geographical context of this region of Worcestershire. B. D. H. Miller, ‘The Early History of Bodleian MS Digby 86’, Annuale Medievale 4 (1963), 23–56. 2 Tschann and Parkes, pp. xli–xlvii. 3 J. Hines, Voices in the Past: English Literature and Archaeology (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 71–104; and I. Nelson, ‘The Performance of Power in Medieval English Households: The Case of the Harrowing of Hell’, Journal of English and Germanic Philology 112 (2013), 48–69. 4 P. Coss, The Foundations of Gentry Life: The Multons of Frampton and Their World 1270–1370 (Oxford, 2012), pp. 230–56; see also J. Frankis, ‘The Social Context of Vernacular Writing in Thirteenth Century England: The Evidence of the Manuscripts’, in Thirteenth Century England I: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1985, ed. P. R. Coss and S. D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 175–84; and T. Turville-Petre, ‘Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86: A Thirteenth-Century Commonplace Book in Its Social Context’, in Family and Dynasty in Late Medieval England, ed. R. Eales and S. Tyas (Donington, 2003), pp. 56–66.

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The background: settlement and society in Worcestershire west of the Severn Tschann and Parkes were prepared to speculate that the principal scribe and compiler, who completed his work during or shortly after the period of November 1281 to November 1283, was Richard de Grimhill (d. 1307/8), whose daughter Amice married Simon (of) Underhill.5 Death notices for Alexander of Grimhill, possibly a son of Richard who died young,6 and for Amice and Simon themselves are included in a Calendar within the manuscript (art. 25; fols. 68v–74r), and autograph pen-trials in the hand of William, the son of Simon and Amice, appear on several leaves.7 Further marginal pen-trials on the leaves of the manuscript are in the hands of a Robert and a John of Pendock, while a large marginal addition is the will of one Robert (son of Robert) of Pendock, stipulating that he should be buried at Redmarley, and leaving a young horse to William of Underhill.8 These references locate the manuscript, by the early fourteenth century at least, very precisely. Pendock is a village and parish in the south west of Worcestershire, just south of the Malvern Hills and close to the junction of the boundaries of Worcestershire, Gloucestershire and Herefordshire (Fig. 1). An Underhill Farm is still to be found in the parish of Berrow, which lies immediately north of Pendock parish, although it is clear that these two parishes originally formed a coherent single territorial or estate unit. Redmarley d’Abitot, Gloucestershire, lies close by Pendock to the west. The identification of Grimhill, where the manuscript was plausibly first compiled, cannot be quite so certain, but it is highly likely that the site is what is now Greenhill in the parish of Hallow, north west of Worcester. The Old English root grima, ‘ghost, spectre’, survives unreplaced in the parish name of Grimley, immediately north of Hallow, and the inhabitants of this area are labelled the Grim setan in a Worcester charter of AD 969 (Fig. 2).9 We can draw upon both historical and archaeological evidence to compare and, to some extent, to contrast the regions around Grimhill/Greenhill and Pendock from the late Anglo-Saxon period of the tenth century – and indeed earlier – through to the High Middle Ages of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. This evidence is congruent in portraying a region of the once Mercian south west Midlands of England that had seen extensive development and change in the centuries leading up to the dates at which the manuscript was produced and being handled and added to. The lands west of the River Severn were in significant ways on the fringes of the Mercian, West Saxon and Welsh borderlands: the Welsh March following the Norman Conquest.10 To a considerable extent because of its marginal Tschann and Parkes, p. lvii. Coss, The Foundations of Gentry Life, pp. 233–7. 7 Fols. 40r, 99r–v, and 141v; see Tschann and Parkes, p. lvii. 8 Fols. 39v–40r; see Tschann and Parkes, p. lviii. 9 Sawyer 1323. The group name is in fact in the genitive plural in the phrase of Grim sētene gemæ ˉre, ‘from the border of the Grimsētan’. The texts of most Anglo-Saxon charters can now conveniently be accessed online via ‘The Electronic Sawyer’, www.esawyer.org.uk (accessed 15 February 2018). 10 M. Lieberman, The March of Wales, 1067–1300: A Borderland of Medieval Britain (Cardiff, 5 6

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Fig. 1. The area of the parishes of Pendock and Berrow (Worcestershire), showing key sites referred to in the text. The more detailed plan of the dispersed but relatively dense medieval settlement in Pendock and the associated field-boundaries is after Dyer, ‘Dispersed Settlements’.



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Fig. 2. South western Worcestershire and adjacent areas, showing key sites and features referred to in the text. position, the area is well served by Anglo-Saxon charters, giving us evidence of the growth of episcopal lordship in the later eighth to mid-ninth centuries and subsequently testimony to a modernising policy of systematic reorganisation of landholdings under the episcopacy of Oswald in Worcester, AD 962–92.11 2008); and L. Brady, Writing the Welsh Borderlands in Anglo-Saxon England (Manchester, 2017). 11 F. Tinti, Sustaining Belief: The Church in Worcester from c. 870–c. 1100 (Farnham, 2010); F. Tinti, ‘The Reuse of Charters at Worcester between the Eighth and the Eleventh Century: A Case-Study’, Midland History 37 (2012), 127–41; and F. Tinti, ‘Writing Latin and Old English in Tenth-Century England: Patterns, Formulae and Language Choice in the Leases of Oswald of Worcester’, in Writing Kingship and Power in Anglo-Saxon England: Studies in Honour of Simon Keynes, ed. R. Naismith and D. Woodman (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 303–27.

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Grimhill/Greenhill was part of a substantial region of some sixty to seventy square kilometres bounded by the Severn to the east, the Teme to the south and the Shrawley Brook to the north, which started to come into the hands of the bishop and chapter of Worcester early in the reign of Offa (AD 757x775).12 This was as an estate with its centre at what is now Wick Episcopi, close to the confluence of the Teme and the Severn and effectively on the opposite side of the latter river to Worcester itself.13 The bounds of the estate appear in parallel Latin and Old English boundary-clauses apparently added to a charter in the eleventh century;14 interestingly, the Shrawley Brook appears under a British/Old Welsh name Doferic, a word that appears in late Middle/early Modern Welsh as dyfrig/dyfriog, ‘foamy’, ‘watery’, as in the Carmarthenshire place-name Llanymddyfri (English Llandovery). In AD 816, no fewer than thirty hides of land within the area defined by these bounds were added to the episcopal holding, an area that is described as lying in weogorena leage, ‘in the woodland, or woodland clearing, of the men of Worcester’, with incomplete boundary descriptions that include Moseley in the parish of Hallow, the Laughern Brook and an enclosed area (haga) that extended to the Teme.15 Place-names and other details in the charters point to a variegated zone of woodlands and cleared land. Place-names ending in -leah (dative leage) are common: the term originally meant ‘forest’ or ‘woodland’, ‘glade’ or ‘woodland clearing’, but acquired the senses of ‘pasture’ and ‘meadow’ – that is, non-arable cleared land.16 Moseley appears to have been coined as ‘the glade of mice’, Mūsa-leah. The later parish of Holt, itself a name that just means ‘woodland’, north of Grimley, is referred to in the late Anglo-Saxon period as the area of Beonet leah, ‘bentgrass glade’, a name which survives in that of Bentley Farm. A charter of AD 855 relieved the three hides of land here of the burden of providing swine pasture for the king, a form of pastoral production typical of woodland.17 Sometime in the period 961–72, Bishop Oswald granted four hides at Grimley, one at Moseley and half a hide at Wick Episcopi to his brother Osulf on a typical lease of three lives; and it was more than a matter of formulaic habit that the collective benefits of these lands were specified to be ‘cum terris, campis, pratis, pascuis, silvis venationibus, cum piscuariis’ (with the lands, fields, meadows, pastures, hunting forests and also the fisheries).18 The existence of a syll weg and a Sawyer 142; and D. Hooke, The Anglo-Saxon Landscape: The Kingdom of the Hwicce (Manchester, 1985), pp. 108–10. 13 Hooke, The Anglo-Saxon Landscape, refers to the estate as a territory under the name of Wican, but the eleventh-/twelfth-century charter copy’s Ad Wikan presumably represents a correct Old English æt Wīcum, with the dative case of the typically plural neuter noun wīc, ‘habitations’, and referring specifically to the estate centre. 14 Sawyer 142. 15 Sawyer 180. 16 M. Gelling, ‘Some Notes on Warwickshire Place-Names’, Transactions of the Birmingham and Warwickshire Archaeological Society 85 (1974), 59–79; and M. Gelling and A. Cole, The Landscape of Place-Names (Stamford, 2000), pp. 237–9. 17 Sawyer 206. 18 Sawyer 1370. 12

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gerd weg in Grimley and on its border with Little Witley suggests to Della Hooke the construction of planked tracks to traverse ‘damp woodland country’.19 In the Domesday Survey of 1086, Grimhill was recorded as a manor of just one hide, held by a man named Godefred as a tenant of Urse d’Abitot as tenant-in-chief under the king. Grimhill’s population comprised just two cottager households with one plough-team and it was worth a meagre six shillings annually, the same as it had produced in the reign of Edward the Confessor (TRE = tempore Regis Edwardi) up to 1065.20 The first reliable description of Pendock (Penedoc) is of two hides of land there granted by Bishop Oswald to his minister Hæhstan in 967.21 The survey of the bounds and contents of the land provides a remarkably detailed picture of partially ‘improved’ or settled land, apparently in the process of being brought under a farming regime although by no means just at the start of such a process. There is a profusion of terminology, some of it quite rare in Old English and much of it referring to woodland and clearings. The term leah occurs with the specifiers æsc apuldre (ash-apple tree) and sealt (salt).22 A grey willow forms one of the boundary markers of Pendock and the land there includes a hyrst geard (woodland yard or woodland fence) and features referred to as snæ ˉd or snæ ˉð: apparently defined areas that might be either woodland within cleared land or cleared areas within woodland. The term styfecing is also thought to be some form of clearing or forest pasture, and there is a swīn haga (swine enclosure). Other components of the landscape include features known as the norð hege or norð geard, probably ‘northern hedge’ and ‘northern fence’, although the latter could also be ‘northern enclosure’. There is a duck pond (ducan seað) and a mere associated with cranes (cran mere). There is, however, also land referred to as dinc, apparently the noun normalised in Old English as dyncge, derived from the root ‘dung’ and found in glossaries as a specific term for newly tilled land,23 while the arable terms furlang and ierðland also appear in a reference to ān furlang hīna herð lands – where it is difficult to be sure how exactly one should interpret the genitive plural hīna (of households), but which Hooke translates plausibly as ‘a furlong of the community’s ploughland’. A hæcce, possibly a hatch-gate or a fish-trap, was a boundary feature at Pendock and other landmarks were known as Ælfstan’s bridge, Osric’s pool and Hooke, Anglo-Saxon Landscape, p. 148; Sawyer 1372. The Worcestershire Domesday, fol. 172v : The Worcestershire Domesday, ed. A. Williams and F. R. Thorn, Alecto Historical Editions (London, 1988). Domesday Book records are now conveniently accessible online through ‘The Open Domesday’: https://opendomesday. org/county/worcestershire (accessed 15 February 2018). 21 Sawyer 1314; D. Hooke, Worcestershire Anglo-Saxon Charter Bounds (Woodbridge, 1990), pp. 264–8. 22 It is unclear where the description of Pendock ends and that of a smaller holding at Didcot near Beckford, Worcestershire (also granted in the same charter), begins. I follow Hooke’s interpretation here, assigning Feodinca leah, a small flaxland, and sections of cultivated fields (æceras) to Didcot. 23 Dictionary of Old English (University of Toronto), https://www.doe.utoronto.ca (accessed 15 February 2018), s.v. ‘DYNCGE’. 19 20

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Eadred’s field, while an ancient routeway just referred to as ‘the street’ ran through Pendock from east to west. Pendock appears in two entries in the Worcestershire Domesday, in one case as a manorial holding of an English-named Godwine, under Urse d’Abitot again. Under the same conditions, Godwine additionally shared seigneurship in the considerably richer neighbouring manorial holding of Redmarley with a man named Azur, who himself held further lands elsewhere in southern Worcestershire.24 The second appearance is when Penedoc is also named as a detached appendage of the manor of Overbury, some eighteen kilometres to the east on the far side of the Severn and south of the wooded area of Bredon (see Fig. 2).25 It is practically certain that the two hides in Urse’s possession ad Peonedoc are the same two hides described in the charter of 967. The population of this part of Pendock was surprisingly sparse and humble in 1086: three cottager (bordarius) households are counted, along with three male serfs or slaves (servi) and one woman of the same unfree status (ancilla). The manor had two plough-teams and an area of woodland half a league long and broad, which should have meant more than two square miles. The implication is, by corollary, that the area of the parish of Berrow, which is unmentioned in the Domesday Book, was what was also referred to as Penedoc and counted in with Overbury, a substantial manor of six hides and a value of £6 per annum which was held directly by the diocesan church of Worcester. It is impossible to tell how many of its total of fifteen plough-teams, fifteen villani, seven cottagers and eight slaves were dwelling in the detached western portion that Underhill Farm would emerge as a part of, although it can be surmised that a considerable portion of the nine square miles of woodland and ten acres of meadow were here. The Register of Worcester Priory (the cathedral establishment) later records the holding at Berrow as being rated at one hide.26 The medieval parish church of Berrow, which has surviving twelfth-century architectural elements, is dedicated to Saint Faith and the only other such dedication in Worcestershire is indeed that of the church at Overbury.

The families and their connections Coss has strongly endorsed the case for the initial compilation and writing of Digby 86 by Richard de Grimhill and further emphasised the importance and value of the collection as evidence for the literary culture of a gentry household in the late thirteenth century. Little change in the estate under the control of the head of the Grimhill household is evident in our sources: the same one hide and fraction of a knight’s fee appear steadily in records from the eleventh century to the fourteenth. The Grimhill family held this land under the powerful Beauchamp lordship. Richard de Grimhill does, however, appear to have distinguished himself in legal Worcestershire Domesday, fol. 173r. Ibid., fol. 173v. 26 The Register of Worcester Priory, ed. W. Hales, Publications of the Camden Society (London, 1865), p. 76a. 24 25

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matters and jurisdictional processes and Coss accordingly identifies him as typical of a new class of professional regional lawyers that emerged among the gentry.27 By 1550, a Robert Grimhill appears in a certificate of residence, showing that he was liable for taxation in the Royal Household.28 This is testimony to how the family had risen in administrative service in the intervening years. We have to acknowledge, however, that the identification of Scribe A of Digby 86 (the ‘Digby scribe’) as Richard de Grimhill remains conjectural, while the context in which we see the manuscript being kept, opened and used before it moved on to the status of heirloom and archaic curiosity was the Underhill household, in the parish of Berrow, and with close relationships in Pendock and Redmarley. The thirteenth century saw local religious houses receiving endowments of land and its rents in both parishes: Malvern Priory, a daughter house of Westminster Abbey, gained land in Pendock, where Prior’s Court close to Pendock Old Church represents its manorial seat, while St Katherine’s Hospital at Ledbury gained interests in Berrow.29 Of exceptional value in representing and illustrating the long-term and practical development of the district down to the time at which the manuscript was with the Underhills is the Inquisition post mortem on John de Pendock held on 26 December 1322 – not necessarily the John who appears in a pen-trial on fol. 110v, as the former was succeeded by his son John, then aged nine. Simon Underhill was one of the juror witnesses to the statement.30 The Pendocks can be regarded as belonging to a similar social stratum to that of the Grimhills, albeit with wider family connections. The family also held four hides of land at Westmancote, between Bredon and Overbury.31 An Andrew de Pendock was member of parliament for Gloucester in the 1320s.32 His name is also found as the first listed witness in a grant between Alexander of Lydney, burgess of Gloucester, and Sir Maurice of Berkeley, whereby Alexander granted to Maurice and his heirs his [Alexander’s] holding and a shop in Eggbruge Street that had been granted to Alexander and Jordan of Henghem by Alexander’s mother Christine.33 As he led the list of several witnesses, it is implied that, of all of Alexander and Maurice’s acquaintances, associates and friends, Andrew de Pendock was the highest in status. This transaction also indicates that his social sphere comprised shop-owners, that is, those with holdings in urban as well as rural spaces, as well as men from the local knightly class. Coss, The Foundations of Gentry Life, pp. 209–29, 233. Kew, The National Archives, E 115/177/47. 29 J. Hillaby, St Katherine’s Hospital, Ledbury c. 1230–1547 (Ledbury, 2003), pp. 30–2; and O. M. Moger, ‘Pendock’, in Victoria County History, Worcestershire, vol. III, ed. J. Willis-Bund [sic] (London, 1913), pp. 478–81. 30 The Inquisitions Post Mortem for The County of Worcester, Parts 1–2, ed. and trans. J. W. Willis Bund, Worcestershire Historical Society (Worcester, 1894, 1909), II, 111–12. 31 Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 30–1; and The Red Book of Worcester, Containing Surveys of the Bishop’s Manors and Other Records, Chiefly of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, ed. M. Hollings, Worcestershire Historical Society (Worcester, 1934), 92, 432. 32 Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 36–7. 33 Berkeley, Gloucestershire, Berkeley Castle Muniments, BCM/A/2/24/2. 27 28

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In Pendock itself, meanwhile, John had held a manor house and eighteen acres of demesne manorial land as a subordinate of Geoffrey (Galfridus) d’Abitot;34 the holding included four acres of meadow in addition. He rented more land from others of apparently similar or even lower status than himself: William of Clyve, Thomas and Robert de la More and William le Wasp. He owed Geoffrey one-sixth of a knight’s fee; the other rentals are given in pence. John was recorded as having his own free tenants in six households and of various pieces of land, who paid him fifteen shillings yearly – twenty times the nine pence he paid in rent for seven acres of arable and one acre of meadow. From 1275 there is a record that an earlier Robert de Pendock had sold a lease of half of his manor to Little Malvern Priory, who paid an annual rent, but there is no reference to that as a specific source of income to John in the Inquisition post mortem.35 A memorandum to the primary summary of John’s effects carefully details a dower to support Cecily, his widow. As far as is practical, she is granted a third part of the property, specifying a weigh-house with the chapel in the churchyard, the right to use the well and bakehouse and a third of the dovecot, garden and curtilage; and then a series of more than 150 ‘selions’ (strips) and a few ‘butts’ and ‘gores’ within various arable fields whose names often tell their own stories. Rippelgarth (rippled enclosure) and Brodefeld (broad field) are simply descriptive, as probably was Chircheaker (church-acre) in positional terms. Assuming that the element Olde in le More Olde, le Lasse Olde and Oldehull is the Old English holt, together with an apparently large area of Newland in which Cecily received four acres, there is abundant evidence of the clearance of woodland to establish fields, while Jakkescroft and Waxmonnsfeld suggest historical peasant proprietorship of assarted areas. A detailed study of the settlement pattern and economy of medieval Pendock by Christopher Dyer, combining the evidence of historical documents, landscape history and thorough archaeological survey work, was able to draw a graphic picture of an area that saw, in agrarian and demographic terms, a surge of growth from the twelfth century to the fourteenth.36 Enterprise rather than a rigidly feudal system produced a pattern of intricately interlinked holdings of an unusually high proportion of free tenants, paying substantial cash rents and thus implicitly producing primarily commercial crops for the local borough markets. It would appear, then, to be to the ranks of just that ambitious peasantry that we should ascribe the origins of the Underhills. Underhill Farm, however, lies in the parish of Berrow rather than Pendock. As noted above, records specific to this area remain buried within those of Overbury until a manor held by Robert de Berrow emerges in the Pipe Roll for the twenty-first year of the reign of Henry II (AD 1174–5).37 The deed of endowment of St Katherine’s See Miller, ‘The Early History’, esp. p. 56, for an attempt to distinguish branches of the de Pendock line. 35 Ibid., p. 29; and Moger, ‘Pendock’, p. 479. 36 C. Dyer, ‘Dispersed Settlements in Medieval England: A Case Study of Pendock, Worcestershire’, Medieval Archaeology 37 (1990), 97–121. 37 The Pipe Roll of the Twenty-First Year of King Henry II, A.D. 1174–5, Publications of the Pipe 34

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Hospital given by Robert de Berrow survives in an early sixteenth-century copy of the hospital’s rental. It includes the transfer of the cash rents of a number of tenants – John the carpenter, Walter de Bosco, Edward Partridge, William the Clerk, Walter Mast and John the swineherd – along with the services and homage owed by them.38 The Register of Worcester Priory contains a detailed account of an assize held to adjudicate the claim of Robert’s son Roger to the advowson of the church at Berrow, which upheld the claim that this remained in fact only a dependent chapel of Overbury.39 The de Berrow line can then be traced down to the end of the fourteenth century; in 1250, however, following the death of another Robert de Berrow, the manor was leased to Alice de Mineriis along with the wardship of three minors of the de Berrow family: a further Robert, John and Cecelia.40 The description of the manor’s properties includes woods, pastures, meadows, fishponds and a mill and millpond. In November 1261, the same Alice de Mineriis entered into an agreement with Alice, widow of Hugh de Berrow (apparently on a lateral branch to the Roberts), to hold the latter’s property and the wardship of her son Geoffrey.41 By 1275, the manor had passed to this Geoffrey. We then have a record of a John de Berrow who died 1326x1328 and passed on the lordship of the manor to his son, another John, then aged around twelve – and thus of practically the same age as John of Pendock.42 There is also important and illuminating evidence of the involvement and interests of the Underhills in Berrow. The first we can read of is our Simon Underhill again, in an Inquisition post mortem of early October 1293 on one John le Somen’ (presumably John le Somenour), a convicted thief who had broken out of the prison at Worcester, apparently killing the jailer in the process, who was chased, apprehended and put to death by decapitation because he resisted being taken back to prison. John le Somen’ had held a home and eighteen acres of land in Berrow – the same amount as John of Pendock’s demesne holding – as a tenant of the master of St Katherine’s Hospital, Ledbury.43 Simon Underhill was named as one of three individuals who had since held that land and were answerable to the crown itself for their undertaking. In 1327, Simon paid twelve pence for the lay subsidy from Berrow.44 More than eighty years after the Inquisition post mortem, in 1377, the Prior and Convent of Worcester Cathedral and Priory leased the manor of Berrow to Robert Underhill and William Harley at seventeen marks (£11 6s. 8d.),

Roll Society XXII (1897), p. 129. Hereford, Hereford Cathedral Library and Archive, 7018/1, section 3, p. 2. 39 The Register of Worcester Priory, ed. Hales, pp. 76b–77b. 40 Hereford, Hereford Cathedral Library and Archive, 562. 41 Ibid., 1195 and 1764. 42 E. M. Hartland, ‘Berrow’, in Victoria County History, Worcestershire, vol. III, ed. J. Willis-Bund [sic] (London, 1913), pp. 257–61. 43 The Inquisitions Post Mortem for The County of Worcester, ed. Willis Bund, I, 45. 44 Lay Subsidy Roll for the County of Worcester, I Edward III, ed. F. J. Eld, Worcestershire Historical Society (Worcester, 1895), p. 9. 38

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the de Berrow heir being a minor again.45 At the very end of the fourteenth century, however, the de Berrow line died out and the manor passed into the possession of the neighbours to the north, the Ruyhalls of Birtsmorton Court (see Fig. 1).46 Birtsmorton Court in fact survives as a fine moated manor, although the extant buildings are, not surprisingly, all of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries with much later alteration and restoration.47 The church of Ss Peter and Paul at Birtsmorton, however, contains some outstanding stained glass of around the year 1400, reflecting, no doubt, the values and pretensions to display of the Ruyhall household at that time. In a way, then, if the Underhills were seeking to build their position and consolidate their holdings in Berrow, the old gentry order had reasserted itself. The Underhills seem to have thrived nonetheless. Presumably the same Robert Underhill who co-leased Berrow Manor in 1377 was serving as Senior Proctor of the University of Oxford in 1372,48 and documentary evidence links Thomas Underhill – plausibly his brother – to his predecessor in that post, William Feriby.49 This person seems likely to be the same Thomas Underhill of Haffield (an estate lying between Redmarley d’Abitot and Ledbury), who appears in a conveyance from William D’Abitot, of all his manor of Croome d’Abitot and the advowson of the church, paying ten marks for the conveyance. William D’Abitot conveyed this holding upon Thomas Underhill and Thomas son of John D’Abitot on 23 May 1361.50 This transaction firmly demonstrates the increasing prominence of the Underhills in local society, since the D’Abitot family were, as we have seen, an old and established one. In considering how the manuscript came eventually into the possession of Sir Kenelm Digby in the seventeenth century, Tschann and Parkes also note that the bishop of Oxford from 1589 to 1592 was one John Underhill, himself a former Proctor; he is recorded as having been born in Oxford, not in Worcestershire, but he might well be a descendant of the same family.51

Political networks Sociopolitical advancement depended upon relationships and it is here that the sparse evidence of connections between the families discussed and other, greater families in their locality should be underpinned with a brief theoretical discussion of the justification for certain assumptions that follow. The pictorial evidence of the heraldic sketches on fol. 68r of Digby 86 (Fig. 3) has drawn some discussion

Hartland, ‘Berrow’. Ibid. 47 N. Pevsner, Worcestershire, The Buildings of England (Harmondsworth, 1968), p. 92. 48 A Biographical Register of the University of Oxford to A.D. 1500, ed. A. B. Emden, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1959), III, 1930. 49 Tschann and Parkes, pp. lix–lx; see also Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 38–9, who is cautious about identifying Underhills with the same Christian name as the same individuals. 50 Worcester, Worcestershire Archives, P1531/1/75/28. 51 Tschann and Parkes, pp. lix–lx. 45 46

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Fig. 3. Heraldic shields of the de Vesci, Beaumont and FitzJohn families. Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 68r. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

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regarding their identity and what this might mean,52 and a more thorough discussion of this will be submitted here with greater caution regarding the conclusions one may draw. To illuminate the sociopolitical connections of the Grimhill and Underhill families, some use is made here of ideas drawn from Network Theory in a historical context.53 It has to be with some reservations that one approaches Network Theory in a social context without direct evidence of specific connections. Network Theory is used in the real world (as well as the worlds of scientific theory) to map relationships between individuals and groups and to create models of these relationships. Social studies have demonstrated the existence of significantly different models of relationship, from clusters of close neighbours to friendship groups made at random, and have also explored both the likelihood and the circumstances or opportunities necessary for such patterns of relationship to form. This theory can be applied to the past with varying degrees of usefulness, and historians, who can generally map relationships by using documented evidence of connections between individuals and groups, tend to use Network Theory less than their colleagues in archaeology: particularly prehistorians, who can have no written evidence to work with. In those circumstances, connections between individuals, kin groups and their wider societies can be mapped through theoretical models based upon the material and distributional evidence available. A particular problem for the medieval historian is to determine what social models are appropriate in the diversity of contexts we have been able to trace among the Grimhills, de Pendocks and Underhills. In an urban context such as medieval London, and even cities such as Worcester and Gloucester, it is less certain or even likely that people living three streets away from one another would be acquainted with one another, let alone connected in a social way. Relationships in large, diverse urban settlements are totally different from the ways relationships are formed within small, homogeneous and largely rural communities. Proximity therefore cannot be a reliable factor when attempting to reconstruct potential networks among Londoners, but social studies conducted on modern urban settlements can give clues as to which model could be applied. If it is more likely that people make totally random connections in those settlement contexts, Network Theory can only be used to postulate that individuals who typically, or even just occasionally, live and work within urban contexts will make such random connections. Such connections are hypothetical and cannot factor in the construction of a person’s personality, which might contrastively either prevent the expected connections and relationships from being made or attract more connections and relationships than any Miller, ‘The Early History’, pp. 50–5; and Tschann and Parkes, pp. lviii–lix. Unidentifiable and probably imaginary armorial shields also appear at the foot of fol. 47r. 53 For an introduction to Network Science, see M. E. J. Newman, Networks: An Introduction (Oxford, 2010); and U. Brandes, G. Robins, A. McCranie and S. Wasserman, ‘What Is Network Science?’, Network Science 1.1 (2013), 1–15. For a comprehensive bibliography of literature and resources on agent-based models (ABM) in archaeology, see I. Romanowska and L. Linde, The ABM in Archaeology Bibliography, online resource, https://archolen. github.io/The-ABM-in-Archaeology-Bibliography (accessed 27 January 2018). 52

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model would anticipate. For our purposes, however, the key premise that people will cultivate connections with their neighbours particularly within a rural locality, where settlement is not particularly dense and the members of the community are mutually interreliant, in some cases at the most basic level for economic survival, while also at the more complex level for political and social advancement, is the aspect of greatest interest. The rural communities discussed here depended on their neighbours, despite – or rather, because of – the geographical distance between them. To ensure good marriages for their children, to make alliances to gain interests in land and to maintain positive relationships with those higher up the sociopolitical scale than themselves, to gain favours, gifts and patronage, were all issues with which the landholders of the region below Malvern were seriously concerned. The Grimhills, the Underhills and even the de Pendocks exemplify rural neighbours making such connections and the progress of their commonplace book through the generations and the decisions made regarding its contents reveal which connections they made and which were considered important. Therefore, in this case, proximity can be a legitimate factor taken into account when attempting to map potential relationships and for theorising how such connections between families and individuals came about. The social networks within the area had an impact on the Grimhills and Underhills as a potential source of information and storytelling as much as forming an interdependent socioeconomic framework. These families were representative of the lower strata of a nonetheless landed elite, whose lands did not qualify them for greatness in the royal courts or on a wider national stage but still allowed them importance in local affairs. They cannot be described as ‘Marcher’ families in the strictest sense, as their holdings lay outside of the border counties of Herefordshire and Shropshire – by no means unaffected by the campaigns into Wales but not directly impacted by Welsh incursions either. Yet it would be a mistake to think that Wales and the military incursions of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries had no impact on them at all; in 1405, Owain Glyn Dŵr’s Franco-Welsh force faced down the English in Worcestershire itself, but both armies withdrew.54 Similarly, orders to enter Wales on campaign included Worcestershire landholders, and the Beauchamps, from whom the Grimhills held their lordship, were highly active in the Marches of Wales. The ‘strong regional flavor’ of the book, as described by Ingrid Nelson, includes the heraldic arms that have been identified as the de Vesci, Beaumont and FitzJohn families, together with the inclusion of the three Worcester bishop-saints, Wulfstan II, Oswald and Ecgwin, in the Calendar.55 The inclusion of the heraldic devices, Nelson argues, illustrates who ‘formed a part of the scribe’s local milieu’, yet on closer inspection it seems hard to agree with this. These families did have some lands in the diocese of Worcester,56 but their caputs were far more northerly than the Midlands, and one wonders how involved in local Worcestershire affairs they ever G. Brough, The Rise and Fall of Owain Glyndwr (London, 2017), p. 137. Nelson, ‘The Performance of Power’, p. 56. 56 Tschann and Parkes, p. lviii. 54 55

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were. The de Vesci family were concentrated in the shires of York and Nottingham, although an Agnes de Vesci is found in Leicestershire; the manor of Stapleford in this county was ‘held of Sir Edmund the king’s brother, of the gift of Sir William de Ferrariis, earl of Derby, in free marriage, doing no service’.57 The de Vescis had married into the Beaumont family, whose ancestor Waleran had been the first Earl of Worcester (d. 1166).58 Simon de Montfort, leader of the rebel barons in the Second Barons’ War, was the grandson of Amicia de Beaumont, through whom his father, the senior Simon de Montfort (d. 1218), claimed a half-share of the Earldom of Leicester on the death of his uncle in 1204.59 Sir Henry Beaumont (c. 1280–1340) was, in John Maddicott’s words, ‘essentially an adventurer, who owed his rise to his service to three kings, his military vigour, his fortunate marriage, and his ability to press home the advantages that opportunity offered him’.60 He was not directly active in Worcestershire either, but focused his talents on high political matters and his ‘fortunate marriage’ to a Comyn heiress, which determined the course of his career.61 The Beaumonts of Kidderminster were prominent in Worcestershire, yet it was through Henry Beaumont of the northern line that the de Vesci connection was made. His sister Isabella became the second wife of John de Vesci in 1279 or 1280,62 and thus the focus of both siblings was drawn northwards to the caputs of their respective in-laws. In the case of the other heraldic device, identified as one of the FitzJohn emblems, again, the focus of territorial interests was largely elsewhere. Sir John FitzJohn (c. 1240–75) was the son of John Fitz Geoffrey, justiciar of Ireland.63 Sir John’s centre of power lay in the county of Buckinghamshire, but he may have had some interest in holdings in Worcestershire that are subsequently associated with his brother and heir Richard.64 However, the connection to the locality of concern for Digby 86 – as with the other two families with northern seats – may also have come in the form of the Battle of Evesham (August 1265) in the Second Barons’ War against King Henry III, where Prince Edward’s victory left the crown in a dominant position. This was a traumatic event as well as a historically decisive one. Rather than the crown’s capture of the defeated rebel barons, who had followed Simon de Montfort, many of them were massacred on the field and drowned in the river; it Calendar of Inquisitions Post Mortem, Vol. 2, Edward I, ed. J. E. E. S. Sharp (London, 1906), No. 746. 58 D. Crouch, ‘Waleran, count of Meulan and earl of Worcester (1104–1166)’, in ODNB, at http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/1887 (accessed 9 March 2017). 59 J. Sadler, The Second Barons’ War: Simon de Montfort and the Battles of Lewes and Evesham (Barnsley, 2008), pp. xxiv, 35. 60 J. R. Maddicott, ‘Beaumont, Sir Henry de (c.1280–1340)’, in ODNB, at http://www. oxforddnb.com/view/article/37169 (accessed 9 March 2017). 61 Maddicott, ‘Beaumont, Sir Henry de’. 62 T. F. Tout, rev. H. W. Ridgeway, ‘Vescy, John de (1244–1289)’, in ODNB, at http://www. oxforddnb.com/view/article/28254 (accessed 15 February 2018). 63 D. A. Carpenter, ‘John, Sir, fitz John (c.1240–1275)’, in ODNB, at http://www.oxforddnb. com/view/article/38272 (accessed 9 March 2017). 64 Miller, ‘The Early History’, p. 52. 57

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was said that those living downstream witnessed the sight of severed limbs and bodies borne past them by the current.65 The death of Simon de Montfort was in itself a dramatic end to the rebellion: he was decapitated and dismembered and his body parts sent to the royalist allies, including Llewelyn of Wales, who received a foot, and the Countess Maud de Mortimer, who received his head. Sir John de Vesci was a staunch Montfortian who salvaged the other foot and carried it home to Alnwick, where it was treasured as a relic by the canons of Alnwick Priory and performed miracles.66 Sir John was nonetheless rehabilitated with a pardon for his trespasses in July of 1266 and it is understood that his kinsman by marriage, Roger de Clifford, a leading Worcestershire royalist, was instrumental in saving him.67 It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that these influential barons – de Vesci, Beaumont and FitzJohn – appear in the margins of a ‘strongly regional’ manuscript because of that civil war that had so severely affected England less than two decades before the manuscript’s compilation. Sections of the Flores Historianum have been argued to be of Worcestershire provenance, made at Pershore Abbey, rather than continued in St Albans.68 The version of the Pershore text catalogued as MS 3/23B, preserved in the collections of the College of Arms, London, and discovered by Olivier de Laborderie, was probably copied in the north east in light of the additions and emendations to parts of the text.69 One should not imagine Worcestershire as an isolated county, nor should one imagine its inhabitants as cut off from other regions by waterways and distance, given the networks of local and visiting lords with their retinues, the far-reaching webs of trade and commerce and ecclesiastical networks that can be mapped on to the county as a whole, offering some opportunity for those with means and ambition to widen their spheres of influence and mix in wider circles than their immediate neighbours and kin groups. The evidence placing Andrew de Pendock in Gloucester is indicative of the families having definite connections in other directions, and the inclusion of Dame Sirith with its south eastern features and East Midland links also gives the impression of a wider web of connections for these aspiring families than their strong local roots would seem to imply at first glance.70 Richard de Grimhill could have recalled tales from his youth, or even have witnessed the aftermath of Evesham for himself, and could indeed have been directly affected in some personal way. Holding their land from the Worcestershire For the flight and drowning of the Montfortians at Evesham, see D. C. Cox, ‘The Battle of Evesham in the Evesham Chronicle’, Historical Research 62 (1989), 340–4; and for further discussion of the last hours of Simon de Montfort, see O. de Laborderie, J. R. Maddicott and D. A. Carpenter, ‘The Last Hours of Simon de Montfort: A New Account’, English Historical Review 115 (2000), 378–412. 66 S. T. Ambler, Bishops in the Political Community of England, 1213–1272 (Oxford, 2017), p. 184. 67 Carpenter, ‘John, Sir, fitz John’. 68 D. A. Carpenter, ‘The Pershore Flores Historiarum: An Unrecognised Chronicle from the period of Reform and Rebellion in England, 1258–65’, English Historical Review 127 (2012), 1343–66 (p. 1343). 69 Laborderie et al., ‘The Last Hours of Simon de Montfort’, p. 381. 70 Hines, Voices in the Past, pp. 94–7. 65

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branch of the Beauchamps, who were themselves strongly Montfortian, the connections implied by the heraldic devices could well have been made through the association of the Grimhills with their overlords and the political situation of the 1260s. De Vesci was also a rebel, who led a second rebellion in 1267 with a group of disinherited northern barons, but was again treated with leniency and won over to the king.71 The Beaumonts were also rehabilitated Montfortians, with a local connection as a branch of the family held lands at Kidderminster. These heraldic emblems could, therefore, well have been part of the wider social consciousness of the area and its local families. To afford them recognition and respect could have represented aspirations on Richard de Grimhill’s part – or whoever in reality was the main scribe and compiler of the manuscript – to improve his own status: perhaps via a son’s employment in a greater lord’s household which would offer opportunities for young men looking for advancement by means of either a military or an administrative career, and indeed increasing their chances of marrying an heiress. This being the case, does Digby 86 reveal the political leanings of its owners, or can one read too much into these images? These arms were associated very prominently with the Calendar, which begins on the following verso ‘in a somewhat unusual position’; they were drawn before the text on that leaf was written in a different ink.72 The deliberate positioning before the Calendar certainly gives the impression of emblems worth remembering, or an event worth recalling in family history. The author of the Annales Monastici clearly felt that the loss of John Beauchamp and William Mandeville, the brother of Sir John FitzJohn, was a terrible event: Cujus itaque vel saxeum pectus super interitum adolescentis ingenui Willelmi de Mandewille fratris domini Johannis filii Johannis, qui in eodem praelio viso fratris occasu fuerat captivatus, poterit non dolere? Et quis in funere Johannis de Bello Campo possit lacrymos continere? (Who therefore could be so stony-hearted that he would be unable to lament over the demise of the noble youth William of Mandeville, brother of Sir John FitzJohn, who in that same battle, having seen his brother killed, had been taken prisoner? And who would be able to hold back his tears at the death of John Beauchamp?)73

The loss of prominent local lords would have been a great shock to their localities. As David Santiuste has pointed out, a battle is ‘an extraordinarily traumatic, dramatic event, characterised by an intensity of experience which is rare in human existence’, meaning that battles themselves quickly become ‘totemic events to be celebrated or mourned’.74 It seems hard to conceive that the Battle of Evesham, with its seismic social and political consequences, would not have imprinted itself in some form Tout, ‘Vescy, John de’. Tschann and Parkes, p. lviii. 73 Annales Monastici, ed. H. R. Luard, Rolls Series 4 (Cambridge, 1869), p. 174; translation, the authors. 74 D. Santiuste, The Hammer of the Scots: Edward I and the Scottish Wars of Independence (Barnsley, 2015), p. 99. 71 72

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or another on the collective and individual consciousnesses of its locality, freemen and local nobility. We should be wary of seeing the inclusion of these shields as an overt or conscious choice due solely to their political overtones, however. Tschann and Parkes suggest that they may represent patrons of the family, or that the Calendar had been part of a more luxurious manuscript in which the shields featured as decoration and that these were kept in because of the local connections.75 Both explanations could be valid; yet it seems inappropriate to overlook the trauma of the Battle of Evesham on its immediate locality and among a social class affected in more than one way by the ‘massacre’ of the knights who fell at that battle, particularly if the scribe was at most only one generation removed from the event and resided in the same locality as the battlefield. It is the absence of the Beauchamp arms that must throw this suggestion into some doubt. Sir John Beauchamp’s death at the Battle of Evesham would surely have been a more personal blow for the Grimhill family, given the tie of vassalage between them. Possibly the inclusion of these arms was too close to home, or could be deemed in some way presumptive; yet if the arms were merely representative of patrons, why would the Grimhills not include the arms of their overlord? If it was due to his Montfortian connections and the manner of his death, then why include the other three – all of them Montfortians? In that case, it might simply be that the arms were purely intended to be decorative and coincidentally resembled existing designs, or that they were modelled on arms that may have been briefly seen or dimly recalled.76 John Cherry points out that heraldic adornment was a common feature of decoration from the mid-thirteenth century onwards, with emblems appearing on items of dress, caskets, stirrups, belts, wall paintings and so on (compare the shields on fol. 47r); it is hardly surprising to find a family with upwardly mobile aspirations doodling heraldic emblems (or their own approximations thereof) in the margins of their commonplace book. Moreover, if the Calendar had been copied from a different manuscript, the examples selected may have been nothing more than the easiest for the scribe to copy. The penmanship has an amateur appearance, fitting with the style of other marginalia in the book, and does not reveal a scribe who was a skilled draughtsman or used to drawing coats of arms. It may be impossible to resolve the argument over whether the heraldic devices appeared purely as decoration or give a clue to the political views of the book’s maker. Nonetheless, the fact that the emblems are uniformly connected with Montfortian sympathisers and supporters conforms with the political character of the region and indicates where the book’s scribe stood within his sociopolitical environment. * * * Tschann and Parkes, p. lix. For more on heraldic designs as decoration in the thirteenth century, see J. Cherry, ‘Heraldry as Decoration in the Thirteenth Century’, in England in the Thirteenth Century, ed. M. Ormrod (Woodbridge, 1991), pp. 123–34.

75 76

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No one would ever have supposed MS Digby 86 to have been formed in a vacuum, but it has for some, perhaps, been too easy to remain within the reassuring confines of what is known for certain and to avoid reconstructions that involve some degree of historical hypothesis. The south west Midlands of the late thirteenth century was a zone marked by dynamic economic relations and relatively liberal social conditions for several centuries. That framework as represented in the sources discussed above from the thirteenth and earlier fourteenth centuries was to be rocked to the core by successive major crises of the fourteenth – not least the plagues beginning with the terrible Black Death of the late 1340s; and yet we can continue to trace our families and landholdings through these disrupted times. The conditions which William Langland would dramatise so powerfully by setting the opening passus of Piers Plowman with the dreamer wandering, dressed as a shepherd, in the Malvern Hills were radically changed from those of a few decades earlier. And yet, in other ways, it seems far from facile to propose that the social, economic and cultural heritage of the Malvern area, so powerfully represented by Digby 86, quite directly validates – and indeed could even actually explain – Langland’s decision in this respect. The codex upon which this volume is focused, assessed in light of a wealth of historical and archaeological evidence and interpretative perspectives, reveals for us a resourceful, multiply connected group of households at the lower gentry and upper yeomanry levels, whose produce and use of the manuscript is clear evidence of creativity and ambitions that enabled them to make real contributions to the development of the region.

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Index of Manuscripts Cited

Berkeley, Gloucestershire: Berkeley Castle Muniments, BCM A//2/24/2 : 262 n. 33 Cambridge: CCC, MS 63: 214 CUL, MS Addit. 407 (Art. 19) (h): 173–4, 176 CUL, MS Dd. 6. 29: 243 CUL, MS Gg. 1. 1: 173–4, 176 CUL, MS Ii. 6. 11: 90 n. 11 CUL, MS Mm. 6. 4: 22 n. 40 Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 355 (a): 173, 176 Gonville and Caius College, MS 123/60: 217 Gonville and Caius College, MS 351: 174, 176 St John’s College, MS 45 (B.23): 174, 176 St John’s College, MS 111 (E.8): 172, 176 TCC, MS B.11.24: 172, 176 TCC, MS B.14.39 (‘Trinity’): xiv, 162 n. 1, 169 n. 28, 174–6, 198, 204, 208–9, 211, 213–14 n. 52, 217, 224 n. 15, 225–6, 242 TCC, MS R.4.26: 225–6, 243 Dublin: TCD, MS 301: 172, 176 Edinburgh: NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1 (Auchinleck manuscript): xiv, 136 n. 43, 152, 162–3, 165–7, 170 nn. 31–2, 171–3, 176, 198 n. 7, 202–3, 218, 224, 230 n. 39, 246 Hereford: Cathedral Library and Archive, 562: 264 n. 40 Cathedral Library and Archive, 1195: 264 n. 41 Cathedral Library and Archive, 1764: 264 n. 41 Cathedral Library and Archive, 7018/1: 264 n. 38 Kew: The National Archives, E 115/177/47: 262 n. 28 Laon: Bibliothèque municipale, MS 398: 216 n. 64 London: BL, MS Addit. 46919 (Herebert manuscript): 199, 212–15, 217, 244 BL, MS Addit. 49999 (De Brailes Hours): 47 n. 14 BL, MS Arundel 248: 174, 176 BL, MS Arundel 270: 91 n. 16

293

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Index of Manuscripts Cited

BL, MS Cotton Caligula A II: 172, 176 BL, MS Cotton Caligula A IX (‘Cotton’): xiv, 162 n. 1, 163 n. 4, 164, 169 nn. 28–9, 172, 175–6, 198, 207, 209 n. 34, 211–12, 224–6, 235, 246 BL, MS Cotton Nero A III: 26 n. 9, 32 n. 26, 33 n. 29 BL, MS Cotton Nero A X (Gawain manuscript): 163 BL, MS Cotton Nero C IV (Winchester Psalter): 48 n. 18 BL, MS Cotton Vitellius D III: 242 BL, MS Egerton 613: 213–14 BL, MS Egerton 1993: 226 n. 27, 231 n. 42, 244 BL, MS Egerton 2891: 226 n. 27, 244 BL, MS Harley 273: 22 n. 40, 225 n. 19, 226 n. 27, 231 n. 42, 245 BL, MS Harley 524: 46 n. 13, 47 n. 14 BL, MS Harley 978: xiv, 15 n. 22, 57 n. 9, 84 n. 42, 208 BL, MS Harley 2253 (‘Harley’): xiv, 3, 8, 48 n. 17, 81–2, 93 n. 25, 117 n. 6, 122 n. 17, 127, 132–4, 136–7, 140, 152, 162–3, 165, 167, 169–74, 176, 198 n. 7, 203 n. 20, 209 n. 34, 215, 217–18, 224–6, 230 n. 39, 231 n. 41, 245 BL, MS Harley 3835: 174, 176 BL, MS Harley 4657: 29 n. 21 BL, MS Harley 5388: 40 n. 48 BL, MS Harley 7322: 226 n. 27, 243 BL, MS Royal 8 F II: 172, 176 BL, MS Royal 12 C XII: 81 n. 28, 225 n. 19, 226 n. 27, 245 BL, MS Royal 12 E I: 172–3, 176 BL, MS Royal 12 G IV: 241 BL, MS Royal 17 A XXVII (I): 241 College of Arms, MS 3/23B: 270 Lambeth Palace Library, MS 78: 174, 176 Lambeth Palace Library, MS 522: 38 n. 43 Malibu: J. Paul Getty Museum, MS Ludwig III 1 (Getty Apocalypse): 237 New Haven: Yale Beinecke Library, MS 365: 172, 176 Yale Beinecke Library, MS 492: 173, 176 Oxford: BodL, MS Addit. C 188: 231 n. 41, 232 n. 43, 249 BodL, MS Addit. E 6: 172, 176, 224 BodL, MS Ashmole 43: 226–7, 243 BodL, MS Ashmole 61: 172, 176 BodL, MS Ashmole 399: 249 BodL, MS Ashmole 1416: 172, 176 BodL, MS Auct. D. 4. 13: 248 BodL, MS Bodley 91: 241 n. 1, 248 BodL, MS Bodley 399: 249 BodL, MS Bodley 406: 249 BodL, MS Bodley 464: 231 n. 42, 251 BodL, MS Bodley 652: 234 n. 53, 242 BodL, MS Bodley 655: 250 BodL, MS Bodley 685: 252 BodL, MS Bodley 712: 234 n. 53 BodL, MS Bodley 828: 27 n. 13

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295

BodL, MS Bodley 940: 250 BodL, MS Digby 2: 231 n. 41, 248 BodL, MS Digby 20: 29 n. 23, 31 n. 24, 35 n. 34 BodL, MS Digby 86 see General Index: Digby 86 manuscript BodL, MS Douce 98: 251 BodL, MS Douce 132: 248 BodL, MS Douce 137: 214, 248 BodL, MS Douce 180: 247 BodL, MS e Musaeo 198: 252 BodL, MS Eng. poet. a. 1 (Vernon manuscript): 17, 162 n. 1, 163, 172, 176 BodL, MS Gough liturg. 9 (Malling Abbey Hours): 48 n. 18 BodL, MS Lat. Hist. d. 4: 234 n. 52, 250 BodL, MS Lat. Liturg. f. 26: 247 BodL, MS Lat. Misc. d. 82: 249 BodL, MS Laud Lat. 93: 173, 176 BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108 (‘Laud’): xiv, 17 n. 27, 172, 176, 198 n. 7, 218, 224, 225 n. 21, 226 n. 27, 230–1, 242 BodL, MS Laud Misc. 750: 241 n. 1, 248 BodL, MS Lyell 15: 254 BodL, MS Rawlinson C 46: 21 n. 37 BodL, MS Rawlinson C 454: 253 BodL, MS Rawlinson C 459: 249 BodL, MS Rawlinson C 666: 252 BodL, MS Rawlinson D 893: 249 BodL, MS Rawlinson G 18: 174, 176 BodL, MS Savile 22: 247 BodL, MS Tanner 407: 172, 176 BodL, MS Top. Devon d. 5: 254 BodL, MS Wood Empt. 1: 234 n. 51, 236 n. 59, 241 n. 1, 253 CCC, MS 59: 226 n. 27, 230 n. 29, 231 n. 41, 236 n. 57, 241 n. 1, 243 Jesus College, MS 29 (II) (‘Jesus’): 8, 162 n. 1, 163 n. 4, 169 nn. 28–9, 172 n. 44, 173, 175–6, 198, 208, 209 n. 34, 211, 215, 218, 224–6, 242 Jesus College, MS 119: 254 Lady Margaret Hall, MS Borough 14: 251 Trinity College, MS 85: 250 Paris: BnF, Arsenal MS 3142: 214 n. 56 BnF, f. fr. MS 837 (‘Paris’): xiv, 8, 119 n. 9, 133–4, 135 n. 41, 136–7, 140, 150–2, 159 n. 77, 199, 207, 209, 214 n. 56 BnF, f. fr. MS 1635: 214 n. 56 BnF, f. fr. MS 2199: 217 BnF, f. fr. MS 12467: 214 n. 56 BnF, f. fr. MS 12786: 214 n. 56 BnF, f. fr. MS 17177: 203 BnF, f. fr. MS 19152: 93 n. 25 BnF, f. fr. MS 19531: 216–17 BnF, NAL MS 592: 46 n. 12 BnF, nouv. acq. fr. MS 1104: 134 n. 33 St Andrews: University Library, MS PR 2065.A.15: 246

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Vatican: BAV, Palatini latini MS 1971: 216 BAV, Reginensi latini MS 1441: 216 n. 65 Worcester: Worcestershire Archives, P1531/1/75/28: 265 n. 50

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This index contains the topics, names of people and titles of works discussed in the text and footnotes. It does not include references to works or authors cited in the Bibliography and not discussed further. Arnould, E. J. 21 n. 36, 22 n. 39 Arras 198 Arthur, King 2, 13, 120, 142–4 Articles of the Faith see Twelve Articles of the Faith Assumption de Nostre Dame see Herman de Valenciennes astronomy/astrology 6, 57, 67, 75, 79–80, 90–1 Auberi le Bourguignon 153 n. 70, 216 Aubrée of Compeigne 134 Aubrey de Bassingbourn 85, 122 Auchinleck manuscript see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Edinburgh, NLS, Advocates MS 19. 2. 1 audience see Digby 86 manuscript: audience Audite mangnantes et omnes populi (Digby art. 80) xviii Aue caro Cristi cara (Digby art. *94) xviii, 43, 51–2, 88 n. 3 Ave Jesu Crist ki pur nous peccheours de cel decendistes (Digby art. 9i) 43, 47–9, 53 n. 31, 57 Ave Maria see Nicholas de Bozon ‘Ave sancta Maria gratia plena’ (appended to Digby art. 55ii) 43, 46 Ave seinte Marie mere al creatour (Digby art. 64i) 43, 49–50

A Ballad of the Twelfth Day 211 Abelard see Peter Abelard Abingdon 215 Le Abite de augrim (Digby art. 24) xvi, 88, 236 n. 60 Adam 65, 127, 153, 235 Adams, G. 91 n. 18 The Adoration of the Lamb 237 Ælfric 17 Aesop 93 Africa 93 Against Marriage 132 Albertus Magnus 76, 81 Alexander Stavensby (bishop of Conventry and Lichfield) 27 Alexander the Great 75, 127, 153 alexandrines 26, 39, 200, 216 Alfonsi see Petrus Alfonsi Alfonso I (ruler of Aragon) 90 allegory 15, 37–8 Alnwick Priory 270 alphabets 63, 66–7 āl-Rāzi 76, 79 Amice Underhill 3, 56 n. 5, 256 An Orison of Our Lady 207 Ancrene Wisse 17, 22 n. 39 anger 21, 29, 31 anglicana script see Digby 86 manuscript: anglicana script Anglo-Saxon period 256–61 Annales Monastici 271 Annote and Johon 81 ‘The Ant, the Cock and the Dog’ 94 anthologising tendencies see Digby 86 manuscript: anthologising tendencies arabic numerals xvi, 88, 236 n. 60 Arabic sources 6–7, 75, 87, 89–90, 92–4, 102 Aragon 90 Aristotle 75–6, 94 Arnald of Villanova 84

backward S initial see Digby 86 manuscript: backward S initial Bacon see Roger Bacon Balaam 94 Baldick, C. 135 n. 39 balm 59 baptism 21, 27–8, 32, 34–6, 40, 90 Bassingbourn family 56 n. 5, 236 n. 61 The Battle of Carnival and Lent 133–4 Battle of Evesham 269–72

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beast fables 2, 88, 93, 95, 104–8, 166, 177–84 Beauchamp family 261, 268, 271–2 Beaumont family 9, 56 n. 5, 236, 266, 268–71 Beaus sire Jesu Crist (Digby art. 71) xvii, 43 n. 5 Bede, St 65 see also The Saws of Saint Bede Bell, K. K., and J. N. Couch 213 n. 50 Benedictines 198, 215 Beneit, Le Vie de Thomas Becket 217 Benedicta et celorum regina (Digby art. 81iii) 43, 45–6 Bernard, St 170 see also The Sayings of Saint Bernard Beroul 149 n. 59 Berrow (parish) 256–7, 261–4 Berrow family 263–5 La Besturné see Richard Bible 53, 128 Genesis 124 John 70 n. 45 2 John 175 n. 59 Luke 70 n. 45 Mark 70 n. 45 Proverbs 128, 136 n. 42 Psalms xvi, 55, 57, 65, 67, 83 n. 38, 88 biblical translation 51, 53 bibliomancy 66, 83 bird debates 150, 152–4, 156–7, 202–3 see also The Owl and the Nightingale, The Thrush and the Nightingale bird fables 93, 95, 105, 124, 134 ‘The Bird Who Taught a Peasant Three Signs’ (Digby art. 27xvii) 105, 134 n. 35, 135 n. 41 birdlore see Annote and Johon, Le Medicinal des oiseaus, rooster trick Birtsmorton Court 257, 265 Black Death 273 The Blame of Women see Le Blasme des femmes Blamires, A. 118 nn. 7–8, 126 n. 22 Blancheflour et Florence 152 n. 69 Le Blasme des femmes (The Blame of Women) (Digby art. 36) xvi, 14, 117–18, 121–2, 132, 134, 136–7, 139, 142, 152–5, 169 n. 27 Bloch, H. 124 blood staunching 61–2 bloodletting 58, 61–2, 65, 179 n. 4 Boccaccio 91 Bodleian Library 230, 247–53 Boffey, J. 9, 75 n. 6, 81 n. 27

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La Bonté des femmes (The Lad Who Sided with Damsels and Ladies) (Digby art. 29) xvi, 122–5, 131, 137, 137, 155–7 book production see Digby 86 manuscript: book production book production recipes see Digby 86 manuscript: book production recipes bookcraft see Digby 86 manuscript: scribal experimentation booklets see Digby 86 manuscript: audience booklets books of hours 47 n. 15, 48 n. 18 Boulton, M. xv n. 2, 5–6, 84 Boynton, S. 43 n. 2, 48 n. 18 Bozon see Nicholas de Bozon Brown, C. 2, 165 n. 13, 200 n. 16 Brut see Layamon Burnley, D. 148 n. 57 Busby, K. 2–3, 41, 101 n. 38, 197 n. 4, 199 n. 14, 208 n. 31, 216 n. 65 Caesar 84 Calendar of feast days (Digby art. 25) xvi, xviii, 2, 4, 10, 56, 64 n. 36, 83, 88, 256, 268, 271–2 scribe’s additions to art. 25 (Digby art. *89) xviii later additions to art. 25 (obits) (Digby art. *99) xviii Campbell, P. S. 238 n. 68 candle tricks 59, 65–6, 74, 79 Cantilupe see Walter de Cantilupe Caradoc (Garadue) 129, 143 Carruthers, M. 236 n. 58 Cartlidge, N. 7–8, 12, 85 n. 48, 122 n. 16, 133 n. 23, 198, 224 n. 17 celandine 81 Cervantes 91 Chanson d’Antioche 216 Chanson d’Aspremont 216 chanson de geste 26, 216 Chant pleure 212 Le Char d’orgueil see Nicholas de Bozon Chardonnens, L. S. 66 n. 41 Chardonnens, L. S., and C. Dreishen 48 n. 18 charms xv, 2, 6, 10, 25, 42, 57, 59–62, 68, 74, 85, 88, 124 see also French and Latin charms Le Chasteau d’amour see Robert Grosseteste Le Chastie-musart (The Fool’s Reproof) (Digby art. 37) xvi, 14, 117–18, 132 n. 19, 137, 139, 168–9 n. 27

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Le Chastoiement d’un pere a son fils 6 n. 19, 89, 92–3, 96, 101 n. 38, 102–5, 111 n. 5, 111 n. 5 Chaucer 2–4, 57, 88, 89 n. 6, 91, 101 n. 38, 103, 118, 126–9, 139, 145, 152 n. 69, 157–8 Chaunçoun de Noustre Seingnour (Digby art. 70) xvii, 43 n. 2, 166, 167, 171, 214 Cherry, J. 272 Christ Church, Canterbury 214 Christmas xv, 57, 64 Clanvowe 152 n. 69 The Clerk and the Girl 132 clothing 29, 117–19, 145–7, 150 cointise 101 n. 38, 126, 140–41, 185 coloured initials see Digby 86 manuscript: coloured initials comic matter xvi, xvii, 2, 87, 94, 102, 104–12, 167–8, 177–96, 208 n. 31 see also fabliaux commandments see Ten Commandments commonplace book see Digby 86 manuscript: commonplace book La Complainte de Jerusalem see Huon de Saint-Quentin confession xv, 4, 19–28, 32, 33 n. 27, 35–6, 40–1, 46–9, 53–4, 157–9, 84, 157–9, 177 Conlee, J. 136 n. 43, 153 n. 70, 200 n. 16, 202 conning(e) 101 n. 38 Connolly, M. 9 n. 20, 163 n. 4 conscience 28–9, 31–2, 35–6, 157 Constantine 118, 139, 142, 153 contents table see Digby 86 manuscript: contents table Conybeare, J. J. 164 Corrie, M. 4, 7, 12, 14, 26, 39 n. 44, 43, 49–50, 56 n. 5, 56 n. 7, 74 n. 4, 83, 117 n. 6, 122 n. 16, 163 n. 3, 167 n. 26, 197, 209, 217, 220 n. 7, 221–2 n. 11, 228 n. 29, 236 n. 61 Coss, P. 255, 261 Cotton (manuscript) see Index of Manuscripts Cited: London, BL, Cotton Caligula A IX c(o)unte 101 n. 38 courtliness 37, 142–4, 147–51, 153 courtly love 13, 148–51 craftsmanship 237–9 see also Digby 86 manuscript: book production Crawford, M. 229 Creed 26–7, 32, 33–4, 36 Cum fueris rome romano viuite more (Digby art. 78) xviii cura animarum 26–8

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da Rold, O. 224 n. 16, 241 n. 2 d’Abitot family 256, 260–1, 263, 265 Dame Sirith (Digby art. 59) xviii, 2, 4, 7–8, 9, 56, 83, 88–9, 105, 109, 124–6, 130, 134–6, 139–42, 154, 164–5, 167–8, 170, 174, 192 n. 5, 185–96, 270 Daniel see Somniale Danielis, Soungnarie Daniel De Brailes Hours see Index of Mnauscripts Cited: London, BL, MS Addit. 49999 De coninge non ducenda 132 n. 16 De Deus Chevalers torz ke plederent a Roume (Two Twisted Knights) (Digby art. 65) xvii, 197 De la fole et de la sage 209 De ordine creaturarum 226 de Vesci family 9, 56 n. 5, 236, 266, 268–71 deadly sins see Seven Deadly Sins Death (Digby art. 68b) xvii, 164–7, 169, 171, 175, 209–12 debate 14, 38, 76, 86, 90, 121, 130–61, 166, 171, 203, 208–10 The Debate between the Body and the Soul (Digby art. 68) xvii, 131–2, 162–4, 167, 169 n. 28, 171, 174, 209–11, 218, 235 The Debate between Winter and Summer 82 decoration see Digby 86 manuscript: decoration Deeming, H. 48 n. 18, 51 n. 26 Deianira 128 design see Digby 86 manuscript: design Deus inestimabilis misericordie (Digby art. 81i) 43, 45–6 Deus propicius esto (Digby art. 81viii) 43, 45–6 ‘Deus qui beatam mariam uirginem in conceptu’ (appended to Digby art. 55ii) 43, 46 Deus qui scauntum crucem ascendisti (Digby art. 18ii) 43–4, 57 devotion xviii, 6, 16, 24, 42–54, 57, 59, 74, 83, 171 Dickins, B., and R. M. Wilson 200 n. 16 Digby, Sir Kenelm 265 Digby 86 manuscript see also mise en page; titles of individual works anglicana script 82, 220, 234 anthologising tendencies 2, 5, 8, 25, 42–7, 49, 162, 165, 171 audience 4, 9, 10–11, 18, 34, 40, 57, 79, 82, 86, 87, 131, 139, 144, 154–5, 158 backward S initial 2, 30, 82, 219–20 book production 74, 214, 227–37, 239

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book production recipes 65, 74, 80, 82 booklets 42 n. 1, 221–2, 240 bookmaking as experimental 81–4, 137–9 coloured initials 219–54 commonplace book 25, 268, 272 contents table xv–xviii decoration 8, 66, 207, 221–2, 227–8, 230–5, 239, 272 design 197–218, 219–54 drawings 1, 21, 63–4, 113–15, 123–5, 128, 220, 234–7, 239 faces in initials 6–7, 21, 234–7 heraldic devices 56 n. 5, 236–7, 265–6, 268–9, 271–2 household almanac 55–70 household book 1–9, 55–71, 75, 79–82, 85, 129, 171, 207 litterae notabiliores 28, 200, 204 n. 26, 220 Middle English poetry 162–96 see also titles of individual works obits xviii, 3, 25, 56 pen-trials 3, 56 n. 5, 256, 262 punctuation xix, 199–200, 204, 206–7, 211–13, 216–17 quires xv, 1 n. 3, 3, 6, 20, 22, 25, 28, 37, 41, 42, 47, 49, 56–7, 62, 68, 74, 81, 83, 221–2, 228–9, 231 n. 40, 235, 240 red-ink tie-lines 197–9, 200–5, 207–9, 217 rubrics see titles of individual works scribal additions xviii scribal design see Digby 86 manuscript: design scribal experimentation 81–6, 137–9, 165–70, 219–39 scribal identity 3–4, 219–20, 236, 261 see also Richard de Grimhill II scribal self-portrait 1 scribal spellings 11–16 trilingualism 2, 11, 43 n. 3, 53, 80, 163, 166 Disciplina clericalis see Petrus Alfonsi Þe Disputisoun betwen þe Bodi and þe Soule 213, 218 Distinctio peccatorum (The Seven Deadly Sins) (Digby art. 1) xv, 5, 20–1, 28–31, 37, 84 Dobson, E. J., and F. Ll. Harrison 174 n. 52, 207 n. 28 Le Doctrinal Sauvage (Digby art. 62) xvii, 208 The Dog and the Ass 133–4 Les Dolerous Jours del an (Digby art. 23) xvi, 57

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Les Dolerous Jours del an (Digby art. *91) xviii, 57 Domesday Book 260–1 Domine Deus omnipotens (Digby art. 81vi) 43, 45–6 Domine saunte et septiformis spiritus Deus (Digby art. 81ii) 43, 45–6 Donaldson, E. T. 148 Doomsday see Last Judgement Doomsday (Digby art. 68a) xvii, 164–7, 169, 171, 174–5, 209–12, 235 Douce dame seinte Marie virgine gente (Digby art. 9vi) 43, 47–9, 53 n. 31, 57 Douce sire Jesu Crist (Digby art. 66) xvii, 43 n. 5 douzaine see Hélinand stanza dream interpretation xv, 3, 6, 10, 55, 57, 63–4, 66–7, 88, 220, 235 Dream of Hell see Raoul de Houdenc dream visions xvi, 15, 36–7, 121–2, 208, 273 Dulcis et benigne Domine Iesu Criste (Digby art. 81ix) 43, 45–6 Dutton, E. 44 n. 6, 49–50 n. 20 Dyer, C. 257, 263 Eamon, W. 75 Early English Text Series 163–4, 255 Ecgwin, St 268 Edmund of Abingdon, St xvi, xvii, 29 n. 21 see also Saunta maria mater; Beaus sire Jesu Crist Edward I 55 n. 3 Edward the Confessor 260 egg tricks 6, 9, 66–7, 79 Egypt 61 n. 25, 94, 102 The Eleven Pains of Hell (Digby art. 48) xvii, 164–5, 169, 173, 224 L’Estrif de deus dames (The Strife between Two Ladies) (Digby art. 67) xvii, 3, 7, 56 n. 5, 85–6, 121–2, 130, 133–4, 140, 144–54, 157, 159, 166, 208–9 Eucharist 21, 28, 34, 35 see also levation prayers; Mass Eve 118, 124, 128 Evesham see Battle of Evesham The Evils of Women see Femina res ficta res subdala res maledicta experimenta 6, 55–70, 73–86, 90–1 Experimenta (Digby arts. 11i–xvii) 57 Experimenta (Digby art. 15i–xxii) 57, 74 experimental knowledge 73–86 see also science

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experimentation see Digby 86 manuscript: scribal experimentation fablel 38, 101 n. 38, 134, 154, 186 n. 2 Le Fablel del gelous (The Little Fable of the Jealous Man) (Digby art. 32) xvi, 119, 122, 131, 154–7, 160 Les Fables Pierre Alfons 89 fabliaux 2, 7, 8, 14, 38–9, 56, 88, 93 n. 25, 94, 101 n. 38, 105, 117–19, 124–5, 130–61, 163, 167, 208 n. 31 faces in initials see Digby 86 manuscript: faces in initials facsimiles xiv, xix, 163 falconry see Le Medicinal des oiseaus farcy 60 Fein, S. 7–8, 88 n. 5, 117 n. 6, 199, 203 n. 19, 218, 224 n. 16, 225 n. 19, 241 n. 2 Femina res ficta res subdala res maledicta (The Evils of Women) (Digby art. 75) xviii, 7, 116–17, 124 Feriby see William Feriby Ferrante, J. 149 Fert scabiosa pilos verbena non habet illos (medical verse) (Digby art. 79) xviii Fides hodie sopitur (On the Truth of This World) (Digby art. 58) xvii, 88 n. 3, 166, 170, 204, 206 Fifteen Gradual Psalms (Digby art. 20) xvi, 4, 57, 83 n. 38 scribe’s addition to art. 20 (Digby art. *87) xviii Fifteen Signs of Doomsday see Quindecim singna dierum iudicii Fifteen Tokens of Doomsday (Digby art. 41) xvii, 164, 172 Firmiter credimus 33–4 FitzJohn family 9, 56 n. 5, 236, 266, 268–71 five joys xvii, 47, 217 see also Ave seinte Marie mere al creatour five senses 20, 21, 32, 35, 44, 46, 73, 78, 80 Floire et Blanceflor 216 Florence et Blancheflor 152 n. 69, 159 Flores Historiarum 270 Foehr-Janssens, Y. 89 n. 7 The Fool’s Reproof see Le Chastie-musart For on þat is so feir ant brist 204 n. 26 Ford, G. 87–9, 91 n. 17, 92, 135–6 n. 41 The Form of Confession (Digby art. 6) xv, 20–4, 26–8, 32, 35–6, 41, 49, 84 Fortune 177 fortune-telling game see Ragemon le bon

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The Four Daughters of God see Les Quatre Files Dei four humours see humours The Four Humours see Sanguinevs multum apetit quia calidus The Four Wishes of Saint Martin see Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin Fourrier, A. 36 n. 37 Fourth Lateran Council (1215) 5, 19, 25–41, 53 ‘The Fox and the Mule’ (Digby art. 27v) 104 The Fox and the Wolf (Digby art. 51) xvii, 2, 7, 8, 57, 86, 88–9, 105, 106, 164–7, 173, 177–84 Francis, St 48 Franciscans 198, 199, 212 Frankis, J. 1, 4, 10, 23, 162 n. 2, 198 n. 8, 207, 224 n. 16, 241 n. 2 French and Latin charms (Digby arts. 10i– xxxvii) xv, 2, 57, 59–62, 124 see also charms scribe’s additions to art. 10 (Digby art. *83) 61–2 Friedman, J. B. 76 n. 12 Furnivall, F. J. 165 ‘Gaite de la tor’ 149 n. 59 Galen 76 Galloway, A. 80 games see Ragemon le bon, Robert Biket, scribal games Garadue see Caradoc Gaude gloriosa (Digby art. 81iv) 43, 45–6 Gaude mundi gaudium (Digby art. 55ii) 43, 46–7 Gaunt, S. 135 n. 39 Gawain 153 see also Sir Gawain and the Green Knight Gawain manuscript see Index of Manuscripts Cited: London, BL, MS Cotton Nero A X gender conflict 7, 113–29, 130–61 see also misogyny Gesta Romanorum 91 Getty Apocalypse see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Malibu, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS Ludwig III 1 Gilote and Johane 3, 132, 140 Giovénal, C. 37 globalism 92 Gloriouse dame seinte Marie ke le fiz Deu portastes (Digby art. 9iv) 43, 47–9, 53 n. 31, 57

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Gloriouse reine heiez de moi merci (Digby art. 64iii) 43, 49–50 Gloucestershire 213 n. 51, 231, 256, 270 Glyn Dër see Owain Glyn Dër The Good of Women 134, 152 ‘The Good Whole Friend’ (Digby art. 27ii) 104 gossip 23, 135, 186 Gower 89 n. 6 gradual psalms see Fifteen Gradual Psalms graphic tail-rhyme 199, 212 n. 44, 215–17 Greek sources 63, 75, 92 n. 20 Greenhill 8, 256, 258–9 Grimhill 8, 256, 258–9 Grimhill family 3, 8, 56, 74 n. 4, 85, 255–73 Grimley (parish) 256, 259–60 Grosseteste see Robert Grosseteste Guischart de Beauliu, Le Romaunz de temtacioun de secle (Worldly Temptation) (Digby art. 63) xvii, 3, 10–11, 26, 39, 40, 208 hagiography 16–17, 131–2 ‘The Half Friend’ (Digby art. 27i) 94, 104 Halliwell, J. O. 164 Hallow (parish) 256, 259 Hampshire 198 Harley (manuscript) see Index of Manuscripts Cited: London, BL, MS Harley 2253 Harley scribe 81, 224–5 n. 19, 278 Harrington, M. 6 Harrowing of Hell 34, 131–2, 163 The Harrowing of Hell (Digby art. 40) xvii, 3, 57, 131–2, 162–5, 167, 170, 171 Hasenohr, G. 216 Hazlitt, W. C. 200 n. 16 heaven 64, 183 n. 6 Hebrew sources 87, 89–90, 91 n. 15, 92, 102 Hélinand, Vers de la mort 197, 216 Hélinand stanza (douzain) 200, 217 heliotrope 81 hell 15, 34, 36–7, 40, 163, 169, 183 n. 6 see also The Eleven Pains of Hell, The Harrowing of Hell, Raoul de Houdenc Hending (Digby art. 52) xvii, 3, 164–5, 170, 173–4, 203 Henry I 90 Henry II 263 Henry III 269 Henry Beaumont 269 heraldic devices see Digby 86 manuscript: heraldic devices

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Hercules 128 Herebert 199, 212–15, 217 Herebert manuscript see Index of Manuscripts Cited: London, BL, MS Addit. 46919 Hereford 199, 212 Herefordshire 127, 198, 256, 268 Herman de Valenciennes Assumption de Nostre Dame (Digby art. 61) xvii, 3, 5, 26, 39–40, 208, 232 Roman de Dieu et de sa mere xvii, 39 hijab 147 Hilka, A., and W. S`derhjelm 87–8 n. 1, 96 n. 36, 102, 113 n. 2 Hill, B. 40 n. 48, 225 n. 25 Hines, J. 4–5, 8–9, 139–40 n. 50, 173 n. 58, 236 n. 61, 124–5 n. 20 Hippocrates 118, 139, 153 see also The Letter of Hippocrates historiolae 60–1 Hooke, D. 260 Horstmann, C. 164 Houdenc see Raoul de Houdence household book see Digby 86 manuscript: book production Hoveden see Maria stella maris Huesca 90 huitains 214–15, 218 Hulme, W. H. 165 humours xviii, 57–8, 84, 88 n. 3 Hunt, T. 15, 21, 38 n. 43, 57–8 n. 9, 59 n. 19, 60 n. 23, 84 n. 42 Huon de Saint-Quentin, La Complainte de Jerusalem (Digby art. 30) xvi, 3, 197, 200 Hwon Holy Chireche Is vnder Uote 211 Ide de Beauchamp 85, 122 Île-de-France 199 illuminated manuscripts 235–7 improvisation 238–9 ‘In manus tuas’ 51–3, 166, 175 In Þine Honden Louerd Mine (Digby art. *93) xviii, 43, 51–2, 164, 166, 175 Incarnation 38 Intus quis (Latin proverb) (Digby art. 74) xviii, 175 n. 59 Islamic sources 6, 75, 77 n. 15, 89–90, 92 n. 20, 102, 147 Isle of Ely 213 n. 50 Jacques de Vitry 91 Jahner, J. 6

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jazz 237–9 Jean de Condé 152 n. 68 Jean de Meun 145 Jeffrey, D. L., and B. L. Levy 48 n. 16 Jesus (manuscript) see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Oxford, Jesus College, MS 29 (II) Le Jeu d’aventure 207–8 Jhesu Crist, le fiz Marie 204 n. 26 Joachim of Fiore 90 Job 60 John of Hoveden see Maria stell maris John of Pendock 256 Johnston, C. 231 n. 42 Jones, J. R., and J. E. Keller 94–6, 104–5 jongleurs/minstrels 37, 95, 105, 133, 208 Joseph 66 n. 41 Julian-Jones, M. 8–9 Karnes, M. 77 n. 15 Kay, S. 76 n. 13 Kerby-Fulton, K., and A. W. Klein 204 n. 26, 218 Ki veut verray ami elire (Digby art. *97) xviii ‘King Alexander and the Philosopher’ (Digby art. 27xxv) 105 ‘The King and the Clerk’ (Digby art. 27iv) 104 ‘The King and the Poet’ (Digby art. 27vii) 100, 104 ‘The King and the Storyteller’ (Digby art. 27xii) 99–100, 101, 104 ‘The King of Foolish Generosity’ (Digby art. 27xxi) 105 kings of England (Digby art. *92) xviii, 46 n. 11, 55 n. 3 The Knight Who Made Vaginas Talk 134 Laborderie, O. d. 270 The Lad Who Sided with Damsels and Ladies see La Bonté des femmes Le Lai du cor see Robert Biket Laing, M. 12, 224 n. 16, 241 n. 2 lais 8, 93 n. 25, 134, 142 laisses 26, 39, 40, 208–9, 211–12, 215–16 Langland, Piers Plowman 273 Langton see Stephen Langton Last Judgement 40–1, 177 n. 2 Lateran IV see Fourth Lateran Council Latin Experimencia bona et optima and recipes (Digby arts. 15i–xxii) 57, 65–8 see also experimenta

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Middle English glosses to art. 15 67–8 Latin Experimenta and recipes (Digby arts. 11i–xvii) 57, 62–3 see also experimenta Laud (manuscript) see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Oxford, BodL, MS Laud Misc. 108 Lay of the Counsel 134 Lay of the Horn see Robert Biket Lay of the Ill-Fitting Coat 134 Lay of the Little Bird 134, 135 n. 41 Lay of the Shadow 134 Layamon, Brut 235 Lazarus 62, 74 lechery 14, 19, 21, 31 Ledbury 258, 262, 264–5 Legend of Pope Gregory 218 The Letter of Hippocrates (Digby art. 7) xv, 1, 3, 6, 15, 28 n. 16, 57–9, 61, 63, 67–9, 84–5, 87, 124 n. 19, 229, 231 English glosses to art. 7 (Digby art. *100) 67, 84 scribe’s additions to art. 7 (Digby art. *82) 61 later addendum to art 7 (Digby art. *101) 68–9, 71–2 The Letter of Prester John (Digby art. 8) xv, 3, 6, 49, 83, 85, 233 levation prayers xviii, 46 n. 12, 51 n. 27, 88 n. 3 see also Eucharist; Mass Lewis, C. S. 148 Lidaka, J. G. 163 n. 5 The Life of a Lusty Lad see Le Vie de un vallet amerous The Life of Saint Ethelbert 82 The Life of Saint Eustace (Digby art. 42) xvii, 3, 16–17, 131, 164, 172 The Life of Saint Margaret 211 litany of saints 50 litterae notabiliores see Digby 86 manuscript: litterae notabiliores The Little Fable of the Jealous Man see Le Fablel del gelous Little Malvern Priory 263 liturgy 2, 46–51, 152, 171 Llewelyn of Wales 270 London 82, 267 Long Life 207 Louerd asse ζu ard god ever buten hende 211 Love Rune see Thomas of Hales lucky and unlucky days xvi, sviii, 57, 65 Ludlow 217

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‘luf-talkyng’ 159 lunaries xviii, 64–6, 91 Ma dame pur icele joie (Digby art. 64ii) 43, 49–50 Maddicott, J. 269 magic 59–62, 65, 73–5, 78, 83 ‘Maimound the Bad Squire’ (Digby art. 27xxii) 105 Malling Abbey Hours see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Oxford, BodL, MS Gough liturg. 9 Malvern Hills 256–8, 273 Malvern Priory 262 ‘The Man, the Snake, and the Fox’ (Digby 27vi) 104 Mandeville see William Mandeville Manuel des Péchés see William of Waddington Marcus Grecus 79 Maria stella maris (Digby art. *90) xviii, 43 n. 5, 88 n. 3 Marie de France 93, 98 n. 37 marriage 21, 32, 35, 65, 128, 130, 132, 145–51, 157, 161, 186, 268–70 Martin, St see Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin Mary 43–4, 47–50, 124, 127, 153–4, 156, 170, 202, 212, 213–14, 217 Mass xviii see also Eucharist; levation prayers Maud de Mortimer 270 Maurice de Sully (bishop of Paris) 48 Maximian (Digby art. 49) xvii, 164, 165 n. 13, 173, 200, 235 Mecca 102 Le Medicinal des oiseaus (Digby art. 19) xvi, 15–17, 83 n. 38, 87 scribe’s addition to art. 19 (Digby art. *86) xviii medicine xviii, 6, 24, 55–72, 73–5, 81, 83–5, 185 Meier-Ewert, C. 49–50 n. 20 Melior et Ydoine 152 n. 69 memorandum listing masses (Digby art. *88) xviii Mercia 256 Merita visionis corporis (Digby art. *96) xviii Merits of the Mass see Merita visionis corporis Middle English poetry 162–96 see also titles of individual works

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Mihm, M. T. 36 n. 37 Miller, B. D. H. 3 n. 10, 55 n. 3, 56 n. 5, 74 n. 4, 85 n. 48, 220 n. 4, 236, 255, 263 n. 34, 265 n. 49 Milliken, R. 113 n. 1 minstrels see jongleurs miracles 1–19, 60, 270 see also Wace Les Miracles de seint Nicholas see Wace Mirour de Seinte Eglise 29 nn. 21–2, 32 n. 26 mise en page 197–218 mise en texte 197–218 misogyny 4, 7, 14, 39, 95, 113–29, 139–43, 157–9, 167 see also gender conflict monologues of comic contradiction xvi, xvii monorhyme quatrain 174–75, 208–9, 211–15, 218 Montgomery, E. D. 89 n. 7 Morris, R. 164, 207 Moseley 259 Moshe Sefaradi 90 Muhammed ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi 90 music 79, 170, 172 n. 43, 174 n. 52, 204, 207, 237–9 The Names of a Hare (Digby art. 60) xvii, 11, 164, 167, 170, 174 natural philosophy 75–9, 84–6 Nelson, I. 268 Network Theory 8, 255, 267–73 Les Neuf Joies Nostre Dame 214 Newman, F. X. 148 n. 55 Nexus ouem binam per spinam duxit equinam (Digby art. 77) xviii Nicholas, St 18–19 see also Wace Nicholas de Bozon 212 Nolan, B. 132 n. 15 Noomen, W., and N. van der Boogaard 117 n. 6 Norman Conquest 256 Nu ζis fules singet 204 n. 26 Nuttall, J. 7–8 O Maria piissima 48 n. 18 obits see Digby 86 manuscript: obits Offa 259 ‘The Old Woman and the Dog’ (Digby art. 27xiii) 101, 104, 109–12, 114–15, 125, 135, 140–41, 185–6 Omnioun opifex (Digby art. 9v) 43, 47–8, 53 n. 31, 57 Omnipotens Deus misericors (Digby art. 81vii) 43, 45–6

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General Index

Omnis virtus te decorat (Digby art. 9vii) 43, 47–8, 57 On Confession (Digby art. 2) xv, 20–2, 26, 32 n. 25, 41 On hire is al mi lif ylong 204 n. 26 ‘On leome is in ζis world ilist’ 204 On Serving Christ 211 On the Truth of This World see Fides hodie sopitur On the Vanity of This World (Digby art. 57) xvii, 164, 166, 167, 174, 203–5 oratio 43 n. 2 see also prayers Oswald, St (bishop of Worcester) 258–60, 268 Our Lady Psalter (Digby art. 47) xvii, 154, 164, 165 n. 11, 173 Overbury 258, 261–4 Ovid 128, 145 n. 52, 150 Owain Glyn Dër 268 The Owl and the Nightingale 152 n. 69, 154, 156–7, 159, 215 Oxford 213, 265 Oxon 213 Paris, G. 148 Paris (city) 48, 213 Paris (manuscript) see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Paris, BnF, f. fr. MS 837 Parkes, M. B. 228 n. 29 parody 37, 177 pastoralia 20–4, 26–36, 41, 42, 49 Pater noster 32, 60, 61, 72, 191 Patterson, S. 159 n. 77, 160 n. 78, 207 n. 30 Pearcy, R. 14 Pearsall, D. 211 ‘The Peasant, the Wolf, and the Fox’ (Digby art. 27xviii) 105, 106–8, 177 peasants 17, 88, 105–8, 118–19, 121, 137–9, 156, 158, 167, 177, 263 Pendock (parish) 8, 236, 256–8, 260–4 Pendock family 3, 56 n. 5, 256, 262–4, 267–8, 270 penitential psalms see Seven Penitential Psalms pen-trials see Digby 86 manuscript: pen-trials performance 9, 48 n. 18, 84, 86, 132–3 n. 21, 140, 167, 170, 171, 185–6, 203–4, 207, 238–9 Pershore Abbey 270 Peter, St 61

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Peter Abelard 90, 155 Peter the Chanter 36 Peter the Venerable 90 Petrus Alfonsi 89–92 De dracone 91 Dialogi contra Iudaeos 90–1 Disciplina clericalis 3, 6, 7, 87–105, 113–16, 120, 125, 128, 134 n. 35, 135–7, 139–40, 154, 156, 234–5 Epistola ad peripateticos 91 Tabulae astronomicae 90–1 Phillips, H. 148 n. 57 ‘The Philosopher and the Soul’ (Digby art. 27xxvi) 105 pilgrims 17, 19, 37, 92 n. 20, 102, 109, 114 Placidas 16 plant names 84 Plato 76 Pliny 73 Poema morale 170 Poore see Richard Poore Post primam lunam epiphanie computa decem dies (Digby art. 26) xvi practical manuals 75 prayers xv–xviii, 5–6, 20–1, 39–41, 42–54, 57, 59–62, 69, 74, 85, 166, 169–70 Premonstratenians 198 Presciouse dame Seinte Marie (Digby art. *95) 43, 51–2 Prester John see The Letter of Prester John pride 21, 29 La Prière Nostre Dame see Thibaut d’Amiens prognostications xv, 2, 6, 10, 55–70, 74, 88, 124 n. 19 see also titles of individual works proverbs xvii, xviii, 56, 87–8, 91, 94, 98, 128, 136, 165, 175 Les Proverbes del Vilain (Digby art. 53) xvii, 3, 121, 165, 203 The Proverbs of Alfred 226 psalms xvi, 4, 57, 66–7, 83 n. 38 Pseudo-Albert De mirabilibus mundi 76–8 De secretis mulierum 76 Liber aggregationis 76 Secreta Alberti 76, 81 punc tuation see Digby 86 manuscript: book punctuation Pur sounge esprover (Digby art. 16) xv, 66–7 Purdie, R. 212, 217 puzzle initials 231

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The Qualities of a Friend see Ki veut verray ami elire quatrains see monorhyme quatrain Les Quatre Files Deu (The Four Daughters of God) (Digby art. 39) xvi, 3, 38–9, 131 Les Quatre Souhais saint Martin (The Four Wishes of Saint Martin) (Digby art. 35) xvi, 14, 19, 39, 117–19, 122, 129 n. 30, 130, 132 n. 19, 134, 137–9, 142, 154, 158, 167, 169 queynte 101 n. 38 quicksilver tricks 66, 68 Quindecim singna dierum iudicii (Fifteen Signs of Doomsday) (Digby art. 17) xv see also Fifteen Tokens of Doomsday Quinque gaudia Marie (Digby art. 9ii) 43, 47–8, 53 n. 31, 57 quires see Digby 86 manuscript: quires

Roman de Dieu et de sa mere see Herman de Valenciennes Le Roman de Renart 177 n. 1 Roman de Miserere 217 romance 5, 36, 38, 39, 41, 88, 102, 132, 142, 225 romaunz 98, 102 Le Romaunz de temtacioun de secle see Guichart de Beauliu Le Romaunz Peres Aunfour (Digby art. 27) xvi, 3, 6–7, 87–112, 113–16, 122, 125, 128, 134 n. 35, 135–7, 139, 154, 156, 177, 185, 234–5 Rome 102 rooster trick 68, 74 rubrics see titles of individual works Russell, D. 4–6, 20 n. 33 Ruyhall family 265

Rabelais 91 Ragemon le bon (Digby art. 56) xvi,, 4, 9, 13, 88, 159–61, 170, 200–1, 207–8 Raoul de Houdenc, Le Songe d’Enfer (Digby art. 28) xvi, 3, 5, 15, 26, 36–8 Raybin, D. 6–8 recipes see medicine Recluse of Molliens 217 red-ink tie-lines see Digby 86 manuscript: red-ink tie-lines Redmarley 236, 256–8, 261–2, 265 Regina clemencie Maria vocata (Digby art. 55iii) 43, 46–7, 197 Reichl, K. 198 n. 8 religious instruction 10–24, 24–41 Resnick, I. M. 91 n. 15 Revard, C. 81, 132 Richard, La Besturné (Turned Upside-Down) (Digby art. 34) xvi, 197 Richard de Grimhill II 3–4, 8, 56 n. 5, 220, 256, 261–2, 270–1 Richard Poore (bishop of Salisbury) 27 Robert Biket, Le Lai du cor (Lay of the Horn) (Digby art. 31) xvi, 2, 9, 13, 119–20, 122, 130, 134 n. 32, 141–4, 153–5 Robert de Berrow 263–4 Robert de Sorbon 33 n. 27 Robert Grosseteste (bishop of Lincoln) 27, 90 Le Chasteau d’amour xvi, 3, 26, 36, 38, 232 Robert of Pendock 256 Robertson, K. 76 n. 13 Roger Bacon 6, 76–9

sacraments see Seven Sacraments sacrilege 32 saints, individual see under their proper names Salve virgo uirginum (Digby art. 55i) 43, 46–7 Samson 127, 139, 153 Sanguinevs multum apetit quia calidus (The Four Humours) (Digby art. 72) xviii, 88 n. 3 Santuiste, D. 271 Sargan, J. D. 8 satire xvi. 15, 16 Saunta maria mater (Digby art. 18i) 43–4, 57 Sauvage see Le Doctrinal Sauvage The Saws of Saint Bede (Digby art. 46) xvii, 3, 164–5, 172–3 The Sayings of Saint Bernard (Digby art. 43) xvii, 3, 164–5, 170, 172, 224 Scahill, J. 11 n. 6, 43 n. 3, 53, 166 n. 21, 167 n. 26, 198 n. 8 science 2, 3, 6, 24, 55–72, 78–86, 90–1 Scott-Fleming, S. 232–3 Scott-Stokes, C. 48 n. 18 scribal design see Digby 86 manuscript: design scribal experimentation see Digby 86 manuscript: scribal experimentation scribal games 216 scribal identity see Digby 86 manuscript: scribal identity; Richard de Grimhill II scribal poetics 197–218 see also Digby 86 manuscript: design

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scribal self-portrait 1 scribal spellings 11–16 Scripture see Bible Second Barons’ War 9, 269–71 secretum see experimenta Secretum philosophorum 79–82 Secretum secretorum 6, 75–6, 84 secular verse 23, 7, 25, 43 n. 3, 87–9, 103, 127, 163, 166–7, 171, 199 Seint Esperit a nous venez (Digby art. 22) xvi, 88 Seinte Marie, moder milde 204 n. 26 Sennett, R. 227–8, 237, 239 The Seven Deadly Sins see Distinctio peccatorum Seven Deadly Sins xv, 20–1, 27–32, 35–7, 40, 49, 84 seven liberal arts 79–80 Seven Penitential Psalms (Digby art. 21) xvi, 4, 57, 83 n. 38 scribe’s addition to art. 21 (Digby art. *88) xviii The Seven Sacraments (Digby art. 5) xv, 20, 21, 28, 35, 84 Seven Sacraments xv, 20–1, 27–8, 32–7, 40, 84 Severn 256, 258–9, 261 Seynt Katerine 218 Seynt Mergrete 218 shields see Digby 86 manuscript: heraldic devices Short, I. 14 Shrawley Brook 258–9 Shropshire 268 Simon de Montfort 269–72 Simon (of) Underhill 3, 56 n. 5, 256, 262, 264 Les singnes del jour de nouel (Digby art. 13) xv, 64 The Sinner Who Repented see Thibaut d’Amiens sins see Seven Deadly Sins Sir Gawain and the Green Knight 159 n. 75 Sire Deu omnipotent (Digby art. 9iii) 43, 47–9, 53 n. 31, 57 Sistomus (Digby art. *85) 43–5 Smith, S. 5–6 social networks 8, 255–73 Socrates 96, 128 ‘Socrates and King Alexander’ (Digby art. 27xxiii) 105 Solis, G. 238 n. 67 Solomon 76, 78, 94, 96, 124, 128, 136, 139, 153, 156

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Solopova, E. 198 n. 6, 204, 215, 217 n. 70, 218 n. 72 ‘Somer is comen and winter gon’ 213 Somniale Danielis (Digby art. 12) xv, 3, 63–4, 66, 235 later additions to art. 12 (Digby art. *98) xviii Song on Women 132, 134, 152 Le Songe d’Enfer see Raoul de Houdenc Soungnarie Daniel (Digby art. 14) xv, 3, 13, 64–5 scribe’s addition to art. 14 (Digby art. *84) xviii South English Legendary 17, 225 south west Midlands 2, 8, 12, 17, 53 n. 31, 127, 167, 217, 224–6, 230, 241–5, 256, 273 Spain 6, 75, 89–90, 91, 92, 98, 102 Speed, D. 211 St Katherine’s Hospital, Ledbury 262–4 Stand Well Mother under Rood (Digby art. 45) xvii, 53, 154, 164–5, 170–2 Staunton 231 Stavensby see Alexander Stavensby Stengel, E. 164 Stephen Langton (archbishop of Canterbury) 27 Stirnemann, P. 231 n. 42 Stoyl see Thomas Stoyl The Strife between Two Ladies see L’Estrif de deus dames Swanson, M. 153 n. 71 Sweet Jesus King of Bliss (Digby art. 48a) xv, 164, 165 n. 13, 169, 173 ‘The Sword: Another Woman’s Trick’ (Digby art. 27xi) 101, 104, 135 n. 41 Taavitsainen, I. 64 n. 36 Taylor, A. 4 Teme 258–9 The Ten Commandments (Digby art. 3) xv, 20, 28, 84 Ten Commandments xv, 20–1, 23, 26 n. 9, 27–8, 32, 36–8, 84 Tertullian 118 n. 7, 128 theology 6, 90 Theophrastus 128 Thibaut d’Amiens, La Prière Nostre Dame (The Sinner Who Repented) (Digby art. 33) xvi, 154, 200 ‘The Thief and the Moonbeam’ (Digby art. 27xix) 105 Thomas of Hales, Love Rune 215, 226 Thomas Stoyl 214

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Thompson, J. A. 235 n. 56 Thorndike, L. 62, 73 n. 2, 74 n. 3, 76 n. 11, 79 n. 21 The Thrush and the Nightingale (Digby art. 50) xvii, 3, 7, 86, 126–7, 130, 136, 144, 152–7, 164–7, 170, 173, 200, 202–3, 208, 228 Titchfield 198 Tolan, J. 87–8 n. 1, 90–1, 95–6, 102 n. 39, 113–14 n. 2 Tollemache Book of Secrets 81–2 translatio studii 11 treacle 59 Treharne, E. 166 ‘The Trick of the Stone and the Well’ (Digby art. 27xiv) 104, 135 n. 41, 136 trilingualism see Digby 86 manuscript: trilingualism Trinity 32 n. 26, 34, 38, 94 Trinity (manuscript) see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Cambridge, TCC, MS B.14.39 Tschann-Parkes facsimile 3, 7, 11, 42. 43 n. 3, 44 n. 7, 49–50 n. 20, 55 n. 3, 56, 74 n. 4, 82–3, 88 n. 4, 104, 113 n. 2, 117 n. 6, 197–8, 203, 219–21, 228 n. 29, 255–6, 265, 272 Turned Upside-Down see Richard Turville-Petre, T. 4–5, 70, 163 n. 5, 167 n. 24, 171 The Twelve Articles of the Faith (Digby art. 4) xv, 5, 6, 20, 21, 26 n. 9, 28, 33–4, 35, 38, 40, 57, 84 Twelve Articles of the Faith 21, 26 n. 9, 28, 33–4, 35, 40. 57 ‘The Two Minstrels’ (Digby art. 27xvi) 105 ‘The Two Scholarly Clerks’ (Digby art. 27viii) 100, 104 Two Twisted Knights see De Deus Chevalers torz ke plederent a Roume Ubi Sunt (Digby art. 44) xvii 165, 170, 172 Underhill, John (bishop of Oxford) 265 Underhill family 3, 8, 56, 67, 74 n. 4, 85, 255–73 Underhill Farm 256–8, 261, 263–4 Unidentified prayer fragment (Digby art. 81v) 45 n. 10 Varnhagen, H. 164 Veni Creator Spiritus xvi, 88 n. 4 Vernon manuscript see Index of Manuscripts Cited: Oxford, BodL, MS Eng. poet. a. 1

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Le Vers de la mort see Hélinand Le Vie de Thomas Becket see Beneit Le Vie de un vallet amerous (The Life of a Lusty Lad) (Digby art. 38) xvi, 14–15, 19, 120–3, 128, 131, 157–9, 197 Vilain see Les Proverbes del Vilain Vincent of Beauvais 90 Vitas patrum 93, 102 Voie de paradis 36 n. 38 Wace, Les Miracles de seint Nicholas (Digby art. 54) xvii, 3, 5, 10–12, 16–19, 24, 87, 131, 220 Wakelin, D. 228, 238 n. 66 Walcher (prior of Malvern) 91 Waleran (earl of Worcester) 269 Walter de Cantilipe (bishop of Worcester) 27, 32, 35–6 Walter Waldyng 231 Warton, T. 164 Watson, A. G. 247 n. 3 Welcome ki ke bringe ki ne bring fare wel (Digby art. 73) xviii, 166, 175 Welsh Marshes 2, 256, 268 West Midland manuscripts 198–218, 224–7, 230, 241–5 west Midlands see south west Midlands Westminster Abbey 262 What Love Is Like (Digby art. 69) xvii, 2–3, 127 n. 24, 164–7, 171, 175 ‘The Whole Friend’ 94 Wick Episcopi 259 William Feriby 265 William Mandeville 271 William of Underhill 256 William of Waddington, Manuel des Péchés 5, 20–2, 24 Winchester Psalter see Index of Manuscripts Cited: London, BL, MS Cotton Nero C IV Wine-and-Water debate 152 n. 67 ‘The Wise Man and the Fool’ (Digby art. 27iii) 104 Wita quid hominis nisi res vallata ruinis (Digby art. 76) xviii woman’s ‘nature’ 7, 14, 21–24, 113–20, 127–8, 136, 141, 143, 146–7 see also gender conflict; misognyny ‘The Woman’s Trick with a Blanket’ (Digby art. 27x) 101, 104, 114, 135 n. 41 Worcester 167, 198, 213 nn. 51–2, 255–73 Worcester Priory 261, 264 Worcester statutes 33, 35–6, 40–1

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General Index

Worcestershire 3–4, 8, 25, 27, 56, 67, 129, 167, 171, 213 nn. 51–2, 255–73 Worcestershire Domesday 261 ‘The World Compared to a Thief ’ (Digby art. 27xxiv) 105 Worldly Temptation see Guischart de Beauliu ‘The Worthy Man and His Bad Wife’ (Digby art. 27ix) 101, 104, 135 n. 41 ‘The Worthy Woman of Good Cunning’ (Digby art. 27xv) 102, 105

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Wright, T. 106 n. 78, 164 Wright, T., and J. O. Halliwell 200 n. 16 Wulfstan II, St 268 Xantippe 128 Yeager, R. F. 89 n. 6 Yonne 199 n. 11 Yvain 142 zodiacal lunaries 64 n. 36

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Manuscript Culture in the British Isles

I

Design and Distribution of Late Medieval Manuscripts in England, ed. Margaret Connolly and Linne R. Mooney (2008)

II

Women and Writing, c.1340–c.1650: The Domestication of Print Culture, ed. Anne Lawrence-Mathers and Phillipa Hardman (2010)

III The Wollaton Medieval Manuscripts: Texts, Owners and Readers, ed. Ralph Hanna and Thorlac Turville-Petre (2010) IV Scribes and the City: London Guildhall Clerks and the Dissemination of Middle English Literature, 1375–1425, Linne R. Mooney and Estelle Stubbs (2013) V

Robert Thornton and his Books: Essays on the Lincoln and London Thornton Manuscripts, ed. Susanna Fein and Michael Johnston (2014)

VI Middle English Texts in Transition: A Festschrift dedicated to Toshiyuki Takamiya on his 70th birthday, ed. Simon Horobin and Linne R. Mooney (2014) VII The Auchinleck Manuscript: New Perspectives, ed. Susanna Fein (2016) VIII The Prose Brut and Other Late Medieval Chronicles: Books have their Histories. Essays in Honour of Lister M. Matheson, ed. Jaclyn Rajsic, Erik Kooper and Dominique Hoche (2016)

310

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E

SUSANNA FEIN is Professor of English at Kent State University. CONTRIBUTORS : Maureen Boulton, Neil Cartlidge, Marilyn Corrie,

Susanna Fein, Marjorie Harrington, John Hines, Jennifer Jahner, Melissa Julian-Jones, Jenni Nuttall, David Raybin, Delbert Russell, J.D. Sargan, Sheri Smith. Cover image: Portrait of scribe-owner, labelled ‘scripsi librum in anno et iii mensibus’, below list of the names of English kings (Ine to Edward I). Oxford, BodL, MS Digby 86, fol. 205v. The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.

SUSANNA FEIN (ed.)

xtravagantly heterogeneous in its contents, Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Digby 86 is an utterly singular production. On its last folio, the scribe signs off with a self-portrait – a cartoonishlydrawn male head wearing a close-fitted hood – and an inscription: ‘scripsi librum in anno et iii mensibus’ (I wrote the book in a year and three months). His fifteen months’ labour resulted in one of the most important miscellanies to survive from medieval England: a trilingual marvel of a compilation, with quirky combinations of content that range from religion, to science, to literature of a decidedly secular cast. It holds medical recipes, charms, prayers, prognostications, magic tricks, pious doctrine, a liturgical calendar, religious songs, lively debates, poetry on love and death, proverbs, fables, fabliaux, scurrilous games, and gender-based diatribes. That Digby is from the thirteenth century adds to its appeal, for English literary remnants from before 1300 are all too rare. Scholars on both sides of the vernacular divide, French and English, are deeply intrigued by it. Many of its texts are found nowhere else: for example, the French Arthurian Lay of the Horn, the English fabliau Dame Sirith and the beast fable Fox and Wolf, and the French Strife between Two Ladies (a candid debate on feminine politics). The interpretations offered in this volume, of its contents, presentation, and ownership, show that there is much to discover in Digby’s lively record of the social and spiritual pastimes of a bookowning gentry family.

INTERPRETING MS DIGBY 86

MANUSCRIPT CULTURE IN THE BRITISH ISLES

INTERPRETING MS DIGBY 86

YORK MEDIEVAL PRESS

An imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge IP12 3DF (GB) and 668 Mt Hope Ave, Rochester NY 14620–2731 (US)

A Trilingual Book from Thirteenth-century Worcestershire YORK MEDIEVAL PRESS

Edited by

SUSANNA FEIN