Journal of Medieval Military History. Volume XVI [16] 1783273100, 9781783273102

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CONTENTS CARL I. HAMMER

In the Field with Charlemagne, 791

WALTER GOFFART

The Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army, or, How Far May One Argue from Silence?

RABEI G. KHAMISY

Baybars’ Strategy of War against the Franks

ILANA KRUG DANNY LAKE-GIGUÈRE

Food, Famine, and Edward II’s Military Failures The Impacts of Warfare on Woodland Exploitation in Late Medieval Normandy (1364–1380): Royal Forests as Military Assets during the Hundred Years’ War

PIERRE GAITE

Exercises in Arms: the Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-at-Arms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries

RONALD W. BRAASCH III

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years’ War, 1337–1453

BRIAN R. PRICE

Yron & Stele: Chivalric Ethos, Martial Pedagogy, Equipment, and Combat Technique in the Early Fourteenth-Century Middle English Version of Guy of Warwick

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

JOURNAL OF MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY  VIII JOURNAL OF MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY

The Journal’s hallmark is broad chronological, geographic and thematic coverage of the subject, bearing witness to ‘the range and richness of scholarship on medieval warfare, military institutions, and cultures of conflict that characterises the field’.  HISTORY

XVI

J ournal of

MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY

FRANCE, DEVRIES, ROGERS (editors)

·   XVI · Edited by JOHN FRANCE, KELLY DEVRIES and CLIFFORD J. ROGERS

JOURNAL OF

Medieval Military History Volume XVI

JOURNAL OF MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY

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

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

JOURNAL OF

Medieval Military History Volume XVI

Edited by JOHN FRANCE KELLY DeVRIES CLIFFORD J. ROGERS

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Contributors 2018 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 2018 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978–1–78327–310–2 The Boydell Press is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620–2731, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view these images please refer to the printed version of the book.

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Contents

List of Illustrations 1. In the Field with Charlemagne, 791 Carl I. Hammer

vii 1

2. The Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army, or, How Far May One Argue from Silence? Walter Goffart

17

3. Baybars’ Strategy of War against the Franks Rabei G. Khamisy

35

4. Food, Famine, and Edward II’s Military Failures Ilana Krug

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5. The Impacts of Warfare on Woodland Exploitation in Late Medieval Normandy (1364–1380): Royal Forests as Military Assets during the Hundred Years’ War Danny Lake-Giguère

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6. Exercises in Arms: the Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-at-Arms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Pierre Gaite

99

7. The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years’ War, 1337–1453 Ronald W. Braasch III

123

8. Yron & Stele: Chivalric Ethos, Martial Pedagogy, Equipment, and Combat Technique in the Early Fourteenth-Century Middle English Version of Guy of Warwick Brian R. Price

159

vi Contents

9. Reframing the Conversation on Medieval Military Strategy John D. Hosler

189

List of Contributors

207

Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view these images please refer to the printed version of the book.

Illustrations

3. Baybars’ Strategy of War against the Franks 
 Map 1: The Latin East Map 2: The Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem with the main route between Egypt and al-Sham.

61 62

6. Exercises in Arms: the Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-at-Arms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Figure 1: Three youths, a lance, and a barrel. The Bodleian Libraries, The University of Oxford, MS. Bodley 264, fol. 56r. Figure 2: Jousting practice with training equipment. The Bodleian Libraries, The University of Oxford, MS. Bodley 264, fol. 82v. Figure 3: Duelling with wooden cudgels and “pickaback” wrestling. The Bodleian Libraries, The University of Oxford, MS. Bodley 264, fol. 91r.

110 111 112

7. The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years’ War: 1337–1453 Figure 1: Reasons Figure 2: Reasons Figure 3: Reasons Figure 4: Reasons

skirmishes occurred during sieges skirmishes occurred during battle skirmishes occurred during devastation for victory in skirmishes

132 135 138 142

8. Yron & Stele: Chivalric Ethos, Martial Pedagogy, Equipment & Combat Technique in the Early Fourteenth-Century Middle English Version of Guy of Warwick Figure 1: Guy of Warwick from the Shrewsbury Manuscript. British 160 Library, MS Royal 15 E vi, fol. 227r. © The British Library Board. Figure 2: Tomb effigy of William Fitzralph, Pebmarsh Church, 179 Essex. From Charles Boutell, Monumental Brasses and Slabs (London: G. Bell, 1847), courtesy of www. effigiesandbrasses.com.

1 In the Field with Charlemagne, 791* Carl I. Hammer

After deposing his first cousin, the Bavarian duke Tassilo, at the royal palace of Ingelheim in 788, Charlemagne came to Regensburg in Bavaria and secured its borders against the Avars, a semi-nomadic people who lived to the east in what is now Lower Austria and Hungary. He then celebrated Christmas at Aachen. From there later in 789, together with Saxons and Frisians, he launched a campaign across the river Elbe against Slavs known as the Wilzi, from which he returned in victory – so the official Frankish Royal Annals (ARF) relate – to Worms on the Rhine. There he celebrated Christmas 789, which was New Year’s Day 790 in the Frankish reckoning, and also the following Easter (11 April) 790.1 That year he did not undertake a campaign but remained in Worms where, according to the unofficial Revised or so-called Einhard version of the Royal Annals, he received a delegation of Avar leaders (principes) who negotiated with him regarding the boundaries between the two realms (confiniis regnorum suorum). The result was evidently unsatisfactory to Charlemagne, and the Reviser adds ominously in his entry for the year that “this conflict and dispute was the seedbed of the war which afterwards was undertaken against the Avars.” After a short excursion on the river Main to the royal estate at Salz, Charlemagne then returned to Worms for Christmas 790. Charlemagne again celebrated Easter (27 March) in 791 at Worms and remained there until early summer when he relocated his court back to Regensburg, which lies on the Danube at the most northerly point of the river’s course. It was the seat of one of Bavaria’s five dioceses north of the Alps and the site of a major monastery, St. Emmeram. The substantial remains of the Roman legionary fortress for Raetia II, still extant today, provided usable fortifications, and the An earlier version of this paper was read at the Sewanee Medieval Colloquium in 2015, and Professor Richard Abels (USNA, Annapolis) provided helpful comment there. Professor (Emeritus) Rudolf Schieffer (MGH and Munich) also kindly read the draft. 1 Walter Pohl, Die Awaren: Ein Steppenvolk im Mitteleuropa, 567–822 n. Chr. (Munich, 1988); and for this paper his Die Awarenkriege Karls des Großen 788–803, Militärhistorische Schriftenreihe 61 (Vienna, 1988), esp. pp. 17–21. Text: Annales regni Francorum inde ab a. 741 usque ad a. 829, qui dicuntur Annales Laurissenses maiores et Einhardi, ed. Friedrich Kurze, MGH SS rer. Germ. 6 (Hanover, 1895); English translation: Bernhard Scholz and Barbara Rogers, Carolingian Chronicles (Ann Arbor, 1972), cited by year. All MGH texts can be consulted online under the dMGH tab at www.mgh.de. *

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dukes of Bavaria had made it one of their principal residences since the late seventh century. It thus possessed the necessary infrastructure for a royal residence, and its location allowed ready access to the east via the Danube and south into Italy by well-established Roman routes through the Alps. Charlemagne’s immediate purpose at Regensburg in 791 was to initiate the campaign against the Avars that he had apparently determined to undertake at Worms in the previous year. To that end he assembled, in addition to his usual Frankish retainers and their contingents, additional forces from Saxony and Frisia, presumably those used against the Wilzi, which now were led by his kinsman Count Theoderic and his chamberlain Meginfred. But we may suspect that Charlemagne was also intent on settling the political situation in Bavaria, which had been in an uncertain state since Tassilo’s deposition at Ingelheim, a verdict that evidently had provoked unease and even resistance amongst some prominent Bavarians.2 In Regensburg in late summer Charlemagne held his council of war where the justification for the campaign was rehearsed. However, this justification was not the disputed border, but rather “on account of the great and intolerable harm (malitia) which the Avars had committed against the Holy Church and the Christian people,” for which no other satisfaction was possible. There is no reason to doubt the sincerity of this official justification for the invasion of Avaria. Charlemagne’s pious concern for the Church’s welfare was undoubtedly genuine, but we may suspect that he was also motivated by subsidiary considerations. At the show trial organized in 788 at the royal palace of Ingelheim at which he deposed his cousin Duke Tassilo, one of the charges alleged against the duke was – so both the Royal and the Revised Annals tell us, in somewhat differing accounts – that he had sought assistance from the Avars (ARF: ad Avaros transmisse; Reviser: Hunorum gentem concitaret); and the Avars did indeed use the unsettled situation in that year to conduct unsuccessful raids against the Franks in both Italy and Bavaria. It is quite likely that churches, particularly in Italy, suffered losses during these raids. Moreover, Charlemagne was no doubt concerned that the Avars might come to the assistance of Bavarian dissidents wishing to restore the Agilolfing ducal dynasty or to establish some other regime before he could make a final political settlement there. Similarly, the apparent ease with which the Franks repelled the incursions of the Avars in 788 may have encouraged Charlemagne to consider them a spent military force, and reports of fabulous Avar treasure, later substantiated, must have excited his “avarice.”3 The Avars were probably seen as very “low-hanging fruit,” the

2

3

Carl Hammer, From Ducatus to Regnum: Ruling Bavaria under the Merovingians and Early Carolingians, Collection Haut Moyen Âge 2 (Turnhout, 2007), p. 248, with Table 4 on p. 208; Carl Hammer, “Pipinus Rex: Pippin’s Plot of 792 and Bavaria,” Traditio 63 (2008), 235–76, at 253–63. On the critical role of plunder in early medieval warfare, see Timothy Reuter’s classic, “Plunder and Tribute in the Carolingian Empire,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th ser., 35 (1985), 75–94; reprinted in his posthumous Medieval Politics and Modern Mentalities, ed. Janet Nelson (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 231–50.



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source of a quick victory and riches to compensate for the endless, bloody, and generally unremunerative wars against Saxons and Slavs. Perhaps Charlemagne calculated, much like some modern armchair strategists, that his invasion of Avaria would more than pay for itself. Charlemagne established his advance camp on the river Enns, a southern tributary of the Danube, “because,” as the Reviser informs us, “this river flows between the Bavarian and Hun [Avar] boundaries and is considered the fixed frontier of the two realms” (certus duorum regnorum limes habebatur). “Fixed” and “considered” by whom, we might wonder; yet it is still the border between Upper and Lower Austria. Lorch (Lauriacum) on the Bavarian side of the Enns, the site of the base camp, was also, like Regensburg, the site of the former legionary fortress for the province of Noricum, of which some remnants were probably still serviceable. From there Charlemagne’s punitive campaign advanced in three contingents. Theoderic and Meginfrid were to lead the Saxons and Frisians east into Avaria along what must have been only a track on the north bank of the Danube; Charlemagne himself, accompanied part of the way by his young son Louis (the later emperor to be known as “the Pious”), was to lead the Franks on the south bank using the established Roman road; and the supplies and other baggage were moved by boat on the Danube with a Bavarian contingent on board as escort. This clearly subordinate position of the Bavarians as support troops is, I believe, notable. They were, after all, the people who confronted the Avars most directly, and mobilizing significant Bavarian forces would have presented the fewest logistical problems. Evidently, only three years after the forcible deposition of the last Bavarian duke and the direct “Anschluß” of the duchy to “our kingdom of the Franks,” Bavaria was still in such a state of disorganization and disaffection that an effective and trustworthy force could not be raised there. Charlemagne clearly had loyal partisans in Bavaria but not enough, evidently, to risk a general muster which might become an occasion for and even instrument of opposition. The contrast with the combat contingent drawn from the faraway and still troublesome Saxons is astounding. We shall return to this point presently. In September 791 the Frankish forces moved across the Enns and proceeded eastwards into the old Roman province of Pannonia I where they devastated several Avar fortified sites, reportedly advancing as far east as the river Raab, another southern tributary of the Danube, in modern Hungary.4 The Avars, 4

For the route, see the relevant sections of the magnificent The Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World, ed. Richard J. A. Talbert (Princeton, 2000), Maps 12, 13, and 20. It seems likely that Charlemagne’s column followed the main Roman road through Cetium (St. Pölten), Comagena (Tulln)/Cumeoburg, Vindobona (Vienna), and Carnuntum (Petronell-Bad Deutsch-Altenburg), the legionary fortress for Pannonia I. From there the route would have turned south along the Danube to the old Roman site of Arrabona (Györ, Hungary) at the mouth of the Raab. At Arrabona they could have proceeded inland to the southwest over Bassiana (Sárvár) to Savaria (Szombathely), as indicated on the map in Pohl, Awarenkriege, p. 48. But, given the problems with the horses, it is quite possible that they rather headed directly west to Scarbantia (Sopron) before turning north back to Vindobona. The extent to which any of these former Roman sites

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however, retreating ahead of the advancing Franks, wisely refused to offer a decisive battle, and the Reviser tells us that a devastating pestilence broke out amongst the horses in Charlemagne’s contingent.5 As autumn advanced, this misfortune probably marked an end to the campaign season and this inconclusive expedition. The official Royal Annals nevetheless put their usual best spin on events, telling us that the allied forces returned to Bavaria, “magnifying God for such a victory,” and were then dispersed to their homes; but Charlemagne remained in Regensburg over Christmas, to plan his next expedition against the Avars and to settle matters in his new Bavarian realm. Normally, we would not know much more about such a relatively uneventful and inglorious campaign, but we are fortunate to have three documents enacted in the camp at Lorch, which shed some interesting additional light on Charlemagne’s and his retainers’ activities in September before setting out for Avaria. The first is a letter from Charlemagne to his wife, Fastrada (see Appendix: Exhibit 1).6 It is the only personal letter from Charlemagne to survive because it was subsequently included in a formulary assembled at the monastery of SaintDenis by the abbot, Fardulf, who, as a royal chaplain, was certainly present at Regensburg in late 791, and possibly also at Lorch. This text of the letter, which in the manner of a formulary copy suppresses most names, begins with greetings to “our cherished and much beloved wife [Fastrada] the queen” and “our sweetest daughters and other of our faithful servants abiding with you.” Charlemagne then summarizes a report which he had just received from his son King Pippin in Italy assuring him of Pippin’s own and the Pope’s good health and the wellbeing of his subjects “in those parts.” The report from King Pippin also contained specific information concerning an elite contingent (scara) that Charlemagne had dispatched to Italy: this had made an incursion into Avaria under an unnamed “Duke of Histria” (possibly Erich of Friuli), a bishop, and two counts, and on 23 August defeated the enemy, killing many. After spending the night in a fortified Avar settlement (walus) they had returned with spoils and 150 prisoners. Charlemagne must have seen this minor military success as an auspicious sign for his own expedition. The Royal Annals tell us about the army’s penitential rites before setting off on the campaign, “imploring God’s assistance for the well-being of the army,

5

6

were significantly settled by Avars or anyone else is as far as I can tell unknown. The Avar fortification on the river Kamp, north of the Danube, must have been destroyed, as reported by the ARF and the Reviser, by the force under Theoderic and Meginfrid. I suspect that the Reviser’s intent here was more to underscore the king’s bad luck than to provide a precise and statistically accurate account of the epidemic. For a discussion, see Carroll Gillmor, “The 791 Equine Epidemic and its Impact on Charlemagne’s Army,” Journal of Medieval Military History 3 (2005), 23–45, at 25–27. Text: Formulae Merowingici et Karolini aevi, ed. Karl Zeumer, MGH Leges (Hanover, 1896), pp. 510–11; Epistolae Karolini aevi (2), ed. Ernst Dümmler, MGH Epp. 4 (Berlin, 1895), pp. 528–29; my translation can be compared with that in Peter D. King, Charlemagne: Translated Sources (privately printed: Kendal, 1987), pp. 309–10; comment on the formulary in Rosamond McKitterick, Charlemagne: The Formation of a European Identity (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 43–44.



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and for the aid of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and for victory and vengeance against the Avars.” These rites were thus an integral part of the justification for the war. In his letter to Fastrada, Charlemagne gives a detailed description of these penitential litanies, which the army had undertaken for three days from Monday, 5 through Wednesday, 7 September so that God “might deign to bestow peace and good health and victory and a favorable expedition” upon them “and be our helper and counselor and defender in all of our perils.”7 The priests enjoined the troops to abstain from flesh and wine for the three days, but the “richer and more powerful men” could be absolved from the wine prohibition for a shilling per day and the less affluent “as they were able” down to one penny. In addition, alms were offered and each priest said a “special mass unless illness prevented.” The ordinary clerks each sang fifty psalms, and those performing the litanies went about barefoot; “thus, our priests decreed, and we all complied, and with God’s aid were finished.” Charlemagne does not discuss his own, personal observances, and his letter provides an interesting perspective on the view of wartime penance presented by Bernard Bachrach in his extensive exposition of early Carolingian warfare.8 The king concludes on a personal note by expressing his surprise that no word had come by messenger or letter from the queen in Regensburg and hopes that she will write him often, “about your health and whatever else it may please,” his only direct expression of personal affection that has come down to us. But just before this he also enjoins the queen, “Whence we desire that you together with so-and-so and with others of our faithful servants ought to consider how those same litanies might be done there [in Regensburg],” presumably to strengthen their efficacy for the army. Charlemagne added however, in another expression of personal solicitude, that the queen should take account of her “infirmitas”; he leaves the matter to her judgment (arbitrium). As Johannes Fried rightly remarks, this is “in the middle of war, a moving witness to loving concern and affection.”9 Charlemagne certainly seems to have cared deeply for Fastrada, whom he had married at Worms in 783 and who bore him two surviving daughters. But, in a highly uncharacteristic negative personal judgment Charlemagne’s biographer, Einhard, emphasized her “harshness” (crudelitas) which provoked two revolts during the reign, perhaps an attempt by Einhard to deflect criticism from his hero.10 7 8 9 10

Michael McCormick, “The Liturgy of War in the Early Middle Ages: Crisis, Litanies and the Carolingian Monarchy,” Viator 15 (1984), 1–24, at 8–9. Bernard Bachrach, Early Carolingian Warfare: Prelude to Empire (Philadelphia, 2001), pp. 151–55; so far as I can tell, Bachrach was (very uncharacteristically) unaware of this evidence. Johannes Fried, Karl der Grosse. Gewalt und Glaube. Eine Biographie (Munich, 2013), p. 193: “…mitten im Krieg ein rührendes Zeugnis liebevoller Fürsorge und Anhänglichkeit.” Einhard, Einhardi vita Karoli magni, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, Georg Waitz, and Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH SS rer. Germ. 25 (Hanover, 1911); English translations: Samuel Taylor, The Life of Charlemagne by Einhard, (Ann Arbor, 1960), and Lewis Thorpe, Two Lives of Charlemagne, Penguin Classics (Harmondsworth, 1969), pp. 49–90, at cc. 18, 20. It is not clear whether Einhard had personal knowledge of Fastrada, since he may have come to court from

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Fastrada may have arranged similar rites in Regensburg, as Charlemagne requested. We know that Bishop Sindbert of Regensburg, one of the king’s most trusted subjects in Bavaria, was still there on Tuesday, 1 September. It is possible that he then traveled to Lorch to participate with other senior clerics there in the litanies beginning on the 5th. It is interesting that Charlemagne refers to priests who were not able to celebrate the special masses due to illness, since Sindbert died on Tuesday, 29 September. We know also that Bishop Angilram of Metz, the royal archchaplain, who probably organized the rites in Lorch, perished on 26 October during the campaign, but we have no information about the precise place of Sindbert’s death. Still, there is an interesting echo of such penitential activites in the “Codex Palatinus” manuscript of the Murbach annals, which was probably composed under Bishop Sindbert of Regensburg, who was also abbot of Murbach from 789.11 This unusually informative source has no annalistic entry for 791; rather, it has a copy of the prayer set from a Frankish Gelasian sacramentary such as that from Rheinau that was to be used on the first day of the autumn Embertide on Wednesday, 21 September in 791.12 This was one of four seasonal periods of penance, which lasted for four days until Saturday, 24 September, and would have been the natural opportunity to carry out the king’s wishes. Perhaps Sindbert sent back instructions from Lorch, or even returned to Regensburg where he would have observed the Embertide in the week before his death. This unusual liturgical entry in the “Codex Palatinus” may be his obiter dicta and his memorial. The other two contemporary witnesses to activities at Lorch are deeds copied into the rich episcopal cartulary of the Bavarian diocese of Freising (see Appendix: Exhibits 2 and 3).13 Both deeds are exceptionally interesting documents in their own right.14 Each concerns proprietary churches in far-western Bavaria and their incumbent priests. We know, of course, that kings continued to rule while on campaign, and royal charters were issued in the field. But it is rare to have direct and detailed evidence of more local disputes between private parties being aired in camp and their business transacted. One of these deeds (Exhibit 2: TF 142) is already quite well known to historians of Bavaria because the participants are identified as members of the Huosi, a noble genea-

11 12 13

14

Fulda until after her death in 794, for which see now Stefan Patzold, Ich und Karl der Grosse; Das Leben des Höflings Einhard (Stuttgart, 2013), pp. 51–52, 356. Hammer, “Pipinus Rex,” pp. 255–57. Walter Lendi, Untersuchungen zur frühalemmanischen Annalistik: Die Murbacher Annalen (Freiburg/CH, 1971), p. 167. Die Traditionen des Hochstifts Freising, Part 1, ed. Theodor Bitterauf, Quellen und Erörterungen zur bayerischen und deutschen Geschichte, New Series, vol. 4/1 (1905, repr. Aalen, 1967), Nr. 142, pp. 146–47; Nr. 143, pp. 147–49. Both deeds can be viewed in manuscript at the Bavarian State Library’s excellent website, wwww.bayerische-landesbibliothek-online.de; first click Inhalte, then Handschriften, then Cozroh-Codex, folios 173r and 99v respectively. For discussion of these two deeds see Hammer, From Ducatus to Regnum, Excursus 3 (TF 142); idem, “The Social Landscape of the Prague Sacramentary: The Prosopography of an Eighth-Century Mass-Book,” Traditio 54 (1999), 41–80, at 55–57 (TF 143).



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logia, to which the Bavarian Law Code (Title 3) grants an elevated wergild, the price required by law to satisfy an injury, along with the old ducal dynasty of the Agilolfings and four other named genealogiae. This deed concerns five members of the Huosi and co-heirs to a church of which one faction tried to dispossess the other, and ejected its priest, who was also one of the co-heirs. The Huosi then held an internal council to resolve the matter without success, and it was referred to the ordinary, Bishop Atto of Freising, who sent the parties on to Lorch for resolution. Freising and Lorch are located at opposite ends of Bavarian territory, about 250 kilometers apart. Thus, removal of the dispute required a substantial journey of several days by the disputants. This indicates that the matter was sufficiently urgent that settlement could not await the return of Charlemagne and his court to more convenient Regensburg. There in Lorch the case for possession of the church was argued over three days until Tuesday, 20 September, the eve of the Embertide, on a hill called, significantly, the Wartberg (the Watchtower Hill) before Charlemagne’s royal commissioners including Bishop Arn of Salzburg, the comes Gerold (the king’s brother-in-law), and Meginfrid the chamberlain, who was one of the leaders of the Saxon and Frisian contingents. When Gerold was killed, perhaps by “friendly fire,” in 799, he is designated in the Royal Annals as “Baioariae praefectus” although it is not certain that he held any official position in Bavaria at this time when, as we saw, the exact form of Frankish rule there was still evidently in flux.15 However, it is safe to conclude that the presence of two such high-ranking lay courtiers and the Bavarian bishop Arn, not yet an archbishop, indicates a very “high profile” proceeding indeed! It is clear from other evidence in the cartulary that the participants in the second deed (Exhibit 3: TF 143) likewise came from the highest levels of the Bavarian aristocracy and from the same territories in far western Bavaria as the Huosi. This deed preserves the record of an earlier consecration and conveyance of a church also by coheirs including its priest to the cathedral church of Freising. The undated grant was then confirmed, “amongst the tents next to the town of Lorch,” in September 791. Perhaps, the priest and the witnesses to this second deed at Lorch had previously been aware of the dispute amongst the Huosi and had even been witnesses to the three-day spectacle provided by their suit there. By reconfirming their earlier grant in such public circumstances, they may have hoped to secure it against any challenge. Possibly, for some, fear of death on campaign also played a role. Despite these precautions, a dispute, similar to that amongst the Huosi, did arise amongst the coheirs, perhaps as a result of the priest’s original donation on behalf of absent brothers. At some date, probably shortly after the conclusion of the Avar expedition, the case was taken to the royal palace at Regensburg where it was concluded by the same royal commissioners, Gerold and Meginfrid, who earlier had heard the Huosi dispute for three days in Lorch. This again indicates a matter which goes well 15

Hammer, From Ducatus to Regnum, pp. 251–52.

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beyond the bounds of a normal property dispute, of which many examples with unique information about proprietary churches and their clergy are recorded in the Freising cartulary.16 Thus, what appear here to be mere private property transactions played a prominent and well-recorded role at a busy army camp amidst penitential rites and preparations for war. To understand this, it is necessary to look more closely at the political situation in Bavaria. A possible clue is suggested by the Reviser’s – but not the Royal Annals’ – entry for the following year 792, when a conspiracy was discovered at Regensburg centered around Charlemagne’s oldest son, also named Pippin and afterwards known as “the Hunchback.” This plot was allegedly aimed at making Pippin a king – apparently a king of Bavaria.17 Einhard thought that Fastrada had a role in provoking this disturbing incident within the royal family itself. Moreover, it appears that the western regions of Bavaria where the disputed churches lay and where the disputants clearly had extensive possessions were also a center of support for Pippin.18 Given the uncertain state of allegiances in Bavaria referred to above, it was evidently imperative that disputes amongst crucial magnates there be settled quickly and definitively to demonstrate the effectiveness of the new regime, even to the point of taking valuable time out of campaign preparations during three days. It is also interesting to note that the person who revealed Pippin’s conspiracy to Charlemagne was the royal chaplain, Fardulf, who was rewarded with the abbacy of Saint-Denis, where he preserved Fastrada’s letter for us and possibly composed the Revised version of the Royal Annals.19 He was also instrumental in preparing and producing the former Bavarian duke, Tassilo, three years later at the council of Frankfurt in 794, where Tassilo made a public renunciation of all his rights in Bavaria, an undertaking documented in another letter preserved in the same Saint-Denis formulary as Charlemagne’s letter to Fastrada.20 Tassilo’s extraordinary demonstration of political submission at Frankfurt seems to have put an end to political resistance in Bavaria, the government of which may already have been entrusted, perhaps only very recently, to Gerold, the same royal commissioner who heard our property disputes. The peace of Bavaria required urgent attention even while waging war. The home front in Bavaria and the war front in Avaria were clearly inseparable. Charlemagne had little joy from his subsequent sojourn in Regensburg between 791 and 793. Notably, no campaign was undertaken in 792, which may indicate unsettled circumstances prior to Pippin’s attempted coup about which we are not

16 17

18 19 20

Stefan Esders and Helene Mierau, Der althochdeutsche Klerikereid, MGH Studien und Texte 28 (Hanover, 2000). Hammer, “Pippinus Rex,” pp. 249–63; also with reference to the singular royal title associated with Pippin in prayer petitions sponsored by a confraternity of western Bavarian aristocrats: idem, “Prague Sacramentary,” pp. 48–64. Previous note and Hammer, “Pippinus Rex,” pp. 241–49. Hammer, “Pippinus Rex,” pp. 263–70. Ibid.



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informed, but the king was clearly making preparations for another expedition in the following year. He built a portable pontoon bridge and possibly began the construction of a canal which was to join the river Main to the Danube, an immense undertaking which was certainly under construction in 793.21 Impressive remnants can still be seen at the appropriately-named village of Graben (“Ditch”) in western Bavaria (the task itself was not completed until the end of the twentieth century). However, in 793 Charlemagne’s plans for a renewed expedition were frustrated when the contingent from Frisia under Count Theoderic was ambushed and “annihilated” (deletas) by rebellious Saxons on the river Weser. The Reviser, probably our friend Fardulf, adds that Charlemagne, “having received the report of this matter, dissembling (dissimulans) the extent of the damage, cancelled the expedition into Pannonia,” that is, Avaria, and any mention of this setback was, of course, suppressed in the official version of the Royal Annals. Leaving Bavaria in 793 to attend to more pressing problems on his frontiers, Charlemagne celebrated Christmas at the cathedral of St. Killian in Frankish Würzburg and then moved further west in 794 to Frankfurt on the Main where he had his final, carefully orchestrated reckoning with Tassilo and where his beloved wife Fastrada died in August. These adverse experiences evidently impelled Charlemagne to rethink fundamentally his strategy against the Avars. They were left to his luckier son, Pippin of Italy, who gained a second, more decisive and profitable victory in 796, a success which materially advanced his chances in the royal succession.22 This fundamental shift in the focus of Carolingian Avar strategy from Bavaria to Italy, with easier access to central Avaria, apparently made superfluous the completion of the ambitious canal which had experienced serious construction difficulties from bad weather in autumn 793, as reported in detail by the Reviser. After 796, Avar power was broken although later campaigns in 799 still claimed the lives of two leading veterans of the Avar wars, the commissioner, Gerold, and Duke Erich of Friuli. Charlemagne himself memorialized the Avars’ elimination by a statute of the Gothic king, Theoderic, known to the Franks as a victor over the Avars, which he brought from Ravenna to Aachen in 801 after his imperial coronation.23 Perhaps this monument was intended as a memorial to his slain kinsman of that name and to his fallen paladins. Or was this distinctive monu21

22 23

All aspects, archaeological, geophysical, technical and historical, of the canal are examined exhaustively in the companion volume to the 2014 exhibition held at the Römisch-Germanisches Museum in Mainz: Peter Ettel et al., eds., Großbaustelle 793. Das Kanalprojekt Karls des Großen zwischen Rhein und Donau, Mosaiksteine, vol. 11 (Mainz, 2014); particularly the historical contributions there by Achim Hack, pp. 53–62, and by Ludger Körntgen, pp. 113–20, who notes in relation to the successful initiatives from Italy against the Avars, that, “Dieser schnelle Wandel der strategischen Bedingungen könnte dem Kanalbau weniger militärische Bedeutung gelassen haben, als ursprünglich veranschlagt” (p. 119). Carl Hammer, “Christmas Day 800: Charles the Younger, Alcuin and the Frankish Royal Succession,” English Historical Review 127 (2012), 1–23, at 15. Carl Hammer, “Recycling Rome and Ravenna; Two Studies in Early-Medieval Reuse,” Saeculum 56 (2005), 295–325, at 309–18.

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mental display perhaps an effort to expunge his own lack of success against the Avars? However, Charlemagne was not without some cause for satisfaction. Still within his lifetime (d. 814) the Avars ceased to be political or military factor. But his legacy in Bavaria was even more durable and significant. Following his vigorous suppression of Pippin’s revolt in 792 and Tassilo’s definitive renunciation at Frankfurt in 794, the political situation there stabilized, and tenurial claims relating to former fiscal properties were finally regularized, an issue of particular importance to the Church.24 Charlemagne’s prompt attention to the interests of Bavarian magnates which we witnessed at Lorch clearly produced dividends. After Gerold’s death in 799 Charlemagne split Bavaria into two regions, western “Old Bavaria” under Charlemagne’s seneschal, the comes and commissioner Audulf, and the newer lands on the eastern frontier under the comes Cotehram and his successors. Audulf established a highly effective system of Frankish comital government in Bavaria over which he presided until his death in 817.25 Audulf’s success even allowed the establishment of a royal regime in Bavaria, first as a short-lived appanage for Louis the Pious’s oldest son Lothar in 815/17, and then more durably for Louis’s younger son, Ludwig, in 826, which evolved by 830 into a functioning Carolingian subkingdom, the sole such Frankish polity east of the Rhine and the basis for Ludwig’s subsequent territorial expansion, which earned him the later title “the German.” Bavaria’s special status as the inalienable core within Ludwig’s enlarged kingdom of Eastern Francia was subsequently recognized in the division of the Frankish empire made at the Treaty of Verdun in 843.26 But we may well doubt whether this result was within Charlemagne’s strategic vision of 791: wars, even successful ones, often bring unintended consequences.

24

25 26

Herwig Wolfram, Salzburg, Bayern, Österreich. Die Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum und die Quellen ihrer Zeit, Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband 31 (Vienna, 1995), pp. 144–45, 197–213; Heinrich Wanderwitz, “Quellenkritische Studien zu den bayerischen Besitzlisten des 8. Jahrhunderts,” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 39 (1983), 27–84. Carl Hammer, Town and Country in Early-Medieval Bavaria; Two Studies in Urban and Comital Structures, BAR International Series 2437 (Oxford, 2012), pp. 27–29. Carl Hammer, “Bavarians at Verdun 843,” Francia 41 (2014), pp. 49–73.

Appendix: Exhibits 1. Letter from Charlemagne to Fastrada, September 791 Charles, by the Grace of God King of the Franks and the Langobards and Patricius of the Romans, to our cherished and much beloved wife, NN the queen; by these letters we are eager to send loving greetings to you in the Lord, and through you to our sweetest daughters, and to others of our faithful servants abiding with you. We make it known to you that, thanks be to God, we are safe and well. A certain messenger of our beloved son NN, by the name of NN, has brought us news of his health and of the Apostolic Lord, and of the safety of our people dwelling in those parts on the borders [confinium nostrorum], for which reason we were greatly cheered. And, in addition, he related to us how our squadron [scara] which earlier we had ordered to set out from Italy for the parts of Avaria to occupy those borderlands, that they penetrated forcefully within their borders on the 10th calends of September [23 August] and initiated battle with them, and that the Almighty God by His mercy gave them victory, and they slew a large number of those Avars, to the extent that, so they say, for many a day no greater defeat had been inflicted upon those Avars. And they plundered the fortified settlement [walus] itself and made camp there that same night and on the morrow and up to the third hour of the day. And taking the spoils, they returned in peace, and captured alive 150 of those Avars whom they have held for our command what they ought to do with them. The faithful servants of God and of us who did this were Bishop NN, and Duke NN, and Counts NN and NN. The Duke NN of Istria, as it was told us, thereupon rewarded NN together with his men who indeed were our own vassals. We, moreover, with the Lord’s assistance, performed litanies for three days, that is, beginning on the nones of September [5 September] which was a Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, beseeching God’s mercy so that He might deign to bestow on us peace and good health and victory and a favorable expedition, and that in His mercy and piety He might be to us a helper and a counselor and a defender in all our perils. And our priests ordained that those should abstain from wine and flesh who were able to abstain aside from27 illness or old age or extreme youth; and whoever wished to redeem himself so that he might have permission for drinking wine on those three days, that the richer and more powerful men on each day should give one shilling, and the less powerful according to their means, and whoever was not able to give more and wished to drink wine, should give one penny. Each one indeed offered alms according to his own good will and according to means. And each of the priests celebrated a special mass

27

The text reads propter, but the meaning here requires praeter, an easy scribal error.

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unless illness prevented. And the clerks who knew the psalms, each one sang 50, and while they performed those litanies they went about barefoot. Thus, our priests decreed, and we all complied, and with God’s help were finished. Whence we desire that you together with NN and NN and others of our faithful servants ought to consider how those same litanies might be done there. You yourself however as your illness permits, we commit it to your judgment. And it has surprised us that neither your messenger nor letter has come to us since [we arrived here] from Regensburg, whence we wish that you would inform us more often about your health and whatever else it may please, and once again we greet you greatly in the Lord.



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2. Freising Deed Number 142, 20 September 791 Concerning the Church at “Awigozeshusir” In the Name of God. A memorandum of the deliberations concerning the church of St. Martin in a place called “Awigozeshusir,” since Hiltiport and Egilolf tried, without cause, to reduce that church to their lordship after ejecting their co-heirs; and their co-heirs in that church were Eio the priest, and his brother, Isangrim, and his brother, Erchanperht. And all the co-heirs disputed amongst themselves concerning the church. And then all of the Huosi were assembled, and they held a council amongst themselves, but they were unable to reach a settlement about the church or to agree amongst themselves. And Oadalker and Reginhart and Nibulunc told Eio the priest to go to his own bishop and to declare the matter to him. And he did this, and the Lord Bishop sent him together with his co-heirs to the royal commissioners at the place called Lorch upon the hill called the Wartberg. Bishop Arn was there, Gerolt, Meginfrid, Wolfwolt, and Rimicoz the justice. And Eio the priest came before them there together with his co-heirs whose names are Isangrim, Erchanperht, Cunzo with his sons, and many others who took the part of Eio the priest in this dispute. The pleading before the above said imperial commissioners lasted for three days. On the third day the aforesaid Egilolf and Hiltiport, having been convicted according to law, returned that same church into the hands of Eio the priest and of his co-heirs, fellow claimants with him to that church, two shares in all the possessions of the same church, and the other co-proprietors did likewise with the remaining share. And they confirmed this amongst themselves with an agreement. This was done on the consular day, the 12th calends of October. And these are the witnesses who saw all of this at Lorch in the presence of all those assembled there: Oadalker, Reginhart, Nibulunc, Hrocholf, Tagaperht, Hramperht, Isangrim, Pernolf, Altiperht, Avô, Telo, Ampho, Immino, Tuto, Alphoh, Reginperht, Helmperht, Sigimot. This was done on the river Enns in the already named place, Lorch. Then they returned from there to their own places and completed everything as they were obliged by law to do in this manner: that on an agreed day they all assembled at the church, and the same Egilolf and Hiltiport, having taken hold of the altar-cloth, returned the two shares to the possessions of the church with the altar; and, for the third share in the church, they received Eio into the position as priest. When this was done, they summoned witnesses whose names are these: Isangrim, Erchanperht, Cunzo with his sons, Oadalker, and many others. This was done with the consent of Bishop Atto and all who were seen to hold any share in the same church.

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3. Freising Deed Number 143, September 791 The Conveyance of Tutilo the Priest from Rottbach [a.] In the Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. A summary account of the deed of conveyance of Tutilo the priest together with his kinsman, Oazo, and his brother by the name of Cozzilo. As we consider eternal blessedness and the future life with a pious God, in order that we might receive forgiveness, therefore, we have established by our intent a part of the inheritance which by lawful right of kinship we have taken into possession, so that, inspired by the aid of divine grace, we might erect an oratory on our own allodial property in a place which is called Rottbach. Which, with the Lord’s aid, we have accomplished and summoned Bishop Atto whose was the sacerdotal office of consecrating churches throughout his diocese. When the consecration of the church and altar was complete, we, I Tutilo together with my co-heirs above written, conveyed to the altar dedicated in honor of St. Peter and with other relics all that we are seen to hold there by our inheritance. First, the aforesaid Tutilo conveyed slaves 14 in number, ploughland, with woodlands and fields, meadows, waters and watercourses, everything completely from my own property setting nothing aside. Likewise, I, Oazo, have conveyed the portion remaining after I have shared with my son, Meiol, everything completely, whatever pertained to my shares, to that same altar: slaves 14 in number, land cultivated and uncultivated, woodlands, waters, all of it together I have conveyed and confirmed. Likewise also for the shares of my brothers, I Tutilo made conveyance for our souls. With all of these things completed by conveyance, having taken hold the pall of the altar, I, the above named Tutilo the priest together with my aforesaid co-heirs, we have conveyed it to the cathedral church of St. Mary at Freising into the hands of Bishop Atto, whence I, Tutilo the priest, have taken up that same oratory in benefice from the aforesaid bishop for the days of my life. Moreover, after my death it shall remain firm to that same bishopric for our souls, that is, of my father Pirhtilo, and mother, Ata, as also the brothers Fritilo, Cozzilo, Petilo, Waltfrid, together with their children, Fritilo, Situli, Swidpurc. These are the witnesses: Tutilo the priest as witness, Oazo as witness, Meiol as witness, Freido as witness, Otperht as witness, Lanto as witness, Alpuni as witness, Kaganhart as witness, Erachar the priest. Done at a place located amongst the tents next to the town which is called Lorch, with the glorious King Charles reigning in his 23rd year. [b.] A dispute broke out amongst them; certain of them wished to expel the aforesaid Tutilo the priest from that same church which, however, they could in no wise do because he had been confirmed and ordained by canonical authority and by the consent of his nearest kin. Nevertheless, that dispute increased, and



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he came to the palace of the lord king. Having taken this account, he brought it before the commissioners of the lord king who are Gerolt and Meginfrid, and there it was determined amongst them in this manner: that the aforesaid Tutilo should have authority in all things concerning the aforesaid oratory and whatever pertained to it as was first established, and after his death it should validly pertain to the cathedral church of St. Mary without any contradiction. These are the names of those who interposed with Bishop Atto and his opponents in confirmation: Gerolt as witness, Meginfrid as witness, Helmuni the sheriff as witness, Waninc the justice as witness, Wolfolt the justice as witness, Eginolf as witness, Adalperht as witness, Hiltiperht as witness, Sindperht as witness, Meginhart as witness, Ermperht as witness, Freido as witness. I, Altman the deacon, wrote it and subscribed.

2 The Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army, or, How Far May One Argue from Silence?* Walter Goffart

The Carolingian rulers kept armed forces busy year after year throughout the eighth century and into the ninth. With his troops, Charlemagne completed the conquest of Aquitaine, annexed Lombard Italy, invaded Spain, seized control of Bavaria, plundered the Avars, and, not least, conquered Saxony and forcibly converted its population to Christianity. He doubled the extent of the lands he inherited. These are well-known facts. Einhard filled a large part of his biography with a rundown of Charles’s campaigns, and everyone reads Einhard.1 Thousands of Carolingian subjects served in Charles’s and his predecessors’ armies, crisscrossing the kingdom to carry out their leaders’ wishes to subdue enemies. Yet the mechanisms that called them to service, the rations that fed them, and their exertions in reaching the battlefronts and returning home, have drawn little attention in recent years. The conquests are familiar, but not the means by which they were achieved.2 Much though armies were a weighty presence in the Carolingian world, they put us in mind, at present, of a “strangely neglected topic.”3 There is recent specialist work (notably the articles by Timothy Reuter, cited in n. 25 below), but general accounts are muted. Three comprehensive books on the Carolingian empire – by Heinrich Fichtenau, Jacques Boussard, and Rosamond McKitterick – do not include any discussion of the army.4 The same omission occurs in Donald Bullough’s fine The Age of Charlemagne.5 Hans-Werner Goetz, writing * 1

2 3 4

5

This paper was written with the support of a Bogliasco Foundation Fellowship. Einhardi vita Karoli magni, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, Georg Waitz, and Oswald Holder-Egger, MGH SS rer. Germ. 25 (Hanover, 1911), cc. 5–15 (pp. 7–17); English translation: Paul Dutton, Charlemagne’s Courtier. The Complete Einhard (Peterborough, ON, 1998), pp. 18–25. There are many other translations. My list of conquests is not exhaustive. “Or la machine guerrière à l’origine de ces succès est encore méconnue”: Étienne Renard, “La politique militaire de Charlemagne et la paysannerie franque,” Francia 36 (2009), 1–33, at 1. The quoted phrase is from Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim (London, 1954), ch. 1, whose hero, a fledgling historian, says ironically that his learned article redresses the neglect. Heinrich Fichtenau, The Carolingian Empire, trans. Peter Munz (Oxford, 1957); Jacques Boussard, The Civilization of Charlemagne, trans. Frances Partridge (London, 1968); Rosamond McKitterick, The Frankish Kingdoms under the Carolingians, 751–987 (London, 1983). Donald Bullough, The Age of Charlemagne (New York, 1966). Another fine work omitting a Carolingian army is Edward James, The Origins of France. From Clovis to the Capetians, 500–1000 (London, 1982).

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on “Social and Military Institutions” in the would-be authoritative The New Cambridge Medieval History, allots the army a few lines only, and perpetuates the discredited idea that stirrups contributed to its success. In the same volume, Janet Nelson writes on “Kingship and Royal Government” with only a fleeting reference to an army.6 Chris Wickham’s The Inheritance of Rome, 650 pages destined for a general audience, disposes of the Carolingian army in little more than a single page; his longer Framing the Early Middle Ages grants it barely ten lines, though somewhat more than is given to the same subject in Rudolf Schieffer’s Carolingian volume of the standard Gebhardt Handbuch.7 Comparably slight attention is paid to the subject in major books by Johannes Fried and Dieter Hägermann.8 The practice of passing lightly over Carolingian military institutions is not new. Justly celebrated as a Carolingianist, François-Louis Ganshof wrote the following lines (referring to both Frankish dynasties) in a compact account of “The Institutional Framework of the Frankish Monarchy”: Having said [in three pages] something of the institutions which were supposed to guarantee the peace (pax) within the Regnum Francorum, we must make some mention of the institution which was employed for its external conflicts: the army. The army was composed of all freemen, Franks, other Germanic tribes and GalloRomans. Under the Merovingians its organization seems to have been far from uniform and often exceedingly primitive. Apart from a few elite groups of warriors, Merovingian armies fought as savage and undisciplined hordes. Under the Carolingians, a reduction in numbers, and efforts to improve the offensive and defensive armament and to set up a good cavalry, were seemingly not without fruit; the growth of vassalage

6 7

8

Hans-Werner Goetz, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, 8 vols. (Cambridge, 1995), 2:451–80; Janet Nelson, ibid., pp. 383–430. Chris Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome (London, 2009), pp. 100, 214; Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages (Oxford, 2005), p. 150. Rudolf Schieffer, Die Zeit der karolingischen Grossreichs (714–887), Gebhardt Handbuch der deutschen Geschichte, 10th ed., 24 vols. (Stuttgart, 2005), 2:116. Schieffer accepts the idea of an army of drafted freemen, which is considered just as possible as one of magnates leading military retainers by Friedrich Prinz, Europäische Grundlagen deutscher Geschichte, Gebhardt Handbuch der deutschen Geschichte, 10th ed. (Stuttgart, 2004), 1:493. Johannes Fried, Der Weg in die Geschichte. Die Ursprünge Deutschlands bis 1024, Propyläen Geschichte Deutschlands, 11 vols. (Berlin, 1994), 1:335; Dieter Hägermann, Karl der Große. Herrscher des Abendlandes. Biographie (Berlin, 2000), pp. 485–86, 489–90. Charlemagne is without his army in Eric Russell Chamberlin, The Emperor: Charlemagne (London, 1986), Andreas Kalkhoff, Karl der Grosse: Profile eines Herrschers (Munich, 1987), and Siegfried Fischer-Fabian, Karl der Grosse: der erste Europäer (Bergisch-Gladbach, 1999). Creditable accounts of Carolingian warfare are in Alessandro Barbero, Charlemagne, Father of a Continent (Berkeley, 2004), pp. 249–71, and Johannes Fried, Karl der Grosse. Gewalt und Glaube: eine Biographie (Munich, 2013), pp. 149–53. A brief but competent synopsis is in a picture book, Philippe Depreux, Charlemagne et les Carolingiens (Paris, 2002), pp. 40–41; the same in the popular Philippe Depreux, Charlemagne et la dynastie carolingienne (Paris, 2007), pp. 40–42. See also Leif Inge Ree Petersen, Siege Warfare and Military Organization in the Successor States (400–800 AD). Byzantium, the West and Islam (Leiden, 2013).



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provided the Frankish kings with a nucleus of troops who were in practice permanent soldiers, well armed and well mounted.9

Vassals excepted, the Carolingian share of Ganshof’s summary takes up two lines and omits the arresting facts that the troops were draftees and self-financed. So much for the instrument that affected all Frankish freemen and procured their conquests. It is little wonder that, with Ganshof as a model, some of today’s surveys of Frankish practices have almost eliminated discussion of military organization. In the mid-1900s, those beginning a study of Carolingian institutions could inform themselves about the royal army in Louis Halphen’s enduring Charlemagne et l’Empire carolingien. Halphen said, Every year, therefore, all subjects of the Empire could be called on to take arms at the first summons …[T]he freemen – the only ones involved – were affected by the summons and … required to comply with the “army order.” … Everyone had to equip himself at his own cost and … also bring [food], clothes, weapons, and equipment for six months, carriage, too, being at his cost … [A]ll evasion was considered an infraction of the “ban” (bannus) or order of the sovereign … subject to a fine of 60 shillings.10

This is a good summary of what may be inferred from normative sources, notably a set of capitularies, which range from 802 to 830 with a few continuations.11 Every year or almost, it would seem, the roads of the Carolingian kingdoms saw impressive caravans of armed men, some on horseback, making their way with laden baggage trains of ox-drawn carts and pack animals to the royal assembly point and from there to the year’s campaign. But recent books and articles seem reluctant to supply even this basic information. Halphen’s summary or any other like it is simply ignored. Halphen merits attention. According to him, the freemen of the Frankish world summoned to army duty were a legal, not a social, category. They ranged from the loftiest personages – magnates, dignitaries, bishops and abbots, high 9

10

11

François-Louis Ganshof, “The Institutional Framework of the Frankish Monarchy” (1958), in Ganshof, The Carolingians and the Frankish Monarchy. Studies in Carolingian History, trans. Janet Sondheimer (London, 1971), pp. 86–110, at 92 (as elsewhere). Ganshof steered clear of Carolingian armies in all his works; he emphasized vassals. Louis Halphen, Charlemagne et l’Empire carolingien (Paris, 1947), pp. 167, 168, 169, 172; available in English translation as Charlemagne and the Carolingian Empire, trans. Giselle De Nie (Amsterdam, 1977); the translation here is mine. There seems to be a contradiction between “all subjects of the Empire” and, a little later, “The freemen – the only ones involved,” but I think this was not meant as a deliberate contrast. For Halphen’s purposes here, “all subjects” were the freemen. The capitularies are edited by Alfred Boretius and Viktor Krause in MGH Leges, Capitularia regum Francorum [hereafter Capit. with volume number.], 2 vols. (Hanover, 1892–97). See Alfred Boretius, Beiträge zur Capitularienkritik (Leipzig, 1874), pp. 151–69 (Appendix): the military capitularies (Lombard as well as Frankish), which Boretius’s book is mainly about, are conveniently grouped in this appendix, but all from older editions than the MGH standard.

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royal servants, seniores, royal vassals – down to middling landowners and even to poor freemen without any land. All were obliged to obey summons to war. The mansus, the unit of property assessment cited in this connection, referred only to the scale of freemen’s service, not to their liability to recruitment, which was a personal obligation applying to everyone regardless of wealth. Allowance was made for inequalities of fortune so that all freemen, poor as well as rich, were able to serve in the king’s army (many by proxy).12 If they evaded mobilization, they were heavily fined; the haribannus was a penalty, not a tax, a capital levy amounting to half the culprit’s moveable property.13 What Halphen related in 1947 had already been accepted doctrine in 1928 and well before: “[Under the Carolingians] military service remained obligatory for all freemen and at their own cost.”14 The undifferentiated freemen summoned to military service by royal command went to undifferentiated war – domestic or foreign, offensive or defensive.15 They paid their own way, a notable feature of Carolingian organization: the Frankish king provided no wages for his levied troops or equipment and weapons; he did not need a war budget.16 “The army” was called up according to need; it did not exist in the enduring way that a volunteer professional army does, except perhaps for standing units of “guards” in the 12

13

14 15 16

A major old controversy centered on whether army service was a personal (Paul Roth) or a proprietary (Georg Waitz) obligation; see Boretius, Beiträge, p. 71. A fact bearing out the personal side of recruitment is that the haribannus was a personal penalty for shirking the exercitus, exacted from the culprit’s moveable goods only (his lands, if any, were unaffected); regardless of landed possessions, serving in the army was a duty attached to being a freeman, punished if shirked (the haribannus is comprehensively presented in Capitulare missorum in Theodonis villa datus secundum, generale [Capit. 1:125, c. 19], and often elsewhere). But the extent of military service (whether on horseback or with lesser equipment, such as a sword or bow and arrows) depended on landed wealth, measured in mansi. A self-supporting recruit had a minimum of four mansi (or so), and allowances were made for poorer ones. For an authoritative (but not conclusive) account of the mansus, see Étienne Renard, ‘Pour une meilleure compréhension du monde paysan du haut Moyen Âge’, vol. 2 (unpublished doctoral thesis, Université de Namur, 2006–07), pp. 28–34 (with thanks to the author for sending me these pages). The mansus has been much discussed (for good reason; misconceptions of it abound); see Walter Goffart, “Frankish Military Duty and the Fate of Roman Taxation,” Early Medieval Europe 16 (2008), 167–73 (and passim). As noted above. The haribannus is widely misunderstood: Timothy Reuter, “Carolingian and Ottonian Warfare,” in Maurice Keen, ed., Medieval Warfare. A History (Oxford, 1999), pp. 23–24; Matthew Innes, State and Society in the Early Middle Ages: The Middle Rhine Valley, 400–1000 (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 153–5; John France, “The Composition and Raising of the Armies of Charlemagne,” Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 61–82, at 75; Guy Halsall, Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West, 450–900 (London, 2003), pp. 55, 76–77; Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages, p. 114 n. 148. Ferdinand Lot, Christian Pfister, and François-Louis Ganshof, Les destinées de l’Empire en Occident (Paris, 1928), p. 557. France, “Composition and Raising,” p. 66: “[I]t is difficult to draw a sharp distinction between offensive and defensive warfare.” Heinrich Mitteis, Lehnrecht und Staatsgewalt (Weimar, 1933), p. 188. Mitteis, not alone in affirming this feature of the Frankish army, set out the subject particularly well. The question as to where food came from needs separate attention.



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king’s entourage, serving as the core of an enlarged force (little is known about them). Freemen were summoned, not all at one time or from the same recruiting grounds, engaged in the king’s campaigns, and were dismissed to their homes, normally in part of one year.17 Going to war was the main royal exaction from the freemen of the kingdom. Exercitus was a tax or more precisely a liturgy, that is, a compulsory public service required from full-fledged “citizens” (“freemen”) at their own cost in the Frankish kingdoms. It was called a functio publica, the generic term for state demands (“taxation”) since Roman times.18 As already noted, if freemen shirked this obligation, and were detected evading it, they were heavily fined; haribannus was the reverse side of exercitus.19 When someone too aged to campaign petitioned the king to be excused, he was liberated from both exercitus and haribannus – the self-financed liturgy and the fine for non-performance.20 “The burden of armed service is understandable as an income tax” (Calmette);21 “The system of unpaid service [in the Frankish realms] weighed more heavily than a Roman tax” (Roth); it was “the heaviest burden that could be imposed on a population” (Fustel de Coulanges); “the heaviest burden of the Frankish subject … a very heavy burden” (Verbruggen).22 Roth wrote in 1850 and Fustel de Coulanges in 1888; their comments and, much later, Calmette’s and Verbruggen’s 17

18

19

20

21 22

Heinrich Brunner, Deutsche Rechtsgeschichte [hereafter DRG], 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1887–92), 2:203 (2nd ed., p. 271), made the useful point that “the army” was a pool of freemen out of which individual armies were constituted as circumstances demanded; one should speak cautiously about “the Carolingian army.” Similarly, Bernard Bachrach, Early Carolingian Warfare. Prelude to Empire (Philadelphia, 2001), p. 51; and others. On palace forces, see ibid., p. 65. Capit. 1:330, c. 2 (825), “hostem et reliquas publicas functiones.” A large selection of passages is in J. F. Niermeyer, Mediae Latinitatis lexicon minus (Leiden, 1976), p. 457, s.v. functio, showing that the “tax” sense was fully understood in Frankish times. For the background, Theodor Mommsen, ed., Codex Theodosianus (repr. Berlin, 1962), bks. 11–12. In its classical origins (costly magistracies and services), functio, active “performing (at one’s expense),” was more central to public exactions than passive “paying.” For exercitus as a publica functio in Gregory of Tours, see n. 59, below. See n. 13, above. For an extensive collection of instances of the word in context, see Niermeyer, Lexicon, p. 481, s.v. haribannus. 1. Also “haribannitores.” None of the Carolingian citations has to do with a payment in lieu of military service (scutage). The haribannus was too expensive (half the culprit’s moveables) to be scutage. Formulae Salicae Merkelianae 41; Cartae Senonicae 18; Collectio Pataviensis 3, all in Formulae Merowingici et Karolini Aevi, ed. Karl Zeumer, MGH Legum sectio V, Formulae (Hanover, 1882–86), pp. 257, 193, 458. Joseph Calmette, Charlemagne (Paris, 1951), p. 49: “C’est plutôt comme impôt sur le revenu qu’est entendu la charge de service armé.” Paul Roth, Geschichte des Beneficialwesens (Erlangen, 1850), p. 395; Numa Denis Fustel de Coulanges, La monarchie franque (Paris, 1888), p. 302; J. F. Verbruggen, “L’armée et la stratégie de Charlemagne,” in Wolfgang Braunfels ed., Karl der Grosse: Lebenswerk und Nachleben, 5 vols. (Düsseldorf, 1965–7), 1:420–36, at 426: “la charge la plus lourde du sujet franc.” See also Roger Collins, Charlemagne (London, 1998), p. 19: “In part the obligation to military service, however organised, represented the replacement for the system of taxation that had existed under the Roman Empire, whose rulers had used it primarily to pay their armies.” The details of the comment are arguable, but its direction is sound.

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have been sidelined or disregarded by the majority of recent authors. Much is said about the disappearance of Roman taxation, without it being observed that an onerous public charge, Roman-derived or not, was actively inflicted almost annually and complied with.23 The Carolingian kings did not need a war tax to pay for their military exertions; their campaigns, presumably costly, were paid for mainly by the men who fought them, rich and poor. Exercitus, the military service carried out without charge as a functio publica, was the Carolingian (and Merovingian) war tax. This “revenue” should be taken into account when appraising royal resources.24 Much of the kings’ “military budget” was borne directly by their troops. The armed force of duty-bound, self-financed freemen just described is remarkable; these would have been the troops that followed the early Carolingian kings and, under their leadership, achieved amazing results with the expansion of the Frankish kingdom. But this vision is now contested. A series of historians in the twentieth century and twenty-first centuries have worked to undermine the notion of the fundamental role of obligated freemen in the Frankish army and to portray the fighting forces as restricted to “magnates and their retainers.” The most heeded of these has been Timothy Reuter, in four articles of which the most important are “Plunder and Tribute in the Carolingian Empire” (1985) and “The End of Carolingian Military Expansion” (1990).25 He and others before and after expressed their arguments without engaging in a debate with more conservative views, such as those of 1928 and 1947 quoted above. It is as though the revised version were wholly in possession of the field without having to contest the older account, and permitted to set it quietly aside, disregarded. But my recent examination of Caro23

24 25

Janet Nelson, Charles the Bald (London, 1992), p. 29: “Had ninth-century rulers really been able to collect a generalized army–tax ….” Nelson envisaged a redistributive tax; but unpaid service is a tax (more precisely, a liturgy, i.e., compulsory public service), and the Carolingians enforced it. (Note that a royal “army–tax,” if exacted from the freemen, unless used to hire mercenaries, would have necessitated a reciprocal payment to the troops [as rations in the Roman scheme] not visible in the Carolingian system.) Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages, pp. 82, 85, 804, 805, playing up the disappearance of Roman fiscality, took account only of redistributive taxation; but angariae, labor services, for example, were also a tax (liturgy). It is a notable absentee from the account of royal resources in Ganshof, “Institutional Framework,” pp. 95–101. Timothy Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute in the Carolingian Empire,” repr. in Janet Nelson, ed., Medieval Politics and Modern Mentalities (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 231–50, originally in Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th ser., 35 (1985), 75–94; “The End of Carolingian Military Expansion,” also repr. in Nelson, ed., Medieval Politics, pp. 251–67, originally in Peter Godman and Roger Collins, eds., Charlemagne’s Heir (Oxford, 1990), pp. 391–405. All my citations from these two articles are from the reprintings in Medieval Politics (where, unfortunately, they are repaginated). See also Reuter, “The Recruitment of Armies in the Early Middle Ages: What Can We Know?” in Anne Nørgård Jorgensen and Birthe L. Clausen, eds., Military Aspects of Scandinavian Society in a European Perspective, AD 1–1300 (Copenhagen, 1997), pp. 32–37; and Reuter, “Carolingian and Ottonian Warfare,” in Maurice Keen, ed., Medieval Warfare. A History (Oxford, 1999), pp. 13–35. Reuter was a wide-ranging and talented historian, prematurely deceased and much mourned.



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lingian “home defense” (defensio patriae/lantweri) has disclosed a wide-reaching flaw in the way this result has been obtained.26 The new teaching, arising from the mistaken premise that there was a tradition-based home defense (to which ordinary freemen were confined), is based on a technique of arguing unduly from eighth-century silence, that is, from the absence of evidence, especially in the documents called “capitularies.”27 Recent commentators, then, have turned their backs on the army of obligated, self-financed freemen outlined above and preferred a select force. This position is almost unanimous among the latest generations of historians; one recent statement of it, by Étienne Renard, summarizes what is generally believed: In the eighth–ninth centuries, most Frankish military expeditions set in play troops whose effectives were limited in numbers but well equipped, very mobile and battlehardened: the permanent warrior entourage (trustis), the vassals and dependents of the king and of the magnates were the spear-point of Carolingian offensives.28

There is a problem, though, often overlooked: namely, that the early ninthcentury capitularies, the crucial source, do not substantiate the idea of a compact army of magnates and their retinues. Reuter recognized this weakness and argued that there had been a change in military organization. Charlemagne’s eighth-century army, he proposed, was select, as in the Renard quotation above, but it was superseded after 800 by the army documented by the capitularies – drafted freemen, rich and poor, needed for the defense of a far-flung empire. The absence of military ordinances in the sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries, Reuter suggested, coincided with the first-rate army of the Carolingian conquests, whereas the capitularies after 800 recorded a reform: the enlargement of military recruitment by the drafting, for the first time, of ordinary freemen.29 26 27

28

29

Walter Goffart, “Defensio patriae as a Carolingian Military Obligation,” Francia 43 (2016), 21–39. Sven Bernecker and Duncan Pritchard, eds., The Routledge Companion to Epistemology (New York, 2011), pp. 64–65, “arguments from silence are, as a rule, quite weak; there are many examples where reasoning from silence would lead us astray.” On the capitularies, see, lately, Collins, Charlemagne, pp. 10–12; Rosamond McKitterick, Charlemagne: The Making of a European Identity (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 233–63. Étienne Renard, “Une élite paysanne en crise? Le poids des charges militaires pour les petits alleutiers entre Loire et Rhin au IXe siècle,” in François Bougard, Laurent Feller, and Régine Le Jan, eds., Les élites au haut Moyen Âge. Crise et renouvellements (Turnhout, 2006), p. 320 (my translation). Other recent works presenting Charlemagne’s army as consisting of magnates and their followers are Rosamond McKitterick, “Politics,” in McKitterick, ed., The Early Middle Ages: Europe 400–1000, Short Oxford History of Europe 3 (Oxford, 2001), p. 49; France, “Composition and Training,” p. 63; Matthias Becher, Charlemagne, trans. David Bachrach (New Haven, 2003, original ed. 1999), p. 113; Halsall, Warfare and Society, pp. 69, 76; Matthew Innes, Introduction to Early Medieval Western Europe, 300–900. The Sword, the Plough and the Book (London, 2007), p. 403; Kelly DeVries and Robert D. Smith, Medieval Weapons. An Illustrated History of Their Impact (Santa Barbara, 2007), p. 14; Wickham, Inheritance of Rome, p. 214; Marios Costambeys, Matthew Innes, and Simon Maclean, The Carolingian World (Cambridge, 2011), p. 172; Petersen, Siege Warfare, pp. 193, 218. Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute,” pp. 244–46; “End of Expansion,” pp. 261, 282–83, 266–67.

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Reuter’s argument rests mainly on inferences from silence.30 Reasoning of this kind about the Carolingian army did not begin with him. It was an entrenched idea of earlier commentators (reaching back well into the nineteenth century) that soon after 800 there was a marked reordering of military rules, though not along the lines Reuter proposed. Belief in an “army reform” (Heeresreform) by Charlemagne in 804–08 is deeply entrenched.31 The authoritative Paul Roth (1850) and Georg Waitz (c. 1870), who differed on much concerning the Carolingian army, agreed on a pronounced change after 800. Their claim was not uncontested. Alfred Boretius, editor of the capitularies, denied that a change had taken place; the inferences Roth and Waitz drew from the lack of evidence, he claimed, were not compelling.32 There were varied opinions as to what the modifications were. It was said, for example, that the troops of the eighth-century conquests, often called out, were overburdened and needed relief; or that a too-large eighthcentury army was improved by streamlining. But almost all – Boretius aside – agreed that the capitularies of the early 800s, whatever their goal, legislated marked changes in military organization, even a reform. The condition of the sources was the reason for this near-unanimity among commentators. Virtually nothing is documented about the eighth-century Carolingian army, or the seventh-century one for that matter, besides the wars and campaigns themselves, sketchily reported in reticent annals.33 It is only in the 30

31 32

33

On such arguments, see n. 27 above. In Reuter’s wake, Halsall, Warfare and Society, p. 76, reasoned that eighth-century capitularies speak about benefices but not about military recruitment; therefore, Charlemagne was concerned with benefices but not with recruitment. Again (p. 89): Charlemagne began to be concerned with recruitment after 800 (implicitly, he was uninterested before). An obvious objection is that the capitularies before 800, particularly thin on military matters, are not a fair basis for inferring Charlemagne’s thinking (even about benefices). It is essential to have adequate silence. (For military matters in capitularies before 800, see n. 33 below.) Similarly, Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages, e.g. pp. 69, 286, 288, 290, 299, resorts intensively to arguments from silence. For details, the historiographic account of Werner Hechberger, Adel im fränkisch-deutschen Mittelalter. Zur Anatomie eines Forschungsprobleme (Ostfildern, 2005), p. 208, is useful. Boretius, Beiträge, p. 71, highlighted the agreement of Roth and Waitz. A more recent advocate of a Heeresreform is Josef Fleckenstein, “Adel und Kriegertum und ihre Wandlung im Karolingerreich,” Settimane di studio dell’Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 27 (1981), 67–100, at 85–86; Fleckelstein endorsed the more than century-old belief that the recruitment “clubs” found in Charlemagne’s military capitularies were innovations meant to lighten the burden of poorer freemen. For recruitment “clubs,” see the capitulary quoted below at n. 51. These were a method for taking account of the resources of poorer freemen. Freemen who did not have the property to go to war at their sole expense (four “manses”) were to form consortia (“clubs”) with complementary freemen up to the four-“manse” minimum (e.g., a one-“manse” person with a three-“manse” one). One member of the club, financially assisted by his peers, would actually go to war, while all members were understood to fulfill their military obligation (and avoid being fined). Clubs will be mentioned frequently below. An examination of the early capitularies shows that the army features very rarely: clergy not to go “in exercitu” (Capit. 1:25, c. 2, a. 742); behavior when going to join the army (1:43, c. 6, a. 768); persons joining the king “ostiliter” (army-ready) (1:65, c. 7, a. 789); everyone having to go army-ready to the assistance of the king (1:67, c. 6, a. 792); no one to spurn the king’s “ostile bannum” (mobilization) (1:93, c. 7, a. 802); the “haribannus” (1:205, c. 2, a. 801, Italy);



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early 800s that this situation improves. “[A]lmost all the capitularies on all topics date from after 800 and we have no proper basis for making a comparison with what earlier material might have said.”34 A set of military ordinances begins in the last years of Charlemagne and continues into the reigns of Louis the Pious and Charles the Bald, detailing almost everything found in modern discussions of the subject. Historians of military matters are faced with extreme poverty of evidence down to 802, followed by riches, at least for some decades. From this glaring disparity of evidence came the temptation to argue from silence. As noted above, an early form of this argument – the notion that Charlemagne engaged in a Heeresreform – has been in circulation since the midnineteenth century. It was taken for granted that the first military capitularies, from 802, did not just record the status quo, as they might have done, given their wording; they were thought to document a new direction in military organization. One might speak, as Renard did recently, of Charlemagne’s “new military policy” (“nouvelle politique militaire”) and his “reform of army service” (“réforme du service d’ost”).35 Early understandings of this Carolingian army reform took it to be an effort to restore the strength of overburdened freemen by lightening their military obligation; now, after Reuter, it is envisioned as Charlemagne’s institution for the first time of host service by the mass of freemen.36 Yet this idea of innovation is not a necessary, compelling inference from the primary records. The contents of the capitularies were not necessarily motivated by special circumstances, such as a change of the army from offensive to defensive,



34

35

36

desertion (ibid., c. 3). The first comprehensive clauses about the army come in the Capitulare Aquisgranense of 802–3, Capit. 1:171, cc. 9–10. A continually repeated injunction (from Pepin, 765, well into the 800s, and in the Ansegis capitulary collection) concerns benefices (not explicitly military): these are to be faithfully tended and not stripped to enrich the beneficiary’s hereditary property; for citations, see François-Louis Ganshof, “Benefice and Vassalage in the Age of Charlemagne,” Cambridge Historical Journal 6 (1939), 147–75, at 161 with n. 71, 173 with n. 127. Too little attention is paid to this thought-provoking series of capitula. On the annals, see Wilhelm Wattenbach and Wilhelm Levison, Deutschlands Geschichtsquellen im Mittelalter. Vorzeit und Karolinger (Weimar, 1952–53), pp. 161–63, 180–92, 245–66; Rosamond McKitterick, History and Memory in the Carolingian World (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 84–119; ead., Perceptions of the Past in the Early Middle Ages (Notre Dame, IN, 2006), ch. 3. France, “Composition and Raising,” p. 66. This may be exaggerated; there were major capitularies before 800, but France was right as regards military matters (as noted above). Also, Eckhard Müller-Mertens, Karl der Grosse, Ludwig der Fromme und die Freien. Wer waren die Liberi homines der Karolingische Kapitularien (742/743–832)? Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 10 (Berlin, 1963), p. 48: the years 802–30 were “einer eigentlichen Aera der Kapitularien.” McKitterick, Charlemagne, pp. 256–63, 271, has a meticulous analysis of the capitularies (see n. 49, below) without denying that the years after 802 were a distinct period. Renard, “Politique militaire,” pp. 26–27. And not only of army organization. In the wake of Reuter, “End of Expansion,” Halsall, Warfare and Society, pp. 89–90, applied the change to the end of Charlemagne’s wars of expansion: “Significantly, it is about this time … that the earliest detailed legislation about military service appears.” The contrast between before and after 800, based on the shift to written military regulations, is enlarged into not just a Heeresreform, but a deliberate change by Charlemagne from an offensive to a defensive military policy. Hechberger, Adel im Mittelalter, p. 208.

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or Charlemagne’s taking pity on his overworked soldiers, or a widening of recruitment to include ordinary freemen because more troops were needed for empirewide defense. The capitularies themselves do not assert that their prescriptions were new in whole or in part.37 They might simply document the existing military “custom” (antiqua consuetudo), comparable to our “Articles of War,” that used to be transmitted orally and continually reaffirmed by the army leadership in the frequent mobilizations. The notion that the military capitularies instituted innovations derives wholly from modern commentators. When stripped of modern glosses, the earlier army regulations, sustained orally, might well have resembled what was finally written down, notably in 807–08. “The tendency to set the administration down in writing (Verschriftlichung der Verwaltung) increased markedly after the imperial coronation.”38 A necessary response to the arguments from silence is to suggest that the reform had been not of army regulations themselves (which were not markedly changed from the near past), but rather of the documentation about them; to apply the famous saying of Marshall McLuhan, the medium – here, the use of writing, Verschriftlichung – is the message.39 Reuter carried arguments from silence to great lengths. He proceeded on the premise that the lack of sources about the army, especially capitularies, in the 700s bore eloquent witness to eighth-century conditions. The dearth of military clauses before 800 in itself persuaded him of the reason of their absence – the contentment of a victorious, plunder-acquiring army. Amplifying Reuter’s interpretation, Matthew Innes wrote, “In the period of successful expansion before 800, the attraction of the war-trail was such that there was no need for rules and regulations about the obligation to serve; local elites wanted to fight … In a new context of defensive warfare after 800, the sociology of military service changed. Legislation about military service was sparse until the first decade of the ninth century, when it exploded ….”40 It would seem that ordinances were 37 38 39

40

For example, Renard, “Politique militaire,” p. 24, has the capitularies of 807–08 “inaugurate” a new system of recruitment. But the rules in question are not presented as being new. Karl Ubl, Die Karolinger. Herrscher und Reich (Munich, 2014), p. 57 (my translation). Regarding antiqua consuetudo, see n. 68, below. Mark Federman, “What is the Meaning of The Medium is the Message?” (23 July 2004). http:// individual.utoronto.ca/markfederman/article_mediumisthemessage.htm [accessed 17 January 2018]. McLuhan’s phrase dates to 1984. The faulty inference from the appearance of the capitularies discussed here appears too in Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages, trans. Michael Jones (Oxford, 1984), p. 24, alleging on the basis of silence that the high command had no interest in recruitment in the eighth century because they had all the troops they wanted, and, by contrast, after 800, “formulae became more precise.” Precise or not, there had been no written formulae before 800: army summonses, like much else, were transmitted orally. It is certain that freemen did not have the option of staying away from the army before the injunction of 802: “ut ostile bannum domni imperatori nemo praetermittere presumat” (“let no one dare to disregard the army order of the lord emperor”) (Capit. 1:93, c. 7). The rule was surely not new. It simply had not been written down before (in any extant records). Matthew Innes, “What was Charlemagne’s Government,” in Joanna Story, ed., Charlemagne. Empire and Society (Manchester, 2005), pp. 71–89, at 84. Rules and regulations cannot have begun with their appearance in capitularies. Note the case of rules regarding the heribannus at n. 57 below.



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superfluous until after 800. Silence could then justify a second inference, now positive (this is Reuter speaking): “there was little if any evidence for a general military obligation on all freemen in sixth-, seventh- and eighth-century Francia, except that everyone was obliged to turn out if their local region was under threat.”41 In other words, until the capitularies began, ordinary freemen were kept from the royal armies and were subject only to the duty of home defense (a duty which has now been shown not to have existed). Renard’s four-line description of the army quoted above shows he concurs with the view that Carolingian conquests were carried out by armies of magnates and their vassals, with no need for ordinary freemen. In other words, “The conquerors of the Saxons and Avars need to be reimagined as war-bands of noble youths in the followings of lords, competing with each other (individually or as groups) for glory and loot.”42 As a model, Reuter invoked the comitatus of Tacitus’s Germania, written 700 years before – a leader and his devoted satellites (comites) – its composition and obligations, he suggested, continuing to prevail.43 So handled, silence had a positive as well as a negative function. Ordinary freemen were not only not required in, but also apparently absent from a royal army composed of magnates and their followers, enthused by the prospect of enriching themselves alongside their victorious leaders. Reuter’s argument went still further. A major change came about after 800, he proposed, when the Carolingian military posture was reordered from offensive to defensive. Too few to cope with empire-wide defense, magnates and their retainers in the exercitus had to be reinforced by the conscription of freemen.44 Reuter observed (as quoted above) that nothing substantiated the idea of a “general military obligation” down to 800, except as regards home defense (an interpretation anticipated by Delbrück and Ganshof).45 Because the pauperi liberi had been absent before, the capitularies from 802 on displayed major 41 42

43

44 45

Reuter, “Recruitment of Armies,” p. 34. An obligation to turn out for defense is not documented either. On its non-existence, see my article cited in n. 26, above. Janet Nelson, “Violence in the Carolingian World and the Ritualization of Ninth-Century Warfare,” in Guy Halsall, ed., Violence and Society in the Early Medieval West (Woodbridge, 1998), pp. 90–107, at 95. Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute,” p. 239: Carolingian “warrior” followings “were essentially the comitatus of Tacitus’ time.” The implications of this idea are more than merely decorative. A further Tacitean antecedent occurs on p. 237. Might a recent tendency be the “antique-ing” of the Merovingian and Carolingian Franks – armies consisting of “warbands” led by “warlords” along a “war trail”; evocations of Beowulf (247)? The idea of Carolingian war as “normal plundering-expeditions” (245), and offensive war abating when rich neighbors for plundering ran out, also align with this way of thinking. There is no trace of this coloring in, e.g., Brunner, Halphen, or Ganshof. Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute,” p. 245; “End of Expansion,” p. 261. Hans Delbrück, History of the Art of War, trans. Walter J. Renfroe Jr., 4 vols. ([1923]; Westport, CT, 1982), 3:14; François-Louis Ganshof, Frankish Institutions under Charlemagne, trans. Bryce and Mary Lyon (Providence, RI, 1968), p. 59. Quoted in Goffart, “Defensio patriae,” p. 22 nn. 4, 6. Delbrück and Ganshof claimed that although military obligation was general, most conscripted men were destined only for territorial defense when invasions occurred (defensio patriae).

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innovations. Most centrally, they documented the mobilization of all freemen, down to the poorest, into the royal army, but destined most of them for defense, not campaigning. Silence, so it was claimed, bore witness to the absence of ordinary freemen from the exercitus before 800.46 Capitularies having shown that this had changed, it followed that the high command must have had a reason – more troops for defense, Reuter said – for enlarging the army out of the formerly disregarded pool of manpower. Slightly disagreeing, Renard proposed that Charlemagne simply needed to enlarge the army for his various military undertakings, including the manning of defensive marches.47 For one reason or another, poorer freemen now inundated the exercitus. This, it seems, was the great change in the military after the turn of the century. Müller-Mertens in 1963 made a judicious observation about the nature of capitularies: “it must be taken into account that, by and large, the capitularies did not establish new institutions, but that they meant to reform and stabilize an already existing order.”48 In other words, capitularies might attest to a preestablished state of affairs as well as to its amendment, if any. Further, “most [capitularies] issued by Charlemagne [after the 780s and 90s] are administrative communications to or about the missi dominici rather than legislation.”49 Reuter, however, stood in a line of commentators who read the military capitularies in a different, more dynamic way. As early as Roth and Waitz (at least), Charlemagne’s army regulations were taken to embody innovative measures. Following his predecessors, Brunner had them remedy the exhaustion of overworked subjects: “[The capitularies] shed light [on the fact] that the mass of freemen began to feel the burden of war service as a heavy weight” and so needed relief.50 The device of recruitment clubs was designed to limit war 46 47 48

49

50

Because little more is attested in writing before 800 than the existence of an army, silence could equally imply that “magnates and their followers” were as absent as poorer freemen. Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute,” and “End of Expansion”; Renard, “Politique militaire,” pp. 26–27. Müller-Mertens, Karl der Grosse, p. 50, “Dabei muss bedacht werden, dass die Kapitularien im grossen und ganzen keine neuen Institutionen etablierten, sondern dass sie eine bereits bestehende Ordnung reformieren und stabilisieren wollten.” See also François-Louis Ganshof, “The Impact of Charlemagne on the Institutions of the Frankish Realm” (1965), in Ganshof, Carolingians, pp. 143–61, at 146: “In the field of military matters we have no article of a capitulary enacting [the ‘clubbing’ system]: we find only the means of applying this rule in 806, 807, and 808. Either the capitularies concerning these matters have disappeared or provisions dealing with them were never cast in the shape of articles.” McKitterick, Charlemagne, p. 256. In keeping with McKitterick’s explanation that the eighth-century capitularies were “programmatic,” instituting reforms (pp. 237–43), it might rightly follow, arguing from silence, that the lack of military clauses in these enactments implies that Charlemagne had no plans for fundamentally altering or “reforming” his army. See also François-Louis Ganshof, Recherches sur les capitulaires (Paris, 1958), pp. 78–79. Brunner, DRG, 2:204: “Aus ihnen [the capitularies] erhellt, dass die Masse der Gemeinfreien die Last des Kriegsdienstes als schweren Druck zu empfinden begann” (cf. 2nd ed. by Schwerin, p. 272, somewhat altered). The same opinion was anticipated by Roth, Beneficialwesens, p. 393. For Reuter, “Plunder and Tribute,” p. 245 n. 74, “[t]his is common ground,” i.e., generally agreed (see e.g. Fleckenstein, “Adel und Kriegertum”). The capitularies do not in fact show that the freemen felt overburdened; they simply illustrate a mechanism (“clubbing”) for liberating



Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army

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service by poor freemen. Other provisions were also taken to be innovations. The undocumented former army was assumed, e silentio, not to have had such adornments. These were ninth-century creations. Although there are noteworthy anticipations in 806 and 807, Charlemagne’s reputedly innovative military measures are best tested by the first clause of a capitulary of 808 whose careful redaction and heading suggest that it was a “model” military code even if (as some have said) meant to serve a special need for troops: Summary of enactments which the royal missi must have for mobilizing the army. 1. That every free man who has four occupied mansi of his own or in benefice from another should equip himself and go on his own behalf to join the host, either with his lord (if his lord goes) or with his count. A man who has three mansi of his own should be joined by someone who has one and who can give him assistance so that he can go on behalf of both. A man who has only two mansi of his own should be joined by someone who also has two, and one of them should go to join the [army], with the other giving him assistance. A man who has only one mansus of his own should be joined with three others in a similar situation who can give him assistance: he alone should go, and the three who give him assistance should remain at home.51 [More clauses follow, not on recruitment, to be examined shortly.]

51

most poor freemen from active service while nevertheless having them contribute to the army (see n. 32, above). Nothing shows that clubbing, or something like it, did not exist before 800; the most that may be said is that it was not documented then. (This was also Ganshof’s opinion; see n. 48, above.) None of the 806–08 capitula intimates that they embodied something new. The haribannus is a point of comparison (as shown presently). Ganshof rightly inferred from the clubbing system that the army was thereby reduced in size, i.e., streamlined; whereas Reuter proposed an army without freemen until the 800s, thus an enlargement at that point (“Plunder and Tribute,” p. 246; “End of Expansion,” p. 261). Henry R. Loyn and John Percival, trans., The Reign of Charlemagne. Documents on Carolingian Government and Administration (London, 1975), p. 96; Capit. 1:197: “Brevis capitulorum quam missi dominici habere debent ad exercitum promovendum. C. 1, Ut omnis liber homo, qui quatuor mansos vestitos de proprio suo sive de alicuius beneficio habet, ipse se praeparet et per se in hostem pergat, sive cum seniore suo si senior eius perrexerit sive cum comite suo. Qui vero tres mansos de proprio habuerit, huic adiungatur unus qui unum mansum habeat et det illi adiutorium, ut ille pro ambobus possit. Qui autem duos habet de proprio tantum, iungatur illi alter qui similiter duos mansos habeat, et unus ex eis, altero illum adiuvante, pergat in hostem. Qui etiam tantum unum mansum de proprio habet, adiungantur ei tres qui similiter habeant et dent ei adiutorium, et ille pergat tantum; tres vero qui illi adiutorium dederunt, domi remaneant.” To repeat (see n. 12, above), the mansus is a unit of agrarian assessment, used here as a way to approximate the wealth of a landowner. Clubs of taxpayers are a traditional mechanism of tax collection, such as, in ancient Athens, the taxpayer associations (symmories) for building warships. On this capitulary, see Renard, ‘Pour une meilleure compréhension’, p. 33: “Un système de conscription sans antécédent direct … se mit en place au cours des années 807–808” – another argument from silence: there is no “antecedent,” because the 700s lack any capitularies, i.e., written evidence, on this subject. See Ganshof’s comment in n. 48, above. The anticipations of a few years earlier are: Capit. 1:134–35 (c. 2), 136 (c. 2). At c. 8 the 808 capitulary (138) carefully orders that four copies are to be made and distributed four ways (one kept at the palace). Nevertheless, the text, “für das Gesamtreich wichtige,” survives in only

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Reading these lines, and recalling the silence of the eighth century, one might take them as new law. Several features had definitely not been seen before in Carolingian sources: the presupposition that there were many poorer freemen in the army; the four-mansus floor for going to war at one’s own expense; and the existence of recruitment clubs for regulating the call-up of freemen with fewer than four mansi. The larger part of the quotation is taken up by making allowances for various grades of “poverty.”52 Does any of this have to be new? The law gives no indication of instituting rules that had not been in force before. The reader is informed of the status quo – for example, that possessors of four or more mansi (three to five mansi in 807)53 were to equip themselves at their cost and join the host. That’s how it was; there is no reason to believe that it had not been so before. The clubs might be interpreted in the same way (as by Dopsch and Ganshof).54 The undocumented army before 800 is also likely to have had a method, this one or a variant (as in a capitulary of 806), for sorting recruits by their relative assets.55 Something of the kind is attested in the eighth-century Lombard kingdom; the need for such gradations – variable fortunes – was not mysterious.56 The king ordering his subjects to war reminded rich and poor of the standing rules of recruitment. No innovation was mentioned or implied. The recruitment rules quoted here were not the only part of the capitulary of 808 bearing on the question whether or not it embodied a change of military legislation or rather a reaffirmation of standing rules. Continuity of an established order (“Articles of War”) is clearly implied by the four clauses concerning the haribannus, the royal fine for dodging military service. These have not been taken into account by the historians we have encountered.57 Surviving eighth-

52

53

54 55

56 57

one tenth–eleventh-century manuscript; see Hubert Mordek, “Karolingische Kapitularien,” in Mordek, ed., Überlieferung und Geltung normativer Texte des frühen und hohen Mittelalters, Vier Vorträge (Sigmaringen, 1986), p. 43 n. 108. In other words, the importance of a capitulary should not be judged by its transmission. “Poverty” is too strong. Men with three mansi were not poor, neither (perhaps) were men with one. I use the term only by contrast with the “rich” – four mansi and up. “Fortune” might be a more appropriate word. See Régine Le Jan, “Pauperes et paupertas dans l’Occident carolingien aux IXe et Xe siècles,” Revue du Nord 50 (1968), 169–87, at 170–71; Philippe Depreux, Les sociétés occidentales du milieu du VIe à la fin du IXe siècle (Rennes, 2002), p. 142. Capit. 1:134, c. 2: “Quicumque liber mansos quinque de proprietate habere videtur, similiter [as c. 1] in hostem veniat; et qui quattuor mansos habet, similiter faciat; qui tres habere videtur, similiter agat”; for lower totals, clubs are instituted. With the comparable clauses in 806 and 808, it appears that the limit for service at one’s sole expense was adjustable to varying conditions; the base line was multiple mansi. See n. 63, below. The 806 capitulary (Capit. 1:136, c. 2), without organizing clubs, specifies that if the campaign is to a distant theater, one of six in the army is to go with support from the other five, if to to a nearer theater, one of three supported by the other two. A grading of recruits by fortune is not undertaken. For the Lombard army, see Boretius, Beiträge, p. 165 (capitulary of King Aistulf, 752). Capit. 1:137–38, cc. 2–7; trans. Loyn and Percival, pp. 96–97. For misunderstandings of the haribannus, see n. 13, above. A typical misinterpretation: “[T]he Carolingian haribannus was



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century capitularies do not address the haribannus any more than recruitment. Did this silence prove that the fine was unnecessary or disregarded in that century? Was army service so desirable then, with ample plunder as its enticement, that no one (or insignificantly few) evaded service? That, surely, cannot be true.58 A standing obligation such as (expensive) military service could never have been so uniformly alluring as not to need enforcement. The haribannus is attested in the sixth century and in the seventh. Gregory of Tours showed it being enforced; it is in Lex Ribvaria as a royal fine of 60 solidi;59 Merovingian charters of 662–75 and 767 document the haribannus obligation;60 the penalty exists in model charters (formulae).61 The fine, a capital levy of half the culprit’s moveables (up to a 60s. maximum), was long-established by law and was almost certainly exacted as much in the eighth century, barely documented, as in previous centuries and in the amply documented ninth.62 So understood, the administrative instructions in the 808 capitulary concerning the application of the haribannus – as it happens, fuller instructions than for recruitment – are solid evidence for the existence of an enduring customary military regulation (“Articles of War”) that was prolonged, clarified, and amended, not initiated,

58

59

60

61

62

an incident on free men from whom military service was not expected and used as a means of maintaining the army” (Innes, State and Society, p. 154). The Carolingians had no mechanism for central “maintaining” of their armies. Halsall, Warfare and Society, p. 76: “Throughout the eighth century … there is little or no discussion of military obligation or the heribannus.” Halsall deduces that where there was no (written, capitulary) “discussion,” the “thing” was also absent; again, an argumentum e silentio. Gregory of Tours, Historiarum libri decem 5:26, 6:12, 7:42, ed. Bruno Krusch and Wilhelm Levison, MGH SS rer. Merov. 1, part 1, 2nd ed. (Hanover, 1939–51), pp. 232–33, 283, 364; Lex Ribvaria, 68:1–2, MGH Leges nat. Germ. 3/2 (Hanover, 1954), p. 119 (charges 60s. for failure to comply with a royal command “in hoste,” i.e., to join the army). Neither passage mentions haribannus, but each clearly applies to this institution. The first passage mentions bannos, i.e., royal fines, in the appropriate context of failing to obey the order for mobilization; the second is also clear. Gregory, Hist. 5:26 does not tell us who normally was mobilized; those mentioned are somehow involved with the Church and claimed to be exempt (the same goes for 7:42), i.e., a very small fraction of those liable. Gregory exploited the occasion to vent his biases (against government exactions, violation of exemptions, King Chilperic, etc.), not to supply an exhaustive list of those subject to army fines. Note that, in Hist. 5:26, exercitus is called a publica functio (= tax). DMerov nos. 99 and 188, ed. Theo Kölzer, MGH Diplomata regum Francorum e stirpe Merovingica (Hanover, 2001), pp. 254, 471. DMerov no. 143 (694), ibid., p. 361, recalls a high official neglecting to join a royal campaign and having to pay 600s. as a result. This looks like someone redeeming his life (a wergeld) when penalized for abandoning the army, rather than paying a fine for failing to join it. Formulae Salicae Merkelianae 42, ed. Zeumer, MGH Formulae, p. 257, “Cognoscatis quia nos … nomine ille concessimus, ut … de omnibus hostibus et de omnibus haribanis … securus exinde valeat resedere.” Also, Cartae Senonicae 19, p. 193; Collectio Pataviensis 3, pp. 457–58. On the formula collections, see Rudolf Buchner, Beiheft: Die Rechtsquellen, in Wattenbach-Levison, Deutschlands Geschichtsquellen im Mittelalter. Vorzeit und Karolinger, pp. 49–55; Alice Rio, Legal Practice and the Written Word in the Early Middle Ages: Frankish Formulae, c. 500–1000 (Cambridge, 2009). See n. 13, above, especially the capitulary cited there.

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when capitularies in writing, such as that of 808, began to be issued. Even without noticing the haribannus clauses and their significance for illustrating the passage from unwritten to written army regulations, Brunner, Dopsch, and Ganshof all believed that rules found in Charlemagne’s early military capitularies were anticipated by former, unrecorded, and so lost enactments.63 Reuter has an arresting sentence: “It will not do simply to take the capitulary provisions of the period 800–30 and project them indefinitely into the Frankish past.”64 Indefinite projection is obviously wrong; Clovis (d. 511) and, perhaps, Dagobert (d. 639) are too ancient to be relevant. But Reuter’s caution cannot be limited to the distant Frankish past; its immediate effect is to forestall short-term continuity from the conquering but organizationally undocumented Carolingian army of the 700s to the army of the capitularies in the early 800s. If that was Reuter’s reasoning, his dismissal of short-term continuity – sustained only by the lack of eighth-century and earlier evidence – was uncalled for.65 There is no reason, except a putative and disputed change from offensive warfare to defensive (or some other similarly indemonstrable explanation), why the composition and organization of Charlemagne’s army in the last years of his reign (800–14), documented by the capitularies, should not have closely resembled that, undocumented, of the conquering force of his earlier years (768–99). A defensive army does not greatly differ from an offensive one; indeed, the same army can engage in both types of activity.66 Even if Charlemagne altered his strategic posture (which is uncertain),67 the army and its rules of recruitment did not need to be comprehensively reordered. Nothing in the quoted 808 capitulary (or those of 806 and 807) bears out a wide-ranging “reform” and modification of the army status quo if we reject the assumption that its terms are to be contrasted with eighth-century silence. The clauses concerning the haribannus, meanwhile, offer special confirmation of a prolongation of long-standing military law. 63

64 65

66 67

Brunner, DRG, 2nd ed. (Leipzig, 1906–28), 2:373, 376, implied that the clubbing practice found in the capitularies antedated Charlemagne. Alfons Dopsch, The Economic and Social Foundations of European Civilization, trans. M. G. Beard and Nadine Marshall (London, 1937), p. 219: these provisions decree no innovation; they repeat fundamental principles already in force. François-Louis Ganshof, “L’armée sous les Carolingiens,” Settimane di studio dell’Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 15 (1968), 109–30, at 114–15: the practice of having multiple freemen equip one, applied in 806 (and later, “clubbing”), is “une réglementation qui est évidemment plus ancienne, sans que nous puissions cependant nous risquer à même suggérer une date pour son adoption.” Note also Alfons Dopsch, Die Wirtschaftsentwicklung der Karolingerzeit, 2 vols. (Weimar, 1913), 2:18: the military provisions of the capitularies “are not, as formerly thought, innovations of Charlemagne’s in the sense of a reform of existing practices, but rather the repetition of already standing rules” (my translation). Reuter, “End of Expansion,” p. 259. Reuter was not alone, as seen above (nn. 31, 32, 35, 36), in the belief that the pre-800 army was reformed by the rules found in capitularies, and thus differed from the army after those capitularies. Rightly pointed out by France, “Composition and Raising,” p. 66. Goffart, “Defensio patriae,” pp. 25–37, shows that defensio patriae was invariably associated with the royal exercitus. For doubts, e.g., France, “Composition and Raising,” pp. 78–79.



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If Charlemagne’s army was governed by accepted, orally transmitted rules until (some of) its regulations were stated in writing, the capitularies of 807–08 would record well-established dictates enforced as custom and now written down. It would follow that poorer freemen, no less obliged to joining the exercitus than richer ones, had always formed part of the army; rich freemen always had a baseline for their self-financed service (four mansi or otherwise); and poorer freemen would have long been sorted out according to their fortunes, either through clubs or by another method. In other words, the old, undocumented pre-800s rules, antiqua consuetudo, would have been in keeping with what we see in the capitulary of 808. The regulations in Charlemagne’s military capitularies are found again, little changed, in capitularies of Louis the Pious and Charles the Bald.68 The continuity of rules governing recruitment and the haribannus after Charlemagne are a good reason for believing that his own recruitment rules, before as well as after being written down, reaffirmed standing regulations or, at most, modified details. Eighth-century silence does not imply that a serious change of army regulations was instituted in 806–08. The now prevalent belief is that the military obligation of most Frankish freemen was limited to a defensive mass levy in cases of emergency. This is a mistake. As I have shown in a recent article, the Carolingian countryside was not populated by freemen only obliged to fight invaders of their homeland. The sole military charge in the Carolingian world was the duty to answer to the king’s summons to his army, exercitus/hostis. This was an ancient, customary obligation documented as much in the days of the Merovingian kings as in the empire of Charlemagne. It was not exclusively Frankish. In Anglo-Saxon England, armyservice, expeditio, was one of the trinodae necessitates burdening the population.69 Like its English cousin, the Carolingian trio, occasionally documented, knew nothing of defensio patriae. Not channeled to mere local defense, pauperi ingenui were and had normally been called to the royal exercitus and took part in active service. Poorer men were needed. Accompanied by baggage trains of slow-moving ox carts, armies could not hasten their movement by increasing the percentage of horse-mounted troops. Pauperi ingenui could be useful as infantry and light cavalry, but there was also work for them as field engineers: fortifications to be built and besieged; roads and bridges to be improved; hostile countrysides to be ravaged. Carolingian warfare demanded services for which ordinary troops, footsoldiers, were better qualified than armored cavalry.

68

69

“Ancient custom”: Capit. 1:167, c. 8 (811). Later rules: Louis the Pious, Capit. 1:291, c. 27 (818–19); Capit. 2:10, c. 5 (829); Charles the Bald, Capit. 2:321–22, c. 27 (864). In Italy, Capit. 1:325, c. 3; 1:329, c. 1 (825); Capit. 2:94–5, c. 1 (866). Nicholas Brooks, “The Development of Military Obligations in Eighth- and Ninth-Century England,” in Peter Clemoes and Kathleen Hughes, eds., England before the Conquest. Studies in Primary Sources Presented to Dorothy Whitelock (Cambridge, 1971), p. 70.

3 Baybarsʼ Strategy of War against the Franks Rabei G. Khamisy

The first Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem (1099–1187) was lost to Saladin following the Frankish defeat in the battle of Ḥiṭṭīn on 5 July 1187. However, the Franks succeeded in regaining part of the kingdom as a result of the Third Crusade and established the second Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem (1192– 1291). The main collapse of the second kingdom took place over seven years (1265–71) during Baybarsʼ reign (1261–77). In that period the Mamluk sultan succeeded in capturing major fortifications and left the Franks with only a thin strip of land running along the shore from Pilgrimsʼ Castle (ʿAthlīth) in the south up to Beirut in the north, while the areas from Beirut to Latakia, which is located further to the north, were not all under Frankish rule. Studies regarding Baybarsʼ invasions have been carried out by several researchers with the aim of understanding them and dating and describing them precisely. These studies have managed to establish a macro-view of Baybarsʼ strategies and tactics directed against the Franks, Mongols, the Byzantine Empire, and others;1 but since a micro-view of the strategy that stood behind the invasions of territory held by the Franks has largely been ignored, this will be the focus of the present paper. I will try to correlate Baybarsʼ war strategy with the importance and strength of the Frankish strongholds from the Mamluksʼ point of view. It seems likely that the Frankish strongholds influenced Baybarsʼ strategic and tactical thinking. Among the questions to be asked are these: Why did Baybars choose the sequence of occupations that he enacted? Was this sequence planned? If so, does it reflect the importance and/or the strength of the places concerned? Did their locations play an important role in choosing the sequence of occupations? In order to answer these questions, reference will be made to Mamluk contemporary and later sources, the most important being the texts written by Baybarsʼ biographers Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir (1223– 92) and ʿIzz al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād (1217–85). However, it is impossible to draw reliable conclusions without referring also to the physical structure of certain strongholds and in particular to their topographical locations.2 1 2

See for example Reuven Amitai-Preiss, Mongols and Mamluks: The Mamluk–Īlkhānid War, 1260–1281 (Cambridge, 1995). This study will not describe the occupations in detail, but will mention only the information relevant to the current discussion. Nor will it enter into a comparison of the different Mamluk

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It should be noted that this paper will not discuss Baybarsʼ general strategy and the relations between his attacks against the Franks and against other enemies in the Levant, but rather will examine the offensive campaigns against the Franks in detail, and try to determine why Baybars chose to attack the Franks in the sequence that will be presented below. Nor, although the Mamluk struggle against the Ilkhanid Mongols seems to have affected Baybarsʼ relations with the Franks,3 will those events will be discussed here, because the paper aims to address the question of why specific places were occupied during each invasion, and not what prompted the invasion in the first place. For example, we will try to explain why Baybars, in his first invasion, occupied Caesarea before Arsūf and not vice versa, and why in his second invasion he occupied Safed and not ʿAthlīth, Crac des Chevaliers, or another strong fortress. Moreover, it should be noted that because the paper discusses Mamluk strategy and tactics and also the importance of the Frankish strongholds in Mamluk eyes, it will rely mainly upon Mamluk sources, while the Frankish sources will be referred to only as necessary. Beyond the work of Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, moreover, other Mamluk sources, such as those written by al-Yūnīnī, Ibn al-Dawādārī and al-Nuwayrī, will be referred to only as required. Historical Background The Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem and the two northern principalities of Tripoli and Antioch reached their greatest extent in the early twelfth century. However, in addition to several territorial losses between 1146 and 1186, the Franks suffered a strong blow in 1187 at the battle of Ḥiṭṭīn and lost the kingdom except for Tyre. In the northern principalities, they continued to hold more places that resisted Saladin’s attacks.4 The new situation did not last for

3 4

sources and discuss their reliability, authenticity, and contribution to our understanding of the events. (For Mamluk historiography and a discussion of the important sources see for example Donald P. Little, An Introduction to Mamlūk Historiography (Wiesbaden, 1970); Reuven Amitai, “The Conquest of Arsūf by Baybars: Political and Military Aspects,” Mamlūk Studies Review 9 (2005), 61–83, quotation at 64–66 and notes.) It is certain that the war against the Franks was also affected by religious issues. In general, this was a war between Muslims and Christians, in particular western Christians. That is why Baybarsʼ invasions were often based in the Jihād, and his troops included highly-regarded religious figures. See for example, on the occupations of Arsūf, Safed, and Beaufort, Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, al-Rawḍ al-zāhir fī sīrat al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, ed. Abdul-Aziz al-Khowayter [Khowaiter] (Riyadh, 1976), pp. 238, 241, 258, 263, 296; also Amitai, “The Conquest,” p. 73. However, this is not essential to the current paper and will be discussed in a future study comparing the measures taken by Baybars against Muslims and non-Muslims. See Amitai-Preiss, Mongols; also idem, “Mamluk Perceptions of the Mongol–Frankish Rapprochement,” Mediterranean Historical Review 7 (1992), 50–65. See Jonathan, Riley-Smith, ed., The Atlas of the Crusades (London, 1990), maps at pp. 35, 57, 61. I do not agree with several suggestions made in these maps, such as those regarding the territory of Tyre. In fact, only the city remained in Frankish hands in 1187, without its hinterland. It is probable that the Franks could use some of the surrounding fields, but certainly not the hilly region to the east.



Baybars’ Strategy of War against the Franks

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long, and in 1192 the Franks succeeded in recovering some of their lands as a result of the Third Crusade. The death of Saladin in 1193 was followed by great conflicts between his successors, a circumstance that led to an unstable situation on the Ayyūbid side. This, in turn, led to a series of Frankish occupations and Muslim concessions in which the Franks received additional lands and expanded their territories, although they had their own great internal conflicts as well. In 1240/1, a broad territory was ceded to the Franks, who recovered large areas between the Jordan and the Mediterranean, especially in the regions of Jerusalem and Galilee except for an area east of the Jezreel valley between Zirʿīn and Baysān (map 2).5 In general, the years between 1192 and 1241 can be regarded as a buoyant period for the Franks, despite internal disputes having endangered their kingdom and principalities. In 1244 the Franks and the Shāmyan Ayyūbids were defeated at the battle of Forbie by the Egyptian Ayyūbids, who were supported by the Khawārizmians. This constituted another turning point in the history of the Frankish kingdom.6 In the same year the Franks lost Jerusalem, and in 1247 they lost Ascalon and Tiberias.7 However, in 1254, they concluded a truce with al-Nāṣir Yūsuf of Aleppo according to which they would rule almost the same regions as in 1240/1, except for Ascalon and Jerusalem.8 According to ʿIzz al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, Tiberias fell to the Ayyūbids in 1247, but it was agreed that it should be held in condominium with al-Nāṣir Yūsuf in a treaty concluded in 1254. He adds that the city was taken by the Mongols in 1260, before the battle of ʿAyn Jālūt, and then received back by the Franks in the same year, after the Mongolsʼ defeat. This seems very odd, but unfortunately there are no surviving sources discussing the situation beyond the brief description by Ibn Shaddād, whose texts are generally reliable. In fact, Ibn Shaddād claimed that Tiberias was taken from the Franks by Baybars for the final time after the conquest of Safed in May 1266.9 This might 5

6 7

8

9

Riley-Smith, Atlas, map at pp. 98–99. As with the previous maps, this map also has some mistakes, such as leaving Ascalon inside the Frankish borders until 1256. For studies regarding the Third Crusade, the recovery of lands in 1192, the Ayyūbid conflicts, the Frankish conflicts, and the lands released to the Franks between 1192 and 1241, see for example Joshua Prawer, Histoire du Royaume latin de Jérusalem, 2 vols., 2nd ed. (Paris, 1969–70), 2:69–287. For the battle see Ilya Berkovich, “The Battle of Forbie and the Second Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem,” The Journal of Military History 75 (2011), 9–44. Prawer, Histoire, 2:313–15; Hans E. Mayer, The Crusades, trans. John Gillingham. 2nd ed. (Oxford, 1988), p. 259; Steven Runciman. A History of the Crusades, 3 vols. (Cambridge, 1951–54), 3: 228–29. There is an indication that the Franks held some properties east of the Jordan in 1241. In December 1241 the Teutonic Order was granted a village called Corsie, which is identified with al-Korsī (map ref. 2103.2482) and was described as being located in the territory of Tiberias: Ernest Strehlke, ed., Tabulae ordinis Theutonici (Berlin, 1869; repr. ed. Hans E. Mayer, Toronto, 1975), nos. 90, 120, pp. 72, 124. Perhaps this was not included in the 1254 agreement, which stated that the Frankish terrritories are located to the west of the Jordan. ʿIzz al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, al-Aʿlāq al-khaṭīra fī dhikr umarāʾ al-shām wa’l-jazīra, vol. 2, part 2: Taʾrīkh lubnān, al-urdunn wa-filasṭīn, ed. Sāmī al-Dahhān: (Damascus, 1963), p. 135. Although probably copying from Ibn Shaddād, Ibn al-Furāt claimed that Tiberias passed into

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be strengthened by the inclusion of Tiberias in Ibn Shaddādʼs list in his Taʾrīkh al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, with the places that had been occupied by Baybars and taken from the Franks. The first twelve places on the list appeared chronologically according to their occupation, except for al-Quṣayr. Tiberias, unsurprisingly, appeared after Safed.10 After Baybars became sultan in October 1260, a new situation arose for the Frankish areas.11 Baybars had come across the Franks on several occasions and had already formed his negative opinion of them.12 Firstly, he had faced them in the battle of Manṣūra in 1250, one of the important battles of the Seventh Crusade.13 He had information about the Franksʼ relations with the Mongols, who greatly endangered the sultanate, and he also knew about the desire of the Franks from overseas to embark on new crusades. These factors seem to have persuaded Baybars to carry out systematic attacks on Frankish regions in the Levant.14 Baybars and the Franks In order to finish with the Franks as soon as possible, and with as few losses as possible in lives and money, Baybars seems to have planned his invasions by following a clear strategy of warfare, which will be discussed below. The aggression of Baybars against the Franks started as soon as he became sultan. On 6 Shawwāl 659 (2 September 1261), Baybars left Egypt for Syria, camped in al-ʿAwjāʾ (the Yarqon river) and soon after that he made an agreement with John II of Jaffa. This journey included the first action against the Franks.15

10

11 12 13 14

15

Muslim hands directly after the Battle of ʿAyn Jālūt and Baybars got it in 1260/1 (Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, Mamlukes and Crusaders: Selections from the Tārīkh al-Duwal wa’l-Mulūk of Ibn al-Furāt, trans. U. Lyons and M. C. Lyons, ed. Jonathan S. Riley-Smith, 2 vols. (Cambridge, 1971), 1:91; 2:46). ʿIzz al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, Taʾrīkh al-Malik al-Ẓāhir, ed. Aḥmad Ḥuṭaiṭ (Wiesbaden, 1983), p. 321. Ibn Shaddād was followed by al-Yūnīnī, Ibn Taghrī Birdī and others: Quṭb al-Dīn al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl mirʾāt al-zamān, 4 vols. (Hyderabad, 1954–61), 3:255; Ibn Taghrī Birdī, al-Nujūm al-zāhira fi mulūk miṣr waʾl-qāhira, ed. Muḥammad Shams al-Dīn, 16 vols. (Beirut, 1992), 7:167. For the events up to 1260 see Peter Thorau, The Lion of Egypt: Sultan Baybars I and the Near East in the Thirteenth Century, trans. Peter M. Holt (London, 1992), pp. 75–88. Abdul-Aziz Khowaiter, Baibars the First: His Endeavours and Achievements (London, 1978), p. 77. Thorau, Lion, pp. 35–36. For Frankish–Mongol relations see Amitai-Preiss, “Mamluk Perceptions,” and Amitai, “The Conquest,” pp. 67–68 with references there. Amitai also suggests that Baybars’ major invasions against the Franks started in 1265, because of their growing relations with the Mongols (ibid., pp. 66–67). For Mamluk–Mongol relations see Amitai-Preiss, Mongols. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 111, 117–18, 120; Shihāb al-Dīn al-Nuwayrī, Nihāyat al-arab fī funūn al-adab, vol. 30, ed. Najīb Fawwāz and Ḥikmat Fawwāz (Beirut, 2004), p. 19. See also Thorau, Lion, pp. 143–44. Ibn Wāṣil was the only contemporary historian to claim that Baybars left Egypt in order to besiege Jaffa: Jamāl al-Dīn Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij al-kurūb fī akhbār banī ayyūb, ed. ʿUmar ʿAbd al-Salām Tadmurī, vol. 6 (Beirut, 2004), p. 322. However, Ibn Wāṣil’s text is very similar to Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir’s and seems to have been copied from it with some



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In fact, the Franks asked for a truce but in the end they rejected Baybars’ terms, which appear to have been too harsh for them to accept. This led Baybars to carry out several attacks on Frankish lands, but later he agreed to conclude a truce with them; prices were very high in al-Shām, which obliged the Muslims to import many goods from Frankish cities, a circumstance that forced Baybars to accept the Frankish terms. The sources tell that the terms were the same as with al-Nāṣir Yūsuf.16 In fact, while recording the events of Muḥarram 652 – February–March 1254 – al-Maqrīzī mentions a truce that was concluded between the Franks and al-Nāṣir Yūsuf according to which the Franks should control all the regions west of the Jordan river.17 This is supported by Ibn Shaddād’s account regarding Tiberias.18 This is the only truce that we know about between these two parties and it is certain that the biographer of Baybars is referring to it. However, the assertion that all the areas west of the Jordan should be recovered by the Franks is not precise, because according to Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Zirʿīn, which is located in the Jezreel valley, was not ceded to the Franks in accordance with their request; instead, al-Nāṣir granted the Franks ten villages in the region of Marj ʿUyūn.19 This is a clear hint that the region of Zirʿīn, which is located at the most important point connecting the Jezreel valley with the Jordan, was much more important than Marj ʿUyūn, which is located in the southeast of present-day Lebanon, although it is on the road connecting the Jordan valley with Baʿalbak in the Biqāʾ Valley. In fact, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir’s text states that Zirʿīn was one of the reasons for not signing the first draft of the 1261 truce.20 It should be noted that Zirʿīn, although deserted at the time, probably since 1183/4,21 was still highly regarded by the

16 17

18 19

20 21

changes. In fact, if Baybars was aiming to occupy Jaffa and had already expended great effort sending crops by the sea and moving with his army, it is hard to explain why he would so quickly conclude an agreement with its rulers. Thus, it can be concluded that occupying Jaffa was not the motivation behind Baybars’ campaign. The Franks whom Baybars subsequently attacked were not those of Jaffa, who had already concluded a truce with him. Other historians mistakenly suggested that the sultan, together with the Calif, started to move towards Damascus on 19 Ramaḍān (13 August) (Al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, 2:450; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz al-durar wa jāmiʿ al-ghurar: al-durra al-zakiyya fī akhbār al-dawla al-turkiyya, vol. 8, ed. Ulrich Harmann [Cairo, 1971], p. 81), but this cannot be correct, because on this date the sultan and the Calif moved from Cairo to the Egyptian coast (al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 11) and only on 6 Shawwāl (2 September) did they start to move to al-Shām. Several other sources mention this event, but they add nothing to our understanding of Baybars’ strategy. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 118. Al-Manṣūrī mentioned the same event but in less detail: Baybars al-Manṣūrī, Zubdat al-fikra fī taʾrīkh al-hijra, ed. Donald S. Richards (Beirut, 1998), p. 67. Aḥmad Ibn ʿAlī al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-sulūk li–maʿrifat duwal al-mulūk, ed. Muḥammad ʿAṭā, 8 vols. (Beirut, 1997), 1:485. Perhaps the prices were very high as a result of the increasing numbers of mice in 1261 in the region of Ḥūrān (ibid., 1:525), which certainly destroyed large areas of crops. See description above. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 118–19, 151–52; Ibn Wāṣil, Mufarrij, p. 323; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 161; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:53, 64; 2:44, 53. The number of villages did not appear in all accounts. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 118–19, 151–52. See also the other references in n. 19. For the history and Crusader archaeology of this place see Denys Pringle, The Churches of the

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two sides, clearly because of its strategic location (map 2). The truce of 1261 added that the prisoners from both sides were to be released.22 Similar truces were also concluded with Beirut and Jaffa.23 Abdul-Aziz Khowaiter proposes that these truces were agreed also because Baybars was still waiting for al-Mughīth of Karak, the last Ayyūbid ruler, to submit. In that case, treaties served his future purposes. In addition, Khowaiter claimed that the 1261 treaties gave Baybars the opportunity to attack Antioch, which was ruled by Bohemond VI, who was known for his aggression against the Muslims.24 If so, the truces might also be regarded as part of his strategy of warfare. Indeed the Mamluks attacked Antioch’s port of al-Suwaydāʾ (Port St. Simeon) and damaged it in 1262.25 Baybars’ first attack on the Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem took place between 7 and 15 April 1263, during his stay in Syria to deal with al-Malik al-Mughīth. He attacked the region of Acre and the city’s nearest properties, causing great damage to agriculture and industrial installations. He also destroyed the church of Nazareth, but probably did not continue to control it until the occupation of Safed in 1266. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir claimed that the Franks had broken the terms of the 1261 truce by not releasing their prisoners, giving Baybars a legitimate reason to attack them in 1263. He also asked them to surrender Safed and al-Shaqīf (Beaufort).26 According to Khowaiter, Baybars had inspected Acre before and knew that it was strong enough to resist his attacks, and thus he probably planned to damage the region around the city on every possible occasion, which would certainly weaken it and make its capture easier to accomplish.27 In December 1263, Baybars concluded a truce with the Franks, and it was stated that it should last until the harvest.28 Khowaiter assumes that Baybars was not going to keep his word.29 During April 1264 the Mamluks attacked Antioch and Acre, with the latter probably being attacked because of the arrival of two Mongol spies at the city in the same month.30 In June–July of the same year the Mamluks also attacked ʿAthlīth and Caesarea as a result of the arrival of

22 23

24 25

26

27 28 29 30

Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, 4 vols. (Cambridge, 1993–2009), 1:276–79, 4:269–71. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 118. Ibid; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 27; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:53; 2:44; al-Manṣūrī, Zubda, p. 67. For the truces see the introduction in Peter M. Holt. Early Mamluk Diplomacy (1260–1290): Treaties of Baybars and Qalāwūn with Christian Rulers (Leiden, 1995), pp. 11–17. Khowaiter, Baibars, p. 79. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 132–33; al-Manṣūrī, Zubda, p. 76. In the text dealing with 1261, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir mentioned an attack on Antioch (Rawḍ, p. 113), but according to the description it is possible that this was the same attack that occurred in 1262. It may have been foreshadowed among the events of 1261. Ibid., pp. 156, 157, 158–60. Frankish sources also mention the destruction of the church on Mount Tabor during the same invasion (Pringle, Churches, 2:68). But again, it seems not to be until 1266 that Baybars continued in possession of it. Khowaiter, Baibars, pp. 81–82. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 187. Khowaiter, Baibars, 82–83. See also Holt, Early, pp. 13–14. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 195–96, 197. It is stated that the spies came during the middle third of the month Jumādā al-Ākhira.



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a Frankish garrison at Jaffa, probably in order to launch an assault on Muslim regions.31 The attacks and destruction caused by the Mamluks had certainly weakened the Frankish cities and strongholds. In addition, they gave Baybars further indications of the localities’ layout and strength, which certainly helped in his future planning against them.32 There were specific reasons behind all the attacks against the Franks in 1264, cannot be regarded merely as breaking the truce of December 1263. Before moving to the next section of this paper, which deals with the major invasions by Baybars of Frankish territory, it is necessary to discuss the main routes that he took while moving between Egypt and al-Shām. Leaving Egypt from the north or the northeast, one must choose one of two roads that go through Sinai. The King’s Road, which leads to ʿAqaba and from there to Damascus via Transjordan, goes through the desert and is not favorable when moving with large armies containing thousands of fighters. Indeed, this route is never mentioned in the context of Baybars’ invasions. The other route, the Via de Mares, which goes along the Mediterranean coast towards al-Shām, is much easier and shorter. This route is also cooler, although the humidity along its southern part can be very high, and along it there are many small, fast-flowing perennial streams that can supply water to thousands of soldiers when necessary. Additionally, the lands along the majority of this road were populated and could supply the armies with food and other necessities, which were missing along the alternative route. All these reasons made the road along the Mediterranean much more important than the inland passage, especially for armies. This suggestion can be supported by many thirteenth-century historical accounts, some of which will be mentioned below. The King’s Road was often used by the sultans prior to the Battle of Ḥiṭṭīn, because the Via de Mares at the time was controlled by a strong Frankish enemy and it ran deep through Frankish lands. From the region of Gaza, roads branch off to a number of places. The most important is still the Via de Mares, which continues northwards along the coast. All other roads that connect the coastal plain with the hills and the Jordan valley to the east are secondary ones, passage along which requires some effort. This is the case with the roads between Jaffa, Jerusalem, and Jericho for example.33 Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī wrote that owing to the mountainous terrain between Jericho and Jerusalem, a knight needed a day to climb to Jerusalem.34 In general, these roads are far from ideal for the movement of thousands of fighters, especially when there are other easier possibilities to choose from. 31 32 33

34

Ibid., pp. 197, 200. Baybars went through parts of these regions during the Mamluk march towards ʿAyn Jālūt and also during 1261 and in 1263. Denys Pringle, “Templar Castles on the Road to the Jordan,” in Malcolm Barber, ed., The Military Orders: Fighting for the Faith and Caring for the Sick (Aldershot, 1994), pp. 148–66; idem, “Templar Castles between Jaffa and Jerusalem,” in Helen Nicholson, ed., The Military Orders: Welfare and Warfare (Aldershot, 1998), pp. 89–109. Yāqūt al-Ḥamawī, Muʿjam al-buldān, ed. Dār Ṣādir and Dār Beirut, 5 vols. (Beirut, 1955–57), 1:165.

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The Mamluk sources that describe Baybars’ movements from Egypt to al-Shām and back always claimed that the sultan went through Gaza and almost always mentioned that he camped in al-ʿAwjāʾ,35 which is located in the region of Jaffa. It should be asked, then, which road or passage Baybars would choose for the rest of the way to Damascus. Reaching Caesarea, one is faced with two possibilities: either to continue northwards along the Via de Mares, passing ʿAthlīth and Mount Carmel on the western side, then turning east and going along the Kishon river to Yoqne’am (Fr. Caymont, Ar. al-Qaymūn, map ref. 1604.2300) and then to Megiddo (Fr. Legio, Ar. Al-Lajjūn, map ref. 1672.2200), through the Jezreel valley; or to go northeast from Caesarea, through Wādī ʿĀrā directly to Megiddo. It should be noted that this passage is the only one which is located in a fairly wide valley connecting two plains – the Jezreel valley with the coastal plain – and moving within it is very easy. By contrast, the coastal road is longer and in its narrow section, as it rounds Mount Carmel, large armies are forced to walk on sand. Logically, the inland route is to be preferred when an army’s aim is to reach Damascus or the Jordan Valley. In the Jezreel Valley, one can choose between various routes. The most important goes towards Baisān and Mount Tabor, from which Tiberias is easily accessible.36 In general, the topography of the Holy Land does not leave many options for armies to move between Cairo and the Jordan Valley. It might be expected with a high degree of certainty that the Mamluk armies, if not attacking the Franks, would move through Wādī ʿĀrā and then choose one of the roads to Baisān or Mount Tabor.37 It should be noted that these passages from Caesarea to the Jezreel Valley were not mentioned by Frankish historians such as Fetellus, John of Würzburg, Johan Phocas and Theoderich, who tend to cite the pilgrimage roads and the Via de Mares.38 It should be taken into consideration, however, that Frankish pilgrims would not choose the routes connecting Caesarea and Megiddo or Yoqni’am, because they would not be able to pass by or visit the cave of St. Elias, an important pilgrimage site at Mount Carmel. We know from the accounts of both Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād and ʿImād al-Dīn al-Iṣfahānī, that in 1191, after the siege of Acre, Saladin took this route – from Megiddo to ʿUyūn al-Asāwir – in order to meet Richard I in the 35 36

37 38

In 1265 he also passed there as we shall presently demonstrate. Benjamin, Z. Kedar, “The Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn Revisited,” in Benjamin, Z. Kedar, ed., The Horns of Ḥaṭṭīn (Jerusalem and Aldershot, 1992), pp. 190–207. Here one can see the important road network north of Mount Tabor, betweem Ṣaffūriyya and Tiberias. No paved roads have yet been found in Wādī ʿĀrā, but these may be discovered during future excavations. Fetellus, Description of Jerusalem and the Holy Land, ed. and trans. James Rose Macpherson, Palestine Pilgrims’ Text Society [PPTS], vol. 5 (London, 1896), pp. 46–50; John of Würzburg, Description of the Holy Land, trans. Aubrey Stewart, ed. Charles W. Wilson, PPTS 5, pp. 3–5, 61–63; Johan Phocas, The Pilgrimage of Joannes Phocas in the Holy Land, trans. Aubrey Stewart, PPTS 5, pp. 11–15; Theoderich, Theoderich’s Description of the Holy Places, trans. Aubrey Stewart, PPTS 5, p. 69.



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region of Caesarea.39 After Baybars’ conquest of Antioch in 1268, he went back to Damascus, spent some time there, then returned to Egypt. On his way back, he camped at Megiddo,40 which could mean that he went through Wādī ʿĀrā in the direction of Caesarea and on to Egypt. As we shall presently demonstrate, controlling the road between Cairo, Gaza, Damascus and Baʿalbak was one of the main thrusts of Baybars’ attacks on the Franks; we will try to prove that this target played an important role in dictating Baybars’ strategy against them. Baybars’ Major Invasions against the Franks Between the years 1265 and 1271, Baybars occupied many Frankish fortresses and cities, some of which he planned to attack and others which he occupied in passing. We will list these chronologically. The first major invasion: Caesarea and Arsūf During a hunting expedition in December 1264, Baybars received information that the Mongols were launching an attack on al-Bīra,41 an important fortress on the Euphrates (map 1, no.1). He was also told that the Franks had supplied the Mongols with advice on the best time to attack the Mamluks, which fell in the period when the horses were at pasture and the soldiers were not prepared for war. However, Baybars reacted directly, dispatching a number of emirs with their troops in the direction of al-Bīra, and he himself left Cairo for Gaza on 27 January and reached it on 9 February 1265. During his stay in Gaza, Baybars received intelligence that 39

40 41

ʿImād al-Dīn al-Iṣfahānī, al-Fatḥ al-qussī fī al-fatḥ al-qudsī, ed. Suhayl Zakkār, al-Mawsūʿa al-shāmiyya fī taʾrīkh al-ḥurūb al-ṣalībiyya, 40 vols. (Damascus, 1995), 13:6143; Bahāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, al-Nawādir al-sulṭāniyya wa’l maḥāsin al-yūsufiyya: sīrat Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn, ed. Jamāl al-Dīn al-Shayyāl, 2nd ed. (Cairo, 1994), pp. 264–65; Donald Sidney Richards, The Rare and Excellent History of Saladin or al-Nawādir al-sulṭāniyya wa’l maḥāsin al-yūsufiyya by Bhāʾ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, in Crusader Texts in Translation, vol. 7 (Aldershot, 2001), p. 167. It should be noted that Saladin wanted to camp in a place called ʿUyūn al-Asāwid (‫)عيون األساود‬, according to Ibn Shaddād, but al-Malaik al-ʿĀdil was already there. This place’s name was translated by Richards as “Serpents’ Springs”; however, it was surely none other than ʿUyūn al-Asāwir (‫ )عيون األساور‬in Wādī ʿĀrā, which was later mentioned as a place where Baybars camped before his attack on Caesarea (see below). This may mean that both this location and the route itself were strategically important, especially when the Via de Mares was not accessible. al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 98. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 221; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 72. Qirṭāy al-Khāzindārī claims that this information was not correct: Qirṭāy al-Khāzindārī, Taʾrīkh majmūʿ al-nawādir mimmā jarā li’l awāʾil wa’l awākhir, ed. Horst Adolf Hein and Muhammad Hujayri (Beirut, 2005), p. 129. As in many of his descriptions, al-Khāzindārī (writing between 1293 and 1341) recounted stories different from those of other historians, and usually claimed that places were occupied one year after their actual occupation. On the manuscript of al-Khāzindārī and its reliability see Robert Irwin, “The Image of the Byzantine and the Franks in Arab Popular Literature,” Mediterranean Historical Review 4 (1989), 226–42, at 237–40; Amitai-Preiss, “Mamluk Perceptions,” pp. 63–64. Amitai-Preiss claims that the manuscript of al-Khāzindārī was written at some time between 1293 and 1341: p. 64 and n. 60.

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the Mongols had erected seventeen mangonels against al-Bīra. Placed under pressure by this information, the sultan ordered his emirs to hasten their progress to al-Bīra; otherwise he would attend there personally. Soon after, he started to move northwards and reached Yubnā (Fr. Ibelin, maps 1 and 2).42 However, before setting off towards al-Bīra, the sultan received another letter telling him that the Mongols had withdrawn, due to the arrival of the Mamluk forces.43 According to Khowaiter, Baybars planned to stay in the Frankish area in order to prevent a Frankish attack at the same time.44 It is reasonable to suggest, however, that given the absence of such information in the sources, and also on account of the importance of al-Bīra for the Mamluks, Baybars was not paying attention to the Franks. Indeed, if he were, one would expect to find some mention of Mamluk troops protecting the Mamluk–Frankish frontier along its length, or at least at other important places, especially those known for their aggression, such as Antioch. The success at al-Bīra gave Baybars the opportunity to launch attacks against the Franks, not least because he was already in position, accompanied by thousands of soldiers. These attacks might also have been a punishment for their having given information to the Mongols, as claimed by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir.45 However, this seems unlikely, as the Mongols, who had already known the Mamluks for a long time, did not need the Franks’ information. Baybars, working secretly, as he regularly did during his war planning, went hunting in the forest of Arsūf, asking the emirs to accompany him if they wished. This expedition, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir claimed, gave him the opportunity to observe Caesarea and Arsūf in order to plan his surprise attack.46 This, indeed, makes the plan for capturing Caesarea and Arsūf unique, and sheds light on Baybars’ warfare strategy and use of sudden action. It might also be added that Baybars was already acquainted with the region from his previous visits there, but this

42

43 44 45 46

Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 221–23; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, pp. 166–67; al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, 2:17; al-Manṣūrī, Zubda, p. 95; Badr al-Dīn al-ʿAynī, ʿIqd al-jumān fī taʾrīkh ahl al-zamān, ed. Amīn Muḥammad Muḥammad, vols. 5–6, (Cairo, 2010), 5:395–96. In Ibn al-Dawādārī’s and al-Yūīnī’s descriptions, there is no mention of a connection between the arrival of the Mongols at al-Bīra and the movement of the sultan to al-Shām (Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz, p. 107; al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, 2:318). Before reaching Yubnā Baybars was hunting in a place called Qaratyā, where he fell from his horse and injured himself (Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 223). This place is surely the village of Karatyā (Fr. Galatie, map ref. 1239/1169). Al-Maqrīzī claimed that the sultan fell near Ṣaydāʾ, which can mislead the reader into believing that Baybars had already reached the city of Sidon (Arabic Ṣaydā) and then came back to Yubnā (al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, 2:17). However, this Ṣaydāʾ should be identified as the village of Zaytā (Fr. Zeitae, map ref. 1334.1166), appropriately located in the hills between Gaza and Yubnā and 6 km east of Qaratyā. It should be noted too that almost 80 km northwards, on the hills between Arsūf and Caesarea to the east, are the two villages of Ṣaydā (Fr. Sida, map ref. 1612.1995) and Zaytā (Fr. Zeita?, map ref. 1728.1952). However, these are far to the north and cannot be identified with al-Maqrīzī’s Ṣaydāʾ. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 223–24. Khowaiter, Baibars, p. 84. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 229. Ibid., pp. 229–30; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 168; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:84–85; 2:68–69.



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time he had the opportunity to inspect these places in greater detail.47 We have no indication as to when Baybars wanted ideally to launch his assaults against the Franks, but what is certain is that, regardless of whether or not the first invasion was planned for 1265, once he had started he would be unable to stop. In the end, Baybars decided to attack Caesarea first and then to move to Arsūf, although the latter was closer to his camp in al-ʿAwjāʾ near Yubnā (map 2), where he had already started to erect mangonels.48 It might thus be asked whether this was the original plan or not. Taking the mangonels all the way north to ʿUyūn al-Asāwir in Wādī ʿĀrā and ʿArʿara (map  2) was not an easy mission and it was simpler for the Mamluks to erect mangonels in situ for attacking Caesarea. Thus, three possibilities arise. The first is that Baybars first wanted to attack Arsūf but then changed his mind; the second is that this was a trick, in case some Franks noticed these developments. In the latter case, the Franks would be misled into thinking that Caesarea was not the target. However, a third and the most probable possibility is that Baybars wanted to attack the Franks but did not know which of the two towns to start with, and in the meantime started making arrangements in order not to lose time. In the end, Baybars succeeded in capturing both towns, perhaps because his invasion was perfectly planned. In order to confirm whether this was indeed the case, various factors should be examined, including the location of both places and the physical remains of their fortifications. Caesarea: Caesarea (map ref. 1401.2120) is located at one of the most important strategic points along the eastern Mediterranean. In addition to being situated near the Via de Mares, it was the only major thirteenth-century city to 47 48

See above. Amitai suggests that the four large mangonels and several small ones that were mentioned by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir were built using local wood, and that the Maghribī and Frankish ones mentioned by the biographer had been brought from distant fortresses (Amitai, “The Conquest,” pp. 63 ,72–73). However, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir wrote that after inspecting Caesarea and Arsūf, Baybars went back to his camp and found that the timber for the mangonels had arrived together with the zardakhānā (arsenal) that was brought by emir ʿAlam al-Dīn. Then Baybars ordered emir ʿIzz al-Dīn to construct several Maghribī and Frankish mangonels from this timber. The next day, four big mangonels and several small ones were erected, and later Baybars ordered his fortresses to send, inter alia, mangonels (Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 230; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 168; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:85; 2:69). This means that both large and small mangonels were constructed from the timber that came with the zardakhānā, and these included the “Maghribī” and “Frankish” ones, which were certainly of the larger type. It should be noted that the zardakhāna is the arsenal of weapons that were distributed before campaigns. See Hamilton Gibb, “The Armies of Saladin,” in Shaw, Stanford and Polk, William, eds., Studies on the Civilization of Islam by Hamilton A. R. Gibb (London, 1962), pp. 74–90, at 84; David Nicolle, “The Manufacture and Importation of Military Equipment in the Islamic Eastern Mediterranean (10th– 14th Centuries),” in Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras, vol. 3, eds. U. Vermeulen and J. Van Steenbergen (Leuven, 2001), p. 150. For mangonel types and challenges to previous studies, see Michael S. Fulton, “Artillery in and around the Latin East (1097–1291)” (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Cardiff University, 2015); Rabei G. Khamisy and Michael Fulton, “Manjanīq Qarābughā and ThirteenthCentury Trebuchet Nomenclature,” Studia Islamica 111/2 (2016), 179–201.

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the south of Haifa, controlling the important passage that connects the coast with the Jezreel Valley through Wādī ʿĀrā as far as Megiddo. The second route, which goes through Wādī al-Miliḥ and reaches Yoqne’am, starts midway between Caesarea and ʿAthlīth and could partly be controlled from Caesarea. Acre and Haifa controlled the northern connection between the coast and the Jordan Valley. This runs along the Kishon river at the foot of Mount Carmel on its north side (map 2). Caesarea was guarded on the west by the Mediterranean and on all other sides by a massive wall, approximately 450 m long on its north-south axis and almost 240 m long east to west. At the southwestern end of the fortified town a strong castle, almost 150 m by 50 m, was built on a promontory protected by the sea on three sides and by a moat to the east. The outer wall of the town was also defended by a massive ditch and a talus. The walls contained fifteen projecting towers and many of these, together with the castle, had been strengthened by King Louis IX in 1252.49 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir stated that after the Mamluks surprised the town and captured it, the inhabitants took shelter in the castle, which was among the finest and most strongly fortified on the coast. According to his account, Louis IX had reinforced it considerably, particularly by using flint columns (actually granite) that made its undermining impossible. He added that if shored up, the walls would not fall down.50 Indeed, Mesqui presents the different stages in the fortification of the town, and the alterations by Louis were without doubt among the most impressive.51 The strength of a fortification derived not only from its mass and fortitude, but also (and probably mainly) from the strength of the garrison protecting it. In this respect, Caesarea was certainly not strong enough, however: it remained in the hands of laymen who could not defend it properly.52 It may be the weakness of its garrison that led to the town’s fall after only one day. The castle fell to the Mamluks ten days later.53 Arsūf: Arsūf lies almost 33  km to the south of Caesarea and 17  km north of Jaffa. Like Caesarea it is located on the coast and has its own port. However, the town here is built on the top of a natural cliff overlooking the sea. As with 49 50

51 52 53

For the city and fortifications of Frankish Caesarea see Jean Mesqui, Césarée maritime: ville fortifiée du Proche-Orient (Paris, 2014). Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 230–31; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 169; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:86–87; 2:70. Because of this description, Thorau did not agree with Röhricht and believed that the Mamluks did not undermine the walls (Thorau, Lion, p. 160). However, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir said that the walls were sapped (Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 231; al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 170; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:87; 2:71). Mesqui, Césarée. See Steven Tibble, Monarchy and Lordship in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem 1099–1291 (Oxford, 1989), p. 136. For the occupation see Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 230–31; Thorau, Lion, pp. 160–61; Khowaiter, Baibars, pp. 84–86.



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Caesarea, Ibn Shaddād claimed that Arsūf was fortified by King Louis IX in 1252, but this is not corroborated by other historians except for Ibn al-Furāt, who copied from Ibn Shaddād.54 Although our knowledge regarding the town’s outer walls is still minimal, the suburb was almost the same size as Caesarea – 450 m by 250 m – with a castle situated on a cliff on the northwestern side of the town, observing the port beneath it. The castle was defended by a moat and a talus on three sides, and by a cliff on the west. The town was also defended by a moat surrounding its walls.55 During Baybars’ invasion in 1263, the Franks arrived to negotiate a truce with him, and he claimed that the previous truce had been broken by the Franks, inter alia because the Hospitallers had built a rabaḍ by Arsūf.56 The rabaḍ in this instance was described as walls and ditches.57 This indicates that a further stage of construction was carried out by the Hospitallers after they acquired the place in May 1261,58 but certainly before the invasion of Baybars in March 1263.59 More precisely, this construction project seems to have been carried out after 11 November 1261 and before March 1263. The sultan left Egypt with the Calif for al-Shām on 2 September 1261 and returned on 11 November 1261.60 During this time he concluded the truce with the Franks, and it is almost certain that after this the Hospitallers built the walls around Arsūf, an act that was regarded as breaking the truce. Perhaps this can explain certain descriptions by Frankish visitors up to the beginning of the 1260s: Wilbrand of Oldenburg, who visited the Holy Land in 1211–12, described Arsūf as a small destroyed city, and Thietmar passed by Arsūf in 1217–18 and described it as “a renowned city by now almost desolate.”61 These two eyewitness descriptions clearly show that until 1217–18 Arsūf lay in ruins and had no fortifications. In a description dated between 17 October 1244 and April 1263 Caesarea was described as a city, Arsūf as a castle, and Jaffa as a town and castle. In another description, dated between 1 May 1261 and 30 April 1265, the three sites were given the same descriptions as above, but Arsūf

54 55

56 57 58

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Ibn Shaddād, Aʿlāq, p. 254; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:91; 2:73. For details see Israel Roll, “Der frühislamische Basar und die Kreuzfahrerburg in ApolloniaArsuf,” in Mathias Piana, ed., Burgen und Städte der Kreuzzugszeit (Petersberg, 2008), pp. 252–62; Amitai, “The Conquest”; Oren Tal and Israel Roll, “Arsur: The Site, Settlement and Crusader Castle, and the Material Manifestation of their Destruction”, in Tal, ed., The Last Supper at Apollonia: The Final Days of the Crusader Castle in Herzliya (Tel Aviv, 2011), pp. 8–51. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 153. However, I agree with Amitai that this was a wall around the rabaḍ, as stated by Shāfiʿ Ibn ʿAlī: Amitai, “The Conquest,” p. 68 n. 29. For the cession of Arsūf to the Hospitallers, see Joseph Delaville Le Roulx, ed., Cartulaire général de l’Ordre des Hospitaliers de Saint-Jean de Jérusalem, 1100–1310, 4 vols. (Paris, 1894–1905), 3:6–7, no. 2985. Baybars left Cairo on 21 February 1263, spent some time in Gaza, and reached Mount Tabor on 23 March 1263 (Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 148–49). For the date of leaving al-Shām see Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 121. Denys Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187–1291, in Crusader Texts in Translation, vol. 23 (Aldershot, 2012), pp. 86, 109.

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was specified as Hospitaller.62 It can be added that the mention of Arsūf as a Hospitaller castle without mentioning the suburb as a city or town may be an indication that the description predates the building of the outer walls, which our current study dates to after 11 November 1261; thus, this may date the description to between 1 May and 11 November 1261. Jonville’s description of a strongly fortified castle (chastel), without using the term “city” (citei), which he did apply to Caesarea and Sidon for example,63 is a further indication that by the early 1250s the suburb was still without an outer wall. As carried out by the Hospitallers, this latest stage of construction seems to have been quite massive;64 however, these issues can only be clarified by further archaeological investigtions. Those undertaken so far have already unearthed some sections of the outer walls including the projecting rectangular tower at the southeastern corner of the town. These had already been attributed to the Hospitallers. Additionally, the excavations of the town’s eastern gate suggest that it was defended by two semi-circular towers and accessed by a drawbridge. Two stages of building have been identified in the gate, one from the twelfth century and the other from the thirteenth.65 This later stage might also be attributable to the Hospitallers. Presumably, further excavations will unearth other massive features and fortifications. Caesarea vs. Arsūf: In general the fortifications of both towns are similar, although the locations are quite different. The main physical difference is that Caesarea was defended by the sea to the west, while Arsūf was defended by a cliff, which means that the former could be attacked from the sea side whilst the latter was inaccessible. Thus it should be asked why Baybars chose to attack Caesarea first – did the towns’ strength and layout play an important role in his decision? An additional important difference between the two places must also be taken into consideration: while Caesarea was protected, presumably, by only a small number of highly trained fighters, Arsūf was protected by a great number of Hospitaller knights as early as 1261.66 Baybars had two possibilities, and each could lead to various scenarios. If he started with Arsūf and failed to take it, it would be almost impossible to capture Caesarea, which would already be prepared to counter the attack. On the other 62 63 64

65 66

For the dating see Pringle, Pilgrimage, pp. 40–43; for the sites, pp. 211–13. Jean of Joinville, Histoire de saint Louis, credo, et lettre à Louis X, ed. M. Natalis de Wailly, 2nd ed. (Paris, 1874), pp. 282, 308. Perhaps because the Hospitaller stage was the latest, it was the first to be demolished, and systematically removed. Moreover, Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir states that after the fall of Arsūf the Hospitallers were obliged to take part in the destruction of the town (Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 243). Presumably, as part of Baybars’ psychological warfare, he ordered the Hospitallers specifically to destroy their own additions. See for example Tal and Roll, “Arsur,” pp. 15, 19–20, figs. 5–6, 9–10; Oren Tal, “Apollonia– Arsuf, 2006 and 2009,” Israel Exploration Journal 60/1 (2010), 107–14. The estimated number of knights in Arsūf is 270, but there seems also to have been auxiliary troops and inhabitants that could help in different ways (Amitai, “The Conquest,” pp. 75–76).



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hand, if Baybars first attacked Caesarea and took it, Arsūf would be separated from the Frankish regions to the north and would not get supplies from Jaffa, which had a truce with Baybars. In this case, taking Arsūf would be possible.67 Perhaps, by inspecting Caesarea, Baybars knew about the inadequate garrison and supposed that its capture would be easy. Hospitaller Arsūf meanwhile would in any case be difficult to take. From this point of view, starting with Caesarea was better; it allowed Baybars easily to capture at least one town, instead of struggling with two if Caesarea turned out to be prepared. Moreover, although the outer walls of Caesarea seem to have been better fortified than those at Arsūf, at least as far as we can see to date,68 it did not belong to a strong Frankish defender – unlike Arsūf, which belonged to the Hospitallers: Arsūf would be almost certain to contain more knights and fighters than Caesarea. Thus it would be easier to surprise Caesarea, and indeed Baybars succeeded in taking the town in a single day. Perhaps Baybars combined these considerations and reckoned it would be easier to begin by taking Caesarea. It might be also suggested that attacking Caesarea could be expected to confuse the Franks more than attacking Arsūf; striking in the middle might confuse the enemy as to whether the next step was to be to the north or the south, and indeed this was the case during this invasion, as we shall presently demonstrate. On the other hand, if Arsūf were to be attacked first, it would be almost certain that the next target would be to the north – Caesarea. The last matter to be taken into consideration is that, strategically, if there was to be a choice between Caesarea and Arsūf, Caesarea was the better place to take, firstly because its conquest would separate the Frankish regions, leaving Arsūf and Jaffa stranded in the south, and secondly because it overlooked the route going inland, as mentioned above. This in itself would give the Mamluks a great advantage over the Franks. In other words, even if Arsūf was not taken directly after Caesarea, the capture of the latter would make it easier to take the former in the future. Jaffa was not taken into account because it had quite good relations with Baybars, and was anyway to be cut off. Comparing the overall situations of both Caesarea and Arsūf thus reveals that Baybars had chosen the correct strategy for his invasion. However, in order to further support this assertion, we shall examine the occupations in more detail. It is impossible to know how many days it would have taken Baybars to occupy these towns if he had attacked Arsūf first. But we can assess the actual events in order to judge whether his planning and strategy was appropriate. During his pretend hunting expedition in the forest of Arsūf, Baybars learned more about the layout of the two places. It was claimed that he kept things secret, but this is suspect, because he started to erect mangonels near his tent in al-ʿAwjāʾ, which is a clear sign of an attack about to happen. However, Baybars started making his move towards Caesarea very early in the morning, before sunrise, and he surprised and occupied 67 68

See also suggestions by Khowaiter, Baibars, pp. 84–85 Comparison between the southeastern projecting towers of the two towns and their gates in the eastern outer walls reveals that Caesarea was more massive.

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the town in a single day, which is hardly to be expected of such a well-fortified place. During the next ten days he attacked the castle and dispatched some troops northwards to Acre, Haifa and their surroundings, in order both to prevent the Franks from sending aid to Caesarea and to confuse them about his next attack.69 It should be noted that according to Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, during the ten days of assault against the fortress, Baybars also participated in the fighting from the sea “watāra yarkab wayakhūḍ ʿibāb al-baḥr wayuqātil.”70 Although this information has been completely ignored by scholars, it is very important for the current study because it might hint at the use of Muslim ships in this siege, and if so, implies that these ships had been sent to the region by Baybars before he left Egypt. This might mean that he had indeed thought about attacking the Franks in advance. Perhaps he did not know which places he was going to attack, or the scale of his assault. However, it might be that both Caesarea and Arsūf were in his sights, but he could not decide where to start until he had inspected them very closely. Another possible scenario is that the Mamluks used Frankish ships from the port of Caesarea after gaining control of that city. A third possibility is that this sentence was metaphorical, and no attacks were in fact made from the sea. The likelihood of this last suggestion is increased by the absence of ships at the next siege, against Arsūf, where they would surely have been mentioned if they were present. At Arsūf, the sultan was depicted as being on the shore, shooting at the Frankish ships.71 In contrast to Caesarea, taking Arsūf was difficult, involving almost all kinds of siege warfare including heavy and light siege machines, undermining, and great efforts expended in digging long and sophisticated underground tunnels.72 Indeed, the minute details of the occupation given by the biographer of Baybars shed light on the strength of the town, the castle, and the garrison protecting them.73 In the end, Arsūf fell after forty days, with the city walls surrendering after thirty-seven days of fighting and the fortress three days later. This proves that Arsūf was a real struggle for Baybars’ thousands of fighters, and might explain why the grandmaster of the Order of Hospitallers wrote to Baybars during the siege, telling him that “Arsūf does is not concerned by the Mamluk armies.”74 Perhaps the Hospitallers were very confident of the town’s defensibility, which had indeed been demonstrated. Meanwhile, between the two sieges, Baybars and his troops made another attack, northwards, resulting in the destruction of a castle called al-Mallūḥa (Burj al-Māliḥ, Fr. Turris Salinarum, map ref. 1410.2161),75 capturing and destroying Haifa, the sultan himself laying waste to the town of ʿAthlīth and its

69 70 71 72 73 74 75

See also Khowaiter, Baibars, pp. 84–85. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 231. Ibid., p. 237. For the tunnels, see Amitai, “The Conquest,” pp. 69–72. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 235–39, 242. Ibid., pp. 262–63. For identification see Denys Pringle, Secular Buildings in the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: An Archaeological Gazetteer (Cambridge, 1997), p. 41.



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surroundings. These attacks certainly confused the Franks and led them to think that this would be the direction Baybars would move in after taking Caesarea, with Acre being the target and not Arsūf in the south.76 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir claimed that taking ʿAthlīth was not important and that Baybars left it to the future;77 Khowaiter suggests that the town required more attention than Baybars was able to give it during that invasion,78 and in such a situation Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir could not tell the truth, which would minimize Baybars’ strength. However, choosing Arsūf instead of ʿAthlīth proves that Baybars had a realistic understanding of the situation. Moreover, I will show below that Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir was indeed telling the truth. The second major invasion: Safed The campaign against Safed (April/May 1266 to 22 July 1266)79 involved many forces and emirs from both Egypt and al-Shām. They were ordered to start their movements in all directions to cover all the Frankish regions between Tripoli and Arsūf. The invasions included many sieges of fortresses such as Crac des Chevaliers, Beaufort, and Montfort, as well as cities such as Tyre, Acre, and Tripoli.80 The current paper will not discuss these events in detail, but we agree with Christopher Marshall, who suggested that Baybars did not aim to take any fortress, but that all of the attacks were rather part of the campaign against Safed, mainly to confuse the Franks.81 Indeed, Baybars kept his aim secret here also, in order to prevent espionage. Along the way, several castles were captured in the region of Tripoli, such as Ḥalbā (Fr. Albe), ʿArqā (Fr. Arcas) and al-Qulayʿāt (Fr. Coliath), along with others in other regions.82 In this invasion, when there was no specific Mongol danger and the invasion was completely pre-planned, with great efforts and amounts of money expended in order to ensure its success, one might ask why Baybars chose to take Safed and not some other great fortress such as Crac des Chevaliers or ʿAthlīth. Presumably, for Baybars, Safed was more important. Indeed, his biographer described it as “an obstruction in the throat of al-Shām and a blockage in the chest of the Muslims.”83 76 77 78 79

80

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Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 234–35. See also Khowaiter, Baibars, pp. 86–87. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 234. Khowaytir, Baibars, pp. 86–87. According to Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Baybars started to think about the invasion in Rajab 664 (April 1266), started to move towards Gaza on 3 Shaʿabān 664 (9 May 1266), and Safed fell on 18 Shawwāl the same year (22 July 1266) (Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 250, 260–61). Al-Khāzindārī was the only one to claim that the occupation of Safed took place in 665 H, instead of 664 (al-Khāzindārī, Taʾrīkh, p. 140). This is another example of al-Khāzindārī’s disagreement with the other sources. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 250–63; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:107–11; 2:84–89. For other but less detailed accounts, see al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, pp. 180–81; al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, 2:33; al-Manṣūrī, Zubda, pp. 103–04; al-ʿAynī, ʿIqd, 5:420–21; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz, p. 116; al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, 2:337; Ibn Taghrī Birdī, Nujūm, 7:124. Christopher Marshall, Warfare in the Latin East, 1192–1291 (Cambridge, 1992), p. 203. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 251–52, 253. Ibid., p. 253.

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The fortress was located at a very strategic point and controlled a large region. It threatened neighboring Muslim territories and dominated sections of the most important inland roads in the Holy Land: those connecting Egypt with Damascus, and the Jordan valley with al-Biqāʿ. After the Mamluks took Caesarea and gained control of the main passage between the shore and the Jezreel valley, Safed became the last Frankish fortress that threatened the continuation of the road to Damascus. Thus we might deduce that the strategic advantage to Baybars of the capture of Safed was of far more significant than that any other fortress. Safed seems not only to have been as strong as Crac des Chevaliers, ʿAthlīth, and Margat, but was also of greater strategic importance.84 To ensure its capture, Baybars sent troops against every Frankish territory before concentrating most of his forces at Safed. Some troops remained in the direction of Acre and Tyre, to block any aid from them. This well-planned invasion succeeded, and later led on to the occupation of other locations, as will be discussed below. The planning clearly shows that Safed was highly regarded by Baybars, who thought it valuable enough to devote considerable efforts to its capture. Unlike the previously occupied towns, Baybars did not destroy Safed, but rather strengthened it. It is noteworthy that Safed was highly regarded by the Franks as well, on account of which it was rebuilt after 1241 as a military base to defend the Frankish areas from Acre to Nazareth and as far as the Jordan valley, but also to threaten the Muslim regions up to Damascus.85 The castles of Hūnīn (Castellum Novum) and Tibnīn (Toron) were taken during or directly after the occupation of Safed, and Tiberias was captured following its fall.86 Ramla and Lydda were taken in the same year, presumably during the same invasion.87 However, the fact that these places are mentioned by only a few historians, the minimal descriptions given to them, shed light on their importance in Baybars’ eyes, and suggest that they were all captured as a matter of course, without significant related planning. Indeed, their physical remains lend support to this impression: none of them seems to have been fortified to nearly the same 84

85

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For the size, plan, and fortification of these sites see for example Hugh Kennedy, Crusader Castles (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 146–79, 190–98; Thomas Biller, ed., Der Crac des Chevaliers: die Baugeschichte einer Ordensburg der Kreuzfahrerzeit (Regensburg, 2006); Hervé Barbé, Le château de Safed et son territoire à l’époque des croisades (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2010); Cedrik N. Johns, Guide to ʿAtlīt: The Crusader Castle, Town and Surroundings (Jerusalem, 1947). For a Frankish text and recent studies on rebuilding Safed see Denys Pringle, “Reconstruction the Castle of Safad,” Palestine Exploration Quarterly (1985), 141–49; Kennedy, Crusader Castles, pp. 190–98. Al-ʿUthmānī wrote in 1372 that Frankish Safed used to threaten the Muslim areas from the Dārayyā region near Damascus as far as al-Karak: Bernard Lewis, “An Arabic Account of the Province of Safed,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 15 (1953), 477–88, at 487. See Ibn Shaddād, Aʿlāq, pp. 152–53. Ibid., p. 184. Al-Maqrīzī, who probably copied and summarized Ibn al-Furāt, who himself certainly copied from Ibn Shaddād’s Aʿlāq, claimed that the occupation of Tibnīn, Hūnīn, and Ramla took place in the month Dhī’l Qiʿda 664 (Al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, 2:36), that is, in the month following the occupation of Safed.



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extent as Safed, Crac des Chevaliers, and Beaufort, for example.88 However, taking both Hūnīn and Tibnīn meant that other parts along the frontier were secured by Baybars, although these castles were not regarded as a real threat. The taking of the three castles of ʿArqā, Ḥalbā, and al-Qulayʿāt certainly greatly weakened Tripoli, which had always been in Baybars’ mind.89 The third major invasion: Jaffa, Beaufort, and Antioch According to Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Baybars was on a hunting expedition when the news reached him of a planned Mongol assault upon Aleppo. As a result, the sultan returned to Cairo and gathered his troops.90 However, this account makes no further mention of the Mongols. In fact it seems, according to the description, that Baybars’ plans were not related to the Mongols, but rather to the Franks.91 In the middle of February 1268 Baybars left Egypt and sent a message to his representative in al-Shām telling him to prepare the army and to wait until the arrival of a messenger. Baybars’ orders were shrouded in a great deal of secrecy, which sheds light on his suspicion of his own men. Another messenger, reaching Banyas in the Jordan Valley, handed a letter to emir ʿAlam al-Dīn al-Ḥiṣnī and emir Badr al-Dīn al-Atābakī ordering them to besiege Beaufort without storming it. The emirs appeared near the fortress after some Franks had already left it to go to Acre and Sidon. (The Mamluks had also attacked the region of Sidon.)92 The secrecy of this invasion and the way in which it was arranged clearly suggest that the Mongols had no part in it. Perhaps the Mongol expedition was simply invented by Baybars as a cover for his move against the Franks. In this way, no one, including the Franks, would know Baybars’ destination.93 Baybars reached al-ʿAwjāʾ, where representatives from Jaffa arrived asking him to accept the surrender of the city and its castle, and asking that they be permitted to keep their children and their money. Although the sultan acquiesced, the army attacked the city and its castle on 6 March 1268 and the Franks surrendered the same day, being granted the terms previously agreed.94 This 88

89 90 91

92 93 94

For Hūnīn see Pringle, Secular, pp. 79–80. For Tibnīn see Mathias Piana, “Die Burg Toron (Qal’at Tibnīn) im Südlichen Libanon,” in Piana, ed., Burgen und Städte. For Tiberias see Yosef Stepansky, “Das Kreuzfahrerzeitliche Tiberias: Neue Erkenntnisse,” in Piana, ed., Burgen und Städte, pp. 396–407. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir mentions these as strong places (Rawḍ, pp. 251–52). Ibid., p. 291; Ibn al-Furāt, Ayyubids, 1:133; 2:105; al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, 2:48. Many other later sources, although some of them were copied from Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, did not mention the Mongols in relation to these events. See al-Nuwayrī, Nihāya, p. 190; al-Manṣūrī, Zubda, pp. 109–110; al-ʿAynī, ʿIqd, 6:18; al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, 2:374. Ibn Taghrī Birdī included a brief description of the invasion under the year 1267 (Nujūm, 7:127–29). Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 292. See also Khowaiter, Baibars, p. 96. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 293. Ibn Shaddād tells a slightly different story (Aʿlāq, p. 257). As mentioned above, the minute details of all events are not necessary to the present argument. According to al-Manṣūrī, the Mamluks attacked Jaffa while the Frankish representatives were still in Baybars’ camp (al-Manṣūrī, Zubda, p. 110). This explains the assault, and reveals Baybars’ tactics and the way he demonstrated his strength and control of the situation.

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means that Baybars took Jaffa while other Mamluk troops were besieging Beaufort. It should be noted that the lord of Jaffa had broken his truce with the Mamluks in a few instances, which had given Baybars the pretext to refuse to renew it in 1267 during the construction work at Safed.95 Following the occupation of Jaffa, Baybars sent emir Badr al-Dīn Bajkā al-ʿAzīzī to Beaufort and in the meantime the mangonels had been taken there from Safed. The sultan left Jaffa on 27 March after its destruction, and went to Safed to observe the new building there. Then he set off towards Beaufort, which Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir describes as being one of the finest and most fortified strongholds, and harmful to the al-Ṣubayba region, noting that the existence of the fortress had cut the passages and roads in the surrounding areas. This description sheds light on the Mamluk’s high regard for Beaufort: indeed, the biographer clearly states that after the occupation of Safed, Beaufort became Baybars’ main target.96 This assertion is supported by the fact that during the building work at Safed in 1267, some Franks arrived asking the sultan for a truce, and they agreed to share Sidon and to destroy Beaufort.97 This indicates that for Baybars, Beaufort was a great threat, and that although it was very important for the Franks, it was not their highest priority at the time. Perhaps they knew that Baybars could take it anyway, especially after the fall of Safed, and would convert it into a major military base. On that occasion, however, the Franks continued to hold the castle. A letter written by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir and partly preserved in al-ʿUmarī’s Masālik al-abṣār adds that the two fortresses of Safed and Beaufort were very injurious to the Muslims, used as bases for attacks and to threaten large areas. He added that Beaufort had been significantly weakened by the capture of Safed, which was described as its “right hand.”98 While it is impossible to know how much effort this fortress would have cost Baybars if it had been attacked before Safed, as things were its capture was far less of a challenge than that of the other stronghold; thus it was besieged by a few emirs only, with no need for wide-scale attacks on the Frankish regions. It should again be asked why Beaufort was chosen now, and whether the choice was a good one. The fact that the fortress fell very quickly, leaving the whole region east of Sidon and Tyre without any fortress, is sufficient to answer the second question in the affirmative.99 After the fall of Safed, Beaufort became the last Frankish fortress threatening the region and its important roads, as was clearly stated by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir. That is why we are told that Baybars wanted

95 96 97 98 99

Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 292–93. Ibid., pp. 294, 295–96. Ibid., p. 281. This information was mentioned by several other Mamluk historians, which we are not going to mention here. Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-ʿUmarī, Masālik al-abṣār fī mamālik al-amṣār, 30 vols. (Frankfurt, 1988–89), 13:203. For history and archaeology see Jean Yasmine, “Die Burg Beaufort (Qal’at Šaqīf ‘Arnūn) – Neue Bauaufnahme, Neue Erkenntnisse,” in Piana, ed., Burgen und Städte, pp. 274–84.



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to take it more than any other place; which furthermore supports my hypothesis that one of his principal aims was to secure the main roads connecting Egypt with Damascus and the Biqāʿ Valley, and that this mission was completed by taking Beaufort and the less important city of Jaffa.100 After taking Beaufort, Baybars moved northwards to the very edge of the Frankish regions. He attacked Bohemond VI’s Tripoli and caused great damage to its surroundings, but then left it, presumably to confuse the Franks and lead them to believe that he was withdrawing. He left for Aleppo, and suddenly attacked Antioch, held by the same Bohemond, and took it with a great massacre. This was followed by the surrender of three castles in the region without resistance, and then the isolated Templar Bagras was left to the sultan for the taking. Later Jabala was also taken, through an agreement with the Templars protecting Chastel Blanc and Tortosa, and a truce was signed with Sīs.101 These events had greatly weakened Tripoli, which received no more aid from its previous partners.102 In order to understand Baybars’ war strategy here, one should compare the two poles of the Frankish areas, the regions of Acre in the south, and Tripoli in the north. These two cities were strongly fortified and each of them served as the hub for its region – Acre was the capital and principal city of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and Tripoli was the center of its principality. However, in terms of strategic significance vis-à-vis the Mamluks, Acre and its region were more important for several reasons. Being the capital of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem made Acre psychologically and in religious terms more important than Tripoli. Moreover, the region of Acre abuts the main connection between Egypt and Damascus and controlled sections of the most important roads in the region. Tripoli on the other hand is located in the heart of Syria and did not affect the connection between the two Mamluk poles. The Shāmian cities of Aleppo, Ḥimṣ and others were not cut off from other Muslim regions by the surrounding Frankish areas belonging to Tripoli. That is why Baybars aimed firstly to consolidate his control over the southern passages and frontiers, and then to moved northwards to Antioch, in order to initiate the dramatic weakening of Tripoli. This strategy of occupation worked very well, as will be explained below. It might also be claimed that the main aim behind attacking the Frankish Kingdom of Jerusalem was to expand the Mamluk lands. However, this would have added a little to the Mamluk sultanate, and in fact the Mamluks destroyed the main cities that they occupied and made no extensive use of the newly occupied region. If the acquisition of territory was his main objective, it should be asked why Baybars did not begin elsewhere, such as at Antioch, Tripoli, Margat, Crac des Chevaliers, or suchlike. The territories around these cities and castles were more fertile than the Holy Land, and occupying and controlling 100 For

Mamluk texts regarding the occupation of both Jaffa and Beaufort see for example Ibn Shaddaād, Aʿlāq, pp. 156–58, 257; al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, 2:374–81; al-Maqrīzī, Sulūk, 2:48–49. 101 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 299–309, 324–26, 327–28, 330–31. 102 Ibid., p. 383.

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them would have been no more difficult. That is why this study claims that the main reason for starting with the Kingdom of Jerusalem was to control the most important routes between Egypt and al-Shām. Following the occupation of Antioch there was an intention to conclude a truce between Baybars and King Hugh III of Cyprus (Hugh I of Jerusalem since 1269), but Hugh did not take the oath and the truce was not ratified.103 This truce dealt with the Kingdom of Jerusalem. All events up to this point suggest that, as far as Baybars was concerned, there was no other target in the Kingdom at that time, and he could move his attention to the north, a fact that we will presently demonstrate. In 1271 a truce was finally agreed with Tyre, unlike the previous attempts that had always failed.104 In fact, many political developments occurred in the late 1260s and several truces were also confirmed with the Hospitallers and Templars in the northern principalities.105 These seem to have been part of Baybars’ plan to weaken and take major cities such as Tripoli. In 1270, Baybars planned two attacks on Margat, a major Hospitaller fortress, but both times he failed to reach it because of natural hazards, mainly heavy rain and snow.106 This fact of these attempted attacks is important for the current study, because it is clear that Baybars included Margat in his plan and tried to take it before many other fortresses in the region, such as Crac des Chevaliers and Chastel Blanc. It seems likely that Margat, situated on the shore between Latakia and Tortosa, was regarded as the main point connecting those two places, and by taking it both would be weakened. Indeed, the capture of Margat might have had a greater impact than that of Crac des Chevaliers on the Frankish presence on the coast. It should also be noted, however, that the attacks on Margat seem to have been planned during Baybars’ stay in al-Shām, and not beforehand. After failing to reach Margat, Baybars left for Crac des Chevaliers and ravaged the countryside around as a preparation for his next move.107 The fourth major invasion: Crac des Chevaliers, Giblacar, and Montfort In 1271 Baybars set out on his third major pre-planned invasion against the Franks.108 As mentioned above, the attacks in the previous year on Margat did not succeed, but the sultan damaged the agricultural areas around Crac des Chevaliers in order to weaken it. In Muḥarram 669 (19 August to 16 September 1271) he received information about the crusade of Louis IX against Tūnis. Baybars sent a message directly to Tūnis informing the ruler that he would send troops to help him. However, King Louis and other Franks died soon

103 For

details see Rabei G. Khamisy, “The Unratified Treaty between the Mamluks and the Franks of Acre in 1268,” al-Masaq 26 (2014), 147–67. 104 Holt, Early, p. 17. 105 See ibid., general introduction (pp. 11–17). 106 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 364; Ibn al-Dawādārī, Kanz, p. 143. 107 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 364–65. I will discuss this method of warfare in a future study. 108 Although this was the fourth major invasion, it was the third pre-planned one, because the first one in 1265 was planned after Baybars left Egypt.



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after their arrival, and the Franks left Tūnis on 19 September.109 When this information reached Baybars he left Egypt with his son al-Malik al-Saʿīd on 10 Jumāda al-Ākhira (23 January 1271) for al-Shām,110 so four months after the end of the crusade. Baybars’ attacks on Tripoli reached the Templars’ Chastel Blanc, which was a highly strategic point for the defence of Tripoli. It is clearly stated by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir that the Franks wanted to destroy it in order to prevent the Mamluks from using it to control Tripoli if it was taken by Baybars.111 This might explain why Baybars attacked it and why it was important to both sides. The two parties tried to conclude an agreement about its surrender, but the Franks broke the agreement. Baybars moved to Crac des Chevaliers with his son and left some troops besieging Chastel Blanc. At that time, it was agreed again that the Templars would leave the town of Chastel Blanc, and it was ceded to Baybars. The sultan began to exert control over the strongholds neighboring Crac des Chevaliers, and meanwhile many other emirs and Muslim rulers arrived and took part in the siege; after forty-five days the fortress fell to Baybars.112 Soon after that, Baybars concluded a truce with Margat and Tortosa, and proceeded to the capture of Giblacar.113 The taking of Crac des Chevaliers and weakening of Tripoli would appear to have been the main objectives of the campaign. After the fall of Giblacar, Baybars prepared his troops to attack Tripoli again, perhaps intending to invest it in earnest. It is reasonable to suggest that Baybars had planned to take the surrounding areas first, knowing that if he succeeded, he could then move against a more isolated Tripoli. Al-Yūnīnī stated that Baybars left Egypt to go to Crac des Chevaliers,114 meaning that Crac des Chevaliers, not Tripoli, was the first target of this invasion.115 As mentioned above, in order to complete his arrangements against Tripoli, Baybars had concluded a truce with Margat and Tortosa directly after the fall of Crac des Chevaliers. The Hospitallers, who suffered a heavy blow in losing Crac des Chevaliers, had an interest in keeping their last major fortress in the north, but on the other hand, Baybars knew the strength of the place. Perhaps he preferred to attack Tripoli after ensuring the city would get no aid from the Hospitallers at Margat and Templars at Tortosa and thus concluded truces with them. In any case, being already isolated, the occupation of Margat and Tortosa would not be impossible in the future and their threat was greatly reduced by the fall of most of the region.

ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 373–74. p. 374. 111 Ibid., pp. 374–75 112 Ibid., pp. 375–76 113 Ibid., pp. 378–80 114 Al-Yūnīnī, Dhayl, 2:444. 115 See suggestions by Khowaiter, who claimed that all the primary attacks on Tripoli and Chastel Blanc were to confuse the Franks and to surprise Crac des Chevaliers: Baibars, p. 109. 109 Ibn

110 Ibid.,

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On his way to Tripoli Baybars received information about the arrival of Prince Edward I of England in Acre. This obliged him to leave Tripoli for Acre, but only after concluding a truce, setting his own terms.116 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāir enumerates all the reasons why Tripoli and its leader were now very weak,117 leading Bohemond for the first time to negotiate a real truce with Baybars. Baybars’ invasion was thus largely successful, but in the end it was countered by the arrival of Edward. These new developments saved Tripoli for eighteen years, but also resulted in the Mamluks’ capture of Montfort, which was not part of Baybars’ plans at all. The historical accounts demonstrate that Montfort had never in fact been marked as a target by Baybars. Its first siege in May 1266 was part of the measures against Safed, and its capture in June 1271 was a result of Edward’s arrival at Acre.118 Baybars left Tripoli for Damascus and it then took him three to four days to reach Montfort, including a swift visit to Safed in order to fetch his mangonels. He and his troops moved very quickly from Damascus, walking almost 40 km a day in the hot month of June in order to reach Montfort. It seems safe to say that Montfort was not worth the expenditure of so much effort in taking it; almost certainly, Baybars would have left the fortress for a few more years had Edward not arrived in the region.119 Between 1269 and 1272 Baybars concluded truces with various cities in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.120 The following years were quiet for the Kingdom, and also for the other Frankish regions. In fact, between the 1271 and his death in 1277 the sultan only captured al-Quṣayr. This place had been granted a truce after the occupation of Antioch but it broke the terms, according to Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, which legitimized Baybars’ taking of it. It is rather strange, however, that it took the Mamluks seven months to seize it (12/13 April 1275 to 13/14 November 1275). Perhaps the besiegers did not assault the town, but rather waited until its stores became empty and the inhabitants surrendered it. This was in fact the reason for its final surrender.121 Discussion Four of Baybars’ attacks on the Frankish regions between the years 1261 and 1271 were major ones and resulted in large-scale destruction of the Franks’ assets. The first three offensives were particularly directed at the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and the fourth at the region of Tripoli. That does not mean that 116 For

details see Rabei G. Khamisy, “Montfort Castle (Qalʿat al-Qurayn) in Mamluk Sources,” in Adrian J. Boas and Rabei G. Khamisy, eds., Montfort: History, Early Research and Recent Studies (Leiden, 2017), pp. 28–40. 117 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, p. 383. 118 Khamisy, “Montfort Castle,” p. 37. 119 For details see ibid.; Khowaiter claimed that Montfort was part of Baybars’ plan, but he also claimed that the arrival of Edward saved Tripoli, which this time Baybars probably aimed to take (Khowaiter, Baibars, pp. 111, 112) 120 Holt, Early, pp. 17, 42–47, 71–72; Khamisy, “The Unratified,” pp. 151–54, 156 fig. 2. 121 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Rawḍ, pp. 443–44.



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during the first offensives no attacks were carried out in the north. As mentioned above, Antioch was captured in 1268, but it was the final place captured during the third invasion, after finishing with the Kingdom of Jerusalem, which means that the end of the third invasion can be regarded as the beginning of the fourth, or at least, as the beginning of the real measures in the north. The other attacks on the north during the second invasion were merely part of the plan to take Safed. It is worth noting that the only attack which was not pre-planned before reaching the Holy Land, against Caesarea and Arsūf, was the first invasion, which was planned during Baybars’ stay in the region. The sequence of the invasions and conquests shows that Baybars followed a very clear plan. During the first three invasions he ensured complete control over the hilly regions of the Kingdom and its southernmost strongholds. This allowed him to move the frontier further north and west towards Acre, expanding his control over fertile regions along the eastern Mediterranean and more importantly giving him control over the most important routes between Egypt and al-Shām, taking it from south to north. With this achievement under his belt, Baybars turned his attention to Tripoli, one of the strongest and most important cities in the north. Presumably the sultan knew that in order to take the place he must prepare the ground very well, which he did perfectly during his last two invasions. In general, these arrangements shed light on the strategic importance, in Baybars’ view, of the places occupied. For instance, taking a macro-view, Acre and its region seem to have been more important and threatening than the northern cities in Baybars’ opinion, and Tripoli seems to have been at the top of his list when it came to the northern cities. In terms of a micro-view, interpretation becomes more difficult. It cannot be concluded that one place was stronger or more important than another place by reference to its location in the sequence of occupations, or to how many days it took the sultan to capture it. For example, it is difficult to know which fortress was stronger, Safed, or Crac des Chevaliers, or perhaps Beaufort. The effort expended in capturing them is not clearly indicative: the earlier the occupation, the greater the effort required, because the remaining strongholds were still in the possession of the Franks, and every time a fortress was taken, the next occupation would become easier, at least in terms of effort and money. A good example is the comparison between the occupation of Safed and that of Crac des Chevaliers. The former required an enormous commitment and attacks throughout the Frankish territories, while the latter obviously did not. In the end each took over forty days to capture, but with a great difference as regards the effort expended. Again, this does not necessarily mean that Safed was stronger; it is certain, however, that some fortresses were seen as being stronger than others and this is clear from the historical accounts that tell of their strength, and also from their preserved physical remains. In some cases the importance of a fortress is obvious. Montfort, for instance, was not highly regarded by Baybars, and Jaffa was less significant in his view than Caesarea and Arsūf. A further point is that a fortress being left uncaptured does not necessarily imply that it was stronger than others. For example, although ʿAthlīth is regarded as among the Franks’ most heavily fortified strongholds, it cannot be claimed

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that it was more so than Safed. More significant, however, is that, as mentioned by Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, ʿAthlīth did not interest Baybars at the time, probably because it did not fit in with his plan. While taking Caesarea and Arsūf would secure the routes inland, taking Safed would guarantee the connection with Damascus, and Beaufort was the last in this series, ʿAthlīth was not related to this strategy. Four years after the securing of these roads and the establishment of control over large fertile areas along the coast, ʿAthlīth was included in the truce of 1272; it posed no threat obliging its occupation. If the main reason for Baybars’ invasions was anything other than securing the roads, one may ask why the area of Antioch was not taken first. Taking Antioch would have given the Mamluks a great advantage in the north, in a location very close to the Byzantine Empire, the Mongols, and the Franks. It therefore seems likely that Baybars had alternative motives for taking the strongholds in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, more important than controlling additional lands and areas on frontiers: that is, to secure the main roads. Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir tells us that by the 1283 treaty, which was a reconfirmation of that of 1272,122 that the Hospitaller lands in the area of Caesarea belonged to the Franks, although Caesarea and all its region were the sultan’s.123 The most logical explanation for this is that while the whole area of Caesarea fell in 1265, the Mamluks later, as affirmed in 1272 and 1283, let the Franks cultivate these lands. Thus the control of fertile territory would seem not to have been the main reason for the occupations. To sum up, Baybars, dealing with the Franks and others on several fronts, needed to secure the main routes connecting Egypt with al-Shām, and also at least one front; and it was much easier to do so in the reduced Frankish areas.124 In order to bring matters to a successful conclusion, the sultan needed to weaken the Franks, hitting their important centers and cutting off and separating their territories. It is clear from Baybars’ series of occupations that topography played a crucial role in determining the significance of the various Frankish fortifications: the most important were those which threatened the frontier and controlled the roads between Egypt and al-Shām. Following a very sophisticated plan, Baybars succeeded in his mission, proving himself to be a great strategist, who understood to perfection his enemy, its strength and determination. It can plausibly be claimed that Baybars’ occupations were indeed the greatest blow suffered by the Franks. The grounds had been laid for the seizure of the remainder of the Frankish possessions, awaiting the decision of the sultan to come.

122 Khamisy,

“The Unratified”; idem, “The Treaty of 1283 between Sultan Qalāwūn and the Frankish Authorities of Acre: A New Topographical Discussion,” Israel Exploration Journal 64 (2014), 72–102. 123 Ibn ʿAbd al-Ẓāhir, Tashrīf al-ayyām waʾl-ʿuṣūr fī sīrat al-malik al-manṣūr, ed. Murād al-Kāmil (Cairo, 1961), pp. 37, 40. 124 Khowaiter claims that all Baybars’ military and political actions were carried out in order to reach a point at which he could face the Mongols without any other obstacles (Khowaiter, Baibars, p. 118).



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Map 1: The Latin East

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Map 2: The Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem with the main route between Egypt and al-Sham.

4 Food, Famine, and Edward II’s Military Failures Ilana Krug

Historians have often denounced King Edward II of England (r. 1307–26) for his social, political, and martial failures. His reign was punctuated by military disasters, prompting many historians to call Edward’s generalship unlucky at best and completely incompetent at worst. For example, Seymour Phillips, in comparing Edward II to his bellicose father, concluded that Edward had “little capacity as a military commander.”1 Similarly, Natalie Fryde called Edward’s leadership amidst obviously disadvantageous circumstances “the height of futility” that “makes one wonder what precisely Edward hoped to achieve.”2 The emphasis has generally been on Edward’s weaknesses as a strategist and tactician. But this approach tends to downplay factors that were at least as important in explaining Edward’s defeats and ultimate martial humiliation: flaws in his military organization and preparation, particularly his logistical planning and his handling of supply problems. In these Edward demonstrated a greatly uneven aptitude, with episodes of significant incompetence punctuated by illustrations of more skillful handling. This can be explained partly by the increased difficulty and pressures of the problem of logistics and supply, although a decline in the ability of the English crown to manage it also was responsible. Edward’s irregular logistical proficiency thus weakened his overall military capabilities, and contributed to both his subsequent reputation for general ineptitude and the military failures that characterized his reign. At first glance, Edward’s logistical preparations do not seem much different from those of his father, nor do his policies portend woeful martial disaster. Employing the same system of purveyance or prise – the forced sale of commodities at prices set by the royal government – to obtain goods necessary for feeding his armies, Edward tapped into the surplus agricultural production of not only England, but also his dominions of Ireland and Gascony; during the Great Famine of 1315–17, his supply ventures necessarily extended further afield. At times (and at great cost) Edward relied on the Italian merchants Antonio Pessagno and Manentius Francisci to finance and oversee the purchase of victuals. Pessagno, who had been instrumental in the supply operations for the Bannockburn campaign of 1314, for which he provided at least half of all 1 2

Seymour Phillips, Edward II (New Haven, 2010), p. 238. Natalie Fryde, The Tyranny and Fall of Edward II, 1321–1326 (Cambridge, 1979), p. 124.

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victuals, was reliable, had resources and connections, and clearly delivered.3 In December 1316, for instance, Pessagno was contracted to purvey 17,000 quarters (approximately 4,350 tons) of wheat and other items in England, Ireland, and the Mediterranean, and deliver them to the northern depots of Berwick, Newcastle, and Skinburness.4 He had quickly acquired over 4,105 quarters of wheat as well as large quantities of wine, as noted in the wardrobe book for 1316–17.5 Pessagno was paid monthly wages and received lump sums of money to cover the cost of the purveyed goods. The majority of the time, however, the king relied on the county sheriffs and royal purveyors to collect and convey foodstuffs to the depots where the receivers would assume control of the goods. Edward made provision for numerous expeditions, nearly all of which evaporated or ended in failure, but the preparations allow us to see that he did, in fact, appear to understand and often execute competently this aspect of supply management. For instance, in preparation for the doomed 1314 campaign, Phillips notes, “supplies of grain and other foodstuffs were stockpiled at Carlisle and Berwick on a scale that exceeded anything achieved during the reign of Edward I.”6 This certainly accords with the arrangements Edward II had secured for that campaign with Pessagno. The early years of Edward’s reign perhaps foreshadowed the struggles he would face later with respect to provisioning and campaigning. In response to escalating pressures from Robert Bruce in Scotland, Edward ordered purveyances in June 1308 for an intended campaign; commissioners of array were dispatched in July.7 However, the operation dissolved prematurely despite the collection of victuals. This process was repeated the following year, with additional goods accumulated ostensibly for decisive military action in Scotland. Yet no expedition followed. Only in 1310 did Edward launch a campaign in Scotland with a force of 4–5,000 men; arrangements had been made for yet more provisioning. The invasion was fruitless, foiled by Robert Bruce’s strategy of avoidance; the sole military engagement was an attack on an English foraging company.8 Edward’s great efforts and financial outlay again had accomplished nothing. In July 1311, Edward reluctantly returned to London, creating an opportunity for raiding and destruction that Robert Bruce 3

4 5 6 7 8

For example, Pessagno supplied 4,722.5 quarters of wheat for the campaign. London, British Library [hereafter BL], Cotton Nero C VIII, fol. 155r; Natalie Fryde, “Antonio Pessagno of Genova, King’s Merchant of Edward II of England,” in Studi in memoria di Federigo Melis, 5 vols. (Naples, 1978), 2:170. Calendar of the Patent Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office [hereafter CPR] 1313–1317 (London, 1898), p. 603. London, Society of Antiquaries [hereafter SAL], MS 120, fol. 40v. Phillips, Edward II, p. 226. CPR 1307–1313 (London, 1894), pp. 81–82. David Simpkin, “The English Army and the Scottish Campaign of 1310–11,” in Andy King and Michael Penman, eds., England and Scotland in the Fourteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2007), pp. 14–39; Colm McNamee, The Wars of the Bruces (East Linton, 1997), p. 50; Wendy Childs, ed. and trans., Vita Edwardi Secundi (Oxford, 2005), pp. 23–25.



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exploited tirelessly for the next several years.9 Meanwhile, Edward faced an irate populace furious with the heavy-handed and wasteful manner of victualling operations of the previous three years.10 Historians generally point to the 1314 battle of Bannockburn as the prime example of Edward’s military ineptitude as a commander. Leading a much larger and better-armed army against a smaller Scottish force, Edward had every reason to be confident of a victory. However, a combination of variables, including a cramped location woefully unsuitable for English battle tactics, colluded to end the battle in a rout of the English forces and the slaughter of much of the aristocratic cavalry. What was left of the army scattered, ending the day in a decisive Scottish victory. Therefore, historians often find this battle to be an indication that Edward was “a proven incompetent”11 as a general. Poor leadership, faulty tactics and a miscalculation of the Scots’ willingness to fight aside, Edward’s mistakes lay not only in the battle itself but also in his preparations. As indicated abundantly in both chronicle and exchequer sources, securing sufficient quantities of supplies was not the problem at Bannockburn.12 However, according to the Vita Edwardi Secundi, excessive speed on the march north took a toll on the army’s strength, and the anonymous author blamed the decision for the pace on Edward’s rash confidence: “Short were the halts for sleep, shorter still were those for food; hence horses, horsemen, and infantry were worn out with toil and hunger, and if they did not bear themselves well it was not their fault.”13 If we are to believe the anonymous author, the complaint about hunger could point to a distribution problem due to insufficient time allotted for eating. After the battle, when English soldiers retreated from the carnage into the Scottish countryside, there were no provisions for their sustenance as the Scots had captured most of the baggage. For the remainder of the decade, Edward was in an increasingly defensive position, dealing with military concerns on at least three fronts. English resources were strained, the realm’s resolve weakened, and Edward’s ability to 9

10

11

12 13

It was during this time that Edward was occupied with the political crisis surrounding the Ordinances and Piers Gaveston. See Phillips, Edward II, pp. 171–91; Michael Prestwich, “The Ordinances of 1311 and the Politics of the Early Fourteenth Century,” in John Taylor and Wendy Childs, eds., Politics and Crisis in Fourteenth-Century England (Gloucester, 1990), pp. 1–18. Anger over the perceived misuse and maladministration of purveyance flared in response to the preparations for these aborted campaigns, which ultimately manifested in the Ordinances of 1311. The preamble and clause 10 of the Ordinances specify that an uprising was feared because of “prises and divers oppressions made in these times.” Statutes of the Realm, 11 vols. (London, 1810–28), 1:57, 59. Michael Prestwich continues: “the disaster of the Bannockburn campaign was followed by the dismal failure of the siege of Berwick in 1319, and the futile expedition to Scotland of 1322, both undertaken under the king’s direction.” Michael Prestwich, Armies and Warfare in the Middle Ages (New Haven, 1996), p. 161. Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, p. 87; BL Cotton Nero C VIII, fols. 153–78. Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, p. 89. This assertion is also made by the chronicler John of Trokelowe: Henry Thomas Riley, ed., Johannis de Trokelowe et Henrici de Blaneforde Chronica et Annales A.D. 1259–1296, 1307–1324, 1392–1406, Rolls Series (1866, repr. Cambridge, 2012), p. 87.

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use his finances effectively sorely tried. The near-simultaneous need to counter a Scottish invasion force under Edward Bruce in Ireland, suppress a revolt in Wales, defend the north against bold Scottish attacks, and munition northern castles such as Berwick, Newcastle, and Carlisle tested both the logistics of the realm’s war machine and the means for paying for the necessary supplies. Such military demands would have taxed the capabilities of any monarch striving to preserve the stability and security of his realm, for good generalship and organization were essential. Edward II proved unable to meet the demands. It may be argued that his lack of supply management acumen, for example, was directly responsible for the fall to the Scots in 1318 of Berwick, an indispensable stronghold and storage depot in the north. Despite repeated and increasingly desperate entreaties for supplies, Edward only ordered a purveyance to resupply the garrison a month after the town was betrayed to the Scots, demonstrating that his assessment of the gravity of the situation was badly flawed. Although he commanded customs collectors at King’s Lynn (then Bishop’s Lynn) and his receiver of victuals at Newcastle to acquire and ship wheat, meat, and other necessities for the sustenance of the Berwick garrison, it is unlikely that enough would have reached the castle in time to prevent a surrender; purveyances typically took longer than a few weeks to organize and implement, and the castle capitulated less than two months after Edward’s orders.14 A poorly-planned retaliatory campaign the following year highlighted Edward’s leadership and organizational shortcomings further, as the attempt to reclaim Berwick failed despite large amounts of victuals successfully collected. The middle of Edward’s reign coincided with the deeply unfortunate occurrence of the Great Famine and murrains that significantly hampered his military plans in progress. Although Edward could not have foreseen the natural disasters that caused such distress to the entire populace and hamstrung his ability to mount a successful, ongoing military venture in the years following Bannockburn, his own logistical incompetence further exacerbated the difficulties. Therefore, it is essential to examine the details of the environmental calamities in order to grasp fully the nature of Edward’s military provisioning and supply management. The poor weather responsible for the Great Famine began with unceasing rains in the late summer of 1314, damaging the harvest, and continued through the following year. The harvest of 1315 was ruined, and further deteriorating weather over the winter of 1315 and into the fall of 1316 produced even more devastating crop failures, the effects of which were felt well into 1317.15 The author of the Vita Edwardi Secundi lamented the ruin of grain stored in barns, 14

15

Calendar of Close Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office [hereafter CCR] 1313–1318, p. 540; Joseph Bain, ed., Calendar of Documents Related to Scotland [hereafter CDS], 5 vols. (Edinburgh, 1881–88), 3:113. Ian Kershaw, “The Great Famine and Agrarian Crisis in England 1315–1322,” Past and Present 59 (1973), 3–50, at 6–8, 13; William Jordan, The Great Famine (Princeton, 1996), pp. 17–18; Christopher Dyer, Standards of Living in the Later Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1989), pp. 262–63.



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the rotting of almost all seed due to flooding, and the inability to gather hay.16 Various data from ecclesiastical manors have suggested a drop in yields of wheat, the staple crop, of as much as 50%, and the decline on peasant holdings may have been even greater.17 Despite an improved harvest in 1317 and an even better one in 1318 that seemed to alleviate much of the general suffering for a short while, a rainy autumn damaged the 1320 harvest, and a very poor harvest in 1321 again had disastrous effects through 1322.18 Accompanying the crop failures, moreover, were various sheep murrains and other animal epidemics, especially in 1317, 1319, and 1320, which exacerbated the distress.19 Bolton Priory’s herd of cattle declined from 225 head to a mere 31, and its flocks of sheep from 3,000 to 913.20 A brutally cold winter from 1317–18 took an additional toll on livestock and added to the misery.21 The anguish experienced by the English populace was captured by the anonymous poem “The Simonie”, in which the two waves of dearth, animal epidemics, and the harsh winter were described: When God saw that the earth was overproud, He sent a terrible famine. […] A man’s heart might bleed to hear the cry Of poor men complaining, “Alas! I die from hunger!” […] After that scarcity came abundance, And plenty of goods growing on every bough. A good year came again, when grain was cheap. […] Then another sorrow spread all over the land. A thousand winters before were never so severe. The cattle all died straightaway and made the land bare. […] When that cattle epidemic had ceased, God sent another dearth of grain That spread all over England, both north and south.22

In the midst of agrarian catastrophe, Edward II ordered large and widespread purveyances in order to support ongoing military operations, which were largely defensive in nature and therefore considered necessary. Almost immediately after the English defeat at Bannockburn in 1314, the Scots began raiding northern England.23 Often free from English military resistance, Scots infiltrated the northern counties as far as Yorkshire, plundering, burning, ravaging, and instilling fear in the hearts of the English.24 Certain magnates, such as the earls 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, p. 111. Jordan, The Great Famine, p. 32. Kershaw, “The Great Famine,” pp. 13–15; Dyer, Standards of Living, pp. 262–63. Kershaw, “The Great Famine,” p. 14. Jordan, The Great Famine, p. 38. Ibid., p. 37. “The Simonie” in James Dean, ed., Medieval English Political Writings, TEAMS Middle English Text Series (Kalamazoo, 1996; repr. 2002), pp. 207–08. Translations are mine. See McNamee, The Wars of the Bruces, pp. 72–115. Herbert Maxwell, ed. and trans., The Chronicle of Lanercost (Glasgow, 1913), pp. 210–12.

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of Lancaster and Arundel, operated as captains to defend the northern marches from Scottish incursions, but their endeavors were not universally successful.25 In these counties the economic misery caused by raiding and tribute paid to the Scots for peace compounded by famine conditions was felt most acutely. The marcher counties, more thinly cultivated than others, relying more heavily on animal husbandry, were buffeted on two sides by poor harvests and the frequent burning of whatever had managed to grow and be harvested. Furthermore, the loss of animals to disease or theft was especially devastating. The large expanses of mountainous terrain and scrub pasture of the northern counties had long been recognized as more advantageous for animal husbandry and mixed farming than intensive cultivation. The raising of sheep for wool provided a large proportion of total revenue, especially in Durham.26 Animals, as plough beasts, were also vital to the successful cultivation of the arable. The threat of animal theft was therefore considered an extremely serious issue, and several petitions granted by the king for livestock to be led away from areas particularly prone to Scottish raids for feeding elsewhere still exist. For example, a grant of 1307 preserved in the Patent Rolls allows English peasants living in Galloway to take their animals to Englewood Forest for refuge out of fear of Robert Bruce.27 Naturally, the murrains and epidemics coming on the tail of the famine reduced flocks and herds, in some cases by at least three-quarters,28 making the remaining animals even more valuable, and their loss at the hands of the Scots even more unbearable. The ongoing Scottish raiding, as well as the threat of sieges of strategic towns such as Berwick and Carlisle, meant Edward needed to launch effective defensive campaigns. Purveyance for feeding garrisons continued in just these affected regions and drained much of the produce away from the countryside to place it in the hands of the town garrisons. In September 1316, after a particularly successful Scottish incursion all the way into Yorkshire, the king ordered a large purveyance in that county for 600 quarters of wheat, 480 quarters of barley, and 1,810 quarters of oats.29 This was not enough for the ongoing protection of the north, especially as the famine continued through most of 1317. After the failure of the 1319 campaign to recover Berwick from the Scots, a two-year truce was agreed upon, bringing, for the moment, raiding and other conflicts along the border to an end.30 In the meantime, Edward Bruce, the brother of the Scottish king Robert, had sailed to Ireland where he landed in 1315. Thus, the Scots essentially launched a two-pronged attack: a well-orchestrated collaborative operation that refocused attention on the Irish Sea arena and strained English resources further. Indeed, 25 26 27 28 29 30

McNamee, The Wars of the Bruces, pp. 147–49. Victoria History of Cumberland, ed. William Page, 2 vols. (London, 1905), 2:497; Victoria History of Durham, ed. William Page, 5 vols. (London, 1907), 2:194–95. CDS, 3:3. Kershaw, “The Great Famine,” p. 22. CPR 1313–1317, pp. 543–44. The Vita expressly indicates that Edward’s motivation for the truce was his concern over Scottish incursions into his northern counties, and the harm done to his people: Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, pp. 175–77.



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Colm McNamee stated that the Bruce intervention in Ireland was in large part responsible for “accelerating the long-term decline of the Anglo-Irish colony.”31 Normally the English kings relied on grain and other foodstuffs from Ireland for their military needs along the Scottish border, but the Scottish presence in Ireland meant that no victuals were purveyed there from 1315 to 1318.32 Given the severity of famine conditions in Ireland,33 it is unsurprising that any food raised locally had to be used to support anti-Bruce defensive endeavors. For example, because of news of Edward Bruce’s landing in Ireland, Edward II ordered all provisions collected in Dublin to be sent to Carrickfergus, Northburgh, and Dundalk instead of their originally intended destination of Skinburness in northern England.34 Edward Bruce also engaged in the strategy of ravaging the land, deliberately destroying supplies. This had serious ramifications for Edward II’s military machine, such as the need to acquire supplies for Carlisle elsewhere. Delays and other hardships plaguing the supplying of Carlisle in the months before the siege of 1315 concerned the king greatly.35 However, this was not the only impact of the Scottish presence in Ireland. The proximity of Edward Bruce’s army initiated fears that coastal castles in Wales would also be targeted, so Edward II ordered his Welsh castles to be provisioned.36 Moreover, Edward Bruce threatened or attacked Irish castles and towns that operated as English supply depots, such as Dundalk and Drogheda.37 He and his Irish allies strengthened their position in Ulster, bolstered by their capture of Carrickfergus castle in 1316 as well as by the arrival in Ireland of Robert Bruce himself. By 1318 the Scottish gains came to an end. Robert had returned to Scotland the previous year, and Edward, along with other Scottish leaders, was killed at the battle of Fochart. Scottish control of Ulster collapsed, and by 1322 Edward II was again able to rely on large quantities of grain purveyed in Ireland for his military ventures.38 However, it was Scottish failure, rather than English strategic success, that had ended the military threat in Ireland. In 1316, a revolt broke out in Glamorgan in Wales under the leadership of Llywelyn Bren. Although rebellion in the north had been averted, largely because Edward II had granted concessions and dealt sufficiently with grievances, discontent brewed in the south. There had already been a revolt in Glamorgan after Bannockburn in response to heavy-handed royal administration of the lordship. When Gilbert de Clare, the earl of Gloucester and lord of Glamorgan, died at Bannockburn, leaving only his three heiress sisters, control of 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38

McNamee, Wars of the Bruces, p. 168. Ibid., p. 190. Ibid., p. 168. CDS, 3:92 no. 479. CCR 1313–1318, p. 295. Ibid., pp. 186, 267. Sir Thomas Gray states that Edward Bruce “captured supplies and other materials and much land.” Andy King ed. and trans., Scalacronica, Publications of the Surtees Society vol. 209 (Woodbridge, 2005), p. 77. McNamee, Wars of the Bruces, pp. 185–86.

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the lordship fell to the king, who appointed a string of administrators whom the inhabitants found distasteful. While Bartholomew de Badlesmere, appointed in 1314, was able to soothe the tensions, unhappiness flared again in 1316. Badlesmere had been replaced in 1315 with Payn Turberville, who had royal orders to help reassess the fiscal issues of the county, and overhauled his staff.39 This order may reflect the king’s growing concern for his finances and thus a desire to ensure that sources of royal revenue were tapped completely. According to the Vita, the changing of appointed officials greatly angered Llywelyn Bren, who had held office under Gilbert de Clare and did not appreciate the reduction in his authority.40 In late January, Bren attacked Caerphilly castle unsuccessfully, but “violently attacked the lands under Payn’s protection: he killed, burned and plundered.”41 Edward took swift action, concerned that Bren’s insurrection would spread throughout Wales. In early February 1316, the king issued commissions of array to raise soldiers and ordered purveyances in Gloucestershire, Somerset, and Dorset to support his military intervention.42 The earl of Hereford headed the expedition, and was assisted by William Montague, Hugh Audley, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, and others. They surrounded the Welsh, who had retreated to the hills. Seeing no means of escape, Bren surrendered and was imprisoned.43 The campaign had taken little more than a month. Although the revolt was quickly suppressed, it represented “a considerable diversion of resources and of money at a time when these were in short supply.”44 The shortage of primarily grain between 1315 and 1317 and again in 1321 and 1322, coinciding with Edward’s ongoing attempts to neutralize the Scottish threat in the north, as well as concerns about maintaining sovereignty in both Ireland and Wales, created enormous logistical and financial difficulties for the crown. Firstly, the sheer quantities of food necessary for successful military operations often were not easily acquired. The series of poor or failed harvests drastically cut the available supply of food. Edward’s struggles to amass the necessary goods forced him to be creative and utilize all available resources. In December 1315, Edward sought permission for merchants from Newcastle to purchase grain and other victuals on the continent for munitioning the town. Sheriffs in fourteen English counties were also entreated to assist the Newcastle merchants in their endeavors.45 The following December, Edward commissioned Pessagno to collect massive amounts of victuals from as far away as the Mediterranean for supplying the northern depots.46 This commission may have been in response to the difficulties the appointed purveyors in Yorkshire had

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

CPR 1313–1317, p. 362. Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, p. 115. Ibid., p. 117. Ibid.; CPR 1313–1317, p. 433. Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, pp. 117–19. Phillips, Edward II, p. 273. CCR 1313–1318, pp. 318–19. CPR 1313–1317, p. 603.



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faced that autumn in collecting sufficient quantities of grain in response to the Scottish threat.47 In February 1317, the king expressly forbade the exportation of foodstuffs from England due to the dire need for all victuals made dear by “the bad weather of the last two years.”48 That this was a most difficult time for the procurement of supplies can be seen in Robin Frame’s succinct assessment: “it is hard to see how any commander in his right mind would have freely chosen to campaign in the early months of 1316 or 1317.”49 Nonetheless, in both 1316 and 1317 Edward ordered preparations for expeditions to Scotland, which ultimately never occurred.50 With the improved harvests of 1317 and 1318, Edward had little trouble securing massive quantities of victuals for his 1319 Berwick campaign, and the wardrobe book for that year attests to the ease with which thousands of quarters of grain could be collected from twentysix counties.51 The Anonimalle chronicle affirms the plentiful supplies available at Berwick that were “essential for them to make war.”52 However, grain was again imported when harvests deteriorated in the early 1320s. In midsummer 1320, the receiver of victuals at Newcastle was in possession of 166 quarters of Spanish wheat.53 With another harvest failure in 1321, it is amazing that Edward was able to raise sufficient amounts of grain for the 1322 campaign to Scotland.54 This was partly accomplished by importing vast quantities from Gascony to supplement supplies acquired in England and Ireland.55 The second and, again rather obvious, problem facing Edward in this period was the heightened cost for provisions so desperately needed. While the grain supplies shrank and other foodstuffs were substituted, the consistent demand for all victuals caused their prices to rise sharply. Chroniclers, when not indulging in sensational details about people reduced to cannibalism,56 bluntly attested to the rise in prices for all food: grain, meat, dairy, and salt.57 In the January 1315 Parliament, prices were established for certain commodities, reflecting the growing concern for rising costs of food, which the author of the Vita blamed on “merchants […] selling victuals [who] charged excessive prices.”58 Sheriffs were ordered to enforce the prices in their counties and failure to 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

Ibid., pp. 543–44. CCR 1313–1318, p. 455. Robin Frame, “The Bruces in Ireland, 1315–18,” Irish Historical Studies 19 (1974), 3–37, at 11 n. 35. Also quoted in McNamee, Wars of the Bruces, p. 179. CCR 1313–1318, pp. 355, 360, 364; Rotuli Scotiae in Turri Londinensi et in domo capitular Westmonasteriensi asservati [hereafter Rot. Scot.], vol. 1 (London, 1814), pp. 170–76. BL, Add. MS 17362, fol. 14; Kew, The National Archives [hereafter TNA], E101/378/4, E 101/15/18. Wendy Childs and John Taylor, eds., Anonimalle Chronicle 1307–1334 (Cambridge, 1991), p. 97. CCR 1318–1323, p. 249. An account of Thomas of Ercedeken testifies to the victuals sent to Newcastle for that campaign from Cornwall: TNA, E 101/16/1. CPR 1321–1324 (London, 1904), pp. 93–94. See, for example, King, ed., Scalacronica, p. 85; Riley, ed., Johannis de Trokelowe, p. 95. Kershaw, “The Great Famine,” pp. 9–10. Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, p. 103.

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obey carried heavy penalties.59 The Anonimalle chronicler, with the benefit of hindsight, but not impartiality, stated, “king Edward […] foolishly decreed assises and certain prices of provisions which could in no way be enforced and upheld [… It] did much harm; for within a short time afterwards people could hardly find any such things.”60 The price controls were a failure owing to the ensuing food shortages and were revoked the following January, when “it was agreed that […victuals] were to be sold for a reasonable price, as used to be done previously.”61 The cost of necessary supplies for military endeavors, therefore, was a pressing concern. Antonio Pessagno was reliable not only for amassing great quantities of victuals when needed, but also for providing them more cheaply than they could be acquired by royal officials through purveyance. The Exchequer had recognized this after the Bannockburn campaign,62 and Pessagno’s ability to tap into the more affordable Mediterranean supplies during the famine continued to make him a valuable financier to the crown. The wardrobe book for 1316–17 indicates that Pessagno was able to acquire vast amounts of wheat for 12s a quarter, rather than the 15s previously agreed upon with the king.63 This was at a time when wheat prices in England were as high as 26s a quarter, though some chroniclers claimed prices had even reached 40s a quarter that year and the author of “The Simonie” claimed wheat was at least 32s.64 However, additional wheat was purchased in England for the 1316 campaign at varying rates, including 16s per quarter in Norfolk and Suffolk, 22s a quarter in Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire, and 24s per quarter in Gloucestershire.65 The following year, when prices had begun to fall due to a greatly improved harvest, the receiver at Carlisle reported that wheat had been obtained for 16s a quarter, and elsewhere for as low as 8s a quarter.66 Although prices for victuals continued to fall over the next two years owing to tolerable harvests,67 a return of poor agricultural conditions forced prices back 59

60 61 62 63 64

65 66 67

Phillips notes that the ordinance was to control inflationary prices of specifically animals and animal products, rather than addressing grain or food shortages: Edward II, pp. 244, 243, n. 36; Parliament Rolls of Medieval England [hereafter PROME], ed. Seymour Phillips, 16 vols., (Woodbridge, 2005), 3:67–68, nos. 35–37. Childs and Taylor, eds., Anonimalle Chronicle, pp. 89–91. PROME, 3:204, no. 2. Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 171. CPR 1313–1317, p. 603; SAL, MS 120, fol. 40v. Kershaw, “The Great Famine,” p. 8; Childs and Taylor, eds., Anonimalle Chronicle, p. 91; Childs, ed., Vita Edwardi, p. 121; Maxwell, ed., Chronicle of Lanercost, p. 217; Dean, ed., “The Simonie,” p. 207; Friedrich Brie, ed., The Brut or The Chronicles of England (London. 1906), pp. 209–10. SAL, MS 120, fols. 38r, 38v, 42v. SAL, MS 121, fol. 25r. The author of the Vita Edwardi Secundi stated that wheat was available in 1317 for 2s a quarter, having cost 26s 8d the previous year. However, this seems low compared to recorded prices. Thorold Rogers’s data support Gregory Clark’s averages for these years of a mean cost of wheat between 3s 10d and 5s 8d per quarter. Northern counties, still suffering from Scottish depredations, showed slightly elevated costs compared with other counties. Childs,



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up beginning in 1321. The 1322–23 wardrobe book indicates that a quarter of wheat was selling for between 11s and 12s, the realm’s average price for that year.68 Thereafter, prices declined for the rest of Edward’s reign, reaching the low rates that had been the norm in the first decade of the century. Financing military operations was a perennial problem for both Edward II and the English populace, but not simply because the king had inherited staggering debts from his father.69 Edward relied heavily on loans from the Church and Italian bankers as well as taxes in order to pay for most of his campaigns, although when supplies of cash were meager, Edward tended to employ purveyance on a grand scale. Before the Great Famine, he seemingly had little trouble amassing the necessary supplies, even if paying for them was more challenging and hostility to the practice of purveyance becoming increasingly vocal.70 As in other matters, Edward was noticeably deficient in the management of his finances, lurching from campaign to campaign only when he had secured adequate funding.71 The majority of the time, large-scale military activity was beyond the crown’s means, as Edward’s ignoble defeats repeatedly squandered any money and supplies that had been raised. Despite the relatively low cost for the plentiful victuals collected for the Bannockburn expedition in 1314, for example, the failed campaign exhausted the crown’s financial resources. When the cost of supplies skyrocketed during the famine years, the financial strain on the crown’s limited resources often prevented decisive military action altogether. The combination of high prices, food scarcity, and meager cash supplies significantly hampered Edward’s ongoing military plans. Maintaining sufficient stores in his vital northern castles became impossible. Pleas for provisions at Berwick in 1315 and 1316 are piteous, begging the king for relief and help lest “the town be lost by famine” and be compelled to surrender.72 The Keeper at Berwick, Maurice de Berkeley, warned Edward in repeated letters that the need for supplies was dire.73 The dearth felt at Berwick was not assuaged, and continued to plague both the garrison and town’s inhabitants.74 The desperation reached unbearable levels by spring 1318, when the city was betrayed to the Scots. The Lanercost Chronicle bluntly states that Berwick capitulated to the

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71 72 73 74

ed., Vita Edwardi, pp. 155–57; James E. Thorold Rogers, A History of Agriculture and Prices in England, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1866), 2:75–79; Gregory Clark, “The Price History of English Agriculture, 1209–1914,” Research in Economic History 22 (2004), 41–123, at 63. BL, Stowe MS 553, fols. 42r, 43v; Clark, “The Price History,” p. 63. See Wendy Childs, “Finance and Trade under Edward II,” in Taylor and Childs, eds., Politics and Crisis, pp. 19–37. Complaints were especially pronounced after large purveyances were carried out in 1308 and 1309 for Scottish campaigns that never materialized. Criticism of purveyance was thus central to both the 1309 Statute of Stamford and the Ordinances of 1311. CPR 1307–1313, pp. 81–82; J. R. Maddicott, Thomas of Lancaster 1307–1322 (Oxford, 1970), pp. 106–09; Prestwich, “The Ordinances,” p. 4. Phillips, Edward II, p. 419. CDS, 3:89–90, 93, nos. 470, 486. Maddicott, p. 162; CDS, 3:89–90, 91, nos. 470, 477. McNamee, Wars of the Bruces, pp. 216–18.

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Scots “through want of victual,” an opinion with which Sir Thomas Gray, author of the Scalacronica, concurs.75 Although Berwick castle held out for nearly three more months, Edward’s order of a purveyance in early May to resupply the garrison was inadequate and the castle fell to the Scots in June.76 It was not until the windfall Edward enjoyed with the thorough defeat of the Contrariants in the 1322 battle of Boroughbridge that royal finances were robust enough to undertake military action without heavy borrowing, despite the second wave of poor harvests in that year.77 By the time Edward emerged victorious at Boroughbridge, with his principal adversary (his cousin Thomas of Lancaster) executed, and the fortunes of the rebellious nobles secured firmly within Edward’s coffers, the king felt confident about launching a successful campaign into Scotland. However, despite his solvency, as Natalie Fryde asserted nearly forty years ago, the expedition “was one of the worst failures of the reign.”78 Certainly from an operational perspective this rings true, and Phillips minced no words in stating that “the campaign was ill conceived from the beginning.”79 The enormous army Edward raised, though significantly smaller than he had hoped, was the largest force he had yet mustered during his reign, and thus created considerable challenges for its proper victualling. In this regard, the campaign of 1322 was perhaps the best illustration of Edward’s incapacity for both military command and supply-line management. In his examination of the naval aspect of military supply under Edward II and his son, Craig Lambert isolates part of the problem as the English king’s inability to coordinate the supplying of a “highly mobile” force, which Lambert stresses also hampered the early campaigns under Edward III.80 The problems afflicting Edward II’s 1322 expedition demonstrated, in Lambert’s view, “a fault with the distribution of goods once stockpiled at Newcastle, Berwick or Skinburness, rather than a failure in their collection.”81 Thus, it would seem Edward bequeathed a lasting legacy of managerial failure of proper supply distribution. This is a point worth investigating here. Edward’s 1322 campaign was one of the largest of his reign not only in terms of men, but also in terms of the quantities of food secured for their sustenance. He was ambitious; he ordered the collection of 6,200 quarters of wheat from various English counties, 6,000 quarters from Ireland, and another 2,000 quarters from Gascony.82 In the event these massive quantities were not entirely 75 76 77

78 79 80 81 82

Maxwell, ed., Chronicle of Lanercost, p. 220; King, ed., Scalacronica, p. 79. Phillips, Edward II, p. 329; CCR 1313–1318, p. 540. Childs stresses the continued importance of customs duties to Edward’s annual income, demonstrating that it accounted for almost a third of his English income, whereas the moneys from the confiscation of Contrariant lands brought in approximately £12,600, effectively doubling his landed income: Childs, “Finance and Trade,” p. 27. Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 122. Phillips, Edward II, p. 427. Craig Lambert, Shipping the Medieval Military (Woodbridge, 2011), p. 68. Ibid., p. 92. CPR 1321–1324, pp. 93–94.



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raised, and understandably there was resistance in the counties to the purveyances.83 It was a costly affair, with wardrobe expenditures for supplies totaling over £15,467.84 Because of Edward’s earlier failure to retake Berwick after its capitulation to the Scots in 1318, the only western supply depots were Newcastle and Skinburness, which were to be supplied by ships also employed to provision the army as it marched north. The army, having mustered at Newcastle, began advancing into Scotland, only to discover that Robert Bruce had removed all food and fodder ahead of Edward’s forces. In his poem “The Bruce,” the Scot John Barbour stated that all cattle in Lothian were secured within strongholds and guarded.85 The army reached Leith, where it waited three days for the arrival of the supply ships. When the ships failed to appear, the English attempted to forage, and allegedly, all they found was a single cow. According to the poem, John de Warrenne, the earl of Surrey, claimed the cow to be “the dearest beef I ever saw, for surely it costs a thousand pounds and more.”86 Clearly the army was in a desperate situation, not helped by unsuccessful foraging. Sir Thomas Gray stated in the Scalacronica that the army was forced to leave because of sickness and famine caused by a lack of supplies, as well as the danger of foraging in enemy territory. Furthermore, “there was such a loss of life in the army for lack of provisions before its arrival at Newcastle that it was obliged to disperse from necessity.”87 The Anonimalle Chronicle states matter-of-factly “the king achieved nothing there but returned to England, and his men had suffered serious loss for lack of provisions.”88 But what of the supply ships that Edward II had arranged? Barbour indicated that adverse winds and bad weather were responsible for delaying the fleet, an explanation also mentioned in the wardrobe book for that year.89 Edward II himself blamed his misfortunes on Flemish pirates in league with the Scots who caused additional havoc by preventing the supplyladen ships from rendezvousing with Edward’s army at Leith when needed.90 Fryde concluded that, “it must have been fear of the Flemish fleet which stopped English ships approaching the king rather than actual losses.”91 Certainly, poor luck contributed to the unmitigated disaster that was the 1322 expedition, but the king’s failure to anticipate in his planning possible provisioning hardships in enemy territory, especially given his prior suspicions about Flemish intervention, might help explain why Prestwich repeatedly characterized Edward as “a man of notable military incompetence.”92 If, as the Anonimalle chronicler 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

BL, Stowe MS 553, fols. 39v–55r; Phillips, Edward II, p. 414. BL, Stowe MS 533, fol. 54v; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 126. John Barbour, The Bruce; or the book of the most excellent and noble prince Robert de Broyss, King of Scots, ed. Walter W. Skeat, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1894 [repr. New York, 1966]), 2:124. Ibid., pp. 125–26. King, ed., Scalacronica, p. 89. Childs and Taylor, eds., Anonimalle Chronicle, p. 111. Barbour, The Bruce, p. 125; BL, Stowe MS 553, fol. 67v. Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, p. 246. Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 130. Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, p. 165.

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says, Edward and his army “had travelled into the land a good sixty leagues,”93 surely the victualling demands of his force necessitated alternative plans in case of disaster? John Trokelowe described the campaign disapprovingly, and even admonished the king, reminding him of the teachings of Vegetius regarding the need for proper provisioning arrangements.94 In the event, Edward’s failure to benefit from this immense campaign simply “added to his reputation for military incompetence.”95 In this, perhaps Lambert’s point about Edward’s inability to deliver appropriate supplies to armies on the move is well advised. Edward only slightly improved his supply management the following years. After the failed expedition, he chose to bide his time in the north, and called for a fresh campaign early in 1323. Although in February he ordered the sheriffs of sixteen counties to purvey massive quantities of foodstuffs, such as 11,500 quarters of wheat, he mandated them to stop their activities immediately after a truce was confirmed with the Scots in late May, and restore the victuals already collected.96 Deliberate expeditions with their anticipated pitched battles were only one side of Edward’s comprehensive military plan. Driven by the goal of conquering Scotland, Edward’s strategy was influenced by the needs of occupation, which necessitated a huge supply enterprise, keeping the important supply depots of Berwick and Carlisle constantly well munitioned and victualled. This certainly had been done in the days of Edward I, when vast quantities of provisions were maintained. Yet it is possible that Edward failed to keep up his stores, even though he expended much effort on the supplying of his expeditionary forces. Colm McNamee, in looking at the wheat and barley stores noted in receivers’ accounts, argued that there was a distinct decline in quantities present at Berwick and Carlisle from the reign of Edward I to that of his son.97 This failure may be attributed in part to the difficulty of acquiring steady supplies of victuals during the Great Famine of the second decade of the fourteenth century, as well as the mounting fiscal pressures of staggeringly expensive commodities. Once the debilitating effects of famine and disease eased with the return of good weather and bountiful harvests, Edward again demonstrated his serious miscalculations about the management of military supplies, failing to capitalize on the improved conditions that could have stemmed the tide of military loss. A decline in quantities of stockpiled goods is evidently still reflected at Newcastle, another storage depot for Scottish expeditions, during the king’s 93 94 95 96 97

Childs and Taylor, eds., Anonimalle Chronicle, p. 111. Riley, ed., Johannis de Trokelowe, pp. 124–25. Phillips, Edward II, p. 427. CPR 1321–1324, pp. 242–3; CCR 1318–1323, p. 719. He also reiterates the problem of sufficiently victualling Carlisle, which relied heavily on Ireland for supplies, when Edward Bruce successfully destroyed goods and disrupted the trade upon which Edward II depended, the degree of which the latter might not have realized: McNamee, Wars of the Bruces, p. 190; James Lydon, “Ireland’s Participation in the Military Activities of English Kings in the Thirteenth and Early-Fourteenth Century” (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of London, 1955), pp. 305–6; CDS, 3:92, no. 479.



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1322 campaign.98 Furthermore, although goods were collected in massive enough quantities and shipped to the depots at Skinburness and Newcastle in preparation for that expedition, with the ensuing lack of coordination between the army in the field and the supply ships goods eventually brought to Newcastle were neglected and rotted.99 This would seem to support Lambert’s argument about Edward’s managerial incompetence, but also McNamee’s contention of his failure to pursue a consistent policy for adequately and consistently supplying an occupying force in the north. Had Edward been a better strategist, he would have repurposed the grain at Newcastle rendered superfluous by his failed 1322 campaign, rather than squandering it. McNamee suggests that the relative prioritization of preparation for expeditions over the maintenance of regular stores is responsible for Edward’s eventual inability to conquer Scotland permanently, as there was no consistent provisioning for an occupying army.100 Erratic provisioning of the castle stores similarly reflected this single-minded focus on expeditions rather than on a steady and viable military presence. This is also visible with regard to the stores at Carlisle, which were much smaller than those maintained by Edward I.101 Clearly, any poor decision regarding this aspect of supply management only added to the difficulties Edward faced in his military endeavors. There is no doubt that Edward II had the poor luck of being king during a period of disastrous environmental calamities. He struggled to continue an increasingly demanding defensive military agenda at a time when supplies were low, costs were high, and misery was boundless. The Great Famine certainly exacerbated the unfortunate military realities that characterized his reign. However, aside from the difficulties Edward II encountered in the years of famine, victuals were plentiful enough that he should not have faced military troubles due to supply. Indeed, the famine only served to highlight the woeful limitations of Edward II’s martial leadership. As in other respects, while occasionally showing aptitude in navigating difficult circumstances, Edward often proved inept at the management of his resources, demonstrating an inconsistent competence which contributed not only to his many failed expeditions, but also to his inability to secure Scotland firmly under his control.

Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, p. 253. Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 126. 100 McNamee, Wars of the Bruces, pp. 125–27. 101 Ibid., p. 127. 98 99

5 The Impacts of Warfare on Woodland Exploitation in Late Medieval Normandy (1364–1380): Royal Forests as Military Assets during the Hundred Years’ War Danny Lake-Giguère

Recent scholarship has demonstrated that warfare had a profound impact on medieval landscapes, which it transformed and altered considerably. As it stands, environmental history provides a new way to understand warfare, as “in the long perspective of global environmental history, warfare and the preparation for war stand out as a central dimension of how societies, states, and economics have been organized.”1 Whether it was intentional, as demonstrated by Philip Slavin’s study on the use of fire and scorched earth tactics during the Anglo-Scottish Wars,2 or collateral, as shown by The Ecology of Crusading, Aleksander Pluskowski’s research program which studies the influence of the Baltic Crusades on the region’s ecosystem,3 medieval warfare significantly and lastingly affected the natural world as well as human populations. Consequently, it greatly impacted how medieval powers administered their natural resources; this in turn served to emphasize the growing importance of natural resources in military affairs and ultimately contributed to the development of sustainable forestry. Late medieval Normandy provides an excellent field of study, as it was at the forefront of the Hundred Years’ War, a conflict that exemplifies how warfare shaped both landscape and environment.4 If the English chevauchées and the war against the king of Navarre and his routiers brought great devastation to the Norman countryside, they also accentuated the strain on the duchy’s forests at a time of growing military needs, therefore stressing the need for better regu-

1 2 3

4

Richard P. Tucker, “War and the Environment,” in J. R. McNeill and Erin Stewart Mauldin, eds., A Companion to Global Environment History (Hoboken, 2012), pp. 319–39, at 332. Philip Slavin, “Warfare and Ecological Destruction in Early Fourteenth-Century British Isles,” Environmental History 19 (2014), 528–50. As Philippe Bernardi and Didier Boisseuil stated, the fact that the idea of “natural resources” is anachronistic for the Middle Ages should not prevent historians from studying their usage and management in order to better understand the material conditions of medieval society as well as its appropriation of nature. See Philippe Bernardi and Didier Boisseuil, “Des ‘prouffitz champestres’ à la gestion des ressources naturelles,” Médiévales 53 (2007), 5–10, at 8. Tucker, “War and the Environment,” p. 325.

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lations.5 As this paper will demonstrate, the royal forests of Normandy were of vital importance to the king of France. Not only were they an essential part of the province’s economy; they were also a major military asset for the kingdom in time of war. Such a notion might seem anachronistic for the Middle Ages; but a “military asset” simply represents, according to its core definition, “something useful in an effort to foil or defeat an enemy.”6 While one could argue that, for the medieval era, the definition better suits fortifications or available military strength, Nicholas Morton has shown that the notion can also be applied to resources of the time such as crops, mines, flocks7 or, as this paper will argue, forests. Normandy’s shipyards, and more precisely Rouen’s Clos des galées, as well as its royal castles and fortresses all required an important timber intake for their daily operation and maintenance. The sustainable forest regulations inaugurated by Philip VI and Charles V, who both saw woodlands as important military assets, were thus, at least in part, a corollary of the strategy of the Valois monarchy during the Hundred Years’ War. Normandy and Charles V’s Fleet The kingdom of France did not have any coherent maritime policy until the late thirteenth century. Having ousted John Lackland from its continental demesnes in 1204, Philip Augustus eventually turned his attention towards naval warfare, and ultimately England.8 On two occasions, in 1213 and 1216, he planned to invade the country in order to install his heir Louis as king. Such bold schemes necessitated the creation of a royal fleet, even if this did not retain the king’s attention and efforts for long. In 1213, John Lackland even attacked the French fleet at Damme, prompting the king of France to sabotage his ships, and remark, according to William the Breton, that “the French do not know well the ways of the sea.”9 It thus seems that the reign of Philip Augustus, otherwise regarded as a turning point for medieval France, did not have a significant impact on the kingdom’s later naval policies.10 Philip the Fair was the first to understand the importance of a royal navy in the defense of the kingdom, and it is for this purpose that he commissioned the construction of Rouen’s Clos des Galées, the kingdom’s foremost shipyard.11 5 6 7 8

9 10 11

Michel Devèze, La vie de la forêt française au XVIe siècle (Paris, 1961), p. 67; François Neveux, La Normandie pendant la guerre de Cent Ans (Rennes, 2008), p. 419. Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed., s.v. Nicholas Morton, The Medieval Military Orders: 1120–1314 (New York, 2014), p. 42. Michel Mollat du Jourdin, “Philippe Auguste et la mer,” in Robert-Henri Bautier, ed., La France de Philippe Auguste. Le temps des mutations. Actes du colloque international organisé par le C.N.R.S. (Paris, 29 septembre – 4 octobre 1980) (Paris, 1982), pp. 605–23, at 609–11. William the Breton, Philippide IX, v. 560, in Henri-François Delaborde, ed., Œuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, 2 vols. (Paris, 1882–85), 2:271. Mollat du Jourdin, “Philippe Auguste et la mer,” p. 622. Thomas Heebøll-Holm, Ports, Piracy, and Maritime Warfare. Piracy in the English Channel and the Atlantic, c. 1280–c. 1330 (Leiden, 2013), p. 71.



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While several other Norman ports, such as Harfleur and Honfleur, can claim an important role in the construction and maintenance of the king’s fleet,12 the Rouen shipyard is certainly the best documented and, as such, provides ample evidence of military exploitation of the nearby royal forests. An anonymous document attests to its shipbuilding activities in the first years of its construction, stating that several noblemen, including Henri le Marquis, a knight in the king’s service, came to Rouen in 1295 with carpenters to work on the ships that were then being built.13 Even if there are no indications of the origins of the materials used on these earlier projects, it seems reasonable to assume that they was locally sourced. Little more can be said about Philip the Fair’s reign in this regard, as the accounts of the Clos des Galées from the period do not contain any clear references to forest exploitation. A similar conclusion applies to the subsequent reigns, as Philip’s sons did not seem to be especially interested in naval affairs. Philip VI, whose ascension to the throne marked the beginning of the Hundred Years’ War as well as a renewed interest in woodland administration, was far more interested in his fleet than his predecessor had been, although the defeat of the French navy at L’Écluse in 1340 was devastating enough to curtail for more than two decades the maritime projects of the Valois monarchy.14 Nevertheless, the annihilation of the royal fleet at L’Écluse had as an effect the promulgation of the Ordinance of Brunoy in 1346, which was, according to Michel Devèze, the most significant forest regulation of the fourteenth century, and is still considered to be one of the earliest articulations of sustainable forestry.15 The reign of Charles V, who “revived the fortunes of the Clos des Galées and the French navy, along with those of France in general,”16 was a major turning point in the war. The shipyard was particularly active during this period, as the new king planned to take back the English Channel from Edward III, something that necessitated a considerable timber intake from the nearby forests surrounding the city. However, the royal forests of the time were in a deplorable state. The third article of the ordinance of 1376 confirms that “obstant les guerres, lesdictes Forez ont esté petitement visitées, & par defaut de bonne visitation, elles ont esté forées & grandement endommagées.”17 It does not seem that the military operations in Normandy, such as the English chevauchées or the war against the Grandes Compagnies and the partisans of Charles II of 12 13 14 15 16 17

Nathalie Hélin-Pallu de la Barrière, “Honfleur et son arrière-pays, chronique d’un espace militaire (1367–1530)” (unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Université Paris-Diderot, 2012), p. 55. Anne Merlin-Chazelas, ed., Documents relatifs au Clos des galées de Rouen et aux armées de mer du roi de France de 1293 à 1418 [hereafter Documents relatifs], 2 vols. (Paris, 1977), 1:no. 2. Susan Rose, England’s Medieval Navy, 1066–1509. Ships, Men and Warfare (Barnsley, 2013), p. 165. Eusèbe de Laurière et al., eds., Ordonnances des roys de France de la troisième race [hereafter Ordonnances], 21 vols. (Paris, 1723–1849), 2:246. Rose, England’s Medieval Navy, p. 166. “because of the wars, the said forests were not sufficiently visited, and because of this they were over-exploited and greatly damaged.” See Ordonnances, 6:227.

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Navarre, were directly responsible of these devastations. Rather, the ordinances of 1376, 1388, and 1402 all stressed the damage caused by the neglect of the local foresters or, as the sixth article of the Melun ordinance puts it, “par le fait & couple des Verdiers, Gruiers, Gardes ou Maistres Sergans.”18 Normandy was truly affected by the war, having often been the first target of the English chevauchées.19 During the late fourteenth century, it was furthermore still quite heavily forested; the 1376 ordinance clearly indicated that Normandy was “covered with forests, brush and scrub more than any other part of our said kingdom.”20 While Alain Roquelet claims that the Norman royal forests were ravaged during the war,21 it seems more likely that, as Léopold Delisle and later Édouard Decq pointed out, they were merely abandoned and left untended by the local foresters.22 In Normandy, as in several other parts of the kingdom,23 agricultural lands suffered most from the invasions, which in turn collaterally benefited forest growth. A popular saying, reported by John Fortescue, said that the forests had come to France with the English.24 Another chronicler, the Norman Thomas Basin, who was bishop of Lisieux and counselor to Charles VII, wrote that the kingdom had been devastated by the continuous wars and lack of administration: I have seen that the vast plains of Champagne, Beauce, Brie and Gâtinais, those of the countries of Chartres and of Dreux, of Maine, Perche and of the French and English Vexin, of Beauvaisis, of the country of Caux from the Seine to Amiens and Abbeville, of the country of Senlis, of the Soissonnais and Valois up to Laon and Hainault, were absolutely deserted, uncultivated, depopulated, covered in scrubs and brushes, or even, in those regions where only a few trees grow, covered in forests.25

Other administrative sources, such as the aveu of the fiefs of Pierre des Essarts from 1399 also confirm this:

18 19 20 21 22

23

24 25

Ordonnances, 6:227. Neveux, La Normandie, p. 65. “pueplée des forez, buissons & broches, plus avant que en aucunes parties de nostre dit Royaume, tant de nostre Demaine, comme à tiers et dongiers.” Ordonnances, 6:226. Alain Roquelet, ed., La vie de la forêt normande à la fin du Moyen Âge. Le Coutumier d’Hector de Chartres, 2 vols. (Rouen, 1984–95), 1:xix. Léopold Delisle, Études sur la condition de la classe agricole et l’état de l’agriculture en Normandie au Moyen Âge (Rouen, 1851), pp. 288, 642–43; Édouard Decq, “L’administration des eaux et forêts dans le domaine royal en France aux XIVe et XVe siècles” (pt. 1), Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 83 (1922), 65–110 and 331–61, at 340. For example, in the bishopric of Saintes, the Hospitallers’ vineyards lost 85% of the value they had before the English raids. For agriculture, the figure is between 75% and 90%. See: Robert Favreau, “L’enquête pontificale de 1373 sur l’ordre de l’Hôpital dans le grand prieuré d’Aquitaine,” Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 164 (2006), 447–538, at 466. Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, The French Peasantry, 1450–1660, trans. Alan Sheridan (Berkeley, 1987), p. 43. Thomas Basin, Histoire de Charles VII, ed. and trans. (into French) by Charles Samaran, 2 vols. (Paris, 1933), 2:87.



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The tenements and vavassories became the properties of the lord of the said fief because of mortality and war, and the said lands turned back to forest and were ruined and transformed into a wild desert of ferns, shrubs and other woods.26

This situation coincides with the series of sharp demographic declines in fourteenth- and early fifteenth-century Normandy caused by the war and by the plague,27 which could have attenuated the pressure on the royal forests. Nevertheless, neglect by the foresters and numerous abuses and misuses on the part of forest-users in Normandy were certainly problematic enough to warrant several inquiries throughout the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries. The damage caused was unlike that resulting from enemy raids, such as the devastation of the Ulster lands in August 1315 by Edward the Bruce and the Earl of Ulster, which affected agricultural lands and also villages, churches, and woodlands.28 Rather, it was collateral, being the product of an irrational exploitation that prevented the woodlands from regenerating adequately, thus affecting the forests’ health as well as royal revenues and, of course, military supply. Indeed, it is likely that the tightened control exerted by the royal administration on the Norman forests in the late fourteenth century was at least in part due to increased military needs. The 1376 ordinance is quite clear about the royal shipyards’ timber supply. It states that in the past, the wood used for the king’s castles, ships, and other buildings was taken and hewn without restrictions, thus greatly damaging the forest. The shipyards’ woodcutters henceforth were to proceed under the supervision of the Masters of Waters and Forests or other royal officials who had to determine where they could cut and how much wood they could take for exploitation to be least damaging.29 This ordinance was a general ruling whose application was not particular to Normandy, but rather to the entire demesne, and in itself does not give many details regarding supply of the royal arsenals. However, another forest regulation, from September of the same year, clearly details the supplying of wood to the Clos des Galées. The forest of Roumare, a 26

27

28 29

“Les tenemens et les vavassories sont venues et demourées en la main dudit seigneur du dit fieu pour les mortalitez et fortunes des guerres, et sont les dites terres tournées en boscaiges, en ruyne et en desert sauvaige de feugière, de genest et d’autres bois.” See Delisle, Études, p. 645. Charles de Beaurepaire also noted several similar situations. The fief of Sourthoville, in the viscounty of Valognes, had seen most of its sixty acres of agricultural lands ruined and return to woodlands. By 1404, the manor of Launoy, in Auvilliers, had been destroyed and replaced by half an acre of woodland, and by 1402, ten acres of fields in Tourneville were covered in bushes and shrubs. See: Charles de Beaurepaire, Notes et documents concernant l’état des campagnes de la Haute Normandie dans les derniers temps du Moyen Âge, 2nd repr. (Saint-Pierre de Salerne, 1981), pp. 294–96, no. 1. Georges Bottin, “La population: les grands rythmes démographiques,” in La Normandie au XVe siècle, Art et Histoire: actes du colloque organisé par les Archives Départementales de la Manche, 2–5 décembre 1998, Saint-Lô, (Saint-Lô, 1999), pp. 25–9, at 25; Neveux, La Normandie, pp. 142–45. Slavin, “Ecology, Warfare and Famine,” p. 92. Ordonnances, 6:233–34.

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few kilometers west of Rouen, was the shipyard’s main source of timber, with the forest of Rouvray being briefly mentioned as well.30 The ordinance states that the workers of the Clos des Galées could exploit in the forest of Roumare an area “de dix à XII. arpens, ou plus ou moins, entretenans qui souffise, elle sera prinse pour faire livrée ensamble, à prendre ce que il faudra; car ce vauldra mieulx que à le prendre en divers lieux par partie,”31 which again shows that there was an effort to rationalize forest exploitation during the fourteenth century. The text also gives some indication of the state of the forest at that time: it was “moult forée,” or overexploited, because of “grant oultrage & defaut de bon gouvernement,” especially in the locality known as Queue de Mangneville; thus the master of the Clos des Galées, his workers, and his lumberjacks had to obtain the authorization of the verderer before doing any cutting.32 Consequently, the text of the ordinance puts a great emphasis on sustainable exploitation, ordering that The master of the shipyard, the lumberjack, and workers will not take nor cut down trees that are not needed for our said works. They will not take more wood than necessary, and they will make their cuts where the forest will be able to regenerate itself. They shall also spare our forests as much as they can, and will do their work where it is the least damaging for us and for our forests and nowhere else. Before they make any cuts, they shall visit the forest at the place where they want to take timber, and will chose where it is more appropriate and last damaging.33

In addition to these limitations, which prevented the shipbuilders from taking more timber than was needed, they also had to spare the “bois en estant,” or standing trees.34 Cutting had to be carried out under the supervision of the verderer, and the number of trees that were felled had to be reported to the local viscount.35 The ordinance even gives recommendations on the method by which the trees should be hewn: “Que il feront bien & souffisaument copper & nettoyer ce que il copperont, en tele maniere & et si bas, que il puissent bien revenir.”36 These measures, following those found in the general ordinance of 30 31 32 33

34 35 36

Ibid., 6:220. “of ten to twelve acres, sufficiently furnished, where the trees needed will be taken together; for it is better to do it that way than to take them in several different parts of the forest”; ibid., 6:219. Ibid., 6:220. “Le Maistre du Clos, les Bocherons ne Ouvriers quelconques, ne prendront, ne feront abatre arbres quelconques qui ne soit neccessaire à nos dictes Euvres. Item, que il n’en abatront ne feront abatre, fors tant que il verront qu’il leur faudra, & non plus. Item, que il prendront ceulz de qui il pouront veoir & appercevoir qui pouront souffrir plus de Euvres, & où l’en en porra plus de recouvrer. Item, que il espargneront nos Forez le plus que il porront, & prendront le moins dommageux à Nous & à la Forest, & non autres. Item, que avant que il facent riens abatre, il visiteront diligaument la Forest où il vauldront prendre bois & places & arbres d’icelle, par quoy il puissant appercevoir & choisir le moins dommageux, & les lieux là où il sera le plus propre à prendre.”: ibid., 6:220. Ibid., 6:220. Ibid., 6:221. “They shall make their cuts in such a way that the tree will regenerate itself.”: ibid., 6:221.



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Melun, reveal quite clearly the development of the idea of sustainable management during the late Middle Ages. Such regulations were more than necessary to ensure the healthy exploitation of the forest, which also provided nearby communities with various resources and privileges such as pasture and firewood. Even if it is the military potential of the forest of Roumare that is clearly highlighted in the ordinance, the fact that the unused timber was to be sold by the Masters of Waters and Forests37 also underlines its economic role, as woodlands provided Charles V with substantial revenues.38 As the surviving archives concerning the Clos des Galées clearly prove, the royal ordinances were not theoretical. Most of these documents are quittances describing the various works carried out in Rouen or in nearby ports and forests and the salaries and payments relative thereto. Not only do they give indications on the origins of the materials used by the king’s shipbuilders, but they also describe the methods by which they were brought to the shipyard. In late 1369, as several receipts show, the king had commissioned the construction of three barges in Rouen.39 Woodcutters were first sent into the forest of Roumare. A quittance for 6 livres tournois given December 16 1369 to Jehan Ribaut, viscount of Montivilliers, by the lumberjacks Martin Chevalier and Thomas Le Vavasseur both shows this process and gives some measure of the amount of timber requested by the Clos des Galées, as they had cut down and hewn in four lines 60 pieces of beech measuring between 16 and 17 feet to make braces and props to seat the ships recently returned in the halls of the Clos des galées in Rouen, and also for having cut down in the forest of Roumare 500 small beech to make props to prop up and support the said galleys in the said halls.40

After the trees were felled, they were brought to Dieppedale or other small ports downstream on the Seine, such as Croisset, Bliquetuit, or Caudebecquet,41 which served as transit points from the region’s royal forests to Rouen’s shipyard. In early January 1370, Robert Lenoir, carter, was paid 36 sous tournois because he had brought nine cartloads from Roumare to Dieppedale.42 A few months later, in April, another carter, Philippe Chouquet was paid 48 sous tournois for

37 38

39 40

41 42

Ibid., 6:221. According to the surviving Waters and Forests account of 1372–73, the forest of Roumare yielded 469 livres, 5 sous and 9 deniers tournois from wood sales, 70 livres tournois from the maîtrise, 52 livres and 6 sous tournois from fines, and 40 livres from panage: see Michel Prévost, Étude sur la forêt de Roumare (1904, repr. Princeton, 2010), pp. 167–68; Maurice Rey, Le domaine du roi et les finances extraordinaires sous Charles VI, 1388–1413 (Paris, 1965), p. 152. Documents relatifs, 1: nos. 716, 723, and 731. “abatu, esquarri et dollé en 4 lignes, 60 pieces de hestre de 16 a 17 piés de lonc pour fere traverses et poreaux a aseer certaines galees de nouvel retournees de la mer es haslles du clos des galees les Rouen, comme pour avoir couppé en la forest de Roumare 500 hestreaux a faire escores a escorer et ponteler lesdictes galees es dictes halles.”: ibid., 1: no. 843. Ibid., 1: no. 843. Ibid., 1: p. 740.

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having brought from the forest of Roumare to the port of Dieppedale 12 cartloads of wood during the week of April 22nd for the works on the three ships that are being built in the Clos des galées for the king.43

Finally, the timber was transported by bargemen or “voituriers par eaue” from these ports to Rouen. For these three barges, a quittance of 4 livres, 16 sous tournois was given to the viscount of Montivilliers by Jehan Le Fauqueur, bargeman, for the transport of Martin Chevalier and Thomas Le Vavasseur’s timber, that is to say, Two times on his ship that was brought from the port of Dieppedale to the Clos des galées of our said lord the King near Rouen by the Seine river, 60 hewn pieces of beech measuring between 16 and 17 feet and 500 young beech needed to make braces, props, wedges, and other necessary things.44

Two other quittances concerning the works Jehan Le Fauqueur as a bargeman on the Seine river imply that the Clos des Galées received regular wood deliveries from the forest of Roumare.45 Towards the end of the reign of Charles V, the Clos des galées was particularly active. The king had tasked it with the construction of four large flat-bottomed boats called bargots, four smaller bargots, seven great barges and ten flambarts.46 Several wood deliveries can be identified in regard to this order. In late May 1379, the bargeman Guillaume Robache was paid 73 sous and 4 deniers tournois for the transport from Croisset and Dieppedale of fifty-three cartloads of timber.47 Next October, the same Guillaume was paid another 11 livres, 4 sous and 6 deniers tournois by Richard de Brumaire, the shipyard’s master, because he had delivered another considerable amount of wood for the construction of the seven great barges.48 It also seems possible that repair activities at the Clos des Galées were more important than shipbuilding,49 something that would have necessitated a regular and important wood freight from the nearby forests. Approximately 79% of the timber, that is forty-two cartloads, brought in by Guillaume Robache 43

44

45 46 47 48 49

“avoir admené de la forest de Roumare au port de Dieppedale 12 caretees de boys en la sepmaine commenchant lundi 22e jour d’avril darrain passée pour l’ouvrage de trois barges que l’en fait au clos des galees pour le roy.”: ibid., 1: no. 759. “deubs voies de son batel […], que ilz ont fait a amener du port de Dieppedale par la riviere de Sainne jusques au clos des galees de nostredit seigneur pres Rouen, 60 pieces de hestres doles de 16 a 17 piés de lonc, de 500 hestraux a faire travesses, poreaux, escores et autres choses necessaires.”: ibid., 1: no. 835. Ibid., 1: nos. 848, 865. Ibid., 1: nos. 1075, 1079, 1087, 1096, 1103. Ibid., 1: no. 1078. Ibid., 1: no. 1112. Éric Rieth, “The Galley Shipyard in Rouen. Mediterranean Shipbuilders in Normandy (XIIIth– XVth centuries),” in Patrice Pomey, ed., Transferts technologiques en architecture navale méditérranéenne de l’Antiquité aux temps modernes: identité technique et identité culturelle. Actes de la Table Ronde d’Istanbul, 19–22 mai 2007 (Istanbul, 2010), pp. 155–60, at 157.



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in May 1379 were used “pour la reparacion des galeez qui ez mois de fevrier, mars et avril derrainz passez ont esté rappareilliées oudit cloz.”50 Indeed, the shipyard’s archives bear witness to the importance of the fleet’s maintenance. For example, a receipt from December 24 1369 shows that Colin Helies, shipmaster of the Fortin Sanches, was given 4 livres tournois to buy materials, such as wood, axes, nails and hammers, to repair his ship.51 Such repairs were also common during the reign of Charles VI, during which the Clos des Galées remained very active. Although the expeditions of the two last decades of the fourteenth century were not successful at all, Marc Russon considers the years 1386–87 as the “high point” of the French naval strategy.52 In the first few years of the reign, we mainly find traces of repairs and not so much of actual constructions. In October of 1383, Robin Le Courtois, a lumberjack, was paid 7 livres tournois for having hewn twenty-five planks of beech in the forest of Rouvray for repairs to a barge named the Saint-Jehan.53 It is also interesting to note that during Charles VI’s reign, the shipyard’s quittances show that wood was also taken in other royal forests, such as Rouvray, Le Trait, Brotonne, La Londe, and Touques.54 Otherwise, the quittances describe the same types of works as in the preceding reign and put great emphasis on the preparations for the 1386 expedition against England that was to assemble at Sluys – a campaign that ultimately failed to materialize.55 Norman timber was to be central to the expedition. In early February 1385, some time before the expedition, Hervieu de Neauville, a clerk in the service of the duke of Burgundy, paid 90 livres tournois to the shipmaster Gilles Gellesonne for the transport of timber from the forests of Roumare, Le Trait, and Brotonne to L’Écluse.56 Normandy was also central in the construction of an immense (and immensely expensive) mobile wooden fortress, with walls twenty-two feet high,57 750 towers, and a perimeter of over 9,000 paces, that was to be shipped to England in seventy-two ships. This was supposed to give the French lords and knights a secure refuge wherever they went in enemy territory, since it could be disassembled, moved by cart, and reassembled.58 According to the Chronicle of the Monk of Saint-Denis, the king 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

“for the repairs of the ships that were brought back to the shipyard last February, March, and April.” See Documents relatifs, 1: no. 1078. Ibid., 1: no. 734. Marc Russon, Les Côtes guerrières. Mer, guerre et pouvoirs au Moyen Âge: France – façade océanique, XIIIe–XVe siècles (Rennes, 2004), pp. 48–49, 363. Documents relatifs, 1: no. 1187. Ibid., 1: nos. 1210, 1378, 1487, 1562, 1581. Jacques Paviot, La politique navale des ducs de Bourgogne, 1384–1482 (Lille, 1995), pp. 44–46. Documents relatifs, 1: no. 1210. This refers to French feet (longer than English). Michel Pintoin, Chronique du religieux de Saint-Denys, contenant le règne de Charles VI, de 1380 à 1422, ed. Louis-François Bellaguet, vol. 1 (Paris, 1839), 7.3, p. 430: “ligneam villam, que anglicano littore levaretur, ut ubi possent secure consistere agmina bellatorum”; Léon Puiseux, Étude sur une grande ville de bois construite en Normandie pour une expédition en Angleterre (Caen, 1864), pp. 10–11, 14–15.

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ordered that “the finest trees of Normandy” be cut down to provide the timber for this project. If in his Chronicles Froissart indicated that it was mainly built in Brittany on order of the Constable of France Olivier de Clisson, the Monk’s remark as well as evidence in the archives of the Clos des Galées indicate that the massive siege engine had been, at least in part, made of Norman timber.59 Several quittances from July 1385 validate this assumption.60 A royal charter from December of 1386 also mentions a carpenter, Rogier Boutevillain, who formerly worked in the forest of Touques “pour aler charpentier le merrien des villes et engins que len devoit mener et conduire audit lieu d’Angleterre.”61 Owing to significant inaccuracies and missing documents, it is almost impossible to quantify the ships that were built in Rouen during those years.62 The Clos des Galées in Rouen was not the only Norman port that participated in the construction of the royal fleet. A mandement from October 1370 shows that warships were also being built in Dieppe and Montivilliers63 and, as others have pointed out, Harfleur and Honfleur were important military installations during the Hundred Years’ War.64 Nevertheless, the case of the Clos des Galées provides ample and clear evidence regarding the military exploitation of the royal forests in Normandy. From a military perspective, these measures were ultimately successful. At the head of a small Norman fleet, admiral Jean de Vienne was able to raid the English coasts in the last few years of Charles V’s reign. A report on the king’s fleet from 1380 confirms that Norman galleys were by then not only operational but were also put to good use: The said 19 galleys and galiotes and another galley that our said lord the king had armed in Harfleur crossed the sea, reached the English coast, and burned down Winchelsea, burned down and pillaged other cities on the river of Rye, took ships and other things, etc. During the 24th day of August, the said ships and other ships from Harfleur again crossed the sea, reached the English coast and the Thames River and took ships and other things.65

59 60 61 62 63 64 65

Puiseux, Étude, pp. 14–19. Documents relatifs, 1: nos. 1205, 1285, 1302, 1305. “to work on the timber needed for the cities and siege engines that were to be brought with us in England.” See Puiseux, Étude sur une grande ville, p. 18. Rieth, “The Galley Shipyard,” p. 157. Léopold Delisle, ed. Mandements et actes divers de Charles V, 1364–1380 [hereafter Mandements] (Paris, 1874), no. 719. Hélin-Pallu de la Barrière, “Honfleur et son arrière-pays,” pp. 31–37; Russon, Les Côtes guerrières, pp. 204–05. “Lesdictes XIX galées et galiote et une galée que le roy nostre sire avoit faicte armer à Harefleu […] passèrent en la coste d’Engleterre, ardirent Vincenezel [Winchelsea], ardirent et boutèrent feux en pluseurs villes sur la rivière de la Rie, prindrent vaisseaux, estain et pluseurs autres biens, etc. Item, le XXIVe jour dudit moys d’aoust, lesdictes XVIII galées et galiote, la galée que le roy a fait armer et les autres vaisseaux de Harefleu […] passèrent de rechief en la coste d’Angleterre, furent en la rivière de la Tamise, gaingnèrent vaisseaux, draps et pluseurs autres choses.” See Henri-Philibert-André Terrier de Loray, Jean de Vienne, amiral de France, 1341–1396 (Paris, 1877), pp. lxii–lxiii.



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Between 1369 and 1382, twenty naval operations against the English were organized. Portsmouth was raided in 1369, Gosport in 1370, the isles of Guernsey and Jersey in 1372 and 1373, and Southampton the same year. Later, in 1377, Jean de Vienne led his fleet against southern England and attacked Wight and Fowey in 1378, and again Jersey and Guernsey in 1380, along with the raids on the mouth of Thames,66 though this moderate success was eclipsed a few years later by the failed expedition against England assembled at L’Écluse in 1386, for which a great fleet that never departed from the Flemish port was gathered. Meanwhile the ordinances and regulations were at least modestly effective in ensuring that the king’s forests were more rationally exploited. The incomplete building records of the Clos des galées also give some indications regarding the significant timber intake of a shipyard that was especially active in the reconquest of the English Channel; they clearly demonstrate that forests were considered strategic assets whose exploitation had to be firmly regulated. Royal Forests and the Defence of Normandy The defence of Normandy’s complex network of castles and fortresses was one of Charles V’s main concerns, as threats of an English chevauchée or of an attack by the Navarrese party was ever present for most of his reign. On several occasions, as part of military preparations against such threats, the king sent inspectors through the duchy in order to inquire about the state of his castles and fortresses. During the fall of 1367, Étienne du Moustier inspected the castles, fortresses, and fortified cities of the bishoprics of Évreux, Lisieux, Séez, Bayeux, Coutances, and Avranches to make sure they were well fortified and adequately supplied. During his mission, which began on October 2, he visited Vernon, Louviers, Le Vaudreuil, Pont-de-l’Arche, Moulineaux, Honfleur, Touques, Lisieux, Exmes, Falaise, Caen, Bayeux, Vire, Saint-James-de-Beuvron, Hambye, Coutances, and Saint-Lô before returning to Paris in late November to report back to the king.67 These visits were quite common throughout the reign; the king informed his bailiffs of Gisors and Rouen in March of 1369 that Le Baudrain de la Heuse had been tasked to travel through the bailiwicks of Amiens, Rouen, Gisors, and Caux in order to “diligemment veoir et viseter les forteresces estans es diz bailliages, les tenables faire reparer, garner et avitailler, et les non tenables demolir et abatre.”68 A few days before, on March 7, he told Le Baudrain de la Heuse that his castles in Normandy and Picardy were in a state of great disrepair, that several of them would not hold against the English, and that he was certain that the king of England “à très grant force et puis66 67

68

Russon, Les Côtes guerrières, p. 49; Charles Bourel de La Roncière, Histoire de la marine française, 6 vols. (Paris, 1899–1932), 2:51–69. Michel Nortier, ed., Documents normands du règne de Charles V: 8 avril 1364–16 septembre 1380, et complément pour le règne de Jean le Bon, conservés au département des Manuscrits [hereafter Documents normands] (Paris, 2000), no. 295. “diligently see and visit the fortresses in the said bailiwicks in order to repair and supply those that are defensible and demolish those that are not.” See Mandements, no. 657 A.

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sance de gens d’armez, a entencion et ferme propos de briefment passer la mer et entrer en nostre dit royaume, pour icellui et nos subgez grever et dommager à son povoir.”69 The rhythm of these inquiries was certainly related to the English threat, as another series of inspections from 1371 indicates that the king had heard that “nostre adversaire d’Angleterre a entencion et volenté de briefment venir par mer et par terre et entrer au pluz grant effort que il pourra en nostre royalme pour grever et dommanier nous, nostre royaume et noz subgies.”70 During this inquiry, more localized as it was limited to the bailiwick of Caen, Regnier Le Coustellier, bailiff of Caen, accompanied by two knights, Jehan Dubois and Roger Lemasnier, visited most of the region’s fortified sites, including the castles of Falaise and Argentan, several abbeys such as Sainte-Trinité and Saint-Étienne in Caen, and even smaller rural churches such as those at Cintheaux and Trun,71 in order to ensure that they were well fortified or at least defensible and, if it was not the case, to demolish them so the enemy would not occupy them.72 Whether they were urban walls or feudal fortresses, fortifications played a particularly significant role during the Hundred Years’ War, during which commanders “sought the achievement of their military aims either through the devastation of the countryside or, in certain circumstances, by seeking to gain control of the towns and castles which dominated it.”73 At the beginning of the war, in the 1340s, several French cities were poorly fortified and after several decades of peace, many castles were also in dire need of repair. This situation was quickly remedied with the threat of an English invasion looming over Normandy.74 Much as with the Clos des Galées, Norman woodlands played an important role in these policies. Indeed, despite the fact that they were mostly made out of stone, wood was a critical constituent of medieval fortifications.75 It was used in foundations and was the main component for several parts of

69 70

71 72 73 74 75

“with great force and numerous soldiers, wishes to quickly cross the sea and enter our said kingdom in order to devastate it and harm all our subjects with all his power.”: ibid., no. 652. “our English enemy wishes to quickly come by sea and by land to enter our kingdom with all the effort he can muster in order to harm us, our kingdom, and our subjects.” See Arcisse de Caumont, “Relation de la visite des forteresses du bailliage de Caen faite en vertu d’un ordre du roi, en 1371, par Regnier Le Coustellier, bailli de Caen, accompagné de Jehan Dubois et Roger Lemasnier, chevaliers,” Mémoires de la Société des antiquaires de Normandie 11 (2nd ser., vol. 1) (1840), p. 186. Ibid., pp. 191–204. Ibid., p. 187. Christopher C. Allmand, The Hundred Years War: England and France at War, c. 1300–c. 1450, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 2001), p. 76. Allmand, Hundred Years War, pp. 77–78. Philippe Lardin, “La place du bois dans les fortifications à la fin du Moyen Âge en Normandie orientale,” in Gilles Blieck, Philippe Contamine and Nicolas Faucherre, eds., Les enceintes urbaines (XIIIe–XVIe siècles) (Paris, 1999), pp. 181–95, at 181; Dominique Pitte and Bérengère Le Cain, “Le bois dans la construction à Château-Gaillard (XIIe–XVIe siècles). Quelques aspects de la question,” in Jean-Michel Poisson and Jean-Jacques Schwien, eds., Le bois dans le château de pierre au Moyen Âge: Actes du colloque de Lons-le-Saunier, 23–25 octobre 1997, Besançon (Besançon, 2003), pp. 161–70, at 161.



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castles such as the drawbridge, the gatehouse, and the portcullis.76 The data compiled by Philippe Lardin, which consist of receipts, quotations, and certificates, shows that a total of 168 different carpentry projects was carried out on fortifications in eastern Normandy between 1360 and 1420.77 Medieval administrative sources portray more clearly the role of timber in medieval fortifications than archaeology, as surviving Norman castles, such as Château-Gaillard, are now mostly “mineral ruins” whose wooden parts are long gone, having either rotted or been re-employed in other constructions.78 In reality, the construction and maintenance of castles in Normandy must have demanded a considerable amount of wood, which could either have been taken in the royal forests, in accordance with the ordinance of 1346,79 or bought from wood merchants. In this regard, a royal mandement to the verderer of La Londe shows that Mahieu Hais, a wood merchant, had delivered 12 livrées of wood, or 12 livres tournois’s worth of wood, to Silvestre de la Cervelle, the king’s chaplain, for repairs to the fortress of Pont-de-l’Arche,80 a key stronghold at the junction of the Eure and Seine rivers that commanded fluvial access to Rouen. Wood was also vital to the castles’ daily life, as it was the Middle Ages’ main source of heat. This importance was also highlighted in the 1346 Ordinance of Brunoy, which stated that bailiffs and castellans could not take firewood in the forests except for the castles’ heating.81 As was the case with the king’s shipyards, regulations were subsequently introduced in the forest ordinance of 1376 in order to ensure rational supply of the kingdom’s defensive system. As stated above,82 trees were often felled without restriction, therefore damaging the forests’ regenerative capabilities. It is this relation between exploitation and conservation, which the royal government tried to balance starting from the thirteenth century, that characterizes medieval forestry. Woodlands were under great duress; but trying to halt completely their exploitation, whether military, commercial, or personal, was utterly impossible. This in turn explains the inception of the idea of sustainability, which aimed at balancing these three sectors with woodland conservation. The surviving medieval archives are unequivocal on the central role played by the king’s forests in the defence of Normandy. Repair campaigns often coincided with alleged English attacks. While the English were massing troops in southern England and raiding the Norman coast around Fécamp in 1378, the king sent commissioners to see to the provisioning and garrisoning of fortresses in Normandy. At the same time, Charles V launched a series of quick but decisive attacks against the Norman castles belonging to his other great rival, Charles 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

Lardin, “La place du bois,” pp. 183–91. Ibid. Pitte and Le Cain, “Le bois dans la construction,” p. 161. Ordonnances, 2:249. Mandements, no. 580. Ordonnances, 2:248–49. See above, note 38.

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II, king of Navarre.83 Around the same time, between the Easters of 1377 and 1378, Pierre Le Fèvre, master-carpenter of the bailiwick of Gisors, was ordered by Charles V to visit the forests of Andely, Vernon, Gisors, and Lyons to count the trees needed to repair the bailiwick’s castles.84 During the reign of Charles V Pierre Le Fèvre was fairly active, often traveling between eastern Normandy and Paris to ensure that the royal castles were well maintained. In 1369, he was paid 20 gold francs85 by the viscount of Rouen on behalf of the king for his work on the castles of Vernon, Château-Gaillard, Le Goulet, and Longchamps and for visiting the surrounding forests to acquire the wood needed for their maintenance.86 He is again mentioned in a quittance from 1371 for carpentry work he ordered the carpenter Colin Maleide to perform on the dungeons’ well in Château-Gaillard.87 Since the Feast of Saint Michael of 1370, he had often been on the road, visiting Rouen and numerous fortifications such as Château-Gaillard and the castle of Petit-Goulet.88 One of his more detailed itineraries was described in an account of the Feast of Saint Michael of 1372. During that time, he visited several important castles with local carpenters and roofers from Les Andelys. First, he inspected the tower of Vernonnel, then went on with the castles of Gisors, Château-Gaillard, and Longchamps before traveling northeast to the forest of Lyons to inquire about the refusal to provide timber for Château-Gaillard.89 After that, Le Fèvre traveled to Paris to inform the Chamber of Accounts of the state of the castle of Gisors, but it is not known if he did this on the order of the castellan or his own initiative.90 His career, which ended with his death in 1381, illustrates the important role played by the king’s master-carpenters in Normandy, as they were often first amongst the royal officers to be responsible for maintaining the duchy’s fortifications.91 Charles V must have been particularly happy with his services, for in 1376 he gifted him 50 gold francs “en recompense de ses services, tant es ouvrages et reparacions de pluseurs de noz chasteaux et autres fortereices du dit bailliage, comme en pluseurs autres lieux hors d’icelui, es quiex y li a convenu fraier et despendre du sien très grandement […] en pluseurs et grosses sommes de deniers”92. 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90

91 92

Jonathan Sumption, The Hundred Years War, vol. 3, Divided Houses (London, 2009), pp. 316–19. Documents normands, no. 1157. One gold franc is worth one livre tournois. See Peter Spufford, Money and its Use in Medieval Europe (Cambridge, 1988), p. 413. Documents normands, no. 490. Ibid., no. 638. Ibid., no. 655. Ibid., no. 765. “in recognition of his services in the repairs of several of our castles and other fortresses in the said bailiwick as well as in other places, and because he had decided to defray himself the great expenses needed for his work.” See Documents normands, no. 765; Philippe Lardin, “Des hommes de terrain: les maîtres des oeuvres du roi en Normandie orientale à la fin du Moyen Âge,” in Les serviteurs de l’état au Moyen Âge. XXIXe Congrès de la S.H.M.E.S., Pau, mai 1998 (Paris, 1999), pp. 133–79, at 138. Ibid., pp. 135–39. Mandements, no. 1249.



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Several quittances given to the viscount of Caen in July 1368 also illustrate in the process of wood supply to a royal castle. As Charles V was about to launch a new campaign to take back the lands lost after the Treaty of Brétigny as well as the king of Navarre’s Norman fiefs, several repairs were carried out on the castle of Caen, one of western Normandy’s main military and administrative centers. On July 8, the lumberjacks Gabriel Lageline and Guillaume Briant went into the forest of Troarn, a few kilometers from the city, in order to prepare, or “esbranchier et alainguer,” some trees. The same day, three carpenters, Jehan Roussel, Jehan Ourset, and Huet Normendie brought the timber from the forest to the castle. Then Jehan Ferrant, the bailiwick’s master-carpenter, took a few days to choose the best wood for the repairs. Because the need for timber was significant, two more trips to the forest of Troarn were made on July 23 and July 26, for which the carters Jehan de Coisiverolles and Guillaume Liensif were paid 110 sous tournois and then 8 livres, 5 sous tournois for their “despens, dols de lour chevalx et carretes que pour plusieurs autres carretes.”93 A few years earlier, in 1364, the forest of Troarn had already provided the wood needed for the castle’s bridge.94 Another major fortified site, the castle of Arques south of the port of Dieppe, whose geographical position gave it an important strategic value,95 was supplied with timber from the adjacent forest of Arques. In 1367 and 1368, while the conflict with England was about to be revived, a series of repair and maintenance works on the fortifications began. In December 1367 woodcutter Jacques Le Fèvre gave a quittance to the viscount of Arques because he had felled eleven cartloads of wood for the scaffolding needed by the masons who were working on the castle’s new bridge.96 A few days later, on January 18 1368, another eleven cartloads of timber used to build scaffolding were brought in from the forest of Arques by Jehan Pelet.97 Having been devastated along with the surrounding countryside of Caux by John of Gaunt’s chevauchée of 1369, the castle of Arques was, by early 1370, in need of repair.98 In this regard, a mandement signed by Henry Damery, lieutenant of the Receiver General of Waters and Forests, mentions a wood sale in the forest where Pierre Le Cordier, Master of Waters and Forests, had retained all the oaks that had been felled by the wind to repair the castle.99 The next year, between August and October 1371, great works were undertaken on the terrace of the main tower. The receipts show that an immense quantity of wood was cut down: Guillot Majoie and his colleague had felled ninety oaks, which amounted to a staggering ninety-one 93 94 95 96 97 98 99

“expenses and the strain on their horses and their carts and other carts.”: Documents normands, no. 358. Ibid., no. 76. Pascal Langeuin, “Les campagnes de construction du château d’Arques-la-Bataille (XIe–XVe siècles),” Bulletin Monumental 160 (2002), pp. 345–78, at 345. Documents normands, no. 294. Ibid., no. 305. Pascal Langeuin, “Les campagnes de construction,” p. 347. Documents normands, no. 537.

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cartloads transported to the castle by Pierre de Biaurain in exchange for an impressive payment of 42 gold francs. Pierre Benart, a worker, was paid 50 sous tournois for the twenty days it took to load the timber for the castle’s terrace and gatehouse.100 Furthermore, in addition to providing timber for the castles, the Norman royal forests had to supply the wood needed to make weapons and ammunition such as crossbow bolts, or viretons. In a 1365 mandement, Charles V, “pour la seurté et defense de nostre pais de Normendie, et pour raemplir nos garnisons d’artillerie, qui moult ont esté appetichées eu temps passé pour cause de guerres,” commanded his masters of Waters and Forests and the verderers of Rouvray and Roumare to let the workers of the Clos des galées take in the forests the fourteen beech trees needed to make 100,000 viretons and twenty aspens to make two hundred shields for the crossbowmen.101 Throughout the reign, numerous trees were felled in order to make these viretons, which were essential in the defense of Normandy’s fortresses and castles. In April 1379, a quittance was given to Richard de Brumaire, then viscount of Pont-Authou, by the lumberjack Richard Belluche for the wood taken in the forest of Rouvray needed to make 22,000 viretons. Even if the surviving accounts are not complete, it seems possible that a steady supply of bolts was needed throughout Normandy, which again underlines the contribution of the royal forests to the duchy’s defense. The king’s forests were not always plentiful enough to ensure the completion of major repair campaigns. In rare cases, the government of Charles V had to resort to cutting wood in private forests. In May 1370, the king gave and order to pay the monks of Valdieu-Réno 80 gold francs for the wood that Pierre d’Argeviller, castellan of La Ventrouze in Perche, had used for “faire engins et autres ouvrages, tant pour aller contre les enemis de nostre royaume, que pour la garde et fortification dudit chastel.”102 Another case worth noting concerns the above-mentioned Pierre Le Fèvre. In 1374, he had a meeting with the officers of Blanche of Navarre, queen dowager of Philip VI, who held a considerable amount of land around Gisors, in order to ask permission to cut the trees needed to build the beams of the tower of Vernonnel, near Vernon, as there were none big enough in the king’s forests.103 Interestingly, this situation again seems to indicate that some royal forests had until then been exploited irrationally, a situation made possible by neglect on the part of the foresters, and which affected their military potential. In other instances, Charles V donated wood from his own demesne to lords who had seen their castles destroyed by the Navarrese or the English, as in the case of Colart d’Estouteville, to whom, in 1364, the king gave three hundred trees from the forest of Eawy to repair his castle of 100 Ibid.,

no. 701. the security and defense of our country of Normandy, and to supply our garrisons with munitions that were greatly affected because of the past wars.” See Mandements, no. 278. 102 “build siege engines and other works to wage war against the enemies of our kingdom as well as to defend and fortify the said castle.”: ibid., no. 683. 103 Documents normands, no. 870. 101 “for



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Torcy, which had been attacked by the allies of the king of Navarre.104 The next year Charles V again provided timber, to Nicolle de Briqueville, to whom he gave three acres in his forest of Bur for his castle of l’Aune because his lands and castle had been devastated.105 This association between private fortresses and the defense of Normandy, also present in the inquiries such as that held by Regnier Le Coustellier in 1371, actually dates back to the reign of Philip VI. A mandement from 1349 shows that the king was concerned with the fortification of private castles and manors.106 According to Marie Casset, such fortifications were then associated with coastal defense, the protection of civilians as well as the “prouffit de la chose publique”107 for which the king was responsible. As is the case with shipbuilding and the activies of the Clos des galées, the death of Charles V in 1380 did not put a definitive stop to the campaign of fortification repairs. A mandement of Hector de Chartres to the viscount of Arques confirms that in April 1415, a few months before Henry V’s invasion and the battle of Agincourt, Dieppe was authorized to take a hundred oaks in the forest of Eawy to fortify the city.108 Other important works, such as those completed on Château-Gaillard109 or on the private castle of Tancarville,110 show that the defense and fortification of Normandy was still a major preoccupation during the reign of Charles VI. Conclusions Warfare, especially shipbuilding, was a major incentive behind the forest administration of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, during which time building a single first-rate ship of the line required around three thousand oaks,111 a much larger quantity than was required for any fourteenth-century warship. The ordinance of 1669 promulgated by Colbert to ensure a steady oak supply for the French navy shows beyond doubt that, in the mind of Louis XIV’s administrators, forests were major military assets, vital to the kingdom’s interests. Despite the much lower timber requirements of the late Middle Ages, forests were also regarded as an integral part of France’s military capacities during the Hundred Years’ War. Their resources could be used offensively, to threaten 104 Mandements,

no. 74. no. 241. 106 Marie Casset, “Fortifier les manoirs pour le ‘prouffit de la chose publique’ dans le Cotentin à la fin du XIVe siècle,” in Hervé Oudart, Jean-Michel Picard, and Joëlle Quaghebeur, eds., Le Prince, son peuple et le bien commun. De l’Antiquité tardive à la fin du Moyen Âge (Rennes, 2013), pp. 255–73, at 264–65. 107 Ibid., p. 255. 108 Rouen, Archives départementales de la Seine-Maritime, 100 J 42, no. 10. 109 Pitte and Le Cain, “Le bois dans la construction,” pp. 162–66. 110 Pierre Lardin, “L’utilisation du bois au château de Tancarville (Seine-Maritime) au cours du XVe siècle,” in Poisson and Schwien, eds., Le bois dans les châteaux de pierre, pp. 129–49, at 129–31. 111 John A. Lynn, The Wars of Louis XIV, 1667–1714 (New York, 2013), p. 86. 105 Ibid.,

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England’s coastal assets such as commercial ports, or defensively, to protect Normandy against enemy incursions. Thus, while timber’s part in warfare during the early modern period is perhaps better understood and documented, medieval administrative records illustrate that it was already a concern for the government of Charles V. Granted that they are but an incomplete sample of the sources available on the matter, the royal mandements and ordinances as well as the numerous accounts and receipts for the reign of Charles V nevertheless all depict a sense of intelligence and rationality on the part of the royal government in terms of forest administration, one that does not fit the more traditional vision of lucrative and jealous control suggested by some French scholars,112 but which is consistent with Richard Hoffmann’s depiction of the growing environmental awareness demonstrated by ruling powers during the late Middle Ages.113 As Hoffmann puts it, there is solid prima facie evidence that late medieval authorities who presented themselves as “public” enacted laws claiming to preserve and improve environmental conditions and therein frequently appealed to “the common good.” This legislation has to indicate some sort of “constituency” aware of and wishing for the resolution of what would be called environmental issues.114

While the French royal administration was not an early proponent of modern environmentalism, the process of state-building necessitated a better control over natural resources, one characterized by the notion of common good and by the development of the concept of sustainability. War was far from the only incentive in French forest conservatory policies. Woodlands were crucial constituents in a silvopastoral rural economy,115 and were also one of the demesne’s main sources of revenue. However, by highlighting the growing need for timber, warfare also stressed the necessity of regulating forest exploitation in order to curb abuses and misuses that jeopardized the perenniality and sustainability of its resources. The war-related forest regulations of the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries certainly infringed on customs and liberties by circumscribing woodland exploitation within acceptable limits, which stands witness to the development of royal law and to early processes of state-building, but they also aimed at altering “the behaviour of persons who claimed and/or Delort and François Walter, Histoire de l’environnement européen (Paris, 2001), p. 85; Pascal Acot, Histoire de l’écologie (Paris, 1994), p. 186; Guy Bois, Crise du féodalisme. Économie rurale et démographie en Normandie orientale du début du XIVe siècle au milieu du XVIe siècle (Paris, 1976), p. 185. 113 Richard Hoffmann, An Environmental History of Medieval Europe (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 277–78. 114 Ibid., pp. 277–78. 115 Michel Devèze, “L’équilibre agro-sylvo-pastoral du XIIIe au XVIIIe siècle en Europe moyenne et Europe méridionale,” in Annalisa Guarducci, ed., Agricoltura e transformazione dell’ambiente: secoli XIII e XVIII. Atti della undicesima settimana di studi dell’Istituto Internazionale F. Datini (Florence, 1984), pp. 333–44, at 353. 112 Robert



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used the resource in question.”116 The appropriation of natural resources for the purposes of war in late medieval Normandy not only constitutes a means to study what Richard P. Tucker identifies as the “military planner’s concern for manipulation of natural resources for their strategic purposes,”117 but also provides interesting data on the influence of one of humanity’s oldest activities on the natural environment,118 whether it consciously fostered, by means of laws and regulations, the healthier and sustainable exploitation of woodlands, or, through the collateral results of warfare and occupation, it positively affected forest regrowth for the first time after several centuries of assarting. Environmental history thus provides a new paradigm for the study of medieval warfare, by measuring its ecological imprint and its defining role in the evolution of European landscapes and in the development of forest administration.

Environmental History, p. 278. “War and the Environment,” p. 319. 118 Donald J. Hugues, What is Environmental History? (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 3, 115. 116 Hoffmann, 117 Tucker,

6 Exercises in Arms: the Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-at-Arms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Pierre Gaite

The concept of knights and men-at-arms leisurely sparring against each other in the middle of a castle courtyard to pass the time of day is one which has often been taken for granted in modern fiction, yet a contradictory view that knightly combat was clumsy and brutish has arguably persisted within scholarship and amongst the general public for even longer.1 Such conflicting notions arise from problems regarding the veracity of when, where, and how men-at-arms trained for combat and practiced their fighting skills. Indeed, there remains significant doubt over whether or not military men actually did practice individual combat skills outside of battle or tournaments, reflected in the scant discussion of training and practice within the corpus of research on medieval warfare. This uncertainty is reflected in Michael Prestwich’s comprehensive study of medieval warfare, which offers only brief comments about the training of archers in the fourteenth century, noting that practice was not necessarily highly regarded.2 John Beeler and John Carter have also expressed skepticism, asserting that for the early Middle Ages at least, the only training a knight usually engaged in was the practical business of actual battle.3 Further doubts have been raised by the observation that some men, particularly John Hawkwood and Robert Knollys, began their military careers as archers, presumably developing their skills in arms through a combination of talent and practical experience rather than regular exercise in knightly combat.4 This lacuna in the study of chivalric training practices has largely stemmed from a lack of firm evidence in medieval sources for regular training, a problem

1

2 3

4

Steven Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms: Formal Combats in the Late Fourteenth Century (Highland Village, 2005), p. 21. See also John Clements, “Wielding the Weapons of War: Arms, Armour and Training Manuals during the Later Middle Ages,” in L. J. Andrew Villalon and Donald J. Kagay, eds., The Hundred Years War: A Wider Focus (Leiden, 2005), pp. 447–75, at 452–53. Michael Prestwich, Armies and Warfare in the Middle Ages: The English Experience (London, 1996), p. 137. John Beeler, Warfare in England, 1066–1189 (New York, 1966), p. 278; John Carter, “Sport, War and the Three Orders of Feudal Society: 700–1300,” Military Affairs 49 (1985), 132–39, at 134. Adrian R. Bell, Anne Curry, Andy King, and David Simpkin, The Soldier in Later Medieval England (Oxford: 2013), p. 69.

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that Helen Nicholson, Sydney Anglo, and Richard Barber have explored in some detail.5 However, the idea that men of the military elite were indifferent as regards regular training, even though their pride, status, or livelihood were closely related to martial prowess, has sat uneasily with a number of scholars. James Hester and John Clements have both sought to overturn this belief in the last decade, pointing out that the regular training of men-at-arms is an area that has long been neglected.6 Steven Muhlberger has remarked that “warriors in the fourteenth century must have talked endlessly and in detail about combats they had witnessed or about famous fights that had involved their friends, companions or relatives,” suggesting the popularity and importance of battle skills to men-at-arms.7 Clifford Rogers also notes that although regular training exercises among soldiers are rarely mentioned in surviving evidence, “this may reflect more the interests of our sources than the absence of any drill,” and we should not assume, therefore, that the limited evidence is indicative of a lack of interest in or value placed upon combat training.8 Rogers further contends that it may be “difficult to assess (or to generalize about) the prevalence of continuing weapon practice … in the daily lives of older noblemen, but it seems likely that many engaged in these activities on a daily or near-daily basis throughout their lives, as befitted those pursuing ‘the most noble and illustrious science and profession of arms.’”9 Given the importance that chivalrous society in the Middle Ages placed upon martial skill, it would be unwise to assume that the ongoing cultivation of these skills would have been neglected. This paper aims to reconstruct the role that training could play in the lives of men-at-arms, that is to say, men who were at least of the rank of knight or esquire, across Western Europe in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries by considering a range of evidence, including romances and biographies, manuscript illustrations, chronicles, and combat manuals, as well as medieval treatises on politics, culture, warfare, and chivalry. In doing so, it confirms the suspicions of some scholars that the combat skills of men-at-arms must have involved “early training and a lifetime’s practice.”10 The study will begin by discussing “training” in the sense of a young boy’s education in arms and military pursuits, before moving on to an exploration of men-at-arms’ routine practice of military skills in adulthood. This itself will include a consideration of individual and collective physical practice, and also factors influencing the mental “training” of these warriors. 5

6 7 8 9 10

Helen Nicholson, Medieval Warfare: Theory and Practice of War in Europe, 300–1500 (Basingstoke, 2004), pp. 11–12; Sydney Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe (New Haven, 2000), p. 18; Richard Barber, The Knight and Chivalry (Woodbridge, 1995), p. 206. James Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry: Instructional Verse in 14th-Century Fight Manuals,” Arms and Armour 6 (2009), 175–83, at 175; Clements, “Wielding the Weapons,” p. 448. Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms, p. 3. Clifford J. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives Through History: The Middle Ages (London, 2007), p. 69. Ibid., p. 7. Dennis Showalter, “Caste, Skill and Training: The Evolution of Cohesion in European Armies from the Middle Ages to the Sixteenth Century,” Journal of Military History 57 (1993), 407–30, at 408.



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Training at an Early Age There appears to have been little formal structure in a youth’s military education until boys reached the age of fourteen or sixteen.11 Christine de Pisan pays some attention to the martial instruction of youths in her Livre du corps de policie and Livre des fais d’armes et de chevalerie from 1407 and 1410 respectively, in which she describes ancient Roman practices of encouraging an interest in warfare, fostering an immunity to hardship by abstaining from comfort and luxuries, and having noble boys engage in mock battles or practice wielding weapons against target posts.12 Although she is referring here to the ideas of classical authors, including Vegetius, and appears to regard them as aspirational ideals rather than contemporary commonplaces, it is nonetheless apparent that methods such as these were familiar in medieval Europe. In their earlier years, boys were instructed in more informal ways: receiving practice swords and model knights or castles as gifts to play with, being advised to read or listen to stories about great deeds of arms, and being encouraged to observe the practice of the grown men were typical. Indeed, Robert Woosnam-Savage suggests that the giving of a sword to noble or royal youths may have been a “rite of passage,” marking a transition towards more adult martial pursuits.13 Ruth Mazo Karras also refers to boys in households being given special training sessions in arms, and even engaging in special tournaments designed for their participation.14 It also appears that wrestling and unarmed fighting formed a part of training from boyhood onwards: youths are mentioned as learning by observing men in such contests, and Anglo also points to the inclusion of a variety of unarmed techniques in the fighting manuals of the late Middle Ages, suggesting that these formed a fundamental part of combat skills.15 Aside from this, riding and hunting were also essential components in a knight’s education. As warriors traditionally expected to fight on horseback, a high degree of proficiency in horsemanship was required. Consequently, practice at riding and wielding sword and lance formed a significant part of boyhood training.16 Hunting also provided an opportunity to develop military skills, testing not only horsemanship but also skill 11 12

13

14 15 16

Nicholas Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry: The Education of the English Kings and Aristocracy, 1066–1530 (London, 1984), p. 182. Christine de Pisan, The Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, ed. Charity Cannon Willard, trans. Sumner Willard (University Park, PA, 1999), pp. 29–32 and 35; see also Christine de Pisan, Le livre du corps de policie, ed. Robert Lucas (Geneva, 1967), pp. 104–06. The History of the King’s Works, ed. H. M. Colvin, vol. 1, ed. R. Allen Brown, H. M. Colvin and A. J. Taylor (London: 1963), p. 202; Robert Woosnam-Savage, “He’s Armed Without that’s Innocent Within: A Short Note on a Newly Acquired Medieval Sword for a Child,” Arms and Armour 5 (2008), 84–95, at 88. See also Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, pp. 183–4; Ruth Mazo Karras, From Boys to Men: Formations of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe (Philadelphia, 2003), pp. 29–30. Karras, From Boys to Men, p. 30. Sydney Anglo, “How to Win at Tournaments: The Techniques of Medieval Combat,” Antiquaries Journal: Journal of the Society of Antiquaries of London 68 (1988), 248–64, at 249–51. Matthew Bennett, Jim Bradbury, Kelly DeVries, Iain Dickie, and Phyllis Jestice, Fighting

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with weapons, strategy and the analysis of the surrounding terrain, and boys from across the spectrum of noble and gentle society are known to have joined in with hunting parties.17 From the age of fourteen onwards, more direct combat skills were practiced. Participation in jousts and tournaments has long been recognized as a means of developing the skills of war: Prestwich among others has noted its similarities to actual battle, at the very least providing practice in horsemanship and use of weapons, while David Crouch informs us that as early as the twelfth century tournaments included contests between squires where they could gain experience and catch attention.18 The use of special blunted weapons also indicates that these events were treated as battle simulators, lowering the risks – though still considerable – of injury, but emulating the heavy blows and exertion to be expected in actual warfare.19 The significance of tournaments in knightly martial training is also attested in literary texts from the Middle Ages. Barber mentions a number of works that refer to tournaments as a means of training knights, as well as Richard I’s decision to allow tournaments in England so that English knights could train and refine their combat skills.20 There is also the case of Pope John XXII’s stated reasons for the Church abandoning its opposition to tournaments in 1316, as reported by Noel Denholm-Young, due to a need for crusading knights who were sufficiently trained, something that might suggest that without such gatherings most knights would not have engaged in any kind of martial practice.21 The Case for Informal Training In spite of this, it seems unreasonable to assume that tournament events, not necessarily frequent, formed the only opportunity to practice combat skills. Juliet Barker has mentioned that although many “apologists” justified tournaments and hastiludes as valuable training, frequent royal prohibitions, themselves often caused by impending war or fear of political insubordination, meant that knights could not have relied exclusively on tournament gatherings as the

17 18

19 20 21

Techniques of the Medieval World AD 500–AD 1500: Equipment, Combat Skills and Tactics (Staplehurst, 2005), pp. 107–08. Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, pp. 191–93, 198; Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 4. Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, pp. 224, 227; Bennett, Fighting Techniques, pp. 108–09; Philip Warner, The Medieval Castle: Life in a Fortress in Peace and War (London, 1971), p. 92; David Crouch, Tournament (London, 2005), pp. 118–19. See also Barber, The Knight and Chivalry, p. 206. Juliet Barker, The Tournament in England 1100–1400 (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 178–79. Ibid., pp. 17–20. “De torneamentis,” Titulus 9 in Constitutiones Joannis Papae XXII: cum apparatu Zenzelini de Cassanis [Decretales extravagantes], in Corpus juris canonici (1582) vol. 3, UCLA Digital Library, http://digital.library.ucla.edu/canonlaw/toc.html [accessed 17 January 2018]; see also Noel Denholm-Young, “The Tournament in the Thirteenth Century,” in Collected Papers of N. Denholm-Young (Cardiff, 1969), pp. 95–120, at 95–98.



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sole opportunities to practice fighting.22 Juliet Vale’s provisional list of tournaments from the reign of Edward III identifies a total of fifty-five tournaments from 1327 to 1355, with three or four sometimes occurring in a single year.23 However, in order to inculcate the instincts and muscle memory desirable for a career in arms, knights would surely have needed to sharpen their skills on a very frequent basis, and it is questionable whether only engaging in practice up to once every few months via tournament bouts would suffice for this, particularly since we cannot assume that all knights attended every event. A similar observation can be made for the early fifteenth century. Between 1412 and 1414 Christine de Pisan lamented that French noblemen “ne se exercitassent plus” in the use of weapons during times of peace, and it is evident she is referring here to the development rather than simply the display of skills.24 Part of her proposed solution was to hold tournaments up to three times a year across the kingdom so that men-at-arms could become “excitéz et apris.”25 Again we might question whether this, on its own, would provide ample practice to cultivate technique. A possible explanation may be that such events, which de Pisan labels festes, would have incentivized knights to practice regularly because they presented an opportunity to win honor through a public demonstration of skills that had been refined in more private settings.26 In his commentary on a combat manual from the mid-fifteenth century, Mark Geldof has rightly pointed out that prowess was a widely celebrated virtue in chivalrous society, meaning that knights were likely motivated to practice ahead of such events in order to avoid embarrassment and better distinguish themselves.27 Certainly the existence of informal or private training prior to important events is evidenced in the preparation for duels: when Humphrey of Gloucester and Philip the Good agreed on such a contest for St. George’s Day 1425, the latter reportedly began a period of intensive combat training, even having an assistant teach him strategies in the art of fencing.28 Consideration of other evidence further indicates that routine practice was regarded as important, and that knights and other men-at-arms may well have engaged in personal training outside of tournaments and warfare. Although writing before the period in question, Roger of Howden’s comments on the importance of practice are still applicable for the late Middle Ages; in describing the martial habits of Henry II’s sons, he remarks that it is not possible to handle weapons effectively “si non praeluditur.”29 His use of the 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Barker, The Tournament, pp. 43, 48–49 and 61. Juliet Vale, Edward III and Chivalry: Chivalric Society and its Context 1270–1350 (Woodbridge, 1982), pp. 172–74. Christine de Pisan, Livre de la paix, ed. Charity Cannon Willard (The Hague, 1958), p. 134. Ibid., p. 134. Ibid. Mark R. Geldof, “‘Strokez off ij hand swerde: A Brief Instruction in the Use of Personal Arms,” Opuscula 1 (2011), 1–9, at 1. Richard Vaughan, Philip the Good: The Apogee of Burgundy (London, 1970), pp. 38–39. Roger de Hoveden [of Howden], Chronica magistri Rogeri de Houedene, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols. (London, 1868–71), 2:166.

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verb praeludere, literally to “play beforehand,” would indicate that he refers to practice outside of earnest fighting encounters like tournaments and battles. Nicholas Orme highlights this importance in an anecdote about the premature death of John Hastings, who was fatally wounded in 1386 while riding “to prove his horse before the next tournament.” The incident demonstrates that men-atarms and their companions did in fact engage in activities that would allow them to perform better in chivalric encounters.30 It is also telling that in The Bruce, John Barbour has Ingram Umfraville advising Edward II to form a long truce so that the seasoned Scottish yeomen will fall out of practice with fighting; the reasoning here is presumably that the English men-at-arms will gain an advantage in skill because they will maintain their regular training as part of their martial calling.31 Moreover, Clements mentions that medieval combat manuals advocate regular practice; the fourteenth-century fencing master Hanko Döbringer, for instance, asserted that regular practice was more important than talent, while Hester similarly argues that the terminology in Middle English fight manuals reflected generations of study and continuity.32 We can also find evidence for the importance of frequent practice in the medieval reception of Vegetius’s De re militari, with Christopher Allmand highlighting that passages asserting the importance of physical fitness and training were seemingly well noted in surviving medieval manuscripts of the treatise.33 Furthermore, we may consider the possibility that many men-at-arms participated in combat practice purely for entertainment. Given that shooting a bow is noted as a pastime of even aristocratic males, though it was not a typically knightly weapon, it appears probable that such men would have also practiced with their more traditional equipment.34 Moreover it is worth remembering that as the tournament has its origins in the informal “knockabouts” recorded as taking place in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, casual practice fighting almost certainly predates the invention of the tournament.35 If there is a predilection in contemporary sources to describe training in the context of tournaments, this may be because they were prestigious occasions of great interest, easier to observe because of their public nature than any one man’s personal training activities. Moreover, it is apparent that tournaments were not the only occasions where deeds of arms could be practiced or “shown off,” and we may suppose that many men-at-arms would have possessed both the opportunity and inclination to exercise their skills frequently.

30 31 32 33 34 35

Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, p. 189. John Barbour, The Bruce, ed. and trans. A. A. M. Duncan (1997; repr. Edinburgh, 2007), pp. 706–08. Clements, “Wielding the Weapons,” p. 456; Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry,” p. 178. Christopher Allmand, The De Re Militari of Vegetius: The Reception, Transmission and Legacy of a Roman Text in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2011), pp. 17–18. Joseph Gies and Frances Gies, Life in a Medieval Castle (London, 1975), p. 111. See also Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, pp. 198–202. Nicholson, Medieval Warfare, p. 117.



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Methods of Individual Physical Training It is possible to discern some details of what activities men-at-arms may have carried out in routine training, though this is not without some uncertainty. In this matter we may differentiate between practices for physical training among individuals and groups and, less frequently considered, measures related to mental training. In the following discussion, physical aspects will be explored first before investigating the mental conditioning of knightly warriors. As Allmand has shown, the military treatise of Vegetius was widely embraced in the Middle Ages as a staple textbook on military matters, and that his work was influential: medieval translators tended to render Vegetius’s milites (soldiers) as chevaliers (knights), hinting that his instruction was regarded as practical and practicable for medieval warriors.36 One translator’s remark that some of the Romans’ practice was misguided by their worship of pagan demons is also telling, as it implies medieval people were discerning readers of Vegetius, disregarding some ideas while employing others.37 In his treatise, Vegetius devotes some attention to the training of warriors: the martial curriculum involved the physical exercise of running and jumping, wielding weapons against mock targets, varying strikes against body parts, sparring in enclosures, wearing armor and practicing leaping on and off horses.38 Although it is interesting that similar advice is given by Ghillebert de Lannoy, who asserts that a young man should “juer de l’arc, saillir, luiter et jouster, aprendre à juer d’une hache et d’une espée,” there remain doubts as to whether the advice of Vegetius was consciously employed by the medieval nobility.39 It is not apparent that the stipulated training was closely followed by his medieval readership; certain aspects of his curriculum such as swimming are not commonly mentioned by medieval commentators, and the above-mentioned belief that the Romans were misguided in some respects would suggest that some teachings were not considered necessary.40 As a result, there is some uncertainty about how far the recommendations of Vegetius can be taken as a rule of thumb for the physical education of menat-arms in the late Middle Ages, and for further details we must look elsewhere. Evidence from biographies and literature throws little light on this area. Jehan de la Saintré’s confrontation with an abbot contains an interesting reference: 36

37 38 39 40

For the popularity of Vegetius, see Allmand, The De Re Militari of Vegetius, p. 3; Malcolm Vale, War and Chivalry: Aristocratic Culture in England, France and Burgundy at the End of the Middle Ages (London, 1981), pp. 95 and 129; Brian Todd Carey, Joshua B. Allfree, and John Cairns, Warfare in the Medieval World (Barnsley, 2006), p. 202; Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, pp. 152, 186. For doubt about the conscious influence of Vegetius, see Stephen Morillo, “Battle Seeking: The Contexts and Limits of Vegetian Strategy,” Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 21–41, at 21. Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, pp. 187–88. Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, pp. 187–88. Ghillebert de Lannoy, Œuvres de Ghillebert de Lannoy, voyageur, diplomate et moraliste, ed. J. C. Houzeau (Louvain, 1878), p. 450. Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, p. 188.

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following an unarmored wrestling contest, the knight insists on fighting the abbot in armor because it is what he is accustomed to, something the abbot is reluctant to do due to his own inexperience with such equipment.41 The episode suggests that the wearing of armor in itself was unnatural enough to require practice, and men-at-arms must presumably have spent much time growing accustomed to simply moving in their protective gear. Aside from this, training is usually unmentioned or only referred to in passing. The author of the Fouk Fitz Warin provides no mention of martial training in the early life of the protagonist. Instead he is depicted as a newcomer to battle at the age of eighteen, rushing to protect his lord after donning an old hauberk “a mieux qu’il savoit,” and of course distinguishes himself as a natural at fighting.42 A similar trend can be seen in the Roman de Silence, though the story provides some detail about physical education: a seneschal trains the gendermorphed protagonist by running with “him” through woods and streams, even in scorching heat (ll. 2469–74), and they also take part in wrestling, jousting, and “skirmishing” by the time he reaches the age of twelve (ll. 2494–6).43 No further details about an education in arms or routine training are given, but when Silence is dubbed a knight at seventeen, he distinguishes himself and wins the tournament held for the newly-dubbed knights (ll. 5137–44).44 Pero Niño is a further example from the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries. His biographer depicts him as a martial prodigy even at fifteen, and elsewhere describes him as superior to others in many respects, including lancethrusting, dart-throwing, and other “juegos de armas,” a term which seems to imply a range of informal combat-related pastimes designed both for entertainment and competition.45 This tendency for protagonists to possess a natural and prodigious aptitude for fighting appears as a trope across much of chivalric literature. Richard Kaeuper likewise gives numerous examples of how noble youths in literature such as Gareth and Perceval are “drawn almost mystically to the armor and weapons of knighthood,” but that “nobility or worth is proved by … hearty strokes in battle.” Thus we are presented with the notion that nobility can grant an inherent superiority in the pursuit of arms, and that proven prowess can legitimize nobility.46 41 42 43 44 45

46

Antoine de la Sale, Jehan de Saintré, ed. Jean Misrahi and Charles A. Knudson (Geneva: 1978), p. 295. Louis Brandin, ed., Fouk Fitz Warin: Roman du XIVe Siècle, Les Classiques français du Moyen Âge 63 (Paris, 1930), p. 14. Heldris De Cornuälle, Silence: A Thirteenth-Century French Romance, trans. Sarah RocheMahdi, Medieval Texts and Studies 10 (East Lansing, 1999), p. 117. De Cornuälle, Silence, p. 241. Gutierre Diaz de Gamez, The Unconquered Knight: A Chronicle of the Deeds of Don Pero Niño, Count of Buelna, ed. and trans. Joan Evans (1928; repr. Woodbridge, 2004), pp. 30, 40–41; see also Gutierre Diez de Games, El victorial: crónica de don Pedro Niño, conde de Buelna, ed. Juan de Mata Carriazo (Madrid, 1940), p. 86. Richard Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (Oxford, 1999), p. 130; Nicholson, Medieval Warfare, p. 115.



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However, this heroic aptitude could also apply to men from less illustrious backgrounds. The biographer of Bertrand du Guesclin provides an example of this when describing Bertrand’s early belligerent habits: “Les enfans fait combatre et il mesmes s’i prent / Et fasoit la bataille durer si longuement / C’on ne savoit li quelx avoit amendement” (ll. 308–10).47 The author also states Bertrand’s precocious physicality, even at seventeen years old: “fors fut et ossuz et formez grossement” (l. 450).48 Taken at face value, the early life of Bertrand would indicate that a propensity and aptitude for fighting in general could prove sufficient on its own, although here we might also consider that the author wanted not only to portray the hero in a flattering light, but also to assert his legitimacy within the ranks of knighthood by following literary convention and depicting him as a natural talent in the noble art of war. The best source of information from texts of this kind is certainly the biography of Boucicaut the younger, whose training habits are described by the author. Similar to Pero Niño’s aforementioned participation in martial games, the author describes how “quant il estoit ou logis, s’essayoit avec les autres escuiers a getter la lance ou a autres essaiz de guerre, ne ja ne cessast,” indicating a remarkable energy and alacrity in combat activities.49 Of even greater interest, we are told that Boucicaut made great effort to build physical strength and endurance, running for extended periods of time to develop stamina and practicing with training weapons that were heavier than real ones: “autre fois feroit de une coignee ou d’un mail grant piece et longue, pour bien se duire en harnois et endurcir ses bras.”50 The biographer’s choice of words on these pages suggests that these activities were performed periodically rather than occasionally. Indeed, in order to have any meaningful effect they must have been completed regularly. Although this might appear to be purely a strength-building exercise, it should be noted that handling overly heavy practice weapons would greatly improve skill with manipulating those of ordinary weight, a practice with a long-established history in other martial traditions, such as the use of tanrenbo, heavy wooden practice weapons in Japanese sword arts.51 Boucicaut’s biographer claims that none in his time equaled his diligence, and while we may assume that the author inclines towards exaggeration in his praise, it is unclear whether the exaggeration lies in his description of Boucicaut’s deeds or in his claim that others did not practice as rigorously. Some of the details certainly corroborate the advice of Vegetius, who also mentions training with excessively heavy weapons, so it

47 48 49 50 51

Cuvelier, La Chanson de Bertrand du Guesclin de Cuvelier, ed. Jean-Claude Faucon (Toulouse, 1990), p. 11. Cuvelier, Chanson de Bertrand, p. 13. Denis Lalande, ed., Le livre des fais de bon messire Jehan le Maingre, dit Bouciquaut, mareschal de France et gouverneur de Jennes (Paris, 1985), p. 26. Ibid., pp. 24–25. Nakamura Taisaburo, The Spirit of the Sword: Iaido, Kendo, and Test Cutting with the Japanese Sword, trans. Gavin J. Poffley (Berkeley, CA, 2013), p. 107.

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appears likely that at least some of Boucicaut’s activities were part of more widespread practice.52 Another useful source type to consider here is knightly treatises, such as those written by Geoffroi de Charny and Ramon Llull. In his Book of Chivalry, de Charny’s prescriptions for the formation of knightly careers provide interesting insights into what measures he considered important for knights to develop their fighting skills. He perceives deeds of arms in terms of a “scale of prowess,” moving from jousts to tournaments to war, reasoning that these activities increase both in danger and difficulty with war encompassing the skills of the former two.53 De Charny also advocates young knights travelling beyond their home territories and the lands they own, which could be looked after by trusted friends and subordinates, in order to seek deeds of arms and war, as well as stating that glory, riches, or status should not diminish a knight’s desire to continue winning honor.54 Interesting reflections of this can be seen in the careers of real military men: for example, the earl of Warwick Thomas Beauchamp was remarkably active in both tournaments and war despite already being a man of great status, while Walter Mauny rose from being a simple knight to a baron thanks to his martial endeavors.55 This model is also reflected in some of the paragons discussed above, as men like Boucicaut and Pero Niño are depicted as tirelessly seeking to enhance their martial honor, regardless of danger or the praise they have already won.56 Ramon Llull’s Book of the Order of Chivalry is of similar value, as he enumerates a range of suitable activities that knights should pursue to develop their martial abilities: tilting against a quintain, participation at tournaments and Round Tables, hunting wild and dangerous animals, and interestingly, esgremir, which would seem to denote “fencing” in the loose sense of general fighting and selfdefence rather than exclusively swordplay, quite separate from tournaments and other formal events.57 Nonetheless, it is curious that these texts do not give more specific advice about how knights should practice, such as techniques to develop weapon skills or coordination. De Charny speaks of learning broader skills like strategy and command via observation and experience, listening to and asking

52 53 54 55

56 57

Orme, From Childhood to Chivalry, pp. 187–88. Geoffroi de Charny, A Knight’s Own Book of Chivalry, ed. Richard Kaeuper, trans. Elspeth Kennedy (Philadelphia, 2005), pp. 47–50. Ibid., pp. 51–52, 58–59, 64. For the warlike interests of Thomas Beauchamp, see John A. Wagner, Encyclopedia of the Hundred Years War (London, 2006), pp. 45–46; Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, pp. 124, 160–61, 315; Vale, Edward III and Chivalry, pp. 58, 87, 90. For the career and exploits of Walter Mauny, see Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, pp. 51, 104, 154, 219, 276; Wagner, Encyclopedia of the Hundred Years War, p. 213. Diaz de Gamez, The Unconquered Knight, pp. 14–15, 33, 65, 151, 204; Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms, pp. 17, 165–66; Lalande, ed., Le Livre des fais, pp. 57–58. Ramon Llull, The Book of the Order of Chivalry, trans. Noel Fallows (Woodbridge, 2013), p. 47; see also Ramon Llull, Llibre de l’orde de cavalleria, ed. Albert Soler Llopart (Barcelona: 1988), p. 177.



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others, but although he alludes vaguely to physical practice when he describes how the increase of years also increases a knight’s prowess, he gives no more detailed instruction on how they should practice fighting.58 Comparable observations can be made regarding Llull’s treatise, as his description of desirable habits for knights pertains more to philosophical and spiritual virtue.59 Kaeuper gives a convincing explanation for this absence, reasoning that de Charny would have regarded such technicalities as being best learned in the field, from the best practitioners, rather than from a book; both de Charny’s and Llull’s works were written for the purpose of reforming the behavior of contemporary knights by promoting a strict martial ethos, reigniting chivalric pride and enthusiasm and channelling it into useful endeavors.60 In this sense, their texts act as a call to arms for chivalrous society rather than an attempt to standardize training practices on a fine scale. Visual evidence from manuscripts is another potential source of information about training habits, and Oxford’s MS Bodley 264 in particular is an intriguing case. The manuscript is a cycle of romances about Alexander the Great written in French, initially produced between 1338 and 1344 at Tournai, and features several marginal illustrations that seem to depict knights and squires practicing their martial skills in a variety of ways.61 Fol. 56r shows three youths, apparently naked, running together at a barrel attached to a post (see Figure 1); one marginal illustration, fol. 82v depicts a man, unarmored, running at a target while another holds a counterweight attached, while in another a would-be jouster sits atop a wheeled wooden frame and is towed towards his target by several peers (see Figure 2); fol. 89r also depicts lance practice, though this time the youth is being rowed towards his target in a small boat; fol. 91r. shows one pair duelling with wooden cudgels and shields while in another illustration two pairs engage in “pickaback” wrestling (see Figure 3); fol. 113r depicts more familiar scenes, with two pairs of armored men jousting on horseback. Although these depictions have been interpreted as knightly training habits, specifically as adapted illustrations for Christopher Gravett’s work on English knights of the fourteenth century, the question of how we are to receive marginal images like these is challenging.62 Sometimes they are meant to depict genuine scenes from everyday life that would have been recognizable to contemporaries, and at other times their content is deliberately absurd or parodic.63 It would 58 59 60 61

62 63

De Charny, Knight’s Own Book, pp. 56–58. Llull, Book of the Order of Chivalry, pp. 71–79. De Charny, Knight’s Own Book, pp. 22, 24–25; Llull, Book of the Order of Chivalry, pp. 1–2, 9. Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodl. 264, fols. 56r, 82v, 89r, 91r, 113r. The full manuscript can be viewed online at https://digital.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/inquire/p/90701d49-5e0c-4fb5-9c7d45af96565468 [accessed 17 January 2018]. Christopher Gravett, English Medieval Knight 1300–1400, Warrior 58 (Oxford, 2002), pp. 34 and 59. S. K. Davenport, “Illustrations Direct and Oblique in the Margins of an Alexander Romance at Oxford,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 34 (1971), 83–95, at 86. See also Mark Cruse, Illuminating the Roman d’Alexandre: Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodley 264 (Cambridge, 2011), p. 33.

Figure 1: Oxford, MS Bodley 264, fol. 56r

Figure 2: Oxford, MS Bodley 264, fol 82v

Figure 3: Oxford, MS Bodley 264, fol. 91r



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be unwise to dismiss the marginalia as mere idle doodling; in her study of marginal illustrations in Flemish and northern French manuscripts, Elizabeth Hunt explains that a planner organizing the workshop of scribes and illustrators was sometimes responsible for determining the content of the margins, and that this was very likely the case for this cycle of Alexander romances.64 It has also been noted that there is certainly a relationship between the marginalia and the text here, as the more martial images tend to accompany “episodes of struggle” in the story.65 This certainly seems to be the case for the practices depicted on fol. 82v, at which point in the text Alexander and the emir of Babylon are preparing for war against each other; likewise, the practicing warriors on fol. 91r appear in a martial context, with characters discussing the prospect of single combats.66 However, this still leaves the uncertain issue of how literally we are to interpret these images, and therefore how seriously we can take them as examples of knightly practice. Whereas the fol. 82v scene of running at the quintain is believable, the three men charging at a target naked seems very strange, and rowing a lancer to a target might seem less a method of serious practice and more of a stunt to show off excellent balance. The towed youth’s appearance alongside the more familiar image of the quintain lends it credibility, though it is uncertain why a substitute for a real horse would be necessary if men-atarms were accustomed to riding from an early age, unless it was a measure to prevent unnecessary damage or fatigue to a valuable mount during training. It may also be that learning to couch the lance while managing a live steed was considered too demanding for neophyte men-at-arms, and so the two skills were introduced separately. It is possible to discern more valid practice in the images of fol. 91r; the “pickaback” wrestling would likely have aided in teaching how to seize an opponent from horseback and drag him to ground, while the fighting with shields and cudgels could have provided an alternative means of practicing foot combat. Medieval combat manuals, which have received attention in a handful of significant studies in the last decade, are another promising source for this topic. Discussion here will focus on three late medieval texts: the two English manuals preserved in the British Library’s MS Harley 3542 and MS Cotton Titus A xxv, both from the early to mid-fifteenth century, as well as the so-called “Döbringer Codex,” containing instruction from various masters-atarms, including passages by the recognized grandmaster Johannes Liechtenauer believed to date from 1389. Several scholars have pointed out the uncertainty over the latter date, but while we cannot guarantee that its content informs us of practice in the late fourteenth century, it remains probable that 1389 64 65 66

Elizabeth Moor Hunt, Illuminating the Borders of Northern French and Flemish Manuscripts, 1270–1310 (Oxford, 2007), p. 5. Davenport, “Illustrations,” p. 87. I must thank Professor Helen Nicholson for her assistance in reading and analyzing the text on the relevant folios of MS Bodley 264.

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is a date of some significance for the techniques described therein.67 These manuals typically depict participants training either alone or with partners, most commonly with the longsword and on foot, practicing isolated strikes and stances or working through short sequences where a specific attack is answered by a specific defence and counter. This would necessarily involve extensive repetition in order to develop skill and reflexes to a level where the moves became instinctual. It therefore indicates that the combat training of men-atarms involved a carefully considered and methodical approach, rather than being purely a matter of brawls or freestyle sparring. There may be some skepticism over whether these texts are indicative of knightly practice, given that they include the use of weapons untypical of menat-arms on the battlefield and that both their authors and audience could include men who were not of knightly station.68 However, Muhlberger makes a compelling point that the content in these volumes is a reliable indication of the techniques and practices of these men when he states that “the profound and diverse knowledge of the teaching masters could have been developed nowhere else but among men at arms,” adding that while a number of authors discuss fighting in full armor, such equipment was unlikely to be affordable for many below gentle rank.69 Clements further explains the value of these sources for giving insight into the training of men-at-arms across western Europe when he asserts that while many of the surviving texts were produced outside of the theaters in the Hundred Years’ War, “they reflect both training and practices of contemporary warriors throughout most of western Europe.”70 This is because, he reasons, the arms and armor of the period were largely similar across the region, and so the techniques used against them would have shared many common features.71 Clements further notes that some of the texts have knightly authors, and in the “Döbringer Codex,” in which Hanko Döbringer provides a gloss of an earlier Lichtenauer treatise, the latter addresses the reader as “Jung Ritter,” while other masters recorded in the codex also refer to the ritterlich pursuit of the longsword, clearly associating it with the combat techniques employed by

67

68

69 70 71

Dierk Hagedorn, “German Fechtbücher from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance,” in Daniel Jaguet, Karin Verelst, and Timothy Dawson, eds., Late Medieval and Early Modern Fight Books: Transmission and Tradition of Martial Arts in Europe (14th–17th Centuries), History of Warfare 112 (Leiden, 2016), pp. 247–79, at 256; Eric Burkart, “The Autograph of an Erudite Martial Artist: A Close Reading of Nuremberg, Germansches Nationalmuseum, Hs. 3227a,” in Jaguet et al., eds., Fight Books, pp. 451–80, at 451, 456. For non-knightly weapons, see London, British Library, MS Cotton Titus Axxv, fol. 105; Geldof, ‘‘Strokez off ij hand swerde,” p. 5; Jeffrey Forgeng and Alex Kiermayer, “‘The Chivalric Art’: German Martial Arts Treatises of the Middle Ages and Renaissance,” in Barry Molloy, ed., The Cutting Edge: Studies in Ancient and Medieval Combat (Stroud, 2007), pp. 153–67, at 154. For the audience and authors of combat manuals, see Forgeng and Kiermayer, “‘The Chivalric Art,’” p. 161 and Burkart, “The Autograph,” pp. 455, 475–77. Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms, pp. 24, 29. Clements, “Wielding the Weapons,” p. 450. Ibid.



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knights.72 As a result, although it might be expected that the audience of such texts should include men who were not members of the chivalric elite, aspiring knights were also among the expected readers of the same combat manuals prescribing regular training, and the techniques described therein could not have differed greatly from the skills used by the military aristocracy. One of the most striking features of the combat manuals is the priority they give to skill over brute strength. One section of Döbringer’s gloss of Lichtenauer describes the attacker as a Peuffel, “buffalo,” referring contemptuously to a peasant; the association is a curious one, and it is tempting to read into it a scornful reference to practitioners with no skill who relied only on their strength to win combats.73 Clements also provides compelling arguments for the sophistication of medieval longsword techniques, and Geldof and Hester both underline the scientific, methodical approach present in the manuals, reflecting a system of combat that was carefully considered and required diligent practice.74 A closer look at the chivalric literature of the period also bears out this emphasis on skill. Although many examples refer to pure strength, there are similarly many comments made about the speed, agility, or swordsmanship of knights in literature; among Kaeuper’s many examples, he mentions a knight in the Lancelot lauding the swiftness of the titular hero’s technique, as well as Joinville’s praise for the deftness of a Genoese knight in dodging a blow before striking off a limb.75 This demonstrates that the intricacy of late medieval menat-arms’ fighting techniques was such that they could and often did take the learning and practice of their skills seriously. The fight texts reveal other activities that likely formed a part of wider practice. Geldof notes that the surviving Middle English manuals feature a kind of activity not found in continental counterparts: using a set of systematic drills which practitioners could complete individually as part of their exercise, and which would help to instill a familiarity with fighting techniques over time.76 Geldof is primarily referring to the fifteenth-century English fight manual preserved in the British Library’s MS Cotton Titus A xxv, but the same appears to be true as well of the late fourteenth-century text in MS Harley 3542: the text in Harley focuses on the practice of sequential drills, detailing cuts and footwork, analogous to the kata of Japanese martial arts.77 This approach is apparently unique to the Middle English texts, and potentially indicates a common convention particular to men-at-arms in England in the late Middle Ages. 72 73 74 75 76 77

Ibid.; Nuremberg, Germanisches Nationalmuseum [NGN], Cod. HS. 3227a, fols. 18r, 43r, 43v, 44r. See also Geldof, ‘‘Strokez off ij hand swerde,” p. 2. NGN, Cod. HS. 3227a, fol. 28v. See also Clements, “Wielding the Weapons,” p. 454. Ibid., p. 458; Geldof, ‘‘Strokez off ij hand swerde,” p. 2; Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry,” pp. 177,182. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence, pp. 137, 141. See also pp. 139, 142, 148. Geldof, ‘‘Strokez off ij hand swerde,” pp. 4–5. London, British Library, MS Harley 3542, fols. 82r–85r. See also Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry,” p. 179.

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Another intriguing feature of these texts is their inclusion of verse. Hester explains that the use of verse is a common feature in the utilitarian texts that proliferated in the late Middle Ages, and served the dual purpose of enumerating important facts and providing practical instruction, as is the case with the fight manuals.78 The existence and nature of this verse is significant for a number of reasons. Firstly, while the versification of language can make it more memorable for the practitioner, this typically only holds true with sufficient repetition, suggesting that men-at-arms may have been required to frequently repeat the fighting techniques described in the manuals in order to absorb the verse instruction, particularly as reciting the lines in time with the actions they describe would make for more effective learning. Secondly, Hester and Geldof illustrate that much of the language in the combat texts is impenetrable to the modern reader, utilizing as it does various technical terms in such a way that the complete meaning could only be understood by demonstration. The manuals were thus not stand-alone guides, but a complement to real-life instruction, and for men-at-arms this may have formed a part of boyhood tutelage under a master-at-arms.79 Thirdly, the use of verse to make knowledge and techniques memorable could well indicate a need for practitioners to rehearse the skills alone and in their own time, away from the inspection of a master or indeed the battlefield. Methods of Collective Physical Training Although discerning practices for collective physical training in surviving sources is yet more difficult, it is worth briefly considering this area. We can be reasonably confident that medieval military minds recognized the value of bodies of troops working as a collective, as evidenced by the appreciation of Vegetian comments that men from different places and backgrounds “could not learn to act together without rigorous training carried out in common.”80 Nonetheless, actual examples of medieval armies adopting this approach before the late fifteenth century are difficult to identify. This is particularly true of men-at-arms, as Rogers indicates when he states that it is unlikely that landowning warriors were “put to any sort of formal drill” when attending their lord, though he does note it is likely they engaged in martial activities purely for entertainment.81 The most obvious opportunity for collective physical training is participation in tournaments, as explored above. It has been established that the effective actions of grouped warriors were essential for success in battle, and although early tournaments frequently involved displays of reckless individual courage, the rewards and prestige to be gained by acting as a cohesive team must surely 78 79 80 81

MS Harley 3542, fols. 84r–85v; also Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry,” pp. 176, 178. Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry,” p. 181; Geldof, ‘‘Strokez off ij hand swerde,” pp. 2, 6. Allmand, The De Re Militari of Vegetius, p. 28. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 7.



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have provided knights with an incentive to use these events for practicing group maneuvers and tactics.82 This would seem all the more likely at least from the early fourteenth century, because lords were likely to lead the same men in tournaments as well as on military campaigns; Juliet Barker gives the example of Lord Berkeley’s household men travelling with him to tournaments at Hertford, Coventry, Exeter, and Bristol, all in 1328.83 However, Muhlberger notes that the tournament was already in decline during the fourteenth century, with changes in battle tactics making the skills of knightly mounted combat in groups slightly less relevant than before.84 Aside from this, it may be that mixed knights and infantrymen were put to practice together by their commanders while on campaign, but examples of this are difficult to locate. Methods of Mental Training Much of the mental “training” of men-at-arms took the form of wider cultural conditioning, though some individual practices can also be discerned. There can be no doubt that contemporaries were aware of the need for men-at-arms to be mentally prepared for the stresses of fighting and killing. De Charny makes frank reference to “great distress and strong emotion” for knights when they had to endure punishing physical hardship and witness the loss of friends, and Allmand is clear that Vegetius’s emphasis on morale and fostering psychological resilience “struck a chord with medieval readers.”85 We can therefore be confident that various measures, both general and individual, existed to help men-atarms face the perils of their calling. Barry Molloy and Dave Grossman have noted that the members of the “warrior class” of any given society tend to be conditioned, culturally and psychologically, to foster aggressiveness and develop their capacity for violence.86 As noted earlier, evidence for this in the Middle Ages is apparent in the early training of young boys from knightly backgrounds. Yet Molloy and Grossman also make an important point in emphasizing the psychological difficulty involved in killing another person; they remark that while social conditioning may have changed throughout history, human physiology has remained essentially the same, meaning that medieval warriors would still have been susceptible to the brain changes induced by the stress of combat situations, and many may have struggled to overcome biological “programming” that discourages intra-species

82

83 84 85 86

Steven Isaac, “Cowardice and Fear Management: The 1173–74 Conflict as a Case Study,” Journal of Medieval Military History 4 (2006), 50–64, at 55. See also Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms, p. 59. Barker, The Tournament, pp. 22, 26, 27. Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms, p. 59. De Charny, Knight’s Own Book, p. 61; Allmand, The De Re Militari of Vegetius, p. 258. Barry Molloy and Dave Grossman, “Why Can’t Johnny Kill?: The Psychology and Physiology of Interpersonal Combat,” in Barry Molloy, ed., The Cutting Edge: Studies in Ancient and Medieval Combat (Stroud, 2007), pp. 188–202, at 189.

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slaughter.87 Although Steven Isaac reasons that medieval people were more inured to violence than is typical today, he nonetheless agrees that combat in the Middle Ages must still have been a fearful experience and that medieval combatants were not only aware of the potential for cowardice in battle, but that it was in fact expected.88 Jan Verbruggen has likewise discussed a range of convincing examples from across the medieval period, particularly the First Crusade, that illustrate how knights and other warriors were susceptible to fear on the battlefield.89 As a consequence we may expect that in addition to the cultivation of an aggressive mental attitude among men-at-arms, measures were taken, either by individuals or society, to help men-at-arms manage the fear of death and the stress of combat situations. We may again turn to de Charny and Llull for an indication of these measures. Both commentators place importance on the need to cultivate discipline and virtue through asceticism. De Charny states that self-discipline, abstaining from fine food and wine or soft beds, as well as persistently embracing hardships such as cold and limited sleep, enhances the courage of a man-at-arms and leads to a better military career.90 Llull makes similar assertions, denouncing vices such as gluttony and envy specifically because they prevent a knight from being an effective soldier.91 Religion and spirituality also feature very strongly in the writing of both chivalric commentators. De Charny makes it clear that honoring God through deeds of arms should always be a knight’s first priority, and that any success he enjoys in his martial pursuits is only through God’s grace and permission.92 Virtue and the glory of God are also at the centre of Llull’s vision of chivalry; he frequently emphasizes the necessity for fine personal qualities in a would-be knight, and advocates regular attendance at mass and sermons in order to further refine these virtues.93 A knight’s relationship with God was therefore regarded as one he needed actively to maintain because it was a fundamental part of his mental preparation for battle, concentrating on thoughts of spiritual glory in order to overcome the natural instincts of fear. The significance of God, heaven, and righteousness for medieval soldiers is also remarked on by Rogers, but interestingly he observes that although some men derived comfort from mass and Holy Communion before battle, this was not as pervasive as might be expected.94 It is hence worth considering what other measures prepared men-at-arms mentally for combat. Other actions taken by individuals include participation in tournaments. Isaac states that while success in earnest battle would have required the coordinated 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94

Molloy and Grossman, “Why Can’t Johnny Kill?,” pp. 190, 196–99. Isaac, “Cowardice and Fear Management,” pp. 51, 62–63. J. F. Verbruggen, The Art of Warfare in Western Europe: From the Eighth Century to 1340, trans. Sumner Willard, 2nd ed. (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 40–41. De Charny, Knight’s Own Book, pp. 61, 68–69. Llull, Book of the Order of Chivalry, pp. 73, 76. De Charny, Knight’s Own Book, pp. 96, 106. Llull, Book of the Order of Chivalry, pp. 56–60, 77. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, pp. 167–69.



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actions of groups, the tournament was good training for individual bravery.95 Tournaments would also have provided suitable mental training, because they gave knights an opportunity to increase their skill and experience, factors that Steven Morillo rightly identifies as significant in helping soldiers better assess any dangers they face, and therefore have less fear of their opponents.96 This chimes well with the comments of Molloy and Grossman, that more highly trained or specialized soldiers were probably required to remain in the high Condition Yellow or low Condition Red brain states they identify for combat situations, where humans still retain the ability to exercise fine motor skills.97 As we have established that skilled execution was necessary for the fighting techniques of men-at-arms, it would no doubt be very important for them to retain this capability in the traumatic conditions of the battlefield, so we might assume that many knights sought or were expected to participate in tournaments and similar actions as part of their mental training, as this could facilitate an “inoculation to the stresses of a combat environment.”98 However, beyond this it is easier to identify measures of mental training on a socio-cultural level. While Verbruggen notes the merit of exploring soldiers’ mental preparation for battle, his explanations of this focus more on general attitudes that overruled fear rather than individual activities designed to suppress it. These include interest in opportunities for personal gain, the influence of a good commander, and a sense of duty.99 In addition to these, Morillo outlines a range of other strategies that may have mitigated the influence of fear upon knightly combatants. One of these is the simple mental trick of assuming a greater level of skill and bravery than the enemy, paralleled by Anglo’s observation that knights were advised to bolster their flagging stamina with the mental trick of assuming their adversary is even more tired, while another strategy involves the sense of surety provided by the depth and density of a closelypacked formation.100 A further preventative measure is that of group bonding. Morillo explains that the tendency towards the “flight” reaction could be mitigated by soldiers being reluctant to abandon comrades they were close to and with whom they had shared experiences.101 This seems probable in the case of men-at-arms, who would likely have spent much time in the company of their lord and fellow retainers, typically fighting in the same company in warfare and tournaments. Furthermore, the experience of fighting alongside relatives, neighbours, and friends would have enhanced “the motivational powers of glory and shame,”

Isaac, “Cowardice and Fear Management,” p. 55. Steven Morillo, “Expecting Cowardice: Medieval Battle Tactics Reconsidered,” Journal of Medieval Military History 4 (2006), 65–73, at 67. 97 Molloy and Grossman, “Why Can’t Johnny Kill?” p. 194. 98 Ibid., pp. 190–91. 99 Verbruggen, The Art of Warfare, pp. 49–57. 100 Anglo, “How to Win,” p. 251; Morillo, “Expecting Cowardice,” p. 68. 101 Morillo, “Expecting Cowardice,” p. 67. 95 96

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especially for men belonging to chivalrous society who were necessarily concerned with family honor and reputation.102 Two more dynamics which could have reduced fear on the battlefield for men-at-arms were the use of armor, and the cultural convention of surrender and ransom. Rogers notes that the armor typically worn by men-at-arms offered such extensive protection that men could go into battle confident that only the most powerful or unlikely blows would threaten their lives.103 Although death was not impossible, defeat would more likely entail capture, in which circumstances a warrior of gentle rank could reasonably expect to be spared for the prospect of a profitable ransom.104 As a result, it is apparent that even if no organized regime prevailed for the mental training of men-at-arms, there existed a range of strategies that individual warriors could employ, as well as social and cultural factors intended to encourage aggressiveness, inoculate against battle stress, and reduce, if not remove, the fear of death in combat. Conclusion A number of uncertainties remain regarding the formative and routine training of men-at-arms, as several aspects are still unclear: the training of horses, training apparel, and questions of when and where they practiced may all be areas that warrant further exploration. Nevertheless, we should be more confident about the importance of regular combat training to men-at-arms in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and if we consider various sources of evidence some very interesting details emerge about this aspect of their lives. From childhood, boys from knightly backgrounds were encouraged to take an interest in military culture, from weapons and fighting to horses and armor; they were instructed to closely observe the actions and techniques of their elders, both in tournaments and presumably in more informal contexts; they received tutelage from knightly masters in handling weapons, practiced with lance and quintain both on foot and mounted, participated in specialized tournaments, and accompanied hunting parties. A range of possible physical and mental practices for established men-at-arms can be discerned from surviving evidence. Aside from the widely recognized hunting, jousts, and tournaments, other possible training activities included the use of excessively heavy practice weapons, wrestling, running, hurling javelins, sprinting or riding at a quintain, and agile mounting and dismounting from horses. Training methods of these sorts not only functioned as genuine combat preparation but could also serve the purposes of entertainment and competition, as is apparent in their frequent description as “games” in the writing of the period, particularly in the works of biographers depicting their subjects as fine competitors. In addition, repetition of techniques with various weapons, both with a Soldiers’ Lives, p. 171. pp. 171–72. 104 Morillo, “Expecting Cowardice,” p. 72. 102 Rogers, 103 Ibid.,



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partner and alone, appears to have been relatively common, and one feature that was possibly unique to English chivalry was the execution of sequenced weapon drills like the kata of Asian martial arts. Chivalric commentators like de Charny and Llull inform us that informal “fencing”, venturing abroad for military adventures, and improving one’s skills gradually from jousting to warfare were also advisable practices. Their works describe an ideal of always striving for greater honor in a knightly career, and this can be clearly seen in the lives and exploits of real military men, from captains of the Hundred Years’ War like Thomas Beauchamp and Walter Mauny to the subjects of chivalric biographies like Boucicaut, Pero Niño and Bertrand du Guesclin. Mental training, while far less formalized, also seems to have existed. On an individual level, men-at-arms might endeavor to improve their effectiveness as warriors by living a strict ascetic life, limiting the luxuries of food and drink or comfort. Remaining mindful of God and virtue was considered important for a warrior’s spiritual wellbeing, as well as to bolster his courage in battle. The use of mental “tricks” is also sometimes evidenced; maintaining a positive mindset by assuming greater strength or skill than the enemy, even in the middle of battle, was believed to improve performance. On a broader cultural level, the fostering of aggression among boys, exposure to combat situations in the form of tournaments, weapons training, group bonding, and the convention of surrender and ransom all served to help men-at-arms cope with the stress of battle conditions and control the inevitable fear induced by combat scenarios. Some evidence would suggest that formal training in arms, either in boyhood or later, was not necessarily essential for men to become successful knights. The careers of Hawkwood, Knollys, and du Guesclin indicate that it was possible for men to combine natural aptitude with practical experience. Nevertheless, it is clear that other men-at-arms did engage in regular practice, and we might reasonably expect that levels of diligence and motivation must have varied from one individual to the next, as reflected in comments by de Charny and Muhlberger about the differing levels of ambition among men-at-arms to achieve honor.105 What emerges, then, is a stronger conviction about the importance of regular combat training for men-at-arms in the Late Middle Ages, along with a clearer image of how this might have looked in their daily lives.

105 De

Charny, Knight’s Own Book, pp. 51–59; Muhlberger, Deeds of Arms, pp. 155–56.

7 The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years’ War, 1337–1453 Ronald W. Braasch III

So many notable and perilous adventures have occurred, so many pitched battles and other deeds of arms and prowess, that he and all who’ve been with him in those battles and exploits … should be deemed and reputed worthy.1

This study of the Hundred Years’ War is not concerned with individual battles. Instead the intent is to analyze those “notable and perilous adventures,” “other deeds of arms and prowess,” and “exploits” that the chroniclers found worthy of mention during the conflict between England and France. These small fights, which took place during battles, sieges, and campaigns of devastation, are skirmishes. Such skirmishes have an interesting story to tell because they impact the larger-scale instruments of strategy mentioned above. In order to analyze the effects of skirmishes in the conduct of warfare during the Hundred Years’ War, it is first necessary to define the term “skirmish.” For the purpose of this study, a skirmish is a small fight, something between a battle and a duel, that is often, but not always, associated with a larger operation. Furthermore, a skirmish does not always take place in the ideal “open field,” but may be fought in any of a variety of locations and environments. For example, at least as much of the total fighting can take the form of smaller combats, including ambushes of foraging detachments, encounters between scouting parties, intermittent clashes of small groups of fighters at the barriers or assaults on walls during sieges – examples which one may not always envisage when one thinks of the term “skirmish.” And, while a skirmish could occur as a direct challenge (for instance in pursuit of battlefield honor), it more often took place as part of a larger operation. Thus, skirmishes affected the strategies of kings and dukes because victory and failure in these small encounters altered the operational picture of army movements. Therefore it is important to understand these smaller actions if we want to understand why armies were organized as 1

Jean le Bel in reference to the English campaigns during the reign of Edward III; Jean le Bel, The True Chronicles of Jean le Bel, 1290–1360, ed. and trans. Nigel Bryant (Woodbridge, 2011), p. 21.

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they were, which soldiers were most valuable and why, and why the tides of war flowed in different directions at different times. What, then, can skirmishes say about the conduct of warfare during the Hundred Years’ War? This paper demonstrates that skirmishes are a neglected aspect of warfare during the Hundred Years’ War, and, using evidence compiled from the contemporary chronicles of Jean le Bel, Jean Froissart, Enguerrand de Monstrelet, and Mathieu d’Escouchy, argues that skirmishes affected the strategies of battle, siege, and devastation (in addition to their cultural role as individual acts of glory), and that indiscipline was the primary cause of French failure for the greater part of the war between 1337 and 1453. Modern Neglect The history of the history of skirmishes during the Hundred Years’ War is a short one. No in-depth study of the topic, even of article length, exists, though many military historians have written books about the Hundred Years’ War. These historians have focused their approach on three distinct modes of warfare: battle, siege, and devastation. A far from complete list of historical studies illustrates this. For example, Alfred Burne, author of The Crecy War and The Agincourt War, focuses primarily on battles, but also examines many sieges.2 He analyzes a number of the less familiar battles of the Hundred Years’ War, while still providing an appropriate analysis of Crécy, Poitiers, and Agincourt. But, combats below the level of small battles generally escape his notice. Other historians, such as H. J. Hewitt, author of The Organization of War under Edward III, 1338–1362, determine that sieges and devastating raids primarily defined warfare during this period.3 Christopher Allmand argues in The Hundred Years War: England and France at War 1300–1450 that siege warfare was Henry V’s primary means of conquering and keeping territory.4 Kelly DeVries’s Infantry Warfare in the Fourteenth Century: Discipline, Tactics, and Technology emphasizes battles in medieval warfare. He makes the distinction between ambushes and battles, and rightly illustrates that generalship had a great deal to do with victory in warfare during the fourteenth century, but again he does not look at the influence of effective commanders in smaller fights.5 Michael Wolfe and Ivy A. Corfis, editors of The Medieval City under Siege, argue that the Hundred Years’ War became a long struggle of attrition and willful devastation typified

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Alfred H. Burne, The Crecy War: A Military History of the Hundred Years War from 1337 to the peace of Bretigny, 1360 (London, 1955); idem, The Agincourt War: A Military History of the Latter Part of the Hundred Years War From 1369 to 1453 (London, 1956). H. J. Hewitt, The Organization of War under Edward III 1338–62 (New York, 1966), pp. 93–139. Christopher Allmand, The Hundred Years War: England and France at War 1300–1450 (Cambridge, 1988), p. 57. Kelly DeVries, Infantry Warfare in the Early Fourteenth Century: Discipline, Tactics, and Technology (Woodbridge, 1996), pp. 5–6.



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by endless sieges and infamous excursions.6 Clifford Rogers in his War, Cruel and Sharp focuses on devastation as a strategic weapon. In particular, Rogers argues that devastation was Edward III’s primary means of seeking battle.7 Many of these historians mention skirmishes in passing, but none has given sustained attention to the subject of skirmishes and their effects. Collectively, skirmishes could determine the results or significance of a siege, the effectiveness of a ravaging expedition, or could make all the difference in the many little wars between hostile garrisons that were so typical of the Hundred Years’ War – just as they could in other periods. Matthew Strickland, for example, in his War and Chivalry asserts that, in the period his study analyzes, skirmishes were on par with devastation, siege, and battle as “the principal expressions of aggression in war.”8 In “The Concept of Decisive Battles in World History,” Yuval Noah Harari states that “in medieval military history it is now the mainstream opinion that medieval war was dominated by sieges, raids, skirmishes, and ambushes – not by battles.”9 His argument only begs the question, however, as to why many of the works on the Hundred Years’ War do not emphasize skirmishes. Rogers’s Soldiers’ Lives through History: The Middle Ages briefly discusses the general importance of skirmishes; however, no emphasis is placed on The Hundred Years’ War.10 Edouard Perroy’s, Alfred Burne’s, Christopher Allmand’s, and Anne Curry’s overviews of the Hundred Years’ War fail to mention skirmishes even in the index.11 It is true, nevertheless, that the skirmishes of the great Anglo-French war have not been entirely neglected. T. F. Tout, in “Neglected Fights between Crécy and Poitiers,” utilized the Chronique normande to explain how the French adapted to English tactics through the smaller battles and skirmishes that occurred during this period.12 His account is useful in that it shows, within one decade of the fourteenth century, how important the smaller fights could be. As recently as 2015, Steven Mulberger examined several small fights during 6 7

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Michael Wolfe and Ivy A. Corfis, eds., The Medieval City under Siege (Woodbridge, 1999), p. 9. The chevauchées of Edward III and the Black Prince represent examples of these “infamous excursions.” Clifford J. Rogers, War, Cruel and Sharp: English Strategy under Edward III, 1327–1360 (Woodbridge, 2000), p. 8. See also the same author’s chapter “By Fire and Sword: Bellum Hostile and ‘Civilians’ in the Hundred Years’ War,” in Rogers and Mark Grimsley, eds., Civilians in the Path of War (Lincoln, NE, 2002), pp. 33–78, for further information on devastation. Matthew Strickland, War and Chivalry: The Conduct and Perception of War in England and Normandy, 1066–1217 (New York, 1996), p. 259. Strickland demonstrates the value of skirmishes between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries. I hope to confirm that value with regard to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries as well. Yuval Noah Harari, “The Concept of Decisive Battles in World History,” Journal of World History 18 (2007), 251–66, at 252–53. The author provides a lengthy footnote of impressive secondary source-work. Clifford J. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives through History: The Middle Ages (Westport, CT, 2007). Edouard Perroy, The Hundred Years War (New York, 1951); Burne, Agincourt War; Allmand, The Hundred Years War; Anne Curry, The Hundred Years War (Basingstoke, 1993). T. F. Tout, “Some Neglected Fights between Crecy and Poitiers,” English Historical Review 20 (1905), 726–30.

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the earl of Buckingham’s 1380–81 chevauchée in order to determine how well Frenchmen would fight against their invading English adversaries. And while he determined that a Frenchman would not only fight, but also fight well and fight successfully,13 his conclusion does not answer the question as to why the English were so successful over the greater period of the conflict. Furthermore, Jonathan Sumption’s (at time of writing four-volume) account of the Hundred Years’ War also gives significant attention to skirmishes, though in a narrative fashion. 14 His fourth volume is one of the few published works that examines skirmishes during the reign of Henry V: this is important because for a time, after Agincourt, “small war,” such as skirmishes (along with defensive siege warfare), was the primary means of French resistance. Taken as a group, skirmishes during the Hundred Years’ War may have been as important as battles. However, vastly more has been written on just one of the major battles, Agincourt, than all the minor combats combined.15 Despite the overall neglect of skirmishes in modern historical study, these small fights require further investigation because of their significance to warfare throughout the period. Chronicle Evidence: The Case for Statistical Analysis In the case of skirmishes, an analytical and statistical approach can be useful in determining their importance. Statistical analysis has become a useful tool to historians. Two articles dealing with aspects of the Hundred Years’ War can serve as examples of this trend. In 1992, Michael Evans used a statistical analysis of remissions evidence in order discern the motivation of brigands in Lancastrian Normandy;16 while W. M. Ormrod’s work on the European State Finance Database Project assisted in his research on taxation and royal finance.17 In conducting a statistical analysis, chronicles can provide an important resource. While it is true that the chroniclers cannot always be trusted – any more than the self-serving testimony often found in letters of remission can be – it is possible to analyze general trends within their work. 13 14 15

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Steven Muhlberger, ed. and trans., Will a Frenchman Fight? Deeds of Arms 4 (Wheaton, IL, 2015), p. 7. Jonathan Sumption, The Hundred Years War, vol. 1: Trial by Battle; vol. 2: Trial by Fire; vol. 3: Divided Houses; vol. 4: Cursed Kings (London, 1990–2015). Some recent accounts of Agincourt are: Anne Curry, Agincourt: A New History (Gloucester, 2005); Juliet Barker, Agincourt: Henry V and the Battle that Made England (New York, 2005); Michael K. Jones, Agincourt 1415: Battlefield Guide (Barnsley, S. Yorks., 2005); Michael Jones, 24 Hours at Agincourt, 25 October 1415 (London, 2015); Clifford J. Rogers, “The Battle of Agincourt,” in L. J. Andrew Villalon and Donald J. Kagay, eds., The Hundred Years War (Part II): Different Vistas (Leiden, 2008), pp. 37–132; Stephen Cooper, Agincourt, Myth and Reality 1415–2015 (Barnsley, S. Yorks., 2014). Remissions are the lists of English (or French) pardons of those individuals who had once been seen as criminals to the crown. See M. R. Evans, “Brigandage and Resistance in Lancastrian Normandy: A Study of the Remission Evidence,” Reading Medieval Studies 18 (1992), 103–34. Anne Curry, ed., Arms, Armies, and Fortifications in the Hundred Years War (Woodbridge, 1994), p. xiv.



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The Chroniclers The myriad accounts of skirmishes during the Hundred Years’ War that have come down to us are scattered across countless chronicles, newsletters, chivalric biographies, and other sources. To collect and analyze all the available data, even for just one of the phases of the conflict, would be a mammoth undertaking. Considering the disproportion between the great importance of the topic and the complete lack of synthetic historical analysis of it to date, however, it is worth undertaking a preliminary study of the subject based on a representative sample of skirmishes drawn from a deliberately limited set of sources. An initial scholarly reconnaissance of this sort should help identify issues and questions for more exhaustive studies, and even allow the development of tentative conclusions regarding the nature and significance of the small combats that collectively made up so much of the substance of late medieval warfare. Limiting the data-set to skirmishes reported in the work of four chroniclers, starting with Jean le Bel and moving through three continuators of his work – Jean Froissart, Enguerrand de Monstrelet, and Mathieu d’Escouchy – and also limiting consideration to combats fought in certain areas and involving certain groups of fighters, produces a data-set large enough to support general conclusions, but small enough for analysis manageable in an article-length study. The intentional similarity of the four contributing sources also helps ensure that any mutations we can observe over time are more likely to represent actual changes rather than variations in the predilections and biases of the different chroniclers. Jean le Bel was a religious figure and soldier who covered the Hundred Years’ War from 1337 until 1360.18 According to Nigel Bryant, editor and translator of the True Chronicles, Jean le Bel was a canon of the cathedral at Liège at a time when some religious leaders led armies into battle.19 In the years preceding the Hundred Years’ War, le Bel served in the army of Edward III during the English king’s 1327 campaign in Scotland.20 From 1353 to 1360, he compiled his True Chronicles at the behest of Sir Jean de Hainaut.21 One must assess le Bel with care, because he has several significant biases. First, it is the aristocracy whose feats of arms he portrays, for it seems he judged how people behaved according to their social station. Therefore, he provides only a simple view of the acts of the peasantry.22 Second, he demonstrates prejudices against various peoples, such as Germans, French, Brabantese, and

18 19 20 21 22

His work begins earlier, at the crowning of Edward III. For the sake of this study, however, I take 1337, conventionally the beginning of the Hundred Years’ War, as a starting point. Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 3. Ibid., p. 4. Ibid., p. 6. Ibid., p. 11. This is hardly exceptional for the time: all of the chroniclers suffer from this drawback. I mention it in regard to le Bel because his tone concerning those individuals who attempt to rise above their station is especially severe.

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others.23 This last feature, however, does not seem to negatively influence his overall narrative of events. Le Bel is very useful for the study of skirmishes during the Hundred Years’ War. While he relies primarily on oral accounts, his experience on campaign gives him a certain amount of credibility in explaining specific engagements. It is also apparent that le Bel talks a lot about skirmishes: from within the True Chronicles, I have compiled thirty-five examples of combats that fit the definition of the term given above. One difficulty in analyzing le Bel, however, is that he did not differentiate between battles and smaller fights, requiring any study of his work to be diligently cross-referenced. Bryant, in fact, pointed out that “many of the battles [le Bel] described are not even given names [by him], even those as important as Rio Salado or Neville’s Cross, let alone Mauron or Tourinne.”24 This suggests that he considered noble deeds of arms during small fights to be just as valuable as those that occurred during larger engagements. Thus, while he has several biases, le Bel’s account is still relevant to further analysis, and makes his True Chronicles valuable to any study of skirmishes during the Hundred Years’ War. The next chronicler is Jean Froissart. Froissart was a court chronicler who based the early parts of his work on le Bel, but continued the history of the Hundred Years’ War through to 1400. He was born around 1337 in the county of Hainaut,25 and his family came from the merchant class. He found his way into court life26 and made it to England by 1361, probably beginning his chronicles around 1369.27 It is possible that Froissart’s early pro-English stance was a result of his copying of le Bel, while his later pro-French views may indeed be his own. Geoffrey Brereton, editor and translator of Froissart’s Chronicles, suggests on the other hand that the French performed better militarily in Froissart’s later years and were therefore more deserving of praise – that is, that his changing views represent even-handed judgments rather than shifting biases.28 In the section of the Chronicles that takes up where le Bel leaves off, I have found forty-four data points that can clearly be classified as skirmishes. Of the three chroniclers, Froissart covers the longest period. Unlike his predecessor Froissart was not a soldier, however, which may indicate that he did not value the lesser-known feats of arms as much as did le Bel. In addition, Froissart was recording events much later. This may account for both his failure to describe some of the smaller fights mentioned within the True Chronicles, and inaccuracies in many of his details. In summary, Froissart is still useful on the subject of skir-

23 24 25 26 27 28

Ibid., p. 10. Ibid., p. 9. Jean Froissart, Chronicles, ed. and trans. Geoffrey Brereton (Harmondsworth, 1968), p. 9. Ibid., p. 10. Ibid., pp. 10–11. Ibid., p. 14. This is based on Brereton’s conclusion that Froissart was mostly impartial.



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mish warfare, because he provides valuable data between le Bel and Monstrelet. He is especially valuable for the years of French resurgence prior to 1400. The third chronicler is Enguerrand de Monstrelet. Monstrelet was a minor noble who served Sir Jean de Luxembourg and the house of Burgundy. His chronicle provides an excellent overview of the many conflicts ranging roughly from 1400 until 1444, after which Mathieu d’Escouchy continued his work well past 1453.29 It is clear that Monstrelet worked within the house of Burgundy, but was not Burgundian. Hanno Wijsman explains that he was born around 1390 in Ponthieu into the lower nobility, where he served Sir John de Luxembourg.30 It seems likely that Monstrelet exhibits a pro-Burgundian bias to an extent in his work. For instance, his accounts of Burgundian feats of arms increase exponentially when compared to Froissart or le Bel; but this may in the main be a reflection of Monstrelet’s sources of information (from his patrons in the house of Burgundy) rather than an indication of slanted evaluation. Furthermore, he wrote during a time when Burgundy was in a near-constant state of war against the lords of France, until perhaps the treaty of Arras in 1435. Overall, it is clear that Monstrelet was not so biased as to invalidate statistical information derived from his work, and indeed there are reasons to consider him possibly the best chronicler of the four for the purposes of this study. First, he indicated when he was or was not present at an event.31 Second, he did not rely solely on oral reports (which made up the majority of Froissart’s evidence). Instead, he explains that he utilized council records, edicts, declarations, summonses, letters, negotiations, and treaties, among other sources.32 Lastly, unlike his predecessors he seems to have written down events as they occurred. Despite his apparent bias, Monstrelet is extremely important to the study of skirmishes, especially during the second half of the Hundred Years’ War, because he wrote so often about them. My study discovered no fewer than seventy-seven accounts within his work that can be identified as referring to one or more skirmishes. Monstrelet often stated that there were “many considerable skirmishes” or “many severe skirmishes,” but added that to describe them all would be impossible. He would then pick a major or noteworthy skirmish to describe. The final chronicler is Mathieu d’Escouchy, who continued Monstrelet’s chronicle at least until 1461, well past the conventional ending to the Hundred

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1453 is also the official year of Monstrelet’s death. Hanno Wijsman, “History in Transition: Enguerrand de Monstrelet’s Chronique in Manuscript and Print (c. 1450–c. 1600),” in Malcolm Walsby and Graeme Kemp, eds., The Book Triumphant: Print in Transition in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Leiden, 2011), p. 201. An example is the capture of Joan of Arc, at which he indicates he was not present: Enguerrand de Monstrelet, Chronicles, trans. Thomas Johnes, 2 vols. (London, 1840–45), 1:572. Ibid., p. xxv.

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Years’ War.33 While Wijsman points out that anonymous continuators in addition to d’Escouchy continued Monstrelet’s work until perhaps 1471 or later,34 to include these exhaustively might only add confusion in attempting to analyze skirmishes during this period. I have therefore chosen to use d’Escouchy as the primary resource for 1444–53, and to compare his chronicle wherever practicable to additional sources. D’Escouchy came from the minor nobility in Picardy and should be evaluated as illustrating events from the Burgundian perspective. Furthermore, his attempt to capture the chivalric pageantry particularly of the French nobility overshadows much of his narrative – the best examples of this being perhaps his account of Charles VII’s arrivals in Paris and Rouen in 1449, in which he describes in detail the armor and vestments of each approaching noble.35 In the Skirmish Database appended to this article, I have noted seven instances from the relevant sections of d’Escouchy’s chronicle that can be considered skirmishes. His predilection for the illustration of aristocratic ceremony may explain why he does not cover nearly as many military actions in comparison proportionally to Monstrelet.36 Ultimately however, d’Escouchy is still important to the analysis of skirmish warfare. As a well-documented account following on from Monstrelet, d’Escouchy’s chronicle completes the narrative of events through the expulsion of the English in 1453. Furthermore, while he focuses primarily on great events involving the French and Burgundian nobility, the smaller details are still visible throughout his work and provide enough examples with which to analyze trends through the final years of the war. Certainly, conducting a study of skirmishes based on only one type of source (chronicle evidence) can have its disadvantages. Typically, numerous examples drawn from a variety of sources, and ideally from a variety of types of source (narrative, documentary, literary, etc.) compared with each other, provide the best evidence for an argument. In the case of statistical analysis, however, the uneven availability of such sources could distort a data pool drawn from them. Use of a continuous series of texts conceived by their authors as a single, cumulative work gives the information input a consistency that should yield more reliable and more significant results.

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For a full discourse on this issue see Wjisman, “History in Transition,” pp. 197–252. Ibid., p. 203 (paraphrase). Mathieu d’Escouchy, Chronique, ed. G. du Fresne de Beaucourt, 3 vols. (Paris, 1863–64), 1:230–44. D’Escouchy was writing at time when the English had certainly lost the initiative, and one may argue that there simply were not as many skirmishes from 1444 onward. However, it is worth noting that he completely omits the battle of Bazel (Rupelmonde) between Burgundy and Ghent in 1452: d’Escouchy, Chronique, 2:4.



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The Skirmish Database I have compiled all the chronicle evidence into a database that I refer to as the “Skirmish Database.” With this database, it is possible to explain when skirmishes occurred during the Hundred Years’ War, how they were won, and to demonstrate that those skirmishes affected the strategies of battle, siege, and devastation. I have focused my study on England, France, and Burgundy. I omitted the naval theater of conflict and concentrated only on land skirmishes. Moreover, wherever possible, once an individual skirmish has been identified from the chronicle sources, the details of the encounter have been cross-referenced with other primary sources in order to improve the accuracy of the database. In total, there are 161 records of skirmishes in the database (Appendix A). Footnotes in the remainder of this article refer to items in the database by row and column. The chroniclers supply a wealth of information regarding skirmishes. First, they indicate the times and places of the events. They provide the strategic, operational, and tactical conditions of the skirmish; and they generally make it possible to determine who won and who lost. In many cases, the chroniclers explained how (in their own view, at least) victory was achieved. While the chroniclers provide a great deal of information, there are some gaps or problems in the data. In some instance, the writers included passages that contained mistaken dates; in others, inaccurate geography. Lack of accurate times and locations, increased the difficulty in compiling the data. Moreover, contrary to expectation, information regarding the precise number and types of troops and the number of casualties was limited and of questionable reliability, and therefore of little value. Siege Skirmishes occurred frequently during sieges. Of the 161 skirmishes accounted for within the Skirmish Database, sixty-nine (42% percent) occurred during sieges.37 Within le Bel, sixteen of thirty-five skirmishes (45%) occurred during sieges. Likewise, sixteen of the forty-four skirmishes (36%) attributed to Froissart occurred during sieges. These numbers seem remarkable given that this era is more remembered for its two major battles and grand chevauchées. Furthermore, within Monstrelet thirty-four of seventy-seven skirmishes (44%) and d’Escouchy three of seven (42%) occurred during sieges. It is significant that skirmishing during sieges retained similar proportions throughout the conflict. This demonstrates that skirmishes during sieges were an integral part of warfare during the Hundred Years’ War. Skirmishes fought during sieges occurred for a variety of reasons. Of the sixty-nine siege skirmishes, ten occurred between forces fighting at a town’s barriers.38 Eight occurred between besiegers and relief armies. Twelve included 37 38

Skirmish Database [SD], E165. It was customary for defending forces to come to the barriers of a city to skirmish against

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assaults on a town or fortress. Two pursuits resulted in a skirmish. There was one skirmish fought inside a siege-mine, and seven combats fall under the “other” category.39 By far the most common class of skirmish fought during sieges, however, were combats resulting from sallies, with thirty-one instances recorded (45% of the total). These sallies could be conducted in order to obtain a variety of objectives.

Figure 1: Reasons Skirmishes Occurred During Sieges

10%

Sallies

3% 1%

Army of Relief At the Barriers Assault

45%

17%

Other Pursuit Mining

14% 12%

In some instances skirmishes met the criteria for more than one reason

One objective could be for the garrison to attempt a break out. Breaking out, however, would only be appropriate if keeping the town was either impossible or not significant for a greater purpose. Furthermore, the numerous examples of negotiated peace settlements during sieges, where the entire garrison left unharmed with its baggage, helps explain why break-out attempts were relatively rare during this period.40

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besieging forces. “The barriers” refers to the edges of towns, city walls, possible earthworks or palisades, and other hastily erected defenses around the town. There were also several instances of skirmishing for glory (i.e. fighting for honor or prestige), which will be covered later. It is important to note, however, that a negotiated surrender might only occur at the behest of the besiegers, while an active defense could lead to executions should that defense fail.



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However, there was sometimes a greater strategic function for skirmishing during sieges. Rogers explains that sallies were useful in attacking “weak points” in the besieger’s perimeter.41 The fighting that occurred as part of these sallies could be intended to undermine the enemy army’s ability to besiege the city. Monstrelet recounts an example of the effects of sallies during the 1414 siege of Arras: The city of Arras was now so completely surrounded that scarcely a single person could venture out without being taken, although, during the siege, there were daily sallies made from the town, sometimes on foot, and others on horseback. The besieged often made sallies from two or even three gates within an hour’s time, and on these occasions, as it was afterwards known, they gained more than they lost; for, during the siege, they brought into the place upward of twelve score prisoners, and a great number in these sallies were always left dead on the field.42

Prior to this siege, Sir Jean de Luxembourg (the governor-general of Arras) had ordered the extra inhabitants (wives and families) out of the city, erected, and turned it into a fortress. Sir Jean’s actions strongly suggest that he intended to maintain control of the city; retention of the place was clearly of strategic importance.43 This means that the strategic implications of skirmishing during sallies were indeed significant. Failure to gain control of the gates of the city could force the besiegers to abandon the siege and return home empty-handed.44 By lengthening the siege through sally and skirmish tactics, the defenders essentially raised the cost for the besiegers (from the individual soldier’s as well as the commander’s perspective) of continuing day by day – increasing risk, requiring more time spent on watch, additional resources, and so on.45 Thus, the defenders’ sallies served to increase the probability that the besiegers would choose, or be forced, to give up before accomplishing their goal of capturing the besieged target. The strategic implications of skirmishing are just as apparent in le Bel’s writing. The siege of Aigullon in 1346 prevented roughly 15,000 troops from interfering with Edward III’s Normandy campaign (the operation that culminated in the great English victory of Crécy).46 This fact may have influenced Edward’s 41 42 43 44

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Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 128. Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:309. The strategic importance of the city is further illustrated by the fact that the fall of the city led to peace and a temporary end to the civil war between the duke of Burgundy and the king of France. The strategic implications of skirmishing during sallies is apparent. It seems that, however, skirmishes could be either the intent or a byproduct of specific operations. Further research should be done in this area of study. See Sumption, Cursed Kings, pp. 393–400, for a narrative of the diplomatic events. Although Arras was nominally surrendered as part of the peace agreement, it remained under de facto control of the duke of Burgundy’s forces. I am echoing Sumption’s figures. He calculates between 15–20,000 troops at the height of the siege. The constable of France had been sent to Caen with some of that number to prepare defenses against Edward’s arrival; Sumption, Trial by Battle, p. 485. Also, see Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 169.

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decision to march through Normandy, rather than Gascony, in the first place.47 But these strategic effects were the result of the particular nature and character of the siege, and those were shaped by the exceptionally active defense of the besieged Anglo-Gascon troops, who constantly and with impressive success engaged the far more numerous besiegers in skirmishes. Le Bel relates some of the skirmishing during the building of a bridge over the Garonne river. While the besiegers finally completed it after fifteen days, the daily skirmishing on and around the bridge delayed assaults on the town and required extra men-at-arms to protect the carpenters.48 Additionally, a sally by Sir Walter Mauny prevented the French from driving a herd of cattle back to their camp, thus depriving the enemy host of a valuable resource and exacerbating the supply problems of the large French army49 By lengthening the siege, the Anglo-Gascon defenders of Aiguillon indirectly altered the strategic picture in 1346 (just as the soldiers of Burgundy would do in 1414). They did this using skirmishes aimed at frustrating their French opponents, and thereby prevented the duke of Normandy from aiding the French king against Edward’s invasion.50 Battle and the Face-Off Skirmishes also took place in connection with battles or preparations for battles.51 In the Skirmish Database, twenty-six of 161 skirmishes (16%) occurred during battles, or when armies were drawn up in battle-array against one another.52 Only two occurrences are from le Bel, while four are from Froissart. Monstrelet covers another eighteen, and d’Escouchy one. At first glance, the number within le Bel and Froissart seems surprisingly low. Recall, however, that these authors were recording many of these events years after they occurred, while Monstrelet was likely writing them down (in some form) as they happened. Secondly, battles are historically rare. The Encyclopedia of the Hundred Years War, for example, lists just twenty-four land battles for the entirety of the conflict.53 47 48 49 50 51

52

53

Sumption, Trial by Battle, p. 498. Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 165. Ibid., p. 166. See Sumption for a full analysis of resupply at Aiguillon: Trial by Battle, pp. 496–97. Or for that matter, from making conquests in Aquitaine that might have offset some of the losses in the north. In my methodology, I assigned the term “battle” to any instance in which major armies were formed up in battle array against each other whether or not the battle itself actually occurred. One may prefer to call this a “battle related category” rather than “during a battle.” However, looking at skirmishes around which battles occurred or when armies faced off is important in discerning whether or not skirmishes could affect the decision to fight a battle. Moreover, an army of relief might not necessarily be offering battle but could aim to break a siege by using skirmishing actions to prevent the besiegers from foraging. SD, F164. This includes the eight skirmishes that took place between besiegers and armies of the relief. They are included because the army of the relief is offering battle even though a siege is in progress. John Wagner, Encyclopedia of the Hundred Years War (Westport, 2006), pp. 321–22.



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Figure 2: Reasons Skirmishes Occurred in Conjunction with Battle

Armies of Relief

27%

31%

19%

12%

River Crossing Reconnoiter Battle Array Is the Battle

12% In some instances skirmishes met the criteria for more than one reason

Skirmishing could occur in conjunction with battles for a variety of reasons. First, skirmishes could occur prior to a battle in order to reconnoiter enemy positions. Three of twenty-six skirmishes (11%) happened in this manner, such as at Poitiers in 1356,54 at Agincourt in 1415,55 and Formigny in 1450.56 Additionally, several skirmishes could make up the battle itself. Seven fights (27%) represent skirmishes that decided a potential battle in this manner. The battle of Baugé in 1420, for example, was really a series of several skirmishes that resulted in the death of the duke of Clarence.57 Further, the so-called Battle of the Thirty in 1351 was actually a skirmish between handpicked men who 54

55

56 57

Froissart, Chronicles, p. 127; Geoffrey le Baker, “The Campaigns of the Black Prince,” in Richard Barber, ed. and trans., The Life and Campaigns of the Black Prince: From Contemporary Letters, Diaries and Chronicles, including Chandos Herald’s Life of the Black Prince (Woodbridge, 1986), p. 72. Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:339, discusses the brief skirmish. John Waurin (Jean de Wavrin) explains that the French reconnoitered the battlefield and the English positions the night before the battle: A Collection of Chronicles and Ancient Histories of Great Britain, now called England: 1399–1422, by John de Wavrin, Lord of Forestel, ed. & trans. W. Hardy and Edward L. C. P. Hardy (London, 1887), p. 204. Monstrelet, Chronicles, 2:179. See also d’Escouchy, Chronique, 1:283. Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:458. Waurin, Chronicles and Ancient Histories, p. 337. Clarence took some of his men without delay to attack his enemies while the majority of his army followed far behind. I disagree with Burne. He states that “it is a mistake to call it – as some English historians have – a skirmish…rather it was a mêlée. The main clash can scarcely have lasted more than twenty minutes at most, and only a few hundred Englishmen were engaged. It was formless, almost chaotic scrimmage, hardly worthy of the name of battle and there is nothing to be learnt from it either for that or any other generation.” The Agincourt War, p. 159. On the contrary, the “battle” was several skirmishes, and this formless chaotic scrimmage between several hundred is precisely what a skirmish can be.

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decided the outcome.58 There were also three skirmishes during river-crossings, recorded at Blanchetaque in 1346,59 as well as Pont-de-l’Arche in 1418 and Bauge in 1420. It is interesting that there are not more accounts of skirmishes during river crossings given their significance in a campaign. Next, the eight fights against armies of relief represent 30% of the skirmishes during battles. They are included here (as well as during sieges) because of the potential for a battle to occur. At Mauconseil in 1358, for example, an Anglo-Navarrese relief force surprised the French besiegers in such a skirmish. The French, caught unprepared, were unable to organize an effective defense that might otherwise have resulted in a battle.60 Skirmishes could also factor into commanders’ strategic calculations before a potential battle occurred. Five skirmishes (19%), for example, took place while armies were assembling into or arranged in battle-array. In three of these instances, the skirmishes determined that no battle would be fought. In 1347, the French were intent on reconquering Calais (after the successful English Crécy campaign the year before). However, after initial skirmishing between the English and French armies, Phillip VI decided against it. Although the French won the ground, they realized that no approach would allow them to relieve the city or destroy their English adversaries.61 In another example, a skirmish between Picards (in the English army) and French forces at Mont Epiloy in 1427 discouraged both sides from attacking with their main forces.62 The English had successfully blocked the French army from occupying Senlis, and after two days of off and on skirmishing both sides broke camp and departed. Later, in 1432, an English and Burgundian army threatened Lagny-sur-Marne and the French sent a force to intercept them. After skirmishing, however, the French forces, unable to affect the Anglo-Burgundian positions, withdrew.63 While these examples are few, they demonstrate the prudence of these leaders in refusing to attack without an appropriate advantage. Furthermore, the results of these skirmishes offered valuable information that often altered a commander’s decision to fight. Devastation Skirmishes could also occur during mobile operations such as devastation. Within the database, forty-seven of the 161 total skirmishes (29%) occurred during acts of devastation. In le Bel, there are ten such out of thirty-five skirmishes (28%); in Froissart, eleven out of forty-four (25%), and in Monstrelet, 58 59

60 61 62 63

Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 212. Ibid., p. 178. Froissart, Chronicles, p. 80. Sumption also provides a good analysis: Trial by Battle, pp. 523–24. It is unlikely that the English would have been able to cross the Somme had they not succeeded at Blanchetaque. Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 240; Sumption, Trial by Fire, pp. 367–68. Sumption, Trial by Battle, pp. 579–80; Rogers, War Cruel and Sharp, pp. 276–85; le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 198; Froissart, Chronicles, pp. 101–03. Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:560. Ibid., 1:606.



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twenty-six out of seventy-seven (33%). Mathieu d’Escouchy does not mention any; however, this development is not surprising since the English had lost the initiative by the point his continuation begins, and the war had become primarily typified by sieges. It is interesting, however, to note that a greater percentage of skirmishes occurred during devastation operations within Monstrelet than Froissart or le Bel. This realization is especially surprising considering that many of England’s chevauchées occurred during the first half of the war, while siege warfare dominated both the strategies of Henry V after Agincourt and Charles VII after the Treaty of Arras. Still, skirmishes did occur as part of acts of devastation throughout the conflict. In analyzing the evidence, three major sub-categories emerge: scouting, logistics (other than foraging), and foraging. Historians have debated whether scouting was widespread during the Middle Ages.64 If scouting were indeed prevalent, and there were many groups operating in the countryside, we might expect skirmishes to occur often between scouts of opposing forces.65 That is not what we observe, however, in the chronicle evidence. Of the forty-seven skirmishes in the database associated with devastation, only nine (19%) transpired as part of scouting operations.66 For example, one took place outside Ham, in 1411, and another other at Agincourt, the night before the battle.67 The fact that there were so few skirmishes recorded during scouting operations could suggest that scouts typically broke contact before fighting rose to the level of a skirmish (or before it occurred at all); that scouting was not very prevalent in the first place; or that the chroniclers simply did not consider scouting operations important. Breaking contact for scouts does not seem plausible for this era. It may be, as Rogers asserts, that “scout” is an inappropriate translation and that medieval coureurs not only performed scouting, but also staged raids and caused many other forms of mischief.68 Furthermore, deeds of arms were an important aspect of warfare during the Hundred Years’ War.69 Given the fact that scouting units usually comprised noble cavalrymen, skirmishing with opposing scouts would provide an opportunity for young men-at-arms to distinguish themselves.70 It seems practically 64

65

66 67 68 69 70

Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 83. Rogers argues that scouting was prevalent during the high and late Middle Ages. This is in contrast to Guy Halsall’s survey of the early Middle Ages: Guy Halsall, Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West, 450–900 (London, 2003), p. 147. Scouting could also be used to reconnoiter the enemy forces prior to a battle or in order to prevent a besieging force from being surprised by an army of the relief. Scouting is presented here for organizational purposes but probably deserves its own category. For an explanation on relief armies see Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 146. SD, H3, 9, 40, 49, 54, 55, 83, 99, 154. SD, A83 and A99. See note 54, above. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 83. This will be covered further with regard to the tactical aspects of skirmishing; see “A Note on Glory” below. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives, p. 84.

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19%

Foraging Logistics

11%

Scouting

70%

In some instances skirmishes met the criteria for more than one reason

certain that scouting was widely used, because each chronicler discusses the use of scouts during military operations. One such instance at Saint-Cloud in 1411 highlights the method of their employment: The Duke of Burgundy was with the main army drawn up in battle array, on a plain above the town: he had with him the greater part of the princes, and his scouts were everywhere on the lookout that the enemy might not surprise him by any unexpected attack.71

Because there are only nine skirmishes identified as occurring during scouting operations, it is difficult to draw many conclusions. It is likely that the chroniclers simply did not have information about skirmishes occurring during scouting operations. Despite the lack of descriptions, it seems probable that scouting operations were widely used and that skirmishes probably occurred often during these operations. Skirmishes could also take place during logistical operations. One might suspect that skirmishes erupting in the form of attacking baggage trains or assaulting an enemy’s camp would happen often. However, when looking at operations other than foraging, the numbers are not as high as might be expected. Of the forty-seven examples of skirmishes during devastation, only 71

Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:199. For other examples of scouting, see, True Chronicles, p. 179. Froissart, Chronicles, p. 52.



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five (roughly 11%) depict skirmishes which occurred during logistical operations (not including foraging). Even though the numbers in the database do not support the notion of large numbers of skirmishes during logistical warfare, direct evidence from Monstrelet does show that this kind of provisions-oriented warfare was indeed practised. Monstrelet states that, in 1414, The towns of the Duke of Burgundy…made continual excursions and ambuscades against foragers of the royal forces, and likewise against those who brought provisions to the army from Amiens, Corbie, and other parts, whom they generally robbed, killed, or made prisoners. Hector de Saveuses, a very renowned man-at-arms, was particularly active in this kind of warfare.72

The chronicler’s classification of these sorts of action as a distinct “kind of warfare” suggests that skirmishes arising from attacks on supply wagons were common, but that the chroniclers simply did not relay each instance. Skirmishes also occurred during foraging operations. While foraging could be a matter of collecting supplies to re-victual an army, it might also involve simply plundering. In the Skirmish Database, skirmishes during campaigns of devastation were connected to foraging operations thirty-three out of fortyseven times (70%). This is not surprising, as foraging was the pre-eminent form of devastation: soldiers could take from the defenseless enemy or (friendly) populace what they needed and destroy the rest to make a statement. Monstrelet describes one such incident on the part of the Flemings as they decamped from the siege of Ham in 1411: The Flemings had no sooner turned their faces homeward but they advanced more in one day than in three before, and whatever they could lay hands on was pillaged and thrown into their baggage-carts: they had, moreover, many quarrels with the Picards and English, and it often happened that stragglers were wounded or put to death, – and when they were superior in numbers, they failed not to retaliate.73

Skirmishing could also affect strategy during devastation campaigns (chevauchées). Skirmishing during river crossings, for example, could limit the expanse of a campaign altogether. Had the initial skirmish at Blanchetaque not secured a bridgehead for the English army it is arguable that Edward’s 1346 chevauchée would not have devastated any territory northeast of the Somme.74 Henry V met with similar difficulty during his Agincourt campaign. In addition, the lack of suitable crossing points over the Loire during the Poitiers campaign prevented the Black Prince from joining forces with the duke of Lancaster.75 According 72 73 74 75

Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:310. Ibid., p. 192, second paragraph. Also see p. 188, third paragraph. A further example of foraging during devastation can be found in le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 179; Froissart, Chronicles, p. 82. Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 178; Froissart, Chronicles, p. 80; Edward III to Sir Thomas Lucy, in Life and Campaigns of the Black Prince, pp. 22–23. Sumption, Trial by Battle, p. 523. Le Bel, True Chronicles, pp. 226–28; Froissart, Chronicles, pp. 124–27; Geoffrey le Baker, in

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to Sumption, Lancaster had the same problem in that “when he reached the Loire he found that all the bridges over the river were either broken or heavily defended.” It is apparent that those who controlled the river crossings controlled vital choke points within the kingdom of France. Therefore, the side that won skirmishes to gain or keep possession of these critical positions could alter the strategy of their opponent. The data clearly reflect the importance of foraging (including plundering) during mobile operations, since far more fights arose in this context than due to other types of logistical operation, or to scouting. This foraging required a wide dispersion of small groups of units. Forces on both sides would fight small combats to allow (or prevent) such operations. These small fights are skirmishes. In addition, skirmishes could affect strategy because failure to achieve victory in these skirmishes had the potential to stall an operation. In short, skirmishing filled a necessary role in devastation warfare and affected the strategies of entire campaigns. A Note on Glory It was usually the case that skirmishes were motivated by tactical and operational necessity in support of larger strategic objectives. However, one can also observe the importance of demonstrating individual prowess on the field of conflict as a cause of skirmishes. Certainly, glory was a contributing factor to the prevalence of skirmishes during the Hundred Years’ War. Looking at the 161 examples of skirmishes, at least five seem to have occurred primarily for the purpose of gaining honor. An example occurs in the fourteenth-century account of the Battle of the Thirty.76 Le Bel noted one combatant as saying that “any man who performs well in that contest will earn more honor than in a joust,” indicating that such glory was an important theme. There are also similar instances from the fifteenth century. Monstrelet provides one illustration, which occurred during the siege of Compiègne in 1414: When in the month of May was near at hand, Sir Hector, bastard of Bourbon, sent to inform the besieged that on the first of May he would try their courage. On that day, he accordingly mounted his horse, attended by about two hundred able men-at-arms and some foot soldiers, having all May garlands over their helmets: he led them to the gates of Pierrefons, to present a May garland to the besieged as he had promised. The besieged made a stout resistance, in so much that it became very serious, and several were killed and wounded on each side: the bastard of Bourbon had his horse killed from under him, and was in great danger of being made prisoner or slain.77

One can make a further observation about skirmishes: nobles, even high-ranking

76 77

The Life and Campaigns of the Black Prince, pp. 71–72. Le Bel, True Chronicles, p. 213. See too Sumption for an account of the Battle of the Thirty: Trial by Fire, pp. 34–36. Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:301.



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nobles, commonly fought in them. For example, Monstrelet reports a skirmish near Villefranche in 1411 in which the duke of Bourbon took part: They [the nobles of the king of France] advanced with displayed banners before the town of Villefranche, in which was the duke of Bourbon and his bastard brother, sir Hector, a very valiant knight and renowned in war. There was with them a large company of knights and esquires, vassals to the duke, who, seeing the enemy thus boldly advancing, drew up in handsome array and sallied forth to meet them, and the duke himself joined them in their intent to offer battle. A severe skirmish ensued, in which many gallant deeds were done on each side.78

In another skirmish, in a siege mine at Arras in 1414, the count of Eu took part.79 He was in the attacking force, which made it unlikely that he was simply caught up in the conflict. While these examples do not prove a rule, they do illustrate that high-ranking nobles were willing to risk their lives in skirmishes.80 This fact illustrates how significant minor combats were perceived to be, whether due to their ability to contribute to larger goals or for the opportunity for glory they provided, or both. The Skirmish: An Analysis of Victory Armies won skirmishes in a variety of ways during the Hundred Years’ War. Of the 161 skirmishes within the Skirmish Database, in sixty-two cases the chronicles indicate a clear reason for victory. These fall into seven categories. The first was surprise, which led to victory in seventeen cases (27%). In many instances, victory through surprise occurred during engagements or in attacks against besieging armies. However, in ten instances, skirmishing forces achieved surprise through ambush – the act of lying in wait for an unwary adversary to march past before attacking. In 82% of the ambushes tallied in the database, the side that laid the ambush emerged victorious. The second factor that sometimes determined the outcome of skirmishes was numerical superiority. This occurs thirteen times (21%), including three instances in which reinforcements were the cause of one side or the other being outnumbered. Third, victory could be achieved through indiscipline of the opposing force. Indiscipline could mean a failure to maintain order, instances of looting, or troops simply running away. There are eleven instances (17%) in which the indiscipline of the losing side determined the outcome of the engagement. Next, victory was achieved ten times (16%) due to the English longbow.81 After that, English courage accounted 78 79 80 81

Ibid., 1:205. Ibid., 1:310. One could also read the exploits of Sir Jean de Luxembourg, clearly one of Monstrelet’s important sources. His actions in skirmishes throughout this period are frequent in the chronicle. It is interesting to note that only two instances of the longbow’s decisiveness are reported in Monstrelet. It is debatable why the longbow ceased to be mentioned in this way. Most likely this reflects changes in French tactics adopted in response to the longbow and improvements

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for seven victories (11%).82 Finally, good leadership and trickery each resulted in two victories (3%). Figure 4: Reasons for Victory in Skirmishes

11%

Enemy's Indiscipline

18%

Superior Numbers Trickery

16%

Surprise Leadership

21%

3%

Longbow English Courage

27%

3%

In some instances skirmishes met the criteria for more than one reason

In analyzing the English victories against the French, some common themes emerge. The accounts of thirty such skirmishes reveal a reason for English success, and in a large proportion of these cases the outcome is attributable to the qualitative superiority of the English troops. The longbow accounted for nine cases, and English courage was responsible for six. French indiscipline resulted in five English victories. The English surprised the French in five, and the English simply outnumbered the French in five. By contrast, not one of the French victories over the English reflects superior fighting prowess of the French soldiers. Of the fifteen combats that describe a reason for French victories against the English, surprise accounted for eight. The French outnumbered the English for six wins and tricked them for one more. The additional information provided by analysis of skirmishes can help answer major questions about the conduct of the Hundred Years’ War. It is clear that for most of the war, the English won most of the battles, and that goes a long way towards explaining the otherwise puzzling fact that it took France over a century to defeat a nation that was far inferior by most measures of strength (including population and wealth). But why did the French do so badly in battle? Considering that a battle was in some ways simply a collection of many small

82

in armor, but some of the decline may simply be due to the fact that it ceased to be a “newsworthy” shock that the weapon was successful. On English courage, it is noteworthy that five of the seven instances occur in Monstrelet.



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fights (of individual vs. individual, and small group vs. small group), a careful examination of the factors that contributed to a disproportionate number of English victories in skirmishes may cast light on the foundations of the tactical superiority the English demonstrated in larger open battles as well. Several hypotheses have been proposed by historians as to why the English were so regularly victorious in battle. Burne concluded that the English were just better soldiers.83 Rogers has implied that the longbow was the primary tool that gave the English victory.84 Lastly, Richard Barber suggests that the English won because they fought as a single unit with a team mentality (after 1346 represented and reinforced through the Order of the Garter), which allowed them to trounce the individual French commanders.85 Notwithstanding these arguments, I propose an alternative explanation. It is not that the English fought better individually or as a group, or that their longbow was a super-weapon. Instead, using statistical evidence analyzed in the Skirmish Database, I conclude that the French were simply poor fighters in skirmishes; which may indicate that the English did not so much win battles, as that the French lost them. Of the 161 examples of skirmishes provided in the Skirmish Database, the French fought in 138 of them, the Burgundians in forty-seven, and the English in 118. 86 There are also fifty-one others, which involve the troops of one or more of the three major powers in question against those of another kingdom, state, or the forces of a rebellion.87 These skirmishes take place over a range of years and do not illustrate the success of just one side. Of the total skirmishes in which each country was involved, the French won forty-six; the Burgundians twenty-eight; and the English seventy-two.88 This suggests that overall the English and Burgundians had roughly the same record (28/47 [59%] Burgundy; 72/118 [61%] England). The French did much worse overall (46/138 [33%]).89 There are also many examples of skirmishes in which the French fought the English, or the Burgundians, by themselves. These examples provide further evidence of French weakness in skirmish warfare. The French fought the English in ninety-two skirmishes and won thirty-four for a success rate of 37%. Additionally, the French fought against Burgundy twenty-seven times and won six, with a success rate of 22%.90 These data show that at the basic levels of combat, 83 84 85 86 87

88 89 90

Burne, Crecy War, p. 11; Agincourt War, p. 346. Clifford J. Rogers, “The Efficacy of the English Longbow: A Reply to Kelly DeVries,” War in History (1998), pp. 234–35. Richard Barber, Edward III and the Triumph of England: The Battle of Crecy and the Company of the Garter (London, 2014). SD, M164, N164, O164. Although Burgundy’s treatment as a major power coincides with Monstrelet’s writing and is certainly attributable his audience, I have included it in the analysis here as a third party with which to compare the forces of England and France. SD, Q164, R164, S164. These figures represent the records of each major belligerent’s total, including combats against smaller opponents. In addition, England fought Burgundy only four times individually, winning three, for a 75%

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the French performed below par against all of their opponents. Because the skirmishes took place over a number of years in different locations, and given the chroniclers’ desire for accuracy, there is no reason why these data would be so grossly distorted as to invalidate the conclusion. Furthermore, the skirmishes found in the chronicle evidence have been cross-referenced with other primary sources wherever possible, yielding similar results. On that basis, it is possible to assess the previously mentioned authors’ theses. Burne argues that no one can study this period for long without realizing that the English were mighty soldiers.91 Looking at the evidence, however, one can deduce that the English were not so exceptional. This is not to say that the English were not good soldiers, but simply that they were not so “masterful” (Burne’s term) as he claims.92 The database evidence shows that the French fought the English and the Burgundians as well as others; and in most of these skirmishes they lost. Furthermore, the Burgundians defeated the French in skirmishes nearly as often as the English did, and the Burgundians fought far fewer times. Additionally, if one were to judge by percentage of wins alone, the English and Burgundians have essentially the same record.93 While this last point is debatable (and likely reflects some pro-Burgundian bias), the data clearly show that the French simply lost a lot. They do not show the dominance of the English in combat in comparison to the Burgundians. Rogers argues a different point. He asserts that the ability of English archers to strike down charging Scotsmen or French men-at-arms was of decisive importance between 1333 and 1424.94 According to the database evidence, the longbow was certainly the most prominent factor in English victories during skirmishing. However, as noted above, it is apparent that the longbow’s potency decreased as the war progressed. It is also clear that the Burgundian troops did not include longbow archers,95 and, according to the data, were still able to defeat the French on numerous occasions in skirmishes. Whether or not the English had longbows during their skirmishes with the French, the Burgundians’ ability to win despite not having longbows suggests rather something lacking on the part of the French. Thus, while the longbow may have given the English an important advantage, it should not be

91

92 93 94 95

success rate. Not much can be discerned from the limited data, but the timeframe of the last three fights coincides with English–Burgundian hostilities after the 1435 Treaty of Arras. Burne, Crecy War, p. 11. While English courage was a factor in English victories, six of the seven are against French opponents while only one is against Burgundy. This may in fact prove the claim because it is arguably easier to be more “courageous” against an inferior opponent. Ibid. The English only outshine the Burgundians by 2% against all opponents (61% vs. 59%). Paraphrasing Rogers, “Efficacy of the English Longbow,” p. 236. Except in instances where longbowmen acted as hired mercenaries: for example, SD, B86. In this instance, near La Chappelle in 1411, English archers supplemented the Burgundian forces, who skirmished with French Armagnacs and still lost. See Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:197; Monstrelet states that the “English were very active in this affair.” Here the French were victorious despite the Burgundians having the advantage of longbowmen.



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viewed as the principal explanation for the many English battlefield victories during the Hundred Years’ War. Barber, lastly, asserts that English success owes something – though by no means everything – to the spirit of teamwork and chivalric unity promoted by the Garter;96 that is, that the ability of the English to work together contributed to their victories over the French. While this thesis has many merits, it does not account for the French losses in skirmishes presented in the Skirmish Database, however. The Burgundians maintained a better percentage of wins in skirmishes than their English counterparts did against the French. Additionally, the Burgundians too created a chivalric order comparable to the Order of the Garter, in 1430 (the Order of the Golden Fleece).97 It is possible that the organization and teamwork emphasized by Barber were not unique to the English, but also possessed by Burgundy. Therefore, the French may have simply been less organized or effective than their English or Burgundian counterparts at the time.98 The evidence presented within the Skirmish Database demonstrates that for the greater part of the Hundred Years’ War the French were poor fighters in skirmishes largely because they were undisciplined. Against the English, the French lost primarily because of this indiscipline, because the English possessed the longbow, or because the English achieved surprise, and the indiscipline may itself contribute to explaining the importance of the latter two factors. While the efficacy of the longbow has been debated, undisciplined troops would likely break formation to some extent if fired upon with a missile weapon. At Agincourt, for example, as Matthew Strickland notes, “intense shooting from the English archers on the flanks caused the men-at-arms of the French vanguard to bunch inward.”99 That disorder was a major contributor to the French defeat; a more disciplined force might have been able to maintain ranks better. Being surprised could certainly be a consequence of indiscipline. Poor scouting, a symptom of poor discipline, would increase the chances of being taken by surprise. The English were not themselves immune, and a failure to maintain discipline could always lead to defeat. The anonymous ‘bourgeois de Paris’ relates one such instance at Montargis in 1427: “the so-called Dauphin’s troops raised the siege of Montargis. The English suffered considerably, for they trusted too much to their superior strength and were surprised unarmed by the enemy….”100 In addition, undisciplined forces would likely break ranks when confronted with an

Barber, Edward III, p. 440. Although here Barber is primarily talking about the reign of Edward III and the battle of Poitiers, the Order of the Garter was still in effect during the reigns of Henry V and Henry VI. 97 D’Arcy J. D. Boulton, The Knights of the Crown, rev. ed. (New York, 2000), p. 356. 98 The French moreover tried to emulate the Garter with the Order of the Star, established in 1351. 99 Matthew Strickland and Robert Hardy. The Great Warbow: From Hastings to the Mary Rose (Stroud, 2005), p. 335. 100 Anon., A Parisian Journal, 1405–1449, trans. Janet Shirley (Oxford, 1968), p. 219; Monstrelet, Chronicles, 1:536. 96

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enemy who has surprised them – as befell the Bastard of Burgundy when the greater part of his forces fled from a skirmish before Ghent in 1452.101 By examining skirmishes, it is possible to cast new light on France’s martial struggles between 1337 and 1453. The evidence suggests that the French soldiers’ lack of discipline was a major contributor to their continual humiliation, and that the improvement in this regard consequent upon the military reforms of Charles VII (including the creation of the standing compagnies d’ordonnance), may be the key ingredient to their success after 1444. Conclusion Skirmishes are an often-overlooked yet significant aspect of warfare during the Hundred Years’ War. Knowing when and why skirmishes occurred plays an important role in understanding the motivations of the soldiers and commanders involved in combat. While glory was a part of this motivation, it was not the key element. Strategy and the desire for victory played a far greater role, and the skirmish was a key element in determining strategic and operational success. Additionally, an analysis of the outcomes of the many skirmishes fought during the Hundred Years’ War casts new light on the reasons for the military dominance enjoyed by the English up until the last phase of the conflict. Although the English were doubtless good soldiers, and the longbow certainly provided them with an important advantage (particularly in the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries), those two English strengths are not the principal explanations for French defeats. Rather – as the equally poor track record of the French when fighting the Burgundians corroborates – the main reason for French defeats was French weaknesses, especially lack of discipline and cohesion.

101 Monstrelet,

Chronicles, 2:211.

Appendix. The Skirmish Database (Skirmishes 1340–1452 reported in four chronicles)

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1

Foraging

Scouting

1 1

Logistics

Small engagment

1340 1340 1340 1340 1340 1340 1340 1341 1341 1341 1341 1341 1341 1342 1342 1342 1342 1342 1342 1342 1342 1345 1346 1346 1346 1346 1346 1346 1348 1350 1351 1353 1356 1356 1356 1357 1358 1358

Battle

83 83 84 84 88 88 90 110 117 120 122 123 127 131 134 135 136 137 138 139 141 162 166 177 177 178 191 200 206 211 212 217 297 305 365 105 399 401

Siege

Year

Aubenton Lille Mourinaulx Bouchain Tournai Saint-Omer Tournai Brest Nantes Edinburgh Newcastle Wark Wark Rennes Guemene Hennebont Conquest (Brittany) Conquest (Brittany) Vannes Quimperle Glay La Forest Angouleme Aiguillon Pont Remy Oisemont Blanchetaque Calais Calais Calais Saint-Jean d'Angely Ploermel(battle of thirty) Britanny(exact location unknown) Remorantin Poitiers Contentin Boneffe Paris Paris

Page #

Le Bel

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 Le Bel 36 Froi- 37 ssart 38

Location

Chronicle

Event

1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1

1

1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1

1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

1

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis

1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1

1

1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1

1 1

1 1

1 1

1

1 1

1

1

1

1

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1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1

1

1

1

1 1 1

other

1

Burgundian

English

1 1

English

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

French

Other

English

Burgundian

1

Loser

French

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

149

Victor

other

1 1

1

French

> 1 skirmish?

Sally

Foraging

Combatants

Logistics

nt

Burgundian



1

1 1 1

1 1 1

1

1 1 1

150

Ronald W. Braasch III

1

1

Foraging

1

Logistics

1358 1359 1359 1369 1369 1370 1370 1372 1372 1372 1372 1372 1373 1373 1373 1373 1373 1373 1377 1377 1378 1378 1378 1378 1379 1380 1380 1380 1380 1380 1380 1380 1380 1385 1386 1386 1386

Scouting

Year

414 18 38 388 409 103 105 430 113 133 187 205 245 239 240 242 259 261 285 309 30 55 72 293 301 191 194 202 213 240 244 246 251 37 219 223 6

Small engagment

Page #

Mauconseil Rheims Paris Villeneuve d'agenois Mirebeau Limoge Limoge Brux Pont Valin Moncontor La Rochelle La Rochelle Vaux Ribemont Ouchy Soissons Boulogne Liques Southampton Bergerac Bersat Bouteville Normandy Cherbourg Cherbourg Arras Vaucelle Troyes Puise Nantes Nantes Nantes Nantes Damme La Charite La Charite Villalpando

Battle

Location

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

Siege

Chronicle Froissart

Event

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis

1 1

1

1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1

1

1

1 1

1

1

1

1

1 1 1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

other

1

Burgundian

1 1

English

1 1 1 1

French

Other

English

Burgundian

French 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

French

1

1 1 1

Loser

other

1

151

Victor

English

1

> 1 skirmish?

Sally

Combatants

Foraging

Logistics

nt

Burgundian



1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1

152

Ronald W. Braasch III

Brest Newcastle Wales Calais (merq) Bapaume, Artois Ham Senlis Paris La Chappelle Paris Villefrance Boulogne Compiegne Compiegne Arras Arras Arras Nuefville Harfluer Eu Pont de Remy Agincourt Harfluer Harfluer Neuf Chatel sur Eusne Senlis Paris Paris Senlis Pont de L'arche Rouen Eu Montereau-faut-yonne Alibaudieres Auxerre Montereau Compiegne

1 1

Foraging

Logistics

Scouting

Small engagment

1387 1388 1403 1405 1411 1411 1411 1411 1411 1411 1411 1412 1413 1414 1414 1414 1414 1414 1415 1415 1415 1415 1416 1416 1417 1417 1417 1417 1418 1418 1418 1418 1419 1419 1420 1420 1420

Battle

9 257 28 35 186 188 191 192 197 197 205 218 300 301 309 310 310 319 333 337 337 339 361 362 368 378 381 387 392 400 403 413 424 436 438 443 452

Siege

Year

76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112

Page #

Monstrelet

Froissart

Location

Chronicle

Event

1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1

1 1

1

1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis

1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1

153

1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1

1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1

other

English

Burgundian

1 1 1

1

1

French

Loser

other

English

French

Victor

Other

English

Burgundian

French

> 1 skirmish?

Sally

Foraging

Combatants

Logistics

nt

Burgundian



1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1

154

Ronald W. Braasch III

1

1

1 1 1 1 1

Foraging

Logistics

Scouting

Small engagment

1420 1421 1421 1421 1422 1422 1422 1423 1423 1423 1425 1427 1427 1427 1427 1427 1428 1429 1430 1430 1430 1430 1431 1432 1432 1434 1434 1435 1435 1435 1436 1436 1436 1436 1436 1436 1436

Battle

458 459 465 470 479 493 496 501 506 508 531 540 544 546 536 560 565 566 572 575 575 580 588 606 613 626 628 638 23 24 28 33 38 39 40 42 52

Siege

Location Bauge Alencon Abbeville Harques St. Dizier Chartres Busignes de la Graville Laonois Compiegne Guise Champagne St. James de Beauron, Brittany Gennville, Orleans Orlean Montargis Mont Epiloy Creil Beauvoisis Compeigne Namur Pierrefons Choisy Anglure Lagny-Sur-Marne Grausy Laon Beaumont Rouen Rethel Le Bois Paris Gravelines Calais Calais Calais Crotoy Boulogne

Year

113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149

Page #

Monstrelet

Chronicle

Event

1 1 1

1

1 1

1

1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1

1 1

1

1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis

1 1

1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1 1

other

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1

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1

1

1 1

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English 1

1 1 1

1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1

1

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1 1

1 1

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1 1 1 1

1 1

1

1

1 1

1

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1 1

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Burgundian

1

1

1 1 1 1

French 1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1

1 1 1 1 1

other

French

Other

1

1

1 1 1 1 1

English

1 1

1

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Loser

1 1

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

155

Victor

1 1

1 1

English

Burgundian

French

> 1 skirmish?

Sally

Foraging

Combatants

Logistics

nt

Burgundian



1

1

1

1 1 1 1

1

1 1 1 1

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1 1

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156

Ronald W. Braasch III

1 1 1 1 1

Foraging

Logistics

Scouting

Small engagment

1439 1440 1440 1440 1440 1449 1449 1449 1450 1450 1452 1452

Battle

88 93 95 97 136 214 275 276 283 316 80 80

Siege

Location Langres Neel Montivilliers Abbevile Espoise Rouen Belleme Vire Formigny Falaise Ghent Oudenarde TOTAL Percent of Total Events

Year

150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161

Page #

D’Escouchy

Monstrelet

Chronicle

Event

1 1 1 1

1 1

1 1 1

1 1 69 26 59 42.86 16.15 36.65

9 5.59

5 3.11

1 1 1 33 50 20.50 31.0

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis

1 1 1 1

1

5 3.11

1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

1 1 1

1

1 1 1

1

1 1

1

other

English

1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1

Burgundian

French

Loser

other

English

French

1 1 1 1

157

Victor

Other

English

Burgundian

French

> 1 skirmish?

Sally

Combatants

Foraging

Logistics

nt

Burgundian



1 1

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 33 50 66 138 47 118 51 46 28 72 25 84 20.50 31.06 40.99 85.71 29.19 73.29 31.68 28.57 17.39 44.72 15.53 52.17

1 1 1 1 14 8.70

1 41 28 25.47 17.39

8 Yron & Stele: Chivalric Ethos, Martial Pedagogy, Equipment, and Combat Technique in the Early FourteenthCentury Middle English Version of Guy of Warwick* Brian R. Price

He, that myght lerne and holde faste, He schulde wexe wyse at the laste, Hyt ys holdyn grete maystry To holde wysdome and leue folye […] Then seyde Gye: “Y schall þe say, Syth that ye me so feyre pray. Gye of Warwyk men clepe me: I am knowyn in many a cuntre.”1 Guy of Warwick

Guy of Warwick survives as a popular chivalric romance dating in Anglo-Norman from the thirteenth century, and copied, translated, and lightly edited numerous times by the end of the fifteenth.2 Like many romances, it offers the careful student of medieval warfare a small trove of historical evidence tucked within the literary vehicle. As with the rest of the genre, it has been of interest mainly to literary scholars, who have largely overlooked the technical and combat details contained within, though the tale has long been praised as a source of knowledge about English gentry culture during the later medieval period.3 *

I would like to extend thanks to Clifford J. Rogers and John France for their helpful comments on an early draft, and to Richard W. Kaeuper for providing well–argued counter–points through his long years of superb scholarship. 1 Guy of Warwick, Cambridge, Cambridge University Library MS Ff.2.38, ll. 15–18, 5613–16. 2 For an excellent study, see Alison Eve Wiggins, “Guy of Warwick: Study and Transcription,” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Sheffield, 2000). Following her dissertation, Wiggins has systematically produced editions for the most important surviving Middle English versions. For the original Norman French, see Alfred Ewart, ed., Gui de Warewic: Roman du XIIIe siècle, 2 vols. (Paris, 1932–33). 3 Exceptions to this trend have been Maurice Keen and Richard W. Kaeuper, both of whom examined the cultural environment of the knight, in part through literature, cross-referencing literary evidence with other sources. I am indebted primarily to them for influencing my cultural approach to the study of medieval warfare and the chivalric culture that surrounded the man-at-arms and his mesnie.

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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of the book.

Figure 1: Guy of Warwick, from an illumination in Le Romant de Guy de Warwik et d’Heraud d’Ardenne in the Talbot Shrewsbury Book, British Library Royal MS 15 E. vi, fol. 227r. Reproduced with permission of the British Library.



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In the Middle English translations discussed here, Alison Eve Wiggins has concluded that all three were translated during the fourteenth century, and the fifteenth century copies and slight adaptations remain faithful to these original translations.4 Those considered here include three manuscripts, National Library of Scotland [NLS], Advocates’ MS 19.2.1 (hereafter Auchinleck MS), dated by Wiggins to c. 1330; Caius College MS 107/TBD, (hereafter Caius MS), dated by Wiggins to c. 1400; and Cambridge Ff.2.38 (hereafter Cambridge MS), dated by Wiggins to c. 1490. The fidelity of the translations suggests a conscious choice to leave the martial depictions intact, likely to invoke the sense of authenticity of the original.5 A close reading of these three manuscripts reveals detail about the nature of physical combat and the chivalric ethos in England at the start of the Hundred Years’ War, c. 1330, when the poem was translated.6 Its enduring popularity suggests a continuation of the knightly emphasis on strength that had been popular since the composition of the Anglo-Norman original in the mid-thirteenth century. Combat was an integral part of society during the period of the Hundred Years’ War, during which many romances such as Guy of Warwick were circulated. The frequent Anglo-French fighting would engulf both kingdoms, driving tectonic changes in the practice of war, royal finance, social order, and identity; planting the roots for the “military fiscal state” usually attributed to the “military revolution” and the effects of gunpowder artillery.7 The fighting itself was also transformed, as technological changes in metallurgy and production techniques enabled the development of full cap à pied harness of iron and steel, creating something of an arms race between developing tactics, missile weapons (the English longbow in particular, but also the crossbow), armor, and the shock weapons needed to overcome a man encased in plate. The sword in one hand yielded to the sword in two; the point became more emphasized, and precision as a fighting principle began to become co-equal with power. By the end of the war, shock weapons needed more shock, and the poleaxe emerges as the assault weapon of choice, though gunpowder certainly ends the knight’s armored dominance. Guy of Warwick provides an image of the

4 5

6

7

Wiggins, “Guy of Warwick,” p. 27. The “middle” manuscript, Caius, does edit out a substantial amount of the martial detail. Because the Cambridge Ff.2.38 seems to be the most complete, comprising the whole of the 11,976 lines, I have relied mainly upon it for citations here. For this study I have relied upon the following editions: Julius Zupitza, ed., The Romance of Guy of Warwick: The First or 14th-Century Version, Edited from the Auchinleck MS. in the Advocates’ Library, Edinburgh, and from MS. 107 in Caius College, Cambridge, 3 vols., EETS 42, 49, and 59 (London, 1883–91); and idem, ed., The Romance of Guy of Warwick: The Second or 15th-Century Version, Edited from the Paper MS. Ff. 2. 38 in the University Library, Cambridge, 2 vols., EETS 25 and 26 (Oxford, 1875–76), since the edition’s text is complete and has, according to Wiggins, strong fidelity, though Zupitza’s apparatus is incomplete and riddled with errors. Clifford J. Rogers, “The Military Revolutions of the Hundred Years War,” The Journal of Military History 57 (1993), 241–78.

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knightly combatant just before these changes took place, a useful starting point for comparison with what was to come. A large number of romances survive from western and central Europe during the period, forming an interconnecting web of myth binding English and French territories, Scotland and Wales, the Low Countries and the German principalities, supporting the quasi-fraternal chivalric culture posited by Maurice Keen in his landmark 1984 work, Chivalry.8 Insofar as chivalric romances discuss the idealized behavior of mythical or quasi-mythical heroes, military historians in the twentieth century largely eschewed them as sources, an instinct encouraged by the presence of fantastical elements like dragons and giants and literary devices such as accounts of horses being hewn in two with a single powerful blow.9 Moreover, such romances, written for a chivalric audience of men and women, spoke little of the experience of the non-noble participants and victims of medieval warfare, perspectives more favored by the mid-century turn away from ‘high’ history. The author’s impetus to re-examine surviving chivalric romances from the combatants’ perspective stems from the challenge posed by enigmatic fighting treatises, also proliferating during the period of the Hundred Years’ War.10 A great 8

9

10

Maurice Keen, Chivalry (New Haven, 1984). To be sure, a number of scholars reject chivalry as an historical military ethic, concluding that it describes only a group of horsemen who largely or completely ignored the writings of clerks and the romances in favor of their own near monopoly on the use of violence. I have written about the historiography of the study of chivalry in my review of Craig Taylor’s recent work, Chivalry and the Ideals of Knighthood in France, appearing in the Journal of Military History, 79 (2015), 476–77. Historians in the nineteenth century, such as Léon Gautier, were not so fussy, freely integrating what they found in literature and blending it with more ordinary evidence, though Gautier’s lack of citations renders his work difficult to assess. This process underwent a sharp change following World War I, with the Annales School, which, in the words of the eminent medieval historian Georges Duby, “relegated the sensational to the sidelines and was reluctant to give a simple accounting of events, but strived on the contrary to pose and solve problems and, neglecting surface disturbances, to observe the long and medium-term evolution of economy, society and civilization.” See Le Dimache de Bouvines (Paris, 1972). By contrast, one approach in the “New Military History” involves understanding the mentalité of a time and place, so such cultural sources are once more important, in this case to the study of chivalric ideas as a military ethos. Further, there is a tendency, following John Keegan, to fill in the historical gaps from modern experience, as he did for his description of the Battle of Agincourt in his influential Face of Battle (New York, 1976). This tendency to project common experience across time and space must be suspect, however, as the cultural frameworks differ sharply. Cultural historians, such as Catherine R. Nall, Reading and War in Fifteenth Century England: From Lydgate to Malory, (Cambridge, 2012) and James Michael Osborne “Qui plus miex vault: Evaluating Combat in Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur,” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of North Carolina, 2006), have attempted to bridge the literature gap, discussing the chivalric ethos in a more historical way, comparing and contrasting the romantic texts to other chivalric literature, such as knightly handbooks, legal codes, etc. A number of editions and facsimile translations have appeared since 2000, though few scholarly works. Notable exceptions include Sydney Anglo, “Le Jeu de la Hache. A Fifteenth-Century Treatise on the Technique of Chivalric Axe Combat,” Archaeologia, 2nd s. 109 (1991), 113–28; Massimo Malipiero, Il Fior di battaglia di Fiore dei Liberi da Cividale: il Codice Ludwig XV 13



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deal of interest has been generated by the study of works dating from the thirteenth century onwards, but their relationship to the art and practice of warfare has remained difficult to establish. Enthusiasts and amateur scholars have done considerable work teasing out and interpreting the techniques preserved in these treatises, while comparatively fewer have grappled with the more difficult questions: what relationship do these treatises have to other surviving sources, and to medieval society in general? Did the fighting treatises of the later Middle Ages reflect battlefield experience, or do they represent some other form of martial violence? What do we really know about medieval fighting – and training – during the late medieval period? Of potential relevance for Guy of Warwick are three Middle English poems that describe fighting technique. These appear to be mnemonic devices, perhaps used to encode principles, likely from an oral tradition.11 Mark R. Geldof dates the first of these, British Library [BL], MS Harley 3542, to c. 1410–30, while two others, also in the British Library, Additional MS 3956 and Cotton MS Titus A XXV, date to the late fifteenth century.12 Unfortunately, all three manuscripts have proven nearly opaque to modern students, with little agreement on what the specialized technical terms mean. Many of the terms either appear only in these manuscripts, or are used in a specialized manner as terms of art within the instructional context, making them nearly impenetrable. This is hardly a problem unique to the three; Geoffrey de Charny’s mid-fourteenth century question-set, Demandes pour la joute, le tournois et de guerre faces similar barriers, especially with respect to terms that describe components of the knight’s saddle.13 In addition to their opacity, the three treatises were bound in books of common knowledge, rather than with collections of chivalric treatises with texts such as romances, Vegetius’s De re militari, or Honoret Bonet’s Tree of Battles, suggesting their use in a non-chivalric martial tradition. Technically the

11

12 13

del J. Paul Getty Museum (Udine, 2006); Jeffrey L. Forgeng, I.33: The Illuminated Fightbook: Royal Armouries manuscript I.33 (London, 2013); and Hans Lecküchner, The Art of Swordsmanship, ed. Jeffrey L. Forgeng (Woodbridge, 2015). To date the most significant analysis is Sydney Anglo’s excellent The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe (New Haven, 2000). See also Brian R. Price, “The Martial Arts of Medieval Europe,” Ph.D. dissertation (University of North Texas, 2011), in preparation for publication as Systems of Fighting in Late Medieval Europe: Ars, Technē, Praxis. See Mark R. Geldof, “‘Strokez off ij hand swerde’: A Brief Instruction in the Use of Personal Arms” Opuscula 1 (2011), 1–9; James Hester, “Real Men Read Poetry: Instructional Verse in 14th Century Fight Manuals” in Arms & Armour 6 (2009), 175–83; Terry Brown, “A Transcription of ff. 84–85 of Harleian MS 3542 (A Verse Describing the Use of the Two Hand Sword), Being an Excerpt from a Forthcoming Book,” https://web.archive.org/web/20120824111327/ https://www.aaoema.com/Two-Hand-Sword-Translation-SECURE.pdf. Usefully, Mark Geldof has transcribed all three in his thesis, “‘Þe herte þe fote þe eye to accorde:’ Procedural Writing and Three Middle English Manuscripts of Martial Instruction,” (unpublished MA thesis, University of Saskatchewan, 2011). Geldof, “‘Strokez’,” Appendices A, B, and C. See Steven Muhlberger, Jousts and Tournaments: Charny and the Rules for Chivalric Sport in Fourteenth-Century France (Union City, CA, 2002).

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three have very little in common with their continental counterparts, though certain common principles are conveyed. The works remain obscure and hard to interpret, so comparative approaches are the right choice, but unfortunately we will find little in the romances to help with texts oriented at the non-chivalric community, as these seem to be.14 Insofar as Guy of Warwick may have been an exemplary teaching text for knights and esquires, we must look back to other literature intended for that audience to find more clues. Surviving accounts of late medieval fighting in the chronicles are hard to find. When they are, they are often maddeningly vague.15 Mentions of equipment and its cost may be usefully mined from inventory and purchase records, and from the occasional guild statutes or coroner’s rolls. Studies of wound pathology from sites such as Wisby or Towton contribute valuable insight.16 Sydney Anglo has provided important observations based on legal records, establishing the existence of fighting teachers within London, and we know from similar records that other teachers were active in other medieval cities, especially Bologna, starting at least in the thirteenth century. But we know too that knights and menat-arms did not travel to cities to learn their fighting arts. Unlike chroniclers, who tend to describe the fighting in only the broadest sense, romance authors usually detail blow-by-blow encounters, albeit with the stylized outcome wherein the hero’s strength enables him to overcome even the most powerful opponent.17 In most cases the fighting progresses predictably from the exchange of lance thrusts on horseback to dismounted fighting with swords, though grappling is occasionally included. Exaggerated blow strength and endurance are constant themes, since prowess and strength were seen as exemplary chivalric virtues to be emulated.18 Most literary scholars dismiss such sequences as uninformative or even “boring,” but it is likely that they were included for a reason, perhaps because they connected to the audience listening 14

15

16

17

18

See Geldof, “‘Strokez’,” for a strong analysis relating these texts to city-dwelling consumers of books. I make the case elsewhere that while most of these texts were created for consumption by a civilian audience, they may still have represented stored knowledge relating to the encoding of experiential learning that may have been transferred from the knightly exercise in arms to civilian use. See Price (forthcoming), Systems of Fighting. A notable exception is the chivalric biography by George Chastellain, Livre des faits de Jacques Lalaing, c. 1470. The great Malory scholar D. S. Brewer described the problem in “Personal Weapons in Malory’s Morte d’Arthur,” in Bonnie Wheeler, ed., Arthurian Studies in Honor of P. J. C. Field (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 271–84, at 271–2: “it was almost always general slashing and bashing.” For Wisby, see Bengt Thordemann, Armour from the Battle of Wisby ([1939] Union City, CA, 2001). For Towton, see Veronica Fiorato, Anthea Boylston, and Christopher Knüsel, Blood Red Roses: The Archaeology of a Mass Grave from the Battle of Towton AD 1461 (Oxford, 2000). See Catherine Hanley, War and Combat, 1150–1270: The Evidence from Old French Literature (Woodbridge, 2003), 182. Here I am also synthesizing my reading of a number of contemporary romances, including John Lydgate’s Troy Book, Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parsifal, and the works of Chrétien de Troyes, amongst many others. On this point see especially Richard W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (Oxford, 1999).



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or reading at the time.19 Rather than dismiss such exaggerations, we should ask why they were included in the text, when the audience of expert practitioners would know them for what they were. I believe the answer is that the texts were intended to teach; they are pedagogical works showing that combat prowess is largely a function of strength, thought of as a function of will, in turn derived from inspiration, a thirst for renown, or a sense of offense from injustice or against personal reputation. Sometimes this inspiration comes from devotion to chivalric virtues such as piety, loyalty, or love, but it also has a dark side, where anger or “ire” is often evoked to boost performance. More practically, we know that the thirst for renown and glory were accompanied by a desire for material gain, for booty and ransoms, especially during the period of the Hundred Years’ War.20 The will to overcome is a central tenet of every romantic tale, but it is also expressly discussed in a fifteenth-century jousting treatise, discussed below.21 In all of these stories, detail of combats, the accompanying physical culture, and the chivalric ethos is necessary to connect the story to its audience, while the fantastic elements seem to be entertainment included to hold the listeners’ interest so the author can convey underlying messages. This may explain why realistic portrayals of arms, armor and fighting – however exaggerated – are included in many romance tales. In analyzing these stories, linguistic and philological issues abound, ranging from scribal errors to intentional changes, abridgements or expansions of fighting scenes, so a comparison between versions may be important. The problem of anachronism is another issue, where dating the equipment described requires a solid knowledge of the development of arms and armor.22 In John Lydgate’s Troy Book, for example, the combatants are armed in the fifteenth-century style 19 20 21

22

This is particularly evident with the rich scholarship surrounding Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur. Rémy Ambühl, Prisoners of War in the Hundred Years’ War: Ransom Culture in the Later Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2015). Antonio Franco Preto, trans., [Dom Duarte of Portugal] The Royal Book of Jousting, Horsemanship and Knightly Combat: A Translation into English of King Dom Duarte’s 1438 Treatise Livro Da Ensinança De Bem Cavalgar Toda Sela (“The Art of Riding on Every Saddle”), ed. Steven Muhlberger (Highland Village, TX, 2005). The touchstone work in this subfield remains Claude Blair, European Armour, c. 1066 to c. 1700 (London, 1958), though a number of collection-specific works are available examining surviving harness in the Royal Armouries at Leeds (Arthur Richard Dufty, European Armour in the Tower of London (London, 1968)); the von Matsch collection at Schloss Churburg (Oswald Trapp, ed. and trans. James Gow Mann, The Armoury of the Castle of Churburg [1929], repub. with accompanying volume by Mario Scalini, Rudolf H. Wackernagel, and Ian Eaves, L’Armeria Trapp di Castel Coira / Die Churburger Rüstkammer / The Armoury of the Castle of Churburg (Udine, 1995–96)); the Madonna delle Grazie harnesses in Mantua (Lionello Boccia, Le armature di S. Maria delle Grazie di Curtatone di Mantova e l’armatura lombarda del ‘400 (Busto Arsizio, 1982)); the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna; the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art; amongst others. A number of Ph.D. dissertations raised the level of scholarship on armor beyond antiquarian interest. Of these, Tobias Capwell’s recent Armour of the English Knight, 1400–1450 (London, 2015), exemplifies the interdisciplinary nature and larger concerns of current studies. Capwell argues that English armor’s form followed function of the

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of Lydgate’s day, not in the armor of Mycenae in the twelfth century B.C.E. But Lydgate, like other romantic authors, includes close detail of the arming process, particularly in advance of an important engagement, providing clarity regarding the arms, armor, and physical culture of the knight and gent d’armes. In the case of the translated Guy of Warwick, the armor is not updated; a more usual romantic practice, situating the tale in an earlier time that can be idealized to encourage through the exemplary action of past legends. Bearing the cautions above in mind, the romances can help validate or challenge some of the physical techniques we find documented in the earliest fighting treatises, especially when triangulated with other evidence surviving as artifacts, and in artistic and documentary sources. More importantly, they can help with contextualization, as the study of the martial ethos of the knights or men-at-arms is well illuminated therein, albeit often in a moralizing way or, as Craig Taylor reminds us, as political and social commentary.23 Taken together with the chivalric handbooks, biographies, chronicles, account-books, coroner’s rolls, surviving examples, and artwork, we have interesting material from which to compare the fighting treatises and from which we can draw important observations about the society in which the man-at-arms was created and through which he moved.24 In Guy of Warwick, we find the final image of the mail-era medieval fighting forms beautifully detailed. Combatants wear full mail hauberks and chausses, armor of interwoven iron links, each painstakingly closed with a wedgeshaped rivet; their fully enclosed helms are laced in place and often adorned with circlets of gold and bearing floral torses. They bear shields that splinter lances and “brands” – swords of “yron and stele.” Combats begin with lance passes, each combatant attempting to unhorse the other, shatter his opponent’s shield, or better, drive his lance through the enemy’s hauberk and body. Once dismounted, they draw swords (swerdys or brondys), hewing with great strength

23

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unique English way of war – fighting dismounted –and that these design elements have been captured in funerary monuments. Craig Taylor, “English Writings on Chivalry and Warfare during the Hundred Years War,” in Peter Cross and Christopher Tyerman. eds., Soldiers, Nobles and Gentlemen: Essays in Honor of Maurice Keen (Woodbridge, 2009), pp. 64–84; idem, “War, Propaganda and Diplomacy in Fifteenth-Century France and England,” in Christopher T. Allmand, ed., War, Government and Power in Late Medieval France (Liverpool, 2000), pp. 70–91. Exemplary comparative works known to be influential during the period are numerous, including the knightly handbooks such as Ramon Llull’s Book of Knighthood & Chivalry and Geoffrey de Charny’s Livre de chevalerie; chivalric biographies such as the Life of the Black Prince or L’Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal; legal works such as Honoret Bonet’s Tree of Battles; war-books such as Konrad Kyeser’s Bellifortis; tournament books of the kind produced by King René d’Anjou; and the copious work of chroniclers, such as Jean Froissart’s Chroniques or the Grandes chroniques de France. Also valuable is the important corpus of scholarship built upon these and more obscure sources produced by scholars such as Andrew Ayton, Anne Curry, Kelly deVries, and Clifford J. Rogers, among many others. Many of these sources can be used to corroborate and challenge what we find in the romances, in particular the chivalric ethos.



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and trying to overcome their opponents’ shielded defense by striking primarily at the shield (in order to rend it) and the head. It is very much a contest of wills and endurance, not the arte or Kunst we find expressed in the continental fighting treatises. On foot, powerful hewing or cleaving blows targeting the head are emphasized, and generally the opponent is eventually driven to his knees and defeated rather than killed with a blow. Overall the combats are contests of strength, augmented by the ties of camaraderie where members of one’s company (or mesnie, rendered “meyne”) might ride to the rescue, itself a measure of the combatant’s esteem and the strength of the bonds won through his renown. Combats tend to be nasty, brutish, and long – at least when the opponent has virtue of his own; otherwise, they are short. Guy of Warwick “teaches” how a strenuous knight was expected to gain “mastery” (maystyre) of his art; we find a mode of training, the “feats of arms” framework for fighting, conduct in bellum, details of armor and weapons, and a great deal about the reason men fight, in particular, for their chivalric reputation, their renown. Renown and the resulting honor was the knight’s social currency, tender that was over time extended to other combatants such as the English yeoman and the captains of mercenary companies. It was a concept that resonated with the growing power of the urban elites, who adopted many chivalric practices to enhance and display their own social status: fighting skills as expressed in the later Fechtbücher were likely one of those adoptions.25 Maystyre: Learning to Fight Guy (Gye) learns his trade in action, following a traditional path. At an early age, he squires to a notable mentor ‘Sir Harold’ (Syr Harrawde of Ardurne), and will then exercise himself in arms through a series of adventures, gaining practical experience sufficient to earn him honor (honowre) and build his name. The good things in life – honor bestowed, love, wealth and social position won – all come as a consequence of the renown earned in this process of mastery. After having won everything possible – including Felice’s regard and hand in marriage – through a series of deeds of arms, Guy remains unsatisfied, has a religious epiphany, and once again repeats the deeds of arms cycle, this time on behalf of others rather than for his own name, proven by fighting incognito. This too is insufficient; he retires from the world (and eventually dies) as a hermit, entrusting his son to Sir Harold, starting the cycle anew. 25

See my draft paper, “Aristotle and the Martial Arts of Medieval Europe: The Idea of ‘Arte,’ Pedagogical Method and Historical Context in the Surviving Fechtbücher,” delivered at the Martial Arts Conference, Cardiff, May 2015, where I note that members of the rising urban communities often adopted the trappings of the landed aristocracy, which included the purchase of country estates, the sponsoring of sumptuary laws, marrying into the aristocracy to gain titles and arms, and finally, exercise in the practice of arms, including the hiring of fight-masters and the sponsoring of civic festivals mimicking their chivalric counterparts.

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It is perhaps notable that Sir Harold will not only provide his elementary education, but may be a metaphor for the lifetime practical value of the lessons. Harold’s standing as a well-respected member of the chivalric community qualifies him as an exemplary teacher, just as the “law of arms” was resident not in texts, but it the judgment of experienced knights. He will give this wisdom not only to the young squire but to the knight throughout all his years, and afterwards, to his son (though the son is kidnapped by conniving Russian merchants!). Our author writes, Wyth a swyrde he cowde well pleye And prycke a stede in a weye. Gye had to maystyr a knyght (Sir Harrawde of Ardurne he hyȝt), A nobull knight and an hardye Full well he taght aye Gye.26 He was hende & wele y-tauȝt, Gij to lern forȝat he nauȝt; Michel he couþe of hauk & hounde, Of estriche faucouns of gret mounde.27

In order to be a knight, Guy had to master (maystyr) how to pleye well with a sword, how to ride (prycke a stede). Sir Harold is qualified to teach these skills because he is a “noble,” “hardy” knight; in other words, his reputation and renown (possibly to include his lineage) make him a suitable teacher. And we have two prerequisite skills, horsemanship and weapon-handling. Weaponhandling is of course mentioned in every fight – of which they are many – but fewer references to riding appear, though there are some: Golde and syluyr be þy mede. I haue mystere of soche a stede For to ryde on at my nede. There they prekyd abowte syr Gye, But he defendyd hym manlye. Gye prekyd thorow the ooste : They hym folowed wyth grete boste. Then came knyghtys prekande28

The component physical skills, however, are not enough to convey mastery, or to make Guy a fully realized knight. He discovers this when, early on, he

26 27 28

Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 137–42. Guy of Warwick, Auckinleck MS, ll. 173–76. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 5818–20, 5161–64 & 6815.



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wins the knightly accolade and tries to secure Felice’s love: she rejects him because he doesn’t yet have sufficient renown. The concept of “mastery” of the knight’s art encompasses the whole of the tale. It seems to be a blend of all the knightly skills – swordsmanship, jousting, riding, and tactics, all honed through increasingly challenging practical experience ranging along the martial spectrum from jousts to war. Of course, the knightly reader of our tale cannot learn his mastery wholly from a book, no matter the honorific “Sir” attached to Harold’s name. For that, he must engage in ludic practice or pleye.29 Pleye: Ludic Behavior There are a number of times when the poet distinguishes between play and battle, though they are so closely related that the he feels compelled to note the distinction: Now they smyte faste in same : I wot, ther was but lytull game. Betwene þem was lytull play : They drewe swerdys, as y say. Grete batell þere men myght see : Nother wolde fro odur flee.30

It would seem that the difference between play and war is one of tone and intent, rather than of outward appearance.31 In the instructional fighting poem BL, Harley MS 3542, fols. 84–85, the author gives a series of martial instructions, followed at the end with: Thys buþe þe lettrs þt stondlȳ in hys syȝte…To Teche · or to play · or ellys for to fyȝte (“These are the letters that strongly in his sight, to teach, or to play or else to fight.”)32 The Harleian verse expressly links play and teaching. It goes on to say, “These both the strokes of thy whole ground, [are to] hurt, wound or [are] for death,” These buþe þe strokys of þy hole grovnde…ffor hurte ·or for dynte · or ellys for deþys. Teaching and play are also connected in another mid-fourteenth century work, The Tale of Gamelyn, where 29 30 31

32

“Ludic” is defined as referring to play that has a serious end: it is practice, as when kittens wrestle. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 1811–16. Johan Huizinga wrote about the close connection between play and battle in Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture ([1951] Boston, 1955). Huizinga is better known for his negative assessment of chivalry in The Waning of the Middle Ages ([1919] London, 1924), but in Homo Ludens he advances the case that play is an integral component of culture, and especially aristocratic/chivalric culture. Anonymous, 15th century, BL, Harley MS 3542, fol. 85, ll. 43–44. Transcribed by Alfred Hutton in The Sword and the Centuries, or Old Sword Days and Old Sword Ways: Being a Description of the Various Swords Used in Civilized Europe during the Last Five Centuries, and of Single Combats which have been Fought with them (London, 1901); also published as The Sword through the Centuries (New York, 2002). Other transcriptions for publication are found in Brown, “A Transcription.”

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the youngster challenges his older brother for cheating him of his rightful inheritance: “‘Brother,’ sayde Gamelyn · ‘com a litel ner, and-I wil teche the a play · atte bokeler!’” and later, after making a clever throw against the champion in a wrestling match, “This is yonge Gamelyn · that taughte the this pleye.”33 That Gamelyn is underage is interesting; he competes not with the arms and harness of a knight or man-at-arms, but with sword and buckler, and at wrestling, ludic forms of play that may inform his future as a knight. Interestingly, “play” is also the term employed by the Italian master at arms, Fiore dei Liberi, c. 1409, who refers to his exemplary figure as the zugadore or player, and his techniques as zoghi, or plays.34 He also refers to the need to exercise oneself in arms using both concordia and amore, “agreement” and love. In our poem this sentiment seems to be more explicit, when Guy and his friend Tyrrye arm themselves and take to a nearby field, ostensibly to exercise themselves in arms: Gye and Ames went þat day Wyth Tyrrye into þe felde to play.35

Thus, practice seems to be a way of learning by doing, a pedagogical method, one that as we will see may be exercised with increasing risk (and increasing potential for renown and honor). Perhaps more importantly, ludic pleye increases the enjoyment of the activity, which encourages further interest in the rigors of the military life. Play is the usual method of training for knights and men-atarms, in preparation for more strenuous experience gained in jousts, tournaments, and in war, but the play element gradually decreases along the martial spectrum in jousts and in tournaments, while it is generally absent in war. Feats of Arms The notable knight of the Hundred Years’ War, Geoffrey de Charny, worked closely with the French king Jean II to create the Order of the Star (1351).36 Likely as part of Jean’s chivalric reinvigoration effort, Charny wrote at least 33

34

35 36

The Tale of Gamelyn, c. 1350, BL, Harley MS 7334, published as The Tale of Gamelyn, from the Harleian Manuscript 7334, Collated with Six Other Manuscripts, ed. Walter W. Skeat (Oxford: 1884), ll. 134–44 and 254. Fiore dei Liberi, Fior di Battaglia, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS Ludwig XV 13; The terms zoghi and zugadore are used throughout the text. For the best facsimile edition, see Malipiero, Il Fior di battaglia. Three other manuscripts survive: the earliest in the Pisano-Dossi family collection, entitled Flos Duellatorum; another closely related to the Getty MS in the Morgan Library in New York, MS M.383; and one in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Latin 11269. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 6317–18. The most famous, the Livre de chevalerie, has been usefully published as Richard W. Kaeuper and Elspeth Kennedy, eds., The Book of Chivalry of Geoffroi de Charny: Text, Context, and Translation, ed. and trans. (Philadelphia, 1996). See also Arthur Piaget, “Le Livre Messire Geoffroi de Charny,” Romania 26 (1897), 394–411. For more detail on the tournament in English, see especially Juliet Barker, The Tournament in England, 1100–1400 (Woodbridge,



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three insightful handbooks. In the best known, the Livre de chevalerie, he offers advice about the practice of learning arms, offering a tripartite ordo for deeds of arms, scaled according to their risk and commensurate worth: After jousting, they learn about the practice of arms in tournaments, and it becomes apparent to them and they recognize that tournaments bring greater honor than jousting for those who perform well there….Their knowledge increases until they see and recognize that men-at-arms who are good in war are more highly prized and honored than any other men-at-arms…37

Jousts, tournaments and war; Guy of Warwick participates in all three. Throughout the story arc they are neatly ordered, with the young champion first participating in jousts and tournaments, learning and earning renown as he progresses in lands further and further from his Warwick home, moving then to war, culminating in a crusade to free the city of Constantinople from Saracen rule: Of a gode knyghts mystere Hyt ys the furste manere Wyth some odur gode knyght Odur to juste or to fyght. Goo and do thy cheyalyre […] Ther was no justes nor turnament In all the lande, where y wente, On my soche pryse þere dud falle. Sytheɳ harde y speke beyonde þe see Of warre in a farre cuntre. The sarsyns, þat were so many and stronge…38

In the quotation above, Tyrry of Gormoyse tells his story, adhering to the ordo, describing first joust and tournaments, then how he participated “in warre in a farre cuntre,” completing the formula. This ordo of arms is found in nearly all Middle English romances that include fighting,39 almost always in this sequence. In Guy of Warwick, jousts occur regularly between knights errant, but they occur also between knights during the first press of battle. Tournaments are restricted to Guy’s earlier experiences (ll. 492–724), and then he progresses, following Charny’s ordo, to war. Notably, also following Charny’s prescription, after tasting war he never does return to tourney. Indeed, Guy seems to concur with Charny’s refrain, “All deeds of arms are worthy of praise, but some are

37 38 39

1986) and Richard W. Barber and Juliet Barker, Tournaments: Jousts, Tournaments, Chivalry and Pageants in the Middle Ages (New York, 1989). Kaeuper and Kennedy, eds., The Book of Chivalry, pp. 101–03. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 437–41 and 4355–61. See for example the many examples in John Lydgate’s Troy Book, or the near-contemporary Sir Degaré.

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more praiseworthy than others, therefore, I say, he who does more is worth more.”40 The deeds of arms we see in Guy of Warwick thus mirror the words of a respected, active knight writing at very nearly the same time; they seem to represent more than flights of fancy, but are rather in line with the knight who will soon be counsellor to the King of France, Jean II. Bot whan y may wite and see That thou hast in tormentis bee, And that thou hast knyghtes name, Castellis and Toures ouerecome, And thurgh all the londe and Contree Thy knyghthode full good knoweɳ bee, And that it bee for thy myghte.41

Honowre and Renown For of grete worship was nooɳ in his caas. Of armes he had beeɳ chief on grounde, And therof preised in many a londe ; For that he wolde preysed bee, He did him bee knoweɳ in many a contree.42

Renown, honowre, or often in English texts worshyp, was the main purpose of participation in feats of arms. As experiential learning, the man-at-arms’s reputation was expected to rise as he did more; in the now-famous phrasing of Geoffrey de Charny, qui plus fait, miex vault, “he who does more is more worthy.” As has been noted, what I term the “renown mechanism” could deliver either positive or negative social status according to the perceived virtue of conduct, expressed as a social consensus over time. In the words of Johan Huizinga, “The nobleman demonstrates his ‘virtue’ by feats of strength, skill, courage, wit, wisdom, wealth or liberality.”43 While few English knights may have pursued renown via an errancy, as Laurie A. Finke and Martin B. Shichtman suggest,44 martial opportunities for fame and wealth abounded during the first half of the Hundred Years’ War, when English fortunes were ascendant; we find the names of many knights and men-at-arms noted in the Chroniques of Jean Froissart and Engeurrand de Monstrelet, intended for consumption by gentle audiences. Contrary to Finke and Shichtman’s assertion, knights did find ample opportunities for martial exercise during the course of the Hundred Years’ War, and after40 41 42 43 44

Kaeuper and Kennedy, eds., The Book of Chivalry, p. 86. Guy of Warwick, Caius MS, ll. 741–47. Ibid., ll. 114–18. Huizinga, Homo Ludens, p. 65. Laurie A. Finke and Martin B. Shichtman, “No Pain, No Gain: Violence as Symbolic Capital in Malory’s Morte d’Arthur,” Arthuriana 8/2 (1998), 115–34, at 118.



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wards, during the Wars of the Roses. The famous Combat of the Thirty and the many deeds of arms recorded in the fifteenth-century works of George Chastellain and Olivier de la Marche suggest that the romances both mirrored contemporary practice and were simultaneously intended to inspire further virtue won by exercise in all three kinds of arms: in jousts, tournaments, and war.45 In Guy of Warwick, renown is usually discussed as honowre, but not as a virtue – rather, it is social currency won primarily through courage, loyalty and prowess, the three “warrior” virtues that tend to be found at the center of all warrior ethoi. In the most basic sense, honowre was won through prowess: He drewe hys swerde of stele : On hys hedde he hyt hym wele. He hym toke, as in batayle, That was honowre, wythowen fayle. […] Yf y knewe any knyght, That durste agenste þe gyawnt fyght. A ryche man he wolde hym make And do hym honour for hys sake And geue hym golde grete plente And halfe hys londe eurymore free.46

Accomplishment and masterye then resulted in a powerful reputation, which could earn social prestige and legal standing (fama), as well as winning loyalty and respect from other members of the chivalric community, including “maydyns in bowre.”47 As Charny discussed, the degree of prestige was commensurate with the risk – and success. But honor and renown were accorded for more than just prowess, as is sometimes argued.48 Honor was also won by other kinds of virtuous deeds, such as expressing generosity, courtesy, or piety. In Middle English romance, “honour,” “renoun” or “worshyp” terms dominate the texts, instructing the chivalric community how to win and use the prowess so hard won in the exercise of arms and in the expression of the duties of justice and loyal service, fidelitas. Renown could be negative: “Harrowde had ay gret tene and schame, that he was broȝt in soche false fame….”49 So too “vylany and shame” were the opposite, a functional negative renown working in opposition to virtue, the “stick”

45

46 47 48 49

William Harrison Ainsworth, The Combat of the Thirty: From a Breton Lay of the Fourteenth Century (London, 1859); Georges Chastellain, Histoire du bon cheualier, messire Jacques de Lalain […] (Brussels, 1634); Olivier de la Marche, Traictés du duel judiciare: Relations de pas d’armes et tournois (Paris, 1872). Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 1627–30 and 7617–22. On the manifestation of “good name” as legal fama, see Laura Ilkins Stern, “Public Fame in the Fifteenth Century,” The American Journal of Legal History 44 (2000), 198–222. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 8653–54.

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of the carrot-and-stick reputational system. Within the text, avoiding shame and villainy was as important as winning renown – it represents the opposite side of the very same coin. Certainly, “villainy” had associations with the unrefined, the uneducated, the common; and we find the term echoing in the fighting treatises as well. One of Fiore dei Liberi’s “plays” – zoghi – was termed the colpo di villano, “the villein’s blow,” an over-powered, over-committed, seemingly clumsy blow committed by the common opponent.50 The German texts feature a similar reference to the buffel (i.e. buffoon), the same kind of strike.51 Riding the line between villainy and honor is the leverage of emotion. In Guy of Warwick, as in many other medieval tales, the heroes are frequently inspired to strength not just through high morals, but through the harnessing of baser ones, especially anger or yre, “ire”. Very often Guy’s power is enhanced through anger, yet the anger derives from Guy’s offended sense of justice. His anger is not presented in a wholly negative light, but is rather harnessed as another manifestation of his innate goodness, his quest for justice in the abstract, as it applies to his companions (Tyrry and Harawde), and as it applies to motivating him to prosecute war against the Saracen to relieve the Emperor. The moralizing nature of the romance texts represents the classic tension between divergent social perspectives upon the knight and man-at-arms, with the main vectors originating from the warriors themselves (Charny, et al.); from the clergy (Llull, et al.); and from what have been called “civilizing” court and feminine influences (courtly love, an so on).52 Within Guy of Warwick we find all three influence perspectives represented: the hero seeks to win renown and glory in order to secure Felice’s love by building his own name, to avenge or rescue a companion-in-arms, or for the faith, fighting incognito, for the “glory of God.” This too follows Charny’s ordo: he describes as predomme those who ayment Dieu, servant et honorent, et sa tres douce mere et toute sa puissance (“love God, serving and honoring Him, his most gentle mother and all His power”),53 even though all who accomplish deeds of arms are worthy. Guy becomes more worthy as he transitions from worldly motivations to divine ones. Throughout the tale, Guy of Warwick “had grete honowre / of kynge, prynce and maydyns in bowre.”54 In the “traditional” chivalric tale, lineage plays a powerful role, all but defining worthiness, an old idea of nobility ably traced by Maurice Keen.55 Here, we find low “villainous” acts discrediting:

50 51 52 53 54 55

Fiore dei Liberi, Getty MS., fol. 26r. Dresden, Sächsische Landesbibliothek, MS Dresd. C.487, fol. 31r. Sidney Painter’s French Chivalry (Baltimore, 1940), still stands as the clearest expression of this idea. Kaeuper and Kennedy, eds., The Book of Chivalry, pp. 148–49. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 7833–34. Keen, Chivalry, 141–63.



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Ye seme bothe bolde and hardye. To do a pylgryme skathe vtterlye To yow hyt were grete vylenye. Hyt wolde yow turne to muche owtrage, When ye be of so grete lynage.56

It is in the descriptions of “negative” renown that the challenge to the “prowessonly” definition of chivalric virtue may be best seen. From the knight’s perspective, articulated by Charny, any display of prowess was worthy. But how that prowess was used could as easily earn shame and infamy if it contravened social convention. Contravening the chivalric ethos, tied as it was to the concept of inherited nobility, one could disqualify oneself through villainous acts; one could do villainy, unexpected of one of high lineage, as Barrarde (wrongly) accuses an unrecognized Guy, who stands incognito: Of yowre steward, þat may not avayle, That ye banysched Tyrrye, þe knyȝt, And many odur wythowten ryght. Therfore of þe ys spokyn schame And in euery lorde moche blame. Ye do yowreselfe moche dyshonowre57

Fame and dishonor could be done to someone. While the author doesn’t express the resulting loss of renown directly within the text, the insinuation is that such negative deeds bring equally negative renown, as when Duke Oton acts unjustly towards Guy and Tyrry, among myriad other examples: How the dewke Otoɳ of Payuye Wolde do me grete vylenye. […] Y wyll, that þou kepe Tyrrye And do hym schame and vylanye.58

This was an ever-present risk: that bad actions could result in a loss of positive renown, or that through bad actions by another, it could be imposed on you. The way to avoid such pitfalls was through superior strength and will; Guy appeals to God to keep him from making such mistakes and from such harm, “God, þat dyed on a tre, / saue Gye from schame and vylane!”59 The avoidance of shame and villainy, whether by one’s own agency or through one’s weakness, is the flip side of the earning of renown and honor; the reverse of the “renown mechanism,” a point made strongly in the text: 56 57 58 59

Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 9220–24. Ibid., ll. 9191–95. Ibid., ll. 4373–74 and 5845–46. Ibid., ll. 7389–90.

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Arms, Armor, and Fighting Equipment Gye wente armed and wele ydyght, As felle to a gentyll knyght. On hym he had an hawberke : Hyt was made of rych warke. In farre londe hyt was wroght. […] That all þe halle schone of þe lyght.”61

Within the Warwick text are numerous mentions and descriptions of arms and armor, but we are faced with the problem of anachronism. The source text for the Middle English versions was Anglo-Norman, composed between 1225 and 1275; a copy survives in the British Library as Add. MS 38662.62 During this period, the knight was protected by a hauberk of interwoven mail links worn over a padded coat usually termed an aketon or gambeson. Mail had been dominant and would remain the dominant form of defense until the early fourteenth century, though plate armor began its appearance in the late twelfth, taking hold really only in the second half of the thirteenth. Defenses of small plates affixed to cloth or leather are clearly visible by c. 1270, but it was not until about 1300 that plate defenses for the body had become the norm (though it is hard to tell from 1250–1300, owing to the presence of a surcoat, which tended to hide armor on the body). By 1330, when Guy of Warwick was translated from Anglo-Norman French into Middle English, the hauberk was often augmented with other materials, usually of hardened leather or iron plate. Cuisses of cuirboille (boiled leather) or stuffed (gamboised) cloth defended the upper leg; poleyns of leather or iron defended the knee; schynbalds or greaves the lower leg, and sabatons the foot. The body was still protected by the hauberk over the gambeson, but was augmented with a coat of plates or brigandine. Bascinets with pendant aventails dominated, sometimes fitted with central-pivoting visors and at other times worn under a larger, fully encompassing helm. Armor of this kind may be seen on the brass of Sir William Fitzralph, Pebmarsh Church, Essex (see Figure 2), and in the Holkham Bible.63 60 61 62

63

Ibid., ll. 7875–78. Ibid., ll. 7899–903 and 7916. For dating, see Ewart, ed., Gui; the British Library Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts; and Wiggins, “Guy of Warwick.” Also available in a modern English translation: Judith Weiss, trans., Boeve de Haumtone and Gui de Warewic: Two Anglo-Norman Romances (Tempe, 2008). Blair, European Armour, p. 53. For the Holkham Bible, BL, Add. MS 47682, see http://www. bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=Add_MS_47682 [accessed 25 January 2018] for a fully



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None of these elements are found in the Cambridge text, suggesting no effort to update the armor. By 1490, when the Cambridge University Library copy was created, armor had completely changed, plates of “yron and stele” covering the whole body, cap à pied, in the German, Italian, Flemish, or English style. In the Anglo-Norman original, the armor is of the same kind as we find in the c. 1490 copy. Since most of the armor in the surviving English Guy of Warwick manuscripts dating from c. 1330 to c. 1490 is described as unreinforced mail, it seems probable that the translator’s intent was to leave references to the original and not update them according to current fashion, as was the norm, unlike commentators such as Lydgate. In a similar case relating to Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, James Michael Osborne concludes that the Malory romances were ethical texts employing purposeful, temporal anachronism designed to evoke the ethics of a pre-fifteenth century chivalric ethos as expressed in the works of Geoffrey de Charny, Honoret Bonet, and Ramon Llull.64 I conclude the same for Guy of Warwick. Within our text, we find combatants clad in hauberks of mail, without plate augmentation. At no point do we see other elements of armor for the trunk or limbs apart from mail. Another element of mail that gives a clue is the ventail, the flap of mail covering the face worn as part of a coif or coif and steel cap combination. Here Guy is hot, so he unlaces the flap to better enable his breath, “And vnlasyd hys ventayle, / there as he was moste hate :”65 The ventail should not be confused with the aventail or camail, the mail skirt affixed to full bascinets later in the century. In the Warwick text, over the coif, or integrated with it, was the bacnet, a steel cap that eventually developed into the fully enclosed bascinet, itself likely padded with sewn liner “styffd” with horsehair, sea sponge, or straw. Over the bacnet would be the fully enclosing helm, often referred to in the text, but never with a reference to a visor. Such helmets had been worn since the twelfth century, dating all the way to the mid-fourteenth, as we know from surviving examples from the Black Prince and the two matching helmets (the Pembridge helm, National Museum of Scotland, A.1905.489; Royal Armouries, IV.600). While we do not know for certain this was intended with the Warwick text, we do have a poetic description from the tale of Sir Degaré, which also dates from c. 1330–40: Upon his heved so harde iset Thurh helm and heved and bacinet That ate brest stod the dent; Ded he fil doun, verraiment.66

64 65 66

digitized presentation of the entire manuscript. The figures therein do not yet wear schynbalds or greaves, though they do wear poleyns. Defense for the body is unknown beyond the mail. Osborne, “Qui plus.” Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 8130–31. Sir Degaré, ll. 960–63; full text available, ed. Anne Laskaya and Eve Salisbury, at http://d. lib.rochester.edu/teams/text/laskaya-and-salisbury-middle-english-breton-lays-sir-degare [accessed 25 January 2018].

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This stroke hits so hard it goes “through the helm and bacinet,” all the way to the breast[bone?]. Obviously, a killing stroke. This is the kind of exaggerated strike that fills page after page of the manuscript, where horses’ spines are cleaved alongside helms and shields that splinter “across the field.” It is exaggeration, but intentional, with a literary purpose discussed below. The importance of the helm as a central element of defense for men-at-arms is difficult to overstate, since nearly all of the combats end with a stroke to the head, despite the fact that the head was better protected than the rest of the body, with helms of iron or steel worn over the mail coif or bacnet. In the verse below, the author admonishes his readers to protect the head in war; clearly it was the main target: He had an helme of olde warke And on euery syde stones starke. He, that on hys hedde hyt bare, Schulde not be vencowsde in no warre.”67

It is not clear what this helmet of “old work” might indicate, though it could be a reference to the post Roman-era spangen helmet, often encrusted with stones. Such helmets were common in Merovingian and pre-Norman times, and it is possible that the poet refers to images preserved in churches depicting warriors from the earlier time, but this must remain speculative. There is an intriguing section, however, that mentions both “iron and steel,” used in the crafting of arms and armor: All the men of that cyte [Argone] That batyell myght beholde and see. They went and armed them stylle Bothe in yron and in stele.68

Within the work we find a strong association of iron and steel with strength, one of the text’s main themes. Strength of will, of body, and of weapon are cited throughout. A knight’s weapons, like his will and his body, must prove themselves over and over again, or they risk “shame and vylany.” In a very realistic sequence that would doubtlessly resonate with any man-at-arms who had been in mounted combat, Harrawde’s sword glances downwards from the helmet to impact on the saddle-bow, where it shatters: Hys hedde of there he smote. Anodur he þoght to smyte ryght : Hys hedde þere on the ȝorthe lyght. But hys swerde glasedde lowe And stroke vpon the sadull bowe : So faste hys swerde he dud owt take, That in hys hande all tobrake.69 67 68 69

Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 7917–20. Ibid., ll. 1641–44. Ibid., ll. 5064–70.



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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of the book.

Figure 2: English armor, c. 1320, from the tomb effigy of William Fitzralph, Pebmarsh Church, Essex. Note the reinforced schylbalds for the lower legs, the poleyns at the knee, and the plate or leather arm defenses. This does not appear to be the armor described by the c. 1330 translation or by the c. 1490 copy of Guy of Warwick.

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When the sword breaks Sir Harrowde exclaims that the sword-maker should be hanged! “Allas,” seyde Harrowde, “now haue y care : I may defende me now no mare. Allas, swerde, who made the, Hongyd be he on a tree. Why haste þou fayled me so sone? My lyue dayes be now done. Me had leuer here haue be slane, Then þus amonge þese men tane.”70

The seriousness of Harrawde’s circumstance is underscored; because of the break, “my live days be now done”; without a sword, he expects to soon be slain. The weapons discussed in the text are most often the lance (usually spere) and sword (swerde, swyrde or when drawn brond, as in “brand” or “brandish”), and there is an interesting sequence with axe and shield, though Guy takes up the axe as the only weapon available. The sequence is worth quoting in full, as it contains a realistic portrayal of tactics: Guy is surrounded by five knights, so he puts his back (rygge) to the wall and goes for the “traitorous” seneschal, whom he cleaves in two: Tho they lept Gye abowte, Kyghtys, þat were styffe and stowte. Gye wanne hys schelde, þere hyt stode, And in hys hande an axe gode. He tyrnedde hys rygge to a walle And hym defendyd for them all. Tho starte forthe the steward : Hyt semyd, he was no cowarde. Wyth a swyrde he smote Gye On the shelde hardelye. Wyth hys axe Gye to hym mynte : He fayled not of hys dynte. He claue hys hedde euyn in twaye : Hys lyfe he loste that ylke day. Gye wyth hys owne hande Defendyd hym wyth hys axe bytande. There he slewe knyghtys thre, The strengyst of all þat cuntre.71

There is a single reference to a falchion (fawchon), a short chopping weapon, occasionally mentioned alongside the mace, axe, and sword, a heavy blade similar to a modern machete:72 70 71 72

Ibid., ll. 5071–78. Ibid., ll. 6587–604. Other contemporary examples appear in the mid-fifteenth century version of the Carolingian



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Gye hath hym a stroke raght Wyth hys fawchon at a draght : To the erthe he felle downe.73

One must be careful, however; sometimes fawchon was also used as a synonym for sword, useful in rhyme with two syllables rather than one. This seems to be the case in a mid-fourteenth century Middle English Romance, Lybeaus Desconus, where swerdis and fawchon are interchanged.74 Shields were in broad use c. 1330, and we see them again in the Holkham Bible, but their use faded as full plate defenses come into fashion (though they are still seen in paintings and illuminations of war and battle to the end of the fifteenth century, and they remained in use for various jousting sports). As Guy faces his last opponent, the Danish champion, the latter is curiously said to use a “targe,” perhaps intended to be a round shield, possibly intended in the Viking style, since the champion is a Dane; all four of the main weapons are also mentioned: He had also a nobull targe : Hyt was bothe bryght and large. Ther was noþyng, þat myȝt hyt dere, Knyfe, swyrde, axe nor spere.75

In most encounters, shields splinter, often “in the field.” Contemporary shields, as attested from the few surviving examples, were made of wood, sometimes covered with canvas, coated with gesso, and painted. Often they are splintered upon impact with the lance; always when swords – “brondys” – are drawn, pieces are hewn free. While mail and the helm would protect the knight, mail defenses seem more of a defense of last resort, while the shield was used to absorb as much of the opponent’s fury as possible for as long as possible. Overall the arms represented in the text are familiar ones, though the armor is anachronistic for for both the translation and the late fifteenth-century copy

73 74

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romance The Sege of Melayne (The Siege of Milan) (Middle English), BL, Add. MS 31042 (ff. 66bB79b), ed. Alan Lupack in Three Middle English Charlemagne Romances (Kalamazoo, 1990) and available at http://d.lib.rochester.edu/teams/text/lupack-three-middle-english-charlemagne-romances-siege-of-milan-introduction [accessed 25 January 2018]: “He ferkes owte with a fawchon” (l. 484); “At the byschoppe was so tene, / A fawchone hase he draweɳ.” (ll. 710–11). In Sir Gowther, a mid-fifteenth century Middle English romance, “All that he with his fawchon hytte / Thei fell to tho ground and ross not yette,” (ll. 604–05): BL, Royal MS 17.B.43 and NLS, Advocates’ MS 19.3.1., ed. Anne Laskaya and Eve Salisbury in The Middle English Breton Lays (Kalamazoo, 1995), available at http://d.lib.rochester.edu/teams/text/laskaya-andsalisbury-middle-english-breton-lays-sir-gowther-introduction [accessed 25 January 2018]. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 1621–23. Lybeaus Desconus, Lambeth Palace, MS 306, ed. Eve Salisbury and James Weldon (Kalamazoo, 2013), ll. 2000–15, available at http://d.lib.rochester.edu/teams/text/salisbury-and-weldon-lybeaus-desconus-introduction [accessed January 25 2018]. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 7929–32.

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dates. While the reason for not updating the armor must remain uncertain, it seems likely that many romances were intended to hark back to an earlier, heroic period, evoking Guy’s action as an exemplary model. Members of the gentle audience would likely have known that mail defenses dominated at this earlier time, establishing a temporal marker. The realistic portrayal of such equipment may have served to bridge the extraordinary feats of prowess and will with the ordinary experience for the knight or man-at-arms, be they from the period of the translation or the late fifteenth-century copy. The knight’s armor was a crucial component of his franchise, his station, a sign of his commitment to the spectrum of chivalric virtues that included prowess, courage, and loyalty. It was also, so long as the custom of ransom was observed, potentially an insurance policy that went beyond the deflecting of an unblocked blow, marking him as capable of raising a ransom and thus worthy of protection if forced to yield. Technical Use of Weapons (smyting, hewing, etc.) Betwene þem two was grete fight : Gye hym turned, as an hardy knyght. They smote togedur so faste, That there sperys all tobraste. Than þey toke þer bryght brondys And faght togedur wyth þer hondys. Gye claue hys helme and hys schelde, That þe pecys lay in the felde. Tyrrye smote to Gye a stroke : As god wolde, his swyrde broke. Sone Tyrrye turned hys stede And fledde faste, as he had need :76

Guy of Warwick, in common with other Middle English romances from the period, often describes combat attacks as “hewing” (houen, hewe, hued, etc.: or all to-hewe with swerdes kene).77 Combatants “give strokes” – blows. Other words commonly employed are “cleave” (clauve) and “smite” (smyte) – related to the word “smith,” associated with hammering. A hewing motion is a powerful strike that harnesses the whole of the body rather than relying on the arms alone. We do not find analogous fencing terms such as “cutting”; rather, the sword is seen as an impact weapon. These powerful attacks were often portrayed as rending the shield, and sometimes armor, or in exceptional cases, as breaking a horse’s back or cutting it in two. While there are references to strikes and losses at the shoulder, arm, hand, body, and foot, usually the head was the main target. Blows to the leg are not mentioned, and powerful strikes to the shield predominate, attacking the shield

76 77

Ibid., ll. 2109–20. Guy of Warwick, Caius MS, l. 305.



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to reduce it and secure an advantage, which was supposed to make the head and body more exposed. Opportune strikes to the head, body, or limbs are not necessarily avoided, but when opponents are equally matched they usually succeed in defending themselves using a combination of their sword and shield until the shield is reduced or until their strength wanes and they are forced to their knees. The term smyte is liberally employed in the three surviving instruction sets surviving in Middle English, mentioned earlier. We find therein smyte forty-two times in the three treatises; cleue is found but twice, while hew is not mentioned. We do find, in BL, Add.MS 39564, references to “full” or “half” strokes, which appear to refer to different degrees of power, but these terms do not appear in the romances, again implying a martial tradition different from the chivalric one. Interestingly, the terms for thrusting, foyne or fune, appear liberally in the three instructional treatises, but do not appear either in Guy of Warwick or in many other contemporary Middle English romances. Power is discussed in other fighting manuscripts, in several explicitly and in one implicitly. The first is a German Hausbuch, H3227, usually dated from c. 1389. While the authorship and dating of the manuscript is in doubt, there is no dispute concerning the mnemonic content, which glosses the influential verse of the German Fechtmeister Johannes Liechtenauer. Liechtenauer’s verse provided a core foundation for German fencing through the sixteenth century, and in his zettel or merkeverse, power is clearly emphasized: mit ganczem leib, vicht waß du stark gerest czu treÿbñ, “fight [vicht] with the whole body, is what you want to do.”78 The German treatises advocate a series of blows and cuts that rely on turning movements that emphasize getting inside of an opponent’s defense. The German analogue for the Middle English hew is hau (sometimes hew). Within the German tradition we find a number of hauen with specific, descriptive names, such as zornhau, sheitelhau, krumphau, assembled into a series of exercises designed to instill principles and specific martial responses. In another early treatise, dating from the first decades of the fifteenth century, Fiore de Liberi’s Fior di battaglia discusses power in a more implicit way. Within the treatise, figures are shown always carrying their body forward with a step during the attack, and in moving between fighting positions, or poste, the combatant is forced to use his large muscle groups, which generates power. One category of guardie or poste is termed pulsativa, which suggests “pulsing” or power, Fiore uses the verb colpire, to suggest strikes, like Liechtenauer, rather than “cut,” which is rendered at one point only in the text, as the verb tagliare. Taken together with the body movements shown in the detailed and well-executed illustrations, and the reliance on “striking” rather than “cutting,” Fiore would seem to also be advocating fighting with power. Colpire, hauen, and hewing would all appear to be of a kind, the early fighting treatises urging 78

Variations of this transcription appear in many copies of the Liechtenauer verse. The version above is from the work of Hans Talhoffer, Universitäts- und Forschungsbibliothek Erfurt Gotha, MS Chart A.558, c. 1443, fol. 18r.

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the need to generate power as well as precision. This emphasis on power is quickly lost as later teachers focus more on tempo and position.79 Both Lichtenauer and Fiore dei Liberi discuss the use of the art or principle (arte d’armizare and kunst des fechten) that enables the weaker opponent to turn the power of a stronger foe through art (winden in the German; volte in the Italian). In the H3227a commentary on Liechtenauer’s verse, the author discusses how to use his art (kunst) to defeat strength alone: dorum get lichtnawer fechten noch recht und worhalftiger kunst dar / das eyn swacher mit syner kunst und list / als schire gesigt / als eyn starker mit syner sterke (“That is why Liechtenauer’s swordsmanship is a true art that the weaker wins more easily by use of his art than the stronger by using his strength”).80 This would seem to be the very opposite of what we find discussed in the chivalric treatises. In the Middle English treatises, we find no emphasis on strength, though we do find a reference to a “full stroke,” distinguishing it from the many other kinds of strokes (rowndes, hauks, rakes, foynes), perhaps suggesting an unarmored application. One element we find included in the earliest fighting treatises is striking with the pommel, useful when the combatants close to grappling distance. In the Getty manuscript, Fiore’s “players” are shown two instances of using the pommel to strike the opponent, on fol. 28r; we find this also in Guy of Warwick: And on the hedde Gye he smote. The pomell, þat on þe helme was, In sonder was smyten into þe place.81

Fights in romance texts begin with an exchange of lance passes, which can sometimes end the fight or create a major advantage through elimination of the shield or dismounting the opponent, “Wyth ther speres, þat were sharpe, / They brake helme and hawberke.”82 Most fights in Guy of Warwick end up on foot, the horses either slain or their riders driven from the saddle, finally ending with a powerful strike that rends the body through the armor and/or the shield. This is usually the case with an unworthy opponent, or by fighting to a point where the opponent cannot continue, which gives the protagonist or antagonist the opportunity to demonstrate virtue through generosity, pity, or respect; or vice through anger, lack of pity, or avarice. Regardless, the point of the fight is generally to 79

80

81 82

The only other treatise to follow in Fiore’s tradition appears to be that of Filippo Vadi, who liberally borrows from Fiore’s texts but who brings the guard positions far forward, with the feet much more gathered. This emphasizes speed or tempo rather than power, which would have been more important in a salle d’armes than on the battlefield, where power seems to have been the dominant element. Transcription and translation from Heidelburg H3227 by David Lindholm et al., “Cod. HS.3227a or a Hanko Döbringer Fechtbuch from 1389,” http://www.thearma.org/Manuals/ Dobringer_A5_sidebyside.pdf. [accessed 25 January 2018]. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 8156–58. Ibid., ll. 5053–54.



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demonstrate strength; strength of body, and of spirit, an expression of the wylle focused by love, injustice, or a desire for renown. Strength Fueled by wylle and harte We have seen that fighting in Guy of Warwick, and most romance tales, emphasizes power and strength, favoring terms such as “hewing,” “cleaving” and “smiting.” But the strength underlying the power is a key theme in the story, because time and again, Guy, Harrawde, or any of the other chivalric exemplars draw their strength from the deep well of character that evolves as he gains mastery through experience (along with renown and honor). This is expressed as wylle. In our text, the translator clearly (and usefully) distinguished wylle from the verb wyll.83 Early in the poem, the concept of will is addressed; indeed, the author may be suggesting the substitution of skill with wylle: “He puttyth hym in þyn owne wylle / to leye or dye ; and þat is skylle.”84 Indeed, the author uses the term wylle over seventy times. When speaking with Harrawde, Guy again connects wylle to deeds (“To wytte the wylle of euery mone / yf any were so bolde and wyght, / that durst do þat errande right”)85 and later, “seyde Gye, ‘be here stylle : / thou schalt not wende wyth my wylle.”86 At the very end of the poem, Wyth grete wylle þer harnes dud dyȝt And toke þer lawncys and þer sheldys And leyde þem vpon þe teldes.87

Wylle could be a function of simple desire, but it could also have a negative character, as in “Yowre barons haue well euell wylle,”88 and “Syr Gye, leue þat fowle wylle,”89 (presumably the author doesn’t mean evil birds!). Generally, however, wylle expresses desire, but desire often fueled by perception of injustice, which can augment it with anger, or yre. As is common in a number of romances and in surviving letters, righteous anger was the preserve of kings and lords generally.90 As a driver of martial will, the author writes, “They faght wyth so grete yre, / that owt of þe helme flewe þe fyre.”91 Earlier, “Wyth yre Gye smote hym in 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90

91

Ibid., l. 6082, “‘All thy wylle y wyll do here.’” Ibid., ll. 2591–92. Ibid., ll. 3586–88. Ibid., ll. 3613–14. Ibid., ll. 11288–90. Ibid., l. 8569. Ibid., l. 851. Richard E. Barton, “‘Zealous Anger’ and the Renegotiation of Aristocratic Relationships in the Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century France,” and Steven D. White, “The Politics of Anger,” both in Barbara H. Rosenwein, ed., Anger’s Past: The Social Uses of an Emotion in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, 1998), pp. 153–70 and 127–52 respectively. Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 8021–22.

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felde : / ther sauyd hym nodur hawberk nor shelde.”92 Such emotional turbocharging did not require injustice – it could spring from a desire for renown – but usually, yre in the text is used when associated with injustice. In the first case, Guy had just killed the giant’s (equally giant?) horse, justifying the giant’s anger. In the second, Guy fights Astadart, a Saracen. Earlier in the poem, Segwin is called a coward, and he responds with righteous anger, “Then seyde Saddok : ‘þou art a cowart / and a man of feynte harte,” so Segwin “ranne to hym wyth grete yre […] Faste þey smote þen togedur….”93 This is righteous because the man’s renown has been damaged. Generally, though, it is injustice that spurs a justifiably angry response. Otherwise, wylle seems to be driven by a desire for love, or renown. Sometimes this is expressed as harte, “He clepyd to hym erle Lambart, / a herde knyght and of gode harte.”94 We have seen already how a slur against one’s wylle or herte was a call to arms; and, as with wylle, it is expressly connected to fighting: “Fro þem flewe y neuer in no batayle. / My harte schall not therefore fayle.”95 At first, Guy’s wylle is moved to seek renown in deeds of arms in order to earn Felice’s love. Through jousts, tournaments,, and in war, he earns renown and honor from ladies, kings and the Emperor, winning also Felice’s love and devotion. It is not only that Guy has more skill-in-arms than his opponents; rather, he has the will to endure, to overcome. He has wylle. Strength and power emanate from this will, from love, from a desire for justice, and ultimately, from faith. In this sense the text is a pedagogical work, teaching through the vehicle of entertainment, connecting the mythographic world to their own through sequences that the consumers of such literature would not only admire, but to which they would relate. Will is discussed in depth from an unusual source, the early fifteenth-century treatise on horsemanship and jousting by the king of Portugal, “Dom” Duarte,’96 who speaks poetically about the will in Book I: “Considering what I read about the human heart, it is similar to the water-mill’s stone, always in movement due to the driving water power, transforming grain into flour.”97 According to Duarte, will is what keeps the jouster’s eye on the mark at the critical moment when impact is imminent, and he outlines four reasons why this might be, including: “First, because they do not really want to joust with the other rider. Second, because they are still with fear and so, they are very uncomfortable at the moment of collision. Third, because they move their bodies and spears too much, being too anxious for the moment of collision…”98 Duarte talks at length 92 93 94 95 96

97 98

Ibid., ll. 2949–50. Ibid., ll. 1457–58; 1465–66. Ibid., ll. 929–30. Ibid., ll. 7743–44. Preto, trans., Royal Book; See also Steve Hick, “Dom Duarte and his Advice on Swordsmanship,” in Stephen Hand, ed., SPADA: An Anthology of Swordsmanship in Memory of Ewart Oakeshott (Union City, CA, 2002), pp. 65–69. Preto, trans., Royal Book, p. 4. Ibid, p. 95.



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about the critical importance of will, and though his treatise was not influential (it is only known to have survived in the single copy), it may have reflected the beliefs of other strenuous knights. Returning to Guy of Warwick, we find very little there about technique – what Aristotle termed technē99 – but we do find a great deal about the wylle, and about strength. Like many romances, it connects strength of the body with conceptions of chivalric virtue, and beliefs regarding justice. In the technical poems, by contrast, we find very little about strength or will, and this is suggestive of two distinct martial heritages. In the fourteenth century, we still see an emphasis in the world of chivalry and men-at-arms on strength, though it is relatively certain that technique and the principles underlying the art were known at some level. But the tradition of writing specifically about technē was alien to chivalrous society; the fight-masters of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries likely represented an alternative line of development, and the Fechtbücher should be seen in the context of the engineering and other treatises that appear during the period, a by-product of the changes in society and on the battlefield that took place during the long course of the Hundred Years’ War. Conclusion We learn a great deal about the martial culture of the chivalric community from Guy of Warwick, if not a great deal about the connection between the fighting treatises and chivalric literature. We learn that a young knight developed his skill in arms through play, probably from a young age, in ludic activities that would inform his strenuous career. We learn that in order to master his skills, he was expected to exercise himself in the tripartite ordo of arms – jousts, tournaments, and war – for which there was plenty of opportunity during the course of the Hundred Years’ War. In the process, he could increase his renown, a practice shown to be more than theory in martial engagements such as the Combat of the Thirty and the emprises fought by Jacques de Lalain. It was hoped that he would refine his understanding through the example of texts such as the Honoret Bonet’s Tree of Battles, Vegetius’s De re militari, and the chivalric romances we find in collected works sold to the gentry in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century England. As Thomas Hoccleve offered: Clymbe no more in holy writ so hie! Rede the storie of Lancelot de lake, Or Vegece of the aart of Chiualrie, The seege of Troie or Thebes100

Pamela O. Long, Openness, Secrecy, Authorship: Technical Arts and the Culture of Knowledge from Antiquity to the Renaissance (Baltimore, 2001); Price (forthcoming), Systems of Fighting, ch. 3. 100 Thomas Hoccleve, Hoccleve’s Works: The Minor Poems, ed. F. J. Furnivall (vol. 1), I. Gollancz (vol. 2), EETS Extra Series 61 & 73; rev. ed. in one vol., ed. J. Mitchell and A. I. Doyle (1892/1925, repr. London, 1970), p. 14, ll. 194–97. 99

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Whether or not strenuous gentry read (or heard) these works, they represent common expectations about behavior. We find also that, at least in this romance, willpower, strength, and power were key components of fighting prowess, and that strength was believed to stem from strong emotional motivations, such as love, the desire for renown, the fear of shame, and faith. Knights and men-atarms were to be protected by “yron and stele” inside and out. These are recurrent themes in the romances, instantly intelligible to the audience, connected more directly through detailed depictions of feats of arms and realistic descriptions of arms, armor, and physical culture with which the gentle could identify. The Middle English instructional poems, such as MS Harley 3542, seem to bear very little relationship to the Middle English romances. Several other early treatises, however, such as Fiore dei Liberi’s Fior di battaglia and the Liechtenauer merkeverse, do seem to reflect chivalric sensibilities, consciously linking their work into the chivalric tradition through their prologues, and in emphasizing fighting with power, using weapons of war.101 Both treatises present the art of fighting in this vein, and both authors claim to have learned their art by traveling and learning from “knights, barons” and other nobles.102 Guy of Warwick represents just a single romance story in Middle English; many others survive in variants of French, German, and Italian. It is a tradition that offers a potentially rich source of technical, physical, and ethical information, and can help us better to understand the context in which the surviving fighting treatises were written. Take here my swyrde of stele, And kepe hyt to thy sone wele : In ȝorthe ther ys none bettur nowe. Therewyth may he wynne prowe.103

101 I

have written about this idea previously in “Birds of a Feather: Chivalry in the Medieval Fechtbücher,” for an address given in 2002 at the Rattan College, Lawrence, KS. 102 Fiore dei Liberi, Getty MS, fol. 1r; Hausbuch H3227a, fol. 13v. 103 Guy of Warwick, Cambridge MS, ll. 7253–56.

9 Reframing the Conversation on Medieval Military Strategy* John D. Hosler

In 2010, Beatrice Heuser published a book entitled Thinking War: The Evolution of Strategy from Antiquity to the Present. In his review in the Journal of Military History, Andrew Lambert called the book “sophisticated and wise” – “epic,” even.1 But Heuser has little to say about the Middle Ages, covering the entire period in just four pages. She argues that there was “little medieval literature of relevance” to her book because, “how to wage war…was…for a thousand years largely confined to the work of Vegetius.” Apparently, after De re militari, the next “text on warfare that is no longer either a historical treatise or a legal one, nor a copy of Vegetius,” is Bouvet’s 1385 Tree of Battles. She then asks the begged question: “Why was there relatively little writing on the way to wage war in the Middle Ages?” The answer she considers “perhaps the most conclusive” is that, because God determined the outcome of war, there was little use speculating how to influence it.2 She is thus compelled to conclude that there was little intellectual basis for strategy in the Middle Ages. Heuser’s understanding of medieval religion is quaint, but her book and others like it uniformly stand on the purported absence of extant medieval strategic texts in the West (be they called manuals, treatises, or textbooks). Those manuals that did exist were textbooks of ancient works like Vegetius’s De re militari. In 1921, Frederick Taylor argued that “the Middle Ages had accepted such books as authoritative and had failed to improve upon them.”3 His opinion has stuck: in his very recent book, Strategy:A History, Lawrence Freedman claims, “the vital lessons [on warfare] were all still believed to be contained in classical texts.”4 Likewise, Azar Gat’s 2002 History of Military Thought posits that “[m]ilitary theory was then simply the synthesis of the best military models *

1 2 3 4

This paper was originally delivered as the Journal of Medieval Military History annual lecture at the International Congress on Medieval Studies at Western Michigan University in May 2016. I would like to thank the members of De Re Militari for their comments and questions, as well as Kenneth G. Madison (Iowa State University) for his formal response. Journal of Military History 76 (2012), 217. Beatrice Heuser, Thinking War: the Evolution of Strategy from Antiquity to the Present (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 44, 49–50, 52–53. Frederick L. Taylor, The Art of War in Italy, 1494–1529 (Cambridge, 1921), p. 156. Lawrence Freedman, Strategy: A History (Oxford, 2013), p. 47.

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of the cultural past, whether in Greece or Rome”; this is evidently because “very little had changed from the classical era to Machiavelli’s time.”5 It is of little wonder that B. H. Liddell Hart could summarize the issue by mocking “the drab stupidity of [the Middle Ages’] military course.” Liddell Hart saw the Middle Ages as a rather inconsequential interlude in the history of strategy and seemed to lament being forced to acknowledge them at all.6 But at least he could be troubled by the subject: in his 2013 book subtitled Contemporary Strategy in Historical Perspective, Hew Strachan glosses over the Middle Ages in exactly half of one sentence, cites no studies, and then leaps to the eighteenth century.7 The purported lacuna in the canon of strategic literature is the focus of this essay. This question of the history of strategy is a question of intellectual history: did medieval writers generate and transmit derivative and/or original ideas about how to wage war? This is a rather different matter from discerning applied strategies from narrative sources; or, in the words of Michael Prestwich, “rely[ing] upon examination of the course of events to deduce what plans had been made.”8 Indeed, medieval military historians have successfully articulated the sophistication of campaign strategies by closely examining generalship and how wars were begun, conducted, and ended.9 It is rather the purported lack of texts on how to win wars that remains a pernicious and largely unanswered critique from historians of early modern and modern strategy and warfare. Medieval strategy has been consigned to its own dark ages. I seek to refute this mischaracterization of medieval strategy. First, I will explain how the modernist demand for strategic manuals is anachronistic. Second, I will explore how the focus on Vegetius has diverted attention from original medieval strategic thought. Third, I will discuss two particular writers on strategy, Gerald of Wales and John of Salisbury. Finally, I will conclude with suggestions on how to reframe the conversation so as to close the gap in the scholarship. From the myriad of definitions of the word “strategy” in the modern age, mine here is that proposed by John Gooch as minimally acceptable and functional: “a method of solving problems by the application of military force.”10 5 6 7 8 9

10

Azar Gat, A History of Military Thought: From the Enlightenment to the Cold War (Oxford, 2002), p. 3. B. H. Liddell Hart, Strategy, 2nd ed. (London, 1967), p. 55: “This chapter [‘Medieval Wars’] serves merely as a link between the cycles of ancient and modern history…” Hew Strachan, The Direction of War: Contemporary Strategy in Historical Perspective (Cambridge, 2013), p. 28. Michael Prestwich, Armies and Warfare in the Middle Ages: The English Experience (New Haven, 1996), p. 187. A few examples from just English medieval history include Ryan Lavelle, Alfred’s Wars: Sources and Interpretations of Anglo-Saxon Warfare in the Viking Age (Woodbridge, 2010); Stephen Morillo, Warfare under the Anglo-Norman Kings, 1066–1135 (Woodbridge, 1994); John D. Hosler, Henry II: A Medieval Soldier at War, 1147–1189 (Leiden, 2007); Douglas Biggs, Three Armies in Britain: The Irish Campaign of Richard II and the Usurpation of Henry IV, 1397–99 (Leiden, 2006); and Anne Curry, Agincourt: A New History (Stroud, 2005). John Gooch, “History and the Nature of Strategy,” in Williamson Murray and Richard H.



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What is a Strategic Text? For modernists, strategic texts would seem to have four necessary qualities. First, they are whole, coherent texts that are not embedded within multi-topic works. Second, they are prescriptive manuals that give strategic advice in an abstract fashion. Third, they influenced later works: later writers would deem them authoritative and so copy pertinent passages. Fourth, however, and equally important, is that strategic authors are not too dependent on previous, authoritative works. For example, Hans Delbrück once wrote that, while Christine de Pizan faithfully passed along some Vegetian principles, she failed to dwell enough on warfare in her own time.11 The essential idea is that such complete, abstract, prescriptive manuals addressing the ways to train soldiers, form armies, and conduct and resolve campaigns were not common in the West during Middle Ages, especially before the fourteenth century.12 So, when medieval writers copied Vegetius they were betraying their own lack of strategic insight. Were we to draw up a syllogism to frame the modernist argument, it might go as follows: 1. 2. 3.

Strategic concepts appeared in classical manuals; Medieval writers copied classical manuals but did not write their own; Therefore, there were no truly medieval strategic concepts.

But there are numerous problems here. First, the major premise is incorrect: strategic thought can appear in forms other than prescriptive manuals. The Roman proof is the Strategemata of Sextus Julius Frontinus. Frontinus’s book on the art of war is not extant, but his military anecdotes were popular in the Middle Ages and have survived in more than one hundred manuscripts.13 Frontinus offers hundreds of exempla, military lessons that were intended as advice for future commanders. He writes, “For in this way commanders will be furnished with specimens of wisdom and foresight, which will serve to foster their own power of conceiving and executing like deeds.”14 Western medieval writers also recognized the need to transmit these stories through time and to place them into the hands of military men, who would then hopefully heed the cumula-

11 12 13 14

Sinnreich, eds., The Past as Prologue: The Importance of History to the Military Profession (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 133–49, at 139. Hans Delbrück, History of the Art of Warfare, Volume III: Medieval Warfare, trans. W. J. Renfroe (Lincoln, NE, 1982), p. 640. Understanding that the Byzantine experience was different: e.g. Maurice’s Strategikon and Leo VI’s Taktika. Christopher Allmand, The De re militari of Vegetius: The Reception, Transmission and Legacy of a Roman Text in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 2011), p. 56. Frontinus, Strategems, Aqueducts of Rome, trans. Charles E. Bennett, ed. Mary B. McElwain, Loeb Classical Library 174 (Cambridge, 1997), 1.1: “Ita enim consilii quoque et providentiae exemplis succincti duces erunt, unde illis excogitandi generandique similia facultas nutriatur.”

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tive advice of the past. Thus, the form suits the function: annals, histories, and gesta can teach strategic concepts.15 Second, the minor premise is incorrect: medieval writers did copy Vegetius to a great extent, but they also conceived their own strategic notions. There were prescriptive texts in the Middle Ages – they just look different because they are usually buried within larger works of moral, political, or spiritual orientation. Very often, the significance of these other themes has obscured the usefulness or even the existence of the strategic material embedded within. Consequently, historians of modern strategy and warfare who have deigned to comment on the medieval period have gone about the business rather illogically. Claiming that no strategic manuals were composed in the Middle Ages is simply false; moreover, searching only for manuals similar in form to De re militari is anachronistic. Such manuals were the product of an earlier age, and later, in the Renaissance, the concept was appropriated and “Arts of War” treatises became popular things to write. Modernists want medieval writers to behave like writers from other periods, while knowing full well that they did not. This amounts to a self-fulfilling prophecy and a too-convenient, even lazy, critique. Vegetius, the Red Herring We now move to Vegetius’s De re militari, which is posited by modern authors to have been the primary intellectual authority on strategy during the Middle Ages. That Vegetius was widely-read cannot be in doubt, as evidenced by the large number and geographical distribution of extant manuscripts. By the late Middle Ages, De re militari was appearing in vernacular editions. Its presence and importance in the period is clear. That said, the issue of Vegetius has served as a red herring in regard to the history of strategy. Medievalists have tended to approach Vegetian strategy in one of two ways. The first seeks to establish whether or not a particular commander had read and used Vegetius as a guide for his own campaign; in my own experience, it is extremely difficult actually to establish such a thing.16 The second approach has been to discern applications of war that either resemble or diverge from the guidelines in De re militari; in the pages of the Journal of Medieval Military History there has been a sustained discussion on Vegetian warfare, the so-called “Gillingham paradigm,” and its adherents

15

16

See in general Christopher T. Allmand, “A Roman Text on War: The Strategemata of Frontinus in the Middle Ages,” in Peter Coss and Christopher Tyerman, eds., Soldiers, Nobles and Gentlemen: Essays in Honour of Maurice Keen (Woodbridge, 2009), pp. 153–68. John D. Hosler, “The Brief Military Career of Thomas Becket,” Haskins Society Journal 15 (2006), 88–100, at 94–96; idem, Henry II, pp. 125–27. See also Bernard S. Bachrach, “The Practical Use of Vegetius’ De Re Militari during the Early Middle Ages,” The Historian 47 (1985), 239–55, at 242–44, who was forced to make a primarily circumstantial case for Fulk Nerra’s possible use of the manual.



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and antagonists.17 This sort of inquiry is useful and raises numerous questions about such strategic issues as the use and frequency of battle, the role of fortifications, military supply, and the control of territory. Both of these approaches are important, but they speak to a different topic. For the intellectual history of strategy, the importance lies not in application but in authorial intent and textual transmission. The De re militari is a product of the late Roman empire, but its influence in its own time is questionable. As Christopher Allmand has written, it “may have seemed retrospective, if not old fashioned, in its views and attitudes, and it probably made little impression.”18 Rather, its impact was yet to come, for the book would be read and copied heavily in succeeding centuries. This posthumous influence has led historians of strategy to emphasize its central position in the literature. But over-emphasis on the application of Vegetian strategy in the Middle Ages has diverted attention away from original medieval strategic writings. Some authors had not read Vegetius but produced works filled with strategic commentary nonetheless. Other authors did copy or paraphrase portions of De re militari but then added their own ideas, which can be alternatively clever, anachronistic, or naive. Still other authors read and copied Vegetius verbatim and tried to apply his ideas to warfare in their own day. But medieval writers did not – indeed, could not – replicate Roman strategies in a pure fashion, because they tended to portray classical things in medieval terms.19 Lurking beneath all of this are distinctly medieval conceptions of war, some guided by ancient precepts and others not, that have been waiting for their moment in the sun. We should immediately dispense with the modernist demand for classical-style manuals and stop asking the question, “Were there medieval authors who wrote texts like De re militari?” More pertinent questions include, “Were there medieval authors who wrote about strategy?” followed by, “What sorts of texts did they write?” and “How did they intend to transmit their ideas?” Prescriptive Medieval Strategy We can answer these better questions in the affirmative by examining the works of two medieval strategists. The first to consider is Giraldus Cambrensis, more commonly known as Gerald of Wales, the archdeacon of Brecon. Gerald was very much tied into the conduct of war. His brothers were knights who partici17

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Clifford J. Rogers, “The Vegetian ‘Science’ of Warfare in the Middle Ages,” JMMH 1 (2002), 1–20; Stephen Morillo, “Battle Seeking: The Contexts and Limits of Vegetian Strategy,” JMMH 1 (2002), 21–42; John Gillingham, “‘Up with Orthodoxy!’ In Defense of Vegetian Warfare,” JMMH 2 (2004), 149–58; L. J. Andrew Villalon, “Battle-Seeking, Battle-Avoiding or Perhaps Just Battle-Willing? Applying the Gillingham Paradigm to Enrique II of Castile,” JMMH 8 (2010), 131–54. See also my analysis of Henry II’s Vegetian and non-Vegetian campaigns in Henry II, pp. 127–57. Allmand, The De re militari, p. 2. A. A. Goddu and R. H. Rouse, “Gerald of Wales and the Florilegium angelicum,” Speculum 52 (1977), 488–521, at 519.

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pated in the invasion of Ireland in 1171.20 He was privy to the details of Henry II’s and John’s campaigns in the period 1184–94, when he periodically served as royal clerk.21 He was close to the battle of Painscastle in Powys in 1198, in which some three thousand Welshmen were purportedly slain by the English justiciar Geoffrey fitz Peter.22 In 1177, he witnessed a contest put on by Philip of Flanders in the city of Arras, during which knights on horseback charged at a quintain.23 He took the cross in 1187 and then accompanied Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury on his preaching tour through Wales; later, Bishop Hubert Walter of Salisbury commissioned Gerald to compose a prose history of the Third Crusade.24 Gerald wrote three books relevant to military strategy. The first two contain prescriptive strategic advice: Expugnatio Hibernica (Conquest of Ireland) and Descriptio Kambriae (Description of Wales). The third is more in the vein of Frontinus: De principis instructione (“On the Instruction of Princes”). The tactical suggestions in Gerald’s books have been known and debated for a long time: Robert Bartlett has spent some time looking at them; Philippe Contamine points to his advice on the best sort of troops for invading Ireland; and Kelly DeVries has questioned his reliability in regard to the efficacy of weapons, particularly bows.25 However, only very recently have his musings on strategy been given due attention, notably in a chapter on Edwardian warfare by Clifford Rogers.26

20 21

22

23 24

25

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Giraldus Cambrensis, The Autobiography of Gerald of Wales, ed. and trans. H. E. Butler, 2nd ed. (Woodbridge, 2005), p. 36. Charles Homer Haskins, “Henry II as a Patron of Literature,” in A. G. Little and F. M. Powicke, eds., Essays in Medieval History Presented to Thomas Frederick Tout (Manchester, 1925), pp. 71–77, at 73. Taken from Gerald’s Invectiones, in Giraldus, Autobiography, ed. Butler, p. 181; the battle is also mentioned in Roger of Howden, Chronica magistri Rogeri de Houedene, ed. William Stubbs, Rolls Series, 4 vols. (London, 1868–71), 4:53. Taken from Gerald’s De rebus a se gestis, in Giraldus, Autobiography, ed. Butler, 2.4; see also David Crouch, Tournament (Reprint, London and New York, 2006), pp. 112–13. Giraldus, Autobiography, ed. Butler, pp. 98–99; Henry Bainton, “Literate Sociability and Historical Writing in Later Twelfth–Century England,” Anglo–Norman Studies 34 (2012), p. 36. On his preaching and its efficacy, see Kathryn Hurlock, Wales and the Crusades, c. 1095– 1291 (Cardiff, 2011), pp. 65–91. Robert Bartlett, Gerald of Wales, 1146–1223 (Oxford, 1982), pp. 196–98; Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages, trans. M. Jones (Oxford, 1984), p. 212; Paul Bourke and David Whetham, “A Report of the Findings of the Defence Academy Warbow Trials, Part I Summer 2005,” Arms & Armour 4 (2007), pp. 58 and 78. See an extended analysis of Welsh capabilities in Sean Davies, War and Society in Medieval Wales, 633–1283: Welsh Military Institutions, Studies in Welsh History 21 (2004, repr. Cardiff, 2014), pp. 4–5 and 146–53; and, on weaponry, Brock Holden, Lords of the Central Marches: English Aristocracy and Frontier Society, 1087–1265 (Oxford, 2008), pp. 48–49. Clifford J. Rogers, “Giraldus Cambrensis, Edward I, and the Conquest of Wales,” in Williamson Murray and Richard Hart Sinnreich, eds., Successful Strategies: Triumphing in War and Peace from Antiquity to the Present (Cambridge, 2014), pp. 65–99, at 72–73. See also the single paragraph in Prestwich, The English Experience, p. 188, and a slightly longer discussion in



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De principis instructione, written between 1190 and 1217, relates numerous stories of the military exploits of Henry II; moreover, it argues for the necessity of reading to the conduct of war. In his first preface, Gerald emphasizes the importance of “letters and liberal studies” to princes because “the more literary and learned they were, the more courageous and active they proved themselves in all warlike affairs.”27 Thereafter, he speaks of preparations for war during times of peace, which include constructing walls and towers on cities and digging protective ditches;28 he later penned a discourse on the qualities of a good general based on the deeds of Julius Caesar.29 More prescriptive is Gerald’s 1194 Descriptio Kambriae, in which he lays out a clear and systematic strategy for the conquest of Wales. The would-beconqueror must devote at least one year to the process because the Welsh will refuse to engage in a single, decisive battle. The initial movement is threefold. First, one should occupy the country as best as possible. This means building fortresses but also securing the loyalty of important local families and establishing supply depots. Second, ships must blockade the Welsh coastline in order to interdict shipments of grain, salt, and textiles. Third, there must be repeated assaults upon belligerents across the countryside. The cumulative effect of these moves is to reduce the ability of the Welsh to acquire material goods: castles and assaults prevent raiding, complicit locals stymie community support, and ships prevent trade. When winter arrives, the hammer strikes: a drawn-out, continual campaign into the woods and mountains by lightly-armed foot-soldiers. The army moves forward seeking to engage in battle wherever it can; when the front ranks tire or are reduced, fresh troops (preferably mercenaries) are pushed forward in a constant stream to replace them. Copious amounts of English coin would ensure the continual hiring of mercenaries while the Welsh gradually see their forces diminish until, ultimately, they cannot resist any more.30

27

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Matthew Strickland and Robert Hardy, The Great Warbow: From Hastings to the Mary Rose (Stroud, 2005), pp. 86–87. Giraldus Cambrensis, De principis instructione liber, in Giraldi Cambrensis opera, ed. J. S. Brewer, James F. Dimock, and George F. Warner, Rolls Series, 8 vols. (London, 1861–91), 8.1P: “Quam sint autem principibus appetibilia litterarum notitia liberaliaque studia, principum electorum exempla docent et ad hoc invitant evidentissima, qui quanto litteratiores erant eruditiores, tanto in rebus bellicis animosiores exstiterant et strenuiores.” English translations are from Joseph Stevenson, trans., “Giraldus Cambrensis Concerning the Instruction of Princes,” in The Church Historians of England, 5 vols. in 9 (London, 1853–58), 5:1. Giraldus, De principis instructione, 8.1.12: “Urbes enim muris claudere, cingere fossatis, turribus erigere, armis atque alimentis copiose munire…” Ibid., 8.1.14: “Exemplo nobis sit Julius, qui post decennales bellicos sudores, quibus Germaniam totam et Gallias, nec non et interclusas oceano Britannias, Romano subjugavit imperio, honores tantis victoriis…” Idem, Descriptio Kambriae, in Giraldi Cambrensis opera, ed. Brewer et al., 6.2.8: “In primis operam ad minus annuam, operosamque curam et assiduam, huic adhibere negotio princeps in animo fixum habeat. Gens etenim, quæ nee in campo contra exercitum armatum consertis viribus aperte congreditur, nec in castellis obsidionem exspectat, non impetu primo, sed per moram diligentem et vacationem est expugnanda. Deinde vires eorum dividat, et quosdam ex ipsis ad alios

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Simply put, this is a strategy of attrition. It is not found in the pages of the De re militari. In Book 3, chapter 9, Vegetius notes that a drawn-out campaign can defeat an outmatched enemy when his men are starving, homesick, exhausted, or in despair. Such men may desert the army, surrender, or betray their comrades. The spirit, then, is similar to Gerald’s thinking, but there is an important difference: Gerald seeks to starve, exhaust, divide, and dismay the enemy before the campaign begins.31 When it does commence, the already-broken enemy will be shattered in a series of direct assaults. Moreover, Gerald adds a new dimension in his discussion of mercenaries, and he also opines on how the Welsh might resist and repel such an invasion.32 Gerald’s advice for the conquest of Ireland bears some resemblance. The first recension of Expugnatio Hibernica appeared in 1189, long after Henry II’s successful conquest of the eastern part of the island, so the book focuses on grabbing the remainder. First, Gerald advises that the city of Limerick be taken by the English and used as a staging center for military operations. Then, castles should be spaced along the east bank of the river Shannon in order to confine the local belligerents to the western bogs. These should not be built en masse but only as needed and in response to threats; importantly, their proximity should facilitate cooperation between garrisons.33 Thereafter, heavy tribute should be exacted from the Irish princes beyond the Shannon, particularly Connaught and Munster; this

31

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confundendos, quia se invicem odio et invidia persequi solent, donariis alliciat tarn præmissis quam promissis. Et sic, autumnali in tempore, non solum marchia, sed etiam terra interior locis idoneis, castellis, alimentis copiose refertis et familiis bonis, bene muniatur. Interim autem cuncta mercimonia ferri, panni, salis, et bladi, quibus ab Anglicana copia sustentari solent, arctius eis inhibeantur. Naves quoque, validis plense viris, ne per Hybernicum vel Sabrinum mare eis prædicta navigio deferri possint, aliquot ad tutelaxn adhibeantur: quibus et ab hostibus arceantur, et suis victualia deferantur. Subsequenter autem, hieme ingruente majore, vel potius ejusdem fine, Martio videlicet et Februario, cum et foliis silvæ, et pascuis moutana caruerint, prædis abductis, ipsisque jam per lammas et crebros undique castrensium impetus plurimum afflictis, cum exercitu pedestri valido, mediocriter et non ad onus armato, usque ad eorum latibula, silvarumque condensa, et arborum confraga, viriliter transpenetretur. Semper autem pedestribus turmis e vestigio sequentes, ad fortitudinem et refugium, milites aliquot adjiciantur. Et sic, per crebras confligentium mutationes, ut fatigatis semper turmis novæ succedant, per cædes quoque et strages multas, si casus obtulerit, expugnentur. Non enim his sine, nec absque periculo multorum et damno, gens poterit inimica debellari. Sed licet hodie de Anglorum exercitu stipendiarii multi ceciderint, eras nihilominus ad eadem discrimina totidem vel plures moneta dabit. De Kambrensibus autem, quoniam nec aliemgenas nec stipendiaries habent, quicunque ceciderint, damnum eis inprsesentiarum irreparabile fiet.” English translations of Descriptio Kambriae and Expugnatio Hibernica are taken from Thomas Wright, trans., The Historical Works of Gerald of Wales (1905, repr. New York, 1968). Vegetius, Epitoma rei militaris [De re militari], ed. M. D. Reeve (Oxford, 2004), 3.9. Connecting Gerald to the De re militari is difficult. One of his main sources for classical texts was the compilation Florilegium angelicum: one manuscript (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, MS Lat. 15172) includes extracts from Vegetius; however, Gerald probably did not use this recension and none of the others contain Vegetius; see Mary A. Rouse and Richard H. Rouse, Authentic Witnesses: Approaches to Medieval Texts and Manuscripts (South Bend, IN, 1991), pp. 145 and 126. Butler argues for the plan’s impartiality; see Giraldus, Autobiography, p. 26. Gerald may not have been referring to stone castles so much as earthwork structures; see Marie Therese Flanagan, “Irish and Anglo-Norman Warfare in Twelfth-Century Ireland,” in Thomas



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will force the stripping of wealth from the natives, which reduces their capacity to make war. Once these preparations have been made the English can advance to the fighting.34 A notable difference between Gerald’s two strategies is that he does not suggest a blockade of Ireland, for he believed that the Irish were too lazy to trade.35 In both Expugnatio Hibernica and Descriptio Kambriae, Gerald emphasizes two other strategic considerations: terrain and troop types. He stresses that the land in Ireland and Wales is mountainous and heavily-wooded, with few open roads but rather rough and narrow passages. For Ireland, he adds the problem of the bogs. He eschews cavalry and heavy armor, suggesting instead that commanders employ infantry outfitted with lighter armor that enables it to repel guerrilla tactics and pursue less-encumbered enemies. Overall, this is sober analysis grounded in history and practicality. Now let us consider Gerald’s intent for this strategizing. The main purpose of his books was to record contemporary history, but it is clear that he conceived of multiple applications. Expugnatio Hibernica contains the most straightforward explanations. In the preface to his first edition, which was dedicated to Henry II, he wrote: But let him know that I have written chiefly for the use of the laity, and of princes who have but little learning, and desire things to be related to them in so simple and easy a style, that all may understand them.36

The second edition, dedicated to the future Richard I, contained a new preface in which Gerald expands the text’s purpose: I have determined to compile a history of the conquest of Ireland, and the subjugation of the fierce and barbarous Irish nation, in these our days, and to dedicate my work to your highness; in order that the record of the glorious achievements performed by your father may augment your own glory…so that you may be his successor both in lawful right and commendable rivalry of his triumphs and virtue.37

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Bartlett and Keith Jeffrey, eds., A Military History of Ireland (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 52–75, at 61. Giraldus, Expugnatio Hibernica, in Giraldi Cambrensis opera, ed. Brewer et. al., 5.2.38: “Præterea pars terrae citerior, usque ad Sinneni fluvium, qui tres insulæ partes orientalis a quarta et occidentali separat et secernit, creba castorum constructione stabiliatur et muniatur. Ulterior vero, quæ Connacciam simul et partem Momoniæ trans Sinnenum, præter urbem Limericensem, quae modis omnibus expugnanda est iterum et approprianda, annuis auri tributi interim arceatur. Satius enim est, et longe satius, paulatim primo locis idoneis castra conserere, et quasi pedetentim in eorundem constructione procedere, quam intervallis distantia magnis, variis passim locis, multa construere, nec invicem sibi vel cohærentia, vel necessitatis articulis opitulantia.” He was likely wrong on this point; see Clare Downham, “England and the Irish-Sea Zone in the Eleventh Century,” Anglo-Norman Studies 26 (2003), 55–73, at 56. Giraldus, Expugnatio Hibernica, 5.1P: “Sciat autem in primis, quod laicis hæc, et parum literatis edita principibus, plano facilique stilo, solam desiderant ad intelligentiam explanari.” Ibid., 5.2P: “Hujus itaque virbus et virtute, Hibernicæ gentis expugnationem, et tam barbaræ nationis feritatem his nostris temporibus edomitam, evidenter evolvere procuravi; tuæque celsitudini, Pictavensium comes inclite, Normannorum quoque dux et Anglorum rector mox future, digestam historiam destinavi; quantinus et rerum istarum recordationed paterna tibi

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Finally, for the third edition, dedicated to King John, Gerald added yet another preface: Wherefore you should take the greatest care that when you have designs of extending your conquests in the interior of the country, you should keep a close watch on what is passing in the eastern districts, and use your utmost efforts to recover, by God’s grace, what has been unjustly alienated there.38

Taken together, these prefaces reveal important facets of authorial intention. Gerald wrote in simple language to aid reception by a lay and princely audience, and he later offered his strategy as a tool with which Richard might emulate his father and for John to complete the conquest of the island. Now compare his words to these, written centuries later: “This work of mine I have not adorned or loaded down with swelling phrases or with bombastic and magnificent words or any kind of meretricious charm or extrinsic ornament, with which many writers dress up their products, because I desire that nothing shall beautify it, or that merely its unusual matter and the weight of its subject shall make it pleasing.” This comes straight from the preface to Machiavelli’s Prince.39 Gerald also wanted his writings to be disseminated widely and read. At the end of Expugnatio Hibernica, he expresses a desire for someone to translate the book into French.40 In the second preface of Descriptio Kambriae, in which the book is re-dedicated to Archbishop Stephen Langton of Canterbury, Gerald first made a request of his benefactor: I entreat you, illustrious prelate, to prevent the present little work…from perishing in obscurity. […] I entreat you generously to order it to be made public, by which it will acquire reputation.41

Thereafter, Gerald makes an astounding claim, given his emphasis on military strategy. Referring to his own work: This study is the more delightful, as it is more honourable to produce works worthy of being quoted than to quote the works of others; as it is more desirable to be the author

38

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gloria gloriam accumulet, et sicut terrarum, sic virtutum et victoriarum heres, tam æmulatione laudabili quam succedanea proprietate, fieri comproberis.” Ibid., 5.3P: “Unde et ad hoc quoque facere plurimum debet, quod cum in anteriora vos extendendo, in orientem maxime versam, ut decet, faciem habeatis, et ad injuriose sublata totis, per Dei gratiam, nisibus revocandum aspiretis, nihil ab occidente verendum, nihil prorsus a tergo timendum relinquatis.” Niccolò Machiavelli, The Chief Works, and Others, trans. Allan Gilbert, 3 vols. (Durham, NC, 1965), 1:10. Giraldus, Expugnatio Hibernica, 6.2P. Idem, Descriptio Kambriae, 6.2P: “…a te, vir optime, eui praesens opusculum transmitti deproperat, petitum, si placet, et impetratum esse cupio…”



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of compositions which deserve to be admired than to be esteemed a good judge of the writings of other men…42

Quite simply, Gerald wanted his books read and quoted. Humility was never his strong suit, and his ego and personal ambitions have been a frequent subject of attention. But he clearly felt that he had useful ideas. And his audience was often of the highest military level: the first three Angevin kings of England were all recipients of his books. As Antonia Gransden flatly states, “he wrote partly to instruct rulers.”43 In this sense, we must recognize Gerald as a strategic thinker who sought to influence the conduct of war via the transmittal of his writings. Another twelfth-century writer sought to place his strategic insight into the hands of generals and kings: John of Salisbury, the erudite scholar, clerk at Canterbury, and bishop of Chartres. As with Gerald, John’s writings on strategy appear in multiple works. Chief among these is the 1159 Policraticus, a treatise on politics and courtly life that contains an entire book (out of eight) on “the armed hand of the commonwealth.” Until recently, historians had noticed only two military features of Policraticus. The first is its purported place in the history of chivalry: John offers a characterization of an ideal Christian miles, which many have erroneously taken to refer to a knight.44 The second is its obvious and liberal borrowing from Vegetius. In other regards, however, John’s military writings have been largely neglected.45 In Book 8 of Policraticus, John attempts to define strategy. He begins with Valerius Maximus, who defines stratagems as “a laudable part of cunning.” This John finds insufficient, so he next turns to Frontinus, who distinguishes between strategems and strategy: strategy is “everything achieved by a commander, be it characterized by foresight, advantage, enterprise, or resolution,” while a stratagem is a product derived from these qualities. John deliberates on these works and arrives at his own definition: strategy is “activities pertaining to military science.”46 Although this is rather vague, he seems to separate planning war from doing war, with the intellectual component being strategy. 42

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Ibid., 6.2P: “Tanto denique labor hic delectabilior, quanto dignius quam aliena recitare recitanda proferre, quanto appetibilius ab aliis eligi quam bonus aliorum elector videri…” Dimock erroneously grouped this line with Gerald’s recollection of his friends’ criticisms of his own attention to literary studies; rather, the line begins Gerald’s refutation of them. Antonia Gransden, Historical Writing in England, c. 550 to c. 1307 (London, 1974), p. 245. Later, illustrated copies of his books may have also signaled an audience of the secular elite; see Laura Cleaver, “Kings Behaving Badly: Images of Rulers in Gerald of Wales’ Works on Ireland (c. 1200),” IKON: Journal of Iconographic Studies 5 (2012), 151–60, at 156. For my criticism of this connection, see John D. Hosler, John of Salisbury: Military Authority of the Twelfth-Century Renaissance (Leiden, 2013), pp. 12–22. I have recently argued that Policraticus presaged most of the heretofore “original” strategic notions of Machiavelli; see John D. Hosler, “Niccolò Machiavelli, John of Salisbury, and the Originality of Arte della guerra,” Viator 46 (2015), 303–34. [John of Salisbury], Ioannis Saresberiensis episcopi Carnotensis Policratici [hereafter: John of Salisbury, Policraticus], ed. Clement C. J. Webb, 2 vols. (London, 1909), 2:8.2: “Occurrent multa huiusmodi quae laudis uerae poterunt praestare materiam, si quis antiquorum uafre dicta

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Is Policraticus a military treatise? John denies it and recommends that people wishing to learn the art of war should instead study ancient writers.47 But his writings belie this claim. His modesty appears in Policraticus Book 6, chapter 19 – after he has already spent the previous eighteen chapters elaborating on the recruitment and training of soldiers, the soldier’s oath, soldierly privileges, military law, discipline, and short summations of the military exploits of Harold Godwinson and Henry II. He covers substantial ground on armies and warfare, and while much of the content is taken from sources like De re militari, some of it is original. We must also look to a passage in one of his other major works, Metalogicon, his defense of the seven liberal arts. In Metalogicon’s second book, John writes: Since they [the philosophers] have taught me three useful arts, I will also teach them three other arts, still more useful. One should know the arts of military science, medicine, and law, both civil and canon. Thus one will become a master of moral philosophy. […] Note that I have ready the keys to these latter arts, in the same way that they had the rules for the aforesaid ones.48

John notes that every discipline has its own methods and approaches that can be taught: he himself knows the best methods for studying war and is willing to teach them.49 In other words, despite his protestations John had indeed written

47 48

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uel facta strategemmata et strategemmatica quoque recenseat. Ceterum (quia saepe strategemmatica mentio facta est etres nominis non usquequaque eunctis innotuit) Valerius Maximus strategemmata sic diffinit ut dicate quia eius pars calliditatis egregia et ab omni reprehensione procul remota, cuius opera, quia appellatione uix apte exprimi possunt, Greca pronunciatione strategemmata appellantur. Proprie tamen strategemmata sunt quae ad rem pertinent militarem; nam et ab eo dicuntur stratilates. Quae uero contra propriae appellationis notam ad res alias pertinent (Iulio Frontino teste) strategemmatica appellantur; distat enim strategemmaticum a strategemmate quomodo genus a specie differt,”; cf. Valerius Maximus, Memorable Doings and Sayings, trans. D. R. Shackleton Bailey, Loeb Classical Library 492 and 493, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA, 2000), 2.7.4P, and Frontinus, Strategems, 1.P. English translations of Policraticus are from John B. Pike, trans., Frivolities of Courtiers and Footprints of Philosophers: Being a Translation of the First, Second, and Third Books and Selections from the Seventh and Eighth Books of the Policraticus of John of Salisbury (Minneapolis, 1938), and John Dickinson, trans., The Statesman’s Book of John of Salisbury: Being the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Books, and Selections from the Seventh and Eighth Books, of the Policraticus of John of Salisbury (New York, 1963). Such as Cato the Censor, Cornelius Celsus, Julius Iginus, and Vegetius; see John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 2:6.19. [John of Salisbury], Ioannis Saresberiensis: Metalogicon, ed. J. B. Hall and K. S. B. KeatsRohan, Corpus Christianorum continuatio medievalis 98 (Turnhout, 1993), 2.6: “Et quia tres artes accepi easque utiles, tres itidem doceo, sed utiliores. Sit ergo prima militaris, secunda medicinalis, tertia iuris ciuilis, et decretorum et totius ethicae perfectionem absoluat. […] Nam et mihi in promptu est usus horum, sicut eis exercitium praemissorum.” The English translation is from Daniel D. McGarry, trans., John of Salisbury, Metalogicon: A Twelfth-Century Defense of the Verbal and Logical Arts of the Trivium (Berkeley, 1955), p. 87. Metalogicon, 2.13. Metalogicon, like Policraticus, appeared in 1159.



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a military treatise: but it is buried, like the military advice of Gerald of Wales, within a larger, multifaceted text. John’s expounds on three keys to the military science. The first is study; like Gerald, he believes that literate and studied generals will find the most success in war. “Knowledge of military science” (dimicandi; dimicare, literally, “engaging” or “to fight with”), he writes, “promotes boldness of strategy.”50 Generals must study the exploits and commentaries of previous wars and thus “fight by art and not by chance,” for armies are “of little avail without art.”51 John speculates that absence of literacy may have been a cause of the military problems of his own day: he writes, “the merit of letters had [now] languished among princes” and “their military arm has become enfeebled.”52 Only properlystudied commanders should make strategic decisions, and the most important of these is whether or not to initiate a campaign in the first place.53 The second key to military science is discretion. The studied leader must personally apply his knowledge in ways that benefit the army. Once a general settles on a war plan he should hold it close, even from his own companions. John is certainly inspired here by Vegetius: Book 3 of De re militari suggests that plans should be known only to the smallest possible group of trustworthy advisers.54 And because only the commander knows the precise contours of his strategy, he must be physically present when the campaign commences. He need not fight himself, but should be armed as if for fighting in order to be a good example for his men. Another of John’s major works addresses this same theme: Entheticus maior, an 1800-line Latin poem that was finished three years before Policraticus. In it, John argues that when his commander is armed, “the soldier presses on more fiercely”; “let the leader flee, and the soldier turns his back in flight too.”55 John’s third key to military science is limitation. Campaigns should be waged for pre-determined, set objectives, and when these are achieved the war should end. Book 8 of Policraticus contains a long critique on the Parthian campaign of Emperor Julian: Julian was “unwilling to bring the war to an end” and forced his men to keep marching and fighting. John’s quip is that, “while it is good to conquer, to do more than conquer is odious.”56 We have already seen how Gerald of Wales suggested what is best characterized as a strategy of attrition against the Welsh. While John of Salisbury appre50 51 52 53 54 55 56

John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 2:6.2: “Scientia enim rei bellicae dimicandi nutrit audaciam.” Ibid., 2:6.19: “qui secundos optat euentus, dimicet arte, non casu”; “Militia ergo sine arte iners est, inofficiosa sine usu.” Ibid., 1:4.6: “Et nescio quomodo contigit quod, ex quo in principibus uirtus languit litterarum, armatae quoque militiae infirmata est manus et ipsius principatus quasi praecisa radix.” Ibid., 2:6.12. Ibid., 2:6.19; Vegetius, De re militari, ed. Reeve, 3.26. John of Salisbury, Entheticus Maior et Minor, ed. and trans. Jan van Laarhoven, 3 vols. (Leiden, 1987), 1:1451–52. John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 2:8.21: “quia uincere quidem bonum est, superuincere nimis inuidiosum.”

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ciates the usefulness of such an approach and even credits Harold Godwinson with executing such a strategy in Wales, the dominant theme in his writings is battle.57 John is enamored of battles, carefully recording and analysing scores of them from both the ancient and medieval centuries. The best battles are those that enable the conclusion of a war in a single, devastating stroke, such as Scipio’s victory at Zama.58 Thus, John’s strategy is that of annihilation: the general studies, prepares and leads his men into battle, and destroys the enemy’s army in order to win the war.59 Given more recent analyses of applied medieval strategies, John’s preference for frequent battle places him in opposition to the general features of the Gillingham paradigm. It is, indeed, rather anti-Vegetian. What were John of Salisbury’s intentions for his military writings? He seems to have had an active interest in the conduct of war, and he sent Policraticus to Chancellor Thomas Becket while the latter was accompanying Henry II on the 1159 Toulouse campaign. He also remarked in a letter to his friend Peter, abbot of Celle, that the book would “scarce find a single friend at court.”60 John knew that his book would be read and even worried about its reception. Like Gerald of Wales, he was writing with an audience in mind and sought to place his material before the major political figures of his day. Textual Transmission It is clear that Gerald of Wales and John of Salisbury intentionally authored and distributed abstract, prescriptive military texts. But the intellectual history of strategy turns not only on this intentionality but also on textual transmission, so now we move to consider the respective legacies of their strategic writings. Policraticus was extremely popular in the later Middle Ages and was copied widely across Europe. It survives today in over one hundred manuscripts from between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries: fourteen contain excerpts, and the rest are complete copies.61 Of these, four manuscripts contain both Policraticus and De re militari. One, held in The Hague, contains both texts plus a copy of

57 58 59

60

61

Ibid., 2:6.6. Ibid., 1:3.10: “Verumtamen in Scipione Affricano aliquid non inferius inuenitur, qui post singularem de Hannibale uictoriam singularis continentiae insigne praeconium meruit.” Types of strategies here are guided by the analysis in Clifford J. Rogers, “Strategy, Operational Design and Tactics,” in James C. Bradford, ed., International Encyclopedia of Military History (New York, 2006). W. J. Millor, H. E. Butler, ed. and trans., and C. N. L. Brooke, The Letters of John of Salisbury, Volume One (the Early Letters) ([1955], rev. ed. Oxford, 1986), no. 111: “et qui uix amicum habebit in curia.” Cf. Hosler, John of Salisbury, pp. 116–17. Ammon Linder pins the exact number at 113 manuscripts and also five editions made in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; see “The Knowledge of John of Salisbury in the Late Middle Ages,” Studi medievali 18 (1977), 315–66, at 356–61. His list has been trimmed a little by K. S. B. Keats-Rohan, who notes that some archived copies are now lost; see Policraticus I–IV, ed. J. B. Hall and Keats-Rohan, Corpus Christianorum continuatio medievalis 117 (Turnhout, 1993), p. xix n. 38.



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Frontinus’s Strategemata.62 The pairing of John of Salisbury’s work with these manuals is striking and deserves future study. In addition, some military content of Policraticus was incorporated into several late medieval texts: these include De regimine principum of Thomas Aquinas and Ptolemy of Lucca; Marsilius of Padua’s Defensor pacis; the De regimine principum of Giles of Rome; De pulcher tractatus de materia belli; at least two books by Christine de Pizan; and, as I have recently argued, Machiavelli’s Arte della guerra.63 The impact of Gerald’s works is harder to discern. There are comparatively far fewer extant manuscripts: twenty-five for Expugnatio Hibernica, and just six for Descriptio Kambriae. Their distribution was largely constrained to the British Isles.64 Still, Bartlett has drawn a correlation between Gerald’s Welsh attrition strategy and the campaigns of Edward I, conducted five decades after the writer’s death; Rogers has raised the possibility that Edward personally studied Gerald’s books.65 Gerald’s discussion of Welsh military capabilities was copied by the court historian of Philip Augustus of France, William le Breton.66 Jean de Meun knew Gerald’s books on Ireland and even translated one, along with the De re militari.67 More generally, on the subject of Ireland Gerald was the most-read and most-authoritative author into the early seventeenth century.68 Finally, there are connections between these two strategists themselves. Gerald quoted Policraticus in De principis instructione, and there are two extant manuscripts, at Cambridge and Oxford respectively, in which John and Gerald’s works appear side-by-side.69

62

63

64

65

66

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68 69

The Hague, Koninklijke Bibliotheek, MS 78.F.4; Vatican, Reginensis Latinus, MS 114; Vatican, Reginensis Latinus, MS 358; Vatican, Vaticanus Latinus, MS 4497. On these, see Charles R. Shrader, “The Ownership and Distribution of Manuscripts of the De re militari of Flavius Vegetius Renatus before the year 1300” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1976), nos. 76, 263–64, 340. Hosler, “Originality of Arte della guerra,” pp. 325–26. Der pulcher tractatus de materia belli (c. 1300) is a compendium of various military texts and with a northern Italian provenance, which drew on Vegetius and also John of Salisbury. Pizan’s books using John are Livre de corps de policie and Livre des fais d’armes et de chevalrie; see also Craig Taylor, Chivalry and the Ideals of Knighthood in France during the Hundred Years War (Cambridge, 2013), p. 50. See generally Catherine Margaret Rooney, “The Manuscripts of the Works of Gerald of Wales” (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Cambridge, 2005), and pp. 117, 164–65 for the manuscript counts. Bartlett, Gerald of Wales, pp. 15–16; Rogers, “Giraldus Cambrensis,” pp. 70, 85. Prestwich has attributed his strategy rather to De re militari, a copy of which Edward’s wife Eleanor of Castile had commissioned for him; see Michael Prestwich, Edward I (Berkeley, 1988), pp. 123, 228. I. W. Rowlands, “‘Warriors Fit for a Prince’: Welsh Troops in Angevin Service, 1154–1216,” in John France, ed., Mercenaries and Paid Men: the Mercenary Identity in the Middle Ages (Leiden, 2008), pp. 207–30, at 218–19. Medieval Literature in Translation, ed. Charles W. Jones (Mineola, NY, 1976), p. 613; Alistair Minnis, Magister amoris: the Roman de la Rose and Vernacular Hermeneutics (Reprint, Oxford, 2004), pp. 3–4. Andrew Hadfield, Edmund Spenser’s Irish Experience: Wilde Fruit and Salvage Soyl (Oxford, 1997), p. 93. Linder, “Knowledge of John of Salisbury,” p. 324. The manuscripts are: Cambridge, Cambridge University Library, MS Mm.2.18 (Topographica Hibernica and Entheticus maior),

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Reconciling Medieval with Modern The writings of John and Gerald belie the claims made by historians of strategy. But the mythical lack of medieval strategic works is compounded by factors beyond those mentioned so far. Perhaps some modern authors are influenced by Clausewitz, who, in Book 2 of Vom Kriege opined that “The further back one goes, the less useful military history becomes.”70 Others might point to the irrelevance of older strategic texts on technological grounds: changes and additions such as modern communications, airpower, and nuclear weaponry “explode” past ideas that, consequently, cannot inform strategy moving forward.71 Institutionally, a medieval void also exists in the curriculums and faculties of staff colleges, defense academies, and universities. For example, the Strategy and Policy department at the U.S. Naval War College offers two Joint Professional Military Education courses: at both the intermediate and senior level, they cover Sun tzu, move to the Peloponnesian War, and then skip directly to Napoleon.72 At the Defence Academy of the UK, the course “Strategy and Policy” moves from Sun tzu to Thucydides and then to Clausewitz.73 As for graduate programs dedicated to the study of military history, there are, at the time of writing, no medievalists on permanent staff at The Dale Center for the Study of War and Society at the University of Southern Mississippi, the Military History Center at the University of North Texas, Temple’s Center for the Study of Force and Diplomacy, or Texas A&M’s program in War and Society. These and other examples indicate a writingout of medieval strategy in both the academy and the “real world.” As a way forward, I would like to offer two suggestions on how to reframe the conversation on strategic studies. First, medievalists themselves need to expand beyond the ancient manuals and engage with prescriptive medieval strategy. Simply put, there is entirely too much discussion of Vegetius in studies of medieval warfare. Here, we have met the two strategists John of Salisbury and Gerald of Wales, who represent only the British Isles and a seventy-five year stretch of time. There are doubtlessly similar authors and texts in other periods and locales, which specialists should identify and study for their theoretical nature, authorial intent, and later transmission. Intellectual history, when combined with the meaningful advances in deriving applied strategies from narrative sources, will result in a more robust understanding of medieval notions of “how to solve problems with military force.”

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and Oxford, Bodleian, James 2 (De iure, Speculum ecclesiae, and Policraticus); see Rooney, “Manuscripts,” p. 13. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton, 1976), 2.6. As critiqued in John P. Kiszely, “The Relevance of History to the Military Profession: A British View,” in Murray and Sinnreich, eds., Past as Prologue, pp. 23–33, at 26–27. Course syllabi taken from: https://www.usnwc.edu/getattachment/53786cca647b-4abca303-40658a7d5557/ILC-Syllabus–AY2014-2015-(1).aspx ; https://www.usnwc.edu/ getattachment/1b84d389-88f5-40d3-831f-9ec42f4bf0b8/ILC-Syllabus–AY2014-2015.aspx [both accessed 2 June 2016]. http://www.da.mod.uk/Courses/Course–Details/Course/122 [accessed 2 June 2016].



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But such studies cannot only be for the edification of medievalists. They hold value for modernists as well, and my second suggestion is that we engage the modernist strategic literature and its authors and adherents, both in print and at conferences dominated by modern historians, such as the annual meetings of the Society for Military History and the International Commission of Military History. The case must be made that medieval strategy holds an important place in the intellectual history of the subject: not only should the canon be supplemented with such original works, but there is profit for modernists who deign to study them. As an example, Colin Gray has written, “strategy is neither policy nor armed combat [or as Strachan calls it, tactics]; rather it is the bridge between them. […] The strategist must relate military power (strategic effect) to the goals of policy.”74 Modernists do not see in the Middle Ages anything like this; instead, they hew closer to Delbrück’s claim that medieval strategy was mostly the “implementation of political decisions.”75 But cooperative policy and strategy can be found in the writings of both John of Salisbury and Gerald of Wales. John wrote extensively on the notion of the body politic, arguing that a state’s armed hand is essential for the preservation of the state and the advancement of its policies.76 The state’s resources serve to maintain its military; good military strategy then protects it in a reciprocal relationship. John’s conception of the body politic closely resembles Machiavelli’s argument that military and political affairs are inseparable.77 In a similar fashion, Gerald explicitly links the military enterprise with the goal of political domination, speaking of “the prince who would wish to subdue this nation, and govern it peacefully.”78 Such deliberatelyworded linkages between policy and strategy in the twelfth century should not be casually discarded, but rather treated as instances of continuity and change in the traditions of Western strategic and political thought. I would therefore invite and urge collaboration between period experts, all of whom have much to gain from the effort. J. F. Verbruggen once wrote, “Some historians are convinced that there was no theoretical literature about tactics and strategy in the Middle Ages […but] such a view is groundless.”79 He was undoubtedly correct, but so far medievalists have done little to actually prove it. I hope this essay provides some basis for doing just that. 74 75 76 77 78 79

Colin S. Gray, “Why Strategy is Difficult,” in Strategy and History: Essays on Theory and Practice (Abingdon and New York, 2006), pp. 74–80, at 77; Strachan, Direction of War, p. 29. Delbrück, History of the Art of Warfare, p. 326. John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 2:6.2, 6.22, 6.24–25, 6.9. Takashi Shogimen, “The ‘Armed Hand’ of the Body Politic: Vegetius and a Military Dimension of Medieval Political Thought,” Storia del pensiero politico 3 (2013), 407–24, at 411. Giraldus, Descriptio Kambriae, 2.8: “Porro qui gentem hanc subjugare, pacificamque tenere voluerit, hac arte utatur.” J. F. Verbruggen, The Art of Warfare in Western Europe during the Middle Ages, from the Eighth Century to 1340, trans. Sumner Willard and Mrs. R. W. Southern, rev. 2nd ed. (Woodbridge, 2002), p. 288.

Contributors

Carl Hammer has published extensively on early-medieval Bavaria and Francia. His latest book, Huosiland: A Small Country in Carolingian Europe, describes the structures and societies of western Bavaria between about 750 and 850 on the basis of the extraordinary amount and quality of the surviving evidence in the Freising cartulary and other contemporary sources, all of which is then presented in full English translation. It is now available from Archaeopress, Oxford (archaeopress.com). He is retired from international business and lives in Pittsburgh where he is affiliated as a Research Associate with the Department of History of Art and Architecture at the University of Pittsburgh. Walter Goffart taught medieval history for thirty-nine years at the University of Toronto. He is now a Senior Research Scholar at Yale. Among his many books are two collections of articles: Rome’s Fall and After, and Barbarians, Maps and Historiography. Late Rome and the early Middle Ages have been his preferred area of interest. Ilana Krug is an associate professor of history at York College of Pennsylvania. She is broadly interested in, and has published several articles on, late medieval warfare, particularly logistics and their social and economic ramifications, literary responses, and military medicine. She is presently working on an interdisciplinary study of the role of honey in medieval England. Danny Lake-Giguère is a Ph.D. candidate at the Université de Montreal, under a joint supervision with France’ Université de Rouen. His thesis focuses on the forest management in 13th and 14th century Normandy, for which he has received a scholarship from the Fonds de recherche du Québec – Société et culture (FRQSC). Pierre Gaite is a Ph.D. candidate at Cardiff University and English Language Tutor at Cardiff Metropolitan University. His thesis investigates the roles and identity of household knights in the service of the English earls c. 1325–1370, focusing especially on the personal military followings of Thomas Beauchamp, William Bohun, Henry of Grosmont and William Clinton. Ronald W. Braasch III is a graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point, and holds an MA in military history from Norwich University. He

208 Contributors

is currently a graduate student at Fordham University, where he is researching combat support roles in the armies of Edward III. Brian R. Price is an associate professor of history at Hawai’i Pacific University, where he teaches courses on strategy, military history, and counterinsurgency. He studies chivalric culture, arms and armour, fighting from the 14th and 15th centuries and modern American military history. His books include Techniques of Medieval Armour Reproduction (2000) and The Sword in Two Hands (2007). Currently he has two in progress, Systems of Fighting in the Late Middle Ages and Eagles, Falcons & Warthogs: Gen. “Bill” Creech, Col. John Boyd, and the Struggle to Remake the Tactical Air Forces in the Wake of Vietnam (Naval Insitute, 2018). John D. Hosler is an associate professor of military history at the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College. A specialist on twelfth-century warfare in Europe and the Middle East, his books include Henry II: a Medieval Soldier at War, 1147–1189 (2007), John of Salisbury: Military Authority of the TwelfthCentury Renaissance (2013), and The Siege of Acre, 1189–1191: Saladin, Richard the Lionheart, and the Battle that Decided the Third Crusade (2018). He is the current president of De Re Militari: the Society for Medieval Military History.

Journal of Medieval Military History 1477–545X

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

Volume II 1 The Use of Chronicles in Recreating Medieval Military History – Kelly DeVries 2 Military Service in the County of Flanders – J. F. Verbruggen (translated by Kelly DeVries) 3 Prince into Mercenary: Count Armengol VI of Urgel, 1102–1154 – Bernard F. Reilly 4 Henry II’s Military Campaigns in Wales, 1157–1165 – John Hosler 5 Origins of the Crossbow Industry in England – David S. Bachrach 6 The Bergerac Campaign (1345) and the Generalship of Henry of Lancaster – Clifford J. Rogers 7 A Shattered Circle: Eastern Spanish Fortifications and Their Repair during the “Calamitous Fourteenth Century” – Donald Kagay 8 The Militia of Malta – Theresa M. Vann 9 “Up with Orthodoxy”: In Defense of Vegetian Warfare – John B. Gillingham 10 100,000 Crossbow Bolts for the Crusading King of Aragon – Robert Burns

Volume III 1 A Lying Legacy? A Preliminary Discussion of Images of Antiquity and Altered Reality in Medieval Military History – Richard Abels and Stephen F. Morillo 2 War and Sanctity: Saints’ Lives as Sources for Early Medieval Warfare – John France

The 791 Equine Epidemic and its Impact on Charlemagne’s Army – Carroll Gillmor The Role of the Cavalry in Medieval Warfare – J. F. Verbruggen Sichelgaita of Salerno: Amazon or Trophy Wife? – Valerie Eads Castilian Military Reform under the Reign of Alfonso XI (1312–1350) – Nicolas Agrait 7 Sir Thomas Dagworth in Brittany, 1346–1347: Restellou and La Roche Derrien – Clifford J. Rogers 8 Ferrante d’Este’s Letters as a Source for Military History – Sergio Mantovani 9 Provisions for the Ostend Militia on the Defense, August 1436 – Kelly DeVries 3 4 5 6

Volume IV 1 The Sword of Justice: War and State Formation in Comparative Perspective – Stephen F. Morillo 2 Archery versus Mail: Experimental Archaeology and the Value of Historical Context – Russ Mitchell 3 “Cowardice” and Duty in Anglo-Saxon England – Richard Abels 4 Cowardice and Fear Management: The 1173–1174 Conflict as a Case Study – Steven Isaac 5 Expecting Cowardice: Medieval Battle Tactics Reconsidered – Stephen F. Morillo 6 Naval Tactics at the Battle of Zierikzee (1304) in the Light of Mediterranean Praxis – William Sayers 7 The Military Role of the Magistrates in Holland during the Guelders War – James P. Ward 8 Women in Medieval Armies – J. F. Verbruggen 9 Verbruggen’s “Cavalry” and the Lyon-Thesis – Bernard S. Bachrach 10 Dogs of War in Thirteenth-Century Valencian Garrisons – Robert I. Burns

Volume V 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Literature as Essential Evidence for Understanding Chivalry – Richard W. Kaeuper The Battle of Hattin: A Chronicle of a Defeat Foretold? – Michael Ehrlich Hybrid or Counterpoise? A Study of Transitional Trebuchets – Michael Basista The Struggle between the Nicaean Empire and the Bulgarian State (1254–1256): towards a Revival of Byzantine Military Tactics under Theodore II Laskaris – Nicholas S. Kanellopoulos and Joanne K. Lekea A “Clock-and-Bow” Story: Late Medieval Technology from Monastic Evidence – Mark Dupuy The Strength of Lancastrian Loyalism during the Readeption: Gentry Participation at the Battle of Tewkesbury – Malcolm Mercer Soldiers and Gentlemen: The Rise of the Duel in Renaissance Italy – Stephen Hughes “A Lying Legacy” Revisited: The Abels-Morillo Defense of Discontinuity – Bernard S. Bachrach

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

Volume VII 1 The Military Role of the Order of the Garter – Richard W. Barber 2 The Itineraries of the Black Prince’s Chevauchées of 1355 and 1356: Observations and Interpretations – Peter Hoskins 3 The Chevauchée of John Chandos and Robert Knolles: Early March to Early June, 1369 – Nicolas Savy 4 “A Voyage, or Rather an Expedition, to Portugal”: Edmund of Langley’s Journey to Iberia, June/July 1381 – Douglas Biggs 5 The Battle of Aljubarrota (1385): A Reassessment – João Gouveia Monteiro 6 “Military” Knighthood in the Lancastrian Era: The Case of Sir John Montgomery – Gilbert Bogner 7 Medieval Romances and Military History: Marching Orders in Jean de Bueil’s Le Jouvencel introduit aux armes – Matthieu Chan Tsin 8 Arms and the Art of War: The Ghentenaar and Brugeois Militia in 1477–1479 – J. F. Verbruggen 9 Accounting for Service at War: the Case of Sir James Audley of Heighley – Nicholas Gribit 10 The Black Prince in Gascony and France (1355–1356), According to MS 78 of Corpus Christi College, Oxford – Clifford J. Rogers

Volume VIII 1 People against Mercenaries: The Capuchins in Southern Gaul – John France 2 The Last Italian Expedition of Henry IV: Re-reading the Vita Mathildis of Donizone of Canossa – Valerie Eads 3 Jaime I of Aragon: Child and Master of the Spanish Reconquest – Donald Kagay 4 Numbers in Mongol Warfare – Carl Sverdrup 5 Battlefield Medicine in Wolfram’s Parzival – Jolyon T. Hughes 6 Battle-Seeking, Battle-Avoiding or Perhaps Just Battle-Willing? Applying the Gillingham Paradigm to Enrique II of Castile – Andrew Villalon 7 Outrance and Plaisance – Will McLean

8 Guns and Goddams: Was there a Military Revolution in Lancastrian Normandy 1415–1450? – Anne Curry 9 The Name of the Siege Engine Trebuchet: Etymology and History in Medieval France and Britain – William Sayers

Volume IX 1 The French Offensives of 1404–1407 against Anglo-Gascon Aquitaine – Guilhem Pépin 2 The King’s Welshmen: Welsh Involvement in the Expeditionary Army of 1415 – Adam Chapman 3 Gunners, Aides and Archers: The Personnel of the English Ordnance Companies in Normandy in the Fifteenth Century – Andy King 4 Defense, Honor, and Community: the Military and Social Bonds of the Dukes of Burgundy and the Flemish Shooting Guilds – Laura Crombie 5 The Battle of Edgecote or Banbury (1469) through the Eyes of Contemporary Welsh Poets – Barry Lewis 6 Descriptions of Battles in Fifteenth-Century Urban Chronicles: A Comparison of the Siege of London in May 1471 and the Battle of Grandson, 2 March 1476 – Andreas Remy 7 Urban Espionage and Counterespionage during the Burgundian Wars (1468–1477) – Bastian Walter 8 Urban Militias, Nobles, and Mercenaries: The Organization of the Antwerp Army in the Flemish-Brabantine Revolt of the 1480s – Frederik Buylaert, Jan Van Camp and Bert Verwerft 9 Military Equipment in the Town of Southampton during the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries – Randall Moffett

Volume X 1 The Careers of Justinian’s Generals – David Parnell 2 Early Saxon Frontier Warfare: Henry I, Otto I, and Carolingian Military Institutions – David S. Bachrach and Bernard S. Bachrach 3 War in The Lay of the Cid – Francisco Garcia Fitz 4 The Battle of Salado (1340) Revisited – Nicolas Agrait 5 Chivalry and Military Biography in the Later Middle Ages: The Chronicle of the Good Duke Louis of Bourbon – Steven Muhlberger 6 The Ottoman–Hungarian Campaigns of 1442 – John Jefferson 7 Security and Insecurity, Spies, and Informers in Holland during the Guelders War (1506–1515) – James P. Ward 8 Edward I’s Wars in the Chronicle of Hagnaby Priory – Michael Prestwich

Volume XI 1 Military Games and the Training of the Infantry – Aldo A. Settia 2 The Battle of Civitate: A Plausible Account – Charles D. Stanton

3 The Square “Fighting March” of the Crusaders at the Battle of Ascalon (1099) – Georgios Theotokis 4 How the Crusades Could Have Been Won: King Baldwin II of Jerusalem’s Campaigns against Aleppo (1124–1125) and Damascus (1129) – T. S. Asbridge 5 Saint Catherine’s Day Miracle: The Battle of Montgisard – Michael Ehrlich 6 The Military Effectiveness of Alan Mercenaries in Byzantium, 1301–1306 – Scott Jesse and Anatoly Isaenko 7 Winning and Recalling Honor in Spain: Pro-English Poetry in Celebration of the Battle of Nájera (1367) – Donald J. Kagay and L. J. Andrew Villalon 8 The Wars and the Army of the Duke of Cephalonia Carlo I Tocco (c. 1375–1429) – Savvas Kyriakidis 9 Sir John Radcliffe, K. G. (d. 1441): Miles famossissimus – A. Compton Reeves 10 Defense Schemes of Southampton in the Late Medieval Period, 1300–1500 – Randall Moffett 11 French and English Acceptance of Medieval Gunpowder Weaponry – Kelly DeVries

Volume XII 1 Some Observations Regarding Barbarian Military Demography: Geiseric’s Census of 429 and Its Implications – Bernard S. Bachrach 2 War Words and Battle Spears: The kesja and kesjulag in Old Norse Literature – K. James McMullen 3 The Political and Military Agency of Ecclesiastical Leaders in Anglo-Norman England: 1066–1154 – Craig M. Nakashian 4 Couched Lance and Mounted Shock Combat in the East: The Georgian Experience – Mamuka Tsurtsumia 5 The Battle of Arsur: A Short-Lived Victory – Michael Ehrlich 6 Prelude to Kephissos (1311): An Analysis of the Battle of Apros (1305) – Nikolaos S. Kanellopoulos and Ioanna K. Lekea 7 Horse Restoration (Restaurum equorum) in the Army of Henry of Grosmont, 1345: A Benefit of Military Service in the Hundred Years’ War – Nicholas A. Gribit 8 The Indenture between Edward III and the Black Prince for the Prince’s Expedition to Gascony, 10 July 1355 – Mollie M. Madden 9 Investigating the Socio-Economic Origins of English Archers in the Second Half of the Fourteenth Century – Gary Baker 10 War and the Great Schism: Military Factors Determining Allegiances in Iberia – L. J. Andrew Villalon

Volume XIII 1 Feudalism, Romanticism, and Source Criticism: Writing the Military History of Salian Germany – David S. Bachrach 2 When the Lamb Attacked the Lion: A Danish Attack on England in 1138? – Thomas K. Heebøll-Holm 3 Development of Prefabricated Artillery during the Crusades – Michael S. Fulton 4 Some Notes on Ayyubid and Mamluk Military Terms – Rabei G. Khamisy

5 Helgastaðir, 1220: A Battle of No Significance? – Oren Falk 6 Por la guarda de la mar: Castile and the Struggle for the Sea in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries – Nicolás Agrait 7 The Battle of Hyddgen, 1401: Owain Glyndwr’s Victory Reconsidered – Michael Livingston 8 The Provision of Artillery for the 1428 Expedition to France – Dan Spencer 9 1471: The Year of Three Battles and English Gunpowder Artillery – Devin Fields 10 “Cardinal Sins” and “Cardinal Virtues” of “El Tercer Rey,” Pedro González de Mendoza: The Many Faces of a Warrior Churchman in Late Medieval Europe – L. J. Andrew Villalon 11 Late Medieval Divergences: Comparative Perspectives on Early Gunpowder Warfare in Europe and China – Tonio Andrade

Volume XIV 1 Anglo-Norman Artillery in Narrative Histories, from the Reign of William I to the Minority of Henry III – Michael S. Fulton 2 Imperial Policy and Military Practice in the Plantagenet Dominions, c. 1337–c. 1453 – David Green 3 The Parliament of the Crown of Aragon as Military Financier in the War of the Two Pedros – Donald J. Kagay 4 Chasing the Chimera in Spain: Edmund of Langley in Iberia, 1381/82 – Douglas Biggs 5 Note: A Medieval City under Threat Turns Its Coat, While Hedging Its Bets – Burgos Faces an Invasion in Spring, 1366 – L. J. Andrew Villalon 6 Medieval European Mercenaries in North Africa: The Value of Difference – Michael Lower 7 Medieval Irregular Warfare, c. 1000–1300 – John France 8 Muslim Responses to Western Intervention: A Comparative Study of the Crusades and Post-2003 Iraq – Alex Mallett 9 “New Wars” and Medieval Warfare: Some Terminological Considerations – Jochen G. Schenk 10 Friend or Foe? The Catalan Company as Proxy Actors in the Aegean and Asia Minor Vacuum – Mike Carr.

Volume XV 1 Later Roman Grand Strategy: The Fortification of the urbes of Gaul – Bernard S. Bachrach 2 In Search of Equilibrium: Byzantium and the Northern Barbarians, 400–800 – Leif Inge Ree Petersen 3 Evolving English Strategies during the Viking Wars – Richard Abels 4 Norman Conquests: A Strategy for World Domination? – Matthew Bennett 5 The Papacy and the Political Consolidation of the Catalan Counties, c. 1060–1100: A Case Study in Political Strategy – Luis García-Guijarro Ramos 6 Alfonso VII of León-Castile in Face of the Reformulation of Power in Al-Andalus, 1145–1157: An Essay in Strategic Logic – Manuel Rojas Gabriel

7 The Treaties between the Kings of León and the Almohads within the Leonese Expansion Strategy, 1157–1230 – Maria Dolores García Oliva 8 A Strategy of Total War? Henry of Livonia and the Conquest of Estonia, 1208–1227 – John Gillingham 9 The English Long Bow, War, and Administration – John France

CONTENTS CARL I. HAMMER

In the Field with Charlemagne, 791

WALTER GOFFART

The Recruitment of Freemen into the Carolingian Army, or, How Far May One Argue from Silence?

RABEI G. KHAMISY

Baybars’ Strategy of War against the Franks

ILANA KRUG DANNY LAKE-GIGUÈRE

Food, Famine, and Edward II’s Military Failures The Impacts of Warfare on Woodland Exploitation in Late Medieval Normandy (1364–1380): Royal Forests as Military Assets during the Hundred Years’ War

PIERRE GAITE

Exercises in Arms: the Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-at-Arms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries

RONALD W. BRAASCH III

The Skirmish: A Statistical Analysis of Minor Combats during the Hundred Years’ War, 1337–1453

BRIAN R. PRICE

Yron & Stele: Chivalric Ethos, Martial Pedagogy, Equipment, and Combat Technique in the Early Fourteenth-Century Middle English Version of Guy of Warwick

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

JOURNAL OF MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY  VIII JOURNAL OF MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY

The Journal’s hallmark is broad chronological, geographic and thematic coverage of the subject, bearing witness to ‘the range and richness of scholarship on medieval warfare, military institutions, and cultures of conflict that characterises the field’.  HISTORY

XVI

J ournal of

MEDIEVAL MILITARY HISTORY

FRANCE, DEVRIES, ROGERS (editors)

·   XVI · Edited by JOHN FRANCE, KELLY DEVRIES and CLIFFORD J. ROGERS