Journal of Medieval Military History. Volume XX [20] 1783277181, 9781783277186, 9781800106178

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JOURNAL OF

Medieval Military History Volume XX

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 Editions of previously unpublished documents of significance to the field are included.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 XX

Edited by

KELLY DeVRIES JOHN FRANCE CLIFFORD J. ROGERS

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Contributors 2022 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 2022 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978-1-78327-718-6 hardback ISBN 978-1-80010-617-8 ePDF

The Boydell Press is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620–2731, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library The publisher has no responsibility for the continued existence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate

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

Contents

List of Illustrations

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1. De velitatione bellica and the Georgian Art of War During the Reign of David IV 1 Mamuka Tsurtsumia 2. The Afterlife of the Medieval Christian Warrior 17 Steven Isaac 3. More Accurate Than You Think: Re-evaluating Medieval Warfare in Film 35 Peter Burkholder 4. Raising the Medieval Trebuchet: Assembly Method and the Standing of a Half-scale Machine 69 Daniel Bertrand 5. Cum Socio Eiusdem: Military Recruitment in the Armies of Edward I Among the Sub-Gentry 109 David S. Bachrach 6. Two Walls of Protection: Queen Elionor of Sicily and Bishop Berenguer de Cruïlles of Gerona During the 1359 Naval Campaigns of The War of the Two Pedros 125 Donald J. Kagay 7. The Lancegay and Associated Weapons 137 Michael John Harbinson 8. “I intend to give him battle.” Battle-Seeking in a Civil War Context: Toro (1476) 185 Ekaitz Etxeberria Gallastegi 9. Discovery of an Early Sixteenth-Century Battle Plan from the Archdiocesan Archive in Ljubljana 203 Tomaž Lazar List of Contributors

233

Illustrations

1. De velitatione bellica and Georgian Art of War During the Reign of David IV Map 1 The Expansion of the Kingdom of Georgia under David IV “The Builder” (r. 1089–1125) 2 3. More Accurate Than You Think: Re-evaluating Medieval Warfare in Film Figure 1 Forms and frequencies of medieval combat in four sources 48 Figure 2 Cavalry at the Metropolitan Museum of Art 55 Figure 3 Above-waist vs. below-waist wounds by source 57 Figure 4 Detail of the lower panel from the MPB, folio 24v 58 Figure 5 Armor vs. no armor at wound site 63 Table 1 Combat wound locations by source 59 4. Raising the Medieval Trebuchet: Assembly Method and the Standing of a Half-scale Machine Figure 1 The ground plan of a trebuchet drawn by Villard de Honnecourt Figure 2 The trebuchet from the Gottingen manuscript of the Bellifortis, c.1405 Figure 3 The trebuchet from the Innsbruck manuscript of the Bellifortis Figure 4 The ground plan of the trebuchet from the Innsbruck manuscript Figure 5 The conventional trebuchet depicted in the Elegant Book, c.1462–63 Figure 6 The Sentinel, the author’s reconstructed machine, as of October 2019 Figure 7 Standing a bent of the trebuchet’s frame Figure 8 Folio 2r of the Hussite Wars: a shear leg hoist raising a cannon Figure 9 Folio 25v of the Hussite Wars Figure 10 Folio 6r of the Hussite Wars Figure 11 Raising the shear legs using the trebuchet’s windlass Figure 12 Raising the throwing arm of the Sentinel

72 74 74 75 78 82 84 88 89 90 92 95

viii Illustrations Figure 13 One of Francesco di Giorgio Martini’s drawings of a trebuchet Figure 14 Raising the throwing arm with a header bar, as seen in the Elegant Book Figure 15 Raising the throwing arm using a ramp, from the Elegant Book Figure 16 Attaching the counterweight box, as seen in the Elegant Book Figure 17 Moving in the counterweight box during assembly of the Sentinel Figure 18 Components of a trebuchet, from Zaradkash 7. The Lancegay and Associated Weapons Figure 1 Lewis Chessman.

96 99 100 102 104 105

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8. “I intend to give him battle.” Battle-Seeking in a Civil War Context: Toro (1476) Map 1 Troop movements during May–July 1475 192 Map 2 Troop movements prior to the battle of Toro (15 February to 1 March 1476) 195 9. Discovery of an Early Sixteenth-century Battle Plan from the Archdiocesan Archive in Ljubljana Map 1 The operational theater during Maximilian I’s confrontation with Venice, 1508–16 (Drawn by Polonca Strman) 214 Figure 1 Battle plan from the Archdiocesan Archive (NŠAL, ŠAL 1, Fasc. 29/1; photo: Matej Kristovič) 204 Figure 2 Schematic depiction of a concentrically arranged Wagenburg (UER B 26, fol. b r) 206 Figure 3 Diagram of the battle formation on the Ljubljana plan (Drawing by Polonca Strman) 220 Figure 4 A realistic contemporary depiction of field fortifications from Eyb’s Kriegsbuch dated c.1500 (UER, MS.B 26, fol. 62r) 228 Full credit details are provided in the captions to the images in the text. The editors, contributors and publisher are grateful to all the institutions and persons for permission to reproduce the materials in which they hold copyright. Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders; apologies are offered for any omission, and the publisher will be pleased to add any necessary acknowledgement in subsequent editions.

1 De velitatione bellica and the Georgian Art of War During the Reign of David IV1 Mamuka Tsurtsumia

In 1089, when David IV ‘the Builder’ (1089–1125) ascended the throne, the problem of the Turkmen nomads was probably the most difficult he faced. Confrontation with Turkmens was characterized by small-scale but high-intensity clashes distinguished by dynamism and mobility. Due to this, the struggle with the nomads and the suppression of their raids required specific methods of warfare. The theoretical foundations for dealing with raids had already been developed by the Byzantine military, which in the tenth century produced a detailed and practical manual, De velitatione bellica, whose author was a comrade-in-arms of Nikephoros II Phokas (963–69). Though it is hard to show with certainty that the Georgian king knew and followed De velitatione, it is very possible that he derived some ideas about warfare from this Byzantine treatise. In the military career of David the Builder can be seen both the observance of the recommendations of De velitatione (for instance the formation of a strategic barrier and stopping the enemy in a mountainous region with small forces in Trialeti; destroying the enemy camp by a surprise attack in Upper Tao and Botora; luring and then destruction at Avchala), and creative understanding and rethinking of the treatise. There is evidence that he extended the tactical recommendations of the treatise to the strategic level, including when the king addressed the method of luring his adversary at both the tactical (Avchala episode) and strategic level (marching beyond Likhi): David the Builder took the treatise’s recommendation to detain the enemy in a border area to a new height when he attacked the nomads outside the country, meaning that he successfully used the military experience of the Byzantium treatise and enriched it with his own ideas. At the end of the eleventh century, Georgia was in an extremely difficult military-­political situation: the kingdom had been defeated in a war with the Great Seljuk Sultanate and paid tribute to the Seljuks. The territory of the 1

I would like to thank an anonymous reviewer for his valuable comments on my draft and for raising the issue of ideology in De velitatione and the Georgian king’s war. My special thanks also go to Clifford J. Rogers and John France for editing this paper.

Map 1  The Expansion of the Kingdom of Georgia under David IV “The Builder” (r. 1089–1125), Historical Atlas of Georgia, ed. D. Muskhelishvili (Tblisi forthcoming)..



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country was reduced, and the king’s authority did not go far beyond the Likhi Range, the natural border between the western and eastern parts of Georgia. Turkic nomads raided Kartli (central Georgia) every year and settled on Georgian lands, which they turned into pastures. Under such circumstances, in 1089, David IV (1089–1125) ascended the throne, and amongst the urgent issues he had to solve, the problem of the Turkmen nomads was probably the most difficult and urgent.2 Since the beginning of the 1080s, when the Turkic invasions, referred to as didi turkoba (“the Great Turkish Troubles”) began, Georgia and the Turkmen nomads were in a state of permanent war with each other. Defeat in this war threatened to extinguish Georgian statehood. As a result of the systematic raids of the nomads, the agricultural system was completely destroyed and the population was forced to shelter in castles and fortresses: “When David ascended the throne, Kartli was in ruins; there was not a man anywhere, only in a few strongholds, and there were no complete buildings left.”3 The first measures taken by David IV (strengthening the central government, improving the state apparatus and military structure, restoring the military potential of the Georgian army and local combat operations) were aimed at curbing the waves of Turkmen nomads and methodically banishing them from Kartli. Confrontation with nomadic Turkmens was characterized by small-scale but high-intensity clashes that were distinguished by dynamism and mobility. Due to this, the struggle with the nomads and the suppression of their raids required specific methods of warfare.4 The theoretical foundations of the war against raids had already been developed by the Byzantine military, which, in the tenth century produced a detailed and practical manual – De velitatione bellica. As will be seen below, the Georgian king effectively used the tried-and-true Byzantine tactics for fighting enemy raiders, against even more mobile adversaries (Turkmen nomads).5 In this new situation, he took these tactics to new heights and expanded them creatively. It is likely that King David had read De velatatione bellica and was consciously applying its 2

3 4

5

The Turkmens made a great contribution to the Seljuk conquests. The very nature of their economy and society was frequently antagonistic to of sedentary societies. Their invasions, settlements, and raids played a crucial role in the fate and transformation of Byzantine Anatolia. Speros Vryonis, Jr., The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamization from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley, 1971), pp. 194, 258. “The Life of David, King of Kings,” trans. Dmitri Gamq’relidze, Kartlis Tskhovreba, ed. Stephen Jones (Tbilisi, 2014), p. 173. The tactics of the Turkmens were based on the mobile character of their society. The bulk of Turkmen forces consisted of mounted archers. With lighter armament and more agile horses they were quicker and more flexible than their opponents. Great mobility and archery enabled them to fight at distance, use different ways of feigned retreat, attack an enemy on the flanks and rear, or on the march. R. C. Smail, Crusading Warfare, 1097–1193, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 77–83. John Haldon notes that the appearance of Seljuk Turks and nomadic raids made the old Byzantine tactics again current. John Haldon, Warfare, State and Society in the Byzantine World, 565–1204 (London, 1999), p. 180.

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precepts; but even if this was not the case, the text can help us understand his success against the Turkmen nomads, because it so clearly reveals the principles that enabled him to campaign so effectively. Before that case can be made, it is necessary to briefly consider the treatise and its role in the history of military thinking. The Byzantine military treatise De velitatione bellica (Περί παραδρομής) is a unique theoretical work based on the author’s experience. The tactics outlined in the treatise are the result of decades of border wars in the mountainous zone between Byzantium and Islam.6 The author was a high-ranking military official who seems to have been, at least, a strategos (military governor) of a theme (province). He was a comrade-in-arms of Nikephoros II Phokas (963–69), and possibly even a member of his family.7 The writing of the treatise, based on the emperor’s records,8 was commissioned by Nikephoros himself.9 Vladimir Kuchma shares the view of Gilbert Dagron that the treatise was probably created thirty to forty years after the introduction of the new tactics10 and dates it to the second half of the 970s.11 The treatise is clearly written and the flow of thought is consistent and logical.12 Mark Whittow classes this treatise as one of the most remarkable

6 7

8 9

10

11

12

Łukasz Różycki, “Byzantine Asymmetric Warfare in Light of ‘De velitatione bellica’,” Prace Historyczne 143/4 (2016), 645–62, p. 660. “Skirmishing,” in Three Byzantine Military Treatises, text, translation, and notes by George T. Dennis (Washington, 1985), p. 139 (hereafter “Skirmishing”); V. V. Kuchma, “K probleme avtorstva traktata ‘De velitatione bellica’: novaya gipoteza,” [On the problem of authorship of the treatise ‘De velitatione bellica’: a new hypothesis], Vizantiyskiy Vremennik 55/1 (1994), 132–37, p. 133. Eric McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth: Byzantine Warfare in the Tenth Century (Washington D.C., 1995), pp. 173–78. “Skirmishing,” pp. 148–49. Catherine Holmes notes that De velitatione bellica served the political ambitions of the Phokas family: “Byzantine Political Culture and Compilation Literature in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries: Some Preliminary Inquiries,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 64 (2010), p. 74. Le traité sur la guérilla (De velitatione) de l’Empereur Nicéphore Phocas (963–969), text established by Gilbert Dagron and Haralambie Mihăescu, with a translation and commentary by G. Dagron, appendice: les Phocas, by J.-C. Cheynet (Paris, 1986), pp. 163–64; V. V. Kuchma, “Metod παραδρομή: fenomen voennoj teorii i boevoj praktiki X v.,” [The method of παραδρομή: the phenomenon of the military theory and combat practice of the tenth century], Voennaya organizatsya Vizantijskoj imperii (St. Petersburg, 2001), p. 395. “De velitatione bellica,” in Dva vizantijskih voennyh traktata konca X veka, ed. V. V. Kuchma (St. Petersburg, 2002), pp. 30–31 (hereafter “De velitatione bellica”). See also, Alexander Kazhdan, Eric McGeer, “De Velitatione,” The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, 3 vols., ed. A. Kazhdan (Oxford, 1991), 1:615. V. V. Kuchma, “Vizantijskie voennie traktati VI–X vv. kak istoricheskie istochniki,” [Byzantine military treatises of the sixth to tenth centuries considered as historical sources], Vizantiyskiy Vremennik 40 (1979), 49–75, p. 58. However, Dagron believed that the standard of strategic reasoning largely exceeds its literary merits. Le traité sur la guérilla (De velitatione) de l’Empereur Nicéphore Phocas, p. 195.



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documents from the Byzantine world that have survived, and Kuchma shares this opinion.13 De velitatione bellica occupies a special place in military theory because it suggests specific and systematic methods to be used against raiders.14 The centuries-old Greco-Roman polemological tradition consists mainly of encyclopedic textbooks.15 Unlike them, De velitatione bellica does not aim at generality and universality. Its merit lies in the fact that it provides detailed and reliable information concerning specific military issues through an in-depth elaboration of the problems posed by them. Therefore, this work is a highly practical military manual.16 In the treatise, strategy and battle tactics are given in much more detail than in any other source.17 Charles Diehl rightly points out that the tiniest details (intelligence, supply and mobilization, ambush, night fighting tactics, etc.) were included in the treatise’s instructions and carefully written down.18 De velitatione bellica tells us much about maneuver warfare, which the author cites as a παραδρομή (paradromi, shadowing the enemy forces), and claims that “by making use of it some commanders with only a small fighting force have achieved prodigious and truly remarkable results.”19 This method is recommended to prevent the systematic raids of the opponent. Such warfare is characterized by rapid movement and the absence of sieges, protracted actions, and long confrontations.20 Constant and close surveillance prevented looting and provided opportunities to destroy the attackers by exploiting favorable opportunities.21 The treatise describes war in which surprise, the speed of movement, the exchange of reconnaissance information, and the art of pursuing the enemy 13

14 15 16 17

18 19 20 21

Mark Whittow, The Making of Byzantium, 600-1025 (Berkeley, 1996), p. 177; V. V. Kuchma, “K voprosu o nauchno-teoreticheskom urovne traktata ‘De velitatione bellica,’” [On the question of the scientific-theoretical level of the treatise “De velitatione bellica”], Byzantinoslavica 56/2 (1995), 389–96, pp. 389, 396. Gastone Breccia also maintains a high opinion of the treatise, believing that De velitatione bellica is the first example of a specialized manual. The issues are thoroughly elaborated and various situations arising during the war and the ways to solve them are carefully analyzed. Gastone Breccia, “Educazione e cultura militare a Bisanzio (IV–XI secolo),” Formare alle professioni: La cultura militare tra passato e presente 4 (2011), 64–80, p. 75. The Italian researcher also notes that this type of specialized work did not exist until the seventeenth century, which is why the treatise seems to have a modern touch. Ibid., p. 76. V. V. Kuchma, “Dva traktata – odin avtor?” [Two Treatises – One Author?], Voennaya organizatsya Vizantijskoj imperii (St. Petersburg, 2001), p. 301. Kuchma, “On the question of the scientific-theoretical level of the treatise ‘De velitatione bellica,’” p. 389. “De velitatione bellica,” pp. 45, 68. Georgios Theotokis, “Border Fury! The Muslim campaigning tactics in Asia Minor through the writings of the Byzantine military treatise Περί παραδρομής του κυρού Νικηφόρου του βασιλέως,” ATINER’S Conference Paper Series (Athens, 2012), p. 14. Charles Diehl, Les grands problèmes de l’histoire byzantine (Paris, 1943), pp. 72–73. “Skirmishing,” pp. 146–47. “De velitatione bellica,” p. 69. Ibid., p. 11.

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occupy a major place.22 The author attaches great importance to the geography of the theater of operations, especially the peculiarities of mountainous regions, and integrates all of these in his tactics.23 The treatise presents a model of mobile tactics that can be implemented equally well by day and by night.24 The main aspects of these tactics are to pursue, track, and attack the enemy, and the main idea is to weaken the invading army until the defender is able to concentrate his forces.25 The idea is that the commander, in the first stage of the campaign, can neutralize the adversary’s army, which possesses a numerical advantage and holds the initiative, by means of smaller forces.26 Preference is given to small but well-trained cavalry detachments that are familiar with the environment and utilize aggressive tactics based on speed and surprise.27 According to the anonymous author of the treatise, this method, based on past experience, was developed by the Byzantine commander Bardas Phokas (879–969) and perfected by his son, the famous general and later emperor, Nikephoros II Phokas.28 George Dennis also notes the great contribution of Leo Phokas, the second son of Bardas, a successful commander, in perfecting the method.29 Gilbert Dagron divides the combat actions reflected in the treatise into four phases. Phase I begins with scouting of the frontier and roads and includes intelligence and espionage measures to identify the direction and character of the opponent’s raid (Chapters I and II of the treatise). In Phase 2 (Chapters VIII, IX, X, XII, XIII, XVII, XVIII), a detachment must be deployed to pursue the enemy and establish constant contact with him (VIII). Attacks on the enemy are organized (IX) – they attack either the raiders directly (X, XVII and XVIII), or hold them until the villagers manage to evacuate (XII), or attack the remaining forces at the camp (XIII). In Phase 3 (XX–XXII), before a sufficient number of troops has assembled to fight head-to-head against the numerous enemies, guerilla attacks wear down the invading army, while diversionary operations are 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29

Le traité sur la guérilla (De velitatione) de l’Empereur Nicéphore Phocas, p. 185. Ibid., p. 219. Ibid., pp. 228–29. Georgios Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics in Syria and Mesopotamia in the Tenth Century (Edinburgh, 2018), pp. 54–55. Kuchma, “The method of παραδρομή,” pp. 386–87. Breccia, “Educazione e cultura militare a Bisanzio,” p. 75. “Skirmishing,” pp. 148–49. Both Haldon and Hugh Kennedy, as well as Lucas McMahon, cite examples that show that the elements of defensive tactics described in the treatise had been employed in Byzantium from the second half of the seventh century. J. F. Haldon, H. Kennedy, “The Arab-Byzantine Frontier in the Eighth and Ninth Centuries: Military Organization and Society in the Borderlands,” Recueil des travaux de l’Institut d’Etudes byzantines 19 (1980), 79–116, pp. 84–85, 97, 101–5; Lucas McMahon, “De Velitatione Bellica and Byzantine Guerrilla Warfare,” Annual of Medieval Studies at CEU 22 (2016), 22–33, pp. 23–33. George Dennis even attributed the authorship of the treatise to Leo Phokas, though Kuchma convincingly disputed this assumption. “Skirmishing,” pp. 139–40; Kuchma, “On the problem of authorship of the treatise ‘De velitatione bellica,’” pp. 134–37.



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conducted against enemy territory in the hope of persuading the enemy to turn back to protect his homeland. Finally, in Phase 4 (XXIII–XXV) the returning enemy, exhausted and encumbered with booty, should be blocked and could be challenged in open battle or by night attacks on his camp.30 The most important and necessary condition for success is the correct organization of intelligence and patrolling services, both before the start of and during the campaign.31 Checkpoints should monitor the enemy from his approach into the country. These posts should be deeply echeloned in several lines and spaced three or four miles apart.32 Before reaching the commander, the information should be transmitted through at least four rows of posts.33 As soon as the border is crossed, the pursuit and “shadowing” of the adversary should take on a systematic character. This is done by tracking the enemy at the required distance, as well as by capturing the heights and observing the adversary from there, determining the enemy’s numbers and direction of movement according to the smoke of their bonfires and the dust and traces left by the raiders on the grass.34 Tracking is also carried out according to the principle of the echeloned system: in the immediate vicinity of the enemy there are three pairs of soldiers – the first pair hears their voice, the second sees the first pair, and the third pair sees the second one. However, these soldiers should not get closer to each other. Behind these three pairs there are three groups of four soldiers, so that the first four soldiers see the last pair, the second four see the first four, and so on. The third group of four soldiers are reinforced with two additional men who can carry reports to the commander.35 They are followed by a cavalry detachment (led by the turmarch36), followed by a commander (strategos) with the main forces, guarded by thirty cavalrymen on each flank, followed by a cavalry rear guard.37 The main forces have to pursue the enemy at such a distance that the latter are not able to attack them. At the same time, the commander must be prepared to attack the enemy whenever convenient: if possible, he must attack the enemy’s core forces, or, in the event of a major imbalance of power, its scattered detachments.38 No matter how small the commander’s forces might be, he is obliged to follow the enemy’s raiding groups while observing all precautions, and to attack the isolated soldiers.39 Under no circumstances should the commander remain passive, and he should select the part of the enemy against

30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Le traité sur la guérilla (De velitatione) de l’Empereur Nicéphore Phocas, pp. 195–96. Kuchma, “The method of παραδρομή,” p. 387. The length of a Byzantine mile is 1,574.16 meters. “Skirmishing,” p. 151. Ibid., pp. 150–51. Ibid., pp. 164–67. Ibid., pp. 168–69. The turmarch was one of the top commanders of the Byzantine army, second only to the strategos. “Skirmishing,” pp. 170–71. Ibid., pp. 170–73. Ibid., pp. 202–3.

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which he will have the greatest advantage and guarantee of success in the event of an attack. Lucas McMahon drew attention to the fact that the Byzantine emperor Romanos IV Diogenes (1068–71) successfully used the method described in De velitatione bellica against the Seljuk Turks.40 According to Michael Attaleiates, when Diogenes learned in 1068 that the Turkish raiders had sacked Neocaesarea, he pursued them. When approaching Sebasteia, he left his baggage and infantry and continued with his cavalry far into the mountains. Due to a well-planned route, he intercepted the enemy eight days later and destroyed them.41 McMahon notes that the Byzantine emperor left the baggage in the rear, in a fortified place, as he approached the enemy.42 The emperor attacked the Turks only with cavalry: this echoes the statement of the treatise that with a sufficient force of cavalry (5,000–6,000 men), the commander can successfully accomplish any task.43 McMahon is certainly right when he points to the importance of intelligence during the capture of the Turkish raiders.44 At the same time, I would like to draw attention to the instruction of De velitatione bellica, according to which, if the direction of the enemy’s movement was clearly indicated, the commander could calculate their possible location by “four stations away” (or in other words, four days in advance) and intercept them at an appropriate place.45 It seems that Romanos Diogenes took advantage of this method and, after checking the data provided by the intelligence, was able to capture the enemy even after eight days. This episode shows that the instructions of De velitatione bellica continue to be useful in new circumstances. So this treatise could also be useful to David IV, but how was it possible that copies of the manuscripts from the Phokas circle ended up in the Georgian king’s library? What connection could there be between David the Builder and Nikephoros Phokas? There is evidence indicating that Nikephoros Phokas had personal connections with the Georgians46 who had participated in his wars against the Muslims.47 Nikephoros presented David III 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

47

Lucas McMahon, “The Past and Future of De velitatione bellica and Byzantine Guerrilla Warfare,” MA Dissertation, Central European University (Budapest, 2015), pp. 42–44. Michael Attaleiates, The History, trans. Anthony Kaldellis and Dimitris Krallis (Cambridge, MA, 2012), 17.4–5, pp. 192–95. See, “Skirmishing,” pp. 200-1. Ibid., pp. 204-05. McMahon, “The Past and Future of De velitatione bellica and Byzantine Guerrilla Warfare,” pp. 43–44. “Skirmishing,” pp. 230–31. Some scholars even believe that the Phokades hailed from Georgia or, more likely that they had Georgian kinsmen. J.-C. Cheynet, “Les Phocas,” in Le traité sur la guérilla (De velitatione) de l’Empereur Nicéphore Phocas (963–969), text established by Gilbert Dagron and Haralambie Mihăescu, with a translation and commentary by G. Dagron (Paris, 1986), p. 290; Whittow, The Making of Byzantium, p. 364. John Skylitzes, A Synopsis of Byzantine History, 811–1057, trans. John Wortley, with introductions by Jean-Claude Cheynet and Bernard Flusin and notes by Jean-Claude Cheynet (Cambridge, 2010), p. 257.



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of Tao48 with “upper lands,” thus ending the old dispute between the empire and the Tao kingdom, described by Constantine Porphyrogenitus.49 Nikephoros Phokas was well acquainted with all three Georgian monks living on Mount Athos – John, Euthymios, and Tornikios. John of Athos, the former commander of David III, was accepted at the royal court, often visited Constantinople and brought gifts for the Lavra monastery of Athos.50 Even after Nikephoros Phokas’ assassination,51 the Lavriotes did not forget their patron and helped to popularize and disseminate his cult.52 In such a situation, it is clear that the Georgians, who were actively involved in the life of Mount Athos and the Great Lavra, would have had accurate information about Nikephoros and access to many manuscripts about him. Moreover, it can be argued that David IV’s chronicler must have read the poem by Theodosius the Deacon about the conquest of Crete by Nikephoros Phokas, as evidenced by a semantically identical passage in both works.53 Therefore, it is safe to conclude that the Georgian king had access to some sources about the Nikephoros and Phokas families. We also know that David IV utilized past experience: that is directly pointed out by his chronicler, who mentions that the secret of the king’s success was hidden in the ancient histories he read and reflected on, without the knowledge of which he could not have risen to prominence.54 The king’s longing for books was well known.55 He always carried a book with him and did not stop reading even during the war and the military campaigns: Spending days and nights in constant travel, in permanent marches and in tireless labors, he kept many mules and camels loaded with books. Dismounting his horse a book would be the first thing in his hands and he did not stop reading until he was exhausted.56

48 49 50 51

52 53 54 55 56

The Kingdom of Tao was a medieval Georgian state located in modern north-east Turkey and south Georgia. Constantine Porphyrogenitus, De Administrando Imperio, ed. Gy. Moravcsik, trans. R. J. H. Jenkins, rev. ed. (Washington, 1967), pp. 206–15. Actes de Lavra, pt. 1: Des origines à 1204, ed. Paul Lemerle et al. (Paris, 1970), p. 44. Georgians continued their friendship with the Phokades after Nikephoros’ death: in 979, thanks to an army sent by David III Kouropalates, Bardas Phokas defeated Skleros. In 987–89, Kouropalates assisted Bardas Phokas for the second time, this time during a failed revolt against Basil II. Whittow, The Making of Byzantium, pp. 363–65, 370–73. In 1022, Nikephoros Phokas, Bardas’ son, became an ally of George I and rebelled against Basil II, who had invaded Georgia. Skylitzes, A Synopsis of Byzantine History, p. 346; Aristakes Lastivertc’i, Istoria [History], ed. E. Tsagareishvili (Tbilisi, 1974), pp. 48–50. Rosemary Morris, “The Two Faces of Nikephoros Phocas,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 12 (1988), p. 106. For more information see Mamuka Tsurtsumia, “Nikephoros II Phokas and David IV the Builder: Military and Political Portraits,” forthcoming. “The Life of David,” p. 184. “A man burdened with so much labor, and having no spare time (at all), regarded reading as the most attractive thing in the world,” says his historian. Ibid. Ibid., p. 183.

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Moreover, both Nikephoros Phokas and David IV espoused the notion of holy war for the defense of Christianity, as a counterweight to jihad. In De velitatione bellica the concept of the “Christian army” as a protector of the Christians is pronounced: soldiers are portrayed as “the defenders of Christians and, after God, their first saviours.”57 According to Dagron, what was only a desire or a project with Leo VI was turned into a program of full ideological mobilization by Nikephoros Phokas.58 The concept of the “Christian army” was adopted and expanded by David the Builder, who took full advantage of this ideology and opposed Muslim religious fanaticism with the idea of a Christian holy war (the war for the “faith of Christ”).59 In David’s era, Georgians had to fight for their existence against the Seljuk Empire: and the ideological battle against Islam became a cornerstone of state policy. With David IV, this ideology acquired an orderly basis. It was during his reign that Georgian polemical literature was born and anti-Muslim polemical treatises were both translated and created.60 The new militant ideology found its highest expression in the royal title of David. After many victories over the Muslims and the capture of Tbilisi (1122), a new title appeared on the coin minted by the king – the Sword of the Messiah. This title clearly expressed David’s policy of protecting and supporting Christians throughout the Caucasus. It is found on coins inscribed in Arabic, which means that the king announced to the Muslim world his ideological program of defending Christianity with arms.61 Kuchma notes that new strategic ideas rarely appear in Greco-Roman military works. However, De velitatione bellica comes up with a new, theoretically well elaborated idea that, along with practical recommendation, makes its author an important military theorist.62 Chapter III of the treatise deals with an original idea – the formation of a strategic barrier to be implemented at the first, most dangerous stage of the campaign, when the defender’s army has not yet been mobilized.63 Such maneuvering requires swift action from the commander and involves blocking the enemy army with small forces in a narrow defile. Upon receiving information about the adversary’s army, the commander must be able to block a narrow passage located on the enemy’s route. The most important factor in this maneuver is speed, and the size of the army does not play a decisive role, because the mountainous terrain and narrow passage eliminate the numerical advantage of the opponent. A successful maneuver also provides a moral advantage over an adversary: the exhausted enemy, who has been marching 57 58 59

60 61 62 63

“Skirmishing,” pp. 216–17. Le traité sur la guérilla (De velitatione) de l’Empereur Nicéphore Phocas, pp. 148–49. See Mamuka Tsurtsumia, Omis ideologia sakartvelosa da akhlo aghmosavletshi: kristianuli saghvto omi da islamuri jihadi [The Ideology of War in Georgia and the Near East: Christian Holy War and Islamic Jihad] (Tbilisi, 2019), pp. 228–31. Ibid., pp. 224–26. Ibid., pp. 240–42. Kuchma, “On the question of the scientific-theoretical level of the treatise ‘De velitatione bellica,’” p. 395. “Skirmishing,” pp. 154–57.



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for several days, is no longer able to advance; the advantage acquired without fighting but merely by holding a position encourages the defenders. As a result, the opponent is forced to retreat or risk battle in unfavorable circumstances.64 The battle of Trialeti, when David the Builder outmaneuvered the Turks and thwarted his enemy’s advantage at the beginning of the campaign, provides an excellent example of the strategic halting of an adversary that the treatise advocates. The chronicler tells us that in 1110, the Seljuk army suddenly invaded the kingdom’s territory with a rapid march (“the Sultan’s army appeared unexpectedly and cunningly”). The king was staying in the heart of the country, in Nacharmagevi, accompanied by only a personal detachment – tadzreuli (household).65 David was faced with a choice: to avoid the enemy and gather an army or to try to stop them. The first option would result in ruining the country. Moreover, the king would probably not even be able to form an army before the Turks retreated. He chose the more aggressive course. All of his subsequent steps are brilliant illustrations of the implementation of the strategic maneuver proposed by the treatise: as soon as he received information about the Seljuk army, he made a swift decision. With the small but select army at his disposal (tadzreuli numbering 1,500 warriors), he organized a forced march at night and managed to block the enemy’s path in the Trialeti mountains, before they could enter the Kartli plain. As a result, events unfolded exactly as described in the treatise: the Georgians gained an obvious moral advantage and the Seljuks, exhausted by a long march, were forced to fight in an unfavorable position. Despite their numerical superiority, the Turks were unable to defeat David’s detachment (located in a better position) and left the battlefield in despair.66 De velitatione bellica pays considerable attention to the methods of destroying the enemy’s camp, detailing the detection of the enemy’s whereabouts, the approach to the enemy, and the attack. Places with water suitable for making a camp should be identified.67 The enemy must be approached at night so that they do not notice the resulting dust from the army’s movement.68 Prior to the attack, it is necessary to reconnoitre the area where the enemy tents have been set up and to identify natural obstacles (such as rivers or streams).69 From the data available to us, it is difficult to determine exactly how much of the formula provided in the Byzantine treatise was followed by the Georgian king, although some common points can still be deduced from his historian’s laconic narrative. For instance, it is certain that every attack on the Turkmen camps was preceded by the collection of information (“the King employed

64 65 66 67 68 69

Kuchma, “On the question of the scientific-theoretical level of the treatise ‘De velitatione bellica,’” pp. 394–95. “The Life of David,” p. 177. Ibid. “Skirmishing,” pp. 150–51. Ibid., pp. 170–71. Ibid., pp. 174–75.

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spies”), and the attack itself was unexpected and devastating.70 Episodes of this kind are frequently described. For example, in 1116 David suddenly attacked and destroyed the Turks in Tao (“fell unexpectedly upon the unsuspecting Turks”);71 in 1118 he destroyed the Turks encamped on the banks of the Aras;72 in 1120, the Turkmen camps in Botora (“fell upon the Turks unexpectedly”),73 Arsharunik and Sevgelamej;74 and in 1121 he did the same in Khunan and Barda.75 In all these episodes, the enemy camp was destroyed, meaning that the Georgian army managed to secretly approach it and perform a surprise attack. The repulse of the nomads would not have been possible without the establishment of a flexible regional defense system with the ability to respond quickly to the raiders’ incursions. The formation of a well-organized system of border marches, which decades later occupied an important place in Georgian military organization, seems to have begun during the reign of David the Builder.76 In this system, each of the border districts was to use local detachments to suppress the frequent incursions of small groups of raiders. Large enemy forces were to be shadowed and harassed. For this system to operate perfectly, it was necessary to have continuous control of the border, with sentries connected to a centralized communication and signal system. If the enemy appeared, all the components of the system would have to be put into action. The office of otkhmizduri, introduced during the reign of David the Builder and confirmed by the records of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, was an integral part of the regional defense system. This office, which stood below that of eristavi (military governor), has been carefully examined by Elene Metreveli.77 She compared the Georgian and the Byzantine materials, concluding that the otkhmizduri was a high-ranking military official in local government.78 This office is first found in the “Great Nomocanon” translated by Arsen of Ikalto at the end of the eleventh century, where its Greek equivalent is a duox.79 Under Nikephoros Phokas, the duox appeared as the commander of the provincial tagma (or part of it) in the empire’s frontier themes.80 The duox did not replace

70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77

78 79 80

“The Life of David,” p. 177. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., p. 179. Ibid. Ibid., p. 180. See, Mamuka Tsurtsumia, Shua saukuneebis kartuli lashkari (900–1700): organizatsia, taktika, sheiaragheba [Medieval Georgian Army (900–1700): Organization, Tactics, Armament] (Tbilisi, 2016), pp. 75–78. Elene Metreveli, “Samokheleo terminebi chororodi da otkhmizduri,” [Terms denoting State Officials Chororod and Otkhmizduri] Essays from the History of the Cultural and Educational Center of Athos (Tbilisi, 1996), pp. 79–85. Ibid., p. 82. Ibid. Les Listes de préséance byzantines des IXe et Xe siécles, with introduction, text, translation and commentary by Nicolas Oikonomides (Paris, 1972), p. 344.



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the strategos, who was the military governor of the theme, but co-existed with him.81 It seems, therefore, that otkhmizduri is an office created by following the example of the Byzantines. There is an evident analogy between the Byzantine strategos and duox on the one hand, and the Georgian eristavi and otkhmizduri on the other: both the strategos and the eristavi commanded the army of the region, and the duox and the otkhmizduri were in charge of part of the troops of the same region. In Greek and Georgian practice, the otkhmizduri/doux was probably a cavalry commander able to react in a timely manner to enemy action. Like Nikephoros Phokas, David the Builder needed to introduce such an office to strengthen cavalry forces in the border regions. The material scattered in the writings of David’s chronicler allows us to gain some insight into the functioning of the border system created by the king. The deeply echeloned sentry system had to control the approaches to Lower Tao. The destruction of the Turkmens in Upper Tao in 1116 must have been the result of reports provided by this system, since information about the Turkmens camped near the border was promptly received at the royal court.82 The chronicle’s description of Beshken Jaqeli’s death provides some limited information about the creation of the defensive system. In 1118, while David was preparing to attack the Turkmens, he was informed of Beshken’s fall.83 Beshken Jaqeli, eristavi of the border region of Tukharisi, was killed in Javakheti fighting the Turks far from his own territory. How did Jaqeli get to Javakheti and what caused his death? It appears that he avoided battle with the raiders, whose numbers exceeded his own detachment’s. However, very much in line with the advice of De velitatione, he pursued the enemy as they penetrated deep into the country.84 It seems that the Turks managed to outmaneuver the pursuing Georgian troops in Javakheti, destroying them and their commander. Despite detailed instructions, the shadowing of an enemy was by no means an easy task and demanded careful action, especially against such a mobile enemy as Turkmen nomads.85 De velitatione bellica prescribes eroding enemy strength by carefully prepared minor attacks. After a series of assaults, a feigned retreat would draw the weakened enemy in the direction of the main forces, where they could be

81 82 83 84

85

Jean-Claude Cheynet, “Du stratège de thème au duc: chronologie de l’évolution au cours du XIe siècle,” Travaux et Mémoires 9 (1985), 181–94, pp. 181–82. “The Life of David,” p. 177. Ibid. As is known, according to the instructions of De velitatione bellica, the local commanders were obliged to prevent small raids, and, in the event of a major invasion, were to employ guerrilla tactics until the arrival of reinforcements. Różycki, “Byzantine Asymmetric Warfare in Light of ‘De velitatione bellica,’” p. 649. Georgios Theotokis notes that the Byzantine commanders always found it difficult to follow strictly the treatise’s instructions: superficial pursuit of invading forces, combined with inadequate intelligence, could lead to disastrous defeat. Theotokis, Byzantine Military Tactics in Syria and Mesopotamia in the Tenth Century, p. 63.

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ambushed and completely destroyed.86 The treatise suggests a cavalry force of three hundred for the initial ambush, with a main force of five to six thousand to finish the enemy off. The author demands that only the commander should know the location of the ambushing forces.87 David the Builder was acting in accordance with such ideas when he lured the Turks away from Tbilisi.88 According to the chronicler: … a large caravan from Gandza, accompanied by many Turks entered the town. Learning of this, the King sent fifteen of his chosen servants to drive away the town’s cattle which were at pasture in a place called Loch’ini, in order to exterminate the Turks in case they undertook the pursuit. He, on his part, with three hundred horsemen, hid in one of Avch’ala’s valleys. Trusting nobody with the task of keeping watch, he patrolled alone… and ordered his troops to stay in place until he returned. The servants, doing what they were ordered to do, took away the cattle. The Turks, about a hundred in number, overtook them… [but] he [David] fell upon the Turks like an eagle and scattered them about like partridges… they killed so many of the Turks, that only few were given the chance to hide in the fortress; and the roads were full of their corpses…89

This episode described by the chronicler shows that the Georgian king organized the ambush in the manner suggested in the Byzantine treatise. Even the size of his detachment (three hundred cavalrymen) is the size recommended by De velitatione bellica. That David the Builder does not entrust anyone with the crucial phase of the operation is of particular interest (“Trusting nobody with the task of keeping watch”). If the king could earlier have been accused of negligence, he is now seen to observe proper caution and secrecy. It cannot be shown with any certainty that David knew and followed De velitatione. He was, after all, fighting in very similar circumstances to those faced by the Byzantines in the tenth century, and it would be hardly surprising if he thus adopted similar methods of his own volition. David therefore lured his adversaries at both the tactical (Avchala episode) and the strategic level (marching beyond Likhi). The chronicler notes that the Turks feared direct confrontation with David (“When the King went to Abkhazia, the Turks and their garrisons breathed a sigh of relief”).90 The Georgian king turned this circumstance into one of the tools of the war – strategic luring. His chronicler gives us a detailed description of the maneuver in 1120:

86 87 88

89 90

“Skirmishing,” pp. 204–11. Ibid., pp. 206–07. A similar method can be seen in the Greco-Roman military tradition from the very beginning: Frontinus mentions the ambushing of opponents by the Spaniard Viriathus through driving off his herds. Frontinus, The Stratagems. The Aqueducts of Rome, trans. Charles E. Bennett (London, 1925), III.X.6, pp. 240–41. “The Life of David,” p. 184. Ibid., p. 176.



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The King got into the habit of going to Abkhazia, and so doing, lured the Turkmens down to the wintering places by the banks of the Mt’k’vari. Spies had been watching the King and were following his tracks. The King went to Geguti and from there to Khupati and thus gave the Turks the confidence to return. Learning that he was away, they descended to Bot’ori. There were many of them, and they set up camps to pass the winter. The King for his part, kept his eyes open, and rushing along on the fourteenth day of February fell upon the Turks unexpectedly. Only a few of them had time to take their horses and flee. There was a countless number of captives and much booty was taken.91

Later in his reign David became more aggressive. If the most daring maneuver of the treatise is to halt the enemy at the border, the Georgian king attacked the nomads outside his country, after receiving relevant information from his intelligence. In 1116 his attack on the Turkmen encamped in Upper Tao kept them out of the country.92 In 1118 David destroyed the Turks encamped outside his kingdom, on the banks of the Aras.93 In 1120 he destroyed Turkmen settlements in Arsharunik, in Armenian territory,94 and, in 1121, in Arran.95 On the other hand, it must be said that David lived within the milieu of Orthodox Christianity and its literate tradition. His learning and love of books is celebrated in sources concerning his reign, and they seem to be something more than mere empty praise. It is, therefore, very possible that he derived some ideas about warfare from this celebrated Byzantine treatise. It can certainly be said that his style of war closely resembled its prescriptions.

91 92 93 94 95

Ibid., p. Ibid., p. Ibid. Ibid., p. Ibid., p.

179. 177. 179. 180.

2 The Afterlife of the Medieval Christian Warrior1 Steven Isaac

Moving past the truism that the military and religious elites of medieval Europe did not see eye to eye over how to practice a violent profession under the aegis of a pacifist theology, this essay looks at the combinations of both practices and presuppositions about eternity that enabled some medieval Christian warriors to harmonize their warfare with the promises of what awaited them after death. Those promises were, of course, both negative and positive. One thing that becomes quickly unavoidable is the immanence of the Beyond: the afterlife was not only a place/time to arrive at, but an elastic phenomenon impinging on the here-and-now. The Escher-like quality of eternity meant that martial elites not only paid ahead to reduce their purgatorial sentences, they also invested now for the souls of the already dead, and they expected that their preferred saints, as well as their relatives and friends in the afterlife, could intervene in living affairs, including battles. Far from being guilt-ridden over the violent deeds required by their profession, medieval Europe’s Christian elite viewed the afterlife as still having a beneficial (and approving) role to play in contemporary warfare. The very existence of martial saints indicated as much, besides offering another title to earn. Finally, in a further wrinkle, the history of some warriors demonstrated an earthly afterlife as their martial fame was maintained or even completely rebuilt by succeeding generations, again in a reciprocal interplay of military accomplishment and presumed heavenly reward. Introducing the Problem This study’s title might tease some into wondering if I plan to take a thoroughly medieval pilgrimage to see the sights and moral lessons supposedly awaiting warriors in Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. While such an apocalyptic narrative, especially if its nastier travails occurred in the first person, would doubtless catch the interest of my students, it rather obviously cannot withstand 1

This article began as De Re Militari’s JMMH Lecture at the 2021 International Medieval Congress at Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI. I am grateful to Stephen Morillo for his critique of the positives and pitfalls that lurk in my argument and to De Re Militari for the invitation to speak.

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the rational skepticism at the heart of historical study. And yet: even though the world beyond may be off-limits to the scientific scholar, it is not actually terra incognita; this is because the afterlife, whatever it may (or not) be, is a reflection, quite often a projection, of concerns and convictions that matter on this side of the metaphorical veil. Because this is so, we can discern something of what a medieval Christian warrior thought lay ahead: for himself as well as his family. We have no shortage of sermons, visions, and similar texts that tell us what the Church thought was in store for warriors; even the best behaved risked some form of posthumous chastisement for the violent deeds inherent to their careers. But did Christendom’s military elite see it that way themselves? Up to a point, of course they did. The Church’s message was too pervasive and long-standing to be easily resisted or tuned out, and the bequests of every cartulary attest to the message’s success. Across the twelfth century, however, that message was changing. Two things in particular enabled a shift in tone, or at least in the mechanisms whereby military types might continue their violent profession without buying a non-refundable ticket to a hellish eternity. The first of these was the maturation of ideas about Purgatory, which opened a middle path to Heaven for the Christian who might die with un-confessed sins still attached to their spiritual ledger. With the advent of Purgatory, and the possibility it offered of posthumous penance, Christian warriors faced less pressure to abandon their military lives for a second career of penance. Secondly, Christian warriors, even before the First Crusade and certainly after its success, benefitted from a change in the Church’s attitude toward their violent profession. I will not be discussing actual crusading herein, but its role in sanctifying warfare and the practitioners thereof was key to the expectations many notable warriors had about their potential fate in the afterlife. But my primary question remains: what did medieval Christian warriors at this key moment – when the theology of Purgatory intersected with the rise of chivalry’s own morality2 and new ideas about licit and illicit warfare – believe lay ahead of them in eternity? If I may be permitted an aggressive anachronism: did William Marshal, after a career of exceptionally lucrative violence that concluded with the laudatory approval of both religious and lay society, really envision being transformed into a pastel and fragile greeting card version of himself, harp in hand, enveloped in a fuzzy cloud and singing psalms henceforth and forever? Marshal himself, as well as his near contemporaries, likely knew that rival religious systems offered their warriors a literal buffet of rewards. The paganism of the north was not so far vanquished that its promised afterlife had been forgotten. Valhalla was a projection into the next life of everything a martial culture tended to value or wish for: restricted entry to the truly brave and deserving, an endless supply of alcohol, a constant healing of otherwise mortal wounds, a daily round 2

The key works on this development remain those of Richard Kaueper, especially Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe (Oxford, 1999), followed by Holy Warriors: The Religious Ideology of Chivalry (Philadelphia, 2009).



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of combat (as practice for Ragnarok?), and in some versions, less violent liaisons with the attending Valkyries, all under the watchful eye of Odin, the adoptive father.3 Meanwhile, as many a Western warrior came to know in the Levant, the Dar al-Islam promised rare delights to devout Muslim men, but here all was reward without the Norse training regimen for the world’s end.4 For those who qualify as being on the right hand of God, they will enjoy gardens rich with water, shade, and various species of fruit. Further creature comforts are promised in the form of silk garments, carpets, and luxuriant couches with handsome young men everywhere as servitors; even previously forbidden alcohol comes in gilt vessels.5 And most famous of all, the promise of ever-virginal sexual partners, the categorically malleable houris.6 The sensuality of the Islamic paradise, confirmed by such orthodox theologians as al-Ghazali and the founder of the Asharite maddhab, both offended and confounded Christian apologists from the two religions’ earliest days of rivalry.7 Such carnality was not the indescribable balm of just being in the presence of God that most Christian visions of paradise offered everyone, including warriors. Meanwhile, Christian warriors faced a challenge built into their faith: namely, the pacifism preached by Jesus himself. Falling short of Jesus’ standards might not have been such a moral or existential crisis had Christianity’s early success around the Mediterranean basin not coincided with the transformation of key ideas about the afterlife. In these early centuries, the shadowy Sheol of Hebrew scriptures and the Hades of pagan belief became the punitive fires of Hell, as typically and luridly described by preacher after preacher, replete with detailed and endless punishments for even the least misdeeds, let alone the violent acts of the professional warrior.8 Little wonder then that Ralph of Caen gave us the much-quoted psychological profile of the troubled, seventeen-year-old Tancred d’Hauteville. In his vigorous pursuit of glory and praise, he spared neither “his own blood or that of his enemy.” But having a “prudent soul,” he realized that his military calling ran counter to God’s commands, even directly noting that he

3 4

5 6

7 8

Thomas A. DuBois, Nordic Religions in the Viking Age (Philadelphia, 1999), p. 80; John Lindow, Norse Mythology (Oxford, 2001), pp. 308–09. Despite the association in the modern world between martyrdom and the promised rewards of Islam’s paradise, the Qur’an says this Heaven is for all good Muslims (“of the Right Hand”). Naturally enough, as with Christianity, martyrdom was considered the guarantee of a righteous standing with God, but unlike the Norse paradigm, this was not a reward limited to men who died in combat. Al-Qur’an, surahs 55: 46–78; 56:12–40; 76: 12–22. By this phrase, I am noting how translations of the Qur’an stretch the various meanings, such that we sometimes read of demure maidens, other times of more wifely partners, either “well-matched” or “equal in age.” For a rich survey of centuries of Christian critique, see Christian Lange, Paradise and Hell in Islamic Traditions (Cambridge, UK, 2015), pp. 18–20. For one thread in this development, see Dimitris J. Kyrtatas, “The Origin of Christian Hell,” Numen 56 (2009), 282–97. For the parallel intensification of the devil’s role in punishing sinners, Elain Pagels, The Origins of Satan (New York, 1995).

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took people’s garments rather than giving them over. His “soul was at a crossroads,”9 or as the late Terry Jones immortalized it for many of us, this “conflict of moral authority” was a recipe for the “double-bind theory of schizophrenia, and knights had no teddy bears.”10 Of course, few medievalists need Jones’s sarcasm to spur doubts as to the depths of Tancred’s spiritual crisis – which is not to say that he did not worry about going to Hell. The last thing he wanted was to end up like the eques described by the bishop of Cahors a few decades prior: this man had died while excommunicate, and the bishop himself had refused the loyal milites’ demands to undo the punishment. A determined group, these vassals nonetheless buried their man in a church cemetery. The next morning, the body was found, having been ejected nude some distance from the cemetery, where the burial site was pristine and untouched. Undaunted, the milites tried again, taking care this time to pile up “an enormous weight of earth and stone.” And again, the next morning, the body had been spat out by the cemetery, which again looked immaculate. The vassals tried three more times, always with the same result, reported the bishop, until a local crowd took the body themselves and buried it far from the church.11 But the simplest evidence that the laity believed the message coming from the clergy are the innumerable charters, formulaic though they may be, in which lay people made real gifts to the Church, often of property but even more tellingly of their own bodies. The clergy’s success in imparting particular doctrines to the laity and shaping their values was not total, of course. The Norman knight Rodulf Pinell likely represented a not-so-rare attitude when he laughed off the reproaches of Abbot (and former knight) Herluin of Bec, saying that if ever he himself were actually sated by a life of arms or the world’s pleasures, then he would turn monk.12 Despite his mockery – insinuating that a turn to monasticism would not be all that demanding – Pinell was at least admitting that some day he could (if not would…) choose the path of spiritual contrition.13 Nor was he alone in presuming that there would be both an opportunity and a means by which he could clear his spiritual accounts. King John of England navigated numerous crises by accepting such a risk. But it was John’s most famous vassal, William Marshal, who left us the vivid moment on his deathbed when secular piety ran out of patience with the demands of the clergy. One of Marshal’s attendants, 9 10 11

12 13

Ralph of Caen, The Gesta Tancredi of Ralph of Caen, ed. and trans. Bernard Bachrach and David Bachrach (Abingdon, 2016), p. 22. Terry Jones, Alan Ereira, and David Wallace, The Crusades DVD (Lionsgate, 2002). Marcus Bull, Knightly Piety and the Lay Response to the First Crusade: The Limousin and Gascony, c.970–c.1130 (Oxford, 1993), p. 49. J. D. Mansi, ed., Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, vol. 19 (Venice, 1774), p. 541. The council he was addressing at Limoges confirmed the obvious (for them) conclusion: that even in death the violators of the Peace of God were to be kept separate from the faithful. Gilbert Crispin, The Works of Gilbert Crispin, Abbot of Westminster, eds. Anna Sapir Abulafia and G. R. Evans (London, 1986), p. 194. A point drawn out explicitly by Bull, Knightly Piety, p. 154.



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Henry fitz Gerold, solicitous of his lord’s eternal welfare, urged him to consider, after a life of seizing the goods of his rivals, to give back what was left as charity. Having already set aside a great many alms and donations, Marshal declared enough was enough: “These churchmen shave us too closely.” If the kingdom of Heaven was closed off because he had captured so many, so be it, he concluded.14 But, as is obvious throughout William Marshal’s copious pages of deathbed arrangements, he could literally afford his “cavalier” attitude. Through myriad gifts to a great many religious houses, he had surely balanced the books. But, as proposed earlier, what kind of Heaven did William Marshal think he had adequately prepared for? How had he (and all the others) made his personal peace with the Church’s injunctions against the violence inherent to his profession? Clearly, his postponed entry into the Templar Order – itself a result of his own pilgrimage to Jerusalem to succor the afterlife of Henry the young king – was one mechanism that enabled him to soothe the potential turmoil between a martial career and the spiritual reckoning that lay ahead of him. Did he ponder the possibility of joining the company of martial saints like George, Demetrios, or Mercurios, whose repeated earthly interventions precluded the eternal career of psalmody? A generic and pervasive fear of Hell abounded, of course, and hardly needs to be belabored. But beyond avoiding eternal pain, what else did elite medieval warriors see in the afterlife that might influence their actions, especially in actual campaigning?15 In answering that question, we note that the afterlife was not only something to come, but was already a thing to touch, manage, and be touched by, here in the Now. And why not? – didn’t the afterlife of others already intrude upon the present-day concerns of medieval Christians? Didn’t William Marshal, as one example, travel to the Holy Land as much for his dead prince as for himself? Didn’t departed souls occasionally return for salutary visits to the living? Traveling To and From the Afterlife In the days before Purgatory became established doctrine, conversion (that is, full entry into the monastic life) was the Church’s preferred path towards the most fully guaranteed salvation. In a manner of speaking, this retirement was a foreshadowing of eternity. It was not, however, a time to relax, but rather a new career of extra vigilance. As Christopher Harper-Bill noted, clergy adopted military language for the life of spiritual retirement: Orderic Vitalis described his fellow monks as “garrisons” (castrensibus) and the monastery as “a citadel of God… where cowled champions may engage in ceaseless combat against Behemoth for your soul.”16 More pointedly, Heaven itself was described as a 14 15 16

History of William Marshal, ed. A. J. Holden, trans. S. Gregory, vol. 2. (London, 2004), ll. 18468–98. This question lies at the heart of David Bachrach’s Religion and the Conduct of War (Woodbridge, 2002). Christopher Harper-Bill, “The Piety of the Anglo-Norman Knightly Class,” Proceedings

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kingdom, often as an inheritance, and no less powerfully, as a storehouse or treasury where the riches of alms-giving awaited.17 As any medieval sophisticate knew, though, these were just metaphors and analogies. But every so often, metaphors could become real. Visions not only made the boundary between the temporal world and the eternal instructively porous; they reified many metaphors. Necessary moral lessons could thus leak through and temporary crossovers be permitted. Boundary-jumping visions of this type were numerous and populated every century of the Middle Ages,18 but I want to mention only two as signposts or weathervanes of what medieval Christians thought could lie ahead. In fact, not so much ahead, as possibly – already – just around life’s uncertain corners. In the mid-twelfth century, an Irish monk in Bavaria set down a three-day vision in which an Irish miles reportedly visited Hell and Heaven.19 The popularity of Tnugdal’s vision was such that we have over 150 extant Latin manuscripts, plus some thirteen vernacular translations. On the cusp of a murderous rage over an unpaid debt, Tnugdal is supposed to have fallen comatose instead and then was guided by an angel across the afterlife’s regions of punishment and reward. As usual, the torments were horrid and contrived to be specifically punitive for the sins in question. They had to be, to re-imprint the Church’s incessant lessons. But Tnugdal was treated to the positive side of things as well and here, things turned interesting. Different groups, who had earned varying rewards for their spiritual achievements, were separated by walls of rich construction: gemstones in the place of quarried stone, with gold as the mortar between them. They protected perfumed meadows, fountains, and gardens. Night never fell on these regions. Buildings were suffused with light. When Tnugdal wanted to join the worship of former monks and nuns, the angel warned him that he would not be able to handle their deep connection with the Holy Trinity and all the saints. As often happens in these visions, Tnugdal also saw people he knew: three Irish kings, whose presence on the paradise side of the afterlife surprised him. Tnugdal knew Kings Donnchad and Conchobar as cruel enemies of one another, but the angel explained that the men had truly repented and done

17 18

19

of the Battle Abbey Conference 1979, ed. R. Allen Brown (Woodbridge, 1980), p. 75; Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. and trans. Marjorie Chibnall, vol. 3 (Oxford, 1972), pp. 144–46. Bull, Knightly Piety, pp. 186–87. For a quick survey, see the work of Eileen Gardiner, either her translated anthology, Visions of Heaven & Hell before Dante (New York, 1989), or her bibliographic survey, with its attention to the many manuscript sources, Medieval Visions of Heaven and Hell: A Sourcebook (New York, 1993). He is called a “knight” in English, which may be appropriate or not. He is labeled a miles and described as a vir nobilis in the Latin text, and he – or the Marcus who “merely” recorded the vision – were politically connected enough to include several Irish kings by name in the later parts of the vision. Visio Tnugdali: Lateinisch und Altdeutsch, ed. Albrecht Wagner (Erlangen, 1882), pp. 5–6; The Vision of Tnugdal, trans. J.-M. Picard and Y. de Pontfarcy (Dublin, 1989).



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appropriate penances before their deaths. They next came upon King Cormac, who was in a feudal paradise: richly garbed, in a house where vassals offered a steady stream of gifts, and a mass was set up to be celebrated with the richest vessels. The king’s vassals, however, were not his normal knights and courtiers, but the paupers he had given alms to back in his lifetime. In an unexpected twist, though, this scene of feudal tranquility was upset by a three-hour interlude during which the king was in a fire up to his waist (as punishment for his extramarital adventures) and forced to wear a hair shirt (as penance for disrespecting an altar to St. Patrick). His heavenly vassals prayed for him throughout the whole ordeal, which the angel explained were his last two sins to expiate. After three days spent out of this world, Tnugdal’s soul was sent back to his body just in time to avoid being buried, and – of course – to report the moral lessons he had seen.20 There are many fascinating things in Tnugdal’s vision to unpack, but I want to focus on how he reacted to the three kings as well as the ongoing divisions between clergy and laity. Tnugdal had expectations of where to find the kings along the spectrum of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, and none of the three were in the destinations he had presumed for them. The first two were clearly in a state of grace that did not square with the lives (and wars) that Tnugdal knew they had led. But God’s mercy being what it is, their repentance had sufficed to blot out their sinful record. In Cormac’s case, Tnugdal asked his guide a loaded question that the angel was utterly prepared for: had Cormac suffered in expiation of any sins? The angel told him to wait a moment and he would see the punishment (already mentioned above). It seems that Tnugdal knew of Cormac’s infidelities and wanted assurance that the spiritual accounts were being rightly balanced. The other interesting element is that this man of the sword was allowed to visit heavenly places that mirror the feudal and aristocratic world he already knows; the clergy’s portion of Heaven and their worshipful link to the divine was deemed much too blessed for him to comprehend or experience – at least, in the vision and before his own actual death. The other popular vision/cross-over event of the twelfth century and beyond (all the way down to popular music in the twentieth century) was Hellequin’s Hunt, named as such in the early telling by Orderic Vitalis. In Orderic’s account, the priest Walchelin told him how the ghostly riders came upon him not long after nightfall of New Year’s Day 1091. Grouped into companies by their stations in life and/or the sins that needed expiation, nobles, clergymen, women, and more rode by. Walchelin recognized a number of his neighbors as well as several noblemen and women; in addition, he noted the presence of horses and litters of other women he knew, but who were not yet dead. He named names, too, including a bishop of Lisieux and two abbots whom Orderic otherwise respected. Deciding that he needed some kind of proof to verify his tale, Walchelin tried to commandeer one of the riderless horses in the procession. This backfired, as he began to suffer some of the physical symptoms (a simultaneous onslaught 20

The Vision of Tnugdal, pp. 142–50.

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of burning and freezing sensations) afflicting the riders. He was on the verge of being impressed into the Hunt by several dark knights when one of them, a William of Glos, saved him so he could pass messages back to the living. Walchelin, however, had changed his mind about talking about the Hunt, and did not want to play the role of messenger-boy for these condemned souls. Nearly throttled by the angry knight, he was saved by yet another rider. Despite having recognized numerous others in the Hunt, Walchelin was slow this time to recognize his own brother, Robert. In proving his identity, Robert explained how Walchelin’s priestly observances had already lightened his own punishment and even released their father from his expiatory ordeals. As Robert left to catch up with the Hunt, he admonished Walchelin to abandon some unnamed vices; he was due to be punished otherwise. Orderic said he had heard all this from Walchelin himself and even saw the scars on his neck where the one rider nearly strangled him.21 A half century later, Walter Map took the punitive, righteous angle out of the Wild Hunt, and made it instead a group caught in a fairy king’s idea of a playful curse. In an exchange of royal visits to weddings, a human king, Herla, and his retinue visited the fairy kingdom, but found two difficult after-effects: first, two hundred years had elapsed while they were in faërie; second, the fairy king had given them a dog to carry away at their leave-taking, with instructions not to dismount before the dog touched the earth. When several men did so, they turned to dust before everyone’s eyes. King Herla quickly forbade anyone else to dismount, and since the dog stayed in the arms of its bearer, the entire retinue turned into an endless cavalcade, whose coming and going terrorized the population. But King Henry II’s accession had seen the Wild Hunt fade away, possibly with a final descent into the River Wye at Hereford.22 At first glance, Map’s transformation of the tale fits in with the overall dynamic of the century, one in which heavenly displeasure with knightly behavior had been mollified, replaced by a trickster punishment rather than a policy of judgment. As historians of Purgatory,23 personal religious practice,24 and chivalry25 have all noted, Christian professional warriors had mostly found the means by 21 22 23 24

25

Orderic Vitalis, 4: 236–50. Walter Map, De nugis curialium, eds. M. R. James, C. N. L. Brooke, and R. A. B. Mynors (Oxford, 1983), pp. 26–31. Jacques Le Goff, The Birth of Purgatory, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago, 1984), p. 135, and chap. 7, “The Logic of Purgatory.” Bachrach, Religion and the Conduct of War, p. 105, notes how Ivo of Chartres had come to an understanding quite different from theologians or preceding thinkers over the inherent sinfulness of killing amid a necessary/justifiable war. Or, directly to the point, p. 106: “By the middle of the twelfth century, the problem of sinfulness for killing in the course of a just war had become a moot point.” Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe, pp. 80–81; Holy Warriors, pp. 18–24, 36, 54–56. Kaeuper’s emphasis leans to the fourteenth century in both books, but in this he is looking more at the fruition of these ideas as expressed in chivalric literature, developments that had been put in motion back in the twelfth century.



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the mid-twelfth century and onwards for defusing or even supplanting Church condemnation of the violent misdeeds so prevalent in their careers. But, I stress again, the afterlife for medieval knights was not just what lay ahead, but was also something to be understood in the present tense. Walter Map may have preferred a version of Hellequin’s Hunt that lacked Orderic’s moral lessons, but he famously also felt that Henry II’s court was a present-day enactment of the torments of Hell. He offered as proof the daily tribulations endured by the Plantagenet court. Orderic’s version of the Hunt’s movement between this world and the next has another element that was key to how medievals approached the afterlife: it remained a family affair. As Walchelin’s brother explained, the priest’s spiritual work had freed their father from punishment and lightened his own suffering. Just because the opening lines of so many charters were formulaic doesn’t mean the sentiments weren’t sincere: For the salvation of my soul, plus the souls of my mother and father, as well as those of my grandparents... Donations to God or his saints were not just a forward-looking strategy of risk management, but also a retroactive investment on behalf of already departed kinfolk. William Marshal, like so many others, knew that as a son and a father, he owed both his predecessors and his offspring.26 But his expectation of aid from both those camps seems likewise hard to deny. The Warrior’s Ever-Present Need: Divine Aid Of course, the medieval Christian warrior likely never got as focused on managing his eternal risks as he did on the cusp of battle. Peter Brown vividly evoked the shrines of early saints as places where this world and the next intersected, where the barrier between the two was often at its most permeable.27 In a manner of speaking, the Christian warrior on campaign carried this same liminality around with him, never knowing if the next moment of combat would be his last earthly experience. In this case, the basic superstitions that surround the rituals of many a soldier in every age moved – quite literally, in their minds – on to the next, higher plane. Medieval commanders did not treat this as some abstract element of human resource management; they lived it themselves and understood its value for raising morale just before battle. Thus, they strove to give their soldiers ample space in which to exercise the rituals that could calm pre-battle anxieties by settling scores with the ultimate judge of all. William the Conqueror didn’t just get papal approval for his invasion (which in 1066 was still not enough to pre-emptively clear his army’s guilt for the necessary deaths which ensued); he brought clerics and portable chapels to the battle26

27

“Pro salute anime mee et Ysabel uxoris mee et omnium antecessorum et successorum meorum,” The Acts and Letters of the Marshal Family, ed. David Crouch (London, 2015), no. 17, pp. 72–73. Likewise, charters nos. 21, 23, 32, 33, 43, 66, 73, 76, 77, 83, 95, 100, for much the same language and purpose. Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints (Chicago, 1981), passim.

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field.28 Without a doubt, some men made their eve-of-battle confessions from worry over any number of sins that might raise the penitential price they would have to pay in the afterlife. But for many, it was just as likely a ploy anchored in the moment: a chance to reset their spiritual account with God, and thus not give the Almighty a reason to tilt the coming battle against themselves.29 In another use of the afterlife, William at Hastings wore around his neck the very relics on which Harold was claimed to have sworn to support William’s cause.30 Carrying such artifacts of those whose afterlife was already being spent in the presence of God, William was reminding both God and the relevant saints that, really, the coming battle had to tilt against Harold. This approach risked a spiritual blowback, though: in particular, it might stir God’s anger in ways reminiscent of Jesus’ rebuke of Satan during the wilderness temptations: “Thou shalt not put the Lord thy God to the test.”31 When the contending parties in Flanders began a competition for who could implement the latest, one-step-further act of piety, Galbert of Bruges mocked the simplicity of his fellow townsmen for thinking they could thus bend God’s will to suit their own agendas.32 At the battle of the Standard in 1138, the appeal to divine intervention through relics brushed up against this same potential risk. Richard of Hexham spelled it out in case anyone missed the point: atop the ship’s mast which became the army’s rallying point, the English army installed a silver pyx with a consecrated Host, plus banners dedicated to St. Peter, John of Beverley, and Wilfred of Ripon. Their goal, wrote Richard, was to draw Jesus’ eye upon the battle via his own miraculously present body, and thereby have him intervene as their real leader.33 The potential effrontery of such a move was offset – in the English perspective, anyway – by the unrivaled sinfulness of the Scottish forces. Aelred of Rievaulx’s account of the battle attributed the key pre-battle oration to his friend Walter Espec, founder of Aelred’s own Rievaulx Abbey. Pious as he was, Espec was still a layman, but one ready to shore up the morale of the troops with fairly specific promises of aid from beyond: the archangel Michael with angels to avenge the blood spilled in churches; likewise, Peter and the Apostles to punish those who had desecrated English churches; and even more martyrs acting as shock troops, angered as they were by murderous 28 29

30 31 32 33

Wace, Le roman de Rou, ed. Auguste Le Prévoste (Rouen, 1827), p. 186, ll. 12506–9; The History of the Norman People, trans. Glyn S. Burgess (Woodbridge, 2004), p. 173. As one striking case of such pre-emptive rituals, the archers who were the first to secure William’s beachhead in England were described as “shaven and tonsured” (rez è tuit tondu). So widespread was the practice that scouts reported back to the English leaders that William had brought more priests than soldiers. Wace, Le roman de Rou, p. 148, l. 11630. Orderic Vitalis, 2:171. Matt. 4:7. Galbert of Bruges, The Murder, Betrayal, and Slaughter of the Glorious Charles, Count of Flanders, trans. Jeff Rider (New Haven, 2013), p. 173. Richard of Hexham, De gestis regis Stephani, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I, vol. 3, ed. Richard Howlett (London, 1886), pp. 162–63.



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impieties. Holy virgins would fight for them with prayers, and finally, there was the promise that Jesus himself was going to take up weapons and a shield to join the fray on their behalf. All this was sure, he concluded, because of the moral gulf between their behavior and that of the invading Scots. Heaven itself recoils from their impiety, he declared. In this instance, without admitting to an intemperate leveraging of the saints – let alone the Son of God himself – Espec put the real onus on the enemy, whose atrocities had put the whole heavenly court in a posture of readiness to aid the English.34 Espec’s pre-battle speech, related here by one of northern England’s most respected abbots, and a future saint, is interesting not just for being the expression of how a secular warrior understood the obligations he owed to Heaven (and what he thought Heaven owed him!), but also for the fact that Aelred recorded Espec’s claims about Heaven’s inhabitants without editorializing. In the absence of any caveats or spiritualized refinements of the layman’s arguments, we have to wonder about Aelred’s real thoughts on Espec’s martial expectations of allies from beyond. Aelred had only been admitted to the Cistercian Order four years before the battle, and was still moving – as an emissary, usually – in aristocratic circles, but he set down his account of Espec’s speech seventeen years after the event. John Bliese has argued that the Relatio, in its litany of war crimes and stridency, reflects the actual fears and mentality of the English forces more than usual and need not be treated as just a rhetorical device.35 Aelred’s focus on Espec and his message is all the more telling when we recall that Aelred maintained good relations with the Scottish court both before and after the battle. Moreover, Henry of Huntingdon and John of Hexham chose to relate the pre-battle speech by the bishop of Orkney, who assured the English army that God was on their side, but avoided the kind of specific promises made by Espec in Aelred’s version.36 The Earthly Afterlife: Fama If, as I am suggesting, Aelred’s narrative of the battle of the Standard indicates that he was still at ease with the spiritual outlook of his former comrades-inarms, the same could not be said of his older contemporary Orderic Vitalis. Orderic was firmly in the camp that saw the monastic life as the best choice for achieving eventual sanctification and entering Heaven. But the historian-monk was also too well versed in contemporary aristocratic realities to pretend to 34 35

36

Aelred of Rievaulx, Relatio de standardo, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I, vol. 3, ed. Richard Howlett (London, 1886), pp. 188–89. John Bliese, “The Battle Rhetoric of Aelred of Rievaulx,” The Haskins Society Journal 1 (1989), 99–107. Also, William Aird, “‘Sweet Civility and Barbarous Rudeness,’ A View from the Frontier, Abbot Ailred of Rievaulx and the Scots,” in Imagining Frontiers, Contesting Identities, eds. Steven G. Ellis et al. (Pisa, 2007). Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, ed. and trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford, 1996), pp. 714–16; John of Hexham, Historia regum… continuata, in Symeonis Monachi opera omnia, ed. Thomas Wright, Rolls Series, vol. 75, part 2 (London: 1885), pp. 293–95.

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himself or his readers that many warriors would be excited by the chance to abandon their violent careers and take on the long-suffering and self-effacing life of the monastery. In that vein, Orderic held up the example of Gerold, a chaplain in Hugh of Avranches’ household, who knew how to pitch his message to Christendom’s warriors. He ministered to an unruly crew, as Orderic described it, by drawing their attention to the exploits of God’s heroes in the Old Testament, the early days of the Church under Roman persecution, and even in recent history as Christendom flexed its muscles. Through the examples of militant saints – George, Mercurios, Demetrios, Sebastian, and several more – he sought to draw the household warriors toward a holier life. In particular, he held up the example of William of Gellone, who had turned monk after a full career as a knight. Fighting for God under the monastic rule, he provided just the kind of example that Orderic believed was most efficacious in leading knights to renounce the world’s struggles and concentrate on spiritual ones instead.37 Orderic was informed enough to warn his readers to avoid the minstrel version of William’s life, and to rely on him instead to relay the true details that he had been fortunate to glean from the genuine Vita of the saint. Ironically, however, the Vita’s author had already fallen under the spell of the jongleurs, and some of their ideas about William’s militant sanctity had thus crept into the Vita.38 In a dynamo of reciprocal influences, St. William of Gellone had been conflated with William of Orange, the Saracen-slaughtering hero of multiple chansons de geste, to the point that not only were the narratives blended, but even the monastery’s cartulary had been doctored to include figures from the songs. This interplay of fact and fiction, of things misremembered, of dots connected afterwards as they never were in real life, brings up a last angle to consider of the Christian warrior’s afterlife. I have purposefully refrained up to this point from dealing with the crosswearing elephant in the room: the crusades. I will mostly keep doing so for two main reasons: 1) Christian warriors knew that if they died on crusade, they qualified as martyrs for entry into Heaven, and 2) that very belief altered all other faith calculations about the afterlife. But the reason I allude now to the crusades is to pose the question: what sort of afterlife awaited those crusaders who fulfilled their vows and then returned to a secular life back in Europe? What limits – if any – did they think bounded the indulgence they had struggled to earn? We know there was a gulf of varying size between what the pope and his agents offered as spiritual reward, and what the laity thought they were getting. 37

38

Orderic Vitalis, 3:216–18. There are further problems lurking here, including the fact that Orderic has Gerold focused, in 1066, on several Greek saints who became popular in the West after the First Crusade. In addition, as was the case for Demetrios, these saints’ histories were transformed as veneration of them spread westward, taking on a military slant not initially present. See Elizabeth Lapina, “Demetrius of Thessaloniki: Patron Saint of Crusaders,” Viator 40 (2009), 93–112. Even though published over a century ago, the key survey of this interplay remains Joseph Bédier, “Recherches sur les légendes du cycle de Guillaume d’Orange,” Annales du Midi 19 (1907), 5–39.



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That is not a problem to treat here, but I mention it so as to set up my bafflement over one particular crusader’s behavior back in Europe, followed by even more bafflement over how he was remembered – or rather, like William of Gellone, misremembered – in a new round of chansons. Thomas of Marle had a rough childhood, apparently being abused by his father, who suspected his mother’s fidelity. Although Guibert of Nogent is vague on the chronology of all of Thomas’ misdeeds, he was apparently prone to prey on his neighbors and on passing pilgrims from his earliest days.39 When the chance to gain some heavenly credit arrived in 1095, he apparently saw the value in taking the cross. He seems to have acquitted himself rather well on crusade, drawing favorable mentions from Albert of Aachen and Robert the Monk for his actions at Nicaea and Antioch. He appeared again in Albert’s account at the siege of Jerusalem, being named for his role in rescuing a group of foragers who had fallen into a Saracen ambush.40 One chronicler, however, made no mention of him at all: Guibert of Nogent. We need not be surprised by this, given Guibert’s abiding hatred of Thomas of Marle, and Guibert was honest about his authorial intentions, especially when it came to who he planned to praise and who he planned to overlook. Guibert declared that he was leaving several crusaders unnamed because of the “infamies” they perpetrated after returning to Europe.41 Thomas definitely fell into that category. Within a year or two of returning to France, his depredations were bad enough that his father joined other local magnates to besiege Thomas at his castle at Montaigu. Thomas managed to slip away, though, and persuaded Louis VI to intervene on his behalf. He returned to the spotlight in 1112 during the chaos of the Laon commune’s revolt, carefully seeming to respect Louis’ authority over the royal town while offering the townsmen a form of support. His maneuvers brought down ecclesiastical condemnation in late 1114 when a synod at Beauvais excommunicated him. Suger reports in his biography of King Louis VI that the papal legate even went so far as to strip Thomas ceremonially of the belt of 39 40

41

Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie / De Vita Sua, ed. Edmund-René Labande (Paris, 1981), pp. 362–64. Albert of Aachen, Historia Hierosolymitana, in Recueil des historiens des Croisades: Historiens occidentaux, vol. 4 (Paris, 1879), 293–95, 315, 332; Robert the Monk, The Historia Iherosolimitana of Robert the Monk, eds. Damien Kempf and Marcus Bull (Woodbridge, 2013), p. 77. Guibert of Nogent, Gesta Dei per Francos, in Recueil des historiens des Croisades: Historiens occidentaux, vol. 4 (Paris, 1879), p. 227. This deliberate slighting also extended to our potential “Exhibit B,” Raimbold Croton, one of the first men to enter Jerusalem and hold on so that more crusaders could gain entry and thereby sack the city. His fame was offset back in Christendom by increasingly violent squabbles with Bonneval Abbey, culminating in Raimbold’s castration of one of the monks. This led to the imposition of a fourteen-year penance, which included a ban on carrying any weapons. Bishop Ivo of Chartres eventually wrote the pope on Raimbald’s behalf, who had been importuning him relentlessly to get the weapons ban lifted. Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusaders, 1095–1131 (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 155–56; Ivo of Chartres, “Epistola cxxxv,” in Patrologia Latina 162:144–45.

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knighthood. His end came in 1130, during another round of ecclesiastical depredations which drew King Louis back into the region. As the king moved against Coucy from one side, Ralph of Vermandois came from another and managed to surprise Thomas. Ralph delivered a blow to Thomas’ head which everyone recognized as mortal, although Thomas lingered on for a day. Imprisoned at Laon, this “most accursed” man was so reluctant to accept extreme unction, according to Suger, that he died of a broken neck rather than accept the Host being proffered to him.42 In this case, however, the chroniclers did not get the last word; instead, it belonged to the jongleurs, who reveal the other afterlife of the Christian warrior. While Guibert tried to expunge Thomas’ very participation in the First Crusade from recorded memory, the chanson authors instead promoted him. Early in the Chanson d’Antioche, his fortitude was set in contrast to Stephen of Blois. He was on guard at the start of the Antioch siege, credited with repelling a night-time surprise attack and rescuing a number of German captives. He was singled out by the leaders for inclusion in the first assaults on the city. “Loyalhearted” Thomas set up his siege position directly opposite a prominent gate. He was listed as the eighth man up the ladder for the entry into Antioch. His very viciousness became a virtue as it was unleashed to avenge Gerard of Melun’s death.43 All that was a mere warm-up, possibly restrained by the memories of what was still recent history, to Thomas’ rise to stardom in the next century’s Chanson de Jérusalem. There, in a scene that Hollywood will surely wish that it had invented, Thomas became the first to mount the city’s walls when thirty of his men launched him skyward with their bent spears.44 Ever since first reading the Chanson de Jérusalem, I have wondered why – among all the crusaders available to reward with heroic roles – the author lit upon Thomas of Marle. Why pick someone with such a troublesome, defiantly un-Christian career after the crusade as a hero versus the enemies of the faith? Thankfully, the paradox also bothered the lords of Ardres, or we might have been left with no medieval answer. In his history of the counts, Lambert of Ardres complained that Count Arnold II had performed great deeds at Antioch and was recognized all around as one of the stalwarts of the First Crusade. But, since the count had fought truly for God and not for earthly glory, he had not bothered to bolster his reputation. In fact, Lambert claimed, he had refused to pay the author of the Chanson d’Antioche the going rate (apparently two scarlet stockings) for inclusion in the poem’s list of heroes.45 Given Thomas of Marle’s

42 43 44 45

Suger, Vie de Louis le Gros, ed. and trans. H. Waquet (Paris, 1964), pp. 14, 172–78, 250–54. La chanson d’Antioche, ed. Janet Nelson, The Old French Crusade Cycle, vol. 4 (Tuscaloosa, 2003), pp. 91, 105, 140–41, 146, 151. La chanson de Jérusalem, ed. Nigel Thorp, The Old French Crusade Cycle, vol. 6 (Tuscaloosa, 1992), pp. 140–44. Lambert of Ardres, The History of the Counts of Guines and the Lords of Ardres, trans. Leah Shopkow (Philadelphia, 2001), p. 165; “Historia comitum Ghisnensium,” MGH SS 20: 626–27.



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standout performance in the Chanson d’Antioche, not to mention its sequel at Jerusalem, we have to presume that either Thomas himself or, as I think most likely, some of his family invested what was needed to see that his martial contributions to God’s cause got sufficient attention to occlude his unrepentant last hours. As noted above, management of the afterlife was a family affair. Few warriors’ posthumous careers could demonstrate this as well as that of Geoffrey de Mandeville. Having turned rebel after his arrest in 1143 by King Stephen, the earl of Essex used Ely and Ramsey Abbey as bases of operations. His seizure and occupation of the abbey headed the list of outrages for which he was excommunicated. More months of depredations followed until, in later summer 1144, he was besieging Burwell; there, while in an exposed position, he removed his helmet. A watchful archer saw the opportunity and took it, mortally wounding the outlaw earl. It took Geoffrey some time to succumb to his injury, and at first he blew off the seriousness of the wound. But he left the siege at Burwell and withdrew to Mildenhall where, it seems, he finally decided to cover all the bases. He ordered his heir to return Ramsey Abbey to its rightful monastic inhabitants; as he expired, several Templars passing by made him a covering of their own cloth and insignia, effectively welcoming him into the order, although it is unclear if the dying man was aware of this.46 Nonetheless, he still died excommunicate and unshriven. But dead was not forgotten. The Templars, in a maneuver of grand politico-spiritual theater, claimed the corpse and brought it to London. Since Geoffrey could not be buried in consecrated ground, an alternate disposition had to be found. Two stories describe different solutions, both sad and miserable, which are not mutually exclusive. In the first, Geoffrey’s lead-lined coffin was hoisted up into a tree, described as torva (savage, gloomy) which appears to have been situated on the Old Temple’s boundary line. Perhaps it eventually fell from there. The second story claims the casket was dumped in a hollow just beyond the cemetery. Either way, his corpse was carefully kept from Christian burial for nineteen years and was the butt of much scorn from Londoners passing by. Again, family intervened – this time in the persons of the abbot at Geoffrey’s foundation at Walden and the earl’s younger son and namesake. By a combination of petitions, restitution of damages to Ramsey Abbey, and, eventually, absolution via the Roman pontiff, Geoffrey’s soul regained a foothold in paradise. His body, however, was kept by the Templars and buried at their New Temple in London, as clear a signal as any that the Order would take care of its “own.”47

46

47

J. H. Round, Geoffrey de Mandeville: A Study of the Anarchy (London, 1892), pp. 218–24. Round’s text has the further advantage of bringing together in the ample notes the relevant texts of virtually all the relevant chronicles, monastic and courtly. Ibid., pp. 224–26.

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I began by wondering if William Marshal really looked forward to an eternity of singing psalms. From what I see of the warrior’s milieu in a long twelfth century, I suspect he was hopeful that he might garner an assignment in the afterlife that would better suit his earthly skill set. Although Hell itself was a worry that was never fully assuaged, he had little reason to fear that destination. He had covered his own bases, and the Church had already adjusted its parameters to admit that some violent deeds were, in the larger picture, permissible and necessary. Bad military behavior was still open to penitential purgation, but as a number of otherworldly visions indicated, Heaven understood – in its very geography and habits – the hard role that warriors had to play in balancing God’s mercy with the harshness of meting out justice. The attention paid to militant saints surely left numerous warriors with a hope that they might qualify to step into such roles. Such a thing could not be expressed aloud, of course, or the necessity of humility would be transgressed. But in the interplay of this world with that one thought to be lying beyond, the bonds of kinship (established by blood, by spiritual ties, or even by sharing the military profession) permitted family to promote one of their own. Thus, Thomas of Marle’s afterlife saw a rebound from unrepentant villain to crusade hero while Geoffrey de Mandeville’s heirs saw that he regained eventual access to paradise. We should recall that William Marshal’s complaints about grasping priests and his entry into Heaven were effectively made from beyond. When John of Earley remembered the Marshal’s comments and passed them along to the troubadour commissioned to produce the Histoire de Guillaume le Maréchal, William Marshal was already five years dead.48 His heirs and close allies, who sponsored the Histoire, and therefore had the responsibility of safeguarding his earthly fame, were part of that chivalric milieu so ably mapped by Richard Kaeuper which was beginning to bolster its own moral code with enough clout to rival the strictures of the Church.49 In the end, those who kept the company of princes and exercised authority on earth expected an option to do the same in eternity, subject of course to God’s sovereignty and paying for the sins not yet purged by penance on earth. They had the reported examples of saints like Demetrios and Mercurios to vindicate this perception. Something like Hellequin’s Hunt might even indicate for middleranking warriors – despite the punishment in the Hunt’s ongoing pains – that martial activities were not fully to be denied them in eternity. Below that level, as is so often the case, we are left to wonder how more ordinary soldiers thought of their eventual soul’s destination. Perhaps Geoffrey de Mandeville knew his son would come through for him; Walchelin’s brother Robert expressed relief that the priest’s spiritual service was steadily decreasing his purgatorial pains. In the wake of the 1217 battle of Lincoln, where the Marshal had his last great splash of military renown, Roger of Wendover ended his battle narrative by 48 49

David Crouch, William Marshal, 3rd ed. (London, 2016), pp. 2–3. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe, passim.



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noting the death of a serviens, unknown to all, in the baronial army. This poor soul – and yes, the trite words have extra punch here – was then buried “outside the city, in the midst of a four-way intersection, in the manner of an excommunicate.”50 What prayers did he say before the battle? What little rites might he have performed? Which saints did he invoke? What family members did he hope would be watching over him from the afterlife? Who made the choice to condemn him to burial in unconsecrated ground, and on what grounds? Did his family ever learn sufficient of his fate to step up, either to manage his earthly fama or to ease his spiritual passage, those posthumous benefits that we have seen the more famous exemplars enjoyed? These were questions implicit in the spiritual habits of medieval Christian warriors, as exemplified by the standardized piety of William Marshal, and even by the shocking impiety of Thomas of Marle. For this nameless warrior at Lincoln, presumably of lower social standing, however, he may have had the same expectations and fears about eternity but not the earthly resources to tilt the outcome.

50

Crouch, William Marshal, pp. 2–3.

3 More Accurate Than You Think: Re-evaluating Medieval Warfare in Film1 Peter Burkholder

Historians often give poor evaluations to the accuracy of medieval films, usually because such media fail to live up to traditional academic assessments. But dramatic movies operate according to their own standards. This is similar to medieval cultural artifacts, which likewise did not aim for strict accuracy. This study evaluates a selection of well-known films depicting medieval combat and compares their renditions against literature and art dating from the Middle Ages. Qualitative and quantitative analysis reveals that these artifacts show striking similarities to each other, thus complicating accusations of films’ inaccuracies, and showing that there is value in Hollywood recreations of medieval warfare. In May 1995, Mel Gibson’s Braveheart opened on screens across the United States, introducing millions of viewers to a little-known medieval Scotsman and his timeless struggle against tyranny. The film was a wild box-office success, pulling in nearly $10 million on its opening weekend alone, and easily recouping its production costs of around $72 million. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was equally impressed: Braveheart garnered five Oscars, including one for Best Picture. Even now, the film ranks seventy-eighth on the IMDB.com all-time best movies list, and enjoys a healthy artistic afterlife, having been referenced, featured, or spoofed in over five hundred other productions.2 The film’s reception by medievalists, who often default to assessments of popular media based on historical fidelity, was decidedly chillier. Writing for the American Historical Review, Elizabeth Ewan critiqued Braveheart’s “disregard for historical context” and “grating inaccuracies.”3 A later assessment identified 1

2

3

I offer my sincerest thanks to Prof. Richard Abels, who generously discussed this topic with me and provided helpful feedback on a draft of the manuscript. I am also indebted to the anonymous reader for JMMH and to Prof. Clifford Rogers, both of whom offered many useful suggestions. Statistics available at “Braveheart,” IMDB.com: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112573/ (accessed 1 December 2020). The “afterlife” figures are at “Braveheart Connections,” IMDB.com: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112573/movieconnections (accessed 22 February 2021). Elizabeth Ewan, review of Braveheart and Rob Roy, in American Historical Review 100 (1995), 1219–21, with quotes at p. 1220.

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eighteen factual errors in just the first two minutes of the movie, concluding that “[e]very bit and every aspect of these introductory scenes are, to put it bluntly, wrong. And the rest of the film follows the same pattern.”4 Such appraisals were not lost on film historian Robert Rosenstone when he came across lists of the “best” and “worst” movies on Fordham University’s Internet Medieval Sourcebook. Due to its “massively inaccurate portrayal of the life of the thirteenth-century hero William Wallace,” Braveheart fell ignominiously into the latter category.5 Not even ten years after Gibson’s picture debuted, Jerry Bruckheimer and Antoine Fuqua teamed up to retell another very old story to a new generation. Their 2004 film, King Arthur, was markedly less successful than Braveheart. It received no Academy Award nominations, though it, too, ultimately managed to earn back its $120 million production expenditures. King Arthur failed to enjoy much of a cinematic Nachleben, being referenced or featured in other titles a mere twenty-six times.6 Yet the film’s relative lack of commercial success did not translate to disregard at the hands of medievalists. King Arthur was criticized for its false claims to historical veracity, its radical departure from aspects of Arthurian legends, and its troubling portrayal of a superficially strong Guinevere character, among other transgressions. Arthurian and film scholar Kevin Harty rated it an uninspiring five stars out of ten.7 These two films’ portrayals of medieval history in general, and of combat in particular, set up an interesting situation for researchers and educators. On the one hand, it cannot be disputed that these movies take tremendous liberties with history, often distorting or even fabricating bygone peoples and events. On the other hand, Braveheart and King Arthur, like so many other cinematic representations of the past, merely follow in a long narrative tradition of misleading and inventing, a tradition reaching back to the Middle Ages them4

5

6

7

Sharon Krossa, “Braveheart Errors: An Illustration of Scale,” Medieval Scotland (2 October 2008): http://medievalscotland.org/scotbiblio/bravehearterrors.shtml (accessed 6 August 2020). Robert Rosenstone, History on Film/Film on History, 3rd ed. (New York, 2018), pp. 29–30. The “worst” films were determined by discussants on the Mediev-l listserve in the 1990s; the “best” films are in the estimation of the website creator, Paul Halsall; see Internet Medieval Sourcebook: https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/medfilms.asp#lists (accessed 21 February 2021). “King Arthur,” IMDB.com: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0349683/ (accessed 6 July 2020). For “afterlife” references, “King Arthur Connections,” IMDB.com: https://www. imdb.com/title/tt0349683/movieconnections (accessed 22 February 2021). A sampling of reviews and scholarship includes Caroline Jewers, “Mission Historical, or: ‘[T]here Were a Hell of A Lot of Knights’: Ethnicity and Alterity in Jerry Bruckheimer’s King Arthur,” in Race, Class and Gender in “Medieval” Cinema, ed. Lynn Ramey and Tison Pugh (New York, 2007), pp. 91–106; Tom Shippey, “Fuqua’s King Arthur: More Myth-Making in America,” Exemplaria 19 (2007), 310–26; Virginia Blanton, “‘Don’t worry, I won’t let them rape you’: Guinevere’s Agency in Jerry Bruckheimer’s King Arthur,” Arthuriana 15 (2005), 91–111; Kevin Harty, review of King Arthur, Arthuriana 14 (2004), 121–23; Alan Lupack, review of King Arthur, Arthuriana 14 (2004), 123–25.



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selves and beyond. It is thus the position of this study that these films’ depictions of medieval combat are, in fact, quite faithful to the representations of warfare in analogous sources from the Middle Ages – and largely for the same reason. None of them are strictly “accurate” portrayals of the reality of medieval warfare, because that was and is not the goal of the artists and filmmakers. Yet, to appreciate the parallels requires a mode of “reading” historical films that is too often overlooked or unfamiliar to historians.8 The cultural representations selected for examination here are illustrative, not exhaustive. That said, they are not arbitrary. The Song of Roland is a celebrated epic of medieval French history, its pages bursting with vivid portrayals of combat.9 The Morgan Picture Bible (hereafter MPB) is one of the most well-known artistic representations of warfare from the Middle Ages, the work of dozens of artists of the highest caliber.10 Moreover, those artists are known to have consulted the earlier Roland, translating elements of the text into the MPB’s panels.11 Both Braveheart and King Arthur enjoyed hefty budgets to reimagine medieval worlds targeted toward the broadest audiences possible. Both films likewise made claims to historical veracity, helping reinforce the notion that their depictions of combat should be taken seriously. Comparing the medieval sources against the modern yields threads of continuity across time and medium alike, thereby complicating accusations of historical inaccuracies while suggesting cultural value in all of the accounts. “Reading” Cultural Representations of Medieval Warfare A common feature binding the four artifacts under consideration here is the symbolic nature of the stories they tell. All of them were created long after the events they portray, suggesting that much of the significance they convey is presentist in nature. Although loosely based on real events of Charlemagne’s activities in Spain and the battle of Roncesvalles in 778, Roland is a product

8

9 10

11

The basic study on productively reading film is James Monaco, How to Read a Film, 4th ed. (Oxford, 2009). On reading historical film, Peter Burkholder, “How to Read a Historical Film,” World History Connected 16 (2019), 1–14: https://tinyurl.com/r4l3xp6; and Robert Toplin, Reel History: In Defense of Hollywood (Lawrence, 2002), ch. 1: “Cinematic History as Genre.” The Song of Roland, trans. Glyn Burgess (New York, 1990). Scanned panels of the MPB, also known as the Maciejowski Bible, are readily available via The Morgan Library and Museum: https://www.themorgan.org/collection/Crusader-Bible/ thumbs. The scans include translations of the accompanying text, which was added to the artwork only later. Additional panels can be found at the J. Paul Getty Museum (MS Ludwig I 6 [83.MA.55]) and the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (MS Lat. Nouv. Acq. 2294). Named weapons from Roland such as “Durendal” (Roland’s sword) and “Joiuse” (Charlemagne’s sword) show up in MPB panels; C. Griffith Mann, “Picturing the Bible in the Thirteenth Century,” in The Book of Kings: Art, War, and the Morgan Library’s Medieval Picture Bible, ed. William Noel and Daniel Weiss (London, 2002), pp. 38–59 at pp. 55–56.

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of the late eleventh or early twelfth century. One can thus read it as a crusades allegory, as a Trinitarian text, or as a satire designed to resonate with Norman audiences, to list but a few possibilities.12 Even the classification of the Roland text as a “song,” performed by minstrels to enraptured audiences, is debatable.13 So many are historians’ interpretations of the epic that Sharon Kinoshita quips, “to be a medievalist is to take a stand on the Chanson de Roland.”14 In analyzing this or any text profitably, Sam Wineburg’s studies have found that historians deploy a bevy of heuristics, including sourcing the material, crosschecking it against other relevant information, and empathetically imagining the setting for plausibility and purpose. Basic facts and matters of accuracy always loom large, of course. But professionals’ highly nuanced reading habits allow them to go far deeper than raw content to pull out meaning that an author only hints at, or perhaps never even means to divulge.15 This is the so-called “unwitting testimony” yielding implicit information crucial to a fuller understanding of the past.16 Created after Roland, the MPB depicts 340 episodes from the Old Testament, but does so in the material and political setting of the early thirteenth century, freely inventing events in the process.17 It tells a meta-story that is flattering to crusaders, possibly casting King Louis IX (r. 1226–70) as a biblical king of old.18 Although many physical details are reasonably accurate from a thirteenth-century perspective, a profitable reading of the MPB, like Roland, is performed using heuristics similar to those described above for texts. Art 12

13 14 15

16 17

18

Translations of Roland often place it in crusades context; see David Staines’ “Introduction,” The Song of Roland, trans. John DuVal (Indianapolis, 2012), pp. ix–xvii at p. x; and Burgess’s “Introduction,” Song of Roland, pp. 7–25 at pp. 8–9. As Trinitarian text, Adrian McClure, “In the Name of Charlemagne, Roland, and Turpin: Reading the Oxford Roland as a Trinitarian Text,” Speculum 94 (2019), 420–66; as satire, Bernard Bachrach, “Is the Song of Roland’s Roncesvalles a Medieval Satire?” in Prowess, Piety, and Public Order in Medieval Society, eds. Craig Nakashian and Daniel Franke (Leiden, 2017), pp. 15–35. Andrew Taylor, “Was There a Song of Roland?” Speculum 76 (2001), 28–65. Sharon Kinoshita, Medieval Boundaries: Rethinking Differences in Old French Literature (Philadelphia, 2006), p. 15. Sam Wineburg, Historical Thinking and Other Unnatural Acts (Philadelphia, 2001), ch. 3: “On the Reading of Historical Texts”; more recently, Wineburg, Why Learn History (When It’s Already on Your Phone) (Chicago, 2018), part 2: “Historical Thinking ≠ An Amazing Memory.” On the problems and potentialities of learning these techniques, Peter Burkholder, “Teaching Historical Literacy within a SOTL Framework,” Teaching History: A Journal of Methods 44 (2019), 44–50. Arthur Marwick, The New Nature of History: Knowledge, Evidence, Language (London, 2001), pp. 172–73. On the dating, see Richard Abels, “Cultural Representations of Warfare in the High Middle Ages: The Morgan Picture Bible,” in Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages, eds. Simon John and Nicholas Morton (Farnham, 2014), pp. 13–35 at pp. 14–18. Daniel Weiss, “Portraying the Past, Illuminating the Present: The Art of the Morgan Library Picture Bible,” Book of Kings, pp. 11–35 at pp. 14–16, 31; Mann, “Picturing the Bible,” p. 39. Abels accepts the MPB as a “crusader Bible,” but disputes its attribution to St. Louis; “Cultural Representations,” p. 17.



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historian Sara Lipton warns against literal interpretations of medieval illustrations, saying that “scholars have learned to see images not as ‘illustration’ but as ‘representation,’” and that one must “be wary of assuming that they depict ‘reality.”’19 Pamela Porter echoes this advice for images of medieval warfare, in particular. “As sources of accurate information they need to be treated with a certain amount of caution,” she writes, adding that “medieval illuminators tended not to show the same concerns for historical accuracy as those we would expect from a modern book illustrator.”20 Similar to the “unwitting testimony” of texts, the “visual signs and conventions” of medieval artwork provide the viewer “access to the art’s deeper meaning and purpose.”21 Unfortunately, those same techniques and admonitions rarely carry over to historians’ evaluations of the cinematic past. Instead, academics often expect dramatic film to reflect state-of-the-question research, engaging in much chestthumping and hyperventilating when errors appear on screen. “Let’s be honest and admit it,” writes Rosenstone. “Historical films trouble and disturb professional historians – have troubled and disturbed historians for a long time.”22 Examples of this sentiment reach the highest levels of the academy. John McNeill, then-president of the American Historical Association, wrote disapprovingly of how a young Stephen Hawking describes his feelings as “All good” in The Theory of Everything (dir. James Marsh, 2014). Scolds McNeill, “No one in the UK in the 1960s would have said that.” He follows up by calling for filmmakers to hire more historical consultants, under the assumption that academics all agree on the past, and presumably on how it should be translated to the screen for a dramatic retelling.23 Nor are historians the only professionals to voice such condemnation. Neil deGrasse Tyson, the well-known astrophysicist, railed against improper star positions on the night the ship went down in James Cameron’s Titanic (1997), as if this were a matter of great import. Always the perfectionist, Cameron went back and digitally moved the heavens years later to placate the scientist.24 The 19 20 21 22 23

24

Sara Lipton, “Images and Objects as Sources for Medieval History,” in Understanding Medieval Primary Sources, ed. Joel Rosenthal (London, 2012), pp. 225–42 at p. 226. Pamela Porter, Warfare in Medieval Manuscripts (London, 2018), pp. 10–11. Wendy Stein, How to Read Medieval Art (New York, 2016), p. 9. Robert Rosenstone, “The Historical Film: Looking at the Past in a Postliterate Age,” in The Historical Film, ed. Marcia Landy (New Brunswick, NJ, 2001), pp. 50–66 at p. 50. John McNeill, “Historians Go to the Movies,” Perspectives on History 57 (2019), 5–6. On the misguided assumption that adding more historians to film production would result in greater accuracy, see Toplin’s description of his involvement in the making of A House Divided: Denmark Vesey’s Rebellion (dir. Stan Lathan, 1982), Reel History, ch. 4: “Screening History: A Case Study”; and Kathleen Coleman’s experience as historical consultant to Gladiator (dir. Ridley Scott, 2000), “The Pedant Goes to Hollywood: The Role of the Historical Consultant,” in Gladiator: Film and History, ed. Martin Winkler (Malden, 2005), pp. 45–52. Simon Brew, “How Neil deGrasse Tyson Got James Cameron to Edit Titanic – 15 Years Later,” Mental Floss UK (16 September 2015): http://mentalfloss.com/article/68595/ how-neil-degrasse-tyson-got-james-cameron-edit-titanic-15-years-later [accessed 12

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production designer for the Watergate-era All the President’s Men (dir. Alan Pakula, 1976) went to extreme lengths to head off such nitpicking, even having actual garbage from Washington Post reporters’ trash cans flown in for the Los Angeles film set.25 Such expert ire as McNeill’s and Tyson’s is not reserved for films: traditional scholarship is likewise susceptible to attacking brash disciplinary interlopers. Jared Diamond, an ornithologist and geographer by training, precipitated a backlash from an array of fields when he produced best-selling explanations for the dominance or collapse of past societies, earning a Pulitzer Prize for his efforts. Anthropologists Patricia McAnany and Norman Yoffee gave voice to the frustrations of their discipline, writing that “Diamond is probably the bestknown writer of anthropology even though he is not an anthropologist!”26 As satisfying as they may be to make, such critiques largely miss the mark. This is especially true for film because it grew out of much older art and narrative mediums, borrowing from and modifying elements to fulfill cinematic goals. Filmmakers cannot reproduce the past in a Rankean sense – but then again, neither could their artistic forebears nor even professional historians today.27 Like other artists, movie producers, especially those behind big-budget pictures needing to appeal to the broadest viewership possible, subscribe to tried-and-true cinematic practices for storytelling. These techniques are far more concerned with appealing to audience expectations, meaning an aura of authenticity trumps scholastic accuracy.28 Moviemakers are free to disregard proven

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February 2022]. Cameron’s attention to detail is seen in James Delgado, “Titanic,” in Box Office Archaeology, ed. Julie Schablitsky (Walnut Creek, 2007), pp. 70–87, and Toplin, Reel History, pp. 62–69. Ann Hornaday, Talking Pictures: How to Watch Movies (New York, 2017), p. 184. Patricia McAnany and Norman Yoffee, “Why We Question Collapse and Study Human Resilience, Ecological Vulnerability, and the Aftermath of Empire,” in Questioning Collapse, ed. McAnany and Yoffee (Cambridge, UK, 2010), pp. 1–17 at p. 4. Diamond’s key works here are the Pulitzer Prize-winning Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York, 1997), and Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (New York, 2005). For a recent defense of Diamond’s methods and findings, see Alex Rosenberg, How History Gets Things Wrong (Cambridge, MA, 2018), ch. 12: “Guns, Germs, Steel – and All That.” On these important interstitial points, see Monaco, How to Read a Film, pp. 31, 44–45; Rosenstone, History on Film, p. 120. A broad indictment of historians’ ability to convey meaningful truths is Rosenberg, How History Gets Things Wrong. There is much scholarship to this point. Generally, see Toplin, Reel History, ch. 1: “Cinematic History as Genre”; and Rosenstone, History on Film, ch. 1: “History on Film.” For medieval film in particular, Bettina Bildhauer, “Medievalism and Cinema,” in The Cambridge Companion to Medievalism, ed. Louise D’Arcens (Cambridge, UK, 2016), pp. 45–59 at pp. 49–52; Tison Pugh and Angela Weisl, Medievalisms: Making the Past in the Present (London, 2013), ch. 6: “Movie Medievalisms”; Andrew Elliott, Remaking the Middle Ages: The Methods of Cinema and History in Portraying the Medieval World (Jefferson, 2011), ch. 9: “Authenticity and Accuracy in Medieval Worlds”; Laura Finke and Martin Shichtman, Cinematic Illuminations: The Middle Ages on Film (Baltimore,



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industry conventions, but they run serious financial risks in doing so. Warns veteran screenwriter Cindy Davis, “In order for the film to make money, the story needs to connect with millions of people. Not thousands. Millions.”29 Accuracy vs. Authenticity The distinction between authenticity and accuracy is critical. Through industry standards and repetition, movies instill ideas and images in the minds of audiences that become assumed features for subsequent productions. As film specialist Charles Tashiro writes, producers “must conform to expectations about the past raised by other films.”30 This results in a well-attested cinematic “feedback loop” where, with accumulating exposures, factually questionable or stereotypical representations become not just normalized but expected.31 The “Disneyfication” of princesses in film is a better-known example, with studies revealing worldwide beliefs for what a princess on screen should look like.32 Paul Sturtevant’s interviews of British movie viewers expose strongly held notions that the Middle Ages were decidedly dirty, and that heroic men were especially aggressive and macho.33 Films both reflect and reinforce such stereotypes. Some movie elements have become so frequent and accepted as to be labeled “historicons,” or features that are iconically linked with certain eras, persons, or places.34 Thus, the Colosseum appears in ancient Roman cinema, even if the structure did not yet exist at the time of the film’s storyline.35 The “flat earth myth” necessarily attaches to medieval seafaring titles as a defining belief of the era.36 Actors playing Scotsmen of the thirteenth century wear tartan kilts not

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2010), pp. 36–39; and William Woods, “Authenticating Realism in Medieval Film,” in The Medieval Hero on Screen, eds. Martha Driver and Sid Ray (Jefferson, 2004), pp. 38–51. Cindy Davis, “Building Characters,” in Cut to the Chase: Writing Feature Films with the Pros at UCLA Extension Writer’s Program, ed. Linda Venis (New York, 2013), pp. 75–98 at p. 83 (emphasis in original). Charles Tashiro, “Passing for the Past,” Cineaste 29 (2004), 40–44 at p. 42. Daniel Franklin, Politics and Film: The Political Culture of Film in the United States (Lanham, 2006), pp. 15–17; Tashiro, “Passing for the Past,” p. 41; Bildhauer, “Medievalism and Cinema,” p. 45. Charu Uppal, “Over Time and Beyond Disney – Visualizing Princesses through a Comparative Study in India, Fiji, and Sweden,” Social Sciences 8 (2019): https://www. mdpi.com/2076-0760/8/4/105 [accessed 12 February 2022]; see also Susie Neilson, “How Disney Princesses Influence Girls around the World,” NPR (24 May 2019): https://www. npr.org/sections/goatsandsoda/2019/05/24/726129132/how-disney-princesses-influencegirls-around-the-world [accessed 12 February 2022]. Paul Sturtevant, The Middle Ages in Popular Imagination: Memory, Film and Medievalism (London, 2018), pp. 210–15. Elliott, Remaking the Middle Ages, p. 224. Martin Winkler, “Gladiator and the Colosseum: Ambiguities of Spectacle,” in Gladiator, ed. Winkler (London, 2004), pp. 87–110 at pp. 87–89. Jeffrey Burton Russell, Inventing the Flat Earth: Columbus and Modern Historians

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because the clothing is historically accurate, but because audiences harbor an expectation of such attire for Scots of any past context.37 For movies pitched to American audiences, on-screen dialogue in just about any pre-modern European setting is in fully intelligible English, though likely with pseudo-archaic discourse markers and a British accent of some sort.38 Film producers commit these “errors” not necessarily because they are historically ignorant, but because such portrayals and practices have been well established and accepted over time. Nor are historical films the sole genre in which this occurs. Ornithologists surely cringe every time they see a bald eagle on screen accompanied by the screech of a red-tailed hawk, but the inaccurate sound effect is too firmly entrenched to uproot.39 Similarly, the overlapping double circles representing the view through binoculars, so prevalent in movies and television, are obviously incorrect, but have become the standard, if not dictated, mode of illustration. Historians and other subject-matter specialists are free to point out such factual errors, but the utility of doing so is questionable when the cinematic conventions underlying the offences go unappreciated. Even films that are considered “good history” are guilty of such transgressions. No less an authority on the American Civil War than James McPherson called Edward Zwick’s Glory (1989) “one of the most powerful and historically accurate movies ever made about that war.”40 Yet, Rosenstone observes that inaccuracies in the film abound. To list but a few: the archival letters narrated by the movie’s protagonist, Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, were heavily rewritten or even fabricated for the screen; Shaw’s adjutant, Major Cabot Forbes, is a completely invented character, as are the core Black soldiers Shaw commands; Frederick Douglass appears not as he would have looked in 1862, but as he does in his iconic photograph from twenty years later; the direction of the Union attack on Fort Wagner is incorrect; and the watermelons the colonel slices during February sabre practice in Massachusetts are hopelessly out-of-season.41 Rosenstone makes these observations not to deprecate what he, too, believes is an excellent film, but to point out that such inaccuracies inevitably accompany

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(Westport, 1991), p. 77; Louise Bishop, “The Myth of the Flat Earth,” in Misconceptions about the Middle Ages, eds. Stephen Harris and Bryon Grigsby (New York, 2008), pp. 97–101. Vikings and Christopher Columbus films often invoke the myth. Ewan, review of Rob Roy and Braveheart, p. 1220. For general conventions on costuming, Richard LaMotte, “Designing Costumes for the Historical Film,” Cineaste 29 (2004), 50–54. Monika Kirner-Ludwig, “Adapting Scripture to (Trans)script: A Cognitive-Pragmatic Approach to Cinematic Studies of Evoking Pseudo-Medieval Frames,” in Telecinematic Stylistics, eds. Christian Hoffmann and Monika Kirner-Ludwig (London, 2020), pp. 223–61; Edward English and Carol Lansing, “The Idea of a Middle Ages,” in A Companion to the Medieval World, eds. Lansing and English (Malden, 2009), pp. 3–6 at p. 4. Hornaday, Talking Pictures, p. 184. James McPherson, “Glory,” in Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies, ed. Mark Carnes (New York, 1995), pp. 128–31 at p. 128. Rosenstone, History on Film, pp. 36–41; Rosenstone, “The Historical Film,” pp. 60–61.



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even good history on screen. One might reasonably place other grievous filmic errors of fact in the same category. Braveheart’s battle of Stirling transpires with no bridge or body of water in sight. Gibson was aware of the omission, but said in the DVD commentary that the historical event was “not cinematically compelling.” For the sake of the movie, William Wallace needed to meet the enemy as an equal on the battlefield, not as an opportunist ambushing a bridgehead.42 The more recent Outlaw King (dir. David Mackenzie, 2018) prematurely kills off King Edward I before events at Loudon Hill in May 1307, then further distorts history by placing Edward II at the battle. The production team knew this was all wrong, but even the film’s historical consultant, Tony Pollard, admits that the inventions made dramatic sense. Edward II and Robert the Bruce needed to go head to head in combat “to bring the sparring between the two, which had punctuated the film up until then, to a satisfactory conclusion.” With Robert having allowed his nemesis to flee the battlefield, these screen transgressions permitted Edward “to live on for a possible sequel” featuring events at Bannockburn.43 But what about when films make overt claims to historical accuracy? Do such assertions not call for examination, even condemnation, by historians? Both Braveheart and King Arthur cloak themselves in an aura of historicity by making “truth claims” in their opening scenes. By way of a retrospective narration delivered by Robert the Bruce, Braveheart asserts that it tells a suppressed history, one based not on accounts of “historians from England” who brand the storyteller a liar, but on a purer oral tradition.44 King Arthur’s truth claim is even more egregious: written text asserting that “historians agree” on the historicity of Arthur, further bolstered by “recently discovered archeological evidence” giving details on his “true identity.” A seemingly historical narration follows, telling how Arthur’s knights were descended from steppe-dwelling Sarmatians, pledging to serve their Roman conquerors in perpetuity. Although pure moonshine, average viewers would have no basis for questioning these types of statements, even if audiences are on record as skeptical of the film medium’s truthfulness.45 Such dubious assertions as appear in Braveheart and King Arthur are not rare in movies. The sibling directorial team of Joel and Ethan Coen fronted their critically acclaimed Fargo (1996) with a similar claim, falsely stating that the story was based on actual events.46 Nor is film the only medium that partakes in 42

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A historical overview of the battle is Michael Prestwich, “The Battle of Stirling Bridge: An English Perspective,” in The Wallace Book, ed. Edward Cowan (Edinburgh, 2007), pp. 64–76. This volume contains several essays on William Wallace, his milieu and legacy. Tony Pollard, “Shooting Arrows: Cinematic Representations of Medieval Battles,” in Writing Battles: New Perspectives on Warfare and Memory in Medieval Europe, eds. Rory Naismith and Elizabeth Ashman Rowe (London, 2020), pp. 177–206 at p. 195. A. E. Christa Canitz, “‘Historians… Will Say I Am a Liar’: The Ideology of False Truth Claims in Mel Gibson’s Braveheart and Luc Besson’s The Messenger,” Studies in Medievalism 23 (2005), 127–42. See note 52 below. See the Coens’ facetious explanation in Bill Bradley, “The Coen Brothers Reveal Fargo Is

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this kind of creative dishonesty. Vladimir Nabokov preceded his classic novel Lolita with a “foreword,” ostensibly written by a John Ray, Ph.D., who says the whole book is a detailed confession by an author who died in prison.47 The prolific novelist Michael Crichton likewise deceived readers in his medieval-set stories. His Eaters of the Dead, presented as the actual account of the Muslim traveler Ibn Fadlan and bolstered by pseudo-references, is actually a mash-up of Fadlan’s writings, Beowulf, and artistic license.48 Crichton took a similar approach in Timeline by including a seemingly scholarly introduction on the viability of teleporting back to the Middle Ages. Complete with footnotes to academic studies and a bibliography, Crichton wove science and history into the imaginary to give his story’s research company, ITC, a believable basis.49 Deceptive or patently untrue claims like these are not only a way of storytellers having fun with their audiences, but of drawing viewers and readers in, making them believe they are about to be privy to actual, perhaps heretofore unknown events.50 In this way, Braveheart and King Arthur merely follow in a successful tradition of more tightly bonding with their viewers through deception.51 Despite that bonding, the general public voices strong skepticism about cinematic history, ranking its trustworthiness dead last among various sources of information about the past.52 Yet, lacking anything else to fill a knowledge void – an especially likely state concerning the distant and unfamiliar Middle Ages – films occupy that space to become the sole source of understanding. Wineburg calls this “collective occlusion,” where cinematic history serves

47 48

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50 51

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Based on a True Story After All,” Huffington Post (8 March 2016): https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/coen-brothers-fargo-true-story_us_56de2c53e4b0ffe6f8ea78c4 [accessed 12 February 2022]. The recent television series Fargo (various dirs., 2014–present), executive produced by the Coen brothers, continues the tradition, textually stating at the beginning of each episode that actual events are depicted. Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (1955; repr. New York, 1997), pp. 3–6. Michael Crichton, Eaters of the Dead: The Manuscript of Ibn Fadlan, Relating His Experiences with Northmen in A.D. 922 (New York, 1976), which was the basis of the film, The 13th Warrior (dir. John McTiernan, 1999). An actual translation of Fadlan’s travels is Ibn Fadlan and the Land of Darkness: Arab Travellers in the Far North, trans. Paul Lunde and Caroline Stone (New York, 2012). Michael Crichton, Timeline (New York, 1999), which went to the screen as Timeline (dir. Richard Donner, 2003). On Crichton’s scholarly undercurrents, see Jenny Adams, “Marketing the Medieval: The Quest for Authentic History in Michael Crichton’s Timeline,” Journal of Popular Culture 36 (2003), 704–23. On the powerful effects these tactics can have on readers, see Sol Stein, Stein on Writing (New York, 1995), pp. 22–23. Filmmakers’ clever uses of visuals, written text, and spoken word in prologues are analyzed by Richard Burt, “Getting Schmedieval: Of Manuscript and Film Prologues, Paratexts, and Parodies,” Exemplaria 19 (2007), 217–42; and Burt, “Re-embroidering the Bayeux Tapestry in Film and Media: The Flip Side of History in Opening and End Title Sequences,” Exemplaria 19 (2007), 327–50. Roy Rosenzweig and David Thelen, The Presence of the Past: Popular Uses of History in American Life (New York, 1998), pp. 20–21.



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as the only means of familiarity with the past.53 Due to their mass appeal, observes film critic Ann Hornaday, movies, with their attendant baggage, then “become our consensus version of history itself.”54 A recent national survey lends added weight to this stance, confirming that the American public’s preferred sources of information about the past are the very films and television programs it distrusts.55 The foregoing discussion emphasizes that historical films, like written and artistic artifacts, must be read in ways that are sympathetic to the medium. Demanding that a dramatic movie be faithful to academic standards is akin to expecting a historical monograph to feature remarkable special effects. Like in art and literature, the conventions of cinematic storytelling virtually ensure that inaccuracies and inventions occur, but movies can elicit a far stronger emotional connection while revealing deeper truths. In addition, movies have a cumulative effect on viewers, often serving as default knowledge of the past. Common forms and features of storytelling trace back centuries, as evidenced by the similarities in Roland’s literary characteristics and the basic devices of the historical film genre.56 But the means by which those stories are told have evolved. The epic poem gave way to the novel in the seventeenth century, for example, and novels in turn have changed since the nineteenth century.57 Because the film medium is heir to these older narrative practices, it has borrowed and modified features of written and artistic history to tell compelling stories in new ways. How this determines cinematic depictions of medieval warfare constitutes the remainder of the present investigation. The methods for analyzing the artifacts under consideration here are both qualitative and quantitative. They consisted of systematically coding textual and visual materials according to prescribed variables, when possible, then quantifying the results for comparative purposes. Such an approach follows well-established qualitative research methods.58 Indeed, examination of the MPB based on coding precepts has already been carried out by Richard Abels, though a new analysis has been conducted for the present study.59 Medieval and Renaissance texts have been subjected to similar treatment, while coding for targeted features of film and television is likewise a standard research practice.60 53 54 55

56 57 58

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Wineburg, Historical Thinking, p. 242. Hornaday, Talking Pictures, p. 249. Humanities Indicators Project of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, The Humanities in American Life: Insights from a Survey of the Public’s Attitudes and Engagement (Cambridge, MA, 2020), pp. 8, 17–19. Burkholder, “How to Read a Historical Film,” pp. 3–7. Stein, Stein on Writing, p. 42; Monaco, How to Read a Film, p. 62. Carol Warren and Tracy Karner, Discovering Qualitative Methods, 3rd ed. (New York, 2015), pp. 210–15. On the resurgence of quantitative approaches to historical research, see Steven Ruggles and Diana Magnuson, “The History of Quantification in History: The JIH as a Case Study,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 50 (2020), 363–81. Abels, “Cultural Representations,” p. 29. For the texts, see Peter Burkholder, “History by the Numbers: A Quantitative Approach

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How is combat portrayed to the audience in the four sources under consideration here? In particular, what is the relative frequency of battles to sieges? How do armies conduct themselves when contact between forces is made? And do certain military systems present themselves as especially important or even dominant? At first glance, combat in Roland may appear to be restricted to battles, its stanzas replete with the clash of Christian and Muslim armies in the open field. Yet, closer inspection shows that attacks on cities and other fortified sites lurk in the background. The capture of Muslim-held Saragossa looms large, but there are additional references to operations against Noples, Commibles, Valterne, Balaguer, Tudela, Sezile, and Galne, as well as sieges before multiple unnamed castles and cities during Charlemagne’s seven-year campaign in Spain. Meanwhile, a mere two battles occur in quick succession – Roland’s rear-guard action, then Charlemagne’s revenge – followed by a judicial duel to bring the traitor Ganelon to justice. Despite the apparent operational tilt of Charlemagne’s forces toward sieges, the great majority of the epic itself focuses on set-piece battles: of the 298 stanzas (laisses) in the poem, eighty-four of them (28% of the total) are devoted to Roland’s combat at Roncesvalles.61 This is followed by Charlemagne’s retribution against a Muslim army outside of Saragossa (twenty-five stanzas, or 8% of the epic), and then six stanzas of individual trial by combat (2%).62 In sum, 38% of the stanzas in Roland focus on battles, while only 5% (fourteen stanzas) contain references to siege operations, none of which are described in anything beyond token detail.63 Thus, in terms of the literary space provided to them, the medieval epic presents a world dominated by battles over sieges by a nearly eight-to-one ratio. Battle is likewise the predominant form of warfare in the MPB. My own analysis concludes that, of the ninety-two extant folios of the MPB, twenty-four of them (26% of the total) depict a battle or single combat. This is well over twice the number of siege illustrations, which number just ten (11%), though some panels combine battle and siege operations.64 Perhaps not surprisingly,

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to Teaching the Importance of Conflicting Evidence,” The History Teacher 54 (2020), 69–106; for film and television, see USC’s Color of Change, Normalizing Injustice: The Dangerous Misrepresentations that Define Television’s Scripted Crime Genre (Los Angeles, 2020), p. 24; and Steven Johnson, Everything Bad Is Good for You: How Today’s Popular Culture Is Actually Making Us Smarter (New York, 2005), pp. 65–72. Stanzas 93–176. Note that the number of stanzas in modern editions/translations of Roland can vary. The Burgess translation used here follows the stanza divisions of the 1946 Frederick Whitehead second edition, but other versions often have 291 stanzas. Charlemagne’s battle is stanzas 246–70; the trial by combat is stanzas 288–93. For sieges, which typically take up only a line or two of text, see stanzas 1, 5, 8, 14, 16, 36, 53, 55, 119, 134, 189, 198, 271, 298. Battle/single combat panels are 3v, 9v, 10r, 10v, 11r, 12r, 13r, 14v, 16v, 21r, 22r, 23v, 24r, 24v, 28v, 29v, 30v, 33r, 34v, 36v, 39r, 40r, 41r, and the Getty Museum’s 83.MA.55v. Siege panels



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when sieges are shown, they depict active storming tactics as opposed to passive methods, mimicking the action that is the hallmark of set-piece operations and thereby blurring distinction between the two combat modes. The key takeaway is that the MPB tracks Roland in its heavy tilt toward battles as the principal form of medieval conflict. Concludes Abels, “warfare was virtually synonymous with battle” for the MPB artists.65 Despite the centuries separating the popular films Braveheart and King Arthur from the two medieval sources discussed above, the movies reflect pre-modern depictions of combat in many ways. Braveheart portrays two attacks on fortified positions: one a makeshift assault on an English outpost in Scotland, the other a full-scale (though invented) siege of King Edward I’s city of York. The screen time allotted to these actions is a telling indicator of their importance to the storyline, as well as their potential impact on viewers’ takeaways regarding medieval warfare. Omitting opening and closing credits, Braveheart has a runtime of 10,191 seconds.66 The assault on the outpost clocks in at 420 seconds (4% of total), while the siege at York comprises 146 seconds (1%). Thus, a meager 5% of the film depicts siege warfare, the same figure as in Roland. And even though medieval commanders had a range of options for how to press or defend against a siege, both examples here feature storming tactics – perhaps not surprising, given the film medium’s strength in presenting action.67 In this sense, the movie echoes the MPB’s earlier noted preference for action even in siege operations. Compare that with the screen time devoted to field combat, of which there are four examples in Braveheart. The first, consisting of pell-mell action as Wallace attempts to save his wife from English depredations, runs a mere sixty-four seconds (0.4% of film total). This is followed by the movie’s longest combat scene, the battle of Stirling, which commands 1,231 seconds (12%). Thereafter, the battle of Falkirk takes 657 seconds (6%), while the film ends with the opening to combat at Bannockburn (226 seconds, or 2% of total). In sum, battle scenes comprise 20% of the picture, meaning there is a four-to-one screen time preference for battles to sieges in Braveheart. Lacking any siege warfare at all, combat in King Arthur is strictly confined to field operations. Of the film’s 8,768 seconds, 390 of them (4% of total) are taken up by an ambush on a bishop’s wagon train; 318 seconds (4%) portray the “battle on the ice” sequence, an overt tribute to a similar scene in Sergei Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky (1938); while the final super-battle, ostensibly

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are 10v, 11r, 14r, 15r, 15v, 16v, 23v, 40r, 42r, 43v. Panels combining a battle and siege are 10v, 11r, 23v, 40r. Abels, “Cultural Representations,” p. 19. That is, 2:49:51. For percentage purposes, it is far easier to convert to seconds. A convenient shorthand for siege techniques is the “six S’s of attack”: suborning defenders, scaring the garrison, sapping the fortifications, starving the population, storming the walls, shelling the besieged; see Bernard Bachrach, “Medieval Siege Warfare: A Reconnaissance,” Journal of Military History 58 (1994), 119–33 at p. 125. There is likewise a “six S’s of defense” (ibid.).

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Figure 1  Forms and frequencies of medieval combat in four sources, showing a strong preference for depicting battles over sieges. Roland data derived from stanza counts; MPB from panel scenes; Braveheart and King Arthur from screen time.

depicting Badon Hill, consumes 1,478 seconds (17%), bringing the total to 2,186 seconds or 25% of the film. This is very close to the total time devoted to combat in Braveheart, indicating that film, like Roland and the MPB, shows strong predilections for battles over sieges as the mainstay of medieval warfare. If there is a notable difference between the medieval and modern sources, it is that the overall space devoted to combat in any form has diminished somewhat over time. Nevertheless, if today’s audiences are predisposed to believing that battles were relatively common in the Middle Ages, it should come as little surprise. Filmmakers are merely following a long tradition of portraying warfare that way. The actual frequency of these two modes of combat across the Middle Ages could vary substantially by campaign, but there has been a historiographical trend away from a focus on battles, and towards recognizing sieges as the more frequent, and conceivably even more important, form of warfare. That argument was made forcefully by Jim Bradbury, who described a medieval world where fortifications and their defense or capture were central and common, while battles were peripheral and few. By the eleventh century, he says, “warfare consisted of perhaps one per cent battles and ninety-nine per cent sieges.”68 Although this may seem a hyperbolic statement, Bradbury provides instances where entire campaigns revolved around sieges without any serious battles transpiring.69

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Jim Bradbury, The Medieval Siege (Woodbridge, 1992), p. 71. Some examples include Count Geoffrey le Bel’s 1135–45 conquest of Normandy, and the rebellion against Henry II from 1173–74 (p. 73). Charles VII’s 1449–50 reconquest



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Bradbury’s stance has been steadily reinforced by Bernard Bachrach, who provides abundant evidence of a military landscape dominated not by the romance of mounted knights but by the hard realities of building, attacking, and defending fortified positions. Much of this was out of the hands of commanders: economic and labor constraints dictated that walls, and the attack or defense thereof, would be the mainstay of military operations in the medieval West.70 According to Kelly DeVries, the value afforded to preserving human life also played a role in favoring passive sieges over the more risky fortunes of field engagements.71 Battles certainly occurred and they could even be decisive, but when they did transpire, it was often due to a siege in progress or the threat thereof.72 The long military career of Charlemagne (r. 768–814), Roland’s protagonist, is a telling indicator of this dynamic. Despite being almost constantly at war, the Frankish king’s personal military résumé boasts a mere three battles, with few additional field engagements transpiring in his absence. Meanwhile, the Carolingians systematically reduced or built myriad fortifications to subdue their enemies.73 The even longer tenure of Fulk Nerra, count of Anjou (r. 987–1040), is similar: only three battles over his fifty-three-year career, but fifteen sieges, a five-to-one ratio in favor of the latter. The count was such a prolific castle-builder that he has earned the sobriquet “le grand bâtisseur” among French historians, while the Angevins’ strategy of battle avoidance is well attested.74 John Gillingham’s research on conflict in the High Middle Ages likewise demonstrates a conspicuous lack of battles, balanced by a reliance on fortifications to impede and reduce ravaging armies.75 What these data points and models reveal is a full

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of French possessions saw around sixty sieges, the battle of Formigny being “almost a foregone conclusion” since the surrounding towns had already been captured (p. 176). Bachrach, “The Cost of Castle Building: The Case of the Tower at Langeais, 992–994,” in The Medieval Castle: Romance and Reality, eds. Kathryn Reyerson and Faye Powe (Dubuque, 1984), pp. 47–62. Bachrach’s position informs Jurgen Brauer and Hubert Van Tuyll, Castles, Battles, and Bombs: How Economics Explains Military History (Chicago, 2008), ch. 2: “The High Middle Ages, 1000–1300: The Case of the Medieval Castle and the Opportunity Cost of Warfare.” Kelly DeVries, “Medieval Warfare and the Value of a Human Life,” in Noble Ideals and Bloody Realities: Warfare in the Middle Ages, eds. Niall Christie and Maya Yazigi (Leiden, 2006), pp. 27–55 at pp. 32–33, 39–43. Bradbury, Medieval Siege, pp. 71–72. Nicholas Hooper and Matthew Bennett, The Cambridge Illustrated Atlas of Warfare: The Middle Ages (Cambridge, UK, 1996), p. 16; Bachrach, “Charlemagne’s Cavalry: Myth and Reality,” Military Affairs 47 (1983), 1–20; reprinted in Bachrach, Armies and Politics in the Early Medieval West (London, 1993), XIV, pp. 1–20. On “the great builder,” Louis Halphen, Le Comté d’Anjou au XIe siècle (1906; repr. Geneva, 1974), p. 153; on Angevin battle avoidance, Bachrach, “L’art de la guerre angevin,” in Plantagenêts et Capétiens: confrontations et héritages, ed. Martin Aurell and Noël-Yves Tonnerre (Turnhout, 2006), pp. 267–84 at pp. 280–83. John Gillingham, “William the Bastard at War,” in Studies in Medieval History Presented to R. Allen Brown, eds. Christopher Harper-Bill, Christopher Holdsworth, and Janet Nelson

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inversion of cultural representations of warfare, be they medieval or modern, compared with historical scholarship. For films like Braveheart and King Arthur, the implications are clear: to appear authentic to viewers, the relative film-space devoted to battles and sieges must clash with historical reality. More recent studies of combat in medieval film have made this point as well.76 As Sean McGlynn observes, “The central importance of sieges in medieval warfare cannot be overstressed.”77 This is not to say that all historians are in full agreement on this matter: either for selected campaigns or even more generally, some researchers will support more battle-centric models of combat in the Middle Ages.78 Such dissonance is yet another example of how history remains an unsettled arena, while underscoring how difficult it would be for a filmmaker to present a version of the past to the satisfaction of all viewers, academics or not.79 Battles, Real to Reel The actual conduct of troops engaged in battle is another case where dramatized depictions, medieval or modern, are consistent with each other, but differ from academic assessments. Historical descriptions of battles give us varying amounts of information that must be evaluated with caution. Even if chronicles and eyewitness accounts could be fully trusted – and this most certainly is not the case – there is much about the ground-level realities of combat that will always be a matter of speculation.80 John Keegan famously grappled with this

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(Woodbridge, 1989), pp. 141–58; John Gillingham, “Richard I and the Science of War in the Middle Ages,” in War and Government in the Middle Ages, eds. John Gillingham and J. C. Holt (Woodbridge, 1984), pp. 194–207. Pollard, “Shooting Arrows,” pp. 179, 204 (note 62); Peter Burkholder, “Popular [Mis] conceptions of Medieval Warfare,” History Compass 5 (2007), 507–24 at pp. 512–13. Sean McGlynn, “Siege Warfare: Tactics and Technology,” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Medieval Warfare and Military Technology, ed. Clifford Rogers, 3 vols. (New York, 2010), 3:265–70 at p. 265. Clifford J. Rogers, “Carolingian Cavalry in Battle: The Evidence Reconsidered,” in Crusading and Warfare, eds. John and Morton, pp. 1–11; Stephen Morillo, “Battle Seeking: The Contexts and Limits of Vegetian Strategy,” Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 21–41; Kelly DeVries, Infantry Warfare in the Early Fourteenth Century (Woodbridge, 1996). See also Helen Nicholson, Medieval Warfare (New York, 2004), p. 135, for a brief overview of this debate. More generally on this point, Elliott, Remaking the Middle Ages, ch. 1: “History, Historiography and Film.” On the inherent problems of eyewitness accounts, see Marcus Bull, Eyewitness and Crusade Narrative: Perception and Narration in Accounts of the Second, Third, and Fourth Crusades (Woodbridge, 2018). See also the case of the single combat between Anthony Woodville and the Bastard of Burgundy in 1467: four eyewitnesses give conflicting accounts of the same event; M. R. Geldof, “‘And Describe the Shapes of the Dead’: Making Sense of the Archaeology of Armed Violence,” in Wounds and Wound Repair in Medieval Culture, eds. Larissa Tracy and Kelly DeVries (Leiden, 2015), pp.



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fact in his attempt to delineate the “face of battle” for Agincourt in 1415. How did opposing armies approach each other? What was the moment of impact like? How would a large battle sound, and how would commanders communicate with their troops amidst the tumult? Lacking definitive evidence for such matters, Keegan based his answers on thought experiments, known physical limits, and comparative history, but he ultimately admitted that numerous details are unknowable, lost forever in the mists of time.81 Realizing that many of the same unknowns apply to the ancient world, Philip Sabin followed Keegan’s approach to reconstructing the experience of Roman field combat. Sabin proposed three possible modes of fighting. First is the “shoving match,” in which massed phalanxes pushed against each other, potentially resulting in mass “mutual kebabs.” The second is the “mêlée,” where fighting devolved into individual duels. Although they surely occurred, neither of these models satisfactorily accommodates the evidence, leading Sabin to propose the most plausible construct: the “tentative engagement/mutual dread” scenario, marked by tense standoffs and punctuated by moments of aggression until one side broke.82 This model is consistent with Pollard’s recent assessment of medieval combat, where armies were unlikely to crash headlong into one another and devolve into mêlées, despite the film industry’s penchant to portray it as such.83 The two medieval artifacts examined here show greater or lesser tendencies toward mêlée combat as normative. Roland proffers little evidence of soldiers acting in coordination with one another or of making only halting contact with the enemy. Its long battle sequences mostly consist of individual jousts between social equals, emphasizing individual bravery, feats of arms, and the expensive nature of military equipment. Absent is any hint of Sabin’s tentative engagement/ mutual dread model, as Roland’s adversaries throw themselves at one another with suicidal abandon. The MPB likewise depicts soldiers of high social station finding and killing each other amidst the chaos of battle, with scant indication of training or tactics beyond personal bravado. Considering that the principal source of the MPB artists’ understandings of warfare may have been tournaments, as well as the Roland epic itself, the similar depictions are not unexpected.84 Such sources serve as fodder to the myth that knights “[fought] much as they pleased in search of wealth, honor, and personal aggrandizement.”85

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57–80 at p. 61. Eyewitness problems plague the legal profession even today; see “Eyewitness Identification Reform,” The Innocence Project: https://www.innocenceproject.org/ eyewitness-identification-reform/ (accessed 3 August 2020). John Keegan, The Face of Battle (New York, 1976), ch. 2: “Agincourt,” with reference to “unanswerable” questions at p. 93. Philip Sabin, “The Face of Roman Battle,” Journal of Roman History 90 (2000), 1–17, with “mutual kebabs” at p. 9. More recently, see Jeremiah McCall, Swords and Cinema: Hollywood vs. the Reality of Ancient Warfare (Barnsley, 2014), pp. 23–61. Pollard, “Shooting Arrows,” pp. 184–85. Abels, “Cultural Representations,” pp. 31–32; Mann, “Picturing the Bible,” pp. 55–56. Bachrach, “Medieval Siege Warfare,” p. 122.

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The battle scenes in Braveheart and King Arthur examined here both end up as mêlées. In fact, film’s tendency toward the mêlée is so strong that Sabin identifies it as the default Hollywood image for pre-modern combat.86 That said, the two movies’ mêlée segments are preceded by planning, either explicit or implied, and by unit coordination. At Stirling, the audience sees Wallace conferring with the Scottish horse, instructing them to feign flight, then circle back, flank the English, and take out their archers, thus employing a modicum of military-speak to lend himself credibility.87 In the face of a seemingly irresistible English cavalry charge, Wallace’s foot-soldiers become an immovable object, bravely holding their position and raising horse-stopping stakes at the last moment. With the attack thwarted, the Scots rush headlong into the advancing English infantry, whereupon the one-on-one carnage begins and carries through to the event’s bloody conclusion. Before his climactic battle, Arthur delivers a predictable, rousing speech aimed primarily at the audience – another recurring feature of medieval war films – but he issues no orders.88 Still, coordination between his forces is hinted at. Utilizing a combined-arms approach, his Woad allies loose arrows at the Saxon lines, followed by cavalry charges by Arthur and his knights. The Woads’ traction trebuchets add further mayhem, launching incendiaries. But the cinematic pull of the mêlée is too strong. Before long, the inevitable duels between the film’s principals play out in serial fashion, much like the series of individual jousts in Roland. That the main protagonists and antagonists will find each other amidst all the chaos is a given: Arthur spars with and ultimately kills his Saxon counterpart, Cerdic, while Braveheart’s Wallace decapitates the English noble who mocked him at their pre-battle parley. It is a feature as old as The Iliad’s single combat between Hector and Achilles before the walls of Troy. The lopsided casualties described in accounts of ancient and medieval battles alike are a tell-tale sign that troops fought mostly in formation. In such cases, the defeated army could expect to take outsized losses when its cohesion broke and its soldiers ran, presenting their pursuers with easy targets of undefended

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Sabin, “Face of Roman Battle,” p. 10. Pollard, “Shooting Arrows,” p. 185, corroborates this dynamic, adding that the mêlée “is often, for this writer, the least satisfying element of any medieval battle in film.” The explanation of military iconography is a common authenticator in World War II films, though is less prevalent and seemingly less necessary in medieval cinema; see Jeanine Basinger, “Translating War: The Combat Film Genre and Saving Private Ryan,” Perspectives on History (1 October 1998): https://www.historians.org/publications-and-directories/ perspectives-on-history/october-1998/translating-war-the-combat-film-genre-and-savingprivate-ryan [accessed 12 February 2022]. Peter Burkholder, Christopher Caldiero, and Jonathan Godsall, “The King’s Speech: Battle Orations in Medieval Film,” Studies in Medievalism 28 (2019), 105–31. As this study observes, such harangues have a historical basis, but their content and purpose in real versus reel history vary considerably.



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backsides. In contrast, a series of one-on-one combats would result in much closer loss rates, putting the mêlée model at odds with the evidence.89 Mediated portrayals of the human experience such as the ones under consideration here are limited in their perspectives. What a literary work or film portrays is at the discretion of the storyteller. Nevertheless, the combat loss ratios they depict are revealing. Differentiating friend from foe is often difficult or even impossible in the MPB, especially so in cases of severed body parts littering the ground. But the other three sources examined here are more straightforward. As noted earlier, Roland’s fighting consists of stanza after stanza of individual jousts, meaning a roughly even casualty rate would be expected. Yet, losses in Roland are nearly twice as high for the antagonists (thirty cases, or 65% of total) as they are for protagonists (sixteen cases, or 35%). The numbers are even more skewed in Braveheart’s Stirling battle segment, which features a long series of one-on-one encounters. The audience sees the Scots experience only sixteen casualties (17% of total), while the English suffer nearly five times that number (seventy-eight, or 83%). The figures are somewhat less tilted for the battle of Badon Hill in King Arthur, though even here, the viewer sees the Saxons lose more than three times more soldiers (seventy-six in total) than Arthur and his allies (twenty-four casualties). As historically problematic as these portrayals may be, they are nonetheless consistent across time and medium. Although equated with Hollywood-style combat, there is nothing saying that cinema must default to the mêlée. A prime example of a film daring to depict pre-modern battle as something approaching Sabin’s likely combat model is the opening scene in HBO’s first season of Rome (“The Stolen Eagle,” dirs. Michael Apted and Mikael Salomon, 2005). Here, a skirmish during Julius Caesar’s siege of Alesia in 52 BCE exposes viewers to a very different type of combat, one where highly disciplined Roman soldiers maintain unit cohesion in a defensive stance against their Celtic assailants. Of especial interest is a brief overhead shot showing legionaries performing a complicated line change in the heat of battle, preserving their formation all the while. It is a fascinating representation of what battle might have looked like, though the scene’s deviation from typical studio depictions may have confused or disappointed viewers. Although a very laudable portrayal, its attention to the “latest geeky research” would have gone unnoticed by most laypersons. One can hardly blame other producers for not bothering to go to such lengths more often.90

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Sabin, “Face of Roman Battle,” pp. 5–6, 10; and Clifford J. Rogers, Soldiers’ Live through History: The Middle Ages (Westport, 2007), pp. 214–16. Lee Brice, “The Fog of War: The Army in Rome,” in Rome, Season One: History Makes Television, ed. Monica Cyrino (Malden, 2008), pp. 61–77 at pp. 65–67; Burkholder, “How to Read a Historical Film,” pp. 12–13. The “latest geeky research” quote is from the DVD commentary to the episode.

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Peter Burkholder Cavalry Riding Roughshod

The mêlée is not the only noteworthy feature of battle in the two medieval sources. Equally remarkable is the cavalry-centric nature of the combat. To take but one measure: of the forty-six injuries or kills detailed in Roland (see below), thirty-two of them (70% of total) occur in the context of horse-based combat. An additional 13% are probable cavalry injuries, while 7% more begin as mounted fights before transitioning to foot. All told, this amounts to 90% of wounds in Roland being inflicted on or proximate to horseback. Meanwhile, only 4% of injuries occur solely from fighting on foot, with the remainder being unknown. Infantry would have played crucial roles in the many sieges cited earlier, but the impossibly massive armies of Charlemagne and his foe are repeatedly described as being mounted.91 Turning to the MPB, of the thirty panels depicting preparation for, or actual occurrence of, battles and sieges, 60% show foot-soldiers, while 83% feature mounted troops. Even that discrepancy is misleading: considering the numbers of soldiers shown and their centrality to any given panel, 70% of MPB combat depictions can be safely classified as cavalry focused.92 The importance, even dominance of cavalry is likewise on full display in Braveheart and King Arthur, though how this is conveyed varies by film. Braveheart’s cavalry at Stirling is arguably the more complicated portrayal: the scene is carefully prefaced with reinforcing dialogue and images of the superiority of mounted troops over foot-soldiers. In their pre-battle parley, an English commander reminds Wallace – and, more importantly, the audience – that cavalry has lorded over infantry for centuries, a line of mounted knights standing menacingly in the background to reinforce the point. The Scots’ successful stand against the ensuing cavalry charge is all the more inspiring to an audience primed to expect a Scottish disaster.93 Meanwhile, cavalry assaults by Arthur and his knights against Saxon infantry at Badon Hill follow a wellworn “medieval tank” pattern that is all too familiar on screen.94 The horsemen 91

92

93 94

See stanzas 220–27, where the different nationalities comprising Charlemagne’s army are described as having tens of thousands of knights and horses each. Stanza 236 indicates that the Muslim forces were made up of thirty divisions of at least fifty thousand men each, for a total of 1.5 million, minimum. Cavalry are featured in the following panels; bolded entries are considered cavalry-centric portrayals: 3v, 9v, 10r, 10v, 11r, 12r, 13r, 16v, 20v, 21r, 22r, 23v, 24r, 24v, 29v, 30v, 33r, 34v, 36v, 39r, 40r, 41r, 42r, 43v, 55r. Foot-soldiers appear in folios 3v, 10r, 10v, 11r, 12r, 14r, 14v, 15r, 15v, 16v, 21r, 23v, 28v, 34v, 36v, 40r, 42r, 43v. Pollard, “Shooting Arrows,” p. 195, remarks on this surprise element in Braveheart and Outlaw King “to satisfy the viewer who… will usually appreciate the unexpected.” Several such examples punctuate Peter Jackson’s medieval-inspired, massively successful The Lord of the Rings film trilogy (2001–03). See Aragorn and Théoden’s mounted sally into massed troops at Helm’s Deep (The Two Towers), Gandalf’s cavalry charge into Uruk-hai lines at the same battle, and Théoden’s horseback relief of the siege of Minas Tirith (Return of the King). Faramir’s charge against archers at Osgiliath (Return of the King) fails, but that failure is carefully constructed via lead-up dialogue, repeated long faces, gloomy soundtrack, and intercuts to Pippin’s singing of a funeral dirge while the



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Figure 2  Cavalry at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. These heavily armored figures and their mounts dominate the European Arms and Armor exhibit as much as they do the popular imagination of war in the Middle Ages. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

repeatedly crash through the barbarians’ testudo formations before the protagonists transition to fighting their principal adversaries on foot, a transition similar to Charlemagne’s fight against the emir in Roland.95 The fact that the most popular medieval history textbook likewise presents heavy cavalry as a doomsday weapon, to say nothing of the mounted knight’s centrality on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, shows how films are not the only source of this stereotype.96

95 96

charge unfolds. That Jackson had to layer on such foreshadowing shows how acculturated audiences are to successful cavalry attacks against foot-soldiers. Roland, stanzas 264–68. The textbook is Judith Bennett and Sandy Bardsley, Medieval Europe: A Short History, 12th ed. (New York, 2021), featuring an illustration of a mounted knight with the caption, “human tank” (p. 207). A work originally written by C. Warren Hollister, the publisher’s website claims Medieval Europe has been the best-selling medieval history text for the past five decades. The importance of four mounted knights’ centrality to the European Arms and Armor display at the MMA is reinforced by Rosenzweig and Thelen’s finding that museums are seen by the general public as the “most trustworthy” source of history: Presence of the Past, pp. 21–22.

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Of course, trained foot-soldiers were perfectly capable of prevailing against cavalry throughout the Middle Ages. Charles Martel’s troops successfully stood like “a bulwark of ice” against Muslim horsemen at Tours in 732. A later Carolingian cavalry force, perhaps believing its own rhetoric of invincibility, charged recklessly into a prepared Saxon battle line in 782 and paid for it with their lives. Cavalry charges at Hastings in 1066 succeeded, but only as planned feints, drawing Anglo-Saxon footmen out of their strong hilltop position.97 Moreover, such feints were very complex maneuvers, requiring much practice and unit coordination to carry out.98 Later events such as Courtrai (1302) and Crécy (1346) witnessed cavalry roundly defeated by foot-soldiers.99 And so the cavalry-infantry dynamic continued throughout the era. “Disciplined and resolute infantry proved, on many occasions, to be more than a match for heavy cavalry on the battlefield,” writes Andrew Ayton.100 In addition to foot-soldiers’ discipline and resolve, preparing a battlefield with ditches and stakes, or strewing it with horse-crippling caltrops, were fairly simple and low-cost countermeasures against even the most skilled horsemen.101 Historians may have come around to recognizing the myth of the mounted knight for what it is, but it remains too useful a weapon in the movie producer’s arsenal to surrender just yet.102 Wound Sites, Imagined and Actual Medieval soldiers could be wounded in just about any part of the body, depending on their defensive armaments, the weapons used against them, individual skills, and sheer luck. That said, the four sources examined here display noticeable overlapping patterns of injury locations. Roland is especially graphic in its descriptions of combat, allowing us to determine wound placements on soldiers in forty-six cases. A salient point is that injuries in the epic are exclusively from the waist up. Trauma to the front torso is the most prevalent, numbering twenty-­ four examples or 52% of the total. Of those, four (9% of total) are specifically

The feigned retreat was already an old tactic by the time of Hastings. The Byzantine general Narses had used the same technique to defeat the Franks at Rimini in 554. For this case and the others cited here, see Bernard Bachrach and David Bachrach, Warfare in Medieval Europe, c.40–c.1453 (London, 2017), pp. 277–79; and B. Bachrach, “Charlemagne’s Cavalry,” XIV, p. 9. The Norman cavalry at Hastings was also quite effective against their disordered adversaries, who fled on foot. 98 Carroll Gillmor, “Practical Chivalry: The Training of Horses for Tournaments and Warfare,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 13 (1992), 7–29. 99 DeVries, Infantry Warfare, pp. 9–22 (Courtrai), pp. 155–75 (Crécy). 100 Andrew Ayton, “Arms, Armour, and Horses,” in Medieval Warfare: A History, ed. Maurice Keen (Oxford, 1999), pp. 186–208 at p. 186. 101 Pollard, “Shooting Arrows,” pp. 193–97, discusses the importance of preparing the battlefield before combat. 102 James Patterson, “The Myth of the Mounted Knight,” in Misconceptions about the Middle Ages, eds. Harris and Grigsby, pp. 90–94; Burkholder, “Popular [Mis]conceptions,” pp. 508–14. 97



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Figure 3  Above-waist vs. below-waist wounds by source. Roland N = 46; MPB N = 311; Braveheart N = 94 (battle of Stirling only); King Arthur N = 100 (battle of Badon Hill only).

to the chest, one (2%) to the abdomen, while the remaining nineteen front torso cases (41%) cannot be more specifically located. The head is the next most-targeted area, at 28% frequency. Things fall off precipitously from there, with 4% of injuries to the neck, and 2% each to the face, back, and hand. Conspicuously absent are any wounds to the arms. In the twenty-seven folios of the MPB illustrating injuries to soldiers, there are 311 identifiable wounds.103 Like Roland, injuries are graphic in the MPB. “The main impression one receives is of unrelenting brutality,” writes Abels of the source. “Blood and gore is everywhere.”104 Also similar to Roland, the sites of these injuries are almost exclusively above victims’ midsections. With ninety-five examples, the most common wound site is the head (31% of total). Nearly as prevalent, but at odds with Roland, are the 29% of injuries to arms. These are followed by trauma to the front torso (16%), where 10% is to the abdomen, 6% to the chest. Injuries to the neck come next (12%), primarily in the form of decapitations. None of the remaining wound areas reach 10% of the total: back (5%), collarbone (2%), and multiple regions above the chest from a falling object (0.3%). A mere two wounds occur below the waist, including one to the buttocks and one to the leg (0.3% each). Identifying wound patterns in the two cinematic depictions of medieval combat is more challenging, due to the fast cutting and editing techniques Those twenty-seven folios are: 3v, 10r, 10v, 11r, 12r, 14r, 14v, 15v, 16v, 21r, 22r, 23v, 24r, 24v, 28v, 29v, 30v, 33r, 34v, 35r, 36v, 39r, 40r, 41r, 42r, 43v, 55v. Note that some additional folios depict combat, but without injuries. 104 Abels, “Cultural Representations,” p. 22. 103

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Figure 4  Detail of the lower panel from the MPB, folio 24v, in which Saul unhorses the Amalekite king Agag. Twelve injuries, all delivered to armor-protected sites, are boxed and numbered from upper left to lower right. Injury sites as follows: 1–3, 7, 11 = head; 4 = chest; 5, 9 = neck; 6, 8, 12 = arm; 10 = back. Photographic credit: The Morgan Library and Museum, New York.

used by filmmakers to emphasize the violence of battle, sometimes inserting the viewer directly into the chaos. Nevertheless, repeated screenings and slow motion allow for the systematic classification of injuries akin to those for the medieval sources above. The long battle of Stirling sequence in Braveheart features ninety-four discrete, identifiable injuries. Similar to the medieval sources, the great majority of trauma (77%) is sustained above the waistline. Of these, the most common injuries are to the front torso: 19% are to the abdomen, 7% to the chest, with another 10% ambiguously to the torso region, thus constituting 36% of all combat injuries at Stirling. These are followed by trauma to the face (12%), to wide areas of the body (primarily through being crushed or



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beaten; 11%), to the head (8%), neck (7%), back (6%), arms (5%), and hand (1%). A minority of injuries (13%) occur below the waist: 10% to legs, and 1% each to the groin region, buttocks, and foot. Like Roland and the MPB, Braveheart combat features copious amounts of blood, amputation, and horrendous injury. “Pain is itself a primary authenticating feature,” writes William Woods. And “pain in medieval movies is physical and bloody,” thus linking the violence in film with pre-modern artistic renderings of combat.105 Upper-body wounds are even more prevalent in King Arthur’s longest combat sequence, the climactic battle of Badon Hill, where 88% of the one hundred total injuries are above the waist. The front torso is targeted nearly half the time, while wounds to the face and head comprise 20% of the total. The only remaining area reaching double digits is the back (14%), with just a smattering of injuries to other areas (e.g. 7% to the legs, 5% to broad regions). Though violence is on full display, the PG-13 King Arthur is necessarily less graphic and bloody than the R-rated Braveheart and the two medieval forebears. Table 1  Combat wound locations by source. Data for Braveheart is for battle of Stirling only; data for King Arthur is for battle of Badon Hill only. Wound Site

Roland (#/%)

MPB (#/%)

Braveheart (#/%)

King Arthur (#/%)

Head

13/28

95/31

8/9

1/1

Face

1/2

15/5

11/12

19/19

Neck

2/4

37/12

7/7

3/3

Collarbone

0/0

6/2

0/0

0/0

Torso (front)

24/52

50/16

34/36

48/48

Torso (back)

1/2

14/5

6/6

14/14

Arm

0/0

91/29

5/5

3/3

Hand

1/2

0/0

1/1

0/0

Subtotals

42/91

308/99

72/77

88/88

Groin

0/0

0/0

1/1

0/0

Buttocks

0/0

1/0.3

1/1

0/0

Leg

0/0

1/0.3

9/10

7/7

Foot

0/0

0/0

1/1

0/0

Subtotals

0/0

2/0.6

12/13

7/7

Other

0/0

1/0.3

10/11

5/5

Unknown

4/9

0/0

0/0

0/0

Subtotals

4/9

1/0.3

10/11

5/5

TOTALS (#/%)

46/100

311/100

94/100

100/100

105

Woods, “Authenticating Realism,” pp. 44–45 (emphasis in original).

Upper Body

Lower Body

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In sum, although there are variations, the two cinematic recreations examined here largely reflect the wound patterns showcased in Roland and the MPB. The vast majority of wounds, no matter the source, are from the waist up. Injuries to the front torso and the face/head regions constitute over half of all examples, while trauma below the waist is either exceedingly rare or even non-existent. The stark outlier is the MPB’s many depictions of arm wounds, including full amputations, which are unusual or utterly absent in the other three sources. It is thus tempting to believe that, in contrast to Roland, the MPB made an effort to highlight the frequency of arm injuries as a nod to the realities of medieval combat. This is tempered by the myriad other flights of fancy appearing in the MPB, so that a genuine attempt at realism in this one instance is an unsatisfactory explanation. It might be that it was a simple matter to depict arm wounds, thus making them injuries of artistic opportunity. But such an argument fails to explain the MPB’s lack of wounds to the legs. This suggests that the “broken clock rule” attaches: even a non-functioning analog timepiece is correct twice a day, so the MPB artists’ intersection with reality here seems to be entirely coincidental. Comparing the wounding patterns in Roland, the MPB, Braveheart, and King Arthur reveals overlapping features as well as trends away from skeletal findings of trauma to medieval soldiers. Granted, skeletal evidence is far from perfect: grave finds are uneven and haphazard, and they are mute on wounds to softtissue areas. The exact locations, let alone mass burials, of many battles even from the late Middle Ages such as Agincourt (1415) remain unknown.106 Large numbers of victims, such as those recovered from the battles of Visby (1361) and Aljubarrota (1385), are invaluable, but may not be representative of other events for which there are few or no osteological remains. Moreover, even when skeletal signs of trauma are clear, it can be impossible to say what the circumstances of injury were, or even to distinguish between combat and non-combat wounds. In fact, over-interpretation and excessively creative wounding scenarios are a real problem.107 Nevertheless, enough evidence has surfaced to provide some broad outlines of how medieval soldiers met their fate, minus the hyperbole endemic to many contemporary written sources.108

106 Anne

Curry, Agincourt (Oxford, 2015), pp. 196–205. “And Describe the Shapes of the Dead,” pp. 57–80. 108 On the problematic nature of written sources of battle injuries or military affairs, see Robert Woosnam-Savage and Kelly DeVries, “Battle Trauma in Medieval Warfare: Wounds, Weapons and Armor,” in Wounds and Wound Repair, eds. Tracy and DeVries, pp. 27–56 at p. 34; DeVries, “The Use of Chronicles in Recreating Medieval Military History,” Journal of Medieval Military History 2 (2004), 1–15; Piers Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades (Cambridge, UK, 2004), pp. 108, 138–40. These should be balanced against Iain MacInness, “‘One Man Slashes, One Slays, One Warns, One Wounds’. Injury and Death in Anglo-Scottish Combat, c. 1296–c. 1403,” in Killing and Being Killed: Bodies in Battle, ed. Jörg Rogge (Mainz, 2017), pp. 61–77, which argues that literary sources can be read more reliably than often thought. 107 Geldof,



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Skeletal finds reveal a preponderance of wounds to the skull, forearms, and lower legs, thus showing marked inconsistency with the four artistic and literary sources examined above. Trauma locations presumably could vary by soldier type, with foot soldiers, including those in line formations, fighting right-handed opponents suffering more wounds to the left sides of their bodies, while mounted troops engaging infantry could expect more frequent injuries to their lower legs.109 At the same time, leg injuries have been variously construed as incapacitating wounds, irrespective of soldier type and bearing in mind the problem of over-interpretation of the evidence.110 There is confirmation of broken or cut ribs and breastbones, possibly caused by spears or cutting weapons, though as will be discussed later, torso injuries are rare.111 Damage to soldiers’ backsides, especially when multiple bodies exhibit such signs, can indicate an individual or entire force breaking and running, thereby exposing vulnerable areas to pursuers.112 Full amputations occurred, but appear to have been infrequent or more likely the result of extra-combat punishment.113 Injury locations on bodies recovered from the battles of Visby and Aljubarrota serve as illustrative cases. For the first event, excavations carried out in the early twentieth century unearthed 1,185 victims who were killed by an invading Danish army. The majority of wounds were to arms and legs, followed by cranial injuries. Despite evidence of a mix of current and obsolescent armor, there is scant evidence of trauma to Visby defenders’ torsos.114 This is similar to the second case, where more than four hundred bodies from the Portuguese battle showed predominant trauma to the arms, legs, and head.115 All four cultural representations examined here show similarities in wound locations, suggesting that sources created during the Middle Ages drew upon earlier accounts for inspiration, while exerting an influence on modern film portrayals of medieval combat. Meanwhile, they depart from osteological evidence, creating their own realities of battle injuries. In this sense, they repeat earlier patterns found for modes of combat and dominant weapon system depic109 Mitchell,

Medicine in the Crusades, pp. 112, 117. Ibid., p. 116. 111 Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, p. 113; Richard Gabriel, Man and Wound in the Ancient World (Washington, DC, 2012), p. 23. 112 Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, pp. 116–17; Woosnam-Savage and DeVries, “Battle Trauma,” p. 44, discussing skeletons from the battle of Towton in 1461. 113 Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, pp. 112–14; Woosnam-Savage and DeVries, “Battle Trauma,” p. 43. 114 Those armors consisted of coats of plates, which were modern by mid-fourteenth century standards, and lamellar armor, which was going out of date by then. See Bengt Thordeman, Armour from the Battle of Wisby, 1361, 2 vols. (Stockholm, 1939), 1:225, and the archeological documentary, “Last Stand at Visby,” Medieval Dead, season 1, episode 2 (2013). 115 Woosnam-Savage and DeVries, “Battle Trauma,” pp. 41–43; Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, pp. 110–11; Eugénia Cunha and Ana Maria Silva, “War Lesions from the Famous Portuguese Medieval Battle of Aljubarrota,” International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 7 (1997), 595–99. 110

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tions. Those influences across time and medium become even more pronounced when considering the role of armor in dramatic recreations. The (In)Utility of Armor If there is a strong thread of continuity between all four artifacts studied here, it is in their depictions of armor’s protective qualities. Roland gives thirty-seven examples (80% of total casualties) of protective gear utterly failing to protect its wearer, while offering no clear instances of wounds dealt to unarmored bodily regions. Armor failure is nothing short of spectacular in Roland, with swords cleaving through helmet and hauberk, and spears puncturing byrnies with apparent ease. While it is impossible to determine whether armor failed in the remaining 20% of cases, 7% mention a shield breaking in the course of inflicting injuries, thus further underscoring the superiority of weapons over defensive measures in the epic.116 That trend translates directly to the MPB. Of the 311 combat injuries, 84% of them are inflicted on armored sites, while only 16% are to exposed regions. Also like Roland, the defeat of protective gear is often quite dramatic: swords slice clean through helmets, edged weapons cleave armored bodies nearly in two, spears penetrate mailed torsos and emerge on the other side, while various severed body parts, still clad in armor, frequently litter the ground.117 Overall, both medieval sources stress the inefficacy of armor, revealing it as a recurring literary and artistic topos of the combat genre. Bearing in mind that the MPB’s artists had access to Roland, even incorporating some of its elements into their combat panels, the influence of the earlier epic on the later artwork becomes apparent.118 Akin to both Roland and the MBP, protective gear appears worthless in Braveheart. Worn exclusively by the English, armor is defeated in fifty-eight instances (62% of total casualties) at Stirling, the remaining 38% of injuries being to unprotected regions of protagonists and antagonists alike. Although some shields are depicted as “working” in a utilitarian sense, in no case does armor effectively guard its wearer against a weapon strike. Fighting as outnumbered and highly vulnerable longshots, the Scots are able to skewer, slice, and bash their opponents into defeat, despite the latter soldiers’ protective advantages. Indeed, it would appear that a lack of protective gear is a decided advantage to Wallace’s forces, given their ability to subdue their better-equipped foes. Roland’s armor, though “broken,” “smashed,” “pierced” and “torn,” apparently protects him against a flurry of Muslim projectiles (“they failed to get through to his body”), but his horse is killed in the process (stanza 160). Charlemagne’s armor does much the same in his fight against the emir (stanzas 264–65); and Thierry’s injury from armor failure while fighting Pinabel in a judicial duel is averted only by divine intervention (stanza 292). These exceptions serve to highlight the general rule that protective gear does not work throughout the epic. 117 See Figure 4 above for examples. 118 See note 11 above. 116



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Figure 5  Armor vs. no armor at wound site. Data for Braveheart is for battle of Stirling only; data for King Arthur is for battle of Badon Hill only. Roland N = 46; MPB N = 311; Braveheart N = 94; King Arthur N = 100.

Armor’s inefficacy likewise features at Badon Hill in King Arthur. Most of the injuries (68%) are sustained to protected sites of protagonists and antagonists, while only one-third afflict exposed flesh. Like Wallace’s Scots, Arthur’s Woad allies conspicuously lack protective gear, yet are the equals to their armored Saxon adversaries in fierce hand-to-hand combat. Thus, whether the source is medieval or modern, whether it is written or pictorial or cinematic, armor’s complete inability to protect its wearer is perhaps the strongest connection across time and medium. In all cases examined here, armor is decisively defeated by the weapons deployed against it. Audiences, both past and present, could be forgiven for wondering why soldiers even bothered with protective equipment, given its consistent failure to guard against harm. Modern viewers are predisposed to imagining armored knights as lumbering robots, so overburdened as to be unable to mount their horses without the assistance of a crane, as depicted in Laurence Olivier’s Henry V (1944).119 That they could be routed on screen by fleet-footed soldiers unencumbered by mail and plate weighs against the simultaneous myth of the mounted knight’s invincibility – a myth that filmmakers likewise leverage. Much of this is at stark odds with the evidence of medieval armor’s actual protective attributes. Admittedly, arrows and crossbow bolts were capable of penetrating mail, sometimes even turning their armor-bearing targets into veri119

For the interesting, though historically inaccurate, use of a crane to hoist knights in the film, see Robert C. Woosnam-Savage, “Olivier’s Henry V (1944): How a Movie Defined the Image of the Battle of Agincourt for Generations,” in The Battle of Agincourt, eds. Anne Curry and Malcolm Mercer (New Haven, 2015), pp. 250–62 at pp. 253–54.

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table “hedgehogs.” But such injuries were often survivable, due not only to the armor but to its complementary padded undergarment, which offered additional protection.120 Heavy lance thrusts could also defeat mail and padding, though with more lethality than missiles.121 What stands out in the skeletal remains is how many severe injuries actually proved non-lethal, as evidenced by bone healing at trauma sites. This would have been a function both of quality medical care and of armor’s efficacy. Assessing armor over the course of the Middle Ages, DeVries concludes that “[n]ever in military history have armies been so uniformly well armored.” Not only that: “this armor was effective.”122 The driving force for this protection, argues DeVries, was a deep concern for preserving human life. Hence, Charlemagne’s requirement for his troops to wear standardized, torso-protecting byrnies, and his proscription against selling them to foreign soldiers or merchants. Other peoples copied Carolingian designs, strongly suggesting this armor’s utility and ensuring that efforts to protect all medieval combatants, not just elites, became widespread.123 Injury sites on skeletons become especially significant in this context. The preponderance of wounds to the limbs can be partly traced to the relative difficulty of protecting those areas with armor, while recent tests reveal just how effective mail and plate were, especially when worn by a moving target with padded undergarment.124 When trauma to the ribs, vertebrae, and pelvis did occur, it is more indicative of the dangers faced by foregoing protective gear in battle, or of massacres inflicted on unarmored victims.125 Yet, as seen above, even outmoded armor such as that worn by some of Visby’s defenders was capable of protecting torsos. The high frequency of skull injuries in grave findings presents something of a conundrum. The head would have been a prime target to combatants, resulting in special efforts to protect it with helmets of various designs.126 Richard Gabriel calculates that even a modest metal head covering with padding would have rendered the skull impervious to serious injury from 120 On

the hedgehog phenomenon, both in history and film, see Scott Manning, “Warriors ‘Hedgehogged’ in Arrows: Crusaders, Samurai, and Wolverine in Medieval Chronicles and Popular Culture,” The Year’s Work in Medievalism 33 (2018), 62–77. 121 Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, pp. 156, 177; Iain A. MacInnes, “Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes: Injury and Death in Anglo-Scottish Combat, c.1296–c.1403,” in Wound and Wound Repair, eds. Tracy and DeVries, pp. 102–27 at pp. 103–4. 122 DeVries, “Medieval Warfare and the Value of a Human Life,” p. 36. He and Woosnam-­ Savage make much the same remark in “Battle Trauma,” p. 54. 123 DeVries, “Value of a Human Life,” p. 36. 124 Woosnam-Savage and DeVries, “Battle Trauma,” p. 54; DeVries, “Value of a Human Life,” pp. 38–39. 125 Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, p. 112; Woosnam-Savage and DeVries, “Battle Trauma,” p. 54. 126 T. Philip Blackburn, David Edge, Alan Williams, and Christopher Adams, “Head Protection in England before the First World War,” Neurosurgery 47 (2000), 1261–86.



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any pre-modern weapon besides a large axe.127 Medieval chronicles cite axes cleaving headgear, though akin to Roland and the MPB, this may be more of a literary trope than a reflection of reality.128 Modern experiments demonstrate that swords could not cut through helmets, but that severe concussions could result from well-delivered blows.129 Despite the benefits of head protection, bone trauma suggests that many injuries were dealt to unhelmeted victims. Woosnam-Savage and DeVries speculate that the need to open visors during battle, or the discarding of helmets by fleeing troops, meant that unprotected heads could present easy targets.130 The late Roman Imperial writer Vegetius complained that troops of his day had gotten lax about wearing armor in general, and helmets in particular,131 while evidence from early medieval grave finds in southern Germany indicate that helmet use had fallen out of fashion. Even then, researchers identify ample signs of skull surgery and bone healing, proving that severe head wounds were survivable.132 The cultural representations are once again consistent here. Irrespective of whether the source is medieval or modern, of whether it is written, artistic, or cinematic, the utter failure of armor to protect wearers is a constant. Helmets are routinely defeated by all manner of weapons, despite empirical evidence militating against these depictions. Torso areas, which historically were well protected and for which skeletal remains indicate comparatively few battle injuries, are prime regions for attack, their protective gear doing nothing to shield them from danger. In fact, fatal slashes to armored torsos are so common in movies as to qualify for trope status. Although serious injuries caused by such actions would be highly unlikely, it all makes for wonderful visuals. As was the case with the nature of medieval combat and wound locations, cinematic authenticity pushes filmmakers toward a complete inversion of armor’s genuine life-saving abilities. That this reflects depictions of combat created during the Middle Ages themselves shows how long this has been a storytelling motif, 127 Gabriel,

Man and Wound, pp. 6–7, which is largely corroborated by Blackburn et al., “Head Protection,” pp. 1280–81. 128 MacInnes, “One Man Slashes,” p. 66. An example of a cut helmet, possibly as a result of a heavy axe blow, is the German bascinet, dated to around 1350, at the Glasgow Museums, Robert Lyons Scott Collection, E.1939.65.aj, viewable at http://collections.glasgowmuseums.com/. 129 Abels, “Cultural Representations,” p. 23, and the studies cited in his note 26. Mitchell, Medicine in the Crusades, p. 164, contends that a sword could slice through a helmet, but he gives only one possible example. Even then, the case appears to show a sword cutting a helmet’s nose-guard. The proliferation of studies showing brain injury to NFL players in the U.S. demonstrates the dangerous reality of blunt-force head trauma, even among those protected by state-of-the-art helmets. See Alex Pew and Danielle Shapiro, “Football and Brain Injuries: What You Need to Know,” National Center for Health Research: http:// www.center4research.org/football-brain-injuries-need-know/ (accessed 15 February 2021). 130 Woosnam-Savage and DeVries, “Battle Trauma,” p. 55. 131 Vegetius: Epitome of Military Science, trans. N. P. Milner (Liverpool, 2001), pp. 19–20. 132 Piers Mitchell, “Medicine, Military: Medical Treatment,” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Medieval Warfare, ed. Clifford Rogers, 2:585–89 at p. 585.

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while reinforcing the notion that cinema faithfully portrays medieval sources, even if the accuracy of those sources is problematic. Conclusion If people watch medieval-set films closely, they might notice something interesting about weaponry. Namely, it is almost exclusively antagonists who utilize crossbows. King Arthur is but one prime example where this is the case. According to arguments laid out above, the partisan use of a historicon is attributable to film industry conventions and strengthened by a feedback loop, becoming an expectation of audiences. Movie producers can harness the association of the crossbow with evil to great effect, obviating the need to explain characterizations, because viewers subliminally “know” that medieval bad guys use the weapon. That alone would be a worthwhile finding, an example of how the movie industry distorts and fabricates the past for its own benefit. But as it turns out, the association between crossbows and evil is not just a cinematic invention. Anna Comnena’s well-known condemnation of the crossbow as a “devilish invention” became tangible in the form of demons spanning the weapon atop a twelfth-century church pillar at Saint Sernin in Toulouse. The reality, of course, is that forces across medieval Europe armed themselves with crossbows, meaning there is not only a disconnect between real and reel history, but dissonance within medieval Europe itself. The past is a complicated arena, and modern films oftentimes mirror that past, as well as mold our understandings of it.133 What is true of the crossbow dynamic also holds valid for many aspects of cinematic medieval warfare. Sieges appear in the movies, but their importance tends to be dwarfed by the screen time allotted to epic battles. Those battles are predicated on the centrality, even assumed dominance, of cavalry over foot soldiers, and on disorganized mêlée combat as hallmarks. Wounds inflicted on soldiers are nearly always from the waist up, with armor being incapable of deflecting weapon strikes, even to well-protected torsos. Much of this is at odds with historians’ assessments – in fact, the films sometimes completely invert reality as academics have come to know it. But in doing so, Hollywood follows in the footsteps of writers and artists from the Middle Ages, thereby placing filmmakers in the enigmatic position of being simultaneously accurate and inaccurate in their portrayals. Does this mean that cinematic renditions of medieval warfare are just a curious oddity or, at best, addictive “gateway drugs” to lure in viewers, who then rely on academics to ween them off by pointing out the many factual errors?134 Movies thereby become expedient detritus in the learning process, but Peter Burkholder, “X Marks the Plot: Crossbows in Medieval Film,” Studies in Popular Culture 38 (2015), 19–40, with quote and demon reference at pp. 27–28. 134 See for example John Leazer, “History and the Movies: Some Thoughts on Using Film in Class,” Teaching History: A Journal of Methods 39 (2014), 72–77. 133



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there are serious problems with this approach. First, it ignores the long history of film industry standards that necessitate invention and factual transgression. Second, it suggests that strict accuracy or lack thereof is the only interesting aspect of historical films, a notion that is belied by the multi-layered evidentiary nature of other artifacts from the medieval past.135 Third, it posits that traditional historians and their scholarly writings are the only entities capable of conveying a worthwhile account of the past, one that is necessarily at odds with dramatic film recreations.136 Finally, it reinforces the public’s documented belief that “history” is just a static assemblage of facts, as opposed to the dynamic field it truly is.137 Not for nothing does Robert Toplin subtitle his study of history and film, In Defense of Hollywood. This does not mean he gives a free pass to any and all cinematic depictions of the past;138 rather, it is to emphasize that filmmakers work according to standards that often do not align with those of academics. With such conventions in mind, it is up to readers to determine whether Braveheart, King Arthur, and other medieval cinema are any good as movies, let alone quality portrayals of warfare of the time. Do they go too far in their historical manipulations, in their creative license, in their departures from traditional scholarship? Even if the answer is yes, such films can find good company with The Song of Roland and the Morgan Picture Bible, which have been doing those very things for centuries.

A better approach deals with film as film, and not just its historical content; see Peter Burkholder, “From Passive Viewer to Active Learner: Strategies for Teaching Medieval Film,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Teaching 24 (2017), 61–78. 136 See for instance the “History vs. Hollywood” website: https://www.historyvshollywood. com/, and the former History Channel series of the same name which ran from 2001–05. 137 Theresa Miller, Emilie L’Hôte, and Andrew Volmert, Communicating about History: Challenges, Opportunities, and Emerging Recommendations (Washington, D.C., 2020), pp. 7, 9; Peter Burkholder and Krista Jenkins, “What Are Our Fields About? Survey Suggests Disconnect between Professionals and the Public,” The Teaching Professor (November 2019): https://www.teachingprofessor.com/topics/student-learning/what-areour-fields-about/ [accessed 12 February 2022]. 138 See Toplin, Reel History, ch. 2: “Judging Cinematic History,” and ch. 3: “Awarding the Harry and the Brooks.” 135

4 Raising the Medieval Trebuchet: Assembly Method and the Standing of a Half-scale Machine Daniel Bertrand

The counterweight trebuchet was the heavy artillery of the Middle Ages, using gravity to hurl projectiles and destroy fortifications. Some trebuchets may have been almost ninety feet tall, and several likely threw stones weighing more than three hundred pounds farther than four hundred yards. While replica historical machines have been made in modern times, the methods of building and assembling trebuchets have not been widely published. Learning how these machines were built can tell us about the logistical difficulties of sieges and the sophistication of medieval engineering and technology. Information gleaned from several extant technical drawings and manuscripts, and the traditional techniques seen in medieval buildings and ships, was used in conjunction with experimental history to reproduce a small machine at full scale (thirty-three feet tall). Here, I show how something so large can be assembled with traditional hoisting equipment that dates to ancient times. This project highlights the expert craftsmanship of the high-late medieval period and shows that engineers of the Middle Ages knew how to use simple machines to accomplish the complex task of assembling a large trebuchet. Introduction In 1304, engineers and craftsmen under the English king Edward I constructed one of the largest and most famous pieces of mechanical artillery used in history. Named Ludgar, or Warwolf, this machine was a trebuchet, designed to use the power of a falling counterweight to launch stone projectiles and assault Stirling castle, held by the Scots. Pierre de Langtoft writes, in his chronicle: “In the midst of these doings the king causes to be built of timber a terrible engine, and to be called Ludgar; and this at its stroke broke down the entire wall.”1 The Scots, having previously watched the machine being assembled, and at the mercy 1

Peter of Langtoft, Chronicle of Pierre de Langtoft: In French Verse: from the Earliest Period to the Death of King Edward I, Volume 2, ed. Thomas Wright (London, 1868), p. 357.

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of bombardment by twelve other trebuchets, offered to surrender, but Edward refused to let anyone leave the castle until his prized engine had bombarded it.2 Edward’s machines at Stirling reportedly launched stones weighing up to three hundred pounds and demolished a wall of the castle.3 Although we cannot know exactly how large Warwolf was, a thirteenth-century drawing by Villard de Honnecourt, as well as the physics of such a machine, suggest that it was more than sixty feet tall and used more than fifteen tons of counterweight. Honnecourt’s machine, described in more detail below, harnessed a counterweight box that was twelve feet long, nine feet wide, and twelve feet tall. Extrapolating the rest of the machine from this box suggests an overall height of more than sixty feet from the ground to the tip of the throwing arm when at rest.4 Accounting for the larger length of French feet, and including the timbers themselves, this would make the volume of the box 1,568 square feet; even if filled only with dry, loose dirt to 90% of capacity, that would equate to a mass of roughly fifty tons.5 A weight that large would be sufficient to allow the machine to effectively throw stones of one thousand pounds, if it were strong enough. Of course, lighter stones, for example of three hundred pounds, could have been used and would have benefitted from the immense potential energy stored by lifting such a great mass. A weight of at least fifteen tons would be recommended to ensure that the machine could operate effectively when casting three-hundred-pound stones.6 Thus, in assuming three-hundred-pound projectiles, and the counterweight necessary to adequately propel these, Warwolf was likely of comparable size to the machine drawn by Honnecourt. Trebuchets were one of the greatest feats of medieval engineering and military technology, but the demands of constructing them are often overlooked. 2 3

4

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Michael Prestwich, Armies and Warfare in the Middle Ages: The English Experience (New Haven, 1996), pp. 288, 300. A. Z. Freeman, “Wall-Breakers and River-Bridgers: Military Engineers in the Scottish Wars of Edward I,” Journal of British Studies 10 (1971), 1–16 at p. 14. Also, see Chronicon domini Walteri de Hemingburgh… de gestis regum Angliae, vol. 2 (London, 1849), p. 231. Roland Bechmann estimates that Honnecourt’s machine would have been twenty metres tall. See Bechmann, “Engins de guerre médiévaux à balancier: Le trébuchet de Villard de Honnecourt,” Historica 501 (1988), 52–62. And Bechmann, “Le trébuchet de Villard,” Pour la science 119 (1987), 11–12. Assuming a fill of dry, loose dirt or gravel weighing seventy-five pounds per cubic foot. Engineers could have maximized the mass of the counterweight by using wet earth, stones, or lead. See Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, p. 288. That this counterweight box contains at least 1,296 cubic feet is agreed upon by Bertrand Gille, Engineers of the Renaissance (Cambridge, MA, 1966), p. 26. For the French foot, see R. E. Zupko, French Weights and Measures before the Revolution: A Dictionary of Provincial and Local Units (Bloomington and London, 1978). Assuming 300-pound projectiles, 30,000 pounds would be needed to satisfy the 100:1 counterweight-to-projectile ratio promoted by Donald Siano. In other words, trebuchets operate most efficiently when the counterweight is at least one hundred times more massive than the projectile. Donald Siano, “Trebuchet Mechanics,” November 2013. http://www.algobeautytreb.com/trebmath356.pdf [accessed 12 February 2022].



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Building Warwolf required a team of five master carpenters and forty-nine other workers, and took more than three months.7 Warwolf was not alone, for several other similar machines were enormous. Victorious, used in the Siege of Acre in 1291, was perhaps even larger, and required one hundred carts to transport.8 Building and setting up these machines from dozens of heavy components presented obstacles and challenges. Unfortunately, these challenges are often ignored, leading to the size of Edward’s prized engine being exaggerated on some websites and popular media. Learning about these challenges, and how medieval craftsmen solved them and deployed large trebuchets, helps us to understand the scale of operations and logistics in siege warfare. This article examines how a counterweight trebuchet is assembled on site by documenting an extensive series of experiments to reconstruct a machine in accordance with medieval methods and sources. Primary Sources The most reliable sources give evidence of the large scale of trebuchets and the mechanical winches needed to assemble and operate them. These sources include the notebook of Villard de Honnecourt, the Bellifortis, the Elegant Book of Trebuchets, and the Anonymous of the Hussite Wars. These were written and illustrated by people who had experience with trebuchets during their period of use. They form the basis of this study, and are supplemented, with caution, by a variety of common manuscript illustrations, a handful of narrative accounts, and previous reconstruction experiments. The earliest of these sources, a drawing by the French architect Villard de Honnecourt (Figure 1), features capstans: important devices in trebuchet operation and assembly. His ground plan for a large trebuchet in the thirteenth century is accompanied with a brief description in Old French: If you desire to make the strong engine which is called a trebuchet, pay attention to these pages. This is the sole (or frame of the base) just as it rests on the ground. In front are seen the two capstans, and the doubled rope by which the verge is hauled down. This you can see in the other page. The hauling down of the verge is a serious affair, for the counterpoise is very heavy. For it is a chest full of earth, which is two great toises (twelve feet) long, and nine feet broad, and twelve feet deep. Consider also the unlocking of the detent, and take heed thereto, for it must be attached to the stanchion in front.9

7 8 9

Prestwich, Armies and Warfare, pp. 288, 300. Michael Fulton, “Development of Prefabricated Artillery during the Crusades,” Journal of Medieval Military History 13 (2015), 51–72 at p. 70. Facsimile of the Sketch-Book of Wilars De Honecort, An Architect of the Thirteenth Century, ed. and trans. Rev. Robert Willis, illus. M. J. B. A. Lassus (London, 1859), See plate LVIII, pp. 194–203.

Figure 1  The ground plan of a trebuchet drawn by Villard de Honnecourt. The rear of the machine, with attachments for the capstans, is at the top of the page. The axles for the capstans are the round circles where the rope terminates; these axles would have been turned with handspikes which were parallel to the ground. Note the dots, representing pegs, in the wood joinery, and the Escheresque nature of the timber structure, which can be explained by half-lap joints (for half-lap joints, see Sobon and Schroeder, 41). Villard de Honnecourt, Album de dessins et croquis, folio 30r, Bibliothèque nationale de France 19093, gallica.bnf.fr.



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Although the elevation plan or “other page” of this machine has been lost, the plan of the machine’s base reveals a framework pieced together with tenons and pegs, representing heavy timber framing. Honnecourt states that the capstans, mounted at the front, which is actually the rear of the machine, are used to load the machine by hauling down the verge, or throwing arm, thus raising the counterweight. Capstans are mechanical winches used to apply a force to a rope by winding it around a drum and turning the drum with handle spokes that provide leverage. A capstan is similar to a windlass, but the two are differentiated in that a capstan drum is mounted vertically and a windlass drum is mounted horizontally. Extant examples of capstans can be seen on the wreck of the Mary Rose.10 The mechanical advantage provided by these capstans would be absolutely necessary, since, as Honnecourt states, “the hauling down of the verge is a serious affair, for the counter-poise is very heavy.”11 These capstans would also prove useful during the erection of the machine itself, which will be seen below. Despite contention as to his background, Honnecourt seems to have had useful knowledge of trebuchets.12 His drawing shows the scale of large counterweight trebuchets, and his emphasis of the mechanism used to load the machine shows the importance of these mechanical aids in the system. The upper limit of trebuchet size is seen in the Bellifortis, a military manual written in Germany by Conrad Kyeser around 1405. It depicts a wide variety of siege weaponry and machines, some of which are quite elaborate.13 There are several versions of the text, each featuring different illustrations, but the Innsbruck and Gottingen manuscripts are the most relevant.14 Both drawings show heavy timber joinery and woodwork (Figures 2–4). The labeled dimensions give the machines’ astounding size; the Innsbruck trebuchet would have stood almost eighty-nine feet tall.15 The components would have been quite heavy; these trebuchets would not have been built lightly or by inexperienced craftsmen. Accompanying the Gottingen drawing, the text on the back of the previous page reads: “This is the giant blida [trebuchet], by which all are vanquished.

10 11

12 13

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Douglas McElvogue, Tudor Warship Mary Rose (Annapolis, 2015), pp. 108–09. 294 Willis, Honecourt, p. 195. Additionally, Wurstisen of Basel describes the counterweight of a trebuchet in the churchyard of Basel as being “an unspeakably heavy load.” William Dean, Rudolf Schneider’s The Artillery of the Middle Ages (Columbia, 2019), p. 106. Carl F. Barnes, Jr., “The ‘Problem’ of Villard de Honnecourt,” Les batisseurs des cathedrales gothiques (Strasbourg, 1989), pp. 209–23. A complete scan of the Bellifortis is found online through Goethe University at Frankfurt. Conradus Kyeser, Bellifortis (Alsace, c.1460) Ms. Germ. Qu. 15. See folio 41. http:// sammlungen.ub.uni-frankfurt.de/urn/urn:nbn:de:hebis:30:2-14639. See also Lynn White, Jr., “Kyeser’s ‘Bellifortis’: The First Technological Treatise of the Fifteenth Century,” Technology and Culture 10 (1969), 436–41. Paul E. Chevedden, “The Invention of the Counterweight Trebuchet: A Study in Cultural Diffusion,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 54 (2000), 71–116, plates 3 and 4. Innsbruck Bellifortis, via Chevedden, “Invention of the Counterweight Trebuchet,” plate 4.

Figure 2 (above)  The trebuchet from the Gottingen manuscript of the Bellifortis, c.1405. The windlass spoke design was used successfully on the author’s reconstructed machine. This spoke design avoids drilling any holes in the windlass axle, which would compromise its strength, and the latticework of spokes provides redundant strength. SUB Göttingen, 2o Cod. Ms. philos. 63 Cim., fol. 30r.

Figure 4  The ground plan of the trebuchet from the Innsbruck manuscript. Note the size of the pieces labeled in feet and the mortises in the sleepers that accept the bents. Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, Innsbruck, FB 32009: Konrad Kyeser: Bellifortis, fol.: 33v.

Figure 3 (opposite, below)  The trebuchet from the Innsbruck manuscript of the Bellifortis. Note that the throwing arm is made of multiple pieces of timber that are wedged and lashed together. Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, Innsbruck, FB 32009: Konrad Kyeser: Bellifortis, fol.: 33r.

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By the stones it throws, towers and walls are destroyed. Fortified towns, cities, and villages are laid open before it.”16 While giving a dramatic indication of the size and power of the machine, this text itself does not help in determining its exact size or how it was constructed. Although difficult to translate, the text accompanying the Innsbruck drawing makes clear the large size of the machine and some details regarding how it was constructed: Note that the machine is to be made in the shape of a triangle, and one side should be 48 “workfeet” (werchschuch) long [13.82 meters], and half of the length across the [throwing arm of] the beam [i.e., 24 “workfeet” = 6.91 meters] should be the same length as the axle, then to the axle from which the [counterweight] box hangs should be 8 [“work”] feet [2.3 meters]. The hole in the beam, by which it is attached to [the uprights of] the machine, should be underneath the centerline, [and] the other hole in the middle of the beam for the box should be above the centerline… The axle, which is attached to the beam, should be round at the beam and square at the top [of the uprights] of the machine [so in MS for: “square at the beam and round at the top (of the uprights) of the machine”]. The axle at the far end of the beam, where the [counterweight] box hangs, should be square at the beam and round at the box [so in MS for: “round at the beam and square at the box”].17

The size of the Bellifortis machine described must have been at, if not beyond, the practical limit of trebuchet design as dictated by physics. As the throwing arm grows larger, it must also become heavier, and the counterweight would spend more energy rotating the beam than throwing the projectile. Timbers of increasing size see diminishing returns in strength, and components of the machine, especially the main pivot axle, would begin to suffer under their own weight. The Innsbruck drawing shows an arm made not from one but at least three timbers mortised and lashed together; the arm itself must have weighed several tons. The strengths of the main pivot axle and the throwing arm are the critical limiting components for the design, and if either fails, the effects on the machine could be fatal.18 Assuming the engineer possessed the needed construction experience, the size of a given trebuchet would be limited by the difficulty in obtaining large enough timbers. Marino Sanudo writes that “the catapult should have a strong container, main pole and cross-bar… How such a large catapult on the earth performs depends on the strength of the main pole.”19 Abbot Suger, in restoring the Church of Saint-Denis in the twelfth century, describes having to travel 16 17 18 19

Dean, Rudolf Schneider’s The Artillery of the Middle Ages, p. 102. Chevedden et al., “The Traction Trebuchet: a triumph of four civilizations,” Viator 31 (2000), 433–86 at p. 462. Peter Purton, The Medieval Military Engineer: From the Roman Empire to the Sixteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2018), p. 169. Marino Sanudo Torsello, The Book of the Secrets of the Faithful of the Cross, trans. Peter Lock (Oxfordshire, 2020), p. 136.



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to a neighboring region and search personally in its forest for trees capable of making the necessary wooden trusses: “But when we inquired both of our own carpenters and those of Paris where we might find beams we were told… that such could in no wise be found in these regions owing to the lack of woods.”20 General William Parsons, in writing about Renaissance truss designs, writes: “The difficulty of obtaining single timbers long enough to serve as a tension member in a truss spanning an opening of 50 feet or more must have been very real.”21 The medieval English archaeologist Malcolm Hislop, from his experience, concludes: “The width of a building, or, strictly speaking, the width of the space within it was restricted by the length of timbers available for the roof. This was seldom more than 11m (36 ft), and buildings of greater width could only be achieved by introducing one or more structural divisions.”22 After conquering Antioch in the crusades, Baybars sent a letter to Bohemond VI bragging about his newly available timber resources for building artillery.23 The trebuchet depicted in the Bellifortis above refers to some beams forty-eight feet long, and the throwing arm would have been at least fifty-six feet long, made as a composite of multiple timbers.24 It should be said that although the Bellifortis describes a machine of this size, this cannot prove that it was actually built. If some trebuchets were built this large, they must have been very rare, at the natural limits of design, and only possible when available timbers could be procured. The Elegant Book of Trebuchets is the only source that depicts trebuchets in various stages of construction. It is a Mamluk technical manuscript written by Yusuf ibn Urunbugha al-Zaradkash in 1462–63.25 The work features a short introduction by Zaradkash before it turns to a series of drawings with scarcely labeled parts.26 These drawings range from trebuchets to gunpowder weapons, flammable projectiles, fortress designs, and other weaponry.27 The traditional 20 21 22 23 24 25

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Abbot Suger on the Abbey Church of Saint-Denis and Its Treasures, ed. E. Panofsky (Princeton, 1946), p. 95. William Barclay Parsons, Engineers and Engineering in the Renaissance (Cambridge, MA, 1968), p. 487. Malcolm Hislop, Castle Builders: Approaches to Castle Design and Construction in the Middle Ages (Barnsley, 2016), p. 33. Michael S. Fulton, Siege Warfare During the Crusades (Yorkshire, PA, 2019), p. 163. These are noted by Chevedden to be workfeet, slightly shorter than a modern foot. Innsbruck Bellifortis, via Chevedden, “Invention of the Counterweight Trebuchet,” plate 4. The original manuscript is in the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul; however, I have worked with a version published by Iḥsān Hindī. Aranbughā Zaradkāsh, al-Anīq fī al-manājanīq, ed. Iḥsān Hindī (Aleppo, 1985). The labels on these drawings, as well as some of Hindī’s commentary, have been kindly translated for me in rough form by Dr Danielle Ross at Utah State University. The only primary source text accompanying the images are the short introduction and the labels on the drawings. Unfortunately, I have been unable to source image permissions for the original manuscript, so the figures included are line drawings of the key pages. I have not included the primary source text that labels items in these line drawings. The book depicts trebuchets of the couillard type, as well as a strange type of trebuchet

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Figure 5  The conventional trebuchet depicted in the Elegant Book, c.1462–63. The wheel at the front of the machine represents the windlass. The counterweight here is propped forward perpendicular to the arm. The rectangle on the large end of the throwing arm likely represents a weight helping to balance the beam. The figures that are included here from the Elegant Book are line drawings by the author.

counterweight trebuchet depicted (Figure 5) features a forward-mounted windlass and a weight on the throwing arm to counterbalance the beam; the counterweight box appears to be propped forward: the latter two especially are advanced features. that is not fully understood and has not yet been recreated: The Black Camel. See Paul E. Chevedden, “Black Camels and Blazing Bolts: The Bolt-Projecting Trebuchet in the Mamluk Army,” Mamluk Studies Review 7 (2004), 228–77.



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Michael Basista, in describing the balance of a trebuchet’s throwing arm, mentions “a small counterpoise attached to the short end of a trebuchet throwing arm would increase the overall weight of the arm, but… if properly balanced would negate most of the perceived weight.”28 This allows the machine’s main counterweight to put more energy into accelerating the projectile and less into rotating the beam. Propping the counterweight box – or angling it out and upward from the arm to a moderate degree – decreases the force acting on the throwing arm when cocked by distributing some of the strain to the arm on the other side of the main axle.29 The presence of these features shows that Zaradkash was experienced with siege weaponry, and his work represents the height of trebuchet technology in the period. His section that deals with constructing a traditional trebuchet depicts a machine in various stages of completion. Unfortunately, the Elegant Book was discovered late in my research, so some of its construction methods were not attempted, but it does provide insights and corroborates techniques that were used in the experiments which will be discussed below. The Anonymous of the Hussite Wars features detailed drawings both of trebuchets and the mechanical hoists that were used to assemble them. A central European technical treatise from the mid-fifteenth century, it contains many drawings of machines both military and civil in nature, and two drawings of trebuchets, which also feature windlasses.30 However, the most relevant drawings of this work depict shear leg hoists, which will be described below. This work is contemporary with both cannon and trebuchets, and the hoists shown in this manuscript were used to raise the throwing arms into position on trebuchets, as well as lift beams during building construction. Another valuable text for understanding trebuchet design was composed by Marino Sanudo in 1321 for Pope John XXII, in a plan for launching a new crusade: For the construction of the common machine: The hips of a machine ought to be as broad on the ground as the height of the machine at its tip and underneath the said machine ought to be open on the ground, between 2 hips minus a third part [of its height]: that is, if the aforesaid machine is 24 feet at its highest point, it ought to be 16 feet on the ground…31

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Michael Basista, “Hybrid or Counterpoise? A Study of Transitional Trebuchets,” The Journal of Medieval Military History 5 (2007), 33–55 at p. 50. Wayne Neel, “Design Considerations for a Large Trebuchet,” Timber Framing 44 (1997), 12–14. Bert S. Hall, The Technological Illustrations of the so-called “Anonymous of the Hussite Wars,” Codex Latinus Monacensis 197, Part I (Wiesbaden, 1979). For trebuchets, see folios 24v, 32v–33r, and pp. 60–61. Torsello, The Book of the Secrets of the Faithful of the Cross, p. 135.

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The account continues to discuss the preferred arm ratio for two types of trebuchets. This description exemplifies the design process that would have been followed by an engineer of the period, in that these machines are designed based on proportions and ratios that would have been learned through trial and error and passed down through generations of craftsmen.32 The ratios promoted by Sanudo, however, were discovered too late in this study to have been used in the reconstruction. Experimental Reconstructions Since there are no surviving trebuchets, the sources above are the best available for gaining technical information on trebuchet construction. Peter Hansen, citing Bernhard Rathgen, mentions a trebuchet that was uncovered in storage in nineteenth-century Prussia, but it was burned for firewood and no details of the machine were recorded.33 There are many written historical accounts that discuss trebuchets, but few are useful for learning about how the machines were actually assembled. Images from illustrated manuscripts pose similar problems since most are secondary to the author’s purpose and merely serve as representations of the machines. In lieu of more detailed evidence or treatises on medieval artillery, we must turn to experimental reconstruction of these machines to learn how they were built. Reconstructions of counterweight trebuchets have been made by several historians, archaeologists, and engineers. The first was by Napoleon III of France in 1851, led by Captain Ildefonse Favé.34 Not much is known about the construction, and the machine reportedly broke down after several launches.35 For more than a century afterwards, trebuchet reconstructions seem to have been scarce. In the 1990s, archaeologist Peter Hansen built several trebuchets at the Middelaldercentret in Denmark; his designs widely influence reconstructions at museums and castles.36 Engineer Wayne Neel led the reconstruction of a thirtythree-foot machine at the Virginia Military Institute (VMI) in 1997.37 Craftsman Renaud Beffeyte has built dozens of reconstructed machines in France through 32

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Renaud Beffeyte states that ratios of trebuchets were memorized with animal figures and handed down. Nova. “Secrets of Lost Empires: Medieval Siege.” Directed by Michael Barnes. Aired February 1, 2000 on PBS, WGBH, see thirty-two-minute mark. Peter Vemming Hansen, “Experimental Reconstruction of a Medieval Trebuchet,” Acta archaeologica 63 (1992), 189–208. Hansen, “Experimental Reconstruction,” pp. 193–94. Peter Vemming Hansen, “Reconstructing a Medieval Trebuchet,” trans. Bob Rayce, Military Illustrated 27 (1990), 9–16 at p. 10. Hansen, “Experimental Reconstruction,” and “Reconstructing a Medieval Trebuchet.” Also, Peter Vemming Hansen, “The Witch with Ropes for Hair,” Military Illustrated 47 (1992), 15–20. Ed Levin, “Building the Lexington Bellifortis,” Timber Framing 44 (1997), 10–11; and Wayne Neel, “Design Considerations for a Large Trebuchet,” Timber Framing 44 (1997), 12–14. See Timber Framing 44 generally for other articles about this construction.



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his company, Armedieval, founded in 1984.38 Neel and Beffeyte both designed separate full-scale machines of different types (hinged and fixed counterweight) at Loch Ness in Scotland for the Nova episode “Secrets of Lost Empires: Medieval Siege” which aired in 2001; this has been a great inspiration for many people interested in trebuchets.39 Archaeologist Tanel Saimre also constructed an engine in 2002 in Estonia.40 Reconstructions like these help us to understand the operation of trebuchets and to evaluate the performance and capabilities of medieval mechanical artillery. Many of these reconstructions have been excellent projects in experimental archaeology and have revealed much about trebuchets. Experimental archaeology, the process of recreating methods or technologies from the past, is closely related to historical practice, and provides an understanding of form or function that cannot be gathered from the available sources alone. Neel, Vemming Hansen, and Beffeyte in particular have all overseen machines based on historical sources and built with traditional woodworking methods.41 Much of what has already been done will be built upon here. However, the process of assembling the machine on site has not been discussed in detail in literature. My work will examine techniques used to erect the structure of a trebuchet. The raising process must be broken down into key steps, and these steps would have been similar across medieval cultures due to the nature of these machines and large wooden structures in general. Scale of this Project Here, the construction of a counterweight trebuchet which measures thirty-three feet tall provides a unique lens with which to discuss the general assembly process and explore the methods for raising trebuchets off the ground. This experimental trebuchet was first constructed in the fall of 2017. Guided by research and trial-and-error, the prototype was redesigned, rebuilt, and more successfully tested in the fall of 2018, and rebuilt again in the summers of 2019, 2020, and 2021. The processes discussed are thus based on the practical experience gained from more than a dozen complete assemblies and disassembles of this machine over a period of five years. In order to understand the problems of lifting and positioning heavy pieces, it is necessary to build to a large scale. Certainly, building a sixty-foot machine would reveal all the difficulties of assembling a trebuchet, but it would also require money, time, manpower, and other unavailable resources. Furthermore, building a large-scale machine for this study was unreasonable without consid38 39 40 41

Renaud Beffeyte, War Machines in the Middle Ages (Rennes, 2008). Nova. “Secrets of Lost Empires: Medieval Siege.” Tanel Saimre, “Trebuchet – A Gravity-Operated Siege Engine,” Estonian Journal of Archaeology 10 (2006), 61–80. Neel was assisted by the Timber Framers Guild and Hansen credits his machines to millwrights, while Beffeyte himself is experienced in medieval woodworking.

Figure 6  The Sentinel, the author’s reconstructed machine, as of October 2019. In October of 2021, this machine used 1,900 pounds of dirt, in the 465-pound wooden counterweight box, to throw a 15 pound bowling ball 999 feet. To reduce wood fatigue, most of the sandbags are taken out of the box when not in use.



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erable previous experience. Conversely, building a small model of a height of, say, less than fifteen feet, would be relatively easy and inexpensive, but less helpful in learning the realities of full construction, since pieces can be easily handled and manipulated into position. My interest in trebuchets began with the pumpkin toss contest hosted every year by the American Society of Mechanical Engineers at Utah State University. The size of this machine was determined by the contest rules and maintained by balancing ambition with practicality. This competition requires that the main axle of a machine is no more than fifteen feet off the ground, which already serves to produce a machine of decent scale. With an axle height of fifteen feet, my machine is thirty-three feet from the ground to the top of the throwing arm when assembled and at rest. This scale serves the aims of the project well. Although less than half of the overall height of the machine depicted by Honnecourt, this could be called a fullscale machine, since small machines of this size were probably more common than the very large ones. At this size, the difficulties of assembly must be overcome in much the same way as for the largest machines. But the scale does not make things so difficult as to discourage student teams or to make assembly impossible without a large crew, experienced workers, and heavy tools. In cases where this scale allows assembly methods that would not be possible with larger components, I examine how it could be attempted for larger machines. In keeping with the medieval practice of naming trebuchets, the machine built for this project has most recently been called the Sentinel (Figure 6). Assembly Process In a medieval siege, the majority of a trebuchet’s pieces would be readied on site before the machine was assembled in one sequence. Once all the pieces are fabricated, the process of erecting the machine can begin. As much work as possible is done on the ground, with the process moving upward only as necessary. The machine’s base, or ground frame, is first laid out and joined together. This base must be thoroughly leveled through earthwork and blocking, or else the finished engine risks having the counterweight collide with the supporting frame, thereby destroying the machine.42 After the base is completed and leveled, the two triangle-shaped frames, or bents, are then laid out on the ground. On the Sentinel, the axle blocks are slid onto the tower pieces and all the joints on these structures are connected with pegged mortice and tenon joints. Once the bents are complete, they are tipped up into the vertical position as in a traditional barn-raising.43 The lateral braces, 42

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It is important to decrease the main axle span to reduce the bending stress on the axle, but also important to maintain enough spare clearance between the counterweight box and the frames; this must be carefully balanced. This problem can be aided by angling the frames inward as they make their way up to the main axle. Jack Sobon and Roger Schroeder, Timber Frame Construction: All About Post-And-Beam

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Figure 7  Standing a bent of the trebuchet’s frame. This task would be more difficult with a larger machine, requiring hoisting equipment, likely a gin pole.

which support the bents sideways, are joined into each as it is raised; these are the pieces with ladder rungs on the Sentinel, just like those on the Kyeser illustration. With the bent-raising system, “the work of cutting the [wood] joints might have taken months, but the actual raising could be done in hours.”44 On the Sentinel, the bents can be tipped up by hand with two people (see Figure 7), but on a larger or heavier machine, ropes and additional tackle, such as the shear legs discussed below, would be needed to raise them. Raising the Throwing Arm In assembling a medieval trebuchet, the core of the entire process is raising the throwing arm. Once the ground frame is leveled and the bents are stood and supported laterally, the support frame of the machine is completed. The arm then needs to be lifted into position and seated in the blocks with the main axle. On the Sentinel, this means that a spruce tree twenty-four feet long, weighing 360 pounds, needs to be somehow lifted fifteen feet in the air.45 On

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Building (North Adams, 1984), pp. 21–23 and 133–40. Ibid., p. 22. The first attempt at overcoming this obstacle in 2017 used a permanent pulley tower on



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a full-size machine, this would be even more demanding, requiring that a tree or laminated arm, weighing over 11,000 pounds, would need to be raised more than forty feet.46 Several methods of raising the throwing arm are shown in historical sources, including shear legs, a header bar, and a ramp. Shear legs were used in this project to assemble the Sentinel, because the latter two ideas were only discovered later through the Elegant Book. Shear legs were first described by the engineer Vitruvius in the late first century BCE, and by Hero of Alexandria in the next century.47 This description by Vitruvius begins his chapter on hoisting machines: First we shall treat of those machines which are of necessity made ready when temples and public buildings are to be constructed. Two timbers are provided, strong enough for the weight of the load. They are fastened together at the upper end by a bolt, then spread apart at the bottom, and so set up, being kept upright by ropes attached at the upper ends and fixed at intervals all round. At the top is fastened a block, which some call a “rechamus.” In the block two sheaves are enclosed, turning on axles. The traction rope is carried over the sheave at the top, then let fall and passed round a sheave in a block below. Then it is brought back to a sheave at the bottom of the upper block, and so it goes down to the lower block, where it is fastened through a hole in that block. The other end of the rope is brought back and down between the legs of the machine. Socket-pieces are nailed to the hinder faces of the squared timbers at the point where they spread apart, and the ends of the windlass are inserted into them so that the axles may turn freely… When one end of the rope is fastened to the windlass, and the latter is turned round by working the handspikes, the rope winds round the windlass, gets taut, and thus it raises the load to the proper height.48

Shear legs are two poles connected at the apex and raised into the air, resembling an A-frame. Their purpose is to create a point in the air used to lift something up – in fact, it is one of the simplest and most stable ways of doing so. Through the system of blocks and ropes, threading from one block to another, Vitruvius is describing a block and tackle suspended from the apex, being used to lift the load. When lifting, the shears transfer the load force down each leg

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each of the bents, simply redirecting a rope up, through the pulley, under the throwing arm, up through the second pulley, and back down. The rope was pulled directly down on each free end to lift the tree. This idea proved to be extremely hazardous and difficult due to the instability of the towers and the lack of mechanical advantage, prompting the search for a more effective and more historical system to accomplish this task. The hinged counterweight machine built at Loch Ness had a throwing arm that weighed 11,000 pounds. Ed Levin, “The Highland Fling,” Timber Framing 50 (December 1998), 14–19. See Timber Framing 50 generally for articles about the Loch Ness reconstructions. A. G. Drachmann, The Mechanical Technology of Greek and Roman Antiquity: A Study of the Literary Sources (Copenhagen, 1963), pp. 97–102. Vitruvius Pollio, De architectura 10.2.1–2, trans. Morris Hicky Morgan (Cambridge, MA, 1914), p. 285.

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to the ground and function mainly under compression, staying vertical because of the ropes, or guy lines, which are commonly tied off to a system of picket anchors.49 Although a shear-type hoist can feature between one and four legs, the two-legged type is most useful for trebuchet building since it combines strength, mobility, and ease of use. A single shear-timber is referred to as a gin pole and has also been used since ancient times.50 Vitruvius says: “There is also another kind of machine… it consists of a single timber, which is set up and held in place by stays on four sides.”51 However, two timbers are stronger and more stable than one, and need fewer stabilization ropes, or guy lines. In either case, the load can be moved forward and backward with tag lines – ropes attached directly to the load, used to manipulate the load laterally. If necessary, the shears can be leaned forward or backward while under load through adjusting the guy lines,52 whereas the three- and four-legged type cannot be adjusted under load and are trickier to position.53 The gin pole is more difficult for a beginner to set up; in fact, Vitruvius cautions that “only experts can work with it.”54 Hence, regular two-legged shear legs were chosen for these experiments. Shear legs would have been regularly utilized to hoist the throwing arm into position on trebuchets in the medieval period. As Bert Hall states, shear leg hoists “were engineering commonplaces,” used “throughout the Middle Ages [and the ancient world] as heavy duty lifters”.55 Although they are an ingredient in larger or more permanent hoisting devices, shear legs are also used by themselves for smaller projects, and a crane in the modern sense is not needed to assemble a trebuchet. Shear legs were used to raise the hinged counterweight trebuchet at the Loch Ness trials and for the assembly of the trebuchet at VMI.56 49

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For an introduction to the block and tackle, see United States Department of the Army, FM 5-125 Rigging Techniques, Procedures, and Applications, 2001, chapters 3-12, 3-13. The block and tackle, or compound pulley system, is usually attributed to Archimedes, and extant pulleys have been found from ancient Greece. See J. W. Shaw, “A DoubleSheaved Pulley Block from Kenchreai,” Hesperia 36, no. 4 (1967), 389–401. For more about picket anchors and shear legs, see FM 5-125, chapters 4 and 5. See also an excellent series on traditional raising, knots, and lifting calculations written by Grigg Mullen and Will Beemer in Timber Framing Magazine, issues 67–69, March, June, and September 2003. Sobon and Schroder, Timber Frame Construction, pp. 133–35. Vitruvius, De architectura 10.2.8. Do not attempt this without tackle or mechanical advantage on the guy lines, of a similar stature to the tackle on the load itself. It is best to lean the shears as little as possible, since the force on the rear guy line quickly surpasses the weight of the load itself on leans beyond thirty degrees. To achieve a further travel for the load, the shears should be made taller. J. G. Landels, Engineering in the Ancient World (Berkeley, 1978), pp. 87–88. Vitruvius, De architectura 10.2.8. Hall, Hussite Wars, p. 44. Renaud Beffeyte, “A Serious Challenge,” Timber Framing 50 (1998), 12–13. An excellent picture of these shears can be seen on the cover of Timber Framing 50. See also Nova,



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Shear legs and tackle are still used to raise bents on timber-framed houses and to install masts on tall ships.57 The Anonymous of the Hussite Wars shows many examples of independent shear leg hoists, with the most straightforward being folios 2r, 6r, and 25v.58 Each of these depicts a set of shears, with a block and tackle system suspended from the apex. The fall line of the tackle – the part of the line that exits the pulley system and is pulled to raise the load – is directed into a windlass mounted on an inverted Y-branch on one of the legs. Folio 2r features a block and tackle which is hooked onto one of the legs near the apex and could be easily unhooked and used for other applications (Figure 8). In other words, the tackle of this hoist is not integral. This is not the case with folio 25v, where the pulley sheaves themselves are worked into the hoist and would not function separately (Figure 9). The tackle in folio 6r is detachable but has been doubled-up for extra strength in the lines Figure 10). This doubling-up is corroborated by Vitruvius as he describes how to use shears to lift colossal loads: “The blocks in such machines are not arranged in the same, but in a different manner, for the rows of sheaves in them are doubled, both at the bottom and the top.”59 The shears in folio 6r also appear to have three legs and not two, but the hoist could work without the third leg. The hoists in the Hussite Wars are attributed to lifting cannons but could also have been used for trebuchet assembly and other purposes. The hoist in folio 2r is depicted lifting a cannon, presumably to place it on a carriage, but the other two have no attached load. Hall mentions that these shear leg hoists were designed to be broken down for transport with an army’s supply train.60 A set of shear legs could come in handy during a campaign, whether raising a trebuchet, fixing a cannon carriage, or building or dismantling other engines and structures. If these hoists could handle cannons, the weights of trebuchet arms would be generally similar, if not lower.61 However, the task of assembling a large trebuchet would require shear legs that were significantly taller, due to the greater height.

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“Secrets of Lost Empires: Medieval Siege,” 25:21 timestamp. See also: Evan Hadingham, “Ready… Aim… Fire!” photographs by Patrick Ward, Smithsonian 30, no. 10 (January 2000), 78–87; Janice Wormington, “How I spent my Spring Vacation,” Timber Framing 44 (1997), 15–19. Grigg Mullen, “Lifting Apparatus Calculations,” Timber Framing 69 (September 2003), 29–33; Darcy Lever, The Young Officer’s Sheet Anchor: or a Key to the Leading of Rigging and to Practical Seamanship (Mineola, 1998), pp. 17–18. Hall, Hussite Wars, p. 43. Vitruvius, De architectura 10.2.6. Hall, Hussite Wars, p. 44. The tree used for the reconstructed hinged machine at Loch Ness weighed around 11,000 pounds, and Mons Meg, the famous bombard, extant, weighs over 15,000 pounds. Levin, “Highland Fling,” p. 14; Peter Purton, A History of the Late Medieval Siege, 1200–1500 (Woodbridge, 2010), p. 276.

Figure 8  Folio 2r of the Hussite Wars: a shear leg hoist raising a cannon. Note the integral windlass, vertically stacked pulley sheaves, and the iron bolts and plating. The weights of large trebuchet throwing arms are comparable to cannons. Anonymus der Hussitenkriege, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 197,I, folio 2r.

Figure 9  Folio 25v of the Hussite Wars. The tackle system here is worked into the hoist itself. Anonymus der Hussitenkriege, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 197,I, folio 25v.

Figure 10  Folio 6r of the Hussite Wars. The tackle here are doubled-up, which does not increase mechanical advantage, but increases the lifting strength of the system. Anonymus der Hussitenkriege, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 197,I, folio 6r.



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The shears for the Sentinel were assembled from repurposed four-inch by six-inch lumber. Each side was designed, through trigonometry, to be long enough to let the legs completely straddle the bents of the trebuchet frame width-wise, when spread open at thirty degrees, making the finished A-frame about twenty-three feet tall, or 50% taller than the fifteen-foot height of the bents. The shears are joined at the apex with threaded rod, nuts, and washers. The legs are offset at this joint to allow the shears to be spread open and closed: the former for use and the latter for setting aside and transportation. Many of the hoists in the Hussite Wars manuscript are similarly constructed, and asymmetrical to facilitate folding up for transportation or storage. Doubtless many shears in history were bound together at the apex with rope, and shears for the purpose of raising a trebuchet could be as simple as two logs lashed together. But metal fittings and iron were used to join the heavy-duty hoists shown in the Hussite Wars.62 Metal fittings are also mentioned by Vitruvius when he describes a shear-leg-style crane.63 Interestingly, however, Hero of Alexandria cautions against using bolts, as they require holes to be drilled into the wood, thus weakening the legs themselves. He recommends instead using only lashings on shear legs for lifting heavy loads.64 The shears need no obstructions between the legs in order to cleanly straddle the frame of the trebuchet and allow the raising of the arm. But for safety, the feet of the shears were tied together with a rope running between the trebuchet frame just above ground level, preventing the legs from spreading open under load. No such connecting pieces are seen in the Hussite War hoists, indicating that this may not be a concern when the legs have solid footing. Raising and lowering the shears can be dangerous. The shears are tipped up and backwards, pivoting on their feet at the ground. The riskiest part of the process is when the apex is closest to the ground, since each foot needs to be to prevented from sliding. This has been solved by driving wooden stakes at their base. The apex should be raised off the ground by hand as far as possible, at least twelve degrees, before the rear guy line is pulled in; otherwise the feet will uproot the wooden stakes, or tension on the rear guy line may snap it.65 Raising the shears can be made much easier by utilizing a windlass. Vitruvius describes raising a large shear crane by turning its own on-board windlass: When these are ready, let forestays be attached and left lying slack in front; let the backstays be carried over the shoulders of the machine to some distance, and, if there is nothing to which they can be fastened, sloping piles should be driven, 62 63 64 65

Hall, Hussite Wars, p. 44. Vitruvius, De architectura 10.2.1. A. G. Drachmann, “A Note on Ancient Cranes,” A History of Technology, vol. 2, ed. Charles Singer (Oxford, 1956), 658–62 at p. 661. Avoid load angles more acute than twelve degrees, as specified in modern sailboat design when staying a ship’s mast. Brion Toss, The Complete Rigger’s Apprentice: Tools and Techniques for Modern and Traditional Rigging, illus. Robert Shetterly (New York, 2016), Chapter 5.

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Figure 11  Raising the shear legs using the trebuchet’s windlass. Redirecting the rope over the axle is necessary to improve the lifting angle in the initial stages. The ratchet on the windlass makes raising safe, but unfortunately cannot be utilized during lowering, so the latter needs to be done more attentively. the ground rammed down all round to fix them firmly, and the ropes made fast to them. A block should then be attached by a stout cord to the top of the machine, and from that point a rope should be carried to a pile, and to a block tied to the pile. Let the rope be put in round the sheave of this block, and brought back to the block that is fastened at the top of the machine. Round its sheave the rope should be passed, and then should go down from the top, and back to the windlass, which is at the bottom of the machine, and there be fastened. The windlass is now to be turned by means of the handspikes, and it will raise the machine of itself without danger.66

Our project involved utilizing the trebuchet’s on-board windlass to tip the shear legs upright. Since the windlass is at the rear, the shears were laid out on the ground to the front of the machine. The main axle of the trebuchet was temporarily placed in the blocks, and then the rear guy line for the shears was passed over it and redirected down into the windlass. Taking this line up and over the axle makes the initial raising angle much more favorable, thereby making raising safer and easier (Figure 11). In fact, the windlass can be used as the anchor for the rear guy line of the shears while later hoisting the arm. The ratchet gears on the windlass hold this line steady and allow for easy tensioning, eliminating the need to unwind the rope from the windlass and tie it off elsewhere.67 However, this results in significant force on the rear line, since it goes straight from the windlass, at the back of the trebuchet, to the apex of the shears, at the middle of the trebuchet, at a 66 67

Vitruvius, De architectura 10.2.3–4. Examples of ratchet pawls used to hold tension on a capstan can be seen on the Mary Rose. McElvogue, Tudor Warship Mary Rose, p. 108, detail F13/2. Ratchets are seen as far back as the fifth century BCE. Landels, Engineering in the Ancient World p. 11.



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steep angle. Less force would be induced on this line if it was instead unwound from the windlass and then fixed further out at a shallower angle. However, I have compensated for this additional tension by using a stronger line. The line for this purpose on the Sentinel hoist originally had a working load rating of 700 pounds, but was found to be too stretchy and elastic during the arm-raising operation and was upgraded to a 1,600-pound working load rating. The shear legs are brought completely vertical before the guy lines are tensioned. On a larger trebuchet, a windlass or capstan would be even more important for raising the shears, since the hoist would be heavier. The rear guy line of the shears could be similarly draped over the axle, or, with the aid of a block, redirected into the capstan or winch mounted on the machine itself. Thus, it is very likely that the windlasses featured on most illustrations of trebuchets, and the capstans depicted on Villard de Honnecourt’s engine, were not only used for reloading the machines, but also for assembling them in the first place. The windlass featured in the Gottingen drawing (Figure 2) was reconstructed on the Sentinel and contains a doubled set of handspikes which lap around the axle, strengthening the system by avoiding drilling any holes in the axle and by introducing redundancy in the handspikes. Once the shears are raised and held fast, the throwing arm is placed lengthwise inside the frame of the trebuchet in preparation for the lift. To avoid hitting the windlass axle on the Sentinel, the arm is moved in from the front. The arm weighs 360 pounds and can be carried by three strong helpers. However, on a large machine, this arm would need to be moved into position using dozens of rollers and levers. Leonardo da Vinci, in a drawing showing a four-legged shear hoist raising a cannon, depicted rollers being used to move items on the ground.68 No doubt a crew with rollers, levers, hooks, and determination could reposition a larger throwing arm inside the frame. After the arm is placed inside the frame underneath the raised shears, the trebuchet’s axles are both inserted, and the rope tackle is attached near the main axle. Inserting the axles into the throwing arm while in the air would be difficult, and this is better done on the ground. The block and tackle should be attached to the apex of the shears before raising them, because the apex cannot be reached when in the air. The block and tackle is fully played out before raising to ensure that the lower blocks can also be reached once the shears are standing. Therefore, while raising the shears, the lower tackle block serves as a sort of plumb bob. On the shears for this project, the tackle was hung from a rope tied between two eyebolts near the apex. In the Hussite Wars, tackle is often shown similarly attached or hung from metal hooks plated onto just one leg.69 Since the main axle is wide enough to span across the blocks, it is therefore wider than the clearance between the bents, presenting a problem with raising. 68

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These are seen in the foreground underneath what could be a carriage for a cannon. Marco Cianchi, Leonardo’s Machines, trans. Lisa Goldenberg Stoppato (Florence, 1984), p. 27. This drawing is called The Foundry and is cited by Cianchi as “Windsor B.R. n. 12647.” Hall, Hussite Wars, folios 2r, 6r, and 25v.

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This means that, instead of positioning the arm directly underneath its final position and raising it straight upward, the throwing arm must be offset towards the front of the machine so that the main axle is in front of the bents.70 Because of this, the arm is raised diagonally both upward and backward to the blocks.71 The arm is held from the tip and pushed forward as it goes up so that the main axle clears the axle blocks and any other obstructions on the frame. In this way, the arm is lifted with the axle maintaining level and riding freely in front of the bents.72 Since the long side of the arm is heavier, it stays at ground level during the raising and the arm can be manipulated from the tip. Handling the arm in this manner was not found to be difficult at this scale. When necessary, this technique has been accomplished with a tag line allowing the arm to be pulled forward from the front instead of pushed forward from the back. On raising a full-scale throwing arm, it may be necessary to have some mechanical advantage on this forward tag line, or to have a way of controlling the line to spool it out while under tension. The actual process of lifting the arm is straightforward with the use of a block and tackle. At this scale, lifting the arm can be accomplished by a single determined individual hauling on the fall of a six-to-one advantage tackle (Figure 12).73 However, during the 2018 assemblies, two crew members were used to pull straight down on the fall of the tackle. They are best positioned near the foot of one of the shear legs, pulling down from the top block in line with the leg. This directs the force of their heave down into that leg, whereas pulling from the front tends to pull the shears over and increases strain in the guy lines. More conveniently, the fall of the tackle can be redirected through a snatch block, a pulley with one side removable, so the line may be easily taken in and out. The snatch block is lashed on the frame of the trebuchet, so that the fall line can be pulled horizontally while held at waist level. On a large machine, redirecting the fall of the block and tackle could allow the operation to be done with the aid of its winch or capstan.74 An example of a pulley used to redirect a line in a similar manner can be seen in Francesco di Giorgio Martini’s drawing 70

71 72 73

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During initial raisings in 2017, the arm was raised straight up, with the main axle oriented vertically. When the arm was above the blocks, it was twisted to present the main axle horizontally before lowering in the blocks. This method, however, is riskier than that presented above since it requires levering and twisting the throwing arm while it is in mid-air. This can be seen in Nova, “Secrets of Lost Empires: Medieval Siege,” 26:52 timestamp. If some wear on the axle is not of concern, it can be greased and slid up the front face of the bents here. See below on the ramp assembly method from the Elegant Book. The resistance on this line increases from sixty to one hundred pounds due to friction. See Bjorn Ahlander and Jens Langert, The Ship’s Book Manual: Life on Board an East Indiaman (Göteborg, 2020), p. 125. Note that utilizing the trebuchet’s windlass for raising the throwing arm would require the rear guy line for the shears to be unwound and anchored elsewhere after using the windlass for raising the shears. This can be achieved easily by temporarily leaning the shears backwards, so as to be held by the front line while being unwound from the windlass.



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Figure 12  Raising the throwing arm of the Sentinel. The dashed line highlights the path traveled by the main axle. The 6:1 trade-off between force and distance determined by the block and tackle meant that the crewmember on the left had to trudge around 100 feet while dragging a significant portion of his bodyweight, yet he single-handedly raised a 360 pound tree 15 feet. On a larger machine, it would be worthwhile to anchor the rear guy line of the shear legs to pickets, freeing the windlass so that it could be used to pull the fall of the tackle to lift the arm.

of a trebuchet (Figure 13).75 This can also been seen in Taccola’s drawing of the same.76 Used in conjunction with the block and tackle, the capstan would compound enough advantage to raise a multi-ton trebuchet arm.77 Again, this could have been an additional use for the capstans drawn by Honnecourt, or the numerous other winches depicted on trebuchets; these devices are ubiquitous during trebuchet assembly. Conversely, it could be that the shear hoist itself had an integral windlass, as depicted in the Hussite Wars folios. Once the arm is hanging above the blocks, it can be seated by lowering the main axle into the open-top axle grooves. These grooves were semi-circular on the Sentinel, with the center of their radius positioned just half an inch down into the block. There is no need to enclose the top side of the axle grooves after the axle is seated, and the Elegant Book depicts axle blocks that are open in

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See also Paul E. Chevedden, “Artillery of King James I,” Iberia and the Mediterranean World of the Middle Ages, eds. Larry J. Simon et al., vol. 2 (Leiden, 1996), pp. 47–94, plate 11. Gille, Engineers of the Renaissance, p. 84. The capstan was often used in combination with tackle blocks to raise yards and spars on sailing ships of the period. Nathaniel Frantz Howe, Rigging and Gun Tackle Blocks of the Swedish Royal Warship Vasa (Greenville, 2011), p. 78.

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Figure 13  One of Francesco di Giorgio Martini’s drawings of a trebuchet. Note the block being used to redirect the line into the machine’s capstan. Francesco di Giorgio, Opusculum de architectura, Copyright the Trustees of the British Museum, 1947,0117.2.5.v, folio 3v.

this manner.78 However, many manuscript images show the main axle being set directly into the two uprights, with the uprights extending higher than the main axle hole, not allowing the blocks open access from above. This obstructs the method of lowering the arm and axle into the blocks, and it is not clear how seating the axle was accomplished on these machines.

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Some volunteers were unduly concerned the main axle would jump up and out of this groove during a launch. For the blocks in the Elegant Book, see Hindī, pp. 54–55.



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Ropes and Rigging Given resources and safety concerns, function was prioritized over historical accuracy for the rigging on this project. The ropes used during the assembly process are made of three-strand nylon, which is stronger, cheaper, and more durable than natural fiber rope. Moreover, manila, the only readily available natural rope in the western United States, is made from the Abaca plant in the Philippines; medieval ropes were instead commonly made of flax or hemp. Complete historical accuracy was impossible here. Although modern rigging materials were utilized, these are worth documenting since the rigging remains similar to that used by medieval craftsmen. The block and tackle on my shear hoist uses two three-sheave blocks for a six-to-one advantage, like those on the Hussite Wars hoists, and is fed with 120 feet of 0.5-inch line, allowing for a lift distance of seventeen feet. The guy line for the shear legs was originally 0.5 inches, but proved to be dangerously stretchy during the hoisting due to the poor lead angle into the windlass described above, and has since been upgraded to a 0.75-inch line with a load rating of 1,600 pounds, over twice the rating of the 0.5-inch line. These guy lines need to be properly tensioned to hold the shears steady during hoisting, or else they will sway and rock dangerously during the lift, inducing shock loads. The rope at the bottom of the shears, keeping the feet from spreading, is 0.5 inches, as well as the loop of rope at the apex for attaching the block and tackle. The hook of the top tackle block engages two lines here at the apex to distribute the load between four equivalent segments of this 0.5-inch line. This hook also needs to be moused, or closed with twine lashing, to ensure that it does not disengage while tipping up the shears.79 An endless-loop sling spliced out of 0.5-inch line is used in a basket configuration for lifting the throwing arm.80 The one-hundred-foot guy line is attached to the apex of the shears at the middle of its length using a clove hitch. It is wound onto the windlass at the rear end and fixed to a picket anchor at the front end with a taut-line hitch, allowing the line to be appropriately tensioned.81 The US Army manual recommends threeinch diameter wooden pickets driven at an angle three feet into the ground, but one-inch steel concrete stakes have been used successfully at this scale. When the ground is muddy or soft, a system of multiple stakes is used, with the others helping to hold the first in place. The rigging on a full-scale trebuchet in the Middle Ages would have been much the same. Natural fiber ropes would be larger in diameter to achieve the strength needed, and pulley blocks would be larger and of varied construction.82 For hoisting an 11,000-pound throwing arm forty feet into the air using 79 80 81 82

FM 5-125, chapters 3-3, 3-4. Ibid., 3–5, 3–6. Grigg Mullen, “Ropes and Knots,” Timber Framing 68 (2003), 18–21. The makeup of medieval blocks and pulleys is a subject for another study, but it seems that the sheaves of pulleys were sometimes stacked vertically, and sometimes horizontally, and that these designs coexisted.

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a six-to-one tackle system, more than 420 continuous feet of hemp or flax line one inch in diameter could be needed.83 More complex anchor systems would be used, such as a log-picket holdfast or a deadman anchor, in which the line is hitched to a log that is buried beneath the ground.84 Although many of the knots and procedures used on this reconstruction are from the US Army Manual, similar procedures were known in the Middle Ages since sailing a ship requires more rigging.85 Many trebuchet builders likely had a sailing background, since they were sometimes built directly from scrapped ships, with the masts used as throwing arms.86 Additional research would be needed to further differentiate medieval from modern rigging techniques, and the rigging skills and preferences of trebuchet builders may have varied. Regardless, it is clear that ropes and rigging are as important as timbers and woodworking in assembling a trebuchet. Alternative Arm-Raising Methods Another method for raising the arm, which was not explored hands-on in these experiments, involves the use of a header bar, a piece of wood that spans the gap between the two main towers, and holds in the center an attachment point for the tackle system. This serves the same purpose as the shear legs in providing a fixed point above the lift to attach tackle. Positioning a header bar would perhaps require two crew members to carry it while climbing up each side of the trebuchet and placing it in position by hand, removing it later before the machine is fired. A simple header bar would require that the two uprights of the trebuchet extend above the axle holes. This could mean that the grooves for the main axle are also closed off. It is unclear how an axle would be seated in closed blocks, or how this would dictate the shape or composition of the axle.87 Regardless, extended uprights are shown on many manuscript illustrations, such as the Innsbruck Bellifortis and the Hussite Wars.88 The Innsbruck manuscript depiction specifically features a square hole at the top of the upright, above the main axle, which could be a mortice, ready to receive the tenon of a header bar (see Figure 3).

83 84

85 86 87

88

Using a sixty-foot shear leg apparatus, leaving enough line for the fall to reach the ground. Referencing the safe load of number-one manila in FM 5-125, Table 1-1. FM 5-125, chapter 4. A deadman anchor was also used for the traditional raising of the BBC Ballista in 2002. Grigg Mullen Jr., “Lifting the Ballista or, What Are You Doing Next Week?” Timber Framing 65 (Sep. 2002), 16–17. See the works referenced in notes 57, 65, 73, 77. Fulton, Siege Warfare During the Crusades, p. 147. Axles seated in closed blocks may be rotating on iron pins as seen in medieval treadwheels and mills. Andrea L. Matthies, “Medieval Treadwheels: Artist’s Views of Building Construction,” Technology and Culture 33 (July 1992), 510–47. See especially figure 5. Innsbruck Bellifortis, via Chevedden, “Invention,” plate 4. Hall, Hussite Wars, folios 32v–33r.



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Figure 14  Raising the throwing arm with a header bar, as seen in the Elegant Book. Line drawing by the author.

The Elegant Book of Trebuchets depicts a variant of a header bar being used to raise the throwing arm (Figure 14). Instead of the bar spanning a part of the trebuchet frame which has been raised above the axle blocks, the bar raises itself above the axle blocks using its own vertical supports that sit on the topmost of four horizontal braces on the bents.89 This three-sided square frame is clearly separate from the final trebuchet since it is not seen in later illustrations in the book of the complete machine.90 It is uncertain how heavy this device is, or how it was raised and attached onto the frame. The device has a clear purpose labeled by Zaradkash, roughly translated as a roller or pulley for drawing up the arm. The open-topped axle blocks of the trebuchet depicted would be ready to receive the machine’s axle and complete the operation. The Elegant Book also depicts another aspect of raising the throwing arm. This involves moving the arm up a set of ramps to the axle blocks (Figure 15).91 89 90 91

Elegant Book, Hindī, pp. 60–61. These are each called a jisr, or beam. Ibid., pp. 63–67. Ibid., pp. 57–58. This ramp in Figure 15 has been labeled by Zaradkash as the channel, in the same way as that depicted in Figure 14 (Hindī, pp. 60–61), drawn to the left of the machine. Although they are drawn differently, the channel in Figure 14 could be the ramp used to raise the throwing arm.

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Figure 15  Raising the throwing arm using a ramp, from the Elegant Book. The two halves of the counterweight box are present here in the upper left, perhaps signifying that attaching the counterweight was the next step of the process and that these were being readied. Note the placement of the circle signifying the machine’s windlass. The rope used to pull the arm up the ramp was probably redirected through the pulley in the header bar and into the windlass at the front of the machine. Compare Figures 5 and 14. Line drawing by the author.

This required two sturdy timbers, each fixed to the axle blocks and firmly seated in the ground. Lifting the ends of these boards to position them against the axle blocks would be an operation in itself. While not specifically shown, it can be assumed that the main axle has been inserted here, and the rounded ends of the axle are actually riding up the ramps, bringing the throwing arm with it. In this case, friction would have been a significant factor; perhaps a lubricant was used on the ramps. This setup would also require rope tackle, fixed around a point up near the blocks themselves, to pull the throwing arm up the ramp, since pushing would not be feasible. Zaradkash depicts a circle here, which is used to represent the machine’s windlass on other pages featuring the same trebuchet.92 This implies that the rope pulling the arm up the ramp would be redirected into the machine’s windlass. Coincidently, this very redirect of the rope could be accomplished with the header bar depicted on the previous page. It is possible that these two devices, the ramp and the header bar, are two parts of the same system used by Zaradkash for hoisting the arm, and worked together at the same time, allowing the arm to ride upwards and forwards on the ramp as the pulley on the header bar 92

Elegant Book, Hindī, pp. 57–58.



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redirected the pulling force into the machine’s windlass at the front of the trebuchet. This is the most direct evidence available for how a trebuchet’s throwing arm was raised into position in the Middle Ages. However, our project has not attempted this method, since the Elegant Book came to light too late in this study. To my knowledge, this assembly method has not been attempted at large scale on a modern reconstruction. While we cannot know whether a given craftsman preferred using shear legs or a header bar, these are the tools and considerations required to raise a trebuchet throwing arm into position in the Middle Ages. Attaching the Counterweight Box The throwing arm on a full-scale historical machine would not be raised into position with the counterweight box already attached to it. This would increase the demand of the lift by adding the weight of the box, which is significant. On the Sentinel, the complete counterweight box weighs 465 pounds when empty, more than the throwing arm itself. Furthermore, assembling the box onto the throwing arm would in many cases require the arm to be lifted at least partially off the ground anyway, and in this case, it might as well be fully hoisted into the blocks beforehand. Instead, medieval engineers would have broken this operation down into multiple steps, each requiring less weight to be lifted at one time. The throwing arm would first be hoisted into the blocks. With this accomplished, the short end of the arm would be hanging at its highest point, since the center of gravity of the throwing arm resides on the longer side. It would have been unnecessarily difficult to attach the box this high in the air. Instead, the arm must have been pivoted to receive the box, pointing the long end skyward, and bringing the short end down near its lowest point. The technique of raising the throwing arm and attaching the counterweight box afterward is substantiated by the Elegant Book. The book illustrates the previously mentioned technique of raising the throwing arm with the ramp, and in both versions of the manuscript, the two halves of the counterweight box are depicted on this page but placed off to the side.93 The box does not seem to have any involvement in the arm raising process, and the artist is probably implying that attaching the counterweight box is instead the next step in the process. And in showing the use of the header bar, the box is not depicted at all; the arm is being raised by itself.94 In addition to the arm-raising drawings, the Elegant Book also depicts attaching the box to the already-raised arm (Figure 16). In these drawings, the trebuchet frame is fully assembled, and the arm has been set in the blocks.95 The counterweight box is positioned as if ready to be attached to the arm, and is drawn inscribed in a square, showing the importance of geometry, ratios, and 93 94 95

Ibid., pp. 57–58. Ibid., pp. 60–61. Ibid., pp. 63–64.

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Figure 16  Attaching the counterweight box, as seen in the Elegant Book. The two lines attached to the tip of the arm are labeled in the Arabic as ropes and are the guy lines used to hold the arm in a vertical position for attaching the box. Compare Figure 17. Line drawing by the author.

proportions in Zaradkash’s design. Two guys lines are attached to the tip of the throwing arm, and the arm has been brought level with the horizon. In the case of the Sentinel, and probably most trebuchets in history, the center of gravity of the arm lies on the longer side, necessitating the haul-down of the short arm for attaching the box. Hauling down the short arm can be accomplished in several ways. It requires tying a rope to the box axle, inserted in the arm, before the throwing arm is raised, as well as attaching two guy lines to the tip of the arm. On the Sentinel, these guy lines are the same cords used for the shear legs, since the shears are not needed for attaching the counterweight box at this scale and are lowered and set aside after the arm is raised. The first method reminds a trebuchet builder of a traction machine. On the Sentinel, the short end can be pulled down by heaving on the rope tied to the box axle.96 Since this operation is conducted at a leverage disadvantage, three crew members were required in 2017, when the throwing arm was green and therefore heavier. This was achieved with only one crew member in 2018, after the arm had dried.97

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For the operation of a traction machine, see W. T. S. Tarver, “The Traction Trebuchet: A Reconstruction of an Early Medieval Siege Engine,” Technology and Culture 36 (January 1995), 136–67. An advantage of prefabricated artillery is that as the arm dries it will become lighter, and thus impart more energy to the projectile and be easier to manipulate during assembly.



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Pulling down the short arm of a full-scale machine would require mechanical assistance. Heaving from ropes on the short end would need a significantly large crew, especially on a large trebuchet with a green throwing arm. Instead, mechanical advantage can be used to accomplish this step. On the Sentinel, the rope tied to the box axle is redirected through a snatch block and into the windlass at the rear of the machine. This operation could also be handled with a block and tackle, as was used on the Loch Ness reconstruction.98 In Figure 16, it appears that Zaradkash is in the middle of pivoting the arm, although, in light of the rectangular shape drawn on the base of his throwing arm, it is unclear where the center of gravity of the throwing arm rests. This rectangular shape likely represents a permanent smaller counterweight serving to balance the arm, increasing the machine’s efficiency and simplifying this assembly process.99 If the short end of the arm was actually heavier, the guy lines shown hitched to the tip of the arm would serve a secondary purpose: to control and slow the long side of the arm as the short end descends to receive the box. The lines’ primary purpose, however, was to hold the arm in a vertical position once the short end is brought down. If the shear legs were anchored off to pickets, these guy lines for the throwing arm can be tied off in the same way. After the tip of the arm is tied off, any tackle on the box axle is removed so that the counterweight box can be constructed onto the machine. On the Sentinel, the counterweight box was initially assembled in the workshop in 2017 with all the side boards and planks. The box axle hole was designed to be completely round in both the box arms and the throwing arm, the plan being to move the box into position and then hammer in the box axle, also completely round, to hang the box on the machine. But it was quickly discovered that the full box was too heavy to move, and the planks on all sides had to be taken off.100 The box, approximately seven feet long, ten feet tall, and two feet wide, could be moved by hand with three crew members once the extra weight of the side boards was shed, reducing it to its frame and the bottom planks. It is then walked into the frame of the trebuchet from the front and propped up to the correct height (Figure 17). Once the holes are aligned by manipulating the positions of the box and the tensions of the guy lines on the arm, the axle is hammered in, and the trebuchet assembly is completed by re-attaching the side boards and filling the box with sandbags.101 The method used here to attach the box must be further broken down into steps on a larger machine. The box would simply be too bulky and heavy to move if it was completely constructed beforehand. It therefore needs to be directly constructed onto the throwing arm from its two sides. As seen in the Beffeyte, “A Serious Challenge,” p. 13. Basista, “Hybrid or Counterpoise?” pp. 47–50. 100 The wood for this first assembly was very green; the complete box weighed more than five hundred pounds. 101 The Sentinel was designed to use 1,500 pounds of counterweight in the form of thirty sandbags. 98

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Figure 17  Moving in the counterweight box during assembly of the Sentinel. Note how the arm is held vertical with the ropes, shown in Figure 16. At this stage the shear legs have been lowered, but they could still be needed to accomplish this step on a larger machine.

Elegant Book, the box axle would be square in the middle section, going through the throwing arm, and rounded on the ends (Figure 18), as opposed to the axle on the Sentinel, which is completely round.102 This means that the box and throwing arm cannot be simply aligned and then the axle hammered in, because the larger square mid-section of the axle would not clear the round holes in the box arms. Thus, the axle would need to be placed in the throwing arm first, before raising, and then the two side frames of the counterweight box would be mounted on either side of this axle. These sides, once hanging on the box axle, would be connected to give the box width, completing the skeleton, before planking boards would be attached on the floor and sides. This method would allow moving the frames of the left and right half of the box to be moved by hand separately, thus involving as little weight as possible at one time. Perhaps these side frames for the box could be

102 See

Elegant Book, Hindī, pp. 69–70. The throwing arm is shown with square axle holes. It is generally accepted that the axle holes in a throwing arm on a historical machine would be square, since the square midsection of the axle helps to give stability and keep it in place. See Neel, “Design Considerations,” p. 13, and Hansen, “Experimental Reconstruction,” p. 197.



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Figure 18  Components of a trebuchet, from Zaradkash. Note the square holes in the throwing arm, showing that the center section of both axles was rectangular and not round. Also note the two halves of the counterweight box, the rope bindings on the throwing arm, and the two handspike wheels used to turn the machine’s windlass. The windlass is otherwise represented as a plain circle in Figures 5 and 15. Line drawing by the author.

maneuvered into position using a few crew members, rollers, and ramps, especially as the box usually hangs close to the ground. For constructing the hinged machine at Loch Ness, however, a modern powered lifting machine was used.103 It is possible that medieval engineers still needed the hoist equipment at this stage for mounting the box onto a large machine. The Elegant Book supports this method of assembling the box from its two side pieces. The book details pictures laying out parts required for the trebuchet, and the counterweight box is most often shown in two halves, representing the two side frames (see Figure 18).104 Although only one piece is shown during the attachment stage, this one piece lacks any definition of depth and perhaps does not represent the box as a whole.105 In Figure 16, the frame of the trebuchet is drawn with the two different bents, but the box does not show the two different halves depicted previously. This suggests the attachment of just one side of the box at a time. Beffeyte, “A Serious Challenge,” p. 13. An orange power lift can be seen holding one side of the box; the side planks are already attached, but the frame of the box is visible. 104 See Elegant Book, Hindī, pp. 57–58, 69–70, 72–73. 105 Ibid., pp. 63–64. 103

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Once the sides of the box are mounted, they are joined and planked, and the trebuchet assembly is almost complete. The arm can now be drawn down with one of the guy lines, and these two lines can be replaced, if needed, with a more substantial main rope to be used in loading the machine. At this stage, all the remaining parts can be attached, like the projectile sling and the triggering mechanism. Then the box can be lowered back down and loaded with counterweight, and the machine is ready to commence a bombardment. Even though the steps required to construct the counterweight box itself would vary based on the design of the box, the methods outlined here detail the most practical way medieval builders could have attached this component onto a full-scale trebuchet and completed the assembly process. Disassembly Many trebuchets throughout history were not only assembled, but also transported and reused at different sieges. It is not practical to reposition or transport a fully assembled trebuchet, especially with a laden counterweight; it must be disassembled. They would also need to be defended from attack during construction and use, which is a topic for further study. Many trebuchets were likely designed from the start with the ease of disassembly in mind. Although more research is needed to examine the use of prefabricated trebuchets in later centuries, Michael Fulton has shown that this was practiced in the Middle East and Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.106 From his research, Randall Rogers concluded that “lever-artillery pieces could be assembled and taken apart with little difficulty, enabling them to be used repeatedly on campaign.”107 Disassembly of the Sentinel is generally straightforward, and all the previous raising operations can be performed in reverse order. However, the system of drawbored peg holes and pegs did not take well to repeated reassembly.108 A trebuchet designed for repeated take-down and transport would have more likely used a system of through-tenons and knock-out or tusk wedges, as used on the trebuchet built at VMI.109 Evidence for this can be seen on the Innsbruck manuscript of the Bellifortis (see Figure 3): note the small shaded squares along the top of the throwing arm, and on the two ends of the beam connecting the three pieces of the box together. The processes of assembly and disassembly take a considerable amount of effort but can otherwise be accomplished relatively quickly with an experienced foreman and a large enough team. At a determined pace, complete assembly of the Sentinel takes a crew of three to six crew members four hours from 106 Fulton,

“Pre-Fabricated Artillery.” Rogers, Latin Siege Warfare in the Twelfth Century (Oxford, 1992), p. 114. 108 The pegs and peg holes wear out each time they are driven in and taken out, and the drawboring becomes less effective as the machine is repeatedly reassembled. For a description of drawboring pegs, see Sobon and Schroeder, Timber Frame Construction, pp. 128–29. 109 Levin, “Building the Lexington Bellifortis,” p. 10. 107 R.



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the first arrival on site to the first projectile thrown, and a disassembly around three hours. Assembling a larger scale machine would take significantly more time and manpower, especially since large pieces like the throwing arm need to be more carefully rolled and maneuvered into position; the bents would be raised with lifting equipment and the assembly of the counterweight box broken down into smaller steps. It seems that an entire day and perhaps two dozen able crew would be needed to assemble a full-scale prefabricated machine after it arrived on site, with good conditions and an experienced engineer directing the operation. This seems to be supported by an account of Baybars preparing artillery in 1265, in which the Sultan instructed his Emir to set up several trebuchets. Baybars arose “early before dawn” and went to “sit in person with the craftsmen, so that they might work their hardest,” and “on the same day four large trebuchets and some small ones were made.”110 This was probably a long day of hard work for the craftsmen, and each engine here was likely of a moderate size and assembled by its own dedicated crew working in parallel with other crews. The personal presence of the Sultan himself overseeing would have served to ensure that these trebuchets were assembled in the shortest time possible. Under less of a time constraint after Edward I’s siege of Stirling in 1304, a week was spent dismantling Warwolf and all the king’s engines.111 It seems that the assembly process could vary from one to several days depending on the size of the machine and other factors. Conclusion Trebuchets are a testament to the complexity of medieval engineering and the rigors of constructing a large machine. First-hand experience in raising the Sentinel, a half-scale experimental reconstruction, has led to an efficient and effective assembly method, refined through over a dozen executions. It centers around tools that were widely used in the medieval period and techniques that are supported by the most reliable technical sources available: mainly, the Bellifortis, Elegant Book, Hussite Wars, the drawings of Villard de Honnecourt, and the writings of Vitruvius. Many trebuchets in history were designed with the efficiency of assembly and disassembly in mind, using traditional wood joinery as well as ratios and proportions learned from experience. The size of a machine was dictated by the experience of the engineer and the availability of timbers. After the components were fabricated, the erection process was broken down into key steps due to the nature of these structures. First, the base is joined on the ground, then the bents are raised, their lateral supports fixed, and the machine’s windlass or capstan is installed. The heart of the project is then the raising of the throwing arm and its seating in the axle blocks, followed by pivoting the arm skyward, mounting the box from its two halves, and finally planking the box and filling it with immense weight. 110 111

Fulton, Siege Warfare During the Crusades, p. 164. Purton, The Medieval Military Engineer, p. 189.

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The throwing arm may be raised using a shear hoist or a header bar and ramp. The common two-legged shear hoist is the type most suited for trebuchet assembly, and when plum, spanning the bents width-wise, the shears facilitate the graceful rising of the throwing arm upward and backward, to be seated into the blocks. The header bar and ramp method was not attempted, despite being supported by more direct manuscript evidence. On a large machine, several stages, such as tipping up the shears and raising the throwing arm, can be accomplished with two layers of mechanical assistance. These would consist of a block and tackle, and the very windlasses or capstans that were integral to the engines themselves, which would later be used to load the finished machine between firings. It is clear that in assembly, ropes and rigging are as important as the timbers, woodworking, and ironworks. This raising process needed an experienced engineer as foreman, the experience in question being more widely available in the construction of buildings and ships of the time. Assembling a full-sized machine, in an efficient manner, would take at least an entire day when all the pieces were prefabricated. Warwolf took a crew of more than fifty, and three months to build, probably because it was not prefabricated, and so much of this time was absorbed in the initial stages of laying out plans and sourcing and crafting components. Attempting these tasks through modern experimentation has demonstrated some aspects of medieval siege craft and shown how medieval engineers accomplished the raising of a trebuchet.

5 Cum Socio Eiusdem Military Recruitment in the Armies of Edward I Among the Sub-Gentry David S. Bachrach

Following the pathbreaking work of Andrew Ayton, scholars have developed sophisticated methods for analyzing the relationships among members of the knightly class and gentry to demonstrate the existence of “military communities” that joined together to form the English armies of the Hundred Years’ War. More recently, scholars have used these same techniques to identify similar military communities among the knights and gentry during the reigns of Edward I and Edward II. The main sources for establishing these ties of family, tenancy, friendship, and previous military service have been the so-called “horse lists”, which were essentially insurance records for the mounts of men in the army, and letters of protection, guaranteeing freedom from prosecution and debt collection while the combatant was in royal service. Knights and members of the gentry appear quite frequently in these types of documents. However, 90% or more of the men in the English armies during the reign of Edward I, belonging to the economic and social strata below the gentry, rarely appear in either letters of protection or horse lists. As a result, these men have not received any attention from the perspective of analyzing English military communities in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Through a systematic analysis of broad classes of largely unpublished documents from Edward I’s military campaigns in Scotland between 1296– 1307, particularly payroll and victualling documents as well as garrison rolls, this essay begins to address the scholarly lacunae with respect to sub-gentry soldiers and finds that they also formed military communities in the same ways as their social and economic superiors. Prosopographical studies of the fighting men serving in the English armies during the Hundred Years’ War, largely drawing on the models developed by Andrew Ayton, have focused extensively on the question of recruitment networks among the knightly class and gentry.1 More recently, this social-­ 1

See, for example, Andrew Ayton, Knights and Warhorses: Military Service and the English Aristocracy under Edward III (Woodbridge, 1994); idem, “Armies and Mili-

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prosopographical approach has been adopted with respect to the reign of Edward I (1272–1307) in the later thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, most notably by David Simpkin and Andrew Spencer.2 As has been true of the treatment of military recruitment from the reign of Edward III (1327–77) to that of Henry V (1413–22), the prosopographical examination of the armies of Edward I tends to draw extensively on horse inventories and to a more limited extent, royal letters of protection. These sources provide important information about the military service of men from the knightly class and of the gentry, and particularly those who served as members of the military households of the greater magnates. This research, based largely on unpublished administrative documents, has vastly expanded our knowledge of the participation of the land-owning strata of English society in warfare and, indeed, the militarization of these elements of English society. Of great interest from a prosopographical and social perspective is the clear development of recruitment networks among the gentry and knights, whereby veritable military communities can be discerned based on ties of kinship, friendship, tenancy, neighborhood, and previously shared military service.3 One important consequence of this research has been the development of a far broader understanding of the impact of war on society as a whole, which challenges an older historiography that had presented warfare as dominated by a noble elite on the basis of information drawn almost exclusively from narrative sources. However, the heavy reliance on horse inventories, which functioned largely as insurance records for the replacement of warhorses lost on campaign, and letters of protection, which protected landowners from legal prosecution while absent on the king’s business, has led scholars to focus on wealthier men who could benefit from these types of protections. This approach has had the unintended consequence of replicating some of the lacunae of the older historiographical tradition. In particular, men from the knightly class and gentry, although socially and economically important, comprised a comparatively small percentage of the

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3

tary Communities in Fourteenth-Century England,” in Soldiers, Nobles and Gentlemen: Essays in Honour of Maurice Keen, eds. Peter R. Coss and Christopher Tyerman (Woodbridge, 2009), pp. 215–39; and idem, “The Carlisle Roll of Arms and the Political Fabric of Military Service under Edward III,” in Ruling Fourteenth-Century England: Essays in Honour of Christopher Given-Wilson, eds. Rémy Ambühl, James S. Bothwell, and Laura Tompkins (Woodbridge, 2019), pp. 133–162. Also see the collection of essays in Military Communities in Late Medieval England: Essays in Honour of Andrew Ayton, eds. Gary P. Baker, Craig L. Lambert and David Simpkin (Woodbridge, 2018). David Simpkin, The English Aristocracy at War: From the Welsh Wars of Edward I to the Battle of Bannockburn (Woodbridge, 2008); idem, “The Contribution of Essex Gentry to the Wars of Edward I and Edward II,” in The Fighting Essex Soldier: Recruitment, War and Society in the Fourteenth Century, eds. Christopher Thornton, Jennifer War, and Neil Wiffen (Hatfield, 2017), pp. 51–64; and Andrew Spencer, “The Comital Military Retinue in the Reign of Edward I,” Historical Research 83 (2010), 46–59. See, for example, the discussion by Ayton, “Armies and Military Communities,” pp. 224–25.



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men serving on campaign, particularly during the reign of Edward I.4 Knights and members of the gentry serving in mounted contingents, whether as part of the king’s household or in the companies (comitiva) of various magnates, numbered no more than 3,000 men as compared with the 15,000–25,000 foot soldiers whom Edward I mobilized for campaigns in Wales, and particularly in Scotland in the period 1296–1307.5 Unfortunately, with some limited exceptions, even the names of the foot archers and spearmen mobilized for Edward’s armies are now lost to us.6 However, there is a substantial group of fighting men, numbering in the thousands, whose military service during the last decade of Edward I’s reign can be traced in some detail, despite the fact that they were recruited from among the social and economic strata below the gentry. These men served, on the one hand, as commanders of companies of foot archers and spearmen conscripted from the shires, and were denoted in the royal administrative records as either constabularii or centenarii. A second, overlapping group of men served as soldarii. These soldarii were essentially military contractors, whose lack of property meant that they were not liable for service on horseback in the king’s army, but who, nevertheless, volunteered for such service for pay.7 Unlike the knights and gentry, who were summoned by the king to serve in campaign with appropriately outfitted warhorses, the men who served as centenarii generally were not offered the opportunity to have their horses appraised by royal officials with the concomitant claim to receive compensation if these mounts died in the king’s service. By contrast, when these same centenarii and other enterprising individuals volunteered to serve on campaign as soldarii they 4

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6

7

However, see David Simpkin, “The King’s Sergeants-at-Arms and the War in Scotland 1296–1322,” in England and Scotland at War 1296–1513, eds. Andy King and David Simpkin (Leiden, 2012), pp. 77–117, who is able to trace the activities of this group of royal troops, some of whom came from humble backgrounds, through wardrobe books and correspondence with garrison commanders. Michael Prestwich, War, Politics and Finance under Edward I (Totowa, 1972) is still the key study with respect to the overall size and scale of the armies mobilized by Edward I. However, also see M. Haskell, “Breaking the Stalemate: The Scottish Campaign of Edward I, 1303–1304,” Thirteenth Century England VII, eds. Michael Prestwich, R. Britnell, and R. Frame (Woodbridge, 1999), pp. 223–41. For example, The National Archives (hereafter TNA) E39/4/3 provides the names of some 500 foot soldiers mobilized from Derbyshire and Lancashire for service in Scotland, organized according to their units of twenty men (vintena) and units of 100 men (centena). Similarly TNA E101/370/16 lists by name 500 Welsh troops from Glamorgan and Usk for service in Scotland in 1307. These two documents suggest that the tens of thousands of men mobilized to serve in Edward I’s Scottish wars between 1296–1306 may also have been listed by name in documents that are now lost. David S. Bachrach, “Edward I’s ‘Centurions’: Professional Soldiers in an Era of Militia Armies,” in The Soldier Experience in the Fourteenth Century, eds. Adrian R. Bell, Anne Curry et al. (Woodbridge, 2011), pp. 109–28; and David S. Bachrach and Oliver Stoutner, “Military Entrepreneurs in the Armies of Edward I of England (1272–1307),” Haskins Society Journal 27 (2015 published 2016), 179–93.

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were given the privilege of having their horses enrolled once they joined the army. In a similar vein, men who volunteered to serve as soldarii in Edward I’s garrisons in Scotland also routinely obtained the privilege of having their horses enrolled, and the concomitant expectation of receiving compensation if these animals died while in the king’s service. These horse rolls provide a useful “snapshot” of the soldarii at a point in time, but do not provide much information about how long they served. In order, therefore, to develop an understanding of the patterns of military service and recruitment networks of the sub-gentry, who served as centenarii and soldarii, it is necessary to draw upon a much wider and disparate group of source materials than the horse rolls, alone. Of particular importance are the records that list the individual members of garrisons serving in the numerous English strongholds in Scotland. These records survive in considerable numbers from 1298–1306. Also important are the records kept by English supply officials, which include both pay accounts and receipts for individuals and garrisons, as well as the delivery of food supplies both to individual fighting men, and to those serving as de facto or de iure commanders of groups of men. Unlike members of the gentry and the knightly class, who can be traced through property records, and who appear in a variety of royal documents produced in the context of legal cases, gaol delivery, or elections to parliament, the sub-gentry soldiers under discussion here largely are absent from the surviving documentary record other than in those produced in the context of military campaigns.8 Consequently, identifying patterns of relationship among these fighting men and concomitantly networks of recruitment depends on the close analysis of the military records, discussed above, for references to shared places of origin, familial ties, and professional service together. As indicated by the title of this essay, one of the key terms used by royal clerks to describe relationships among men in royal service, whether formal or informal, is socius eiusdem, that is “his fellow” or “the associate of this same man,” when describing the pay, supply, or service of several men. The royal clerks also occasionally provided information about familial ties among the soldiers serving in Edward I’s armies, remarking that a soldier was the son (filius) or brother (frater) of another. Royal clerks also frequently used a geographic designation as the byname for soldiers, e.g. de London. When contextual information makes clear that this geographical byname indicates the soldier’s actual home rather than a fossilized onomastic element, it is possible to trace the deployment of several men from the same village.9 One final technique for identifying relationships among soldiers is to find two or more men serving together over time, particularly when they can be seen to move together 8 9

With regard to the numerous ways in which members of the knightly class and gentry can be traced, see Simpkin, The English Aristocracy at War, particularly pp. 112–50. See the discussion of this issue by David S. Bachrach, “The Royal Arms Makers of England 1199–1216: A Prosopographical Survey,” Medieval Prosopography 25 (2004), 48–74, and the literature cited there.



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from one posting to another. By combing through this vast corpus of largely unpublished administrative documents from Edward I’s reign, it is possible to show that men of the sub-gentry demonstrated patterns of recruitment and relationships developed through shared service that mirrored those among the gentry and knights, who served alongside them in the king’s armies. Family Ties A first example of the role played by family ties in military recruitment among the sub-gentry in Edward I’s army can be seen in the career of William Biset of Lancashire, not to be confused with the knight of the same name, who also served in the royal army in Scotland in 1301.10 William Biset first appears in the royal pay records as a centenarius commanding a company of foot archers at Berwick castle in early 1298. William and his men had been mobilized as part of the build-up of forces for Edward I’s campaign that would culminate in the king’s victory over William Wallace at the battle of Falkirk on 22 July of that year.11 As was a common pattern among the men who served as centenarii in Edward I’s Scottish campaigns, William Biset gave up command of his foot archers and took on service as a soldarius at some point in the early summer of 1298.12 It is in this context that William Biset first appears on a horse evaluation roll for members of the vastly expanded royal household. According to a marginal notation in the text, William’s horse was valued at eight marks on 27 June 1298.13 It is also in this context that we first see William’s brother John Biset serving in Edward’s army. According to the notes made by the royal clerk, John Biset had his horse evaluated on 6 July 1298.14 Important for understanding the relationships among the men in Edward’s army is the fact that the royal clerk, who drew up this horse roll, bracketed William and John Biset with three other men, named Richard Biset, William Champaneys, and William Bartholomew, from the groups above and below them on the list. Moreover, the clerk specifically identifies the five men as socii, with William Biset at the top of the list, and each

10 11

12 13

14

For William Biset, the knight, see TNA SC 13/A2 and E101/9/13. TNA E101/12/17. The National Archives has a date of 1304 for this record, but Michael Prestwich, Edward I, 2nd edition (New Haven, 1997), p. 479 n. 40 dates it to 1298, which makes much more sense in light of William Biset’s career. For the course of this campaign, and Edward I’s conquest of Scotland overall, see the valuable narrative by Fiona J. Watson, Under the Hammer: Edward I and Scotland, 1286–1306 (East Linton, 1998). See, in this context, Bachrach, “Edward I’s ‘Centurions,” 109–28. For the campaign, see Michael Prestwich, Edward I, 2nd edition (New Haven, 1997), pp. 479–83. For the evaluation of William Biset’s horse, see Scotland in 1298: Documents Relating to the Campaign of Edward I in that Year, ed. Henry Gough (London, 1888), p. 182. Ibid.

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of the four other men listed as socius eiusdem, that is associates of this same man, referring to William Biset.15 After his victory at Falkirk, Edward I moved to consolidate his control in Scotland and substantially reinforced his garrisons there. William Biset was among the many hundreds of men deployed to the English fortifications in Scotland. However, he had once again changed roles, and no longer was serving as a soldarius. Instead, he was once more in command of a company of foot archers from Lancashire and appears in the garrison roll for Berwickon-Tweed in February 1299 alongside seven other centenarii from Lancashire commanding 829 foot archers.16 The military records from most of 1299 are very incomplete, and so it is not clear how long William Biset remained in the garrison at Berwick. However, no later than December 1300, William was again serving as a soldarius at Berwick, where he remained until at least June 1301.17 In this context, both Richard Biset and William Champeneys, who had appeared as the socii of William in the 1298 horse roll, also appear in a garrison roll at the English fortress at Berwick in the summer of 1301. Notably, Richard Biset and William Champeneys appear immediately next to each other in the list of soldarii in the garrison there, indicating that they were seen by the royal clerk as companions.18 It is not clear whether William or any of the other Bisets were in the king’s service during the latter half of 1301 or early 1302, but William and his brother John Biset can be seen once more in the royal administrative records in the summer of 1302, when they were serving as soldarii, this time in the garrison at Roxburgh castle. 19 However, they did not remain at Roxburgh for long. A pay receipt issued to William Biset in the late spring of 1303 indicates that he had been serving as a soldarius at Linlithgow castle alongside four other men from at least 30 November 1302 to 6 June 1303.20 Although the pay receipt from June 1303 does not list the names of William Biset’s four socii, a horse roll that was compiled in 1303 almost certainly does provide this information.21 William Biset is listed on this roll as having a horse that was valued at 100 shillings, which was just slightly less than the evalua15 16 17

18 19 20 21

Ibid. TNA E101/7/2. For William Biset’s status as a soldarius from 24 December 1300 until 10 July 1301, see Liber quotidianus contrarotulatoris garderobiae, ed. John Topham (London, 1787), p. 146. This text places William Biset alongside another soldarius named Sevanus de Mare. Sevanus was at Berwick in the first few months of 1301 (TNA E101/9/9). He then served continuously at Kirkintilloch until 1304. See TNA E101/9/13; E101/9/16; E101/8/30; E101/11/15; E101/12/18; E101/12/37. Note that the record E101/11/15 is improperly dated in the National Archives and should be understood as recording events in 1304 rather than 1300. TNA E101/9/9. TNA E101/10/14. TNA E101/11/1. TNA E101/10/12.



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tion of eight marks, given to William’s horse five years earlier. Immediately following William on the list are John Biset, Elias Stel, Richard Biset, and Robert Biset. Each of these four men is listed as the socius eiusdem, referring back to William, with the exception of John, who is denoted as frater et socius eiusdem.22 William Biset was still serving in the garrison at Linlithgow at the end of 1303, where he is listed as receiving a barrel of wine, a quarter of grain, and four quarters of malted grain (for brewing beer), again on behalf of himself and four socii.23 These are almost certainly the same John, Elias, Richard, and Robert seen above. At the end of 1303, John, Richard, and Robert Biset disappear from the surviving administrative accounts. However, pay records from the summer of 1304 indicate that William Biset was in command of a company of foot archers from Blackburn, Lancashire, that had been mobilized to serve in the royal army.24 In considering the role of family ties in recruiting men to serve in Edward I’s Scottish campaigns, it seems clear that William Biset played an important part in encouraging his brother John, as well as Richard and Robert Biset to serve in the royal army. William is the first of these men to appear in the royal record. He is also the first to appear as a member of the expanded royal household in the summer of 1298. Royal clerks also listed William first among his socii in both horse rolls and in provisioning documents. This consistent pattern suggests that the royal clerks understood William Biset to be the leader of a group of men, who varied over time, but who invariably included other men with the byname Biset. John clearly was William’s relative, and it seems likely that Robert and Richard, based upon their bynames, were as well. Without additional information, it cannot be known what relationship William Champeneys, William Bartholomew, and Elias Stel had to the Bisets before joining the royal army. However, their inclusion in the various records as the socii of William Biset does indicate that he was their leader, and probably played a role, therefore, in recruiting them to serve in the army. Another pair of brothers who can be identified in the royal administrative records as serving in Edward’s Scottish campaigns are William and John de Cotes. As had been true of William Biset, John de Cotes first appears in the army as a centenarius serving at Berwick castle in the early part of 1298.25 I have not been able to identify either John or William de Cotes serving in either 1299 or 1300. However, both brothers appear as soldarii in the garrison records for Roxburgh castle under the command of Sir Robert Hastings in 1301 receiving back pay from July to November of this year.26 In addition, a memorandum 22 23 24

25 26

Ibid. TNA E101/10/28 nr. 66. National Archives E101/13/34 and E101/8/20 provide the same information from slightly different points in time about the mobilization of forces for Edward I’s summer operations in 1304. TNA E101/7/2. TNA E101/9/9.

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issued to John de Cotes in 1302 records that his horse, which was evaluated and enrolled at Roxburgh in 1301, died in 1302, and that he was paid ten marks in compensation, five in cash, and five in various types of supplies.27 Both brothers subsequently appear together in the Roxburgh garrison lists throughout the remainder of 1302 and 1303.28 During this period, both men also had their horses evaluated at Berwick by the royal official John de Segrave in 1303. Neither brother appears in the royal record after 1303. The ties of kinship in the case of William and John de Cotes are obvious, but it is less clear whether one brother recruited the other to serve. The fact that John can be seen to have served as early as 1298 as a centenarius may permit the inference that he recruited his brother John to join him as a soldarius at Roxburg in 1301. Another pair of relatives, and likely brothers, are Hugh and Galfrid de la Mare. Hugh first appears in early February 1298 as a centenarius, leading a company of foot archers from Yorkshire to join the royal army.29 However, within a few months, he had left his post as a centenarius and became a soldarius at Berwick.30 In this new role, Hugh had his horse evaluated by royal clerks in early July 1298 so that he could receive compensation if it were lost.31 According to marginal notations in this horse roll, five weeks later, in mid-August, Galfrid de la Mare joined Hugh in the army and also had his horse evaluated.32 Galfrid joined the army after the battle of Falkirk during the period when Edward I was drawing down his field forces in Scotland. It is likely, therefore, that Galfrid’s intention was to serve in one of the English garrisons in Scotland. It is certainly the case that Hugh remained in the king’s service in Scotland as a soldarius and appears in the garrison roll for Berwick throughout 1298 and up through July of 1299.33 Hugh may have left the king’s service for a period after July 1299. However, he was back in the garrison at Berwick as a soldarius no later than May 1301 and remained through the end of the year.34 Galfrid rejoined Hugh at Berwick no later than August 1301, where they served together through November.35 At the end of 1301, both Hugh and Galfrid changed garrisons together and moved to Edinburgh, where they remained in service for most of the next two years.36 As far as can be determined from the surviving records, both Galfrid and Hugh left the garrison at Edinburgh at some point in early 1304. Both, however, appear again in the late spring and early summer 1304 leading companies of foot archers from Yorkshire to Scotland. Based on the notes made by 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

TNA E101/10/14. TNA E101/11/1; E101/12/18. TNA E101/6/35; E101/7/2. Ibid. TNA E101/6/39. Ibid. TNA E101/6/35; E101/7/8. TNA E101/9/9; E101/9/13; E101/9/18. TNA E101/9/13. TNA E101/9/16; E101/9/30; E101/10/5; E101/10/6; E101/10/12; E101/101/14; E101/11/1.



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the royal clerks in the pay records for the Yorkshire companies, Hugh was the first to take up command of a centena, but then was replaced in June by Galfrid at the fortress of Perth. By July 1304, Galfrid also had departed the royal army, and his forty-six men had been transferred to another centenarius named Robert de Wendesle.37 Based on the surviving pattern of service, it appears that Hugh de la Mare likely recruited Galfrid to serve as a soldier. It was Hugh who first served as a centenarius in 1298, and then became a soldarius before Galfrid joined the army. Again it was Hugh who joined the garrison at Berwick in 1301 before Galfrid joined him there. The two men moved together to Edinburgh, but again it was Hugh who decided first to become a centenarius again in 1304, only to be replaced by Galfrid who took over command of his troops. In addition to the recruitment of a brother to serve in the king’s army, we can also catch glimpses of fathers recruiting their sons to undertake military service. For example, a man named Galfrid of Ampleford appears as a soldarius in the garrison records for Berwick, Roxburgh, Carstairs, and Edinburgh repeatedly between 1298 and 1303.38 In June 1304, Galfrid was back in the garrison at Berwick once again serving as a soldarius. The clerk who drew up the garrison roll for Berwick recorded at this time that Galfrid of Ampleford was accompanied by his like-named son Galfrid, who also was serving as a soldarius.39 A similar example of a father recruiting his son to serve in Edward’s forces comes from the garrison roll of Roxburgh castle in 1303, which records that William Punche, an archer, was serving alongside his son John.40 That same year a soldarius named Peter de Montibus and his son Henry also were listed in the garrison roll for Roxburgh, receiving back pay of one hundred shillings, which amounted to fifty days of service by the two men.41 Community Ties The importance of the local community in providing a nexus for military recruitment can be seen quite clearly in the careers of two groups of men who hailed from a pair of villages in Northumberland. The first of these, called Bilton, is located approximately 50km south along the coast from Berwick-onTweed. A total of seven men from Bilton can be identified in the royal administrative records serving in Edward I’s armies between 1298 and 1304: Hugh, William, Roger, Richard, John, Marmeduke, and Robert, all of whom were

37 38

39 40 41

TNA E101/11/15 TNA E101/6/35; E101/7/2; Liber quotidianus contrarotularis garderobae, ed. John Topham (London, 1787), p. 220; E101/8/28; E101/9/13; E101/9/30; E101/10/28; E101/11/1; and E101/11/21. TNA E101/13/34. Note that this same information is provided in E101/11/15, which should be dated to 1304. TNA E101/10/28. TNA E101/8/28.

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denoted as coming “de Bilton.” Of these men, the final four appear repeatedly serving together. Both Richard de Bilton and Marmeduke de Bilton appear in the Wardrobe account for the twenty-eighth year of Edward I’s reign as valleti, meaning men-at-arms, in the summer and fall of 1300.42 That same year Richard de Bilton appears on a list of pay receipts cum suis tribus soldariis, meaning Richard along with his three fellow soldarii.43 The identity of these three other soldarii becomes clear from a garrison roll for Carstairs castle for 1301, which includes Richard de Bilton, John de Bilton, Robert de Bilton, and Marmeduke de Bilton on the list of soldarii serving there.44 All four of these men were still at Carstairs castle in 1302 as made clear by two garrison rolls from this year.45 Richard, John, and Marmeduke were still serving together at Carstairs castle through at least mid-May 1303.46 Although Robert de Bilton may have left royal service for a while in 1303, he was back with Richard and John in 1304, when all three are listed on the garrison roll at Berwick as soldarii.47 It should be noted that in addition to serving as a soldarius at Carstairs and Berwick, Richard de Bilton also spent some time as a centenarius commanding units of foot archers from Northumberland in 1301.48 The second of the two Northumbrian villages is Harle, located 70km due north of Berwick, which in the early fourteenth century was known as Herle. A total of five men from Harle can be identified serving in Edward’s armies in Scotland between 1297–1306. These were Robert, John, William, Hugh, and Ralph, the first four of whom repeatedly serve alongside each other. The first of the men from Harle to appear in the surviving records is John, who is listed on a horse roll that was compiled in early 1298 for soldiers who had been serving in Scotland since 1297.49 No later than February 1298, John was joined in Scotland by Robert de Herle and Ralph de Herle.50 None of the men from Harle appear in the limited royal records from 1299, but John, Robert, and William all began the campaigning season of 1300 as centenarii leading companies of foot archers from Northumberland to Scotland.51 William and John, in a pattern discussed above, left these commands later in the summer, and took on service as soldarii.52 It is not clear whether this change in duty status was the result of the demobilization of the foot soldiers whom they commanded, or whether these men were transferred to another centena. 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Liber quotidianus, pp. 221, 223–24. TNA E101/684/52. TNA E101/9/16. TNA E101/9/30; E101/10/5. TNA E101/11/1. TNA E101/11/15. British Library MS ADD 7966A. TNA E101/6/29. TNA E101/6/29; E101/7/2. British Library MS ADD 7966A. Liber quotidianus, pp. 224, 232; TNA E101/8/26.



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There is another gap in the service of men from Harle in 1301. However, Robert and John again appear as centenarii from Northumberland in 1302 receiving supplies of food for their companies of foot archers. Notably, these two men are listed together as receiving supplies on behalf of their troops.53 Both of these men then again became soldarii later in 1302 and joined the garrison at Bothwell castle.54 While at Bothwell, or perhaps even before they arrived, both John and Robert appear to have been recruited directly into the military household of Sir William de Felton, who was the commander of the garrison there. In this context, both Robert and John are listed as Sir William’s valleti, rather than as soldarii of the garrison, in the horse roll compiled in 1302 for the men serving at Bothwell.55 Robert appears to have returned home to Northumberland sometime in late 1302 or 1303 because he is listed in a pay receipt once more as a centenarius in April 1303, leading a company of foot soldiers from his county to Scotland.56 William de Herle also served as a centenarius in 1303, and appears in a pay record leading a unit of forty men from Redesdale, Northumberland to the English fortress at Berwick.57 By June of that year, however, Robert had again given up command of his foot archers and was once more a soldarius, this time serving in the English garrison at Linlithgow castle. He was joined there by John de Herle and, for the first time, Hugh de Herle. All three men were at Linlithgow from at least June 1303 through August 1304.58 William de Herle, who does not appear to have joined the garrison at Linlithgow, instead is listed in 1304 as a centenarius, on this occasion leading a company of foot archers in the garrison at Berwick.59 At some point after August of this year, Robert and John de Herle also again appear as centenarii leading companies of foot archers from Northumberland to Scotland, likely to reinforce the garrisons that Edward had left there after defeating the Scottish rebellion.60 The last appearance in the royal records of a man from Harle is a pay receipt for Robert, who served in the garrison at Dumfries in 1306, and finally received his back pay in the first year of the reign of Edward II, which began 8 July 1307.61 As the careers of the men from Bilton and Harle make clear, one of the factors that drew men into the king’s military service was the presence of other men from their local area in the army. In the case of several of these soldarii and centenarii, moreover, the attraction of serving in the king’s army appears to have been strengthened even further by the opportunity to perform their duties 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

TNA E101/7/13. TNA E101/9/28; E101/10/6. TNA E101/10/12. TNA E101/10/28. TNA E101/11/1. TNA E101/11/1; E101/11/16. TNA E101/11/15. TNA E101/13/34. TNA E101/373/15.

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alongside men whom they knew and presumably trusted. This is the clear implication of the frequent appearance of men from Bilton and Harle serving together in soldarii garrisons, in some cases for years at a time. In the case of the men from Harle, we can also see them serving together as centenarii, leading companies of foot soldiers from Northumberland to join the royal army on campaign. Ties of Shared Military Service As the examples in the previous section indicate, men from the same villages chose to serve year after year with each other, particularly in the context of the English garrisons in Scotland, where all of the soldiers were volunteers rather than conscripts from the shire levies. Similar patterns of men choosing to serve with each other over time can be seen even in cases where there is no obvious tie of family or neighborhood to connect them. Rather, it appears that many men, who joined Edward I’s armies for disparate reasons, met in the course of a campaign or in a garrison, and then chose to continue to serve together for reasons of friendship or affinity. We can see this pattern quite clearly, for example, in the careers of three men named Edward of Kincardine (County Fife Scotland), Gilbert of Meinteith (County Perth, Scotland), and Sevanus de Mare. The horse inventory of the expanded royal military household of 1301, discussed above, lists these three men together, with Sevanus de Mare first, followed by Edward and Gilbert, each of whom is denoted as the socius eiusdem, referring to Sevanus.62 It appears that Edward and Sevanus met at Berwick castle the previous year. Edward appears on a list of soldarii who received pay from royal clerks as they traveled from Knaresborough castle in northern Yorkshire to join the royal army at Berwick in 1300.63 Sevanus de Mare was already at Berwick at this time, and appears on a list of sixty-two soldarii who were in the garrison there.64 It is not clear from the surviving records whether Gilbert was also already at Berwick at this point, but the horse roll does indicate that he had joined the two other men before the summer of 1301. Following the demobilization of most of the troops attached to the royal household, Sevanus and Gilbert went together to join the garrison at Kirkintilloch as soldarii. Both men remained in service there throughout the remainder of 1301, the entirety of 1302 and 1303, and up through April 1304.65 During this lengthy period Sevanus and Gilbert consistently were listed right next to each other in the garrison rolls, suggesting that they presented themselves together to the royal clerks, who were responsible for recording the names of the men in the garrison at Kirkintilloch. For at least part of this period, in either late 1303 62 63 64 65

TNA E101/9/24. TNA E101/684/52. Liber quotidianus, p. 146. TNA E101/9/13; E101/9/16; E101/10/12; E101/10/14; E101/10/16; E101/11/1; E101/11/15; E101/12/18.



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or early 1304, Sevanus and Gilbert were joined again at Kirkintilloch by Edward of Kincardine, who served there as a soldarius.66 We can see a similar pattern of soldiers choosing to serve together in the careers of two men named Gilbert Modi and Maddoc Wallensi, that is Maddoc the Welshman. Both Gilbert and Maddoc commanded units of foot archers in 1301, which they led to Berwick. Gilbert’s command consisted of men from Northumberland, while Maddoc is described as leading men from “diversis comitibus.”67 This latter term was devised by royal clerks in the context of Edward I’s conquest of Scotland to denote men who had been recruited from numerous counties in England to serve as garrison troops in Scotland.68 Gilbert and Maddoc remained in the king’s service as soldarii at Berwick after the foot soldiers whom they commanded had either been sent home or transferred to the unit of another centenarius.69 By September 1301 both men had left Berwick and joined the garrison at Kirkintilloch as soldarii.70 In early 1302, Gilbert left Kirkintilloch and was again in command of a unit of twenty foot archers, for whom he received supplies amounting to one quarter of wheat flour.71 However, at some point in 1302 Gilbert again became a soldarius and rejoined Maddoc in the garrison at Kirkintilloch, where they both remained until the end of 1303.72 In 1304, both Gilbert and Maddoc departed Kirkintilloch and again commanded units of foot archers and were listed together as centenarii, notably in the same pay records, which suggests that their units were deployed together as well.73 Another man who can be seen to have served alongside Gilbert Modi in several different contexts is Henry of Bentley. Despite his byname of Bentley, located in Hampshire, Henry like Gilbert hailed from Northumberland. He led troops from this county in the summer of 1301 and was still serving as a centenarius in command of Northumbrian troops in the early part of 1302.74 However, by the summer of 1302, Henry, like Gilbert, joined the garrison at Kirkintilloch as a soldarius and remained there alongside both Gilbert and Maddoc through the end of 1303.75 Then, again like both Gilbert and Maddoc, Henry once more took command of a unit of foot archers as a centenarius in 1304, leading his men from Northumberland into Scotland.76 Yet another centenarius from Northumberland, named Richard Galoun, can be seen serving alongside Gilbert Modi and Henry of Bentley in the summer of 1301, and then joining both men in the

66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

TNA E101/11/15. MS ADD 7966A. On this point, see Bachrach, “Edward I’s “Centurions,” pp. 109–28. TNA E101/8/28 for pay receipts for both men at Berwick. TNA E101/9/13. TNA E101/7/13. TNA E101/10/6; E101/10/14; E101/11/1. TNA E101/13/34. MS ADD 7966A; TNA E101/7/13. TNA E101/9/16; E101/10/6; E101/10/14; E101/11/1. TNA E101/13/34.

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garrison at Kirkintilloch as a soldarius.77 The common background of Gilbert, Henry, and Richard as centenarii from Northumberland may well have played an important role in encouraging them to stay together as soldarii in the king’s service in the garrison at Kirkintilloch. Many dozens more cases of men serving together over multiple campaigns, and in multiple garrisons, can be identified in the surviving records. However, I will finish here with one final example that takes as its starting point the career of a man named Roger from the village of Ravensdale in Derbyshire.78 Roger’s first appearance in Edward I’s army is in a pay record as a centenarius in command of a unit of foot archers at Berwick in 1299.79 Roger remained at Berwick as a centenarius and then as a soldarius up through May 1301.80 In June 1301, however, Roger transferred to the castle at Roxburgh, and from there moved to the garrison at Edinburgh, where he remained as a soldarius through at least May 1303.81 In January 1304, Roger was back in command of a unit of foot archers and served in this capacity throughout the year.82 It is not clear whether Roger continued in royal service in the first part of 1305, but by the end of this year he was again in command of a unit of foot soldiers and received back pay for 107 days on 27 March 1306.83 Because of the length of Roger’s career in the king’s service and the number of documents in which he appears, it is possible to identify patterns among the men with whom he served that highlight the development of professional ties based on previous service. In this context, when Roger transferred from Berwick to Roxburgh in June 1301, he went with seven men, named Alan of Wallingford (Oxfordshire), Walter of Aynho (Northamptonshire), Stephen of Walton (Lancashire), Philip of Northbridge (Yorkshire), Walter of Chilton (Oxfordshire), Roger de Sutton (London), and John Bagepus (Cheshire).84 All of these men had previously served at Berwick alongside Roger, but had come there originally at different times and in different contexts, i.e. as centenarii or as soldarii.85 In short, these men, who came from all over England, met

77 78

79 80 81 82 83 84 85

TNA E101/9/16; E101/10/6; E101/10/14; E101/11/1. MS ADD 7966A. Another man from Ravensdale in Derbyshire named Ralph also can be seen commanding a company of foot archers from this county, in his case in 1304. See TNA E101/11/15. TNA E101/7/8. TNA E101/8/6; TNA E101/9/9. TNA E101/9/13; E101/9/16; E101/9/24; E101/9/30; E101/10/5; E101/10/13; E101/11/1. TNA E101/11/15; E101/11/29; E101/12/16; E101/12/17. TNA E101/13/16. TNA E101/9/13. For the careers of John Bagepus, Walter Aynho, Roger de Sutton, Stephen de Walton, Philip of Northbridge, and Walter of Chilton see Bachrach, “Edward I’s ‘Centurions,’” particularly the appendix, pp. 122–26. However, note that the information provided here is not complete, and that additional research has yielded considerable additional information, including the origins of all of these men. Alan of Wallingford first appears in TNA E101/7/7.



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at Berwick and established a sufficiently strong relationship to want to form a small company and go to Roxburgh together in the king’s service. Subsequently, this group of eight men, including Roger, departed from Roxburgh and joined the garrison at Edinburgh in 1302, where they remained until the end of 1303.86 After this point, as noted above, Roger became a centenarius as did John Bagepus, who had served alongside him at both Roxburgh and Berwick. These two men were listed together among the centenarii receiving supplies for their troops from royal commissary officials in 1304.87 Conclusion It was Andrew Ayton’s great insight that administrative records, and particularly unpublished and largely unexploited administrative records, can be used to gain considerable information regarding the prosopography and social history of the knights and gentry who served in the English armies of the Hundred Years’ War. The goal of this essay has been to apply this insight to the great mass of fighting men from the social and economic strata below the gentry, who volunteered or were recruited to serve in the armies of Edward I, particularly in the context of his lengthy wars of conquest in Scotland. When analyzed closely, and with due attention to the clues left by royal clerks, it is possible to trace out very similar ties among the men who served as centenarii and soldarii, as Ayton and others have found among the gentry and knights. In particular, ties of kinship, geography, and previously shared military service clearly played an important part in recruiting the thousands of men who led the companies of foot soldiers from the shires and served as mounted troops in the English garrisons in Scotland. As a consequence, it can be concluded that the social ties that bound together military communities of landowners in England had the same effect in creating military communities among those men who either possessed no land or had so little property as to make them exempt from either royal taxation or obligatory service on horseback in the king’s army.

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TNA E101/E101/9/24; E101/9/30; E101/10/5; E101/10/13; E101/11/1. TNA E101/11/29.

6 Two Walls of Protection: Queen Elionor of Sicily and Bishop Berenguer de Cruïlles of Gerona During the 1359 Naval Campaigns of The War of the Two Pedros1 Donald J. Kagay

This article deals with two unlikely political figures who emerged during the most important phase of the War of the Two Pedros (1356–1366), the sea war of 1359 during which the Castilian king, Pedro I (1350–1366/69), attacked the Valencian, Catalan and Majorcan coasts only to be repelled by the Aragonese sovereign, Pere III (1336–1387). The first of these figures was Pere III’s third wife, Elionor of Sicily, who, as one of the only Aragonese queens of that time to receive a formal coronation, was a true political helpmate to her husband. As Governor of Catalonia and royal lieutenant, Elionor took it on herself to arrange for the coastal defense of Catalonia and Valencia while her husband was pursuing his Castilian enemy into Majorcan waters, She raised these military units by enforcing emergency taxes on Catalonia. Elionor was also a strong supporter for her husband’s naval campaigns and repeatedly took it on herself to spread the news of these exchanges. The other unlikely figure to emerge during the naval crisis was Bishop Berenguer of Gerona who received authority to gather even larger tax amounts than did the queen when in the same year of 1359 he was elected as the first president of the Catalan Deputació, a permanent parliamentary body of Catalonia which remained in session to fully carry out the directives of Catalonian Corts. In some ways, then, these largely forgotten figures helped the badly pressed Crown of Aragon to stand once again against its much stronger Castilian opponent. The War at Sea, 1359 Medieval Spain’s longest conflict between Christian forces, the War of the Two Pedros (1356–66), was largely fought along the rugged frontiers of Castile and Murcia on the one hand and those of Aragon and Valencia on the other. Military exchanges between the Iberian enemies were normally fought as cabalgadas, 1

I appreciate the stellar aid of the editors of the Journal, John France, Kelly DeVries, and Clifford J. Rogers, as well as that of the outside reader, for making this a much better article.

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cross-border raids that seldom involved more than 3,000 troops, most of them mounted.2 After almost three years of this kind of asymmetrical warfare, the twenty-five-old Castilian king, Pedro I (r. 1350–66/69), attempted to attack the lucrative Mediterranean waters of Valencia and Catalonia. In May 1359, he gathered a fleet of over 130 vessels at Seville, including galleys from Genoa, Granada, and Portugal. In late spring, 1359, the Castilian king sailed this massive force down the Guadalquivir River into the Atlantic and along the Mediterranean coast. Although this force surprised the small Valencian outpost of Guardamar in early June, Pedro’s force was eventually shadowed by Pere III (Pedro IV) of Aragon’s (r. 1336–87) administrators, including his wife, Elionor of Sicily (r. 1349–75) and the king’s own fleet that awaited the enemy armada at the Catalan capital.3 On 10 June 1359, the Castilian fleet anchored off Barcelona and an attack on the city seemed imminent. Despite heavy crossbow and artillery exchanges between the fleets, Pedro did not engage in an amphibious operation against

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For the War of the Two Pedros, see: Archivo de la Corona de Aragón [hereafter ACA], Registro [hereafter R.] 1381, ff. 205–07; Cartas reales [Pedro IV], caja 49, no 6003; José Vicente Cabezuelo Pliego, La guerra de los Dos Pedros en las tierras alcantinas (Alicante, 1991); María Teresa Ferrer i Mallol, “Causes i antecedents de la guerra dels Dos Peres,” Boletín de la Sociedad Castellonense de Cultura 63–64 (1987), 445–508; Ferrer i Mallol, “The Southern Valencian Frontier during the War of the Two Pedros,” in The Hundred Years War: A Wider Focus, eds. L. J. Andrew Villalon and Donald J. Kagay (Leiden, 2005), pp. 75–115; Antonio Gutiérrez de Velasco, “La conquist de Terazona en la guerra de los Dos Pedros (año de 1357),” Cuadernos de Historia Jeronimo Zurista [hereafter CHJZ] 10–11 (1960), 69–98; Gutiérrez de Velasco, “La controfensiva aragonesa en la guerra de los Dos Pedros: Actitud militar y diplomática de Pedro IV el Ceremonioso (años 1358 a 1362),” CHJZ 14–15 (1963), 7–30; Gutiérrez de Velasco, “La fortelezas aragonesas ante la gran ofensiva castellana en la guerra de los Dos Pedros,” CHJZ 12–13 (1961), 7–39; Donald J. Kagay, “Border War as a Handmaiden of National Identity: The Territorial Definition of Late-Medieval Iberia,” Journal of the Georgia Association of Historians 28 (2009), 88–138; Donald J. Kagay, “The Defense of the Crown of Aragon during the War of the Two Pedros (1359–1366),” Journal of Military History 71 (2007), 11–53; Mario Lafuente Gómez, Dos coronas en guerra: Aragón y Castilla (1356–1366) (Zaragoza, 2014), pp. 94–104; Lafuenta Gomez, Un reino en armas: La guerra de los Dos Pedros en Aragón (1356–1366) (Zaragoza, 2009); María Rosa Muñoz Pomer, “Preliminares de la guerra de los Dos Pedros en el reino de Valencia (1356),” Anales de la Universidad de Alicante. Historia Medieval [hereafter UAMH], 1 (1982), 117–34. For a much larger list of sources on the conflict, see Donald J. Kagay and L. J. Andrew Villalon, Conflict in Fourteenth-Century Iberia: Aragon vs Castile and the War of the Two Pedros (Leiden, forthcoming). Pedro López de Ayala, “Crónica del rey Don Pedro I,” ed. Cayetano Rosell, Crónicas de los reyes de Castilla, 3 vols, Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, vol. 66 (Madrid, 1875), pp. 485 (1358, chap. ix), 494–95 (1395, chap xi). Despite the presence of more recent editions of Ayala’s chronicle, including Corónica del rey don Pedro, eds. Constance L. Wilkins and Heanon M. Wilkins (Madison, 1985), the Rosell edition is cited here because it is by far and away the most easily available to American scholars. Pere III of Catalonia (Pedro IV of Aragon), Chronicle, trans. Mary Hillgarth; ed. J. N. Hillgarth, 2 vols (Toronto, 1980), 2:522–23 (VI:22).



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the city and withdrew after two days of fighting. Sailing south toward Valencia, the Castilian eventually turned his ships eastward towards the Balearic Islands. The Aragonese king’s fleet followed first to Majorca and then to Ibiza where Castilian forces were besieging the island’s major fortress. After a standoff between the two sovereigns, Pedro drove his ship southward by the Valencian port of Alicante. After several days of naval operations around the port, the Castilian king broke off his attack and sailed back to Seville with few victories to show from the expensive expedition.4 These naval actions might have led to an immediate conclusion of the bloody dispute between the Aragonese and Castilian kings and, as a result, to a rapid unification of the Iberian Peninsula under the control of its largest polity, Castile. Despite this possibility, the Crown of Aragon was saved from this fate by the Castilian king’s increasing lack of confidence in his own men and by the support of the Aragonese monarchy by highly motivated mercenaries led by important Castilian captains such as Count Enrique de Trastámara and Pere’s half-brother, Prince Fernando.5 Below the effect of these military leaders on the survival of the Crown of Aragon, the largely forgotten work of two administrative heroes, Pere III’s third queen, Elionor of Sicily, and Berenguer de Cruïlles, the bishop of the ancient Catalan city of Gerona, were also of great importance during the crucial year of 1359. Elionor of Sicily Elionor was clearly the Aragonese king’s most important partner due to a very traditional consideration. While the king’s earlier wives had presented him with healthy female heirs, they failed to produce a male successor whose very existence would guarantee survival of the Barcelona dynasty that stretched back to the ninth century. Intent on doing his duty to the long line of predecessors that led directly to his reign, Pere declared that his oldest child, Constanza, would qualify as his successor if he died with no male descendant.6 Though unusual, this solution was not unprecedented, since the twelfth-century Aragonese queen Petronilla (r. 1139–64) (whose marriage with Count Ramon Berenguer IV of Barcelona [r. 1131–62] had created the political ties that linked Aragon and Catalonia) had ruled her own realm very much in her own name.7 Such 4 5

6

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Ayala, Pedro I, pp. 495–96, 498 (1359, chaps. xii–xiv, xvii–xix); Pere III, Chronicle 2:525–29 (VI:25–26) Antonio Ramón Pont, “El infante don Fernando, señor de Orihela en la guerra de los Dos Pedros (1356–1363),” UAMH 2 (1983), 63–92; Julio Valdeón Baruque, Enrique II de Castilla: La guerra civil y la consolidación del régimen (1366–1371) (Valladolid, 1966). Pere III, Chronicle, 2:392–94 (IV:4–5, 11); Alfonso García Gallo de Diego, “La sucesión al trono de Aragón,” Anuario de historia de derecho español 36 (1966), 5–188, at pp. 33–34. For early Aragonese and Catalan rulers, see: The Chronicle of San Juan de la Peña: A Fourteenth-Century Official History of the Crown of Aragon [hereafter CSJP], trans. Lynn H. Nelson (Philadelphia, 1991), pp. 18–31 (chaps. 15–19), 41–43 (chap. 23). 488 CSJP, pp. 50–51 (chap. 31); Therese Martín, “Fuente de potesdad para reinas e infantes.

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succession novelties proved unnecessary, however, since in 1350, a little after Elionor’s marriage to Pere III, the queen presented him with a healthy son, Joan, following this feat with the delivery of two other offspring before eight years had passed.8 The king’s gratitude to his third wife for saving his royal heritage was effusive, but that was not the only accomplishment that had recommended his Sicilian niece to the Aragonese king. Described by one modern scholar as a person with an “iron will” that steadily drove her toward the ultimately unsuccessful attempt to become the leader of her dysfunctional Sicilian family and the sovereign of her equally dysfunctional Sicilian realm, Queen Elionor quickly impressed her husband with her skills as an effective administrator of her dower possessions – the Aragonese, Catalan, Balearic, and Valencian cities, towns, villages, and fortresses that supported her through the taxes they paid each year.9 Through her determination and accomplishments, Elionor slowly expanded her authority and position of power against her husband’s most important adviser, Bernat de Cabera, his family, and Pyrenean supporters in Pere III’s government.10 Once her husband’s “principal enemy,” Pedro I of Castile, declared war in 1356, the Aragonese queen became a stern voice for the royal position, repeatedly proclaiming the justice of Pere’s cause to the Avignon papacy and to the rulers of Aragon’s most important neighbors. She was also a fearless taskmaster for Pere’s corps of military captains, including Count Enrique de Trastámara and Prince Ferran.11 Elionor’s energy and skill in managing royal administrative matters went far beyond what Pere’s first wives could handle, which quickly led the king to reward her shortly after she had given birth to her first son. In 1352, over a decade after he himself had gone through a coronation ceremony similar to that of his father, Alfons III (r. 1327–33), the king had his infant son crowned, and,

8 9

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11

El infantazgo en los siglos centrales de la Edad Media,” Anuario de Estudios Medievales [hererafter AEM] 46/1 (2016), 97–136, at pp. 121–22; William Clay Stalls, “Queenship and the Royal Patrimony in Twelfth-Century Iberia: The Example of Petronilla of Aragon,” in Queens, Regents, and Potentates, ed. Theresa M. Vann (Dallas, 1993), pp. 49–61; José Ángel Sesma Muñoz, La corona de Aragón: Una introducción crítica (Zaragoza, 2000), pp. 37–40. Pere III, Chronicle, 2:451, 518 (IV:66; VI:18). Francesco Giunta, Aragonese y catalanes en el Mediterráneo, trans. Juana Bignozzi (Barcelona, 1989), p. 175; Sepastian Roebert, “‘Que no tenemus a dicto domino rege pro camera assignata,’ The Development and Administration of the Queenly Estate of Elionor of Sicily (1349–1375),” AEM, 46/1 (2016), 231–68. Donald J. Kagay, “The ‘Treason’ of Bernat de Cabrera: Government, Law, and the Individual in the Late-Medieval Crown of Aragon,” Mediavistik 13 (2000), 39–54, at pp. 40–41, 46–47; J. B. Sitges, La muerte de D. Bernardo de Cabrera (Madrid, 1911), pp. 1–5, 19–23, 34–36, 40–42, 68–69. For the Aragonese queen’s development as a successful administrator, see Donald J. Kagay, “Elionor of Sicily: A Mediterranean Queen’s Two Lives of Family, Administration, Diplomacy, and War,” Journal of Medieval Military History [herafter JMMH] 17 (2019), 81–102.



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at the same time, honored his Sicilian wife similarly in the same ceremony.12 Elionor won an even greater honor in 1359 when her husband bestowed on her the title of “lieutenant general” (locumtenens generalis). This new honor allowed the queen to act on all “arduous matters and questions… just as if [the king had done so].”13 Though this remarkable grant was temporary and generally owed its existence to the king’s need to be away from the royal court, it seemed to permanently advance Elionor’s sense of status, especially during the decade of conflict with Castile.14 The Queen Attempts to Win the Day The only advantage gained from the hesitant water ballet between the Castilian and Aragonese fleets in the summer of 1359 seemed to fall to the Aragonese queen, at least for the short time when she put into operation across a good portion of Aragon and Catalonia her newly won authority drawn from the post of lieutenant general. Elionor may even have looked past the desperate possibilities that may have emerged from the naval conflict toward an even greater enhancement of her ruling position in the Crown of Aragon or Sicily. Her greatest concerns, however, seemed to mostly focus on the task of safeguarding Aragonese, Catalan, and Valencian territories threatened by the Castilian fleet during a period when she was not fully aware of her husband’s fate. Between June and August 1359, Elionor remained in Barcelona, but extended her area of command as far south as Alicante on the southern Valencian coast which was the last of her husband’s towns to undergo an attack from the Castilian fleet during the eventful summer.15 While the queen’s words were bolstered by her new authority, her tone was very similar to her communications during the first months of the war. She thus repeated time and again the great danger 12

13

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Antonio Durán Gudiol, “El rito de la coronación de rey en Aragón,” Argensola 103 (1989), 17–37, at pp. 20–22; E. L. Miron, The Queens of Aragon: Their Lives and Times (London, 1914), pp. 196–97; Jaume Riera i Sans, “La coronación de la Reina Elionor (1352),” Acta historica et archaeologica español medievalía [Homenatge á la Profesora Dra Carmen Batlle Girart] 26 (2005), 485–92. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1137, ff. 40–41. For a thorough discussion of Elionor’s various appointments of the office of the lieutenancy and the various documents confirming them, see Sebastian Roebert, “The Nominations of Elionor of Sicily as Queen-Lieutenant in the Crown of Aragon: Edition and Commentary,” Mediaeval Studies 80 (2018), 171–229, at p. 199 (doc. 1); Lleidó Ruiz Domingo, “‘Del qual renim loch,’ Leonor de Sicilia y el origen de lugartenencia feminina en la Corona de Aragón,” Medievalisme 27 (2017), 303–26, at p. 311. Besides the 1359 grant, the queen received lieutenancy powers four other times in her later life: 1362, 1364, 1372, and 1374. For this documentation, see: ACA, Cancillería real, R. 970, ff. 186–89v; R. 1537, ff. 122r–v; R. 1573, ff. 68–69v. For editions of these documents, see Roebert, “Nominations,” pp. 203–13 (doc. 4), 221–24 (doc. 6), 226–27 (doc. 7), 228–29 (doc. 8); Deibel, “Reyna Elionor,” p. 449 (doc. 6). Ayala, Pedro I, p. 498 (1359, chap. xvii); Jeronimo Zurita y Castro, Anales de Aragón, ed. Ángel López Canellas, 9 vols. (Zaragoza, 1969–85), 4:382 (IX:xxiv).

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Aragon’s royal couple were in and how desperately they needed the help and funds of their subjects.16 In the months before her husband took to the Mediterranean in pursuit of his Castilian enemy, the queen’s expanded authority became increasingly obvious even in regard to Pere III himself. As the conflict with Pedro I intensified between 1356 and 1359, she sternly warned Pere against diverting taxes to pay off his principal captain, Enrique de Trastámara. Though she distrusted that Castilian soldier, her advice to her husband against him had little to do with hatred, but rather came from an effort to maintain the stability of each realm within the Crown of Aragon.17 Occasionally unwilling to hold her tongue, however, the queen openly criticized Pere’s officials and captains alike in a tone that often brought with it new enemies. In this way, she occasionally confronted such important military leaders as Juan Fernández de Heredía, the castellan of Amposta, Prince Ferran, and Arnau de Eril in a manner that to these captains seemed dangerous meddling.18 Her scolding tone was especially galling to Pere III’s most important soldier, Count Enrique de Trastámara, whom she excoriated for having left his post on the Aragonese frontier to raise money for his unpaid troops.19 The deepest source of resentment among these professional military leaders was the imperious tone the queen often took with them. Her words, however, made clear that she was in the right, and they grudgingly had to admit it. Her communications with those who risked the dangers of the battlefield also demonstrated to them that the queen had very definite ideas about human conflict: We know well that victory in battles comes about neither from human encounters or conflicts. Nor does it reside in the multitude and great numbers or men, but is rather in the hands of the Lord God, and in the hearts of the warriors.20

Elionor was even less philosophical in her relationships with the great nobles and clergy of the lands she controlled as lieutenant general and governor of Catalonia. Even though they often allowed their own vassals to be taxed by the parliaments of the various realms of the Crown of Aragon, the queen had no compunction in demanding even more money from them during the crisis of 1359. She utilized the same method for raising emergency funds: the household tax (fogatge), which set a sum to be paid by the residents of each dwelling of the villages which were feudally bound to Catalan churchmen and nobles.21 Even 16 17 18 19 20 21

ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1566, ff. 89v, 124v, 158v; R. 1567, ff. 3v, 44v, 72, 133v. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1568, f. 7v. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1568, ff. 10–11, 46r–v, 47v. ACA, Cancillería real, R.1568, ff. 10v, 46r–v, 52v–53, 62r–v. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1568, ff. 74–75. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1567, ff. 106r–v, 107v; R. 1568, ff. 12r–v, 17v–18, 23r–v, 27–28v, 33–34, 38, 39–40, 45, 46. For the functioning of the fogatge in the Crown of Aragon, see: María Teresa Andres, “El fogatge aragonés de 1362: Aportación de demografía de Zaragoza en el siglo XIV,” Aragón en la Edad Media 9 (1989), 33–59; J. M. Pons Guri,



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with the important bishops and abbots of the lands she administered, Elionor took an extremely harsh tone for those who attempted to dodge a duty that she viewed as essential for the continuing existence of her husband’s realms and for her very administrative existence. These religious leaders could not refuse to do their duty “for the good of the commonwealth of realms and of the lord king.”22 The Aragonese queen would tolerate no “postponements or delays” among the nobles and great churchmen, labeling such actions as clear treason.23 While she used a great amount of her own revenues and treasure to protect the Catalan and Valencian coastlands, she soon attempted to expand her efforts by tying them to her lieutenancy and gubernatorial powers. Proclaiming that her actions were on a par with her husband’s, Elionor attempted to establish an emergency fund from all the crown’s Catalan subjects. She would then use this money to pay for the expenses of military companies raised by the nobles, great clergy, and their vassals. While Elionor claimed she would accept any sum donated by the Catalans, no matter how small, she published a list of suggested contributions that the Catalan nobles and prelates were expected to promptly pay. While some of these sums were collected and supported clusters of troops along the Catalan coastline, the rapid dissipation of the Castilian danger by late summer 1359 soon rendered these coastal units unnecessary. With the remaining funds, the queen took up the remarkable project of fitting out galleys for her husband’s fleet, which was still in Mediterranean waters between the Balearics and the eastern Spanish coast.24 For both the urban sites and the castles that the Aragonese queen controlled, she took a far more personal interest during that dangerous summer of 1359. Two years before, in March 1357, she had suffered the loss of Tarazona, one of the largest towns on the Aragonese frontier. Furious at the slovenly defense of the town, she made the repair of all her towns and fortresses a priority that helped guide many of her actions during 1359.25 As the Castilian war continued to threaten her townsmen and their homes, Elionor attempted to reduce the amount of taxation they owed every year. She also tried to make these walled sites into places of security for neighboring villagers, their property, and animals. This was often possible even in her smallest towns, since many of their Jewish and Muslim residents had deserted their homes and fled to Castile or Granada.26

22 23 24 25

26

“Un fogatjament de contegut de l’any 1358,” Boletín de Real Academia de Buenas Letras de Barcelona 30 (1963–64), 322–498. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1568, ff. 32v–33. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1568, ff 32, 43v. For a fuller discussion of these activities, see: Donald J. Kagay, Elionor of Sicily (1325– 1375): A Mediterranean Queen of Two Worlds (London, 2021). Tarazona, a community “better defended than any other,” went down to ignominious defeat on March 9 1357, almost without a fight. ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1149, f. 96v; R. 1151, f. 65v; R. 1379, ff. 147–48, 161r–v; Epistolari, ed. Ramon Gubern (Barcelona, 1955), 155 (doc. 21). ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1566, ff. 107, 110, 115v, 161, 188r–v; R. 1567, ff. 18, 117r–v, 125, 133v; R.1568, ff. 1v, 66.

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Besides this desertion of an important economic segment of her towns and growing dissent between townsmen and troops fighting for the Aragonese crown, the queen was increasingly concerned with the poor conditions of urban defenses, spending a good amount of money to repair and lengthen walls and moats.27 A Talented Episcopal Leader and Basic Changes to Catalonia’s Parliamentary Culture Queen Elionor’s efforts at protecting Pere’s realms from Castilian attack took place at much the same time that her husband summoned a Catalan corts at Cervera, a small town north of Tarragona. After two months of royal demands and Catalan foot-dragging, the assembly agreed to give the crown 144,000 libras of Barcelona over a two-year period. This sum was divided equally between the urban estate on one hand and the clerical and urban members on the other.28 To assure the money would be properly collected, the Aragonese king temporarily surrendered some of his governmental power to parliamentary agents called “deputies” (diputats), who would hold office for the full two years during which the parliamentary grant would be in effect. This transient surrender of royal power eventually led to an institution that arose from the parliamentary meetings of Valencia in 1358 and those of Aragon and Catalonia in the following year. In all these cases, Pere III’s desperate need for money to support his troops forced him to extend unprecedented control to the members of his representative institutions. This forced on him at least a temporary loss of “initiative in policy and finance.”29 He thus had no choice but to accept the emergence of an “executive committee” (diputació general) that took over the administration of funds voted by the Aragonese and Valencian cortes and the Catalan corts to support the king’s war effort. These deputies, appointed by the parliaments, were responsible for the collection, maintenance, spending, and auditing of money raised by war taxes as well as the stationing and oversight of troops. Though not fully recognized institutions until the fifteenth century, the Catalan Diputació del General and the Aragonese and Valencian Diputacións were already carrying out important functions before the end of Pere’s realm in 1387.30 27 28

29 30

ACA, Cancillería real, R. 1537, f. 51v; R. 1566, ff. 108v, 157; R. 1567, ff. 22–24, 40r–v, 43v–44, 46, 123v–24, 125, 127, 139; R. 1568, 173. Colecciión de las Cortes de las antiguas reinos de Aragón y Valencia y del principado de Cataluñs, 27 vols. (Madrid, 1896–1922 ), 2: 1–37, 383–87, 389–90; José Luis Martín, “Las Cortes catalanes en la guerra castellano-aragonesa,” in La Corona de Aragón en el siglo XIV, 2 vols. (Valencia, 1969–70), 2:79–90, at pp. 82–83; Donald J. Kagay, “The Parliament of the Crown of Aragon as Military Financier in the War of the Two Pedros,” JMMH 14 (2016), 57–77, at 63–64. T. N. Bisson, The Medieval Crown of Aragon. A Short History (Oxford, 1986), p. 118. Bisson, Medieval Crown of Aragon, p. 157; Alberto Estrada Rius, “Resumen de los origenes de la Generalitat de Catalunya (De Deputació de General de Catalunya. De los precedentes á la reforma de 1413),” PhD. Diss., Universitat Pompeu Fabra, 2001; José



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Like Queen Elionor, Berenguer de Cruïlles saw an increase in his authority from the demands of the Castilian war in 1359. Becoming the bishop of Gerona in the same year, he remained in the episcopal office until 1362 when he died at the age of fifty-two. When the Cervera assembly finished its work shortly before Christmas, Bishop Berenguer had won a new administrative role. Before Pere III concluded the meeting, the three estates chose deputies to represent them in the tax-collection process. With a reputation as a powerful speaker, the bishop of Gerona became the leader of the Catalan clergy and was then elected as the presiding officer over Cervera’s deputies. Almost immediately, he hired two notaries, who, fortunately for later historians, did not follow the institutional directive that ordered that all official papers produced by Cervera’s deputies be “burnt and [their ashes] scattered” after their two-year term of office had ended, ordered so that they would not be drawn into the decisions of future deputies. From this fortunate violation of protocol, most of Berenguer’s decisions as the head of the Cervera deputies were preserved in his episcopal archive. As a “skillful politician,” Berenguer soon won Pere’s approval, and emerged as a builder of consensus in an attempt to fully support the crown’s war effort while representing the Catalan church’s vassals, who often had to help pay for the conflict and even fight in it.31 Berenguer’s orders to the clergy of his bishopric mirrored Pere III’s letters of the same period that demanded the support of the urban and peasant vassals, but, like Elionor, he made exceptions if such support might alleviate the danger of starvation for poorer citizens and prevent them from abandoning their homes.32 Besides his decisions as president about how the Catalan parliament’s war imposts were to be collected, the Gerona bishop also fought to maintain the “ancient custom” that insisted that the bishop could only tax clerics and other vassals under his jurisdiction. He sent firm reminders of this ancient usage

31

32

María Font y Rius, “The Institutions of the Crown of Aragon in the First Half of the Fifteenth Century, 1369–1516,” in Spain in the Fifteenth Century, 1369–1516. Essays and Extracts by Historians of Spain, ed. Roger Highfield, trans. Frances M. López-Morillas (New York, 1972), pp. 169–92, at pp. 175–77; José Martínez Aloy, La Diputación de la Generalidad de Reino de Valencia (Valencia, 1930), pp. 144–45; Kagay, “The Parliament of the Crown of Aragon as Military Financier”, at p. 76; Ignacio Rubio Campronero, La Diputació del General de Catalunya en los siglos XV y XVI, 2 vols. (Barcelona, 1950), 1:135–53; Peter Rycraft, “The Role of the Catalan Corts in the Later Middle Ages,” English Historical Review 351 (1974), 241–69, at pp. 249–50; José Ángel Sesma Muñoz and J. A. Armillas, La Diputación de Aragón: El gobierno aragonés de reino y la comunidad autónoma (Zaragoza, N.d.); José Ángel Sesma Muñoz, “Las transformaciones de la fiscalidad real en la Baja Edad Media,” in XV Congrés d’història de la Corona de Aragón [El poder real en la Corona de Aragón], 5 vols. (Zaragoza, 1993), vol. 1 (Ponencias), pp. 239–91, at pp. 286–89. CAVC, III:402; Jaume de Puig Oliver and Josep María Marquès Planagumà, “Els primers documents del primer president de la generalitat de Catalunya, Berenguer de Cruïlles, bisbe de Girona (1359–1362),” Arxiu de textos antics 26 (2007), 288–384, at pp. 284–92. “Primers documents,” pp. 296–98 (docs. 1–2).

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to Count Ramon Berenguer II of Empuries (r. 1341–64) and Viscount Felipe Dalmau I of Rocabertí (r. 1342–92) who had tried to draw war funds from the same clergy and other vassals who were directly subject to Bishop Berenguer.33 Such careful restatements of his superior standing both as the presiding officer of Cervera’s deputies and Gerona’s bishop did not always impress nobles of Empuries like the lord of Valpach, who tried to force clergy and villagers under feudal control of the bishopric of Gerona to serve in his company against Castilian invaders. If they “closed their door against him,” the noble promised to return and demolish their dwellings. Very much as a secular official, Berenguer lectured the angry lord and his superior, the count of Empuries, about the proper way to raise such forces.34 In addition to reinforcing his manifold authority against such noble challenges, the bishop spent much of his time in forcing the payment of Cervera’s household taxes in installments down to the end of 1361. He also announced on certain occasions that Princeps namque, the call for military support of the count of Barcelona (also the king of Aragon) was in effect for a certain period. Though stern in sending Catalan townsmen and villagers to answer this call for national defense by serving as coast guards to fend off Castilian attacks from the sea, Cruïlles occasionally forgave those who did not carry out his orders if he viewed their excuses for avoidance of service as plausible.35 As an important figure in Catalonia’s evolving parliamentary institutions, the bishop of Gerona was in fairly regular communication with Aragon’s royal couple. Because of the need to make the short journey from Gerona to Barcelona, Berenguer occasionally borrowed mules from the abbots of nearby monasteries and other clerical subordinates. His hectic schedule as religious and political leader sometimes affected his health, as it did in May 1359, when he announced that he could not meet the king and queen because of a “great and dangerous affliction of… [his] throat,” which led him to send a substitute.36 No matter how the negotiations were carried out, the president showed himself

33 34 35

36

Ibid., pp. 298–302 (docs. 3–4, 6–7); Santiago Sobreques i Vidal, Els barons de Catalunya (1957, repr. Barcelona, 1980), pp. 134–35, 206–07. “Primers documents,” pp. 305–07 (docs. 10–11). Ibid., pp. 304–05, 309–12 (docs. 8–9, 13–14, 16–17); Jaume de Puig Oliver and Josep M. Marquès Planagumà, “Els darrers documents del primer president de la Generalitat de Catalunya, Berenguer de Cruïlles, bisbe be Girona (1359–1362),” ATCA 27 (2008), 7–43, at pp. 20–21 (docs. 72–73). For Princeps namque, article 64 of the Usatges of Barcelona, see The Usatges of Barcelona: The Fundamental Law of Catalonia, ed. Donald J. Kagay (Philadelphia, 1994), 80 (art. 64); Donald J. Kagay, “The National Defense Clause: Princeps namque and the Emergence of the Catalan State,” in Crusaders, Condottieri, and Cannon: Medieval Warfare in the Societies Around the Mediterranean, ed. Donald J. Kagay and L. J. Andrew Villalon (Leiden, 2002), pp. 57–100; Manuel Sánchez Martínez, “The Invocation of Princeps Namque in 1368 and its Repercussions for the City of Barcelona,” in The Hundred Years War: A Wider Focus, eds. L. J. Andrew Villalon and Donald J. Kagay (Leiden, 2005), pp. 297–323. “Primers documents,” pp. 309, 313 (docs. 13, 18).



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to be an efficient parliamentary agent who stationed small military units up and down the Mediterranean coast as long as the Castilian danger loomed. He also followed to the letter the agreements of the Cervera corts. Despite the overlap of their duties, Berenguer seemed to encounter fewer difficulties with the royal administrators than he did as bishop with some of the Catalan abbots and other clerics who were engaged in “continual prejudices and grievances” about the payment of the fairly moderate war taxes that Cervera’s deputies had to collect.37 Unlike royal tax collectors, Cruïlles occasionally returned some portion of a community’s fogatge if he found that some of the residents were exempt from the tax or a portion of the impost had not been spent. This did not stop him, however, from issuing general instructions to inform all Catalan ratepayers that if they proved delinquent in the payment of their justly owed household taxes, they would be excommunicated.38 The Compartmentalization of National Power The massive Castilian fleet that seemed poised in 1359 to facilitate Pedro I’s conquest of large swaths of Balearic, Catalan, and Valencian territory seemed to subdivide in some ways the power that Pere III had possessed when the conflict with Castile began three years before. The complexity of the war caused by the king’s decision to hold out defensively in two of his largest realms against his enemy’s fast-moving forces cost Pere dearly. The king now had to pay daily wages to professional troops, many of them Castilian. When, in 1359 and then in 1364–65 the Aragonese monarch was increasingly needed in the field, he temporarily subdivided his administration. Already utilizing lieutenants to manage distant parts of the “commonwealth” (cosa publica) of his realms, he bestowed on his wife a temporary authority that allowed her to assume powers every bit the equal of her husband’s, at least as long as the emergency lasted.39 During the critical weeks of the summer of 1359 when her husband led his fleet against that of his Castilian enemy, Elionor attempted to raise emergency funds to pay troops posted along the Mediterranean coast and on the Aragonese frontier with Castile. Her efforts on a national scale, however, largely came to nothing, not because of inefficiency or failure of nerve on her part, but because the crisis caused by the Castilian fleet was short-lived and few of her mustered troops saw any meaningful action. The emergency funds

37 38 39

Ibid., pp. 308, 310 (docs. 12, 14, 26). Ibid., pp. 334–35 (doc. 29), 337–38 (doc. 31), 244–45 (doc. 34), 369–70 (doc. 55), 383 (doc. 66) For the concept of cos publica, see: Donald J. Kagay, “Rule and Mis-rule in Medieval Iberia,” in War, Government, and Society, Study IV, pp. 48–66, at p. 50; José Antonio Maravall, Estudios de história de pensamiento español, 2 vols. (Madrid, 1983), 1:254; Joseph F. O’Callaghan, “The Ideology of Government in the Reign of Alfonso X of Castile,” Exemplaria Alfonsina 1 (1991–92), 1–17, at pp. 4–5.

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she raised fell far short of her posted goals but brought in enough money to sponsor the arming of new galleys for the Aragonese fleet. With her administrative response in 1359, Elionor demonstrated her worth to her husband and his people. During the critical years of 1364–65, she again showed her governmental savvy and courage by bringing the stormy sessions of the corts of Barcelona to a successful conclusion.40 In many ways, the queen had achieved more than any other royal wife in the long history of the Crown of Aragon. She pointed to a clear administrative path for later Aragonese queens, such as María of Castile (1401–58), who all but ruled the Crown of Aragon for much of the reign of Alfonso V (r. 1416–58), who spent much of his life conquering southern Italy.41 Though barely recognized by Elionor or her husband during the emergency-filled year of 1359, the barest marks of a new institution, based on the Catalan corts, emerged from the assembly of Cervera. A narrowly drawn parallel governmental structure worked to see that funds promised by the corts would be properly collected, delivered, and used, with very little interference by the king or his administrators. Though headed by the bishop of Gerona, his ecclesiastical title was irrelevant. As the elected leader of the Cervera deputies, Berenguer de Cruïlles stood above the members of the other estates, no matter their rank. In a very short time, the Aragonese king and his new lieutenant had to become accustomed to a new kind of nobility, one established by political sagacity, but which was most often ended not by death or disease, but by the time-limit of an elected office.

40

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Manuel Sánchez Martínez, “Negociación y fiscalidad en Cataluña a mediados de siglo XIV: Los Cortes de Barcelona de 1356,” in Negociar en la Edad Media/Négocier en la Moyen Âge. Actas de coloquio celebrada en Barcelona las dias 14, 15, 16 de octubre de 2004, eds. María Teresa Ferrer i Mallol, Jean-Maríe Moeglin, Stéphane Pequinot, and Manuel Sánchez Martínez (Barcelona, 2005), pp. 123–64. Theresa Earenfight, The King’s Other Body: María of Castile and the Crown of Aragon (Philadelphia, 2010).

7 The Lancegay and Associated Weapons Michael John Harbinson

The light lance or lancegay was one of the most ubiquitous weapons used throughout centuries of warfare in Europe and beyond, from ancient times well into the modern era. This article traces the development of the weapon during the medieval period in its broadest sense, though drawing on its earlier and later manifestations. It offers a detailed analysis of a major category of weapon that has received far less attention than more glamorous but shorter-lived arms such as the heavy war lance and the longbow. It demonstrates that the maneuvers of the light lance and the tactics commonly associated with Napoleonic and later periods were familiar to medieval warriors and outlined in contemporary literature. The lancegay was a flexible and enduring weapon, favored by all classes of society, that could be deployed quickly both on horse and foot. Despite some variation in nomenclature, it is possible to demonstrate how the lancegay was utilized by different groups during and beyond the medieval period. Its carriage and manipulation are examined together with the tactics and riding skills that enabled it to achieve its full potential within a light cavalry role. As with many weapons from the historical past the lancegay requires considerable explication, not least because of the confusing terminology that surrounds it. Although known by several different designations, the lancegay was essentially the light lance of ancient origin, commonly used throughout the whole of the Middle Ages, which preceded, was used alongside, and finally superseded the more renowned heavy lance. The lancegay reached the height of its popularity during the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, being much favoured in the Renaissance. It was succeeded by the light cavalry lance which, largely of a similar design, remained in use well into the early twentieth century. During the Late Middle Ages, the lancegay achieved a social status not dissimilar to that of the sword as well as acquiring a lethal reputation.

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David Scott-Macnab has written extensively about the weapon’s origin within a linguistic, literary, and political context, noting the complications caused by “false etymologies and speculative interpretations.”1 There are, however, many scattered references and much disparate information that have yet to be brought together. Moreover, as the medieval light lance was in many ways similar to its ancient counterpart and nineteenth-century descendants, a comparison with classical sources and later writings can help to elucidate its full potential. The intention is to trace the development of the lancegay within this framework, examine the groups who carried the weapon, explore their tactics, and to determine why the weapon retained its popularity. Description and Terminology The lancegay was a light lance made of stiff ash, around ten to twelve feet in length, although later versions could be longer.2 The shaft was round without a handgrip and needed to be sturdy as one too pliant would be shaken by the movement of the horse, making it more likely to fracture and more difficult to maintain a steady aim.3 The lance head, originally shaped like a sage leaf with a sharp point and two cutting edges, became considerably elongated and more pyramidal to counter improvements in defensive armor.4 Pietro Monte, writing in the late fifteenth century, considered that the weapon should have “a long firm blade.”5

1

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3 4

5

David Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf and the Diverse Affinities of the Medieval Lancegay,” South African Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 19 (2009), 97–116; David Scott-Macnab, “Sir Thopas and his Lancegay,” in Chaucer in Context, A Golden Age of English Poetry, ed. Gerald Morgan (Bern, 2012), pp. 109–19; David Scott-Macnab, “Lexical Borrowing and Code-Switching: The Case of Archegay/ Hasegaye/ Harsegay in The Middle Ages and Later,” Anglia-Zeitschrift für englische Philologie 130.2 (2012), 264–75; David Scott-Macnab, “Medieval Folk Etymologizing and Modern Misconstruals of Old French Archegaie,” Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Literatur 123, no. 1 (2013), 33–49. Guillaume du Bellay, Seigneur de Langey, Discipline militaire, ed. Benoist Rigaud (Lyon, 1592), p. 51: “zagaye au poing, longue de 10. ou de 12. pieds.”; Victor Gay, Glossaire archéologique du Moyen Age et de la Renaissance, 2 vols. (Paris, 1887), 1:54, “archizagaye au poing, longue de 12 pieds.”; Sir John Smythe, Instructions, Observations, and Orders Mylitarie (London, 1595), pp. 199–200. Jeremiah B. McCall, The Cavalry of the Roman Republic (Oxford, 2002), pp. 27–28. Kelly DeVries, Medieval Military Technology (New York, 1992), p. 13; François Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” Archaeologia 99 (1965), pp. 106–07; there is no evidence of a cross-guard below the lance-head, present on some lances to prevent too deep a penetration or ward off sword cuts that might sever the shaft: Charles Henry Ashdown, British and Continental Arms and Armour (New York, 1970), p. 49. Pietro Monte’s Collectanea: The Arms, Armour and Fighting Techniques of a FifteenthCentury Soldier, trans. Jeffrey L. Forgeng (Woodbridge, 2018), p. 156. Monte began translating and expanding his own works between 1492 and 1509.



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An early modification to the light lance was the adoption of the butt-spike or l’aresteuil, a sharp-pointed iron socket fitted to the base of the shaft.6 Although the term l’aresteuil or l’arestoel first appears in French literature of the twelfth century, the concept of a butt-spike fitted to a thrusting spear was an ancient phenomenon.7 It was fitted to Greek cavalry lances and the hoplite spears from which they derived.8 Polybius’ remarks on the deficiencies of early Roman cavalry show the value of this innovative addition. He considered their lances unserviceable, being too slender and lacking butt-spikes. He noted, however, that they rapidly adopted lances after the Greek fashion, which not only ensured an effective first blow as the lance was now stronger but also guaranteed that the weapon could continue to be used simply by reversing the shaft and striking with the sharpened butt.9 Butt-spikes were also used by the Celts and Saxons and were present on Byzantine cavalry lances.10 The adoption of a butt-spike gave the lance balance, allowing it to be held comfortably towards the middle of the pole, so that the weapon could easily be reversed if the point was broken. Furthermore, the warrior was now furnished with the ability to strike with either end, an action facilitated by the lightness of the shaft. Ancient and medieval butt-spikes varied considerably in design, ranging from a simple metal cap, or hollow spike, through to a fully-fledged spearhead, such as on the weapon depicted at Kinch’s Tomb in Macedonia and those shown in Fiore de Liberi’s Flower of Battle (c.1410).11 Unfortunately, l’ares6 7 8

9 10

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Gay, Glossaire, 1:54: “La pointe ferrée au pied de la lance.” Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 95–96. The butt-spike known as sturax or sauroter (lizard killer), is mentioned in the Iliad; its use expanded dramatically with the development of hoplite panoply: Homer, Iliad, trans. A. T. Murray and William F. Wyatt, Loeb Classical Library, 2 vols. (London, 1999), p. 459; J. K. Anderson, “Hoplite Weapons and Offensive Arms,” in Hoplites, The Classical Greek Battle Experience, ed. Victor Davis Hanson (London, 1993), p. 24; Victor Davis Hanson, “Hoplite Technology in Phalanx Battle,” in Hanson, Hoplites, pp. 71–73. Polybius, The Histories, trans. W. R. Paton, 6 vols., The Loeb Classical Library (London, 1922–27), 3:325–27; McCall, Cavalry of the Roman Republic, pp. 27–28. The Ancient Greeks considered butt-spikes sufficiently important to be engraved and dedicated to the gods: the bronze spear-butt in the Metropolitan Museum New York c.500 BCE has a total length of 42.3cm and is dedicated to Castor and Pollux. A. M. Snodgrass, Arms and Armour of The Greeks (London, 1967), p. 80; Peter Connolly, Greece and Rome at War (London, 1981), p. 67; Robert E. Gaebel, Cavalry Operations in the Ancient Greek World (Norman, 2002), p. 163. For the Byzantine cavalry lance: https://www.paleodirect. com (accessed 13 January 2021). Gaebel, Cavalry Operations, p. 170: the wall painting on Kinch’s tomb near Naoussa, Macedonia shows a rider’s lance of 8.1–9.2 feet with a second spearhead at the rear. The second spearhead or a butt-spike “may well have been normal” in Alexander’s time. John Hewitt, Ancient Armour and Weapons in Europe, 3 vols. (London, 1855–60), 1:29, notes Anglo-Saxon spear-butts could vary from a hollow spike, as with those in the Fairford graves, to a metal button. The Flower of Battle of Master Fiore Friulano de’i Liberi, Being a Concordance of the Prefaces and Several Plays from His Four Extant Manuscripts, trans. Kendra Brown, Michael Chidester, Rebecca Garber, Colin Hatcher, and Guy Windsor, ed. Michael Chidester (n.p., 2016), pp. 400, 405, 407 shows developed spear

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teuil is seldom shown or is given only token representation in contemporary illustrations, apart from its depiction in the Flower of Battle, where Fiore refers to “the well-tempered steel” of the butt being as good as that of the point.12 Duarte I of Portugal (c.1434) acknowledges the presence of a sharpened buttspike when recommending that for practice both ends of the lance should be capped.13 When describing the lancegay, sixteenth-century sources emphasize this feature, indicating that the weapon was furnished with sharp, well-steeled points at both ends: a design associated with synonymous weapons such as the archegaie, génétaire, zagaye, and javeline.14 However, whether the butt-spike was a universal feature of medieval light lances is unknown, although its presence on partisans and poleaxes is well documented.15 Unfortunately, apart from some representations in art and architecture, there are no surviving examples of what might be specifically termed a lancegay from the medieval period.16 The majority of the evidence is, therefore, textual. Although the term aresteuil is rarely found after the thirteenth century, its key feature is explained in the romance of Eric et Enide (1180): “the point of the lance was turned behind, so that the aresteuil was in front.”17 As Buttin notes: “One might use the lance in this manner when there was insufficient space to exploit its length or when the lance was broken and the remaining portion with the steel-tipped butt-spike was held in the hand.”18

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13 14

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16 17 18

heads as butt-spikes: https://hroarr.com/wp-content/uploads/downloads/2016/08/wiktenauer-Fiore-de-i-Liberi-compilation-2016.pdf. Fiore de Liberi, The Flower of Battle, trans. and ed. Benjamin Winnick and Richard Marsden (New York, 2018), 6v. Chidester, The Flower of Battle, pp. 390, 397, 400, 405, 407, 421; Winnick and Marsden, The Flower of Battle, pp. 2r, 2v, 6v, 7r. Ken Mondschein, The Knightly Art of Battle (Los Angeles, 2011), pp. 47, 85, 87,102, 106, gives illustrations from the Getty manuscript. For token representation see Gabriel Daniel’s engraving of a stradiot (1721) in Gilbert John Millar, “The Albanians: Sixteenth-Century Mercenaries,” History Today 26 (1976), p. 469. The end of the lance depicted in Ungarische Lanzenreiter (1530) has a barely discernible spike: Heinrich Muller, Albrecht Dürer Waffen und Rüstungen (Mainz, 2002), p. 18. Duarte I of Portugal, The Book of Horsemanship, trans. Jeffrey L. Forgeng (Woodbridge, 2016), p. 130. Blaise de Monluc, Commentaires et Lettres, ed. Alphonse de Ruble, 5 vols. (Paris, 1864– 67), 1:50, considered the lancegay the principal weapon of Spanish horsemen c.1521: “En ce temps-là les Espagnols ne portoient que des lance gayes, longues, & ferrées par les deux bouts.” Langey, Discipline militaire (1537), p. 51: “une zagaye au poing longue de 10 à 12 pieds, ferrée par chacun bout d’un fer bien aigu et trenchant.” Smythe, Instructions, Observations (1591) pp. 199–200: refers to the “double heads of good and hard temper.” Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 175. Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 3:516; Charles Boutell, Arms and Armour in Antiquity and The Middle Ages (London, 1907), p. 147; Chidester, The Flower of Battle, pp. 362, 363, show poleaxes with spearheads as butt-spikes. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 175; Scott-Macnab, “Sir Thopas and his Lancegay,” p. 111. Chrétien de Troyes, Erec et Enide (1180) cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 96; Gay, Glossaire, 1:54–55. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 96. When the shaft did break it was usually



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The Gesta Willelmi states that Duke William used the aresteuil in this way at Hastings (1066), describing him as more fearsome than those whose lances were intact.19 Examples from the twelfth and thirteenth-century chansons de geste confirm the effectiveness of the butt-spike, demonstrating that it could kill or unhorse an opponent: “Vès ci ta mort dans l’arestoel De ma lance, se ne t’en vas.”20 “Unless you flee, you will die here on the aresteuil of my lance” “D’un arestuel l’a si ferut Que del cheval l’a abatut.”21 “He was struck so forcefully with the aresteuil that he was knocked from his horse.”

Buttin considered that being struck with l’aresteuil might be regarded as a degradation or chastisement: “He will strike the vassal with the aresteuil.” This accords with the similar use of the hoplite butt-spike in non-lethal punishment or mock combat, as earlier versions of the spike lacked cutting edges along the sides.22 There were other advantages of the butt-spike applicable to both ancient and medieval weapons. The metal covering at the base prevented wear and deterioration of the wood that might lead to splintering and fracturing of the shaft. It also enabled the lance to be stuck into the ground, which aided mounting and dismounting, and allowed the weapon to be ready for deployment while the troops were waiting or resting.23 This had the advantage of preventing horses

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between the lance head and the point where it was gripped, which still left a reasonable length remaining to allow such a reversal to prove effective. William of Poitiers, Gesta Willelmi, in The Battle of Hastings: Sources and Interpretations, ed. Stephen Morillo (Woodbridge, 1996), p. 15: “more fearsome, armed with the butt of his spear than those who brandished long javelins.” Li Romance d’Amadas et Ydoine cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 96. Also “Que de l’arestoel de la lance/ Me ferries ja sans dotance”: “Without doubt I will strike with the aresteuil of my lance.” Aymon de Varennes, Roman de Florimont (1188), cited in Dictionnaire de l’ancienne langue française, ed. Frédéric Godefroy, 10 vols. (Paris, 1880–1902), 1:394. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 96, where knights use their aresteuils to probe the depth of water; Gay, Glossaire, 1:55. Li romance de Garin le Loherain, ed. M. P. Paris, 2 vols. (Paris, 1833), 1:256: “de l’arestuel va le vassal férir.”; Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 96; Xenophon, Hellenica, 6. 2.18: Mnaisippos struck one of his company commanders with the butt-spike of his spear for disobedience. Murray and Wyatt, Iliad, 1:459 (bk 10, ll.153–54), where the comrades of Diomedes are sleeping, “their spears driven into the ground erect on their butt-spikes.”

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being struck by spear points or butt-spikes during mounting, a cause of “the greatest confusion” and delay.24 It also ensured that the lance point was kept sharp. As Antoine de Brack (1789–1850) noted, the Cossacks, whose lances lacked butt-spikes, left their weapons with the points lodged in the ground, with the result that they became rusted and blunt, and were easily deflected by clothing.25 As the lancegay was pointed at both ends, it could easily be fixed into the earth as a defense against cavalry, as happened at Valmont (1416), where a large English foraging party was caught by the French.26 Finally, the auxiliaries, who followed the men-at-arms, used the aresteuil to deal the coup de grâce to those who had been unhorsed.27 While reversing the light lance to strike with the butt-spike was generally a simple task, this was not the case with its heavier counterpart. Although heavier medieval war lances were initially fitted with l’aresteuil, the practice was soon abandoned.28 The butt-spike proved its effectiveness throughout the Middle Ages, particularly in the hands of genitors and stradiots. Moreover, the buttspike, or shoe, as it was later known, continued to be used on many light cavalry lances until the first half of the twentieth century. During the First World War, it was deployed by British cavalry to “very good effect.”29 Pennons and gonfanons could be attached to the lance below the point, the former denoting knights and the latter barons.30 Fluttering pennons were used to frighten enemy horses, who would rear or turn, exposing their riders to attack. However, they often warned an adversary of a hostile approach, enabling outriders or coureurs to count their number and assess the size of the advancing force. Consequently, they were often lowered when nearing the enemy.31 Pennons also telegraphed the rider’s intentions to his opponent and 24

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Lieut. Colonel Reymond Hervey de Montmorency, Proposed Rules and Regulations for the Exercise and Manoeuvres of the Lance Adapted for British Cavalry, Compiled from The Polish System Instituted by Marshal Prince Joseph Poniatowski and General Count Corvin Krasinski (London, 1820), p. 81. Antoine Fortuné de Brack, Cavalry Outpost Duties, trans. Camillo Carr, Leila Gazeilles, Lonsdale A. Hale et al. (Auzielle, 2008), p. 53. Gesta Henrici Quinti, The Deeds of Henry the Fifth, ed. and trans. Frank Taylor and John S. Roskell (Oxford, 1975), pp. 117–19: In contrast to the Latin palus used for the stakes at Agincourt, the defensive barrier at Valmont consisted of lancea light lances placed in the ground and pointed at the horses’ breasts. The Middle English Dictionary, eds. Hans Kurath, Sherman M. Kuhn, Robert E. Lewis et al. (Ann Arbor, 1952–2001) equates lancea with lancegay. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 173. Ibid., p. 96. Alan Larsen and Henry Yallop, The Cavalry Lance (Oxford, 2017), p. 62. Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 2:307–08: pennons were the long narrow flags or streamers, either triangular or swallow-tailed that were attached below the lance point. The pennon was the ensign of those knights who had not yet become bannerets. Pennons of the vanquished might be offered to an altar or shrine and preserved as trophies. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 95. Les Chroniques de sire Jean Froissart, ed. J. A. C. Buchon, 3 vols. (Paris, 1879), 1:364:



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made the lance more difficult to handle in windy conditions, bending the shaft and sometimes causing it to break unexpectedly. They also made the lance more difficult to carry on the march by tiring the right arm.32 De Brack recommended that they should be removed when on the road and attached only when it was necessary to be recognized.33 The light lance could be carried in several ways, being either inclined on the shoulder, rested on the foot, or placed into a pot or godet which was attached to the stirrup or saddle, a method which continued in use through to the twentieth century.34 It could also be held in the lowered hand position or fastened to the saddle by a looped strap called a chandelier.35 Duarte did not recommend carrying the lance across the saddle bow due to its tendency to snag on bushes and branches.36 Until the beginning of the fourteenth century the terms glaive, épieu, stave, and lance were applied equally to both heavy and lighter weapons, making it difficult to distinguish between them. Lances could, however, be differentiated by their function, as the actions of throwing, brandishing, or shaking were impossible with the heavier weapon that could only be held in the vertical position before being couched beneath the arm.37 To brandish the weapon, brander, it was held with the right arm raised above the head, thumb pointing towards the rear, ready either to make a cast or deliver a forceful downward blow at the neck or chest. Alternatively, to shake the lance, branler, the shaft was gripped with the thumb facing forwards on the lowered arm. It was then brought backwards and forwards in “a swinging thrust,” to give power to the final strike, aided by the forward movement of the horse.38 This swaying movement of the lance or balancement, was described by the Latin verbs vibrare or palpare.39 Greek hoplites used the same technique, gaining additional momentum by a final run

32 33 34 35

36 37

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“considéré le convine de François, bannières et pennons et quel quantité ils étoient.” Chronique de Bertrand du Guesclin par Cuvelier, ed. E. Charrière, 2 vols. (Paris, 1839), 1:392; Louis Edward Nolan, Cavalry, Its History and Tactics (1854; repr. Yardely, 2007), p. 80: pennons might cause an enemy horse to bolt, but also attracted the attention of the artillery. Nigel de Lee, French Lancers (London, 1976), p. 8. De Brack, Cavalry, pp. 52–53, 110. Montmorency, Regulations, p. 35: the lance was rested on the right shoulder with the butt placed in the boot or bucket attached to the off stirrup. The last method is possibly that indicated by Sir Walter Scott in The Shepherd’s Tale: “a launcegay strong/ full twelve ells long/ by every warrior hung,” cited in The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1971), 1:1564. Duarte, Horsemanship, p. 102. R. C. Smail, Crusading Warfare (Cambridge, 1956), pp. 112–113, p. 113, n. 1. An exception being when the intention was to demonstrate prodigious strength, as in Perceval: “And then he took a good heavy lance in his hand, which he brandished with the lightness of a steel-tipped dart or javelin”: cited in Godefroy, Dictionnaire 1:721. Smail, Crusading Warfare, p. 113, p. 113, n. 1. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 80, and plate XXXV where both the overhead and lowered arm positions are shown in the Bayeux Tapestry.

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into contact.40 An advantage of the lancegay was that, having sharp points at both ends, it was possible to alternate between these two positions without the placement of the hand and thumb being changed, while it could also be held rigid, couched beneath the shoulder. Thus, when Sir John Graham charged the English archers at Neville’s Cross (1346), shaking his lance, we can deduce that he was furnished with a lancegay.41 Similar evidence comes from the early romances. In the twelfth-century Chanson des Saxons: “each one spurred his horse and brandished his lance,” while in the Roman de la Rose, Generosity of Spirit brandished the haft of her lance and threw it at the villain Rebuff.42 At Rouvray (1429), the Gascons twirled their lances in front of them hoping to deflect the English arrows and protect their horses.43 Such actions were impossible with a heavy lance, which until the mid-fourteenth century had to be rested on the fewter prior to couching: “lance levée sur le fautre.” When the development of the high medieval saddle made this impossible, the weapon was rested on the rider’s right thigh, an en garde position known as “la lance sur la cuisse.”44 As the fourteenth century progressed, the term “lance” became exclusively reserved for the heavier weapon, while its lighter counterpart, which could be manipulated freely, became known as l’archegaie, a term which appeared around 1307, being utilized up to the first quarter of the fifteenth century. L’archegaie had a diverse orthography, being also known as archegaye, archigaie, arcigaie, arzegaie or harsegaye, as well as being “polysemic to the point of confusion.”45 Despite various false etymologies, such as the association of arch with archery, the word is now recognised as being of Moorish origin deriving from the Spanish azagaya.46 Gay described it as “the lance of the stradiots with metal points at both ends.”47 Archegay is a relatively late addition to the English language; according to the O.E.D. its first appearance was in Lord Berners translation of Froissart (1523). Scott-Macnab, however, has documented an earlier occurrence.48 Around 1383, l’archegaie transitioned by assimilation

40 41

42

43 44

45 46 47 48

Victor Davis Hanson, The Western Way of War, Infantry Battle in Classical Greece (Sevenoaks, 1989), p. 163; Anderson “Hoplite Weapons,” p. 31. Walter Bower, The Scotichronicon, in “Illustrative Documents,” eds. Mark Arvanigian and Anthony Leopold in The Battle of Neville’s Cross 1346, eds. David Rollason and Michael Prestwich (Stamford, 1998), p. 154. Jean Bodel, Les Chansons des Saxons, 2 vols. (Paris, 1839), 2:160: “Chascuns point son cheval, s’a la lance brandie.” Le Roman de la Rose, cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 171. Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, 1405–1449, ed. Alexandre Tuetey (Paris, 1881), p. 232. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 90–91, 177: the fewter being the felt pad on the saddlebow on which the butt of the lance was rested in the vertical position before couching. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 171; Scott-Macnab, “Archegaie,” p. 38. Ibid., p, 34. Gay, Glossaire, 1:51: “aussi la lance des stradiots ferrée aux deux bouts. ” Compact O.E.D. 1:108. Archegay is rare in English. Scott-Macnab, “Lexical Borrowing,”



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and elision into the lancegay which was, as the lexicographers confirm, essentially the same weapon,49 lancegay being the term current in England while archegaie was mainly used in France.50 Sometimes lancegay was written as two words, suggesting a derivation from “lance-aigüe,” meaning sharp spear, as opposed to the blunt-headed tilting lance, a theory dismissed by Scott-Macnab as “ingenious but demonstrably erroneous.”51 Hewitt considered lance-aguë as the lancegay, a weapon identical to the zagaye, the light North African spear, citing the Roman de Rou (c.1160–70) as an early reference.52 The first mention of launcegay or launcegaie pertaining to England occurs in an Anglo-Norman document relating to the Acts of Richard II (1383), being subsequently used to describe the weapon of Chaucer’s Sir Thopas (1390): “He worth upon his stede gray/ And in his hand a lancegay,”53 The term also occurs in the fifteenth-century “Gest of Robyn Hode,” where a knight rides out “a launsgay in his honde.”54 The lancegay developed eponyms from the groups of light horsemen who were accustomed to use it, demonstrating a wide geographical distribution. L’archegaie used by Spanish jennets was called in 1480 a “javeline ou génétaire, autrement appellée javeline d’Espaigne.”55 The weapon carried by Venetian estradiots or stradiots was known as l’estradiote: “a light lance, like the javeline, designed to be used exclusively in the hand.”56 This last term was of short duration, for although estradiots were employed into the early 1600s, in later texts their weapon was referred to as a zagaye.

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50 51 52 53

54 55 56

pp. 267, 271 considers the earliest occurrence as 1500 in a Middle English translation of Jean d’Arras’s Mélusine, noting earlier references to hasegays. Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf,” p. 106, considers the word was combined with “the native French lance.” Gay, Glossaire, 2:68: “arme d’hast, baston ferré par le bout, qu’on nomme aussi… archeguay, hassaguaye et zaguaye.” Godefroy, Dictionnaire, 4:708–09: “lancegaie, lancegaye, launcegaie, s.f., javeline, zagaie, demi-pique, bâton ferré par le bout.” Ernest Weekley, The Romance of Words (London, 1911) p. 24: “a Berber word that passed through Spanish and Portuguese into French and English. We find… azagaie in Rabelais and… zagaie in Cotgrave, who describes it as a… ‘long-headed pike, used by Moorish horsemen.’ In M.E. “l’archegaie was corrupted by folk etymology… into lancegay, launcegay.” Compact O.E.D. 1:108. Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf,” p. 98. Hewitt, Ancient Armour and Weapons, 2:242–43: “E vos avez lances agües / E granz gisarmes esmolucs.” Richard II: October 1383. Parliament Rolls of Medieval England, eds. Chris Given-Wilson, Paul Brand, Seymour Phillips, et al. (Woodbridge, 2005) http://www.british-history.ac.uk/ no-series/parliament-rolls-medieval/october-1383; Chaucer, “The Tale of Sir Thopas,” in The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Larry D. Benson (Oxford, 1988), pp. 213–14, ll.1941–42. “A Gest of Robyn Hode,” in F. J. Child, English and Scottish Popular Ballads, eds. H. C. Sargent and G. L. Kittredge (Cambridge, Mass., 1904), p. 263 v.134. Godefroy, Dictionnaire, 4:258; Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 3:512; Gay, Glossaire 1:771. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 174: “une lance, légère comme la javeline, faite exclusivement pour être maniée à la main.” Le Loyal Serviteur, Histoire de Bayard, ed. Louis Moland (Paris, 1882), p. 228: the Albanians stuck the heads of the slain “au bout de leurs estradiotes.”

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The term javeline first appeared in the fifteenth century and was, as Buttin noted, simply another designation for the light lance or archegaie/lancegay, being the principal weapon of Burgundian coustilliers.57 An archival document of 1474 considered the javeline equivalent to the lance génétaire or Spanish lance and, therefore, as historians have noted, similar to the zagaie.58 In Tudor times the javeline was often referred to as a “half-pike” or “horseman’s stave,” and, as with the lancegay and demi-lance, commonly used as a metonym for the horsemen who carried the weapon.59 The javeline was not the missile now termed a javelin, but a pointed lance with a long shaft used for thrusting that could sometimes be thrown, a weapon synonymous with the archegaie/lancegay. The first English documentation of the word utilized in this sense occurs in the context of The Field of the Cloth of Gold (1520), where Henry VIII departs from Guines with “lx of his gard on horsbacke, with javelyns.”60 To avoid confusion, I have used the French javeline to distinguish the thrusting weapon from the modern javelin. Moreover, while the different nomenclature reflects chronological and geographical variation, the archegaie, lancegay, génétaire, javeline, zagaie, and half-pike were all essentially the same weapon and will henceforth be treated as generally interchangeable.

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Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 172: “avec le XVc siècle apparait la javeline, qui n’est toujours que la lance légere. C’est l’arme que les ordonnances des ducs de Bourgogne donnent aux coustilliers.” Ian Heath, Armies of the Middle Ages, 2 vols. (Worthing, 1982), 1:146: “it seems evident that the lancegay is intended.” Godefroy, Dictionnaire, 4:258: the suppliant was overjoyed to find on the road “une lance genetaire ou javeline.” Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 3:512; Boutell, Arms and Armour, p. 102: “Estradiots, Illyrian or Dalmatian mercenary cavaliers armed with a zagaie, or javelin, pointed at both ends.” Heath, Armies of the Middle Ages, 2:112, 2:134, for illustrations showing the double spearheads; Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf,” p. 101: the zagayah, the traditional weapon of Berber horsemen, was considered a javelin. Lancegay is also translated as javelin in the British History Online in relation to Richard II’s statute of 1383. Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 19 Part 1, January–July 1544, eds. James Gairdner and R. H. Brodie (London, 1903), pp. 141–78; British History Online http://www.british-history.ac.uk/letters-papers-hen8/vol19/no1/ [accessed 24 October 2020]: “My Lord Wryothesley, of horsemen 20 demilances and 20 javelins with targets.” The presence of bucklers suggests that the weapon was intended to be wielded with one hand; G. A. Hayes-McCoy, Irish Battles, A Military History of Ireland (London, 1969), p. 83; Chroniques de Yolande de France, Duchesse de Savoie, Sœur de Louis XI, ed. Léon Ménabré (Chambéry,1859) p. 173: “une lance gaye a deux chevaux xxxiii ff. iiij gros,” (1477) where the lancegay refers to one or more individuals carrying the weapon; Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 172; David H. Caldwell, Scottish Weapons and Fortifications 1100–1800 (Edinburgh, 1981), pp. 255, 309, n. 5: the half-pike (demi-pique) was carried by priests and all manner of people, particularly in troubled times, and was considered a light lance. The Rutland Papers, Original Documents Illustrative of the Courts and Times of Henry VII and Henry VIII, ed. William Jerdan (London, 1842), p. 43. This usage seems to precede the weapon’s first definition as a missile by seven years. Compact O.E.D., 1:1503 suggests the lexicographer was reading javelin into a text that actually meant javeline.



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The demi-lance also appeared in the early fifteenth century, possibly as an alternative term for the archegaie/lancegay/javeline, as a text of 1414 suggests: “the suppliant with a lancegay or demi-lance smote the knight through the chest.”61 Molinet (1495) describes stradiots having a shield in one hand and a demi-lance in the other, again suggesting a weapon similar to the lancegay.62 However, if the terms were ever synonymous, they were soon to diverge. Whereas in earlier Burgundian ordinances coustilliers were equipped with a javeline, that of 1471 indicates a move towards a different weapon, suggesting that they should be armed with a javeline in the manner of a demi-lance, furnished with a handgrip and an arrêt de lance.63 The latter, a leather ring that encircled the lower end of the shaft, was positioned behind the hand grip, so that the weapon could be engaged in the arrêt de cuirasse.64 Such modifications, including the tendency to expand the shaft just above the handgrip, would significantly alter the balance of the weapon, limiting its use to the couched position. The Roles normands, Caux et Gysors (1470) clearly distinguish between the two weapons. “Demie-lances” are mentioned four times, with three being owned by men in “corset complet,” all of which are carried by pages, in contrast to most of those bearing javelines.65 Henry VIII’s statute of 1509 for a retinue of spears suggests that a coustrell, the English equivalent of the coustillier, could have either weapon.66 Later Tudor texts, however, indicate that the weapons were utilized in different ways even though their bearers might be mounted in a similar fashion.67 Demi-lance, originally a standard metonym for a light horseman armed with the weapon, in the later sixteenth century came to refer to those in three-quarter armor placed “next in degree and account unto men-at-arms.”68 They were to be mounted on 61

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Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 172–73. Compact O.E.D.,1:682 defines demilance as “a lance with a short shaft used in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.” Caxton (1489) is credited with the first English usage. Chroniques de Jean Molinet ed. J. A. Buchon, 5 vols. (Paris, 1827), 5:41. Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire de France et de Bourgogne, eds. Julien-Michel Gandouin, Pierre-François Giffart (Paris, 1729), pp. 283, 284, 287; Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 173. The arrêt de cuirasse was a metal hook attached to the right side of the breastplate. If the lance was couched without the use of an arrêt de cuirasse, the arrêt de lance was placed in front of the handgrip to protect the hand. Roles normands, bailliages de Caux et Gysors (1470), Nobiliaire universel de France, ou recueil général des généalogies historiques des maisons nobles de ce royaume, ed. Nicolas Viton de Saint-Allais, 21 vols. (Paris, 1872–78), 6:291–305. Thomas de Carrouge and his coustillier both wear brigandines but while the latter is armed with a javeline, a page carries his master’s demi-lance. Letters and Papers, 1:113–27: “with a javelin or demi-lance.” Ibid., 1:141–78: “the duke of Suffolk can make a hundred horsemen with demilances and javelins either upon good horses or good geldings.” Compact O.E.D., 1:682, gives 1544 as the first English reference to demi-lances referring to light horsemen, although this had been common in France for some time. It had, however, occurred much earlier in 1492 when the earl of Kent was tasked with providing six men-atarms and sixteen “dimi-lances,” to serve in France: Thomas Rymer, ed., Foedera, 20 vols.

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“puissant horses for the shocke,” carry “long, strong lances” and in a similar manner to their heavier counterparts, charge by lifting the lance from their thigh and placing it in the rest.69 Clearly the demi-lance had become a very different weapon from the javeline. Despite a confusing tendency to designate those not in full harness as light horse, light horsemen proper were usually called “javelins,” “prickers,” or “chasing staves.”70 Weapons – Thrust or Thrown? There is a long history of thrusting weapons being utilized as missiles and vice versa.71 Thus, although Greek cavalry commonly carried two javelins, Xenophon suggested that the second weapon should not be thrown but used at close quarters as a thrusting spear.72 A warrior, however, was unlikely to dispense with his primary weapon unless he had recourse to another or access to a secondary weapon such as the scimitar or sword carried by stradiots and coustilliers. Hence, the references to archegaies being thrown in sea fights from the safety of tall ships or from the ramparts of besieged towns where the weapons could be readily replaced without undue risk. During the sea battle between the English and the Genoese (1342), the latter, whose ships were taller, threw down iron bars and archegays upon their opponents.73 At the siege of Harfleur (1415), those on the walls defended themselves as best they could, killing many of the besiegers with “leurs arballestres et archiguayes.”74 Moreover, how the weapons were deployed was not just dependent upon the type of conflict but

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(London, 1739–45), 12: 465–482; British History Online, http://www.british-history.ac.uk/ rymer-foedera/vol12/pp465-482 [accessed 2 May 2021]; Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 3:546– 49; Smythe, Instructions, Observations, p. 201: Three-quarter armor consisted of an open helmet, or one with a bevor, breast and back plates, pauldrons, tassets, and cuisses with long leather boots instead of leg protection. Ibid., pp. 167, 202. Thomas Audley thought that the only difference between a demi-lance and a man-at-arms was the absence of horse barding: Thomas Audley and the Tudor “Arte of Warre,” ed. Jonathan Davies (Farnham, 2006), pp. 18–19. Charles Oman, A History of the Art of War in the Sixteenth Century (London, 1937), p. 386, considered that the demilance had “completely superseded the fully armoured man by the end of the century.” Ian Heath, Armies of the Sixteenth Century (St Peter Port, 1997), p. 50. M. C. Bishop, The Pilum, The Roman Heavy Javelin (Oxford, 2017), pp. 24–26, 54–56: the pilum, which had a butt-spike, could also be deployed as a thrusting weapon, as against Pompey’s cavalry at Pharsalus. On rare occasions, even the medieval sword could be thrown: Mondschein, Knightly Art of Battle, p. 60; Knyghthode and Bataile, eds. R Dyboski and Z. M. Arend, Early English Text Society Original Series 201 (London, 1935), p. 35. Xenophon, “The Art of Horsemanship,” in Xenophon, Scripta minora, trans. E. C. Marchant and G. W. Bowersock, Loeb Classical Library (London, 1968), p. 363. Froissart, Chroniques, 1:167. Jehan de Waurin, Recueil des croniques et anchiennes istories de la Grant Bretaigne, eds. W. Hardy and E. L. C. P. Hardy, 5 vols., Rolls Series (London, 1864–91), 2:182.



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also on national and cultural norms, so that in medieval Spain, the archegaie was often used as a missile.75 Nonetheless, while the archegaie/lancegay/javeline could be thrown, the weapons principally intended for this purpose were usually referred to as javelots or dards. Unfortunately, the frequent association of the archegaie/lancegay with these weapons has led to its misclassification by modern writers as simply “a light throwing-spear,” or a “type of dart.”76 This seems surprising considering that Hewitt had identified that the primary purpose of the weapon was for thrusting: “the great lance of the knights” was “too cumbrous for ordinary use: consequently, we find that another kind of spear (the lancegay), which seems to have been occasionally employed as a dart was in vogue at this time.”77 The génétaire, or jineta, has been similarly defined as “a medium spear, used on horseback and on foot, and designed to be suitable for use in one or both hands as well as for throwing.”78 This important dual function was recognized in the fourteenth century by the poet Eustace Deschamps: De croquepois de fer, de lance D’archegaie qu’on jette et lance. De faussars, espaphus, guisarmes, Puist il avoir plaine sa pance.79

The croquepois de fer is a type of bill, and, like the lance, used for thrusting, as are the odd assortment of weapons which occur in the third line, while the second line clearly refers to a weapon which one can throw and use in the manner of a lance.80 Sometimes l’archegaie is placed in apposition to weapons thrown as missiles but it also occurs among weapons used exclusively for thrusting, as at Najera (1367), where King Henry’s men fought valiantly: “de lances, de guisarmes, d’archegaies, d’épieux et d’épées.”81 In the accounts of the 75

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Life of the Black Prince by the Herald of Sir John Chandos, ed. and trans. Mildred K. Pope and Eleanor C. Lodge (Oxford, 1910), pp. 103, 85, 158: “Archigaies, lances et darz/ Lanceoient Espaignart par force.” Chronique des quatre premiers Valois (1327–1393), ed. Siméon Luce (Paris, 1861), p. 177: “Les Espaingolz leur gettoient dardes et archigaies.” Ewart Oakeshott, European Weapons and Armour (London, 1980), p. 55; John Waldman, Hafted Weapons in Medieval and Renaissance Europe (Leiden, 2005), p. 81. Hewitt, Ancient Armour and Weapons, 2:242–43. My italics. Monte, Collectanea, p. 294. Eustace Deschamps. Œuvres complètes, eds. Marquis de Queux de Saint-Hilaire and Gaston Raynaud, 11 vols. (Paris, 1878–1903), 7:35. Godefroy, Dictionnaire, 4:710: Lancier, to throw, has the additional meaning of “combattre avec la lance.” Godefroy gives examples from Froissart and Perceval. The epiphora helps to confirm the dual meaning. Froissart, Chroniques, 1:536. Thomas Johnes translates archegaies here as pikes: Thomas Johnes, Chronicles of England, France, Spain by Sir John Froissart, 2 vols. (London, 1848), 1:373. Although Scott-Macnab, Archegaie, p. 42, notes that archegaies follow “lanches et gravelos pour lanchier,” they are also brigaded with thrusting weapons such as “strong, short swords and knives,” “archigaies trenchans et fortes coutilles.” More-

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Frères Bonis (1326) the archegaie is positioned between lances and darts, which tends to substantiate this double action.82 The weapon’s duality is also confirmed by somewhat different accounts of the death of King Frederick of Bohemia, slain by the Saracens at Prague. In the metrical version of the fourteenth-century Roman de Mélusine, the weapon is thrown, but in the prose original, the king appears to be slain by a thrust: the Saracen, “holding an archegay with a sharp, broad, iron head, seeing that King Frederick was causing havoc among his men, rode towards him shaking his archegay and directed the weapon against the king with such force that he was pierced from side to side.”83 Moreover, in a text of 1414, dealing with a case of manslaughter, a knight, who had repeatedly provoked his assailant, is killed with a single thrust of an harsegay to the chest, his antagonist riding off still holding the weapon.84 Ekaitz Gallastegi has pointed out that Castilian jennets frequently used their lancegays for stabbing, as well as deploying them in “an improvised couched position.”85 The primary throwing weapons of the medieval period and beyond were gavelocs (javelots) and darts: weapons which we would now term javelins.86 Darts, a shorter version of the javelot, tend to be associated with Spanish troops, but were used in many medieval armies. The Chronicle of Geoffroi de Gaimer (1136–40) suggests that they were responsible for the death of Talifer and his horse at Hastings.87 The Bretons were considered highly experienced in their use during their struggle against French annexation. The weapons were also the

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over, lancegays furnished with pennons or banneroles were unlikely to be thrown: Jean d’Auton, Chroniques de Louis XII, ed. R. De Maulde La Clavière, 4 vols. (Paris, 1893), 3:259. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 172. Mellusine par Couldrette, ed. Francisque Michel (Niort, 1854), p. 108: “Mais d’un giet d’archegaie lors/ Fu-il feru parmy le corps.” Jean d’Arras, Melusine, cited in Godefroy, Dictionnaire, 1:381; Scott-Macnab, “Archegaie,” p. 38: “tenoit une archigaye a un fer trenchant et large, et voit le roy Fedric qui moult dommage ses gens. Il s’approuche de lui et escout l’archigaye et la laisse aler devers le roy Fedric par telle vertu qu’il le perce de part en part. ” Escouist from escoudre, meaning to shake, indicates, as with branler, that the weapon was held in the under-hand position. Laissa aller suggests that the weapon was aimed or pointed before being thrust at its victim, when having pierced him from side to side it would have to be released. Moreover, a lance with a broad head was unlikely to have been thrown. Cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 172; Scott-Macnab, “Archegaie,” pp. 44–45. Ekaitz Etxeberria Gallastegi, “Dead Horse, Man-at-arms Lost: Cavalry and Battle Tactics in 15th Century Castile,” Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 12 (2020), 114. Godefroy, Complément, p. 41. The Compact O.E.D. 1:1503, defines javelin as “a short lance usually thrown from the hand but sometimes used in balusters.” Gaveloc was an ancient Celtic term, current in France and England from the eleventh century: Compact O.E.D., 1:1123. Chronique de Geoffroi Gaimar in Chroniques Anglo-Normandes, ed. Francisque Michel, 3 vols. (Rouen, 1836), 1:9: “Car li Englois de totes parz/ Li launcent gavelocs et darz/ Si l’occistrent et son destrer.” 1:24: “1ij. gavelocs un sergant tint.” In the twelfth century La vie Seint Edmund le Rey, in Memorials of St. Edmund’s Abbey, ed. Thomas Arnold (London,



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traditional missiles of the Irish, whose skill with “petites javelines” and darts was noted from the siege of Rouen (1418–19) through to Elizabethan times.88 Length and weight differentiate the lancegay from these weapons. The dart was shorter than the javelot, and the lancegay longer than both.89 Unlike the lancegay, javelots and darts had barbed heads, delineating their primary function as throwing weapons. They were commonly used to gall horses as the point was difficult to extract. Darts were characteristically provided with fletches or metal vanes to stabilize their flight: “gavelocs enpennez,” and “enpennées et en ferrée de long fers.”90 In skilled hands, such as those of the young Perceval, darts could prove deadly and a hauberk could be penetrated “as easily as a cauliflower leaf.”91 Such romanticized hyperbole was not entirely without foundation, the duke of Lancaster being impressed by the penetrative effect of Castilian darts (1385).92 As gavelocs and darts were effective missiles, there would appear to be little need for a weapon with a longer shaft that did much the same thing, unless it also served another purpose. The key difference, therefore, and one crucial to its success, was that the lancegay and its cognates the archegaie and javeline, in addition to possessing l’aresteuil, had the appropriate length to be commonly utilized as thrusting weapons, which enabled them to be deployed in a variety of ways. Who Carried the Lancegay? In Europe, the light lance continued in use alongside its heavier counterpart, its function as a light cavalry weapon reinvigorated following contact with the lancegay or azagaie of the Spanish Moors and Venetian stradiots. The Moors

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1892), pp. 204–05, the king is pierced with arrows, gavelos, e darz. The fifteenth-century Knyghthode and Bataile also suggests a familiarity with the weapon: pp. 22, 35, 36, 41. “Le Livre de Trahisons de France,” in Chroniques relative à l’histoire de la Belgique sous la domination des ducs de Bourgogne, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove (Brussels, 1873), pp. 141–42: the Irish rode without saddles or stirrups and upon encountering a French man-at-arms, would jump off their ponies and throw their darts so forcefully that they could penetrate his armor. If that failed, they would jump up behind him and slit his throat with their long knives. Gay, Glossaire, 1:544. Guillaume de Saint-André (1383), listed them from shortest to longest: “Dardes, gavelots, lancegayes/ Savoyent gecter et faire playes,” cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 172. La Vie Seint Edmund, p. 146; Froissart, Chroniques, 2:506; Scott-Macnab, Sir Thopas, pp. 116–17. The penetrative effect of winged darts “gavelocs enpennez” is noted in a battle between the Britons and Saxons, where a hauberk is pierced as easily as a cauliflower leaf: La Vie Seint Edmund, p. 146; Chrétien de Troyes, Le Roman de Perceval ou Le conte du Graal, ed. Keith Busby (Tübingen, 1993), pp. 6–9; The Complete Story of the Grail: Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval and its Continuations, trans. Nigel Bryant (Cambridge, 2018), p. 11: the Red Knight was dispatched before he knew what was happening. Froissart, Chroniques, 2:472–73: Jean Laurent, the captain of Lisbon, was slain by a dart, which penetrated through both plate and mail as well as his aketon. Also 2:506.

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were mounted on small, hardy Andalusian horses known as genets, originally brought over from North Africa in the eighth century.93 Their riders were called génétaires or jinetes, taking their name partly from the horse and partly from their weapon, the génétaire.94 Their riding style was completely different from that of European men-at-arms, who rode with the legs extended and angled slightly forward, with the rider braced against the cantle of the saddle. This position, known as à la brida, was designed to deliver and resist the shock of the couched lance. The horse was mostly governed by the bit and spurs with limited input from the legs, now regarded as essential for control in modern riding. In the jennet manner, chevaucher à la genette, the knees were bent and the stirrups short, bringing the calves much closer to the sides of the horse, allowing the greater control necessary for the sudden twists and turns of skirmish and light cavalry actions. The jennet saddle and snaffle bit assisted this process, the former having a relatively low pommel and cantle, while the latter had shorter reins which communicated directly with the horse’s mouth.95 The Spaniards adopted the same type of light cavalry as their Moorish opponents, using the same weapons and tactics. Henry IV of Castile (1454–74) was a great advocate of the jennet style of riding, dress, and weapons, which, despite initial opposition, became a popular and accepted part of Spanish military tradition.96 At the Garigliano (1503), Gonzalo de Cordoba rallied his troops mounted à la gineta.97 Greek and Albanian horsemen, who served Venice in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries during the Italian Wars also carried the lancegay and were known as estradiots or stradiots. The name possibly derives from the Greek stratiotus, meaning a soldier, or the Italian strada, “one who wanders the roads,” as most were Christian exiles who had settled in Italy and Greece, having been displaced by the Turks.98 There is also a possible association with estradeur, from estrade meaning both a skirmish and a route. Estradeurs, also known as batteurs d’estrades, were essentially coureurs, acting as both scouts and skirmishers.99 However, by the late fifteenth century the term is only used in reference to estradiots.100 Impressed by their light cavalry skills, the Venetians used Noel Fallows, Jousting in Medieval and Renaissance Iberia (Woodbridge, 2010), p. 296. Ibid., p, 272, considers that the medieval Portuguese gyneta and medieval Spanish gineta (modern Spanish jineta) are both derived from the Arabic zanâta, a Berber tribe famous as horsemen. 95 Ibid., pp. 272, 281, 300, 301. 96 Ibid., pp. 272–309: Henry IV was criticised for not wearing traditional armor. The Spanish style became known as riding a la española. 97 William H. Prescott, History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, 2 vols. (London, 1841), 2:289. 98 Millar, “The Albanians,” pp. 468–72. 99 Like estradiots, they had a dubious reputation. Godefroy, Dictionnaire, 3:635–36: cites the Poitiers Register for 1436: “estradeurs et autres larrons qui vont espiant les chemins.” Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 5:666, used the term to refer to Queen Margaret’s foreriders. 100 Molinet, Chroniques, 5:41: “les estradeurs de l’ost Vénitiens estoient moult estranges, fort 93

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these troops in their wars against the Turks (1463–79), developing a complement of six squadrons by 1483.101 Stradiots were introduced into northern Europe as part of Venetian armies during the Italian Wars. Commynes considered them similar to génétaires, being stout and hardy, consisting of both horse and foot, and possessing swift Turkish horses, noting that “they will plague an army terribly when they once undertake it.”102 They slept on the ground beneath their horses with their cloaks thrown over the animals’ backs for protection.103 After their appearance during the Fornovo campaign (1495) where they unnerved the French, they were rapidly incorporated into other European armies. Charles VIII of France recruited 8,000 in the following year. Some fleeing Greece before a further Turkish invasion were granted asylum in the Holy Roman Empire and entered the service of Charles V. Others employed by Henry VIII in 1545 raided southern Scotland in the same year. Their last appearance in England was during the suppression of Kett’s rebellion (1549) and in France at Ivry (1590).104 In Spanish armies, jennets and stradiots sometimes fought together.105 However, not all those in French service were Albanians, being a mixture of Greeks, Italians, and French, who often mingled lightly-armed men-at-arms among their stradiots for support.106 Indeed, it became fashionable to adopt the dress, weapons, and riding style of jennets and stradiots, something which Don Quixote was to lament.107 Francesco de Gonzaga the marquis of Mantua was “monté et armé a l’albanoise aveques grant nombre d’autres.”108 Similarly, Monsieur de Cheveron “monté sur ung stradiot” was clothed and armed “à la mode de Turquie,” while Loys d’Ars and his men were mounted on “vistes estradiotz.”109 In 1551, the

barbuz, et sans armures et sans chausses.” Michael Mallett, Mercenaries and their Masters, Warfare in Renaissance Italy (London, 1974), p. 119. 102 Memoirs of Philip de Commines, ed. and trans. Andrew R. Scobie, 2 vols. (London, 1879), 2:201. 103 Mallett, Mercenaries and their Masters, p. 143. 104 Millar, “The Albanians,” pp. 468–72; Gilbert John Millar, Tudor Mercenaries and Auxiliaries, 1485–1547 (Charlottesville, 1980), p. 133. 105 D’Auton, Chroniques, 3:275: in 1503 seven to eight hundred chevaulx albanoys and génétaires attacked the French rear. 106 David Potter, Renaissance France at War: Armies, Culture and Society, c. 1480–1560 (Woodbridge, 2008), pp. 86–87; D’Auton, Chroniques 1:189: “ Parmy les compaignyes de France, avoit aucuns estradiotz lesquelz, avecques grant nombre de Françcoys armez a l’aise, souvant assemblerent les Albanoys du seigneur Ludovic.” 107 Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha, trans. Charles Jarvis (Oxford, 1999), p. 562–63: it is now fashionable for knights to rustle “in damasks, brocades, and other rich stuffs, rather than in coats of mail.” Fallows, Medieval and Renaissance Iberia, p. 298. A similar trend occurred in the nineteenth century when the military costume of Mamluks and Zouaves were popular. 108 D’Auton, Chroniques, 4:220–21. 109 Molinet, Chroniques, 5:161; d’Auton, Chroniques 3:322: here stradiot refers to the type of horse. 101

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Venetian ambassador noted that part of the English light horse was “armed in the Albanian fashion.”110 The equipment of the jennets and stradiots seems to have varied over time. Originally jennets wore little armor due to the desert conditions and tactics of their North African Maghrib heritage. However, on the Iberian Peninsula, leather, quilted clothing, and short mail coats were adopted, those of Christian Spain being better armored than their Muslim counterparts. Initially jennets carried a shield and two small throwing spears, but later adopted the lancegay.111 Smythe considered stradiots “a kinde of light horsemen that have been used of many yeares both in Italie, Fraunce, Spaine and Germanie, although in their weapons and manner of arming, every Nation hath differed one from another more or less.”112 Molinet thought them unarmored, while Commynes considered them similar to génétaires, being quite well-armored for light cavalry with a cuirass, mail sleeves, and gloves, but dressed like Turks with a chapeau Albanois instead of a turban.113 Jean d’Auton noted their long Turkish robes could present a problem when trying to draw a secondary weapon.114 Benedetti (1496) commented that they had lancegays, swords, shields, and leather corselets with a few wearing breastplates, something confirmed by d’Auton.115 Gay stated that they were armed with a sallet, jack, and mail sleeves and rode with long stirrups in contrast to génétaires. Edward Hall, however, described the stradiots before Guinegate (1513) as being: “with short stirrups, beaver hats,” small spears and swords like Turkish scimitars.116 Venice: May 1551, in Calendar of State Papers Relating to English Affairs in the Archives of Venice, Volume 5, 1534–54, ed. Rawdon Brown (London, 1873), pp. 338–62. British History Online http://www.british-history.ac.uk/cal-state-papers/venice/vol5/pp338-362 [accessed 25 May 2020]. This may simply have meant that they carried the lancegay. 111 Albert D. McJoynt, The Art of War in Spain, The Conquest of Granada 1481–1492 (London, 1995), p. 268; Fallows, Medieval and Renaissance Iberia, p. 278: the shield, known as the adarga, was held with one hand and could be used offensively. 112 Smythe, Instructions, Observations, p. 174. 113 Molinet, Chroniques, 5:41: “sans armures et sans chausses,” perhaps in comparison with men-at-arms; Philippe de Commynes, Mémoires, ed. L. M. Emille Dupont, 3 vols. (Paris, 1840–47), 2:455–56: “vestuz comme les Turcs.” Randle Cotgrave, A Dictionarie of the French and English Tongues (London, 1632): the chapeau à l’Albanoise was “a highcrowned hat; a hat with a crowne like a sugar-loafe.” 114 D’Auton, Chroniques, 4:224: one individual, having his lancegay parried by a Genevois, was pulled from his horse. In the struggle that followed he had great difficulty in drawing his dagger which was entangled in the folds of his long robes. 115 Alessandro Benedetti, Diaria de Bello Carolino, ed. and trans. Dorothy M. Schullian (New York, 1967), p. 149: lancea, a light lance, lanceis velitaribus, with light lances suitable for skirmishing, i.e., the lancegay; D’Auton, Chroniques, 4:316: “aucuns de ses Albanoys, tous armez a blanc.” 116 Gay, Glossaire, 1:672–73; Edward Hall, The Union of The Two Noble and Illustre Famelies of Lancastre and Yorke (1548, repr. London, 1809), p. 543: they were obviously a novelty as those captured by the northern horse were brought before the king; Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 3:658–61; Duarte, Horsemanship, pp. 21–26: it was possible to ride with the legs extended using the jennet saddle, which may account for the anomaly. 110



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The Discipline militaire noted that in addition to the zagaye, they carried a club or mace.117 Fifteenth-century Burgundian ordinances firmly placed the javeline/ lancegay with the coustilliers, the mounted auxiliaries of the lance group, whom Buttin considered forerunners of the chevaux-légers.118 The weapon was also carried by valets de guerre, as when a varlet in the service of the seigneur de Bausignies, “une javeline en sa main,” rescued Jacques de Lalaing from the Ghentish pikes.119 Some evidence suggests that the lancegay may have been used by mounted archers.120 However, from its inception, the archegaie/lancegay was also commonly used by knights and men-at-arms, as with Chaucer’s Sir Thopas and the knight in the Gest of Robyn Hode. Guiart, writing shortly afterwards, described the Flemings in 1304 being pursued by knights carrying both lances and archegaies.121 Eustace Deschampes (c.1346–1407) placed the weapon alongside other knightly accoutrements: “cheval, harnoys ou archegaye.”122 The poet John Lydgate (1370–1451) considered it part of “best araye,” with “Here long suerde and here launcegaye.”123 Muster rolls give numerous examples of men-at-arms, usually in lighter armor, equipped with the javeline or lancegay. For example, the convocation of the nobility of La Marche and Combrailles at Guéret (1470) lists among the “chevaliers et seigneurs châtelains,” Jean de l’Aige, Vincent Palent, Jean Dubois, and a great many squires equipped with “brigandine, sallade et javeline.”124 The phrase is also repeated numerous times in the lists of the nobility of Evreux in 1469 and those of the bailliages of Caux and Gysors (1470). Some Langey, Discipline militaire, pp. 51–52, also notes the sleeves and gloves of mail. Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire de France et de Bourgogne, pp. 283, 284; Roles Normands, Caux et Gysors, in Saint-Allais, Nobiliaire universel de France, 6:309: “avec lui ung coustillier armé de brigandine, salade et javaline,” (1470). Buttin, pp. 172–73: “Ce sont déjà les futurs chevaux-légers du XVI siècle.” Gervase Phillips, The AngloScots Wars, 1553–1550: A Military History (Woodbridge, 1999), p. 28: “In the Burgundian army of the late fifteenth century the coustillier, armed with javelin and sword, provided the independent light cavalry arm.” Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages, trans. Michael Jones (Oxford, 1984), p. 128. 119 De la Marche, Mémoires, 2:239–40. 120 Knighton’s Chronicle 1337–1396, ed. and trans. G. H. Martin (Oxford, 1995), p. 145: at Poitiers (1356) the archers fought “cum gladiis et lanceis,” the latter being the light spear or archegaie. Gay, Glossaire, p. 51, thought that the archegaie might also refer to an archer’s demi-lance to be used when mounted; Heath, Armies of the Middle Ages, 1:146. 121 Guiart, Branche des royaux lignages, cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 171. 122 Deschampes, Œuvres complètes, 7:408. 123 John Lydgate, Merita missae, in The Lay Folks Mass Book, ed. Thomas Frederick Simmons (London, 1879), p. 153, l. 179; Scott-Macnab, “Sir Thopas and his Lancegay,” p. 123. Immediately following the mention of the lancegay we are told that Sir Thopas had “A long swerd by his syde,” confirming horse, lancegay, and sword as knightly equipment. 124 Louis Pataux, Généalogie de la maison de Brachet de Floressac (Limoges, 1885), pp. 125–31. 117

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armed in “corset complet” have a mounted page to carry their javeline.125 At the siege of Beauvais (1472), the bishop, hoping to break out, was armed in a brigandine and mounted “la javelin au main.”126 Joan of Arc probably carried the lancegay since, as previously noted, the actions of brandishing and shaking were impossible with the heavier weapon and Joan’s skills with the lance are invariably described in these terms.127 Archegays are found on several medieval works of art depicting knights, particularly Saint George.128 The bronze by Francesco Fanelli (1577–1641) shows the hero gripping the lancegay with both hands.129 The most iconic portrait of all is Titian’s depiction of Charles V at the battle of Mühlberg (1547), thought to show the emperor in the image of Saint George or Marcus Aurelius. Charles personally fought in the battle but, instead of full armor, is shown as a light horseman with an open helmet, partial plate defences, and leather boots instead of leg harness. Tobias Capwell considers that Titian painted him as he was armed on the day with the intention of demonstrating the emperor’s military skill and awareness of modern tactics, as the battle was won by light cavalry.130 Charles has a wheel-lock pistol holstered on his saddle and carries an archegaie without an arrêt de lance or handgrip, held in the underhand position by the middle of the shaft. An arrêt de cuirasse is folded on the breastplate illustrating an alternative way in which the archegaie could be used.131 The emperor’s holding of the archegay attests to its popularity

Monstres général de la noblesse du bailliage d’Ḗvreux 1469, ed. Théodose Bonnin (Paris, 1853), pp. 1–104, 52–54; Roles normands, Caux et Gysors, 6:289, 6:318: “Jehannequin Galliarboys, armé de brigandine, ung page portant sa javeline.” The vouge français, a staff weapon with a slightly convex 48cm blade that tapered to a point, used on both horse and foot, appears regularly in these musters; Waldman, Hafted Weapons, pp. 183–84. 126 M. Dupont-White, Le siège de Beauvais 1472 (Beauvais, 1848), p. 11. 127 Alain Chartier described Joan as shaking and brandishing a lance as she spurred her horse to charge the enemy: Craig Taylor, Joan of Arc, La Pucelle (Manchester, 2006), p. 111, p. 237, for the Cordeliers Chronicle, and pp. 304–10 for Alençon’s deposition. The original Latin: “hastam rapit, raptam concutit, vibrat in hostes,” “hasta vibrata,” “currendo cum lancea,” and “in portu lanceae,” where lancea refers to the archegay or light lance can be found on http://www.stejeannedarc.net [accessed 3 January 2021]. Joan also employed the bourdonnasse, which being hollow was much lighter than the war lance: “manyoit un bourdon de lance (bourdonasse) très puissamment,” cited in Chronique des Cordeliers de Paris, http://www.stejeannedarc.net. 128 Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 175, for works by Salvanello and Vivarini from the fifteenth century; Gay, Glossaire, 1:6340: A fourteenth-century figurine, rescued from the Seine, portrays the saint striking overarm with an archegaie in his right hand, while holding a notched shield in his left, suggesting an alternative way in which the weapon might be used. 129 Victoria and Albert Museum, London: the lance has a small butt-spike, and the saint carries a curved, flat-bladed sword. 130 Tobias Capwell, “A Cursed Abominable Device? The True Shared History of Knights and Firearms,” Bulletin of the American Society of Arms Collectors 118 (2019), 118–32. 131 Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p, 176. It is not possible to determine whether the weapon has a butt-spike as the rear of the shaft is not shown. 125



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and reputation as a valuable and effective weapon, even in an age of more sophisticated firearms. The weapon had already acquired a ceremonial status, as when Charles VI rode in procession to Notre Dame in 1409 to give thanks for his return to health, followed directly by a page carrying “ung moult belle archigaye.”132 The lancegay owned by Sir John Fastolf was prominently displayed at Caister castle (1448), and that of Hugh Middleton, the commander of the English Knights Hospitaler at Rhodes, emblazoned with his coat of arms. John Scrope bequeathed his “launchgay” to his brother in 1452, along with his courser and battle axe.133 In England, the lancegay was used by all classes, and considered “immensely popular,” especially by mounted men-at-arms, who wished to “ride fast and light.”134 Armor was modified to accommodate it and two versions of the right pauldron are found from 1430 onwards, one with a much smaller aperture, suitable only for a demi-lance or lancegay.135 At the other end of the social scale, John Melburn of Nottingham was involved in an action against a weaver for the return of a lancegay shaft.136 In parallel with the lancegay’s adoption by nobles and men-at-arms, it also acquired an unwholesome reputation as an instrument of lawlessness and murder, being the preferred weapon of armed bands who rode throughout the countryside terrorising the population. Indeed, the weapon was surrounded with notoriety ever since its first appearance within an English context. Richard II’s statute of October 1383, proclaimed in every county, banned it from the realm, declaring that “no man should ride about the kingdom in armor, chivache deinz le roame, nor carry a lancegay.”137 The statute, designed at curtailing armed militias, was clearly ineffective and had to be repeated in 1397. The lancegay is identified as a significant weapon of mounted warfare since not only is the word repeated several times in both statutes, but a codicil states that the practice could be allowed only with the king’s permission.138 Similar proclamations were issued by other English monarchs between 1380–1460: “the which launcegays be

La chronique d’Enguerran de Monstrelet, ed. L. Douët d’Arcq, 6 vols. (Paris, 1857–62), 2:49–50. Gay, Glosssaire, 1:51, gives details of expensive decorations for two royal archegaies from the accounts of Charles VI (1386), but as Scott-Macnab, “Archegaie,” p. 44, has pointed out, this is a misreading of the word areignes, meaning trumpets. 133 Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf,” pp. 97, 120–23: the weapon is noted in the accounts of other noblemen, e.g. Henry Bolingbroke (1387–89), Thomas Woodstock, and the earl of Arundel (1397). 134 Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf,” p. 100. 135 Tobias Capwell, Armour of the English Knight 1400–1450 (London, 2015), pp. 232–34. 136 Scott-Macnab, “Sir John Fastolf,” p. 107. 137 Richard II: October 1383, Parliament Rolls, www.british-history.ac.uk/no-series/parliament-rolls-medieval/october-1383 [accessed 5 January 2021]. Lancegay is translated as “javelin.” Hewitt, Ancient Armour and Weapons, 2:243. 138 Richard II: January 1397, Parliament Rolls, www.british-history.ac.uk/no-series/parliament-rolls-medieval/january-1397 [accessed 5 January 2021]; Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 2:242–43. 132

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clearly put out of the said Realm, as a thing prohibited by our lord the King.”139 The statutes attempted to deal with repeated lawlessness in which the lancegay played a prominent role, such as the serious dispute that arose between the tenants of Knaresborough forest and the officers of John Kemp, the archbishop of York, in May 1441. Several men were killed and wounded with lancegays used by both sides, Kemp hired two hundred men-at-arms, who rode around the countryside “like men of were with long spears and lancegayes.”140 In 1450 William Tresham, the speaker of the House of Commons, was accosted upon the open highway and murdered with a lancegay by Evan Aprice, while Thomas Tresham, his son, was badly wounded.141 In 1457 Henry VI issued a further proclamation against armed militias who were disturbing the king’s peace by riding about “cum lanceis, launcegayes, gleves,” but again with little effect. In 1469, Margaret Paston complained that her tenants were being terrorized by the retainers of William Yelverton, who “like men of were… ride with speres and laungegays.”142 Tudor and early Stuart records demonstrate that the javeline continued to be listed as a weapon responsible for fatalities in personal quarrels, brawls, and street fighting, where it could easily best those armed with a sword and buckler.143 Indeed, the weapon’s association with civil disorder and armed rebellion became proverbial, with the chronicler Edward Hall (1548) referring to Jack Cade, leader of the Kentish uprising in 1450, as a “rebellious javelyn.”144 The weapon also had a protective role with javelines carried by the Yeomen of the Guard (1520), who rode with Henry VIII “in his divers progresses,” and in defending money convoys.145 The military value of “propre Iavelyns” was noted Scott-Macnab, “Sir Thopas and his Lancegay,” pp. 119–24, details the repeated attempts of the crown to outlaw the weapon in the hope of curbing unlawful retinues. 140 Thomas Stapleton ed., Plumpton Correspondence. A Series of Letters, Chiefly Domestick, Written in the Reigns of Edward IV, Richard III, Henry VII and Henry VIII (London, 1839), pp. liii–lxii, especially liv–lv. 141 Rotuli Parliamentorum, 6 vols. (London, 1832), 5:212. 142 Cited in Scott-Macnab, “Sir Thopas and his Lancegay,” p. 122. 143 Middlesex Sessions Rolls, 1580, in Middlesex County Records: Volume 1, 1550–1603, ed. John Cordy Jeaffreson (London, 1886), pp. 119–21. British History Online http://www. british-history.ac.uk/middx-county-records/vol1/ pp. 119-121 [accessed 27 May 2020]: John Sherwell armed with a sword and buckler was slain by John Lawrence with a blow to the head from a javelin; County of Middlesex. Calendar to the Sessions Records: New Series, Volume 3, 1615–16, ed. William Le Hardy (London, 1937), pp. 172–91. British History Online http://www.british-history.ac.uk/middx-sessions/vol3/pp172-191 [accessed 27 May 2020]: Peter Baggot slew Edward Acroyd, who was armed with a sword, with a blow to the head from a javelin worth 6d; A History of the County of Lancaster: Vol. 3, eds. William Farrer and J. Brownbill (London, 1907), British History Online http://www. british-history.ac.uk/vch/lancs/vol3/pp. 215-221 [accessed 16 December 2020]: Edmund Hulme was involved in a “privy ambushment,” having “a javelin in his hand.” 144 Hall, Chronicle, p. 231. 145 Rutland Papers, p. 43; The Diary of Henry Machyn, Citizen and Merchant-Taylor of London 1550–1563, ed. John Gough Nichols (London, 1848), p. 146, noted that in 1557 139



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in the Great Muster of London (1548), and the weapon was still being carried by the Yeomen in the Stuart period but perhaps more in a ceremonial capacity.146 In London, the javeline supplemented the arms of the night watch (1618), its extra length proving useful in the dark.147 Letters of remission and other documents suggest that the preference of lawless elements for the weapon was similar in medieval France. Once again, the weapon appears prominently in affrays and personal quarrels. In 1446 the Boyer brothers murdered Laurent Huart, the marshal, larding him with “coups de javelines et de dagues.”148 In 1468 Pierre de Cuillé and others operating from the old castle at Montjean, armed in jacks and mail gorgets and carrying javelines, preyed upon passers-by until the local inhabitants took matters into their own hands.149 In 1453 Jean de Fieffes thrust a javeline at the face of Jehan de Flavy in a confrontation at the Pont de Pierre. De Flavy’s horse carried him to safety but in the subsequent fracas, de Fieffes wounded several of de Flavy’s men with his javeline before he was finally overpowered and killed.150 As a military weapon, the lancegay/javeline was used both on horse and foot “tant à pied qu’ à cheval” and might be carried by footmen in large numbers.151 At Najera (1367), a significant part of the Castilian army consisted of “hommes à pied atout lances et archegaies.”152 The Burgundian ordinance of 1468 suggested that infantry should be armed with thrusting weapons, including seventeen horses laden with money from the Exchequer intended for Berwick were protected “by divers men riding with javelins and pole-axes on horseback.” 146 James I: Volume 6, January–March 1604, in Calendar of State Papers Domestic: James I, 1603–1610, ed. Mary Anne Everett Green (London, 1857), pp. 64–90: “50 javelins for the 50 Yeomen,” British History Online http://www.british-history.ac.uk/cal-state-papers/ domestic/jas1/1603-10/pp64-90 [accessed 5 January 2021]; Hall, Chronicle p. 829: “wyffelers on horseback with propre Iavelyns.” Rushworth and John, Historical Collections: November 1641, in Historical Collections of Private Passages of State: Volume 4, 1640–42 (London, 1721), pp. 421–36. British History Online http://www.british-history.ac.uk/rushworth-papers/vol4/pp421-436 [accessed 5 January 2021]: Charles I was met by “the Sheriffs of London and Middlesex with 72 men suited in scarlet cloaks, having Hats and Feathers, with javelins.” 147 Venice: February 1618, 1–14, in Calendar of State Papers Relating to English Affairs in the Archives of Venice, 15:126–44. British History Online http://www.british-history. ac.uk/cal-state-papers/venice/vol15/pp. 126-144 [accessed 6 January 2021]; George Silver, Paradoxes of Defence (London, 1599, repr.1933), p. 44; Sydney Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe (London, 2000), p. 167: Silver’s writing can be contradictory; although he favors the half-staff (quarterstaff), readers are left feeling that they ought to possess one of every weapon mentioned. 148 Liste et analyse sommaire de vingt-six lettres de rémission accordées par les rois de France à des habitants des chatellenies de Château-Gontier et de Craon (XIV–XVI siècles), ed. André Joubert (Laval, 1891), p. 10. 149 Ibid., p. 12. 150 Chronique de Mathieu D’Escouchy, ed. G. Du Fresne de Beaucourt, 3 vols. (Paris, 1843), 3:440–43: “et d’une javeline bleça pluseurs des gens de Flavy.” 151 Roles normands, p. 292. 152 Froissart, Chroniques, 1:531–32.

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“longues picques, voges et javelines,”153 Indeed, some nobles preferred to fight in this manner. During the Burgundian assault on Picquigny (1471), the seigneur de Roussy, armed in a brigandine, remained on foot with the archers, fighting valiantly “la gaveline où poin,” killing and wounding several opponents before capturing a fully armored man-at-arms.154 How Was the Lancegay Used and Why Was it So Effective? To understand why the lancegay remained in favor well into the sixteenth century, it is necessary to examine the problems inherent in the use of the heavy war lance. Improvements in defensive armor meant that to achieve a lethal penetration the lance was couched under the right axilla, so that the power of the blow was delivered primarily by the speed and momentum of the horse. Further advancements in defensive equipment resulted in lances becoming heavier to achieve the same effect, sometimes weighing up to 18kg and placing an enormous strain upon the right arm and wrist.155 To counter this, men-at-arms often rested the lance on the upper border of the shield to support the weapon during couching. A notch was provided to prevent the shaft from sliding off laterally, hence the curved, notched horseman’s shield of the fifteenth century. A further development was provided by the arrêt de cuirasse, a curved hook around 15cm in length attached to the right side of the breastplate. The lance was placed in the arrêt de cuirasse prior to couching so that the device took some of the weight but principally acted as a fulcrum to control the descent of the shaft. The arrêt de cuirasse appeared in France in the mid-fourteenth century and rapidly became widespread so that the heavy war lance became entirely dependent upon it. The appliance coincided with the development of plate armor as it could not be fitted to mail because it required a firm base. The lance could only be held in the arrêt de cuirasse for a short period, so timing was crucial: a man-at-arms had to bring his horse to the gallop, gain momentum, and then couch his lance in the device when close to his opponent, so that the weapon would be almost horizontal as the strike was made. If the target was missed or the lance couched too early, it would have to be dropped as its weight made it impossible to recover.156 The maneuver required strength, considerable practice, and a great deal of skill, the experienced being able to deliver a blow of unprecedented force. However, as Commynes noted, such expertise was beyond many men-at-arms, so that in Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire de France et de Bourgogne, p. 284. Jean, Seigneur de Haynin et de Louvegnies, Mémoires 1465–1477, ed. R. Chalons, 2 vols. (Mons, 1842), 2:170–71. 155 R. H. C. Davis, The Medieval Warhorse (London, 1989), p. 23; Malcolm Vale, War and Chivalry (London, 1981), p. 118: “a lance could weigh as much as 18 kilograms by the early sixteenth century.” 156 Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 77–178; Michael Harbinson, “The Lance in the Fifteenth Century: How French Cavalry Overcame the English Defensive System in the Latter Part of the Hundred Years War,” Journal of Medieval Military History 17 (2019), 141–99. 153

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wartime it was difficult to assemble a sufficient number of horsemen who could use the lance correctly.157 The heavy lance could only be held in the vertical position before couching, making all maneuvering difficult, and, if it did not break on contact, the rider might well be unhorsed. Consequently, in the rigors of battle it was often jettisoned, as at Montlhéry (1465), Fornovo (1495), and Guinegate (1513).158 Moreover, the heavy war lance had to be held across the horse’s neck to maintain balance, meaning that opponents could usually only be engaged on the rider’s left side. The lighter lancegay, however, could easily strike at an adversary on the right after the Turkish fashion, making it an ideal weapon for engaging infantry.159 Furthermore, as the effectiveness of the heavy lance was entirely dependent upon the momentum of the horse, it was useless when the animal was brought to a halt. The lancegay/javeline was, therefore, frequently preferred as a lighter, more versatile alternative, which could be deployed even when the horse was stationary. Consequently, as William Camden noted, the weapon could be used both offensively and defensively.160 While it might appear that the light lance was easier to use, it still required experience and skill to be fully effective.161 Among those accustomed to the weapon, the manner of its deployment was intuitive, and passed from one generation to another. The formulation of the various positions of the light lance into military treatises, which highlighted skill over brute force, suggests little change from ancient times through the medieval and Napoleonic periods to the modern era.162 In essence, it was the physical nature of the weapon itself that dictated the manner of its use and determined the tactics employed to deliver its full potential, factors that, as we have mentioned, were contingent upon the possession of suitable horses and good riding skills. Handling the Weapon The great advantage of the lancegay/javeline was that it could be carried by the rider himself and unlike the heavy lance did not require the services of a page.163 Hence it could be pointed instantly at an adversary in a single moveCommynes, Mémoires, 1:38; Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 118. At Montlhéry, the count of St Pol’s men gathered up numerous unbroken lances that lay scattered on the ground. At Fornovo, discarded lances “lay very thick upon the field,” while at Guinegate the French horse jettisoned their staves to escape more quickly. 159 John Cruso, Militarie Instructions for the Cavallrie (1632, repr. Amsterdam,1968), p. 36. 160 William Camden, Remains Concerning Britain (1605, repr. London, 1870), p. 226, lists the lancegay among the “weapons of our nation, which are both defensive and offensive.” 161 Lossow, “a weapon, which in the hands of a master, makes him almost unbeatable,” cited in Christopher Duffy, The Army of Frederick the Great (Chicago, 1996), p. 159. 162 Pierre Gaite, “Exercises in Arms: The Physical and Mental Combat Training of Men-atArms in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,” Journal of Medieval Military History 16 (2018), p. 114: the profound knowledge provided in the writings of the medieval teaching masters can only have developed from the experience of other men-at-arms. 163 Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 2:242: pages were known to drop the heavy lance in inclement weather. 157 158

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ment without the need for an intervening en garde position. Furthermore, the lighter armor of those who carried the lancegay, the quality of their horses, and the celerity with which the weapon could be deployed, meant that such troops were immediately available to take the field, much to the surprise of their enemies.164 The lightness of the weapon, which depended upon its length and weight, gave it great versatility. The lancegay could be thrust, brandished, or thrown, used with the arm lowered, or couched under the right axilla with or without an arrêt de cuirasse.165 Ease of deployment meant that when required, the weapons could be couched in unison, thus preserving cohesion, a vital aspect of the charge. The weapon’s adoption by light horsemen enabled them to be quick and agile, particularly in difficult terrain, enhancing their ability to function as scouts or coureurs, skirmish on the flanks and rear, cover the retreat, and engage in a pursuit. Sir John Smythe (1591) was so impressed that he advocated the lancegay for light horsemen, following “the use of the Moores.”166 However, he suggested a length of fifteen to twenty feet, a range in excess of the Macedonian sarissa (fifteen to eighteen feet), which seems impractical for a weapon whose main advantage was that it should be manipulated easily.167 The longer a weapon became, the more difficult it was to use with one hand.168 Excluding the motion of the horse, a quick downward thrust with a light lance using the power of the arm alone would have as much, if not more, striking power as a longer weapon whose greater inertia would be difficult for the arm and shoulder muscles to overcome.169 A weapon of the length suggested by Smythe would make all movements to the flanks and rear difficult; its only value being in a frontal charge when it would require both hands and have to be dropped if it struck the target. Gaebel argues that the principal weapon of Macedonian cavalry was not the sarissa but the 9–10 foot-long xyston, which, like the lancegay, was furnished

164 Benedetti,

Diaria, p. 86. Bayeux Tapestry shows mounted Norman knights brandishing the lance overarm, ready either to strike downwards or to throw, as well as holding the weapon in the lowered hand position or couched under the right arm: R. Allen Brown, “The Battle of Hastings,” in Morillo, Battle of Hastings, p. 210. 166 Smythe, Instructions, Observations, pp. 199–200: “And instead of launces or speares, I woulde wish them to have launces commonlie called launcezagayes of good tite and stiffe ash, coloured black, with double heads of good and hard temper according to the use of the Moores, of 15 or 20 foot long to the intent that taking them in the midst, they may strike both forward and backewarde, I meane as well as their enemies that they have in frunt or on flanks, as also their enimies and their horses that may uppon any retrait pursue them.” 167 Presumably such measurements were suggested to enable competition with the pike or longer heavy cavalry lance. 168 Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 79; Cruso, Militarie Instructions for the Cavallrie, p. 29: “how any man… should be able (with one hand) to wield a lance of 18 foot long, I leave to the consideration of the judicious.” 169 Gaebel, Cavalry Operations, p. 168. 165 The



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with a butt-spike, and could be held with one hand.170 This is equivalent to the Napoleonic light cavalry lance, which was nine feet long and weighed about four pounds.171 British nineteenth-century lances were originally sixteen feet long but were found to be too cumbersome and unwieldy, so the weapon was reduced to just over nine feet in 1829, a length similar to that of the jineta.172 In summary, Langey’s description of the lancegay (1537): “longue de 10 à 12 pieds,” suggests a length far more practical than Smythe’s and much closer to the nineteenth-century British and Napoleonic lances. It also approximates well to George Silver’s “perfect length” for a half-pike or short staff, allowing the butt-spike to be easily brought into play whether on horseback or on foot.173 The absence of a handgrip meant that the lancegay/javeline could be lengthened or shortened depending upon the circumstances simply by moving the hand along the shaft. Extra reach could be obtained if l’aresteuil was positioned directly under the right shoulder, while, when too close to thrust at infantry, a shorter grip enabled the rider to cut with the lance head.174 The point of balance varied between weapons depending upon individual length and the weight of the butt-spike. Unlike the xyston, which was held two thirds away from the point to give a good reach for thrusting, the lancegay/javeline was usually grasped in the middle, as was the British nineteenth-century lance whose point of balance was approximately halfway down the shaft.175 Thus, Pietro Monte: “The horseman should use a jineta that he can wield by the middle with just one hand,” noting that the lance should be held in this way to “deflect the opponent’s spear encounter.”176 Fiore recommended clasping the lance in the middle for the underhand strike.177 Irish horsemen of the medieval period also grasped the lance in the middle, but it was always held in an overarm position and never couched.178

170 Ibid.

Richard A. Gabriel, Philip II of Macedon (Dulles, 2010), p. 75; De Lee, French Lancers, p. 9. Although Napoleon is credited with bringing the lance back into military service, it had always remained popular in Eastern Europe, being the principal weapon of Polish cavalry since the Middle Ages. 172 John Wilkinson-Latham, British Cut and Thrust Weapons (Newton Abbot, 1971), pp. 83–84; Terence Wise, European Edged Weapons (London, 1974), p. 29; Monte, Collectanea, p. 294. 173 Silver, Paradoxes of Defence, pp. 29, 42. Silver considered some increase in length permissible when fighting on horseback. 174 Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 93, cites Les tournois de Chauvenci (1285): “Conrad placed the aresteuil of his lance beneath his shoulder.” De Lee, French Lancers, p. 10. 175 Gabriel, Philip II of Macedon, p. 75; Larsen and Yallop, Cavalry Lance, p. 71. 176 Monte, Collectanea, pp. 129, 140 177 Winnick and Marsden, The Flower of Battle, p. 2v: “I fiercely grip my spear in the middle.” 178 John Dymmok, A Treatice of Ireland, cited in Hayes-McCoy, Irish Battles, p. 83: “taking it by the middle, (they) bear it above arm and so encounter.” Cyril Falls, Elizabeth’s Irish Wars (London, 1996), p. 69. 171

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Smythe (1591) repeatedly emphasizes several key features of the lancegay, relating to its use at close quarters: the “double heads of good hard temper,” “the two steeled heads,” “striking both forwarde and backwarde,” charging “in frunt, flanks and backe,” and the ability to kill or wound the enemy’s horses when pursued, all factors crucial to the lancegay’s success.179 The second sharpened point enabled the rider to strike in several directions almost simultaneously both front and back, something recommended by Xenophon, who suggested that the second cavalry javelin, also furnished with a butt-spike, could be used at close quarters in a similar manner, thrusting “in front, on the flank or in the rear.”180 Alessandro Malatesta noted that, when surrounded by enemies, a knight could use the sharpened rear point of the lancegay in a similar manner: “striking with it both in front and behind.”181 Thus, the weapon could be held in one hand or in both hands to give a forceful blow, and could be employed against several opponents at once. Monte (c.1492) pre-dated Smythe in recommending that in close mounted combat the weapon should be held in the middle with both hands, making it easier to parry and give a series of long and short blows in quick succession.182 Langey thought stradiots should practice the maneuver “with both hands giving first one point and then the other,” as did Smythe, who recommended that they “learne to handle their weapons with great dexteritie.”183 A commentary on Johannes Liechtenauer’s mounted combat (c.1452) stressed that when closing with the enemy the lance should be held in the middle with both hands across the saddlebow so that it could be forcefully swung across to the right to parry and strike at an adversary. All three of Liechtenauer’s guards recommend that the left hand could be added to the shaft to give more strength when needed.184 Fiore has an illustration of the lance being held in the middle with both hands to give a lethal strike to an opponent’s horse.185 The three common positions for a mounted attack with the light lance were illustrated by Fiore in his assault upon the defending master.186 They 179 Smythe,

Instructions, Observations, pp. 199–200. The Art of Horsemanship, ed. and trans. Morris H. Morgan (Boston, 1893),

180 Xenophon,

p.68. Alessandro Malatesta, cited in Anglo, Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe, pp. 351–52. 182 Monte, Collectanea, p. 141. Swiss pikemen also favored holding their weapons in the middle, making them more dexterous than their French counterparts: Blaise de Monluc, Commentaires, cited in Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 3:606. 183 Langey, Discipline militaire, p. 54: “Les Estradiots se doyuent savoir ayder de la Zagaye à toutes mains, en donnant une fois d’une pointe, & apres de l’autre.” Smythe, Instructions, Observations, p. 199. 184 Christian Henry Tobler, In Saint George’s Name, An Anthology of Medieval German Fighting Arts (Wheaton, 2010), p. 133. Liechtenauer’s fighting precepts originate from the fourteenth century but are largely only known through the works of his disciples. 185 Winnick and Marsden, The Flower of Battle, p. 2v; Bosniaken cavalry used their lances with both hands to give an effective thrust, which meant letting go of the reins: Duffy, The Army of Frederick the Great, p. 159. 186 Winnick and Marsden, The Flower of Battle, p. 6r; Mondschein, Knightly Art of Battle, pp. 84–85. 181



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were as follows: the lance held overarm with the thumb facing backwards, a position from which the weapon could either be thrown or used to make one or more downward thrusts; the couched position with the lance held under the right shoulder; and the underhand position with the lance held low, the thumb facing forwards. Duarte considered four forces necessary for a successful overhand strike: the power of the arm, bodyweight, the force of the hand or wrist, and the motion of the horse. The overarm position, however, was difficult to maintain due to the strain placed on the arm muscles, and was the one from which various actions Figure 1  Lewis Chessman. might result in the rider falling © The Trustees of the British Museum. from his horse.187 Nonetheless, as mentioned previously, this was the stance used before all others by Irish horsemen.188 Couching the lance beneath the right axilla, on the other hand, allowed the weapon to be fully extended, while from the underhand position with the lance held in the middle of the shaft, the point could be thrust upwards at an opponent’s horse, face, or groin. Unlike missile weapons such strikes did not lose momentum on contact as the rider’s arm continued to impel the lance forward.189 In the lowered arm position, where momentum was gained by balancement, it was important that the shaft be held with the whole hand, fingers and nails uppermost, so that if the thrust was parried, the weapon was unlikely to be knocked from the rider’s grasp.190 This position, recommended by de Brack and Montmorency, is shown in Titian’s portrait of Charles V and more clearly on one of the knights in the twelfth-century collection of Lewis chessmen (Figure 1). The lance or spear is shown in the lowered hand position, grasped firmly in the middle of the shaft with the thumb forward and the fingers and nails uppermost. The saddle has a cantle and the rider’s knees are slightly bent. 187 Duarte,

Horsemanship, p. 75. Irish Battles, p. 83. 189 Hanson, The Western Way of War, p. 163. 190 De Brack, Cavalry, p. 52; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 48. 188 Hayes-McCoy,

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However, alternating between the upper and lower arm positions required the handgrip to be changed, a maneuver which could be problematic, especially when engaged with the enemy, as it was both for Greek hoplites and Napoleonic lancers. Techniques involved momentarily taking the weapon in the left hand before passing it back to the right or using the throw and catch method. The latter has been considered simple and effective with practice but in the heat of battle this is open to conjecture.191 Montmorency (1820) disapproved of its use, having seen the weapon dropped on numerous occasions.192 However, with a weapon like the lancegay with equally sharp points at both ends such a maneuver might not always have been necessary. In the couched position the weapon was held under the right arm with the elbow and forearm holding the shaft firmly to the chest wall two inches below the breast. The rider could then rely on the movement of the horse to make a strike and/or extend his right arm to make a thrust. From this position, as noted by de Brack and Montmorency, the rider was envisaged as being at the center of a circle with the lance as the diameter, capable of giving a deadly thrust to any point on the circumference. Held at the point of balance, thrusts could be made “along the longitudinal line of the lance in all directions around the rider,” in addition to cuts and parries.193 If the rider wished to point to the right, he twisted his body in that direction, while supporting his lance between the forearm and his back. If he pointed to the left, he twisted leftwards, swinging the lance in a horizontal semicircle over the horse’s head, before resting the shaft on his left forearm or elbow.194 These maneuvers, which tend to be associated with lancers of the Napoleonic period, had already been largely described by Duarte, who noted the importance of resting the lance on the left arm in order to protect the flank and rear: There are other manners of aiming and hitting with the spear, for example on the left arm. Some people consider this way better than the other in battle, for they say that from there they can turn it more easily whenever it pleases them, and also they can better strike to that side and backwards.195

Duarte also stressed the importance of practicing with the lance on foot before attempting to wield it on horseback, a dictum later espoused by Montmorency.196 Peter Krentz, “Hoplite Hell: How Hoplites Fought,” in Men of Bronze, Hoplite Warfare in Ancient Greece, eds. Donald Kagan and Gregory F. Viggiano (Princeton, 2013), p. 142: “a little practice with a broom handle will show that changing grips is not all that hard.” John Lazenby, “The Killing Zone,” in Hanson, Hoplites, p. 93. 192 Montmorency, Regulations, p. 149. 193 De Brack, Cavalry, pp. 50–52; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 54; De Lee, French Lancers, p. 10; Gaebel, Cavalry Operations, pp. 164–65. 194 De Lee, French Lancers, p. 10; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 65. 195 Duarte, Horsemanship, p. 106. 196 Ibid., pp. 104–05; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 117: it was common for exercises with the lance to be practiced on foot. 191



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For ancient Greek horsemen and Napoleonic lancers “the thrust, which allowed blows to be struck at the greatest distance from the rider, was most effective to the front.”197 The technique recommended by Xenophon and reinforced by de Brack and Montmorency was that, when approaching mounted opponents, “the shaft should pass over the horse’s head with the point at the level of the animal’s ears.”198 The main thrust might also be preceded by one or more short jabs or feints intended to deceive or unbalance the opposing rider, a tactic well known to medieval horsemen and one still enshrined in the British Lance Drill of 1912.199 After striking an opponent it was important to withdraw the point quickly to avoid injuries to the wrist and elbow and the even worse scenario of losing the weapon or being unhorsed. When attacking infantry, downward thrusts could be made at the head, neck, and chest, or if the enemy was too close for a thrust, the lance could be shortened by moving the hand and an oblique cut made at the head and arms. For cuts and parries, de Brack and Montmorency, like Duarte, stressed the importance of keeping the weapon pressed firmly between the chest, right elbow, and upper arm to prevent it from being displaced.200 Fiore recommended placing the lance under the opposing left arm in a similar fashion so that it was more difficult to set aside.201 In the Boar’s Tusk position described by Fiore, the lance was couched under the right arm with the point held low and to the left. This was useful in dealing with an opponent with a longer weapon, as the point could then be raised diagonally to beat the adversary’s lance aside while striking him through the body. In the Queen’s or Woman’s Guard, the rider with the shorter lance could perform a similar movement by holding his weapon across his chest. Montmorency (1820) recommended the same defensive attitudes: “keeping the lance point well down when facing swordsmen,” and “parrying with the lance strong across the chest.”202 Fiore advised that in both positions the butt-spike could be brought into play, a maneuver which continued to be described in the British 1912 regulations.203 Two other important movements of the lance were known and practiced in the Middle Ages. The first was a flamboyant but rather hazardous way of 197 Gaebel,

Cavalry Operations, pp. 164–65. Cavalry Commander, Scripta minora, p. 253, considered this also prevented the lances from crossing during a charge; De Lee, French Lancers, p. 9; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 46. 199 Monte, Collectanea, pp. 129, 131; Larsen and Yallop, Cavalry Lance, pp. 58–59. 200 Duarte, Horsemanship, pp. 104–06, stresses the importance of keeping the arm closed, making the weapon “as fast and secure as possible.” De Brack, Cavalry, pp. 50–52; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 131. 201 Mondschein, The Knightly Art of Battle, pp. 102–03. 202 Montmorency, Regulations, pp. 129–30. 203 Winnick and Marsden, The Flower of Battle, p. 2r; The Flower of Battle, ed. Chidester, pp. 410–14; Von Danzig’s Fechtbuch (1452), in Tobler, In Saint George’s Name, p. 183: in mounted combat, if the lance was parried by a sword, the butt could be jabbed into the opponent’s groin; Larsen and Yallop, Cavalry Lance, pp. 58–59. 198 Xenophon,

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changing the direction of the weapon known as the “St George,” whereby the rider raised the lance above his head, balanced it on his open palm, and used his forefinger to twirl it in the required direction. The maneuver was familiar to Duarte, although he did not consider spinning the lance above the head useful: “men who do it well display good fluidity.”204 The second, an all-round parry, the “alentour parez,” was deployed when the rider was surrounded or being pressed closely in retreat. The lance was held firmly pressed against the trunk by the right arm and elbow, and then swung twice in a full circular movement from front to rear. The blade’s horizontal sweep could parry other weapons and deliver deep cuts to both cavalry and infantry. The “round parry” was favored by Montmorency and de Brack, for “the blow cannot fail to reach the man, or the head of the horse,” either dismounting an opponent or stopping his horse short.205 De Brack witnessed an experienced Cossack unhorse one of his men at Eylau (1807) using the “alentour parez,” and another use the Boar’s Tusk guard to make a forceful left parry with his shorter weapon against a charging French lancer, thus demonstrating that such actions came naturally to those familiar with the light lance.206 The fact that Gascon cavalry at Rouvray (1429) twirled their lances round (tournoierent) in a similar fashion to protect their horses from arrow fire strongly suggests that such maneuvers were well within their capability.207 Against an armored opponent, striking at the vulnerable areas of the face, neck, and axilla might unbalance him or force him to turn his horse away. Moreover, as Le Jouvencel noted, the lance point had an uncanny knack of finding out the weak points in any armor.208 The comparison of ancient and medieval techniques with those of the Napoleonic weapon and the simple guards used by British cavalry during the First World War demonstrate what was possible with a lance of similar length and weight, indicating that the lancegay was a versatile and highly effective weapon at close quarters, helping us understand why it remained so popular throughout the Middle Ages and sixteenth century.209 Although the lancegay/javeline might be couched without an arrêt de cuiraisse, it could, when necessary, be used with the device to give a forceful strike not dissimilar to that of its heavier counterpart. This was clearly a very effective use of the weapon, as witnessed by the insistence in the Burgundian ordinances that coustilliers should be equipped with armor capable of supporting 204 Duarte,

Horsemanship, p. 106; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 149, derided the maneuver. Brack, Cavalry, p. 52; De Lee, French Lancers, pp. 10–12; Montmorency, Regulations, pp. 71, 74, 117: the “Round Parry” was particularly pre-eminent and could be given when the butt was to the front. 206 De Brack, Cavalry, p. 52; Nolan, Cavalry, p. 82, describes a similar incident of a Cossack using the Boar’s Tusk defence against a swordsman. 207 Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, p. 232. 208 Jean de Bueil, Le Jouvencel, eds. C. Favre and L. Lecestre, 2 vols. (Paris, 1887–89), 1:145: “les aisselles et la gorge et le descouvert,” 2:100: the armor of the visor was particularly thin. 209 Gaebel, Cavalry Operations, p. 165. 205 De



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an arrêt de cuiraisse: “absolument être a tout arrêt.” Hence, in addition to a gorget and sallet, they were furnished with “corset blanc” or a brigandine above which a steel plate or placard fitted with an arrêt de cuiraisse was attached.210 The lancegay/javeline could also be thrown both on horseback and on foot, thus combining the actions of a thrusting weapon with those of a missile. Throwing on foot required a run-up, and casting the weapon from horseback was more effective, the aim being to throw as far and as accurately as possible.211 Riding à la jineta was extremely advantageous for throwing as the rider had a more central position within the saddle, and could stand up in his stirrups to “put extra power and height behind the throw.”212 The motion of the horse delivered power to the blow and enabled the projectile to travel a third further than when thrown on foot.213 It was considered best to throw towards the side and turn the horse away when the spear was released, as throwing towards the front could result in the horse running on to a poorly launched missile. With the jineta held in the middle, a horseman might feign a throw when closing with an enemy before striking him as he moved to avoid the threatened cast.214 The late sixteenth-century frescoes of the battle of Higueruela (1431) in the Escorial palace depict significant skirmishing between the better-armed Spanish jennets and their Moorish counterparts, with lancegays being thrown, deployed overarm, used for thrusting, or couched underarm to strike at the horses.215 In addition, the lancegay could be used on foot in the manner of a half-pike or quarterstaff against other footmen or mounted opponents. Smythe preferred the half-pike over the pike as it was easier to carry and could be deployed more quickly.216 Unlike the heavy war lance, the lancegay did not need to be cut down. Heavy lances were often cut down to about five feet to aid manipulation and prevent fracturing when used in dismounted combat, as at Auray pour servir à l’histoire de France et de Bourgogne, pp. 283, 284, 287, for the ordonnances of 1458 and 1473; Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 172–73: “javeline à arrest légière et le plus roide qu’il porra recouvrer pour la couchier au besoing.” 211 Duarte, Horsemanship, p. 130. 212 Ibid., pp. 27–9, 130; Monte, Collectanea, p. 267. It was important to stand upright as leaning forward would result in throwing short with possible harm to the horse. Xenophon and Duarte advised throwing high with the point upwards, releasing the weapon smoothly from the hand: Xenophon, On Horsemanship, Scripta minora, p. 636; Duarte, Horsemanship, p. 130: “high and smoothly.” 213 Ibid., p. 131. 214 Monte, Collectanea, pp. 129, 140. 215 Sir Charles Oman, History of the Art of War in the Middle Ages, 2 vols. (1898, repr. London, 1978), 2:180–81, notes that the pictures were heavily restored in 1882. The manner of using the lancegay and its length are well depicted, although butt-spikes are absent; Gallastegi, “Cavalry and Battle Tactics,” p. 114, argues that the frescoes show no evidence of the weapons being thrown, rather the riders are stabbing their enemies, some using the couched position. 216 Smythe, Instructions, Observations, p. 28. The pike was considered unwieldy in offensive operations with “no long-range capability”: David R. Lawrence, The Complete Soldier (Leiden, 2008), p. 256. 210 Mémoires

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(1364), Poitiers (1356), Calais (1350), and Thorigny (1359).217 Fiore’s guards could be used both on horseback or on foot, especially with a half-pike or quarterstaff; the latter, as shown in Silver’s drawing, was commonly furnished with sharp iron points at both ends, making it deadly in experienced hands.218 In foot actions, staff weapons, such as the lancegay/javeline had a considerable advantage, as their length could be altered quickly by moving the position of the hands, while turning required only short movements of the feet. The angle of attack could be altered instantly by minor movements of the shaft, enabling the desired combination of cuts to the head and face and thrusts at the body to be made rapidly and with considerable force: “the one breedeth the other.”219 Thrusts, difficult to parry, could be delivered “with brutal speed,” while the weapon had the advantage of range both in offense and defense especially against the sword, giving the bearer a “formidable capability to feint and disengage.”220 To bring the sharpened “contrarie end of the staffe” into play to prevent an enemy from closing, the shaft should not protrude more than a foot from the backmost hand.221 Monte thought the jineta the best weapon for dealing with a charging horse, the key being to stand one’s ground as turning to run was fatal. The weapon was held in one hand with the butt touching the ground, while a javelin or stone was thrown at the rider with the right. As the horseman approached, the jineta was to be taken with both hands to displace the opponent’s weapon while springing to one side and aiming blows at the horse and rider as they passed. An alternative was to use the Boar’s Tusk position with the point lowered to parry the lance, step aside and make cuts and thrusts at the rider’s head, bringing the “well-tempered steel of the butt,” into play to strike at the right side of his face.222 Although these maneuvers seem hazardous, Fiore’s confidence in their 217 On

Poitiers, Froissart, Chroniques, 1:342: the French “les retaillassent au voulume de cinq pieds, parquoi on s’en pût mieux aider”; 1:397 for Thorigny: “Si coupèrent tous les glaives à mesure de cinq pieds”; 1:405: the English cut down their lances when intending to fight on foot at Nogent-sur-Seine (1359), as did the French at Agincourt (1415) so that they would be more rigid and less liable to break in close combat; Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 2:211; Hewitt, Ancient Armour, 2:78–79. 218 Silver, Paradoxes of Defence, p. 29; Anglo, Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe, pp. 167 and 342–43, n. 38, cites Richard Peeke’s victory over three Spanish sword and dagger men, whom he engaged simultaneously, killing one with the butt of his staff, “where the iron spike was.” De Lee, French Lancers, p. 10, on using the lance as a quarterstaff. 219 Silver, Paradoxes of Defence, p. 38: “the staffe-man never striketh but at the head, and thrusteth presently under at the body, and if a blow be first made, a thrust followeth… the one breedeth the other.” The fatalities previously mentioned and caused by javelines in street quarrels mainly resulted from strikes to the head. 220 John Clements, Renaissance Swordsmanship (Boulder, 1997), pp. 118–19; Silver, Paradoxes of Defence, p. 31. 221 Ibid., p. 42. 222 Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 407. Fiore’s protagonist wields a ghiavarina, a spear pointed at both ends with two short spikes projecting horizontally below the main blade. However, he emphasizes that the same actions could be performed with a javeline, lance,



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success remained unshaken.223 The defensive actions described by Liechtenauer are similar, including the more desperate measure of throwing the lance between the horse’s front feet to make it stumble or fall.224 The lancegay/javeline was capable of inflicting serious wounds either by thrusting, particularly with both hands, or when thrown.225 There are several references to the unexpected force of its blows, Fiore referring to the “great thrusts,” dealt both from horseback and on foot, which were “dangerously strong,” giving death at a single blow, while Molinet noted the “cops fort soubdains.”226 The lancegay was particularly effective against those who were poorly armored but could also penetrate armor at close quarters, in addition to being used by the experienced to exploit the vulnerable areas of fully armored men.227 When used with both hands as a “punching stave,” the weapon could pierce plate armor, something confirmed by Cesare d’Evoli who noted that the lancegay could penetrate both plate and mail as well as any lance.228 Despite being well armored, Frederick of Bohemia was killed instantly, pierced through the body by a lancegay: “feru parmy le corps.”229 The death of William Douglas, killed fighting the Moors in 1334, is described in similar phraseology.230 Frederick II’s brother, captured in a skirmish near Rome, was slain by a foot soldier with a malicious thrust: “féri d’une archegaie parmy le corps.”231 In 1450 William Tresham was murdered with a vicious blow from a lancegay that “smote (him) thorough the body a fote and more.” At the Garigliano (1503), the weapon’s ability to inflict a mortal wound is described in identical terms when Bayard, “une javeline au poing,” struck a Spanish captain through the axilla, the weapon penetrating “plus d’ung pié luy mist dedans le corps.”232 The depth of such penetrations was similar to the average achieved by the British cavalry lance during the First World War.233 staff, or other weapons; Winnick and Marsden, The Flower of Battle, 6v; Mondschein, The Knightly Art of Battle, pp. 84–87. 223 Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 405: “even if I were attacked a thousand times my defense would not fail me even once.” 224 Tobler, In Saint George’s Name, pp. 144–45. 225 Chandos Herald emphasized that the Spaniards threw “strong sharp archegays,” suggesting that the weapon had a penetrative force superior to that of the dart. 226 Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 389; Molinet, Chroniques, 5:41. 227 The battle of Higueruela shows an individual slain by a lancegay that has penetrated both his shield and breastplate: Oman, Art of War in the Middle Ages, 2:180–81. 228 Smythe, Instructions, Observations, p. 173; Cesare d’Evoli (1583) cited in Anglo, Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe, p. 219. 229 Livre de Lusignan in Mellusine (c.1395), ed. Francisque Michel (Niort, 1854), pp. 107–08: “Mais d’un giet d’archegaie lors/ Fu-il feru parmy le corps.” 230 Chroniques de Saint-Denis in Les grandes chroniques de France, ed. Alexis Paulin, 6 vols. (Paris, 1836–38), 1:1312–13, 1:1312, n.1. In Spain in 1334, he fell fighting the Moors: “Et messier Jehan de Douglas fu féru d’une archegaie parmi le corps.” 231 Istoire et croniques de Flandres, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove, 2 vols. (Brussels, 1879), 1:298. 232 Jean d’Auton, Chroniques, 3:267–68. 233 Larsen and Yallop, Cavalry Lance, p. 62.

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The strength of cavalry consists in good horsemanship and not being clad in heavy defensive armour.234

The nature of the lancegay/javeline, the possession of suitable horses, and the acquisition of appropriate riding skills determined the tactical deployment of the weapon, factors which allowed light-horsemen to excel in skirmish warfare, doing “great execution in the fielde” against other horsemen and disordered foot.235 Horsemanship was an essential component of light cavalry, and both jennets and stradiots were accomplished riders and renowned for their strong, hardy, and swift mounts. Xenophon considered that: “success in an attempt to pursue or retreat depends on experience of horses and their powers,” a statement later endorsed by Montmorency (1820).236 Stradiots and jennets were with their horses constantly, their riding style enabling them to make the quick, short turns essential for skirmish warfare, including the skills to pick up discarded weapons from the field without losing speed.237 Their tactics were similar to those employed by the Turks against the crusaders. The pace and agility of their mounts allowed them to remain at a distance from the enemy so that they could choose the right moment to close.238 When charged by heavy cavalry, they scattered so as not to present a solid target for the men-at-arms, and then returned to the fray like flies that could be beaten off but not driven away.239 They were masters of the feigned flight and used their mobility to attack the flanks and rear, always trying to surround their enemy or attack him on the march. Taylor considered their tactics were like the Turks but without the missile component.240 However, some carried javelins or bows instead of the lancegay, and stradiots were often mixed with mounted crossbowmen, a stratagem used by the Italians during the Fornovo campaign (1495).241 The success of this tactic was not lost on Smythe who suggested that stradiots fight in small groups of up to twenty individuals combined with 234 Edward

Cotton recounting a cavalry engagement at Waterloo (1815) cited in Philip Haythornthwaite, Napoleonic Light Cavalry Tactics (Oxford, 2013), p. 28; Nolan, Cavalry, p. 97: “charges resolve themselves into mêlées,” with the rider “constantly exposed to the chances of single combat, and the unfortunate fellow who cannot manage his horse is lost.” 235 Smythe, Instructions, Observations, pp. 199–200. 236 Xenophon, Cavalry Commander, Scripta minora, p. 267; Benedetti, Diaria, p. 149; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 128: “those who are perfect masters of their horses, will have a decided advantage over those less so.” 237 Cited in Emanuel Von Warnery, Remarks on Cavalry (1798, repr. London, 1997), p. 28. 238 Smail, Crusading Warfare, pp. 78–80. 239 Ibid. 240 F. L. Taylor, The Art of War in Italy 1494–1529 (Westport, 1973), pp. 71–72. 241 Scrobie, Commines, 2:209. The Ancient Greeks often mixed mounted archers with light cavalry.



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mounted crossbowmen. These “little troups” should hover on the wings of the opposing squadrons of cavalry, taking advantage of any disorder within their ranks to rush in and kill or wound the enemy’s horses with their zagaias.242 They should pretend to fly in dispersed small groups so that the heavier cavalry would not know whom to pursue, and perplex their opponents with “false charges” and “terrible shouts.” Against mounted men-at-arms the stradiots formed a semicircle, after the Hungarian or Turkish fashion, and when they were charged used their superior mobility to disperse and fall on the enemy’s flanks and rear, so that the heavier horse charged “onely the ayre.” This forced the men-at-arms to halt, face in all directions, and defend themselves “with great disadvantage” as they would have “not any ground nor roome to put their horses into any Carrire, nor to charge their launces into their rests.”243 Paulo Giovio made similar observations: “If they had the good fortune to throw the Gens d’armes into a little disorder, they soon made a great carnage amongst them, because being hand to hand pell mell with them, those heavy horsemen could make no use of their lances or scarcely move themselves.”244 In close combat the jennets’ riding style enabled them to easily out-maneuver their heavier opponents, who could not turn as quickly. Consequently, the men-at-arms, disordered and suffering from wounds to themselves and their horses, would be forced to drop their heavy war lances and have recourse to their swords, which, being shorter than the zagaias of the stradiots, were of little service. In mounted combat the sword could only strike effectively from the right side, while the double-headed lancegay could strike in all directions as the light horsemen entered “pelle melle” amongst them, using their weapons like “punching staves” to pierce armor, killing and injuring both men and horses.245 Not surprisingly, once disordered and faced with this situation, men-at-arms were easily taken prisoner. Warnery (c.1758) remarks that the tactics of hussars were identical to those of the Albanians: allowing heavy cavalry to charge into empty space and then falling on their flanks and rear with small groups or columns.246 This maneuver, later espoused by de Brack, resulted in better-armored opponents becoming dispersed so that they could be picked off one by one in the Turkish fashion.247 In these encounters, good horsemanship outclassed defensive armor. Riding à la jineta allowed better control of the horse, making it easier for the animal to become collected,248 meaning the horse was under control with the hocks under the body and the neck arched, so that the hindlegs were positioned for maximum

242 Smythe, 243 Ibid.

244 Cited

Instructions, Observations, pp. 172–77.

in Warnery, Remarks on Cavalry, p. 120. Instructions, Observations, p. 173; Anglo, Martial Arts of The Renaissance, p. 255: in mounted combat, sword fighting was “severely circumscribed” because blows could only be delivered effectively on the horseman’s right. 246 Warnery, Remarks on Cavalry, pp. 120, 122. 247 Haythornthwaite, Napoleonic Light Cavalry Tactics, pp. 28–29; De Brack, Cavalry, p. 166. 248 Fallows, Medieval and Renaissance Iberia, pp. 300–02. 245 Smythe,

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effort, ready to move in any direction.249 This gave the rider a clear advantage in the mêlée where he could stop, start, and change direction at will, bringing his lancegay to bear at the right time while avoiding the weapons of less mobile opponents. The execution of “swirling turns” enabled a light-horseman to evade an adversary’s full-on frontal charge.250 As Xenophon noted, from a position of collection the rider could do the most damage to the enemy while avoiding hurt himself.251 Changing the lead at speed, a technique known to Breton horsemen from the ninth century, enhanced this ability.252 Flank attacks not only demoralized the enemy, but also benefited from the force of impulsion.253 In close combat, charging horses could shoulder barge or bump their opponents aside, which was how Charles the Bold was rescued at Montlhéry (1465).254 Ramming the flank of an enemy’s horse could bring it crashing to the ground or unbalance the rider, exposing him to attack. Shoulder barging was a natural competitive instinct among horses, which augmented by training could help isolate the enemy.255 The stamina and toughness of both horses and their riders was also important. At Vittoria (1367), Spanish jennets made a night attack on the Black Prince’s camp, killing many in their beds. As the weather deteriorated, they continued to harass the English, who, forced to bivouac in the open without either bread or wine, began to lose men and horses from exposure.256 Persistent rain penetrated the English armor, soaking their undergarments, reducing their body temperature, and making all movement slow and difficult, like the Carthag249 Carroll

Gillmor, “Some Observations of the Training of Medieval Warhorses,” in Military Cultures and Martial Enterprises in The Middle Ages: Essays in Honour of Richard P. Abels, eds. John D. Hosler and Steven Isaac (Woodbridge, 2020), pp. 239–40: collection involves shortening of the horse’s outline so that the hindquarters are gathered under his belly like a “coiled spring.” The concept was known to Xenophon and Duarte and, together with other equestrian maneuvers, set down in writing from oral tradition in Frederico Grisone’s Ordini di Cavalcare (1550). 250 Ibid., p. 247. 251 Morgan, Xenophon, The Art of Horsemanship, pp. 43, 49: “He must be collected at the turns because it is not easy or safe for the horse to make turns when he is at full speed. In war, of course, turns are executed for the purpose of pursuing or retreating; hence it is well that he should be trained to speed after turning.” Duarte noted that without good collection, control of the bit could be lost, cited in Gillmor, “Medieval Warhorses,” p. 241. 252 Carroll Gillmor, “Practical Chivalry: The Training of Horses for Tournaments and Warfare,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 13 (1992), 11–13; Jürg Gassmann, “Combat Training for Horse and Rider in the Early Middle Ages,” Acta periodica duellatorum 6 (2019), 63–98, discusses “the flying lead change,” making it possible for the horse to turn at speed at the canter or gallop. 253 De Brack, Cavalry, p. 164. 254 De la Marche, Mémoires, 3:11–12 ; Commynes, Mémoires, 1: 42–43: his physician’s son, riding a strong horse, forced aside the mounts of the duke’s assailants. 255 Gaebel, Cavalry Operations, p. 167: riding off, as it is known, is still part of the sport of polo, but there are strict rules to reduce the angle of approach in order to prevent serious injury. 256 Pope and Lodge, Life of the Black Prince, pp. 88, 159.



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inians at Crimissus in 341 BCE. The jennets with their lighter equipment and sure-footed, hardy horses negotiated the muddy ground to cause havoc among their opponents.257 Medieval and later writers thought night the most favorable time for surprise attacks, with cold, snow, and rain being of great assistance, as the defenders were less well prepared and, wrapped in their cloaks and blankets, the acuteness of their hearing was diminished.258 At the Garigliano (1503) where both sides were affected by the weather, most of the French cavalry was withdrawn to towns ten miles in the rear for shelter and forage, while the Spanish jennets remained in the field to play a significant part in the victory.259 The lancegay also served as a trophy pole upon which stradiots tied or impaled the heads of their victims with the intention of frightening and demoralizing their opponents.260 Spanish jennets acted in the same way towards the Moors, engaging in mutilation and robbery.261 At Fornovo (1495), the stradiots’ unexpected attack against the outriders of the Marshal de Gié, and the sight of the heads of the slain on their lancegays, unnerved the French. Reports from terrified fugitives struck fear into the heart of Charles VIII, forcing him to halt and give battle.262 The gruesome habit and the sudden incursions of small groups of stradiots threatening false charges both night and day, caused constant alarm in the French camp, forcing the whole army to stand to. The French were simply unable to cope with this manner of fighting: “et nos gens ne les congnoissoient point encores,” a phrase which echoes Fulcher’s experience of the Turks at Dorylaeum (1147): “nobis omnibus tale bellum erat incognitum.”263 The French men-at-arms were so demoralized that on the retreat to Asti, they refused to cover the rear, contravening a key principle of war.264 Commynes says they behaved worse than women and it was left to the Swiss to act as a rearguard and keep the incessant attacks of the stradiots at bay, eventually driving them off with coulverine and harquebus fire.265 257 Hanson,

The Western Way of War, p. 81, cites Plutarch on the Carthaginians at Crimissus: “both the mud and the folds of their undergarments as they filled with water impeded them.” 258 De Brack, Cavalry, p. 198; Le Jouvencel, 2:242–43, on night attacks; Cuvelier, 2:169–72, on du Guesclin’s night ride against the English in appalling weather. 259 Oman, Art of War in the Sixteenth Century, pp. 121–29. 260 Commynes, Mémoires, 2:457 ; Histoire de Bayard, p. 228: “puis leur couppérent les têtes qu’ils picquoient au bout de leurs estradiotes.” D’Auton, Chroniques, 3:111, 4:184, and Molinet, Chroniques, 5:41 mention that the Venetians paid a ducat for each head taken; Taylor, Art of War in Italy, p. 72: as a result of this barbarous practice, Florence decreed that during the Pisan war (1498), all captured stradiots were to be executed. 261 Fallows, Medieval and Renaissance Iberia, p. 274, concerning a raid into the kingdom of Granada in 1467. 262 Beneditti, Diaria, p. 89. 263 Commynes, Mémoires, 2:462; Smail, Crusading Warfare, p. 170. 264 Le Jouvencel, 1:73, 1:110–11, 1:159, 1:217, repeatedly stresses the need for a strong mounted rearguard. 265 Commynes, Mémoires, 2:495–96, 2:457: small artillery pieces, such as falcons, were to prove highly effective in similar situations; D’Auton, Chroniques 1:42–45.

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Jean d’Auton (1499) describes how stradiots skirmished with their weapons when pursued by men-at-arms, with numerous “fuytes et recharges,” and “recharges et chaces.”266 As soon as the heavier cavalry put spurs to their horses and lowered their lances, they would turn to flee, their lighter equipment and well-conditioned mounts enabling them to maintain their distance at a steady pace, “like the flight of a wolf.”267 This was the usual procedure when opposed to those who were better armed, as estradiots realized that their stuffed jacks would easily be pierced by the lances of the men-at-arms facing them.268 However, when their opponents became drawn out by the pursuit, the stradiots would turn altogether, “tous ensemble,” and charge, killing and wounding the pursuers with their zagaias.269 The speed of their charge was legendary, “comme tempeste,” their Turkish horses being “quicker than the wind,” as was the unexpected strength of their blows.270 In retreat the horseman’s right rear was the most vulnerable area, and riders were traditionally advised to turn the point of their lances to the rear to prevent an enemy from closing. Xenophon recommended that in retreat the “spear should point backwards.”271 The tactic was stressed by Fiore – who suggested that the rider should continually make backward thrusts to strike at his pursuer – and emphasized again by Montmorency in the nineteenth century.272 At the battle of Juvardeil (851), Breton cavalry used the technique as part of a feigned flight, “punching their javelins into the chests of their pursuers.”273 Pointing the lance to the right rear was a difficult maneuver, that could alarm the horse as it involved swinging the point in a semi-circle over the rider’s head, changing grip, and then lowering the weapon while twisting to the right. The position made it difficult for the rider to control his mount or see clearly where he was going.274 However, the sharpened double heads of the lancegay made it possible to give point in both directions simultaneously, making such actions either unnecessary or less challenging. Consequently, it was easier to kill or injure the mounts of those who pursued too closely, striking, “their enimies and

266 Ibid.,

1:41. Brack, Cavalry, p.74, considered Cossacks the best light cavalry as they combined the instincts of the wolf and the fox. 268 D’Auton, Chroniques, 1:192: in 1500, Bernadine Caraiche and his estradiots realized that their stuffed jacks would easily be pierced by the lances of the forty men-at-arms, who opposed them in a head-on assault; 1:41: blows from lances and swords would pierce “leurs jacques embourrés.” 269 Ibid., 1:42, gives details of the wounded and slain. 270 Ibid., 2:170: “vistes comme le vent.” 3:259: “courant comme tempeste.” Benedetti, Diaria, p. 148: “equo citatissimo.” Molinet, Chroniques, 5:41. 271 Xenophon, The Art of Horsemanship, Scripta Minora, p. 339 272 Mondschein, The Knightly Art of Battle, p. 107; Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 418; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 148: “the spear of the lance should always be pointed to the rear in retreating before or from an enemy”; p. 57, the right arm should be pushed briskly. 273 Gassmann, “Combat Training,” p. 78, citing Regino of Prüm. 274 De Lee, French Lancers, p. 10. 267 De



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their horses that may uppon any retrait pursue them.”275 Von Danzig’s Fechtbuch (1452) recommended that if about to be struck in the back by an opponent’s lance while attempting to flee, you could set it aside with the hand or move forward onto the saddlebow, twist around and “thrust from both sides behind you… with each thrust sitting at the saddlebow.”276 After gaining some distance from the pursuer, a turn to the right made it easier to enter the Boar’s Tusk position, while the Queen’s Guard could be adopted by turning to the left.277 Monte and Smythe stressed the importance of killing or wounding the enemy’s horses, an unfortunate but necessary part of medieval warfare. The tactic was particularly important when facing stronger mounts such as those of men-atarms: “fools aim their blows at the rider, not the horse, whereas the opposite is done by the wise.” 278 A wounded horse might rear, throw its rider, or turn round and expose him to attack. However, aiming at the left shoulder, head, or chest of an opponent’s charging horse with a heavy lance was a dangerous exercise. A mortally wounded animal would continue to advance and with its momentum either shatter the weapon or hoist the rider from his saddle.279 In contrast, the lancegay could be deployed against enemy horses in several different ways while remaining intact, either by striking at the animal’s forehead en passant or by attacking from the sides and rear. Striking from the rear was recommended as an injured animal would automatically free the point by galloping from it.280 The maneuver was perfectly suited to the stradiot tactic of dispersal into small groups and falling upon the flanks and rear. If one group was pursued by heavy cavalry, the others would, “by galloping in their troups by the hind corners of the squadron, wound their horses with their launcezagayas, and give them occasion to stay their pursuit.”281 This was all part of the tactic of wearing down and isolation in which light cavalry excelled, using their weapons to best advantage. An alternative was to throw the lance at the horse’s chest and continue the attack with the sword or scimitar.282 The Boar’s Tusk guard was also useful, with the lance point kept low to make strikes at the horse’s head or chest that were difficult to parry, especially against an opponent armed only with a sword, which could not defend below the horse’s neck.283 At St Jean de Luz (1523) Spanish jennets armed with the lancegay had no problem in besting French gendarmes, who had to be rescued by their infantry. Many lances were broken, but few on the Spanish side, because, “at that time 275 Smythe,

Instructions, Observations, pp. 199–200. In Saint George’s Name, p. 185. 277 Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 418; Chidester and Hatcher: https://www.wiktenauer. com/wiki/Fiore_de%27i_Liberi#Spear_vs._Other_Weapons. 278 Pietro Monte cited in Anglo, Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe, p. 229. 279 Ibid.; Cruso, Militarie Instructions for the Cavallrie, p. 37; De Lee, French Lancers, p. 11; Montmorency, Regulations, p. 75. 280 Ibid. 281 Smythe, Instructions, Observations, p. 176. 282 Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 415. 283 Ibid., pp. 420–21. 276 Tobler,

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the Spaniards only carried archegays with long, iron points at both ends.”284 This suggests that many Spanish men-at-arms were riding à la jineta and using their weapons in a completely different way to the heavy lance.285 Some gendarmes escaped across the river by holding onto the tails of their companions’ horses, suggesting that the Spaniards had used their archegays to kill the French mounts.286 Three of Monluc’s men, slow to retreat, were “tués de coups de h’arces gayes,” indicating the effectiveness of the weapon against those on foot.287 The lancegay proved deadly against disordered infantry, one chronicler noting how Moorish foot soldiers were cut down by jennets during the siege of Ronda (1408).288 Sir Walter Raleigh’s description of the battle of the Tagus (220 BCE) shows how an experienced soldier envisioned that the lancegay, also defined as telum punicum (the Carthaginian lance), might be used. Hannibal’s Numidian cavalry attacked the opposing footmen as they tried to cross the river. The Carthaginian cavalry carried: a kind of lance de gai, sharp at both ends which, held in the midst of the staff, had such an advantage over the foot that were in the river under their strokes, clattered together… that they slew all those without resistance which were already entered into the water, and pursued the rest, that fled like men amazed, with so great a slaughter.289

The horsemen remained steady even in deep water and used their lancegays to fight either at close quarters or at a distance either by altering the grip on their weapons or deploying them as missiles. Light horsemen armed with lancegays often disputed river crossings, as at Seminara (1495) and the Bormida (1499).290 284 Monluc,

Commentaires et lettres, 1:50: “en ce temps-là les Espaignols ne pourtoinct qu’ arces gayes, longues et ferrées au deux boutz.” The Spanish gained considerable notoriety for constantly attempting to dispatch their opponents’ horses: Histoire de Bayard, p. 326; Oman, Art of War in the Sixteenth Century, p. 54. 285 The combination of knights in heavy armor with protected horses and others riding à la jineta was generally the case among Castilian armies in fifteenth-century Spain: Barbara Holmgren Firoozye, “Warfare in Fifteenth Century Spain,” Unpublished Dissertation, University of California (Los Angeles, 1974), p. 86. 286 Monluc, Commentaires et Lettres, 1:53: this was done by wrapping the tail tightly around the hand, which was how Lafayette, Grouchy’s aide de camp, escaped at Eylau (1807): David Johnson, The French Cavalry 1792–1815 (London, 1989), p. 82 287 Monluc, Commentaires, 1:54 288 Fallows, Medieval and Renaissance Iberia, p. 273. 289 Walter Raleigh, The History of the World (1614), in The Works of Sir Walter Raleigh, eds. William Oldys and Thomas Birch, 8 vols. (Oxford, 1829), 6:218–19. The weapon is not mentioned either by Livy or Polybius, but Raleigh presumably considered it to be the standard weapon of North African horsemen; Henrico Hornkens, Recueil de dictionnaires francoys, espaignols, et latins (Brussels, 1599), p. 40, defined azagaye as telum punicum, the Carthaginian lance; Scott-Macnab, Archegaie, p. 46. 290 D’Auton, Chroniques, 1:41–42.



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Fugitives on foot stood little chance, making the lancegay the perfect weapon for the pursuit. The more open helmets of the auxiliaries, such as those worn by coustilliers, gave better vision, and their lighter armor a more flexible riding style, allowing them to lean easily to one side and deal with those who had thrown themselves prone, hoping that the horsemen would ride past. A mounted swordsman riding à la bride could only target the head and neck of a standing opponent, while those who crouched, lay prone, or sought out cover received no mercy from the longer reach of the lancegay.291 According to nineteenth-century drill regulations, “no fugitive on foot could escape the lance,” as the weapon would “reach over walls or through hedges to seek him out.”292 Such an incident led to the capture of William Marshal (1147–1219), who was struck in the legs by a lance thrust through a hedge.”293 As mentioned previously, troops armed with the lancegay could be combined with those using other weapons, especially with mounted crossbowmen. Guiart demonstrated that the heavy and light lance could be used together, placing both in the hands of the knights who pursued the Flemings (1304).294 Indeed, the weapons complemented each other, particularly in skirmish actions. The combination of heavy lance and lancegay was used successfully against the Black Prince’s army during the Spanish campaign when French men-at-arms charged the English “les glaives es poings,” while the accompanying jennets threw “dardes et archigaies.”295 Sometimes men-at-arms armed with the heavy lance charged first to disperse and fragment their opponents, allowing the coustilliers with their lancegays to penetrate the enemy formation and finish things off.296 Giovio (1500) noted that the French men-at-arms were followed by chevaux-légers “who carried the demi-pique [lancegay] with which they were accustomed to spear, clouer à terre, the enemies whom their men-at-arms had knocked down during the battle.”297 On other occasions, as at Ronda (1408), jennets reconnoitered the terrain and cleared the way for the heavy cavalry to advance.298 Heavy cavalry often acted in support of lighter horsemen armed with the lancegay. At the defense of Barletta (1502), Gonzalo de Cordoba sent forward 291 A.

F. Pollard, Tudor Tracts,1532–1588 (London, 1903), pp. 124–25: at Pinkie (1547), Scottish fugitives could only be struck on the head and neck, “for our horsemen could not well reach them lower with their swords.” This enabled the more resolute to hamstring the horses, “foin them in the belly,” and injure the pursuers. 292 De Lee, French Lancers, p. 12. 293 The History of William Marshal, trans. Nigel Bryant (Woodbridge, 2016), p. 45. Marshal’s biography was written c.1220, just a few years after his death. 294 Guiart, Branche des royaux lignages, cited in Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” p. 171: “Aus lances et aus archegaies/ Que roidement sus eus esquevent.” 295 Chronique des quatre premiers Valois, p. 177. 296 Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 96, 173. 297 Ibid., p. 173. The tactic was previously used in the crusades: “As soon as the knights overthrew them/ the sergeants followed them and slew them”: Ambroise, The Crusade of Richard the Lion-Heart, trans. and ed. Merton Jerome Hubert (New York, 1976) p. 260. 298 Fallows, Medieval and Renaissance Iberia, p. 273.

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two hundred génétaires as skirmishers supported by three hundred mounted men-at-arms ready to exploit their success or sustain them if they were obliged to retreat.299 On a further occasion, génétaires supported by Spanish men-at-arms harassed the French rear.300 Troops armed with the lancegay could, therefore, be used in different ways: either to aid the men-at-arms, as at Cerignola (1503) or to be supported by them, especially when they acted as skirmishers or coureurs, which was frequently the case in the fifteenth century.301 In Spain, mixed squadrons of heavy cavalry and jennets fought together as at Olmedo (1467), using similar tactics.302 Sometimes jennets and stradiots were brigaded with infantry, but with unfortunate results when the units failed to act in coordination, as at Seminara (1495).303 Despite this reverse Gonzalo de Cordova used his jennets with great skill: isolating the garrison at Atella (1496) while he destroyed their flour mills, and at Cerignola (1503) preventing the French from assessing the Spanish position. When the French had exhausted themselves in the assault, he launched men-at arms from both flanks in combination with jennets to complete the victory.304 Again, at the Garigliano (1503), the part played by the jennets and stradiots in the pursuit “was a deciding factor in the operations which won Naples for Spain.”305 Thus far we have concentrated on how the lancegay in the hands of jennets and stradiots enabled light horsemen to secure their principal aims in dealing with heavy cavalry, which were to molest, disorder, and disperse them, closing for the kill when they were exhausted. The skills required probably developed from the cut and thrust of border warfare both in Spain and in the Balkans. The lancegay/javeline was, however, also the arm of lesser gentry, coustilliers, and the weapon of choice of many men-at-arms who formed the coureurs groups of the Late Middle Ages. These groups consisted of several troop types with different weapons: mounted archers; fully armored individuals without horse barding carrying the heavy lance; and men-at-arms with lighter equipment, who, together with their auxiliaries, such as coustilliers, carried a lancegay or

299 D’Auton,

Chroniques, 3: 9–10. 3:229. 301 Ibid., 3:258–59; Monsieur Mercure and his French Albanians, who were about to skirmish, were warned that only twenty-five mounted men-at-arms were available to support them: Michael Harbinson, “Coureurs and Their Role in Late Medieval Warfare,” Journal of Medieval Military History 19 (2021), 147–90. 302 Gallastegi, “Cavalry and Battle Tactics,” pp. 114–15. 303 D’Auton, Chroniques, 2:280–82; William H. Prescott, History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, 2 vols. (London, 1841), 2:46–47: Spanish jennets threw the French gendarmerie into disorder as they attempted to cross a small stream. When, however, they wheeled about intending to renew their attack, the Calabrian militia, mistaking the maneuver for flight, panicked and fled the field. 304 Molinet, Chroniques, 5:206; Oman, Art of War in the Sixteenth Century, p. 51: the French were pursued for more than six miles, “battant tant bien.” 305 Taylor, The Art of War in Italy, pp. 71–74, gives further examples of stradiot successes including the raid which led to the capture of the marquis of Mantua. 300 Ibid.,



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javeline.306 Coureurs were usually well-mounted, experienced soldiers, often led by nobles, who formed flexible combat groups which performed a variety of functions. These included: chevauchée; reconnaissance in force; pursuit of a retreating opponent; luring him into an ambush; and long-distance raids on enemy encampments. They protected the foragers, harassed those of the enemy, and screened the army in a light cavalry role. It seems certain that a proportion of these troops adopted the jennet style of riding.307 The presence of mounted archers and fully-armored individuals gave the group resilience and flexibility, enabling it to act independently or hold its own until support arrived.308 The lancegay/javeline was particularly suited to this type of warfare which involved long periods of hard riding over difficult terrain and frequent skirmishing, as it was easy to carry and could be brought to bear immediately against the sudden appearance of an enemy. Le Jouvencel refers to cavalry carrying “archegaies et genetoires,” and to coustilliers preceding the main force.309 Coustilliers were involved in the pursuit when the English retreated from the siege of Orléans (1429), and in the dawn assault on Marchenoir (1427).310 Coureurs took part in numerous operations including: the surprise attack upon the French rearguard before Poitiers (1356), the capture of Poton de Xaintrailles at Beauvais (1431), as an advance guard at Patay (1429), and for the Burgundian army during the Ghent Wars (1449–53).311 Conclusion Its moral effect is the greatest and its thrusts the most murderous of all les armes blanches.312

De Brack’s words echo those of Fiore who, centuries earlier, recognised the power of the lanza or light lance, for, “whoever watches it with its dashing pennant should be frightened with great dread,” as “it makes great thrusts which are dangerously strong, and with a single one it can give death.”313 The lancegay 306 Clifford

J. Rogers, Soldiers’ Lives Through History: The Middle Ages (Westport, 2007), pp. 84–85; Harbinson, “Coureurs,” pp. 147–90. 307 Riding expertise was important as ravaging warfare involved stealing livestock in large numbers and herding cattle, which required significant wheeling and turning skills: Gillmor, “Medieval Warhorses”, p. 246. 308 Harbinson, “Coureurs,” pp. 147–90. 309 Le Jouvencel, 2:200, 2:91–92. 310 Ibid., 1:105–11, 2:271–72, for Escallon, considered to be Marchenoir; 1:213 for Orléans; Georges Chastellain, Oeuvres, ed. Kervyn de Lettenhove, 8 vols. (Brussels, 1863–66), 2:347: coureurs were often sent to follow a retreating enemy to prevent him from making a stand. 311 Froissart, Chroniques, 1:340; Jean Chartier, Chronique de Charles VII, roi de France, ed. Vallet de Viriville, 3 vols. (Paris, 1858), 1:132–33; Waurin, Recueil des croniques, 3:301–02; Chastellain, Oeuvres, 2:243, 2:261, 2:253, 2:269. 312 De Brack, Cavalry, p. 50. 313 Chidester, The Flower of Battle, p. 389.

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was simply one of the many names for the light lance, which over time included the archegaie, génétaire, javeline, zagaie, and half-pike. Despite the confusing nomenclature, they were all essentially the same weapon indicating a widespread geographical and chronological use. The demi-lance, possibly initially in the same category, soon diverged into a lighter version of the heavy lance, its deployment restricted to the couched position. The terms also became metonyms for the soldiers who carried the weapons, such as génétaires, javelins, and demi-lances, the last by the mid-sixteenth century eventually referring to mounted troops in three-quarter armor. The light lance of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, already furnished with an aresteuil or butt-spike, transitioned into the archegay/lancegay/zagaie with a second steel spear head, a feature possibly also present on the javeline. Buttspikes, however, varied considerably in design, and apart from Fiore’s Flower of Battle, are rarely shown or given only token representation in contemporary illustrations. Thus, it is difficult to determine to what extent their use was common practice, although textual references attest to their presence.314 The versatility of the light lance and its ability to be manipulated easily on horseback was dependent upon its weight and length. The latter was ideally between nine and twelve feet, approximately the length of the Macedonian xyston and British and French cavalry lances of the nineteenth century. Longer lances were unwieldy and perhaps only effective in a frontal charge. As the lancegay lacked a handgrip, the length of the weapon could be altered simply by moving the hands along the shaft, being shortened to make cuts at infantry or lengthened by being couched underarm to give an extended thrust. In addition, it could be used with both hands to make a forceful parry or add penetrative power, particularly at close quarters when the weapon, gripped around the middle, could make thrusts in all directions, engaging several opponents at once. In experienced hands the lancegay/javeline achieved a degree of penetration not dissimilar to that of the British cavalry lance of the Great War. The lancegay and its cognates were capable of a whole series of maneuvers not possible with the heavier weapon. Details of the handling of the light lance and its various guards began with the ancient Greeks and were enhanced and documented by medieval and Renaissance authors. The guards were all based upon movements that came naturally to those accustomed to the weapon, and whose riding skills enabled them to use it effectively without injuring the horse. The way in which the light lance was utilized and the tactics that developed from it remained essentially unchanged through the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries to the end of the First World War. The many comparisons of the works of Fiore, Duarte, and Monte with those of Langey and Smythe, and the later

314

Fiore’s reference to the “well-tempered steel” of the butt and its similarity to the point: Chidester, The Flower of Battle, pp. 397, 407; Duarte, Horsemanship, p. 130, on advice that both ends of the lance should be capped in practice. Butt-spikes were common on poleaxes and other hafted staff weapons, including the short staff.



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writings of de Brack, Montmorency, and the British Cavalry Regulations of 1912 demonstrate this concept. The versatility of the lancegay/ javeline, which could be used overarm, underhand, couched with or without an arrêt de cuirasse, deployed against enemy horses, thrown, or utilized on foot, ensured its longevity as a favored weapon of mounted combatants that transcended class and region. It remained highly popular amongst all strata of society from emperors and knights to auxiliaries, foot soldiers, and brigands because it was both light and effective. Favored by jennets, stradiots, and coureurs, it became the light cavalry weapon par excellence, complementing the flexibility of their lighter armor, swift horses, and riding style. The lancegay was the ideal weapon for the twists and turns of skirmish warfare, for sudden attacks upon the enemy’s flanks and rear, equally swift retreats, and for fighting in difficult or mountainous terrain. As the success of light horsemen was largely dependent upon surprise, it was essential to possess a weapon that could be easily carried and deployed immediately. The lancegay/ javeline enabled stradiots and coureurs to be prestz et ynel, “ready and rapid” to take the field.315 Hence their frequent employment as an avantgarde. The importance of the weapon was endorsed by its continued presence in a protective and ceremonial role which lasted well into the mid-seventeenth century. The lancegay also worked well in combination with other arms, such as with mounted crossbowmen and later mounted harquebusiers, and in assisting heavy cavalry or being supported by them. The combination with other troop types was particularly effective among coureurs groups of the Late Middle Ages, enabling them to defeat enemy foragers, engage in raids or chevauchées, capture small towns, and win the battle for supply. The ability to use the lancegay/javeline in the arrêt de cuirasse was a crucial factor in the weapon achieving its maximum potential, as it could now be couched with great impact, while retaining its varied and effective use in the free hand.316 Malcolm Vale has shown that the heavy war lance could secure victory on the battlefield in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.317 However, it was the lancegay/javeline that often precipitated and exploited this success, enabling light cavalry to capitalize upon an enemy’s weakness, by constant harassment, interference with his communications and supply, and by exerting control over wide areas of terrain. The deployment of the lancegay highlighted the flexibility and sophistication of medieval mounted troops.

Cuvelier, 1:154. Buttin, “La lance et l’arrêt de cuirasse,” pp. 172–73: “pour permettre au cavalier d’utiliser également à deux fins sa lance légére.” 317 Malcolm Vale, War and Chivalry (London, 1981), p. 128. 315

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8 “I intend to give him battle.” Battle-Seeking in a Civil War Context: Toro (1476) Ekaitz Etxeberria Gallastegi

On March 1, 1476, Ferdinand the Catholic faced Afonso V of Portugal in the battle of Toro. Despite the fact that the battle had a disputed result, it was a strategic victory for the future Catholic Monarchs. This paper will analyze the development of the early stages of the War of Castilian Succession and the military events leading to the pitched battle, focusing on Ferdinand’s battle-seeking strategy. Toro’s example will serve to illuminate the role of battle-seeking strategies in civil war contexts, their political and propagandistic value, and their consequences. Afonso V of Portugal invaded Castile in May 1475, starting the War of Castilian Succession, which lasted until 1479. The conflict was, in fact, a civil war, that was virtually settled with the last light of day on 1 March 1476, in the fields that spread out in front of the town of Toro.1 Although the battle of Toro resulted in a disputed victory, the day turned out to be a strategic triumph that tipped the scales of war in favor of the Catholic Monarchs. In the end, Toro was a battle that resolved the political issue of the war, making many of those who had supported the Portuguese pretender change sides and securing the throne for Isabella. The hope of such a decisive strategic victory is exactly why Ferdinand had very eagerly sought a full-scale battle in the weeks leading up to the combat. One might well ask how a battle without a clear tactical winner managed to turn into a strategic success. That, however, makes it necessary to first answer other more far-reaching questions: what was the role of battle in internal wars? 1

This paper was written within the framework of the Ministry of Science & Innovation-funded research project De la Lucha de Bandos a la hidalguía universal: transformaciones sociales, políticas e ideológicas en el País Vasco (siglos XIV y XV), (ref. HAR2017-83980-P) and of the Basque Government’s Consolidated Research Group Sociedad, poder y cultura (siglos XIV–XVIII), (ref. IT-896-16). An earlier version of this paper was presented at the 600th Anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt Conference 2015. I am grateful to Francisco García Fitz, João Gouveia Monteiro, Fernando Arias, Clifford Rogers, John France, and John Gillingham for reading and making helpful comments on previous drafts of this paper. I also thank the feedback received from the anonymous reviewer. The remaining imperfections are mine alone. Unless otherwise stated, all translations in the article are my own.

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Did battle take on more importance and symbolism in civil war than in other types of conflict, stimulating commanders to actively seek a decisive clash? Since the beginning of the twenty-first century, several of the most renowned medieval military historians have debated battle-seeking or battle-avoidance as a key element in the thought and practice of medieval military leaders, attempting to rethink what is known as the Gillingham paradigm. The theory put forward by John Gillingham (building on R. C. Smail’s work) asserts that medieval military leaders – following Vegetius – would rarely accept battle, and then only if they felt sure of gaining a victory or had no other option.2 Some critics have come out against this idea – referred to by Matthew Strickland as the “new orthodoxy”3 – stating that battle might have been a remedy sought far more often than hitherto believed as a tool for settling hostilities.4 Clifford Rogers proposed that some military leaders were active battle-seekers, and recalled that Vegetius also encouraged commanders to seek battle if they clearly had the upper hand. He also added that although it was commonly accepted that gains in battle were doubtful, the advantages obtained from a triumph on the battlefield could be substantial or even decisive, and that some commanders might consider that possibility a reason to seek, rather than to avoid, battle.5 John Gillingham seized his opportunity to reply in the second issue of the Journal of Medieval Military History, in which he published an article criticizing the quantitative vagueness of Rogers’ article and proposed a twofold approach to the matter: the study of the career of a medieval commander or that of a specific campaign.6 João Gouveia Monteiro, Francisco García Fitz, and Andrew Villalon, among others, took up the call.7 The contribution made by 2

3 4

5 6 7

Raymond C. Smail, Crusading Warfare, 1097–1193 (Cambridge, 1996); John Gillingham, “Richard I and the Science of War in the Middle Ages,” in Anglo-Norman Warfare: Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Norman Military Organization and Warfare, ed. Matthew Strickland (Woodbridge, 1992), pp. 194–207; John Gillingham, “William the Bastard at War,” in ibid., pp. 143–60. Matthew Strickland, War and Chivalry. The Conduct and Perception of War in England and Normandy, 1066–1217 (Cambridge, 2003), p. 43. The inaugural issue of the Journal of Medieval Military History, which came out in 2002, focused on what has come to be known as “Vegetian strategy,” with two articles that set out to examine the so-called “Gillingham paradigm.” Clifford J. Rogers, “The Vegetian Science of Warfare in the Middle Ages,” Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 1–19; Stephen Morillo, “Battle Seeking: The Contexts and Limits of Vegetian Strategy,” Journal of Medieval Military History 1 (2002), 21–41. Rogers, “The Vegetian ‘Science of Warfare’,” pp. 1–19. John Gillingham, “Up with Orthodoxy!: In Defense of Vegetian Warfare,” Journal of Medieval Military History 2 (2004), 149–58. João Gouveia Monteiro, “Estratégia e risco em Aljubarrota: a decisão de dar batalha à luz do ‘paradigma Gillingham,’” in VI Jornadas luso-espanholas de Estudos Medievais: A guerra e a sociedade na Idade Média (Coimbra, 2009), pp. 75–107; Francisco García Fitz, “Las Navas de Tolosa y el paradigma bélico medieval,” in La península ibérica en tiempos de las Navas de Tolosa, eds. Carlos Estepa and María Antonia Carmona (Madrid, 2014), pp. 17–52; Andrew Villalon, “Battle-Seeking, Battle-Avoiding, or Perhaps Just



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Villalon distanced itself from the dichotomy imposed by the debate – seeking or avoiding battle – by bringing in a third possibility, according to which medieval commanders could be “battle-willing.” Military leaders could therefore design strategic plans that did not focus on battle seeking but would accept battle if it was offered under at least minimally favorable circumstances.8 Both within and outside the framework of the debate, several people have pointed out that certain contexts could prove particularly favorable for giving battle a central place in strategic planning. In this regard, Anthony Goodman, John France, Clifford Rogers, Stephen Morillo, and even John Gillingham himself have noted that active battle-seeking took place in medieval civil wars.9 The aim of this article is to analyze, in the light of the above-mentioned debate, the battle-seeking strategy applied by Ferdinand the Catholic in the War of Castilian Succession, until he found battle at Toro.10 To undertake this task, chronicle sources from Castile – which were practically contemporary with the events – and from Portugal – written a little later on – will be used.11 There is also documentation of an epistolary nature that consists of the propaganda letters sent by the Catholic Monarchs to cities in the kingdom, in which reports

8 9

10

11

Battle-Willing? Applying the ‘Gillingham Paradigm’ to Enrique II of Castile,” Journal of Medieval History 8 (2010), 131–54; Donald Kagay, “Battle-Seeking Commanders in the Later Middle Ages. Phases of Generalship in the War of the Two Pedros,” in The Hundred Years War (III), eds. Andrew Villalon and Donald Kagay (Leiden, 2013), pp. 63–84. Villalon, “Battle-Seeking, Battle-Avoiding,” pp. 150–52. John France, Western Warfare in the Age of Crusades, 1000–1300 (New York, 1999), pp. 150–51; Rogers, “The Vegetian ‘Science of Warfare’,” p. 18; Morillo, “Battle Seeking,” p. 30, 34, and 39; John Gillingham, The Wars of the Roses. Peace & Conflict in 15th Century England (London, 1981), pp. 15–50; Gillingham, “Richard I,” p. 207. The appendix to Anthony Goodman’s book shows that the campaigns in the Wars of the Roses tended to be brief and end in pitched battles: Anthony Goodman, The Wars of the Roses: Military Activity and English Society, 1452–1497 (London–New York, 1981), pp. 227–28. The battle of Toro has been the subject of several studies; it is in fact the most-studied fifteenth-century Castilian pitched battle. However, a strategic analysis of the campaign that led to Toro has yet to be undertaken. See Sousa Viterbo, A batalha de Touro. Alguns dados e documentos para a sua monographia histórica (Lisbon, 1900); Cesáreo Fernández, “La batalla de Toro (1476). Datos y documentos para su monografía histórica,” Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia 38 (1901), 249–67; Antonio Macia, “La batalla de Toro y la unidad nacional,” Revista de historia militar 46 (1979), 47–56; Juan Barrios, “La voluntad de vencer en la batalla de Toro,” Revista de historia militar 46 (1979), 57–67; Rafael Casas, “Visión táctica actual de la batalla de Toro,” Revista de historia militar 46 (1979), 69–87; Vicente Álvarez, “Una divina retribución: la batalla de Toro en la mentalidad castellana,” in María Helena da Cruz, Saúl Antonio Gomes, and Antonio Manuel Ribeiro eds., VI Jornadas luso-espanholas de Estudos Medievais: A guerra e a sociedade na Idade Média, 2 vols. (Coimbra, 2009), 1:35–55; Filipa Roldão, “Na rua e no arquivo: a construção da memória portuguesa da Batalha de Toro no século XV,” in da Cruz et al., VI Jornadas, 2:319–27; Marcelo Augusto da Encarnaçao, A batalha de Toro (Porto, 2014); Nuno Severiano Teixeira, Francisco Contente Domingues, and João Gouveia Monteiro, História militar de Portugal (Lisbon, 2017), pp. 196–206. For available narrative sources see Encarnaçao, A batalha de Toro, pp. 37–61.

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were given on the progress of military operations. Lastly, there is an even more extraordinary and unusual source: the private correspondence between Ferdinand the Catholic and his father, John II of Aragon and Navarre. It is unique documentation that plainly shows Ferdinand’s decision-making process, without any retroactive “spin,” and makes it possible to contribute a few ideas regarding battle-seeking strategy, its political value, and its consequences in a civil war context. Background The death of the Castilian monarch, Henry IV, in 1474 led to a succession crisis, one that had been smoldering for the better part of a decade. In 1465 civil war broke out in the kingdom, when the noble league confronting the king chose Alfonso, Henry’s half-brother – and brother of the future Isabella the Catholic – as an alternative candidate to the throne.12 To legitimize Alfonso, his supporters questioned the legitimacy of Princess Juana, arguing that she was not Henry IV’s daughter, but rather but had been born as a result of the adulterous relationship between the queen and Beltrán de la Cueva, the king’s favorite.13 Henry IV was symbolically deposed by Alfonso’s supporters in Ávila in June 1465, starting a civil war that would last until July 1468, the date of the death of the young candidate for the throne.14 Isabella took up her brother’s struggle until the signing of the Treaty of the Bulls of Guisando, in September of that same year. According to the treaty, Henry recognized his half-sister Isabella as heir to the Castilian throne, although reserving the right to decide on her marriage.15 However, when Isabella married Ferdinand in 1469, the king disowned her and the following year he proclaimed his daughter Juana as heir.16 What followed was a growing instability in the kingdom, which would eventually erupt violently on the death of Henry IV in December 1474. This time, the crisis gave rise to a civil war. Isabella of Trastámara, supported by her husband Ferdinand – they were later known as the Catholic Monarchs – claimed her right to the throne. Those 12

13

14 15

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Luis Suárez Fernández, “Los Trastámaras de Aragón en el siglo XV,” in Historia de España. Los Trastámaras de Castilla y Aragón en el siglo XV, ed. Ramón Menéndez (Madrid, 1970), pp. 253–86. In the years prior to the death of the monarch a propaganda campaign had been conducted with the aim of slandering the heir to the throne, even calling her “La Beltraneja,” in reference to her alleged father. Suárez, “Los Trastámaras,” p. 269; Óscar Villarroel, Juana la Beltraneja. La construcción de una ilegitimidad (Madrid, 2014); Ana Isabel Carrasco Manchado, Isabel I de Castilla. La sombra de la ilegitimidad (Madrid, 2014). Luis Suárez, Enrique IV de Castilla (Barcelona, 2002), pp. 309–94; Suárez, “Los Trastámaras,” pp. 253–86. Suárez, Enrique IV, pp. 395–414; Suárez, “Los Trastámaras,” pp. 287–88; José Manuel Triano, La llamada del rey y el auxilio del reino (Seville, 2018), p. 228. See Mª Isabel del Val, Isabel la Católica, princesa (1468–1474) (Valladolid, 1974), pp. 29–116, at pp. 73–91 Val, Isabel la Católica, pp. 117–314; Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla, pp. 16–19.



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defending Juana’s cause did not stand idly by; they sought support from Afonso V, king of Portugal, who was Juana’s uncle and fiancé. Both sides started gathering their allies, with Afonso trying to persuade Louis XI, king of France, to join him. By mid-1475 the scale was quite balanced. The northern regions of the kingdom were mostly under the control of the Catholic Monarchs, with exceptions such as Burgos, Peñafiel, Arévalo, Urueña, and the Lower Duero region. In the south the situation was more complicated, as loyalties were more divided, especially in Extremadura, Andalusia, and the region now known as Castile La Mancha. In general, it could be said that, although the nobles who embraced Juana’s cause were not particularly numerous – they were definitely fewer than Afonso expected– they were powerful. Among the most prominent were the duke of Arévalo, the marquis of Villena, the marquis of Cádiz, the count of Feria, the count of Urueña, and the countess of Medellín, along with the Master of the Order of Calatrava, the archbishop of Toledo, and the bishop of Burgos.17 The Campaign With the chessboard set up, the players began to move their pieces. The Portuguese invasion began early in May 1475, starting out from Arronches and penetrating the Portuguese-Extremaduran border in the direction of Albuquerque.18 The invading force was composed of perhaps 5,000–5,600 cavalry lances and 14,000–15,000 infantrymen, according to chronicle figures.19 At the same time, another Portuguese force under the command of the duke of Guimarães entered via Coria with 1,500 lances.20 Once in Castile, Afonso tried to unite his forces with those of Juana’s main supporters in the kingdom. However, not all of his 17 18

19

20

Luis Suárez Fernández, Los Reyes Católicos. La conquista del Trono (Madrid, 1989), pp. 98–101. A comprehensive account of the events of the war can be consulted in Encarnaçao, A batalha de Toro; Suárez, Los Reyes Católicos; and Jaime Vivens Vives, Historia crítica de la vida y reinado de Fernando II de Aragón (Zaragoza, 2006), pp. 391–523 (for the events leading to Toro see pp. 391–469). Diego de Valera, Crónica de los Reyes Católicos, ed. Juan de Mata Carriazo (Madrid, 1927), p. 9; Alonso de Palencia, Crónica de Enrique IV, ed. Antonio Paz y Meliá, 3 vols. (Madrid, 1973), 2:184; Rui de Pina, Chronica do senhor Rey D. Affonso V in Crónicas, ed. Manuel Lopes de Almeida (Porto, 1977), p. 832; Damião de Góis, Crónica do príncipe D. João, ed. Graça Almeida (Lisbon, 1977), p. 117; García de Resende, Crónica de dom João II e miscelánea (Lisbon, 1973), p. 7. Andres Bernáldez is the only chronicler who makes a lower estimate of the Portuguese mounted troops, counting only 3,500. Andrés Bernáldez, Memorias del reinado de los Reyes Católicos, eds. Manuel Gómez-Moreno and Juan de Mata Carriazo (Madrid, 1962), p. 48. See Encarnaçao, A batalha de Toro, pp. 131–34. In a letter to his father, Ferdinand the Catholic estimated the invading force as 3,000 cavalrymen and 8,000–10,000 infantrymen. Antonio Paz y Meliá, El cronista Alonso de Palencia (Madrid, 1914), p. 184. Crónica incompleta de los Reyes Católicos (1469–1476), ed. Julio Puyol (Madrid, 1934), p. 182. Again, Ferdinand the Catholic considered that the number was lower: 600 or 700 lances. Paz y Meliá, El cronista, p. 184.

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allies were able to meet up with him, since the strategy planned by the Catholic Monarchs included preventing this from happening. 21 They thus tried to isolate their opponent by sending letters to cities such as Murcia and Seville, ordering them to make war in their regions against the nobles who showed allegiance to the Portuguese pretender.22 This move deprived Ferdinand’s army of Andalusian and Murcian recruits, who were employed to fix Juana’s supporters the marquis of Cadiz in Jerez and Alonso de Aguilar in Cordoba. The southern troops were also employed by the Catholic Monarchs to attack the lands of the marquis of Villena, as well as the Master of the Order of Calatrava and the counts of Urueña and Plasencia in Murcia and the modern region of Castile La Mancha, thereby stopping them from joining their forces with Afonso’s army.23 At the same time, border captains were appointed with wide-ranging autonomy for making incursions into Portuguese territory, thereby restricting Afonso V’s operational capacity.24 That move by the Catholic Monarchs created several secondary fronts and delimited the main theater of operations between Toro and Burgos, particularly in the lower Duero area lying between the towns of Toro and Zamora, where the main forces of both monarchs would operate. With the Portuguese enemy deprived of considerable support, Ferdinand the Catholic intended to settle the war by means of a pitched battle, telling his father, King John II of Aragon and Navarre, of his plans in a private letter dated 28 May 1475.25 Two weeks after the start of the invasion, he informed his father about the situation 21

22

23

24

25

Crónica anónima de Enrique IV de Castilla 1454–1474, ed. María Pilar Sánchez-Parra (Madrid, 1991), pp. 491–92; Fernando del Pulgar, Crónica de los Reyes Católicos, ed. Juan de Mata Carriazo, 2 vols. (Granada, 2008), 1:103, 120–21; Pina, Chronica, pp. 830–34; Resende, Crónica, p. 7; Góis, Crónica, pp. 109 and 117–18; Puyol, pp. 180–83; Palencia, Crónica, 2:184, 187. Andrea Moratalla, Documentos de los Reyes Católicos (1475–1491) (Murcia, 2003), pp. 78–81 and. 81–82; Juan Torres, “La conquista del marquesado de Villena en el reinado de los Reyes Católicos,” Hispania 13 (1953), 37–151. The Catholic Monarchs also appointed several captains to wage war “by fire and blood” against the supporters of Afonso V in Extremadura. See Carlos J. Rodríguez Casillas, “Más allá del Duero: La guerra de Sucesión en Extremadura (1475–1477),” Medievalismo 27 (2017), 285–301. The Castilian chronicler Fernando del Pulgar pointed out that the count of Cabra and the Master of the Order of Santiago – supporters of the Catholic Monarchs – were fighting so intensely in the territorial domain of the Order of Calatrava that “neither the master of Calatrava nor his people could go to the aid of the king of Portugal because he [the master] needed to safeguard his lands.” Pulgar, Crónica, 1:146–49. Humberto Baquero, “A contenda entre D. Afonso y os Reis Católicos. Incursões castelhanas no solo portugues de 1475 a 1478,” Anais da Academia Portuguesa da História II 25 (1979), 297–324; Rodríguez, “Más allá del Duero,” pp. 285–301 Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España, MS lat. 20211/85; Paz y Meliá, El cronista, pp. 183–86. Some of the letters sent by Ferdinand the Catholic to his father, John II of Aragon and Navarre, were published by Antonio Paz y Meliá in the cited book. Francisco Bautista has recently located several of the aforementioned letters among the so-called “Zurita papers.” Francisco Bautista, “Sobre la ‘Alacena’ y otros papeles de Jerónimo Zurita,” Revista de historia Jerónimo Zurita 97 (2020), 149–87.



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and his plans. He estimated the size of Afonso’s forces as between 8,000 and 10,000 infantry and a little over 3,000 cavalry. Ferdinand was in Salamanca at the time, collecting his troops and mustering them in Valladolid. He was trying to gather together the largest possible number of men, and his estimation of his own troops was that in the space of eight days – that is, by June 5 – he could have over 2,000 lances and between 12,000 and 15,000 infantry assembled. After explaining this situation, he went on to try to anticipate what the Portuguese monarch’s next move might be, saying that he was close to Plasencia, a place where supplies were few, so he would have to move on to Arévalo, which was when Ferdinand would seize the opportunity to give battle:26 … The King of Portugal entered these kingdoms through Alburquerque on the 10th of the present month [May] with up to 3,000 cavalrymen, and the duke of Guimarães and the count of Marialva entered through Coria with 600 or 700 horsemen. It is reported that they have between 8,000 and 10,000 footmen. Among the mounted troops, there are 1,000 that are good, 1,000 commoners and the rest are people of little value that do not make 100 men-at-arms in total. They also bring 200 carts loaded with supplies. They have not arrived to Plasencia yet, or at least no report of this has reached me. It is said that there he is to marry [Juana], taking the title of King of Castile, and the stage is being prepared for the event. I have been informed that the King [of Portugal] has a pain on his side and suffers from haemorrhoids, and for this reason he is brought in a litter. It is said that this malady is caused by his anger, because things are not going as he had planned. The knights assigned to him are fewer than 200. Francisco de Solís, master elect of Alcántara, Diego de Cáceres, valet of your highness, Alonso Portocarrero and the towns of Ciudad Rodrigo, Cáceres and Badajoz have mustered over 1,000 horsemen and have caused his cavalry over 200 casualties. I wrote to them to come here after the King of Portugal. I am currently mustering as many people as possible, and I think that in the course of 8 days I will have managed to muster 2,000 lances in Valladolid, of which 700 or 800 will be men-at-arms. This is above the armed garrison in this city [Salamanca], Madrigal, Olmedo and Tordesillas, which will be mustered in two days. I think that within this time I shall have ready 12,000 or 15,000 foot, and if the King of Portugal moves to Arévalo, as the rumours have it, I intend to give him battle. I think that he will go there, because in the area of Plasencia he has few supplies. I have come to this city, where I have been received with much joy, and if before they were enthusiastically on my side, now it is even more. I intend to go to Zamora and Toro to raise troops and I intend to negotiate with Juan de Ulloa. In this way, there will be nobody in this land that is not on my service, except for the governor of Castronuño…27

26 27

“Si el dicho rey de Portogal passare á Arevalo, como se dize, le entiendo dar batalla, y creo todavía pasará, porque en aquella parte de Plasencia ha muy pocos mantenimientos.” Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de España, MS lat. 20211/85; Paz, El cronista Alonso de Palencia, pp. 184–85.

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Map 1  Troop movements during May–July 1475.

Therefore, if their numbers were evenly matched and a private document expressly states that the king of Castile wanted to settle the war by means of a pitched battle, what happened to cause the clash to be delayed for another ten months? Afonso did, in fact, end up by moving from Plasencia to Arévalo, where he stopped for two months before proceeding to Toro to lay siege to the town’s castle, which, unlike the town itself, remained loyal to Isabella.28 It is difficult to assess why Afonso stopped in Arévalo. It is possible that the Portuguese king planned to lift the siege to which his supporters were being subjected in Burgos castle, and then to link up with the French invasion that was about to take place through Gipuzkoa in support of Juana. It is also possible that when he failed to find as many supporters as he had expected in Castile, he decided on a more cautious strategy, involving control of the fortifications and towns close to the Portuguese border. Either way, Ferdinand the Catholic kept to his original plan and set off from Valladolid at the head of more troops than he had initially expected to assemble: approximately 10,000 cavalry and 30,000 infantry, according to the chronicles.29 After gathering additional troops in Tordesillas, his plan was to assist Toro’s castle, which was under siege by Afonso from inside the town – which was loyal to Juana. Once again, on July 28

29

The Castilian chronicles state that the Portuguese suffered constant weariness and harassment at the hands of the garrisons surrounding Arévalo, so they “were dying of hunger.” Puyol, Crónica, p. 191. The Castilian chroniclers provide figures in this regard. Fernando del Pulgar quantifies the army at the excessive number of 20,000 mounted troops and 50,000 on foot. Diego de Valera, with a more conservative estimate, stated that there were 11,000 cavalry and 30,000 infantry. Similarly, Alonso de Palencia quantified the army as having 2,500 lances, 8,500 jinetes, and 30,000 infantrymen. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:132; Valera, Crónica, p. 26; Palencia, Crónica, 2:208.



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14 he informed his father that his aim was to put an end to the war as soon as possible, and not only did he hope to free the town and the castle, but was confident he would be able to defeat the king of Portugal: … After having increased the number of troops, both on horseback and on foot, I have come here [close to Tordesillas], where I will stop until the marquis of Santillana and the duke of Albuquerque join me. Then I will go to Toro, where the king of Portugal is, to help those in the town who are loyal to me. I hope, with God’s help, not only to relieve the fortress, but to obtain a victory against the said king of Portugal, as not only do I have justice on my side, but I also have numerous and good people on horseback and on foot that no other outcome could be expected. By the grace of our Lord, my deeds in these kingdoms are going so prosperously, so that I hope to overcome them within a few days…30

The clash appeared to be imminent after all these moves and preparations. Ferdinand placed himself with his army in battle formation in front of the walls of Toro and commenced an exchange of letters challenging the Portuguese monarch to fight in battle, or at least face him in single combat. Afonso was heavily outnumbered and refused to comply with either request, instead remaining inside the town’s walls, and this led to the Castilian army withdrawing.31 It is true that rather than reflecting a real interest in forcing battle, the letters of challenge may have been simple rhetoric used for propaganda purposes.32 The two options are not, however, mutually exclusive: Ferdinand could, in fact, seek to bring about a confrontation; if unsuccessful, he would then have a political weapon. We know from the letters sent to his father that Ferdinand wanted battle, and when he did not find it he used the letters of challenge as political propaganda to undermine Afonso’s authority and honor.33 After all, the nobles who were with Ferdinand in that campaign advised him

30 31

32 33

Paz, El cronista Alonso de Palencia, pp. 194–95. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:127–132 and 134–36; Pina, Chronica, p. 834; Gòis, Crónica, p. 121; Valera, Crónica, pp. 22–35; Puyol, Crónica, pp. 194–95, 219–24, and 233–34; Palencia, Crónica, 2:208–15. The contents of the letters can be consulted in Ángel Sesma, “Carteles de batalla cruzados entre Alfonso V de Portugal y Fernando V de Castilla: (1475),” Revista portuguesa de história 16 (1976), 277–95. One reason for the quick withdrawal could have been the lack of funds experienced by the Catholic Monarchs, a scarcity that lasted practically the whole conflict. Triano, La llamada del rey, p. 239; Rodrigo da Costa Domínguez and José Manuel Triano, “The Price of the Throne. Public Finances in Portugal and Castile and the War of the Castilian Succession (1475–1479),” Journal of Medieval History, forthcoming. Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla, p. 167. Moratalla, Documentos, pp. 92–94; Carande and Carriazo, El tumbo, 1:48–50; Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla, pp. 167–75. The Portuguese chronicler Damião de Góis acknowledged that Ferdinand the Catholic mobilized his troops with the wish to offer battle to Afonso V. Gòis, Crónica, p. 121.

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to publish the refusal of the Portuguese monarch to fight, so as to promote his position in the “opinion of the people.”34 After that first attempt to settle the war in a single day, both kings focused their attention on consolidating their positions. After withdrawing from Toro, Ferdinand went on to tighten the siege around Burgos castle, which had risen up in favor of Juana, although the city remained loyal.35 Despite everything, the Castilian ruler had not given up his wish to face his opponent in battle, as he told his father in a fresh letter dated 25 July 1475 in reply to a missive sent by the Aragonese monarch, unfortunately now lost. It seems that John II had advised Ferdinand either to seek a pitched engagement or to attack a position that Afonso must recover in order to force him to take the initiative, as his son’s reply would suggest: … the advice Your Highness gives me on proceedings with the king of Portugal is received with special thanks; it has not been possible to follow it thus far, because I had so many people on horseback and on foot that I thought that I should not offer battle to the said king of Portugal as he showed signs of not daring to come out, as indeed he did not, to give due battle: now I understand that what Your Highness says will be very sound advice, and I shall work to put it thus into effect…36

After Afonso V had successfully completed the siege of Toro castle, everything appeared to have reached an impasse: a positional war in the traditional style. Although Ferdinand’s new plan was to complete the siege around Burgos castle, he found himself with the opportunity of regaining Zamora, which was in Portuguese hands. Leaving the siege of Burgos castle under way, the Castilian monarch marched to Zamora, entering the city thanks to a betrayal perpetrated by the garrison manning the access bridge towers. Faced with this situation, the Portuguese occupiers made haste to either leave the city or take refuge, particularly in the castle, which Ferdinand immediately placed under siege.37

34 35

36

37

Valera, Crónica, p. 30. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:150–51, 153–56, 164–66, 173 and 177–78; Gòis, Crónica, pp. 130–31; Valera, Crónica, pp. 38–39 and 53; Puyol, Crónica, pp. 256–59; Palencia, Crónica, 2:224, 229–30, 245, 255, and 259. “El consexo de Vuestra alteza me da sobre los procesos del Rey de Portugal recibo en señalada merced; fasta aquí no se ha podido aquel seguir, porque yo tenia tanta gente de á caballo y de á pie, que parecio no se devia de presentar la batalla al dicho Rey de Portugal, del qual se facia indicio que non osaria salir, como non oso, á dar la debida batalla: ahora entiendo que sera muy sano consejo el que vuestra alteza dice, y trabaxaré porque así se ponga en execucion.” Paz, El cronista Alonso de Palencia, pp. 195–96. See Ekaitz Etxeberria, “La ciudad medieval como campo de batalla: el combate urbano en la guerra de Sucesión Castellana (1475–1479),” Clio&Crimen: Revista del Centro de Historia del Crimen de Durango 12 (2015), 280–84; Ekaitz Etxeberria, “Urban Warfare in 15th-century Castile,” e-Stratégica 3 (2019), 134–36.



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Map 2  Troop movements prior to the battle of Toro (February 15 to 1 March 1476).

Afonso then made ready to go to its aid. A series of cross-challenges then followed: Afonso challenged Ferdinand to leave Zamora and fight him in the open, which Ferdinand refused to do, arguing that accepting battle would mean turning his back on the siege positions and leaving them unattended, with the danger that this entailed.38 In view of the poor image of himself he had given by refusing the confrontation, and being aware that “sometimes the expectations of the people need to be met,” Ferdinand drew up his army outside the walls of Toro, likewise challenging the Portuguese monarch, who also refused to fight, as he had insufficient troops.39 This situation changed when Prince John of Portugal arrived with reinforcements, which encouraged Afonso to go on the offensive. It was now 1476 and Burgos castle had fallen into Castilian hands in January. In February, Afonso set up his camp opposite Zamora, on the other side of the river Duero, blocking the bridge and battering the city walls and towers with his artillery. The critical point of the war was drawing closer. From their position, the Portuguese were unable to establish an effective siege around Zamora. Winter was taking its toll of the Portuguese forces, who had to sleep outdoors and were running out of supplies, and so Afonso discharged most of his infantry. Meanwhile, the Castilians were stationed in the city and were not suffering from any great hardships. For his part, Ferdinand was not merely engaging in a static defense but, having noticed the absence of Portuguese infantry, positioned 600 lances in Fuentesaúco (40km away) and 400 in Alaejos (50km away). Ferdinand was cutting the Portuguese supply lines, leaving only the Toro-Zamora route

38 39

Pulgar, Crónica, 1:187–90. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:194; Valera, Crónica, pp. 61–63; Palencia, Crónica, 2:265; Góis, Crónica, pp. 153–54.

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free, in a possible attempt to make a daring pincer movement that would cut off Portuguese army off from reinforcements.40 Two weeks of being under siege, the shortage of supplies, and detection of the Castilian troops operating behind their backs, besides observing that Ferdinand was making openings in the city walls of Zamora in order to go out to fight, led the Portuguese to break camp and withdraw towards Toro at daybreak on March 1. This seemed to be the moment Ferdinand was waiting for: the troops were fairly evenly balanced, though Ferdinand’s force was somewhat smaller, and he took advantage of pursuing the retreating enemy. The Castilian troops consisted of some 2,500 to 3,000 horsemen and 5,000 infantrymen, while the Portuguese had 3,500 mounted troops and 5,000 on foot.41 The Castilian army caught up with the Portuguese troops almost at the gates of Toro.42 At this point both factions held councils of war. Afonso knew he could not withdraw, because the entrance to Toro was over a narrow bridge, a bottleneck on which the Castilians would have destroyed the Portuguese troops, and so he lined up his men in front of the city walls. As for Ferdinand, he claimed that most of his infantry had fallen behind in the pursuit, so he would have to give battle with cavalry forces; he had no artillery; and, above all, it was almost nightfall. Ferdinand listed those disadvantages in the letters sent to cities in Castile to inform them about his victory, and so the propagandistic tone of the source advises caution. Nonetheless, everything the Catholic monarch claimed seems perfectly plausible, since the 20km chase achieved in just a few hours would first have wearied the infantrymen and certainly made it necessary to leave the heavy train of artillery behind.43 Even so, it was a unique opportunity and strategic considerations demanded action, despite tactical disadvantages. According to the chroniclers Diego de Valera and Alonso de Palencia, this is what the Castilian knight Luis de Tovar said to Ferdinand: “it is to your benefit, my lord, to fight if you want to be king of Castile.”44 At last, both monarchs came face to face, giving rise to the battle of Toro. In the event, King Afonso succumbed to the Castilians –the Portuguese monarch himself was forced to flee – with the exception of his left flank which, under the 40

41 42

43

44

Pulgar, Crónica, 1:168–73, 187–90, 193–98, 201–05 and 221; Valera, Crónica, pp. 48–50, 55 and 63–67; Palencia, Crónica, 2:248–49, 257–58 and 264–67; Pina, Chronica, pp. 839–43; Gòis, Crónica, pp. 152–54 and 157–60; Francisco Cascales, Discursos históricos de Murcia y su reyno (Murcia, 1775), p. 280. Bernáldez, Memorias, pp. 57–59; Palencia, Crónica, 2:273; Valera, Crónica, p. 73. For the events immediately leading to Toro and the role played by cardinal Pedro González de Mendoza, see L. J. Andrew Villalon, “‘Cardinal Sins’ and ‘Cardinal Virtues’ of ‘El Tercer Rey,’ Pedro González de Mendoza: The Many Faces of a Warrior Churchman in Late Medieval Europe,” Journal of Medieval Military History 13 (2015), 225–27. Moratalla, Documentos, pp. 113–35. Regarding the tactical role played by cavalry and infantry in fifteenth-century Castile, see Ekaitz Etxeberria, “Dead Horse, Man-at-Arms Lost: Cavalry and Battle Tactics in 15th Century Castile,” Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 12 (2020), 106–23. Valera, Crónica, p. 69; Palencia, Crónica, 2:270.



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command of Prince John of Portugal, broke up the Castilian right wing. Thus, although the Castilians were victorious, the triumph was not total. Regarding casualties, Portuguese chronicles do not provide any information. On the Castilian side, Valera mentions 800 “dead and captives,” while Bernáldez raises the figure to 1,200 dead – with no number of prisoners provided.45 None of the sources, however, detail how many fell on the Castilian side other than Palencia, who claims only five died on the evening of 1 March 1476.46 The Portuguese defeat was possibly not as devastating as it could have been, as the battle started with sundown and ended with nightfall, so darkness impeded any meaningful pursuit of the fleeing troops.47 The chronicle’s figures were probably exaggerated, in the classic tendency to minimize one’s own losses and maximize those of the enemy. Besides, after the clash, Ferdinand returned to Zamora with his troops, while the Portuguese heir, the future João II, remained holding a nearby hill.48 According to medieval tradition, the winner had to remain the owner of the field in order to make the victory “official”; a formal act that took on special relevance in indecisive or not entirely conclusive clashes.49 After the battle, the War of Castilian Succession dragged on until 1479, although it became increasingly less intense and the initiative remained entirely with Ferdinand. After the battle of Toro, Afonso V and Prince John, together with Juana and most of the army, returned to Portugal.50 The French attack, which occurred almost simultaneously with the battle, failed in a costly and unsuccessful siege in front of the walls of the border town of Hondarribia in Gipuzkoa.51 Ferdinand and Isabella spent the next two years recovering the towns taken by the Portuguese or by Castilian nobles loyal to Juana. A last invasion attempt by the Portuguese, this time far more limited, was defeated at the battle of La Albuera in 1479.52 Peace was finally signed in September that 45 46 47 48

49

50 51 52

Valera, Crónica, p. 73; Bernáldez, Memorias, p. 59. Palencia, Crónica, 2:273. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:213–15. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:207–15 and 223; Pina, Chronica, pp. 843–48; Resende, Crónica de dom João II, pp. 11–15; Gòis, Crónica do príncipe D. João, pp. 161–67; Valera, Crónica, pp. 68–73; Bernáldez, Memorias, pp. 57–59; Palencia, Crónica, 2:269–73; Encarnaçao, A batalha de Toro, pp. 178–82; Severiano, Contente, and Monteiro, História militar, pp. 204–05. The custom, although ancient, was still in force in the Late Middle Ages as shown by various examples, including Sempach (1315), Aljubarrota (1385), Alfarrobeira (1449), or Grandson (1476). Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1984), p. 261; João Gouveia Monteiro, A guerra em Portugal nos finais da Idade Média (Lisboa, 1998), pp. 309–10. Encarnaçao, A batalha de Toro, pp. 186–87. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:180–86 and 250–51; Valera, Crónica, pp. 56–60; Palencia, Crónica, 2:276. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:370–76; Pina, Chronica, p. 866; Gòis, Crónica, pp. 204–06; Bernáldez, Memorias, pp. 80–82; Alonso de Palencia, Cuarta Década, ed. José Toro (Madrid, 1974), pp.115–19; Don Alonso de Cárdenas, ed. Antonio Vargas-Zúñiga (Badajoz, 1976), pp. XXXIII–XXXV.

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same year, with the Treaty of Alcáçovas, which recognized Isabella as queen of Castile.53 The war was over. Battle-Seeking Strategy in a Civil War Context I have shown that Ferdinand the Catholic started the campaign by seeking battle but, in the words of the well-known phrase attributed to Helmuth von Moltke the Elder, “no plan survives contact with the enemy.” After the failed attempt at Toro in the summer of 1475, Ferdinand turned his focus to recovering the strongholds that had been lost, while not losing sight of his initial plan. In other words, Ferdinand moved from “battle-seeking” to “battle-willing.” It is harder to analyze the strategy of the Portuguese king, perhaps because less information is available. Even so, Afonso’s actions suggest that the principle governing his campaign strategy was caution. We do not know why his momentum diminished once the invasion had taken place. Perhaps it was because he did not receive as much support from the Castilian nobles as he had expected or because he hoped to be able to synchronize his attack with the French invasion. It is also possible that the strategy implemented by the Catholic Monarchs to isolate him through the creation of secondary fronts had borne fruit, preventing Afonso from being reinforced by his allies in Castile. Either way, it seems clear that Afonso ultimately accepted battle at Toro because he had no other option, and that fits in with the Vegetian paradigm. After all, the Roman author recommended accepting battle only if it was advantageous or if there was no other option.54 In this respect, the analysis of the main campaign in the War of Castilian Succession is a good example from which to evolve a few ideas. In a civil war context, the strategic value of battle increases exponentially, as it can change the axis on which the wheel of war turns, from a struggle for control of territory and strongholds to a conflict that would be clearly settled by the personal defeat of the opponent. This peculiar nature of the conflict is enhanced by time limitations and, associated with that, shifting or uncertain support between factions or supporters of the opponents, forcing a quick settlement of the war. Given the presumable fluctuation of alliances, the lack of political capital made it almost impossible to put together a Vegetian defensive strategy, based on defending strongholds and harassing the enemy. Similarly, even though “scorched earth” tactics were sometimes employed in civil wars, they were never a good option, as they could lead to fatal consequences in terms of losing popular support. The Crónica Incompleta de los Reyes Católicos refers to the fact that Afonso initially avoided doing any harm to Castilian land as he wanted to be seen as “its natural king.”55 Refraining from devastation in order to retain popular support 53 54 55

Suárez, Los Reyes Católicos, p. 329. Vegetius, III, IX. The same chronicle states that Portuguese troops devastated some lands but did not loot them. Puyol, Crónica, p. 190.



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was especially important in the main theatre of operations where both Ferdinand and Afonso were fighting –secondary fronts did see some raids.56 This was also a common feature in the Wars of the Roses, in which commanders tended to avoid harming the local population or living off the land, therefore encouraging the quick settlement of campaigns.57 Ever since the war began, Ferdinand had decided to offer battle to the Portuguese monarch, but it soon became clear also that defense-in-depth, based on Vegetian precepts, was not possible even if he had preferred it. The Portuguese capture of Zamora in 1475, while Ferdinand was making his way to Toro to challenge Afonso, called into question the possibility of trusting in the garrisons and defenses of cities and fortresses across the kingdom.58 A Vegetian defensive strategy was not practical; neither was it for the Portuguese in 1385, when they decided to give battle at Aljubarrota.59 Clifford Rogers points out that battle seekers were usually those who needed reaffirmation, such as Henry of Trastámara at Nájera, Peter I at Montiel, or John I at Aljubarrota. These monarchs needed to demonstrate strength in order to attract new followers or preserve those they already had. For Rogers this is particularly true on the occasions when the monarch in question either was the first of a new dynasty, had usurped the throne, or was claiming it, either for the first time or after having lost it.60 However, I believe that Rogers’ assertion should be nuanced. In the case of the War of Castilian Succession, the Catholic Monarchs were the ruling power, and whoever holds power must also maintain it. The very existence of an uprising or a rebellion represented a challenge to the established order which, unless quickly eradicated, might attract more sympathizers, grow and, ultimately, achieve victory. This would not, of course, apply to all Late Medieval rebellions, although it would appear to be a common feature on those occasions when the opposing side presented an alternative candidate for the throne.61 It was at those times of greatest danger when the monarch in question – the ruling power, in this case Ferdinand and Isabella – needed to seek battle, since the kingdom was watching. After the victory at Toro, the chronicler Andrés Bernáldez tells us that a great many crossed over to Isabella’s side, as more than a few were waiting to see who would win.62 In 56

57 58 59 60 61 62

Carlos J. Rodríguez Casillas, “Legacy and Change: Medieval Warfare in Castile through the Chronicle of Grand Master Alonso de Monroy (Fifteenth Century),” Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 11 (2019), 107–08. Gillingham, The Wars of the Roses, pp. 48–49. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:129–31; Valera, Crónica, pp. 28–30; Palencia, Crónica, 2:209. Monteiro, “Estratégia e risco,” pp. 165–66. Rogers, “The Vegetian ‘Science of Warfare,’” p. 18. The most noteworthy example is that of the Wars of the Roses. Goodman, The Wars of the Roses; Gillingham, The Wars of the Roses. “With so many victories obtained by King Ferdinand and his wife Queen Isabella, then there were many turns in the hearts of men and great effort in those of their partiality; very great sadness and fainting in his opponents of him. Those who offered themselves by word, in fact, came to serve them; and those who were waiting for ‘long live to the one

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fact, Juana’s principal supporters switched to Isabella after the battle, including the duke of Arévalo and his wife Leonor Pimentel, who decided to change sides one month after Toro. They were followed between May and September by the marquis of Villena and the Master of the Order of Calatrava – the powerful Pacheco-Girón family. Lastly, also in September, the archbishop of Toledo made peace with the Catholic Monarchs.63 The Castilian victory at Toro was not as overwhelming as it might have been, but, magnified by an effective propaganda campaign, it resulted in a strategic triumph.64 No sooner had Ferdinand returned from battle than he sent letters to the main cities in the kingdom informing them of his newly won victory.65 Prince John of Portugal followed suit, except that he only notified the Portuguese cities of his success.66 However, the battlefield was in Castile and it was the hearts and minds of the Castilians that had to be won over.67 Other underlying aspects such as honor and prestige were linked to war propaganda. Both values had a deep, structuring significance in medieval societies, that could interfere directly in the relationship of allegiance and loyalty between governors and the governed or in the balance of power during the course of a military campaign.68 They were aspects that affected the image and popularity of political and military leaders.69 Ferdinand found a political use for the letters

63 64 65

66 67

68 69

who wins,’ did not go to join King Afonso’s army and serve him.” Bernáldez, Memorias, p. 64. Suárez, Los Reyes Católicos, pp. 157–69. See Vicens Vives, Historia crítica, p. 441. Copies are kept in several municipal archives, such as Murcia and in Seville. Moratalla, Documentos, pp. 113–15; El tumbo de los Reyes Católicos del Concejo de Sevilla, vol. 1, eds. Ramón Carande and Juan de Mata Carriazo (Seville, 1968), 1:132–34. The Catholic Monarchs made use of propaganda right from the outset of the war, constantly sending letters to the cities in the kingdom informing them of how the war operations were progressing. Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla, pp. 195 and 349. On the existence of public opinion in fifteenth-century Castile, see Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla; Ana Isabel Carrasco Manchado, “El rumor político. Apuntes sobre la opinión pública en la Castilla del siglo XV,” Cuadernos de historia de España 80 (2006), 65–90; Ana Isabel Carrasco Manchado, “Vana o divina vox populi. La recreación de la opinión pública en Fernando del Pulgar,” in Gobernar en tiempos de crisis. Las quiebras dinásticas en el ámbito hispano (1250–1808), eds. José Manuel Nieto and María Victoria López-Cordón (Madrid, 2008), pp. 287–305; María Isabel del Val Valdivieso, “La opinión pública en los núcleos urbanos de la Castilla de fines de la Edad Media: posibilidades de estudio,” in La comunidad medieval como esfera pública, eds. Hipólito Rafael Oliva, Vincent Challet, Jan Dumolyn and Mª Antonia Carmona (Sevilla, 2014), pp. 173–91; José Manuel Nieto Soria, “Álvaro de Luna tirano. Opinión pública y conflicto político en la Castilla del siglo XV,” Imago temporis. Medium Aevum 11 (2017), 488–507. Monteiro, “Estratégia e risco,” p. 154. Ana Isabel Carrasco states that the actions of the Catholic Monarchs were examined down to the last detail, “as the smallest deed that represents royal shame can be an asset that, on the other hand, increases the good name of the adversaries.” Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla, p. 237.



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of challenge that he had exchanged with Afonso V of Portugal, and Castilian chronicles described the refusal of the Portuguese monarch to fight as shameful.70 Similarly, the chronicler Fernando del Pulgar claimed that because the challenge launched by Afonso in front of Zamora was not accepted, Ferdinand’s knights and the town dwellers felt “belittled.”71 On the other hand, the Portuguese chronicles allude to the fact that Ferdinand’s refusal to fight in a subsequent challenge made the Castilian consort realize that the affront to his honor could be extremely detrimental to his purposes, and so he decided to match the action of the Portuguese monarch with another challenge, moving his army up to the walls of Toro for the purpose.72 In a war whose ultimate aim was to win the throne, purely military actions had to be complemented with propaganda. The chronicles relating to the previous Castilian civil war, in which King Henry IV confronted his brother – Prince Alfonso – between 1465 and 1468, also stated this to be true. Thus, the war councils held by Alfonso’s side at the start of the conflict are described as discussions in which some nobles insisted on the need for a pitched battle, since “the favor of the people is changeable” and “the most important thing in war is opinion.”73 Therefore, in a context such as the War of Castilian Succession, it not only what was being done that was important, but also the way in which actions were perceived and the image that was projected. That is the only way to be able to understand how a contested triumph such as that resulting from the battle of Toro could turn into a strategic victory. In short, the example of Toro shows how civil wars, particularly those that saw the uprising of an alternative candidate for the throne, were contexts in which battle rose up on its own, as a strategic goal. In those cases, the ruling power would be expected to take the initiative and seek a rapid resolution to the war. Raids and chevauchées were ruled out because of their implications in terms of popular support. Similarly, sieges did not make as much sense as they would have done in a war of conquest, since political support was changeable and a stronghold or town that had been loyal could change its mind. Consequently, the situation cried out for a crushing victory and, if that were not possible, propaganda would have to produce one. In that respect, Ferdinand the Catholic knew he needed a battle, he was willing to fight it, he sought it, and finally he found it. And that battle, albeit with dubious results, ended up by handing him final victory.

70 71 72 73

Moratalla, Documentos, pp. 92–94; Carande and Carriazo, El tumbo, 1:48–50; Palencia, Crónica, 2:211–15; Valera, Crónica, pp. 30–31; Carrasco, Isabel I de Castilla, pp. 167–75. Pulgar, Crónica, 1:193–94. Gòis, Crónica, pp. 153–54. Diego de Valera, Memorial de diversas hazañas, ed. Juan de Mata Carriazo (Madrid, 1941), pp. 105–07; Alonso de Palencia, Gesta Hispaniensia ex annalibus suorum dierum collecta, eds. Brian Tate and Jeremy Lawrence (Madrid, 1998), pp. 340–41.

9 Discovery of an Early Sixteenth-Century Battle Plan from the Archdiocesan Archive in Ljubljana Tomaž Lazar

Recent investigations in the Archdiocesan Archive (Nadškofijski arhiv) in Ljubljana, Slovenia, have uncovered a sketch depicting the tactical disposition of an army with over 40,000 combatants, composed of pikemen, arquebusiers, mounted men-at-arms, lightly armed hussar cavalry, mounted crossbowmen, and artillery. The archival context suggests that the document was created at the beginning of the Habsburg war against Venice (1508–16). The “Ljubljana plan” represents a rare relic of Central European military thought from the early years of the sixteenth century but still firmly rooted in older medieval traditions. An analysis of its content reveals a cautious, conservative approach to warfare. Despite the very high proportion of cavalry and the central role of heavily armed men-at-arms, the troops are positioned in a largely defensive formation, protected on the flanks and rear with a wagon fort. This may ultimately reflect the contemporary experience of Habsburg armies fighting an elusive enemy – from the Ottoman and Hungarian light cavalry to the Venetian stradiots. The Middle Ages have long been perceived as a “Dark Age” of military science during which the art of war had sunk to an unprecedented low point.1 No doubt this resulted in part from the relative lack of original theoretical texts produced by its protagonists. However, since the early decades of the twentieth century an increasing number of previously unknown primary sources have come to light that challenge old assumptions and present a rather more complex image of warfare in the Middle Ages. One such discovery has been made recently in the Archdiocesan Archive (Nadškofijski arhiv) in Ljubljana, Slovenia. Among the extensive documentation from the late Middle Ages and the Early Modern period, the archive keeps 1

Hans Delbrück, Geschichte der Kriegskunst im Rahmen der politischen Geschichte, vol. 3 (Berlin, 1923); Charles Oman, A History of the Art of War in the Middle Ages (London, 1924). Cf. Philippe Contamine, War in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1984), p. 208 ff.; J. F. Verbruggen, The Art of Warfare in Western Europe during the Middle Ages (Woodbridge, 1997).

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Figure 1  Battle plan from the Archdiocesan Archive (NŠAL, ŠAL 1, Fasc. 29/1; photo: Matej Kristovič)

a considerable body of records from the time of Bishop Christopher Rauber (c.1466–1536).2 These records, which have not been systematically investigated to date, also contain a collection of various documents produced during the Habsburg war against Venice (1508–16).3 In particular, one stands out from the military historian’s perspective – a hastily sketched plan outlining a battle formation consisting of 41,500 troops.4 To date, this fascinating find has escaped scholarly attention. The document itself perhaps raises more questions than it may answer. In any case, it represents a rare, significant relic of Central European military thought from the very early years of the sixteenth century, still firmly rooted in the medieval tradition and created by veterans drawing on experiences of warfare in the final decades of the Middle Ages. As such, it deserves a detailed analysis and more extensive international publication.5 2 3 4 5

Maks Miklavčič, “Ravbar, Krištof, plemeniti (1466–1536)” in Slovenska biografija 9, ed. Alfonz Gspan et al. (Ljubljana, 1960). Ljubljana, Nadškofijski arhiv (NŠAL), ŠAL 1, Fasc. 29/1–4, Fasc. 30/1–7. NŠAL, ŠAL 1, Fasc. 29/1, Battle plan. Tomaž Lazar, Julijana Visočnik, “‘Bojno-taktični načrt’ ali shema sestave habsburške vojske iz časa beneško-habsburške vojne,” in Arhivi – zakladnice spomina, ed. Andrej



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Military Theory in Medieval Europe Whenever discussing the topics of military theory and strategic thought in the Middle Ages, the modern scholar is confounded by an intriguing paradox. Medieval Europeans obviously attached great importance to military matters. Members of their social elite identified themselves as “men of the sword,” bellatores, and the feudal world has been aptly described as a “society organized for war.”6 It seems logical to assume that such an emphasis on warfare would have stimulated a lively development of the military art if not science – also reflected in a steady production of theoretical literature and various written documents pertaining to military organization. However, that was not the case. The existing body of primary sources from medieval Europe compares unfavorably to the rich tradition of Antiquity, which survived even the demise of the Roman Empire and flourished in Byzantium for centuries to come.7 The Roman military tradition was held in high regard in the West: Vegetius’ treatise Epitoma rei militaris remained widely accepted as the seminal work on strategy well into the Early Modern period.8 Nevertheless, for all their efforts invested in the study, replication, and often uncritical admiration of the ancients, medieval Europeans were much less active in producing original theoretical works on tactics or strategy. Even when they did, the results were often erratic from the modern point of view. Konrad Kyeser’s Bellifortis (1402/5), arguably the best-known and most popular Western contribution of its days, could be described as a rather convoluted jumble of Vegetius and Frontinus mixed with astrology, esotericism, and a somewhat naive fascination with technological novelties. It was perhaps

6

7

8

Nared (Ljubljana, 2014), pp. 110–11; Tomaž Lazar, “Bojni načrt iz časa beneške vojne v zapuščini Krištofa Ravbarja: dragoceno odkritje v ljubljanskem Nadškofijskem arhivu,” Zgodovinski časopis 73/3–4 (2019), pp. 296–345. Elena Lourie, “A Society Organized for War. Medieval Spain,” in Medieval Warfare 1000–1300, ed. John France (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 339–61; Medieval Warfare. A History, ed. Maurice Keen (Oxford 1999), pp. 1–9; James F. Powers, A Society Organized for War (Berkeley, 1988); The Medieval Military Revolution, State Society and Military Change in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, eds. Andrew Ayton, J. L. Price (London, 1995), pp. 1–22; Contamine, War, p. 13 ff.; Tomaž Lazar, Vitezi, najemniki in smodnik. Vojskovanje na Slovenskem v poznem srednjem veku (Ljubljana, 2012). George T. Dennis, Maurice’s Strategikon (Philadelphia, 1984); Eric McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth. Byzantine Warfare in the Tenth Century (Washington 1995); Dennis F. Sullivan, Siegecraft. Two Tenth-Century Instructional Manuals by “Heron of Byzantium” (Washington, 2000). Flavius Vegetius Renatus, Epitoma rei militaris, ed. Carl Lang (Leipzig, 1885). Cf. Contamine, War, pp. 210–12; John France, Western Warfare in the Age of the Crusades (Ithaca, 1999), pp. 9–10; David Eltis, The Military Revolution in Sixteenth-Century Europe (London, 1995), p. 60; Volker Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen im späten Mittelalter. Technik, Taktik, Theorie (Weinheim, 1990), pp. 105–28, 298–300; Verbruggen, The Art, pp. 77–83, 89–91, 97–102; F. L. Taylor, The Art of War in Italy 1494–1529 (Cambridge, 1921), pp. 167–76.

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Figure 2  Schematic depiction of a concentrically arranged Wagenburg (UER B 26, fol. b r)

inspired more by fantasy than actual military experience, and it seems unlikely that it had much real impact on the practice of war.9 From at least the early thirteenth century onwards, another form of martial literature began to appear in Western Europe. The increasingly better codification of chivalry led to a surge of written manuals such as the anonymous Ordene de chevalerie,10 the Libre de l’orde de cavalleria by the Catalan philosopher 9 10

Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, 126–28; Eltis, The Military Revolution, p. 60; München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 30150. Ramon Lull, Anonymous, Ramon Lull’s Book of Knighthood and Chivalry & the Anonymous Ordene de Chevalerie, ed. and trans. Brian R. Price (Union City, 2001).



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Ramon Lull,11 the Livre de chevalerie by Geoffroi de Charny,12 and the Livre des faits d’armes et de chevalerie by Christine de Pizan.13 While written specifically for the purpose of training a knight, none was intended as a practical handbook of tactics or strategy. Instead, their focus lay on the ideological and symbolic components of knighthood. It may seem ironic that of all the treatises listed above, only that compiled by a female writer has anything tangible to say on the actual practice of war – though to be fair, Christine de Pizan had largely limited herself to copying long passages from Vegetius with the notable exception of her up-to-date treatment of gunpowder artillery.14 Even Geoffroi de Charny, a living embodiment of chivalry, felt little need to delve into the more mundane aspects of war. A closer reading of his text helps to explain why. As he instructs the future knights to hone their skills under the close supervision of experienced tutors, the implications become clear enough – the art of war can only be learned on the field of battle, never from a book; therefore, writing on practical military matters would have been both futile and pretentious.15 Such conservative views evidently represented the social norm for some time. That is not to say that the medieval soldier was entirely illiterate or uninterested in theoretical literature. From the late fourteenth century, the flourishing of martial arts stimulated the creation of practical manuals outlining complex systems of hand-to-hand combat.16 Many of the techniques shown may have had little direct military application as their primary focus lay on the duel rather than the battlefield. Nevertheless, the proliferation of such didactic literature aimed towards improving one’s individual fighting prowess can be taken as a sure sign of increased interest in systematic training.17 Medieval soldiers were fully capable of formulating a sound strategic plan when required to do so. The Rule of the Knights Templar contains several clauses that demonstrate a clear understanding of coherent battle tactics and 11 12 13 14 15 16

17

Ibid. Geoffroi de Charny, The Book of Chivalry of Geoffroi de Charny, eds. and trans. Richard W. Kaeuper, Elspeth Kennedy (Philadelphia, 1996). Christine de Pizan, The Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, ed. and trans. Christine Willard (University Park, 1999). Pizan, The Book, pp. 65–67, 110–11, 117–26, 141–42. Geoffroi de Charny, The Book, pp. 102–05. Sydney Anglo, The Martial Arts of Renaissance Europe (New Haven, London, 2000); Tomaž Lazar, “Once Were Warriors. Late Medieval Martial Arts Manuals in the Context of Military Development,” Vojaška zgodovina 10/1 (2009), 7–25; Roman Vučajnk, “Martial Arts in the Middle Ages,” Vojaška zgodovina 10/1 (2009), 27–43; Nürnberg, Germanisches Museum, Cod. HS. 3227a; Hans-Peter Hils, Meister Johann Liechtenauers Kunst des langen Schwertes (Frankfurt, 1985); Luigi Zanutto, Fiore di Premariacco ed i ludi e le feste marziali e civili in Friuli (Udine, 1907); David Cvet, “An Examination of Fiore dei Liberi and His Treatises Describing L’Arte dell’Armizare, c. 1410,” Vojaška zgodovina 10/1 (2009), 45–57. Cf. Michael E. Mallett and Christine Shaw, The Italian Wars 1494–1559. War, State and Society in Early Modern Europe (London, 2012), pp. 187–88.

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military organization. Furthermore, the fall of Christian strongholds in the Holy Land incited ambitious thinkers to formulate highly complex campaigns of reconquest, thereby proving a solid grasp of abstract strategic thinking.18 Detailed studies of military campaigns undertaken during the medieval period reveal further proof of sophistication in the contemporary art of war.19 During the late Middle Ages, the pace of military professionalization increased rapidly, and new technologies, such as field artillery and hand-held firearms, were integrated successfully into combined arms tactics.20 This shift became particularly apparent in Central Europe during the Hussite Wars, which served as a benchmark well into the final years of the fifteenth century.21 Nevertheless, it still took several decades before the Western world experienced a true revival of military theory. It seems that medieval soldiers and generals were reluctant to write about the technicalities of their profession, if for no other reason than to keep sensitive knowledge from falling into the opponent’s hands. Commanders of the era were no doubt aware of the need for detailed planning, and in all probability resorted to writing detailed instructions or battle plans regularly. However, such documents were not intended for public circulation due to their sensitive content and have survived to the present only under exceptional circumstances; perhaps the best-known example of this kind is the “Somme plan” drawn up by the French marshal Boucicaut in October 1415 shortly before the fateful battle of Agincourt.22 Apart from the brief instructions in Christine de Pizan’s treatise, arguably the earliest original tactical manuals produced in the West date from the second half of the fifteenth century. Two such texts, still influenced heavily by ancient writers, were Roberto Valturio’s De re militari (c.1466) and Antonio Cornazzano’s Dell’arte militare (1493).23 Unlike their Italian contemporaries, Western and Central European writers of the period were arguably less constrained by the remembrance of the Antiquity but instead preferred a more practical, contemporary approach. This tendency is already apparent in Jean de Bueil’s influen-

18 19

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Contamine, War, pp. 212–15; France, Western Warfare, p. 161; Verbruggen, The Art, pp. 288–347. Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 17–37; John Beeler, “Towards a Re-Evaluation of Medieval English Generalship,” in Medieval Warfare 1000–1300, ed. John France (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 289–99; John Gillingham, “Richard I and the Science of War in the Middle Ages,” in Medieval Warfare 1000–1300, ed. John France (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 299–312. Contamine, War, pp. 217–18; Kelly DeVries, Infantry Warfare in the Early Fourteenth Century (Woodbridge, 1996); Keen, Medieval Warfare, pp. 142–44, 202–03; Lazar, Vitezi; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, p. 189. Thomas Fudge, The Crusade against Heretics in Bohemia, 1418–1437 (Aldershot, 2002), nos. 97, 120, 121, 141. Cf. Karl Hegel, Matthias Lexer, Die Chroniken der fränkischen Städte. Nürnberg, vol. 3 (Leipzig, 1864), pp. 409–11. Matthew Strickland and Robert Hardy, The Great Warbow. From Hastings to the Mary Rose (Far Thrupp, 2005), pp. 321–25. Sydney Anglo, Machiavelli. The First Century. Studies in Enthusiasm, Hostility, and Irrelevance (Oxford, 2005), pp. 31–32; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, p. 187.



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tial semi-autobiography Le Jouvencel (c.1466).24 Perhaps the earliest proponent of the “new wave” in Central Europe was Phillip of Seldeneck. His military treatise, first written in 1485, contains detailed descriptions of infantry tactics imitating the Swiss attack formations. A year later, similar concepts, albeit with a greater emphasis on a combined arms approach integrating artillery and small arms, were promoted in a manual published by Philip Mönch. While both texts focused almost exclusively on battlefield tactics, the contribution by Philip of Cleves (completed in 1516) centered specifically on sieges and general aspects of military organization.25 The few treatises listed above represent the bulk of original texts on contemporary military theory available to the Central European readership. The production of military literature boomed only during the second half of the sixteenth century, with the popularization of didactic manuals depicting various troop dispositions and maneuvers inspired heavily by the study of mathematics and geometry. These trends were first introduced by Italian authors but soon gained a foothold in Central Europe thanks to the efforts of army reformers such as Lazarus Schwendi or Leonhart Fronsperger.26 Battle Plan from Ljubljana The battle plan from the Ljubljana Archdiocesan Archive is particularly valuable as a record from an era when practical military manuals were still a considerable novelty, and even such treatises as were produced at the time did not generally include realistic graphical representations of battle formations. At first glance, the document does not appear particularly impressive – a rather plain sketch on a rectangular sheet of paper measuring 42 × 58cm. Its content may be summarized as a simple diagram showing the disposition of a large army composed of various units. Each unit is represented by a rectangular block. Inside it, a brief caption specifies the type and number of troops included in its ranks. The bottom section of the document contains a calculation of the overall troop strength. The bulk of the army depicted on the plan is positioned in two main battle lines arranged in depth. Slightly ahead of the main force, completely exposed at the head of the formation, stands an isolated body of men acting as forlorn hope (“verloren hauffen”). Their number is not defined precisely, but one may

24 25

26

Jean de Bueil, Le Jouvencel, trans. Craig Taylor and Jane H. M. Taylor (Woodbridge, 2020). Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 242–92; Karlsruhe, Badische Landesbibliothek, Doc. Durlach 18, MRFH 10475; Erlangen, Universitätsbibliothek, MS.B 26; Philippe de Cleves, Instruction de toutes manières de guerroyer tant par terre que par mer (Paris, 1558). Taylor, The Art, pp. 156–79; Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 295–300; Eltis, The Military Revolution, pp. 61–63; Patrick Brugh, Gunpowder, Masculinity, and Warfare in German Texts 1400–1700 (Rochester, 2019).

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assume that it has been formed of hand-picked men and volunteers from the rest of the army. Behind them awaits the first battle line, by far the most powerful component of the army. It consists of 27,900 troops, infantry as well as cavalry, standing in a straight line with slightly upswept wings. Its center is made up of three units of heavily armored cavalry (“geruste pferd”), each with 1,500 men. Their immediate flanks are supported by two squadrons of mounted crossbowmen (“armprust/schutzen zu roß”), each 300 men strong. On both sides of this powerful center, two identically composed wings extend towards the flanks of the battle line. Each wing contains a body of 700 arquebusiers (“handschutzen”), a large infantry square of 4,000 pikemen (“landsknechte”), another 700-strong unit of arquebusiers, and a cavalry unit of 3,000 lightly armed hussars (“hussaren”). Interestingly, however, the security of the flanks is not entrusted solely to the massive wings of hussar cavalry. On each side, another pike square of 3,000 Landsknechte is thrown out obliquely at the extreme flanks slightly forward of the main line. The flanks are further reinforced with artillery. Its composition and numerical strength are nowhere specified in detail. Two pairs of field guns are depicted guarding each flank, the ones in the front converging their fire towards the center of the army while the two posted just behind the first line are shown aiming backwards, apparently to protect the army from an attack at the rear. Considering the sheer size of the army, it seems plausible that the schematically depicted guns do not represent individual artillery pieces but rather batteries of significant strength. The second battle line is much shorter, apparently acting as a reserve of 12,600 troops. Taken at face value, this formation is shifted somewhat to the right in relation to the first battle line. However, it seems likely that this was simply an oversight on the author’s part and that the second line was in fact centered symmetrically with the rest of the formation. The middle portion of the second line is also made up of cavalry. On the left, there is a body of 1,200 heavily armed men-at-arms commanded by the king himself (“Rex”). On the right, this unit is supported by 2,000 hussars, and further on each wing by 700 arquebusiers (“puxenschutzen”) and 4,000 Landsknechte. At the rear of the formation another body of men can be seen – 1,000 squires or horse attendants (“pferdebuben”). Their primary mission may have been to assist the cavalrymen with spare mounts, and presumably arms and other equipment. However, it seems equally conceivable that they were not solely support personnel but in fact combat troops serving in the role of lightly armed cavalry or coutilliers.27 Then there is yet one more vital element shown on both flanks and rear of the formation: a U-shaped wagon fort (“wagenburg”) safeguarding the army from any sudden enemy attack. 27

Cleves, Instructions, p. 78; Contamine, War, pp. 166–69; Clifford J. Rogers, “The Battle of Agincourt,” in The Hundred Years War (Part II); Different Vistas, eds. Andrew Villalon, Donald Kagay (Leiden, 2008), pp. 35–132, quotation at p. 62.



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The author of the diagram thought it necessary to equip the sketch with a table summarizing the number of troops per each service branch. Based on these figures, the overall strength of the army may be calculated at 41,500 men.28 The actual number of personnel would have been considerably larger still when one takes into account the artillerymen and other supporting troops not specified in writing. Unit type

Troop strength

heavy cavalry – men-at-arms

5,700

mounted crossbowmen

600

light cavalry – hussars

8,000

heavy infantry – Landsknechte

22,000

arquebusiers

4,20029

horse attendants

1000

Historical Context The Ljubljana battle plan contains no other information that would identify its author or date. The rather hasty strokes of the author’s quill suggest that the document was created on the spur of the moment, and it does not appear to have been intended for wider circulation. The discovery of the battle plan among Christopher Rauber’s records related to his involvement in the war against Venice provides obvious clues to its origin. Rauber’s Bellum Venetum, kept in the Archdiocesan Archive in Ljubljana, will no doubt prove a considerable treasure trove to future researchers willing to study it more systematically. At present, it has only been possible to make a cursory overview of the documents stored in two fascicles. The first (no. 29/1–4) covers the lengthy build-up to war in 1507 and the early years of the conflict up to 1510. The second (no. 30/1–7) encompasses documents dating from 1511 to the end of the war, as well as various records related to its aftermath up to 1530. The research carried out thus far has failed to uncover any particular evidence that would help explain the purpose and context of the battle plan, stored in the first fascicle. By and large, the records comprising Rauber’s Bellum Venetum range from Emperor Maximilian’s instructions, battlefield reports, and official correspondence between the high-ranking military and civilian officials to documents related more specifically to Christopher Rauber’s involvement in the war, mainly dealing with matters of logistics and finances.30 28 29 30

41,700 according to the author of the document, evidently led astray by yet another minor mathematical error. Due to the scribe’s error, the number of arquebusiers is specified as 4,000 in the summary, whereas their actual troop strength is 4,200 based on the unit size specified in the diagram. Julijana Visočnik, Škofijski arhiv Ljubljana. Inventar fonda ŠAL I, fasc. 1–51 (Ljubljana, 2012), pp. 167–68, 174–75; Lazar, Visočnik, “‘Bojno-taktični načrt’.”

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From the Slovenian perspective, the Habsburg confrontation with Venice during the years 1508–16 was an event of great historical importance. It was arguably the longest and most challenging war fought by Emperor Maximilian I. Though its outcome was to prove a terrible disappointment to the bellicose Habsburg ruler, the final peace settlement with Venice nevertheless exerted a surprisingly long-lasting impact on the Slovenian population in the region. With the long-disputed territory along the Isonzo finally united under Habsburg control, the western border of the Slovenian ethnic territory was consolidated for centuries to come. Despite all its political ramifications, Maximilian’s conflict with Venice has attracted relatively little attention in modern Central European historiography.31 Elsewhere, it is usually treated as a minor sideshow of the Italian Wars, though seldom in much depth and detail.32 In reality, Maximilian’s “Venetian War” was rooted in long-reaching disputes far predating the French invasion of Italy. The leading cause of the conflict was the Habsburg expansion towards the Adriatic, a persistent policy pursued by the rulers of the land-locked eastern Alpine dominions in the hope of gaining direct access to the sea. This strategy ran counter to the interests of the Venetian Republic, which itself viewed the Adriatic as its zone of influence, and also attempted to extend its possessions on the Terraferma towards the east by taking over the Patriarchate of Aquileia in 1420, as well as laying claim to the estates of the counts of Gorizia whose dynasty had died out in 1500. The political and economic rivalries were further exacerbated by Maximilian’s efforts to renew the glory of the Holy Roman Empire and once again establish firm control over north Italy.33 Seen in this light, an outbreak of hostilities between Habsburg Austria and the Venetian Republic was only a matter of time. The beginning of the Italian Wars, triggered by the great French invasion of 1494, set the stage for the bloodiest military showdown of its age, which would continue until 1559. Against the backdrop of a highly complex political situation in Italy, the French intervention triggered a clash of hitherto unseen proportions that would eventually embroil all major European powers. At first, the Habsburg dominions were able to escape the conflict. However, the tensions with Venice, not to mention the 31

32 33

Wiesflecker’s exhaustive monograph remains arguably the most complete study of the war from the Habsburg perspective: Hermann Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I. Der Kaiser und seine Umwelt. Hof, Staat, Wirtschaft, Gesellschaft und Kultur (München, 1981). In comparison, the Slovenian historiography has produced virtually no noteworthy original contribution on the subject, with the exception of a recent monograph on the Karst region: Miha Kosi, Spopad za prehode proti Jadranu in nastanek “dežele Kras.” Vojaška in politična zgodovina Krasa od 12. do 16. stoletja (Ljubljana, 2018). Cf. Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars. Cf. Peter Štih, Vasko Simoniti, Peter Vodopivec, Slovenska zgodovina. Družba - politika - kultura (Ljubljana, 2009), p. 129; Hermann Wiesflecker, “Kaiser Maximilian I. Seine Persönlichkeit und Politik,” in Ausstellung Maximilian I., ed. Erich Egg (Innsbruck, 1969), pp. 24–28; Alois Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte 1400–1522 (Wien, 1996), pp. 367–73; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, p. 4.



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danger posed by the Habsburgs’ increasingly dangerous arch-rival France, put Maximilian on a collision course with his enemies.34 By 1507, Maximilian was openly preparing for war. For several years, his officials had been recording detailed inventories of arsenals and arms caches throughout the Habsburg dominions. Military organization in the eastern Alps was experiencing a period of rapid reforms. Maximilian was determined to extend the grasp of imperial power over Italy once again. To achieve that goal, he intended to start with a symbolic step – ceremonial coronation in Rome at the hands of the pope.35 Unfortunately, the plan was doomed to failure due to the obstinate Venetian refusal to grant Maximilian free passage through the territory of the Republic. Improving relations between France and Venice threatened to weaken the Habsburg position even further. Maximilian tried his best to mobilize all the available resources for a decisive military solution. However, his subjects did not share his enthusiasm for a major armed conflict. The financial support and manpower contributed by the lands of the Holy Roman Empire proved woefully inadequate. After months of planning, Maximilian I was able to raise a force of only 4,000 cavalry and 3,000 infantry gathered in the Tyrol by the beginning of February 1508.36 Maximilian’s miniature army was obviously incapable of dealing with the much stronger Venetian and French forces mobilizing on the other side of the border. Facing an impossible situation, Maximilian attempted a desperate gamble. In breach of the traditional protocol, he had himself elected emperor of the Holy Roman Empire in Trento. On the same day, on 4 February 1508, Maximilian declared war on Venice. This foolhardy move did much to cement Maximilian’s reputation as a man of poor judgement and fickle character.37 At the height of winter, his bold thrust through the Alps ended in disaster. The main Habsburg force sent to invade Cadore was annihilated in an ambush. Aided by 34 35

36

37

Ibid., pp. 27–34, 39–41, 47–53. BSB, Cod.icon. 222; Wendelin Boeheim, “Die Zeugbücher des Kaisers Maximilian I,” Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des Allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses 13/1 (1892), pp. 94–201; idem, “Die Zeugbücher des Kaisers Maximilian I,” Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des Allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses 15/1 (1894), pp. 295–391; Tomaž Lazar, “The Slovenian Lands as the Armed Frontier of the Holy Roman Empire,” Fasciculi archaeologiae historicae 30 (2017), 59–72; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, pp. 24–25; idem, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 1–2; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, pp. 368–69. Eduard Heyck, Kaiser Maximilian I. (Bielefeld, Leipzig, 1898), p. 92; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, pp. 24–28; Buck, “‘Des Heiligen Reichs und Deutscher Nation Nothdurft und Obliegen.’ Der Konstanzer Reichstag von 1507 und die europäische Politik,” Schriften des Vereins für Geschichte des Bodensees 126 (2008), 14–15; Marija Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi kranjskih deželnih stanov 1. 1499–1515 (Ljubljana, 1980), nos. 13, 14; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I, pp. 1–3; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 85–86. Cf. Primož Simoniti, “Postojnski grad v letu 1508 in Maksimiljan I. z vzdevkom ‘Leviades’,” Zgodovinski časopis 64/1–2 (2010), pp. 121–26.

Map 1  The operational theater during Maximilian I’s confrontation with Venice, 1508–16 (Drawn by Polonca Strman)



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French reinforcements, the Venetians responded with a swift counterattack that took the defenders by surprise. In April and May, Venetian troops pushed deep into the Habsburg-held dominions in Carniola and Istria, forcing Maximilian to sign a humiliating truce on 6 June.38 The overwhelming Venetian victory inspired resentment among the Republic’s allies and enemies alike, leading to the creation of the Holy League of Cambrai, formed on 10 December 1508. The new alliance, officially aimed against the Ottomans but secretly intended to curtail the power of Venice, united the interests of France, Spain, the Papal States, and the Holy Roman Empire. By far the strongest partner in this alliance was France, which also bore the brunt of the fighting in the spring offensive of 1509. On 14 May 1509, the French army crushed the Venetians at Agnadello, leaving the Republic almost defenseless for some time. This gave Emperor Maximilian a chance to recover the recently lost territories and seize Venetian possessions on the Terraferma.39 Plagued by a lack of resources and manpower, the Habsburg armies were too slow to fully exploit the opportunity. A force of 1,500 cavalry and 10,000 infantry was sent on a three-pronged invasion into the Adige, Valsugane, and Cadore valleys. Maximilian was able to recover almost the whole of Friuli, as well as Verona and Padua. However, the Venetian Republic soon organized stiff resistance and regained Padua on 17 July, ultimately mustering an army of 15,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry to hold the strategically important city at all costs.40 Padua became the focal point of the conflict. Maximilian did his best to raise perhaps the largest and best-equipped army in his lifetime, numbering as many as 60,000 troops in total including various allied contingents and support personnel. Due to logistic and financial constraints, this figure soon dropped to somewhere between 15,000 to 20,000 combatants, including 4,000 French troops, supported by a very powerful artillery train. The battle for Padua became known as the largest siege operation of its era. The fighting was fierce but, within a few weeks, the lack of resources and an outbreak of disease persuaded Maximilian to give up the offensive.41 38

39 40

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Heyck, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 92–93; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, pp. 25–28; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 1–20; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, pp. 368–70; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 85–87; Michael E. Mallet and John R. Hale, The Military Organization of a Renaissance State. Venice c. 1400 to 1617 (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 63–64; Joseph Chmel, Urkunden, Briefe und Actenstücke zur Geschichte Maximilians I. und seiner Zeit (Stuttgart, 1845), nos. CCXXI, CCXXIII, CCXXV; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 15, 16, 17, 18. Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 20–47; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, pp. 370–71; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 87–91. David Schönherr, Der Krieg Kaiser Maximilians I. mit Venedig 1509 (Wien, 1876), pp. 33–46; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 24, 25; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, p. 25; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 51–55; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, p. 371; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 91–94. Schönherr, Der Krieg, pp. 46–61; Taylor, The Art, pp. 93–96, 139–43; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 55–60; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 94–95.

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The strategic stalemate set the pattern for the seven years of destructive warfare that followed. The Habsburg confrontation with Venice was fought over a long front from Istria and the Isonzo river in the east across Tyrol and Friuli to the plains of Veneto and Lombardy. The eastern section of the front was ravaged by nearly permanent warfare, most commonly in the shape of inherently indecisive (though highly destructive) low-intensity raids, but occasionally escalating to large-scale campaigns involving sizeable forces.42 As the conflict progressed, neither side was able to achieve a decisive breakthrough. Luck often changed, as did the short-lived political alliances. In May 1510, the combined French and Habsburg forces launched a major offensive, winning a string of victories before losing momentum. Maximilian’s constant reliance on stronger allies made his strategic position increasingly untenable. Another large-scale Habsburg offensive in the autumn of 1511 secured important gains in Friuli, but once again Maximilian was unable to translate success into a lasting victory when faced with a Venetian counterattack.43 For some time France continued to dominate the Italians’ battlefields, winning a Pyrrhic victory at Ravenna in April 1512. However, the overall balance of power shifted in favor of the anti-French coalition orchestrated by pope Julius II, Spain, England, Venice, and the Swiss Confederacy. Disillusioned by the current political reality, Maximilian finally broke his alliance with France and joined the new Holy League, even at the cost of a temporary alliance with Venice. This uneasy arrangement did not last long. Within months, the French were driven out from Italy, and the Holy League collapsed. Maximilian joined forces with Spain, England, the Swiss Confederacy, and the Papal State against the Franco-Venetian alliance. The new phase of the war in 1513 was marked by heavy fighting in Lombardy as well as in Flanders; the anti-French coalition was victorious in both theaters of war but failed to achieve a decisive outcome.44 In the early months of 1514, Maximilian attempted another invasion of Friuli. The offensive thrust started well, pushing all the way to the Tagliamento, but then bogged down in the face of vastly superior Venetian reinforcements numbering up to 15,000 men. Once again, the Venetian counterattack regained the lost ground and the Habsburg forces were barely able to hold on to Gorizia. At the same time, French diplomacy skillfully shattered the enemy coalition. Together with Spain, Maximilian was manipulated into signing a separate peace 42

43

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Schönherr, Der Krieg, pp. 47–61; Taylor, The Art, pp. 139–43; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 59–60; Chmel, Urkunden, nos. CCXXXV, CCXXXVI; Theodor G. Karajan, Fontes rerum Austriacarum. Österreichische Geschichts-Quellen 1. Scriptores 1 (Wien 1855), pp.72–76. Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, pp. 25–26; Idem, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 64–75, 84–89; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, p. 372; Gerhard Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I. und das Kriegswesen der österreichischen Länder und des Reiches (Wien, 1985), pp. 23–24; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 101–03. Heyck, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 94–96; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, no. 41; Taylor, The Art, pp. 119–22; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, pp. 26–27; Idem, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 96–140; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 101–24.



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treaty with France in March, and Venice a month later, leaving England to fight the war alone.45 The accession of Francis I to the throne of France rekindled the power struggle for control over Lombardy. The young monarch raised an unprecedented invasion army and, with the assistance of Venetian reinforcements, crushed the isolated Swiss at Marignano in September 1515. Maximilian had nominally joined the anti-French coalition, but the strength of his army and finances had been depleted by that stage. The Habsburg emperor was powerless to prevent Lombardy from falling into enemy hands, retaining control only over the beleaguered fortress of Verona. Abandoned by virtually all his former allies, he tried to reverse the situation for the last time. In March 1516, Maximilian assembled an army of 4,000 cavalry and 10,000 Landsknechte supported by strong artillery, linking up with a force of 15,000 Swiss in a futile attempt to seize Milan. The offensive ran out of steam almost immediately due to poor leadership and Maximilian’s inability to pay his troops.46 The war of attrition had taken a heavy toll on all sides. Neither Emperor Maximilian nor the Republic of Venice could realistically expect to win the conflict by force of arms, nor could they afford a further continuation of hostilities. A peace treaty was finally brokered by Maximilian’s grandson Charles of Spain in December 1516. The aging emperor was forced to cede Lombardy, including Verona, and the majority of Friuli in return for monetary compensation as well as minor territorial gains in Tyrol and along the Isonzo river.47 The Slovenian Perspective and the Role of Christopher Rauber At the turn of the sixteenth century, the majority of the Slovenian ethnic territory was divided into several provinces or territorial units under Habsburg rule: Carniola, Carinthia, Styria, Istria, and the County of Gorizia. These geopolitical entities, already exhausted by decades of fighting against Ottoman and Hungarian incursions, were ill-prepared to deal with the full consequences of yet another military adventure that followed in the years 1508–16. The western part of the Slovenian lands became an active battleground in the struggle against Venice. The local population was directly exposed to the horrors of war, which brought great suffering and economic devastation. Frustrated by their lack of success on the battlefield, both sides deliberately targeted civilians and resorted to a systematic destruction of crops and property. Even the areas untouched by actual fighting were hard-pressed to contribute troops and enormous funds to support the war effort. 45 46

47

Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 140–50; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, p. 372; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 124–26. Heyck, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 96–97; Taylor, The Art, pp. 123–25; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, p. 27; Idem, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 150–53, 235–47; Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 89–92; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 126–34. Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 251–58; Mallet, Hale, pp. 221–24; cf. Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 185–90.

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The eastern part of the front along the western fringes of the Slovenian ethnic territory in Carniola, Istria, and the County of Gorizia arguably played the most prominent strategic role during the first two years of the war. In spring 1508, and once again during the summer offensive of 1509, the Slovenian lands supplied thousands of troops and large financial contributions for extensive operations against the Venetians.48 Maximilian entrusted the overall command over his eastern wing to Duke Erich of Braunschweig (1470–1540), an experienced – if somewhat untalented – professional soldier and loyal friend. However, the actual organization of forces and logistic supply was left mainly to a few prominent members of the Carniolan aristocracy: Bishop Christopher Rauber, provincial captain49 Hans Auersperg and vicedomus50 Georg Egk.51 Bishop Rauber was primarily tasked with the overseeing of logistics and securing the funds needed for the upkeep of troops. He played a key role in securing the vulnerable border during the Venetian counterattack in 1508, and perhaps even more so in the heavy fighting during spring and summer 1509 across the Karst and Istria. Rauber actively participated in the latter campaigns as one of the field commanders.52 Carniolan, Carinthian, and Styrian troops were mobilized on a large scale again in spring 1510, but their main offensive thrust against Gradisca failed.53 The strategic situation was becoming increasingly desperate, exacerbated by a powerful earthquake on 26 March 1511, as well as constant Ottoman raids.54 Hoping to take advantage of the French victories in the west, Bishop Rauber mustered Carniolan troops and led the provincial army into Friuli in September 1511. This was arguably Rauber’s most important combat assignment in the war, but also the last major opportunity to lead troops in the field. Rauber’s offensive initially took the enemy by surprise, capturing the vital border fortress of Gradisca. However, the Venetian counterattack in November drastically reversed

48 49 50 51 52

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Karajan, FRA 1/1, p. 73; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 51–55; Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 181–83. German Landeshauptmann. German Vizedom, Latin vicedominus, provincial deputy. Chmel, Urkunden, no. CCXXIII; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18; Simoniti, Postojnski grad. NŠAL, ŠAL 1, Fasc. 29/3, 1509 May 16, s. l., Maximilian I’s letter to Christopher Rauber; 1509 June 6, Sterzingen, Maximilian I’s letter to Christopher Rauber; 1509 June 12, Trento, Maximilian I’s letter to Christopher Rauber and Georg Egk; 1509 September 9, Padua, Maximilian I’s letter to Christopher Rauber; 1509 November 7, s. l., Georg Schnitzenpaumer and Nicholas Rauber’s report on the situation in Trieste; 1509 November 11, Rovereto, Maximilian I’s letter to Christopher Rauber; Chmel, Urkunden, nos. CCXXXV, CCXXXVI; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, no. 24; Karajan, FRA 1/1, pp. 72–76; Schönherr, Der Krieg, pp. 47–49. Chmel, Urkunden, no. CCXXXIX; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 25, 27, 29, 31, 38; Karajan, FRA 1/1, pp. 76–79. Cf. Simoniti, Postojnski grad, pp. 130–32; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 32, 33, 34, 38, 41, 46.



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the balance of power. Carniolan and Carinthian troops were barely able to hold on to Gradisca while heavy fighting continued until spring 1512.55 By then, the Slovenian lands were economically exhausted by the long war. Carniola once again bore a disproportionate burden in supporting the major Habsburg offensive in summer 1513, which culminated in a hard-fought defense of Marano on the Adriatic coast. The mounting pressure of Venetian reinforcements persuaded Maximilian to take drastic measures – even imposing a mass levy on Carniola, which was required to provide every tenth man from the pool of available conscripts. While Carniolan and Styrian troops saved Marano from falling into enemy hands, the excessive burden of the campaign could no longer be sustained.56 In May 1515, the Slovenian peasantry rebelled in a great uprising, which for a time overshadowed the Venetian threat. The uprising was soon quelled by force, but the devastated Slovenian lands were no longer a viable source of manpower and funding for Maximilian’s military campaigns. The end of fighting in 1516 finally brought much-needed relief, even though the ravaged territory required many years to fully recover from the war.57 Analysis of the Battle Plan This brief overview may explain at least to some degree the complex historical context in which the battle plan from Ljubljana was originally conceived. The early years of the sixteenth century were a time of major innovation in European warfare, though the process of “military revolution” had arguably started some two hundred years earlier with the gradual shift from a cavalry-based tactical model toward predominantly infantry armies and steady integration of gunpowder weapons.58 During the early decades of the Italian Wars, the process of military modernization was already well underway. Nevertheless, most European armies of the era were still quite diverse, combining the latest in technology with many older, tried-and-true elements deeply rooted in the medieval tradition. The Habsburg military machine was no exception. Its tactics and strategy had been shaped by recent conflicts with the French, Swiss, Hungarians, and Ottomans, as well as the more distant but still deeply influential experience of the Hussite Wars. 55 56

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Chmel, Urkunden, no. CCXL; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 47, 48. NŠAL, ŠAL 1, Fasc. 30/3, 1513 November 10, Gorizia, List of Habsburg troops in Gorizia and Gradisca; Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 49, 50, 51, 53, 55, 57, 59, 60, 62, 64, 65, 67, 69, 72, 73, 82, 83, 84, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 95, 98; Karajan, FRA 1/1, pp. 79–81. Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi 1, nos. 108, 111, 112, 115, 119, 121, 124, 126; Marija Verbič, Deželnozborski spisi kranjskih deželnih stanov 2. 1516–1519 (Ljubljana, 1986), nos. 133, 134, 136, 137. Keen, Medieval Warfare, pp. 142–44, 202–03; Contamine, War, pp. 230–31, 255–59; Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 221–38; DeVries, Infantry Warfare, pp. 86–99; Strickland, Hardy, The Great Warbow, pp. 178–79, 182–265; Clifford J. Rogers, The Military Revolution Debate: Readings on the Military Transformation of Early Modern Europe (Boulder, 1995).

Figure 3  Diagram of the battle formation on the Ljubljana plan (Drawing by Polonca Strman)



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While boasting some of the most advanced artillery of the day and excellent Landsknechte infantry, the Habsburg military organization remained conservative, relying to a large extent on feudal obligations and heavily armored cavalry as its dominant arm.59 Army Size and Unit Composition A thorough analysis of the Ljubljana battle plan reveals several interesting details that help pinpoint its origin. The depicted army consists not merely of generic units but rather of typically Central European troop types. Apart from the Habsburg Empire at the beginning of the sixteenth century, no other power of the period would have been likely to combine such specific elements as the Hungarian-style hussar cavalry and south German Landsknechte infantry, assembled behind a protective screen of wagons in conscious imitation of the Hussite Wagenburg tactics. The size of the depicted fighting force seems unusually imposing. An army of over 40,000 combatants would have been considered extremely large by early sixteenth-century standards, likely surpassing the actual capabilities of even the greatest European powers. Charles VIII’s force that invaded Italy in 1494 numbered barely 11,000 men. Even in later years, the French armies battling at Milan (1499), Agnadello (1509), and Ravenna (1512) never exceeded 30,000 troops, and most other engagements involved much smaller forces.60 The number of troops theoretically at the disposal of the most powerful European monarchs would have been much higher – the overall strength of France during the 1420s was estimated at 100,000 men-at-arms, and the “German” lands of the Holy Roman Empire were supposedly able to muster 60,000.61 However, due to logistical limitations and the lack of sufficiently developed infrastructure, no medieval commander was able to concentrate even a fraction of these numbers for any length of time.62 During the first half of the sixteenth century, a fighting force of 20 to 25,000 men would have been considered very large. Even as late as the Thirty Years’ War, armies seldom exceeded 40,000 combatants.63 59

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Taylor, The Art, pp. 31–34, 37–38; Contamine, War, pp. 137–50, 200–07; Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 63–74, 77–79, 92–96; Eltis, The Military Revolution, pp. 6–44, 76–98; DeVries, Infantry Warfare, pp. 129–36; Bert S. Hall, Weapons & Warfare in Renaissance Europe (Baltimore, 1997), pp. 36–37, 67–104, 172–76, 201–35; Verbruggen, The Art, pp. 112–15, 148; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 4, 177–85, 191–93. Taylor, The Art, pp. 180–215; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 22, 28–30, 47–48. Dana Carleton Munro et al., Statistical Documents of the Middle Ages. Original Sources of European History 3/2 (Philadelphia, 1907), pp. 13–18. John Haldon et al., “Marching Across Anatolia. Medieval Logistics and Modeling the Mantzikert Campaign,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65/66 (2011–12), pp. 209–35. Cf. Tomaž Lazar, “The Military Campaign of Duke Henry of Carinthia Against Cangrande della Scala, Summer of 1324,” Vojaška zgodovina 10/1 (2009), 83–105; Lazar, Vitezi, pp. 71–96. Eltis, The Military Revolution, pp. 27–28, 207–10, 216–34; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 205–11.

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It seems highly doubtful whether any European power would have been in a position to field an army described in the battle plan from Ljubljana.64 However, that does not necessarily mean that we are dealing with the ramblings of a dilettante. After all, a contemporary as experienced in military matters as Philip of Cleves had set out to propose a theoretical model of an ideal army consisting of no fewer than 50,000 infantry and 10,000 cavalry.65 While such figures were too optimistic considering the practical realities of the era, they nevertheless represented an ideal that did not seem beyond the grasp of ambitious monarchs. Even during the great Venetian War, Maximilian I himself had planned far-flung campaigns involving vast numbers of troops strikingly reminiscent of the Ljubljana plan. In late 1507 he was drawing up plans for the ultimate showdown with France and Venice simultaneously, involving a defense line along the Isonzo, a two-pronged strike towards Milan and Cadore, as well as an additional push through Sundgau into Burgundy and Savoy.66 This was obviously a fantasy, but even a humiliating string of defeats in the first year of the war could not dissuade Maximilian I from planning a spring offensive in 1510 involving as many as 40,000 infantry and 10,000 cavalry raised in the Habsburg dominions. Moreover, in 1512 the ambitious emperor was still dreaming of creating a standing imperial army 50,000 strong.67 In sharp contrast with lofty plans, the Habsburg operational forces raised during the war rarely exceeded 10,000 combatants.68 Even so, the figures proposed on the Ljubljana plan would not have been entirely unimaginable. After all, Maximilian I did find himself at the head of a truly gigantic army at least once, during the opening stages of the siege of Padua in 1509 when the coalition forces nominally under his command numbered at least 40,000, possibly as many as 60,000 men at the absolute peak.69 The composition of the army on the Ljubljana plan brings up various interesting points. The proportion of cavalry – mounted men-at-arms, hussars, and mounted crossbowmen – amounts to 14,300 men in total, or nearly 35% of the overall troop strength. This percentage seems very high by early sixteenth-­ century standards, especially when taking into account the increasingly prominent role of infantry in late-medieval warfare. In that sense, the reliance on

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65 66 67 68

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Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 41–49; Hall, Weapons, p. 122; Contamine, War, pp. 136–37; Vasko Simoniti, Vojaška organizacija na Slovenskem v 16. stoletju (Ljubljana, 1991), p. 30 ff. Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 246–51, 290–91. Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 3–4; Buck, “‘Des Heiligen Reichs’,” pp. 14–16; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 85–86. Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 24–25. Karajan, FRA 1/1, p. 73; Schönherr, Der Krieg, pp. 33–38; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, p. 25; Idem, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 51–55; Niederstätter, Österreichische Geschichte, p. 371; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 91–93. Schönherr, Der Krieg, pp. 46–49, 54–55; Taylor, The Art, pp. 93–96, 139–43; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 55–60; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 94–95.



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cavalry as the main arm may appear quite old-fashioned, reminiscent of older chivalric traditions, but it would not have been entirely out of place. Some two centuries after the beginning of the “infantry revolution”, the experience of the Italian Wars once again highlighted the capabilities of heavily armored cavalry. Especially during the early stages of the conflict, France was able to exploit its superiority in men-at-arms to significant effect. By the mid-sixteenth century, the proportion of heavy cavalry on the Italian battlefields steadily decreased to approximately 10% of the overall army strength. However, it continued to maintain its reputation as the decisive “armored fist” of the period.70 The situation in the Habsburg provinces was even more conducive to raising cavalry as opposed to other troop types. The existing military organization was in many ways still quite conservative, even archaic, but its feudal roots nevertheless provided a steady and cost-effective supply of heavy cavalry. This was not quite a match for the famed French gendarmes, but it was mostly sufficient for the tasks at hand.71 In any case, the 5,700 mounted men-at-arms represent only a smaller portion of cavalry forces in the Ljubljana plan. In sheer numbers, they are clearly overshadowed by light cavalry consisting of 8,000 hussars and 600 mounted crossbowmen. The massive presence of hussars is a clear indication of the contemporary shift towards the increased tactical relevance of light cavalry. Lightly armed horsemen based on the Hungarian or Balkan model – itself influenced by the Ottoman cavalry – were already well integrated into Central European warfare by the final decades of the fifteenth century, and Venice followed suit by recruiting Albanian stradiots in large numbers.72 Hussar cavalry could fulfil a wide variety of combat roles. By contrast, mounted crossbowmen were specialist troops, in this case evidently expected to accompany the heavily armed men-at-arms during their charge and provide flanking security. Crossbows were retained in this particular application even after their disappearance from front-line infantry use as the matchlock arquebus was comparatively unwieldy for mounted use. Still, gunpowder weapons began to supplant the crossbow in the light cavalry role as well. Mounted hand gunners in Venetian service were able to score notable victories against their Habsburg adversaries during the 1510 campaign in Friuli, and over the next few decades increasingly sophisticated wheellock firearms became generally accepted in cavalry service.73 The structure of infantry units on the Ljubljana plan corresponds closely to the early sixteenth-century Central European standards. Their backbone consists of 22,000 Landsknechte, who would have fought primarily as pikemen with 70 71 72 73

Taylor, The Art, pp. 61–69; Hall, Weapons, pp. 185–86, 188–200; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, p. 176. Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 97–121. Contamine, War, pp. 128–29; Hall, Weapons, pp. 72–75; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 180–81. Taylor, The Art, p. 35; Hall, Weapons, p. 71.

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a smaller proportion of halberdiers and other troops. They stand arranged in squares of three to four thousand strong, hinting at the later development of pike-and-shot tactics.74 In comparison, the number of arquebusiers providing vital fire support is fairly low – 4,200 men, approximately 10% of total troop strength. This percentage is quite typical of the early sixteenth-century armies recruited in the Holy Roman Empire, but notably lower than was the norm among the most advanced Western forces. At the time, “German” (more accurately Central European) infantry was considered somewhat technologically backward, and their supposed lack of skill in the use of the arquebus was occasionally mocked by their Italian adversaries.75 Maximilian I sought actively to address this issue, gradually increasing the proportion of arquebusiers as well as improving the quality of their arms and training. By the 1530s the new tactical model embodied by the Spanish tercios stipulated the use of infantry formations containing one third of arquebusiers and musketeers, but over the years this ratio grew even further and generally reached about 50% by the turn of the seventeenth century.76 No information is provided in the plan on the strength and armament of the artillery. In fact, the artillery crews and supporting staff are not even included in the personnel list. That does not in any way imply that the artillery was seen as an inferior or less relevant arm but rather the contrary – that it represented an elite caste composed of specialists that enjoyed a rather privileged status. At the end of the Middle Ages, master artillerymen were still perceived as members of a unique class distinct from professional soldiers, hence their formal exclusion from the general rank and file.77 Tactical disposition At first glance, the Ljubljana plan appears to show a static situation. However, a closer look at the disposition of troops reveals several clues as to how the formation was intended to function in contact with the enemy. Any such analysis must begin with the Wagenburg, the single most important element determining the scope of actions available to the commander. 74 75

76 77

Taylor, The Art, pp. 29–38; Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 231–36; Eltis, The Military Revolution, pp. 48–53; Hall, Weapons, pp. 172–76, 225–26. Boeheim, Die Zeugbücher 1, pp. 109–99; Boeheim, Die Zeugbücher 2; Taylor, The Art, pp. 41–58; Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 125–38; Hall, Weapons, pp. 172–76; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 179–80. Hall, Weapons, pp. 178–79, 184; Eltis, The Military Revolution, p. 44. Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 123–24, 150; Hall, Weapons, pp. 87–100; Robert D. Smith, “The Technology of Wrought-Iron Artillery,” Royal Armouries Yearbook 5 (2000), 68–79; idem, “All Manner of Peeces. Artillery in the Late Medieval Period,” Royal Armouries Yearbook 7 (2002), pp. 130–38; Robert D. Smith and Kelly DeVries, The Artillery of the Dukes of Burgundy 1363–1477 (Woodbridge, 2005), pp. 10–54, 316–18; Tomaž Lazar, Late-Medieval Artillery in Slovenia. A Study of Two Early Artillery Pieces from the Regional Museum Ptuj - Ormož (Ljubljana, 2015), pp. 130–77; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, p. 187.



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Surrounding the battle formation with a solid line of wagons on three sides would have provided security from any sudden attack to the flanks or rear of the army. At the same time, it also severely restricted its mobility, only permitting movement towards the front. The wagon fort had become a staple of Central European tactics since its highly successful employment during the Hussite Wars. In his treatise, initially composed in 1502–06 and finished in 1516, Philip of Cleves still considered it indispensable for protecting an army’s flanks either on the march or in a pitched battle.78 It was also a tactical method well familiar to Maximilian I, who had used it in his youth to win a major victory at Guinegate in 1479. Even during the preparations for war against Venice, the Habsburg army deliberately planned the use of improvised field defenses and Wagenburg forts as a means of resisting an eventual Venetian counterattack.79 While the battle formation depicted on the Ljubljana plan may seem purely defensive, nothing could be further from the truth. The open front, undefended by wagons, is clearly inviting the enemy to deliver a direct assault. However, any attempt at frontal attack is going to be disrupted first by the forlorn hope, a body of troops sent to stall the enemy with skirmishing or even a risky counterattack of their own. A similar tactic was recommended by Phillip of Seldeneck, though in his view it was a mission best carried out by mounted hand gunners posted on the left wing rather than center of the army. Another close parallel may be found in Cleves’ work, which describes a more or less identical deployment of skirmishers in open order ahead of the main formation. It is further worth noting that the original treatise apparently included schematic drawings of troops in battle order, though none have survived in the later editions. These analogies may well reflect the influence of Cleves’ text on the author of the Ljubljana plan. In any case, Cleves was himself a high-ranking officer in Maximilian’s army and therefore drew on similar experience from the military engagements fought during the later years of the fifteenth century.80 The forlorn hope would not have been strong enough to resist the adversary for long. At best, their attack could hope to disrupt the enemy formation, further compounded by an artillery barrage. Medieval commanders tended to assemble their field artillery in line along the front, where it could support the army only briefly before the physical clash of the opposing troops in a mêlée.81 The Ljubljana plan avoids this problem by concentrating the artillery on both wings in order to provide support against the enemy center throughout the duration of 78 79

80

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Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 286–90. Fudge, The Crusade, nos. 13, 14, 21, 48, 96; Joseph Chmel, Materialien zur österreichischen Geschichte 1/2 (Graz, 1971), no. LXXXIX; Wiesflecker, Kaiser … Seine Persönlichkeit, p. 6; Chmel, Urkunden, no. CCXXI; Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., p. 79. Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, p. 260; Cleves, Instructions, p. 77; Philippe Contamine, “L’art de la guerre selon Philippe de Clèves, seigneur Ravenstein (1456–1528): innovation ou tradition?,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 95 (1980), 363–77, quotation at p. 370. Taylor, The Art, pp. 99–101; Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, p. 248.

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the battle. In theory, the front half of the artillery batteries is ready to enfilade the approaching enemy along two converging arcs of fire, thus creating a “kill zone” directly ahead of the army. The remaining half of the field artillery is positioned a short distance behind the front line and directed backwards, clearly in an attempt to prevent the enemy from maneuvering towards the flanks or rear of the formation. Due to the practical limitations of smoothbore artillery firing solid stone or iron shot, the barrage would only have been effective at a relatively short range – perhaps a kilometer at most against massed targets, becoming truly destructive only at about half that distance. At close range, perhaps 100 metres or less, the lethality of artillery fire would have increased exponentially with the use of grapeshot.82 At this stage, the front ranks of arquebusiers, and to a lesser extent mounted crossbowmen, would also have been able to provide effective support, possibly inflicting heavy casualties on the attacking enemy. This tactical approach seems to mirror very closely the advice written down by Philip of Cleves. In both cases, the proposed battle formation is protected by a wagon fort, spearheaded by a forlorn hope, and supported by artillery concentrated on the wings.83 However, a crucial difference appears in the structure of the first battle line. Throughout the pre-industrial era, the front center of any primarily defensive battle formation consisted of infantry – usually heavy infantry armed and trained to withstand the shock of an incoming charge, a task that mounted combatants in a static line could never hope to accomplish. By contrast, cavalry as a purely offensive arm was generally positioned on the wings, where it could maneuver freely, or behind the protective screen of infantry when held in reserve. These basic tenets were generally followed even by such radical late-medieval innovators as the Burgundian duke Charles the Bold.84 In the Ljubljana plan, however, the center of the first battle line consists of mounted men-at-arms in three large units, each with 1,500 horsemen. This proves that the proposed battle formation was essentially offensive, aimed at provoking the enemy into a frontal attack, which was to be met with a decisive cavalry countercharge. Even if the latter failed, the commander might still have been able to reverse the situation by leading another charge at the head of the second-line reserve. Throughout the engagement, the men-at-arms could rely on attendants poised to bring up fresh remounts and spare equipment.85 The success of the plan, therefore, depended mainly on the mounted men-atarms in the center, even though the rest of the army was still in a position to perform various useful services – the hussar cavalry on the wings would have been well positioned to flank, envelop, or pursue the enemy and the small 82 83 84 85

Contamine, War, pp. 198–200; Taylor, The Art, p. 101; Hall, Weapons, pp. 152–53. Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 286–90. Taylor, The Art, pp. 108–10; Contamine, War, pp. 229–37. Cf. Louis E. Nolan, Cavalry. Its History and Tactics, ed. Jon Coulston (Yardley, 2007). Cf. Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 248, 257.



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detachments of mounted crossbowmen could have contributed valuable assistance to the charging men-at-arms while the Landsknechte and arquebusiers either maintained a solid defensive line or advanced in close order to engage the enemy themselves. If this interpretation of the plan is correct, its underlying tactical approach seems rather unusual by contemporary standards. The Wagenburg tactic was generally a defensive method preferred by infantry-based armies. It would seem much less suitable for a force relying mostly on mounted men-at-arms. Conceptually, the arrangement of troops in two consecutive waves with heavy cavalry used as the central shock arm is reminiscent of much earlier battle tactics revolving around the mounted knight.86 Some observations may be drawn comparing the Ljubljana plan to the surviving Central European military manuals written in roughly the same period. Philip of Seldeneck proposed a similar composition of forces: a forlorn hope in the van of two consecutive battle lines, the second acting as a reserve and led personally by the commander. However, here the similarities end – in imitation of the Swiss, Seldeneck recommended the use of an asymmetrical infantry formation composed of pikemen and halberdiers supported by hand gunners and crossbowmen concentrated mostly on the left flank. This was the core of the army expected to decide the battle with a rapid frontal assault. Conversely, cavalry was reduced to a secondary role, arranged on both wings for a flanking attack or pursuit of the defeated enemy.87 Even closer parallels may be found in the writing of Philip of Cleves, who suggested the use of wagon forts on the flanks supported by artillery and amassing the most powerful elements of the army in the center to launch an all-out charge against the enemy. He also recommended placing a line of wagons in the rear of the formation to strengthen the resolve of troops by securing their back and preventing desertion. However, Philip’s troop dispositions in all cases rely primarily on infantry in the center or left of the main line, with missile troops on the flanks and cavalry concentrated on the right wing.88 It is a well-known military tenet that no plan survives the initial contact with the enemy intact. How effectively the tactical disposition depicted on the Ljubljana plan would have worked on the contemporary battlefield is a difficult question that cannot be answered solely by theoretical models. Perhaps more relevant in this regard would be a comparative analysis of actual military engagements fought during the period. At least four major battles at the peak of the Italian Wars followed a similar course or at least incorporated the same essential elements as depicted on the Ljubljana plan: Ravenna (1512), Marignano (1515), Bicocca (1522), and Pavia (1525). All of these examples share a common trait – in each instance, one of the opposing sides chose to enclose itself in a fortified camp while the enemy 86 87 88

Contamine, War, pp. 229–30; Verbruggen, The Art, pp. 87, 209–11, 217–21. Schmidtchen, Kriegswesen, pp. 246–51, 254, 258, 260–62. Ibid., pp. 286–90.

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Figure 4  A realistic contemporary depiction of field fortifications from Eyb’s Kriegsbuch dated c.1500 (UER, MS.B 26, fol. 62r)

attempted to destroy it by a forceful assault. Sometimes this was the result of a conscious decision, usually to compensate for the enemy superiority in numbers, though in other cases it may have been a more spontaneous development in a fluid tactical situation.89 Perhaps the best example of the latter is the battle of Pavia on 24 February 1525. The French army, which had been besieging the city for some time, was encamped in a strong defensive position secured by additional field defenses. However, the sudden arrival of sizeable Habsburg reinforcements persuaded the French to respond with an all-out cavalry charge. This was successful initially as the heavily armored gendarmes triumphed over their inferior Habsburg counterparts. However, once out of the entrenchments, the advancing French cavalry masked the fire of their artillery and arquebusiers, depriving itself of effective support and falling victim to a counterattack launched by the enemy infantry.90 The battle plan from Ljubljana could have led to a similar debacle. It also entailed the potential risk of overestimating the defensive strengths of field fortifications. While the Wagenburg was responsible for a long string of victories against the odds, the concept was not without serious shortcomings. In

89 90

Cf. Taylor, The Art, pp. 78–80, 101. Taylor, The Art, pp. 79–80, 150–52; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 150–52, 177, 179, 211.



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particular, a static defensive formation, even if relying on the protection of a wagon fort, was extremely vulnerable to artillery bombardment. The proliferation of highly mobile field artillery made it an increasingly risky tactic, as demonstrated by the battle of Wenzenbach in 1504, where a Habsburg army personally led by Maximilian I faced a strong force of Bohemian mercenaries. Maximilian initially attempted to break their ranks with a cavalry charge, which predictably failed at the cost of heavy losses. However, the situation was reversed by a combined-arms attack of Landsknechte infantry supported by field artillery and hand-held firearms.91 The lesson of Wenzenbach was twofold. Gunpowder weapons could be used effectively to break the deadlock when facing an adversary in a seemingly impregnable position. On the other hand, an army arranged in a strong defensive formation, further strengthened by wagons or field fortifications, was almost impossible to break by the impetus of a frontal charge alone, unsupported by artillery and missile troops. This was amply proved on the Italian battlefields, notably at Bicocca in 1522 where the famed Swiss pikemen, lacking artillery support, suffered catastrophic casualties in useless frontal attacks against the well-entrenched Spanish arquebusiers.92 To be fair, the Swiss had already experienced a similar setback at Marignano in 1515 as their surprise attempt to overrun the encamped French army failed in the face of overwhelming artillery fire.93 Nonetheless, a skilled commander could find a different solution to the problem. At Ravenna in 1512, the predominantly Spanish army of the Holy League entrenched itself to better resist the superior French, only to become trapped in their own camp. The French exposed them to converging artillery fire from field batteries brought up on two sides. The barrage was so devastating that the defenders were finally forced to attempt a breakthrough. However, their cavalry sortie was easily checked by the French men-at-arms while the Spanish infantry proved unable to resist concentrated enemy counterattacks despite the protection of wagons and entrenchments.94 Conclusion These examples may help illustrate the potential outcome of the situation depicted on the Ljubljana map. The plan devised by its author was not mere fantasy – it reflected the actual practice of the period based on tried-and-true 91 92 93

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Uwe Tresp, Söldner aus Böhmen. Im Dienst deutscher Fürsten. Kriegsgeschäft und Heeresorganisation im 15. Jahrhundert (Paderborn, 2004), pp. 74–75, 81, 85–90, 128–30. Taylor, The Art, pp. 79, 125–26; Hall, Weapons, pp. 172–76; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 143–44, 179, 211. Taylor, The Art, pp. 101, 123–25; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 150–53, 235–39; Kurzmann, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 89–92; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 128–30, 179, 191, 195, 213. Taylor, The Art, pp. 99–100, 119–22, 185–99; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian I., pp. 96–101; Mallett and Shaw, The Italian Wars, pp. 106–08, 183, 195.

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elements typical of Central European warfare and tested in the Italian Wars. It was also specifically adapted to the types of troops available to the Habsburg commanders, their relative strengths and weaknesses. The tactical method depicted in the Ljubljana plan implies a highly cautious approach to warfare. Its author anticipated leading an army containing a very powerful cavalry component. Yet instead of exploiting the superior mobility of mounted troops, the fear of a sudden enemy attack to the flanks or rear persuaded him to sacrifice the freedom of maneuver for the additional security of improvised field fortifications. This left the tactical initiative to the enemy, though at the same time drastically restricting their range of options. Penetrating a solid line of defenses on three sides of the battle formation would have been very difficult at best, even more so due to the considerable presence of artillery covering the main lines of approach with intersecting fields of fire. The only gap in the wagon fort extended along the front side, where the defending army hoped to trick the attacker into launching a frontal assault. Once fully committed in the front sector, the attacking army would have been highly vulnerable to a determined counterattack of the defender’s heavy cavalry supported by the entire weight of combined arms – light cavalry as well as pikemen and arquebusiers. The trap would only have worked as expected if the enemy risked a frontal assault. This makes the proposed plan quite one-dimensional, going against the grain of commonly accepted tactics. However, it might well reflect the prudent nature of a commander used to fighting an elusive, highly mobile enemy – the very experience of Habsburg armies in the long struggle against the Ottoman incursions, and also quite characteristic of their engagements against the Hungarian light cavalry as well as stradiots employed in Venetian service. The exact purpose of the Ljubljana plan and time of its creation remain open to debate. The plan itself contains no information on the configuration of the terrain, or indeed any specific geographic reference. The absence of such vital details suggests that the document depicts an idealized battle formation, and not necessarily the disposition of an actual army ready to engage the enemy at some predetermined location. This is further reinforced by the surprising number of troops involved, possibly exceeding the capabilities of even the most powerful European monarchs during the early years of the sixteenth century. Nevertheless, the plan cannot have been entirely a work of fiction. The composition and arrangement of the battle formation clearly reflects common military practice of the time and leaves little room to doubt that the otherwise unidentified army could only have belonged to a Habsburg ruler, for such a specific combination of unit types and tactical approaches would not have been found anywhere else in Europe. All in all, it seems most plausible that the plan was drawn up in preparation for a highly ambitious military campaign expected to bring the entire strength of the Habsburg army against an as yet undefined foe – possibly Venice or even France. In the context of Maximilian’s war against Venice, such planning could



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have taken place during the early stages of the conflict, or even more likely shortly before the outbreak of hostilities – in 1507 or early 1508. There is as yet another minor clue that supports this date. The supreme commander of the army at the head of the cavalry reserve is defined as “king” (Rex) rather than “emperor.” Assuming that this dignitary could have been no one else but Maximilian I, one is led to conclude that the plan was devised prior to 4 February 1508, when the Habsburg ruler accepted the imperial title in Trento. As far as is known, the Ljubljana plan was never put to the ultimate test. Despite the grandiose schemes initiated in preparation of the conflict, Maximilian I was never truly able to muster forces on such a massive scale. Throughout his involvement in the Italian Wars, there were only a handful of occasions when he was able to field a force containing over 10,000 combatants for an actual operation: in June 1509 during the siege of Padua; in May 1510, launching an invasion of the Venetian hinterland; and finally in the spring of 1516 for the attack against Milan. None of these campaigns saw a major pitched battle fought according to the depicted tactical disposition. The role of Christopher Rauber in the creation of the Ljubljana plan remains speculative. To date, the investigations of the Archdiocesan Archive have failed to uncover any further evidence on the matter. Even though Rauber held the position of a high-ranking clergyman, he came from a family background with a strong martial tradition and showed great skill in military matters. It was precisely this aptitude that helped cement his reputation as one of the more distinguished army organizers under Maximilian I. While Rauber was undoubtedly interested in questions of strategy and tactics, it seems somewhat implausible that he could have authored the Ljubljana plan all by himself. The proposed troop strength of the depicted battle formation would have far exceeded the available potential of Rauber’s home province of Carniola, even with the support of the neighboring Inner Austrian lands of Carinthia, Styria, and Gorizia. An army of such size could only have been organized by the ruler, supported by the efforts of the entire Holy Roman Empire. Therefore, it appears most likely that the Ljubljana plan was created in the presence of Maximilian I himself, or during a high-level war council attended by his close advisors. Christopher Rauber obviously belonged to this core of trusted men as one of Maximilian’s key commanders on the Venetian front. Perhaps the greatest importance of the Ljubljana plan lies in its wider historical relevance. It represents one of the earliest – and hitherto entirely unknown – detailed graphical depictions of a contemporary battle formation, providing a fascinating insight into the mind of Central European strategists at the turn of the Modern Period.

Contributors

David S. Bachrach, professor of history at the University of New Hampshire, focuses on the military and administrative history of the kingdom of England in the thirteenth century and the kingdom of Germany in the tenth to twelfth centuries. His recent publications include Warfare in Medieval Europe c.400– c.1453, second revised edition (2021) with Bernard S. Bachrach; Administration and Organization of War in Thirteenth-Century England (2020), and Warfare in Tenth-Century Germany (2012). Daniel Bertrand is a recent graduate of the History Program at Utah State University. He is interested in the military history and technologies of the ancient and medieval worlds, and his research has focused so far on trebuchets, spending the last five years redesigning and mastering his reconstructed machine, which has been demonstrated at several events. Peter Burkholder is professor of history at Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey. He has published numerous studies on the intersection of history and film. He recently co-directed a major investigation of the American public’s understandings and uses of the past, which was published by the American Historical Association as History, the Past, and Public Culture: Results from a National Survey (2021). Ekaitz Etxeberria Gallastegi is a lecturer in Medieval History at the University of the Basque Country. He obtained his PhD in 2019, after completing a dissertation on fifteenth-century Castilian military strategy and tactics. His research focuses on the military history of Late Medieval Castile, especially on the conduct of war and private warfare. His recent publications include an edition of the collective volume La guerra privada en la Edad Media. Las coronas de Castilla y Aragón (siglos XIV y XV) (2021) and a forthcoming book Fazer la guerra. Estrategia y táctica militar en la Castilla del siglo XV (2022). Michael John Harbinson is a retired medical general practitioner. He has previously contributed several articles to the Journal of Medieval Military History, winning the Gillingham Prize in 2020. His interests lie in the use of horsemen during the Hundred Years’ War and in the later fifteenth century.

234 Contributors Steven Isaac is professor of history and chair of the department of history at Longwood University. His published work includes articles in The Journal of Military History and The Journal of Medieval Military History. He is currently finishing up a monograph, Down Upon the Fold: Mercenaries in the Long Twelfth Century. Donald J. Kagay is an adjunct professor of history at the University of Dallas. He spent twenty-three years as a professor of History at Albany State University in Albany, Georgia. Dr. Kagay has published forty-seven articles and sixteen books. His latest publications are Elionor of Sicily 1325–1375: A Mediterranean Queen of Two Worlds (2021), and, with L. J. Andrew Villalon, Conflict in Fourteenth-Century Iberia: Aragon vs. Castile and the War of the Two Pedros (2019). Tomaž Lazar is a curator at the National Museum of Slovenia, where he manages the arms and armour collection. His research work is devoted mainly to military history and technology of the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period. He is the author of several major museum exhibitions and a wide range of publications, including some sixty articles and monographs including Knights, Mercenaries, and Gunpowder (2012), Late-medieval Artillery in Slovenia (2015), and Armour from the National Museum of Slovenia (2021). Mamuka Tsurtsumia is a Georgian historian whose research focuses on medieval military history and military technology. He is the author of many academic and encyclopaedia articles. He received a PhD in history from the Ivane Javakhishvili Tbilisi State University in 2014 and published his expanded PhD thesis as a monograph under the title Medieval Georgian Army (900–1700): Organization, Tactics, Armament (2016). His most recent monograph is The Ideology of War in Georgia and the Near East: Christian Holy War and Islamic Jihad (2019).

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

Volume II 1 The Use of Chronicles in Recreating Medieval Military History – Kelly DeVries 2 Military Service in the County of Flanders – J. F. Verbruggen (translated by Kelly DeVries) 3 Prince into Mercenary: Count Armengol VI of Urgel, 1102–54 – Bernard F. Reilly 4 Henry II’s Military Campaigns in Wales, 1157 and 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 Crusader King of Aragon – Robert Burns

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Previous Volumes

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

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

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



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5 A “Clock-and-Bow” Story: Late Medieval Technology from Monastic Evidence – Mark Dupuy 6 The Strength of Lancastrian Loyalism during the Readeption: Gentry Participation at the Battle of Tewkesbury – Malcolm Mercer 7 Soldiers and Gentlemen: The Rise of the Duel in Renaissance Italy – Stephen Hughes 8 “A Lying Legacy” Revisited: The Abels-Morillo Defense of Discontinuity – Bernard S. Bachrach

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

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

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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 1415–50? – Anne Curry 9 The Name of the Siege Engine Trebuchet: Etymology and History in Medieval France and Britain – William Sayers

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



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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 – Nicolás Agrait 5 Chivalry and Military Biography in the Later Middle Ages: The Chronicle of the Good Duke Louis of Bourbon – Steven Muhlberger 6 The Ottoman-Hungarian Campaigns of 1442 – John Jefferson 7 Security and Insecurity, Spies and Informers in Holland during the Guelders War (1506–15) – James P. Ward 8 Edward I’s Wars in the Chronicle of Hagnaby Priory – Michael Prestwich

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

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

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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 Ayyūbid 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 Glyndŵr’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



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

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

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

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

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

Volume XVIII 1 The Eastern Campaigns of King Henry II of Germany, 1003–17 – David S. Bachrach 2 Peace, Popular Empowerment, and the First Crusade – Jason MacLeod 3 The Transformation of Naval Warfare in Scandinavia during the Twelfth Century – Beñat Elortza Larrea 4 Auxiliary Peoples and Military Reform on Hungary’s Western Frontier in the Thirteenth Century – Sarolta Tatár 5 What Types of Sources Did Medieval Chroniclers Use to Narrate Battles? (England and France, Twelfth to Fifteenth Centuries) – Pierre Courroux 6 Experimental Tests of Arrows against Mail and Padding – David Jones 7 Four Misunderstood Gunpowder Recipes of the Fourteenth Century – Clifford J. Rogers



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8 The Earliest Middle English Recipes for Gunpowder – Trevor Russell Smith 9 Horses and Horsemen in Fifteenth-Century Siege Warfare, with Particular Reference to the Later Hundred Years’ War – Michael John Harbinson 10 Supplying the Army: The Siege of Pisa, 1499 – Fabrizio Ansani

Volume XIX 1 The Battle of Firāḍ: The Day on Which Khālid b. al-Walīd Did [Not] Defeat Both Byzantines and Persians – Konstantinos Takirtakoglou 2 A Mislocated Battlefield? Battle Flats: The Battle of Stamford Bridge, 1066 – Michael C. Blundell 3 The Frankish Campaign of 1133–34 in Northern Syria and the Battle of Qinnasrīn – Evgeniy A. Gurinov 4 Bella plus quam civilia? The Place of Battle in the Context of Civil War under the Anglo-Norman and Angevin Kings, c.1100–c.1217 – Matthew Strickland 5 Edward I’s War on the Continent, 1297–98: A New Appraisal – David Pilling 6 The Earliest European Recipes for “Powder for Guns” (1336 and 1338–c.1350) – Clifford J. Rogers and Fabrizio Ansani 7 Bellicose Rhetoric: The Memorable War Speeches of One Aragonese Royal Couple – Donald J. Kagay 8 Coureurs and Their Role in Late Medieval Warfare – Michael J. Harbinson