Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds 2503602177, 9782503602172

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Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds

TRANSCULTURAL MEDIEVAL STUDIES General Editors Matthias M. Tischler, ICREA/Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Bellaterra, Spain Alexander Fidora, ICREA/Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Bellaterra, Spain Kristin Skottki, Universität Bayreuth, Germany Kordula Wolf, Deutsches Historisches Institut in Rom, Italy Editorial Board Esperanza Alfonso Carro, Centro de Ciencias Humanas y Sociales, CSIC, Madrid, Spain Alexander Beihammer, University of Notre Dame, South Bend, USA Nicola Carpentieri, Università di Padova, Italy Aline Dias da Silveira, Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina, Florianópolis, Brazil Arianna D’Ottone Rambach, Università La Sapienza di Roma, Italy Harvey J. Hames, Ben Gurion University of the Negev, Be’er Sheva, Israel Patrick Henriet, École Pratique des Hautes Études, Paris, France Konrad Hirschler, Freie Universität Berlin, Germany Christian Høgel, Syddansk Universitet, Odense, Denmark Daniel G. König, Universität Konstanz, Germany Nicholas E. Morton, Nottingham Trent University, United Kingdom Klaus Oschema, Deutsches Historisches Institut, Paris, France Helmut Reimitz, Princeton University, USA Joan-Pau Rubiés Mirabet, ICREA/Universitat Pompeu Fabra, Barcelona, Spain Roland Scheel, Universität Münster, Germany Gerrit Jasper Schenk, Technische Universität Darmstadt, Germany Dittmar Schorkowitz, Max-Planck-Institut für ethnologische Forschung, Halle, Germany Angela Schottenhammer, Paris-Lodron-Universität Salzburg, Austria Ryan Szpiech, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, USA Daniel Ziemann, Central European University, Vienna, Austria

Volume 3

Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds

Edited by

Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

© 2023, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2023/0095/141 ISBN: 978-2-503-60217-2 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-60218-9 DOI: 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.131326 ISSN: 2983-5461 e-ISSN: 2983-547X Printed in the EU on acid-free paper

Contents

List of Illustrations

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Acknowledgements ix Introduction: Normans at Sea, or a Transcultural Maritime Approach to the Middle Ages PHILIPPA BYRNE and CAITLIN ELLIS

1. Ad Pevensae: Pevensey Castle and the Norman Conquest MARK BOWDEN and ALLAN BRODIE

2. The Great Tower: Searching for its Origins in the Norman Diaspora of the Medi­eval Roman East ANDREW BLACKER

3. Movement, Transmission, and the North Sea World in Orderic Vitalis’s Historia ecclesiastica CAROLYN CARGILE

4. St Olaf and St Mary’s York: A Norwegian Saint King and a Norman Abbey DANIEL TALBOT

5. The Norman World of John de Courcy CLAIRE COLLINS

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6. Norman Sicily and the Fatimid Royal Correspondence, 1137 MAHIR SHAAB ABDUSALAM

7. ‘Northmen’ and Rus in Light of Numismatic Evidence ALEXANDRA VUKOVICH

Epilogue: Some Reflections DAVID BATES

Index

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211 223

List of Illustrations 1. Ad Pevensae: Pevensey Castle and the Norman Conquest — Mark Bowden and Allan Brodie Figure 1.1. Recent aerial photo­graph of Pevensey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Figure 1.2. This map shows Pevensey between the time of the Roman occupation and the early medi­eval period.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Figure 1.3. Recent aerial photo­graph of cliffs at Pevensey Castle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Figure 1.4. Phase diagram showing the conjectural earth and timber fortification of 1066 and its rapid replacement. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Figure 1.5. Photo­graph of the keep of Pevensey Castle from the north. . . . . . . 33 Figure 1.6. Plan of the keep. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Figure 1.7. Photo of the West Gate. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 2. The Great Tower: Searching for its Origins in the Norman Diaspora of the Medi­eval Roman East — Andrew Blacker Figure 2.1. Map of Europe c. 1040, showing the Byzantine empire, major cities, and pilgrimage routes from Western Europe to Jerusalem. . . . . 50 Figure 2.2. Three Greek classical towers repaired in the medi­eval period (a) Thisve (Boeotia) (b) Abdos (Tinos island) (c) Smobolo (Tinos island). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Figure 2.3. Reconstructions of estate centres (a) Rujum el-Qasr, Palestine. (b) Melintziani Metochi, Macedonia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Figure 2.4. ‘Phokas’ imperial tower, Philippi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

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list of iLLUSTRATIONS

Figure 2.5. Ground plan of Byzantine citadel (c. 975), Sahyun (Crusader Sâone), Syria, today called Qal’at Salah al-Din. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Figure 2.6. Donje Butorke, Portes de Fer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 Figure 2.7. Ramat Hanadiv, Extract from plan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Figure 2.8. Floorplans of Buttressed towers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 Figure 2.9. Galatista tower (Macedonia, Greece). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Figure 2.10. Ground plan of Langeais tower. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Figure 2.11. Examples of Byzantine banded towers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 4. St Olaf and St Mary’s York: A Norwegian Saint King and a Norman Abbey — Daniel Talbot Figure 4.1. Map of places associated with St Mary’s York. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110 Figure 4.2. Map of the intramural complex in the North East of York. . . . . . . 118 7. ‘Northmen’ and Rus in Light of Numismatic Evidence — Alexandra Vukovich Figure 7.1. Map of Europe at the beginning of the Viking age (first half of the ninth century) – Early Rus. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190 Figure 7.2. The Descendants of Vladimir Sviatoslavich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 Figure 7.3. Samanid Emirate in 943 (death of Nasr II). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 Figure 7.4. Iaroslav Vladimirich, silver coin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 Figure 7.5. Vladimir Sviatoslavich, silver coin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 Figure 7.6. Basil II and Constantine VIII, silver miliaresion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200 Figure 7.7. Basil II & Constantine VIII, imitation silver miliaresion. . . . . . . . 200

Acknowledgements

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he idea for this volume emerged from a series of conversations in 2019. At that point, we could not have predicted the ways in which the covid pandemic would both limit and radically restructure the possibilities for academic exchange and movement. In-person discussions were transmuted into extended email exchanges and Zoom meetings. If there is anything positive to be said about this, it is that the conditions of the past several years will no doubt encourage future historians to rethink their assumptions about the nature of academic mobility and intellectual exchange. Given these unanticipated challenges, we are particularly grateful for the help of many people in bringing together this volume. First and foremost, we thank the contributors, who — despite restrictions on access to libraries and pandemic working conditions — have steered their chapters safely to shore. We are particularly grateful to David Bates for his kind support and suggestions. As well as contributing the epilogue, he has been extremely generous with his time and encouragement, understanding what we were trying to achieve with this volume. In addition, Rosie Bonté at Brepols and Joanne Shortt Butler have helped bring this volume to its finished and more polished form and have endured our many queries with admirable patience. The Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, where Caitlin Ellis held a postdoctoral scholarship, provided the funding for the cover image. We hope they approve of the choice — we had a whale of a time selecting it. Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis

Introduction

Normans at Sea, or a Transcultural Maritime Approach to the Middle Ages Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis Adelaide’s Fleet and a Fleeting Alliance In 1112, a fleet from the Norman County of Sicily set out for the Kingdom of Jerusalem, heading for the port of Acre. On board one of the boats was Adelaide del Vasto, the widow of Count Roger I of Sicily, and a powerful political figure in her own right in southern Italy.1 Adelaide was to wed Baldwin I of Jerusalem (r. 1100–1118). The marriage was to be ostentatiously celebrated, as it came at a moment when the crusader kingdom was in dire straits, and glad of the financial and military resources that the alliance would bring. Here was a union of two newly-established Christian polities in the Mediterranean (Norman Sicily did not yet call itself a kingdom; Baldwin was the first crusader to take on the title of ‘king’ at his accession in 1100). Both projected claims to considerable earthly authority, yet both were uneasily established in territories on which other lords, rulers, and religions made long-standing claims. They sought a maritime alliance. The twelfth-century chroniclers Albert of Aachen and William of Tyre offer a detailed inventory of the ships.2 For both authors, most worthy of note was the lavish display of Norman wealth loaded onto the boats. Adelaide came 1 

For Adelaide, see Hubert Houben, ‘Adelaide del Vasto’. Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, book 12, pp. 845–47; William of Tyre, The History of the Deeds done Beyond the Sea, book 11, ch. 21, i, pp. 496–97. 2 

Philippa Byrne ([email protected]) is Assistant Professor in Medieval History at Trinity College Dublin.

Caitlin Ellis ([email protected]) is Associate Professor of Nordic history from c. 800 to c. 1500 ad at the University of Oslo. Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 1–19 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134139

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Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis

from a kingdom rich in goods and fighting men. Albert describes ‘seven ships laden with gold, silver, purple, and an abundance of jewels and precious garments, besides weapons, hauberks, helmets, shields resplendent with gold, and besides all the other weaponry which powerful men are accustomed to carry for the defence of their ships’. The mast itself was clad with gold. Albert recorded that one of the seven ships contained a band of ‘Saracen’ (Muslim) archers, who possessed technical skill surpassing any in the crusader armies. William of Tyre similarly noted the military strength of Adelaide’s retinue, packed as it was with well-armed knights and men skilled in the art of naval warfare. This ought to have been a moment of triumph for the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was, however, complicated by both the weather and local politics. The sea crossing was disrupted by a storm, and the violence of the waves drove the fleet to take shelter in the harbour at Ascalon, a coastal town controlled by the Fatimid caliph. The inhabitants of Ascalon, recognizing their enemies, launched their own galleys to attack the ships. After considerable fighting, the Sicilian fleet gained the upper hand, and eventually Adelaide and her wedding gifts made it to Acre. There, she was received with great pomp: the streets were covered with carpet, and the houses draped with purple cloth. But the marriage did not seal the hoped-for long-term alliance. Only a few years into the marriage, its validity was thrown into doubt. Baldwin’s counsellors and the king himself became convinced the marriage was bigamous, and the union was annulled in 1117. Adelaide made the journey back across the sea to Sicily, with much recrimination on both sides. William of Tyre, writing with the bitter wisdom of hindsight, noted that there had been ominous signs from the start. This volume is not a history of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Its subject matter is the exchange, interaction, conflict, and borrowing that accompanied the different groups labelled under the heading ‘Norman’. Indeed, several of the contributors here touch on what a multitude of identities, ethnicities, and traditions such a label can include. We use the term in our title in a broad sense, recognizing that it is often a term of convenience, used by historians but not by their historical subjects. The primary purpose is not to identify a distinctly ‘Norman’ relationship with the sea, but to acknowledge that maritime travel and exchange was an important and underappreciated part of many different medi­eval polities which claimed some level of connection to the duchy of Normandy. One inspiration for this is the recent work of Maryanne Kowaleski, whose analysis of the records of shipping in late medi­eval England has painted a world in which sailors and seafarers from many different polities and cultures

Introduction

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were obliged to intermingle.3 Time spent in ports and the need to find a common language of communication might further break down — or at least challenge — sailors’ singular identification with their land of birth. The rather better survival of documents from later medi­eval England has allowed Kowaleski to examine the possibility of mixing and interaction closely. For the periods and polities covered by this volume, we lack the records that would allow us to proceed in the same way. Nonetheless, the principal that maritime movement could complicate already complex medi­eval senses of identity can be felt through all the contributions to this volume. We begin with the marriage of Adelaide and Baldwin for several reasons: a trans-maritime, transcultural encounter between a Norman polity and its Mediterranean neighbour. The first: because this episode stands as a potent demonstration of what might have been (or, if one prefers, an exercise in counterfactual history). Roger II of Sicily, Adelaide’s son, had approved and endorsed the marriage on the understanding that it would make him heir to the Kingdom of Jerusalem on the death of the childless Baldwin. Had this union of territories ever been achieved, such a polity would have been a prominent player in the Mediterranean, not least because of Norman Sicily’s developing interests and control over the coastal cities of North Africa. Near-contemporaries also saw it as a potentially transformative moment and, for the crusader kingdom, a lost opportunity. William of Tyre, writing in the later twelfth century, and as the crusader kingdom was politically and militarily weakening, lamented the annulment of the marriage as a disaster. Roger II had been so offended by the way that Adelaide had been treated that he and his successors in the Norman kingdom (with all its fabulous riches and military resources) did not again lift a finger to support the crusader states. William of Tyre’s finely-tooled rhetoric perhaps understates the continuing interest which Sicilian kings took in their Mediterranean neighbours and crusading in the later twelfth century.4 Nonetheless, it serves to draw our attention to the expansive ambitions of twelfth-century rulers, who thought not just in terms of polities but maritime empires. As the contributions to this volume demonstrate, there were many such similar moments in the central Middle Ages. These moments did not just involve kings attempting to extend their influence across the sea, but lordships and religious institutions too: connections that were constructed, leveraged, and lost. 3  4 

Kowaleski, ‘“Alien” Encounters’. For discussion of this point, see Fulton, ‘Disaster in the Delta?’.

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The second reason for beginning with the ill-fated marriage of Adelaide and Baldwin I is because it serves to illustrate, in part, the nature of transcultural diplomacy in this period. Medi­eval diplomacy hinged on the exchange of high value items, which had often travelled long distances, and combined technical skill with hard-to-obtain materials. As later chapters in this volume suggest, textiles were particularly valuable in such exchanges as tokens of goodwill, continuing relations, and the status of both recipient and giver. As other historians have demonstrated, Norman lords often participated in this kind of material diplomatic exchange — which is why in the inventory of Adelaide’s fleet, weapons of war were nestled alongside ‘precious garments’. Yet this kind of exchange was not a Norman invention, but a Norman adoption of much older and longstanding traditions.5 They adapted themselves and played by the rules of the game. They learned the local argot. As several chapters in this volume demonstrate (Collins, Blackler), whether in the Irish Sea or the Mediterranean, there was scope for selection, choice, and borrowing. This is not, however, to endorse uncritically a myth of ‘Normanitas’ — of a group of ‘Normans’ who were uniquely crafty, purposeful, and able to adapt to local circumstances in search of conquest.6 As Vukovich’s contribution suggests, historians are often in danger of imposing impossible, or at least highly-loaded, labels onto the groups they study. The contributions to this volume insist that we must break down any simple understanding of ‘Norman’ settlement, and probe the particular dimensions, give-and-take, and dynamics of each exchange. Indeed, instead of thinking about ‘the Normans’ and a characteristically ‘Norman expansion’ (a phrase common to many of the introductory textbooks), let us consider Norman variety. Having crossed the sea, medi­eval conquerors, colonizers, and traders were obliged to engage with the societies they encountered and to adapt themselves to local conditions. Thirdly, the story of Adelaide’s wedding fleet highlights another important concept to bear in mind when discussing transcultural exchange, particularly pertinent to studying the Norman presence across Europe and the Mediterranean: how quickly things could (and often did) go wrong at sea. Sea travel was made possible by the skill of mariners, but a successful journey required good luck, good winds, and safe harbours. After all, one way of measuring long-distance economic activity is by assessing the proliferation of ship5 

See Edwards, ‘Patronage and Tradition’. The literature on ‘Normanitas’ is extensive. For a discussion, see Albu, The Normans in their Histories; Bates, The Normans and Empire. 6 

Introduction

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wrecks (abundant in the Roman period, falling dramatically in the early Middle Ages, and rising somewhat in the later medi­e val period).7 The contributions to this volume underscore both the importance of maritime mobility and the inherent risks of travel. The sea was both a highway of connection and, potentially, a cause of significant disruption and disconnection. One could establish a maritime polity, but, as Bowden and Brodie suggest in their chapter, it needed to be defended, fortified, and held. One could not just leave the coastline alone.

History in a Transcultural Mode One of the convictions informing this volume is that successful ‘transcultural’ projects require historians to pay attention to the local, to (relatively) smallscale mechanisms of exchange. In this, transcultural history resembles its global cousin. Global history and transcultural history are, of course, not one and the same. Global history can be transcultural, but this volume makes no claims to be global, despite the tendency in some works to claim the title ‘global’ for works largely focused on the region of Europe.8 Nonetheless, transcultural and global histories share some important elements. First and foremost, both urge their practitioners not to assume their own objects of study were unique, singular, or exceptional. To do so is to deny the borrowings and imitations practiced across the recent world. Second is the need — even if we wish to think about large-scale interactions between polities, over the longue durée — to understand the local level in order to appreciate how processes of exchange actually operate. Global history can be the work of studying world systems, but it also has a much more local and personal dynamic. As banal as the observation may seem, those systems do not come into being ex nihilo, but are the product of historical interactions which can — and should — be studied. Indeed, some of the most revealing and dynamic work on global history has come through the ‘spy holes’ provided by microhistory.9 The transcultural history contained in this volume often breaks down to the choices made by architects, translators, merchants, and others. Abdusalam’s chapter on the letter of the Fatimid Caliph al-Hafiz to Roger II of Sicily shows how easily negotiations between two sig7 

For discussion of the problems of using medi­eval shipwrecks as evidence for interconnection, see Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, p. 153 and pp. 368–72. 8  See the perceptive comments of Lynn Hunt on the continuing dominance of ‘Western’ interests in the writing of history: Writing History in the Global Era. 9  See, for example Ghobrial, ‘The Secret Life’; Lambourn, Abraham’s Luggage.

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nificant powers in the twelfth-century Mediterranean could be derailed by an error in translation: a pressured scribe struggling with the demands of formal language and selecting the wrong word in Arabic. Transcultural history also carries with it the injunction to think about multiple different centres of power, to consciously and deliberately revise our narratives. Dorothea Weltecke’s argument for a transcultural history of the medi­eval church is an excellent case study.10 Weltecke urges us not to cling to a narrative which begins and ends with institutional centres, nor the places where documents were produced and stored, but to think about the different spaces and places in which interaction might take place, and who was able to lay down the terms of exchange. This volume concentrates on the local. It draws attention to change, reversals, and short-time alliances. Norman lordships and polities faced in multiple directions and individual strategies changed with rapidity. These dynamics are deftly described in Talbot’s chapter, a demonstration of how twelfth-century foundation narratives could twist and turn according to the political changes that followed the Norman Conquest of the North of England. It is important to recognize that the Normans, in their many forms and locations, are not a neglected or ill-served topic of historical research — far from it. In recent decades, much engaging and compelling work has been done, urging scholars to consider the different ways in which different Norman groups interacted with their neighbours. We draw the reader’s attention, in particular, to the edited collection of Burkhardt and Foerster on Norman Tradition and Transcultural Heritage (2013).11 The aim of that volume was to examine the nature of ‘cultural hybridity’ in different Norman societies, addressing the terms on which Norman groups borrowed local heritage and, over time, transformed it into something new. It recognized the contribution that postcolonial studies and literary deconstructions of the ‘nation’ might make to debates around Norman-ness. That stimulating collection of essays underscored the variety of tools with which Norman groups adapted to the societies in which they implanted themselves. Our view, naturally, is that there is plenty of space for further contributions to this discussion. Indeed, one of the productive and beneficial tendencies of recent decades has been the discussion of exactly what termino­logy historians should apply to the process of conquest, conflict, expansion, interchange, which took place in Europe and the Mediterranean the 10  11 

Weltecke, ‘Space, Entanglement and Decentralisation’. Burkhardt and Foerster, ‘Introduction: Tradition and Heritage’.

Introduction

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period c. 1000 to c. 1200. Some have plumped for ‘transcultural’. Others have preferred to talk about ‘edges’, ‘borders’, ‘frontiers’, or a ‘third space’.12 We have preferred ‘transcultural’ here not only because of obligations imposed by the title of this series, but because it describes a process and methodo­logy, rather than the study of a particular zone, frontier, or border. As Burkhardt and Foerster noted, it has traditionally been historians of the Norman presence in the Mediterranean who have been quicker to deploy concepts of ‘transcultural’ exchange, and more attentive to models of exchange than their colleagues working on Northern Europe and the Irish Sea.13 This may in part be the legacy of the Annales School and Braudel, whose work did so much to dissolve the concept of borders and open up an emphasis on connections.14 As editors of this volume, we have, at different points in our careers, engaged with medi­eval societies in the Mediterranean, North-Western Europe, and the North Atlantic. This volume thus seeks to help frame some of the most recent and exciting work on those ‘Northern’ Normans in the same way, to nudge it along a similar path. Moreover, as astute readers of this volume may note, even from considering the contents page, we do not claim to cover all the medi­eval polities that might conceivably be labelled ‘Norman’ or exhibit Norman connections. The volume’s focus is maritime mobility and the historical processes produced through connection across the sea. Indeed, one lingering problem for those of us engaged in studying the Normans (in whatever shape or form) is the need to dispose of unhelpful historical paradigms such as North versus South. This dichotomy is problematic for three reasons. First: Normans in Normandy, England, Ireland, and across the North Sea are often taken as the primary model, against which the ‘South’ is compared. We rarely talk about Normans ‘in the North’. That would leave us at risk of thinking about Normans coming into contact with the Mediterranean cultures of southern Europe and diverging from the models they had brought with them and honed so carefully on the shores of the North Sea and the Atlantic. Yet, as several chapters in this volume make abundantly clear, there 12 

See, for example, recent discussions of a Norman ‘edge’, as a term which might be preferred to border or frontier: Stringer and Jotischky, eds, The Normans and the ‘Norman Edge’; see also the chapters contained in Stringer and Jotischky, Norman Expansion. For the concept of the frontier as applied to medi­e val history, Berend, ‘Medi­e valists and the Notion of the Frontier’. For ‘third space’, see Houben, ‘Between Oriental and Occidental’. 13  Burkhardt and Foerster, ‘Introduction’. 14  Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World. See also Horden and Purcell, ‘The Mediterranean and “The New Thalasso­logy”’.

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was no singular model of ‘Norman’ operation in the North. Collins, for example, calls our attention to the fact that John de Courcy’s lordship across the Irish Sea was a bricolage of many different styles of rulership. While there is considerable utility to comparing the Norman Conquest of England with that of Sicily, focusing on how control over these two large and fairly centralized polities was run can never tell the whole story. A second problem with unspoken assumptions of a Norman North versus a Norman South (as handy as those two designations might be for the historian) is that it obscures or excludes Rus and the Baltic. Here groups which had longexisting connections to Normandy were active in political machinations and an important part of the political landscape, even if we cannot rightly label these polities as ‘Norman’. As the final chapter in this volume (Vukovich) demonstrates, thinking in terms of diasporas, regions, and emerging polities provides us with more precise intellectual tools for understanding this world, without imposing modern borders or identities on the process. Any narrative of North and South must be complicated by movements East and West. Thirdly, the polarity of Northern versus Southern Normans ignores the importance of movement across and between Norman polities. Importation and exportation of scholars, fighting men, ecclesiastical administrators, as well as texts, materials, and goods happened all the time. We can take a single example: Peter of Blois (c. 1130–1211).15 The story is well known. Peter, an ambitious scholar educated in the schools of northern France and Italy, looked to make his fortune in the kingdom of Sicily as it imported scholars in the 1160s. A scholar-for-hire, he presented himself as an indispensable counsellor and tutor to kings and princelings, and obtained a position as tutor to the future king, William II. But the political situation of the Sicilian kingdom did not agree with Peter, and, after trying and failing to adapt to the intrigues of the court, he abandoned the position. He sought service elsewhere, ending up in England as a trusted servant of the archbishop of Canterbury, and a — sometimes vituperative — critic of Anglo-Norman lordship and kingship. There is no indication in Peter’s frank and fulsome letter collection that he conceived of himself as a traveller between a region he knew as the ‘North’ and a separate place designated ‘South’. He was instead a wandering scholar who moved between different courts: some fulfilled his lofty intellectual and ethical expectations, others did not.

15 

For a comprehensive examination of Peter’s life and his place in the Anglo-Norman world, see Cotts, The Clerical Dilemma.

Introduction

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Such problems of assumptions and dichotomies are thrown into particular relief when considering a group as geo­g raphically wide-ranging as the Normans. Not every individual, of course, travelled far and wide. But, as the chapters in this volume demonstrate, one did not need to travel far within this ‘Norman world’ to come into contact with different cultural practices, different languages, and different political systems. To adopt a transcultural lens, is, therefore, not just a useful tool, but to recognize the context in which our sources (material and textual) were created. It also reminds scholars that the Norman societies we work on individually — ‘our’ Normans — were only one group among many. Thus, a transcultural perspective helps historians ‘avoid the well-known pitfalls of essentialism’.16

Coasts, Mobility, and Politics Examining movement across the sea can help us to ‘decentralize’ our view of medi­eval history. With a focus on the sea also comes a focus on movement, and the mobility of people, materials, and ideas in the medi­e val world. Take, for example, the case of Roger of Howden (d. 1202), the celebrated author of one of the most important chronicles of twelfth-century England. Patrick Gautier Dalché recently demonstrated that Roger was also the author of a detailed account of a sailing navigation from England to the Holy Land.17 The text, preserved in two fifteenth-century manu­scripts, describes a voyage down the east coast of England, before heading out across the Atlantic, past Gibraltar, and then across the Mediterranean. Gautier Dalché dates the text to c. 1192. Roger, a Yorkshire historian, is known to generations of medi­evalists working on the Angevin polity as a well-informed chronicler of the reigns of Henry II, Richard I, and John. Serving in both the church and in the royal administration, Roger is a source for many important items of historical detail about the functioning of royal administration and court politics in the period. But to read his De viis maris brings a new aspect of Roger’s life and character to light: his experiences as a traveller, a carto­grapher, and a mariner of sorts. A man who made precise observations of the world of Anglo-Norman diplomacy did the same when logging tides, safe harbours, and sailing directions. The text allows us to peer into the logistics of Norman mobility, and, as Paul Hughes has observed, Roger gives us access to something which was fundamental to the medi­e val 16  17 

Tischler, ‘Editorial – Scientific Challenges in a Changing World’, p. 1. Dalché, Du Yorkshire à L’Inde.

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traveller, but easily overlooked today: the importance of tides; the speed of journeys; the obstructions to travel.18 It also allows us to reflect on the fact that Roger did not merely describe the journeys of the great and good: he undertook them for himself and endured all their inconveniences and uncertainties. A focus on the sea obliges us to consider mobility in the medi­e val world, and recognize the importance of the experience of travel rather than just concentrating on the destination of travellers.19 Blacker’s contribution in this volume, for example, considers what military fortifications the soldiers of Duke Robert I would have seen as they travelled down the Danube in the third decade of the eleventh century, and how the observation of ancient fortresses (in various states of repair) might have prompted them to think about their own models of fortification, defence, and fighting. The ultimate destination of those soldiers may have been Jerusalem, their purpose a pilgrimage, but they drank in much along the way. Moreover, the significance of maritime travel and distance across the seas has long been implicit in works even of a more ‘traditional’ historio­graphical bent, and even in works which take court politics and the deeds of kings as their focus. The political history of English medi­eval monarchy grapples with the question of whether any king could successfully overcome logistical problems and cultural differences to maintain his authority in both England and Normandy, or whether, by the late twelfth century and the time of John, straddling the Channel was a structural impossibility.20 (We could fast-forward to 1399, where a similar question is asked: did Richard II forfeit his crown by an ill-timed expedition to Ireland, the difficulty and slowness of his return crossing leaving Bolingbroke free to claim England?) In short, the significance of the sea is undeniable even on a basic reading of Anglo-Norman history. It is also ever-present in the most famous works of Norman history writing, including those texts which we use to introduce undergraduates to events such as the Conquest of 1066. Orderic Vitalis is one such figure. Those who read the Ecclesiastical History cannot but be struck by how much turned on that connection between England and Normandy. The wreck of the White Ship reminds us that the crossing could end in disaster.21 Even within the confines of a study 18 

Hughes, ‘Roger of Howden’s Sailing Directions’. Shichtman, Finke, and Kelly, ‘“The world is my home when I’m mobile”’. 20  This dates back to at least Le Patourel’s The Norman Empire. See also David Bates, ‘Normandy and England after 1066’. 21  Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History, book xii, ch. 26 (vi, pp. 296–301). 19 

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of the Anglo-Norman monarchy, we can find themes of both connection and disconnection; opportunity and loss. This volume seeks to press those themes further and put them front and centre. As Cargile writes, Orderic’s interest was not merely in the Channel — the stretch that divided the place of his birth (England) from the place of his monastic maturity (Normandy). He was well-informed, too, about the connections between the East of England and Scandinavia. The crossing between England and Normandy was not the only way in which exchange across the sea shaped him and his fellow monks. Talbot’s contribution, too, reveals the persistent significance of that Scandinavian link to Anglo-Norman writers, and how ecclesiastical connections across the sea could matter as much as political or economic ones. Cargile and Talbot both invite us to consider the historical details of this northern sphere of interaction and exchange. Looking north also provides us with an instructive historio­g raphical lesson when it comes to medi­e val maritime exchange. The history of Norsemen (Nordmanni) has been written as a seafaring history. The history of the Normans (Normanni), who derived their appellation and claimed legendary descent from those Norsemen, has been very much land-based. Rollo (d. c. 930) was a sailor; William I of England (d. 1087) was a castle-builder. It is impossible to imagine the study of the Vikings without a maritime dimension. The advent of sailing ships has even been proffered as an explanation for the entire Viking phenomenon. Rather than the longship, the abiding image associated with the Normans is perhaps their stone castles as an instrument of domination, and historians characterize the conquests of both Sicily and England as struggles over control of land and estates, not rivers. As at least two of the chapters in this volume demonstrate, however, that castles and fortifications are not mutually exclusive with a maritime approach and seabased exchange. The maritime worlds of Scandinavian ‘Vikings’ and Normans could also intersect. In 1098, Magnús Barelegs, King of Norway, on a naval expedition through the British-Irish Isles encountered two Anglo-Norman nobles at the island of Anglesey: Hugh d’Avranches, earl of Chester, and Hugh of Montgomery, earl of Shrewsbury and member of the noted Bellême family. The latter was killed in battle by an arrow, allegedly shot by King Magnús himself, which caused him to fall into the sea.22 22  Gerald of Wales relates that Hugh fell dead from his ship’s prow into the water and his body was recovered with difficulty at low tide: Giraldi Cambrensis Opera Omnia, iv, p. 129. Orderic Vitalis simply states that Hugh was killed in littore maris, ‘on the seashore’: book v, ch. 15 (iii, pp. 148–49). For discussion of the different accounts, particularly the Norse sagas, see Power, ‘Magnus Barelegs’ Expeditions’, pp. 109–10 and 119–20.

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The assumption that it was land that mattered most of all in the Norman world has been reinforced both in the popular imagination and in academic study by the existence of the Domesday Book. That text, an almost unique and vital document, has generated much discussion among historians of eleventh-century England about the nature of tenure, estates, and the legal (‘feudal’) framework through which land was held. An undergraduate taking their first uneasy steps into the Middle Ages could easily be forgiven for thinking that William I spent his day in the same manner as a modern land lawyer. Yet, as recent work has demonstrated, even a text like Domesday is not divorced from maritime concerns. A detailed examination reveals significant cross-channel landholding, often with estates lining up on the opposite coastlines.23 This suggests a degree of regular traffic between Normandy and England which is not readily apparent in other sources — only the most notable voyages involving important figures might be recorded in chronicles and histories. If even the water-borne movements of wealthy landowners must be presumed, then those of lower status individuals can be even harder to reconstruct for the medi­eval period, though all could be ‘brokers’ in transcultural movements across borders.24 Noting the link between Vikings and Normans also raises a further important point for this volume. Much recent work on the Vikings has been driven by a discussion of shared cultural identities across a ‘viking diaspora’. In Normandy, the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte in 911 created the first duke of Normandy out of Rollo, a Scandinavian leader. As Lesley Abrams notes, Normandy ‘seems the odd one out’ as being the least ‘Scandinavianized’ of the various Scandinavian settlements abroad.25 The Duchy of Normandy is seen as becoming rapidly Frenchified. Perhaps this view of the Normans as not being particularly ‘Viking’ has further contributed to the distinctive and diverging treatment the activities of these two groups have received in historio­graphy. The recent debates in the field of Scandinavian studies about shared and diverging identities across a maritime diaspora also provide the historian of the Normans with considerable insight.26 Scholars of the Vikings have faced up to 23 

See Baxter and Lewis, ‘Comment Identifier’; Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, p. 395 and pp. 401–02. 24  On this and the need to focus not only on ‘big players’ see Tischler, ‘Editorial’, p. 3. 25  Abrams, ‘Early Normandy’, p. 46. McNair, ‘The Politics of Being Norman’, argues for an emphasis on viking heritage after perceived failure of Frankish assimilation. Carpentier argues against Scandinavian colonization suggesting that in reality vikings made only a passive contribution to the foundation of Normandy: ‘Du mythe colonisateur’, p. 212. 26  See Abrams, ‘Diaspora and Identity’; Jesch, The Viking Diaspora.

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the evidence of cultural variation across different ‘viking’ communities, looking to identify how politics, culture, and even language changed and adapted across distance and over time. To note the potential maritime parallel with the Vikings is not to argue for a strain of Scandinavian essentialism within Norman identity, but simply to challenge subconscious historio­g raphical assumptions. Indeed, the chapters collected here underline the multivalent nature of Normanness across time and space.

The Organization of this Volume The contributions to this volume range across multiple approaches (archaeo­ logy, literature, history, numismatics), and languages (Latin, Greek, Arabic, Irish, and Old Norse). They reflect the understanding that transcultural histories will require us to engage across methodo­logies, beyond the narrow range of our own specialisms. What unites each of the contributions to this volume is that each of them draws attention to local processes of exchange and interaction. Several of the chapters in this collection deal with Norman use of the past and the way in which trans-maritime connections were remembered, commemorated, or addressed — in text and in stone. The picture offered is one of a world in motion, with no uniform sense of the past. Bowden and Brodie examine Norman engagement with the past through architecture and archaeo­logy. They present the findings from a series of excavations and surveys at Pevensey Castle (East Sussex). A coastal fortification, the Normans established their presence there in 1066 as a means of controlling the shoreline and Channel crossings. But, as Bowden and Brodie note, the castle was developed and imbued with new purpose over subsequent decades. The detail of their study illuminates the choices that were made at the moment of conquest (and the processes by which it was realized), and how Pevensey Castle was reimagined as a place for political and ideo­logical statements. Norman builders capitalized on the remains of a third-century Roman fort. The choices made at Pevensey Castle aimed at claiming the mantle of Roman authority for new Norman power. This was not a symbolic ‘Romanitas’ layered on by later ecclesiastical authors who had immersed themselves in the Latin classics, but one built into the stones of the castle. It was a statement about control of both sea and of land.27 27 

There may be a compelling parallel here with the transformation of York as described by Sarah Rees Jones in the late eleventh and twelfth century, as the ‘Roman’ legacy of the city informed patterns of royal construction. See Rees Jones, York.

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The concept of ‘Romanitas’ is relevant to Blackler’s contribution too, but in his case study Normans were engaging with the symbolic and material legacy of the Eastern Roman Empire. In this chapter, the ‘great tower’ provides a way into examining exactly what the Normans took from their travels around the Mediterranean. In this case, their inspiration came from the eastern part of this interconnected sea, specifically from their interactions with the Byzantine Empire. Normans were frequently employed as mercenaries in conflicts involving the Byzantines. This chapter underscores the fact that military endeavours could lead to the exchange of knowledge, and that such knowledge gained abroad could be put to use on one’s return home. Cargile argues for the importance of the sea in understanding and interpreting Anglo-Norman texts. The sea is significant at both the macro-level of international exchange and the micro-level of the formation of personal identity. The chapter presents a picture of a North Sea world in which Normandy, Scandinavia, and Anglo-Norman England were in close contact, and Cargile highlights the shared literary motifs between Latin monastic historio­g raphy and Norse Kings’ Sagas. Recognizing the ‘Norse’ features to be found in Latin writing (and vice-versa) invites the historian to think again about the broadness and boundlessness of literary tradition. Literature was mobile. Turning then to Orderic Vitalis, she demonstrates how Orderic’s conception of self, spiritual life, and salvation relied on a concept of trans-maritime exile. Even if he rarely left St Evroul, Orderic conceived of his life as one of motion. Talbot draws our attention to how such maritime connections might impinge on arguments about ecclesiastical authority, and how churchmen might be selective in the associations they invoked. When Stephen of Whitby, abbot of St Mary’s, York, began to compose a foundation narrative for his abbey in the early twelfth century, he made the choice to downplay the institution’s links to the Scandinavian world. As Talbot demonstrates, this was a deliberate and calculated decision, which allowed Abbot Stephen to reimagine connections in the North East of England before the Norman Conquest. It was local politics which drove the abbot to think about international connections, as the monks of St Mary’s were engaged in a dispute with the archbishop of York. Along with several others in the volume, this chapter reminds us that locating the Normans in a ‘transcultural’ world is often as much a question of time as of space and place. As in Talbot’s case study, the strategic use of intertwined ecclesiastical and political networks is evident in Collins’ examination of the Irish Sea. Her chapter traces the life of the Norman noble John de Courcy. De Courcy is best known for his activities in Ireland, where he became Prince of Ulster. In many

Introduction

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ways, he embodies the kind of opportunistic, lordly, and often violent expansion which historians often see as characterizing the period c. 1000 to c. 1300.28 But, as this chapter argues, to understand De Courcy’s career one must appreciate the wide scope of his influence and connections, stretching considerably beyond Ulster. In order to prosper, John de Courcy was required to master several different political languages. In the Isle of Man, he cultivated religious institutions and made strategic gifts of patronage to secure his network of alliances. In Ireland, he adapted to the complexities of the Irish political scene, cultivating relationships with dynasties that offered him security and status. Like many Normans, he also built his way to power. The strategies of Norman conquerors and their negotiations with local and neighbouring powers also occupy Abdusalam. As this volume returns to the Mediterranean, he considers the single surviving letter from a much greater correspondence between Roger II of Sicily and al-Hafiz, the Fatimid caliph. The chapter reveals how strikingly well-informed the king and the caliph were about the other’s polity, and the extent to which Roger II was able to intervene in Fatimid politics. Abdusalam argues that the good relations between the two realms were built, first and foremost, on economic transactions: both rulers had reasons to be cordial when attempting to secure their slice of lucrative Mediterranean trade. Abdusalam’s chapter also reveals the significance of intermediaries in this exchange: viziers and emirs represented the rulers and oiled the wheels of trade; scribes were fundamental to facilitating a long-term correspondence between a Latinate and an Arabic-speaking court. This chapter concludes with the first English translation of this letter, and in doing so offers Anglophone historians access to a Fatimid view of twelfth-century transcultural exchange. Fundamental, of course, to any project of transcultural history, is the bridging of language divides and the ability of historians to work across the multiple diplomatic languages of the medi­eval world, and unpack the formal modalities of letter writing. Vukovich’s chapter makes a fitting conclusion to these contributions. Her work invites us to put the chapters in this volume in a Eurasian context by thinking about where these ‘Northmen’ fit into the study of medi­e val Rus. The Norman-ness of those Northmen remains a topic for debate. As Vukovich notes, questions of ‘Norman’ influence and identity underpinned much of the early work on Rus. Yet those arguments between ‘Normanists’ and ‘AntiNormanists’ ultimately proved unproductive. As this chapter argues, ‘Normans’ 28 

See, for example, Rees Davies, Lords and Lordship; Holden, Lords of the Central Marches.

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can be counted as just one part of a wider ‘viking diaspora’, and that diaspora in turn must be set within the complex web of relationships and exchanges happening in early Rus. We do better to consider points of contact between Scandinavia and Byzantium. Northmen play a part in that history, but to get hung up on tracing a single identity is to ignore the complexity of relations in this world. Viewed from the Steppe and Central Asia, the Norman role in Rus was peripheral, though not unimportant, as they served as transmitters of ideas and materials. This chapter links Mediterranean, Scandinavian, and Steppe culture. Having begun by asserting the importance of the sea, we return again to land. This chapter also takes us back to the material dimension of transcultural history through an analysis of numismatic evidence. In a transcultural world, coins minted in one land but pressed into service in another played a mediating role in cultural and political contact. An epilogue to this volume is provided by David Bates, whose work over a long and distinguished career provided entry to and foundation in Norman studies for several of the contributors to this volume. He provides a commentary on the chapters here and a reflection on the questions prompted by imagining the Normans at sea. From our perspective, it seems abundantly clear that medi­evalists of all types stand to gain from addressing waterborne connections. While early work on exchange and the sea concentrated on the Mediterranean, much of the most exciting and challenging work in the field has been done by scholars working on regions beyond Europe. It stands to offer new models to medi­eval European history, using rivers and seas to provide a distinctive look at how past societies organized and understood themselves.29 It is time for the Norman world to catch up with that work and engage with those approaches. Our hope is that the chapters which follow can supply suggestions for what a transcultural maritime Norman history might look like, and what that approach has to offer. And so, in the words of a modernist, not a medievalist: we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past...

29 

For example: Pauketat and Alt, Medi­eval Mississippians; Wink, ‘From the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean’; Risso, Merchants and Faith.

Introduction

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Works Cited Primary Sources Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. by Susan Eddington, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) Gerald of Wales, Giraldi Cambrensis Opera Omnia: iv. Itinerarium Kambriae et Descriptio Kambriae, ed. by James F. Dimmock, Rolls Series, 21 (London: Longman, 1868) Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. by Marjorie Chibnall, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) William of Tyre, The History of the Deeds done Beyond the Sea, ed. and trans. by Emily Atwater Babcock and August C. Krey (New York: Columbia University Press, 1943)

Secondary Studies Abrams, Lesley, ‘Diaspora and Identity in the Viking Age’, Early Medi­eval Europe, 20.1 (2012), 17–38 —— , ‘Early Normandy’, Anglo-Norman Studies, 35 (2013), 45–64 Albu, Emily, The Normans in their Histories: Propaganda, Myth and Subversion (Wood­ bridge: Boydell, 2001) Bates, David, ‘Normandy and England after 1066’, English Historical Review 104.413 (1989), 851–80 —— , The Normans and Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) Baxter, Stephen, and Christopher P. Lewis, ‘Comment identifier les propriétaires fonciers du Domesday Book en Angleterre et en Normandie? Le cas d’Osbern fitzOsbern’, in 911–2011: Penser les mondes normands médiévaux, Actes du Colloque International de Caen et Cerisy (29 septembre – 2 octobre 2011), ed. by David Bates and Pierre Bauduin (Caen: Presses universitaires de Caen, 2016), pp. 207–44 —— , ‘Domesday Book and the Transformation of English Landed Society, 1066–86’, Anglo-Saxon England, 46 (2017), 343–403 Berend, Nora, ‘Medi­evalists and the Notion of the Frontier’, The Medi­eval History Journal, 2.1 (1999), 55–72 Braudel, Fernand, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, trans. by Sian Reynolds (London: Fontana, 1975) Burkhardt, Stefan, and Thomas M. Foerster, ‘Introduction: Tradition and Heritage: The Normans in the Transcultural Middle Ages’, in Norman Tradition and Transcultural Heritage: Exchange of Cultures in the ‘Norman’ Peripheries of Medi­eval Europe, ed. by Stefan Burkhardt and Thomas M. Foerster (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 7–24 Carpentier, Vincent, ‘Du mythe colonisateur à l’histoire environnementale des côtes de la Normandie à l’époque viking: l’exemple de l’estuaire de la Dives (France, Calvados), ixe–xie siècle’, in Vers l’Orient et vers l’Occident: Regards croisés sur les dynamiques et les

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transferts culturels des Vikings à la Rous ancienne/Eastwards and Westwards: Multiple Perspectives on the Dynamics and Cultural Transfers from the Vikings to the Early Rus’, ed. by Pierre Bauduin and Alexander E. Musin (Caen: Presses Universitaires de Caen, 2014), pp. 199–213 Cotts, John D., The Clerical Dilemma: Peter of Blois and Literate Culture in the Twelfth Century (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2009) Davies, Rees R., Lords and Lordship in the British Isles in the Late Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009) Edwards, Emma, ‘Patronage and Tradition in Textile Exchange and Use in the Early Norman South’, in Designing Norman Sicily: Material Culture and Society, ed.  by Emily A. Winkler, Liam Fitzgerald, and Andrew Small (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2020), pp. 89–113 Fulton, Michael S., ‘Disaster in the Delta? Sicilian Support for the Crusades and the Siege of Alexandria, 1174’, in Warfare in the Norman Mediterranean, ed. by Georgios Theotokis (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2020), pp. 225–38 Gautier Dalché, Patrick, Du Yorkshire à L’Inde: Une ‘géo­graphie’ urbaine et maritime de la fin du xiie siècle (Geneva: Droz, 2005) Ghobrial, John-Paul, ‘The Secret Life of Elias of Babylon and the Uses of Global Microhistory’, Past and Present, 222.1 (2014), 51–93 Holden, Brock, Lords of the Central Marches: English Aristocracy and Frontier Society, 1087–1265 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) Horden, Peregrine, and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000) —— , ‘The Mediterranean and “The New Thalasso­logy”’, American Historical Review, 111.3 (2006), 722–40 Houben, Hubert, ‘Adelaide del Vasto nella storia del regno normanno di Sicilia’, Itinerari di ricerca storica, 4 (1990), 9–40, reprinted in Hubert Houben, ed., Mezzogiorno normannosvevo. Monasteri e castella, ebrei e musselmani (Naples: Liguori, 1996), pp. 81–113 —— , ‘Between Oriental and Occidental: Norman Sicily as a “Third Space”?’, in Norman Tradition and Transcultural Heritage: Exchange of Cultures in the ‘Norman Peripheries’ of Medi­eval Europe, ed.  by Stefan Burkhardt and Thomas  M. Foerster (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013), pp. 19–34 Hughes, Paul, ‘Roger of Howden’s Sailing Directions for the English Coast’, Historical Research, 85.230 (2012), 576–96 Hunt, Lynn, Writing History in the Global Era (New York: Norton, 2014) Jesch, Judith, The Viking Diaspora (Abingdon: Routledge, 2015) Kowaleski, Maryanne, ‘“Alien” Encounters in the Maritime World of Medi­eval England’, Medi­eval Encounters, 13.1 (2007), 96–121 Lambourn, Elizabeth, Abraham’s Luggage: A Social Life of Things in the Medi­eval Indian Ocean World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018) Le Patourel, John, The Norman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976) McNair, Fraser, ‘The Politics of Being Norman in the Reign of Richard the Fearless’, Early Medi­eval Europe, 23 (2015), 308–28

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Pauketat, Timothy R., and Susan M. Alt, Medi­eval Mississippians: The Cahokian World (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2015) Power, Rosemary, ‘Magnus Barelegs’ Expeditions to the West’, Scottish Historical Review, 65 (1986), 107–32 Rees Jones, Sarah, York: The Making of a City 1068–1350 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) Risso, Patricia A., Merchants and Faith: Muslim Commerce and Culture in the Indian Ocean (Boulder: Westview Press, 2018) Shichtman, Martin B., Laurie  A. Finke, and Kathleen Coyne Kelly, ‘“The world is my home when I’m mobile”: Medi­eval Mobilities’, Postmedi­eval: A  Journal of Medi­eval Cul­tural Studies, 4.2 (2013), 125–35 Stringer, Keith J., and Andrew Jotischky, eds, Norman Expansion: Connections, Con­tin­ uities and Contrasts (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013) —— , ed.,  The Normans and the ‘Norman Edge’: Peoples, Polities and Identities on the Frontiers of Medi­eval Europe (London: Routledge, 2019) Tischler, Matthias Martin, ‘Editorial – Scientific Challenges in a Changing World: Trans­ cultural Medi­eval Studies in the Twenty-First Century’, in Transcultural Approach­es to the Bible: Exegesis and Historical Writing in the Medi­eval Worlds, ed. by Matthias Martin Tischler and Patrick S. Marschner, Transcultural Medi­eval Studies, 1 (Turn­ hout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 1–8 Weltecke, Dorothea, ‘Space, Entanglement and Decentralisation: On How to Narrate the Transcultural History of Christianity (550 to 1350  ce)’, in Locating Religions: Contact, Diversity and Translocality, ed.  by Reinhold  F. Glei and Nikolas Jaspert, Dynamics in the History of Religions, 9 (Leiden: Brill, 2017), pp. 315–44 Wink, André, ‘From the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean: Medi­eval History in Geo­ graphic Perspective’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 44.3 (2002), 416–45

1. Ad Pevensae

Pevensey Castle and the Norman Conquest Mark Bowden and Allan Brodie Introduction If one fact is widely known about Pevensey Castle, it is that William the Conqueror landed there on 28 September 1066. On 14 October 1066, the Norman army defeated King Harold’s forces at the Battle of Hastings and English history was transformed. What is not so well known is the state of Pevensey Castle when William the Conqueror landed. This chapter, based on Historic England’s archaeo­logical survey and architectural investigation of the site in 2018, discusses his arrival at what can be shown to be a solid but already decaying Roman fortification,   * The authors would like to thank our colleagues Steven Baker, Dr Olaf Bayer, Damian Grady, Fiona Small, and Krysia Truscoe for their contribution to this work. Our colleagues in Historic England’s Archive, Lucinda Walker and Javis Gurr, kindly provided and licensed the images we have used. We have also benefited greatly from the support of Roy Porter of English Heritage and the staff at Pevensey Castle, Janet Taylor, and Philip Savins. Amanda Martin kindly translated the early French quotations used in this article.

Mark Bowden (markbowden.archaeo­[email protected]) has recently retired after working as a landscape archaeo­logist for Historic England and its predecessor bodies.

Allan Brodie ([email protected]) is an architectural historian and his­ torian recently retired from Historic England. He is now a Visiting Fellow at Bourne­ mouth University.

Abstract: After a risky Channel crossing, the Normans landed at Pevensey Castle in 1066, which is shown here to have been an undefended, partly ruined Roman fort. They secured the eastern part of it by constructing an earth and timber fortification. Here Bishop Odo held a feast, an event depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry. A small garrison was left to defend the site while the main force moved to Hastings before the decisive Norman victory. This move has been assumed to have been overland, but evidence is provided that it was at least in part by sea. After victory, we suggest that the Normans replaced Pevensey’s temporary earthworks with something more substantial that stood for nearly 200 years. They also erected the stone keep, a symbol of triumph deliberately invoking the mastery of the Romans a millennium before, an empire they wished to emulate militarily and culturally. Keywords: Normans, Romans, Pevensey, fortifications, earthworks Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 21–48 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134140

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its south wall having already partially fallen victim to the sea.1 To secure the site, a rapidly constructed fortification was created to enclose the east end of the Roman fort. Pevensey Castle remained in use as a defensive structure apparently continuously from the eleventh century to the fourteenth century, and thus it is likely that this first defensive structure was soon replaced by something more substantial, which in turn was superseded during the mid-thirteenth century by the current castle. This essay is not intended as a general discussion of Anglo-Norman castle architecture but a presentation of some specific features and details of Pevensey.2 The absence of evidence for this intermediate phase leads to the conclusion that it must have broadly occupied the same area as the existing medi­eval castle and that such a spatial arrangement would have made a fitting context for the monumental Norman keep. We argue that its peculiar form, with oversized bastions, was a conscious decision to emulate, if clumsily, the Roman fortification within which it stood, and by so doing symbolically link the conquering Norman dynasty with the might of the Roman Empire.

The Arrival of William the Conqueror The now-accepted origins of Pevensey Castle are that the Saxon Shore Fort was built in ad 293 or soon after, and was known as Anderitum (Fig. 1.1).3 It was first mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle in ad 491 when it is stated that ‘Ælle and Cissa besieged Andredesceaster, and killed all who were inside, and there was not even a single Briton left alive’.4 This event is now thought to have taken place twenty years earlier.5 There may have, perhaps inevitably, been a hiatus in the occupation of the site following the massacre, but a community had become re-established by the mid-seventh century.6 In the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Pevensey does not feature from the fifth century until the reign of Edward the Confessor, when there are a number of mentions of its haven or 1 

Bowden, Brodie, and Small, ‘Pevensey Castle’. General discussions can be found for instance in Renn, Norman Castles in Britain; Wheatley, The Idea of the Castle, pp. 126–33. 3  Fulford and Tyers, ‘The Date of Pevensey’, pp. 1011–12; Pearson, The Roman Shore Forts, pp. 34 and 59–60. 4  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 491 (s.a. 490 MS F), trans., English Historical Documents, i, p. 160. 5  Morris, The Age of Arthur, p. 40; Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, pp. 1 and 41. 6  Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 41. 2 

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Figure 1.1. Recent aerial photo­graph of Pevensey. [NMR 27303/026]. Photo © Historic England Archive, reproduced with permission. The sea originally lay to the south (bottom and left) of the castle, while access into Pevensey Haven was to the east (right).

anchorage.7 The reason for its re-emergence may be due to Edward’s greater focus on relations with Normandy than towards Scandinavia; he was looking south across the Channel rather than east across the North Sea. For Pevensey, the culmination in the Chronicle’s narrative is of course William the Conqueror’s arrival there on 28 September 1066.8 In the 1120s, Orderic Vitalis wrote that after waiting for suitable weather to cross the channel, ‘reaching the coast of England, where they met with no opposition, [the Normans] gladly came ashore. They took possession of Pevensey and Hastings, and gave them into the charge of chosen soldiers as a base for the army and shelter for the fleet’.9 Why Pevensey? There has been much debate about the crossing, the delays at Dives, the move to St Valery, the numbers and types of vessels involved, and 7 

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 1049 C, D, E and 1052 E, trans., English Historical Documents, ii, pp. 112 and 126. 8  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle D 1066, trans., English Historical Documents, ii, pp. 147. 9  Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, book iii (ii, pp. 170–71).

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it will not be repeated here; the sources are too slight to bear a great weight of interpretation and much of the discussion is speculative.10 Pevensey may have been William’s intended landing place, as some commentators have assumed. However, given the difficulties of navigating the English Channel with the maritime techno­logy then available, it is likely that Pevensey was one of a number of possible landing places as wind and tide served, and it is recorded that some of William’s ships made landfall at or near Romney, about 48 km to the east.11 William of Poitiers prefaces his account of the landing with the phrase, ‘carried by a favourable breeze to Pevensey’.12 Little is known of the maritime expertise available to the Conqueror, though there was presumably a considerable body of experience of conditions in the Channel at William’s command. The captain of his own ship, Stephen son of Airand, was a comparatively young man at the time, which may indicate confidence, and the Normans had access to the expertise of foreign sailors.13 With such a large fleet under his command, perhaps around 700 vessels, William would have needed a large, calm, and defensible anchorage; therefore, Pevensey was a good choice (Fig. 1.2).14 However, Hastings itself might have been a better option; although it lacked a sheltered anchorage, it did have a long beach that the invasion fleet could have used, in the same way as the town’s fishing boats use the east end of the beach today. The landing at Pevensey necessitated a further move to Hastings, and there is no clear evidence as to how this was achieved. Many authorities have assumed a march, leaving the boats behind, and Freeman even suggested that a Roman road ran east from Pevensey towards Hastings.15 This, of course, is impossible as the area to the east of Pevensey was open water or tidal salt-marsh in the Roman period. Even by the mid-eleventh century a march from Pevensey to Hastings would have required a long detour inland.

10 

See Gilmor, ‘Naval Logistics of the Cross-Channel Operation, 1066’; Bachrach, ‘Some Observations on the Military Administration of the Norman Conquest’; van Houts, ‘The Ship List of William the Conqueror’; Grainge and Grainge, ‘The Pevensey Expedition’. 11  Grainge and Grainge, ‘The Pevensey Expedition’; Morris, The Norman Conquest, p. 171; Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of England, iii, p. 410. 12  William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ii. 8, pp. 112–13. 13  Van Houts, ‘The Ship List of William the Conqueror’, pp. 172–73; O’Donnell, ‘The “Carmen de Hastingae Proelio”’; Douglas, The Norman Achievement, p. 85 n. 56. 14  Van Houts, ‘The Ship List of William the Conqueror’, pp. 169–70. 15  Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of England, iii, p. 407.

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Figure 1.2. This map shows Pevensey between the time of the Roman occupation and the early medi­eval period. © Mark Bowden, based on Lyne 2009, p. 7. Reproduced by permission. It probably also reflects broadly the topo­graphy of the site at the time of the Norman landing.

It seems likely that at least some of William’s troops and equipment went to Hastings by sea. As will be discussed later, the fleet transported elements of a prefabricated castle that would be erected at Hastings; this would have been much easier to move by sea from Pevensey than by road. This assertion is in contrast to Wace’s account in the Roman de Rou (c. 1160–1174), written a century after the event, that when William the Conqueror landed in England he commanded ‘the sailors that the ships were to be broken up and pulled up on land with holes in them so that the cowards could not return and use the ships to take flight in’.16 While such an action might have encouraged the stranded Norman forces to fight for their lives, it seems to be at odds with leaving a garrison at Pevensey and would have removed one potentially useful military tool from the invaders’ arsenal. In contrast, William of Poitiers wrote in the 1070s that the Normans ‘occupied Pevensey with their first fortification, and Hastings with their second, as a refuge for themselves and a defence for their ships’.17 16  17 

Wace, Roman de Rou, trans. p. 165. William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ii. 9, pp. 114–15.

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As mentioned above, Orderic Vitalis recorded that the Normans left behind ‘chosen soldiers as a base for the army and shelter for the fleet’.18 Perhaps some ships were dismantled due to incurring damage or being surplus to requirement, rather than the entire fleet being broken up, as in 1067 William sailed back to Normandy in triumph from Pevensey.19 Judging the value of the relevant contemporary and near contemporary written sources inevitably depends on their chrono­logical proximity to the events described, the motives for compiling the document, and the character of the author. William of Jumièges (fl. 1026–1070) wrote about the events of 1066 soon after the Conquest, probably at the request of the Conqueror himself when he visited Jumièges in the summer of 1067.20 He based his description of events on other people’s information and it is therefore patchy and uncertain in places, though apparently more informative about events after the battle of Hastings. William of Poitiers (b. c. 1020, d. after 1087) wrote the Gesta Guillelmi between 1071 and 1077.21 As he appears to have been William the Conqueror’s chaplain for many years, both before and after the Conquest of England, this meant that he would have been close to people involved with the events of 1066. Yet it also suggests that he would be likely to seek to celebrate the Conqueror’s achievements and to justify the invasion of England. William of Poitiers was an accomplished Latinist and therefore, as will be discussed, he sought flattering classical parallels for the contemporary events and figures he was experiencing. Other significant sources were written in the century following the Conquest and draw on these earlier works. Orderic Vitalis (1075–c. 1142), a Benedictine monk and historian, made his own copy of the Gesta Normannorum ducum of William of Jumièges, revising it, and partially rewriting the description of the Norman Conquest of England. Gesta regum Anglorum, by William of Malmesbury (b. c. 1090, d. in or after 1142), is a history of England from the eighth century until it was completed in 1125–6 and revised in subsequent years.22 In the Roman de Rou, written in c. 1160–1174, Wace (b. after 1100, d. 1174/83) drew on various written sources, and particularly the version of the Gesta Normannorum ducum adapted by Orderic Vitalis, as well as relying 18 

Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, book iii (ii, pp. 170–71). Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of England, iv, pp. 77–80; Brown, The Normans and the Norman Conquest, pp. 187–88; Morris, The Norman Conquest, pp. 202–03. 20  William of Jumièges, Gesta Normannorum Ducum; ODNB, s.n. Jumièges, William of. 21  William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi; Chibnall, ‘Poitiers, William of ’. 22  William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum; Thomson, ‘Malmsbury, William of ’. 19 

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on oral sources and traditional narratives.23 Van Houts provided examples of Wace’s conscientiousness as a historian though she noted that there were concerns about the origins of some of his information about the Norman Conquest of England.24

Pevensey Castle in 1066 The Saxon Shore Fort at Pevensey where William the Conqueror landed was located at the tip of a peninsula, its eastern end overlooking the access to a sheltered bay and marshland.25 The open sea lay along the south side of the site and today the fortification’s cliff top setting is still obvious, though deposition and reclamation has led to the sea now lying 1.6 km to the south-east of the site. There is evidence to suggest that this process was under way by the twelfth century, when some documents suggest more land was becoming usable and the availability of water for a mill was proving to be more difficult.26 The converse of deposition is erosion and this process was occurring from an early date along the south side of the Roman fortification. The absence of large sections of Roman wall, even in their collapsed form, points to the action of the sea, first in undermining the wall, leading to its collapse, and then to much of its remains being washed away (Fig. 1.3). The common assumption is that this may have occurred somewhere between 1066 and the sixteenth-century abandonment of the castle. In a 1318 report on the state of the fabric of the castle, the breach was said to be 20 perches in length, just over 100 m, and therefore approximately half as long as the current gap in the wall.27 Lyne did consider an early date for the first stages of the collapse in passing, but did not provide evidence for this idea.28 Archaeo­logical studies have suggested that the levels between Pevensey Castle and the current line of the sea had been created by the end of the Middle Ages, and therefore, any significant action by the sea must have occurred before that date.29 23 

van Houts, ‘Wace as Historian’, p. xxxviii; Blacker, ‘Wace’. van Houts, ‘Wace as Historian’, p. xl. 25  Hill, An Atlas of Anglo-Saxon England, p. 15; Pearson, The Roman Shore Forts, p. 118; Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, pp. 6–7; Fulford and Rippon, Pevensey Castle, p. 2. 26  Salzmann, ‘The Inning of Pevensey Levels’, p. 38. 27  Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 18. 28  Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 44. 29  Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, pp. 6–7; Fulford and Rippon, Pevensey Castle, pp. 1–2. 24 

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Figure 1.3. Recent aerial photo­graph of cliffs at Pevensey Castle. [NMR 27303/024]. Photo © Historic England Archive, published with permission. The sea originally lay to the south (left) of Pevensey Castle, where the original low cliffs on which it stood can be seen. Much of the south wall of the Roman fortification has slid into the sea and mostly been washed away, but one section that may have collapsed in c. 1193 can be seen on the slope beneath the medieval castle (bottom centre).

There may be physical evidence to suggest that some of the south wall of the Roman fortification had disappeared by 1066. The sea must have still been relatively close to the castle around 1193, the approximate date when the postern gate was constructed to replace a section of Roman wall and a bastion that had collapsed. This ancient fabric survives and has not been removed or washed away, whereas some other sections of the south wall of the Roman fortification have more comprehensively disappeared. This may suggest that their demise occurred somewhat earlier. There is some documentary evidence that may support an early date for the initial breaching of the south wall facing the sea.30 Guy of Amiens, writ30 

Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, pp. 9 and 16.

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ing in 1068 or thereabouts, hints that existing fortifications had recently been destroyed: ‘Guarding the shore and fearing to lose your ships, you protect them by walls, and pitch a camp there. You rebuild the castles that were lately destroyed, and place custodians in them to guard them’.31 It is unclear whether Guy of Amiens was referring to the neglected, recently fallen walls of Pevensey or fortifications in general that had been poorly maintained. An ancient, undefended fort with an adjacent large anchorage would have been a suitable place for William to land his invasion force and partially refortify it to garrison it, so as to cover any withdrawal. Had there been a contested landing, which the Normans heroically overcame, this would have surely featured prominently in contemporary sources. Instead, documentary evidence suggests that there was little to impede William’s progress on landing; Orderic Vitalis relates that the Normans met no resistance, and the Bayeux Tapestry, created a few years after 1066, depicts an uneventful disembarkation at Pevensey.32 It is likely that the Roman fortification was not garrisoned and perhaps thought to be incapable, or unworthy, of being manned. Could William the Conqueror have known that Pevensey Castle might be undefended? The evidence of both chronicles and individual contemporary writers is that there was frequent contact between the two sides of the Channel in the mid-eleventh century and William was good at collecting and using military intelligence.33 Therefore, there is no reason why William would not have known about the current state of the English coast and its defences. In the 1120s, Orderic Vitalis wrote that ‘chosen soldiers as a base for the army and shelter for the fleet’ were left at Pevensey, and Benoit de St Maur, writing a century after the invasion, says that the Duke caused some of his knights to garrison Pevensey for two years: Chevalers bons des sues genz Laissa li dux assez dedenz Por tenir le deus anz garniz34

31 

Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 42. Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 42; Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, book iii (ii, pp. 170–71). This is also implied by William of Poitiers’s account, which makes no mention of any hostilities to the ‘gaudentes’ (rejoicing) Normans (William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ii. 9, pp. 114–15). 33  Gillingham, ‘William the Bastard at War’, pp. 154–55. 34  Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, book iii (ii, pp. 170–71); quoted in Taylor, Wace, His Chronicle of the Norman Conquest, p. 124. 32 

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(Good knights from amongst his people left the duke therein To defend them for two years)

To make the site defensible for two years, the Normans would have carried out some work. William of Jumièges, writing soon after the Conquest, used the term firmissimo vallo castrum condidit (a strongly entrenched castle) for the defensive structure created at Pevensey; William of Poitiers said that a munitio (fortification) was raised.35 Benoit de St Maur briefly described the formation of the first fort, which he placed at Pevensey: Od joie e od tens duz e bel Arrivent a Pevenesel. Iloc sempres desus le port Ferment un chastel bel e fort.36 (With joy and in the kind and beautiful daylight They arrived in Pevensey. There above the harbour they immediately built a handsome and strong fort.)

Writers in the eleventh and twelfth centuries probably lacked the language to distinguish between a general fortification and a castle, and so the extent of the original defences will remain uncertain. However, it is clear that William undertook some work to secure the site. The Bayeux Tapestry is silent on any work taking place at Pevensey; after the disembarkation, Norman troops are shown riding around the countryside to acquire provisions for a banquet hosted by Bishop Odo, William’s half-brother. In the background to one of the cooking scenes, there is a structure flanked by a pair of turrets. These scenes occur in the Bayeux Tapestry between landing at Pevensey and the ordering by Robert of Mortain of the construction of the castle at Hastings, which would have taken place prior to the battle on 14 October 1066. Might the embroidered structure be an attempt to represent Pevensey Castle, a plausible place for a banquet to be held prior to moving on to Hastings? The Bayeux Tapestry illustrates the construction of the castle at Hastings. Men can be seen digging up earth and stones, apparently to create the motte around the timber structure of the keep. After mentioning the ‘strongly 35  William of Jumièges, Gesta Normannorum Ducum, p. 167; William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ii. 9, pp. 114–15; see Brown, The Norman Conquest of England, p. 29. 36  Quoted in Taylor, Wace, His Chronicle of the Norman Conquest, pp. 123–24.

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entrenched fortification’ created at Pevensey, William of Jumièges says that: ‘He entrusted it to his warriors and speedily went to Hastings, where he quickly raised another one’.37 Wace, writing in the Roman de Rou, provides more detail about the type of fortifications being prepared immediately after disembarkation. Admittedly writing a century after the events, he described the construction of the first Norman fortification in England: The carpenters, who came next, held great axes in their hands, and they had adzes and mattocks hanging by their sides. When they had joined the archers and got together with the knights, they decided on a good spot to establish a strong fortress. Then they threw down from the ships and dragged on land the wood which the Count of Eu had brought there, all pierced and trimmed. They had brought all the trimmed pegs in great barrels. Before leaving, they had built a small castle with it and made a ditch round it, creating a great fortress there.38

This is a clear description of a prefabricated timber structure that could be quickly erected on arrival in England. If Wace’s time line is to be believed, this fortification was erected immediately on landing; however, he believed that the Normans had landed somewhere other than at Pevensey. Soon after, he writes that: ‘the first day they arrived there, they stayed close to the shore and the next day they came to the castle called Pevensey’.39 An alternative view about the landing and castle building has been suggested.40 This notes the reference in the Bayeux Tapestry to the erection of the castle at Haestingaceaster, which elsewhere is called ‘hESTINGA’ or ‘HESTENGA’. The suffix ‘CEASTRA’ suggests that the Normans built the castle at the site of an existing fort, which would point to Pevensey. On this reading, Haestingaceaster is an alternative name for Pevensey, and Hastings is the name of the whole area rather than a specific place. The tapestry and other sources use both names. If this reading is correct it might tie in with the account of Wace, suggesting the forces landed, then moved to Pevensey and thence to Hastings. However, this theory, which postulates that Pevensey had been developed as an Alfredian burh, has been much criticized. It seems that though Pevensey probably was a ninth-century burh and may then have been called

37 

William of Jumièges, Gesta Normannorum Ducum, p. 167. Wace, Roman de Rou, pp. 163–64. 39  Wace, Roman de Rou, p. 165. 40  Combes and Lyne, ‘Hastings, Haestingaceaster and Haestingaport’; Rowley, An Archaeo­ logical Study of the Bayeux Tapestry, p. 160. 38 

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Hestingaceastra, by the eleventh century the name would have been transferred to the Aethelredian burh established at Hastings itself in the late 980s.41 Wace then tells of an English soldier who saw the arrival and rushed to inform King Harold: He took up position behind a mound so that no one could see him; he stood there watching how the great fleet arrived. He saw the archers emerging from the ships, and afterwards the knights disembarking. He saw the carpenters, their axes, the large numbers of men, the knights, the building material thrown down from the ships, the construction and fortification of the castle and the ditch built all round it, the shields and the weapons brought forth.42

There is clearly some confusion in Wace’s account, but the detail of his description of the prefabricated structure and the testimony of the Bayeux Tapestry regarding the rapid construction of the castle at Hastings seems to suggest that the Normans came with at least one pre-prepared fortification. Therefore, might they have brought two; William of Jumièges equated the structure erected at Pevensey with the castle subsequently constructed at Hastings.43 Or, perhaps more plausibly, they brought a ready supply of timbers that could be used for any rapidly required fortification. No trace of an early motte has been found at Pevensey but any evidence might have been destroyed by the construction of the keep or the thirteenth-century castle. There is possible evidence of William’s enclosing fortification, however. An earthwork exists running southwards from bastion 3 in the north wall of the Roman fortification and previous authors have suggested that this was William’s hastily constructed defence cutting off the eastern part of the Roman fort. Instead, re-evaluation of an earlier excavation suggests that this earthwork dates from the mid-thirteenth century and is contemporary with the construction of the stone castle, rather than predating it.44 There was, however, another slighter ditch extending southwards from the north-east wall of the Roman fortification, dating from between the mid-Saxon period and 1100.45 This apparently hurried earthwork may be the first Norman fortification, securing the east part of the Roman fort, the most intact continuous stretch of Roman walling located on the side strategically overlooking the haven (Fig. 1.4). 41 

Haslam, ‘The Location of the Burh of Haestingeceastre’. Wace, Roman de Rou, p. 165. 43  van Houts, The Gesta Normannorum Ducum, p. 167. 44  Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 61 fig. 15A. 45  Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, pp. 57–58 figs 11D and 15C. 42 

1. Ad Pevensae Figure 1.4. Phase diagram showing the conjectural earth and timber fortification of 1066 and its rapid replacement. © Olaf Bayer, published with permission.

Figure 1.5. Photo­graph of the keep of Pevensey Castle from the north [DP236256]. Photo © Historic England Archive, published with permission. The undisturbed stonework of the ground floor of the keep is in contrast to the robbed-out rubble core, surviving above. A fragment of wall that may have been the base of the stair into the keep can be seen on the left of the photo­graph; to the right can be seen the postern gate, which was probably built in 1193.

33

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The construction of this earthwork can be used to support the assertion that the southern, seaward side of the fortification was already succumbing to the action of the sea. To make the site a safe base for the Norman invasion force, it was necessary to create a new, secure, smaller enclosed area, hence the construction of the ditch and bank, and presumably a rudimentary palisade at least. This small fortification would prove easier to defend than a large, incomplete enclosure, if Norman forces had to fall back. Similar ‘cornering off ’ exercises by the Normans took place at the Tower of London, where the initial defences and the White Tower were built in the angle between the Roman city wall and the Thames, while at Portchester a new Norman fortification was created in one corner of the Saxon Shore Fort.46 How long did this initial arrangement remain in use at Pevensey? The initial ditch and bank seem to have been modest and hurried, and are unlikely to have proved to be sufficiently strong to last until the medi­eval castle was constructed in the mid-thirteenth century. Malcolm Lyne, who first suggested that this earthwork belonged to the Conquest period, described it as ‘a weak defensive work’.47 However, documentary evidence, reviewed below, reveals that Pevensey Castle was an active military and political site during the 200 years after 1066, including holding out for six weeks in the siege of 1088, implying that there was a more significant defensible structure there. Apart from the keep, there is no evidence of any other structures or earthworks from this period; however, timber palisades are mentioned as late as the mid-thirteenth century (see below). It seems plausible that any missing fortification built at some point between 1066 and the mid-thirteenth century may have broadly occupied the footprint of the existing medi­e val castle walls and the surrounding moat; this would explain why there is no evidence for this necessary intermediate phase. In addition, as will be discussed elsewhere, the mid-thirteenth century castle was built in stages, albeit probably in rapid succession, presumably so that it could remain operational as a defensible structure if required.48 This phased programme may also indicate that the intermediate defensive structure followed broadly the lines of the medi­eval castle.

46 

Wheatley, The Idea of the Castle, pp. 49 and 127. Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, pp. 57–58. 48  Brodie and Bowden, ‘At Pevensey doth a ruin’d Castle stand’. 47 

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The Enigma of the Keep The most impressive — and the most enduring — action of the Normans at Pevensey was the creation of the stone keep (Fig. 1.5). It was constructed against the south-east wall of the Roman fortification, probably in the decades immediately after 1066. There is no obvious dating evidence in the surviving fabric and the dates suggested for the keep have ranged from the late eleventh or early twelfth century to the end of the twelfth century.49 Some work was almost certainly occurring between 1100 and 1123 and there is reference to a turris de Penvesel in 1130.50 Derek Renn said that he had found a piece of pottery from an early floor that was likely to predate the 1120s.51 The form of this Norman keep has puzzled historians; its monumental scale is in marked contrast to the small area that it encloses; it provides an internal space of approximately 17 m by 9 m per floor (Fig. 1.6). Attached to the northwest face is a huge bastion, while there are two slightly smaller, though still monumental, bastions facing westwards. On the east side, there were apparently two further eastward projecting bastions that may have collapsed during the fourteenth century. The two west-facing bastions are not parallel to each other, or the keep, and observing this, Renn noted that: ‘Inability to construct a true right angle is typical of the eleventh century, and can be seen in otherwise excellent masonry at Chepstow, Colchester, the White Tower, Pevensey, and Westminster Hall’.52 The ashlar (high quality facing masonry) of the ground floor of the keep has not been robbed, as it was covered by an earth or clay mound. The surviving fabric reveals no openings and therefore access was apparently at first floor level via a ‘bridge’. In 1289–1290, lead sheets were being placed on the western part of the great tower and other work was being carried out to the keep that involved raising joists and work to cover ‘the bridge of the great tower’.53 It is likely that the reference to a bridge is a stairway up to a first-floor entrance, presumably at the west side of the keep, where the lead sheets were 49 

Peers, ‘Pevensey Castle’, p. 7; Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 47; Fulford and Rippon, Pevensey Castle, pp. 126 and 128. 50  Renn, ‘The Anglo-Norman Keep, 1066–1138’, p. 4; Peers, ‘Pevensey Castle’, p. 7; Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 2. 51  Renn, ‘The Anglo-Norman Keep, 1066–1138’, p. 4; this sherd is apparently lost, so its date cannot be confirmed. 52  Renn, ‘The Anglo-Norman Keep, 1066–1138’, p. 22. 53  Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 11.

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Figure 1.6. Plan of the keep. © Mark Bowden, based on Renn 1971, p. 56, reproduced with permission. This shows both the irregularity of the layout of the bastions and their excessive monumentality compared to the small area of the building within.

to be deployed. An obvious location for this entrance is between the two large bastions dominating the west side of the keep, but there are two small sections of wall located to the west side of the northern end of the keep that require consideration. One wall projects 8.2 m westwards from the north end of the northern bastion, while another, shorter wall, 6.1 m long, is set at an angle between the keep and the projecting wall. Both are now simply short stumps of rubble core, any ashlar facing having been robbed. It is not possible to posit any definite function for these walls, but it is possible that they relate to some form of stair arrangement to provide access to the upper floor of the keep. If access was via an external bridge, an internal stair of some form would have been needed to access the ground floor level of the keep. Early French fortified towers were usually entered from about 6 m above ground level, creating a sort of basement at ground floor level and this arrange-

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ment required either a retractable ladder or a timber bridge.54 This was also a common arrangement in keeps in England until the forebuilding was developed.55 A number of castles depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry (Bayeux, Dinan, Dol, and Rennes) have bridges up to the entrances of keeps and some incorporate a form of gateway on the structures. By the eighteenth century, the ground floor of the keep was covered by a mound of earth or clay. Limited archaeo­logical evidence suggests a sixteenthcentury or later date.56 However, can the lack of access to the ground floor of the keep, and the absence of any openings, be explained by the presence of the mound from an earlier date? The presence of high-quality ashlar on the ground floor suggests that the earthwork is not an original feature, whereas the absence of any openings might suggest the opposite. Interestingly, in the early eleventh century at Doué-laFontaine (Maine-et-Loire), a motte was added around the base of a previously free-standing stone great tower, but the tower was soon demolished down to the level of the motte.57 Richards Castle (Herefordshire) had the lower parts of a buried octagonal tower around which the motte was banked up.58 A stone foundation was found in the motte at Caerleon (Gwent) and a mound was added to the lower storey of the stone tower at Farnham (Hampshire), though here the masonry was deliberately designed to be covered by earth.59 Therefore, covering the ground floor would not be an unprecedented arrangement for a stone keep, and it was also certainly used in the construction of timber keeps.60 For instance, the motte at Penwortham was thrown up over a circular wooden building and the motte was created around a timber tower at South Mimms (Middlesex).61 The hastily constructed castle at Hastings, as depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry, is likely to have been a timber tower around which earth was

54 

Thompson, The Rise of the Castle, p. 39. Thompson, The Rise of the Castle, pp. 67–68. 56  Goodall, Pevensey Castle, p. 27; Fulford and Rippon, Pevensey Castle, p. 31. 57  Brown, Castles from the Air, p. 33. 58  Thompson, The Rise of the Castle, p. 51. 59  Renn, Norman Castles in Britain, p. 32; Thompson, ‘Excavations in Farnham Castle Keep’, pp. 102–03; Thompson, The Rise of the Castle, pp. 55–70. 60  Baillie-Hislop, Castle Builders, p. 31. 61  Renn, Norman Castles in Britain, p. 32; Higham, ‘Timber Castles’, p. 59; Wyeth, ‘Mediaeval Timber Motte Towers’, p. 135. 55 

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banked.62 Against an early date for the mound at Pevensey is its irregular form, as depicted in an eighteenth-century view and nineteenth-century carto­graphy. If the earthwork was of an early date, it might be expected to be more circular and regular, and the quality of the stonework of the keep argues against an early date for the mound at Pevensey. Lyne has suggested that some fabric at bastion 11, where the keep was constructed against the Roman walling, may be of Late Saxon date and not later than the late eleventh century.63 The character of its coursed rubble is in marked contrast to the monumental ashlar of the keep; while there is likely to be some difference in date between the rubble and the ashlar work, this may not necessarily be decades, instead perhaps being more indicative of using native craftsmen for a functional repair and more sophisticated Norman masons constructing the keep. Unfortunately, this part of the building was covered in foliage and inaccessible at the time of our investigation, making any confirmation of relative, or absolute, dating impossible. The keep encloses a relatively small area, a footprint appropriate perhaps for a large hall on one of the floors. Therefore, to be of practical use, perhaps it was three or four stories high, similar to many towers in castles in contemporary northern France, but in this case, it could also have served as an aid to navigation into the adjacent anchorage. This begs the question of whether Pevensey might also at some date have had a lighthouse, or at least a light in a building at night? A tall keep might have served this function, or it may have been accommodated in the upper story of one of the Roman bastions around the perimeter. Bastion 3 is the only one that now has an upper storey above the height of the Roman perimeter wall, an addition that appears to belong to the eleventh century.64 However, it is on the inland side of the Roman fort and therefore perhaps unlikely to be for navigation purposes. The monumental form of the keep, its huge bastions and its contrasting relatively small size, has sent authors searching for parallels across the Norman Empire and northern France. Langeais (Indre-et-Loire) has a small rectangular donjon reputedly dating from c. 1000 and Loches in the same department has a keep with curved buttresses that dates from the early eleventh century.65 At Houdan (Île-de-France) the keep of c. 1120 has large curved buttresses at 62 

Higham, ‘Timber Castles’, p. 54. Lyne, Excavations at Pevensey Castle, p. 47. 64  Shapland, Pevensey Castle, p. 6 figs 9–10. 65  Baillie-Hislop, Castle Builders, pp. 89–91. 63 

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Figure 1.7. Photo of the West Gate. [DP236266]. Photo © Historic England Archive, published with permission. The West Gate of the Roman fort was flanked by monumental bastions, a formula that may have inspired the design of the Norman keep.

its four corners.66 Perhaps the keep of Pevensey echoes some continental forms that we are unfamiliar with, and have not survived. If the keep belongs to a single phase of work, it is unlike anything built anywhere else in Britain, but if, as some authors have suggested, the monumental bastions were added at the site of original pilaster buttresses, this too would be difficult to parallel.67 Curved bastions are a feature more evocative of the thirteenth century than the eleventh 66  67 

Platt, The Castle in Medi­eval England and Wales, p. 21. Renn, ‘The turris de Penuesel’, p. 61; Fulford and Rippon, Pevensey Castle, pp. 126 and 143.

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or twelfth centuries, as can be seen in the mid-thirteenth century castle constructed around the keep at Pevensey. However, nowhere is this architectural form treated so oddly, and even perhaps ineptly, as in the keep. Instead, it seems most plausible that the keep is early in date and that the main inspiration for its monumental bastions was the surrounding Roman fortification, particularly paying homage to the monumentality of the Roman West Gate (Fig. 1.7).68 The keep could perhaps be as much a statement as a building, sending a strong message to the conquered English of Norman dominance and their continuing presence. Might there be another symbolic dimension to the structure, its monumentality deliberately marking this as the place where the Normans first set foot in England in 1066? Could the awkward reflection of Roman forms be used to suggest an early date, its irregular, rather overblown form being a far cry from the sophisticated and more symmetrical castle building projects of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries? The Romans had commemorated their conquest at Richborough with a monumental arch, but admittedly the Normans could not have known about that structure because it was razed during the late third century and was not re-interpreted until the twentieth century.69 The Normans, and William the Conqueror in particular, seem to have been conscious of the Romans’ legacy and chroniclers regularly paralleled the ancient empire with the growing Norman one, perhaps in an attempt to legitimize it.70 William was prone to compare himself favourably to Caesar and other classical heroes; a number of the primary sources for the events of 1066 make explicit and flattering comparisons between William and Caesar in an act of cross-chrono­logical transculturalism.71 According to a legend that was recorded in the early twelfth century by William of Malmesbury and Wace later in the century, William the Conqueror landing, presumably at Pevensey, fell on the beach, taking England in his hands.72 This story is a direct copy of a 68 

Renn, ‘The turris de Penuesel’, p. 62; Renn, ‘The Turris de Penuesel: A Final Note’; Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 209. 69  Strong, ‘The Monument’, pp. 40–73; Wilmott, Richborough and Reculver, pp. 110–11. 70  Davison, ‘Three Eleventh-Century Earthworks in England’, pp. 40–41; Gillingham, ‘William the Bastard at War’, pp. 141–42; Wheatley, The Idea of the Castle, pp. 54–55 and 130–32; Heslop, Regarding the Spectators of the Bayeux Tapestry, pp. 237–41. 71  Wheatley, The Idea of the Castle, p. 131; Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of England, 4, p. 79; Lawson, The Battle of Hastings 1066, pp. 88, 98–99 and 102; O’Donnell, ‘The “Carmen de Hastingae Proelio”’, p. 162. 72  William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, book iii, 238, pp. 450–51; Wace, Roman de Rou, p. 164.

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tale that was told of Julius Caesar landing in Africa and was designed to flatter William.73 William of Poitiers and Orderic Vitalis underlined the comparison by likening William’s advisors to the Roman senate.74 Poets also made the flattering link between William and Caesar; Baudri of Bourgueil in his late-eleventh-century poem ‘To Countess Adela’ wrote that: Having conquered a kingdom, the king also kept his duchy; Duke then and king, he deserved ‘caesar’ as title as well. While he lived, he alone kept both these titles and honours, Higher than any duke, highest of Caesars, too.75

The Normans, like other powerful medi­e val elites, used their own particular understanding of the classical world for their own ends. These Norman historians and poets wished to demonstrate their classical learning but were also confident that their intended audiences would understand the references. What would be more natural, therefore, than that William should commemorate his conquest of England by the construction of a tower that made direct reference to Roman military architecture at Pevensey? The better-known foundation of Battle Abbey commemorated his victory in a different way but perhaps also carried similar architectural meanings with its forms, in contemporary ‘Romanesque’ style, based on classical Roman models.76 If the keep was meant as a statement, who, apart from William the Conqueror, could be making that statement, and when? After the battle of Hastings, Pevensey was held by William the Conqueror and later his halfbrother, Robert, count of Mortain (d. 1095), who had obtained it by 1082 at the latest.77 A charter dating from between 1070 and 1085 issued in Pevensey saw the Priory of St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall being granted to MontSaint-Michel in Normandy; interestingly, the Norman monastery is depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry, and Robert claims to have carried the standard of St Michael at the Battle of Hastings.78 William’s first voyage back to Normandy 73  Lawson, The Battle of Hastings 1066, pp. 66–67; G. Suetonius Tranquillus, Lives of the Twelve Caesars, para­graphs 59 and 83. 74  William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ii. 2, pp. 102–03; Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, book iii (ii, pp. 140–41). The latter copying the former. 75  Otter, ‘Baudri of Bourgueil, “To Countess Adela”’, p. 79. 76  Wheatley, The Idea of the Castle, pp. 89 and 132. 77  Renn, ‘The turris de Penuesel’, p. 61; Creighton, Castles and Landscapes, p. 43. 78  Spear, ‘Robert of Mortain and the Bayeux Tapestry’, p. 77.

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in March 1067 was from Pevensey, presumably because the fleet had overwintered there. At Pevensey, William paid off a number of Norman knights for their support in England before they too embarked for home and he took with him a number of leading English figures as hostages, and perhaps to decapitate any potential English rebellion.79 Between 1067 and 1087 William crossed the Channel around nineteen times; subsequent voyages seem to have been to and from elsewhere on the south coast and it is not clear if Pevensey was used after 1067.80 Ports further west on the English coast were probably more practical for voyages to Normandy. Robert, Count of Mortain was present at William I’s deathbed at Rouen in 1087, when he is reported to have led those who asked the king to release Odo, earl of Kent and bishop of Bayeux (and Count Robert’s brother), from perpetual imprisonment. In 1088, Robert joined the baronial rebellion against William Rufus and held the castle at Pevensey against the king. His brother Odo took refuge there after the capture of Tonbridge, and when the garrison surrendered after a six-week siege, Odo was forced into exile, though his brother Robert was soon pardoned and Pevensey remained among his family’s possessions.81 Rebellion seems to have run in the Mortain dynasty as Robert’s son and successor, Count William of Mortain, rose against Henry I unsuccessfully. Henry spent part of the summer of 1101 at Pevensey awaiting Robert’s invasion force which, however, actually arrived at Portsmouth. In the same year, Pevensey Castle was granted to Gilbert de l’Aigle.82 Gilbert’s grandfather, Engenulf, was one of the few recorded ‘companions of William’ and the only named Norman killed at the Battle of Hastings.83 It may not be irrelevant that the Latinized name of this family, Aquila, is a term with strong Roman military associations, referring to the eagle used as the standard of the legions. King Stephen seems to have granted the castle to Gilbert fitz Gilbert (c. 1100–d. 1148), perhaps when he was created earl of Pembroke in 1138. 84 In 1147, Gilbert rebelled when Stephen refused to give him the castles surren79 

Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of England, iv, pp. 77–80; Brown, The Normans and the Norman Conquest, pp. 187–88; Morris, The Norman Conquest, pp. 202–03. 80  Bates, William the Conqueror, pp. 109–10. 81  Thompson, ‘Lords, Castellans, Constables and Dowagers’, p. 211; Golding, ‘Robert, Count of Mortain’. 82  Thompson, ‘Lords, Castellans, Constables and Dowagers’, p. 211. 83  Orderic Vitalis, Ecclesiastical History, book iii (ii, pp. 176–77); Lawson, The Battle of Hastings 1066, pp. 234–35 and 237. 84  Flanagan, ‘Clare, Richard fitz Giilbert de’.

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dered by his nephew Gilbert fitz Richard, first earl of Hertford. Pevensey was besieged again and fell, but the earl appears to have made his peace with Stephen before his death in the following year. Pevensey Castle was then bestowed by Stephen first upon his eldest son, Eustace, and on his death upon his second son, William, who by marriage had already become earl of Warenne and lord of Lewes Rape.85 Early in 1157, Henry II demanded that William return his castles at Norwich and Pevensey to the Crown.86 By the mid-1160s, the L’Aigle family appear to have regained their Sussex holdings. Pevensey remained in this family’s hands, with some interruptions, for around eighty years, when it was again held directly by the Crown.87 For most of the first century of Norman occupation, therefore, control of Pevensey was changing hands at regular intervals and for most of the time it was in the hands of feudal lords or lesser royals, rather than the monarch himself. The question is: could the keep at Pevensey be an early structure, possibly one even built during the life of William the Conqueror? Did Pevensey enjoy some form of special symbolic significance as the landing place of the Normans? And therefore, is the keep a monumental celebration of Norman, and particularly William the Conqueror’s, mastery over England? If so, surely, it is most likely to have been built by the victor himself or perhaps his half-brother Robert of Mortain in the years immediately after 1066.

Conclusion By the late twelfth century, it is clear that substantial parts of the south wall of the Roman fort had fallen into the sea and it appears that in c. 1193 a sudden event occurred that required a larger investment than the routine maintenance that appeared from time to time in royal accounts. In 1193, almost £ 57 was spent and this was most plausibly the result of the collapse of bastion 10 of the Roman fortification.88 This is located on the south side of the medi­eval castle, but unlike other sections of the Roman south wall, it was not washed away, suggesting that this probably occurred when the sea was already in retreat. This expenditure may have been to create what is now the postern gate to plug the 85  Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 3; Thompson, ‘Lords, Castellans, Constables and Dowagers’, p. 213. 86  Thompson, ‘Lords, Castellans, Constables and Dowagers’, p. 213. 87  Thompson, ‘Aigle, Richer de l’’; Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 3. 88  Renn, ‘The turris de Penuesel’, p. 63.

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gap suddenly left in the fortifications. The shape of its western side prior to the addition of the long projecting wall suggests that it was constructed, not as part of the current medi­e val castle, but instead respected an earlier fortification. Salzmann found a reference to a stockade in 1188, when the Pipe Roll recorded a payment of 118 s 4 d for the repairs to the palisades of the castle.89 Heckage, a payment in commutation of the duty to take part in palisade maintenance, is mentioned at the beginning of the thirteenth century. Salzmann described a claim brought in 1203 regarding fees ‘for the service of enclosing or making a certain stockade (heisarn) upon the vallum of the Castle of Pevensey’.90 The levying of heckage finally ended in 1254, suggesting that the timber structure had given way, or was giving way, to the stone medi­eval castle.91 This chapter has suggested that there may have been a symbolic dimension to Pevensey as William the Conqueror’s landing place and that this might be used to explain the unusual keep. The survival of an earthwork and palisade fortification into the mid-thirteenth century might reveal an excessive reverence for the tradition and symbolism of the site and perhaps reflects that timber fortifications, if well maintained, could be as formidable as masonry ones. Alternatively, it may reflect the fact that Pevensey was regarded as a place of declining strategic significance for much of the twelfth century, at least in seagoing terms. The retreating sea and the silting up of the anchorage meant that its maritime function ceased, communications with the continent being instead predominantly funnelled via Dover and Southampton. On the other hand, the Angevin kings seem to have had an interest in maintaining the castle.92 Perhaps this was because of its symbolic, more than its strategic, value. Significant investment occurred from the mid-thirteenth century until the early fourteenth century, when in the hands of the royal family, but thereafter the site began a long, slow decline. This later story of Pevensey Castle will be published elsewhere.93 There is no doubt about the military capability of the Normans when under strong unified command, but this chapter has attempted to draw attention to other aspects of their character and abilities. In the first place, though much ink has been expended on discussion of the difficulties that William and his 89 

Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 4. Salzmann, ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, p. 4. 91  Fulford and Rippon, Pevensey Castle, p. 2. 92  Thompson, ‘Lords, Castellans, Constables and Dowagers’, pp. 214–15. 93  Brodie and Bowden, ‘At Pevensey doth a ruin’d Castle stand’. 90 

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lieutenants may have encountered in assembling a fleet and transporting their forces across the Channel, we suggest that the Normans, descended as they were from Vikings, took a pragmatic and capable approach to seafaring. This aspect of invasion did not present them with any considerable problems; they were well aware of the many possible landing places on the southern coast of England and they were able to use wind and tide to achieve a suitable landfall. Seaborne operations were, after all, a common feature of Norman military achievements in the later eleventh century.94 More significantly, we argue that there was a strong element of symbolism inherent in the actions of the Normans. In fact, this is well established — the crown-wearing ceremonies that William established as king of England demonstrate his understanding of the power of symbolic gestures.95 But this symbolism was also expressed in architecture. The great castle keeps at Colchester and London expressed William’s power but also his claim to Romanitas.96 What we are suggesting here is that the small but extraordinary keep at Pevensey commemorated William’s landing place but also referred deliberately in its architecture to the Roman military architecture of the fortress within which it was built. The abbey at Battle commemorated his victory at Hastings and also carried the same architectural meaning. The art and architecture of the eleventh and twelfth centuries has been characterized as ‘Romanesque’ since the early nineteenth century, but little attempt seems to have been made to enquire as to why the Normans in particular were so keen to imitate classical Rome. For William it was personal; he wanted to be — or to be better than — Julius Caesar.

94 

Douglas, The Norman Achievement, pp. 83–86. Barber, Magnificence, p. 18. 96  Wheatley, The Idea of the Castle, pp. 132–33 and 142. 95 

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Works Cited Primary Sources The Gesta Guillelmi of William of Poitiers, ed. and trans. by R. H. C. Davis and Marjorie Chibnall, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998) The Gesta Normannorum Ducum of William of Jumièges, Orderic Vitalis and Robert of Torigni, ii, ed. and trans. by Elisabeth M.  C.  van Houts, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) Douglas, David C., and George William Greenaway, eds, English Historical Documents 1042–1189, 2nd edn (London: Eyre Methuen, 1981) Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History, ii: Books iii and iv, ed. and trans. by Marjorie Chibnall, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968) Suetonius, Tranquillus G., Lives of the Twelve Caesars (London: Heinemann, 1913) Wace, His Chronicle of the Norman Conquest from the Roman De Rou, trans. by E. Taylor (London: William Pickering, 1837) [accessed 4 June 2020] Wace, The Roman De Rou, trans. by Glyn S. Burgess, ed. by Elisabeth van Houts (Wood­ bridge: Boydell, 2004) Whitelock, Dorothy, ed., English Historical Documents, c. 500–1042, 2nd edn (London: Routledge, 1979) William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, i, ed. and trans. by R. A. B. Mynors and Michael Winterbottom, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998)

Secondary Studies Bachrach, Bernard S., ‘Some Observations on the Military Administration of the Norman Conquest’, Anglo-Norman Studies, 8 (1985), 1–25 Baillie-Hislop, Malcolm James, Castle Builders: Approaches to Castle Design and Con­struc­ tion in the Middle Ages (Barnsley: Pen & Sword, 2016) Barber, Richard, Magnificence and Princely Splendour in the Middle Ages (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2020) Bates, David, William the Conqueror (London: Philip, 1989) Blacker, Jean, ‘Wace’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 21 June 2023] Bowden, Mark, Allan Brodie, and Fiona Small, ‘Pevensey Castle, Pevensey, East Sussex: Architectural, Archaeo­logical and Aerial Investigation’, Historic England: Research Report Series, 39 (2019), 93 pp. Brodie, Allan and Mark Bowden, ‘“At Pevensey doth a ruin’d Castle stand”: The Develop­ ment of the Post-Norman Castle and its Decline’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 159 (2021), 139–56 Brown, R. A., Castles from the Air (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989) —— , The Norman Conquest of England (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1995)

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—— , The Normans and the Norman Conquest (London: Constable, 1969) Chibnall, Marjorie, ‘Poitiers, William of ’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 20 May 2023] Combes, Pamela, and Malcolm Lyne, ‘Hastings, Haestingaceaster and Haestingaport: A Question of Identity’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 133 (1995), 213–24 Creighton, Oliver Hamilton, Castles and Landscapes: Power, Community and Fortification in Medi­eval England (London: Equinox, 2005) Davison, Brian K., ‘Three Eleventh-Century Earthworks in England: Their Excavation and Implications’, Chateau Gaillard, 2 (1967), 39–48 Douglas, David C., The Norman Achievement (London: Fontana, 1979) Flanagan, M.  T., ‘Clare, Richard fitz Gilbert de’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­ graphy [accessed 20 May 2023] Freeman, Edward A., The History of the Norman Conquest of England, its Causes and its Results, 4 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1857–71) Fulford, Michael G., and Stephen Rippon, Pevensey Castle, Sussex: Excavations in the Roman Fort and Medi­eval Keep, 1993–95, Wessex Archaeo­logy Report, 26 (Salisbury: University of Reading, 2011) Fulford, Michael G., and Ian Tyers, ‘The Date of Pevensey and the Defence of an “Impe­ rium Britanniarum”’, Antiquity, 69 (1995), 1009–14 Gillingham, John, ‘William the Bastard at War’, in Studies in Medi­eval History Presented to R.  Allen Brown, ed.  by Christopher Harper-Bill, Christopher Houldsworth, and Janet L. Nelson (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1989), pp. 141–58 Gilmor, C. M., ‘Naval Logistics of the Cross-Channel Operation, 1066’, in Proceedings of the Battle Conference, 1984, ed. by R. Allen Brown, Anglo-Norman Studies, 7 (Wood­ bridge: Boydell, 1985), pp. 105–31 Golding, Brian, ‘Robert, Count of Mortain’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 20 May 2023] Goodall, John, Pevensey Castle (London: English Heritage, 1999) Grainge, Christine, and Gerald Grainge, ‘The Pevensey Expedition: Brilliantly Executed Plan or Near Disaster?’, Mariners Mirror, 79 (1993), 261–73 Haslam, Jeremy, ‘The Location of the Burh of Haestingeceastre of the Burghal Hidage’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 159 (2021), 97–112 Heslop, Thomas Alexander, ‘Regarding the Spectators of the Bayeux Tapestry: Bishop Odo and his Circle’, Art History, 32.2 (2009), 223–49 Higham, Robert, ‘Timber Castles – A Reassessment’, Fortress, 1 (1989), 50–59 Hill, David, An Atlas of Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford: Blackwell, 1981) Lawson, Michael Kenneth, The Battle of Hastings 1066 (Stroud: Tempus, 2003) Lyne, Malcolm, Excavations at Pevensey Castle 1936 to 1964, British Archaeo­logical Report, 503 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2009) Morris, John, The Age of Arthur: A History of the British Isles from 350 to 650 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1973) Morris, Marc, The Norman Conquest (London: Hutchinson, 2012) O’Donnell, Thomas, ‘The “Carmen de Hastingae Proelio” and the Poetics of 1067’, AngloNorman Studies, 39 (2016), 151–65

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Otter, Monika, ‘Baudri of Bourgueil, “To Countess Adela”’, The Journal of Medi­eval Latin, 11 (2001), 60–141 Pearson, Andrew, The Roman Shore Forts: Coastal Defences of Southern Britain (Stroud: Tempus, 2002) Peers, Charles, ‘Pevensey Castle’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 74 (1933), 1–15 Platt, Colin, The Castle in Medi­eval England and Wales (London: Secker & Warburg, 1982) Renn, Derek F., ‘The Anglo-Norman Keep, 1066–1138’, Journal of the British Archaeo­ logical Association, 23.1 (1960), 1–22 —— , Norman Castles in Britain (London: Baker, 1973) —— , ‘The turris de Penuesel: A Reappraisal and a Theory’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collec­ tions, 109 (1971), 55–64 —— , ‘The Turris de Penuesel: A Final Note’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 153 (2015), 208–10 Rowley, Trevor, An Archaeo­logical Study of the Bayeux Tapestry: The Landscapes, Buildings and Places (Barnsley: Pen & Sword, 2016) Salzmann, Louis F., ‘Documents relating to Pevensey Castle’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collec­ tions, 44 (1906), 1–30 —— , ‘The Inning of Pevensey Levels’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 53 (1910), 32–60 Shapland, Michael, Pevensey Castle, Pevensey, East Sussex: Phasing and Interpretation of the Outer Bailey Wall (Portslade: Archaeo­logy South-East, 2017) Spear, David S., ‘Robert of Mortain and the Bayeux Tapestry’, in The Bayeux Tapestry: New Approaches, ed.  by Michael  J. Lewis, Gale  R. Owen-Crocker, and Dan Terkla (Oxford: Oxbow, 2011), pp. 75–80 Strong, D., ‘The Monument’, in Fifth Report on the Excavations of the Roman Fort at Rich­ borough, Kent, ed. by Barry W. Cunliffe (London: Society of Antiquaries, 1968), pp. 40–73 Thompson, Kathleen, ‘Lords, Castellans, Constables and Dowagers: The Rape of Pevensey from the Eleventh to the Thirteenth Century’, Sussex Archaeo­logical Collections, 135 (1997), 209–20 —— , ‘Aigle, Richer de l’’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 20 May 2023] Thompson, Michael W., ‘Excavations in Farnham Castle Keep Surrey, England, 1958–60’, Chateau Gaillard, 2 (1967), 100–05 —— , The Rise of the Castle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991) Thomson, R. M., ‘Malmesbury, William of ’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 20 May 2023] van Houts, Elisabeth M. C., ‘The Ship List of William the Conqueror’, Anglo-Norman Studies, 10 (1987), 159–83 —— , ‘Wace as Historian’, in Wace, The Roman De Rou, trans. Glyn  S. Burgess, ed.  by Elisabeth van Houts (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2004), pp. xxv–lxii Wheatley, Abigail, The Idea of the Castle in Medi­eval England (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2004) Wilmott, Tony, Richborough and Reculver (London: English Heritage, 2012) Wyeth, William, ‘Mediaeval Timber Motte Towers’, Medi­eval Archaeo­logy, 62.1 (2018), 135–56

2. The Great Tower

Searching for its Origins in the Norman Diaspora of the Medi­eval Roman East Andrew Blacker

O

ver the last century there has been a lively, sometimes acerbic, debate over the origins, development and role of the ‘castle’. Initially discussion centred around its possible Anglo-Saxon origins, but in his challenging book (1954), R. Allen Brown convincingly demonstrated its Norman roots.1 Defining the castle as ‘the fortified residence of a lord’, he posited that its essence was the ‘great tower’. This definition has generally stood the test of time, yet reflects the relatively insular nature of castle studies, initially restricted in focus to northwest Europe. A series of conferences under the aegis of Château Gaillard has widened research from France and the United Kingdom into Germany, Italy, Spain and the Crusader states, but there appears to still exist an invisible border in academic enquiry stretching from St Petersburg in the north along the western limits of Belarus and Ukraine across the Adriatic to Sicily. This roughly delin­   * Thanks to Denys Pringle for reading a draft of this paper and his suggestions for improvement. Any omissions or errors, and the conclusions, are wholly my own. 1  Brown, English Castles. There have been many updates of the original work.

Andrew Blackler ([email protected]) completed a PhD in 2020 on the Byzantine and Frankish Towers of Greece at the University of Birmingham. Abstract: The great tower (donjon or keep), the essence of the ‘castle’, first appears in tenthcentury Anjou and Normandy, yet theories as to its roots are unconvincing. This paper broadens enquiry into its origins, exploring influences on the Norman diaspora in the Eastern Mediterranean — service in the Byzantine Imperial Guard, diplomatic missions, and pilgrimage by the elite to the Holy Lands. It draws on monastic archives from Mt. Athos, and the author’s study of the medi­e val towers of Greece (over 300). There is an unbroken record of tower construction from Late Antiquity into the medi­e val period by the Byzantine emperors, by farmers on the fluid southern borders of Anatolia, and on monastic estates. In the late tenth century the Byzantine empire was at its height and this tradition, it is argued, cannot be ignored as a possible inspiration for the development of the great tower in the West. Keywords: Norman, tower, donjon, origin, Byzantine Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 49–84 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134141

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Figure 2.1. Map of Europe c. 1040, showing the Byzantine empire, major cities, and pilgrimage routes from Western Europe to Jerusalem. Author’s own map, based on Haldon, The Palgrave Atlas of Byzantine History, pp. 60–61; Reba, Reitsma, and Seto, ‘Spatializing 6,000 years of Global Urbanization’; Jacoby, ‘Evolving Routes of Western Pilgrimage’; and Pringle, ‘Itinerary’.

eates the borders of the Roman Catholic and Orthodox worlds and the western and eastern division of the Roman empire, academic departments of the medi­eval period identifying themselves as focusing on (Western) European or Byzantine history respectively.2 Such a schism, however, was not recognized, except in ecclesiastical terms, by the emperors in Constantinople who continued to call themselves ‘Romans’ (Ρωμαίοι) until their annexation by the Ottomans in 1453. In the early eleventh century, even though Egypt, North Africa, and Sicily had been lost, Asia Minor, the Balkan peninsula, and much of Southern Italy remained under their control or influence (Fig. 2.1), which at times extended as far west as the Iberian peninsula.3 Their catastrophic losses of the late eleventh century have, 2 

There are some notable exceptions. See, for instance, Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages. For a full discussion on the historio­graphical complexities and approaches to European and Byzantine history: Cameron, ‘Thinking with Byzantium’; Goody, The Theft of History. 3  There existed naval bases on both coasts of the Adriatic and had even been an alliance with the Cordoba caliphate in the mid-tenth century: Shepard, ‘Aspects of Byzantine Attitudes’.

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however, overshadowed historio­graphy to such an extent that a recent article on Frankish and Muslim medi­e val towers in Syria and Palestine almost completely overlooks potential Byzantine influences, studying only what, by then, were Muslim strongholds.4 It is therefore understandable that M. W. Thompson (1991) in his book The Rise of the Castle should peremptorily dismiss the Roman tower as a possible prototype for the great tower, referring to it as a deus ex machina. In so doing he ignored entirely the Roman East. More recently, Charles Coulson (2003) in a riposte to R. A. Brown, has set the record straight, remarking that ‘WestEast contacts were long established but the flow of influence was very much de haut en bas, from southeast to northwest’.5 Marshall Baldwin, writing in 1955 on the rationale for the Crusades, had put things more bluntly: ‘perhaps western Europe with its inferior military and political organization during the feudal age felt itself more endangered than did Byzantium’.6 Such a bi-polar view cannot be sustained — and definitely not after the mid-eleventh century — yet it contains a basic truth for earlier centuries in the immediate post-Carolingian period. In the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, the development period of the Norman castle,7 the Byzantine Eastern Roman empire was at its height, its success founded on instruction of its commanders in both the practical and theoretical skills of war, formidable skills in fortification, and an ability to train and weld together disparate groups of foreign mercenaries in its field armies (its so-called ‘new model army’)8 — a feature which amazed contemporary Arab observers of the time.9 Over 250 Byzantine treatises on warfare have survived, so many that they may even be considered a literary genre in their own right.10 Byzantine skill in fortification in the tenth century as represented by the walls of Constantinople and Antioch surpassed anything found in Western Europe. It is therefore strange that no truly European study of fortification has ever been written. Oliver Creighton, in a recent book on early European castles, 4 

Petersen, ‘Medi­eval Towers in Syria and Palestine’. Coulson, Castles in Medi­eval Society, p. 17. 6  Baldwin, A History of the Crusades, p. xxii. 7  Higham and Barker, Timber Castles, p. 96. 8  Magdalino, Byzantium in the Year 1000, p. xii. 9  This is widely attested by tenth- and eleventh-century sources: McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth, p. 201. 10  See discussion on the Byzantine army and the Praecepta militaria written by the Emperor Nikephoros Phokas (r. 963–969) in McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth, p. 197. 5 

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has recognized the need for ‘more supra-national archaeo­logical research’ and discusses the issue in some detail. But, while his coverage ranges as far east as Lithuania, he fails to cross the invisible border of the Roman East except in a few passing comments.11 The study of the tower in Greece in the years since Peter Lock’s seminal work (1986) on the medi­e val towers of Central Greece has followed a similar trajectory.12 Although he himself presciently wrote that their ‘technique of building […] does not actually conflict with the towers being built by the Franks’, despite mounting evidence to the contrary, medi­eval towers have been generally assumed by subsequent writers to have been a Western feudal construct, imported by the forces of the Fourth Crusade following their capture of Constantinople in 1204, to control their new Greek subjects as part of a process of colonization and exploitation.13 Western architectural influences have also been noted by Slobodan Ćurčić (1981) on the buttressed towers of Macedonia,14 seemingly reflecting construction designs in France,15 yet recent Greek-language research,16 which appears not to have reached wide readership at an international level, suggests that this style had its roots in Byzantine fortification walls dating from much earlier than the French towers. My own research has confirmed this conclusion and forms the basis for the present paper,17 which investigates the Byzantine tradition of tower construction, possible processes by which its influence may have been transmitted westwards via the Norman and Norseman diaspora in the Eastern Mediterranean, and, finally, evidence in Northwest Europe reflecting its incorporation into the development of Norman fortification and thinking.

11 

Creighton, Early European Castles, pp. 20–24. Lock, ‘The Frankish Towers of Central Greece’. 13  ‘Sources and parallels from Western Europe whence the occupants and the design originated, indicate that these towers housed knights’, Bintliff, The Complete Archaeo­logy of Greece, p. 421; ‘[the] architectural output [of the Latins] can be best understood in colonial terms’, Georgopoulou, ‘The Landscape of Medi­eval Greece’, p. 328. 14  Ćurčić, ‘Pyrgos-Stl’p-Donjon’. 15  Lorans, ‘Les tours-maîtresses des 11e et 12e siècles’. 16  Papaggelos, ‘Περί Των Πύργων Της Χαλκιδικής’; Theocharides, ‘Observations on the Byzantine Buttressed Towers of Macedonia’. 17  Blackler, The Byzantine and Frankish Towers of Greece, pp. 143–47. 12 

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b

c

Figure 2.2. Three Greek classical towers repaired in the medi­eval period (a) Thisve (Boeotia) (b) Abdos (Tinos island) (c) Smobolo (Tinos island). Photos by author.

Early History The origins of the free-standing residential tower can be found as far back as classical Greece. John Young (1956) writes of an anonymous oration dated to the fourth century bc which describes how a family took refuge in their tower when attacked by thieves.18 Piracy and attacks on unprotected seashore settlements were endemic within the Aegean Sea. The land is mountainous, and many communities are effectively cut off from even their close neigh­b ours. The sea was the prime method of communication and there evolved a process of tower construction to protect families against lightly armed raiders on agricultural estates at a distance from the fortified polis (city).19 Many of these towers continued in use from the Hellenistic period and, as the security situation declined in the medi­e val period, we can see how they were repaired and put into use again. In one small area of about 30 km2 on the island of Euboea on the eastern seaboard of Greece twenty-five Greek and Roman towers have been identified, some continuing in use into the medi­e val period.20 In Roman Kastorion (modern Thisve) in Central Greece, for instance, a Hellenistic tower was repaired to protect local dye 18 

Young, ‘Studies in South Attica’. Osborne, ‘Island Towers’. 20  Seifried, ‘The Ancient Towers of the Paxi­madi Peninsular’. 19 

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A: three-aisled church with narthex; B: ancillary building; C: bakery; D: houses with shaded veranda; E: five-storey tower with fourteen buttresses; F: gabled houses; G: well; H: small church; I: barn; K: Stables.

a

b

Figure 2.3. Reconstructions of estate centres (a) Rujum el-Qasr, Palestine. Extract from Hirschfeld, ‘Farms and Villages in Byzan­ tine Palestine’, fig. 37 (b) Melintziani Metochi, Macedonia. Reconstruction by author, from written record of 1104. See n. 37, also P. Theocharides, ‘Byzantine Buttressed Towers’; sketch in Androudis, ‘Οι βυζαντινοί πύργοι της Χαλκιδικής’ [‘The Byzantine Towers of Chalkidiki’], fig. 5.

production in the area,21 whilst on the island of Tinos two towers, one square one circular show signs of medi­eval renovation (Fig. 2.2). Although tower construction was strictly controlled in the inner provinces of the Eastern Roman Empire, on the fluid southern borders in sixthcentury Syria, towers — apparently to protect the local population22 — were a feature of agricultural estates, 23 some possessing sophisticated scarping at their base (Fig. 2.3a). In North Africa during the same century towers were constructed by the Byzantine general Belisarius around towns as both residential accommodation and a defence against mobile local tribesmen,24 and 21 

Dunn, ‘The Survey of Thisve’. McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth, p. 365. 23  Decker, ‘Towers, Refuges, and Fortified Farms’. 24  Sufetula (Sbeitla), an unwalled town, contained a fort and on its approaches five residen22 

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archaeo­logical evidence survives of towers of many sizes in both an estate and military context.25 The historian Procopius, writing in the sixth century, relates the construction or renovation of over 600 fortifications in the Balkans, Asia Minor, and North Africa by the emperor Justinian I (527–565). When describing the redevelopment of a fortress by the addition of three storeys to its towers, each with a vaulted ceiling, he notes: Thus he [ Justinian] made each one [πύργος] of them a pyrgo-castellum [πυργοκάστελλον] as it was called, and as it actually was. For they call forts [φρούρια] Castella [καστέλλους] in the Latin tongue.26

Procopius thus seems to understand already by this date that a tower with accommodation for its defenders could be described as a castellum.27 The importance of this quotation only becomes really relevant, however, as we see the term castelion (καστέλιον) being adopted in northern Greece over the following centuries to refer to small provincial fortifications, the subject I shall turn to next.28 Its use seems to have become so ubiquitous, being utilized to describe many different sizes and types of settlement, that one may understand the translation of the Greek for ‘village’ as castel in the c. 1000 English Gospels.29

Towers in a Country Estate Context Over the past fifty years a new source of early documentary evidence has emerged from the monastic enclave of Mt Athos in northern Greece. First founded in the ninth century, its archives record the daily administration of the monasteries and their estates (metochia) in the surrounding region of tial towers, which varied in size up to 20 m2 with two or three floors — Lawrence, ‘A Skeletal History of Byzantine Fortification’, p. 188 n. 44. 25  Pringle, The Defence of Byzantine Africa, pp. 140–44. Three towers dated by inscriptions to the sixth century, for instance, measure 11 × 9.4 m, 14.5 × 14.5 m, and 18 × 18 m although nothing is known of their internal layout. 26  Procopius, On Buildings, ii, ch. 5, sections 8–9. 27  It has been argued that the pyrgo-castellum is a prototype of the donjon: Diehl, L’Afrique byzantine, p. 156. This term, however, seems to only apply in a restricted sense to a strongly defended tower as part of a walled fortification: Pringle, The Defence of Byzantine Africa, p. 155. 28  Generally, this term was used for Early Byzantine rural fortifications from Late Antiquity: Dunn, ‘Continuity and Change in the Macedonian Countryside’. 29  Coulson, Castles in Medi­eval Society, p. 52.

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Chalkidiki, Macedonia.30 A tower on the Diabripou estate, referred to as an ‘old tower’ (palaio-pyrgos) in a document from 982,31 suggesting an even earlier date for its construction, is one of over seventy towers,32 documentary and archaeo­logical evidence of which we have in just this small coastal region. The first were probably built initially to protect communities against incursions of Arab corsairs established on Crete since the late 820s, but over the following centuries they provided security for estate owners against western incursions in the eleventh century, the instability of the late twelfth, and the turmoil following the annexation of Constantinople in 1204 by forces of the Fourth Crusade. But such construction was not just the work of monastic institutions. We have written evidence of the building of three towers by Gregory Pakourianos (d. 1086), the general (Megas Domestikos) who commanded Byzantine forces against the invading Normans in 1081.33 We do not know how their erection had been authorized, but it is clear that the existence of such towers by the eleventh century was more widespread than the surviving written sources reflect and not limited to monastic institutions.34 Analysis of monastic records on Mt Athos — a secure location whose institutions and buildings have survived relatively intact over the last millennium — suggest that only three per cent of its documents have survived from this period, whilst those for secular estates are almost non-existent. Manpower was a source of wealth: the capturing of slaves was a prime target of Arab and later Norman raids.35 Within this environment of insecurity estate owners needed to fend for themselves and fortify their properties.

30 

Archives de l’Athos. This was owned by the Iviron monastery: Smyrlis, ‘Estate Fortifications in late Byzantine Macedonia’, p. 201 no. 29. 32  These were built between the tenth and fourteenth centuries. This number does not include those on the Mt Athos promontory itself: Androudis, ‘Athonite Metochia’. 33  Thomas and Hero, Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, p. 524. Pakourianos also founded three hostels nearby for the benefit of travellers: Angold, Church and Society in Byzantium, p. 511; Hill, The Norman Commanders, pp. 165–67. 34  My analysis of the records from Mt Athos suggests that only three per cent have survived from the tenth century, a figure rising to forty-eight per cent in the fourteenth century: Blackler, The Byzantine and Frankish Towers of Greece, p. 111. 35  There is a famous instance of this following the invasion of central Greece by Roger II of Sicily in 1147. A large proportion of the population of silk workers was uprooted wholesale and transferred to Sicily to improve the industry there: Jacoby, ‘Silk Economics’. 31 

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A document (praktikon) from 1104 describes as a kastelion the Libyzasda estate centre in Macedonia, a term reflected in the writings of Procopius in the late sixth century (as discussed above).36 Later in the same document a full description is given of another close to the village of Melintziani.37 This minutely details each individual building in the estate centre, noting those built of mud, mud-brick, stone and earth, their roofs (tiled or thatched, gabled or sloping), their uses and, most importantly, the general layout of the site, from which it has been possible to generate a ground plan (Fig. 2.3b). There were two basic enclosures: the first, surrounded by a mud-brick wall, contained a fivestorey buttressed tower, which protected the entrance, a large church, its size suggestive of a rich estate, residential buildings set in a solarium (ηλιακόν) style fronted by an external veranda and thirteen pillars, and ancillary buildings. To the north, probably surrounded by a wooden fence, there was an outer bailey (αυλή), which contained some older abandoned buildings, a small church, a well, a barn, and stables, all of which one can think of as the estate yard. Such a settlement seems little different to the many strongholds constructed on their estates by the followers of William, duke of Normandy, and his successors in England after 1066. The only essential differences may be that the tower is set in one wall, not in the centre of the bailey (although some Norman towers were set in the external wall), and that there is no motte, which seems to have been a Norman innovation.38 What is most striking is that the basic configuration of tower and bailey seems to have changed little over centuries and barely differs from those to be found in Syria and Palestine from the sixth century.39 For instance, a farmstead at Rujum el-Qasr in Palestine (Fig. 2.3a) possessed a tower with strong walls, scarped at the base, set in the 30 m western wall of an approximately square bailey.40 Such fortifications seem to have existed from a very early date all along the southern and northern borders of the Byzantine empire, wherever there was a potential external threat, and an estate or settlement was too far from a fortified city on which it could depend for security.

36 

This had been owned by the Iviron monastery since the tenth century: Archives de l’Athos, xvi, Iviron ii, p. 233 no. 52 ll. 184–85 (1104). 37  Archives de l’Athos, xvi Iviron ii, pp. 240–41 no. 52 ll. 428–40. 38  It is suggested that the motte may have been originally an import into Normandy by the Vikings (Norsemen): Higham and Barker, Timber Castles, pp. 96–99. 39  Petersen, Andrew, ‘Medi­eval Towers in Syria and Palestine’. 40  Hirschfeld, ‘Farms and Villages in Byzantine Palestine’, fig. 37.

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Figure 2.4. ‘Phokas’ imperial tower, Philippi. Lawrence, ‘Byzantine Fortification’, fig. 16 (extr.); Lemerle and Ducoux, ‘L’acropole et l’enceinte haute de Philippes’.

Figure 2.5. Ground plan of Byzantine citadel (c. 975), Sahyun (Crusader Sâone), Syria, today called Qal’at Salah al-Din. The floorplan has been drawn to show the external features of the walls, which had two major Byzantine phases. It is based on the detailed study and computerized reconstruction by Mesqui, ‘La forteresse de Saône en Syrie’, and a photo­graph in Pringle, ‘The Chapels in the Byzantine Castle of Sahyun’.

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The Emergence of the Eastern Roman Imperial Great Tower At an imperial level there is evidence that the Emperor Nikephoros Phokas (r. 963–969) built a residential tower within a fortified citadel in the fortress at Philippi in northern Greece (Fig. 2.4).41 The tower, positioned at the highest point of the site, measured approximately 12 m2 with walls of 3 m thickness. This theoretically allows only an internal area of 36 m2, but a winding stairwell built into one wall leads up to the first floor, set on the domed ceiling of the ground floor. Two further storeys, whose wooden support beams rested on shelves as the walls reduced in thickness, allow increasing domestic space at each level. A few years later, following the capture in 975 of the fortress at Sahyun in Syria (later Crusader Sâone) his successor, the Emperor John I Tzimiskes, renovated a tower within the fortification (Fig. 2.5). Its positioning in the centre of the fortress and apparent buttressing on the walls (see below) is suggestive of the external architecture of many later Norman donjons. Its size (c. 25 × 34 m) and height of over twenty metres is also comparable to the larger great towers built later in Western Europe.42 A. W. Lawrence designated it as a citadel but the most recent reconstruction by Jean Mesqui shows a roofed great tower with a small internal courtyard, probably reflecting the need for ventilation in the searing heat of the summer months — something not necessary in NorthWestern Europe.43 At the Great Lavra monastery in northern Greece, the same emperor donated money for the construction of a tower that today bears his name.44 This measures 14 m × 11.5 m and rises to twenty-six metres. It is situated on the highest ground of the monastic enclosure, probably possessed five levels and, significantly for the present study, entry is gained at eleven metres above ground level — a defining feature of the Norman tower.45 41 

The dating to 963 is based on an inscription when the fortress was renovated, but Archie Dunn (private communication) has thrown some doubt on this and believes, based on its architecture, that it may be later. 42  The longest side measures c. 44 m but this is slightly angulated, creating a near pentagular shape. 43  Mesqui, ‘La forteresse de Saône en Syrie’; for an older plan see Lawrence, ‘Byzantine Forti­fication’, fig. 21. 44  Construction had originally commenced under his predecessor Nikephoros II Phokas. The top storey is a later addition: Voyadjis, ‘Tzimiskes tower’. 45  King, The Castle in England and Wales, p. 67.

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The Process of Dissemination A landscape dotted with towers of all shapes and sizes — some strategic military constructions, others for private defence — was what Western European visitors would have encountered as they travelled through the border zones of the Byzantine Eastern Roman Empire. But who were these travellers? In the literature they tend to be referred to by the all-encompassing word ‘Frank’, which, in essence, included all the Latin-speaking peoples from Western Europe. Liudprand of Cremona, who travelled to Constantinople in 968, speaks of ‘Louis, the emperor of the Lombards or Franks’ when talking to the Byzantine Emperor Nikephoros II Phokas who sometime later, Liudprand notes, ‘made merry over the Franks, including the Germans as well as the Latins under that name’.46 A charter issued in 1045 by the Byzantine katepano Eustathius mentions the disturbances caused by the Franks — meaning the Normans under William Iron-Arm.47 Some years later, in a work of the 1070s, Robert Guiscard, who was originally from Normandy and would go on to be ruler of Apulia, Calabria, and Sicily, is referred to as Robert the Frank.48 It is, therefore, nearly impossible, judging from these examples, to distinguish between the various ethnic groups from Western Europe unless they are named individuals, and we must presume that any reference to ‘Franks’ most probably included Normans from Southern Italy, France, and England. We can profitably divide the visiting Western foreigners into three distinct groups. The first were adventurers, traders, and pilgrims, who travelled for personal gain or religious reasons to the East; the second group, the elite, such as Liudprand, journeyed to the Byzantine court in a diplomatic capacity. The third category, possibly the majority by the mid-eleventh century, were in the military, serving as foot-soldiers, cavalrymen, or officers in the Byzantine army or navy. These men are for our purposes the most important since they, as professionals, would have seen at first hand the functioning of the Byzantine military organization and the architecture and effectiveness of its fortifications in practice. The Byzantine army was composed of many disparate groups, the largest proportion of which had originally in the seventh to ninth centuries been troops 46 

He travelled to arrange a marriage between Theophano, Emperor Nikephoros’ daughter, and the son of Otto the Great: ‘De Legatione Constantinopolitana’, pp. vii and xxxiii. 47  The katepano was the local Byzantine commander of the region. 48  Shepard, ‘The Uses of the Franks in Eleventh-Century Byzantium’, p. 277 n. 8.

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resident in each military district (thema), fighting a defensive war of attrition on the empire’s borders. Each had been allocated, according to his grade, from simple foot-soldier up to elite heavy cavalryman (katafraktis), land to pay for his support and weaponry. Besides this permanent levy there were also central professional reserve forces, initially to protect Constantinople — the so-called tagmata — drawn from elite imperial families and soldiers of foreign origin. As the empire went on the offensive in the tenth century these foreigners, we read, served in Anatolia, in the attacks in 949 and 961 on Arab held Crete (the latter successful),49 and in 969 as part of the reinforcements sent by Nikephoros II Phokas to Southern Italy, a fleet which included two ships of Norse soldiers and two of Franks.50 In 987–988 a force of 5000 Northmen (Rus’) 51 despatched by Prince Vladimir of Kiev to support the emperor Basil II was incorporated with other foreign troops into a new corps, henceforth to be referred to as the Varangian Guard.52 By 980 we even see the case of one Peter, a relative of the German emperor, who rose to the positions of Spatharios and Domestic of Excubites, a career path that was to become well-trodden in the eleventh century.53 Three Normans, who served at a senior level in the Byzantine army, have become notorious for their rebellions — Hervé (1057), Robert Crispin (1068), and Roussel of Bailleul (1070).54 In 1038 we are informed of Norman cavalry being utilized in campaigns in Italy.55 Although the common soldiers were very different, originating from Western France and Italy on the one hand and Scandinavia on the other, they were united by their leaders. The two invasions of England in 1066 were a family affair: Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, who had served and made his fortune 49 

Shepard, ‘Aspects of Byzantine Attitudes’. Liudprand of Cremona, ‘De Legatione Constantinopolitana’, p. xxix. 51  Liudprand notes, ‘There is a certain northern people whom the Greeks call Rusii (les roux) from the colour of their skins, while we from the position of their country call them Nordmanni (northmen)’, Liudprand of Cremona, ‘Antapodosis’, book v, p. xv. 52  Psellus, The History, book i, p. xiii. The roots of their service stretched back over a century to the signature of a treaty in 866 (followed by others in 911 and 945) by which Norse soldiers entered into Byzantine service: Blöndal, The Varangians of Byzantium, trans. by Benedikz, pp. 36–37. See also Theotokis, ‘Rus, Varangian and Frankish Mercenaries’. 53  Wierzbiñski, ‘Normans and “Other Franks” in 11th Century Byzantium’. 54  Charanis, ‘The Byzantine Empire’, pp. 200–01. 55  Shepard, ‘The Uses of the Franks in Eleventh-Century Byzantium’; Theotokis, ‘Rus, Varangian and Frankish Mercenaries’. 50 

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in the Byzantine army (c. 1034 to 1042) as commander of the Varangian Guard, was killed together with Tostig Godwinson at the battle of Stamford Bridge by King Harold (the latter’s brother and the brother-in-law of King Edward the Confessor, who had died nine months earlier). A few weeks later at the battle of Hastings, Harold himself was killed by William, duke of Normandy (Edward’s cousin once-removed), in whose army were fighting Normans from France and Southern Italy. Such soldiers, whether Northmen or Norman, were the ideal conduit for the transfer of military techno­logy from the Roman east to Western Europe and would have seen the effectiveness of the Byzantine pyrgos (tower) during their decades of service in the Byzantine army, before returning to their homelands in northwest Europe. But they were not the only visitors. For centuries Western pilgrims had been travelling to the Terra Sancta as the regions of Western Syria, Northern Egypt, and Israel/Palestine were known.56 In 724 the West Saxon Willibald had made a pilgrimage to Ephesus, a city not only closely associated with John the Baptist, but one where a major fair was held each year. Given increasing religious intolerance in Jerusalem under the Abbasids from 750 onwards and their annexation of Crete in c. 826, Western European pilgrims in the late eighth and ninth centuries probably diverted to such sites in Asia Minor under Byzantine control.57 The importance of Jerusalem as a pilgrimage destination even at this date should not, however, be underestimated. A remarkable document, the Basel roll, records the work of royal envoys (missi Domenici) sent by Emperor Charlemagne in c. 808 to prepare ‘an inventory memorandum of God’s houses or monasteries in and around the holy city of Jerusalem’.58 The fact that the king should be interested in the minutiae of the state of repair and annual running costs of these institutions bears witness to their importance to the Franks at this early date. Probably led by his cousin, Adalhard, its members must have included engineers, who would not only have studied the maintenance requirements of ecclesiastical buildings (their mission) but would also have absorbed and transferred to their homeland features of local military architecture they encountered. This mission, Michael McCormick suggests, possibly set sail from Venice. By the tenth century, however, we know that the Genoese, Amalfians, and 56 

Külzer, ‘Pilgrims on their Way’. Foss, ‘Pilgrimage’. He notes eight important pilgrimage sites: Ephesos, Chonai, Euchaita, Nicaea, Myra, Mount Olympos, Euchania, and Caesarea. 58  McCormick, Charlemagne’s Survey of the Holy Land. Latin: Breue commemoratorii de illis casis Dei uel monasteriis qui sunt in sancta ciuitate Hierusalem uel in circuitu eius. 57 

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Pisans were providing transport by sea for pilgrims from ports in the northern Mediterranean to Alexandria or Palestine and thence on to Jerusalem (Fig. 2.1). Pilgrimage probably increased even more later on in the century as the security situation improved after the Byzantine recapture of Crete in 961.59 Following further Byzantine successes such as that over Bulgaria in 1018, those who did not wish, or could not pay for, a direct ship passage would have travelled a circuitous land route across the Balkans, passing many major and minor Byzantine fortifications on their route.60 In 1026, for instance, a large party of close to seven hundred, their travel costs paid by Duke Richard II of Normandy, assembled from ‘Normandie, Francia and Lorraine’.61 They travelled via Bavaria, were received with honour in Hungary, then proceeded along the Danube from Belgrade to the Black Sea and Constantinople, where they were lavishly welcomed by the Byzantine emperor. Having crossed Anatolia to reach Jerusalem after five months travel, they returned via Antioch. The most spectacular pilgrimage, however, was that of the Germans in 1064–1065, which is said to have exceeded 12,000 men.62 Both expeditions occur after the development of the first great towers in France in the late tenth century, but their huge size provides some indication of the tens of thousands of pilgrims who had made the journey over previous centuries. On their journey along the banks of the Danube they would have encountered a series of older fortifications dating from the fourth to sixth centuries. Although overrun in the seventh and eighth, by the early eleventh century these regions were again under Byzantine control. There is a standardization of such forts. Approximately square, their external walls, most of which had been added by the Byzantine emperor Justinian in the sixth century, measure about fifty metres, whilst in their centre there was invariably a square tower with walls about fifteen metres in length dating back to the Roman period.63 This appears to have been a general fortification strategy by the emperor. The historian Procopius, writing late in the same century, notes: In many places, finding a single tower standing by itself and therefore an easy prey for assailants, he [the emperor Justinian] converted it into a very strong fortress.64 59 

For a list of pilgrims and dates see Micheau, ‘Les itinéraires maritimes’. Jacoby, ‘Evolving Routes of Western Pilgrimage’; Fioretto, ‘Network through Centuries’. 61  Pfister, Etudes sur le règne de Robert le Pieux, pp. 348–49. 62  Shepard, ‘Aspects of Byzantine Attitudes’. 63  Kondiæ, ‘Fortifications protobyzantines’. 64  Procopius, On Buildings, iv: 6.27. 60 

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Figure 2.6. Donje Butorke, Portes de Fer, Kondić, ‘Fortifications protobyzantines’, fig. 8.

The ground plan of the Donje Betorke in the Ports de Fer region (Fig. 2.6) provides a good example of such fortification. Unfortunately, we know little of the use of such forts in the tenth and early eleventh centuries, those immediately following the reconquest of the region by the emperors Tzimiskes and Basil II.65 If indeed they were refurbished — and there is evidence of substantial Byzantine refortification work in later centuries — then the Justinian innovation of a central tower with an encircling enceinte would have provided a simple blueprint for neighbouring states to imitate. In 1035 Robert, the father of William, duke of Normandy, is attested to have travelled via Constantinople on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.66 He died in Nicaea in North-Western Anatolia on his return journey, but not before meeting with Fulk Nerra, count of Anjou, who was making his third of four pilgrim-

65  66 

Popovic, ‘Les forteresses du system défensif byzantin’. Van Houts, ‘Normandy and Byzantium’.

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ages to the Holy City, the second probably in 1008/09.67 The former is important because it was his son, William, who went on to make such good use of the ‘castle’ concept in his subjugation of the English countryside. Robert may not have returned to Normandy, but it is likely that members of his retinue would have recounted in detail their experiences to the young duke. As significant, however, is Fulk Nerra, who had been an ardent constructor of fortifications over the long period of his reign (987–1040), and is reputed to have constructed the first great tower (donjon) at Langeais (see below).68 The frequency of his pilgrimages, when viewed as part of the measured consolidation and expansion of his realms, suggests that his travels, although justified for other reasons, may have camouflaged ulterior motives. His primary objective may simply have been to maintain close diplomatic contact with the Byzantine emperors, but his journeys through Byzantine lands and contacts with senior officials would have allowed him considerable time to study Byzantine military strategy and fortifications.

The Byzantine Military Inheritance It is beyond the remit of the present paper (and the expertise of the author) to discuss fortification within Italy, where there is a need to disentangle the Western and Eastern Roman influences on fortification styles following the fall of Rome in the fifth century, and the Byzantine re-occupation of the south for 200 years from the ninth to eleventh centuries. But we should not ignore the fact that the integration of Lombard nobles into the Byzantine imperial administration, the often fluid nature of the borders between Lombard principalities and Byzantine regions, Norman employment under both regimes, and the later service of Greek administrators under Norman lords, offered further possible conduits of Byzantine military skills to northwest Europe.69 The Lombard Melus of Bari, for instance, according to the chronicler William of Apulia is reputed to have first employed Norman pilgrims and exiles in southern Italy in 1016, in his rebellion against the Byzantines in Apulia,70 whilst twenty-two years later Normans were fighting alongside Byzantines in Sicily. Melus’ son, Argyros, who had grown up as a hostage at the Byzantine court, was eventually 67 

Jacoby, ‘Byzantium and Christian Pilgrimage’; Bachrach, ‘The Pilgrimages of Fulk Nerra’. Bachrach, ‘Fortifications and Military Tactics’. 69  Von Falkenhausen, ‘The Byzantine Provinces in Italy’. 70  William of Apulia, The Deeds of Robert Guiscard, p. 5. 68 

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to forge a career in the empire, becoming in 1051–1058 magistros vestis and dux Italias, Calabrias, Sikelias kai Paphlagonias. It has been argued that both military equipment and tactics actually differed little throughout much of Europe and the Middle East in this period. Yet, while the treatise on military science (Epitoma rei militaris) by Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus (c.  fifth century) via its incorporation into other medi­ eval texts is believed to have had considerable impact on military strategy in Western Europe during the Middle Ages,71 possible Byzantine influences, both practical and theoretical, appear to have been largely ignored in the literature. Normans, for instance, seem to have adopted the Byzantine 300 cavalry unit size in order to be incorporated into the Byzantine army’s campaigns of 1038 in Sicily, whilst it has been posited that Byzantine naval transport designs and tactics were copied by Duke William during his invasion of England in 1066,72 a process facilitated by family ties with the Normans of Southern Italy.73 The Byzantines, in their turn, had adopted techno­logy and tactics from their enemies in the east (viz. the composite bow from the Huns, the stirrup from the Avars, and armoured cavalry from the Sassanians), acting as a channel for military techno­logy to (and, later, from) the west.74 We can also identify in the tactics employed by Duke William at the battle of Hastings in 1066, and his later campaigns in England, reflections of Byzantine military manuals and their fortification strategy during the Sicilian campaign thirty years earlier. The use of feigned retreats to draw out the English at Hastings may simply be coincidental but could have been learnt by Normans in Byzantine service over the previous decades.75 As regards fortifications, the historian John Skylitzes writes in the late eleventh century of the strategy of the Byzantine general George Maniakes during the Sicilian campaign of 1038, in which Norman contingents served:

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For a translation of this work see Vegetius: Epitome of Military Science. Bachrach, ‘Horse Transports’. 73  For the details of this process see Sartore, ‘Norman Influence’. 74  For a detailed discussion: Haldon, Warfare, State and Society in the Byzantine World, pp. 128–34; McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth, pp. 206–17. 75  These were laid out, for instance, in the Strategikon of Maurice (sixth century), the Taktika of Leo VI (886–912), and the Praecepta of Nikephoros II Phokas (963–969). Such a tactic was employed in 970 by the magistros Bardas Skleros at the battle of Arkadiopolis in Bulgaria: McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth, pp. 294–96. 72 

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as Maniakes took the towns of the island, he constructed citadels in them […] to prevent the local people from retaking the cities by assault.76

In the same way, in the immediate aftermath of the invasion of 1066, a citadel (castle) was constructed in the highest point of the walled Saxon town of Totnes in Devon by Juhel, Duke William’s commander in the region, following a rebellion in Western England.77 Such a strategy, seemingly reflecting Norman experience in Sicily, was to be implemented throughout England in the long ensuing period of conquest.78

The Buttressed Tower In order to understand the flow of influences better we can gainfully study the architecture of the so-called ‘buttressed’ tower, many examples of which exist in France and England.79 In Greece such surviving towers are generally restricted to Macedonia, but they appear in various forms throughout the Byzantine empire well before their emergence in France. Buttresses had been in use for centuries in Byzantine fortification walls as a method of reinforcement, providing static strength, especially against the frequent earthquakes in the region. Prime examples are the middle-Byzantine walls of Thessaloniki, and those of the towers of the monasteries within the Mt Athos promontory.80 A good early example in an estate context can be seen at Ramat Hanadiv, Caesarea, in Palestine (Fig. 2.7). This fortified farmhouse, which dates from the middle sixth to early seventh centuries, housed in one integrated building living quarters on the first storey with stables and storerooms for agricultural produce on the ground floor and basement. With an enclosed area of 530 m2 and buttresses on all sides it would have been an impressive building. As importantly, it shows how the inclusion of a first-floor residential area within a fortified space at Langeais, Doué la Fontaine, or Montbazon (Indre-et-Loire) in the tenth century was not a new innovation — the creation of the first keep as sug-

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Shepard, ‘Byzantium’s Last Sicilian Expedition’; John Skylitzes, p. 382. This possessed a central tower, around which a later circular wall was constructed with residential and ancillary buildings in the bailey below: Poultney, ed., Totnes Castle. 78  Higham and Barker, Timber castles, p. 47; Creighton, Castles and Landscapes, p. 91. 79  See, for instance, a listing in Séraphin, ‘Les tours féodales du Quercy’. 80  Androudis, ‘Οι βυζαντινοί πύργοι της Χαλκιδικής’ [‘The Byzantine Towers of Chalkidiki’], pp. 108–12 nn. 108–12. 77 

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Figure 2.7. Ramat Hanadiv, Extract from plan by Tania Gornstein in Hirschfeld, ‘Farms and Villages in Byzantine Palestine’, fig. 20.

Figure 2.8. Floorplans of Buttressed towers, Blackler, ‘The Byzantine and Frankish Towers of Greece’, p. 207, fig. 9.6, based on drawings in Ricci, ‘The Middle Byzantine Monastic Complex of Satyros’; Theocharides, ‘The Byzantine Buttressed Towers of Macedonia’; Androudis, ‘Three Early Shallow-Butressed Towers’; Ćurčić and Hadjitryphonos, Secular Medi­eval Architecture, fig. 23.

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Figure 2.9. Galatista tower (Macedonia, Greece) (a) West view (b) North view. Photos by author.

gested by Thompson — but a traditional configuration that, it is clear from the above, had existed from Late Antiquity in the east, and likely also in the west.81 We find buttressing on two of the circular corner towers on the external wall at Donje Butorke (Fig. 2.6), probably dating to the sixth century. Also, the ninth century tower protecting the Satyros monastery close to Constantinople (Fig. 2.8) provides not only the earliest example of a tower with buttresses on its corners, but a link to the tenth-century buttressed towers of northern Greece. At an imperial level, their application may be seen on the tenth-century tower at Sahyun noted above (Fig. 2.5). This possesses a type of buttressing on its corners, and in the centre of two walls (one rounded, the other rectangular) in its final Byzantine form. The agricultural estate centre at Melintziani noted in a document from 1104 has already been discussed above (Fig. 2.3b), the essential defensive element of which was a five-storey buttressed tower. The configuration of its fourteen buttresses, probably four on two sides and three on the other two, is very similar to the twelfth-century tower built at Galatista, a photo­graph of which is shown in Figure 2.9.82 81 

Thompson, The Rise of the Castle, pp. 36–37. Papaggelos, ‘Περί Των Πύργων Της Χαλκιδικής’ [‘About the Towers of Chalkidiki’], no. 27. With a probable height over twenty metres and four floors, the tower was built in two 82 

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Figure 2.10. Ground plan of Langeais tower. Extract from Thompson, The Rise of the Castle, p. 39 fig. 21.

As can be seen in Figure 2.8, there appears to have been a process of increased sophistication over time as buttresses extend from just on the corners (type A, ninth to tenth century), to shallow along the whole wall (type B, tenth to twelfth century). By the thirteenth century many had become much deeper (type C) as they were used to support a solarium (ηλιακόν) extending outwards (often even beyond the walls) on the topmost floor (Fig. 2.9b). The great towers (donjons) in France display a similar evolution, although in England buttresses appear generally as shallow ‘pilaster-strips’ seemingly for display only. Some researchers maintain that they are an essential feature of the donjon.83 The tower at Langeais, for instance, possibly the earliest great tower built by Fulk Nerra, count of Anjou, in the late tenth century (Fig. 2.10),84 possesses buttresses on each corner. Yet this is a style similar to the type (A) Byzantine tower architecture, the earliest surviving example of which — that at Satyros, Constantinople (Fig. 2.8b) — was constructed a hundred years earlier, during the ninth century. The direction of influence of this particular architectural feature, therefore, appears to be clearly from east to west, supporting the conclusions of the Greek phases, the first in the eleventh century. 83  King, The Castle in England and Wales, pp. 67–68. 84  Impey, Lorans, and Mesqui, ‘Langeais et Loches’, pp. 105–07. The estimated date of construction is 993–994: Bachrach, ‘Fortifications and Military Tactics’. But others have suggested a later date of c. 1020: Higham and Barker, Timber Castles, p. 97.

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researchers Papaggelos and Androudis,85 whose detailed work in Macedonia and Mt Athos provides the underpinnings for the present paper. The buttressed tower did not just emerge in tenth-century France, as present historio­g raphy presupposes, but developed in many contexts and geo­graphical locations over centuries.

The Search for ‘Romanitas’ Over and above the dissemination of military techno­log y around the Mediterranean and beyond via the Norman diaspora in all its forms, there emerges from the written sources a nostalgia amongst members of the elite of medi­e val Western Europe for the language, structures, and principles of Ancient Rome. Looking back to the first century ad when the empire was nearing its acme, J. N. Adams has argued that the use of Latin manufacturer’s stamps by Gallic potters was to raise the apparent status of their works and that provincials recruited into the Roman military perceived the use of Latin as an expression of their acquired Roman identity.86 In this context in the tenth century, long after the fall of Rome, scribes give to Geoffrey Greymantle, Fulk Nerra’s father, the honorifics ‘most illustrious, most noble and most magnificent’ (illustrissimus, noblissimus, and magnificentissimus), terms normally once ascribed to Roman consuls. Further, the annals kept in Anjou use a dating system in Roman fashion relative to the consulatus of Fulk Nerra, and Fulk’s son Geoffrey Martel described himself as consul from early in his reign.87 But while the western empire had long disappeared the Eastern Roman empire was the largest and most successful European state in the tenth and early eleventh centuries. Its sheer size, the splendour of its court and the strength of its army seems to have meant that, whilst its official language was now Greek, and Western commentators took every opportunity to denigrate it (as detailed below), for many of the new rulers in Western Europe it was a point of envy and may have represented in their minds in this period, despite increasingly linking their identity to papal Rome, a continuation of the Roman state. The Byzantine emperors were not slow to exploit their position. In 879 the doge of Venice was so pleased with his award of the title of 85 

Papaggelos, ‘Περί Των Πύργων Της Χαλκιδικής’ [‘About the Towers of Chalkidiki’]; Androudis, ‘Οι Βυζαντινοί Πύργοι της Χαλκιδικής’ [The Byzantine Towers of Chalkidiki’]. 86  Adams, ‘“Romanitas” and the Latin Language’. 87  Bachrach, Fulk Nerra, the Neo-Roman Consul, pp. 151–54; Impey and Lorans, ‘Langeais’.

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protospatharios (literally ‘sword-bearer’) that he sent a present of twelve bells to Constantinople.88 City elders in Dyrrachium, who had delivered it up to the Byzantines in 1005 were granted their request of the title of patrikios (patrician), just as Sergius of Bari had taken the title of protospatharios following his delivery of the city to the Byzantine katepan in 982.89 Imitation also took other forms: we see on the Norman silver ducalis issued in 1140 King Roger II attired as a Byzantine emperor, a clear borrowing from a coin of the Byzantine Emperor Alexis I Comnenos (r. 1081–1118).90 Dress was a sign of status, and within the Byzantine court there were strict dress codes, the most well-known of which was the restriction of the use of purple-dyed garments to the elite, from whence the expression ‘born in the purple’. Liudprand of Cremona in recounting his visit to Constantinople in 968 notes how, just before his return to Italy ‘five very valuable pieces of purple cloth’,91 which he had purchased, were taken from him, although he was allowed initially to purchase lesser quality fabric. A direct quote by the Byzantine courtiers, as noted by Liudprand, is worth repeating since it succinctly sums up the relative status and power (at least in their minds) of the Byzantine and Western worlds at this time: As we surpass all other nations in wealth and wisdom, so it is right that we should surpass them in dress. Those who are unique in the grace of their virtue should also be unique in the beauty of their raiment. […] The Emperor Nikephoros […] does not win people’s friendship by offering them money, he subdues them to his sway by terror and the sword.92

Liudprand had a quick riposte — that such fabric was readily available in Italy from Venetian and Amalfian traders (although probably not of such quality)! Yet the implications are clear: the superiority at this date of Byzantine techno­ logy and arms, which he did not contradict, and the desire by Italians to purchase status with imported fabric from the east. 88  Brubaker, ‘The end followed in no long time’. The award of honorifics was a policy frequently utilized in binding satellite states to the empire, especially in the northern Balkans: Stephenson, ‘The Balkan Frontier’. 89  Falkenhausen, ‘Between Two Empires’. 90  Travaini, ‘The Normans between Byzantium and the Islamic World’. 91  Liudprand of Cremona, Works, ‘De Legatione Constantinopolitana’, ch. 54, p. 267. 92  Liudprand of Cremona, Works, ‘De Legatione Constantinopolitana’, ch. 53–55. The reference to the offer of money should be taken with some circumspection since this was often one of the weapons of Byzantine foreign policy.

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Gaining such status, apart from realpolitik, seems to have been the rationale for a series of foreign rulers to seek marriage alliances with members of the emperor’s immediate family — eight occasions are noted in the sources.93 Liudprand narrates that his stepfather in the service of Hugh of Arles, king of Italy, had been despatched in 942 to Constantinople to arrange (successfully) just such a marriage between the king’s illegitimate daughter and the grandson of the Emperor Romanos.94 On this visit, twenty-six years later, Liudprand himself, now in the employ of Otto the Great, had been sent to arrange a marriage between Otto’s son, Otto II, and the daughter of the, by then, recentlydeceased Emperor Romanos. The pretensions of the Italian and Frankish elite, and the actions of these disparate rulers in their apparent attempts to legitimize their own dominion thus provide a backdrop for the absorption and adoption of Eastern Roman military techno­logy and architecture in the west up to the early eleventh century.95 We need, however, not to over-emphasize this: the tenth century can be seen as one of Western ambivalence to the eastern Byzantine Empire, following the Carolingian period during which ‘Roman’ had often taken on a semireligious meaning.96 Liudprand, frequently sycophantic in the extreme towards his master, Otto, is ever-ready to denigrate the Byzantine emperor (a dwarf, fatheaded, and with tiny mole’s eye), the food (foul), the wine (undrinkable) and his quarters (miserable and disgusting). Yet intimations of his real thoughts emerge from his writing as he notes the ‘delicate dishes’ at the emperor’s table, the ‘very valuable pieces of silk cloth’ and the assembly of a military expedition of 80,000 men.

An Etymo­logical Clue One final piece of indirect evidence can be added: Kenyon and Thompson (1994) have posited that the English word ‘keep’ used to describe the great tower derives from the French ‘la kype’, used in a document from 1375–1376, and in the form ‘la Cupe’ in another from 1402, to describe the tower at Guines 93 

Shepard, ‘Aspects of Byzantine Attitudes’; Shepard, ‘Marriages’. The Works of Liudprand of Cremona, pp. 233–76. 95  It should be noted that beyond this date the influence was probably in the opposite direction, as represented first by the armaments of Norman cavalry serving in the east, and then the architecture of the fortifications in the Crusader states. 96  Sarti, ‘Frankish Romanness’. 94 

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a

b

Figure 2.11. Examples of Byzantine banded towers. (a) Kutahya towers, Anatolia. Extract from a reconstruction in Foss, Survey of Medi­eval Castles of Anatolia, pp. 25–57; (b) Octagonal tower, Constantinople. Wikimedia commons: Katsiaryna Naliuka.

in the Pas de Calais, France.97 The term, they note, has its roots in the Latin cupa meaning barrel or basket,98 and suggest that it was used by English soldiers to describe the banded masonry on the tower. But this style is a defining feature of Byzantine fortifications dating from even before sixth-century Justinianic construction,99 and the walls of Constantinople and Antioch. It is also recognized as having been utilized on a major fortress in Wales in the early fourteenth century: the polygonal towers used by Edward I at Caernarvon castle, Oliver Creighton writes, were ‘a deliberate emulation of Byzantine Constantinople’ (Fig. 2.11).100 97 

Kenyon and Thompson, ‘The Origin of the Word “Keep”’; also support for this derivation in Dixon, ‘The Myth of the Keep’. 98  A term also imported into English in the form ‘coop’, meaning barrel or basket, thus a barrel-maker is a ‘cooper’. 99  For analysis of Byzantine banding styles: Veikou, Byzantine Epirus, pp. 112–19 and fig. 33. 100  Creighton, Castles and Landscapes, p. 66. It should also be noted, however, that the Roman legionary fortress of York (Eburacum) attributed to the Emperor Constantine’s father,

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This is only part of the story, however, and, although we only see the term in later documents, it appears to have been in use much earlier. La Cuppa is the name given to a fortress on the island of Euboea (off the eastern coast of continental Greece) by the Italian historian Marino Sanudo Torsello writing in the early fourteenth century about the Byzantine recapture of the island in the late 1270s.101 In another work, the same author refers to the English Tower in Acre as sbaralium domini Odoard — an apparent attempt to translate the French word baril and indicate its rounded or cylindrical shape.102 On the banks of the Danube along the limes (boundary road) of the Roman Empire and the route from the north to Constantinople there also lies a fortification named Cupi, one of three which were converted from a single tower to a much larger fortified area in the sixth century, as that at Donje Butorke (Fig. 2.3). Potentially, therefore, the word ‘keep’ in its Latin form may date back to as early as the seventh century, developing initially as a slightly derogatory term to describe the barrel-like architecture of many Byzantine towers (Fig. 2.9) or simply as an architectural description by engineers (as, for instance, the expression ‘barrel vaulting’ is used today), until its adoption at some point as a more generic term. Such argument, however, is more speculative than conclusive — a general problem we face when examining the ‘dark ages’ of the seventh and eighth centuries. Failing the discovery of a contemporary seal or inscription with the name ‘cupa’ this etymo­logical clue should therefore be viewed as secondary to the influence of Byzantine military architectural forms on Western Europe posited above. Its significance, rather, is that it provides a further instance of the fluid interchange between societies (in this case linguistic) in this period, something exemplified in the corruption of the names of the three major cities in medi­e val central Greece as Athens (Athēnai) became ‘Setines’, Thebes (Thēbai) ‘Stives’, and Egrippos (modern Chalkida) ‘Negroponte’.103

Constantius Chlorus, possessed polygonal towers with probable tile courses in their upper levels, as did the Roman Pharos at Dover: Pringle, ‘Castle-Building’. 101  Papadopoulou, ed., L᾽Istoria di Romania, p. 145, line 2. 102  Pringle, ‘The Confraternity’. The work in question is the Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis super Terrae Sanctae Recuperatione et Conservatione. 103  This seems to have arisen as Western travellers failed to distinguish between the core Greek place-name and its combination with the preposition ‘to’, and the definite article, translated it phonetically and elided letters. Thus, for example, the Greek for ‘Eis tis Thives’ (Είς τις Θήβες), became [Ei] s t [is Th] i v e s.

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Conclusions The present paper cannot prove incontrovertibly that the Norman great tower had its roots in the Byzantine Eastern Roman Empire, but the prima facie evidence is too strong for the case to be simply thrown out of court. There was a clear tower-building tradition in the east, by the tenth century towers being utilized at all levels of society: it was both defensive and residential, tower construction by the emperors providing a prototype for emulation by the emerging Norman warlords. For them it was primarily a functional architectural construct, which fulfilled their personal military needs. It could also have reflected a practical realization of the ‘romanitas’ which they seemed to have striven for, although this should be considered alongside their ambivalent, and sometimes contemptuous, view of the ‘Greeks’. Whilst apparent etymo­logical pedigrees are often found to be a false friend, the roots of the English term ‘keep’ and the Norman ‘La Kype’ to describe the great tower, Procopius’ translation in the late sixth century of the Greek word for fort (φρούριον) as castellum, and the subsequent use of kastelion to describe small fortifications with an attached tower in northern Greece, all terms seemingly buried within the Byzantine era, provide further support for the fluid nature of the Latin-Greek language interface in these centuries. If we add to this indications for the existence of buttressed towers in the east, well before their emergence in northwest Europe, and an evolution in the size of their buttresses, which appears to have been emulated in France, then it becomes clear that the Roman tower should not be treated simply as a deus ex machina. The development of the great tower appears, on the contrary, to have been an evolving process over many centuries in the Byzantine Eastern Roman Empire, which also encompassed southern Italy in the ninth to eleventh centuries. The provision of an encircling ‘enceinte’ for classical Roman towers such as those renovated on the Danube by the Emperor Justinian in the sixth century — a new architectural form — provided a blueprint for Western travellers to view en route to the east. It was then for the Norman elite — from dukes to diplomats, and mercenaries serving in the Byzantine army — to see the efficacies of such a format and, on their return home, mould it to their own needs, whether at a state or private level. Trying to define the direction of influence in what was in the tenth century a very fluid environment in Western Europe is fraught with difficulty and can be challenged. I have also not addressed developments in Italy, Arabcontrolled Sicily, or the Iberian Peninsula, where networks of towers, some in

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an estate context, delineated the borders between Arab and Catalan-controlled regions.104 There is therefore considerable research still required to confirm my hypothesis, work which, I should emphasize, needs to be undertaken at a panEuropean level to be valid. Generally, however, notwithstanding these caveats, the sheer size and achievements of the Byzantine Empire in the tenth century must have overshadowed anything in the west, and there are many reasons and points of contact which might suggest Norman borrowings. Yet, by the late eleventh century, following consolidation of the emerging kingdoms in Western Europe, Byzantine defeats in Anatolia, and the First Crusade in 1095, the tide had undoubtably turned: henceforward there was a distinct Frankish/Norman military influence on the east. The towers and fortifications constructed in the Crusader states in the twelfth century clearly reflect developments in military architecture imported from the west and new adaptations by the conquerors to local realities on the ground.105 The challenge remains as to how the present analysis may fit into a theoretical framework. Its inclusion within the traditional transcultural model, as originally espoused by Charles Homer Haskins, is precluded by the latter’s focus predominantly on the translation of Greek and Arabic scientific, medical, and philosophical texts into Latin. However, more recently, it has been recognized that transference of knowledge can be facilitated within a shared cultural space in many ways other than the written word.106 A general survey of the field conducted by Brentjes, Fidora, and Tischler in 2014 describes how visual and material objects can be the components of cross-cultural exchange, and that practical transmission of knowledge can precede textual transfers.107 This is further supported by Brentjes in a 2015 article on portolan charts, in which she sees the shared space potentially as the entire Mediterranean and Black Seas.108 Yet, strangely, these authors, while emphasizing the role of conquest as facilitating information exchange, fail to note the importance of the ‘science of war’, the fundamental underpinning of such conquest.

104 

See, for instance, Araguas, ‘Les châteaux des marches’. Pringle, Secular Buildings, pp. 1–14; Petersen, ‘Medi­eval Towers in Syria and Palestine’; Blackler, The Byzantine and Frankish Towers of Greece, pp. 505–09. 106  See, for instance, Malet, ‘Matemáticas’. 107  Brentjes, Fidora, and Tischler, ‘Medi­eval Cross-Cultural Exchanges’. 108  Brentjes, ‘Fourteenth-Century Portolan Charts’. 105 

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The present paper, by demonstrating that the origins of the great tower based on the surviving evidence probably lie in the eastern Mediterranean and that some Norman military tactics may be borrowings from skills learnt by their contact with, or service in, the Byzantine empire, can thus be seen as extending the transcultural model. We can view the Norman diaspora, most especially the military, as facilitating the transfer of knowledge. In essence, whilst Fulk Nerra, count of Anjou, and William, duke of Normandy, exploited this for their own benefit, it was Norman officers of high rank serving in the Byzantine army such as Hervé and Robert Crispin, and diplomats such as Liudprand, who acted as the ‘translators’. It may even suggest that tactics hitherto perceived as Vegetian may to some extent be taken from the corpus of Byzantine military manuals. Thus, in order to fully understand the emergence of the new Norman states in Western Europe in a more nuanced way, we need to address the Norman diaspora in all its forms — religious, diplomatic, and military — and the influences these travellers brought back from Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

Works Cited Primary Sources Archives de l’Athos, ed. by Jacques Lefort (Paris: Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres et de l’Académie d’Athènes, 1937–) Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A  Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ Typika and Testaments, ed.  by John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero, Dumbarton Oaks Studies, 35 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2000) Charlemagne’s Survey of the Holy Land: Wealth, Personnel, and Buildings of a Mediterranean Church between Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. and trans. by Michael McCormick (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2011) Flavius Vegetius Renatus, Vegetius: Epitome of Military Science, ed. by N. P. Milner (Liver­ pool: Liverpool University Press, 1991) Liudprand of Cremona, The Works of Liudprand of Cremona, ed. and trans. by F.  A. Wright (London: Routledge, 1930) Procopius, On Buildings: In Seven Volumes with an English Translation, ed. and trans. by H. B. Dewing (London: Heinemann, 1940) Psellus, The History of Psellus, ed. by C. N. Sathas (London: Methuen, 1899). Marino Sanudo Torsello, Mαρίνος-Σανούδος-Tορσέλλο, ‘Iστορία Tης Pωμανίας; Eισαγωγή, Έκδοση-Mετάφραση, Σχόλια’ [‘L᾽Istoria di Romania de Marino Sanudo Torsello’], ed. and trans. by Evtichia Papadopoulou (Athens: Institute of Historical Research, 2000) Skylitzes, John, A Synopsis of Byzantine History, 811–1057, ed. and trans. by John Wortley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010)

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William of Apulia, The Deeds of Robert Guiscard by William of Apulia, ed. by Graham A. Loud [accesed 3 May 2023]

Secondary Studies Adams, J. N., ‘“Romanitas” and the Latin Language’, The Classical Quarterly, 53 (2003), 184–205 Androudis, Paschalis, ‘Oι Bυζαντινοί Πύργοι της Xαλκιδικής: Iστορικές και Aρχαιολογικές Mαρτυρίες’ [‘The Byzantine Towers of Chalkidiki: Historical and Archaeo­logical Evi­ dence’], Byzantiaka, 35 (2018–2019), 281–323 —— , ‘Three Early Shallow-Butressed Towers of the Monastery of Chilandar, on Mount Athos’, International Symposium of Byzanto­logists: Nis and Byzantium, 10 (2012), 291–304 Angold, Michael, Church and Society in Byzantium under the Comneni, 1081–1261 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) Araguas, Philippe, ‘Les châteaux des marches de Catalogne et Ribagorce’, Bulletin monumental, 1 (1979), 205–24 Bachrach, Bernard S., ‘Fortifications and Military Tactics: Fulk Nerra’s Strongholds Circa 1000’, Techno­logy and Culture, 20 (1979), 531–49 —— , Fulk Nerra, the Neo-Roman Consul 987–1040: A Political Bio­graphy of the Angevin Count (Berkley: University of California Press, 1993) —— , ‘The Pilgrimages of Fulk Nerra, Count of the Angevins’, in Religion, Culture and Society in the Early Middle Ages. Studies in Honor of Richard  E. Sullivan, ed.  by Thomas F. X. Noble and John J. Contreni (Kalamazoo, MI: Medi­eval Institute Publi­ cations, 1987), pp. 205–17 —— , ‘On the Origins of William the Conqueror’s Horse Transports’, Techno­logy and Culture, 26 (1985), 505–31 Blöndal, Sigfús, The Varangians of Byzantium: An Aspect of Byzantine Military History, trans. by Benedikt S. Benedikz (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978) Bintliff, John, The Complete Archaeo­logy of Greece, from Hunter-Gatherers to the 20th Century ad (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012) Blackler, Andrew, ‘The Medi­eval Landscape of Euboea (Negroponte): A Framework for Interpreting the Byzantine and Frankish Towers of Greece’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Birmingham, 2020) Brentjes, Sonja, ‘Fourteenth-Century Portolan Charts. Challenges to Our Understanding of Cross-Cultural Relationships in the Mediterranean and Black Sea Regions and of (Knowledge?) Practices of Chart-Makers’, Journal of Transcultural Medi­eval Studies, 2 (2015), 79–122 Brentjes, Sonja, Alexander Fidora, and Matthias M. Tischler, ‘Towards a New Approach to Medi­eval Crosscultural Exchanges’, Journal of Transcultural Medi­eval Studies, 1 (2014), 9–50

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Brown, R. Allen, English Castles (London: Batsford, 1976) Brubaker, Jeffrey D., ‘The End Followed in No Long Time: Byzantine Diplomacy and the Decline in Relations with the West from 962 to 1204’ (unpublished postgraduate thesis, University of Arlington, Texas, 2009) Cameron, Avril, ‘Thinking with Byzantium’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 21 (2011), 39–57 Charanis, Peter, ‘The Byzantine Empire in the Eleventh Century’, in A History of the Crus­ades, ed.  by M.  W. Baldwin (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin, 1969), pp. 177–219 Coulson, Charles L.  H., Castles in Medi­eval Society: Fortresses in England, France and Ireland in the Central Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) Creighton, Oliver, Castles and Landscapes: Power, Community and Fortification in Medi­ eval England (London: Equinox, 2002) —— , Early European Castles: Aristocracy and Authority, ad 800–1200 (London: Blooms­ bury, 2012) Ćurčić, Slobodan, ‘Pyrgos-Stl’p-Donjon. A  Western Fortification Concept on Mount Athos and its Sources’, Byzantine Studies Conference, 7 (1981), 21–22 Ćurčić, Slobodan, and Evangelia Hadjitryphonos, eds, Secular Medi­eval Architecture in the Balkans, 1300–1500, and Its Preservation (Thessaloniki: Aimos, 1997) Decker, Michael, ‘Towers, Refuges, and Fortified Farms in the Late Roman East’, Liber Annuus, 56 (2006), 499–520 Diehl, Charles, L’Afrique byzantine: Histoire de la domination byzantine en Afrique (533–709) (Paris: Leroux, 1896) Dixon, Philip, ‘The Myth of the Keep’, in The Seigneurial Residence in Western Europe ad c.  800–1600, ed.  by G.  Meirion-Jones, E.  Impey, and M.  Jones, BAR International Series, 1088 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2002), pp. 9–13 Dunn, Archie, ‘Continuity and Change in the Macedonian Countryside from Gallienus to Justinian’, Late Antique Archaeo­logy, 2 (2004), 535–58 —— , ‘The Survey of Thisve (Byzantine Kastorion and Multi-Period Complex of Sites): 2007–2009’ (2016), [accessed 8 May 2019] Fioretto, Elena, ‘Network through Centuries: From the Byzantine Era to Present Days’, International Archives of the Photogrammetry, Remote Sensing and Spatial Information Sciences, xlii-2/W11: 2nd International Conference of Geomatics and Restoration, 8–10 May 2019, Milan, Italy, ed. by R. Brumana, V. Pracchi, F. Rinaudo, A. Grimoldi, M. Scaioni, M. Previtali, and L. Cantini (2019), 519–24 Foss, Clive, ‘Pilgrimage in Medi­eval Asia Minor’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 56 (2002), 129–51 —— , Survey of Medi­eval Castles of Anatolia, i: Kütahya, 261, BAR British Series, 261 (Oxford: BAR, 1985) Georgopoulou, Maria, ‘The Landscape of Medi­eval Greece’, in A Companion to Latin Greece, ed.  by N.  Tsougarakis and Peter Lock, Brill’s Companions to European History, 6 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 327–68

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Goody, Jack, The Theft of History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) Haldon, John, The Palgrave Atlas of Byzantine History (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005) —— , Warfare, State and Society in the Byzantine World 560–1204 (London: Routledge, 1999) Higham, Robert, and Philip Barker, Timber Castles (London: Batsford, 1992) Hill, Paul, The Norman Commanders: Masters of Warfare, 911–1135 (Barnsley: Pen & Sword, 2015) Hirschfeld, Yizhar, ‘Farms and Villages in Byzantine Palestine’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 51 (1997), 33–71 Impey, Edward, and Élisabeth Lorans, ‘Langeais, Indre-et-Loire. An Archaeo­logical and Historical Study of the Early Donjon and Its Environs’, Journal of the British Archaeo­ logical Association, 151 (1998), 43–106 Impey, Edward, Élisabeth Lorans, and Jean Mesqui, Deux donjons construits autour de l’an mil en Tourraine. Langeais et Loches (Paris: Société française d’archéo­logie, 1998) Jacoby, David, ‘Bishop Gunther of Bamberg, Byzantium and Christian Pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the Eleventh Century’, in Travellers, Merchants and Settlers in the Eastern Mediterranean, ed. by David Jacoby (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 267–85 —— , ‘Evolving Routes of Western Pilgrimage to the Holy Land, Eleventh to Fifteenth Century: An Overview’, in Unterwegs im Namen der Religion, ii  / On the Road in the Name of Religion, ed.  by Klaus Herbers and Hans Christian Lehner (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2017), pp. 75–100 —— , ‘Silk Economics and Cross-Cultural Artistic Interaction: Byzantium, the Muslim World, and the Christian West’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 58 (2004), 197–240 Kenyon, John, and Michael Thompson, ‘The Origin of the Word “Keep”’, Medi­eval Archaeo­ logy, 38 (1994), 175–76 King, D. J. Cathcart, The Castle in England and Wales: An Interpretative History (London: Croom Helm, 1988) Kondić, Vladimir, ‘Les formes des fortifications protobyzantines dans la région des portes de fer’, in Villes et peuplement dans l’Illyricum protobyzantin: Actes du Colloque de Rome, 12–14 mai 1982, Collection de l’École française de Rome, 77 (Rome: École française de Rome, 1984), pp. 131–61 Külzer, Andreas, ‘Pilgrims on Their Way in the Holy Land: Roads and Routes According to Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Travel Accounts’, in Pilgrimage to Jerusalem: Journeys, Destinations, Experiences across Times and Cultures. Proceedings of the Conference held in Jerusalem, 5th to 7th December 2017, ed.  by Falko Daim, Johannes Pahlitzsch, Joseph Patrich, Claudia Rapp, and Jon Seligman (Mainz: Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2020), pp. 11–22 Lawrence, A. W., ‘A Skeletal History of Byzantine Fortification’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 78 (1983), 171–227 Lemerle, Paul, and Henri Ducoux, ‘L’acropole et l’enceinte haute de Philippes’, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique, 62 (1938), 4–19

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Lock, Peter, ‘The Frankish Towers of Central Greece’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 81 (1986), 101–23 Lorans, Élisabeth, ‘Les tours-maîtresses des 11e et 12e siècles’, in Atlas Archéo­logique de Touraine, ed. by E. Zadora-Rio, Supplément à la Revue archéo­logique du Centre de la France, 53 (Tours: FERACF, 2014), [accessed 23 May 2023] Magdalino, Paul, ed., Byzantium in the Year 1000, The Medi­eval Mediterranean, 45 (Leiden: Brill, 2002) Malet, Antonio, ‘Mil Años De Matemáticas En Iberia’, in El Legado De Las Matemáticas. De Euclides a Newton. Los Genios a Través De Sus Libros, ed. by Antonio Jose Duran Guardeno (Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 2000), pp. 194–224 Mesqui, Jean, ‘La forteresse de Saône en Syrie (Sahyoun, Qal’at Salah Ad-Dîn): Nouvelles observations sur l’évolution du site de l’époque byzantine à l’époque ottomane’, online at  [accessed 3 May 2023] McGeer, Eric, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth: Byzantine Warfare in the Tenth Century (Wash­ ing­ton, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995) Micheau, Françoise, ‘Les itinéraires maritimes et continentaux des pèlerinages vers Jérusalem’, in Occident et Orient au xe siècle. Actes du ixe congrès de la société des historiens médiévistes de l’enseignement supérieur public (Paris: Belles Lettres, 1979), pp. 79–104 Osborne, Robin, ‘Island Towers: The Case of Thasos’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 81 (1986), 167–78 Papaggelos, Ioakeim, ‘Περί Tων Πύργων Tης Xαλκιδικής’ [‘About the Towers of Chalkidiki’], Eλληνικό Πανόραμα [Greek Panorama], 18 (2000), 134–61 Petersen, Andrew, ‘Medi­eval Towers in Syria and Palestine’, in Crusader Landscapes in the Medi­eval Levant: The Archaeo­logy and History of the Latin East, ed. by Michaella Sinibaldi, Kevin J. Lewis, Balazs Major, and Jennifer A. Thompson (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2016), pp. 187–206 Pfister, Christian, Etudes sur le règne de Robert Le Pieux (996–1031) (Paris: Vieweg, 1885) Popovic, Marko, ‘Les forteresses du system défensif byzantin en Serbie au xie-xiie siècle’, Revue de l’Institut Archéo­logique, 42 (1991), 168–85 Poultney, L., ed., Totnes Castle (London: English Heritage, 2013) Pringle, Denys, ‘The Chapels in the Byzantine Castle of Sahyun (Qal‘at Salah Al-Din), Syria’, in Mosaic: Festschrift for A.  H.  S. Megaw, ed.  by J.  Herrin, M.  Mullett, and C.  Otten-Froux, British School at Athens Studies, 8 (London: British School at Athens, 2001), pp. 105–13 —— , ‘The Confraternity and Chapel of St Edward the Confessor in Acre (1271/2–1291)’, in Exploring Outremer i: Studies in Medi­eval History in Honour of Adrian J. Boas, ed. by Rabei Khamisy, Rafael Y. Lewis, and Vardit Shotten-Hallel, Crusades–Subsidia (Routledge: Abingdon, forthcoming)

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—— , The Defence of Byzantine Africa from Justinian to the Arab Conquest: An Account of the Military History and Archaeo­logy of the African Provinces in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries, BAR International Series, 99, 2 vols (Oxford: BAR, 1981) —— , ‘Edward  I, Castle-Building and the Tower of the English in Acre’, in A Fresh Approach: Essays Presented to Colin Platt in Celebration of His Eightieth Birthday, 11 November 2014, ed. by Claire Donovan (Bristol: Trouser Press, 2014), pp. 48–56 —— , ‘An Eleventh- to Twelfth-Century Itinerary from Hungary to the Holy Land and Othmar’s Vision of the Holy Fire’, in Bridge of Civilizations: The Near East and Europe c. 1100–1300, ed. by Peter Edbury, Denys Pringle, and Balázs Major (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2019), pp. 281–96 —— , Secular Buildings in the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: An Archaeo­logical Gazetteer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) Reba, Meredith, Femke Reitsma, and Karen C. Seto, ‘Spatializing 6,000 Years of Global Urbanization from 3700  bc to ad  2000’, Scientific Data, 3  (2016) [accessed 9 October 2020] Ricci, Alessandra, ‘Left Behind: Small Sized Objects from the Middle Byzantine Monastic Complex of Satyros (Küçükyali, Istanbul)’, in Byzantine Small Finds in Archaeo­logical Contexts Workshop: Istanbul, 2–4 June, 2008, ed.  by Beate Böhlendorf-Arslan and Alessandra Ricci (Istanbul: Ege Yayinlari, 2012), pp. 147–62 Sarti, Laury, ‘Frankish Romanness and Charlemagne’s Empire’, Speculum, 91.4 (2016), 1040–58 Sartore, Melissa, ‘Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Similarities in the Norman Influence, Con­tact and “Conquests” of Sicily, Southern Italy and England’, al-Masāq, 25.2 (2013), 184–203 Séraphin, Gilles, ‘Les tours féodales du Quercy’, in Archéo­logie du Midi médiéval, supplément 4. Résidences aristocratiques, résidences du pouvoir entre Loire et Pyrénées, xe–xve siècles, Recherches archéo­logiques récentes, 1987–2002 (Languedoc: Centre d’Archéo­ logie Médiévale, 2006), pp. 127–38 Setton, Kenneth M., A History of the Crusades, reprnt, ed. by M. W. Baldwin (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin, 1969) Shepard, Jonathan, ‘Aspects of Byzantine Attitudes and Policy Towards the West in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries’, in Byzantium and the West, c. 850 – c. 1200: Proceedings of the xviii Spring Sypmosium of Byzantine Studies, Oxford, 1984, ed. by J. D. HowardJohnstone, Byzantinische Forschungen, 13 (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1988), pp. 67–118 —— , ‘Byzantium’s Last Sicilian Expedition: Scylitzes’ Testimony’, Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici, 14–16 (1977–1979), 144–59 —— , ‘Marriages Towards the Millenium’, in Byzantium in the Year 1000, ed.  by Paul Magdalino, The Medi­eval Mediterranean, 45 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 135–60 —— , ‘The Uses of the Franks in Eleventh-Century Byzantium’, in Anglo-Norman Studies, 15 (1993), 275–305 Smyrlis, Kostis, ‘Estate Fortifications in Late Byzantine Macedonia: The Athonite Evidence’, in Hinter den Mauern und auf dem offenen Land. Leben im Byzantinischen Reich, ed.  by Falko Daim and Jörg Drauschke (Mainz: Römisch-Germanischen Zentral­museum, 2016), pp. 189–206

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Stephenson, Paul, ‘The Balkan Frontier in the Year 1000’, in Byzantium in the Year 1000, ed. by Paul Magdalino, The Medi­eval Mediterranean, 45 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 135–60 Theocharides, Plutarchos L., ‘Observations on the Byzantine Buttressed Towers of Mace­donia’, in Byzantine Macedonia: Identity, Image and History: Papers from the Melbourne Conference July 1995, ed.  by John Burke and Roger Scott (Melbourne: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 2001), pp. 20–27 Theotokis, Georgios, ‘Rus, Varangian and Frankish Mercenaries in the Service of the Byzan­tine Emperors (9th–11th C.): Numbers, Organisation and Battle Tactics in the Operational Theatres of Asia Minor and the Balkans’, Byzantina Symmeikta, 22 (2012), 125–56 Thompson, M. W., The Rise of the Castle (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991) van Houts, Elisabeth M.  C., ‘Normandy and Byzantium in the Eleventh Century’, Byzantion, 55 (1985), 544–59 Veikou, Myrto, Byzantine Epirus – a Topo­graphy of Transformation: Settlements of the Seventh-Twelfth Centuries in Southern Epirus and Aetoloacarnania, Greece, The Medi­ eval Mediterranean, 95 (Leiden: Brill, 2012) Von Falkenhausen, Vera, ‘A Provincial Aristocracy – the Byzantine Provinces in Italy (9th – 11th Century)’, in The Byzantine Aristocracy, ix to xiii Centuries, ed.  by Michael Angold, BAR International Series, 221 (Oxford: BAR, 1984), pp. 211–35 —— , ‘Between Two Empires: Southern Italy in the Reign of Basil II’, in Byzantium in the Year 1000, ed.  by Paul Magdalino, The Medi­eval Mediterranean, 45 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 135–60 Voyadjis, Sotiris, ‘The “Tzimiskes” Tower of the Great Lavra Monastery’, in Mount Athos and Byzantine monasticism: Papers from the Twenty-Eighth Spring Symposium of Byzan­tine Studies, Birmingham, March 1994, ed. by Anthony Bryer and Mary B. Cunning­ham (Aldershot: Variorum, 1996), pp. 198–203 Wickham, Chris, Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean 400–800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009) Wierzbiński, Szymon, ‘Normans and “Other Franks” in 11th Century Byzantium: The Careers of the Adventurers before the Rule of Alexius I Comnenus’, Studia Ceranea, 4 (2014), 277–88 Young, John H., ‘Studies in South Attica: Country Estates at Sounion’, Hesperia, 25 (1956), 122–46

3. Movement, Transmission, and the North Sea World in Orderic Vitalis’s Historia ecclesiastica Carolyn Cargile

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t the beginning of book  v of his Historia ecclesiastica, the AngloNorman historian Orderic Vitalis — writing in the late 1120s at his abbey, Saint-Évroul in Normandy — describes his first boyhood journey across the English Channel: Vndecimo autem ætatis meæ anno pro amore Dei a proprio genitore abdicatus sum; et de Anglia in Normanniam tenellus exul ut æterno regi militarem destinatus sum (But in the eleventh year of my life, I was given up for the love of God by my own father; and a tender exile, I was sent from England into Normandy, that I might enlist in the service of the eternal king).1

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Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, book v, p. 8. All Latin translations my own.

Carolyn Cargile ([email protected]) is a recent PhD graduate from the Department of English at Fordham University. Her research focuses on eleventh- and twelfth-century history writing in England and Normandy. Abstract: In Orderic Vitalis’s Historia ecclesiastica, the narrative of the Norman Conquest of 1066 contains details about Tostig Godwinson’s movements shared only by Old Norse sources. This chapter argues that these details shared between Norman and Old Norse texts attest continued literary transmission from Normandy to Scandinavia in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries, a period during which scholars have tended to locate a breakdown in direct political and cultural relations between the two regions. I also examine Orderic’s metaphorical uses of the sea in the Historia and argue that the sea functions as a crucial interpretive mechanism to articulate Orderic’s identity as an exile, describe the difficulty of writing history, and elevate the authority of the historian. Keywords: Orderic Vitalis, Norman Conquest, history writing, North Sea world Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 85–108 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134142

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His crossing into Normandy enters into the Historia as part of an autobio­ graphy-in-miniature, as Orderic recounts the earliest years of his life, from his birth to his entry as a child oblate into Saint-Évroul, and Orderic explicitly aligns this autobio­graphy with the historical narrative of Book V: Amodo tercium ab anno dominicæ incarnationis mºlxxvº libellum exordiar […] A  prefato nempe anno placet inchoare presens opusculum, quo in hanc lucem xiiiiº kal’ Martii matris ex utero profusus sum (Now I shall begin this third little book from the year of the incarnation of our Lord 1075  […] It pleases me to begin the present book from the stated year, of course, because I was born into the light of day on 16 February 1075).2

As Elisabeth van Houts has noted, this moment, written about a decade into the Historia’s composition, marks Orderic’s first self-identification as author.3 Because he uses this self-identification to explain the book’s chrono­logical beginning, it also marks a self-identification with the larger historical narrative. Orderic maps his own bio­graphy onto the historical narrative of eleventh-century Normandy, and central to his bio­graphy is his sea-crossing to Normandy. Embedded from the beginning of book v is a connection between movement across the sea, the historian, and the project of history itself. Orderic’s attention to his own crossing of the Channel, which reappears like a refrain throughout the Historia as the beginning of his ‘exile’ in Normandy, indicates his broader interest in movement across the sea and in the potential of this movement as a useful metaphor for the project of history. In this chapter, I examine a particular account of movement across the sea in the Historia ecclesiastica and use it to consider two concerns: literary connections between Scandinavia and Normandy in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and the sea as a site of useful metaphor to articulate the task of the historian. I argue that a literary tradition of the Norman Conquest shared by the Historia ecclesias2 

Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, book v, p. 6. van Houts, ‘Orderic and his Father’, pp. 17–18. Elisabeth van Houts associates this selfidentification with a rise in autobio­g raphical writings in the twelfth century and their relationship to history writing. This rise in autobio­g raphical writing and self-writing was tied to changes in monastic penitential practices, which began to emphasize more self-examination in monastic devotional life and its importance in establishing closeness to God. Richard Southern also discusses the focus on ‘personality’ in writing as a defining characteristic of the English contribution to the twelfth-century Renaissance, an idea that generated nuanced analyses from later scholars but nevertheless drew attention to an increasing trend, see Southern, ‘The Place of England’, pp. 214–15. 3 

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tica and Scandinavian sources indicates continued literary exchange between Normandy and Scandinavia in the decades after the Norman Conquest, with textual transmission occurring from Normandy to Scandinavia. The episode, which emphasizes maritime connections and recounts a journey across the English Channel and the North Sea, demonstrates transcultural exchange of literary narratives and motifs, most likely enabled by maritime movement. I then argue that Orderic looks to the sea to articulate his identity as an exile, to describe the difficulty of navigating the past, and to elevate the historian’s role in interpreting divine providence. This chapter argues for further consideration of direct literary ties between Normandy and Scandinavia after 1066, enabled by transcultural maritime connections. The relationship between Normandy and Scandinavia in the central Middle Ages remains difficult to pin down.4 Much scholarship in the twentieth century located an early-eleventh-century breakdown in political relations between Normandy and Scandinavia that also precipitated a breakdown in cultural connections.5 In the last forty or so years, however, scholars have paid greater attention to the question of persisting connections between the two regions (often in terms of Scandinavian influence on Normandy), whether direct or indirect.6 What I suggest here is that direct cultural connections and literary transmission, even if few, persisted in the eleventh and twelfth centuries between Normandy and Scandinavia, resulting in literary transmission and shared historical narratives. Scholarship has also drawn attention in recent years to the North Sea world as a dynamic economic, political, and cultural region. We often think about Normandy, the British-Irish Isles, and Scandinavia as marginal regions in the medi­e val Western European imaginary, refracted through sources like the Hereford Mappa mundi, whose T-O orientation emphatically places Jerusalem and the Mediterranean at its centre and Normandy, the British-Irish Isles, the North Sea, and Scandinavia on the periphery. Amanda Hingst, however, has shown that in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the North Sea world takes on a central position in a shifting geo­graphic imagination in northern Europe. Even before the impact of 1066 reverberated, Normans were looking out4 

For an overview of the complicated evidence, see Abrams, ‘England, Normandy and Scandinavia’, pp. 47–51. 5  See, for example, Musset, ‘Relations et échanges’, especially pp. 76–77; Musset, ‘Les relations extérieures’; van Houts, ‘The Norman Conquest through European Eyes’, p. 835. 6  Musset, ‘L’image de la Scandinavie’; van Houts, ‘Scandinavian Influence in Norman Literature’; White, ‘The Latin Men’; Abrams, ‘England, Normandy and Scandinavia’, pp. 52–62.

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wards towards the North Sea world and its maritime richness. After 1066, the new cross-Channel political community that developed was oriented by the sea: ‘Instead of inhabiting a world of land surrounded by the Ocean — like the world-island itself, or the insular microcosm of Britain — the Normans traversed a landscape where sea was at the centre, and that sea was, in a sense, ringed by land’.7 The English Channel became a defining site of Anglo-Norman kingship; regularly crossing it became central to maintaining peace and order (or at least attempting to) in England and Normandy.8 This chapter contributes to our understanding of the centrality of the North Sea world in the AngloNorman imaginary.9 This maritime world was an important physical site of textual circulation, as I argue, but it also served as an important conceptual site. Historians used the sea and movement across it as a metaphor to interpret the past, assert their authority, and grapple with the task of writing history. The sea thus flowed within the Anglo-Norman world as a place of cultural exchange and ideo­logical construction. I turn now to a narrative example featuring the sea as a place of movement and site of transcultural literary exchange between Normandy and Scandinavia. Book iii of the Historia ecclesiastica contains Orderic’s account of the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, and the succession of events he describes will be familiar to those who have studied medi­eval English history. King Edward the Confessor died without issue on 5 January 1066, sparking a succession crisis, and the powerful Earl Harold Godwinson claimed the throne. Duke William II of Normandy, a cousin of Edward the Confessor, crossed the English Channel and defeated the English army led by Harold at the Battle of Hastings on 14 October 1066. William became King of England, ushering in a new dynasty and catalyzing significant political, cultural, and linguistic change. In one respect, though, Orderic’s narrative is markedly different from those of his predecessors and contemporaries. This difference regards the role and movements in 1066 of Tostig Godwinson, one of the sons of Earl Godwin of Wessex and the brother of Harold Godwinson.

7 

Hingst, The Written World, p. 45. Hingst, The Written World, pp. 42–50. 9  Linguistic evidence also demonstrates the importance of seafaring and maritime movement on the North Sea world. The work of the later-twelfth-century Norman poet Wace, whose French vernacular is distinctly regional, attests to the greatest number of Scandinavian loanwords in the Old French corpus, and the majority of those loanwords are nautical in nature. Ridel, ‘The Linguistic Heritage’, pp. 152–53. 8 

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Orderic writes that after Harold Godwinson usurps the English throne, his older brother10 Tostig, ‘aduertens Heraldi fratris sui præualere facinus, et regnum Angliæ uariis grauari oppressionibus’ (seeing his brother Harold’s crime prevail and the kingdom of England burdened by many oppressions), opposes his rule and declares war on him.11 Harold deposes Tostig from his earldom in Northumbria and banishes him from England. Tostig and his wife Judith travel to Flanders, where her father12 is count. Then Tostig goes to Normandy, where he confronts Duke William for allowing Harold to rule England, since earlier Harold had sworn an oath of fealty to William after Edward the Confessor announced his intent for William to succeed him to the English throne. Tostig swears to William that he will help him secure the English throne if he, William, invades England. Orderic writes that Tostig’s rebuke spurs William to discuss the issue with his councillors, and he is the only source to say that Tostig makes this journey to Normandy and is the catalyst for William’s invasion. According to Orderic, Tostig then leaves Normandy, intending to return to England to further William’s cause. He cannot land, however, because Harold has the coasts too well defended, but neither can he return to Normandy, because he cannot catch a favourable wind. And so, Orderic writes, ‘Vnde zephiro nothoque aliisque uentis alternatim impellentibus angores multos pertulit, et per æquora uagabundus discrimina plura metuit’ (Whence with the west, south, and other winds buffeting him in turn, he [Tostig ] suffered many torments and, wandering across the sea, feared so many dangers),13 before he eventually arrives at the court of Harald Hardrada, king of Norway.14 There, he realizes that he 10 

Concerning Tostig, Orderic has either gotten several facts wrong or manipulated them to fit his narrative. Harold Godwinson was Godwin’s second son and Tostig his third, but Orderic writes that Tostig was Harold’s older brother, which allows Orderic to frame Tostig as slighted of his inheritance by Harold’s presumption. Within this framing, Orderic says that Harold banished Tostig from England for opposing his claim to the throne. Tostig, however, actually fled England in 1065, before Edward the Confessor’s death, because he was deeply unpopular as earl of Northumbria and was ousted by a rebellion. Similarities between this timeline of, and reasoning for, Tostig’s banishment, and those given in the Norse texts discussed below, as well as in Henry of Huntingdon’s description of Tostig as the elder brother (see below), make me inclined to suggest that these details are aspects of a particular inherited literary tradition rather than Orderic’s manipulations. 11  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, book iii, p. 138. 12  Orderic says father, but Judith’s father was actually Baldwin IV; her half-brother Baldwin V was count at the time. 13  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, book iii, p. 142. 14  Orderic says Harald Fairhair (‘Heraldum regem Nortwigenarum qui Harafagh cogno-

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will not be able to fulfil the promise that he made to William, and so ‘ne ab eo quasi explorator regni sui caperetur’ (lest he was arrested by him as a spy for his country),15 he makes an impassioned speech to Harald, promising him half of England and himself as a vassal if Harald would join him against Harold. Harald and Tostig invade England together and defeat the English earls Edwin and Morcar at the Battle of Fulford on 20 September but are killed by Harold’s forces at the Battle of Stamford Bridge on 25 September.16 Regarding Harald Hardrada and Tostig’s invasion and defeat, Orderic differs from all other English and Norman accounts of 1066 in one significant way: he writes that Tostig journeyed to Norway. Three of the most important Norman and French sources for the events of 1066 — William of Poitiers’s Gesta Guillelmi, William of Jumièges’s Gesta Normannorum ducum, and the Carmen de Hastingae proelio — do not report Tostig’s movements before he invades England with Harald or the reasons for his exile.17 The English sources say that Tostig went to Flanders and then Scotland and only joined with King Harald at the Tyne. The Vita Ædwardi regis ends with the death of Edward the Confessor and so does not track Tostig’s movements through 1066, but minatur’), probably because the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and John of Worcester make the same identification, but he was actually Haraldr harðráði (‘hard-ruler’) Sigurðsson, anglicized as Harald Hardrada, see Historia ecclesiastica, book iii, p. 142 n. 3. Some scholars now assert that hárfagri (‘Fairhair’ or ‘Finehair’) was originally the epithet of the eleventh-century king, since it is used in contemporary sources, but that it was later applied to the legendary early Norwegian king in Norse tradition. See Jesch, ‘Norse Historical Traditions’, pp. 139–47; Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘The Early Kings of Norway’, p. 177. In this article, I use ‘Harald’ to refer to the Norwegian king throughout to avoid confusion with Harold Godwinson. 15  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, book iii, p. 144. 16  Orderic does not explicitly mention their victory at Fulford, see Historia ecclesiastica, book iii, p. 168. 17  The Gesta Guillelmi’s and Carmen’s first mentions of Tostig are at Stamford Bridge. See Gesta Guillelmi, p. 115; Carmen, p. 10, ll. 129–40. The Gesta Normannorum ducum mentions Tostig’s and Harold’s war against each other as one of the sins of the English that the Norman invasion justified, but accounts of Tostig’s journey to Norway and the Battle of Stamford Bridge only enter the text in Orderic’s later interpolations. Gesta Normannorum ducum, pp. 162–63 and 166–71. Davis and Chibnall mistakenly claimed that the Quedam exceptiones de historia Normannorum et Anglorum, an early twelfth-century abbreviation of William of Jumièges’s Gesta Normannorum ducum, reported Tostig’s journey to Norway, see Gesta Guillelmi, p. 114 n. 1; ‘Appendix’, Gesta Normannorum ducum, p. 302. The Warenne Chronicle reports that Tostig travels to Norway, but the later twelfth-century text relies heavily on Orderic’s Historia ecclesiastica, so it cannot be considered an independent witness to a narrative tradition, see Warenne Chronicle, pp. 16–19.

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it does say that after the Northumbrian rebellion and before Edward’s death, Tostig leaves with his family for Baldwin’s court in Flanders.18 The C, D, and E versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle report Tostig’s movements in 1065 and 1066. All report that he is outlawed by the Northumbrians in 1065 and driven to Flanders for the winter, with the C text specifying that he went to SaintOmer. The chronicles describe his raids of the English coast in 1066 and report that he is driven off to Scotland after raiding up the Humber. D and E suggest that Harald meets Tostig in Scotland, where Tostig submits to Harald. All three versions report that the two join forces when Harald lands at the Tyne, after which they gain victory at Fulford and are defeated at Stamford Bridge.19 John of Worcester describes the Northumbrians’ ousting of Tostig from England, his wintering at Saint-Omer in Flanders, his raiding of the English coast from the Isle of Wight, and his summering at the Scottish court.20 Other twelfth-century sources contemporaneous to Orderic follow these accounts.21 William of Malmesbury writes that Tostig goes to Flanders after the rebellion against him in 1065. From Flanders, he sails to the Humber and raids there before being driven out to Scotland. Tostig meets Harald (whom William also calls Fairhair) in Scotland, where he swears fealty, and then the two invade England together.22 18 

The Life of King Edward, pp. 82–83. The Vita Ædwardi, probably written by a monk from St Bertin Abbey in Saint-Omer (then within the county of Flanders), was commissioned by Tostig’s and Harold’s sister, Queen Edith, and (unlike the other English sources) is noticeably sympathetic towards the Godwinson clan and Tostig in particular, calling him a ‘uir scilicet fortis, et magna preditus animi sagacitate et sollertia’ and denouncing the rebellion against him as wickedness. The Life of King Edward, pp. 48 and 76–81. For more on the Vita Ædwardi and its political ambitions, see the book chapters ‘The Politics of Allusion in Eleventh-Century England: Classical Poets and the Vita Ædwardi’ and ‘Reading through the Conquest’ in Tyler, England in Europe, pp. 135–201 and 202–59. The Carmen and Gesta Guillelmi are both somewhat sympathetic towards Tostig, probably not out of any love for him but rather to further vilify Harold and justify the Norman Conquest as punishment for English sins, including fratricide. 19  Anglo-Saxon Chronicle C, pp. 117–23; Anglo-Saxon Chronicle D, pp. 77–80; AngloSaxon Chronicle E, pp. 86–87. Only the D version calls Harald ‘Harold Harfagera’ (‘Harold Fairhair’). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle D, p. 80. 20  The Chronicle of John of Worcester, pp. 598–603. John’s report that the Northumbrians exlegauerunt (outlawed) Tostig marks one of his unique Latin calques for utlagu, utlah instead of the more classical exulare, exul used by other English writers in Latin, see van Houts, ‘The Vocabulary of Exile and Outlawry’, p. 17. 21  The Warenne Chronicle reports that Tostig travels to Norway, but the later-twelfth-century text relies heavily on Orderic’s Historia ecclesiastica, so it cannot be considered an independent witness to a narrative tradition, see Warenne Chronicle, pp. 16–19. 22  Gesta Regum Anglorum, ii, pp. 364–65 and 420–23; Gesta Regum Anglorum, iii, pp. 466–69.

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Henry of Huntingdon’s Historia Anglorum reports a similar narrative: the Northumbrians rebel and exile Tostig, whom Henry also mistakenly believes to be the elder son, in 1065, and he winters in Flanders. In 1066, Tostig raids the Humber but is driven off to Scotland, where he meets Harald (whom Henry just calls rex Norwagie, ‘king of Norway’) and submits to him. The two then invade England together.23 Though he probably did not know the work of his contemporaries directly, Orderic knew the eleventh-century sources well. He used John of Worcester’s chronicle, which itself relied upon a northern recension of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, perhaps D, E, or a precursor to E.24 He also knew the Gesta Guillelmi and Gesta Normannorum ducum well; he copied both and interpolated the latter.25 His inclusion of a differing account of Tostig’s movements in 1066 thus does not amount to ignorance of the facts but rather an authorial choice. Orderic’s account of Tostig’s journey to Norway is shared only with Old Norse kings’ sagas.26 The earliest of the sagas, Ágrip af Nóregskonungasǫgum, which was probably written in Norway around 1190, reports that Tostig travels to Norway from England, having been banished from England after protesting his brother’s claim to the throne and asking the English earls to elect him instead.27 Like Orderic, Ágrip takes a sympathetic view of Tostig; it does not say that Tostig was older than Harold, but it does say that ‘though his right of birth was equal to Harold’s he was deprived of everything’.28 Tostig offers

23 

In the Historia Anglorum, the Northumbrians’ rebellion against Tostig is actually precipitated by King Edward’s exile of him from court, after Tostig murdered all of Harold’s servants, dismembered them, and placed their body parts in vessels at a royal feast, a story that appears in no other sources. Historia Anglorum, vi, pp. 382–89. For the Historia Anglorum’s relationships to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and John of Worcester, see Greenway, ‘Introduction’, in Historia Anglorum, pp. xci–xcv. 24  Chibnall, ‘General Introduction’, in The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, i, p. 61; McGurk, ‘Introduction’, in The Chronicle of John of Worcester, ii, p. xxi. 25  Chibnall, ‘General Introduction’, pp. 57–58; Weston and Rozier, ‘Appendix 2: Descriptive Catalogue of Manu­scripts’, pp. 385–98. 26  For an account of the relationship between the Old Norse kings’ sagas and medi­e val Latin history writing, see Bagge, ‘The Old Norse Kings’ Sagas and European Latin Historio­ graphy’. Adam of Bremen’s eleventh-century Gesta Hammaburgensis, an important source for later chronicles in Scandinavia, reports Tostig’s and Harald’s alliance but not Tostig’s movements, see Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, iii.lii, pp. 196. 27  Ágrip, pp. 56–59. 28  Ágrip, p. 57.

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Harald half of England, and Harald agrees to support him.29 Morkinskinna follows Ágrip’s report that Tostig thought ‘that he was no less entitled to rule than his brother Harold’ and that he was banished after trying to stand election.30 In Morkinskinna, however, Tostig sails to Denmark after his banishment and seeks support from his cousin, King Sven Estridsen.31 Sven cannot help Tostig, though, since he struggles as is to hold Denmark, so Tostig departs Denmark and goes to Norway, where he secures Harald’s aid.32 Fagrskinna, which follows Morkinskinna closely, and Heimskringla, which is directly related to Fagrskinna, both take up Ágrip’s and Morkinskinna’s sympathy for Tostig’s claim to the throne and his banishment from England for standing for election. They also follow Morkinskinna’s account that Tostig travelled first to King Sven in Denmark before heading to Norway. Fagrskinna and Heimskringla further report that in his speech, Tostig convinces Harald to join him by suggesting that Harald is a rightful claimant to the English throne.33 Of these sagas, only Morkinskinna acknowledges an alternative account of Tostig’s movements: ‘But some people relate that Jarl Tostig sent Gunnhildr’s son Guthormr to treat with King Haraldr and to offer him Northumbria with binding oaths and to urge him to undertake a campaign in the west. According to this version Guthormr went to Norway and Tostig went south across the sea to Normandy to confer with his relatives’.34 From this detail in Morkinskinna, we get an oblique glance at a third narrative of Tostig’s movements in 1065/6 and evidence of multiple narratives in circulation. The shared narrative feature of Tostig’s journey to Norway in the kings’ sagas and the Historia ecclesiastica raises questions about the relationship between Norman and Norse literature in the twelfth century. In terms of political influence and cultural identification, scholars have generally located a breakdown in relations between Normandy and Scandinavia around the end of the first 29 

Ágrip also recounts (incorrectly) that Harold was in Normandy when Harald and Tostig invade Northumbria and has to travel back to England quickly, see Ágrip, pp. 56–57. 30  Morkinskinna, p. 262. 31  Tostig’s mother, Gytha Thorkelsdottir, and Sven Estridsen’s father, Ulf Thorgilsson, were siblings. Ulf was married to Estrid Svensdottir, Sven Forkbeard’s daughter and Cnut the Great’s half-sister. 32  Morkinskinna, p. 262. 33  Fagrskinna, pp. 218–19; Heimskringla, pp. 105–06. In Heimskringla, Tostig travels to Flanders and Frisia before sailing to Denmark, and after he convinces Harald to join him, he returns to Flanders. Heimskringla, pp. 104–06. 34  Morkinskinna, p. 263.

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quarter of the eleventh century, though, as discussed above, this breakdown has been nuanced.35 In the wake of the Norman Conquest, political tensions between the Anglo-Norman empire and Scandinavia intermittently calmed, as Danish kings increasingly oriented themselves towards Germany and lessened their claims to England. 36 Despite vacillations in political relationships, in terms of literary exchange, there seems to have been somewhat sustained contact between Scandinavia and Normandy in the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries. We know this kind of transmission was happening between Scandinavia and England. Recent work on the Roskilde Chronicle, a mid-twelfth-century (with a continuation into the early thirteenth century) history of the Danish church, and its borrowings from Henry of Huntingdon’s Historia Anglorum in the first half of the twelfth century demonstrates much closer connections between Denmark and England than scholars had previously thought.37 I argue that the shared detail between the Historia ecclesiastica and Norse sources of Tostig’s 1066 visit to Norway supports direct literary transmission between Scandinavia and Normandy in the period as well. This literary exchange between the two regions reaches beyond the narrative of Tostig’s journey to Norway in the Historia ecclesiastica. Elisabeth van Houts has argued that some of William of Jumièges’s accounts of political history are inflected by Scandinavian influence via England.38 And the twelfth-century Norwegian historian Theodoricus Monachus mentions William of Jumièges’s Gesta Normannorum ducum as one of the sources for his Historia antiquitate regum Norwagiensium.39 Although we cannot be sure if Theodoricus refers to William of Jumièges’s eleventh-century version or to a later, interpolated version,40 we know that the Norman history was circulating far enough outside of Normandy that Theodoricus could have read a copy in Norway.41 Various stories in Morkinskinna and Heimskringla suggest continued contact between 35 

Van Houts, ‘Scandinavian Influence in Norman Literature’, p. 107; van Houts, ‘The Norman Conquest through European Eyes’, p. 835. 36  Gelting, ‘Henry of Huntingdon’, p. 104. 37  Gelting, ‘Henry of Huntingdon’. 38  Van Houts, ‘Scandinavian Influence in Norman Literature’, pp. 112–20. 39  White, ‘The Latin Men’, p. 163. 40  Orderic Vitalis and Robert of Torigni were the interpolators of the Gesta Normannorum ducum. Were Theodoricus looking at the later interpolations, he did not include the narrative that Tostig travelled to Norway, which appears in Orderic’s interpolations, in his text. 41  White, ‘The Latin Men’, p. 164.

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Normandy and Scandinavia: Saint Olaf ’s saga in Heimskringla mentions skalds travelling to and performing in Normandy.42 Morkinskinna mentions Harold Godwinson’s oath of allegiance to William, a Norman tradition told by the Carmen de Hastingae proelio, William of Jumièges, William of Poitiers, Orderic, William of Malmesbury, and Henry of Huntingdon, but mentioned by no contemporaneous English sources such as the C, D, or E Anglo-Saxon Chronicles or the Vita Ædwardi Regis. 43 Kari Ellen Gade argued that Morkinskinna’s inclusion of Harold’s oath, its account of William’s attaching the relics upon which Harold swore to his standard in the Battle of Hastings, and its identification of those relics with Saint Odmarus demonstrate Morkinskinna’s use of a Norman source for these details, perhaps an abbreviation derived from Orderic’s Historia ecclesiastica.44 We know of direct ties between episcopal sees in France and Scandinavia, such as between Rheims and Lund, in the twelfth century, and in the later twelfth century, French connections become increasingly important for the Danish court.45 Later, in the thirteenth century, King Hakon Hakonsson of Norway (r. 1217–1263) initiated a vernacular translation and adaptation program to centralize his power by importing courtly culture from Old French.46 Though we have no evidence of exactly how Old French texts travelled to Norway (or if instead they were first translated in France or England), the Norse adaptations of Old French lais show a king and court looking towards France for particular literary and cultural precedents. Some narratives of the Norman Conquest, however, appear only in Norse texts and suggest traditions that circulated in Scandinavia in the centuries after 1066 but were not part of Norman or English traditions, and these narratives are incidentally tied to Tostig, suggesting an ongoing preoccupation 42 

White, ‘The Latin Men’, p. 162; van Houts, ‘Scandinavian Influence in Norman Literature’, p. 111 n. 24 and p. 119. 43  Carmen, p. 16, ll. 239–40; Gesta Normannorum ducum, pp. 158–61; Gesta Guillelmi, pp. 68–71; Historia ecclesiastica, iii, pp. 134–37; Gesta Regum Anglorum, ii, pp. 416–19; Historia Anglorum, vi, pp. 380–83. White does not include the Historia Anglorum in his list of sources that include the account of Harold’s oath, see White, ‘The Latin Men’, p. 163. 44  Orderic Vitalis and William of Poitiers are the only Norman or English sources to attest these relics in battle, though they say that William wore the relics around his neck, see Gade, ‘Northern Lights on the Battle of Hastings’. 45  Münster-Swendsen, ‘Lost Chronicle or Elusive Informers?’, pp. 191–92. 46  Fidjestøl, ‘Romantic Reading at the Court of Hákon Hákonarson’; Irlenbusch-Reynard, ‘Translations at the Court of Hákon Hákonarson’; Ferrer, ‘State Formation and Courtly Culture’, pp. 6–8.

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in Scandinavia with Tostig’s legacy. The later Norse sagas attest to a tradition of Tostig’s son/s in Norway after their father’s death. In Morkinskinna, ‘Skúli, the son of Jarl Tostig Godwinson, and Ketill krókr from Hálogaland came to Norway with King Óláfr [Harald’s son]’.47 Skuli serves as Olaf kyrri (‘the peaceful’)’s advisor in Norway and is referred to as his ‘foster father’. He is associated in the text with the area around Nidaros and is buried at Elgeseter, a monastery in the vicinity, ‘because it seemed fitting that he should lie in the church that he himself had constructed’.48 In Fagrskinna, Olaf and Skuli witness the defeat at Stamford Bridge from a ship and sail afterwards to Orkney, and finally to Norway, where Skuli, called konungsfóstri (meaning ‘king’s fosterfather, foster-brother, or foster-son’), becomes a main advisor to King Olaf. He is described as wise, eloquent, and wealthy from his lands around Nidaros, and his genealogy as an ancestor of King Ingi is interpolated into the B text.49 Heimskringla expands upon Skuli’s tradition in Norway. After Stamford Bridge, Olaf is accompanied back to Norway by ‘Skúli, who was later known as konungsfóstri (King’s Foster-Father), and his brother Ketill krókr (Hook). They were both great men and of high lineage in England, and both very intelligent’.50 They are given valuable lands in Norway, and Snorri includes Skuli’s genealogy through King Ingi.51 While in Morkinskinna Ketil is a Norwegian unrelated to Skuli, and in Fagrskinna he is not mentioned, in Heimskringla, he becomes Skuli’s brother. Though Heimskringla does not explicitly refer to the brothers as Tostig’s sons, from Heimskringla’s close relationship to Fagrskinna and Morkinskinna and its reference to their noble English heritage, we can safely infer their relation to Tostig. These stories and their appearance in the sagas could be the result of traditions about Tostig circulating independently in Norway after 1066. Perhaps, because Tostig’s son or sons left England forever, later English and Norman writers did not have access to stories about them or were not concerned with their fates. Since this tradition appears later in the sources, however, and not in earlier texts like Ágrip, it cannot indicate a narrative tradition moving from Norway to Normandy and influencing Orderic’s narrative. The overlaps con-

47 

Morkinskinna, p. 276. Morkinskinna, p. 276. 49  Fagrskinna, p. 237. 50  Heimskringla, p. 119. 51  Heimskringla, pp. 119–20. 48 

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cerning Tostig that do occur between Scandinavian and Norman sources must be attributable to something else. Concerning literary overlaps between Normandy and Scandinavia, Jan de Vries postulated that Scandinavian soldiers and Norman mercenaries heard similar stories and drew on southern European literary traditions while fighting in the Mediterranean in the eleventh century. Independently of one another, they took home stories and motifs, which began circulating in oral tradition nearly contemporaneously and then were written down, first in Normandy and later in Iceland.52 Elisabeth van Houts presented an alternative hypothesis: shared moments in Norman and Scandinavian writings indicated origins in Scandinavia that spread through trade networks and travellers into Normandy via Anglo-Scandinavian England.53 The fact, though, that Orderic’s narrative of Tostig’s journey to Norway appears elsewhere only in Norse sources and in no English ones and that Orderic’s account of Tostig’s movements contradicts those of his English sources suggest that there must be direct transmission happening without England as an intermediary link. While acknowledging that de Vries’s and van Houts’s theories were equally plausible and potentially simultaneous, Paul White argued that neither was a necessary explanation for all surviving overlaps and proposed a third possibility: origin in Normandy and movement of stories northward.54 The same section of Morkinskinna that describes Harold Godwinson’s oath also inaccurately says that the Battle of Hastings happened a year after the Battle of Stamford Bridge (it was actually about three weeks later), suggesting that, since the story of Harold’s oath is a Norman tradition, the narrative of the Conquest was transmitted and diffused from Normandy to Scandinavia, during the course of which some details lost their accuracy.55 With the possibility that the narrative of Harold’s oath travelled northward, it stands to reason that the narrative of Tostig’s journey to Norway could have travelled northward too. While we should not conflate the earliest written account with a story’s origin, since the story is written down first in Normandy and does not appear in earlier accounts of the Norman Conquest from Norway like 52 

de Vries, ‘Normannisches Lehngut’. van Houts, ‘Scandinavian Influence in Norman Literature’, pp. 120–21. Though van Houts cites de Vries’s work on Scandinavian sagas in her article, she does not respond directly to his thesis presented in ‘Normannisches Lehngut’. 54  White, ‘The Latin Men’, pp. 161–62. 55  Morkinskinna, p. 277; White, ‘The Latin Men’, p. 163. White mentions the time discrepancy, but it is my own suggestion that it indicates movement northward. See also Gade, ‘Northern Lights on the Battle of Hastings’. 53 

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Theodoricus Monachus’s Historia antiquitate regum Norwagiensium, perhaps it made its way from Normandy to Norway within a circulating tradition.56 Looking at narrative traditions like Tostig’s journey to Norway shared by Norman and Norse sources supports the work that scholars have done in questioning the long-held notion of a breakdown in relations between Normandy and Scandinavia in the eleventh century. And considering these narrative overlaps furthers a greater understanding of the possibilities for the circulation of literary traditions around the North Sea region in the period. There is greater movement and more sustained contact throughout this period, and part of this legacy is the transmission of textual traditions and their movement across oceans, cultures, and languages. The story of Tostig’s journey to Norway furthers the possibilities for us to consider how bodies and textual traditions traversed the North Sea, with greater frequency than previously thought, in the eleventh century and beyond. Tostig’s journey directs our attention to the role of the literal maritime seascape in movement, transmission, and exchange in the North Sea world of the central Middle Ages. In the story itself, the sea features as a vehicle of exile as well as a quasi-actor in the course of human events: it is the North Sea that buffets Tostig to Norway and instigates his invasion with Harald. It also orients the transmission of cultural artefacts like the story between the regions on its shores. But, as Amanda Hingst has argued, the sea also serves as a central conceptual site for people living within the North Sea world; it mediates articulations of identity and facilitates notions of space and time. Orderic’s comments in the Historia ecclesiastica engage with the sea on this conceptual level and tune us into the sea as a site of useful metaphorical and personal negotiation, and I will turn now to these considerations to conclude. The sea takes on powerful metaphorical valences when Orderic comments on the project of writing history. Orderic, like many of his contemporaries, regularly comments on the work of the historian and the purpose of history. History, as both a writing and reading activity, is an instructive, pedagogical, 56 

Orderic’s Historia ecclesiastica enjoyed a limited reception, so it is unlikely that the Norse sagas drew directly on Orderic for the story of Tostig’s journey to Norway. What I am arguing here, however, is that the greater Tostig tradition Orderic draws on while writing the Historia ecclesiastica makes its way from Normandy to Scandinavia, likely through oral traditions and/or written sources that are no longer extant. This movement northward, of course, does not negate van Houts’s hypothesis of movement from Scandinavia to Normandy, as these two directions of transmission could take place simultaneously. On Orderic’s reception see Clark, ‘The Reception of Orderic Vitalis’, pp. 358–62.

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meditative, and interpretive practice.57 It is also an assiduous labour. In the pro­ logue to book v, Orderic writes that he heeded his abbot’s command to write a history of his abbey: quod priores nostri sese mutuo exhortati sunt facere. Nam quisque silere quam loqui maluit; et securam quietem edaci curæ transactas res indagandi proposuit […] sed ad dictandi seu scribendi sedimen suum renuerunt incuruare ingenium. (which our predecessors exhorted each other to do [but none of them wanted to undertake it]. For they preferred to be silent rather than to speak, and desired carefree rest instead of the demanding responsibility of investigating the past […] they refused to bend their dispositions to dictating or writing down their foundation.)58

And the task of writing history is made even more difficult because, as Orderic writes at the beginning of book  iii, time is ordained by divine providence, and ‘immensitatem profunditatum sapientiæ Dei nemo penetrat’ (no one can fathom the boundless depths of God’s wisdom).59 The historian is tasked somewhat impossibly with the responsibility of narrating and interpreting the purposes of God in the vagaries of time. To describe the difficulty of navigating time, Orderic occasionally uses the metaphor of the sea. He writes in book iv: Sicut mare nunquam tutum certa soliditate quiescit, sed inquietudine iugi turbatum more suo defluit; et quamuis aliquando tranquillum obtutibus spectantium appareat, solita tamen fluctuatione et instabilitate nauigantes territat; sic præsens sæculum uolubilitate sua iugiter uexatur, innumerisque modis tristibus seu lætis euidenter uariatur. ( Just as the sea never grows fully still nor safe, but stirred up by continual disturbance flows according to its nature, and though it may appear calm sometimes to the eyes of those watching, nevertheless it terrifies sailors with its constant undulation and volatility, so this present age is continually plagued by its changeability and manifestly wavers through countless propitious and miserable courses.)60

Time, like the sea, can inspire sorrow and dread, and also like the sea, it is always moving, difficult to pin down, arduous to grapple with. It is Orderic’s 57  Sigbjørn Olsen Sønnesyn discusses the practice of historical interpretation and the importance of monastic practices to this interpretation in Orderic’s vision of history, see Sønnesyn, ‘“Studiosi abdita investigant”’. 58  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, v, p. 6. 59  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, iii, p. 2. 60  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, iv, p. 302.

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task to record the events of the unpredictable present, and, like sailing across a tempestuous sea, it is a daunting one. Fortunately for Orderic, his vision of history includes an omnipotent god who guides the course of human events. After describing William the Conqueror’s family in book v, Orderic returns to the subject of Saint-Évroul and the Christian church and comments on the grace of God in human events: Æternus dispositor rerum nauem suam inter procellas seculi potenter uehit et sapienter gubernat; et in uinea sua colonos cotidie laborantes benigniter adiuuat, atque infusione celestis gratiæ contra labores et pericula corroborat. En æcclesiam suam inter bellicosos tumultus et militares strepitus prouide diriget; pluribusque modis augmentando salubriter prouehit. (The eternal designer of things mightily sails his ship amid the storms of the world and pilots it wisely; and every day he kindly sustains the tillers labouring in his vineyard and strengthens them against hardships and perils with a washing of heavenly grace. Look at how he steers his church between violent clashes and the din of war and building it up by many means carries it safely through.)61

Here the sea again serves as a metaphorical site to describe the tumults of human events and the upheavals of the past, and God becomes a captain at the helm of a ship on a tempestuous sea. Orderic’s imperative in this quote — prouide — tells the audience to look to see how God’s grace steers human affairs, and it is to the historical narrative itself that Orderic directs the reader. It is the history that makes God’s providence clear, and because the historian dedicates himself to seeking out the events of the past and putting them in order, it is the historian who makes clear the presence of God for readers to see. Using metaphorical seascape to highlight the chaos of human events and emphasizing the ability of history to make clear the workings of God, Orderic elevates the historian as an interpreter of divine providence. The sea becomes a useful metaphorical site to illustrate the tumult of human affairs and to conceptualize the difficulty of writing history for Orderic, and he is certainly not the first to make use of it. Indeed, Orderic takes part in what was (at his time) thousand-year-old Christian tradition that imagines ‘empty’ spaces like desert and ocean as representative of the turmoil of human life and/ or as physical sites to imagine and encounter boundless divinity.62 But the sea 61 

Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, iii, book v, pp. 116–18. McGinn, ‘Ocean and Desert as Symbols’. As McGinn notes, the symbolic use of the ocean by patristic and medi­e val Christian writers and mystics is more sporadic and ambiguous than that of the desert. The ocean can represent the dangers and temptations of life, as 62 

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also plays an important role as a literal site in his personal bio­graphy, and this ties to his metaphorical use of it. Amanda Hingst’s emphasis on the centrality of the North Sea region to conceptions of the Norman socio-political landscape, especially post-Conquest, and examination of sea crossings as constitutive to conceptions of Anglo-Norman kingship informs how we encounter the sea within the Historia ecclesiastica.63 Orderic operates within this imaginary of the sea as geo­graphically central, and crossing the sea becomes a kind of ‘refrain’ in his work, both as he tells of the constant sea crossings in the text and as he considers his own identity.64 Orderic crossed the English Channel as a child to enter his monastery. He also crossed it again as an adult as part of his work as a historian when he travelled to Crowland Abbey.65 His own literal movements across the sea demonstrate in a way how important seascape is to his own identity: crossing the Channel as a child marks the beginning of his self-described ‘exile’ as a stranger in a foreign land, and crossing it again as an adult shows how he engages with cross-Channel networks of historians and monasteries and participates in an exchange of ideas. Like his engagement with the sea as a metaphorical site, Orderic’s self-presentation as an exile is hardly unique within medi­eval monastic tradition.66 But the evocations of his own sea crossings literalize the sea as a site of negotiation and exchange, and heighten the crossings’ importance to his personal identity as a monk and historian.

Orderic tends to use it, but beginning roughly in the twelfth century and continuing into the later Middle Ages, it takes on more positive connotations as a site of mystical absorption into the divine, see McGinn, ‘Ocean and Desert as Symbols’, pp. 174–75. For the different valences, implications, and uses of the terms ‘place’ and ‘space’ in ecocriticism, see Buell, ‘Space, Place, and Imagination’. 63  Hingst, The Written World, pp. 42–50. 64  Hingst, The Written World, p. 45. 65  Orderic traveled to Crowland at some point during Geoffrey of Orléans’s tenure as abbot (1109–1124), perhaps around the dedication of the new church in 1114. While there, he wrote an epitome of Felix’s Vita sancti Guthlaci and a brief history of the abbey, both of which he included in book iv of the Historia ecclesiastica, see Chibnall, ‘Introduction’, in The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ii, pp. xxv–xxvi; Historia ecclesiastica, iv, pp. 322–25. 66  In addition to the monastic tradition, we might consider early medi­eval practices of outlawry a secondary interlocutor in Orderic’s descriptions of himself as an exile. Scandinavian loanwords tied to exile and outlawry enter English and Norman legal contexts in the tenth century, and practices of exile evolve in subsequent centuries, with changes in how long exile lasted and how an outlaw could be exonerated, see van Houts, ‘The Vocabulary of Exile and Outlawry’.

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Orderic’s Tostig narrative, with its themes of exile and wandering across the sea, interacts with a greater reflection on Orderic’s identity as a historian and as an Englishman in ‘exile’.67 Tostig becomes the erroneus exul (wandering exile)68 when tossed about by the sea, and this characterization becomes an important aspect of Orderic’s own self-presentation as a foreigner in exile. In book v, at Orderic’s first self-identification as the author of the Historia ecclesiastica, he foregrounds his description of himself as a stranger: ‘Tandem ego de extremis Merciorum finibus decennis Angligena huc aduectus, barbarusque et ignotus aduena callentibus indigenis admixtus’ (At last I, a ten-year-old English boy, was brought here from the farthest borders of Mercia, a foreigner and ignorant stranger thrown in amongst knowledgeable native men).69 This is the first point in the Historia ecclesiastica at which Orderic describes his journey across the sea and calls himself an exile, but it is not the last. Indeed, Orderic’s Channel-crossing frames his whole autobio­g raphical arc and, in a way, the Historia ecclesiastica itself. Just as his first crossing of the English Channel in book v occupies a narrative moment that ties Orderic’s bio­graphy to the work of history, so it reappears again as Orderic ties his history to the narrative of the Historia ecclesiastica in one final thread. In the epilogue of his work, at the end of book xiii, Orderic reflects on his life and work as he brings his history to a close. He recounts his birth, baptism, and early education in Shropshire, in the West Midlands of England, and his departure for Normandy: ‘Decennis itaque Britannicum mare transfretaui, exul in Normanniam ueni, cunctis ignotus neminem cognoui’ (And so I, ten years old, crossed the English Channel and came, an exile, into Normandy; I was unknown to all and knew no one).70 This movement across the sea removes him from his family, whom he never sees again, and makes him foreign and exiled. He crosses the sea into a new land in which he will never truly be at home, where he now finishes the project he has worked on his entire adult life. In Orderic’s self-presentation, crossing the English Channel marks an irrevocable shift in his identity, and it is a journey whose literal and emotional tur67 

Though, despite Orderic’s descriptors of himself as an exile (which we should acknowledge as serious but also highly rhetorical), he also insists upon his membership in a unified monastic community. On Orderic’s use of literary form within history writing as a rhetoric and practice of the common life, see O’Donnell, ‘Meanders, Loops, and Dead Ends’. 68  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, iii, p. 144. 69  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, v, p. 6. 70  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, xiii, p. 554. For a reading of Orderic’s narratives of exile, see van Houts, ‘Orderic and his Father’.

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bulence echoes the difficulties of grappling with the shifting sea of time, always churning, never resting. Writing history is a burdensome task. Orderic is hardly alone among his contemporaries in articulating the difficulties of narrating the past and mounting a historio­graphical project,71 but in order to make sense of these problems, he frequently turns to the sea and the sea-crossing as metaphorical sites of change and difficulty within his own bio­g raphy. The sea and seacrossings in the Historia ecclesiastica serve as sites of political negotiation and transcultural exchange, as they do in other histories from the Anglo-Norman world, but they also become sites where Orderic locates himself and his own relationship to the text. As he describes it, crossing the sea exiles Orderic; it literalizes the common trope of a monk as a stranger in a foreign land and emphasizes his identity as a monk and historian writing the history of a region of which he is not native. Orderic’s metaphorical use of the sea further highlights his role as historian by characterizing human time as like the sea — deep, dangerous, turbulent — and underscoring the historian’s task as deciphering and describing God’s providence within it. Like Tostig on the North Sea, Orderic is tossed about by every wind as he endeavours to make sense of the past and present through the work of writing history. Unlike Tostig, ‘magnis undique premebatur angustiis’ (overwhelmed on all sides by great difficulties),72 however, he endures these winds free from anxiety. As he writes in the epilogue: Dum optimates huius seculi grauibus infortuniis sibique ualde contrariis comprimi uideo, gratia Dei corroboratus securitate subiectionis et pauperitatis tripudio […] Tibi gratias ago summe rex  […] Tu es enim rex meus et Deus meus, et ego sum seruus tuus et ancilliæ tuæ filius qui pro posse meo a primis tibi uitæ meæ seruiui diebus. (While I see the nobles of this world intensely pressed upon by oppressive and intensely hostile misfortunes, I, fortified by the grace of God, rejoice in the security of submission and poverty […] I give you thanks, O highest king […] For you are

71 

See, for example, William of Malmesbury’s pro­logue to book v, Gesta Regum Anglorum, v, pp. 708–09. Henry of Huntingdon similarly disclaims his inability to comprehensively include all relevant events of the past in one text, see Histora Anglorum, x, pp. 772–73. Other moments in the text also seem to indicate the difficulty of narrating the past in prose. One such example is book x’s first shift into elegiac poetry, x, pp. 724–25. For more on this poem, see Clarke, ‘Writing Civil War’. 72  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, iii, p. 142.

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my king and my God, and I am your servant and the son of your handmaid73 who served you as much as I could from the first days of my life.)74

Orderic, though he has lamented the vicissitudes of time and the monumental difficulties of grappling with them, can complete his task expecting the penny that was promised as the reward for his divinely sanctioned labour. He serves a god whose omnipotence gives Orderic peace and security. As in his descriptions of his own adolescent sea-crossings, here again at the end, Orderic aligns his bio­graphy with the track of the historical narrative. At variance from the rest of the books of the Historia ecclesiastica, which end with a usual explicit, explicit liber tertius, etc., Orderic ends his final book — rather movingly — ‘Finis vitae Vitalis qui fecit hunc librum’: ‘The end of the life of Vitalis, who wrote this book’.75 It is one final identification of himself as the historian who has successfully navigated his task and looks to land safely on the other side.

73 

Psalm 116. 16 (115. 7). Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, xiii, pp. 550–52. 75  Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, xiii, p. 556. 74 

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Works Cited Primary Sources Adam of Bremen, Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, ed. by Bernhard Schmeidler, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, 2 (Hanover: Hahn, 1917) Ágrip af Nóregskonungasǫgum: A Twelfth-Century Synoptic History of the Kings of Norway, ed. and trans. by Matthew James Driscoll (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1995) The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: A Collaborative Edition, v, MS C, ed. by Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe (Cambridge: Brewer, 2001) The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: A  Collaborative Edition, vi, MS  D, ed.  by G.  P. Cubbin (Cambridge: Brewer, 1996) The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: A  Collaborative Edition, vii, MS  E, ed.  by Susan Irvine (Cambridge: Brewer, 2004) The Chronicle of John of Worcester, ii, The Annals from 450 to 1066, ed. by Reginald R. Darlington and Patrick McGurk and trans. by Jennifer Bray and Patrick McGurk, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995) Fagrskinna: A  Catalogue of the Kings of Norway, trans. by Alison Finlay, The Northern World, 7 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) Guy of Amiens, Carmen de Hastingae proelio, ed. and trans. by Frank Barlow, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999) Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum: The History of the English People, ed. and trans. by Diana Greenway, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996) The Life of King Edward who Rests at Westminster, ed. and trans. by Frank Barlow, Oxford Medi­eval Texts, 2nd edn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992) Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–1157), trans. by Theodore M. Andersson and Kari Ellen Gade (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2000) Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. and trans. by Marjorie Chibnall, Oxford Medi­eval Texts, 6 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969–1980) Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla, iii: Magnús Óláfsson to Magnús Erlingsson, trans. by Alison Finlay and Anthony Faulkes (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2015) The Warenne (Hyde) Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Elisabeth M.  C.  van Houts and Rosalind C. Love, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2013) William of Jumièges, Orderic Vitalis, and Robert of Torigni, Gesta Normannorum ducum, ii, ed. and trans. by Elisabeth M.  C.  van Houts, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992) William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum, i, ed. and trans. by R.  A.  B. Mynors, Rodney M. Thomson, and Michael Winterbottom, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998) William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ed. and trans. by R.  H.  C. Davis and Marjorie Chibnall, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998)

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Secondary Studies Abrams, Lesley, ‘England, Normandy and Scandinavia’, in A Companion to the AngloNorman World, ed.  by Christopher Harper-Bill and Elisabeth M.  C.  van Houts (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2003), pp. 43–62 Bagge, Sverre, ‘The Old Norse Kings’ Sagas and European Latin Historio­graphy’, The Journal of English and Germanic Philo­logy, 115.1 (2016), 1–38 Buell, Lawrence, ‘Space, Place, and Imagination from Local to Global’, in The Future of Environmental Criticism: Environmental Crisis and Literary Imagination (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005), pp. 62–96 Clark, James G., ‘The Reception of Orderic Vitalis in the Later Middle Ages’, in Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations, ed. by Charles C. Rozier and others (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2016), pp. 352–74 Clarke, Catherine A. M., ‘Writing Civil War in Henry of Huntingdon’s “Historia Anglo­ rum”’, Anglo-Norman Studies, 31 (2009), 31–48 de Vries, Jan, ‘Normannisches Lehngut in den isländischen Königssagas’, Arkiv för nordisk filo­logi, 47 (1931), 51–79 Ferrer, Marlen, ‘State Formation and Courtly Culture in the Scandinavian Kingdoms in the High Middle Ages’, Scandinavian Journal of History, 37.1 (2012), 1–22 Fidjestøl, Bjarne, ‘Romantic Reading at the court of Hákon Hákonarson’, in Selected Papers in Tribute to Bjarne Fidjestøl, ed. by Odd Einar Haugen (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 1997), pp. 351–65 Gade, Kari Ellen, ‘Northern Lights on the Battle of Hastings’, Viator, 28 (1997), 65–82 Gelting, Michael H., ‘Henry of Huntingdon, the “Roskilde Chronicle”, and the English Connection in Twelfth-Century Denmark’, in Historical and Intellectual Culture in the Long Twelfth Century: The Scandinavian Connection, ed. by Mia Münster-Swendsen, Thomas  K. Heebøll-Holm, and Sigbjørn Olsen Sønnesyn (Toronto: PIMS, 2016), pp. 104–18 Hingst, Amanda Jane, The Written World: Past and Place in the Work of Orderic Vitalis (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2009) Irlenbusch-Reynard, Liliane, ‘Translations at the Court of Hákon Hákonarson: A WellPlanned and Highly Selective Programme’, Scandinavian Journal of History, 36.4 (2011), 387–405 Jesch, Judith, ‘Norse Historical Traditions and the Historia Grufudd vab Kenan: Magnús Berfœttr and Haraldr Harfágri’, in Grufudd ap Cynan: A  Collaborative Bio­graphy, ed. by K. L. Maund, Studies in Celtic History, 16 (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 1996), pp. 117–47 McGinn, Bernard, ‘Ocean and Desert as Symbols of Mystical Absorption in the Christian Tradition’, The Journal of Religion, 74.2 (1994), 155–81 Münster-Swendsen, Mia, ‘Lost Chronicle or Elusive Informers? Some Thoughts on the Source of Ralph Niger’s Reports from Twelfth-Century Denmark’, in Historical and

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Intellectual Culture in the Long Twelfth Century: The Scandinavian Connection, ed. by Mia Münster-Swendsen, Thomas  K. Heebøll-Holm, and Sigbjørn Olsen Sønnesyn (Toronto: PIMS, 2016), pp. 189–210 Musset, Lucien, ‘L’image de la Scandinavie dans les œuvres normandes de la période ducale’, in Les relations littéraires franco-scandinaves au Moyen Âge: actes du Colloque de Liège (Paris: Société les Belles Lettres, 1975), pp. 193–215 [reprinted in Nordica et Normannica: Recueil d’études sur la Scandinavie ancienne et médiévale, les expéditions des Vikings et la foundation de la Normandie (Paris: Société des Études Nordiques, 1997), pp. 213–31] —— , ‘Relations et échanges d’influences dans l’Europe du Nord-Ouest (xe–xie siècles)’, in Cahiers de civilization médiévale, 1.1 (1958), 63–82 —— , ‘Les relations extérieures de la Normandie du ixe au xie siècle, d’après quelques trouvailles monétaires récentes’, Annales de Normandie, 4.1 (1954), 31–38 [reprinted in Nordica et Normannica: Recueil d’études sur la Scandinavie ancienne et médiévale, les expéditions des Vikings et la foundation de la Normandie (Paris: Société des Études Nordiques, 1997), pp. 297–306] O’Donnell, Thomas, ‘Meanders, Loops, and Dead Ends: Literary Form and the Com­ mon Life in Orderic’s “Historia ecclesiastica”’, in Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations, ed.  by Charles  C. Rozier, Daniel Roach, Giles E.  M. Gaspar, and Elisabeth van Houts (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2016), pp. 298–323 Ridel, Elisabeth, ‘The Linguistic Heritage of the Scandinavians in Normandy’, in Scandinavia and Europe 800–1350: Contact, Conflict, and Coexistence, ed. by Jonathan Adams and Katherine Holman, Medi­eval Texts and Cultures of Northern Europe, 4 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), pp. 149–59 Sønnesyn, Sigbjørn Olsen, ‘“Studiosi abdita investigant”: Orderic Vitalis and the Mystical Morals of History’, in Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations, ed. by Charles C. Rozier, Daniel Roach, Giles E.  M. Gaspar, and Elisabeth van Houts (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2016), pp. 284–97 Southern, Richard, ‘The Place of England in the Twelfth-Century Renaissance’, History, 45 (1960), 201–16 Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘The Early Kings of Norway, the Issue of Agnatic Succession, and the Settlement of Iceland’, Viator, 47.3 (2016), 171–88 Tyler, Elizabeth M., England in Europe: English Royal Women and Literary Patronage, c. 1000–c. 1150 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2017) van Houts, Elisabeth, ‘The Norman Conquest through European Eyes’, The English Historical Review, 110 (1995), 832–53 —— , ‘Orderic and his Father, Odelerius’, in Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations, ed. by Charles C. Rozier, Daniel Roach, Giles E. M. Gaspar, and Elisabeth van Houts (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2016), pp. 17–36 —— , ‘Scandinavian Influence in Norman Literature of the Eleventh Century’, AngloNorman Studies, 6 (1984), 107–21

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—— , ‘The Vocabulary of Exile and Outlawry in the North Sea Area around the First Millennium’, in Exile in the Middle Ages: Selected Proceedings from the International Medi­eval Congress, University of Leeds, 8–11 July 2002, ed.  by Laura Napran and Elisabeth van Houts, International Medi­eval Research, 13 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), pp. 13–28 Weston, Jenny, and Charles  C. Rozier, ‘Appendix 2: Descriptive Catalogue of Manu­ scripts Featuring the Hand of Orderic Vitalis’, in Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations, ed.  by Charles  C. Rozier, Daniel Roach, Giles E.  M. Gaspar, and Elisabeth van Houts (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2016), pp. 385–98 White, Paul A., ‘The Latin Men: The Norman Sources of the Scandinavian Kings’ Sagas’, The Journal of English and Germanic Philo­logy, 98.2 (1999), 157–69

4. St Olaf and St Mary’s York

A Norwegian Saint King and a Norman Abbey Daniel Talbot

T

he origins of the Benedictine Abbey of St Mary’s York are tied closely to the Norman Conquest of England. The new abbey was founded initially on royal land at Lastingham, in the North York Moors, but the monks soon moved to York, where they settled the parish church of St Olave’s (near York’s medi­eval gate known as Bootham Bar) before moving again to an adjacent patch of land where the new abbey church of St Mary’s was constructed (Fig. 4.1). Amongst its founders, the abbey claimed the new kings of England, William the Conqueror and his son and successor William Rufus, and it quickly rose to be amongst the first rank of Benedictine monasteries.   * In this article, I refer to the still-standing church dedicated to Olaf as ‘St Olave’s’. In any other references to the saint himself ‘Olaf ’ is preferred. I am grateful to Caitlin Ellis, Phillipa Byrne, and Stephen Church for their comments on drafts of this article. I am also grateful to the Royal Historical Society, who generously provided funding for aspects of the research in this article, and to Elizabeth Stewart, Claire Bradshaw, and Adam Stone for their help preparing the maps used. Since submission of this article an in-depth study of the foundation of St Mary’s York focussing on the actual events, as opposed to their creatively remembered retelling, has appeared in Foundation Documents from St Mary’s Abbey York 1085–1135, ed. by Richard Sharpe.

Daniel Talbot ([email protected]) is a recent PhD graduate from the School of History, the University of East Anglia. His thesis concerned monastic foundation narratives and their role in the construction of monastic communities’ collective identities. Abstract: The monastery of St Mary’s York rose from its foundation shortly after the Norman Conquest to become one of the richest houses in the north of England. Its origins were told in a foundation narrative written by Stephen of Whitby, the first abbot of the monastery. This article considers Stephen’s text in light of a dispute the St Mary’s monks entered into with the Archbishop of York. It is suggested that this dispute fell along pre- vs post-Conquest lines and that Stephen deliberately minimized Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian links in order to present his new monastery as intrinsically royal and Norman. Keywords: historical writing, uses of pre-Conquest past, York, Olaf, Whitby Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 109–129 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134143

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Figure 4.1. Map of places associated with St Mary’s York. © Daniel Talbot.

By the time of the dissolution, St  Mary’s was the richest house in the north of England.1 Despite its accumulation of wealth, it is perhaps for its conflicts that St  Mary’s is best known. The monks who settled at York had split from a band of eremites at Whitby, and, in 1132, the community fractured again when a number of high-ranking members of the St Mary’s community left to form the Cistercian monastery of Fountains.2 In later centuries, it was the citizens of York with whom the St Mary’s monks found themselves in most frequent conflict, and, to many, St Mary’s may be best known for its appearance in early Robin Hood tales.3 It is another dispute, however, that is the focus of this article. Upon arriving at York, the monks entered into a bitter argument with the archbishop of York, which may have threatened the very existence of their community. The St  Mary’s side of the argument was recorded in an account of St Mary’s foundation and early history written by Stephen of Whitby, the first abbot of the monastery, and survives in several manu­script copies dating from as early as the mid-twelfth century.4 The source is well known, and has 1 

Knowles and Hadcock, Medi­eval Religious Houses, p. 58. Bethell, ‘Fountains Abbey and the State of St Mary’s’; Baker, ‘The Foundation of Fountains Abbey’; Baker, ‘Genesis of English Cistercian Chronicles’. 3  Pollard, Imagining Robin Hood, pp. 4 and 122–26; ‘A Gest of Robyn Hode’. 4  The narrative survives in several manu­script copies. An imperfect edition, produced from a late copy, was included in the Monasticon Anglicanum and led to some scepticism about the 2 

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attracted a good deal of scholarly attention, but even when the dispute with the archbishop is recognized as a central plank of Stephen’s narrative the influence of it on his description of events has never been explored. In this article, I place Stephen’s narrative into its wider context, both amongst scholarship on monastic foundation narratives, and within the pre- and post-Conquest history of York, to show just how influential the dispute was on Stephen’s construction of the nascent abbey’s identity, and, by extension, his presentation of the monastic landscape of York(-shire) in the years to either side of the Conquest. In doing so, the issue highlights how authors in the twelfth century were conscious of the tropes and topoi of foundation narratives, as well as issues of memorialization more generally, and played around with them in order to suit their immediate needs. Moreover, the specific instance highlights many of the tensions which arose from the Norman Conquest, and how actors used and abused the history of their institutions to carve out a place in the new, Norman political sphere. Stephen wrote sometime between 1093 and his death in 1112.5 His narrative, though, begins several decades before, on the cliffs of Whitby. There a man named Reinfrid lived, who, in Stephen’s telling of the account, wished to revive a ruined pre-Conquest monastery.6 Reinfrid had travelled north in the 1070s from Mercia, along with two other men: Aldwin and Ælfwig. They originally settled at Monkchester, before moving to Jarrow where the group splintered. Reinfrid departed for Whitby, and Aldwin and Ælfwig went to Melrose — before returning to the north east of England and, in 1083, relocating to Durham where they became the first monks of the new cathedral priory. At Whitby, Reinfrid’s fame spread and followers quickly flocked to him wishing to follow his example.7 One of this number was Stephen. He tells us nothing about his life before his arrival, but from the ease with which he can access the king later in his narrative, it might be surmised that he had some relationship with the Norman court. A few days after arriving, Stephen tells us that he text’s authenticity. Nicholas Karn is preparing a critical modern edition, and I am grateful to him for sharing a pre-publication copy with me. Quotes from Stephen’s narrative used in this article have been transcribed from London, British Library, Add. 38816, a twelfth-century copy of Stephen’s narrative. The translations are my own. Another version of the narrative survives as Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodley 39. 5  The dating of the manu­script will be discussed in more detail in Nicholas Karn’s forthcoming edition. 6  This monastery is of course the one founded by St Hilda, but Stephen does not make the connection. 7  Whitby Cartulary, pp. 1–7.

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was elected as the community’s leader and set about formalizing the Whitby monks’ position.8 But a bitter dispute arose between Stephen and the abbey’s lay patron, William de Percy, who had decided he would rather hold the land at Whitby himself than see it be held by monks. In addition to William de Percy’s posturing, the Whitby community was also vulnerable to piratical attacks and Stephen resolved to go to King William and seek permission to move the community inland. The king granted his request and Stephen took his monks the royal estate at Lastingham where they set about construction of a new monastery. Unmentioned by Stephen, a group of monks had remained at Whitby, and (via their own temporary move away to Hackness) established a Benedictine Abbey of their own.9 At Lastingham, Stephen was formally blessed as abbot of the community, and he and his monks worked quickly to construct a suitable monastic church.10 Stephen gives the impression the stay at Lastingham was temporary, but the extent of the work completed on the monastic buildings, which now form the foundations of the parish church in the village, suggest that the monks resided at Lastingham for several years.11 But, Stephen tells us, the monks’ troubles did not cease, and even here his community faced great hostility. Again, Stephen casts himself as the saviour, and again he solved the issue by utilizing his connections to the Norman court. In this instance, Stephen made the acquaintance of Alan Rufus, the Breton noble made Lord of Richmond after the Conquest, who offered Stephen the church of St Olave’s to become the seat of the monastery because of the ‘security’ of the place — a probable nod to the fact that this part of York was enclosed by its own set of walls.12 Alan granted the church of St Olave to Stephen with four acres of land, and William I gave his assent to the move. The monks duly moved to St Olave’s, but they immediately ran into problems with Thomas, archbishop of York, a man, in Stephen’s eyes, whose hostility towards the St Mary’s monks had been inflamed by the devil.13 It is this 8 

London, British Library, Add. 38816, fols 30v–31r. This shared history, and the discrepancy between the accounts produced by the Whitby community and the St Mary’s community, has been the focus of most scholarship exploring these communities’ foundations. See Burton, Monastic Order in Yorkshire, pp. 23–44. 10  London, British Library, Add. 38816, fol. 31r/v. 11  Gem and Thurlby, ‘The Early Monastic Church of Lastingham’, pp. 31–39. 12  See n. 36 below. 13  London, British Library, Add. 38816, fol. 32v. 9 

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dispute that occupies Stephen’s attention to the end of his work and colours his presentation of every detail. Thomas argued that the land which had been given to the monks by Alan had not been his to give and, instead, belonged to the Minster. Stephen went to Alan and then together they went to King William where, in the presence of bishops, abbots, and other nobles, Alan swore that the land was his to give. William found in St Mary’s favour, and, in order to secure peace, gave the archbishop other land as compensation. Shortly afterwards, William the Conqueror died, but William Rufus shared his father’s passion for the abbey and continued to provide the fledgling community with support. Shortly after his coronation he came to York and visited St Olave’s. Upon arriving, he saw that the church the monks occupied was too small so granted them the land next to the church and gave them further land to supplement their income, which he confirmed with a charter. Alan, too, gave additional gifts to the abbey and handed over advocacy and patronage to the king. Shortly afterwards, Alan died and William gave the vills of Clifton and Overton, which had both been held by Alan, to the abbey for the deceased count’s soul. That gift, Stephen says, was witnessed by Thomas, archbishop of York, Odo of Bayeux, Geoffrey of Coutances, William, bishop of Durham, Count Alan, Odo of Champagne, William of Warenne and Henry de Beaumont, and many others. Yet the monks’ problems with the archbishop were not over, and the understanding which they had reached with him broke down. Once again Thomas tried to lay claim to the four acres of land the monks had been given, and once again the case came before the king. After some deliberation, the matter was settled by William Rufus in 1093, who in a ceremony held at Gloucester and witnessed by many of the leading nobles of the land, compensated the archbishop with the church of St Stephen’s in York and the grant of two carucates of land, one in Clifton and one in Heslington.14 To conclude his narrative, Stephen then informs his reader he had recorded the events because he wished future generations to know the people who had been involved in the foundation of the monastery and the number of ‘whirlwinds’ the church had faced.15 14 

London, British Library, Add. 38816, fol. 33r/v. 15  ‘Volens vero posteris nostris notum facere, de quantis tribulationibus nos liberavit omnipotens dominus, scripturam hanc ad omnium memoriam componere studui, quatinus presentes et futuri huius loci nostri habitatores pro me precibus indefessis deum nostrum exorent, et ut sciant qualiter ecclesia nostra fundata sit vel quantis turbinibus impulsa dei nos protegente gratia, magis ac magis aucta et multiplicata sit per Cristum dominum nostrum. Amen’, London, British Library, Add. 38816, fol. 34r/v.

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Stephen’s narrative is presented as a narratio fundationis. As a result, there are a number of topoi that we might expect to see.16 Benedictines frequently cast themselves as refounders who had brought back monastic life to a site where it had long lain dormant.17 It is in that context that Aldwin, Ælfwig, and Reinfrid’s motivations tend to be portrayed in contemporary sources: they were motivated by Bede and the Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum and they travelled north to settle the sites they did out of a desire to restart institutions associated with the dormant so-called Golden Age of Bedan monasticism.18 Modern critical reconstructions of the motivations of those three men have largely accepted the veracity of these claims, in part encouraged by the fullest retelling of the events recorded by Symeon of Durham.19 Symeon was at pains to trace his community back to Cuthbert himself in order to explain and justify how and why the clerks, who had guarded Cuthbert’s body until 1083, had been replaced by the new community of monks led by Aldwin.20 Portraying the three men as inspired by the Historia ecclesiastica therefore allowed Symeon to capture the whole movement as a part of the intellectual argument he was presenting to justify the replacement of the cathedral clerks at Durham. Stephen would probably have been aware of how the Durham monks were working their past, and at times in his narrative he, too, turns back to the past to provide authority to the sites where his community resided. Whitby, he explains, in ‘ancient time was worthy of honour because of the way of life of religious men and women and the ample possession of estates’; Lastingham was ‘at that time indeed empty, but once distinguished by the number and sanctity of the monks living there’; and Jarrow was a place once full of servants of God, ‘among whom flourished the venerable priest Bede, who expounded in many ways the sacraments of the scriptures through the Holy Spirit’.21 It is also along these lines that the monks of Colchester Abbey, which was colonized from St Mary’s in 1095, chose to explain their origins.22 16 

Remensnyder, Remembering Kings Past provides a comprehensive list of these. Remensnyder, Remembering Kings Past, pp. 46–51. 18  See, for example, Davis, ‘Bede After Bede’; Dawtry, ‘Benedictine Revival in the North’. 19  See n. 9 above. 20  Symeon of Durham, Libellus, pp. 200–33. For this dispute see Aird, St Cuthbert and the Normans. Crumplin, ‘Rewriting History in the Cult of St Cuthbert’, pp. 74–123; Rozier, Writing History in the Community of St Cuthbert. 21  Monasticon Anglicanum, iii, p. 545; London, British Library, Add. 38816, fols 30r–31r. 22  London, British Library, Cotton Nero D VIII, fols 345r–347; ‘Original Documents: 17 

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Yet Stephen does not seek to use these elements of the past to explain the move to St Olave’s, nor again to the land next door. Stephen remarks that a church pre-dated their arrival at York, and states that the decision to leave Lastingham was God’s judgement because the site was not suitable, but he does not expand on either point and gives little indication that his usage of ‘God’s judgement’ goes much beyond idiomatic.23 He is utterly uninterested in what lay at the St Mary’s precinct before the abbey, and does not seek to explore or embellish any links which may have existed. The result is that far from turning to the past to claim status or provide a great moment of theophany which imbued his community with authority, Stephen presents the pre-Conquest history of the site as insignificant, uninteresting, or generally irrelevant to the story of his abbey. But Stephen was an ambitious man, who leaves the impression that he would not miss such an opportunity to claim prestige and importance for his community and, within a few decades of the foundation of St Mary’s, we are again granted a glimpse into the self-conceptualization of the institution he founded, which confirms the extent of the aspirations the St Mary’s monks possessed. In a letter Thurstan, archbishop of York, explained to William, archbishop of Canterbury, how the opulence and wealth accumulated by the abbey had sat uneasily with the reformist monks who left St Mary’s in 1132 to found Fountains Abbey.24 For their own part, the traditionalist party responded by comparing their monastery to the crème de la crème of traditional Benedictine monasticism: Cluny, Marmoutier, Canterbury, Winchester, and St Albans.25 From the outset, St Mary’s was a monastery with serious aspirations, so why, then, would Stephen miss the opportunity to stake one of the most common claims to status? To answer that question, we must step back to the pre-Conquest state of the site. The church of St Olave’s which the monks had been given by Alan Rufus was in fact the first church outside of Scandinavia to be dedicated in honour Olaf II Haraldsson — the Norwegian saint king.26 The foundation of Marianus libro tertio de monasterio Colecestretsi’; Stephenson, ‘13th-Century Marginal Entries’, pp. 113–14. The manu­script tradition is uncertain, and the dating of this work difficult. More work is needed on this material. 23  London, British Library, Add. 38816, fol. 32r. 24  Norton, ‘Richard of Fountains’. 25  Norton, ‘Richard of Fountains’, p. 28. 26  The fullest study is Jirouškova, Der heilige Wikingerkönig Olav Haraldsson. This can be seen as part of a trend for martyr saints from Scandinavian ruling dynasties, see Haki Antonsson, St Magnús of Orkney for another example and further discussion of the trend in general.

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the church is mentioned in the 1055 entry of the ‘D’ recension of the AngloSaxon Chronicle, which states that in that year Earl Siward of Northumbria had died and been buried in the church he had built and dedicated to St Olaf.27 What little we know of Siward’s early life — the claims of a thirteenth-century Crowland Abbey manu­script that his family was descended from a bear can be safely discarded — indicates that he was probably Danish and certainly appointed to his earldom by Cnut, and his choice to dedicate the church where he was ultimately buried to Olaf suggests a continued interest in Scandinavian politics.28 Olaf had been driven out of Norway in 1028, and two years later was killed at the Battle of Stiklestad by Norwegian magnates who favoured Cnut.29 Olaf ’s death was almost immediately recognized by contemporaries as a martyrdom, and, in a shrewd move designed to remove any possibility that Olaf ’s death might become a rallying point for anti-Danish opposition, his cult was adopted by Cnut and his court in England and in Norway.30 Siward’s decision to dedicate a church to Olaf, therefore, was a powerful reminder of the continued ties between the north east of England and Scandinavia, and his own personal relationship to Cnut’s court. In popular memory, Siward’s Danish ancestry dominated. He appears in a number of legendary accounts and hagio­graphies owing to the supposed sanctity of his son, Waltheof, also earl of Northumbria, who had been beheaded by William the Conqueror for his role in rebellion against Norman rule.31 In one, Siward’s foundation of St Olave’s is explicitly used to construct the image of Siward as a great Scandinavian hero. In that account, he set sail from Denmark with the intention of fighting dragons. Having found and killed a dragon in the Orkney Isles, he heard rumour that another existed in Northumbria and set sail to fight it. Upon his arrival in the region, however, he met an old man who told him to go to London to meet the king and, in order for Siward to prove to his men that he had not simply lost his nerve, provided him with a raven banner. Siward went to Cnut as he was told,

27  ‘On þisan gere forðerde Syhward eorl on Eoferwic, 7 he ligeð æt Galmaho on þam mynstre þe he syld let timbrian 7 halgian \on Godes 7/ Olafes naman’, Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: MS D, 1055, p. 74. 28  Dickins, ‘The Cult of St Olave’; Parker, Dragon Lords, p. 105. 29  Bolton, The Empire of Cnut the Great, pp. 269–88. 30  Townend, ‘Knútr and the Cult of St Óláfr’, pp. 252–53; Ellis, ‘The Ecclesiastical Policy of Cnut’, pp. 373–75. Other churches outside Norway show evidence of a cult of Olaf, see English Monastic Litanies of the Saints after 1100, s.v. ‘Olaf ’. 31  Parker, ‘Siward’, pp. 481–83.

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and when some years later he constructed the church to St Olaf, he gave the banner to the church to be hung over his tomb.32 Prior to the mention of the construction of St Olave’s, the evidence for the precinct area is less clear, but there is some evidence to suggest that there was a pre-existing religious community at the site. A 1914 excavation, which took place outside what is now the Yorkshire Museum, found fragments of AngloSaxon cross stone dating from the ninth or tenth century. This cross stone must pre-date the foundation of St Olave’s and is identical in style to several surviving examples from York Minster, and the two York churches of St Denys and St Mary Bishophill Junior.33 On stylistic grounds alone, it is possible to speculate the existence of some sort of religious community with a tie to the Minster, but it may also be the case that we have a textual reference to this church in a land grant recorded (albeit some centuries later) in the Durham Historia de Sancto Cuthberto. That grant explains how St Cuthbert was given ‘all the land which lies from the wall of the church of St Peter’s [in York] all the way up to the great gate towards the west and from the wall of the church of St Peter’s up to the walls of the city towards the South’ by King Ecgfirth and Archbishop Theodore.34 Modern historians have tended to identify the gift with a number of churches held by Durham at the time of Domesday (even though the Historia does not state that a church was constructed on the land), with the churches of All Saint’s Pavement, St Mary Castlegate, and Holy Trinity Goodramgate considered possible candidates, but all these churches lie south-east of the Minster not, as the Historia de Sancto Cuthberto states, to the south-west.35 The St Mary’s precinct was, from the Roman period, an intramural area which was attached to the north-west corner of the colonia (Fig 4.2), and Stephen mentions that the site was attractive owing to its ‘security’, a probable nod to the fact that the land Alan gave was enclosed.36 The early medi­eval sources give a mixed picture of York’s walls, which may have been ruinous in several places, but it is at least possible that the outer set of walls marked the limits of the city in this part of York, and, therefore, that a church which pre-dated St Olave’s was built on 32 

Parker, Dragon Lords, pp. 114–15. ‘St Mary’s Abbey 01, York’, Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Sculpture, iii, p. 111. 34  Historia de Sancto Cuthberto, ch. 5, pp. 46–47. 35  Hall, ‘The Community of St Cuthbert’, p. 54; Rees Jones, York, p. 35 At any rate, it seems unwise to backdate Domesday evidence several hundred years and use it as proof of land ownership in the ninth century. 36  An Inventory of the Historical Monuments, i, pp. 5–47. 33 

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Figure 4.2. Map of the intramural complex in the North East of York. © Daniel Talbot.

land which the Minster had the right to give away.37 This suggestion is far from cast-iron, but at the very least there is the hint of an Anglo-Saxon church which predates the foundation of St Olave’s which had some relation to the Minster. It was this land, and this heritage, which the St Mary monks claimed when they made the final move to York, but none of this information makes it into Stephen’s narrative. True, St Olaf was not a Bedan saint (or even an English one), and it is Bedan era monasticism that Stephen is mostly interested in, and true, the St Olave’s/St Mary’s precinct — if indeed it had a Bedan era religious antecedence, as suggested — was not a famous monastic site. But St Olaf ’s cult, was, as we have seen, established in England, and the lack of the site’s renown, and indeed even the relative novelty of Olaf ’s cult, might have tempted Stephen to embellish a connection either to Olaf, or to one of the saints from the north eastern nexus with whom monasteries across the north east of England wanted to be associated. And we can be sure from other sources that St Mary’s did retain some interest in the pre-Conquest past. A number of service books survive which show that St Olaf retained a cult at York, and even St Cedd (with whom the church was associated through its connection to Lastingham) and St Bega continued to appear in litanies.38 In addition to these liturgical sources, we are also granted a glimpse into Olaf ’s cult at St Mary’s in the fifteenth cen37  38 

An Inventory of the Historical Monuments, ii, pp. 7–34. Oxford, Bodleian Library, Lat. liturg. g.1; Oxford, Bodleian Library, Rawlinson liturg. b.1.

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tury, thanks to the occasion on which a monk of Bury St Edmunds visited the monastery. He had his appearance recorded on a stained glass window in St Mary’s Abbey.39 It is hardly a surprise that Olaf retained a cult at the abbey, given that a church dedicated to him was literally built into the precinct walls, but it nevertheless shows a tantalizing glimpse into interest in the pre-St Mary’s fabric of the site, which does not appear in Stephen’s foundation narrative. When we place Stephen’s narrative into the context of the dispute with the archbishop of York, Stephen’s rejection of these strands of St Mary’s identity begins to make sense. The suggestion that narrationes fundationis often have dispute and disagreement at their core is not new, and it has long been recognized that conflict can act as a means to form and crystallize identity, as authors seek to explain the trials, tribulations, and hardships which a community had overcome in its formative years.40 Nothing survives produced by the Minster to outline their case against St Mary’s, and Stephen does not expand beyond the statement, mentioned above, that Thomas claimed that the land belonged not to Alan but to the Minster. The importance of the dispute to Stephen’s narrative was first noted by Christopher Norton, who pointed out that Stephen was disproportionately interested in the 1093 settlement with the archbishop. Whereas Stephen lists the names of eight people who attended the foundation ceremony in 1088, his description of the 1093 settlement is accompanied by a far fuller cast of characters including two archbishops, twelve bishops, eight abbots, four barons, one archdeacon, the archbishop’s chaplain, the archbishop’s steward, and Hugh, dean of York.41 The impression, Norton states, is that Stephen was much more concerned about the settlement of the dispute than the foundation of the community. Norton subsequently argues that Stephen’s focus on these events is disproportionate for what is simply a dispute over land tenure and, therefore, that there must have been deeper lying tensions, which may have extended to the archbishop’s belief that Stephen wished to move again in to the Minster and displace the Minster clerks.42 Whether pretext or 39 

Benson, ‘Ancient Painted Glass Windows’, pp. 182–84. Remensnyder, Remembering Kings Past, pp. 215–88. 41  Norton, Archbishop Thomas, p. 7. 42  R. H. C. Davis largely saw the final move to York in the same light, arguing that the move to York marked the final culmination of Stephen’s attempts to revive Bedan sites, and it is true that through St Chad brother of Cedd, the founder of Anglo-Saxon Lastingham, there is a connection to York. The Minster could hardly be revived, but Reinfrid, Aldwin, and Aelfwig’s movement had already led to the replacement of the cathedral clerks at Durham just a few years earlier and perhaps Stephen, too, felt that he could take advantage of the way the winds 40 

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cause for the argument, land tenure nevertheless came to dominant the dispute, and it is the two respective battle lines drawn up by each side that interest us. On the one side, the archbishop’s claim rested upon pre-Conquest evidence, while on the other, the abbey’s relied on post-Conquest grants given to them by a close friend of William the Conqueror — who had himself been granted the land by the king, likely with the specific intention that he would pass it on to Stephen. This was a clash of conquered and conquerors and old versus new. Rather than providing the community with power or status in the present, the pre-Conquest past provided an existential threat to the St Mary’s monks. To counter the archbishop’s claim, Stephen instead focused on his connections to the new royal court, and the new, much more recent, Norman history of the site. He is explicit about these themes in his narrative and, as we have seen, regularly draws attention to his connections to the royal court and the issuing of royal acta in favour of the St Mary’s monks. In light of this dispute, Stephen wrote out aspects of St Mary’s foundations which may have caused the monks problems, ignoring the intellectual inheritance which the monks had received, and tied his monastery closely to the authority of the Norman kings. By comparison, the Scandinavian and Anglian influences faded away from view. Rather than turning to the past to provide legitimacy and status for his community, Stephen instead portrayed his community as something new, tied inextricably to the events of 1066. In a part of the world which had suffered more than most in the years following the Conquest, and where nostalgia for the pre-Conquest past was readily detectable, that choice was not straightforward. As a result, the St Mary’s monks constructed their identity not according to the conventions and tropes of narratio fundationis, but by emphasizing their immediate connections to the royal court. It is perhaps for this reason that St Mary’s became a hotbed of royal forgery. Their foundation history was ultimately one that highlighted the importance of the written word as a guarantor of rights. When the written word did not quite provide the monks with the land, privileges, and exemptions which they thought, believed, or wished that they should have, then the temptation to improve or create new records which rectified that oversight is obvious. Moreover, it is at least probable that Stephen’s description of royal acta largely bore some resemblance to reality and were blowing. In addition, whilst it is surely not a realistic prospect that monks could replace a cathedral community when that cathedral’s bishop was so demonstrably hostile to their very existence, it is perhaps possible as Norton suggests, that Stephen wished to position his community so that they could take advantage of any change in circumstance which may take place at St Peter’s, see Davis, ‘Bede after Bede’, p. 109; Norton, Archbishop Thomas, p. 8.

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that the St Mary’s monks had a good number of genuine royal documents on which to base their forgeries. The result is a large, problematic corpus of charter evidence which serves to hammer home that, on the site of St Olave’s church, constructed by Earl Siward decades before the Conquest, and on the probable site of an earlier Anglo-Saxon church, the Norman rulers had built something new. St Mary’s, in the eyes of the monks, was not an attempt to cling on to the past or to honour the saints who had come before, but a bold gesture of Norman political power of which they were a part. There are obvious advantages of a close relationship with royal authority, especially royal authority so distant from York that the king cannot realistically have meddled in the affairs of the abbey on a day-to-day basis, but this was a part of the country that had suffered some of the worst excesses of the violence of the Norman Conquest.43 Even Stephen of Whitby felt forced to mention that ‘more blood had been shed in the city than in the other cities of England’.44 The decision to tie themselves to the king responsible is therefore a remarkable one, forced and moulded by the circumstances of the dispute with the archbishop. One alternative version of the St Mary’s foundation story survives. It is a short narrative which serves as a preamble to a confirmation charter supposedly issued by William Rufus in favour of the abbey. Its purpose as an introduction to a royal charter means that it should hardly come as a surprise that the narrative emphasizes royal involvement, but nevertheless, it paints a picture of a monastery that was attuned to royal aspirations and the attempts by the Norman kings to fashion their own self-image. Strangely, it has escaped scholarly discussion to date. Despite the fact that it survives alongside a version of Stephen’s narrative in London, British Library, Add. 38816, it was not included in the Regesta Anglo-Normannorum, nor in any of the editions of Early Yorkshire Charters, and was only mentioned in passing in Janet Burton’s discussion of St Mary’s foundation.45 The charter in London, British Library, Add. 38816 43 

Remensnyder, Remembering Kings Past, pp. 202–08. ‘multusque sanguis plusquam inceteris Anglorum civitatibus effusus erat’, London, British Library, Add. 38816, fol. 32v. 45  Janet Burton remarks upon the charter’s inflated preamble, but does not discuss it beyond that, see Burton, Monastic Order in Yorkshire, p. 41. It was noticed by Richard Sharpe and was due for inclusion in the William II and Henry I Acta project which is now being continued by David X. Carpenter following Richard’s death. I am grateful to Richard for allowing me to see his preliminary work on this charter. The transcription and translation which follow are, however, mine. The contents of the charter are largely mirrored in another charter, supposedly issued in favour of the abbey by William Rufus, which survives in St Mary’s cartularies. 44 

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is a diploma, which, in accordance with the expectations of that document form, is written in solemn language and ends with a lengthy anathema aimed at would be violators of its terms.46 The diploma purports to be a general confirmation of all the various grants and gifts which St Mary’s had accumulated in the years shortly after the monastery’s foundation until it was supposedly issued by William Rufus. And, if not for one error in the witness list, which saw the Bishop of Le Mans described as Hildebert rather than Hoel, the document could be dated to a narrow window in 1088.47 In a nutshell, it sums up many of the problems with identifying forgery at the turn of the eleventh century. Its form is highly unusual, William Rufus did not issue general confirmations, and the preamble is ludicrously inflated. But, as we shall see, it accords well with Norman attitudes towards York. And, if the error of Hildebert for Hoel can be explained by a scribe incorrectly expanding ‘H’ and plumping for the more famous Bishop of Le Mans, then the witness list might be authentic. Nor is the document’s weirdness necessarily a barrier to its authenticity. Even when we can identify the hand of a royal scribe a number of idiosyncrasies are present which might, on the basis of the diplomatic alone, have seen the documents they created condemned as forgeries.48 In this period, as David Bates has said, charters were generally produced by the beneficiary and presented to the king or his scribes for approval; we are therefore best off understanding these documents’ production as a part of a negotiation between beneficiary and donor.49 The end result is that any number of possibilities are theoretically possible, ranging from the interpolation of a largely intact and originally genuine charter, through to an almost perfect attempt to create an entirely fictitious witness list which gives away the whole diploma as a forgery. That knotty problem can be sidestepped here, however, by the recognition that, ‘genuine’ or not, the document was most probably produced by the St Mary’s monks. Even if it was produced in 1088, it was produced with the king as its intended audience and, if it was forged at a later date, its intended audience was that king’s successors; in both instances the community were seeking

This charter has been overlooked, but the version in London, British Library, Add. 38816 is by some distance the more interesting of the two. 46  For the diploma form see Chaplais, ‘The Origin and Authenticity’. See also Galbraith, ‘Monastic Foundation Charters’. 47  Sharpe, ‘1088 – William II and the Rebels’, p. 153. 48  Karn, ‘Robert de Sigillo’. 49  Bates, ‘Charters and Historians of Britain and Ireland’, pp. 7–8.

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to describe the motivations, aims, and ambitions of that king in the language they thought he, or his successors, would deploy. But, either way, the charter expresses one possible rationalization for the foundation of the St Mary’s community which the monks clearly well understood. Duly, in the charter’s preamble, St Mary’s put into the mouth of ‘their’ William Rufus the reasons why he had been attracted to the project. Gone is any reference to Whitby, Reinfrid, Lastingham, and Count Alan, and gone, too, is Stephen of Whitby’s central role as the driver of events. Instead, in an overwrought comparison between William the Conqueror and William Rufus and King David and King Solomon, the monastery is presented as having been dreamed up by William the Conqueror who was prevented from fulfilling his wish by his own death, and whose work William Rufus therefore finished off: Quia omnium operum nostrorum illa tantum nobis profutura sint que ex timore dei et dilectione procedencia ad honorem eius et sponse sue sancte ecclesie matris nostre operamur et scriptura testatur que nos patrem deum et matrem nostram ecclesiam in spem eternitatis honorare precipit et moyses insinuat qui tanta mentis submissione obedientie tabernacularis edificii applicatur. Quem dei et ecclesie honorem pertractans salomon cogitationem de edificio templi domini quam pater suus dauid animo conceperat superuacuam non dimisit dicens pater meus cogitavit edificare templum domino sed quia ille preliis domini occupatus hoc complere nequivit ego cui non est occursus neque sathan cogitationem illam templum edificans domino complebo. Unde ab ipso domino postea audire meruit se pro predicti templi completione omnibus bonis maxime esse fulciendum; siquidem huic adderet ceterorum custodiam mandatorum. Quia ergo pater meus Willelmus rex ecclesiam eboracensis cenobii in honorem sanctę dei genetricis Marie construere confirmare honorare animo concepit verbo promisit partim scripto ostendit ego filius suus Willelmus in regnum sibi succedens predictis rationibus instructus auctoritatibus instigatus quin immo obtentu pietatis inductus ad predictum exemplum patris mei de predicta ecclesia complere disposui votum ut et illi deus retribuat dispositionem pie cogitationis et mei rependat completionem sue pie dispositionis. (Because of all of our works we profit only from those, which proceeding out of love and fear of God, are worked to honour him and his bride, our holy mother church, and scripture witnesses, which orders us to honour the heavenly father and our mother church in the hope of eternal life and Moses insinuates, who was devoted with such a great submission of the heart to the building of the tabernacle. Solomon who contrived to honour God and the church did not dismiss as needless the thought of building a temple to the lord, which his father David had devised in his mind, saying, “My father thought to build a temple to the lord, but because he

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was occupied with the battles of the Lord he was unable to complete it, I (to whom there is neither adversary or opponent) shall satisfy that idea to build a temple to the lord.”50 From where afterwards he merited to listen from the lord himself that for the completion of the aforesaid temple he would be greatly supported with all good things if indeed he should add to this the observation of the other commandments.51 Therefore, because my father King William promised with words and partly showed in writing that he conceived from his mind to construct, to confirm, and to honour the church of the monastery of York in honour of St Mary the mother of God. I, his son William, succeeding him in royal power, having been instructed in the aforesaid plan, having been urged on by authorities, or rather having been led by the reason of piety to the aforesaid example of my father concerning the aforesaid church, have undertaken to fulfil the vow so that to him God would reward the arrangement of the pious idea and to me he would reward the completion of the pious arrangement.)

William Rufus’s choice of words is clearly the product of the over-active imagination of a monk with too much time on his hands, but the themes which the diploma touches on fit will with what we know of Norman attitudes towards York at the end of William the Conqueror’s reign and the beginning of William Rufus’s.52 There is good reason to believe that the scale of the devastation of the city approached the levels that contemporary chroniclers described, and in the decades immediately following the Conquest the city was not enlarged or rebuilt in the same way as had occurred at Norwich and Lincoln.53 From the 1080s, however, William the Conqueror embarked on a programme of royal rebuilding of York. The work continued during the reigns of William Rufus and Henry I and saw the establishment of the hospital of St Leonard’s; the reconstruction and re-founding of the Minster site; the construction of a royal house on the west banks of the Ouse; the (re-)foundation of churches such as St Giles, St Mary Magdalene’s, St Helen’s, and St Sampson’s; the establishment of Galtres — which touched on to the St Mary’s precinct — as royal forest; and, of course, the foundation of the abbey. As Sarah Rees Jones has argued, the Normans made deliberate use of the city’s Roman fabric, and the symbolism of the church at the centre of this reuse may have a been a part of the Normans’s 50 

1 Kings 5. 4–5. The author had in mind i Kings 6. 52  Rees Jones, York, p. 91. 53  Rees Jones, York, pp. 98–100. 51 

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own attempts to rationalize their conquest as being a legitimate one sponsored by the Roman church.54 In that light, the St Mary diploma’s talk of William the Conqueror having fought ‘the battles of the Lord’ which prevented him from fulfilling his planned construction of ‘the temple’ evidences a clear attempt to lean into these projections of Norman royal power. We can draw some conclusions from this discussion. The first is that this is another example of how disputes can shape the construction of an identity. Stephen does not try to hide the fact that he is chronicling a feud with the archbishop. His presentation of that feud shifted and shaped the way he described events. Much has been written about the power of a dispute to shape identity and, here, we can see an example which conforms precisely to the expectations that scholarship has created.55 The pressures created by the archbishop’s claims to the land shaped and helped form St Mary’s self-perception of itself and tie the monks to the new royal dynasty. It did not create these links, nor does it suggest that the monks would not have utilized them in some way if that dispute had not taken place, but it did create constraints within which Stephen produced his work and the environment within which monks of the abbey produced (and indeed forged) royal acta. The second theme which emerges is one which again calls into question the wisdom of relying on post-Conquest sources for our knowledge of the pre-Conquest past. To some extent, this problem is unavoidable. As James Campbell said, the twelfth century saw the greatest interest in the Anglo-Saxon past than any century before the nineteenth, and the paucity of written sources from pre-Conquest England makes it tempting to look to those writers in the twelfth century who were interested in that past.56 But writers such as Stephen were not neutral recorders, but, instead, polemicists who were interested in the past for their own ends. When writing the history of St Mary’s York, Stephen felt that the concerns of his monastery necessitated attempting to consign problematic facets of the past to oblivion. As Thomas Pickles has recently shown, the state of religious life was significantly more healthy in the immediate pre-Conquest past than historians had previously argued in Yorkshire, and it is precisely because of the work of men like Stephen of Whitby, whose interests lay in obscuring links to the past, that so much detective work has been required to uncover the state of what lay there before.57 54 

Bates, William the Conqueror, pp. 478 and 496; Rees Jones, York, pp. 98–100. See, for example, Remensnyder, Remembering Kings Past, pp. 215–88. 56  Campbell, ‘Some Twelfth-Century Views’, p. 131. 57  Pickles, Kingship, Society, and the Church, especially pp. 224–78. 55 

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In this instance, we can pinpoint the exact reasons why Stephen felt compelled to do so, how he departed from the norms of monastic foundation narratives to counter the archbishop’s claims, and point (albeit with different degrees of certainty) to the existence of two pre-Conquest foundations which Stephen had little interest in. In microcosm, the experience of the small patch of land on the banks of the River Ouse highlights many of the cultural changes experienced by the north-east of England in the eleventh century. In doing so, the monks of the abbey removed, obscured, and wrote out of history a cultural transmission from Scandinavia to York of the Saint King Olaf.

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Works Cited Manu­scripts London, British Library, Add. 38816 London, British Library, Cotton Nero D VIII Oxford, Bodleian Library, Bodley 39 Oxford, Bodleian Library, Lat. liturg. g.1 Oxford, Bodleian Library, Rawlinson liturg. b.1

Primary Sources Alcuin, The Bishops, Kings, and Saints of York, ed.  by Peter Godman (Oxford: Oxford Uni­versity Press, 1982) The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: A Collaborative Edition, vi: MS D, ed. by G. P. Cubbin (Cam­ bridge: Brewer, 1996) Cartularium Abbathiae de Whitby, Ordinis Sancti Benedicti fundate Anno mlxxvii, ed. by John Christopher Atkinson, 2 vols (Durham: Surtees Society, 1879–1881) The Chronicle of St Mary’s Abbey, York, from Bodley MS. 39, ed. by Herbert Henry Edmund Craster and Mary Eleanor Thornton, Surtees Society, 148 (Durham: Surtees Society, 1934) ‘A Gest of Robyn Hode’, in Robin Hood and Other Outlaw Tales, ed. by Stephen Knight and Thomas H. Ohlgren (Kalamazoo: Medi­eval Institute Publications, 1997) [accessed 18 February 2021] Historia de Sancto Cuthberto: A  History of St  Cuthbert and a Record of his Patrimony, ed. by Ted Johnson South (Cambridge: Brewer, 2002) ‘Original Documents: Marianus Libro Tertio De Monasterio Colecestretsi’, in ‘VI Mediæval Colchester – Town, Castle, and Abbey from MSS in British Museum’, ed. and trans. by H. J. Dunkinfield Astley, Transactions of the Essex Archaeo­logical Society, 8 (1903), 117–39 Symeon of Durham, Libellus de exordio atque procursu istius hoc est Dunhelmensis ecclesie ed. and trans. by David Rollason, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000)

Secondary Studies Aird, William, St Cuthbert and the Normans: The Church of Durham 1071–1153 (Wood­ bridge: Boydell, 1998) Baker, Derek, ‘The Foundation of Fountains Abbey’, Northern History, 5 (1970), 1–11 —— , ‘The Genesis of English Cistercian Chronicles: The Foundation History of Foun­ tains Abbey’, Analecta Cisterciensia, 25 (1969), 14–41

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Bates, David, ‘Charters and Historians of Britain and Ireland: Problems and Possibilities’, in Charters and Charter Scholarship in Britain and Ireland, ed. by Theresa Flanagan and Judith Green (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), pp. 1–15 —— , William the Conqueror (London: Yale University Press, 2018) Benson, George, ‘The Ancient Painted Glass Windows in the Minster and the Churches of the City of York’, Yorkshire Philosophical Society Annual Report 1914 (1915), 1–201 Bethell, Dennis, ‘Fountains Abbey and the State of St Mary’s’, The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 17 (1966), 11–27 Bolton, Timothy, The Empire of Cnut the Great: Conquest and the Consolidation of Power in Northern Europe in the Early Eleventh Century, The Northern World, 40 (Leiden: Brill, 2009) Burton, Janet, The Monastic Order in Yorkshire, 1069–1215 (Cambridge: Cambridge Uni­ versity Press, 1999) Campbell, James, ‘Some Twelfth-Century Views of the Anglo-Saxon Past’, Peritia, 3 (1984), 131–50 Chaplais, Pierre, ‘The Origin and Authenticity of the Royal Anglo-Saxon Diploma’, Journal of the Society of Archivists, 3 (1965), 48–61 Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Sculpture Volume iii: York and Eastern Yorkshire, ed. by James Lang (London: British Academy, 1991) Crumplin, Sally, ‘Rewriting History in the Cult of St  Cuthbert from the Ninth to the Twelfth Centuries’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of St Andrews, 2004) Davis, R.  H.  C., ‘Bede after Bede’, in Studies in Medi­eval History presented to R.  Allen Brown, ed. by Christopher Harper-Bill (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1989), pp. 103–16 Dawtry, Anne, ‘Benedictine Revival in the North: The Last Bulwark of Anglo-Saxon Mon­ asticism?’, Religion and National Identity Studies in Church History, 18 (1982), 87–98 Dickins, Bruce, ‘The Cult of St Olave in the British Isles’, Saga Book of the Viking Society, 12 (1937–1945), 53–80 Drake, Francis, Eboracum: The History and Antiquities of the City of York, from its Original to the Present Time; together with the History of the Cathedral Church and the Lives of the Archbishops (London: Bowyer, 1736) Ellis, Caitlin, ‘The Ecclesiastical Policy of Cnut in the Context of his English and Danish Predecessors’, in Anglo-Danish Empire: A  Companion to the Reign of King Cnut the Great, ed. by Richard North, Erin Goeres, and Alison Finlay, The Northern Medi­eval World (Kalamazoo, MI: Medi­eval Institute Publications, 2022), pp. 355–78 English, B. A., and C. B. L. Barr, ‘The Records Formerly in St Mary’s Tower, York’, Yorkshire Archaeo­logy Journal, 42 (1967–1970), 198–235, 359–86 and 465–518 English Monastic Litanies of the Saints after 1100, ed. by Nigel J. Morgan, 3 vols (Wood­ bridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2012–2018) Foundation Documents of St  Mary’s Abbey, York: 1085–1137, ed.  by Richard Sharpe, Surtees Society (Durham: Surtees Society, 2022) Galbraith, V. H., ‘I. Monastic Foundation Charters of the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Cambridge Historical Journal, 4 (1934), 205–22 Haki Antonsson, St  Magnús of Orkney: A  Scandinavian Martyr-Cult in Context, The Northern World, 29 (Leiden: Brill, 2007)

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Hall, David, ‘The Community of St Cuthbert’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Oxford, 1984) An Inventory of the Historical Monuments in City of York, i: Eburacum, Roman York (London: HMSO, 1962), 5–47 (available online at British History Online: [accessed 18 May 2020]) An Inventory of the Historical Monuments in City of York, ii: The Defences  (London: HMSO, 1972), pp. 7–34 (available online at British History Online: [accessed 20 February 2021]) Gem, Richard, and Malcolm Thurlby, ‘The Early Monastic Church of Lastingham’, in Yorkshire Monasticism, Archaeo­logy, Art and Architecture, ed. by Lawrence R. Hoey, British Archaeo­logical Association Conference Transactions, 16 (London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 31–39 Jiroušková, Lenka, Der heilige Wikingerkönig Olav Haraldsson und sein hagio­graphisches Dossier, Mittellateinische Studien und Texte, 46, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 2014) Karn, Nicholas, ‘Robert de Sigillo: An Unruly Head of the Royal Scriptorium in the 1120s and 1130’, The English Historical Review, 123 (2008), 539–53 Knowles, David, and R.  Neville Hadcock, Medi­eval Religious Houses in England and Wales (London: Longman, 1971) Norton, Christopher, Archbishop Thomas of Bayeux (York: Borthwick, 2001) —— , ‘Richard of Fountains and the Letter of Thurstan: History and Historio­graphy of a Monastic Controversy, St Mary’s Abbey, York, 1132’, in Perspectives for an Architecture of Solitude: Essays on Cistercians, Art and Architecture in Honour of Peter Fergusson, ed.  by Terryl Kinder, Medi­eval Church Studies, 11 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), pp. 9–33 Parker, Eleanor, Dragon Lords: The History and Legends of Viking England (London: IB Tauris, 2018) —— , ‘Siward the Dragon-Slayer: Mythmaking in Anglo-Scandinavian England’, Neophilo­ logus, 98 (2013), 481–93 Pickles, Thomas, Kingship, Society, and the Church in Anglo-Saxon Yorkshire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018) Pollard, Anthony James, Imagining Robin Hood: The Late Medi­eval Stories in Historical Context (London: Routledge, 2004) Rees Jones, Sarah, York: The Making of a City 1068–1350 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) Remensnyder, Amy, Remembering Kings Past: Monastic Foundation Legends in Medi­eval Southern France (London: Cornell University Press, 1995) Rozier, Charles C., Writing History in the Community of St Cuthbert c. 700–1130: From Bede to Symeon of Durham (York: York Medi­eval Press, 2020) Sharpe, Richard, ‘1088 – William II and the Rebels’, Anglo-Norman Studies, 26 (2004), 139–58 Stephenson, David, ‘13th-Century Marginal Entries Relating to Colchester in Trinity College, Cambridge, MS. 0.7.41’, Essex Archaeo­logy & History, 11 (1979), 113–14 Townend, Matthew, ‘Knútr and the Cult of St Óláfr: Poetry and Patronage in EleventhCentury Norway and England’, Viking and Medi­eval Scandinavia, 1 (2005), 251–79

5. The Norman World of John de Courcy Claire Collins Introduction In establishing himself as Prince of Ulster, John de Courcy founded the first Norman lordship in northern Ireland,1 at its height stretching across the eastern seaboard from the Mourne Mountains to the south and bounded roughly by the river Bann (which runs northwards across Ulster from Lough Neagh to Coleraine) to the west. Born sometime around 1150 as the eldest son of Jordan de Courcy, who was himself a younger brother of William de Courcy III (the head of the English de Courcy line), John de Courcy only held a small plot of land in Middleton Cheney, Nort\hamptonshire and was eager to make his name among the Norman elite.2 Having met him at some time during the 1180s at the height of his career, Gerald of Wales described de Courcy as: 1  As members of an aristocracy that spanned multiple national borders, determining a label to identify de Courcy and his peers is complicated. For the purpose of this paper, I will be following Rees Davies’ use of the term Norman to designate those persons whose names indicate Norman extraction (such as de Courcy) and who held a vested interest in Normandy during this period and up to King John’s loss of Normandy in 1204; Rees Davies, Domination and Conquest, p. x. For more on the debate, Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 13. 2  Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 5; Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 10, 51, 57; Flanagan,

Claire Collins ([email protected]) is an independent researcher. She received her PhD in medi­eval Irish history from University College Dublin.

Abstract: This chapter examines the methods by which John de Courcy founded the first Norman lordship in Northern Ireland and the ways in which he learned from the attempts of his peers to settle new territory outside England. In particular, this paper incorporates an outline of his political efforts to secure alliances across the Irish Sea, notably including his marriage to Affreca, daughter of the King of the Isle of Man. Additionally, this paper will look at the religious elements of his strategy, such as claiming territorial ownership over Patrick’s alleged burial site in Down, establishing a Cistercian foundation at the former monastic site of Inch and commissioning a new Life of Patrick from Jocelin of Furness. Keywords: Ulster, Irish Sea, Saint Patrick, hagio­graphy, diplomacy Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 131–162 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134144

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[…] of a fair complexion, and tall, with bony and muscular limbs, of large size, and very strong made, being very powerful, of singular daring, and a bold and brave soldier from his very youth. […] But although he was thus impetuous in war, and was more a soldier than a general, in times of peace he was sober and modest, and, paying due reverence to the church of Christ, was exemplary in his devotions and in attending holy worship […]3

He was often portrayed riding atop a white horse, wielding his shield featuring the de Courcy eagles — reinforcing the romantic idea of the white knight.4 The de Courcy family originated in Western Normandy from the town on the river Dives which gave them their name (Courcy-sur-Dives). Although a relatively minor lordship, the de Courcys played a role in William’s Conquest of England in 1066 with Richard de Courcy likely having fought at Hastings.5 The English de Courcys were given the lordship of Stogursey (Stoke-Courcy), near Glastonbury, in Somerset.6 With the additional lordship, the de Courcy line split, with one side of the family forming part of the new Norman aristocracy centred on England, and the other side of the family retaining its Normandy holdings. The de Courcys in Normandy reached the height of their political power by 1172.7 Having survived the fallout from the war of succession between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda, the de Courcys in England gradually added to their base in Somerset with a smattering of holdings which, by 1130, stretched from Devon and Somerset, through Oxfordshire and Northamptonshire, northwards to Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. It is likely in and around these Yorkshire ‘John de Courcy’, p. 155 (for birth year, see p. 103). The identification of Jordan de Courcy as John’s father is based on the appearance of Jordan de Courcy as a witness on a land grant by William de Courcy III. While Duffy argues that this Jordan is the same as John’s brother (also named Jordan), thus making John the younger brother of William III, Flanders makes the strong point that this Jordan is actually the father of John and who his brother Jordan is named after. The Middleton estate was a product of de Courcy’s Meschin heritage as William Meschin was the father of de Courcy’s paternal grandmother, Avice de Rumilly. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 7. 3  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 17, p. 61. 4  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 147–48. 5  A panel above the entrance to the nave of Notre Dame in Dives-Sur-Mer (where William’s fleet set sail bound for England) lists Richard as one of the conquerors. Flanders, De Courcy, p. 31. 6  Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, pp. 47–48. 7  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 38.

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lands that John de Courcy and his brother Jordan grew up. From the marriage alliances made by various members of his family, de Courcy could claim familial ties to the earls of Chester as his great-grandfather, William Meschin, was the younger brother of Ranulf Meschin, earl of Chester, potestas of Carlisle and lord of Cumberland.8 As the daughter of William Meschin and Cecily de Rumilly (lady of Skipton), Avice de Rumilly’s marriage to William de Courcy II explains John de Courcy’s familial ties with the de Rumilly family. Their daughter Alice’s marriage to her first husband, William fitz Duncan, proved especially advantageous to de Courcy as fitz Duncan was a close relative of the Scottish crown. The de Rumilly ties also enabled de Courcy to form friendships with the various sons living at Skipton, creating a series of alliances stretching across Cumbria. It is likely from the Galwegians of Skipton that he learned so much about the political situation in Ulster just across the Irish Sea.9 From 1171 to about 1189–1190 (while de Courcy was establishing himself in Ireland), Stogursey was returned to royal control to be managed by William le Puher and Hugh Pincerna while John’s cousin, William de Courcy IV, was too young to assume the lordship. The loss of the family estate would have forced the return of Jordan de Courcy senior from the family lands in Yorkshire and negatively affected John de Courcy’s chances of inheriting some of this territory in England. William de Courcy IV then joined the third crusade as part of the forces of King Richard I (the Lionheart) and died shortly after his return in 1195.10 Through a series of skillful political manoeuvres, de Courcy changed the landscape of Ulster, especially around his bastion in Down, and created a network that stretched across the Irish Sea, leading hagio­grapher Jocelin of Furness to later style him princeps Ulidiae.11 In doing so, he demonstrated his abilities as ‘a powerful and capable warrior, a skilled tactician and an able administrator

8  Notably, the port of Chester rivalled that of Bristol for access to Dublin trade (especially after Dublin came under Norman control). Hudson, ‘Changing Economy of the Irish Sea Province’, p. 53. Vincent, ‘Angevin Ireland’, p. 202. It is arguable that de Courcy’s development of Down would have offered some manner of alternative when Bristol became the predominant destination from Dublin. 9  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 53–54, 125–26; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 6. Skipton was in the territory of Craven. 10  Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, iii, p. 62; Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 62–63, 134. 11  Jocelin of Furness, ‘Vita auctore Jocelino Monacho de Furnesio’, p. 536; The Life of St Patrick by Jocelin of Furness.

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who utilized his aristocratic training to transform the lands he seized’. 12 The following paper will analyse what de Courcy learned from the attempts of his peers in establishing new territory outside of England, and the strategy he used to ensure his newly won princedom of Ulster became a political powerhouse. While de Courcy was by no means the first Norman to establish a lordship in Ireland, he arguably made the greatest political advances in a relatively short amount of time. Despite his inexperience managing large estates with multinational interests, he advanced rapidly from the position of a minor aristocrat from a minor family to a person warranting royal interest in his affairs.13

Prince of Ulster Before de Courcy’s arrival, the area of Ulster around Down was mainly historically held by the Dál Fíatach, Meic Duinn Sléibe and the Meic Áengusa. In 1171, King Henry II landed in Ireland and asserted his dominance over Richard fitz Gilbert de Clare (popularly known as Strongbow) and the territory he had acquired across the southeast of the island.14 Before leaving to attend to issues arising in Normandy, Henry II put Hugh de Lacy in charge of Dublin and named him justiciar of Ireland (a position de Lacy at one time held while also being joint constable of Vermeuil with Hugh de Beauchcamp). Furthermore, Henry II assigned de Lacy to establish a Norman lordship over Meath and Leinster.15 Of the surviving Irish kingships after Henry II asserted his Norman 12 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 9. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 1–3. De Courcy was unique amongst the powerful new Norman lords of Ireland in that the only land he held before his conquest of Ulster was Middleton Cheney in England. Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 154. 14  As the Earl of Pembroke, Strongbow’s lands in Wales were directly across the Irish Sea from Wexford at one of its narrowest points. When the Irish king Diarmait Mac Murchada came to Henry II’s court seeking Norman military aid to regain his lost territory in Leinster, Strongbow (who was out of royal favour) secured permission to answer the call. He subsequently aided Mac Murchada in building a sizeable territory, which he then inherited through his marriage to Aoife. Flanagan, Clare, Richard fitz Gilbert de’; Kostick, Strongbow: The Norman Invasion of Ireland; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 28; Vincent, ‘Angevin Ireland’, p. 186. 15  Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, ii, pp. 34, 49 and The Annals of Roger de Hoveden, pp. 354, 370; Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, i. § 37, p. 38; ii. § 18, p. 62. Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 163; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 33–34. Henry II’s granting of Meath to de Lacy was likely intended to counterbalance Strongbow’s power. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 21, 33. 13 

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dominance, the Uí Conchobair kings of Connacht remained the most powerful, allowing Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair to establish the Treaty of Windsor with Henry II in 1175. In return for retaining Connacht’s autonomy, Ruaidrí agreed to advocate for the dispossessed Irish to return to their lands now held by the Norman lords as they lacked access to an adequate labour pool.16 Then, in 1176, Strongbow died, throwing the royal management of Ireland into chaos and leading Hugh de Lacy to take more direct control over the expansion of his lands in Ireland.17 In February 1177, using twenty-two Norman knights and along with three hundred followers, de Courcy seized the hillfort at Down (now Cathedral Hill, Downpatrick).18 His knights were drawn from the Dublin garrison originally under the command of William fitz Aldelin (Henry II’s seneschal at the time) to which de Courcy had been assigned, and the garrison records mark the earliest surviving testimony of his existence.19 An insubordinate de Courcy and his faction thus went north expressly against fitz Aldelin’s wishes. Thus, de Courcy’s assault on Ulster was unsanctioned by Henry II and expressly against the terms of the Treaty of Windsor.20 The anonymous early-thirteenth-century ‘Deeds of the Normans in Ireland’ (La Geste des Engleis en Yrlande, formerly known as ‘The Song of Dermot and the Earl’) retroactively granted de Courcy’s conquest of Ulster legitimacy by having Henry II at the same time as he gave 16  The other remaining Irish kings had pledged allegiance to Henry II’s authority, essentially recognizing him as an overking. Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, i. § 32, pp. 35–36; Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 214; Veach, Lordship in the Four Realms, p. 26. For more on the terms of the Treaty of Windsor see Flanagan, Ua Conchobair, Ruaidrí; Ó Cróinín, Early Medi­ eval Ireland, 400–1200, p. 311; Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 164; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 37, 52. 17  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 40; 47–48. 18  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 16, pp. 59–61; Roger of Hoveden, Chro­ nica Magistri ii, p. 120. The Chronicle of Man records de Courcy’s conquest of Ulster as having occurred in 1176 (fol. 39v). Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 263; Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 18–19; Richter, Medi­eval Ireland: The Enduring Tradition, p. 145; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plan­tation’, p. 3; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 22–23; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 48. 19  Roger of Hoveden, The Annals of Roger de Hoveden, p. 350. As a permanently established garrison meant to secure Henry II’s interests in the area, it would have been made up of a small but elite fighting force experienced in fighting territorial battles on the king’s behalf. Other members of the garrison likely included Philip of Hastings, Roger of Dunsforth, Elias of Chester, Henry of Stottesdon, and Wiliam de Blabi. Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 11, 157; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 3, 13–14, 17, 20. 20  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 48.

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Meath to de Lacy, giving Ulster to de Courcy, ‘providing that he could conquer it by force’.21 With the claims of Strongbow in Leinster and de Lacy’s command over Meath and Dublin, heading northwards to Ulster offered an opportunity for de Courcy to advertise his Norman military training. As a knight, de Courcy had the command of around ten lesser knights, along with a number of men-at-arms and auxiliary support — an impressive force numbering at least one hundred and sixty men in total.22 Having travelled by land instead of the easier sea route and having chosen to do so in winter when conditions were usually unfavourable, de Courcy took Ruaidrí Mac Duinn Sléibe and his people so completely by surprise according to Gerald of Wales, that ‘he made a hasty flight’.23 The Meic Duinn Sléibe soon returned to try and recapture the hillfort, but by then de Courcy had developed a position of strength. De Courcy and his men were trained soldiers who had more experience fighting as a cohesive unit and de Courcy himself was expected to have been involved in several of Henry II’s campaigns. Drawing on his martial experience, de Courcy situated his forces on the slopes of the hill and used the surrounding marshland provided by the floodplain of the river Quoile to channel the Irish towards his troops and protect his flanks. The battle was later described by Gerald of Wales, who noted that the Irish fought predominantly on foot and wielded short spears and axes, while de Courcy’s contingent included a heavily armed and armoured infantry core supplemented with lightly armed mercenaries (possibly garnered from local interests), and protected by an archery unit from behind and above.24 Once the Irish lines broke, de Courcy and his fellow knights would have mounted up, forming a cavalry, and given chase. Although the Meic Duinn Sléibe returned that summer with a larger force, they were again defeated and de Courcy solidified his 21 

The Deeds of the Normans in Ireland, p. 123 (l. 2732). This text, which was rediscovered in the seventeenth century, focuses mainly on Strongbow’s actions and how he came to rule his territory in Ireland. 22  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 15, p. 57. Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 13–14, 128. 23  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. §  16, p.  59; Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua ­Conchobair’, p. 248; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 19. De Courcy was aided in his surprise attack by the ease with which he had travelled through Airgialla. As Smith pointed out, this may have been either due to the Ua Cerbaill being distracted by Miles de Cogan’s incursion on northern Dundalk or due to de Courcy’s relative anonymity at the time. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 22–23. 24  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 16, pp. 60–61. At the time, archery was relatively new to Ireland, with the earliest textual example referencing Ua Conchobair’s use of rúta sersenach in 1196. Ó Cróinín, Early Medi­eval Ireland 400–1200, p. 313.

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conquest.25 Ultimately, akin to Strongbow’s Leinster and de Lacy’s Meath, de Courcy acquired the virtually intact former Dál Fiatach kingdom of Ulster.26 As the Annals of Ulster and the Annals of Loch Cé record, de Courcy and his knights twice defeated the men of Ulaid, Cenél nEógain and Airgialla from their new fortress at Down. Later that same year, de Courcy and his forces successfully invaded Dál nAraidi and Uí Tuirtri (part of Airgialla), expanding their conquered territory to the northern coast.27 During his campaign, de Courcy acquired numerous relics, including the staff of Saint Finnian, the Staff of Saint Rónán, the Book of Armagh, Patrick’s Bell, and the Bell of the Circuit of Armagh.28 Ultimately these relics were ordered by Archbishop of Dublin, Lorcán Ua Tuathail, to be returned to their respective owners, but that did not stop de Courcy’s forces from acquiring more. He also captured and shortly thereafter released the papal legate of Alexander III, Cardinal Vivianus of Monte Celio, who then served as a mediator between de Courcy and the Meic Duinn Sléibe.29 De Courcy then worked quickly to fortify his conquest against the Meic Duinn Sléibe and their allies who sought to retake their ancestral home. Almost immediately, he shrewdly donated the site of the former hillfort (which had been the royal centre of the Ulaid overkingdom) to the Church, dedicating it initially to the Holy Trinity and later to Saint Patrick (leading to it becoming the episcopal seat of Down instead of Bangor). As bishop of Down, Malachy III (formerly Echmilid) then became the abbot of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.30 The speed with which he made this grant was not entirely unexpected as, for example, Hugh de Lacy had granted land to Llanthony Priory as soon as he was given control of Meath.31 25 

Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 141–47. Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 154. 27  Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1177, ii, pp. 192–93; Annals of Loch Cé, s.a. 1177, i, pp. 154–55. 28  Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, pp. 248–49. Flanders, De Courcy, p. 140. The presence of these relics on the battlefield was not unexpected as they were frequently viewed as sources of divine aid. For example, Ruaidrí Mac Duinn Sléibe had carried the staff of Saint Ronan, patron saint of Dromiskin, into his battle against de Courcy to regain his seat and left it behind when he fled. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 58. 29  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 16, p. 59. According to the Chronicle of Roger of Howden, Cardinal Vivianus had just returned from the Isle of Man and was making his way towards Dublin when he was captured. Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, ii, pp. 119–20 and The Annals of Roger de Hoveden, p. 439. 30  Dugdale, Monasticon Anglicanum, p. 256. 31  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 27. 26 

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But, by specifically donating the battle site to the Church, de Courcy also purposefully drew a comparison between his success in Ireland and that earlier of William the Conqueror, who had granted the site at Hastings (which became Battle Abbey).32 De Courcy then removed his force to a traditional Norman motte-and-bailey castle nearby (likely the Mound of Down).33 In the years that followed his victory at Down, de Courcy ordered the construction of numerous motte-and-bailey castles to be built throughout his newly acquired territory, including at Balimor, Clough, Donaghadee, Dromore, Dundonald, Dundrum, and Mount Sandel. The end result was the fortification of around seventy-five defensive sites in total (although some may be conflated with pre-existing Irish hillforts as, stylistically, the structures were not dissimilar and de Courcy likely adapted what was available to his needs).34 With the aim of efficiently generating revenue and harnessing the area’s resources, he recruited both tenants and monks from northern Britain, especially from the areas of his youth in and around Northamptonshire. It was a common practice among the new Norman lords of Ireland to grant land to those they favoured, especially members of their own families, and those they sought as followers.35 However, the multinational nature of the more prominent landed families introduced complications for their tenants. For example, the de Audleys were tenants of the de Verdons in England while also being in service to Ranulf III of Chester, but their territory in Ireland was held in service of the de Lacys.36 As a minor aristocrat with only a small holding of his own, de Courcy took a different approach from Strongbow and de Lacy by rewarding the loyalty of his pre-existing allies from northern England and southern Scotland with land in Ireland.37 In the process, there is no clear indication that de Courcy enfeoffed any members of the Stogursey de Courcy line — apart from John and Jordan, 32 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 150. Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 165. By doing so, de Courcy also removed the hillfort as a potential source of future territorial dispute. Flanders, De Courcy, p. 149. The bishopric of Down was established as a result of the Synod of Ráith Bressail and its boundaries roughly coincided with the territory of the Dál Fiatach. Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 156. 34  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 151. 35  Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 36. 36  Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 40. 37  As lords of larger transnational estates, Strongbow and de Lacy were able to draw on their extensive experience but at the same time had to look further afield for tenants willing to settle their newly acquired Irish estates. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 37, 50. For more on de Lacy’s introduction of tenants to Meath, see: Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 28–30. 33 

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the only other de Courcy mentioned in contemporary chronicles and charter lists is William IV. Some of de Courcy’s known tenants included Augustine de Ridale and Roger de Dunesforthe (who were also members of the initial Dublin garrison), William and Henry de Couplan (who held the castle at Donaghadee and gave their name to the town of Ballycopeland), and Brian de Scaliers as well as those of the surnames Sandall, Talbot, Hacket, and Maitland.38 From his Scottish connections, Walter de Logan was given charge of a motte at Ballywalter, Doagh, Antrim. Other significant members of de Courcy’s network of alliances can be evidenced from the witness lists to his charters and include Gilbert of Furness, Gilbert and Roger de Croft of Warrington, Robert Vardcap (from Warcop near Appleby), Richard son of Truite, William Savage, William de Kenefeg, and Jocelin de Cailly.39 If, as was often the case, the grantee was unable to fortify their new holding, akin to grants in Meath and Leinster, the service of twenty knights was required. Through this arrangement, de Courcy’s tenants also provided more manpower and support for his infantry and fortifications.40 While de Courcy and his tenants introduced a traditional Norman bureaucratic infrastructure to Ulster consisting largely of subinfeudation. The mundane labour would have still been performed by the native Irish according to the feudalistic arrangement — leading Duffy to designate de Courcy’s Ulster the first plantation in Ireland.41 As part of the administration of his princedom, 38 

Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 163. Flanders, De Courcy, p. 159. Both Augustine de Ridale and Brian de Scaliers were from Yorkshire and placename evidence for Roger de Dunsesforthe can be seen in the townland of Dunsford, near Ardglass. Stephen and Robert de Sandall of West Yorkshire co-founded the Augustinian priory of Muckamore in Co. Antrim with Gilbert de Croft in 1183. Richard Talbot held a motte on Ards Peninsula, Ballyhalbert. William Hacket held Drumlork, upper Antrim and Roger Hacket held Clandermod, Upper Massereene. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 20–22. 39  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 158–59. Richard son of Truite had Galloway connections and Jocelin de Cailly had familial ties to the de Rumillys. By c. 1183, William Savage held a seat at Ardkeen, Ards on Strangford Lough. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 14. 40  For example, Hugh de Lacy built a castle at Skreen for his tenant Adam de Feipo and a castle at Slane for Forbert le Fleming, and Strongbow provided a similar grant for Walter of Ridelsford. Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 163. Flanagan ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 48. Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 150–51. Many of de Courcy’s tenants were sourced from Chester while some came from the areas around Galloway and Solway Firth. Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 128, 159. 41  Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 1–28. For more on the subinfeudation of Ireland, see: Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 36.

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de Courcy appointed Richard fitz Robert from Northamptonshire as his seneschal, Roger Poer his marshal and Roger (de Courcy) of Chester as his constable. Roger then presumably oversaw his duties from his motte at Crumlin, east of Lough Neagh.42 Although de Courcy’s aim with his princedom of Ulster was to clearly establish at the least a semi-autonomous state, the level of competition between the various new Norman lordships in Ireland left them vulnerable to royal intrigue.43 As such, in 1185 (the same year Henry II named his son, John, ‘Lord of Ireland’ and John subsequently made his first visit to the island) de Courcy reaffirmed his allegiance to the crown and Henry II appointed him ‘Justiciar of Ireland’.44 In a bid to retain some level of independence, de Courcy began producing his own independent coinage from mints established in Carrickfergus and Dundrum.45 Due to Ulster’s remoteness from the royal courts of Scotland and England, de Courcy used his newly minted coinage (consisting only of the smaller denominations so as to avoid offending the Norman king) to convert barter transactions into economic exchange. In a further display of Ulster’s semi-independence, he printed Saint Patrick’s name where that of the king would have traditionally been placed, eventually earning him the ire of King John.46 Carrickfergus, overlooking Carrick (now Belfast) Lough, became de Courcy’s stronghold from 1178 and was one of the only castles he fortified with stone, as stone keeps were usually too expensive.47 Following the death of Henry II, Richard I was crowned in Westminster Abbey in 1189. To the west, Connacht also underwent a change in leadership as Cathal Crobderg succeeded Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair as king.48 These changes paved the way for Prince John (as Lord of Ireland) to take more direct action in Ireland. That same year, he removed the buffer zone between de Courcy’s Ulster and the de Lacy holdings in Meath by actualizing grants made in 1185 giving 42  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 154, 158; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 12, 14–16. According to Gerald of Wales, Roger Poer had distinguished himself well during de Courcy’s battle to maintain the territory he gained in Ulster against the return of Meic Duinn Sléibe’s forces. Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 16, p. 60. 43  For the use of the term ‘state’ here, see: Reynolds, ‘There were States in Medi­eval Europe’, pp. 550–55. 44  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 244; Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 166. 45  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, pp. 199, 263. 46  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 154, 160; Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 165. 47  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 150–53. 48  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 261.

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his staunch ally Bertram de Verdon Dundalk and Gilbert Pipard Ardee, both of which had been part of the Ua Cerbaill kingdom of Airgialla.49 This placed a more substantial limit on de Courcy’s attempts towards the southern expansion of his realm and made his holdings in Ulster more liable to courtly politics. However, it did not stop him from attacking and burning Louth in 1196 with the aid of Niall Mac Mathghamhna, who had attained the kingship of Airgialla after the decline of Ua Cerbaill.50 The following year, John de Courcy’s brother, Jordan, was killed in an attack led by Irish forces. De Courcy, aided by Duncan, the earl of Carrick and Wigtonshire, Galloway, launched a successful revenge offensive against his brother’s killers.51 That same year, de Courcy fortified the fortress established at Mount Sandel (on the River Bann in Coleraine) and gave it to Richard Fitton, who subsequently attempted to push further into Derry but was defeated by Flaithbertach Ua Maeldoraidh, the king of Cenél Conaill and Cenél nEógain.52 Although de Courcy tried numerous times to expand the territorial bounds of his lordship, his domain remained centred on Down and its environs.

Irish Sea Network Stretching along both sides of the Irish Sea and with a heavy emphasis on maritime communication routes, a network emerged comprised of ‘personal, institutional and cultural contacts binding together secular patrons, prelates and hagio­g raphical writers in the north of England, southern Scotland and northern Ireland’.53 Land on the eastern coast of Ireland became so prized that Hudson aptly characterized it as being like the American wild west.54 49 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 161. Bertram had been previously appointed seneschal of Ireland by John in 1185 and Pipard held a similar role in 1194. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 48; Rhodes, Verdon [Verdun], Bertram de; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 89. Regarding de Courcy’s ongoing relationship with the earls of Chester, it is notable that Pipard held custody of Chester from 1181–1185. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 23, 29–32. 50  Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 33, 53. 51  Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, iv, p. 25; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 24. Jordan had held land in Offaly which had formerly belonged to Strongbow and, in 1181, had granted some of that land to the Archbishop of Dublin. 52  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 158; Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1197, ii, pp. 224–27. 53  Bartlett, ‘Cults of Irish, Scottish and Welsh Saints in Twelfth-Century England’, p. 83. The rapid increase in shipping interests and naval transport led the Normans to consider Ireland as a predominantly maritime colony. Vincent, ‘Angevin Ireland’, i, p. 203. 54  Hudson, ‘The Changing Economy of the Irish Sea Province’, p. 55.

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De Courcy clearly knew what he was doing and purposefully chose Down and its environs based on prior knowledge garnered on the area and its profitable connections to this network. At the time of his success in Down, he would have had no local supply chain to rely on and likely had to import resources from his contacts in Cumbria and Galloway.55 Further solidifying his alliances across the northern part of the Irish Sea, de Courcy married the Manx princess Affreca in 1180.56 Through this marriage, de Courcy continued the practice of using marriage to form local alliances as begun with Strongbow’s marriage to Aoife, daughter of Diarmait Mac Murchada, king of Leinster.57 While it was somewhat unusual that de Courcy did not marry a local Irish princess, Affreca’s father Godred (d. 1187) had recently fulfilled that role through his marriage in 1176 to Fionnula, the daughter of Domnall Mac Lochlainn, king of the Cenél nEógain and son of former high king Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn.58 The Isle of Man also already possessed connections with nearby Galloway through Olaf I’s marriage to the daughter of Fergus of Galloway (also named Affreca) early in the twelfth century.59 Reinforcing the familial ties he gained through marriage, de Courcy also granted lands near Coleraine to Duncan as Affreca’s grandmother was Duncan’s aunt.60 Furthermore, as a result of his expanded relationship with Man, de Courcy was able to develop a fleet situated at the mouth of the river Bann.61 By looking to Man instead of inland for a more local marriage alliance, he fortified the political network he was establishing centred 55 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 127; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 26. Ulster was only just across the sea from Galloway, Strathclyde, and the Western Isles. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 121, 193. 56  Chronicle of the Kings of Man and the Isles, fol. 41r; Annals of Inisfallen, s.a. 1180; Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 17, p. 61; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 56. 57  As Davies aptly remarked, ‘the marriage bed is one of the easiest, cheapest and most comfortable routes to domination’. Davies, Domination and Conquest, p. 5. In this same vein, de Lacy married the daughter of Ruaidrí of Connacht and William de Burgh later married the daughter of Domnall Mór Ua Briain of Thomond. Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 165; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster plantation’, p. 25; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 59. 58  Duffy, ‘The First Ulster plantation’, p. 26; Ní Mhaonaigh, ‘Perception and Reality: Ireland c. 980–1229’, p. 146. According to the Chronicle of Man, the formalization of this marriage was the reason why Cardinal Vivianus had been sent to Man as a papal legate (fols 39v– 40r). 59  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 133; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 24. 60  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 159–60. Duncan became a staunch ally of de Courcy. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 24. 61  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 160.

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on this northern part of the Irish Sea. De Courcy’s main areas of influence, Down, Man, Galloway, Cumbria, Fylde, and northern Wales, were essentially along a direct line of travel between the islands of Ireland and Britain. In that regard, his political might was centred on the northern half of the Irish Sea — notably enveloping an area far removed from both Scottish and English control that relied heavily on maritime travel and trade.62 The role of the Normans in the crusades as well as the developments of the twelfth-century reform led to religion playing a significant role on the political stage. As his success grew, de Courcy reinforced the network of alliances he had garnered in his youth by making numerous ecclesiastical grants. Such grants were by no means a new facet of the Irish political scene — there was a strong tradition of solidifying dynastic power through strategic church donations.63 Church donations served multiple purposes: they secured spiritual well-being for the family, they acted as wealth repositories that could be returned to the family if necessary, and they signified an aristocrat’s social status. Having finally staked his claim to fame, it is no wonder that de Courcy made numerous donations of land from throughout his new territory in Ireland and from his original Middleton estate to secure the favour of various ecclesiastical orders from his homeland.64 For example, in 1179, de Courcy granted the former monastic site at Nendrum to the Benedictine priory of Saint Bees in Copeland, Cumbria for the establishment of a daughter house.65 Notably, Saint Bees had been rededicated by William Meschin in c. 1125 from the community of the Irish Saint Bega and was itself founded as a dependent of Saint Mary’s in York. As such, de Courcy’s grant is also illustrative of his ongoing ties to the Meschin estate.66 Elias of Chester, who may have been part of the original garrison that went north with de Courcy, became a benefactor of Nendrum priory and established 62 

Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 130–31. For example, see the Ua Briain donation of Cashel and Diarmait Mac Murchada’s donation of Ua Muiredaig land to the Cistercians of Baltinglass. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 20–21. Often, leading dynasties reinforced their prestige by advocating for the prominent placement of family members as abbots or bishops (as seen with Tomaltach Ua Conchobair below). 64  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 39–40, 70–72; Picard, ‘Early Contacts between Ireland and Normandy’, p. 93. De Courcy granted some of his Middleton estate to the Augustinian House of Cannons in Ashby, Northamptonshire. Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 155. 65  This charter was witnessed by aforementioned Augustine de Ridale. 66  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 155. De Courcy’s father-in-law, the Manx king Godred, also granted land in Douglas to Saint Bees. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 25. 63 

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his own holding at Balimor (likely the Balimoran Prince John stayed at during his trip to Ireland) on the western shores of Strangford Lough.67 As with most of the chief locations de Courcy controlled, he also granted land in Carrickfergus to the church — founding a house for Premonstratensian canons as a dependent of the abbey of Dryburgh, Berwickshire. Dryburgh was founded in 1150 by Hugh de Morville, Lord of northern Westmorland. de Courcy’s grant of Carrickfergus served to once again reinforce his familial alliances as the de Morvilles had ties to William fitz Duncan and the Scottish court.68 Possibly as early as 1180 (the same year as his marriage to Affreca), de Courcy granted the site of a former c.  eighth-century monastery at Inis Cúscraid (Inch) to the Cistercian monks of Furness, Lancashire, for the establishment of a daughter house, which was completed by 1187. Geo­graphically, de Courcy’s association with Furness appears in line with his goal to establish an Irish Sea network, as the monastery was situated on a peninsula accessible mainly by sea and in proximity to the Isle of Man (indicating a possibility that he may have been influenced by his Manx wife). It was also within the territory of Copeland and Craven, which were held by relations at the time.69 Founded in 1127, Furness was granted by Stephen of Blois to the Savigny monastery in Normandy (where Richard de Courcy was abbot of from c. 1153 to 1158) and according to the medi­eval registry of the Abbey, Niall Mac Duinn Sléibe founded a dependent of Furness in Erenagh, Down, that same year. The abbey at Erenagh was subsequently destroyed (allegedly by de Courcy during his conquest of Ulster) and de Courcy translated grants that had been given to the abbey in Erenagh to the new foundation at Inch.70 In 1134, Manx king Olaf I founded a daughter house of Furness at Rushen, providing the abbey with significant economic benefits while in return Furness supplied Man with bishops consecrated in York.71 Furness became Cistercian in 1147. Two further depend67 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 158. Land was also granted to Nendrum by Stephen Locard (one of de Courcy’s Scottish ties) and Roger de Dunesforthe. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 16, 20, 23. 68  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 156; Chronicle of Howden, p. 380; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 10. 69  Edmonds, ‘The Furness Peninsula’, pp. 17–18; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 160; Hudson, ‘The Changing Economy of the Irish Sea Province’, p. 54. 70  William Dugdale, Monasticon Anglicanum, p. 90; O’Laverty, An Historical Account of the Dioceses of Down & Connor, p. 140. The abbey at Erenagh was known as the Abbey of Carrick and a portion of it became attached to nearby Castleskreen. 71  Chronicle of Man, fol. 35v; Downham, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 4; Burton, ‘Furness, Savigny

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ents of Furness included Arkel, founded by Theobald Walter (who was named Chief Butler of Ireland by Prince John in 1185), and Beaubec, near Drogheda, which was founded by Walter de Lacy (d. 1241).72 Inch was strategically placed across the river Quoile from Down, which had become the seat of de Courcy’s power in Ulster. Through this placement, de Courcy demonstrated an excellent understanding of the strategic use of natural defensive measures as well as the importance of Christianity in Ireland at the time. Those who wished to assault his stronghold would have to risk the wrath of God by going through Inch first. While the Irish were not averse to occasionally raiding Christian land, this would have given them pause.73 Furthermore, in return for aiding in the foundation of Inch, de Courcy received a letter of indulgence from Malachy III, granting forty days remission of penance.74 de Courcy also granted fishing rights along the channel of the Quoile river (which was known for its plentiful salmon) to Inch. Given the Christian emphasis on eating fish on certain days, fishing rights were a significant donation and a source of income for their respective churches.75 Further advertising his religious fervour and distributing favours, de Courcy granted land in 1183 for the building of a second priory in Toberglory, Down. Notably, this priory was dedicated to Thomas Becket, who had become Saint Thomas the Martyr, as a cell of Saint Mary’s in Carlisle.76 In the same year, he also granted land for the building of the Black Abbey, a Benedictine priory of Saint Andrew in Ards and a dependent of Stogursey Priory.77 He then also aided in the establishment of the hospital of Saint John the Baptist and the Fratres Cruciferi at Down and granted land not only to the archbishop of Dublin, but to Saint Thomas’ Abbey and the Holy Trinity priory in Dublin as well.78 and the Cistercian World’, pp. 7–10; Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 48; Hudson, ‘The Changing Economy of the Irish Sea Province’, p. 53. 72  William Dugdale, Monasticon Anglicanum, p. 257. 73  Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 46. Flanders, De Courcy, p. 150. For more on the Cistercians in Ireland, see: Stalley, The Cistercian Monasteries of Ireland. 74  Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, pp. 46–47. 75  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 138; Ní Mhaonaigh, ‘Perception and Reality: Ireland c. 980–1229’, p. 153. For more on the importance of fishing, see O’Sullivan, ‘Place, Memory and Identity among Estuarine Fishing Communities’. 76  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 156. Saint Mary’s Priory is now part of Carlisle Cathedral. 77  Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 5. 78  Duffy, Courcy, John de. The hospital of the Fratres Cruciferi was a dependent of the popular Dublin hospital and its charter was witnessed by William de Blabi and Walter Purcell. The

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Fundamentally, de Courcy reshaped the religious landscape of Ulster with Down growing as a centre of Christian piety. In 1185 (a seemingly busy year for de Courcy), the burials of Saints Patrick, Brigid, and Columba were allegedly discovered at Down by Malachy III. The bodies of the three saints were then translated on 9 June to the cathedral at Down and the cathedral was subsequently rededicated from the Holy Trinity to Saint Patrick.79 This discovery emphasized Down’s prestige as the final resting place of Patrick and aided in cementing de Courcy’s control of the area, which later became known as Downpatrick (formerly Dún Lethglaisse). 80 It was also recorded by Gerald of Wales in both his Topo­g raphia Hibernica and Expugnatio Hibernica, which had been completed by 1189.81 In hindsight, Malachy III’s discovery of such key relics is not that surprising and was likely connected to his bid in 1183, with the aid of de Courcy, to introduce a Benedictine priory from Saint Werburgh’s abbey in Chester (now Chester Cathedral) into the Down cathedral.82 Meanwhile, de Courcy and Malachy III had formed a powerful relationship through their joint interest in promoting Down, and Malachy III could be considered de Courcy’s bishop much in the same way that the de Lacys promoted the bishop of Clonard and (upon his acquisition of Strongbow’s lands through his marriage to Isabel de Clare) William Marshal promoted the bishop of Osraige.83 Throughout de Courcy’s leadership of Ulster, he further expanded the prestige of Malachy III’s bishopric by granting it forty-six locations, four churches, and numerous tithes.84 grant of land to Saint Thomas’ Abbey was witnessed by Henry Purcell. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 12–14. Likely due to the ongoing crusading movement, founding Fratres Cruciferi houses became particularly popular. De Verdon established one in Dundalk in 1189 and Roger Pipard established another in Ardee in 1207. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 60. 79  Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, p. 165; Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 164; Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 55. 80  Downham, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 4; Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, p. 248. Cardinal John of Salerno, papal legate for the Scottish and Irish churches, may have overseen the translation of the relics of Patrick, Brigid, and Columba. Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 55. The Annals of Ulster for 1202 refer to John of Salerno as Cardinal Priest of Monte Celio. 81  Gerald of Wales, The Topo­graphy of Ireland, § 18, p. 75; Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 34, p. 77. 82  Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 53; Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 165; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 155. 83  Veach, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, pp. 165–66; Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 164. 84  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 155.

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However, the backlash from Malachy III’s closer relationship with de Courcy resulted in an extra bishopric being founded at Dromore.85 In line with the reforming ideals of the twelfth century, de Courcy then arranged in joint patronage with Tomaltach (Thomas), archbishop of Armagh (nephew of King Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair of Connacht), and Malachy III for a new Life of Saint Patrick to be written by Cistercian monk, Jocelin of Furness.86 Updating saints’ Lives had become popular in this period and it was important to English interests at the time to emphasize Patrick’s origins as a Briton, especially the connection to his alleged hometown in Dumbarton, Strathclyde. Accordingly, Jocelin reworked the Life of Patrick to emphasize how Patrick’s journey paralleled that of de Courcy — beginning in northern Britain and ending with an establishment in Ulster. 87 As a professional hagio­g rapher, Jocelin’s other hagio­graphies, those of Helena (the mother of Constantine) and Kentigern also worked towards bolstering connections between predominant saints and the island of Britain.88 Although how much (if any) time Jocelin spent in Ireland is unclear, he compiled his Vita Patricii from 1180 and had completed it by the end of 1201. 89 Around a similar timeframe, another Cistercian (an anonymous monk of Sawtry, Huntingdonshire) compiled a tract on Saint Patrick’s purgatory (Tractus de Purgatorio Sanctii Patricii) at the request of the abbot of Warden, based on information supplied by Gilbert of Louth, Lincolnshire. Connected to this compilation was an attempt to found a Cistercian monastery in Louth, Ireland that was ultimately unsuccessful.90

85 

Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, p. 255. Jocelin of Furness, ‘Vita auctore Jocelino Monacho de Furnesio’, pp. 536–77; The Life of St Patrick by Jocelin of Furness. 87  Bartlett, ‘Cults of Irish, Scottish and Welsh Saints in Twelfth-Century England’, pp. 76, 83; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 58. De Courcy was likely already familiar with the cult of Patrick in Britain. Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 47. By this point in the hagio­graphical tradition surrounding Saint Patrick, his hometown of Nemthor had become equated with Dumbarton. Two notable sources of influence for de Courcy, Cumbria and Galloway, were once part of the kingdom of Strathclyde and he was arguably well aware of the Dumbarton cult of Patrick. MacQuarrie, The Saints of Scotland, pp. 32–41. 88  Edmonds, ‘The Furness Peninsula and the Irish Sea Region’, p. 23. 89  Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 46; Bartlett, Jocelin of Furness. For more on Jocelin’s Vita Patricii, see: Birkett, The Saints’ Lives of Jocelin of Furness; Bieler, ‘The Celtic Hagio­ grapher’, pp. 261–63; Sharpe, Medi­eval Irish Saints’ Lives, pp. 3, 29–33; Heist, ‘Irish Saints’ Lives, Romance and Cultural History’, p. 37. 90  Bartlett, ‘Cults of Irish, Scottish and Welsh Saints in Twelfth-Century England’, p. 77. 86 

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By promoting Patrick in this way, de Courcy was able to secure the support of the surrounding ecclesiastical landscape and broker an alliance with Armagh, which, although facing political difficulties from the re-structuring of the Irish Church, was still a major powerhouse. 91 As the most powerful religious institution situated in northern Ireland, Armagh was a source of tension and its affiliation a prize to be won by the various competing dynastic kingdoms. After the Synod of Kells-Mellifont in 1152 and with the rise of the archbishopric of Dublin, Armagh lost possession of arguably their strongest relic associated with Patrick, the Bachall Ísu, which had been secured by William Fitz Aldelin. In 1172, the Synod of Cashel established that all clerics seeking to attain an Irish bishopric must first obtain the approval of Henry II. 92 Archbishop Lorcán Ua Tuathail aided in securing Tomaltach’s position as archbishop of Armagh in 1180 but died abroad and was replaced by the Norman John Cumin before Tomaltach had been able to secure the abbacy (or comarba) of Patrick.93 Unsurprisingly, Tomaltach’s tenure as archbishop was fraught with complications, especially as he was briefly pushed out of the role in around 1184 by Máel Ísu Ua Cerbaill (d. 1187) with the help of Murchad Ua Cerbaill, king of Airgialla, and Hugh de Lacy.94 By joining de Courcy and Malachy III in patronage of Jocelin of Furness’ new Vita Patricii, Tomaltach was able to reclaim some of Armagh’s primacy over Dublin and reaffirm their jurisdiction over the bishopric of Louth.95 Nonetheless, Armagh was attacked and burned multiple times during de Courcy’s lordship over Ulster. It is not altogether surprising that the Annals of Ulster records it being pillaged by de Courcy and his men in 1189 and again by his ally, Ruaidrí Mac Duinn Sléibe, in 1199 while Tomaltach was Archbishop.96 91 

Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 49. Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, p. 237. 93  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 56, 59. The Annals of Ulster for 1181 record Tomaltach’s acquisition of the archbishopric and note that he made a circuit of Cenél nEógain. Completing a circuit was the traditional way for an ecclesiast to proclaim his role as the heir to a church and, by doing so, Tomaltach advocated for recognition of his status as coarb in addition to his role as Archbishop. Ó Carragáin, Churches in Early Medi­eval Ireland, p. 212. 94  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 63–64. Máel Ísu used his position as the bishop of Louth to advocate his claim to the archbishopric, reflecting the ongoing power imbalance between Clogher and Armagh. Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 26, 62. 95  Veach, ‘Conquests and Conquerors’, p. 165; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 66. 96  According to the Annals of Ulster, Armagh was burned in 1179, 1184, and twice in 1189. Ruaidrí’s dishonouring of Patrick is mentioned in the entry for his death in 1201. 92 

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Although de Courcy clearly favoured the primacy of Armagh, his relationship with Tomaltach was by no means as strong as the one he shared with Malachy III. In 1193, at the insistence of Affreca, de Courcy founded the abbey of Saint Mary of the Yoke of God (more popularly known as Grey Abbey) in Down as a daughter house to the Cistercian monastery of Holme Cultram in Cumberland, which was itself a dependent of Melrose.97 This connection ostensibly enabled Melrose to form ties with Down and in 1202 Cardinal Salerno assigned Ralph, the former abbot of Melrose, to the bishopric of Down (presumably upon Malachy III’s death).98 In a charter dating from sometime between 1196 and 1200, Tomaltach reaffirmed grants made by Armagh to the priors and monks of Nendrum, likely referring to the Benedictine monks brought by de Courcy from Saint Bees in Cumberland.99 Under Tomaltach, Armagh continued to regain much of its lost power and by the Synod of Dublin in 1192 (hosted by papal legate and Archbishop of Cashel, Muirges Ua hÉnna), it exerted control over dioceses as far south as the Boyne and cemented its authority over Louth. In the end, Tomaltach fled Armagh in 1196 for the relative safety of Mellifont. He died there in 1201 and was buried near to the relics of Saint Malachy (who had been formally canonized by Clement III in 1190).100 The ensuing election threw Armagh back into disarray and resulted in the Irish candidate, Echdonn Mac Gilla Uidhir, seeking papal support.101

See also: Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 33, 62. 97  The Chronicle of Man records this as an aside under the year 1204 (fol. 41r). Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, pp. 50, 54; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 156; Duffy. Courcy, John de. 98  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 292; Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 50. Further ties to Melrose are indicated by the fact that Everard, abbot of Holme Cultram (d. 1192) was formerly a monk of Melrose and that Jocelin, bishop of Glasgow and another patron of Jocelin of Furness, was a former abbot of Melrose. Both Holme Cultram and Melrose had been founded by King David I of Scotland. Bartlett, ‘Cults of Irish, Scottish and Welsh saints in twelfth-century England’, pp. 81–82. 99  Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, pp. 256–60. 100  Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, pp. 255–56; Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 292; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, pp. 62–63. His death is recorded (as the coarb of Patrick) in the Annals of Inisfallen for that year. 101  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 292; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 64.

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Fighting Against and Alongside Irish Forces De Courcy managed a fine balance between continuing his Norman military and administrative traditions and working within a less centralized pre-existing Irish political framework. In doing so, he used his background as both a knight and temporary justiciar of Ireland to introduce other Norman techniques to his management of Ulster. Such techniques included the introduction of tenants from his homeland and the development of a comprehensive administrative system to encourage both economic funding and military support, to name a couple. Employing these Norman ideals also necessitated parallel advancements in infrastructure as witnessed in part by the extensive programme of castle-building mentioned above. At the same time, de Courcy encouraged a steadily more positive relationship with Connacht, especially once the Norman William de Burgh (d. 1205) began taking an interest, and his troops frequently fulfilled a mercenary role on behalf of Irish interests. However, while endeavouring to expand his territory after his initial military achievements, de Courcy was defeated numerous times. In 1178 alone, he was defeated twice, once attempting to push northwest towards Coleraine and once attempting southwards to Louth.102 In 1181, Domnall Mac Lochlainn invaded de Courcy’s Ulster but was repelled and defeated in the following year, during which de Courcy and his men allegedly made off with the Gospel of Saint Martin.103 Subsequently, in 1183, Malachy Mac Lochlainn was murdered, likely on de Courcy’s behalf.104 In 1188, de Courcy’s men marched north towards Dungannon and were repulsed while de Courcy himself led a predominantly Norman force into Connacht before turning northwards (likely acting as mercenaries for Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair) to attack Donegal, which was held by the northern Uí Néill. After trying to cross the Curlew Mountains, he and

102 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 159. The Annals of Ulster and Annals of Loch Cé record de Courcy being defeated by Murchadh Ua Cerbaill of the Airgialla and the Meic Duinn Sléibhe in Glenn-righi and then by Cú Midhe Ua Flainn of Uí Tuirtri in the vicinity of Dál nAraidi and Uí Tuirtri. 103  Gwynn, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair’, pp. 248–49; Flanagan, ‘Jocelin of Furness’, p. 55; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 140; Duffy, Courcy, John de; Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1181–1182, ii, pp. 198–201. 104  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 160. According to the Annals of Ulster, Domnall was later replaced by Ruaidrí Ua Flaithbertach as king of the Cenél nEógain in 1186 and died at the hands of de Courcy’s men in 1189, Annals of Ulster, ii, pp. 206–07; 214–15.

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his men changed directions again and were promptly routed by the Connacht army.105 After Ruaidrí retired to Cong monastery, Cathal Crobderg held the kingship of Connacht from 1189 to 1224.106 In 1195, he invaded Thomond after having brokered a peace agreement at Athlone to keep de Courcy and Walter de Lacy from expanding into Connacht while he was away.107 Although de Courcy had originally seized Down from the hands of the Meic Duinn Sléibhe, that same year he joined forces with Ruaidrí Mac Duinn Sléibe in an attempt to gain land west of the river Bann, but they were unsuccessful. As a result, de Courcy led a series of raids and sea attacks between Toomebridge and Derry (all of which were also unsuccessful). The following year, the Uí Néill had become united under Áed mac Áeda Ua Néill of Cenél nEógain (a family which had previously held great power as part of the northern Uí Néill).108 In 1197, de Courcy pushed into Uí Néill territory and raided from Tír Eoghain to Ardstraw and Derry, ravaging Inishowen on the way. In return, the Uí Néill attacked de Courcy lands by sea from Larne to Kilwaughter in Antrim and, under the leadership of Áed, defeated de Courcy in 1199 near Donaghmore.109 The predilection for using the sea as an avenue of attack indicates the extent to which de Courcy’s control depended on the coast. By 1200, Áed Ua Néill secured the area west of the river Bann.110 Although Áed experienced numerous altercations with de Courcy and his men, both leaders joined forces in 1201 in support Cathal Crobderg to raid northern 105 

Flanders, De Courcy, p. 161; Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1188; Flanagan, Ua Conchobair, Ruaidrí. As the Treaty of Windsor formalized Ua Conchobair’s claim to the high kingship, Ruaidrí took advantage of the recognition to attempt expansion into other Irish kingdoms. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 53. 106  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 261. According to the Annals of Inisfallen, Ruaidrí died at Cong in 1198. Cathal Crobderg’s power was such that it was recognized by Pope Innocent III. Ní Mhaonaigh, ‘Perception and Reality’, p. 138; Dunning, ‘Pope Innocent III and the Irish Kings’, pp. 17–32. 107  Annals of Inisfallen, s.a. 1195. The Annals of Ulster records de Courcy and the de Lacys as joining forces against ‘the Foreigners of Leinster and Munster’. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 87; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 162; Smith, Lacy, Hugh de, earl of Ulster; Perros (Walton), Ó Conchobhair, Cathal. 108  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 162–63; Simms, Ó Néill, Aodh; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 53. 109  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 162–63. De Courcy’s men were again defeated by Áed in the following year. Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1199–1200, ii, pp. 230–33. 110  Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 263.

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Connacht against an attempted usurpation of the Connacht kingship by Cathal Carrach (who was supported by rising influence of de Burgh). The Norman magnates kept a close eye on Irish politics and were quick to throw their military weight behind their preferred candidate.111 On the way, de Courcy’s forces pillaged Roscommon and Sligo. Ultimately, de Courcy, in alliance with Hugh de Lacy II, confronted Cathal Carrach at Tuam and once again suffered defeat near Kilmacduah, Galway.112 The following year, according to the Chronicle of Howden, some of de Courcy’s men slew Ruaidrí Mac Duinn Sléibe at a Cistercian barn (ad horreum quoddam alborum monachorum) in Ulster. In response, de Courcy banished these men from his lands.113 Although de Courcy ultimately formed a relatively stable alliance with the Meic Duinn Sléibe who had originally controlled Ulaid, it is significant that no secular Irishmen appear on any of de Courcy’s witness lists.114 While he actively played a role in attempting to influence the Irish political scene in which he found himself, these allies were not part of de Courcy’s plan of subinfeudation.

De Lacy Partnership and Opposition As mentioned above, Hugh de Lacy was one of the earliest Norman lords to be granted land in Ireland by Henry II, placing him in a powerful position on Ireland’s eastern coast. As part of securing his lordship in Meath, de Lacy then killed the powerful Irish king, Tigernán Ua Ruairc, removing the strongest competition for his newly acquired lands. While he participated in several of Henry II’s campaigns, this did not necessarily mean de Lacy was strictly a crown loyalist. He was a shrewd political negotiator and established an extensive powerbase for himself and his family. As a result, Henry II seized de Lacy’s English lands at Ludlow and retained royal control over the demesne as a way of 111  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 4, 108. De Burgh likely arrived in Ireland with John when he became Lord of Ireland in 1185 and seemed to have maintained a favourable relationship with him (unlike de Courcy, whose relationship with John became antagonistic). Empey, Burgh, William de. 112  Veach, Lordship in the Four Realms, p. 108; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 163; Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1201. The Annals of Inisfallen for 1200 record the Anglo-Norman takeover of Connacht (likely referring to William de Burgh) and the placement of Cathal Carrach as king. Two years later, William de Burgh and his force killed Cathal Carrach and returned the kingship of Connacht to Cathal Crobderg. His death is also recorded in the Annals of Ulster. 113  Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, iv, p. 157. 114  Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 55.

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hindering de Lacy’s expansionist goals.115 When de Courcy set about conquering Ulster, de Lacy took advantage of the impact it had on the once powerful Cenél nEógain to expand his Meath holdings. Then, in around 1179 (recorded as 1180 in the Annals of Inisfallen), de Lacy went against Henry II’s wishes and married Rois, the daughter of Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair, after the death of his first wife — a power play that could have resulted in him inheriting Connacht much like Strongbow had inherited Leinster.116 Like de Courcy, the de Lacys also had significant ties to Chester. Hugh de Lacy I had held land in Gloucestershire for the service of Hugh of Chester, and Walter de Lacy encouraged a link between the ports of Drogheda and Chester (waiving the duty fee).117 However, unlike de Courcy, de Lacy managed lands in multiple locations and thus felt compelled to return to England numerous times during his lordship. His actions in and around Meath resulted in his death in 1186 by Gilla gan-inathair Ua Miadaigh of Tethba at the behest of Ua Catharnaigh while building a castle in Durrow.118 As Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair outlived him, the gains provided by de Lacy’s marriage to Rois died with him. In the aftermath, as Hugh’s son, Walter, was too young to inherit the territory at the time, John de Courcy supervised the de Lacy holdings in Meath (although the routine administration was overseen by loyal crown administrator, Philip of Worcester).119 Possibly as early as 1189, Walter was able to regain control of his lands in Meath and granted some of the territory to his younger brother, Hugh II.120 The pair became a formidable duo with a vested interest in expanding their Irish holdings. In 1192, John as Lord of Ireland replaced de Courcy with Peter Pipard and William Petit as joint justiciars of Ireland.121 Richard I was away on the third 115 

Smith, De Lacy, Hugh; Flanagan, ‘Defining Lordship’, p. 46. This politically advantageous marriage was de Lacy’s second as he was first married to Rose of Monmouth, a cousin of Strongbow. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 26, 56–57, 59–60. 117  Veach, Lordship in the Four Realms, p. 193. 118  Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1186, ii, pp. 208–09; Annals of Loch Cé, s.a. 1186; Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 34, p. 77; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 65. 119  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 160; Lewis, Lacy, Walter de; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 77–78. Philip of Worcester had stayed in Armagh in 1185 during Lent. Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1185. For more on Philip of Worcester, see: Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 63–64. 120  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 81. 121  A tenant of Walter de Lacy, at some point William Petit became Walter’s seneschal. ODNB, s.n. Lacy, Walter de; Flanagan, ‘Defining Lordships in Angevin Ireland’, p. 52. 116 

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crusade at the time with King Philip II of France and the Emperor Frederick I, and was subsequently captured on his return. Upon his release in 1194, Richard personally asserted command over Ireland and Walter’s lordship of Meath was confirmed. That same year, Richard I named de Courcy the new joint justiciar alongside Walter de Lacy.122 By appointing such posts and conceding land promised by his father, Richard was able to generate significant revenue for the crown and offset some of the costs of crusade.123 As a result, de Courcy and Walter de Lacy joined forces and marched against John’s appointed justiciars and successfully apprehended Peter Pipard. Unfortunately, Richard then pardoned John for the actions he took while Richard had been held hostage on the continent, placing de Courcy in danger of facing backlash for having captured Pipard.124 The uncertainty provoked by Richard’s capture and John’s resultant bid for royal control had a direct impact on the future of the Norman lordships in Ireland. By granting Connacht to William de Burgh, John both disinherited the Uí Conchobair and halted the westward expansion of de Courcy and the de Lacys. However, Richard’s reassertion of royal control over Ireland and support for the lords of Meath and Ulster resulted in the further destabilization of Irish politics as, for the first time, those in Richard’s favour were pitted directly against those who came to power by John’s hand. Having had his intentions hindered at every turn, John ‘chose to promote his loyal advisors, or barons of the second rank to head the Irish administration’.125 Subsequently, as soon as John regained the lordship of Ireland, he replaced de Courcy and Walter de Lacy with Hamo de Vaognes.126 From that point, the relationship between the de Lacys and de Courcy appears favourable — as already mentioned, in 1195, Walter de Lacy and de Courcy jointly negotiated a truce with Cathal Crobderg at Athlone. That same year, Hugh II married Lescelina, the daughter of Bertram de Verdon, laying claim to the territory de Verdon had established around Dundalk and pressing

122  The Chronicle of Man lists Richard I as having set out for Jerusalem in 1190 (fol. 440v). Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 85. According to Duffy, John de Courcy was justiciar for Dublin for most of the time from 1185–1195. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 12. 123  Carpenter, The Struggle for Mastery, p. 246. These actions arguably directly resulted in the rise of William Marshal as a formidable baron of land not only in Ireland, but in Wales and Normandy as well. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 79. 124  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 162; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 50. 125  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 283. 126  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, pp. 85, 87.

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up against de Courcy’s southern border.127 Unlike de Courcy, Walter de Lacy fell out of favour with King Richard I and his English ad Norman lands were subsequently confiscated in 1197, leaving him (for the time being) only his Irish lands to focus on.128 Disregarding royal favouritism, Hugh de Lacy II and de Courcy again formed an uneasy alliance in 1201 (alongside Áed Ua Néill as mentioned above) in aid of Cathal Crobderg against Cathal Carrach (and William de Burgh). As was often the case in Norman politics, such alliances were subject to the whims of fortune and King John’s ascension to the throne portended de Courcy’s decline. Once again, the de Lacys were quick to take advantage of the upheaval. As neighbours and occasional allies, the dynamic relationship between John de Courcy and the de Lacys illustrates both their joint connections to Chester and the way in which Norman allegiances were subject to the changing whims of the crown.

Downfall and Legacy When John became King of England in 1199, he sought to remove some of the men who had been powerful under his father. That same year, Pope Innocent III issued the call for the fourth crusade.129 In 1201, according to the Chronicle of Howden, Walter de Lacy attempted to capture de Courcy but was unsuccessful. However, Hugh de Lacy subsequently offered de Courcy safety in his castle at Nobber in Louth and then refused to release him. Yet, de Courcy was still a popular figure in Ireland and a force comprised of de Courcy’s various tenants and allies pillaged both Walter and Hugh de Lacy’s lands in revenge, leading Hugh to eventually release him.130 The following year, King John invited de Courcy to travel to his court to make peace, attempting to assuage de Courcy’s justified misgivings with a writ of safe conduct. Nonetheless, de Courcy seems to have refused the offer.131 In the summer of 1203, King John gave de Courcy’s lands in Middleton Cheney to Warin fitz Gerald, the second husband of 127 

Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 89; Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 41. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 90. 129  Jerusalem had fallen out of Christian control in 1187. 130  Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, iv, p. 176; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 163. It is likely that Cathal Crobderg was captured around the same time as de Courcy with the intention that the de Lacys would send both to King John’s court to essentially pay homage to the king. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 109. 131  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 116. 128 

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Alice de Rumilly (daughter of William de Courcy II and John’s aunt).132 That September, John issued another write of safe-conduct to de Courcy (which was again refused). In around 1204, numerous hostages of de Courcy’s tenants were given to King John to ensure fidelity, including the sons of Augustine of Ridale and Roger of Chester, and the relatives of William Hacket and William Savage. When de Courcy refused to acquiesce to John’s summons, John threatened dire repercussions against the hostages and the lands held by de Courcy’s vassals and allies.133 By that point, King John lost possession of Normandy to King Philip of France and he was willing to carry out similar measures against de Courcy as had been done to him with the forfeiture of Normandy.134 John then allowed the de Lacys to invade Ulster and both the Annals of Ulster and the Chronicle of Man record Hugh de Lacy II raiding Ulster with his men in 1204 and successfully capturing de Courcy.135 In a bid to convince Hugh de Lacy II to release him, de Courcy pledged to go on crusade. Although he was released, this plan ultimately backfired as de Lacy used the false pledge to justify de Courcy’s destruction.136 Following his capture by Hugh de Lacy II and subsequent release, in 1205, de Courcy sought to retake Ulster with the aid of a fleet of a hundred ships gathered by his brother-in-law, Ragnall, king of the Isles and Man, and with the help of Richard son of Truite. While de Courcy and his allies successfully landed at Strangford Lough, they were repelled by the forces of Walter de Lacy and de Courcy subsequently retreated to Tír Eoghain.137 On 29 May 1205, King John stripped de Courcy of his lands in Ireland, giving them instead to Hugh de 132 

Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 51, 61–64. Duffy notes this as having occurred on 23 August. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 7. The Middleton estate was first sequestrated in 1201. Flanagan, ‘John de Courcy’, p. 155. 133  Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 15, 17, 20, 22; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 116. 134  Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 116. 135  Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1204, ii, pp. 240–41; Chronicle of Man, fol. 41r. John ordered Walter de Lacy and Meiler fitz Henry to summon de Courcy to court and in the event de Courcy refused, Walter and Hugh would gain a significant portion of land in Ulster closest to Meath. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 116. 136  Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 158, 163; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 19. 137  Chronicle of Man, fol.  41r (s.a. 1205); Annals of Ulster, s.a. 1205, ii, pp.  242–43. Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 19. While the exact chrono­logy of de Courcy’s multiple attempts to retake Ulster becomes convoluted, the sheer size of the fleet raised was enough to cause King John some hesitation. In response, he formally offered Ragnall royal protection. Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 117.

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Lacy II who was then designated the first Earl of Ulster.138 Fearing for his safety from an outraged King John, de Courcy fled to Courcy-sur-Dives. Normandy had been removed from English control the previous year and the Norman de Courcys had already secured their allegiance to the French king.139 In 1207, de Courcy received King John’s permission to return home but his final days are unclear. While it is recorded that in 1210, de Courcy’s ally Duncan successfully captured some of the allies of the de Lacys and offered them as hostages to de Courcy, it is unknown what happened next (although de Courcy must have still been in Normandy at the time).140 He was dead by 1219, when Affreca’s widow status appears in a confirmation of land by the king. As far as can be determined, de Courcy had no legitimate heirs.141 De Courcy would go on to be popularized as everything King John was not — he was the ideal Norman aristocrat and a reminder of what life was like under William the Conqueror. As Smith rightly pointed out, de Courcy ‘was not a great landed magnate and his conquest of Ulaid can still be viewed as perhaps the most remarkable achievement of the early years of English involvement in Ireland’.142 Notably, de Courcy was never given his lands (although they are retroactively granted by Henry II in the later ‘Deeds of the Normans’) and instead took them through a demonstration of his martial skill and foreknowledge of the area. In this vein, his exploits can be regarded as more akin to Strongbow’s than to the de Lacy’s or to William Marshall’s. By the nineteenth century, de Courcy’s actions had become the stuff of legend, leading Thomas D’Arcy McGee to eulogize him poetically: A warrior may be valiant, and love holiness also, As did the Norman Courcy, in this country long ago. Few men could match de Courcy on saddle or on sward, The ponderous mace he valued more than any Spanish sword; … De Lacy was his deadly foe, through envy of his fame; He laid foul ambush for his life, and stigmatised his name;

138 

Downham, Medi­eval Ireland, p. 244; Flanders, De Courcy, p. 163; Veach, Lordship in Four Realms, p. 117. 139  Flanders, De Courcy, p. 69. 140  Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 24. 141  Gerald of Wales, The Conquest of Ireland, ii. § 17, p. 61; Flanders, De Courcy, pp. 64, 165. 142  Smith, Colonisation and Conquest, p. 29; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, pp. 26–27.

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But the gallant John de Courcy kept still his mace at hand, And rode, unfearing feint or force, across his rival’s land.143

While de Courcy’s knighthood was exaggerated to match the legends of other great Christian knights (such as Roland and El Cid), his machinations had a defining impact on the eventual formation of Ulster as an English stronghold. His actions in Ulster endured through the sheer quantity of religious institutions he aided in founding, leading Veach to exclaim ‘other English lords sought to control the religious lives of their lordships, but none seem to have gone as far as John de Courcy in their identification with Ireland’.144 Over the course of his Ulster lordship, de Courcy aided in the foundation of at least eight separate establishments, granted land in Ulster to at least three institutions outside of Ulster, and developed relationships with the Cistercians, Benedictines, Augustinians, Premonstratensians, and Fratres Cruciferi. Through his donation of the battle site where he was first successful in taking Down, de Courcy cemented an ongoing alliance with Malachy III, the bishop of Down. His subsequent patronage of a new Life of Saint Patrick further enhanced the prestige of Down as Patrick’s final resting place while at the same time reaffirming its connection (through the narrative of Patrick’s origins) to Strathclyde across the northern Irish Sea. In various alliances with local Irish dynastic kingships, de Courcy also repeatedly sought to expand his territory and occasionally participated in Irish style raids on border kingdoms. Through these actions, he was truly a Prince of Ulster.

143  144 

Thomas D’Arcy McGee, ‘De Courcy’s Pilgrimage’, pp. 258–59. Veach, ‘Conquests and Conquerors’, p. 165; Duffy, ‘The First Ulster Plantation’, p. 8.

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Works Cited Primary Sources The Annals of Inisfallen: MS. Rawlinson B. 503, ed. and trans. by Seán Mac Airt (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1944, rev. 1951) The Annals of Loch Cé: A Chronicle of Irish Affairs from ad 1014 to ad 1590, ed. and trans. by William  M. Hennessy, Rerum Britannicarum Medii Aevi Scriptores, 54, 2  vols (London: Longman, 1871), i Annals of Ulster, otherwise Annala Senait, Annals of Senat: A Chronicle of Irish Affairs from ad 431 to ad 1540, ed. by William Maunsell Hennessy and Bartholomew MacCarthy, 4 vols (Dublin: HMSO, 1887–1901) Chronicon Regum Mannie et Insularum: Chronicles of the Kings of Man and the Isles, ed. and trans. by George Broderick (Edinburgh: Manx National Heritage, 1973) D’Arcy McGee, Thomas, ‘De Courcy’s Pilgrimage’, in The Poems of Thomas D’Arcy McGee (London: Sadlier, 1886), pp. 258–60 The Deeds of the Normans in Ireland: La geste des engleis en Yrlande, ed. by Evelyn Mullally (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2002) Dugdale, William, Monasticon Anglicanum: A History of the Abbies and other Monasteries, Hospitals, Frieries, and Cathedral and Collegiate Churches, with their Dependencies, in England and Wales, ed. by John Caley and others, 6 vols (London: Bohn, 1846) Gerald of Wales, The Topo­graphy of Ireland, trans. by Thomas Forester, rev. and ed.  by Thomas Wright, Medi­eval Latin Series (Cambridge, ON: In Parentheses, 2000) —— , The Conquest of Ireland, trans. by Thomas Forester, rev. and ed. by Thomas Wright, Medi­eval Latin Series (Cambridge, ON: In Parentheses, 2001) Jocelin of Furness, ‘Vita auctore Jocelino Monacho de Furnesio’, in Acta Sanctorum, viii: Martii Tomus Secundus (9–18), ed. by Jean Baptiste Carnandet, Joannes Bollandus, Godefridus Henschenius and Daniel van Papenbroeck (Paris: Victorem Palmé, 1865), pp. 536–77 —— , The Life of St  Patrick by Jocelin of Furness, ed. and trans. by Ingrid Sperber and Ludwig Bieler, online at Royal Irish Academy Archive of Celtic-Latin Literature, ed. by Anthony Harvey and Angela Malthouse, 2nd edn, ACLL, 2 ODNB, [accessed 9 May 2023] Roger of Hoveden, Chronica Magistri, ed.  by William Stubbs, Rolls Series, 51, 4  vols, reprnt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) Roger of Hoveden, The Annals of Roger de Hoveden, ed. and trans. by Henry  T. Riley (London: Bohn, 1853)

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Secondary Studies Bartlett, Robert, ‘Cults of Irish, Scottish and Welsh Saints in Twelfth-Century England’, in Britain and Ireland 900–1300: Insular Responses to Medi­eval European Change, ed. by Brendan Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 67–86 —— , ‘Jocelin of Furness’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] Bieler, Ludwig, ‘The Celtic Hagio­grapher’, in Studia Patristica, v, ed.  by Frank Leslie Cross (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1962), pp.  243–65. Reprinted in Ludwig Bieler: Ireland and the Culture of Early Medi­eval Europe, ed.  by Richard Sharpe (London: Variorum, 1996) Birkett, Helen, The Saints’ Lives of Jocelin of Furness: Hagio­graphy, Patronage and Eccles­ iastical Politics (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2010) Burton, Janet, ‘Furness, Savigny and the Cistercian World’, in Jocelin of Furness: Essays from the 2011 Conference, ed. by Clare Downham (Donington: Tyas, 2013), pp. 7–16 Carpenter, David A., The Struggle for Mastery: Britain 1066–1284 (London: Penguin, 2004) Davies, Rees, Domination and Conquest: The Experience of Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, 1100–1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) Downham, Clare, Medi­eval Ireland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018) Duffy, Seán, ‘Courcy, John de’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] —— , ‘The First Ulster Plantation: John de Courcy and the Men of Cumbria’ in Colony and Frontier in Medi­eval Ireland: Essays Presented to J. F. Lydon, ed. by T. B. Barry, Robin Frame, and Katharine Simms (London: Hambledon, 1995), pp. 1–28 Dunning, P. J., ‘Pope Innocent III and the Irish kings’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 8.1 (1957), 17–32 Edmonds, Fiona, ‘The Furness Peninsula and the Irish Sea Region: Cultural Interaction from the Seventh Century to the Twelfth’ in Jocelin of Furness: Essays from the 2011 Conference, ed. by Clare Downham (Donington: Tyas, 2013), pp. 17–44 Empey, C. A., ‘Burgh, William de’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021]. Flanagan, Marie Therese, ‘Clare, Richard fitz Gilbert de [called Strongbow], Second Earl of Pembroke [earl of Striguil]’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] —— , ‘Defining Lordships in Angevin Ireland: William Marshal and the Kings’ Justiciar’, in Les seiqneuries dans l’espace Plantagenet, c.  1150-c.  1250: actes du colloque international, ed. by Martin Aurell and Frédéric Boutoulle (Bordeaux: Ausonius, 2009), pp. 41–57 —— , ‘John de Courcy, the First Ulster Plantation and Irish Church Men’, in Britain and Ireland 900–1300: Insular Responses to Medi­eval European Change, ed. by Brendan Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 154–78

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—— , ‘Jocelin of Furness and the Cult of St Patrick in Twelfth-Century Ulster’, in Jocelin of Furness: Proceedings of the 2011 Conference, ed. by Clare Downham (Donington: Tyas, 2013), pp. 45–56 —— , ‘Ua Conchobair, Ruaidrí’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] —— , ‘Lacy, Walter de’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­ graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] Flanders, Steve, De Courcy: Anglo-Normans in Ireland, England and France in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Dublin: Four Courts, 2008) Gwynn, Aubrey, ‘Tomaltach Ua Conchobair, Coarb of Patrick (1181–1201): His Life and Times’, Seanchas Ardmhacha, 8.2 (1977), 231–74 Heist, William W., ‘Irish Saints’ Lives, Romance and Cultural History’, in Medi­evalia et Humanistica, vi: Medi­eval Hagio­graphy and Romance, ed.  by Paul Maurice Clogan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), pp. 25–40 Hudson, Benjamin, ‘The Changing Economy of the Irish Sea Province’, in Britain and Ireland 900–1300: Insular Responses to Medi­eval European Change, ed. by Brendan Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 39–66 Kostick, Conor, Strongbow: The Norman Invasion of Ireland (Dublin: O’Brien, 2014) MacQuarrie, Alan, The Saints of Scotland: Essays in Scottish Church History AD 450– 1093 (Edinburgh: Donald, 1997) Ní Mhaonaigh, Máire, ‘Perception and Reality: Ireland c. 980–1229’, in The Cambridge History of Ireland, i: 600–1550, ed.  by Brendan Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 131–56 Ó Carragáin, Tomás, Churches in Early Medi­eval Ireland: Architecture, Ritual and Memory (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010) Ó Cróinín, Dáibhí, Early Medi­eval Ireland, 400–1200, 2nd edn (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017) O’Laverty, James, An Historical Account of the Dioceses of Down & Connor, Ancient and Modern (Dublin: Duffy, 1878–1895) O’Sullivan, Aidan, ‘Place, Memory and Identity among Estuarine Fishing Communities: Interpreting the Archaeo­logy of Early Medi­eval Fish Weirs’, World Archaeo­logy, 35.3 (2004), 449–68 Perros, Helen, ‘Ó Conchobhair, Cathal’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] Picard, Jean-Michel, ‘Early Contacts between Ireland and Normandy: The Cult of Irish Saints in Normandy before the Conquest’, in Ogma: Essays in Celtic Studies in Honour of Próinséas Ní Chatháin, ed.  by Michael Richter and Jean-Michel Picard (Dublin: Four Courts, 2002), pp. 85–93 Reynolds, Susan, ‘There were States in Medi­eval Europe: A  Response to Rees Davies’, Jour­nal of Historical Socio­logy, 16.4 (2003), 550–55 Rhodes, W. E. (rev. by Brendan Smith), ‘Verdon [Verdun], Bertram de’, in Oxford Dic­ tionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021]

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Sharpe, Richard, Medi­eval Irish Saints’ Lives: An Introduction to Vitae Sanctorum Hiber­ niae (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991) Simms, Katharine, ‘Ó Néill, Aodh [Hugh O’Neill, Aodh Méith]’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­ graphy [accessed 2 November 2021]. Smith, Brendan, Colonisation and Conquest in Medi­eval Ireland: The English in Louth, 1170–1330 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) —— , ‘Lacy, Hugh de, earl of Ulster’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Bio­graphy [accessed 2 November 2021] Stalley, Roger, The Cistercian Monasteries of Ireland: An Account of the History, Art, and Architecture of the White Monks in Ireland from 1142–1540 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987) Veach, Colin, ‘Conquest and Conquerors’, in The Cambridge History of Ireland, i: 1600–1550, ed. by Brendan Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 157–81 —— , Lordship in Four Realms: The Lacy Family, 1166–1241 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2015) Vincent, Nicholas, ‘Angevin Ireland’, in The Cambridge History of Ireland, i: 1600–1550, ed. by Brendan Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 185–221

6. Norman Sicily and the Fatimid Royal Correspondence, 1137 Mahir Shaab Abdusalam Introduction The Arab conquest of the island of Sicily was followed by Islamic rule for over two centuries (827–1061).1 During that time, Sicily was linked with North Africa and Egypt in many aspects, especially its trading and political systems.2 In this regard, Nasir-i Khusrau (d. 1088) recorded that it was said that Sicily was under the rule of the Sultan of Egypt. Every year a ship left Sicily carrying money to Egypt, and also transporting thin linen and patterned clothes, which in Egypt was worth ten Maghreb dinars.3 After the settlement of the Normans in Sicily in 1061, Norman rulers sought to increase their influence and control in the Mediterranean, primarily through exerting influence over trade. As a consequence, Roger II invaded the nearby islands and cities, especially in or near the North African coast. Norman 1 

Davis-Secord, ‘Muslims in Norman Sicily’, pp. 46–66. Britt, ‘Roger II of Sicily’, pp. 22–23, and Abulafia, ‘The Norman Kingdom of Africa’, p. 27. 3  AbûMuʿînNâṣir b. Ḵẖusraw al-Qabbadiani, Safranameh [Book of Travels], i, p. 85. 2 

Mahir Shaab Abdusalam ([email protected]) is a member of the Faculty of Arts in the History Department of Tobruk University, Libya.

Abstract: The Norman invasion of Sicily is an important point not only in the island’s history but also in the Mediterranean region. Connections between the Normans and the Muslims had gone through many stages between hostility and friendship; this point will be the research focus, especially the relations between the Normans and the Fatimids. The latter had a direct relationship with the Normans as shown by the correspondence letters sent from Roger II to the Fatimid Caliphate, namely Caliph Al-Hafiz (1130–1149). This correspondence was preserved by Al-Qalqashandi in his book Sabah Al-A’shi, composed in 1387 as a model of correspondence between Muslim and non-Muslim rulers. The only surviving letter from the correspondence will be subject of this article, which seeks to determine the relationship between the Normans of Sicily and the Fatimid caliphate, through analysis and translation of this letter from Arabic into English. Keywords: Al-Qalqashandi, Roger II, Fatimid Caliphate, Mediterranean, Diplomacy, corres­ pondence Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 163–186 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134145

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attention was turned towards Egypt, North Africa, and the Byzantine Empire more than Northern Europe.4 Egypt became an important commercial centre in the Fatimid era, mostly for Asian goods like spices, seasonings, and silk, and this might be one of the reasons why Roger II was keen to maintain friendly relations. 5 As a result, Roger agreed a treaty that allowed trade exchange between Egypt and Sicily.6 Christopher Picard argued that the friendly relations between the Fatimids and the Normans should be attributed to the strength of Norman power in the twelfth century.7 Indeed, it has been acknowledged that Sicily under Norman rule was one of the richest, most cosmopolitan, and powerful states of the central or high medi­eval period, contributing significantly to the opening up of the Mediterranean.8 Another reason for these good relations can be offered: Roger  II had strong economic reasons for wanting to avoid conflict with the Fatimids in the Mediterranean. Roger may have been ensuring the neutrality of the Fatimid caliph, which was important in his attempt to control the North African coast. North Africa was part of the natural passage for Sicilian wheat, where it was first traded for gold and then for slaves.9 Italian merchants made money from these imports from North Africa and Egypt and all these deals strengthened the financial condition of the island. As trade grew, the traffic of commercial ships also increased, generating additional revenue as commercial ships had to pay taxes when sailing between both countries.10 Yet Roger was not satisfied with this level of commerce and trading and decided to invade the North African ports to prove his ability to take direct control.11 The ports were an important and strategic point for commerce because they were the gateway for the gold and cloth trade that arrived from India to Egypt and then to North Africa in convoys.12 Fatimid caliphs also had reasons for remaining relaxed about Norman ambitions in North Africa. The Mahdia was under the con4 

Metcalfe, ‘The Muslims of Sicily under Christian Rule’, p. 299. Qutbuddin, ‘Part I: Prehistory to 1400, Fatimids’, p. 40. 6  Abulafia, ‘The Crown and the Economy’. 7  Picard, Sea of the Caliphs, p. 146. 8  Brown, The Norman Conquest of Southern Italy and Sicily, p. 1. 9  Abulafia, ‘The Norman Kingdom of Africa’, p. 27. 10  Smith, A History of Sicily, pp. 29–30, 133–34. 11  Setton, A History of the Crusades, p. 27. 12  Cook, ‘Mediterranean Trade’. 5 

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trol of the Zirids, who had formally broken with the Fatimid caliphate a century before, and who had adopted Sunni doctrines in distinction to the Shiite Fatimid caliphs.13 Hence, both Fatimids and Normans saw this as mutually beneficial, and economic concerns became the regulator of relations between the two regions. This also reiterates the strategic importance of Sicily in the context of trade within the Mediterranean.14 Indeed, the relations between Cairo and Sicily were friendly before July 1123, as was clear from the request of the Zirids to the Fatimid caliph to intervene and contact King Roger to prevent him from attacking North Africa.15 Historians have also held different views about the Norman governance of Sicily after the eleventh-century invasion. Metcalfe believes that Normans attempted to impose feudal rule over their Muslim population, although it appeared that they were prepared to use Arabic within their official documents alongside Latin and Greek.16 This multilingualism had a parallel in post-Conquest England where a mixture of Latin and French was used for official texts along with some use of English. Interestingly, some historians see feudalism as a tradition the Normans learnt from the Arabs. Gravett and Nicolle note that in the Arab conquest of Sicily they developed Siculo-Muslim forces whose traditions were inherited by the Normans, including the use of servile or slave troops alongside mercenaries. They also note that Arabs developed iqta (fief ) and regional jund (militia) systems which the Normans happily adopted and from which feudalism emerged.17 The Normans inherited the Arabic administration in Sicily, including the Diwan (official record). Moreover, when Roger II became king of Sicily in 1130 he kept (and developed) the tools of Arabic administration.18 While the treasury was under the administration of Arabs, this led to economic prosperity and welfare.19 Other Diwan like the Diwan al-thqiq appeared later in Sicily,

13 

Cook, ‘Mediterranean Trade’, p. 27. Loud, Roger II, p. 12. 15  Johns, ‘Malik Ifriqiya’, p. 94. 16  Metcalfe, Muslims and Christians, p. xiv. 17  Gravett and Nicolle, The Normans, p. 50. 18  Johns, ‘Arabic Sources for Sicily’, pp. 341–60. 19  Norwich, The Kingdom in the Sun 1130–1194, p. 158. 14 

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imported from Egypt. In short, there is a strong case for Norman borrowing from Arab models — both direct and indirect borrowing.20 The twelfth-century historian Ibn Al-Athir indicated that Roger II adopted the way of Muslim kings, adding that Roger II respected the Muslims and protected them from the Franks (Christians), so they loved him. He further noted that king Roger II had a council where oppressed people could put forward their complaints and he always pronounced fair judgement, even if that was against his son. Ibn al-Athir’s observations about King Roger’s policy indicate a perception of balance between Muslims, Jews, Christians, and others. Moreover, he emphasized how Roger met the obligations and expectations of a king to provide fair justice and judgement.21 Likewise, the traveller Ibn Jubayr described Roger II as like an Arab Sultan wearing a Frankish crown, because he appointed Arabs to important positions.22 The above probably indicates that Roger II had a good reputation among Muslims because of his tolerance of religious pluralism. Ibn Jubayr presented Roger as more accommodating to his Muslim subjects than his grandson William II. Furthermore, Pseudo-Hugo Falcandus mentioned that King Roger II was keen to adopt any customs of other kings and peoples, especially the useful ones.23 Similarly, Clare Vernon and Jeremy Johns argued that King Roger imported Muslim craftsmen especially from Egypt, and that he was influenced by the Fatimid caliphs to wear the Muslim gown decorated with Arabic script.24 Furthermore, along with Latin and Greek, Arabic was considered one of Sicily’s main languages, with decrees issued in all three.25 On many different levels, Norman Sicily was the site of significant cultural assimilation.26 Islamic sources, however, rarely document the relationship between Egypt and Norman Sicily, though they do extensively discuss Sicily before the Norman takeover. Al-Qalqashandi is the solitary source to throw some light on Egyptian and Norman relations, as he documents correspondence between Egypt during the rule of the Fatimids and Sicily under Roger II. According to 20 

Johns, ‘The Norman Kings’, pp. 137–39. Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Al-Tarikh, p. 286. 22  Ibn Jubayr, The Journey of Ibn Jubayr. 23  Hugo Falcandus, The History of the Tyrants of Sicily, p. 58. 24  Vernon, ‘The Mantle of King Roger II’, pp. 95–110; Johns, ‘Arabic Inscriptions in the Cappella Palatina’, pp. 127–47. 25  Norwich, Kingdom in the Sun, p. 158. 26  Davis, The Gothic King, p. 174. 21 

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Al-Qalqshandi, in the introduction of his book Subh Al-Asha, he worked in the most important state office in Mamluk era, as scribe of the Mamluk diwan in Cairo. This was during the time of Sultan al-Zahir Barquq (1382–1399). In 1389, he reached the highest position in the office. Consequently, this position gave Al-Qalqashandi the opportunity to read the original documents of the earlier period, because the correspondence of the Fatimid period had been preserved in the Mamluk Diwan, which he used in writing his book.27 As many historians have observed, letters were the first and essential mode of communication to transfer news or ideas within or beyond a polity’s borders, and a valuable tool of diplomacy in the medi­e val Mediterranean.28 The only surviving letter from the correspondence reveals much about the foreign relations between the government of Sicily and the Fatimid caliphate.29 Subh Al-Asha includes numerous pieces of advice to the secretary (al kātib)30 on how to serve and write for kings, and what they were required to know from different arts and fields to help them in their careers. In the sixth part of his book, Al-Qalaqashandi cites many copies of original documents. Among these documents was a copy of a letter sent from the Fatimid Caliph Al-Hafiz (1130–1149) to Roger II. As a model for correspondence between Caliphs and non-Muslims, this relatively long document can be easily dated to 1137.31 It is worth mentioning that these documents were copied not for their content but as a model of how to write diplomatic letters, especially to nonMuslim recipients. According to the introduction, the letter was a response to previous correspondence received by the Caliph from King Roger II. Thus, as can be seen from the document, it is mainly concerned with Egyptian-Sicilian relations. However, a significant part of it has a direct and clear link to the relationship between North Africa in the Zirid era and Norman Sicily. This relationship is embodied in two points: firstly, how the Fatimids acted during the Norman occupation of the island of Djerba; secondly, in the principles governing relations between the two countries, as embodied in this correspondence.

27 

Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, vi, pp. 447–52. Gully, The Culture of Letter-Writing, pp. 1–9. 29  Johns, ‘The Norman Kings’, p. 145. 30  For more information about this position, see Gully, The Culture of Letter-Writing. 31  Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, vi, pp. 447–52. 28 

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An analysis of the correspondence reveals the dynamics of political relations between the power centres of Cairo and Palermo.32 The correspondence has been discussed by Canard who translated it into French, and by Jeremy Johns, who discussed the relations of Norman Sicily with Fatimid Caliphate. Johns noted that relations were cordial between the Normans and Fatimid for about 20 years (1123–1143), and that during this time both governments exchanged embassies and gifts. He adds that the expansion of the Normans beyond the borders was the result of the growing power of the naval fleet.33 The letter has not previously been translated into English, and can be found in the appendix to this chapter. The letter contains about ninety-six lines in Arabic and the topics discussed appear in the following order in Al-Qalqashandi’s copy: (i)

The conquest of Djerba

(ii) Praise for the Vizier of Roger II (iii) Notification of the arrival of the Caliph’s ship (iv) The release of Norman captives and requests to free any new captives (v) The case of Vizier Bahram (vi) A translation error in the previous letter (vii) The exchange of gifts (viii) Waiting for news Each of these points will be examined to explore the dimensions of the relationship between the Normans and Fatimids. The letter was a response to a previous one sent by Roger II. In this account, the Caliph said: ‘your [Roger II’s] letter has been presented in the presence of Amīr al-muʾminīn34 as well as read thoroughly’.35 Perhaps this suggests that in his reply, the Caliph followed point by point what King Roger II had asked

32 

Picard, Sea of the Caliphs, p. 146. Johns, ‘The Norman Kings’, and Johns, Arabic Administration, pp. 257–67. For the French translation, Marius Canard, ‘Une lettre’, pp. 125–46. 34  ‘Commander of the faithful’. See The Oxford Dictionary of Islam, p. 19. 35  Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, vi, pp. 447–52. 33 

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in his previous letter; Jeremy Johns intimates that this letter seems to be the fourth message in a longer series of correspondence.36 The Caliph started the letter by describing Roger II as king in Sicily, Ankorea (Lombardy), Antalya (Italy), Calabria, Sterlo (Salerno), Malaf (Amalfi), and further lands beyond these.37 This perhaps follows the royal style used by Roger in his letters, as Pseudo-Hugo Falcandus pointed out that Roger preferred the title of king rather than duke,38 which also indicated the growth of the Norman power over a large part of Italy. On the other hand, why did the letter refer to each of these Italian cities by name? I suggest that this mode of address is connected to the commercial relationship between these cities and Egypt. The Fatimid Caliph would know that these cities were dependent on King Roger II, and that the merchants of the Italian cities obtained commercial facilities in the Egyptian ports. In fact, the relations between Sicily, northern Italian cities such as Amalfi, and Egypt, especially commercial links, go back to before the Norman occupation of Sicily. The Amalfi merchants stayed in city of Fustat [part of old Cairo] with their goods in a building known as Dar Mank seems to be a hotel or inn specially built for them. Yaḥyā Ibn-Saʿīd al-Anṭākī [ John of Antioch] (d. 1067), mentioned that in 996 ad the people had looted Dar mank, removing wealth amounting to ninety thousand dinars, representing the goods of about a hundred merchants from Amalfi.39 Thus, the Amalfi merchants had a privileged position in Egypt, especially in Alexandria and Fustat, trading in luxurious Egyptian silk, which was very popular in Europe. Heyd suggested that during the medi­eval period, the vast majority of the textile imports that were used in the churches at Rome were made in Alexandria, in addition, those imports were arriving from Egypt via Amalfi, Salerno, and other cities in Italy,40 and therefore when the Normans took control of Sicily, Amalfi, Salerno, and other cities in Italy, they preserved these commercial relations. However, the form of these trading relationships does not become clear until the reign of King Roger II. In 1135, Sicilian Norman forces had taken Djerba, a large island off the coast of North Africa (modern-day Tunisia). Djerba was Roger’s first attempt at exerting control in North Africa, c.  1135, part of an ambition to exert 36 

Johns, ‘The Norman Kings’, p. 145. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, vi, pp. 447–52. 38  Hugo Falcandus, History of the Tyrants, p. 57. 39  Yaḥyâ Ibn-Saʿîd al-Anṭâkî or Yahya of Antioch, The History Yahya of Antioch, p. 67. 40  Heyd, History of Trade in the Near East during the Middle Ages, i, pp. 110–15. 37 

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wider control in North Africa. As David Abulafia has observed, one important consequence was that, for the first time, Norman Sicilian power now had an immediate border with the Islamic countries of the Maghreb.41 Given the Caliph’s response to the occupation of the island of Djerba, it seems that the Fatimid Caliph and King Roger agreed to eliminate the threat of piracy in the Mediterranean on the basis of common interests. The conquest of Djerba was the first step for Roger in taking control of cities along the Maghreb coast. To achieve this end, he relied on commercial and good diplomatic relations that existed between the Normans and the Fatimid state in Egypt. His strategy was to attack North Africa with the approval of the Fatimids, much like the occupation of the island of Djerba was approved by the Caliph. This is the first matter addressed in the Caliph’s reply, in the following terms: ‘as for what you had mentioned concerning your conquest of the islands of Djerba and what you explained about its peoples’ aggression and their refraining from good deeds, this could not be overlooked. He who falls in that land deserves to be punished, and he who followed the path of doing well should be safe’.42 As discussed above, in his previous letter, Roger II may have claimed that his conquest was justified on the basis that the island was the base of the pirates in the Mediterranean.43 Furthermore, from such exchanges it appears that Roger was eager to obtain the approval of the Fatimid State for his occupation of the island of Djerba, and that the Caliph claimed some role in securing the safety of the inhabitants of Djerba. Roger II may have used the need for eliminating pirates as a pretext for his conquest of Djerba, presenting it as a base for those who threatened commercial shipping from both Sicily and Egypt. Presumably Roger used this line of argument in his correspondence because it allowed him to make common claims about how both Norman Sicily and the Fatimid Caliphate were concerned with establishing order in the Mediterranean and deterring piracy. The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir (d. 1233) referred to the invasion of the island in 1135 with these words: The island of Djerba, one of the African countries, flourished in its architecture, but the inhabitants had gone so far as not to obey any Sultan [king or governor] and were known as corrupt men and bandits, so a group of Franks from Sicily

41 

Abulafia, ‘The Norman Kingdom of Africa’, pp. 32–33. Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, vi, pp. 447–52. 43  Abulafia, ‘The Norman Kingdom of Africa’, p. 33. 42 

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came in a large fleet that included some famous Frankish knights  […] there was war between the two parties and finally, people of the island were defeated and the Frankish brought it under their control.44

Ibn al-Athir’s observations seem to indicate that Djerba used to enjoy some kind of independence prior to Roger’s conquest. Al-tijani (1306) also mentions that the Zirids attacked Djerba and took control over the island in 1116 because of the revolt against them;45 he also notes that the inhabitants of Djerba used to scare and plunder the ships at the sea.46 It seemed that Ibn al-Athir and Al-tijani agreed with the official position of the Fatimid Caliph, as mentioned in the letter, there was the practice of piracy on the island. The aim of the Norman takeover of Djerba was to control maritime trading between North Africa and Egypt, especially the import of spices and perfumes from Egypt and also linen from Ifrīqiya, which was made into cloth and exported to the east. This trade movement of merchandise between Ifrīqiya and Egypt was mainly done by sea. The Fatimid caliph also saw Sicily as a trading ally in the Mediterranean. Measures were taken to maintain good relations with Sicilian rulers. The crusades had left the Fatimid state economically bruised, and thus receptive to the material benefits that might accompany diplomatic relations with Norman rulers.47 Hence, Sicilian trade assumed even greater significance. Roger appeared to have benefited from gaining a foothold in North Africa that led to trade flourishing between North Africa and Sicily in 1140.48 Norman expansion in the Mediterranean is most commonly explained in terms of the exercise of political and military powers. Much attention has been paid to the ideo­logy and ambitions of Norman kings and their courtiers and commanders. However, from my point of view, economic reasons were 44 

Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi’l -Ta’rikh, xi, p. 32. Abdullah bin Muhammad bin Ahmed Al-Tijani was born in Tunisia between ad 1272 and 1276. Al-Tijani worked in the courts of the Hafsid and Almohad sultans, like Abd alWahid Zakariya ibn al-Lihyani ad 1311–1317. Al-Tijani went out on his journey in December 1306 ad with Abu Zakariya ibn al-Lihyani, heading towards the east to perform the Hajj. Moreover, after reaching Tripoli, Al-Tijani returned to Tunisia in ad 1308 and started to write his journey, which is one of the essential sources in describing North African polities in the eighth century ah (fourteenth century ad). For more information see: Tijani, The Journey of Tijani, and Abun-Nasr, A History of the Maghrib in the Islamic Period, pp. 118–35. 46  Tijani, The Journey of Tijani, pp. 125–26. 47  Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, x, p. 32. 48  Abulafia, ‘The Norman Kingdom’, pp. 26–50. 45 

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paramount in pushing the Normans toward North Africa, and ought not to be overlooked in our explanations. Further in support of this position, we have evidence mentioned by Ibn al-Athir. He suggests that under Roger I that Normans had steered clear of Crusades in the Maghreb (North Africa) for political and economic reasons. Ibn al-Athir observed that in 490H (1097 ad), Baldwin of Boulogne (the future Baldwin I of Jerusalem) had planned to gather numerous soldiers then head towards Sicily, from there to conquer Africa. Roger I, however, seems not to have approved of the plan. Ibn al-Athir reports Roger as saying If they [Baldwin and his army] reached Sicily, then they need financial support. Moreover, if they control Africa, the money we annually collected from the agricultural trade with Africa will not exist anymore. However, if they fail to control Africa, they will return to my country and cause me harm.49

Subsequently, Roger further communicated to Baldwin: ‘if you are willing to fight the Muslims, you would be better to conquer Jerusalem, save it from them and you will achieve glory’.50 We may be sceptical of Ibn al-Athir’s account as a source for Roger I’s crusading policy. Nonetheless it offers us a twelfth-century perceptive of the relationship between Norman Sicily and North Africa, and one in which the maintenance of good trading relations was prioritized over participation in the struggles of Frankish kings or the papacy. Moreover, in Ibn al-Athir’s narrative, Roger I did not want to face any risk or danger that would jeopardize his fleet. It is not unrealistic to suggest Roger I recognized that Sicilian interests did not always align with those of crusaders or the papacy. In Ibn al-Athir’s account, he was apprehensive of Baldwin’s success, which would have eroded Sicily’s exclusive control over trade monopolies. Trade ports would be under the crusaders’ control, once they managed to conquer North Africa and therefore Roger I might have lost some lucrative economic relationships. Ibn al-Athir’s account also suggests that Roger’s own ambition of occupying Africa influenced his decision-making. Ibn al-Athir reports Roger I as saying, ‘Africa is ours, once we find the power to occupy it’.51 Regardless of the truth of this incident, Ibn al-Athir’s observations testify to the economic importance of North Africa to Sicily, and that such policies were seen to date back at least to the time of Roger I. They may also indicate 49 

Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, x, pp. 272–73. Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, x, pp. 272–73. 51  Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, x, pp. 272–73. 50 

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the delicate balance of power in the early twelfth century through the repetition of the story that Roger I planned to conquer North Africa, but did not have enough force to invade Africa. By the time of the reign of King Roger II, the Normans were able to control North Africa. Roger II began occupying the island of Djerba in 1135 and then attacked the coastline and retained control of the most important cities, Tripoli and Mahdia, until 1145. The next para­g raph of the letter is dedicated to praising the Vizier of Roger II. The vizier’s name is not mentioned, and instead the Caliph describes him by a series of titles: the Prince; the supporter of the state; entrusted of the regime; the Pride, Glory, and leadership of the kingdom; the Prince of Princes. These may have been taken from a previous letter, and, likewise, these titles are very similar to the titles held by Muslim rulers in that period.52 The evidence of Al-Maqrīzī suggests the vizier in question is George of Antioch. Al-Maqrīzī refers to George holding the following titles: The Master and Honour of the Kingdom; Pride of Glory; Entrusted of the Regime; Leader of the Armies; Emir of Emirs. George had been Roger’s emir since the late 1120s; in the 1140s he would become one of Roger’s most important military commanders in North Africa and Greece. Before his career in Sicily, George had briefly served at the Zirid court. In the same context, Al-Maqrīzī mentioned that King Roger sent George of Antioch several times to Egypt as ambassador.53 Also, Al-Tijani mentions that Roger’s first emir, Abd al-Rahman (Christodulus) (d. 1131), advised Roger to choose George as his envoy to Egypt. Roger followed his advice and sent George, who returned with royal gifts, winning him a high position in the Norman kingdom.54 Although direct responsibility for these relations may have belonged to George, rather than the king, the Caliph thanks Roger II for the good treatment of Muslims. The Arabic sources describe George as having a great reputation for treating Muslims well. Al-Tijani describes George of Antioch with admiration, noting his praiseworthy behaviour toward Muslims when he took control of Tripoli.55 Al-Maqrīzī added when famine and disorder spread in the Maghreb, a great number of people such as judges, jurists, writers, and poets, migrated to Sicily. George and Roger received them and provided them with all supplies that they needed. Consequently, the island flourished in its trade 52 

Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, pp. 447–52. Al-Maqrīzī, Al-Muqaffâʼ al-kabîr, p. 20. 54  Tijani, The Journey of Tijani, pp. 125–26. 55  Tijani, The Journey of Tijani, pp. 125–26. 53 

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and the ships went to many areas carrying all kinds of goods. Moreover, the kingdom of Roger expanded with George of Antioch’s policy. 56 One of the important themes suggested by this letter is the role of George of Antioch as an intermediary in establishing and representing Norman power in North Africa. This was how the Sicilian emir was remembered in Arabic writing two centuries later. The fourteenth-century Mamluk historian Al-Safadi 57 characterizes George as a brave Christian hero, a resourceful leader, who won all the wars that he engaged in. George’s reputation in the Mediterranean likely encouraged the Caliph to write compliments and to praise him. Additionally, perhaps the Caliph included this para­graph to thank the minister, after answering the issue of the Normans’ control over the island of Djerba, seeing him as a man with whom one could do business and an important conduit to the Norman king. It may further suggest George’s role in planning the campaign in Djerba, or his participation in it. Such a suggestion is reinforced by Ibn alAthir’s comment that the most famous Frankish knights were in the fleet that conquered Djerba.58 In the next para­graphs of the letter, Al-Hafiz releases Norman hostages in the Fatimid state. Not only did he release existing hostages, but he also promised to release any new hostages captured. He wrote ‘as for your thankfulness for the hostages whom Amīr al-muʾminīn ordered to release upon your request, which indicates good intentions and favouring you over the other Christian kings’. This request seems to imply that this was not a new subject of negotiation between the two rulers. Yet the Caliph mentions that he will release any new hostages, which indicates that Roger II again requested the release of any new hostages. In response, King Roger released a royal ship named ‘the Bride’ which had been captured by the Normans in the Mediterranean. As seen in the translation below, it is clear that shipping and impounded ships are a recurring topic in the correspondence between Roger II and the Caliph.59 The Fatimids may have captured King Roger’s ships in response to the capture of their ship named in the letter. Further, it seems that — despite the apparently cordial relations suggested by the tone of the letter — the Normans frequently captured the ships of the 56 

Al-Maqrīzī, Al-Muqaffâʼ al-kabîr, p. 20. For more information see Hitti, review of ‘Ṣalah-al-Dīn Khalīl ibn-Aybak al-Ṣafadi, Kitāb al-Wāfi bi-al-Wafayāt’, pp. 214–15. 58  Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, xi, p. 32. 59  Al-Qalqashandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, pp. 447–52. 57 

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Caliph. Ibn Al-Athir mentioned that in ad 1141–1142 George of Antioch attacked the port of Mahdia and took the ships of Al-Hafiz, which he then sent to Al-Hasan the ruler of Ifrīqiya.60 Around that time, Al-Tijani adds that George took a ship loaded with royal goods, which al-Hasan had prepared to send to al-Hafiz in Egypt.61 The prisoners could be the crew of these ships. Such developments indicate that political bonhomie existed between the two governments and both endeavoured to strengthen the relationship; this para­graph also shows that King Roger enjoyed special treatment in the Fatimid state. This para­g raph also suggests that such ‘political’ requests regarding hostages were closely tied to economic considerations. It speaks of the arrival of a mission to Alexandria, perhaps for commercial purposes, which then travelled to Cairo.62 The Caliph dedicated the next para­g raph to telling Roger what had happened with the Caliph’s Vizier, namely Bahram or (Vahram). Bahram was an Armenian Christian, originally from Aleppo, who had served as al-Hafiz’s vizier since 1130, and remained well-connected to the Armenian Christian community in Egypt. However, his Christian status and his personal attitudes had been a source of discomfort within the polity, resulting in a series of anti-Armenian riots. Bahram had subsequently fled to Syria. At the time of the letter, Al-Hafiz had been attempting to come to an accommodation with Bahram. Bahram’s background and position meant he was a figure well-known to the Franks, and thus his actions were relevant to the Caliph’s relations with Roger.63 In this para­g raph the Caliph also explains the reasons that made him dismiss the Armenian vizier Bahram with the help of Prince Radwan. The Caliph thus offers Roger a narrative of recent political unrest. He writes that Bahram had plotted with his family to seize power, and this matter created hostility between Bahram’s followers and Muslims. Therefore, the Caliph ordered Prince Radwan to lead the army to eliminate Bahram and his army. Indeed, we know that fighting took place between the two parties, and Prince Radwan defeated Bahram, although we see the Caliph at the end of the story told King Roger that he had granted Bahram ‘mercy and forgiveness’.64 Al-Maqrīzī also described the events of the year 1137. His account discusses how opposition to Bahram had been led by Ridwan, one of the most powerful 60 

Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, ix, p. 325. Tijani, The Journey of Tijani, p. 340. 62  Johns, Arabic Administration, p. 261. 63  See further the discussion in the Encylopedia of Islam: Dadoyan, ‘Bahrâm’. 64  Al-Qalqashandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, pp. 447–52. 61 

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commanders in the Fatimid caliphate. Developments are described in the following way: Bahram (Crown of the State) the Vizier of the State escaped. He was a Christian, who advanced the Armenians, as well as isolating and abusing the Muslims. The people of Egypt refused to accept that, especially Ridwan, so when things went so badly, he prepared an army and went to Cairo. Bahram heard that and he left without fighting and went to the city of Aswan, but the governor did not allow Bahram to enter the city, hence they engaged in battle where a lot of the Armenians were killed. Bahram was unable to enter Aswan, after all, and he sent to the Caliph asking for safety, which was granted, so he went to Cairo, and settled near the palace of the Caliph, and Ridwan was the first Egyptian Vizier to hold the title of king.65

It seems that Prince Ridwan had great popularity and power because the nobles of the Fatimid state called him to come to Cairo and rid them of Bahram. Al-Maqrīzī mentioned that the Fatimid princes sent to Ridwan complaining about Bahram, because Ridwan was the most powerful of men in the country and he had many royal titles.66 We can infer that Roger had asked the Caliph to pardon Bahram in a previous letter. It is striking that the episode involving Bahram is explained at such length in the letter. The Caliph assumes that Bahram’s fate and treatment mattered to the Sicilian court, and was not just an internal political matter. Again, as with George of Antioch, we see that Norman influence in North Africa was not just a matter of the direct relationship between king and caliph, but a host of intermediary figures who had relationships with both royal and caliche courts. The fate of Bahram may also have mattered if Roger’s influence in North Africa also extended to claiming the right to intervene in the affairs of the Christian communities there. As we saw from the earlier discussion of Djerba, Roger II was willing to use any disturbance of the peace as a justification for the extension of his authority. Al-Maqrīzī gives us more detailed information about Bahram, mentioning that On 26 March 1135, Bahram the Armenian became a Vizier, although he was a Christian. He took the title of the Sword of Islam and Bahram released a noble Frankish prisoner. The people rejected this, and, as a consequence, they complained to the Caliph.

65  66 

Al-Maqrīzī, Itti‘âz al-Ḥunafâ’, iii, p. 156. Al-Maqrīzī, Itti‘âz al-Ḥunafâ’, iii, p. 156.

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The letter confirms that the captives were released with the approval of the Caliph, but this perhaps a proof that the captives were freed with the participation of Bahram.67 Jeremy Johns has suggested that there was a connection between the prisoners and Bahram, and that he also played a key role in shaping the friendship between King Roger and the Caliph.68 In this late period of the Fatimid Caliphate, the Vizier enjoyed considerable power.69 Al-Maqrīzī goes as far as mentioning a correspondence between Bahram and Roger.70 Thus, the fall of Bahram could mean losing an important ally, especially concerning preserving the policy of agreement between Cairo and Palermo in the Mediterranean and North Africa. After Roger had gained control of Djerba in 1135, perhaps Bahram was the patron of the continuation of Norman gains.71 Al-Maqrīzī added that, before his fall from power, Bahram had sent Prince Ridwan far from Cairo and brought more Armenians to Egypt, with some of those Armenians building a church in front of their houses. Many churches were built during Bahram’s rule.72 The Christian figures occupying high positions in the Fatimid state must have been of interest to Roger II, for strategic reasons if not theo­logical ones. Consequently, the control of Prince Ridwan, whose policy of excluding Christian elements,73 was a change in the policy of the Fatimid Caliph with Christian states.74 After the Caliph explained Bahram’s status in the letter, he moved to talk about another issue, which was a translation error that occurred in a previous letter. The Caliph mentioned that the Norman writer (of Roger’s letter) had apo­logized for any misinterpretation and confusion in meaning after the translation from one language into another.75 The Caliph accepted the apo­logy, viewing it as the mistake of an inattentive scribe.76

67 

Al-Maqrīzī, Itti‘âz al-Ḥunafâ’, iii, p. 156. Johns, Arabic Administration, pp. 261–64. 69  Al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, pp. 75–77. 70  Al-Maqrīzī, Itti‘âz al-Ḥunafâ’, iii, p. 156. 71  Johns, Arabic Administration, p. 263. 72  Al-Maqrīzī, Itti‘âz al-Ḥunafâ’, iii, p. 157. 73  Al-Imad, The Fatimid Vizierate, p. 193. 74  Johns, Arabic Administration, p. 263. 75  Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, pp. 447–52. 76  Al-Qalqshandi, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, pp. 447–52. 68 

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It appears that Roger II did not use Arabic in preparing his correspondence with the Caliph but used Greek or Latin, with the royal message subsequently being translated into Arabic. Jeremy Johns states that the Norman writer was dissatisfied with the Greek or Latin words translated into Arabic. In the same context, Canard indicates that the error in translation perhaps occurred in one of Roger’s titles that was found in a previous letter.77 The detail is a small but revealing one, as it suggests the obstacles to communication across the Mediterranean in this period. It also attests to the extent to which both Roger and Al-Hafiz were dependent on other, intermediary figures, to convey their meaning and for the continuing conduct of diplomatic relations — even between courts which were disposed to be friendly towards one another. That same theme is seen in the final para­graph, which also concerns how a ruler’s goodwill might be translated and conveyed between courts and across linguistic and physical distance. This last para­graph implies the exchange of gifts between the rulers. In the letter, the Caliph mentions that gifts [‘a masterpiece and a gift’] from King Roger had arrived and been received by the official in charge of the Caliph’s treasury, who had also confirmed that the items received matched the items described in the list attached to Roger’s letter. This list of gifts has not survived, so we do not know anything about these gifts beyond this brief mention in the letter. It is worth noting that textiles (such as silk and linen), precious stones, perfume, incense, silver, and gold were all commonly exchanged as gifts between the kings of Constantinople, China, and India with caliphs in the Umayyad, Abbasid, Fatimid, and other Muslim states. One suggestion of the sort of gifts that might have been valued is found in the work of Ibn al-Zubayr, who in ad 973 described the treasuries of Ubadah bin al-Mu’izz. Those treasuries contained thirty thousand pieces of linen cloth imported from Sicily. The possession of these textiles by the princesses of the Fatimid house may indicate that this kind of textile was a common gift that was exchanged between the two courts.78 The importance of these relations between the Caliph and Roger II can be further gauged from the fact that an important official, Abu Mansur Jafar alHafizi, was deputized as a messenger to the Norman court. The Caliph also indicates that the reason for choosing Prince Abu Mansur Jafar was the good

77  78 

Johns, Arabic Administration, p. 264, and Canard, ‘Une lettre’, p. 144. Ibn al-Zubayr, Ordnance and Antiques, p. 242.

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relationship between the Prince and King Roger and their mutual trust for each other.79 No other correspondence between the Norman Sicilian and Fatimid court survives. However, it seems that their commercial relations continued to the end of the Fatimid state in Egypt in 1175, long after the death of King Roger II. This is confirmed by the traveller Benjamin of Tudela, who had visited Egypt between 1165 and 1173, and who observed that merchants from Christian kingdoms such as Sicily, Amalfi, and Venice traded in Alexandria, and each of them stayed in their own hotel.80 The Fatimids were succeeded by the Ayyubids; their relationship with the Normans was described by Ibn Al-Athir as aggressive. Salah al-Din Ayubi’s declaration of the fall of the Fatimid caliphate in Egypt, and the return of Egypt to the Abbasid Caliphate marked the end of the commercial interests which had tied Norman Sicily to the Fatimids.81 While other sources mention that the Normans had trade treaties signed in ad 1173–1174 between the Ayyubid sultan and Sicily’s merchants, this treaty specified that Sicilian merchants would pay ten per cent in taxes.82 Meanwhile Pisa enjoyed exemption from these taxes in another treaty that they signed in ad 1173.83 The Normans had previously enjoyed exemption from these taxes under the Fatimids. Dissatisfaction with these new terms may lie behind their attack on Egypt in 1175. The Normans changed their approach to North Africa, if not their ambitions: they were on the lookout for an opportunity to attack the Ayyubids, which resulted in the unsuccessful attack on Alexandria in 1175. Interestingly, the Normans were guided by equations of power and economic compulsions to participate in the expeditions to Damietta. They wanted to lessen the impact of the Ayyubid’s power, which was important for consistent and good commercial relations with the Fatimids in Egypt. This attack is discussed by Ibn Al-Athir: In this Hijri year five hundred and seventy of Muharram month [corresponding to August 1174–1175 ad], the people of Alexandria took over the Sicilian fleet. This happened because the Egyptians had sent to the king of Sicily asking him to come to Egypt to help them against Salah Al-Din to draw him away from it. Therefore, the 79 

Abulafia, ‘The Norman Kingdom’, p. 146. Binyamin Al-tatili, Riḥlat Binyāmīn, pp. 178–79. 81  Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, xi, p. 412. 82  Al-Makhzumi, Kitab al-minhag fi ‘ilm harag Misr, p. 104. 83  Heyd, Histoire du commerce, ii, p. 47. 80 

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king prepared a large fleet of two hundred boats carrying men, thirty-six cruisers carrying horses, six boats carrying war machines and forty boats carrying supplies. The fleet carried fifty-thousand men, one thousand and five hundred knights […]. The people of Alexandria resisted the Norman fleet that sieged the city and they bravely fought against the Normans. Moreover, they sent to Salah Al-Din calling him to fight the Normans with them. The Alexandria people’s efforts succeeded to beat the Norman fleet with the help of Salah Al-Din’s soldiers.84

Ibn Al-Athir and Al-Nuwayri said that the Fatimids contacted the Normans of Sicily to come to Egypt to help them so that the Fatimid state would again rule Egypt.85 In the same context, Ibn Al-Athir says that the King of Sicily responded to the Fatimid request, however, the Frankish forces in the Levant coast did not.86 At this point, we see how important Egypt was to the Normans of Sicily. If we take these claims into account, the first question that comes to mind is what benefits the Normans hoped to obtain from any agreement with the Fatimids? One possible answer is that the economic and commercial relationship must have been very strong. The Normans enjoyed commercial facilities in the Fatimid state, and they wanted to preserve them. In short, these observations suggested that the Norman attack on Alexandria was in response to Fatimid requests for assistance, rather than a Norman desire to expand their influence. In conclusion, the letter is an important piece of evidence showing a sustained correspondence between the Fatimid Caliphate and Roger II. Each ruler was kept informed about the political situation beyond their own country. It demonstrates the extent of political connection between the two courts — to the extent that the Fatimid Caliph found it necessary to keep Roger II wellinformed about political disputes within Egypt. Indeed, because of the complex relationship between Egypt, Sicily, and the lands of the Levant, events in Egypt necessarily influenced the politics of Sicily (and vice-versa). The correspondence also attests to the details of how diplomatic relations were conducted and maintained: relations were reliant on translators and demonstrations of goodwill through both the giving of gifts and the freeing of hostages. The Fatimids did not lift a finger against the Norman invasion along the African coast. Instead, they supported the Norman invasions, as is clear from 84 

Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, xi, p. 412. Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, xi, p. 399, and Al-Nuwayri, Shihab Al-Din Ahmad, pp. 392–93. 86  Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Ai-Tarikh, xi, p. 399. 85 

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the support extended by the Fatimid Caliph, Al-Hafiz, during the Norman takeover of Djerba in ad 1135. Their involvement in the war could have also dictated the policy of the Fatimid states against crusaders in the east and their ambition to maintain a cordial relation with the Normans to access navigational freedom along the Mediterranean. Thus, personal and financial interests took precedence over political relations and religious ties.

Appendix: Translation Al-Hafiz l-Din Allah’s letter to the King of Sicily, Roger II From the Servant of God and his followers, Abdul Majid Abe Maymoun, Imam Al-Hafiz l-Din Allah, Amīr al-muʾminīn, to the king in Sicily, Ankara (Lombardy), Antalya (Italy), Calabria, Sterlo (Salerno), Malaf (Amalfi), and further lands beyond these, may God grant him success in his purposes, and guide him to serve by obeying Allah (God) in his sources and resources. Peace be upon the one who followed the guidance, Praise be to God who has no God but He, and Amīr al-muʾminīn, asking you to pray on his grandfather Muhammad, the Seal of the Prophets, Peace be upon him and his pure family. And now, after saying that, you should know that your letter has been presented in the presence of Amīr al-muʾminīn, as well as read thoroughly, and briefing took place on its details and the reply is comprehensive. As for what you (Roger II) opened [your previous letter] with praising God Almighty for his grace, and broadening your words about what God has bestowed upon you of His goodness and generosity, therefore the gifts of God Almighty made the succession of them a test of thanksgiving of the servant and God knows that which deceives the eyes and what the breasts conceal, as God Almighty said [Their hearts has Allah tested for piety: for them is Forgiveness and a Great Reward].87 God Almighty gives such reward to each of his servants according to his stature with him, and he gives the pure in heart more fully than what they had hoped for. Moreover, God Almighty bestows the Commander of the Faithful, and his fathers, the rightly-guided imams, and gave them this world and then gave them the hereafter. 87 

Surat Al-Hujraa [The Rooms], Verse 3.

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As for what you mentioned concerning your conquest of the islands of Djerba, and what you were explained about its peoples’ aggression and their refraining from good deeds, this could not be overlooked. He who falls in that land [Djerba] deserves to be punished, and he who followed the path of doing well should be safe. As for Your compliments for your Vizier, the Prince, the supporter of the state, entrusted of the regime, the Pride, Glory, and leadership of the kingdom, the Prince of Princes, who is a credit to your kingship, stem from your own great manners, so it is not surprising that he attains his ambitions, And he has to make his heart a retreat for counsel. And regarding my ship, ‘The Bride’, has arrived, in addition to taking care of it and protecting it and returning what was taken before, you learned it belongs to the Caliph’s Diwan, such an action is worthy to be accredited to you and shows that your companions know your will. In addition, Amīr al-muʾminīn issued decrees to tolerate your and your minister’s ships for what was required of the Diwan, as well as the two envoys who arrived at Alexandria, then to Egypt [Cairo], may God Almighty protect them. As for your thankfulness for the prisoners whom Amīr al-muʾminīn ordered to be released upon your [Roger’s] request, in addition Amīr al-mu ʾ minīn decrees their direction to you in keeping with your desire, know that Amīr al-muʾminīn freed them on behalf of your intercession, which indicates good intentions and our favouring you above other Christian kings. Considering your request now to release any new captive, Amīr al-muʾminīn granted you (King Roger) that request as from his generous nature, also Amīr al-muʾminīn sends to you with your envoy evidence for that. You (King Roger) know about Bahram’s arrival to the Fatimid caliphate, homeless and deranged after he was banished from his country with no money or men. Amīr al-muʾminīn accepted him in the best way and indulged him with my blessings, but he betrayed my blessing and called together his people, using secret messages in the Armenian language, and they gathered themselves together one by one until they became twenty thousand knights including his nephew and others from his family. Furthermore, the policy of Bahram and his family led to a disorder of conditions and the disruption of affairs, so the Mansoura soldiers resented this, and refused to be patient, though this was not their custom. When Amīr al-muʾminīn saw the circumstances became more difficult, and I [Amīr al-muʾminīn] was certain that neglecting such a situation would become difficult to remedy or avoid. So I [Amīr al-muʾminīn] sent to the best Master and explained my fears while he was the governor of al-Gharbıya (the western part),

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so he gathered the people and gave them a speech and exhorted them. After that, they mustered together to fight Bahram and his men. However, Bahram felt that he had no chances of winning so flew away, and the ministry was given to the best Master, so peace has prevailed again, and the country has been blessed with prosperity and goodness. And the best Master sent his soldiers after Bahram, so the latter sent to the Caliph asked for forgiveness and he was granted mercy and forgiveness. Concerning the apo­logies of the writer for any misinterpretation and confusion in the meaning after the translation from one language into another, especially if there is a word in a language that does not exist in another language, the Caliph said that was inattention and he accepts the apo­logy of your writer. As for what you sent to the treasuries of Amīr al-muʾminīn, namely, a masterpiece and a gift, this arrived safely and each type was received, by he who is in charge of Amīr al-muʾminīn’s treasury, after making sure the items match in the list attached to your letter. Amīr al-muʾminīn sends to you one of the princes of the state, the trustworthy prince, victorious, the elect, the glory of the caliphate, the crown of the glorified, the pride of the king, the loyal and courageous of the state, Abu Mansur Jaafara al-Hafizi, an envoy with this letter; and Amīr al-muʾminīn is waiting for your letters that contain your good news and would like you to know that he trusts their content. Know this and act upon it, God willing.

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Works Cited Primary Sources Al-Maqrīzī, Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn ‘Alī, al-Muqaffāʼ al-kabīr, ed. by Mohammed Yalaoui, The Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs — Committee for the Revival of Islamic Heritage, 3 vols (Beirut: Dar Al-gharb Al-isalami, 1991) —— , Itti‘āz al-Ḥunafā’ bi-Akhbār al-A’immah al-Fāṭimīyīn al-Khulafā’, ed. by Mohamed Helmy Ahmed, The Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs — Committee for the Revival of Islamic Heritage, 3 vols (Beirut: Dar Al-gharb Al-isalami, 1996) Al-Makhzumi, ‘Ali Ibn ‘Uthman, Abu al-Hasan, Kitab al-minhag fi ‘ilm harag Misr, ed. by Claude Cahen and Yūsuf Rāgib (Cairo: Institut français d’Archéo­logie Orientale du Caire, 1986) Al-Qabbadiani, Abū Muʿīn Nāṣir b. Khusraw, Safarnameh, trans. by Yahya al-Khashab, i (Beirut: Dar al-Kitab al-Jadid, 1983) Al-Qalqshandi, Abu Al-Abbas Ahmad, Subh Al-Aasha Fi Sina’at Al-Insha, ed.  by Muhammad Husayn Shams Al-Din, vi (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-ʻIlmīyah, 1987) Binyamin Al-tatili, Riḥlat Binyāmīn, trans. by Ezra H. Hadad (Bagdad: Eastern Press, 1945) Hugo Falcandus, The History of the Tyrants of Sicily, trans. by Graham  A. Loud (Man­ chester: Manchester University Press, 1998). Ibn Al-Athir, Al-Kamil Fi Al-Tarikh, ed.  by M.  Josef, 12  vols, 4th  edn (Beirut: Dār alKutub al-ʻIlmīyah, 1978) Muhammad Ibn Ahmad Ibn Jubayr, The Journey of Ibn Jubayr (Beirut: Dar Sader, 1964) Tijani, The Journey of Tijani, ed. by Hassan Hosni Abdel-Wahhab (Tunisia: Arab Book House, 1981) Yaḥyā Ibn-Saʿīd al-Anṭākī or Yahya of Antioch, The History Yahya of Antioch, ed. by Omar A. Al-Tadmari (Tripoli, Lebanon: Jarrūs Bris, 1990)

Secondary Studies Abulafia, David, The Two Italies: Economic Relations between the Kingdom of Sicily and the Northern Communes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977) —— , ‘The Crown and the Economy under Roger II and His Successors’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 37 (1983), 1–14 —— , ‘The Norman Kingdom of Africa and the Norman Expeditions to Majorca and the Muslim Mediterranean’, in Proceedings of the Battle Conference, 1984, ed. by R. Allen Brown, Anglo-Norman Studies, 7 (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1985), pp. 27–49 Britt, Karen C., ‘Roger II of Sicily Rex, Basileus, and Khalif ? Identity, Politics, and Propa­ ganda in the Cappella Palatina’, Mediterranean Studies, 16 (2007), 21–45 Brown, Gordon S., The Norman Conquest of Southern Italy and Sicily (London: McFarland, 2003)

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Canard, Marius, ‘Une lettre du calife Fatimide al-Hafiz (524–544/1130–1149) a Roger II’, Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi Ruggeriani, i (Palermo: Società Sici­liana di Storia Patria, 1955), pp. 125–46 Dadoyan, Seta B., ‘Bahrâm’, in Encyclopedia of Islam, iii, ed.  by Kate Fleet, Gudrun Krämer, Denis Matringe, John Nawas, and Devin J. Stewart [accessed 10 April 2021] Esposito, John L., The Oxford Dictionary of Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004) Goitein, Shelomo Dov, ‘Mediterranean Trade in the Eleventh Century: Some Facts and Problems’, in Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East from the Rise of the Islam to the Present Day, ed. by Michael A. Cook (London: Oxford University Press, 1970), pp. 51–63 Davis, John Paul, The Gothic King: A Bio­graphy of Henry III (London: Owen, 2013) Gravett, Christopher, and David Nicolle, The Normans (Oxford: Osprey, 2006) Gully, Adrian, The Culture of Letter-Writing in Pre-Modern Islamic Society (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008) Heyd, Wilhelm, History of Trade in the Near East during the Middle Ages, trans. by Ahamed Redah, 4 vols (Cairo: Egyptian General Book Authority, 1985) Hitti, Philip K., review of ‘Ṣalah-al-Dīn Khalīl ibn-Aybak al-Ṣafadi, Kitāb al-Wāfi bi-alWafayāt, ed. by Hellmut Ritter’, Journal of the American Oriental Society, 54.2 (1934), 214–15 al-Imad, Leila S., The Fatimid Vizierate 969–1172 (Berlin: Schwarz, 1990) Johns, Jeremy, ‘Malik Ifriqiya: The Norman Kingdom of Africa and the Fatimids’, Libyan Studies, 18 (1987), 89–101 —— , ‘The Norman Kings of Sicily and the Fatimid Caliphate’, Anglo-Norman Studies, 15 (1993), 133–58 —— , Arabic Administration in Norman Sicily: The Royal Diwan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002) —— , ‘Arabic Sources for Sicily’, in Byzantines and Crusaders in Non-Greek Sources, 1025–1204, ed. by M. Whitby (London: British Academy Press, 2007), pp. 342–60 —— , ‘Arabic Inscriptions in the Cappella Palatina: Performativity, Audience, Legibility and Illegibility,’ in Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medi­eval World, ed. by Antony Eastmond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 124–47 Loud, Graham  A., Roger  II and the Creation of the Kingdom of Sicily (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012) Metcalfe, Alex, ‘The Muslims of Sicily under Christian Rule’, in The Society of Norman Italy, ed.  by Graham  A. Loud and Alex Metcalfe, The Medi­eval Mediterranean, 38 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 289–317 —— , Muslims and Christians in Norman Sicily: Arabic Speakers and the End of Islam (London: Routledge, 2003) Norwich, John Julius, The Kingdom in the Sun 1130–1194 (Harlow: Longman, 1967) Picard, Christophe, Sea of the Caliphs: The Mediterranean in the Medi­eval Islamic World, trans. by Nicholas Elliott (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2018)

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Qutbuddin, Tahera, ‘Part  I: Prehistory to 1400, Fatimids’, in Cultural Socio­logy of the Middle East, Africa, and Asia: Volume 2, Africa, ed. by Edward Ramsamy (Thousand Oaks, CA: SAGE, 2012) Setton, Kenneth M., ‘The Later Crusades’, in A History of the Crusades, ed.  by Robert Lee Wolff and Harry Hazard (Milwaukee, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1969), pp. 3–45 Smith, Denis Mack, A History of Sicily: Medi­eval Sicily, 800–1713 (London: Chatto & Windus, 1968) Vernon, Clare, ‘Dressing for Succession in Norman Italy: The Mantle of King Roger II’, Al-Masāq: Journal of the Medi­eval Mediterranean, 30 (2018), 95–110

7. ‘Northmen’ and Rus in Light of Numismatic Evidence Alexandra Vukovich

T

he formation of Rus as a precursor to the rise of distinct nation-states in northern Eurasia has been a narrative mainstay of magisterial regional histories stretching into the modern period. The shaping of medi­eval history to determine modern identity began most explicitly with the Normanist and Anti-Normanist debate over the origins of the Russian people.1 The autumn of 1749 and the spring of 1750 witnessed the first extensive academic debate on the history of Rus/Russia during the twenty-one sessions of the Conference of the Imperial Academy of Sciences: polemics dealt with the role played by the Varangians (Northmen/Norsemen or Vikings) in the early history of Rus, and focused on the origins of the name ‘Russia’ and its state formation. This debate had been provoked by the official historio­grapher of the Imperial Academy of Sciences, the ethno­grapher Gerhard Friedrich Müller, who presented a talk based on his dissertation Origines gentis et nominis Russorum.2 In his thesis, 1 

On this question, see: Plokhy, Origins of the Slavic Nations, pp. 134–53. The study of ethno­graphy arose in Russia out of its eastward expansion into Siberia and beyond, during which a Volker Beschreibung was commissioned. The description of Siberia’s ‘peoples and languages’ by D. G. Messerschmidt following the First Kamchatka Expedition of 1724–1730 was a first step in mapping the peoples of the empire and articulating difference. 2 

Alexandra Vukovich ([email protected]) is Lecturer in Late Medi­

eval History at King’s College London. Her research focuses on the written and material culture of Byzantium, the Balkans, and Northern Eurasia in the middle to late medi­eval period. Abstract: This chapter explores the different pathways across Rus and the range of opportunities presented by the territory of Rus, connected to the Mediterranean via the Black Sea, the Eurasian Steppe, and Central Asia via river routes, and the European North via land and sea routes. Although the stories of these early settlers of Rus are mostly lost to us, the numismatic evidence speaks to both competition and cooperation between groups seeking to establish dominance over trade routes across Rus. Coin finds and coin production along the Rus river routes speak to a diverse set of peoples and a Rus of regions rather than a coherent, centralized state system. Keywords: Early Rus, Black Sea, Eurasia, Coins, Silver

Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 187–210 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134146

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Müller presented the main elements of what came to be known as the ‘Norman Theory’. He claimed that the Slavs had not settled the Dnipro region until the reign of the Byzantine emperor Justinian and that the Rus rulers were of Scandinavian origin (from Norway) and had conquered the Slavs. The thesis was immediately challenged by different factions within the Academy, including the Russian polymath and academician, Mikhail Lomonosov, who presented an alternative view of the origins of Rus, to prove that the Varangians/ Northmen were, indeed, ‘Slavs’.3 Although these terms have been queried, and the historio­graphic and ideo­logical contours of the very concept of ‘ethnogenesis’ problematized and found wanting, terms such as ‘Slavs’, ‘Varangians’, and ‘the Rus’, continue to function as a catch-all to denote alterity between the inhabitants of the territory known as ‘Rus’ and neighbouring regions.4 Serhii Plokhy’s comprehensive and critical work, The Origins of the Slavic Nations, takes a transhistorical approach to the question of the ethnic and national genesis of Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus from the tenth to the mideighteenth century. Plokhy positions his project as a ‘modernist’ one that rejects the ‘primordialist’ or ethno-essentialist view that sought to embed ethnicities in the medi­eval period.5 Plokhy notes that other types of identity existed (perhaps around religion, family, or clan) but that these relational modes of groupness do not mean that ‘ethnonational identity did not exist before that period or did not contribute significantly to the formation of collective and individual

It was when the largely German and Prussian scholars hired by the Imperial Academy of Sciences began exploring the ethnogenesis of Western Russians (implying the elite) that the methods of state enterprise of ethno­graphy were questioned. See Mogilner, Homo Imperii, pp. 17–20 for an overview; Vermeulin, Before Boas. 3  Plokhy, Lost Kingdom, pp. 75–77. 4  For example, in a recent work by Cat Jarman (River Kings, pp. 199, 219, or 247). For a discussion and critique of ethnogenesis and ethnonyms, see: Tolochko, ‘The Primary Chronicle’s “Ethno­graphy” Revisited’; Curta, ‘Approaches to the Archaeo­logy’; Petrukhin, “‘Etnichnost” v drevnei Rusi’, pp. 190–94. 5  For a critique of the ‘modernist’ position see: Ilya Afanasyev and Mike Haynes, ‘Mike Haynes and Ilya Afanasyev Discuss the Problems of Understanding “National” Identity in PreCapitalist Europe’. Afanasyev writes: ‘…this kind of modernist critique of national narratives doesn’t go far enough. Even if there is one “name”, what does it prove really? Nothing but the fact that subsequent state systems successfully reproduced a certain hegemonic nomenclature. The continuity of a name should not be taken as a proof of the country’s continuous existence in the first place — this leads straight into methodo­logical nationalism, just with a shorter projected history of a given nation.’

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self-consciousness in premodern societies.’6 Of course, that which does not fit into the national(izing) paradigm — namely, Steppe nomadic groups or composite semi-nomadic groupings — make their way into the story of Rus with difficulty. It is this modernist-inflected unwillingness to think beyond a nationally-circumscribed methodo­logy for the premodern period that has framed our understanding of the role of the ‘Normans’ (the Viking diaspora) in Rus in the first recorded period of development and sedentarization of nomadic and seminomadic groups around the centres of Novgorod or Kiev. New evidence has expanded the borders of the Norman world and that of the Viking diaspora(s) to include Rus and the Eurasian steppe. The system of trade networks, represented by goods (dirhams, small objects, silk) found in the northern world, suggests that Rus was both a node (or series of nodes) and a focal point traversed and settled by the Viking diaspora (and others). Recent research by scholars of Viking and medi­e val Scandinavia, Rus, and Northern Eurasia has re-established this long disputed and ideo­logically charged link. A multi-nodal approach to the space of Rus makes salient the layers of evidence that both support attaching Rus to the wider Norman-Viking world, while querying the descriptive veracity of this attribution, especially its epistemo­logical and geo­graphic boundaries.7 In this respect, the Steppe zone and Central Asia are both part of the wider world of Rus (and the Viking world beyond that), just as the Viking diaspora became integrated into the dynamic Central Asian and Eurasian networks of trade and exchange. Beyond the maritime dimension of trade across northern Europe, the so-called Viking World encompassed a much broader trans-Eurasian trade, in which Rus formed both an economic node via its river systems and, later on, fortified towns, and a platform for intercultural exchange and transformation. The transformative dimension of transEurasian encounters (including Scandinavia and northern Europe) included both the persistence and sedenterization of semi-nomadic and nomadic social groups (such as the Polovtsi or so-called ‘Black Caps’),8 a political culture char6 

Plokhy, Origins, p. 7. For an incisive discussion of ethnic boundary-making and the study of Rus, see: Hraundal, ‘Integration and Disintegration’, especially pp. 279–81. 8  On the significance of the Chernye Klobuki (Black Caps) as a semi-nomadic part of Rus society, see: Taidi, Soiuz Chernykh Klobukov, pp. 87–120. Linguistically Turkic nomadic groups like the Polovtsi were a constitutive part of Rus society. Their alterity results from a Slavo-centric reading of Rus history, articulated by historians interpreting the ethno-patriarchal focus on the princely elite in the chronicles of Rus as constitutive of Rus society as a whole, see: Litvina and Uspenskij, ‘Russo-Polovtsian Dynastic Contacts’. 7 

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Figure 7.1. Map of Europe at the beginning of the Viking age (first half of the ninth century) – Early Rus. © Marika Mägi, reproduced with permission.

acterized by a mixed symbolic landscape (for example, on early princely coins),9 and the development of mixed political structures and conventions.10 Moving beyond the paradigm of Rus as a single political, social, and cultural entity, from its earliest period, allows us to imagine political and social formations 9  The mixed cultural significance of the earliest coins of Rus has been explored by Androshchuk, Images of Power. Androshchuk demonstrates the conscious symbolic transformation of self-representation both by the princes of early Rus, and the wider local transformations that occurred following a commercial-military arc that brought merchants and mercenaries from northern Europe to the Black Sea, Mediterranean basin, the Near East, and the Caucasus (pp. 106–21). The tamga or trident-shaped symbol of the princes of Rus is one example of the transformation of symbols in a trans-Eurasian context, see: Fetisov, ‘“Znak Riurikovichei”’; Voroniatov, ‘Connections between Central Asia and the Northern Littoral’. 10  The historical anthropo­logist, Aleksandr Koptev, has highlighted some of these northern Eurasian exchanges in the composite tales of early Rus chronicle entries, for example: ‘The Story of “Chazar Tribute”’. The built landscape of Rus, its structures and spatial organization, reflects a diversity of influences and local idioms, see: Hedenstierna-Jonson, ‘Rus’, Varangians and Birka Warriors’.

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that resist the state form and, beyond that, the further circumscribed centralized nation-state form. This contribution evaluates political and social formation across Rus via the Viking-era trade zones that brought objects, people, and ideas into contact across a northern Eurasian trade arc, avoiding the hegemonic alterity of ‘Norman/Northman’, ‘Viking’, and ‘Slav’, to highlight the spontaneous groupings that resulted from dynamic and rapid trade across this as yet un-bordered zone. In the tenth century, Rus was beginning to emerge (Fig. 7.1), both as a place and as a series of places that diverse groups of people traversed and settled. This diversity of ‘peoples, routes, and hazards’11 is often difficult to discern from extant sources. Textual sources describe Rus in multiple ways, as a ‘land of darkness’,12 as the ‘eastern way’,13 as the land of the Scythians,14 while local textual production exists at a temporal and cultural distance from the earliest period it describes.15 The material culture of early Rus offers a different point of entry into the story of the formation of Rus in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Trade and travel left an imprint and grave goods, hoards, the built landscape, and the variety of objects and icono­graphies dating from this period situate Rus as a trade hub.16 Aside from the depositing of objects of foreign manufacture, traces of locally-produced goods reflect the elaboration of a symbolic landscape that merged a variety of influences acting on Rus in this period. The principal 11 

Shepard, ‘Rus’’, p. 369. Martin, Treasure of the Land of Darkness, pp. 14–19; and on early trade contacts with the Islamic world, see Montgomery, ‘Ibn Faḍlân and the Rûsiyyah’. 13  Marika Mägi, building on research by scholars working on the Baltics in the medi­e val period, has shown how the Eastern Way/Austrvegr provided access to Gardariki, the area that led the Vikings to Rus, Constantinople, and the Arab world beyond, see: Mägi, In Austrvegr, pp. 34–35; Mägi, The Viking Eastern Baltic, pp. 16–17. 14  On Byzantine categories for Rus, see: Carile, ‘Byzantine Political Ideo­logy’; and for examples, see: Androshchuk, ‘Byzantine Imperial Seals in Southern Rus’’, p. 51. However, this naming system also applied to groups from the wider Steppe, including Turkic peoples, see: Shukurov, The Byzantine Turks, pp. 11–13. 15  For an analysis of early Rus focusing on material culture, see: Tolochko, Ocherki Nachal’noi Rusi, pp. 21–29. 16  The major study of Rus as a trade hub is Nazarenko, Drevniaia Rus’ na mezhdunarodnykh putiakh. Numerous studies by Fedir Androshchuk have shown the variety of trade contacts, settlement patterns, and military activity between Scandinavia and Rus, see: Vikings in the East, pp. 11–16. The study of grave goods has also demonstrated a variety of provenances for small objects and textiles, including the Baltics, Byzantium, and Central Asia, see: Stepanova, Burial, pp. 30–31. 12 

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Figure 7.2. The Descendants of Vladimir Sviatoslavich. © Alexandra Vukovich.

objects that attest to the intensity of exchange are coins, which began to be produced in Rus in the late tenth century.17 Although coins and coinage does not itself reflect a monetary economy, the appearance of coins from the Abbasid Caliphate and the Byzantine Empire inter alia, as well as the advent of coin production in Rus, provides insight into not only the economic, but also the political and cultural transformations that gave rise to Rus (as reflected in its chronicles) in the tenth and eleventh centuries. In Rus, two types of coinage appear in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, Byzantine imitative coins with personalized and attributable princely symbols and Byzantine imitation coins devoid of any local characteristics. 18 17  Scholarship on the coinage of Rus has expanded with recent studies by Fedir Androshchuk, Oleksii Komar, and Roman Kovalev. However, for a general catalogue of early Rus coins, see Sotnikova and Spasskii, Tysiacheletie drevneishikh monet Rossii. In addition to nineteenthand early twentieth-century catalogues of medi­e val coins of Rus, this is the main catalogue containing images of a large amount of the numismatic material from Rus for this period, along with analysis by the authors. Sotnikova reissued the catalogue in 1995 with no major amendments that affect this study, see: Sotnikova, Drevneishie Russkie monety. 18  This form of appropriation and transformation would be replicated both by many emergent groups that recuperated Byzantine territories, such as the Umayyads, as well as those that became part of the Byzantine cultural sphere (such as Rus). Furthermore, this process would continue well into the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, spanning the Mediterranean basin, North and East Africa, Northern Europe, to the Middle East. For example, see: Bates, ‘Byzantine Coinage and its Imitations’; Hahn, ‘Aksumite Numismatics’, pp. 286–88.

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Coins attributable to an emergent state power were initially minted during the reigns of Vladimir Sviatoslavich (d. 1015), Sviatopolk Vladimirich (d. 1019), and Iaroslav Vladimirich (d.  1054) in Kiev and Novgorod (Fig.  7.2). The commonality between these coins and those produced and hoarded in the south of Rus, in Tmutarakan on the Taman Peninsula, is the replication of Byzantine imperial insignia. However, while the coins attributed to and found around Kiev and Novgorod feature references to local customs of rule, those from the south of Rus are almost exact replicas of the Byzantine original.19 Although some scholars have attempted to connect the coins of Tmutarakan to Constantine-Mstislav, Prince of Chernigov (d. c. 1035), this coin production is probably the result of another dynamic, one that reflects the concentration of mercenaries, merchants, and adventurers (from Scandinavia, Rus, and beyond) who sought economic and other opportunities across the Eurasian Steppe and Mediterranean basin.20 Most notably, the coins of Tmutarakan copy Byzantine silver miliaresia, depicting Byzantine imperial figures and religious symbols without a legible written legend. Given the association of silver with mercenaries,21 these coins synthesize the networks of trade and travel across Eurasia and the role of non-imperial actors — those who were neither part of the princely elite of Rus nor that of the Byzantine Empire — in (re)producing and disseminating Byzantine imperial imagery. The Byzantine imitation coinage of Tmutarakan reflects a history in which state-systems are not immediately relevant in the (re)production of imperial imagery. Before the full emergence of the Rus polities, coinages were produced (or reproduced) in non-coin-producing areas and by actors caught in the thrall of their symbolic and, to a lesser extent, material function.22 The position of Rus 19 

The coins of Vladimir Sviatoslavich and Sviatopolk Vladimirich associated recognizable Byzantine symbols with those of local consequence: the Riurikid emblem, the prince seated on his throne, and descriptive Slavonic legends. For the latest study of the icono­graphic features of Rus coins, see: Androshchuk, Images of Power, pp. 57–74. On the local ritual significance of the Rus coins, see: Vukovich, ‘Enthronement in Early Rus’, pp. 224–25. 20  For an assessment, see: Androshchuk, Images of Power, pp. 74–89. 21  See Cécile Morrisson’s assessment of Byzantine silver coinage in Le monde byzantin, ii, pp. 303–05; and on mercenaries: Kovalev, ‘Rus’ mercenaries’. 22  Florent Audy explains that Byzantine coins were not perceived as neutral pieces of metal, only circulating in the north for their silver or gold content; rather, they were perceived as significant artefacts, valued highly by their owners. Byzantine coins were not only hoarded in northern Eurasia, rather they were put to use in other contexts, such as decorative, apotropaic, or cult objects, in: ‘How were Byzantine coins used in Viking-Age Scandinavia?’. This may be why Byzantine coins are rare in hoards and why they are proportionally more frequently found

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at a Eurasian crossroads meant that it functioned as a thoroughfare for the mass transfer of silver from Central Asia and the Middle East to northern Europe.23 This period dictated the subsequent settlement along the arteries of trade, the water systems navigated by nomadic groups, merchants, and mercenaries. Rus in the tenth and early eleventh centuries did not tend towards centralization and the variety of coin production suggests a story of pathways across northern Eurasia that oppose the methodo­logical statism that often articulates the story of early Rus as one centred around Kiev and the princely dynasty.24 The coins of Tmutarakan escape such a clear association with an issuing authority, even though such coins reflect the symbolic landscape of historically-rooted power and authority. It is possible that this symbolic function both generated value and status for its holder, producer, or purveyor. Beyond notions of identity, the functional qualities of coins (either as currency or as medals) relate material histories, those of trade and exchange, craftsmanship, and technical knowledge. Recent scholarship on ancient coinage has examined the transformation of commerce through the introduction of currencies, thus metal (gold, silver, copper) shaped into coins is a material substance that is also an abstraction, it is both a lump of metal and something more because it can be exchanged for other objects. However, coins in the Middle Ages did not always function as currency and the object itself was valuable as an object (like a necklace, piece of cloth, cross, etc.) rather than as a means of acquiring objects. Coins represent a certain ‘double-sidedness’ in the premodern world, looped or pierced than other coins: because they were kept as treasure and traded as commodities of their distinctive icono­g raphy, Christian character, and relative scarcity. On the burial context for Byzantine coin finds, see: Sedykh, ‘On the Function of Coins’. However, amongst the grave goods of the middle Volga, the largest group of coin pendants consists of Islamic dirhams (56 specimens), followed by West European coins (45 specimens), and a single Byzantine miliaresion, see: Stepanova, Burial Dress, p. 49. 23  Although the largest existing coin database for dirhams found in northern Europe comprises several hundred thousand coins, it has been estimated that known coins (based on known hoards) may equal well over one million dirhams, see: Kovalev and Kaelin, ‘Circulation of Arab Silver’; Jankowiak ‘Dirhams for Slaves’. However, Kovalev notes (based on the work of Thomas Noonan) that, possibly, over a hundred million dirhams were brought to the northern world in just over a century of contact, see: ‘Dirham Mint Output’. 24  Nicholas Matheou writes: ‘Underpinning methodo­logical statism is the fact that the overwhelming majority of our evidence […] was produced by and for state elites, bolstered by the view that state-systems are necessary for complex social systems […]’, in ‘Hegemony, Counterpower and Global History’, p. 208. See also Graeber and Wengrow, ‘How to Change the Course of Human History’.

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functioning both as valuable pieces of metal (according to their metro­logy) and as something more, at least within the communities that created them.25 Thus, a medi­eval coin was always a piece of metal, but by being fashioned into a particular shape, stamped with words and images, it could become something more.26 Medi­eval monetary instruments functioned both according to a symbolic value and as bullion, and there are many examples of clipping because of the high metal content of some coins, like Islamic Dirhams.27 Coin finds reflect the advantageous position of Rus, situated at an intersection for trade across several axes: from the Viking north to the Black Sea, from Rus across the Black Sea to Byzantium, from the Middle East and Central Asia to the northern lands (Rus-Scandinavia) and continental Europe.28 Individual coin finds and coin hoards are the main physical evidence attesting to the circulation of coins through Rus and Scandinavia in the pre-Mongol period (until the thirteenth century). Coin circulation in the Viking world is attested as beginning in the late eighth/early ninth century when Kufic coins began to circulate widely.29 By the eleventh century, dirhams circulated across Eurasia: those of the Abbasid Caliphate and those of the Samanid Emirate of Transoxiana and, to a lesser extent, those of the Buyyid dynasty, of Transcaucasia, of Mesopotamia, of Asia Minor, of Umayyad Spain,30 as well as some silver drachmas.31 The total number of dirhams found in northern Europe from this period is over one million, making dirhams by far the most common early medi­eval currency found 25 

See remarks by Rustam Shukurov on the ‘eloquence of coins’ in ‘Christian Elements’, p. 712. 26  Seaford, Money and the Early Greek Mind, p. 208; Graeber, Debt, pp. 244–47 nn. 73 and 74. 27  This line of reasoning follows what Marx called ‘commodity-money’ in his chapter on the origins of money in the first volume of Capital, where he asserts that, historically, the function of money was to serve as a measure of value and a medium of circulation. Recently, there has been a lively debate about the origins of money and the impetus for monetization, see: Graeber, Debt, pp. 21–71; McNally, Blood and Money, pp. 2–13. 28  Nazarenko, Drevniaia Rus’ na mezhdunarodnykh putiakh, pp. 43–50. 29  See: Kovalev, ‘Production of Dirhams’, pp. 135–37. For examples, see: Kuleshov, ‘Zarubinskii klad fuficheskikh dirkhamov’; and Kuleshov, ‘Bulaevskii klad kuficheskikh monet’. 30  Kovalev, ‘Production of Dirhams’, p.  140; Spasskii, Russkaia monetnaia sistema, pp. 30–32. 31  Sassanian drachmas are a common find (in low quantities) across northern Eurasian hoards, see: Trever and Lukonin, Sasanidskoe serebro, p. 272 col. 2, map 8; Payne, ‘Archaeo­logy of Sasanian politics’, pp. 7–9. For an example, see: Skre, Means of Exchange, p. 139.

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Figure 7.3. Samanid Emirate in 943 (death of Nasr II). © Wikicommons.

in the Viking world.32 The volume and rapidity of the transfer of dirhams is further demonstrated by recent archaeological discoveries, such as the Torksey Viking Winter Camp in Lincolnshire, England.33 The camp has been dated to the winter of 872/3, featuring dirhams produced in the 860s that must have been deposited by the wintering army. Th is implies that a period of twelve years (or less) elapsed between the production of these coins in Central Asia and them being deposited in Lincolnshire.34 The rapidity of this transfer both reflects the existence of organized trans-Eurasian trade routes and the intensity 32

Kovalev and Kaelin, ‘Circulation of Arab Silver’, p. 261. See: Hadley, Richards, and others, ‘The Winter Camp of the Viking Great Army’. 34 Hadley, Richards, and others, ‘The Winter Camp of the Viking Great Army’, pp. 29 and 43–50. 33

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of coin production and dissemination out of the Abbasid Caliphate and the Samanid Emirate (Fig. 7.3). In the ninth century, the Samanids began to consolidate their hold over Central Asia and access to mines in the upper Zarafshan valley, Ferghana, Ilaq, the Gorgan Mountains, Parwan, Panjshir, and Nishapur.35 It is possible that silver exploitation in this region was initially escalated for the purpose of tributary payment to the Abbasid Caliphate, which was first reckoned in silver, then in dirhams.36 The latter part of the ninth century was especially felicitous for the Samanids under Nasr I and Ismā’īl ibn Aḥmad, even though their nascent empire would disaggregate by the end of the tenth century.37 A shift in the northern trade axis occurred in the tenth century, orienting trade from the north on the Mediterranean basin away from the Abbasid Caliphate and Central Asia.38 The shift in the trade axis possibly occurred due to political crises in Central Asia triggering a global silver crisis when the Kharakhanid rulers, who had displaced the Saminids in Transoxiana, transformed the regional economy.39 The general features of this crisis included the debasing of silver dirhams with alloys (various copper or non-precious metal alloys) and the introduction of gold coins in regions where gold coins had not previously been commonly used.40 35 

Davidovich and Dani, ‘Coinage and Monetary System’; Blanchard, Mining, Metallurgy and Minting, pp. 244–48 nn. 44–47. 36  Ibn Khurradādhbih’s Kitāb al-Masālik wa l-Mamālik and part of the Kitāb al-Kharāj by Qudāma ibn Jaʿfar, p. 826. 37  See Rezakhani, ReOrienting the Sasanians, pp. 144–46. 38  In a recent paper, Marek Jankowiak has suggested that this is the reason for the increase in Byzantine coins in northern hoards, see: ‘Byzantine Coins’, pp. 121–23. 39  On Samanid trade, see: Frye, ‘The Sâmânids’, pp. 150–51 (on the slave trade) and 156–57 (on the capture of silver mines); Blanchard, Mining, Metallurgy, and Minting, pp. 272–80 and 362. 40  According to the classical studies by Elena Abramovna Davidovich, the ‘silver crisis/ famine’ during which silver production is thought to have ceased after 950 likely resulted due to a shift in trade axes, one that favoured a commodity-based trade from China to Central Asia and from Central Asia to India, which eventually led to a substitution of gold for silver, signalling the end of the transfer of Central Asian silver to northern Eurasia, see: ‘Gorod’; and Davidovich, ‘Iz oblasti denezhnogo obrashcheniia’. The contours of this trade are described in Ibn Khurrâdadhbih’s ninth-century Kitâb al-Masâlik wa’l-Mamâlik [The Book of Roads and Kingdoms] and the tenth-century Ḥudûd al-ʿĀlam min al-Mashriq ilá l-Maghrib [The Boundaries of The World from The East to the West]. The overall picture fits very well with what Fedir Androshchuk has noted: that Byzantine coins increase after the tenth century in northern hoards, see: ‘What Does Material Evidence Tell Us about Contacts between Byzantium and the Viking World c. 800–1000?’, pp. 99–103.

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This, in turn, led to variable local cessations in the production of dirhams, which had previously been hoarded in northern Europe.41 The volume of hoarded silver dirhams demonstrates a preponderance of silver over any other precious metal in northern Eurasia.42 Hoards from the ninth through to the eleventh centuries in Scandinavia and Rus often include a small percentage of Byzantine coins, mainly struck during the reigns of Constantine  VII and Romanus  II (945–958/59), and, especially, Basil  II (976–1025). It is not fully understood why such a low percentage of Byzantine coins is found in northern coin hoards when trade relations were clearly wellestablished in this period, as evidenced by runes, material culture, and textual evidence.43 In Rus, for the period ranging from the ninth to the mid-twelfth century, there are three hundred Byzantine coin finds from around Kiev, Gnezdovo, Novgorod, Pskov, and Sarkel in Khazaria, and half of the finds are copper coins, flowing on the Dnieper channel, but also by smaller rivers such as the Dniester.44 However, the scarcity of hoards in areas where silver was perhaps reused over the course of the eleventh century, such as Uppland or the regions of Kiev and Novgorod, is no indication of less intensive contacts with Byzantium. In these areas, silver miliaresia make up eighty-three per cent of the finds, with only approximately two hundred copper folles and several dozen gold nomismata.45 Gold coins in Rus appear mostly in relatively late hoards, 41  The tendency to treat the silver crisis in terms of regional dynamics has prevented a global economic understanding of silver in the Eurasian and Inner Asian commodities trade, see: Roslund, ‘At the End of the Silver Flow’. For a regional view that queries the existence of a ‘silver crisis’, see: Kilger, ‘Kaupang from Afar’, pp. 227–34. 42  Marek Jankowiak writes that ‘the predominance of silver over gold and copper is the opposite of the situation within the Byzantine Empire, where silver was the least popular metal’ in ‘Byzantine coins in Viking-Age northern lands’, p. 123. A materialist analysis of hoarding shows that coins with the highest silver content (mainly dirhams) were clipped according to specific weights. This is the case for dirhams found in the Spillings Hoard, which contains only one Byzantine coin and 124 dirhams cut into smaller fractions, see: Östergren, ‘The Spillings Hoard(s)’; see also Hadley, Richards, and others, ‘The Winter Camp of the Viking Great Army’, pp. 44–49. 43  For a global analysis, see: Androshchuk, Shepard, and White, eds, Byzantium and the Viking World, parts ii and iii on material culture and written sources describing contact across northern Eurasia to Byzantium. 44  Jankowiak, ‘Byzantine Coins’, p. 122. 45  Jankowiak, ‘Byzantine Coins’, pp. 118–19; Androshchuk, ‘How Did Byzantine miliaresia Reach Scandinavia?’. And for other trade goods, see Mikhailov, ‘Uppland-GotlandNovgorod. Russian-Swedish Relations in the Late Viking Age on the Basis of Studies of Belt Mountings’.

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and the period of inflow of miliaresia overlaps with the period most often represented in Scandinavian hoards: roughly 945–990s.46 Tracing the various points of contact between Rus and the Byzantine Empire sheds light on long distance Eurasian trade networks, and it points to the central role of Rus at all stages of the transfer of commodities, people, and ideas across Eurasia. In this respect, the notion of Rus as comprised on a distinct group of Slavonic-speaking people should be queried, as these commercial contacts reflect a great variety in the groups, their motivations and points of departure, for travel and settlement in the area known as Rus.47 Sources from this period indicate numerous incentives for travel within and across Rus, as well as the composite nature of travel groups. Although it is difficult to provenance the people falling into the category of ‘Rus’ in Byzantine sources, this category appears in Byzantine military campaigns in the Near East and Mesopotamia (those of Nicephorus Phokas and Basil II),48 commercial contacts (the Russo-Byzantine treaties or Princess Olga’s travels to Constantinople),49 various pathways of trade (for example, the continental fur trade described by Adam of Bremen),50 diplomatic contacts with continental Europe (in the c. 839 Byzantine embassy to Louis the Pious).51 The variety of motivations and points of departure can be linked to the diversity of coins and coin production across the territory of Rus with, for example, Tmutarakan acting a hub for the in-flow of dirhams and a type of launchpad for mercenaries heading to places like Armenia or Syria.52 In the absence of situated forms of self-representation, whether through local text production or the built landscape, locally-produced coins offer an entry point into the political and social organization of the terri46 

For example, the Ekaterinskaia Street hoard in Kiev, terminus post quem 1057 in Jankowiak, ‘Byzantine Coins in Viking-Age Northern Lands’, p. 123. Note: coin hoards do not indicate the entirety of coins that may have circulated or been stocked in any given place since, over time, some pieces were likely to be used, reused, and circulated elsewhere, and hoards in more densely populated places could have been discovered and dispersed at any point after the initial moment of burial. 47  The use of ethnonyms from later chronicles for discussions of the earliest period of Rus has been queried by Tolochko, ‘The Primary Chronicle’s “Ethno­graphy” Revisited’. For a critical evaluation of the misuses of ethnic attribution, see Vukovich, ‘Ethnic Process’. 48  Kovalev, ‘Rus’ Mercenaries’, pp. 176–85. 49  See Melnikova, ‘Retinue Culture’, p. 66; Duczko, Viking Rus, pp. 211–15. 50  See Pranke and Žečević, Medi­eval Trade, pp. 74 and 88. 51  See Shepard, ‘Rhos Guests of Louis the Pious’. 52  Androshchuk, ‘How Did Byzantine miliaresia Reach Scandinavia?’, pp. 55–88.

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Figure 7.4. Iaroslav Vladimirich, silver coin. © Bode Museum, reproduced with permission.

Figure 7.5. Vladimir Sviatoslavich, silver coin. © Fitzwilliam Museum, reproduced with permission.

Figure 7.6. Basil II and Constantine VIII, silver miliaresion. © Dumbarton Oaks Collection, reproduced with permission.

tory of early Rus, one that points to a non-centralized system of polities and non-state-affiliated actors. The early-eleventh-century coins of Iaroslav Vladimirich (d.  1054), along with the late-tenth-century coins of Tmutarakan represent a radical departure from those of the Kievan princes, Vladimir Sviato­ slavich (d.  1015) and Sviatopolk Vladimirch (d. 1019) (Figs 7.4 and 7.5). The coinage of Iaroslav may have been minted when he was prince of Novgorod (1010–1019), before he ascended to the throne of Kiev, although Fedir Androshchuk dates them to no later than 1030.53 Iaroslav’s coins deviate from the previous icono­g raphy of an enthroned prince and feature St  Georg e dressed in military vestments on the obverse holding a spear with the inscriptions of ‘Iaroslav’s silver’ on the reverse along with the Riurikid heraldic emblem.54 Unlike the coins of Vladimir Sviatoslavich and Sviatopolk Vladimirich, many of Iaroslav’s coins are found in the 53 

Figure 7.7. Basil II & Constantine VIII, imitation silver miliaresion. © Dumbarton Oaks Collection, reproduced with permission.

Androshchuk, Images of Power, pp. 82–83. 54  The sources for the Riurikid symbol have received attention elsewhere; for example, see: Fetisov, ‘“Znak Riurikovichei”’, pp. 210–16. But further investigation into the Steppe-Turkic cultural context could offer a long-distance trade link accompanied by the translation of cultural forms such as the tamga featured on Sogdian coins, see: Lur’e, ‘Tiurko-Sogdiiskie monety’.

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Baltics, Poland, and Scandinavia. One possibility is that these coins have a geopolitical dimension and were meant to commemorate Iaroslav’s capture of Tartu.55 The transcultural56 dimension of Iaroslav’s coinage might indicate the role of commonly understood symbols in mediating relations between Rus and Scandinavia. After all, the earliest coins minted in Scandinavia show a remarkable similarity to those of Rus, both in terms of style and the brevity of their production. It is often the case that coins are associated with state power and this is why it has been assumed that the Tmutarakan imitation miliaresia might be associated with the princely dynasty and the figure of Mstislav-Constantine Vladimirich, prince of Chernigov and Tmutarakan. Aside from the extremely laconic chronicle entries on this prince, seals attributed to Mstislav Vladimirch show him in the style of a Byzantine emperor with a Greek inscription beseeching the Lord to aid ‘Constantine’ (supposedly Mstislav’s baptismal name).57 The seals of Mstislav Vladimirich are an anomaly because of their fine craftsmanship and Greek inscriptions. So, it is surprising that the coins associated with Mstislav Vladimirich should diverge so greatly from the icono­graphy of his seals, especially when Byzantine and Rus seals are found in greater quantities in the area of Tmutarakan demonstrating a productive point of contact on the Taman Peninsula.58 The Byzantine imitation coins of Tmutarakan reflect the Class II silver miliaresion of Basil II and Constantine VIII where the emperors appear in two half-length portraits flanking a cross on a four-stepped based (Figs 7.6 and 7.7). The portrait to the left of the cross represents a bearded Basil II wearing a loros. The beardless figure to the right represents Constantine VIII who wears a chlamys.59 Both emperors wear a stemma-type crown surmounted by a cross, bearing pendilia, and the legend on the reverse attributes this coin to the two emperors. In general, the imitations of Basil’s silver miliaresion are easy to detect due to the rough handling of the icono­g raphy of the two emperors and the garbled Greek, which appears as unintelligible Greek lettering, solid

55 

Androshchuk, Images of Power, pp. 69–70. This cultural layering (transculturalism) is a common, global feature of much Byzantine imitation coin production, see: Shukurov, ‘Turkoman and Byzantine Self-Identity’. 57  See: Ianin, Aktovye pechati drevnei Rusi x–xv vv., pp. i, 32, 172, 252: figs 32 and 33. 58  See: Shepard, ‘Closer Encounters’, pp. 36–37. 59  For the general features of this coin type, see: Grierson, Byzantine Coins, pp. 180–81, pl. 44. 56 

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objects (square pegs and circles), and as a repeated omega.60 Unlike the coins attributed to princes in northern Rus, these non-personalized coins point to the role of bands (perhaps mercenaries or merchant-traders) whose encounter with the Byzantine world led to enrichment and a process of acculturation. The Tmutarakan coin appears in just under fifteen-hundred known copies, with 628 obverse variants, eleven classes, and seven hundred dies. Of those eleven classes, three were, in turn, imitated in Scandinavia.61 The Scandinavian imitations clearly follow the Tmutarakan coins, but they include certain variants drawn from imitations of the silver miliaresion of Basil II and Constantine VIII found in the British-Irish Isles.62 The widespread copying of silver miliaresia in the northern world follows the period of travel, contact, and settlement from the northern world across Eurasia, to the Byzantine Empire, and beyond. Here, the role of commercial links is made salient both in the transfer of silver dirhams to northern Eurasia and in the adoption of styles and ideas about selfrepresentation. The coins found on the Taman Peninsula offer a different snapshot of Rus, one that resists assimilation to the Rurikid dynasty. As such, the coins of Tmutarakan were neither an extension of those produced in the north of Rus, nor were they mere copies of their Byzantine counterparts. These coins represent a system of ideas that brought their producers into communion with the Byzantine cultural sphere, in order to promote that contact in places far beyond the direct political influence of the Byzantine Empire.63 60 

Androshchuk, Images of Power, pp. 83–85. See: Malmer, ‘Imitations of Byzantine Miliaresia’; Malmer, ‘Some Observations’. 62  These imitations include elements such as the suppression of the imperial figures, replaced with praying hands, see: Androshchuk, Images of Power, pp. 121–24; for the regional English-Viking context for Romano-Byzantine imitation coins, see: Gannon, ‘Art in the Round’, pp. 300–12. 63  An example from the Merovingian period provides further nuance to this point: the Merovingian ruler, King Theudebert I of Austrasia (r. 533–547/48) briefly minted coins featuring the king in the guise of Justinian I. There are several examples of this coin kept in the Cabinet des monnaies et médailles antiques at the BnF. See reproduction in Maas, ed., Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, pl. 21. Riché and Périn, eds, Dictionnaire des Francs, p. 318. Byzantine sources express this feat: Agathias, Histoires, i, ch. 5 in Agathias – Histoires: Guerres et malheurs du temps sous Justinien, ed. by P. Maraval. These coins are exact copies, albeit maladroit, of Justinian’s gold solidus. The coin was meant to be an exact replica of Justinian’s coins, complete with a portrait of Theudebert in Roman military garb, a muddled legend in Latin, and a poorly executed winged victory on the obverse bearing a double globus cruciger. By the time Theudebert had begun minting his ‘Justinian’ coins (c. 539–542) he had consolidated his power in Austrasia by defeating and making treaties with his uncles, and he had successfully 61 

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The only commonality between the coins of Iaroslav Vladimirch and those attributed to Mstislav Vladimirch is that their coins (or the coins minted on their territories) were copied and exported to Scandinavia, or they were exported and then copied in Scandinavia. It is no great revelation that the Byzantine and Viking worlds were engaged in lively trade and cultural contact throughout the period starting around the mid-tenth century and running well into the eleventh century. The Viking diaspora emerged in this period and began developing distinct identities based on cross-cultural contact, as well as personal taste. Beyond commonalities amongst the Viking diaspora, a particular desire not only for Byzantine commodities, but also modes of self-expression and cultural and political forms was perhaps the impetus for more long-term contact, through the adoption of Eastern Christianity by the elite of Rus. The deployment of Byzantine forms and symbols in the manufacture of local cultural artefacts suggests a form of integration into the Byzantine cultural sphere following a period of direct contact through trade and warfare. The commonalities of purpose amongst the Rus coins outlined above (the appropriation of Byzantine culture, distinction of elite culture, etc.) also reflect the non-centralized nature of the Rus polities. In Tmutarakan, Byzantine imitation coins were produced in a period of sustained contact between the Viking diaspora and the Byzantine Empire in which the former served as mercenaries on military campaigns that took them as far as Syria, the Caucasus, and Anatolia. This production reflected the role of Tmutarakan as a rallying place for the Viking diaspora (broadly conceived as a composite group gaining adherents across northern Europe and Eurasia) ready to seek fortune and adventure across the Mediterranean basin, Eurasia, and, very likely, the Central Asian Steppe.64 In this instance, coin production did not reflect the adoption of a metallic currency, but a process of distinction within a diasporic contingent. Unlike the first coins of the princes of Kiev which display the prince in the guise of the Byzantine emperor accompanied by local and Eastern Christian participated in the Gothic Wars alongside Justinian I. The coin functions as a commemoration beyond the Byzantine political space. 64  For an understanding of the Vikings as a community of practice, see: Shepard, ‘Small Worlds’, pp. 3–6. The debate surrounding the social composition of the Viking pack shows both a regional diversity and diversity of social profiles from within Scandinavia itself. Thus, those who departed represented a social and economic group divorced from state and kinship ties, but one that could, in turn, generate those ties. These observations attend those of James Barrett, who presents various theories as to what caused the Viking Age, but presents the mobilization of the ‘surplus’ of dispossessed and militarized young men as a compelling social factors, in ‘What Caused the Viking Age?’, pp. 680–81.

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symbols, imitation miliaresia offer another narrative, one that that eschews a state-centred approach and one that demonstrates the symbolic power of coins.65 The coins produced in Kiev show a process of role distancing between ruler and ruled and between Christian and non-Christian, demonstrating what Ian Wood has described as a process of Othering those who did not convert or conform to the new religion and symbolic landscape.66 This period of settlement and consolidation of dynastic power in places like Kiev was also a period that saw the end of long-distance trade networks across Rus. These dynamics are concomitant in the tenth and early eleventh centuries. The diversity of practices within Rus is reflected in coin production from this period and, to some extent, the earliest narrative of the Primary Chronicle where the Russo-Byzantine treaties relate that pagan Rus swear oaths on their weapons to uphold the trade agreement, while the Christian Rus swear on the cross.67 The silver trade and, more generally, the economic activity outlined above, invigorated the communities of practice, some of which settled at different points along old trade routes, as these networks began to dry up. Thus, it is very likely that the cessation of silver inflow from Eurasia and Central Asia was the single most important factor dictating the settlement and consolidation of diasporic groups along the river arteries of Rus. The role of mercenary soldiers was significant in the medi­ eval period, much like the Mamluks (the descendants of enslaved soldiers), the Viking diaspora began as a militarized band.68 However, unlike the Mamluks, the Viking diaspora developed the state-form out of militarized commercial networks, especially as these became less lucrative (or viable). The minting of coins was a final act of declaration in the process of distinction amongst the Viking diaspora as it settled in the late tenth and eleventh centuries across Rus and in the Scandinavian world. The end of coinage in Rus and Scandinavia did not mark a downturn in the fortunes of these regions. On the contrary, Rus began a period of continuous expansion that lasted until the collapse of the 65 

Recent analyses of the metal content of regional coinages have shown that dirhams were generally relied on for their high silver content, see: Eniosova and Mitoyan, ‘Arabic Coins as a Silver Source’. This is probably why debased dirhams were employed for minting the Byzantine imitation coins of Rus, see: Moiseenko and Ravich, ‘Metallograficheskoe issledovanie srebrenikov’. For a medi­eval English parallel, see: Kershaw, Merkel, and Hsieh, ‘Simultaneous lead isotope ratio’. 66  See: Wood, ‘Pagans and the Other’. 67  See: Fetisov, ‘Ritual’noe soderzhanie kliatvy oruzhiem’. 68  Thompson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns, p. 3.

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polities of Rus to the Mongols in the thirteenth century. While Scandinavia expanded westward, Rus expanded outwards along the Dniepr and Volga, creating new polities and exploring new trade opportunities with its Western and Central European neighbours. When the shift to a monetary economy began in Scandinavia in the thirteenth century, the now distinct kingdoms looked to their western neighbours for their idioms of expression.

Works Cited Primary Sources Agathias, Histoires: Guerres et malheurs du temps sous Justinien, trans. by Pierre Maraval (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2007) Ibn Khurradādhbih’s Kitāb al-Masālik wa l-Mamālik and part of the Kitāb al-Kharāj by Qudāma ibn Jaʿfar, ed. by Michael Jan de Goeje, Bibliotheca Geo­graphorum Arabi­ corum, reprnt (Leiden: Brill, 2014)

Secondary Studies Afanasyev, Ilya, and Mike Haynes, ‘Mike Haynes and Ilya Afanaysev Discuss the Problems of Understanding “National” Identity in Pre-Capitalist Europe’, Historical Materialism (blog), 30 January 2021, online at [accessed 11 May 2023] Androshchuk, Fedir, ‘Byzantine Imperial Seals in Southern Rus’, in Byzantine and Rus’ Seals. Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Rus’-Byzantine Sigillo­graphy. Kyiv, Ukraine, 13–16 September 2013, ed. by Hlib Ivakin, N. Khrapunov, and Walter Seibt (Kyiv: Sheremetev’ Museum, 2015), pp. 43–55 —— , Vikings in the East. Essays on Contacts along the Road to Byzantium (800–1100) (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2013) —— , Images of Power. Byzantium and Nordic Coinage: c. 995–1035 (Kyiv: Laurus, 2016) —— , ‘What Does Material Evidence Tell Us about Contacts between Byzantium and the Viking World c.  800–1000?’, in Byzantium and the Viking World, ed.  by Fedir Androshchuk, Jonathan Shepard, and Monica White (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2016), pp. 91–116 —— , ‘How Did Byzantine miliaresia Reach Scandinavia? Constantinople and the Dissemination of Silver Coinage Outside the Empire’, in Constantinople as Center and Crossroad, Transactions of the Swedish Research Institute, 23 (Istanbul: The Swedish Research Institute, 2019), pp. 55–88 Androshchuk, Fedir, Jonathan Shepard, and Monica White, eds, Byzantium and the Viking World (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2016)

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Audy, Florent, ‘How Were Byzantine Coins Used in Viking-Age Scandinavia?’, in Byzan­ tium and the Viking World, ed. by Fedir Androshchuk, Jonathan Shepard, and Monica White (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2016), pp. 141–69 Barrett, James, ‘What Caused the Viking Age?’, Antiquity, 82 (2008), 671–85 Bates, Michael, ‘Byzantine Coinage and its Imitations, Arab Coinage and its Imitations: Arab-Byzantine Coinage’, ARAM, 6 (1994), 381–403 Blanchard, Ian, Mining, Metallurgy and Minting in the Middle Ages: Asiatic Supremacy, 425–1125 (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001) Carile, Antonio, ‘Byzantine Political Ideo­logy and the Rus’ in the Tenth-Twelfth Cen­ turies’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies, 12–13 (1988/1989), 400–13 Curta, Florin, ‘Approaches to the Archaeo­logy of Ethnogenesis: Past and Emergent Perspectives’, Journal of Archaeo­logical Research, 21.4 (2008), 371–402 Davidovich, Elena Abramovna, ‘Gorod, remeslo i denezhnoe obrashchenie v Srednei Azii perioda tak nazivaemogo “srebryanogo krizisa” (XI–XIII vv.)’, in Materiali vtorogo soveshchaniia arkheo­logov i etnografov Srednii Azii (Moscow: Akademiya Nauk, 1959), pp. 38–46 —— , ‘Iz oblasti denezhnogo obrashcheniia v Srednei Azii, XI–XII vv.’, Numismatika i epigrafika, 2 (1960), 38–46 Duczko, Wladyslaw, Viking Rus.  Studies on the Presence of Scandinavians in Eastern Europe, The Northern World, 12 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) Eniosova, Natasha and Robert Mitoyan, ‘Arabic Coins as a Silver Source for Slavonic and Scandinavian Jewellers in the Tenth Century ad’, in Proceedings of the 37th Inter­ national Symposium on Archaeometry, 12–16 May 2008, Siena, Italy, ed. by Isabella Turbanti (Berlin: Springer, 2011), pp. 579–84 Fetisov, Aleksandar, ‘Ritual’noe soderzhanie kliatvy oruzhiem v russko-vizantiiskikh dogovorakh X v.: sravnitel’no-tipo­logicheskii analiz’, Slavianskii al’manakh, 4 (2001), 36–47 —— , ‘“Znak Riurikovichei” iz peshchernogo kompleksa Basarabi na Nizhnem Dunae’, in Anfo­logion. Slaviane i ikh sosedi. Vlast’, obshchestvo, kul’tura v slavianskom mire v srednie veka (Moscow: Indrik, 2008), pp. 210–28 Frye, Richard, ‘The Sāmānids’, in The Cambridge History of Iran. Volume 4. The Period from the Arab Invasion to the Saljuqs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975) Gannon, Anna, ‘Art in the Round: Tradition and Creativity in Early Anglo-Saxon Coinage’, in Money and Coinage in the Middle Ages, ed. by Rory Naismith, Reading Medi­eval Sources, 1 (Leiden: Brill, 2018), pp. 287–320 Graeber, David, Debt. The First 5000 Years (London: Melville House, 2011) Graeber, David, and David Wengrow, ‘How to Change the Course of Human History’, Eurozine (2018)  [ac­cessed 7 August 2020] Grierson, Philip, Byzantine Coins (London: Methuen, 1982) Hadley, Dawn, Julian Richards, Hannah Brown, Elizabeth Craig-Atkins, Diana MahoneySwales, Gareth Perry, Samantha Stein, and Andrew Woods, ‘The Winter Camp of the Viking Great Army, ad  872–3, Torksey, Lincolnshire’, The Antiquaries Journal, 96 (2016), 23–67

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Hahn, Wolfgang, ‘Aksumite Numismatics’, Revue numismatique, 155.6 (2000), 281–311 Hraundal, Thorir Jonsson, ‘Integration and Disintegration: The “Norse” in Descriptions of the Early Rus’, in Norman Tradition and Transcultural Heritage. Exchange of Cultures in the ‘Norman’ Peripheries of Medi­eval Europe, ed. by Stefan Burkhardt and Thomas Foerster (London: Routledge, 2013), pp. 279–93 Ianin, Valentin, Aktovye pechati drevnei Rusi x–xv vv. (Moscow: Nauka, 1970) Jankowiak, Marek, ‘Byzantine Coins in Viking-Age Northern Lands’, in Byzantium and the Viking World, ed. by Fedir Androshchuk, Jonathan Shepard, and Monica White (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2016), pp. 117–41 —— , ‘Dirhams for Slaves: Investigating the Slavic Trade in the Tenth Century’ (2012) online at: [accessed 30 June 2021] Jarman, Cat, River Kings: The Vikings from Scandinavia to the Silk Roads (London: Collins, 2021) Kershaw, Jane, Stephen Merkel, and Yu-te Hsieh, ‘Simultaneous Lead Isotope Ratio and Gold-Lead-Bismuth Concentration Analysis of Silver by Laser Ablation MS-ICP-MS’, Journal of Archaeo­logical Science, 125 (2021), 1–12 Kilger, Christoph, ‘Kaupang from Afar: Aspects of the Interpretation of Dirham Finds in Northern and Eastern Europe between the Late 8th and Early 10th Centuries’, in Means of Exchange. Dealing with Silver in the Viking Age, ed.  by Dagfinn Skre, Kaupang Excavation Project Publication Series, 2 (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2007), pp. 191–252 Koptev, Aleksandr, ‘The Story of “Chazar Tribute”: A Scandinavian Ritual Trick in the Russian Primary Chronicle’, Scando-Slavica, 56.2 (2010), 189–212 Kovalev, Roman, ‘Dirham Mint Output of Samanid Samarqand and its Connection to the Beginnings of Trade with Northern Europe (10th Century)’, History & Measure, 17.3–4 (2002), 1–18 —— , ‘The Production of Dirhams in the Coastal Caspian Sea Provinces of Northern Iran in the Tenth-Early Eleventh Centuries and Their Circulation in the Northern Lands’, Archivum Eurasia Medii Aevi, 19 (2012), 133–83 —— , ‘Rus’ Mercenaries in the Byzantine-Arab Wars of the 950s–960s’, in 5th Simone Assemani Symposium on Islamic Coins, ed. by Bruno Callegher and Arianna d’Ottone Rambach (Trieste: Edizioni Università di Trieste, 2018), pp. 145–97 Kovalev, Roman, and Alexis Kaelin, ‘Circulation of Arab Silver in Medi­eval Afro-Eurasia. Preliminary Observations’, History Compass, 5 (2007), 560–80 Kuleshov, Viacheslav, ‘Bulaevskii klad kuficheskikh monet: problema kompozitsii i datirovki’, in Humizmaticheskie chteniia Gosudarstvennogo Istoricheskogo muzeia 2019 goda, ed. by Evgenii Zakharov (Moscow: Istoricheskii Muzei, 2019), pp. 65–69 —— , ‘Zarubinskii klad fuficheskikh dirkhamov’, in Humizmaticheskie chteniia Gosudarst­ vennogo Istoricheskogo muzeia 2020 goda, ed. by Evgenii Zakharov (Moscow: Istori­ cheskii Muzei, 2020), pp. 62–65 Litvina, Anna, and Fjodor Uspenskij, ‘Russo-Polovtsian Dynastic Contacts as Reflected in Genealogy and Onomastics’, The Silk Road, 12 (2014), 65–76

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Lur’e, Pavel, ‘Tiurko-Sogdiiskie monety i ikh nakhodki v Pendzhikente’, in Drevnie i Srednevekovye kul’tyry Tsentral’noi Azii (St Petersburg: Russian Academy of Sciences, 2020), pp. 278–81 Maas, Michael, ed., The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian (Cambridge: Cam­ bridge University Press, 2005) Mägi, Marika, In Austrvegr: The Role of the Eastern Baltic in Viking Age Communication across the Baltic Sea, The Northern World, 84 (Leiden: Brill, 2018) —— , The Viking Eastern Baltic (Amsterdam: ARC Humanities, 2019) Malmer, Brita, ‘Imitations of Byzantine Miliaresia Found in Sweden’, in Studies in Northern Coinages of the Eleventh Century (Copenhagen: Bianco Luno, 1981), pp. 9–29 —— , ‘Some Observations on the Importation of Byzantine Coins to Scandinavia in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries and the Scandinavian Response’, Russian History/ Histoire russe, 28.1–4 (2001), 295–302 Martin, Janet, Treasure of the Land of Darkness. The Fur Trade and its Significance for Medi­eval Russia, reprnt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) Matheou, Nicholas, ‘Hegemony, Counterpower and Global History. Medi­eval New Rome and Caucasia in a Critical Perspective’, in Global Byzantium. Papers from the Fiftieth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, ed. by Leslie Brubaker, Rebecca Darley, and Daniel Reynolds (London: Routledge, 2022), pp. 208–36 Melnikova, Elena, ‘The Retinue Culture and the Retinue State’, in The Eastern World of the Vikings. Eight Essays about Scandinavia and Eastern Europe in the Early Middle Ages (Gothenburg: Göteborgs Universitet, 1996), pp. 61–73 Mikhailov, Kirill, ‘Uppland-Gotland-Novgorod. Russian-Swedish Relations in the Late Viking Age on the Basis of Studies of Belt Mountings’, in Cultural Interaction Between East and West. Archaeo­logy, Artefacts and Human Contacts in Northern Europe, ed. by Ulf Fransson, Marie Svedin, S. Bergerbrant, and Fedir Androshchuk (Stockholm: Stockholm University Press, 2007), pp. 205–11 McNally, David, Blood and Money. War, Slavery, Finance, and Empire (Chicago, IL: Haymarket, 2020) Mogilner, Marina, Homo Imperii. A History of Physical Anthropo­logy in Russia (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2013) Moiseenko, Nikita, and Igor Ravich, ‘Metallograficheskoe issledovanie srebrenikov’, in Epokha vikingov v Vostochnoi Evrope v pamianikakh numizmatiki viii–xi vv. (St Petersburg: Znak, 2015), pp. 149–58 Montgomery, James, ‘Ibn Faḍlān and the Rūsiyyah’, Journal of Arabic and Islamic Studies, 3 (2017), 1–25 Morrisson, Cécile, ‘Assessment of Byzantine Silver Coinage’, in Le monde byzantin, ii: L’Empire byzantin (614–1204), ed. by Jean-Claude Cheynet (Paris: Nouvelle Clio, 2006), pp. 303–05 Nazarenko, Alexander, Drevniaia Rus’ na mezhdunarodnykh putiakh: Mezhdistsiplinarnye ocherki kul’turnykh, torgovykh, politicheskikh sviazei ix–xii vekov (Moscow: Iazyki russkoi kul’tury, 2001)

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Östergren, Majvor, ‘The Spillings Hoard(s)’, in Silver Economies, Monetisation and Society in Scandinavia, ed. by James Graham-Campbell, Soren Sindbæk, and Gareth Williams (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2011), pp. 321–36 Payne, Richard, ‘The Archaeo­logy of Sasanian Politics’, Journal of Ancient History, 2.2 (2014), 1–13 Petrukhin, V.  Ia., ‘“Etnichnost” v drevnei Rusi’, in Vostochnaia Evropa v drenosti i srednevekov’e (Moscow: Akademiya Nauk, 2017), pp. 190–94 Plokhy, Serhii, Lost Kingdom. The Quest for Empire and the Making of the Russian Nation from 1470 to the Present (New York, NY: Hachette, 2017) —— , The Origins of the Slavic Nations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) Pranke, Piotr, and Miloš Žečević, Medi­eval Trade in Central Europe, Scandinavia, and the Balkans (10th–12th Centuries), East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 450–1450, 64 (Leiden: Brill, 2020) Rezakhani, Khodadad, ReOrienting the Sasanians: East Iran in Late Antiquity (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press) Riché, P. and P. Périn, eds, Dictionnaire des Francs. Les temps mérovingiens (Paris: Bartillat, 1999) Roslund, Mats, ‘At the End of the Silver Flow. Islamic Dirhams in Sigtuna and the Shrinking Viking Network’, in Small Things Wide Horizons. Studies in Honour of Birgitta Hårdh, ed. by Lars Larsson, Fredrik Ekengren, Bertil Helgesson, and Bengt Söderberg (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2015), pp. 43–48 Seaford, Richard, Money and the Early Greek Mind: Homer, Philosophy, Tragedy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) Sedykh, Valery, ‘On the Function of Coins in Graves in Early Medi­eval Rus’, Russian History/Histoire russe, 32.3–4 (2005), 471–78 Shepard, Jonathan, ‘Closer Encounters with the Byzantine World: The Rus in the Straits of Kerch’, in Pre-Modern Russia and Its World: Essays in Honor of Thomas S. Noonan, ed. by Kathryn L. Reyerson, Theofanis G. Stavrou, and James D. Tracy (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2006), pp. 15–65 —— , ‘The Rhos Guests of Louis the Pious: Whence and Wherefore?’, Early Medi­eval Europe, 4.1 (1995), 41–60 —— , ‘Rus’’, in Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus’ c. 900–1200, ed. by Nora Berend (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 369–414 —— , ‘Small Worlds, the General Synopsis, and the British “Way from the Varangians to the Greeks”’, in Byzantium and the Viking World, ed. by Fedir Androshchuk, Jonathan Shepard, and Monica White (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2016), pp. 3–37 Shukurov, Rustam, The Byzantine Turks 1204–1461, The Medi­eval Mediterranean, 105 (Leiden: Brill, 2016) —— , ‘Christian Elements in the Identity of the Anatolian Turkmens (12th–13th centuries)’, in Cristianità d’Occidente e Cristianità d’Oriente (Secoli vi–xi), 24–30 aprile 2003, Settimane di Studio Della Fondazione Centro Italiano di Studi Sull’alto Medioevo LI, 2 vols (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo, 2004), ii, pp. 708–64

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—— , ‘Turkoman and Byzantine Self-Identity. Some Reflections on the Logic of the Title-Making in Twelfth- and Thirteenth-Century Anatolia’, in Eastern Approaches to Byzantium. Papers from the Thirty-Third Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Warwick, Coventry, March 1999, ed. by Anthony Eastmond (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), pp. 259–76 Skre, Dagfinn, ed., Means of Exchange. Dealing with Silver in the Viking Age, Kaupang Excavation Project Publication Series, 2 (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2007) Sotnikova, Maria, and Igor Spasskii, Tysiacheletie drevneishikh monet Rossii: Svodnyi katalog russkikh monet x–xi vekov (Leningrad: Iskusstvo, 1983) Sotnikova, Maria, Drevneishie Russkie monety x–xi vekov. Katalog i issledovanie (Moscow: Banki i bizhi, 1995) Spasskii, Igor, Russkaia monetnaia sistema: istoriko-numizmaticheskii ocherk (Leningrad: Izd.-vo Gos. Ermitazha, 1962) Stepanova, Iuliia, The Burial Dress of the Rus’ in the Upper Volga Region (Late 10th–13th Centuries), East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 450–1450, 43 (Leiden: Brill, 2017) Taidi, Tatiana Iu., Soiuz Chernykh Klobukov (tiurkskoe ob’edinenie na Rusi v xi–xiii vv.) (Kiev: Tsentral’nyi muzei vooruzhennykh sil Ukrainy, 2005) Thompson, Janice, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996) Tolochko, Oleksiy, ‘The Primary Chronicle’s “Ethno­graphy” Revisited: Slavs and Varan­ gians in the Middle Dniepr and the Origin of Rus’ State’, in Franks, Northmen, and Slavs: Identities and State Formation in Early Medi­eval Europe, ed. by Ildar H. Garipzanov, Patrick J. Geary, and Przemysław Urbańczyk, Cursor Mundi, 5 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 169–88 Tolochko, Oleksiy, Ocherki Nachal’noi Rusi (Kiev: Laurus, 2015) Trever, Kamilla, and Vladimir Lukonin, Sasanidskoe serebro. Khudozhestvennaia kul’tura Irana iii–viii vekov. Sobranie Gosudarstvennogo Ermitazha (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1987) Vermeulin, Han, Before Boas: The Genesis of Ethno­graphy and Ethno­logy in the German Enlightenment (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2015) Voroniatov, Sergey V., ‘Connections between Central Asia and the Northern Littoral of the Black Sea: The Evidence from Objects with Tamgas’, The Silk Road, 12 (2014), 25–39 Vukovich, Alexandra, ‘The Ethnic Process’, in Towards a Critical Historio­graphy of Byzan­ tine Studies, ed. by Benjamin Anderson and Mirela Ivanova, Viewpoints (Uni­versity Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2022), pp. 121–32 —— , ‘Enthronement in Early Rus: Between Byzantium and Scandinavia’, Viking and Medi­eval Scandinavia, 14 (2018), 211–39 Wood, Ian, ‘The Pagans and the Other: Varying Presentations in the Early Middle Ages’, Net­works and Neighbours, 1 (2013), 1–22

Epilogue

Some Reflections David Bates

A

nyone who has stood on the shore at Dives-sur-Mer and Pevensey, gazed across the Strait of Messina, or walked around the docks at Caen while imagining the loading of stone on to ships, surely cannot fail to appreciate the importance of the sea to the Norman worlds. Or so it might be thought. Interesting or uninteresting as these sentimental musings might be, they do not take us far into an understanding of the sea’s place in the broader processes of the life of the Norman worlds. Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis are entirely justified in writing that ‘the history of the Normans has been very much land-based’. This exciting book sets about rectifying that omission. The articles deploy new research to illuminate significant topics in original ways and prompt reflection both on the role of the sea and on major aspects of the huge subject of transcultural change as it affected the Norman worlds. The history of transcultural change that emerges is an all-embracing multifaceted phenomenon, operating upwards, downwards, and sideways, and shaped by agency and context. This Epilogue contains some personal reflections on how I think the subject might develop. The absolutely indispensable beginning is to say that the sea’s importance to what we now often call the Norman worlds was recognized by Charles Homer Haskins, John Le Patourel, and Lucien Musset, three masters of our subject to whose work we should always turn. In The Normans in European History, published in 1916, Haskins commented that ‘it was quite as easy to go from London to Rouen as from London to York’ and that communication by sea was often more rapid than communication over land.1 He took it for granted that travel by sea was a normal and necessary part of life in the Norman worlds. The pages 1 

Haskins, Normans in European History, pp. 87–88.

David Bates ([email protected]) is Emeritus Professor in Medi­e val History at

the University of East Anglia. He is a historian of Britain and France from the tenth to thirteenth centuries. Maritime Exchange and the Making of Norman Worlds, ed. by Philippa Byrne and Caitlin Ellis, TMS 3 (Turn­hout: Brepols, 2023), pp. 211–222 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.TMS-EB.5.134147

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devoted by John Le Patourel to the Anglo-Norman rulers’ Channel-crossings in The Norman Empire are a contribution of enduring importance, and should remain so.2 Lucien Musset’s publications covered Viking/Scandinavian activity across all of the northern European seas and the post-1066 cross-Channel world, conveying a strong sense of how linked the various settlements were, often with a specific focus on Normandy.3 In reaction to John Le Patourel’s work, and also as a tribute, he wrote an article about the dangers of Channel crossings. While the emphasis on cross-Channel unity and assimilation was never as strong in his work as it was in Le Patourel’s, his publications do take us into some of the themes developed in this book.4 An extreme manifestation of the neglect of the study of the sea in relation to the northern European Norman worlds is the opinion that the Normans abandoned the English navy which had been created by Alfred the Great and was maintained by his successors, an argument recently and conclusively refuted by Susan Raich Sequeira.5 That this even needed to be done makes me think — as do this book’s editors — that in relation to the sea, the northern European worlds have been less thoroughly — or probably we should say, given the number of relevant recent publications, less comprehensively — studied than the southern European. The Mediterranean has attracted many distinguished publications and Sicily’s strategic significance within those worlds is well recognized.6 The book’s location within the conceptual framework of Norman worlds creates a route to carry out transcultural analysis. While making those who called themselves Normans to be the predominant social grouping, it allows for variable and changing ethnic identities, does not impose physical or cultural boundaries, removes the subject from narrow national historio­graphies, accepts the existence of other sometimes overlapping worlds, and provides the space for discussion of conquest, assimilation, diaspora, and what I would call empire (lower-case). This approach animated the conference which celebrated the eleven-hundredth anniversary of the widely accepted date of the foundation of 2 

Le Patourel, Norman Empire, pp. 163–72. See the essays collected in Musset, Nordica et Normannica. For reflections on his legacy, Gazeau and Neveux, ed., Posterité de Lucien Musset. 4  Musset, ‘Un empire à cheval sur la mer’. 5  Sequeira, ‘English Navy’. 6  For a major general treatment, Abulafia, The Great Sea. More specifically, Stanton, Norman Naval Operations. 3 

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the duchy of Normandy.7 It has been explored by Keith Stringer in the second volume produced out of the ‘Norman Edge’ project. But neither gave significant place to the history of the sea, with it being irresistible not to quote the very first sentence of Keith Stringer’s truly excellent Pro­logue to illustrate this point.8 One publication that has brought the sea into the discussion of maritime exchange and identity is the published version of a conference devoted to East Anglia and its North Sea World.9 A personal opinion reinforced by reading the articles in this book is that the whole history of the Normans should be placed within the centuries-long maritime history of the Middle Ages and within the history of an evolving Völkerwanderung, a point that emerges in Alexandra Vukovich’s essay. This is because the Norman worlds were inserted into existing worlds and interacted with them. Since Orderic Vitalis wrote so thoughtfully on the sea’s role in human life, Carolyn Cargile’s article on Orderic and the North Sea world is a good starting-point for reflection. Making appropriate reference to Amanda Hingst, Cargile shows how, for Orderic, the sea became a metaphor, not just for his own life, but for all human life. The chaos and unpredictability that the sea represented was for him the embodiment of the difficulty of the historians’ task. For Orderic, who believed that an understanding of the past was essential to humanity’s salvation and to good moral conduct, the world of the sea became a commentary on life itself. With a lot of what Orderic wrote resulting from a mixture of maritime and terrestrial communication, he shows that we can assume that sea voyages were a norm. But, equally, that the sea’s capacity to bring about change through accident and disaster was ever-present. In similar vein, but without the specific philosophical observations, Orderic’s contemporary, William of Malmesbury, writing in c. 1125, opined that the consequences of the White Ship hitting the rocks off Barfleur on 25 November 1120 were that ‘When the young man’s death was known, the face of things was wonderfully changed’.10 The complacent drunkenness of the crew might be thought an 7 

See Bates and Bauduin, ‘Avant-propos’, p. 9. Stringer, ‘Pro­logue’. The first sentence is ‘A traveller’s guide to what is here termed the ‘Norman Edge’, as we might envisage it in c. 1100, would have to cover swathes of moorland and dale as far north as the Cheviots, a large part of Wales, all southern Italy including Sicily (conquered piecemeal from the 1040s onwards), and much of the Palestine-Syria region (conquered in 1098–9)’. 9  Bates and Liddiard, eds, East Anglia and its North Sea World. 10  William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, i, pp. 762–63 (Iuuenculi ergo morte cognita res mirum in modum mutatae). 8 

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indication of how normal sea-crossings were. But, while the observation is a counter-factual one, we can see with the benefit of hindsight that the death at sea of Henry I’s only male heir might indeed be thought to have changed the course of European history. The book’s Introduction starts by foregrounding precisely these themes of risk and the multiple meanings of what I am referring to as normality. The way in which the fleet carrying Adelaide del Vasto, the widow of Count Roger I of Sicily, to marry Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, was blown of course to Ascalon, and attacked there, albeit with relatively minor consequences, illustrates the sea’s potential to bring about disaster. It also suggests, however, that, for many, the sea was not a barrier to political ambition. The 1066 invasion of England obviously makes the same point, as does much else. But the fact that a condition of the marriage was that Adelaide’s son, Count Roger II of Sicily, should succeed to the kingdom of Jerusalem if she did not bear children by Baldwin, surely indicates an ambition to a new trans-Mediterranean polity. Although Roger did not become king of Jerusalem, another trans-maritime political marriage with potential political consequences elsewhere in the Norman worlds certainly resulted in change. As in the case of Adelaide’s marriage, the union in 1170 of Aífe, daughter of Diarmait mac Murchada, king of Leinster, to Richard fitz Gilbert de Clare (‘Strongbow’) was also based on the assumption that Strongbow and others could sustain power across the sea. The consequences of this marriage are arguably still with us. Such marriages do, however, draw attention to the argument on which we should reflect as we think about the resilience and durability of the Norman worlds, namely, that maritime empires are intrinsically weaker than land-based ones.11 Whatever we might think, it looks as if a great many people in the Central Middle Ages did not think in this way. The articles by Mahir Shaab Abdusalam and Claire Collins show how such ambitions encompassed the lives of people below the secular and religious elites who took the big political decisions. Abdusalam’s argument that Roger II’s Mediterranean policies aimed primarily to maintain trade links with North Africa and the Fatimid Caliphate, although mainly analysed through diplomatic correspondence, has beneath its surface the lives and livelihoods of the merchants, traders, and sailors that Roger was obliged to take into account. The Fatimids’ support for Roger’s takeover of the island of Djerba in 1135 shows that they too based their policies on similar economic and social rationales. That these collaborations perpetuated relationships of a kind that 11 

For a wide-ranging survey, Colley, ‘Difficulties of Empire’, pp. 371–74.

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had existed when Sicily had been under Muslim rule and which had continued while Roger’s father was completing the takeover of the island indicates that the Norman worlds were a new version of older ones.12 They also show how context shaped cultural transfer. While reading Collins’ article on John de Courcy’s takeover of Ulster and the subsequent creation of multiple networks across the Irish Sea, it is impossible not to hear echoes of the ninth- and tenth-century journeys across the Irish Sea by members of the dynasty of Ívarr, some of whom installed themselves at York as kings. John’s activities and those of others were a product of the nowadays much-written about long-term interactive dynamism of the Irish Sea world. Note, for example, Fiona Edmonds’s discussion of the continuing use over many centuries of Gaelic personal names in northern England and southern Scotland, relevant sections of Julia Crick’s analysis of the interaction of Flemings and other peoples around the Western British-Irish Isles,13 and the commercial relationships that developed from the tenth century onwards between the Irish coastal towns of Dublin, Wexford, and Waterford and the English towns of Bristol and Chester.14 It must finally be mentioned that the duchy of Normandy was always very much a part of this Irish Sea world and of the world of the Atlantic littoral.15 The multiculturalism of what became the kingdom of Sicily and the way in which people moved across religious boundaries scarcely needs comment in an essay like this one. But transcultural exchange within Ireland and across the Irish Sea is a subject arguably too entrenched in a historio­g raphy associated with notions of Inner and Outer Europe and even of civilization being brought to barbarians. Once more, these contributions prompt reflection on the normality of trans-maritime relationships and on the interactive cultural transfer that these involved. To write this is not to deny the central importance of conquest and the dominance associated with superior hard power. Hence, my arguments elsewhere for the use of the word empire (lower-case). It does mean that we should examine cultural transfer through the lens of agency and context, something that these two articles do very well. 12 

See, for example, Stanton, Norman Naval Operations, p. 61. Edmonds, ‘Names on the Norman Edge’; Crick, ‘Flemish Settlement and Maritime Traffic’, especially pp. 75–76. 14  Bradley, ‘A Tale of Three Cities’. 15  For pre-1066, see, for example, van Tourhoudt, ‘Les sièges du pouvoir des Néel’, pp. 32–33; Ridel, ‘From Scotland to Normandy’. For a survey of some post-1066 material, Bates, ‘Ireland and the Empires’. 13 

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Carolyn Cargile’s arguments for Orderic’s links with Scandinavia and Daniel Talbot’s demonstration of the importance of the cult of St Olaf at York introduce us to the North Sea world, but do so in different ways. Cargile’s demonstration of the parallels between Orderic’s account of Tostig’s perambulations in 1066 and later sagas adds a previously unknown dimension to Orderic’s extraordinary capacity to assemble and process information. With so much written about his knowledge of southern Europe and the movement of people across the northern and southern European worlds, we can now see even more clearly how global his vision was.16 While the basis of this vision was ultimately philosophical, it was grounded in a remarkable sociability and in his extraordinary networks.17 The visit he made to Crowland might have enhanced his contacts with Scandinavia, but, whether he acquired his information about Scandinavia directly or indirectly, we see even more clearly the importance of maritime exchange for the Norman worlds, and, in this case, the North Sea ones.18 Talbot’s analysis of Stephen of Whitby’s foundation history of the abbey of St Mary’s, York, and its omission of any reference to the previous church dedicated to St Olaf on the same site, prompts thought about another facet of the North Sea world and cultural transfer. That this was probably the first church in England to be dedicated to St Olaf, as well as foregrounding the sea yet again, takes us back into the time well before the Norman Conquest of England and into worlds which might have continued had that event not happened. The dynamism of the twelfth-century North Sea worlds can be illustrated in many ways. The many round-towered parish churches of Norfolk and Suffolk are of a kind that proliferated around the North Sea, but nowhere else.19 The still visible west block of Ely cathedral and what can be known of the abbey church of Bury St Edmunds drew on sources from the Empire.20 The fleet that diverted to capture Lisbon during the Second Crusade was in all likelihood organized on the basis of mutual understanding of the inhabitants of coastal towns in East Anglia, Flanders, and the Rhineland. Here we see the activity shaped by maritime communities on different sides of a sea who were in regu16 

Roach, ‘Saint-Évroult’. For comment on Orderic’s networks and his historical writing, Bates, ‘Lives, Identities’, pp. 189–93. 18  For Orderic and Crowland, see Marritt, ‘Crowland Abbey’. 19  Heywood, ‘Stone Building in Romanesque East Anglia’, pp. 265–69. 20  Plant, ‘Romanesque East Anglia’. 17 

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lar contact.21 But we can also see something that must be universally relevant to the study of maritime exchange, namely, that proximity to the sea was an important influencing factor. In East Anglia, the relevant ease of communication over land or sea produced diversity within a region.22 Talbot’s article is also a powerful reminder that, when we think about transcultural exchange and its implementation, we must never forget the capacity of those with power to decide how it was deployed, and that this could involve the obliteration of memory or its adjustment to make specific points. With this in mind, I wonder whether anyone walking the battlefield site at Battle, magnificently presented as it is by English Heritage, ever thinks about another religious foundation on the site of a decisive battle, namely, the minster that Cnut had had built at Assandun (usually identified as Ashingdon, Essex) where he had defeated his rival for kingship, Edmund Ironside, in 1016. According to William of Malmesbury, by the early twelfth century it was served by a single parish priest.23 Given that the objective was presumably the same as with William the Conqueror’s foundation on the site of the Battle of Hastings, that is, to create a memorial to the dead for whose souls priests and monks had been installed to pray, it would seem that the second conquest, that is, the Norman Conquest, had both consciously and unconsciously almost destroyed the first one’s place in history. The exercise of choice in relation to cultural transfer also features in the two articles by Mark Bowden and Allan Brodie and by Andrew Blackler. Blackler’s survey of the architectural history of the so-called great tower within the Byzantine empire creates the basis for a new analysis of a process of cultural transmission to the West — and therefore to Normandy — from Byzantium. While he does discuss the donjon at Langeais (Indre-et-Loire), the next logical stage in the analysis is to fully locate his argument within the much-studied, but complex, history of the great tower in northern and eastern France.24 Whatever the outcome, the basic argument fits with the nowadays predominant view of the duchy as a post-Carolingian polity interacting with other French territorial principalities, as well as one with remarkable links around the North Sea, Irish Sea, and Atlantic worlds.

21 

West, ‘All in the Same Boat?’, pp. 296–300; Oksanen, ‘Economic Relations’. Williamson, ‘East Anglia’s Character’, pp. 58–60. 23  William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, i, pp. 316–17, 322–23. 24  For a relatively recent full discussion, Impey, ‘Ancestry of the White Tower’. 22 

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Copying Byzantium and Roman models was also a way to demonstrate enhanced prestige, or, in cruder language, to show off, a point that has often been made about early medi­eval Western Europe. This argument is also central to Bowden and Brodie’s reinterpretation of the keep and the castle at Pevensey which emphasizes its Roman characteristics, placing it on a similar footing to the White Tower and Colchester, and underlining its relationship to the sea. In terms of cultural transfer, their arguments become even stronger when the analysis is broadened to include other places and other types of evidence. It is hard, for example, not to think that the resemblances to the Arch of Constantine in Rome that have been detected in the west fronts of the new cathedral at Lincoln and the abbey church of Bury St Edmunds are not the result of the visits to Rome by Bishop Remigius and Abbot Baldwin.25 More generally, displays of grandeur such as these and the extraordinary Western European-wide range of religious patronage that are typical of William the Conqueror’s rule in England have no precedents that we know of in Normandy before 1066. Examples are the new Winchester cathedral with its resemblances to the imperial burial church at Speyer and William’s innovative double-sided seal with its Carolingian influences and its resemblances to the seals of the Emperor Conrad II (1024–1039) and Popes Nicholas II (1059–1061) and Alexander II (1061–1073).26 This is also a phenomenon that must surely also be treated as a reference to kingship that was shaped by the English past and the European present. To be a king was different from being a duke. When we look back into England’s pre-1066 history, the use of imperial language in Æthelstan’s diplomas, Cnut’s presence in Rome at the imperial coronation of the Emperor Conrad II and his other European interventions, and the Byzantine and Carolingian influences on Edward the Confessor’s seal are just three examples of cultural transfer and behaviour designed to demonstrate status and enhance prestige.27 In the interests of proclaimed legitimacy, William and the others were surely aiming to illustrate their place within this distinguished past, as well as their 25 

Heslop, ‘Constantine and Helena’, pp. 170–72. For the evidence on which these comments are based, Bates, William the Conqueror, pp. 272–74; Bates, ‘William the Conqueror’s Wider Western European World’; Lewis, ‘Auda­ city and Ambition’. All contain references to the scholarship on which their conclusions are based. 27  For succinct modern treatments of these with references to other scholarship, Foot, Æthelstan, pp. 213–16; Bolton, Cnut the Great, pp. 158–71; Bates, William the Conqueror, p. 273. 26 

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present standing. Although they do not appear in any detail in this book, exactly the same processes and values are evident in the emergent kingdom of Sicily. Witness, for example, the Capella Palatina in Roger II’s palace and the church of Santa Maria dell’Ammiraglio at Palermo. So viewed, cultural transfer becomes an aspect of European-wide belief-systems into which the Norman worlds were taking their place. Overall, the Mediterranean, the North Sea, the Irish Sea, and the English Channel become dynamic spaces in which the Normans were participants in worlds that had existed long before they came into existence as a gens and into which they were absorbed into trans-cultural exchanges of multiple kinds. The fluidity that characterized these worlds is splendidly illuminated by Alexandra Vukovich’s analysis of the debates about the origins of the Russian people. While mostly taking us back into times before the outward migration of the socalled Normans, the conceptual thinking she brings to bear is centrally relevant to that analysis. Her article is just one reason why I think that it might be justified to place the subject to which this book is devoted into the history of an evolving Völkerwanderung. To do this, it would be necessary to recognize that there are substantial differences between the migrations and movements of the first millennium and those of the peoples who inhabited the Norman worlds. The way in which the Norman Conquest of England was thought-provokingly characterized as ‘small-scale elite transfer’ by Peter Heather invites comparative analysis of this kind.28 I would start a discussion by drawing attention to the creation of states as Susan Reynolds defined them, assert that the duchy of Normandy was every bit as much a state as England was, follow up by drawing attention to structural differences, and then point out that migration and movement remain a constant.29 I would finally add that diaspora, as I and the editors of this book define it, is an essential analytical tool to give coherence to processes ongoing throughout several centuries.30 One conclusion. With the exception of Cargile’s contribution, the duchy of Normandy scarcely features in the book. This is not meant as a criticism. It is just a way of saying that the duchy’s evolution must been seen as a part of the broader themes that this book highlights and that words like Normanization have to be used with care. A distinguished and still lively historio­graphy dating 28 

Heather, Empires and Barbarians, pp. 23, 298–99, 327, 350–51, and 614. Reynolds, ‘There Were States’, p. 551 (‘a state is an organization of human society within a more or less fixed area in which the ruler or governing body more or less successfully controls the legitimate use of physical force’). 30  For my definition, Bates, Normans and Empire, p. 29. 29 

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back to the time of Lucien Musset and Jean Yver has located Normandy’s development within the framework of the principalities of post-Carolingian northern France. However, when it comes to the culture of the sea, we can see that the Scandinavian past remained profoundly influential.31 This is one of many reasons why the longue durée of the movement and migration of peoples and the transcultural exchanges that accompanied this are of central importance. A second conclusion. The book must be seen as opening up important new vistas on a huge subject. To define transcultural exchange and interaction requires an extraordinary interdisciplinarity. A personal reflection is that, in relation to European-wide processes of cultural change, the historio­graphy of the period from c. 900 to c. 1200 often makes use of the word revolution to describe processes that can turn out to be better defined as evolutionary. 32 There is no space here to elaborate further, beyond mentioning the names of Marc Bloch, R. W. Southern, Georges Duby, Karl Leyser, and Susan Reynolds as a way to open discussion. How should we place the Norman worlds and the history of the sea within all this? To make this point is to introduce a final suggestion that this book opens up exciting possibilities for a sequel. I am left reflecting on what that might be. There must certainly be one.

31  32 

Ridel, ‘Les préparatifs nautiques de la Conquête’. For an excellent entrée into these matters, Moore, First European Revolution.

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Works Cited Primary sources William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum, i, ed. and trans. by R. A. B. Mynors and Michael Winterbottom, Oxford Medi­eval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998)

Secondary Studies Abulafia, David, The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (London: Pen­ guin, 2011) Bates, David, and Pierre Bauduin, ‘Avant-propos’, in 911–2011: Penser les mondes normands médiévaux: actes du colloque international de Caen et Cerisy (29 septembre-2 octobre 2011), ed. by David Bates and Pierre Bauduin (Caen: Presses universitaires de Caen, 2016), pp. 7–9 Bates, David, and Robert Liddiard, eds, East Anglia and its North Sea World in the Middle Ages (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2013) Bradley, John, ‘A Tale of Three Cities: Bristol, Chester, Dublin and the “Coming of the Normans”’, in Ireland, England and the Continent in the Middle Ages and Beyond, ed.  by Howard  B. Clarke and J.  R.  S. Phillips (Dublin: University College Dublin Press, 2006), pp. 51–66 Colley, Linda, ‘The Difficulties of Empire: Present, Past and Future’, Historical Research, 79 (2006), 367–82 Crick, Julia, ‘Flemish Settlement and Maritime Traffic in the South-West Peninsula of Britain, c.  1050–1250’, in Lives, Identities and Histories in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by Julie Barrau and David Bates (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021), pp. 56–78 Edmonds, Fiona, ‘Names on the Norman Edge: The Persistence of Gaelic Names in “Middle Britain”’, in The Normans and the ‘Norman Edge’: Peoples, Polities, and Iden­ tities on the Frontiers of Medi­eval Europe, ed. by Keith J. Stringer and Andrew Jotischky (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019), pp. 76–89 Gazeau, Véronique, and François Neveux, eds, Posterité de Lucien Musset (Caen: Presses universitaires de Caen, 2009) Haskins, C. H., The Normans in European History (London: Constable, 1916) Le Patourel, John, The Norman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976) Musset, Lucien, ‘Un empire à cheval sur la mer: les périls de mer dans l’État anglo-normand d’après les chartes, les chroniques et les miracles’, in Les Hommes et la Mer dans l’Europe du Nord-Ouest de l’Antiquité à nos jours: Actes du colloque de Boulogne-surMer, 15–17 Juin 1984, ed.  by Alain Lottin, Jean-Claude Hocquet, and Stéphane Lebecq, Revue Du Nord Hors Série, Collection Histoire,  1 (Villeneuve-d’Ascq: Revue du Nord, 1986), pp. 413–24

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—— , Nordica et Normannica: Recueil d’études sur la Scandinavie ancienne et médiévale, les expéditions des Vikings et la fondation de la Normandie (Paris: Société des Études Nordiques, 1997) Ridel, Élisabeth, ‘From Scotland to Normandy: The Celtic Sea Route of the Vikings’, in West over Sea: Studies in Scandinavian Sea-Borne Expansion and Settlement before 1300: A Festschrift in Honour of Dr Barbara E. Crawford, ed. by Beverley Ballin Smith, Simon Taylor, and Gareth Williams, The Northern World, 31 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), pp. 81–94 Sequeira, Susan Raich, ‘The English Navy in the Twelfth Century’, English Historical Review, 135 (2020), 743–74 Stanton, Charles D., Norman Naval Operations in the Mediterranean (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2011) Stringer, Keith J., ‘Pro­logue. The Norman Edge in Context’, in The Normans and the ‘Norman Edge’: Peoples, Polities and Identities on the Frontiers of Medi­eval Europe, ed. by Keith J. Stringer and Andrew Jotischky (London: Routledge, 2019), pp. 1–27 van Tourhoudt, Eric, ‘Les sièges du pouvoir des Néel, vicomtes dans le Cotentin’, in Les lieux du pouvoir au Moyen Âge en Normandie et sur ses marges, ed.  by Anne-Marie Flambard Héricher (Caen: Publications du CRAHM, 2006), pp. 7–35

Index Page numbers in italics refer to figures, maps, graphs, and tables.

Abbasid Caliphate: 62, 178–79, 192, 195, 197 Adam of Bremen: 92 n. 26 Adelaide del Vasto: 1–4, 214 Æthelstan, King of the English: 218 Albert of Aachen: 1–2 Alexis I Comnenos: 72 al-Hafiz al-Din Allah, Fatimid Caliph: 5, 15, 163–87 al-Qalqashandi, see Subh al-Asha al-Zahir Barquq, Sultan: 167 Anatolia: 61, 64, 74, 77, 203 Anglo-Saxon Chronicle: 22–23, 90 n. 14, 91–92, 95, 116 Annales school: 7 Antioch: 51, 63, 74 Armenia: 199; Armenians: 175–77, 182 Athos, Mount: 49, 55–56, 71 Atlantic: 7, 9, 215, 217 Augustine de Ridale: 139, 143 n. 65, 156 Augustinians: 139 n. 38, 143 n. 64, 158 Ágrip, see Norse sagas Baldric of Dol. see Baudri of Bourgueil Baldwin I, King of Jerusalem: 1–4, 172, 214 Basil II Porphyrogenitus, Emperor of Byzan­ tium: 61, 64, 198–99, 200, 201–02 Battle, Abbey: 41, 45, 138 Baudri of Bourgueil: 41 Bayeux Tapestry: 21, 29, 30–31, 37, 41 Bede: 114, 119–20 n. 42 Benedictines: 109, 112, 114–15, 143, 145–46, 149, 158 Benoit de St Maur: 29–30 Black Sea: 63, 77, 187, 190, 195 Braudel, Fernand: 7 Buyyid dynasty: 195

Byzantine Empire: 14, 49, 50, 51, 57, 60–63, 65–67, 71–73, 76–78, 164, 192, 193, 198 n. 42, 199, 202–03, 217 Cairo: 165, 168–69, 175–77, 182 castel: 55 castellum: 55, 76 Cathal Crobderg, King of Connacht: 140, 151, 152, 154–55 Caucasus: 190 n. 9, 195, 203 Charlemagne, Carolingian Emperor: 62 charters: 41, 60, 113, 121–23, 139, 143, 145 n. 48, 149 see also diplomas Chronicle of Man and the Isles: 135 n. 18, 142 n. 58, 149 n. 97, 154 n. 122, 156 Cistercians: 110, 131, 143 n. 63, 144–45, 147, 149, 152, 158 Cnut, King of England and Denmark: 116, 217–18 coastal erosion and deposition: 27–28 coinage: 140, 192–94, 200–01, 204 n. 65 see also hoards coins, see dirhams, folles, Kufic coins, miliaresia, nomisma Colchester: 35, 45, 114, 218 Constantine I, the Great, Emperor of Rome: 74 n. 100, 147 Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, Emperor of Byzantium: 198 Constantine VIII Porphyrogenitus, Emperor of Byzantium: 200, 201–02 Constantine-Mstislav Vladimirich, Prince of Chernigov, see Mstislav Vladimirich Constantinople: 50–52, 56, 60–61, 63–64, 69–70, 72–73, 74, 75, 178, 191 n. 13, 199

224

INDEX

Cordoba Caliphate: 50 n. 3 cross-cultural: 77, 203 Crusader states: 1–3, 49, 58, 59, 73 n. 95, 77, 172–76 Crusading: 3, 51–52, 56, 77, 134, 143, 146 n. 78, 153–56, 171–72, 181, 214, 216 cupa: 74–75

George of Antioch: 173–76 Gerald of Wales: 11 n. 22, 131, 136, 146 Gilbert fitz Gilbert: 42–43 gold: 2, 164, 178, 193 n. 22, 194, 197–98 great tower: 14, 35, 37, 49–84 see also donjon, keep Greece: 49, 52–53, 55, 59, 67, 75–76, 173 Guy of Amiens: 28–29

Danube, River: 10, 63, 75–76 de l’Aigle, Engenulf and Gilbert: 42–43 diaspora: 8, 12, 212, 219 Norman: 49, 52, 71, 78 Viking: 12, 16, 189, 201, 204 diplomacy: 4, 9, 15, 49, 60, 65, 76, 78, 131, 163, 167, 170–71, 178, 180, 199, 214 diplomas: 122, 124, 218 dirhams: 189, 194 n. 23, 195–99, 202, 204 n. 65 Djerba: 167, 169–71, 173–74, 182, 214 donjon: 38, 49, 55 n. 27, 59, 65, 70, 217 see also great tower, keep Down (later Downpatrick), Ulster: 131–62

hagiography: 116, 131, 133, 141, 147 Harald Hardrada, King of Norway: 61, 89–93, 98 Harold Godwinson, King of England: 21, 32, 62, 88–90, 93, 95 Haskins, Charles Homer: 77, 211 Hastings, Battle of: 21, 26, 30, 41–42, 45, 62, 66, 88, 95, 97, 132, 217 settlement: 23–25, 30–32, 37–38, 138 Heimskringla, see Norse sagas Henry I, King of England: 42, 121 n. 45, 124, 214 Henry II, King of England: 9, 43, 134–36, 140, 148, 152–53, 157 Henry of Huntingdon: 89 n. 10, 92, 94–95, 103 n. 71 Historia ecclesiastica, see Orderic Vitalis history writing: 5–9, 85, 86 n. 3, 88, 98–99, 100, 103, 109, 114, 125, 211 historiography: 10–14, 50–51, 71, 103, 187–89, 212, 216, 219–20 hoards: 191, 193, 194 n. 23, 195, 197 n. 40, 198–99 see also coins Hugh de Lacy I: 134–35, 137, 139 n. 40, 148, 153 Hugh de Lacy II: 152–57

Eastern Christianity: 50, 203 Edward the Confessor, King of England: 22–23, 62, 88–91, 218 Egypt: 50, 62, 163–64, 166, 169–71, 173, 175–77, 179–80, 182 Empress Matilda, see Matilda, Lady of the English English Channel: 10–13, 23–24, 29, 42, 45, 85–88, 101–02, 212, 219 Eurasia: 15, 187–211 expansion: 4, 6, 16, 65, 135, 141, 151 n. 105, 153–54, 168, 171, 187, 204 Fagrskinna, see Norse sagas Fatimid Caliphate: 163, 165, 167–68, 170, 175–77, 180, 182–83, 214 fall of: 179 Fatimid Caliph: 2, 15, 163–83 Flanders: 89–92, 216 Flemings: 215 folles: 198 foundation narratives: 6, 14, 109–11, 114, 116–21, 126, 216–17

Iaroslav Vladimirich, Prince of Kiev: 193, 200, 200–01, 203 Ibn al-Athir: 166, 170–72, 174–75, 179–80 Ifrīqiya, Norman kingdom of: 171, 175 Innocent III, Pope: 151 n. 106, 155 Ireland: 7, 10, 15, 131–62, 215 Irish Sea: 4, 7–8, 14, 131, 133, 141–44, 158, 215, 217, 219 Isle of Man: 15, 131, 137 n. 29, 142–44, 156

INDEX Jerusalem: 10, 50, 62–64, 87, 154 n. 122, 155 n. 129 Kingdom of, see Crusader states Jocelin of Furness: 131, 133, 147–48 John de Courcy: 8, 14–15, 131–62, 215 John of Antioch: 169 John of Worcester: 90–92 John I, King of England: 9–10, 131, 140, 141 n. 49, 144–45, 152 n. 111, 153–57 John I Tzimiskes, Emperor of Byzantium: 59, 64 Johns, Jeremy: 166, 168–69, 177–78 Julius Caesar, Emperor of Rome: 40–41, 45 Justinian I, the Great, Emperor of Byzan­ tium: 55, 63, 76, 188, 202–03 n. 63 kastelion: 57, 76 keep: 21–22, 30, 32, 33, 34–35, 36, 37–45, 73–76, 140, 218 see also great tower, donjon Kharakhanids: 197 Kiev: 189, 193–94, 198, 204 Kufic coins: 195 Le Patourel, John: 10, 211–12 literary exchange: 11, 14, 85–88, 94–95, 97–98, 101, 103, 216 Louis I, the Pious, Carolingian Emperor: 199 Magnus Barelegs, King of Norway: 11 Malachy III, Bishop of Down: 137, 145–47, 158 Malachy, St: 149 Mamluk Empire: 167, 204 manuscripts: 9, 92, 110–11, 114 nn. 21–22, 116 Mappa Mundi: 87 Matilda, Lady of the English: 132 Mediterranean Sea: 1, 3–4, 7, 9, 14–15, 49, 52, 63, 71, 77–78, 87, 97, 163–65, 170–71, 174, 178, 181, 187, 203, 212, 214, 219 Mesopotamia: 195, 199 Miliaresia: 193, 194 n. 22, 198–99, 200, 201–02, 204 Morkinskinna, see Norse sagas mottes: 30, 32, 37, 57, 138–40 Mstislav Vladimirich, the Great, Prince of Kiev: 193, 201, 203

225

narratio fundationis, see foundation narratives Nasr I and Ismā’īl ibn Aḥmad: 197 naval power, also naval warfare: 2, 5, 11, 13, 24, 45, 50 n. 3, 60, 66, 141 n. 53, 143, 168, 181, 212, 214 Nicholas II and Alexander II, Popes: 218 Nikephorus II Phokas, Emperor of Byzantium: 51 n. 10, 59–61, 66 n. 75, 199 nomisma: 198, 202 n. 63 Normandy: 2, 7–8, 10–12, 14, 23, 26, 41–42, 49, 57 n. 38, 60, 63–65, 85–90, 93–98, 102, 131 n. 1, 132, 134, 144, 154 n. 123, 156–57, 212–13, 215, 217–20 Normanitas: 4 Norse sagas: 11 n. 22, 14, 92–97, 216 North Sea: 7, 14, 23, 85, 87–88, 98, 101, 213, 216–17, 219 Novgorod: 189, 193, 198 Odo of Bayeux: 21, 30, 42, 113 Olaf I, King of Man: 142, 144 Olaf II Haraldsson, King of Norway, St: 95–96, 109, 115–17, 126, 216 cult of: 115–19, 216 Olaf III Haraldsson, kyrri, King of Norway: 96 Olga, Princess of Kiev: 199 Orderic Vitalis: 10–11, 14, 21, 26, 85–108, 213, 216 his Historia ecclesiastica: 10, 23, 26, 29, 41–42, 85–108 Outremer, see Crusader states Palermo: 168, 177, 219 Patrick, St: 131, 137, 140, 146–48, 158 Peter of Blois: 8 Peter Pipard: 153–54 Pevensey haven: 23, 24–25, 27 keep: 33, 35–41, 43, 218 Norman defences: 30, 32–34 Roman fort: 22, 27, 40 stockade: 44 Polovtsi: 189 popes, see Innocent III, Nicholas II, and Alexander II

INDEX

226

Primary Chronicle: 188–89, 190 n. 10, 201, 204 Procopius: 55, 57, 63, 76 pyrgos: 52, 56, 62 Reinfrid, Abbot of Whitby: 111, 114, 119 n. 42, 123 relics: 95, 137, 146, 148–49 Richard fitz Gilbert de Clare, alias Strongbow: 134–39, 141 n. 51, 142, 146, 153, 157, 214 Richard I, King of England: 9, 133, 140, 153–55 Richard II, King of England: 10 Riurikids: 193 n. 19, 200 Robert of Mortain: 30, 41–43 Robin Hood: 110 Roger I, King of Sicily: 1, 172–73, 215 Roger II, King of Sicily: 3, 5, 15, 56 n. 35, 72, 163–86, 214–15, 219 Roger of Howden: 9–10, 137 n. 29 his Chronicle: 152, 155 Rollo, Duke of Normandy: 11–12 Roman Empire: 22, 50–52, 54, 60, 65, 75 see also Romanitas Roman de Rou: 25–26, 31 see also Wace Romanitas: 13–14, 40–41, 45, 71–73, 76, 124–25, 202 n. 63, 218 Roskilde Chronicle: 94 Ruaidrí mac Duinn Sléibe, King of Ulaid: 136, 137 n. 28, 148, 151–52 Ruaidrí Ua Chonchobair, King of Connacht: 135, 140, 142 n. 57, 150–51, 153 Rus, territory: 8, 15–16, 187–210 people: 61, 188, 199 Samanid Emirate: 195, 196, 197 Scandinavia: 11, 14, 16, 23, 61, 85–87, 92 n. 26, 93–98, 115–16, 126, 189, 191 n. 16, 193, 195, 198, 201–05, 216 Scotland: 90–92, 138, 140–41, 215 Scythians: 191 sea crossing: 2, 9–11, 13, 21, 23–24 42, 45, 85–88, 93, 100–04, 211–12, 214–15 Sicily: 1–3, 8, 11, 49–50, 56 n. 35, 60, 65–67, 76, 163–86, 212, 213 n. 8, 214–15

silk: 56 n. 35, 73, 164, 169, 178, 189 silver: 2, 72, 178, 187, 193–98, 200, 201–02, 204 Siward, Earl of Northumbria: 116, 121 slaves; slavery: 56, 164–65, 197, 204 solidus, see nomisma Stamford Bridge, Battle of: 62, 90–91, 96–97 Stephen, King of England: 42–43, 132, 144 Stephen of Whitby, Abbot of St Mary’s: 14, 109–29, 216 Stephen, son of Airand: 24 Steppe zone: 16, 187, 189, 191 n. 16, 193, 200, 203 St Mary’s Abbey, York: 14, 109–29, 143, 216 St Olave’s, York: 109–29 Strongbow, see Richard fitz Gilbert de Clare Subh al-Asha: 163, 166–68, 175 Sviatopolk Vladimirich, Prince of Kiev: 193, 200 synods: 138 n. 33, 148–49 Syria: 54, 58, 59, 62, 175, 199, 203, 213 n. 8 Taman Peninsula: 193, 201–02 Tartu: 201 textiles: 4, 163, 167, 171, 178, 191 n. 16 see also silk Theodoricus Monachus: 94, 98 Tmutarakan: 193–94, 199–203 Torksey, Viking Winter Camp: 196 Tostig Godwinson: 62, 85–108, 216 transculturalism: 4–9, 12–16, 40, 77–78, 87–88, 103, 201, 211–12, 215, 217, 220 Transoxiana: 195, 197 treaties: 12, 61 n. 52, 135, 164, 179, 199, 202 n. 63, 204 Tripoli: 171 n. 45, 173 Ulster: 15, 131–62 Van Houts, Elizabeth: 27, 86, 94, 97, 98 n. 56 Varangians: 61–62, 187–88 Venice: 62, 71, 179 Vikings: 11–13, 45, 57 n. 38, 187, 189, 191, 196, 201, 212 Vivianus, Cardinal: 137, 142 n. 58 Vladimir Sviatoslavich, Prince of Kiev: 61, 192, 193, 200

INDEX Wace: 25–27, 31–32, 40, 88 n. 9 Whitby: 109–12, 114, 123 White Ship, the: 10, 213 William I, Count of Boulogne: 43 William I of Hauteville, Iron-Arm: 60 William I, King of England also William II, Duke of Normandy: 11–12, 21–45, 57, 62, 65–67, 78, 88–90, 95, 100, 109, 112–13, 116, 120, 123–25, 132, 138, 157, 217–18 William II, King of England also William Rufus: 42, 109, 113, 121–24 William de Burgh: 142 n. 57, 150, 152, 154–55 William de Percy: 112 William of Apulia: 65 William of Jumièges: 26, 30–32, 90, 94–95 William of Malmesbury: 26, 40, 91, 95, 103 n. 71, 213, 217 William of Mortain: 42 William of Poitiers: 24–26, 30, 41, 90, 95 William of Tyre: 1–3 William the Conqueror, see William I, King of England William Marshall: 146, 154 n. 123, 157 William Meschin: 133, 143 Yahya Ibn-Sa’id al-Antaki, see John of Antioch York: 13 n. 27, 14, 74 n. 100, 109, 110, 111–17, 118, 119–29, 143–44, 211, 215–16 Zirid dynasty: 165, 167, 171, 173

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