Portraits of Medieval Europe, 800–1400 [1 ed.] 1032332840, 9781032332840

This volume provides a collection of ‘imagined lives’ – individuals who, no matter their position on the social hierarch

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Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Figures
Contributors
Maps
1. Introduction
2. 'My Name is Euphemios.... Euphemios of Amastris': Memories of a Eunuch at His Emperor(s)' Service in the Byzantine Insular and Coastal Koine (ca. 680-ca. 740)
Introduction
Portrait
AM 6233 Lent - Ravenna
Notes
Further Reading
3. Gisela, Abbess of Chelles, in Conversation with Charlemagne and Alcuin of York
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
4. Theutberga: Reflections on the Divorce of King Lothar II
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
5. For She Is Not to Work: A Noble's Experience of Human Trafficking in the Viking Age
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
6. Ruin and Misery: The Troubles of Erchempert of Montecassino
Introduction
Portrait
A Time of Tribulation
The Accurséd Landolfingi
A Roman Privilegium
Notes
Further Reading
7. On the Caliph's Secret Service: Ibrāhīm ibn Ya'qūb on Slavic Europe
Introduction
Portrait
Excerpts from the Logbook
Notes
Further Reading
8. Brian Bórumha, High King of Ireland
Introduction
Portrait
To my Dear Son Duncan
Epilogue
Notes
Further Reading
9. Otloh of St Emmeram: A Life of Temptations
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
10. Unknown: A Concubine of Many Names
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
11. Basil the Bogomil: Seen Through Contemporary Eyes
Introduction
Portrait
"Johannes" and Zigabenos
Meeting Basil the Bogomil
Basil, the Deviant Ascetic
Further Reading
12. My Father's Noble Life: Boris, Son of King Koloman; by Konstantinos Kalamanos
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
13. Heloise: Philosopher of Love and Friendship
Introduction
Portrait
Epilogue
Notes
Further Reading
Primary sources
Secondary literature
14. Between the Lines: The Life of Havoise of Brittany, c. 1096-1165
Introduction
Portrait
Growing up 1096-1111
Anno Domini 1101
Anno Domini 1104
Anno domini 1106
Anno Domini 1109
Anno Domini 1110
Anno Domini 1111
Married Life: 1111-1115
Anno Domini 1113
Anno Domini 1115
Sister Agnes
Anno Domini 1116-1165
End
Anno Domini 1165
Notes
Further Reading
15. The Gifts of Teresa Fernández
Introduction
Portrait
1180
1160, Perales
1177, Toledo
1178, Benavente
1180. León
Notes
Further Reading
16. 'A Princess Wooed by Many': Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople
Introduction
Portrait
Epiphany 1178 (December)
Easter 1179 (March)
Nativity of the Theotokos 1179 (September)
Pascha 1180 (March)
Presentation of the Theotokos 1180 (November)
Theophany 1181 (January)
Pentecost 1181 (May)
Nativity of Christ 1182 (December)
Pascha 1182 (April)
Pentecost 1182 (May)
Nativity of Christ 1183 (December)
Presentation of the Theotokos 1183 (November)
Elevation of the Cross 1185 (September)
Notes
Further Reading
17. I am Thibaut I of Navarre, the Poet Who Would Be King
Introduction
Portrait
Further Reading
18. Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene, OFM, from Genoa
Introduction
Portrait
Further Reading
19. On the Edges: Medieval Swansea, Visited by Ralph Baldock, Bishop of London
Introduction
Portrait
Bishop Ralph Baldock Visits Swansea, c. 1310
Notes
Further Reading
20. Queen Helen of Serbia: Catholic Noblewoman - Orthodox Queen
Introduction
Portrait
Note
Further Reading
21. The Missini Siblings
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
22. A Pilgrim's Deliberation: Johaneta Aymara's Pilgrimage to Le Puy-en-Velay, en route to the Camino de Santiago de Compostela
Introduction
Portrait
Notes
Further Reading
23. Abbot Heinrich Kresse and St Barbara
Introduction
Portrait
The Last Entry into the Gesta Abbatum
Gesta Abbatum Bucowensium
Folio 10v
Notes
Further Reading
Index
Recommend Papers

Portraits of Medieval Europe, 800–1400 [1 ed.]
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Portraits of Medieval Europe, 800–1400

This volume provides a collection of ‘imagined lives’ – individuals who, no matter their position on the social hierarchy, were crucial to the development of medieval Europe and the modern period that followed. Based on primary source materials and the latest historical research, these literary accounts of otherwise unsourced or under-sourced individuals are written by leading scholars in the field. The book’s approach transcends the limitations of both historical narrative and literary fiction, offering a researchinformed presentation of real people that is enriched by informed speculation and creative storytelling. This enriched presentation of the lives of these individuals offers the quickest route to understanding medieval culture, society, and intellectual thought. Crucially, the book treats the whole of Europe, broadly defined: both conventional areas of study such as England and France, and also lesser studied but no less important areas such as eastern Europe, Iberia, and the Balkans. The reader of Portraits of Medieval Europe encounters the diversity present in the European past: the resulting portraits – unique, personal, and engaging – offer not only a wide geographical scope but also perspective on the formation of European society in its fullest form. This book is accessible and engaging for students new to medieval history as well as those wishing to expand their knowledge of medieval society. Christian Raffensperger is the Kenneth E. Wray Chair in the Humanities at Wittenberg University, where he is also a professor and Chair of the History Department. His overarching aim in his work is to integrate eastern Europe into the rest of medieval Europe. This began with his first book, Reimagining Europe: Kievan Rus’ and the Medieval World (2012), and has continued through his most recent projects such as Rulers and Rulership in the Arc of Medieval Europe, 1000–1200 (2023). Erin Thomas Dailey is an Associate Professor of Late Antique and Early Medieval History at the University of Leicester. He is currently the Principal Investigator for an ERC-Consolidator Grant (DoSSE Project 101001429). He is also the author of two monographs, Queens, Consorts, Concubines: Gregory of Tours and Women of the Merovingian Elite (2015), and Radegund: The Trials and Triumphs of a Merovingian Queen (2023).

Portraits of Medieval Europe, 800–1400

Edited by Christian Raffensperger and Erin Thomas Dailey

Designed cover image: Tacuinum Sanitatis. Fourteenth century. Medieval handbook of health. Interlocutor. Folio 100v. PRISMA ARCHIVO / Alamy Stock Photo First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Christian Raffensperger and Erin Thomas Dailey; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Christian Raffensperger and Erin Thomas Dailey to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Raffensperger, Christian, editor. | Dailey, E. T. (Erin T.), editor. Title: Portraits of medieval Europe, 800-1400 / edited by Christian Raffensperger and Erin Thomas Dailey. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2024. | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: LCCN 2023042870 (print) | LCCN 2023042871 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032332840 (hbk) | ISBN 9781032332871 (pbk) | ISBN 9781003318972 (ebk) Classification: LCC D117.A2 P67 2024 (print) | LCC D117.A2 (ebook) | DDC 940.1dc23/eng/20231214 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023042870 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023042871 ISBN: 978-1-032-33284-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-33287-1 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-31897-2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972 Typeset in Times New Roman by MPS Limited, Dehradun

Contents

List of Figures List of Contributors Maps 1 Introduction

viii ix xiv 1

LUCY K. PICK

2 ‘My Name is Euphemios…. Euphemios of Amastris’: Memories of a Eunuch at His Emperor(s)’ Service in the Byzantine Insular and Coastal Koine (ca. 680–ca. 740)

12

LUCA ZAVAGNO

3 Gisela, Abbess of Chelles, in Conversation with Charlemagne and Alcuin of York

27

RUTGER KRAMER AND INGRID REMBOLD

4 Theutberga: Reflections on the Divorce of King Lothar II

39

ERIN THOMAS DAILEY

5 For She Is Not to Work: A Noble’s Experience of Human Trafficking in the Viking Age

50

CHRISTOPHER PAOLELLA

6 Ruin and Misery: The Troubles of Erchempert of Montecassino CHRISTOPHER HEATH

63

vi Contents

7 On the Caliph’s Secret Service: Ibrh m ibn Ya‘q!b on Slavic Europe

73

ANDRII DANYLENKO

8 Brian Bórumha, High King of Ireland

80

BENJAMIN HUDSON

9 Otloh of St Emmeram: A Life of Temptations

91

JUANITA FEROS RUYS

10 Unknown: A Concubine of Many Names

99

STACEY E. MURRELL

11 Basil the Bogomil: Seen Through Contemporary Eyes

109

HISATSUGU KUSABU

12 My Father’s Noble Life: Boris, Son of King Koloman; by Konstantinos Kalamanos

119

CHRISTIAN RAFFENSPERGER

13 Heloise: Philosopher of Love and Friendship

127

DONALD OSTROWSKI

14 Between the Lines: The Life of Havoise of Brittany, c. 1096–1165

136

AMY LIVINGSTONE

15 The Gifts of Teresa Fernández

148

MIRIAM SHADIS

16 ‘A Princess Wooed by Many’: Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople

158

ERIN JORDAN

17 I am Thibaut I of Navarre, the Poet Who Would Be King

168

XABIER IRUJO

18 Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene, OFM, from Genoa FELICITAS SCHMIEDER

178

Contents vii

19 On the Edges: Medieval Swansea, Visited by Ralph Baldock, Bishop of London

190

CATHERINE A. M. CLARKE

20 Queen Helen of Serbia: Catholic Noblewoman – Orthodox Queen

201

JELENA ERDELJAN

21 The Missini Siblings

211

RENA LAUER

22 A Pilgrim’s Deliberation: Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage to Le Puy-en-Velay, en route to the Camino de Santiago de Compostela

224

SUSAN MCDONOUGH

23 Abbot Heinrich Kresse and St Barbara

234

EMILIA JAMROZIAK

Index

243

Figures

18.1 18.2 18.3

19.1

The Grand Bazaar of Tabriz Matrakçı Nasuh drawings of east and west Tabriz, assembled together (16th century) The ‘Rey del tauris’ excerpt from the Catalan Atlas (1375), accessed through the digital ‘Gallica’ collection of the Bibliothèque nationale de France Map of Swansea circa 1300 (‘City Witness’ project)

187 187

188 197

Contributors

Catherine A. M. Clarke is Professor and Director of the Centre for the History of People, Place and Community at the Institute of Historical Research, University of London. She has led a number of major research projects on medieval towns, and has published widely, with three monographs, including Medieval Cityscapes Today (2019), and edited volumes, including Power, Identity and Miracles on a Medieval Frontier (2016) and The St Thomas Way and the Medieval March of Wales (2020). Her work often involves digital methods, interdisciplinary approaches and creative practice. Andrii Danylenko is Professor of Russian and Slavic linguistics in the Department of Modern Languages and Cultures at Pace University. He holds a Ph.D. in General Linguistics from the Moscow People’s Friendship University (Russia). He is the editor and author of several books on Slavic linguistics and philology as well as dozens of studies on a wide array of topics ranging from Indo-European to standard Ukrainian. Among his recent books are Slavic on the Language Map of Europe: Historical and Areal-Typological Dimensions (together with Motoki Nomachi; Walter de Gruyter/Mouton, 2019), From the Bible to Shakespeare: Pantelejmon Kulis (1819–1897) and The Formation of Literary Ukrainian (Academic Studies Press, 2016). Jelena Erdeljan (Ph.D., University of Belgrade) is Professor in Ancient, Byzantine, and Premodern Art of Western Europe in the Department of Art History, Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade. She is founder and director of the Centre for the Study of Jewish Art and Culture at the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade, and president of the academic council of the Centre for Cypriot Studies at the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade. She is a research alumna of the University of Konstanz, Germany, and has been decorated with the Kavayera del Ladino al nombre de Don Yitzhak Navon. Juanita Feros Ruys (Ph.D., the University of Sydney) is a Medieval Latinist and an intellectual historian of the European Middle Ages. She has edited

x

Contributors and translated Peter Abelard’s Carmen ad Astralabium and Planctus (The Repentant Abelard, 2014) and is the author of Demons in the Middle Ages (2017). She is currently producing a first-time translation of William of Auvergne’s study of angels and demons in his De universo (On the Universe of Creatures) and a translation and study of Otloh of St Emmeram’s Liber de temptatione cuiusdam monachi (Book of the Temptation of a Certain Monk). She has also published on medieval empathy, medieval suicide, medieval first-person life narratives, medieval didactic literature, and the reception of medieval women writers.

Christopher Heath currently teaches at both Manchester Metropolitan University and the University of Manchester. His interests include Historiography, Hagiography and the depictions of socio-economic and religious change between c. 450 and 950 in Italy and western Europe. His published work includes The Narrative Worlds of Paul the Deacon: Between Empires and Identities in Lombard Italy; an edited volume with Robert Houghton, Conflict and Violence in Medieval Italy 568–1154 and ‘Ninth-century Violence: “Saracens” and Sawdn in Erchempert’s Historia’ in Al-Masq: Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean. He is currently working on a monograph about the Lombard king Liutprand, due for publication in 2024. Benjamin Hudson is Professor of History and Medieval Studies at the Pennsylvania State University. His books include Macbeth before Shakespeare (Oxford University Press, 2023), The Picts (Wiley-Blackwell, 2014) and Viking Pirates and Christian Princes (Oxford University Press, 2005). Xabier Irujo was born in exile in Caracas, Venezuela in 1967. He is Chair of the Center for Basque Studies at the University of Nevada, Reno, where he is Professor of Genocide Studies. He holds three Master’s degrees in linguistics, history and philosophy and has two Ph.D.s in history and philosophy. He has published on issues related to Basque history and politics and has specialized along his career in genocide studies with a focus on physical and cultural extermination. His publications include a number of articles and more than fifteen books, such as Gernika: Genealogy of a Lie (Sussex Academic Press, 2018), Giving Birth to Cosmopolis: The Code of Laws of Estella (c. 1076) (Barandiaran Chair of Basque Studies – University of California, Santa Barbara, 2013) and Charlemagne’s Defeat in the Pyrenees: The Battle of Rencesvals (Amsterdam University Press, 2021). Emilia Jamroziak is Professor of Medieval Religious History at the University of Leeds. Her research focuses on the monastic history and culture between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries across northwestern and east-central Europe. She is also researching nineteenth- and twentiethcentury constructions of monastic and mendicant history and processes of musealization of the monastic and mendicant past.

Contributors xi Erin Jordan is Assistant Professor of Instruction at Colorado State University. After receiving her BA from Grinnell College, she completed her Ph.D. in Medieval History at the University of Iowa, focusing on the intersection of gender and religion as it influenced the experience of women, secular and monastic. She is the author of Women, Power and Religious Patronage in the Middle Ages (Palgrave, 2006), and the forthcoming The Woman of Antioch: Gender, Power and Political Culture in the Latin East. Rutger Kramer is a lecturer at Utrecht University and a specialist in Carolingian history. His work focuses mainly on the interdependence between monastic communities and the Carolingian court, and on the construction of authority by kings, bishops and abbots. His monograph, Rethinking Authority in the Carolingian Empire (Amsterdam University Press, 2019), shows how power and reform were the product of open communication and dialogue rather than vice versa; his other publications further expand upon this observation, by looking at the representation of individual intellectuals (Benedict of Aniane, Smaragdus of Saint-Mihiel) or monasteries (Redon) and their role in the greater scheme of things. Hisatsugu Kusabu (Ph.D.) is Professor of World History at Osaka Metropolitan University. His research focuses on Byzantine intellectual history, Byzantine heresiologies, and popular spirituality in medieval society. He is the author of Comnenian Orthodoxy and Byzantine Heresiology in the Twelfth Century: A Study of the Panoplia Dogmatica of Euthymios Zigabenos (Diss., University of Chicago, 2013). Rena Lauer (Ph.D., Harvard, 2014) is Associate Professor of History and Religious Studies at Oregon State University. She studies cross-cultural contacts as well as minority and marginal communities in the late medieval eastern Mediterranean, often through the frameworks of law, religion and gender. She is the author of Colonial Justice and the Jews of Venetian Crete (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019). Related articles have been published in Mediterranean Historical Review, Critical Analysis of Law and Gender & History, and in edited collections. She spearheads the Jewish Women’s Wills project, which collects all wills and will-like documents written for Jewish women before 1600 CE. Amy Livingstone is Head of the Lincoln School of Humanities and Heritage and Professor of Medieval History. She is a scholar of medieval Europe, and her research focuses on the aristocracy of medieval France, particularly women and the family. She is the author of Out of Love for My Kin: Aristocratic Family Life in the Lands of the Loire, 1000–1200, Medieval Lives, c. 1000–1292: The World of the Beaugency Family, as well as many articles and essays. In 2017 she received the Medieval Academy of America/Committee on Centers and Regional Associations Teaching Excellence Award. She is also the co-editor of Medieval People, a Fellow

xii Contributors of the Royal Historical Society, and a life member of Clare Hall, Cambridge. Currently, she is working on a biography of Countess Ermengarde of Brittany. Susan McDonough, Associate Professor of History at UMBC, is a scholar of women, gender and sexuality in the medieval Mediterranean. Her first book Witnesses, Neighbors, and Community in Late Medieval Marseille appeared in 2013, and her co-edited volume Boundaries in the Medieval and Wider World: Essays in Honor of Paul Freedman was published in 2018. She is currently working on two projects: a solo-authored book on sex workers, and, with Michelle Armstrong-Partida, a collaborative book on single women. Her work has appeared in multiple journals, including, most recently, Gender & History, The American Historical Review, Speculum and Past & Present. Stacey E. Murrell is an advanced doctoral candidate in the History Department at Brown University. Her work focuses on the western Mediterranean throughout much of the Middle Ages (c. 900–1520), with a particular emphasis on the relationship(s) between gender, sexuality, and power. Her dissertation is a comparative examination of concubinage in the Christian and Islamic polities of Iberia and Sicily, considering it from the perspectives of interfaith interactions, rulership and processes of power consolidation, and mothering. She is also concerned with the afterlife of concubinage, which draws upon her museum background and interest in the ways that the public engages with the past. She received her BA from Macalester College in 2013 and her MA from the University of Chicago in 2014. Donald Ostrowski is a scholar of the political and social history of medieval and early modern Russia, and Chair of the Early Slavists Seminar at the Davis Center for Russian and Eurasian Studies (Harvard University). In addition to co-editing the authoritative version of the Russian Primary Chronicle (Povest’ vremennykh let) (Harvard University Press, 2004), he is the author of Muscovy and the Mongols: Cross-Cultural Influences on the Steppe Frontier, 1304–1589 (Cambridge University Press, 1998) and coeditor (with Marshall Poe) of Portraits of Old Russia: Imagined Lives of Ordinary People, 1300–1725 (M. E. Sharpe, 2011). Christopher Paolella (Valencia College, Orlando, Florida) earned his Doctorate at the University of Missouri in 2019 under the direction of Dr Lois Huneycutt. He now teaches ancient and medieval history at Valencia College in Orlando, Florida. He currently researches the deep history of human trafficking. Lucy K. Pick is Senior Lecturer in the History of Christianity at the University of Chicago. She is the author of Conflict and Coexistence and the novel Pilgrimage.

Contributors xiii Ingrid Rembold is a Lecturer in Medieval History at the University of Manchester. Her work examines governance, monasticism, Christianisation and gender in the early Middle Ages. Felicitas Schmieder is Professor of Premodern History at Fern Universität in Hagen. His Ph.D. thesis (1991) was on “Europe and the Foreigners. The Mongols Judged by the Latin West from the 13th to the 15th Century”; and “Habilitation” (2000) on the urban history of Frankfurt in the Middle Ages. He is a recurrent visiting professor at the Department For Medieval Studies, Central European University, Budapest. Main research areas include premodern cartography (world, regional); medieval cross-cultural contacts and perceptions; prophecy as political language; history of medieval “Europe”; medieval German urban history; and European cultural memory. Miriam Shadis is an associate professor of History at Ohio University, in Athens, Ohio. She is the author of Berenguela of Castile (1180–1246) and Political Women in the High Middle Ages (Palgrave, 2009), and numerous essays on Portuguese, Spanish, and French queens and other elites. She is currently working on a monograph on the queens of early Portugal, as well as a study of Leonese queenship, including Teresa Fernández. Luca Zavagno is Associate Professor of Byzantine Studies in the Department of History at Bilkent University, where he has recently completed his third monograph entitled The Byzantine City from Heraclius to the Fourth Crusade, 610–1204: Urban Life after Antiquity (published by Palgrave, Byzantine Studies Series) and edited the Routledge Companion to the Byzantine City. He is also the author of Cities in Transition: Urbanism in Byzantium Between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (British Archaeological Reports, International Series, 2009) and Cyprus between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. An Island in Transition (Routledge, 2017). He co-edited (with Özlem Caykent) Islands of Eastern Mediterranean. A History of Cross Cultural Encounters (I. B. Tauris, 2014) and People and Goods on the Move. Merchants, Networks and Communication Routes in the Medieval and Early Modern Mediterranean (IMK, 2016).

Maps

Map 1

Maps

Map 2

xv

xvi

Maps

Map 3

Maps xvii

Map 4

xviii Maps

Map 5

Maps

Map 6

xix

1

Introduction Lucy K. Pick

“I can read poetry and plays, and things of that sort, and I do not dislike travels. But history, real solemn history, I cannot be interested in. Can you?” “Yes, I am fond of history.” “I wish I were too. I read it a little as a duty, but it tells me nothing that does not either vex or worry me. The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all good for nothing, and hardly any women at all – it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a very great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put in heroes’ mouths, their thoughts and designs – the chief of all of this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books. –Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Catherine Morland, the heroine of Jane Austen’s novel, Northanger Abbey, has no patience for “real solemn history.” What she most likes to read are the Gothic romances that swept the English reading public in the decade before Austen completed her novel in 1803, works like Ann Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho or Matthew Lewis’s The Monk; “Gothic” because, full as they are of ancient castles, horrible dungeons, corrupt monks, and vulnerable young women, they represented a medievalesque past to a Europe that had grown estranged from this history, lost on the far side of the Reformation and Enlightenment and the slow formation of nationstates out of “feudal” Europe. These books so beloved by Catherine contributed, alongside the twin intellectual movements of Romanticism and Nationalism, to the creation of historical fiction as a modern genre by authors like Sir Walter Scott. Austen’s novel, like the Gothic novels it satirizes, is a Bildungsroman about the transformation and growth to maturity of a young woman and how she was shaped by her encounter with people, experiences, and books, specifically stories about an imagined past. Austen’s tale itself is fiction, but it draws upon her own experiences as a young woman of the period, including her time spent in Bath, and endures as a valuable witness for modern historians of the mores, practices, and values of that time, itself filling in some of the gaps of the “hardly any women at all” decried by Catherine in the histories of DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-1

2

Lucy K. Pick

her own day. It testifies to the way fictions teach about truth – not only emotional or moral truth but also historical truth. In its appeal as a narrative and its strength at conveying stories about people and times distant from our own, its effect on modern readers is similar to the contribution the editors hope this book will make. Like many who grow up to be historians, I was interested in history from the time I was a child, mostly from reading historical fiction. In my final year of university, that interest shifted to a new register when I read the account of the First Crusade written by the daughter of the Byzantine Emperor, Anna Comnena (and the history she wrote is, incidentally, a source for several of the contributions in this volume). As I read her words, I suddenly had the sense of a real person behind the lines, a woman who had lived and breathed as I did, and I recognized the power of words to connect us, to bring me into the past by using our shared humanity as a bridge, and I decided to go to graduate school for further study. Portraits of Medieval Europe seeks to harness the power that vivid narrative about a single individual holds to make us see a time and place far from our own in a new and charged way, to recognize both its similarities and its differences from our own times and lives, and to invest us in it as part of the human story in which we too share a place. The goal of this volume is to draw upon the powers of invention as a way of writing a collection of historical portraits that would convince even Catherine Morland that history is both interesting and worth her time. In the book, twenty-two authors, all scholars of history rather than historical novelists, write imagined lives of medieval European individuals. In its form and its goals, this volume follows in the footsteps of the earlier Portraits of Medieval Eastern Europe (Routledge 2018) and Portraits of Old Russia (M. E. Sharpe 2011). The imagined lives created by our authors sit somewhere between historical narrative and historical fiction: they represent creative works informed by historical research that are designed to both entice and educate our audience about medieval society. This approach allows scholars to let their imaginations play with the primary sources they know so well; to ask and answer questions that the sources do not fully allow but that trained historical intuition suggests; and to discuss places, people, and events that are under-represented in our conventional accounts. The end result of these fictions is something that presents history in a different register of truth from standard textbook accounts. This may seem perplexing: history is supposed to be true and fiction is false. How can a fictionalized life, even if based in the sources, be truer in some ways and for certain values than a scholarly textbook account of events and major figures of history? But the truth of the stories we tell about the past goes beyond the simple truth of their facticity. There is a truth to fictionality that straight history cannot approach – must not approach. Can a narrative that is dominated by only one nation, people, or group, or an account which represents in a three-dimensional way only those elites powerful enough to leave behind the kinds of sources that allow full historical biographies to be

Introduction

3

written of them, be said to be the whole truth? Fictionality allows us to speak as historians to those readers who, like Catherine Morland, feel excluded from standard narratives, as if history has nothing to do with them. It is an attempt to gain and present a truer picture of a larger past than we can present in any other way, and to tell stories which leave documentary traces but are almost entirely absent from our narrative sources from and histories of the Middle Ages. This volume also bears witness to the important role imagination plays among academic historians as a tool for both teaching and researching history. My own writing straddles in genre the two sides of the fictionalized portraits you will find in this book. I write both traditional scholarly academic historical monographs, and also novels of historical fiction. Writing historical fiction was not the jump from scholarly work that it may at first seem. My love of and interest in history, especially of the Middle Ages, came first from reading historical fiction as a child by authors like Rosemary Sutcliffe and Jean Plaidy. As an adult, authors like Dorothy Dunnett introduced me to a medieval world that went far beyond the confines of western Europe, from Africa to the Middle East; from Iceland to Russia. Novels about the Middle Ages can be ahead of the curve, like Cecelia Holland’s Great Maria published in 1974, which attended to the ways a noblewoman at the time of the Norman conquest of Italy held and used power and considered themes of female power addressed by several of the portraits in this volume, long before historians began studying these questions in a systematic way. My scholarly historical work considers topics that include how Christians, Muslims, and Jews got along (and didn’t) in medieval Spain; what kinds of lives and opportunities women had in the Middle Ages; and how religion shaped the ways medieval people thought about their lives and its meaning. Scholarly history can only go so far, however. Our evidence is partial, and it comes from certain kinds of sources more than others. We have a lot of information and sources from the medieval Church, for instance, but little produced by women or peasants. As a historian, there are moments where you must stop and be silent. What we can say based strictly on the evidence ends, but there is still more we want to say. That is where writing fiction came in for me. The themes of my scholarly work inform my fiction: two novels, Pilgrimage (Cuidono Press 2013), and The Queen’s Companion (forthcoming from Cuidono). I use the experience of writing those books in what follows to speak a little about the challenges and opportunities faced by the authors of this volume in constructing their own portraits. In many ways their process was similar to my own. The principal difference is that, as a novelist, I was bound by the requirement of the novel to create plot driven by conflict, while these portraits are under no such demand. At the level of our use of sources, the work is essentially the same. Fiction fills in gaps in what we know and can give voice to the voiceless. I took writing fiction as a way of experimenting with the states of mind of figures from the past in ways I could not write about in my academic writing.

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Lucy K. Pick

I began my first novel, Pilgrimage, which is about people making the pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James in Santiago de Compostela in Spain in the twelfth century, because I was frustrated by how some historical fiction that covers the medieval period handles religion. Too often religion and religious people exist only as a caricature, as foils or villains to protagonists who are presented as out-of-place post-Enlightenment rationalists, tolerant of everything except the Church. I wanted to convey the complexity and depth of what it meant to be religious in the Middle Ages; the variety that was there; and how it was a total framework for their assumptions and their understanding of their world. In addition, I was also motivated by an interest in how medieval people understood their own bodies. At the mechanical level, their bodies were not much different from ours, but how they thought of their bodies – how they understood death; illness, both physical and mental; gender; and sexuality – was vastly different. What did it feel like to be in the head of someone who had those beliefs, who could not imagine thinking in another way about these questions? I began, as our authors do here, with the historical sources. Pilgrimage came from two separate historical threads – facts if you will – woven together. The first was the medieval life of St. Godeleva, patron of battered wives, who came from Boulogne to marry her Flemish husband, Bertulf, in Gistel, at the end of the eleventh century, only to be murdered by him when he became dissatisfied with her. A late medieval legend told that after Bertulf killed Godeleva and founded a monastery in her name, he went off on crusade to expiate his crime. It also related that he had a daughter who was stricken with blindness because of his actions. What would it feel like, I wondered as I read, to have a saint for a mother, who cured everyone except for you? The second thread came from my interest in medieval pilgrimage and more directly a manuscript called the Codex Calixtinus, a twelfth-century compilation of texts about the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, a journey across the north of Spain whose popularity has revived in recent decades, with over 400,000 people making the trek in 2022. Many modern pilgrims have at least heard of the Codex Calixtinus because its most famous section is a twelfthcentury pilgrim’s guide, written to encourage people, especially from France, to make the pilgrimage. It describes the stages of the route and all the saints and shrines one would encounter on the way, much like a modern travel brochure. The manuscript also included miracle tales of Saint James, and liturgical rites in his honour. It contains a colophon, that describes the origin of the manuscript in an unusual way, reading: “The Poitevin Aimery Picaud of Partheney-leVieux and Oliver d’Asquins, and their friend Gebirga of Flanders gave this book to Saint James of Galicia for the redemption of their souls.” Determining the authorship of this volume is highly complicated because whoever wrote it attributed it to more important people, like Pope Calixtus II, after whom the manuscript is named. It likely had several authors, and Aimery Picaud, whoever he was, was its compiler. Who then was Gebirga of Flanders, and how did an unknown woman become important enough to have her name

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mentioned in this work with its lofty pretensions? In my imagination, Gebirga of Flanders became the blind daughter of Saint Godeleva, and this began my story. It’s not a “true” story about the facts of a journey by someone named Gebirga. But it is a true story about conditions on the pilgrimage road; the reasons one might go on pilgrimage; what you would see, and hear, and eat on the way. It is also a true story about the motivations, histories, values, and goals of the real historical figures Gebirga encounters on the way. And like this book, as such it serves as an authentic vade mecum for readers into the strange world of the Middle Ages. My second historical novel, The Queen’s Companion, takes a minor, invented character from the first novel – Aude, half Armenian, half Frank, who marries Bertulf while he is on his crusade – and imagines her history both before and after the brief scenes of her in Pilgrimage. The main thread of the novel shows Aude decades after Pilgrimage ends, trying to return to her old home in Palestine and getting tangled up in the entourage of Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband, King Louis VII, as they prepare to fight the Second Crusade. It takes up the rumours in medieval sources that Eleanor had an affair with her uncle, the Count of Antioch, and describes a lost year in Eleanor’s life in the Holy Land about which our sources tell us nothing, after the Second Crusade chronicle of Odo of Deuil ends abruptly and inconclusively. It also tells of Aude’s earlier life in Flanders and beyond, drawing upon Galbert of Bruges’s Murder of Charles the Good, his account of civil war in Flanders, and also upon the anonymous account of the second crusade, Conquest of Lisbon. These sources and others provide the real-world armature for the events of the invented plot I hang on them. But, as the authors of these portraits know, so much more is needed to create a vivid but realistic scene in which these figures move and interact. Our authors do not stop at describing the individual who is their subject. Rather, they set this figure within a fully realized scene. Writing portraits like these ones requires more than a simple familiarity with the main primary sources. Some of it requires research that most academic historians don’t typically need to do. What did Aude wear, how did it make her feel, and who made it for her? What did Aude eat and how did that change when she was in the Levant, Flanders, or Portugal? What were the ships she sailed on like; what was it like to travel by cart? What did she sleep on and what other furniture was in her room? These are all questions that can be researched and have answers that are more or less reliable. Other questions are more subtle. What was it like to be at her position in society, and how did her behaviour alter with those above her and those below her? What vulnerabilities and opportunities did she have as a woman? How much did she believe what the Church taught her and what other influences were there on her beliefs? Did she think of herself as a person with an identity, a self, and if so, how was that understanding different from or similar to our own? What did she think was beautiful? Ugly? What did friendship mean to her and what role did it play in her life? Likewise, love?

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These are pressing and universal questions, all touching upon Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Historians can and do address them, but we cannot make them live for ordinary readers in the way fiction can. That is the role of fiction, and of a volume like this one. Every one of the twenty-two contributions to this volume consists of three parts. Each begins with an introductory discussion of the history and sources that stand behind the portrait. One major way that the contributions in this volume differ from novels of historical fiction like my own is the way they foreground the evidence and background behind the fictionalized history by placing this discussion before the portrait itself. In most cases, the portrait is not fully intelligible without reading the introduction first. In their introduction, the author may explain what we do and what we don’t know about the figure at the centre of the portrait, and how we know what we know – what sources we have. Some of the figures, like Heloise and her love affair with Peter Abelard, are famous still today. The kings, queens, nobles, and bishops in these pages were powerful people. Others have names known only to us through a single line in a document or a court case, while still others never existed at all but are composite figures invented by their authors as representative types. But even for the most well-known, though we have some details of their lives, we possess nothing like the kinds of records that allow for full biographies showing internal motivations or character development and growth. That is where the fiction comes in, though it is fiction based on evidence of different kinds. The fictionalized portrait itself follows this introduction. Each one centres on the more or less imagined experience of an individual as they move through their world, conveyed through a variety of genres and formal means. Conventional biographies, written in the third person, present events at a remove. First-person memoirs are written as if the subject of the portrait is speaking directly to us. Sometimes we read over the shoulders of people who are conveying their experiences in a letter to a friend or employer, or who are writing down events as they happen in the form of a diary. Other authors present their subjects by imitating genres familiar in their own day, writing chronicles or hagiographies. These are just a few of the narrative strategies our authors use. Finally, each contribution ends with a short list of further readings that emphasizes works in English, especially translated primary sources that allow readers to go deeper into the stories told here. The two volumes in this series that preceded this one – Portraits of Old Russia and Portraits of Medieval Eastern Europe – had a straightforward charge: to introduce an English-speaking audience of students and readers to a time and place largely unknown to most of them, namely pre-modern eastern and central Europe, by constructing a range of imaginative portraits in a way that was not merely accurate but vivid and enticing, in order to draw them into further study. This volume has a slightly different challenge. We all have some kind of image of a medieval European past, drawn from popular culture, movies, novels, or video games. It is a picture that tends to reflect a

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Europe that is western and northern, founded mostly in the regions that became England and France, and it owes a great deal in fact to Sir Walter Scott and the ways the Middle Ages were represented in the nineteenth century, influenced by contemporary Romanticism and Nationalism. Anyone whose first thoughts when they hear the word “medieval” run immediately to castles, knights, and peasants; ladies in distress; crusades and derring-do, has in some measure been affected by this image. Our authors challenge these simple narratives in many ways. First of all, “Europe” is taken as broadly as it can be. The subjects of these portraits cover a territory stretching from Islamic Spain to Kyivan Rus, from Tabriz on the Silk Road to Iceland, and points in between. “Medieval” likewise is taken well beyond the high medieval period of 1000 to 1300 most familiar to the casual reader, with subjects who lived between the seventh and sixteenth century. These portraits push against our expectations of what counts as medieval Europe in both time and space and introduce us to both regions and periods that are unfamiliar and under-represented in standard histories. Perhaps even more important however is the way these portraits include the kinds of people who are left out of the standard historical narratives, which focus on elites, usually male. Our portraits include members of many levels of society; of different religions and branches of Christianity; of different professions; and almost as many women as men. They show aspects of medieval life that were both omnipresent at the time and also almost completely below the radar of our narrative historical sources. Moreover, they resist an image of a static and homogeneous Middle Ages by showing how different peoples moved and intermingled across wide territories. Rather than being emblematic of a single place and time, most of our subjects crossed borders of language, religion, and/or politics, travelling far from home to take up kingdoms or to go on crusade, or as spies, pilgrims, administrators, or brides. Other figures maintained personal connections with different lands through marriage ties and political allegiances, while still others simply lived in places that were themselves crossroads and border zones where different peoples came, or lived at times when one region was in transition from control by one group to another. Catherine Clarke creates a first-person account of the imagined visit of a real bishop of London on the trail of a saint to present us with an experience of the town of Swansea in Wales in 1307. Medieval Swansea – its mud and alleys and buildings – becomes a character in itself in this account, which also delves deeply into the background, interests, and values of the bishop in its effort to show how medieval people themselves imagined and considered the spaces they moved through. Erin Dailey’s Theutberga tells of the afterlife of an embattled former ninthcentury Carolingian queen after her long struggle to prevent her husband from divorcing her. Now ensconced in a monastery, we learn of how she felt about the historical events that overcame her through the questions posed to her by a young novice.

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Andrii Danylenko’s subject is Ibr hm ibn Ya‘q b, a Jew from tenthcentury al-Andalus in Spain who travelled as far as Hungary and Bohemia and recorded some of his impressions as envoy and spy for the Muslim caliph in a narrative which is now lost, surviving only in a few fragments in later texts. Danylenko imagines a logbook kept by Ibr hm on his travels, from which he presents selected extracts. As Ibr hm travels, we get a unique view of tenth-century Christian Europe through his eyes, and at the same time we learn of Ibr hm himself. Jelena Erdeljan writes a portrait of Queen Helen of Serbia (ca. 1236–1314), a woman whose life bridged the Byzantine and Catholic worlds. As founder/ ktetor, donor, patron, and builder of religious houses, her life links Byzantium, Hungary, and Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. Erdeljan draws upon a vita of her life to imagine a letter written to her sons while she was close to death, reviewing her accomplishments, and another from her daughter-in-law, describing her death. Queen Helen’s was a world in which birth, lineage, and state power were inextricable, and where religiosity existed deeply embedded in place – in the holy sites she has personal connections to, and in their saints. Christopher Heath tells us about Erchempert, a ninth-century monk of the Benedictine abbey of Montecassino in the Mezzogorno region of southern Italy. Erchempert links two eras – the end of Lombard Italy and the beginning of the Norman era in Sicily – and his home of Benevento was a contact point between the Frankish, Byzantine, and Islamic worlds. He was a historian who chronicled his moment in time in dire terms. Heath uses fiction to fill in the gaps of what Erchempert does not tell us, adding an interpretation of his chronicle that explains Erchempert’s motivations for writing the way he did, told through the eyes of a fellow monk. Benjamin Hudson’s Brian Bórumha, aka Brian Boru, ruled as high king in tenth-century Ireland at a moment of political consolidation and change among the petty Irish kings amid the advent and permanent settlement there of the Vikings. In an imagined letter to his son and heir on his deathbed, Hudson’s Brian describes faction and struggles in a world in which power was built on personal relationships and won through violence. Xabier Irujo’s portrait is of Thibault, thirteenth-century Count of Champagne and eventually King of Navarre. His fictionalized memoir tells of a ruler caught in a clash between two very different political systems: the French authoritarian monarchic system in which he was raised with his mother, and the Navarrese Basque parliamentary system he finds himself trying to control as king. Both lord and troubadour, Thibault himself cuts against our expectations of medieval rulership. Emilia Jamroziak tells the more recent story of the volume, of Heinrich Kresse, last abbot of the Pomeranian monastery of Bukow on the shores of the Baltic Sea. He was abbot during the time of the suppression of Benedictine monasteries in the region in the early days of the Lutheran Reformation. Bukow itself was suppressed in 1535. Jamroziak offers a third-person narrative

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of Heinrich’s reaction to the suppression, presented as an entry in a fictionalized chronicle of the abbots of Bukow, which lays emphasis on the spaces of the abbey and the retable the abbot donated. Daughters of kings and aristocrats were often sent away to be married, frequently very far from their homes, in unions that were key parts of medieval diplomacy. They were often present and part of the most challenging political moments of their day, but we usually know very little about their lives, or about what personal roles they may have played. Few went as far as Erin Jordan’s subject, royal daughter Agnes of France, who left her home at age eight in 1179 to marry the young heir to the Emperor of Constantinople. In an imagined diary written by the young princess, Jordan gives us a front-row seat on her departure from France, her time in Constantinople, and most of all on the civil strife that followed the death of the emperor. Not all royal daughters were married off. Some, especially in the early Middle Ages, found powerful and effective roles as abbesses of major monasteries in their brothers’ kingdoms. One such was Gisela, sister of Charlemagne and Abbess of Chelles. Rutger Kramer and Ingrid Rembold imagine a conversation between brother and sister in 788 at a key moment following the success of his campaigns against the Saxons and before his major legislation, the General Admonition. Hisatsugu Kusabu gives us a view of the Bogomil, Basil, arrested in Byzantium as a heretic, presented as an account of an imagined witness to Basil’s trial. Anna Komnena’s history is one of the sources Kusabu uses in an account which presents Basil from the point of view of those who believed his teachings were heresy. Different kinds of sources introduce us to different kinds of people. Venetian government sources tell us about Joseph Missini, a Greek-speaking Jew in Venetian Crete at the turn of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and notarial records fill out this picture. His sister, Cherana, is only known to us through the record of her will, made when she died as a young woman in labour. Rena Lauer brings these sources, and the siblings, together in a story that focusses on the details of family life, moments of joy and tragedy. Amy Livingstone’s Havoise of Brittany is the type of medieval noblewoman whose name survives in documents but not narratives, and she is also a figure who happens to intersect with the time and place and historical characters of my novel, Pilgrimage: Count Baldwin, Countess Clemence, and Saint Godeleva/Godelieve. After Havoise’s four-year-long, childless marriage to the Count of Flanders was annulled, she returned to Brittany, and in a close third-person narrative Livingstone imagines how Havoise felt about the events of her life, from her childhood, marriages, and final years as a nun in Brittany in an account that emphasizes her daily life. Susan McDonough describes a woman who is both prostitute and pilgrim, roles that may seem paradoxical to the modern reader but are attested by documentary evidence. Johaneta Aymara’s name appears in a notarial document

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of Marseille in 1407 on the advent of her pilgrimage. McDonough’s account breathes life into Johaneta and other sex workers of her time, women we usually encounter only when they come into contact with the law. Stacey Murrell’s portrait explores the different worlds of Zaida, later known as Isabel, a Muslim woman of eleventh-century al-Andalus in Spain as she passed from being wife to the son of a Muslim king to being the concubine and then possibly wife of the King of Castile. Murrell takes us into the harem, often invested in the West as a place of erotic and exotic mystery, and shows it to be a mundane place. She attends to the kinds of compromises and accommodations a woman like Zaida had to make in order to survive and protect her children. Donald Ostrowski creates a portrait of Heloise, lover and later wife of Peter Abelard, and, later still, abbess of the monastery of the Paraclete, by constructing a dialogue between herself and Peter the Venerable, abbot of Cluny, who protected and supported Abelard from those who attacked him and his philosophy. The dialogue takes place after Abelard has died, when Peter brings his body to the Paraclete for burial. Peter stands in for the reader, asking Heloise those questions about her life with Abelard that we wish we could ask. Christopher Paolella’s subject is Astreid, born the daughter of a Hebridean noble and enslaved by Vikings in the ninth century after a raid on her father’s house. Telling her story is one way of conveying a part of the global history of human trafficking. What we know of Astreid comes from sources that are late and in some ways contradictory. Paolella’s challenge – to take these contradictions and make of them a coherent and plausible narrative – is the same challenge historians face in their scholarly writing. Christian Raffensperger tells us about Boris Kolomanovich, an important political figure in his own twelfth century with connections to Hungary, Rus, Poland, and Byzantium, but who doesn’t fit into modern narratives of medieval Europe because he cannot be classified as belonging to any one national history. Raffensperger introduces us to this unfamiliar-to-most figure through a common genre, a fictionalized biography purported to have been written by his son. In common with the usual practices of this genre, the text focuses on the legitimacy of his rule, and on his lineage. It also shows us King Louis VII of France, a central figure in most western-oriented medieval history surveys, but obliquely, told from the point of view of central Europe. On rare occasions, the medieval historian’s challenge is not the dearth of sources for biography but their excess, and how to weigh them. Such is the case for the eleventh-century monk Otloh of St Emmeram, who left us several different accounts presenting personal recollections. Should these be taken literally, or do they represent a level of construction and artifice? Juanita Feros Ruys draws upon them to create an autobiography of Otloh that gives the devil his due. Felicitas Schmieder offers our furthest-flung portrait, of Ricardus, a Franciscan missionary and envoy of the West stationed in Tabriz, in what

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is now Iran, in service of a Mongol khan, at a time when the western powers hoped to find in the Mongols allies against the Muslim powers who lived between them. Ricardus himself was not an actual historical figure. Rather, his life is a composite portrait taken from several real people in similar positions. The portrait takes the form of a letter from the envoy to his friend, a Genoese merchant stationed in Baghdad. They both seek peace and cooperation with the Mongols, as against the belligerence of some of the Christians back home, because they agree that amity with the Mongols is a key prerequisite for both the trading activities of the merchant and the mission of the friar. Miriam Shadis introduces us to Teresa Fernández, twelfth-century noblewoman, daughter of Queen Teresa, the first Christian monarch to rule Portugal, and her lover, a count of Galicia. Teresa, raised at her father’s court, herself ended up as Queen of León. Much of the evidence we have for the lives of individual medieval women comes from charters. Shadis draws upon the charters themselves to imagine a series of moments in Teresa’s life in which documents were created that involve her. In Shadis’s telling, the charters are objects of performance in the lives of the medieval actors who issued, read, and preserved them, not merely repositories of evidence. Luca Zavagno presents readers with Euphemios, a eunuch in the imperial service in Byzantium at the turn of the seventh century, following a period of decades when Byzantine control over the Mediterranean was giving way to the Islamic caliphate. Zavagno’s Euphemios served a succession of emperors in locations from Constantinople to Ravenna in Italy, revealing the challenges of an empire largely focused on islands. Euphemios is an imagined figure whose portrait is drawn from the kinds of things we know eunuchs in imperial service did. He represents for us a figure entirely foreign yet common in different times and places in history – a person whose gender identity has been transformed in order that they may take a powerful and influential political and bureaucratic role in a strong state. As depicted here, being a eunuch is as much or more a social as a gendered/sexual identity. Together, these portraits present an unexpected medieval Europe in a mosaic of people, places, times, and regions. The editors hope they will inform and illuminate the readers of their volume, and will encourage further research, reading, and study.

2

‘My Name is Euphemios…. Euphemios of Amastris’ Memories of a Eunuch at His Emperor(s)’ Service in the Byzantine Insular and Coastal Koine (ca. 680–ca. 740) Luca Zavagno

Introduction 1 Euphemios of Amastris never existed; but he certainly could have. Indeed, I imagined him as a Byzantine eunuch who travelled across Mediterranean islands and urban coastal communities during a period often simply labelled as the Dark Ages of the Great Sea. His life spanned roughly six decades between the 680s and 740s. This was a period which saw the Eastern Roman Empire struggling for its survival vis-à-vis the rise of the Muslim Umayyad Caliphate, the occupation of large swaths of the Balkans on the part of the Slavs, and the creation of the Bulgar Khanate. Constantinople survived three sieges staged by the Arabs in 654, 668–674, and 717/718 (the last witnessed by Euphemios himself). Between the first and the last Umayyad push against its capital, the political history of the Byzantine empire was punctuated by a series of political, administrative, and military crises. Nevertheless, Byzantium “would not die.” Life went on as more and more contingent upon a capital of a diminished empire. Indeed, it was in Constantinople that the long Mediterranean journey of Euphemios started. Eunuchs had been familiar faces in the Great Palace of Constantinople. “Eunuchs exceeded the number of flies around the flock in spring,” according to the fourth-century rhetor Libanius, and still in the early fourteenth century Emperor Andronikos II (1282–1328) entrusted a eunuch with the funeral of his father. Nevertheless, eunuchs were not simply pageants or servants of slave origins. Certainly, they were not always ethnic outsiders. For instance, Paphlagonia (a mountainous region along the Black Sea coast in northern Asia Minor dotted by important cities like Amastris) was famous for “the internal production” of eunuchs as shown by the spectacular careers of Constantine the Paphlagonian in the tenth century and John the Orphanotrophos in the eleventh century. Byzantine chronicles described the latter as a self-made “eunuch” who managed to get appointed as “praipositos of the sacred koiton” (cubiculum), de facto the highestranking eunuch in the imperial service acting as the “eyes and voice of the emperor” (Ringrose 2003, 168). We found eunuchs among generals (like Narses the Armenian, entrusted with the reconquest of Italy on the part of Justinian I DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-2

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(527–565), and admirals of the navy (for instance, Theophanes who in 941 triumphally defeated and burned the Rhos’ fleet sieging Constantinople). Eunuchs could be diplomats, as shown by the chamberlain Theophanes, who was in charge of peace negotiations with the Magyars and was also sent to receive a famous icon (the Mandylion) from the city of Edessa in 944. Lastly, several missionaries and Constantinopolitan patriarchs were chosen from among eunuchs. Most importantly, however, one should consider the persistence and significance of eunuch power in the Byzantine court. Byzantine sources provide us with a clear list of titles and offices reserved only to eunuchs and arranged in strict hierarchical terms. Euphemios’s imaginary career closely followed this “taxis” (order), although he was often asked to leave the Great Palace as sent by the emperor on military and diplomatic missions across a so-called Byzantine koine. On the one hand, this koine included other large Mediterranean islands like Cyprus, Crete, Sardinia, Malta, and the Balearics; on the other hand, it encompassed urban and urban-like coastal settlements (like Butrint, and Amalfi) under loose although active Byzantine control. Here, it is the dichotomy between connectivity and isolation that islands (and Byzantine coastal enclaves) embodied which reflects upon the personal tragedy of Euphemios. Like all the Byzantine eunuchs, and notwithstanding his role as a loyal and trusted envoy of the emperor, Euphemios feels the dramatic contrasts intrinsic to his existence. His successes are saluted as those of a real man, but he is often mocked (even by the emperor himself) for its effeminacy. Euphemios spent most of his career traveling to and fro between Mediterranean islands: liminal lands hanging between land and sea reflecting and assuaging his feelings of being “beyond” nature as diluted in the duplicitous nature of the insular world. Indeed, the last part of Euphemios’s career (as of those of many of his nonfictional Byzantine “cubicularii” eunuchs) was spent in Sicily as “strategos”; the economic, strategic, and military importance of this island needed men who possessed peculiar diplomatic abilities as well as undiscussed and strong loyalty to the emperor. It is not by chance that most of the eunuchs (and Euphemios is no exception) were promoted and rewarded with the title and office of exarch and moved from Syracuse (the capital of the Sicilian theme) to Ravenna. It is in this very city, built on the southern tip of the lagoonal north Adriatic crescent (where later Venice will rise), that we first hear the voice of Euphemios; a voice whose Greek inflection is (if only) surmised by his padding out words in what was the official language of the eastern Roman empire. Indeed, Byzantium did not exist for him; the Byzantines – as modern historiography called them – claimed to be and thought of themselves as Romans, since the empire had not ended in 476 when the “last western Roman emperor” was deposed. Euphemios was, therefore, a Roman who spent his life traveling across the former Mare Nostrum. With all this in mind, I have chosen to adopt the form of a recollection of memories in the first person of a eunuch of Byzantium, who – at the end of his adventurous career – looks back on his life, his accomplishments, and his travels. He weighs in the endless contradiction between the stereotypical world he found

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himself in and the reality of the brave struggles he embraced throughout his life. “He is a eunuch, a model of honest life, but, irritated by the attacks […] against eunuchs that some have inconsiderately launched, he has asked for appropriate consolation” (Mullett 2002, 195). No matter how successful he has been, Euphemios realized how much he suffered from being a social outcast: eunuchs could not marry and, until the ninth century, could not adopt children. Sitting alone in one of the most famous churches of the city of Ravenna, on the verge of falling to the Lombards, Euphemios shares his memories with Narses, the famous eunuch general fighting under Emperor Justinian in the sixth century (to be regarded as a personification of the reader), not in the hope of piety or sympathy, but rather of redemption. In the end, this is a highly novelized sketch but based on literary and documentary evidence as well as material sources. Indeed, it tries to give voice to the thousands of eunuchs who could not speak, and whose lives were spent in the solitary confinements of the palace, aristocratic households, or in brothels: objectified and vilified as social outcasts and stereotyped and diminished even when de facto ruling the empire from the imperial bedchamber. It is a tale of a man who never was but has been in the lives of many of those eunuchs who could seldom speak, a “nowhere man” who felt like an island, having lost a piece of himself although feeling and desperately trying to be part of a totality who never fully embraced or accepted him. Portrait AM 6233 Lent – Ravenna

I was standing among the mosaic and marbles of the templon (church) dedicated to the martyr Vitalis;2 thankful and praiseworthy to the Theotokos to whom the hymn that resounded in my ears (the Akathist)3 was dedicated. May she protect the new Basileus and h Polis4 as she did a long time ago when the barbarians crossed the mighty Danube and tried to breach the great walls; may she also bless this polis and this naos as they already escaped once to the wrath of the long-bearded barbarians.5 As the praises to Our Mother sang in my ears, I could only stare at him; the powerful Narses, loyal general of Justinian, the Basileus whose army reconquered Africa, Iberia, and Italy. He gently stares back: meek and “beardless,” rubbing his shoulders to the bellicose and “bearded” Belisarius (the one who breached through the Neptunian walls of Ravenna). They both guard the purple-robed Basileus, the one equal to the apostles and above them, like Peter and James when the Lord transfigured in all his glory. Is it me, or does Narses really look like an angel? After all, Hagios Symeon once dreamt of us as “a corps of angel-like men whose clothing was white as snow.”6 Bless the old man from Syria! He spent his whole life perching above the top of a column! Indeed, it takes an ascetic to recognize one: chaste, pure, and clean: aren’t these qualities of the eunuch’s spirit? So why do they murmur that ridiculous “klou klou” when we pass by? I can hear their muzzled voices calling us names: debauched, perverted, sodomites, and treacherous. We,

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eunuchs, looked too strange to be trusted at all: too loyal to our masters not to be feared; too often “prey to the passions of feminine oversensitivity since [we] live in physical contact with women” and therefore missing the courage and morality of real men.7 How dare they talk about courage in front of me? I fought valiantly in battles; I commanded throngs of dromos;8 I hung to the ship’s sides in the roaring winter winds of the Mediterranean; I looked the fierce emir in the eyes, and I ran the gauntlet at that Arab warrior in the shade of the great walls. Oh God, I enjoyed seeing his life gushing out of his eyes when my spear passed through his powerful “manly” body! Would they have taunted you, oh master Narses? I can see it reflected in the glittering golden carpet of that wall mosaic: we look quite alike, the “dynamic and heroic,”9 Narses and I. Our faces are like those of children: same deep-set nose, same sad eyes.10 Were you Narses ever a child? You came from the eastern parts of the oikoumene, an Armenian brought as a foreigner to the Polis like many of us, but not like me. I am a proud son of Paphlagonia, born and raised on the Black Sea. Amastris is my hometown.11 You should see its two lines of walls: huge, massive, powerful; only those of the Polis could surpass their might. In fact, Amastris is not simply a city: it embraces two nesoi (islands) and a peninsula; its harbors always welcomed merchants and travelers; I climbed on its walls so many times to catch the superb view of the steep and rugged mountains sheltering us from the raids of the Agarenes.12 Did you climb any wall when you were young, master Narses? How did you become one of us ektomiai (castrates)? Me? I was betrayed! My father decided for me. I was just a kid, the son of a poor farmer. Too many mouths to feed on our little farm outside the sturdy walls in the Amastriané. He called me one day. I can still feel their hands on me, on my mouth. I thought they wanted to kill me. They cut me as it happened to many Paphlagonian children. I should have uttered the words of the great basileoi Constantine, Leo, and Justinian, who raised their voices forbidding Roman kids from being cut.13 I do not think they would have listened anyway. I swear I did not feel the excision and the pain. I did not shout. I could only hear my mother crying in the corner of the room. She called me her angel. I was turned into one; or at least that is what my father was hoping for. He wanted me to become a monk. But the local episkòpos (bishop) had a friend in the capital. He promised my father a good education and a place in the imperial bureaucracy. I left early in the morning; nobody was at the docks to say goodbye. I rejoiced while savoring the crispy and salty air of the early Paphlagonian spring. The naukléros (captain) liked dirty jokes, especially those on the castrates. “If you have a eunuch, kill him, if not, buy one and kill him.” Laughs were thrown at me: the first of many to come. So, I left my country like you did, oh master Narses. However, you were “clothed with great power by the emperor”; I was almost naked. Indeed, there was no prophecy for me to fulfill, only the hope for a better life, maybe guarding the women’s quarter of the Great Palace.14

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I vividly recall the arrival of the ship to the Polis; it was a foggy morning, but soon the skies cleared up, and I could see the marvel of the world. Hagia Sophia’s dome glittered before my stunned eyes as millions of sparkles were poured by the sun into the water of the Bosporus. Tons of small boats swarmed in the Golden Horn ferrying passengers and vomiting goods of all kinds under the silent watch of the sea walls. I was then taken to the Great Palace. Oh no, master Narses: I did not get to it as you did after you showed the barbarian Goths that a eunuch knows how to fight “like a man.” I did not walk triumphantly through the majestic Chalkè (bronze gate). I was shown the back door and walked through the obscure and humid corridors dug under floors trampled by the noble purple slippers of the Basileus.15 I was lucky. Many ektomiai did not find a friend waiting for them at the Nerion but only slave dealers holding chains in their dirty hands.16 I met Theophilos instead. He was one of us, a eunuch: one of the many secretaries of the parakoimòmenos (the chamberlain of the koiton). He instantly liked me. “You must learn to read and write: this is the only way up in the Palace.” So, I found myself in school: learning tà iepà grámmata (the knowledge of letters acquired through the reading of sacred texts); I learned fast. Theophilos decided my talents should have been nurtured: he found me one of those private teachers charging fees from their students to survive while trying to secure the magnanimous support of an aristocrat at the court or, better, a member of the imperial family. His name was Theodore, and when he was not teaching, he was busy composing poems to flatter the emperor or his son. I had just turned fourteen. Where were you, master Narses at that age? Were you at the so-called university of Constantinople at the Philadelphion? Were you mastering the arts of the trivium and quadrivium? Were you learning how to write like Herodotos or Thucydides?17 I also learned about math and calculations: essential tools in the shipyards of the Polis. I should have known that the sea was my destiny. My first post was as a private secretary to the exartists of the Neorin (the officer in charge of the main urban shipyard). It was there that I became acquainted with the navy’s trappings (how much water does a ship need per day? How much timber is needed to build the hulls?). You must know what I am talking about, master Narses. After all, weren’t you standing at the helm of the ships ferrying our soldiers across the Adriatic to catch the army of Baduila (the king of the Goths) off-guard? What impressed me the most, in truth, was the “wet fire”; siphons pumped it out from the prow of the dromones, and the whole sea was instantly ablaze. “Death to the Agarenes! Burn them all! God bless Kallinikos!” yelped the sailors when the waves of blazes were pumped out of the siphnes.18 I still get a whiff of crude oil in my nostrils when I remember those days. However, it was my ability with numbers that won me a ticket out of the Nerion. Someone must have thought that playing with the lengths of ropes and masts was less important for the empire than figuring out how much solidi (gold coin) the treasury needed every year. So, I found myself in the

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Sakellion (the imperial treasury). There I soon learned an important lesson: news travels fast, and not necessarily because it concerns real facts. The Sakellion was filled with rumors: promotions, demotions, impending crises, and future triumphs were all gossiped about before they even (if ever!) happened. People like to brag about what they know and even more about what they pretend to know. In fact, I discovered that silence is more precious than a litra19 of solidi. Let the others do the talking, especially after a couple of measures of Amorian wine drunk.20 This is how I caught wind of the plot against the Basileus. I had to act fast! You were the one inspiring me, master Narses. My mind went to you as you quashed the revolt of those ranting “Nika” against Justinian.21 I was desperately trying to find a way to deliver the message to the Palace. God decided that my efforts should have been rewarded thanks to Theophilos and its connections at court; or maybe I was only lucky, for nobody thought a weak eunuch could be brave enough. As a second Narses, I saved the second Justinian.22 I was trembling in front of him. He was sitting on his gilded throne studded with precious stones; precious as the silk robes he was wearing. This eunuch was on his knees, mesmerized by the sight of gleaming purple. I almost fainted when he uttered the words: ánthropon aùtou (his own man). I can still hear his silken and mellifluous voice falling on my ears as if from the Heavens above. I would never have heard it again. Theophilos patted my shoulder and smiled: “not bad for a castrate, not bad at all!” I was sent to Cyprus. My first island, the first of many missions abroad, and the first of my endless travels on a ship sailing across the unbounded Mediterranean. Strange place, that “island of copper.” Once I landed in the main polis of the Cypriots (as founded by the son of Constantine the Great), pilgrims swirled around in throngs. One monk greeted me in Latin. I could barely understand a word of what he was trying to say; his blond hair and white flesh glittered in the scorching air. He came from the isles of tin (the former Roman province of Britannia). I moved on. It was only the first of many strangers in a strange land. The tongues of many nations wagged in the polis of Constantia. Mainly the tongues of the Muslims as the Cypriots paid taxes to both the Basileus and the Caliph, as agreed a luster ago. There was peace on the island. I noticed an Agarene merchant hassling on a set of rugs with a Roman. Another pilgrim was staring at them in disgust, his hands holding on tight to a small wooden box. He turned his face and gave me a grin: “I saw the Agarene with these eyes; he and his companions were praying in the same church as me: infidels with Christians! The Devil must be lingering on this island.”23 A couple of Muslim tax collectors smiled. He must be a salós,24 I thought to myself as I was shrugging my shoulders. I climbed my way to the kastron (castle). There the archontes (members of the local governing elites)25 and the archbishop lived in the shadow of giants, protecting walls that reminded me of my hometown. “We built them when the Caliph and his filthy race started coming to us from Syria,” they said, pointing at them with pride. But once I handed them the letter and they broke

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the golden seal, they realized that Muslims were not the only ones who could shatter their lives. I saw their faces turning pale. The holy man uttered a Kýrie eléson and fell silent afterward. The Basileus wanted to found a new polis like his namesake had done it a long time ago. Nea Justinianoupolis needed a flock and a shepherd. He decided to filch them from Cyprus. A small fleet with many old friends of the Neorin on board soon arrived in the harbor of Constantia. I could read the pain in the eyes of the Cypriots leaving their island; once again. I was reminded of my past while my dromon escorted them to the Hellespont. That new polis would not have lasted his maker.26 Eventually, they returned to their island, continuing to live on the edge between the Christians and the Muslims. “What happened to us is always right as we drift on the sea we are sailing on, especially when we diverge from our route.”27 I returned to the Palace; I was expecting a reward for my good services; I found a new Basileus instead.28 The old one, the new Justinian, had been sent to a grim exile to Cherson: deprived of his tongue, his nose, and his pride (or so they believed). Like the Cypriots, he would have come back. I braced for the end; I was rewarded with just (another) beginning (of a journey by sea). The fleet was heading to Carthage, which was occupied and garrisoned by the Arab army; I was ordered to deliver supplies to one of our outposts in northern Epirus. I felt so excited! It does not matter if the crew was not happy having a eunuch sitting under the xylokastro.29 Little I cared. I was following your trail, oh master Narses! You must have navigated those waters on your way to Italy: across the Aegean, skirting around the Peloponnese, and then straight north along the southern Ionian coast. The skeuophora (transport ships) and the dromon I commanded reached Corcyra, finally veering toward one of the main aplekta (naval supply stations) of the region: the stronghold of Butroto (Butrint). What a place! A narrow channel seemed to have pulled us out of the sea and into a womb of fresh water surrounded by gentle hills; in the middle of it, like an ovary of land, stood a polis crowned by its walls studded by large towers. From one of them stepped out the stratelates (deputy commander) of the small local garrison. He clearly disliked eunuchs; he did not let me through the Lion Gate30 as he accused me of being an “impious Agarene and a spy.” I tried to calm him down; he tried to throw me in jail. Only when the archon of the city came about and read the imperial message folded in my cloak did the stratelates give in. I ignored his gross “Kasalbopornomachloproktepembates ektomiai.”31 I found his insult a bit over-optimistic for a eunuch. The touldon (baggage train) was already being offloaded from the cargo of the ships by the ousia (crew): small and round amphorae filled with wine and oil and then sacks full of grains, pulses, and legumes. The archon offered me a room on the second floor of one of the towers; I preferred to sleep on board. I wanted to leave that place at dawn. I realized that nights at Butrot could be dark like one of the mussels its inhabitants farm in its waters; indeed, like them, this little polis leaves you with a bitter, salty aftertaste.

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I caught up with the fleet in Crete. Like Aigeús, I was expecting their sails to shine white; they were painted in black instead. Our troops had been defeated under the walls of Carthage and decided to mutiny. The soldiers and the officers, gripped with shame, feared the return to the capital. An evil plan was concocted: they abjured the Basileus and raised to the throne Apsimaros, the drungarios (commander) of a detachment of the fleet, whom they saluted as and called the (new) Tiberius. We set the sails for the Polis, where yet another nose was cut off and another emperor exiled. Apsimaros immediately dispatched me to Gaudemelete (Gozo) to escort some relatives of the deposed Basileus to their exile. I was named archon and drungarios of Melita (Malta). I was given my own boulloterion to seal the reports I should have sent back.32 When looking at the prisoners, I heard one of the sailors uttering some words. He was an old man with a wrinkled face burnt by the sun of a thousand sea journeys. He pondered upon their predicament: “they say one reaches an island when trying to satisfy the most unforgivable human need: the one for freedom.”33 His words were a good omen. A couple of days later, our dromon intercepted a Muslim pirate ship. The sailors wanted to leave it alone; I spurred them into fighting. The Arab ship was supposed to be faster than us, but it was loaded with Christian prisoners recently raided from a little islet not far away from Sicily. We caught up with them, we waged battle, we won the day, and we set the prisoners free. To our amazement, they were all monks! Once again, a Kýrie eléson resounded in my ears: the monks rejoiced and sang as we took them back to Kossyros (Pantelleria).34 Oh, master Narses, you should have seen the looks of approval on the part of the sailors: “not bad for a castrate, not bad at all!” Melita taught me that not all islands are the same. In Cyprus, I did not grasp the paradox. How could a place be at the same time the center of the world and so distant a part of it?35 Was this the real secret of any island? Being alone and bound at the same time? In Melita, I found Muslim and Christian merchants, Arab and Roman spies, fathers trying to find a way to Africa to ransom one of their sons taken as captive, pilgrims in the footsteps of Saint Paul, and monks proving their holiness by sitting in meandrous caverns. In Melita, I lost track of time and distance. One day I even “crossed the bridge” and went to meet the ameramnounes sitting in Kairouan.36 The Roman strategos in charge of Sicily had asked me to broker a truce with the Agarenes, who had been raiding his island for years. I thought I would have been a stranger in Ifriqiya, but among Berbers and Arabs I found a lot of Christians working for and living under the new masters. The truce was signed and sealed by my own boulloterion.37 The amir wanted to celebrate the agreement, and he threw a banquet in my honor. In Ifriqiya, I learned that people had visions of us: “if you were to dream of a eunuch without testicles before, but then he has them, then you will grow rich to your heart’s desire and your relatives will return from a foreign land.”38 My family has never come to me, if only indeed in my

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dreams, but nevertheless, someone decided to return from his foreign exile, and with a vengeance. A messenger was waiting for me upon returning to Melita: the second Justinian was sitting on the throne again. I went back as fast as I could. Soon I was in the Magnaura.39 I caught only a glimpse of his fake silver nose while he was sitting again on his throne; the silence he imposed upon the people bowing before him was one of rage and revenge. I did see him sitting at the hippodrome and set his foot on the necks of those who had ousted him: triumphant on the asp and the basilisk.40 They were to be beheaded like common criminals; I was made patrikios and nipsastiarios but dispensed from washing the Basileus’ hands before he feasted.41 Instead, I was sent to bring his new wife and son home from the land of the Khazars. In the eyes of the young prince, I found the same fear and excitement I had when sailing toward the unbeknown Polis. A sad pang knocked on the doors of my soul. Being a parent, you see yourself growing old and still enjoying life through your kids. A wife, a family: I would never have experienced that warm feeling in my heart. I suddenly recollected one of the jokes they threw at us: “A fool once saw a eunuch in the company of a woman and asked his friend whether that was the eunuch’s wife. When he said no, eunuchs cannot have wives, the fool concluded that it must then be his daughter.” I shrugged my shoulders as the dome of Hagia Sophia faded in the sunset. The prow of my ship split the waters once again: Sardinia was waiting for me. I learned more about islands in Sardinia, oh, master Narses. Some of them are more like little continents, and the sea is not always the only stage the insular people are acting on. Sardinia had high, inaccessible, and barren mountains and as many shepherds as sailors. You can find its georgoi (peasants) living with their sheep in mysterious heaps of stones in the countryside.42 I also learned that bellicose Sardinians knew how to fight on water like they were on land. I saw a letter from the Bishop of Rome pleading the Roman upatos and dux (consul and duke) of Sardinia to recruit children and youngsters as they could fight more valiantly than any grown-ups of the continent. Finally, I learned that an island like Sardinia can remind you of Janus, the pagan god staring at two worlds at the same time. One Sardinian face looks at Rome and its revered Bishop. The one who I had to appease when his messengers landed in Carales (Cagliari). “His All Holiness is not happy about the liberal habits of the Sardinian archontes: marrying your relatives is against the Scriptures”; he uttered those words in pretentious disbelief. I understood he was more worried about the lands Rome owned on the island: he wanted to be sure I had not been sent to divert the precious rents to the Basileus’s coffers. Once I reassured him that was not the case, I saw him off with a smile on his face. I wondered if I would ever have myself the chance to take one of the roads leading to the former capital of our empire. The polis you, oh master Narses, finally snatched from the terrible Goths and from where news of our victory was sent out to the oikoumene.

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Lost in my thoughts while looking at the little boat fading east on the calm sea, I heard the second Sardinian face screaming at me. Its screeching cry echoed across the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was coming from the west, from one of the farthest outposts of the Roman oikoumene. Islands I had never heard of (they called them the Baleares) were threatened by the army of the Caliph. Once again, I heard the voice of the old naukléros working the sails of my dromon: “Life is what we make of it. The travel is the traveler. What we see isn’t what we see but what we are.”43 Who I was, or better, who I had become, was apparently a well-versed and trustworthy negotiator on behalf of the Basileus: “not bad for a castrate, not bad at all!” As soon as we dropped the lines and left Carales, a storm hit us. Never can anything make you feel more alone than a stormy night at sea: the winds howling and rocking the boat, the planks creaking under your feet, and the water seeping in from every side. We all turned to the monk who had asked to join us; he wanted to go back to his monastery: he ended up standing on his feet, blessing the roaring waves. The Lord had mercy and listened to his prayers. The sea was tamed as the sun rose behind our back. We docked on a little bay where his monastery stood; his brothers welcomed him with a loaf of bread and a smile. They showed me the way to the capital. Memories of the time I spent in Melita and Cyprus resurfaced as I was sitting with the local archon and the envoys of the Caliph. I came to realize that I started to understand my enemy. The great Isidore of Seville wrote that “islands are about remarkable cultural accomplishments, as well as places of ‘barbaric cannibals.’” I have never seen cannibals on an island, but I have learned that life on the great sea in the middle is often less about confronting your enemy rather than connecting with his world. As I was heading east after the treaty had been agreed upon, I reflected upon how islands can change our views of the world. Peace and war, violence and kindness, love and hate: all antinomies dancing together where the land and the sea meet. In the calm breeze of the dusk at sea, I realized that, indeed, my fate was to be a separate island, suffering pangs of solitude while aspiring to happiness. Other men would have never known me as they would always be far from pitying my solitude or understanding me.44 I returned to Carales, where I was told that the old-new Justinian had been ousted yet again; this time, it was for good. The new Basileus asked me to bring the news and a magniloquent court title to the ruler of Amalfi to reward (and remind) him of his loyalty to the Romans. Reaching the rugged peninsula jutting into the sea like an arm stretched out to a sailor, I fathomed that islands could be found on land as well. Amalfi is not one place; it is a synoecism of many little land-locked islets sprouting at the end of torrential rivers and desperately clinging to a scenic and steep backcloth. The Amalfitans think of themselves as Roman refugees who found shelter from the Lombard storm and – like Aeneas – found a new world on the side of this stunningly beautiful peninsula. I knew some of their compatriots were familiar faces in Polis: famous for being skilled traders. Delighted with the imperial title (spatharios) bestowed upon him, the

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ruler of the Amalfitans asked me to escort some pilgrims and merchants eager to reach the Queen of Cities: I was going back home. Traveling means leaving familiar faces and places behind and reconciling yourself with the idea that you might not find them upon your return. Indeed, the Polis had not changed, but the people had: anarchy and fear for yet another assault by the Agarenes had gripped the city. The court was in turmoil, and basileoi came and went as leaves blown by the wind. Oh, master Narses, I am sure you would have been proud of me. My islands had educated me well: wellversed in the arts of the divergent fluidity of politics, I climbed my way up among attempted coups, conspiracies, and conjures. I was a spatharokoubikolarios for one Basileus, only to have the next one promoting me to papias. I was getting closer and closer to the imperial bedchamber. I finally entered it when the lion from Isauria sat on the throne. He appointed me parakoimòmenos, the same dignity you gained when you hammered the Goths!45 I could not celebrate for long: the Arabs came and sieged the Polis. The Basileus rendered justice to his name and lionized his army. We rebuked the assailants on sea and land for four long years;46 we even managed to take some Agarenes as prisoners. One of them was famed for his dexterity of hand: good at horsemanship and superb in bodily strength, he charged against his opponents wielding two spears. He jousted with utmost skill and grace at the hippodrome. I was not as impressed. The emperor noticed my impassible face when the crowds roared in admiration. He harshly taunted me: “can you, effeminate and unmanly creature, do any such thing?” I showed him how a eunuch can fight better than a lion. They said I hurled the Agarene down his horse faster than words can describe.47 The Basileus smiled at me: “not bad for a castrate; not bad at all!” The Theotokos saved us, and the Arabs lifted the siege. They never came back, as a storm surprised them and sank all their ships on their way back to Damascus. “They should have brought a monk with them,” I grinned, delighted at the joke. Maybe I had really impressed the Basileus with my prowess; or maybe he had that mission already in his mind. My new destination was Sicily, where the local strategos had rebelled, thinking the Polis was lost. “Sorry if we spoiled your plans by surviving the siege,” I taunted the general in chains. He was sent to his death, and like you did after you killed Beduila, oh master Narses, I sent his bloodstained garments to be thrown at the feet of the Basileus. I was now sitting in Syracuse as the new strategos of the island. I spent several years in this polis on an island.48 However, I also traveled back and forth to the Basileus many times. In Sicily, I grasped that distances are, first and foremost, those of our minds; I realized that I did not need to find this island on any map. Sicily was next door. I was told the story of the Heliodoros, a Sicilian magician who entered a bathhouse in Catania and he submerged his head into the water for a short time: upon re-emerging, he found himself in the Great Palace’s baths. Did Sicily feel so close because of the score of grain ships that every summer was sent to feed the Queen of the Cities? Or was it because it was a longed-for prize we finally

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snatched from the rapacious hands of the Bishop of Rome?49 I could never answer those questions. What I know is that I felt free in the scorching Sicilian sun. I traveled across the island as its mountains reminded me a bit of Paphlagonia. I visited the polis that was all-a-harbor (Pan-ormous/Palermo) and looked into the eyes of the volcano (Mount Etna) that devoured a great philosopher; I saw pagan temples converted into churches in Agrigentum and the ancient polis of Selinunte turned into a kastron. We needed walls behind which we could shelter and fight the Agarenes constantly harassing us from one coast of the island to another. The Basileus knew we could not afford to lose Sicily. I certainly would not let it happen under my watch! I was commanded to spare no effort and money to build one new fortified kastron in the middle of the island. One could have seen its walls from miles away, guarding the fertile plains of Sicily.50 That was my last glimpse of the island as I was rewarded with a final promotion: the one that brought me right in front of you, oh master Narses. I am now the new Roman exarch of Italy. Convincing the Bishop in Rome that icons are not idols and should not be venerated will not be easy; nevertheless, it is what the Basileus asked me to do (together with keeping the hands of the long-bearded barbarian away from Ravenna). However, I must confess I feel tired after so many years serving the empire. I know you lived longer than me, oh Narses. What was your secret? Or is there one? Sometimes I dream of being back in Hagia Sophia. I walk on its desert nave and lose myself in the waving veins of his marbles. When the hymns start resounding, and their notes reverberate on it, they sound like backwashing on the prow of my ship. The rays of light piercing the giant disc dance like islands in the air. I finally grasped it! Like us – castrates – the fate of islands is to stand alone like outcasts drifting in a distant sea. Desperately hoping to be noticed and reached out. I certainly did grasp many islands only to realize that – like them – I was only part of something more: an empire, an oikoumene, and a sea of humanity. Isolated and connected at the same time. What did you say, master Narses? Oh yes! You are right: “not bad for a castrate; not bad at all!” Notes 1 As I wrote this chapter in January 2023 during my visiting Fellowship at the Medieval Institute of the University of Notre Dame, I would like to express my gratitude to this Institution and to Professor Alexander Beihammer for their invitation and warm hospitality. 2 The Church of San Vitale in Ravenna; an octagonal domed church sponsored by the local Ravennate bishops in the mid-sixth century to celebrate the return of Italy to the Byzantine rule (on Ravenna see Herrin 2020). 3 A religious hymn composed to thank the Theotokos (the mother of the incarnate word of God). The priesthood and laity sang this very hymn standing (Greek word   !"#$%&' – not sitting) during an all-night service of thanksgiving to be held on 7 August (the date the Persian–Avar siege of Constantinople was lifted in the year 626).

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4 Basileus is the Greek word used to indicate the emperor (at the time of Euphemios it was Constantine V (son of Leo III) who was briefly ousted from the throne by the usurper Artavasdos in 742/743); h Polis (the City) is the common abbreviation for Constantinople. 5 The Lombards who invaded Italy in 569. 6 Quoted in Ringrose 2003, 80. 7 The quotation is from Theophylact of Ochrid’s famous sermon entitled In Defence of the Eunuchs written in the late eleventh century. 8 The Greek name of the Byzantine warship. 9 Narses is praised as such by a sixth-century Byzantine chronicler. 10 On the archeothanatology of eunuchs documenting their distorted appearance of peculiar bone development due to the lack of estrogen. 11 Paphlagonia (a mountainous region on the northern coast of Asia Minor) was the homeland of several powerful Byzantine court eunuchs like the Patriarch Niketas in the ninth century, Constantine the Paphlagon in the early tenth century and John the Orphanotrophos (the brother of the Byzantine emperor Michael IV (1034–1041). Indeed, the Paphlagonians often castrated their children and then sent them off to Constantinopolitan imperial or ecclesiastical service. 12 Agarenes (or Hagarenes) is the word used by several Byzantine chroniclers for the Muslim Arabs. 13 On the Roman and Byzantine legislation limiting the practice of castration to barbarians see Tougher 2002. For instance, Justinian’s Novel 142 stated: “decree that any persons who, in any part of Our Empire whatsoever, have presumed, or may hereafter presume to castrate anyone, or themselves submit to the operation which they have performed upon others, and they survive, shall have their property confiscated.” https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr/Anglica/N142_ Scott.htm (accessed 1 February 2023). The only allowed exceptions regarded people who needed castration due to their medical conditions. Notwithstanding the repeated legal admonitions, many families chose to castrate one of their sons to create career opportunities for him in the imperial bureaucracy, as well as in the Church. 14 The choice of Narses allegedly fulfilled an old prophecy foretelling that when a steer mounted the bull that represented Rome the city would fall to its enemies. 15 The Great Palace of Constantinople, located on the southern coast of the peninsula (today Sultanahmet), was a large complex with several annexes and residential households. It lay on a set of artificial terraces and platforms degrading toward the Sea of Marmara. 16 One of the four harbors of Constantinople and one of the two (the other was the Prosphorion) located on the left bank of the Golden Horn and not on the Marmara Sea coastline. 17 The Byzantine school system and the curriculum of the Constantinopolitan high education included the study of Greek authors. 18 The so-called Greek fire was a flammable mixture used as a weapon (mainly) by the Byzantine navy; its mythical inventor was a Syrian named Kallinikos. 19 Byzantine unit of weight. 20 Archaeological excavations in the city of Amorium in central Anatolia have yielded a large winemaking quarter endowed with a large score of presses dated to the early eighth century. 21 The famous Nika revolt in 532. Narses was one of the loyal generals saving the day for the emperor Justinian I (527–565). 22 Justinian II (688–695 and 705–711) 23 Reference to two pilgrims who visited Cyprus in the eighth (Willibald from England) and tenth century (Saint Constantine the Jew).

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24 Ascetics who feigned craziness to earn access to the Kingdom of Heaven. 25 Literally, the noblest ones. 26 On Nea Justinianoupolis and the forced transfer of the Cypriots and their Archbishop to the newly founded city on the southern coast of the Marmara Sea in the 690s. 27 Quotation from S. Perotti, Atlante delle Isole del Mediterraneo. Storie, Navigazione, Arcipelaghi di uno Scrittore Marinaio (Milano, Bompiani 2017), 55. 28 Leontios (695–698). 29 A roofed and semi-elevated structure, erected around the main mast of the ship or near it. 30 One of the main gates to the city decorated with an impressing carving of a lion. 31 He who mounts (epembates) the anuses (proktos) of whores (kasalbas), prostitutes (porne), and lewd women (machlas). 32 Byzantine sealing practices required specialized tools (including the portable pincer called boulloterion). 33 Quotation from Perotti, Atlante, 33. 34 The existence of a monastery dedicated to Saint John the Forerunner on Pantelleria is documented by a ninth-century typikon (foundation chart). 35 According to the Romans, Comino (one of the islands of the Maltese archipelago) was the center of the Mediterranean. 36 The ninth-century Byzantine Chronicle of Theophanes Continuatuus called the Muslim Arabs ameramnounes (from the Arabic for ’the prince of the faithful’). Kairouan replaced Carthage as the Muslim capital of Ifriqiya. 37 A seal of an archon kai drouggarios of Malta (dated to the early eighth century) was indeed found in Ifriqiya (the Arab name of the former Roman province of Africa). 38 Passage from the tenth-century Oneirocriticon of Achmet (a Byzantine text including ancient Arabic sources). 39 The throne hall in the Great Palace of Constantinople. 40 “You have set your foot on the asp and the basilisk, and you have trodden on the lion and the serpent!” This was how the people saluted Justinian II when he paraded his enemies at the hippodrome before executing them, according to the Chronicle of Theophanes Continuatuus. 41 A seal of a Byzantine nipsastiarios has been yielded in Sardinia as dated to the eighth century. A nipsastiarios was one of the court functions (and title) which could be given only to eunuchs. In theory he should have presided over the imperial banquets; in truth, nipsastiarioi were often dispatched as emissaries and ambassadors abroad. 42 The so-called nuraghi. 43 Quotation from F. Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (London: Penguin 2002), 436. 44 Quotation from K. Gibran, Life. http://leb.net/gibran/other/life.html (retrieved 31 January 2023). 45 Narses earned the nickname of “hammer of the Goths.” 46 From 715 to 718. 47 The episode is inspired by the bravado of the ninth-century eunuch Theodore Krateros, strategos of the Bucellarian theme as reported by Theophanes Continuatus ( Featherstone and Signes Condoñer 2015, 167–168) 48 Euphemios referred to the island of Ortygia, the administrative and religious heart of Byzantine Syracuse. 49 Leo III confiscated the large Sicilian patrimonies of the Church of Rome in both Sicily and southern Italy. 50 The so-called Kassar of Castronovo.

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Further Reading J. M. Featherstone and J. Signes-Codoñer, Chronographiae quae Theophanis Continuati nomine fertur libri I–IV. Boston, MA, and Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015. M. Mullett, “Theophylact of Ochrid’s In Defense of Eunuchs.” In Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, S. Tougher (ed.), 177–198. Cardiff: Classical Press of Wales, 2002. K. M. Ringrose, The Perfect Servants. Eunuchs and Social Construction of Gender in Byzantium. Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 2003. G. Sidéris, “Eunuchs of Light.” In Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, S. Tougher (ed.), 177–198. Cardiff: Classical Press of Wales, 2002. S. Tougher, Eunuchs in Byzantine History and Society. New York: Routledge, 2008.

3

Gisela, Abbess of Chelles, in Conversation with Charlemagne and Alcuin of York Rutger Kramer and Ingrid Rembold

Introduction The following story imagines a conversation between Gisela, abbess of Chelles; her brother, Charles, better known to posterity as Charlemagne; and the deacon Alcuin of York, a scholar at Charles’ court. It is set in 788, sometime after the deposition of Tassilo, former duke of Bavaria (and cousin to Gisela and Charles) – and crucially, before the drafting in 789 of the so-called General Admonition (Admonitio generalis), a major piece of capitulary legislation.1 This was a crucial period in the establishment of Carolingian hegemony. The military might of Charlemagne (as indeed that of his father and grandfather) was now beyond question, and even if his urge to conquer had not yet run its course, his mind gradually turned towards strengthening the foundations of his realm as well. The mechanics of how this worked remain elusive – how exactly does one shift the mentality of an entire population using a premodern information infrastructure? The end result, however, was impressive enough to be called a ‘Renaissance’ by later scholars, even if this term is now (rightly!) being phased out. What does seem clear, however, is that these grand ideas did not spring from Charlemagne’s mind fully formed: they were the results of endless and ongoing deliberations by his trusted inner circle to whom he (as well as his heirs) delegated much of the intellectual labour needed to carry out this endeavour. Alcuin was part of this circle, as were other luminaries such as Einhard, his biographer, the Visigoth Theodulf, Bishop of Orléans, the Lombard deacon and historiographer Paul, and the Septimanian abbot Benedict of Aniane. This last luminary, one of the greatest monastic thinkers of the era, received his primary education from Bertha, Charlemagne’s mother. By all accounts, the women at court played an important role in the education of the next generation of aristocrats and intellectuals. Indeed, it seems clear that Charlemagne placed a special value on the presence (and opinions) of his female relatives. Gisela especially, as a member – and later leader – of one of the most important scriptoria in the Frankish heartlands would have easily been the intellectual equal of these male scholars. Alcuin’s letters attest to his respect for her learning, and she would likely have held her own in a conversation with even the most distinguished scholars. DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-3

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Much of what follows can be put down to authorial licence. We have imagined that Charles and Alcuin personally escorted Rotrud, a daughter of Tassilo (and hence Gisela’s and Charles’ first cousin once removed), to her involuntary placement at the monastery of Chelles. We have further taken the liberty of crediting Gisela with many of the ideas that would later be expressed in the General Admonition. Certainly, there is no evidence that Charles and Alcuin visited Chelles during this year, let alone that Gisela inspired this famous act of legislation. We do not even know for certain if Gisela was already abbess in 788! But much of our inspiration has come directly from the Carolingian world – from letters, lives, poetry, capitulary legislation, and, of course, from the General Admonition itself, whose prologue inspired this chapter. References are made throughout to a history that Gisela is thinking of writing; indeed, Janet Nelson has argued for Gisela’s authorship of the Earlier Annals of Metz, even if this attribution is contested by Paul Fouracre, among others. The psalter discussed in the final section, meanwhile, survives to this day: originally produced in Bavaria and brought west with Rotrud following her father’s fall from grace, the manuscript includes both prayers for Charles and his family alongside a more personal prayer for Rotrud. Portrait We knew they were coming. The sisters were prepared. In a way, it’s business as usual – after all, this is hardly the first time our sacred isolation has been breached by the arrival of a group of rowdy warriors. It comes with the territory of being the sister of the most powerful man in Christendom, I reckon. ‘Open the gates!’, I call. With some effort, the inner sanctum of Saint Balthild is opened up to the company. Many of the younger nuns, despite their strict instructions not to lead themselves (or indeed the men) into temptation, cannot help themselves and throng around the gatehouse. Despite the familial connections, it is not every day that the King of the Franks, Lombards, and who-knows-what-other-peoples makes an appearance. Charles rides ahead, clearly enjoying the spectacle he is making. At long last he comes to a halt near the spot where I am waiting with some of the more senior members of the convent. ‘I’ve brought you another one!’ Charles calls out, jumping off his horse and shaking the dust off his cloak. ‘Rotrud, Tassilo’s daughter,’ his companion, the deacon Alcuin, hastens to add. ‘A good nun in the making. Greetings, Gisela.’ ‘Ha! A good nun in the making,’ Charles repeats. ‘Well, she may well be,’ he says, approaching closer and reducing his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘if she finally stops dragging her heels. Good luck with that one.’ I brush aside his sarcasm, plastering a welcoming smile to my face and turning my attention to the girl trailing behind them, uncertain in her step, her eyes downturned. ‘Cousin Rotrud! Welcome. Let me refresh you.’ I tip

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the pitcher to wash her hands before turning back to my brother. ‘Come, Charles, and I will wash your feet after your journey. Sister Ermena will see to your needs, Rotrud; Sister Emma, see to Alcuin.’ ‘I don’t see why the girl is so downcast,’ Charles resumes, taking a seat in the shade of the gatehouse. I remove his shoes, plunging his calloused feet into the basin. ‘She’s among family’ – gesturing to me – ‘and set up perfectly to implore divine mercy for her father’s perfidy. Not that she appreciates my own bountiful mercy in placing her here! Ha,’ he says, jerking away involuntarily and upsetting the basin. ‘That tickles!’ ‘Well, as ever, your smelly feet require much scrubbing, brother!’ I reply gamely. Not nearly as much as your history, I cannot help but think. By all means, throw shade on cousin Tassilo as much as you like, but his supposed perfidy was not much different from how our grandfather and greatgrandfather carved out a place for themselves, if the books and stories are to be believed. Tassilo’s mistake was simply overplaying his hand – a grave error indeed, not only in the face of my ambitious brother, but also in the greater scheme of things. Tassilo should have known his place, I thought. A stint in a monastery might do him good. The same goes for my brother, actually, if he could ever muster the motivation to stay in one place for any amount of time. My mind wanders to the history I have been thinking of writing, if only to ensure that our great-uncle does not get the final say in our family’s narrative.2 Immediately I wonder how I would deal with this latest turn of events, when I notice how Rotrud is looking around nervously. Her skittishness is understandable, given recent events, but I cannot summon the effort to be intimidated by my brother. I incline my head, offering the customary prayer – ‘God, we have received your mercy in the middle of your temple’ – and then set upon a pretext to release Rotrud from Charles’ company. It must sting to travel with a man who has just committed your entire family to monastic custody. ‘Sister Ermena, please see that Rotrud is settled. You may show her the resting place of Swanahild – another Bavarian transplant, unwilling at first, but amply fulfilled by our way of life in the end, and now enjoying the fruits of salvation. And, come, brother, let us away to talk. Alcuin, my dear friend, come and join us in my residence.’ ‘Ah, I’d forgotten Swanahild was here too back in the day! Two generations on, and there are still enough Bavarian traitors to fill up our monasteries. But not for long. Ha! Things have changed in Bavaria.’ Charles glances up at me with evident satisfaction; he reminds me of when he was a boy, full of pride and waiting to be rightly congratulated on a well-performed feat. ‘We have all given thanks to God for your victories. Bavaria may rest easy under your just rule, brother.’ And Tassilo, once duke and our cousin, may languish in monastic confinement. All in pursuit of your overweening ambition. Let us hope he fares better under the rule of an even higher power, I pray silently to myself. ‘And Rotrud may yet prosper under your rule!’ he replies, smiling and unaware of my inner monologue – or was he? Charles has many defects, but

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he does have an uncanny ability to anticipate what people seem to be thinking. We enter my residence, and I usher them to sit. ‘Speaking of which,’ I ask, ‘how is your Rotrud holding up?’ Charles’ daughter – my niece – has the same namesake; both girls were named after our grandmother. I have found myself thinking of her frequently. She is thirteen now, approaching womanhood, and, until recently, due to be married: a glittering match to the young Byzantine Emperor Constantine VI. But her marriage, like mine, proved illusory. Alcuin inhales deeply – I know that his concern for her runs deep. ‘Not well. She’d been preparing for so long, after all – learning the language and all of their strange mannerisms, even eating with that silly fork thing.3 It was his mother’s doing, you know – this has Irene’s marks all over it. But just as you were too good for his father, she’s too good for him! And I don’t mind having her about a bit longer. Hadrian’s relieved as well – he was never a fan of the match.’ But of course Pope Hadrian wouldn’t be. There was no love lost between him and the remnants of the Roman Empire in Byzantium, after they had left the old Rome to fend for itself after the coming of the Lombards. This, more than anything else, had kickstarted my brother’s rise to power: the idea that, if the Romans were not going to maintain their empire, he might as well do it for them. Hadrian’s predecessor, Stephen, had made good use of that uncertainty, masterfully playing out the Lombards (whom he called ‘perfidious’ as well!) against the Franks in a letter to Charles almost two decades ago.4 I remember Charles being taken aback by the rhetoric at the time. On the surface, it had seemed a weird case of a pope dispensing marriage advice: marrying the daughter of King Desiderius was, simply put, the Devil’s work, he wrote. But obviously the Vicar of Christ had better things to do than to worry about what went on between my brother’s bedsheets. What he had really wanted was to put Rome back on top again – something that could only be accomplished if there would be one empire instead of all those groups fighting amongst themselves. Could that letter have been what made Charles realize he needed to pick up the slack, and, ironically, fight even harder? The idea of empire-building seems to have taken root in his mind, and.…5 ‘It has been a large upheaval,’ Alcuin interrupts my musings. ‘But she has taken refuge in her studies. We have been reading through scripture together; she shows a real knack for teasing out the intricacies of language and hidden meanings. She may be a credit to the church one day – perhaps she may even join you here.’ ‘As my brother wishes.’ ‘One Rotrud at a time,’ Charles replies, but he is staring off into the middle distance, and I know we have lost his attention. For him, the marriage was always a means to an end – a way to legitimize his ambitions and consolidate his claims to being the leader of Christianity, or the Romans, or whatever. Over the past years, but especially since he had begun to bring entire peoples under his reign, it had become increasingly unclear what the words ‘King of

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the Franks’ actually meant to my brother.6 For Rotrud, on the other hand, it was very clear what being ‘Empress of the Romans’ meant to her. The promise of the marriage had shaped her entire childhood. Since the age of six, she had studied and rehearsed for this predetermined future; she had prepared to leave behind all she knew to ascend to the highest office known to woman, only to have it all disappear without warning. It is difficult to appreciate the emotional whiplash without having personally experienced it. I master my thoughts and return to the present. ‘Shall we have some refreshment?’ I ask, ringing a bell for service. At the mention of food, Charles comes to life. ‘Some drink and that excellent cheese you make here – you know the one.’7 The serving girl rushes off, while Charles complains of the food on the journey. ‘That’s one thing I don’t miss about campaigning,’ he adds. ‘It’s hard enough to get proper victuals at assemblies – let alone in the field. I’d take the fighting any day – but the stale, monotonous meals make one long for peace.’ ‘I would think that peace was its own inducement!’ I respond. ‘Of course, naturally, but one cannot underrate the allure of good cheese. If those Saxon infidels had tasted your wine and cheese, they’d have been lining up for baptism from day one. Shame it didn’t travel. Though,’ he paused thoughtfully, ‘we will have to think about supplying the churches we’re building there with communion wine. Perhaps some estates in Lotharingia? Make a note, Alcuin. Oh, and while you’re at it, maybe we should figure out how to get them the oil they need for their lamps!’8 To his credit, my brother had been listening to Alcuin and the other scholars he had brought to court – I had never seen him be this concerned about the technicalities of the service of God. ‘In any case,’ he continues, ‘at least in Bavaria we aren’t starting from scratch. I met Arn, the new Bishop of Salzburg, not too long ago – a good churchman if ever there was one. I have a good feeling about that one, even if he started out in the service of Tassilo.’ I see Alcuin nod eagerly in agreement. He was always happy to encounter people he considered his intellectual equals. ‘So, if campaigning, stale bread and mouldy oats are off the menu, what is next? What are your plans for peacetime, brother? Or will you be satisfied with plying newly tonsured monks with wine and olives?’ ‘Ha! It has been a long run of battles and marches; I’d been starting to think of handing the campaigning over to young Charles; a strapping boy and a natural leader, that one. But peace has come, and not too soon; it will be good to have more time in one place, and my wife will be happy of my company, I think.’ ‘A picture of domesticity, then. But surely that isn’t all, brother – surely beyond military victories and campaigning a ruler can offer more.’ The cheese arrives, and he digs in. ‘You have gained Saxony for Christ, restored justice in Bavaria – what will your just Christian rule achieve in these regions, and what might it achieve at home? Think back to our grandfather’s time in Bavaria and how he and his brother worked with Boniface to correct the errors of the

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church. You have Arn, as you say – along with an impressive pool of churchmen at home.’ I notice that Alcuin bristles at my phrasing – his feelings on the bathhouse my brother favoured for his more informal deliberations have always appeared somewhat ambiguous – but press ahead.9 ‘What might you achieve for Christ and his church?’ On cue, a craftsman working outside stumbles and drops his load; there is a resounding crash, and Charles laughs. ‘I might need to start closer to home, sister! Such a ruckus: am I really protecting the church if I allow such incompetence to fester?’ ‘The new church building is proceeding apace, thank you! And we will make sure that the walls around the monastery will be high enough to keep the wolves at bay so we can remain in peace here, and protect our sheep in the process.’10 From the corner of my eye, I see Alcuin scribble something in the wax tablet he always carries with him.11 ‘But I am serious, brother: you have been at war so long. How will you turn yourself to peace – to presiding over these vast kingdoms and territories whose rule you have secured?’ Might as well make some good come from deposing cousin Tassilo, after all. And from displacing poor Rotrud, whom I see walking past the window, looking quite unmoored. Swanahild’s burial place has not proved entirely comforting, perhaps unsurprisingly: what former queen would choose to be rebranded as a concubine and sent to live out her days in a nunnery? Though at least Swanahild had a chance to live in the world before her monastic confinement. ‘Have I not laboured enough?’ he replies, mock serious. ‘Do I not deserve rest, my own marital bliss? When King Solomon presided over Israel in peacetime, did they not sit and enjoy the shade of their tree … or what was it?’ ‘And Juda and Israel dwelt without any fear, every one under his vine, and under his fig tree, from Dan to Bersabee, all the days of Solomon,’ Alcuin intones, ever the teacher.12 ‘Are you Solomon? Are we in Bersabee?’ I ask, baiting my brother. ‘All that wisdom, never stumbling, hmm – I’d peg you more as a plucky and occasionally erring David, if we’re going for an Old Testament king.’ Flattery, sure, but with a hint of condescension only a sister can muster.13 ‘A plucky David?’ he says, rising and stretching, all six feet of him. ‘Did I say David? I must have meant Goliath!’ My brother is a giant, after all. ‘Ha ha! Ha. I’ll settle for David then. Though these surely can’t be the only options.’ ‘Jehosophat? That rolls off the tongue.’ ‘But Solomon built the Temple!’ Alcuin interjects passionately. ‘Surely, if you want your brother to accomplish something grand beyond mere worldly conquest, Solomon is as great an example to follow as any. He was responsible for establishing the throne of justice for the entire Christian people! His Temple guards the love of the Lord in our hearts!14 Likewise, it is your brother’s destiny to renew the Empire, to build a new Rome and a new Church, in the world and in the hearts of his subjects! He truly is on a course…’

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‘… to shake the realms above with his chariot?’ I chant.15 ‘Flaccus, my dear,’ I smile as I use his old nickname, hoping he’d caught the reference to one of Horatius’ odes, ‘you give my brother too much credit! It’s not like he is Constantine the Great – at best he is rebuilding the Church that was started in Nicaea, not starting completely afresh.’ Charles’ ears pique when he hears the name Constantine. He has always been a fan – another reason why he has mixed feelings about the failure of his daughter’s betrothal to that illustrious emperor’s namesake. ‘Constantine died a heretic, though,’ Alcuin reminds me, ‘and you better not finish the way he did!’ he continues, turning to my brother. ‘Those Adoptionists in Iberia had a field day when you compared yourself to him as you tried to bring them back into the fold. Even had the gall to call me “your Arius” - as if you ever listen to me the way Constantine listened to his bishops!’ Now it is Charles’ turn to bristle.16 But before he has a chance to respond, I try to defuse the situation by steering the conversation back to rulers who were almost beyond reproach. ‘Josiah, then? He may not have procured the Law or built the Temple, but he did rediscover them and restored the covenant between the Lord and the Chosen People! Besides,’ I cast a sly glance at my brother, conqueror of the pagans, ‘you would love the bit where he goes around the kingdom, smashing pagan temples and casting out evildoers.’17 ‘I still prefer David,’ my brother responds. ‘He had some fight in him!’ Alcuin, however, is furiously taking notes again. He is probably working on one of his treatises again – there is always someone to admonish after all, and he cannot be everywhere at once. ‘But I like the idea, sister! It is our concern that the condition of our churches should always advance towards better things, after all, and that everyone stays on the straight and narrow – the, what did you call it again, Alcuin?’18 ‘The Via Regia,’ the deacon says, ‘the Royal Way that leads people towards Salvation just like….’19 ‘But before they reach Salvation, they need to stay on that narrow road in this life, do they not?’ I cut Alcuin short. He was about to start a sermon, and although those were always interesting, I have the feeling we were on to something larger, something more general here. I bring the conversation back to where we started. ‘Ruling is a lot easier if everybody knows the rules, after all. Maybe your errant people need a roadmap like the one you have in your palace, brother, but one that helps them stay on that Royal Way. After all,’ I decide to throw in a quote from the Rule of Saint Benedict, ‘“if we desire to dwell in the dwelling place of his kingdom, we will not reach it unless we press forward in good works” – and “knowing”, as you are well aware, master Alcuin, “comes before doing”.20 I’m sure that Tassilo would not have been such a hassle if it had been clear what you expected him to do.…’ That last bit probably is not true. Tassilo was at least as ambitious as his cousin; he was always going to be a hassle. But it wouldn’t hurt to give him, as well as my brothers’ other subjects, a strong sense of direction. Inadvertently my thoughts

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stray to the newest addition to my own community – how headstrong would Rotrud prove to be? Would she be able to submit to the ‘sweet yoke’ of the regular life, to learn how to live her life in the ‘school of the service of God’ that I strive to institute here in Chelles?21 That would, of course, be my responsibility and that of her seniors. My brother, however, had bigger fish to fry. In losing my train of thought, I have also lost the attention of the men. They have already started making plans. ‘The wolves are outside the gates of the community!’ I hear my brother exclaim, and ‘Josiah discovering the law! This is good stuff – Alcuin, you always have the best ideas! We can use that to tell our subjects they should definitely obey.…’ ‘Maybe it’s best to admonish them, sire,’ Alcuin interjects. ‘You know how people are – the moment you order them to do something, they will rebel. That’s why securing the Christian religion among the Saxons proved such a sticky business. Faith is a matter of will, not of compulsion – a person can be drawn to faith but cannot be forced to it, remember?22 You want to avoid further perfidy? Show yourself to be a shepherd who wields not just rods, but also carrots.’ Alcuin chuckles at his little joke. We all chuckle along gamely, if indulgently. ‘Sure. Yes. Admonition.’ Charles stares into the distance, undoubtedly cooking up one of his schemes. Or has he taken some of my advice to heart this time? ‘We need to start working on that temple, I think. Work on the law for a bit. Make a roadmap for my subjects.’ I cannot tell whether his heart is in it, but he surely sees the potential of this line of thinking for the grand project he has been developing ever since he started reading Augustine’s City of God.23 ‘Be careful though, brother, and be diligent,’ I add. ‘Even your Temple will eventually fall, just as Christ has foretold us. And when it falls, people will look to anyone who would teach them – and in such uncertain times, false teachers will take advantage. So, make sure your map will stand the test of time.’24 Once again, I see Alcuin make a note, mumbling something about the end of days as he closes his tablet. ‘Such a gloomy subject, though!’ Charles yawns as he stands up. ‘It’s given me a lot to reflect upon during Mass, which, if the sun is to be trusted, is almost upon us.’ He is right, of course. Time waits for no man, or woman as it turns out. I might be part of the inner circle of the King of the Franks, but my days are ruled by a higher power still, who will have the final word on whether my brother’s Christian kingdom (or empire – is that his end goal?) will persist. As we walk towards the church, my brother takes my hand. ‘Well, dearest sister,’ he says earnestly, ‘whether or not it stands the test of time is up to the stories we will tell about ourselves.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘I trust that you, at least, will give me a good story. One where I don’t end up in the nether regions!’ He laughs his characteristic laugh once more, as I ponder whether he has been reading my mind again. Maybe I should make a start on that history book. Charles leaves the next day. Always on the move – time with him is ever so precious. I stand outside the gatehouse until his retinue is a small speck on the

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horizon. Despite everything, I do love my brother, really. (Or rather: I love my brothers, even if I am wise enough to never speak of Carloman, God rest his soul. And my poor nephews.) It is, however, both easier and safer to love Charles from a distance. Returning, I search for Rotrud, eventually finding her in a corner of the scriptorium, huddled over a book. I approach gently. ‘Cousin,’ I say, and she startles. ‘Mother Gisela,’ she says, inclining her head. ‘Let us see what you are reading.’ It is a volume I do not recognize: she passes it to me. ‘Ah, a psalter! What a frontispiece – look at David there with his lute.’ I flip through, admiring the artistry of the initials. I cannot help but wonder, however, if my brother would appreciate playing an instrument. He seems to care about harmony, but only in a way where he can have absolute control over who is plucking the strings. A lute would suit him. Maybe there is David in him after all. ‘It steadies me to read the familiar psalms,’ she says. Then, adding hesitantly, ‘It is the one possession I was permitted to take with me.’ ‘Such a beautiful book, my child.’ I move the parchment carefully to close the volume but pause to examine a different handwriting at the rear of the volume. She visibly winces, then recovers. ‘The lord king’s confessor thought to add some prayers.’ I lean in, reading. ‘For Charles, crowned by God, most excellent, great and peaceful’ – ha! – ‘king of the Franks and Lombards and patrician of the Romans, life and victory.’25 And it carries on… prayers for the young Charles, Pippin, Louis, Fastrada. Good God, Charles; it’s not enough to forcibly relocate the girl, you also need to insert yourself into her religious devotion. Was this Alcuin’s doing as well? Or had he cautioned against it, urging his king to let this subject of his also find her own way on the narrow path to Heaven? There is so much at stake.… ‘I have prayed for him and your family,’ she tells me nervously. ‘Of course, cousin, you have done exactly as you should,’ I offer reassuringly. She would have had to do so sooner or later: we recite prayers daily for my brother and family. But here, entered into her one remaining possession, it feels a violation. The absence of her own parents and siblings resonates. I lean forward, reaching for quill and ink. ‘But let us put something of you in here as well.’ She has been placed here, dislocated, against her will. What can one wish for within these four walls? I turn the page and put quill to parchment. Concede your grace to us, Lord. Give us joy and peace, Lord. Concede life and health to us, Lord. Protect us from our enemies, Lord. Grant us propitious times, Lord. Spare us our sins, Lord. Son of God, have mercy upon us. Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. Then, Christ, concede that our sister named Rotrud be happy, that she might always serve you. And let it be so, I hope and wish, turning once more to regard the tired and frightened child sitting beside me. Let it be so.

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Notes 1 Admonitio Generalis, ed. Hubert Mordek, Klaus Zechiel-Eckes, and Michael Glatthaar, Die Admonitio Generalis Karls des Grossen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica Fontes Iuris Germanici Antiqui in Usum Scholarum Separatim Editi 16 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2012); trans. P. D. King, Charlemagne: Translated Sources (Lancaster, 1987), 209–220. 2 This might be the Earlier Metz Annals mentioned in the prologue to this chapter; Gisela’s authorship is unsure, but it is easy to imagine her writing it or at least thinking about writing it. The great-uncle in question is Childebrand, the brother of Charles Martel, who is credited with writing the so-called Continuations of the Chronicle of Fredegar: Roger Collins, Die Fredegar-Chroniken, Monumenta Germaniae Historica Studien und Texte 44, (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2007). 3 The first mention of the fork in western Europe comes in the eleventh century: see Judith Herrin, Byzantium: The Surprising Life of a Medieval Empire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), pp. 203–211. 4 Walter Pohl, ‘Why Not to Marry a Foreign Woman: Stephen Ill’s Letter to Charlemagne’, in: Valerie Garver and Owen Phelan, eds., Rome and Religion in the Medieval World: Studies in Honor of Thomas F.X. Noble (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), pp. 47–63. 5 Mary Alberi, ‘The Evolution of Alcuin’s Concept of the Imperium christianum’, in Joyce Hill and Mary Swan, eds., The Community, the Family and the Saint: Patterns of Power in Early Medieval Europe (Turnhout: Brepols 1998), pp. 3–17. 6 Helmut Reimitz, History, Frankish Identity and the Framing of Western Ethnicity, 550–850 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). 7 For Charles’ reputed love of cheese see: Notker the Stammerer, I:15, trans. T. F. X. Noble, Charlemagne and Louis the Pious: The Lives by Einhard, Notker, Ermoldus, Thegan and the Astronomer (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2009), pp. 70–71. 8 Paul Fouracre, Eternal Light and Earthly Concerns: Belief and the Shaping of Medieval Society (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2021). 9 For Alcuin’s sexuality (including his ideas on the baths) see Donald A. Bullough, Alcuin: Achievement and Reputation (Leiden: Brill, 1980), pp. 110–117. 10 This remark would make it into the prologue to the Admonitio Generalis, trans. P. D. King, p. 209: ‘… that you strive with vigilant care and sedulous admonition to lead the people of God to the pastures of eternal life and exert yourselves to bear the erring sheep back inside the walls of the ecclesiastical fortress on the shoulders of good example and exhortation, lest the wolf who lies in wait should find someone transgressing the sanctions of the canons or infringing the teachings of the fathers of the universal councils – perish the thought! – and devour him.’ 11 People seldom committed their thoughts directly to parchment. Frequently, a wax tablet would serve as an intermediary, helping a scribe or author to gather their thoughts before moving to the more expensive (and less forgiving) vellum. 12 1 Kings 4:25. 13 Mary Garrison, ‘The Social World of Alcuin: Nicknames at York and at the Carolingian Court’ in: Luuk Houwen and Alasdair MacDonald, eds., Alcuin of York. Scholar at the Carolingian Court (Groningen, 1998), pp. 59–79. 14 These are sentiments that Alcuin has expressed in his letters (ed. Ernst Dümmler, MGH Epp. 4, 1895), e.g. Letter 86 to Paulinus of Aquileia, Letter 101 to Offa of Mercia, and Letter 217 to Charles the Younger. 15 Horace, Odes, Lib. 1, 12 (Ode to Augustus), trans. John Conington, Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace (London: George Bell and Sons 1882), available online at http://data.perseus.org/citations/urn:cts:latinLit:phi0893.phi001.perseuseng1:1.12.

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16 The adoptionist controversy was a theological dispute that occurred in the late eighth century between the bishops of Umayyad-occupied Iberia, Rome, and the Frankish bishops about the exact place of Christ in the Trinity (truly the Son of God, or merely adopted?). Such a debate over Christ’s humanity would have reminded everyone involved of the Arian heresy that all but defined Christian religious discourse in the third and fourth centuries – and which prompted Constantine to get directly involved, leading to the influential Council of Nicaea of 325. This in turn made him a bit of a role model for Charlemagne, even if it was a double-edged sword: on his deathbed, Constantine was baptised by the Arian bishop Eusebius of Nicomedia. The Spanish bishops used this story to great effect in a letter to Charlemagne, reminding him of his responsibilities as a Christian ruler. Rutger Kramer, ‘Adopt, Adapt and Improve: Dealing with the Adoptionist Controversy at the Court of Charlemagne’ in: Rob Meens et al., eds., Religious Franks: Religion and Power in the Frankish Kingdoms: Studies in Honour of Mayke de Jong (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), pp. 32–50. We are taking some extreme liberties with the chronology here. 17 Admonitio Generalis: ‘For we read in the Books of the Kings how the holy Josiah, by visitation, correction and admonition, strove to recall the kingdom which God had given him to the worship of the true God. I say this not to compare myself with his holiness but because it is our duty, at all times and in all places, to follow the examples of the holy and necessary for us to gather together whomsoever we can for the study of a good life in praise and glory of our Lord Jesus Christ’; Josiah’s story may be read in 2 Kings 22–23; Mayke de Jong, ‘Charlemagne’s Church’ in: Joanna Story, Charlemagne: Empire and Society (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005), pp. 103–135. 18 An almost direct quote from the so-called Epistola Generalis, trans. P. D. King, p. 208. 19 While Alcuin was fond of this concept and frequently referred to it in his letters, it is best explained in a treatise by Smaragdus of Saint-Mihiel, Via Regia, trans. Jean Leclercq, Smaragde: La Voie Royale – Le Diadème des Moines (Yonne: La Pierrequi-Vire, 1950). 20 Quote from the prologue of the Rule of Benedict, ed. and trans. Bruce L. Venarde, The Rule of Benedict, Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library 6 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011), pp. 4–5; and the Epistola de litteris colendis (On Cultivating Letters), trans. P. D. King, Charlemagne: Translated Sources, p. 232. 21 It is uncertain if Chelles had adopted the Rule of Saint Benedict at this point, although it is conceivable given Charlemagne’s efforts to procure a copy of the Rule from Montecassino in the early 780s. Albrecht Diem, ‘The Carolingians and the Regula Benedicti’ in: Rob Meens, Dorine van Espelo, Bram van den Hoven van Genderen, Janneke Raaijmakers, Irene van Renswoude, and Carine van Rhijn, eds., Religious Franks: Religion and Power in the Frankish Kingdoms: Studies in Honour of Mayke de Jong (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016), pp. 243–261. 22 Alcuin wrote this in a letter to Meginfrid, Charlemagne’s chamberlain, in 796. Letter 111, trans. P. D. King, Charlemagne: Translated Sources, p. 316. 23 Einhard, Life of Charlemagne, c. 24. 24 Admonitio Generalis, trans. P. D. King, p. 220: ‘And we enjoin this the more diligently upon your lovingness because we know that in the last days there will appear false teachers, as the Lord Himself foretold in the gospel and as the apostle Paul testifies to Timothy. Wherefore, most beloved, let us prepare ourselves with all our heart in knowledge of the truth, that we may be able to resist those who oppose the truth and that, by the gift of divine grace, the word of God may

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flourish and become general and spread, to the benefit of God’s holy church and the salvation of our souls and the praise and glory of the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ This quote invokes two eschatological passages in the New Testament: Matt. 24:11 and 1 Tim 4:1. 25 This discussion is based on Montpellier, Bibliothèque Interuniversitaire, Faculté de Médecine, H.409, fols 344r and v, available online at https://bvmm.irht.cnrs.fr/ mirador/index.php?manifest=https://bvmm.irht.cnrs.fr/iiif/4819/manifest (accessed 3 April 2023). The frontispiece featuring David playing the lute is on fol. 1 v. For discussions of this manuscript cf. Rosamond McKitterick, The Carolingians and the Written Word (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 252–255; Janet L. Nelson, King and Emperor: A New Life of Charlemagne (London: Allen Lane, 2019), pp. 254–257. Note that McKitterick places Rotrud (Tassilo’s daughter) at the monastery of Notre Dame at Laon and identifies the Rotrud mentioned in this manuscript as Charlemagne’s daughter (who shared this name). We have followed Nelson in both placing Tassilo’s daughter (Rotrud) at Chelles and identifying her with the Rotrud named in this manuscript.

Further Reading Airlie, Stuart, Making and Unmaking the Carolingians (London: Bloomsbury, 2020). Costambeys, Marios et al. (eds.), The Carolingian World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). McKitterick, Rosamond, The Carolingians and the Written Word (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). Nelson, Janet L., ‘Gender and Genre in Women Historians of the Early Middle Ages’ in: idem, The Frankish World (London: Hambledon, 1996), pp. 183–197. Nelson, Janet L., King and Emperor: A New Life of Charlemagne (London: Allen Lane, 2019).

4

Theutberga Reflections on the Divorce of King Lothar II Erin Thomas Dailey

Introduction If biographical subjects are defined by their achievements, then Theutberga (d. 875) is best known for preventing her husband, Lothar II (r. 855–869), from divorcing her and marrying his mistress, Waldrada. While that accomplishment might not seem on a par with those of other figures in this book, it must not be underestimated. Frankish kings, whose rule over substantial parts of Europe extended back to the fifth century, had rarely faced much difficulty in repudiating an unwanted wife. Indeed, Theutberga was the first queen anywhere in medieval Europe to successfully prevent her husband from attaining a publicly recognised divorce, and the first to appeal to the bishop of Rome – i.e. the pope – in the process. She set a precedent with far-reaching implications for later rulers. She also made a considerable contribution to the historical development of Christian marriage, a topic of much debate for the church authorities of her era. By preventing Lothar II from securing support for Waldrada as a legitimate wife, and for his son by her as a legitimate heir, Theutberga also sealed the fate of his kingdom, later known as Lotharingia, which disappeared, absorbed by his uncles into their larger realms. What had once formed the centre of the Frankish world became instead a borderland between two regions, west and east Francia, that ultimately gave rise to France and Germany. These profound historical consequences were, of course, unforeseeable to Theutberga or her contemporaries. Within her lifetime, she was regarded, instead, as the central figure in a great scandal, and her alleged sexual misconduct was intensely debated not only by the elite of the realm, but even – as reported by Hincmar, archbishop of Reims (d. 882) – by common women weaving at their looms. Historians have generally sought to explain the affair by reference to political events, and it is certainly true that the royal marriages of medieval Europe were deeply political acts. Lothar II married Theutberga soon after his accession to the throne in 855, presumably in order to secure an alliance with her powerful family. Her brother, Hubert, held prominence in strategically important lands on the northern side of the Alps. By the time Lothar II sought to separate from Theutberga in the latter half of 857, he had become less dependent on Hubert, and therefore less committed to his marriage. DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-4

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Furthermore, Theutberga’s failure – as it would have been seen at the time – to produce a male heir cannot have helped, especially since Waldrada had given Lothar II a son. Nevertheless, contemporary sources admit that the king had other motivations besides his immediate political needs, and that his desire to marry Waldrada, in fact, came at a significant political cost. Indeed, rumours even circulated that Lothar suffered from some sort of enchantment. In the portrait that follows, I largely focus on the personal dynamics behind these dramatic events rather than on the political calculations – important though they may have been. I attempt to take advantage of the licence offered by an ‘imagined portrait’ to explore areas that lie beyond the horizons of most historical scholarship: personal relationships, interior thoughts, unrecorded emotions, and non-political motivations. I write from the first-person perspective of Theutberga herself, during the final period of her life, after her husband had died and she had retired to a monastery in Metz. The portrait is rooted in known historical events, attested primarily in Hincmar’s work On the Divorce of King Lothar and Queen Theutberga and the Annals of Saint Bertin (which have a complex authorial history that includes Hincmar’s influence). All named individuals, with the exception of the novice nun Seila, appear in the sources. The core events, such as the various councils and tribunals, all took place – including Theutberga’s trial by ordeal. But between these thick historical lines, I have coloured in the thoughts and feelings of those involved, as well as many details unknown to history, in order to present a fuller – and in a sense, more accurate – understanding of important, but often overlooked, aspects of medieval European society. Portrait My soul glorifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my saviour, for he has looked with favour upon the humility of his slave. Behold, from this day all generations will call me blessed, For the one who is powerful has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is from generation to generation upon those who fear him. He has shown the strength of his arm. He has scattered the proud in their deep conceit. He has deposed the powerful from their thrones and exalted the humble. He has filled those who hunger with rich food, and sent the rich away in hunger. He has acknowledged his slave Israel, mindful of his own mercy, just as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and his progeny forever. Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever, world without end. Amen.1

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As we sang the Magnificat, the smoke of incense drifted upwards from the altar. In delicate whiffs, it accompanied our prayers as they reached up to heaven. I was in no way comparable to the Blessed Virgin Mary, but I nevertheless felt that her words were my own. How often people had bowed before me, when I reigned as queen, and offered their petitions in the hope that I might intercede with the king on their behalf. Now, in this convent, it was I who sought the mercy of Christ through the words spoken by his immaculate mother. ‘Sister Theutberga,’ whispered one of the novices as we left the oratory, ‘I must speak with you.’ I quickly took her aside. ‘Perhaps you do not know, because you are still in training, but we are not permitted idle chatter, for we follow what the holy scriptures teach: I will guard my ways, so that I may not sin with my tongue.2 St Benedict, whose Rule we follow, reminds us of this biblical teaching. Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who indulge will consume its fruits.’3 ‘I am inclined to read no more of Benedict’s words,’ the girl insisted, ‘and perhaps no more of the scriptures either. When I hear the Magnificat, I ask myself: what great things has the Almighty done for me? Why do my oppressors sit comfortably on their thrones? This loss of faith is precisely why I must speak to you.’ For a moment, I stood astounded. This girl had only recently entered the convent and had not yet taken her full vows. I had yet to learn her name. But already she speaks of grave doubts. I pulled her into my monastic cell. She had started to cry. Had I pulled her too forcefully? Were my words too harsh? ‘Yes, dear, of course we can speak of so serious a matter,’ I said. ‘What makes you doubt God’s mercy? And what makes you ask me, when I do not know you, or even your name?’ ‘My name is Seila,’ she said, drying her eyes with her wimple, which became dishevelled in the process. ‘Only you will understand me. This I know.’ We sat upon a mat used for prayer and I listened to her story as I tucked her hair back under her wimple. Seila told me that she never imagined herself living in a convent. When she was only eleven, her father returned from a military campaign and informed her that he had promised her to the son of another lord, his friend and ally. By thirteen, the marriage had taken place. Her husband wished for a son, and this she struggled to provide. Few were conceived, and none born alive. After six years, her husband became suspicious. At first, he thought one of his enemies had used witchcraft against him, but no amount of prayers, donations, or amulets worked. Then he replaced all his servants, who might have poisoned his wife’s food over some petty grievance. Finally, he began to suspect Seila herself. ‘God must be punishing you for adultery,’ he declared, ‘and I am being humiliated for tolerating your sins.’ It was never true, Seila insisted, but her husband found a priest who agreed with him, and who decided that she should repent and do penance in a monastery under religious vows. Reluctantly, she agreed.

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‘What other option did I have?’ Seila explained. ‘Now you must understand why I sought you out. I thought to myself, if Theutberga can explain to me how she came to accept her own fate, then perhaps I will be able to understand mine.’ Of course she knew my story. My life had been the subject of such public scrutiny that even this monastery offered no sanctuary from my reputation. But what did Seila really know of my life? Only rumour. I had been accused in public of such vile deeds. At least she seemed to believe me innocent. ‘Perhaps you had no desire to live behind these walls,’ I asked her, ‘so I can understand your reservations about the monastic life. But why do you doubt the mercy of God? As nuns we deny ourselves many pleasures, but our way of life brings many joys. Such moments come from the goodness of the Lord.’ ‘Last Sunday I heard a reading from the scriptures,’ she replied. ‘You will have heard it as well. But it was new to me, from the Book of Numbers, about women accused of adultery by their husbands in the ancient days of Moses. A priest is instructed to take dust from the holy sanctuary of the Lord and sprinkle it in a cup of water, and then to place the accused woman before the Lord and uncover her head. If another man has not slept with you, and if you have not been defiled by forsaking your husband’s bed, then these most bitter waters, which I have cursed, shall not hurt you. But if you have strayed from your husband, and defiled yourself by sleeping with a man other than your husband, then the curse shall befall you. May the Lord make you accursed, an example for all among his people. May he make your womb wilt, and your belly swell and miscarry.4 Finally, I understood why my husband felt justified in suspecting me. My miscarriages were not merely unfortunate, not merely a suffering, not even merely a punishment, but indeed a proof, in his eyes, of my sins. But why had God treated me as though I were an adulteress? I had remained steadfast in my fidelity,’ Seila concluded, with a clear sense of indignation in her voice. ‘Had you drunk water with the dust of the Lord’s altar, surely you would have delivered a healthy child,’ I replied. ‘You were not put to this test. Your miscarriages were proof of nothing.’ ‘Yet I suffered them,’ Seila said, ‘and the inferences men drew from them. Were you not angry, when God allowed you to suffer so much at the hands of men? Did his mercy not seem far away? Like the light of a fire too distant to provide warmth. Unfelt mercy is of no comfort.’ Fire meant something else to me. Not comfort, but fear. I had faced my own trial, not the trial of bitter water, but that of boiling water. I remember staring at the flames, ablaze on an early summer day already distinguished by its heat. Was the sweat I felt seeping into my clothing from this warmth, or from a terror I struggled to conceal? I had only been married two years when Lothar accused me of adultery. He lacked even the courage to tell me himself. He left on a hunt and sent his seneschal with an armed guard to confine me to my quarters. I could not believe what the seneschal told me: my husband had formally accused me of adultery with my own brother Hubert! I thought that

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the seneschal had lied. Was this part of a palace coup? But when my husband returned and I remained confined, I realised that the seneschal had acted on his orders. I knew that Lothar’s mistress was to blame. Waldrada had been at Lothar’s side even before our marriage had started, though of course no one informed me about her until after the wedding. Through the doors of my chambers I could hear her strutting through the palace giving orders to the servants, who had answered to me only a few days before. Oh how she wished to be queen, and to see her illegitimate son inherit the throne one day. I was determined to prove my innocence and to restore my position at court. Lothar had no evidence against me, no witnesses. He had only one means of proving my guilt – a trial by ordeal. ‘God is the true judge, before whom we must all stand on the Last Day,’ I said to Seila. You will have your vindication. Perhaps you must wait for it, but you will have it. I know, because God vindicated me.’ I recounted the trial by ordeal to her in all its detail. Well, not every detail. I did not mention how my legs trembled beneath layers of tunics. I thought I had prepared myself well when I chose garments that were symbolic of my status: white for purity, purple for royalty, and gold embroidery, because gold is purified by fire. But when the day came, I was simply glad that these clothes were thick and long. I told myself that fear of the Lord is a sign of righteousness, but in truth I think that is a different sort of fear than what I felt. Neither did I tell Seila that I did not place my own delicate hand into the cauldron. A champion performed the task for me, plunging his arm into the boiling waters and lifting it out once he found the iron ring. Immediately he was bandaged. Then I waited three agonising days, just as the women waited on Christ in his tomb, before they finally visited and discovered it empty, until the bandages were removed. In a church, in the presence of twelve leading men, a priest inspected the wounds. I stood outside. How relieved I was when the priest came out and declared my champion’s hand ‘uncooked’. God had pronounced me innocent. Glory be to God. ‘There is something that I do not understand,’ Seila said. ‘If Lothar fabricated these charges, encouraged by Wuldrada, then why did he imagine that he would prevail during the ordeal? Surely he knew that God – the Almighty and All-Knowing – would recognise his lies, and that you were certain to pass the ordeal.’ I paused at this insightful enquiry. I knew why, of course, but I had no wish to tell this secret to Seila. I had only told it twice before, and I suffered on both occasions for it. It was my secret, my mark of dishonour. ‘How can I explain what my husband thought,’ I started to say, but then paused. I needed to tell Seila the truth. This moment was not an accident: God had tasked me with restoring her faith, and it was only by explaining my life to her that I might help her. And so I told my story. It was so hard to tell. I was a shy bride, and on our wedding night I asked Lothar to wait. He grew angry. I still remember his words. ‘What sort of wife have I got myself,’ he asked, ‘if she is unprepared to do the one thing that women were made for?’ Foolish me,

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I took his distress seriously. Oh how I wanted to be a good wife, and there was no marriage without consummation. I never would have been so understanding. So, I let him do as he wished. And I wept. Only when he finished did he ask about my tears. At that moment, I decided to reveal to him the source of my reluctance, indeed of my shame. Why did I tell him my secret? Here was my king, and I had failed in my first act as his wife, as queen. In hindsight, I think this moment was the only time that I felt his vulnerability, and I wished to explain that my hesitancy had nothing to do with him. For I had been with my brother – but not by choice! Hubert came to my bedchamber when I was young. So young that I barely understood what he did to me, when he told me to lie with my face down on my bed. He simply said, ‘Be still; I will not harm you. Do not worry. I will leave you intact for your husband.’ It was not just once, but never on any occasion did I agree in my heart. I explained this to Lothar, and I assured him that Hubert had not claimed my virginity, since I know that my purity and suitability as a wife would be his principal concern. To my surprise, he stayed silent. Had he understood? Was this compassion? It could not have been, though, because at some point he told Waldrada. That is my suspicion, at least, but I am certain of it. She must have convinced him that I had encouraged this attention from Hubert, and that we had continued in the affair after my marriage – neither of which were true. But Lothar believed it. Why else did he order the ordeal with such confidence of my guilt? There was a long pause, while Seila looked at me with what I thought to be a deep understanding. ‘I don’t know what to say. I am sorry for what happened to you. All of it – for what was done by Hubert, by Lothar, and for the need to carry your suffering with you as a secret, when it should be a source of shame only for others. For the accusations that you faced.’ Seila spoke words of consolation, but I discerned some enduring unease in her words. ‘Of course, you faced accusations as well,’ I said, so that I might return our discussion to her experiences. ‘I did, and if I may speak from my own heart – and I mean no offence – but, when I think about myself, I wonder why should I be made to wait until the Last Day, and here in this convent of all places, for my vindication?’ ‘I am here too,’ I replied. ‘My vindication was only a foretaste of what is to come, even for me. The ordeal was not the last trial I faced over these accusations.’ ‘You were tried again?’ Seila asked. ‘I hadn’t realised. I only vaguely know that part of your story. The ordeal was so sensational, word of it spread everywhere. But after that, not so much information came to my ears.’ ‘I was taken before an ecclesiastical tribunal, but perhaps word of that did not spread as widely, because church councils are not as exciting for the public as a trial by ordeal,’ I answered. ‘In fact, there were several such proceedings, though I wish not to bore you.’ ‘Please tell me,’ she insisted. ‘What happened after you were proved innocent by the ordeal?’

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I explained how, at first, I returned to the palace – indeed, rather smugly. But now it was an uncomfortable place. I could not trust the seneschal, of course. I also knew that the flatteries of the leading men at court were hollow. Which of them had leaped to my defence? My servants might have obeyed my commands, but not out of love or respect. What might Waldrada entice them to do, with money or promises? I was not even sure if my food was safe to eat. I remained guilty in the eyes of many. People did not want to believe that their king had been wrong and – exposed as such by God himself – that he was lacking in divine favour. Who wishes to live in such a kingdom? Will the fields grow, or will there be famine? Will God inflict a plague upon the land, like those plagues sent to punish pharaoh in the days of Moses? It is easier to believe that the queen is an incestuous adulteress. Especially the barren queen. And I was not able to produce a son. Now, of course, I know that God refused to grant me a child because he had already written my destiny, which was the convent, but at the time I suffered, and I doubted. I questioned why this misery had befallen me. Waldrada even planted the idea in Lothar’s mind that I had used potions and witchcraft to miscarry on purpose, out of fear that I might have a child from Hubert, who was, according to her diabolical lies, still sleeping with me. ‘But the ordeal of the cauldron,’ Seila asked: ‘Did people simply ignore the result?’ ‘Oh there were many ways,’ I replied, recounting all the arguments people used to discredit my triumph. Some were more clever than others. I think most originated from the royal court itself. A quiet chatter of various whisperings, designed to give people the choice of whichever argument they liked – as long as they concluded that I had been guilty all along. Some people believed that trials by ordeal were themselves without a basis; that they arrogantly expected God to perform a miracle at our request. You shall not test the Lord your God, they said, quoting scripture.5 The fools! Was the ordeal of the bitter waters offensive to God? Of course not. So how, then, the ordeal of the cauldron? Was the great Deluge not a mass trial by water for Noah’s generation? Ordeals were also a matter of law, handed down from antiquity and upheld by none other than our great lord Charles, Lothar’s own grandfather.6 Some other people said that I had tricked my way to victory. They imagined that, when I had been asked, as I stood before the cauldron, if I had slept with ‘Hubert’, that I conjured in my mind a different Hubert from my brother, and that I had therefore only been proved innocent of adultery with this other Hubert. What sort of people are these, who imagine that I could fool God Almighty, the Lord of Heaven and Earth? ‘I guess it will be no different for me,’ Seila said, ‘if I leave this convent. I will never be innocent in the eyes of everyone. Perhaps I have no life to return to.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ I confirmed. ‘Upon my return, I realised that the palace had become a gilded cage. I had a life that was not altogether different from

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confinement in a monastery, but without the peace brought by continual service to God.’ ‘But how can I serve God,’ Seila asked, ‘when it was God’s own priest who cared not for my innocence, who conspired with my husband, and who arranged for my entry to this monastery?’ ‘Let me continue my story,’ I urged, ‘though I will say upfront, if it is any reassurance, that few priests are allowed into the sacred confines of this convent, and you are unlikely to ever find yourself confronted by a clergyman eager to use his authority against you. Only a few older priests and deacons, as necessitated by the liturgy, are allowed in, and they are kind, humble men.’ I paused for a moment, because I realised that Seila had no inclination to trust even the handful of clergy permitted entry into this convent. ‘Shall I add that the scriptures tell us: many are invited, but few are chosen.7 Let us not worry about such men. They go to their graves, and us to ours. I know this well. It was a bishop who betrayed me.’ I explained to Seila how I grew increasingly insecure in the palace. I wondered why God had vindicated me, only to return me to such a hostile place, where I served as a reminder to my husband of the limits of his power. Had I been guilty all along? Not wholly, of course, but perhaps in some sense that I did not understand? It was a terrible thought, an instance of self-doubt brought on by my surroundings. I wondered if, through my ordeal, God had not vindicated me so much as shown me mercy. Was my champion’s uncooked hand a sign, not of my innocence in God’s eyes, but of my forgiveness, which implied some sort of guilt? Did I, in fact, owe penance for what Hubert had done to me? I decided to ask the royal chaplain, Gunther.8 How foolish was I, to think that I could trust him. ‘But Lothar already knew what happened with Hubert,’ Seila said, somewhat confused. ‘What risk was there from Gunther if you told him?’ ‘Yes, but Lothar did not understand the full implications,’ I explained. ‘Gunther had an exquisite education in theology and church law. Once he learned that Hubert had, as he saw it, genuinely defiled me, he knew how he could help Lothar rid himself of me. Gunther confirmed to me that I shared some of the guilt of Hubert’s sins, and that I needed to confess them in order to complete God’s forgiveness. A church council was convened, and I attended. In the chill of winter – my mind recalls this moment when the cold and dark return each year – I recounted my horrid experiences before the assembled bishops and signed my confession in writing. Gunther then rose and spoke. He said that the sin of incest was an unspeakable crime, one that threatened not only my husband, but indeed the whole of the realm, because it aroused God’s anger against an entire population. My sins were grave, scandalous, public offences, committed in private but known to all. His voice rose as he issued such pronouncements, reaching a crescendo when he explained that these sins had undermined the social order and scandalised the Christian community itself. Although God had forgiven me, I still owed penance. A lengthy, public penance, which could only be performed in a

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monastery. Now Gunther’s plan became clear: these restrictions made me no longer able to fulfil my duties as a wife and queen. Therefore, I had to abandon my office, and Lothar was free to remarry!’ ‘Is that church law?’ Seila asked, shocked. ‘According to Gunther,’ I replied, ‘but not according to everyone. And I used the absence of consensus on the matter to maintain my position in the palace as long as I could. I rallied sympathetic bishops to my cause. Not very many were especially interested in supporting me, necessarily, but they did care deeply about the implications of this ruling, and they opposed it for its own sake. Only a few bishops had even attended the council, and now some of those who had declined spoke out. My confession might have become a matter of public record, and my penance might best be performed in a monastery, but did that mean Lothar was free to remarry? Or was he perpetually bound in a marriage to a woman unable to act as his wife? Some bishops thought that, deprived of my presence, Lothar had to live in chastity. Oh, the thought! He also finally began to suffer for his relationship with Waldrada, because the braver sort of bishop also whispered that he was the true committer of adultery, and that he should spend his days repenting in a monastery.’ ‘How just that would have been,’ Seila exclaimed. ‘Yes, but it was not to be. Gunther’s arguments might have found limited support from his episcopal colleagues, but the support of the king is really all that matters. Lothar convened a new council and invited only those bishops who he knew agreed with Gunther – for the debate among the bishops had, as an unintended consequence, distinguished supporters from opponents, sycophants from true men of God. These bishops did as expected. Gunther’s decision was formalised: Lothar was rid of me, and free to marry. It was a travesty. A mockery of justice. An embarrassment to the Church, and to the king himself. Gunther even had the audacity to repeat this decision at an ecclesiastical gathering attended by papal legates, who could be expected to report his ruling to the Bishop of Rome. Lothar and Gunther were so alike – without shame or mercy. Waldrada wasted no time seating herself upon the throne and signing royal documents as queen. Can you imagine! Had they all forgotten that God is just? That the Almighty scatters the proud, deposes the powerful, and exalts the humble?’ ‘And the holy father, Pope Nicholas? When his legates returned with news of Gunther’s decision, what did he do?’ Seila asked. ‘I thought you would have heard,’ I replied. Perhaps Lothar had managed to keep the news from reaching the wider population. ‘Nicholas, that great servant of the servants of God, annulled the decision, deposed Gunther, and threatened to excommunicate Lothar if he did not take me back. He also forbade Lothar from ever marrying Waldrada, under any circumstances.’ ‘So, you were vindicated again! And yet you are here,’ Seila enquired. ‘After all these events, I had finally come to realise that God had destined me for the monastic life all along. Everything that I suffered was simply his

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way of convincing me to make peace with what was ultimately his decision, not Lothar’s. Although I appreciated Nicholas’ decision, which was another vindication of my innocence, I knew that my future could not be as Lothar’s wife and queen. It was time for me to accept God’s will and enter a convent. Was it not Christ our Lord who once prayed: My father, if it is possible, then let this cup be taken from me; yet not as I will, but as you will.9 A life in a monastery is not a punishment, not a penance. It is a blessing, a return to the garden from which we were once expelled by the sin of Adam and Eve. Or it is, at least, as close to that garden as we can come on earth. We are in the forecourt of the celestial realm, you and I, in this sacred space. I would rather be a queen in heaven one day than at the royal court right now. Let them have this world, this life, and let us have the next life. You are in the same position as me. Let me teach you, for you are only a novice. Your feelings of sorrow will pass, and you will come to see it as I do.’ As I spoke these words, I found my thoughts return to Lothar and to Waldrada. Was she really the mastermind of my downfall? I had always thought so, but was that something I knew, or something that I merely assumed? Perhaps Lothar had treated her with the same cruelty that he showed towards me. Did she perhaps deserve forgiveness from the Lord, whose mercy is from generation to generation? Did she deserve it from me? It was too late for Lothar. I heard of his demise from my fellow nuns. He perished from fever in Piacenza, far from home. He was returning from an effort to convince Nicholas’ successor as pope that he should be allowed to marry Waldrada. He spent his entire reign on this sorry endeavour. And he died a failure, surely as a result of God’s displeasure. Even his own lords and attendants believed as much once he perished from his illness. They left his body in Piacenza, depriving their king of a ceremonial funeral in their haste to return to his realm and secure their positions in a new and volatile political landscape. If the divine vengeance was satisfied, then perhaps I should be satisfied as well. I looked up, but Seila was not there. Where had she gone? It was late, of course, and our conversation was overwhelming. But I did not find her in the monastery the next day either. She must have left and returned to the world. Had I failed to convince her? Had I failed to bring her peace? Or was she something else, sent from an otherworldly place, so that I might finally bring peace to myself? Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

The Magnificat, a canticle from Luke 1:46–55 with the Gloria appended. Psalm 39:1. Proverbs 18:21. Numbers 5:19–22, slightly abridged. Matthew 4:7. This Charles is better known as ‘Charlemagne’, king of the Franks, king of the Lombards, and emperor of the Romans (d. 814).

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7 Matthew 22:14. 8 Gunther, Archbishop of Cologne (d. 873). 9 Matthew 26:39.

Further Reading Arlie, Stuart, ‘Private Bodies and the Body Politic in the Divorce Cast of Lothar II’, Past & Present, 161 (1998), pp. 3–38. Heidecker, Karl, The Divorce of Lothar II: Christian Marriage and Political Power in the Carolingian World, trans. Tanis M. Guest (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010). Mistry, Zubin, ‘Interior Wound: The Rumour of Abortion in the Divorce of Lothar II and Theutberga’, in Zubin Mistry, Abortion in the Early Middle Ages, c. 500–900 (Woodbridge: York Medieval Press, 2015), pp. 238–261. Stone, Rachel, and Charles West, ed. and trans., The Divorce of King Lothar and Queen Theutberga: Hincmar of Rheims’s De Divortio (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016).

5

For She Is Not to Work A Noble’s Experience of Human Trafficking in the Viking Age Christopher Paolella

Introduction In the summer of 874 CE, Vethorm Vemundarson, a political exile fleeing Harold Finehair’s political consolidation of Norway, led a fleet of eighteen ships in raids across the North Sea. The Vikings’ journey eventually took them to the Hebrides where Jarl Asbjorn Skerryblaze ruled since the death of Amlaíb Conung in late 873 or early 874. The Viking attack on the jarl’s household followed a typical pattern, in which the attackers surrounded the longhouse with lit torches and then allowed the women and children to exit the home, whereupon they were seized and enslaved. After that, the attackers set fire to the house in which the men and older boys were trapped and burned to death. Jarl Asbjorn had a daughter named Arneid whom Vethorm captured and enslaved, and she is the subject of this imagined life. Life among Viking slavers was brutal: for an enslaved woman, or an “ambátt,” physical violence and sexual assault were common and expected, labor was arduous, material necessities were often scarce, and material comforts were nonexistent.1 In a single night, Arneid fell from nobility, honor, and wealth to servitude, shame, and poverty. Yet, this is not the end of her story. We know of Arneid from two sources: Landnámabók, “The Book of Settlements,” and Droplaugarson saga. A third saga, Fljotsdale saga, tangentially relates to her story through its accounts of her husband’s life and death, Ketil Thorirsson (Ketil ‘Thrym’). The creation of a coherent story of Arneid’s life, then, faces several challenges: first, the written sources are separated from the events and people they describe by centuries; second, the stories do not neatly align with each; and third, in the case of Fljotsdale saga, we can only presume the conditions of Arneid’s marriage based on the accounts of her husband’s life, because she does not appear in the work. Of the five extant versions of Landnámabók, this imagined life relies on the earliest version, Sturlubók, authored by Sturla Thordarson (c. 1275–1280). Sturla was a member of one of the most powerful and influential families of thirteenth-century Iceland, and he was the nephew of the prolific author Snorri Sturluson (1179–1241). Sturla was deeply involved in Icelandic politics; he was a leader in the Icelandic resistance to Norwegian intervention in the island’s DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-5

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affairs, and he served as Law-speaker of the Althing in 1251. Sturla based much of his work on the (now lost) early thirteenth-century work Styrmisbók by Styrmir Kárason (c. 1170–1245), who was a judge, writer, and prior in Vitheyjar Monastery. Because Landnámabók was intended to be a genealogical work, it records the minute details of some 400 prominent people during the settlement of Iceland in the ninth and tenth centuries, including the places of origin and settlement, kinship networks, and so on.2 Droplaugarson saga provides many of the details omitted in Landnámabók’s laconic accounts of Vethorm’s attack on the Hebrides and the circumstances of Arneid’s subsequent enslavement. Droplaugarson saga was composed in the early thirteenth century by a man named Thorvald (or possibly Thorkel), who claims in the work that his great-grandmother, Helga, lived at Arneidarstead, the very same farm that Arneid and Ketil purchased in the late 870s or early 880s, and which continued to bear her name well into the 1200s.3 Regardless of the veracity of his claim, the descriptions of the land and peoples of Droplaugarson saga strongly suggest that the work was authored by an inhabitant of the Fljotsdale region in eastern Iceland where Arneid and Ketil had settled centuries earlier. The third, albeit indirect, source of information for Arneid’s life comes from Fljotsdale saga, which was composed c. 1500. Separated from the people and events it describes by over six centuries and filled with legendary stories, Fljotsdale saga nevertheless contributes to the story of Arneid through its description of Ketil’s temperament that complements the accounts of Ketil in Landnámabók and Droplaugarson saga. Fljotsdale saga, for example, relates that Ketil was generally a “very gentle” man who was “mild and selfcontrolled,” and his portrayal in Droplaugarson saga indeed suggests such a disposition. Fljotsdale saga also describes Ketil’s ailing physical and mental health later in life, circumstances with which Arneid would have contended as they grew old together. The saga tells us that Ketil became quiet and reserved with the passing of years. Moreover, every few weeks, It happened that a shivering fit came over him [Ketil], so that every tooth chattered in his head, and he roused up out of his bed. Then great fires had to be made for him, and everything that people could think of done to relieve him. After the cold and shuddering came a great rage, when he spared nothing before him, whether wooden walls or posts or people; he even waded through fire if it was in his way, and then drove ahead through walls or the doorframe if they were before him, and people got out of his way if they could. So it happened every time this fit came over him. But when it left him, he was mild and self-controlled. All this had a great effect on him and on many others as he grew older.4 If we are willing to accept Fljotsdale saga’s account, then the onset of Ketil’s illness and its accompanying berserker rage likely occurred later in his life, since they would have hampered Ketil’s mercantile activities and travels, and because

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his condition is mentioned in neither Droplaugarson saga nor Landnámabók. We are left to wonder at the challenges that routinely confronted Arneid in her new life, who was tasked with managing the homestead, raising her son, and caring for an ill husband prone to fits of destructive fury. In composing this imagined life of Arneid, I prioritize Landnámabók over Droplaugarson saga whenever their accounts differ because of the genealogical purpose of Landnámabók and its relative proximity in time and space to the people and events it describes, and because of the inclusion of legendary material in Droplaugarson saga, despite the saga’s earlier composition. I have also noted where and when the sources conflict in the footnotes. Given its late composition and its inclusion of legendary material, I use Fljotsdale saga sparingly and only to inform this story’s portrayal of Ketil Thorirsson. Portrait Ripples of dark, icy water rolled across Oslofjord, and the ocean breeze chilled the late spring air. The wind-swept rains made ripples that covered the black water’s surface like rings of mail. The hypnotic rush of the waves was lost in the pulse of Arneid’s heart pounding in her ears. Before her lay a chest of silver, long ago buried in the rocky sand beneath a tree. Hot teardrops mixed with cold raindrops as she contemplated the hoard of riches at her feet, for Arneid knew that now she would have to make a choice. Would she return to her family and former life in the Hebrides, or would she begin a new life in a foreign land with a man she had come to love? So much had changed so suddenly for Arneid, there on a beach in the spring rains of the late 870s. Arneid’s memories were filled with the heat of burning flames and the cold bite of iron. She had not known the Vikings who had attacked her family that fateful summer night in 874 CE. Rumors had reached the halls of Asbjorn Skerryblaze, Jarl of the Hebrides, of eighteen ships that had left Sweden earlier that spring led by exiled political rivals of Harald Finehair, but the danger seemed so remote from Arneid’s world of the Southern Isles. Then, without warning, raiders descended upon her father’s halls in those few hours of darkness that separated dusk from dawn. Shouts and the crackle of burning torches through walls of stone and timber stirred Arneid from her slumber, and she rose from under woolen blankets to the sound of strained whispers in the dim, hazy light and the hushed, frantic curses of her father and his men. Her mother swiftly unlocked the storage rooms where the men had stowed their weapons, shields, and armor, for what little good such things would do now. Arneid would never forget her father’s grim and somber eyes, or the creases of fear that lined her mother’s brow, or the trembling servants huddled beneath the carved busts of animals that gazed down upon them, cold and distant. Now, as the raiders called for the women and children to leave the halls, came that long moment of tearful partings, of empty promises and assurances that all would be well, of that last kiss her mother and father shared before Asbjorn’s men escorted the women to the

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door and pushed them out into the dark. Arneid stumbled and fell to her knees as torches soared high above her and landed in the thatch amid showers of red embers, and it seemed to her that the stars fell, and fire rained from the heavens. The din was deafening; the roaring blaze, the screams of men trapped inside, the weeping of women and children, and the laughter and cheers of the countless raiders all blended into a dizzying cacophony as the flames rose into the night and licked the moon. Grim, a haughty and fierce warrior whose sword gleamed in the torchlight and whose mail rings rippled like dragon scales, stepped forth and seized Arneid’s mother to claim her as part of his share of the spoils. Alof screamed and struggled in his arms, but she was quickly overpowered, thrown down, and clapped in irons.5 Another raider arrayed much like Grim cast his cruel gaze upon Arneid, and there was no place for her to run. He grinned and took hold of her, while the others divvied the rest of the women and children up like so much loot. As she glared defiantly into those eyes that glowed like coals in the flickering light, she heard his name, Holmfast. He gripped her wrist as though a hilt and hauled her before an older man who wore iron mail and a sword, all finely wrought. Holmfast presented Arneid as a gift to his father, Vethorm Vemundarson, and Arneid would come to hate him. As the son of a rival to Harald Finehair, Vethorm had fled east into Sweden to Jamtaland. There he cleared land and began raiding in Sweden and in the North Sea with his kin.6 Now Vethorm and his kin would return to Jamtaland with the plunder of the season, and Arneid was counted among those riches. As the raiders hauled their victims in ropes and chains down to their fleet of ships on the beaches, Arneid memorized every detail of her mother’s face, for she knew in her heart that she would never see her again. On the beach, Vethorm’s kinsman, Guttorm, declared his intention to remain behind and claim the jarldom of the Hebrides now that Asbjorn Skerryblaze was dead. Grim was bound for Iceland with his share of the spoils including Alof, and Arneid could only watch helplessly as her mother and friends were loaded into boats destined for distant shores. The week at sea aboard Vethorm’s clinker ship was a cold, clammy, and uncomfortable week, and one in which Arneid seldom knew a moment’s peace. The hull beneath her flexed in the waves, making sleep difficult. Yet fear, perhaps even more than discomfort, kept her awake at night. Sexual trauma was common and expected for women and children caught in the webs of Viking slavers, and Arneid was no exception. Yet Vethorm guarded her jealously; the daughter of a jarl was not a prize he would share. Even so, Viking ships afforded no privacy, and Vethorm raped her in full view of his men. Arneid bore the shame of her enslavement and abuse, a shame that bit deeper than the cold and stung sharper than the brine in her eyes. The Vikings came ashore near Konungahella, an emporium in southwestern Sweden several weeks’ ride from Jamtaland to the northeast. Through the dense forests, following trails blazed by herdsmen and their

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animals, Vethorm led Arneid to his homestead. He may have been the son of a hersir, but as an exile, Vethorm’s abode was humble compared to the grandeur of Arneid’s longhouse in the Hebrides. Through the soft, smoky light of beeswax candles and oil lamps, she had once gazed upon rich tapestries that hung from paneled walls and which told the stories of the gods and the nine worlds. Once, she had wandered among brightly painted wooden pillars that rose from the stamped earth, and from whose lofty heights carved animals and creatures of fantasy watched over all beneath them. Once, dragons of alder and elm had kept their vigil as Arneid slept upon fur-lined platforms that lined the room and raised her above the cold air and feet below. The home of Vethorm Vemundarson was the biggest in all Jamtaland, yet modest in Arneid’s estimation. Vethorm led her into a small room lit only by a stone-lined pit in the center and small louvres in the gables. A woman with keys dangling from her leather belt swept ale-soaked ashes out of the door. She spoke not a word to Arneid and only scowled at her as she then scattered a fresh layer of ash down on the earthen floor. The smoke from the open hearth mingled with the black, greasy tendrils that twisted over burning tallow. Vethorm pointed into a smaller room at the front of the house where a small domed oven sat opposite a quern for grinding flour. “There is the kitchen,” he told her gruffly. Then, he wrapped his rough hand around her slender wrist and tugged her off her feet, bringing her into a gable-room at the back of the house. “This is my workshop. You’ll also find the feed here for the animals. Take the goats, pigs, and sheep in here at night during the winter and during storms.” A rough-hewn, three-room longhouse lacking in luxury and refinement beyond what Vethorm had managed to pillage or purchase, this was to be Arneid’s home until her owner decided otherwise. Life passed slowly in Jamtaland following the seasons. The men of Vethorm’s household came and went, sometimes for months at a time during the summer while the crops grew, and they returned with profits from abroad to the farm in time for the fall harvest. Arneid’s chores were much as they had been in the Hebrides. Women, noble or common, were expected to rear the children and manage the homestead while the men toiled in the fields, or on the seas, or raided in the summer months. As a slave, Arneid labored as she had always done, but now without any dignity and respect. She cooked meals for Vethorm and his household, drawing upon techniques she had learned from her mother: boiling and roasting meats for meals, and salting, smoking, and drying them for later use. She cleaned the fish, harvested the vegetables, baked the breads, churned the butter, gathered the nuts and berries, and served them all at Vethorm’s table. Exiled and removed from the sea and the major trade routes, Vethorm’s household lacked the splendor of the jarls of the Hebrides. Cumin, horseradish, or mustard rarely graced his table in Jamtaland. The Hebrides off the western coast of Scotland were woven into the growing Scandinavian commercial networks that would eventually span the distance from Greenland to the Rusian interior, and Jarl Asbjorn Skerryblaze and his

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household had enjoyed the luxury and wealth of that far-flung trade. He had worn woolen garments adorned with imported silks trimmed with furs, and embroidered with silver and gold thread; the men of Vethorm’s household wore woven trousers and tunics of wool and linen, sturdy but plain. Vethorm’s mail hauberk and his pattern-welded sword spoke of his highborn status and his former prestige, but these days he and his men lived coarse lives. Arneid and her mother had enjoyed the soft touch of long, colorful, and elegant trailing gowns of wool and imported silk, which were embellished with embroidery or appliqué and trimmed with fur. A shawl or cloak, fastened with a rectangular or trefoil brooch of silver and gold, kept them warm against the cold winds of the North Atlantic, and they had once worn golden and silver bands about their arms and throats, and rings of silver had adorned their fingers. Noble or common, wives were the managers of the domicile and set the rules of the home. They kept the keys to the chests and caskets, in which were stored weapons and valuables, about their waists. Her mother had worn the keys to the jarl’s halls with the pride of an honorable freewoman. As a noble, Arneid had worn her long, raven hair in a fashionable knot behind her head, which she covered with a silver headdress. Such a luxurious mane required careful and regular grooming with fine combs of reindeer antler. Cleanliness was a hallmark of wealth and status; she bathed regularly and cleaned her teeth and nails with picks and tweezers. By contrast, the women of Vethorm’s household dressed as simply as the men. There was no place for long, trailing gowns of wool and silk. They wore straight-cut overdresses of wool and linen that were held up by straps and fastened with oval brooches of copper and bronze. Beneath that overdress they wore a simple shift of wool and linen: plain, durable, practical, and functional, and still too good for a slave. The women gave Arneid clothes that no longer suited them, which were worn and threadbare, and ill-fitting for her. Arneid’s days of luxury were but memories. As Arneid toiled away in thankless drudgery, endured Vethorm’s sexual appetites and the scorn of his wife, shivered in the cold, and wept alone in the dark, hundreds of miles to the west, in Iceland, Ketil Thorirsson had spent the winter preparing for an extensive trading expedition across the North Sea. The following spring, as the winds turned fairer and the seas calmer, Ketil set sail. His journey took him to Ireland and Scotland, to the Northern Isles of the Orkneys and Shetlands, and down the Norwegian coast to Hedeby, Denmark. Ketil had found his way to Konungahella by the autumn, and with winter fast approaching, sailing had become treacherous across the North Sea. Coincidentally, Ketil knew a man named Grim who had recently settled at Bowerfell in eastern Iceland, and whose kinsman, Vethorm, had a homestead northeast of Konungahella. Ketil and his crew of eleven men decided to go to Jamtaland on horseback to spend the winter with Grim’s kinsman.

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Arneid unintentionally caught Ketil’s eye that winter as she labored ceaselessly under the demands of Vethorm’s household and the addition of a dozen new men and their horses, many of whom Vethorm had sheltered in the barn. Arneid’s work was thorough and exacting, yet her skills and efforts, and the quality of her work all went without acknowledgement or gratitude. Washing clothes in the nearby stream was back-breaking work, and the cold water numbed her hands, but such chores also gave her welcome moments of respite and solitude, and in those moments she was overcome by despair and wept bitterly. Ketil came upon her by the riverbank in one such moment of loneliness and grief. Arneid had put aside her laundering to find comfort in washing her long, dark hair in the river: a small, simple act of resistance. Bathing and grooming were hallmarks of her wealth and position after all, and so, by washing her hair, Arneid quietly defied her servitude. Ketil was taken by her beauty, and as he approached her, the crunch of his boots in the fresh snow announced his presence. Arneid spun round at the sound of footfalls behind her, and her throat tightened, and her eyes narrowed. This man, Ketil Thorirsson, was a friend of her father’s killers, a friend of the man who had enslaved her, who beat and raped her. Ketil dined with him; she had served him personally at meals and had watched him and Vethorm laugh and drink together. Now Ketil approached her while she was alone by the river. “Who are you?” he murmured. “Arneid,” she replied curtly, unable to hide her bitterness. Taken aback by her spite, Ketil continued uncertainly, “What family do you come from?” “I don’t think that’s any business of yours,” she muttered and turned away from him to return to her chores. Ketil caught her by the arm and turned her around. “You’ll give me an answer.” This man was a wealthy and freeborn merchant, and his entitled demand reminded Arneid once more of her fall from honor and freedom to humiliation and servitude; she wanted to slap him. Yet, to satisfy him, she would again relive the pain and the terror of the night that still haunted her dreams. “My father’s name was Asbjorn and he was called ‘Skerryblaze.’ He ruled the Hebrides and was jarl of the islands after Tryggvi’s death,” Arneid murmured, as she lowered her gaze in submission. “Then afterwards Vethorm raided there, with all his kin in eighteen ships. They came one night to my father’s house and burned him in it with all the menfolk, but the women were let out. Afterwards, they brought me here, but they sold the other women as slaves, and now Guttorm is the ruler of the islands,” she whispered, but she shed no tears.7 She had none left to weep. Ketil stood in stunned silence as this young woman told her tragic tale; the daughter of a jarl stood enslaved before him. That night at supper, he was lost in thought. Ketil hardly spoke or ate as he mulled over his drink, and his gaze trailed Arneid as she silently waited upon Vethorm and endured his comments and his hands.

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“Will you sell Arneid to me?” Ketil asked Vethorm the next morning, settling down on a bench beside him. Vethorm squinted in the sunlight inquisitively as Ketil sat down next to him, “Sell you Arneid? She is valuable to me: beautiful, highborn, industrious, and skilled,” he replied, stroking his beard. Ketil nodded, undeterred. “Yes, so I’ve seen. How much would you ask for her?” Vethorm fell silent for a long moment as he considered the offer. Ketil was a man of means; he could likely afford the high price of a valuable slave such as Arneid, and money was in short supply here in Jamtaland. However, Ketil was also a friend of his kinsman, Grim, and he would remain a guest in Vethorm’s house for several more months before the spring thaw, so Vethorm could not insult the man by asking too high a price either. “Since we are friends, I’ll let you have her for one half-hundred of silver,”8 he finally answered, and his tone suggested he was in little mood to haggle. Ketil quickly nodded. “I’ll pay it,” and then he added, “and I’ll cover the cost of her upkeep and provision, for she is not to work.”9 “You would give me a full hundred of silver to have her live as the other free women of my household?” Vethorm gasped in surprise. “Yes, and I would have the men respect her as such.” Ketil replied firmly. Vethorm laughed and shook his head as he asked, “Do you intend to marry her then?” Ketil gave no answer, and Vethorm accepted his silence as answer enough. “Very well then, we have a deal. One full hundred of silver for Arneid and for her maintenance as one of my own. She sails with you in the spring.” Almost immediately Arneid knew that something had changed. The freewomen of the household had brought her warmer clothes to wear, and she was told to join them as they spun, wove, and embroidered. Nevertheless, their conversations seldom included her, and the fire felt warmer than their welcome. That evening after the field chores were done, Ketil came to see Arneid and asked to speak with her alone. Arneid raised a curious brow but obliged him and followed him outside. In the falling snow, radiant in the pale moonlight, their breath became little clouds between them. “I’ve spoken with Vethorm.” Ketil slowly began as Arneid remained silent. “He has … agreed to sell you to me.” Arneid stiffened and lifted her head high, “So, now you own me?” she asked, quietly seething. Ketil held up his hands and quickly explained, “Yes, and come the spring, I will take you away from here. I live in Iceland, and I intend to return there. You will live as the other women of the household for the time being, because I’ve also paid for your provision. You will no longer be tasked with work befitting an ambátt, and your father’s killer will not touch you anymore.”10 Arneid reeled at his news; she was still a slave, yet she was to be treated now as a free woman? Her gaze fell away in shock, “Thank you,” she

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whispered tightly, “but … I am still your ambátt. Yet, I am to live as the other free women? They will not take kindly to such an insult.” “I expect as much, but you’ll have to endure it for a few months. I assume you’ll have many questions, but don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk over the winter.” Plenty of time indeed, for winter felt endless and spring like a distant promise. In the cold, clear nights under countless stars, Arneid and Ketil shared stories of their lives under furs and blankets. In those intimate moments, however, Ketil seemed lost in thought. He was ever curious about her family, but he would also share his dreams of their life together as if they were husband and wife instead of master and slave. Arneid was no fool. She knew that Ketil was falling in love with her, but she guarded her heart against hope, for his affection did not guarantee her freedom. In the early spring, Ketil announced his intention to leave Vethorm’s household and to journey to Konungahella for a late spring sailing with his men, and in moments of solitude Arneid found herself walking in daydreams. Where would life take her next? What would become of her now? Ketil had already proven himself a kinder master than Vethorm ever had, but he had also kept his intentions for her a secret. At last, Ketil Thorirsson’s business with Vethorm and his household was concluded, and he and his men were ready to make the trip south to Konungahella. They all left before the sun was up that day. It was a cold morning, and Arneid sat silent in the saddle, a woolen cloak bundled about her, and she refused to speak to Vethorm or look him in the eye as he and Ketil shook hands and embraced. After what felt like an eternity, Ketil climbed up behind her and with a snap of the reins they were trotting down the narrow dirt lane south towards the emporium. Their journey would take weeks. It was late spring by the time Ketil and Arneid made their way through the muddy streets of Konungahella, and the smell of spices, fish, leather, and perfumes filled the air. Merchants loaded and unloaded their boats beneath the cries of gulls, and everywhere silver dirhams and gold bezants clinked and clicked in purses and palms. The wealthy pulled off their golden and silver arm and neck rings and had them clipped to pay for the luxuries of eastern silks and spices. A cry went up from the docks from a well-dressed man who waved to Ketil, and Arneid was seized in fear at the sight of him. It was Ormar, Vethorm’s brother. Ketil furrowed his brow as he felt her stiffen against him. “What’s wrong?” “What’s he doing here?” Arneid hissed under her breath. “Ormar? He’s sailing with us. He has business in Iceland.” Arneid’s trembling told Ketil all he needed to know, and he held her close and murmured, “I see. He was there that night, wasn’t he?” “He was,” she breathed and swallowed hard. “I thought that when he left Vethorm’s farm earlier this spring he was going out to raid. I didn’t realize he was preparing to come with us.” “He will be in his own ship following mine. He won’t come anywhere near you,” Ketil whispered gently, trying to reassure her, but he could not shield

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her from the man’s oily grins and cruel winks. Ormar had cast his torch upon her home and had cheered as her father burned alive along with his men. Arneid would have drowned him if she could. As the sun skimmed the western waters of the North Sea, Ketil sailed into Oslofjord seeking overnight shelter in the shallows or perhaps ashore. The water was only a few feet deep, and as the vessels pulled alongside each other to exchange supplies, Arneid sought an escape from Ormar’s lascivious smile. “Ketil, I wish to go ashore and gather nuts and berries. We’ve had little more than dried herring and salted cod,” she said as she pulled him aside, but there was a plea in her voice. Ketil furrowed his brow and nodded in understanding. He had seen how Ormar tormented her. Ketil had warned him off, only to meet with Ormar’s protests and denials. Would he really risk insulting a freeman and a brother of Vethorm Vemundarson over a slave’s discomfort, Ormar had retorted, and risk the hazards of the North Sea alone? Ketil said to her, “Don’t be long. Clouds are moving in; we’ll have rain soon. Ormar has a woman with him. Take her with you.” The cold was breathtaking, and Arneid gasped as she was seized by shock from the icy waters that barely reached her waist yet sapped the strength from her legs. As they stumbled ashore, the two women spied bushes and trees on a low ridge a little further inland, a promising start to their search. The rains began as a whisper on the waves, a soft hiss on the breeze, but quickly they began to fall harder and the two pulled their cloaks around them as they made their way across the beach. A glint of metal in the rocky sands caught Arneid’s attention in the failing light, as rain and waves drew away the beach like a blanket from the corner of a chest. “Go further along the beach and see if you find anything. I don’t want to return empty-handed after all this hassle,” Arneid told the other woman, and only after the woman was further down the beach did Arneid fall to her knees to dig up the chest sheltered under the boughs of a tree. She gasped. “I think the cold and rain has done me ill,” Arneid told her companion upon her return. “Would you go to the boats and ask Ketil to come for me? I do not think I’ll make it on my own through the waves.” The woman nodded quickly, clearly concerned, and slogged her way through the surf to the ship. It was only a little while before Ketil was wading ashore. “Arneid!” he shouted. “Arneid, what’s wrong?!” “Ketil, over here! I’ve found charcoal!” she laughed, waving her hands. “Charcoal? I thought you were feeling sick!” Ketil sputtered, wiping sea spray from his lips. “I just said that because I didn’t want Ormar to know, but look!” she cried excitedly, heedless of the rain. “Ketil …” Arneid whispered shaking her head in disbelief, as they gazed upon a chest of silver that glimmered in the last light of day. Arneid’s wonder and joy made the next moment all the more painful for Ketil. Could he let her go? “Arneid,” his voice faltered, and as she turned to

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gaze into his eyes, Ketil’s mouth ran dry. He took a deep breath and continued, “I don’t want you as my slave, I want you as my wife. I love you, Arneid, and I want you to come with me to Iceland and hold the keys to our home.” Ketil looked out over the water as he held her hands in his. “But you still have family in the Hebrides, and I know how much you miss them. So, I will take you and all of your silver to them, if you wish. It’s up to you.” Arneid fell silent; she had wondered if this moment would come, and now that it was here words failed her. She felt the hot swell of tears in her eyes. To return to a former life or to begin a new life, to return to her family or to begin a new family, to return to the lands she knew or to journey to lands unknown; so much had changed so suddenly for Arneid, there on a beach in the cold spring rains of the late 870s. After a long moment, Arneid cleared her throat and whispered, “I want to go with you to Iceland, Ketil, and be your wife,” and as they shared a kiss, Ketil held her, and he did not let go. Ketil and Arneid braved the driving rains, winds, and waves together and carried with them her precious chest of silver. Once aboard, the men agreed to make for deeper waters to ride out the squall. In the rough seas, however, the ships were separated. A week later, Ketil sailed into Reydarfjord, and Arneid stepped onto Iceland’s shores for the first time. Ketil led her to his home in Husastead, but they were not there two weeks when word came to the farm that Ormar had finally sailed into Reydarfjord as well. “Will you invite him to Husastead?” Arneid asked Ketil hesitantly one evening, shortly after they had received news of Ormar’s late arrival. “I cannot refuse him welcome, Arneid. Vethorm sheltered me, my crew, and my horses all winter. How can I now turn away his brother, Ormar?” Ketil sighed helplessly. Arneid nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. “I understand, but I want to buy us a farm with my silver. This is your home, not mine,” she whispered. Ketil thought for a moment and then smiled. “There is some land in the Fljotsdale district west of Lake Lagarfljot. I think it would make an excellent farm. I’ll take you to see it, if you would like?” he offered as he took her hand in his. Arneid squeezed his hand gently as her voice wavered. “You said you’d free me, and then we would marry. You have not changed your mind?” Ketil shook his head and touched her cheek. “No. I will declare your freedom to the Thing at its next assembly. After that, once I’ve sold all my goods from the expedition, I’ll have enough money to become a godord.11 Then, when our fortunes are settled and secured, when I can give you an honorable life befitting a freewoman, we will marry. If all goes well, we will wed by next spring, and we will have our farm.” Much of what he foretold would come to pass. The following spring, Ketil Thorirsson entered politics in the Fljotsdale region and became a godord and a member of the local Thing. The couple used Arneid’s silver to build a homestead in Fljotsdale district in eastern Iceland, west of Lake Lagarfljot, and that farm came to bear her name “Arneidarstead.”12 At last, Ketil

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married Arneid, “as she was a most splendid woman.”13 The couple had a son whom they named Thidrandi after Ketil’s father. Thereupon Arneid disappears from the historical record. As for Ketil, Droplaugarson saga tells us that he did not live long, but the saga does not explain the circumstances of his death. Fljotsdale saga, however, tells us that Ketil died in a bloody family feud involving a mason named Asbjorn Wall-Hammer whom Ketil had taken into his employ.14 Although Ketil met a violent end and Arneid’s fate remains unknown, their legacy lived on long after their deaths. Thorvald, their grandson, married a woman named Droplaug, and their sons, Helgi and Grim, were the Droplaugarsons. Notes 1 For more information on the various terms for slaves in Viking-era Scandinavian society see Stefan Brink, Thraldom: A History of Slavery in the Viking Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021), 123–183. 2 The Book of Settlements: Landnámabók, trans. Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards (Winnipeg: University of Manitoba, 1972), 3–8. 3 The Droplaugarsons, VX, trans. Jean Young and Eleanor Haworth (London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd, 1990), 104. 4 Fljotsdale Saga, III, trans. Jean Young and Eleanor Haworth (London: J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd, 1990), 5. 5 Arneid’s mother is named Sigrid in Droplaugarson saga; however, her identity in Landnámabók is ambiguous. She may have been Alof or possibly Thord the Wagging. Thord was Asbjorn’s first wife; after she died, Asbjorn married her daughter, Alof. Landnámabók says Arneid was his daughter, but it is unclear whether by Thord or Alof. See The Droplaugarsons, I, trans. Young and Haworth, 76 and Landnámabók, 388, trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 144. 6 According to Droplaugarson saga, Vethorm was the son of Ronald and the grandson of Ketil the Monstrous. Landnámabók records that Vethorm was the son of Vemund, who was a powerful hersir, a local chieftain or landed magnate before the time of Harald Finehair. During Harald’s political consolidation of Norway, his rivals, such as Vemund, and other exiles fled east to Jamtaland in Sweden and west to Iceland. See The Droplaugarsons, I, trans. Young and Haworth, 75 and Landnámabók, 388, trans. Pálsson and Edwards, 144. 7 The Droplaugarsons, 1, trans. Young and Haworth, 75–76. 8 Sixty ounces, roughly equivalent to the price of 30 cows. 9 The Droplaugarsons, 1, trans. Young and Haworth, 76. 10 Ambátt, popular in the western Scandinavian world such as Norway, Iceland, and western Sweden, designates a female slave and is thought to be a loan from the Gallo-Latin ambactus “servant.” For more information on the various terms for slaves in Viking-era Scandinavian society see Stefan Brink, Thraldom: A History of Slavery in the Viking Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021), 123–183. 11 A godord, as it refers to an individual, was a member of the local governing body known as a Thing and who offered their allegiance or alliance to regional religious and political leaders known as godi. 12 Fljotsdale saga tells us that Arneidarstead was named for Arneid, the wife of Jarl Bjorgolf of the Shetlands, who went with her daughter, Droplaug, to Iceland after Droplaug married an Icelander named Thorvald. However, Fljotsdale saga also tells us that Thorvald rescued Droplaug from a giant named Geitir by using the giant’s magic sword against him, and the saga also erroneously records the

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Shetlands as a jarldom. Therefore, given Fljotsdale saga’s legendary accounting of Droplaug and Thorvald’s introduction and its other errors, I strongly suspect that Droplaug’s mother, Arneid, is also fictitious. Droplaugarson saga tells us that Droplaug was simply the daughter of a local eastern Icelander named Thorgrim, who lived in Jokulsdale. See Fljotsdale Saga, V–VII, trans. Young and Haworth, 7–17, and The Droplaugarsons, II, trans. Young and Haworth, 78. 13 The Droplaugarsons, II, trans. Young and Haworth, 77. 14 The Droplaugarsons, II, trans. Young and Haworth, 77, and Fljotsdale Saga, XVI, trans. Young and Haworth, 44.

Further Reading The Book of Settlements: Landnámabók, trans. Herman Pálsson and Paul Edwards. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1972. Brink, Stephen. Thraldom: A History of Slavery in the Viking Age. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021. Fljotsdale Saga and the Droplaugarsons, trans. Jean Young and Eleanor Haworth. London: J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd, 1990. Karras, Ruth Mazo. Slavery and Society in Medieval Scandinavia. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1988. Paolella, Christopher. Human Trafficking in Medieval Europe: Slavery, Sexual Exploitation, and Prostitution. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2020. Roesdahl, Else. The Vikings: Second Edition, trans. Susan M. Margeson and Kirsten Williams. London: Penguin Group, 1998.

6

Ruin and Misery The Troubles of Erchempert of Montecassino Christopher Heath

Introduction Nearly all that we know about Erchempert of Montecassino (f. 880s) can be found in his short prose narrative, the Historiola Longobardorum Beneventum degentium (HLdB) (Little History of the Lombards Living in Benevento). The sole extant manuscript copy (a late and composite dossier of historical materials that deals with the south of Italy) appears to conclude without an effective ending. There are hints that Erchempert may have intended to continue his history into the 890s, when for a short time (892–895) the Principality of Benevento was entirely controlled by the Byzantine Empire. Such an inconclusive finale has led to speculation about the intent of the work and Erchempert’s own responses to the transit of southern Italian events. Recently, commentators have thus focussed on Erchempert’s initial prefatory remarks to understand his purposes. Some have suggested that he reflects a disillusionment with the Lombard rulers; that he was a ‘fustigator’ of his own people. Undoubtedly, Erchempert was critical of many of the protagonists he depicted (e.g. the Landolfingi of Capua; Athanasius of Naples; and the ‘Saracens’ who are variously described as Agareni, Saraceni, and Ishmaelites), but this was only one, albeit significant, strand of his discussion. More broadly, modern historians in discussing the Mezzogiorno in the Early Middle Ages have sought to redefine its importance and role in the Mediterranean world. Rather than, as once described, a dismal (and presumably peripheral) area of pointless, limitless perpetual conflict and violence, it can be depicted instead as a contact zone between and across three overlapping and competing worlds, i.e. the Frankish, Byzantine, and Islamic whose interests and power met in the south of Italy. The fascinating period between 774 – when the independent Lombard kingdom ended in the north and 1071 when the Norman kingdom of Sicily was formed – witnesses the interests and actions of these three forces merging and clashing in tension. Erchempert’s narrative represents a fundamentally important Lombard witness to what was actually happening on the ground. The portrait below links the three passages in his work where he explains his own actions; and the impact he had upon the broader events of the late ninth century. We can better see and DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-6

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understand why he may have dwelt upon the ruin and misery of Benevento; how he embodied the continuance of a tradition of intellectual activity at Montecassino that stretched back to Paul the Deacon (c.725/35–796×99); and finally, to determine the responses of Erchempert to his own lived reality. Portrait A Time of Tribulation *

We, the faithful and I, Ragemprand, unworthy monk, recall on this festa rosalia, the tongues of fire, as the Holy Spirit descended upon the Apostles.1 God had sent his ‘mighty wind’ on the great feast of Pentecost.2 The smell of rose petals suffuses our church in Teano as we chant: ‘Send forth your power O Lord and confirm O God what you have worked for us.’3 As our holy father Benedict4 enjoined, at the end of our short mortal lives, we should fear the day of judgment, dread hell, desire eternal life with all spiritual longing and keep death daily before our eyes. And so that we may understand and follow the will of God, we should also know the folly of man. Thus, it was that our brother Erchempert at the urging of all of us at Montecassino set down in words the deeds of the Lombards in our own times. Pentecost of 890 for the exiled community of Montecassino, now sheltering in Teano, was poignant. This was the first we had held without Erchempert, whose eyes would twinkle with delight as our voices merged and soared together in holy chant. It was only a matter of months since Erchempert had left the light and this mortal life. As the brethren began the final Te Deum, chanting: Te Deum laudamus, te Dominum confitemur Te aeturnum Patrem omnis terra veneratur We praise you O Lord, We acknowledge Thee to the be the Lord, All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father Eternal and the lazy swirls of incense were picked out by the shafts of sunlight that poured through the small windows beside the upper arched gallery, and as they drifted upward before the image of Christus Pantokrator, Ragemprand could not help but remember that final night earlier in February. He had been awoken by a knock in the dark hours before dawn. It was the silent time between Lauds and Prime when the weak wintry dawn was some hours hence. ‘Come quickly Father,’ urged Pandulf, one of the novices, ‘Erchempert calls for you.’5 Without delay, the abbot elect of Montecassino hastened out from his cell, down the dark corridor, across an inner courtyard, and into the dormitory.6 Of course, Ragembrand knew the way without the need of expensive light, since these last few years he had often spent time with Erchempert discussing monastic affairs, the news from Rome, or simply listening to the old monk recounting the days when the community still resided in Montecassino before the ferocious Hagarenes had destroyed the

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sacred shrine;7 and how Erchempert’s teachers had inspired him with a fear of God’s providential works but also with a deep sense of love for his own Lombard people. Ragembrand entered the small dormitory where at the end wall a picture of Benedict flanked by two angels could be seen. Underneath, in the corner, Erchempert’s bed stood, close to the one permitted light which burnt throughout the night. Despite the dark shadows, Ragemprand could see Erchempert’s gaze follow him as he entered from the opposite side. It was, however, his laboured breathing that caught his attention. ‘You called for me?’ Erchempert, his voice weak but clear, responded. ‘Soon now, I go to join my teacher Ilderic, and his nutritor, Paul amongst the blessed of heaven, remember guard well the manuscript I have laboured to write.’8 Pointing towards his desk, Ragembrand could see the History that the brothers had encouraged Erchempert to compose. Some days later, after the funeral rite of Erchempert had concluded and his name had been etched into the Liber Memorialis of the abbey,9 Ragembrand reflected as he read Erchempert’s Little History.10 As always, he had the Rule of St Benedict in the forefront of his mind. What would Benedict have done? What would he have thought? How would he have confronted this modern world of trouble? These were the impulses of Erchempert too, and as he had composed the History he had worried that, in recounting the machinations, the plots and the violence of the Princes of Benevento and Salerno, and their rivals the cunning Counts of Capua, he had glorified the transitory mortal world at the expense of the ineffable world of God. Was it part of God’s providential plan to set out who had fought, lived, and died? Would he, in the act of writing, give way to hate, to envy, and to vainglory as he described their wrathful ways? It had troubled Erchempert enough to cause him to originally reject the entreaties of his brothers. He had reminded them that he too had once supped at the cup of adversity as a son, and a brother to martial Lombard lords, motivated by self and power. Later, Ragemprand had persuaded him. ‘You follow the tradition of our Paul the Deacon who laboured to tell the history of our forefathers, now you must continue the thread of his history into our own times.’ Erchempert had often mentioned his tutor Ilderic, who had told the young Erchempert the life stories of Paul the Deacon who had acted as guide and mentor to Ilderic before his death on 13 April.11 Paul had even travelled far beyond the tranquil surroundings of the original monastery. He had stayed at the court of the God-appointed powerful Charlemagne in the cold, frigid, and barbarous north of Francia.12 Yet it was the sadness of Paul’s later years that Erchempert echoed via Ilderic and which had left such an indelible mark upon the mind of the then young novice Erchempert. The fall of the Lombard kingdom in the North13 had rendered the Lombards strangers in their own lands, second to Franks, Bavarians, and Alamans. Benevento, the last bastion of the Lombards, had been plagued then by strife, ruin, and misery, brother against brother, father against son. Now there was no peace. No tranquillity. Civil discord had in turn given way to the curse of war and pestilence, of hunger as the prostrate

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Benevento witnessed the assaults of strangers and foreigners. These formative years had propelled Erchempert to contrast the years of trouble in which he lived with earlier and happier times when Benevento had been governed by the most glorious dux and princeps Arechis II, both christianissimus and illustris, under the righteous rule of the kings Desiderius and Adelgis.14 Ragemprand read again the opening prologue of the manuscript. It said: In these days nothing worthy and deserving of praise can be found about them that can be set down truthfully in writing. For this reason … I shall proceed to describe for the instruction of posterity … their destruction rather than their rule, misery rather than prosperity, ruin instead of triumph, how they declined rather than how they flourished, and how they were defeated and conquered instead of how they conquered others.15 The Accurséd Landolfingi

Ragemprand paused in his reading. Erchempert, it would seem, had struggled to maintain what blessed Benedict had described as the sixth degree of humility. Benedict had said that ‘a monk should be content with the meanest and the worst of everything’.16 That said, of course, it was not entirely Erchempert’s conceit, since the brethren had urged him to take up the pen and continue the record of the ages. Ragemprand himself had witnessed the first event Erchempert had described which involved them both. It was ten years or so ago, or at least in August 881 that they had been captured in an attack on the castrum of Pilano, and having been deprived of all his chattels, Erchempert had been forced to march to Capua.17 It had been a long walk beneath clouds that threatened rain, nearly fourteen Roman miles, and had taken five lugubrious hours. At least, for most of the walk it had been downhill, Ragemprand recollected. Erchempert had written: On that occasion the above named Pandonulf suddenly attacked the fortified centre of Pilano with the Neapolitans again and took it by fraud since it was handed over to him by those living inside it. There I too was captured and I lost all the property acquired since childhood. On the tenth day since the calends of November in the year of the Lord 881, I was expelled and brought to Capua on foot in front of the horses.18 Pandonulf19 was one of the notorious Landolfingi who caused much trouble and tribulation in our lands. His grandfather, the ambitious and cunning Landulf,20 had had four sons, of whom one Pando21 was the father in turn of this Pandonulf, Landulf of Caserta and Landonulf the bishop [in name] of Capua. ‘A brood of vipers and villains’, Erchempert had named them. This Pandonulf, however, was motivated by a mendacious mixture of greed, conceit, and deceit, a perjurer among liars and the worst of the grasping iniquitous brood of Landulf. Where before the Lombard lands in

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the south had belonged to the dux of Benevento alone, now the land was divided against itself between Capua, Salerno, and the remnants of that once proud and strong Benevento. The land of Zotto, of Romuald, of Arechis II and of his son Gisulf III.22 Not even the God-fearing and mighty Lombard king Liutprand had been able to enforce his will there with ease.23 Beneventans were Lombards, yes, but they were Beneventans first and foremost. Their ancient antipathy was for the ‘Greeks’ of Naples who had for centuries stirred the cauldron of adversity. It was an old rivalry that had existed since Zotto24 had brought his Lombards into the south 300 years before. These feckless Neapolitans gleefully interfered and intervened in the contentions of the Lombards. First favouring this lord, then when that prince became too powerful, switching their support to another. And so on, but always looking to undermine and distress the Lombards. Their bishop and dux, Athanasius of Naples, displayed these tricks in his unprecedented machinations.25 He had at first favoured the Saracens and emplaced them between the port of his city and the walls, but then they had plundered and destroyed all the Beneventan lands. They had tormented the city harshly, and this Athanasius sought help from the Capuans, the Salernitans, the Greeks, and even the Ishmaelites, as fortune seemed to dictate. He had cultivated an alliance with Lando the Elder but since this availed him little reward, and using his deceitful snake mouth, he secretly switched his attentions to Atenulf, the youngest of the brood of Landenulf. Even this device failed him when Atenulf revealed the intent of Athanasius to all his cousins and brothers. Into this quagmire of conflict Erchempert also related how the Frankish lord, the saviour of the Beneventan province the most holy Augustus Louis II,26 the haughty Greeks, and the rapacious Ishmaelites contested for mastery across our lands. But these lands, by the will of God, were abandoned by all the cultivators, and the land soon succumbed and was filled by cobwebs and thorns. Thus, Erchempert’s own troubles mirrored those of the Lombards themselves. His own ruin and misery were duplicated by the scars and divisions of Benevento. Even when Erchempert had found his way to Capua after his expulsion from Pilano by Pandonulf, hopes for better times were extinguished. This time it was the ‘Greeks’ who caused great consternation for Erchempert. Ragemprand knew the story well, since the old monk had often complained about the ‘bestial Greeks’ who were as he said ‘worse than beasts’.27 Here, yes here, is the passage, noted Ragemprand. It recounted how Abbot Angelarius28 had begun to restore Montecassino after its destruction and Erchempert had been called back from Teano.29 At that point: [T]he monastery of Blessed Benedict which had previously been destroyed by the Saracens in the year of the Lord 884, began to be rebuilt by Abbot Angelarius in August of the year 886. While we were returning from there and were on our way to Capua, we were captured by the Greeks, stripped and deprived of our horses. Our horses, clothes and all our servants were

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Christopher Heath taken from us; we then redeemed the men with silver and recovered six horses. Only I stayed on foot with the preceptor. We were brought to the Capuans in the city. Then we went to Naples but we did not obtain anything and we returned to Capua empty-handed. Then three wagons loaded with victuals and many riches were captured and plundered near Anglena where we had previously been captured.30

Erchempert blamed Atenulf for these miseries, Ragemprand recollected.31 He had been the most devious of the sons of Landenulf of Teano, though since he was the youngest of the three sons it had not been anticipated that he would attain any position of power in Capua. Yet over several years Atenulf had worked to marginalise both of his two brothers and the innumerable other Landolfingi that preyed upon men in the south. It is said that ‘one deceit needs many others, and a whole house is thus built in the air and must soon come to the ground’, and in this fashion Atenulf had sworn peace with the sons of Lando three times and had broken all his agreements, and once he had attained the sole rule of Capua, he had made false promises to help the Pope against the Saracens who resided on the Garigliano. Soon he forgot these promises and did not fulfil any of the things that he had vainly promised. A Roman Privilegium

Worn down with care and sadness, afflicted by the loss of his chattels and instructed to seek help, in 887 Erchempert travelled to Rome to seek the assistance of Pope Stephen V32 for restitution of the properties of the monastery in Capua. Erchempert had briefly mentioned this episode in his History in these words: In those days when Atenulf assumed the right to rule the gastaldate33 and his brothers were in exile, he ordered to take away everything Benedict possessed within the city of Capua. For this reason, I was sent to the Supreme Pontiff Stephen to present him with a petition about the stolen goods. From the Pope I obtained a blessing for the brothers and a privilegium for the monastery and brought letters of exhortation to Atenulf. The Lord’s goods which had been taken away, were returned, mine instead were stolen. Immediately afterwards having planned a malicious action Atenulf took away by force even the cell that had been given to me by the abbot.34 But over lengthier conversations he had told Ragemprand about the holy city, his journey, and what he had found when he had arrived to see the Holy Father. The journey from Teano to Rome was one of uncertainty and jeopardy. From Teano Erchempert and his companions had made their way via Formia to Terracina. They had come perilously close to the pirate base of the Ishmaelites at the mouth of the Garigliano river and thus hurried onward

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to their anticipated rest in the city of Terracina which marked the point where the jurisdiction of the Popes commenced. Here they followed the safer inland route along the old Via Appia which led onward to Rome. This road, as was the custom of the old Romans, led directly through the steep Alban hills. They could not even rest at Tres Tabernae, since this had been recently destroyed by the Hagarenes, and so via Velletri they continued, arriving at the Porta San Sebastiano, once the Porta Appia, on the morning of the sixth day after they had left Teano.35 At the fifth milestone from the city, they had seen the famous Mausoleum of the Curiazi and from there Erchempert had noticed, as they entered through the Porta, an old Greek inscription to Saints Conon and George which sought protection from the enemies of Christ. ‘Perhaps this was a remembrance of the time that Pope Vitalian had met the emperor Constans II as described by Paul the Deacon in his books of history’,36 Erchempert had mused as he also wondered whether he would find succour from the Pope. After a few days’ rest, Erchempert had made his way to the office of the papal camerarius. He had approached St Peter with some trepidation and excitement. Mounting the steps at the front of the basilica, he had crossed into the atrium, known as the Garden of Paradise, via the three gates at the front. Five doors led into the church itself which was filled with mosaics such as the Adoratio Magi or the Mater misericordiae. Around the sides of the atrium and at the portico, Erchempert saw the tombs of the holy Fathers, all who bore witness to the Holy Church and her people. Within the basilica a salutary hush of holiness enveloped the sacred space. Here Erchempert had paused to contemplate the Solomonic columns that surrounded the High Altar, but soon he had to show his credentials to the papal official who had then confirmed that he would be received in two days. Stephen V had been supreme pontiff for nearly two years. He had weathered the storm of imperial opposition and the increasing menace of Agareni raiders. Following the deposition of Charles the third of that name,37 Stephen had sent an urgent message to Arnulf of Carinthia to rescue Rome from the devastations of both ‘pagans and evil Christians’. No help had come. Instead, he had turned to the Greek emperor Basil I and sought warships to protect the coast. Yet the situation for Stephen and for Rome remained precarious.38 It was only about forty years ago, in the time of Leo IV,39 since the savage race of the Agareni, raiders and pillagers had sacked Rome and desecrated the Holy Shrine of St Peter. To restore the holy Basilica, it had been said that Stephen had presented one gold diadem with precious and wondrous pearls and jewels; a sword with a marvellous sheath of gold and jewels; four silk veils around the altar; and forty holy homilies of St Gregory.40 This God protected holy Pope Stephen sought throughout his pontificate to repair that damage and to restore the Churches of Christ to their glory. Thus, he had wanted to hear from witnesses how matters stood to the south of Rome. When Erchempert attained his audience with the holy pontiff, he was not perturbed that the Pope sought news of the dangers of the road and the

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actions of the Ishmaelites. He listened attentively to Erchempert as he described the wicked actions of Atenulf and the destitution of the brothers, and his own misfortune. ‘We are surrounded by evil and the enemies of Christ, there are malicious customs even here in the midst of the bosom of Holy Church. In the time of my blessed predecessor Hadrian (III), our whole country had been consumed by locusts. A clear sign of God’s disfavour,’ observed Stephen, once Erchempert had concluded his response to the pontiff’s questions. ‘What can I do to help you, my son?’ Stephen had asked. After some thought, the God-elected Stephen blessed the brothers as the first line of defence of Holy Mother Church. ‘I shall cause a privilegium to be issued and write to Atenulf to restrain him and bring him back to obedience to the Christians.’ He paused and then added, ‘but better and more fruitful for you and all your brethren is to seek help from heaven against the scourges that beset you. Only from God can true joy and serenity come as blessed Benedict would have known.’ A few days later Erchempert left Rome and retraced his steps to Teano. This privilegium confirmed the independence of Montecassino and enjoined upon all the rulers of the south to respect the monks and their sacred shrines. Yet it was soon evident that neither the privilegium nor the letter of exhortation to Atenulf had any useful impact. The old rivalries of Athanasius and Atenulf persisted. They had even committed themselves to each other by oath – only then to break it within a mere twelve days. Then they both rushed to pillage and devastate, but as Solomon once said, ‘Who will medicate the enchanter once the serpent has struck?’41 But we who remain immune from the storm of this world, we will gain perennial happiness and eternal life. This was the hope that stood at the crux of Erchempert the monk’s life and work. Reading the final words of Erchempert’s History and the unfulfilled hopes it hinted at that were never realised allowed Ragemprand to remember the last words of his brother monk as he neared his death. He had whispered: ‘This world is a cruel place, but it is the sunlight.’ And, beyond, as the dawn broke across the land, the bells summoned the monks to a new day of devotion and work. Notes * My special thanks to Dr Bojana Radovanovi for her help with earlier drafts of this item and to Dr Erin Dailey for his invitation to contribute. All errors of interpretation remain mine alone. 1 Acts II.3: ‘Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire, which parted and came to rest on each one of them.’ Festa rosalia has ancient pagan antecedents and was, in Christian cultic praxis, originally the Sunday before Pentecost, but was ultimately conflated with Pentecost; the scattering of rose petals is one feature of the festival. 2 Acts II.2: ‘And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house in which they were.’ 3 Psalms LXVII: 29. Pentecost is celebrated on the seventh Sunday after Easter Sunday.

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4 i.e. Benedict of Nursia (c. 480–548) 5 Ragembrand was Abbot of Montecassino between 890/1 and 899. Erchempert’s History runs out in 889 with a final comment on Aio II (884–891), Prince of Benevento. Lauds held after Matins commences in the early hours of the morning, about 6 a.m. in the winter – and Prime, also later in winter, about an hour thereafter. 6 St Benedict’s rule required brethren to remain clothed when sleeping, albeit without their belts. Generally, the rule of St Benedict, chapter XXII, provided for a global dormitory. ‘Each monk is to have a separate bed and to sleep in his habit, so as to be ready to rise without delay for the Divine Office at night; a candle (Latin candela) shall burn in the dormitory throughout the night.’ See, for the Rule of St Benedict, c. xxii. Justin McCann, The Rule of St Benedict (London: Burns Oates, 1952), pp. 70–71. After the monastery of Montecassino was destroyed in the Islamic raid of 883, the community went into exile to Teano (until 914) and then Capua until 949, by which time the community returned to a rebuilt Montecassino. 7 In 883. 8 Mariano Dell’Omo, ‘Ilderico di Montecassino,’ in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani (Roma: Treccani, 2004). See https://www.treccani.it/enciclopedia/ildericodi-montecassino_%28Dizionario-Biografico%29/ (accessed 24 November 2022). For Paul the Deacon, see Christopher Heath, The Narrative Worlds of Paul the Deacon: Between Empires and Identities in Lombard Italy (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2017). 9 Dieter Geuenich, ‘A Survey of the Early Medieval Confraternity Books from the Continent’, in David Rollason (ed.), The Durham Liber Vitae and Its Context (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2004), pp. 141–148. 10 Libri Memoriales were books in which those who were connected to a monastery would be remembered each year in the prayers of the community. These could be patrons, rulers, abbots, or monks. 11 The day of death is known from the Epitaph written by Paul’s student Ilderic but not the year. The traditional date is c. 799. Some scholars have favoured 796 (based on a careful reading of the extant dates in Paul’s works), but the recent work of Zachary Guiliano has reinvigorated the case for a later date of death, i.e. 799. 12 768–814. 13 In 774. 14 754–787. Desiderius (757–774) was the final Lombard king who associated his son Adelgis into kingship from 763. 15 … ystoriolam condere Longobardorum Beneventum degentium, de quibus quia his diebus nil dignum ac laudabile repperitur quod veraci … idcirco non regnum eorum, sed excidium, non felicitatem sed miseriam, non triumphum, sed perniciem, non quemamodum profecerint, sed qualiter defecerint, non quomodo alios superaverint, sed quomodo superati ab aliis ac devicti fuerint.’ In Luigi Andrea Berto (trans. & ed.), The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento by Erchempert: A Critical Edition and Translation of ‘Ystoriola Longobardorum Beneventum Degentium (London: Routledge, 2022), p. 132. Translation in Justin Lake (ed.), Prologues to Ancient and Medieval History: A Reader (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), p. 121. 16 Justin McCann (trans. & ed.), The Rule of St. Benedict (London: Burns Oates, 1952), pp. 44–45. 17 Berto suggests that Pilano ‘was probably located near Teano’. Luigi Andrea Berto, Erchemperto: Piccola Storia dei Longobardi di Benevento (Napoli: Liguori, 2013), p. 161, citing Cilento, Le origini della signoria di Capua, p. 127. 18 Berto, The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento, p. 115 [c. 44]. 19 862–881/2. Pandonulf was the eldest son of Pando, son of Landulf. For the family connections of the Capuan comital dynasty, see the genealogical table in Berto, The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento, p. 76.

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20 Landulf I the Old, c. 795–843. 21 861–862. 22 Zotto (c. 571–590); Romuald I (662–687); Arechis II (758–787); Gisulf III (787–806). 23 Lombard king, 712–744. 24 First Lombard dux of Benevento. 25 878–898. 26 844(55)–875. Louis II was first under-king to his father in Italy and then when Lothar I died Emperor. 27 Berto points out that this is the only pejorative comment Erchempert supplies about the ‘Greeks’. See Berto, The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento, pp. 41–44. 28 Abbot, 883–889. 29 30 km northwest of modern Caserta. 30 Berto, The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento, p. 122 [c. 61]. 31 Atenulf Count of Capua (887–910) was one of the sons of Landonulf of Teano – and thus the nephew of Pando, the Count of Capua, whose son was Pandonulf whom we encountered above. 32 Pope 885–891. Sometimes enumerated as Stephen V (VI). 33 A Gastald was a local official who was appointed by the king in the Lombard kingdom. In Benevento, their activities are harder to discern and across this period many effectively became Counts. The Comital family of Capua had previously been gastalds. 34 Berto, The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento, p. 125 [c. 69]. 35 In 868. 36 Vitalian was Pope 657–672 who met Constans II (641–668) at the sixth milestone from Rome. See HL book V.11. 37 In 888. 38 Arnulf of Carinthia (887–899) and Basil I (867–886). 39 i.e. in 846. 40 Raymond Davis, The Lives of the Ninth-Century Popes (Liber Pontificalis) (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1995), p. 303. Gregory the Great (590–604). 41 See c. 77.

Further Reading Luigi Andrea Berto (trans. and ed.), The Little History of the Lombards of Benevento by Erchempert: A Critical Edition and Translation of Ystoriola Longobardorum Beneventum degentium (London: Routledge, 2022). Raymond Davis, The Lives of the Ninth-Century Popes (Liber Pontificalis) (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1995). Marilyn Dunn, The Emergence of Monasticism: From the Desert Fathers to the Early Middle Ages (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003). Christopher Heath, ‘Third/Ninth-century Violence: ‘Saracens’ and Sawd n in Erchempert’s Historia’, Al-Masq: Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean 27 (1) (2015), pp. 24–40. Walter Pohl, ‘The Historiography of Disillusion: Erchempert and the History of Ninth Century Southern Italy’, in Rutger Kramer, Helmut Reimitz and Graeme Ward (eds), Historiography and Identity III: Carolingian Approaches (Turnhout: Brepols, 2021), pp. 319–354.

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On the Caliph’s Secret Service Ibr hm ibn Ya‘q b on Slavic Europe Andrii Danylenko

Introduction Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b is, perhaps, the most mysterious traveler from Muslim Spain (al-Andalus) who was likely engaged in intelligence gathering of the information about the Slavs and their neighbors in east-central Europe in the tenth century. In addition to Rome, he visited a number of Frankish (German) towns and cities such as Schleswig, Magdeburg, Mainz, Fulda, and some Slavic urban centers, including Prague. His largely eyewitness travelogue (Rislah) is extant in fragments used subsequently by Ab !‘Ubayd al-Bakr!in his eleventhcentury Kitb al-maslik wa-l-mamlik (Book of Highways and Kingdoms) and the Persian cosmographer Ab !‘Abd Allh ibn Zakariy!al-Qazwn!in his thirteenth-century "thr al-bild wa-akhbr al-‘ibd (The Monuments of the Lands and the Historical Traditions of God’s Servants). Some excerpts were also used by A#med Ibn ‘Umar al-‘Udhr! (1003–ca. 1085), who first quoted him, and Nashwn Ibn Sa‘d al-$imayr!(d. 1178). There are more questions than answers on Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b and his Rislah. We do not know the exact dates of Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b’s trip(s) to Europe, the objectives of his trip(s), and his actual name. Born in the late ninth or early tenth century in Tortosa in Muslim Spain, he might have been influenced to some extent by the local Slavic community. He lived later in Córdoba, the capital of the Spanish Umayyads. Arguably, Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b was known at the court of al$akam II ibn ‘Abd al-Ra#mn III (r. 961–976). During al-$akam’s rule, many Jews (perhaps under the influence of the caliph’s Jewish courtier and confidant )1 moved to Córdoba, which became the center of a Talmudic $asday ben Shapru% school. The caliph was himself a bibliophile and scholar whose agents ransacked the bookshops of Alexandria, Damascus, and Baghdd with a view to buying or copying manuscripts. Faced with the problem of maintaining Umayyad rule in North Africa and potential Muslim–Christian conflicts, al-$akam sent agents, in particular, to the Latin West to gather information about potential enemies and allies, primarily among the Slavs and the Franks under Otto I, the Frankish king from 936 and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire from 962 until his death in 973. His concerns were also determined by the ethnic background of the members of the Andalusian society. The dominant group in the population of Muslim Spain DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-7

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were the Andalusian Arabs. In addition to Berbers who had long settled in the peninsula, there were many muwallads (converts to Islam from Christianity and Judaism) and &aqlibah (Slavs), who were in fact Muslims of mixed (European) ancestry. There is some evidence that Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b, himself a muwallad, was a protégé of $asday ben Shapru%, who could be the chief collector of information about the areas of potential conflicts with the Christians in the East, Byzantium, and Khazaria (a medieval Turkic polity which adopted the Jewish religion). Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b could be one of the best candidates for a secretive mission in Slavic (east-central) Europe due to his long exposure to the local &aqlibah in Tortosa and Córdoba. It is quite possible that Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b, as a longtime native of Tortosa, could have learned much about the Andalusian &aqlibah before undertaking his travels to east-central Europe. Living side by side with the &aqlibah in Tortosa and in Cordóba for years under the conditions of what is conventionally called “multilayered bilingualism,” Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b could have picked up some vernacular Slavic (&aqlabiyyah). Even more so, he could have learned about the origins of some local &aqlibah which allowed the caliph (at the request of $asday ben Shapru% ) to choose Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b for a spying mission that subsequently immortalized Ibrhm for future generations of scholars. There is no doubt that Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b visited Slavic Europe in the 960s. The fact that Ibrhm remained in Europe at least more than one year (or, perhaps, visited it several times) is confirmed by his travelogue. Some scholars believe that Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b must have visited the East Frankish king Otto I the Great at least twice––the first time in 962 on his coronation as the Emperor in Rome and a second time, probably in 965, in Magdeburg (and not Merseburg). According to another hypothesis, Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b could have met the Pope in 961 in Rome and Otto the Great in 965 in Magdeburg. Duly instructed by his spymaster, $asday ben Shapru%, Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b collected only essential information. He recorded that there were four kings among the Slavs: the unnamed king of Bulgaria (which Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b did not visit in person), Boleslaus, the ruler of Prague and Bohemia, also Mieszko, the king of Cracow (which he did not visit either), and Nakon, “the westernmost” ruler of the Obodrites. Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b deemed it necessary to add that, when coming to Prague, the Rus’ merchants intermingled with the Germans (al-'udishk n), the Magyars (al-Unqliyy n), the Pechenegs (alBajnkiyah), the Khazars (al-Khazar), and the Slavs, and used Slavic (al&aqlabiyyah) as the language of everyday communication. Clearly, Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b was neither a merchant nor a slave trader. Unlike “traditional” Arab-Muslim travelers, he was interested in the local customs and traditions, military matters, including numbers of troops and types of fortifications. Not a practitioner of erudite profane adab literature as distinct from ‘ilm which sums up religious sciences, Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b mentioned the fairy tale about the country of the Amazons, described to him by Otto the Great in person. However, Ibrhm did not write anything about the Baptism of

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Poland because the latter most likely happened after his journey into Slavic Europe. Yet Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b spoke about the Christianity in Bulgaria which was close to Constantinople. He even recorded that the Bulgarians were translating the New Testament into Slavic. It is difficult to reconstruct the itinerary of Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b’s trip(s). We can only guess as to whether the following destinations were, in fact, part of his itinerary: Almería (or another eastern Andalusian port) to Marseille–Genoa–Rome; Rome to the Slavic lands; Hungary to Bohemia (including Prague); Bohemia to East Germany (but not Cracow in Poland); in Germany he traveled to Schwerin and Schleswig–Magdeburg to Paderborn–Soest–Fulda–Frankfurt and Mainz; Mainz–France (Verdun, Rouen); and then from France to Northern Spain (via Pyrenees) and back to Córdoba. Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b! may have returned to Andalusia around 967 or even earlier to write down his travels. About 968 he may well have presented his Rislah to $asday ben Shapru%. His Rislah was hardly an extensive geographical work but rather a series of intelligence reports containing practical information about the inhabitants of east-central Europe, primarily the Slavs and their relation to Otto I. His reports were perused by $asday ben Shapru%! who may have then forwarded them to the Caliph al-$akam II and his viziers. It comes as no surprise that in his letter to King Joseph of Khazaria, $asday ben Shapru%!named the Emperor Otto I “the king of the Germans (Aškenaz) and the king of the Slavs ((eqlab)”. That title was based on the “debriefing” of Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b. Stashed in the archives in Córdoba on the eve of the disintegration of the Umayyad Caliphate into petty (taifa) kingdoms in 1009, Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b’s Rislah gradually lost its importance. Not surprisingly, it became available for the Andalusian Muslim geographers and historians only. The portrait of Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b!is very elusive. As a special envoy and in fact a spy, he might have kept many details of his trip(s) to himself since not everything could have been recorded. Arguably, he might have prepared extra special reports for the caliph and his vizier(s) which did not survive until today. The following excerpts from an imagined logbook of Ibrhm ibn Ya‘q b!gives only partial credit to what he might have experienced beyond his native Córdoba. One can only imagine the personal undertones of his endurance during his trips in Slavic Europe. Portrait Excerpts from the Logbook

[53]. On the 13th of Rab‘i al-Th n, 350 after the Hijrah [June 5, 961], and that was al-Jum’ah [Friday], we finally reached the gates of R miyyah [Rome]. I was happy to see A!mad al-" aqlab#who was awaiting us at the wall. He had got a little older and looked already like an al-afranj!(Frank/Christian). We put up a tent and stayed three days there without permission to enter R miyyah which was finally granted. A messenger from the malik al-R m [the king of the

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Romans – the Pope John XII] arrived and we were accompanied to our residence where they attended to all our needs. On the next day the malik alR m summoned us. We presented him with sweets, nuts, pepper, and millet. I also gave to him an Arabic translation of the book which ‘Arm z [Godmar], alasqaf of the city of Jarbadah [bishop of Gironne] gave to the Highness in 328 after the Hijrah [939/940] when visiting Córdoba.2 Then the malik al-R m said to me: I desire to send to the Commander of the Faithful in Andalusia a wise q mis [count] with a gift. My important petition concerns that noble spot [near Lorca in Tudmr]3 where there is a church in whose courtyard is an olive tree. The malik al-R m said: I know that the martyr buried there enjoys great distinction in sight of All h the Almighty, and I implore his Highness [the Caliph] to persuade and urge the people of that church to let [me] have the bones of that martyr. If I obtain them, this will be for me greater than any blessing on earth. I promised to convey his petition to his Highness. The audience lasted until the maghrib [sunset hour] prayer. [70] On the 1st of Jum d #al-‘Awwal, 350 after the Hijrah [June 22, 961], we finally left the city of R miyyah. As we had planned in Córdoba, A!mad al" aqlab#continued with us. The eunuch Bishr, a Frank able to read the language of the Franks (al-ifranjiyyah) and the malik al-R m’s people, was also with us. Then we traveled as fast as possible to Bunduqiyyah [Venice] where we had been promised a residence for several days. We were only two farsakhs4 away and had to change horses. I grew concerned. We continued on our way and several days’ march later we reached Bunduqiyyah. We quickly found our residence. I dispatched A!mad to find our contact. I waited for them until after the iš![night] prayer. A!mad returned alone. I decided to bid our host farewell and leave immediately. [133] … We turned into a wooden bridge [wood-paved way] and traveled for one mile [ml] until we reached a town. We spent a night there and then rode hard and then saw finally the fortress of N q n [Nakon] called Ghard. A!mad told me that it means “a big fortress” in Slavic. In front of Ghard there was a smaller castle built on a lake. I was told that the Slavs build most of the fortresses in this way; they go to meadows abundant in water and trees, and trace there a circle or a square which marks the shape of the future fortress. Then they dig a trench around it and put the carved earth above. They strengthen the walls with boards or wood. Then, in the wall, they make a gate of any shape and size they like. One can enter it across a wooden bridge. These fortresses are hard to capture and it may take so much time to besiege them. [140] We reached the city of Fraghah [Prague] on the 10th of Shawwal, 350 after the Hijrah [November 26, 961], and that was al-Khams [Thursday]. I ordered a tent for the night. I was not sure whether my contact was already in the city. After the fajr [morning] prayer, A!mad told me they allowed us to enter the city. I must tell $ asday what a splendor this city is! B yi&lw, the king of Fraghah, Buwma [Bohemia], is very powerful and highly revered here. The city is built of stone and lime. I lost count of the marvels I witnessed on

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that day. They produce saddles, bridles, and round leather shields. In the market, I saw light kerchiefs shaped like a half moon, having the form of a net. They are not made from silk, but they are so delicate and flimsy that I bought ten kerchiefs for a silver qinshr.5 They use them for purchases and trading. I saw jars full of them. For them, they are money with which they can buy wheat, flour, gold, silver, even horses. I asked A!mad to buy several more kerchiefs for his Highness. [141] [ … ] After the maghrib [sunset hour] prayer, A!mad told me we could meet with his compatriots. We concealed our identity and went to meet them in the city. Strange as it seems, the Bohemians are dark-skinned and black-haired. I look like one of them. A blond person like A!mad can rarely be found among them. He covered his head and wore a tunic and a caftan, and it was dark already. There were two of them in a funduq [caravanserai]. A!mad told me they were from the land of Mishqa [Mieszko] and spoke his native language (bil-&aqlabiyyah). I did not tell them I could understand what they were saying. I enquired whether some other merchants could also speak their language. One of A!mad’s compatriots, Zabishaq [Zbyszek], told me that everybody in the market in this city, al-'udishk n (the Germans), al-Unqliyy n (the Magyars), al-Bajnkiyyah (the Pechenegs), al-Khazar (the Khazars), al-R s (the Rus’), and the Slavs, could speak al-&aqlabiyyah (Slavic). I was surprised that the Rus’ (and may God strike them) were the same almaj s [Norsemen] who pillaged the city of Seville in the year 229 after the Hijrah [September 30, 843 through September 17, 844]. My father told me that his uncle, and his household, had all been killed then. His Highness should know that the Rus’ are also here. The Slavs are dangerous. They wage wars with the Byzantines, al-Afranj [Franks], al-N kbard [Lombards], and other nations. Were the Slavs not divided into many tribes with the multitude and variety of their traditions, no people could compete with them in force. As I heard and saw myself, they work hard, and in farming they excel all other peoples of the North. The &aqlab! merchants reach al-R s and alQustantiniyyah [Constantinople]. Will they strike the Caliphate or alQustantiniyyah first? Will they unite with al-Mu‘izz Li-Dn Allah6 whose &aqlab!slaves are so numerous and loyal? And what about our &aqlibah in alMariya [Almería], Ba% alyaws [Badajoz], Dniyyah [Dénia], Mayurqa [Majorca], Mursiya [Murcia], my native 'ur%sha [Tortosa], and Balansiyyah [Valencia]? I am scared. Suddenly, I noticed some commotion in the funduq. It was freezing outside. I saw a man following us in the street, but we managed to ultimately lose him. I understood that he was not, perhaps, preying upon us. Yet I decided that we should depart at dawn, traveling as quickly as we could manage. [206] On the 9th of Jumd!al-Akhira, 354 after the Hijrah [June 16, 965], and that was al-A#ad [Sunday], I was reciting the Qur’ n. And, praise be to All h, I was granted an audience for the next day. I presented H tta, the king of al-R m [Otto the Great, the Roman Emperor], with a robe of honor and many other gifts, and I read out a letter from his Commander of the Faithful

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in Al-Andalus. The ruler graciously replied to the caliph’s request to live in peace and tolerance. I described to the ruler the places I had visited on my way to his city of Madh.n B.r.gh [Magdeburg] and asked him about the city of women. I heard about them when crossing al-Br s [Prussia]. The ruler told me that this city has lands and slaves, and they chose to become pregnant by their slaves and once they got pregnant they killed their children if they were boys. They ride horses and wage war. They have strength and courage. And I believe the news about this city is true. I received it from H tta, the king of al-R m, who asked me to alert his Highness of their danger. *** [312] I am finally home. It has been hot all day long. I have been sleeping in between the &alhs [prayers]. I feel blessed to be in Córdoba after the cold days and frosty moonlit nights in the lands of the (aqlibah. Even A!mad, who is from the farthest limits, feels elated. I have just received a message from $ asday who is ready to see me the day after tomorrow. I also dared to request an audience with his Highness. He promised to arrange one. I will be honored to present his Highness with marten furs I purchased in Fraghah as well as Dsq rdis’s7 treaty translated by A!mad. May the Almighty continue to bless this &aqlab! Slave and protect him forever for what he has done during our trip. Notes 1 Ab #Yusuf $ asday ben Is! q ben Shapru%#was head of the Andalusian Jewish community and a leading figure in both the political and cultural life of the caliphate. He was a right-hand man of both the caliph, ‘Abd al-Ra!m n III al-N &ir (ruled 912–961) and his son, al-$ akam II, al-Mustan&ir bi-ll h (ruled 961–976). $ asday is remembered for his correspondence with Joseph, King of the Khazars, inquiring about the state of their community, newly converted to Judaism. 2 Ibr hm ibn Ya‘q b mentions a book on European history and geography presented by Bishop Godmar (Gotmar) of Gironne (Gerona) in Catalonia to the future caliph al-$ akam II in 939/940. The town of which Godmar was bishop was situated beyond the Pyrenees. It is probable that the bishop offered the book to al$ akam, following a request made to him while he was on his diplomatic mission to Córdoba in 939/940. This event was recorded by al-Mas‘ d#in his famous treatise entitled Mur j al-dhahab wa-ma‘din al-jauhar (The Meadows of Gold, ca. 947). 3 Lorca is a city in the Tudmr province in the southeast of Andalusia during the Umayyad period. 4 An old measure of distance which equals four miles. 5 A silver coin of some sort. 6 The fourth F %imid caliph al-Mu‘izz Li-Dn Allah who ruled in North Africa in 953 to 975. 7 In the year 949, Pedanius Dioscorides’ (Dsq rdis) work on botany and one of the volumes of Historiae adversus paganos by Paulus Orosius (Hur s), dealing with the history of Greece, were sent, among other gifts, by the Byzantine emperor Romanus II (ruled 939–963) to ‘Abd al-Ra!m n III, Caliph of Córdoba. According to Ibn Ab# U&aybi‘a (d. 1269/1270), there were no “Spanish Christians” available at the caliph’s court who could speak Greek to translate the work of Dioscorides and Latin for

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translating the work of Orosius. The caliph had to ask the Byzantine emperor to send him a translator to teach the two languages to his slaves. The emperor dispatched a learned Greek monk named Nickolas (Niq l) to help local physicians and naturalists (among whom was $ asday ben Shapru%) to understand the book of Dioscorides which they valued highly. There is no evidence that the two works were translated by Nickolas for ‘Abd al-Ra!m n III. According to Ibr hm ibn Ya‘q b’s imagined logbook, the Arabic translation of Dioscorides was allegedly done by A!mad al-" aqlab.

Further Reading El-Hajji, Abdurrahman Ali. 1970. “Ibr hm Ibn Ya‘q b a%-'ur%ush# and His Diplomatic Activity.” Islamic Quarterly 14 (1): 22–40. Jacob, Georg. 1927. Arabische Berichte von Gesandten an germanische Fürstenhöfe aus dem 9. Und 10. Jahrhundert. Berlin and Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter. Kowalski, Tadeusz. 1946. Relacja Ibrhma Ibn Ja‘) ba z podró*y do krajów słowia+skich w przekazie al-Bekrego. Cracow: Polska Akademija Umiej(tno)ci. Kowalski, Tadeusz. 2022. Ibrahim ibn Yakub’s Account of His Travel to Slavic Countries as Transmitted by al-Bakri with Contemporary Commentaries, edited by Mustafa Switat. Berlin: Peter Lang. Kunik, Arist Aristovi*#and Viktor Romanovi*#Rozen. 1878. Izvestija Al-Bekri i drugix avtorov o Rusi i slavjanax: stat’i i razyskanija, Part 1: Izvestija Al-Bekri o slavjanax i is sosedjax. St. Peterbur: Imperatorskaja Akademija nauk. Leeuwen, Adrian P. van and André Ferre, eds. 1992. Ab !Bakr. Kitb al-maslik wa-lmamlik d’Abu Ubayd al-Bakr. Édition critique avec introduction et indices, parts 1–2. Qar%aj: al-Mu+assasah al-Watani yah lil-Tarjamah wa-al-Tahqi q wa-l-Dirasat, Bayt ,,al-H, ikmah: al-Dar al-.Arabiyah lil-Kitab.

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Brian Bórumha, High King of Ireland Benjamin Hudson

Introduction During the tenth century, the Irish were transforming from a monocultural society into one that was multicultural. The Viking invasions that began in the late eighth century led to their settlement in trading towns they built at Dublin, Waterford, Wexford, Limerick, and Cork. Other cultural aspects were also changing; there was a linguistic evolution as Old Irish evolved into a more simplified version now known as Middle Irish. Accompanying this was political change as the fragmentation of an Irish polity was being rearranged by a vision of a national monarchy. A few dynasties, such as the Éoganacht of Munster in southwest Ireland and the O’Neill clans of the north, were making claims of regional and national supremacy that, while still nebulous, were being turned into real power. Into this tumultuous world came Brian, son of Cennetig, better known as Brian ‘Bórumha’ (Brian of [the palace called] Bórumha, c. 940 – 23 April 1014). Although his father had set their ancestral kingdom of Dál Cais on the path to military significance in Munster, the principality was still of marginal importance. Located north of the Viking-controlled port of Limerick, the Irish and Scandinavians became ‘frenemies’ as they occasionally cooperated and occasionally fought. Brian prospered by copying many of his tactics from others. Stationing mercenaries in purpose-built fortresses, in imitation of those employed by the Anglo-Saxons, made occupation more palatable for the local population. His relationship with the Vikings was often more cordial than with the Irish and he was an ally of the lords of the Isles. Perhaps most important is Brian’s recognition of the changes occurring around him. The so-called tenth-century renaissance saw the rebuilding of Europe’s economies in the aftermath of centuries of lethargy. The raids of the Vikings not only destroyed older preconceptions about the invulnerability of land defenses, but they also opened up new methods of conducting business, primarily by water. When Brian became the self-proclaimed Emperor of Ireland, it was beginning to be influenced by events outside the island. When the Danish King Sven I ‘Forkbeard’ became King of England in the fall of 1013, other Viking groups tried to imitate him. Among them were the Vikings of Dublin, who attempted to break free of Brian’s DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-8

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control. The rebellion began late in 1013, but the major confrontation was in April 1014 when Brian led his army to a field beyond the walls of Dublin, known as ‘The Bulls’ Meadow’. There he faced an army of the Vikings of Dublin, the Orkney Islands, and the Isle of Man as well as various mercenaries. Following his death, details about his career were preserved by his descendants called the Ui Briain (O’Brians) who added their own imaginative interpretation. How might Brian have explained his career? While some artistic licence has been used in this chapter, the information comes from medieval sources. Portrait To my Dear Son Duncan

You always had so many questions about my career, and I always had other things to do than satisfy the curiosity of a small boy. Now, however, the time has come for answers. Tonight I heard my banshee Aibhinn scream and know that tomorrow will be my last day on earth. She told me that whichever of my sons I saw first today would succeed me and that was you.1 Do not mourn, for I will end my life as a warrior should, at the head of an army. Sad that the opposition will be your family: your half-brother Sitric Silkenbeard with his sewer rats, the Dublin Vikings, and your Uncle Máel-mórda of Leinster. My only regret is that I will end my life so far from my beloved home in Dál Cais.2 Where should I begin, as the memories flood back? What an odd journey life has been for me, from the impoverished kingdom of Dál Cais on the edge of this island to the lordship of all the Irish. I remember my childhood home outside Killaloe in the royal palace of Bél Bórumha. We had the worst of everything; poor soil, poor farms, and poor defences. Your grandfather Cennétig mac Lorcáin was a mighty warrior, but we were barely better off than our subjects, living on the same dull diet of gruel, fish, and whatever animal happened to be useless enough to be spared for the cooking pot. There were twelve of us boys, not to mention my sisters, the children of my father’s various wives and ‘friends’; he was fond of noting that there was no such thing as an unattractive king.3 The crowd lived in the great circular stone fortress, the royal raith, eating the food with which our subjects paid their taxes. I can still hear my mother Bé Bind, daughter of King Aurcad, son of Murchad of West Connaught (and she never let anyone forget it), muttering under her breath as she presided at the table about my father’s partiality for the neighbourhood’s trash. Her harshest comments were reserved for my half-sister Órlaith who was the wife of the High King Duncan, son of Fland. Poor Órlaith had a passionate nature but no common sense. A foolish fling with her stepson led to public disgrace and execution.4 As you are aware, poor or rich, it is bliss to be a royal child. The peasant children are working almost as soon as they can walk, but sons of kings have leisure. Organized into gangs with the other aristocratic boys, we played games as preparation for life. Wonderful hockey games with bats hitting wicked little balls that you could bounce off your opponents’ heads. There

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were mock battles with wooden swords, spears, and toy knives, and on rainy days there was fidchell, the best of board games. Others might dismiss it as ‘king of the castle’, but my older brother Mathgamain and I played it for hours. Then there were the performances by the bards who sang songs about our ancestors. One of my favourites was the story of how my grandfather Lorca prevented the High-King Fland ‘of the Shannon’ from playing fidchell at our ceremonial site at Mag Adair.5 Those were happy days. Now I sit in my royal pavilion, a tent more lavish than the family’s citadel, surrounded by my warriors and hailed as the king destined to be the saviour of the Irish. Ha! As the ninth of twelve boys I was never destined to be anything, and my prospects were hardly worth mentioning; there was little hope that I would ever be king. I was given a scrappy education so that I could end my days as the head of some church. A little arithmetic and some basic reading of verses from the Bible, to me it was dull beyond endurance. When ambition surged, father consoled me by saying it was better to sleep and eat well in a church rather than hunger and shiver in the fields while on a campaign. Mother soothed me with ‘God will provide’. He took His time. It’s still dark outside and the flood of memories grows stronger. Perhaps being the ninth of twelve boys has its compensations, one of which is that I will die an old man. Even before my father’s death when I was about eleven, four of my brothers had been killed in battle. Your grandfather was succeeded by my half-brother Lachtna. What a poor choice. Lachtna wanted to be an architect and build palaces. Father let him build a house called ‘Lachtna’s sunroom’ at Craglea.6 He was killed after two years and Mathgamain was the next to succeed. He needed a lieutenant and I was chosen. So it was farewell to comfortable beds and good food as a priest; hello to scrappy meals while sleeping rough as a soldier. I loved it. Dear Mathgamain, my childhood hero. Why stop there? Even now, as an old man who has met so many people, he remains the best, bravest, and wisest person I have ever known. He taught me that as a warrior I had to know my enemies. There were two kinds: the decent sort and the vermin. Among the decent sort were the Foreigners, who are today called Vikings; near us they built the trading town on the River Shannon at Limerick. My best friend was a Viking, a boy named Godfrey, and he came to Limerick (which he pronounced Hlymrekr) occasionally with his older brother Magnus and father Harald.7 We met one day on the banks of the Shannon while separately playing guardian of the borderlands, really just an excuse to spy on the neighbours. Neither of us was good at directions and we literally bumped into each other while trying to find a way home. After a tussle (fought halfheartedly on both sides) we lay panting across from each other. I had found some rocks that, when held to the light in a certain way, could make rainbows, and they fell out of my bag during our struggle. Godfrey asked me what they were and we discovered that both of us liked interesting rocks. From that point on, we became firm friends. Whenever I could, I slipped away to the southern border. Godfrey could speak Frankish, Norse, and

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Irish; now I can speak Norse because he taught me and I am good at languages. He had the best stories of sailing with his family to the far north where there were strange animals called reindeer that pulled wagons without wheels and huge beasts called elk. One day Godfrey asked me if I would like to take my rocks to his town to sell. With childish naivety, I agreed. What a day! Limerick was the biggest place and there were so many people. Houses were built almost into the river and great ships were pulled up on the bank. There were people from everywhere and I heard strange languages such as Frankish and English as well as Irish and Norse. Unfortunately, one of the merchants, who was a friend of my father’s, asked me what I was doing there and took me home. That night my furious and frightened parents asked me if I had gone insane to wander into that nest of pirates. While mother sobbed in terror at what might have happened, father took a more direct approach; I ate my meals standing up for the next few days. The other sort of enemies was the vermin, such as our neighbours and nominal overlords the Éoganacht.8 With their ancient history, complete with a lineage that they said could be traced back to Noah, together with conceited opinions of themselves, they could barely be bothered to acknowledge upstarts like my family. Father bore it patiently, but mother fairly danced with fury when she was treated offhandedly by them. She hissed that one day they would be on their knees to her. She was right. After Mathgamain succeeded to the kingship, he began to build a base of power around our home. Dál Cais was too remote and too impoverished to warrant the notice of the mighty Éoganacht, and nobody paid us much attention until it was too late. We were not the only family that was becoming tired of our superiors in the east. The Éoganacht had the best lands where they grew fields of grain; their cattle and sheep were big and fat. That did not stop them from collecting their taxes rigorously, down to the last grain of wheat. And they did nothing for us. No protection from raiders, no charity during times of famine, not even acknowledgement of how much their comfort depended on our labours. They called us the deplorables of the wastelands. But the deplorables were preparing a surprise. Mathgamain was more than a mighty warrior; he was a good diplomat and formed an alliance with the other clans who bore a grudge towards the Éoganacht. In 964 he attacked one branch of them at their ceremonial site on Cashel Rock. The Éoganacht could scarcely believe it: their despised subjects were attacking them. Worse was to come. For decades they had been their own worst enemies, fragmenting into warring clans that maintained the fiction of unity through some distant ancestor. It was difficult for them to fight when half of their army hated the other half. They were weak, they were caught by surprise, and Mathgamain’s troops cut through them. They scrambled to find allies and one of them was the Vikings of Limerick where a new leader, called Ivar, had control. Mathgamain destroyed Ivar’s army in 967 at Solloghodbeg near Limerick Junction.9 The day after the battle, we captured the town of Limerick and destroyed it; the Vikings had chosen the

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wrong side. Within five years the world turned upside down for the Éoganacht and they sued for peace. How mother enjoyed the day that they came to do homage. Standing behind Mathgamain, her ladies-in-waiting were nervously watching that she didn’t dart out and kick one of her rivals. Now the situation was different. The Éoganacht paid up, like everyone else. And they did so because Mathgamain had made a crucial ally: the Church. He was always religious, perhaps more so than anyone else in our family. He knew that the clergy were constantly being forced to make ‘donations’ to the Éoganacht, food and money that had been set aside for the poor. The clergy had taken vows of poverty, but not humiliation, and the Éoganacht treated them as cavalierly as they did everyone else. For two years, Dal Cais flourished. The taxes came to us and we spent it on troops and roads. The churches kept their tithes and began to feed starving children rather than fat aristocrats. Peace and prosperity were a potent drug and dulled our senses. For the moment, however, the victories continued. Devastation of the  oganacht who lived around Knockainy (co. Limerick) was followed by forcing their leaders Máel-muad and Donnuban of Ui Fidgente to give hostages, those human guarantees of good behaviour. Ivar of Limerick, a cruel enemy of my friend Godfrey’s family (there was no more unity among the Vikings than among the Irish), was defeated at the Church of Emly in 969. That same year, we allied with another Viking town, Waterford, and defended them against the men of Leinster. In 972, Mathgamain devised a plan to recapture Limerick, and his so-called ally Máel-muad agreed. The following year, he arbitrated a dispute between the churches of Armagh and Emly.10 Now his allies were worried that Mathgamain would outstrip them. In the meantime, I was able to do a good turn for my friend Godfrey. He and his family hated Ivar of Limerick almost as much as I did. In 974, Godfrey and Magnus sailed around Ireland with some high-ranking Vikings called lagmenn or ‘lawmen’ and captured Ivar. He escaped, and my first major victory was in 977 when I followed Ivar and his sons into the church on Scattery Island and killed them.11 Good riddance to him. Treachery, treachery! In 976, Donnuban offered a parley to Mathgamain, supposedly to negotiate a treaty. The Éoganacht wanted to meet in a church in private. They claimed it was for safety’s sake, but we knew the former bosses were too proud to let people know that they were no longer in charge. As we approached the meeting place something wasn’t right, and my fears grew as we neared the building. There should have been people hanging around, clergy trying to drum up contributions from the ‘quality’ and the locals wanting to see the ‘toffs’. The last words Mathgamain spoke to me were: ‘This shouldn’t take long.’ It didn’t. He was ambushed as he walked through the door and was being spirited away almost as soon as it closed. I can’t believe that we were so blind as to not see it coming. Under a promise of safe conduct, the villain Donnuban captured my dear brother and turned him over to that viper Máel-muad, who executed him immediately.

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I was now king. After Mathgamain’s death, I issued a battle challenge to Máel-muad and defeated him in the Ballyhoura Mountains at Belach Lechta. Details of the fighting are a blank to me, although my troops said they were afraid to go near me as I was bellowing like an animal while stabbing Máelmuad’s body. Then, quiet. Assassination of Mathgamain was not enough, it was merely the beginning. Troops moved into the west. Not much destruction but pillaging and intimidation. The Éoganacht did not want to kill the geese that were giving them golden eggs; they wanted to ensure that the eggs kept coming. Suddenly I became fugitive. Sleeping in woods and trusting no one. Without Mathgamain’s leadership, our allies lifted up their wrists for the shackles to be attached. I did not run for long. There was a decision to be made. Would I follow my father and ancestors by remaining a big fish in a little pond, spending my days fighting my neighbours? Or would I play on a larger stage? If the latter was chosen, how was I to get the resources? One morning I awoke during a thunderstorm and decided to attack. But, how? I had nothing to offer anyone. Then I remembered that as a child, Godfrey had introduced me to a Viking called Hrafn (he said his name meant ‘Raven’) who was a berserker (someone who went insane in battle, but I think that he just liked to beat up people and then claim he could not help himself) and he terrified everyone, except us. I suppose he did not think children worth the performance, especially annoying little boys asking for stories of northern marvels. Instead, he began to tell us his life’s history as a mercenary. It was fascinating: battles between ships on the seas, ransacking towns, and the time he spent in a place called Miklegard (‘the great town’), otherwise known as Constantinople. Then he told me something that changed my life: he told me why he did it. Men who like to fight will do so for the instant pleasure of combat. They will also fight for good food, good drink, and the admiration of girls. On that soggy morning I suddenly knew how to achieve my dream: use soldiers of fortune. This wasn’t a new idea, but my plan to accommodate them was novel. Usually, soldiers were billeted or given room and board with families. They slept in the family’s cabin and ate with them. That led to unhappiness on both sides. The peasants didn’t want to share their meagre supplies with some ravenous soldier and the mercenaries complained that they were given the worst food and the most wretched accommodation. What was my plan? Without any ancestral wealth I offered soldiers of fortune a golden future: fine dining; gracious living (so to say); and some agreeable companionship. Instead of the squalor of a peasant cabin, fortresses were set aside just for soldiers. Methods of recruiting changed. No calls upon honour, righteousness, or ancestral ties, just good times and some loot slapped into their hands. The more we won, the more wealth for them to squander. But where was I to find the means to that end? The answer was taxes, in the form of food and drink, paid by the peasants in return for protection. I would build forts on hill tops and mountain passes for my hired swords. They intercepted raiding parties and confiscated their weapons as well as any loot from earlier

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raids. The peasants might not like the increased taxes but would glad to be rid of the marauders. My first area of recruiting was at Limerick; there were always sailors loitering as they waited for ships. The offer was so outrageous that they lined up to enlist. Soon everyone was joining – Irish as well as Viking and they ranged from seasoned warriors looking to ply their trade to the local bumpkins who didn’t know which way to hold a spear. Taxes or payments were rendered in food: beef, pork, vegetables, and whatever was going. Men, who earlier would have eaten meat once a year, now ate it several times a week. More importantly, the word soon circulated among the farmers that regions under my control were not troubled by raiders stealing their animals. The peasants happily paid up. By 982, I felt it was time to move outside Munster and lead my (semi-) professional troop into Osraige.12 The kings of Munster had long coveted the western province of Leinster, but I was not sure of my troops and decided on a dress rehearsal in the newly formed province. The excursion was a success. Unfortunately, news of it spread throughout Ireland and caught the attention of the so-called King of Tara, Máel-Sechnaill. He was one of the dynasts of the northern clan known as O’Neill and they were even more pleased with themselves than the Éoganacht. He had defeated the Vikings at the battle of Tara and chased them back to Dublin. Once there, he had forced them to come to terms and placed in the kingship his half-brother Glúniairn (a son of the former King Olaf Cuaran (‘shoe’) and Máel-Sechnaill’s mother Dúnflaith). Glúniairn had a drinking problem (he would be killed by his servant while they were drunk) so I knew his reign would be brief. Puffed up by his success, Máel-Sechnaill decided to show me who was the champion of Ireland. Before I could return home, he led his army to Dál Cais’s ceremonial site at Moyare Park and destroyed our sacred tree. He even had the roots pulled out and chopped into splinters. I was outmanned, outmanoeuvred, and humiliated. The local princes laughed and said that I had received my comeuppance. Not yet I hadn’t. The following year, 983, I was ready to strike and became a Viking of sorts. I purchased boats from the shipyards at Limerick and loaded the army (essentially my suatrich or mercenaries) into them. We sailed up the River Shannon and attacked the men of Connacht from the east. The raid was a mixed result, but it was good enough. Many of the mercenaries were wiped out (which meant I did not have to pay them) and the next year I took the fight to Máel-Sechnaill with a raid on his farms in the middle of the island, in West Meath. He and his arrogant O’Neill cousins had something new to consider. That year I renewed my friendship with Godfrey. He and his brother Magnus had been building a kingdom along the Irish Sea coastlands and islands. Their father Harald had never ceased to dream of going back to their lands in Normandy, but his sons were content to build a new empire. Their empire-building, however, was not going as well as they would have liked, so

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when my messengers approached with an offer of employment, they were well pleased. While our original plans were ambitious, raiding from southeast Ireland to Dublin, we never went further than southern Leinster.13 That raid was good fun and made us quite wealthy. I asked Godfrey if he was bothered attacking the Viking strongholds at Waterford and Wexford; he seemed amused by the idea. The next ten years were relatively quiet. There was the usual small-scale raiding and expeditions. Perhaps the greatest thing was my increasing use of ships on the inland waterways. This had been pioneered, for the Irish, by an earlier king, a member of the O’Neill clan, named Donald; I thought it was a grand idea. There was another idea, however, that I needed to quash. There were rumours that I was some sort of Irish Viking, a Gall-Gaedel, who preferred the Northmen to the Irish. That was not entirely untrue, but I did not want to gain the reputation of a traitor. To fight that idea, my weapon of choice was history, a subject I enjoyed. So, in about 993, I commissioned a history of the Vikings in Ireland called Cocadh Gaedel re Gallaib (‘The Wars of the Irish against the Vikings’). There were two parts: a general history of the Vikings in Ireland followed by a history specifically about Dál Cais and the Northmen. I made certain that my version of events was given.14 In addition, my Viking friends were told to stay out of sight. My preference for the Vikings was not just a continuation of a boyhood fascination; it was recognition of how my world was changing. The Viking camps were wealthy because of their contacts beyond Ireland. Control of Limerick and Waterford gave me wealth in taxes that I could use for paying mercenaries, buying supplies, and bribing my rivals. The Irish on the east coast, the men of Leinster, had become wealthy supplying Dublin and Wexford with raw materials such as lumber, livestock, and metals. In contrast, the mighty O’Neill kingdoms were perpetually impoverished. They were becoming hated by their own people as their taxes increased. I needed to control the Viking towns in order to become a true monarch of Ireland. The guard is changing outside my tent. This night is flying past. Where was I? Oh yes, things began to ‘hot up’ in 995. Like the Éoganacht, the O’Neills had thought that I was just another flash in the pan. Máel-Sechnaill decided to get rid of me once and for good. So, he led an army in Munster and defeated my troops in battle. As he went home chuckling to himself, I flew into action. I built fortresses along the invasion routes at Cashel, Singland, and Lough Bur.15 Then my army went to the east and took the hostages of the leading Leinster families, from Wexford to Dublin. Máel-Sechnaill was not prepared for that. So, in 997, we had a rígdál or royal meeting. He played for time and offered a division of Ireland in which he would take the overlordship of the north and I the south. That suited me, for the time being. By this time I had expanded my interests, and the following year went to Dublin, where your half-brother Sitric reigned. The timing was propitious. The Dubliners were weary of paying off Máel-Sechnaill and, more importantly, their economy was growing rapidly. They were minting their own coins and

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had numerous trade contacts along the Atlantic lands. I wanted access to their wealth. My information about the Vikings was coming to me from my old friend Godfrey’s family. He had died some years earlier, but you remember his son Ragnall, my foster-son, who died while at our court in the year 1004. The Dubliners, however, were not going simply to allow me to substitute for MáelSechnaill. On the last day of the old century, 31 December 999, I faced them at Newcastle Lyons, southwest of Dublin. Knowing the loot that awaited them, my troops had no trouble defeating the Dubliners, and on the first day of the new century we entered the city. What treasures! There were gems, cloth, horns, weapons, shoes, and more than we could dream of. My men had a great pay day, but I made sure that they did no real damage. Then it was time to settle accounts with Máel-Sechnaill. In 1001, I led my army to the ceremonial site of Tara and challenged him to a fight. Little did I know that, by now, Máel-Sechnaill was a paper tiger. There were rivalries among the O’Neill families, and they hated each other more than anyone else. They refused to come to Máel-Sechnaill’s aid. He was forced to beg me for time to assemble his army and it was gladly given; I knew that disappointment beckoned. No one would help him or even take over the high kingship. Finally he had to face defeat and become my vassal. But the transfer of power was not official, yet. I still had to deal with Flaithbertach O’Neill, the socalled ‘power in the north’. In 1004, my army went north to Twohilly in county Antrim and defeated him. The last act of the drama came the following year when I went to the Church of Armagh founded by St Patrick. There I put twenty ounces of gold on the altar and insisted that their great book note that Brian, the ‘emperor’ of Ireland, was the donor.16 Máel-Sechnaill’s humiliation was not finished. In 1004, he was thrown from his horse and nearly killed. Not until 1008 was he well enough to return to public life. During that time, for three weary years, I used the cathedral town of Armagh as my base for northern campaigns. The O’Neills refused to bow the knee, so I took their hostages in the town in 1005 and 1007. O’Neill stubbornness infected the Ulstermen on the coast of the Irish Sea and in 1005 I led my army to their citadel of Rathmore. That was an eerie campaign. As we entered the plain known as Mag Line my troops began to move uneasily, and the reason, to my astonishment, was emptiness. There was nobody there or anywhere in the neighbourhood. Later I learned that a great famine had occurred in the region and the population simply walked away.17 Riding along the road felt like entering a land of ghosts. By that time, I was feeling my age. The death of your stepmother Dub Choblaig in 1009 emphasized my mortality. Increasingly I was delegating authority to your brothers Murchad and Donald. Our campaigns into the northernmost O’Neill clan of Cénel Conaill were led by them, with me trailing along after the fighting. We kept our eyes clear, however, and continued to build or renovate the fortresses such Kincora or Sangland. You celebrated your twelfth birthday that year and you will remember how we made a party of travelling around the countryside.

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But then last year came the fury of the Northmen. While we Irish had been successful in keeping the Vikings in their camps, others were less fortunate. The Danish pounding of the English finally came to its anticipated conclusion and in November their king, Sven ‘Forkbeard’, conquered the kingdom. Afterwards, every pirate camp wanted to imitate his success. Led by Sitric of Dublin, Vikings began to attack our southern coasts as well as moving inland against Máel-Sechnaill’s subjects. During the winter they recruited in the Orkneys and the jarl, that fat slob Sigurd ‘the Stout’, agreed to fight if he could marry your mother Gormflaith. If it were not for the immorality of the thing, I would have gladly allowed it. What possesses old men to marry young wives? I know she is your mother, but you cannot have been blind to the fact that we did not get on. The last time your Uncle Máel-mórda visited to deliver his taxes, he had ripped his shirt and gave it to your mother to have mended. She threw it into the fire and railed at him for his submission to me. Then Murchad and Máel-mórda quarrelled over a game and your uncle left in a huff. What a family!18 So now I hear the changing of the sentries and the sunlight is pouring into the tent. The night was too short. To close this letter, you once asked me what I would want to be if not king. The truth is that I wanted to be a Viking, sailing the Western Sea, seeing the strange animals, and selling my rainbow makers in the towns we visited. That is all past. Now it is time to put on my armour and go into the battle where I will face the final enemy: death. Epilogue

Brian was killed at the battle of Clontarf on Friday, 23 April 1014. His body was waked in the Church of St Columba at Swords and he is buried in St Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, County Armagh, Northern Ireland. Duncan succeeded his father and reigned for more than half a century, until his death in Rome in 1065. Notes 1 Todd, Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh, 200. 2 This was roughly the area of county Clare, although the exact boundaries varied. 3 The exact number of Brian’s siblings is uncertain; the twelve sons of Cennetig comes from An Leabhar Muimhneach maraon le suim Aguisíní, ed. Ó Donadha, 298–299; this is a late and edited collection of materials. 4 Mac Airt, Seán and Gearóid Mac Niocaill (ed. and trans.), The Annals of Ulster (to AD 1131) (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1983), sub anno 940=941. 5 An Leabhar Muimhneach maraon le suim Aguisíní, ed. Ó Donadha, 104–105. 6 The Book of Leinster, formerly Lebar na Núachongbála, ed. R. I. Best, Osborn Bergin, M. A. O’Brien and Anne O’Sullivan, 6 vols (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1954–1983), vi. 1393 (folio 322 col. f). 7 Godfrey and Magnus were the sons of Harald of Bayeux, and their main area of activity was in the northwestern region of the Irish Sea; see B. Hudson, Viking Pirates and Christian Princes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 65–71.

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8 The history of Brian’s family relations with the Éoganacht federation has to be pieced together from annals, Cocad Gaedel re Gallaib, and assorted other materials, none of which necessarily agree with each other. 9 This is near modern Limerick Junction. 10 Armagh is in county Armagh in Northern Ireland. Emly is about 25 miles from Limerick on the modern Tipperary–Limerick border. 11 Scattery Island is a part of the Kilrush Islands and is about 49 miles west of Limerick in the estuary of the River Shannon. 12 Osraige encompassed county Kilkenny and western county Laois. 13 Mac Airt, Annals of Inisfallen, sub anno 984. The contribution by the Haraldssons must have been substantial, as the annals describe their flotilla as muirfolud mór (‘a great sea flood’). 14 The dating information is given in the Book of Leinster version; see Bergin et al., Book of Leinster, folio 309 (v. 1319). 15 Mac Airt, Annals of Inisfallen, sub anno 995. 16 This is now known as the Book of Armagh and the inscription is at folio 16 verso. 17 Mac Airt, Annals of Inisfallen, sub anno 1005. 18 Todd, Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh, 142–144.

Further Reading Duffy, Seán, Brian Boru and the Battle of Clontarf (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 2013). Mac Airt, Sean, Annals of Inisfallen (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1951); available online at https://celt.ucc.ie/published/T100004.html. Ní Mhaonaigh, Máire, Brian Boru, Ireland’s Greatest King (Dublin: Tempus, 2006). Ó Corráin, Donncha, Ireland Before the Normans (Dublin: Gill & Macmillan, 1972). Ó Donnchadha, Tadhg, An Leabhar Muimhneach maraon le suim Aguisíní (Dublin: Irish Manuscripts Commission, 1940); available online at https://archive.org/ details/leabharmuimhneac01odon/page/n1/mode/2up. Todd, James Henthorne, ed., Cogadh Gaedhel re Gallaibh or the War of the Irish against the Foreigners (London: HMSO, 1866); available online at https://archive. org/details/cogadhgaedhelreg00todd.

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Otloh of St Emmeram A Life of Temptations Juanita Feros Ruys

Introduction The genre of autobiography as we understand it now – a life trajectory written in the first person, usually in a chronological arc from childhood through to the writer’s present – is a modern literary form. Yet there exist a small number of fascinating first-person life narratives from the medieval West, written in Latin, that offer us insight into the mindset, perspectives, and experiences of medieval writers. These are probably not ‘autobiographical’ in the sense that we understand that term now, because they were generally written with an apologetic or polemical intention, rather than a desire to express and explore an individual’s life cycle. The exemplar of this genre is Augustine of Hippo’s Confessions, written around the end of the fourth century CE, which was designed to illuminate his journey from sinful man to believing Christian. In this mould appears a fascinating set of texts by an otherwise little-known monk by the name of Otloh living in what is today Germany. Otloh was born early in the second decade of the eleventh century. He is generally known as Otloh of St Emmeram because he spent most of his adult life at the monastery of St Emmeram in Regensburg, although he was educated at the monastery school at Tegernsee and also spent time at the Abbey of Fulda and a year at the Abbey of Amorbach. Otloh has left us a number of writings – some of these still extant in his own hand – in which he attempts to understand the meaning of his life as a journey to monkhood, and particularly as a journey beset with temptations by the Devil. His primary first-person text is known as the Liber de temptatione cuiusdam monachi (The Book of the Temptation of a Certain Monk), but there are elements of self-history also present in his earlier Liber de doctrina spirituali (Book on Spiritual Instruction), written in metre, Liber de cursu spirituali (Book on Spiritual Progress), and in a collection of miracle tales that he compiled, the Liber visionum (Book of Visions). Of the twelve tales in this collection, four are first-person recounts of the demonic molestations he has suffered. As well as providing an account of his temptations, Otloh’s Liber de temptatione is an auto-bibliography, as he turns his attention to his life as a writer, beginning with his childhood experience of precociously teaching himself DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-9

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the mechanics of holding and using a pen. He then lists not only the texts that he himself composed, but also the many existing texts he copied so that he could present them to bishops and other monasteries. The Liber de temptatione thus falls into two halves: first, an account of demonic temptation, and then an account of a life of writing in both medieval senses of that word – authorial composition (ars componendi or dictandi) and physical transcription (ars scribendi). Otloh died in 1070 or shortly thereafter. It is difficult to find a unique point of view from which to explore Otloh’s life, as he himself has already provided us with multiple perspectives, writing of himself in the first, second, and third person, in prose and in verse, and expressing himself in prayers. In his first-person life narrative, the Liber de temptatione, Otloh represents the Devil as speaking directly to him, and Otloh wrote a text, De tribus quaestionibus (On the Three Questions), in the form of a dialogue between himself and a monk who was visiting his monastery at the time, so these formal structures provide access points for reimagining Otloh’s life. I have combined these here with the later medieval genre in which the Devil is pictured as a claimant at law (Processus Sathanae), making an argument about the failings of humanity to which Mary responds as humanity’s defender.1 In this portrait, the Devil presents to the reader his claims about Otloh’s weaknesses and Otloh responds in his own defence. Portrait Devil:

Otloh:

I had my eye on Otloh from the beginning. Good fodder for temptation. That combination of intellectual pride and personal humiliation is always very effective. I was watching when, as a child, he rose at night from his narrow bed in the dormitory and moved noiselessly down the stone corridors to the schoolroom. Here he would spend hours stubbornly fixing his fingers and thumb around a stylus, attempting to shape letters on his wax tablets, then erasing them in anger as he struggled to gain control of his instrument. I saw how the other boys would point and laugh at him in class when he would, with a combination of shyness and pride, flourish his pen in an outlandish grip. Then I would smile at his reddening face, because I knew that his embarrassment would be a tool for me to use in breaking him down, in finding a way to plant doubts in his mind, to suggest that he was not in fact a favoured one of God. But I persevered through that shame and turned my gift to increasing the storehouse of the words of Christ and his Church, praying to God that, once settled in a life of monastic conversion, I would prevail in learning beyond many. At the monastery of St Emmeram, the abbot took note of my learning in the liberal arts and entrusted to me the instruction of the young boys, though I felt myself still immature as a scholar and teacher for such a weighty task. I knew that metre works better than

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prose as a vehicle of learning for youthful students such as these, so I began to produce texts in the poetic form through which they might imbibe both grammar and morals. Next, I wanted to provide instruction for others from my own experience and I rehearsed in texts of metre and prose the temptations to which God had put me, at my own request, that I might endure and triumph. I wrote down the many visions I knew of, both experienced by myself and heard from others, that my readers might be informed how God can work both to chastise and console souls through that liminal world that lies between wakefulness and dreams. Soon I was pressed by my brother monks to produce texts by which they might be nourished and informed. At their request I wrote a Life of St Boniface and a book of proverbs, and as these circulated, I was induced to commit the Lives of many more saints to writing as well. While I wrote many texts from my own invention, I did not neglect to transmit the learning already existing in the world, and I spent many hours with my pen pinched between my icy fingers and thumb studiously copying out works of holy texts and holy Lives for the benefit of not only my community but many others across the country. I have created a catalogue of these so that any reader may see the fruit I returned to God for him entrusting me with the skills and ability to write. I knew that Otloh had a guilty preference for pagan literature. Honestly, what monk didn’t? What fun I had tempting those early Fathers. Look at Jerome. He could not bear to leave his library of pagan authors behind, and it required the divine intervention of God transporting him to his own court in Heaven, before an audience of those tiresome and interfering angels, to focus his mind back on holy writings. Jerome’s guilty pleasure was Cicero – I had to laugh when God accused him of being a Ciceronian rather than a Christian2 – but for Otloh it was Lucan. I remember one day when Otloh had just arrived at St Emmeram, in flight from yet another contretemps he had incited by insulting one of his superiors (insulting his superiors and running away was one of Otloh’s particular life skills, a natural propensity that I was happy to encourage). He was taking some leisure time outdoors, reading Lucan’s Pharsalia on the battles between Caesar and Pompey, when I decided to have a little fun with him, since he was at that moment unprotected by the Holy Word. I caused a violent wind to spring up and assail him. He looked disturbed for a moment but then went back to his reading. I sent a second attack, more violent, and this time with a burning heat, but again he looked about him, resettled himself, and returned to his text. Not to be denied, I

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Otloh:

Devil:

Otloh:

Devil:

Otloh:

sent a third blast of incendiary winds, and this time, now afraid, he scurried indoors and fell instantly into a stupor where he lay senseless for several days. Even this, mind you, did not deter him from his Lucan, so engrossed was he in this pagan author, and he returned to his reading as soon as he had regained his senses.3 When I first arrived at the abbey of St Emmeram, I saw my brother monks divided into those who devoted themselves to pagan literature and those whose true comfort was the Holy Scriptures. I chose to align myself with the latter and focus my mind upon the word of God, but the stronger my desire for this spiritual refreshment grew, the more the Devil assailed me. Lest Otloh should think that these demonic punishments were all in his mind or should hesitate to believe in my real presence in his dormitory – for even his God labels him a lover of all doubt4 – I made sure to leave my marks on his body. Just as I did with that tedious saint Anthony,5 I sent one of my demons to whip him severely. I wanted this much to be clear: my acts are not the stuff of dreams. I am active in the real and waking world, and I can and will harm those who set their face against me. By night in my bed, I was beset by a man utterly terrifying in appearance who beat me mercilessly. If I dared to open my mouth to beg for mercy, he would force me to recall many long-forgotten sins. So real did those beatings seem to me that when I awoke I was certain that my shirt and sleeping surface would be soaked in blood, but as the morning light crept into the dormitory there was no blood to be seen. Night after night I was beset with beatings, yet from one morning to the next no bloodstains bore witness to what I had experienced. I began to question the perceptions of my own mind until one morning at last I turned to the young man who slept on the pallet next to me. ‘Did you hear a violent beating taking place in the night?’ I asked. He looked confused and denied hearing any such sounds. In despair I raised my shirt over my head and showed him my back. ‘Do you see nothing?’ I asked. On the contrary, he was aghast and told me that my back was a mess of red and swollen welts.6 One very effective weapon I had to prevent Otloh from becoming a monk was the love of his family and their fear of him locking himself away in that way of life. That is why the one whom I tempted in the desert for forty days, the Son of God, told his followers that they had to leave their families if they wanted to follow him.7 Conscious of my sinful nature, I hesitated to take vows at first, fearful of humiliating myself before my family if I should fail to continue what I had begun. Then in a flash of youthful spiritual ardour, I committed myself to this straight and narrow path of life, but without the blessing and consent of my family. With my father continuously entreating me to return to the world I did so unwillingly, but God was unhappy with

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my lack of constancy. Once again I drew near to the monastic profession and once again I fell away, until God in his wrath and mercy afflicted me with skin eruptions and paralysis of my limbs, causing me to beg the monks of St Emmeram to number me among their brotherhood. They were doubtful of my commitment and questioned what use I could be to their monastery in my limited condition – if, indeed, I should even live long enough to make my profession – but as they saw my need, they took me in, to my salvation.8 My next temptation had to wait until Otloh had arrived at a certain age. I speak, of course, of the thorn in his side from which Paul begged to be released, the beautiful woman and small black boy who confronted Anthony, the memory of a beautiful woman that caused Benedict to throw himself into a briar patch to scarify himself, and the visionary dancing girls who caused Jerome’s blood to bubble and boil on a cold desert night. Yes, I was troubled by carnal desires, but God encouraged me, pointing out that a believer can only arrive at triumph and overcome through affliction, and that the one who has never struggled achieves the less in the end. ‘Do you really,’ God asked me, ‘wish to claim the crown of eternal life, yet endure nothing of trial or disturbance first?’ God reminded me that no Father of the Old or New Testament was beloved of him but that he tested him in the furnace so that he might be proven. And he reminded me that holy men who truly prayed to be relieved of this suffering were visited by angels in visions. One holy man was rendered as though a eunuch by an angel excising all movement from his genitals. Another was eviscerated, so it seemed to him, by a visiting angel, who tore the tumour of lust from his body and cast it away.9 And to my shame, God reminded me that not only men but even holy women have faced the temptations of the body and triumphed. He chastised me by pointing out that Mary of Egypt had fought the temptation of lust for seventeen years, throwing into the shade my own poor struggle of many years less than that.10 Finally, he argued that those who are not humbled by the struggles of carnal temptation may fall to the much greater sin of pride, as did the Dark Tempter himself. It seemed fitting that in tempting me with sins of the flesh, the Devil in fact allowed me to avoid the very sin that had caused him to be thrown down from Heaven by the Archangel Michael. But my greatest triumph was causing Otloh to doubt the power of the Scriptures and the very existence of God himself. This was, if I say so myself, a masterstroke, because while Otloh could gird himself with the Scriptures to fight against my other temptations, once he doubted the Scriptures themselves he was left bereft, undefended, and alone.

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Otloh:

One time I stirred up an enmity between Otloh and his abbot so powerful that my victim soon fell ill and was consigned to his sickbed. I seized my opportunity. Filling his room with a smoky haze to disorient him, I sent my demons to him to whisk him, as it seemed, to the top of a steep pinnacle and stand him, teetering, above the abyss into which he was about to be flung headlong. My disciples did their job, striking Otloh and taunting him: ‘Where now is that hope you had in God? Where indeed is your God himself? Do you not know that God does not exist, and no-one has the power to prevail against us?’11 I reached a point of despair, fenced around with every doubt and blindness of mind, where I completely doubted if there were any truth and profit in the Holy Scriptures, or if it were true that God was omnipotent. One night I found myself surrounded by demons who took me to the very brink of Hell and mocked my helpless fear, jeering that there was no God who could assist me. Though fear chilled my insides and caused me to shake, I did not in the end forsake my beliefs. Although my mind was quaking, I recalled that I had read and once believed most faithfully that God was present everywhere. So, I looked around for him and a man appeared to me. He reminded me that God knew what I was suffering, and he encouraged me to remain firm in my faith. Over the howls and raucous laughter of the demons I struggled to remain steadfast, though they taunted me repeatedly and threatened the most horrific punishments if I did not submit to their will. Suddenly I heard the clanging of a bell and the dream world I was in began to fade. Along with the smoky haze that had surrounded me, the demons evaporated, and I realized I was back in my bed, with the bells for Divine Office tolling. I was safe and gave thanks to God for a salvation I had not merited. From that time, the cloud of doubt that had shadowed my heart was removed through the grace of God, and a great light of knowledge burst forth in my breast, that never again would I suffer the darkness of such a death-bringing doubt.

Otloh concludes: As you have granted me the gift of composition, O Lord, let me exercise it in your praise:12 Eternal Father, ever the same, Take pity on us who live in the shame Of our first parents who died for their sin From which sorrow arose and death did begin. I humbly beg for the faith to adore You, and with contrite heart I also implore

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You, let me be patient and be not proud, Let not jealousy be allowed To blind me from being loving and just. I beg you also to free me from lust. Let me be modest in food, drink, and clothing. May I not succumb to envy or boasting. Help me to recognize and then to spurn The vanity of flattery and always return To your service with heart fully awake That I may live only for your sake. The talents with which you have me endowed I humbly offer to you and have vowed To work for you only, that my life may return The interest to you from all good that I earn. I beseech you to keep all things infernal Far from me now and for all time eternal, And let me live ever in your sweetest peace In a life of your service without pause or cease. Amen. Notes 1 See, for example, Karl Shoemaker, ‘The Devil at Law in the Middle Ages’, Revue de l’histoire des religions, 228 (2011), 567–586, and Shoemaker, ‘When the Devil Went to Law School: Canon Law and Theology in the Fourteenth Century’, in Crossing Boundaries at Medieval Universities, ed. Spencer E. Young (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 255–275. 2 Jerome, Ep. XXII to Eustochium, 30: ‘“mentiris”, ait, “ciceronianus es, non christianus”.’ 3 Otloh describes this event in his Visio 3. See Otloh von St Emmeram, Liber visionum, ed. Paul Gerhard Schmidt (Weimar: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger, 1989). 4 See Otloh von St. Emmeram, ‘Liber de temptatione cuiusdam monachi’: Untersuchung, kritische Edition und Übersetzung, ed. Sabine Gäbe (Bern: Peter Lang, 1999), p. 286, lines 13–14: ‘o amator dubitationis totius.’ 5 St Athanasius, Life of St Antony, Section 8. 6 Otloh relates this tale in his Visio 3. 7 Luke 14. 26. 8 Otloh relates this story in his Visio 3. 9 Otloh cites these stories of the Bishop Equitius from Gregory’s Dialogues and Abba Serenus from John Cassian’s Conferences in his Liber de temptatione. 10 Otloh cites this story from the Vitas Patrum in his Liber de temptatione. 11 Otloh relates this tale in his Visio 4. 12 This is a short paraphrase of a verse prayer which Otloh includes in his Liber de temptatione. Otloh’s verse is not rhymed, as Latin verse from ancient times to the high Middle Ages was focused on metre (rhythm). End and internal rhyme only became a part of Medieval Latin poetry from the twelfth century onward. This prayer has been rhymed to indicate to a modern reader that Otloh’s prayer was written as a poem, not as prose.

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Further Reading There are very few studies of Otloh available in English and only a small part of his Liber de temptatione has been translated into English: Michael Goodich, ‘Otloh of St. Emmeram (1010–after 1067), Liber de tentationibus suis’, in Goodich, Other Middle Ages: Witnesses at the Margins of Medieval Society (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), 159–164. I have translated the whole of the Liber de temptatione and the four visiones in which Otloh narrates his experience of demonic temptation. These will appear in my booklength study of Otloh (forthcoming) with Brepols in their series Disputatio. Short, focused studies in English include the following: Ellen Joyce, ‘Scribal Performance and Identity in the Autobiographical Visions of Otloh of St. Emmeram (d. 1067)’, Essays in Medieval Studies, 22 (2005), 95–106. Hannah Williams, ‘Composing the Mind: Doubt and Divine Inspiration in Otloh of St Emmeram’s Book of Temptations’, European Review of History – Revue européenne d’histoire, 16:6 (2009), 855–873.

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Unknown A Concubine of Many Names Stacey E. Murrell

Introduction The harems of Muslim rulers of medieval al-Andalus (established in 711 and lasting in some form until 1492) are notoriously unknowable places in terms of written sources. Those that do survive are all written from the perspective of men, and unsurprisingly they focus almost exclusively on the men of the harem – whether the emir, his sons, or the eunuchs charged with surveilling and regulating the movement and bodies of the women within. A large percentage of the women in the harem entered this restricted environment as slaves, taken as captives from across the shores of the Mediterranean and subsequently made available for sexual relationships with the emir. Others, like the woman in this portrait, were the wives of the ruler or his sons and had come from a local elite family, while others were the daughters of concubines or wives. Political ascendancy was not impossible for these women, as many rose to political prominence through their positions as the favorite sexual partner of a ruler, or as the mother of a ruler. A larger proportion of the women of Andalusian harems have been anonymized by the structure of the harem and by the silences of the archive. Their names have frequently not come down to us, their epithets mere traces of the individual. Conversely, we know a great deal more about women who were the wives and concubines of Christian rulers during the same period. These concubines were by and large freeborn noblewomen who engaged in non-marital sexual relationships with rulers, and they have left scores of documents detailing land transactions, religious gifts, and patronage, and in some cases, burials. These concubines regularly appear in chronicles, figures who both fascinated and troubled religious writers. On the basis of these sources, a historian can conclude many things. First, that concubines were just as important to Iberian monarchs as wives during the eleventh through thirteenth centuries. Second, that these relationships in both their sexual and non-sexual phases could be a means of accessing positions of power for the women involved. And third, that the relationship between mother and child was often strong enough to withstand distance and changing family identity. And yet there remains much that is unknown about them. How were their relationships arranged? Was there any degree of affection between the partners? Should we consider them pawns or players? DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-10

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The woman at the heart of this portrait is known to historians as both Zaida and Isabel. She began her life in al-Andalus in the mid-eleventh century and lived as a wife in a harem before circumstances of violence and conflict led her to end her life as a concubine – and possibly later wife – to King Alfonso VI of León-Castile (r.1165–1109). She gave birth to a son by Alfonso, named Sancho, sometime in the 1090s (likely 1093), who was later recognized as the king’s heir; Sancho ultimately predeceased his father. She died sometime in the first decade of the twelfth century, before the death of her son. Her documentary traces are often ephemeral. Almost all the vernacular, Latin, and Arabic sources that pertain to her are chronicles, and therefore bear the imprint of their (male) authors’ interpretations about her place in two distinct though entangled medieval societies. The few charters from León-Castile that mention her involve her as a confirmant (essentially a witness in the company of the king, suggesting her status as a recognized member of the court by important elites), and as such they do not allow much insight into her experience. This portrait draws upon the historical facts we know about various parts of her life, and where possible I have included the names of other historical figures around her that we possess records for. Although it avoids the many arguments among scholars about her identity or whether she ultimately did become the wife of Alfonso VI, I have necessarily adopted one position against others. It does not, however, attempt to create a complete narrative of her life. The present portrait emulates the dissonance between the two versions of the same woman, between the two lives she lived on different sides of a medieval frontier, moving from one to the next by way of encounter and chance. Violence, cultural difference, and motherhood inform the reconstruction of her life, but resilience and adaptation have decided the contours of the telling. Zaida, as she is known in Spanish, is not the name she was born with, but a Romanization of the title sayyida, used to describe Muslim noblewomen who claimed descent from the Prophet Muhammad. Isabel is the name she is said to have taken after converting to Christianity, though some sources suggest she wanted the name Maria and was denied. I have therefore decided to use the name Mariyah, the Arabic form of Maria, as a way of centering the part(s) of her which remain unperceived by the archive. Portrait Mariyah gazed out at the garden, reveling in the way rays of sun warmed her face through the decorative latticework that filled the arched window. As she had made her way to the quarters of the harem in the newly expanded palace, Mariyah understood why her father-in-law, the emir al-Mutamid, had taken to calling it al Mubarak, the Blessed Palace. Everywhere – from the lacy stonework that decorated the patio to the intricate accents of red paint on the walls, from the massive pools to the lush gardens and riotous beds of flowers, from the new rows of bread ovens to the embellished walls of the northern gate – could be found the proof of his passion for cultivating beauty.

Unknown: A Concubine of Many Names 101 Many years had passed since Mariyah was last in Isbiliya.1 During the years that Qurtuba2 had been lost to them after its capture by her father-inlaw’s bitter rivals, Mariyah and her husband’s concubines had lived in the harem of his father. In her mother- and -sister-in-law, I’timad and Buthaina, Mariyah had found treasured companions. Her first child, a daughter, had been born in Isbiliya and grown up surrounded by women who treated her like their own child, nursing her when Mariyah’s milk ran dry. Their subsequent return to Qurtuba had thus been bittersweet. The harem of alMamun, Mariyah’s husband, was much smaller than his father’s, populated by a fraction of the women and only a few other children. When Mariyah’s husband was summoned by his father along with his brothers, she had been relieved to learn that his mother I’timad had requested Mariyah’s presence, extolling her to bring her daughter as well. I’timad possessed a power unlike any of the other women of the harem, as her relationship with the emir was one truly based on mutual affection. There were those men of the court who disliked I’timad’s influence, but she was not a woman to be crossed. Though their backgrounds were nothing alike – I’timad having once been a slave before being raised to her position as the wife of the emir and the mother of the next, while Mariyah had been born a descendant of the Prophet – Mariyah had learned everything she knew about what it meant to live and survive within the walls of the emir’s palace from the other woman. Mariyah held her daughter close as she took a seat on one of the many cushions that were strewn around the low table in the center of the pavilion. The table was laden with freshly picked oranges, sugared lemons, and bazmaward, the delicate pinwheel-shaped sandwiches filled with cheese, nuts, mushrooms, and eggs that were one of I’timad’s favorites. Mariyah’s daughter eagerly reached for one of the sugared lemons as Mariyah returned her attention to the gathering of women comprised of the concubines and wives of al-Mutamid’s harem that were close with I’timad. Like Mariyah, they were dressed in brocaded silk jubbas3 that were long enough to obscure the shirt and loose pants they wore beneath. Though all the women wore the same clothes, they could not have looked more different. Some had the pale skin and blue eyes of the infidels,4 while others had olive skin and deep brown eyes like the Medinans,5 and others still the rich brown skin and dark eyes of the Berbers.6 Mariyah caught the pleasant scent of camphor and ambergris filtering through the room, undoubtedly the work of I’timad, who had a taste for such things. One request from her was enough for the emir to order it done. The gentle sound of running water from one of the many fountains in the garden just outside the window of the harem was offset by the melodic sound of poetry, recited by I’timad. “Children of Ma-al-Sama, famed is your ancient line, from Heaven to alHutama, and the fame of your race is mine. And the eyes of the manifold lands are upon us, for lo, we are great, great as the sun when he stands in gold at the

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Eastern gate. Yet neither the world shall win us, nor the treasure of earth shall please, because of the faith that is in us, for Allah is more than these.”7 The words were unlike the lilting, flowery verses I’timad usually recited. Her slave origin meant nothing in the face of her talent as a poet, and she was known throughout the city of Isbiliya as more a master of poetry than some of the educated men who frequented the palace. Of all her children, Buthaina was her only daughter, and it was to her and her alone that she had passed her knowledge. Since her birth, Buthaina had decreed that Mariyah’s daughter would be the next heir of their skills. It was her birthright as a daughter of the harem. “Tell us, I’timad, what inspired these words of yours.” Mariyah’s comment drew the attention of I’timad, earning a warm smile. Beside her Buthaina beckoned to Mariyah’s daughter. The girl scrambled out of Mariyah’s hold, having longed for the company of her aunt. “The words I have shared with you are not mine, but rather those of the emir. They came to him as we walked the gardens, gardens that were paid for by the gold that rightfully belongs to us. Gold that will never again leave our lands to pass into the hands of the infidels.” Murmurs passed through the assembled women. All of them understood the implications of I’timad’s words. Word had spread through the harem some months prior that the king of the infidels had conquered the city of Tulaytulah8 from the Dil-Nun family.9 Many had arrived in Isbiliya and Qurtuba, having fled from Tulaytulah. Though they reported that the infidel king did not impose Christianity upon them and allowed them to continue worshipping in the mosque, there could be no doubt that he desired to conquer many more cities. If the emir refused to pay the taxes that were demanded of him, surely that would make them the king’s next target. “Is it not dangerous to do so?” one of the other concubines, whose name Mariyah did not know, asked in accented but fluid Arabic. “If it comes to it, the emir plans to call for aid from our friends in Ifriqiya,”10 I’timad replied, her voice sharp and commanding. “None shall be able to say that my beloved delivered Isbiliya as a gift to the infidels. I would rather leave this place and be a slave on some distant shore than see my home in their hands.”11 Buthaina started to recite a poem of her own composition about the moon, staving off any further discussion. As the other women of the harem fell under the trance of Buthaina’s verses, Mariyah turned over I’timad’s words again and again as she called her daughter back into her arms, holding her close. I’timad had once been a slave and risen above all the other women and many of the men in the palace; she knew what kind of life might await her if they were forced to flee. But Mariyah was a descendant of the Prophet, and life inside the walls of a palace was all she had ever known. What kind of future awaited her and her children if the infidel appeared outside the city walls? Where would she go if they were forced to start again? Who would she become if they did?

Unknown: A Concubine of Many Names 103 Behind Mariyah, the city of Qurtuba was burning. As I’timad had foretold many years ago, the Emir of Isbiliya had called upon his allies in Ifriqiya for aid. The men from the land on the other side of the Mountain of Tariq,12 known as the Murabitun,13 had answered the call, crossing the narrow sea in large numbers. They had a reputation as fierce fighters, and though they were feared by some in Qurtuba and Isbiliya, it was believed that fellow Muslims were better than infidels. With the aid of the Murabitun, Mariyah’s husband and his father’s forces waged a fierce battle, a fight so brutal and awful that the men who survived it called it “the slippery ground,” so wet was the earth beneath their feet with blood.14 Mariyah had heard these stories from the safety of the harem, told by the eunuchs who learned them from soldiers. Her husband assured her that all would be well, that the Murabitun were their friends. He had been wrong. Though the infidels were defeated and their conquests halted, the Murabitun did not wish to return to their lands in Ifriqiya. They believed it was their right to rule the cities they had given their lives to protect. They were seeking empire, and many learned and religious men of al-Andalus15 supported them. City after city fell, until finally the Murabitun appeared within sight of the walls of Qurtuba. Al-Mutamid, along with I’timad, Buthaina, and countless other women of the harem, had already been sent into exile across the narrow sea. Al-Mamun believed that in order to survive he had no choice but to ask for aid from an unlikely place – the infidels. A group of them responded, though Mariyah knew it was not out of love for her people or their cities. The infidels feared what the Murabitun would do to them if they became too powerful. Mariyah’s husband had woken her in the night, desperate for her to flee the city with their children. Al-Mamun told Mariyah that the Murabitun would not be kind to her, reminding her of what had befallen his father, mother, and sister. He held hope that his forces would prevail, at which time he would come for them. She gathered the few possessions she did not wish to be without and her husband’s treasure, and under the cover of darkness Mariyah slipped out of one of the gates of Qurtuba, accompanied by a few eunuchs whom her husband trusted. She clutched the hand of her daughter tightly with one hand, carrying her young son in the other. Quietly, she offered prayer after prayer to al-Mumin, giver of security and safe passage,16 that they would escape undetected. It took them all night, but just as dawn was breaking they caught sight of the round castle on the hill that was located south of the city.17 There, Mariyah awaited word from Qurtuba, to know whether her husband had triumphed. Some days later, a messenger arrived to inform her that alMamun had been killed and that the infidel forces he had called for aid were camped in the land below the castle, attempting to recover before another battle.

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In the days that followed, Mariyah made a choice. She would not wait in the castle for the Murabitun to come for her and force her into exile, or worse. If she had been alone, perhaps she would have made a different choice. But with the safety of her son and daughter at stake, Mariyah steeled herself for a different fate. Acting as the widow of the Emir of Qurtuba and the keeper of his treasure, Mariyah sent a messenger to the Christian forces camped outside the city. It was only a matter of time before the Murabitun would pursue them here, and with al-Mamun dead the Christians were sure to return to their own lands. Her request was that she be allowed to accompany them and seek protection from their king. Though her husband and his father had fought against him, Mariyah chose to hope that he could offer her a better future than the Murabitun. If surviving meant becoming a slave to a Christian, as was said to be the fate of many Muslim women who went north, Mariyah was prepared to accept it. All her life Mariyah had been surrounded by women who were or had once been slaves, I’timad among them. It was not a life she contemplated out of desire, but the desperate will to survive. By the grace of Allah, the Christian leader, a man called Álvar, accepted her request and agreed to bring her north with his troops. Some days later, Mariyah and her children – the eunuchs had refused to follow her – made their way to the field below the castle. She knew only a few words of the Christian language, taught to her by a woman of the harem, and worried about her ability to communicate with Álvar, but he managed a few broken sentences in Arabic. The journey north to Tulaytulah, where the Christian king resided, was long and arduous, and Mariyah used the time to prepare herself to meet the king. Within the folds of the garments, she wore was hidden the treasure of Qurtuba; with it she would bargain for the safety of her and her children. As Mariyah and her children walked through the city, she took comfort from all that was familiar to her. Like the cities Mariyah had lived in all her life, Tulaytulah was built along a river. As they made their way to the palace at the top of the hill, they passed multiple mosques, the stones of their walls reminiscent of the grand mosque of Qurtuba that she had gazed upon many times. Each time Mariyah caught sight of Arabic inscriptions on the walls of buildings, exalting Allah and the patrons who built them, she quietly murmured the words to herself, a reminder that though she was far from home she had not entered a completely different world. In the streets there were many kinds of people, men and women dressed in long jubbas of different colors and materials, the women wrapped in tavlasan shawls and adorned by all manner of veils, the men with brightly colored ghifaras on their heads. She gave thanks to Allah that once inside the palace, the Christian king received her with a small audience of mostly men and one woman, all dressed in richly colored and carefully embroidered textiles. A man dressed like a Muslim

Unknown: A Concubine of Many Names 105 but whose name sounded Christian to Mariyah’s ears spoke to her in Arabic. Mariyah had picked up a few more words of the Christian tongue on their journey, but if she was to remain here, she could not rely on another to translate her words. The man informed her that the king’s name was Alfonso, the sixth of his people to carry such a name. He introduced her as sayyida Mariyah, making use of the title that proclaimed her descent from the Prophet. The conversation that followed was stilted by translation and the posturing of men who possessed competing agendas. Mariyah was asked many questions – what her lineage was, if anyone would pay ransom for her, where the treasure of Qurtuba was, how many children had she borne – and she learned a great many things: the king had lived in Tulaytulah before he conquered it, he had a taste for power and conquest, his current wife was the second he had taken, and he had had a concubine once before. Thus far, he had fathered three daughters. If Mariyah wished to receive the king’s protection, the price she had to pay was the birth of a son. A prolific womb, whether as a wife or a concubine, was often the difference between security and obscurity. Mariyah had been blessed so far with three children, the two who had survived infancy at her side as she faced the king and his advisors. With her she had carried treasure, but the power of her body to generate life had become her only currency. *** Mariyah struggled to remember the new name of Allah as much as she struggled to remember her own new name. Changing faiths was not unknown to her, since many women she had known in the harem had not been raised worshipping Allah. All who had given birth to sons, however, eventually uttered the profession of faith. A mother of an emir who was not Muslim had no hope of stepping outside the limitations of her previous status. Mariyah had wanted to take the Christian version of her name, to bring a part of herself into her new life, but the Christians had refused. They said it was not right for a converted Muslim concubine to carry the name of the mother of the prophet Isa.18 For her survival and that of the children she had birthed, and for the future of the child who now filled her womb, Mariyah became Isabel. *** It took Isabel two years to conceive her son, called Sancho like the king’s brother, the first child she conceived by the king having been lost before it could be born. In that time, Isabel lived in the same palace as the king when he was not away making war against her birthplace. His wife Constanza did not take to her presence well, forcing Isabel to learn that the cohabitation of wives and concubines was not a norm among the Christians. During her pregnancy she was given a modest place to live in Toledo – the name she had been taught to use for Tulaytulah – where she remained after Sancho’s birth.

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Though she doubted it was out of concern for the health of her maternal bond with her son, she had been allowed to take her other children with her. In this twice-named city, Isabel learned many things about Christian life from the women who had been assigned to help her care for her son. Though the walls of the harem were behind her it was easy to slip back into that mindset, surrounded by women. Where she had once been a wife, she was now a concubine; where she had once been a fount of knowledge, she was now an empty slate. When Sancho drank of their milk when hers had dried, Isabel drank of their language. That they grew to be amiable did not mean that Isabel trusted them enough to sing to Sancho in her mother tongue in their presence. Instead, she waited for the dark moments of night when she was alone with her son to reclaim the familiar poetic cadences of the language of the blessed Qur’an. Her children by her first husband, who had been baptized and given new names, were allowed to remain with her only for a few months before they were sent to religious houses in the city. The separation from them was a torture which the men who ordered it done didn’t care to comprehend. Alfonso doted on the boy Isabel had birthed him, and as soon as he was able to walk, Sancho had been taken from his mother to live among noble Christian children. Alfonso’s visits to her ceased for a few months when he took a new wife named Berta, Constanza having perished, but they became more frequent the longer his queen remained childless. Isabel’s primary company came from the Arabic-speaking Christians living in Toledo. She had been advised by some of the women assigned to her not to spend excessive time in the part of the city allocated for Muslims lest her conversion be seen as insincere. Undoubtedly her word would mean less than that of anyone born a Christian, so Isabel strove to emulate the image of the ideal pious woman. Daily she visited the church closest to her home, and there, in a building adorned in Arabic script and bearing the name of Allah, Isabel bent her head to offer prayers to God. She only learned of the death of the queen when Alfonso had his soldiers bring her to his palace in a city called León. It was there that she learned the king intended to take her as his wife. *** Isabel watched with pride as her son stood in front of Alfonso, the king’s arms clasped around his shoulders. They were in the cathedral in Astorga, a city Isabel had now been to on several occasions, to grant a series of rights and privileges to the people of two towns that Isabel was unfamiliar with. In the thirteen years since she had given birth to Sancho, Isabel had learned to speak the Christian language fluently, but she struggled to read and write the language of their documents. The bishop was reading a document aloud to the assembled nobles and church figures. When she heard him say the words “with my wife Isabel and our son Sancho,” Isabel wished for a moment that she was able to embrace her son. The two daughters she had borne the king since becoming his wife,

Unknown: A Concubine of Many Names 107 Sancha and Elvira, had remained at the palace in León, still too young to make the journey with them. It was a far cry from the harem, where her children had always been within her reach. Though it had been almost seven years since Isabel’s status changed from concubine to wife, the process of adaptation to the duties associated with the role of queen was ongoing. She thought she knew what it meant to be the wife of the ruler, but the court of a Christian king was not the harem of an emir. As Mariyah, she had been expected to remain within a specific geography, her physical body confined within the palace even if her influence could permeate the city outside it. As Isabel, however, the geography of her existence was constantly in flux, defined by her relationships with individuals but rooted in her properties and estates strewn across the kingdom. The idea of having her position recognized in writing, read aloud for others to hear, had once been foreign to her. Documents issued by the king, tangible objects that captured the often intangible workings of power, bore her name and that of her son. A wife, a captive, a concubine, a wife. A mother through it all. Mariyah, sayyida, Isabel. The separations between them had long since blurred, parts of one life borrowed to help her survive in the next. But only one of these names was allowed a place on the page. Written in ink on a parchment bearing the seal of a man to whom she was tied by a choice that had not been a choice, her name might be known to many across time. Within that one name dwelled the many parts of her that could not be captured by the quill. Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Isbiliya is the Arabic name of Sevilla. Qurtuba is the Arabic name of Córdoba. A type of long tunic common in al-Andalus. Refers to women taken captive from the northern part of the Iberian Peninsula, as well as those few brought from other parts of Europe. Refers to women who originated in the lands of the Islamic East, such as Baghdad or Medina. “Berber” was a word created by the Arabs in the seventh century to refer to the non-Arab, non-Roman/Byzantine populations of North Africa. These lines are from a poem written by al-Mutamid entitled “The Faith of the King.” Tulaytulah is the Arabic name for Toledo. Alfonso VI conquered Toledo in 1085. Ifriqiya is the Arabic word for Africa. Based on the quote attributed to al-Mutamid: “I would rather be a camel-driver in Africa than a pig-herder in Castile.” A translation of the Arabic name for the Straits of Gibraltar. Al-Murabitun is the Arabic name for the Almoravid dynasty, who originated in modern-day Morocco. The Battle of Sagrajas in 1086.

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15 The Arabic name for the parts of the Iberian Peninsula ruled by Muslims, later known in Spanish as Andalucía. 16 This is one of the 99 names of God used in Arabic. 17 Hisnu-l-mudawar, “the round castle,” is the present-day town of Almodóvar del Río. 18 Isa is the Arabic name of Jesus.

Further Reading Anderson, Glaire G. “Concubines, Eunuchs, and Patronage in Early Islamic Córdoba.” In Reassessing the Roles of Women as ‘Makers’ of Medieval Art and Architecture, Vol. 2, edited by Therese Martin, 633–670. Leiden: Brill, 2012. Barton, Simon. Conquerors, Brides, and Concubines: Interfaith Relations and Social Power in Medieval Iberia. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2015. Hartman, Saidiya. “The Anarchy of Colored Girls Assembled in a Riotous Manner.” South Atlantic Quarterly 117/3 (2018): 465–490. Ruggles, D. Fairchild. “Mothers of a Hybrid Dynasty: Race, Genealogy, and Acculturation in al-Andalus.” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 34/1 (2004): 65–94. Smith, Dulcie Lawrence. The Poems of Mu’tamid, King of Seville. London: John Murray, 1915.

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Basil the Bogomil Seen Through Contemporary Eyes Hisatsugu Kusabu

Introduction The Bogomils were investigated by the order of Emperor Alexios I Komnenos (r. 1081–1118) and were officially condemned as heretics of Bogomilism following the investigation of their ideas and doctrines. Historical research indicates that the original Bogomils were known in Bulgaria: a certain sect leader, Pop Bogumil, and his doctrines and actions in Bulgaria were known in the late tenth century. Presbyter Kozma of Bulgaria reported that they advocated heretical ideology during the reign of Tsar Petar (r. 927–969). The Bogomils were criticizing the Church’s possession of sacraments and wealth. Even before this report by Kozma, Patriarch Theophylaktos of Constantinople (919–956) wrote in response to an inquiry from the Bulgarian Tsar about the advances of heretics who were thought to be Manicheans (the Paulicians). At the time, the Manicheans (Paulicians) developed their religious militia in Asia Minor but were defeated by Byzantine emperors. Many of its remnants were forced to settle in the Byzantine border region with Bulgaria as a buffer. With such memories fresh in one’s mind, the new Bulgarian heretics were initially thought of as Manicheans by Byzantine intellectuals. Then, the heretics were discovered in Constantinople at the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, probably in 1099 (by A. Rigo). Anna Komnena’s and Zigabenos’ accounts are considered important historical documents of narratives of the activities and ideas of heretics who were kept secret. Anna Komnena, a princess and learned historian, wrote a relatively extensive article on the course of the trial in her book Alexias. Another witness, theologian and monk Euthymios Zigabenos, compiled the doctrines of the Bogomils (Narratio de Bogomilorum) based on interviews with Basil the Bogomil. His Bogomil treatise was later revised and published as a chapter in the Dogmatic Panoply, by the emperor’s order, along with many articles on heresy. Court and ecclesiastical sources only condemn Bogomilism as an old heretical sect, such as Manicheism or Messalianism, based on the canon and civil law. However, they do not speak of Basil’s case itself or of the prosopography of Basil the Bogomil. As was the case with many heretics, no letters or original words have survived. In short, the portrait of Basil the DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-11

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Bogomil is negative and inevitably biased by the nature of the surviving testimony. The missing parts can only be filled in by scholarly imagination. Post-medieval historians and writers have combined scant character information with the results of Bogomilism-related research and discussed the portrait of Basil the Bogomil in several ways. At the time of the Protestant Revolution, Bogomilism was portrayed as a precursor of Protestantism, and at the beginning of the twentieth century it was considered a survivor of the medieval dualistic religion (Manicheism). Later, the social behavior that emphasized being a humble preacher like that of Basil the Bogomil was considered representative of popular religious movements and ideas of poverty (vita apostolica) that were also developing in Western Europe during the same period. Basil’s doctrines were speculated to be linked to heretical movements such as the Cathars and the Waldensians, as described by intellectual historian Yuri Stoyanov in 2013 in English and a novelist, Vera Deparis, in 2003, in French. Basil, as a hero ideologue, is also popular in the world of historical fiction. A Bulgarian author, Ivan Bogdanov, wrote a fictionalized version of Basil the Bogomil in 1988, a social saint whose origin was assumed to be Vrach. The fact that Basil is described as a physician or “medicine man” has led to fiction about his medical skills (knowledge of medicinal herbs) in the care of his people by Sofia Petrova in 2022. Thus far, scholars and writers alike have attempted to reconstruct Basil’s own portrait. Here, we consider an additional perspective to historical views of Basil the Bogomil, and we would like to clarify Basil’s social portrait as seen from the perspective of the people outside the Bogomils of the time. Portrait “Johannes” and Zigabenos

Unfortunately, we could not find a suitable person for our purpose among historical figures. Here, we would like to create a fictional character portraying Basil the Bogomil, a certain Johannes who happened to face the events simultaneously surrounding Basil the Bogomil and who watched the situation unfold without actively committing himself to the trial. Then, how did the Johannes of our imagination view Basil the Bogomil? How did he perceive the events surrounding him? Johannes must have been fifteen or sixteen years old at the time. His family was probably one of the emerging aristocrats who gained their position by siding with the Komnenian family during the coup of Alexios I Komnenos. The family was not famous as a military noble of sorts but was known for being court functionaries. Johannes’ future occupation should be that of an intellectual who gets a job as a court officer. He was educated in a grammar school at an early age in Constantinople, where he learned to read and write. After reading and memorizing classical Greek works such as Homer and Herodotus, he worked on the Bible and the Sacred Words of the Church Fathers, as well as rhetoric and dialectic in middle school. For these young men, good rhetoric-based oratory and oratorical skills needed demonstration

Basil the Bogomil 111 in job talks that determined their careers and jobs. A successful candidate became an administrative bureaucrat in adulthood and continued his reading and writing career as a monk even during retirement. Johannes, probably the second or third son of the housemaster, was not proud of his secular background but he was an avid reader who read everything from theology to Greek Classics, including physiology and astronomy. In around the twelfth century literature flourished, and young pupils preferred to follow such a career. They learned how to compose styled documents by combining existing short, famous phrases (schedography). However, young Johannes, a traditional “bookworm,” perceived this literary trend with suspicion. He rather loved books, so he relied on active discussions with other bookworms, studied difficult texts, and attended talks by philosophers and theologians. Consequently, he familiarized himself with the private and public libraries in Constantinople. He now works as a part-time research assistant for a monk he met at Peribleptos Monastery, one of the largest imperial monasteries in the city. The monk, Euthymios Zigabenos, took a liking to him and wanted to engage in conversation with him and aid him in his scholarly pursuits. Johannes was often accompanied by Zigabenos to the salons, where he met with royalty and nobility. In these salons, sermons, new novels (made with the metaphrasis of saints’ Vita), etc. were given. It is highly probable that Zigabenos usually toured monasteries, churches, and even the Grand Palace, lecturing young pupils and devout laymen on the scriptures. Actually, he had a thorough knowledge of the Psalms, the four Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, and the epistles of St. Paul, and published general commentaries on them. When a young student like Johannes took up a theological topic, Zigabenos would immediately advise him of references. He was one of the teachers of sacred books (didaskalos). Zigabenos had a line of communication with imperial family members. Maria of Bulgaria, the mother of the emperor’s wife Eirene Dukaina, was one of his supporters. Empress Eirene, the mother of the historian Anna Komnena, was known to be the proprietress of a literary salon that attracted many scholars. Zigabenos must have been included in the circle as an instructor of scriptures and theology. Actually, Emperor Alexios I and his brother Issak the Sebastokrator liked to argue with “heretical” scholars and wished to be educated to win such debates. They found Zigabenos to be more accessible and preferable to the group of academic theologians that gathered at the Great Church of Constantinople. Many of the old theologians were close to the emperors, the prelates, and the senate in the regime of the former emperors. They were inwardly critical of the winner of the coup, i.e., Alexios I Komnenos’ political stance. Meeting Basil the Bogomil

One day, Zigabenos took Johannes to a discussion with Basil, who was imprisoned in a room in the palace. Basil had already been condemned in an

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official church council but had not been punished and he was the recipient of imperial hospitality for a while. The emperor Alexios expected to win Basil’s conversion from heresy by theological debates. For Johannes, that was the first time he saw the sect leader and learned of the ongoing issues about the Bogomils in Constantinople. On the occasion of the arrest of the Bogomil originally, a certain Diblatios was arrested for participation in questionable gatherings. He was tortured and confessed the name of the sect leader, Basil. In the interrogation, Basil had fully given his heretical tale in front of the emperors. Basil interpreted the lines of the Gospels according to the devilish talk. It is the story of a great archangel chief who, through arrogance, fought against the armies of God and was driven from the heavenly realm. Samael (Satanael) was originally entrusted with power on a par with Christ, like his older brother, but fell from grace and became Satan to rule the world with his power. Basil and his followers knew this was Satan’s plot, and they escaped Samael’s evil eye, lived clean lives, and awaited salvation on the Last Judgement Day. The Byzantine Church was an institution for Samael, not Christ, and all the liturgies and sacraments performed there were for Samael and were evil. Therefore, they rejected the cross, icons, and vain worship. They ignored most of the Bible other than the Gospels, especially the “Lord” in the Old Testament, referring to Samael. Pater Noster alone is sufficient for prayer, and repetition was their prayer. Baptism did not require the use of water but only the hand touch of a pure person, such as a disciple of Basil. The emperor inquired how the Scripture proved these claims, and Basil responded with the words of Genesis and the Gospels in a torrent. The report also gave an account of the activities of the Bogomils. Basil was the leader of twelve disciples who called themselves apostles and evangelized throughout the empire and the city of Constantinople. The apostles included female members and insinuated the existence of immorality among them. Basil was called a physician by the people. He was in his sixties, for he had taught his doctrine for more than thirty years after serving as an apprentice to former sect leaders for more than fifteen years. Zigabenos and Johannes received the report. The stories Basil told were not new. Rather, such a devil story and fallen angel lore were somewhat familiar to Johannes and Byzantine scholars by that time, as Michael Psellos, an established author, left an article on the works of demons. One day, Zigabenos introduced Johannes to Basil the Bogomil as a young student. Then Basil gave Johannes a lecture, stating that a good Christian should be skeptical of Johannes “Phrysostomos” (sic). According to Basil, people opine that he was a saint and spoke to them with his golden throat (Chrysostomos), but this claim is invalid. Rather, it was the swollen mouth (Phrysostomos). Phrysostomos, a pawn of Satan, discarded the correct scriptures and passed on a false Bible. Basil was confident that he possessed the “right” version of the Gospels which he continued to propagate. Basil explained the passage in Matthew:

Basil the Bogomil 113 “The Lord spoke to unbelievers in parables (Matthew 13:13).” He interpreted, “He spoke that He meant exceptionally to true Christians. However, to the unbeliever, Christ did not say the truth.” Zigabenos inquired, “Is that what is written in the Bible that you have in your possession? Can you show us what it precisely says?” Zigabenos took the book from Basil’s hand and looked into it. “It appears that there is no difference from the Gospel we used. Show us where the right words are.” Basil looked somewhat flustered and said, “No, this book was handed to me by a mysterious man at the corner of the city market. I am sure it is the true Bible.” Basil began to inspect the passage. However, he could not find any passage in which the Lord said as much. Zigabenos quietly remarked, “Only in your Bible can I find the words that should have been there. Have they disappeared?” Basil replied, “It was there when I got the book and read it. Umm … it is strange.” Zigabenos said, “Should we assume that the devil was playing a trick on you, making you read words from the Bible that did not exist?” Actually, Johannes did not believe this; he was familiar with similar instances from his student life. Professors often give students presenting their work a hard time, asking, “Where is the authority for this and that? Your investigation remains insufficient!” A student who is not very good at answering questions provides a hazy and random answer and, when asked to explain the source of the answer, stammers, as did Basil. Perhaps Basil believed that his interpretation was correct and stated that the Bible supported his argument without checking it. Basil no longer cares about what “his” Bible says. No matter what he hears or reads, if it is inconvenient to their cult activities, he will ignore them. Johannes is not a blind dogmatist. He would have calmly observed the conversation between Zigabenos and Basil this way. In fact, according to Zigabenos, a specialist in holy scripture, Basil interpreted the holy words of Christ without considering the proper context. For example, the Bogomils misinterpreted it without verifying the Greek letters. According to Basil, Matthew states, “Jesus gave them a word to eat (enebromatisen).” However, in The Gospel, it is “Jesus rebuked them (enebrimesato) (Matthew 8:16).” Johannes recalled one of Basil’s statements: “The power of ‘Phrysostomos’ and the other servants of Satan is strong and terrifying. So, a righteous Christian must pretend to listen to them, get by, and obey their commands.” Johannes thought that this set Bogomil apart from other heretics. Many heretics, we are told, were defiant and argumentative when questioned by churchmen. They were very passive, and they hid, shut themselves away, and became ill. After the interview with the heretic, Zigabenos asked Johannes to assist him in editing the report on the Bogomils; in the process, Johannes was able to hear Basil’s account of the events in detail. Also, there was another informant named Euthymios of the Peribleptos Monastery. Euthymios was much older than Zigabenos and referred to the heretics he had encountered in his younger days at Theme Opsikion as the Phundagiagitai (the sloth-bagged ones). He warned them that they were seeking to enter Constantinople as

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Bogomils. This Euthymios left a work on the Bogomils, and Zigabenos referred to it as a prior study of the Byzantine Bogomils and took advantage of the identification of Bogomilism. Basically, Zigabenos’ edited Narratio de Bogomilorum shows the entirety of Bogomilism using the interrogation report of Basil the Bogomil and other works. This work was interesting for Emperor Alexios, who liked to debate with people in theology, and it became an aid in his argumentation. Therefore, the emperor was so pleased with the results that he commissioned Zigabenos to compile the more major project, the “Dogmatic Panoply.” The Dogmatic Panoply is a collection of sacred writings from all ages, both ancient and modern, to be used to counter attacks on orthodox faith by heretics. To do this, it was necessary to gather enough information on many heretics, a task equivalent to creating an encyclopedia of heresy. Zigabenos and his colleagues, such as Niketas Seides and John Phurnes, compiled Panoplia, including Patriarch Photios’ document on the Paulicians and Zigabenos’ own Narratio de Bogomilorum, which was revised and incorporated. Furthermore, when a controversialist, Peter Grossolano, came to Constantinople in 1112 to discuss the Azymon (the holy bread unleavened) heresy problem with the Armenian Church and the Latin Church, Zigabenos incorporated the minutes of the meeting into the Panoplia. The completed presentation copies of the Panoplia for the Church were decorated with hymns to the emperor and prominent icons of the emperor’s portrait. Basil, the Deviant Ascetic

Johannes worked for Zigabenos. While checking and collecting the references for the Panoplia, Johannes started to think that the Bogomils appeared to be new, but their faith was nothing more than a patchwork of ideas from the various old heretics. Rather, he identified other areas where the Bogomils should be scrutinized. The Bogomils were not attractive to all citizens. Some were very skeptical of their activities. When the emperor hinted at mass executions of heretics, many citizens thought it was going too far because it might kill simple Orthodox Christians included in the sect. One night, a “strange phenomenon (Anna Komnena)” happened: Basil’s hermitage was attacked by unknown enemies. Rumors circulated that Basil was punished by the devil, who was angry that he had told the emperor about the teachings of Bogomilism which were supposed to be kept secret, and threw stones at the hermitage where Basil was being held, thereby endangering him. But Johannes simply assumed that the act was that of enraged nobles or citizens who had raged greatly at the abduction of their families to the faith fraud and esoteric cult. Most of those who followed Basil would have been basically Christians without precise knowledge of both Bogomilism and Christian dogma. For Johannes, the theology and worldview that Basil describes were unoriginal and less surprising. On the contrary, the actual social threat of Bogomilism

Basil the Bogomil 115 seemed to lie not so much in its Christ-neglecting doctrines as in the monastic “tune-ups” of their daily lives. Johannes agrees with Anna Komnena, who wrote that “The Bogomil sect is most adept at feigning virtue. No worldly hairstyles are to be seen among them. Their wickedness is hidden beneath the cloak and cowl. Basil wears a somber look; muffled up to the nose, he walks with a stoop, quietly muttering to himself.” The problem is the way they idealized monastic life. It is unsurprising that naive Christians resonated with them. Anyone could fall into the trap of the heresy of disguised monks, wandering preachers, and ascetics. The trial of Basil the Bogomil was not only a dogmatic issue but rather a social one in Constantinople. In addition, this case can be considered political intrigue. The interrogation of Basil was held in an exceptional way. Emperors’ conduct was far removed from the security norms of the post-coup court. Alexios I Komnenos and his brother Sebastokrator Isak Komnenos invited Basil into the grand palace to feast with them under false pretenses to have him reveal the doctrines of Bogomilism in detail. The emperors even dared to offer him a desk and chair and pretended to listen to his “teachings.” Emperors seemed to know that Basil was critical of Church authorities. So, when Basil was afraid to speak, the emperors openly criticized the clergy of the Grand Church, prompting him to speak. Basil presented before those emperors his worldview that a fallen angel named Samael ruled the real material world and his own interpretation of scripture was in line with this worldview. Something political seemed to be behind the issue. Furthermore, a rumor circulated that Anna Dalassena, the mother of Alexios I Komnenos, receded because of Basil the Bogomil. The emperor’s brother Isaakios and Empress Dowager Anna Dalassena oversaw domestic affairs in Constantinople, while Alexios was busy fighting foreign enemies in the decade following his accession to the throne. The support of her immediate family must have been reassuring in the face of the threat of a coup plot by the nobles of the previous regime, who had been ousted in a coup d’état. However, Anna Dalassena, the eldest of the Komnenos family, was at odds with Alexios’ wife, Eirene, fearing that Alexios and his new regime would be swallowed up by the power of the Dukas, the famous family of the previous emperors. When Alexios and Eirene had a son, Johannes, and Alexios was happy to consider him his successor and emperor, a movement began to appear around Anna Dalassena that aimed to disqualify Anna’s political power. Matthew of Edessa, who had heard the rumors, noted it in his Armenian history book. During this period [of Alexios’ reign], a certain vile and abominable heretic, who was a monk of the Roman nation, appeared in Constantinople … . With such a false doctrine, he corrupted many men and women, leading astray a small portion of the pious faithful of Constantinople, the chief of whom being the mother of Emperor Alexius. The mother of the emperor became so audacious in her perverse

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aberration as to take a piece of the Holy Cross of Christ and hide it in the sole of the emperor’s shoe so that he would walk on it. God exposed this abominable heretic monk through his deeds. When the pious emperor Alexius heard of all this, he burned the leader of this heretical sect and had many of its members drowned in the Mediterranean- as many as ten thousand persons; he deprived his mother of her high position and expelled her from his court, and so peace was reestablished. (Dostourian 1993) It was certainly the case that the Bogomils attracted the rich citizens and nobles. But it was hard for Johannes to suppose that Alexios executed so many of them. Certainly, Anna Komnena reports that Alexios threatened to torture and burn the Bogomil supporter nobles with crosses and that this took place in the polo field behind the palace. However, this too remains only a rumor, since even Alexios’ most outspoken critics, who emerged after his death, do not mention such an event in the polo field. Even if such harsh executions were carried out in secret, there was no way that disposing of the bodies in the Marmara Sea would have gone unnoticed. It is unimaginable that tens of thousands were executed in Constantinople during the difficult days of the reign of Alexios I Komnenos. Emperor Alexios forced the Paulicians, who were heretics in the suburbs of Philippopolis, to move to another town built newly for segregation. Originally, the emperor appears to have sent them to the Norman Wars for a false reward, confiscated their property, and driven them out of the city. The emperor’s squire, Traulos, who had relatives among the Paulicians, was so enraged by the emperor’s deeds that he left the imperial city. This action may have been the source of the rumor of the mass execution of heretics. It is true that there were many citizens who were influenced by Basil the Bogomil, but most of them apparently believed in Basil’s “good” character and followed his way of behaving prior to his teachings, and many of them changed their minds when questioned by the authorities. Johannes believed that the probable reason behind the imperial interrogation was that the imperial mother, who was a close friend of Bogomil supporter nobles, was meddling in the affairs. It is likely that Empress Dowager Anna, fascinated by Basil’s sermons and taking his teachings about denying the cross seriously, tried to get her son, the emperor, to insult the cross. It is highly probable that Anna Dalassena might have “believed in” Basil’s words. She might have recommended her son the emperor attend his lecture without any malice. Otherwise, the emperor never brought Basil up to the palace to receive his teachings. It was an unlikely response for an emperor who was in danger of assassination following his own coup d’etat. Adding to Basil’s strange interpretation of the Gospels, Johannes saw the critical point of the Bogomil cult that they misused the “cross as an instrument of execution” for evangelism. Basil’s statement that the world is the creation of Satan (Samael, Satanael) and under his control is a known

Basil the Bogomil 117 ancient pagan/heretic myth. They are the height of impiety but are dismissed as foolish words. In other words, they would perpetuate the idea that the Church is corrupt, and the Holy Fathers are wrong. However, this blasphemy of the physical cross is strangely persuasive to those ignorant of the symbolism. This materialistic explanation seems correct to those with little theoretical knowledge of salvation through Christ. In the face of grievance or resentment against the Church or the world, the Church’s teaching became unacceptable for simple people. Johannes’ idea did not miss this point. In fact, during this period, a heretical movement was seen in distant Western Europe, operating by appealing to this idea of “hating the cross.” They were showing up on the land of the Franks and the Latins, bringing simple people to ruin through preaching. The emperors and theologians were also aware of these frailties, and Zigabenos, in compiling the Dogmatic Panoply, felt it necessary to give due attention to this rejection of crosses and icons, devoting a special chapter to the heresies surrounding the crosses. He focuses on the presence of those who reject the cross and icons (ch. 25) alongside active heretics such as the Paulicians (ch. 24), Massalians (ch. 26), Bogomils (ch. 27), and Saracens (ch. 28). The Bogomil doctrine, as taught by Basil, attracted many aristocrats and citizens, and it reached Emperor Alexios I, other officials, and the Great Church. However, this event should not be seen as an example of the frequent execution of witches and heretics, the ruthless inquisition, or the accompanying fanatical persecution of popular beliefs in medieval Europe. In fact, the trial of the Bogomils in 1099 was an extremely rare case of Auto de Fé in the Byzantine Empire. The Eastern Mediterranean world, together with the Orthodox Church, which was dedicated to the Nicaea Chalcedon Creed and had the Roman emperor as its legitimate ruler, had its own local forms of faith, developed according to local culture and liturgical language. Consequently, the central imperial church and the churches in Armenia, Mysia (Bulgaria), and Syria disputed each other’s doctrines. Even within Constantinople there were constant disagreements, and when conflicts and struggles reached a climax the churches often called each other heretics. In this sense, the Byzantine world was so accustomed to the presence of disobedient people to the imperial authority that the Byzantine Empire was called a “nest of heretics,” as Liudprand of Cremona, an ambassador from the West, put it. Constantinople in particular included Jews, Armenians, and ex-Muslim Turks, as well as self-proclaimed ascetics who appeared in public with chains wrapped around their bodies and piercings on various parts of their bodies. The Bogomils were one such example. In this social context, Johannes and ordinary citizens in Constantinople may have regarded Basil the Bogomil not only as a heretic but also as a spiritual fraud who misled a group of conscientious people with monastic habitus. Because of the critical lack of sources, Johannes’ portrait of Basil the Bogomil remains only one of the many possibilities. The role of the Bogomils in history as a body of thought is

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yet to be examined further. At the very least, however, Johannes’ portrait is different from the later portrait of Basil the Bogomil, as portrayed by Byzantines and historians up to the present day. Further Reading M. Collision (trans.), Michael Psellus on the Operation of Daemons, with an introduction by Stephen Skinner, Singapore: Golden Horde Press, 2010. A. E. Dostourian (trans.), Armenia and the Crusades, Tenth to Twelfth Centuries, The Chronicle of Matthew of Edessa, New York, London: University Press of America, 1993. P. Frankopan and E. R. A. Sewter (trans. and ed.), Anna Komnene, The Alexiad, London: Penguin Classics, 2009. J. Hamilton, B. Hamilton, and Y. Stoyanov, Christian Dualist Heresies in the Byzantine World c. 650–1405, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998. Y. Stoyanov, The Other God: Dualist Religions from Antiquity to the Cathar Heresy, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013.

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My Father’s Noble Life Boris, Son of King Koloman; by Konstantinos Kalamanos Christian Raffensperger

Introduction Whether we know it, or like it, or not, history is typically written about modern nations read back into the past: the history of France, the history of England, the history of Russia, and so forth. Medieval history is supposed to be different. It is supposed to be a horizontal divide of history – one region (let’s say Europe) across a chronological period (500–1500, for example). As one can see, this is different from a vertical divide of history in which you have one country (France) across all time. Despite the supposed difference, medieval European history is still often written about modern countries and their medieval antecedents. What is the point of such a stipulation to open this portrait? It is simply that those places, and in particular people, who do not fit into the narratives of modern nations read back into the past are often then left out of the way that historians narrate medieval history. One such person left out of modern narratives of medieval history is Boris Kolomanovich. Boris was born to a Rusian princess and the King of Hungary, Koloman – thus his patronymic Kolomanovich (son of Koloman). This is not a unique situation, as dynastic marriage practices commonly involved exchanges of people widely across Europe. The unique part happens when Koloman accuses his wife of adultery and sends her back to her family in Rus.1 Thus, Boris does not grow up in Hungary as the son of the king, he grows up in Rus, for which we have very few medieval records, not a single one of which mentions Boris. He does not fit into the history of Hungary, or the history of Rus, at least not well. Nor does he really fit into the narratives written about Poland or Byzantium, other places he lived in and had connections during his life. Thus, you will find Boris in almost no modern historical narrative of the Middle Ages. Though Boris is left out of modern narratives, medieval chroniclers did not have our modern nation-centric biases and so we can find Boris appearing in Polish, Hungarian, Byzantine, and even French chronicles from the twelfth century. The Polish sources document his parentage; the Hungarian sources dispute that, yet talk in depth about his attempts to take the Hungarian throne from other members of the ruling Árpád family. From a host of sources, we hear about his marriages and connections, his battles, and eventually his death. In DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-12

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short, the medieval chronicles tell us about his life. The history written by modern historians is good. We endeavor to do our best, but it is always wise to question the narratives, and constructs, of history in an attempt to understand the lives of the individuals who made that history. The life of Boris Kolomanovich told here is based on those medieval chronicles and is told through the lens of his own son’s imagined recollections. Konstantinos Kalamanos, son of Boris, was governor of Cilicia, in southern Anatolia, in the mid-twelfth century under the Komnenoi emperors of Byzantium.2 His life was one of struggle with both the new crusader kingdoms and the rising Islamic powers which reacted to the 1099 sack and capture of Jerusalem. This tale is his imagined attempt to make sure that his father was remembered. It is written as if it is a commissioned piece of biographical writing meant to commemorate Boris, but also, of course, to ensure the knowledge about the sponsor’s own, Konstantinos Kalamanos, noble origins. Portrait This is the tale of Boris Kolomanovich, true heir to the throne of the Árpáds, and father to Konstantinos Kalamanos. During his life, Boris suffered many trials and tribulations as he attempted to claim his rightful kingdom but was disputed at every turn by pretenders and liars. Despite that, he found loyalty and support from the most powerful people in Christendom – from the Polish and German Emperors to the French king, and of course, our most noble Augustus, the Christ-loving emperor Manuel Komnenos, and his own father John. Basileus Manuel and Boris were joined in blood, both being the children of the Árpád line. Though the tale told here is a sad one, Boris’s life was grand in his family and connections, and of course in his memory. Boris was born of doubly royal blood. His mother was Euphemia, the daughter of the Kyivan king Volodimer Monomakh. His father was King Koloman of Hungary. Boris was born around 6621 [1113 AD],3 but his birth was much contested, as Koloman swore that the child was not his and repudiated Euphemia, sending her back to Rus before the birth of the child. Most people know, of course, that Boris was in fact Koloman’s son.4 The stratagem was a hurtful one designed to disenfranchise Boris and instead promote Stephen II, Koloman’s son by his first wife. Boris was raised in Rus and instructed by his maternal kin in the ways of warfare, learning much from them. His cousins were avid hunters, and he spent much time on horseback hunting all manner of animals, as well as gaining a reputation as swift with bow and spear. He was able to put those skills to the test against the raiding nomadic peoples, the Polovtsy as they were called in his native land, though we know them as the Cumans or Qipchaks. Though this was his first taste of warfare with those perfidious peoples, it would not be his last, as they would trouble him to his dying day. In Rus, Boris also learned about good governance from his kin who ruled in Kyiv and other major cities of Rus. He traveled widely through the realm and

Boris, Son of King Koloman 121 observed much that he wanted to put into practice when his turn came to rule the Árpád realm. Boris respected the rights of his elder half-brother Stephen [II] and so there was never any reason to make a claim on the throne while the rightful heir ruled. However, when Stephen died in 6639 [1131 AD], the Árpádian throne passed out of the line of Koloman to the line of his younger brother Almos, in the person of Almos’s son Béla [II] the blind. Almos had been a perennial threat to Koloman, attacking him and trying to take his throne, and so Koloman eventually had Almos and Béla blinded to prevent their ruling the kingdom, as no one who was not a whole person would ever be accepted as a ruler. Unfortunately, this did not work, and Béla retained sufficient sight and claimed the throne after his cousin Stephen II, and over the rightful heir, Koloman’s younger son Boris. My father chose this time to state his rightful claim to the throne. And, in fact, he was not an outsider making that claim, but was invited to rule by many Hungarian nobles who were dissatisfied with Béla II’s claim to the throne and wanted their natural-born leader to come and rule over them. They sent a delegation to Boris and claimed him as their true king. They pledged their fealty to him and asked him to rule over them as his father Koloman had before him. Boris accepted, knowing that though the battle would be a difficult one, his claim was just as his father’s remaining son and the rightful heir to the throne. Boris had recently married Judith, the daughter of the Polish ruler Bolesław [III] – a marriage that, we must make clear, would never have been made with a bastard, thus reinforcing his royal and illustrious birth as scion of two royal houses. Judith was the apple of her father’s eye and entrusting her to Boris brought Judith into Boris’s family, but also brought Boris into the family of the Piasts – intimately connecting him to three of the ruling families of the region, rulers over wide swaths of Christendom from the cold seas in the north to the warm seas in the south. Traveling with his Hungarian nobles, Boris called upon his father-in-law Bolesław for additional assistance. Bolesław was eager, and grateful, to aid his kinsman and brought with him his own nobles such that the army which entered Hungary to seat its rightful king numbered in the tens of thousands. Béla [II], though, would not give up his illegitimate claim, and he recruited his own allies from among the Hungarians and elsewhere. His supporters were of the worst sort, those who wanted to overturn the proper order and advance themselves in opposition to those who rightfully ruled. Béla also gained support from Bolesław’s enemies, the Bohemians. They had no interest in the proper ruler of the Árpáds but merely wanted to thwart Bolesław for their own aims. The battle was a grand one with acts of tremendous bravery on the part of Boris and his noble allies. After the fact, some claim that Boris and Bolesław were set to flight, but this is only a foul rumor created by those loyal to the blind ruler and his line. Truthfully, the battle was fought to a standstill, stopping only to allow those involved time to regroup and prepare to fight once again.

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Boris was preparing another advance with his ally and father-in-law Bolesław when the German Emperor Lothar [III] intervened. The emperor had many problems at home and was worried about the breadth of the conflict, including as it did Poles, Hungarians, Bohemians, and even some Germans. It would take little to spread the conflict throughout the emperor’s realm, in addition to along the entirety of his eastern border. Moreover, Lothar was mindful of his place at the court of heaven, and so, invoking the ideal that “blessed are the peacemakers,” he set about attempting to find a solution to the conflict between my father, the rightful ruler, and the blind usurper Béla. However, with biblical justification, Lothar fell afoul of Mammon, and decided the “peace” in favor of Béla who rendered unto Caesar.5 This betrayal, more of honor and right than of Boris himself, was just one misery among several that entered Boris’s life at this time. In the aftermath of Lothar’s intervention, Judith, wife of Boris, was brought to bed in childbirth with their first child. The birth was a difficult one and both she and the baby perished. Boris mourned his wife and child as he mourned his birthright. He could not bring back the former, but the tragedy reinforced his desire to claim the latter as a way to honor the memory of his kindred, both his antecedents and his much hoped-for descendants, members one and all of such royal blood. Lost in the darkness, Boris found beauty out of ashes and his despair was transformed into praise. Where could this happen but in the city itself, the new Jerusalem, the new Rome, that is the city of Constantine. In that city, he came to the palace of the Blachernai and was welcomed by our emperor Ioannes Komnenos who recognized in him the royal blood and honored him with a seat at his table. Our august basileus, and his basilissa, who was herself of Árpád blood, listened to Boris’s tale, and when he described the loss of his wife and child the basilissa wept at the very sadness. Determined to aid this man of royal blood, Emperor Ioannes and Empress Irene named him kinsman for more than the latter’s shared blood, but in the joining of new blood – a marriage with their daughter Anna.6 Anna was the most beautiful of the daughters of the emperor and empress. She had been raised in the royal palace and, though not as educated as her namesake, was well read and full of courtly grace. The marriage to Anna brought joy back into Boris’s life and eventually a son as well, an heir to the noble blood of the Árpáds and Komnenoi who would be a living reminder of the relationship the two had forged, as well as of the honor of their peoples. Boris’s desire to claim his throne was mirrored by that of his new father-inlaw, the august emperor. Due to the many claims on the emperor’s time and treasure, a new campaign could not be immediately begun. The Roman Empire was plagued by troubles on the eastern frontier which seemed endless, requiring the movement of men from Europe to Asia to deal with the problem. There were also problems with the steppe nomads crossing the Danube frontier, requiring movement of men in the other direction. At the same time, Béla [II] was strengthening his own position in Hungary. His wife,

Boris, Son of King Koloman 123 a scion of a small Serbian clan, had arranged for the murder of a number of Hungarian nobles, many of whom had been supporters of Boris. Moreover, the so-called blind king profited from conflict among his neighbors as the Germans, Poles, and Bohemians fought one another. Just as he had suborned the peace which Lothar tried to build, he made gains from Christians fighting one another. Though Boris’s life in the city was a pleasant one, where he was father and husband as well as always present near the side of the emperor, it did not bring him back his realm, resulting in an aching hole inside of him. Béla’s death in 6654 [1146 AD] created a chance for Boris to gain his throne and stop it passing to the usurper’s son, Géza. To best realize this opportunity, Boris had to leave the city behind and travel beyond Hungary to gain additional assistance, as well as mobilizing the remaining Hungarian nobles who were loyal to their rightful ruler. He found a surprising friend on this journey, the Bohemian ruler Vladislav [II]. Though the Bohemians had opposed him in the past, as a way of slighting Bolesław, Vladislav was from a different line of the family, and was one who recognized the true royal blood of the Árpáds and desired to support my father’s claim. Vladislav and his support were important to my father, but no more than that of Vladislav’s own wife, Gertrude. Gertrude was a beautiful and noble woman, shining with the virtues of her royal, even imperial blood, for she was the sister of the German ruler Conrad [III]. Having heard at the Bohemian court in Prague the sad story of Boris’s life, including the touching death of his first wife and child, Gertrude was moved not only to support Boris herself but to bring his cause to the attention of her imperial brother. It was in this way, through the agency of this noble princess, that Conrad [III] and his own wide web of family relations became allies of Boris. Conrad was unable to enter the conflict himself, but he engaged his brother Henry, who was the Margrave of Austria, to aid Boris directly. Given the position of Henry’s lands directly on the border with Hungary, the alliance, and potential friendship, of these two would be essential for ruling their own territories. Boris with his loyal Hungarians, Vladislav with his Bohemians, and Henry with his German soldiers crossed the border into Hungary and laid siege to the fortress of Pressburg, the gateway to the interior of Hungary. It took but a short time for their force to prevail, a testament to the justness of their cause, and they occupied the fortress. This was the first time my father had been able to claim, and hold, territory in his birth realm. The moment was to be a bittersweet memory however, as the perfidy of Géza would soon turn this moment to ashes. Géza, true to his own father’s worship of Mammon, enticed the least loyal of my father’s local supporters to turn on him in exchange for rewards in this world, for which they would surely be punished in the next. Those betrayers allowed Géza’s soldiers access to the fortress in the night and forced a pitched battle outside of Pressburg. Margrave Henry, brother to the fair Gertrude who brought her family’s support to Boris, stayed loyal to the true ruler of

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the Árpád realm and fought diligently by his side until forced from the field in a tide of blood. The loyalty and true bond of Gertrude’s other brother, Conrad, was then tested as well when Géza turned against him for his support of Boris. There had been a marriage planned between Géza’s and Conrad’s families that Géza now spurned. It was sad for the young couple perhaps, but good that anyone avoided entangling themselves with the blind usurper. Tired of the constant conflict, and missing his wife and son, Boris chose to return to his adopted home in the Roman Empire, where he could discuss further plans with the august emperor and his family. However, the path towards his new home was blocked by his old, and the blind “king” feared, rightly so, the rightful ruler’s presence inside the kingdom of the Árpáds and thus forbade him transit. Though seeming an insurmountable problem, Boris’s allies and the shining light of his royal blood came to his aid, as by the grace of God King Louis [VII] appeared just at Boris’s moment of need. King Louis was on his way to the Holy Land to fight against the Muslims who threatened the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem. Seeing a true king in need, Louis extended his hand in friendship to assist him, offering a place in his entourage traveling to the city of the emperor. It is worth remembering that these two were also cousins, as Louis knew, for his own grandmother was the Rusian princess Anna Iaroslavna; thus, they shared the heritage of the illustrious King Iaroslav of Rus and his saintly father Volodimer, who converted Rus to Christianity. This shared bond of blood was not the only tie between the two, as Louis was awestruck by my father’s connection to that born in the purple, ruler of the Romans, Ioannis, and wanted to curry favor with the great man’s son. Géza mustered his military and held King Louis and his army hostage in an attempt to remove Boris from his royal cousin’s entourage. Géza did this knowing that he stood in the way of the holy crusade, an endeavor blessed by the pope and with the aim of easing the plight of the Christians in the Holy Land. The carelessness he took with his immortal soul underlines the evil which coursed through his blood, back to his usurper father, the blind king. Louis stood strong against Géza’s provocations and aggressions however, and refused to turn over the rightful king, even if it impacted the crusade. Louis knew, as one such as Géza could not, that royal blood was sacred and could not be tainted with bribery, theft, or treachery. Thus, Louis’s strength of will brought him through the trial of the usurper and he and his cousin came safely to the Queen of Cities, where Boris was able to present the French king to his own father-in-law, the august emperor himself, Ioannes. Ioannes thanked Louis for his care of their royal kinsman and honored him not only with a place at his table beside him but also with supplies for his journey to the holy city. As is the way of all flesh, the emperor Ioannes passed away in his time but, knowing that his soul was departing his body he made known his desire that his beloved son Manuel would take over the governance of the empire. This son, though younger than his brothers, had betrayed young a piercing gaze

Boris, Son of King Koloman 125 indicative of his high intelligence and a stentorian tone known to have commanded men, even much older men, from the days of his youth. This Manuel would go on to become the greatest of the Komnenoi emperors, extending his power and influence south to the Holy Land and west to the Balkans, even unto the doorstep of Hungary. In this latter attempt, he relied on his brother-in-law, my own father, the king in exile, Boris. Our most gracious emperor Manuel Komnenos supported Boris in every way possible, honoring him with a place at court and placing troops at his command to oust the usurper king Géza. In 6659 [1151 AD], Manuel himself took to the field to place Boris on his rightful throne. Géza was away from the kingdom indulging in petty feuds, and not tending to the proper duties of an Árpádian king. The unattended kingdom cried out for its king and Boris responded. He led his own troops straight to the capital of Esztergom to take command, while Manuel, the born-in-the-purple Emperor of the Romans, acted as his erstwhile shield. Géza, fearful not of the might of the Roman Empire, its emperor, or soldiers, but only of the Christ-loving king of Árpáds, Boris, betrayed his own allies by leaving them behind, and marched with his soldiers in an attempt to prevent Boris from reaching the capital. Géza knew that if Boris were to reach the capital, his, and his father’s reign of iniquity would end, and the kingdom of the Hungarians would once again be under rightful rule. Sadly, once again the treachery of the evil won out over the honor of the good, and Boris was forced to retreat to the boundaries of the Roman Empire in the face of Géza’s onslaught. Too many of his supporters, those who honored the true king, had been murdered or bought off by the treacherous king and his son. The illustrious Emperor Manuel continued his work on behalf of Boris, leading to multiple engagements at this time. It was one of those engagements which led to the death – perhaps I should more accurately say murder – of my father. Manuel and Géza met in a parley along the Danube River. The emperor was fond of diplomacy, even with the most evil of enemies, saying that it gave him a chance to get to know them and to understand their motivations. One can read in his aunt’s work on Alexios Komnenos the penetrating insight into both Robert Guiscard and his son Bohemond. Though they were vile invaders intent on overthrowing and undermining the Roman Empire, the porphyrogenite princess takes pains to explain who they were, what they were doing, and why they said they were doing it. It is this kind of insight that allows the Komnenoi to rule the Roman Empire with such success during a turbulent age. While the emperor met with the usurper, Boris led his troops, as he often did, in a campaign into Hungary to attempt to gain support and let the people know of the lies told by their so-called king. During one of these missions, Boris was struck down by an arrow fired from a Cuman bow. The same treacherous nomads whom he had once fought had now brought about his end. It is well known among those in the imperial court that the Cuman had been specially paid by Géza to eliminate his rival and end the valid line of Árpádian kings so that his usurpation would be complete.

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The life of Boris, son of King Koloman of Hungary, was brought to an end in 6664 [1156 AD]. He was the true-born king of the Árpád realm, but he never served as such. He was opposed by evil men with much wealth at their disposal to suborn the weak. But he was also supported by the generous community of rulers of which he was a part. They succored him when in need, providing food, shelter, military assistance, and family to one of their own. This ultimately resulted in him finding a place in the Roman Empire alongside the grand dynasty of emperors. For my own part, the Komnenoi have been generous, helping to sponsor my education in the city as well as making me governor of Cilicia. This story, though not a happy one for my family, is meant to keep alive the memory not just of my father but of his rightful claim to the throne. As well, it is important to remember the wonderful members of the ever-ruling Komnenoi who sponsored my father’s attempts and even arranged his marriage to my beautiful mother. It is worth remembering as well those faithless individuals who turned on their rightful ruler and opposed him, whether for profit or simply out of jealousy. Their memory will be damned, but not with erasure, with remembrance of their perfidy, while the memory of my father will be redeemed and the reputation of my grandmother untarnished. Notes 1 Rus was a medieval polity which had its capital at Kyiv. Its people are known as Rusian. It is neither Russia nor Ukraine during this period. 2 Though we talk in the modern period about a polity named Byzantium, this did not exist in the Middle Ages. Its rulers and its peoples knew it as Rome and the Roman Empire. 3 The Byzantines used the Anno Mundi (year of the world) calendar which calculated the date from the creation of the world, which they took to be 5508 years before the birth of Christ. This would be 1131 in the Anno Domini (year of the lord) calendar. 4 As one can read in both Polish and Bohemian sources. 5 Medieval writers had a strong tendency to quote, and misquote, the Bible when writing. They borrowed phrases here and there to enhance their own writing and had no concept of plagiarism. Mammon in this case is money, which Jesus inveighed against in his Sermon on the Mount and was often personified as a demon of greed. 6 There is debate about which Komnenian princess Boris married. I have chosen one simply for the purposes of the story here.

Further Reading Pál Engel, The Realm of St Stephen: A History of Medieval Hungary, 895–1526, trans. Tamás Pálosfalvi (London, New York: I. B. Tauris, 2005). Christian Raffensperger, “Identity in Flux: Finding Boris Kolomanovich in the Interstices of Medieval European History,” The Medieval Globe 2:1 (2016), 15–39. Christian Raffensperger and Donald Ostrowski, The Ruling Families of Rus (London: Reaktion, 2023).

13

Heloise Philosopher of Love and Friendship Donald Ostrowski

Introduction Peter Abelard (1079–1142), a prominent twelfth-century theologian, had a well-known affair with his student Heloise (1090 [or 1100]–1164). She became pregnant and they married. They named their son Astrolabe. Two extant sets of letters have been attributed to them, but the attributions have been contested. In this portrait, Peter the Venerable (1092–1156), the Abbot of Cluny, visits Heloise, then Abbess of the Oratory of the Paraclete (Holy Spirit), which Peter Abelard had founded. He brings with him the remains of Abelard, who had died at St. Marcel Priory near Chalon-sur-Saône. We have direct testimony where Abelard died as well as that his remains were then transferred to Heloise’s Oratory.1 We also have direct testimony of Peter the Venerable that he had brought Abelard’s remains to the Oratory himself. In the absolution of Abelard that Peter the Venerable wrote, he also stated that he had done so in secret. This portrait imagines what Heloise and Peter the Venerable discussed when they met on that occasion. Besides the body of Abelard, Peter the Venerable also bestowed a trental of commemorative Masses2 upon Heloise, as we have evidence from a letter of Heloise’s to Peter. What we do not have is testimony concerning anything that Heloise gave Peter. Here I have taken the liberty of filling in the gap by having her give him a copy of a set of letters, letters that she and Abelard had exchanged with each other. During the course of their conversation, Peter the Venerable asks Heloise some of the questions that we historians wish we could ask her and that have been in dispute, such as who wrote the letters? How were they gathered together? Are there any other letters? In providing her answers, she also reflects upon some of the tempestuous parts of her life, such as how the seduction took place at the home of her uncle, the cleric Fulbert (where Heloise was living at the time and Abelard was the live-in tutor), and the consequences when their affair was discovered, as well as the reason she gave her son the name “Astrolabe.” In providing her answers, which replicate somewhat in her speaking style the contrapuntal writing style of her letters, she also tells us how her philosophy of love and friendship developed out of her own experiences as well as from Christian teachings. DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-13

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Portrait “Your visitor is here, Reverend Mother,” announced the nun to the abbess. “Show him in,” said the abbess, trying to conceal her anticipation but not very well. The abbess was Heloise, already famous during her lifetime for her learning, as well as for her affair with her future husband Abelard. The visitor was Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, one of the most renowned monasteries in Christendom, and one of the most respected churchmen in twelfth-century France. Cluny was the founding place of the Cluniac reform movement. He was visiting the Oratory of the Paraclete (Holy Spirit), some 340 km to the northwest towards Paris. His journey from Cluny by way of Chalon-surSaône had taken over a week. He had arrived late in the day. “Welcome abbot and father, or should I say, ‘lord and brother in Christ?’” “Thank you, abbess and sister in Christ.” “I trust your accommodations here are suitable.” “Yes, most assuredly so.” “How was your journey?’ “Thanks to God’s grace, it was uneventful. We had no difficulties out of the ordinary. Considering our cargo, I would say that was very fortunate indeed.” At these words, Heloise looked down and continued speaking without looking up. Slowly and with some emotion, she said, “Words cannot express my gratitude for bringing to me that which is most precious in this world or should I say second most precious.” Now her thoughts switched to her son Astrolabe, whom she had not seen in several years. She quickly recovered from that reverie and asked, “Wasn’t it dangerous for you to come here, especially with that which you brought?” Here, it was Peter’s turn to look down and respond, “No, not dangerous to visit your Oratory. Although it is not a Cluniac daughter monastery, it is part of my duties as Abbot of Cluny to be in touch with other monasteries. As for what I brought from St. Marcel, it was best done in secret, as you know, with as few people involved as possible. Because of my long friendship with him and with you, it seemed appropriate that I along with a few trusted monks undertake the transfer personally.”3 Heloise:

“I along with a few trusted sisters will bury his remains tomorrow. I hope you will be there and celebrate Mass; otherwise, we will just recite the funeral liturgy.”

Heloise 129 Peter the Venerable:

Heloise:

“It would perhaps be prudent for me not to be there. I am planning to leave early tomorrow morning. I’ve been away from my duties at Cluny long enough. The sooner I get back, the better.” “I understand. You have more than fulfilled your obligation to your long friendship with him and with me by bringing him here. Besides, Brother Bernard can be annoying.”

At these words, a slightly pained look came over Peter the Venerable’s face. Heloise noticed but quickly changed the subject: “Since you have given something to me, I will give you something in return.” She rose and took a small bundle from the shelf and handed it to Peter. “I have made a copy of his and my correspondence. You have expressed interest in the past about the content of our epistolary communications. Besides the letters that I received from him I kept a copy of each letter I wrote to him. I also included the account of his misfortunes that he wrote to a friend but kept from me. I found out about it by chance when someone brought it to me. I could tell immediately that it was written by him. I think it should be included with our other letters to each other because it provides a kind of introduction to them.” Peter the Venerable’s face lit up with a smile. “Thank you. I will read them with great interest but make sure they are kept from prying eyes.” Heloise continued, “All these letters were written after I became a nun. There are none from before.” Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise: Peter: Heloise:

“Are you saying that you did not write to each other before?” “Oh, we did write each other many sweet notes, but all those letters were destroyed. Abelard destroyed the ones he had, and my uncle Fulbert destroyed the ones I had.” “Why did he and your uncle do that?” “It’s an involved story. Abelard didn’t want them to fall into the wrong hands because there were some references in them that he thought might besmirch my reputation if they were to get out.” “And his reputation too?” “Yes, and probably his too. My uncle, on the other hand, did it out of malice for me.” “Malice for you?” “As you know, once my uncle found out about my romance with Abelard, he of course was angry and disappointed since he had expected us to act in a proper manner. His anger seemed to be mollified for a time by our marriage, although he did not care for the stipulation that the marriage be kept secret. He did attend the ceremony, and afterward I still lived at my uncle’s house, but his attitude towards me changed. You would think that now that

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Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

I was a respectable woman he would treat me like one. Instead, he treated me as though I were a fallen woman.” “Even though you were married?” “Yes, I vehemently opposed getting married. I feared it would destroy our love for each other, and I knew it would not ultimately placate my uncle. I wanted Abelard for myself. I would rather have been his mistress than the most respected wife in Christendom. It was ironic. When I was unwed and having an illicit affair (which my uncle didn’t know about), I was beyond reproach in his eyes. I was my uncle’s angel. When I was properly married, then he viewed me with contempt as though I were the whore of Babylon.” “Some men are that way.” “In great part, I think my uncle’s change towards me was due to his finding the letters that the love of my life sent me. Some of those letters were very passionate and even explicit about certain activities we did. But I want to make it clear that it was not Abelard who seduced me, but more me him, or should I say we seduced each other?” “I knew him when he was writing songs and performing them. He had groups of women following him.” “He did not lack for female companionship in those days. When my uncle hired him to tutor me, Abelard felt an obligation. He believed he had the responsibility that he was hired for one thing not the other. He said he often regretted that our lovemaking took us away from his tutoring me. He was, as you know, in his own way an ethical man … .” “Yes, I know; I have read his treatise on ethics. But are you saying that you are the one who persuaded him?” “Yes, but I must admit it did not require much persuading. Once in the throes of passion, we could not not do it.”

[Here Peter felt himself blush and turned away so Heloise would not see.] Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

“This topic might not be an appropriate one for conversation between us.” “I see I am embarrassing you. Forgive me. But perhaps it is not an inappropriate topic for two heads of monasteries who after all have to counsel people in our care about all sorts of matters. Besides, if I remember correctly, before you were tonsured … .” “Well, ahem, of course I experienced some delectations before then.” “For me, the desire remained even after I took the veil. The enjoyments Abelard and I shared in love were sweet, so sweet, the thought of them cannot displease me even now, and rarely

Heloise 131 were they out of mind then. Wherever I turned, they were there before my eyes with all their old desires. I saw their images even in my sleep. During Holy Mass itself, when prayer should be its purest, unholy fantasies of pleasure so enslaved my wretched soul that my devotion was to them and not my prayers. I envied that grace seemed to come earlier to Abelard when the injury to his body freed his soul from all such torments. I came to resent his directing me to become a nun and his subsequent insouciance towards me. I still remember the exquisite moments vividly. The pleasures of love we shared were for me so precious they could not and cannot be erased from my memory; not only what we did, but the places and times in which we did it, along with Abelard himself, are fixed in my heart, so that I have relived them all over again and could not, even in sleep, be at peace. I tortured myself because I thought those sweet pleasures were forever denied me.” [Here Heloise paused briefly and then continued:] Heloise:

Peter: Heloise: Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter:

“Allow me to add that I eventually came to the realization that it was not just a physical experience for me, not just earthly pleasure. The culmination was a spiritual one, a divine ecstasy. It was my connection with the Holy Spirit. Abelard brought me to the Holy Spirit as much through our physical contact as through his guidance. Can you understand that?” “I have also experienced divine ecstasy, but the two never coincided. And I don’t think it is theologically sound.” “I know what I experienced.” “Did you share your views with Abelard?” “I told him the way I felt and what I believed, but he dismissed them as a failure on my part to discipline my mind, that caused me to speak in such a way. I then chided him in turn for his professed misunderstanding of the love we had, which went beyond carnal pleasure.” “I don’t suppose he took the chiding well.” “No, the words and phrases he used in response were cold and passionless, but the subsequent kindnesses he showed me in his actions told me that at a deeper level he felt the same way. For whatever reason, he just didn’t want to admit it.” “Do you think he wasn’t being honest with himself or with you in that regard?” “I think he could not find justification in Scripture or the writings of the Church Fathers for what he himself experienced and felt, so he thought his own feelings, as well as mine, must be at fault.” “What you have just expressed about your own feelings and experience are certainly different from the teachings of the Church.”

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[Heloise nodded her head slightly and a bemused smile briefly crossed her face.] Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise: Peter: Heloise: Peter: Heloise: Peter:

Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter:

“Can it have been so bad if it produced a beautiful child? Astrolabe has grown into a fine lad and has become a cleric. I hope you will be able to find an ecclesiastical position for him.” “Yes, there might be something available. I’ll look into it. His name is an unusual one. How did he come by it?” “I chose it because Abelard had shown me all the wonderful things an astrolabe could do, and I thought what better name for a son from whom we expected wonderful things. Abelard was all for it.” “Did you consider that some people might be prejudiced against him because of his name?” “Do you mean because they associate the instrument with things Saracen?” “Yes, did you know that I have written a treatise on the heresy of the Saracens?” “I did not know that. Could you send me a copy?” “Of course. I should have sent you one anyway without your having to ask.” “How did you find out about the tenets of the Saracens?” “In order to do so, I commissioned in Toledo translations of their works into Latin, including their holy book, the Quran. I could see the influence of Christianity on the Saracen faith, but I could also see how they changed and distorted that influence.” “Yet, as both you and Abelard wrote me, quoting the poet, ‘Even from a foe it is right to learn.’4 There is much we can learn from their scholars.” “Indeed. But getting back to your uncle … .” “Once my uncle found those letters, he could see that his presumption that I was the innocent victim of a lecherous seducer was wrong.” “Is that when your uncle became abusive towards you?” “Yes, he had been very kind to me before then, but when it became clear that I was not what he thought I was, he could not handle it. He had difficulty comprehending how his pure virginal niece could act in that way. That is when he destroyed those letters. When Abelard found out how my uncle was treating me, he convinced me that I should escape to Argenteuil.” “The convent?” “Yes. That is when I became a nun, reluctantly at first. I wanted to please Abelard more than I wanted to please God. It was only later that I put myself into God’s hands.” “But your becoming a nun did not appease your uncle?”

Heloise 133 Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise: Peter:

Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

“No. Then my uncle felt doubly betrayed. Not only had he previously lost the pure innocence of the girl who he thought I was, but then also the corrupted niece that remained. It seemed to weigh on him. That is when he sent his thugs to mutilate Abelard. My uncle was out of his mind and may have figured wrongly that by eliminating the physical cause of my transgression he would somehow return me to an uncorrupted state or bring me back to him. He was wrong on both counts.” “How did Abelard take it?” “Remarkably well. Perhaps, in a sense, relieved. Then he could devote more time to his work and studies. It was those things, I think, that he felt brought him closer to God.” “People do have different ways to approach God, but it should always be through the Church.” “Yes, for most people, I think it is through a community of loving friends. But Brother Bernard would not agree with me. He seems to think that it is only by tears and suffering that one can seek God.” “I have admiration for Brother Bernard, but not for that reason.” “Yes, I know. I read your defense that you sent me against his criticisms of the Cluny monasteries. You very diplomatically made it clear that you think highly of Brother Bernard; yet just as clearly, if not more so, you refuted his attacks.” “Thank you. I value your opinion highly. He and I have since been reconciled. Have you ever met him?” “Yes, once. Shortly after I was put in charge of the Paraclete, he visited and preached to us, the nuns and myself, like an angel. Yet he was very critical, finding fault in many things, such as the Bible we were using.” “Weren’t you using the Vulgate?” Yes, but he didn’t like the translation of certain words in the Gospel of Matthew in particular.” “Ah, yes, I now remember Abelard’s mentioning that to me. Was it his criticisms that led you to request a new rule for your convent, one that was specific to the needs of nuns?” “No, it wasn’t Bernard who instigated that request. I simply pointed out to Abelard that all the Monastic Rules – the Rule of St. Augustine, the Rule of St. Benedict (which we were and are under), the Rule of the Master – were for male communities, not for female. So, Abelard wrote one for the Oratory specifically.” “Did you implement it?” “Not entirely. I proposed it to my nuns. We had a spirited debate about it. Some, like me, thought we should implement it entirely as a model for other convents. Others thought it might diminish the standing of the Oratory in that it would be assumed that we could not meet the standards of the Benedictine Rule.”

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Peter: Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter:

Heloise:

Peter: Heloise: Peter:

“As I understand it, it was just as stringent as any male Monastic Rule.” “Yes, and we did implement parts of it piecemeal, but the argument was that those who were looking to find fault with the Oratory or with Abelard or with me would not stop to read Abelard’s rule or compare it with the other Monastic Rules.” “Did they have Brother Bernard in mind?” “Yes, but not only him. I’m not sure I would want to meet him again. He seemed to be a very judgmental person, and knowing the distress he caused my Abelard, I don’t think I could be as diplomatic as you.” “Perhaps not. I too know how difficult it was for Abelard to have his views condemned at a Church council, but he did try to reconcile with Bernard.” “He believed sincerely that if only he could engage Bernard in a disputation, he could refute all the allegations, but Bernard would not agree to such a give-and-take in person.” “It would have been an interesting encounter.” “I also know that Abelard was consoled by your defense of him and your willingness to place him under your protection.” “I wish I could have done more.”

[Looking directly at Peter, Heloise said pointedly: “Perhaps there is.” Peter returned the look for a second or two, and then looked down as though deep in thought.] Heloise:

Peter: Heloise:

Peter:

“Since you plan on leaving early in the morning, we should turn in so you can get a full night’s sleep and get back to your duties at Cluny as soon as possible. Will you join me in prayer?” “Yes. Of course.” “Thank you, Lord, for bringing my friend and brother-inChrist Peter, Abbot of Cluny, to us safely with a most precious gift – the bodily remains of our dear Abelard, your faithful servant. It is my consolation to know that when my soul departs this world my own bodily remains will lie beside him, my beloved teacher and husband. We know it is a gift of your grace, O Lord, for us not only to do good but to abstain from evil. In vain, though, does the one come first if the other does not follow. In the words of the Psalmist David, ‘Abstain from evil and do good’.5 But both are in vain if not done for love of you, O Lord. We beseech you, merciful God, to watch over Abbot Peter and his companions and safeguard their journey home. Amen.” “Amen.”

Heloise 135 And she began to get up. Peter continued to sit as though he was pondering something. Finally, he said, “You know, I think my companions and I could use another day’s rest before going back on the road. If your offer still stands I would indeed like to be here and celebrate Mass at his burial tomorrow. There is something I would like to say regarding my friend.” Epilogue

When Peter the Venerable returned to Cluny, he issued this written statement: I, Peter, Abbot of Cluny, received Peter Abelard in the monastery of Cluny and ceded his body, furtively brought, to the Abbess Heloise and the nuns of the Paraclete. By authority of Almighty God and all the saints, in virtue of my office, I absolve him of all his sins. Notes 1 An oratory is a place of prayer. Paraclete derives from the Greek parákltos, which means “called in aid,” and came to mean in certain contexts “one who consoles.” In that sense, it became associated with the Holy Spirit. 2 Thirty Masses celebrated one each day for thirty consecutive days. 3 From here on, I present their conversation in “stage script” style. 4 Ovid, Metamorphoses, 4: 428. Peter the Venerable quoted these words in his letter to Heloise informing her of Abelard’s death. Abelard had previously quoted these words in his last extant letter to Heloise. 5 Psalm 37:27.

Further Reading Primary sources Abelard and Heloise: The Letters and Other Writings, trans. William Levitan. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 2007. Letters of Abelard and Heloise, revised edition, trans. Betty Radice, revised by M. T. Clanchy. London: Penguin, 2003. Letters of Peter Abelard: Beyond the Personal, trans. Jan M. Ziolkowski. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America, 2008. Secondary literature “Did Abelard and Heloise Write the Letters Attributed to Them?” in Donald Ostrowski, Who Wrote That? Authorship Controversies from Moses to Sholokhov. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2020, pp. 75–103. Knowles, M. D. “Peter the Venerable.” Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 39, no. 1 (September 1956): 132–145. Nye, Andrea. “A Woman’s Thought or a Man’s Discipline? The Letters of Abelard and Heloise.” Hypatia 7, no. 3 (summer 1992): 1–22.

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Between the Lines The Life of Havoise of Brittany, c. 1096–1165 Amy Livingstone

Introduction Havoise was the daughter of Countess Ermengarde and Count Alan IV of Brittany. Born just as her father went on crusade in 1096, she joined a nursery that already held her two brothers, Conan (born around 1093) and Geoffrey (born around 1094). Havoise’s family was prestigious and could trace its roots to a distant and heroic past. Her father and mother were both members of comital families, meaning that each family controlled a county. Ermengarde’s birth family ruled the county of Anjou. Alan was Count of Brittany, descended from two Breton comital lines. Both families had been in power for generations. Havoise thus had many powerful and important relatives. She was raised in Brittany, living among the various comital family residences. Around 1111 she traveled in the company of her mother and brother to Flanders where she married Count Baldwin VII of Flanders. Four years later she returned to Brittany after her marriage was annulled. At some point after her return, I believe Havoise became a nun and lived out her life at the abbey of St. Sulpicela-Forêt, located just north of the comital home in Rennes, Brittany. This scanty handful of facts hardly provides a complete life of Havoise, which makes her an ideal candidate for a creative biography. This creative narrative will be informed by evidence in extant sources, many of which are charters or documents that record the transference of property, clues and details from the lives of her mother, brothers, sister-in-law, and other aristocratic women – as well as my knowledge of medieval aristocratic life. Archeological remains will provide information on the places Havoise knew and the material culture she used. Literary depictions can also be helpful in adding details to Havoise’s life, such as what she wore and what she ate. Why is it important that Havoise’s life be recovered? She will not be found in textbooks on the Middle Ages since she was not a queen, an abbess, or a mystic; she did not lead a rebellion, pass a law, or create a piece of artwork or literature. It is the very ordinariness of her life that makes it significant. Due to the nature of the sources, the lives of even medieval elites are challenging to recover, especially women. All that many aristocratic women left behind was their name in a document. There are those cases, however, where there are enough DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-14

Havoise of Brittany 137 resources to weave together a narrative of the life of a countess, a domina (a woman who was a lord), or an abbess.1 But many women, Havoise among them, are consigned to obscurity because the only extant trace of them is their name mentioned in the transferal of land or in the recounting of a family history. By giving voice to Havoise’s story, we are giving voice to countless other medieval noblewomen. The nature of the evidence concerning medieval women has led scholars to draw conclusions about their experience and role in society. Previous generations of medieval scholars had dismissed medieval aristocratic women as powerless, unvalued members of their family and society. Recent scholarship has powerfully refuted this characterization and has demonstrated that women had agency and played significant roles in politics, the economy, culture, and their family. Part of the motivation for this creative reconstruction of Havoise’s life is to show that women were able to guide the course of their lives and that they were valued members of both their family and society. Havoise’s story thus acts as a corrective to generations of misogynist assumptions and characterizations of medieval noblewomen. Portrait Growing up 1096–1111 Anno Domini 1101

Five-year-old Havoise was happily playing with her dolls, setting them up to have dinner on the toy plates made of lead that she had received as a gift for her last birthday. ‘Now be sure you eat your venison, it’s fresh from the last hunt and we don’t want it to go to waste,’ she chided. Then suddenly everything was topsy-turvy with toy dishes and dolls clattering on the flagstones as her two brothers stormed into her play. ‘Take that, Geoffrey the Red!’ screamed Havoise’s eldest brother Conan as he rode on his stick horse and wielded his toy sword. ‘You are dead!’ To which Geoffrey protested, ‘No, I’m not!’ Havoise burst into tears as she surveyed the wreckage of her carefully arranged meal for her dolls. Nurse came running over to assuage her tears and sort out her two rowdy brothers. Except for when her brothers’ play intruded, life in the nursery was warm and safe. Nurse was always there, and the castle room was furnished with cots filled with down and warm woolen blankets. During the winter, there was always a warm fire going in the massive fireplace at the end of the room, but it could get a bit smoky. Havoise always had enough to eat, although she didn’t particularly care for venison; she did like fowl with pepper sauce. While they were currently in their castle in Rennes, Havoise knew that her family would soon pack their belongings into the big, iron-bound trunks and move to Nantes. She was used to moving between homes and liked the change. While they spent most of their time at either Rennes or Nantes, sometimes they would stop at another castle, often belonging to one of the members of the

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group of aristocrats who surrounded them at court. They also visited monasteries, which Havoise didn’t particularly like because she was always being told to be quiet and behave. She did like visiting her grandfather and uncles in Angers. Grandpa was a bit grumpy from the bunions on his feet, and he always argued with her Uncle Geoffrey. Uncle Fulk, who really was too young to be an uncle as he was the same age as her eldest brother, was nice, and would occasionally entertain Havoise. Havoise had already started learning the alphabet and her numbers by sitting on her mother’s lap and looking at the pretty book that her mother kept locked safely in a trunk in the tower room. She knew that in a few years’ time she would go to the nunnery of St. Georges, just a short distance from the comital castle in Rennes, to begin more formal instruction. Aunt Adele, who was in charge of the convent, was nice, but she could be very strict as Havoise recalled how harsh the abbess had been with her when she recited one of the psalms improperly. Aunt Adele was not at all like Havoise’s elegant and dynamic mother. The countess was a beautiful woman with flashing eyes and lovely blonde hair, which Havoise hoped she would have when she grew up.2 She commanded respect when she entered any room and when she held court everyone listened and obeyed, or so it seemed to Havoise. The countess was frequently overseeing judicial courts to sort out various issues concerning property, offices, and criminal offenses. Sometimes young Conan would sit with their mother. Havoise didn’t envy him as she thought it would be very boring and tedious. But Havoise knew that she would take part in comital courts once she grew older – or so her mother told her. ‘You will be a great lady one day, Havoise, so you too will preside over courts, and you need to be familiar with the process and custom. Your husband might travel east to defend the Holy Land, so you need to be prepared. All women of our class need to be educated to partner their husbands in ruling and managing their lands, revenue, vassals, and peasants. You also need to be sure to cultivate friendships with other nobles, but particularly with members of the clergy. They can be great allies. You’ll be taught Latin by the nuns so that you can read the charters you issue, but also be schooled in the Bible to help you cultivate your spirit, and great literary works to sharpen your mind.’ Since her father left on crusade before she was born, Havoise couldn’t remember when her mother wasn’t ruling the county and helping Conan learn the responsibilities he would eventually assume. She understood that the future of the county would rest on Conan’s shoulders and remembered well the terrifying time when it looked like he might die. He had been dangerously ill, his body afire and weak, unable to eat without purging, and restless in delirium. She knew how anxious her mother had been, evident in her voice and stiffness in her body. Finally, the countess decided to take Conan to the abbey of St. Nicolas in Angers so that he could make a gift to the saint who might offer some cure. Havoise accompanied her mother, brothers, and many of the comital entourage. They traveled up the Loire by boat for a day and a night. Finally, they reached the abbey. Havoise stayed with nurse while her

Havoise of Brittany 139 mother escorted her two brothers down the nave of the church, past a big tomb, to the altar. There they made their prayers and her brother Conan cut off a lock of his hair to place on the altar. The relics of the saint were brought out as physical reminders of the holy but also tangible connections to the saint that was being asked to help. Havoise found it all very solemn and very scary, but the saint intervened and Conan recovered. The guarded conversations about ensuring her other brother Geoffrey was present in case ‘the worst happened’ stopped, her mother seemed less tense, and the dark circles under her eyes disappeared as Conan grew stronger. A few months later, Havoise was puzzled by the arrival of a party of grubby men, all wearing armor and bedraggled remnants of a cloth cross. Why were the residents of the castle and town cheering and giving them such a warm welcome, praising them for their courage? Her mother stepped forward to embrace a large, red-headed man who had a gaunt face and a ghostly pallor, thanking God for his safe return. Havoise realized it must be her father. She and her brothers hung back, uncertain what to make of this giant man who smelled terrible and looked like he had been dragged behind a horse all the way from Jerusalem. Then she was pulled forward and introduced to her father for the first time. When he heard her name, he smiled and said, ‘That was my mother’s name.’ From that point on, an affectionate bond grew between father and daughter. Days later, Havoise gathered with her family in the church of St. Melaine of Rennes where her father donated several relics he had brought back from the Holy Land. It was a grand ceremony, with the comital vassals and many prominent churchmen assembled. The relics were marvelous and soon encased in beautiful reliquaries, encrusted with gold and jewels. However, amidst all of the celebrations Havoise could sense that something wasn’t quite right. Her father seemed to tire easily and often awoke screaming in the middle of the night. As the months went on, his condition ebbed and flowed, but tension between her parents mounted. Her mother seemed dissatisfied with her role as countess, spending more and more time in prayer and in church. Havoise could tell she was also worried about Grandfather Fulk and Uncle Geoffrey. Uncle Fulk had come to Brittany to spend time with his sister and her family and brought accounts of pitched arguments between father and son. Something, Havoise could tell, was definitely amiss. Anno Domini 1104

As Havoise looked forward to her eighth birthday, her mother left the family and Brittany to join the community of holy women and men at the abbey of Fontevraud. She was confused by her mother’s absence and missed her terribly. But Havoise, her father, and brothers visited the countess at Fontevraud and Ermengarde continued to advise her husband, brothers, and father. Havoise was impressed by the piety of the people and their willingness to live in such humble circumstances. Her mother wore plain,

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scratchy clothes, lived in a small hut with no comforts, and spent her time in prayer with other women. Havoise enjoyed the peace of Fontevraud, the sense of shared mission and community. The cloister, in particular, was one of her favorite spots. It was quiet and pretty. She could understand how her mother found peace and fulfillment in this strange, comforting place.3 While Havoise’s mother was at Fontevraud, Havoise spent a lot of time being educated by her Aunt Adele at the convent of St. Georges. Domina Agnete of Vitré, whose family was one of her family’s most valued vassals, also spent time with the young countess, teaching her the skills and knowledge she would need to know as an aristocratic woman. Havoise lived for some of the time in Vitré with Agnete, taking part in aristocratic life, attending feasts, watching and learning about legal proceedings. Indeed, Agnete became something of a second mother to Havoise as she taught her the skills needed to run an aristocratic household, keep accounts, and preside over courts. The young countess’s Latin also improved to the point where she was able to decipher the charters recording the resolution of disputes or the donations to the church penned by Lord Vitré’s chaplain. Circumstances would soon intervene that would change Havoise’s life. Anno domini 1106

The news that Geoffrey of Anjou, Havoise’s uncle, had died at the battle of Candé reached the comital court in Rennes. Shortly after, her father, who had been at the battle supporting Geoffrey, came home accompanied by Countess Ermengarde – who left the convent to return to Brittany. The situation was dire, as it was thought that Havoise’s grandfather, Count Fulk IV of Anjou, had planned Geoffrey’s death. The two of them had been at odds and Havoise knew her mother worked to reconcile them. Geoffrey’s death, and Fulk’s role in it, shocked all of western France. Havoise’s mother was distraught and spent a lot of time closeted with Count Alan, writing letters and consulting visitors who came with news. While the countess seemed much the same, Havoise noted that she did spend more time at prayer, privately in her own chamber. Havoise enjoyed having her mother back and she was now of an age where she got to spend more time with her parents at court. She also knew she was reaching the time when a marriage alliance would be arranged for her. Havoise supposed it would be with a count from regions around Brittany or perhaps a highly placed Breton or Angevin noble, maybe even Robert of Vitré, whom she had gotten to know during her time being tutored by his mother, Domina Agnete. The situation in Anjou preoccupied Havoise’s parents as they worried that unrest in the neighboring county could have serious implications for Brittany. The King of France was also trying to intrude into Angevin politics, which made Havoise’s mother and father very anxious indeed. Havoise accompanied her mother on her many trips to Angers as the countess tried to stabilize the situation between Havoise’s grandfather and young Uncle Fulk. Havoise

Havoise of Brittany 141 liked traveling to Angers, which was a thriving town with many interesting people coming and going. Rennes and Nantes were pleasant but didn’t offer the same opportunities for shopping or entertainment as her mother’s birthplace. In particular, she enjoyed exploring the shops in the streets near the castle that sold cloth and beautiful metal work. Havoise also knew that her mother was concerned about Count Alan’s declining health – as was she. He seemed to have lost his vigor and was frequently plagued by fevers and nightmares. Anno Domini 1109

Havoise’s grandfather, Count Fulk, was not well. Early in the year Havoise’s mother left to attend the ailing count and in April a letter reached the Breton court that Count Fulk IV was dead. Havoise understood that this was a critical time for her family as power transitioned from her grumpy grandfather to her uncle, Count Fulk V. Countess Ermengarde remained in Anjou for several months to ensure that the transition went smoothly, but also to provide counsel to the young count. Anno Domini 1110

During her mother’s absence, Havoise’s father had been exchanging letters with his old crusading friend, Count Robert of Flanders. Alan was preoccupied by threats to his friend, and former brother-in-law King Henry I of England, whose control of Normandy was being tested by his nephew.4 The two old crusading companions thought a marriage between their children would highlight their ties of friendship and crusading, as well as aid their mutual ally, King Henry. While Havoise was excited at the prospect of being countess of such a prosperous county, she was a little worried by how far she would be from her family. She knew first-hand of the support her mother had received from her natal family. When she returned from Anjou, Countess Ermengarde discussed this possible alliance with Count Alan and Havoise. They all decided that the benefits of the marriage outweighed concerns. Plans were begun for the voyage north and Havoise’s marriage. Anno Domini 1111

The trip north to Flanders took several weeks. The comital party, which consisted of Havoise, her mother, her brother Conan, Agnete of Vitré, and her son Robert, as well as other Breton lords, started from Nantes and sailed up the Loire until they reached Orléans, where they disembarked to travel overland to Paris. Havoise thought Paris was a marvel! Filled with people speaking many different languages, markets offering exotic wares, and buildings that soared. Havoise and her mother enjoyed shopping for cloth in the markets to be made into dresses to impress Havoise’s new in-laws. Flanders, her mother told her, would be similar to Paris in that the Flemish

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were also heavily involved in trade, and its cities – although not as large as Paris – were filled with merchants and interesting goods. The counts of Flanders shared in this wealth, so Havoise expected a sophisticated and stylish court. After Paris, the party continued north by river, overland again for a while, and then by river to Ghent, where they were met by Havoise’s intended husband and his formidable mother. The Bretons stayed in Flanders for several weeks. The marriage negotiations themselves took some time to sort out the details of Havoise’s dowry and dower. The marriage ceremony followed along with several days of feasts. Then it was time for the Breton contingent to begin their trip back. Havoise clung to her mother as they both wept. Even her brother, Conan, was emotional at their goodbyes. But Havoise knew that she had been well prepared for her role as Countess of Flanders. Married Life: 1111–1115 Anno Domini 1113

Havoise knew there was something terribly wrong. The castle was eerily silent. The men at arms were so scared they looked ill. When she enquired what was wrong, no one would tell her. Finally, she convinced one of the maids to tell her why people were so terrified. News had come of an incident in Bruges, where Havoise’s husband, Count Baldwin, was holding court. A knight had been accused of stealing a cow from a peasant woman. As punishment, the count had ordered a huge vat of boiling water to be set up in the square. He then threw the knight – fully clothed and still in armor – into the vat where he was boiled alive. This was yet just another example of her husband’s cruelties, all aimed at providing ‘peace’ within the county. Havoise knew first-hand of the count’s violent nature. He frequently verbally abused her and occasionally struck her. Havoise had been shocked by such treatment. She had never witnessed such behavior between married couples. Her father always treated her mother with respect, indeed affection. The same was true of the married courtiers Havoise knew. After two years of marriage, she realized that Baldwin was unusually cruel and violent. The first two years of married life had been arduous for Havoise. She had been pregnant twice, but miscarried each time even though she wore an amulet on her belly as a preventative measure. Her mother-in-law, Countess Clemence, had been supportive during these difficult times. She reminded Havoise of her own mother and she could tell that Clemence tried to protect her from Baldwin’s innate violence. Court life had been difficult as Havoise adjusted to her life as Countess of Flanders. She had been so ill during her pregnancies that she had not been able to participate in rendering judgments or holding courts. Rather, her mother-in-law had been the consistent presence. Havoise prayed daily to the Virgin and St. Anne that she could carry a baby full term and become a mother. The young countess also made a

Havoise of Brittany 143 pilgrimage to visit the shrine of St. Godelieve, a young noblewoman who had also been abused by her husband, in order to invoke the intercession of the saint.5 Havoise also knew that there was some question about the legitimacy of her marriage, as the Bishop of Chartres had written that she and Baldwin were too closely related to remain married. This made her situation at the Flemish court even more difficult. Was she the countess, or wasn’t she? Anno Domini 1115

Relief and despair. That is what Havoise felt as she and her women packed her possessions for the trip to Brittany. Word had come from the pope that her marriage was to be annulled because the clergy had calculated that she and her husband were related within the prohibited degrees of kinship and hence ineligible for marriage. The young countess was now to return to her home in Brittany. She would be accompanied by the women who had served her since she became Countess of Flanders and a cortege of knights. Like the first two years of her marriage, the last two had been filled with disappointment. Havoise had borne a child, but it sadly died two weeks after its birth. She was devastated, retreating to her room in the castle and not eating or sleeping for days. Eventually, through prayer, the support and encouragement of her mother-in-law and the other ladies at court – all of whom had experienced such heart-rending loss – Havoise recovered. Her marriage did not. Baldwin seemed to lose interest in her – except to berate and belittle her. She so disgusted him that he no longer sought her bed or laid hands on her otherwise. Rather, the count preferred the company of his men. Havoise didn’t know if she should rejoice or be terrified of the possible loss of her position. In the end, it was not her decision. The church made it for her. The journey to Brittany was long, but not without its pleasures – particularly the visit to Paris. Havoise was relieved to reach Nantes, where she was warmly greeted by her mother, her brother Conan, and his wife Mathilda. Her father, Count Alan, had become a monk shortly after Havoise’s marriage and was not well enough to meet her at Nantes. Geoffrey, her other brother, had traveled to the Holy Land. Her family was aware of the difficulties of her marriage. What her future would be had not been discussed, but Havoise already knew the path she wanted to take. A few months after her return to Brittany, Havoise and her mother made a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Martin of Tours. During this pilgrimage, Havoise prayed to St. Martin for guidance for how to fulfill her desire to dedicate her life to God. She remembered the peace her mother had attained as a nun at Fontevraud. Havoise had enjoyed her time at the nunnery when she visited her mother, but also when she had been educated at the convent of St. Georges. The nuns embraced service to the Lord. They found fulfillment and satisfaction. This is what Havoise sought. Her married years had not been happy ones and she was not eager to repeat the experience. To spend her days in prayer, contemplation, study, and service was something she felt in her soul.

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On the return journey to Rennes, Havoise told her mother of her desire to become a nun. As a woman of intense piety herself, Ermengarde understood immediately and assured Havoise that she would be supported in this vocation. The two countesses stopped in Angers to visit Havoise’s uncle, Count Fulk V, and his wife, Countess Aremburga. The comital couple were also enthusiastic about Havoise’s chosen path. Like Ermengarde, Fulk had been a dedicated supporter of the charismatic cleric, Robert of Arbrissel, and his foundation of Fontevraud. As the siblings chatted, Ermengarde gave voice to an idea she had been contemplating for some time: founding a house of Fontevraud in Brittany. Ermengarde suggested that this could be where Havoise could become a nun. Such an undertaking required considerable planning, however. In the meantime, Havoise could become a postulant at the abbey of St. Georges, close to her family in Rennes. Sister Agnes Anno Domini 1116–1165

To signal her change in status from a secular woman to a nun, Havoise changed her name to Agnes when she entered the convent. She knew the story of St. Agnes’ life well and it resonated with her own life experience. Agnes was a young Roman aristocratic woman who, like Havoise, desired a religious life. Agnes refused suitors and marriage, but one of her suitors betrayed her to the authorities and she was martyred. Havoise was also drawn to the name Agnes because of her fondness and respect for Lady Agnete of Vitré.6 By becoming Sister Agnes, Havoise felt connected to a holy woman of the Christian past, but also to a woman who had been an important part of her own life. In the fall of 1116, Havoise met a rather shabby hermit who came to the Breton court. His name was Raoul and he had been a close friend of Robert of Arbrissel, who had died recently. He and Ermengarde shared the vision of founding a house of Fontevraud as an appropriate memorial to their dear friend and spiritual advisor, but also to continue Robert’s work. A location just north of Rennes was suggested, on land held by the comital family. And soon word began to spread of this new community. The following year, construction was begun on humble housing and a church where the dedicants could worship. Sister Agnes moved to the abbey of St. Sulpice shortly after the conclusion of her novitiate. She was excited about being a part of this new foundation as it would provide her with the opportunity to both dedicate her life to the Lord and shape the community itself. The Fontevraudian abbey of St. Sulpice-la-Forêt would come to be called Notre-Dame of the Blackbird’s Nest. Sister Agnes knew the story of a shepherd seeing a light coming from a blackbird’s nest. When he investigated, he found a small statue of the Virgin that glowed spectacularly. The shepherd took it from the nest and gave it to the abbey, but the statue would miraculously return to the nest whenever it was removed.

Havoise of Brittany 145 Her first years there reminded her of what she saw when she had visited her mother at Fontevraud as a child. Like Ermengarde, Agnes and her sisters lived in rustic accommodation. A cloister was one of the first spaces developed at St. Sulpice so that the nuns would have a quiet place for contemplation. Construction of a church also began. Agnes loved singing the offices of the day in the church seven times a day and witnessed its evolution from a bare-bones chapel to a completed church. As a Fontevraudian nun, Sister Agnes abided by the statutes crafted by Robert of Arbrissel. She wore simple clothing made from local, ‘natural’ cloth without long sleeves or a train. Her bed had a woolen covering which kept her warm. Agnes and her sisters followed a vegetarian diet and contributed their labor to such tasks as doing laundry and cooking. While Agnes didn’t mind the plain clothing (although she would have liked to have kept her fur-lined cloak for the winter cold) she did miss fowl with pepper sauce. To help build a library for this new convent, Agnes helped to copy texts. She thought her Aunt Adele would be pleased to see her putting the education she received at St. Georges to such holy work. Sister Agnes lived alongside nuns, but also men who were brothers of the house. As a Fontevraudian foundation, St. Sulpice was a double house, which meant that both men and women lived within its precincts. But Agnes had little interaction with them and separation of the sexes was strictly enforced. All who lived at St. Sulpice were under the authority of the abbess, who was the undisputed leader of the community. Agnes liked her first abbess, Abbess Marie, but found the second abbess, also named Marie, to be a bit snooty because she was related to royalty. Many of the sisters could make the same claim and all came from distinguished noble families. The dedication to God’s work that Sister Agnes and the nuns demonstrated established the reputation of their abbey as a place of worship and devotion. Agnes took pride in this – although pride was a sin that she frequently had to confess to her priest. Around the time of her mother’s death in 1147, Agnes herself was recognized for her piety. She became the prioress, which meant that she was responsible for implementing the statutes, ensuring her sisters followed them, and overseeing monastic life. This was a critical responsibility as the reputation of nuns’ holiness rested on these precepts, and Agnes felt honored by their confidence in her abilities. As the nuns of St. Sulpice’s reputation for holiness expanded, so did their abbey – something which Sister Agnes took pride in and also had to confess. Over the years, Sister Agnes witnessed the expansion of St. Sulpice as it extended its authority over nearly forty religious houses and gained additional territories. Agnes knew that this expansion was largely due to her family’s influence – and she had worked actively to encourage their generosity. To support her daughter, but also the ideals upon which St. Sulpice was founded, Agnes’ mother had secured support for this new foundation, encouraging her vassals to make donations. Uncle Fulk and Aunt Aremburga had also made a donation of a priory to St. Sulpice, but

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also helped to expand St. Sulpice’s presence in their county of Anjou. Agnes knew that she and her peers were vital to this expansion, as their friends, neighbors, family, and feudal dependants would not have made donations to their nunnery if the sisters were not admired for their piety and relationship with the holy. Although she had entered a convent, family continued to play an important role in Sister Agnes’ life. With her abbess’ permission, she enjoyed traveling the short distance to Rennes to see them. Her mother would also come to the abbey for times of contemplation, but also abbey business. Agnes particularly enjoyed spending time with her sister-in-law Mathilda, as the two of them shared common experiences and interests. Similar to Agnes’ time at the Flemish court, Mathilda did not play much of a role in Breton comital matters. Rather, she preferred to spend time running her household and pursuing spiritual interests, although Agnes did wonder if Mathilda was perhaps overshadowed by Countess Ermengarde, Mathilda’s strong-willed mother-in-law. Over the years, the sisters-in-law had grown quite close. Mathilda often came to St. Sulpice to enjoy the serenity of the abbey. After Agnes’ brother’s death in 1148, Mathilda moved permanently to St. Sulpice and lived there in retirement for a decade. Agnes was also very fond of Mathilda’s children, her niece and nephew. She loved to regale them – and then their children – with stories of holy people, but also heroes from the classical past. Sister Agnes was delighted when her great niece decided to follow in her footsteps and become a nun at St. Sulpice, taking the name Agnes to honor her great aunt. Being surrounded by family – spiritual and earthly – while being able to pursue her vocation filled Agnes with contentment. End Anno Domini 1165 7

Sister Agnes lay on a soft cot in the abbey’s infirmary. It was a warm summer’s afternoon. Agnes could hear her sisters singing the offices in the abbey church. Her great niece, young Sister Agnes, would be by shortly to check on her. The last months had been difficult. Agnes had come down with the flux in February and had not recovered. She had felt her strength slipping away week by week. Although her body was in decline, her spirit was strong. While in the infirmary, Agnes often reflected back upon her life. She had regrets. Those four terrible years in Flanders were a distant memory now, although she still mourned the loss of her children. She wondered at God’s plan because if they had lived, she never would have known the joy and fulfillment of the life of a nun. The Lord truly does move in mysterious ways. Agnes knew she had been blessed to lead such a life where she experienced the love of God, but also of family. Many of those whom she loved were now gone. Her mother had died eighteen years ago, a loss she felt keenly, followed the next year by her brother Conan. Mathilda, too, was gone, as were many of her beloved sisters in Christ. Her great niece had been her comfort and joy these last few years.

Havoise of Brittany 147 Agnes closed her eyes and remembered. She felt the soft June breeze on her cheek and heard the blackbirds singing. Her breathing became shallower and shallower. Slowly her spirit moved towards the light, content in the earthly life she had lived, certain she would soon be united with God and reunited with those whom she had loved. Notes 1 Domina is the feminized version of dominus meaning lord. I have chosen to use this title as it is what appears in the sources. As dominus is never qualified as ‘male lord,’ I have eschewed using ‘female lord’ to describe this status. 2 A physical description of Countess Ermengarde is provided by Bishop Marbode of Rennes, who wrote a poem praising her. See Epistolae, available at http://epistolae. ccnmtl.columbia.edu/woman/31.html#letterslist. 3 For sources on the abbey of Fontevraud, see Les deux vies de Robert d’Arbrissel, fondateur de Fontevraud: Légendes, écrits, et témoinages/The Two Lives of Robert of Arbrissel: Legends, Writings and Testimonies, edited by Jacques Dalarun, Geneviève Giordanengo, Armell le Huërou, Jean Longère, Dominique Poirel, and Bruce Venarde (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006). 4 Count Alan IV’s first wife, Constance, had been King Henry I of England’s sister. She died in 1090 and Alan married Ermengarde in 1093. 5 This saint’s life has been translated. See “The Life of Godelieve,” translated by Bruce L. Venarde. In Medieval Hagiography: An Anthology, edited by Thomas Head. For information about Godelieve see Feminae, available at http://inpress.lib. uiowa.edu/Feminae/DetailsPage.aspx?Feminae_ID=36396. 6 ‘Agnete’ is the diminutive form of Agnes. 7 I have placed Havoise/Agnes’ death at about seventy years of age, informed by the fact that she was a member of the aristocracy and that her mother lived to be nearly eighty.

Further Reading Evergates, Theodore, ed. Aristocratic Women in Medieval France. Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999. Evergates, Theodore. Marie of France: Countess of Champagne, 1145–1198. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019. Gilchrist, Roberta. Medieval Life: Archeology and the Life Course. Woodbridge: Boydell, 2018. Johnson, Penelope D. Equal in Monastic Profession: Religious Women in Medieval France. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1994. Livingstone, Amy. ‘Pious Women in a “Den of Scorpions:” The Piety and Patronage of the Countesses of Brittany, c. 1050–1150.’ Historical Reflections/Réflexions historiques 43 (2017): 45–61. Livingstone, Amy. ‘“Daughter of Fulk, Glory of Brittany:” Countess Ermengarde of Brittany.’ Anglo-Norman Studies 40 (2018): 165–178. LoPrete, Kimberly A. “Women, Gender, and Lordship in Medieval France.” History Compass 5 (1991): 1921–1941.

15

The Gifts of Teresa Fernández Miriam Shadis

Introduction Teresa Fernández (1128/30–1180) was likely the youngest daughter of the first queen of Portugal, also named Teresa, and the Galician nobleman Fernando Pérez de Traba.1 Her mother died in exile from Portugal shortly after Teresa Fernández was born, and she was brought up in Galicia and León, where her father became an important member of the entourage of King Alfonso VII of León (d. 1157). Teresa married another young nobleman at the Leonese court, Count Nuño Pérez de Lara, a Castilian, and moved with her husband to Castile, probably in the late 1150s. In Castile, Nuño became the tutor (personal guardian) of the child king of Castile, Alfonso VIII, and then eventually regent of Castile, holding great influence even after Alfonso came of age. Thus, certainly, Teresa moved in the circle of the king and his wife, Queen Leonor Plantagenet, herself a daughter of Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine. The queen was even younger than her husband, and Teresa may have served in a parallel function to Nuño as a kind of guardian or governess for Leonor. Teresa and Nuño had a number of children and were active religious patrons and political players. In particular, they endowed the first Cistercian convent for women in Castile, with the foundation of Santa María de Perales in 1160. There, their daughter María would become a nun and eventual abbess. Nuño may have been buried there; Perales remained an important center for the Lara lineage. In December of 1170, the English court of Leonor’s father, Henry, was rocked by the precipitous murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, and Henry was eventually forced to do penance. Henry’s daughters, at the time queens in Sicily, Germany, and Castile, also sought to appease the Almighty on behalf of their father. This is the context for the emergence of Thomas Becket’s cult in Spain. In 1177, Alfonso had begun to besiege the Muslim stronghold of Cuenca, and there, Teresa and Nuño, no doubt prompted by Queen Leonor and Archbishop Cerebruno of Toledo, issued a charter endowing the first altar in Spain dedicated to the recently martyred Thomas Becket; although the charter was created at Cuenca, the altar was to be installed at the Cathedral of Toledo. In those days, the Cathedral was still the old mosque built by the Muslims who had ruled Toledo until 1085, when Teresa’s grandfather, King Alfonso VI, conquered the city and DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-15

Teresa Fernández 149 turned the mosque into a Christian church. Soon after the endowment at Cuenca, Nuño was killed at the siege, and Teresa returned to the Leonese court, where she married the king of León, Fernando II, whom she had known in her youth. Her sons Álvaro, Fernando, and Gonzalo went with her, adding “sons of the queen” to their identities. Teresa died two years later, like her mother at around the age of fifty, and potentially in childbed. She was buried in the royal pantheon of San Isidoro in León. Teresa’s sons with Nuño would go on to become powerful nobles, contributing significantly to the political landscape of the early thirteenth century. In the portrait below, I imagine Teresa’s participation in a series of acts of donation, focusing on the charters that were produced to record these donations. Historians use charters to understand all sorts of things about what medieval people did and thought, but we rarely think of them as artifacts of actual events. Moreover, we often don’t appreciate women’s central role in these events – they could provide a rare opportunity for a laywoman to participate in liturgy, as well as offering the chance to demonstrate one’s wealth, power, and piety. Countesses (and queens) like Teresa Fernández were wealthy, and they were powerful. They controlled armies and courts, and they were often devoted patrons of monasteries and churches; in Teresa’s case, we have not only the convent of Santa María de Perales (noted above), as well as the Becket altar, but also a pair of charters produced in the context of her relationship with Fernando. (There are a few other examples of her patronage with her husband and her sister, Sancha Fernández, which will not show up in the story below.) When Teresa first returned to León, the king endowed her with control over five churches; upon her deathbed two years later, she donated those churches to the Cathedral of Lugo in Galicia. While the endowment of the altar dedicated to Thomas Becket had the greatest significance in terms of wider cultural impact, each of these moments served to punctuate the story of Teresa’s life in highly specific ways and underscored her role as a member of the nobility in service to the crowns of Castile and León, but also as a mother, a wife, and a pious Christian. In structuring the portrait below, I move back and forth in time, beginning with Teresa’s death, and the unlikely but fortuitous recollection of certain significant donations in her life as she has remembered them. To foreground Teresa’s role in these exchanges, I have situated the endowment of Perales in the village of Perales, which may have been part of Teresa’s arras, or marriage endowment, and have moved the scenario for the foundation of the Becket altar from the hot, dusty war camp of Cuenca to the Cathedral/Mosque of Toledo. I emphasize the event of the reading of the charter, and Teresa’s central place in that event. Portrait 1180

León. The queen is dying. The child she carries has turned against her, poisoning her, and then dying itself in spiteful revenge. The midwives have done what they could, but there was no coaxing the corpse out, and now the queen was in the hands of the priests, and the king’s Muslim doctor, who

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administered small poisons of his own to combat the dying woman’s pain and grief. On the other hand, she was old. Maybe there was no child, just a phantom of hope to bind the queen to her younger, feckless husband, and cement her older sons’ place near the centers of power. Well, now, it would be up to them. Álvaro, she thought, could manage it, if only his younger brothers would listen … she forced herself to sit up, and called the girl kneeling by the fire to her side. “Inés, listen. There is one more thing to be done. Do exactly as I say, and I will reward you for your good and faithful service, you and your … husband?” “I am his barragana, domina. What do you wish me to do?” Inés Anes, daughter of Ana Marques and the priest Juan Fernández, was the barragana – not wife, exactly, but good enough – of the canon Pedro Peres. They had an agreement: she took care of his house and his body, and he provided her with a home, and had promised to remember her children in his will. She had been working in the palace for some time, and of an evening regaled Pedro with the stories of royal comings and goings. He thought he might write a great history of the kings, if he could find the time, but it seemed true that the queens were more interesting. Pedro says that eventually he will find the charters she has heard the queen speak of and insert them into his story, as he hears that’s how it can be done. Lately, though, the story had been a sad one – scandal, failed pregnancy, and now, it seemed, death. But she liked this queen: Teresa seemed wise, and certainly had seen many things. She had been beautiful, you could see it still, and no matter what others said, pious, with a particular devotion to the Holy Mother, Mary. Now, though, pain and exhaustion made her grey, and determination left no room for pious platitudes. “Go to my arca, my chest. Find the charter with the king’s wax seal hanging from it.” It made Inés queasy to rummage around in the queen’s private documents, even if she had no idea what they said. She wasn’t sure about the king’s seal, either, but she found one large charter with a particularly fierce lion, impressed in wax, attached to it. And here was another one depicting her very own church! She brought them both to the queen, who reached for the lion. “Good. Now, go to my lord king’s man, and tell him to fetch the king and the chancellor as well. It is time to fix those gifts to Lugo.” Obediently, Inés trotted off in search of don Rodrigo, musing. She had heard there was controversy over the queen’s possessions in the West. 1160, Perales

The countess, her husband, and their children stood before the altar in the little village church of San Pedro in Perales. It had been her favorite estate, out of those Nuño had given her when they married, and she felt some satisfaction in transferring it to the nuns. This new order of the White Nuns was inspiring – they were so pure, so hard working.2 Eventually, if things went according to plan and it pleased God, little María would become abbess of the new convent and would manage this property. In this way, her

Teresa Fernández 151 mother’s gift would return to her, as María prayed for her soul, along with Nuño’s and those of her brothers. In the meantime, the tiny girl stood by her, eyes wide and unafraid. Teresa slipped her little hand in hers. The priest read the charter: I, Teresa, daughter of Lord Fernando of the Traba, with the consent and blessing of my husband Lord Nuño Pérez, of the Lara, and my sons and daughter, do give and concede to you, Abbess Osenda, and all your sisters my estates in the districts of Zorita and Perales for the purpose of building a convent for the Cistercian Rule. These estates came to me through my arras. All the entrances and exits, mountains and valleys, rivers and ponds, mills, fishponds, cultivated fields and fallow fields, and forests I give to you for your use and possession. If anyone, from my family, or indeed anyone who is a stranger to me will infringe your rights, let them suffer the wrath of the almighty God and all the saints, and let them be condemned to be buried in the earth like Dathan and Abiron, and associated with Judas in hell. Those who respect this charter will have the blessing of God and Holy Mary. This charter we give and confirm at Perales on the kalends of June in the era 1198. King Alfonso is reigning in Castile and Toledo and Najera; count Amaury holds Toledo and Atienza; Gutierro Fernández holds Castro and Amaya; Gomez Gonzalvo holds Calahorra and Arnedo; Álvaro Perez holds Aguilar and Asturias; Nuño Perez holds Abia and Ferrar; the sword-bearer of the King is Rodrigo Gonzalvo; the Mayordomo is Pedro Garsia. Archbishop Juan is ruling the church in Toledo, Bishop Raymond in Palencia. These men were present and heard this charter: Lord Buso confirms it. Lord Fortum Muñoz confirms it. Rodrigo Gutierrez confirms it. Tello Gutierrez confirms it. Pedro Gutierrez confirms it. The Prior of San Zoil confirms it. Teresa stifled an internal sigh. Was it really necessary to name every single one of these men to validate this charter? But they happened to be present at the moment, conferring with Nuño and his brother about the young king (more likely, keeping an eye on the ambitious Lara men), and Nuño had insisted they should not risk offending them. The priest nodded at her and held out the charter. She touched it, as did Nuño. Thus I, Teresa, together with my husband dominus Nuño, and my children, we confirm with our own hands this charter which we had made, and we make our sign on it. Cid Belli witnessed this. Don Sancho of Sahagún wrote it. The nun Osenda made her way through the crowd of men to collect the charter, and then turned to the countess and her daughter. She bowed, and then knelt to whisper to the little girl, made the sign of the cross over her, and

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nodded to Teresa. They would meet next year and María would begin her new life. 1177, Toledo

Teresa had been annoyed to have to follow her husband and the king to hot, dry, and dangerous Cuenca. Once Queen Leonor might have needed her help, but she was a woman now, and increasingly sure of herself. It was all a lot of show, Teresa thought, dragging the royal court to the siege, to be on hand if – when – they took the city. It wouldn’t be long, Nuño said, but when the opportunity came to leave the dusty camp and return to her beautiful house in Toledo, one last time, she welcomed it. If it was not much cooler there, it was at least clean. The music of the courtyard fountains was punctuated by the new bells installed at the Cathedral, marking the hours of prayer. In the distance, she could hear the infidels’ call to prayer as well – so peculiar, she thought, how they tolerated it here. It reminded her that war was never very far away. It was going to be difficult to give all this up. Crossing the street to the Cathedral, she focused her mind on the task at hand. She stopped for a moment, gathering her senses in the dimness of the church. The courtyard outside, with its fountain and apricot trees, was nevertheless hot and bright; in the church, the light was interrupted by an irregular pattern of shadows cast by pillars and candlelight. The building was old – as old as anything she knew, she thought – but new additions had begun to pull it into the current age. For a while now, the French archbishop had insisted on the Latin rite – the old rite preferred by the Toledans was celebrated off in a dank corner, near what the mouros called the mihrab. Sometimes she stopped to listen – a faint echo of childhood, although of course at the court of King Alfonso it had always been the new way. It was an exciting time, she had to admit, even as warfare was always just around the corner, and the young king and queen seemed, sometimes dangerously, ambitious. And then there were her sons … also ambitious, daring, rambunctious, handsome boys. At least they listened to their mother. She wondered where they were. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw a small group gathered near the entrance, by the newest chapel. She hurried over and took her place next to young queen. Leonor looked tired, worried, distracted. Teresa’s practiced eye took in the signs of a pregnancy, although it was hard to be sure. The sere English priest walked up to the altar where they had all gathered, carrying the document. Even from across the way, she could see the black ink glisten on the creamy parchment. It had better be dry, she thought. Father William sank down before the altar, and the congregation around him knelt too. Finally, he stood up and beckoned Teresa. He laid the parchment on the altar, where all could see it, and then intoned in his accented Latin: “In the name of God and Holy Mary, Amen.” He nodded to Teresa, and she came forward, hand outstretched, touching the parchment. It felt fresh, and powerful – and thankfully was dry. Looking at her, the priest read:

Teresa Fernández 153 I, Teresa, daughter of Fernando, together with my husband Lord Nuño Pérez, of the Lara, do give to the church of Holy Mary of Toledo, to you Bishop Cerebruno and your canons, and all your successors our houses here in Toledo, for the purpose of building an altar for the memory of St. Thomas Becket, martyr. We also give the proceeds from our farm in Alcala de Hénares to pay for annual alms and feasts and candles. We also promise in one year’s time a herd of one hundred sheep and five cattle to support the altar. Teresa stepped back, and the priest continued: “We make his gift this for the sake of our souls (he raised his hand in blessing), and for the souls of our parents and relatives.” Teresa cast a glance at the young queen. And for you, my dear, she thought. And your idiot father. The priest looked up; he knew the next part by heart, as did they all: If anyone, either ourselves, those close to us, or even strangers should contravene this agreement, let them suffer the wrath of almighty God and his mother, the Holy Virgin Mary, and suffer the pain of separation from the Christian community. Let them moreover pay a fine of 200 solidi. Those that keep this charter will be blessed by God, the Virgin Mary, Saint Thomas and all the saints. Then to business: “This charter was made on the Ides of August, in the Era 1215. King Alfonso and Queen Leonor are reigning. Bishop Cerebruno is in Toledo.” The witnesses came forward, touching the charter. The Archdeacon stood in for the absent Archbishop, who was in Cuenca. There was the indistinguishable parade of canons, then some local men. Martín Fernández; Mahome Yusuf; Pedro; Gutierro Gutierrez. Pedro of the queen’s household. The shoemaker Juan. The ritual was over, and the charter became … just a document. Father William rolled it up and tucked it in his sleeve; hands clasped, he bowed, and slipped into the shadows from whence he came, she supposed. Teresa tried to still her mind and focus on the gift. The martyrdom of Thomas Becket was shocking, but also perhaps to be expected in a world in which kings increasingly tried to have their way, and priests and popes were more jealous than ever of their rights and powers. Of course Henry was penitent; of course Leonor was worried for her father’s soul, and King Alfonso seemed inclined to please his wife. Nuño had insisted they endow this altar, even before the queen herself got around to it – it was both a sign of their piety, their aims to please the royal couple, but also … she wondered. Had Nuño found inspiration in the archbishop’s persistent challenge to royal authority? She hoped Saint Thomas would prove a strong intercessor. Later, of course, she returned to Cuenca, and the world turned upside down. Nuño received a killing blow from a well-aimed rock; he never woke up and died a few days later. At the same time, King Fernando had arrived at

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the siege – for what purpose, she could only guess at. He had grown – if not handsome, then strong. He had always looked up to her, as a boy. Indeed, she remembered with faint chagrin how he had thrown himself into the new fashion of the day, writing songs of admiration and “love.” It had mortified her, then; she remembered her embarrassment, and firm conviction that love, whatever it meant, should not supplant duty, nor beauty, virtue. Now, he suggested, she should return to León with him. She being barely widowed! And vaguely related to Fernando, as well: her grandfather Alfonso VI was his great-grandfather, a fact which all attentive people knew … it was scandalous. Leaving Castile after thirty years, leaving her daughter, now a professed nun at Perales, knowing her boys could come with her but would always be drawn to Castile … but for the first time in her life, making a choice undirected by father or husband. She would see Nuño buried at Perales, bid farewell to her daughter, and return home. 1178, Benavente

She stood nervously before the king, and waited for the charter to be read. She wondered how many of those around her understood the allusions to what she and Nuño had done, and what she and Fernando were about to do. On the other hand, receiving control over that church adjoining her family’s estate in Muxía was only just. The canon bustled in from the cloister and fussed around in his robes. He pulled out the parchment and began to intone: In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. That which is given or granted by kings, if it is not to be handed over to oblivion – should be put in writing. Therefore, I, King Lord Fernando, together with my son Alfonso … Teresa could see young Alfonso, sulking, behind his father. There was at least one person who was not going to be happy with this arrangement. All the more important that his name went on the charter. … together with my son Alfonso, I make this charter of donation and concession of these five churches to be perpetually valid to you, my beloved Countess Domina Teresa and to your sons and daughters. These include Santiago de Ferrol, San Martini de Castro, San Mamede, San Xoan de Campo and Muxía. Four of these are near each other, near where the Minho flows; the fifth, the church of Muxía, lies by itself. I fully give and grant these, with all their territories and buildings, as well as other aforesaid things which have hitherto belonged to the king. I give and protect these churches in perpetuity, and no one else – not the Mayordomo of the King, not his wisest advisors, no one on his part nor any foreigner shall be permitted to enter these properties or violently take anything from them, but they shall always be held by you freely and completely, and you may keep them, sell them, or give them away according to your will, just as

Teresa Fernández 155 you would with any estate you held as an inheritance. I make this gift for the sake of my soul and for all of my family, and on account of the good service which you Countess Domina Teresa – and likewise your husband, Count Nuño – many times gave to me. If anyone – me, or any other person – should try to infringe my will, let them suffer the wrath of God and the indignation of the king. And if anyone should be so bold, and take anything, let them pay four times the value to you, and to the king twenty pounds of gold as a penalty. And this writing I make forever firm, in this charter made at Benavente, in the month of July, in the Era 1217. King Dominus Fernando is ruling in León, Galicia, Asturias, and Extremadura. I, Fernando, by the Grace of God king of the Spains together with my son King Alfonso approve and confirm this writing, and I put my seal on it. 1180. León

Later, the king and his men gathered around the queen’s couch, and listened as Teresa, fading, whispered her demands. Infante Alfonso managed to look bored, but the other knights pitied her suffering. Inés stood in a dark corner, holding her breath, forgotten. The clerics – the archbishop was there, and some men from San Isidoro, come to the palace to plan her funeral obsequies – looked on patiently. Teresa gasped. “My churches, Fernando, to Santa María. To the Holy Mother, at Lugo.” She pushed her charter – the lion – into Fernando’s hands. Fernando nodded to one of the men from San Isidoro, a Galician named Lucas, from Túy, who would know the details. He handed over the charter and said simply: “The four churches in Pallares – and of course, the estate of Muxía.” Lucas nodded and went to the writing table in the corner of the queen’s chamber. A while later, he brought the document to the archbishop, who read: In the name of the Holy and Individual Trinity, the Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit, who is worshiped and adored by all the faithful. It is the duty of Catholic kings to love and venerate holy places and religious persons, and to exalt them and protect them with their generosity, so that they may reach eternal life. Therefore, I lord King Fernando, together with my wife queen Teresa, and with my son Lord Alfonso – lest the terror of oblivion should make future ages weep – we make this charter of donation and confirmation to be forever valid to the Church of Holy Virgin Mary the Mother of God in Lugo and to you Lord Juan bishop of the same church, and to your successor bishops and the canons of the same church, servants of God and Holy Mary: I consent that these four churches of Pallares which belong to my wife Queen Domina Teresa – who is in extremis – should be given to God and Holy Mary and to you. You should also receive her other estate in Muxía, which she holds by right of inheritance and which adjoins her patrimony.

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These churches, we say, are San Xoan de Campo, Santiago de Ferroi, San Martini de Castro, and San Mamede de Framur. I give – I say with royal voice – and grant them and confirm them as they were given to my abovenamed wife and all her family, with their exits and entrances, through their boundaries new and ancient, from Pena de Lausada to the hermitage that lies between the estate of Turris and San Xoan de Campo, going from Pedras Albas between Santa María de Ferroy and descending to the River Minho. Thus, by this writing I confirm that the church of Lugo shall possess the above-named churches, at all times and in perpetuity, without any disturbance, holding all rights by hereditary right, just as my abovenamed wife Queen Domina Teresa has with deliberation given it to God and the Church of Santa María for the remedy of her soul. If anyone – though it is hard to believe this could happen – should be tempted to disrupt this charter, let them suffer the wrath of almighty God and of the Virgin Mary his mother, and be separated from the faithful in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Moreover, whatever they have acquired so illegally, let them pay fourfold to the Holy Church of Lugo, and moreover pay to the King thirty pounds of purest gold. That it may always remain firm and unshaken, I ordered this writing to be made and to be strengthened forever under the authority of My Seal, as well as to be shared with the signatures of My Nobles on all sides. This charter was made in León, on the 8th Ides of February, in the Era 1218, with King Dominus Fernando ruling in León, Galicia, Asturias, and Extremadura. I, King Fernando – with my wife Queen Domina Teresa and with my son Dominus Alfonso – I confirm and approve this writing which I ordered to be done. And I Queen Domina Teresa make this gift to God and Santa María of Lugo of the above four churches and my estate in Muxía, for the remedy of my soul; I confirm this. Everyone looked nervously at the dying woman. Lucas took the parchment from the archbishop and approached Teresa. Without opening her eyes, she reached out her hand and touched the edge of the charter. Years later, Lucas would have more to say about her sinful life and scandalous death, which nevertheless provided an opportunity for the Blessed San Isidoro to show his power. But that is another story. Notes 1 In the Christian Spanish kingdoms, for the most part, children carried their father’s first name as their second name. Thus, Teresa is “Teresa Fernández,” after her father Fernando Pérez. Her son Álvaro is Álvaro Nuñez, after his father Nuño Pérez. Both Fernando and Nuño had fathers named Pedro; thus their (unrelated) patronymic, Pérez. And so on. Charters like the ones imagined below were dated according to the Spanish “Era” – appearing to add thirty-eight years to the more widely used anno domini.

Teresa Fernández 157 2 The nuns of the new Cistercian Order were called “the White Nuns” for their undyed habits.

Further Reading Barton, Simon. The Aristocracy in Twelfth-century León and Castile. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Bowman, Jeffrey A. “Countesses in Court: Elite Women, Creativity, and Power in Northern Iberia, 900–1200.” Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies (2014), 6:1, 54–70. Bowman, Jeffrey A. “Countesses Gone Wild: Lordship and Violent Women in the High Middle Ages,” in Boundaries in the Medieval and Wider World: Essays in Honor of Paul Freedman, ed. Susan McDonough et al. Turnhout: Brepols, 2017: 57–80. Dillard, Heath. Daughters of the Reconquest: Women in Castilian Town Society, 1100–1300. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Jasperse, Jitske. Medieval Women, Material Culture, and Power: Matilda Plantagenet and Her Sisters. Leeds: ARC Humanities Press, 2020. Nickson, Toledo Cathedral: Building Histories in Medieval Castile. University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2015. Shadis, Miriam. Berenguela of Castile (1180–1246) and Political Women in the High Middle Ages. New York: Palgrave, 2009.

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‘A Princess Wooed by Many’ Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople Erin Jordan

Introduction Agnes of France was the youngest child of King Louis VII (1120–1180) and his third wife, Adèle of Champagne (1140–1206). She was born before 1171. At the age of eight, Agnes was betrothed to Alexios, the son and heir of Manuel Komnenos, the Byzantine emperor. In many ways Agnes’s experience conforms to that of many high-ranking women in the Middle Ages. The marriage of daughters or sisters was one of the most powerful weapons in the diplomatic arsenal of a medieval ruler. These women (or girls) were expected to cross physical borders and linguistic boundaries, forming invaluable relationships between polities. However, the experience of Agnes is unique in several ways. Unlike her sisters, who married closer to home, she was completely isolated from her natal family. In spite of the fact that her half-sister Margaret moved to neighboring Hungary to marry King Béla III in 1186 and King Philip was in the vicinity of Constantinople while on crusade in 1189, there is no evidence of any contact with her siblings following her departure from France. In addition, she arrived in Constantinople on the cusp of a period of extreme upheaval and instability. While Manuel’s nearly forty-year reign was marked by relative calm, tensions within the empire erupted shortly after his death. His decision to appoint his wife, Maria of Antioch, as regent for their minor son Alexios had disastrous consequences for Agnes. Infighting within the imperial family intersected with resentment of Empress Maria, perceived as a foreigner in spite her nearly twenty-year marriage to Manuel. Conspiracies to supplant her caused instability within Constantinople, ultimately paving the way for Andronikos’s seizure of power in 1183. As the daughter-in-law of the regent and wife of the future emperor, Agnes would have been directly impacted by the turmoil that roiled the capital from 1180 to 1185. Over a span of thirty years, Agnes witnessed the reign of at least nine rulers, including three Latin emperors. She was married twice before the age of fifteen, first to Alexios and then to his usurper and successor, the sixty-year-old Andronikos. After Andronikos’s deposition in 1185, Agnes fades from the historical record, reappearing in 1203 with the arrival of the Fourth Crusaders. Among the leaders of the army were several of her relatives, including her nephew, Louis of Blois. She DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-16

Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople 159 eventually left the capital in 1206, accompanying her husband, Theodore Branas, to their newly acquired lands in Adrianople. She lived quietly alongside him for the remainder of her life, dying in around 1220. In spite of the prominence of her position as empress to not one but two Byzantine rulers, Agnes remains an elusive figure in the sources. While she does appear in contemporary chronicles, she is seldom the focus of the discussion, but functions as an accessory to the narrative, positioned as a helpless pawn or victim of the events around her. I have found no trace of her in any of the documents of practice in which powerful women typically appear, particularly as religious patrons. Nor is there any record of correspondence between her and any members of her family. We do have several images of Agnes as she was portrayed in an illustrated book of verse commemorating her arrival in Constantinople, most likely given to her by her mother-in-law, Empress Maria. This chapter presents an account of Agnes’s life in the form of an imaginary diary. It focuses on key moments and pivotal events as they are described by contemporary chroniclers. I have attempted to be mindful of Agnes’s age at the time it would have been written as well as the fact that she would have been transitioning between two distinct cultures. Portrait Epiphany 1178 (December)

I am excited to be back at court. Sister Katherine said I am to remain for a fortnight. Then I return to the nunnery until the Easter fest. I spoke with father yesterday. He looks much older than when I last saw him. Mother told me he had been ill. Philip stood next to him the whole time, like he was guarding his throne. As if anyone else would take it. He barely even looked at me. Later in the evening father’s seneschal presented two men who were dressed in odd clothes. They had long hair and even longer beards. They bowed to me and spoke words I did not understand. When I was changing for bed, my ladies said they heard talk about my marriage. The men were from the city of Constantinople. The emperor sent them to discuss marriage between me and his son. Since I am the youngest girl in the family, I had worried father would make me take vows. I would rather be married like my sisters but not yet. As I took leave of mother I told her I did not think I was ready to be married. Or to travel so far away. She told me I was a French princess. I would do what my father said. What if I end up like Alys? Away from home but still not married after so many years. At least she has Margaret close by. Constantinople is so much further away than England. I would be all alone.1 Easter 1179 (March)

They tell me that today we will leave Montpellier and sail to Genoa. I am not sure if I will like travelling by sea. They say it will only take a few days. The

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journey from Paris took a long time but it was pleasant. I was glad I was able to ride my horse instead of traveling in the covered carts like my ladies and the baggage. I could look around as we made our way to the coast. I did try speaking Greek to the Emperor’s men. They complemented me on my progress. Brother Simon would be so proud of me.2 They told me about the city of Constantinople and all the wonders there. They also told me about Alexios. He is only one year older than me. That makes me happy. I would not want to marry an old man. I hope he finds me pleasing. I have so many beautiful dresses now. Which is why we travel with so many carts. I have never been this far from home, but we have so much more yet to go. After Montpellier we stop in Genoa. I hear stories about people who become so ill because of the sea they cannot leave their bed. I hope that is not me. Mother says the Greeks will expect a strong and brave princess. I do not want to arrive sick and weak. They might think I am not good enough for Alexios. Nativity of the Theotokos 1179 (September)

I am in Constantinople. I was not sick, but I still did not like traveling on a ship. As soon as I stepped on shore, I was greeted by a huge group of women. They wore robes of deep purple. Instead of veils their hair was covered with gold-striped headdresses shaped like fans. They led me to a place covered with dozens of red tents. Even the tents were decorated in gold! One lady handed us a set of clothes and said I should put them on tomorrow before I met the emperor. I do not understand what is wrong with my red and gold dress. She included a diadem of pearls with an enormous blue stone in the center for my head and red slippers for my feet. I was looking around my tent when I heard noises outside. A woman entered who was about the age of my mother. I thought she might be the empress, but they told me she was Maria Basilissa, Manuel’s daughter. She had a dark complexion and dark hair. I wondered if Alexios would look similar. She did not stay long or say much. I do not think she liked me, but I do not know why. I even greeted her in Greek. Maybe I mispronounced something. It is a very difficult language. In the morning my ladies dressed me in my new gown and slippers. Instead of fixing my blonde hair in its usual plait they wound it on top of my head and placed the pearl diadem over it. It was heavy. Then we all walked over a bridge to a platform to meet everyone. Emperor Manuel looked like his daughter except his nose was long and sharp and his lips were pressed into a thin line. He wore a dark purple tunic. His sash was made of blue and red checked cloth. Each square was filled by a huge gemstone of the same color. Next to him sat the empress. She is even more beautiful than the ladies had said. She has thick, golden hair like me. They said people comment most on her pearly skin, but I liked her dark eyes the most. They are shaped like almonds. She also wore a blue and red checked tunic studded with gems, though with wide sleeves. Her dress had a very high collar covered with enormous white pearls. I noticed a young boy standing next to the emperor. I

Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople 161 knew he must be Alexios. I was so curious to see his face but kept my eyes down the whole time like I had been told. I could tell he was dark like his father. I hope he has his mother’s kind eyes. I was led to a chair and sat next to the empress. A man came over and began to speak. Everyone was very still. I did not understand many of the words, but he seemed to be complimenting me.3 From the look on Maria basilissa’s face I could tell she was not happy about what he was saying. It went on and on. After he was done and everyone clapped, the empress spoke to me. In French! I was so relieved. She gave me a small book with beautiful images. I cannot wait to learn enough Greek so that I can read it. We traveled through the city to the emperor’s palace. The people cheered so loud. During the feast I sat next to the empress. She told me the names of all the men who were presented to me and tried to explain a lot of the dishes we ate. I was so tired by the end of the night. I was relieved when they told me it was time to go to my chambers. I fell asleep straight away. Pascha 1180 (March)

Alexios and I are finally married. I am no longer Agnes. From now on I am to be called Anna.4 After my naming ceremony in the Great Church, we went next door to the Great Palace. I expected it to be fancier than our home at Blachernae but it was sort of run down. The ceremony was in the Trullo Hall, which is enormous. It seemed to last forever. The man who gave the speech on the day of my arrival spoke again. This time I understood a few more of the words but it was hard to pay attention. I was so tired of standing. After the final blessing we moved to the dais, and I got to sit on my own throne next to Empress Maria. Then the people started to line up to wish me well. I will never remember their names, there were so many of them. I barely remember the feast that followed or all the performances. I was too worried about what would happen after with Alexios. When the time came and I was escorted to the chamber, Empress Maria tried to explain what would happen. What she said just confused me even more. The worst part was the whispering and giggling among the ladies as they helped me dress. The room got even more crowded when Alexios came in. I didn’t think they were ever going to leave, but once the blessing was over, we were alone. It was nice to be alone with Alexios. He seems very nice. I am so glad we are the same age. Now that we are married, I am hoping that I will be allowed to leave the women’s quarters more often. I am so tired of all the lessons! Why do I have to spend all those hours learning Greek and where to sit and where to stand and which prayers to say on what days when he gets to hunt and roam the country with his friends? Presentation of the Theotokos 1180 (November)

During the summer Emperor Manuel became ill. The empress said he would recover quickly but he did not. Even before he died the mood at the court changed. Since the wedding everyone had been so happy and cheerful. During

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his illness everyone seemed worried. No one spoke above a whisper. One morning the empress came to my chambers. I could tell by her red eyes that she had been crying. She told me the emperor had died during the night. I did not speak to him very often, but he always had kind things to say to me and smiled when I entered the room. We all attended his burial service at the Pantokrator. Even though his illness made his body weak he was firm about his deathbed wishes. Alexios told me that his father had two worries. The first was for his soul. That made me think the rumors I had heard about all his mistresses might be true. He had his attendants dress him in a monk’s habit before he died. His second worry was about Alexios because he was still so young. He insisted that the empress take monastic vows as well. The emperor said it was for her own salvation, but Maria Basilissa told everyone at court that it was because he didn’t trust her. He was worried she would marry again and Alexios would never rule. That is foolish. Everyone knows the Empress is devoted to Alexios. Now I am supposed to call her by her new name, Xen , which means foreigner. I keep forgetting. Theophany 1181 (January)

I was so excited about the Nativity season. I thought it might cheer everyone up. I was wrong. The celebrations were just like those while Manuel was alive, but because everyone was so gloomy and jumpy I did not enjoy them. No one smiled or laughed like last year. I am hearing rumors everywhere, mostly about Empress Maria. People are saying she has broken her vows. She and Alexios are lovers.5 I do not believe this at all. The others are just jealous that the emperor chose her as regent. Everywhere Maria Basilissa and her husband go they are surrounded by people who tell them what they want to hear, even if it isn’t true. They are such a strange couple. Renier is blond, like me, and sometimes tries to speak to me in French. That makes Maria Basilissa so angry. She is so much older and taller that when they stand next to each other they look more like mother and son than man and wife. She is always huddling with her people in corners and whispering behind curtains. They get very quiet when I walk by. Everyone knows Maria Basilissa has always hated the empress. Now that her father is gone, she can criticize her openly and spread more rumors. It is true that the empress spends a lot of time with the Protosebastos but that is because of her duties as regent. She told me he is the only person she can trust. All the other family members are selfish and only interested in using Alexios to get even richer. She has written to her sister Agnes in Hungary asking her to ask King Bela for help. I offered to write to my brother, Philip, who is now king since my father’s death. He is so far away in France she did not think he would be able to act quickly enough. I feel so helpless. The only person at court who does not seem to notice the gossip is Alexios. The empress is always reminding him of his duties, but he doesn’t seem to care. He dismissed his tutor and refuses to spend any time on lessons. He runs away from the palace every chance he

Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople 163 gets, going hunting with those horrible boys who pretend to be his friends. I try to speak to him about my worries, but he accuses me of being jealous of his fun. He says not to listen to gossip at court or the stories of how unhappy the people in the city are. He is their emperor and they would never wish him harm. I hope he is right. Pentecost 1181 (May)

So many horrible things have happened. Right after Easter festivities ended I heard that Maria Basilissa and Renier were hiding in St. Sophia. The Protosebastos discovered a plot to assassinate him and replace the empress as regent. The nobles who acted with them were placed on trial, but Maria and Renier fled the Great Palace. They told the people that the Protosebastos and the empress were trying to kill them. They promised money to any soldier willing to fight for them. They told the people to rebel and everywhere in the city was chaos. A mob gathered at the Hippodrome. They destroyed homes and looted buildings. Not even the home of the eparch Theodore Pantechn s was safe from their attacks. The empress said that Patriarch Theodosius pleaded with Maria to surrender but she refused. The Protosebastos ordered the imperial troops to surround St. Sophia. Maria’s forces fought hard, but they were outnumbered. Many of them fled. Maria finally agreed to let Patriarch Theodosius send a servant to the empress to request a truce. The Protosebastos wanted to punish them, but the empress pleaded for mercy. She promised that if they returned to the Great Palace they would not lose their positions at court and their supporters would all receive full pardons. I heard that they are now back in the Great Palace. The empress says peace has been restored, but I do not trust them. I fear for Alexios. Maria Basilissa says she only wants what is best for him, but I don’t believe her. I will tell Alexios of my worries, but I do not believe he will listen. He will tell me that I am wrong. His sister would never do anything to hurt him. I hope he is right. Nativity of Christ 1182 (December)

I was right about Maria, though I wish I had not been. After she came back to the Great Palace everyone wanted to believe that she had accepted the way things were. How wrong. She sent letters to her uncle Andronikos, spreading more lies. She told him the Protosebastos planned to kill Emperor Alexios and marry the empress. Andronikos left Paphlagonia and marched towards the city, telling the crowds he was going to save Alexios. He camped across the Bosporus at Damalis. We thought this was a sign that he had come in peace, but we were wrong. When the empress heard that Andronikos was so close to the city, she urged the Protosebastos to send the imperial troops that were still loyal to the emperor. She did not believe they would be safe until Andronikos was killed. But the Protosebastos refused. He worried that civil war would make things

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worse and that the emperor would be blamed. He said Andronikos was interested in money, not governing. He finally convinced the empress to send a messenger offering Andronikos money and titles if he would go back to the provinces. The Protosebastos was wrong. Andronikos rejected the offer. He demanded the resignation of the Protosebastos and insisted that the empress be confined to a nunnery. He would take her place as regent until Alexios was old enough to rule. He told the people he was fulfilling his promise to his brother, Emperor Manuel, but we all knew this was a lie. He hated the emperor. Alexios shouted that he was old enough to rule now and did not need a regent at all. The empress was angry that the Protosebastos wasted so much time. Everyone began arguing. There was so much shouting that no one noticed the Varangian guard storm into the chamber until it was too late. They waved their axes at the soldiers stationed on the edges of the room, grabbed the Protosebastos, and carried him away. Since it was night by then, the empress sent me to my chamber to sleep. I cannot sleep because I am too scared. So many horrible things have already happened. What will happen tomorrow? Pascha 1182 (April)

Sometimes I remember my life before Emperor Manuel died. Everyone was happy. There were feasts and banquets and celebrations. I walked in the gardens with the empress on sunny days. When he was in a good mood Alexios would take me hunting with him. Everything has changed since Andronikos came. Now I never leave the palace. Alexios is followed everywhere by guards. The empress keeps telling me that we are safe and everything is fine. I am the daughter of the King of France. I am the future Agousta. Not even Andronikos would harm me. I want to believe her. But then I think about what he did to the Protosebastos. They say Andronikos laughed while they gouged out his eyes. And all those people living in the Italian quarter he ordered massacred. Not even women and children were spared by his men. He said it was because they were foreigners. I am a foreigner. How am I safe? The empress thought it would be better if we moved to the palace of Mangan s, but he found us there. They say he was handsome once. They say the empress’s own sister loved him once. All I saw was a shriveled old man with white hair and wrinkled skin. I do not know how Alexios did not back away when Andronikos began beating his chest. I would have kicked him as he lay on the ground. Even I could tell that his tears were fake. He barely even looked at the empress. He should have bowed to her too. I kept my eyes on the ground the whole time so he could not see the hatred on my face. Pentecost 1182 (May)

We are back at Blachernae. Andronikos said it was where the emperor should live. Alexios is emperor now. Andronikos said it was time for his coronation. He even carried him on his own shoulders through St. Sophia and was the

Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople 165 first to bow. He swore to be loyal, but I do not believe him. But the people do. The procession back to the palace took forever. So many people lined the street to see their new emperor. They cheered for Andronikos too. They did not cheer for the empress. There are new rumors every day. Men from important families disappear. Men I have known since I arrived at court. Their wives come to see the empress to see if she knows what happened to them. But she cannot help. Andronikos tells her nothing. People are even saying he killed Maria Basilissa and Renier! That they were never sick like he said. He paid that eunuch Pterygeonit s to pour poison into their wine cups. I heard that Andronikos wants to marry Alexios to his own daughter. As if Alexios was not already married to me! But Patriarch Theodosius has refused. The girl’s mother is Andronikos’s own niece. Part of me hopes the Patriarch agrees. Maybe I would be safer if I was no longer Alexios’s wife. Maybe Philip would make them send me back to France. But then I would have to leave the empress. I am afraid for her. Andronikos is spreading lies all over the city. He says she is a foreigner and hates the Greek people! He even says she is conspiring against her own son! Everyone at court knows how devoted she is to Alexios. How can they believe these lies? Sometimes I wish she would stand up to Andronikos, but she says that would only make things worse. We need to stay quiet until Alexios is older. Then he will make things right and force Andronikos to return to the provinces. Nativity of Christ 1183 (December)

The worst has happened. He killed the empress. When he had the patriarch force her to leave the palace I hoped that would be enough. It was not. Everyone knows she did not commit any crime. That is why the judges of the velum refused to try her. They knew the truth. So did the patriarch. I wonder if he felt guilty for not speaking out sooner. Maybe that is why he left the city. Even if she did write to King Bela that is not a crime. He is married to her sister. That is not treason. He did not need to condemn her to death. I was hoping that, when his own sons refused to carry out his order, he would see how wrong he was. But no. He got that awful Pterygeonit s to do it. How scared she must have been in that dungeon. They tell me she was strangled. I cannot even visit her grave since he will not tell anyone where they buried her body. Some say he threw it into the sea. Others say it was buried along the shore. I hope she never knew Alexios signed her death decree. Her heart would have broken in two. Just like mine. Presentation of the Theotokos 1183 (November)

I was wrong. Killing the empress was not the worst thing. He killed Alexios. They say they attacked him at night and strangled him with a bowstring. People whisper about horrible things Andronikos did to his body. Everyone has a different story about where he is buried. I will never know the truth. I

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remember the day I married Alexios. I dreamt of the time when I would sit on the throne as the empress. That day has come. I am finally empress. But it is so different from my dream. It is my worst nightmare. How could they make me marry that horrible old man? I kept trying to run away, but they surrounded me and dragged me back by his side. He said if I refused to say the vows he would have me killed, just like Alexios and the empress. What choice did I have? On the nights when he goes to his mistress, I escape to my dreams. There I see Alexios, smiling at me from across the great hall. I cry out his name, but he disappears. When I wake, all I want is to go back to sleep. It is my life that is the nightmare. Elevation of the Cross 1185 (September)

He is dead. I am not sad. For the first time in a long time I am not afraid. He cannot harm me now. Or take away more people I love. I heard that they brought him out of his prison and put him on a camel. No one would have guessed from the rags he wore and his shorn head that he had been emperor for two years. They led him to the Hippodrome. They say they did horrible things to him before he died. I do not care if he suffered. There is a new emperor. It is Isaakios. He summoned me to the Blachernai. I did not remember him, but he told me we met when I first came to the city. I told him I never wanted to marry Andronikos and I did not want to go with him when he escaped to Chel . I hoped he would take Maraptik , who he loved, and leave me behind. But he said the sister of the French king could prove useful. I wanted to tell him the king did not care. Philip never responded to the letter I sent after they murdered Alexios. Or my plea for help after my marriage to Andronikos. I told the new emperor I was relieved when they found us and brought us back to the city. I asked what would become of me. He said I was to remain at court. He was to marry Margaret, the daughter of King Bela, in the next few months. Since she and I were close in age he hoped I would be a good companion for her. I agreed. What other choice do I have? Notes 1 Marie and Alix, Louis’s daughters with Eleanor of Aquitaine, married Henry I of Champagne and Theobald V of Blois, respectively. His daughters with Constance of Castile, Margarete and Alys, married Henry the Younger of England and Béla III of Hungary and William V of Ponthieu, respectively. 2 Evidence suggests that the royal abbey of Saint Denis possessed some knowledge of Greek and would have been the most likely source of any language instruction prior to Agnes’s departure. 3 The address of welcome delivered by Eustathios of Thessaloniki has survived, along with an oration made on the occasion of the wedding between Agnes and Alexios. 4 While changing the name of foreign brides was standard practice, whether or not it indicated conversion to Greek religious rites is uncertain. 5 Alexios, Manuel’s nephew, was elevated to the rank of Protosebastos by the regent Maria.

Agnes of France, Empress of Constantinople 167 Further Reading O city of Byzantium, Annals of Niketas Choniats, trans. Harry J. Magoulias (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1984). The Conquest of Constantinople. Robert of Clari, trans. Edgar Homes McNeal (Columbia: Columbia University Press, 1936). Eustathios of Thessaloniki, The Capture of Thessaloniki, trans. John R. Melville Jones (Canberra: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1988). Lynda Garland, Byzantine Empresses. Women and Power in Byzantium, AD 527–1204 (New York: Routledge, 1999). Moving Women, Moving Objects (400–1500), ed. Tracy Chapman Hamilton and Mariah Proctor-Tiffany (Brill: Leiden, 2019).

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I am Thibaut I of Navarre, the Poet Who Would Be King Xabier Irujo

Introduction In the annals of history, Thibaut, King of Navarre and Count of Champagne, was a towering figure whose influence stretched far beyond the borders of his realm. From a young age he was raised at the court of Philip II, King of France, where he witnessed the tumultuous conflicts with the House of Plantagenet that ravaged the continent for decades. It was on the field of battle that Thibaut proved his mettle, standing shoulder to shoulder with King Philip in the ferocious Battle of Bouvines, which marked the end of the Angevin Empire and secured the French king’s dominance over the English continental domains. In the wake of this historic triumph, the kingdom of France emerged as a mighty power on the world stage, and Thibaut stood at the forefront of the new order. Thibaut was born into the arms of adversity, with his fate sealed by the passing of his father before his arrival into this world. His young life was thrown into turmoil as his county of Champagne was left in the care of his mother, the valiant Blanca of Navarre. It wasn’t until Thibaut reached maturity in 1222 that he was able to take up the mantle of leadership and become one of the twelve peers of France, a key figure in the swirling currents of court politics that defined the age. Thibaut’s fortunes ebbed and flowed with the succession of monarchs who followed Philip, including Louis VIII, whom he opposed in the Albigensian Crusade of 1226. In a stunning turn of events, Thibaut was later accused of having an illicit affair with Queen Blanca de Castilla and of assassinating the king, a charge that led to a string of betrayals and a bitter rupture with his lord and the kingdom of France. Yet Thibaut’s fortunes took a turn for the better when he ascended to the throne of Navarre in 1234, where he sought to rule the Basques with an iron fist in the face of fierce opposition from one of Europe’s first parliaments. This struggle for power provides a window into the nascent workings of democracy in Europe and the groundbreaking University of Juries of Navarre, a little-known institution whose legacy endures to this day. Thibaut’s legacy is written not only in the annals of politics but in the poetry of his songs, as a renowned troubadour whose music and lyrics have stood the test of time. DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-17

Thibaut I of Navarre 169 Thibaut’s story is a glimpse into the life of a quintessentially medieval man, a life full of stark contradictions. As the son and heir of a father he never knew, he was brought up amidst a corrupt society that knew not the virtue of loyalty. Thrice he betrayed the trust of his king, and thrice he was pardoned. A lucky husband and devoted lover, he stumbled into battles that he held in contempt, yet emerged victorious to savor the fruits of his campaigns, despite his lamentable military losses. From the Crusades, he returned bearing a grape cluster of Chardonnay and the rose of Damascus. When he became King of the Basques, a people that refused to pay him homage, he was compelled to learn the inescapable obligation of obeying the law. But the Navarrese crown allowed him to dedicate himself wholeheartedly to his sole passion: music and poetry. Though he died under excommunication, his resting place was once the Cathedral of Pamplona, though his remains have long since disappeared, only two decades after his passing. Portrait Throughout my life I have been known as a celebrated poet, nicknamed “faiseur de chansons” or “song maker.” As a trouvère, I composed works in Langue d’oïl or French, in contrast to the troubadours who wrote and sang in Langue d’oc or Occitan. My grandmother, Marie de Champagne, was three times queen regent of the court of Eleonore de Aquitaine in Poitiers, where the monarchs patronized countless trouvères. As a child, I met the famous trouvère Chrétien de Troyes and Gace Brulé at the court of Champagne. The latter taught me the art of verse, and according to many critics I wrote “the most beautiful, delicious, and melodious songs that have ever been heard.” My songs were about forbidden love. Although I never hesitated to betray my king and wives, I was never unfaithful to my lovers. Perhaps that is why I was more renowned among poets than among warriors. I will be known to posterity more for my love of singing and the art of poetry, and for my chivalrous and gallant customs than for my deeds of arms. My passion led me to believe and write that it is my memories of love and the virtuous ascendancy of the women I loved that have decided my destiny and filled my days with the fetching moments that attend me in my last hours. My name is Theobaldus, and I am the son of Blanca, Princess of Navarre. I was born in the palace of Troyes on May 30, 1201, exactly six days after the death of my father, Count Thibaut III of Champagne and Brie. That is why I was always called “the posthumous.” The County of Champagne was a feudal state located 100 miles southeast of Paris, with its capital in the city of Troyes. It was an important center of trade and commerce, and its annual fairs at Troyes and Bar-sur-Aube were major events in the kingdom of France, attracting merchants from all over the continent. The county also had a long history of political and military power and was involved in various conflicts and alliances throughout the ages. My mother ruled the county for twenty long years, and her regency was plagued with

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difficulties. Her determination was that I should become Count of Champagne and Brie, and thus, one of the twelve peers of France. Immediately after my father’s burial, my mother had to appear before King Philippe II to secure my rights in Champagne. The custom was that the widowed heiress of a fief could not marry without the consent of her lord. If a father refused to obtain royal consent to marry her daughter, he was punished by losing the fief. If the widow offered her hand without the authorization of her lord, her husband was sentenced to death or to the mutilation of one of his members. These measures were imposed to prevent royal vassals from marrying people of dubious fidelity. In exchange for royal protection, my mother agreed to let my sister and me grow up at court, in Paris. The king swore to protect us, feed us, and educate us. He also swore that he would not marry my sister until she was twelve years old and that he would request the consent of my mother and the advice of the leading barons and prelates of the kingdom. My marriage would also be considered a matter of state. That was how my mother got the King and the Dauphin of France and the Pope in Rome to take sides in favor of my cause. As soon as I had the use of reason, I obtained the royal favor in the only possible way: at the age of thirteen, I bravely fought in the Battle of Bouvines, an act of arms that determined the end of the Anglo-French war in favor of the King of France in July 1214. But, despite everything, my cousin Philippota’s claim led to the War of Succession of Champagne in 1216. It was a cruel war that lasted six long years. Many of the barons supported my cousin’s cause, led by Thibaut I, Duke of Lorraine. Simon de Joinville, Seneschal of Champagne, and his brother Guillaume, Bishop of Langres, were two formidable adversaries who posed a great threat to our cause. The latter, despite being excommunicated, was one of the few prelates who supported the insurrection. The rebels adopted guerrilla warfare tactics, ambushing merchant caravans en route to the Champagne fairs. However, they soon realized that disrupting this source of income was counterproductive, and hence agreed to truces to ensure the normal functioning of local fairs and markets, which were crucial in sustaining the war effort. Although the rebels achieved some initial victories, the intervention of King Eudes III of France, Duke of Bourgogne, and Holy Roman Emperor Friedrich II turned the tide in our favor. Our enemies ravaged Alsace and destroyed the royal vineyards, but the emperor recaptured Rosheim and, according to the chronicles, lured the garrison of Lorraine into his cellars under the pretext of tasting his excellent wines, only to massacre them all. With the assistance of the counts of Burgundia and Bar, our troops captured and razed Nancy in 1218. Meanwhile, my mother’s armies devastated Simon de Joinville’s territories, and the pope’s excommunications and interdicts further isolated the rebellious barons. Eventually, my mother imposed a humiliating capitulation agreement on her foes, laying the foundation for a lasting peace.

Thibaut I of Navarre 171 Thibaut I passed away under suspicious circumstances in May 1220. I do not really know if my mother had anything to do with that, but I prefer not to know. At the time I was nineteen years old, and in a bid to secure peace I married his sixteen-year-old widow, Gertrude de Dagsburg, that same month. Although Gertrude and I shared a passion for poetry and music we had little else in common, and I never made any attempt to remain faithful to her. In 1222, my enemies relinquished their claims to the County of Champagne in exchange for a generous monetary compensation. Two years later, in May 1222, I came of age and ascended the throne as Thibaut IV, Count of Champagne and Brie, one of the twelve peers of France. Despite my mother’s victory, the price of that triumph was enormous. I endeavored to preserve the memories of my childhood by distinguishing my affectionate perception of my mother from her ruthless actions. Between 1222 and 1234, I applied all the lessons I had learned at the court of the king. I betrayed my lord on three occasions and his enemies just as many times. I only married for the dowry and betrayed my wives when the opportunity arose. I even seduced the wives of kings and nobles, and ultimately betrayed myself by becoming so skilled in these deceitful acts. Although the French crown’s support was crucial for our cause, I detested serving my king in endless military campaigns. Unlike my mother, I never understood the purpose of war and lost every battle I fought. However, I knew how to negotiate advantageous peace agreements and salvage victories from the ruins of defeat. Following the death of King Philippe II in July 1223, his son Louis VIII was crowned with his wife Blanca de Castilla by Archbishop Guillaume de Joinville. Henry III, King of England, demanded the restitution of Normandy and other lands taken by Louis. Louis refused and this dragged us back into war. Reluctantly, I followed my lord to Poitou, Saintonge, and Guyenne, where my bravery during the siege of La Rochelle in 1224 earned me the respect of the king and his men-at-arms. In gratitude for my services, the king released me from my oath to accompany him on future campaigns. However, in 1226, I was forced to join Louis VIII in the Albigensian Crusade, which the pope had declared. Although the king was in good health, he made a will before departing, leaving me considerable sums of money along with expressions of affection. I lived as a gentleman of my time, admired for my courage, skill in arms, and success as a poet. I was young and strong, tall, and well proportioned; I had shown courage and skill in the exercise of arms, I had a large income and, in general, I was liberal and generous; gentle and courteous, my lovers praised my kind character. I was also highly regarded as a poet, and my quick and penetrating mind was admired; my ballads began to reap much success in royal courts, even in rebellious Provence. In addition, I had the support of the king, and all this made me gain quite a good number of enemies in the palace. At the young age of twenty-four, I encountered Queen Blanca de Castilla who, despite being nearly forty, was stunningly beautiful. As the granddaughter

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of Blanca Gartzez of Navarre and Éléonore de Aquitaine, she had a great influence on the women of Champagne. According to the laws at the time, young, lower class women, even when married to free men, could only give birth to serfs. However, Blanca challenged this custom by declaring that women would have the right to buy the freedom of their children in exchange for a modest sum. This motto, “in Champagne the belly ennobles,” became her own, and she also confronted the despotism of the barons, forced the canons of Paris to stop preying upon their vassals, and opened asylums for poor girls and widows without a dowry. Despite her benevolent actions, she had her share of enemies who accused her of having intimate relations with me and the papal legate, Romano Frangipani. She was even accused of being pregnant, which forced her to appear before the court barons and prelates dressed only in her robe. In 1226 I participated in the holy war, which was merely an excuse to crush the Provence, home of the troubadours of Languedoc. I went to Avignon in front of 1,500 knights and 4,000 troops; the city offered a vigorous defense, and, in a few months, the royal adventure had turned into a bloody massacre. I asked the monarch to return to Champagne, having satisfied my forty days of service, but my passion for the queen reached the ears of the king, who threatened me with taking fire and iron to my earldoms if I left my position to go to her. Ignoring the threats, I withdrew without the king’s permission. Louis, the king, captured various cities, but he fell ill with dysentery and died on November 8 at the castle of Montpensier. Roger of Wendover claimed that I, “tormented by my passion for the queen,” had poisoned him. Blanca, the regent queen, immediately summoned all the prelates and lords of the kingdom for the coronation of her son, Louis IX. Despite being invited, I was ignominiously expelled from the ceremony. Disgusted, I joined the king’s worst enemies, Pierre de Dreux and Hugues de Lusignan, and started a revolt, becoming the general of the rebel league. The queen gathered an army and marched against us. Seeing them arrive on the battlefield, she asked to parley. The young prince received me kindly, and we soon came to terms. My betrayal weakened the rebel cause and they had to sign the Treaty of Vendôme in March 1227. Despite their previous failed attempts, the counts of Boulogne, Bretagne, and de la Marche continued to plot and agreed to kidnap the young prince. When the queen mother learned of these plans, she sent me a letter expressing her disappointment in my absence from court and my opposition to her regency. However, she also revealed that she had offered me more affection than I had shown her, contrary to what my love songs had implied. In an effort to prove my loyalty, I disclosed all the details of the plot to her. The queen quickly fled to Montlhéry with her son, and I organized a force of 300 knights to come to her aid. When the Count of Bretagne arrived on the battlefield, he was taken aback to see me fighting alongside the king, and a new truce was negotiated. Unfortunately, my betrayal ultimately led to the invasion of Champagne in 1228, resulting in a three-year war with my former allies, the counts of

Thibaut I of Navarre 173 Boulogne, Bretagne, and de la Marche. I was once again forced to win the peace and pay for it. Blanca suggested that I purchase the rights to my earldom from my cousin Alice, the Queen of Cyprus, for an annuity of £2,000 and £40,000 in cash. However, as I did not have that amount of money, Blanca convinced her son Louis to lend it to me in exchange for the counties of Blois, Chartres, and Sancerre, as well as the viscounty of Châteaudun and all its dependencies, to which I reluctantly agreed in September 1234. My wife passed away in 1231, leaving me with a young daughter, Blanche. I did not cry. As Champagne was without an heir, later that year I secretly agreed to marry Iolande, the daughter of the Count of Bretagne, in order to renew our old alliance. And this is how I betrayed France again. However, the queen mother discovered this plot and made me give it up, as Pope Gregory IX declared the marriage incestuous. I undid my engagement in a matter of days, betraying my allies in treason for the fourth time, and eventually married Marguerite de Bourbon-Dampierre, daughter of Archambaud de Bourbon, with the royal sanction on September 12, 1232. I received a generous dowry of £36,000 for my service to the crown. As previously written, my life leading up to that moment had been characterized by a series of plots, betrayals, intrigues, and deceitful tactics. There was little to be proud of beyond the success of my criminal deeds. It is my belief that my mother understood this, which is why she went to great lengths to secure my right to the throne of her brother, Sancho VII “the Strong,” King of Navarre. While I owe my kingship to her, that day brought me more than just a crown; it brought me everything I had ever desired: the opportunity to devote my life to building peace and all its accompanying rewards. Moreover, the crown of Navarre brought with it one of the most important lessons I have ever learned. Sancho, a towering figure standing at 7.3 feet tall, entrusted the regency of the kingdom to my mother shortly before his death at the age of eightythree, as he had no children. Compared to my holdings in Champagne, the state of Navarre was relatively small, but it boasted a wealthy treasury and excellent infrastructure. Culturally, Navarre was incredibly diverse, with a thriving Jewish community where nine different languages coexisted, though Basque, my mother’s and Sancho’s language, was the dominant tongue. The kingdom experienced a cultural renaissance in the Romanesque style and was beginning to embrace the Gothic style, which would eventually bear great fruits, producing some of the most magnificent architectural wonders of the thirteenth century. It was an ideal court for a trouvère. Numerous princes and even several kings coveted the throne of Navarre. Initially, my Uncle Sancho was sympathetic to my cause, but after a few months his dissatisfaction or discontent led him to change his mind. The Navarrese nobility and clergy also did not support me. Two years after my mother’s passing, and three years before his death, Sancho invited the young King Jaume I of Aragon, who was twenty-five years old, to his castle in

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Tudela. In 1231, they signed a treaty of “mutual inheritance,” in which they adopted each other, obviously benefiting the younger of the two. When Sancho’s death was imminent, I rushed to Pamplona in the spring of 1234. A month later, the Navarre Courts rejected the king’s will and invited me, on behalf of Parliament, to assume the crown. The only condition was that I swear to defend and respect the laws of the land, the “foruak,” a code of legal norms enforced in the country four centuries earlier, which was incomprehensible to me. It was a new experience for me to be chosen by the people of Navarre as their king and lord, rather than by divine grace. The Parliament made it clear that I was no more significant than any of them, and all of them together were much more significant than me. I had to swear fidelity to the rule of law, meaning that the foruak were above and beyond my will and authority, and I had to govern “adhering to the rule of law.” The laws also required me to correct any future wrongdoings and rectify any injustices I had committed from one year to the next before receiving any donation or sum of money from the royal treasury, which was in their hands. Finally, they made me swear to improve their code of laws and not make it worse. In addition to these urgent matters, the kingdom’s representatives demanded that I adhere to four other important customs. First, as king, I had no power to convene the legislative assembly or declare war or arrange truces, seize land or property, or execute any other crucial business without the advice and approval of the twelve wisest elders in the Basque country. The norm meant that I had to govern in constant agreement with Parliament, which had the final say on all important matters. I was not authorized to organize an army and lead it beyond the borders of the kingdom, since the Navarrese only had an obligation to defend their kingdom within its territorial limits. Moreover, I could only name a maximum of five officials from Champagne in Navarre, while the magistracies had to be in the hands of Navarrese subjects who spoke Basque. I had to distribute wealth and property appropriately with the locals and support, protect, and sustain markets to allow the Navarrese to carry out their commercial transactions peacefully. Finally, I was not permitted to alienate land within the borders of the Navarrese state. Under these conditions, I was raised on the paves of the Cathedral of Pamplona as the first king of the Champagne dynasty in the spring of 1234. This brought about significant changes in the fortunes of both myself and the county of Champagne and Brie. The crown of Navarre greatly increased my financial resources and political prestige, making me too powerful for any of the eleven other peers of France to confront. After spending two months in Pamplona, I traveled to Estella (also known as Lizarra in Basque) to learn about the customs of the kingdom. I soon discovered that many cities and valleys had their own legal codes, which further limited my royal authority and my appetite for gold. These codes generally applied the same laws to all inhabitants regardless of their class, origin, creed, income, or dignity. The crown had very limited ability to intervene in their internal affairs, and a council of elected members governed

Thibaut I of Navarre 175 the cities pro tempore for one year. In many cities and valleys, all inhabitants were considered noblemen by birth and were therefore equal before the law under the principle of “universal nobility,” including women who had full legal authority over their possessions. The code of laws in Estella, established in 1076, granted women the same rights and duties as men, with the exception of the service of arms. Women referred to themselves as “free, exempt, and not obliged [to any charge or service that they had not agreed to].” It dawned on me what had given rise to my mother’s remarkable resilience and toughness: she was just acting as a Basque woman. Additionally, there was a league of tenants in the kingdom whose main objective was to defend the interests of the people against the abuses of the rich and powerful. This league comprised a diverse group of free men, clerics, bourgeois, and farmers who organized themselves around the University of the Juries of Navarre. This assembly acted in defense of the laws and customs, freedoms and privileges of the free people of Navarre against the injustice of the rich and powerful, united by their motto “Pro libertate patria, gens libera state,” meaning “free people in a free country.” The University of the Juries of Navarre elected a temporary leader called a “buruzagi” who presided over assemblies of free men. These meetings were held wherever necessary to uphold their rights, independent of my royal will and without my presence. The university remained fiercely independent, even when the Bishop of Pamplona attempted to join but was rejected to maintain the league’s autonomy from the elites. Faced with this insult, the bishop went to Obanos, where the university was meeting, and was so badly received that, according to an eyewitness to the events, he had to run away, leaving the meat in the pot still hot, “and without saying a good word.” The university’s usual procedure involved investigating crimes committed in the kingdom and convening assemblies to judge the accused and establish fines. Offenders were given the opportunity to make amends by paying a fine and returning stolen goods. Those who refused to comply faced a higher fine, and if they still refused, the university assembled an armed force to loot their properties, burn down their houses, and even execute them regardless of social status. An example of this was the destruction of two palaces belonging to a nobleman due to the theft of 770 pounds of wheat from a peasant. It was astonishing, for stealing a loaf of bread from a beggar, these people were entitled to burn the palace of a nobleman to the ground! One year after being sworn in as ruler of Navarre, I faced the complaints of the university for the first time. I came from a feudal region and was not accustomed to accepting limitations imposed by the people upon the high clergy and nobility. I did not understand, and I did not want to comply with the restrictions imposed by the laws of the kingdom, the good cities, and the University of Juries of Navarre. In 1235, I tried to dissolve the university with the help of Pope Gregory IX, but this led to an insurrection in Tudela and other cities. I sent my seneschal with another gentleman to Tudela, and they met with the great council by the cemetery, on the outskirts of the city, just

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under the bell tower. There they let them know that I had tried to bribe the board by trickery, offering each of the boarders fifty pounds, all of which was perfectly true of course. But not only did they not accept the bribe, but they let my seneschal know that they did not accept my bribes to prove that the board was not governed according to my will or anyone else’s. My seneschal barely managed to agree to a truce. Eventually, I had to listen to them and accept their conditions. Despite tension and mistrust, the university and the curia continued to grow stronger, and my actions stimulated the development and institutionalization of the royal curia that became the embryo of the general court or parliament in 1231. They informed me that I had the royal right to dispose but that they had the right to not comply. They told me that to them I was a “person of strange origin and strange language.” As a result, they decided to codify their laws, fearing that my ignorance of them could harm the republic. They believed that a king should be aware of the laws that the people live by, as the lack of observance could lead to negative consequences. In January 1238, just four years after my coronation, a great assembly convened in Estella to write down “the laws that are and shall be between them and me.” Despite my proposal to have the Holy Father act as arbitrator, which I thought would benefit me due to my good relations with the corrupt papacy, the assembly completed the task that same year without changing a word of the legal code, which reflected the customary spirit of the laws of the Basques. In the year of our Lord 1239 I fought my last war. Lacking all conviction, I led a crusading host towards the Holy Land. Alas, the Barons’ Crusade did not boast of any military triumphs to speak of, but it did lead to a handful of diplomatic successes. With no will and no reason to fight, I indulged myself in the pleasures of the beautiful town of Acre, where I composed the only poem to my wife. As fate would have it, during our march towards Ascalon, a troop of 400 knights, under the leadership of the illustrious Hugues IV de Bourgogne, Henri II de Bar, and Amaury de Montfort, made the grave error of engaging Muslim forces at Gaza. The result of this folly was nothing short of catastrophic, and they were soundly defeated. In the midst of the scorching desert, I was stranded with a meager group of crusaders, rendered inconsequential in the face of the tumultuous and hazardous events that unfurled around us. Negotiations with the rulers of Damascus and Egypt were necessary, and I soon realized that they were not on amicable terms with each other. Seeing an opportunity to further my cause, I shrewdly finalized a treaty with the ruler of Damascus against the ruler of Egypt. Thus, it was through my efforts that the Kingdom of Jerusalem regained control of the city of Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, most of the region of Galilee, and its many Templar castles. The entire land between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean lay in my hands so to say. The success of the crusade, the most fruitful in territorial terms since the first, can solely be attributed to the fortuitous turn of events. Therefore, I hastened my return to my homeland

Thibaut I of Navarre 177 with two treasured mementos: the rose of “Provins” adorning my helmet, and a fragment of the true cross. But most notably, I carried with me a grape of Chardonnay, the primary component of a delightful beverage that would soon become known as “champagne.” But as I near the end of my life and face the inevitability of death, I can only reflect upon the invaluable lessons I learned from these remarkable people of Navarre. I never betrayed their trust nor violated the laws of the land. And if I didn’t do it, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to – God knows that I tried hard – but because I never found a way to circumvent the rigid principles of the free people who organized the first parliament known in Europe. I learned more about reason of state and principles of government from them than in all my years at the court of France where the course of action was war, and treason the rule. The Basque people do not admit lords, do not grant privileges, do not tolerate inequality, nor tolerate war. They crowned me and forced me to abide by the law. They taught me to obey, and I learned something else. Working with the people hand in hand for the peace and prosperity of the republic gave me the greatest satisfaction, and their trust allowed me to dedicate myself in body and soul to my passion: poetry. I am Thibaut I of Navarre, the poet who would be king, and the king who kneeled before the law. Further Reading Bard, Rachel, Navarra, The Durable Kingdom, University of Nevada Press, Reno, 1982. Brahney, Kathleen J., The Lyrics of Thibaut de Champagne, Garland, New York, 1989. Irujo, Xabier, Teobaldo I de Champagne: El poeta que quiso ser rey, Ekin, Buenos Aires, 2020. Lacarra, José María, Historia del reino de Navarra en la Edad Media, Caja de Ahorros de Navarra, Pamplona, 1975.

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Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene, OFM, from Genoa Felicitas Schmieder

Introduction The expansion of the Mongol Empire stalled after  inggis Khan’s heirs had reached Latin European regions in Poland/Hungary, but also in the Levant/ Syria in the mid-thirteenth century. In the latter region the Mongols were then stopped by Muslim forces and, looking for allies, the Latin Christian powers in Europe were a logical choice due to the common enemy. A logical choice for intermediaries were Latin Christians living in the region, merchants or missionaries: for the powers further West they were part of their own group, in the region they had learned to adapt to foreign beliefs and serve non-Christian rulers. Between 1260 and c. 1300 several of these ambassadors went from the Mongol il-khanid court in Tabriz and later Sultaniyah (both in the very north of modern Iran) to visit the papal curia and European courts (mainly in Naples, Paris, and Bordeaux, but also on the Iberian Peninsula), carried letters, and tried to “translate” the different experiences on both sides. Ricardus, the personage created for this portrait, is, in name as well as functions, an amalgam from historical men we usually know little about personally, and the same is true for the recipient of the narration, his Genoese merchant friend Francesco dei Fieschi. This narrative focuses on an important moment in Ricardus’s life and it reflects his memories in the years that led up to that moment. The letter/report which carries that narrative is also fictive but similar to actual sources we have. It, as well as travel routes, meetings, etc., are all taken from historical facts as much as possible. While all historical personalities named in the report, kings as well as clerics mentioned by name, and all events given with dates are real and well documented, any detail that concerns Ricardus could have happened, but none is an actual historical event. The timeline of the travel fits the events we know of but otherwise is kept relatively vague in order not to create contradictions. All literal quotations are taken from real sources (among them the book of Marco Polo whose father and uncle who had returned to Venice in 1269 are alluded to), even though those may be a little older or younger than the fictive letter/report. Some of the conditions of Italian Levant trade, etc. are well documented, but sometimes also only at the beginning DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-18

Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene 179 of the fourteenth century. Also, the discussions hinted at, be they geographical, ethnographical, or eschatological, are taken from the sources of the time, and the opinions can all be found there. Ricardus was born c. 1230 in Genoa, studied the laws and entered the order of Saint Francis. He went to Antiochia c. 1251 and to Tabriz following the Mongol campaign to Syria in 1259/1260. In 1271, the Khan sent his experienced servant to the West, to Naples, Rome, Bordeaux, and Paris. Everywhere he is well received as a Friar Minor and he can stay in the Franciscan convents, but he also realizes that in certain ways he has become a foreigner in the West. He comes from the worst devils imaginable to the West, is taken as a well of information, and learns quickly what he shouldn’t say. Portrait Letter from notarius Ricardus de Omnibene, OFM, to Francesco dei Fieschi, merchant in Baghdad, written in the Franciscan convent in the Mongol ilkhanid capital Tabriz in the year 1272/1273, about his travels in 1271 to 1272. Dear Francesco, I hope your trading business keeps running smoothly and the caravan from Herat you were expecting when I last saw you arrived safely. As agreed when we sat at your fire in Baghdad on my way back to my convent here in Tabriz (which we call in Latin Tauris), I try to write down my adventures on my journey through our christianitas during the past two years or so. I am sending this through the regular postal service (and isn’t that a great achievement the “Tartar devils”, as they are still called back in Italy, managed to build?). But at first, important news for your trading business. There are rumours here at the court that the Northern Tartars, the clan or how they say Ulus Jochi, plans, again, trouble in the Caucasus, up in Greater Armenia. Part of the court will soon go to the south, to Sultaniyah, while the Khan himself with his troops will try to head off any attack. In Sultaniyah the Khan has started to build a new palace – they seem to plan a city there but then many of the Tartar troops (they like to call themselves Mongols, but I stick to the name usual among us – and the only one understood back West) are quite suspicious of stone walls and prefer the “movable cities” made out of their yurts. While Tabriz lies on the big east–west highway, Sultaniyah would also be a bit closer to the Sea of Baku or Sarra where, I am sure you are aware, “of late Genoese merchants set sail”. There exist, by the way, certain geographical ideas about our region in the West – but they are distorted in a way that makes it difficult to actually make people understand where we live. People did ask me about the troubles in the Caucasus. It seems that some merchants from Venice have recently returned from a journey across Asia they made because said troubles kept them from returning home. And people wanted to know whether the Caucasus should be called the Caspian Mountains and the sea

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I just mentioned the Caspian Sea, and they of course get excited about that. About twenty years ago, our Flemish friar William [of Rubruck] who famously travelled to the Great Khan assured that this was the Caspian Sea but decided that the Ancients were in error that this Caspian Sea was “a gulf extending inland from the Ocean” that surrounds the oikumene [the inhabited earth] because “this Sea is enclosed by mountains on three sides, but its northern shore opens onto a plain. Friar Andrew travelled around two of its sides, the southern and the eastern, while I myself went round the other two.” But I myself am not so sure that this is at all the Caspian Sea with the Caspian Mountains where, as we all know from the old histories, Alexander the Great enclosed the unclean Jews until Antichrist would rise, and they would break out as Gog and Magog at the End of Time. I think the Caspian Sea is far away on the actual shore of the Ocean, and I prefer to call this one here Sea of Baku or of Sarra as our people here and also the natives say – Baku being a big city on the way to the Iron Gates [Derbent] (which, obviously, are not the ones Alexander once closed with the help of God because they are open and you can easily travel through them towards the North), and Sarra being the capital of the Northern Tartars, on the stream Ityl [Wolga] that goes into the Sea of Sarra. And the mountains of the Iron Gate I am not calling Caspian Mountains but Caucasus. But the truth about the Caspian Sea, unfortunately, cannot be established easily even by us who are travelling these regions – yet. I mean, about thirty years ago people back in the West tended to identify the Tartars with the people of Endtime, Gog and Magog – and obviously they aren’t, “they are completely normal humans”. On the other hand, they themselves tell us about mountains much further to the Northeast behind which their steppes lie, where they elect their Great Khans and bury them, where the city of Karakorum has been built. Maybe these are the Caspian Mountains, and beyond is the Caspian Sea, and maybe some other tribes remain in the mountains, maybe in a place difficult to escape from. But for sure, there have been tribes coming through the Caucasus already long before the Tartars appeared in the region, as natives here have heard stories from their ancestors, so we are not talking about Gog and Magog here. When I spoke back in the West about the hostilities between the Ulus Jochi and the Ulus Tolui here in the North of Persia (as the Ancients have called our region) people were rejoicing that “dogs destroy dogs”. They simply won’t understand that peace between the Mongol clans is so much better for our businesses, yours and mine, trade and mission. And they also do not get that we are speaking not just about a local war but one that concerns the whole huge Tartar Empire, since our Khan Abaqa is a nephew of the Great Khan Kubilai in Khanbaliq [Beijing] representing the Ulus Tolui. By the way, the head of my order whom I met in Rome did also not get why I am friends with a big sinner like you, being a merchant which our

Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene 181 Father Francis had been and given up, but don’t we converse in our Genoese mother tongue and isn’t it better to have friends from the same continent of Yaphet [Europa] when far away from home? Then and more often I felt as if I had distanced myself much more than the few months of travel distance from my old home … I remember reading in one of the reports of the re-conquest of Jerusalem in 1099 of “us who were Occidentals now have become Orientals”, and that seems to be very true. Already on the ship to Italy I had seen the looks the seamen gave my long black beard I wear just because everyone here does, but when I came to Rome, I was told that, as a cleric, I really should not run around with a beard at all. And while the gown of Saint Francis is well known everywhere in the West and held in high regard, and although I went to mass regularly and knew my way around, people get suspicious easily. They consider us living “at the end of the world and in the throats of our enemies” and suspect us of having “fraternization and camaraderie with the Emperor of the Tartars and his underlings”. But I get ahead of myself – let us return to my travels. From Tabriz, I set out together with several companions and kept to the north in or at the rim of high mountains, always keeping a safe distance from the land in the South raided by Mamluks, crossing the Euphrates (which even people in the West know because it is the name of one of the Rivers of Paradise). We travelled to Lesser Armenia and also avoided Antioch – a place familiar to me, as you know, as I took my first steps to the Holy Land there because the Holy City of Jerusalem had been lost to us already for a few years [1244]. But also Antioch, the ancient see of the Apostle Peter which had been a Christian principality for about one and a half centuries, is now lost since Baybars the sultan of Egypt had conquered it after a long siege [May 1268] a few years before I now returned. We kept in the land of the king of Lesser Armenia, a faithful ally to my lord Abaqa and close to the Roman church as well – a connection that brought me to Tabriz more than ten years ago. In Lesser Armenia lies “Laias, the huge marketplace on the sea. Spices and cloth and all other things are brought here, and merchants from Venice and Genoa and elsewhere come to Laias for purchase.” There, we found a Genoese ship (don’t trust those Venetians one bit) of our merchants’ fleet sailing nearly every year from Italy towards the Holy Land and back – even if Genoese ships may not go there as much as to Pera [Galata] and Constantinople and further to Mare Maggiore or Ponticum [Black Sea] where for ten years or so now we already have the advantage over the Venetians (may it last), and the Genoese are now negotiating with those Tartars of the North for access to some of the formerly Greek harbours on the peninsula of Gazaria [Crimea] and in the mouth of the river Tanais [Don]. We stopped on the island of Cyprus, and in Famagusta where we landed after a turbulent passage in early May, I met Prince Edward of

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England [r. 1272–1307] who was about to set sail for Akko together with King Hugh of Cyprus and Jerusalem [1267–1284]. Their plans of a passagium [crusade] to the Holy Land had initiated my journey in the first place since rumours had reached my Lord Abaqa’s ears. Unfortunately, the passagium was supposed to have been much bigger, but King Louis of France [† 25.8.1270] had wanted to first go against North Africa and had died of an illness at Carthago half a year before. Edward who came there last November had been unable to convince the French troops to proceed to Jerusalem although the new King Philipp had been with them to lead them. So, there wasn’t enough power to fight the Mamluk Saracens and take back Antioch or even Jerusalem, and the cooperation Abaqa had hoped for did not materialize. Even in Cyprus people were afraid of the Mamluks who actually hit, in June 1271, Limassol on the southern coast of Cyprus, and would then, in the autumn, hinder the Tartar advance under General Samagar in the upper valley of the Euphrates (I learned of both events when I stopped in Cyprus on my way back). Syria sure has been a region battered by frequent Tartar–Mamluk confrontation lately. Did I ever tell you about that early time I spent in the Levant, when the Tartars had just taken Baghdad [1258] (and killed the last khalif) and were stopped on their way to the West only at that battle at Goliath’ spring (where in biblical times King David killed the giant Goliath) which the natives call ‘Ayn J lt [1260] which happened while I was still living in Antioch? Already then, we lost quite an opportunity to defeat the Mamluks because too many of our people were too suspicious: I remember that the Bishop of Bethlehem who was a Dominican and also the papal legate excommunicated Prince Boemund of Antioch when he, allegedly “broken from fear”, subdued himself and Antioch into the “nefarious slavery” of the Mongols. But it was known to us also then that Hülägü, my lord Abaqa’s father, treated Boemund well, and it is known in general that the Dominicans lack empathy for the fates of those who have to decide for the benefit of their subjects. We sailed past Candia (which the Greek, still lost in schism – but don’t I know so-called Christians much more deviating from the true faith here in our places! – call Crete), still in Venetian hands. Then we took a brief stop at Corfu/Kerkyra which is a good landing place after the battles between the Greek, the Suebians, and the French are finally over, and King Charles of Naples (for whom I had a letter from my Il-khan which gave me free passage) rules it with a secure hand. Him I met and was received with honours as an ambassador of il-khan Abagha, after I had reached Naples via Messina. But already earlier I had heard of the dire fate the passagium I mentioned above had taken. Not only had King Charles only recently returned from his brother’s, King Louis of France, deathbed in the once famous but now declined city of Carthago but also his niece, King Louis’s daughter Isabella,

Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene 183 had followed her husband into death, and more close relations of the royal house would die from that illness they brought back from Africa. So, I came to the West in the middle of some ill-fated endeavours – and they may call Louis a saintly king, but I wonder whether God didn’t punish those noble men and women who had preferred to go to Africa instead of Jerusalem and then abandon the passagium altogether. After I had successfully delivered my message to King Charles in Naples I proceeded to the North. And although at that time we did not have a pope, I was received with honours in Rome. Things were made much easier for me because you had given me referral to your relative, Cardinal Ottobono Fieschi [card. 1252, + 1276 as Pope Hadrian V]. I may be Genoese, but these noble ranks in our town are not easily accessible for someone like me with my father a humble merchant and my mother stemming from a goldsmiths’ family. Concerning Ottobono, people told me he was a candidate for the papacy which would give us a Genoese pope twenty years after your and his relative Innocentius [IV] had died [1254] while I was already living in the Levant. With this famous lawyer are connected some of my fondest memories. When I studied Canon Law in Bologna and lived in the convent of the Franciscans there, Pope Innocent came to my convent in 1251 (when I was about twenty and finishing my studies) to consecrate the altar in the new church. And let me tell you, it is quite strange when you come together in a church of which barely the choir stands and the altar simply has a roof … in Bologna, this felt even more strange because the commune had given us a place in the middle of the ruins that are supposedly of the old city of Bononia built by the Romans more than a thousand years ago – but what can you do in a huge town such as Bologna but go to the margins in order to find the space for one of the big new monasteries that our order needs – even the monastery of the Monks Preachers is far outside of the town proper, and with the tomb of their father Dominic in the church. Sorry for rambling along but these are fond memories to a youth long lost, and since I did not have the time to detour to Bologna on my recent travels, I am now sure that I will see my brethren only when we hopefully meet again in Paradise. Innocent preached about the Tartars and the mission by the late friar John of Plano Carpini. He was then working on his now famous commentary on the “additional” law collection [Liber X = “Extra”] that was put together on behalf of Pope Gregory [IX], and in his sermon he was full of his ideas for it (considering that he was talking to a convent of mostly students of the laws and also of theology). He assured us all that “the pope who is vicar of Christ has power not only over Christians but also over all infidels because Christ has power over all”. And he said that now, “in the eleventh hour”, converting the Tartars was of high importance and that he himself had admonished the khan not to keep killing people against natural law but to welcome missionaries to his empire. This sermon made me decide to become a

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missionary myself, and to preach among the Tartars, and I have experienced here this welcome – although the khan certainly does not obey the pope, he nevertheless accepted us gracefully (unfortunately also all the other faiths, as long as people acknowledge his rule). Who knows what had become of the tender roots of the Tartar mission – and of the whole world for that matter – without a Genoese pope. Speaking about Pope Innocent and Rome, it was also he who gave to the Franciscans the task of building a church in an eminent spot of the old and present city, a place of power we usually don’t aspire to, and I saw basically in front of my own eyes during both of my visits to the eternal city the church on the Capitoline Hill grow. It is called S. Maria in Aracoeli, and it lies approximately halfway between the Cathedral of Rome on the Lateran hill and the beautiful basilica atop Saint Peter’s tomb on the Vatican side of the River Tiber. Close to it, many of the noble Roman families have their palaces, and on the Capitol also King Charles of Naples took up residence who these days is practically the lord of Rome (but being from Genoa I try to keep out of these universal battles between popes and emperors as much as possible). Cardinal Ottobono found us a ship to Genoa where I stayed only very briefly considering that my parents are long dead, and I do not have that many relatives anymore. I quickly found another ship to bring me to Marseilles from where we joined a big company of merchants who had organized secure travel overland to Toulouse. On the town of Toulouse, the wars against the heretics [Cathars/Albigensians] have left their traces but it is still a big and important city, comparable maybe to Tabriz. Here in Toulouse everyone was in mourning because Johanna, the last heiress of the Counts of Toulouse, was among the dead of king Louis’ passagium which I already mentioned, as well as her husband, the late king’s brother. They died without progeny, and it seems that the county will now be under the direct rule of the kings of France. Like in most cities I visited I stayed in the convent of my friars, called in French les Cordeliers. In Toulouse as in most other towns I know of, that convent is outside of the old town and in the region where also the colleges of the newly founded university spread. And it may be true that Saint Dominic’s Monks Preachers concentrated more on the fight against the heretics here, and have the bigger monastery, but also our order has engaged in strengthening the true faith in this Cathar country. From Toulouse it is easy to travel on the River Garonne downhill towards the ocean, mostly through land that is under the rule of the King of England since the present king’s grandmother Eleanor. We reached Bordeaux in due time, a small town that has not much grown beyond its Roman walls still visible everywhere, with a huge and beautiful harbour. It has grown quite a bit since the kings of England made it their residence on the continent and visit quite often. I went there hoping to meet the old King

Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene 185 Henry [† 16.11.1272] – having seen and talked to Prince Edward already when in Cyprus – but it turned out that he was too weak to travel there from England (although he should have given his oath of allegiance to the new French king). So, I did not stay long in the convent of the Friars Minor, also here outside of the narrow streets of the old town but travelled on by ship (along the coastline and up the huge River Loire) and by land to Paris. Paris is a vivid, splendid city that has outgrown its origins on an island in the River Seine (a small river, nothing like the Tigris or Euphrates – but of course, they are rivers of paradise – or the huge rivers in the realm of the Northern Tartars of which I heard so many marvellous descriptions): on this island still lies the palace of the bishop as well as that of the king (whose grandfather has built a strong castle on the opposite right side of the river as well). The town can well be compared to Baghdad, mostly before it had been sacked by the Mongols about fifteen years ago, not the least in terms of the many schools you can find there. The convent of our friars – where also our general minister Bonaventura lived and taught, and stays whenever he comes back to Paris – lies on the left bank of the river in a place where, I am told, not too many years ago still spread the fields of the famous ancient abbey dedicated to the holy bishop Saint Germanus. Today schools are spreading all around, not only the famous old schools of Saint Victor and Sainte Geneviève and the one of our order but many doctors of the university also live and assemble their students here. I met the new King of France, Philipp III [25.8.1270–1285], when he was back in Paris from his own coronation in Reims Cathedral. I presented, at the king’s court, Abaqa’s officially sealed letter with my own Latin translation. I was also shown a letter written in Persian which they had received earlier but weren’t able to read, since the alphabet and language were foreign to them. Abaqa usually makes me write the letters in Latin because the Tartars see it as a sign of their power that they have people at their courts for all languages of all peoples they converse with (and want to subdue). In the West, this is handled quite differently, and rulers are proud that others have to bow to them and their languages. In that older letter, which King Philipp made me read aloud and then translate, Khan Abaqa apologized that his notary Ricardus – that is of course me – had been absent when the letter had to be sent, so no Latin translation was added. I quickly provided a translation (I wrote it on the reverse side of the letter). It was one of these typical letters the Tartar khans use to send to the West: on one hand, they say all the nice words they know the western rulers expect, but on the other hand they also stress that they have Heaven’s mandate to conquer the whole world and expect every ruler anywhere to worship their superiority. And their “God in heaven, Kubilai Khan on earth” would of course be understood as blasphemy among Western Christians. A foolish envoy who does not know how to make these lines disappear in his translation!

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In his letter Abaqa reminded the king of all his actions against the Saracens, asked for an alliance against them, and promised to give Jerusalem over to the Western Christians after a common conquest. He also spoke of their long-time friendly relations, and urgently asked for action from the Western side to bring together a fighting alliance. I could assure the king furthermore how much the khan loved the Christians, and that his father Hülägü had nearly been baptised before his untimely death. I did not claim that Abaqa was a Christian – who once answered me on my insistence to receive baptism: “If you pray only to the eternal heaven and you believe the way it is right: isn’t that the same as converting to Christendom?” My lord Abaqa is obviously not a Christian but trusts most the sorcerers the Tartars traditionally bring with them, and like many of his tribe he would insist on being a Tartar, no matter his faith. I did, in Paris, everything else I could think of to create more trust – I even let two of my Tartar companions be baptised by the Bishop of Paris to show every bystander how friendly towards Christianity and ready to be converted they are. But I left France with little hope: the king seems quite reluctant to ally himself with the Tartars against the Mamluks although he had lost so many close relatives due to the passagium lead to Africa instead of Jerusalem and should consider doing better. Before returning to the Levant, I made my way, again, to Rome because I had heard that the cardinals had, after a very long delay, finally elected a pope – and they had picked one who was Italian but not part of the factions in and around Rome. I had met Tebaldo Visconti already because he was with Prince Edward on his passagium. He had to be called back, so between election and coronation lay half a year and I had to wait a few weeks before I could finish my business in Rome – but we now have, in Gregory X, a pope experienced in negotiating with the Tartars because he negotiated for Edward with my lord Abaqa to cooperate against the Saracens in Egypt. He wants to do better than the worldly kings and is now planning an ecumenical council in order to achieve a new passagium. On a more personal issue I also did not have much trouble explaining to this new pope why I should wear my beard (I had shaved it off when it had raised too many eyebrows), so I received papal acknowledgement to wear a beard so that I would not “seem to be in disdain of the natives”. And so I returned, with a newly grown beard, to a place where I feel quite at home, and could tell my story nearly as one of a journey to a foreign land. I may have been rambling a lot, but I imagined sitting at your fire and telling my stories like I did only a few weeks ago in Baghdad. I hope you can enjoy this story, and feel free to spread it around. You may want to show this letter to the friars minor in Baghdad, but it might better not go back to Genoa or Rome or any other place in the West. They will, as you know, not really understand it and in the worst case see it as disloyalty and fraternization or even as heretic. I might revise it at a certain point, but for now let it be for our amusement.

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Figure 18.1 The Grand Bazaar of Tabriz. Source: Photo by Navid Alizadeh Sadighi. CC BY

Figure 18.2 Matrakçı Nasuh drawings of east and west Tabriz, assembled together (16th century). Source: Public domain, https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datei:Tabriz-16.PNG.

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Figure 18.3 The ‘Rey del tauris’ excerpt from the Catalan Atlas (1375), accessed through the digital ‘Gallica’ collection of the Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Notarius Ricardus de Omnibene 189 Further Reading Biran, Michal, Brack, Jonathan, and Fiaschetti, Francesca (ed.), Along the Silk Roads in Mongol Eurasia: Generals, Merchants and Intellectuals, Oakland: University of California Press, 2020. Jackson, Peter, The Mongols and the West 1221–1410, Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2005. Schmieder, Felicitas, ‘ “At the End of the World and in the Throats of Our Enemies” – Latin Europeans in Late Medieval Asia’, in Krötzl, Christian, Mustakallio, Katariina, and Tamminen, Miikka (ed.), Negotiation, Collaboration, and Conflict in Ancient and Medieval Communities, London and New York: Routledge, 2022, 275–296. The Cambridge History of Inner Asia. The Chinggisid Age, ed. Nicola Di Cosmo, Allen J. Frank, and Peter B. Golden, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014.

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On the Edges Medieval Swansea, Visited by Ralph Baldock, Bishop of London Catherine A. M. Clarke

Introduction This is a portrait of Swansea (Abertawe), a medieval town on the south coast of Wales, at an imagined moment in the early fourteenth century. It is a firstperson account of the town by a visitor who (as far as extant records can tell) never actually went there. This chapter experiments with creative methodologies and counterfactual history to present a new depiction of medieval Swansea. In particular, by focalising the description through the experience of a specific historical individual – Ralph Baldock, Bishop of London – it aims to ground its representation of Swansea firmly in a medieval imaginary and worldview, shaped by medieval rhetorical tropes, genres, and cultural reference points. Swansea in the early fourteenth century was a thriving port, an important centre for local trade, and a multi-lingual and multi-cultural urban community (see Figure 19.1). It was also a frontier town, located in the Marcher (borderland) Lordship of Gower and a base for its Marcher Lords. These Marcher Lordships were the conquest territories of Wales gradually occupied by Anglo-Norman rulers and governed as semi-autonomous Lordships from around 1067 until the late thirteenth century. Even after the conquest of Wales by Edward I in 1282/1283, the Marcher Lordships (around forty in number) remained distinct from the Principality of Wales. Encompassing historic Welsh kingdoms such as Gower (G r), Deheubarth and Glamorgan (Morgannwg), extending far along the south coast of Wales and later encroaching into English territory in the east, the Marches exist as a kind of ‘Wild West’ in the medieval English imaginary: a region of political tensions and frequent rebellion and conflict – including between rival Marcher Lords – as well as intriguing cultural differences, exchanges. and hybridities.1 In 1290, medieval Swansea saw a remarkable event. In this year, William Cragh, a Welsh rebel, was hanged just outside the town by William de Briouze, Marcher Lord of Gower, for his part in the Rhys ap Maredudd rebellion and burning of Oystermouth Castle. But the execution did not go smoothly: the gallows broke and Cragh was hanged a second time. After the hanging, Cragh’s body was laid in the house of a local burgess, Thomas Mathews, where he gradually began to revive in what was understood by local people as a miracle of the putative new saint Thomas Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford (died 1282). Nine DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-19

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medieval eyewitness statements giving accounts of the hanging and the events surrounding it survive in Vatican MS Lat. 4015, which was produced as part of the canonisation trial for Thomas Cantilupe in 1307, and is the basis for the excellent microhistory by Robert Bartlett.2 The medieval depositions include details which serve the claim that Cragh’s resuscitation was a miracle of St Thomas Cantilupe, as well as others which are incorporated into this chapter. Cragh himself tells the inquisitors that he ‘bent a penny’ as a votive to St Thomas, following an English custom, while in his cell the night before the hanging. He also speaks of his vision, in the dungeon, of the Virgin Mary, apparently accompanied by Thomas Cantilupe, who let down a ladder for him to climb out. While Cragh’s body lay in the house of burgess Thomas Mathews, Lady Mary de Briouze – wife of Lord William – sent a maid to ‘measure him to the saint’: another votive custom involving cutting a length of thread to form the wick of a candle to be offered to the saint’s shrine.3 Together, the witness statements offer a window into multiple devotional customs and beliefs, as well as spatial practices within the medieval town and (often colliding) cultural perspectives. The portrait of medieval Swansea here draws upon many details, which are referenced throughout the text. One of the papal commissioners at the canonisation trial for Thomas Cantilupe – which heard testimonies including those relating to the hanging of William Cragh (and the words of the hanged man himself, spoken in Welsh and translated by local Franciscan friars) – was Ralph Baldock, Bishop of London. In 1307, Baldock and his fellow commissioners heard depositions first at St Paul’s Cathedral, London (Baldock’s own cathedral church), and then, a few weeks later, at St Katherine’s Chapel, Hereford Cathedral.4 Described by the historian Richard W. Pfaff as ‘a vigorous churchman’,5 Ralph Baldock was an influential administrator, politician, and ecclesiastic: he had become Dean of St Paul’s in 1294 and was elected Bishop of London in February 1304. During his tenure he oversaw significant building projects at the Cathedral. He was appointed Chancellor by Edward I, a position which he held briefly from April 1307 until the king’s death in July that year. A scholar with a range of intellectual interests across theology, canon law, medicine, natural science, and history (reflected in the list of his 126 libri scolastici made after his death), Baldock wrote a history of England, which existed in the sixteenth century but is now lost.6 A range of biographical details from his life are touched upon here. There is no record that Ralph Baldock ever visited Swansea. Instead, this portrait imagines how he might have experienced it, focalised through his likely interests, instincts, and prejudices as a great man of the church coming from his cathedral in London to this small Marcher town. Baldock’s interests in theology and natural science – as well as his previous experience of intervening in local, popular devotional practices or ‘superstition’ – suggest a motive for his visit: in the first-person words of this portrait, a kind of strange ‘pilgrimage’.7 The potential of ‘creative microhistory’ to advance our understanding of the past is currently the subject of lively critical enquiry, as well as some important recent examples, such as Katherine Weikert’s work on Faccombe Netherton in

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Hampshire.8 Most importantly, here, the first-person account of medieval Swansea, focalised through a fully realised medieval perspective, is an attempt to recover medieval imaginaries of place (and wider worldviews) as well as the material fabric of a historic environment. Inventing Ralph Baldock’s pilgrimage to Swansea also creates the opportunity to write this portrait in the voice of an outsider, a visitor to the medieval town. This aligns deliberately with medieval literary conventions of urban encomium and the description or praise of cities. In these texts, the great city is described in the voice of a visitor – a technique adopted even by local authors familiar with their hometowns.9 In Ralph Baldock’s eyes, of course, Swansea is not a great city, and his description is far from panegyric but rather an inversion of these established tropes. Baldock is underwhelmed, irritated, even disgusted by Swansea, though his experience becomes more complex and ambivalent as it goes on. His account explicitly contrasts Swansea with the great cities of Rome or the Holy Land and imagines his journey to Swansea as a kind of strange and ridiculous pilgrimage. Textual and cultural traditions shape this portrait – and Bishop Baldock’s view of Swansea – in many other ways, too. Baldock’s perception of Swansea and its environs is influenced by representations of Wales, and the Gower region in particular, in wider medieval tradition. A specific reference point in composition of the portrait was the Itinerarium Cambriae or Journey through Wales by Gerald of Wales, the widely copied and influential account of a tour of Wales which Gerald made in the company of Archbishop of Canterbury, Baldwin of Forde, in 1188. The opening vignette here, in which Bishop Baldock recalls his perilous crossing of the rivers Avon and Neath, directly draws upon Gerald’s own account of traversing this difficult south Wales terrain, in the Itinerarium, Chapter Eight. As with the imagined travails of Baldock and his company, Gerald tells of near disaster in the treacherous quicksands at Neath: As we approached the Neath, which is the most dangerous and difficult of access of all the rivers of South Wales, on account of its quicksands, which immediately engulf anything placed upon them, one of our pack-horses, the only one possessed by the writer of these lines, was almost sucked down into the abyss. With a number of other animals it had followed the lower road, and now it was jogging along in the middle of the group. In the end, it was pulled out with some difficulty, thanks to the efforts made by our servants, who risked their lives in doing so, and not without some damage done to my books and baggage.10 In many ways, The Journey through Wales serves as a key touchstone for the portrait imagined here, in its articulation of direct, lived experience – Gerald’s journey – enmeshed with received ideas about Wales and its people, folklore, and hearsay. Throughout the portrait, literary and cultural allusions – to Gerald of Wales, to a medieval Chronicle, to the cult of London’s patron saint Erkenwald, and, repeatedly, to the Bible – underpin the imaginary of Bishop Baldock’s visit to Swansea, grounding his experience of the town in a medieval (ecclesiastical) worldview.

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The portrait follows Bishop Baldock’s itinerary through Swansea, beginning at the New Castle, then leaving (with a visit to the dungeon) through the North Gate of the Castle Bailey. He and his guide turn left along West Gate Street to the West Gate, then down along Goat Street towards the South Gate, and finally up along Wind Street and down onto the Strand, at the edge of the town’s busy harbour. While Swansea is compared unfavourably with London throughout Baldock’s account, in the familiar bustle and activity of the port he seems to find more of an affinity and affection for the place – as well as a moment of epiphany which takes him beyond his books and learning in a moment of deep curiosity and yearning. This portrait of medieval Swansea seeks to bring edges and frontiers into focus in multiple ways. It depicts a frontier, Marcher town in the contested borderland between England and Wales and almost at the edge of Bishop Baldock’s known world. It takes its first-person narrator and removes him from the ‘centre’ of London, with its political and ecclesiastical power and farreaching networks, to what he would perceive as the ‘periphery’ of Swansea and the south Wales coast – though, through the portrait, this location emerges as a hub of its own. The imagined narrative brings Bishop Baldock, also, to a kind of epistemological threshold: the limits of the knowledge afforded by his books and study, and the possibility of more direct, experiential understanding of the mysteries of life and death. Finally, the portrait sits at the edge of research and creative practice, and deliberately transgresses boundaries between sourcebased historical research and counterfactual imagining. In doing so, it attempts to acknowledge the limitations of other kinds of ‘reconstruction’ of medieval places, creating a framework in which medieval cultural perspectives and imaginaries of place can be aligned with the material evidence. Portrait Bishop Ralph Baldock Visits Swansea, c. 1310

Mud everywhere. Churned thick in the streets, caked to my shoes and grained into the whorls of my fingers. Not the rich stink and ooze of Thames mud, glinting in the sun like the glass of St Paul’s, down by the wharves where the boats come in with spices and furs, or along the foreshore where boys wade out to their fish traps. No: rank, mouldering filth, pulling at our feet and smearing our clothes, under a clinker-grey sky and rain fit to drown every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.11 Yesterday, we left the hospitality of Margam and forded the unruly Avon river, then on to the Neath with its treacherous quicksands. We crossed only with difficulty, heads down against the wind and our horses stumbling. The pack with my psalter slipped and was almost swallowed up, but by God’s grace we escaped without losses. Clothes heavy with sludge and slime.12 A vagabond raised from the dead is perhaps no marvel in this wild country. In all my travels, I’ve never journeyed so close to the edge of the world. Books tell of other realms under the hills, and doors that open in the ground to let lost travellers in.13 The people, they say, make their cities in

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the forests and their strongholds in the mountains. I hold onto the words of the Psalmist, saved from the Welsh mud: how shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?14 This morning, I take my leave from my hosts as quickly as possible. Lord William is a testy, ill-tempered man, often as much at odds with his own household as with his burgesses. I know of the charter they extracted from him, of course, assuring them of their rights and liberties, but I’m careful not to mention it.15 The de Briouzes remain indefatigably proud of their ‘new’ castle, though there’s already a furring of moss on the walls, and damp seeping into the corners. I’m encouraged, once again, to admire the fireplaces and the window seats and the convenience of new garderobe.16 But my eyes are inclined downwards, beneath the hall and tower and the solar with its gaudy new tapestries shipped in from Normandy. Our guide leads us out and shows the door to the dungeon. Down there, in the gloom and stink, is where he waited, the hanged man, that long night before his execution. Where he bent a silver penny to St Thomas and prayed for freedom; where he saw Our Lady appear to him in a dream, letting down a ladder for him to climb out into the light. I squint down into the darkness: a shadow rustles and metal scrapes on stone. I step back, away from the grating, signing the cross. The new castle might be their pride and joy, but the bailey is ragged around the edges. Even here, inside its walls, townspeople have set up makeshift dwellings and go about their business.17 There are families crowded into outbuildings; tradesmen driving bargains in the courtyard. It’s like a house under siege, with this tented encampment right up to its doors. Perhaps that’s how Lord William feels. As we step through the gate, the din of the town swallows us. We turn left from the High Street and follow the bailey ditch, picking our way around puddles and dirt. People point and jostle: a cacophony of voices and syllables I can’t untangle. “Saesneg!” they hiss: a word like a knife.18 Our guide calls out names: Fisher Street, Goat Street, Frog Street. At least the frogs are in their element. At the town West Gate we pause. Here, the hanged man made his signs of penitence and contrition on his way to the gallows. William of Codineston, the de Briouze chaplain, told us how he wept and begged forgiveness from the people.19 Did he kneel in the mud, while cartwheels ground by and hecklers shouted? Or did the crowds part and quieten to hear his words? Our guide holds us back and shakes his head. It’s not safe to go beyond the gate, he says, beyond the walls of the town – such as they are – and their protection.20 We stand in the road, on the boundary, stepping aside for carts and livestock. Outside, there’s a stream running into a small, murky pond.21 Women are dipping clothes and wringing them dry, their forearms red and chapped with cold, but laughing, chattering and singing as they work. Daughters of Swansea, did you weep for the hanged man as he trudged past you, the noose already looped around his neck?22 Or did you curse and spit his name out of your mouths? From the road, the path to Gibbet Hill snakes

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steeply upwards through rough, tussocky grass. And there, at the top, I can make out the gibbet itself, stark against the sky. A strange, rain-lashed Golgotha outside the city walls. There, high above the town, the outlaw William was hanged. When the crossbeam broke, he was pulled up and hanged a second time: a spectacle of sin and punishment for Swansea and all its people to witness.23 But what did he see from the gallows, the hanged man, as the noose tightened around his neck? I glance over my shoulder. All the town laid out below him, with the river spreading sluggish and grey into the mudflats, and the brown and purple hills beyond. Rooftops and thatch. The sails of ships coming to harbour, perhaps, or the ploughed lines of ridge and furrow across fields. All laid out beneath him like a conquest or patrimony – before his lungs choked and the tongue swelled in his mouth and his eyes closed.24 Am I a pilgrim here? What brought me to this rough and forsaken place? Nothing to compare with the shining towers of Rome or the sands of the Holy Land which Our Lord’s own feet blessed. I shall earn no indulgence, only papers piled up for my return and squabbles to settle among the canons. What prayers or votives were powerful enough to call Bishop Thomas into this wild place, to intercede for a criminal and cradle his feet, even on the gallows? I remember the words of the Lady, spoken back in the Chapter House of my own cathedral church. ‘Prium deu, et seint Thomas de Cantelup qe luy donne vie, et si il luy donne vie, nous le amenerouns a lauant dit seint Thomas.’25 We turn back into the town, following Goat Street while the town wall – such as it is – curves along beside us to the right. Our guide points to the church of St Mary, and I think again of how the hanged man saw Our Lady, reaching down to him in his dungeon, that night before his execution. She was covered in precious stones, with a white head-dress, he told us in his testimony at Hereford, ‘but not carrying her son with her, as material images concerning her represent’.26 Perhaps it was here, in this church, that he’d seen such an image – a ddelyw fyw, our guide explains to me: wooden statues common to these Welsh churches, with mechanical parts which conjure an imitation of life.27 What better way to encourage superstition in the common people? I think back to Ashingdon, of course, with its ‘image’ and all the talk of miracles: peasants crawling to see it on their knees; desperate women, looking for healing. How easily the ignorant will grasp at signs and wonders, even of their own making. And yet, I remind myself, with God all things are possible.28 How am I to judge? There’s another gate here, on the western edge of the town, before the walls dwindle away to ditch and earthworks. Through the gateway, the path widens, trodden out by hawkers and traders. There’s a babble of selling and bartering, the voices mostly Welsh. Here begins the road out to Gower, our guide tells me, where the land gets wilder and the Marcher Lord’s authority wanes. As we walk towards the South Gate, a chill wind whips across the mudflats and the snaking Cadle stream. Here, the town seems to sink into the sea; water and mud seeping up to its very thresholds. The tide is pulling out, as though it would drag this frontier town off the edge of the earth, like a house built upon

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sand when the rains come down, and the waves rise, and the winds blow and beat against it.29 And yet, now, the clouds are beginning to clear: the day lightens and the sky is scoured stark and clean like limewash. Looking out over the Tawe I can see the ferry which brought us here yesterday, across the mouth of the river. Small boats are putting out into the bay. We walk back, up through the bustle of Wind Street. Crowded houses front the street, with trades showing their wares: weavers, skinners, tanners.30 Then we turn into a narrow lane, tipped with filth and rubbish, leading steeply downwards and muddier with every step. But I can already hear the sounds of the port – so familiar, as if carried on the wind from down Haggenlane and St Paul’s Wharf, over the rooftops of St Peter the Less and St Benet’s.31 The whip and slap of ropes and sailcloth. Voices calling. The creak of wood, bump of crates, and clatter of glass and pot. The rhythmical rap of a hammer. Now, the narrow lane opens out, and we’re on the Strand, along the shore of the Tawe where the ships come in. There’s the usual commotion and disorder of a harbour, of course: boys running with errands and messages (one crashes into my side and dashes on without looking up), women selling pies and cakes, an argument raging on a gangplank over a bundle of hides, a sailor shouting up to a boy mending rigging, two men sawing wood for a new clinker hull. Girls are gutting fish, entrails glistening on the ground. God forgive me, the Babel of voices in the air gladdens my heart; and the cry of the gulls and the tang of salt on my lips. From here you could sail into the mouth of the Thames or to Calais or Venice or Constantinople. Our guide is naming vessels and their cargo: wool, skins, and cheeses going out; goods coming in from Aquitaine, Spain, Ireland, and Germany. In Swansea, he assures me, old men drink the finest Gascon wine.32 Crew on the deck of a cog spot me and call down for a blessing:33 I raise my hand in benediction and others jostle around, eager for God’s protection or whatever lucky charms they seek for a safe crossing. And then our guide is whispering in my ear and pointing into the distance, where a bearded man is standing calf-deep in the shallows. ‘That’s him’, he’s saying: there’s the hanged man who came back from the dead. It’s hard to tell: I frown into the light, with shipboys and hawkers crowding around me. His expression, as he looks back at us, is inscrutable. Wry? Amused? Curious? I wonder, what has he seen? Like Lazarus before he shook off the graveclothes.34 Where did he go, in those moments before Lady Mary measured him to the saint and he gasped awake in the house of Thomas Mathews?35 If I could ask him my own questions – like our blessed Saint Erkenwald, speaking with the corpse under the foundations of St Paul’s – what would he tell me?36 For that true testimony I’d drown all my books; sink them into the silts of the Thames for the tides to fold over and smelts and eels to take them. But the errand boys are tugging at my sleeve, and dogs are fighting over scraps, and when I look up, he’s gone. There’s sunlight now, broken in pieces on the water like scattered coins. It will be dry tomorrow, our guide tells me. We’ll saddle the horses and take our chances back across the Tawe, the

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Neath, and the Avon, and on towards London. The usual grievances and disputes will be waiting, there’s building work to oversee, and I have my history to write. We turn slowly back to the castle, the river behind us, through the mud and noise and slanting sunshine.

Figure 19.1 Map of Swansea circa 1300 (‘City Witness’ project). Source: ‘City Witness’ project, Creative Commons.

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Notes 1 For landmark works on the medieval March of Wales see Max Liebermann, The Medieval March of Wales: The Creation and Perception of a Frontier, c. 1066–1283 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), and R. R. Davies, The Age of Conquest: Wales 10631415 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987); for a concise overview see Max Liebermann, The March of Wales 1067–1300: A Borderland of Medieval Britain (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2008). 2 Robert Bartlett, The Hanged Man: A Story of Miracle, Memory, and Colonialism in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004). The full nine witness statements, edited by Harriett Webster, are available at www.medievalswansea.ac.uk. 3 These references are all given at the appropriate points in the portrait text. 4 See Bartlett, The Hanged Man, pp. 18–19. 5 Richard W. Pfaff, ‘Bishop Baldock’s Book, St Paul’s Cathedral, and the Use of Sarum’, in his Liturgical Calendars, Saints and Services in Medieval England (London: Ashgate Variorum), pp. 1–20, p. 16. 6 H. A. Tipping, revised by M. C. Buck, ‘Baldock, Ralph (d. 1313), administrator and bishop of London’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press), available at https://0-www-oxforddnb-com.catalogue.libraries. london.ac.uk/view/10.1093/ref:odnb/9780198614128.001.0001/odnb-9780198614128e-1154 (accessed 30 January 2023). For further details of the books inventoried from Baldock’s personal collection after his death see Pfaff, ‘Bishop Baldock’s Book’, p. 16. 7 Prior to the Thomas Cantilupe canonisation trial, in September 1306 Baldock had been called to Ashingdon in Essex to investigate an image in the church credited with miraculous powers by local people. See Bartlett, The Hanged Man, pp. 18–19, and Andrew Brown, Church and Society in England, 1000–1500 (London: Bloomsbury, 2017), p. 75. 8 See, for example, Katherine Weikert, ‘Medieval Everydays: A Creative Microhistory’, Medieval People 37.1 (2022), Article 6, available at https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/ medpros/vol37/iss1/6/ (accessed 30 January 2023). I borrow the term ‘creative microhistory’ from Weikert’s work, with thanks. For other discussions of the relationships between historical research and creative writing see, for example, John Hatcher, ‘Fiction as History: The Black Death and Beyond’, History 97.1 (2012), 3–23, or the ‘Writing Radically’ series for History Workshop Online, including the piece ‘Writing History in a Drought Year’ by Rachel Moss, available at https://www.historyworkshop.org.uk/activism-solidarity/ writing-history-in-a-drought-year/ (accessed 30 January 2023). 9 See John M. Ganim, ‘The Experience of Modernity in Late Medieval Literature: Urbanism, Experience and Rhetoric in Some Early Descriptions of London’, in The Performance of Middle English Culture, ed. James J. Paxson et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 77–96, p. 87. 10 Gerald of Wales, The Journey through Wales and the Description of Wales, ed. Betty Radice, trans. Lewis Thorpe (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978), Book I, Chapter 8, pp. 130–131. 11 Genesis 1:26, and also Genesis 8:19, when Noah brings the animals out of the ark after the flood. 12 This incident is inspired by a passage in The Journey through Wales by Gerald of Wales; see the discussion in the Introduction to this portrait. 13 Baldock’s account alludes to Gerald of Wales’s story about a boy who discovers a hidden kingdom, underneath the ground, in the Gower (the Anglo-Norman lordship in which Swansea was situated). Giraldus Cambrensis, ‘Iterarium Kambriae’, ed. Dimock, Liber I, cap. viii, pp. 7578.

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14 For discussion of the cultural references underpinning this passage, see the Introduction to this portrait; also Psalm 137:4. 15 William de Briouze junior (son of the Lord William de Briouze who had ordered Cragh’s execution) was forced in 1306 by his burgesses curtailing his powers. See W. R. B. Robinson, ‘Medieval Swansea’, in Glamorgan County History, vol. 3, The Middle Ages, ed. T. B. Pugh (Cardiff: Glamorgan County History Trust, 1971), pp. 361–377, pp. 267–269. 16 The ‘new castle’ replaced a Norman motte and bailey castle slightly further to the north and was constructed around the late thirteenth century. 17 Already by 1300 it is possible that part of the bailey had been divided into burgess plots for rental. William de Briouze junior had even mortgaged towers within the castle by 1326. See R. R. Davies, Lordship and Society in the March of Wales, 1282–1400 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), 100. 51f. 227r: ‘ipse testis existens cum centum personis ut estimat in platea ville de Swayneseie prope ecclesiam Sancte Marie.’ 18 Saesneg is the Welsh word for ‘English’ deriving from Saxon, which is in turn related to seax, the short sword or dagger traditionally associated with the early medieval English. 19 This detail comes from the witness testimony of the priest William of Codineston: Vatican MS Lat. 4015, fol. 13r. See the edited text and translation by Harriett Webster at https://www.medievalswansea.ac.uk/en/statement/4.html (accessed 30 January 2023). 20 In his witness statement, William of Codineston also expresses this unwillingness to venture beyond the West Gate. Vatican MS Lat. 4015, fol. 13r. See the edited text and translation by Harriett Webster at https://www.medievalswansea.ac.uk/ en/statement/4.html (accessed 30 January 2023). 21 This is the Nant Press stream, running into the pond known as the Washing Pool. 22 This recalls the reference to the ‘daughters of Jerusalem’ in Luke 23:28. 23 Gibbet Hill (North Hill in Swansea today) was a high point visible from across the medieval town and its environs, allowing the Norman Lord’s justice and vengeance to be staged prominently in the landscape. 24 This scene is inspired by the account of the death of the rebel leader Conan after a revolt against Robert, Duke of Normandy, in 1090, from the twelfth-century Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis. Conan is taken to the top of the ducal tower by Robert’s brother Henry (the future Henry I of England), to be shown the wealth and beauty of the city he coveted – before he is flung from the tower to his death. Bishop Baldock’s vignette plays with the same rhetorical tropes and ironies: all the landscape of Swansea laid out before Cragh in a mockery of a conquest or inheritance before this Welsh rebel is hanged by his Anglo-Norman rulers. See The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis IV, ed. and trans. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), p. 224. 25 Unlike the rest of the manuscript, which is in Latin, MS Vat. Lat. 4015 records the words of Mary’s prayer in the original Norman French. Fol. 11r; and see https:// www.medievalswansea.ac.uk/en/statement/2.html for the text and translation (accessed 30 January 2023). 26 MS Vat. Lat. 4015, fol. 221r; available at https://www.medievalswansea.ac.uk/en/ statement/5.html (accessed 30 January 2023). Cragh’s description of the Virgin Mary’s appearance draws upon the typical iconography seen in Welsh churches at this time. See Jane Cartwright, Feminine Sanctity and Spirituality in Medieval Wales (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2008), p. 8. 27 These ‘living images’ – depictions of religious figures with mechanical moving parts – were common in medieval Welsh churches. See Glanmor Williams, The Welsh Church from Conquest to Reformation (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1962), p. 491.

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28 Matthew 19:26. 29 Matthew 7:24–27. 30 The wool and leather trades were important in Swansea at this time. Robinson, ‘Medieval Swansea’, p. 364. 31 These are features of Bishop Baldock’s more familiar Thameside geography in London. For a map of London c. 1270–1300 see https://www.layersoflondon.org/ map/overlays/medieval-london-1270-1300 (accessed 30 January 2023). 32 A medieval earthenware flagon found in excavations at the Cross Keys Inn (on the site of St David’s Hospital), now in the Swansea Museum collection (SM 1897.2.3), is likely to have held wine imported from the continent. 33 A cog was a common variety of ship, with clinker-built hull, used at this time. 34 John 11:1–44. 35 MS Vat. Lat. 4015, fol. 9r; available at https://www.medievalswansea.ac.uk/en/ statement/2.html (Mary de Briouze’s deposition) and https://www.medievalswansea. ac.uk/en/statement/7.html (the steward John of Baggeham’s deposition) (accessed 30 January 2023). 36 Bishop Baldock’s personal devotion to London’s patron saint, Erkenwald, has been discussed by Pfaff (see ‘Bishop Baldock’s Book’). Among the many legends associated with Erkenwald, one tells of the discovery of an ancient corpse – the body of a pre-Christian Briton – under the ground during the construction of St Paul’s. The corpse speaks, and tells Erkenwald of his life, and of his experiences after death. See the Middle English version of the legend: St Erkenwald, ed. Clifford Peterson (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977).

Further Reading ‘City Witness: Place and Perspective in Medieval Swansea’ ( www.medievalswansea. ac.uk). Catherine A. M. Clarke, ed., ‘Power, Identity and Miracles on a Medieval Frontier’, special issue, Journal of Medieval History 41.3 (2015). W. R. B. Robinson, ‘Medieval Swansea’, in Glamorgan County History, vol. 3, The Middle Ages, ed. T. B. Pugh (Cardiff: Glamorgan County History Trust, 1971), pp. 361–377.

20

Queen Helen of Serbia Catholic Noblewoman – Orthodox Queen Jelena Erdeljan

Introduction Queen Helen (Jelena) of Serbia (*c. 1236, †February 8, 1314), the wife of King Stefan Uroš I (r. 1243–1276), is most often known and referred to in historiography as Queen Helen d’Anjou, or Jelena Anžujska. She was the granddaughter of the Byzantine emperor Isaac II Angelos (r. 1185–1195 and 1203–1204) and the great-granddaughter of the king of Hungary, Bela III (r. 1172–1196). Both Catholic and Orthodox identities had been a part of Helen’s lineage from the very beginning. In her marriage to the King of Serbia she could, according to canon law, have remained Catholic. At the same time, Helen was the first Serbian queen to receive an official hagiography composed by Danilo II, archbishop of the Serbian Orthodox Church and a highly learned man of letters, diplomat, and spiritual father, where she was likened to the founder of the Serbian Orthodox autocephalous church, Saint Sava the Serbian. In this text, the figure of Helena is also presented as a likeness and a royal mirror of the Holy Virgin Mary. Her vita penned by archbishop Danilo II is also the main written source that scholars have relied upon in interpreting her place in Serbian history and her role as ktetor of some of the major Nemanide endowments of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. She is well known as a great patron of the arts in both the Orthodox and the Catholic spheres of the Serbian medieval state of the Nemanide dynasty. In her lifetime she retained close ties with the Curia and donated icons to the churches of St. Peter in Rome and St. Nicholas in Bari. At the church of St Nicholas in Bar in present-day Montenegro, a city under Helena’s control and part of the lands which she governed on the southeastern Adriatic littoral, joint Catholic and Orthodox services were held. At the same time, she was a donor of the Serbian Orthodox monastery of Chilandar on Mt. Athos, as well as of ancient Eastern Christian holy sites and monasteries in Raithu and the Sinai. Her main endowment and mausoleum is the Church of the Virgin dedicated to the feast of the Annunciation in the monastery of Gradac close to the town of Raška in present-day Serbia, a supreme example of visual identity referencing both her Catholic and Orthodox backgrounds. Historiography, mainly Serbian, has thus far viewed these two facets of her identity rather formally and as separate DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-20

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entities, rarely in synergy with one another. Based on insufficiently contextualized considerations of a reference to Helen in a letter of Charles of Anjou in which he refers to her as “dear cousin,” Helen, Queen of Serbia has long been incorrectly identified as being of Anjouvine descent and a direct blood relation of the Anjou family. The portrait that follows is therefore an attempt to depict Helen as a powerful royal woman of intricate lineage and imperial descent related to three imperial and royal houses: those of the Byzantine Empire, the Kingdom of Hungary, and the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, all of which played an important part in the overall complex politics in the Balkans in the second half of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century, in the wake of the 1204 crusader conquest and issuing restitution of Roman power in Constantinople in 1261. She was both the wife of a Serbian king and an independent ruler governing her own lands which were part of the Serbian Nemanide kingdom, as well as the mother of two subsequent Serbian kings, Dragutin (r. 1276–1282) and Milutin (r. 1282–1321). Helen played an active role in the world of the Orthodox Balkans at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century. In 1276 King Uroš I was dethroned by his son Stefan Dragutin (1276–1282) and took refuge in Hum, in the western region of the Serbian Nemanide state. In the years of Dragutin’s reign, power and land was divided among the two brothers, Dragutin and Milutin, and their mother. The resulting division into “constituent princedoms” within the Nemanide state was not unlike the Hungarian model of Dragutin’s father-inlaw, King Stephen V. Thus, what was long referred to as Queen Helen’s realm included vast territories in the southeastern Adriatic littoral and its hinterland, Zeta, Trebinje, and the areas around Plav, as well as the environs of her main foundation and funerary church, the monastery of Gradac in Raška in the Upper Ibar region. We learn from her Vita that her castle in Brnjaci was where she instituted a school for girls. In the region of Zeta on the Adriatic she started a complex project of erecting and rebuilding, as well as issuing charters to Franciscan and Benedictine monasteries in Kotor, Ratac, Bar, Ulcinj, Skadar (Shkodër), and elsewhere on the southeastern Adriatic littoral. Two inscriptions written in Latin kept today at the Historical Museum in Shkodër, Albania offer testimony of the ktetorship of Queen Helen and her two sons, kings Stefan Dragutin and Stefan Uroš II Milutin, over the ancient Benedictine abbey of Saints Sergius and Bacchus on the Bojana river close to the ancient fortress of Rosafa, not far from present-day Shkodër, and speak of her identity as both a Catholic noblewoman and an Orthodox queen of Serbia. She was instrumental in steering and guiding the political positioning of her two sons, creating networks of connectivity through dynastic marriages, dispensing abundant donations to holy places in all of Christendom, from Rome to the Holy Land, and supporting both the Catholic mendicant orders and the Serbian Orthodox Church. Queen Helen’s life and works are brought before the reader in the form of an imagined letter she wrote towards the end of her life, as nun Helen in the monastery of Gradac in Serbia, her main endowment and final resting place. This

Queen Helen of Serbia 203 letter is addressed to both her sons, (former) king Dragutin and king Milutin of Serbia and is at once a chronicle of her age and her political testament. In closing, this chapter offers a view of the death and state funeral of Queen Helen of Serbia as well as of the state pilgrimage to her tomb in Gradac, undertaken by her two daughters-in-law, Katelina/Katarina, the Hunagiran princess who was married to her son Dragutin, and Symonis, the imperial porphyrogenite daughter of the Roman emperor Andronicos II who became the wife of King Milutin and the Queen of Serbia. It is rendered in the form of an imagined letter Symonis is writing to her Constantinopolitan life-long confidante Maria, courtier at the imperial palace of her father, Emperor Andronicos II. Portrait My beloved children, Knowing well that the end of my days is drawing near and feeling the sweet and soothing call of Our Lord to rejoin Him in the true homeland of all Christian souls, the eternal Garden of Paradise, New Jerusalem, and the bosom of Abraham, I write to you from a beautiful and blessed place in Serbia, the enclosed garden of the Theotokos, the paradise-like monastery of Gradac which I myself have built intent on making it my final resting place. With my inward eye always fixed on the glory of Heavenly Jerusalem and my steps forever directed on the paths of the righteous, I utter, again, the prayer with which I addressed the Bridegroom of whom the holy evangelist Matthew speaks in the Parable of the ten virgins (King James Bible, 2017, Matthew 25:1–4) already in my city of Skadar where I first took the monastic habit in the church of St. Nicholas, guided by my spiritual father Job: “Oh expiated soul, sin-loving soul, here is the end of thy life in this century and to the other world you shall go, and among other people. For here you leave behind the short-lived beauty, where you had waited to be nourished in centuries, living sweetly. For here the heralds have come and said: They are calling you, rise and do not be late.” Thus, by recalling Skadar, I would like you both to remember that our lands, stretching from the borders with Hungary to the Adriatic Sea, have been blessed with abundance – not only through the fruit springing forth from the earth and the gold that earth yields in its depths, the honey harvested from our flowering meadows and the wool shorn from the sheep that graze upon them, but also through the multitude of voices and tongues which offer praise to the Lord in the host of both Orthodox and Catholic churches which grace it. I myself have followed the good Christ-loving Nemanide tradition of the founders of our state and church, Holy Symeon Nemanja and Saint Sava, in perpetuating ktetorship over them, often with your help. As you well know, I myself, and through me also you, my beloved sons, have since birth been the daughter of both Romes, the First and the New Rome, the imperial City of Saint Constantine on the Bosphorus. I am the granddaughter of the Byzantine emperor Isaac II Angelos and the great-granddaughter of the King of Hungary,

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Bela III. My father, John Angelos or Angelo Janos, as he is also known, was Isaac’s son from his marriage to Margaret of Hungary, daughter of the Hungarian king Bela III and Agnes de Chatillon. Angelo Janos was Count of Srem and married to Countess Matildis de Vianden of Požega, my mother. My sister, Maria, was married to Anselm de Chau, captain-general of Charles I of Anjou of southern Italy in Albania. As King Charles and I are related through this dynastic marriage, I have kept correspondence with this cousin and used all diplomatic means to secure the trade with Italy of luxury goods, many of which were employed to adorn the shrines of which I became ktetor, and imports of grain to feed our people and support my monastic foundations and schools, particularly those of girls of humble background, as well as the cities in Zeta on the southeastern Adriatic, like Bar and Ulcinj, which were placed under my rule as of 1276. And, having mentioned the Heavenly Jerusalem, I would like to bring before you, yet again, our unbreakable bond with the Holy City, the earthly image and reflection of the Heavenly Kingdom. My great-great-grandmother was Princess Alice, daughter of King Baldwin II of Jerusalem (r. 1118–1131) and sister of Melisende, Queen of Jerusalem (r. 1131–1161), the great patroness of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in its present form and many other holy places in Jerusalem and beyond, in Bethany and Gethsemane. Princess Alice of Jerusalem was married to Bohemond of Antioch. Their daughter Agnes of Antioch, who changed her name to Anna during her sojourn in Constantinople, was married to the Hungarian king Bela III who, as a protege of the Byzantine emperor Manuel I Komnenos (r. 1143–1180) and, at one point, his intended heir to the throne, had been raised at the imperial court in Constantinople. It was indeed Emperor Manuel I who arranged the marriage between Agnes/Anna and Bela/Alexios, the name he was given in the capital of the Christian Roman Empire. Their daughter, Margaret, was married to Emperor Isaac II Angelos. The son of Margaret and Isaac II Angelos, John Angelos, Count of Sirmium, was married to Mathilde de Vianden, Countess of Požega. I, Helen, former Queen of Serbia, was born from this marriage. You, my sons, were born from my marriage to your father, my beloved husband, Stefan Uroš I, King of Serbia. Our days together and his days on the throne of Serbia coincided with a turbulent time of constant change on the political scene of the Orthodox Balkans “without” Constantinople in the aftermath of the Fourth Crusade. We found ourselves positioned between and actively politically interacting with the Catholic archbishoprics of Dubrovnik and Bar, the Empire of Nicea under Theodore I Laskaris (r. 1205–1221), John III Vatatzes (r. 1221–1254) and Theodore II Laskaris (r. 1254–1258) as well as with the Kingdom of Hungary under Bela IV (r. 1235–1270) and Stephen V (r. 1270–1272). We were witnesses to and active participants in the events leading up to and following the restoration of Roman rule in Constantinople under Michael VIII Palaiologos (r. 1261–1282) in 1261 and the short-lived Union of the Churches after the Second Council of Lyon of 1274. All throughout those times, we remained closely connected to the surviving albeit

Queen Helen of Serbia 205 divided Byzantine elite scattered in both Anatolia and the Balkans. Actually, we never strayed much from the core of the Byzantine world during the thirteenth century: not after the catastrophe of 1204 and not even after Emperor Michael VIII s “betrayal” of Orthodoxy in 1274 with the Church union with Rome signed in Lyon, that was taken as an excuse for his enemies to join forces against his somewhat miscalculated attempt to re-establish the power of Constantinople over southeastern Europe in its former glory of the pre-1204 times. Your father and my husband, King Uroš I, had maintained close relations with the Emperor of Nicea, John III Vatazes. The state of the Nemanides stays deeply connected to a specific unity in diversity of the Orthodox Balkans in the thirteenth century. When I first came to Serbia I was indeed a foreign bride, but never really regarded as a stranger. Marrying outside of Serbia was a tradition which had secured the positioning and inclusion of Uroš’s relatives and predecessors on the throne and the Nemanide state within the Orthodox world of the late Komnenian era and the beginning of Crusader rule over Constantinople already in the generation of his father. Stefan Prvoven ani (r. 1217–1228), father of King Uroš I and your grandfather, was first married to Eudokia, daughter of the emperor of the Romans Alexios III Angelos (r. 1195–1203). His second marriage was to Ana Dandolo, granddaughter of Doge Enrico Dandolo, the leader of the Fourth Crusade, and King Uroš I, his third son, who became my husband and your father, was the offspring of that union. As King and Queen of Serbia, around the year 1265 and the twenty-second anniversary of his crowning, your father and I undertook the task of raising the Church of the Holy Trinity in the very heart of our realm and became ktetors of the monastery of Sopoani, which lies at the source of the Raška River and in the vicinity of the ancient fortress of Ras. It is this, Uroš’s main endowment, that finally became his eternal resting place. At first, when we were both dedicated to the founding of the monastery of Gradac and its katholikon dedicated to the Annunciation to the Holy Virgin, we ordered a vault to be constructed in the southwestern corner of the holy church, the same spot to which the holy body of our forefather, Saint Symeon Nemanja, had been transferred from his grave in Chilandar and laid to eternal rest in his endowment, the Church of the Dormition of the Holy Virgin in his monastery of Studenica. It was there that my husband and I planned to be buried together. As God willed it, he is now resting in Sopoani, and I shall soon be laid to rest in Gradac. The Church of the Holy Trinity which is the work of joint ktetorship of my husband and I celebrates the triune God and is a signum of our royal family’s never wavering adherence to the True Faith and Orthodoxy. Indeed, Christ and his Blessed Mother watched over us and provided refuge at all times, and especially in moments of grief which came with the passing of your noble grandmother, Venetian princess and Serbian queen Ana Dandolo. It was her and her son’s wish to make Sopoani her eternal resting place. One of the most highly gifted masters of fresco painting from Constantinople, whom we

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engaged among others to decorate this magnificent abode of the Lord with frescoes on a golden background and modeled on age-old exempla of the Hellenic spirit and art that lies at the core of the imperial art of Rome on the Bosphorus, recorded this moment in a scene painted above your grandmother’s grave marked by a sarcophagus in the narthex of the church of the Holy Trinity. Members of our family, all my children – my two sons and my daughter Brnja a, our court and the prelates of the autocephalous Serbian Orthodox Church – stand in reverence and deep mourning by the bier bearing the body of your grandmother as an angel takes her soul to hand it unto the care of Our Lord and his Blessed Mother who watch over us and stand beside us in this moment of grief. My Christian life in all its stages, as wife, queen, mother, and nun, has been spent in prayer to and emulation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, to whom I have dedicated my monastery of Gradac, and its church to her feast of the Annunciation. As all pious Christian queens and empresses, I have also followed in mimesis the holy empress and my namesake – Helena, mother of the first Christian emperor, Saint Constantine. Through the years, I have also found solace and sustenance in the teachings and miracles of the great and revered holy bishop of Myra, one of the fathers of the Church gathered at the First Ecumenical Council in Nicea presided over by Emperor Constantine to banish and punish the false teachings of the godless heretic Arias, Saint Nicholas in whose honor I raised the church in the ancient city of Bar in Zeta, high atop a hill slope and overlooking the azure waters of the Adriatic, facing his new tomb and holy place of pilgrimage in Bari. To that shrine, the Church of Saint Nicholas in Bari, housing his holy body which has been transferred there from Asia Minor towards the close of the eleventh century, I donated an icon of which you, too, my sons, are both ktetors. I requested that all three of us be represented thereupon in deep reverence of our holy father Nicholas. I have, likewise, donated an icon to the Holy See in Rome in reverence of the princes of the apostles, Saints Peter and Paul, and as a token of my respect for the Holy Father Nicholas IV with whom I have kept correspondence and whose advice I valued dearly on many occasions, in particular in matters of diplomacy and ecclesiastic organization and religious life in the littoral region of Zeta that had been given by Divine Providence to my rule for several decades following the exile of your father, King Uroš, to the region of Hum. On that icon, too, the three of us are forever portrayed as good Christian rulers over Serbian lands. The three of us toghether were also united in expressing our devotion to the Holy Protomartyr and Archdeacon Stephen, the protector saint of our royal house of Nemanji, as we confirmed with our signatures the chrysobul issued to the monastery of Banjska by my son and king of all Serbian lands and the Littoral, Stefan Uroš II Milutin. This glorious foundation, rising on the site of an ancient sacred space, is intended to be his final resting place. The charter provides the royal monastery of Banjska, without any hesitance, with

Queen Helen of Serbia 207 most lavish sustenance. Its marble facades perpetuating the eikon of the Tabernacle in their colors, the gold used to decorate its walls, icons, and liturgical vessels will glisten unto eternity like a true image of New Jerusalem of the New Israel. Milutin, my dear son, by the working of Divine Providence, it was at the time of the raising of Sopoani that union with the Roman imperial house of Palaiologoi had first been foreseen through your planned marriage to the daughter of the emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos. As God willed it, this was realized only a full thirty-four years later in the ancient and glorious city of Thessaloniki, around Easter time of 1299, by your marriage to my beloved daughter-in-law Symonis, born in purple daughter of the faithful Christian Roman emperor Andronicos II Palaiologos. Dragutin, my fist born, you married the virtuous daughter of the Hungarian king Stephen V, Katalina, whom I cherish and who comes from the land of Pannonia which is my own homeland. Through this blessed union we perpetuated dynastic ties with the ruling houses in the West. My own spiritual path has been traced by light uncreated eternally blazing bright from the East. I have become a donor of Athonite monasteries and Chilandar in particular, the foundation of our forefathers, the first Nemanides, Saint Symeon, Sava, and Simon – the First Crowned Serbian King Stefan, the beacon of Orthodoxy among the Serbs. In these feats, I was blessed with both the spiritual and diplomatic guidance of our long-time family friend and counselor in matter of faith, state diplomacy, and the beauty of naodomia, Archbishop Danilo II, former monk of Chilandar, Bishop of Banjska and Hum. In the East I found spiritual fathers in the Holy City of Jerusalem, as well as in Sinai and Raithu and Mount Athos. These ancient and most highly revered Eastern Christian holy places have been receiving lavish donations from my hand to this day. On the other hand, at the time of my marriage to your father, King Uroš, and the first decades of my life as Serbian queen, a time leading up to the – albeit short-lived – Union of the Churches and the Second Council of Lyon (1274), my Catholic lineage and the Orthodox milieu which became my home and realm were perceived as just two guises of the same universal Christian faith. Thus, joint services were held in churches in medieval Serbia, an excellent example being the Church of Saint Nicholas in Bar, a city under my control and a church of which I was the ktetor. What’s more, I took the monastic habit in 1295 in the Catholic monastery of Saint Nicholas in Skadar, under the guidance of my spiritual father Job, but will finally be buried in my main endowment, the Serbian Orthodox monastery of Gradac, in the Church of the Annunciation to the Virgin. All through the construction and painting of this beautiful church, at first along with my husband, your father, King Uroš, and later on my own, I remained joyfully watchful of each step taken to bring it to light and to most perfect completion. Gradac has been raised as my votive offering to the

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Holy Virgin and I, therefore, offer this, my own cordial supplication, to the most Holy Theotokos: “And you, my Lady Mother of God, the betrothed of my life, add this temple, dedicated to your holy name, to the host of holy catholic and apostolic churches.” Within the monastery walls I also raised a smaller church dedicated to Saint Nicholas. It stands atop a rock to the southeast of the Church of the Virgin. Over the years of construction of the main church, this chapel served as a house of Catholic prayer for those among the builders and other craftsmen I employed who came to Gradac from my realm, from Zeta and the Adriatic littoral. As in the case of my church dedicated to the same holy father from Myra which I raised in the city of Bar, this, too, remained a sacred place of both Catholic and Orthodox devotion with liturgies and litanies being sung in both Latin and Slavonic, in the tradition of both the First and the New Rome. Beloved sons, the hour is near and I await it, not with terror but with quiet joy and in constant prayer to Our Lord and his Holy Mother to grant you, my children, and our kingdom peace and constancy in the faith that all Christians shall be reunited in the world to come, in the eschaton, in the hour of resurrection of all the righteous to kneel before the Throne of God and sing there with angelic hosts “Hosana in excelsis!” Helen Maria, my dear and trusted friend, It has been so long since we last saw each other. I do trust that your health is serving you well. I write to you from the ancient and most beautiful city and fortress of Belgrade, positioned high above the confluence of two great rivers, the Sava and the Danube, with trees in full bloom and their branches filled with singing birds, a true paradise. Little more than a year has gone by since the passing of my venerable mother-in-law, Queen Helen. I came to Belgrade to meet Queen Katalina, my Hungarian sister-in-law, wife of my husband’s brother, Dragutin, who had been king before my husband, Stefan Uroš II Milutin, who by the grace of God became sovereign and the sole ruler of all Serbian lands and the Littoral. My brother-in-law Dragutin will be joining us shortly and we shall set off on solemn pilgrimage to pay homage to our mother and mother-in-law Helen, and light candles and lights at her grave in the monastery of Gradac. Katalina and I have already venerated and knelt in prayer before the miracle-working protectress of this city, the icon of the Holy Virgin of Belgrade, and, when we finally get to the monastery of Gradac, a good five days’ journey away, we shall first kiss the holy Icon of the Virgin there before we visit the grave of the departed Queen Helen. As I was told by our archbishop Danilo II, she died a “good death” in her residence in Brnjaci in the bitter cold month of February, on the eighth day, in the year of the Lord 1314. Death, the ultimate of all public events, was announced and proclaimed by the dying queen whereupon she called for the gathering and attendance of the highest representatives of the church and

Queen Helen of Serbia 209 state. Hearing of their arrival, the dying queen uttered from her deathbed prayers and words of humble gratitude for the joy of being able to rejoice with them in the name of the Lord for the last time in their life and through the prayers and the hymns they sang. The scene around Queen Helen’s deathbed was in many ways reminiscent of that of the apostles who had arrived from all corners of the earth to Jerusalem in order to part in this existence with the Theotokos, much like the majestic scene of the Dormition of the Virgin that graces the western wall of the Church of the Holy Trinity in the monastery of Sopoani of which she and her husband, whose body rests there in a royal tomb, had commissioned from the most excellent masters trained in the imperial workshops of the Queen of Cities, my beloved city, the Metropolis on the Bosphorus. Indeed, throughout her life my mother-in-law, queen and then nun Helen, always kept the Holy Theotokos as her guide and beacon. Katalina recognizes in this the tradition of the Hungarian court, of her own aunt, the venerable Margaret, daughter of King Bela IV and Maria Laskarina of Nicean provenance, sister of her father, King Stephen V, who lived in chastity and became a Dominican nun devoted to the Holy Virgin, almost a member of the court of heaven here and now. Still, I know that upholding the Holy Mother of God in ultimate veneration and her icons as sacred commodities of personal piety has been a tradition among the Serbs since the days of the Holy Symeon Nemanja and his wife Ana, the nun Anastasija. I have heard the vita of Saint Symeon read many times and know that at the moment of his death at the holy monastery of Chilandar on Mount Athos he asked that his own icon of the Virgin be brought to him so that he may deliver his soul into her hands. My own grandmother, the empress Theodora, restored the age-old nunnery of the Theotokos in the valley of the Lycus in Constantinople, the Mone tou Libou, and even enlarged it by raising there a new church dedicated to Saint John the Baptist. In their devotion to the Theotokos, women from my family follow the model set by our Komenian predecessors since the days of the empress Irene Doukaina. Thus, on this pilgrimage to Gradac, both Katalina and I follow and honor deep traditions of both West and East, as our beloved mother-in-law, queen and nun Helen, had also done in her days. Tomorrow we depart from Belgrade. Pray for our good health. May the Lord and his Holy Mother protect you from all evil, Symonis Queen of Serbia Born in Purple Daughter of the Emperor of the Romans Andronicos II Palaiologos Note * All translations of Serbian medieval sources into English by J. E.

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Further Reading Dani i, uro, ed. Životi kraljeva i arhiepiskopa srpskih, napisao arhiepiskop Danilo i drugi. Zagreb: Svetozara Galca u kom., 1866 (reprinted with introduction by or!e Trifunovi, London: Variorum reprints, 1972). Erdeljan, Jelena. “A Contribution to the Study of Marian Piety and Related Aspects of Visual Culture in Late Medieval Balkans: Several Notable Examples Recorded in Serbian Written Sources.” IKON 10 (2017): 369–376. Erdeljan, Jelena. “Two Inscriptions from the Church of Sts Sergius and Bacchus Near Shkodër and the Question of Text and Image as Markers of Identity in Medieval Serbia.” In Texts, Inscriptions, Images, edited by Emmanuel Moutafov and Jelena Erdeljan, 1: 129–143. Sofia: Institute of Art Studies, Bulgarian Academy of Sciences, 2017. Stankovi, Vlada. “Rethinking the Position of Serbia within the Byzantine Oikoumene in the Thirteenth Century.” In The Balkans and the Byzantine World before and after the Captures of Constantinople, 1204 and 1453, edited by Vlada Stankovi, 89–100. Lanham. MD: Lexington Books, 2016. Stankovi, Vlada. “King Milutin and his Many Marriages (*1254, †November 21, 1321, r. 1282–1321).” In Portraits of Medieval Eastern Europe, 900–1400, edited by Donald Ostrowski and Christian Raffensperger, 109–119. London: Routledge, 2017.

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The Missini Siblings Rena Lauer

Introduction Joseph and Cherana Missini, brother and sister, lived in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries on Venetian Crete. The island was Venice’s flagship colony from the thirteenth century until it was captured by the Ottomans in the late seventeenth century. Candia, the capital, was a cosmopolitan town, full of local merchants and long-distance traders, formerly Byzantine artisans and Venetian colonial elites, Black Sea slaves, and others. The majority of the population were Greek-speaking Orthodox Christians, the native Cretans who had been colonized by the Venetians in 1211. It was also home to a community of Jews, many of whom were from Greek-speaking families that had predated the Venetian conquest of the island but had found opportunities in the Venetian era. Jewish life in Venetian Crete, and particularly in the capital city of Candia, was remarkably stable and safe during this period. In contrast, in many parts of Europe during this time, Jews experienced deep popular anti-Judaism and statesponsored persecution. This portrait tells of two members of this Jewish community who lived in the later fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries. For many decades, medieval Jewish history came from two main sources: those written by Jews on the one hand, and high, official state or Church sources written from a Christian perspective about Jews on the other. While Jewish sources tend to be in Hebrew, and Church and state sources in Latin, both are overwhelmingly prescriptive, offering an idealized view with very little attention to how real people lived their lives, thought, or felt. Since the rise of the professional study of history, few historians of medieval Jews ventured into the archival material that reflected everyday life, such as the records of notaries who recorded business contracts and other quotidian agreements, or even the kinds of state-produced documents that record legal cases. Now that scholars have undertaken to research these notarial and courtroom sources, our understanding of Jewish life has blossomed. These are descriptive sources, sources that reflect the everyday intentions and desires of the people involved. Though written down by notaries, and certainly shaped by legal formulae and social conventions, sources like court cases and last wills and testaments offer us a unique vehicle for hearing the voices of historical actors, and for understanding how they DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-21

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wanted to be seen, understood, and remembered. One of the most revolutionary parts of this use of notarial and legal sources is the fact that we can hear women’s voices. All prescriptive Jewish, Church, and state documents are written by elite men, and generally are written for elite men too. In contrast, medieval Jewish women – particularly in the Mediterranean regions – participated in the economic, social, and legal life that appears in these descriptive sources. Moreover, we are able to access a different view of the elite men we thought we understood from the prescriptive sources. The Missini siblings offer a particularly good case in point. From the perspective of prescriptive sources, we would know that Joseph Missini, resident in Candia, Crete, was a leader of the Jewish community (via the Hebrew sources). We would know (from Venetian government sources) that he had been sent by the Jewish community in Crete to Venice in order to advocate for lowering taxes levied on the Jews. We would have a picture of a cookie-cutter elite, and not much else. His sister, on the other hand, would remain entirely invisible to us. Cherana Missini does not appear in any official source. By looking at notarial and legal sources, however, Joseph becomes a threedimensional character, and Cherana comes into historical existence. Legal and notarial records tell us about Joseph’s complicated family life: he had a son and daughter with his first wife. The son lived to be old enough for betrothal, and then died soon after the engagement was broken off. Devastated to be without an heir, Joseph took a second wife – a move that ultimately led his first wife to sue him in court. The sources tell us that Joseph’s daughter was first married off around 1400; later widowed, her remarriage is also evident in the notarial record. Joseph’s will also appears in the court record following a family dispute. The emotional complexity and three-dimensionality of this picture is striking: tragedy at home, with long-term implications for his marriage; the decision to take a second wife, not a casual choice in this time and place; and indeed, the death of his sister Cherana while in labor. These emotional moments in his life spark the narrative of much of this portrait. Cherana Missini, who remains invisible even in the legal records, appears in one source found among the notarial records: her will, which frames the portrait below. Nevertheless, the historical record tells us nothing else about Cherana (or at least, not that I have found as yet). Perhaps this is because she died so young, giving birth to what would have been her first child. We may imagine she was likely between eighteen and twenty years old. Yet we do know something about the life-cycle rituals of young Jewish women in the medieval world, and thus I have woven into this portrait an imagined narrative of her engagement and her preparation for marriage. The Jewish rituals surrounding death also appear in this story. In some ways, the sources available have led me to tell a story of death, an ever-present feature of life in the past, as now. This engagement with death and its rituals and meanings are the through-line of this double biography. Visiting moments of death may appear morbid and sad, even at times melodramatic. Yet they offer us an entrée into the highest priorities and deeply felt emotions of

The Missini Siblings 213 premodern people. It may have been far more common in the Middle Ages for women to die in childbirth, and for children to predecease their parents. But as scholars of emotion have stressed, this did not make them any easier for grieving families to tolerate. And fundamentally, it is important to recognize that the way that people died, or rather the way that people understood and related to death, tells us a great deal about the way they lived. Portrait The room was stuffy despite the chilly December air outside – chilly, at least, by Crete’s standards. The woman’s body had been covered hastily but modestly when it was clear that men needed to be let into the bedroom-cumbirthing chamber. A midwife stood along the wall, hands at her hips, trying to hide the anxious sense that this birth was already a failure, this woman already a corpse. Yet the woman in the birthing bed – Cherana – was clearheaded. Despite three days of failed labor, lost blood, and what the midwife was sure was an already stillborn child stuck in the wrong direction inside the womb, Cherana remained focused. Exhausted but in control, it had been Cherana who insisted that her frightened husband be called in and then sent to get the Venetian notary. A will needed to be written. “Now,” she said. “Now. Get my brother, too.” Then, after another labored breath: “Have the notary bring witnesses,” she demanded, even though the notary would do that anyway. “Stay here,” she told her mother, Cali, who had been there for most of the three days and would never have thought of leaving. “Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.” And then, weakly squeezing her mother’s hand, Cherana let herself close her eyes until they would all join her, circling the bed, waiting. Only after that, she vaguely thought as she drifted off, then she could let herself close her eyes one final time. *** Joseph had been busy in his warehouse, attached to his home, when the servant sent by David appeared. The Venetian calendar said it was December 25, 1373, a Christian holy day, so no trade with Venetian Christians or local politics would be happening on that day. But it was no holiday for Joseph and his fellow Jews. He put aside his own paper sheets when he heard the knock. One look at the servant’s face and he knew the news was not good. Wiping his hands on a cloth, he placed his hat on his head and left at once, calling only to his wife Channa and their toddler son, Samuel, in a falsely cheerful voice: “I will be home soon, dear ones!” Intuitively he moved down the ever-narrower labyrinthine streets of the Jewish quarter of Candia, the capital of Venetian Crete, toward the wellmaintained home of David de la Chania and his young wife Cherana. This was not how it was supposed to be!, thought Joseph to himself as he stood

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before the door, steeling himself for what would be inside. He had himself made the marriage contract between his sister and the promising businessman, a young Jew from a good family from Chania, a town on the other side of the island of Crete. Their father had died a decade ago, and so he had taken on this task for his sister – with the support and good advice of his mother. He was supposed to watch his sister produce healthy heirs, to share many more years with her and David, to celebrate Passover with them and enjoy weddings and circumcisions. We don’t get to decide what is supposed to be, Joseph reminded himself. He asked the Holy One, Blessed be He, to decide for the good of his family. He swallowed. And then, without announcing himself, he entered his sister’s home. *** What was “supposed to be” had begun with a great deal of hope. Cherana had only met David a few times but had heard from her brother of his family’s good status, their honorability, and that David was a nice man, known for being humble and clever in business. He was not too much older than her, and her trusted Yoste (as she always called her brother Joseph) assured her that he would treat her well. He did strike her as nice, with a pleasant smile but not too forward. Anyhow, it was time for Cherana to get married; she was ready, and it was the right time for her family to invest in her future. The finances were right; the young man from a good, successful family was right. Cali was eager for Cherana to be settled, and now she would be. Cherana was confident that David was a good choice as well. Cherana had always been forceful if modest, decisive, though willing to listen to reason. She was strong-willed, and when the momentous decision was to be made, Cherana felt that she was making the choice; it met both her and her family’s best interests. Her mother and brother rejoiced. The potential bridegroom David and his father met with the Missini family in Cali’s visiting room, an airy space opening up to the seawall, in the old family house that her late husband Chaim had left for her in his will. Joseph’s most trusted Venetian notary was called in to write up the betrothal document in Latin; Joseph and David’s father cheerfully debated the dowry and what Cherana would bring into the marriage as her own property. Cali chimed in, too. While she also played modest host, no one doubted the right of a widowed mother to play a meaningful role in her daughter’s betrothal and to make sure that Cherana would have the items that a girl of her status should have. And of course, the Missinis would pay for the wedding.1 A Hebrew version of the document was written up that day too, with many of the community’s most respected men stopping in to congratulate the new couple and their families. At the end of the day, Joseph carefully placed copies of both deeds – the Latin and the Hebrew – into his records chest, a wooden box with a sturdy lock, next to his promissory notes and his work contracts,

The Missini Siblings 215 and indeed, near his own marriage documents. David’s father took their copies back home, and the wedding was scheduled for the start of spring. Cherana was excited to join the ranks of her married friends, and even more thrilled to learn that David was hoping to expand his family’s kosher wine export business from his home in Chania all the way east to Candia. That meant she would not have to leave her mother and her friends. That was what her dear friend Eudochia had done just the month before; she married and moved all the way to Rethymno, more than half a week’s travel if the weather cooperated. Chania was nearly twice that distance! Instead, David’s family would provide them a home in the Jewish quarter, which meant she would never be too far from her mother. The Jewish quarter was a small neighborhood, which suited Cherana perfectly. Her mother and brother would be there to help her begin her own family life, even if her late father could not see it. Cali and Cherana began to collect, commission, and buy all the household items Cherana would need. Cherana spent hours being measured by the Jewish tailor (and his Christian apprentices) for new clothing, some of linen and some of wool (but not together, for the Bible forbade such a mixture). She adored the holiday cloak and the festive dress with beautiful silver and bone buttons, and even the new undergarments. Cherana’s grandmother, Potha, who had been widowed for far longer than Cherana had been alive, joyfully helped her only granddaughter adorn her linen towels with special sewing stitches for which she was known. They spent hours in the marketplace at the center of town, enjoying the hustle and noise and smells, but refusing anything of suspect quality, unknown origin, or unfair price. Once assembled, mother and daughter lovingly placed Cherana’s new belongings in a fine wooden trunk that would be transported by cart to her new home. As she planned for her own home, Cherana chose a few precious items from her childhood bed to bring into her marital home: a special bolster she was particularly fond of, and a bedspread that felt especially comforting. Her mother also instructed her in the laws of family purity, Jewish traditions of how and when a couple could be intimate, and how and when a married woman (made impure by her monthly bleeding) should ritually cleanse herself to make ready to reconnect with her husband once again. It was woman’s knowledge, and Cherana felt like a woman as she planned, purchased, and practiced. As the happy holiday of Purim and the promise of spring approached, Cherana felt ready. As the sky darkened on the evening before the wedding day, Cherana’s girlfriends gathered before Cali’s door. Twittering with titillation and excitement, they led her on a parade toward the town’s ritual bath where she would purify her body and ready it for the intimacy of marriage. The next morning’s ceremony seemed to Cherana to be over before it had even begun. She remembered sips of wine, a ring placed on her finger, but it was not until the ritual meal – beautiful braided bread, delicious pies, meat, and vegetables laid out for all the guests to enjoy – that she felt herself back in her body. She

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and David spent their first night in their new home, cautiously getting to know each other as husband and wife. *** As Joseph entered Cherana’s home on that sad, cold, December day, he was relieved to be shielded from the wind coming off the Mediterranean water, so close to the Jewish quarter. The relief was short lived; he could smell acrid blood and approaching death. He entered the room, joining David, his mother, the just-arrived notary, and a pair of Christians meant to be witnesses. Jews could not play this role of witness to wills according to law, but the two men looked familiar to him. Both Greeks, he often saw them in the main plaza among the traders, one a cloth merchant, the other – what was it he sold? Wax? Or was he the son of the blacksmith? Had they just happened to be on the street when the notary came up, or had he gathered them earlier? The futility of his train of thought struck Joseph as his sister stirred. “Yoste,” she whispered, seeing him. Yoste, the Greek nickname everyone called him. Not Yosef, the official Hebrew name with which he was called up to the Torah at the Synagogue of the Priests each Shabbat morning. Just Yoste, as she had called them since they played with her favorite ragdoll and his beloved wooden hobby horse. “I’m here, Cherana,” he whispered back – his whisper an attempt to overcome the lump in his throat. “You can begin.” That instruction was in part to his sister, but mostly to the notary. The Catholic man, Giovanni Morgano, began posing pointed questions to Cherana: Who will be your executor? (“My brother, Yoste”) Will you leave anything to him? (“Yes, 500 hyperpera.” Their mother looked surprised. “Only 500?” she asked. “You have a good deal more to give away,” she told her dying daughter. With a look of exhausted resignation, Cherana amended, “I mean 1000 hyperpera”) Will you leave anything to your husband? (“Yes, 500 hyperpera”) Will you give something for the sake of your soul – that is, charity? (“Yes.” Then, “Mother,” she turned her head slightly, with effort. “Mother, some money should go to writing Torahs.” “What’s a Torah?” Giovanni asked. “Our scripture, Old Testaments,” explained David, “and why not have them write three?”) Are you saying you only want to give as charity the scrolls? (“Oh. No. Of course not. I want to give money to help our poor girls – our poor Jewish girls – have money to marry decently”) “Let’s not forget your grandmother,” Calli gently reminded her daughter. “Wait,” croaked out Cherana, licking her dry lips. The midwife rushed over from her corner with a cool cloth. They had forgotten she was there, but she had been paying attention to every word. “Mother, yes, give some money to Grandmother.” The irony that Cherana’s grandmother, Potha, would certainly outlive her granddaughter was not lost on anyone in the stifling room.

The Missini Siblings 217 The details had moved beyond Cherana’s ability to stay clearheaded, and she asked her brother and husband to play out the numbers for the charity. They decided that 500 hyperpera should be given to Cali. Cali would direct the money for the Torah scrolls, and 50 hyperpera to her grandmother, Potha. Cali would direct the rest of the money for orphan marriages. “So,” asked the notary. “One final question: Who will be the universal heir?” David and Joseph looked at each other, and then at her mother. No one knew what Cherana would decide. She had refused to address it with any of them; any were possibilities. “My brother, my dear Yoste,” she said. Giovanni wrote. Cherana nodded slightly. It was done. “Now, please wash my hands,” she asked. They understood: she was ready to make her religious confession of sins, the final act of a dying person who was strong enough to speak. A basin and cup were brought, and with delicate care her hands were washed, first the right, then the left. She whispered the blessing of purification. Then she spoke her confessional words, though those around her could only see her lips moving.2 Joseph thought, What sins could she possibly have to confess? Yet he felt proud of his sister’s pious actions; she was a woman of valor and brought honor to the family until her last day. Cherana, the wife of David de la Chania, died the following night, her baby dying with her as expected. *** Cherana’s funeral was on a dreary day, a relief for Joseph and his family. She had died the day before, and according to Jewish tradition, burial should happen as soon as possible. A fog fell over the island as the Missinis and much of the rest of the Jewish community followed the casket through the Jewish quarter, beyond the walls, and to the Jewish cemetery – a somber parade. After Cherana was placed in the ground, Joseph recited the Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer, in the ancient Aramaic. “Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world which He has created according to His will,” he began. As he said the familiar words, he was surprised to find that his mind wandered to the weather. Glorified be God who made for today an overcast sky, he thought. *** It would be a sensation he remembered with painful clarity eighteen years later when he found himself burying his son Samuel on a terribly sunny day, again walking behind the casket as the funeral parade wound its way along the same route to the Jewish cemetery. I am escorting my son to his eternity, he thought, when I should be escorting him to meet a bride. He straightened himself and stood upright. He reminded himself of his status; he was a leader of his community. He had to offer a model! He had remained a model when Cherana died; he could do it again today. All the

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cantors, the men who ran the synagogues, were behind him; even the women of the community marched behind him, some wailing, some in silence. He had to be a good model! Yet, by the end of the day, when he and his frighteningly silent wife Channa, his mother Cali, and grandmother Potha sat together alone in Cali’s visiting room, Joseph was truly unsure how he had remained on his feet. A minor miracle he had even managed it. He forced himself to eat some bites of the ritual meal of consolation they found laid for them on a trestle table when they arrived home. A few bites of warm lentils were all he could manage. He soon snuck off to his library where he was just glad to sit. He knew he could not remain among his beloved books for long. He would need to be present in the visiting rooms the very next morning. A week of Shiva – seven days of mandated mourning when their friends and neighbors would visit and provide food and words of comfort, as the family would sit at home – seemed daunting. He felt grateful that at Shiva he was not expected to start conversations. Nevertheless, he had done it before, and he knew it would test his fortitude. But that was tomorrow; for now he could sit among his books. He gazed at his library, of which he was so proud, which he had spent a good portion of his available funds collecting or having copied by one of Crete’s talented Hebrew scribes. His books always brought him comfort. Until another thought struck him: I have no heir. To whom will I leave my library? He loved his daughter Crussana, born almost a decade after Samuel, but she was not a boy. She would have no use for a library of Jewish books. Joseph had refused to believe at first that he could lose Samuel. And the denial was at first easy because there was not so much to do to prepare. Still a minor according to Venetian law, a person with no assets according to Jewish law as well, Samuel needed no last will and testament. So Joseph had just sat with Samuel and prayed, repeating Psalms from memory. Repeating and repeating. A Jewish healing woman had been called in, promised lots of money, begged and cajoled to try anything to save his son, his heir, after an accident. It had not worked. Just a year ago he had thought it a tragedy when Samuel’s engagement had been called off. Joseph had found Samuel the child of a prosperous family – a girl from Rhodes, fabulously wealthy, who would bring her family’s connections as well as a good dowry. But fights over finances had ended that engagement. Nights of anguish followed that failed match. Everyone had been angry: Channa, his wife, had been angry at him for causing shame; Samuel had been angry at the girl’s father for what he perceived as petty niggling. Joseph was furious that the businessman from Rhodes had disrespected him. Those were loud nights, full of tears and shouts and tense rises and falls long after midnight knells of the bell on the nearby Franciscan abbey. This was different. Samuel’s death left him, and Channa, silent, empty, squeezed dry from watching over him. For many months after burying his

The Missini Siblings 219 son, every day, as he said final words of the mourner’s Kaddish, asking God to bring peace “upon us and on all Israel,” he especially asked for peace for Channa, whose silence could not hide the chaos inside her. He often recited to himself, “God gives and God takes; blessed be the name of God.”3 At those moments, though, it felt that God had taken too much. The pain of his sister’s death nearly two decades before had left him deeply sad. But his son’s death disrupted everything he knew. His world looked different. *** Joseph was not by nature a sad or sullen man. He was a natural socializer, a natural diplomat, even as he enjoyed his quiet hours in the library among the books he had so proudly collected. But he loved to visit and to hear the latest news from Crete and abroad. Indeed, the very year before he had found Samuel a bride (or so he had thought), he had been chosen by his very own community of Jews in Crete to go to Venice as an advocate. It was a heavy task. The taxes imposed upon the Jewish community had gotten heavier, but the number of Jews had not. So the leadership decided to act, and the affable conversationalist Joseph had been chosen along with two of his friends. The embassy had been a success. A long trip to Venice; a long wait, hoping that the Venetian council would take seriously their complaint; the triumph, and then a long return home. But it had been done, and Joseph had admired the grandeur of Venice, its vibrant markets and unusual canals. He had returned home energized with his success, ready to see his family and to sort out the next part of his life: to get his heir settled as a married man. He had acted for his community and would now act for his family. The attempt to act for his son had been met by tragedy. Yet he still had to act for his daughter. At the turn of the new Christian century, he married Crussana to a wealthy German Jew who had moved to Crete. He hoped that she, at least, would live a long and healthy life, and produce sons. May Crussana not meet a fate like my dear sister Cherana, he prayed internally, as he smiled to the crowd at her wedding. May she live far longer than her brother did, he added. He had given Crussana a great dowry; may the Holy One now give her the chance to see it grow. Then he focused on his community and his library. What else could he do? he asked himself. He took on the role of community president, the condestabulo. He once again used his diplomatic skills to help the Jews of Crete before the Venetian administration. He kept busy. He remained upright, except when he closed the door of his library. There he could just be. *** Joseph saw himself as a problem solver. Yet somehow, when it came to his wife Channa, his solutions only caused more harm. Without an heir, he found himself at a loss. They did have a daughter, but no son. Channa was despondent, and too old (she said) to produce a new heir. Ever the optimist, he had suggested they return to intimacy and try. She had laughed at first, but

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soon turned bitter. Did he not remember how hard it was to have even two children? she reminded him in the dead of night when neither could sleep. Did he not remember loss after loss of pregnancy that defined her life in the near decade between Samuel and Crussana’s birth? The visits to healing women, the prayers, the Psalms, the potions sought from stranger sources? It may have been very common – she knew many friends who also struggled to give their husbands the families they had envisioned – yet still it was rarely spoken of. While he was making a name for himself and building a business, she was at home unable to give him more children, unable to share the grief. Was he really telling her they should try that again? And about this home – Channa spat out one night – she could not stand the house where they had lived; it reminded her only of Samuel’s death. So he bought her a new house. A lovely, large home in the Jewish quarter, not too far from the old house, but without all the memories. And after a great deal of internal debate, discussion with the most erudite men of his community, and a lot of searching in his library of Hebrew books, he also decided to find a second wife, a younger woman who would hopefully be able to give him sons, while Channa could focus on Crussana and the home. The new house had plenty of room for both women; it was a solution! He moved his library in, and then his two wives, and his daughter. A solution! It was not a success. Channa was miserable, reminded every day by the sight of the younger woman who shared her husband’s bed of her fertility failures and her dead son. The enmity grew, her sadness turning to an anger that made her want to humiliate her husband, as she felt humiliated by the younger wife in her home. One day in early fall, Channa left the home, finding refuge in her own mother’s house. Soon Joseph received an unexpected summons. Channa was suing him, taking him to the Venetian court and labeling him a bigamist before the very Duke of Crete. With a strange recognition, Joseph noticed that he felt sad for her – certainly put out, knowing the expense and the time that would have to be spent on a court case. But surprisingly he did not find himself angry. Channa had at least found her voice again. She had found a focus – even if it was aimed at him, even if she brought the private travails of their family, their Jewish community, into the public courtroom held in the town square. Joseph once again had to call on his diplomacy, his charm. Over the course of a very long day of defending himself – he did not even call in a lawyer to help him make his case – Joseph managed to convince the Venetian court that he was allowed to be a bigamist according to Jewish law. He was relieved that Venice had promised that Jews could live according to their own laws of marriage and divorce. But no matter his success, he could not just discount Channa … how could he make this right? He did not want to divorce her, though Jewish law would have allowed it. Divorce was expensive, messy, and after all, he still cared deeply for the mother of his children. He did not want to simply abandon her in her older years. No, divorce would not be a kindness. Nor did she seem to want that either.

The Missini Siblings 221 Ever the optimist, Joseph turned to the judges to help him negotiate a deal. Perhaps she simply wanted a different house? Somewhere where she could be the only mistress of the house? The judges agreed to ask her. And indeed, she said she would be willing to end the dispute if he placed her in a new home. So he bought another apartment and moved his first wife there. His second wife did not produce a new heir. *** Over the course of the next decade, life returned to a new version of normal, without an heir, but buoyed up by the busyness of community business, his own mercantile work, the joy of grandchildren born to his daughter. It was, nevertheless, a quieter decade for him. He began again to grow his library a little during those years – beginning to give shape to an idea about a potential recipient. He delighted in the hours he spent reading from the collection he had amassed. He felt joy, gratitude for what he had, tempered by a sadness for what he did and could not have. In the summer of 1411, Joseph’s vigor had left him, and he knew his own end was likely near. He thought of Cherana, nearly four decades earlier, already so weak when he saw her. She had wanted Torah scrolls written; in her pain she had thought of the community. He had been given four more decades than she had, and he felt content with the work he, too, had done for the community. He had sought to sanctify the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, and he had. He had also tried – oh, how he had tried! – to do for his family. He had tried. But what was done was done, and now was the time to tie up the last loose ends. He thought of that preamble the Venetian notaries tended to place at the beginning of the wills they wrote down, which he had now seen and heard too many times on too many wills now that he was coming to the fullness of his own days: his grandmother, his father, his mother, his sister, many, many friends. “Because no one can know the end of one’s life and we have nothing clearer than that one cannot avoid the judgment of death, it is rightly appropriate for everyone to take precautions by his own previous discretion, so that the fate of death will not befall him unexpectedly, and he will leave behind his goods disordered and disorganized.”4 Goods, he thought. The material and the spiritual. So many goods, even among the bad. And then he thought: The worst … to have lost my son, to whom I would have given so many goods. He whispered to himself, “God gives and God takes; blessed be the name of God.” Such had been his life. But he knew now that the Holy One had indeed given him a great deal, despite so much loss. He began with the spiritual. He washed his hands according to ritual and recited a blessing over the purifying act. He placed his prayer shawl, his tallit, over his head and shoulders. He then recited his own ritual confession, following the words the rabbis had prescribed, and thinking at the same time of his own choices.5 It seemed to him that in the forty years since his sister’s

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death he had accrued much to confess, much to regret. But also many moments of pride. Hope and sadness. Loss and gain. A full life. He then called in a trusted Venetian notary, bringing him in one last time to write his will. After years of dictating work contracts, wine purchases, and joint ownership agreements, he now dictated something very different. He would call for his family soon, as was the custom. But he wanted to ensure he did not forget anything, that no one would interrupt his thinking. The notary brought witnesses, and they would be enough for now. He began to recount for the notary what he had had long planned for this final document.6 As always, Joseph aimed not only to ensure the comfort of his family, but also to support his community. First, he recalled the list of goods and money to be given to his family, relatives, neighbors, friends. Thinking of his sister, he left money to enable poor Jewish girls to marry. Thinking of his connections beyond Candia, he sent money to the Jewish scholars struggling to eke out an existence in the Holy Land. And now it was time to put into play the plan he had been thinking of over the previous decade. My son will not get my library, he told him, musing aloud while trusting that the notary would know how to translate his thoughts into legal language. That is just how the Holy One ordered things. So I shall pay to support a Jewish scholar, a Jewish teacher, who will take the books and teach the Jewish boys of the community from them. I can support twelve boys for twelve years – the length of time my own son was tutored. My son will no longer learn, but they will be like my sons – these twelve boys of Candia – and they can become scholars in the ways of the Holy One’s words. I will not have an heir, but twelve sons of my community will gain from my loss. Twelve sons, like the sons of Jacob, the sons of Israel. He thought once more of Cherana, his beloved sister, who had no sons – no children at all, not even one she had loved and buried. These boys will be for her, too, he told himself. A merit for her soul, as well as mine. After the notary had left, he rested his eyes as he sent a servant to bring his family to him. And once again he whispered aloud to himself, “God gives and God takes; blessed be the name of God.” Notes 1 Although we do not know much about Cretan Jewish wedding preparations, and trousseaus in particular, we do have data from other Mediterranean settings and Italy. See, for example, Ariel Toaff, Love, Work, and Death: Jewish Life in Medieval Umbria, trans. Judith Landry (Oxford: Littman Library), 20. 2 For evidence of a young woman’s pre-death confession see David Kaufmann, “Le ‘Grand-Deuil’ de Jacob b. Salomon Sarfati d’Avignon,” Revue des Etudes Juives 30 (1895), 58–61; Elliott Horowitz, “The Jews of Europe and the Moment of Death in Medieval and Modern Times,” Judaism 44 (1995): 274. The well-known ritual of reciting the Shema (“Hear oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one”) and other formulae was apparently not yet known in the fourteenth century. Horowitz, “The Jews of Europe,” 275. 3 Job 1:21. This line is recited as part of perimortem Jewish rituals.

The Missini Siblings 223 4 This particular translation comes from Cherana’s will, but it appears either verbatim or in similar fashion across Cretan and other Latin notarial wills. 5 This set of rituals is attested by the fourteenth century in the Mediterranean, though we do not have specifics from Crete. See Horowitz, “The Jews of Europe and the Moment of Death,” NEAR FN 19. 6 The will exists only as recopied into a series of trial records. See ASV Duca di Candia, b. 30 ter, r. 31, fols. 17r–18v (October 18, 1417); b. 26 bis, r. 8, fols.7v–8r (October 1, 1437); and b. 31, r. 40, fols. 14r15r (October 1, 1437). The original will was written up by Giovanni Catacalo on August 14, 1411, but does not survive in the extant register of Catacalo (ASV Notai di Candia, b. 24) which unfortunately only covers parts of 1389.

Further Reading Ifft Decker, Sarah. Jewish Women in the Medieval World, 500–1500 CE. London: Routledge, 2022. Horowitz, Elliot S. “The Jews of Europe and the Moment of Death in Medieval and Modern Times.” Judaism 44 (1995): 271–281. Lauer, Rena. Colonial Justice and the Jews of Venetian Crete. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019. Lauer, Rena. “In Defence of Bigamy: Colonial Policy, Jewish Law, and Gender in Venetian Crete.” Gender & History 29 (2017): 570–588.

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A Pilgrim’s Deliberation Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage to Le Puy-en-Velay, en route to the Camino de Santiago de Compostela Susan McDonough

Introduction In the late Middle Ages, women sold sex in a variety of ways, some on their own working from their homes, and some working through a brothel. Brothels could be managed by a man or woman who received a license from their city, while others were privately owned. Sex work was rarely a lifelong profession; rather it was something women did sporadically to make money when they needed it, to support themselves or sometimes a family. To be a sex worker was not necessarily to be single – many were married women. Many laws circumscribed the lives of prostitutes, limiting where they could live while they were selling sex, what they could wear, and where they could walk in the city. Some municipalities enclosed sex workers in brothels during Holy Week, or even expelled them from the city, usually to prove the piety of whichever Christian ruler ordered the expulsion. Although sex work in brothels was legal in the late Middle Ages, much of what we know about medieval sex workers’ lives comes from court documents and legal codes. Yet it would be a mischaracterization of their lives to see only legal circumscription. This fictionalized account of the brothel keeper Johaneta Aymara is based on a notarial document from Marseille called a comanda, in which Johaneta and her concubinary partner, a Catalan named Johan Raynaudi, put her servant Antoni Soquini in charge of all of the moveable goods within her house while Johaneta left Marseille to go on pilgrimage to the shrine of the Virgin in Le Puy-en-Velay.1 Johaneta and Johan were not married but bound by a contract of concubinage, which typically pledged a woman’s fidelity to a man who promised a financial payout at the end of a fixed period of time. These marriage-like relationships were ubiquitous among clergy and laity in the medieval Mediterranean, and, like the comanda, were included in the notebooks of local notaries. The witnesses to the comanda included Peire Guiberti, an associate of the sousviguier, an officer who was similar to a police chief and a nobleman, Antoni de Gargay. Since witnesses to notarial contacts were usually the people who were around at the creation of the contract, and since we know that this contract was witnessed in the brothel, these men were either in the brothel as customers or for some other business.2 Sex work was closely surveilled by the authorities, so it is likely that Johaneta DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-22

Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage 225 knew the sousviguier’s men well, and had to negotiate a workable relationship with them. The comanda recognized that Johaneta and Johan were consigning the goods in the house to Antoni Soquini together, but the singular is used to indicate the decision to undertake a pilgrimage, so I am assuming Johaneta went alone on the journey. Le Puy-en-Velay was at the start of one of four major routes to the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, the road to Santiago in northwestern Spain. In the Middle Ages, this was a popular site of pilgrimage dedicated to the apostle James, whose body, according to legend, was miraculously shipped to Galicia after he was martyred in the Holy Land.3 I have imagined Johaneta’s journey starting in Marseille, stopping in Le Puy, as the comanda suggests, and then continuing on to Santiago de Compostela, a journey which would take at least a month. The fight which opens the portrait is also based on a case before Marseille’s criminal court in 1396, and all the women mentioned here are attested in that same register from the criminal court. Johaneta’s acquaintance and shared living quarters with these other women is my speculation, as the existing archival records make it impossible to say that for sure. Portrait The broken wine cask and the sticky, malodorous mess left all over the floor was really the last straw. The tension between Catarina and Marieta had been brewing for a while; Johaneta had learned to sense when the brawls were about to start, and to run interference when she could to soothe the ruffled feelings. But this time she didn’t move quickly enough, and when Marieta screamed at Catarina that she was nothing more than an old, hairy slut, Johaneta knew that Catarina would retaliate.4 And she did, with angry, pointed words and a stout stick across the other woman’s face. Within moments, all the women were involved, taking sides. Plates were flying, and the broken cask sent shards into the air and wine onto the floor. Months of resentment between Catarina and Marieta coalesced in a messy, profanityladen brawl. It was a miracle no blood was spilled, but the deep red wine running everywhere certainly made it seem like it had been. If she’d had time to think about it, Johaneta could have predicted the outcome. In a fury, Catarina marched out of the brothel’s door before anyone could stop her, and where did she go? To make sure Marieta would pay, literally, for the insult. As much as Johaneta tried to convince them it was bad for business, the women who worked in her brothel could not restrain themselves from bringing their quarrels into the public sphere. In high dudgeon, Catarina went to denounce Marieta for libel, and Johaneta knew that an official from the criminal court would soon knock on her door to summon Marieta before the magistrates. Within days, all the women in the house would be barely speaking to each other, as they lined up behind either Catarina or Marieta and prepared to share their testimonies in court. The visits from the various court officials broke their usual routine, and Marieta

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and Caterina minded not a bit that their brawl and their legal battle would be the talk of the street. They didn’t think about the work Johaneta had to do in the background, reassuring the sousviguier’s men that she had the women under control and fending off the ugly comments in the market. It didn’t matter to the neighbors that Johaneta had a license to run her business; they didn’t like it, and they didn’t mind telling her so in the strongest of language. Johaneta kept her head high, and she tried to get the other women to follow her example, but she understood the way the insults wore them down, because it did her, too. So, when the cask broke, the wine spilled, and the insults and sticks and spit and hands began to fly, Johaneta had had enough. After it was all cleaned up, and the house was finally quiet, Johaneta took stock of where she was and what she could change. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and fell upon the Virgin’s altar, which she kept in the corner of her small, private chamber. The altar was one constant in Johaneta’s life. First her mother’s mother’s, then her mother’s, now hers, the image of Mary prompted her prayers every morning, and connected Johaneta to the memories of the women who raised her. They had taught her how to pray and the three often began or ended their days reciting the rosary in honor of the Virgin. Though it had been decades since they’d been together in life, Johaneta nurtured her connections to her foremothers when she prayed for their souls and her own. And that night, with the sounds and the smells of the fight between Caterina and Marieta foremost in her mind, Johaneta found it almost impossible to find comfort in the familiar words. Tempted simply to fall into sleep, exhausted from cleaning up the overturned tables and broken crockery, she still felt the pull of the Virgin’s visage inspiring her to pray. After a few aborted attempts, Johaneta found her rhythm, and as she mumbled the words Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, she felt the heaviness of the day leave her aching limbs. Reciting the prayer over and over ten, twenty, one hundred and fifty times brought her relief from the discomfort and, more, a sense of lightness and resolve. At the end of the familiar cycle, she understood that she needed something to change. The evening’s eruptions and the long hours of clean-up were simply the catalyst she needed to step away from her business, at least for a time, to focus on her spirit. As the night wore on, she was comforted by the presence of the Virgin, and when Johaneta emerged from her chamber in the early hours of the next day she had formed the vague shape of a plan. She knew there was much to do, many conversations to have, before she could move forward. It wouldn’t be easy, and not everyone would understand. Johaneta was exhausted by all the small grievances she had to navigate every day, but it had taken her years to build relationships with the sousviguier’s men whom she could call upon when she needed them, but who could poke their noses into her business with unwelcome advice or to solicit undeserved favors.5 If she left, would all of that disappear so that she would have to start over upon her return? She could not fool herself into

Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage 227 thinking that everything would stay the same in her absence. Would the women even be here when she got back? Or would her departure signal to Caterina, to Marieta, to Ysabelle that they should move on too? None of them were from Marseille originally; like most public women they came to her from all over, landing in Marseille without family or connections.6 Caterina had arrived from Gascony, never willing to talk about her past. Franciza and Argentina arrived together from Montepulciano, full of tales about their adventures on the road, but with those two it was hard to tell where truth ended and fantasies began. Jusquina moved to the city from the countryside with her love, only to be abandoned for another. Marieta came on a ship from Mallorca with barely enough money for a loaf of bread on her arrival, speaking only Catalan, but very loudly. In contrast, when Dalfina knocked on her door, hailing from Normandy, the woman would barely speak. Whether silenced by the dangers of her journey or memories of the hard hand of a husband, Johaneta was never sure. She knew, however, that it was more than simply the difference in vernaculars. Adventure and pain, or some combination of the two, usually motivated the women to find her. And both could easily spur them to move elsewhere. And while she’d never had trouble finding women to rent space in her rooms, she’d come to appreciate the strange community they’d cobbled together. The fights and the competition and the petty theft were exhausting, yes, but the women who worked in her house were united in adversity; they bore the brunt of the community’s whispers (and sometime shouts) and the upturned noses from the women at the marketplace who skittered away as they approached the stalls, or who muttered “puta” under their breath as she paid for their eggs. If these women couldn’t keep their husbands at their own tables and in their own beds, why was that Johaneta’s problem? And if the men weren’t married, what was the harm in finding companionship when their ships put into port? Johaneta and the women she shared her life with were impatient with the hypocrisy and the sermonizing. Especially since she opened her doors to the Franciscans and the Dominicans and the local priests, even when they held women like her up as examples of moral degradation. Perhaps the jongleurs were right when they mocked libidinous priests tricking the gullible peasants and having sex with their wives; in Johaneta’s experience, the priests were just as likely as any man to show up drunk, ready to screw as they were to worry too much about souls, whether their own or other people’s.7 The side of the priests the women in the brothel saw might change the minds of the sneering ladies in the market, but Johaneta had learned the hard way that there was no convincing them. And she tried to convince the other women that fighting back wasn’t worth it, but they rarely listened. Was that a reason to stay, or one to go? The resolve she’d felt only a few short minutes earlier faded a little as a worry crept in: would all she had built crumble if she left? Like the women who found shelter and at least a paltry income in her brothel, Johaneta was a foreigner to Marseille. She had no kin here, and no

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connections that she hadn’t created and nurtured herself. She’d always been good at chatting people up, and when she was no longer interested in more than that, she turned all she had learned by listening to her advantage. And when she’d inherited the house from its previous owner, another woman with no husband or children to speak of, she was able to continue the business with barely a bump.8 Without being here, sharing stories, referring business, she worried that there would be nothing to return to. But if she stayed, only to have her irritation build, her patience fray, soon her fists would be the ones flying. And that would only add anger to the sins for which she would need to atone. It was time to silence the doubts and figure out what she could do to protect her home and her affairs in her absence. If she planned to return, perhaps she might convince some of the women to stay and await her. Johaneta turned to Boneta, the lone servant in her employ, and sent her to the workshop of the notary Peire Calvini to ask that he come by this evening. With that step taken, Johaneta turned her thoughts to Johan. They had settled into a comfortable relationship over the past few years, married in all but name. They’d met in the tavern, just after Johan’s ship put into port. A few of the other sailors had greeted her, and when they turned their attention to the game of dice, she and Johan fell into an easy conversation. She appreciated his effort to speak in Occitan. He struggled with a few words and his Catalan accent gave a strange shape to others, but he treated her kindly, and when he came to the brothel a few nights later it was to see her, not one of the women working that night. More conversations, and other things, led to Johaneta’s longing for him when he set sail again, this time for Genoa and beyond. She thought she would never see him again, but months later he returned. And he had kept coming back, year after year. She was clear-eyed about their relationship: she promised him her fidelity, and he promised her his support. And when their time together was over, Johaneta knew he’d honor their contract and leave her with a nice sum of money.9 He left for long periods, and surely had other women in other places, but for now, he came back to her. Would he choose to join her on pilgrimage? He was a man of faith and, like Johaneta, began and ended his days with prayers to the Virgin. In Marseille, they said their prayers together facing her little altar, so perhaps her plan would appeal. She would not, she decided, be persuaded to delay if he did not want to accompany her. If this was the end of their time together, she would understand. He was used to leaving, to testing his mettle against the sea and all its dangers, expecting her to be here upon his return. If she could not keep that promise, she was the one who broke their accord. All the thoughts of potential loss, personal and professional, swam in Johaneta’s head as she tallied her accounts and set aside the sous for the wine and fish she would look for in the market later that day. She took stock of the supplies in her storeroom, noting that she had to buy more olive oil, and thought ahead to the evening meal. There was bread enough for the usual crowd, and perhaps she’d serve the fish she planned to purchase with an escabeche – she had plenty of vinegar to use. Or maybe, if the butcher had

Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage 229 some nice pork, she’d make matafeam, the special treat of spiced meatballs that Johan always complimented her on, saying her version was even better than he’d had at home.10 A celebration, of sorts, of the decision she was mulling over. Fancier than her usual fare, but everyone would enjoy the extravagance. And maybe it would help soothe the still sharp feelings between Marieta and Catarina. The house was too small for them to avoid each other for long, and a good meal often provided the first steps towards reconciliation. And that was a good thought at the start of the day. Johaneta always appreciated these early, quiet moments. The regular tasks – checking what was needed at the market and pondering what sustenance she would provide for her boarders and patrons, noting what bills needed paying and which ones could wait – were monotonous, but this was usually the only time she was alone. The only real sound was the rattling of the window frames, shaken by the breezes from the sea. Not, thank God, the mistral, with its searing whistle that could drive a person mad. But even the gentle wind reminded her to think about the seasons. If she was to leave, best to leave soon before the winter, when brutal winds and stark cold would make the journey, already a challenging one, impossible.11 Pushing herself back from the scarred wooden table, covered with her account books and detritus from the night before, Johaneta had come to no firm decision, but she knew what she needed from the market, and she liked to be there first thing, when the freshest food was out, and when she was least likely to encounter her unkind neighbors. What made her think of her neighbors at this moment, more than two months after her departure from Marseille? Johaneta wondered, as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Nothing around her immediately recalled her life in Marseille; there was no view of the sea nor scent of it in the air. She had traded her colorful hoods for pilgrims’ robes, to which the bishop had affixed her badge after her confession and vow, and early in the morning set out with a mule as her only companion. Catarina and Marieta had walked her beyond the walls of the city towards the road to Avignon, not realizing that their quarrel had set it all in motion. It felt too personal to share somehow, or too high and mighty. She sensed that the women thought her timing was odd; she knew Johan did. But in the months since she’d first had the idea, the desire had only grown stronger to take this penitential journey before she was too infirm to do it at all. And she trusted Antoni as much as she trusted anyone to keep her affairs in order while she was gone. And it was a relief to have, for the first time in a long while, only herself and her soul to worry about. But maybe her thoughts had turned to Marseille, to what she had left behind, because of the weight of the staff in her hand. Marieta and Catarina had presented it to her just before they left her company. Their clumsy attempt to hide it between them until they were ready to offer it to her, just before their final goodbye, was amusing, but she was touched just the same. That they’d spent their meagre sous to help her to be suitably outfitted for a choice they thought her foolish to make was exactly like them. Impetuous and impatient, but capable of great care, though life

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hadn’t treated them well at all. She wondered if she’d ever see either of them again. Or Johan, whose companionship she missed more than she thought she would. She dared not dwell too long on the changes that might greet her upon her return, for she was too far into her journey to falter now. But the staff, and the callouses she had developed from carrying it daily, must have been the prompt for return, just for a minute, to her life before. The time stretched as she moved slowly towards her destination. First, the shrine to the Virgin Mary in Le Puy, and then on to the Camino itself and the tomb of St. James. A month, at least, at the pace she was going. The rhythm was so different from the churn of her life in Marseille. The brief snatches of quiet that began her days in the city had become the entirety of her days. During the daylight hours, she often spoke to no one, not one person, when she was used to shouts and whispers and chuckles as the soundscape of her existence. Even when she encountered other pilgrims on the way, they usually passed each other with a nod or a gesture without exchanging many words. It wasn’t unfriendly, at least on her part. Rather, she tried to respect others’ contemplation, as she had come to appreciate the time to herself. There was so much more time now to think. To be aware of the feel of the simple white coat she wore, and the sound of her sandals against the dirt on the road. There was time to notice the discomforts—the rub of the rough hems against her body, the blisters forming between her toes, the aches in her muscles, the nagging twinge of hunger she couldn’t totally ignore. The discomfort was welcome, though, as it helped her recall her purpose and her penitence. A pilgrim’s journey wasn’t an easy one, nor should it be. The soreness from a long day’s walk was nothing compared to the pain Our Lord suffered on the cross for our salvation or the sorrows of Our Lady to witness the pain of her only child; Johaneta’s chafed thighs and aching back, the pebbles poking at the ball of her foot, were reminders of her decision to undertake this journey, and far from being a deterrent, she welcomed the pain. It was one of the signs she had chosen this route, and that each painful step brought her closer to the shrines. And it wasn’t as if the pain was unrelenting; at the end of each day, there was the possibility of company and, critically, nourishment. She wondered, sometimes, if her anticipation of the meal and the opportunity to share stories of the road with others diminished her pious intentions. But surely, as long as she kept her focus on the experience of the penitent journey, the saints would not begrudge her companionship at the end of the day? Almost as if her thoughts or the growls in her stomach had conjured it, the outlines of a town took shape at the far reach of her vision. It was evening when the steeple of Notre Dame Le Puy came into view, and the bells had just begun pealing to mark the turning of the hour. Johaneta dropped to her knees, disregarding the discomfort of bone against the ground, and recited the Ave Maria. She offered the prayer for the health of all pilgrims on the road, and in gratitude for her safe arrival in Le Puy.12 She had almost completed the first leg of her pilgrimage. One unexpected new skill she’d developed on her journey was becoming an expert at judging how far the

Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage 231 walk would be to the sites she viewed in the distance. When she was at home, walking the familiar streets from home to the market, to call for a friend or to make her confession, she always knew exactly how long it would take, as the routes were seared into her memory. Here, walking the route for the first time, a different reckoning of time prevailed. Her eyes had learned how to translate distance into time, and to communicate that to her tired feet. Just a few more hours, or minutes, or paces, her mind learned to tell her feet, almost like it was offering encouragement. After she straightened from her prayers, the hospice moved closer with each painful step and Johaneta began to ready herself to knock at its doors. She brushed as much dust from her robe as she was able and shook the tiny bits and pieces from her sandaled feet. It was funny how much a simple change of attire could shift how people welcomed you. Women who would have barred the doors if she had been wearing the striped hood Marseille’s officers insisted upon welcomed her into their establishments as a pilgrim. Of course, it was rare that she and the women in her house actually wore those hoods, of if they did, it was with a wink and a sigh of resignation. Knowing she could be fined if she didn’t wear it always made her think twice when she left the house. It was one of the hardest things, she thought, about being known as a public woman; she never knew when someone would denounce her for breaking the law, or if the sousviguier would care if she did. She chafed at being so much at the mercy of others’ good will, especially when there was often too little of that to be found. She wasn’t ashamed of her choices: would it be better if she and the women who worked for her were begging on the street? Or famished and reliant on charity? The men would simply find somewhere else to go and other women’s beds to frequent. She was the same person, no matter the covering, but one real boon of this journey was that when someone struck up a conversation with her dressed in her pilgrim’s robe, it was usually with a blessing, or to ask about her experience on the road, or to share theirs. She did not miss the conversations that began with a slur or that never began at all because she had been snubbed before she could open her mouth. On the road to Le Puy, Johaneta had mostly stopped at inns each night. Nothing fancy, nor geared to those on a pilgrimage, but never the establishments where sex was on sale. That was her life in Marseille, not on the road. Now that she had arrived in Le Puy, she was able to count on the hospitality of the hospices that catered specifically for those on the penitential journey. That first evening in the hospice she was surprised, though she shouldn’t have been, at how similar the mood was to a meal in her brothel or to any of the other inns she’d visited. There were some differences, of course. Nowhere else was she greeted with an offer to have her feet washed. And the food was simpler: wine and bread, with a small dish of vegetables in broth. But the gaiety and the noise were there.13 Everyone gathered around a large table in the refectory and chatted with their neighbors. Like at home, she heard many different languages and many efforts to be understood across the linguistic divide. She had been expecting a more somber air, and less laughter. But now

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she knew what to expect from the company of other pilgrims and she was no longer surprised by the laughter and the discussion of trinkets purchased along the route, nor did evidence of twilight rendezvous in the fields beyond the road unsettle her. She appreciated the respite from the judgment of others while she was among other pilgrims, and, for those who enjoyed a little play along the way, she only hoped it ended with no unexpected surprises. She’d seen too many times men’s promises offered and then withdrawn. But here, on this journey, that was none of her concern. Her focus was on penitence, to free herself from the sin which burdened her, and she had no trouble with others taking a different path. Despite the physical exertions of the day’s walk and the usual weariness that accompanied a full belly, Johaneta found it hard to fall asleep. Though her mattress was comfortable, there was no hope of quiet in a room filled with others, who turned, who snored, who called out in the night. When sleep finally came, it was an uneasy one. The sound of the matins bells pealing was welcome, as it meant the attempts to fall asleep could end. Johaneta made her way straight to the cathedral for communal prayers, fingering her pilgrim’s badge as she moved into the interior of the huge, dark building. There was a glorious fresco along the wall of the south transept that she could just make out in the gloom as she neared the altar.14 The towering figure of Jesus entering Jerusalem resonated especially with Johaneta; on this journey, she found more comfort than ever in the reminder of Our Lord’s journeys, travails, and ultimate resurrection. She sat, letting the rhythm of the prayers and the scents of candle wax and incense enter her, at peace with her choice and looking forward to the journey ahead. Notes 1 Archives Départementales des Bouches du Rhône (hereafter ADBDR) 351 E 208, fol. 34r–v; Susan McDonough (2021), “Inside a Brothel,” in D. L. Smail, G. H. Pizzorno, and L. Morreale (Eds.), The Documentary Archaeology of Late Medieval Europe. Retrieved from http://dalme.org/features/inside-a-brothel/. For more on the connection between sex workers and concubinage see Susan McDonough and Michelle Armstrong-Partida, “Amigas and Amichs: Prostitute Concubines, Strategic Coupling, and Laboring-Class Masculinity in Late Medieval Valencia and the Mediterranean,” Speculum 98: 1 (January 2023), 49–85. 2 Kathryn Reyerson, “Rituals in Medieval Business,” in Medieval and Early Modern Ritual: Formalized Behavior in Europe, China, and Japan edited by Joëlle RolloKoster (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 94. 3 Michael Costen, “The Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Medieval Europe,” in Pilgrimage in Popular Culture edited by Ian Reader, Tony Walter, and Michael Costen (London: Palgrave, 1993), 137. 4 ADBDR 3B96, fol. 32r. 5 For more on relationships between municipal officials and sex workers see Elizabeth Cohen, “Honor and Gender in the Streets of Early Modern Rome,” The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 22: 4 (spring 1992), 612. 6 Susan McDonough, “Moving Beyond Sex: Prostitutes, Migration, and Knowledge in Late-Medieval Mediterranean Port Cities,” Gender & History 34: 2 (July 2022), 401–419.

Johaneta Aymara’s Pilgrimage 233 7 For example, see Guèrin, “The Priest Who Peeked,” available at http://www. humanitiesresource.com/medieval/zHomeArticles.htm. For more on public performance see Gretchen Peters, “Urban Minstrels in Late Medieval Southern France: Opportunities, Status, and Professional Relationships,” Early Music History 19 (2000), 201–235. 8 Michelle Armstrong-Partida and Susan McDonough, “Singlewomen in the Late Medieval Mediterranean,” Past & Present, 2022, gtac0101, available at https:// doi.org/10.1093/pastj/gtac010. 9 Michelle Armstrong-Partida, “Concubinage, Clandestine Marriage, and Gender in the Visitation Records of Fourteenth-Century Catalonia,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 26: 2 (May 2017), 218. 10 Carole Lambert, “La cuisine occitane à partir d’un réceptaire culinaire languedocien et de sources annexes,” Archéologie du Midi medieval 15–16 (1997), 295–305. 11 Frederic Cheyette, “The Mediterranean Climate,” in A Companion to Mediterranean History, edited by Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 13. 12 Michelle Garceau, “ ‘I Call the People.’ Church Bells in Fourteenth-Century Catalunya,” Journal of Medieval History 37: 2 (2011), 197–214. 13 Laura Good Morelli, “Medieval Pilgrims’ Hospices on the Road to Santiago de Compostela” (Ph.D. diss,, Yale University, 1998), 38. 14 Anne Derbes, “A Crusading Fresco Cycle at the Cathedral of Le Puy,” Art Bulletin 74: 4 (1991/1992), 567.

Further Reading Craig, Leigh Ann. Wandering Women and Holy Matrons: Women as Pilgrims in the Later Middle Ages. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Karras, Ruth Mazo. Common Women: Prostitution and Sexuality in Medieval England. New York: Oxford University Press, 1996. Otis, Leah Lydia. Prostitution in Medieval Society: The History of an Urban Institution in Languedoc. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1985. Page, Jamie. Prostitution and Subjectivity in Late Medieval Germany. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021.

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Abbot Heinrich Kresse and St Barbara Emilia Jamroziak

Introduction The Cistercian order was one of the most extensive networks of religious institutions that spanned the entirety of the Latin world – from Portugal to the territory of present-day Estonia, from northern Norway to Sicily. It was the first religious order with horizontal and vertical structures, central forms of selfgovernment and record-keeping. The process of the development of the order’s structure, its system of yearly meetings of the abbots across the order, the culture of uniformity of liturgy and a body of early texts – foundation narratives and normative texts – that created a particular identity, historical memory, traditions and practices were established in the twelfth century. The past few decades have also been characterised by very intense debates about the nature of late medieval monasticism and religious culture more broadly, moving away from the idea of decline, corruption and the Reformation that swept the waning world of late medieval monasticism that no longer resonated with the society. Very extensive research across Latin and vernacular cultures within the “long fifteenth century” produced a broad consensus of vibrant devotional cultures, intense orthodox and heretical movements and traditional Benedictine, which included Cistercians, monasticism experiencing yet another period of reform and renewal.1 These debates did not only reevaluate texts but also objects and physical remains. The shift towards the study of material culture – rather than more narrowly defined artistic production – enabled not just the broadening of the evidence base, but also new questions about devotional practices, the relationship to tradition and innovation in monasticism and its lived experience. This has been important in seeing late medieval religious culture without value judgements based on the idea of how well they reflected the “norm” or “authenticity”.2 The focus of this chapter, Abbot Heinrich Kresse was the last head of Bukow monastery, on the shores of Baltic Sea in the historic region of Hinterpommern in the present-day Polish territory of western Pomerania. The Cistercian monastery was founded in the long process between 1248 and 1262 by Duke witopełk II of Pomerania, as a daughter house of Dargun Abbey in Mecklenburg. The monastery accumulated large estates and varied income DOI: 10.4324/9781003318972-23

Abbot Heinrich Kresse 235 streams. It had the right to establish new villages and invite settlers of “diverse ethnicity”, also using favourable, for the incomers, “German law”. Until the first quarter of the fourteenth century, the region where Bukow was located changed hands frequently and the abbey benefited from the generosity of different rulers: dukes of eastern Pomerania, of western Pomerania, dukes of Rügen Island, bishop of Cammin, margraves of Brandenburg and bishop of Cammin, as well as local knights. The monastery had also ius patronatus of several parishes.3 The last three abbots left a significant material mark on the monastery: Dietrich (1493–1502), Valentin Ludovici (1502–1513) and Heinrich Kresse (1513–1539). The first two abbots developed large-scale trade of agricultural produce from the monastic estates rivalling the b–usiness of local towns. As a result, Bukow was able to pay off very extensive debts which h–ad plagued the monastery since the mid-fourteenth century. Abbot Heinrich was the founder of a very large retable, a triptych c. 1515, for the monastic church, to house in its centre an alabaster figure of the Virgin Mary that was in Bukow for some time.4 The spread of Reformation ideas in Pomerania was cemented by the Landtag in Treptow in 1534 under Duke Barnim IX of Pomerania-Stettin and Duke Philipp I of Pomerania-Wolgast with the imposition of Lutheran doctrine by the rules. The monasteries in their territories were secularised very quickly. Bukow Abbey was closed a year later when the community was dissolved, and the monks left. Abbot Heinrich did not take up the pension and stayed in the empty monastery until his death.5 The last abbot of Bukow typified many key features of late medieval abbots, who were both deeply vested in the traditions of monasticism, seeking to defend it against various external dangers and were visible and active leaders of their communities. Such abbots acted as benefactors of their monasteries and were commemorated visually and textually as generous, pious and successful. As leaders of monastic communities, they were responsible for the spiritual standing of their monks as well as the practical and material survival of their monasteries. The place of abbots in the Cistercian communities was emphasised by the location of their burials in the chapter houses of their monasteries. In this way, their presence at the heart of the community continued also after death because the chapter house was the meeting place of the chapter – a daily gathering of the community devoted to practical matters and communication but also the commemoration of all departed brethren. In the institutional memory of monasteries, many were remembered as “good abbots”, some, especially early abbots, even commemorated as saints. The role of past abbots as role models is particularly clear in Gesta Abbatum, a type of chronicle organised according to the successive abbots. It records events in a monastery, in chronological order, in the form of biographies of its leaders. The good and exemplary ones were much praised for their style of leadership, piety and learning, and their actions in the office were recorded in a fair amount of detail. The abbots who took care of the monastic economy, expanded the corporate wealth of the abbey and especially invested in the claustral buildings received high praise in the Gesta

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Abbatum. There was also much emphasis on qualities upon which future abbots should model themselves. “Bad abbots” tended to be mentioned by brief entries only, because deliberate omissions and vagueness were used to condemn their failings rather than any open statements of disapproval. We do not have any information whether Bukow Abbey has ever had its Gesta Abbatum or any other form of institutional history. While sixty-four charters issued by and for Bukow Abbey survived, the narrative texts, if they ever existed, did not. In fact, the majority of charters survived in the cartulary copies only. The cartulary, Bukower Matrikel, was created probably in the mid-fifteenth century but survived only the early seventeenth-century copy, which reliability has been much debated.6 The description of Bukow’s Gesta Abbatum is purely fictional but based on existing Cistercian texts from the same period. The retable commissioned by Abbot Kresse still exists and is on permanent display in the regional museum in Słupsk (Poland), and also features in the imaginary source below.7 Portrait The Last Entry into the Gesta Abbatum

Abbot Heinrich Kresse walked through an empty gallery of his abbey, empty of its inhabitants and many of the furnishings. Living alone, with just three servants in the former Bukow Abbey, knowing that any day now not only its estates, already taken by the ducal domain but also its beautiful monastic church will be taken by the hateful heretics, as he called them in his mind, the followers of that devil, Martin Luther. If only the dukes were not so easily swayed by the devious preaching and falsehood in the books! As Abbot Kresse remembered the first voices postulating the reform according to the ideas of that former Augustinian friar in his region. With anger, he recalled Johannes Bugenhagen, who as Premonstratensian canon wrote so beautifully about our beloved St Otto of Bamberg, the apostle of Pomerania, and then it all went so wrong. As soon as he started propagating the heresy he should have been caught and not allowed to escape to Wittenberg. We have all failed, Abbot Heinrich thought about his fellow Cistercian abbots as they were meeting for the General Chapters in the 1520s and discussing the growing urgency of how to defend our communities. So many treatises were written about the beauty of monastic tradition and so much robust defence, we prayed to our founding fathers, to all holy abbots, monks and nuns to defend us against the evil heresy! He recalled again his favourite treatise about all the errors of Luther’s ideas, which he got a manuscript copy of during the last General Chapter that he attended. It was written by Abbot Wolfgang Marius of Aldersbach, a very learned man and pious abbot.8 But what can you do if our worldly protectors and patrons, the dukes of Pomerania, accepted that evil teaching? The steadfast resolution of Abbot Heinrich not to abandon his monastic vows was a heavy one. But it gave him hope that just as dutifully waiting by Christ’s tomb, waiting for the

Abbot Heinrich Kresse 237 resurrection, he is now bearing witness to the future resurrection of his community. Making rounds in the cloister gallery, Abbot Heinrich passed again the entrance to the choir of the church. He went inside and, despite the absence of lights that used to illuminate the high altar of Bukow’s church he could see the large shape of the retable. Its inner part with sculpted and polychromed figures was closed now. It used to be opened and brightly lit with numerous candles on many festa carefully marked in the liturgical calendar of Bukow Abbey. It was only just over ten years ago when Abbot Heinrich proudly installed the retable – such a joyful occasion with the Bishop of Kammin Erasmus von Manteuffel presiding over it. Who would have known that the bishop will be forced out by the heretics? At least Bishop Erasmus refused his consent to the crazy decision of the Diet of Treptow and did not swear to obey the Augsburg Confession.9 The figures in the festive opening of the retable were transferred from the previous altar that was no longer fitting an important abbey such as Bukow. And Abbot Heinrich wanted so much to show these heretics what the saints can do! At the centre was the alabaster figure of the Virgin Mary holding a baby, gilded and polychromed as Regina Coeli. Bukow, as all other Cistercian abbeys, was dedicated to her, and Abbot Heinrich heard many times as a novice the story of Cistercian monks and nuns being sheltered under Mary’s cloak in heaven.10 His refusal to abandon the place dedicated to the Queen of Heaven gave him the hope that there will be a place for him under that cloak when his time comes. Thinking resentfully about the dispersed community, his brethren who took pensions and abandoned the monastic state, many of them were now married and worst – openly accepted Lutheran heresy – taking silver coins, the traitors – as if they did not know the fate of Judas. Abbot Heinrich looked again towards the altar and all the wonderful figures surrounding Mary. Next to her were John the Evangelist and John the Baptist. In the upper row were St Bernard of Clairvaux, St Augustine, St Catherine of Alexandria and St Paul the Hermit and in the lower rows St Benedict of Nursia, St Margaret, St Anthony Hermit and St Robert of Molesme. Nobody looking at this group could doubt that a Cistercian community is connected to the deepest roots of the monastic past. Our great founding saints were standing next to the other pillars of coenobitic and eremitic life. We must have failed so much, Abbot Heinrich remembered again, if they did not answer our prayers to defend Bukow against these heretical devils. But the retable was fully closed now, hiding the first opening of the pentaptych, which was designed and commissioned by the abbot. When opened, it presented eight paintings – St John the Evangelist on the Isle of Patmos, St Jerome, the martyrdom of the Theban Legion, St Christopher carrying the Child – all in the top row. The lower row depicted the Annunciation of Mary, Lactatio Sancti Bernardi, Amplexus Sancti Bernardi and St Ursula with her companions. Abbot Heinrich secretly wanted a depiction of himself with St Bernard but did not dare commission it. Once he had seen such a painting of the Abbot of Ter Duinen in 1500 when taking a

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very indirect route back from the General Chapter and stayed in the Flemish abbey for a few days. Abbot Christiaan had shown him true Cistercian hospitality in his abbatial residence, which was very comfortable with such a great new stove decorated with tiles. The abbot had a large painting of himself showing how very pious he was.11 Also, St Ursula was in Bukow for a reason. One of Heinrich’s predecessors, he was not sure which one – it was a long time ago – received wonderful relics of one of the companions of St Ursula from the abbot of Altenberg.12 This relic – with several others – was now in the niche of the plinth for the figures in the festive opening of the retable. That niche was covered by a strip of openwork ornamentation that protected the relics but also made them visible to the monks in the choir when the retable was open. I must make sure that our precious relics will not get into the hands of these heretics, thought the abbot. I must find a good, safe place to hide them. Hopefully, one of the future dukes of Pomerania may see the light and will return to the true faith and then our monastery will be re-founded and the relics again carried in the joyful procession. And I will be remembered as their protector. Despite the semi-darkness, the abbot could see the four images on the closed retable very well. He also commissioned them. The one that the abbot always looked at first was at the bottom left: St Barbara with her sword and tower and at her feet is the depiction of himself, kneeling in a black cuculla with a crozier.13 The figure holds a rosary in his hands which are raised in prayer. The abbot read again the invocation on the scroll floating between the hands and the tower of St Barbara: “Frater Henricvs Kresse orate pro eo.” His name is to be remembered and prayed for. Now, the towering figure of the saintly martyr had even more power than before for Abbot Heinrich. Holding the tower in which she was imprisoned, but not defeated by the evil tortures and humiliations, Barbara performed many miracles before and after her death. Being a good abbot mindful of his duties, Heinrich frequently preached at the mass on her feast day.14 A big sword that St Barbara holds in her depiction was specifically requested by the abbot. He was not so concerned about how the painter depicts the tower, but the sword – a big sword was insisted upon by the abbot because no other saints had, in his eyes, the power to defend his community so energetically as St Barbara. The abbot of Kamp, whose name he could not recall now, helped him find the right workshop in Kalkar, famous for producing such splendid altarpieces. Coming back from the General Chapter in 1519, Abbot Heinrich travelled part of the way with Abbot Gerhard of Altenberg. What a prelate he was! Talking incessantly about his academic career and his recently acquired mitre and the new breviary he commissioned with a full-folio image of himself.15 But when the Abbot of Bukow stayed for five days in Altenberg before departing eastwards, he was able to come every day during his stay to the monastic church. What a marvellous choir it had, but also the nave with so many altars – and the relics, so many of them, in beautiful reliquaries!16 Abbot Heinrich felt that he entered a powerhouse no less than a major cathedral. No wonder the heresy that destroyed all the monasteries in Pomerania did not reach Altenberg.

Abbot Heinrich Kresse 239 Thinking about all the other Cistercian abbots he met over the years, the father abbots from Dargun who sent yearly visitations, abbots of Kołbacz and even Oliva Abbey, but especially the crowds of abbots from across the Christendom who he met at General Chapters in Citeaux that he attended and met on the way there. And more importantly, all the abbots of Bukow that came before him and were buried in the chapter houses where the community met daily. He knew so much about them from the Gesta Abbatum established by the third abbot of Bukow. Heinrich had hidden the volume before the representatives of the duke came to take inventory; after all, nobody knew the buildings as well as he. Even if, due to his failings, the sword of St Barbara did not defend Bukow, the chronicle needs to be completed. Returning to the abbatial residence, now emptied of the fine furnishings because the greedy duke had no shame, Heinrich went to his study and decided to write the last entry in the Gesta Abbatum in the hope that sooner or later his abbey will be re-funded, and his life may be an example to the future leaders to defend it from heretics. Gesta Abbatum Bucowensium Folio 10v

This abbot had to bear a very heavy burden of the end of times when the heretics ravaged Pomerania with their devilish preaching and turned the good dukes Barnim and Philipp to their lies. Before the despicable crimes perpetrated against the abbey, its community and everything that belongs to it took place, Abbot Heinrich was among the most pious of its leaders, a true mother of his brethren, mindful of his duties and traditions of the office, community and the Cistercian Order. He regularly attended the General Chapter, bringing back books and manuscripts to enrich the library and the improve learning of the monks. He travelled with only four horses and a small entourage and never complained if he was not received generously by the monasteries where he and his fellow Cistercian abbots stopped on the way. He endured poor hospitality without a single complaint. Yet, he made sure, mindful of how hospitality was treasured by our founding fathers, always ensuring that visitations from the mother house in Dargun were received with all due hospitality and reverence. Foregoing any enrichment of himself, eating plain and simple food unless he was hosting some of the great noble friends of the abbey, with only one stove to heat his residence, he was rumoured to wear a hairshirt under the habit that scratched his skin painfully as it was made from goats’ hair. His mortifications of the flesh, abstaining from fine food and drink, sleeping without soft cushions, and heavy covers of fur and finest wool were only moderated by the desire to preserve the strength necessary to lead his community and protect it against the devilish heretics. To protect his monks from the corruption and temptation of this rotten world, he made various sacrifices of himself to keep noble visitors in appropriate status which they

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expected as guests and attended hunts with the noble and powerful friends and benefactors of the abbey. As these men are accustomed to this way of life, to keep their friendship and generosity to Bukow, he willingly protected his monks from having to participate in such worldly habits. The abbot was careful in all dealings and protected the seal of the abbey and the records of the properties, so nothing was lost through fraud or dishonesty of those who would not hesitate to steal from a holy place. He frequently celebrated the mass and preached to the monks on Sundays and feast days and did not push this duty onto the prior, like many of his fellow abbots in Pomerania used to do, and even made some of his noble lay guests wait until he was free from his pastoral duties. None of that was done to impress those around; to the contrary, the abbot was actively hiding his personal sacrifices and mortifications to avoid any sense of vanity he might have had out of humbleness and piety. Being himself a pious and learned man, he was keen to devote his time to prayer and medication as far as the duty of his office allowed. He put efforts into beautifying the monastic church and making sure that all the saints there were properly honoured. He ensured that the alabaster statute of the Holy Virgin that had been in the abbey since time immemorial was properly honoured. He ensured that a Retrotabula from a famous workshop in Kalkar was brought to the abbey and that the statue was given the worthiest place there. He put great care into ensuring that our bellowed saints – Bernard and Robert and our eldest monastic fathers Benedict and Antony the Hermit – were depicted in the most magnificent way on that Retrotabula. His personal devotion to St Barbara, the brave virgin who did not submit herself to the pagans, shone there too, just as Abbot Heinrich did not tremble in front of the heretics. As she protects from the dangers of treacherous sea water, may she protect the abbey in the future. May the words written on the depiction of our pious abbot – Frater Henricvs Kresse orate pro eo – resonate for the future monks of Bukow and anyone who sees this Retrotabula. As all the signs are indicating that we are approaching the end of time, may he remain the example of monastic steadfastness to all who come after us and have to endure many hardships and temptations. Notes 1 Elisabeth Lusset and Bert Roest, ‘Late Medieval Monasticism: Historiography and Perspectives’, in The Cambridge History of Medieval Monasticism, vol. 2, pp. 923–940; Sabrina Corbellini and Sita Steckel, ‘The Religious Field during the Long Fifteenth Century. Framing Religious Change beyond Traditional Paradigms’, Church History and Religious Culture 99 (2019), 303–329. Doi: 10.1163/18712428-09903002. 2 Michael Carter, The Art and Architecture of the Cistercians in Northern England, c. 1300–1540 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2019); Thomas E. A. Dale, ‘Monastic Art and Sacred Space, and the Mediation of Religious Experience’ in The Oxford Handbook

Abbot Heinrich Kresse 241

3

4

5 6

7 8 9 10 11 12

13 14

of Christian Monasticism, ed. Bernice M. Kaczynski (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), pp. 349–371; Emilia Jamroziak, ‘East-Central European Monasticism: Between East and West?’ in The Cambridge History of Medieval Monasticism in the Latin West, ed. Alison I. Beach and Isabelle Cochelin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), pp. 882–900. Barbara Popielas-Szultka and Kazimiera Kalita-Skwierzy ska, ‘Bukowo’ in Monasticon Cisterciense Poloniae, ed. Andrzej Marek Wyrwa, Jerzy Strzelczyk and Krzysztof Kaczmarek (Pozna : Wydawnictwo Pozna skie, 1999), pp. 34–41 (pp. 35–37); Barbara Popielas-Szultka, ‘Wklad opactw cysterskich (meskich) w utrwalanie chrzescijanstwa na Pomorzu and wschód od Odry’ in Chrze cija! stwo na Pomorzu X-XX wieku, ed. Józef Borzyszkowski (Gda sk, 2001), pp. 31–39 (pp. 38–39). Janusz Nowi ski, Ars cisterciensis: Ko ciół cysterski w redniowieczu – wyposa"enie i wystrój (Warszawa: New Media Concept Warszawa, 2016), pp. 201–206; Zofia Krzymuska-Fafius Zofia, ‘Pónogotycki pentaptyk z ko cioła pocysterskiego w Bukowie Morskim fundacji opata Henryka Kresse’, Nasza Przeszło #$83 (1994), 473–496. The alabaster figure is in the collection of the National Museum in Szczecin Poland. Available at https://e-zbiory.muzeum.szczecin.pl/sztuka-dawna/ sztuka-dawna/rzeba-redniowieczna-pomorza-zachodniego/mns-szt-74-383.html. Other figures were stolen from Bukowo church after 1945, and now are only known from pre-1939 photographs. Available at http://encyklopedia.szczecin.pl/ wiki/Plik:Madonna_z_Bukowa_Morskiego_MNS_AFoto.jpg. Gregor Ploch, ‘Kasaty Opact Cysterskich na Pomorzu Zaodrza skim w okresie Reformacji’, Archiwa, Biblioteki i Musea Ko cielne 113 (2020), 325–350; PopielasSzultka and Kalita-Skwirzy ska, ‘Bukowo’, p. 37. Agnieszka Gut, redniowieczna dyplomatyka wschodniopomorska. Dokumenty i kancelarnie Pomorza Wschodniego do 1309 roku (Szczecin: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Szczeci skiego, 2014), p. 160; Martin Schoebel, ‘Die archivische Überlieferung der Städte und Gemeinden des Landkreises Schlawe im Landesarchiv Greifswald’, in Historia i kultura ziemi sławie! skiej, ed. Włodzimierz R!czkowski and Jan Sroka (Darłowo-Sławno, 2013), vol. 11, pp. 125–143 (p. 128). Muzeum Pomorza " rodkowego w Słupsku. Available at https://muzeum.slupsk.pl/ dla-zwiedzajacych/wystawy-stale/sztuka-dawna-pomorza-od-xiv-do-xviii-wieku/. Edgar Krausen, ‘Marius, Wolfgang’, Neue Deutsche Biographie 16 (1990), pp. 218–219 [online version]. Available at www.deutsche-biographie.de/sfz58417.html. Bernhard Stasiewski, ‘Erasmus von Manteuffel’, Neue Deutsche Biographie 4 (1959), pp. 553–554 [online version]. Available at www.deutsche-biographie.de/ sfz56856.html?language=en. Jamroziak, The Cistercian Order, p. 175. This is based on an actual portrait of Abbot Christiaan now in the Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp. Anna Koopstra, Jean Bellegambe: Making, Meaning and Patronage of His Works (Turnhout: Brepols, 2022), p. 97. In the second half of the thirteenth century Altenberg Abbey received relics of virgin martyrs from Cologne amounting to as much as 1000 heads. It became a distribution point of relics for monasteries in the eastern and southeastern German regions. Frank Zehnder, Sankt Ursula. Legende-Verehrung-Bilderwelt (Cologne: Wienand, 1985), p. 89. The cult of St Barbara, an alleged third-century martyr-saint, flourished in the late Middle Ages with numerous textual and visual depictions. Her feast was in the Cistercian liturgical calendar. Barbara was a very popular intercessor in the region especially, a protectress from dangers of the sea and a very popular saint across Pomerania and Prussia. Jolanta Dworzaczkowa, ‘Podanie o głowie wi#tej Barbary w dziejopisarstwie pomorskim’, Studia historica. Historia 35 lecie pracy naukowej Henryka Łowmia! skiego

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(Warszawa, 1958), pp. 155–165; Gregory Leighton, ‘Reysa in laudem Dei et virginis Marie contra paganos: The Experience of Crusading in Prussia during the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries’, Die Zeitschrift für OstmitteleuropaForschung 69 (2020), 1–25. 15 Hans Mosler, Das Erzbistum Köln 1: Die Cistercienserabtei Altenberg (Germania Sacra N. F. 2, Berlin, 1965), pp. 163–164. 16 Altenbern Abbey had an exceptionally extensive relics collection. Petra Janke, Specificatio Reiquiarum. Das Altenberger Reliquienverzeichnis von 1528 (Berlin: Lukas Verlag, 2012).

Further Reading Janet Burton and Julie Kerr, The Cistercians in the Middle Ages (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2011). Emilia Jamroziak, The Cistercian Order in Medieval Europe: 1090–1500 (Abingdon: Pearson, 2013). Steven Vanderputten, Medieval Monasticisms: Forms and Experiences of the Monastic Life in the Latin West (Oldenburg: de Gruyter, 2020). The Cambridge History of Medieval Monasticism in the Latin West, ed. Alison I. Beach and Isabelle Cochelin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), vol. 2. Steven Vanderputten, Medieval Monasticisms: forms and experiences of the monastic life in the Latin West (Oldenburg: de Gruyter, 2020).

Index

Note: The index was compiled as a tool to find topics across the contributions included herein, thus individuals and topics mentioned in only one contribution are not indexed here. Page numbers in italics refer to endnotes Abraham 40, 203 Africa 3, 14, 19, 25, 73, 78, 102–103, 107, 182–83, 186 Alfonso VI 100, 107, 148, 154 Anna Comnena (Komnena) 2, 109, 111, 114–116 Antioch 5, 158, 179, 181–182, 204 Armenia 15, 115, 117, 179, 181 Asia Minor 12, 24, 109, 206 Augustine 34, 91, 133, 237 Black Sea 13, 15, 181, 211 Bulgar (Bulgaria) 12, 74–75, 109–110, 111, 117 Byzantium (Eastern Roman Empire) 8, 9, 10, 11, 12–13, 30, 74, 119–120, 126 Byzantine emperor (basileus); Alexios I Komnenos 109, 110–112, 114–117, 125; Alexios II Komnenos 158, 160–166; Andronikos I Komnenos 158, 163–166; Andronikos II Palaiologos 12, 203, 207, 209; Constantine 15, 17, 33, 37, 122, 203, 206; Ioannes II Komnenos 122, 124; Isaac II Angelos 201, 203–204; Justinian 12, 14–15, 17, 24; Manuel Komnenos 120, 124–125, 158, 160–162, 164, 204 Caliphate 11, 12, 75, 77, 78 Charlemagne 9, 27–35, 37, 45, 48, 65 childbirth 100, 105, 106, 120, 122, 143, 212, 213, 220

Church Council 46, 112, 134 cloth 88, 141, 145, 160, 181, 216; linen 55, 215; silk 17, 55, 58, 69, 77, 101; wool 52, 55, 58, 137, 145, 196, 200, 203, 215, 239 Constantinople 9, 11, 12–13, 16, 23, 24, 25, 75, 77, 85, 109, 110–117, 158–160, 181, 196, 202, 204–205, 209 Crete 9, 13, 19, 182, 211–212, 213–214, 218–220, 223 crusade 4–5, 7, 169, 182; Albigensian 168, 171; Barons’ 176; First 2, 136; Fourth 158, 202, 204–205; Second 5, 124; Third 158 Cyprus 13, 17–19, 21, 24, 173, 181–182, 185 Damascus 22, 73, 169, 176 Devil (Samael) 10, 17, 30, 91–97, 112–116 Eleanor of Aquitaine 5, 148, 166, 184 England 7, 80, 119, 141, 159, 166, 184–185, 191, 193; London 7, 190–193, 197, 200 England rulers: Edward I 181–182; Henry I 141, 147, 199; Henry II 148; Henry III 171 Eunuchs 11, 12–22, 24, 25, 76, 95, 99, 103–104, 165 Flanders 4–5, 9, 136, 141–143, 146 food 31, 40, 41, 45, 81, 82, 84–86, 97, 126, 218, 229, 231, 239; bread 21, 31, 54,

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100, 114, 175, 215, 227, 228, 231; cheese 31, 36, 101, 196; fish 54, 58, 59, 81, 193, 196, 228; meat 54, 86, 137, 229; spices 58, 181, 193, 229; vegetables 54, 86, 215, 231; wheat 77, 83, 175; wine 17, 18, 24, 31, 165, 170, 196, 200, 215, 222, 225–226, 228, 231 France 4, 7, 9, 10, 39, 75, 119, 128, 140, 158, 162, 164–165, 168–171, 173–174, 177, 182, 184, 185, 186; Anjou 136, 140–141, 146, 201–202, 204; Brittany (Bretagne) 9, 136–147, 172–173; Champagne 8, 158, 166, 168–177; Marseille 10, 75, 224–225, 227–231; Paris 128, 141–143, 160, 169–170, 172, 178–179, 185–186 France rulers: Louis VII 5, 10, 124, 158, 166; Louis VIII 168, 171, 172; Louis IX 172, 182; Philip II 158, 159, 162, 165–166, 168, 170, 171; Philip III 182, 185 Franks 28, 30–31, 34–35, 48, 65, 73, 76–77, 117 Germany 39, 75, 91, 148, 196 Herodotus 16, 110 Holy Land 5, 124–125, 138–139, 143, 176, 181–182, 192, 195, 202, 222, 225 Hungary 8, 10, 75, 119–126, 158, 162, 178, 201–204; Magyars 13, 74, 77 Hungary rulers: Béla II 121–123; Béla III 158, 162, 165–166, 201, 203–204; Béla IV 204, 209; Koloman 119–121, 126 Iberia 14, 33, 37, 99, 107, 108, 178; Al-Andalus 8, 10, 73, 78, 99–100, 107; Castile 10, 100, 148–149, 151, 154, 166; Cordoba (Qurtuba) 73–76, 78, 101–105, 107; Galicia 4, 11, 148–149, 155–156, 225; León 11, 100, 106, 107, 148–149, 154–156; Portugal 5, 11, 148, 234; Seville (Isbiliya) 21, 77, 101–103, 107; Spain 3–4, 7, 8, 10, 73, 75, 148, 155, 196, 225; Toledo (Tulaytulah) 102, 104, 105–106, 107, 132, 148–149, 151–153 illness 4, 48, 51–52, 96, 113, 138, 142, 159, 160–162, 172, 182–183 Ireland 8, 55, 80–89, 90, 196 Israel 32, 40, 219, 222 Italy 3, 8, 11, 12, 14, 18, 23, 24, 25, 63, 72, 179, 181, 204, 222; Genoa 75, 159–160, 178–179, 181, 184, 186, 228;

Montecassino 8, 37, 63–64, 67, 70, 71; Naples 63, 67–68, 178–179, 182–184; Rome 20, 23, 24, 25, 30, 32, 37, 39, 47, 64, 68–70, 72, 73–75, 89, 170, 179, 180–181, 183–184, 186, 192, 195, 201–202, 205–206; Venice 13, 76, 178, 179, 181, 196, 211–212, 219–220 Jerusalem 8, 120, 124, 139, 156, 176, 181–183, 186, 199, 202–204, 209, 232 Jews 3, 73, 117, 180, 211–222 judicial system 6, 51, 138, 140, 142, 165, 175, 211–212, 220–221, 224–225 Lombards 8, 14, 21, 24, 27, 28, 30, 35, 48, 63–67, 71, 72, 77 marriage 9, 30–31, 39, 41, 43–44, 50, 119, 121, 122, 124, 126, 129, 136, 141–144, 149, 158–150, 166, 170, 173, 201, 204–205, 207, 212, 214–215, 217, 220, 224; adultery 41–42, 45, 47, 119 Mary (Virgin Mary, Mother of God, Theotokos) 14, 22, 23, 41, 142, 144, 153, 155, 156, 160, 161, 165, 191, 199, 201, 203, 205–209, 224, 226, 228, 230, 235, 237, 240, 241 Mediterranean Sea 11, 12–13, 15, 17, 25, 63, 99, 116–117, 176, 212, 216, 222, 223, 224 monastery 4, 7, 8, 10, 21, 25, 28, 29, 32, 38, 40–42, 46–48, 51, 65, 67, 68, 71, 91–92, 95, 111, 113, 128, 135, 183–184, 201–203, 205–209, 234–236, 238; abbess 9–10, 27–28, 127–128, 135, 136–137, 138, 145–146, 148, 150, 151; abbey 1, 8–9, 65, 91, 94, 136, 138–139, 144–146, 147, 166, 185, 202, 218, 234–240; abbott 8–9, 10, 27, 64, 67–68, 71, 92, 96, 127, 128, 134, 135, 234–240, 241; Cistercians 148, 150–151, 157, 234–239; Dominicans 182–184, 209, 227; Franciscans 10–11, 179, 191, 202, 218; nunnery 32, 138, 143, 146, 159, 164, 209 music 35, 38, 152, 168–169, 171 Muslims (Agarenes, Hagarenes, Ishmaelites) 3, 15–19, 22–23, 24, 63, 64, 67–69, 70, 74, 103, 106, 108, 124, 148 nomads 120, 122, 125; Mongols 11, 178–186; Pechenegs 74–77; Polovtsy, Qipchaks, Cumans 120, 125 Normandy 86, 141, 171, 194, 199, 227

Index 245 Papacy 47, 69, 172, 176, 178, 182, 183, 186, 191; Bishop of Rome 20, 23, 39, 47; Pope Gregory IX 173, 175, 183; Pope Innocent IV 183–184; Pope Stephen V 68–70, 72 peasants 3, 7, 20, 81, 85–86, 138, 142, 175, 195, 227 Poland 10, 75, 119, 178, 236 Prague 73–75, 76, 123

Scandinavia 50, 52–54, 55, 61, 234 Serbia 8, 123, 201–209 sexuality 4, 36, 11; rape 50, 53, 55, 56; sex work 10, 224, 231, 232 Sicily 8, 13, 19, 22–23, 25, 63, 148, 234 slavery 12, 16, 54–55, 57–58, 60, 61, 74, 78, 101–102, 104, 182

Reims 39, 185 Rus (Rusian) 7, 10, 74, 77, 119, 120, 124, 126

wealth 50, 55–56, 85, 87–88, 109, 126, 142, 149, 174, 199, 235; copper 17, 55; gold 16, 43, 55, 58, 69, 77, 88, 102, 139, 155, 156, 160, 174, 207; silver 20, 52, 55, 57–60, 68, 77, 78, 194, 215, 237; money 16, 87, 216–217, 228, 229, 237

Saints 4, 8, 93, 111, 135, 151, 153, 230, 235, 237–238, 240; Anthony 94, 95, 237, 240; Benedict 27, 33, 37, 41, 65–68, 70, 71, 95, 133, 237, 240; Boniface 31, 93; James 4, 14, 225, 230; Jerome 93, 95, 237

Vikings 50–61, 77, 80, 82, 84–87, 89